The vicar delivers

Darren’s mouth gaped open when the vicar strode to a cupboard and took from it a whippy school cane which he swished through the air a couple of times before intoning, “Bend over that chair.”

“B.. b.. but,”  he stammered.

“Do it now, I don’t have all day,” the vicar swished the cane once more.

Darren stood his ground, unsure what he should do.

Swish! Swish! the cane flew through the air. The vicar was a powerful man, as befitted someone who once played prop forward at rugby. His steel grey searching eyes fixed on Darren, his jaw locked in a scowl. People said of the vicar that he had ‘presence,’ and when he fixed you with his glare, you were powerless to resist.

The vicar was not about to take any nonsense from Darren. The vicar had complete authority and he would use it. At the moment his rattan crook-handled cane was the symbol of that authority. Darren would submit to it and to the vicar before he was set free.

They were in the study at the vicar’s home. It was a large room in a huge house. The Church spared no expense on the comforts of its vicars. Book-laden shelves ran along three walls. There were hundreds, possibly thousands, of books, enough to stock a small-town library. The scholastic atmosphere they generated might impress visitors, but most had lain unread for many years. The only time they felt a human hand was when Mrs Grey the cleaning woman wiped the dust from them.

Cupboards and a large picture window took up the fourth wall. Darren looked beyond the vicar into the sumptuous garden as he ran over the vicar’s demand in his mind.

The chair the vicar wanted him to lower himself across was made of expensive soft leather. It would be very comfortable to bend over, but once Darren had done this he knew what followed would be far from comfortable.

Swish! Swish! the vicar was growing impatient.

The vicar was no stranger to corporal punishment. He was from God-fearing folk and genuinely believed in the Bible: all of it. He lived by the adage, “spare the rod and spoil the child” and he had not spared his own son Adam from the lash.

His preferred method with his nineteen-year-old son was a heavy thick leather strap, applied with great vigour to Adam’s quivering naked buttocks. The vicar had a ritual. First he would list in the minutest detail the boy’s faults followed by admonishments. Then, on bended knees they would pray together for forgiveness. The prayers were always answered, but atonement had to come before forgiveness.

The lashings were brutal. They always took place in the vicar’s bedroom. Without awaiting instruction, Adam would pile pillows four deep in the centre of the bed. Then he stripped completely naked. While he disrobed, his father took the razor strop from its moorings, a hook on the inside door of the wardrobe.

The boy climbed on the pillows, his face buried in the eiderdown, his buttocks pointing at the ceiling. There was always a pause; it felt like hours to Adam, but it was only a minute. His father was praying to God again, this time to give him the extra strength to whip the boy good and hard.

Adam clenched his teeth shut. No matter how hard his father flogged him, he never cried out. Over the years his ability to resist pain had reached truly remarkable levels.

z used drawing strap hold (8)

The strap rose and fell twenty-four times; his father swiped so ferociously he might have thought he was beating a carpet. No dust was raised on Adam’s buttocks, only ugly red wheals as over and over the leather thundered into his cheeks.

Then it was over. Adam’s eyes shone as he crawled off the bed and shakily stood beside his father, who was still holding the razor strop. His backside was blistered and the agony would be shooting through his body. Quite often by the end of these punishment sessions Adam was utterly disoriented, unsure of his whereabouts, and his father had to guide him back to his own bedroom.

But before he was allowed to leave, there was one more prayer to be said: to thank God for his mercy.

Swish! “You are wasting my time and your own!”

Darren shuddered in terror. The vicar’s stare held him transfixed.

“B.. b.. b.. but can’t we talk about this? Do we …” Darren trailed off. The position he found himself in was so utterly unexpected. How could he reason with the vicar?

“I … I…,” but words would not come for Darren. His senses had deserted him. He wanted to say he was sorry, but his ‘crime’ did not merit a thrashing with a whippy cane. That is what he wanted to say, but he could not find the words.

The vicar stalked him, cane in hand, his piercing grey eyes burning holes in Darren’s brain.

“Over the chair!” he barked. Blood seemed to drain from Darren’s body and his face was ghostly pale.

“NOW!”

That was when Darren lost his mind. Thinking about it later he realised he should have pushed his way past the vicar and fled from the house. Nobody would have blamed him. It would have been the sensible thing to do.

But, by now ‘sense’ had nothing to do with it.

Instead of running to freedom, Darren took a huge deep breath filling his lungs with air. Then, he stepped forward and like a swimmer diving into an icy pool, he hurled himself over the back of the chair.

The weight of his body sank into the plush padded chair. His face was so close to the seat cushion, the aroma of luxurious expensive leather made him gag.

Darren closed his eyes in anticipation of the whacking he was about to receive, so he did not see, but he could hear, the vicar in prayer. The huge man was muttering something about penitence and forgiveness.

Moments later he felt the vicar tug at the elasticated waist of his trousers, pulling them and his underpants to his knees in one complete movement. Darren’s naked buttocks made a perfect target for the vicar’s cane.

It was over in seconds. Swipe! Swipe! Swipe! The vicar flogged the cane into Darren’s cheeks. Never before had the vicar whipped a boy so hard. His entire heart and his soul went into the effort.

Then a further three swipes followed one after another, rapidly like pistol shots.

Darren howled as the first cut took his arse off and he did not stop screaming until long after the sixth and final whop! lashed into him.

The yells echoed round the study and throughout the house. It was convenient that the study was at the back of the house, so Darren’s cries did not reach the ears of pedestrians in the street outside, for surely one of them would have phoned the police, believing a murder was taking place.

Darren clung on to the soft seat cushion for his dear life and stamped his feet up and down, like a soldier on sentry duty. The six-of-the-best was delivered without pause and it was over before he could even think of hauling himself from the chair to run screaming from the room.

His once pale face had turned a deadly puce colour. Tears and snot cascaded down his face and he gulped in air in an effort to fill his lungs and stop himself collapsing.

Without waiting for permission he pulled himself to his feet. The agony in his buttocks was terrific and he could hardly stay upright. Gingerly he touched his cheeks with the tips of his fingers, thinking it might relieve some of the pain, but just the slightest contact with his throbbing flesh sent new shockwaves of agony coursing through his body.

The vicar sank to his knees to once again converse with God. Darren saw his chance and still wracked with pain, he pulled his trousers and pants up and staggered from the room. Then, bouncing once or twice off the walls in the hallway, he opened the front door and escaped.

He breathed in deeply, filling his lungs with fresh air and this helped to calm him, but his escape was not yet complete. Standing where he had left it, only five minutes previously, was his motor scooter. Wincing with each step he walked to it and grabbed the handlebars.

This was useless, he realised. There was no way he could ride it away. The ache in his arse was as bad as ever. He would find it difficult to walk for some considerable time to come, never mind sit down.

He looked behind him, expecting at any moment to see the vicar dashing from the house to chase after him. He must act quickly. Having no choice, he released the foot stand and with some difficulty started to push the bike towards the road.

He paused, unsure where he should go. He looked to the left and to the right. He really wanted to turn right, to go home, so he could explore and then treat his wounds.

But he really needed to keep his job. So, instead of going home he tuned left and headed back to Stafford’s Pizza House. His buttocks blazed with every step he took: a reminder of what can happen if you deliver a customer’s order twenty minutes late.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Encounter with the vicar

z used otk chair head sting (1)

When the vicar spanked me on my bare bottom I don’t know who enjoyed it more, me or him.

My friend Lenny and I were in our early twenties and secretly used his churchyard for our couplings. I don’t know if we were in “love” or it was simply “lust”, but our relationship gave both of us great comfort in an otherwise unkind world.

The church was secluded behind locked gates at night and people from the town kept well away after dark. There was a well-believed story that the churchyard was haunted and that its statue of King some-one-or-other had been known to walk at night.

We thought we were safe, as we’d used the churchyard before without trouble. But, one day our luck ran out.

It was autumn and we climbed the fence at eight o’clock and ran through the shadows to a spot we by now considered our own. We didn’t waste time and were soon locked in each other’s arms and kissing passionately as a prelude to removing our clothes for love-making.

We had never been disturbed before and had become too complacent. That was our downfall. We never saw him until it was too late; he was upon us before we had a chance to run.

“What the …. Who are you? What are you doing?” It was a vicar scowling over us. He knew very well what we were doing, but, I suppose, he was genuinely at a loss for words.

I don’t have the words to describe the fear we felt. It happened such a long time ago. It was in the Dark Ages, when people like us were not called “homosexuals” or “gays”; we were “queers” and “perverts” and if our true nature was discovered we would lose our jobs, our families and our friends. We could even be sent to prison.

I suppose the vicar knew this and that’s why he took advantage.

He blocked our escape route, towering above the two of us standing at 6ft 2in and weighing nearly sixteen stone he was not someone to trifle with. He was big bear of a man, much older than us, with grey hair and a grey beard, but physically fit and imposing.

I had never seen the vicar in my life, but it was clear he knew Lenny. He called him words like “disgusting” “filthy”, “sordid”, “revolting” and “repulsive”, as if he had swallowed a thesaurus.

I knew that even if we did try to make a run for it there was no escape: the vicar would be able to track us down and bring the full force of the unjust law down on our trembling bodies.

He pulled both of us by our shirt collars and dragged us into his vicarage that was tucked away behind the church. I was startled; I had never realised he lived in the churchyard and could have discovered us on any one of the many times we had made love here.

His strength was so great I had no option but to submit to his will and scurry behind him.

He deposited us in a huge room that was a cross between a library, a study and a living room.  Menacingly, he turned the key in the door, removed it and theatrically put it in his trouser pocket. He was telling us we were his prisoners.

“Stand there, both of you.” He pointed to a patterned rug in front of a large desk. He sat down behind it and I swear addressed us like we were naughty children. I didn’t realise it immediately, but that was precisely what he thought we were and he was going to treat us accordingly.

He thundered at us some more calling us “repellent”, “sickening”, “nauseating”, “horrendous” and “awful” and other words that he had forgotten earlier. In my state of terror, I didn’t see that this rage was faked. He was “putting on the style”, the way vicars do when they’re giving the brimstone and hellfire stuff on a Sunday. He didn’t really believe in any of it.

Then out of nowhere he told us, “What you need is a nice warm whipping.” And, it was clear from the self-righteous look on his face that this time he did mean it.

“You need to have the evil thrashed out of you,” he continued. Then he fumed some more. He must have been quite a literary gent because in the next few sentences he managed to get in “spank”, “whack”, “tan” and “slap”. If I hadn’t been so petrified of him and the situation I was in, I would have seen him to be the sanctimonious pervert that he really was.

Eventually, he regained a semblance of composure and pronounced the predictable: he was going to spank us. There was no negotiation, but it was immediately clear that if we took our punishment that would be the end of the matter; no police, no prison, no hurtful revelations to our employers, family and friends. The vicar’s power over us was total.

After all his fulminations I expected at the very least he intended to flog us until the skin peeled off our backs and was genuinely astonished when he picked up a bedroom slipper from near the fireplace and announced he was going to spank us with that.

So, it was almost with a sense of relief and joy that we went through our preparations to satisfy our jailer.

The vicar turned a large armless chair away from a dining table so it faced inwards to the room. He sat down, took some time to make himself comfortable, spread his huge legs wide, and pronounced, “Larry, take down your trousers and underpants and bend over my knee.”

Larry and I exchanged glances. We knew we were cornered and had no choice but to submit to this pervert. If we were obedient and allowed him his pleasure, we would be free to leave. If we did not, our lives would be totally ruined.

Faking nonchalance, Larry took off his pullover to gain access to the braces that were holding up his trousers, then released them over his shoulders. They did not fit well at the waist and of their own accord his trousers slipped over his hips down his thighs towards his knees. I could see the look in his eyes was meant to convey to the vicar Larry’s utter contempt for him.

The vicar didn’t care. He was enjoying this too much. He screwed the bedroom slipper in his fist as he scrutinised my friend, “Underwear down. Now!”

With distain Larry undid his woollen drawers revealing his uncut penis to the vicar, who studied it closely. He couldn’t help himself; he had never seen anything like it before. He was sweating a little when he instructed Larry, “Come bend across my knee.” He patted his thigh to encourage my friend, whose contempt for the vicar couldn’t have been greater.

Larry moved forward, put his hands on the vicar’s knees and slowly lowered himself down. He was a small boy, we all were in those days; it was poor diet mostly. The tininess of Larry’s body contrasted with the ample frame of the vicar. Larry was so small neither his hands nor his feet reached the ground; his pert bottom rested over the thick knees of his punisher.

The vicar wrapped his arm around Larry’s middle and lifted him up, moving him further forward so that his bottom was positioned even higher to receive the attention of his slipper. He pinned Larry’s feet down with his own right leg and restrained his back with his left arm. The boy could not move and was entirely at the mercy of the vicar.

He might have been twenty-one or twenty-two at the time, I can’t remember exactly, but in this situation, Larry looked just like a small boy about to be punished by an adult. He could have been eight years old.

Content that his victim could not escape; the vicar lifted the slipper towards the ceiling and brought it crashing down across the centre of Larry’s buttocks with such force a bright red mark immediately appeared and the young man gasped in shock.

Several more blows rained down in rapid succession, echoing around the room like the rattle of machine gun fire. Larry tried to wriggle free, but the vicar seemed to be an expert spanker; he was in absolute control of the situation. He was going to spank Larry as hard and for as long as he wished and there was nothing the boy could do about it.

The slipper spanked into Larry’s buttocks, covering every part of his tight flesh, from the base of the spine through the fleshiest part of the globes to the sit-spot where the bum and the thighs meet. Sadistically, the vicar also smacked down his slipper onto the thighs themselves, causing, if Larry’s reaction was anything to go by, intense pain.

I watched from a distance unable to help my friend, conscious of the agony he was suffering, but also aware of the strange feelings in my loins. I was sure I wasn’t turned on by the pain he was suffering, but there was something about his submissiveness that made my pulse race.

I knew that Larry would not want to give his tormentor the satisfaction of knowing he was hurting him, but after what must have been one hundred or more spanks, his resolve was broken. His cries were hardly audible at first, but they became louder as the whacking intensified, until he was openly weeping as each successive slap of the slipper fell on his raw bottom, opening up new waves of pain.

Eventually, after who knows how much time, even this heartless vicar had satisfied himself. He stopped spanking, but held Larry trapped across his knees, while with the palm of his hand he gently patted the scorching buttocks.

“My, look how pink your bottom is,” and rubbing gently some more, “And how hot it is.”

Larry’s humiliation now total, the vicar released his grip and my friend jumped up, hopping from one foot to the other, rubbing at his scorched flesh while performing a kind of dance.

It was soon to be my turn to go over the vicar’s knees. My heart beat quickened with excitement and my mouth was drying up. I took deep breaths to calm my nerves. I knew this was going to be extremely painful and humiliating, but I wanted it to happen so much.

The vicar beckoned me across his knees and meekly I offered him my bared bottom. If I could have done so, I would have happily stripped myself totally naked: no better; I would have allowed the vicar to do it for me, before throwing myself across his legs in complete submission to his slipper.

The vicar pinned me down in exactly the same way he had Larry. Somehow, my realisation that this strong older man was mastering me made me feel secure. I can’t explain it. I knew by now that he was exploiting me to satisfy his own desires, but I didn’t care. I needed someone like the vicar to control me; to bring out that side of my nature that craved to be dominated.

He slippered me for as long and as hard as he had Larry, leaving my backside blistered. It would throb for hours after the spanking had finished. But, I still needed more.

I never met the vicar again. Larry and I steered clear of the churchyard and a few months later, he joined the army and I never saw him again. But, I still think about that night a lot. How it ignited appetites in me that I never knew existed. But, those passions could never be gratified; how could they, we lived our entire lives in the darkness.

Picture Credit: Sting Pictures

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The boy on the train

new story 2

z used domestic white pants window (7)

Joey peered out the window through moist eyes. His bottom was very tender but most of the real pain had gone now. He gingerly caressed his cheeks with his thumbs and the tips of his fingers. It set the pain off again. Through his thin, cotton shorts he could feel the flesh was like leather. The room was spinning and he had to hold on to a chair to stop from fainting to the floor.

It started two weeks earlier when Joey was on a train going home. He had visited Museum of Philately alone. It was the afternoon and the carriage was empty except for one boy. He was about the same age as Joey (late teens / early twenties) and Joey thought he looked nice. He had short black hair and Joey reckoned he had to cut it that way because if it grew it would be curly and wild. The boy had a clear, bright open face that seemed to Joey to glow. He was conservatively dressed in black chino trousers and a dark blue top with a hood. He had a cheap, white T-shirt that emphasised his muscular chest.

The boy noticed Joey staring and Joey blushed. He was a shy boy and easily got tongue-tied when speaking to people. He spent a lot of time on his own and didn’t know how to talk to strangers. The boy smiled at Joey and straight away he relaxed. He couldn’t put his finger on it but there was something almost magical about the boy. It was that glow that he radiated. Before Joey knew it the boy had started a conversation.

They spoke easily, almost as if they had known each other for years. When they reached Brocklehurst the boy suggested they had a coffee at the station buffet. They did and the boy asked Joey lots of questions about himself: where did he work? where did he live? Did he have family? Joey really liked the boy and was beside himself with delight when he suggested they meet up for coffee again.

It was at their third meeting that Joey told the boy that he was troubled. He was so confident that the boy would understand. He had this problem, Joey said. He thought he didn’t like girls and that worried him. Joey said he was afraid that he liked boys instead. He said he sometimes had these weird dreams. Joey had never told a living soul about this but he was not surprised that he told the boy. The boy was special. Joey knew the boy would understand.

And he did. The boy told Joey so. “I understand,” he said. “I was a bit like that myself.” Joey was overwhelmed with relief. Here was a boy he really liked who felt just the same as he did. Suddenly, it felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

The boy smiled sympathetically and said, “I was like that until I started going to the House of the Sacred Light . They really helped me to get over it. You should come too,” the boy said, radiating a beatific smile, “I could take you.”

Joey was uncertain. House of the Sacred Light; he thought it sounded like one of those churches darkies attended to yell and holler and speak in tongues. “No,” the boy giggled when Joey told him this, “it’s nothing like that. Come, you’ll love it.”

By this time Joey trusted the boy. He was the only friend Joey had. If he thought about it (which he didn’t) Joey would say he was the only friend he had ever had. The boy was the only person who understood his problem.

The House of the Sacred Light sounded like it should be housed in a cathedral a hundred feet high and made of stained glass but it turned out to be a single-storey prefab-type building hidden away just off the town centre. And the people there were not at all happy-clappy, in fact they were mostly very serious (dour even) older folk. The boy told Joey not to be put off by this, “They really know,” he told Joey rather enigmatically. It was at his third visit to the House that Joey found out what he meant.

They were very careful not to call what Joey had a “sin” and they did not call themselves “therapists”, but they did say that the way Joey felt was wrong and they could “cure” him – but only if he wanted them to: “no pressure,” they said. The boy told Joey it really worked. “Trust me,” the boy said and he flashed his beatific smile which made Joey’s heart skip.

They set up a group of four men from the House (including the boy) and they listened to Joey. He told them everything and everybody listened quietly and politely. Then, one of the men, who seemed to be a leader, said what needed to happen next. It seemed to Joey that all of them except himself already knew what was coming.

When they told him, he was very confused. Then, the boy explained it again and Joey thought it must be okay then if the boy said so.

“So,” the leader said quietly. He hardly ever spoke above a whisper. He was an elderly man and Joey knew nothing about him but he thought he looked respectable like an old-fashioned schoolmaster or maybe a country parson. “So,” he said, “we should do it now, don’t you think?” he peered through thick-lensed glasses at Joey. He was saying, “It’s up to you son. Only if you want to.”

Joey felt his face flushing bright red. He had never been asked such a question before. He looked across at the boy for reassurance and when he received the beatific smile he knew everything was going to be fine. Even so he couldn’t quite get the words out of his mouth and so merely nodded his agreement.

“Let’s get on with it then shall we?” the leader said and immediately the boy got off his chair and walked across the rather bare room to a beat-up cupboard attached to a wall. While he was doing this the other three all moved their chairs so they were against the wall and then they sat down again. Joey who by now was very apprehensive watched the boy open the cupboard and reach in. He saw him take out a block of wood. It looked a bit like a bread board his mother had at home, but it was a lot smaller.

The boy saw Joey’s confused look and smiled. “It’s a paddle,” he said. He held it up so Joey could see more clearly. It was a rectangle of wood about the size of a paperback book and it had a handle at one end. The boy gripped the handle and gently tapped the blade end into the palm of his left hand. It was hot in the room but even so Joey shivered when he saw this. His heartrate sped up and at the same time all the saliva in his mouth seemed to dry.

The boy went back to his chair and sat down. He looked over at Joey and said, “What you need to do now is take down your trousers.” He didn’t smile now but Joey knew he could trust the boy. The boy was his friend. Joey was a bit confused but he did as he was asked. It was a warm day and he wore polyester leisure trousers which had elastic at the waist. All he had to do was to pinch them at the hips and guide them down. He didn’t notice the three men lean forwards in their chairs when he did this.

Now, he was standing in front of the boy wearing only a white t-shirt and very short boxer shorts that weren’t really much bigger than ordinary briefs. “Bend over my lap,” the boy said and he separated his legs to make a platform. Joey’s eyes blinked uncontrollably as the boy’s knees parted. He felt sweat pour through his long hair. He was so moist he had to wipe his forehead with the back of his hand. The boy tapped his knee to encourage Joey to bend over. Joey had never done anything like this before and he wasn’t too certain what to do. The boy must have read his mind because he smiled and reached out and took Joey’s left wrist. “Here, like this,” the boy said as both gently and firmly he pulled Joey forward. Joey had quickly to put out his hands in front of him because he thought he was going to crash into the floor but the boy had a good hold of him and he landed gently.

“Move a bit more forward,” the boy said and he continued to give instructions until Joey had his palms flat out on cheap, plastic tiles. His legs dangled behind him so his feet were off the ground. In this position his head was low and his bottom high over the boy’s right thigh. Joey felt a movement in the boy’s body. He flinched when he realised what was happening. The boy took the end of his t-shirt and gently pushed it up Joey’s back so there was now a lot of bare flesh. Then (and this made Joey shudder) the boy ever so gently rubbed the palm of his hand across Joey’s buttocks. Joey hardly felt a thing but out of the corner of his eye he noticed the man who was the group’s leader had almost toppled from his chair because he was leaning too far forward.

The boy was smoothing wrinkles out of Joey’s shorts. They were really tiny and they fitted Joey’s buttocks snugly. The boy left it so the shorts actually lifted and separated each cheek. He had given himself a beautiful target. The next thing the boy did was to put his left arm across Joey’s body around the middle so he had a firm hold of his waist. Like this Joey was pinned down. He was over the boy’s knee at such an angle that he couldn’t wriggle free and escape – even if he wanted to.

The boy didn’t say anything, he just tapped the wooden paddle against Joey’s left buttock and then against the right one. Then there was a terrific crack as the wood pounded Joey’s cotton-covered bottom. It landed dead centre of the left cheek and the noise it made echoed around the small room. It was a moment or two later that Joey felt the burn. It was like the boy had tried to iron Joey’s shorts with him still inside.  The pain was like nothing he had felt before. He opened his mouth and let out a long hiss. Ssssssssssss! He wriggled his waist but of course the boy had a firm grip and Joey was trapped. All he could do was keep looking down at the dirty, grey tiles and wait for the next swat.

It wasn’t long in coming. This one landed in the middle of the right cheek. Now it seemed to Joey that his whole bum was on fire. The boy went back to the left cheek and walloped it a little lower then he went to the right one. He kept up a steady rhythm, one cheek, then the other, and in no time at all every inch of Joey’s buttocks was scorched. Because Joey’s shorts were so small and the cotton so thin the boy could see exactly where each swat was landing. This helped him make sure first of all that he got Joey everywhere; from the top of the globes, over the crests and into the underside where the cheeks meet the thighs. The second thing the boy could do was to decide where he would swat Joey to create maximum pain. This meant he could choose to land a new swat on an area that was already throbbing.

Joey did not know what had hit him. His legs flailed, his hips and waist wriggled, he lifted his head and shook it up and down and from side to side. He gasped and then he yelped and before long he was crying full-throated yells. All this just seemed to spur the boy on. Joey wasn’t counting the number of whacks and it wasn’t sure whether the boy was either; it seemed to go on forever.

At last the boy let up and Joey was left gasping for breath. The boy still held him tightly so he had to keep staring down at the floor while his body started to recover. His buttocks pulsated and his temples throbbed, he had no spit in his mouth and he seemed to be making gentle mewing sounds, like a little lamb who had lost its mother.

After a while the boy let go of Joey and said he could stand up. As he was doing this the three men who had been watching hurriedly left the room. When Joey and the boy were left together the boy smiled that smile and told Joey this was just the start. It would take a while, but it would be worth it in the end. Then, he too left the room.

Joey bent double so his head was almost between his knees, the pain was dreadful. He rubbed his bum for a bit and then bent down again. The room seemed to be spinning and he couldn’t work out what was going on. He was very light-headed and he remembered that one time when he was drunk and he felt a bit like that, except this time was somehow better. But, he didn’t know how.

He needed air, so he staggered across the room to the window.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

A Preacher Teaches Humility

z used otk pantz down chair sting (44)

“Hi hon, is the preacher at home?” Cheryl breezed into the church reception area ignoring the two middle-aged men who were waiting apprehensively and flashed her toothy smile at Karen, the receptionist-cum-secretary.

Karen raised her eyes from the Bible she was reading to acknowledge her fellow church-attendee.

“Not immediately, no,” she whispered, nodding in the direction of the visitors. Then soundlessly she mouthed the words, “It’s that time of the month.”

Oh, Cheryl got it. That time of the month. Of course, she had forgotten. It had nothing to do with the biological clock; it was the twenty-sixth; the day each month when Preacher Pasternauch got intimate with God.

“Oh, I forgot. Never mind I’ll come back tomorrow,” then turning to the two men, she called cheerily, “Good luck,” and departed just as breezily as she had arrived. Karen returned to studying the Bible.

On the other side of the wall, Preacher Pasternauch was listening to Luke.

“I have been lusting with my eyes, Preacher.” Luke, twenty-five and married with two lovely daughters (blessings from God), was distressed.

“Tell me all about it,” the preacher sat back in his lush padded leather armchair and closed his eyes; the better to concentrate on Luke’s tale of wickedness.

“Lusting with the eyes,” it was a common fault among male members of the preacher’s congregation. Luke had been punished by God for this offence before.

It was the young lady at the drugstore. Her big breasts bounced, seemingly uncontrolled, under her loose woollen sweater. He struggled to keep his eyes off them whenever he visited the store.

“Women are wicked, Luke,” the preacher adopted the tone of voice that he had convinced himself demonstrated that he was a caring father. Caring and loving. A father whose duty was to help his sons (whatever their ages) to grow in the image of God. He should praise them fulsomely when they did well, and punish them severely when they erred.

“What else have you been doing? Have you been touching yourself?” the preacher would need to hear all the details before he could ask God to pronounce the sentence that he should carry out.

Luke blushed, “Oh, no preacher, nothing like that.”

“Are you sure, Luke?” the preacher tried to hide his disappointment. Luke had visited the preacher three months previously to report similar stirrings. That time it had been a teenaged girl in the gas station.

“Tell me everything, boy. Don’t spare me the details.”

Preacher Pasternauch was the emissary from God. He acted for God on Earth. God was kind, but he was also stern. God directed the preacher to punish the wrong-doers in his congregation. They must learn to fight their wickedness and when they found they were failing Preacher Pasternauch would offer them encouragement.

Luke’s tale was short. He was guilty only of “lusting with the eyes,” but not masturbation or adultery.

“I think you know what must happen now, don’t you Luke,” the preacher said as he rose from his cosy chair and walked five paces across the room to the far wall, where hanging on hooks were three wooden paddles of differing lengths and thicknesses.

Luke was the preacher’s third visitor that morning and there were at least two more awaiting their turn outside. His first visitor had been Matthew the retiree. The preacher was uncertain, but thought the man was at least seventy years old. His wickedness was alcohol. On three separate days this past month he had drunk more than three beers. His drunkenness was a curse. He tried to fight it, but he was weak.

Matthew tried to fight his booze habit; but he believed himself to be a feeble man. He could not do it on his own. He visited the preacher on the twenty-sixth day of each month and had been doing so for as long as the preacher had held these sessions. The old man had left the preacher with his rear blazing and hobbled back to his dark, lonely, room.

Preacher Pasternauch was not a philosopher; he did not ask why the regular spankings could not make Matthew kick the booze habit. Even, as he replaced the heavy wood on its hook it did not enter his head why Matthew would be back in his office for a repeat performance in thirty days’ time.

The second visitor was a newcomer. He was not new to the church, he had been attending for many years; but this was his first visit to Preacher Pasternauch’s monthly “confessionals”. The preacher held open house; any one of his male congregants (aged eighteen or over) could turn up, no appointment necessary, to confess his wickedness. They would pray together and the preacher would administer a stern dose of corporal punishment. God, through the right arm of the preacher, would pardon them of their wickedness. Now, they were fit to return to their community and once again live for the glory of God.

John ran a small accounting firm, just off Main Street. It was doing very well and he made a comfortable living. Just lately his work had begun to bore him; there was no excitement in his life. His life was empty.

No, he rushed to assure the preacher, not empty of Jesus Christ, but just empty: uneventful, devoid of excitement.

So, John, for the first time in his forty-two years on this planet had taken to gambling. He knew it was wicked, but the lure of the state lottery ticket had proved too enticing. He had spent, lost, and therefore wasted, ten whole dollars each month for the past six months. Now, despite the financial losses (he was an accountant after all, so he knew the danger of losses) he found he could not give up the thrill of the chase.

He had toyed with the idea of visiting the preacher for some weeks before, but he was afraid. But, while praying hard to God he received a message; he must confess to the preacher. It was no secret that the preacher held monthly spanking sessions, so John knew what was in store for him when eventually he visited. That was the problem.

John had a great deal of experience receiving corporal punishment. His father had been a keen spanker. Well into his early twenties (the age he finally could afford to move out of the family house) John had been subjected to his dad’s discipline.

Sometimes, more than twenty years after his last thrashing, John could still feel the welts. His father had broken three switches, cut especially for the purpose from the backyard, across his bare buttocks. That would teach him to cut classes at the accountancy college.

The preacher listened sympathetically, gave a short homily on the wickedness of gambling, conducted a much longer prayer for forgiveness and then took the skin off John’s rear end. The poor man was howling by the time he was instructed to pull up his pants and leave.

It hurt like crazy. He knew it could not possibly be as painful as the switching from his father, but back in those days his backside had grown used to the lash. In the intervening twenty or so years, his buttocks had grown flabby and he felt intense agony as each whack of the wood connected.

Now it was the turn of Luke. “So Luke, let us pray.” Both men knelt on the floor of the office. The hard nylon-based carpeting cut into Luke’s knees. It was painful, but he ignored it; you were not supposed to be comfortable while praying to God.

The prayer took five minutes to conclude. God was told of all the young man’s lustful thoughts and of his history of wickedness. Then both men were silent while Preacher Pasternauch received his instructions from God.

“Yes, Lord.” The preacher rose from his kneeling position, convinced that he was about to perform the will of God.

“Pain and humility,” that was how Preacher Pasternauch would explain it later to the county judge. Not only would he spank the men hard, he would ensure that they demonstrated the right degree of humility. Not to himself, of course, but to God.

The preacher sat in a large, heavy, straight-backed wooden chair. Luke had been here before; he knew what was expected. He was twenty-five years old. It was the lunch hour and he had motored from his office downtown to the church. He had left his jacket in the car so was dressed in a crisp white dress shirt with a sober tie. His trousers, part of a matching suit, were dark grey, with a hint of a blue stripe running through them. They fitted snugly; Luke was not fat; and certainly not obese like many of his fellow church attendees.

His face was bright and open and his skin clear. He had been well into his twenties before he had developed enough beard that it needed shaving daily. His hair was cut short and neat. Luke was the conventional young man any of us might see in the street and never actually notice.

The preacher sat himself down and Luke, without instruction, moved to stand a couple of feet away from the older man’s right leg. No words were spoken, but the preacher simply pointed with his index finger at the young man’s waist and with a downward movement mimed that the pants should be lowered.

Luke could feel his face flush. The last time this had been the worst part; preparing himself, taking down his pants and exposing his underwear. The preacher had kindly informed him this was about “humility.” He was showing that he was humble before the preacher and therefore before God.

It certainly was embarrassing, even this second time. But, Luke knew that this was God’s will. He would submit himself to the preacher in any way that he was instructed. Finally, he had his pants resting on his shoes.

“Lift up your shirt so that it is away from your buttocks and then please bend over my legs.” It was a kind, friendly request. The preacher knew that his congregants accepted they had behaved wickedly and were ready to pay the necessary price for redemption.

Luke lowered himself across the preacher’s lap and with his arms stretched out in front he placed his hands firmly palms down into the nylon flooring. Once again, he sensed its hardness and it felt scratchy against his skin. But, something was not quite right; his necktie had caught under his body and was pulling at this throat, if he was not careful he might choke. He lifted himself an inch or so above the preacher’s lap and with his right hand pulled the tie clear and left it dangling in front of his face. He rested once again on the preacher’s lap. He was now in a comfortable position and Luke was pleased about that, but he knew what was to happen next would be far from comfortable.

The preacher was not quite ready to start. He smoothed Luke’s maroon-colored briefs, removing any wrinkles from the cotton. Satisfied that they now hugged the contours of the young man’s globes, the preacher prepared for the onslaught.

He had chosen his middle-sized paddle. It was maybe twelve inches long and three wide and about a half-inch thick. It was the perfect size and weight to deliver a sound over-the-knee spanking. He had wrapped Scotch tape around the handle to give him an extra grip; he didn’t want the paddle to slip from his fist while he was in full flow.

Luke’s breathing was heavy, and involuntarily he clenched his buttocks tight, ready to absorb the full impact of the first swat.

“Relax, Luke,” again the preacher sounded kind and caring. “Don’t scrunch up your bottom.”

Luke tried, he wanted to satisfy God and present himself submissively, but for some reason he did not understand he did not have control of his body.

Whack! the wood crashed right across the center of both buttocks. “Please God, save me from my wickedness. Help make me a good man,” Luke did not say the words out loud but he repeated them over and over in his mind as the preacher tore his buttocks to shreds. He knew this agony and humiliation was God’s will. He knew it because the preacher had told him it was so.

It had to be a pants down, over-the-knee spanking. God wanted him to show humility and this was how it had to be done. The preacher had explained everything the first time he made the twenty-five-year-old father-of-two submit his bottom to the paddle.

Whack! Whack! Luke’s crack opened and closed each time the paddle connected with his bottom. The pain was increasing and he found his legs were kicking out. He did not mean to do it; he so wanted to show God he would submit to his will. His mind said this, but his body had other ideas; it was a natural reflex action.

The paddle was not the largest in the preacher’s collection but it was big enough to cover the area of Luke’s cheek. Vigorously the heavy wood slapped the two reddening cheeks in rapid succession, until, still unwillingly, Luke began to writhe and twist his body, bending his legs up, and ultimately swinging his right hand away from the carpet to shield his toasting buns from the stinging impact of the preacher’s frenzied attack.

Preacher Pasternauch was on a mission from God. His strong right arm increased the speed and force with which it pummeled the paddle from one cheek to the other, making Luke gasp and groan. The crashing sound of wood connecting with cotton-encased flesh echoed round the room like machinegun fire.

In the waiting room two middle aged men paid extra attention to their newspapers and pretended they could not hear the whacks and the increasing yelps coming from the preacher’s office.

The preacher was as breathless as the young man he was punishing. A dozen, then two dozen, then three dozen whacks struck Luke’s cheeks, sank into the flesh and bounced off, leaving behind deep red marks, that rapidly turned to blue.

The preacher held the young man tightly at his midriff, ensuring the poor suffering creature could not escape. On and one went the beating, and even as the pain increased to agony, Luke continued talking to God in his head. “Please help me defeat my wicked sexual thoughts!”

Luke did not know how long the spanking went on, but when the preacher stopped he lay on the floor holding his destroyed bottom and crying like a baby for at least ten minutes. The preacher returned to his plush leather armchair, closed his eyes and pressed the fingers of his two hands together as if in prayer. He could wait all afternoon if that was what it took for Luke to recover.

In time Luke pulled his pants up and withdrew a handkerchief from a pocket and wiped his tear-stained face. Then, with no further word, he hobbled from the office in search of his car.

The preacher remained seated awaiting his own recovery. Once his heart rate had returned to normal, he poured a glass of water and buzzed Karen to send in the next one.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

This story was first uploaded in December 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Uncle Festus

new story 2

z used otk birch CS

Neither of my parents were bothered with religion so I grew up without knowing about “Spare the rod and spoil the child.” My Uncle Festus was altogether different as I would find out. I went to a modern school, they taught us sciences as well as humanities. It was a progressive place and corporal punishment was unheard of. I was a bright child but distracted. I wasn’t lazy, but I never worked; not on my academic studies anyway. I was a good and popular sportsman and made many friends. There were girls at the school and in my later years they were a distraction.

I did badly in my examinations and my parents’ hopes that I would go to Oxford or Cambridge University were dashed. I wasn’t even qualified to attend one of the smaller, less prestigious varsities. That’s how I found myself at the Brocklehurst Crammer. Brocklehurst is a small town a long way from my home. My father arranged that I should attend the college for three months during the autumn. The idea was that I would be force-fed all the learning I had passed up at school and then retake my exams. That way, so the theory went, I could get a university place and get my life back on track.

I was never told why I was to be sent to Brocklehurst as there were many similar colleges close to my home. Looking back I suspect the deciding factor in sending me away was Uncle Festus. He lived alone in a large house in Brocklehurst. He had never married and was a pillar of the local community, especially one particular church. It was arranged that I would lodge with him, returning to his home at the end of each college day. I was not consulted over the arrangement, but I could see no reason to object. I would be the first to admit I had let myself and my parents down; I should be grateful to be afforded a second chance.

I took a very long journey by three steam trains and was near exhaustion when finally we chuffed into Brocklehurst Station. I had been told my uncle would meet me. I had rarely met him and had no idea what he looked like. I spotted him immediately. He was a young child’s nightmare of a latter day Old Testament prophet. His hair was wild, his side whiskers were overgrown, a waxed moustache curled above his upper lip. Wild blue eyes stared through half-moon glasses. It was a late summer day and seasonably warm but Uncle Festus was dressed in a heavy serge suit with buttoned-up waistcoat. Cutting into his neck was a stiff cardboard collar from which a tightly knotted tie hung.

He recognised me too. Father had insisted that I wear my old school uniform.  My bright red blazer shone in the sunlight. I had abandoned the stiff collar and tie but wore a white shirt and pale grey trousers. Uncle Festus grunted something that might have been a greeting. He peered at me over the top of his glasses, inspecting first my hair and then my face. Evidently he was not pleased with what he saw. “Hair needs cutting. No cap. Where’s your collar?” He did not wait for my response and instead turned on his heels and sped off in the direction he had come. “Follow me!” he barked. I watched him disappear down the platform. When it became clear that I was not following he stopped. He stared at me from a distance of fifty feet; his eyes blazed, I swear I saw then spin, he drew back his shoulders, gulped down air into his lungs and roared, “I said follow me!” The few people still at the station stopped what they were doing and turned startled, wondering what manner of emergency had taken place.

My face reddened, my hands trembled, I was sure tears were close to forming. “B.. b..” I stumbled, terrified to speak. At last I found the courage and the wind, “But Uncle, I have to get my luggage from the train,” I bleated pitifully. Thankfully, at the a moment a porter approached pushing a trolley heavily loaded with two trunks and a suitcase; the provisions for my stay.

The porter might well have encountered my uncle in the past and knowing of the old man’s temper, he kept his distance and waited silently for instructions. “Pah!” my uncle ejaculated. “Take them to the trap,” he barked and like a frightened rabbit the ancient porter scurried on his way.

The nag pulling the trap was on its last legs, before too long its dead body would be served to cats. I sat behind Uncle Festus as we bumped over every hole in the roads, and there were many. He was silent the entire journey. I sat despondent. My uncle’s appearance and attitude had scared the living daylights out of me and his silence as we made our way to his house was oppressive. I had a close view of his broad shoulders and powerful back, I had no idea what he did or a living but from my short distance he had the appearance of a manual labourer. He certain had the tang of one; he omitted a sour aroma which was unsurprising considering the warmth of the day and the heaviness of his clothing.

At last the pony and trap turned into a wide street called The Avenue. The road was paved with cobbles and the noise of the pony’s hooves as it clip-clopped along was deafening. The house on each side were large and imposing, nearly all of them hidden behind vast hedges and ancient trees so high they blocked out the sun. The driver cried out “Whoa there!” and the pony shuddered to a halt. Neither the driver not my uncle made to move. I sat for a moment before it dawned on me I was expected to haul the trunks and case from the trap and drag them into the house on my own; surely an impossible task. I was summoning up the courage to ask the driver or my uncle to help when a boy, about my age, bounded out through the gateway of one of the houses. This was evidently my uncle’s home. The boy nodded a greeting to me and took hold of one end of a trunk. He said nothing yet I understood perfectly his intention. I took hold of the other end and together we manhandled it into the house.

The boy led the way into the house. Once inside I could see immediately that it was vast. I would later learn there were five bedrooms and two living rooms along with a private room that uncle used, as well as the usual kitchen and so on. The hallway was dark and cold, you would never guess it was summertime. Gas lamps were attached to the walls at long intervals. The boy led the way up the wide staircase and took me to the room that I had been allocated. It was large and musty and sparsely furnished. A large bed with what I supposed was a cast-iron bedstead dominated. The floors were bare, without even a worn rug. A bowl and water jug was on a stand in one corner. In another there was a cupboard. Next to the bed was a set of drawers and on top of this stood a candle in a dish with hardened melted wax.

It was then I realised the house had no electricity. By that time electricity was available cheaply all over the country and there could have been no reason but by choice that uncle had not had it connected.

The boy helped me to put the trunk down and we went out to fetch the rest of my luggage. The boy seemed to me to be rather preoccupied with his own thoughts and he made no attempt to make conversation. I wondered if he was in fact a little simple.

At last my possessions were in my room. I was uncertain what I was expected to do next as Uncle Festus had given me no instructions; he had hardly said two words to me since we met on the station platform. I resolved I would seek him out. I was making my way through the dark passageway when the front door opened and six men all dressed in similar fashion to my uncle entered. Each had a thick black book in his right hand. They moved swiftly through the hallway and entered uncle’s private room. The boy emerged from another room and joined then. I stood on the staircase and watched. They appeared to have come for a meeting of some sort.

My uncle was already in the room and I saw him close the door. I am not generally a curious boy, which is one reason why I didn’t do so well with my studies, but this time my interest was aroused. I tip-toed down the stairs and approached the now-closed door, very aware that my footsteps were amplified by the bare floorboards. My heart thumped as I pressed my ear against the heavy oak door. It was too thick for sound to pass through and I could not hear what the group inside were saying. I stooped down and placed my eye on the eyehole. I am not one who is often wracked with guilt but I felt my presence snooping at the keyhole would not be well received by my uncle if I was discovered. It would be in my own interest to make my exit.

Intrigued, and determined to discover what they were doing inside uncle’s room I left the house and entered the garden. The house was huge and there was no shortage of windows but at last I found the one I was looking for. It was closed, despite the fine day. I thought how hot and stuffy it must be in the room, especially since by now there was a small crowd of people, all dressed in heavy clothes. The aroma of uncle’s stale sweat came to my mind. Large trees overshadowed most of the house and I used one as a cover and I was able to secret myself and still have a passable view into the room. The men were on their knees with their books open in their hands. They were reading something aloud in unison. A prayer, I supposed.

I remembered that Uncle Festus was an active member of his church. Was this a service of some sort? I wondered. That might have been the case but this was a Tuesday; perhaps it was some kind of Bible study group.

I watched for a moment or two and since nothing much was happening I was about to leave to explore the rest of the house and garden when I saw the boy stand. Even from my distance and peering through dirty glass into an unlit room I could see he appeared in some distress. He sank to his knees and held his hands together as if in prayer. The others then stood and in unison recited an incantation. The boy looked close to tears. Intrigued I resolved to stay and watch developments. I didn’t have long to wait. My uncle suddenly placed his Bible on a small table and then with great deliberation, he unbuttoned his coat and slipped it from his shoulders. With solemnity he handed it to a colleague who hung it on a hat stand. While that was being done, Uncle Festus slowly undid the buttons of his waistcoat. All eyes in the room were transfixed.

Having loosened his clothing he took a couple of paces across the room and leaned towards a vase-like ornament that stood easily three feet tall. He reached his hand inside and with a flourish (rather like a magician taking a rabbit from a hat) he extracted a bunch of twigs. No one in the room was the least surprised, but I almost fell backwards with amazement. There were about a dozen or so twigs or small branches and they were tied together at one end to make a handle. Even I, with my great lack of knowledge of such things, recognised it as a birch. Any number of the trees in the garden where I stood could have supplied the wherewithal to construct it. Uncle Festus held it upright in the palms of both hands and presented it as if it was an offering to the assembled audience.

There was complete silence. I watched astounded. There was movement in the room. It seemed everyone knew their role in the unfolding drama. Two men took hold of a large, ornate armless chair that was leaning against a wall and manoeuvred it into the middle of the room. Uncle Festus seated himself. I had not noticed but while Uncle Festus was taking centre stage, the boy had removed his own coat and shirt collar. He stood forlornly. Uncle Festus made some remark to his congregation and they chanted their response. Satisfied with that my uncle turned towards the boy. Uncle’s face was set firmly. I did not see his lips move but he must have spoken some words because as if following a command the boy proceeded to loosen his britches. They had complicated fastenings and the boy’s trembling hands made heavy work of getting them to fall to his feet. He made a better job with his underwear and within seconds his buttocks were bared. He had his back to me so I have no way of knowing his expression or gauging his sense of humiliation which must have been acute.

My uncle squeezed his thighs together, the boy shuffled forward, and with a practiced move he dived headlong over Uncle Festus’s knees. He stretched his arms forward and placed both palms firmly into the ground. His naked buttocks rested across uncle’s right thigh and he kept his knees straight. They were presented to my uncle at a perfect angle. Uncle Festus was not yet quite satisfied, he took hold of the long tail of the boy’s shirt and gently tucked it away up the small of his back and away from the target.

All eyes, my own included, were glued to the boy’s naked, quivering milk-white posterior. Uncle Festus raised the birch twigs high above his own head; there was a collective intake of breath in the room. I bit my bottom lip hard. Uncle whipped the boy over the upturned bottom, the boy gasped as pink flecks, bruises, and abrasions burst across his shapely buttocks. Uncle’s arm rose again and the strong, broad-shouldered man flogged the birch down with increased vim. The boy twitched, sniffed and quivered.

With the window tightly shut I could not hear a sound from the room. I have no idea if the boy, yelped, yelled or screamed. Certainly, as the beating continued he wriggled and writhed. His hips swivelled, his legs kicked. I imagined that was only to be expected, his body was being asked to absorb great pain, to twist and turn must surely be a natural physical reaction to such an assault.

The men in the room watched impassively.

Uncle Festus set about his duty at a steady pace. The birch lifted and fell. The spread of the twigs was such that a single stroke covered most of the boy’s bottom. Soon, his once smooth, white buttocks were a mass of scratches, cuts and grazes. His cheeks flamed crimson. I couldn’t begin to imagine how sore they must feel; the sting must be agonising.

I didn’t think to count the number of strokes delivered, but by the time it was over the boy’s bottom, from the top of the globes, over the peaks themselves and into the under cheeks resembled raw meat. I couldn’t imagine that he would be able to sit down after that for a week or more. When there was no more flesh to flay, Uncle Festus desisted. Again, no word was spoken, but he released his hold on the boy who immediately sprang to his feet.

For a moment he looked unbalanced and dizzy but Uncle Festus put a steadying hand on his shoulders, while the boy’s own hands moved to ease his burning rear and he sobbed gently. Then, uncle put his hand firmly on the top of the boy’s head and took up what seemed to me to be a low moan. My heart fell; he was in ecstasy. The congregation joined the chanting and it continued for what seemed like several minutes. At last uncle released his grip on the boy’s scalp and unbidden he reached down and retrieved first his underwear and then his britches. Once suitable attired, he was handed his coat and silently and without ceremony he left the room.

Within moments they all left. I thought it unwise to be caught snooping and moved off to the furthest part of the garden as far away as possible from uncle and his cronies. There, I replayed it all in my mind. I had not the slightest idea what I had witnessed, but I knew for certain my three months lodging with Uncle Festus would prove to be the longest of my life.

 

Picture credit: C of Sweden

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

A Robust Response

I am a fair man, a man of the world. I understand the temptations of the young. I know it is a rocky road to adulthood. I have myself suffered temptations. When I was a teenager I knew desire. I knew what it was to long for the clear skin of other boys, lust over taut muscles, envy their shiny hair, their blazing eyes, ruby-red lips. Long legs, tight buttocks. Sins of the flesh.

As the young say today, “I have been there.” But I was saved. I was eighteen years old when my lusts came to light. I won’t share with you the details. They are too humiliating for me to recall, even now so many years later. But, I was saved by the priests at my school. It took some doing. A modern-day scourging of the flesh. It worked. Homosexuality is only a passing phase, all young men go through it. Yes, it is a sin, but it can be cured. I know. I was cured. And, in a few moments it will be my pleasure – no my duty – to cure a young man at this school similarly afflicted.

In my own case it took three priests, each acting separately, to make the breakthrough. I shall be eternally grateful to them for their diligence; their thoroughness. Without their intervention I should have descended into a cesspool of my own making. Adrift. Never to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Corporal correction; corporal punishment if you will. Punishment of the flesh.  “Blessed are the pure at heart,” the priests at school would say, “Boys, if you are not pure at heart, I’ll flog you!”

In a few moments, Teddy will arrive here at my study. Teddy is a bright young man, I have had my eye on him for some years. He has all the attributes needed to enter the priesthood. But, he has lost his way. Like a lamb in the hillside. But, he is not a lost cause. He can be set back on the right path. I shall save him. He knows why he has been summoned to my study. He has already confessed his sin. He knows he must be saved. He wants to be saved. He can be saved. He will be saved.

I will talk to him so that he understands that the feelings he has are perfectly natural for a young man of eighteen. But, he is a teenager, really still an adolescent. He is going though a phase in his life. He is at a crossroads. He must decide which way to turn. Once I know he understands this we shall pray. God will give his blessing. God loves us. He will protect us. He will save us.

When that is done I shall instruct Teddy to stand behind my desk. It is a very large, heavy walnut beast. I sometimes joke that it could double up as a hockey pitch. While he does that I shall go to my special locked cupboard. Inside I have many instruments of punishment; leather straps, riding crops, whippy rattan rods, and (my favourites) heavy wooden paddles. Teddy is a tall, slim boy. He is a member of the school athletic team and he runs constantly. His body is strong and his legs are long. His buttocks are tight and from memory I calculate that one of my larger paddles would conveniently fit across both cheeks.

I will instruct Teddy to lower his trousers. He might be reluctant to be seen by an older man in his underwear but he will do as I command without question. I am the authority of God. It is His will that this scourging takes place. Once the trousers are down, in all probability the tail of his dress shirt will be so long as to cover his bottom. If this indeed proves to be the case, he must raise his shirt high so that his stomach and back are bared. The next manoeuvre might be tricky. Once I am satisfied that the shirt offers him no protection, he must “assume the position”. This can be a moment of confusion for what constitutes “the position” may vary from person to person. To some it means “bend down, grab your ankles”. Otherwise, it might mean “hands on knees”. Still again, “bend over the back of the chair”. When I say, “Assume the position” I mean stand by the edge of the desk, lean forward, place the forearms squarely on the desk top, head up, look ahead, spread the feet wide.

It can be difficult to convey all this information to the boy about to be paddled. The brighter ones get it almost immediately; not so the dumb. I have on occasion been forced to assume the position myself in order to demonstrate the correct way to present oneself for punishment. I take care in such circumstances to give the young man extra swats by way of compensation for the embarrassment he has caused me.

Once Teddy is in position, the whipping begins. As I have already indicated my paddle of choice is large and I know the blade will cover both buttocks. In preparation I have to take hold of the waistband of his underpants and pull them so tight so that the cotton caresses the bottom like a second skin. I should be able to see the outline of each cheek perfectly, and the ravine that separates them. Once that task is completed it is only a matter of resting the paddle across the target area, tapping it against the tight flesh once or twice for effect, raising the wood high and bringing it back with a resounding crash.

Let me explain what I mean by “for effect”. Such a beating as this is of course about inflicting pain. A great deal of pain (agony even) in many cases. Of course it is, otherwise what is the point of it all? But along with the actual pain comes anticipation. I remember from my own times “in position” for the priests that the preparation, the waiting, the anticipation of the pain to come, the humiliation, was almost as much punishment as the paddling itself.

So, I shall take my time with Teddy. Pat, pat here. Tap, tap there. Swat! Once the first blow has been struck I shall count to twenty (in my head, not aloud). This will add somewhat to the effect. It will give a moment for the pain of the blow to register. I well remember how one hears the whack of wood connecting with one’s own flesh maybe a second before the pain registers. That is when the body shudders or shakes as red-hot aching radiates from the rear end and travels up and down the legs. As more and more swats are delivered that agony journeys through the whole body becoming tortuous. The peak of pain of each swat lasts maybe ten seconds. When I beat a boy I make sure there is a further ten seconds for the sinner to anticipate the next blow before I deliver it.

I have a routine when spanking; a rhythm if you will. I start in the very centre of the backside, across the highest and in most cases fleshiest part of the cheeks. The second swipe goes lower; the third higher. In this way it is possible to have the entire area ablaze after only three swats: from the top near the spine, over the mounds of flesh and into the underside where the thighs meet. With the whole rear end blazing each successive stroke will land on already damaged flesh, reigniting the hurt and adding to its intensity considerably.

I shall award Teddy twelve strokes. I shall leave it to your own imagination to visualise the state of his flesh by the time I have finished. Remember also that the thin cotton underpants offer no useful protection against the paddle. If that is the case, you might think to ask, why don’t I beat my young man on the bare posterior? It is a good question and I think you would agree making Teddy remove his underwear would increase the humiliation of the occasion somewhat. Given my own head I would not hesitate to beat him “on the bare”, but if you read the lying Liberal newspapers you would know that the Church is under much scrutiny these days. I am certain all right-thinking people agree with our way of combating homosexuality among the young; but a manufactured scandal about our method would only be a distraction.

Teddy is a strong young man, I fully expect him to take his punishment stoically. He will assume the position and stay in it until I command that he may stand. I have no doubt his body will react against the agony I shall inflict and his legs will buckle, his back buck, his shoulders shake and his head will neigh like a horse. But, he will stay in place. He will offer his backside to me. He will obey.

There may be tears. This is often involuntary. Think when you hit yourself on the thumb with a hammer do your eyes not water? I keep paper tissues in a box in my drawer. I find such are useful for a number of emergencies that can take place in my study.

Teddy will dress, we shall pray once more. I shall remind him that I (and God) love him and send him on his way.

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

Thieving cousins

The military kid

The paying guest

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Book. Collection of Spanking Stories

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Charles Hamilton II’s Collection of Spanking Stories

Here’s another free-to-download book containing a selection of my favourite male-on-male spanking stories. It has some of my earliest writings and some of my most recent. I hope there’s something for every taste from military, judicial, dad-and-son, the vicar, my best friend and many more besides. All characters are aged 18 or over.

The book which also has many illustrations runs for more than 26,000 words.

Please enjoy.

Click on the link below to download Charles Hamilton II’s Collection of Spanking Stories

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Picture credit: Mancspank

For more free-to-download books click here