Changed Times – the compilation

z used Silhouette cane hold (14)

 

Readers in the United Kingdom don’t need me to tell them that arguments about leaving the European Union have been raging for more than three years and don’t seem to be resolved yet.

Many people who voted to leave the EU (it seemed to me) wanted to return to sometime in the past when in their eyes the world was a less complicated place. Maybe the 1930s where everybody knew their place in the world and discipline was much tighter than it is today.

That set me thinking. What if, after the exit from the EU, we did start to turn the clock back. In my imagination, corporal punishment was reintroduced into schools. This proved such a success with parents that it was soon extended to include other young people, such as university and college students and workplace apprentices. Before long any person under the age of thirty could be subjected to the cane or the birch (or any other CP implement of choice).

So, was born the series of stories that I called “Changed Times.” I have brought them all together here for those who may not have seen them before. I enjoyed writing them, but the stories and sentiments expressed are fiction and I am not asking you to join me in forming a new political party.

Click on the titles and I hope you enjoy reading them.

Charles

 

1: A glimpse into the near future

This story sets up the series and follows Kenny on his first day at college as an apprentice to Global Petroleum.

“Sterling fumbled with the three buttons on his company blazer. He visibly trembled as he slipped the jacket over his shoulders and pulled his arms through the sleeves. Then, without waiting for instructions, he dropped the blazer onto the top of the desk.

“Kenny and his fellow new recruits could see Sterling’s face. It was deathly pale and bathed in sweat. A moustache of moisture clung to the young man’s upper lip.

‘“Lower your trousers and underpants.”’

 

2: Neighbourhood watch

The new laws affect all aspects of society.

“Mr Scroggins was the “punishment officer” for the Neighbourhood Watch. It was a title he chose for himself. It wasn’t official; he wasn’t paid a salary. He didn’t want paying, he was glad to perform his civic duty.

“The Neighbourhood Watch had been formed in the words of its members, ‘to take back the streets.’ The Avenue was in a prosperous middle-class suburb.

“They had a ‘punishment room’ at the community hall. It was a plain functional room; windowless and lit by a single overhead light. It was quite small, but big enough for its purpose. It contained a small whipping horse which enabled the wrists, ankles and knees of the youth to be secured with straps. The horse itself had once been in the gymnasium of a local school. It had been lowered and modified so that when a young man was properly mounted and helpless the padded upper surface was quite comfortable.”

 

  1. The police station

Of course, the police play a large part in the new social control.

‘“Lift him up. On the table,” Reid dragged the prisoner by the arm and hauled him so that his whole body was forced onto the cold laminated top. Each arm and leg was gripped by a police officer.

‘“Good work, lads. Good work.” Sgt. Gould had returned. In his hand he held a heavy leather strap with a wooden handle at one end.

‘“A prison strap,” he waved it in the air. “They used them in Canada. Apparently.” He swiped it some more. The prisoner could not see it. He was held tightly face-down on the table. Reid’s left hand pressed his head into the hard surface.”

 

  1. Global Petroleum

We return to Global Petroleum.

“Mr Hodgson took his new role as Global Petroleum’s local Discipline Officer very seriously. He had attended, in his own time, a weekend course in ‘Applying Discipline in the Modern Age.’ He learnt all about the new punishment laws; about the duties of the employers and the responsibilities of the young apprentices.

“He learnt the theory; but also the practice. The workshop participants spent an afternoon acquiring caning techniques. Who would have thought it was difficult? Mr Hodgson had supposed the young man would submissively offer him his buttocks and Mr Hodgson would whack them with a cane.”

z used Silhouette paddle hold (1)

  1. At home

Emboldened by the new laws, fathers were reintroducing discipline into their own homes.

“Downstairs in the living room Mr Nightingale flexed a thick rattan cane thoughtfully in his hands. He had never held such a thing until the day he bought it in the local market. A stall specialised in all kinds of spanking instruments. It did a roaring trade in school canes and paddles. Mr Nightingale picked up a large scatter cushion and balanced it over the back of an armchair. Then, he positioned himself an arm’s length to its side. The cushion was more or less where George’s backside would be in about ten minutes’ time. Mr Nightingale rubbed the cane across the cushion, raised his arm high and brought the whippy rod crashing down. A line indented across the centre of the polyester-filled cushion.”

 

  1. Birched live on TV

The title of this story speaks for itself.

‘“Stand by everybody,” the television director whispered in his mouthpiece. ‘We’re live in twenty seconds.’ Sweat glistened on his top lip. His heartbeat raced. He couldn’t understand why. He had done countless live broadcasts in his time. But, none quite like this.

“The twenty-two-year-old prisoner heaved his body this way and that. It did no good. He was going nowhere. His wrists were secured by plastic ties. His legs were roped to the frame.

“The director breathed deeply. He knew his show would get record ratings. The first-ever broadcast of a youth flogging. The pubic had been clamouring for it. They wanted to see the thugs suffer. They demanded all of it. The screams. The blood. The works. And, live on TV. Beamed by satellite into their homes.”

  1. Pub landlord

Soon everyone was getting in on the act. A pub landlord takes control after a group of lads get rowdy and smash up chairs.

“I remember my hands shook so much I couldn’t get my belt buckle to open. I had never been naked in front of a man before. I must have been fourteen the last time I had stripped off for PE lessons at school. I was as terrified of being seen naked – and lacking in the you-know-where department – in front of my pals.

“Somehow, I managed to loosen my jeans and they fell to my knees and I left them there while I tugged my tee-shirt over my head. Tony and Bill were even slower undressing then me. At last we stood in our underwear and socks. Mortified.”

  1. Just another day

Just another day, in just another office. It could be anywhere across the UK. Three twenty-something workers face the consequences of not taking a training workshop seriously.

“Rowe stared at the cane in his boss’s hand. ‘But we already got dealt with by Mr. Richardson.’

‘“Be quite! I don’t care about Mr. Richardson.’

“Rowe blushed. It wasn’t fair. The workshop facilitator had already spanked them. Twenty-three years old and bent over Mr. Richardson’s knee, trousers at his ankles, underpants at his knees while the old man hammered a heavy wooden ruler into his bared buttocks. Could you imagine such a thing?

  1. The truck

Another workplace whacking. What happens if you consistently turn up late for work?

“My legs felt like they were made of lead as I trudged out of the portable office and into the yard. The moment I was outside everything stopped and my workmates gathered around to see the fun. Some of the older ones had huge grins; they were going to enjoy the sport – me, bare-arsed across the truck. Sandy and Jake, two lads about my age, were deathly pale. They knew that it could be one of them next.

“It was a late spring morning and quite warm, but I couldn’t stop shivering. I’d never been spanked before.”

 

Picture credits: Unknown

 

I have also written other “futuristic” stories along the lines of Changed Times. You can read some of them here

 

A right caning

The Dean’s list

We need to talk about Jake

Caned at college

University student late for class

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

A right caning

new 5

I was on the bus the other day and there were two young men sitting behind me and one said a little loudly, “He gave him a right caning!” Naturally, my ears pricked up at this. Intrigued, I very casually turned my head to see who had spoken. They were two students. I could tell because they had ID cards hanging round their necks. They got off at the next stop leaving me bemused. He gave him a right caning: did that mean what I hoped it meant?

Of course it couldn’t, I told myself. Right caning, it must be some slang the kids use. Perhaps it means doing something to excess; like, “He gave the whiskey bottle a right caning.” But that didn’t seem to be the right answer. He gave him a right caning. That was definitely one person doing something to another.

It continued to puzzle me and later in the day when I saw my grandson Richie who is also a student I asked him what it might have meant. He gave me that look he always gives when I have demonstrated how out of touch I am with the modern world. “Where have you been these last years?” he asked good humouredly and when I continued to look blank he told me that they had introduced corporal punishment in colleges and universities two years ago. This was after they brought back the cane in schools. Apparently, that solved a lot of the discipline problems that had been plaguing teachers for decades.

It didn’t seem to be a big deal to Richie. He told me that he and two pals had themselves been caned last semester. They got back to the halls of residence late after they had been to some club. They had to report to the office of the Dean of Discipline next morning. There were a few other students standing in line waiting their turn. He told me all about it. He wasn’t the least embarrassed.

He said the room wasn’t really an office. There was a table pushed up against one wall and some empty shelves along another, but mainly there was just an ordinary armchair stuck in the middle. It was one of those with a low back and wooden arms that you sometimes see in reception areas of big offices. The whole thing was done with little ceremony. Apparently, the Dean of Discipline reads out from a charge sheet; a bit like in the Army I imagine. So, it went something like, “You missed curfew and returned back inebriated.” Richie had to agree this was so and then sign a paper saying he consented to be punished. He’s over eighteen, so legally an adult so he can do this.

The Dean of Discipline is permitted to give up to twelve strokes of the cane. It has to be on the seat of the trousers, but apparently they are thinking of changing this so in future you could get it on the underpants or even on the bare. Blimey! Imagine that.

Once the legal document was signed, they just got on with it. Richie said, “There was a tall vase thing in the corner of the room with about six or seven canes standing in it. He’s a bit of a sod because he takes his time deciding which one to use. He took one out, studied it carefully and he swished it about a bit. Then he decided that wasn’t good enough and he took another one and did the same with that. I don’t know why he bothered,” Richie laughed, “He had used them all often enough, they were all his old friends.”

I didn’t tell him that the Dean of Discipline was trying to intimidate him; to make him fearful of what was about to happen. I have to say judging by the way Richie was opening up to me about his caning he wasn’t the least worried. But who knows, at the time he might have been bricking it.

It seems this Dean of Discipline is an older man, gone to seed a little with his belly hanging over his belt and his suit jacket straining over his shoulders. He was very formal. “In the end he got the stick he wanted. It was less than a metre long and looked quite stout, but when he flexed it between his hands it was very whippy. He swished it a couple of times and then he said, ‘Bend over that chair.’ I’d never been done before but plenty of others had so I had a good idea of what was going to happen.”

z used cane holding kernled

Richie told me went to the back of the chair, counted to three and “threw myself over.” I was trying not make my interest too obvious but I asked him, why he did it? Why did he let himself be beaten by this older man? He gave me that “What planet are you on?” look again. “I broke the rules. I got caught. I took my punishment,” he told me snootily. Well, I thought, back in my day if they tried that on we would have told them to go to hell and the entire student union body would’ve been on strike before the day had ended. My, how times have changed.

“I got six. Six strokes that is. They call it six-of-the-best,” he said as if speaking to a slightly backward child.

“Did it hurt?” I asked, feigning innocence. He laughed loudly, “What do you think! Of course, it bloody hurt. That’s the whole point!” I must say he seemed enormously relaxed about the whole thing. He certainly didn’t think he was the victim of some terrible outrage. I nodded sagely to encourage him to continue.

“I knew it would,” he said. “What you have to do,” he continued as if he were a veteran in such matters, “is try not to think about it. Just hold on tightly to the chair. Some students stare straight ahead and concentrate on the wall at the other end of the room. Me, I looked down at the seat cushion and studied the dent somebody’s arse had made in it.”

I wriggled in my chair imagining the scene in the Dean of Discipline’s office. Richie bent across the back of the chair. His head is low and his bottom is high. I suppose his legs are set apart and his knees held straight. He didn’t say but I wonder if the Dean of Discipline took some time smoothing the seat of Richie’s trousers; so there were no creases. He would have wanted them to be as tight as a drum. Did he move the tail of Richie’s jacket away from the target area? Was he wearing a jacket? Perhaps he only had on a shirt. Would it ride up away from the waist of his trousers, exposing a patch of bare flesh on his lower back.

Richie continued talking, he was almost evangelical, “You have to stay there and take it. Let him get on with it. Close your eyes and grit your teeth. Try not to jump about. Keep quiet, don’t scream and holler.”

I nodded agreement, perhaps a little too vigorously and he might have thought I was mocking him. “Of course, you’ve never been caned,” he said scathingly. I raised my hand to my mouth and covered a sly smile. “Six,” he reiterated, “Six strokes. He was a master. He got them all to land right next to each other. In a strip. It was like he pressed a red hot poker into my bum,” his eyes watered at the memory. “I didn’t yell. It was touch and go I tell you.” He was clearly inordinately proud of his fortitude.

“Couldn’t sit down for a week, I suppose,” I laughed. He was relaxed and shared in the joke. “I had these big welts right across my arse. Stayed about a week. The guys have got pictures of it somewhere.” That was the end of his story. There wasn’t much more that could be said. With my heart racing and short of breath, I made a pot of coffee and we drank in companionable silence.

Picture credit: Kernled

Other stories you might like

Two naughty boys

The party’s over

Not too old to be spanked by grandad

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

 

The Dean’s list

new story 2

zused paddle jeans touch toes american school

Bruce is standing with his nose centimetres from the wall. The smell of damp plaster is cloying. He thinks he is about to sneeze. The passageway is hot and humid. The mid-afternoon sun blazes but none of the windows are open. They have been stuck closed for years: no budget for maintenance Bruce stares dead ahead as instructed. To his right two other students stand obediently. To his left are a further three. All stand in silence. All Bruce can hear is rhythmic breathing. No one dares speak. All afraid of breaking more rules.

Bruce was the third to arrive. All were summoned to attend at three o’clock sharp and don’t dare be late. All arrived early. Some earlier than others. None knew that the rule was first to arrive, first to be dealt with. Bruce feels under dressed. He is in blue jeans and green t-shirt. Both of the two ahead of him in the queue are in smart business suits. The others are in smart trousers. All wear neck ties. One wears a blazer. Bruce thinks he looks like a schoolboy. Now he thinks about it, less than six months ago he was.

The heavy oak door at the end of the passageway opens. Nobody turns his head, but they all sense what is happening. A tall, thin teenager shuffles out. His face soaked in perspiration, eyes dampened by tears. His neck is scarlet. He hesitates slightly, whispers to the boy at the head of the line and then darts down the passageway, both hands clutching the seat of his trousers. The air is thick with expectation. Still nobody speaks. The boy at the head of the queue fastens the button of his suit jacket, checks his tie and sucks in a lungful of air. With absolutely no enthusiasm he knocks on the door. The boy catches the faintest sound from the other side, he turns the handle and pushes against the heavy oak.

Another day at Brocklehurst University. The same ritual is played out every afternoon at 3 p.m., Monday to Thursday. Week in and week out. The Dean of Discipline likes to spend Friday afternoons at the golf club so he brings forward the line-up to one o’clock.

This is Bruce’s first time on the Dean’s List. It is his third month at the university. It is a wonder to him he has escaped for so long. The list of rules at Brocklehurst is endless. Don’t do this. Don’t do that. Be on time. Get good grades. Keep your nose clean. Don’t make waves. Or else. It’s the Dean’s List. And, that means only one thing. The door creeps open again. Another sorrowful boy limps out. “Six!” he gasps. “Bare arsed,” he says disbelievingly. “Bare arsed!” he repeats to make certain they all understand he is incredulous. “Your turn,” he nods at his companion in the suit. “Bloody hell!” He waddles down the passageway towards the staircase and freedom.

Bruce continues staring at the wall. Six. Bare arsed. He shuts his eyes. Bloody hell indeed. Corporal punishment. At university. Aged eighteen. The world is turning upside down. It started when Britain crashed out of the European Union. The government collapsed. The opposition parties were useless. There was turmoil everywhere. Food shortages. Riots on the streets. Suddenly from nowhere came the New Democratic Party to save the nation. They knew what Britain needed. A little bit of gardening. They had made that joke a lot at the time the NDP came to power. Lawn Order. Cut the grass neat and tidy. They meant law and order, of course. And they meant it too.

In the flick of an eyelid new regulations were passed. Curfews were introduced. Food was back in the shops. The immigrants were sent home. The public loved it. Especially, when the NDP went for the no-good layabout youth. That gormless politician who spoke like he had a plum in his mouth and the funny double-barrelled surname called, “bring back the birch for juvenile delinquents”. So, they did. And the cane at school. Before you knew it no fellow under the age of thirty was safe from corporal punishment. Students at university, apprentices in factories, office juniors and many more suffered.

Bruce has a tenuous grasp of all this history. It matters little to him. All he knows for sure is he flunked his mid-term examination. Too much time spent with his lips around a beer bottle and not enough with his nose in a book. He knows he has no one to blame but himself.

His heart is trying to pound through his ribcage. His head aches a little. Six. Bare arsed. This is unchartered territory. Like many eighteen year olds he has never been spanked before. The laws are that new. The door opens. Bruce gets a whiff of sour breath as the boy leans towards him and croaks, “Your turn.”

Bruce faces the door. His eyelids flicker. His heart races. His hand is unsteady. He raps his knuckles on the oak panel and waits for the call. His palm sweats as he turns the handle and pushes his way into the Dean of Discipline’s office. The room is large. A conference table runs almost its entire length. A heavy sideboard takes up one wall. A window – this one also jammed shut – faces him. Dean Cooper holds a tablet in his hand. He peers over the top of his spectacles at the screen. “Name?” he does not look up at Bruce. Bruce answers, his voice cracking. Dean Cooper uses his thumbs to find Bruce on his list. “Ah,” Dean Cooper says, still not looking at the student before him. “First time. I see.” He doesn’t give Bruce time to confirm this. “Stand there.” Dean Cooper speaks but does not say where it is Bruce must position himself. Bruce stands in a space between the conference table and the door. He is surprised he is so calm. He watches Dean Cooper, a short, dumpy man in his fifties, reach over to the top of the sideboard. Only now does Bruce see the dark-brown rectangular paddle that rests there.

Dean Cooper grips it in his right hand. It is about thirty centimetres long and maybe ten wide. Bruce has never seen a punishment paddle before but he knows instinctively that this one has been lovingly crafted. Twelve holes are neatly drilled in groups of two along its length. Sunlight reflects off its thick coating of varnish. “Face that way.” Dean Cooper nods towards the far wall. Bruce swivels on the balls of his feet. Any moment now, he will be ordered to bare his arse. He knows he has no choice. He must do as instructed. If he refuses punishment he will be expelled from the university. He won’t be able to get a job and he will end up in one of those camps for the young jobless that the NDP has just set up.

Bruce scrunches up his face, bracing himself for the humiliation. Bent over, arse bared to the wind, his crack and balls on full view to this oily old man. “Assume the position.” Bruce hesitates. Assume the position. What does that mean exactly? Take down your jeans? Underpants too? Dean Cooper snarls, unable to hide his irritation. He wants to get this over with. He doesn’t have all afternoon. There is a gin and tonic with his name on it waiting for him at the Three Fishers.

“Assume the position,” he repeats. Then, mindful that Bruce is a first-timer, he adds, “Bend over. Grab your ankles. Keep your knees straight.” A wave of relief washes over Bruce. Bend over. Grab your ankles. Keep your knees straight. So it isn’t to be bare-arsed at all. Almost with gratitude, Bruce leans forward. It is harder to assume the position and keep his knees straight than he thought. He feels his jeans tighten across his buttocks. He winces when Dean Cooper places the paddle across the centre of his cheeks and pats gently. Bruce stares down at the patterned rug beneath his feet. It is brown and full of dust. Absurdly, at that moment he remembers most of the cleaning staff lost their jobs recently because of cuts in budgets. The wood feels heavy as it taps across his bottom. Dean Cooper is getting his aim.

Bruce closes his eyes tight and tenses his buttocks. The paddle raises and returns, crashing into his cheeks with tremendous speed. The force knocks him forward and it takes some doing for Bruce to stop himself falling headlong onto the floor. He grips his ankles more tightly. The paddle crashes down again. It feels like Dean Cooper has pressed a hot iron into his flesh. Within seconds Dean Cooper whacks the paddle six times into Bruce’s bum. “Stand. Go.” Dean Cooper returns the paddle to the sideboard and takes hold of his tablet waiting for the next boy.

Bruce is winded. His bottom hurts. Quite a bit. But, he is not in agony. The pain is sharp at first but quickly it turns to an intense throb. Even as he prepares to leave the room, it is becoming a dull ache. It will be gone entirely by the time Bruce reaches his room and can inspect the damage.

Bruce tugs open the heavy door and pushes himself through. He is breathing heavily and he thinks his face must be either deathly pale or bright scarlet. He nods at the next boy in the line. “Good luck,” he says as he makes his leave. “It wasn’t so bad,” he thinks to himself and wonders how long it will be before he finds out what it feels like to get it on the bare.

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

We need to talk about Jake

You, a dad doing his duty

The bully

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

We need to talk about Jake

new story 2

zused otk paddle jake story spankingstraightboysdotcom

Wayne and Sharon Grimethorpe were watching Newsnight on television in the front room of their terraced house in Brocklehurst. “Jake’s late again,” Sharon said to her husband. He didn’t hear her. He was too engrossed in an item about the birching of juvenile delinquents at the new Short, Sharp Shock detention centres. They were going to put them on YouTube to prove to taxpayers they were getting value for money.

Sharon sighed, “I said Jake’s late again. That’s the third time this month.”

“Fourth, actually,” Wayne was paying attention now. Newsnight had moved on to an item about budget cuts for regional theatres.

“Well, you know what you’ll have to do when he comes in. He knows what time curfew is.”

“Yes, I know,” Wayne hesitated and then said, “It’s not like it’s the first time.”

“No,” Sharon said with great irritation, “It’s not. You know you’ll have to spank him when he gets in don’t you.”

“Yes, I know. The paddle’s in the drawer.”

Jake was their twenty-year-old son.

They watched the television some more. Wayne had a question he wanted to ask his wife. A difficult question. Probably an embarrassing question. He didn’t know how to ask it. They didn’t talk much. Not to each other. They never had really. Wayne wriggled his buttocks on the sofa; movement hid his embarrassment.

“Yes,” he said. “He knows he has to be home by half-ten. That’s the curfew. If he’s late he gets spanked. That’s the rule.” Sharon stretched her legs. Why was her husband telling her things she already knew? “So?” she didn’t try to hide her annoyance.

Wayne cowered. “Well, it’s just …” He couldn’t find the words to finish his sentence. The silence was far from comfortable. Sharon glowered, “What is it! Tell me what you want to say.” Wayne knew he was blushing, deep to his roots. Inwardly, he cursed himself for bringing up the subject.

“This spanking lark,” he said. “Does it work?” He turned his head to avoid his wife’s glare. “I mean four times this month.”

“Maybe you’re not doing it properly,” she retorted. She thought Wayne was a wimp. He should wallop Jake properly, that’d put an end to it. Wayne’s mouth opened and closed but no words came. That’s unfair, he thought. He had watched several of the instructional videos online. They were very explicit. He had purchased a heavy, square wooden paddle. One of the authorised ones stamped with the approval of the Department of Juvenile Corrections.

“What does Mike from across the road do?” his wife did not intend to stay silent on the matter.

“He got one of those tawses,” Wayne felt more confident when talking about other people. “You know those leather things with the two tails. He’s hung it on a hook in the passage. It’s the first thing you see when you go in the house.”

“And does he use it?” his wife was determined to find fault in her husband. “Does he spank David four times a month?”

“No, he says he’s never had to use it. David’s as good as gold.”

“Well bully for him,” Sharon snorted. She envied her colleagues at work and the neighbours who had no discipline trouble with their kids, even the older ones. They knew how to control them, not like her poor excuse for a husband.

“Maybe you need to be more assertive. Whack Jake a bit harder or something,” she peered across the tiny room at her husband.

Wayne frowned. Why couldn’t he pluck up the courage to tell her what he was thinking? “I do everything I’m supposed to,” he said defensively. “Like they say in the videos. You’ve seen them,” he added trying to get his wife to share some of the blame for their failure. “I tell him what he’s done wrong. Then I send him upstairs to change into his pyjamas. When he comes down again I tell him to bend over my knee. Then, I whack him on the you-know-where with the paddle. Hard,” his eyes narrowed as if he were concentrating, “Very hard. Lots of times.” He sighed, “What more am I supposed to do?”

His wife picked up the remote control and flicked through channels: two-hundred-and-seventy-five and nothing worth watching. “Well,” she said, “It’s not doing much good is it?”

At that moment they heard the sound of a key in the front door. “He’s here at last,” Sharon threw the remote onto the settee and stood up. “I’ll leave you to it,” she said leaving the room. Wayne heard her voice in the passage, “Late again! Your father’s waiting for you.”

Wayne scratched his head and rose from his chair, “What time do you call this?” he growled as his son entered the room. The boy shrugged his shoulders, peered across the room at a clock and replied, “Eleven-fifteen.”

“Don’t get smart with me, you know what I mean.”

Jake, stood unconcerned. He was late. He’d missed curfew. There was no mystery about what would happen next. He had seen it all before.

“You missed curfew,” his father said, stating the obvious. Jake stood watching his father’s complexion gradually darken. Jake thought Dad was no great intellectual; he rarely had much of interest to say. Tonight would be no different. Or, so he supposed.

Wayne was flustered. How he wished he had asked his wife that burning question. He told his son something else he already knew, “That’s four times this month.” It didn’t occur to Wayne to ask where the boy had been. Who was he with? What were they doing?

“Sorry, Dad,” Jake told his father, but the tone of his voice suggested otherwise. He had been late that evening, he would be late again. Sorry had nothing to do with it.

Wayne was flustered, he stood hopping from one foot to another, gripped by indecision. What was he to do about Jake?

“Dad, shall I go upstairs and get changed into my pyjamas?”

Wayne’s jaw dropped. His heart missed a beat with fear. The nerve of the boy. Who did he think he was? What did he think he was doing? There were so many questions and Wayne had none of the answers.

“No!” Wayne said with more authority than he actually felt. “No. Not this time. Just stay where you are.”

Jake hid his puzzlement well. What was going on? Dad always had his routine. Get changed into pyjamas, come downstairs, bend over his knee. Get a sound paddling. It was always like that. He watched as his father moved to a sideboard and opened a drawer. Jake relaxed. He knew what was happening now. Dad was going for the paddle. They were back on track.

It was a small paddle, it had been especially designed and endorsed by the Department of Juvenile Corrections to be used at close quarters. It was no bigger than a table tennis bat and about three centimetres thick. It was constructed of hard wood with a small handle at one end. It was recommended for over-the-knee spankings. Jake could testified to its effectiveness.

Wayne gripped the paddle tightly and brandished it at his son. He had an idea. There would be change tonight. He would do things differently. He needed an answer to his question. Please God! he thought, let it be the right one.

Jake’s eyes followed the paddle. Sweat moistened his brow and his round, open face flushed. He always went like this when Dad was getting ready to spank him. Dad picked up a small chair and plonked it down in a space by the window. This confirmed to Jake that a spanking was imminent.

“No pyjamas this time,” Dad croaked. His mouth was dry so he poked his tongue out and ran the tip around his lips. It didn’t do much good. Jake had also gone dry. That usually happened, he wasn’t worried. Dad sat on the chair. It looked like Dad was ready for business. “Take down your trousers.”

Jake’s eyes glistened. Take down my trousers. His heart skipped a beat. This wasn’t how it usually went. What was Dad up to? “B-b-but,” he started a protest but Dad cut him short. “Just get on with it. It’s late we should both be in bed.”

Jake was surprised how much his hand shook as he undid his belt. He was entering unchartered territory. Dad was a creature of habit. This wasn’t how he spanked. What was different this time? Why had he changed?

With the belt loosened, Jake popped the button on the waist of his jeans, pulled the zipper and with his hands helped them fall to his knees. Then he placed the hands in front of his crutch. His boxers were tight and he was afraid Dad might see the outline of his cock and balls.

“Bend over my knee,” it was not a confident command. Wayne’s question had still to be answered. Jake shuffled a step and stood to his Dad’s right. He had been here before, he knew the drill. He was back on familiar territory. He gauged the distance between himself and Dad’s knees and slowly lowered himself down. He used Dad’s thighs as a ledge to hold on to as he manoeuvred himself into position. As was his custom he placed the palms of his hands flat against the floor and kept his knees straight behind him. Doing this left his bottom pointing up at an angle and his crotch pressing into Dad’s thigh.

Jake was about the same height as his Dad and suited the over-the-knee position. His bottom made a terrific target for Dad’s paddle. The bum itself was round and fleshy. Like so many boys of his age Jake could benefit from time in the gym. Jake felt his Dad’s arm take him around the waist and his body tensed. Soon he would feel the paddle caress the peaks of his mounds as Dad found his aim. Then the first whack would burn into his buttocks. Jake closed his eyes.

That’s how it always was. That’s how his Dad spanked him. Not this time. Dad rested the paddle on Jake’s back. Jake’s eyes opened. What was this? Dad had taken hold of the waistband of the pants. “Nooooo! Dad,” Jake wailed. It was an involuntary act. He hadn’t planned to protest. “Be quiet!” Dad scolded as he tugged the thin cotton shorts over Jake’s plump behind. “There: let the dog see the rabbit.” He left the underwear bunched at Jake’s thighs.

“No!!!” the twenty-year-old repeated the protest to no avail. The paddle pounded first his left cheek, then the right. Jake’s buttocks clenched tight as the burning began. The paddle flew across the naked bottom at great speed and Dad pulverised his son. In no time its outline was embossed as deep-pink rectangles across the whole target area.

Jake wailed. It was the surprise of it all as much as the pain. Dad always spanked with vitality; that’s what the instructional videos said to do. It’s punishment. Make it hurt, that’s the point. Deter them from future misbehaviour. The bare-bottomed paddling hurt – a lot! – but not much more than it did when applied across the thin cottoned seat of his pyjamas. Jake realised he was frightened (close to real terror) of being naked from the waist down in front of his Dad. Oh the humiliation!

This was a first for Dad as well. He had never seen at close hand the effects of the paddle. The scorched flesh and the vivid welts caused by its edge were intense. He admired the way the paddle sank into the flesh on Jake’s bottom. And the way it wobbled as he withdrew it to lift it high so he could crash it down again. The video instructor would be proud of him.

He whacked another half dozen swats. There wasn’t a square-centimetre that didn’t throb red hot. Jake (as he always did) lay across his knee, almost impassively. His eyes were closed tight, his mouth opened from time to time to allow air to hiss through his lips. The spanking hurt, Dad was certain of that but Jake seemed to have a high pain threshold.

But now the teenager was wriggling and writhing across his knee. His body was heaving up and down. Jake covered his face with his hands. Was he crying? If so, it would be the first time. “No. No.” Jake was moaning softly. “Noooooo.”

Dad stopped paddling with a jolt. A warm gooey liquid was spreading across his thigh. “What the ….!” He exclaimed and with great dread released the grip on his son’s waist. Jake took his chance. He scrambled off Dad’s knee, jerked his pants back to their rightful place and with jeans still at his ankles he stumbled from the room.

Wayne sat still. Exhausted. His heart beat so fast he felt blood rush to his ears. The liquid soaking his own jeans was starting to solidify. The stench was appalling. Then he realised. He jumped from the chair and skipped from foot to foot as if in some way that would clean his trousers. He felt sick. He bent double as vomit flew to the back of his throat. He needed the toilet. Too late, no time. Instead he bounced off the walls and into the kitchen. He leaned across the sink and retched up the contents of his stomach.

Minutes later after he had peeled off his jeans and stuffed them in the washing machine he opened the fridge and found a beer. He needed something stronger, but this would have to do. He downed half a bottle in one swig. He felt no better. What was he to do? What should he tell his wife? What did the future hold? There were so many more questions to ask now that he knew the answer to why spankings did not improve Jake’s behaviour.

 

 

Picture credit: spanking straight boys dot com

Other stories you might like

The Tyrant Headmaster 3. The prefects’ reckoning

After school

The milk bottle thief

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Changed Times 8. Just another day

z used cane pants down touch toes

 

Click here for all episodes of Changed Times

 

Mr. Burton heaved a heavy sigh and glared at the three young men standing in front of his desk. Won’t they ever learn? The law had been in place for three years, they knew the rules – and the penalty for breaking them.

Osbourne, Rowe and Tapler, three twenty-something trainee managers stood hands behind backs, head slightly bowed. Contrite. Waiting for the inevitable. Mr. Burton noticed how all the young men a Global Petroleum looked like peas in a pod. Dark, perfectly creased trousers, gleaming white shirt, tie knotted tightly at the throat. Neat, short hair. Clean shaven.

There wasn’t much to be said. They knew why they were there. Just returned from a company residential course. They had too much to drink one night and missed the start of the following day. That would not do. Not do at all. Action had to be taken.

“It was a serious training school, not a vacation,” Mr. Burton leaned forward in his chair, planting his forearms on the desk. He was a tall wiry man in his early fifties. He was known as one of the “old guard” – staff who had been at Global since before the changes. When Britain was still in the European Union and before the huge economic crash. Things had changed when the New Democrats came into power. Mr. Burton was a keen supporter, the country had been going to the dogs – especially the young people.

“Well, let’s get on with this shall we,” he lifted himself from his sumptuous leather chair and made his way across the office, conscious of three pairs of eyes craning to watch him go. His destination was a long table. It had a drawer running along its length. Mr. Burton tugged it open, creating a rattling sound. To the three young men it seemed to echo around the office, the sound bouncing off the walls. Osbourne’s hands started to shake. Rowe stared intently at his highly polished black leather shoes. Tapler absent-mindedly rubbed his thumbs across the seat of his trousers.

It took Mr. Burton only seconds to reach in the drawer and withdraw a long, thin whippy rattan school cane. They still called them “school” canes, but since the law was passed it was permissible to beat young people in all walks of life. It started when they brought back corporal punishment to schools and soon its use spread to colleges and universities. Then misbehaving apprentices found they could have their backsides blistered. Suddenly, young people learned how to behave. The public loved it. Next thing the law allowed anyone in authority over the young to beat them black and blue.

This cane was made of the traditional rattan and when Mr. Burton flexed it between his hands he effortlessly made an arc. He looked across at the three young men, each still facing his desk. Three backsides waiting to be beaten. He walked slowly back to his desk, gently swishing the cane as he went.

“I think twelve strokes should do it, don’t you?” It was so gently said Mr. Burton might have been asking a genuine question. As if the lads were able to negotiate. “You know what Mr. Burton, I rather think I deserve three dozen.”

Rowe stared at the cane in his boss’s hand. “But we already got dealt with by Mr. Richardson.”

“Be quite! I don’t care about Mr. Richardson.”

Rowe blushed. It wasn’t fair. The workshop facilitator had already spanked them. Twenty-three years old and bent over Mr. Richardson’s knee, trousers at his ankles, underpants at his knees while the old man hammered a heavy wooden ruler into his bared buttocks. Could you imagine such a thing?

Mr. Burton swiped the cane through the air. “Rowe, Osbourne, stand by the wall.” He nodded to his left and the two young men obediently shuffled. “Tapler. Stand there.” He tapped the tip of his cane in the middle of a red-patterned rug. Tapler breathed deeply. His palms were sweating. He rubbed them against his trouser legs and set off across the office.

“Take down your trousers. Bend over.”

The three young men expected this. They weren’t the first employees to be beaten by Mr. Burton. They wouldn’t be the last. Even so, Tapler’s open faced coloured. His palms dampened again. This was too embarrassing. He saw Mr. Burton tap the cane against his own leg impatiently.

“C’mon lad, I haven’t got all day.”

Tapler’s wet fingers unbuckled his narrow back leather belt. He popped the button on the waistband of the trousers and tugged the zipper. The weight of his keys in his pocket helped them slither down his legs. He felt a slight breeze as they went.

“Bend over, lad.” More tapping against his leg.

Mr. Burton used to order a lad to, “Touch your toes.” He wasn’t sure why. It was the traditional way, he supposed. What generations of schoolmasters had done. He quickly learned it was better to have the lad grab his shins. It kept the knees straight and the bum was beautifully rounded to receive the swish of the rattan.

That was how Tapler presented himself. His spotted boxer shorts fitted snugly against his stretched cheeks. The lad’s shirttail hung down and covered most of his buttocks. It was no effort for Mr. Burton to take the edge and push it up the lad’s back to his shoulders. Mr. Burton was surprised how hairy the twenty-two-year-old was. Quite the hairiest youngster he had ever dealt with.

Tapler stared at the rug. It had a pattern but he couldn’t work out what it was. Some modern art perhaps. From the corner of his eye, he saw Mr. Burton take up position. He felt the cane being “sawed” across the centre of his tight buttocks. Then it was lifted away. He heard the swoosh as the cane flew and the crack as it connected with the seat of his underwear. It was a second or so later that he felt the tremendous pain. A thick welt was already forming under his boxers. It throbbed like mad.

Tapler gripped his calves so tightly his fingernails scratched the flesh. The second and third swipes bounced off his bum; landing in almost the same spot. It knocked the wind out of him. He shut his teeth just in time to stifle the “yowelll!” he wanted to make.

Osborne and Rowe looked on apprehensively. Their pal seemed to be taking the thrashing well. Rowe had howled when Mr. Richardson spanked him, he couldn’t imagine taking a trousers-down caning stoically.

Tapler’s head ached and saliva drained from his mouth. His boss continued his task with determination. It was his duty to instil discipline in the young. One day, when they were managers and making a good career at Global they would thank him for days like this. All his employees would. Mr. Burton was convinced corporal punishment worked. A sore arse never did any harm. The youngster broke the rules, learnt a very painful lesson and the world moved on. God was in his Heaven.

Twelve swipes of the cane across the underwear is an awesome punishment. By the time Tapler was allowed to stand his bum was ripped to shreds. Even without rubbing his hands across his buttocks he knew there were high ridges rising on the flesh. It felt like his shorts were stuck to the skin. That was either sweat, or God forbid, blood.

“Osbourne.”

The trainee manager took Tapler’s place. Tapler’s ashen face and damp eyes made Osbourne’s skin crawl. Osbourne took up position, let his trousers fall and bent to stare at the rug. Mr. Burton grimaced. Osbourne wore the most garish briefs, in a kind of zebra pattern. He had noticed that although young men dressed outwardly alike, they favoured outlandish underwear.

“Brace yourself boy.” He lashed the first cut home.

He had landed number eight when the office door swung open. Mr. Harris the section head – Mr. Burton’s boss – stood in the threshold. He was younger and beefier than Mr. Burton. He smiled broadly. “I heard there was something going on in here.”

He stared across at the zebra-covered arse. “Don’t I know you,” he grunted. “Didn’t I have occasion to thrash you the other week?”

“Yes, Sir,” the reply was addressed to the rug.

“Give me that, Burton,” he grabbed the cane from his hand and marched up to Osbourne. Rowe and Tapler watched in horror as Mr. Harris gripped the waist of the twenty-three-year-old’s pants and ripped them to his knees, completely baring the buttocks.

“You’ve given him a good set of marks, Burton,” he said with genuine admiration. Eight thick parallel lines ran from the top of the globes, over the crest of the buttocks and into the soft sit-spot. Mr. Harris raised the cane high and thrashed six stingers into the bare flesh. Rat-tat-tat, like machinegun fire. Osbourne howled like a banshee. His body twisted this way and that. His knees buckled and straightened as he fought to stop himself jumping to his feet and rubbing away at the scolding flesh.

“Here, carry on,” Mr. Harris handed the cane back and perched his buttocks on the edge of the desk. He folded his hands demurely over his crotch and made himself comfortable to watch the rest of the show.

 

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Pyjama bottoms down. Bend over (again)

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Fr. Christian

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Changed Times 7. Pub landlord

A glimpse into the near future. The series starts here.

 The landlord Kevin saw me heaving my shoulder against the heavy saloon bar door. “You’re barred!” he shouted from across the empty room before I even stepped across the threshold. He meant it too.

I stood bemused. The bar was deserted apart from we two. “After the other night,” Kevin began to explain. “I don’t need the grief. Just go. Find some other pub to smash up.”

Then, I knew what he meant.

“Three chairs. Broken. Beyond repair.” Kevin was an elderly man, running to fat. Even across the dimly-lit bar I could see sweat was streaming down his face. He was not enjoying this. He hated confrontation.

The Royal pub was my favourite place to hang out. Me and a group of pals were well out of order a few nights earlier. You might have been there yourself. Or you’ve had your evening spoiled by people who were. I don’t remember much of the detail. Too much to drink. Certainly. Too loud. Beer splashed about. Was there a fight? Like I said, I really don’t remember.

Just then, Albert, his partner, or husband, or whatever you call it, appeared from a trap door behind the bar. He wiped his hands on an old rag and looked across the room at me. I felt his eyes burn into me with distain. “If I had my way …” he started and then trailed off. He threw the rag on the bar counter and busied himself stacking glasses.

“B … b …” I tried to speak, but I could not find the words. I wanted to say I was sorry, but I wasn’t too sure what it was that I was sorry about. We must have been well out of order. I approached the bar and sat on a stool.

“I said you’re barred,” Kevin tried to growl at me. He wasn’t very good at aggression.

“Piss off. We don’t want your sort here,” Albert was much better at it. He leaned across the bar and put his face close to mine. I could smell his toothpaste. “If I had my way ….” He said it again. His way? I thought he meant he would call the police or something. Perhaps he had wanted to, but Kevin had talked him out of it.

“I’m sorry. Really sorry.” I managed to get the words out this time. I was too. I wasn’t just saying this. I am not the kind of guy who goes around wrecking pubs. I’m twenty-two and a bank clerk for pity’s sake. I spend my days sedately counting other people’s money. I’ve got a girlfriend. I hope we’ll get married one day. Settle down. Have a family. I am Mr Normal. Not a pub fighter.

Kevin peered at me through owl-like glasses, as if seeing me for the very first time. “Whatever possessed you, Simon?” I blushed with shame. He sounded a bit like my mum. What on earth would mum say if she ever found out?

“Let me pay for the damage,” I stuttered.

“You should pay all right,” Albert sneered. “If I had my way …”

“No,” a smile forced its way across Kevin’s flabby face. “You didn’t do the damage.”

It was a relief to hear that. Perhaps, I wasn’t such a bad lad after all.

“But you did encourage them on. You are equally to blame,” Albert was not letting me off the hook so easily. I stared down at the drip cloth on the counter. It advertised Carlsberg. I could murder a pint, I thought.

“If I had my way …” Albert said again. He was beginning to annoy me.

“What would you do if you had your way?” I snapped. I always had a quick temper. It sometimes got me into trouble.

Albert’s face creased in anger. I saw him clench his right hand into a fist. He was trying to control his own temper. “I’d give you a damn good hiding,” he blurted.

What? I didn’t say anything but my face or my body language must have spoken for me. It said, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Spanking.” Albert unclenched his fist and pointed his index finger in my face. “A jolly good spanking.”

I sat and gaped. Spanking? He meant it too.

“That would teach you a lesson. You little shit.” Albert definitely had it in for me. “Now piss off. You’re barred.”

I sat as if glued to the stool. Spanking? What an idea. Was it a gay thing? Did he get off on spanking younger guys? I looked at my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. I had seen myself plenty of times before. I knew what I looked like. I was a little over five-eight, which made me average height. My hair was cut short; if I let it grow it would curl and make me look like a scarecrow. This was Sunday, so I needed a shave, but my stubble didn’t detract from my otherwise boyish looks. I was a bit on the thin side. I liked the pub, but I also ran the streets two or three times a week. That kept the beer belly at bay and contributed to my flat stomach. From what I had seen of it in the past, my bum was round and firm. I was sitting on it as I checked myself out in the mirror, but Albert would have had plenty of opportunities in the past to admire it.

“Go,” Albert snarled. I slipped my arse off the stool and headed for the door. Five minutes later I was gulping down a pint of lager at The Mitre, a horrible pub that was usually full of miserable old geezers who spent their whole time moaning about their wives. I had no choice. There were only two pubs in the village.

I was close to the bottom of the glass, when Tony breezed in. “You barred too?” he grinned. I smiled. I suppose we were all banned. We deserved it, too. Why the hell did we do it?

Tony put a fresh pint in front of me.

“Did Albert say anything to you?” Tony sipped on his best bitter. He looked quizzically at me, as if he was pondering something.

I gulped my lager. “About spanking us, you mean?”

Tony flushed and hurriedly looked around the bar, “Keep your voice down.”

I took another gulp.

“Well?” Tony seemed agitated.

“Well what?”

Tony leaned close to me. His breath stank of booze and cigarettes. He whispered, “The spanking.”

My puzzled look must have spurred him on.

“Are we going to let him?” Tony was earnest.

I spluttered my beer. It dribbled down my chin as I coughed up a lungful of air.

“War ….?” I mouthed the word. I wasn’t recovered enough to speak properly.

“We can’t be barred from the Royal. I’m in the snooker team. And the darts.”

I got my wind back. “You cannot be serious.” I sounded like John McEnroe on a bad day.

He shrugged. Just then Bill walked through the door. He beamed and rubbed the palms of his hands against his buttocks.

“Yeah, I know!” I said. He didn’t need to explain himself.

He sat down and sipped from a bottle of designer beer.

“We’ve got no choice, of course,” he said thoughtfully. I looked blank.

He sighed at my ignorance, “The new law.”

I was still uncomprehending.

“Don’t you ever follow the news? The new law. Juvenile delinquents. If Albert reports us to the police and we’re convicted of vandalism. Or affray, even. We’ll get the birch. No question.”

I saw the blood drain from Tony’s face. “Jesus!” he exclaimed. “I forgot about that.” He gulped at his beer, sweat soaking his temples.

“So,” Bill, sighed, “We either let Albert smack our little botties or some prison officer will rip our arses to shreds.” He drew on his bottle. “It’s a no-brainer.”

We lapsed into uncomfortable silence. Each of us alone with our fears. Pain. Humiliation. Disgrace. Would I lose my job at the bank?

Tony broke the silence. “You know Albert’s a bit …” He flapped his wrist and threw his head back.

“Ha!” Bill sneered. “He’s not at all limp-wristed.” He sipped his beer. “I wish he were.” He was thinking of the pain that was undoubtedly to come.

“Would he … you know …?” I daren’t say the words out loud.

My pals did know. None of us wanted to think about it.

“Bare, you mean?” Bill spoke at last. I nodded.

“But, won’t he enjoy it? You know? Being gay?” Tony blushed.

“Maybe,” Bill smiled, “But not as much as the prison officer who birches the skin off juvies.”

I nodded agreement. Why? What did I know about anything?

“I bet they cream their pants,” Bill sneered.

We fell back into silence. The bar was filling up. We needed to make a decision. Soon.

“So,” Bill was a natural leader. He had led us in the mayhem that caused the damage. He was about to lead us again. “We’re going to let him do it.” It was a statement, not a question.

I shrugged my shoulders. It meant, “Yes,” not, “I dunno.”

Tony gave a twisted smile. His face paled. It was his way of assenting.

Bill went to the bar. One more drink and then we would go face the music.

The Royal was busy when we got there half an hour later. Albert spotted us as soon as the big heavy saloon bar door edged its way back to a closed position. His jaw opened. He was about to tell us we were barred. He stopped short. One look at our hunched shoulders and embarrassed faces told him he had won.

He lifted the flap in the bar. “Come through lads,” he said pleasantly. It was as if we were old, valued friends and he was pleased we were visiting. He probably was delighted. I certainly was not.

“Go up the stairs, lads.” It irritated me that he called us “lads”, I don’t recall him ever doing that before. We did as we were told and were taken into Albert’s private quarters. It was a smallish sitting room. It was not much different from the one at my mum’s house. There was a small dining table, a double-sized couch, a television. The usual things.

We stood shuffling our feet, not sure what we were supposed to do. Or, say. There had been almost total embarrassed silence on the way over. None of us wanted to share our feelings. I’m not certain about the others, but I had never been spanked in my life. I had left school before the cane was brought back and as far as I knew the junior bank clerks and whatnot at the bank were immune from corporal punishment. Or, if not “immune” exactly, at least no one misbehaved enough to warrant a thrashing. I was entering unchartered territory.

Albert perched his buttocks on the edge of the table. His disdain for us was obvious. I clasped my hands behind my back and took an unusually keen interest in the pattern in the carpet beneath my feet. My heart was pounding and my ears popped as blood coursed at maximum speed through my arteries. I don’t remember a single word he said. And, he said an awful lot. At last, satisfied that he had lectured us enough, he pronounced sentence. I heard that alright.

“Stand there.” He pointed to the far wall. “Take off your clothes.”

The shock on Tony’s face scared me. I thought he was going to cry and faint, all at the same time.

“Now, come on,” Bill started a protest. Albert’s face flashed crimson anger. That stopped Bill.

“Or would you prefer I called the police?” Albert knew he had us over a barrel. Or wherever he intended us to bend over to receive our thrashing.

I remember my hands shook so much I couldn’t get my belt buckle to open. I had never been naked in front of a man before. I must have been fourteen the last time I had stripped off for PE lessons at school. I was as terrified of being seen naked – and lacking in the you-know-where department – in front of my pals.

Somehow, I managed to loosen my jeans and they fell to my knees and I left them there while I tugged my tee-shirt over my head. Tony and Bill were even slower undressing then me. At last we stood in our underwear and socks. Mortified.

But, not yet totally humiliated. “I said take off all your clothes.” Albert’s tongue darted through his lips, like a lizard. I could see he had a moustache of sweat.

Tears welled behind my eyes. I wanted to plead for mercy. Had I been on my own, I might have. Bill once more took the lead. He stood on his right foot and unsteadily pulled the sock off his left. Then he reversed the process. Now, he was in only his bright blue briefs. His tubby stomach hung over the waistband. He glared at Albert, a last gesture of defiance. He pinched the elasticated waist at his hips and with an exaggerated twist of his wrists he sent the pants down to his ankles. I couldn’t help but stare. I had never seen an uncut cock before.

Tony was not so flamboyant. He eased his boxer shorts over his hips and slowly – a snail would have been faster – he exposed his buttocks and his hairy dick and ball sack. I had known Tony for years, he had always been shy with women. I couldn’t see why; if they realised what he had to offer they would flock to him. He was long and thin. When erect, he could have competed with a stallion.

I took hold of my own waistband. I hesitated. Absurdly, I remembered I had not changed my pants for a couple of days. Would there be skid marks? I closed my eyes and stepped out of them.

We stood, our hands cupping our balls. I dared not look at Albert. What if he was checking me out? What if he fancied me? We had known for years that Kevin and Albert were gay. They were married for pity’s sake, but I had never thought of them as sexual beings. They were older than my mum and dad! What if he wanted to stick his dick up my bum?

“Stay there. I’ll be back in a second.” Albert left the room and true to his word, he returned almost immediately. He was holding a piece of wood. Do you call it a four by two? I’m not sure. I’m no carpenter. I didn’t even do woodwork at school. It was a piece of pale-brown wood about two feet in length and maybe two inches wide and a quarter-inch thick. He held it in his right hand and smacked it into the palm of his left. His eyes glazed and he winced.

He looked around the sitting room as if he were taking an inventory, his face impassive. Table. Dining chairs. Couch. Coffee table. He pondered each item of furniture in turn, weighing up its properties for the task in hand.

His eyes sparkled. A decision had been made.

“You, Simon,” he waved his wood at me. “Lay face down across the table.” He pointed at the coffee table. A shot of bile heaved from who-knew-where and stuck in the back of my throat. For an awful moment, I thought I would vomit on the carpet. My knees buckled. I steadied myself in time, just before I collapsed in a heap.

Albert waved the wood once more. I felt the gazes of my two pals burning into the back of my head as I waddled towards the table. This could not be happening. Any moment I would wake up. In bed, at my girlfriend’s home.

“C’mon, I haven’t got all day. I’ve got customers.” Albert took a pace backwards to give me space to approach the low coffee table. “Lay on it.”

I hesitated. I genuinely did not know what he meant. Was I to lay flat, my stomach and chest on the table and my legs waving behind me? Where did my arms go?

“Lay down. Put your bum on the edge. Bend your knees. Lean forward. Hold the far end. Keep your arse still.”

I manoeuvred into position. My cock dug into the hard table edge. I wriggled trying to find comfort. I stretched my arms ahead of me and looked down at the table top. I concentrated on the pattern of three rings that had been left by mugs. A draught wafted across my naked body. I shivered as much from fear as the cool air.

Albert wheezed. I heard him gulp in a lung-full of air. I tapped my head against the table top. My ears popped, I feared blood would pour through them any second now. I felt sick. Albert could see right into my crack. Up the hole probably. Was his dick throbbing against his zipper fly? Did he want to rip down his own trousers and pants and take me up the arse?

I never heard it coming. Albert gave no warning. There was no command, “Brace yourself.” There was just a dull thud as the wood whopped against the centre of my buttocks. Then four or five beats later an intense pain spread across my tight bum. It started in the very centre and travelled in waves across both cheeks and up and down my legs. Startled, a rush of air whistled through my teeth.

After the third whack, I was humping the table’s edge. I had no bodily control. Spasms of pain made my body rise and fall; rise and fall. My blistered bum was going up and down, it must have looked like I was screwing a girl.

Hot tears flowed down my cheeks, like a young river cascading through mountains. Snot dribbled from my nose. My head banged the table top.

I lost count of the times that piece of wood bounced across my backside. It could have been dozens. What I do know was that later, when we inspected the damage, none of us had a square inch of flesh on the buttocks or the back of the thighs that did not glow red. My bum was hot to touch. You could have fried an egg back there.

I clenched my teeth and waited for the onslaught to continue. Albert was into his stride. He pop-pop-popped the wood against my bum, finding virgin areas to inflame. He was some expert. I’m not about to share my shame with other customers, but I’d dearly love to know how many others Albert had spanked before me.

At last it was over. “Up!” It was a curt command. I lay gasping for breath. The cliché people use is gasping, “like a beached whale.” I don’t know about that, but I couldn’t breath and my head ached like made. The agony in my whole body was intense. I had never felt anything like it before. My arse was on fire. Had Albert just poured a kettle of boiling water over it?

“Come. Up.” Albert was anxious to move on to the next lad. I was calming a little. My ordeal was over. I supposed I had taken it as well as could be expected. I had not disgraced myself in front of my pals. I felt self-satisfied. Smug even.

I eased myself off the table and waited a second on my knees. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Bill moving toward me, ready to take my place. I flashed him what I thought was a comradely smile. “Go get it boy!” it was meant to say.

I’m not sure if his look back at me was terror or horror. He turned away. He could not bear to face me.

I hauled myself to my feet. Only then did I see my seven-inch cock standing proud, pointing at the ceiling. It kinked a little to the right. I had never seen it so stiff. It throbbed even as much as my arse. The top glistened with pre-cum. It pulsated, even without my hand to stimulate it. I covered it with my palms. Tony, ashen faced, looked away. I saw he too had his cock covered.

I heard the smack of wood against flabby flesh. I turned to see a red stripe a couple of inches wide spreading across Bill’s bum. My palms filled with sticky, hot cum.

threesome-after

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Changed Times 6. Birched live on TV

A glimpse into the near future. The series starts here.

 

The officer stared at the quivering naked buttocks before him. The world was changing. The punishment frame gleamed with its newness.

He tried to ignore the camera shooting over his shoulder.

He gripped the birch rod tightly and waited for his cue.

“Stand by everybody,” the television director whispered in his mouthpiece. “We’re live in twenty seconds.” Sweat glistened on his top lip. His heartbeat raced. He couldn’t understand why. He had done countless live broadcasts in his time. But, none quite like this.

The twenty-two-year-old prisoner heaved his body this way and that. It did no good. He was going nowhere. His wrists were secured by plastic ties. His legs were roped to the frame.

The director breathed deeply. He knew his show would get record ratings. The first-ever broadcast of a youth flogging. The pubic had been clamouring for it. They wanted to see the thugs suffer. They demanded all of it. The screams. The blood. The works. And, live on TV. Beamed by satellite into their homes.

Much had changed in the past few years. After Britain left the European Union, there was a massive collapse in the economy. Political turmoil followed. A political party, the New Democrats, formed to save the nation. Now, there was order. The young suffered most. First, they brought back the cane to schools. Then, they extended corporal punishment to universities. Then, all young people under thirty could be beaten by their employers. Juvenile criminal offenders were flogged. The older public loved it. It made them feel safe.

“And, five and ….” A green light shone. It was the officer’s cue to deliver the first lash.

It was a heavy birch. Sixteen branches. Tapped together at the end. It looked like a bundle of wires. It had been soaking for a day in a bucket of brine. That made the birch rod supple. And far more painful. Conscious of his own moment in the limelight, the officer made great play at swishing the birch through the air. Droplets of brine spread across the bare floorboards around him.

It was a small room. They didn’t need much space. The punishment frame, newly designed, recently built, was propped close to a wall. Apart from an old enamel bucket there was nothing else. Automatic cameras, like you see at football matches, manoeuvred on wires. The room was probably no more than ten feet by eight.

It didn’t need to be large; but the ceiling had to be high. The birch was three feet long. The officer needed to be able to swing it high above his head. Then, bring it crushing down into the naked haunches of the prisoner.

Dramatically, enjoying every moment, the officer rolled up the shirt sleeve on his right arm. Muscles rippled. Gym-honed. He took his duties to the welfare of the public seriously indeed.

He took a step back, measuring his distance. His was an accustomed eye. His expertise had developed over time. Satisfied of his position, he griped the birch, scowled his face and swung the birch around his head. It missed the ceiling by three inches.

Then, he brought it down with a sensational upper-cut in the victim’s naked flesh.

The prisoner, taken by surprise, caught his breath with a gasp and strained desperately at the unreleasing bonds. His shoulders and arms quaked convulsively, in a desperate bid to free his limbs. The frame shook, such was the youth’s determination to break away. He threw back his head and screeched.

Camera one moved in. A great red blotch mark spread across the prisoner’s flesh where the lash connected into beefy buttocks. Across the nation millions of people leaned towards their screens, intent of enjoying a closer look.

The punishment had only just started. A second merciless cut broke the skin. Blood seeped. The prisoner, his face and neck as scarlet as his hind quarters, repeated his howling.

The officer paused. Bent down towards the enamel bucket. A camera closed in. He reached for a damp sponge. Slowly, allowing the camera to reposition, the officer wiped it across the prisoner’s arse. The water turned crimson with blood.

Again, and again the officer swung the birch rod around his head, bringing it down with merciless vigour. Then he paused. He ran his fingers through the clotted birch rods, flicking blood from them onto the floor.

“And we’re out,” the TV director mopped his brow with a handkerchief. A five-minute break for commercials. The satellite channel could have sold the space a dozen times over.

The prisoner sobbed rhythmically, numbed and stupefied by his pain, unaware there were another dozen lashes still to come.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com