The kid across the hall

new story 2

z used otk jeans domestic spk-prods

Arnold opened the front door to his apartment and gestured his friend Tony to come in. “What’s all that bloody noise?” Tony winced as he closed the door behind him. “You can even hear it in here.”

“It’s the kid across the hall. He’s always playing that music too loud.”

“What kid?”

“He’s on holiday from university. His parents have gone away and left him on his own.”

“It’s a disgrace,” Tony scowled. “You can hear it all over the building. Why don’t you tell hm to turn it down?”

Arnold shrugged. He was a mild-mannered man; people always took advantage of him. “I tried. He didn’t take any notice. I think he might have been drunk.”

“On drugs more like. They’re always high, students. Known fact.”

“Well, I dunno,” Arnold led the way into the kitchen. “Cup of tea?” He switched on the kettle and reached into a high cupboard for mugs.

The music seemed to get louder.

“Oh this is ridiculous,” Tony put his hands over his ears. “He’s got to stop. Somebody’s got to tell him.”

“I think the others have tried as well. He doesn’t take any notice.”

“He needs a damn good spanking! That’s what he needs.”

“Yeah, good luck with that.”

The music stopped suddenly. “Thank Christ,” Tony barked, “a bit of peace at last.” Seconds later it started again, louder than ever. “He was just changing a record.”

“This is too much,” Tony’s face darkened. “I’m going over there.”

“What are you going to do?”

“What do you think?” Without waiting for the answer he strode out of the apartment. Seconds later he was hammering on the kid’s front door, the ground beneath his feet shaking to the pulverising music.

No answer. He pounded again. Of course, the music was so loud the brat couldn’t hear anyone knocking. At last the door opened slowly and a bleary face peered around. “Wodja want?” a teenager leered.

“What do I …” Tony pushed the kid inside his own apartment. “I want you to turn off that row!” He nodded towards the lounge room as if there was any doubt about what he meant.

“Oo are you?” the teenager’s speech slurred, his face betrayed his puzzlement.

“Typical,” Tony confirmed in his own mind, “High as a kite.” He surveyed the small, thin wispy lad standing unsteadily before him. “I’m from across the hall. I want you to turn off that music.”

The boy’s eyes shone. Now he understood. “It’s nothing to do with you. Fuck off.”

Smack! The palm of Tony’s right hand struck the boy clean across his left cheek. A dark-pink imprint instantly glowed. He reeled back with the shock of the blow and the unexpected pain. He raised his arm to his face to touch the stinging flesh. Tony grabbed the boy by the arm and pulled him forward. He had never been in the apartment before, he quickly appraised its layout. The music was coming from the lounge; dragging the boy with him, he headed there.

His head throbbed to the pounding noise. China ornaments on an old wooden sideboard danced to the vibrating sounds. Tony saw a wooden chair with its back to an open fireplace. Still holding the boy in a vice-like grip he pulled him along. Tony sat in the chair and spread his legs. The boy gave no resistance as he was hauled face down across Tony’s knees.

The boy was off balance, his head was low towards the floorboards and his bottom jutted high over Tony’s right thigh. It was at the perfect angle. He whacked the palm of his hand against the boy’s tight bottom. He was wearing almost new Wrangler jeans and as he spanked and spanked Tony could tell his hand was hurting much more than the boy’s bum.

The boy was silent. Probably too stoned to do anything about it, Tony supposed. He spanked across both buttocks, going into the undercurves and into the meatiest part of the cheeks. He even walloped him on the back of the thighs.

“This is no good,” Tony said to himself. “The denim’s too thick. He won’t feel a thing.”

Frustrated, but unbowed, he released his grip and the boy stumbled from his lap onto the floor. With some difficulty and clearly in no pain he retained his footing and stood unsteadily eyeing Tony malevolently.

“Bah!” Tony growled, refusing to admit his defeat. He marched across the room and switched off the music centre. The peace was bliss. The boy had not moved, his hooded eyes watched, Tony thought, contemptuously.

“Right.” He commanded. “That stays off. If I hear one squeak out of you again I’m coming back and next time I’ll have your jeans and pants down and we’ll see how you like my belt across your bare arse.”

Feeling a little foolish, he made towards the front door and left. The boy pouted.

Tony and Arnold sipped their tea, enjoying the silence. Across the way the boy unzipped his jeans, releasing his throbbing cock. His head buzzed with a high that had no connection to the weed he had smoked. He spat on his palm and worked it along his shaft.

The words “Jeans and pants down” repeated in his brain. “Belt. Bare arse.” Slowly, not entirely certain what his next move should be, the boy moved across the room. He waited a moment, sucked down a deep breath and turned the music centre on at full volume.

 

Picture credit: SPK Productions

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Colonel Takes Control

z used cane hold kernled (16)

“Send Master George to me!”

Colonel Thompson flexed the cane between his hands thoughtfully. It was an ideal specimen. A crook handled ashplant, fully three feet in length, and as thick as a pencil. It would do the job admirably.

Gripping the ashplant just below the handle he swished the cane up and down and then in an arc to left and right through the air.

The Colonel knew he had a duty to perform this evening and he had prepared thoroughly. His gamekeeper had secured a number of ashplant canes from a man in the village. Old Mr Hardacre was an expert in making walking sticks, but he also performed the task of producing ashplant punishment canes, which were effective at correcting any miscreant boy. Indeed, there was probably not a house in the village that did not contain one or two examples of Mr Hardacre’s handiwork.

The Colonel had dined, and he was alone now in the old, dark, oak-panelled dining-room at Thompson Lodge.  A bronzed, grim-visaged old soldier was the Colonel, and under the rugged exterior there was a man of iron.

The door of the dining-room opened, and the Colonel compressed his lips slightly as he looked at the boy who came into the room.

He was a handsome, well-built lad, finely-formed, strong and active.  He was eighteen years old and stood no taller than 5ft 7ins. His face was handsome but there was a cloud upon it and in his dark eyes was a glint of defiance.  The whole manner of the boy was one of suppressed opposition, and the Colonel realised it keenly enough without words being spoken.

“You sent for me, uncle.”

In the tones of George Thompson, too, was a half-hidden hostility and defiance, as if he knew that he had not been sent for in a friendly spirit, and was ready to meet anger with anger.

“Yes, George.”  Colonel Thompson’s voice was very mild, but it betrayed the anger that was raging inside of him.

“Stand there boy. I want to speak to you.”

George Thompson did not move.  The Colonel raised his eyebrows.

“Stand there boy.”

“I suppose you are not going to keep me long.” said the boy doggedly.  “I want to go out before dark.”

The Colonel half rose from his seat, a flush of anger darkening his cheek.

“Stand there!” he thundered.

For a moment it looked as if the order would be disobeyed, but the Colonel’s thunderous face impelled obedience.  George Thompson slowly and sullenly moved to the spot indicated by the Colonel.

“Now, George,” said the Colonel, “I want to speak to you seriously.  I am your uncle: you are the only son of my only brother, and you should understand that I have your truest interests at heart.”

The boy’s lips slightly curled, but he did not speak.

“I have come home from India,” resumed the Colonel, slightly raising his tone, “to find that you have run completely wild under the charge of my sister, and I should not be doing my duty to my dead brother if I did not take you in hand and make at least an attempt to put you on a better road.

“You have done exactly as you liked, and you have not the least idea of discipline.  During the month that I have been at home I have tried to improve you…”

“Perhaps I don’t want improving,” George interrupted the Colonel, a dangerous thing to do.

“You probably think so,” said the Colonel.  “But I think otherwise, and, as your guardian, I have my duty to do.  You are obstinate and wilful, and inclined to be insolent to your elders.  All that must cease.  You have run wild too long.  That must come to an end.

“You are determined to have your way, and I am determined that you are not to have it.”

George Thompson smiled slightly.  He knew perfectly well that the old man had undertaken his reform and he had set himself against it.  The Colonel would find his reform thankless task, but he had not been quite prepared for what was to happen soon.

The smile on the boy’s face irritated the Colonel, and he had to make an effort to speak calmly and dispassionately as he went on, “You are indeed in need of discipline and this evening I shall take it upon myself to teach you a very important lesson in life.

“I shall thrash you most severely. It is the very least that you deserve for your constant insolent behaviour.”

George bristled. He had not expected this turn of events.

George had not seen the ashplant lying on top of the shiny dining table. The Colonel strode across the room and picked up the cane.

“Go and bend all the way over that chair!” The Colonel thundered pointing to a dining room chair he had previously strategically positioned.

George knew he was in for the thrashing of his life. It would be excruciatingly painful. It was to demonstrate beyond all doubt that the Colonel had complete control over him.

But, George was not going to give in. He would not show the Colonel he had won. No matter how severe the flogging, George would not give his tormentor one indication that he was suffering.

Boldly, but it was with false bravado, George marched up to the indicated chair and without hesitation put himself over its back. His lowered his head and raised his bottom high, ready for the lashing. It might look to an innocent onlooker that George’s had taken up a position of submission.

On the contrary it was a position of defiance. No words needed to be spoken, but George said to the Colonel, “Go ahead! Do your worst. I don’t care. I can take it. You’ll never break me.”

The Colonel heard the unspoken defiance. He despised the boy and the boy hated him back. The Colonel would rip the boy to shreds; he didn’t have a mind to what condition George’s backside would be in at the end of the thrashing.

The Colonel was a military man, he lived by obedience. He also lived by duty. It was the Colonel’s duty, he knew without question, to ensure that George understood the meaning of obedience.

The Colonel had never thrashed a boy before, but that did not trouble him. In the case of George there could be no such occasion as lashing too hard. It did not matter one jot to the Colonel that by the end of the punishment the boy’s backside would be torn to pieces. The boy must be broken: all hint of defiance vanquished.

The Colonel’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the cane, ready to start his task. He looked across at George draped over the chair awaiting his attention. George let out the air of one who was untroubled. That innocent bystander would not know by George’s demeanour that this was the prelude to a whipping that could leave him unable to walk in comfort for days.

George’s outward demeanour was one of calm, but inside he raged. He was outraged that the Colonel had the power to put him in such a position. His rage was such that he determined no matter how hard the lashing was to be, he would remain outwardly unconcerned. He would not let the Colonel see he was a beaten boy. He would not let the Colonel win.

Still gripping the cane tightly, the Colonel marched the five paces across the room to the chair. He raised the cane high into the air and with all the powerful force a military man possessed, he lashed it into the seat of George’s britches.

Not a murmur came from George.

The Colonel repeated the swipe. He hit George so hard it was as if he were beating a carpet.

Pain shot through George. It started at the point of contact on his buttocks and within seconds touched every nerve in his body. He wanted to yell; to scream; to shake the rafters of the huge dining room. But, something, call it stubbornness if you will, refused to let him do this.

The Colonel’s face, quite red to begin with, now turned purple. This was an outrage. The boy had shown no contrition for his crimes and now he was showing no reaction to his flogging.

The Colonel stepped forward to view George’s face. He saw the handsome young eighteen-year-old was pale, so white that even a ghost would look grey beside him. George turned his head away.

He did not want the Colonel to see his eyes, for if he did, the Colonel would have known immediately that George was indeed broken. They were the eyes of a boy whose body had been crushed, but who was fighting against odds to determine that his spirit would not also go the same way.

The Colonel was not a cruel man, but he believed in duty and as he had previously determined it mattered not at all if George was whipped to shreds.

He raised the cane high again and jumping a little from the floor slashed two swipes into George’s posterior. The boy jerked as the impact of two lashes, one immediately after the other, hit their intended target, almost exactly on the same spot.

George’s bottom was a mess of cuts, he could feel welts rising under his britches and he knew instinctively that blood was seeping from them.

Slash! Slash! Two more cuts landed and the sound echoed round the room like rifle shots.

The Colonel stood back. His heart was racing, the rage inside him, rather than subsiding as he had expected as the boy succumbed to his punishment, increased. The boy must be in agony, the Colonel knew this but he showed no sign. George was physically beaten, that was certain, but his spirit remained whole.

George, still across the back of the dining room chair was breathing heavily. Both hands gripped the seat in front of him. His fingernails had dug so deeply into the wooden chair that they were trickling blood.

But, as yet there were no tears, no vocal expressions of sorrow, or of contrition, no begging for mercy, or promises to mend ways, if only the thrashing would cease.

The boy was not yet broken.

“Stand up!” With great difficulty George tried to rise. His body did not wish to respond to his brain’s commands at movement. Eventually George was on his feet, but unsteadily. His movement had disturbed the contours of his buttocks, which rubbed gently against his underclothes and britches. It was a gentle kissing of flesh on wool, but its effect was to send waves of agony from the welts and shoot pain through his whole body.

George stared straight ahead; he could not bear to look the Colonel in the eye: he knew if he did so, he would break down and the Colonel would have won.

George heard the sound of the cane swishing through the air behind his back. The Colonel put as much effort into these practice strokes as he had done to the thrashing itself. The action was intended to intimidate George and the plan was working.

Was George’s ordeal not yet completed?

“Lower your britches.”

It was a barked order from the Colonel. He was a military man and he had the voice of command.

George hesitated, but just for a part of a second.

He was agonised by the thrashing and was broken, but he would not, could not, let the Colonel know this.

He fought hard to steady his hands and fingers as he unbuttoned his britches and their weight alone took them down as far as his knees.

“Bend over!”

A simple order. To the point.

George did as commanded. Again his fingers dug themselves into the wooden seat of the chair.

Once again George submissively offered his rear to the swish of the ashplant. The Colonel hated this boy. He hated his behaviour to his sister. He hated his insubordination. He hated his refusal to give in.

The Colonel took three steps backwards, raised the cane high above his shoulder and rushed in at George, slashing the most almighty swipe into his backside.

Again and again, the Colonel rushed and slashed into George. Blood was now freely flowing from wounds and George’s woollen drawers were stained red.

George very nearly bit off his tongue in an effort to stifle a yell. He wanted to, he wanted to express the agony he was feeling. It was a physical emotion. Any person suffering so much pain would want to howl like a banshee.

But, to yell and scream, would not seem like a natural physical reaction, it would, to George, be an admission, of defeat. He would have lost and the Colonel would have won.

The Colonel gave George six on the drawers, making twelve good cuts in total.

The Colonel could see the boy was physically beaten, but his spirit was not.

Purple with rage, the Colonel marched to the opposite end of the room. He was a military tactician and he was regrouping. He must consider his strategy. The enemy was injured, but not defeated. What should he do now?

Step up the punishment? Make one final push to see off the enemy’s defences. What should he do?

He looked across at George’s body. George lay still across the chair. The Colonel could only see him from the rear end, and the scene appeared one of quiet serenity. But had the Colonel ventured forward to see his enemy from the front, he would see from George’s face that this was a defeated enemy.

The next assault: the drawers should come down and six stingers, no a dozen lashes, should be administered with maximum severity on George’s bared buttocks.

But no, this, even the Colonel could not contemplate. He cared nothing that the lashes would rip the boy’s flesh and expose meat below. No, the baring of the buttocks would be immodest. He did not care what others said on the matter, nakedness of this sort was not godly. He did not have to be told that as a magistrate in the district he often sentenced miscreants to the birch rod, and he knew the circumstances in which a birching was administered.

No. George would be spared removal of the drawers.

The Colonel took on deep breath, and again strode towards George. The Colonel gave George twelve almighty swipes at pace, one after the other, like a machine gun.

At one point George’s body rose from the back of the chair, but his hands remained gripping the wooden seat. Lash! Lash! Lash! The Colonel’s cane bounced into George’s backside. The blows were so rapid, George had no time to react to one, before the next flayed into him.

That innocent onlooker might have supposed the Colonel was out of control. But, far from it: he knew what he was doing and he set about his task with relish. If the boy’s spirit could not be broken this evening, his body most certainly would.

At the completion of twelve lashes, the Colonel was breathless. And, so in his way was George.

Without ceremony, the Colonel commanded that George rise from the chair.

The boy tried to do so. The Colonel could see the boy could not stand on his own. The Colonel’s one regret was that he had not arranged for a servant to be present to carry George off at the end of the ordeal.

At last, George found his feet. He had to hold on to the chair to stop from toppling back to the floor.

The Colonel saw no need for ceremony now. “You are dismissed.”

He turned his back on George and returned the ashplant to a place in the cupboard. As he did this, George, clutching on to furniture as he went, made his exit from the room.

Such was the pain in his buttocks that he could not walk across the great hall to the staircase and was obliged to crawl on hands and knees to the staircase, and hang on to the bannisters as he edged up the stairs to his own bedroom.

When his rage had subsided and later after a glass or two of red wine, the Colonel relived the encounter. He could see that he had won the battle, but maybe not the war. George made a remarkable adversary and there would surely be many more encounters before the war was over.

And, the war would have to be fought to a conclusion: no amnesty could be made.

Picture credit: Kernled

This story was first uploaded in December 2015.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Fare Dodger

new story 2

z used otk pants chair sting (64)

Hamilton slouched in his seat, impatiently staring ahead. The bus was filling up, St Francis had just let out. A dozen or so kids were jostling past the bored driver, flashing their passes or return tickets at him. Senior boys, he thought, prefects mainly, judging from the shiny lapel badges they wore. Nicely turned out. Fancy green-and-gold blazers, pale grey trousers. Yes, Hamilton liked that. St Francis had ceased to be a grammar school years ago, but it still had standards.

He pretended to read his newspaper, but peaked around the pages, watching the bouncing buttocks of the boys as they ran up the stairs to the top deck. One boy, slimmer than the others, strode to the window and reached toward it. “Ye Gods!” Hamilton barked to himself. “He’s going to open the window. It’s freezing.” He steadied himself ready to make an indignant protest and watched as the boy opened the window and dropped his bus ticket onto the pavement outside. Then he closed it and not bothering to look around him to see if he had been spotted, he disappeared taking the stairs two at a time.

There were only seconds for Hamilton to see another boy bend down and pick up the ticket, before the bus drove away. Hamilton huffed. What a ruse, and so simple. They must play the same trick every day. Two rides on one bus ticket. The driver was always too busy to notice, Hamilton reckoned, and if even if he did he probably wouldn’t be bothered to do anything about it. The boy, now safely upstairs and out of the way, obviously never expected a passenger to make a fuss.

Well, the aging man thought, the boy was in for a shock.

Hamilton closed his eyes, all the better for him to plot his scheme. The boy hadn’t noticed Hamilton. If he had seen him half hidden behind his copy of the Metro, the boy would have recognised him immediately. Hamilton certainly knew the boy. His name was Jack and he lived on the other side of the street from Hamilton, a few doors down. About ten minutes later the boy danced down the stairs and clung to the strap handle waiting for the bus to stop. Hamilton dropped his newspaper to the floor, rose from his seat and as the doors swung open he quietly followed Jack. The boy walked at some pace. Hamilton followed more sedately, there was no need to hurry. He knew where Jack lived. The boy was neither tall nor short, not fat like so many teenagers these days. His dark hair was not short, but not so long as to raise the ire of a St Francis schoolmaster. His green-and-gold jacket fitted snugly as did the pale-grey trousers. The boy would be leaving school for good in a few months, obviously his mother didn’t see the need for new clothes. He carried a bag on his back, it hung low. It often annoyed Hamilton that young men had such bags, it was impossible to get a clear view of the line of their buttocks.

They were nearly at Jack’s home. Hamilton quickened his pace. Just as he boy moved through the garden gate and approached the front door Hamilton called out, “Good afternoon Jack!” The boy stopped in his tracks turning slightly to see who was speaking. “Oh hullo Mr Hamilton,” he said, not trying to hide his irritation at having to talk to the old man.

Hamilton smiled, rather like a shark might when it spots its prey. “Good trick with the bus ticket,” he spoke evenly, trying not to betray his annoyance. There would be time later for that. Jack found a key from his pocket determined to escape inside. “I said,” Hamilton spoke a little louder, “Nice trick.”

Jack pushed the door open and stepped inside. Hamilton pushed forward and stood in the hallway before Jack had a chance to protest. “I assume you play the same trick every day.” Jack wriggled the pack from his back and set it down at his feet. His face flushed slightly, Hamilton could see the boy was trying to compose a reply. Jack slipped out of his blazer and hung it on a hook. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It was the best he could do, even as the words formed on his lips he knew how inadequate they were.

Hamilton sneered. “Don’t give me that. I saw you. You and your pal had it all planned out. Nice trick.” He paused pleased to see Jack’s face was now glowing red. “It is, of course, against the law. Fare dodging. You could go to court. Get a fine.”

Jack’s eyes watered. He was generally a quiet lad. He was no good at confrontation. How, he wondered silently, was he going to get rid of this interfering old man.

Hamilton waved his right hand towards the school blazer. “What would they say at school?” He peered at a red lapel badge, “And you the head boy too.” He grimaced, “They don’t cane you anymore do they?” He delighted at Jack’s look of astonishment. “More’s the pity,” Hamilton added to rub the point home.

“It’s the first time we did it,” Jack blustered, desperately feeling that he must say something to make this end.

“Oh per-lease!” Hamilton scoffed. “I bet you’ve been doing this for years. You must have swindled the bus company out of hundreds, no thousands, of pounds.” He lent forwards and pointed at Jack’s chest. “Just wait until the magistrate hears about that.”

Jack’s mouth opened and closed, but no words came. Magistrate. Fines. It had never occurred to him they were doing anything wrong. Not really wrong. Not criminal. It was just dodging a bus fare. Who would pay a fare if they didn’t have to?

Hamilton pressed home his advantage. “A criminal record. You can kiss goodbye to a decent job. Were you hoping to go to university? Would they let you in with a criminal record?”

Sweat glistened Jack’s brow. He could feel his palms perspiring. He rubbed them against his trouser leg. “I won’t do it again,” his voice croaked, his throat was terrifically dry. “Honest, I won’t.”

The corner of Hamilton’s mouth turned up. “Oh I’m certain of that,” he sneered.

Jack’s brown eyes sparkled. “Will you let me off then?” He paused, then pleaded, “Please Mr Hamilton.”

Hamilton shuffled his feet and counted to ten in his head. Let the boy sweat a little, he thought. Make it look like you are genuinely considering it. Then pounce. “No, I don’t think I can do that,” he spoke with authority, sounding, he hoped, a little like an old-fashioned headmaster. “No, no, no,” he shook his head for emphasise, sounding as if he was carrying the weight of the whole world on his shoulders. “No, no, no,” he repeated. “I can’t let you off,” Hamilton’s eyes narrowed. “You must be punished.”

Jack’s look of puzzlement delighted Hamilton. He could almost see cogs moving inside the boy’s head as he tried to compose a response. “Punished?” The word was drawn out, as if it was composed of three syllables.

Hamilton tried not to gloat. “Yes, I could punish you. There’d be no need to trouble the magistrates.”

Jack’s face contorted, he didn’t understand.  “You?” he paused, trying to comprehend. “How?”

Hamilton beamed. “Oh a good old-fashioned spanking should do the trick, don’t you think?” Jack’s jaw dropped. “Spanking,” he said incredulously. “Yes,” Hamilton said and taking the initiative, added, “Do you have some kind of brush? A clothes brush or some such. Something heavy. Made of wood.” He brushed past Jack and entered the lounge room, looking around him hoping to spot a suitable spanking instrument. Jack stared disbelieving as Hamilton opened and closed drawers. “Well,” Hamilton said over his shoulder, as be rummaged inside a small cupboard, “help me out here.”

“There’s one in the hallway cupboard,” Jack blurted, unable to believe he had spoken the words. Hamilton left the room returning seconds later brandishing a shiny wooden oval-headed brush at the bewildered teenager. “Right then, lad let’s get on with this.” Hamilton picked up a straight-backed wooden chair and deceived by its weight, manhandled it unsteadily into the middle of the room. He sat down, wriggled his buttocks to get comfortable and spread his legs wide.

Jack watched motionless. This was not happening, he told himself. It was like an out-of-body experience. He wasn’t really here. “Come on, trousers down,” the cold command shook Jack awake. Yes, this really was happening. The old man from across the street wanted to spank him. “Quickly, or do you want me to take them down for you.”

“B … “ Jack’s mouth opened and closed. “It’s up to you,” Hamilton interrupted Jack’s protest. “A spanking or the magistrates’ court. What’s it to be?” He waved the brush for emphasis. It felt to Jack as if someone else’s fingers were unbuckling his belt and unzipping his trousers. Soon they snagged at his knees. Hamilton smacked his hand against his own leg and commanded, “Right lad, bend over my knee.”

Submissively Jack peered down at Hamilton’s legs. He was a small man and his thighs were thin, but with his legs parted he offered a perfect platform for any naughty boy to present himself for deserved punishment. Jack took a deep breath and first resting his hands against Hamilton’s right thigh, he gently lowered himself. Instinctively, for he had never been in this position before, nor had he seen anyone else like this (not even in a photograph or video), he angled his body across Hamilton’s legs so that his bottom was raised at a forty-five degree angle. He placed the palms of his hands flat against the carpet and let his legs dangle behind him so his toes hovered barely a centimetre above the ground.

Hamilton took a moment to appraise the situation. Jack’s bottom filled out a pair of white cotton underpants. White cotton, Hamilton licked his bottom lip, it wouldn’t have occurred to him that schoolboys still wore such pants. Stretched across Hamilton’s knee, Jack’s bum was taut. Gently Hamilton caressed the warm, smooth cotton. The buttocks were rock hard. Buns of steel! The tip of Hamilton’s tongue darted in and out through pursed lips. He placed the brush on the floor by his feet. Slowly his right palm patted and preened Jack’s bottom, in a trice all wrinkles were removed from the smooth cotton. Hamilton gently lifted the tail of Jack’s dazzling white shirt and pushed it up the teenager’s back and away from the target area. He stifled a gasp at the sight of smooth, hairless, tanned flesh. He raised his right arm and let it hang there. Jack’s body stiffened in anticipation. The buttocks clenched. Hamilton counted to five and brought the palm of his hand crashing down. Without pausing it rose and fell, rose and fell, hammering into Jack’s taut flesh. Over and over, rapidly. Like machinegun fire. A long drawn out hiss escaped Jack’s lips. He wriggled this way and that. Hamilton pushed his left hand into Jack’s shoulders. The boy was going nowhere. Not for some considerable time.

Jack’s bum rose and fell and his legs kicked out. “Eighteen years old and never been spanked,” a voice inside his head told Hamilton. “No wonder he can’t stay still for a moment. If he’s like this now, wait til you pick up the clothes brush.”

Nobody was counting, but if the smarting in Hamilton’s hand was any measure he must have walloped that rock-hard bum a thousand times. “I think,” that voice in his head spoke again, “Your palm must be hurting more than his backside.” Hamilton stopped his assault and, still gripping Jack with one arm he leant down and retrieved the wooden brush.

“No Mr Hamilton,” there was genuine pleading in Jack’s voice, “Please I’ve had enough.”

“Ha!” it was a derisive snort. “Enough! We haven’t even started.” With that Hamilton hammered the brush a dozen times across the back of Jack’s bare thighs. That got the boy hollering. Real yells. “Owww, ouch, owwww,” Jack had never felt such pain. Satisfied he was making an impact, Hamilton whacked the brush across Jack’s underpants. The teenager’s buttocks were small and firm. It took no time for the brush to leave its marks on every square centimetre of by-now scorching flesh. “I don’t think you’ll be dodging bus fares again, my lad,” Hamilton delighted as Jack’s legs kicked behind him. The boy’s trousers were slipping down his legs, soon he would be sending them flying across the room.

Jack’s lungs were bursting. Yelling, pleading, screaming almost. “Such a fuss over a little spanking,” the voice in Hamilton’s head was off again, this time warning him, “Be careful, the neighbours might hear. They’ll think a murder is taking place.

“Enough! Enough! Please Mr Hamilton!” Tears flowed down Jack’s face.

“It’ll be enough when I say so,” Hamilton snarled and gripped the elasticated waist of the underpants and tugged them down.

“No!!!”Jack wailed.

……

The bus pulled to the side of the road and the doors hissed open. Hamilton stumbled through the bus and stepped down onto the pavement. He pulled his woollen hat down over his ears and bent into the wind. Shortly, he would be in his dingy council flat with a large warming whisky in his fist. Then, he could imagine just how battered the boy’s bum was when the underpants fell to his ankles.

 

Picture Credit: Sting Pictures

(Story inspired by a real incident).

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 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

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