A wicked theft

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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.

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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

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

After corner time

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Right lad, get your nose right in that corner and don’t you dare move. Leave your jeans and pants down. I haven’t finished with you yet. Not by a long chalk. That belting was just the start. How dare you disobey me and stay out to all hours. Spending your allowance on drugs. My money. You can’t even hold down a job. You lazy sod. You can pack your bag and go for all I care. It’s only your mother who’s stopping me throwing you out on to the street.

Now, you stay there and don’t move. I won’t be long. I’ll be back in a moment. I want to see your nose sniffing that corner when I get back.

….

Right turn around. Face me. Yes! This is a surprise isn’t it. You didn’t know I had one of these. I bought it on eBay. An authentic school cane. Don’t stare at your feet, look at it.  See how easily it bends. Look how thick it is. Just think what that’s going to do to your bare bottom. Stop pouting, you only have yourself to blame. You deserve everything that’s coming to you.

Right, come over here. No, leave those jeans down. Just waddle. I don’t care if you do feel a complete prat. Stand behind that armchair. Now lad!

Don’t make me have to come over there and drag you.

Right, bend over the back of the chair.

No, not like that. Right over. Head low, bottom high. I want to see you smelling that seat cushion. That’s better. Hold on to the front of the seat, I don’t want you trying to cover up your bum. Good. Now spread those legs a bit. Give me something to aim at.

Be quiet. You are not too old to be caned. You might be twenty, but you have never in your life behaved like an adult. You deserve to be treated like a little kid. Keep still.

Let’s get this t-shirt out of the way. That’s better, now I can see the target. That belting has left a good set of marks, but that’s nothing compared with what you’re going to get now.

Stop whining. Keep perfectly still. Take your beating like a man. Don’t make a sound. I don’t want you worrying your mother.

Right then. Here we go. Stroke one ….

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

Late for breakfast

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Mr Weatherspoon sauntered into the kitchen and sighed. He could not,  would not, hide his irritation. “Where is he?” he demanded of his wife.

“He’s not here.”

“Well, I can see he’s not here,” Mr Weatherspoon snarled. “Is he still upstairs?”

“What do you think?” his wife’s sarcasm was not lost on Mr Weatherspoon.

“I’ve told him about this before,” Mr Weatherspoon pulled up a chair and sat at the table.

“Yes, you’ve told him before. You’ve told him lots of things before,” she banged a plate of bacon and eggs in front of him.

Mr Weatherspoon eyed his wife cautiously, “Come on Mary.”

“Don’t Come on Mary me, Jack,” what else did you tell him, eh? It’s me that cooks breakfast that gets ruined because he’s late down. I fetch and carry for him all the time. He’s got worse since he started work. He treats this place like a hotel and me like a skivvy.”

Jack stared down at his breakfast. Would she give him no peace?

No she wouldn’t because she went on, “What did you say you’d do if he was late down again? Well, what was it?”

Jack filled his mouth with a forkful of bacon. This was not a conversation he wished to have.

“You told him you’d give him a damn good hiding. Remember that Jack. You said he needed to buck up his ideas. You said that Jack.”

Jack chewed thoughtfully. He had said that. But, it was the heat of the moment. Surely she hadn’t taken him seriously. “He’s eighteen Mary. A bit old for spanking don’t you think?”

Mary stared scornfully, “He was eighteen when you said it, Jack. What’s changed? He certainly hasn’t!” She sat down in a huff and slashed at her own eggs and bacon. She seethed as she poured tea. “Go up now. Do it. Take my hairbrush. The ebony one, it’s on the dressing table.”

Jack slurped tea. How he wished he had a newspaper to hide behind. “Oh Mary,” he bleated and then trailed off, ashamed.

Mary had finished eating. She let her knife and fork fall with a clutter on her plate. “Do you want me to do it? Is that it? I will you know. If you won’t, I will. I swear I will.” She observed her husband from the corner of her eye. She had touched a sore spot with him and she knew it. “Let me just finish this tea,” she added slyly.

“Bah!” Jack rose from the table sharply, banging his knee as he stood. “No, don’t worry. I’ll do it,” he fumed, “If I must. If that’s what you want?”

“It’s not what I want, Jack,” she said scornfully, “It’s what you promised to do.” She allowed herself a wry smile as she watched her defeated husband slink from the room. “The heavy ebony one. On the dressing table,” she called after him.

Wayne was out of bed, but he was not quite fully awake. He stood by the window in his vest and underpants stretching. His head was a little befuddled from the six pints he sank at the Three Fishers the night before. His Dad had surprise on his side. The door burst open and there he stood brandishing in his right fist, a black, wooden hairbrush.

“I did warn you. You can’t say you weren’t warned,” Dad babbled as he strode through the door. Instinctively, Wayne backed away, but it was a small room and there was nowhere for him to run. Dad had no clear plan, he hadn’t thought anything through; he would have to work on instinct, fuelled by adrenaline.

He sat on the narrow bed, reached forward, grabbed Wayne by the left wrist and tugged him towards him. The teenager was off balance and toppled forward easily. Then he was face down across Dad’s legs with his chest and head bouncing on the mattress. Dad wriggled about and quickly put his right leg across his son’s ankles. He had him pinned down. Wayne twisted and turned, “Gerroff! Wodya doing? Stop! No!” He could struggle all he wanted to; he was going nowhere.

Dad had surprised himself. It had been easy. He had feared some kind of stand-up fight. Wayne was eighteen, he had youth – and strength – on his side; Dad could not expect to win. Instead, he had the brat face down across his knee. If not exactly submissive, he was nonetheless at his mercy. Wayne twisted and turned but when Dad lay his left arm across the boy’s back, that put an end to that.

Dad smiled. How he wished his wife was here to witness his victory. He looked down at his son’s buttocks. He had never examined them before. The boy was slender and thin and the cheeks were round and soft. Dad ran his hand over them slowly, feeling the “give” in them. They were some way off being “buns of steel”. He had never spanked Wayne before; never spanked anyone before (unless you count the “slap-and-tickle” games he and Mary played in their younger days). How was this done, exactly? He let instinct take over once more. He took hold of the top of Wayne’s pants. That set he boy wriggling and hollering again, “No! Dad, no!” He was mightily relieved when Dad didn’t tug the pants down to his thighs and expose his bare bottom. Instead, he pulled the pants tight so the smooth white cotton stretched across the buttocks as if they were a second skin. They also dug into the crack, in effect lifting and separating each cheek. Dad had made a perfect target.

He took hold of the brush, his palms were sweaty but that didn’t impair his grip. He raised it a couple of feet away from Wayne’s backside, the brush was heavy in his hands. He paused, took a deep breath and smacked it down exactly in the middle of the right cheek. Then, he raised it again and did the same with the left.

That set Wayne off. As Dad spanked the brush over and over again into the soft cheeks, his son let out a continuous barrage of protest and howls. “No, No Dad, Stop, Oww! Ouch! Eeek! Yowl! No. Stop. Please Dad. Oww! Yowlll! No. Pleeeasse!”

Dad was in no mood to stop. He was rather enjoying himself. He should have done this a long time ago, he told himself. The brat had been asking for it for a very long time. Whack-whack-whack. He increased the pace and equally Wayne’s howling and pleading intensified. “Come down to breakfast when you’re called.” Whack-whack. “Don’t give your Mum grief.” Whack-whack. “Don’t stay out till all hours.” Whack-whack. “Tidy up this room.” Whack-whack. And, on and on.

How long should a spanking last? Dad had no idea. Instinct told him it had to be until Wayne had learned his lesson. But how would Dad know? He decided to ask. “Have you learned your lesson?” Whack-whack. “Are you going to do as you’re told in future?” Whack-whack. “Will you behave?”

“Yes Dad, oww! Ouch! Yes Dad. Honestly. Ouch! Ouch! No more. Please.”

The boy was not in tears but he was in considerable distress. The spanking was getting through to him. Dad walloped another dozen all around the target. High near the back, over the crest of the mounds and down into the undercurve. Whack-whack. “Okay. That’s it. You can get up now.”

He cocked his leg and set his son free. Wayne jumped to his feet and hopped about and at the same time rubbed away at his toasted bottom. For his part, Dad was surprised how breathless he was. He hadn’t felt the least bit tired while he was taking Wayne’s backside apart. Now, he took a few deep breaths. He looked closely at the brush in his hand. Mary had been right, it was the perfect tool for spanking.

“Right. Get downstairs for breakfast,” he said sternly and when Wayne started searching for his jeans, he added, “No go like you are in your vest and pants. You’ve wasted enough of your Mum’s time as it is.” He watched with deep satisfaction as without a murmur of dissent Wayne left the room.

Moments later Wayne arrived in the kitchen. Mary Weatherspoon noticed at once his air of remorse.  She saw also the deep pink marks on the backs of his thighs. As she set a plate before her son she felt the stirrings of respect for her husband.

 

Picture credit: Cody Ferguson

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Summer spent staring at the carpet

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I cannot begin to remember how often I had a close-up view of the carpet that summer. My nose hovering inches above the dusty, cheap flooring. Trousers at my ankles, underwear at the knees and Uncle Simon flogging a birch rod into my naked buttocks. Yowl! I can still feel the sting as I recall the pain and indignity of it all.

Nineteen years old and over an older man’s knees for a bare-arsed whipping. Can you imagine such a thing?

I’m not sure where to begin. It was 1974. A lifetime away. I had spent the previous six months banged up at Her Majesty’s Pleasure. They called it Youth Detention in those days, a bit like borstal really. It doesn’t much matter what you called it, it was still locked up three to a cell for most of the day. I was a menace to society, apparently. Okay, I stole cars. Lots of them in fact. Can you be addicted to stealing cars? Perhaps I was. Do they have a special name for it? Probably. I never did much with them. I drove around at high speed and when I had my fill I dumped them. Crazy really. It didn’t take the cops long to find me. The daft magistrates gave me community service the first time. Making tea at some old granny’s day centre. At the end of the third day there, I stole a Cortina and thrashed it along the motorway. The magistrate gave me a fine that time.

The fifth time I was up before the Bench, he sent me to YD. Mum disowned me when I came out. Step forward Uncle Simon.

“What he needs,” he told my mum, “is a good dose of the birch. None of that namby-pamby community service.” And, he knew what he was talking about. Uncle Simon was no angel when he was younger. House breaking was his thing. Stealing wireless sets his speciality. I know, it just shows you how long ago that was. The Assizes ordered him to six strokes of the birch. Bare-arsed, naturally. “Still got the scars to prove it,” Uncle Simon boasted. I never believed him. I asked him once to drop his kecks and show me his bare arse. Enough said on that matter.

I was to find out myself that the birch can take your arse off, but the cuts soon heal. Uncle Simon took me into his home which was a dingey little flat on a council estate near Widdicombe Woods. It was near one of the poshest suburbs of Brocklehurst and I thought nothing of bunking over garden walls and taking my pick from summer houses and sheds. Now and again one of the old geezers who lived there left a french window carelessly unlocked. Bingo! In those days you could easily sell a video in the pub. Ha!

What I didn’t reckon with was that Uncle Simon hadn’t changed so much. He liked to drink in the less savoury joints and hang out with petty criminals so when one time I waltzed into The Three Fishers with a video recorder hidden in a Tesco’s bag who should I see propping up the bar? He didn’t say anything. His deadly stare was enough to make me leg it out of the pub. I knew I was for it later. Still, I thought, in for a penny in for a pound. Or, better to be hung for a sheep than for a lamb.  Actually, I probably didn’t really think that at the time (I hadn’t learned about fancy words; that came later). What I did was I went touring the pubs until I sold the video. So, at least my pockets were jangling with cash by the time I got home.

Uncle Simon was waiting. He had put the time since I saw him to good use. The second I walked through the door the very strong smell of freshly-cut tree branches hit me. Uncle Simon was in the kitchen busy with a bread knife. But he wasn’t cutting sandwiches; he had a pile of birch twigs neatly stacked on the kitchen table. I stood half in the doorway and watched, as he collected about a dozen of the twigs together and wrapped sticking plaster around one end. This made a makeshift, but effective handle. As he finished off the second birch rod, he acknowledged my presence. I probably blushed to my roots, but I didn’t say a word. Uncle Simon didn’t say much. He took both birch rods in his hands and nodded in a direction behind me. “Living room. Now!”

I didn’t need to ask for confirmation or explanation. I knew precisely what he intended to do. Now, at this point in my story, you too know what happens next. But, you might also be asking yourself, “Why did he let his Uncle do this?” You probably think I should have told him to go to hell and refused to have anything to do with his plan. And it would be perfectly reasonable of you to say that. I have no answer to you. Except to say that this was a very long time ago and I had been through the youth detention system and maybe I was conditioned to this kind of thing. I lived a regimented life; there were rules and you were expected to obey them. If you didn’t you were punished. Sometimes that meant a birching. That’s life. What I can say to those of you with suspicious minds, not for one moment did I enjoy this.

So, I trudged into the living room with Uncle Simon following closely behind me. The room was very small, like the rest of the flat, and had a cheap, vinyl settee and two small armchairs that did not match it. There was a beat-up table in the corner and a worn, wooden straight backed armless chair. “Put that there!” Uncle spoke softly and in a monotone voice. I knew what he meant and I picked up the chair and took it into the middle of the room. As I did that Uncle Simon laid the birch rods on the table. He left one there and took the other with him as he went and sat on the chair. He spread his legs the way you do at times like this and told me quietly and sternly, “Take down your jeans and pants. You know what to do.”

I did. And I knew why I was about to be birched. Uncle Simon had not said a word about my thieving. He knew that I knew and that was enough. All he wanted was to get on with it. He didn’t even give me time to take off my coat. I stood about a yard distance from Uncle’s  right thigh and stared at him. At the time I thought he was an old man but now I look back I suppose how wasn’t much over fifty. He was padding out a bit and he had a muffin belly that hung a little over his belt. He still had all his hair, but it was going grey at the temples. I looked at the birch in his hands. By this time I had become familiar with this. We all called it “a birch” but I think it was actually made of about a dozen hazel twigs; he had cut each of them to about ten or twelve inches and tied them into a handle at one end. Despite its size it wasn’t very heavy; not like the birches Uncle Simon had been flogged with back in the day. He had constructed the birch so he could swish my bare arse while I was bent across his knee in the traditional naughty-little-boy fashion. Of course, since I was face down staring at the carpet I never saw this, but I’m pretty certain that the birch rods spread enough to cover both my cheeks in a single swipe.

So, Uncle Simon told me to strip down and I did. My jeans were puddled over my trainers and my boxer shorts hung over my knees. “Bend over,” he said and again I did as I was told. I was roughly the same height as Uncle Simon but a lot leaner and my body fitted comfortably across his lap. He spread his legs so there was a platform for my stomach and chest to rest on. My arms and head dangled forward. Uncle gripped my right arm and twisted it up my back so I was pinned down. My bare bum was raised high over his thigh and my legs stretched behind me and with my knees bent a little my toes hovered above the carpet. I waited submissively. I had no intention of fighting Uncle Simon.

It was summer, but the day was not particularly warm. A window was open and a breeze cooled my bare bottom and legs. Uncle Simon teased me by gently caressing my naked cheeks with the birch. It was ticklish. But not for long. I felt the birch being raised, Uncle Simon held it aloft for a second or so and then there was an almighty swishing noise as it swooped through the air and connected with terrific force across the undercurves of my buttocks. My entire body shuddered, my knees buckled and a long, shrill hiss of air escaped through my clenched teeth. Another second or so passed and I felt a searing pain as the skin on my bum burned like the fires of Hell.

Uncle Simon repeated the manoeuvre and this time he laid the birch high on the crest of my mounds. Now, ever square inch of my bottom was alight. It throbbed madly and I knew small cuts were creeping across the whole target area. My heartbeat was off the scale and my temples ached almost as much as my bum. I did the wriggling and writhing thing again, but Uncle had a very firm hold of me and I wasn’t going anywhere until he said so.

Of course, with both cheeks roaring any further swipes of the birch could only land on already raw flesh and reignite the intense pain. Uncle Simon showed no mercy. Swipe! Swish! Swipe! Swish! Six cuts had opened up the flesh. No matter how many times I went across Uncle Simon’s knee that summer I never got used to the sting of the birch. I kicked; I wriggled; I swayed; I yelped; I yelled; I hollered. I was out of control. I had no choice. It was an entirely physical reaction, it was my body’s way of coping with the assault. That was why my face was awash with tears after three stokes and my chin was soaked in snot after six.

He stopped after nine. I hopped to my feet and rubbed away like fury. My bum felt like raw hamburger meat. The cheeks were criss-crossed with dozens and dozens of thin lines; some were white and others glowed dark pink. Before long the whole lot would merge into a deep mauve that in the days to come would transform into oranges and yellows before eventually disappearing. My bum felt like it had swollen to twice its normal size. I glared at Uncle Simon, not with fury but remorse. My eyes were on stalks and I could hardly see through the tears. It would take some time yet before my heartrate steadied, my breathing eased and my body returned to its natural state. I couldn’t bear the pain involved in pulling up my boxers and jeans so with them at my ankles I waddled like a penguin from the room and staggered across the passage to my bedroom. I lay face down sobbing for the rest of the day.

Did it do me any good; that summer spent staring at the carpet? Well, the truth is I did carry on stealing. Uncle Simon lost patience and threw me out. I left Brocklehurst and thumbed a lift North. One day with a couple of equally coked-up pals I attempted to rob an off-licence. We got five years jail time for that and I’ve been in and out ever since.

 

Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club

Other stories you might like

Changed Times 6. Birched live on TV

The hotel swimming pool

A night on the tiles

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Uncle Martin lends a hand

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z used otk chair jeans down (1a)

I remember when Uncle Martin first told me that if I didn’t start doing as I was told, he would take down my jeans and underpants, take me across his knee and spank my bare bottom very hard indeed, I thought he was joking.

I didn’t call him out on it and say, “You’re having a laugh. I’m nineteen years old.” I didn’t shrug my shoulders nonchalantly as if to tell him, “I don’t care.” I think I just blushed cherry red and rushed from the room.

This happened a long time ago. Nineteen-seventy-three. Things were different then. Corporal punishment was everywhere. Not like today. We got the swishy, bendy cane from the headmaster and the rubber soled plimsoll in gym class. “Bend over. Touch toes.” Swipe! Swipe! Swipe! Six-of-the-best, across the seat of the stretched trousers. Ouch! Kids today don’t know they’re born. Fathers were not afraid to whip a belt across the backsides of their misbehaving sons. Or a slipper. The dad of a schoolfriend of mine used to keep a wooden paddle hanging from a nail in the cupboard under the stairs, always ready for action.

I had just passed my school A-levels and had a place at the university in Brocklehurst. As fate would have it Uncle Martin had a house in the same town so my parents decided (I didn’t have a say in the matter) I would lodge with him and Aunt Marie. Uncle Martin was my mother’s brother and a few years older than her. His own children were grown and had flown the coop, so he had a couple of spare bedrooms doing nothing.

Looking back after all these years I see I was a bit full of myself. What teenager isn’t. I treated Uncle’s house like it was a hotel. Of course, Aunt Marie cooked my meals, did my washing and generally skivvied for me. Me, I stayed in bed most of the morning (early lectures be damned) and I came and went as I pleased. Often, I would get back from the university, eat my dinner and then – without a word to either of them – I’d go out and not return until the early hours. What did I care?

Uncle was beside himself. I was going off the rails. All I could look forward to was failure in the end of term exams. The inevitable happened. How could he explain that to his sister, my mum? He couldn’t, but he could make sure it wouldn’t happen again. His solution? A damn good spanking.

“What did I say would happen?” Uncle Martin growled at me the day the results came out. He waved the letter from college in my face. “You’ll have to do summer school and retake the exams in October!” His complexion turned from pink to various shades of red before settling on puce. “Well!” spittle flew from between his cracked lips, “I’m going to make sure you don’t screw up again. I’m going to warm that bottom of yours, to encourage you to put your intelligence to some good use. Come here!”

He grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and hauled me from the kitchen into the living room. My feet skidded across the carpet as I desperately tried to escape his cutches. “C’mon,” I wailed, “I’m too old for this. You can’t spank me!”

That was the wrong thing to say. I’m certain it only encouraged Uncle Martin. He was a man on a mission. He was going to save me. Save me, from myself. He released my neck and took a chunk of my hair in his fist. With his free arm he tugged a wooden, straight-backed chair from under the dining table. It toppled over but he soon had it upright again. I was still effing and jeffing, telling him to let me go.

I swear he sneered at me. A look of total contempt spread across his face. He didn’t say a word. He just sat himself on the chair. Now, he let go of my hair. He reached out and unzipped my jeans and down they went, then down came my underwear. He stood me there a moment with my nineteen-year-old bottom bare. I think my chin was quivering from the embarrassment of standing with my dick hanging out. I had no idea how strong a man Uncle was, but I was about to find out. He gripped my forearm and tugged me over to his right side. He spread his knees about six inches. Then came the command, “Bend over.” I stood frozen. “Bah!” he exclaimed and pulled me over his knee. I toppled over and spread my hands on the floor to break my fall. I was face down with my back slightly arched. My knees were bent and my toes hovered over the floor.

I was quite a lightweight in those days and Uncle Martin was stocky and strong. I was completely dominated. He put his arm round my waist and moved me so that my cock and balls were between his knees. I looked underneath me and could see my toes above the floor in the back. Looking to my right, I could see the side of my bare, pale bum sticking up in the air, inviting him to whack it. And that is what he did.

He started on my left cheek. An almighty slap in the centre, where I had most flesh. Not that I had much of that if truth be told. My bum was as hard as a rubber ball. Those were the days before McDonald’s really took off and my diet became mainly hamburgers. Uncle’s hands were as big as shovels and they were rough and tough. He had no need of a hairbrush or a belt. He held me down and spanked me hard. Just as he had promised to do. First on the left cheek, then five seconds later on the right. Then higher on the left, then lower on the right. In no time he had gone right round the circuit. I squirmed, kicked, yelled, pleaded, wailed and threatened. Uncle just spanked on and on: steadily, relentlessly.

“I’ll give you something to yell about,” he growled  as each spank hurt more than the last. I don’t think he was spanking me harder and harder; it was the accumulation, the way the pain built up with each additional spank.

I should’ve known better than to put my hand over my bum to try to protect myself from Uncle’s onslaught. He pinned my hand half way up my back. “Don’t you dare,” he snarled and gave me ten or twelve very fast, very hard spanks.

I squirmed and kicked and tried to cover my reddening cheeks, but it didn’t help. He held me in place, face down, bottom up and didn’t miss a beat drumming on my bare backside.

That was the first time Uncle Martin spanked my bare bottom, but it wasn’t to be the last. I soon became acquainted with his wide range of ‘attitude adjusters’ that he kept in a box on top of the wardrobe in his bedroom. I wonder what became of them. I heard yesterday that my own grandson has been ‘excluded’ from school because of his disruptive behaviour. I might have put them to good use.

Picture credit Unknown

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Commander Reynolds’ rooming house

Untidy bathroom

The hotel swimming pool

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Clubbing

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z used jeans outdoors contrite (2)

Yes, I can see that you’ve got a splitting headache. That’s what happens when you sneak out at night to go clubbing. What was it booze? Or, God help me, drugs?

What? Speak up. Stop mumbling. Booze! You’d better not be lying to me. It’s bad enough that you broke my house rules without you breaking the law as well.

When I said you could come back and live with your mother and me I made it absolutely clear that there would be rules. Yes? I am not telling you anything you don’t already know.

Oh for pity’s sake stop shaking your head. I told you to enrol in college and study hard. Yes? And what else did I say?

Well, what else did I say.

Stop mumbling. I said there would be a curfew. Every night. Never later than 11.30. I don’t care if you are nearly twenty, you’ve shown you cannot act responsibly.  So there have to be boundaries. It’s straightforward. It’s not rocket science.

So, you knew about the curfew. Yes? But you stayed out late anyway. And got drunk. Or high! Or whatever you kids call it these days. You came rolling home at half-past-two this morning. Your mother was sick to death with worry. I had to stop her ringing round the hospitals.

Then you chucked up all over the garden path. And don’t expect me or your mother to clean that up. You’ll do it right after I’ve finished with you.

Yes! Don’t look so surprised. Don’t think you’re getting away with this. I will not have it. You deliberately broke my rules. In my house. I should throw you out. You can go back and live in that squalid squat; or sleep on the streets.

No? You don’t want that. I didn’t think so. No, I’m not going to throw you out. Not this time. You have your mother to than for that. If I had my way …

But you have to be punished. Don’t scowl at me like that. Of course, you must be punished. What choice do I have? Be quiet! You knew damn well I wouldn’t let you get away with this. You can’t behave like an adult. If you insist on behaving like a little kid that’s how I’ll treat you.

Yes. I’ve still got that paddle. I never thought I’d have to use it again, but I never got rid of it. It’s still hanging on that hook in the cupboard under the stairs. Go get it.

I said go get it! Don’t make me have to fetch it myself. Do you want extra swats?

No I didn’t think so. Fetch it and take it into the living room.

The ‘living room’ was at the back of the house overlooking a sizeable garden and well away from the prying eyes of neighbours. Dad need not feel inhibited here. Mark could holler as much as he wanted it would do him no good. Dad was going to take the brat’s backside off; it would do the boy good. He needed to be led back to the straight-and-narrow path.

Mark slouched into the room and timidly handed his dad the paddle. It was ancient and worn. It had been in the family for generations. Dad’s own grandfather had made it himself. It was a simple blade attached to a handle. The business end was maybe twelve inches by three and a quarter inch thick. Someone had drilled holes in it so it could fly through the air at greater speed and leave an added impact on any upturned bottom.

Dad took the paddle and examined it carefully. There was no need for this, he had seen it (and used it) many times before. He knew what damage it could do. Mark’s shoulders drooped and he stared at the floor beneath his feet. His head throbbed like crazy and he felt sick and it wasn’t only last night’s booze that caused it.

Dad gripped the paddle by the handle and slapped the blade into his open left palm. Then, he gently tapped it against his own thigh. “I think you know how this is done,” he said sternly, watching Mark’s eyelids flicker with apprehension. Indeed, he knew only too well. He and both his elder brothers had felt the sting of the paddle many times while growing up. Neither of them (as far as Mark knew) had been spanked when they were nineteen years old.

“Right then, let’s have those jeans down,” for no useful reason Dad pointed at Mark’s jeans and wiggled his finger up and down. Mark got the message. His mouth opened to speak but Mark shut it back quickly. There was no point protesting. Dad was in charge. It was his way or the highway and Mark definitely did not want to go back on the streets.

“Come on,” Dad growled. “Let’s get this done before your mother comes back from shopping.” He waved the paddle through the air and in Mark’s direction. Colour drained from the boy’s face, he swallowed down a nugget of bile in his throat. Slowly he unbuttoned the top of his jeans and pulled the zipper. They were ‘skinny’ jeans and clung to the contours of his body like a second skin. They were not easy to remove. He got them down to his knees and then realised he was wearing sneakers. Dad saw this too. “Just down to the shins. No need to take them right off.”

Mark straightened himself up but could not look at Dad. What next? Would he have to take down his tight bright-blue cotton briefs. In the past Dad always spanked him on the briefs; but in the past he hadn’t been nineteen.

“Put yourself across the table,” Dad pointed the paddle at a small dining table. Mark swivelled his head to look at it but made no effort to move. “Now!” Dad blasted. “You are sorely trying my patience. Quick. Bend over. Flat across the table.”

It was as if Mark had only just woken up. He shook his head vigorously as if you clear it of sleep. He turned away from Dad and with his jeans restricting his walking he shuffled to the table. Once there he didn’t hesitate but leaned forward and rested his stomach on the cool table top. It was a small table and there was hardly any room for his arms, so he folded them and rested his chin on top. “Lets apart. Stick your bottom out more,” Dad ordered and he stared intently at his son until he was in a satisfactory position.

Mark wore a black t-shirt and it wasn’t very long, but even so Dad took hold of the hem and pushed it up Mark’s back so it was well clear of the underpants. Mark’s bottom, like the rest of his body, was thin and without an ounce of spare fat. If he had wanted to, Dad could have held an entire cheek in one hand. He didn’t do this; what he did do was to take hold of the elasticated waistband and tug hard so that the briefs dug up into Mark’s crack and so the cotton was smooth against the skin with no creases.

Dad was ready. Mark had a close up view of the wooden table. He shut his eyes tightly and tried to pretend that this was not happening. The heavy tap of the paddle against the centre of his right cheek brought him back to reality. Dad was taking aim. Suddenly Mark felt the paddle lift away from his backside and a second later it returned at high velocity and swatted him with tremendous force. He heard the CRACK! as wood connected with flesh. The noise resounded around the room. Only then did he feel the pain. It was like Dad had pressed his mother’s iron into him. Mark’s body jerked and his knees buckled. He had no control over this. It was just a natural reaction to the agony he felt.

Dad tapped the blade on the left cheek and WHOOP! Brought it down hard. It was like he was beating dust from a rug. Both cheeks burned like the fires of Hell. Mark’s head bounced up and down, but he kept his arms tightly folded but this time one foot crossed over the other as he struggled to stay in position, submissively face-down across the table with his bottom jutting out so that Dad continued to have a perfect aim.

Dad put the next swats lower. The underpants were so small and tight they didn’t cover the whole of Mark’s cheeks. That meant the paddle struck him on bare flesh where the bum meets the legs. That hurt! That really hurt! Dad saw the outline of the paddle embossed across the backs of his son’s thighs. It shone bright-pink. Dad allowed himself a moment of self-congratulation before walloping down another couple of swats; this time higher across the top of the mounds. He had now covered every part of Mark’s pert, hard bottom.

Dad was no monster. He didn’t believe in torture. He knew his son’s bum was blazing. But, he also knew the boy was a serial offender. This wasn’t the first time he had submitted his bottom for discipline. If Dad didn’t lay it on thick there was every chance it wouldn’t be the last time either. So, Dad went right round the circuit one more time. Across the top of the bum near where it meets the back, then over the mounds themselves and then into the undercurves. He was rewarded by a series of quiet yaps from Mark that soon developed into cries, and yelps and them Oh Glory! Into a full-throated yell. Dad was pleased they were far enough away from nosey neighbours. He didn’t want social workers coming round to investigate.

“Right,” Dad said as calmly as he could, even though the effort he was making with the paddle had made him short of breath, “I hope you are learning your lesson. My house. My rules.” He didn’t expect Mark to reply so he whacked another four swats across the behind (two per cheek) and then said, “Right. Stand up. Get dressed.”

Mark did not need telling twice. He sprung to his feet so quickly he nearly tumbled to the carpet. The jeans tightly wrapped around his shins made it difficult to move. He tried to bend down to pull them up and nearly over-balanced. So, even though it hurt his red-raw bum to do it, he sat on a hard wooden chair so that he could tug the jeans up as far as his knees, then he stood up and pulled them over his blistered bottom and zipped himself up.

His eyes were watering but he wasn’t crying. His head ached even more than his buttocks and his stomach churned. If he didn’t get away quickly there was a real chance he would chuck up all over the floor. Dad was a man of few words at a time like this. He had done his duty. His son had misbehaved, he had been called out over it and he had been punished. What more was there to say?

“Here,”” he handed Mark the paddle. “Put this back where you found it.” He watched his son shuffle from the room. As he did so the front door opened. “Ha!” Dad thought, “She’s back from shopping. Good. I could murder a nice cup of tea.”

Picture credit: Unknown

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The military camp

Damien’s mid-term results

Put back into short trousers, aged 18

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The selfie

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z used after selfie (1)

There! Take a look at that. Are you satisfied? It’s all your fault. I told you I didn’t want to skip Uni. You made me do it. I said if he found out, my Dad would tan my hide. You just laughed. You thought I was making a joke. Well,  just take a close look. I’m not laughing, am I?

Of course, Dad found out; he always does. One of the neighbours grassed me up. Dad was waiting for me the moment I got home. “Oh, how was university today?” he sneered at me. I knew straight away he knew. I lied of course. Jesus! Why did I do that? It only made things worse. He knew all about it. We were spotted in Widdicombe Wood. Thank God we still had our clothes on.

Well, you don’t know my Dad. I got the full lecture. It’s costing him a fortune to keep me at university. My grades aren’t good enough for me to be bunking off. He’s warned me before. It’s all true, actually.

So, he says, if I insist on acting irresponsibly, it’s a spanking for me. I bet you’re wetting yourself now. Do you know what he did? Can you even guess? Yes, he takes me by the arm and bundles me into the living room. He’s already got a chair plonked down in the middle of the room. On the table there’s Mum’s hairbrush.

He sits himself down and says to me, “Take down your trousers.” Just like that, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. I’m nearly twenty, I tell him. “It’s my house. My way or the highway,” he says. God knows where he got that from. Is it some American saying? It must be from one of those rotten sit-coms he watches on telly.

Of course, I just stand there like a fool. He leans forward and pulls me towards him. Next thing he’s got the front of my trousers open and they’re falling to my feet. I’m giving him some lip at this point, but he doesn’t care. Suddenly he pulls me forward and I topple over his knee. Face down. I really hurt my arm when it crashed against the floor as I tried to get some balance. Of course, I’m kicking and hollering, but Dad is pretty strong. It’s a lifetime working on building sites that does it. He’s got me around the waist and I’m going nowhere.

Then, God almighty I can’t believe I’m telling you this; then he takes hold of the waist of my underpants and he only pulls them down. Just like that. There’s nothing I can do about it. I’m lying there, face down, with my arse bare to the wind. Then, he reaches out, picks up Mum’s hairbrush and he wallops the living daylights out of me.

Have you ever been spanked with a hairbrush? On the bare bottom? No, I don’t suppose you have. Your dad’s far too refined to do such a thing. Well, I can tell you, it hurts like crazy. Whack-whack-whack, he goes, with no let up. Pounding away at my poor arse. I thought it was on fire. I have never felt so much pain. Not ever.

So he spanks that goddam hairbrush into every part of my bum and once there’s no square centimetre untouched, he starts all over again. I’m hollering fit to bust. Not only with the pain, which is intense, but just the sheer shock of it all. I’m being held down over an older man’s knee while he spanks my bare little bottom and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it. Spanking me on and on and on.

He’d still be spanking me now, if Mum hadn’t come into the room. “What’s all that hollering,” she says. “The noise is fit to wake the dead. You’ll have the neighbours complaining.” Well, if it’s that old biddy who grassed me up, he’d probably be delighted to know I got my backside blistered. I’ve seen the way he looks at me when I waltz down the street in those tight jeans I have.

So Dad stops spanking me then and I roll off his knee. I fell flat on my face (honestly, literally) when I tried to pull up my trousers and pants and run from the room at the same time.

I couldn’t resist going to the bathroom to have a look. Look at it yourself. Look how red my bum is. I cannot tell you how much it hurt. It’s died down a bit now. It was throbbing before, but it’s more of a dull ache now. I bet you I’ll have bruises in the morning.

So, don’t forget I hold you personally responsible for this. It was your idea to skip Uni. I didn’t want to do it. You made me, even though you knew what Dad would do if he found out. I get spanked; you get off scott free. Well, at least until tomorrow. Because I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to get hold of Mum’s hairbrush and I’m going to find you and I’m going to give you exactly what Dad gave me. And more besides. On your bare bottom.

Over my knee for a bare-arsed spanking from me. Think about that when you’re trying to get to sleep tonight. So, goodnight. Until tomorrow lover boy!

 

Picture credit: Unknown

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The Morning After the Night Before

Tyrone misses curfew

Oh my papa

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com