An old English custom

z used belt taking hook (22)

He stared through the window at the garden below. Rain drops fell plip-plop against the sill. It seemed it had rained the whole summer. English weather. He must go downstairs for breakfast. Arriving late for meals had consequences. He had learned that quickly.

When he turned eighteen he was taken from his prestigious school and sent half way across the world to an English language college at Brocklehurst: a strange place; not quite country, not quite town. His orders were to learn the language like a native. Immerse himself in the culture. He obeyed. He always obeyed: his father, his school, his Party, his Leader. Obedience had brought him a long way, it would take him much further.

He quickly learnt a lot about English culture. He knew about cricket and tennis. And a strange game they called Crown Green Bowls. And, he knew about the culture of discipline and punishment.

He had been sent to board with the Smith’s. Smith; could there be a more English name? John Smith was a Party functionary, a bureaucrat, a safe pair of hands. He too knew about obedience. The Smiths had a large house in The Avenue, an upscale part of town. Both their sons, now grown into adulthood, were in military service somewhere behind enemy lines.

He had been told to obey Mr Smith; he did so without question. He wanted to know English customs; it was important for his nation. The Leader had plans where England was concerned. He learnt quickly. From the very first moment. He hadn’t noticed it to begin with. That is he saw it easily enough. But, he didn’t register its importance. It hung in the kitchen on a hook next to Mr Smith’s flat cap and scarf (two garments he still needed in the damp summer months). It was a long, thick, wide leather belt. He saw nothing unusual in that. He had two or three of his own. That’s how he kept his trousers from falling down.

Less than a fortnight after he arrived he discovered this particular belt had a specific purpose. Mr Smith imposed rules. He had expected that; the English loved rules. They delighted in bossing people about. Do this, don’t do that. Be here, go there. There’s a times to get up, a time to come home. Meal times, bath times.

It was the fault of a girl. She had large breasts and long flowing ginger hair. Her lips were full and her eyes blazed with mischief. He was a red-blooded young man. How could he resist? Mr Smith never found out about the girl. All Mr Smith knew was that he had missed curfew twice. There could be only one consequence: corporal punishment.

There was no long lecturer, just a statement of fact. They stood in the kitchen, Mr Smith reached towards the hook and took down the belt. He sat in a large, straight-backed wooden chair, spread his legs and planted his feet firmly on the ground. The English have many rituals for corporal punishment. There are any number of implements to choose from; a brush, slipper, cane. A boy might be positioned across a desk, a chair, a vaulting horse or simply touching toes. There would be many future opportunities for him to experience all of these, but for now, this first time, it would be, “Trousers down. Over my knee.”

His hands shook as he unbuckled the belt that held up his baggy serge trousers. He stared down at the puddle of clothing at his feet. It seemed to be a very long way away.

He stared intently at the belt in Mr Smith’s hand. It was a long, thick, wide strip of leather. It looked terrifically heavy as Mr Smith folded it once and then again until he had a punishment strap about a foot long.

Mr Smith ran the tip of his tongue across his top lip; he moved, making himself more comfortable on his hard chair. “Shall we get this over with then?  Come over here and bend across my knee.”

He blinked at Mr Smith; it was as if he had never seen the man before. His hard face was set in a scowl. In middle-age, he still had a fine head of black hair cut with military-style short back and sides. His tongue was darting in and out of his mouth. His shirt was stained under the armpits and open at the neck. Mr Smith wore brown thick corduroy trousers that had almost worn smooth at the knees.

He prepared himself. His glistening white Y-front underpants clung to his flat stomach; there was not a spare ounce of fat anywhere on his body. His heartbeat quickened and perspiration began to seep through the his shirt. His trousers at his ankles inhibited movement and he wobbled three or four steps to take up position.

He stood for a second on Mr Smith’s right side. The man’s legs were parted by about three feet to provide a platform for him to lay across. He gulped, drawing in air and the stink of sour tobacco. He leaned forward. The muscles in his back rippled as he wriggled to get into place. He was some athlete. His legs were like tree trunks and his bottom was firm and round. He stretched himself across Mr Smith’s legs.

He had never been spanked before, nor had he ever seen a boy go over the knee for punishment, but instinctively he knew what was expected of him. He spread his arms ahead of him and placed the palm of each hand four feet apart and firmly into the wooden floorboards. Behind him his trousers at his feet inhibited movement so his legs were hardly more than six or seven inches apart. He kept his knees straight so that his bottom, clad in smooth cotton, rested at an angle against Mr Smith’s right knee. He was perfectly positioned for punishment. He stared down at the floor and waited. He was quite comfortable considering what was soon to happen would be far from that, but he wriggled a little because a bunch of keys Mr Smith had in his trouser pocket dug into his side.

Mr Smith felt the weight of the belt in his hand as he tap-tap-tapped it against the left cheek. Gently, he took hold of the waistband of the underpants and pulled so that the smooth white cotton kissed the buttocks. Then, he moved the increasingly damp shirt a few inches up the back, exposing hairless and suntanned flesh.

Now, he was ready. Without further warning, Mr Smith raised the weighted strap to the fullest extent of his arm and brought it down with a resounding crack into the right cheek. A startled gasp hissed across the room. It hurt. He screwed up his eyes as a second and third thwap!!! landed. The echo of leather on tight cotton bounced around the room.

He was a spanking virgin and did not know what a spanking was supposed to feel like. The belt rose and fell as Mr Smith found his rhythm. A dull pain spread across both buttocks and he stared down at the backs of his hands.

Mr Smith lashed the leather belt again and again into the muscular bottom. The  cheeks were so tight there was no “give” in the flesh. Without warning, Mr Smith stopped walloping and unceremoniously pulled once more at the waistband of the pants. This time, instead of making them tighter he dragged them down across the hips and over the round bum.

Mr Smith wrapped his arm around the midriff to hold him firmly in place, raised the leather strap to maximum height and brought it down over and over again into the firm flesh. Gasps quickly turned to little yelps and then to larger cries. He wriggled his body across Mr Smith’s lap to the left and to the right. He was strong and in a fair fight he could have knocked Mr Smith for six; but this was no fair fight. He had to obey and allow himself to be held firmly across the knees of his punisher, bare bum high to receive lash after lash from the leather belt. He must hang on for dear life and take what was coming to him.

His bottom was covered in a rash of raw marks where the short heavy belt had scorched into him. Hardly any of the buttocks and the tops of his thighs were untouched by the strap. Tiny graze marks widened into deeper scratches.

Whop! whop! whop! Mr Smith went around the circuit one more time; from the top of the cheeks, across the mounds and into and beyond the crease where the bum meets the thighs. The dull pain had long since transformed into an almighty throb only to become an agonisingly searing pain across the whole of his bottom area. The whacking had knocked the breath out of him and he lost strength. He had no power to resist and lay face down staring at the floorboards. Involuntary tears washed the backs of his eyes and soon they trickled down his cheeks.

Every square inch of his bottom had been toasted. Dozens of imprints of the belt emblazoned the buttocks and the tops of his thighs. It was a job well done. He had been well and truly spanked. Mr Smith spread his feet out in front of him so that he could lift himself clumsily off his lap. Slowly, he knelt and then stood up. His hands disappeared behind him as he rubbed away gingerly. In silence, he tugged up the underwear and trousers from the top of his shoes. He tucked in his shirt.

In silence, Mr Smith replaced the belt on the hook. Already most of the pain had gone. His bottom was still warm and in places it was tender to touch, but soon even that would disappear. The red marks would turn to bruises and he would wear them for some days to come. They would be a reminder to him of one very particular English custom.

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

MacTaggart’s House for Naughty Boys

z used taws on kitchen table CS (2)

I saw a remarkable programme on cable television last week. It was a short film made in the nineteen-forties about the leather industry in Scotland. Did it bring back memories! Me, aged eighteen, prone across Mr MacTaggart’s kitchen table, my trousers and pants at my knees. He leathering my naked buttocks with a three-tailed strap.

Where do I begin this story?

In Scotland the preferred method of scholastic punishment was the leather strap, known locally as a tawse. It was often about eighteen inches long and cut at one end into two or three tails. The tawses made in the small town of Lochgelly were world famous. I was no stranger to corporal punishment. I had attended a very traditional independent grammar school called St Francis at the time when Dr Henderson-Smith, a notorious flogger, was headmaster. Many years after I had left he was forced into retirement after a scandal involving a public thrashing.

We learned from a very early age to obey the rules and not to make waves. We turned up to lessons on time, spoke only when the schoolmaster instructed, worked hard and handed in our homework on time. We knew the consequences if we didn’t conform. It’s a pity schools aren’t like that today. A whippy rattan cane was kept handy to encourage the slackers. Do-gooders can say what they like but it got me through my examinations and secured me a place at a prestigious university in Scotland that proved to be even more traditional than St. Francis.

The problems started almost immediately I arrived. University was not like school. We were expected to study a lot without supervision. We might be sent off to the library with an essay title and told to turn in six pages the following week. I soon discovered I had no self-discipline. I was eighteen years old and away from parental supervision for the first time and I took full advantage. In those days you didn’t legally become an adult until you were twenty-one. The professors at university were our guardians. It would be going too far to say they were surrogate fathers, but some did perhaps see themselves as stern uncles.

I was a flop. I failed my end-of-year examinations and quite rightly should have been “sent down”, expelled back to Brocklehurst. But someone (I never found out who) saw some promise in me. If I agreed to reside with Mr and Mrs MacTaggart I would get a second chance. It was made abundantly clear to me there would be no third.

The MacTaggart’s had a small rooming house and at any one time there might be six boys from the university staying. We were all slackers of one sort or another, sent by the university to be knocked into shape. We jokingly called ourselves inmates at the MacTaggart Home for Naughty Boys. I think Mr and Mrs MacTaggart had military backgrounds; they certainly believed in rules, discipline and punishment.

I arrived on a Monday morning to be greeted at the door by Mrs MacTaggart. “You are to go right away to see Mr MacTaggart.” She nodded her head across the gloomy hallway to a dark brown door. “Leave your bag here.” She strode off to the kitchen, leaving me dumbfounded. Not much of a friendly welcome, I thought. It would not get better. I stood outside the door, it was made of heavy wood and had clearly seen better days; how on earth had it become so scratched?

I had an out-of-body experience. It was as if I were hovering at the ceiling looking down on myself, except I am no longer in Scotland. I am standing outside the headmaster’s study at St Francis and that could mean only one thing. Tentatively, I knocked on the door. “Enter!” Mr MacTaggart’s voice boomed from within. In my months at the house I never heard him speak below foghorn volume. I pushed the door and entered.

Mr MacTaggart was a tall, thick set man. Although he was in his fifties and broadening at the waist he still had the remains of strong hard muscles. His slicked back greying hair emphasised his stern gaze. His dark eyes were a little too close together and his mouth was stuck in a permanent frown. “So, you’re Hamilton,” he growled, his stare burning into my soul. I shuddered, “Yes, Sir,” in reply. I had only just met the man and already I was terrified of him.

He stood from a leather chair that was as scratched as the door. If I had expected a friendly welcoming handshake I was to be sorely disappointed. “You know why you have been sent here.” It sounded like a statement, not a question, so I remained silent. “Pah!” he exploded. “I’ll have no dumb insolence in my house, laddie.”

I probably blushed to my roots, unable (too scared) to form a coherent sentence. “Pah!” he said again, expelling air through nearly closed teeth. He then listed all my faults at university. They were many. “It stops now,” he glowered. “There are rules. You will find a copy in your room. Learn them. Don’t break them. Or else.” The threat in his voice was not implied; it was real.

“And, now,” he clasped his hands together as if we were about to start praying,  “We must start as we mean to go on.” I stood rooted as he made his way across the room. It was sizeable and crammed with old furniture in dark woods. Heavy curtains covered the windows and the whole effect was of gloom. He paused when he reached the far wall. I gasped and swallowed hard. Only now had I noticed the long heavy brown leather tawse hanging from a nail. Mr MacTaggart reached up and in one athletic movement fetched it down and spread it between his two hands. He showed it to me as if he were making a religious offering. It was cut into two ten-inch tails and had a handle of about six inches at the other.

“You must atone for your misbehaviour last year. Then we start with a clean slate,” he barked. I did not know at the time that in Scottish schools the taws was traditionally administered across the palms of the hands. “Put up your left hand,” Mr MacTaggart ordered. My puzzled expression angered him. “Pah!” he set the tawse down on a chair and raised his own hands as a demonstration. I was to hold my hands out in front of my body laying one (palm upward) on top of the other. In this way the lower hand supported the upper and kept it in place once the strap impacted into the flesh. I was to discover soon that this did not work in practice.

At school we were always caned on the backside. Being punished this way has distinct advantages. A chap is bent across a chair or a desk, or is perhaps touching toes of gripping ankles. In any case he has something to hold on to absorb the force of the stroke. There is the added advantage of not being able to see the master as he prepares the punishment. A chap just closes his eyes and waits for the pain to begin.

Not so with the hands. I raised my hands as instructed and watched half-fascinated, half-terrified, as Mr MacTaggart rested the tails of the tawse across my palm. My heart missed a beat when I felt the weight of the leather. Mr MacTaggart adjusted his position by shuffling backwards an inch or two. He raised the strap over his own shoulder so that it rested against the small of his back. His eyes blazed. Then whoosh! The strap arced forward at tremendous speed and crashed down into the palm of my hand. The crack of leather on flesh echoed around the room. At first I didn’t feel a thing and then, POW! I yelped. The blow was awesome; the pain shot through my hand and the force of the blow made me drop both hands to my side, blow on them, rub them together and wiggle them about as if I were dementedly waving to a crowd.

Mr MacTaggart was unimpressed. “Pah. Up laddie – get those hands up,” he growled. I come from a long line of schoolboys steeped in tradition. We took our punishment like men. I was a little flustered that I had not been able to take just one stroke of the strap. With determination I resumed the position; hands held up. I closed my eyes tight, took a deep breath and steeled myself. Another two blows came swiftly – on each one I repeated the hand waving and palm blowing, this time accompanied by a little dance from one foot to the other. I was not taking this well.

Mr MacTaggart did not hide his impatience. He ordered me to swap hands. Slowly and painfully I did so, noticing my right palm was crimson from the belting so far and my hand was numb.

Mr MacTaggart gave me three strokes on the left hand in rapid succession. It was excruciatingly painful, and my body was shivering as I doubled up with my hands under my armpits. This was my first tawsing on the hand. I was soon to discover that with a strapping the immediate effect was one of numbness; it would take a few minutes yet for the pain to fully kick in. Later in my room, I poured cold water into a basin and soaked my hands. It didn’t help. The palms of both hands were blistered and I had considerable difficulty holding anything in them for the rest of the day. MacDonald, another inmate at the house for naughty boys, and himself a Scot, told me that at school a master would ask a boy which hand he used to write with and then strap him on the other one, making sure he could continue writing.

The rules of the house were not exceptional. There were mealtimes that could not be missed, a curfew at night, no smoking or alcohol. It was, I imagine, not so different from being at a boarding school. I knuckled down and got on with studying. I knew I had screwed up the previous year and was determined not to do so again. I was quite a pious young man and felt that I had let people down.

I kept my nose clean until one night I missed curfew. It was a girl of course. I thought we were getting on very well and I might get a kiss before the night was over. We were very innocent in those days. I succeeded and walked on air all the way back to the house. The last bus had gone so I was about an hour late. I was not surprised to find Mr MacTaggart fuming. I knew what was coming. There were rules, I had broken them, the consequence was clear. I would have to be punished.

I let Mr MacTaggart berate me for my lateness. I told him I had missed the bus. That was true, but I didn’t want him to know the reason why. “Pah! Laddie, you know what must happen.” I did, my palms would be blistered. “Damn!” I thought, an essay was due in the next day and I had not finished it. There was no way it would get written if I couldn’t hold a pen.

“Please, Mr. MacTaggart, I know I have done wrong and I deserve punishment,” I can hardly believe I spoke like that. I explained my predicament with the essay. “Please could you beat me on my backside.” Crazy. What eighteen-year-old today would say that? “Pah!” Mr MacTaggart snarled. “Come into the kitchen.” He led the way across the passageway and we entered a small room. Without speaking he opened a drawer to a dresser and delved inside. Seconds later he withdrew a leather strap. It was longer and heavier than the one he had used on me before. This one had three tails. As a novice I thought this thing could cause extreme damage.

Mr MacTaggart glared at me, he did not try to hide his distain. He looked around the room as if trying to decide his next move. His eyes settled on a small table. “There, that’ll do.” I immediately understood his intention. He would expect me to bend across the table to receive the strap across my backside. It was a relief. I was on familiar territory. A whacking from that strap would hurt like billy-o but I knew I could survive it.

Perhaps he sensed my indifference. “Pah!” He snarled. “Take down your trousers. Underwear too.” Any nonchalance I might have had evaporated. Pants down. On the bare. Even the despicable Henderson-Smith at school never caned me like this. “And bend over the table,” Mr MacTaggart completed his instruction.

This was uncharted territory. That three-tailed strap would take the skin off my backside, I had no doubt about that. “Pah! Hurry along laddie. It’s late we both need our beds.” I sucked on my bottom lip gearing myself for the ordeal ahead. I don’t think I was especially concerned about taking my trousers and pants down in front of the old man. My generation was used to undressing in public. I shared a bedroom with my older brother for years. At school the boys often ran around naked in the showers and no one even noticed.

“Pah!” Mr MacTaggart’s impatience was showing again. I resolved to get on with it. With steady hands I unbuckled my belt and opened the front of my trousers. The weight of the belt made them slip over my thighs and sag at the knees. I left them there and quickly pushed my underpants in the same direction. I shuffled closer to the table, took a deep breath, and lent forward. At school we were expected to lay flat on the desk top with our bottoms raised over the edge, so I took up that position. The kitchen table was considerably smaller than my housemaster’s desk and my arms dangled over the far side.

From the corner of my eye I saw Mr MacTaggart approach the desk, he leaned in so close I could smell the stink of his breath. He took hold of my shirt and tugged the tail so that it rode up my back. I was now naked from my shoulders to my knees. I folded my arms and buried my face in them. I was as ready as I ever would be. I felt the heavy weight of the tawse resting against my bare flesh. Mr MacTaggart took aim, raised the leather and walloped it with terrific force into my left buttock. It hurt. A lot. My bum, although not fat, was very meaty and the leather sank into my mound and I felt a burning sensation. He flogged another three cuts into my bum so both buttocks were scorched.

The shock made me raise my head from my arms. I didn’t yell out, I think my movement was probably just a reflex action. I had never been strapped on the bottom before (bared or otherwise) but I had taken my share of canings. If I had to make a judgement I would say the cane is much worst. A thin whippy rattan rod if swiped into the backside will cut into the flesh and leave a welt that potentially can throb for several hours. The strap (even delivered across naked flesh) does not cut, rather it slaps or slashes. The leather tails cover a greater surface than the cane but the pain is altogether less sharp. It is akin to a dull ache.

Mr MacTaggart gave me twelve stokes. Upon his command I rose from the table and although I was in pain I felt far from battered. I rubbed my buttocks contritely (I thought Mr MacTaggart would expect some such show) before replacing my pants and trousers in their proper places. Later in bed I recalled that kiss. The spanking I got was well worth it. It didn’t deter me seeing the girl again and in the fullness of time we married; however I must confess each time we met I made certain we finished our courting before the last bus left.

Picture Credit: C of Sweden

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

My First Time

z used drawing cane hold women look on

I had just turned twenty and was a few weeks into my first “proper” job – as a trainee reporter on a local newspaper. I couldn’t believe my luck when a colleague at work told me there was a room for rent in a large detached house in one of the town’s leafiest suburbs.

I was gobsmacked the first time I saw The Avenue; what palaces! I had been brought up in a tiny council flat in inner London; what did I know about big bedrooms, conservatories and gardens? My landlord was some kind of accountant and he lived in a five bedroom house with his wife and her sister. Everything about the place said “Money”. I didn’t stop to wonder why they needed to take in a lodger. None of my business, I suppose.

I got my second shock of the day when I met my landlord for the first time. He was in his mid-forties and had thick black, greased-back hair. But his most notable feature was a black, neatly-trimmed beard. I thought he was Gerry Adams, at that time a suspected IRA terrorist. The sight of him put the fear of God into me. This fear somewhat diminished the moment he opened his mouth. For instead of ranting with a heavy Irish brogue, he spoke quietly in a very upper class English accent, as befitting a chap who had attended one of England’s more exclusive public schools.

I was far from the perfect tenant. I came and went at all hours and was often late down for breakfast. I was untidy, inconsiderate of others and frequently came home drunk. But worse than all this; I rarely paid my rent on time. It wasn’t that I couldn’t afford to pay – although cub reporters are not paid much – it was because I couldn’t be bothered. It didn’t occur to me that the money I paid helped to keep “Mr. Adams” and his family afloat.

Things came to a head one morning. In his usual softly-spoken manner Mr. Adams told me I must pay my overdue rent by the end of the day. Did I promise to do so? I genuinely don’t remember, I really wasn’t bothered what he wanted.

I would pay later for that lack of attention because what I missed him saying was, “If you don’t pay tonight I am going to cane your backside very hard indeed.”

I was late home that day, I had covered a meeting of the local council and gone onto the pub after. I had been drinking, but I was far from drunk. I let myself into the house as I always did and was surprised when Mr. Adams glided from his magnificent lounge and stood in front of me, blocking my path to the stairs and my bedroom.

“Do you have my rent?” he whispered. I had to crane my neck forward to catch his words. He repeated himself believing that I had not heard. His face fell when I confessed I had not. I had totally forgotten his request. He sighed deeply and wrung his hands together as if he carried all the troubles of the world on his shoulders.

“Do you remember what I said would happen?” he murmured. I think I shrugged my shoulders or crinkled my face, because I simply had no idea what he was talking about. His eyes flamed behind his round spectacles, his eyebrows shot heavenwards.

“Well,” he spoke slowly and calmly. “You know what I shall do.”

I didn’t. I started to say I would go to the bank first thing in the morning and sort out his rent.

“Too late, you have made promises before,” his crisply-enunciated words made me shiver. “You need a life-lesson young man.”

I had no idea what a “life lesson” was, but I was about to find out. He glided across the passageway to a tall thin cupboard. It looked like a grandfather clock but without the dial. He opened a door and reached inside. I thought our conversation was over and started towards the stairs.

“Wait where you are,” he spoke more sternly now and I swirled around to face him. My heart skipped a beat. In his right hand he held a long, thin, crook-handled cane. I was transfixed. I had never seen anything like it before. Canes were still legal in schools but I had been to a progressive comprehensive and corporal punishment was unheard off. Parents around my way tended not to spank their children, so I was now entering uncharted territory.

Mr. Adams wobbled the cane in front of him and then sliced it through the air. It was thin and whippy but made a terrific whoosh! as it went. He waved the cane toward the lounge room. “Go in there,” he said quietly. I stood my ground, my heart was thumping. Of course, now I understood Mr. Adams’ intention. He wanted to beat me with his cane. I couldn’t understand my emotions. I seemed to be equally frightened and excited at the same time.

Up to that moment I had never given corporal punishment a thought. There was a campaign running at the time to have the cane banned from schools. I had no opinion one way or the other. I had never thought about being caned nor did I wish to cane another person.

“I said, go into the lounge room,” Mr. Adams repeated himself softly.

I suppose I could have refused to obey. It would mean leaving the house and finding other lodgings. That wouldn’t be so bad. A colleague at work knew guys who were looking for someone to join them in a house share.  I wouldn’t have to live in a cardboard box.

What I did next profoundly changed my life. I took a deep breath to try to calm my raging heartbeat and walked into the lounge. The room was dimly lit by a standard light in one corner, I hardly saw Mrs. Adams and her sister lolling on a sofa. They stood as I come in; it seemed they were expecting me.

Mr. Adams followed me into the room. He had the cane tucked under his arm, looking something like a sergeant-major. I stood in the middle of the room. It was about the size of a five-a-side football pitch. One end was dominated by a dining table and chairs. The other end had a huge glass-fronted cabinet with china ornaments. As well as the sofa there was a heavy leather Chesterfield couch, two padded armchairs, what we used to call a pouffe (but probably don’t today) and a coffee table.

Mr. Adams looked around the room as if he had never seen it before. He seemed to be searching for something. At last his gaze settled on one of the padded armchairs. He slipped the cane from his arm into his hand and gripped it just below the crook handle. He pointed with it to the chair. “Stand over there.”

I hesitated. There was still time to flee. Mrs. Adams and her sister moved across the room and settled by the table. Clearly, they were going to stay to watch the fun. I wiped my sweaty palms on the legs of my trousers and walked forward and stopped a couple of paces from the chair.

“Closer, boy, closer,” Mr. Adams sounded exasperated. I shook my head silently admonishing myself, of course I wouldn’t be able to bend over the back of the chair from this distance. I shuffled forward. For the first  time that evening Mr. Adams noticed I was wearing a light-grey suit. “Take off your jacket, hand it to Mrs. Adams.”

She hurried over to me with alacrity, holding out her hand to receive my jacket. She had to wait. I couldn’t get my fingers to work. My brain told me I wanted to do this – to take off my jacket and hand it over – but my body seemed incapable of obeying. At last the task was completed. I looked down at the black leather armchair. Only then did I wonder how this was done. How did you present yourself for a caning? Where did the hands go? What about the head?

One question took my breath away. Was this done trousers up or trousers down? I would soon know.

“You need to lower your trousers,” Mr. Adams whispered, “But you may keep your underpants on,” he added, kindly. My head was buzzing as (again with fumbling fingers) I unbuckled my belt. I screwed my eyes tightly, I couldn’t believe this was happening. Me, a twenty-year-old man was about to take down my trousers, bend over a chair and offer up my backside to my forty-something landlord for a caning as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

I unzipped and the handful of coins I had in my pocket from the pub plus gravity sent my trousers hurtling to my feet. I wore white underpants “tighty-whities” which were very fashionable at the time. The fitted me snugly and I was very conscious of the bulge in the front, which was a little larger than it had been five minutes ago. I had on a smart dress shirt with a tail that covered my buttocks and the backs of my thighs.

“You should lift up your shirt please and then bend over the back of the chair, thank you,” Mr. Adams sounded almost apologetic. I gathered up the cotton shirt and pulled it chest-high so that my flat, hairless stomach and lower back was uncovered. I hesitated for a second time. I needed to gear myself up for this. It would take some bravery on my part to go through with it. I saw the two ladies move behind me (for a better view presumably) as I fell forward over the chair. The leather was cold against my naked flesh and I shivered.

The issue about where to place hands and head resolved itself. I reached forward and gripped the far end of the soft seat cushion. My face stared down at a throw coloured in browns and yellows. I waited with anticipation for the first stroke to hit. But was it eagerness or fear?

Mr. Adams was not quite ready. He tapped the end of the cane across the centre of my bum. I could feel the cotton underpants had pulled tightly over my submissive bottom. I was presenting my landlord with a terrific target. The pants lifted and separated my cheeks creating a deep ravine between the two. In those days I was still fit and healthy, this was before years of pubbing with journalists and contacts took their toll. I had a thirty-inch waist and firm round buttocks.

Mr. Adams had found his aim; he lifted the cane away from my bottom. I gripped the cushion hard and concentrated on the autumnal pattern on the throw. My bum quivered. “Relax, relax,” Mr. Adams cooed. Then came the most excruciating pain I had ever felt. The whippy rattan whistled through the air before landing on the soft underside of my rear end. Air hissed through my clenched mouth, a strip of pain throbbed across both cheeks. My shoulders shuddered in sympathy.

That was my first-ever stroke of the cane. Mr. Adams gave me five more cuts. I was due six-of-the-best. My bum wriggled and writhed. My feet stomped into the plush deep-piled carpet. I hissed and yelped. Sweat soaked the back of my neck. My ears popped as blood thundered through my body.

Then it was over. “You may stand now,” Mr. Adams had replaced the cane under his arm by the time I stood and turned to face him. My head was light and spinning. Is it adrenalin? I had taken drugs before (and many since) but nothing compares to the high I get from a good thrashing. “You should get dressed,” Mr. Adams was kindness personified. I suppose he must have seen the erect cock pushing against the front of my tight pants. Before gingerly I pulled my trousers up I explored my sore seat with my two thumbs; my bum was corrugated. When I explored the damage later in my bedroom I found six dark welts running almost parallel across both buttocks. I had to conclude that Mr. Adams was an experienced and expert caner.

I lodged with Mr. Adams for another six months and you will not be surprised to hear I was often late with the rent. It nearly broke my heart when my work sent me to a newspaper 100 miles away to further my training and experience. But, I soon discovered The Whacko! Club, and that is a story (or stories) for another day.

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

Changed Times 7. Pub landlord

The Chamber pot incident

Vigilantes

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

No Smoking!

z used otk pants chair (12)

The bedroom door flies open and Mr. Walter bursts in with a face like thunder. “You’ve been smoking!”

Steph looks up from the magazine he is reading. “No I ain’t.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes you are. I saw you as I was driving in. You were leaning out of the window.”

“Oh.”

“You may well say ‘oh’. And I can smell it from here.”

There is silence for a moment.

“I told you before you moved in. Strictly no smoking. It’ll kill you.”

“No it won’t.”

“And I don’t want it killing me either. You know what happened to Roy Castle.”

“Who?”

“Died of cancer. Secondary smoking.”

“Oh.”

“What did I say I would do if I caught you smoking?”

“Eh?”

“A spanking. I said I’d give you a spanking.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t mean it.”

“Didn’t I buster. You’re about to find out.”

“C’mon, I’m at college, not kindergarten.”

“Then you should start acting like it. Be responsible. Get up, the other boys are waiting in the dining room.”

Mr. Walter reaches for Steph’s left wrist and pulls him off the bed.

“Wor …. Gerroff me.”

Steph’s face pales to a ghostly white. Now holding his arm, Mr. Walter tugs Steph across the room. Steph tries to resist but his feet slide across the floor and he cannot get a grip to resist.

Seconds later they enter the dining room where four college guys stand waiting. Steph sees them, his face now a rich shade of claret.

“Steph thinks the rules don’t apply to him. I am going to teach him otherwise. And let it be a lesson to you all too.”

Mr. Walter picks up the clothes brush he has left on the dining table, then sits down in a straight-backed wooden chair strategically placed close to a wall. He pulls Steph towards him by the waist of his jeans. The lodger does not resist. Mr. Walter unbuckles Steph’s wide leather belt and then pops the rivets on his dirty blue jeans. Soon they are at his shins.

“Bend over my knee.”

Meekly, Steph draws in a lungful of air, takes a half a step forward, steadies his nerve, places his palms on Mr. Walter’s right leg and eases himself down. He stretches his arms forward then spreads them a little and presses his palms into the scratchy carpet. He cannot see this but his bottom rests high over Mr. Walter’s lap. If he cares to look, Steph can see under the chair to his feet where his toes don’t quite touch the floor. Steph keeps his head low and stares at the carpet. He wants to pretend he does not have an audience of fellow lodgers, but their nervous breathing is louder than the bird calls from the garden beyond the open bay window.

Mr. Walter takes hold of the waistband of Steph’s underwear. He is wearing trunks. His bum is beefy and the underwear is designed to fit snugly. Mr. Walter tugs the elastic making sure there are no creases and the cotton fits the buttocks like a second skin. The young man’s crack is clearly defined. He can feel Steph’s heavy breathing. He is waiting anxiously for the spanking to begin.

Mr. Walter wants to get on with it. He has other things to do this afternoon besides spanking smokers. He takes hold of the brush, makes a fist around its handle, raises it a foot or so above the trembling bottom and smacks it down with some force. Over and over and over again. Steph gasps as each whack connects with meat. It hurts. It is not agony. Not yet. But as each successive stroke hits home, all overlapping, his bum heats up; the soreness increasing.

The four lads watch transfixed. Eyes glues on Steph’s bum which is now bouncing over Mr. Walter’s knees. Steph’s eyes clench shut, his mouth opens and closes like a goldfish; he emits quiet yelps. Nobody is counting the whacks, least of all Mr. Walter and (surprisingly perhaps) not Steph. Several dozen at least have scarred every square inch of Steph’s magnificent bum.

Mr. Walter stops his assault. Steph waits. It is over. At any moment his landlord will release him and Steph will pull up his jeans and run from the room, not stopping until he has hauled himself onto his bed to sob into his pillows.

But no. Mr. Walter has not finished. “These really aren’t of much use at a time like this,” he says as with two pulls he takes Steph’s trunks over his buttocks and leaves them bunched below his thighs. He admires his own handiwork for a moment. The boy’s bum is already blistered. He raises the hard wooden brush once more and rat-a-tat-tat like rapid machinegun fire batters the naked flesh.

Steph wriggles and writhes. His feet flail but the jeans at his ankles make it impossible for him to move quickly. Bang-bang-bang, the noise of wood against fat resounds around the room. A sparrow resting on the lawn outside takes flight in fear. Steph’s almost silent yelps intensify. He cannot control himself. His body has to react. Sweat already soaks the back of his shirt and soon his pullover will be wet also. He lifts his head from the floor and shakes it from side to side, rather like a neighing horse.

Satisfied that every area of Steph’s backside from the top of his mounds, over the globes themselves and the sensitive sit-spot is toasted, Mr. Walter turns the attention of his brush to the back of Steph’s thighs. That gets him howling. After only three wallops the flesh glows red hot. Tears form at the back of Steph’s eyes, but are not yet flowing.

The front gate opens and there is the sound of footsteps on gravel. Mr. Walter and Steph do not hear the letterbox of the front door open followed by the plop of mail hitting the doormat. The postman is retreating to the pavement when his attention is caught. He pauses. It is the unmistakable sound of a spanking coming from behind the bay window. He approaches, stops, and watches.

Mr. Walter does not consider himself to be a cruel man. He believes in punishment, not torture. Steph has broken a cardinal rule and he lied to Mr. Walter; he deserves to be punished. He hammers home a couple of dozen more all over the target area and with a final flourish, he stops.

“Get up.”

Wheezing, Steph rolls off Mr. Walter’s lap. He catches his breath and while still on the ground he tugs up his underwear conscious that his fellow students might see his cock and balls. With modesty  restored, he gets first on his knees and then he stands, pulls up his jeans, fastens the fly and buckles the belt. Through the window he glimpses the postman closing the garden gate.

There is silence for a moment before Steph walks rather gingerly from the room.

Moments later he is in front of his bedroom mirror, jeans and underwear at his ankles once more. He admires Mr. Walter’s craftsmanship. The pain has already subsided, but his bum and thighs tingle. The pain reignites if he touches flesh and he knows it will be uncomfortable to sit on a hard surface for some time to come.

In the room next door, Ritchie reviews the video on his phone. Beautiful. He has the perfect view arse-on. He uploads it to Boyzblazingbuttz, then lowers his own jeans and underpants before stretching out on the bed where he tugs his rigid dick.

Picture credit: Unknown

 

Other stories you might like

The headmaster’s guests

The thieving nephew

Sam’s caning

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Book. Paul and his Landlord

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Paul and His Landlord – and other troublesome tenants

Young men who are away from the parental home, often for the first time, are apt to stray from the straight and narrow. How lucky that responsible adults in the shape of landlords are on hand to show them the error of their ways, even if it means delivering sound spankings and other corporal punishment.

It might even be a life-changing experience for them – it certainly was for Paul.

Paul and his landlord and other troublesome tenants is another in a series of collections of my stories being published in book form. It runs for more than 21,000 words and has many illustrations. You should be able to read it on your lap top or e-book reader.

Click on the link below to download it free-of-charge.

paul-and-his-landlord-by-charles-hamilton-ii

 

Picture credit: Unknown

 

For more free-to-download books click here

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

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

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.

 

all-in-the-family-by-charles-hamilton-ii

For more free-to-download books click here