The drunken neighbour

It was at least nine o’clock at night, but it was still light. I was standing at the bedroom window and I watched him stagger down the street. He was drunk. Or on drugs. He lurched against my front gate leant over the low fence and vomited into my flowerbed.

He was the boy from next door. I say “boy” but he was easily in his mid-twenties. There were three of them in the house. Sharing. People move about a lot at that age. They certainly did in the house next door. I think the boy might have lived there for a few weeks before our encounter.

Next morning I went to inspect my roses. The vomit was gone. Dogs or urban foxes probably ate it. I wasn’t sure what I should do about the boy next door. Should I make a fuss?

My friend Geoffrey was clear. I call Geoffrey my “friend”. I’m pushing sixty years old and from an older more reticent generation. Today’s youngsters would say “partner”. You can get married now so some of them would be “husbands”. I can’t see myself ever calling Geoffrey my “husband”.

Geoffrey said the boy next door needed a good spanking. Geoffrey would say that. That’s how we first got together. Geoffrey is about twenty years younger than me. He was a post-grad student at the university where I taught. Heaven knows how he got such a good first degree; he was pretty feckless. He had no self-discipline.

That’s where I came in. There was some older-younger man chemistry. He needed a mentor to take him under his wing. To give him a guiding hand, as it were. And that’s what he got. My guiding hand across his backside.

Geoffrey was in his twenties at the time, about the same age as the boy next door now. Mostly I kept Geoffrey on the straight and narrow by regular use of a heavy wooden bath brush applied with some energy across his bare buttocks. I would sit on a straight-backed chair, make him take down his trousers and underpants and put himself across my lap. He would always be submissive.

It wasn’t a sexual fetish. It was genuine punishment, applied to correct the misbehaviour of an errant young man. It worked. I haven’t had to spank Geoffrey for ten years or more.

The boy next door certainly needed his backside toasted, but I wasn’t so sure he would see it that way.

I didn’t know much about the boy. I knew he worked as a “community policeman.” What exactly is a “community policeman?” In my day we had “special constables,” who were volunteer policeman. Are community policemen like that, only paid?

Whatever they were, surely they were supposed to be responsible people. They shouldn’t be getting drunk (or worse, high) and puking into the neighbour’s garden.

I made it my business to be pottering in the garden the next afternoon so I could “accidently” meet the boy. I knew it was no use in the morning. He would still be in bed.

It was the height of summer and a hot sticky day. When he eventually left the house he was wearing running shorts and nothing else but a pair of training shoes. He looked very sheepish when I called a cheery “hello”. How much of his behaviour last night could he remember?

I watched him run down the road. He was taller than average and clearly physically very fit. He was also “fit” in the way youngsters use the word these days. I couldn’t see enough spare fat anywhere on his body to fry a sausage. He was so unlike most of the flabby obese youngsters you see hanging around the shopping centres today.

It was three days later, a Friday night, when we had a repeat performance. This time there was no vomit in my garden, but I watched the boy bounce down the street. When he got to his house, he stumbled for his key and was so out of it he couldn’t get it into the lock. I expected one of his housemates to open the door and let him in, but after a few minutes it was clear to me that there was no one at home.

So, I did the neighbourly thing. I went down and I let him in. He staggered up the stairs and I heard the door to the bathroom crash open. It was time to vomit again.

I was about to leave the key on the hall table and go home when I had a thought. Instead I pocketed it. He would have to come to me for it. There would be a price to pay for its return.

I spoke with Geoffrey about it. Yes, he agreed the boy needed a damn good spanking. Geoffrey was utterly convinced of it. He said the spankings I gave him at university turned his life around. He would have been a waster without me. Instead, he got a doctoral degree and went on to become one of the most respected economists in the country.

We agreed the boy needed a spanking, but for it to be effective he had to accept he had erred and needed correction. He had to take his punishment submissively. There was little likelihood of that happening. Corporal punishment was no longer in use. The cane had been abandoned in schools thirty years ago. The boy was not going to put himself over my knee.

It was conceivable that together Geoffrey and I could force him across the dining room table and tie him down. But what would be the point of that?

Anyway, if we did, the moment he was released he would call the police. Then where would we be? Two queens assaulting their cute next door neighbour. We’d get jail time.

Next day the boy appeared on my doorstep. It was a cooler day and he was dressed in a t-shirt and the enormous baggy pants the kids wear. He was not gracious.

“You got my key,” he snarled. It was an accusation disguised as a question.

I have worked with surly teenagers most of my life and I know how to intimidate them. The boy next door was easy to handle. Before he had realised it he was inside my house and the door was closed behind him.

He pouted when I demanded an explanation for the previous night’s behaviour. I could read his mind. Who did I think I was? It was none of my business.

“Give me my key,” his eyes glared. He wasn’t going to take lecturers from an old poof.

“What will you do? Call the police?”

“Ba..” he started to say something, but stopped himself just in time.

I told him I knew he was a community policeman. I lectured him on role models and setting an example. Then I played my ace card. “What will they say at the police headquarters when I report your drunken behaviour?”

I had expected him to get angry. Youngsters today are full of themselves. They think they are the centre of the universe. They are not about to take lecturers from anyone about anything.

But, he didn’t. He seemed stumped for an answer. He was silent. His blue-grey eyes told me I had hit a sensitive spot.

I knew from experience youngsters often bottled up their worries. A small problem was allowed to grow. In time it became a crisis. It was better to get things out into the open. I was sure the boy had something to tell me.

So, I said, “Tell me what’s wrong.”

So, he said he was in trouble at work and was on what they called “probation.” If there were any more problems he would be out of a job. He was drinking too much, but that was because of the job.

“If only I could sort myself out,” he trailed off rather miserably.

“I can help you,” I said and moved from the hallway into one of the large “reception” rooms in the house. The boy meekly followed.

Geoffrey used to tell me that I had a “powerful presence,” and that I was “masterful.” This was especially so when he was younger and saw me as an older authority figure. I had never recognised this in myself before. I was, I thought, just “myself.”

I told the boy he needed help. Structure. He must sort out his priorities. Set objectives. He should strive to meet them. If he failed through lack of endeavour, laziness, slothfulness, he must be punished.

He listened attentively. Those expressive blue-grey eyes confirmed Geoffrey’s opinion of me. I was masterful.

The boy opened up. We spoke for several minutes. But, it was mostly him. He said he had never thought of it before, but everything I had said was true. It all applied to him. He had never been given boundaries. He had done poorly at school because nobody – his parents, his teachers – seemed to care. He had been left – and this was his exact word – “rudderless.”

Geoffrey who had been listening from the shadows piped up. “Mr Hamilton here can help you with that.”

The boy looked at him disbelievingly.

Then Geoffrey smiled, “Believe me. I know.”

The dam had been breached.

I had never heard Geoffrey talk before to anyone about our discipline arrangements. He told the boy everything and with great enthusiasm. To my astonishment, he finished, “You should let Mr Hamilton take care of you.”

“You mean…” the boy couldn’t quite find the words.

“Yes,” Geoffrey confirmed. “You should start right now.” Then he turned to me, “Isn’t that right, Mr Hamilton.”

I too was lost for words. This wasn’t how I expected my meeting with the boy to have been. I managed to nod.

Geoffrey took this as a cue to leave us. I heard him running up the stairs. I had a good idea where he was heading.

He returned a minute later holding a large heavy wooden bath brush. It wasn’t the same one I had used to blister Geoffrey’s backside all those years ago, but it was petty similar. It would make a mightily effective spanking tool.

Geoffrey made great play of testing the brush’s weight by smacking it into the palm of his hand. Then he passed it over to me.

The boy’s deeply suntanned face blanched. I could tell from his eyes he was having second thoughts.

I gave him a lifeline. This would only work if he consented; if he understood that this spanking was to be for his own good.

“It is your decision. You can stay and be spanked or you can take your key and go home.”

I couldn’t have been any clearer. The boy was equally clear in his response.

“I want to stay.” Then he added pleadingly. “Please.”

Geoffrey had been very explicit in his description of my methods so the boy knew exactly what he was letting himself in for.

I cleared some newspapers from our large couch and sat down in its centre. The boy’s breathing had become shallower. I suspected his heartbeat was racing.

“Come here,” I stretched out my arm and took him by the wrist, pulling him closer to me.

“I think you understand the drill,” I said quietly. It was important to stay calm. This spanking was to be part of a well-organised structured disciplinary process. It wasn’t a wild uncontrolled beating given on the spur of the moment in anger.

“You must take down your trousers,” I said, in case he had forgotten.

By now, I am sure the boy had convinced himself that he must go through with this. Geoffrey had sold him on it benefits.

I believe his hands shook a little as he undid the drawstring that fastened his trousers at the waist and let them fall to his feet.

“Come lay across my lap.”

The couch was long enough to fit the boy. His legs were stretched out behind him on the seat cushion and his chest, head and arms were ahead of him. His stomach and bottom rested over my lap.

He wasn’t quite in the perfect position. Willingly, he moved back and forth until I was satisfied that his bum was at the exact angle I required.

Spankings should be about punishment and not humiliation. However, to be truly effective a spanking must be delivered to the bare buttocks. Spankings should be painful; clothing, even just cotton underpants, gets in the way.

To be naked in public can be a humiliating experience for many, especially young men who are asked to display their private parts. To reduce the embarrassment, I never asked Geoffrey to bare his backside prior to going over my knee. I always allowed him to keep on his underwear. When he was securely in position, head low, bum high, I would then myself pull down his drawers.

That was how I treated the boy. He wore loose-fitting Calvin Klein’s.  I caught hold of the waist and tugged at it, but because so much of the boy’s body was across my lap I couldn’t get his underwear over his buttocks and down to his thighs.

z used otk couch (53)

The boy then did something that reassured me that we had made the right decision to spank him. Without my instruction, he lifted his body an inch or so off my lap to allow me to bare his backside. He was telling me that he accepted this spanking. He deserved it. Maybe even he wanted it.

The twenty-something young man lay expressionless across my lap, waiting. I took a grip around his waist to hold him in place and let fly with the bath brush. The boy’s buttocks were surprisingly springy. The heavy wooden head of the brush was about the size of my palm; it covered almost the whole of one bum cheek. It struck home, sank into the flesh and emerged a second later leaving behind a dark pink mark, a perfect imprint of the brush’s oval head.

I whacked six or seven smacks into his bum in quick succession, not letting up for a second. Then I paused to admire my handiwork. The whole of both buttocks was now deep pink. Later I would turn my attention to the thighs.

The boy wriggled from the moment the first blow struck. Involuntarily, I think, he clenched and unclenched his buttocks to try to ward off the blows. It was useless as any spanked boy would tell you. Indeed, it is best to keep the bum as relaxed as possible during a tanning. There will be fewer lasting bruises that way.

I battered the boy’s behind for about a minute: maybe ninety seconds, I wasn’t keeping time. By now the whole area from the top of his cheeks near the spine, across the centre of his mounds, into the crease at the bottom end and right down the back of his thighs was bright red and raw.

I had always supposed this was the boy’s first spanking. If it truly was, he took it very well. Of course, he struggled. How could he not? The pain would be intense, even for an experienced spankee. But, he mostly kept his cool. He gasped every time the heavy wood met with his flesh and he mouthed silent “owws” and “owches” throughout. His blue-grey eyes were moist, but he stopped himself short of actually crying.

He held on tightly to a scatter cushion, rather as a young child does with a cuddly toy.

It was never my intention to “break” the boy. I did not need to see him wailing and begging for mercy. I did need to feel that he had been sufficiently punished for his drunkenness and vomiting in my garden.

I whacked on for a further minute. The slaps were rapid, like machinegun fire. By the time I was finished I had probably laid two hundred or more whacks into the boy.

One technique I had developed with Geoffrey was to smack three or four times one after another in the same spot. The pain it caused was incredible and it left severe bruises. The boy’s bum must have been softer than Geoffrey’s, or it had not been toughened up by repeated spankings. The rapid same-spot spanks opened up the skin and blood rose to the surface. His bottom reminded me of raw hamburger meat.

That decided me. It was time to stop. I still held the boy face down. He was breathing heavily into the dusty cushion. Tears flowed down his cheeks, but he was not sobbing uncontrollably. He had taken the spanking well. It remained to be seen if it would have any effect on his future behaviour.

I released my grip and the boy rolled off my lap onto the floor. From a kneeling position he looked me straight in the eye. I do not think I am deceiving myself here: it was a look of gratitude. He got to his feet and pulled up his shorts and trousers and tied them up.

I wasn’t sure how to end the session. I supposed a lecture was in order. But, I had no time to deliver it. Geoffrey wrapped his arm around the boy’s shoulder and guided him into the kitchen.

It was five minutes or more before I heard the front door close.

Geoffrey came into the reception room. “We’ll be seeing a lot more of him. He wants you to be his mentor.”

I blushed and reached over to the cocktail cabinet and poured us each a whisky.

I was going to change his life for him. I would be the most important person in his world so far.

I sipped at my drink. It was at that moment I realised I didn’t know the boy’s name.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in January 2016.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Will life imitate art?

new story 2

z used twosome older younger shower josman (2a) (2)

Mr and Mrs Pettit thought they had found the perfect solution to their problem. It was so simple really. What could possibly go wrong? They thanked their lucky stars. Now, they just had to convince their son Ant.

The thing was Mr Pettit had been promoted by his company to become a regional director. He and his wife were over the moon. It meant more prestige, more money, an even bigger home, a flashier car. The whole nine yards. The problem was this: the region he was going to “direct” was three hundred miles away at the other end of the country. They would have to move away.

Ant was in his final year at school with just six months to go until he took his examinations. He couldn’t change schools now. That was where Gordon Conway came in. He was a friend and neighbour. He had a spare room. He said Ant could move in with him until his exams were over and then Ant would be able to join his parents in the summer. What could be simpler?

Ant told his pal Will about it when they were sinking a couple of pints at the Three Fishers. “Oh yes, that’s a really good idea,” Will said, dripping irony.

“What’s wrong?” Ant was genuinely perplexed.

“A middle-aged man living on his own,” Will slurped beer down his throat. “Takes in a cute, blond eighteen-year-old boy as a lodger.” Will laughed and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “He’s a queen. Just make sure you keep the bathroom door locked, that’s all I can say.”

“He is not a queen,” Ant wasn’t sure if his pal was just joshing him. “He was married. She left him for another bloke.”

Will’s eyes shone. He laughed, “I rest my case, m’lud. A poofter. It’s backs to the wall boys!” They drank on into the evening.

Later that night in bed Ant gently stroked his erect cock. Was Mr Conway gay? What if he were. He thought about the many stories he had read online as he worked his fist up and down his shaft.  They usually went something like this: for some reason a teenager has to move out of his parents’ home and move in with an uncle, or grandparents, or maybe even a neighbour. Suddenly, his whole life changes. His new “guardians” won’t put up with his disrespectful and slovenly ways. There are rules. He is told: “It’s my way or the highway.”  A night time curfew is imposed. Alcohol is banned. No drugs. Do this, don’t do that. Be polite to your aunt / grandmother. And if he disobeys …..

Ant had never given Mr Conway a second thought before. He was just someone from further down The Avenue that his parents knew. Now, he couldn’t get the man out of his mind.

They are standing in lounge room. Mr Conway rests his buttocks against the edge of the dining table. In his hand he holds a single sheet of paper. He reads from it, slowly at dictation speed. “Curfew is ten-thirty on school nights and eleven-forty-five on other days. You will have homework completed and ready for my inspection at nine o’clock. You will not be allowed to use the back room or to enter the room upstairs that I call my study.”

Ant nods his assent as each new rule is read to him. Mr Conway drones through his list. “And finally,” he says, with no inflection in his voice, “You will be subjected to corporal punishment at my complete discretion should you break any of the rules. Please sign your name at the place indicated.” He hands the sheet of paper and a ballpoint pen to Ant. The eighteen-year-old takes it and signs.

Mr Conway takes back the sheet of paper and carefully folds it in two. “Right,” he says, “Let’s test you out.” He walks across the room, opens a drawer to a sideboard and slips the newly-signed contract in. Then he closes it and opens a second drawer. This time he reaches in. Ant watches him. His own heart is thumping. His head feels like church bells are clanging inside it. His eyes moisten when he sees Mr Conway take out a well-worn white plimsoll. He grips it in his right fist and turns to face Ant.

“Right,” he says. He sits himself down on a straight-backed, armless chair. When he speaks again he is quiet and unemotional. He delivers instructions clearly and concisely. He might be ordering a takeaway meal on the telephone. “Stand there.” He points to a spot a metre from his thigh. “Take down your jeans. Bend over my knee. Place your hands flat on the floor. Keep your head low. Raise your bottom as high as you can. Keep perfectly still. Keep as quiet as you can. We do not need to disturb the neighbours. Do not try to resist me. If you do I shall start the punishment all over again. Do you understand?”

Ant croaks, “Yes sir.” He is now on some sort of automatic pilot. He fumbles a bit with his belt and the jeans have buttons and they refuse at first to be undone. At last he slips the jeans down his thighs and over his knees. Gravity takes them the rest of the way to his feet. He is still a short distance from Mr Conway, so when Ant moves towards him he waddles like a penguin.

Mr Conway is not a large man, in fact he is shorter than Ant. Ant notices for the first time that Mr Conway is very muscular. He is strong for a man of his age, which Ant supposes might be forty-five or more. Mr Conway is also wearing jeans and he parts his legs to create a platform for Ant to submit his body across. For a second, Ant glances at Mr Conway’s privates which bulge against tight denim cloth.

Ant has not done this before, so he takes some deep breaths while he works out what to do exactly. He decides to rest the palms of his hands on Mr Conway’s right knee and then lower his body down so that his belly rests across the plateau made by Mr Conway’s thighs. Then, as previously instructed, Ant stretches his arms forward and presses the palms of his hands into the deep-pile carpet. He wriggles a little as he tries to get his bottom into the required position. Ant cannot see behind him so cannot be sure if his bum is pointing up at the correct angle. He supposes Mr Conway will tell him soon enough if he has got it wrong.

Prostrate like this, his knees bend and his toes hover just above the ground. Ant cannot be sure whether he ought to close his eyes tight until the spanking is over or should he stare down at the carpet. If he lifts his head a centimetre or two he can look across the room. In his eyeline there is a large painting of a bowl of fruit. Ant thinks he could concentrate on that to take his mind off the whacking that is about to come.

He decides to close his eyes tight and tries to imagine what he must look like. Here he is an eighteen-year-old schoolboy draped across the knees of his middle-aged neighbour who is grasping an old worn gym shoe that he is about to whack into Ant’s pert bottom.

Ant’s imaginings are interpupted.  He feels Mr Conway take hold of the end of his shirt and roughly he pushes it halfway up his back so it is away from the target area. Ant is sure the inside of his head is about to explode when Mr Conway takes a firm hold of the elasticated waistband of Ant’s underpants. It takes only two fierce tugs to have the small briefs up and over Ant’s neat bottom and resting at his knees. Ant is now naked from the shoulders to his knees. Totally at the mercy of his neighbour’s hard, rubber-soled slipper.

Back in the real world, in his bed Ant’s right wrist is pumping like a steam piston. He scrunches his eyes tight trying both to visualise his bared buttocks as the plimsoll hammers into his naked flesh and at the same time he tries not to ejaculate too soon.

Downstairs Mr and Mrs Pettit share a bottle of red wine and congratulate themselves on finding the perfect solution to their problem. They think how lucky they are to have such an understanding son.

 

Picture credit: Josman

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

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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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