The Letter

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Mr. Rouke stared down at the letter as he fingered buttered toast into his mouth. Brocklehurst University, Registrar’s Office. Addressed to his son. He didn’t need X-ray eyes to tell its contents. The Christmas vacation was here. Examinations had been taken, results released.

He licked a drop of butter from his lips and picked up his tea cup. Why would they be writing to Jimmy, he wondered. The results would have been put online ages ago, before the students set off for their homes.

It could only mean one thing. Trouble. He looked at the carriage clock. Nearly eight o’clock, he must leave for work soon. He really didn’t want this hanging over him all day. He strode to the bottom of the stairs. “Jimmy!!” he called.

His wife’s face appeared over the upstairs banister. “He’ll still be in bed. Asleep most likely.”

“Mr. Rouke’s face contorted. “What time did he get in last night? Or do I mean this morning?”

His wife shrugged her shoulders; she knew her husband didn’t really want an answer.

“Doh. Wake him up. Tell him to get down here straight away.” He returned to the dining room, poured a second cup of tea and waited. From a distance he heard voices. Jimmy was resisting.

“James! Get down here now!” he called from the stairs . “Don’t make me have to come up!”

James. That’s what did it. Dad only called him James when he was angry with him. Better not make matters worse. The bedroom door opened and with bleary eyes Jimmy appeared. He wrapped the jacket of his pyjamas around his body. There was a nip in the air. “Wossup!” he called from the top of the stairs.

“Get down here, you’ll find out soon enough,” his Dad said sullenly. “Hurry up about it. Some of us have got work to go to.”

Jimmy padded down the carpeted stairs. The pile felt warm beneath his bare feet. He entered the room, “Wossup,” he said a little more softly this time, sensing trouble.

“That,” Mr. Rouke nodded at the letter on the table. “Why’s the university writing to you?”

“Oh, um, nothing, everyone gets one,” Jimmy blustered, his face blanching. He reached over to pick it up. “Not so fast, open it,” Dad grabbed the letter and handed it across to the eighteen-year-old. He didn’t need to be a detective to know the envelope contained bad news.

They had argued at midterm. Jimmy’s results had been appalling. He was headed for failure. Too much time spent at the Student Union, not enough in the lecture hall and library.

Jimmy’s hands shook as he tried to get a corner of the envelope’s flap to rip the letter open. There would be no escaping the consequence. At last, the envelope open, he withdrew the single sheet. His pale face darkened as he scanned the heading.

“Give it here,” his Dad snatched it from his grasp. “What’s it say?” he read swiftly. There were not many words. The heading summed it up perfectly. “Notice of Impending Failure.” A grade-point-average of less than two: courses would have to be resit.

Mr. Rouke sucked in breath. He wasn’t trying to quell his anger. He was angry. He wanted to be angry. It was costing a fortune to send his layabout son to university. What a waste. He looked up at his son. Jimmy cowered. His father stood between himself and the door. There was no escape.

“Right.” Mr. Rouke strode forward, picked up an armless dining chair and turned it towards him. Then, he reached across and gripped Jimmy by the wrist. “No Dad, no,” his son moaned.

“Pah!” Mr. Rouke ejected a puff of wind through almost clenched teeth. He sat on the chair and tugged his son face down across his lap. “No, Dad, no,” Jimmy wailed, “I’m too old for this.”

The teenager wriggled from left to right as his Dad gripped the elasticated waist of his pyjama bottoms and with two tugs had Jimmy’s buttocks exposed. “You’ll be too old when you have learned to be a responsible adult,” he growled as he spanked his rough palm across the boy’s bare bottom.

“No, no, no,” Jimmy writhed, kicking his legs, head bucking. Dad had a firm grip of the boy and he was going nowhere. Not until Dad had purged his annoyance. After a few dozen spanks, Jimmy’s bottom had turned a deep pink. “Ha!” his Dad stopped hammering his palm into the boy’s bum.

“This is no good,” Dad’s hand was hurting much more than his son’s bottom. “Get up.” He released his grip and Jimmy shot to his feet and bent down to pull up his pyjamas. “Leave them!” The intensity of the command startled Jimmy. “Leave them. Stand there. Don’t you dare move,” Dad  snarled and hurriedly left the room.

Jimmy stood, pyjamas at his feet, his cock and balls dangling, and watched Dad’s departing figure. What had he gone to fetch? His slipper? Mum’s hairbrush perhaps? He didn’t have to wait long to find out. Almost immediately, Dad returned. Jimmy blinked in disbelief and took a step backwards as Mr. Rouke re-entered the room.

“B.. b..” Jimmy was dumbfounded. Under his arm, Dad held an thick, whippy authentic crook-handled rattan school cane. “B.. b..” Jimmy tried again but no words would come.

Dad smiled sardonically, “I bought it on eBay, after out little talk at midterm. I thought it might be needed.” He slipped the cane into his hand and wobbled it at Jimmy. Then he swiped it through the air. Jimmy who had never seen a cane before – they had been banned from schools thirty years ago – watched transfixed. Then Dad took the cane between his hands and flexed it. It was extremely flexible. Then, as a final flourish, Dad swished it once more. Jimmy’s throat dried. It was a mightily effective rod and there was no doubt what Dad intended to do with it.

Dad moved forward, gripped Jimmy by the arm and propelled him across the room. With the pyjamas at his ankles, the eighteen-year-old shuffled like a penguin. They reached the table where Dad released his grip and simultaneously pushed his son in the back. He fell face down across the table. It was oblong-shaped and Jimmy’s torso fitted it snugly. Dad pushed his arm into the small of the boy’s back. “Don’t you dare move.” Still holding his son, Dad raised the cane and whipped it across the centre of his buttocks. A dark pink line immediately appeared. Jimmy howled.

What followed wasn’t pretty. This was not a scene with a boy submitting himself like a gentleman for a caning. He did not hold his bottom high for deserved lashes from the rod. There was no ritual; no shake of the hand at the end between punished and punisher. No “thank-yous” from a boy who knew he had done wrong and deserved his punishment.

Instead, we had one stroppy teenager, howling, fighting, swearing as his furious father lashed the cane at the struggling buttocks in the best way he could. Most swipes met their intended target; a few did not. That was why Jimmy had so many red marks across the back of his naked thighs. The pain there was excruciating; for this is a far more sensitive area than the buttocks. Ironically, had Jimmy been a more experienced receiver of the cane, he would know the best way to endure a beating is through stoicism: offer up your bum, let the master do his business and take it as best you can. Six evenly delivered strokes across proffered buttocks (clothed or naked) will hurt (a lot), but that pain is as nothing compared to the agony of lashes delivered to all parts of the legs and body. Who was it said that God made the buttocks for spanking?

Jimmy’s howls were awesome. He would live to regret not taking his punishment quietly, like a man. As Dad whipped and Jimmy hollered, Dan, an ex-school pal of the boy’s, pulled up outside in a delivery van. Christmas was a busy time, and there was none to waste. He took his package and skipped up the garden path. As he opened the door to the porch he heard the yelling. And who could not? Intrigued, he followed the noise. He didn’t have far to go. The window was two metres away.

He stared, possibly open-mouth. A grin split his face. What joy. For this was Jimmy Rouke, a boy at school who had made his life a torment. Queer this, poofter that. He never let off. Dan reached for his phone, found the right app and held it close to the window.

That night the video was shared countless times by Jimmy’s pals. After Dan uploaded it to boyzblazingbuttz it clocked up 250,000 views before Christmas.

Revenge, they say is a dish best served cold.

 

Picture credit: Mancspank

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Boy From Across The Street

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The boy from across the street had been staying with me for nearly six weeks and he was becoming a right pain in the neck. I say “Boy” but he had just graduated from university so he must’ve been twenty-one or twenty-two.

His widowed mother had remarried and Garry wasn’t welcome at the house. They didn’t throw him out onto the streets but you know how it is. I’d known him and his mum for more than ten years so it seemed right to offer him a room at mine. I live alone and have four bedrooms so there’s no problem with space.

I had no idea how difficult young men could be. He was bone idle and laid in bed all morning. When he was up he was surly and uncommunicative. He came and went as he pleased and sometimes came home in the early hours drunk. Well, I say “drunk” but my pal told me young people today don’t drink, they take drugs so for all I knew he might’ve been high. In my house. Breaking the law.

Something had to change. I went on the Internet to see if I could find advice. You’d be surprised how much there is out there about guiding teenagers into adult life. I hoped I hadn’t left it too late with Garry.

The main advice was about setting clear boundaries. Make sure he knows what the rules are. And, this is the difficult part, apply sanctions when they are broken. Coming up with rules would be easy enough but what about sanctions? What could I do to get him to obey me?

One website in America reckons it has the answer. Corporal correction. I had to do a double take when I first saw it. What the heck’s “Corporal correction”? It turns out they mean corporal punishment or good old spanking. They are very keen on it.  The site is run by a bunch of Christians and they believe that a good paddling works wonders. There are even husbands who spank their wives when occasion demands. And all for Jesus.

Well who am I to argue with Jesus? I shared my problem with my pal and he shook his head sadly. “Pie in the sky. It’ll never work. The lad’s hardly going to meekly bend over your knee to let you whack him with a belt or whatnot.”

He had a point. The best I could hope for would be to wildly slash my belt across his shoulders and back while having some kind of stand-up fight. It wouldn’t work. The whole point was for Garry to admit he has broken the rules and to submit himself to punishment. Then when I am satisfied he has been spanked enough, he apologies for his behaviour and promises to do better. And, if he does not, he’s back over my knee, or the armchair for another dose. Harder, this time.

I let the matter rest hoping against hope the problem would just solve itself. But a few mornings later I came out of my bedroom to go to the toilet and stepped on a sticky damp patch on the carpet. In my bare feet. The sod had sicked-up and left it there. I calmed down a little while I streamed piss into the lavatory, but not by much.

Determined to confront him, I burst open his bedroom door ready to shout the house down. My jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe what I saw. To say I was astonished wouldn’t cover it. Garry was in his bed with his arm cradled around another young man. They were both stark naked and judging by the pungent odour in the air the bedsheet was awash with cum. Embarrassed, I turned on my heels. Moments later as I waited for the kettle to boil, I devised a plan. I phoned my pal and he roared with laughter, but agreed to help. Together we could make it work.

I would need to get rid of the boy first. I didn’t have much choice, I just let nature take its course. Eventually, they woke up. The boy couldn’t get out of the house fast enough. That left me alone with Garry. He gave me the merest shrug of the shoulder when I berated him about the vomit. I had already cleaned up the mess, I couldn’t stand the smell on the landing. He just couldn’t care less.

Well don’t care was made to care, as my old Mum used to say when she reached for her hairbrush. I phoned my pal; he could be at my house within minutes. That gave me time to lecture Garry. I went through the list of his misdeeds; laziness, never lifting a finger around the house, the drinking, the drug-taking. I didn’t mention the boy in the bed, I didn’t want to sound like a homophobe.

He listened quietly, nodding his head from time to time as if agreeing. “Well, what have you got to say for yourself?” I asked breathlessly. He thought for a moment, head bowed, and then whispered, “Don’t know.”

“Bah! You need to be punished, you know that don’t you?”

He looked up at me, his dark-brown eyes glistening. “How do you think you should be punished?” I asked, calmly, as if it was the most reasonable question to ask a twenty-two-year old. He stared blankly.

“It says on the Internet,” I told him, “That a spanking is the best punishment.”

He looked startled, his mouth gaped before he spoke, “You want to spank me?” he asked incredulously.

“I don’t want to spank you,” I said trying to stress how much I didn’t want this to happen. “But you must be punished.”

His nose crinkled, I could see his brain was ticking over. He seemed to be debating in his head. I watched him for some moments. He looked so much younger than his twenty-two years. Perhaps that was his problem; arrested development. He should have been having this conversation when he was sixteen, not today.

The doorbell rang and I shuffled off to let my pal in. We had a whispered conversation in the kitchen. “How exactly do you want to do this?” he asked. “Shall I hold him down while you wallop him? What will you use, your belt?”

I hadn’t quite thought through the details. For sure Garry would have to be restrained. Perhaps my pal could hold him bent across the dining room table while I whacked his arse. My belt was thin and wouldn’t make a suitable weapon. What else did I have? I don’t wear carpet slippers. My hairbrush was a cheap plastic thing. Naturally I didn’t have a school cane or a paddle about the house (who did these days?).

“Here use this,” my pal picked a large wooden spoon from the draining board, he tested its weight by smacking it into the palm of his hand. “It packs quite a punch,” he said with deep satisfaction. “C’mon, let’s get on with this.”

I returned to the living room with my pal in tow. Garry caught sight of the wooden spoon in my hand, his eyes blinked furiously and his face flushed. “Well,” I started a sentence but trailed off. I wasn’t quite sure how to proceed. Garry took away what little wind I had in my sails.

“OK,” he gulped, struggling to look at me. Silence engulfed the room. I gave a quizzical look. “OK,” he repeated, “You should spank me.” Now it was my turn to look incredulous. “I have behaved badly, I deserve to be punished,” he spoke as if reading from a memorized script. “I deserve it.”

I heard my pal snort, but I ignored him. “Are you sure, Garry?” I asked. I was completely unprepared for this turn of events. He nodded shyly. He stood up and started to leave the room. He looked over his shoulder at my pal. “We should do this privately,” he said with some confidence, “in my room.” I followed him gripping the wooden spoon in my hand.

The bedroom smelt musty, Garry had removed the soiled sheet but the room needed airing. It was a small room, dominated by the bed. There was a small chair, but it was obviously not up to the task. Garry would not be able to bend over it and still leave room for me to get a swing at his backside. It would have to be an over-the-knee spanking.

I had never spanked anyone before. How exactly was this done? Of course, you relied a lot on instinct. Since Garry was submissive there would be no fisticuffs. I sat on the edge of the bed and wriggled my bum about until I felt secure. I spread my legs. This way Garry would be able to bend across one thigh and stretch out across the mattress, That should give me ample room to spank his backside.

Garry watched silently as I made my preparations. He was a shortish lad, maybe a couple of centimetres smaller than me. He had a firm waist (unlike so many of his contemporaries these days) and muscular thighs. He was wearing heavy blue jeans. Even with my lack of experience I knew these would give Garry a lot of protection against the wooden spoon. He must have read my mind. Without waiting for my command, he unbuttoned at the waist, slipped the zipper and pushed the jeans as far as his knees. He took a deep breath and leaned forward placing himself across my right thigh. Then he did something truly astonishing. He raised his bottom high, it was as if he were saying, “Yes, I have been a naughty boy, you must spank me. Good and hard.”

In this position his bottom was very firm. His black underpants clung to his cheeks, separating them. It was a terrific target. I took a deep breath and raised the spoon, his buttocks clenched in anticipation of my next move. I whacked the spoon down in the centre of Garry’s right cheek. He gasped slightly. I whacked the left cheek. I didn’t know how much a spanking would hurt a twenty-two-year-old but I made it my business to lay it on as hard as circumstances allowed. I walloped the wood up and down his left cheek leaving no spot untouched. Then I did the same with the right buttock.

Garry wriggled his bum. It was hotting up nicely, I thought. I smacked hard into the underside of his bum, where the cheeks meet the thighs. That hurt, I could tell. Garry’s legs kicked out instinctively. It was a reflex action against the pain that was travelling through his bum. At one point he raised his face off the mattress to yelp, but thought better of it and instead shielded his head with his hands. Sweat was soaking his shirt. He smelt sour, I don’t think he had showered that day.

I suppose I whacked him for about three or four minutes, I had rather lost track of time. How long should a spanking go on for? Obviously, in Garry’s case he needed (no, deserved) more than six-of-the-best. I stopped whacking him and took hold of the elasticated waist of his underpants. I was rewarded with a wailed, “No!!!” Garry thought I was pulling them down to continue his spanking on the bare buttocks. I wasn’t. I wanted to see the results of my efforts. I saw both cheeks were a rather delicious rosy red. The imprint of the bowl of the spoon had been reproduced over and over again on his flesh. Yes, I congratulated myself, a job well done.

I gave him another dozen on each cheek for good measure and released my grip on him. Garry lay across my thigh breathing heavily but making no effort to move. “Get up,” I said pushing him away. He stumbled to his feet and turned his back on me before bending down to pull up his jeans. He rubbed his bottom ruefully and stood still awaiting further instructions.

I suppose I should have lectured him about his future conduct and the dire consequences if he broke my rules again. Instead, rather tamely I stood up. This was his room after all, so it was for me to make an exit. I did so and returned to the kitchen where my pal had brewed tea. He asked me for details and I gave a blow-by-blow account.

Upstairs, Garry was admiring my handiwork in the bedroom mirror, his cock rigid. I think I must have spanked him three or four more times over the following weeks before the truth dawned on me.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

It was thirty years ago

The A-level English Lit. class was restless. “Sir! Sir!” Jackson folded his newspaper, “It says in the Telegraph that corporal punishment was banned in schools thirty years ago.”

Mr. Hawkes raised his eyebrows.

“Did they have the cane here in those days, Sir?”

Mr. Hawkes suppressed a melancholy smile. “Yes, indeed St. Francis has always been a very traditional school.”

“Oooh Sir, I bet the boys were  pleased when they abolished the cane,” Jackson wriggled on his chair.

“As a matter of fact Jackson, the cane was only banned in state schools. St FIGS is an independent school,” he laid great stress on the word independent. “The cane continued to be used for another decade. It was only abolished in 1999.” And more’s the pity, he thought. Look how the county had gone to the dogs since.

“Sir,” Jackson was on a roll. “You’ve been here forever, did you ever cane a boy Sir?”

Mr. Hawkes paused and stared at the sixth-formers lounging at their desks. “Yes, Jackson, especially boys who disrupted classes with silly questions.”

He was rather pleased at the laughs that got.

“Oh, but Sir,” Jackson was not to be silenced. “Not sixth-formers, Sir,” he grinned.

Mr. Hawkes pursed his lips, “Especially sixth-formers, Jackson, especially sixth-formers. Now why do you keep asking these questions?”

“Because he’s got a boner, Sir,” Edwards chirruped from the back of the class. Every boy jeered at Jackson, but not entirely unkindly.

@

 

Some afternoons later Robbie Jackson was with Ant Edwards in his bedroom. They were supposed to be working on a history project together. “Look what I’ve got,” Ant pulled the wardrobe forward by a couple of centimetres and reached behind it. “Look!” His grin was returned by his pal.

“War …?” Robbie was speechless.

“I got it on eBay,” Ant replied to a question he had not been asked. “It’s the real deal.”

Robbie had found his voice. “Give it here.” He reached forward with a shaking hand. “It’s as light as a feather,” he said weighing it in his hand.

“But, I bet it still packs a punch.”

Robbie had never seen an authentic school cane before, never mind handled one. Less still, felt the sting of one across his stretched buttocks. Tentatively, he flexed it between his hands, it curved easily.

“It’s OK,” Ant grinned, “It’s very swishy, you won’t break it.”

Robbie inspected the cane carefully. It was a little over a metre long and had four notches along its length. One end had been curved. It was very light brown, almost yellow, in colour and as thick as a pencil. He gripped it at the end near where it curved. It slipped in his sweaty hand. Then, holding it in front of his face he wobbled it. The rattan was highly flexible. He gripped the cane tightly and swished it through the air. It made a wonderful whoosh as it went. He bent it again in his hands. Yes, it was the real deal all right. Just like the ones they used in the videos he jerked off to.

“Isn’t she a beaut?” Ant’s eyes shone. He knew his mate would love it.

“Come on, let’s go downstairs.”

Robbie’s heart thumped. “Yes, let’s,” he croaked.

They went to the lounge. It was a large room dominated by a shiny leather sofa and two enormous armchairs. Along one wall was a glass-fronted cabinet and a dining table and chairs was in an alcove. Ant had a plan, he had run it through his head a hundred times since he saw the glint in Robbie’s eyes in the classroom.

Robbie stood in the middle of the room. He ought to say something. But what? Blood was coursing through his body at an alarming rate. His cock was on the march.

Ant broke the silence. He tucked the cane under his arm, rather like a sergeant-major might. Then thinking twice about it, he slipped it into his hand and pointed with it. “Jackson,” he said aiming at an “old fashioned” English accent. “Fetch that chair and place it there.” He swished the cane and pointed to a spot a metre or so in front of himself.

“Yes, Edwards,” Robbie sighed. He moved across the room and picked up a straight-backed dining chair. It was surprisingly heavy. He manhandled it across the carpet and set it down, its back facing him.

“Other way round,” Ant snarled. “Have the seat facing you.” He had seen in the old comics that a boy was supposed to stand in front of the chair and stoop forward, clutching the seat of the chair. That would tighten the buttocks sufficiently and create a perfect target for the cane.

“Now, Jackson,” Ant had cast himself as the school captain and Robbie was the lazy slacker of the House. He needed a damn good thrashing to buck up his ideas. “Bend over and grab the seat of the chair.”

Robbie’s face flushed, saliva drained from his mouth, his heart beat faster. His dick thrust into the flies of his school trousers. He took a deep breath, turned his back on his pal, spread his feet a little and leaned forward. This was not quite how he had imagined it. In the videos they usually went over the back of a chair. He had fantasised many times about being over the back of an old rather worn green armchair that starred in many movies. His head would be down in the dusty cushion, his stomach over the chair’s back and his trousers would be at his ankles. Often, but not always, it was Mr. Hawkes who wielded the cane.

Robbie looked around the room. The armchairs were too large to bend across and the sofa wasn’t much better. He might at a pinch fit over one of its arms. No, he concluded, Ant had chosen wisely. The straight-back chair is was to be. He took a deep breath, leaned forward and offered his backside to his friend.

Ant’s hand shook as he gripped the cane. How often he had dreamed about this; having someone – anyone – submit themselves to him. He had never caned a boy before, but he had seen it done often enough in the films. He took up position a half-metre to Robbie’s left and tap-tap-tapped the cane across his stretched bottom. No, this was no good, he couldn’t get a good swing like this. He took a step back. That was better; now he was a cane’s length away. He took aim again.

Robbie was a little short for an eighteen year old; he often had problems getting served in pubs. Barmen always thought his ID was forged. He was slim and wiry and didn’t have enough spare fat on his body to sizzle a sausage. His buttocks were small and sinewy. Ant “sawed” his cane across the fleshiest part (such as it was) and prepared to deliver the first stroke. He licked his lips and hesitated. He had seen young men caned countless times online, but it wasn’t always obvious just how hard the cane had struck. He suspected trick photography was used so there would be a shot of the headmaster flexing his cane and a close-up of it being steadied across the culprit’s arse, then most likely you’d get a shot over the boy’s shoulder of the cane being raised and swiping down. You’d see the painful grimace of the face, but not actually see the cane strike home.

It wasn’t always like that, of course, but even so Ant was at a loss. How hard should he hit? Robbie’s bottom wriggled with anticipation (or possibly impatience). Ant needed to make a move. He raised the cane and with a flick of the wrist send it thwacking into Robbie’s stretched trousers. His friend was unmoved. The ensuing silence was deep and embarrassing.

Robbie turned his head and called over his shoulder. “Do it harder. It’s meant to hurt. It’s a punishment.”

Ant flushed. Annoyed by the sting of his friend’s criticism, he took aim again. This time the cane rose to shoulder height and with all the strength he could muster, Ant flogged the cane down. It bounced off Robbie’s bum and the crack echoed around the room and could be heard outside in The Avenue.

Robbie gritted his teeth and gulped in air, before speaking. “Yes, that’s it. Give me six more like that.” He closed his eyes tightly and gripped the wooden seat. The second stoke cut lower than the first. Robbie could already feel a welt rising beneath his underwear. He had never experienced such pain before. How had schoolboys in the past survived six-of-the-best?

The third stroke landed on top of the first. Robbie shuddered; pain shot north, south, east and west through his entire body. His hips swayed and his knees buckled. He couldn’t help himself. It was his body’s reflex action to the assault.

Sweat soaked Ant’s collar. It was a warm afternoon but even with the window open the room felt airless. He wiped his face on the sleeve of his woollen blazer, steadied himself and aimed for the top curves of Robbie’s arse. A thick line immediately appeared across the tight polyester-cotton trousers. He knew a deep red mark was throbbing in Robbie’s flesh.

A low long-drawn out hiss escaped through Robbie’s clenched teeth. His eyes watered. He hacked a dry cough. His feet stamped up and down like a sentry on guard duty.

“Steady boy, steady.” Ant was enjoying himself enormously. “Keep still, or it’ll be extra stokes for you Jackson.”

“Yes, Edwards,” Robbie sighed, “Sorry.” He dug his feet into the ground, gripped the seat once more and waited for the agony to be reignited. It wasn’t long in coming. Ant raised the cane once more and this time swiped down two cuts one after the other: bang-bang. Robbie howled; there was no other way to describe the ear-splitting noise. He lifted the chair some centimetres from the ground and danced around, clutching it tightly.

A broad smile split Ant’s face. “OK Jackson, you may stand.” He watched with undisguised delight as his friend hopped from one foot to the other furiously rubbing  the seat of his trousers. Robbie’s face was scarlet and Ant fully expected the teenager’s backside was a similar colour.

“Ferking hell,” Robbie unbuckled his belt and whipped down his trousers and underpants. He twisted his back to get a view of his scarred buttocks. Six clear red lines traversed his hairless cheeks. He touched each gingerly reigniting the pain. The agony had gone now but his bum glowed with a throbbing pain. It felt rather good. He traced his index finger along the ridges unaware that Ant was videoing him on his phone. Later, Ant would wank off watching it.

“Come on,” Ant breezed. “My turn now.”

“You bet,” Robbie beamed. “Bend over that chair Edwards.” He stood amazed as his mate unbuckled his belt, popped the button on his trousers and let them fall to his knees. Then eagerly he bent over the chair. Robbie’s jaw slackened. Ant was wearing gleaming white Y-front underpants, just like the guys in the videos. No one wore Y-fronts these days.

Ant wriggled his bottom; the pants were tight and rode up into his crack, separating each cheek. Ant wriggled some more in a fashion he supposed to be sexy. He couldn’t wait for the first slash.

Robbie took aim. It had never occurred to him before what a terrific arse Ant had. It was round and hard. The term “buns of steel” was made for it. He raised the cane and slammed it home. He was inexperienced and his aim was off. The whippy rattan seared a mark across the back of Ant’s naked thigh. He screamed.

Two Mormons walking up the path halted. Attracted by the cry they peered through the open window before making a hasty retreat.

Robbie took aim once more, a little higher this time.

z used drawing cane prefect boy Mag (2)

 

Picture credit: The Magnet

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charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

When Dad Got Home

z used after corner pants domestic (1)

Can this really be happening? I’m standing facing the wall in our front room in my t-shirt and underpants with my hands on my head like some naughty little boy. Behind me my Mum and the biddy from across the road are slurping coffee and talking about me.

MUM. He’s just too much. He went too far this time. He can stay like that until his father gets here. Then he’ll deal with him.

BIDDY. What did he do?

MUM. It’s these long holidays they get from university. He’s been under my feet all week. He never lifts a finger, he sulks. He’s surly. Rude. He never cleans his room. It smells like a pigsty.

BIDDY. Mine is just the same. Treats the house like a hotel. I’ve wasted so many meals when he hasn’t turned up.

MUM. It was all right until Christmas Eve. He had a job with the post office but of course that finished. I’ll be glad when he goes back to college.

BIDDY. Mine is so mouthy. You can’t tell him anything.

MUM. Then last night he comes home at God knows what time. Drunk, and is sick all over the kitchen floor. Leaves it for muggins here to clean up. When I told him off he just shrugged his shoulders. He couldn’t care. Well he’ll care when his father gets here.

BIDDY. What will he do?

MUM. We still keep a leather taws in the sideboard drawer. He’ll tan his hide good and proper.

 

He will too and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it. What choice do I have? I could tell him to go to Hell and then we’d wrestle on the floor while he tries to whip me with the taws. I could rush off to my room and barricade myself in. But I’d have to come out eventually.

Dad will win. I know. A year or so back my brother Ken refused to be spanked. Dad threw him out the house. I promise you. He said he can stay out until he accepts this is Dad’s house. His house; his rules. His punishments. Ken was at university and Dad stopped sending him money and paying bills. Ken held out for about six months. Then he came home, tail between his legs. Dad belted him twice as hard and twice as long.

Lesson learned? When Dad gets home I’ll just have to offer him my backside. Like I said; no choice.

I can hear a car in the driveway. It has to be Dad. The front door is opening.

 

MUM. Henry, you have to do something about that boy.

My Mother greets Dad in the Hallway. I can’t hear all they are saying but they are talking about me. Dad makes a sort of grunting noise. He is far from pleased. Any moment now ….

DAD. Right young man. It’s about time you learned how to behave. Your mother has had enough of this … and quite frankly so have I.

 

I hear a sideboard drawer opening and closing. I don’t need to look, I know Dad has gone for the taws. It is a long, narrow leather strap cut into two tails. It old and worn. My brother once told me it had belonged to Dad’s dad and probably to Granddad’s dad too. What an heirloom to have in the family.

 

DAD. Right, turn around. Go stand by that chair.

I turn and move towards an upholstered armchair. It has a low back and I know from painful experience that my body will be able to clear the top by a comfortable distance when Dad orders me to bend over. From the corner of my eye I see the biddy from across the road move. I wait for her to leave the room, but she doesn’t. Instead, she stands a little o the side of the chair. Jesus Christ! She’s staying to watch.

Dad holds the taws in one hand and gently taps it into the palm of his left hand. The expression on his face is grim. He is a tall man, who towers some inches over me (I take after Mum’s side of the family). He plays a lot of golf and can put a lot of punch into a swing. Slowly, he rolls up the sleeve of his shirt. Is this really necessary? I suppose he thinks it adds to the drama of the occasion. I wish he would just get on with it.

DAD. Place yourself over the back of the chair.

 

Well, here we go. This isn’t my first spanking. I know this is going to hurt real bad. I learnt a long time ago it is best not to make a fuss. My job is to present my bum for Dad. His job is to whack that leather strap across my arse. I should take my punishment as meekly as I can. It’ll be over in a couple of minutes.

I ease myself over the chair and stare down at an indentation in the cushion. Moments earlier the biddy had been sitting here. I can smell her horrible cheap scent. A Christmas present from somebody who couldn’t be bothered, no doubt. I try to grip the edge of the cushion, but the material is smooth and I can’t get much of a grip. My feet are about a metre apart and since I am wearing neither shoes nor socks they slide on the dep pile carpet.

In this position my back is arched and my underpants pull snugly across my buttocks. I feel Dad take the end of my t-shirt and push it up my back: another pointless manoeuvre since the shirt is nowhere near the target area. I hear a movement behind me. Dad clears his throat and then rests the leather taws across the very centre of my buttocks. He is taking aim. I can’t help it but my buttocks clench. It is some reflex action, my bum is trying to protect itself from the onslaught. It doesn’t work. The leather moves away from my arse and returns a second later at great speed and force. It cracks across the underside of my bum. I screw my eyes tight. That hurt. A lot.

My feet slip on the carpet and Dad gives me time to steady myself before he lands number two on the higher part of my buttocks. I now have two lines of scorching pain. I chew on my bottom lip. It hurts so much. Swipes three and four land in quick succession. Dad is putting all his strength into this. All that golf is paying off.

I wriggle my hips and bend my knees as blow after blow connects with my tight bottom. The pain is rushing through my body and my temples throb almost as much as my bum. I can’t get a good grip on the seat cushion so I spread my palms and press them deep into the foam. Sweat soaks my scalp and I can smell perspiration under my armpits, even though the room is quite cold.

Dad clears his throat again but otherwise is silent as he goes about his business. My arse is on fire but thank God he didn’t make me take down my pants. I hear the biddy next door move. Then I see her out of the corner of my eye. She is looking to get a better view of my upturned arse.

 

DAD. That’s enough. Stand up.

 

I haul myself to my feet. I stare at the carpet too embarrassed to meet the eyes of the old biddy or my Mum. My bum is scorching but already the agony is dissolving. I press the palms of my hands into the seat of my underpants, holding in the pain. It doesn’t make much difference.

 

DAD. Go to your room.

 

I don’t need telling twice and I take the stairs two at a time and crash through he door into my bedroom. Gingerly I pull down my pants and poke my bum at the mirror. Dad has done a very job. To be fair he is not a brute. He hasn’t flogged me to within an inch of my life. He has given me a sound leathering. He has made his point and I have taken it. Not one square centimetre of my buttocks and the tops of my legs is untouched. The imprint of the taws has been reproduced time and again across what was once pale skin. There are some deep purple bruises across the mounds of my buttocks and lesser more yellowy ones elsewhere. It will take days for them to clear.

I hear the front door open and close and through the window I see the biddy returning to her house. I bet she can’t wait to get back tell everyone that I’ve been spanked. Soon the news will be all over the street. I won’t be able to hold my head up in the Three Fishers tonight.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

 

Other stories you might like

The cricketer

Quarterly performance review

Reliving old times

 

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Fake News #8

joe phillips party

The Party’s Over for Rowdy University Students

EXCLUSIVE Brocklehurst Bugle

The party is over for rowdy students whose unruly behaviour disturbs neighbours. A new “Punishment Patrol” taskforce has been launched by Brocklehurst University.

For years residents have complained about students making noise late at night by partying, or simply playing loud music. But University authorities were powerless to act.

Until now.

A taskforce nicknamed the “Punishment Patrol” will be on hand 24/7 to respond to complaints.

Dr. Christine Thussu of the University’s Civic Service Unit, told the Brocklehurst Bugle in an interview, “The idea is to inflict instant punishment on troublemakers. New government legislation makes it possible for us to spank the backsides of students who step out of line.”

She said officers, specially-trained in the art of inflicting corporal punishment, are available to respond to complaints.

“They visit students and assess the severity of the offence. Then, they act immediately,” she said. “They are equipped with a variety of spanking implements including slippers, straps, brushes and canes.”

Dr. Thussu said in the recent past, students who range in ages from 18 to 23, had been “dealt with” by the Punishment Patrol. She added, “This could be a simple over-the-knee spanking on the seat of their trousers to a more severe whacking with a whippy rattan cane. They can also make the boy take down his trousers – and even his underpants – if they think fit.”

Mrs. Amelia Worthington, of The Avenue, Brocklehurst, who called in the Punishment Patrol to deal with a rowdy party last month, told the Brocklehurst Bugle, “There were about a dozen youngsters singing and dancing in the garden. It was well past nine o’clock, they should have been in bed.” She said she called the university and a vanload of men dressed like security guards pulled up outside the student house.

“They were carrying all sorts of things, but mostly canes.”

Mrs. Worthington added, “The guards soon got to work. My husband and I could hear the whackings from our bedroom. A lot of the students were hollering by the time they were done.”

Mr. Gerry Wiseman, President of the Brocklehurst University Students’ Union, said many students had complained about their treatment, citing violations of human rights.

However, he said, “Many students said they welcomed the new rules. It has made them spend less time partying and more studying in the library. They might even graduate with better degrees as a result.”

If you have a complaint against a student contact the Punishment Patrol at _____________

Picture credit: Joe Phillips

More Fake News stories here

 

Other stories you might like

That Connor boy!

Mr Hennessey’s Boys 4. Timothy’s story

Untidy bathroom

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Better believe in Santa Claus

used drawing santa otk brush (2)

Little Jimmy Lomas, six years old and a sweet as he could be, sucked the top of his red crayon.

Writing to Santa Claus was harder than he thought. He knew what toys he wanted Father Christmas to bring. Mummy had told him to write down a list. Later they would burn it on the open fire in the living room and it would go up the chimney. Then, at midnight Santa would come down that very chimney.

How did you spell “astronaut”? He would have to ask mummy. Just then the door opened and his older half-brother Lucas slouched in.

“What are you doing?” he sneered. “What’s this carrot and glass of milk?”

“It’s for Rudolph the reindeer and Santa,” Jimmy grinned. “You have to leave them or you don’t get any presents.”

Lucas snatched the paper from Jimmy’s hand. “Writing to Santa Claus. Don’t you know there’s no such thing as Santa Claus?”

Jimmy looked puzzled. Of course, there was a Santa Claus; he brought you presents. But only if you were a good boy. And, there was Rudolph and elves.

“It’s all made up, you moron,” Lucas sneered.

Jimmy’s eyes moistened. Tears trickled down his dimpled cheeks. “There is!! There is!”

Lucas smirked, “It’s my dad; he’s the one who gives you your presents.”

“Not true! Not true!” Jimmy fled from the room. “Mummy! Mummy!”

Lucas Lomas, twenty years old and as bitter as Kentucky sour mash. He hated Christmas. He hated his dad for divorcing and getting married again to a much younger woman. He hated his mother for throwing him out of her home days after he turned eighteen. He hated the way his copper-coloured hair curled and couldn’t be combed. His face was square and his nose too big. No girl would look at him twice.

He hated the sweaty room he lived in. He hated his job at the supermarket. He hated being forced to spend Christmas with his “family.”

His dad barged into the room, his face purple with fury. “What did you have to go and do that for? What’s Jimmy ever done to you?”

Lucas snarled, “Father Christmas. What a load of crap. There are at least five Santas in the High Street. How do you explain that to him?”

“I hope you’re not going to be like this all over Christmas?”

“Don’t worry, I’m going out with my mates.”

“Where you going?”

“None of your business.”

“Well don’t come back pissed and wake the house.”

“Don’t worry, and I promise not to disturb Santa and his reindeer.” He slumped on the couch and grabbed the television remote. “Fuck me, Morecambe and Wise again. They died before I was even born.”

“Ah! Christmas. Don’t you just love it,” his father reached to the sideboard and unscrewed the lid from the Eat Me Dates.

“Oh, I’m out of here.”

Two hours later Lucas and his pals were leaning against the bar of the Shaggy Dormouse, the place-to-be-seen when you were twenty and the-place-to-avoid at twenty-three. He slurped on his snakebite. The place was steaming and so were most of the customers, packed in cheek by jowl, an ocean of pasty-pale faces, except for the ones flushed deep pink with alcohol. There was no space to move, it was too loud to hear friends speak. It was people having fun on Christmas Eve.

After six pints at the Dormouse, Lucas and four pals bounced through the High Street. It might be Christmas Eve but they were dressed only in jeans and tee-shirts, the typical attire of the macho male.

“Shit. I need a piss,” Lucas hopped from one foot to another. “Over here,” he ran towards a doorway.

“You can’t. That’s someone’s flat.”

“Fuck that!” Lucas unzipped his jeans and a steaming stream of urine soaked the doorway.

“Let’s go to The Cock and do over some queers.”

“Nah, not tonight, The Beaver’s open. C’mon.”

It was nearly two in the morning. The walk home hadn’t done much to sober him up. Lucas tried once, he tried twice and only on the third attempt, and after closing one eye to gauge his distance, he poked the key into the slot and opened the door. A blast of icy cold air ripped his bare arms.

“What the …?”

It seemed to come from the living room. Lucas stood almost literally frozen. A pink radiance seeped from the room, the glow dazzled him. Suddenly sober, he edged closer to the light, shielding his eyes. He heard the sound. Rustling activity. Someone was in the room. A burglar.

“Who’s there?” he called, feeling foolish the moment the words left his lips. The rustling continued. Cautiously, attempting bravery he didn’t truly feel, Lucas inched further to the door.

The room glowed pink, like the cheapest club dancefloor. Lucas peered through hooded eyelids. A shadowy figure was under the Christmas tree, holding a tiny spacesuit.

“He’s thieving our presents,” Lucas thought. He said aloud, “Stop that, leave them alone.”

Lucas’s eyes burned, all he saw were blurs.

“Ho-ho-ho, young man,” the figure raised what looked like an empty glass in his hand in salute. “Don’t you know who I am? I’m Santa Claus.”

“Dad is that you? Stop pissing about.”

“Now, now Lucas, m’boy, watch your language. You’re in enough trouble as it is.”

Lucas paused. This wasn’t his dad. He wasn’t a burglar either. Not dressed in a Santa suit.

“Stop p…” he corrected himself just in time, “… playing around, who are you?”

“You know who I am Lucas. I am Santa Claus. And, you know why I am here. I give out presents to the nice children; but what do I do to the naughty ones, Lucas.”

The twenty-year-old gaped. How did this odd man know his name?

“Well, Lucas, what happens to the naughty boys?”

“I haven’t been naughty, Santa,” Lucas felt his cheeks flush. How absurd he felt, who was this weirdo?

“Come Lucas, I know you went to the toilet in the doorway of poor Mrs. Hetherington. Think how she’ll feel on Christmas morning when she has to clear up your mess.”

Lucas’s mouth opened and closed, but he couldn’t get words to form.

“I know what you said to Jimmy today,” Santa screwed up his face with distain, “That I don’t exist. Well we’ll see about that.”

Santa stretched his arms and glared at the shivering figure before him. “So, Lucas, what does Santa do to naughty boys?”

“Piss off.”

“Wrong answer, Lucas,” Santa stepped forward menacingly. Instinctively, Lucas turned to run. His legs wouldn’t work. He was rooted to the spot; unable to move.

“Not so fast, buster. We have unfinished business.”

Lucas’s heart pounded, he could only stand and watch. First, Santa picked up a small wooden chair and carefully placed in under the Christmas tree. “Ho-ho-ho,” he hummed to himself. Then, he turned to face the quivering young man. “Look at this Lucas,” he snapped his fingers and a heavy wooden clothes brush appeared in his gloved hand. “Look what Santa’s brought for you Lucas.”

Lucas stared transfixed. What had he just witnessed?

Santa sat on the small chair, spread his legs a little and wriggled his buttocks until he was comfortable. “Lucas, I want you to take down your jeans and your underpants and come and bend across Santa’s knee.”

“Piss off.”

“Tut-tut,” Santa shook his head, “You haven’t quite understood, have you?” Santa gave an exaggerated blink and he sat back in his chair.

Lucas tried to fight it; he couldn’t. It was like an out-of-body experience. His hands reached for his own belt buckle. There was nothing he could do. He had no control over his movements. In seconds the belt was loosened and his fingers fumbled with his zipper. Santa tapped the clothes brush into the palm of his left hand; watching. Waiting.

With the jeans at his feet, Lucas pinched the waistband of his Boxer shorts and with a deft flick of the wrist, he sent them south to join his jeans. The merest flicker of a smile was hidden by Santa’s untidy whiskers. It was not often he got to see such a package. Santa would never understand why Lucas couldn’t get himself a girl.

“Come, bend across my knee, Lucas,” Santa’s instruction was gentle. He knew it would be obeyed. When he thought about it later, and for the many times he would recall this night for the rest of his life, Lucas would never be able to explain what happened next. Meekly, he shuffled across the floor. He stood a foot or so to Santa’s left, staring down at the legs clad in bright red trousers. Then, and Lucas was almost certain of this, then of his own accord, he lowered himself forward. The palms of his hands rested on the carpet, his legs bent at the knees and the toecaps of his trainers hovered an inch above the ground. The smooth red material of Santa’s trousers felt warm against Lucas’s naked skin.

In the moments before the heavy wooden brush fell for the first time, Lucas’s conscience clicked in. “I deserve this. It is what I have always needed,” it told him.

Santa’s smooth gloved hand took hold of the tail of Lucas’s tee-shirt and moved it away from the target area. Then, he gently caressed first the right cheek and then the left. The young man’s bottom was fleshy. It had a lot of bounce. If Lucas didn’t change his lifestyle and cut down on the booze and hamburgers, he would soon run to fat.

Lucas stared down at the carpet, waiting patiently. His breathing was even, his heartbeat steady. He was calm.

But not for long. The first smack caught him in the centre of the left cheek; the brush sank into the fleshiest part of the buttock. Santa was satisfied with the deep pink outline the brush left behind. He was delighted with the eleven more he crashed into Lucas’s backside; all more or less on the same spot. Rat-a-tat-tat. It sounded like machinegun fire echoing around the room. Then, without a pause, Santa walloped a dozen into the right cheek.

The first stinging smack made Lucas’s mouth open, but no sound came out until the third one. It was a choked cry. By the time the brush bounced off his bum for the sixth time, he was squirming and wriggling. By a dozen his bum felt like he had sat on a barbecue.

The stinging, burning agony was kept alive by each whack from the heavy wooden brush. His bottom was blood-red and swollen, but Santa slammed the brush into his buttocks again and again and again. Lucas’s sobs became yelps and soon they were full-throated yells as he twisted and turned his body as if he was trying to swim off Santa’s lap.

It felt like hours to Lucas, but it was only minutes. Not one part of his buttocks and the back of his thighs was left unmarked. Santa spanked on and on. Lucas had an arse that cried out to be spanked and Santa never shirked his duty.

Father Christmas had seen many spanked bottoms in the hundreds of years he had been in the job, but nothing quite matched Lucas Lomas’s rear end. The mass of scarlet flesh was outstanding. It was like he was wearing a pair of red cycling shorts. Lucas lay slumped across Santa’s lap – literally a beaten man.

Santa raised his right hand to his mouth and with his teeth he loosened each finger until he was able to remove his woollen glove. Gently, he patted Lucas’s burning bum. Then, softly Santa made circular motions with his palm across both mounds. The flesh was hot to the touch. Lucas wheezed, Santa’s hand felt smooth against his roaring rear.

He was still face down and couldn’t see the broad grin splitting Santa’s face. “Well Lucas,” he beamed, ‘Do you believe in Santa Claus now?”

“Oh yes, Santa,” Lucas gasped. “”Yes, I do.”

Picture credit: Alan Paul

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Night Before Christmas

z used drawing santa brush hold (1)

It as the night before Christmas and little Joe was ever so excited. This was the time Santa came to deliver all his presents – and Joe had a very long list indeed.

It was late, almost midnight, and he knew he should be in bed, but he couldn’t pass up the chance of meeting Santa.

The house had no chimney and Joe was worried. How could Santa get in? Don’t worry, dada had said, he doesn’t have to use the chimney, he can get in by magic.

Satisfied, with dada’s explanation, Joe set out his store: a glass of milk for Santa and a carrot for the reindeer. It was a cold frosty night, but the central heating was on high, so Joe sat in the living room dressed only in his pyjamas and waited. His pyjamas were bright yellow with pictures of racing cars all over them. How he hated those pyjamas; he longed for a pair like the big boys wore with blue-and-white stripes and a drawstring around the waist to pull them together.

He was sleepy and dozing a little. Because it was Christmas Eve dada had prepared a big meal and there had been lots to drink. He had even eaten some Smarties. It was too much; his tummy was beginning to ache and he felt a little sick.

He checked over his list. A Playstation, an iPhone, a Tablet. Then there were what dada called the “stocking filers”; a table tennis bat, cricket stumps and a pair of bedroom slippers.

What a wonderful time he would have playing with all his new gifts. Yes, it would be a very merry Christmas indeed for Joe.

Suddenly, he heard a sound. It was soft and seemed a long distance off. What could it be, Joe wondered. Then he remembered the poem about the mouse and he was scared. You must be brave, he told himself. There’s nothing to be afraid off. A little mouse. But, he curled his legs up under him and sat back on the couch. A mouse couldn’t run up his pyjama trousers leg if he kept his feet off the floor.

But, it wasn’t a mouse. Slowly, the door opened. Joe’s tummy churned once more; the room was spinning a little; was he about to be sick?

“Ho-ho-ho!” He knew that sound. It was no mouse: it was Santa Claus and he had the reddest-red suit and the whitest-white beard and the roundest-round belly.

“Ho-ho-ho!” Santa roared. He really was the jolliest fellow, Joe thought; no wonder children all over the world loved him so much.

But, something was not quite right. Santa was not carrying a sack. Where were all the presents?

“Ho-ho-ho!” Santa’s record seemed to be stuck. Joe was panicking – where were his presents?

Joe was not always the politest little boy, especially when he wasn’t getting his way.

“Ho-ho-ho!” Santa was irritating Joe now. Where were his presents?

“Ho-ho-ho! little boy. Are you Joe?” Santa cheeks flushed bright red. It must have been the cold frosty air. The journey from Lapland had been a long one.

“Yes, Santa,” an excited Joe confirmed who he was. His face brightened, but he was still puzzled for he could see no presents.

“Ho-ho-ho,” uninvited Santa rested his big fat body down on the couch, forcing Joe to uncurl his legs and make room. He was a very irritated little boy.

“Where are my presents?” he snapped.

“Presents?” Santa looked at him quizzically. “Presents? Which presents are they?”

Joe pursed his lips. This wasn’t how it was meant to be. “The Playstation, iphone, the ….” He recited his long list of demands. “I sent you the letter weeks ago,” he finished, as if this somehow proved his point.

Santa’s face clouded. He enjoyed his job most of the time. Who wouldn’t like being Santa; you only worked one night of the year and you brought joy and happiness to children. Yes, it was a lovely job. But, there was a downside.

“Only good boys get presents,” Santa was feeling grumpy, he wanted to get on with this. “Have you been a good boy Joe?”

“Yes, I have!” he huffed and only just stopped himself adding, “Now, give me my presents.”

“Ho-ho-ho,” there he went again. “No, Joe. I have you down on the naughty boys list.” And as if to prove a point he pulled a large sheet of writing paper from his pocket.

Joe’s eyes widened. What nonsense was this? He had stayed awake until nearly midnight waiting for this magical fat man to appear and now what? No presents.

“No, Santa, I’ve been a good boy,” and then he flashed his cutest “little boy” smile, the one that broke the hearts of so many, and said, “Honest, Santa. I’m a good boy.”

Santa snorted. There was no ho-ho-ho this time. “No, Joe. That’s not true now is it? Listen to this list. You don’t do your chores at home; you are disrespectful to your dada; you sometimes go out to play and stay out late.”

“No, Santa, no, it’s not true,” Joe wailed. This was not going to plan at all. But, the naughty little boy could deny it all he liked – he, and Santa, knew it was true.

“Do you know what Santa does to naughty boys, Joe?”

“No, Santa,” he spoke as if he genuinely did not.

“Santa takes them across his knee, Joe, and Santa spanks their naughty bottoms, that’s what Santa does Joe.” Then, he added, making Joe’s blood curdle, “Ho-ho-ho.”

“No, Santa, no! I’m a good boy. I am. Really!” But Joe was only adding the crime of lying to Santa to all the others on the list.

Santa hauled himself off the couch. Joe stared wide-eyed as Santa rummaged in a deep pocket and with his own eyes gleaming, he pulled out a heavy wooden clothes brush.

“Ho-ho-ho. Look Joe, look what Santa’s got for you!”

“No, Santa!” Alarmed, Joe tried to make a run for the door, but fat old Santa was too quick for him. He gripped the terrified little boy by his arm and pulled him forward. It took only a moment for Santa to retain his seat on the couch and drag the kicking and wailing naughty little boy face down across his knees.

“No, Santa, no. I’m sorry. I’ll be a good boy. Please. You can keep the presents. I don’t want them.”

Ha! Santa beamed. That’s what all the boys say. They will plead and promise him anything – as long as he didn’t spank them.

But, Santa had his job to do. Joe must have his bottom spanked. He had to stick to the rules. It was only the threat of a spanking from Santa at Christmas that kept many naughty boys on the straight and narrow.

Joe was in no position to argue. Santa had him pinned across his legs, so that his head and chest rested along the couch on one side and his legs stretched out behind him on the other. His naughty little spankable bottom rested vulnerably over Santa’s crotch. Joe wriggled to the left and the right, but Santa’s grip was tight and he was going nowhere.

“Ho-ho-ho,” Santa gripped the waist of Joe’s pyjama bottoms and tugged them down.

“No, Santa, no,” Joe gasped, but by now he realised he had no choice. Santa was in charge. He could do anything he wanted to and there was nothing the naughty little boy could do to stop it.

“Ho-ho-ho,” Santa admired the sight across his lap. It was a smooth pert bottom, and completely hairless, as were the boy’s thin legs.

Santa wasn’t quite ready to go. He pulled off his thick woollen gloves and with the palm of his right hand he gently caressed Joe’s buttocks; making circular motions, first on the right cheek and then the left. The buttocks clenched and rose off Santa’s lap in protest.

“You have a lovely bottom, Joe. Very boyish. I shall enjoy spanking it. It feels very soft. Very soft and very small, but nicely rounded,” Santa kept his thoughts to himself.

Instead, he said. “Relax Joe. It is better if you relax. You know that.” Santa’s words were kind. He did not despise the boy across his laps. He had been naughty and like all naughty boys, he deserved to have his bare bottom spanked. And it would happen. But, then it would be over. Joe would have atoned for his naughtiness and everyone could get on with their lives.

“Ho-ho-ho,” Santa chuckled as he raised the heavy wooden clothes brush about three inches above the boy’s right buttock and whacked it down into the fleshiest part of the cheek. Joe winced, but had no time to do anything else before the next blow fell, this time across the left buttock.

The boy gasped a little. It hurt, but not much. Santa slapped the brush down for a quick dozen whacks. Santa could see Joe’s bottom was warming up nicely. Yes, it was a lovely shade of pink.

“Ho-ho-ho,” Santa was enjoying himself now.

Joe’s bottom was beginning to throb with the pain and he tried to move his right hand to protect his cheeks but Santa was having none of it. He leaned across the boy making it impossible for him to reach back to his increasingly reddening bottom. But Joe continued to writhe and squirm uselessly while kicking his legs up and down against the soft cushion of the couch. Santa dominated him completely.

“Stop it Joe, I am going to spank you until I think you’ve been properly punished, and until I reach that point, I’m just going to keep stinging that bare bottom of yours hard and fast,” and Santa whacked the brush again and again into Joe’s bouncing bottom, concentrating  on the very tender spot where the cheeks join the thighs.

In the distance, church bells were calling out for Midnight Mass. It was getting late, Santa wanted to move on. He had other things to do tonight before he could fall into his bed.

Satisfied that he had delivered a classic old-fashioned bottom warming with all the trimmings, Santa finally stopped. He released his grip on the naughty little boy across his lap and Joe sprang to his feet, clasping his sore bottom with both hands.

“Ho-ho-ho!” Santa beamed. Joe’s cock was pointing at him at a forty-five degree angle, rigid and inviting. Its uncut tip glistened.

Santa ripped off his fat suit and stood in his boxers and vest. His own member throbbed to escape the confines of the tight cotton shorts. He wouldn’t be able to control it for too much longer.

Joe’s grin was so wide it seemed his face might split in two. This was what he really loved about Christmas. Tradition. He and Jamie had played this game every year since they first met.

Joe sank to his knees and took Jamie’s cock sideways in his mouth, running his tongue along the shaft from the ball sack to the moist tip.

Jamie reeled back in ecstasy. “Ho-ho-ho! Here cums Santa Claus!” he shrieked.

First published Christmas 2015

Picture Credit: Unknown

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com