Room 414

z used otk white pants prefect youngsters sting (2)

Well Winchester, the Head Boy said to me, we can do this one of two ways. Either you can do a detention and miss going to the cup semi-final this evening or you can go across my knee for a jolly good spanking.

My heart raced and my face burned. Had I heard correctly? Taylor the Head Boy and Captain of just about every sport we played at the school was offering to take me over his knee for a spanking.

I was eighteen years old at the time and I couldn’t remember the first time I dreamed of being taken over the knee for a spanking. Mostly I fantasied about my Uncle Roy. He was married to my Mother’s sister and often visited our council flat when his lorry driving took him to our district. He was a massive man, probably six-and-a-half-feet tall. I was a dwarf beside him. He towered more than head and shoulders above me. He was thickly built with powerful arms. I would masturbate at night imagining I was in my bedroom in my pyjamas and suddenly Uncle Roy would burst into the room. I never cared what naughtiness I was supposed to have displayed. I just saw Uncle Roy rip the bedclothes off my body and then gripping me by one wrist he hauled me to my feet before sitting down on the bed and dragging me face down over his lap. I was powerless.

Then Uncle Roy would take hold of the elasticated waistband of my pyjama bottoms and quite slowly tug them down over my buttocks and leave them bunched at the thighs. Now, with my arse suitably bared and in position he would slap me with the palm of his hand. It was as big and as heavy as a shovel and in no time I was bucking across his knee. It was at about this time that in real life I would ejaculate at speed into a wodge of lavatory paper.

I was stunned when Taylor made his offer. Here was someone else who was into spanking. Had I been so naïve to think I was the only one? I blustered with embarrassment, so Taylor put his proposition to me again. He would have known how much I wanted to go to the football match. This was the first time our local team had reached the semi-final of anything. Tickets were as rare as hens’ teeth – and I had one. How could I not go to the match. No, doing a detention was out of the question.

I looked Taylor in the face as in my mind I formulated my response. I didn’t want to sound too eager. He had a bright, open face and although he was the same age as me I don’t believe he had started shaving. The term “baby-faced” fitted him perfectly. He stood stony-eyed, I couldn’t read his mind. Did he know of my inclinations? Was there something about my overall demeanour that gave me away? How had he plucked up the courage to expose his own desires?

Perhaps I should explain that corporal punishment in schools had been made illegal some years before. Mine was not one of those schools from ancient history where prefects had the power to cane or whatnot younger boys. I doubt if any dads spanked their sons at home. Corporal punishment was simply unheard of.

Taylor shuffled his feet impatiently. I couldn’t tell how desperately (or not) he wanted me to choose to go over his knee. We were standing in the corridor not far from the sixth-form common room, I swivelled on my heels to make sure we were perfectly alone and no one could hear us. I sucked in air, run my tongue over my bottom lip and croaked my reply. I’ll go for the spanking.

Taylor seemed unfazed by my answer. I’ll see you after school at three-thirty. In the common room, he said before he sauntered away. I stood rooted. My hear beat so fast I thought I might be sick. Two hours to wait. My first-ever spanking. A bell rang in the distance. Heck, how would I get through double Geography?

Don’t ask me what the lesson was about, I don’t have the slightest idea. I was excellent at geography and ended up with an A-star at A-level but my enthusiasm for the subject paled beside my fervour to be spanked. My how the hands crawled on the clock that afternoon. At last the bell rang; the school day was over. I couldn’t get to the common room fast enough. It was crowded, of course, with boys and girls emptying their lockers. I hung back, waiting eagerly for them to leave.

But where was Taylor? Usually, he was as enthusiastic to get away as the rest of us. Why wasn’t he here. My heart skipped. Had he changed his mind? Had the enormity of what he proposed sank in? Did he regret opening himself up to me in this way? Was he scared we might get caught?

After about ten minutes I was the only one left in the room. I slouched in a chair and flicked through the pages of the Brocklehurst Bugle (could there be a more boring local rag than that?) I was about to give up and leave. I still needed to go home and change before catching the train for the match. Dejected, I packed my books in my locker and made for the door.

Outside a few yards down the corridor was Taylor. Where do you think you’re going? He frowned. I gabbled in reply that I thought he had changed his mind. He grunted, no way. A deal was a deal, he said. He held up a key he was carrying. It was for Room 414, he said. I knew this to be a classroom on the top floor of the building. Nobody would see us there.

He led the way. I truly felt like a naughty boy and kept two paces behind Taylor. This happened twenty-five years ago and I don’t remember what was going through my mind as we took the stairs. The school was deserted, that I can recall. I suppose it must have felt very unreal. We reached the classroom and Taylor unlocked the door. It was a typical classroom of its time. There were tables that seated up to six pupils and at the front was a whiteboard and a desk for the teacher. The walls were covered with brightly-coloured pictures and posters.

I stood uneasily. How was this meant to play out? I didn’t have the slightest idea. I need not have worried, Taylor took control. He fetched one of the straight-backed chairs and put it down in a space close to one wall. Without looking at me, he sat himself down. I hovered close by. In my fantasises I was sometimes beaten by a headmaster. The scenario was that I was a pupil in a posh public school some long time back in history. The headmaster wore a black academic gown and a mortar-board cap. He swished a whippy curve-handled rattan cane.

In those dreams, I would be told to take off my blazer and stand behind a large leather chair. Or sometimes it would be by the headmaster’s desk. On his curt command I would fumble with my belt and undo my trousers. I would let them down to my knees. Then on further instruction I would bend over and offer up my bottom to the cane. In those dreams I always wore white cotton Y-front pants. I wore similar underpants in real life, although they were deeply unfashionable by this time.

Taylor had settled himself and seemed ready to go. He said very little. I was still incapable of reading that beautiful face of his. Taking the initiative, I slipped off my jacket and put it on a table nearby. I stood maybe two feet to Taylor’s left waiting for his instruction. I could see that he had not brought any implement with him. It would be impossible for him to find an whippy cane, of course, but he might have been able to come up with a rubber-soled plimsoll, that other staple of schoolboy punishment from days gone by. At a pinch he might have borrowed a hairbrush from one of the girls, or, who knows?, there was always his belt.

It seemed none of these were to be used. My spanking would be by the palm of his hand alone. Clearly, he did not possess the build or the strength on my Uncle Roy, so I did not expect my punishment to be very painful. He spoke almost for the first time since we entered the classroom. Bend over my knee, he said. Oh, those words. How many times in the years since then has my heart sped at that command? To be instructed to present my backside to a dominant male, to submit to discipline.

I hesitated a moment. How was this done precisely? In my dream Uncle Roy dragged me from bed and manhandled me over his knee. With Taylor, I would have to present myself submissively. It was as if I were saying yes I have been a naughty boy and I deserve to be punished, please Taylor spank my bottom for me. I moved forward closer to his parted legs, then paused. I don’t think I had planned what happened next. It came to me on the spur of the moment. With trembling hands I unbuckled my belt, unbuttoned at the waist and pulled my zipper. The weight of my leather belt sent my pale-grey trousers hurtling to my feet. I leaned forward, stretched out my arms in front of me to break my fall and bent over Taylor’s knee.

We were much the same height and build and I fitted into his body rather well. I placed my palms flat against the floor and with my knees slightly bent the toes of my shoes reached the ground behind me. This way my bottom was positioned over his knee at a good angle for spanking. I couldn’t see Taylor’s expression. He hadn’t expected this turn of events. Me, in my underwear submissively waiting for him to spank me. I am sure his breathing got heavier the moment my trousers hit my feet.

I stared at the parquet flooring. It was scratched and worn and it hadn’t felt the sweep of a broom for some considerable time. Taylor was composing himself. I felt him take hold of the tail of my shirt and push it away from my bum, leaving an area of naked flesh on my lower back. I knew that my underpants fitted me well, but that did not deter Taylor from taking hold of the elasticated waist and pulling so that the cotton was now like a second skin. I felt the pants dig deep into my crack so that each cheek was nicely separated.

Taylor placed the palm of his hand on my left buttock, holding it there for longer than strictly necessary for him to find his aim. He put his other hand in the small of my back to prevent me moving. Then he spanked me. People say the first time is always special. The first kiss, the first sex, the first marriage. So it was with my first spanking. Taylor had some strength in his arm, he was after all one of the school’s most accomplished sportsmen. He spanked me at speed, as my bum absorbed the hurt of one slap another spank immediately followed. It was like machinegun fire.

The pain, such as it was, was not intense; a hand-spanking on an eighteen-yea-old’s bottom covered with cotton underpants could never be severe. But, Taylor warmed up my arse good and proper. My heartbeat was off the scale and my temples throbbed like crazy. On and on he slapped his hand into my tight buttocks. My cock first twitched and then stood at fall attention, like a soldier on guard duty. Taylor must have felt it digging into his thigh and this encouraged him in his efforts. He spanked harder and faster than before.

I feared at any moment I would shoot a load into my underpants. Taylor’s own pale-grey school trousers would be stained. Let him explain that to his mother at home. My breathing was strained: huff-huff-huff. Any time now.

We were both too involved in ourselves to hear the classroom door open. We did catch the strangulated gasp of the school janitor and the clang as the metal bucket fell from his grasp. Taylor released his grip on me and I shot to my feet, the tentpole in the front of my pants pointing at the janitor. He turned on his feet and leaving behind his bucket the janitor rushed down the corridor.

I pulled up my trousers. My head was remarkably clear, it felt as if I were looking down on the room from some height. Taylor remained seated. It was clear to me that his cock was raging as much as mine. The silence in the room was deafening. We could not describe to one another the pleasure we had experienced together. Nor, could we share our fear about what the janitor might say or do.

At last Taylor spoke. He told me to hurry home or I would miss the football match. I left him alone. As I made my way down a deserted corridor, I saw Alderton, a fellow sixth-former, walking toward me. He gave me a cheeky wink but said nothing as he passed. I stood and watched him enter room 414.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

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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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Book. Collection of Spanking Stories

z-used-otk-chair-bare-27

Charles Hamilton II’s Collection of Spanking Stories

Here’s another free-to-download book containing a selection of my favourite male-on-male spanking stories. It has some of my earliest writings and some of my most recent. I hope there’s something for every taste from military, judicial, dad-and-son, the vicar, my best friend and many more besides. All characters are aged 18 or over.

The book which also has many illustrations runs for more than 26,000 words.

Please enjoy.

Click on the link below to download Charles Hamilton II’s Collection of Spanking Stories

collection-of-spanking-stories-vol-1-by-charles-hamilton-ii

Picture credit: Mancspank

For more free-to-download books click here

 

After school

z used after on bed naked (1)

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

Toby’s father visits

Warren’s awakening

My belligerent nephew

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The boy in the street

used drawing modern (8)

 

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

Secret in the loft

The drunken neighbour

The paying guest

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

New experiences

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.

used drawing brush hold otk (9)

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

Where’s the paddle, hon?

When Dad got home

One hot summer afternoon

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com