Maintenance Spanking

z used cane bare armchair maintenance (28)

I am sitting at home waiting for Theo to arrive. He visits me on the last Friday of every month and is never late. He comes for what he calls his “maintenance spanking.”

Theo, I don’t know if that’s his real name, is twenty-years-old. He’s one of the bosses at a double-glazing firm. A ‘boss’ at twenty, how can anyone be a ‘boss’ at that age?

Theo has problems with his behaviour and he relies on me to help him sort them out.


I first heard about Mr Tucker on the Internet. He has a website and offers corporal punishment services. He has one of the rooms at his house decked out like a headmaster’s study. Adult schoolboys pretend they have been naughty and get six-of-the-best or whatever for their pains.

I don’t have to pretend to be a bad boy, I am. The people who visit the headmasters’ study want to be punished. It turns them on, I suppose. But, not me: I hate being punished by Mr Tucker; it’s humiliating and terribly painful. Even an over-the-knee bare-bottomed spanking is too much for me. But, I need it. It does me good and helps me to be a better person.

I had wanted corporal punishment therapy. I’d read about it online. They have it in America, where you visit a counsellor and discuss where your life is going wrong. For some people it can be reasonably simple like trying to give up smoking or drink. You set objectives with the counsellor and if you fail to meet them you get spanked. This goes on until the fear of being walloped motivates you to meet your objectives.

Mr Tucker is not my counsellor, he isn’t qualified for that, but until I find someone who is he serves as my motivator.


Theo isn’t like my other visitors; you never know what you are going to be asked to do when he is here. The others are quite straightforward. You just set up a reason why they should be caned: “Smoking again Thompson” … “Three detentions Wilkins” … that sort of thing. Many of them dress up as schoolboys in full uniform with short trousers. Does it take them back to their childhoods? I don’t know. Most of them are middle aged and older: quite a number are retired gentlemen.

Theo comes in and tells me all the bad things he has done since the last visit. Then it’s my job to assess what his punishment should be and deliver it accordingly. Last time, he had been disrespectful to his mother (that’s on the list most months) and he had lost his temper with some of the people at work (also a regular occurrence).

For Theo, that was a mild month, so I decided a less severe punishment was called for. I believe that if boys give their mothers a hard time it is the duty of father to take them across their knee for a bare-bottomed spanking.

So, that’s what I did. Boys hate being spanked, which is why it’s so effective.

I also believe a spanking should be delivered without any great ceremony. Putting a boy over your knee leaves him in no doubt about who’s in charge. Consider what thoughts race through the young man’s mind as he is ignominiously guided, bottom up, across the knee. He knows that he is being treated like a naughty child, he knows that his bottom will be bared and that he will be dissolving in tears like any ill-disciplined child.

I sat down in a straight-backed wooden chair and pulled Theo before me and unfastened his trousers which immediately fell off his hips down to his feet. He was panicking and nervous, fully realizing what I intended to do, and not liking the idea one little bit. I quickly pulled his boxer shorts down to his knees.

Without pausing, I took hold of Theo’s right arm and upper back and firmly pulled him forward and downward, dragging him across my lap so that he was practically kissing the carpet.

I am masterful with the hairbrush and bounced it all over Theo’s buttocks, upper thighs, and the sensitive sit spots. Of course, he kicked out his legs trying to escape the stinging spanks. He twisted and turned all over my knees, but I held him tight with my arm wrapped around his middle.

After more than fifty whacks, his red, tear-soaked face registered a look of total dread, desperation, and pain, but I carried on spanking. He thrust out with each whack of the brush on his red-raw buttocks. He wailed for mercy and his bawling and sobbing turned to screams. The tears flowed and sobs grew louder and louder, and higher-pitched.

I continued the punishment with Theo squirming and wriggling around on my lap, his bottom dancing and bucking around, his legs kicking out. It was not long before he was pleading and apologizing for his misbehaviour.

Finally, I stopped spanking, and Theo laid sobbing and heaving convulsively across my knee for several minutes before I released him and sent him on his way.


I am walking up the street where Mr Tucker lives. It’s just an ordinary street of quite run-down terraces; nobody would suspect what goes on behind the curtains of No. 128. My heart is beating fast as I approach the door. I know I have been particularly bad this month and am in for the hiding of my life.


The doorbell rings. Theo is here: 6.30 on the dot. At least poor time-keeping isn’t one of his problems.

I open the door to see a pleasant looking young man, dressed in an immaculate city-style blue stripped suit. His shirt is pale blue with a gaily-patterned tie, tightly knotted. He looks every inch the young businessman, which, after all, is what he is.

There are no preliminaries when Theo visits.

“Go wait outside my study.”

Even though he is not a schoolboy, I treat him as if he is. It’s the only way I know how. He stands in the hallway, waiting for me to make my next move.

I open the study door and he follows me in. It’s a small room, it is meant to be a living room or lounge, but I have converted it. There is room enough for a desk, some wooden chairs and bookshelves. There is an armchair that is the centrepiece of the room. In the corner by the window is a hat stand. There are no hats; only six or seven canes of assorted lengths and thickness. I keep other punishment implements; a slipper, taws, hairbrush in the drawer of the desk.

Theo stands on the worn rug in front of the desk and I take the chair behind it. The routine of these visits is that he begins by recounting to me his misdeeds of the month. It is a familiar list: the impertinence to mother, impatience and anger to work colleagues, temper tantrums. But, this month there are worse crimes to confess. And, I do mean ‘crimes.’

He has been drinking too much which is not unusual for men of his age, but worse than that he has been driving under the influence. Not once, but three times. Once, he was so drunk he hit the curb of the road and punctured a tyre. Being too drunk to think clearly, he proceeded to drive home anyway, thereby buckling the wheel.

I was genuinely angry when he told me this. Drink-driving is dangerous not only to the driver and passengers but also to other entirely innocent road users and pedestrians. I knew from my days as a hospital porter the deaths and injuries drunks caused.

Theo was clearly distressed when he recounted this. He was genuinely upset and ashamed of his actions. Remorse is welcome, but it is not enough. There must also be punishment and in this case it must be exemplary.

I wished I had been informed in advance of Theo’s crimes so I could prepare a birch. He deserved the severest kind of punishment possible. In this case I would not hesitate to rip his bare buttocks to pieces. I didn’t care if he was unable to sit for a month. It would, at least stop him driving his car.

But with no birch available, it would have to be a cane. I have a wide selection from a small reed-like nursery cane that I sometimes use across the palm of the hand through to Malacca rods that are whippy, but dense, and pack a punch to suit even the most hardened masochist.

So, the Malacca it would have to be. I gave Theo a short lecture about the foolishness of his behaviour. I didn’t say much, I’m not a psychiatrist; I couldn’t help him with whatever his underlying problem was. I’m a ‘master.’ My job is to beat the living daylights out of him and that was what I intended to do.

Theo’s face was pale and his eyes moistened as he told me of his drunken antics. He was genuinely upset by his actions and – I knew from experience – dreading what I was going to do to him.

I did not immediately pronounce sentence.

“Hang your jacket on the door.”

I picked out a cane from the hat stand and swished it through the air a couple of times and then held the two ends and flexed it gently testing it for whippiness. It curved nicely in my hands.

Theo turned to face me once again, eyeing with dread both the cane in my hands and the armchair.

“Theo when I cane I make sure it hurts. There is no point in giving you a beating if it doesn’t. I won’t lie to you, your backside will be on fire and you will be sore for a few days. The marks will last about two weeks but you will live. You will not return for another beating and will learn from this experience.”

He mumbled something that I couldn’t quite hear and before I even ordered him to take down his trousers and underpants, tears were trickling down his face.


Mr Tucker stood flexing his cane thoughtfully between his hands as I began to unbuckle my belt. I unzipped and let my trousers fall to my ankles. Putting my fingers in the waist band, I peeled my underpants down letting them fall on top of my trousers.

Mr Tucker swished the cane through the air. If his intention was to intimidate me, he had succeeded.

“Bend over the chair,” he touched the top of the armchair with the cane for emphasis.

In terror I bent forward; my bottom, a little wobbly when I was standing, tightened into a smooth curve. My bare buttocks were presented submissively over the back of the armchair, my trousers and underpants bunched around my ankles.

“Head nice and low please Theo.”

My thigh muscles and bottom tensed as I stretched my arms out grasping the armchair’s cushion at the front. I felt Mr Tucker lift my shirt from my backside, exposing me, both to his eyes and to the air of the room. My body was naked from the middle of my back to my ankles. This made me shiver slightly; not with cold so much as fearful anticipation.

“Keep very still, boy and push your head right down into the cushion.”

I pushed myself further down into the chair, raising my bottom well up for the cane.

“Don’t forget, Theo, don’t move around too much or you will get extra strokes.”

“Yes, Sir,” my reply was muffled as my head was buried in the chair cushion.

Seconds seem to pass. I was feeling very vulnerable as I imagined him eying up his target and I fidgeted my legs. Suddenly there was an enormous noise. The sound of the cane landing on my backside echoed round the empty room. I hardly had time to recover from the shock when there was another crack which this time was immediately followed by an intense burning pain. I held my breath as the next stroke landed causing the pain to increase in a sickening wave.

Number four stuck and I let out a whine. Mr Tucker continued, determined to make me pay for my drunkenness. Three more strokes landed each one lower than the previous, yet all in a one inch band on the lower half of my bum.

As the next stroke cracked across my poor sore seat I let out a roar, any restraint I may have had was gone. I could no longer see the chair for the tears filling my eyes.

I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth and hung on to the chair. I was aware of nothing except the pain burning like a furnace in my bottom.

Raising his arm high Mr Tucker brought the cane down with a full swing, landing in the middle of my bottom. I cried out and tossed my head, swaying for a few moments.

The next three strokes seemed to merge together. I was concentrating on staying bent over, in so much pain, and trying without success to stop the tears that were by now flowing down my cheeks.

I desperately wanted to but I did not stand up. Instead I remained bent over the caning chair offering my bottom for the next stroke. I was completely at the mercy of Mr Tucker, who could make each stroke as severe as he wished and I would have to accept it and then wait for the next.

He swished in yet another stroke across the very centre of my bottom. Though I still stayed over the chair, my feet beat a frenzied dance, and my hips twisted and squirmed. I resolved never to drink and drive again.

The caning seemed to go on forever, but finally I heard Mr Tucker walk over to the hat stand and replace the cane. I felt a terrific sense of relief that it was over but I remained across the chair, breathing heavily and in great distress.

Mr Tucker gave me time to recover a little. “It’s over. You can get up now. I think you have learned your lesson, haven’t you?”

I slowly pushed myself back on my elbows as I got unsteadily up. My legs felt weak and I had to lean on the desk before I really got my balance. Tentatively at first, I touched then carefully clasped my raw buttocks and began kneading them, as though I could somehow squeeze the pain out.

Slowly, painfully, I pulled up my underpants and trousers. I was more or less in control of my feelings now, and was massaging my injured rump as vigorously as I could, still trying to rub away the pain.

Mr Tucker slipped his arm around my shoulder for an instant, before propelling me towards the door, and out into the hallway. My eyes were still wet and blurry, but I found my way to the toilet where I stayed for a few minutes until I’d regained some composure. I cried a bit more; my bum was throbbing madly and the pain was killing me.

I limped out of the house and walked through the streets in a trance. I walked three miles home that night, knowing that I would not be able to sit down if I caught a cab.

Picture credit: CP Services London

This story which is a work of fiction was first uploaded in September 2015.

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Charles Hamilton the Second

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


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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

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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


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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.

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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.


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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second