A drama in one scene

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A theatre play

The drama takes place sometime in the late 1960s / early 1970s. It is the sitting room / lounge / front room / parlour with typical furniture of the time, which could a settee, arm chairs, dining table, sideboard and television set. It must include at least one straight-backed chair.

Characters

UNCLE who can be aged anywhere between 40 and 55. He is a working-class man and should dress appropriately, such as dark trousers and a plain shirt. He could be dressed with no shirt but a discoloured singlet. He might be in work clothes, such as jeans or overalls.

NEPHEW aged 18. Ideally he should be slim and shorter in height than UNCLE. He can be dressed in basic jeans and shirt but if the theatre resources allow let him wear more “fashionable” clothes of the time such as baggy trousers, floral-print shirt and striped “tank top” pullover.

 

SCENE

Curtain opens onto the sitting room. After about five seconds UNCLE enters the room. He is guiding (not dragging) NEPHEW by the wrist. UNCLE takes NEPHEW to the centre of the room. Both stand while the dialogue takes place.

UNCLE [Not angry] I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve spoken to you.

NEPHEW shakes his wrist free and stares shamefaced at the floor.

UNCLE. Ever since you came to stay with me and Aunt Jane you’ve been nothing but trouble. [Waves his arms about.] You treat this place like a hotel. You stay out til all hours. Last night you came home drunk.

NEPHEW looks at his Uncle opens his mouth as if to protest but thinks better of it.

UNCLE. I’ve spoken to you about this before. Haven’t I?

NEPHEW shrugs shoulder and looks down at the floor.

UNCLE. Doh! Is that all you can do? Shrug your shoulder. Don’t you have anything to say for yourself.

NEPHEW gives a half smile, showing indifference.

UNCLE. Nothing I seem to say gets through to you lad. Nothing. Well, you leave me no alternative. You’re getting a spanking. That’s all.

NEPHEW. [Gapes] A spanking? But …

UNCLE. No buts. You’ve been asking for this for a long time. I said you had to be home by ten-thirty every night but you ignored me. You’re always rude to Aunt Jane. I told you about that. You don’t do yourself any favours.

NEPHEW. But uncle, I’m too old for a spanking.

UNCLE. Ha! You are not too old. If you don’t know how to behave, I’ll have to teach you. A spanking will soon bring you to your senses.

UNCLE picks up a straight-backed chair and plonks it down in the middle of the room.  NEPHEW stares uncle wide-eyed.

NEPHEW. But uncle  . ..

UNCLE sits on the chair.

UNCLE. Stand there.

UNCLE snaps fingers and points to the floor by his side. NEPHEW stares at his uncle. Twists his fingers with embarrassment.

NEPHEW. But uncle ….

UNCLE. Don’t “But uncle” me. Do as you’re told. Right now!

NEPHEW shuffles to the spot.

UNCLE. Right. Take down your trousers.

NEPHEW. [Gaping. Panicking] No uncle! No. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.

UNCLE. I know you won’t do it again. Not after I’ve spanked you. You’ll remember it next time you want to be rude to your aunt or stay out late. Now get em down.

NEPHEW takes a step back, looks around him as if he is thinking about running away.

UNCLE. Are you going to take those trousers down or do you want me to do it for you?

UNCLE reaches forward and takes hold of the waist of NEPHEW’S trousers and pulls him forward. Tries to unbuckle his belt. NEPHEW tries to retreat but UNCLE has grip on his belt.

NEPHEW. No, no uncle. Please. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. Really.

UNCLE. I’ve given you lots of chances. You threw them all back in my face. This is what you deserve. I don’t want to spank you. You don’t give me any choice. You need to learn to behave. You’ll thank me for this one day.

NEPHEW. But uncle. I’m eighteen. I’m too old to be spanked like a little kid. I’m an adult.

UNCLE. You are not an adult until you’re twenty-one. That doesn’t make you an adult anyway. You have to act like an adult. Take responsibility. You don’t do that. I’ve tried with you. God alone I’ve tried. We even thought about telling you you had to leave. We couldn’t stand it anymore. Do you want that? Do you want to go live in some stinking bedsit somewhere?

NEPHEW. No uncle.

UNCLE. Right then. Take down them trousers.

UNCLE waves his hands up and down in front of NEPHEW

NEPHEW. Oh Uncle.

NEPHEW’s hands shake as he fumbles with the buckle of his belt. At last it is open. He pauses and looks at UNCLE seeking pity, hoping for a last-minute reprieve. UNCLE watches him impassively. NEPHEW unbuttons the waist of his trousers and then pulls the zip fly. He looks at UNCLE who is wriggling his bottom to get comfortable on the chair. NEPHEW lets the trousers fall down his legs to his feet.

UNCLE. Good lad. Now, come bend over my knee.

NEPHEW has a look of horror on his face. He stares at UNCLE who parts his legs to make a platform for NEPHEW to bend across.

NEPHEW. Oh Uncle … please.

UNCLE slaps his own thigh to encourage NEPHEW to bend over.

UNCLE. C’mon lad. Let’s get this over with.

NEPHEW hugely embarrassed, chews on his bottom lip. He moves forward, rests his hands on UNCLE’S thigh and gently lowers himself across.

NEPHEW must be over UNCLE’s knee with his arms stretched ahead of him and palms flat on the ground. His bottom must be at an angle over UNCLE’s thigh. NEPHEW legs will dangle in the air behind him. He must be positioned submissively. He has decided he must take his spanking.

UNCLE takes his time to observe NEPHEW’s position over his lap. UNCLE is impassive. Slowly he takes hold of the elasticated waist of NEPHEW’s underpants. NEPHEW tenses visibly. Slowly UNCLE starts to pull the underpants down over NEPHEW’S buttocks.

UNCLE. It’s not a proper spanking if it’s not on the bare.

NEPHEW. [Panicking] No, uncle, no!

NEPHEW tries to reach his hand back to protect his bottom. UNCLE slaps it. Then grabs the arm and pushes it back towards the floor.

UNCLE. None of that. Keep that away. Don’t be a coward. Take your spanking. You deserve it. You know you do.

UNCLE continues to pull the pants down until they are at NEPHEW’S knees. NEPHEW closes his eyes tight. Covers his face with his hands.

UNCLE pats NEPHEW on the fleshiest part of his bottom. He presses gently into the flesh judging how much meat there is in the boy’s buttocks. He wraps his left arm around NEPHEW’s middle to make sure he isn’t going anywhere. Then, he raises his hand to a height of a foot or two and slaps hard across the middle of the bum. He spanks hard and fast. Within seconds the bottom is pink.

NEPHEW gasps. He uncovers his face and slumps forward. As the spanking intensifies he presses his hands into the ground and his body goes up and down. It is like he is doing press-ups.

UNCLE spanks rapidly. About sixty whacks per minute. He makes sure he goes round the entire circuit. He starts in the fleshiest part of the buttocks and systematically goes higher and then lower. He sees the overline of his own hand imprinted time and again across the buttocks.

NEPHEW gasps. He shakes his head from side to side and up and down like a horse trying to get rid of a troublesome fly.

z used otk chair bare (41)

UNCLE. I hope you’re feeling this. I hope it’s doing you some good.

NEPHEW opens his mouth as if to reply but cannot get the words out because he is too busy gasping.

UNCLE slaps his hand hard into the back of the legs where it is more sensitive. NEPHEW yaps with the shock and the pain.

UNCLE. Are you learning a lesson from this?

NEPHEW. Gasping. Yes, uncle yes. Please stop.

UNCLE. I’m not so sure. [Spanks the back of the legs harder] Maybe I should call Aunt Jane to bring down her hairbrush.

NEPHEW. No uncle, please. No. I’m sorry. I will be good. I will. I promise.

UNCLE. [Still spanking] I know you’ll behave. Because if you don’t I’ll have you back over my knee and it will be the hairbrush. How do you feel about that.

NEPHEW. [Pleading] No uncle. Please no.

UNCLE. [Spanking harder] Are you going to be rude again to your aunt?

NEPHEW. No uncle. No.

UNCLE. Are you going to stay out late at night?

NEPHEW. No uncle.

UNCLE. Promise?

NEPHEW. Yes, uncle. Please stop spanking me. You’re hurting me.

UNCLE. That’s the point son. That’s the point. It’s the only way you’ll learn.

NEPHEW covers his head with his hand.

NEPHEW. Oh uncle.

UNCLE spanks for another minute or so. He is not a brutal tyrant he is a caring uncle. He wants NEPHEW to learn to behave. NEPHEW is sore. His bottom feels like he has been made to sit in a bathtub of very hot water. It hurts like hell now, but once uncle stops slapping his bare bottom the pain will soon become a throbbing ache and within no time at all it will be only a tingle.

UNCLE [Stops spanking] OK. Get up.

NEPHEW jumps up. His trousers are still at his feet and the underpants at his knees. He rubs away at his toasted buttocks vigorously and screws his face up to emphasise the pain he feels. UNCLE stays seated watching impassively.

UNCLE. Get dressed.

NEPHEW tugs up his underpants and winces as the soft cotton connects with his raw bum. Then, slowly, he bends down to retrieve his trousers and pull them up. He is breathless.

UNCLE stands close to NEPHEW.

UNCLE. Will I have to do that again.

NEPHEW pats the seat of his trousers

NEPHEW. No uncle.

UNCLE. I hope not. I hope you’ve learned your lesson.

NEPHEW. Yes, I have uncle. Sorry uncle.

UNCLE. Good lad. Get off to your room.

NEPHEW walks gingerly from the room. UNCLE goes to the television, switches it on and sits in the armchair.

Lights fade to dark.

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

Uncle Graham’s belt

Lodging with Uncle Ralph

The TV repairman

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Justin learns a valuable lesson

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z used pants contrite (1)

I cannot believe you. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve had to tell you. What is the matter with you? You are a disgrace. Your aunt is in floods of tears. I cannot believe what you have said to her.

You need to learn some manners lad. You’re not a schoolboy any more. You’re at university for God’s sake. You’ve been such a disappointment since you moved in here. What would your mum and dad say, eh? You used to be such a sweet little boy. Look at you now. Rude. Arrogant. Insolent. Disrespectful. Bad-mannered. I just don’t get it. What’s got into you Justin?

Look at me when I’m talking to you. Don’t look down at the floor. Aren’t you the least bit ashamed? You treat our house like it’s a hotel. We know you haven’t got much money; we don’t charge much rent. Only enough to cover your keep. We are doing you a favour. And your mum and dad. If your weren’t family we would’ve chucked you out long ago.

Now, you come home drunk. At least I hope it was drunk. Was it drugs? Are you taking drugs? Is that why you’ve gone off the rails. Are you high all the time? Are you an addict? Do you need help? No, I don’t think you’re an addict, but you do need help. You can’t go on like this. You’ve got a lot of growing up to do, young man.

You’re not evil Justin. You seem to be working hard. Your grades aren’t bad. So far anyway. Are you still going to classes? You’d better be. I don’t want to find out too late that you’ve been skiving off uni. When you fail your exams at the ned of the semester.

What have you got to say for yourself?

Don’t pout at me. You must have some explanation. Why did you call Aunt Rose such a vile name? I still cannot believe you were so rude. What is the matter with you lad? What. No answer. I despair. I really do. You have got to change. I’ve told you often enough. I told you not to take food into the good lounge. What did you do? The room stinks of hamburgers. And what’s that stain on the carpet on the stairs? Looks like beer to me. I didn’t do it. Aunt Rose didn’t do it. It was you. Don’t shake your head at me lad. Don’t deny it.

You haven’t left me a lot of choice. You only have yourself to blame. I have told you over and over. You just take no notice. I despair, I really do. You know what Justin I’ve spoken to your dad and he agrees with me. He’s two hundred miles away or else he’d do it himself. But he’s told me to go ahead and do it myself. What do you think of that?

Don’t argue with me Justin. You know what I’m talking about. A good hiding. You’ve been asking for it for weeks. Now you’re going to get it. I don’t want any fuss from you. I don’t want to spank you. Look at you, you’re eighteen, nearly nineteen years old. You should be too old for this. But you’re not. You leave me no choice. I hope to God I can knock some sense into you.

….

Uncle Buster takes a deep breath. He’s little harangue is over. Now is the time for action. Justin watches, a little stunned, as his uncle crosses the lounge over to the stand where the television is. On the lower shelf are his bedroom slippers. He reaches down and grabs one. He grips it in his right fist and turns to face his nephew. He is very calm. He has no anger against the boy. Justin needs a dame good spanking. That is what he is going to get. Uncle Buster hopes it will do the trick. He wants Justin to grow up into a decent, responsible adult. He used to be a good kid – didn’t he get really good marks in his school exams – but somehow he’s lost his way. He needs guiding back onto the straight-and-narrow. A sore bum will show him the way.

“Come over here Justin,” Uncle Buster walks over to the dining table. He picks up one of the chairs and turns it round so it faces into the room. “Hurry up lad,” he sighs. He really doesn’t want a fuss. He wants Justin to take his punishment; he doesn’t need some unseemly row. Heaven forbid his nephew should fight him.

Justin stays motionless. He seems to be weighing things up. Having a discussion with himself in his head. Foremost, he is embarrassed. His uncle wants to spank him. Eighteen years old and to be spanked by his uncle. He cannot be serious. It is true, Justin knows he is all the things Uncle Buster says he is. But Justin likes his aunt and uncle. It’s just … It’s just …. Justin cannot explain it, not even to himself. He has no idea why he behaves the way he does.

Uncle Buster brandishes his slipper. “Come here lad,” he says more sternly. He sits down on the chair. It is obvious what his intentions are. He waves the rubber-souled slipper again. “Quickly,” his voice cracks. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

Justin frowns. Does he have a choice? If so, what is it? This is uncle’s house. It is a fine, comfortable house. His aunt and uncle are kind to him. Justin has repaid their generosity by making their lives a misery. A little shamefaced, he sucks down on his bottom lip. If he refuses, he will certainly be told to pack his bags and go. Then what? His dad will hit the roof, so Justin will have Dad and Uncle Buster to contend with. Justin knows he cannot defeat the both of them.

Justin is not a religious boy (who of his age is these days?) but he does feel shame. He has let Aunt Rose and Uncle Buster down. He has let Mum and Dad down. Heck, he begins to see, he has let himself down. He is better than this.

Uncle Buster is getting irritated. “Stand there,” he snaps his fingers to a place on the carpet close to his right leg. The snapping seems to wake up Justin. He sucks his lip again. He is a little surprised to find his legs are taking him across the room. He stands by his uncle. Justin stares at the man sitting on the chair. He is a large man, mostly because of the roll of fat that hangs over the waistband of his trousers. He has two chins and what are sometimes referred to as “man boobs”.

Uncle Buster holds the slipper by the heel and scrunches it in his right fist. “Bend over my knee, son,” he says apologetically. He doesn’t want to do this, but that won’t stop him. It is for Justin’s sake. He deserves to have his backside soundly spanked. He needs correction. He has to learn how to behave. It will be for his own good. He won’t think that today, but sometime in the future he’ll understand. He might even thank Uncle Buster for caring enough to take him across his knee.

Justin draws down a lung-full of air. His head feels light. Is he really here? In the lounge room. Standing by his Uncle Buster. About to bend across his knee. To let him spank him on the bottom with his slipper. Justin cannot believe it. It’s like it’s happening to some other disrespectful teenager, not Justin.

Uncle Buster parts his legs. His fatty thighs make a sizeable platform for his nephew. Justin doesn’t know what to do. Where are his hands supposed to go? Is he meant to lean on Uncle Buster’s thighs and slowly lower himself down? He decides to flop forward, a bit like the way he does when he dives into a swimming pool. His body sinks into uncle’s thighs. Justin reaches his arms forward and lets his legs dangle in mid-air. He is surprised how comfortable he feels. Uncle Buster has a lot of padding.

Justin is dressed only in underpants. When he is standing they cling to the contours of his buttocks. Now, stretched across uncle’s knees, they are even tighter. The smooth cotton digs into his crack. It’s like someone is giving him a wedgy. It makes him wriggle.

“Keep still Justin,” his uncle’s voice is soft. He shows no anger. “Now, please don’t make a fuss,” he whispers. Then he takes a firm hold of the waistband of Justin’s pants and starts to tug them down. They are tight and the boy is lying firmly across his lap and it is not easy for Uncle Buster to get them over the buttocks. “No, Uncle, no,” Justin pleads as the reality of his situation becomes clear.

“Underpants are of little use at a time like this,” Uncle Buster says stoically. “It’s not a proper spanking unless it’s on the bare.” After much tugging he has the pants at Justin’s knees. He hopes they might prevent his nephew from kicking his legs about too much.

“Remember Justin,” Uncle Buster says as he gently taps the slipper against the fleshiest part of the teenager’s left cheek, “You have been asking for this for a very long time. You only have yourself to blame.” Then he whacks the slipper down hard. The cheek wobbles. A pink mark slowly appears. Justin opens his mouth, forming a perfect “O” with his lips. His eyes blink. A second slap hits him on the other cheek. The pain is mounting.

Uncle Buster sets about slippering Justin’s bottom. He pounds the slipper across the quivering bum cheeks with great force. These are not “love taps”, this is a proper spanking. It has to be a genuine punishment, otherwise Justin will not learn. It has to hurt. Justin must fear a repeat performance if he does not improve his behaviour.

Very soon the imprint of the slipper’s sole is embossed all across Justin’s bum. He wriggles and he kicks his legs (the pants do act as a restraint). He waves his arms about. He looks like he’s trying to swim off Uncle Buster’s lap. He can’t help it. He has no control, it is his body’s natural reaction, trying to protect itself against the heavy onslaught. The bottom glows red. The boy tries to protect his bum with his hand. He can’t do it. He can’t reach back that far. He is over uncle’s knee at an acute angle; his head is low and his bottom is high. Uncle grips him tightly around the waist. Justin can’t do a thing. He is trapped; he’s not going anywhere. Not until Uncle Buster thinks he has been spanked enough. Then – and only then – will he be released.

Not one square centimetre of Justin’s buttocks are spared. They go dark pink and then red. Purple bruises burst out where the edge of the slipper catches his bottom awkwardly. Justin shuts his eyes tightly. His bum throbs. Each new whack of the slipper makes the temperature of his bum go higher.

“Are you learning your lesson?” Uncle Buster asks softly. Justin concentrates on dealing with the growing pain and does not hear the question. Uncle smiles affectionately. His nephew’s grunt and groans tell him the answer is Yes. Justin’s temples throb almost as much as his backside. His head feels like it has expanded to twice its natural size. His heart races and he can’t quite catch his breath. Tears trickle from the corner of his eyes.

Uncle is nearly finished. Just one more task left. He slaps the slipper six times across the back of Justin’s naked left thigh. That has the lad yapping like a little whipped puppy. The six he pounds into the other thigh turns the yaps to full-throated yells.

That’s enough, Uncle Buster says to himself. He is soaked with sweat. It is not easy for a man of his size to expend so much energy. If he isn’t careful he might have a seizure. He stops slippering, but continues to hold Justin face down across his lap. The boy’s breathing is uneven and heavy. Is this how a beached dolphin sounds? Uncle Buster admires his handiwork. Both buttocks shine. If he turned off the light they would glow in the dark. It is a sound spanking. Just as it should be. He feels no hatred or anger for the disobedient boy. Justin has taken his punishment. He hardly struggled. Uncle Buster is very proud of him. We hopes it will be the only time he needs to punish the boy.

“Get up,” he says quietly. Justin rolls off his uncle’s lap and plops onto the floor. Instinctively, he reaches to his burning bottom and rubs vigorously. Still on the ground he tugs his underpants up to their rightful place. Uncle Buster stands, walks to the sideboard and digs into a box of Kleenex. He hands Justin a fistful of tissues and quietly the teenager wipes the residue of tears from his face.

“Will I have to do that again?” Uncle Buster asks gently. Justin has regained full control. “No uncle. Sorry uncle,” his voice catches. He means it. The pain in his backside is easing, but it stings like a thousands wasps have been at it.

“Go to your room and make sure you apologise to Aunt Rose later,” Uncle Buster is replacing the chair.

“Yes uncle,” Justin walks unsteadily back to his bedroom where in the mirror he examines his battered bottom in minute detail. He shakes his head in disbelief. Did this really happen? In this day and age? To a disrespectful eighteen-year old? He rubs his eyes as if that might wake him from his dream. It doesn’t work. Gingerly, he lays down on his bed and with the tips of his fingers he gently massages his bottom.

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

The fire-raiser

What a disappointment!

Dreams of spanking

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A brush with Uncle Herbert

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“Right lad, this is what’s going to happen,” it was Uncle Herbert speaking to me, “You are going to come and stand there,” he snapped his fingers and pointed to a spot just to the right of where he sat, “You are going to take down your trousers and bend across my knee.”

My incomprehension must have been obvious because he went on by way of explanation, “I’m going to spank you.” And to emphasise his point he brandished a heavy, wooden utility brush with metal bristles.

I was too confused to say anything. He glowered at me and said, “You have been asking for this from the moment you arrived.”

I stood rooted to the spot, totally confused. Uncle Herbert wanted to spank me. Me, a nineteen-year-old warehouseman.

“I told you from the start I would treat you like the rest of my young employees. No exceptions.” He waved the brush at me as he spoke. I shook my head violently as if to clear it. Was I hearing this correctly? He wanted to spank me like the rest of my young employees. I stared across the room. His eyes burned into me. He was entirely serious. No, I told myself silently, this was not happening. I’ll wake up in a minute and it would have just been a weird dream.

I had been working at Uncle’s import-export business for about a month. I’d left school the year before without any qualifications to speak of and had been in and out of dead-end jobs; shelf filling, burger flipping, delivering leaflets door-to-door, that sort of thing. My mum made Uncle Herbert take me on. I suppose blood is thicker than water and he felt obliged.

I loathed my job; it was mostly loading and unloading vans or stacking shelves. Once they discovered I was the boss’s nephew, the other guys hated me. They would stop talking among themselves when I came near. They knew lots of different ways to avoid work, and I think some of them might have been stealing from the warehouse: they were afraid if I found out I’d grass on them.

I started skiving off on my own. I sometimes went around the back of the building to look at porn on my phone. I didn’t realise there was CCTV all over the place; Uncle Herbert soon found out about me. He hit the roof and threatened all sorts of things. But he didn’t say anything about spanking me! Mostly, it was, I’ll tell your mum!”

“I said, come here and bend over my knee!” Uncle Herbert growled, still waving the huge brush about. I should have told him to shove it where the sun don’t shine. And, he could do the same with his stinking job. I could have done that but Mum would’ve gone mental. She got annoyed when I lost my other jobs; what the Hell would she do if I walked out on Uncle Herbert. I couldn’t do it. He was family. Mum might have thrown me out the house and told me to go live in a cardboard box for all she cared. I know Dad couldn’t wait to see the back of me. My younger brother Nathan wouldn’t mind either; he’d get the bedroom we shared all to himself.

“Now, Lad!” Uncle Herbert snarled, “Or do I have to come over there and get you?” He half raised from the chair. I could see he meant business. “C’mon Uncle,” I whined, “You cannot be serious?” I sounded like that brat tennis player what’s his name? The one with the frizzy hair and attitude. “I’m nineteen years old, not nine,” I told him. The moment the words came out I knew I had made a big mistake.

He leapt from the chair and was across the room in a flash. He grabbed a hunk of my hair and tugged me back to the chair. I howled as my feet slipped across the shiny floor. “Eff off!” I yelled, only I used the proper F-word. That was another bad move. He let go of my hair and swiped the back of his hand across my chops. I very nearly fell to the ground with the shock. Tears prickled the backs of my eyes.

“Now, are you going to do as you’re told?” He gripped my wrist and sat himself back down on the chair. “Get those trousers down, or I’ll do it myself,” his face contorted and the end of his large, pointed nose immediately turned purple.

“I.. I…” I spluttered. The sting on my face still tingled. He reached across and grabbed the waistband of my trousers and pulled me closer to him.

“No. No,” I wailed, slapped his hand away and pulled myself back. “I’ll do it. I’ll do it.” I couldn’t believe it when I heard myself. I would take down my trousers so Uncle Herbert could spank me with his brush. All I can think now is I must have thought it was preferable to having an older man strip me.

I stood uneasily in front of him. To be honest with you, Uncle Herbert is quite a weedy feller; he’s so thin he could easily fall down a drain cover. He sat in an old wooden chair and spread his legs; they looked like two pipe cleaners. I must be a head taller than him and I’m not fat (well not obese, anyway) but I am beefy. I did some boxing at school and I’ve got muscles. You know, if he tried something on with me in a dark alleyway one night I could knock the bejesus out of him.

I stood meekly in front of him. My hands hardly shook as I found the buckle of my belt and did the business. I had the front of my trousers open before it really hit me. I was going to take down my trousers for him. I mean how gay is that? Can you imagine it, a strapping nineteen-year-old willingly taking down his trousers and then bending over the knee of a much older man so that man could spank him on the seat of his underpants with a brush. You couldn’t make it up.

But that’s exactly what I was doing. I held on to my open trousers. I suppose this was my last chance to leg it. I could zip up and run and Uncle Herbert wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it. But my life flashed before my eyes. At least the foreseeable future did. Would Mum really throw me out of the house? Yes. No. Maybe. I couldn’t take the risk. I couldn’t look at Uncle. I closed my eyes and let the trousers slip over my thighs and they snagged at my knees.

“All the way. Down to your feet,” Uncle Herbert said grimly.

My eyes were still closed, I parted my feet and the trousers slipped down my shins and made a puddle over my trainers. I stood stock still like an idiot. I really did not want to do this. Let my Uncle spank my behind with a brush. “Bend over my knee, lad,” Uncle Herbert was stern.

I opened my eyes and looked down at his puny knees. For one moment I absurdly wondered if he could take my weight across his lap. I think Uncle Herbert misunderstood my hesitation. He thought I had chickened out. “Doh!” he cried and he grabbed my left wrist and pulled me forward. I lost my balance as I toppled forward over his lap. I went too fast and my shoulder hurt as my hands hit the floor, wrenching my arms out of their sockets. Well, I exaggerate there. But I did hurtle face-down over Uncle’s knees. I had to spread my arms wide and dig my palms down into the ground to hold myself steady.

I couldn’t see myself (I was staring at the wooden floor) but I could tell my big bum was high over Uncle’s right thigh and my knees were slightly bent and the tips of my toes brushed the ground. I wore tight boxer shorts and Uncle shocked me by gripping the waistband and tugging so hard that he gave me a ‘wedgie’: they rode right up into the crack of my arse.

He paused for a long minute. I’ve no idea what he was up to. I felt a slight tapping on the fleshiest part of my left bum cheek. Then there was an almighty whack! noise. I felt the sting maybe a second later. The noise bounced around the room and it felt like he had pressed the iron Mum uses at home into my bum. It took my breath away. My mouth opened and my lips formed a perfect ‘O’ as I just about managed to stop myself yapping.

z used otk pants chair cp4men

Before I got my breath back Uncle had hammered that heavy utility brush into my other cheek. Then he pounded it across both cheeks, high, low and across the peaks without mercy. Now, I was yelping, like a little whipped puppy. My hips rose and fell, my arms flailed about and my legs kicked. It was like I was trying to swim away off his lap. He seized me tightly around the waist and held onto me for grim life. I wasn’t going anywhere while he blistered each and every square centimetre of meat (and my bum had quite a lot of acreage). When he had done toasting that he went for the backs of my thighs. My shorts were just that short, so he was walloping me on the bare. I wailed like some demented banshee.

I did the swimming thing again and my head went up and down. If I’d been closer to the ground I would’ve headbutted it. I was in so much pain and my heart was racing so fast I could not breathe. I thought for a moment I’d pass out. Still Uncle Herbert battered my bum. When would he let up? It seemed the answer was Never. On and on and on he spanked me. I’m quite a big, strong guy as I’ve told you, but even I wondered how much longer I could take it.

My bum had been battered and bruised so much I swear it had gone numb. I could hear the thwack as each new whack hit me, but I couldn’t feel a thing? Does that make sense? It shouldn’t, but I tell you it’s the truth. Uncle Herbert must have got wind of this because he laid a few more over my red-raw thighs.

I lost all sense of time. I might have been across his knees for half an hour for all I know. The spanking just went on and on. At last (thank the Lord!) he stopped. Bam-Bam-Bam. “Okay. Get up!” He let go of my waist and I lay still face down for a long moment catching my breath. It was only when Uncle Herbert started to push me off his lap that I came to. I tumbled to the floor and stayed there on my hands and knees. From that position I saw Uncle get off his chair and walk over to a hook on the far wall and hang up the brush. I climbed to my feet and nearly fell back to the floor as I stumbled pulling my trousers up.

“Get back to work, you’ve wasted enough of my time,” Uncle Herbert grumbled. I didn’t need telling twice. I stumbled through the door. Outside I saw Harry, one of my fellow workers. He had a huge grin across his face. He gave me an exaggerated wink. “Nice one, son,” he chortled. He had heard it all. My humiliation would soon be the talk of the warehouse. Without a word, I staggered down the hall. I needed to get away. I needed to calm down. I needed a smoke. I cursed myself that I wasn’t carrying any weed.

Things improved a lot after that. I didn’t work any harder and Uncle Herbert had me across his knee again before too long, but Harry and the guys now knew I wasn’t the boss’s pet and they treated me like one of the gang from there on in.

 

 

Picture credit: CP 4 Men

 

Other stories you might like

The boys in the mailroom

Fr. Pat’s paddle

Wishful thinking

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Restrictions

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solo couch by eitan

Wilf Hepplewhite took his latchkey and opened the door of his house. He stood in the hallway for a moment. His ears pricked. There was a faint, but unmistakable sound coming from the lounge. Someone was in the room. Carefully, so that he could not be heard, he closed the door. He put down his case and hung his coat on a hook, all the time craning his neck towards the sound. It was indeed unmistakable. He knew the room should be in silence. Furtively, he tip-toed towards the room. He stood outside and put his ear to the door. “Damn and blast,” he said to himself as his annoyance rose. He threw open the door.

Jake, his eighteen-year-old nephew, was slumped on a couch, feet on a table, watching television. The boy barely registered him as he entered the room and stood angrily. “What the b…” Mr Hepplewhite stammered, as he gesticulated wildly at Jake.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he found his voice at last.

The teenager merely glanced at his uncle. “Watching television,” he just managed not to add sarcastically, “what does it look like?”

His uncle’s face darkened. “You’re on restrictions. Did I say you were off restriction?”

Jake straightened himself up in the chair.

“And take your feet off the table,” Uncle Wilf growled. Reluctantly, Jake did so, silently glowering.

“And what’s this?” Uncle Wilf spotted what looked like bread crumbs. “What are my rules about eating in this room?”

Jake shrugged his shoulders and twisted his mouth. “I didn’t make a mess.”

“What. Are. My. Rules?” Uncle Wilf did not disguise his irritation. “What did I say?”

Sulkily, Jake replied, “No food.”

“Right. No food in this room.”

Uncle Wilf spotted a glass on the floor near Jake’s chair. “What’s this?” He had a clear suspicion as he swooped and grabbed it and wafted it under his nose. “I don’t believe it!” he stormed. “Whisky, you’ve been drinking my whisky,” he waved the glass in Jake’s face and repeated loudly, “I don’t believe it!”

Jake stayed slouched on the couch, trying to ignore his uncle, still with his eyes set on the television screen. “Doh!” Uncle Wilf was close to exploding. He grabbed the remote from the table and swung round to face the TV. The picture faded. He turned back to his disobedient nephew. “I cannot believe this,” he said again, struggling to find the words to match his anger.

“You’ve been nothing but trouble since I took you in.”

“Snot my fault,” Jake said sullenly. “I didn’t want to come.”

Uncle Wilf’s ire was rising. “I can’t wait until you finish school and you can join your mum and dad in their new home up north.” He paced the room, failing to control his rising temper. “I told you when you came there would be rules. It’s not much to ask to treat me and Aunt Sarah with respect. You are rude to her all the time. You treat this house like a hotel. She is not your chambermaid!”

The boy stared at the blank screen.

Uncle Wilf continued, “Your bedroom is like a pigsty and you leave a mess all over the house,” he waved his arms angrily. “Now, you don’t respect me when I punish you. Only yesterday, I said you weren’t to use the television.”

Jake grimaced, “I thought that was only for yesterday.”

“Did I say it was only for yesterday?” and when Jake remained silent, Uncle Wilf’s voice rose an octave, “Did I!”

“Well, no,” Jake reluctantly conceded.

“No,” Uncle Wilf paced the room, his heartbeat racing. “I’ve had just about all I’m going to take from you, Jake,” he raged as he walked. “What you need is a darn good spanking.”

Jake’s face fell, “A spanking?” he asked incredulously.

“That’s just what you deserve. A good old-fashioned spanking.”

“You’re joking right?”

“Do I look as if I’m joking,” Uncle Wilf stared intently at the teenager, still slumped. Then he began to unbuckle his belt.

Jake blushed, silenced for a moment by the sight of his uncle taking off his wide, thick leather belt and doubling it up. He was getting ready for action. He was not bluffing.

“B… but I’m too old to be spanked,” Jake blustered at a loss for words. “You.. you can’t.”

“Ha!” Uncle Wilf held the belt between both hands and snapped it making a loud crack! “Can’t I. We’ll see about that young man.” He glared at Jake. “Stand up.”

The boy slunk back on the couch. “No. No, you can’t,” he wailed.

“See if I can’t.” Uncle Wilf reached over Jake, gripped him by the wrist and tugged hard. The boy skidded to his feet. “Stop it. You can’t,” he wriggled and then swore hard.

“Right. That’s it.” Uncle Wilf kept his grip on Jake and sat down on the couch. It took a second to pull the still-protesting boy down so he was spread-eagled across his lap. “Stop that!” Uncle Wilf held the wriggling boy down. “I’m going to blister your backside and you are going to take it. Understand!” It was an instruction, not a question. “If not, you can pack your bags and be out tonight. I don’t care where you go. You’re not staying here.”

He did not wait for a reply. Jake was wearing “leisure pants” with an elasticated waist. Uncle Wilf took a fist full of material and tugged hard. The boy’s trousers and underpants came down together. Jake protested loudly but he was no longer wriggling so hard. Soon, his buttocks were bare. Uncle Wilf gripped the boy around the waist and hauled him so that his chest was laid out along the couch.  His legs dangled behind him with his knees straight and toes hovering above the carpet. Like this his bare cheeks were displayed at an angle across Uncle Wilf’s thigh. They were perfectly positioned for the spanking Jake was about to receive.

“You’ve been asking for this for a long time, young man,” Uncle Wilf said as he took up his belt and carefully doubled it. It was wide, thick and heavy and would make a perfect punishment tool. Jake’s bare bottom twitched and the cheeks clenched. They were firm and round and made to be spanked. Uncle Wilf took a firm grip of the boy’s waist so he was pinned down. He raised the belt high and with as much strength as he could find he lashed it across the very centre of his target. He was delighted to be rewarded with two sunset stripes. He whacked again and again and in no time Jake’s bottom resembled a plan of a railway junction.

The boy gasped as the leather lashed him. After a dozen or so more whacks he began to quietly yap.

“Good, you’re feeling that,” Uncle Wilf scoffed. “Am I getting through to you?” he asked. This time he expected an answer and when none came he lashed the belt harder, “I said, am I getting through to you?”

“Yes, yes,” Jake was breathless. “You’re hurting me please stop,” he wailed.

“I’ll stop when I’m ready to stop,” Uncle Wilf responded slashing the belt across the backs of Jake’s thighs.

“Ouch! Ooooh! Please stop. I’ve had enough!”

Uncle Wilf hammered the leather belt across Jake’s naked bottom. “You’ve had enough when I say you’ve had enough,” and he continued the thrashing. By now the whole of Jake’s bottom glowed scarlet. The outline of the belt was embossed across his cheeks and thighs. The boy’s yaps increased in volume to become yelps.

“Are you going to start behaving now?” Uncle Wilf was gasping himself.

“Yes,” Jake answered with alacrity.

“Yes, what?” Uncle Wilf landed an especially hard swipe.

“Yes, I’ll behave.”

“Yes, what?” Another swipe landed on the underside of the cheeks in the most sensitive sit-spot. “Yes, sir!” Uncle Jake roared.

“Yes, sir,” Jake mewed.

“Good, that’s what I like to hear. Have you learnt your lesson?”

“Yes, yes,” Jake almost screamed. “Please stop. Please.”

Uncle Wilf’s heart was racing. His blood pressure was off the scale. If he didn’t stop spanking soon he might have a seizure.

“I’m not so sure,”’ he answered his nephew and laid another six slashes low on the boy’s left cheek. Jake was spent. He lay submissively across his uncle’s lap, stretched across the couch. Entirely at the older man’s mercy.

“If I have to do this again …” Uncle Wilf let the thought trail off and landed six more across the right cheek. The boy’s entire bottom was hot and welted. Later when Jake rubbed the palms of his hands gingerly across his buttocks the surface would feel like leather.

Uncle Wilf slashed two more across each cheek for good measure. “Okay. That’s it. Stand up.”

Jake sprang to his knees, he stumbled and held on to the table to stop himself tumbling to the ground. He hopped from one foot to the other doing the traditional spanking dance. His hair was wet with sweat. His face glowed and was as scarlet as his bottom. His eyes shone. He wriggled as he returned his trousers and pants to their rightful place. He couldn’t bear to look at his uncle.

“Will I have to do this again,” Uncle Wilf asked calmly. Jake was still rubbing his bottom, “No, sir,” he replied meekly.

“Good. Go to your room.”

Jake hobbled across the room and Uncle Wilf heard him take the stairs two at a time before there was the sound of a slamming bedroom door.

Uncle Jake threaded the belt through the loops on his trousers. The front door opened and his wife walked in. Her face fell as she caught sight of him. Then it dawned on her what had happened and she smiled. “You look like you’ve been to hell and back.”

He snorted a laugh. “Make us some tea and I’ll tell you all about it.”

 

Picture credit: Eitan

 

Other stories you might like

Uncle Graham’s belt

Clubbing

My friend Justin

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Take a very close look …

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z used retro short shorts cane holding

Yes young man, take a very close look at it. It’s a Malacca cane. Feel the weight. Flex it, see how powerful it is. It’s one that we use at the young offenders’ institute. And, that’s where you’ll end up if you carry on thieving.

Can you imagine how much that is going to hurt when I put it across your backside? Your bare backside.

When I said you could stay at my house while you were at university I had no idea you would treat me like this. Your own uncle! I hope you feel thoroughly ashamed young man. You should. Stealing money from me. From my wallet. In my own house. I cannot believe it.

At least you had the good grace not to deny it when I confronted you. But you would never have owned up on your own would you?

Don’t try to deny that. You really have let yourself down. Yourself and your family. When I contacted your father and told him what you had done he readily agreed that I should give you the thrashing of your life. You might be eighteen, but so are some of the boys at the institute and that doesn’t stop them being caned.

Now, hand me the cane and go into the kitchen, let’s get on with this.

The kitchen was not huge but big enough to have a table that could seat four people. Simon stood staring at it. His hands trembled, so he clasped them behind his back. Uncle as right, Simon had stolen money, but more than Uncle realised. Simon had “owned up” when Uncle accused him of taking a ten shilling note, but he didn’t confess to the one he took last week and the handful of silver coins the week before. Stealing from Uncle had become something of a routine and subsidised his nights out in town. The government grant he received to study at Brocklehurst University didn’t go far, even though his Uncle wasn’t charging him a proper rent for his lodgings.

Simon stared at the table ahead of him. It was one of the modern kind with an artificial laminated top. He heard Uncle approach from behind and heard him bark, “Stand closer to the table, boy.” He heard the heavy cane swish through the air. It made a terrific noise as it travelled. Uncle had been correct when he said the cane was heavy and powerful. Simon had never been caned before: not at school and certainly not at home. Dad had never spanked him either; even though Simon recognised there were times when he had deserved a damn good hiding. He had no way of knowing just how much the caning he was about to endure would hurt.

Uncle was deputy governor at Brocklehurst Young Offenders’ Institution and one of his duties was to inflict corporal punishment. He believed in the power of the cane, he knew first hand how it kept unruly youth on the straight-and-narrow path. He was not sentimental, Simon would benefit from a good bare-bottomed thrashing. He wouldn’t steal again, not after Uncle had finished with him.

He flexed the cane thoughtfully. It wasn’t like the school canes that many people recognise. It had no curved handle, instead there was a leather grip at one end. It was roughly the same length as a school cane, around three feet, but it wasn’t as thin and whippy. The school cane was usually made of swishy rattan, but the cane he now held was made of more dense Malacca. It was thicker and had notches along its length, but it still was flexible enough to bend into an arc. It packed a more powerful punch than the rattan and was ideally designed for the older youth. It would take Simon’s backside off, especially when applied with some strength across his naked bottom. The lad wouldn’t be able to sit down comfortably for some time to come and the marks and bruises would probably hang around for a week or more.

Uncle stood behind Simon and ran his eye up and down his tiny frame. He was eighteen years old, but slightly built. He reckoned if he dressed him up in school uniform he might be able to sneak on the buses and get away with the children’s fare. The tight beige shorts he was wearing added to his youthful appearance. They were very short as was the fashion and showed off his bony legs. His waist was slim and from where Uncle was standing Simon’s bottom looked puny inside them. Not more than two pips, Uncle thought. At the Young Offenders’ Institute he was more used to thrashing more burly teenagers.

“Lower your shorts and your underpants,” Uncle spoke clearly. He was used to giving orders and always expected to be obeyed. The youth under his supervision had no choice but to obey and today neither did Simon. Uncle observed his nephew shudder. It ran through his whole body. He was terrified. Uncle expected this; most boys were in this situation, especially those enduring the cane for the first time. Uncle waited ten seconds and when it looked like Simon was not about to loosen his trousers, he barked, “Shorts, underpants down. Now!”

The angry tone in Uncle’s voice spurred Simon to action. Although his fingers nearly refused to move, the teenager managed to get them to tackle the buckle of the wide leather belt that held his shorts in place. The shorts fitted him snugly and the belt served no practical purpose, but Simon thought it drew attention to the bulge in his pants. After several tries he had the belt undone. It took more effort to get the top button open and to pull the metal zipper. The weight of the belt and the power of gravity made the shorts slide to his feet.

“Step out of them,” Uncle intoned. Simon wore no shoes so this was no difficulty. A slight breeze from somewhere tickled his bare legs. He looked down at his own body and saw that bulge in his pants close-up. “Get them down,” Uncle said evenly. Simon turned to make sure Uncle would not see his cock and balls once the pants were lowered. Uncle amused himself by swishing the cane through the air and affected not to look as Simon hitched his thumbs in the elasticated waistband of the pants and with the merest flick of the wrists sent them down to the floor. “Step out,” Uncle swished the cane once more. Simon now stood naked from the waist down. “Bend over the table.”

The table seated four people but it was still quite small. When he lay his stomach on the cold laminated top and stretched his arms ahead of him they dangled over the far edge. Even though Simon had no personal knowledge of such things, this didn’t feel right, so he spread his arms and gripped each side to his left and to his right. He decided spread-eagled like this was more comfortable. “Legs further apart, jut that bottom out further.” Simon followed Uncle’s instructions to the letter and now he was perfectly positioned to Uncle’s satisfaction.

Uncle wasn’t yet ready. Although Simon’s t-shirt was not very long its hem rested over the top part of his buttocks. In one swift practiced movement Uncle took hold of it and tugged it up Simon’s back. He was now bare from the shoulders all the way down to the soles of his feet. Now, Uncle was good to go. All he needed to do now was to take up position to the left of Simon’s prone, submissive body. He tapped the cane across the centre of the teenager’s furthest buttock, then he bent his own legs slightly. He tapped the tip of the cane gently to get his aim. Then, in one fast, complete movement, he raised, it brought it up and then along the same arc he swiped it with all the force he could muster across the very centre of both of Simon’s cheeks. An ugly red, raw line immediately appeared and maybe half a second later a tremendous howl echoed around the room. The boy’s body buckled, his head nodded up and down, his legs kicked, but somehow, through some resolve that Simon did not know he possessed, he managed not to leap to his feet and clasp his burning backside while dancing around the room.

Uncle let him settle. It took fully half a minute. Then, he rubbed the cane in a sawing motion across the lower part of Simon’s bum. The next stroke was equally as vicious as the first. It provoked the same response, and in addition this time tears flooded down Simon’s face. He gripped the edges of the table as if his very life depended on it. He wanted to beg for mercy, to tell Uncle that if he would only stop the caning now Simon would never, ever, steal again. But, some inborn instinct told him not to do this. There is some unwritten law that has been followed across the centuries that says a boy or young man under the lash (whether in the headmaster’s study at school, or the governor’s office at borstal or across the back of the sofa in the family home) must take his medicine with as little fuss as he may muster. Simon was not doing too well, but he vowed not to humiliate himself by pleading for mercy. Besides, he knew very well he would get none from Uncle.

So, the flogging continued. It was hell. By the time Uncle was done Simon had six deep cuts throbbing across his rear end. Already each had risen to a welt. The pain was intense, Simon had no idea what a caning was supposed to feel like, but by instinct he knew Uncle’s beating was classic. This had been no ordinary schoolboy’s six-of-the-best. Every square inch of his bum throbbed like crazy. His heart raced and he could feel the blood coursing at one hundred miles an hour through his arteries. His temples throbbed, almost as much as his poor savaged bottom. He could hardly see for the water in his eyes. The back of his throat was raw from his screeching. He could taste vomit inside his mouth.

Uncle tucked the cane under his arm. “Stand up!” he ordered, just as he would with any of the young offenders at the institute. Uncle watched with deep satisfaction as his nephew struggled to raise himself. Simon got to his feet but had to quickly clutch at the table’s edge to stop himself slipping to the floor. His legs didn’t seem to work. His bottom felt like he had been forced to sit in a bucket of boiling water. Gingerly, he reached behind him and to his shock he felt heat rising from his bum. Was that his imagination? He let the tip of his fingers brush his battered behind, even the slightest touch sent further shockwaves of pain streaming through his body. He resolved not to try to massage the pain away.

His head was clearing a little and after he wiped tears and snot away from his face he could see more clearly. He daren’t look at Uncle. Simon stood unsteadily breathing deeply, forcing down great lung-fulls of air. It seemed to him like hours before Uncle spoke again. “Pick up your shorts and pants. I wouldn’t try to put them on if I were you. Go up to your room.” He said this kindly. Despite appearances, Uncle was not a tyrant. Simon was a thief. He had been caught and now he had been punished. That should be an end to the matter. And if Simon did not repeat the offence, it would be. Punishment had been severe; but the lad deserved everything he got. Now, it was over: they could both move on with their lives.

Uncle watched unmoved as his nephew hobbled from the room and began the long and intensely painful journey up the stairs to his bedroom.

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

Memories of Dad’s slipper

Celebrity encounter

Not too old to be spanked by grandad

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Summer spent staring at the carpet

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z used otk chair head bbfc (200)

I cannot begin to remember how often I had a close-up view of the carpet that summer. My nose hovering inches above the dusty, cheap flooring. Trousers at my ankles, underwear at the knees and Uncle Simon flogging a birch rod into my naked buttocks. Yowl! I can still feel the sting as I recall the pain and indignity of it all.

Nineteen years old and over an older man’s knees for a bare-arsed whipping. Can you imagine such a thing?

I’m not sure where to begin. It was 1974. A lifetime away. I had spent the previous six months banged up at Her Majesty’s Pleasure. They called it Youth Detention in those days, a bit like borstal really. It doesn’t much matter what you called it, it was still locked up three to a cell for most of the day. I was a menace to society, apparently. Okay, I stole cars. Lots of them in fact. Can you be addicted to stealing cars? Perhaps I was. Do they have a special name for it? Probably. I never did much with them. I drove around at high speed and when I had my fill I dumped them. Crazy really. It didn’t take the cops long to find me. The daft magistrates gave me community service the first time. Making tea at some old granny’s day centre. At the end of the third day there, I stole a Cortina and thrashed it along the motorway. The magistrate gave me a fine that time.

The fifth time I was up before the Bench, he sent me to YD. Mum disowned me when I came out. Step forward Uncle Simon.

“What he needs,” he told my mum, “is a good dose of the birch. None of that namby-pamby community service.” And, he knew what he was talking about. Uncle Simon was no angel when he was younger. House breaking was his thing. Stealing wireless sets his speciality. I know, it just shows you how long ago that was. The Assizes ordered him to six strokes of the birch. Bare-arsed, naturally. “Still got the scars to prove it,” Uncle Simon boasted. I never believed him. I asked him once to drop his kecks and show me his bare arse. Enough said on that matter.

I was to find out myself that the birch can take your arse off, but the cuts soon heal. Uncle Simon took me into his home which was a dingey little flat on a council estate near Widdicombe Woods. It was near one of the poshest suburbs of Brocklehurst and I thought nothing of bunking over garden walls and taking my pick from summer houses and sheds. Now and again one of the old geezers who lived there left a french window carelessly unlocked. Bingo! In those days you could easily sell a video in the pub. Ha!

What I didn’t reckon with was that Uncle Simon hadn’t changed so much. He liked to drink in the less savoury joints and hang out with petty criminals so when one time I waltzed into The Three Fishers with a video recorder hidden in a Tesco’s bag who should I see propping up the bar? He didn’t say anything. His deadly stare was enough to make me leg it out of the pub. I knew I was for it later. Still, I thought, in for a penny in for a pound. Or, better to be hung for a sheep than for a lamb.  Actually, I probably didn’t really think that at the time (I hadn’t learned about fancy words; that came later). What I did was I went touring the pubs until I sold the video. So, at least my pockets were jangling with cash by the time I got home.

Uncle Simon was waiting. He had put the time since I saw him to good use. The second I walked through the door the very strong smell of freshly-cut tree branches hit me. Uncle Simon was in the kitchen busy with a bread knife. But he wasn’t cutting sandwiches; he had a pile of birch twigs neatly stacked on the kitchen table. I stood half in the doorway and watched, as he collected about a dozen of the twigs together and wrapped sticking plaster around one end. This made a makeshift, but effective handle. As he finished off the second birch rod, he acknowledged my presence. I probably blushed to my roots, but I didn’t say a word. Uncle Simon didn’t say much. He took both birch rods in his hands and nodded in a direction behind me. “Living room. Now!”

I didn’t need to ask for confirmation or explanation. I knew precisely what he intended to do. Now, at this point in my story, you too know what happens next. But, you might also be asking yourself, “Why did he let his Uncle do this?” You probably think I should have told him to go to hell and refused to have anything to do with his plan. And it would be perfectly reasonable of you to say that. I have no answer to you. Except to say that this was a very long time ago and I had been through the youth detention system and maybe I was conditioned to this kind of thing. I lived a regimented life; there were rules and you were expected to obey them. If you didn’t you were punished. Sometimes that meant a birching. That’s life. What I can say to those of you with suspicious minds, not for one moment did I enjoy this.

So, I trudged into the living room with Uncle Simon following closely behind me. The room was very small, like the rest of the flat, and had a cheap, vinyl settee and two small armchairs that did not match it. There was a beat-up table in the corner and a worn, wooden straight backed armless chair. “Put that there!” Uncle spoke softly and in a monotone voice. I knew what he meant and I picked up the chair and took it into the middle of the room. As I did that Uncle Simon laid the birch rods on the table. He left one there and took the other with him as he went and sat on the chair. He spread his legs the way you do at times like this and told me quietly and sternly, “Take down your jeans and pants. You know what to do.”

I did. And I knew why I was about to be birched. Uncle Simon had not said a word about my thieving. He knew that I knew and that was enough. All he wanted was to get on with it. He didn’t even give me time to take off my coat. I stood about a yard distance from Uncle’s  right thigh and stared at him. At the time I thought he was an old man but now I look back I suppose how wasn’t much over fifty. He was padding out a bit and he had a muffin belly that hung a little over his belt. He still had all his hair, but it was going grey at the temples. I looked at the birch in his hands. By this time I had become familiar with this. We all called it “a birch” but I think it was actually made of about a dozen hazel twigs; he had cut each of them to about ten or twelve inches and tied them into a handle at one end. Despite its size it wasn’t very heavy; not like the birches Uncle Simon had been flogged with back in the day. He had constructed the birch so he could swish my bare arse while I was bent across his knee in the traditional naughty-little-boy fashion. Of course, since I was face down staring at the carpet I never saw this, but I’m pretty certain that the birch rods spread enough to cover both my cheeks in a single swipe.

So, Uncle Simon told me to strip down and I did. My jeans were puddled over my trainers and my boxer shorts hung over my knees. “Bend over,” he said and again I did as I was told. I was roughly the same height as Uncle Simon but a lot leaner and my body fitted comfortably across his lap. He spread his legs so there was a platform for my stomach and chest to rest on. My arms and head dangled forward. Uncle gripped my right arm and twisted it up my back so I was pinned down. My bare bum was raised high over his thigh and my legs stretched behind me and with my knees bent a little my toes hovered above the carpet. I waited submissively. I had no intention of fighting Uncle Simon.

It was summer, but the day was not particularly warm. A window was open and a breeze cooled my bare bottom and legs. Uncle Simon teased me by gently caressing my naked cheeks with the birch. It was ticklish. But not for long. I felt the birch being raised, Uncle Simon held it aloft for a second or so and then there was an almighty swishing noise as it swooped through the air and connected with terrific force across the undercurves of my buttocks. My entire body shuddered, my knees buckled and a long, shrill hiss of air escaped through my clenched teeth. Another second or so passed and I felt a searing pain as the skin on my bum burned like the fires of Hell.

Uncle Simon repeated the manoeuvre and this time he laid the birch high on the crest of my mounds. Now, ever square inch of my bottom was alight. It throbbed madly and I knew small cuts were creeping across the whole target area. My heartbeat was off the scale and my temples ached almost as much as my bum. I did the wriggling and writhing thing again, but Uncle had a very firm hold of me and I wasn’t going anywhere until he said so.

Of course, with both cheeks roaring any further swipes of the birch could only land on already raw flesh and reignite the intense pain. Uncle Simon showed no mercy. Swipe! Swish! Swipe! Swish! Six cuts had opened up the flesh. No matter how many times I went across Uncle Simon’s knee that summer I never got used to the sting of the birch. I kicked; I wriggled; I swayed; I yelped; I yelled; I hollered. I was out of control. I had no choice. It was an entirely physical reaction, it was my body’s way of coping with the assault. That was why my face was awash with tears after three stokes and my chin was soaked in snot after six.

He stopped after nine. I hopped to my feet and rubbed away like fury. My bum felt like raw hamburger meat. The cheeks were criss-crossed with dozens and dozens of thin lines; some were white and others glowed dark pink. Before long the whole lot would merge into a deep mauve that in the days to come would transform into oranges and yellows before eventually disappearing. My bum felt like it had swollen to twice its normal size. I glared at Uncle Simon, not with fury but remorse. My eyes were on stalks and I could hardly see through the tears. It would take some time yet before my heartrate steadied, my breathing eased and my body returned to its natural state. I couldn’t bear the pain involved in pulling up my boxers and jeans so with them at my ankles I waddled like a penguin from the room and staggered across the passage to my bedroom. I lay face down sobbing for the rest of the day.

Did it do me any good; that summer spent staring at the carpet? Well, the truth is I did carry on stealing. Uncle Simon lost patience and threw me out. I left Brocklehurst and thumbed a lift North. One day with a couple of equally coked-up pals I attempted to rob an off-licence. We got five years jail time for that and I’ve been in and out ever since.

 

Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club

Other stories you might like

Changed Times 6. Birched live on TV

The hotel swimming pool

A night on the tiles

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Adventure at Camp Cottage

new 5

z used house by E.H. Davie 6

Julian thought Uncle Dick was a queer fellow. He was the most extraordinary looking man, very tall and very dark and with a rather fierce frown on his wide forehead. Julian couldn’t help shivering the very first time he saw him and it wasn’t even a cold day.

“Hello Uncle,” he said in his usual cheerful sing-song voice. But Uncle Dick just shrugged his shoulders and hurried through the house into the back garden.

“Oh don’t fret about him,” Aunt Fanny smiled, her round red face beaming. “He’s off to his shed.” She bustled off into the kitchen. Julian stood in the dark room. It was old and rather mysterious somehow, the furniture was ancient, he might have been standing in an antique shop.

Just then Uncle Dick returned into the house, his frown was even more deep set. “Where’s Timothy,” he growled.

“Oh the naughty boy, I told him to wait in the garden for you,” Aunt Fanny smiled and wringed her hands. “Now he’s gone off somewhere.”

“He needs a good spanking,” said Uncle Dick. Julian blushed to the roots of his hair. Surely Uncle Dick was joking. “Send him to me the moment he returns,” Uncle Dick’s brow furrowed some more and his dark eyes glowered as he rushed out the door striding towards his shed. Aunt Fanny stood around like she wasn’t sure what she should do and then wandered absent-mindedly into the kitchen. Julian could smell the wonderful aroma of baking bread.

Minutes passed and Julian waited unsure what he was supposed to do. His heavy suitcase rested against his bare leg. He was very excited to be staying with Uncle Dick and Aunt Fanny and his two cousins for the summer. Oh, he thought, wouldn’t it be marvellous! In the country, away from the hot and smoky city.

It had been a very long time before the train reached the little station that served Curran, but at last it was there steaming slowly and stopping at the tiny platform. He jumped out eagerly to see if anyone had come to meet him. No – the station was deserted. Suddenly, he felt so lonely. Where was Camp Cottage, the home of his aunt and uncle? He didn’t even have a proper address. Just Camp Cottage, Curran, Westmoreland. How did the postman know where to deliver his letters? Oh, Julian supposed, this was the country, perhaps everyone knew everyone else. Someone would surely know the way.

But who could he ask? The station seemed abandoned. Luckily, it was a bright sunny day. If it had been the middle of winter with fog swirling and rain teeming, poor Julian would have felt very lonely. It would be like he was in the middle of a ghost story instead of in a delightful summery tale. He sat down on his huge suitcase to have a good think. He was really hungry and more than a little thirsty. If he didn’t get to Camp Cottage soon, he might die of starvation.

Julian felt miserable. Was this holiday such a good idea after all? When his father told him he and mother were taking a trip through Europe, Julian thought it was a queer thing to do. Most of the big cities had been bombed to smithereens, what was there to see? But mother and father were very religious and thought they could spread the word of God among the peasant people.

“Sorry, Ju,” Father had said, “But you can’t come with us. It might be too dangerous.” Julian had been delighted. He didn’t want to spend summer among the ruins of Europe. And anyway, he would have the house to himself. Wouldn’t that be fun! But Father had a different idea: Uncle Dick and his family.

“Blast!” Julian ejaculated when he heard the news. He wanted to tell Father, “Look I’m eighteen years old, practically an adult, I can look after myself.” But, he knew not to argue with his parents. They loved him and wanted the best for him. Besides, he hadn’t seen his cousins Timothy and George for simply ages. It really would be fun!

But just now, abandoned on the hot, dusty platform it didn’t seem like so much fun after all. Just then a wizened old man appeared at the end of the platform. My, Julian thought, he looks like he’s about to keel over and die. But, the teenager’s spirits bucked up. He was certain to know where Camp Cottage was.

Before Julian could ask directions, the old man spoke. “C’mon, young ’un, pick up your bag. Get moving.” My, Julian thought, what a rude old working-class man! He needs to learn some manners. The old man turned and slowly shuffled back in the direction he had come. Over his shoulder he wheezed, “Follow me.”

I suppose the queer old fellow is going to take me to Camp Cottage, Julian mused. He gripped the suitcase and pulled it along after him. Oh it was so heavy! What had mother packed? It felt like there was a dead body inside. The old fellow led him towards a small pony and trap. “Put yer bag in the back,” he growled. Julian paused for breath and stared at the small pony. It was almost as ancient as the old man. It would be a contest to see which of them expired first. Julian heaved his case onto the trap. As he was doing this a pungent odour wafted across his turned-up nose. “Oooh, poo!” he wanted to say out loud, but he was a polite boy and he kept his thought buttoned up. What a pong! Then he giggled, where was the smell coming from? Did the old man smell as awful as the pony?

Julian settled himself in the trap and off they went. It was a slow drive along narrow roads. The old man dozed in the heat. The pony seemed to know its way, it really didn’t need a driver! Julian watched the hedges slowly pass by. How beautiful! Oh he was pleased to be in the country! What fun this holiday would be! He hoped his cousins would be good sorts. Timothy was exactly his own age and George, two years older. They would have lots in common, wouldn’t they? What adventures they would have!

At last the pony and trap edged up to Camp Cottage. It was a very old house indeed. Julian’s father said it was at least three hundred years old. It wasn’t really a cottage, but quite a big house, built of old white stone. Roses climbed over the front of it and the garden was full of bushes.

Aunt Fanny had been waiting for them to arrive. She came stumbling out the old wooden door as soon as she saw the pony and trap draw up outside. “Welcome, welcome!” her red face beamed and she led Julian into the house.

Minutes went by and just as Julian thought he had been abandoned forever, a small rotund lady dressed in a wrap-around pinafore popped her head through the open doorway. “Hello, young Julian, I’m Joanne, the cook, come with me, I bet you’re hungry aren’t you?”

“Oh rather!” Julian smiled. “I could eat that pony outside!” He was a little disappointed when Joanne frowned and wrinkled her nose in disgust. “We’ll have none of that talk here Thank You Very Much.” Julian knew his face must be glowing with embarrassment and his ears felt hot as he followed the cook as she waddled to the kitchen.

Oh what a wonderful smell! A table groaned under the weight of a plate of freshly-baked buns and a great big iced cake. There was not much left after Julian had satisfied his hunger. Then he washed it all down with lashings of ginger beer.

He was working on the last crumbs when his cousin Timothy walked in. He did look flustered. “Hello,” he mumbled, looking with despair at the empty plates where the buns and cake had been. “None left for me then?” Timothy spoke softly. Julian blushed. What a greedy boy he was. He hadn’t thought to leave some buns and cake for his cousin.

“A condemned man is entitled to a last meal, isn’t he?” Timothy said mysteriously. Julian was about to ask him what he meant by that when Aunt Fanny bustled into the kitchen. “Timothy, you naughty boy! Your father is looking for you. You must report to him in the shed.”

Julian saw his cousin’s face go pale. “What now?” he blustered. “I thought I would show Julian his room and help him to get settled.”

Julian saw Aunt Fanny’s bright red face drop. “You know better than to keep your father waiting when he’s in one of his moods.”

Timothy sucked on his bottom lip, he plunged his hands into the pockets of his corduroy short trousers, and forced a determined look onto his face. Without a word, he turned on his heels and left the room.

Julian was puzzled. What was going on? He wanted to ask his Aunt Fanny but somehow he knew that would not be a good idea. He would ask Timothy later. When they were alone. Then he would discover the mystery!

Timothy walked slowly along the passageway of the house, heading for the back door and the garden. His hands made fists inside his pockets. His heart was beating just a little too fast. Suddenly, his throat was dry. How he wished he had swigged a bottle of ginger beer before he had left the kitchen.

His father’s shed was really a summer house. It was where he did his work. He hated to be in the house with his wife and children bustling around! It was even worse when they had visitors. How would he survive a whole summer with both his sons and a nephew cluttering up the place? Timothy walked slowly down the stone path. The gardener had recently mown the lawn and the scent of freshly-cut grass was everywhere. It tickled the back of his throat.

Timothy had made this journey many times before. It only took seconds to get to the shed from the house, but he tried to make the walk last as long as possible. Timothy knew what was waiting for him at the end of it! He wasn’t going to hurry.

He hesitated outside the door and slowly counted up to five in his head (one hippopotamus … two hippopotamus …). Finally, he took a deep breath and rapped his knuckles on the heavy wooden door. His father looked up from his writing at the knocking. He glanced at his watch. “About time too,” he fumed quietly. More loudly, he called, “Get in here. Now!”

He sat back and watched as slowly, the handle turned and the door inched open. “Come on in! Hurry up! I haven’t got all day!” he called irritably. Timothy stood hands deep in pockets, his head bowed. He could see the floor beneath his sandals was dusty. He waited patiently. He knew his father had a ritual at times like these. There was nothing Timothy could do. He had to let events take their course.

It started with the lecture. The summer holidays had started and that inevitably meant his school report had arrived. Timothy was a border at Albion School. His father liked it that way. It meant he did not have to see his son for weeks on end. But, the fees cost a small fortune and father wanted value for his money! Timothy was a disappointment. He was a bright boy but a little lazy and oh so full of mischief. If he spent as much time on his studies as he did playing pranks he would right now be coasting his way to the university. Instead, his father waved the school report above his head, rather like Mr Chamberlain on his way back from Munich.

“Maths, failed! History, failed! English language for pity’s sake, failed! Need I say more?” It wasn’t a question. His father could go on and on and on. Timothy stared down at the floor. “And take your hands out of your pockets!” Father roared. The eighteen-year-old removed them with tremendous haste. His palms were soaked with sweat. Without thinking, he rubbed them dry on the legs of his short trousers. The shed felt airless. Sweat soaked his scalp. His heart raced.

“This will not do. I have spent a fortune on school fees for nothing! What will become of you? You can’t get to university with this!” He waved the school report once more. “I doubt the Army will take you. Yee Gods, that just leaves the Clergy!” He hauled himself from his chair. Timothy’s eyes followed him as he stumbled across the shed to a far wall. He didn’t really need to watch for he already knew what was there. His father paused and turned to Timothy. “I have engaged a private tutor for the summer. You will retake your examinations in October and,” he paused for dramatic effect, “you will pass them.”

With that, he reached up to the wall and took down a block of wood that was hanging from a hook. It wasn’t just any block of wood. Timothy’s father had made it specially. It was about eight inches long and four wide. It was probably a quarter of an inch thick. What made it unusual was the handle that was attached to it and turned it from just a block of wood to a very effective punishment tool. It was what the American’s called a “paddle”. Timothy had laughed the first time he heard the term. A paddle! Why that was the long pole with a flipper at each end that you used to propel a canoe down the river!

But Father’s little paddle was no laughing matter. It had nothing to do with canoes. His father gripped the handle and brandished it at Timothy. Oh my, the colour drained from the teenager’s face. Timothy knew his father’s intention. There was to be no escape! The punishment must fit the crime! Five failed exams!

“You know what to do! Assume the position!” his father growled. Yes, Timothy knew what to do only too well. He had been here many times before! Without a word, he took hold of the buckle of his belt and with fumbling hands, he loosened it. Then he un-popped the fly buttons on his brown corduroy short trousers. They quickly slipped down his thighs and snagged at his knees. Timothy parted his feet a little and the shorts slithered down until they made a puddle on top of his sandals.

He sucked in a deep breath of air. Oh, my the room was so hot, it felt like he was boiling. He leaned forward and gripped his shins. He had a close up view of his heavy grey socks and bare knees. He had been playing in the sun a lot and they were as brown as a berry! He closed his eyes and felt his father take hold of the blue short-sleeved summer shirt and pull it away from his bottom and right up his back until it reached his shoulder blades. Then father gripped the waistband of his underwear and tugged hard so that there were no creases in his woollen drawers. The wooden blade of the paddle felt heavy as his father tap, tap, tapped it across the centre of his buttocks so that it touched both cheeks. Suddenly, Father lifted the paddle away and with a resounding thwack! he brought it crashing down!

Oh! How that hurt! Timothy scrunched up his eyes in pain. It burned so much! His body shook but valiantly Timothy clutched his shins and waited for the second wallop. Bang! It hit him a little lower than the first and the impact of the blow knocked him forward. The soles of his sandals slipped on the dusty floor and almost sent him toppling over. He stopped himself just in time and straightened up so that once more his bottom was pointing up in the air ready to take the next whack in the spanking that he so richly deserved!

“Ouch! Gosh! Yarroo!” That hurt! Timothy couldn’t help himself crying out. Father was spanking him with some vim. He swiped him so hard it was as if he was trying to beat dust out of an old carpet. Timothy’s bottom was on fire. It felt like he had accidentally sat in a bath full of scolding water. Whack! Wallop! There were no bounds in Father’s determination to punish his naughty son. No part of the teenager’s buttocks was left unbruised! The naughty lad would find it painful to sit on a hard surface for the rest of the day. But, it was a just punishment. One day Timothy would thank his father for days such as these!

Father spanked him fifteen times with the paddle, that was three whacks for each examination failed. Timothy’s bottom was well and truly toasted! When at last he was allowed to stand, the poor boy’s hands shot to his throbbing posterior. Oh how he tried to rub away the pain! It hurt like billy-oh!

At last his father sent him on his way with a flea in his ear. Bother, Timothy thought, not only was he spanked, he also had to put up with a personal tutor for the whole summer. Well, he said to himself, we’ll see about that! There was no way he was going to have his summer spoiled. Not now he had his cousin Julian to play with!

Timothy took a short walk through the village and into the woods. He couldn’t go back to his cousin quite yet. The agony in his bottom soon eased until it became only a constant throb. After a while that turned to a warm glow. It still hurt, especially the sit-upon part where the cheeks meet the thigh, but he was ready to return home. He was pleased that he hadn’t cried; he didn’t want Julian to know he had been spanked and red eyes would be give away his secret!

When Timothy returned to Camp Cottage he was surprised to see his cousin Julian still in the living room with his suitcase. Uncle Dick was beavering away in his shed and Aunt Fanny had disappeared upstairs, never to return.

“Come on Ju,” Timothy beamed. His bottom was still a little sore but he was ready for his recent spanking with the paddle to become just a distant memory. “I’ll show you where you’re sleeping. I do hope you like it!”

Julian was delighted! The room was huge and there was a magnificent bed with a wrought iron bedstead.

“This is my room,” Timothy beamed. “Isn’t it a fantastic bed! It’s easily big enough for two of us!” he giggled. “A lot of the rooms here are locked up. If you don’t want to share, I’m sure we can find a camp bed somewhere or you can sleep on a settee or something!”

Julian was delighted. “No! It’s a marvellous bed,” he pressed both his hands in to the solid mattress, “and it’s really springy!”

“That’s settled then!” Timothy threw himself onto the bed and bounced up and down just like he was on a trampoline. “Of course, George is away for a few days, so you could have his room for a while, I suppose,” Timothy said, but then he frowned, “But, I don’t know that he wants anyone to go in his room while he’s away.”

Julian remembered George as quite a queer fellow. He bet he had lots of secrets. George was a tall, lanky man, now aged twenty. Julian remembered Timothy once telling him that at Albion School the boys called him “Georgina” because he acted like a girl and had the habit of holding one hand on his hip as he walked. They might have called him Georgina, but only behind his back. George was one of the select band of senior prefects at Albion who were supplied with bendy canes with curved handles to impose discipline and he wasn’t shy about using his.

“Where is George,” Julian inquired. “Oh, he’s with a new curate in the village. Fellow named Crick,” Timothy rolled his eyes, “They’re as thick as thieves,” he smirked. “They’re running some boys’ camp on the other side of the village. Juvenile delinquents, would you believe!”

Julian beamed, it sounded like the sort of batty project his parents would be involved with.

“They’re borstal boys, or some such,” Timothy couldn’t hide the mocking tone in his voice. “What a bunch of oiks hey!” He rolled on the bed and hoped his cousin hadn’t noticed his wince as a particularly tender part of his bottom connected with the hard mattress. “Half the village are up in arms. They think they’ll be murdered in their beds. Or they’ll be robbed of the family silver! Ha! Ha! Ha!

“But, don’t worry about George,” he giggled, “there’s plenty of time to meet him. We’ve got an adventure of our own to go on.”

“Oh,” Julian beamed, “What fun!” How he was going to enjoy his summer at Camp Cottage!

To be continued ….

Picture credit: E.H. Davie

Other stories you might like

Summer at uncle’s

The glorious summer

How Many Strokes Will it Be?

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com