Rev. Harris does his duty

z used touch toes white pants

The Reverend Harris puffed his cheeks and wheezed. His bulky frame wasn’t suited to riding a bike but his parish was too stingy to buy him a car so he had no choice. He was nearly there now. The streets were empty as he struggled along the cobblestones.

Andrew Buckley sat uneasily on the edge of his bed. Waiting. His mother was at bingo and his sister at the youth club. Usually when he had the house to himself he would sneak out his postcards hidden away in a box at the back of the wardrobe and pleasure himself. But not this evening. Not with his visitor arriving at any minute.

Rev. Harris turned his bicycle into a street of run-down terraced houses. Number seventeen, his destination, was at the far end. Sweat soaked his brow as his huffed his way closer. Two women gossiping on a doorstep watched intently as he dismounted his bike. He allowed himself a moment to catch his breath, before leaning down and untying a long thin rattan cane from the crossbar.

He smiled a greeting to the housewives and tucked the curve-handled cane under his arm, rather like a sergeant-major might with a swagger stick. It was one of the Reverend’s heavier canes, taken from a collection he kept at the church youth club. It was a little over three feet in length and as thick as a pencil. It felt as light as a feather as he carried it to the front door, but he knew from years of experience it could pack a punch. In the right hands – and Rev. Harris possessed such – it could leave a young man scarred.

Andrew paced his bedroom unaware of the Rev’s imminent appearance. The eighteen-year-old glanced at himself in the mirror. He looked devilishly anxious. His usually bright blue eyes were hooded. His open, cheerful face was glum.

He had thought about running away and hiding. If the vicar found he was not at home he would have to return to the youth club. But it would do no good, Andrew knew. Rev. Harris would only return later and he would probably get it twice as hard.

He moved to the window, attracted by a scuffling noise from the street. His heart faded. Rev. Harris stood on the doorstep, cane under his arm, ready to knock on the door. Damn. Andrew saw his two neighbours staring intently. Soon the whole street would know. He hated to think what his pals would say.

Rat-a-tat-tat. It was an insistent knock. Rev. Harris did not like to be kept waiting. Andrew ran his tongue across his dry lips and padded down the stairs.

Rev. Harris brushed past Andrew and made for the parlour. “Follow me,” he called over his shoulder when he realised Andrew was rooted to the doormat. “You know why I am here.”

Indeed he did. His mother had asked the vicar to “do something” about Andrew. He was surly, curt, churlish. He had long ago stopped obeying his mother’s instructions. The vicar heard her pleas, dismayed. Rev. Harris had heard it all before. The war had left many of his parishioners widows and the poor women were driven to distraction by their teenaged sons. Rev. Harris was at hand to do his duty.

Andrew followed the portly man as instructed. He stood uneasily watching as Rev. Harris dropped the curve-handled cane onto the settee and laboriously unbuttoned his jacket and tugged it off his back. Then he let that drop beside the cane.

How Andrew hated this place. Soon he would leave school. If he could pass his exams he would escape this hovel of a house and the dingy small town. He could go to university, or if not, he would get a clerking job somewhere. In Manchester perhaps. Whatever became of him, it would be miles away from here; he promised himself.

Rev. Harris waddled across the room and picked up a heavy wooden chair, which he plonked down so that it rested against a wall with its straight back facing him. Andrew’s eyes followed him as he returned to the settee and retrieved the cane. No words were spoken. There was no need for them. Both Rev. Harris and Andrew knew how this must play out.

Rev. Harris flexed the cane between his hands. He always did this. It was part of the ritual of punishment. As was swishing the rod through the air. Andrew blanched. He couldn’t help it. At any moment that wicked cane would be slicing his backside to pieces. He stared at the worn carpet beneath his feet shamefully.

The vicar pointed at the chair. “Take down your trousers,” he intoned. “This time I shall not cane you on your bare butt-tocks,” he let the word swirl around his mouth, “But if ever I have to repeat this punishment, be assured it will be across your bare flesh.” He let the word “flesh” hang in the air.

Andrew had expected this. From the moment his mother had told him the vicar would call, he knew his bum would be toasted. But he couldn’t quite get his hands to move.

“Hurry along boy,” the vicar feigned impatience. He knew young men did not relish being caned. They would do anything to delay just discipline. But there was no way out. The power of the Church was immense in this town. The vicar was truly God’s representative on Earth. If he said, “Take down your trousers and pants and bend over,” that’s what you did.

At last Andrew’s fingers fumbled with his belt buckle. The button fly of his grey school trousers were open and they slithered down his thighs to his knees.

“Bend over.” It was softly spoken; hardly a command. There was no need for histrionics. Andrew sucked his bottom lip and moved forward. Not daring to look at the vicar, he leaned forward and gripped the wooden seat of the chair. He parted his feet and stuck his bum out, ready to receive the kiss of the cane. He closed his eyes and shuddered.

Rev. Harris was in no hurry. He had his own little ritual when caning. First, gently he tucked Andrew’s white school shirt up the teenager’s back. It was now clear of his target. Next, he gripped the waistband of the white Y-fronts and pulled so that the cotton fitted the contours of Andrews cheeks snugly.

He was almost ready. Now, he stood a little to the teenager’s left and slowly tap-tap-tapped the cane across the fleshiest part of the buttocks. He was getting his aim. Satisfied, Rev. Harris pulled the whippy rod back and with all the force he could muster he brought it crashing down so that it sank into Andrew’s tight flesh. He was rewarded by a long, low hiss from his victim. Andrew’s bum wriggled from side to side and then up and down as the pain seared through his body. He gripped the wooden seat as if his life depended upon it.

Rev. Harris rewarded himself a smirk. Then, slowly he paced across the room. It wasn’t a large room. It took three paces to get from one side to the other. Then, he turned on his heels and retraced his steps. Then he made another circuit. He liked to allow time for the agony of a stroke to register before delivering the next swipe.

He took up position and took aim once more. This time a little lower than before. Swish! Crack! It landed, perhaps a quarter-inch lower than the first. It felt like a hot iron had been pressed into the flesh. Andrew now had a red-raw strip running across both buttocks. He did the wriggling again and this time added some foot stomping. Rev. Harris went on his tour of the room.

Andrew settled himself, shut his teeth firmly and increased his grip on the chair. The third stroke cut into the underpart of the cheeks, just where they meet the thigh. Part of the cane stuck bare flesh. The two women in the street outside must have heard his anguished howl. He leapt bolt upright, danced from one foot to the other and rubbed the palms of his hands furiously into the soft cotton underpants. It did nothing to dull the torture.

Rev. Harris growled. “Bend down. If you stand again I will start the punishment from the beginning. Do you understand?”

Sorrowfully, Andrew returned to the chair and with great fortitude resumed the punishment position. Slowly, methodically, three more swipes ripped Andrew’s bum to shreds. Thick dark welts rose across his once pale flesh. Later, in the privacy of his bedroom, he would see blood had seeped and coloured part of his underpants pink. His heart raced and he felt his eardrums bursting. His temples throbbed almost as much as his raw bottom. His eyes were awash and tears trickled down the side of his nose. Drips of snot congregated on his top lip.

“Get dressed.” Rev. Harris dropped the cane on the dining room table and struggled back into his jacket. The back of his shirt was soaked in sweat. His own breathing was laboured. He had put his full energy into the thrashing. He congratulated himself on a job well down.

“Go upstairs, I shall see myself out.”

Andrew did not need telling twice. He shot from the room and took the stairs two at a time in his eagerness to escape the vicar.

Rev. Harris ambled to the kitchen, found a tea cup and filled it from a tap. Soon he would be ready for the exertion of a cycle ride back to the vicarage. As he made his way to his bicycle he saw the two housewives in animated conversation. As he tied the cane to the bike frame, one approached him.

“Rev. Harris,” she whispered hoarsely. “I wonder if I might trouble you. It’s about my Robert.” Rev. Harris straightened and smiled. He knew Robert of old. His cane would be put to more use before he returned to the youth club.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Wait til your father gets home

z used pyjamas otk (4e)

Danny pulls up his pyjama bottoms and sits on the edge of his bed. Waiting. He doesn’t realise he is chewing his fingernails to the quick. “Go to your room, put your pyjamas on and wait til your father gets home,” his mother had told him, so that’s what he is doing.

Any minute now dad will walk through the door, hairbrush in hand. It won’t be the first time, it won’t be the last. Eighteen years old and still being spanked by his dad. Danny stands, crosses the small bedroom and closes the window. He doesn’t want the neighbours to hear. If his pal Kenneth next door ever found out, Danny would be a laughing stock.

He paces the room. Three steps one way and then he reaches the wall, turns round. Then six paces to the other wall. Why does dad do this to him, he wonders. Danny is an adult. He’s been working for two years. He’s too old to be spanked. He knows the answer. Dad’s house; dad’s rules. His way or the highway. Danny’s big mouth got him into trouble. Sassing his mother. Again. This time she has had enough of it. So, “Go to your room. Wait til your father gets home.”

The door bursts open. Dad stands in the threshold, brandishing mum’s hairbrush. There is no polite knocking at the door. This is his house, he’ll go where he pleases. Dad snarls. Mum has told him all about it. Danny steps back. His dad is huge, easily six-four. He towers over Danny. Poor lad s hardly five-six. He takes after his mother’s side of the family.

Danny opens and closes his mouth, wanting to plead mitigation. But, he has no excuses. He is guilty as charged. Rude. Offensive. Insolent. Dad bares his teeth. His face a picture of fury. His dark bushy eyebrows and thick moustache give him more than a hint of menace. Dad doesn’t say much. What is there to say? He waves the brush in Danny’s face, the teenager retreats. Fearful. He has his back to the wall . There is no escape.

“That chair. Here.” Dad nods towards a worn wooden chair. Danny knows what he is expected to do. He carries the heavy chair and plonks it down so that its back rests against the wall. There is just enough space in the room for dad to do his duty. Dad sits on the chair and peers at his son. The boy can’t meet his father’s gaze. He studies his bare feet, noticing his toenails need cutting.

Dad clutches the hairbrush tightly. Its large head is heavy, almost circular. It is as if it was made for spanking. Dad is nearly ready. It might be 2017 but dad lives by traditional values. It is the duty of fathers to guide their sons through the choppy seas of life to adulthood. Too many parents these days fail their children. They let them run wild. Give them no boundaries. And, look how they turn out. Not, Danny. Mr. Knight will not allow that.

“Bend over,” he slaps his thighs for emphasis. Danny looks from the ground and stares wide-eyed. His father is huge and he is small. The old man’s legs are as thick as tree trunks. He has parted them wide to give his son the perfect platform for submission. The muscles in dad’s arms are huge, they ripple as he holds the brush.

All saliva drains from Danny’s mouth. The room is hot now the window is closed. His knees tremble a little. Dad slaps his thigh once more. Impatiently. Danny draws in breath. It won’t do to keep dad waiting. He step forward and hurls himself across dad’s legs, like a diver going into an icy pool. His arms hardly stretch beyond dad’s left knee, his legs dangle in the air behind him. His bottom rests in the gap between dad’s knees.

Danny stares ahead of him, his shock of blond hair failing into his eyes. He concentrates on the poster of Manchester United that is stuck to his wall. He closes his eyes. Then opens them again. Then closes them. Contemplating the agony to come. He feels dad grip the elasticated waistband of his pyjama bottoms. He knows dad always does this this but still a shockwave travels his body. This is too humiliating, he thinks. But, the baring of the bottom is one of dad’s rituals. “There,” he seems to be saying, “Don’t you feel ashamed of yourself? Having your bare bottom spanked.”

Dad pulls the pyjamas down just enough that two buttocks are exposed. He is nearly ready, but not quite. Gently, he takes the end of Danny’s pyjama jacket and pushes it half way up the eighteen-year-old’s back. He is presented with an area of hairless flesh. Danny’s cheeks are round and fleshy, but firm. They were made to be spanked. They clench and unclench. They always do. Dad grips his son across the back with his left arm. Danny turns his head, trying to look over his shoulder at his dad, but the old man has him locked tightly.

Smack! The brush hammers into the centre of Danny’s left cheek. Then another strikes the right. Dad admires his handiwork. Two deep-pink circular marks are imprinted in his son’s bum. Danny’s fair skin reddens easily. Whack-whack-whack. The heavy hairbrush rises and falls. Danny’s legs kick. It is a reflex action, he can’t control himself. As more swipes rain down into his unprotected buttocks, Danny’s body weaves left and right. He holds on to his dad’s legs to stop himself tumbling to the floor.

Dad continues to snarl as he whacks the brush on and on. Deliberately he smacks Danny across the back of the bare thighs. Hard. That gets his son howling. Good! dad thinks; a spanking is supposed to hurt otherwise what’s the point? Danny is yelping with every whack that hammers into his bare bum, but he is not crying. He used to shed bucket loads when dad spanked him. Now, he has a higher level of self-control. It took a lot of practice. He will not let dad see him cry, not today, not ever.

Dad is strong, he can go on spanking all night long. Every square inch of Danny’s buttocks and thighs has been toasted. There is no virgin flesh for dad to attack. So he goes round the circuit again, slapping his brush into already tender flesh. The top of the buttocks, the crest of the mounds, the tender under-curves and the thighs; none of it is missed. Satisfied that he has whacked it all, dad goes round one more time.

Danny holds on to dad’s leg or dear life. He can’t breathe too well and his temples throb almost as much as his backside. Sweat is soaking his pyjama jacket. He can’t take much more of this.

Suddenly, the door opens. Mum is standing watching her husband tan the tail of her son. She thinks dad is doing a good job. That will teach the brat not to be sassy in future.

“Your programme is about to start,” she tells her husband. It is an ordinary conversation, you would not know Danny was lying face down across his dad’s knees having his bottom blistered.

“Alright, I’m coming,” dad says. He whacks the hairbrush at maximum force six more times across the very centres of both cheeks. Then he releases his grip on Danny, who stumbles from his dad’s knees and lies on the floor gasping for wind, like a beached dolphin. Dad steps over him and with his wife leaves the room.

Danny struggles to his knees and then is fully standing. He dives onto his bed, buries his face in the pillow and sobs his guts up.

 

Picture credit: Does anyone know this artist? I see his work all over the Internet, but have never discovered his name

 

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Drunk last night

used brush drunk last night

Jack raised his face to the shower head and let the warm water cascade across his forehead and down his nose. He spluttered as accidentally he swallowed a mouthful. He wetted his hair, then allowed the water to run down his spine. He bent forward and soaked his arse crack. He was coming back to life.

It had been a heavy night. They had had nine maybe ten pints, he couldn’t remember. Pissed as farts. “Bladdered” they called it. Some people even said, “We caned it.” Huh! Perhaps, not the best term to use in the circumstances, he reckoned.

His head was clear now. Nineteen year olds had remarkable constitutions. They could be legless at two in the morning and running to catch the bus for work at eight. There was no work today as it was Saturday. Usually, he would have a lie in. Snuggling under the duvet wanking himself raw. Not today though. He had an appointment and woe betide him if he were a second late.

He stepped from the shower, reached over for the towel and wiped himself down. It always took an age to dry. He laughed out loud when he saw the old films on telly, when Elvis Presley or some other has-been steps out of the swimming pool gets handed a towel and is ready to go in seconds. Some hope. It always took Jack hours just to get his cock and balls dry.

He wrapped the towel round his waist, opened the door slightly to see the coast was clear and satisfied that it was he dashed across the landing into his bedroom. Damn it, he silently cursed. His undercarriage was still damp. He set to work again.

At last he was ready to dress. It was the height of summer and already the day was hotting up. A tee-shirt and shorts should be enough. He scrutinised his naked body in the mirror. There were two hairs near his left nipple; he’d need to shave before the weekend was over. His cock and balls were tidy, he never shaved but he did give them a trim now and again. It was Sex in the City that put him on to it. One of the old dames in the TV show took scissors to a guy she was about to give a blow job. Jack could see her point, she could be gagging on hairs all night.

Was he good looking? He was never sure. His skin was smooth and he rubbed in body lotion every day. He was about average height and build. He never worked out. He didn’t see the point, he already had a well-defined chest and his hips and waist were narrow. If he went to the gym he’d turn into a Muscle Mary, then everyone would think he was gay and how would that get him laid?

He glanced at his watch, three minutes to nine. He needed to get his skates on, he mustn’t be late. He opened his closet door and reached in for a tee-shirt, then he stepped into a pair of briefs before tugging on his shorts. He paused a second, maybe it would be wiser to wear heavy jeans. In the circumstances. Ha! He snorted out loud. Who was he kidding?

He straightened his shirt so it hung over his shorts, drew in a deep breath and opened the bedroom door.

He knew Uncle Matt would be in the lounge room. Jack had been drunk as a skunk when he bounced off the walls at two that morning, but not so far gone he couldn’t feel the full wrath of his uncle. Curfew missed. Second time in a month. The lounge. Nine o’clock. Get to bed. That was the gist of it.

Uncle Matt was waiting, as Jack knew he would be, dressed as if for the office. Despite the sweltering day in prospect, he wore a jacket and a tie, tightly knotted at his throat. He sat on a hard, dining room chair and by his side on a table was a heavy wooden clothes brush.

Jack paused at the door, heart thumping. This was hardly unchartered territory for him. His uncle had made it clear from the first day Matt had arrived. “It’s my way or the highway.” He meant he had rules. They had to be obeyed. You broke them, you got your arse blistered. You didn’t like it, “Ship out Mister.”

“Well!” Uncle Matt sneered, “What are you waiting for?” He could be a man of few words. He knew why Jack was here. Jack knew too. What more was there to say?

Except. “Come here. Take down those shorts and pants. Bend over my knee.” Swift and to the point.

Jack chewed his lip. Paused. Then waited some more. He should argue his case. He was nineteen years old. None of his mates would be going over their dads’ knees this morning for a bare-arsed spanking. So, he had gotten drunk. They all did it. Where was the harm?

Jack formulated the word in his head. But, what was the point. “My way, or the highway.” It couldn’t be clearer.

Uncle Jack wriggled his buttocks on the wooden seat of the chair and spread his legs a little further. He snapped his fingers. “Get on with it,” he growled, “we haven’t got all day.”

Actually, Jack thought, he did have all day and he wouldn’t mind one little bit if they took all the time in the world.

“Now!” It was a bark so sharp it startled Matt. In seconds he was across the room and standing by Uncle Matt’s side. He was a foot or so from his uncle, looking down at the middle-aged man’s powerful legs. The creases in uncle’s grey worsted trousers were so sharp you could cut your finger on them.

“Doh!” Uncle Matt had lost what little patience he had. He gripped the elastic waistband of Matt’s yellow sports shorts and in one tug had them at the teenager’s knees. His underpants snagged and bunched at the undercurve of Matt’s buttocks. Uncle Matt paused, looking at his nephew’s cock and balls poking over the top of the mauve cotton briefs. He scowled and sent them south to meet the shorts.

Jack flushed deep pink. It didn’t matter how many times his buttocks were bared for his uncle’s administrations, nor how often his cock and balls were on display, Jack could never get used to the humiliation. A grown man, half-naked being prepared to go over uncle’s lap for a sound bare-bottomed spanking. Who would ever believe such a thing possible?

“Bend over.” Uncle Matt preferred Jack to present himself submissively for punishment. It was as if he were saying, “I know I have broken your rules and I know I should be punished. Please spank my naughty bottom. Thank you, uncle.”

In his dreams that was how Uncle Matt saw it. It was true the first time he had ordered his nephew to prepare himself for punishment, he had refused and there had been an unseemly fight. But, resistance was futile. Jack might have been a fit eighteen-year-old at the time with all the strength that entails, but Uncle Matt was an experienced operator. The lad was face down over the back of the couch with his right arm pressed into his shoulder blades before he could say Jack Robinson. His shorts and pants were at his knees in a trice and the clothes brush was already blistering his backside. Round One to Uncle Matt.

There was no Round Two. Jack’s buttocks and thighs were toasted. Three days later he was still wriggling around when he sat on a hard dining room chair. Lesson learned: submit to Uncle Matt’s will, it is less painful in the long run.

The lesson was well learned. That was why Jack now eased himself across his uncle’s lap. He was not a tall boy and he fitted rather well. Uncle had parted his own thighs by about two feet, offering his nephew a perfect platform to present himself. The teenager’s stomach rested against uncle’s left thigh and the lad’s legs stretched behind him; his legs slightly bent and his toes brushing the deep pile Axminister carpet.

His arms reached forward and Jack’s palms rested firmly in the carpet. In this position, he had a close view of its ugly yellow-and-brown pattern. If he chose to, he could look under the chair and see his own feet, now covered by his shorts and underpants.

Uncle Matt wasn’t quite ready to go. He gripped Jack’s tee-shirt and although there was no need to do so since it wasn’t anywhere near to the teenager’s bared buttocks, he pushed it up towards his shoulder blades. Jack was now naked from his shoulders to his feet.

Uncle Matt cupped his right hand and gently rubbed the palm over Jack’s smooth skin, tracing the lad’s tan-line. He was almost entirely nut-brown; only a small portion around his buttocks was still the original white. The boy had been spending a little too much time in the sun wearing only skimpy swimming trunks.

Jack shut his eyes tight. He hated it when Uncle Matt “felt him up”, he knew the old man could see right into his crack. That was why he had spent a little extra time in the shower making sure it was sparkling clean. Jack felt his uncle’s body move. He couldn’t see, but he knew he was reaching across to the table to take up the heavy, wooden clothes brush. Any moment now the onslaught would begin.

Uncle Matt fingered the brush. It was about ten inches long and maybe three at its widest. A pal had given it to him when they were at university together. It had seen some action in its time, but he would be hard pressed to remember when it had last been used for its intended purpose.

He gripped the handle tightly and patted Jack’s bare bum with it. The teenager’s bottom was taut and stretched across his uncle’s knee it was as hard as a rubber ball. There was certainly no “give.” The term “buns of steel” might have been made for Jack.

Whack. The first stroke connected in the dead centre of Jack’s left buttock. A deep pink oval mark immediately appeared. Jack’s bum always reddened easily, it only took a slap of Uncle Matt’s hand to make it glow.

The second whack landed in the centre of the right cheek. Jack sucked on his bottom lip. It hurt. Like crazy. There was something special about the heat that a wooden brush could cause. It was a different pain from a flexible bedroom slipper or a cane. Jack would know; he had felt them all at one time or another. A heavy wooden brush applied with some effort across a bared backside left a burning sensation, like someone had pressed a hot poultice into the flesh.

Uncle Matt had a spanking technique he had perfected since his early twenties. It was all in the wrist action. Some people would raise the brush as high above their shoulder as they could reach before bringing it crashing down into the bum. It looked pretty spectacular, but a lot of the downward force was lost as the brush travelled over a distance. It was much better to keep the brush only a few inches above the bum and using wrist action wallop it across the naughty boy’s hindquarters. A golfer would probably be able to explain the technique better.

Uncle Matt raised the brush and brought it down on his left buttock, then again on the right. He had learned that you should start a spanking softly and build up a momentum until the whacks were reigning down hard.

Jack held his position steady. His bum was resting high on his uncle’s right leg and his back and head were sloped at a near perfect forty-five-degree angle towards the floor. His buttocks were perfectly placed for his uncle’s aim and he had no difficultly slapping away with the brush. Six on the left, six on the right, then one in turn on each; two at the top and two at the bottom of each buttock.

Jack wasn’t a howler; he didn’t cry either. He would shut his mouth by biting on his bottom lip. It stopped him yelping, but sometimes he bit so hard and so deep the pain in his lip lasted much longer than the ache in his backside.

Uncle Matt wasn’t deterred by his nephew’s stoicism. He knew a bare-buttock spanking with a heavy wooden brush hurt like hell. Jack’s bum was always red and raw and so hot you could probably fry an egg on it by the time Uncle Matt was finished.

Jack’s bum was turning a darker red now and his breathing was harder. He was in some pain, but he wasn’t about to show it. From his vantage point way above his nephew, Uncle Matt looked down at his head. His hair was flopped over his eyes, a fringe falling towards the floor. He saw a silent grimace as the brush hit his buttocks time and again. Jack screwed his eyes a little in pain, but no sound came from his lips and no tear from his eye.

The heat of the bare-bottomed spanking travelled from the buttocks and up and down Jack’s legs. The pain was intense as each successive slap connected with his flesh. The pain disappeared almost immediately the brush moved off his bum only to be replaced by more pain as the next crack hit its target.

Then it was over. Suddenly, the spanking stopped. Uncle Matt released his grip on Jack’s body and the teenager rolled off his uncle’s lap and landed on the carpet. The teenager’s cock and balls were on full display. Uncle Matt professed not to notice. Jack pulled up his underpants and stood up so he could return his shorts to their rightful place.

Uncle Matt stood himself and put the brush back on the table. He looked immaculately dressed. A stranger could not tell that over the past five minutes or so he had delivered to Jack the spanking of his lifetime. Not one hair on his head was out of place. No perspiration dampened his body.

Jack rushed from the room, took the stairs two at a time, crashed through his bedroom door and threw himself face-down on his bed where he cried piteously into his pillow.

Uncle Matt left the room, slipped out of his jacket and hung it on a hook in the hallway. Then, more sedately than his nephew, he ascended the stairs and made his way to the bathroom. There, he ripped down his trousers and pants and set to work on his raging boner.

 

Picture credit: End Art

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The terrible twins

z used twosome on couch football shirt by M Pegasi (1a)

Last summer I had quite two of the naughtiest boys imaginable staying with me at my house.

Antonio and Pedro were foreign language students. The idea was they came over for some intensive English training and they stayed with “hosts” who helped them with “conversational English.” We were also asked to teach them something about our traditions and customs. Well, before their stay was over I taught the pair of them something about one English custom they wouldn’t forget in a hurry.

I called them The Terrible Twins, even though they weren’t twins. They weren’t even brothers, but they were both Spanish and did look alike. Well, a little anyway.

I take a couple of students each year. I don’t need the money. I’ve retired on a very good pension, but I like the company of young people and a friend owns the language school so I help out.

The Terrible Twins were eighteen years old, but you’d never believe it the way they behaved. I was continually scolding them for larking about around the house, having “pretend” wrestling matches and fighting on the sofa in the living room.

I began to wonder if they were a little retarded, but when I checked with my friend I found they had both done extremely well at school and were off to university in the autumn.

They were young people and spent a lot of time in the town at bars and clubs. I imagine they chased girls, although they never brought any home. They were both extremely handsome in the way young Spaniards can be, with hard bodies, snake hips, wavy black hair, clear olive skin, cheeky grins and dark brown eyes. I would have thought the girls of this town would have been queueing up. So many of the young men around here are pasty and already well on the way to obesity.

I don’t make many rules for my summer guests. The school expects me to give them breakfast but otherwise they come and go as they please. I do insist that they do not use the parlour at the back of the house; I do like a little privacy. It is also where I keep the liquor.

Despite my clear instructions, I twice found them in the room. What were they doing? There was nothing for them to see. Were they attracted there simply because it was out of bounds? They stood heads bowed while I gave them a stiff telling-off.

They bought catapults and stalked local cats, firing stones at them. A pane of glass in Mr. Axford’s greenhouse was smashed. They made friends with a boy down the street and spent evenings drinking cheap cider at bus shelters and abusing passers-by.

One Saturday afternoon I returned from the shops and was confronted by an irate next-door neighbour. Mr. Adams was livid. Did I know what my two brats had just done? Well, no I didn’t and that was clear because Mr. Adams had just seen me pull into my own driveway. I was open mouthed. The Terrible Twins had climbed onto the roof of the house and hurled water bombs (something they had made from folded paper) at Mr. Adams and his wife. What was I going to do about it?

I was aghast. What in God’s name possessed them to do such a thing.

“They need a good hiding. The pair of them,” Mr. Adams growled at me.

Indeed they did.

“Well, what are you going to do?” Mr. Adams’ anger would not abate for some considerable time.

Spanking? This was 2016. A lot of people think spanking had been confined to distant history. It is true the cane was abolished in schools in the nineteen-eighties, but things were different in the home. There were still many responsible men who saw it as their duty to help young people navigate the choppy waters of life into adulthood. Mr. Adams was one of them. And, there were plenty of others to my certain knowledge even here in The Avenue who were ready to blister backsides when the occasion demanded.

Yes, they needed a spanking right enough. I should have done it sooner.

I confronted the Terrible Twins about their behaviour. I was rewarded with fits of giggles. Sometimes eighteen year olds can be insufferable. “It was a lark. A wheeze,” Pedro grinned at me. I frowned, genuinely puzzled. Where had he picked up such old-fashioned idioms?

Well, if they thought this was a joke, I’d soon disillusion them. Deliberately, I unfastened the buckle of my wide, heavy leather belt and slowly pulled it through the loops of my trousers. Antonio’s eyes stalked. I saw real fear. Sweat glistened his already shiny black hair. Pedro whispered something in Spanish to him, but it didn’t seem to calm the boy. I stretched the belt between my hands and with great care I folded it in thirds, leaving myself with a leather strap about eighteen inches long.

Antonio wiped the palms of his hands against his shorts. Pedro, as far as I could see, was impassive; waiting for events to take their course.

“Stand by the back of the sofa,” I instructed. Pedro took the three paces necessary to obey my command. Antonio stood his ground, immobilised by fear. Antonio gestured with his hand that his amigo should join him and with obvious reluctance he shuffled and took up position next to his companion in dishonour. I wondered at that moment whether Pedro had been the leader among the pair and Antonio, the led. He did seem to be the dominant force at this time.

I pulled the belt between my hands creating a loud snap. Antonio jumped. Pedro stayed calm. I was nearly ready. “Take down your trousers,” I said calmly. Antonio’s eyes saucered, he glanced at his friend whose entire demeanour was subservient. He was ready to obey my every command. Pedro fumbled with the buckle of his belt, but then calmly popped the button at the waist and pulled the zipper of his jeans. They slithered down to his knees. He parted his legs a little and they continued their journey and rested on top of his trainers. He stood with his hands rather demurely clasped in front of his manhood

Antonio was rigid. It was as if he was cemented to the ground.

“Doh!” I exhaled and threw my belt on the couch. Pedro’s eyes glazed as I gripped the waist of his cargo shorts, and with an expertise I didn’t know I possessed, I had them at his feet within seconds. His face shone with embarrassment. I picked up the belt and re-folded it and made it ready for action. I looked at the two eighteen year olds. They wore identical canary-yellow briefs. Both teenagers’ legs were entirely hairless.

“Bend over the couch,” I tapped the belt across the padded back so there was no doubt of my instructions. Pedro gave a sideway glance to his friend before falling forward. The couch was quite low and Pedro’s body easily cleared its back. He gripped the front of the seat cushion and spread his feet. He had presented me with a terrific target.

Antonio, of course, did not move. By now, I had anticipated I would have to intervene every step of the way. Holding my belt in my right hand, I used my left to grip Antonio by the scruff of his neck and push him forward. It was like throwing a reluctant child into a swimming pool. Antonio threw his hands forward to break his fall. To his credit, he did not try to escape. His amigo                 took hold of his hand.

Antonio was breathing heavily, Pedro was calmness personified. I had one more task to perform. The twins’ bottoms were firm, not quite “buns of steel” but not far off. Their briefs, were exactly that, and hardly covered the buttocks. In Pedro’s case a strip of bare buttock was visible below the hem of the pants. I should have dearly loved to belt them bare-bottomed, but in this day and age one cannot be too careful. So, instead I smoothed down wrinkles in their cotton briefs so that they fitted so well they might have been sprayed on.

I took up position to Pedro’s right and lashed the belt into the centre of his right cheek. Then I walloped the left. Then Antonio’s right, then the left. Then I returned to the start of the line and belted them again. And, again. The crack of leather against tight backsides resounded around the walls. The room was at the front of the house and the window wide open. My front garden is large but any passer-by would still be able to hear. Indeed, they would also be able to see two teenaged boys bent submissively across the back of a sofa having their naughty backsides tanned with a leather belt. Just another day in an English suburb.

A belt employed with some vim can deliver serious pain. The Terrible Twins “ooo’d” and “ahhhh’d” as swipe after swipe connected with firm buttocks. But, neither boy cried out. Even Antonio, who I had feared might howl the house down, took his whipping stoically. Pedro winced and sucked in air, when (quite by accident, honestly) my belt struck the bare area below his pants. He gripped the seat cushion tightly at that point and held on gamely.

I belted them with such energy you might have thought I was beating a carpet. A spanking has to hurt otherwise what is the point? These two would learn a real lesson. Actions have consequences and sometimes those consequences can be very painful indeed.

I lost count of the times I went up and down the line, spanking buttock after buttock. I must have laid it on well because my own breathing was soon laboured and my heartrate was off the scale. It was time to stop.

“You may stand up,” I intoned. They climbed to their feet in perfect harmony, the Terrible Twins might have been synchronised swimmers. Each teenager instinctively rubbed the seat of his underpants with some vigour. Then, Antonio saw me looking at him and he whipped up his shorts with alacrity. A huge grin split Pedro’s face when he realised what his amigo had done. More sedately, he pulled up his own jeans and buckled up.

They hovered before me, unsure what to do next. Both had shiny faces and damp eyes, but beyond that they seemed unaffected by their ordeal. Pedro clasped his hands behind his back and surreptitiously caressed his buttocks with his thumbs. Antonio stood head bowed, his hands in front of his crotch, every inch the contrite naughty boy.

I saw no reason to lecture them further. They had been disobedient boys and they had been spanked. And, I have to say, they had taken it rather well. I dismissed them to their rooms.

@

Antonio lay on his back, the pain had gone a long time ago, but the marks would probably last for ages. His throbbing cock pointed at the ceiling. Pedro knelt over him, his own dick thick and stiff. They were so long and hard the boys could have had a sword fight. Pedro leant in; his tongue was received by Antonio’s open mouth. A half-empty tube of KY jelly lay waiting on the pillow.

 

Picture credit: M. Pegasi

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Waiting my turn

I am facing the door in my uncle’s living room and in a moment he is going to take me over his knee and spank me.

I am shaking like a leaf and I am trying not to cry, but my eyes are getting wet.

Me and my cousin John were naughty at school today and now we are for it.

I can hear Uncle Sal moving a wooden chair into the middle of the carpet. Now he has sat down he has his back to me so I can turn round for a peek.

He is calling John over to him.

“I’m fed up with you; it’s time you learnt how to behave. Take your trousers down; take them down.”

John unbuckles his elastic snake belt and it goes pop. Now, he is undoing his grey short trousers and they fall down.

His face is red but he is trying to be brave. I know he has been spanked before, but I never have. I am scared that it will hurt too much.

John is standing moving his feet a bit. The white shirt of his school uniform is very long at the back and it covers his pants; it looks like he is wearing a dress.

Uncle Sal is very angry, “Come on, bend over. I am going to spank that naughtiness right out of you.”

John moves a bit so he is standing in front of him, but he is a long way away. Uncle Sal is standing up, grabbing his left arm, and dragging John around to his right. He is sitting back down and pulling him down and across his knees.

Uncle has him on his huge left leg and knee, and he is moving John around so his back is bent and he is hanging down facing the floor. John’s bottom is sticking up for punishment.

Uncle is loosening his tie and rolling up his shirt sleeves. He is so big and John is so small. John’s feet don’t touch the ground at the back and his arms are waving about at the front.

Now, uncle is taking John’s shirt and pulling it up away from his bottom, right the way up his back to near his shoulders.

Uncle is tugging at John’s white pants so they are really tight, just like he is giving him a wedgie.

I can see John’s face and he is looking down at the carpet, he is sweating a bit.

Uncle has very strong arms and he is putting his hand over one of John’s cheeks; it is so big it covers all of it. He is raising it high and smacking it into John’s bum. John screws his eyes up and I can see it hurt him a lot.

Uncle is smacking away at John’s bottom, it looks like it really aches. My heart is beating faster; I am going to be spanked like this in a minute.

Uncle is smacking John’s bottom really slowly, he is hitting one cheek then the other. I can see John must be sore, he is wriggling on Uncle Sal’s lap but he can’t get away. John is kicking his legs, but they can’t reach the floor.

“Keep still.” Uncle is slapping the back of his legs. “If you don’t keep still I’ll take your pants down and see how you like that.”

I am turning back to the wall. I don’t want to see this. I hear the smacks hitting my cousin’s bum and I can hear John saying, “Ow, ow, ow,” as the slaps hit him.

Then it goes quiet. I turn around to see what is going on.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Uncle is pulling John’s pants down over his hips, cheeks, thighs, knees, to his feet,

“No, please, no,” John is sniffing.

Uncle looks very cross and goes on smacking John.

I can see John’s bottom is very red. It must be burning hot and there are pink marks where uncle’s fingers hit him.

John is still fighting hard, twisting around and his arms are trying to reach back to stop uncle spanking him. Uncle is picking him up and moving him forward and now John’s face is nearly on the carpet and he has to put his hands down to keep steady.

Uncle is holding him tightly around the waist and is hitting him harder and faster. Smack, smack, smack, smack. I can see tears on John’s face, but he isn’t saying anything.

How long is this going on for? I haven’t counted them all but I think uncle must have smacked him a hundred times, easily, and still he is going on.

John’s face is bright red and so is his bottom. He has given up trying to escape and he has his arms around uncle’s leg, just holding on, as he goes on spanking him. John is crying louder now and I can see he is choking. He is shaking his head from side to side and there are lots of tears.

This is getting me going and I am crying almost as much as John.

Uncle is still smacking him. He is hitting him on the top of his legs and John’s bottom is really red all over his cheeks and on his legs as well.

John is punching the floor; the spanking is hurting him that much and his bottom looks like it is on fire.

I can’t stand this, I’m so scared. Uncle will spank me like this and I won’t be able to stand it. John is a year older than me and tough. If he is like this, what will I be like? I think I’m going to run away.

John is breathing in big gasps of air and uncle is still slapping his bum. I can see uncle’s face is all screwed up as he raises his hand and hits John as hard as he can.

Uncle has stopped spanking John. He is still holding his son across his lap and he is bawling his eyes out.

Now, Uncle is letting him go and lifting up the back of John’s shirt to try to get a look at his bum, but he is jumping up and down, rubbing his poor bottom, it looks really, really sore.

Uncle is letting go of him. “Shorts and pants up.”

Ouch! I can see John is in agony. His hands are shaking and he is bending down to pull up his pants and he is screwing up his face because it hurts so much when they touch his bottom.

Now, he is picking up his grey short trousers; he kicked them across the room when Uncle spanked him. He is pulling them up and is having trouble getting the buttons to work. The snake belt has come out of the loops and he can’t get it to go back in. He is still crying like a baby and I can see a lot of snot around his nose.

“Go to your room and stay there until tea time.”

Now, I can hear him running up the stairs.

“James.”

Oh no, now it’s my turn … Eighteen years old and about to go over uncle’s knee for my first-ever bare-bottomed spanking. We truly are living in a parallel universe.

zused hands on head shorts

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Not too old to be spanked by grandad

z used belt pants (2)

When would grandad stop treating him like a child? Matt wondered silently as he unbuckled his jeans and let them slip to his knees. Twenty-three years old and still getting the belt.

“C’mon grandad, is this really necessary?” he wailed, “I’m too old for this.”

Matt’s question only got a grunt from grandad as he continued to unbuckle and remove his brown leather belt.

“What do you expect? You come home drunk in the middle of the night waking the whole neighbourhood.”

“I didn’t wake the neighbours.”

“Don’t answer me back.”

Grandad had doubled up his heavy belt and was ready to inflict the whipping he knew his grandson deserved.

Matt was sweating a little; he had a humdinger of a hangover from the night before.

Grandad was not a patient man. “You live in my house, you obey my rules. It’s not unreasonable to ask you not to come home drunk,” he barked.

There was no answer to that. It was true he was plastered last night, he couldn’t even remember getting home. Had one of his mates dropped him off?

Grandad stood waiting. Determined. He might have grandchildren but he was no wizened old man. He stood more than six feet tall and weighed the same as he did when he was thirty. Years of manual work could do that to a man.

Matt knew from experience he should not try to argue with grandad. He was of the “old school”, he was the man of the house – the head of the household – and he expected to be obeyed: by his wife and by his children and the grandchildren.

Matt was defeated; he knew resistance was futile; he would have to submit to this spanking. He leaned forward across the low vaulting horse, feeling his briefs pull tightly across his buttocks.

Matt stared down at the ground as a chill draught blew across his naked legs. Blood rushed to his face, it always did when he was bent over in this position. If he stayed like this for too long he would get a head ache. Not that that concerned him now. It was the ache in his arse that worried him more.

He wriggled his waist a little to make himself more comfortable. It was a small vaulting horse. Wherever did that come from? None of the family were gymnasts. Grandad kept it in a large shed in his garden. Sometimes he joked it was his own little “woodshed”.

Matt stretched his arms ahead of him and placed his palms flat on the ground. He could hardly believe this was happening: his body was bent almost double across the horse while to the side of him he heard grandad preparing to lash his leather belt into his cotton-covered buttocks. He braced himself for a very intense session with the belt.

Grandad was in no hurry. He was satisfied that his grandson was now submissive, meekly offering up his bum for him to do with as he wished.

Now, Matt heard a soft clinking noise. He twisted his head around and saw that his grandfather was folding up his belt. He doubled it in half for control and precision, and stepped forward. Matt turned his head again – he didn’t want to look. Instead, he waited with his plump buttocks pointing up in the air while that long, agonizing moment of preparation passed. The buttocks clenched and unclenched.

He heard grandad suck in a lung-full of air before the belt splatted down across the seat of his pants. It hurt.

The first time Matt had been strapped it had been agony and he had been miserable for hours afterwards. Now, after so many strappings, it was different. He took a pride in being able “to take it” without a fuss. He reckoned could bear the pain of the fierce strap without flinching.

Matt willed himself not to move. He stayed bent over, holding his backside in place so that his grandad could lash his buttocks over and over. And he did so, swinging the belt down hard across the lower edge of the vulnerable bottom and lashing some strokes into the bare thighs.

Matt’s resistance nearly crumbled; the pain didn’t lessen and the belt didn’t stop. For a full ten minutes grandad methodically brought the strap lashing across his grandson’s underpants, sparing not a single inch of his buttocks.

“I hope you’ve learned your lesson.” Grandad finished his spanking with three extra-hard licks.

Later, in the privacy of his bedroom, Matt inspected the damage done to his bottom in the mirror. His cheeks were dark red and the welts from the strap were prominent, the heat coming from his bum would be enough to warm a small room. Slowly he walked back to his bed and lay face down. His mobile phone vibrated, he reached out to see the caller ID.

“Yello,” he answered and listened intently. “Sure, I’ll come right over,” he said. It was his pal Chris calling from the pub.

 

Picture credit: Eastbourne Daddy

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Sam’s caning

z used cane white pants down table

Sam glanced at the long, thin yellow-coloured crook-handled cane lying on the table and shuddered nervously at the thought of the wretched thing curling itself around his buttocks. He hated the dreadful waiting. Not that he was eager to have his backside beaten; he knew matters had to take their course. There was no escaping the inevitable and how he wished his dad would just get on with it.

The ticking of the clock echoed around the room. Dad was doing it deliberately, he knew. As if the pain of the thrashing wasn’t enough, dad wanted to increase the punishment by making him anticipate it.

At last, the door to the sitting room edged open. Sam eyed his dad apprehensively as he entered, quietly closing the door behind him. He was a bulky man, well into middle-age. His face was set tight. Nothing would prevent him from doing his duty. The list of Sam’s misdeeds had already been intoned remorselessly by his dad while Sam stood eyes focussed on the Axminster carpet.

Dad clicked his fingers and pointed to a spot close to the dining room table. Sam blanched and shuffled into position. He waited, head bowed, for further instructions.

“You persist in playing the rebel. I think a dose of the cane will teach you some manners and it must be hard and plentiful. That’s the only way to get the message across.”

He picked up the cane. It rattled provokingly against the table top. Dad flexed the wickedly supple yard of rattan effortlessly into a half circle and then swished it through the air as if testing its weight. It was light and whippy, a novice might think it too ineffective as a punishment tool. Mr. Ramsden knew otherwise.

Without thinking, Sam put his hands behind his back and smoothed his fingers over his bottom.

“You know what to do,” Mr. Ramsden was sharp and business like. Unable to look his dad in the eye, Sam unzipped his tight pale-blue jeans and pushed them down to his ankles.

“Bend over the table.”

Pulling up his shirt, he leaned over the table, as he had done so many times in the past. The rule was you had to keep your legs together, with your feet on the ground, and your arms flat on the table. You could wiggle, writhe, and scream all you wanted, but you couldn’t get out of position. You had to stay there and suffer, accept the pain willingly and demonstrate your submission.

Sam reckoned there was pride in being able to take a caning properly. He was twenty years old, it would be shameful to make a fuss.

His underpants were snug and he felt the soft cotton dig into his crack as he stretched forward. “Oh,” he gasped when dad gripped the waistband and slowly, inch by inch, drew Sam’s Y-fronts inside out and down to his thighs. His bum was plump and round, the skin smooth and hairless.

Dad “sawed” the cane across the fleshiest part of his son’s naked buttocks. The cheeks clenched, as if this might protect Sam from the fearful thrashing that was about to start.

“Relax,” his dad, tapped the cane into the underside of Sam’s curves. Then he raised the rattan and took a fairly substantial swing back. Suddenly the tip of the cane vanished in a blur as it travelled at incredible speed with a whistling Swish! followed immediately by the satisfying (to dad) resounding Thwack! of rattan against sensitive flesh.

It landed squarely on the middle of the target area. For two or three seconds Sam felt nothing, then suddenly it seemed like a red-hot poker had been seared into his flesh. He grit his teeth and gripped the edge of the table.

Mr. Ramsden admired the imprint of the cane springing up instantly on the pale skin of his son’s bottom. He waited before delivering his next cut, he wanted the young backside to glow in agony before inflicting further punishment.

Mr. Ramsden believed that speed with which a cane strikes the buttocks was a key element in any caning, the faster the better; and Sam’s plump rump would need a lot of caning. Swishing the cane, he waited and then lashed the stick across the offered bottom. A red stripe flamed the hairless buttocks, it was angled diagonally, higher on the left buttock lower across the right.

Sam gasped; the strike of a hard cane stroke was like an electric shock. Mr. Ramsden swished the cane again and waited a few seconds, observing his buttocks carefully. The next stroke would be squarely across the ripest curve of the round cheeks. Mr. Ramsden caned often; he was an expert. He could place each blow where he wanted it.

Swish! There was a gurgling gasping yelp from Sam. The stricken bottom did a frantic dance. Sam had no control, it had a mind of its own. He settled, concentrating hard on keeping his bottom absolutely still. Despite the torrent of fire that seemed to have been poured over his arse, he managed it.

But, Sam’s bum wobbled as Mr. Ramsden’s stick struck again. Another red stripe blazed across the bottom. Sam gasped, he couldn’t get air into his lungs. He thrashed his head about, like a horse neighing. He clamped his eyes shut. His arms were rigidly extended and his fists tightly clenched.

Mr. Ramsden filled his own lungs, leaned back and thrashed an exceptionally severe stroke. Sam wheezed, another vivid bright stripe appeared across his pale skin. He grunted, gasped, wriggled. Mr. Ramsden whipped him again, and Sam yapped a high, piercing “owwww!”

His whole system leapt with the shock of the intense pain. Bolts of electricity surged through his bum and travelled up and down his legs. His body writhed and the searing pain followed his every movement. His shoulders shuddered and his hands clenched and unclenched on the table.

As if in a trance Sam waited. He was dizzy with the sensations of pain and heat, stabbing through his naked bottom in surging waves. But there was no respite and his dad administered the last four strokes in quick succession. Sam twisted and turned as if to escape the lashing pain, and the compelling pulse in his throbbing bottom. All his senses concentrated on this one aching area.

“It’s over. Stand up.”

Sam allowed himself a long relieved sigh, and he leapt upright, his flat, large palms each caressed a cheek. He rubbed them up and down vigorously, making little jumps as his long fingers kneaded his hot, rubbery buttocks.

The pain in Sam’s welted bottom quickly turned to a warm glow, it was almost quite pleasant. His heart still raced and his head seemed remarkably clear. None of the drugs he had ever taken did this to him. His soldier tingled. It wasn’t at attention yet, but it was on the march. He stood, jeans and pants still at his ankles, facing his dad. Dad’s face flushed as he realised the effect of the caning on his son.

He turned and rushed from the room, leaving Sam to stretch his pants and jeans over his flaming bottom. Still clutching the rattan cane, dad took the stairs two at a time and barged into the bathroom. He had desperate need of a damp face cloth.

 

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com