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.”

 

cane-short-shorts-table-2

 

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

The boy in the tree

Ricky was the perfect teen. He had just graduated high school top of his class and was waiting to go on to an Ivy League university. He was an avid church attender and believed everything the elders said. He was helpful around the house and to neighbours. He wasn’t into “digging” Elvis Presley like his classmates. He preferred Frank Sinatra and the other records his parents played at home. He didn’t dress in tight, dirty jeans, nor grease his hair. He was always neat and tidy, preferring cotton slacks and sensible sweaters.

But, Ricky had a problem he couldn’t understand and there was nobody he could talk to about it. It was Mr Peters, a man who had moved into the street a couple of months previously. Mr Peters was about the same age as Ricky’s dad. A year or two younger, maybe. Ricky didn’t know too much about Mr Peters – he attended a different church and kept himself to himself in the neighbourhood.

Ricky couldn’t get Mr Peters out of his mind. It got so that Ricky would wait at his bedroom window to watch Mr Peters leave his house in the morning to walk to the railroad station. Then, Ricky would be back at the window in the evening to see him return.

Most people who passed Mr Peters in the street probably wouldn’t give him a second glance. He was average height. Average build. He had no “distinguishing marks” as the police might say. He dressed in sober grey suits. A different one each day, Ricky had noticed. Each one subtly changed from the next. One with a thin blue stripe; another with an almost unnoticeable check.

It was the way Mr Peters walked that impressed Ricky. Shoulders back. Straight spine. He took lengthy strides as though he had to be somewhere in a hurry. Ricky had no idea what employment Mr Peters had, but he would bet it was important. He looked like a man who gave orders. He was so different to Ricky’s dad. The eighteen-year-old labelled him a wimp.

Ricky had no way of talking to Mr Peters. Kids didn’t just walk up to adults and start conversations. It drove him crazy. He wanted to get close. He had dreams. Weird things happened in them. In one, Ricky lived with Mr Peters. He was some kind of houseboy. Mr Peters would order him about. Do this. Clean that. Sweep the yard. Ricky was a bit scared by it. The people at church had taught that boys his age would have dreams about girls and that they ought to control their thoughts. Ricky didn’t think he had ever dreamt about girls.

He started behaving badly. Ricky wasn’t proud of it, but he was getting desperate. After dark he would sneak out of the house and walk down the street and stand near Mr Peters’ home. Just standing. Watching. Frightened that Mr Peters might see him. What would Ricky say if he got caught?

As far as Ricky could see Mr Peters came home each night and spent the time alone. He had no family. No friends dropped by. Not even the neighbours. Ricky was a bit worried that they might spot him. Accuse him of spying. Or “casing the joint” as lurid detective shows on TV that he wasn’t allowed to watch would have it.

The street backed onto another street and Ricky took to standing against the fence of Mr Peters’ backyard. It was too high to see over, but sometimes he heard the sound of voices. It must be the television. Or the radio, he supposed. Ricky was a bright boy, but not always very observant. It took a couple of days before he noticed the tree.

It was a few yards back. But he realised at once that it looked into the yard and if Ricky could climb high enough he might just be able to see into the house. Ricky had never climbed a tree before. It couldn’t be that difficult could it? His younger brother Al was always going up them and he was a dumbass.

It was harder than it looked. He hugged the tree and pulled himself up. He lost his footing now and again, but got himself on a branch. He sat terrified that he might fall. Suddenly, a light went on behind an upstairs window. All fear evaporated. Ricky had a perfect view into the room. It looked like some kind of study. There was a big wooden desk and a bookcase. He couldn’t see the whole room. But, yep, Ricky thought it looked like a study.

z-used-boy-in-tree-2

The teen got the first surprise of the night. The figure he saw walking across the room wasn’t Mr Peters. It was someone he had never seen before. A young man. Not much more than a boy really. No older than Ricky probably.

He watched perched precariously on the branch. The boy walked to the desk. Without hesitating, he bent down and tugged open a drawer. His rear end obscured Ricky’s view. It was quite a narrow butt, the teenager in the tree observed. His jeans fitted tightly, across the cheeks and all the way down his legs. He wore a faded leather jacket and when he stood up Ricky saw he had thick black hair greased into a quiff. The boy pulled something from the drawer, closed it, and left the room leaving the light on as he went.

Ricky’s pulse quickened. Who was that boy? How come he had never seen him before? In all the days Ricky had snooped on Mr Peters he had never had a sniff of a visitor. He thoughts were broken by a movement in the room below. It was some kind of living room. Ricky saw only half of it. There was a large leather couch, a dining room table and two wooden chairs. Mr Peters rose from the couch as the boy entered. Words were exchanged. The boy looked discomforted.

Ricky stared open-mouthed. Astonished. He would never have guessed what would happen next. Not in a million years. This could not be happening. Things would never be the same after this.

The boy handed Mr Peters a wooden paddle. From where he clung onto the tree, it looked like an ordinary paddle to Ricky, the kind that you could find in any school. Mr Peters grasped it in his right hand as if testing its weight. His fist gripped it tightly as he swung it through the air. The boy looked on apprehensively.

More words were spoken. Mr Peters did all the talking. The boy, the listening. And the obeying. Mr Peters stood with a ram-rod back, swiping the paddle menacingly through the air as he gave his orders.

Meekly, the boy unzipped his jacket and pulled it from his shoulders. He hesitated, as if unsure what to do next, before he let it drop onto the table. Mr Peters sat on the couch. He wriggled his hips and legs until his back rested against the solid leather. Then came another instruction.

Salvia drained from Ricky’s mouth. His breathing quickened. He watched as the boy reached to his own belt and unbuckled it. Ricky’s eyes transfixed as the boy unbuttoned his blue jeans and let them fall down his thighs to his knees. Then, the boy parted his legs and gravity took the jeans down until they rested on his sneakers.

The boy moved into the room and out of Ricky’s view. Ricky cursed silently and shifted his buttocks along the branch. He was as close to the end as he could get. Then, the boy came back into view. He stood in front of Mr Peters, hesitated a mere moment, and then hitched his thumbs into the waist of his shorts. With minimal effort he had the shorts on top of his Levi’s. In one continuous athletic movement, he lowered himself over Mr Peters’ lap and adjusted his position until his head rested on the couch seat cushion and his legs spread out behind him. In this way, he was prone across the couch with his buttocks raised over the old man’s thigh.

The boy folded his arms and buried his head in them. He was perfectly positioned to receive the first swat of the paddle. But, Mr Peters was not ready. Ricky felt an unusual stirring in his underwear as he watched Mr Peters grip the boy’s white tee-shirt and pull it up his back towards the shoulders. Now, the boy was almost completely naked. Mr Peters seemed satisfied. He wrapped his left arm around the boy’s waist and held him tightly. The paddle rose, hovered in the air for a moment and came crashing down across the middle of both cheeks. From his distance, Ricky could not hear the smack! the wood made as it connected with force against the boy’s hard naked buttocks. But, he saw the boy raise his head and shake it around before, as if shamed by his action, he settled his face back into his arms.

The paddle hammered the buttocks rat-a-tat-tat. Rapidly. Like machinegun fire. The boy wriggled and writhed. He bucked. He kicked. Mr Peters held him forcibly across the waist. The boy bit deep into his bare arms as his tormentor toasted his naked buttocks. Ricky lost count after twenty swats. They came so quickly it was impossible to keep a tally. On and on the spanking continued.

Then as quickly as it had begun, it stopped. Mr Peters rested the paddle on the couch cushion. The boy wheezed. Ricky had no experience of these things, but he knew the boy was in considerable pain. The boy lay still, regaining his composure.  Mr Peters caressed the boy’s roasted flesh. Small, circular motions. Lovingly. He raised his hand high and slapped his palm into the blistered butt just as hard as he had with the wooden paddle.

Ricky’s dick pressed against his slacks. It had never throbbed so much. The bulge dug into the tree branch. He needed to move position. Just then, the spanking finished. This time for real. Mr Peters released his grip and the boy slowly rose from his prone position. He stood in front of Mr Peters with his back to Ricky and performed the traditional “spanking dance”, hopping from one foot to the other. The boy turned his body slightly and Ricky saw it. Never before had he seen anything like it. It was huge. Even from such a distance. The boy’s boner would have graced a stallion.

Ricky heard a snap, the tree branch wobbled. He stretched his arms out for balance. He saw Mr Peters take hold of the boy’s cock and pull him roughly toward him.

There was an almighty crack and Ricky tumbled to the ground. Winded. He stared up at the broken branch. His back hurt. He panicked. Was it busted?. Gingerly, he wriggled his toes. They worked. He did the same with his fingers.

A door in the fence opened. Ricky saw a pair of house shoes and beige pants. Mr Peters towered above him. The old man frowned. “You’re the Draper kid aren’t you?”

Ricky gasped. The man knew his name. How? Why?

“Don’t think I haven’t seen you spying on my house,” Mr Peters smiled faintly. Ricky blushed. Unsure what to do next. Should he run? Mr Peter’s reached down and offered him an arm. “Come on you. We have business.”

Ricky halted. Business?

“You. Come with me.” The voice was authoritarian. Just as Ricky had dreamt. Mr Peters released his grip on Ricky’s arm and transferred it to his left ear. That way, he dragged the teen through the back yard and into the house. The boy in the jeans was dressed once more. He stood, a sneer splitting his face. He examined Ricky from the top of his clean short cut hair, down his red old-man’s sweater to his brown slacks.

“Who’s the mommy’s boy?”

“He’s a spy. That’s who he is.” Mr Peters released his grip on Ricky’s ear. “Don’t move,” he barked. Ricky stood transfixed. Mr Peters reached to the table and picked up the paddle he had earlier used to blister the boy’s butt.

“You know what must happen now, don’t you?” It was a statement disguised as a question. Ricky stared in awe at the paddle in the grip of his masterful neighbour; the man he had dreamt of so many times.

There was still time to run. He could be out the room and through the front door in seconds. Mr Peters would never chase him into the street. He couldn’t afford for his neighbours to know what went on in his home.

“Bend over the table.” It was a clear command. One that Mr Peters expected to be obeyed. Ricky’s cock twitched. His temples pulsed. Blood rushed north, south, east and west through his arteries. His mouth dried.

In his mind, he counted to three. One. Two. Three. Then, he turned and lowered himself across the table.

 

Other stories you might like

 The house across the street

The sting in the tail

Brocklehurst Crammer

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

 

The house across the street

Ricky sat at the table by his bedroom window. He was supposed to be writing a college essay but his heart wasn’t in it. Instead, he gazed at the house across the street. Mr Raines had moved into The Avenue that week. He lived alone, in a three-bedroom house with two reception rooms. Why did a man on his own need so much space, the teenager wondered?

The Top Forty countdown was playing on the radio. Goddam it, Bohemian Rhapsody was still number one. It seemed like it had been top of the pops forever.

There was activity across the road. Ricky hid behind the curtain and watched. A schoolboy in a bright scarlet blazer cycled up to the front door. Who was this? No, Ricky realised as the boy dismounted. He wasn’t a boy; he looked to be at least forty. It couldn’t be a schoolboy. Besides, it was Sunday, no boy would willingly be out in his school uniform at the weekend. Perhaps, the blazer wasn’t from a school. More likely it was a sporting club. Rugby, maybe.

The door opened and Mr Raines ushered the man inside hastily. Then he looked up and down the street and satisfied that nobody was there he closed the door behind him.

Ricky was bored and restless. He delved under the mattress of his bed and pulled out a copy of Whitehouse. He lay down on the bed and began to undo the seven buttons on the high waist of his trousers. It was laborious work. The trousers might be the height of fashion, but they were not practical if you wanted to get out of them fast. Not that anyone did want to get his trousers down in a hurry. If they did, he wouldn’t need the porn mag.

He wriggled the trousers down to his knees and then pulled at the waist of his pants so they snagged just below his buttocks. Whitehouse was no good. He didn’t go for the close-up camera shots of ladies’ private parts. He closed his eyes and conjured up a scene in his head. He knew this one would work for him.

Things were not going well for Ricky at the polytechnic where he studied. He had failing grades and was put on what was called “the Dean’s List.” That meant he was summoned for an awkward interview with Mrs Martin. And, yes that did make her Dean Martin. Mrs Martin was an austere woman with black shiny hair, cut short. She favoured neat dark business suits and sheer stockings.

It really happened like this. Ricky stood in her office. She sat in a large leather chair. Ricky shuffled from foot to foot, while she rebuked him. If he didn’t pull his socks up, he would have to re-sit the whole year again. The nineteen-year-old felt as if he were back at school, answering to the headmaster.

At that point he felt his cock stiffen. Even as he stood there taking his bollocking, he invented a scene. He was spread-eagled across her big polished desk, his jeans at his ankles. Mrs Martin swished a thick rattan crook-handled school cane through the air and then whacked it with great force six times into the seat of his tight navy-blue underpants. He didn’t come in her office, but he had reimagined that scene many times since. Even now his cock was aching. All it needed was a half dozen tugs.

Ricky cleaned himself and resumed his watch at the window. He didn’t know it but he had missed two men who arrived together. One carried a large sports bag, the kind of thing that could carry bats and stumps. Perhaps, the boy in the blazer was part of a cricket club.

Ricky sat and watched. Soon another three men arrived. It looked to him that Mr Raines was having a party. It was probably a house warming. Why weren’t there any girls, he wanted to know.

While Ricky pondered this, Mr Raines and his guests were preparing their merrymaking.

The man in the blazer was in one of the bedrooms. Except that it wasn’t a bedroom. An old desk dominated the room and a beat up armchair stood in one corner. In another corner was a coat stand. From this dangled a schoolmaster’s academic gown. Below this, in a section reserved for umbrellas stood two rattan school canes.

Downstairs, one man who would never see his fiftieth birthday again was dressed in a Cub Scout uniform. He was so stout and his short trousers were so tight that fat rolled over the waistband. He was speaking with Mr Rainer. “It is a pity that we can’t get younger boys to attend these parties. There must be some who are interested?”

Mr Rainer sighed, “There is a cute boy who lives in the house across the road. I would love to have him across my knee.”

“Do you think he would do it?” the man wheezed. “We could pay him.”

“He’s a student; students are always in need of money,” Mr Raines laughed.

The man’s fleshy jowls wobbled, “Perhaps he has friends. Perhaps he could bring some of them with him.”

“Yes, perhaps,” Mr Raines said sadly, but he doubted it.

Mr Raines pulled a large bedroom slipper from a cupboard. “Now young man,” he clutched it in his right hand and waved it at the obese Cub Scout, “Get those shorts down and bend across my knee.”

Back in his room, Ricky had lost interest in the house across the street. For now; tomorrow, he would go and introduce himself to Mr Raines, it was the neighbourly thing to do.

He lay on his bed, closed his eyes and conjured up once more the image of Dean Martin and her thick swishy cane.

….

The next day was scorching hot. It really was turning out to be a delightful summer. Ricky stayed in bed until about midday. There wasn’t much to get up for. Certainly not a three-hour session on business economics at the poly. Dean Martin occupied much of his thoughts.

Eventually, he climbed out of bed, showered, and dressed. It was too hot for high-waisted trousers. Instead, he pulled out a pair of blue cotton shorts from his chest of drawers. He loved these shorts. They fitted snugly at the waist so he didn’t need a belt and they clung to his buttocks. They were fashionably short and reached only an inch or two down his thighs. They showed off his already deep-tanned legs perfectly.

He dragged a yellow-and-white tee-shirt over his head and stepped into his brown leather sandals. He was ready to greet the day.

He walked across the road to Mr Raines’s house and knocked on the door. He was a confident lad and made friends easily. He would say “hello and welcome to the street,” to Mr Raines and take it from there.

There was no answer. It was early Monday afternoon; the man was probably at work. He turned to retrace his steps home when he noticed the side gate was closed, but its padlock was unfastened. Mr Raines was probably in the back garden. He hadn’t heard the knock at the door.

Ricky opened the gate and walked by the side of the house into the back garden. There was no sign of Mr Raines. It was a sizable garden, dominated by a mature apple tree, groaning with ripe fruit.

The teenager didn’t think twice. He kicked off his sandals and shined up the tree. In seconds he had knocked a half dozen apples to the ground.

Upstairs in his bedroom, Mr Raines watched through the window with wonder. He had been in the shower and not heard the door. Now, the gorgeous kid from across the road, was in his garden, stealing his apples. He was a delightful sight. Loose limbed and athletic. The boy stretched across a branch, his back arched with his buttocks sticking out. The blue cotton shorts rode up into the boy’s bum cheeks. Mr Raines’s cock stiffened. How, he would like to put one of his swishy rattan canes across that tight backside.

He rushed downstairs. He must catch the boy before he escaped.

Ricky was back on the ground bending down to pick up the apples. Mr Raines got his first close-up sight of the teenager’s arse. His cock ached.

“What do you think you are doing?” Mr Raines spoke in the voice he used when he played at headmasters and schoolboys with his pals. It startled Ricky.

“Oh, I, Ah,” the teenager blustered. He blushed profusely. “I didn’t know you were at home.”

“Evidently,” Mr Raines perfected a schoolmaster’s glare. He studied the boy standing in front of him. The most striking thing about the lad was his hair. It was fair, almost blond, and flopped on to his sun-tanned open face. He had striking blue eyes and a gorgeous frown and Mr Raines could tell the boy would also have a smile that could light his whole face.

Looking further down, he saw a trim hard chest, wrapped in a tight yellow-and-white tee-shirt. He had already admired the boy’s tight cotton shorts from the rear. He looked equally wonderful from the front.

“What will your mother say when I tell her you have broken into my house and stolen from my garden?” Mr Raines was enjoying himself enormously. This was much better than the games they played inside the house. This was for real. The sexy teenager really had stolen from him.

“Perhaps,” Mr Raines intoned, “I should call the police. Breaking and entering, I think they call it.”

The look of sheer terror that spread across Ricky’s beautiful face, delighted him.

“B… b… b…” Ricky stammered. He wanted to say that he hadn’t really broken into the garden. The gate was unlocked. He had been looking for Mr Raines. He hadn’t intended to steal. He wanted to say all these things, but he could only bluster.

“You’re a student aren’t you? Do you really want a criminal record? Wouldn’t they expel you from the college?” Mr Raines was working on a plan.

“Please don’t …” Ricky’s beautiful blue eyes watered.

Nearly there, Mr Raines thought. Out loud, he said, “Well what do you think I should do with you?”

Ricky blushed, stared at his bare feet, and clutched his hands behind his back with embarrassment. “Do?” What did Mr Raines mean, “Do?”

“You must be punished in some way. Surely you understand that?”

Ricky’s heart jumped. Punished. Images of Dean Martin, her study, and her whippy rattan cane sped through his head.

His mouth opened and closed. He wanted to speak, to ask Mr Raines what he meant by “punished,” but words would not come.

Mr Raines stared thoughtfully at the teenager in front of him. He was forty-two years old and had been active on the corporal punishment scene for more than twenty years. He could read Ricky like a book. It was only a matter of time.

“If I were your father, I’d give you a damn good hiding. Breaking into a neighbour’s garden and stealing from him.” Mr Raines let the thought hang in the air. Ricky was sweating, but it wasn’t because of the hot summer’s afternoon.

Ricky raised his moist blue eyes and looked into Mr Raines face. No words were spoken. They didn’t have to be. A bond was forged.

“Come into the house,” Mr Raines spoke mildly now. He was no longer a stern schoolmaster. He was the kind, considerate, neighbour who was just about to give the young man the first spanking of his life.

He took Ricky gently by the elbow and led him into the sitting room.

A thief should receive a severe beating. In some countries in Africa, even today, courts order thieves to be beaten with canes on their bared buttocks. Mr Raines would have been entitled to whip one of his special whippy rattan canes across Ricky’s naked bum. But Mr Raines was playing the long game. If he thrashed the teenager like that he would never see him again. No, experience told him, he should start gently; get the boy used to being spanked. Later, in the future, Ricky would graduate to bare-bottomed canings.

Today, Ricky’s grooming would begin.

The teenager stood, heart thumping, cock throbbing, in the centre of the sitting room. He watched his new neighbour make his preparations. First, a dining room chair was placed in the centre of the room; then Mr Raines went to a cupboard and took out a huge wooden brush. He sat in the chair, spread his legs and with a crooked index finger, he beckoned the boy to approach him.

Ricky had never been spanked before and had never seen anyone spanked. But, instinctively he knew what to do.

“Bend over my knee,” Mr Raines’s tone was stern. It was an order, not a request. Ricky bent his knees slightly, rested his hands on Mr Raines’s right leg and gently lowered himself across the older man’s lap. Then, he reached out his arms in front of him, so that the palms of both hands were pressed firmly into the carpet. In this position his head was raised and he had a clear view through the window into the garden beyond and the apple tree that was the cause of his present predicament.

Behind him, his knees were buckled and the toes of his bare feet hovered an inch or so off the ground. His pert bottom rested at an angle over Mr Raines’s right knee, in a terrific position to receive whacks from the heavy wooden brush.

Mr Raines’s gulped hard at the sight before him. Already his cock was close to bursting. He put his arm around Ricky’s waist and moved him so that he wouldn’t feel the boner pressing into his body. Then, Mr Rainer tugged the waistband of the shorts tightly so they made a kind of wedgie in the boy’s crack. The shorts were so short that they no longer covered the lower part of the buttocks, affording Mr Raines a cracking view of the boy’s arse.

Ricky closed his eyes. In his dreams about Dean Martin’s office he never thought about the agony the cane caused; he got off on the vision of himself, jeans at his ankles and navy-blue pants tight against his buttocks. Now, for the first time he would experience the pain of a spanking. He hoped he could stand it.

drawing brush hold otk (13)

Mr Raines gripped the brush tightly and smacked it down into Ricky’s cotton-covered left buttock. Then he did the same to the right. They weren’t hard spanks, merely slaps. Ricky gasped as each whack connected. He felt the impact against his tight flesh, but there was no real pain.

Mr Raines increased the vigorousness of each succeeding spank. Ricky’s face contorted and he bit down on his beautiful ruby lips. The pain was increasing. He was definitely feeling those. Mr Raines tried a little harder and was rewarded by a clear, “Ouch,” from the young man across his lap.

Spank, spank, spank. Three hard swats landed in the fleshiest part of Ricky’s right cheek. He wriggled his body and kicked his legs. Mr Raines smiled. He was really warming the boy up now.

Let’s test him a little, Mr Raines thought, and slapped the heavy wooden brush into the bare flesh beneath the hem of the shorts. He was rewarded with “Ow, wow, ow!!” from Ricky, so, he slapped another and another. Clear red oval marks appeared on the boy’s thigh, mirroring the head of the brush.

More yelps. Ricky’s head bounced up and down and his body wriggled across Mr Raines’s lap.

“I hope you’re learning your lesson, young man,” Mr Raines said and without waiting for an answer he slapped six stingers right around the circuit of the boy’s bum, from the top where the cheeks meet the back, over the fleshy mounds and into the bare under-curves.

Mr Raines was close to ejaculation. He could not go on. To cum all over the beautiful boy writhing and wriggling over his lap would be too humiliating. He slapped two more on each cheek for good measure and released his grip on Ricky’s waist.

“Up boy. It’s over.”

Ricky rolled off Mr Raines’s lap onto the floor where he rested, catching his breath. His bottom was throbbing a little. It was definitely sore, but even with his lack of experience, Ricky knew Mr Raines had not gone hard on him. He felt a little disappointed; cheated even.

“Stand up.” Mr Raines was anxious for the boy to leave his house. He had urgent business to attend to.

“You should go home now, Ricky,” he said. Then he flashed the boy a smile, “I’ll be keeping an eye on you from now on.”

The teenager returned the grin. He wasn’t sure what had just happened, but he knew he would never be the same again. “Thank you,” he said and added wistfully, “Sir.”

He left the room and before he had reached the front door Mr Raines had his own trousers and pants at his ankles. He shot his load before the boy had crossed the road.

Later, in his own bedroom, Ricky inspected the damage. His buttocks were a little pink, but the pain, such as it had been, had gone completely. Next time, he should spank me on the bare, he thought, as he lay back and sent a stream of spunk eight inches into the air.

 

Other stories you might like.

The dope smoker

The man across the hall

First day of term

 

 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The milk bottle thief

James Danvers left his home in The Avenue at six-thirty on the dot every morning. His house was unexceptional in every way, just one more suburban box in a street composed of identical suburban boxes. His journey to the newsagent took about five minutes.  He bought a copy of the Daily Express and then he walked home again.

Lately, most days he saw a boy out running. He called him a “boy” but at Mr Danvers’s age thirty year olds seemed like boys. The boy was obviously a university student. His singlet had the letters B.U.A.C. on the back, which Mr Danvers knew stood for Brocklehurst University Athletics Club. It was June and that year they were having a glorious summer. Even at such an early hour in the day, the boy sweated as he pounded the streets, dressed only in singlet and the shortest of cotton running shorts.

One day, Mr Danvers was returning to his home, newspaper in hand, when he saw the most extraordinary thing. The boy stood on Mr Danvers’s doorstep and in his hand he held a half-empty bottle of milk. He was drinking Mr Danvers’s milk, stolen from Mr Danvers’s doorstep.

“Hey, you!” Mr Danvers shouted, and not really knowing what else to say, he added, “What are you doing?”

The boy looked startled. He had supposed the street would be empty and the owner of the milk was still in bed.

“I said, what do you think you are doing?” Mr Danvers had been a schoolmaster for more than forty years and he expected to be listened to.

The boy swigged the bottle until it was empty. Every day that he had been running he had stopped to drink a pint of milk; taken from a different doorstep each time. Nobody had caught him before.

Mr Danvers fumed. The insolence of the boy. How dare he not answer. How typical of the young today. Why for two pence, he would give the brat what-for.

The boy bent down to replace the bottle on the step. As he did so the muscles in his backside tightened and his short shorts rode up his thigh. As might be expected of an athlete, the boy was lean and fit. His great shock of fair hair had not seen a comb in months; it hung over his ears and down beyond the neck of his singlet. He straightened himself up, looked across at Mr Danvers and flashed him a smile. His teeth were white and even. They contrasted with the boy’s deep suntan.

Still, he had not spoken.

Enraged, Mr Danvers opened his front door and before the boy had a chance to resist he was bundled inside the house.

“W… war … what you doing?” A look of alarm spread across his face. He was not smiling now.

“Thief! Thief!” Mr Danvers spluttered. Then, after regaining some composure, he reverted to his former-schoolmasterly self. He had lectured misbehaving schoolboys all his adult life; he knew how to do it. It told the boy his behaviour was “unacceptable,” “intolerable,” “deplorable,” “disgraceful,” and most of all, “criminal.”

The boy, like generations of naughty schoolboys when rebuked by schoolmasters, stood head slightly bowed, unable to look Mr Danvers in the eye.

“What would your university say when I inform them of your outrageous behaviour? You could be sent down for bringing the university into disrepute.”

The boy’s eyes shone. Expelled, for stealing. Only now for the first time did it occur to him that taking milk from doorsteps was a crime. Like so many of his generation he had a sense of entitlement; he simply took what he wanted. He didn’t consider the harm he might do to others.

“I shall call the university as soon as it opens this morning,” Mr Danvers would tolerate no nonsense.

“B … b … but …” the boy could not form a coherent sentence, but his mind was clear enough. If the university found out, he would be finished; his life in ruins. The boy was at Brocklehurst on an athletic scholarship. If the old man reported him, at the very least the boy would be thrown off the athletics team. Bang would go his scholarship and he would have to leave university. He would never make it as a professional athlete. He would have no degree. A lifetime of dead-end jobs stretched ahead.

He was in deep trouble and now he knew it. His once bright, open, face crumpled. His lower lip trembled. His eyes watered. He sucked in a lungful of air in a desperate attempt to stop himself crying.

Mr Danvers stood puzzled and watched the boy break down. He had expected insolence and defiance; instead the strapping athlete dissolved like a small boy. Mr Danvers didn’t understand.

Schoolmasters sense when their young charges needed to unburden themselves. Mr Danvers spoke gently, “Tell me. Tell me everything.”

The boy wiped his nose on his arm and confessed. If Mr Danvers reported him to the university his life would be ruined. All for a stolen bottle of milk. The boy decided not to reveal he had stolen many bottles over the past weeks.

Mr Danvers was a fair man, even the most hardened of his former pupils would concede that. The punishment should fit the crime. Expulsion and a ruined life might not be just.

They say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. It was the same with old schoolmasters. Mr Danvers knew the perfect remedy. It had served he and countless naughty pupils well over the years. What a pity he didn’t have a whippy rattan school cane to hand. He could administer a sound six-of-the-best and they could both move on.

The boy studied the carpet beneath his feet forlornly. The silence in the room was oppressive.

Mr Danvers’s mind was racing. If not a school cane, then what? What else was available to him to deliver a beating? What did fathers use to spank their errant sons? A slipper? Belt? Garden cane? Palm of his hand? Paddle? Wooden spoon?

Then, he remembered his brother in Worksop. He would spank with a wooden clothes brush. It was, he maintained, the perfect weapon. It was large, heavy and could easily be administered across the backside.

“I shall spank you with a clothes brush.”

The boy blinked heavily. Had he heard the old man correctly. A spanking? Clothes brush?

“Yes,” Mr Danvers was certain, “I shan’t inform the university, I shall deal with you myself.”

The boy’s mouth opened and closed silently. He had started to protest, but stopped himself just in time. It was a solution. A spanking. Unorthodox, yes, but it would save his university career and possibly his entire life.

“Come in here,” Mr Danvers led the way into the dining room. Reluctantly, the boy followed.

The boy stood uneasily as Mr Danvers busied himself. Mr Danvers opened and closed cupboards and drawers until he found what he was seeking. It was about a foot long and four inches wide. The head was oval shaped. He tested its weight in his hand. Yes, he thought, perfect for our purpose.

Then, he moved a straight-backed wooden chair away from the dining table and set it down in the middle of the room. He sat himself down. Yes, he was ready.

“You should come here and bend across my lap,” Mr Danvers said quietly and tapped the brush against his right thigh in case there was any doubt about his intentions.

The boy blanched. A few moments ago it had seemed like a good idea; the perfect solution even. Now, he wasn’t so sure. The clothes brush looked awesome. Mr Danvers could pack quite a punch with that little beauty.

“Come now boy,” Mr Danvers adjusted his buttocks on the hard wooden chair, trying to make himself more comfortable. He spread his knees a little to create a platform for the boy to present himself across.

“Bend over,” Mr Danvers did not like to repeat himself. More sternly, he added, “Now, boy.”

The boy took a deep breath, walked three paces across the room so that he stood to Mr Danvers’s right. He hesitated a moment, as if debating with himself whether he should go through with this. Whether he, a twenty-one-year old student, should allow this old man to spank the living daylights out of him.

He had no choice. Matters had to take their course. He took a deep breath and then slowly laid both hands on Mr Danvers’s left thigh. Then slowly, he eased himself down. He was a tall lad, much taller than his punisher. He stretched his arms out ahead of him and placed the palms of both hands firmly on the carpet. Behind him, he bent his knees so that his toes would rest comfortably on the ground. In this position his bottom was raised over Mr Danvers’s right knee. The boy wriggled slightly so that his bottom was elevated higher, ready to receive the whacks from Mr Danvers’s brush. He felt the rough material of Mr Danvers’s trousers scratching against his own smooth skin.

The boy had been in this position before, Mr Danvers thought. He was quite a load across his lap, but Mr Danvers wrapped his left arm around the boy’s waist. He could feel the muscles in the boy’s back. This was one strong boy. If he wished to he could easily break free. He might even punch Mr Danvers in the jaw before making his escape. But, Mr Danvers could tell that wasn’t going to happen. The boy lay submissively across the old man’s lap. He would take his spanking.

Mr Danvers rubbed his hand across the seat of the cotton running shorts, eliminating every wrinkle. In this bent-over position, the shorts hardly covered the boy’s buttocks. The under-curve of his cheeks were bare. The cotton was thin and Mr Danvers saw the boy wore some kind of jockstrap contraption to keep his privates in place, but his buttocks were uncovered.

This was a new experience for Mr Danvers. He was no longer a schoolmaster and the boy was not a naughty pupil. Perhaps, he thought, this was not such a good idea; spanking a total stranger. He felt required to ask, “Do you truly accept that you deserve to be firmly punished?”

There was a stillness in the room. You could hear the clock ticking. Then, almost inaudibly, the boy whispered, “Yes Sir.”

Mr Danvers gripped the heavy wooden clothes brush in his right hand and tap, tap, tapped it against the centre of the boy’s left cheek. He was finding his spot. Then he raised the brush by a couple of feet and crashed it down into the boy’s pert bum with a terrific crack. The boy creased up his face to absorb the pain, but otherwise remained unmoved. Tap, tap, tap, again finding the spot. This time on the right cheek. Whack! Another stinger.

It was a classic spanking; swat after hard stinging swat connecting with the boy’s upturned bottom as he lay draped across both knees, wriggling and kicking. The boy’s unspoken resolve to take his spanking stoically was broken. He lifted his right hand off the floor, attempting to interfere with the gleaming piece of polished wood that was toasting his backside. Mr Danvers took the boy’s wrist and pulled it firmly up behind his back and held it there.

Mr Danvers paused now and then to berate the boy. It gave him respite from the burning sting, but this was offset by the extra hard whacks he used to punctuate his scolding. You. Whack. Must. Whack. Not. Whack. Steal. Whack. Whack.

As the boy’s backside got hotter and hotter, Mr Danvers sought out new to areas to assault. The boy’s howls could probably have been heard in the house next door when Mr Danvers landed the brush on the boy’s bare under-curves and thighs. The old man took satisfaction as the boy’s crying and squirming increased when he laid the brush on good and hard. Tears flowed freely down the boy’s face as he sobbed his sorrow and regret at stealing from Mr Danvers.

When he stopped at last, Mr Danvers held the boy across his lap for several moments, talking to him softly and giving an occasional whack or two as punctuation.

Eventually, the boy was allowed to stand. He buried his face in his hands, wiping away tears and hiding his shame and humiliation. Mr Danvers wheezed; struggling to catch his breath. He was not as young as he used to be.

“You should go,” he told the boy. He didn’t need telling twice and rushed through the front door. Mr Danvers watched from the window as the boy hurried down The Avenue. Deep red marks were visible on the boy’s thighs; any passer-by in the street would be able to guess what ordeal he had recently suffered.

The boy disappeared around the corner of the street and Mr Danvers went to the kitchen, switched on the kettle. Damn! There was no milk for tea. He cursed silently. He would have to wait until the shops opened.

He sat down and opened his newspaper, but he couldn’t concentrate. He replayed the previous fifteen minutes in is mind. A young thief, soundly spanked. Would the experience of a blistered backside stop the boy thieving again? He resolved to keep an eye out for the boy in future. He would inform his neighbours to be on the lookout also.

Then, it occurred to him: he didn’t know the boy’s name.

 

Other stories you might like

 

The Helpful Neighbour Part 1

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