The honourable thing

“You cannot say that we haven’t discussed this in the past.” Uncle Simon stood, legs slightly apart, rolling on the balls of his feet. Daniel breathed deeply. This wasn’t going to end well.

Uncle Simon clasped his hands behind his back, it made him seem more imposing somehow. Not that he needed much help. At six-feet-four he towered over his nephew. His shoulders were broad, his arms muscular. He was the eldest of his family, easily ten years older than Daniel’s father. He had always been the dominant brother. Daniel suspected his father was a little in fear of the man.

Uncle Simon’s fleshy face contorted, as if a sudden pungent aroma had seeped into the drawing room. His crisp blue eyes watered. He let the tip of his tongue explore the outer edge of his bottom lip. He too sucked in breath. Then he continued, “I made it perfectly clear when I allowed you to stay that there would be rules. Did I not?”

Daniel shifted uneasily. Yes, there had been rules. It was worse than being back at St. Tom’s. Do this. Don’t do that. Curfews. No drinking alcohol. No visiting cinemas or other places of lurid entertainment. The parlour was out of bounds. Bed by eleven o’clock. Rules, rules and more rules.

Daniel’s head bobbed, nodding assent. His had no words. What was he expected to say?

“You were late home last Thursday,” Uncle Simon spoke evenly, as if reading from a written charge sheet. He paused for effect, as if losing his place on the page for a moment. “I spoke to you about it at the time.” He waited some more. Daniel would know what Uncle Simon had said. He let the import of his words sink in. “And now,” his voice rose slightly, “and now you have repeated the offence.”

Daniel felt his face redden. Suddenly he was hot, but the room itself was decidedly cool – rather like Uncle Simon’s demeanour. He stared down at the parquet floor, ashamed.

“You will be going up to the varsity next week,” Uncle Simon ran the fingers of his right hand through his hair, feeling the stickiness of Brylcreem on them. “You will need to be self-disciplined. Study hard. Perform well. What chance will you have?”

The silence was intense. The tick-tock, tick-tock of the ancient grandfather clock pounded Daniel’s temples.

“Eh boy?” Uncle Simon’s patience like his flecked grey hair was thinning.

Daniel’s top teeth bit into his lower lip. He gurned his face. What was he supposed to say? Did Uncle Simon expect a speech of repentance? Was the eighteen-year-old meant to confess his sins? To invite retribution?

“Pah!” Uncle Simon waved his arms through the air, as if conducting an imaginary orchestra. “This will not do. This will not do,” he intoned. Perspiration began to dribble from his brow. Without thinking, he wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. “Well,” he sighed, as if he had been called upon to carry the woes of the entire world on his shoulders, “let’s get on with it.”

Daniel blinked hard. This was not entirely unexpected. He had broken the rules. He had been warned of his consequences. He had been caught a second time. Punishment was inevitable. He watched his uncle move across the room. It was large and cluttered with furniture. Daniel’s eyes flickered from the heavy leather Chesterfield coach, over to the dark oak dining table, taking in two overstuffed horsehair armchairs on the way. Any moment now he expected the instruction to present himself for punishment draped across one or other of these.

Uncle Simon made his way to a sideboard, hesitated for a second as if trying to remember an important detail. Then, he tugged at a drawer. It stuck hard and Uncle Simon cursed under his breath as he struggled to open it. At last, with a resounding clutter, he did so. He reached inside and ran his hand through the contents. It was the easiest thing to find what he sought.

Daniel watched puzzled. He supposed it would be a swishing. With a stout but whippy rattan cane – just like the ones he had endured at St. Tom’s. But, the drawer was too small to accommodate such a thing. What was Uncle up to? Daniel soon found out. With a look of distinct satisfaction on his lips, Uncle Simon gripped a large ebony hairbrush. He thought better of trying to close the drawer, so  turning on his heels he brandished it at his nephew.

It was about a foot long and the business end about four inches wide. The head was made of dark ebony wood. Instinctively, the tips of Daniel’s fingers brushed the seat of his trousers. Memories of encounters in the nursery startled him. Nanny had been very proficient with one of these.

Uncle Simon glowered at Daniel through narrowed eyes, then turned his attention to his surroundings. He came upon a large dining chair with ornate carvings tucked under the table. “There,” he said vaguely, “that will do.” Then, more forcefully, he said to his nephew. “Take hold of that chair and place it in the middle of the room.” He nodded to an open space near the horsehair armchairs.

Daniel’s heart raced. Could this really be happening? He could tell at a glance that the back of the chair was too high for him to bend himself across. Surely his uncle did not intend ….

His thoughts were interrupted. “Now, if you please. I wish to conclude this before your aunt comes down.” Startled into action, Daniel shuffled the five or six paces necessary to reach the chair. He paused and a little surprised by how damp the palms of his hands were, he rubbed them along the sides of his legs. The rough texture of his trousers scratched them. He reached for the chair and gripping it by the back he lumbered it across the room and plonked it into position. He stood; embarrassed, unsure what was now expected of him.

Uncle Simon watched with interest. His nephew cut a scrawny figure. He was hardly five-feet-seven-inches in his stockinged feet. Clearly, he was a stranger to the rugby field. No part of his body appeared muscular. The boy’s deathly-white complexion attested to time spent in study halls and libraries. His too-long fair hair flopped over his forehead and ears. From a distance and in a certain light he might be mistaken for a girl, Uncle Simon thought unkindly.

Uncle Simon held the brush in his right fist and tapped it into the palm of his left hand. It was time to take action. He strode to the chair and sat down. He spread his long legs wide and shifted his buttocks until he had attained the posture he desired, all the time conscious that his nephew’s stare burned into him.

Satisfied that he was now ready, Uncle Simon snapped his fingers and spoke. “Stand there. Take down your trousers.”

Simon’s already pale visage blanched even more. His uncle intended he should go over his knee for a spanking. “Dash it all,” he thought but did not speak aloud, “that’s not cricket. That’s not how a chap should be punished.” Daniel was an honourable chap. Like generations of boys at St. Tom’s he had grown up knowing the code of conduct. If a chap got found out in some misdeed, he took his punishment, fair and square. That was the right thing to do. A chap took his punishment like a man. But this …..? To take his trousers down and bend over his uncle’s knee? It was not manly. It was the punishment of a child; of the nursery.

“I have already scolded you for dallying,” Uncle Simon scowled. “Lower those trousers.”

Daniel was determined to do the honourable thing. Uncle Simon was his master, he should be obeyed. He wore no jacket nor waistcoat so was able to quickly put his thumbs under the straps of his braces and manoeuvre them over his shoulders. Thus released his trousers, which hung somewhat loosely at his waist, began to slip over his hips. His fingers trembled as he unbuttoned and helped them on their way south to puddle at his shoeless feet. He waited hands held loosely at his side for the inevitable next instruction.

It wasn’t long in coming. “Remove your underwear.”

This was really too much. The humiliation was great. Over uncle’s knee for a bare-bottomed spanking with a hairbrush. Dammit, why didn’t he just invite the housemaid and the footman in to witness the spectacle? At that moment the door behind rattled; Daniel alarmed twisted his head. It was only a gust of wind. His disgrace would go unwitnessed by the servants. He turned his attention once more to the matter in hand. His woollen drawers were held up by buttons and again his darned fingers were reluctant to obey his brain. At last they met with his trousers.

Daniel clasped his hands together as if in prayer and used them to obscure the sight of his private parts from his uncle. The old man professed not to notice, but although he intended to treat him as such, he could see his nephew decidedly was not a little boy.

Daniel stood head bowed. His uncle’s legs were parted some distance and the folds of his tweed trousers cloaked his own manhood. “Come, bend over my knee,” Uncle Simon spoke the words so hoarsely, Daniel did not hear. Only an accompanying hand gesture confirmed to the eighteen-year-old what was expected of him.

This was too much, Daniel thought. What couldn’t Uncle Simon beat him with a cane. He could do it on the naked buttocks if he believed Daniel’s offence warranted such treatment. Daniel would submit. But being spanked on the bared bottom nursery style was beyond the pale. He sucked in breath. He had no choice. He was an honourable boy, he must go through with this. He leaned forward and at first resting his hands on Uncle Simon’s left knee he eased himself down until his body rested across the platform the old man had created. Uncle was so tall and Daniel so small that he easily fitted into position. His fingers stretched out ahead of him and barely brushed against the wooden floor. Behind him his feet dangled in mid-air. His waist rested at an angle against Uncle Simon’s right knee, thereby offering his naked buttocks at a perfect angle to his uncle.

Despite his earlier entreaty for Daniel to get a move on, Uncle Simon was in no hurry. Carefully, he took hold of the boy’s shirttail and rolled it away from the target area up towards his shoulders. He noted his nephew’s hairless back and skinny waist. There was hardly any fat on the boy’s buttocks either. His nerve ends were entirely unprotected. This would indeed be an exceedingly painful experience for the boy.

Uncle Simon lay the heavy ebony-backed hairbrush on the small of Daniel’s back. He wasn’t yet quite ready to start. Instead, he cupped the palm of his right hand and slowly explored the contours of Daniel’s small, pert, buttock cheeks. He stared at the top near the spine and with deft circular motions explored the crest of the mounds, before squeezing the undercurves. Then for the sake of completeness he pat-pat-patted Daniel’s thighs. He could not be certain, but had he detected the slightest purring sound from his nephew as he performed this final task?

Now ready, he picked up the brush once more and gently stroked it over the highest point of Daniel’s right buttock cheek. His nephew’s body stiffened in anticipation of the hurt to come. Smack! The heavy wooden brush slammed with force. It met little resistance and a pink shape, replicating the hairbrush’s head immediately appeared. Daniel gasped but had little time to do more before a second and then a third swipe landed in almost exactly the same spot. He wriggled. It was an involuntary movement, a natural reaction from his body to the pain it felt.

Just as quickly three whacks bounced off his left buttock. The boy’s bum glowed a deep pink. Without hesitation Uncle Simon delivered another six on each globe. Each one of them landing with extreme force. Daniel’s legs flailed and his hips wriggled this way and that. Uncle Simon gripped the boy’s waist with his left arm and leaned his elbow against Daniel’s back. The boy was going nowhere; not until Uncle Simon decided he had been punished enough.

When he thought about it later, Daniel concluded the hairbrush spanking had hurt terrifically. He was no stranger to corporal punishment; St. Tom’s was that kind of school. But the masters there always used a whippy rattan cane. Six-of-the-best was the standard tariff and delivered with the expertise of the experienced schoolmaster it always hurt like billy-o whether trousers were up or down. The cane was thin and whippy and cut deep into the flesh, always causing intense pain and often leaving deep welts that reignited even hours later whenever a punished boy tried to sit. The pain from the hairbrush was altogether different. Its effects were terrible at the point of correction, but the pain rapidly faded into a throb before becoming merely an intense glow.

Uncle Simon was not a cruel man. He believed in discipline and he believed in punishment. He did not believe in torture. It was his intention to blister every square inch of his nephew’s buttocks and thighs, but no more. The pink marks quickly turned deeper red and after a few dozen spanks with the heavy brush a colour not unlike that of a good claret wine had been achieved. Daniel, now more securely pinned by his uncle’s elbow was unable to resist. Not that he wished to. The kicking and writhing had been purely physical reactions of his body of which he had no control. He had been determined to accept his just punishment. Rules had been stated, rules had been broken, the consequence of further rule-breaking made clear, the warning ignored and punishment meted out. Daniel offered no cause for complaint.

At last, satisfied with his own handiwork, Uncle Simon made one final circuit with his hairbrush before landing six stingers across the backs of Daniel’s thighs. It was over. He released his grip on his nephew and watched in awe as the eighteen-year-old staggered to his feet and performed the traditional “spanking dance”, hopping first from one foot and then to the other all the time rubbing the palms of his hands across the scorched flesh of his buttocks. Daniel seemed not to notice his cock and balls bouncing up and down inches from Uncle Simon’s glistening face.

Uncle Simon gave no instruction, but once the pain in his bum started to ease, Daniel bent down and began to pull up his drawers, offering his uncle a perfect view of his battered buttocks and his crack and hole. The underwear was in place in a trice and the trousers soon followed.

Uncle Simon heaved himself from his chair, a little surprised by his own breathlessness. He shook his nephew’s hand when the boy offered it. The way gentlemen do in such circumstances. Daniel with as much dignity as he could muster for an eighteen-year-old boy who had been across the knees of an older man for a bare-bottomed spanking left the room.

Uncle Simon reached inside his trouser pocket and finding a handkerchief pulled it out to mop his soaking head. Sweat soaked the armpits of his shirt and he felt the cotton sticking also to his back. The front of his trousers were tight and he knew he ought to withdraw from the room quickly and return to his bedroom.

Upstairs, Daniel in his own room had lowered his trousers and underwear and was inspecting the results his uncle’s administrations. “Oh well,” he said out loud although he was entirely alone, “I jolly well deserved it. Nobody can say that Uncle Simon isn’t a just man.”

used drawing brush hold (9)

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The punk rocker

z used otk punk rocker brush CS (1)

I cannot believe it is now 40 years since the “Summer of Punk Rock.’’ Queen Elizabeth’s Silver Jubilee. Johnny Rotten and The Sex Pistols: “God Save The Queen, she ain’t no human bean.”

To hear some people talk Punk was a social movement; a revolution. The ideology of punk, and all that. Bollocks!. It was just kids doing what kids across the ages have always done (and still do today): finding new ways to piss off their parents.

My nephew Harry was a punk. Actually, he was a punk in the older sense of the word as well. He was a bone idle layabout. He drifted out of school aged fifteen with no qualifications and by 1977 he was eighteen years old  and had never been able to keep down a job for more than a minute. Not even at the Wimpy Burger Bar. It’s hard to believe but we didn’t have McDonalds back then. To save my sister’s sanity, Harry stayed with me in my council flat in Edmonton (north London) for most of that summer. He thought he was the real deal; Mohican haircut, safety pin in his nose, bondage trousers. For all I knew he and his mates spent their time gobbing at strangers in the high street.

I warned him if he didn’t get himself out of bed and find a job he’d feel the blunt end of my hairbrush. He sneered of course.

Late one evening I got back to the flat after a gruellingly hot day labouring on a building site to the unmistakable aroma of evostik drifting from the living room. Glue sniffing! That was the final straw. There’s a saying that when you find rat in your room you don’t have a discussion with it, you put the boot in. Same with glue sniffing. No discussion. Within seconds I was rifling through the drawer of the sideboard for the hairbrush.

It was no contest.

Harry was only skin and bones and with all my labouring I had muscles on my muscles. I grabbed him by the wrist and hauled him to his feet. He gave no resistance. He was probably a bit zonked out. I called him all the names under the sun as I plonked myself down on the settee and set about undoing his clunky leather belt. The bondage trousers were surprisingly easy to force down, even though they were skin tight. I had to smile to myself then; he was wearing boxer shorts from Marks and Spencer. Not very punk-ish – his mother must have bought them for him.

In one smooth continuous tug, I had him face-down across my knees. That woke him up. He hollered blue murder and I hadn’t even touched him yet. He wriggled this way and the other, but I gripped him tightly around the waist. Let him wave his arms about and kick his legs; he was going nowhere. Not until I had pounded his creamy-white arse black and blue.

It was a pretty standard hairbrush. The bristle end was oval shaped and maybe four inches long. In those days brushes were made of solid wood, not like the lightweight plastic things they sell you today. My brush was perfect for doing your hair but in homes up and down similar ones were also being used to keep recalcitrant youngsters in order.

I remember my abject fear when I first spelt the glue. This was no longer a game. Harry could dress up as much as he wanted and who really cared that he had a ridiculous haircut? But glue-sniffing! That was poison.  The newspapers were full of stories about kids dying by overdosing. That was not going to happen to my Harry. So eighteen-years-old or not I set about spanking his bare bum. I spanked him harder than I had ever done before or since. I lifted the brush as high as my arm would take it and brought it crashing down in the centre of his left cheek with terrific force. A dark-pink oval mark appeared. Within seconds I had tattooed every square inch of his bum, right from the top where it joins the back, over what mounds he had (did I say he was a weedy lad?) and into the underside of his cheeks. He hollered fit to bring the house down. It was a small flat with thin walls and I have no doubt old Mrs. Baker next door would have heard every yell. I did not care. What would she say anyhow? She and people like her walked the streets in fear of punks and their arch enemies the Teddy Boys. Mrs. Baker would probably urge me on in my endeavour.

Satisfied that his buttocks were toasted, I walloped the brush across the backs of Harry’s thighs. He tried to kick but his tight bondage trousers restricted him. It was like he were tied at the ankles. I took a deep breath and hammered the heavy wooden brush with all the force I could muster again and again and again all across his pert cheeks. Never again, I vowed, would he put his nose anywhere close to a can of glue.

His cream bum turned from pink to crimson through to the colour of a Hirondelle wine. He had stopped yelling now, but only because he was too busy coughing and spluttering. He was choked with tears and snot flowed over his mouth.

At last I let him free. He lay on the floor at my feet juddering like a beached dolphin. I let him be. Eventually, he staggered to his feet and pulled up his underwear. He couldn’t quite get the tight bondage trousers above his knees so waddling like a penguin he stumbled to his bedroom.

I locked him in his room for a week. The summer turned to autumn and then it was Christmas. When I saw him at a family party, he had permed his hair, wore glitter under his eyes and had ruby-red lips. He wore a garment that to me suspiciously looked like a dress. So did his boyfriend.

Picture credit: C of Sweden

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charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Thank you, Uncle Walter

z used otk grandad 3

It started more than forty years ago in nineteen-seventy-four. I was nineteen and Uncle Walter was … well I don’t know how old, but old enough to be my uncle. Dad was a milkman and Mum worked part-time in a supermarket so there was never much money at home. I managed to get a couple of indifferent A-levels and a place on a business degree at a polytechnic.

This will astound modern-day students but in those days we were given grants to study and they didn’t have to be paid back. It was like being given money from Heaven. I didn’t do much work and spent my time drinking beer and chasing (and sometimes catching) girls. Of course, I flunked most of my exams; but such were the days, the polytechnic and the local education authority let me go back and start all over again.

So, I didn’t have much incentive to learn. Until Uncle Walter arrived on the scene. Dad was very weak-willed, but Uncle Walter was strong. He had an iron will and strength in his body, as I was to experience again and again over the next years. He lived about thirty miles from the poly. and arrived unannounced one afternoon at the house I shared with three other idle layabouts.

He knew everything. “Laziness,” he called it. “Bone idle.” “Indolent.” He tore me off a strip. I probably gaped open-mouthed as on and on he went, listing my faults. He paused for breath and then he did something that truly astonished me. He pulled a straight-backed dining room chair away from the table, set it down in the middle of the room and sat down. Then, and even as I write this so many years after the event, I can’t really believe this happened. Then he gripped me by the arm and pulled me towards him. I was dumbfounded and astounded. It happened so quickly. One moment I was standing facing him, wondering what in hell he was doing; the next he had gripped my belt and unbuckled it. He popped the stud at the waistband of my jeans and pulled the zipper. The denims fell to my knees.

Still I had not moved. He tugged my underpants down and the next I knew I was face down over his knees and he was hammering the rough palm of his hand into my silky white buttocks. They were neither silky nor white for long.  I didn’t know what a spanking was supposed to feel like but pretty soon he had warmed up my bum. By the time he was done, it could have glowed in the dark.

I wriggled and I squirmed but Uncle Walter held me firmly at my waist. I had to grab hold of uncle’s leg to stop from toppling to the floor. Wham, bam, splat! He spanked on and on. He was a man with a mission.

At last he let me go. I sprang to my feet and pulled my jeans and pants up. My face was as red as my bum. I was mortified, that someone could just throw me across their knee and spank the living daylights out of me. The humiliation was intense. But it wasn’t to end there.

Uncle Walter had come prepared with a plan. Once I had calmed down, he pulled a document from his jacket pocket. A contract, he called it. It was typed. It looked pretty official to me. There were even spaces for his and my signatures.

It went like this. I had to promise to attend classes, work hard, spend a minimum twelve hours a week in the library and stay clear of the student union bar. I had to guarantee never to get less than B+ in an essay or assignment. If I achieved all of these things, Uncle Walter undertook not to spank me again. If I failed in any or all of the endeavours my arse would be on fire.

“You’ll thank me for this one day,” he said as each of us signed our names. Yeah, right.

I think it was less than a month before I got my next close-up view of the carpet while Uncle Walter battered my buttocks with a heavy wooden brush. Now, I knew the true meaning of pain. Not a single square inch of my admittedly small buttocks was left untouched by that horrible brush. I felt like I’d accidentally sat in scalding bath water. You could have fried an egg on my bum by the time he had finished. I wailed the house down. Thank God it was the evening and my housemates were at the bar. I would have died if they ever found out I was being spanked on my bare bottom by my uncle.

“You’ll thank me for this one day,” he said as I stood hands on knees sobbing my guts up.

Uncle Walter made a habit of visiting me once a week to check on things. Sometimes, my bum went unscathed. My grades improved and I began to discover I actually liked studying. But, I also liked the pubs, my mates and the girls. So, occasionally I found myself over the back of the armchair or sprawled across the dining room table while Uncle Walter walloped a belt or – oh my God how much it hurt! –  a whippy school cane into my bared buttocks.

Just last week I took early retirement from the large metropolitan borough council where I was finance director. After I graduated with a first class honours in business, I made a career in local government. It was well paid – well, in management it was, I’m not talking bin collecting here – and I have a house, a flash car and a place in the country. My pension is brilliant and I can look forward to a very wealthy retirement.

None of this would have been possible without my degree. If I had failed the second time I would have left the polytechnic and probably ended up flipping burgers. A life of drudgery and poverty would have followed. Uncle Walter passed on more than fifteen years ago, so I never had the chance to say, “Thank you.” Thank you for caring, thank you for realising that I had the potential for greatness. Thank you for having the courage to do something about it. And, yes, thank you for giving me the spankings I so richly deserved to guide me on my way.

But, I intend to do more than simply say “Thank you” to a man who is now dead. Later this evening I shall be visited by Kenny. Kenny is a student at the local university. His grades are failing and he is a ship tossing on a stormy sea.

Already, I have placed my heavy wooden clothes brush on the dining room table.

 

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Drunk last night

used brush drunk last night

Jack raised his face to the shower head and let the warm water cascade across his forehead and down his nose. He spluttered as accidentally he swallowed a mouthful. He wetted his hair, then allowed the water to run down his spine. He bent forward and soaked his arse crack. He was coming back to life.

It had been a heavy night. They had had nine maybe ten pints, he couldn’t remember. Pissed as farts. “Bladdered” they called it. Some people even said, “We caned it.” Huh! Perhaps, not the best term to use in the circumstances, he reckoned.

His head was clear now. Nineteen year olds had remarkable constitutions. They could be legless at two in the morning and running to catch the bus for work at eight. There was no work today as it was Saturday. Usually, he would have a lie in. Snuggling under the duvet wanking himself raw. Not today though. He had an appointment and woe betide him if he were a second late.

He stepped from the shower, reached over for the towel and wiped himself down. It always took an age to dry. He laughed out loud when he saw the old films on telly, when Elvis Presley or some other has-been steps out of the swimming pool gets handed a towel and is ready to go in seconds. Some hope. It always took Jack hours just to get his cock and balls dry.

He wrapped the towel round his waist, opened the door slightly to see the coast was clear and satisfied that it was he dashed across the landing into his bedroom. Damn it, he silently cursed. His undercarriage was still damp. He set to work again.

At last he was ready to dress. It was the height of summer and already the day was hotting up. A tee-shirt and shorts should be enough. He scrutinised his naked body in the mirror. There were two hairs near his left nipple; he’d need to shave before the weekend was over. His cock and balls were tidy, he never shaved but he did give them a trim now and again. It was Sex in the City that put him on to it. One of the old dames in the TV show took scissors to a guy she was about to give a blow job. Jack could see her point, she could be gagging on hairs all night.

Was he good looking? He was never sure. His skin was smooth and he rubbed in body lotion every day. He was about average height and build. He never worked out. He didn’t see the point, he already had a well-defined chest and his hips and waist were narrow. If he went to the gym he’d turn into a Muscle Mary, then everyone would think he was gay and how would that get him laid?

He glanced at his watch, three minutes to nine. He needed to get his skates on, he mustn’t be late. He opened his closet door and reached in for a tee-shirt, then he stepped into a pair of briefs before tugging on his shorts. He paused a second, maybe it would be wiser to wear heavy jeans. In the circumstances. Ha! He snorted out loud. Who was he kidding?

He straightened his shirt so it hung over his shorts, drew in a deep breath and opened the bedroom door.

He knew Uncle Matt would be in the lounge room. Jack had been drunk as a skunk when he bounced off the walls at two that morning, but not so far gone he couldn’t feel the full wrath of his uncle. Curfew missed. Second time in a month. The lounge. Nine o’clock. Get to bed. That was the gist of it.

Uncle Matt was waiting, as Jack knew he would be, dressed as if for the office. Despite the sweltering day in prospect, he wore a jacket and a tie, tightly knotted at his throat. He sat on a hard, dining room chair and by his side on a table was a heavy wooden clothes brush.

Jack paused at the door, heart thumping. This was hardly unchartered territory for him. His uncle had made it clear from the first day Matt had arrived. “It’s my way or the highway.” He meant he had rules. They had to be obeyed. You broke them, you got your arse blistered. You didn’t like it, “Ship out Mister.”

“Well!” Uncle Matt sneered, “What are you waiting for?” He could be a man of few words. He knew why Jack was here. Jack knew too. What more was there to say?

Except. “Come here. Take down those shorts and pants. Bend over my knee.” Swift and to the point.

Jack chewed his lip. Paused. Then waited some more. He should argue his case. He was nineteen years old. None of his mates would be going over their dads’ knees this morning for a bare-arsed spanking. So, he had gotten drunk. They all did it. Where was the harm?

Jack formulated the word in his head. But, what was the point. “My way, or the highway.” It couldn’t be clearer.

Uncle Jack wriggled his buttocks on the wooden seat of the chair and spread his legs a little further. He snapped his fingers. “Get on with it,” he growled, “we haven’t got all day.”

Actually, Jack thought, he did have all day and he wouldn’t mind one little bit if they took all the time in the world.

“Now!” It was a bark so sharp it startled Matt. In seconds he was across the room and standing by Uncle Matt’s side. He was a foot or so from his uncle, looking down at the middle-aged man’s powerful legs. The creases in uncle’s grey worsted trousers were so sharp you could cut your finger on them.

“Doh!” Uncle Matt had lost what little patience he had. He gripped the elastic waistband of Matt’s yellow sports shorts and in one tug had them at the teenager’s knees. His underpants snagged and bunched at the undercurve of Matt’s buttocks. Uncle Matt paused, looking at his nephew’s cock and balls poking over the top of the mauve cotton briefs. He scowled and sent them south to meet the shorts.

Jack flushed deep pink. It didn’t matter how many times his buttocks were bared for his uncle’s administrations, nor how often his cock and balls were on display, Jack could never get used to the humiliation. A grown man, half-naked being prepared to go over uncle’s lap for a sound bare-bottomed spanking. Who would ever believe such a thing possible?

“Bend over.” Uncle Matt preferred Jack to present himself submissively for punishment. It was as if he were saying, “I know I have broken your rules and I know I should be punished. Please spank my naughty bottom. Thank you, uncle.”

In his dreams that was how Uncle Matt saw it. It was true the first time he had ordered his nephew to prepare himself for punishment, he had refused and there had been an unseemly fight. But, resistance was futile. Jack might have been a fit eighteen-year-old at the time with all the strength that entails, but Uncle Matt was an experienced operator. The lad was face down over the back of the couch with his right arm pressed into his shoulder blades before he could say Jack Robinson. His shorts and pants were at his knees in a trice and the clothes brush was already blistering his backside. Round One to Uncle Matt.

There was no Round Two. Jack’s buttocks and thighs were toasted. Three days later he was still wriggling around when he sat on a hard dining room chair. Lesson learned: submit to Uncle Matt’s will, it is less painful in the long run.

The lesson was well learned. That was why Jack now eased himself across his uncle’s lap. He was not a tall boy and he fitted rather well. Uncle had parted his own thighs by about two feet, offering his nephew a perfect platform to present himself. The teenager’s stomach rested against uncle’s left thigh and the lad’s legs stretched behind him; his legs slightly bent and his toes brushing the deep pile Axminister carpet.

His arms reached forward and Jack’s palms rested firmly in the carpet. In this position, he had a close view of its ugly yellow-and-brown pattern. If he chose to, he could look under the chair and see his own feet, now covered by his shorts and underpants.

Uncle Matt wasn’t quite ready to go. He gripped Jack’s tee-shirt and although there was no need to do so since it wasn’t anywhere near to the teenager’s bared buttocks, he pushed it up towards his shoulder blades. Jack was now naked from his shoulders to his feet.

Uncle Matt cupped his right hand and gently rubbed the palm over Jack’s smooth skin, tracing the lad’s tan-line. He was almost entirely nut-brown; only a small portion around his buttocks was still the original white. The boy had been spending a little too much time in the sun wearing only skimpy swimming trunks.

Jack shut his eyes tight. He hated it when Uncle Matt “felt him up”, he knew the old man could see right into his crack. That was why he had spent a little extra time in the shower making sure it was sparkling clean. Jack felt his uncle’s body move. He couldn’t see, but he knew he was reaching across to the table to take up the heavy, wooden clothes brush. Any moment now the onslaught would begin.

Uncle Matt fingered the brush. It was about ten inches long and maybe three at its widest. A pal had given it to him when they were at university together. It had seen some action in its time, but he would be hard pressed to remember when it had last been used for its intended purpose.

He gripped the handle tightly and patted Jack’s bare bum with it. The teenager’s bottom was taut and stretched across his uncle’s knee it was as hard as a rubber ball. There was certainly no “give.” The term “buns of steel” might have been made for Jack.

Whack. The first stroke connected in the dead centre of Jack’s left buttock. A deep pink oval mark immediately appeared. Jack’s bum always reddened easily, it only took a slap of Uncle Matt’s hand to make it glow.

The second whack landed in the centre of the right cheek. Jack sucked on his bottom lip. It hurt. Like crazy. There was something special about the heat that a wooden brush could cause. It was a different pain from a flexible bedroom slipper or a cane. Jack would know; he had felt them all at one time or another. A heavy wooden brush applied with some effort across a bared backside left a burning sensation, like someone had pressed a hot poultice into the flesh.

Uncle Matt had a spanking technique he had perfected since his early twenties. It was all in the wrist action. Some people would raise the brush as high above their shoulder as they could reach before bringing it crashing down into the bum. It looked pretty spectacular, but a lot of the downward force was lost as the brush travelled over a distance. It was much better to keep the brush only a few inches above the bum and using wrist action wallop it across the naughty boy’s hindquarters. A golfer would probably be able to explain the technique better.

Uncle Matt raised the brush and brought it down on his left buttock, then again on the right. He had learned that you should start a spanking softly and build up a momentum until the whacks were reigning down hard.

Jack held his position steady. His bum was resting high on his uncle’s right leg and his back and head were sloped at a near perfect forty-five-degree angle towards the floor. His buttocks were perfectly placed for his uncle’s aim and he had no difficultly slapping away with the brush. Six on the left, six on the right, then one in turn on each; two at the top and two at the bottom of each buttock.

Jack wasn’t a howler; he didn’t cry either. He would shut his mouth by biting on his bottom lip. It stopped him yelping, but sometimes he bit so hard and so deep the pain in his lip lasted much longer than the ache in his backside.

Uncle Matt wasn’t deterred by his nephew’s stoicism. He knew a bare-buttock spanking with a heavy wooden brush hurt like hell. Jack’s bum was always red and raw and so hot you could probably fry an egg on it by the time Uncle Matt was finished.

Jack’s bum was turning a darker red now and his breathing was harder. He was in some pain, but he wasn’t about to show it. From his vantage point way above his nephew, Uncle Matt looked down at his head. His hair was flopped over his eyes, a fringe falling towards the floor. He saw a silent grimace as the brush hit his buttocks time and again. Jack screwed his eyes a little in pain, but no sound came from his lips and no tear from his eye.

The heat of the bare-bottomed spanking travelled from the buttocks and up and down Jack’s legs. The pain was intense as each successive slap connected with his flesh. The pain disappeared almost immediately the brush moved off his bum only to be replaced by more pain as the next crack hit its target.

Then it was over. Suddenly, the spanking stopped. Uncle Matt released his grip on Jack’s body and the teenager rolled off his uncle’s lap and landed on the carpet. The teenager’s cock and balls were on full display. Uncle Matt professed not to notice. Jack pulled up his underpants and stood up so he could return his shorts to their rightful place.

Uncle Matt stood himself and put the brush back on the table. He looked immaculately dressed. A stranger could not tell that over the past five minutes or so he had delivered to Jack the spanking of his lifetime. Not one hair on his head was out of place. No perspiration dampened his body.

Jack rushed from the room, took the stairs two at a time, crashed through his bedroom door and threw himself face-down on his bed where he cried piteously into his pillow.

Uncle Matt left the room, slipped out of his jacket and hung it on a hook in the hallway. Then, more sedately than his nephew, he ascended the stairs and made his way to the bathroom. There, he ripped down his trousers and pants and set to work on his raging boner.

 

Picture credit: End Art

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Two for the taws

z used sitting room by Leyendecker (59)

“Finlay! MacDonald!” Colonel MacIntosh leaned through the open window and bellowed at the two youngsters practising their golfing putts on the lawn. “Come to the sitting room at once!” His ruddy complexion betrayed his fury.

Finlay gripped his golf club tightly and exchanged a doleful glance with his cousin.  They had been expecting a summons; they had just hoped it wouldn’t come so soon.

“At once!” I say. Col. MacIntosh glared at his son and nephew and clenched his fist, his rage increasing with every moment.

“Coming father!” Finlay let the club fall to the immaculately-cut grass and without waiting for MacDonald he hurried towards the house. History had taught him never to keep the colonel waiting. He paused on the top stone step in front of the entrance and looked over his shoulder.

“C’mon Mac,” he whispered, “Let’s get this over with.”

MacDonald’s freckled face darkened. That blasted vicar, he left the words unspoken. Why couldn’t he mind his own business?

It wasn’t the vicar’s fault. The two eighteen year olds had nobody to blame but themselves. The Three Fishers Hotel was a notorious den of iniquity. The whole community knew that. That was why it was so popular with under-aged drinkers and good-time Charlies. Ladies (and some gentlemen too) of easy virtue were known to frequent its back bar.

Refreshed by a couple of lunchtime pints of beer, Finlay and MacDonald left the hostelry to return to MacIntosh Lodge, the family retreat. Only to, almost quite literally, bump into Rev. Macwhirter on his bicycle. They had been caught in the act. There was no mitigation to give. So, they legged it.

It was a small community, everyone knew each other’s business. They could be no escaping the consequences of the illicit pub visit. Nor, was there to be.

Col. MacIntosh paced the large drawing room. “Just wait until those scallywags get here,” he said aloud, although he was quite alone in the room. He bit deep into his bottom lip, a habit he had when angry.

Outside in the passageway, Finlay and MacDonald were faced with a closed door. What to do? Should they simply turn the handle, open the door and enter? This was their home, after all.

“Wait,” MacDonald commanded brusquely. The teenager was a frequent visitor to his headmaster’s study; he knew there was a certain etiquette with these things. “We should knock first.”

Finlay’s look of incredulity went unheeded. MacDonald balled his right hand into a fist and rapped it against the wood panelling. The silence was intense. Had his uncle not heard? He thought he had knocked pretty hard. He was debating with himself whether to knock again, when an imperious command resonated from within the room, “Enter!”

Suddenly aware that his hand was shaking, MacDonald turned the handle and pushed open the heavy door.

Col. MacIntosh was an imperious figure dressed for summer in a crumpled linen suit. He was a veteran of two Indian campaigns and his glare could fell a tiger at twenty paces. He stood straight as a ram-rod and gripped his hands behind his back.

“Stand there,” he nodded to a space close to an open window. It did not go unnoticed to the two miscreants that an armchair was conveniently placed nearby.

Finlay and MacDonald shuffled into place; eyes downcast. MacDonald could not persuade his hands to stop quivering. He gripped the legs of his trousers in a vain hope that would help. Finlay stood passively, sweat drenched his short ginger hair, it felt like someone had emptied a sponge full of water over his head. Freckles hid his beetroot face. His green eyes shone.

Col. MacIntosh was used to command. He was used to obedience and he never expected to explain himself. He spoke in short, sharp incomplete sentences. “Drinking. Three Fishers. Den of iniquity. Vicar. Warned before. Will not be tolerated.” The colonel shook his head furiously as he spat out the words.

This was not a court of law. Not even a court martial. The colonel had no wish to hear a defence. He proceeded straight to sentence.

“Finlay stand behind the chair. MacDonald face the wall.”

The colonel strode across the room towards a large wooden sideboard. Finlay stared intently; his heart pounding. Saliva drained from his mouth as he watched his uncle bend his knees so he could reach to a bottom drawer. He pulled it open and delved inside. Seconds later he was standing straight once more.

Finlay had no need to wait for his father to turn around to reveal what he had taken from the drawer. He knew well enough. It was a long thick leather strap, cut into three fingers at one end. It was a little over two-feet long and the business end was easily eighteen inches. He ran his dry tongue over cracked lips as his father tested the weight of the taws in his hand. This manoeuvre served little purpose, since the colonel was well aware of the capacities of the strap. He had had cause to use it often enough.

Col. MacIntosh sniffed the air, as if a sudden new pungent odour had entered the room. His eyes narrowed when he barked, “Trousers down. Underwear too!”

The command was not unexpected. His father always tanned on the bare, but Finlay could not stop his body reacting violently. Blood coursed through his body so that his ears hurt and his temples throbbed. His heartrate was off any scale a doctor might find acceptable. His eyes welled.

His belt was wide and heavy and at times like this difficult to loosen. Col. MacIntosh pah’d and bah’d as he waited impatiently for his son to obey his command. At last the trousers were open and the weight of the leather belt took the grey flannels to Finlay’s knee. He unbuttoned his woollen drawers and helped them down to meet his bags.

He stood naked from the waist down, conscious of a slight breeze from the open window cooling his cock and balls. The colonel swished the leather taws through the air; taking its measure. Finlay drew in breath; he wished the old man would just get on with it.

At last, the words he waited for were spoken, “Bend yourself over the chair.”

Finlay shuffled two or three steps to the chair. He paused and then in one athletic movement he dived over the back of the chair, his trousers and underwear slithered to his feet when he spread his legs. The eighteen-year-old gripped the seat. It was an ugly armchair. Finlay had always though so and he had seen it like this at close quarters many times. It was covered in the same material as the curtains. He doubted it had ever been cleaned. The material was worn and greying where so many pairs of buttocks had rested.

He felt his father take hold of his white cotton shirt and tug it forcefully up his back, ensuring that he was now naked from his shoulders to his ankles. The colonel stood back to admire his charge. Finlay was a short lad, no more than five-feet-seven. His build was athletic, he ran cross country for the school and was a keen golfer. Parts of his body were ruddy from the fierce Scottish winds that blew, even in summer.

“Legs further apart.”

Finlay shuffled his compliance. His crack widened and his hole was clearly visible. The colonel’s brow furrowed. It should not look like that. But, the colonel was a man of the world, he knew well enough what went on in school dormitories and army barracks.

He rested the three fingers of leather across his son’s buttocks. They were firm, pert cheeks. The taws covered most of them. He drew his arm back, twisted his body and crashed the taws across Finlay’s backside. He was rewarded by three livid pink stripes and a hissing sound that sounded like a steam engine settling down.

The colonel was a keen golfer and he knew how to put maximum force into a swing. The leather struck home again; this time a little lower. Already, after only two swipes, the whole of Finlay’s bum was glowing red hot.

MacDonald watched, his own heart thumping against his chest. The tanning looked severe, but his cousin seemed to be taking it well. He doubted he could be so stoical under the colonel’s lash. It was a cute bum, MacDonald had often admired it, especially now, naked and stretched over the back of an armchair.

A third and a fourth cut flogged across Finlay’s buttocks, welts started to appear where one stroke landed on top of a previous one. The teenager wriggled and stamped his feet up and down. His flesh was scalded, it felt like someone had poured the contents of a teapot over his bum.

Col. MacIntosh paused in his efforts. The room was close and muggy and sweat built up under the armpits of his linen jacket. In one athletic movement he had it off his shoulders and resting on a table. Thus, loosened up he prepared to continue with his duty. Twelve lashes fell in total. No part of Finlay’s buttocks was left unpunished. Vivid red stripes criss-crossed his cheeks and one burned into the back of his thigh. That would teach him to keep still for his whipping.

The teenager’s eyes blazed. This had been some whopping. His father had swiped his leather strap across his cheeks with so much force it was like he was beating a carpet. The wind had been knocked out of Finlay, he gasped air into his lungs and hacked a dry cough.

MacDonald stood transfixed. Finlay’s beautiful bum had been savaged by the beating. From where he was it seemed to glow like a lantern. He watched his cousin slowly rise from the chair. As Finlay bent to retrieve his drawers, his crack and hole widened. In seconds he was fully dressed and shuffling across the room to stand beside his pal.

“Your turn MacDonald,” Col. MacIntosh swished the leather through the air, pointing it in the general direction of the chair.

“B…” the teenager started to protest, but stopped himself short. There was nothing he could say. He must submit himself for punishment. He clenched his eyes shut tightly. This would be too mortifying. He was aware of Finlay behind him, still hopping from one foot to the other as the agony in his buttocks turned to a constant throbbing.

This was too humiliating. What would Col. MacIntosh think? Jesus what would Finlay think?

“Quickly, boy,” Col. MacIntosh’s glare stunned the teenager. He stepped forward uneasily and stood behind the garish armchair. Col. MacIntosh huffed his displeasure at being kept waiting. Scarlet of face, MacDonald unfastened his trousers.

At first Finlay gasped, then he cackled laughter. His cousin’s cock stood at fall salute. A deep-blue vein ran along the shaft from the balls to the tip and cum dribbled onto his underwear.

 

Picture credit: J. C. Leyendecker

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Uncle gets a shock

z used white pants Jonathan

It came as a total shock when I discovered my nephew Anthony was turned on by being spanked. At least that explained why any number of trips across my knee for the slipper, hairbrush or palm of my hand had not improved his behaviour. Once, I even gave him a thrashing with an old-fashioned whippy school cane. Nothing. He still broke every rule I every laid down for him.

Anthony is nineteen now – going on twenty – and has been living with me for eighteen months since his dad changed jobs and moved down south. The boy has a job of his own at a record shop and didn’t want to go with his parents. Rather, than eek out an existence in a sweaty room in a boarding house, he took up my offer to lodge with me.

Now, I think about it, he agreed with alacrity to my demands that if he came to live with me, he must abide by the rules – or suffer the consequences. I left him in no doubt what that meant: a very sore backside indeed.

He was trouble from the very start. I know something about teenagers; they like to test authority. It’s in their DNA to push boundaries and see how far they can go. The first time I ordered him across my knee was when he repeatedly broke his curfew. Home by eleven, I told him. I could not have been clearer. When he rolled in at eleven-fifteen one evening, I lectured him hard. “Next time, you will feel my slipper across your backside, young man,” I told him. I could not have been clearer.

So, when the following Saturday he arrived home so late it was Sunday morning, I was as good as my word. “Go to the sitting room. Wait for me,” I ordered. Meekly, he shuffled across the hallway and stood head slightly bowed and hands firmly behind his back. He waited like this while I dragged a heavy dining-room chair and plonked it down in the very centre of the room. I sat myself down and manoeuvred a slipper from my right foot.  I wriggled around a bit to get comfortable and when I was ready I squeezed the slipper tightly in my fist. It was a typical bedroom slipper, with the checked cloth upper and the springy sole. A slipper is a perfect spanking tool, which is why it is so popular with fathers and uncles tasked with instilling discipline into the young.

I grunted something to attract Anthony’s attention and he looked up. His eyes widened at the sight of me, a forty-five-year-old man of some physical stature, willing and able to inflict severe pain to his bottom.

Anthony stands at about five-feet-seven, I suppose. He is quite sporty and although I don’t think he goes to the gym, he has a very well-proportioned body. As I would soon discover he hardly had enough spare fat on his body to sizzle a sausage.

He was wearing jeans and a woollen jumper. That was no good to me. He wouldn’t feel a thing through heavy denims. “Take them down,” I instructed and then as if he hadn’t already understood my order, I added, “The jeans. Right down. To the ankles.”

Anthony is fair haired, almost blond, and his skin is very pale. This time, though, his face was so red it reminded me of beetroot. His eyes shone. I suspected he was so embarrassed, he might start to cry. I was prepared to ignore any pleading he might make to be let off. Boys about to be spanked will promise absolutely anything about their future good behaviour if only they could be spared a whacking.

In fact, he made no pleas. With slightly shaking hands, he undid the buckle of his belt and undid the top button on his ice-blue jeans. Once the zipper had been lowered the denims slid down his thighs and snagged at the knees. He spread his legs a little and they slithered down his shins and rested on top of his trainer shoes.

He wore very tight cotton briefs in a multitude of colours. Even in a standing position they hung tightly to the contours of his body. I could see his cock had been circumcised. “Come, bend over my knee,” I slapped my thigh as an encouragement.

He sucked down a lung-full of air and leaned forward, putting his hands on my right thigh and lowering himself down. It took a second or two for him to work out where his hands needed to be and how to present his bottom in the perfect position for my slipper. When he had settled, the palms of his hands were pressed down into the deep-pile carpet and his knees were slightly bent so that his toes hovered an inch or so from the ground. His bum was angled across my right leg, giving me unrestricted access to his buttocks.

The tight cotton briefs clung to his cheeks so tightly it looked like they had been sprayed on him. At this point I had a choice. Should I take hold of the elasticated waistband of the briefs and tug them over his firm bottom until the buttocks were bared, or should I allow them to stay in place and let him have the last vestiges of dignity? Since this was his first spanking – or at least the first I had administered – I left the pants up. In any case, I figured, if there needed to be a repeat performance of this sometime in the future I should have some way to up the ante as it were. That is to increase the severity of the punishment next time.

I wrapped by left arm around Anthony’s middle to hold him in place and began my assault on his dignity. My slipper crashed into the centre of his very tight bottom over and over again.  The sound of rubber against cotton echoed around the room. Anthony opened and closed his mouth, rather like a goldfish, but he uttered no sound. His head bounced up and down once or twice and his bum rose and fell across my knee, but all that was, I suspect, simply a natural reaction from his body. He was, in fact, taking his slippering remarkably well.

I’m not sure how many whacks I gave him, but I made sure that every square inch of his buttocks was toasted. I even lay one or two across the back of his thighs, below the hem of his pants. That hurt him, I could see that, but apart from some heavy breathing, he remained silent. I was delighted to see a dark-pink imprint of the sole of my slipper embossed in his pale flesh.

Satisfied that I had spanked him enough for now, I released him. Anthony shot to his feet, turned his back to me and bent down to retrieve his jeans. He had them zipped and buckled before he faced me, his hands held contritely in front of him. His cheeks were scarlet and I knew his buttocks would be too. His hair was drenched with sweat and I could see by the gleam in his eye that he desperately wanted me to dismiss him so he could rush to his room. I imagined that in a moment or two he would be face down on his bed sobbing his guts up into a pillow.

I lectured him a little and reminded him that I had an array of spanking instruments in the cupboard under the stairs that I would not hesitate to use and sent him on his way.

Well, over the coming months each and every one of those tawses, paddles and straps connected with Anthony’s backside. I went so far as to buy a couple of “authentic” school canes off eBay. I had the nineteen-year-old across my knee, bending over the back of the armchair and spread-eagled across the dining table. He was an incorrigible rule-breaker. No amount of punishment could make him obey.

Now I know why.

This evening I received a phone call from the owner of the record shop where Anthony works. He hadn’t been in today, was everything all right? I confronted my nephew and he told me he had skived off work with some mates and queued all day to get tickets for the forthcoming FA Cup quarter final. Now, I like football as much as the next man, but I know I have responsibilities to my employer and I can’t just not turn in. I also have responsibilities to Anthony to make sure he understands such things.

He was not surprised when he arrived in the kitchen after I had called him from his room that I was brandishing a heavy wooden hairbrush. He had felt its power across his naked buttocks more than once before. I sighed so hard to demonstrate to him how much of the world’s burdens I was asked to shoulder and ordered him to lower his cargo shorts and bend over my knee. He did so without question.

Once in position I dragged his gleaming white briefs down to his thighs and assaulted his bare buttocks with the brush. It is a mightily effective punishment tool and soon the centre of each cheek was glowing crimson. Anthony shook his head from side to side, rather like a horse does when it neighs, and his legs kicked out. The spanking was hurting, that’s for sure. I whacked on and on over the same spots on his bum until the flesh turned dark red and then purple. If I spanked any harder or for any longer blood would seep from the wounds. I did not want that. I believe in punishment and not in torture.

When I released him, he tugged his pants and shorts up and fled from the kitchen, not waiting for me to lecture him. I let the brush fall on to the kitchen table and switched on the kettle. I desperately needed a cup of tea.

I also needed to use the bathroom. As I climbed the stairs I noticed the door to Anthony’s room was slightly open. Suddenly, I had an overwhelming urge to know whether he was sobbing into his pillow. In all the times I had spanked him he never shed a tear in my presence. Rather absurdly, I tiptoed along the landing and stood outside his door with my ear pressed against it. I could not hear anything. Thinking that maybe the weight of the door was obstructing the sound, I pushed against it gently.

Nothing would ever be the same again.

Anthony was standing in front of the dressing table mirror. His rather large and extremely hard cock was in his hand and he was pumping away. His eyes were closed and he was stifling moans of ecstasy. I turned to leave. Too late. He heard a creak on the floorboard, opened his eyes and in the reflection in the mirror saw me. His face glowed with embarrassment, he pulled up his pants and turned to face me.

I don’t know what happened next, I skedaddled and locked myself in the bathroom.

That was a little over an hour ago. I have drunk three cups of tea and have calmed down considerably. A young man who likes to be spanked, who would ever have thought such a thing. Still, it certainly explained a thing or two to me about his bad behaviour.

I started to giggle; I think it was the tannin in all that tea. Now, I had a plan. I shall confront Anthony and tell him this. In future, he will obey his curfew, he will do all the chores about the house that I give him. He will respect my wishes at all times and follow all my instructions. If he does these things to my total satisfaction I will spank him. Very hard indeed. I think they call that ‘psychology’. It is in any case a win-win situation for both of us.

 

Picture credit: Jonathan / colour by Buckcub

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Dad’s revenge

used drawing strap hold (1)

Harry Taylor barged his way through the crowds towards his train. Evening rush hour did nothing to improve his temper. He had been seething all afternoon since he got the phone call from his wife. There would be hell to pay when he got home.

He couldn’t get a seat on the train (of course) and had to stand nose by armpit all the way. The summer heat was unbearable. Sweat soaked the back of his shirt and there was no room to turn around to remove his jacket.

At last the train pulled into Brocklehurst South. In ten minutes time he would be home. Then the drama would begin. He removed his jacket and carried it under one arm. In the other hand he carried his briefcase. It was light because it had nearly nothing in it. He had it to impress the neighbours. Let them think he was “something” in the City, he thought. Better that than they know the truth.

He crossed the road from the station, turned into Acacia Avenue and followed it until it dog-legged. Then he took a left into The Avenue. The air was clear in the tree-lined suburb. A fellow could breathe here; not like on the train, or in the City.

Everything was quiet, most residents of The Avenue kept themselves hidden from their neighbours. Some houses were large and detached from the rest of the world behind hedges or gates. The Taylor house was more modest; semi-detached with a garden, big enough for his family’s needs, but no different from hundreds of thousands such houses across suburbia.

The front door was ajar. His wife was waiting, anxiously, her ashen face betraying her torment. He gave her a perfunctory peck on the cheek; he thought she deserved as much. He left his briefcase in the hallway, hung his jacket on a hook and eased his necktie off.

His wife followed him into the kitchen and watched nervously as he took a coffee mug, half filled it with lukewarm water from the tap and gulped it down. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and spoke. “So, where is he?”

He noticed for the first time that his wife had been crying. The redness in her eyes deepened as she snapped a reply, “Skulking, in his bedroom.”

Harry puffed out his cheeks. There would have to be a confrontation. What if he called his son to come down from his room and face him and he refused to do so. What then? He exchanged silent glances with his wife. Harvey was twenty years old and a few inches taller than his dad; and a lot less heavy. In a fair fight Mr Taylor wouldn’t stand a chance.

“What are you going to do about it?” His wife’s tone was accusatory, as if it was her husband’s fault their son was a thief.

“He needs a damn good leathering,” Harry had been thinking about it all afternoon.

“He’s a bit old for that, isn’t he?” his wife was unconvinced.

“Well, what do you suggest?” Harry’s hands shook. His wife had no answer. She still couldn’t take it in. It was a nightmare. The police had called that afternoon in broad daylight. With a search warrant – for the whole house. It took an hour and twenty minutes. She had timed them and all the while nosey Mrs. Brackett in the house across the street stood at her front window twitching the lace curtains.

The police found what they were looking for. Stolen car parts. Car parts. Mrs. Taylor was astonished. Of all the things a person might want to steal, why the hell chose car parts?

At last she answered her husband’s question, “There’s nothing we can do really, is there?” she sniffed.

Harry puffed his cheeks. “No, we can’t just let it go. He deliberately planned to steal these things and hide them in our house. It was planned. Meticulous.” Harry felt absurd even as the words flowed from his mouth. It was as if he was describing a bank heist or a jewel theft. “It’s not as if he stole on the spur of the moment. Like taking a Mars bar from the newsagents.”

His wife had no answer to that. There would be a court case. Harvey would get a fine, or a community service order. Or possibly, both. “Oh”, she gasped at a sudden realisation, “It’ll be in The News, everyone will read about it.”

The stuck-up neighbours in The Avenue would have a field day. She remembered Tommy Burstow at number ninety-two. He had been convicted of taking and driving away cars. It was the main topic of gossip in the street for days and she had contributed more than her fair share of it.

Harry wanted revenge. Retribution. Vengeance, even. Harvey would have to pay. He would have to take a leathering or he could pack his bags and go. He was twenty years old, he had a job in an insurance office, he could find himself a room somewhere.

“I’m calling Frank. I’ll see if he can bring Paul, I can’t do this on my own.” He told his wife who wearily nodded her assent.

Harry’s brother Frank was appalled. “If it was my boy, I’d tan his arse and kick him out of the house.”

Frank and his brother Paul were in The Avenue within the hour. They listened appalled as Harry once more detailed his son’s crime. A black, wide, heavy leather belt lay on the dining room table. Harry tested is weight in his hands. He had never used it for anything other than its intended purpose, but he reckoned it would pack a punch, if only he could get close enough to Harvey to swing it.

Harry put the strap down and shuffled to the foot of the stairs. “Come down Harvey!” he called, “I want a word with you!”

The twenty-year-old curled up on his bed, clutching his pillow to his chest. “A word”, his dad wanted more than “a word”. He had seen Uncle Frank’s BMW pull up in front of the house. His cousin Terry had told him about Uncle Frank. This was not going to end pleasantly.

Harvey heard his father call once more. He put the pillow over his head, but he could still hear.

“C’mon” Frank nodded to Paul, “Let’s go and fetch him down.” Harry grunted.

Moments later Harvey was manhandled down the stairs. His shoeless feet slipping and sliding against the carpet as he failed to stop the two men dragging him into the living room.

“Fuck off! Leave me alone!” Harvey heaved his shoulders, but with two heavy men, one holding each arm, he was going nowhere.

“Watch your mouth,” Uncle Frank twisted the boy’s arm, cranking his shoulder. Harvey yelped with the pain.

Harry stood impassively watching. His son’s eyes were bloodshot; he had shed a bucketful of tears already. The boy was bulky, but not as weighty as his two assailants. Tattoos completely covered both arms.

“Here,” Frank had taken compete control. With Paul’s help and despite Harvey’s continual effing and blinding the boy was bent face down over the table. He wriggled, writhed and kicked his legs at his jailers, but he was overpowered.

In all the mayhem, Harvey’s denim jeans had risen up his buttocks and clung tightly to his cheeks. Frank could clearly see the outline of the boy’s crack.

“These jeans are too thick,” Frank looked across at Harvey’s dad, but did not wait for permission. “C’mon Paul,” he said as he jerked Harvey to his feet. “Harry,” he called to Harry, “undo his belt, take the jeans down.”

Without thinking, Harry stood behind his son and reached around the boy’s waist. He was rewarded with a kick in the shins. Undeterred, the belt was soon undone and buttons and zipper fly released. Harry had intended only to lower the jeans but Harvey twisted and turned so much, his boxer shorts slipped down over his buttocks. Harry helped them on their way. Now, bare-arsed, Frank and Paul toppled him back over the table top.

Harry stood emotionlessly. This was not his son spread-eagled across the table. It was a stranger. Harvey had not been raised to be a thief. Mr Taylor didn’t want an explanation. He had no desire for mitigation. He lifted the heavy leather strap and crashed it against his son’s quivering buttocks. A sunset strip seared across Harvey’s bum and the twenty-year-old yelped like a little whipped puppy. Frank and Paul pressed him further down into the wooden table top.

Another swipe landed a little lower. Harvey banged his head up and down and kicked his legs. All attempts to escape were futile. He was held face-down and bottom-high and he was staying there until his dad and his uncles said so.

Whack-whack-whack! Harry had no idea how to spank a boy. He had never been beaten as a child and, unlike Frank, had never felt it necessary to wallop any of his children. He worked on instinct. A spanking had to hurt, he reckoned, that was the point of it. So, he whipped the leather into his son’s spongy bum over and over again. It was crimson in no time. Stripes criss-crossed the buttock cheeks. Some went east-to-west; others north-to-south, forming ridges.

Harvey soon gave up swearing at his attackers. He had no breath, his lungs were empty. He huffed and puffed and coughed his guts up. Tears washed his face, vomit stuck in his throat.

Looking back later, Harry was surprised he was so calm. It was, he told his wife, like an “out-of-body” experience. He was looking down at the scene as someone else leathered the arse off his son.

Harry crashed another six, hard and at speed, into the fleshiest part of Harvey’s cheeks. The boy roared. Snot cascaded down nose. His face and neck were as scarlet as his bum, sweat soaked his hair. His temples pulsated.

“Let him go.” Frank released his grip and Paul followed. Harvey sprang to his feet like jack-in-the-box released. Not waiting to pull up his jeans and pants, he stumbled from the room. His dad heard him stumbled and fall as he struggled to mount the stairs.

Harry rested his belt on the settee and moved to the cocktail cabinet. He poured three stiff whiskeys.

Paul took a long sip and then looked at up at the ceiling. “He deserved all he got.” He took another sip, “Serves him right for getting caught.”

Frank nodded his agreement and downed his drink in one.

 

Other stories you might like

The cheating student

The pub manager

Home late

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com