My house. My rules

z used bed wank (1)

Marcus lays flat on his back on his lumpy single mattress admiring his refection in the full-length mirror in the corner of the room. The air is cool, but it is not cold. He pulls the bottom of his white t-shirt up to his chest so he can fondle his flat, hairless stomach. He slips his left hand inside the waistband of his tight mini-shorts and clasps his dick. He is not yet hard but knows he soon will be. He screws his eyes tightly shut.

The door opens quietly. Mr. Shults his landlord stands by the bed, towering over him. He never knocks. It is his house, he can go where he wants, when he wants; that is understood. He is calm, he always is. To Marcus he seems incapable of ever showing anger. In a measured tone he says, “You know the rules of my house, I made them clear when you first moved in.”

He tells the truth. So many rules, but Marcus can remember Mr. Shults’s speech word for word.

“While you are a lodger in my home you will obey my rules. You will always be punctual to breakfast. You will obey your curfew. That means 10.30 p.m. No later.

“You will not bring friends back and you will not play loud music in your room. The front room is entirely out of bounds to you. You are permitted to use the back room, but you must never take food or drink in there.

“You will address me as ‘Mr. Shults’ and you will address my wife as ‘Mrs. Shults.’ You will be polite at all times and obey without question any instructions that either of us might give you.

“These are the rules of the house. It is my house and I make the rules. If you choose to brake one of my rules, you will be spanked. With your trousers down. I shall spank you on your underpants and if you dare to repeat your rule-breaking you will be spanked on your bared bottom.

“If you still have not come to your senses I have an exceedingly whippy rattan school cane that I keep in the cupboard under the stairs and I am not afraid to use it.

“Do I make myself entirely clear?”

Marcus removes his hand from inside his shorts and looks across at his landlord. He is not a very imposing figure. Marcus thinks he must be in his fifties, he has a balding dome with tufts of light grey hair wildly sticking up at the sides. Two beady bright blue eyes stare out of his fleshy face. He is probably no more than five-feet-ten-inches tall and he has more than a “spare tyre” around his belly. No one seeing him in the street would give a second glace.

Despite this Mr. Shults has an aura. He is a man of decision and when he says something will happen, it does so. Marcus knows he is some big boss at Altringham’s one of Brocklehurst’s biggest employers. He is used to giving orders, he expects them to be obeyed.

Marcus pulls himself off his back and sits propped against one pillow. He knows down to the very last detail what will play out next. He must wait for events to take their course.

So many rules, it is impossible not to have broken at least one of them.

Marcus watches as Mr. Shults balances on one leg and reaches to his foot to tug off a bedroom sipper. A little unsteady on his feet now, he turns and picks up a chair that stands against the wall. It is old, straight-backed and at one time it graced the kitchen. Mr. Shults puts it down in a space between the bed and a cupboard. Gripping the rubber-soled slipper in one hand he uses the other to take hold of Marcus by the wrist. The nineteen-year-old does not resist. He allows himself to be pulled to his feet. He shifts from one foot to the other watching as Mr. Shults sits himself down on the chair. Marcus notices (not for the first time) how well padded are Mr. Shults’s legs. His landlord spreads his feet a little and in so doing creates a platform with his knees and his lap.

It is not necessary to speak since Marcus knows from experience what he is expected to do now. Nonetheless, Mr. Shults says the time-honoured words that have put fear into many naughty boys down the ages. “Bend over my knee,” he says. And, to emphasise his intention, he once again grips Marcus by the wrist and this time he pulls him forward so that he flops across his knees and is left face-down staring at the beige rug that is now centimetres from his nose.

Mr. Shults places his left arm around Marcus’s midriff and presses down hard. This is to keep the teenager in place for the spanking that is about to be delivered. The effort this takes is not strictly necessary because Marcus is submissive. He has broken the rules; he knows this. The penalty for rule-breaking is a spanking. This fact he knows also. He likes to think of himself as an honourable young man. Let nature take its course.

The palms of Marcus’s hands dig into the shag pile of the rug. He spreads his fingers and feels many grit particles; the rug has not been cleaned for some considerable time. He feels the muscles stretch in his arms and his shoulders as he tries to hold his head high. He can see the reflection of himself and Mr. Shults in the mirror in the corner. He sees his round bottom encased in tight cotton and his hairless legs dangling in mid-air. His toes hover a few centimetres above the rug.

He sees Mr. Shults put the slipper down on Marcus’s bare back. He knows what will happen next. Mr. Shults is as good as his promise. Marcus is a repeat offender. Without ceremony, he grips the waistband of the teenager’s micro-shorts and with three heavy tugs he has them pulled over his buttocks and down the back of his thighs. Marcus’s eyes widen. He has a perfect view of his cheeks and crack in the mirror. He feels his landlord gently caress him. The palm of Mr. Shults’s hand pats and preens Marcus’s cheeks. It is as if he is trying to get the measure of the task ahead of him. How much flesh; how much muscle does the teenager have in his behind?.

A cliché-writer would say that Marcus has buns of steel. Perhaps a better description is that his cheeks are as hard as two rubber balls, the kind once known as “super balls” to generations of children. One small bounce could send them flying metres high.

Mr. Shults preens Marcus; the boy’s mounds are terrific, the skin on the back of his thighs unblemished. He moves his arm away from Marcus’s waist and now pins him at the shoulders. He picks up the slipper, squeezes it tightly, raises it to the height of his own shoulders and wallops it down at speed into the very centre of the nineteen-year-old’s left buttock. The delight Mr. Shults feels as the outline of the slipper’s sole appears in deep pink across the cheek does not register on his face.

Marcus takes a breath. That hurts, but it is not beyond his endurance. Another whack hits him on the right buttock and then again on the left. The pain is increasing now. Marcus feels his bottom warming up. He feels also Mr. Shults’s body move as he continues to swing the slipper across Marcus’s bum. The boy’s head swings from left to right, the pain now definitely registering. He’s head lowers closer to the rug and from this position he is able to see under the chair that Mr. Shults is sitting on and observe his own feet, still hovering above the floor. Mr. Shults is finding his rhythm. Marcus sees his feet waving about. This is not of his doing, the movements of his feet, his legs and his hips gyrate in protest at the hurt his body is enduring: it is a reflex action, Marcus has no control over his actions.

Mr. Shults is resolute in the task he has set himself: disciplining (no, punishing) his disobedient lodger. Having ensured that every square centimetre of the buttocks now glow red hot he turns his attention to the backs of Marcus’s thighs. As any young man who has suffered Marcus’s indignity knows, this is the cruellest action a spanker might take. The thighs are even more sensitive than the bottom. Marcus wriggles and squirms with renewed effort.

Marcus loses all sense of time. How long has he been draped over his landlord’s lap? How many times has that slipper connected with his bare flesh? He has no idea. His bum is sore and his body soaked in perspiration.

Suddenly, he is on his feet. Mr. Shults is leaving the room, still gripping his slipper. Marcus clutches both buttock cheeks with his hands. He rubs furiously. He hops from foot to foot performing the traditional spanking dance. He turns and pokes his naked bottom in the direction of the mirror. His admiration goes out to Mr. Shults, his punisher.

Marcus opens his eyes. His hand is down the front of his shorts and his dick is so rigid they cannot contain its girth. He wriggles the shorts over his hips and down his buttocks. He turns on his side and reaches into a drawer seeking the small bottle of purple gel he hides inside. He finds it, opens it and pours a generous blob into his palm.

As Marcus works away at his raging cock, his mother and father sit contentedly in the living room downstairs engrossed in EastEnders.


Picture credit: Akibu

Other stories you might like

The military kid

Secret in the loft

Not too old to be spanked by grandad


 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second


Book: All in The Family

z used otk chair bare head (54)

All in the family.

Tales of domestic discipline

“What that boy needs is a damn good spanking.” It was a policeman speaking about my drunken nephew. He was right, of course. But the police can’t use corporal punishment. So it is up to the family to instil discipline. These tales demonstrate that up and down the land fathers, uncles, granddad’s – and even older brothers – don’t shirk their duty.

In this free-of-charge book offering, the cane, the brush and the paddle are much in evidence as young men learn the painful way how to behave.

The book runs for more than 17,000 words and can be downloaded by clicking the link below. The PDF file can be read on computers, laptops and a variety of e-book readers.



For more free-to-download books click here

The boys in room 3b

z used twosome students short shorts Adams Gay Readers

Mr. Twirler had his doubts about the boys in room 3b. Yes, they had been at his rooming house since last January; six months now, but still there was something about them he just couldn’t get. Try as he might he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

Why should he worry? He told himself often enough. They paid the rent on time. They were both in good jobs. Donny, the fair-haired one with the broad chest and snake hips, was an office boy or some such at the Gas Board. Jasper, the dark-haired lad with the deep brown eyes and the Mediterranean skin, worked at the Co-op store. Something in the warehouse, Mr. Twirler thought. But he couldn’t be sure how he knew that. It couldn’t have been Jasper himself who told him. The two had hardly exchanged a dozen words since the boys moved in. It must have been one of his other tenants. Mr. Baskerville, perhaps. He knew everybody’s business, that was for sure.

They had arrived together. As a package as it were. Wanting to share a room. Donny had been living with his parents.

“They’re driving me crazy Mr. Twirler,” he had said, flashing a toothy grin and waving his arms about. “I’ve got to get out. I’m eighteen. I shouldn’t be living at home.”

Jasper hadn’t said a thing. He could have been living in a skip, for all Mr. Twirler knew.




“Let’s do it,” Jasper gasped and he leaned back until he was flat on the bed. He felt Donny’s hand on his thigh making light stroking movements. He hissed through his teeth as the tips of Donny’s fingers made their first fleeting contact with the skin of his still soft cock.

The eighteen-year-old’s fingers lightly caressed the length of Jasper’s penis and it twitched again as it started to fill out and moved up from between his legs, rubbing against his thigh then flopping onto his stomach.

He felt Donny’s fingers lightly enclose the hardening shaft down near the base and slide slowly up the length of the twitching member. Reaching the top, Donny’s finger’s gently tweaked the sensitive edges of Jasper’s foreskin, causing an involuntary gasp of pleasure. His hand made a couple of slow, firm strokes along the full length of the older boy’s now fully erect cock. Donny’s other hand cupped Jasper’ balls, gently kneading them between his fingers.

Donny’s hand was slowly massaging along the full length of the cock from base to head, then letting go and returning to the base again. Jasper, shifted his hips, torn between wanting Donny to go faster and wanting this feeling to last as long as possible.

“Wait,” Jasper shuffled his buttocks on the bed. “Come here, get across my legs. Let me spank that terrific arse.”

Donny beamed. “Oh, yes please.” He released his hand from his pal’s cock and careful not to be speared by the rock-hard member he stretched himself over Jasper’s knees. He squealed with pleasure as the palm of his friend’s hand smacked with full force into the soft undercurve of his cheek.




“They’re homosexual,” Mr. Baskerville’s face creased like he could smell a dead dog in the room.

“Homosexual?” Mr. Twirler’s pink fleshy jowls wobbled as he shook his head in incomprehension.

“Pansies. Perverts. Fruits. Fairies. Queers,” Mr. Baskerville’s voice rose an octave with each word. “Shirt lifters!” he roared.

“Shirt lifters?”

Mr. Baskerville mimed raising his shirttail clear of his buttocks. “Shirt lifters,” he said definitively, expecting that to be an end to the matter. “You must have read about them in the Sunday papers.”

Mr. Twirler’s face reddened, perspiration soaked his bald dome. Absent-mindedly, he reached into his trouser pocket, extracted a clean handkerchief and wiped his head dry.

“Shirt lifters, Mr. Twirler,” Mr. Baskerville scowled, “What are you going to do about it?” he asked rhetorically as he slammed the front door behind him and scurried off to the seamen’s mission.

What indeed? Mr. Twirler stared aimlessly from his window. It was grey and overcast. It would rain soon. Then, he’d be forced to turn on the lights. More expense, he supposed. If only all his tenants were like the boys in 3b.

Mr. Twirler meant if only they paid their rent on time then he could afford money for the electricity meter; not if only they were all … what had Mr. Baskerville called them? Shirt lifters.

Homosexual? Was it even legal to be homosexual? Mr. Twirler wasn’t certain, but he rather thought not. Mr. Baskerville was correct; there had been an awful lot about it in the papers lately. If only Mr. Twirler could remember. Against the law: what if the police found out, would Mr. Twirler be arrested? He turned away from the window. He would ask at Church; they would tell him what he should do.






“An abomination.”

“Contrary to God’s law.”

Everyone he asked at Church knew for sure. It was simple really. Donny and Jasper were going to Hell.

“Love the sinner, not the sin.” That was Mr. Tinkerman, a wizened old geezer. He trembled as he spoke and gently held onto his chair. He looked like it wouldn’t be long before he would be able to get God’s definitive word about homosexuals.

Mr. Twirler sat opposite the old man, silently marvelling that in his state he was still able to shuffle down to the Church every day.

“You should save them,” the ancient man wheezed. He slurped in a mouthful of air, “Your Christian duty.” He left the sentence unfinished. His piety spoke for him. He didn’t feel the need to spell it out.

Except that he had to. Mr. Twirler blinked uncomprehendingly.

Mr. Tinkerman’s tongue popped through his lips and he ran it slowly around his cracked lips. “There’s a cure,” he coughed silently. His eyes watered. “It works.” He stopped and stared at the florid man sitting in front of him, as if only then noticing him for the first time.

“Go on,” Mr. Twirler leaned forward. A cure. He could save the boys. Wouldn’t they be pleased when he told them.

“Lashing,” Mr. Tinkerman breathed and when once again Mr. Twirler looked vacant, he continued impatiently. “Whipping. Thrashing. Flogging. Caning!” a trickle of saliva ran from the corner of his mouth. Mr. Twirler watched it reach the ancient man’s chin, his own stomach churning.

“Beat the Devil out of them!” Mr. Tinkerman’s eyes blazed. “It works. I know it does. I read about it in The Empire News last week.” His hands shook violently.




So, that was that then. Mr. Twirler pulled his threadbare overcoat tightly around his body: July, the height of summer and bloody freezing. He would go to Frank’s, the oil shop on Commercial Street; he sold all sorts of things there, including authentic whippy, rattan school canes.

Frank’s young assistant grinned broadly. “Of course, Sir,” he beamed. They got all sorts in the shop. This old geezer was no schoolmaster, nor was he a father in search of an implement to punish a disobedient son. He probably got his rocks off caning young men.

“We have two types of cane; the junior or the senior.” He stopped himself adding, “Would you like to try them out?” He had once earned thirty shillings from a customer. Six stingers across the seat of his trousers, but it was worth it. Thirty shillings, that was nearly a week’s wages.

Mr. Twirler grunted. “Bah, give me the one that hurts the most.”

“Shall I wrap it?”

Mr. Twirler carried his long, thin parcel back to the rooming house.




“He says he wants to cane our arses; it’s something to do with saving our souls,” Jasper guffawed as he recounted his weird conversation with Mr. Twirler.

“Does he?” Donny’s eyes shot heavenwards. “Well, only if he sucks me off after.”

“It might be fun,” Jasper wrapped his arm around his friend’s shoulder and led him to the bed. “It would make a change to be caned by an old man.”

“So I’m not good enough,” Donny’s pout was exaggerated.

“Oh behave; you know what I mean.”

“Do we use our cane, or has he got one of his own?”

“I rather think he has come prepared,” Jasper leaned forward and slipped his tongue inside his pal’s mouth.




Mr. Twirler swished the cane through the air. It was incredibly light weight; he wasn’t at all sure it was up to the job. He was in room 3b. Donny and Jasper stood contritely together on the warn rug. A small rickety table – utility furniture from the end of the war – had been dragged into the middle of the room. It was just about strong enough to hold both their weights as they bent across together; heads low, arses high.

Mr. Twirler had not noticed before just how round an how brown Jasper’s eyes were. He looked a lot like Mickey Mouse. His permanently-tanned face shone. His white tee-shirt was tight and showed some of his tight, flat waist. His pink shorts were just that – short. They hardly covered his buttocks. Jasper wore no shirt; his hairless torso was smooth-skinned and muscular. His yellow cotton sport shorts were if anything even shorter and tighter than his pal’s.

All the spittle drained from Mr. Twirler’s mouth. He licked his dry lips, but he had nothing to moisten them.

“Let’s get on with this, shall we?” he spluttered as he flexed the cane between his hands. It was indeed an authentic punishment cane, complete with the curved handle. It would not look out of place in a headmaster’s study. Mr. Twirler swished it through the air oblivious to the stares of the two contrite teenagers before him. It was a little over three feet in length and as thick as a pencil. It made a terrific swooshing noise as it cut through the empty air.

Mr. Twirler gave a little cough; he still could not find his voice. “Bend across the table,” he pointed the cane in front of him in case there was any doubt what he meant. Jasper and Donny exchanged the merest of glances. They shuffled to the table, paused for a second and then fell forward together like synchronised swimmers, until both their stomachs rested across the worn out wood.

Jasper clasped his pal’s hand, only to have it shaken away vigorously. Donny didn’t want Mr. Twirler to discover their little secret.

Mr. Twirler was presented with a terrific target. The tight cotton shorts ran up into the boys’ creases, lifting and separating each cheek. The naked undercurves were easily visible beneath the hem. It was almost as if the bare buttocks were on show.

Mr. Twirler had never beaten a boy’s backside before. There had never been occasion to, but he was a man of God, a man of certainty, and he was sure he was up to the task. He tapped the cane across Jasper’s tight cheeks. There was a lot of meat there. There wasn’t enough spare fat on the nineteen-year-old to sizzle a sausage. He let fly and was rewarded by a dull thud as the whippy rattan connected. The teenager truly had buns of steel. Jasper sucked on his bottom lip. That hurt. The warm glow across his bum was quite pleasant.

Thack! A cut – a little harder this time – connected with the seat of Donny’s shorts. “Ow, ow, ow,” he howled. Jasper stifled a laugh. Trust Donny to act the goat.

Mr. Twirler cut three more slices into the pair’s rear ends. Jasper remained stoic, absorbing the pain. Donny wriggled and writhed and yapped and yelped. Two more to go. Six of the best – wasn’t that the usual number of strokes for a caning?

The old man had a plan. He would finish with a flourish. He “sawed” his cane across the bared undercurve of Jasper’s buttocks. The teenager tensed his body. This would hurt. Like crazy. Whop! Whop! Two stingers swiped across the naked flesh. Immediately two dark red welts rose on the skin. Jasper’s head threw back, tears filled his eyes. The agony was intense. Huff-huff-huff, he struggled to catch his breath.

Donny’s cock grew. It was his turn now. This would be something else. “Owww!” the cry was genuine this time. It was like Mr. Twirler had pressed a red-hot poker against his unprotected flesh. The agony was intense, it started at his bottom and ran up and down his legs. Donny stomped his feet up and down like a soldier on sentry duty.

Then it was over. The aching in two scorched backsides was swiftly dissolving into a hot throbbing. They knew soon it would become a warm glow.

“Stand up,” Mr. Twirler was enjoying himself. He had missed his vocation in life. He would make a splendid headmaster, he reckoned. Jasper and Donny rose gingerly from the table and stood contritely, hands held in front of crotches. The silence was awkward. What was supposed to happen now? How did a beating end?

Mr. Twirler tucked the cane under his arm. “God loves you,” he croaked as he exited the room.

“Jesus Christ,” Donny shrieked with glee as he ripped down his shorts. He wore no underwear. He poked his bum at the mirror and was rewarded with the sight of six deep marks. Jasper’s shorts were off too. Both cocks were at full attention.

“Quick,” Donny pushed Jasper face down on the bed and knelt beside him. He soaked his tongue in spit and ran the tip along the length of his pal’s cane marks.

Downstairs, in his own room, Mr. Twirler lit a match and set a flame under the kettle. His mouth was parched. He needed a cup of tea. His hand shook uncontrollably as he reached up on the shelf for the caddy. What had just happened? Was it God’s Will? He had no idea, he wasn’t an educated man. He didn’t have the answer. Somehow, instinctively, he knew he should not ask for guidance at Church the next day. The front of his underpants was full of cold, sticky goo.


Picture credit: Adams Gay Readers

Other stories you might like

The housemates

Uncle gets a shock

Where’s the paddle, hon?


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second


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

Other stories you might like

The exhibitionist

The padded armchair

In the farmhouse


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 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.


Other stories you might like

Summer holiday camp

Donald knows his place

Paying the rent


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


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.


Other stories you might like

The students next door

Visit to Uncle Roy

Their new house


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second





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.


Other stories you might like

The rooming house

The drunken neighbour

Their new house


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second