Mr. Baker unscrewed the cap of a new vodka bottle and relished the glug-glug-glug sound the liquid made as it splashed against the bottom of the heavy glass tumbler. Unsteadily, he shuffled across the room and carefully manoeuvred himself into the plush leather armchair. He clicked the button on the remote, washed his tongue in alcohol and settled to watch his latest download.
He sighed in disappointment. Why did he still buy these things? A “model” who was easily six-feet-two and as wide as a shed stood in a gymnasium dressed in grey short trousers and white shirt. His headmaster flexed and swished a cane. The boy, who was easily twenty-five, bends and touches his toes. Most of his bare legs are covered in tattoos and there’s another on his neck.
“Pah!” Mr. Baker exhaled aloud, even though there was nobody there to hear him. “Not very realistic, is it?” he asked his glass tumbler. After a couple of dozen whacks on his shorts, the boy would be made to take them down for further treatment on his underpants and then on the bare. Mr. Baker knew the script off by heart (they were all the same). Next, the “boy” would be taken across the knee of the headmaster for a hand-spanking. In all probability, he would get a dose of the birch for good measure.
“Not very authentic,” he sneered. “If a real headmaster behaved like that he’d soon be doing five years in clink.”
Why, he wondered, did they make such pathetic videos? And – more to the point – why did he still buy them?
He had a vast collection. The heyday of spanking video-making must have been ten years ago, at least, he reckoned. The models actually looked like boys. One of his favourites was a senior schoolboy who misbehaves and when he gets home his dad makes him change into pyjamas and then he takes him over his knee and spanks his bare bottom. Beautiful bum. Realistic spanking. And, not a tattoo in sight.
He drained his glass and hauled himself to his feet and putting one foot carefully in front of the other guided himself out the room to the cupboard under the stairs. He had quite a collection of toys, but his favourite was the authentic swishy crook-handled rattan school cane. He had bought it at a fetish bazaar in Birmingham. He caressed it, testing both its suppleness and its strength. It was a little over three feet in length and as thick as a pencil.
Back in the sitting room, he stood behind the empty armchair. It had been a couple of years since the cane had seen action, but in his mind’s eye Mr. Baker saw Bateman-Jones once again stretched across its back, pale-grey trousers so tightly stretched across his buttocks, Mr. Baker could see the outline of his Y-fronts.
Whack-whack-whack! The cane bounced off the young man’s meaty arse. Phew! Mr. Baker managed a smile. Those were the days. What a pity Bateman-Jones left Brocklehurst for a new job when they were both “down-sized” by the bank.
The clock in the hallway pinged the half-hour. Mr. Baker’s ears pricked. That was his cue. He slithered to the window overlooking the street. The Avenue was in an upscale suburb and directly opposite was a large detached house. Right on time, two boys on bicycles peddled into view. School was over for the day. Mr. Baker knew the taller of the boys well. Robert Connor had been a neighbour for years. Mr. Baker had seen him grow up from a kid in play shorts to the strapping sixth-former he was today. In a few months’ time he would leave school and almost certainly be off to a university.
He looked so smart in the posh green-and-gold blazer. Mr. Baker knew Robert would have taken off his hooped school cap and stuffed it in his pocket the second he was out of sight of St. Francis Independent Grammar School and its masters.
Mr. Baker watched intently as Robert dismounted his bicycle. The eighteen-year-old’s buttocks were of the highest quality: round and firm. Mr. Baker thoughtfully flexed his school cane between his hands. Often he had fantasised that Robert was across the back of his armchair, submissively offering himself up to the attention of his cane.
His dreams would have been more satisfying if Robert were a troublesome teenager. Abusive. Drunk. Like so many youngsters were these days. They thought they owned the world and stuff any old geezer who got in their way. Not Robert. He was a good boy; kind and considerate.
Only the previous weekend, Robert had knocked on Mr. Baker’s door. It was the afternoon, so the man was a little tired and emotional. The school was collecting for the poor in some place in Africa Mr. Baker had never heard of. Would he care to donate?
Rarely, did Mr. Baker get the chance to enjoy Robert at close quarters. He was a dish. His brown eyes sparkled and his face creased when he smiled. His black, straight fair hair was cut short (you could thank the school rules for that) and his skin was remarkably clean and shiny. Mr. Baker knew nothing of the “product” certain young men bought for their ablutions. Gone were the days of Lifebuoy and a facecloth. Mr. Baker made a large donation.
Now, he watched Robert find his key and open the door. Mr. Baker did not know his friend so well. The teenagers had been returning together from school for the past week or so. Doing their homework together, he supposed. Exams were looming. There wasn’t a minute to be lost. He was a little shorter than Robert, fairer and quite remarkably thin. Skinny, really.
The door closed and the two boys dumped their bags in the hallway.
“I’ve got some whisky,” Robert grinned. “I nicked it from work,” his nose wrinkled and his eyes shone.
“Naughty boy,” his friend Barry frowned, following Robert’s buttocks as they sashayed up the stairs to his bedroom.
“It’s all right; everyone does it. The perks of working in the warehouse,” Robert reached to the top of the wardrobe and took down a box. Inside was a bottle of Bells and plastic glasses. He poured generous helpings.
Barry sipped cautiously. The amber liquid burned his throat and he spluttered. Robert grinned, “You don’t have to drink it if you don’t want to.”
Barry put the glass down, took off his blazer and dragged the tie from his neck. Robert slipped off his blazer and carefully placed it on a hanger. Barry sat on the bed and watched his pal intently. Muscles rippled on Robert’s back as he stretched forward to put his jacket in the cupboard. The seat of his trousers bulged. So did the front of Barry’s.
Robert turned and let himself be pulled forward until he tumbled on top of Barry, their tongues met briefly. They rolled on their backs, bodies close together on the narrow bed. Sex would come later; there was something that needed to do first. There were only eighteen years old but they knew what they wanted. Within seconds they were naked.
“Quick, put a towel down, I don’t want spunk all over the bed,” Robert took charge. With a bath sheet strategically placed he lay face down, knees bent, arse high. It was a lovely smooth, hairless bum and Barry couldn’t get enough of it. Every night for two weeks they had played this little game. He took Robert’s Boy Scout belt from the wardrobe. He loved the weight of it in his hands. It was heavy; the buckle made certain of that, but so did the metal ring that at one point along its length connected two halves of the belt.
He doubled it up in his hand and without warning smacked it across the centre of Robert’s meaty bum. His pal buried his head in his arms and waited for the next. Smack. A pink blotch spread over Robert’s left cheek.
“Harder!” he gasped. “Harder.”
Barry was happy to oblige. It was a lovely bum, made for spanking. The cheeks were round and fleshy. Robert was in no way fat, but his buttocks had a degree of padding that absorbed the weight of the leather. Smack-smack-smack. He walloped the belt across his mate’s arse. If truth be told Barry wasn’t especially into spanking. He had fancied Robert for years but they had only just admitted to one another they were gay. He was more than happy for them to roll around naked on the bed and then fuck each other’s brains out. But, he knew Robert would go like a steam train if he had his arse warmed up first.
The belt rose and fell. It wasn’t a flogging. It was just hard enough to redden Robert’s bum. The marks such as they were would soon disappear. Round one was over. They lay on the bed naked, entwined.
“I wish we had a cane,” Robert sighed. “You can buy them on e-Bay.”
Barry’s face cracked with a grin. “Good luck getting that past your dad when the postman delivers.”
Robert’s eyes flashed. “I wouldn’t mind.”
“What!” Barry shrieked. “You want to be caned by your dad!”
Robert giggled, “Well, not dad, maybe. But, an older man.” He paused and met his friend’s incredulous stare. “No offence, but don’t you ever want to be spanked by someone older?”
Barry sucked on his bottom lip. He did that when he was thinking. It had never occurred to him before.
“Imagine at school. In the headmaster’s study. Bend over. Touch your toes. Trousers down maybe. Pants even,” Robert’s cock swelled at the thought.
“They used to at St. FIGS,” he carried on hurriedly, “It was known as ‘The Caning School’, back in the 1960s.”
Barry didn’t try to suppress his giggling. Robert put his arm around his lover in a headlock. “Ouch, ouch, ouch,” he shrieked in mock agony. They lay entwined. Nearly ready for the climax of the evening.
“There’s a man across the street,” but Robert wasn’t quite ready to stop talking about caning. Barry stroked Robert’s cock. It was at full attention now. “I’d love him to cane my arse.”
Barry tutted. Seemed like his chance of a fuck was on hold for a while. “Why?” he felt he’d better humour Robert, “Is he some kind of Adonis?”
“Ha!” it was a genuine laugh. “No, nothing like that. He’s old and running to fat.” He saw Barry’s mouth open incredulously, so he hurried on, “There’s just something about him that makes me want to be dominated. I was over his house on Saturday, y’know collecting for Swaziland. God. I nearly came in my pants. He has this incredible leather armchair,” he wheezed, “He could take me over that any time.”
“Take you? You mean ….?”
“God no. Cane me. Six-of-the-best. Trousers up. Trousers down. Any way he likes.”
Barry beamed. “Jesus Christ, you’ve got it bad. Come on,” he rolled onto his stomach, then lifted himself on his knees. “Fuck me.”
Across the road, Mr. Baker’s mouth drawled as his head hit his chest. He would lay in a drunken stupor for some hours.
Other stories you might like
More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second
I cannot deny it, every time I saw the boy my cock stiffened. It was like I was fifteen again. Fifteen. Jesus, I’ve got grandchildren older than fifteen.
The first time was in the street near my house. He was walking toward me oblivious to the world around him. He had those things in his ears that all kids have. Did I gape open-mouthed? I rather think I might. He had an aura. I can’t explain it. His shock of uncombed hair, the regal nose. Thin lips that looked like he had been drinking raspberryade. The front of my underpants bulged.
I stared intently at the pavement as we passed. I tried hard; honestly I did. The urge to turn around to get a look at his bum consumed me. What if he caught me admiring his buttocks? How could I stand the humiliation? But I did look. What a disappointment. I shouldn’t have been surprised. He was a twenty-something boy. It’s what they are like. He wore those trousers that are so baggy you can’t see any shape inside. I don’t want lads to wear skin tight jeans or what-not; but I do enjoy seeing how round their buttocks are.
It was when I saw him the second time, a few days later, that I started to fantasise. He is too tall to go across my knees comfortably, so I have him bent across the back of an armchair in my sitting room. It is just the right height to take a lanky lad. The trousers are at his knees, of course, and I am hammering away with my heavy bath brush. He is rocking and rolling his hips and legs but by and large he is taking it like a trooper.
I came to spanking quite late in life. I’ve always been “gay”, but in my day we never knew much about it. We just got on with life. Where I came from if a girl was still unmarried at twenty-one, she was “on the shelf”; so, we all got hitched young.
Doris was my wife for nearly forty years. She was undemanding after I gave her three girls. Is it a wicked thing to say that when she passed on I was relieved? It was as if a huge weight had been taken from me. I pretty much lived in my head until then.
I had a mild interest in corporal punishment of young men. I remember a scene from an old black-and-white film that played on TV quite often. Goodbye Mr Chips. The old doddery headmaster is in his study with a schoolboy. Ha! The actor playing the sixth-former must have been about thirty-five. Chips picks up a sturdy crook-handled cane. “Bend over that chair!” he thunders. The boy is understandably reluctant. “Bend over that chair!” he roars once more. The boy lowers himself over the arm of a large chair. The film goes to silhouette as Chips swipes six of the best across the boy’s stretched trousers.
I would lay alone on my bed replaying that scene in my head; uncertain whether I wanted to be the headmaster whipping his cane into the boy’s bottom, or to be the one on the receiving end.
After Doris left us the days seemed endless. My daughter Cathy urged me to get out and meet people. She signed me up for an evening class at the local school. Beginners DIY. Do-it-yourself home maintenance. Me? It showed how little she really knew about my interests.
I didn’t show up at class. I went to the school, just to keep her quiet, but in the hallway I saw a poster for something that genuinely, truly, changed my life. The Internet for Beginners. A class aimed at fossils like myself who didn’t know their Web from their wi-fi.
I don’t have to tell you what I found online. Jesus. If I were forty years younger! It took a while to pluck up the courage before I contacted a guy who gave corporal punishment services. For a fee, of course. He had a room at his house decked out like a headmaster’s study. It wasn’t as grand as Mr Chip’s, but it felt authentic enough. I dressed in pale-grey trousers, white shirt and striped tie. It made a very passable school uniform. There was a chair, not unlike the one in my own sitting room.
Swish! He swiped a thin curve-handled rattan cane through the air. “Bend over that chair!” he thundered. Had he developed his technique from watching Mr Chips? In time, I came to doubt it. He proved to be a very experienced “master”.
I licked my tongue across my top lip. Saliva drained from my mouth. I stared down over the back of the chair at the faded blue cushion. Savouring every moment. I had never come close to being summoned to the headmaster’s study as a child. This was unchartered territory.
“Bend over!” the headmaster tapped his cane on the apex of the chair. I drew in breath and lowered myself into position. I felt the fabric of my trousers stretch across my buttocks. I must have been an awesome target. My bum is round and meaty. I might be old, but I am not fat. I stared intently at the back of my hands as I gripped the seat cushion tightly.
He tap-tap-tapped the cane across the centre of my buttocks, then withdrew it. I tensed. Crack! The cane landed squarely across my cheeks. Nothing happened for a second or two and then an intense shockwave roared across my bum. My first stroke of the cane. I was on my way.
Back home, I took to skulking close to my sitting room window hoping to catch sight of the boy. I didn’t know if he lived in The Avenue. It is long and full of upscale houses, many of them hidden behind walls and fences, so it is not easy to know your neighbours. Several days passed and sadly I concluded he must have been a visitor. Somebody’s nephew, perhaps. Or a boyfriend.
I had given up hope of ever seeing him again when one afternoon I was shuffling down the street in search of an evening newspaper and there he was. My cock flipped. He was wearing a military camouflage tee-shirt and this time his chino trousers fitted snugly. He carried across his shoulder a bag that looked light and almost empty. He smiled nonchalantly as he passed and nodded a greeting. My heart skipped. He had noticed me. The boy knew I existed. I stopped dead and careless as to who might see, I turned to admire his buttocks as they sashayed down the street.
All thoughts of evening papers abandoned, I let him get fifty or so yards ahead of me and I followed. He turned a bend in the road and crossed over and pushed open the gate of one of the smaller houses. I stood maybe ten yards away. I have no idea if there were others in the street, I only had eyes for the boy. He hopped from one foot to another as if he were desperate to go to the toilet. Suddenly the door flew open and a youngster about the same age as the boy stepped out. He wrapped his arm around the back of the boy’s head and pulled him toward him. They kissed unselfconsciously. It was real snogging. Then the youngster dragged him into the house, slamming the door shut.
I put my head down and as far as a man in my condition could, I ran back towards my house. My fury could not be controlled. That boy; my boy. Even now, as I hurried home, I knew they would be having wild passionate sex. On the sitting room carpet quite likely.
At home, I headed straight to the cocktail cabinet. Drat! I was out of tonic. My hands could not stop shaking as I splashed gin into a tumbler. Urggh! It tasted foul. Too strong. My head buzzed. My rage subsided. I stood by the window looking into the empty street. Then, I had an epiphany. It wasn’t rage I felt. It was envy. Envy that my boy was now enjoying unrestrained sex with an equally beautiful guy. And envy too, of all the boys their age and the freedom they enjoyed to be themselves. My own barren life, fifty-something wasted years, disgusted me.
It might have been the gin. God knows it might have been hormones or something, I don’t know. I rushed from the house and trundled down the street. I had to see my boy again. The house seemed quiet when I arrived. They were probably rolling around on the bed, I thought. Indifferent for who might see me, I crossed the small, neat lawn and tip-toed toward the window of what I supposed to be a living room. The curtain was open. I could see inside, but equally anyone in the room would be able to see me. I would take the risk.
Risk-takers are the ones who reap the rewards. My boy was completely naked, lying prone across the knees of the other boy. The other boy made small circular motions with the palm of his hand, patting each buttock in turn and caressing the backs of his thighs. Then, having taken his measure, he smacked the open palm of his hand again and again into the firm bum. From my vantage point and with my imperfect eyesight it seemed my boy was completely hairless. He would have had to shave to achieve such smoothness.
My boy’s face shone serenely. The other boy was just as calm. He smacked my boy a dozen or so times; you couldn’t call them “spanks”, there was no intent to cause harm. Then he stopped and fondled him some more. This time he stroked the naked back and shoulders before inserting his fingers under my boy’s body and twitching his nipples. I could hear the gasp of ecstasy.
The other boy ruffled my boy’s hair some and then returned his attention to his cute, pert bum. I stood; back arched, hands on my knees and breathless for some time. They were so engrossed in their sex play they would never notice me. Who knows how much time elapsed? Eventually, the other boy whispered a love call. My boy pulled himself from the lap, at first resting on his knees and then stretching himself to his feet. His rock-solid uncut cock pointed towards his young lover.
The other boy rose from his chair and sank to his knees. Inside a second he had the throbbing muscle between his lips. His tongue darted up and down along my boy’s shaft. I thought my boy’s eyes would pop. Instead, he leaned forward and gripped the other boy’s dick. It was as rigid as my boy’s. A thick vein crossed the entire length of the cut member. The cock shuddered as soon as my boy’s fingers made contact. Any moment now, he would shoot a load.
“May I help you?” The voice came from a million miles away. “I said, can I help you?” It had a dreamlike quality.
I turned my head slightly. A man in a business suit, with a laptop bag across his back, approached me across the lawn.
“I say are you alright?”
I sank to my knees, rolled over onto my side and bawled like a baby.
Other stories you might like
More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second
Ian closed the door and headed down the walkway towards the stairs. It was cold and he wanted to hurry along to the pub to meet his mates. He passed the window of the flat of his friend Richard and halted. A strange noise echoed from the kitchen. Thwack! There it was again.
The curtain was open and Ian had an unobscured view. It was just as well; he wouldn’t have believed what he saw otherwise. Mr. Fitzsimons, Richard’s dad, sat on a cheap plastic chair and draped across his lap with his face close to the worn linoleum was his son. The nineteen-year-old’s jeans were at his ankles and his briefs were rolled down to his thighs. The middle-aged man gripped an old-fashioned carpet slipper in his right hand. He raised it high, kept it hovering in mid-air for some moments and then brought it crashing down into the centre of Richard’s bare left buttock. Then, he raised the slipper once more, paused for an inordinate length of time, and smashed it into the left cheek.
Ian stared in wonderment. His friend lay submissively allowing his old man to thwack the rubber-soled slipper again and again across his bare bum. The teenager’s face was as red as his bottom, but otherwise he showed no outward sign of distress.
Suddenly, Mr. Fitzsimons placed the slipper on the nearby table. Gently, he massaged Richard’s bum. It looked pretty sore from where Ian stood.
“Get up.” It was the first time either of them had spoken since Ian arrived. Richard pushed himself up and using his dad’s knees as leverage he rose to his feet and then started to pull up his pants. Afraid that he might be spotted, Ian hastened along the landing.
What had he just seen? Ian couldn’t make it out. His friend had been spanked by his dad. His nineteen-year-old friend. Nobody got spanked these days. They had outlawed the cane in schools ten years before Ian had been born. His own dad never spanked him. He couldn’t remember ever being hit by his parents; not even as a toddler. Certainly, dad had never ordered him to bend over his knee, bare arse to the wind, while he whacked a slipper into his backside. And, never when he was nineteen.
What had Richard done? What does anyone have to do these days to get a spanking? What did a nineteen-year-old have to do? Ian wondered if he would ever find out. Somehow, he couldn’t imagine having the courage to ask Richard. It would be too embarrassing. Besides, he didn’t want people to think he was a snooper.
Ian kept his new information to himself when he reached the pub. He was pretty certain Richard wouldn’t want his mates to know his dad spanked him. It turned into a good night, Toby said he was trying to start a “relationship” with Susan. Everybody laughed. Nobody had “relationships” they just had sex. Sex was always available. The boys wanted it. The girls wanted it. Often after a night at the pub they would pair off and go back to someone’s place and have sex. Sex was easy; who needed “relationships?”
There were no girls about, so Ian went home alone. He was a bit drunk, but he had been worse. He woke up in the middle of the night with a raging hard-on, just in time to stop himself soiling the bedsheets. He had dreamt of Mr. Fitzsimons. Only, this time it was Ian bent over the knees, staring at the floor with his bared-bottom high while Richard’s dad did his thing with the slipper.
Ian was troubled, he had never dreamt of spanking before – at least, not that he remembered, and he had never thought about it when he was awake. Spanking? Wasn’t that a gay thing? He wasn’t gay. Definitely not. He had had sex with enough girls to know that. He started to obsess. When he remembered how submissive Richard was across his dad’s knee, he reckoned it wasn’t the first time his pal had been spanked. It would probably happen again, so Ian hung around the landing hoping for a repeat performance. He spent so much time there if it wasn’t that he had lived in the flats all his life, neighbours might think he was a burglar biding his time.
One afternoon he had a massive erection in the middle of the call centre where he worked. Jo-Jo, his boss, who was fit in at least two senses of the word, was only a few years older than Ian. He wore cream chinos that flattered his buttocks and thighs. He was sitting on a chair with his legs a little apart and his feet firmly planted. For no reason that he knew, Ian suddenly imagined himself bent across Jo-Jo’s knees wearing very smart brown corduroy short trousers with razor sharp creases. They were much shorter than the shorts lads usually wore. In Ian’s mind, Jo-Jo slapped the palm of his hand into the seat of Ian’s trousers and as Richard had done in real life, Ian lay uncomplaining face down, bottom high, accepting his punishment meekly.
It was getting out of hand. That night for the first time in his life, Ian tossed himself off thinking about a man. Ian was across Jo-Jo’s knees again; this time totally naked. In the following days, he couldn’t stop thinking about spanking. Everywhere he went he saw people he wanted to spank him: a fat old man on the bus; a fellow in Tesco’s with a moustache and unkempt grey hair who had the air of an old-fashioned schoolmaster. Ian wouldn’t mind bending over the back of a chair for him.
It scared him a little. Something had to be done. Somehow, he needed to find someone to put him through his paces. How? Instinctively, he knew it wouldn’t be enough to ask one of the girls to smack his bum before they had sex. He needed a man. He would ask his gay friend, Nick. He had been around a bit; he would know, Ian thought. Spanking? He was sure it was a gay thing.
“No, I’ve never been spanked. Never thought about it.” Nick’s response was disappointing. “There’s this club, meets every month in The Village, you should go. The Whacko! Club. I’ve seen their flier. The name says it all.”
Ian looked doubtful.
“Come on, all the old queens would love you. Make their day.”
Ian’s tired smile was full of despair. Nick’s beaming face was more enthusiastic.
“Do you want me to do it?” he asked and when his friend stared blankly, he added, “Spank you. How difficult could it be? What is it that turns you on, the humiliation or the pain?” Nick saw from the glint in Ian’s eye, he had found the solution.
“I’ll spank you if you give me a blowjob after.”
Ian’s mouth gaped. Nick sucked on the neck of his beer bottle.
“Why not. Then we both get something out of it. Think about it, you’d get two new experiences in one day.”
Within the hour, they were at Nick’s flat. “So, do you want a real spanking?” Nick perched his buttocks against the dining table, “Or is it just love taps? Or what?
Later, Ian would reflect on how calm he had been. He totally trusted Nick. “The real deal,” he said without hesitation.
“Face the wall. Hands on head. Don’t move.” Ian shuffled in position. Nick watched impassively. His friend was very cute. He was a little shorter than Nick and you could see he never went to the gym, but he was far from fat. His jeans hung loosely from his hips and fell over his Nike trainers. His blue tee-shirt was from Primark and therefore cheap, but he wore it well.
Nick went to the bathroom, found his flatmate’s large black hairbrush and tested it in his hands. It was heavier than it looked. It would pack a punch. Back in the living room, Ian was finding his “naughty-boy” position hard to maintain. His arms ached terribly and he fidgeted.
“Keep still,” Nick barked. Ian straightened up.
Nick looked around the room. If he was going to take Ian across his knee there wasn’t so much to choose from. It was a tiny room and sparsely furnished. He decided on a low stool.
“Turn around. Come here.” Ian obeyed instantly. Nick tried to read his friend’s flushed face. He was definitely nervous, but was he also turned on? Well, he thought, it’s too late now. He asked for a punishment spanking and that’s what he was going to get.
Ian still had his hands on his head. Nick reached forward and undid the button at the waist of his jeans. The zipper fell instantly revealing Nick was wearing blue checked shorts. Primark again. As the jeans slithered down Ian’s legs Nick admired the flatness of his friend’s stomach. Nick’s cock was twitching, but it was a long from being on the march.
“Bend over my knee.”
Ian’s mouth was suddenly dry. He ran the tip of his tongue around his lips; it didn’t help much. Slowly, he lowered himself forward until his stomach rested over Nick’s legs. They were thin, but strong. Ian hesitated. How was this done exactly? He rested his arms on the stool and looked forward, across the room he saw a faint reflection of himself in the television screen.
“These aren’t much use,” Nick said as he tugged the waistband of Ian’s shorts over his buttocks, and left them at his thighs. It was an impressive arse. Nick took time to admire it. Really, he thought, he wouldn’t mind having Ian kneeling on his bed and shafting him. He might yet get his chance, he reckoned, there were plenty of straight guys out there who liked to cross over the road from time to time. Ian was probably one.
Nick gripped the hairbrush, took his aim and brought it down with moderate force across the centre of Ian’s left bum cheek. Then the right. Then the left again. He had no idea how hard you were supposed to hit someone for a spanking. He decided to go by instinct. Ian’s hairless bum quickly turned a shade of deep pink. The nineteen-year-old gasped a little, but he didn’t seem in distress.
Nick upped the ante. The next six slaps were harder. Ian felt those and the next six which were harder still. The teenager’s body twitched and his legs kicked in a reflex action. Nick whacked another dozen; harder still. Ian yelped like a little whipped puppy and his hand gripped Nick’s leg. It was the only way he could stop himself reaching back to protect his now glowing arse from the onslaught from the hairbrush.
Another dozen. Ian was crying. Real tears. He wasn’t wailing, his gritted teeth prevented that, but his face was awash. Nick hesitated. Maybe it was time to stop. How many whacks would a “real” naughty boy get as punishment? He had no idea. He was about to lay down his brush when Ian moved his hips. A massive erection dug into Nick’s thigh.
“More,” Ian gasped, and then when his friend showed no sign of continuing, he added a plaintive, “Please.”
The brush hammered into the naked backside. Not one square centimetre was left unblistered. Sweat soaked Ian’s shirt. Nick was not much better. Ian bounced up and down across his punisher’s lap. He was humping his erection into Nick’s thigh and digging his fingernails into his leg. Any moment now, he would explode.
“Enough.” Nick pushed Ian to the ground where he lay on his side gasping for air like a goldfish out of water. His boner was rock hard; the tip glistening. Nick gaped. He knelt beside his friend rolled him onto his back and took the throbbing gristle into his mouth. His tongue washed the shaft, then he started on the ball sack. In seconds his face was soaked with Ian’s cum.
They both lay on their backs catching their breath. Then, Nick wriggled out of his trousers and pants. His uncut cock pointed at the sky. “Your turn,” he huffed.
Three days later, Ian made his first visit to The Whacko! Club.
Other stories you might like
More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second
Frankie and his boyfriend Hugo were in the sitting room surrounded by suitcases and cardboard boxes. Their first home together. What times they would have. Things would never be the same again.
They had been seeing each other for three years and now they were going to “the next level”, as Hugo put it. Frankie was fine with that. He wanted commitment; a wedding eventually. The whole nine yards.
Frankie was twenty-five and Hugo three years older. They loved each other; whatever “love” means. They were monogamous. Mostly. Frankie had once had a fling with a barman who worked in a straight pub near his parents’ house, but there was no need for Hugo to know that. Hugo didn’t stray too far; not for sex. He had other interests to consume him.
They had spent many nights together, weekends too, but they had never “lived together”. It would be a voyage of discovery.
They settled in quickly. It was a furnished house in an upscale part of town. Frankie was in advertising; Hugo, public relations. They did alright. But, The Avenue was anything but young and trendy. Their friends joked middle-age had consumed them.
But they both liked the house, even though the neighbours were a bit stand-offish. “They just lead staid, conformist lifestyles,” Frankie, who understood such advertising “demographics”, said with authority.
Hugo was preparing supper one evening when his boyfriend sauntered into the kitchen, a puzzled frown on his usually smiling face. “What’s this do you suppose, Hugo?” he asked. In his hand he held a worn strip of leather, cut into three pieces at one end.
“Oh, my word,” Hugo giggled. “Where did you find that?”
“In the cupboard under the stairs, it was hidden under some plastic sheets.”
Hugo reached forward and took the strap from his boyfriend. “You really don’t know what this is?” he enjoyed that for once he knew something more than Hugo.
“It’s a taws,” he said, and when the puzzlement on his pal’s face remained, he added, “Schoolmaster’s in Scottish schools used to use them.”
He couldn’t believe Frankie still did not understand.
“For beating,” he smiled. “Here, I’ll show you. Hold your hands out.”
“No way,” Frankie laughed nervously, he had begun to twig what Hugo meant.
Hugo saw his boyfriend’s face redden. “C’mon, I won’t really hurt you. Hold out your hand.”
“No,” Frankie pretended to pout. “Shan’t.” he shrugged his shoulders and turned his back on his partner.
“Do as you’re told boy,” Hugo’s rotten attempt at a Scottish accent made Hugo grin. “Come on, take it like a man.”
Uncertain, Frankie raised his right hand and held the palm up and to his side. Hugo grinned, “Not like that. Hold your hands out in front of you. Lay the right palm over the left,” he demonstrated. Still, unsure what would happen next, Frankie did as he was told.
Hugo fingered the worn leather strap. It was nearly two feet long and the “business end” was about three inches wide.
Hugo raised the strap and caressed Frankie’s palm with it. His boyfriend’s grey-blue eyes sparkled. “This is what happened. The schoolmaster would take the strap and whack it down across the boy’s palm.”
Frankie roared, “Owww!” as the leather hit home. “That hurt!” he roared and tucked his hand under his armpit. “Bloody hell, why did you do that!” He twisted his body as if in genuine pain.
“Don’t be a baby. I didn’t hit you that hard.”
Now, Frankie was licking the palm of his hand as if that would ease the pain. “Look,” he held up his hand to show Hugo the pale pink strip that decorated it.
“It’s not bad. The schoolmaster would have really thrashed it down. Then you’d have to change hands and by the time he was finished you would have had four, or even six strokes.” He watched his boyfriend distort his face comically. “On each hand,” Hugo laughed.
“Look at that,” Frankie grimaced and ran his index finger along the imprint the taws had left. “It hurts.”
Hugo pulled him forward, “You wimp,” he said, just before he slipped his tongue into his mouth.
Two days later, Frankie returned from work to an empty house. He went to the refrigerator for juice. As he put the carton away, he saw it from the corner of his eye. Unaccountably, his heart missed a beat. The taws hung on the wall from a plastic cup-hook. He couldn’t resist. He leaned forward and released it. It was heavy and much of the leather was pitted and scarred. It had seen some action in its time. Whose was it, he wondered. Had a previous tenant been a Scottish schoolmaster? Surely not; they were hundreds of miles from the border, and corporal punishment had been outlawed before Frankie was born.
The weight of the taws intrigued him. If Hugo had been correct the strap would have been excruciatingly painful. He remembered the sting he felt when his boyfriend had tested it on him. He took hold of the handle, stretched out his left hand and gave himself a thwack across the palm. It hurt, but maybe not as much as when Hugo did it. He whacked it down again a little harder.
Hours later, supper eaten and glasses of wine consumed, the boys snuggled up on the couch. Frankie had been anxious to ask all evening, now would be a good time.
“The strap. On the wall. Why?” He didn’t need to speak in sentences, Hugo knew what his boyfriend meant.
“Well, young man,” Hugo cuddled Frankie more tightly. “I think we need to discuss your behaviour,” he said sweetly.
Frankie blushed. The wine and his passion for Hugo were playing havoc with his feelings. He said nothing, hoping Hugo would say more. He did. “I didn’t realise what a slut you were until we moved in together. You leave your clothes all over the place. You expect me to washup your dirty plates. What did your last slave die of?”
Hugo caressed Frankie’s cock. It rose and pressed against his tight briefs.
“So,” Hugo spoke quietly. He was serious. He needed his boyfriend to understand that. “If you don’t buck up your ideas a bit, young man, I think you know what the consequences will be.” He unzipped Frankie’s fly and inserted his fingers.
Next morning, Frankie rushed off to work, running late again. His breakfast bowl festered on the draining board; yesterday’s shirt and underpants lay on the floor by their bed. Hugo sighed and picked up his phone. His text message read: BOWL. CLOTHES. REMEMBER WHAT I SAID.
That evening, Frankie sat in the kitchen, sucking on a can of Coke, staring at the cereal bowl. His clothes remained untouched. Nervously, he paced the room. There was still thirty minutes before Hugo was due home. He sat, rubbed his palms and inspected them. All signs of his strapping had cleared. He went to the living room, slouched on the couch and surfed through satellite television.
Hugo walked into the room. They embraced. Hugo adored his boyfriend’s smell; always so fresh and boyish. He pulled away. He needed to check a thing or two. He left Frankie waiting. Frankie paced some more. Seconds passed, but it felt like hours to Frankie.
“Well don’t say you weren’t warned, young man.” Hugo let the worn leather taw dangle from his hand. He tap-tap-tapped it against his thigh as he spoke. He had been rehearsing his speech all day. The warning. Frankie’s disobedience. He only had himself to blame.
Frankie stood before his boyfriend, his eyes glistening, his heart thumping. His head was bowed. He held his hands behind his back. He couldn’t make himself look Hugo in the face.
“Do you remember how I told you to do this?” Hugo spoke reasonably, as if what was about to happen was the most natural thing in the world. Frankie’s face flushed to Hugo’s great delight. His boyfriend was adorable when embarrassed. It brought out the pigment in his skin and the colour of his eyes.
“Look at me.”
Reluctantly, Frankie raised his head.
“Hold out your hands in front of you. One palm on top of the other.”
A moustache of moisture soaked Frankie’s top lip. Then, the tip of his tongue darted in and out of his mouth, making him look like a lizard. His grey-blue eyes seemed distant to Hugo. He looked deep in thought.
Hugo held the leather strap between two hands, waiting. Perhaps, he thought, he should have ordered his boyfriend to bend over the coach and take it on the arse. That way Frankie wouldn’t face the added humiliation of looking him in the eye and showing his fear.
Then, Frankie held out his hand as instructed. He didn’t look at Hugo, instinctively his head turned away to the wall. He had stretched his arm and hand out in the required manner, directly in front of his body; one hand on top of the other. His shoulder ached from holding his arm so high.
He felt the strap stroke the centre of his palm. Suddenly, he panicked. What if Hugo’s aim was off and he slashed the taws into his fingers or his thumb. The pain would be excruciating and the damage would make it impossible for Frankie to use a computer or hold anything for days. How would he explain that to the people at work?
As the cold strap tapped his palm he screwed up his eyes and readied himself for the first stroke. The taws swooped down and cracked across his flesh. The burn was intense, it felt like he had accidentally leant against the glowing ring of a cooker. Some dormant schoolboy instinct stopped him withdrawing his hand and blowing air on it or wrapping it under his armpit to ease the pain.
He was inordinately proud of himself when he managed to hold the palm steady, while Hugo readied himself to deliver the second cut. It fell with a deafening Crack! Fire burned into Frankie’s delicate flesh. He scrunched his face like an ugly gargoyle. Tears pricked the back of his eyes. His palms throbbed like crazy. Never before had he felt such pain.
“Other hand.” Hugo’s instruction sounded as if it had come from a hundred miles away, Frankie could barely hear for the blood rushing through his ears. He switched hands, groaning as the weight on his untouched hand pressed into the scorching flesh of the other.
He closed his eyes shut and waited. The next stroke whipped expertly into his palm and tears fell freely. Still, he held his hand firmly for the next lash. Absurdly, he felt tremendous pride that he had not (at least not yet) howled the house down.
“Last one,” Hugo intoned. “Raise your hands higher please.”
Although every nerve in his body seemed to tremble, Frankie stretched his arm further and raised it to the required height. He was rewarded by a cracking slash into the centre of his palm. All dignity was lost, he bent double, howling with agony. He blew on the palm to no effect, so he tried rubbing his hands together. That made it worst, so, he stuck them between his knees. Still there was no relief. His palms were crimson and throbbing. They seemed to be twice their natural size. He held them out for Hugo to see. His unspoken words were, “Look what you’ve done to me.”
Hugo threw the taws onto the couch and advanced on his boyfriend. Bulges in both their trousers betrayed their true feelings. Hugo unbuckled Frankie’s belt and ripped down his zipper. When it was clear Frankie’s hands were too tortured to do the same to Hugo, he did it himself. Two steel hard cocks pointed at the ceiling. Frankie’s was about to take off like an Exocet missile. Hugo sank to his knees and took the glistening top of Hugo’s cock in his mouth.
Later, spunked out, they lay on the carpet gasping with ecstasy. It had been some time, if ever, that they had made-out like this. Hugo held his lover’s head in his arms, delighted that Frankie had been so quick to find the taws he had planted in the cupboard under the stairs.
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Charles Hamilton the Second
The two boys had been coming to my house for some weeks to work in the garden and do odd jobs before I noticed money had been stolen.
Jake and Matthew are students at Brocklehurst University. They’re on some “civics” scheme. The kids get extra credit for doing work in the community. I was dubious at first when the university contacted me. It is true that I am old, but I am not infirm. I am not as sprightly as I once was, but I can look after myself, although I confess the garden is a bit much for me.
The young girl lecturer in charge of the project was very nice; she reminded me of my daughter at that age, so I signed up.
Jake and Matthew were assigned to me. They have to work in pairs; it’s something to do with “safety” or “security”. although I can’t for the life of me see what threat I could be to them. They are two fit young lads. Now, it turns out I needed protection from them.
They worked very well when they first arrived and they had the garden looking tidy in no time. I think it was on their third visit that they told me they were a “couple”. That’s right; a boy dating another boy. They didn’t seem the least embarrassed to tell me. It just slipped out when they were drinking tea with me and telling me about their weekend.
They’re both twenty years old. When I was their age it was illegal. People were put in prison for it. Now look at it; they can get married now. Hasn’t the world changed. I don’t begrudge them it. Why should I care.
I don’t think knowing they were gay changed my opinion of them. The seemed decent enough lads to me, but I did start to notice that Jake was a little bit, how can I say this? A bit “girly”. That’s probably not the right word, but with a “couple” isn’t one of them the man and the other the woman? I might have asked them about it, but not now. I have other things I need to talk to them about.
They came to the house a lot. After they finished the garden, I set them on clearing out the garage. I haven’t had a car since before my wife died. I just use it for storing junk and the like. I was sitting reading the Daily Mail one morning when the boys came in from the garage.
“What’s this Mr. Shearer?” Jake asked and he showed me something he held in his hand. I think I must have blushed bright red, because he flashed me one of his crooked smiles and his open face beamed.
“Surely, you know what it is?” I thought he was just teasing me.
“It’s a taws.”
“What’s it for?”
I blushed some more. Was this what young people called, “a wind up?”
I replied, “In the old days, it was used for spanking naughty boys.”
Old days! Was it really so long ago? Corporal punishment has been banned in schools for decades and was now illegal in the home, but back in the day misbehaviour would get you a caning at school. Lots of fathers punished their sons with slippers, belts and what-not. In my house, it was a fourteen-inch-long leather strap, cut into two tails at one end.
Jake caressed the strap in his hand almost lovingly. It was light-brown in colour and very worn. It had been in my family for generations, I believe my great-grandfather was the first to use it. It had probably laid untouched in a cardboard box alongside other memorabilia in the garage for decades.
Jake seemed satisfied with my explanation and the subject was not mentioned again.
I first noticed money was missing about three weeks ago, I was sure that a five pound note had been taken from my wallet. I leave it in the pocket of my jacket, hanging in the hallway so the boys could have taken it at any time. I let the matter rest, because I wasn’t absolutely certain that I hadn’t spent it myself, but I hardly leave the house so I don’t get through much cash.
I counted what was left in my wallet and the next week ten pounds was missing. There could be no doubt. I am not a poor man and the money meant nothing to me. Had the boys asked me to pay them for their work I would gladly have done so. I don’t believe in forcing the young to work for nothing; university “civics” courses, or no. I was disappointed and perhaps a little angry. I had trusted them. Goddam it, I liked them and this was how they treated me.
I wasn’t sure how to tackle it. I supposed I should have reported them to the university and let them deal with it. It was theft after all. And, they had stolen from somebody they were helping on the civics scheme. They would probably get expelled and end up with a criminal record. It did seem a very harsh punishment for a relatively small crime.
But, I wasn’t about to let the matter drop. On their next scheduled visit, Matthew came alone. He told me Jake had the flu and was ill in bed. The lad’s a terrible liar, I think Jake was probably nursing a hangover, or whatever you call it when you’re coming down from drugs.
I confronted Matthew about the missing money. He was ashen-faced, and it wasn’t through guilt. He insisted he knew nothing about it and I believed him. I don’t think he could tell a lie to save his life.
Three days later, I received a phone call. Could the boys come over to see me? I am always at home, so it was no inconvenience. They had hardly set foot in the lounge before Matthew put his hand in his pocket and withdrew fifteen pounds. “I took it out of my savings account. I’m very sorry,” he said.
But, he had nothing to reproach himself about. Unbeknown to Matthew, his boyfriend had stolen the money. There were more apologies, but mostly from Matthew; Jake was rather silent. I questioned Jake about his motives. He had taken the money because he wanted it. Pure and simple. Like all people his age, he expected something for nothing. What he couldn’t earn, he simply took.
Now it was all in the open, I had a problem. If I informed the university, Jake would get a criminal record and “sent down” from university. I didn’t want that to happen. The stupid boy deserved a second chance. I had devised a plan of action, but it was unorthodox. In fact, it was downright strange. It would not be acceptable in 2017.
Nonetheless, I pressed on. I told Jake of his bleak future. Then, I said, “You have returned the money. I think you deserve a thorough hiding with that leather taws. Then, I don’t want to see you ever again.” My face flushed and my breathing was heavy. I was extremely worked up about this.
Jake’s effeminate face blanched. I don’t think he had expected this turn of events. He turned to Matthew and they exchanged glances. Some kind of “non-verbal communication” took place. I couldn’t tell what they were saying, but they understood each other perfectly.
“No, Mr. Shearer.” It was Matthew, not Jake who spoke. My face must have betrayed my thoughts. I didn’t want so much trouble for Jake. In times gone by a sound thrashing on his bare backside would have put an end to the problem. He would have paid his price and everybody could move on with their lives.
I had misunderstood Matthew. “No, Mr. Shearer, you can’t do it. No offence, but you haven’t got the strength.” He flashed me a wan smile. “Let me do it. I can tan his arse good and proper.” Then, he added mysteriously, “But, you can come and watch.”
My eyes widened, but before I could respond, Matthew had left the room to go to the garage. He knew precisely where to find the taws and returned within seconds. Jake sat and stared at his expensive boots. No wonder he felt the need to steal money from me. Matthew held the strap in his right hand and let it dangle against his leg. He spoke quietly and Jake obeyed without question.
Jake removed his denim jacket and put it on the dining room table. He wore a tan roll-neck jumper underneath. It seemed to me that he expected the next order and had already decided to do as instructed without fuss. He unbuckled his belt and worked at the fastener and zipper of his designer jeans. They were tight against his leg and he had to roll them down his thighs to his knees. He was calm while he did this, as if this was an everyday occurrence for him.
He shuffled penguin-like over to the couch and on further instruction he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his underwear and with a sharp flick of the wrists, he sent them south to meet his jeans. I had a terrific view of his privates. He was uncut and his member was long and thin. What I noticed most was he was totally hairless.
He paused for a second before leaning forward over the back of the couch. He was a tallish boy and the couch was rather low so his body cleared its back by some distance. His thin, flat bottom was hairless too; even the inside of the crack. He wriggled a little as if to make himself comfortable. He gripped the front of the couch’s cushion at the front and parted his legs a little. His crack opened and his ball sack dangled between his legs. I did fear if he moved about a bit during the thrashing, Matthew might miss his aim and strike his boyfriend on the balls.
It felt unreal. I was standing in the middle of my own front room watching a twenty-year-old university student meekly offer up his naked buttocks to his boyfriend so he could thrash him severely with a heavy leather two-tailed taws.
Matthew gave me a weak smile, as if he were having much the same thoughts as me. Then, he moved closer to his pal, laid the leather across the very centre of his naked haunches, pulled it back to some height and sent it whipping into the flesh. A broad scarlet stripe about two inches wide scorched into the creamy-white flesh. Jake’s mouth opened and closed. He screwed his eyes tight, but otherwise made no outward sign that his arse felt like it was on fire.
Matthew stepped forward and with the tips of the fingers of his left hand he traced the outline of the stripe, as if he couldn’t quite believe he had just created it. Satisfied with his handiwork, he retook his position and smacked a second stinger a little lower than the first. From where I stood it looked like the whole of Jake’s bottom was now blazing crimson. It had been some decades since I had myself been spanked, had my own beatings been so severe? I rather think not.
Jake repeated the mouth and the eyes things, but once again remained still. He breathed deeply in and out and waited for lash number three. It was not slow in coming. It landed on top of a previous hit. That got Jake’s feet stomping up and down. His boots lost their grip on the deep-pile carpet and his feet slithered behind him, his knees buckling as they went. He wriggled his buttocks from left to right and then up and down before he gripped the seat cushion tightly.
Sweat soaked Matthew’s tee-shirt; his breathing was uneasy. His exertions were taking their toll. Apart from the obvious raw backside, his boyfriend was calmer. He waited, teeth firmly clenched, eyes tightly shut, for Matthew to continue his punishment.
Matthew’s eyes saucered. He whipped down three savage blows at speed. Bang-bang-bang. Jake’s bum was blistered. Welts rose across the lower half of his cheeks and blood oozed. Another three fell at speed. Now, Jake’s buttocks resembled hamburger meat.
“That’s enough!” I called and rose to my feet ready to pull Matthew away. It wasn’t necessary. He stared at me through glazed eyes as if seeing me for the first time. Jake took his chance and hauled himself to his feet. His cock and balls bounced as he hopped from foot to foot and lent forward and back in a futile attempt to ease the pain.
I looked toward the door and he took that as a cue to depart. He gripped the waist of his underwear and jeans but his backside was too roasted for him to pull them up over his buttocks. Instead, with them still in his hands, he half ran, half waddled, up the stairs. I heard a door upstairs open and close.
Matthew sat winded in a small armchair, his body bent double. Five minutes passed and then ten. Matthew’s condition had not improved and Jake had not returned.
“I’d better see how he’s doing?” Matthew jumped from his seat and took the stairs two at a time. I heard the same door open and close once more.
After thirty minutes, they had still not come downstairs but I thought it prudent not to go see what they were doing.
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Charles Hamilton the Second
I am more than three times as old as Dixon. I was thinking this the other night as we lay in bed. He had given me the most exquisite blow-job. It made my eyes pop. I had slippered his bare bottom so long and so hard it had the consistency of leather.
We meet up two or three times a month. I can’t take him on my arm to show him off to my friends. We can’t go to the finest restaurants or the best shows in town. We meet at a discrete apartment I keep, close to where I work at the Ministry of Stealth and Total Obscurity. I am aged sixty-one, Dixon is twenty. People would assume he’s a rent boy.
He isn’t. Not a penny has changed hand since we started this. Nor, has there been payment “in kind.” I have bought no fancy phones or leather jackets, or whatever it is that kids want these days. We do this because we want to. We enjoy it. We think it natural. Long may it continue.
We met up online. It seems everybody does it. Everybody under the age of about thirty that is. You should try it. Dixon wanted an older man to discipline him. I wanted young flesh. On our third “date” Dixon told me he had been looking for an uncle-type. Instead, he got a granddad. I have never given him cause to complain.
When we meet, he tells me all the naughty things he has been up to. He’s twenty, so that usually means taking drugs or getting wildly drunk. They call it getting “caned.” Well, you can imagine that once I hear about his misdeeds, he gets a more literal caning from me. I have several swishy curve-handled rattan rods tucked away in a wardrobe in the spare bedroom. They are exactly like the ones they used at St Tom’s. I like to be as authentic as possible.
I attended a mid-ranking public school until the early seventies. In England, a “public school” is in fact an upscale fee-paying private establishment. It was very traditional. Traditional Latin, traditional rugby, traditional religion, traditional discipline. I was eighteen-and-a-half the last time I was dealt with. Six-of-the-best across the seat of my tight pale-grey trousers. Not that I complained of course. My housemaster said I had been “slacking;” not paying attention to my studies. If he only knew. I went on to Cambridge University and took a double-first. Slacking indeed.
I don’t know which school Dixon attended. I suspect he left it as soon as he could. He takes no interest in the world. He has no idea of “Brexit” and I doubt he has even heard the name Donald Trump. I am a senior civil servant at a government ministry, Dixon works at a call centre, when he can be bothered to turn up. I have taken the skin off his backside more than once for that.
Dixon has a terrific arse. It is really rather squishy. Do you know what I mean? I love to press my fingers into his flesh and see his bum wobble. He’s not what you would call fat. When he bends over, perhaps to put his hands on his knees for a few swats of the paddle, his rear end tightens up and he presents a very solid target. I think maybe he has what our American cousins call a “bubble butt,” but I am not sure.
Dixon is due to visit this evening. I hope it is as much fun as last time. The boy had been especially naughty. Smoking weed (of course) and missing work. He had also been rude to his mother. Well, isn’t it a father’s duty (or, indeed a grandfather’s) to punish a boy who disrespects his mother? I soon had the little terror stripped to his bright-green underpants. They were a little too tight for him and the smooth cotton rode right up into the crack between his cheeks. His buttocks were perfectly parted for the spanking he so richly deserved.
I took him to the master bedroom (it would save time later) sat down and pulled him across my knee. Dixon is a natural submissive. He rested his bottom on my thigh and stretched his naked torso across the mattress. This gave me the opportunity to caress the palm of my hand across his smooth, hairless back. I have never enquired of him, but I am pretty certain he has his body professionally shaved. He is not entirely hairless, there are tufts around his cock and balls, but even that is trimmed back neatly.
I cupped my hands taking each buttock in turn. I pressed my fingers into the stretched cotton delighting in the “give” in his bottom. I took hold of the waistband and pulled the pants taut, emphasising the depth of his crack. He sighed contentedly.
I raised my hand and smacked it with some force across his left buttock. I spanked the same spot six or seven times and then moved to the left cheek, where I repeated my endeavours. I was rewarded with a deep sigh from naughty Dixon. His cock pressed against my thigh. I spanked him some more and his member expanded to its full length. It felt like an iron bar digging into me. I knew that before long I would have to pull down the boy’s pants and release his throbbing penis.
However, I was not yet finished with the preliminaries. I reached across Dixon’s prone body and seized the medium-sized wooden hairbrush I had strategically placed on the nightstand. It made a terrific crack as it thudded into the tightly-stretched cotton. I was rewarded with a series of breathless gasps and Dixon’s bottom rose and fell so that he was humping my leg. It could be any second before he shot a load into his pants.
I rolled him onto his back and with some difficulty, for his cock was huge and stiff and the pants were a little tight, I pulled them to his thighs. Dixon nearly ripped them in his efforts to get them down and off his feet. I rolled him back so he was face-down once more and with every ounce of my strength I hammered the hairbrush into his already dark-pink cheeks.
Oh dear, please excuse me, I hear my phone ringing. It’s my wife. Sorry, but I have to take this.
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second