Trent, my grandson, visited me at home last week. He’s a grand lad and I love him to pieces. He’s the other way, if you catch my drift. But I don’t care. It’s all legal now isn’t it. They can even get married. He asked if he could bring a friend from university to visit me for Sunday lunch; they would do all the cooking, he assured me.
The moment I saw the pair of them together I knew that the word friend needed to be put in inverted commas. They were obviously more than just “friends”; lovers more like, but I’d rather not think too much about that.
They did me the traditional Sunday dinner: roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, the lot. It was very nice of them because you don’t see it done very often nowadays. After the meal we sat and watched the live football on the telly. I don’t mind having Sky now that horrible Murdoch man is no longer involved. When the game was over, Trent and Wayne left to go back to uni.
It was later that evening when I went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea that I noticed an old biscuit tin had been moved. I feared the worst even before I opened the lid. I keep money in the tin and I saw immediately that ten pounds was missing. I knew exactly how much I had because I had only filled the tin that morning. It had been stolen, no doubts about it.
I knew Trent hadn’t taken it. I just knew, don’t ask me to explain. That could only mean that his boyfriend Wayne had dipped his sticky fingers into my biscuit tin. He hadn’t taken all the money, he probably thought he was being clever. If he didn’t take it all, he figured, I would never notice. I was furious, I don’t mind admitting it. It wasn’t the money as such, I am not a poor man, ten pounds means nothing to me. It was the idea that a guest had come into my house and while I wasn’t around he stole from me. That was a great principle to me.
I also feared for my grandson. Did he know that his new boyfriend was a thief? Had he stolen from other people? Had he stolen from Trent? It was late by now so I waited until morning before I phoned Trent. I told him my suspicions. He took it calmly, I had wondered that he might fly off the handle and accuse me of all sorts of things. He might even have said I was getting old and forgetful and I spent the money. He offered to come round with Wayne after classes finished to discuss it with me.
That gave me several hours to brood. I hated the idea of being deceived. I wasn’t sure I could prove to the satisfaction of the law that Wayne had stolen the money. I could hear a defence lawyer saying anyone could have taken it – assuming it had actually been there in the first place. I have to admit that I probably didn’t want to get the law involved. Like all law-abiding people I have never had any dealings with the police, but from what I see on TV drama I reckoned they wouldn’t think that such a small crime was worth investigating.
After a while I calmed down a bit. By now I also thought the theft of ten pounds might not warrant the full force of the law. If I reported it to the university, would Wayne be expelled? I had no idea of such things. I’m certain that back in the day that would have been the case, but not today. It’s all “human rights” now. There’s probably nothing they could do.
I had to admit to myself that for the few hours I was in his company I got to rather like Wayne. He has a sunny disposition and it was abundantly clear that my grandson doted on him. Perhaps then I wouldn’t want to get Wayne in too much trouble.
I made myself a cup of tea and sat down to ponder what other options I might have. There was one that came to mind. It would certainly make the punishment fit the crime. It would also give me satisfaction knowing that Wayne had not got off scot free. I smiled to myself as I thought about this. It seemed a bit absurd, in this day and age. And anyway, Wayne would never consent to it and without his agreement I had no chance.
“Bugger it!” I exclaimed aloud, even though I was alone in the room, “I’ll do it!” I sauntered up the stairs and entered one of the spare bedrooms. There was an old chest of drawers. I noticed how dusty it was, I hadn’t been in here for years. I opened the top drawer and just as I expected there was a long, two-tailed leather taws. I reached in and gently lifted it and placed it in the dust on the top of the drawers. Then I removed the wooden paddle. This was a rectangle of wood about the size of a paperback book with a handle. I set this alongside the taws. I stared at both for a long minute. Either would be perfect for what I had in mind. I picked them both up and carried them downstairs.
I made another cup of tea and as I waited for it to cool I fondled the leather taws. It was more than a quarter-inch thick and heavy. The brown surface was tarnished and worn. It had been in the family for generations. I put it to one side and picked up the paddle. This was relatively new. I had made it myself back in the day when I was the father of three boisterous boys. I had used it several times on Trent’s dad. I smiled at the memory. The last time I had used it he was nineteen years old, no older than Trent was today. I’d better not let Trent know that little secret, his father would never forgive me.
Trent and Wayne arrived at a little after five. I was in no mood for small talk so I got straight down to business. I said ten pounds was missing. I asked Wayne – I did not accuse him – if he had taken it. His immediate confession took the wind out of my sails. I had expected a long drawn out series of denials.
“Why on earth …” I spluttered.
“Sorry,” he shrugged his shoulders, “I just wanted it.”
I was confused. I genuinely could not understand “Are you behind with your rent?” I ventured.
“No,” he replied but failed to elaborate. So there we were. Wayne was a typical teenager today. Take, take, take. He only thinks about himself. He wants instant gratification. What he cannot earn he simply takes. The palm of my hand itched. It wanted to grab the handle of that paddle.
“I cannot let this go, you understand that don’t you,” I was calm and spoke gently, every inch the caring grandpa. What I had to do was done more in sorrow than in anger. I had no choice. The boy deserved punishment. Heck, it was my duty to paddle his pert nineteen-year-old bottom. I said none of this to him, of course. Instead I pretended that I had a choice. The police, the law courts, the fine, the criminal record, the plight on his future career etcetera, etcetera. Or we could deal with it ourselves. Here. Now.
I hope I didn’t show just how startled I felt when he replied with alacrity, “I want you to deal with it.” Then, as an afterthought he added, “Please.” And after a further pause, “Sir.” I shook my head wearily, looking as if I was carrying all the burdens of the world on my shoulder. Then he told me, “I deserve to be punished.”
There was no denying that. Until that moment I had kept the paddle out of sight. I retrieved it from its hiding place and grasped the handle firmly. I waved it through the air so that Wayne could get a very good look at it. His eyes followed it as it moved but the rest of his face remained impassive. His bright brown eyes shone.
“I intend to spank you, do you understand?” His face paled and the tip of his tongue darted out of his mouth and ran around his lips. He croaked a response, “Yes, Sir.” Rather haughtily, I dismissed Trent from the room. He went without fuss. I heard him go into the kitchen. “Right young man,” I said, turning my attention once more to Wayne. “Let’s get on with this shall we.” It was a statement, not a question. I left him standing while I took hold of an the office chair I use when I am at my computer. I wheeled it closer to the centre of the room and sat down. It was now or never, I supposed. Wayne still had time to change his mind. I did not have the strength to force him across my knee. I had no desire for an unseemly fight with the boy. He was nineteen-years-old and I was no match for him in a wrestling match. I needed him to be submissive.
I held the paddle in my right fist and rubbed the palm of my left hand across the blade. I studied it hard, as if I had never seen the blessed thing before in my life. I could not bear to look at him. His refusal to obey my instruction would mean total humiliation. My throat was suddenly dry and I had to cough before speaking. “Take down your jeans, then come bend over my knee,” I croaked. Wayne was gym-honed and needed no belt to keep his trousers up. He popped the fastener on the waistband and tugged the metal zipper then pulled the jeans down as far as his knees.
Now, I felt able to look at him. He wore blue underpants that fitted so snugly nothing was left to the imagination. I could see Wayne was no boy and his thick cock was uncut. He shuffled the two steps necessary so that he stood close to my body on my right side. He shook his head several times, I think he might have been psyching himself for what lay ahead. His black hair was cut fashionably short and was stuck in place with some sort of “product” so that not a hair seemed to move. He took a deep breath and then in one complete athletic movement he almost threw himself across my lap. Within a second he was face down with his arms stretched before him with his palms pressing into the deep-pile carpet. His back arched and his groin rested over my right thigh. In this way he presented his tight bottom at the perfect angle for the spanking he so richly deserved. He kept his knees straight and his legs stuck out at about forty-five degrees. He was breathing heavily. He clenched his buttocks. I noticed that they were as hard as a rubber ball. The phrase “buns of steel” was made for him.
Wayne was entirely submissive. With some naughty boys you have to grip their waist tightly to stop them moving about while trying to escape. This was not necessary with Wayne. I simply rested my spare hand on the small of his back. At this point I had the option of peeling down his tight underpants to bare his bottom. There can be no doubt that the crime of stealing deserves a bare-bottomed spanking. However, I was very aware that this was the boy’s first offence. I hoped that the spanking would cure him of his criminality but I could not be certain that it would. If I paddled him on his pants now should I be called upon to repeat this punishment when he stole again I would be able to up the ante as it were and spank him on the bare next time.
So, I gripped the handle tightly and gently tap-tap-tapped the blade across the highest point of his left cheek and I let fly. I may be an aging man but I still have enough strength to deliver a severe spanking and that was my intention that evening. The thud of wood connecting with hard flesh resounded around the room. Wayne sucked in air. I hardly gave him time to absorb the first swat before I laid the paddle across his right buttock. The next went left and high, then right and low. Then back to the left. Within about a minute I had peppered his backside so thoroughly no square inch was left untoasted. He wriggled his hips and kicked his legs and his head bounced up and down, but to his credit he kept his backside raised high after each swat, inviting the next and the next and the one after that.
I obliged. I hammered his bottom. The paddle pounded the peak of the mounds, the tops of the hills, the undercurve where the bum and the backs of the thighs meet. His pants were so tight they fitted like a second skin and I could see the outline of the paddle’s blaze embossed over and over again across his bottom. The backs of his thighs were bare and I did not hold back making sure the wood stung him there good and proper.
Hs body was shaking. The pain would have been intense. His bum was glowing red hot. His heartbeat must have been off the scale. Even through all the gel or whatever it was, I saw his hair was soaked with sweat. The back of his neck was as scarlet as his bottom, yet curiously his face was deathly pale. I couldn’t see his eyes so didn’t know if he was crying. Certainly the cheeks of his face were not moist.
I am not a sadist. I believe in punishment, not in torture. There comes a time when I must consider that a boy has had enough. The punishment has fitted the crime. I am a just man. That time hadn’t quite arrived. The palm of my hand was wet with perspiration. I let go of the paddle and rested it on Wayne’s back. Then, I rubbed my hand dry on his shirt. I gripped the paddle once more and returned to my task with renewed vigour. I laid another dozen swats – the hardest so far – right around the circuit. I reckon his bottom felt like I had forced him to sit on white-hot coals.
It was time to stop. I tapped the blade across the peak of his left cheek. “Finished,” I gasped. I hadn’t realised quite how out of breath I had become. “Stand up.” Wayne wriggled his torso and pressing the palms of his hands on my left thigh he unsteadily rose to his feet. He pressed both hands across the seat of his pants and rubbed vigorously while at the same time he hopped from foot to foot. His jeans were still snagged at his knees and it took no effort for him to get them back up in their rightful place. He zipped himself up.
I regained my breath while he did all this. His face was pale but his bright brown eyes shone like lanterns. I could not tell where his mind was at that moment but it did not seem to be in the front room of a large house in Brocklehurst.
I rose from my chair. I wanted him out of my house quickly. “I trust you have learned your lesson,” I said, knowing that I sounded like some maiden aunt. He nodded his assent. Trent re-entered the room at that moment. I took myself off to the kitchen. I needed a cup of tea. As I waited for the kettle to boil I could hear the two boys talking in the hallway. “See,” my grandson Trent said, “I told you he would do it.” They both dissolved into fits of high-pitched giggles.
I gaped. What the hell did they mean? But, of course, I knew. What a fool I’d been. I hurried from the kitchen to confront them, but was too late. The front door was closing in front of me.
Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club
Other stories you might like
More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Also writing school stories as Scholastic here
Charles Hamilton the Second