The terrible twins

z used twosome on couch football shirt by M Pegasi (1a)

Last summer I had quite two of the naughtiest boys imaginable staying with me at my house.

Antonio and Pedro were foreign language students. The idea was they came over for some intensive English training and they stayed with “hosts” who helped them with “conversational English.” We were also asked to teach them something about our traditions and customs. Well, before their stay was over I taught the pair of them something about one English custom they wouldn’t forget in a hurry.

I called them The Terrible Twins, even though they weren’t twins. They weren’t even brothers, but they were both Spanish and did look alike. Well, a little anyway.

I take a couple of students each year. I don’t need the money. I’ve retired on a very good pension, but I like the company of young people and a friend owns the language school so I help out.

The Terrible Twins were eighteen years old, but you’d never believe it the way they behaved. I was continually scolding them for larking about around the house, having “pretend” wrestling matches and fighting on the sofa in the living room.

I began to wonder if they were a little retarded, but when I checked with my friend I found they had both done extremely well at school and were off to university in the autumn.

They were young people and spent a lot of time in the town at bars and clubs. I imagine they chased girls, although they never brought any home. They were both extremely handsome in the way young Spaniards can be, with hard bodies, snake hips, wavy black hair, clear olive skin, cheeky grins and dark brown eyes. I would have thought the girls of this town would have been queueing up. So many of the young men around here are pasty and already well on the way to obesity.

I don’t make many rules for my summer guests. The school expects me to give them breakfast but otherwise they come and go as they please. I do insist that they do not use the parlour at the back of the house; I do like a little privacy. It is also where I keep the liquor.

Despite my clear instructions, I twice found them in the room. What were they doing? There was nothing for them to see. Were they attracted there simply because it was out of bounds? They stood heads bowed while I gave them a stiff telling-off.

They bought catapults and stalked local cats, firing stones at them. A pane of glass in Mr. Axford’s greenhouse was smashed. They made friends with a boy down the street and spent evenings drinking cheap cider at bus shelters and abusing passers-by.

One Saturday afternoon I returned from the shops and was confronted by an irate next-door neighbour. Mr. Adams was livid. Did I know what my two brats had just done? Well, no I didn’t and that was clear because Mr. Adams had just seen me pull into my own driveway. I was open mouthed. The Terrible Twins had climbed onto the roof of the house and hurled water bombs (something they had made from folded paper) at Mr. Adams and his wife. What was I going to do about it?

I was aghast. What in God’s name possessed them to do such a thing.

“They need a good hiding. The pair of them,” Mr. Adams growled at me.

Indeed they did.

“Well, what are you going to do?” Mr. Adams’ anger would not abate for some considerable time.

Spanking? This was 2016. A lot of people think spanking had been confined to distant history. It is true the cane was abolished in schools in the nineteen-eighties, but things were different in the home. There were still many responsible men who saw it as their duty to help young people navigate the choppy waters of life into adulthood. Mr. Adams was one of them. And, there were plenty of others to my certain knowledge even here in The Avenue who were ready to blister backsides when the occasion demanded.

Yes, they needed a spanking right enough. I should have done it sooner.

I confronted the Terrible Twins about their behaviour. I was rewarded with fits of giggles. Sometimes eighteen year olds can be insufferable. “It was a lark. A wheeze,” Pedro grinned at me. I frowned, genuinely puzzled. Where had he picked up such old-fashioned idioms?

Well, if they thought this was a joke, I’d soon disillusion them. Deliberately, I unfastened the buckle of my wide, heavy leather belt and slowly pulled it through the loops of my trousers. Antonio’s eyes stalked. I saw real fear. Sweat glistened his already shiny black hair. Pedro whispered something in Spanish to him, but it didn’t seem to calm the boy. I stretched the belt between my hands and with great care I folded it in thirds, leaving myself with a leather strap about eighteen inches long.

Antonio wiped the palms of his hands against his shorts. Pedro, as far as I could see, was impassive; waiting for events to take their course.

“Stand by the back of the sofa,” I instructed. Pedro took the three paces necessary to obey my command. Antonio stood his ground, immobilised by fear. Antonio gestured with his hand that his amigo should join him and with obvious reluctance he shuffled and took up position next to his companion in dishonour. I wondered at that moment whether Pedro had been the leader among the pair and Antonio, the led. He did seem to be the dominant force at this time.

I pulled the belt between my hands creating a loud snap. Antonio jumped. Pedro stayed calm. I was nearly ready. “Take down your trousers,” I said calmly. Antonio’s eyes saucered, he glanced at his friend whose entire demeanour was subservient. He was ready to obey my every command. Pedro fumbled with the buckle of his belt, but then calmly popped the button at the waist and pulled the zipper of his jeans. They slithered down to his knees. He parted his legs a little and they continued their journey and rested on top of his trainers. He stood with his hands rather demurely clasped in front of his manhood

Antonio was rigid. It was as if he was cemented to the ground.

“Doh!” I exhaled and threw my belt on the couch. Pedro’s eyes glazed as I gripped the waist of his cargo shorts, and with an expertise I didn’t know I possessed, I had them at his feet within seconds. His face shone with embarrassment. I picked up the belt and re-folded it and made it ready for action. I looked at the two eighteen year olds. They wore identical canary-yellow briefs. Both teenagers’ legs were entirely hairless.

“Bend over the couch,” I tapped the belt across the padded back so there was no doubt of my instructions. Pedro gave a sideway glance to his friend before falling forward. The couch was quite low and Pedro’s body easily cleared its back. He gripped the front of the seat cushion and spread his feet. He had presented me with a terrific target.

Antonio, of course, did not move. By now, I had anticipated I would have to intervene every step of the way. Holding my belt in my right hand, I used my left to grip Antonio by the scruff of his neck and push him forward. It was like throwing a reluctant child into a swimming pool. Antonio threw his hands forward to break his fall. To his credit, he did not try to escape. His amigo                 took hold of his hand.

Antonio was breathing heavily, Pedro was calmness personified. I had one more task to perform. The twins’ bottoms were firm, not quite “buns of steel” but not far off. Their briefs, were exactly that, and hardly covered the buttocks. In Pedro’s case a strip of bare buttock was visible below the hem of the pants. I should have dearly loved to belt them bare-bottomed, but in this day and age one cannot be too careful. So, instead I smoothed down wrinkles in their cotton briefs so that they fitted so well they might have been sprayed on.

I took up position to Pedro’s right and lashed the belt into the centre of his right cheek. Then I walloped the left. Then Antonio’s right, then the left. Then I returned to the start of the line and belted them again. And, again. The crack of leather against tight backsides resounded around the walls. The room was at the front of the house and the window wide open. My front garden is large but any passer-by would still be able to hear. Indeed, they would also be able to see two teenaged boys bent submissively across the back of a sofa having their naughty backsides tanned with a leather belt. Just another day in an English suburb.

A belt employed with some vim can deliver serious pain. The Terrible Twins “ooo’d” and “ahhhh’d” as swipe after swipe connected with firm buttocks. But, neither boy cried out. Even Antonio, who I had feared might howl the house down, took his whipping stoically. Pedro winced and sucked in air, when (quite by accident, honestly) my belt struck the bare area below his pants. He gripped the seat cushion tightly at that point and held on gamely.

I belted them with such energy you might have thought I was beating a carpet. A spanking has to hurt otherwise what is the point? These two would learn a real lesson. Actions have consequences and sometimes those consequences can be very painful indeed.

I lost count of the times I went up and down the line, spanking buttock after buttock. I must have laid it on well because my own breathing was soon laboured and my heartrate was off the scale. It was time to stop.

“You may stand up,” I intoned. They climbed to their feet in perfect harmony, the Terrible Twins might have been synchronised swimmers. Each teenager instinctively rubbed the seat of his underpants with some vigour. Then, Antonio saw me looking at him and he whipped up his shorts with alacrity. A huge grin split Pedro’s face when he realised what his amigo had done. More sedately, he pulled up his own jeans and buckled up.

They hovered before me, unsure what to do next. Both had shiny faces and damp eyes, but beyond that they seemed unaffected by their ordeal. Pedro clasped his hands behind his back and surreptitiously caressed his buttocks with his thumbs. Antonio stood head bowed, his hands in front of his crotch, every inch the contrite naughty boy.

I saw no reason to lecture them further. They had been disobedient boys and they had been spanked. And, I have to say, they had taken it rather well. I dismissed them to their rooms.


Antonio lay on his back, the pain had gone a long time ago, but the marks would probably last for ages. His throbbing cock pointed at the ceiling. Pedro knelt over him, his own dick thick and stiff. They were so long and hard the boys could have had a sword fight. Pedro leant in; his tongue was received by Antonio’s open mouth. A half-empty tube of KY jelly lay waiting on the pillow.


Picture credit: M. Pegasi

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 Charles Hamilton the Second


The boy in the kitchen

z used domestic kitchen (1c)

Mr. Wagstaff tucked into his breakfast of egg, bacon, sausage, fried bread, tomatoes, baked beans and a huge mug of tea. He glanced up from his morning newspaper towards the boy at the stove. Totally naked, except for an apron protecting his privates from hot, spitting fat. He had a terrific arse. Mr. Wagstaff would never tire of admiring it. Or spanking it.

Mr. Wagstaff called him a boy, in fact he wasn’t sure of his age. He was in his twenties at least; thirties maybe. He had a dark hair, fashionably cut. His face was open and youthful. His cobalt-blue eyes and ruby red lips were to die for.

Later, when the washing-up was done, Mr. Wagstaff would take the boy into the lounge, pull a straight-backed chair into the middle of the room and take the boy’s naked body cross his knees. He’d give him a jolly good spanking with his hand. He had a hairbrush, a slipper a paddle and a belt. Perhaps he would use one of those instead. Hell, Mr. Wagstaff licked his lips in anticipation, maybe he’d use the whole darn lot.

Last week he had used an old-fashioned whippy school cane. One with the curved handle. It near sliced the boy’s buttocks open. He was hopping up and down, rubbing the agony away while his cock and balls bounced up and down. Mr. Wagstaff would remember that sight for a very long time to come.

The boy worked at his chores in silence. He never said much. The boy had been with Mr. Wagstaff for about six months. He wasn’t a waif or stray. Quite the contrary; he had a Ph.D degree and worked as a scientist at Global Petroleum. He had tried to explain his job to Mr. Wagstaff once, but it all went over the old man’s head. Who would believe it? Sex on a stick and a brain as well. You didn’t find many boys like that.

They sleep together, but Mr. Wagstaff is 75-years-old so sex is a thing of the past. But, they kiss and cuddle and the boy lets Mr. Wagstaff suck him off. Mr. Wagstaff likes that. A very great deal. Mr. Wagstaff knows the boy has lovers. Of course he has. They must queue up for him. But, the boy never brings them home and Mr. Wagstaff is grateful for that.

A cloud covers the sun, suddenly the room gets darker. The doorbell rings. Mr. Wagstaff glances at the clock on the wall. It will be the lady from Social Services. He shuffles from the room. The boy at the sink disappears. He will return after she has left.


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Charles Hamilton the Second


Someone needs his bottom spanked

z used pants on bed (50)

Mr. Harris stared down into his mug, waiting for the tea to cool. His heart was uncharacteristically racing; he knew his blood pressure was sky high. It was the stress; if he wasn’t careful he could be seriously ill.

The cause of his stress was upstairs, still in bed at nearly ten in the morning. Something had to be done and today was the day to do it.

The problem was Bill. Bill had been lodging with Mr. Harris since late September. He was eighteen years old and a student. He was the son of a life-long pal and he had taken the idle sod in as a favour to his dad until he found somewhere more “suitable”. Mr. Harris assumed that meant where he could get drunk, take drugs and jerk-off all hours. Certainly, it had nothing to do with being closer to the college library for studying.

It was three months now and Bill showed no signs of moving out. He came and went when he liked, stayed out to the early hours of the morning, slept in bed all day long and played his music at top volume. He never seemed to do any work. Mr. Harris had had enough.

Bill’s dad was a close friend and he didn’t want to upset him by complaining about the teenager. But, oh how he wished the boy would clear off so he could get his life back to normal. In desperation he sent an email. The reply rocked him to the core. “Drat,” he said to himself, “Why didn’t I do this before.”

Bill’s dad wrote, “He’s always been a lazy You Know What. If he doesn’t shift his idle backside you have my permission to spank it. Very Hard Indeed. It’ll do him good. If he gives you any trouble tell him I’ll stop sending him money and he’ll have to go out and get a proper job.”

Mr. Harris sipped his tea thoughtfully. He was not a man to dawdle; something must be done – now. But how, exactly. He had never spanked anyone in his life, but it couldn’t be that difficult, he supposed. He’d need the element of surprise. He wouldn’t expect an eighteen-year-old to meekly offer up his backside for spanking. Even with his dad’s threats ringing in his ears. He would go to Bill’s bedroom, whip the duvet off his sleeping body and pound away at his bum.

Mr. Harris drained his cup. It must be now or never. But, what did he have to do the deed? It would be useless to spank Bill’s bum with the palm of his hand. The boy was meaty; he’d hardly feel a thing. It would hurt Mr. Harris’ hand a lot more than Bill’s bottom.

What did people usually use? A cane? – he didn’t have one. Slipper? – ditto. His belt was thin and narrow, it wouldn’t be much use. He was as bald as a coot and had no use for hairbrushes. Absent-mindedly he strolled to the sitting room and began opening and closing cupboards and drawers hoping inspiration might strike. Nothing.

He did the same in the kitchen. Bingo! At the back of a cupboard was a huge wooden spoon. How ironic, he thought, Bill’s dad had given it to him as a present when he returned from South Africa. He had never used it. It was fourteen inches long and four across at the bowl end. He had no idea what practical use a spoon that size could have. He lifted it up and tested it in his hand. It had been carved from a single piece of wood. It was surprisingly heavy.

Feeling a bit foolish, he gripped the handle, twisted his body a little and whacked the spoon with some force into the seat of his trousers. He winced. It hurt. A lot. Even with his trousers and pants as protection. It would make an excellent spanking paddle.

Mr. Harris trudged up the stairs to Bill’s room. For once music wasn’t blaring, the teenager must still be asleep. Without knocking – “It’s my house, I’ll go where I want,” he thought – he pushed open the door. The heat immediately hit him. The radiator had been left full on, it was hotter than a rain forest. A sweet, sickly smell, a combination of teen sweat and tissues soaked in cum, cloyed at his throat.

Bill lay face down on his bed, the duvet had tumbled to the floor. He was naked except for a pair of dark-blue trunks. They were so tight they looked like they had been sprayed on. The cotton dug into his crack, lifting and separating each buttock cheek. Bill had a bum crying out to be spanked.

The eighteen-year-old was sleeping. Mr. Harris watched his body move in rhythm to his breathing. His head was turned towards the wall.

“Time to get up!” Mr. Harris shouted. Bill immediately stirred, turned his head and opened his bleary eyes, astonished to see his landlord standing over him.

“It’s gone ten, you shouldn’t be in bed.”

Bill’s nostrils flared. “F@@c off, it’s Saturday.” He turned his head back to the wall.

Mr. Harris had a plan. It worked to perfection. With his left hand he pushed Bill’s shoulders with such force he was pinned to the mattress. With the other hand he pounded the heavy wooden spoon into Bill’s backside. The teenager had a narrow waist and slim legs, but his buttocks were round, full and firm. Mr. Harris saw the spoon sink into the teenager’s mounds with each whack.

Bill wriggled and writhed in shock, but his tormentor held him firmly. The boy’s face was in the pillow, he could barely breathe. “Wooaa, leggo,” he wheezed. The unexpectedness of the attack had disorientated him. Mr. Harris pounded on and on into the substantial cheeks. Bill buckled his knees, kicked his legs and wriggled his backside from left to right, but there was no escaping the onslaught.

The pain in his bum was rising. Mr. Harris covered every square inch of the target. Then, for good measure, he struck the back of Bill’s bare thighs. That had the teenager yelping. “F@@k off, let me go!” he shouted, but it only spurred his master on in his mission.

“Watch your language , young man,” he hissed. Nearly all his breath was gone, so fierce were his exertions.

“F@@K off, leave me alone!”

Mr. Harris dropped the spoon onto Bill’s hairless back.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he gripped the waist of Bill’s underwear and with two tugs he had bared the boy’s buttocks. Mr. Harris was astonished at how battered they looked. Blotches of dark-pink covered what was once creamy-white flesh. A bruise was coming out on the tender sit-spot, under the crease.

Mr. Harris hammered the heavy wooden spoon into the buttocks, delighting to see the dark-pink rapidly turning crimson. His shirt was soaked in sweat, the room was boiling, but so was Bill’s bum. Mr. Harris’ blood pressure was about to go through the roof. It felt like blood would soon flood out of his ears. If he didn’t stop now he would have a stroke.

He released his grip on the boy’s shoulders. Bill curled up in the foetal position, knees in at his chest. His hands rubbed his scorched backside. His eyes were wet, but tears were not flowing.

“Next time I tell you to get up, make sure you do,” Mr. Harris growled as he left the room. His breathing was easier now. Slowly he retraced his steps to the kitchen. He flicked the switch on the kettle and eased himself down at the table. He caressed the smooth wooden spoon lovingly and pondered how long it would be before Bill moved out.


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Oh my papa

z used cane shorts chair (72)

Ian stretched his arms and legs and turned on his side to get a look at the bedside clock. Just gone eleven. He rolled onto his back and pulled the sheet up under his chin. He would leave it a little longer. The pubs didn’t open until twelve.

Suddenly, the door burst open and a huge figure blocked the frame. Mr. Hector was six-feet-four in his stockinged feet, broad at the shoulders and thick at the waist.

“C’mon, Ian. Get up. It’s time for your maintenance spanking.”

Ian pouted and pulled the bedsheet over his head. “Oh Papa, I don’t want to.”

Mr. Hector folded his arms across his chest and smiled. The naughty little boy was going to be difficult. Well, we shall see about that, he thought.

“C’mon son, you know how much I enjoy Sunday mornings.”

“Oh, Papa,” the nineteen-year-old sulked.

“Well, have it your own way,” Mr. Hector strode to the bed, took a handful of sheeting and wrenched it clean away from the teenager’s body. He licked his lips (an involuntary movement) at the sight of the gym-honed figure on the bed, wearing just blue-and-white-striped boxer briefs.

“Up you get young man,” Mr. Hector gripped Ian’s right wrist and pulled him to his feet. The boy was six inches shorter than Papa and several pounds lighter. He gave no resistance as Mr. Hector guided him from the room and down the stairs of the modern semi-detached house. The door to the sitting room was open. Mr. Hector had already made his preparations. A straight-backed, armless chair had pride of place in the centre of the room.

Mr. Hector guided Ian to the chair, then momentarily released his wrist while he sat in it, spread his legs a little and wriggled his bum until he was comfortable. Ian watched silently, noticing how Papa’s legs were thick and well-padded.

“Over you go,” Mr. Hector took Ian’s wrist and pulled him forward so that the teenager fell face downwards across his knees. Ian put his arms forward to break his fall and settled with the palms of his hands flat against the expensive Axminister carpet. Behind him his legs dangled in mid-air, his toes hovering an inch or so above the ground.

“These serve no useful purpose at a time like this,” Mr. Hector grinned as he took hold of the waist of the underwear and tugged them down the boy’s buttocks until they bunched up at his knees. Mr. Hector’s tongue ran around his lips.

Ian’s bum was well buffed. He shaved it himself every day. It was always completely hairless. His boyfriend Neville did Ian’s ball-sack once a week; on a Saturday, so Papa always got to see him at his very best.

Mr. Hector caressed the buttocks; first the right cheek, then the left. The teenager’s body seemed completely bald. It wasn’t; soft downy hair covered his legs. It was so fair in colour it was almost impossible to see. Papa rubbed the palm of his hand gently down the teenager’s legs, enjoying the slight tickling feel.

Then, with his left hand he caressed Ian’s naked back. He felt the blood surge into his own crotch. It was time to get started.

“You have the most beautiful bum,” he gasped. “Quite the best I’ve ever spanked.”

Ian’s face cracked into a smile, “I bet you say that to all the boys. Ouch!” Papa had landed a stinging smack across the centre of his right cheek. “That hurt.”

Papa watched a dark pink mark form on the boy’s bottom. “That’s the point, young man. That’s the point.”

He raised his right hand a foot or so away from the surface of the left buttock and brought it down with a mild slap. Then, he did the same to the right cheek. Then, he did it all over again. Slowly, every square inch of Ian’s buttocks turned a dark pink. Then, he started on the back of his thighs.

“Ow, ouch, oooh,” Ian wriggled his bum as smack after smack connected with his tight arse. It didn’t hurt so much, but he wanted to please Papa.

Mr. Hector increased the pace and the strength of the spanks. “Nearly finished,” he panted, “You know what to do.”

He smacked his hand across Ian’s bum. “One, Papa. Thank you, Papa.” He smacked again. “Two, Papa. Thank you, Papa.”

After a hundred spanks, Mr. Hector’s palm hurt more than Ian’s backside. His cock was pretty sore too. It was time to finish.

“Okay, up you get.” He leaned back to give the teenager space to lift himself to his feet. Ian stood in front of his punisher and hopped from foot to foot while rubbing his not very sore backside. His hairless cock and balls bounced in front of Papa’s face.

Mr. Hector sucked on his bottom lip. “You’d better go back to your room now.”

Ian bent down to pull up his underwear, making sure the old man got a good view of his glory hole.

“Thank you, Papa,” he grinned and headed for the stairs.

Twenty minutes later he was in the bar of the Three Fishers Hotel with his boyfriend Neville, slurping on a bottle of Mexican lager.

Neville snuggled up close. “Did you have to toss off Papa?”

Ian playfully poked his tongue out. “No, not this time. He had one hell of a boner, I could feel it.” He gulped his beer and looked Neville in the eye, “I guess he’s probably wanking himself, right now.”

Neville convulsed with giggles.

“Hi guys,” Toby, the barman, sauntered over.

All three nodded their welcomes.

“Did your Papa deal with you yet?” Ian glanced across the bar at the hotel manager.

“No, not yet. He’ll do it this afternoon, once the bar’s closed.”

Ian grinned. Toby was about his own age, but thin as a rake. His pale-grey trousers clung to his hips and when he stood up it looked like he had no buttocks at all. But, when he bent forward, he had the cutest little bum imaginable. All the customers would gape when Toby reached down to a bottom shelf to fetch a packet of crisps.

Neville knew that later, when the customers had all gone away for their Sunday lunches, Toby would drape himself across one of the high bar stools and clutch onto the wooden legs. He could visualise it now. Toby’s Papa, a short stocky man with a beer gut befitting someone who had worked in bars all his life, would flex and swish an authentic whippy school cane. There would be much tap-tap-taping and then whoosh, Papa would smack the cane across Toby’s stretched bum. Ouch! Yarroo!

Neville’s daydreams were interrupted by Jonathon, a pal who had just arrived. “Hi, Neville,” he waved a greeting, his dark curly hair flopping into his eyes. He came across and uninvited sat next to Ian.

“Hey, Neville,” he leaned across the table, “Do you have a Papa?”

Neville crinkled his nose, “Don’t need one,” he grinned at Ian and took hold of his hand, “Not with lover boy here. Why?”

“Hugh, asked me if I could find him someone.”


“Yeah, you know him. Big fat guy. Welsh.”

Neville nodded vigorously. Yes, he knew him. He had been across his knee. Once. Never again. He could still taste the stench of stale beer and body odour.

Ian interjected. “What about little Davy, wasn’t he looking for a Papa?” Little Davy was probably pushing twenty, but he was only five-feet-three and with his tiny body and fresh face, he could pass for fourteen. People said he still travelled half-fare on the buses.

Jonathon frowned. “No, he’s found someone. A schoolmaster.”

“Schoolmaster?” Neville didn’t know of any schoolmaster Papa.

“Well, retired schoolmaster, I think. Lives in those posh houses on The Avenue.”

The boys nodded sagely. They had heard all sorts of stories about the goings-on in The Avenue.

Jonathon sipped a pint of bitter. “He makes him wear short trousers all the time. A green jumper too. I think he’s got a blazer too. A proper one, like they wear at St. Francis.”

“Oh God, no!” Neville guffawed. He had hated wearing that uniform when he was a pupil at St. FIGS. St. Francis Independent Grammar School, with the emphasis on Independent. It was a traditional school: traditional curriculum, traditional sports and traditional discipline. That meant a swishy rattan cane.

Suddenly, a thought came to him. “The schoolmaster, what’s his name? Did he teach at St. FIGS?”

Jonathon shrugged his shoulders, “Dunno. Could be. They all liked to whack boys’ bums,” he spluttered on his beer as he failed to stifle a laugh.

“Davy’s coming over later, you can ask him.” Jonathon said, composing himself.

Neville giggled, “I hope he wears his short trousers and jumper; all the old queens here will blow a fuse.”

Just then the pub manager ambled over. “Good day lads,” he breezed. “Anyone up for an adventure?”

The three youngsters paused their conversation.

“That gentlemen at the bar,” he nodded over his shoulder at a dapper man in an expensive three-piece suit.

Neville grinned, “Not your average customer in here. Must be slumming. What’s he want?”

“To go upstairs,” the manager’s eyes shone, “With company,” he gave what he fondly believed to be a discreet cough.

“Nah, not today,” Neville sucked on his beer bottle.

The pub manager was undeterred. He leaned in so close to Neville he could smell the boy’s cologne and whispered in his ear.

“How much? He’ll pay that much,” Neville reeled. The man must be a millionaire. Or very desperate. “Does he want afters?”

“No, I don’t think so,” the pub manager straightened himself, confident he had made a sale. Money always talked in places like the Three Fishers. “But, you could always negotiate.”

Neville glanced across the table at Ian, his boyfriend. The merest blink conveyed his consent.

“Tell him I’ll be up in five minutes,” Neville said as he settled back to finish his beer. It never did to appear too keen.



The room was dingy, no concession had been made for comfort. People rarely actually slept in a bedroom at the Three Fishers. Neville sniffed the dust in the air, there was only one small skylight window in the roof and there was no way to reach to open it. Already sweat was starting to run down his back.

The man had not introduced himself. He was about forty, Neville reckoned. Up close he oozed wealth. His suit was hand-tailored of the finest cloth that the young man had ever seen. His shoes shone almost as much as the man’s complexion. That skin was the product of more than a healthy diet. Neville had knocked on the door respectfully. He had not been briefed on his role in this little play acting. Was he to be the naughty pupil sent to the headmaster for a traditional six-of-the-best? Perhaps, it was Uncle & Nephew and he was to feel the full force of a slipper across his bum. Or maybe it was Magistrate & Poacher and he would bear the brunt of a birch rod across naked haunches.

The man’s instruction to “Enter” was so softly spoken Neville almost had not heard it. He gingerly opened the door to see the man seated in a rickety straight-backed wooden chair. He gave an almost imperceptible nod of greeting. Neville shuffled into the room and stood, hands clasped behind his back unsure what was expected of him.

The man rose from the chair and took two or three steps across the room to the wrought-iron bed. On it, he had left a long narrow carpet bag. Without acknowledging Neville’s presence further, he unclasped the bag and reached inside. Neville watched intently. What instrument of punishment would the stranger withdraw from it? The shape of the bag probably had given the answer to that already.

Instead of withdrawing a long thin whippy cane, the man produced a tiny pair of leather shorts. “Please put these on,” he murmured softly. Neville took them in his hands. At once he felt their weight. If the stranger’s intention was to whip him in these he wouldn’t feel a thing.

Neville unbuttoned his trousers and sat down on the bed and then tugged them over his shoes. His yellow briefs fitted a little too snugly and one of his balls was exposed to the gaze of the stranger. He didn’t seem to notice. He was once more inside the carpet bag and this time he did withdraw a long, sturdy dragon cane. He flexed it thoughtfully between his hands while he waited for Neville to get ready.

The shorts were precisely that: short. They hardly covered the teenager’s briefs. He was relived he had not worn boxers, they would have probably poked out under the hem of the shorts. Neville wriggled into them. They fitted so well they might have been made especially for him. The man swished his cane through the air and Neville watched it fly. He was no stranger to the cane and from what he saw this was a breath-taking specimen. It was a little under four-feet in length, and about as thick as a pencil. It was dark yellow in colour and both dense and extremely whippy. This kind of rod could take any boy’s arse off.

The man’s tongue darted in and out of his not quite closed mouth, making him look a little like a lizard. He seemed about ready. “Please bend over the back of the chair,” he lightly tapped the cane against the wooden seat as if there might be some doubt what he meant.

Neville blinked. Was this all the stranger wanted? Wasn’t there to be some ritual dropping of the shorts to be followed by a baring of the bottom? The cane tapped again. “Please do as you are asked?” the man’s tone was reasonableness itself.

Neville took a deep breath; the room was hot and airless and he wished he could open the window. He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and leant forward. He was taller than average and the chair was quite low. He had been across this particular chair before, so unbidden he stretched himself right over and gripped the bottom of the legs. Ordinarily, a boy would place his hands on the seat and stick his bottom out in readiness for the swipe of the cane. Neville knew how to serve up his bum as a special treat. He stretched down and grasped the bottom of the legs. His muscular legs were straight and his buttocks were beautifully presented over the top of the chair’s back.

He closed his eyes and waited patiently. He heard, but could not see, the stranger pace across the bare floorboards. His fancy shoes creaked against the worn wood. Eventually, the stranger settled. He took up a position to Neville’s left and with his own legs slightly bent he took his aim. Whack!!! The sound of rattan against leather echoed round the small room as the man let fly with every ounce of strength that he possessed. A clear white mark where the cane connected immediately spread across the taut leather. Beneath the shorts, Neville felt nothing.

Within seconds another swipe struck with tremendous force a little lower this time. The sound reverberated across the room. and the leather cracked. The noise could be heard across the landing where two labourers were playing horses. Again, Neville felt nothing.

The stranger whipped the cane into Neville’s leather-covered arse over and over and over again. The boy felt the stick connect at force across his stretched buttocks. He knew from painful experience that if he were getting such strokes on his cloth trousers – or God forbid – on his underpants or the bare he would be hollering the house down by now. Blood would be running from the wounds.

Only then did Neville think of the money he was being paid. Now, he realised why it was so generous. Once the stranger had satisfied himself whipping into the leather shorts, he would want a repeat performance with them down at Neville’s ankles.

A beaten boy always thinks the ordeal went on longer than it did. But, this time it really did last for ten minutes. The stranger dripped perspiration. His silky skin was drenched. Large damp patches soaked his armpits. Even his own buttocks were damp. It was as if he has stepped in from a thunder storm.

His heart raced and his temples throbbed. Breath was hard to catch. He stopped. “Stand up boy,” he croaked. A terrified Neville hauled himself to his feet. Still the caning had not registered against his fleshy bum. He quite literally had not felt a thing. Now, he knew the ordeal was really about to start. His hands shook uncontrollably as he waited for the instruction, “Drop ’em.”

The man threw the cane on the bed, reached down to the flies of his own trousers and in a frenzy yanked them down to his knees. Already Neville could see the huge bulge pressing against the man’s underwear. Within seconds his penis was released. Neville gasped. He had never seen one so long, thick and stiff. Had the man stolen it from a stallion?

The stranger’s eyes glazed, tears were already streaming down his cheeks. Plaintively, he implored Neville, “Please take me.”

The teenager couldn’t believe his luck. With his own cock fighting against the front of the tight leather shorts, he dived forward mouth open, hoping that he could get it wide enough to gorge the stranger’s manhood.


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Charles Hamilton the Second

Home early

z used boy smoking on armchair front of shorts open (100)

Patrick didn’t know I was coming home early, otherwise he wouldn’t have been lounging on the armchair with his shirt off, a joint in one hand and examining a porn magazine with the front of his shorts wide open.

He should have been at work at the supermarket. Earning the money to pay off the rent arrears he owed me.

I don’t think he heard my car pull up in the drive, nor the front door open and close. He had no idea I was in the house. Even so, by the time I poked my head into the lounge room he had at least let go of his cock.

“Oh, eh, um ….” He was speechless, his face crimson. He tugged up the zipper of his shorts and looked sheepish. I stood in the doorway, my genuine disapproval writ large across my face. He jumped from the armchair and looked at the joint in his left hand the porn mag in his right as if he had no idea how on earth they had come to be there.

He was still shamefaced, but he had recovered the power of speech. “I, eh, didn’t expect you home so soon.”

I frowned. Patrick’s shaggy hair fell across his eyes hiding his dark-brown eyes. He knew he was in trouble with me. Big trouble. There could be only one course of action.

Patrick had been with me for nearly three months at that point. I had literally taken him from the gutter. I was walking home from the church hall one evening about nine o’clock. It was filthy weather; the rain fell in stair-rods and the wind howled a gale. I had just turned into The Avenue where my house is, when I almost fell over his body. Literally is a most overused word, but that is the appropriate word here. He was slumped on the pavement, face down. He wore only a light shirt and jeans. The rain had soaked him so he looked like he had been in a shower fully clothed. I noticed how the drenched jeans hugged the curves of his bottom.

At first I thought he might be dead. But, his clothes were soaked to the contours of his body and I could see he was breathing. So, he must have had a medical attack, I thought. I knew it wouldn’t have been street robbers. We simply do not have such people in The Avenue. It is far too up-scale. Besides, I have no doubt whatsoever that anyone caught doing such a thing would face vigilante justice. The robber would never, ever, again try such a thing. You have my personal guarantee on that.

I was ready to dash home to phone 999, but first I leant across his body to see if I could give immediate attention. I had no need of a phone. There would be no ambulance. The stink about his body was unmistakable. Patrick was not dead, but he was dead drunk.

I stood over him wondering what to do. Technically, he was committing a criminal offence. He was “drunk and incapable.” I could call the police, but I doubted they would want to be dragged out on a night like this to deal with a drunken teenager. I grabbed him by the collar and got him into a seated position. Now, I was as soaked as Patrick and my usually sunny disposition had clouded somewhat.

I didn’t recognise him. I was pretty certain he didn’t reside in The Avenue. There were a few youngsters his age living here; I had confronted one or two over the years. I had once been a schoolmaster at St. Francis Independent Grammar School until an unfortunate misunderstanding. You might say I still had a professional interest in the moral welfare of young people.

I knew I couldn’t leave him. If he wasn’t dead yet, he soon would be – of pneumonia. I was contemplating what I should do next, when he opened his eyes. He spoke words I could not hear. I was just about to lean closer to his face in the hope of hearing more clearly, when his body lurched and he let out an almighty cry. A stream of vomit hit the ground, much of it splashing against my trousers.

That did it. I couldn’t let the brat get away with that. Patrick wiped the hair from his eyes and the sick from his chin. He had “come around.”

“Right you.” I stood over him and from a considerable height I berated him for his disgusting behaviour. He blinked back at me uncomprehending through bleary eyes.

“Stand up boy,” I growled. He understood that all right. Unsteadily, he hauled himself to his feet. “Now get over to that house,” I pointed to number twenty-nine where I lived. “March!”

A schoolmaster never loses his touch. Patrick never thought to disobey. He staggered across the street and leaned against the wall while he waited for me to find my key.

That was when I began to oversee Patrick’s moral welfare. He was not sufficiently capable of undressing himself, so I made it my duty to ensure he was stripped naked and wiped down. He must not be allowed to go to bed damp. As I rubbed the rough towel over his soft skin, I was taken by how thin he was. Had I misjudged? Was he in fact a street urchin, like those youngsters one sees sleeping in cardboard boxes at night in town?

He slept as I undertook my nanny duties; getting the child ready for bed. I don’t know why I just called him a “child” for when it was necessary to dry off his undercarriage (so to speak) it became perfectly clear to me that he was no such thing. His long, thin cock twitched and became semi-erect as I worked the towel across it.

I fetched a clean pair of my pyjamas from the airing cupboard and poured him into them. They were a little too big for his willowy body, but I pulled the drawstring tight and they were serviceable. Thus attired I put him to bed.

Young people have the most remarkable powers of recovery from excessive drinking. By nine the following morning, Patrick was as right as rain (if you’ll pardon my little play on words). He sat in my kitchen while I fed him breakfast. The rain had stopped long ago, it was only an early summer storm and it was already becoming a fine June day. We waited for his clothes to complete a full cycle in the washing machine, then it would take an hour or so for them to dry off. There would be ample time for me to impress upon Patrick that his behaviour the previous night had been unacceptable and that I expected retribution. It would be the devil’s job to get the smell of sick out of my trousers.

I rather liked having the young man around me. He was articulate and as far as I could tell, honest. He had been visiting his friend from school David Spreadbury in a house further along The Avenue. They had drunk too much and had some minor disagreement over a girl and Patrick had been thrown out. I knew young Spreadbury and resolved to have a word with his father when he returned from the “second honeymoon” he had taken with his wife. I doubt that Mr. Spreadbury would approve of his son’s partying in his absence. I would, if necessary, offer my own expert services should Mr. Spreadbury wish to avail himself of them.

Patrick told me he was nineteen and until last year he had attended a rather select boarding school in Basingstoke, which was 100 miles or so from where we sat. He told his father he wished to become a writer and not surprisingly the old man, who had invested a significant amount of the family money in his son’s education, had objected. There ensued an argument. An ultimatum was delivered.

“Go be a writer, but do not expect any support from me,” was his father’s final word on the matter. So, Patrick wrapped his worldly belongings in a handkerchief and set off to make his fortune. So far, it had eluded him.

I poured him a second cup of tea and went out into my back garden. I had a task that I wanted to complete without delay. It took no more than ten minutes and when I returned to the kitchen, Patrick had helped himself to a second helping of cereal without asking permission. The boy’s manners left something to be desired.

I made a point of closing the back door nosily as I wanted to attract Patrick’s attention. It worked. His eyes widened and a frown darkened his usually open, fresh face. Of course, he had seen what I carried in my hand. For dramatic effect (another schoolmasterly trait, I’m afraid), I lay my produce on the kitchen table. There could be no doubt what they were. But, what, Patrick wondered, were they to be used for?

There were four straight, whippy switches, cut by my own hand from the bushes in my garden. Each was a little over two feet in length and about as thick as a pencil. They were not as stout, nor as robust as the rattan canes we used at school, but I could attest from experience they would make a mightily effective alternative.

The same thought appeared to cross Patrick’s mind. His face paled. His expressive eyes asked the unspoken question, “What are those for?”

I always followed a certain ritual in my study at St. Francis. First, I would confront the boy with his misdeeds, then I would hear his mitigation, then I would pronounce sentence before finally taking his backside off with a cane. I saw no reason why I should not afford Patrick the same courtesies.

His misdeeds were obvious. He admitted he had been drunk and incapable, but he did not remember being sick over me.

“I’m sorry,” he said, brushing his hair from his forehead and rolling his big brown cow eyes at me. If he thought he could wind me round his little finger that way, he had another think coming.

“Yes, you should be,” I remarked brusquely. That perplexed him. This was more serious than he had thought.

I had already heard his mitigation, so there was nothing more to do than to pass and then carry out sentence.

“What would your housemaster at school have done if you behaved in such a way?” It was by way of a rhetorical question, for no self-respecting schoolmaster could act in any other way.

He tried the eye rolling thing again. Had the technique worked at school? Had his housemaster been a little sweet on him?

“Pah!”  I thundered. He trembled at the ferocity of my response. Was he reliving memories of his school days? “If he were any man at all, he would have thrashed you.” I leaned across the kitchen table, my face now inches from his. He blanched and fell backwards, so he almost toppled from his chair.

“Stand up!” I ordered. I knew he would submit. He had attended that kind of school. That was what his father had paid good money for. The boy might not obey his father, but he would never dare defy a schoolmaster.

“Up, I said. Stand up,” the fierceness of my tone did the trick. Patrick jumped up from his chair. In a panic, he gripped the waist of his pyjamas. The bottoms were far too lose, the cord was ineffective. If he let go they would hurtle to his feet like clown’s trousers.

I gathered up the four switches from the table and headed for the door. “Follow me into the lounge,” I instructed before setting off for the adjoining room. I didn’t need to look behind me, I knew he would follow unquestioningly.

The lounge was large, but minimally furnished. The pride of place was a three-piece suite, consisting of a padded sofa and two armchairs. I knew any one of the armchairs would be perfect for the task I intended. Patrick stood inside the door, his hand still clutching the waist of his pyjamas. His face was pale and sweat dripped from his temples, although it was not yet a hot day.

I rested three of the switches on the sofa seat and took the fourth in my right hand. I studied Patrick’s reaction as I swished it through the air, testing both its strength and its suppleness. It would make a mightily effective punishment cane. I could see Patrick had reached the same conclusion. He bowed his head and his shaggy-dog fringe covered his eyes, so I could not gauge his reaction when I tapped the apex of the back of one of the armchairs and intoned the words that have filled generations of schoolboys with dread, “Bend over that chair, boy.”

Patrick shuffled forward. It was a struggle to both walk and keep his PJ bottoms up. He reached the chair and stood about four feet away from its back. “Closer boy,” I swished the switch. “You can’t bend over it from there.”

Nor could he. He took two paces forward, pulled his jim-jam bottoms taut over his buttocks and fell forward into the padded armchair. This was not his first trip over a chair. He knew the drill. He stretched his arms forward and took hold of the far edge of the seat cushion with his hands. He parted his legs slightly, making sure his knees were straight and wriggled his bottom so it was at the highest point over the crown of the chair. He presented me with a perfect, submissive bottom. I have to say it was a terrific target.

Patrick shuddered when I took hold of the waistband of his pyjama bottoms. He had no cause. I believe in punishment, not torture. I am not a sadist, I am a traditional schoolmaster (albeit one who has been reluctantly retired). I had no intention of baring his backside. Instead, I tugged the oversized pyjamas until the bottoms fitted Patrick like a second skin. I heard him wheeze (was it a sigh of relief?)

I stood behind and a little to the left of the nineteen-year-old boy and tapped my rod against his stretched buttocks. He reeked of a mixture of sour sweat and rancid beer. As I had observed the previous evening, there was very little flesh on Patrick’s body. His bum was round and hard, rather like a rubber ball. I “sawed” the switch across the very centre of his cheeks, raised it to above shoulder height and let fly. I was rewarded by a loud hissing sound. It came from between Patrick’s clenched lips and reminded me a little of an old-fashioned steam train settling down.

I aimed a little higher and landed cut number two about an inch above the first. It didn’t seem to me to be any fiercer than the first stroke, but it had Patrick dancing over the back of the chair. His bum writhed from side to side and he wrapped his left foot over the right in a valiant attempt to ease the pain. It didn’t seem to work because Patrick simultaneously yelped a cry so piteous it might have made a less experienced master than myself show mercy.

I had decided on six strokes and six I intended to deliver. And, they would be six of my very best. I had already decided that Patrick needed saving. From himself, mostly. He needed to get his life back on track. His ambition to be a writer could come later. For now, it was my duty to bring him to his senses.

Cut three sliced just on the underside of his cheeks. The power of the stroke and the density of Patrick’s hard bottom combined to split the switch. No matter. I had cut four to meet such eventualities. I tossed the broken stick onto the sofa and selected another. It also gave me a chance to observe Patrick from the front. His eyes were still covered by his fringe (I resolved to send him to the barbershop at the first opportunity) so I could not tell if he was crying. His face and the back of his neck were as scarlet as I supposed his buttocks to be. Certainly, I had no fear that this was an extremely painful thrashing. We were not wasting our time here.

I bounced four and five in quick succession, so there was no time for the pain of one stroke to be absorbed before the next arrived. This technique had the effect of doubling the agony of a single stroke. It had the desired effect. Patrick wriggled and writhed and did the one foot over the other thing again. It didn’t stop the pain so he stomped his feet up and down into the deep-pile carpet.

I had arrived at the sixth and final stroke. Some schoolmasters (and I have done this myself often enough) like to make the last stroke something special: a diagonal cut from the bottom left to the top right of the target area slashes across the five cuts already throbbing there and reignites the pain in all of them. It leaves the scarred bum resembling a five-bar gate. It is excruciatingly agonising and should only be used in extreme cases; for recidivist repeat offenders, for example.

I considered Patrick to be a “first offender.” I had no doubt he had been dealt with many times at his former school, but this was his first time before me and I wanted to leave open opportunities to increase the severity of the punishment should I have cause to discipline him again.

So, I stood back, aimed my switch at the plumpest part of his buttocks and let fly. It landed more or less parallel to the previous cuts. Patrick buckled his knees waved his bum to left and right and wheezed all over again. But, it was over. He had survived his first caning from me. We could now get on with our lives.

I walked across the room and observed the nineteen-year-old from a distance. He was in some distress. I think tears might have been flowing now.

“Stand up,” I intoned.  With some difficulty he hauled himself to his feet. He stumbled and his pyjama bottoms slipped down affording me the delightful sight of his marked buttocks. If I say so myself, I had delivered a wonderful set of cuts. I was proud of my continuing expertise with the rod.

Patrick’s face blushed scarlet as he struggled to keep his trousers up. He succeeded, but not until I saw his raging erection pointing toward the ceiling.

“You had better visit the bathroom,” I smiled. And to save his blushes, I added, “You are rather in need of a shower.”

z used cane marks pyjamas (2)

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Charles Hamilton the Second

Taming Timothy

z used taming timothy (27)

Young men need order and discipline. They know they do. Indeed, they crave it.

That might sound unlikely if the only young men you know are the ones who get bladdered at weekends and spew their guts up on the pavements of our town and city centres. Or, the louts who hang around bus stops smoking weed and abusing innocent passers-by.

There are many – too many – young men like that around. But, they can’t help themselves. They have never been taught how to behave, to have self-respect and how to make something of themselves. I blame society – that’s you and me. It’s our fault for not guiding the young and disciplining, and let’s face it, punishing them when they needed it.

I hadn’t thought much about this until quite recently. Like you perhaps I thought it was all the fault of the young men themselves. Then, I discovered the Society for the Betterment of Offenders (SOBOFF). They soon put me straight and taught me that as a responsible citizen, I could make a difference in a young man’s life. If only, I would commit myself to the cause.

That’s where Timothy came in. He had just turned twenty when SOBOFF put me on to him. I was to learn that his was a typical tale. He attended some bog-standard comprehensive school where the teachers were probably on as many drugs as the kids. I don’t suppose any of them noticed that by the age of fourteen he had stopped attending classes. He would hang around the city centre in the amusement arcades or at the street market where he would steal anything his sticky fingers could grab.

By the time he was eighteen he had a list of ASBOs as long as your arm. An ASBO? It’s a legal slap on the wrist. Apparently, it costs too much to take people to court, so they give them this official ‘telling-off’. I now know that Timothy needed more than a slap on the wrist. A raging red-raw backside was what he needed. He didn’t know that then, but he does now. And SOBOFF can take credit for that.

To start with we work in groups of three or four men. Until, he learns the values of submission a young man will resist any kind of punishment. At first, there is no point in ordering him to take down his trousers, and possibly his underpants too, and bend over the back of a sofa while you lay into his bared buttocks with a cane. He simply won’t comply. He hasn’t yet discovered how much he needs to be punished and just what benefits a stingy backside, coupled with a proper disciplined lifestyle, could afford him.

I first came across Timothy through Mr Dyer, a regional organiser for SOBOFF. He was rounding up a posse to give the twenty-year-old his first taste of punishment. Timothy had been found stealing from a garden shed in The Avenue, a rather upscale street in our town. He was high on weed and looking to steal something to pay for his habit. He picked the wrong shed – or the right one, depending on your viewpoint. The householder was a friend of Mr Dyer. They immediately recognised a soul in need of saving.

I wasn’t present at the initial meeting, but I have attended many similar ones since. In it, Timothy, now sober, was required to explain his actions. Why did he smoke weed? How did he live? What were his ambitions for the future? His answers ran something like this: Because I like it. He lived in a squat. He had no ambitions. He was ripe for SOBOFF.

SOBOFF’s mission statement (as it were) is about discipline. Self-discipline. But, before a young man could reach that exalted state, he had first to understand the connection between discipline and punishment. Timothy was about to have his first lesson.

We met in the home of Mr Walker. Timothy had been lodging there for a week or so. Things were not going well. Despite, the young man’s assurances that he would give up drugs and find himself a job, nothing had transpired.

“He needs a little encouragement,” Mr Dyer announced. “And we are just the ones to give it to him.”

Timothy tried to struggle, but it was pointless. Mr Dyer made a little speech about how Timothy was being give chances that many desperate young men like himself would die for. Timothy did not know how lucky he was. He was doubly-lucky because SOBOFF would not abandon him.

“You might not believe me now,” he said sternly, “But, one day you will thank us for this.”

I was surprised that Timothy was silent. We are so used to young men “mouthing off” in the streets and being rude and aggressive. I later learnt that was how louts behaved in groups. If you got them on their own in certain circumstances they could be very contrite.

This was such a circumstance. Timothy was outnumbered four to one.

Mr Dyer carried a large Marks & Spencer plastic carrier bag. It seemed almost empty, but Mr Dyer withdrew a strange-looking leather strap. It was about eighteen inches in length and three wide. There was a handle and the other end was cut into two tails. I had never seen anything like it before.

“They used these in schools in Scotland, in the good old days” Mr Dyer informed us as he practiced slashing it through the air. I could see it was a specially-made instrument. It could have no other use than for punishment. Unlike, say, a belt that could keep your trousers from falling down or a slipper that kept the feet warm.

Timothy blanched. I could see he contemplated flight. We were not so stupid. His exit from the dining room was blocked by two of us and Mr Dyer and myself were on hand to take part in a pursuit, should the boy manage to force his way through.

“We can do this the hard or the easy way,” Mr Dyer had made similar speeches many times before. He said Timothy could prepare himself for the thrashing to come and take it with modicum of dignity. I could see Timothy did not understand the word “modicum”, but we let that pass.

If he chose the other way, we would strip off all his clothes and manhandle him naked face-down across the dining room table. Either way, Timothy’s bared buttocks were to be tawsed. Of that, the lad was left in no doubt.

I got to know Timothy very well over the coming months and years. He was a good boy who had lost his way. We – all of us – had deserted him and countless like him. That day with Mr Dyer was the start of his rebirth.

He didn’t submissively offer up his bared bum to the crack of the leather, but neither did he make much resistance. He wore a bright-green tee-shirt and those polyester leisure pants that have elasticated waists. It took nothing for us to take an arm each and force him over the dining room table. He struggled, but to me it seemed half-hearted. Token resistance. With the twenty-year-old prostrate and held firmly, it was no problem for me to grip the waist of his trousers and tug them down to his knees. His boxer shorts came part the way with them, snagging at the lower part of his buttocks.









I expected him to be hollering and yelling, but he remained calm. No neighbours would be disturbed that morning. Unheeded, I pulled the boxer shorts down until the buttocks, including the underside, were completely bare.

I stood back, my part in the proceedings were over. I had a terrific view of Timothy’s bare buttocks, his legs were parted just enough that I saw his ball sack dangling. His bottom was not bald, but the fine fair hairs covering it made it seem so. There was darker hair growing from the crack between the cheeks.

Timothy had a well-proportioned body, there was no spare fat on him anywhere. Perhaps, that was the consequence of drug-taking. We did not follow through on our threat to strip him naked. There was no practical reason to do that. His buttocks were perfectly presented and his thin tee-shirt had ridden half way up his back. I was surprised, and pleased, that he had no tattoos on his body. So many young people today cover themselves with garish images. I have a view that a person’s intelligence is inversely proportional to the amount of flesh covered with tattoos.

Timothy wiggled his bare bum in anticipation of the hurt to come. He had never been spanked before; more’s the pity since if he had been we would not have needed to thrash him that day.

Mr Dyer stood behind Timothy’s behind (so to speak) and raised the worn leather taws over his shoulder so that the two tails tapped against the small of his own back. Then, with an almighty swipe he brought it crashing down across Timothy’s left cheek. A deep pink line immediately formed in a north-to-south direction. The boy’s legs kicked out; he tried to break free but the grip of my two colleagues kept him firmly in place. I saw his head rise and shake, just as a horse does when it neighs.

While this was happening, Mr Dyer took up his position once more and delivered a penetrating swipe to the right cheek. Timothy now had parallel lines on his buttocks. From where I stood, they rather looked like railway tracks. He did the neighing thing again and gasped for air. His tousled, fairish hair was already soaked with sweat.

Even from my vantage point at the rear I could see the boy’s face was ghastly pale, yet the back of his neck was as scarlet as his hind quarters.

Mr Dyer was an expert. He brought the strap crashing down across the buttocks with such skill that each successive stroke landed a little to the side of the previous one. In that way, Timothy’s bottom soon glowed red-hot. Not a single square inch of flesh was left unscorched.

I am not sure how I expected a young man in such a situation to react. I suppose I anticipated tears at least, and probably screams and pleas for mercy. We got none of that from Timothy. When we released him, his eyes were awash, but no real tears flowed. He was deathly pale and by the way he was bent double, with his hands on his knees, I could tell he was desperately trying to suck in air. He was in terrible pain, but determined not to show it.

Two weeks after that first belting, Timothy moved in with me. I became his guardian and guiding hand. Although, “hand” had very little to do with the punishments I administered to him. Under my tutelage, he got a job filling shelves at a supermarket and he is studying part-time for a City & Guilds in plumbing. He is on the road for a successful life.

It is not all plain sailing. There are relapses. I am sure he is off the drugs now, but sometimes he skips college or misses a shift at work. We have a punishment ritual now. I send him to his room where he is required to strip down to his underwear. He waits submissively, head bowed and hands behind his back.

When I am ready, I take my heavy wooden clothes brush from the drawer in my sideboard. I make him detail his faults. He always finishes his little speech with the words, “I have let myself down and I deserve to be punished. Please spank me.”

I always reply, “Of course.”

Then, I sit on his bed. When I am comfortable, I nod at my knees. This is his cue. He puts his thumbs in the waistband of his underpants and sends them to a puddle at his feet. He steps out of them and now totally naked he places himself across my knee. His legs dangle at one end and his stomach and chest rest on the mattress. In this way, his smooth bared bottom rests at a perfect angle against my thigh.

I raise the heavy brush and whack it down with force into his backside. Twenty-four times. Never more. Never less.


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Charles Hamilton the Second


Donald knows his place


Donald knows his place. Oftentimes, it’s across my knees stark naked with his nose close to the linoleum, his legs splayed and his bared buttocks resting against my thigh, with me hammering into his cheeks with my small wooden paddle.

Donald is a lout. My church sent him to stay with me. It is my civic duty to keep him straight and I use any means necessary. The magistrates gave him an ASBO. I’d never heard of it, but it means ‘Anti-Social Behaviour Order’. He and a gang of other louts had been hanging around bus stops, drinking, taking drugs and terrorising the general public. In the past they would have been fined or even sent to youth detention. The Church said in the good old days louts like Donald would have been lashed on their bared buttocks with birch rods. But, not today, more’s the pity. Now, they just get a slap on the wrist. Well, maybe not all of them, as Donald is finding out.

I live on my own so there’s plenty of room for Donald. I was a bit uneasy taking him at first, but lots of the congregants have been doing this for years. There’s a healthy support network. I realised Donald was going to be tricky from Day One. The Church had found him a job at a big supermarket, one of those ungodly ones that stays open all day and only closes for a few hours on Sundays. Donald was on the early shift. I knew he was going to be late if he didn’t get a move on, so I went to his bedroom. I knocked first, of course, just in case he was … well, you know what. But he wasn’t: he wouldn’t dare. Not in my house.

He was stretched out under the duvet. “Get up Donald, you don’t want to be late for work on your first day,” I said encouragingly. He had the perpetual sneer of the young. Sometimes I just want to slap his face. Hard.

“F… off, Mr. H.,” he snarled, “It’s too f……. early.” (You probably know he didn’t say “F”, he used the full words, but I cannot bring myself to write such filth.)

Donald didn’t know what hit him. I did. I didn’t even think about it. I ripped the duvet from the bed, grabbed his arm and pulled him over so he was face down in the pillow. I tore his underpants down and walloped the palm of my hand into his bare bottom. Hard and quick. The cheeks quickly turned a delightful shade of pink and I could see the outline of my hand printed time and time all over his buttocks.

I don’t suppose it gave him much pain, he is twenty years old after all. But, it had an effect. The moment I released him, he shot from the room and into the bathroom. He was showered and dressed in minutes. He didn’t even wait to eat the breakfast I had made.

I told the Church about him. Nobody was surprised. “It is to be expected,” Mr. Sayers, who lives in the next street from me, said. “I’ve had the same treatment. Don’t forget they are louts. They don’t know how to behave,” he told me, then added almost under his breath, “Yet.”

He gave me a small wooden paddle. I had never seen such a thing before. It is about the size of a DVD cover; the same thickness too. It has a handle with sticky tape wrapped around it so you can get a good grip. “It works a treat,” he said and Mr. Sayers should know. He has hosted many young men in the past. His great success was Alex. Alex was a drunk and a drug taker when he was sent by the Church. Now, Alex is a qualified plumber and doing very well for himself, apparently. But, he didn’t get there without a loving guiding hand. And, countless sessions across Mr. Sayers’ knee with the paddle.

“There are rules and guidelines,” Mr. Sayers told me, offering me a well-thumbed paperback book. “Read that,” he nodded at the scruffy pages, “Treat it like your Bible. Trust its every word.”

It was all quite straightforward. Rules were to be applied. There was to be no alcohol or drugs. No dirty pictures. A curfew of ten o’clock on worknights and eleven at other times. He was to do all the household chores; vacuuming, the laundry and whatnot. He must do this all with good grace. The penalty for failure: corporal correction. “Corporal correction,” that’s what Mr. Sayers’ book called it. I was on chapter three before I realised it meant “spanking”. Why on earth couldn’t the writer call a spade a spade?

At the insistence of the church, Donald signed a piece of paper saying he agreed to the rules and the sanctions. It makes it legal, apparently. Perhaps, he genuinely believed he could abide by the new regime. He couldn’t of course. The first weekend at my house he missed the Friday curfew by nearly three hours and as soon as he lurched through the door, I could see he was drunk. A double-whammy, I think they call it: missed curfew and drinking alcohol.

I let him go to his bed. Any punishment I chose to deliver would be more effective on a clear head. The next day I prepared myself. I reread the chapter on delivering corporal correction. It had to be on the bare flesh. Mr. Sayers had told me that he makes his present lout Jonathon work around the house in the nude. It is not sinful to be naked, he assured me. God’s work should be treasured, not hidden.

I thought I would have my work cut out getting Donald to bare his bottom without demanding he do the Full Monty as well. I walked around my kitchen and my sitting room wondering how best a spanking could be delivered. The back of the armchair is quite high and a boy of Donald’s shortness might not be able easily to bend across it. He would be too tall to go over the arm. One of the wooden dining chairs would be an ideal height as would the dining table itself. I considered going to his room and taking him by surprise as I had done the other day, but the book was clear on this: the boy must present himself submissively for chastisement. There were to be no unseemly wrestling matches.

Donald was not surprised when I told him he was to be spanked. Such punishments were detailed in the rulebook and besides he had been talking to fellow louts who had been farmed out to good decent Christians like myself. I have to admit I was somewhat surprised that he followed my instructions without a murmur of dissent. He stood contrite staring down at the floor tiles beneath his feet while I catalogued his misdeeds. Satisfied, that he clearly knew why he was being punished, I got on with it.

I turned a kitchen chair around so the back was level with the table. “Take down your jeans, kneel on the chair and stretch across.” I waved my paddle at the laminated top of the table so there could be no misunderstanding of my intent. He unbuckled the belt of his tight pale-blue jeans and tugged the zipper. They fitted so snugly that he had to roll them down his thighs and past his knees until they bunched at his shins.

Then, he climbed onto the chair. What he did next astonished me. With no instruction from me, he rolled down his blue-and-white checkered briefs until his bottom was bared. He didn’t seem the least bit bothered that his private parts were hanging down or that his naked buttocks were displayed for my attention. Once prepared, he leaned forward resting his torso on the tabletop. He wriggled this way and that trying to find a comfortable place to put his head. Eventually, he decided to rest his right cheek on the cool Formica. This meant he had a prefect view of myself as I administered his spanking.

There was no practical need to do this, but I took hold of the end of his tee-shirt and pulled it halfway up his back. I might have blushed when I realized I now had a terrific view into the crack between his cheeks. My hand trembled as I gripped the small paddle. I stood close to Donald and pressed my left hand into the small of his back, pinning him against the table. I rose my right hand so that it was about three feet away from his fleshy bottom and whacked it into him with some force. A dark pink square formed immediately. Donald’s body shook, but I had him overpowered. He was going nowhere.

Slowly, at ten or fifteen second intervals, I covered the whole of his bottom; from the top where it meets the spine, across his wobbly mounds and into the under cheeks where the buttocks meet the thighs. Donald twisted and turned. I think this was a natural reflex action. My paddle was burning the boy. I am sure had he chosen to he could have forced himself free. I have no doubt that if it ever came to such a thing, he would be able to knock me flat on my back with a single punch.

I gave him twenty-four swats. The guidebook had emphasised that a spanking should be harsh. Love taps were not the order of the day. My small paddle proved to be a mighty effective punishment tool. Donald’s once smooth bottom was ridged with red welts. The surface of his buttocks had taken on the consistency of leather. I congratulated myself on a job well done.

He whipped his briefs and jeans up at breakneck speed when I released him. His face was as scarlet as his bottom. His tee-shirt was soaked in sweat. I dismissed him and he raced up the stairs two at a time. I heard the bathroom door open and slam shut.

That was the first time I spanked Donald, but it wasn’t to be the last. I took advice from Mr. Sayers and now I make Donald work in the kitchen naked, except for an apron. It preserves his modesty at the front and the opening gives me easy access to his bare buttocks should I feel the need to deliver a summary spanking with a wooden spoon when his conduct fails to meet my expectations. Which, I have to report, is very often indeed.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second