The Dope Smoker

z used cane holding (80)

As Mr Carter drove his car onto his driveway he had the shock of his life – a teenaged boy was breaking into his garden shed.

But, soon it would be the boy who was in shock: when Mr Carter revealed his little secret.

He got out of the car, intending to shout at the boy and chase him away when he recognised who it was. It was Adam, a kid who lived a couple of houses down the street. This was unexpected, this was a respectable district and one didn’t expect to have one’s shed broken into by neighbours.

By the time Mr Carter unlocked the gate, Adam was inside the shed. Mr Carter realised he could lock the door, trap the boy inside and then call the police. It was a simple plan to execute, but curiosity got the better of him and he decided to confront the boy. What on earth was he expecting to steal from his shed that was worth anything?

“Hey you boy! I know you’re in there, what do you want?” Mr Carter wasn’t scared, whatever happened next he was sure he wasn’t going to be assaulted by the neighbour’s kid.

There was no answer from within the shed, so he hammered on the door.

“Come out! I know you’re in there.” But, still no response.

Carefully, Mr Carter opened the door and peered inside. There inside was Adam, collapsed on the floor. Thinking he had passed out and might need urgent medical treatment, Mr Carter rushed to the teenager’s side. But, he needn’t have worried. One sniff of Adam’s body told him what was wrong: the boy was high as a kite on cannabis.

“Wake up! Wake up!” Mr Carter shook the boy, but couldn’t rouse him. Slap! Slap! Two hefty whacks across the boy’s face had him murmuring, “Whhhhhhhat’s up?” It took a few more shakes before Adam came round sufficiently to realise he was in a strange shed with his neighbour Mr Carter standing over him.

“Come on, you should go home, you can’t stay here.”

The boy looked at Mr Carter with real fear, bordering on terror. “No, no, please, not yet.”

“You can’t stay here, now move it, sonny,” Mr Carter was angry about being disturbed from his daily routine and doubly angry because it was some dope fiend who was causing that trouble.

“Please I can’t go home like this,” there was real pleading in the boy’s dark brown eyes and Mr Carter who had a soft spot for teenage boys fell for it.

“Come on, into the house, sober up before you go home.”

He helped Adam into the house and lay him down on his couch, where he promptly fell asleep. Mr Carter sat and watched the boy: he was dead to the world. He looked so beautiful and innocent, breathing rhythmically, his mouth slightly open.

Mr Carter sat, admiring his cute unexpected house guest and wondered what he should do now. The boy had got sky high on an illegal drug and broken into his shed. All right he probably didn’t intend to steal anything, but he had committed at least two serious crimes.

Then, there were his parents. Mr Carter knew them quite well. They had all lived in the street for at least ten years and Mr Carter had watched, from a respectable distance, Adam grow up. He knew that he had just left school and was presently working in a supermarket (filling shelves mostly) before going off to university. He seemed a good kid from a respectable family.

Should he say something to his mum and dad? Was it any of his business, anyway? For all he knew the kid was a dope fiend and was already on his way to a ruined life. Did his parents know of his drug habit?

What if this was a one-off, an experiment that had gone badly wrong. Should the boy get a criminal record and be made to suffer for the rest of his life for a youthful indiscretion?

Mr Carter had come to no useful conclusion by the time Adam came out of his stupor.

“So, Adam, do you want to tell me what’s been going on?”

Adam was intelligent and articulate and, it seemed to Mr Carter, truthful. Mr Carter had warmed to the boy. It turned out that Adam was a regular drug user, but only, for what he called “recreational purposes.” He had got high on some weed that was stronger than he thought and had gone on a bit of a “trip.” He had broken into the shed to sleep it off. He wouldn’t break into Mr Carter’s shed again, honest.

But, would he stop smoking cannabis? No, he couldn’t promise that, but he would be more careful in future.

That was the wrong answer. Mr Carter would have been prepared to forget the whole episode if Adam had promised to give up drugs. It would have meant he had learned a lesson and mended his ways.

“I’m not going to tell the police, but I am going to tell your parents. They need to know that you are taking drugs and that you are getting into trouble,” Mr Carter told Adam.

“No, please, don’t tell my parents,” the boy was so endearing when imploring.

“Please, Mr Carter, don’t do that, please, Mr Carter,” he was melting the man’s heart.

That was when Mr Carter had an idea. It was a strange plan he was concocting, but, if it worked, it would ensure that the boy was punished properly and it need not involve the police or Adam’s parents.

Upstairs in a cupboard in the spare bedroom were a half-dozen whippy rattan canes. He would thrash the boy with one of these and send him on his way.

What Adam didn’t know, and Mr Carter hoped nor did any of his other neighbours, was that Mr Carter was a very enthusiastic member of the corporal punishment scene. He regularly attended the Whacko! Club, where he and like-minded individuals punished one another with canes, slippers, straps and no end of everyday household implements.

Mr Carter himself was an expert wielder of the cane. Six-of-the-best delivered by him could leave a backside scarred and tender for a week – and that was if the trousers were up. Imagine what the buttocks would be like when he caned on the bare.

The Whacko! Club had one drawback, Mr Carter thought, nearly all its members were middle-aged or older men. They never had much chance to cane the bottoms of the younger generation, and, as Adam was a case in point, some of them could do with a damn good thrashing.

“Adam, you cannot go unpunished for this, you know that don’t you?” Mr Carter was working up to making the boy an offer he hoped he couldn’t refuse. Adam agreed this was the case and that gave Mr Carter the confidence to go through with his plan.

“Adam, we don’t need to involve the police or your parents in this.” Adam beamed and nearly fell on Mr Carter’s neck with gratitude.

“But there is a third option,” he took a deep breath, “I could cane you.”

Adam’s glorious eyes rolled. Had he heard correctly? Was he still tripping on the drug?

“Yes you heard correctly. It would be a short sharp shock that would help you to mend your ways. What do you say to that?”

In truth Adam was speechless, the proposition was preposterous: he was eighteen years old and had never been caned in his life, not even spanked.

Mr Carter moved on swiftly to fill the gap left by the teenager’s silence. “I intend to give you six-of-the-best; it will be intensely painful at first that is the point. The pain will go quite quickly but your bottom will be very tender for some hours after. But, it will not kill you.”

Mr Carter had decided not to tell Adam that his bottom would be striped with six red welts that might last several days, or even a week, depending on how sensitive his skin was.

“I hope you will learn a lesson from this and the next time you are tempted to take cannabis, you will remember this afternoon.”

Adam had recovered his speech by now, but not by much. “The c-c-c-cane?”

“It is entirely up to you,” Mr Carter said, desperately hoping the boy would allow him to thrash him. “Either we go to the police or to your parents or you take six-of-the-best. What’s it to be?”

And, that’s how Adam found himself alone in Mr Carter’s living room, waiting for him to return from upstairs with the cane that he was going to use to beat his backside raw.

Mr Carter sorted through his cane collection. He had a variety in different lengths and thicknesses. He was very familiar with the attributes of each cane, but nonetheless he picked up each one and swished it through the air to test its suppleness. He settled on a medium length cane with the thickness of a pencil. He knew it was a marvellously effective rod and would pack a punch. This would be Adam’s first-ever caning and, sadly, Mr Carter thought, probably his last, this cane would make it a memorable experience.

He took it downstairs half expecting to find Adam had done a runner. In fact, the boy had considered fleeing, but he reckoned there was no point. Mr Carter knew where he lived and if he didn’t allow him to cane him he would certainly call the police.

At the sight of the cane in Mr Carter’s hand, Adam’s face blanched, even with his summer sun tan.

He swished the cane menacingly. “So, Adam do you consent to being caned?” Mr Carter was beginning to feel a little guilty. Was he taking advantage of the boy? Was he still high on drugs and not able to make a rational choice? Was he breaking the law by beating the boy against his will?

“Well Adam?”

Mr Carter looked right into Adam’s puppy dog eyes. He could see the boy was thinking about it. How painful would it be? Surely, not very much, after all in his dad’s day (as he was always telling Adam) boys were caned at school all the time.

He took a deep breath, then, he nodded. He would take the caning.

“Bend over the back of the Chesterfield.”

But, despite having consented, Adam showed no intention of moving, so Mr Carter brought the cane down with a resounding Thwack!! across the leather back of the couch.

“I said bend over. Do it now, or I will give you extra strokes.”

Adam bent over for his first-ever caning.

“Head down, bottom high. Legs further apart boy.”

His jeans-covered arse made a terrific target, the outline of his tight briefs were clearly visible. Mr Carter liked the Chesterfield, it was just the right height and width to take any shape of “boy.”

Mr Carter was unsure how hard to make the first stroke. He had been caning men’s backsides for nearly twenty years, but mostly they were guys who were beaten once a month on average and they had tough hides. Adam was a caning virgin.

Oh well, Mr Carter thought, the point is to make him suffer, so he brought the cane down across the middle of Adam’s backside with some vigour. The teenager’s eyes widened and he puffed out a blast of air, but remained steady. Mr Carter could see a thin white line had appeared across the tight denim and he knew a red welt would have formed beneath Adam’s underpants.

Number two struck home a quarter of an inch below the first, Adam’s hips moved from side to side, but he kept down across the couch.

Number three hurt the most so far. Adam was in real agony and wanted to leap up and rub at his poor bottom to make the pain go away. But he didn’t. Some schoolboy instinct told him he must remain in position, he didn’t want extra strokes.

Number four landed across the welts made by the previous cuts and the boy screamed.

“Stay down boy,” Mr Carter instructed. He was enjoying beating the boy. Despite his lust, he genuinely wanted Adam to give up drugs. He hoped this thrashing would set him on the straight-and-narrow. He decided to make the final two strokes exemplary.

He lashed them down in quick succession, SWISH! SWISH! Adam did a little stomping dance on the spot, desperately hoping it would make the agony in his backside go away.

It was over, Adam lay across the Chesterfield, his arse felt like it had been hit by a red hot poker. It must have swollen to at least twice its normal size, he reckoned.

“Stand up, boy,” it was a curt command and Adam obeyed.

“Stand there.” Mr Carter pointed with his cane to a spot close to the dining room table.

Adam was desperately rubbing away at his bottom. Usually, Mr Carter would have ordered a punished boy to stop that immediately, but not this time: Adam looked so cute.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you boy.” Mr Carter could see Adam’s beautiful eyes were moist, he wasn’t crying, not yet at least, but Mr Carter knew that as soon as he was left alone in private, Adam would bawl his eyes out.

“If I hear you have been taking drugs again, you will be back over my Chesterfield again. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir.” Mr Carter very much liked the way the boy said, “Sir.”

“Only next time, I’ll give you six strokes on your bare bottom. Do you understand, that, Adam?”

Another wonderful, “Yes, Sir.”

“You are dismissed, go home.”

Mr Carter poured himself a glass of whiskey. Wow! How he had enjoyed that, but the guilt was returning. Had he taken advantage of the boy? Was Adam’s judgment impaired by the cannabis? Would Mr Carter live to regret this moment?

It was three weeks later when the doorbell rang and Adam was at the door, giggling. “Sir, I have to tell you something ….”

Picture Credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Man Across the Hall

z used drawing cane hold (16)

The party was jumping; the music blaring, the vodka flowing, the air was thick with dope. Kenny was staggering around holding on to his friends to stay upright. The night was a success and soon everyone would get laid.

Kenny’s parents were away on holiday and as the saying goes: while the cat’s away. He wasn’t allowed to use the family apartment for a party, but as that other saying goes: what the eyes don’t see.

Kenny was vaguely aware of a hammering on the door. He was too smashed to do anything about it, but one of the boys opened the front door to see what was up. It was Mr Posner, the old man from the apartment across the hall. He didn’t seem too happy. He was protesting about something.

“Hey Kenny! He wants you!”

Mr Posner wanted the music turned down. The guys were taking the piss, he was getting nowhere.

Kenny staggered over to the door.

“Turn the music down will you. Please.” Mr Posner was trying to stay polite.

“Oh fuck off will you,” Kenny sneered and slammed the door in his face. “That will show him, the pathetic old man,” he laughed to his friends.

They partied until dawn and then it took another hour to get everyone out of the apartment. Eventually, Kenny crashed into bed.

When he awoke, the apartment was empty and he was left alone to clear up the mess. Mum and dad were due back tomorrow and he had to make sure they never got to know about the party.

He was busy clearing up the debris and vacuuming the carpets when he was interrupted by a knock at the door.

Unsuspectingly, he opened it. “Oh!” It was Mr Posner. Kenny flushed, he couldn’t remember much about last night, but he had a vague image of the old man complaining.

“I don’t suppose your parents are at home?” Mr Posner knew the answer, but couldn’t think of an opening gambit. He was very friendly with Kenny’s parents and knew they were away on holiday; he also knew the problems they were having with Kenny.

Without being asked, he walked past Kenny into the apartment. “Good, you’re cleaning up the mess, that’s something at least.”

Kenny was irritated with the man and didn’t mind letting him know in the tone of his voice, “What do you want?”

“Don’t take that tone with me young man. You’re in enough trouble as it is.”

Trouble? What was he talking about?

“How much do you remember about last night?” It was a question with threatening undertones.

Kenny mumbled something about being “Sorry.”

But, Mr Posner wasn’t letting him off lightly. He wanted his pound of flesh from the boy, and if he got his way it was going to be a pound of flesh from his backside.

His neighbour knew much more about Kenny than the boy could ever imagine. He had the brat over a barrel and very soon he intended to have him over the back of his couch as well.

Mr Posner knew Kenny wasn’t getting on with his parents. He had been at university for two years now and things weren’t going well. He spent too much time partying, drunk or high on drugs. His studies were suffering and he might end up failing his degree. His dad had just about had enough and told him if he didn’t straighten himself out (he meant stay sober for a while and do some studying) he should move out permanently and leave his parents in peace. That would be a disaster for Kenny, there was no way he could afford to live away from home: he really had to keep on their good side.

The old man was calm and calculated as he tore into Kenny. The noise, the booze, the drugs, the sex and most of all his disgusting language were among the highlights that he would be recounting to his parents at the weekend. He didn’t say it out loud, but he knew and Kenny knew, that would be the end for him. His father would certainly say: when you return to university don’t come back.

Kenny was silent; there was nothing he could say. Everything Mr Posner said about him was true, but he didn’t feel remorse. He really didn’t care that he had upset the old man with his noise or that he swore at him. He just didn’t care. But, he did care that he would be thrown out of his parents’ home because of it.

Perhaps he could make a deal with the old man for his silence; but what? He had no money so he couldn’t offer a bribe, besides he was the kind of old sod that wouldn’t take a king’s ransom if it were offered. He probably wanted revenge; the vengeful old git.

How right Kenny was; but not in the way he thought.

Mr Posner had devised a plan. He would get his revenge and he would make Kenny suffer, but he would allow the boy to keep a roof over his head.

Still very calm and deliberate, Mr Posner said, “What you need is a damn good thrashing.”

He left the sentence dangling in the air. There was silence. Kenny had heard correctly, but that didn’t stop him saying crossly, “Do what?”

“I said you deserve a damn good thrashing and that is what you are going to get.”

Kenny’s face went deathly pale as he tried to comprehend the new information. He wants to “thrash” me. What does that mean? He wants to tie me to a tree and whip me until the skin peels off my back?

“A damn good caning.”

Kenny was still struggling to find a way to respond. He wanted to cane him, what like a schoolboy or something? Did they still have canes? Weren’t they abolished years ago?

Corporal punishment was unknown to Kenny; the schools didn’t use it and certainly it would never have occurred to his mum or dad to spank his backside when he misbehaved. A caning? This was unchartered territory for him.

Still calm, Mr Posner said, “I will give you a choice, either take a thrashing from me or I will report your behaviour to your parents.”

This stark choice woke the boy up. He summed up his situation in an instant: he had no choice. With no conviction, he said, “No way. You must be crazy.”

Mr Posner knew he was going to win this argument: he had the whip hand, so to speak.

“There will be no negotiation. Consent to your punishment and we will go across to my apartment.”

Kenny’s head whirled; how could he let this old man beat his arse? But, then again, in the circumstances, how could he not? Could he stand a thrashing? What would it be like; how many strokes would he get? God Almighty, why was he thinking like this?

Mr Posner turned his back, opened the front door and said over his shoulder, “Come with me now to my apartment.”

For Kenny, it was like an out-of-body experience. He didn’t seem to be in control, he could see himself meekly following Mr Posner across the hallway and into his own apartment.

He was led into the living room and what he saw there brought him down to Earth with a bump. There on the table was a long, thin cane. Kenny stared at it for some moments; he had never seen one before; it must have been longer than three feet and curved at the top.

Mr Posner could see the boy was fascinated. “Never seen a rattan cane before boy?”

“No,” he gulped.

“Well I shall be glad to introduce it to you.” He picked up the cane and effortlessly bent it between his two hands until it formed a perfect arc, then he swished it menacingly through the air and brought it crashing down with an almighty Whack! across the back of the leather couch.

What a satisfying sound it made, he thought and in a very few moments it will be coming down across the buttocks of this vile brat.

Kenny jumped as the cane thwacked into the leather. He considered running for his life and was just about to when the reality kicked in. There was nowhere to go; he had to stay here and let this man have his wicked way: the pervert.

Mr Posner swished the cane a few more times. “I used this on my two sons and they grew up into fine disciplined adults. What a pity your father didn’t do the same with you.”

Kenny was breathing heavily and he could feel sweat forming under his armpits; even though it was quite cool in the room.

Mr Posner could see the cane was intimidating Kenny, so he swished it some more.

“Are you ready?”

Ready? Ready for what exactly?

“Do you consent to be caned by me?”

Consent? What does the bastard mean?

“I need you to say that you agree to me punishing you.”

What the Hell?

“I have a paper here; I want you to sign it. It says that you agree that you have committed these crimes and that you consent to be beaten with a cane.”

Mr Posner had worked it out; it might not be a perfectly legal document, but if sometime in the future the boy wanted to cause trouble over it, he could always wave his piece of paper in his face.

This cannot be happening, Kenny thought. There is no way this is happening.

“Here,” Mr Posner handed him the document and a pen. His hands were shaking but Kenny managed to scrawl something, but it wasn’t really his signature.

“Come over here. Stand behind the couch,” Mr Posner guided him to a place two feet away from the couch. Kenny was shivering and tears were already forming behind his eyes.

Now, it would get tricky. Mr Posner wanted to beat the boy on his bare buttocks, but, in Kenny’s present state, he wasn’t sure he could stand it.

Should he risk it? Damn it why not. Kenny was wearing football shorts with elastic around the waist; it shouldn’t be too difficult to organise.

“Bend over the back of the couch.” Kenny stood firm. “Kenny,” he spoke gently, ‘this has to happen. It will be better for you, if you are brave. Bend over, take your beating and it will be over. I promise I will not inform your parents.”

Kenny was openly crying now, the tears started slowly, but within seconds turned to floods.

“Now, be a good boy. Bend over.”

Humiliated and gulping back his sobs, Kenny lowered himself over. It was a large couch and he had no choice but to place the palms of his hands flat on the seat cushions to steady himself. In that position, his buttocks were perfectly presented to Mr Posner.

Kenny was breathing heavily as he awaited the first stroke of the cane. But, Mr Posner was not yet ready. With no word of warning he grabbed hold of Kenny’s shorts and tugged them to his thighs; his underpants fell with them.

Before, Kenny had time to protest, the cane rose and fell twice, slashing across the boy’s tight buttocks. He screamed and was about to jump up to clutch his burning bottom, when Mr Posner shoved him in the back and forced him to return over the couch.

“You will stay in position. If you get up before I give permission, I will give you two extra strokes each time you try. Is that clear?” Kenny was sobbing uncontrollably, so Mr Posner had to assume he had got the message.

Two deep welts had already formed when the old man lashed down another two cuts a quarter of an inch below. Kenny wailed and gripped the cushions hard. His knuckles were already white.

Two more slashes and Kenny was coughing saliva over the couch. His bum looked like raw hamburger. He had never in his life experienced such agony. His bottom throbbed like mad and so did his head. He couldn’t take any more of this, he was sure he was about to faint.

Slash! Slash! Arrrrrrrrrrgggggggggghhhhhh! The shriek could be heard in neighbouring apartments and Mr Posner was pleased it was the afternoon and his neighbours were at work. Surely, if they had been at home they would now be dialling the police to report a murder in process.

Kenny desperately tried to remain in position; his legs drummed away at the carpet and his fists pounded the seat cushions. Who would have known a caning could hurt so much, no wonder they banned it in schools.

Of course, as any experienced caner could see, Mr Posner was not administering a schoolboy’s six-of-the-best; this was the most vicious thrashing he had ever delivered. To have beaten his own sons this harshly would have been unthinkable. He caned them because he loved them; he was caning Kenny because he hated him.

Twice more the cane rose and fell, Kenny’s rear end thrashed about over the couch as he desperately tried to stay in position. Every fibre of his body willed him to get up and run from the apartment; he was literally a beaten man. If he could only turn back the clock to last night, he would never have used obscene language to the old man. No better, he would never have thrown the party.

Tears, snot and saliva rolled over the cushions; Kenny was gasping for breath, his blood pressure was so high his ears were popping. If he had to endure more intense pain he felt his heart might give out.

Slash! Slash! The final two were flogged into the buttocks with such force they even scared Mr Posner. He didn’t know he had such strength. Kenny let out a scream so loud it induced a coughing fit. Unable to control his breathing he flailed around, arms waving and legs kicking.

Mr Posner panicked and he pulled the boy to his feet, pushing his head between his legs. Slowly, his breathing slowed and became more regular, but the uncontrollable sobbing went on and on.

Kenny’s arse was red hot and covered in deep red welts and bruising had already formed on the outer edges of his buttocks, where the tip of the cane repeatedly fell. Kenny was running on the spot trying to make the agony go away. Attempts to rub at his buttocks only aggravated the pain, increasing it to searing torture.

Mr Posner had seen enough, he had completed his task; revenge was his. Now, he wanted the boy out of his home.

“Come on, pull yourself together!” he snapped. Slowly, agonisingly, Kenny tried to pull up his pants, but the kiss of the thin cotton briefs on his blistered buttocks only reignited the pain.

“Leave them,” Mr Posner commanded. “Take them with you. Go now.”

He took hold of the boy’s arm and guided him to the door, opened it and pushed Kenny, naked from the waist down, into the hallway. In the distance he heard the sound of the elevator whirring.

Petrified that someone would see him in his present state; Kenny pushed open the front door and fell into his apartment. He lay feverishly on the carpet, struggling to catch his breath; he thought he was having a seizure. Then he heard a key scraping into the lock of the door; followed by the sound of it opening. He turned his aching body to see his mother and father enter the apartment; they had decided to come back from holiday a day early.

Picture credit: Endart

This story was first uploaded in August 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Boy From Across The Street

SONY DSC

The boy from across the street had been staying with me for nearly six weeks and he was becoming a right pain in the neck. I say “Boy” but he had just graduated from university so he must’ve been twenty-one or twenty-two.

His widowed mother had remarried and Garry wasn’t welcome at the house. They didn’t throw him out onto the streets but you know how it is. I’d known him and his mum for more than ten years so it seemed right to offer him a room at mine. I live alone and have four bedrooms so there’s no problem with space.

I had no idea how difficult young men could be. He was bone idle and laid in bed all morning. When he was up he was surly and uncommunicative. He came and went as he pleased and sometimes came home in the early hours drunk. Well, I say “drunk” but my pal told me young people today don’t drink, they take drugs so for all I knew he might’ve been high. In my house. Breaking the law.

Something had to change. I went on the Internet to see if I could find advice. You’d be surprised how much there is out there about guiding teenagers into adult life. I hoped I hadn’t left it too late with Garry.

The main advice was about setting clear boundaries. Make sure he knows what the rules are. And, this is the difficult part, apply sanctions when they are broken. Coming up with rules would be easy enough but what about sanctions? What could I do to get him to obey me?

One website in America reckons it has the answer. Corporal correction. I had to do a double take when I first saw it. What the heck’s “Corporal correction”? It turns out they mean corporal punishment or good old spanking. They are very keen on it.  The site is run by a bunch of Christians and they believe that a good paddling works wonders. There are even husbands who spank their wives when occasion demands. And all for Jesus.

Well who am I to argue with Jesus? I shared my problem with my pal and he shook his head sadly. “Pie in the sky. It’ll never work. The lad’s hardly going to meekly bend over your knee to let you whack him with a belt or whatnot.”

He had a point. The best I could hope for would be to wildly slash my belt across his shoulders and back while having some kind of stand-up fight. It wouldn’t work. The whole point was for Garry to admit he has broken the rules and to submit himself to punishment. Then when I am satisfied he has been spanked enough, he apologies for his behaviour and promises to do better. And, if he does not, he’s back over my knee, or the armchair for another dose. Harder, this time.

I let the matter rest hoping against hope the problem would just solve itself. But a few mornings later I came out of my bedroom to go to the toilet and stepped on a sticky damp patch on the carpet. In my bare feet. The sod had sicked-up and left it there. I calmed down a little while I streamed piss into the lavatory, but not by much.

Determined to confront him, I burst open his bedroom door ready to shout the house down. My jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe what I saw. To say I was astonished wouldn’t cover it. Garry was in his bed with his arm cradled around another young man. They were both stark naked and judging by the pungent odour in the air the bedsheet was awash with cum. Embarrassed, I turned on my heels. Moments later as I waited for the kettle to boil, I devised a plan. I phoned my pal and he roared with laughter, but agreed to help. Together we could make it work.

I would need to get rid of the boy first. I didn’t have much choice, I just let nature take its course. Eventually, they woke up. The boy couldn’t get out of the house fast enough. That left me alone with Garry. He gave me the merest shrug of the shoulder when I berated him about the vomit. I had already cleaned up the mess, I couldn’t stand the smell on the landing. He just couldn’t care less.

Well don’t care was made to care, as my old Mum used to say when she reached for her hairbrush. I phoned my pal; he could be at my house within minutes. That gave me time to lecture Garry. I went through the list of his misdeeds; laziness, never lifting a finger around the house, the drinking, the drug-taking. I didn’t mention the boy in the bed, I didn’t want to sound like a homophobe.

He listened quietly, nodding his head from time to time as if agreeing. “Well, what have you got to say for yourself?” I asked breathlessly. He thought for a moment, head bowed, and then whispered, “Don’t know.”

“Bah! You need to be punished, you know that don’t you?”

He looked up at me, his dark-brown eyes glistening. “How do you think you should be punished?” I asked, calmly, as if it was the most reasonable question to ask a twenty-two-year old. He stared blankly.

“It says on the Internet,” I told him, “That a spanking is the best punishment.”

He looked startled, his mouth gaped before he spoke, “You want to spank me?” he asked incredulously.

“I don’t want to spank you,” I said trying to stress how much I didn’t want this to happen. “But you must be punished.”

His nose crinkled, I could see his brain was ticking over. He seemed to be debating in his head. I watched him for some moments. He looked so much younger than his twenty-two years. Perhaps that was his problem; arrested development. He should have been having this conversation when he was sixteen, not today.

The doorbell rang and I shuffled off to let my pal in. We had a whispered conversation in the kitchen. “How exactly do you want to do this?” he asked. “Shall I hold him down while you wallop him? What will you use, your belt?”

I hadn’t quite thought through the details. For sure Garry would have to be restrained. Perhaps my pal could hold him bent across the dining room table while I whacked his arse. My belt was thin and wouldn’t make a suitable weapon. What else did I have? I don’t wear carpet slippers. My hairbrush was a cheap plastic thing. Naturally I didn’t have a school cane or a paddle about the house (who did these days?).

“Here use this,” my pal picked a large wooden spoon from the draining board, he tested its weight by smacking it into the palm of his hand. “It packs quite a punch,” he said with deep satisfaction. “C’mon, let’s get on with this.”

I returned to the living room with my pal in tow. Garry caught sight of the wooden spoon in my hand, his eyes blinked furiously and his face flushed. “Well,” I started a sentence but trailed off. I wasn’t quite sure how to proceed. Garry took away what little wind I had in my sails.

“OK,” he gulped, struggling to look at me. Silence engulfed the room. I gave a quizzical look. “OK,” he repeated, “You should spank me.” Now it was my turn to look incredulous. “I have behaved badly, I deserve to be punished,” he spoke as if reading from a memorized script. “I deserve it.”

I heard my pal snort, but I ignored him. “Are you sure, Garry?” I asked. I was completely unprepared for this turn of events. He nodded shyly. He stood up and started to leave the room. He looked over his shoulder at my pal. “We should do this privately,” he said with some confidence, “in my room.” I followed him gripping the wooden spoon in my hand.

The bedroom smelt musty, Garry had removed the soiled sheet but the room needed airing. It was a small room, dominated by the bed. There was a small chair, but it was obviously not up to the task. Garry would not be able to bend over it and still leave room for me to get a swing at his backside. It would have to be an over-the-knee spanking.

I had never spanked anyone before. How exactly was this done? Of course, you relied a lot on instinct. Since Garry was submissive there would be no fisticuffs. I sat on the edge of the bed and wriggled my bum about until I felt secure. I spread my legs. This way Garry would be able to bend across one thigh and stretch out across the mattress, That should give me ample room to spank his backside.

Garry watched silently as I made my preparations. He was a shortish lad, maybe a couple of centimetres smaller than me. He had a firm waist (unlike so many of his contemporaries these days) and muscular thighs. He was wearing heavy blue jeans. Even with my lack of experience I knew these would give Garry a lot of protection against the wooden spoon. He must have read my mind. Without waiting for my command, he unbuttoned at the waist, slipped the zipper and pushed the jeans as far as his knees. He took a deep breath and leaned forward placing himself across my right thigh. Then he did something truly astonishing. He raised his bottom high, it was as if he were saying, “Yes, I have been a naughty boy, you must spank me. Good and hard.”

In this position his bottom was very firm. His black underpants clung to his cheeks, separating them. It was a terrific target. I took a deep breath and raised the spoon, his buttocks clenched in anticipation of my next move. I whacked the spoon down in the centre of Garry’s right cheek. He gasped slightly. I whacked the left cheek. I didn’t know how much a spanking would hurt a twenty-two-year-old but I made it my business to lay it on as hard as circumstances allowed. I walloped the wood up and down his left cheek leaving no spot untouched. Then I did the same with the right buttock.

Garry wriggled his bum. It was hotting up nicely, I thought. I smacked hard into the underside of his bum, where the cheeks meet the thighs. That hurt, I could tell. Garry’s legs kicked out instinctively. It was a reflex action against the pain that was travelling through his bum. At one point he raised his face off the mattress to yelp, but thought better of it and instead shielded his head with his hands. Sweat was soaking his shirt. He smelt sour, I don’t think he had showered that day.

I suppose I whacked him for about three or four minutes, I had rather lost track of time. How long should a spanking go on for? Obviously, in Garry’s case he needed (no, deserved) more than six-of-the-best. I stopped whacking him and took hold of the elasticated waist of his underpants. I was rewarded with a wailed, “No!!!” Garry thought I was pulling them down to continue his spanking on the bare buttocks. I wasn’t. I wanted to see the results of my efforts. I saw both cheeks were a rather delicious rosy red. The imprint of the bowl of the spoon had been reproduced over and over again on his flesh. Yes, I congratulated myself, a job well done.

I gave him another dozen on each cheek for good measure and released my grip on him. Garry lay across my thigh breathing heavily but making no effort to move. “Get up,” I said pushing him away. He stumbled to his feet and turned his back on me before bending down to pull up his jeans. He rubbed his bottom ruefully and stood still awaiting further instructions.

I suppose I should have lectured him about his future conduct and the dire consequences if he broke my rules again. Instead, rather tamely I stood up. This was his room after all, so it was for me to make an exit. I did so and returned to the kitchen where my pal had brewed tea. He asked me for details and I gave a blow-by-blow account.

Upstairs, Garry was admiring my handiwork in the bedroom mirror, his cock rigid. I think I must have spanked him three or four more times over the following weeks before the truth dawned on me.

 

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

Brian’s redemption

z used jeans chair (1)

When Mr. Bell told Brian to bend over his chair for a caning he never dreamt in a million years he would do it. But, he learnt that boys know when they have overstepped the mark and need to be punished. Brian was the boy from across the street. “Boy?” he must be nineteen or twenty years old. He’d been working for at least a couple of years to Mr. Bell’s certain knowledge.

Like so many youngsters his age Brian thought the world revolved around him. He was rude, inconsiderate and full of himself. He took no notice of his parents and came and went as he pleased. He also drank too much and was high on drugs half the time. It was the drink that pushed Mr. Bell over the edge.

He was coming home himself late one night with his wife when he saw Brian lurching down the street. The Avenue is in an upscale part of town and he watched him weaving from pavement to pavement when he wasn’t actually walking in the middle of the road. Mr. Bell gaped open-mouthed as Brian swung across the street, hung on to the hedge of Mr. Bell’s front garden, leaned over and puked a gutload of vomit all over the roses. Then he slid onto his knees and lay on the pavement, semi-conscious.

If his wife hadn’t been with him, Mr. Bell would have kicked Brian’s face in there and then and left him to sleep it off. His wife was a kinder soul. She insisted they take him into the house and let him recover.

“Why not just take him to his own house?” Mr. Bell asked reasonably, since it was less than a hundred yards away.

“Oh, no,” his wife replied. “What would his mother say if she saw him in this state?” That left him open-mouthed for the second time in two minutes. Why was the brat their responsibility? He had been married for more than twenty years and knew when he couldn’t win an argument, so he helped Brian to his feet and with the help of his wife (oh, sweetness of his life) they got him inside.

There wasn’t much they could do with him so they took off his shoes and left him on the couch while Mrs. Bell fetched blankets.

The next morning they lay in bed wondering what they should do about Brian.

“If he were ours, you’d give him a damn good hiding,” Mrs. Bell remembered how her own sons had been successfully guided to adulthood. Plenty of parental love and very sore backsides when necessary, was her simple recipe for life.

“We still have those canes in the attic,” she said wistfully.

“No, Nora,” Mr. Bell had cottoned on to his wife’s thinking, “We can’t he’s not ours.”

Nora sniffed dismissively, “Fat lot of good his parents are. They’d let him get away with murder.”

“Even so, Nora,” Mr. Bell didn’t want this argument.

“Even so, nothing. He’s probably killed our roses.”

She pulled the duvet from her and stepped out of bed. “Give him a good thrashing. You know he deserves it,” she said as she hurried to the bathroom.

He did deserve it, Mr. Bell was certain of that. But it was too late for Brian. He was twenty years old. It was too late to start disciplining him now.

“It’s never too late,” his wife was full of scorn when he told her this. “You’d probably be doing him a favour. He needs to be taught a lesson.” She closed the door behind her as she left the bedroom.

Mr. Bell grimaced, As usual, his wife had the final say. Minutes later she returned. “Here, go do your duty.” She passed him a long, thin, whippy school cane. It felt light in his hands. He remembered that even something so seemingly innocuous as this cane could cause severe pain when used correctly.

“Get dressed,” his wife ordered. “You’ve got work to do.”

Five minutes later Mr. Bell padded down the stairs, hoping that Brian had woken already and gone home. He heard the youngster’s snores. “Drat!” he said to himself. He would have to go through with this. He knew Brain needed a dose of good old corporal punishment. Mr. Bell knew this for a fact. He had absolutely no doubts that caning worked. But, it was too late now. Even if he told Brian he had overstepped the mark for the final time, the boy would just walk away. Worse, he might give him a rude gesture and then walk away.

No, Mr. Bell knew these days no twenty-year-old was going to submissively bend over and allow him to whack a cane across his backside. And more was the pity, he thought. He left the cane resting against the hall table and went to the kitchen for breakfast.

Brian woke with a start, his cock was stiff and his bladder ached. He needed the toilet and fast. He did a double-take as he returned down the stairs having dealt with both. He had never seen anything like this before; but instinctively he knew what it was. What a fine specimen; a school cane, with a curved handle.

Corporal punishment had been abolished in schools years ago, but Brian still knew what one of these things looked like, even if he couldn’t tell you what it felt like to bend over touching toes to have one whacked across the seat of his trousers.

Gently, he held the rod between his two hands. It was dark yellow, about three feet long and perhaps as thick as a pencil. It surprised Brian how easily he could flex it. It was so springy. Fascinated, he held it to the light and counted the number of notches from one tip to another.

Then, he swished it up and down. “Bend over boy. Touch your toes,” he said aloud. Heck where did that come from?

He walked with it into the sitting room, still sweeping the cane through the air. Then, suddenly he brought the cane down with a fierce swish and whacked it across the back of the huge dark brown leather sofa. The thwack!!! echoed around the room.

Brian’s pulse raced as he scythed the rattan cane through the air imagining it crashing into the backsides of naughty schoolboys. “It’s six of the best for you Baker, bend over.”

He was anxious to know what the cane felt like. Awkwardly, he held the cane and inexpertly aimed it towards his own buttocks. He hit the target, but not with enough force to cause any pain. Sorely disappointed, but not actually sore, he swished the cane into his thigh.

Ouch!!!” yes that hurt. He dropped the cane as if it was a white-hot poker and hopped up and down, rubbing furiously at the red stripe that had already formed beneath his jeans.

“My, aren’t you having fun.” Brian who nearly had a seizure with the shock, whirled round to see Mr. Bell standing in the doorway, smiling.

Shit! How much had he seen? Brian blushed scarlet and blubbered some excuse. “I found it in the hallway.”

The silence was intense: neither wanted to be the first one to continue.

Brian cracked first, “Where did it come from?”

“It’s mine,” Mr. Bell said, picking up the swishy cane and flexing it between his hands.

“Yours?”

It was a short, simple question, but Mr. Bell heard so much more in it like, “When did you get it? Why? Who do you intend to you it on? Is it going to be me?”

“I’ve had it for years. I used it on my sons.” He broke off abruptly realising he had overstepped the mark. Perhaps, it wasn’t something people should know. Not in this day and age

“Really, you used to cane them?”

“It was quite common in the past to have canes in the house. Most people did.”

Brian watched a little fascinated as Mr. Bell continued to play with the cane.

“Fathers punished their children to teach them to behave and make them grow up properly.”

“How do you mean Mr. Bell?”

“So, they behaved responsibly. Not. Like kids today.” He didn’t know why he said that; he didn’t want to start an argument with the boy.

“What’s wrong with kids today?”

Mr. Bell looked at this drunkard boy. It took the old man back twenty years or more to the time he discovered his son Alan had been helping himself from the cocktail cabinet. Eighteen years old or not, justice was swift in the form of a thick leather belt applied with some force across the boy’s bared buttocks.

Oh, how he howled the house down that evening. Mr. Bell could still hear the wailing. But it was worth it, it was many years before Alan touched a drop of alcohol again. And, when he did he made certain he had paid for it himself.

Then Brian asked a question that almost knocked Mr. Bell on his back. “Mr. Bell, if I had been your son, how would you treat me differently than my dad does?”

It was a question, so reasonably stated, posed as if Brian genuinely wanted to know the answer.

Mr. Bell wasn’t prepared to let the boy’s father down by answering that question, so he asked one of his own, “Are you happy, Brian?”

Brian thought for a moment and then quietly replied, “No, not really.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.”

But, he did. Even if he couldn’t find the words, he was unhappy because he was aimless. He had no idea what he wanted in life and nobody cared enough to guide him. He could do anything he liked at home, he could stay out late smoking dope and nobody cared.  He had flunked his exams and all it led to was a row at home. Nobody would help him to sort out his life.

Mr. Bell  broke the silence. “It’s probably because you don’t know how you are supposed to behave; you don’t know the difference between what’s right and what’s wrong.”

Mr. Bell picked up the cane and pointed it at Brian, but not threateningly, “And that’s why this was so useful.”

He watched Brian’s eyes transfix on the cane. It came as a revelation to Brian. Mr. Bell knew. Mr. Bell knew exactly how he felt.

“If you behaved like you do now in your father’s time you would have a permanent groove on your stomach from constantly bending over the back of that chair,” he laughed at his own little joke and swished the cane in the direction of the dining room table.

And, if you came home late, after curfew, drunk as you were last night, you would not sit down for a fortnight after I had finished with you.”

A remorseful Brian blushed deep red. Why had he gotten drunk? Truly he didn’t know and equally as truly he regretted it. Sincerely. He didn’t just regret it because he had been found out.

“Mr. Bell, help me. Please.” It was said so quietly the old man could hardly hear the boy’s pleading.

“Please.”

Mr. Bell looked at the boy through sad eyes. Could Brian be helped, or was it already too late for him. Brian remained silent, but his own shiny grey eyes spoke volumes: would someone please offer him salvation. He had said, “Help me,” but Mr. Bell heard it as, “Beat me, let me atone, don’t leave me stewing in my own guilt.”

Mr. Bell flexed the cane in his hands. Should he beat the boy. He didn’t expect Brian would submit himself to a thrashing. The boy had been mollycoddled all his life; he was hardly likely to be man enough to take this well-deserved whipping. If he ordered the boy to bend over, Mr. Bell expected to hear the front door slam and see Brian running up the driveway to escape punishment.

“Look at me Brian. You have been a thorough disgrace; not just today, but for a very long time past. You are an utter shame; you are disobedient to our parents; you are lazy; and last night you came home drunk and puked up in my garden.”

Brian looked Mr. Bell square in the eye. He was not disputing a word of it. Mr. Bell was correct in every part; he was all the things he said.

Mr. Bell heard his wife bustling in the kitchen. Then she stopped. He knew she was listening. There would be hell to pay later, if he did not go through with his. He took a deep breath. “Stand behind that chair,” he pointed with his cane.

Brian stared hard at the old man. To Mr. Bell it seemed he was debating something with himself. Then, without a murmur, Brian obeyed.

Mr. Bell held the cane, tapping it against his leg as he waited for the boy to decide. He knew if this morning was to have any purpose at all, the beating had to be exemplary. This could not be a token slap on the bum.

But, for it to work, Brian had to submit himself to the old man for punishment. He had to admit that he deserved to be beaten and he was ready to accept the caning, delivered in any way his punisher felt fit; with no argument.

Mr. Bell didn’t know Brian well, but even as he saw the boy standing, apparently emotionless, behind the chair he doubted that he would submit.

Then came the moment of truth, “Bend over.”

There was a hesitation, but only a slight one, before, with his hands visibly trembling he glanced over at Mr. Bell. The old man thought he saw a spark of gratitude in the boy’s grey eyes, before Brian fell forward across the back of the chair.

Brian wore dirty denim jeans, a shirt and jumper. Mr. Bell pulled the jumper clear of the target area and gripped the waistband of the jeans pulling them taut. In truth, Mr. Bell would have preferred to thrash Brian’s naked buttocks. A beating on the bare only increased the severity slightly, but it impressed upon the boy that he was totally submissive to his master.

Despite the wish, Mr. Bell knew that a bare-bottomed beating might prove too much for the boy, no matter how long he had been in need of this.

“Bottom higher, please.”

Brian reached further forward. Mr. Bell noticed him dig his finger nails hard into the chair’s seat and brace himself for what was to come.

Mr. Bell sliced the cane across Brian’s buttocks. It stung like hell. It made him open his fists and cover his face with both hands. A second stroke forced the hands to hold onto his head and stifle the cry which was bursting to emerge. He arched his back, shook his buttocks from side to side and felt every muscle in his body reaching bursting point, but Brian remained bent over, fighting the shafts of pain which were chewing up his buttocks, and struggling to control his laboured breathing

Twelve strokes had succeeded in creating a volume of pain across his backside, bringing tears to his eyes, he lost control and his legs shook in anger in response to the cane’s ravaging of his backside. Brain was a virgin to the cane and even with considerable protection of layers of denim and cotton underpants it felt like his backside was ablaze.

Brian was crumpled, breathless, shocked and utterly defeated.

“Stand,” a curt command from Mr. Bell.

He pulled himself up from his prone position, nursing his injured buttocks and wounded pride. With damp eyes he looked imploringly at his Mr. Bell and forced out his contrition with a strangled, “I’m sorry Mr. Bell, thank you.”

Mr. Bell tucked the cane under his arm like a sergeant-major, as Brian frantically tried to rub away the agony in his blistered buttocks.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry”, he repeated.

Mr. Bell knew that all recently-spanked boys said the same. And, as they danced up and down wondering if the pain in their bottoms would ever ease, they probably were.

The test of their true repentance came with their future behaviour. It was now up to Brian to show if he truly wanted help to reform. If he did, Mr. Bell and his cane would be ready, willing and able, to assist.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The boy in the street

used drawing modern (8)

 

I cannot deny it, every time I saw the boy my cock stiffened. It was like I was fifteen again. Fifteen. Jesus, I’ve got grandchildren older than fifteen.

The first time was in the street near my house. He was walking toward me oblivious to the world around him. He had those things in his ears that all kids have. Did I gape open-mouthed? I rather think I might. He had an aura. I can’t explain it. His shock of uncombed hair, the regal nose. Thin lips that looked like he had been drinking raspberryade. The front of my underpants bulged.

I stared intently at the pavement as we passed. I tried hard; honestly I did. The urge to turn around to get a look at his bum consumed me. What if he caught me admiring his buttocks? How could I stand the humiliation? But I did look. What a disappointment. I shouldn’t have been surprised. He was a twenty-something boy. It’s what they are like. He wore those trousers that are so baggy you can’t see any shape inside. I don’t want lads to wear skin tight jeans or what-not; but I do enjoy seeing how round their buttocks are.

It was when I saw him the second time, a few days later, that I started to fantasise. He is too tall to go across my knees comfortably, so I have him bent across the back of an armchair in my sitting room. It is just the right height to take a lanky lad. The trousers are at his knees, of course, and I am hammering away with my heavy bath brush. He is rocking and rolling his hips and legs but by and large he is taking it like a trooper.

I came to spanking quite late in life. I’ve always been “gay”, but in my day we never knew much about it. We just got on with life. Where I came from if a girl was still unmarried at twenty-one, she was “on the shelf”; so, we all got hitched young.

Doris was my wife for nearly forty years. She was undemanding after I gave her three girls. Is it a wicked thing to say that when she passed on I was relieved? It was as if a huge weight had been taken from me. I pretty much lived in my head until then.

I had a mild interest in corporal punishment of young men. I remember a scene from an old black-and-white film that played on TV quite often. Goodbye Mr Chips. The old doddery headmaster is in his study with a schoolboy. Ha! The actor playing the sixth-former must have been about thirty-five. Chips picks up a sturdy crook-handled cane. “Bend over that chair!” he thunders. The boy is understandably reluctant. “Bend over that chair!” he roars once more. The boy lowers himself over the arm of a large chair. The film goes to silhouette as Chips swipes six of the best across the boy’s stretched trousers.

I would lay alone on my bed replaying that scene in my head; uncertain whether I wanted to be the headmaster whipping his cane into the boy’s bottom, or to be the one on the receiving end.

After Doris left us the days seemed endless. My daughter Cathy urged me to get out and meet people. She signed me up for an evening class at the local school. Beginners DIY. Do-it-yourself home maintenance. Me? It showed how little she really knew about my interests.

I didn’t show up at class. I went to the school, just to keep her quiet, but in the hallway I saw a poster for something that genuinely, truly, changed my life. The Internet for Beginners. A class aimed at fossils like myself who didn’t know their Web from their wi-fi.

I don’t have to tell you what I found online. Jesus. If I were forty years younger! It took a while to pluck up the courage before I contacted a guy who gave corporal punishment services. For a fee, of course. He had a room at his house decked out like a headmaster’s study. It wasn’t as grand as Mr Chip’s, but it felt authentic enough. I dressed in pale-grey trousers, white shirt and striped tie. It made a very passable school uniform. There was a chair, not unlike the one in my own sitting room.

Swish! He swiped a thin curve-handled rattan cane through the air. “Bend over that chair!” he thundered. Had he developed his technique from watching Mr Chips? In time, I came to doubt it. He proved to be a very experienced “master”.

I licked my tongue across my top lip. Saliva drained from my mouth. I stared down over the back of the chair at the faded blue cushion. Savouring every moment. I had never come close to being summoned to the headmaster’s study as a child. This was unchartered territory.

“Bend over!” the headmaster tapped his cane on the apex of the chair. I drew in breath and lowered myself into position. I felt the fabric of my trousers stretch across my buttocks. I must have been an awesome target. My bum is round and meaty. I might be old, but I am not fat. I stared intently at the back of my hands as I gripped the seat cushion tightly.

He tap-tap-tapped the cane across the centre of my buttocks, then withdrew it. I tensed. Crack! The cane landed squarely across my cheeks. Nothing happened for a second or two and then an intense shockwave roared across my bum. My first stroke of the cane. I was on my way.

Back home, I took to skulking close to my sitting room window hoping to catch sight of the boy. I didn’t know if he lived in The Avenue. It is long and full of upscale houses, many of them hidden behind walls and fences, so it is not easy to know your neighbours. Several days passed and sadly I concluded he must have been a visitor. Somebody’s nephew, perhaps. Or a boyfriend.

I had given up hope of ever seeing him again when one afternoon I was shuffling down the street in search of an evening newspaper and there he was. My cock flipped. He was wearing a military camouflage tee-shirt and this time his chino trousers fitted snugly. He carried across his shoulder a bag that looked light and almost empty. He smiled nonchalantly as he passed and nodded a greeting. My heart skipped. He had noticed me. The boy knew I existed. I stopped dead and careless as to who might see, I turned to admire his buttocks as they sashayed down the street.

All thoughts of evening papers abandoned, I let him get fifty or so yards ahead of me and I followed. He turned a bend in the road and crossed over and pushed open the gate of one of the smaller houses. I stood maybe ten yards away. I have no idea if there were others in the street, I only had eyes for the boy. He hopped from one foot to another as if he were desperate to go to the toilet. Suddenly the door flew open and a youngster about the same age as the boy stepped out. He wrapped his arm around the back of the boy’s head and pulled him toward him. They kissed unselfconsciously. It was real snogging. Then the youngster dragged him into the house, slamming the door shut.

I put my head down and as far as a man in my condition could, I ran back towards my house. My fury could not be controlled. That boy; my boy. Even now, as I hurried home, I knew they would be having wild passionate sex. On the sitting room carpet quite likely.

At home, I headed straight to the cocktail cabinet. Drat! I was out of tonic. My hands could not stop shaking as I splashed gin into a tumbler. Urggh! It tasted foul. Too strong. My head buzzed. My rage subsided. I stood by the window looking into the empty street. Then, I had an epiphany. It wasn’t rage I felt. It was envy. Envy that my boy was now enjoying unrestrained sex with an equally beautiful guy. And envy too, of all the boys their age and the freedom they enjoyed to be themselves. My own barren life, fifty-something wasted years, disgusted me.

It might have been the gin. God knows it might have been hormones or something, I don’t know. I rushed from the house and trundled down the street. I had to see my boy again. The house seemed quiet when I arrived. They were probably rolling around on the bed, I thought. Indifferent for who might see me, I crossed the small, neat lawn and tip-toed toward the window of what I supposed to be a living room. The curtain was open. I could see inside, but equally anyone in the room would be able to see me. I would take the risk.

Risk-takers are the ones who reap the rewards. My boy was completely naked, lying prone across the knees of the other boy. The other boy made small circular motions with the palm of his hand, patting each buttock in turn and caressing the backs of his thighs. Then, having taken his measure, he smacked the open palm of his hand again and again into the firm bum. From my vantage point and with my imperfect eyesight it seemed my boy was completely hairless. He would have had to shave to achieve such smoothness.

My boy’s face shone serenely. The other boy was just as calm. He smacked my boy a dozen or so times; you couldn’t call them “spanks”, there was no intent to cause harm. Then he stopped and fondled him some more. This time he stroked the naked back and shoulders before inserting his fingers under my boy’s body and twitching his nipples. I could hear the gasp of ecstasy.

The other boy ruffled my boy’s hair some and then returned his attention to his cute, pert bum. I stood; back arched, hands on my knees and breathless for some time. They were so engrossed in their sex play they would never notice me. Who knows how much time elapsed? Eventually, the other boy whispered a love call. My boy pulled himself from the lap, at first resting on his knees and then stretching himself to his feet. His rock-solid uncut cock pointed towards his young lover.

The other boy rose from his chair and sank to his knees. Inside a second he had the throbbing muscle between his lips. His tongue darted up and down along my boy’s shaft. I thought my boy’s eyes would pop. Instead, he leaned forward and gripped the other boy’s dick. It was as rigid as my boy’s. A thick vein crossed the entire length of the cut member. The cock shuddered as soon as my boy’s fingers made contact. Any moment now, he would shoot a load.

“May I help you?” The voice came from a million miles away. “I said, can I help you?” It had a dreamlike quality.

I turned my head slightly. A man in a business suit, with a laptop bag across his back, approached me across the lawn.

“I say are you alright?”

I sank to my knees, rolled over onto my side and bawled like a baby.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The new neighbour

z-used-swimming-pool-2

It was when the new next-door neighbour said he would pull down Sebastian’s swimming trunks and paddle his backside until it glowed in the dark that he knew there was something strange. Seb was nineteen years old.

Mr. Churchill objected to the teenager lounging by the pool in his in his back garden playing loud music. In fact, he had objected to lots of things in the two months since he had moved in. He didn’t like the way Seb revved up his motorbike just before he drove it away. He had complained to the boy’s father the morning after Seb came home late drunk. What, Seb wondered at the time had Churchill expected his dad to do about it? Perhaps he knew the answer to that now.

Mr. Churchill lived on his own. It was a huge four-bedroomed house. Two reception rooms. Two bathrooms. Why did he need all that space? He was about the same age as his own parents, Seb supposed. But, he wasn’t very good at judging people’s ages as an unfortunate misunderstanding with a fifteen-year-old girl’s father proved.

“And don’t think I won’t to it.” Churchill’s face flushed with sweat. He was wearing a pair of tartan shorts that came to just above his knees. It was a scorching hot day, but he still wore light-grey knee socks. Seb could see that his black shirt, although short-sleeved, was made of a heavy material. The man was hardly dressed for the weather. Perhaps that was his trouble, the teenager mused; he needed to cool down. Literally.

Seb had spent much of that summer in the sun and his skin was nut-brown, but his embarrassment still showed on his face. Muttering under his breath he switched off the radio, picked it up, gathered the beach towel he had been lying on and slouched off into the house. Churchill watched the boy disappear, noticing how the swimming trunks clung to his firm buttocks.

The telephone rang and seething he went into his own lounge room to answer it.

Things came to a head a week later. It was past midnight and the night was hot. Churchill could not sleep. He was staring out the window at nothing in particular when he heard the familiar roar of a motorbike’s engine. Seb pulled up in front of Churchill’s house. Churchill watched with growing anger as the boy dismounted unsteadily. Churchill fumed, the boy was obviously drunk or high on drugs. His temper did not improve as Seb lurched forward and puked a gut load of vomit into Churchill’s flower bed.

“You bastard,” Churchill spoke aloud, although there was nobody there to hear. “I’ll give you such a hiding in the morning.”

There was to be no spanking in the morning. Seb did not crawl out of bed until gone lunchtime. The weather had not cooled. At last by mid-afternoon Seb could stand it no longer. He slipped into a pair of tight bright yellow swimming trunks and went to retrieve his motorbike from the road where he had abandoned it.

Churchill was ready with an ambush. Seb blinked in the bright sunlight as his neighbour berated him about his behaviour. Drunk driving. You could have been killed. You could have killed someone. On and on, Churchill poured out his frustrations with the boy.

Seb was speechless, but his expression betrayed his feelings. It could be summed up in two words: piss off.

Churchill’s face was set with anger. “I’m going to give you a tanning you will never forget,” he barked.

“Go to Hell!” Seb shouted a defiance he didn’t truly feel.

“Young man, you asked for this.”

Churchill had festered all night and all morning. He had a plan. It was simple. His left hand had a firm grip on Seb’s right arm, and the teenager was speechless as Churchill dragged him into his house and toward the lounge for a rendezvous with painful justice. Churchill’s would show no mercy.

“You know what must happen young man.” It was a statement, not a question. The no-longer defiant teenager’s eyes misted.

The lounge was a large room. It had been prepared. An elegant armless dining chair was waiting in the middle of the room. Churchill sat, spread his legs wide and took Seb by his left hand before pulling him towards him.

Later, Seb would not be able to explain to himself why he did not resist. It was true Churchill was a tall and strong man. He had the ability to overpower the teenager. But, Seb could still run. Within seconds, he could be back in the safety of his own house.

Soon he was over firm legs. He felt the roughness of Churchill’s cotton shorts and also the warmth of the older man’s bare knees. As the upended cotton-covered bottom came into his view, Churchill swallowed hard at the beautiful sight.

“I’m not going to bother with these.” Churchill inserted his fingers in the trunks’ waistband and pulled. He almost chanted, “Down they come, down, down, down, down.” With three firm tugs Seb’s bottom was bare. Naked in front of Churchill’s face.

Seb was devastated. He had never been spanked before and certainly not on his bare bottom. It was truly overwhelming. He was completely naked. The swimming trunks, the only item of clothing he had been wearing, now dangled at his knees. A breeze of warm air brushed over his body. His bottom twitched in anticipation of the hurt that the stronger, older man would soon inflict. He was helpless, stuck in an unseemly position with blood rushing to his head and bare bottom facing the window for anybody to see if they passed by. He was in a place of complete submission, unfamiliar and frightening.

Churchill surveyed the bottom in front of him with a professional discipline. His left arm went firmly around Seb’s waist and his right hand took firm hold of a soft warm bottom cheek. He squeezed and fondled it with circular motions, assessing its ability to absorb the spanking he was about to administer.

Seb felt the man press his elbow down against the centre of his back. He could not escape. If he tried to wiggle off Churchill’s lap, he would simply drag him back into place. If he tried to rear upwards, the man’s elbow would press down and prevent it. He had nowhere to go and could not avoid the pain to come.

Then Churchill’s hand started rising and falling. Sharp jolting smacks to Seb’s soft and tender bare bottom. Crisply landing on the warm and tender flesh and each sharp smack making the soft buttocks hotter. Smacks to the right cheek and to the left; to the full under curve and to the higher flanks. Slaps to the thighs. His hand fell hard and fast and bounced off Seb’s pliable flesh. The growing pain was awful but worse was the humiliation of being bared like this and summarily dealt with at his age. He was desperately squirming, deeply ashamed of having his bottom spanked. And, too aware of a surge of blood filling his penis.

“Please no!”  Unwisely, Seb threw his hand back to try to protect his toasting buttocks from the torrent of spanks. Churchill was no amateur. In a second he had the teenager’s arm in a strong half-nelson and he pushed the boy’s bum higher with his right knee, bringing him off balance.

“Keep still or I’ll fetch the paddle and give you a world class hiding,” he growled and continued to spank Seb’s fiery red bottom with a thoroughness that left the nineteen-year-old thrashing across his lap. It looked like he was trying to swim off Churchill’s knees.

It felt like hours to the teenager, but it was all over in a couple of minutes.

Seb couldn’t say that he was sore after the spanking, but it really did sting. It must have been very red. He wondered if there were hand marks on his bottom.

The emotion he felt surprised him. It was no longer fear or unbearable anxiety. It was relief. A thought raced around Seb’s head. Was this what I needed all along?

As the throbbing in his rump faded, to be replaced by a warm glow, he realised how lucky he was to have an older man who cared about him deeply enough to punish him and set his feet back on the right path.

I hope he enjoyed that as much as I did, Churchill wheezed, as later he opened the door of his cocktail cabinet and reached for the gin.

More stories you might like

 

The dope smoker

The man across the hall

The drunken neighbour

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The paper boy and Candy

Alan Manning downed his second glass of whiskey and turned to look at the clock – it was a little after midday. He crossed the room and picked up the bottle. He peered throught the window into The Avenue. The suburban street was deserted. Everyone would be at work; as should he, he thought. He poured another drink.

All had been going well until three months ago. That was when he had been made redundant. His job had gone to a computer – and some spotty herbert just out of college. Thirty-three years of work down the drain. And now aged fifty-eight, he wasn’t likely to work again. How he resented that kid.

The mortgage on the house had been paid. Thank God. And, there had been a redundancy payment. He took a slug of whisky. He wouldn’t have to worry over money. But, oh, he was bored witless.

His children had grown up and were making their own ways in the world. His wife had run off with another man a few years since. There wasn’t much left for him.

Across the road there was a kid delivering the local free newspaper. “Bloody hell!” Manning said to no one in particulalr. The boy was tramping across flower beds as he made his way from one door to another. Pah! Manning thought. Look at the state of him.

Tony Brewer hated delivering papers, especially in The Avenue. The nineteen-year-old resented that he was only paid two pence for each paper he delivered. Never mind that it was cash in hand and he was on Welfare and shouldn’t be working at all. He lived in the nearby council estate. Why couldn’t he get a paper round there? There were up to seventy flats in a block. He could earn four times as much money in the time it took him to deliver in the snooty Avenue.

It was a blistering hot day. One consoluation was that it did wonders for his suntan. Tony was naturally fair and his skin tanned easily. He wore very fashionable shorts that were so short they hardly covered his tight briefs.

Manning watched as Tony bent down to slip a newspaper into a letter box at ground level. The lower half of his buttocks were exposed under the beige cloth. What a disgrace! Manning fumed. He might as well be parading down the street in his underwear.

Tony straightened up, looked cautiously to his left and right and satisfied that the coast was clear, he opened the outside door of the house. Quickly, he bent down, picked up a parcel and hid it in his bag. Then, he closed the door and hopped across the lawn and through the flower beds into the next garden.

“Hey!” Manning shouted through the window. The kid had stolen a parcel left by the postman for his neighbour. “Hey!” It was useless yelling through the window. No one could hear.

Unsteadily, Manning got to his front door and opened it. “Hey you!” he stumbled into his front garden. “Hey stop. Come here!”

Tony halted, his embarrassment evident even under his suntan.

“Put that pacel back.”

“What parcel?”

“I saw you. You stole it.”

“Piss off,” Tony had no fear of old men, especially old men in The Avenue.

Manning lurched across the street. “Give it here! Give it here!” he grabbed at the bag full of newspapers on Tony’s shoulder. The teenager pushed him away. “Piss off. Leave me alone.”

The door of the house opened. Mr Todd, a retired engineer, had heard the argument.

“What’s going on?”

Manning held Tony by the arm but the teenager was about to wriggle free. He was, until Todd gripped his other arm.

“He stole a parcel from next door. It’s there in his bag,” Manning explained.

“I didn’t. It’s a lie.” Tony still struggled, but the two men had him trapped.

Manning grabbed the bag, delved in and pulled out a parcel.

“You little thief,” Todd barked. “There’s been all kinds stolen in this street. I bet you’re the one who’s been breaking into sheds.”

“No, mister. Let me go.”

“We should call the police,” Manning’s hatred of young people was to the fore.

“Quite right,” Todd stepped aside and pulled Tony into his house, closing and locking the door behind him. Manning was left on the doorstep.

“What is it, what’s going on?” Mr Todd’s wife came from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a tea-towel. Her husband explained.

“Please missus, don’t call the police. I’ll put it back. I’m sorry,” Tony whined. Mrs Todd paused her hand drying. The boy’s beautiful blue eyes and fair hair enchanted her. “Please.”

“Oh, well, ehrm,” she coughed, embarrased by her own schoolgirl reaction to the handsome young man now standing in her passageway.

“No,” Mr Todd intejected. “You can’t get away with it. I bet you’ve stolen other things.”

“No, really I haven’t.” It was a lie. Tony was well known as a petty thief to the local magistrates. Only last month they had said next time he appeared before the bench he’d be sent to juvenile detention.

Mrs Todd had always had a soft spot for fair hair and blue eyes. She had strayed many times in her marriage as a result.

“Please.” Tony’s pleading eyes melted her heart.

“What about it Albert?” Mrs Todd was won over.

“No way. He must be punished. There’s too much juvenile delinquency in this town.” Todd stepped across the passageway towards the telephone.

“Wait,” Mrs Todd interjected, “I know. What about Candy?”

Mr Todd looked aghast. “Candy? You can’t be serious.”

“Why not. It’s a perfect solution.”

Mr Todd blanched and then his face coloured like a cherry. Tony watched in silence. He edged his way toward the door, then remembered Todd had locked it.

“C’mon Albert. It works on me.”

Mr Todd blustered, “No well … I mean.”

Mrs Todd laughed. “That’s decided then. I’ll go and fetch it.” She turned and made her way up the stairs. Moments later she was in the master bedroom and rummaging through the wardrobe. It had been several weeks since Candy had made an appearance. Where had she left it? She searched along the rail between her dresses and her husband’s jackets. It wasn’t there. Oh, of course she remembered. Tutting to herself, she walked into the adjoining room. There was a tell-tale rattle as she pushed open the door. Once inside she turned. Yes, there it was: Candy, hanging from a hook on the door. A whippy rattan curve-handled school cane.

She reached up and took it lovingly in her hands. It suppleness excited her. She flexed it into an arc and then swished it through the air to get its weight. Candy was the pet name she and her husband gave to the cane when they used it in their little discipline games. It left candy stripes every time her husband slashed it across her naked buttocks. He was an expert disciplinarian. He could give Tony one heck of a beating. That was what he deserved. The boy would be punished, the stolen parcel returned and they could all move on with their lives.

Tony stared open mouthed as Mrs Todd padded down the stairs holding Candy against the side of her leg. “Nooo!” he wailed when the elderly couple’s plan dawned on him. “No way. I’m out of here.”

“It’s the cane or the police. You choose.” Mr Todd had once run a company employing fifty people. He was used to making decisions. And he expected to be obeyed when he had made them. The silence lasted ten seconds and would have been longer, but Mr Todd broke it. “Go into the lounge room. Let’s get this over with.”

“B ….” Tony started to speak, but didn’t know what to say. He had no choice. The cane or a spell in juvenile jail. The cane wouldn’t hurt so much would it? He had never been caned. It hadn’t been used in his school and it would never occur to his father to keep one at home.

“Quickly.” Todd had a ‘persona’ he used when disciplining his wife. It owed a lot to his former headmaster back at St Tom’s school more than fifty years previously. He gave clear precise instructions in clipped-sentences. There would be no doubt what was expected of a boy.

Todd took the cane from his wife and made some practice swishes of his own. He was delighted by the look of unease on Tony’s face. The young thief was not looking forward to this one little bit.

“Stand there!” The lounge room was very conventional. It had a matching sofa and armchairs, a dining table and chairs. It was quite large and at one end was a television set and a low coffee table. It was the perfect height for the teenager to bend across.

In their games, Mrs Todd always presented herself bare-bottomed for her caning. That was also the way his headmaster delivered his thrashings. Todd would dearly have loved to order the brat standing before him to disrobe, but he was aware of the unusualness of the situation. Not many strangers ordered teenagers to bare their backsides for a sound beating. It almost certainly wasn’t legal.

“Do you consent to be beaten for attempting to steal from our neighbour?” Mr Todd intoned. Consent wouldn’t make it any more legal, but Mr Todd would sleep a little easier.

Tony’s looked puzzled. Mr Todd tried again, using simpler words.

“Will you let me cane you as a punishment for stealing from our neighbour?”

Tony found it hard to breath. Blood rushed through his arteries. “Y … yes,” he gasped.

“In that case,” Mr Todd tapped the wooden coffee table. “Lie flat across that.”

 

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When later he tried to recall what happened next, Tony had no real recollection. On some kind of auto-pilot he walked forward, hesitated a moment behind the table and then lowered himself over.  His body fitted perfectly. His pert bottom rested on the edge of the table and with his knees bent his feet splayed out on the carpet.

Todd stood a yard or so from the nineteen-year-old’s left side. The short shorts cupped his buttocks offering a perfect target. The cheeks were tight and there was not enough spare fat to sizzle a sausage. The boy’s skin was tanned nut brown and virtually hairless. Todd “sawed” his cane across the centre of the buttocks to take his aim, then raised the whippy rod high and brought it crashing down. He was greeted with a long “hisssss!” escaping Tony’s clenched lips. The boy’s knees buckled further and his bottom bounced up and down on top of the table.

Todd slashed him again. Tony’s body trembled, then he went rigid emitting a little squeal as he did so. Now, there was a set of tramlines running straight across the delightful contours of his posterior etched into the tightly-fitting cotton shorts.

“Please …” Tony had begun to say, although he had no idea how he was going to finish the sentence. But, there was no time to as Swoosh!! the cane swiped down and in the next second a shrill cry of utter dismay echoed around the room as it sank into his buttocks. Tony felt a deep welt form across the centre of both cheeks, he wriggled and squirmed and clutched onto the soft seat cover for dear life.

“Keep still,” Todd barked, but the teenager could hardly hear him. What self-control he had at the start of the thrashing had evaporated. Red-hot agony engulfed his arse. It felt as if he had sat in a scolding bath. Lines of pain travelled up and down his legs. His heartrate was off the scale and any moment now, he feared, blood would escape through his ears.

Todd beat Tony slowly, and soundly. Six swishy strokes of the very best he had ever administered to man or woman.

“You may get up now.” The instruction was terse. The punishment was over. The nineteen-year-old rose from the table unsteadily. His eyes were glistening and his cheeks were wet. Inwardly, Todd congratulated himself on a job well done. He was astounded when the boy said. “You certainly laid it on, Sir! But I know I needed it. Thank you.”

Mrs Todd blushed deeply. She knew exactly how the boy felt.

Tony rubbed his buttocks gently. The intense pain he had felt as each new stroke connected with his stretch buttocks had faded into a constant throbbing. He knew his cheeks were glowing red hot. Even through two layers of shorts and pants, he could make out the outline of six deep cuts.

Todd led the way to the door, which he unlocked. “Give me the parcel. I’ll make sure it is returned.”

Tony handed it over, desperate not to catch the eye of his punisher. Something that he did not quite understand had happened between them. He had been beaten for thieving. The caning had set the record straight. Some bond had been formed.

From across The Avenue Manners watched, whisky glass in hand, as Tony slowly and evidently in some pain, shuffled to the house next door and popped a newspaper through the letterbox.

The boy now departed, Mrs Todd retrieved Candy from the lounge room. She stood submissively in front of her husband. “Sir,” she said quietly, “I have something I must confess.”

 

Other stories you might like

Where’s the paddle, hon?

When Dad got home

The drunken neighbour

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com