No Smoking!

z used otk pants chair (12)

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

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

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not.”

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


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

There is silence for a moment.

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

“No it won’t.”

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


“Died of cancer. Secondary smoking.”


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


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

“Yeah, but you didn’t mean it.”

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

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

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

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

“Wor …. Gerroff me.”

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

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

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

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

“Bend over my knee.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get up.”

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

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

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

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

Picture credit: Unknown


Other stories you might like

The headmaster’s guests

The thieving nephew

Sam’s caning


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second

Fake News #7

z used plimsoll gym white shorts sting

Secret of Youth Athletic Club’s Success

EXCLUSIVE Brocklehurst Bugle

Coach Brian Tyler has revealed the secret behind Brocklehurst Athletic Club’s phenomenal success this season – the old-fashioned rubber-soled plimsoll.

The young men at the Club – average age 19 – won both the town and the county championships this year. The first time in history this has happened.

Coach Tyler, who was appointed to the club only 14 months ago, told the Brocklehurst Bugle in an interview, “Discipline is the secret of our success.”

He said participants in any sporting endeavour needed to be committed and focused. “Sometimes young men need incentives to achieve their own and the club’s goals,” he added.

The “incentive” at Brocklehurst Athletic Club is a size-10 plimsoll with a heavy but springy soul. “They don’t make these slippers anymore, today’s have light plastic soles. I have had my plimsoll for many years. It has proven to get results.”

Coach Tyler said the young men in his club are spanked with the slipper for infraction of the club’s training policy. They also get “a warm seat” if they perform below their best on the track or field.

“All the boys agree to the rules,” Coach Tyler said, “If they don’t they are not allowed on the team.”

Ritchie Alwood, a middle-distance runner who won gold medals at both the town and county championships, told the Brocklehurst Bugle, “We think it’s great. Coach Tyler makes us bend over a vaulting horse in the gym and everyone watches while he spanks our bottoms with his slipper.”

He said for first offences they get slippered on their thin cotton PE shorts. “If you come back for a second dose you get it shorts-down on the underpants. Third time and it’s on the bare,” he added.

“It’s a real incentive for us to work hard,” Ritchie said. “The slipper hurts like hell; Coach really lays it on. You don’t want to come back for more.”

Coach Tyler said the club will be holding trials for new members during the off-season. Young men interested should contact ________________________

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

More Fake News stories here


Other stories you might like

A preacher teaches humility

A whopping for Warminster

The missed curfew



More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second


Book. The Private Tutor

z used cane white pants touch toes london (3)

The Private Tutor

What can fathers do when their sons fail their school exams because they spend too much time out with girlfriends, clubbing and playing in a rock band?

Call for The Private Tutor. Using traditional educational approaches, he will soon lick them into shape.

The whippy rattan cane, the taws, the paddle and the gym slipper are some of methods he uses as he guides them towards their A-levels.

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

The Private Tutor by Charles Hamilton II


Picture credit: CP Services London

For more free-to-download books click here

Summer at Uncle’s

used drawing cane hold (18)

Summer at Uncle’s


 PETER, AN EIGHTEEN-YEAR-OLD from a small town, stays with Uncle Barnabas in London for the summer. The country boy soon learns the wicked ways of the city as he is introduced into the world of corporal punishment by a cast of characters including his cousin Albert; “out-and-proud” Nickie; and an old-fashioned schoolmaster by the unlikely name of Dr Cains.

Full-length story available for download free of charge here


For more free-to-download books click here

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.


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.


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.

Other stories you might like

A public service

Professor and the fresher student

Visit to Uncle Roy



More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second

He knew the boy would be trouble


Todd Driver knew the boy would be trouble the moment he saw him, that’s why he pulled the car over and offered him a ride.

“Where you going?” he leaned through the car window to get a closer look at the hitchhiker. He looked like he hadn’t slept for days. Probably hadn’t changed his shirt in a week.

“Anywhere,” he replied, the fatigue evident in his voice. “As long as it ain’t here.”

Todd reached across to the passenger door. A stale odour followed the boy. Todd put the car in gear and eased down the highway. Todd Driver, aged forty-five, but not yet looking it. He took care of himself, visited the gym, fought against the aging process. Still had a thirty-two-inch waist.

“I’m a salesman,” he said to try to make conversation. The boy’s head nodded against his own chest, fighting sleep. “I can take you as far as Tonisville. My people have booked me a motel room there.” But Todd was speaking to himself.

It was an hour’s drive. Simple. Highway all the way. No traffic to talk of. From the corner of his eye he watched the boy sleeping. His hair was greasy, his neck unwashed. His clothes stained. But Todd had known the second he saw him; the boy was sex on a stick. Let him shit, shower and shave and he would buff up lovely. Todd’s heart fluttered. Silently, he reproached himself. “Here you go again Todd Driver, will you never learn?”

The boy was still sleeping when Todd pulled the car up at the motel. Todd had to shake him hard before he came around. “This is the end of the line,” he paused, waiting for a response. The boy yawned, stretched, rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. Expecting Todd to ask his question.

“I’m checked in for one night,” he nodded at the motel office as if that explained everything. More silence. The boy waited. His bladder was full, aching. He needed to take a piss. He opened his bright hazel eyes wide, encouraging Todd to make the right decision.

“You could stay the night here, if you want to.” His lips parted into what he convinced himself was a winning smile. “We could share the room, if you know what I mean?”

The boy knew what he meant well enough. “It’ll cost you fifty,” he said.

“Okay,” Todd made to open the car door. The boy cursed silently. That was too easy, he should have asked for a hundred.

The night clerk gave Todd a key. He asked no questions. The bill was already taken care of. If he started asking too many questions about his guests and the people they brought to their rooms, the motel would soon go bust.

Todd had never stayed at this motel before, but he knew it well. The noisy wall heater, low watt electric bulbs, the dark patterned carpet. The bedspread was five shades of brown, ideal for concealing stains. There was nothing Todd hadn’t seen a million times before.

“I need to go,” the boy pushed his way past Todd and entered the bathroom. Todd marvelled at the noise of a strong stream of urine hitting water. Impressive, he mused. Like a stallion. He hoped the boy would be like a stallion in other ways as well.

“You need to shower,” Todd told the boy. “Do you have any clean clothes?” he already knew the answer, the boy only had what he stood up in. A dirty white shirt, blue jeans and a red jacket. “Maybe I’ve got a clean shirt you can borrow. We need to go find a diner, I need to eat.”

Todd hovered outside the bathroom door, listening to the shower splash over the boy. He imagined him naked under the cleansing water. He looked sexy as hell in those dirty clothes, he would probably be gorgeous naked, Todd reckoned.

He didn’t have to wait long to find out. The door opened and the boy stood towelling his privates and ass. Todd’s dick stiffened. The boy had a muscular chest, he probably did manual work, when he could get any, Todd supposed. His waist was flat and his cut dick was long and thin. He would be perfect for what Todd had in mind.

The boy turned his back on Todd and let the towel drop a little, giving Todd a perfect view of the goods he was paying for.

The saliva drained from Todd’s mouth, “Hey,” he croaked, “I’m Todd, what’s your name?” The boy missed a beat, before replying, “Joe. My name’s Joe.”

The hell it is, thought Todd, but who cared?

The diner was across the street. It was almost deserted. The supper customers had come and gone. Two guys in some kind of security company uniform drank coffee in one booth. A tired waitress, in her forties and showing it, lumbered up. She smiled, what she probably thought was her winning smile and greeted them like long-lost cousins. Todd smiled back. She was on minimum wage, he supposed, relied on the generosity of her customers’ tips to get by.

Joe scrutinised the pictures on the menus. “Two cheeseburgers, double fries,” he said. He grinned across the table at Todd, “And whatever he’s having.”

Todd ordered the diner’s “special” and coffee. The waitress wrote it down. “Does the boy drink coffee,” she asked sweetly. “Is he old enough?”

“Soda,” Joe snapped. “Coke. Ice. Lots of it.”

Todd watched the waitress sashay over to the counter, then turned to Joe. The boy’s hazel eyes sparkled. There was mischief there. “How old are you anyway?” he whispered.

“Don’t worry pal,” Joe was hungry and irritated. “I ain’t no jail bait.”

Joe ate hurriedly, gulping another mouthful before the first one had been properly swallowed. Todd reckoned he hadn’t seen food for a week. Todd watched, trying (and failing) not to gape. Joe was beautiful, absolutely stunning. His reddish hair suggested Irish heritage. His lips were full, most of his body was tanned by the sun. Now, it was clean Joe’s face shone. His eyes sparkled. Todd had already seen the boy’s naked body. The strong muscles, the tight butt. Todd needed to get the check paid and hightail it back to the room. Now.

It was late, the motel was mostly deserted. Todd had asked for and gotten a room as far away from other guests as was possible. The night clerk hadn’t blinked an eye. He’d seen it all before. Most motel clerks had a tale or two to tell. Hookers, husbands cheating on their wives with other dames; heck with other guys. Men dressed as women, you name it. A middle-aged guy checking in with a boy for rent didn’t turn a hair.

Todd pulled the drapes and switched on the lights, the cheap bulbs gave a dim, yellowy light. Todd had done this before. The boy knew it and Todd knew that the boy knew it. There was no need for soft talking. No wine was drunk, no “sweet nothings” whispered into ears. They could just get down to it. Once fifty in used bills had been counted out.

Todd unbuttoned his shirt. His torso was muscle-toned, but the skin was ruffled. He was advancing on middle age and there was nothing that could be done to hold back nature. Joe took his shirt off, his shiny tight skin testament to his youth. He was half Todd’s age and then some.

Todd undid the buckle of his belt, popped the button on the waist of his pants and pulled the zipper. They tumbled to his feet. He kicked off his black town shoes and stepped out the pants, all the time staring intently at the Adonis before him. Joe purposely avoided Todd’s eye as he stripped himself to his grubby shorts. Then, he stopped. Now, he had to acknowledge the man in the room. His eyes asked the question, “What do you want me to do?”

Todd bent down picked up his pants and withdrew the wide leather belt from the loops. He tossed the pants onto a cheap plastic chair, then tested the belt in his hands. It was heavy. He already knew that fact. He had purchased the belt especially for its thickness and weight. That had little to do with keeping his pants up.

Joe’s sparkling eyes shone brighter. He had a shrewd idea what Todd wanted. He really should have asked for a hundred, he thought. He watched silently as Todd doubled up the belt and swished it through the air. That little beauty could do some real damage, he supposed. Memories of a guy in Reno blurred his thoughts.

Todd was completely naked now. “This is what I want.” He gave clear instructions. Joe had thought he’d heard it all before. From the guys he did tricks for and from other hustlers. There were some right kinky bastards out there, but he’d seen no one like Todd.

Todd offered the belt to Joe. “Whip me as hard as you can. On the butt. Give it all your strength,” Todd smiled and gently caressed Joe’s biceps. “Make me suffer,” Todd said, lying face down on the bed. Joe stood stunned as his John adjusted his dick and balls with his hands so the weight of his body wasn’t squashing them and then reached his arms forward and gripped the bed headboard.

Todd closed his eyes tight and waited for the ecstasy to begin. He had never understood where his compulsion originated. The need to be beaten by other men. People might think it stemmed from childhood, but Todd had never been spanked as a kid. His parents were kind and loving, they would be devastated to discover his obsession. Late in adolescence, Todd had fooled around with a guy from school. His dad kept a wooden paddle in the den. Todd was transfixed the first time he saw it; the sparkling varnished wood, the smoothed down sides.

By the time he graduated Todd was what they called a “bottom” and would willingly offer up his butt for spanking. Someone introduced him to a private little club where the eighteen-year-old was made most welcome. That was the start of it. It was nearly thirty years ago. Now, what with the travelling and the need to keep his job (scandal is bad for business), he had to get his kicks with hookers.

Joe anxiously fingered the leather in his hands. The figure prostrated on the bed breathed heavily. His buttock cheeks twitched in delighted anticipation of the pain to come. Joe couldn’t do it. The humiliation was too great. He had done many things before for his Johns, but not this. The fucking faggot was demented.

“Come on boy, I’m waiting,” Todd thought he was being alluring. He wasn’t. Red mist descended. Sweat soaked Joe’s naked torso; his tanned flesh glistened in the poor light. His heart raced. He slapped the leather across the centre of Todd’s ass, a crimson line immediately appeared on the solid flesh. He slapped another and then another.

“Harder. Harder. Put all those wonderful muscles into it.”

Joe glared, lifted the belt high and turning his body into the swing he landed a dozen or more mighty swipes across Todd’s buttocks. The man wriggled and writhed. He struggled to control his arms, they flailed about, instinctively wanting to cover the target area and stop the belt crashing into his flesh.

“Keep still,” Joe growled. He supposed the flogger was supposed to say something like that. He whipped another flurry of strokes. It looked like Todd was trying to swim off the bed. His arms and body moved like he was doing the crawl.

“Stop,” he gasped. “In my bag there’s some rope. Tie my wrists to the bed.”

“Loser!” Joe snorted silently. He found the rope; two pieces, each about eighteen inches long. Joe had never been a Boy Scout and he knew nothing about knots. Todd did. He had plenty of experience. He guided the boy until he was securely tied; arms akimbo, head down, butt naked to the wind.

“As hard as you can. Take my ass off,” Todd could not, would not, contain his excitement. He didn’t see the boy, contempt stamped into his face. He hated this two-bit salesman for making him do this. He gripped the belt tightly in his hand, stepped closer to the bed so he stood almost over Todd’s body. From this position, he could whip the belt directly down into the man’s already-blistered flesh. He paused. Thinking. Taking his time. Todd had relinquished control. Maybe that’s what really turned him on. Being powerless. That and, of course, the pain.

Todd sensed something was wrong. This wasn’t what he was paying for. He wanted to feel the burn of the leather as it struck again and again across his submitted ass. He raised his head from the mattress and as best he could he looked over his shoulder at Joe. “Get on with it, will you?” he demanded.

Joe grinned. Loser. Fucking loser. He put the belt down on the plastic chair, found his jeans and climbed into them.

“What the … ?” Todd complained.

“Shut up, fucking loser.” Joe reached for one of Todd’s socks. There was nothing the man could do.

“Open wide,” Joe sounded like a dentist with a patient. Todd’s eyes blazed with fear. He clenched his teeth shut.

“Oh per-lease,” Todd cuffed an almighty smack of his hand across Todd’s face. His mouth opened to sound a protest and Joe stuffed the sock home. Todd gagged, it filled most of his mouth. He wasn’t sure he could breathe. He pulled his wrists, but he had taught Joe well. He was going nowhere until the boy decided to release him.

Joe finished dressing. He stood over Todd and ruffled the man’s hair. “Who’s a naughty boy then,” he teased, imitating the voice of a five-year-old. He smacked Todd’s bare butt playfully. Todd pleaded with his eyes, tears welled.

Joe picked up Todd’s bag, tipped it over and let the contents fall to the floor. Not much there. Just clothes. Joe smiled. He had thought of something. Quickly, he toured the motel room stuffing all Todd’s clothes in to the bag. He zipped it up. Then he took the man’s wallet from the night stand, pulled out the currency notes and stuffed them in his own pocket. Contemptuously, he threw the empty wallet at Todd.

Joe mocked Todd’s muffled cries. Then, making sure the man knew exactly what he was doing, he pocketed Todd’s watch.

“Bye, bye, baby,” he jeered as he rattled Todd’s car and house keys. He slipped Todd’s bag over his shoulder and walked out into the cold night air, leaving the man behind to deal as best he could with his raging hard-on.


Other stories you might like

Expelled from school

Warren’s awakening

By order of the court


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

What a jolly jape


“He’s only gone and done it. I can’t believe it, Dougall’s only gone and done it.”

Geoff Arkwright’s face fell. Surely, not, he thought, he wouldn’t be so stupid.

“He said he would, and by jove he’s true to his word.” Terrence Aspel rushed through the cricket pavilion. His team mates stopped in their tracks.

“I never thought he would do it,” said one.

“I thought he was drunk when he said it,” offered another.

“He’s as daft as a brush,” chipped in a third.

Arkwright hunched his shoulders. He would get the blame, he just knew it. They would say it was his fault. He was captain of the Downshire County Cricket Club Colts, they would say he should maintain discipline.

Well, he thought, bitterly, it wasn’t like being House Captain at school. There wasn’t much he could do. He couldn’t very well order Dougall to touch his toes for six stingers from an ashplant.

“Come on lads, we’re missing all the fun,” Aspel called over his shoulder. He rushed from the pavilion, followed by seven of his team mates. Arkwright watched them go, before despondently following on. It would all end in tears he was certain of that.

Andy Dougall, the club’s opening batsman, had vowed he would strip off and wash himself in the horse trough if the county colts won the national championship. Well, the cup was safely in the trophy cabinet and now the twenty-year-old wunderkind was as good as his word. “Please God,” Arkwright prayed silently, “Don’t let him be totally naked.”

A small crowd had gathered, of course.  Children, businessmen, ladies with shopping. All had stopped to enjoy the fun. It wasn’t every day a fit naked man had a bath in a horse trough.

Arkwright watched glumly. Everyone seemed to take the jape in good spirits. Just wait until a maiden aunt sauntered by, he thought. She’d have the rozzers on Dougall, that was for certain.

It didn’t need a sweet, sheltered old lady. The police found Dougall for themselves. “What the blinking blimey?” Police Constable Percy Perkings exclaimed to his Sergeant. “What’s ’appening at the ’orse trough?” He peered through the summer’s haze. A crowd of people were staring into the trough. Sgt Truscott saw Dougall first. His jaw dropped. A naked man. In broad daylight. It was a scandal.

“Hey you!” he cried as he broke into a run. What d’you think yer doing?” PC Perkins puffed behind him, a startled look on his face.

“Break this up. Move along please,” Sgt Truscott gasped. “There’s nothing to see here,” he added, quite erroneously. The people of Downshire, were by and large a law-abiding lot. The small crowd dispersed giggling and muttering. They wouldn’t have minded if the show had continued a little longer.

“You,” Sgt Truscott’s face was puce, in part from the run he had made on a hot afternoon, and also by his genuine disgust. “Nudity. In public,” he thundered. “It’s disgusting,” Truscott gulped. “It’s against the law.”

Dougall smiled ingratiatingly. He had attended an English public school with delusions of grandeur, he knew how to deal with the servant class. “I am not in the nude,” he sneered, He was about to add, “my man,” when the sergeant took the wind from his sails.

“You look pretty nude to me,” he roared. “It’s disgusting,” he repeated.

“I am wearing a swimming costume.” Dougall flapped his hands around his midriff to draw attention to his trunks. “Not nude at all.”

PC Perkins watched from a distance. The sergeant had a wicked temper. The young boy would do well not to rile him; the constable knew that from bitter personal experience.

“You,” the Sergeant barked at Aspel, “Fetch a raincoat; he can’t stay like this.”

Meekly, Aspel trudged into the pavilion.

Dougall had dried off by the time he had been frogmarched the mile or so to the police station. The duty officer at the front desk didn’t try to conceal his merriment. A half-naked man: they would have a lot of fun with that.

“The charge is lewd behaviour,” Sgt Truscott boomed. “Put him in a cell, we’ll take him before the magistrate in the morning.” He paused, waiting for Dougall’s predictable reaction.

“Magistrate?” his face flushed. In a whirl his future flashed before him. He was one of the top up-and-coming opening batsmen in the country. There was every possibility he’d get his first England cap soon. But, not with a criminal record. Lewd behaviour in a horse trough. The story would probably get in the Sunday papers. He would be a laughing-stock. Downshire would probably sack him.

“But,” Dougall’s voice quivered in protest. “It was only a bit of fun,” he implored. “A jape. A boyish prank.”

Sgt Truscott sneered, “You’re a bit too old for boyish pranks, aren’t you?”

It was a straw and Dougall was so desperate he would clutch at anything. “I’m twenty; I’m not legally an adult,” he pleaded.

“Pah! Do you want me to telephone your father? Tell him you’re at the police station and ask him to come down?” he glared at Dougall. “Shall I ask him to fetch his slipper?”

God no! His father must never know. Dougall would never hear the end of it.

“No, I didn’t think so,” Sgt Truscott turned to the duty officer. “What do you think Fred? What shall we do with the toe rag?”

The duty officer smiled. He had heard his sergeant talk like this before. He had a shrewd idea what was on his guv’nor’s mind. “Is he too old for a good hiding, do you think Sarge?” he stared intently at Dougall, delighted to see the menace blush to his roots.

“Maybe not,” Sgt Truscott turned his back on Dougall ensuring the twenty-year-old would not see the twinkle in his eye. “Shall we call his father then?”

“No, please,” even as the words escaped his lips, Dougall knew he had given the game away. He would do anything to leave his father out.

“What about the cricket club?” Truscott winked at the duty officer, “Is there someone we could call there? A coach perhaps? Maybe six-of-the-best across the backside with a cricket stump would do the trick?”

Dougall’s temples throbbed. He was wretched. His silly prank had backfired terrifically. He needed to keep out of the magistrates’ court at all costs. But, a beating from the cricket coach was out of the question.

“Or,” Sgt Truscott turned on his heels to face Dougall, “What about the club captain. He’s ex-public school isn’t he? I bet he knows how to swing a cane. Eh, what d’you think?” The sergeant could barely suppress his delight as blood drained from Dougall’s face.

“No, please,” Dougall mumbled.

“We’ll who else can there be?” Sgt Truscott stretched his arms and waited. The boy was about to break.

Corporal punishment was the solution, Dougall knew that. He was ex-public school. St. Tom’s was a traditional school: traditional lessons, traditional games and traditional discipline. A stiff caning solved most problems. It hurt like billy-o. But it was soon over and everybody moved on with their lives. He would accept a beating for his foolishness, but not from his father. And, it would be too humiliating to have Arkwright or the club coach administer his caning.

“Well …?” Sgt Truscott asked the duty officer. “What are we to do?”

“Dunno Sarge, what does the young lad have to say?”

The stares from the police officers burned into Dougall. The young man’s heart raced. He felt so foolish. But, he had to speak up. He had to say what was on his mind. He might regret it for the rest of his life if he remained silent.

He gulped air into his lungs. “Could you do it?”

“Do what sonny?” Sgt Truscott’s face was immobile. The duty officer licked his lips.

Dougall stared intently at the worn lino beneath his feet. “You know, could you …?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The silence was intense. It was now or never.

“Would you beat me,” he whispered.

“Speak up sonny.”

Dougall had never before thought much about the police. He had no opinion about them one way or the other. Until now. Now, he hated them with a passion. He gulped in more air and curled his fingers into fists. “Would you beat me,” he enunciated clearly.

“Say, please.”

Dougall’s fingernails bit deeply into the palms of his hands. “Per-lease.”

“I think that could be arranged, don’t you officer?” Sgt Truscott strode towards the back of the police station. “Follow me, lad. Come this way.” Sorrowfully, Dougall skipped down the corridor after the quickly disappearing policeman.

The room was usually used for interviews. There wasn’t much furniture. There didn’t need to be. There was a small wooden table in the centre surrounded by four chairs; and not much else. Sgt Truscott silently moved the chairs to the edge of the room; they would be of no use for what he had in mind.

Slowly, he unbuttoned his jacket and slid it off his shoulders. Seconds later it was in a heap on one of the chairs.

“Take off your raincoat and put it over there,” Sgt Truscott nodded to his own jacket. Dougall thought he was calm, but he couldn’t get his fingers to obey him. At last the buttons were undone and the coat removed. Sgt Truscott drew in breath. He couldn’t remember the last time he stood so close to a nearly naked man. The swimming trunks fitted Dougall snugly and the outline of his cock and balls was visible. It took an effort, but Sgt Truscott didn’t stare.

Instead, his own hands shook as he unbuckled the belt that held up his baggy serge trousers. Dougal stared intently. It was a long, thick, wide strip of leather. It looked terrifically heavy as the sergeant folded it once and then again until he had a punishment strap about a foot long.

Truscott ran the tip of his tongue across his top lip. “Shall we get this over with then?”

Dougall answered with an almost imperceptible nod.

“Climb up onto the table. Lay flat out.” The sergeant watched intently as Dougall stretched himself across the worn wooden table top.

“It helps if you fold your arms and rest your face in them,” the sergeant spoke kindly. He saw Dougall’s muscles in his back ripple as he manoeuvred to get into place. The twenty-year-old was some athlete. There wasn’t an ounce of spare fat on his body; his legs were like tree trunks and his bottom was firm and round. Almost absent-mindedly, Sgt Truscott reached to the waist of the swimming trunks and tugged slightly. Now, they fitted like a second skin. The crack between Dougall’s cheeks was clearly defined. The young man made a terrific target.

The crack of leather on stretched cotton bounced off the walls of the tiny room echoing two or three times before petering out. Dougall shut his teeth. It hurt. More than he might have imagined, but he was no stranger to corporal punishment. He screwed up his eyes to absorb the pain and settled himself for whack number two. It wasn’t long in coming. The sergeant twisted his own body and sent the leather scorching into the underside of Dougall’s buttocks. With his prey lying flat in front of him, the punisher was able to choose his target with great accuracy. Had the boy been bent across the table or over the back of a chair, a great deal of his flesh would have been hidden away from the direct line of the lashing leather.

Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! It was a long, thorough whipping, deep and cleansing. It was slow but steady with each stroke precisely placed. Dougall silently counted them all and when Truscott reached thirty the sergeant stopped.

The young man’s eyes shone. His rear end throbbed. His heart raced, blood flew through his arteries. His ears felt like they would burst. His lungs were raw. His body was thoroughly beaten; but he had lived.

“Stand up. Get back into your raincoat. Get out.” Sgt Truscott could not get rid of the boy too quickly. Dougall had no desire to stay. It was over. There would be no appearance before the magistrate. No scandal in the Sunday newspapers. His chances of an England cap remained strong. Gingerly, he hobbled from the room and limped down the passageway to the front door.









It was still sunny. Summer was not yet quite over. His bum felt raw. It was a scorching sensation very unlike the pain from six with the cane. It would take some time for the burning to fade.

He must at all costs resist the temptation to sit in the cool water of the horse trough to relieve his suffering, he smiled to himself as he set off back to the cricket club to collect his clothes.


Picture credit: The Champion

Other stories you might like

The Crammer

Toby’s father visits

A preacher teaches humility


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second