Uncle Dwight has a ‘little word’

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I stood up and then I sat down again. I fidgeted for a few moments and then I stood up. I paced across the tiny room. It took no more then five steps. I turned, looked at the clock on the mantlepiece. He was late. I peered out of the window. The sun hadn’t yet gone down. It was a little after seven. It was early summer. It wouldn’t get dark for three more hours at least. I wanted him to hurry up. I promised to meet my mates in the pub at eight.

I paced back to the armchair and sat down. I looked at my watch. It was hardly a minute since I had last checked the time. I fidgeted some more. I picked up the Brocklehurst Bugle. With intense irritation I turned the pages. There was nothing worth reading. There never was. Nothing ever happened in Brocklehurst. I couldn’t wait to get away. I wouldn’t have too long to wait; I had an escape route planned.

Uncle Dwight was supposed to be here at seven. He was late. Damn him! Why couldn’t he be on time. It was his idea to meet. I would rather not, but I had no choice. He wanted to have “a little word” – just the two of us. Sometime when we could be alone. Well Friday night was the only time I had the house to myself. Mum was at her Bingo! and my younger sister at Brownies. It was the only time all week I could be sure of being alone. Not that I ever stayed in. Friday night was pub night with the guys from school. Well to be honest that wasn’t entirely true. Friday night was Have A Wank Night; then a shower and then out to the Dog and Biscuit pub.

But not this time. I wasn’t in the mood to pull one off. I did try but even the “hard core” magazine we lads had been swopping was no use. Uncle Dwight was coming to have his “little word”; and that put all other thoughts out of my head.

I paced the room again and pulled the net curtains to one side to see through the window. I had a reasonable view of the street. No sight of Uncle yet. I looked at the clock. Ten past: what was keeping him. Of course, when Uncle said he wanted “a little word” he didn’t really mean a little word he meant something else. I didn’t expect there to me much talking.

Uncle Dwight was my mum’s brother. He worked mostly on the oil rigs and was only in town for a few weeks every year. During that time he liked to “catch up” on family events. I called it poking his nose in where it wasn’t wanted, but, of course, I had no say in the matter. Things were tense at home. I was eighteen and hated it there. I couldn’t wait to get out of that dreadful house and the stinking town. My school examinations were due in a few weeks’ time. I intended to pass and go off to university; then I’d never have to return to Brocklehurst ever again.

I knew I’d get to the university.  I had passed my eleven-plus exam at the end of primary school and went to the grammar, where I excelled. Mum was a cleaning-lady and had left school aged fourteen. She had no use for book-learning. I don’t suppose she had read a book in her whole life. She was so ignorant she used to call the romance magazines she bought “books”. When I was much younger I made excuses for her ignorance. There had been a war on when she was a child and she went to work on the land. She didn’t have a chance. During my left-wing political phase (when I was about thirteen) I saw her as a martyr of “the system”, but then I discovered parents of my schoolfriends with similar histories had made decent lives for themselves. In truth, I thought, she wallowed in her ignorance.

I couldn’t stand to be in the same house as her. I spent a lot of time in the public library and when I was at home I hardly ever left my bedroom. After the age of about sixteen I don’t suppose I spoke a civil word to her. It’s a cliché, but in my case it was true, that I treated the house like a hotel. If I had the money I would’ve gladly lived in a hotel.

On his latest visit Mum unburdened herself to Uncle Dwight. He told me I was “rude, insolent, uncouth and offensive.” At least his vocabulary was wider than Mum’s. That wasn’t the end of it. Uncle Dwight said I had no respect for all the work she put in keeping me clothed and fed. If it wasn’t for her I wouldn’t have been able to stay on at school after I was sixteen. “Not true,” I barked back at him and told him of the scholarships I had won. “Me, alone,” I told him, “By using my brains.” I didn’t say it in so many words but I was letting Uncle Dwight know that I had no respect for him either. He was a manual worker although on more than one occasion I had heard him refer to himself as “semi-skilled”. I tried not to laugh.

By the time I had made my little speech, a “rant” Uncle Dwight called it, he had probably made up his mind. “You need taking down a peg or two. You’re getting too big for your britches,” he said. Britches! Where did he dig that one up, the sad old ignorant man? So, that was why I was pacing the tiny front room at the house waiting for hm to come for his “little word”.

Uncle Dwight eventually arrived close to half-past-seven. I suppose the bus was late. He had no car and couldn’t afford a taxi. Loser! He had his own door key so could let himself into the house. I stayed seated sinking into the armchair. Let him come find me. Why should I make an effort. Uncle Dwight was a large man, he was easily six or seven inches taller than me and probably had as many extra inches around his waist. He wore baggy jeans; cheap ones, bought at a supermarket and a collarless shirt that stretched against his vast belly and what people today call his “man boobs”. He sweated copiously; the summer weather is no friend to obese people. I looked him up and down in distain. How I loathed that man. I stayed seated and he came and stood over me; he blocked out the sun. I knew why he had come and he knew why he was there so there was no reason to go through all my supposed misdeeds again. No reason, but that didn’t stop Uncle Dwight from listing all my so-called faults. He finished his speech by saying that thing about being, “Too big for my britches” again. I managed not to sneer.

Then, he was ready to get down to business. “Stand up,” he ordered and when I didn’t he gripped hold of my forearm and hauled me to my feet. He may have been carrying about ten more stone in weight than me but he still had a lot of strength. I pouted and he pushed me away from the chair. He snarled and then took hold of the chair and turned it on its axis so that it pointed in a different direction. I watched, my heart racing (I admit it). This confirmed to me his intention. I had expected this. I was a bright boy after all. I was prepared for what I would do. “You need a darn good spanking!” he said. Darn! That, I was sure, was not a word they used on the oil rigs. “And that’s what you’re going to get,” he added unnecessarily since by now he was unbuckling his belt and trying to loosen it through the loops of his copious jeans. I watched in wonderment as he tried to perform this task: before then I hadn’t realised just how fat he really was.

In time he got the belt free. It was so long that he had to fold it three times before he could get it to a length that it might be used to whip me. I watched patiently and a little perplexed. He intended to spank me. Me, an eighteen-year-old man. An adult; a person who had the vote. He waved the belt around a bit; I supposed it was to intimidate me. Truthfully, it didn’t work. Oh how I hated him. I hated him because he was pig-ignorant; thick as two short planks (or, if you prefer, pig shit). I hated him because even though he was a moron, at this moment in time he had power over me. He had decided I should be spanked and what could I do about it? The obvious answer to that was refuse. Tell him: No, I wouldn’t let him. Then what? There would be an unseemly fight. He might over-power me, but I doubted it. The best would be he’d pin me down for a bit and whack at me indiscriminately with his belt. Some of the blows would certainly land.

I could walk out and go down the pub. How would that help? I’d have to come home sometime and we’d have the fight then. I knew Uncle Dwight was trying to keep our meeting secret from Mum so maybe the second round of the contest would be postponed for a week. But it would have to take place and there was a great chance Mum would find out. I didn’t want that to happen. Not because I wanted to spare her feeling, I just could stand all that huffing and sighing I would have to endure from her.

No! I had already decided. I hated all of them and in a couple of months (a few weeks!) I would have passed my examinations and be set to go away to university. My escape route. There was light at the end of the tunnel. Soon I would be free. Even at aged eighteen I understood the value of pragmatism. I would let the bastard belt me. So what! Who cared! Let him get on with it.

I didn’t say any of this to Uncle Dwight, I simply stood passively waiting for him to make his next move. This development might have thrown him somewhat. I remember he blustered, “Bend over the chair,” as he tapped his limp belt against the chair’s arm. I shrugged my shoulders in defiance. It was my way of saying, “Yeah! Whatever!” The chair was quite low and I could tell that a better bet would have been for me to go across its back as this way I would have presented a better target to Uncle Dwight. He couldn’t even get that right.

z used jeans couch waiting

I eased myself down across the arm of the chair. I was too tall for that position and had to tuck my arms into the side and bend my knees a lot so my bum could rest over the arm. A person needed to be a contortionist to do this right. I was as ready as I would ever be.

Like this my jeans stretched tightly across my buttocks and it felt like my cheeks had been lifted and separated. Uncle Dwight was silent. He shuffled behind me and although I couldn’t see him I knew he was trying to work out where he could stand so he could take aim at my bum. See, I knew I should have been over the back of the chair. He was wheezing mightily already and he hadn’t started yet. I had never been spanked, nor caned before but I had enough imagination to know what was likely to happen next. After much shuffling Uncle Dwight seemed to have worked out where he should stand.

I waited patiently, determined that I would not feel humiliated to be there, aged eighteen, offering up my bottom to be spanked by a fat middle-aged man. I could count the weeks before I would be free. Darn him! Let him do his worst. He whacked the belt across my backside. There was a loud crack as leather struck tight denim. I suddenly realised the window was wide open and feared any passer-by could hear. The last thing I wanted was the nosey neighbours knowing I had my bottom spanked. I buried my head in my arms and let Uncle Dwight get on with it.

He whacked the belt down about six or seven times before I realised I couldn’t feel a thing. The belt made a terrific noise there was no doubt about that, but as an instrument of punishment it was useless. Thinking about it later it was obvious why. The strap was thin and narrow and had no weight to speak of. My jeans were nearly new and made of thick denim. I was also wearing underpants. Add to that the fact that I was eighteen and not eight and was tough enough to withstand much more pain that Uncle Dwight could ever hope to inflict with his belt.

I lay passively, my head down and raised my bum as best as I could. “Come on then,” I was saying with my body, “Give it your best shot. You loser.” I can’t remember how many strokes (you couldn’t honestly call them “lashes”) he gave me but he could have gone on all night for all the effect it had on me. Before too long the effort was too much for him. He was not a man given to taking exercise and his body was about to remind him of that. If he continued he might have fallen down dead with a heart attack.

At last he wised up to the fact that it was time to stop. He was bent double (as far as his waist would allow) gasping for breath when I got to my feet. I stood watching him with utter contempt. I had not felt a thing during his so-called punishment.  I knew that once he had left and I checked my bum for damage it would be unblemished. What a loser! He couldn’t even spank me properly.

I didn’t wait for his permission before I headed upstairs. If I didn’t get a move on I’d be late meeting my pals. By the time I came down five minutes later Uncle Dwight had left the house. I gathered my wallet and keys and headed for the pub.

AFTERWARD.

That happened to me in 1973. I went to university and subsequently gained a masters degree and a doctorate. I travelled all over the world with my work. Mum and Uncle Dwight are both long since dead. I never returned to Brocklehurst; not even for their funerals.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Wiping the slate clean

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zused paddle otk pants domestic bbfc (2)

I was on a downward spiral, totally out of control, about to crash and burn. Everything I did or touched turned to dust. I had no hope left. Before long I would be in the gutter, my life in ruins. Or even worse, they’d be scooping my dead body off a pavement. Then, Uncle Gavin came along and helped me to wipe the slate clean.

My Dad died when I was thirteen. I’m not blaming him for what happened next, I’m just trying to put it into context. He had a heart attack and was gone. Mum was devastated, but I’m not blaming her either. I have no excuses, I know that now.  It was down to me. I have learnt to take responsibility for my actions; Uncle Gavin taught me that.

Dad left us well provided, so mine isn’t a story a story of depravation, of a boy reduced to abject poverty. Mum had her job working in an office for the Council. We were pretty well off. There was only me and her. We didn’t go without.

I don’t know if I’m a bright lad or not. I never applied myself at school. I wasn’t interested, so I never worked. I know you’re going to say, “You must have been interested in something,” and you’d be right. I should have made the effort, but I didn’t. Some would ask, “Isn’t it the job of teachers to make kids interested in learning?” I don’t blame them, looking back I can see they tried. Some of them very hard.

So, I left school at sixteen with no qualifications. I drifted a bit and ended up bouncing from one job to another. I flipped burgers for a while, put leaflets around the doors for a double-glazing firm, and delivered pizza on a bike. I couldn’t keep any of them. Mostly I got bored and didn’t turn up for work and before long they “let me go,” which is modern-speak for “sacked me.” I resented them at the time, said they didn’t understand me. Said they should give a man his “space.” I was talking bollocks, of course. I know that now, thanks to Uncle Gavin. What “space” did I need? What was I going to do when I got it?

I ended up at the Tesco supermarket, working unloading trucks and filling shelves. That went well and I sort of enjoyed it. There were lots of lads like myself, just having a laugh and getting away with as much as we could. We spent more energy skiving work than we ever put into our jobs. A few of us would steal bottles of booze and in the evening take them over to the waste ground and get pissed. I was also smoking a lot of dope at the time. I was out of my head more often than not.

We got caught thieving the booze eventually. I now can see I was dead lucky. They could have got the police onto us and taken us to court. We were bang to rights, we’d get community service or something, I suppose. We would have just laughed, but it would mean a criminal record.

It broke Mum’s heart. Me a thief. I didn’t care. Long before that I had stopped doing what she told me. I still lived at home but I came and went as I liked. She stopped cooking for me in the end, I missed so many meals.

It was about this time, I was sweet eighteen, that I was hurtling on that downward spiral I told you about. Then, Uncle Gavin came into my life. Uncle Gavin is Mum’s brother. I didn’t see much of him as I was growing up as he worked abroad a lot. He was a teacher and he worked in Africa for years, but I don’t know why he had to come home.

Now, he was back he found out about me. Mum told him everything, I suppose, especially about how upset she was. That was when Uncle Gavin took charge. I’m surprised I let him. Why would I care what old people thought of me and my mates? He told me he knew all about me and my kind. He wasn’t angry. He didn’t put me down at all. He just said he was an “educator” and he knew about these things. I didn’t have a clue what an “educator” was but it turns out it’s a teacher. Not only a teacher, you know somebody who teaches you a subject like maths or geography, he was into the whole growth of the young person. Well, something like that.

He was very friendly with me. I can’t say we were actually “friends”, we didn’t go drinking together or smoke weed. But, he didn’t put me down at all. He said he wanted to “understand” what I was feeling. He said he wanted to help me. It sounded like bollocks.

But, it wasn’t. The first thing that happened was he said I should think carefully about what I wanted in life. He was very insistent it should be what I wanted, not anybody else. Then, I had to make a plan that would get me from where I was to where I wanted to be. He called in a “roadmap”. He said I had to take responsibility for my actions. I had to take control of my life.

He was so persuasive that I soon came round to the idea. He said I should write down a list of what he called “objectives”; when I had done that I should plan how to achieve them. He said it might take some time – years even – but to take it one step at a time.

I realised it wasn’t bollocks after all. I liked the idea. Uncle Gavin said it would be a good idea if I moved out of home. It would give me a rest from Mum and would give me some of that space I talked about. He said I could move in with him. He has a huge house in some place called Brocklehurst, which is a small town. He had plenty of room for me. He said it would get me out of my “environment” and bad influences. I could make a fresh start.

So I packed a couple of bags and away I went. Uncle found me a job. It was filling shelves. He didn’t tell them I had form for thieving. He said he trusted me not to do it again. He said I was a “good lad”, which I knew wasn’t true. I suppose he was trying to be kind.

He set me down to make that list of objectives. It was hard work. I had always moaned that I was bored and couldn’t find things to interest me. Uncle Gavin gave me some help. I decided I should try to go to college. I should try to get a trade of some sort – a plumber or electrician maybe.

Uncle Gavin reminded me I should take it one step at a time. He said I still had to learn some basics about life. He said he knew a lot about this, him being an “educator” and all. He told me I might be eighteen but I was far from being an adult. I couldn’t be an “adult” until I had learned self-discipline.  It was all about taking responsibilities for my actions. He said he could help me with this.

By now I liked Uncle Gavin. I could see he had my best interests at heart. I knew if I did what he told me I could turn my life around. I trusted him. Shortly after I moved in with him and I started on my list of “objectives” he said to me that in the school where he taught he had a way to encourage better behaviour in pupils. He said it worked a treat. Unfortunately, he told me, those ways were no longer fashionable in this country.

I didn’t understand him. Oh, he said to me, it’s quite simple. You have a set of rules. You keep to them and everything is hunky-dory (whatever that means). You don’t stick to them, you get punished. I understood that all right. It was what he did next that threw me. We were in the living room and he went over to a drawer in a sideboard and took out a block of wood. It was dark brown and polished to a shine. It was a rectangle with a handle at one end. I must have looked puzzled because he said, “It’s a paddle. It’s what we used at the school.”

I’d never seen such a thing before but I got what he was talking about when he said, “It’s for spanking.” He held it by the handle and tapped it against his open left palm. It looked pretty heavy from where I stood. “Do you understand what I mean?” he asked. I must have coloured up and got a bit tongue-tied because I couldn’t say anything. “Do you?” he asked again.

Then he answered his own question. “You set your objectives, we agree them. You work hard to meet them,” he looked thoughtfully at the paddle in his hand, “that’s fine. You don’t then ..” he smacked it into his palm. I remember the thwack it made against the flesh.

I can’t really explain what I thought about it. I’m not very good with words, but somehow what he was saying made sense. Work hard, get rewarded. Don’t, get punished. We talked about it and because I trusted Uncle Gavin and reckoned he had my best interests at heart we agreed that’s how we’d go.

“Good,” he said, and I knew he was genuinely pleased. “You are a good lad,” he said and then hesitated, “No,” he said, “You can be a good lad, but you haven’t been very good up to now, have you?” I knew he was talking about my stealing, not keeping a job, giving Mum a hard time. “No,” I agreed, “I haven’t.”

“D’you know what?” he said, it wasn’t really a question, “You need to atone for you past.” I didn’t know what “atone” meant and I said so. I could ask Uncle Gavin anything. “You need to be punished for your past misdeeds.” I suppose I looked unsure so he said, “That way you wipe the slate clean. Start with a new beginning.” He didn’t say, “Turn over a new leaf,” but I got his drift.

He picked up the paddle and stared down at it. “I want you to take down your trousers,” he sat down in a chair, “and then come and bend across my knee.” He gripped the paddle in his right fist. “You need to be spanked. You do understand that, don’t you?”

Again, I can’t find the words I need. Spanked. I need to be spanked. Until that day it had never entered my mind that I needed to be spanked. Uncle Gavin must have known I would be a bit dumbfounded. He said, “It will hurt a very great deal. That is the point. But you will have atoned and after you will feel very much better. Put your past behind you. Look to the future.”

Uncle Gavin was very convincing. I did want a better, brighter tomorrow. I trusted him to help me find it. If he said I needed to be spanked, then who could argue? “Take down your trousers,” he said. His voice was coming from miles away. I don’t know what came over me. It seemed the most natural thing in the world. An eighteen-year-old in need of discipline, taking down his trousers before bending over his uncle’s knee for a sound spanking with a paddle.

I remember I was wearing sweatpants and they had elastic at the waist so I just gripped hold of them and tugged them down. They bunched up at the knees. It was a warm day and I only wore a t-shirt. “Come and bend over my knee,” Uncle Gavin spoke softly; he didn’t bark an order. He wasn’t forcing me to do anything I didn’t want. I was some distance from him and with the sweats now slipping down my shins I had to waddle like a penguin across the room.

I stood a little to his right and looked down. Uncle was in jeans and a t-shirt as well. He parted his legs a little bit. He didn’t say anything at this point but I understood this was to give me a platform to drape my body over. I had never been spanked (obviously) so I was travelling on instinct. I looked down at Uncle’s lap and placing both hands on his knee I leaned forward and lowered myself down. “Put your arms in front of you. Palms on the floor. I don’t want you trying to reach back.” I followed his instructions. My legs took care of themselves and stretched behind me. My toes didn’t quite reach the floor. I couldn’t see but it felt like my bum was pointing up at an angle over Uncle Gavin’s thigh. I must have been in a perfect position because Uncle took hold of me around the waist with his left hand and began to rub the paddle over my bum.

My pants were tight and had ridden up my crack; they fitted me like a second skin. I lay in position waiting. I remember I was perfectly calm. There was no fuss. Uncle Gavin had not manhandled me across his knee. There had been no dispute, no unseemly fight. I had submitted to him. He had explained why I needed to be spanked and I agreed. Of course, I didn’t know then how much a spanking on the underpants with a paddle would hurt. If I did I might not have been so calm.

I soon found out. Uncle Gavin patted my bottom with the paddle. He took aim at the underside of the cheeks where, I suppose, there was most padding (my bum was pert and hard in those days). He lifted the wood and smacked it down with tremendous force. It knocked all the air out of me. I gasped with shock. I had no time to recover before a second, third and fourth swat pounded into my bum. My legs flailed and my body twisted left and right. It looked like I was trying to swim off his lap. Uncle Gavin gripped my waist tighter and began to take my arse off with that paddle.

I have no other words to describe it. The pain was intense. Each thwack into the stretched flesh felt as if he had pressed Mum’s hot iron into me. My bum was on fire. Uncle Gavin had promised me a severe spanking and that was what he gave. My groans and gasps turned to sobs. I was never openly crying, not bawling like a kid, but my eyes were flooded by the time he let me up.

I have no idea how long he spanked me for. Looking back, I don’t suppose it was more than a minute or two: to me it felt like hours. At last he stopped. He released his grip on my body and I slithered from his knees onto the floor. I was winded, but in seconds I had scrambled to my feet and tugged my sweats up. The agony in my bum was easing into a hard throbbing; soon it would become a warm glow. It would hurt to sit down for hours.

“Come here,” Uncle Gavin was still seated in the chair. He opened his arms to me and I stepped into them. He hugged my tightly. “Good boy,” he whispered. “Now, go to your room and think about the bright future we can create together.”

 

Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Uncle David has a plan

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z used belt jeans chair sting 2

David looked on helplessly. Tears flowed down his kid sister’s face, she sat scrunched up on the couch, shoulders convulsing with sobs.

“I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to do,” she wailed. David turned his back, he couldn’t bare to watch. Snot was flooding down Carol’s face.

He paced the small living room trying to contain his own anger.

“What can I do?” she howled. “I don’t know what to do.”

You could start by calming down a little, David thought but stopped short of saying it out loud. He didn’t blame his sister. It wasn’t her fault. It had all come as an almighty shock. She was right, what was she to do? What were they to do?

“I had no idea,” Carol wiped her face on the sleeve of her cardigan. “No idea. None at all.” She searched a pocket, found a handkerchief and dapped at her eyes. She was beginning to get a grip.

“It’s all my fault,” she sniffed. Her hanky was already soaked. David reached into his own pocket and found his own handkerchief. Man-sized. For industrial strength weeping. It was neatly pressed. Clean this morning. Unused. He handed it over. Carol took it and dried her face, smudging her makeup.

“It’s not your fault, Sis, you mustn’t think that,” he said. His assurance lacked authenticity. Could it be her fault? he wondered.

“I never knew,” Carol’s words came in gulps, but the tears had stopped. For now. “Not until the police rang my doorbell. I never knew.”

David shrugged his shoulders. Kept his opinion to himself. Could she be to blame?

“Brought home in a police car. For all the neighbours to see. The disgrace,” Carol breathed deeply, maintaining control. “I never knew.”

David paced the room once more, then stood looming over his sister. “Smoking dope. In Widdicombe Woods,” he said as if she didn’t already know the sordid details. “At least they’re not charging him.”

“I know,” Carol flared, “The police just don’t care. He’s on drugs and they couldn’t give a damn. They just take them home to their parents. What am I supposed to do about it?”

“He doesn’t have a father …” David began but tailed off unsure where he was going with this.

“Oh so it’s my fault is it!” she snapped.

“No Sis, I just meant, oh I don’t know. If he had a man about the house. You know when he was growing up.”

“We’re well shot of that cheating bastard. At least I got the house.”

“Yes, but,” David did not want to go through the details of the acrimonious divorce all over again. “I just meant that Matt might have benefitted from a firm hand. You know growing up.”

“Oh so now I’m a bad parent.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I can’t discipline my own son,” Carol’s voice rose an octave.

“Well,” David paused to gather courage, “Not discipline so much but punishment.”

“Punishment?”

“Yeah, punishment. For when discipline breaks down.”

Carol stared, her eyes on stalks, “What on earth are you talking about?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” David didn’t want an argument. Not now. Not with his sister in this state. “You know, what happens when he breaks the rules.”

She peered at her brother trying, and failing, to read the expression on his face. “You’ve lost me now.”

“Oh for pity’s sake. You know. Maybe a firm hand ..”

“Firm hand? What firm hand? Where?”

David smiled, “Well across the backside now and again might have helped.”

“Ha!” it was a snort, not a laugh. “You think he needs a spanking. He’s eighteen for chrissake. A bit too old don’t you think.”

“Hmmm,” David sat in an armchair opposite his sister. “Is it? Really? Do you think so?”

“Are you serious?”

“Well why not? Like you said yourself ‘What are you to do?’ Do you have any plan?”

Carol sat moodily. In a huff. No she hadn’t a plan. But a spanking. Did people still spank their kids, never mind their eighteen-year-old student sons? “So I’m supposed to take him over my knee and spank him with my hairbrush?”

David grinned. It helped disguise his thought: Many eighteen-year-olds would jump at the chance to be spanked by an older woman. Instead, he said, “I could do it,” he paused and added, “If you would like me to , that is.”

“Cloud Cuckoo Land,” she sneered. “You think he’s going to let you tan his backside?”

“Well what’s your suggestion?” he snapped back. “Ground him? Send him to bed early without any supper?” He leaned forward in his chair, encroaching into his sister’s space, “Do you think that’s going to nip this in the bud?”

“Jesus H. Christ,” she shook her head, “I don’t believe this.”

….

David didn’t believe it either. Not really. But even so it happened. The next afternoon he visited the house once more. Matt had been told to be at home for his uncle’s visit. The pair had not been close while Matt grew up. David had worked abroad in developing countries for much of his adult life and had only returned to Brocklehurst sixteen or so months ago. David was a little aloof around Matt as might be expected from a plantation manager who had come to expect deference and instant obedience from his young workers. He wasn’t averse to swishing a heavy cane across backsides when he though the occasion demanded.

David had that indefinable quality of the stern taskmaster. He could quell a rebellion at fifty paces. Matt had never encountered anything quite like him. It unnerved him.

“Stand there,” Uncle David clicked his fingers and pointed to a spot in the middle of the living room the moment Matt entered. As if in a spell, the teenager obeyed instantly. “Now, young man,” David knew how to lecture an errant worker. How to list the defects, the misbehaviours, the wickedness. How to draw out a confession from even the most unruly lad. Matt was like putty in his hands.

The full sordid story unfolded. The cannabis smoking in the woods (not the first time, but definitely the last if Uncle David had his way), the ride in the police car, the shame brought on Matt’s mother. The boy’s face flushed at first before turning a deeper crimson. His eyes glazed, then watered. David had expected airy indifference from Matt.

The lecture was over. Now it was time for action. At the plantation he would order a boy to bend over his desk. Without question (and certainly no argument) he would submit himself submissively for a caning. How would Matt react? David was prepared for a struggle. He might have to force the teenager face down over the dining room table and take swats at his rear end as best he could.

He had no cane of course. That would be David’s weapon of choice. He knew how to extract maximum pain with minimum effort from a metre or so of whippy rattan. That option was not available. Punishment canes were not readily available for sale. He supposed he could go online, but time was at the essence – and anyhow he had no desire to do business with a fetish or sex shop somewhere.

He had searched for a suitable alternative. Carol’s hairbrush was a cheap plastic effort from Boot’s. There were no bedroom slippers in the house, no purpose-made paddles. He settled on a belt. He didn’t have many; one made of heavy leather would have to do. He had left it in readiness waiting on the table. Now was the time to use it.

He took a deep breath, “You deserve to be punished,” David had rehearsed a little speech. It wasn’t too different from the one he used at the plantation. “I want you to bend over that chair,” he pointed to a cheap fabric and wooden armchair as if there was any doubt which he meant. Matt’s eyebrows knitted, his forehead wrinkled. His nose twitched. His brain whirled. He said nothing. David watched intently as his nephew processed the information. It was now or never; the teenager would either submit or rebel. And, rebel big time.

Matt’s nose twitched once more, he sucked in a lung-full of air and with out a word or hesitation he turned to look at the chair. He took one step forward, hesitated a moment, then took a second. He was close to the back of the chair. David watched as the boy appeared to debate with himself. Was he daring himself on? He rubbed the palms of his hands together and leaned forward. He was of tall, thin build. He reached ahead of himself and gripped the front of the cushion and rested his elbows on the wooden arms. His groin rested on the apex of the chair and he parted his long legs by a metre-and-a-half so that he didn’t have to bend his knees to get his bottom angled in the ideal position for punishment.

Uncle David breathed a sigh of relief. There was to be no unseemly struggle after all. He was far from sure he would have been able to get the lad face down over the table. Still, he thought, as he retrieved the belt and slowly folded it into thirds, that was all irrelevant now. He stood to the left of his target. Matt was a fit lad (in more than one sense of the word) and stretching across the low armchair emphasised his muscles. His bottom was hard and firm – the phrase “buns of steel” could have been invented for him.

Uncle David fingered the belt in his hands, all to aware of its flimsiness. It would hardly make a dent in Matt’s backside. He hoped all this would not be in vain. This was supposed to be a punishment, intended to teach Matt a valuable lesson. To deter him from future drug taking. Oh well, Uncle David thought, if the pain doesn’t teach him maybe the humiliation of being forced to present himself submissively to an older man for a spanking would have some effect.

He took his aim by resting the belt across the centre of both buttocks, trying for the patch of denim between the two back pockets. He tap-tap-tapped the leather, then pulled the belt away and raised it in an arc before bringing it down with extreme force across the boy’s bum. The sound of the Crack! of leather on denim bounced off the four walls in the small room. A faint line appeared across the jeans where the belt had landed, but Matt remained motionless.

Undeterred Uncle David pounded twelve lashes across Matt’s backside, all running parallel to one another. Not a single square centimetre of the bum was unattended. Still he teenager did not react. Uncle David paused and stepped forward a little so he could get a clear look at the boy’s face. It was bright and open; a little red but that could be because his head was angled at an unusual position. The older man took aim once more and landed another twelve. Than he let fly with a dozen more.

His arm was aching. It probably hurt a lot more than Matt’s bum, Uncle David thought ruefully. This was no good. He had done his best. How he wished he had a cane at his disposal. Uncle David was defeated, but he would not let on. “Stand up,” he intoned in the severest voice he could muster. He stood back and watched the boy haul himself to his feet. Matt stood, head bowed, staring intently at his own trainers. Then he raised his head and for the first time that afternoon looked directly into his uncle’s eyes.

No word was spoken. Matt scrunched up his nose, blinked heavily four or five times. Silently, he took hold of his own belt and swiftly unbuckled it. He had the front of his jeans open before Uncle David realised what was happening. In a trice the jeans were at Matt’s feet, he turned on his heels, dived across the back of the chair and resumed his submissive position.

Uncle David needed no further invitation. Matt’s underwear was off the briefest kind, they hardly covered his buttock cheeks. There was but the faintest colouring on them from the belting so far. Encouraged by the terrific target now presented to him Uncle David found his aim and whipped the leather across the nearly-bared bum. He was rewarded by a series of sunset stripes across the nearly-white flesh. Matt’s head rose and fell with each lash. He felt those alright. Crack! Crack! Crack! It is a cliché to say the beating was like machinegun fire, but in truth that’s exactly how it did sound. The noise was complemented by a series of “ahhhs and ohhhs” slipping through Matt’s clenched teeth.

Uncle David had found his second wind. Tirelessly, he pounded the leather into Matt’s tight buttocks. He paused for a moment to catch his breath but also to grip hold of the boy’s underwear.  Uncle David had two options. One was to tug them down over Matt’s thighs and leave them on top of the teenager’s jeans at his feet. He choose the second. He gripped the flimsy briefs and pulled tightly thereby giving the boy the most painful wedgie. His buttocks were completely bare but the cotton rode up into his crack. The effect was the same as a full bare-bottomed thrashing, but without the added humiliation of exposing the crack and hole to general view.

Uncle David lost count. Maybe he lashed the leather thirty, forty or fifty more times. Both buttocks were scarred with red stripes, some turning blue at the edges. None of the flesh was left unscorched. Uncle David believed in punishment; he did not believe in torture. The boy’s bum was on fire, tears rolled down his face, his head rose and fell, his hips wriggled from side to side. He stamped his feet up and down. It was the definition of a sound spanking.

Enough. Uncle David wiped sweat from his forehead and only now realised his shirt was soaked with the exertion. “You may stand,” he barked. Slowly, Matt pushed his hands against the arms of the chair and rose unsteadily to a standing position. Immediately his hands rubbed at his roasting buttocks. He kneaded at sore flesh. It made no difference to the level of pain. It never does.

Matt wheezed, drawing in great gulps of air, his temples throbbed almost as much as his buttocks. The room spun around him, his heart beat fast, his eyes stood on stalks. His Uncle David was a mere blur across the room. Behind his eyes he saw every colour of the rainbow. It was the best high he had ever experienced.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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In Uncle Gascoigne’s Library

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z used uncle gascoigne study (21)

Harry slouched disconsolately in the corner seat. The third-class carriage was empty, as was most of the train. A Thursday afternoon in late November was not a popular time to travel. His buttocks ached on the hard wooden seat. He hugged his arms around his body. Miserably, he shivered. At this rate, he reflected, he’d end up in the hospital with pneumonia.

It had been five hours earlier that the porter at St. Tom’s had put him unceremoniously on the train. There was no word of farewell; the brute hadn’t even carried his suitcase. That’s how they treated a chap when he was sacked.

At last, the steam train chugged into Weatherstone Halt. Journey’s End. Or, Harry supposed, New Journey Starts. What did his future have in store? Who knew? The only certainty was that first he must face Uncle Gascoigne.

He stepped from the train into a swirling mist. It engulfed the small platform; he could barely see a hand in front of his face. His feet slipped on the frost beneath his feet. An eerie silence enveloped him. If Harry had been a reader, he might have likened it to a scene from a Victorian ghost story. He stood, uncertain, suitcase by his side. How was he to get to Weatherstone Manor? It was some distance off; too far to walk with a heavy case.

“Hello Master Harry!” it was a croaking voice. It seemed to come from nearby, but the mist was thickening and he couldn’t see. “Over here!” As if by some magic the fog cleared and Harry saw an old man wrapped in a heavy overcoat, a scarf and a big woollen hat. It was Tom, his uncle’s Faithful Retainer.

The journey by pony and trap was short. A biting wind tore through Harry. He wore only his school blazer and it was no use against the cold. Nor did his grey trousers give protection from the wind. Tom, drove in silence. He was a man of few words as was expected from a devoted servant. He geed the pony and steered it along the narrow lanes to the Manor. His was the only vehicle on the road. Harry hugged his own body with cold and let the wintry countryside pass him by unnoticed.

The Manor loomed; an imposing Gothic pile. Even on a summer’s day it looked unwelcoming. On this day and in these circumstances it seemed especially hostile. Tom steadied the pony while Harry climbed down. “I’ll take care of your case, Master Harry,” the Faithful Retainer spoke with a hint of regret, “Your uncle says you are to go directly to the library.” He studied his own hands intently.

“Oh,” Harry spoke softly. The summons had not been unexpected, but he had hoped there might be some interval before he faced Uncle Gascoigne. He trudged towards the door. The inside of the manor was as ugly and imposing as the outside. The hallway could have been the entrance to a municipal town hall. It might be large enough to house a cricket pitch. Several doors of heavy dark oak ran into it. Harry was not concerned with these. The room he sought was up the imposing spiral staircase on the first floor. He trudged up it.

Harry was a boy of little imagination, so as he made his journey he did not reflect on its similarity to St. Tom’s. He had been summoned to the housemaster’s study countless times, each journey requiring a long trek through School House, along a narrow passageway towards a heavy wooden door. On the other side he would be confronted by a cane-wielding master. What happened next can be safely left to the reader’s imagination.

Harry reached the library door and paused, unsure how to proceed. Should he turn the handle, fling open the door wide and burst into the room and offer Uncle Gascoigne a cheerful “Hello Uncle! I’m home!” Perhaps not. Uncle Gascoigne was not by temperament a cheerful fellow and was generally feared and respected in equal measure by his household and the tenants of the estate he ruled over. He was dreaded by the petty villains who appeared before him at the local magistrates’ bench. Harry tapped his knuckles respectfully against the panelled door.

“Come!” the boomed command was self-important. Uncle Gascoigne was a man who demanded obedience. And invariable received it. With a quaking hand, Harry turned the handle and eased the door open, making only enough space for him to squeeze into the room. He stood anxiously. Uncle Gascoigne sat in a large, padded armchair, a cup and saucer held daintily in his hands. “Close the door boy! Close the door! You’re letting the heat out!” he barked.

Once this was done, Harry stood, hands deferentially held behind his back. Uncle Gascoigne called the room his “library” but in truth it was a drawing room with shelves of books. Harry had never once troubled himself to handle any of the hundreds of volumes that surrounded him. As well as an armchair the room contained a dining table, matching chairs and an ancient Chesterfield-type couch.

Uncle Gascoigne returned his cup and saucer to the table and stretched his arms wide. He was an imposing figure, standing head and shoulders above Harry, who himself was no dwarf. He wore a frockcoat, waistcoat and striped trousers. Harry did not know this but he had recently returned from the Magistrates’ Court. Even as they spoke seven youths were under the lash of the local police sergeant.

Uncle Gascoigne frowned. He gripped the lapel of his coat and steadied himself. This was how he stood when making speeches at the Tory Association. He had prepared some words. Harry did not change his stance; hands behind back, head high. At St. Tom’s the form was always to look at a master when he was jawing you.

“Since your parents passed on,” Uncle Gascoigne droned, “I have taken care of you. I have paid for your education.” He delivered a liturgy on his generosity. “So this is how you repay me.” He picked up a letter from the table and (for dramatic effect) peered closely at it. It was an unnecessary gesture since he knew its contents by heart. It was a letter from the headmaster at St. Tom’s detailing Harry’s misdeeds leading to the inevitable conclusion that the eighteen-year-old must leave the school forthwith.

“You spend your time playing billiards in some God-awful public house when you should be at your studies.”

Harry suppressed a smile. He did much more at the Three Fishers than play billiards, but it was better that the headmaster and Uncle Gascoigne did not hear about that.

“A disgrace!” Uncle Gascoigne had used similar words to the louts at the court earlier that day. For it was true, Harry was no better than they. For all his privileges, he was a wastrel. “We shall have to consider your future at a later date,” Uncle Gascoigne said, his puffy eyes narrowing, “For now …” he let the words trail away and glanced across the room. Harry followed his gaze. His heartbeat skipped, standing in the corner of the room was a large enamel bucket and soaking in water and sticking from its top was a freshly-cut birch rod.

Silently, Uncle Gascoigne took hold of one of the dining room chairs and moved it so that it was in front of Harry. His beady eyes met those of his nephew. He hesitated, trying to read the mind of the wayward teenager. Harry’s eyes were dull; unreadable. “Bah!” Uncle Gascoigne ejaculated. “Take off your blazer, put it on the table. Lower your trousers and underwear. Bend over the chair.” It was a simple set of commands, sternly spoken. The boy would do as he was instructed, Uncle Gascoigne was in no doubt.

While Harry climbed out of his school blazer, Uncle Gascoigne stood over the enamel bucket and gripped the birch rod by its handle. He swished it through the air allowing droplets of water to dampen the solid wooden floor. He tested the rod in his hands, taking its weight. Birch rods were made for purpose and each was unique. They could be long or short; heavy or light. They might have six branches or dozens.

The one Uncle Gascoigne held was not in fact strictly-speaking a birch rod, since it was constructed of hazel branches. Hazel was more easily available in local woods and had the properties of both suppleness and strength. It had been made at the local police station. It was unheard of for Uncle Gascoigne to request them to make him personally a birch, but they asked no questions when he did. Col. Trumpington-Smythe, his fellow magistrate, often made such a demand.

The rod in Uncle Gascoigne’s hand had been expertly constructed. There were fifteen twigs, each almost perfectly straight, that were between twenty-six and thirty inches long. They had been clipped into a conical shape. The ends and tips had been trimmed and a handle bound with cord made. It tapered gracefully from handle to tip and felt comfortable and balanced as he held it. He swished it through the air once more, it had been soaked in water overnight and felt fresh and supple.

Harry watched aghast. His blazer was safely laying on the table but his trousers and underwear were still in their rightful position. “Quickly!” Uncle Gascoigne snapped. “Or do you want additional strokes?” It was a question that needed no answer. Harry had no doubt that his uncle was serious. He forced his hands to unfasten his trousers, the weight of the heavy wool sent them hurtling to his knees. He wore fashionable athletic underwear of the short variety. He hesitated until Uncle Gascoigne’s heavy, impatient breath spurred him onwards. Soon he was bare from the waist to his ankles.

“Bend over the chair,” Uncle Gascoigne swiped the birch, “I assume you know the drill.” Indeed Harry did. Schoolmasters had their own peculiarities when administering canings. One might require a boy to present himself touching toes, knees straight; that was probably the most “traditional” position known. It was, however, not the most efficient method. The posterior was stretched and bent at such and angle that the size of the target was diminished. Others would make a boy go over a chair. How this was done depended on the furniture available. The back of an armchair could be used, but so many of them were tall and a boy could not properly reach over. Most studies had at least one hard wooden chair and this was perfect. A boy faced the seat, gipped tightly on both sides, spread his legs, arched his back and jutted his rear end out. A perfect target, offering up a generous expanse of stretched bottom for the schoolmaster’s cane. Harry chose that latter position.

Uncle Gascoigne was no expert at birching. It was one of his roles in life to order others to perform such acts. He acted on instinct. He supposed the general idea was to assault as great an area of the naked buttocks now on show as possible. The posterior should end up raw and tender, but there was no need to leave the boy bloodied and battered.

He took up position to Harry’s left. The cheeks quivered in anticipation of the  assault to come. The other end of Harry appeared stoical. He held the seat cushion tightly, his eyes focused on a small stain on its fabric. His breathing was easy. Uncle Gascoigne rested the birch against his nephew’s bottom so that it covered nearly every square inch.

Harry bit down on his lower lip. He had long since been hardened to the ordeal of corporal punishment, but the application of a well-made birch rod wielded by his angry uncle might prove to be a torment of great proportions.

With the skill of a golfer, Uncle Gascoigne turned his body, screeched, and then flogged the birch across the eighteen-year-old’s bare bottom with startling speed. Harry’s head rose, his mouth gaped and his face tightened, but he uttered no sound.

The birch struck again and the delinquent schoolboy swayed noticeably. His face was now as scarlet as his bottom. He shook his head from side to side, rather like a braying donkey. A third cut slashed his once-pale buttocks, small cuts ranged from his undercurves over the fleshiest part of his bottom. Already his bum was beginning to resemble raw hamburger meat.

Harry gasped, drank in a mouthful of air, then sighed long and loudly. He wriggled and writhed, but he knew better than to try to stand. To do that in the middle of punishment always meant extra strokes (it was an unwritten law). His heartrate sped as the agony travelled through his body; his legs in particular ached terribly.

Uncle Gascoigne slashed two more into the pulsating cheeks. Whip-whip. The second swipe fell low, across the backs of Harry’s thighs. His almighty screech bounced around the library. In the passageway outside, with his ear close to the door, Old Tom the Faithful Retainer winced in sympathy.

“I think you are learning your lesson,” Uncle Gascoigne intoned.

“Yes, Sir,” Harry croaked, feeling he was required to answer.

The birch flew through the air applied with considerable beef one more time connecting with the battered and bruised bottom higher. Harry convulsed. His legs marched up and down like a demented sentry, his hips swayed from left to right and his cheeks rose and fell. He wheezed heavily, sucked a throatful of vomit back down and sniffed back the snot that was promising to drip from his nostrils.

Blood raced through his body, his temples throbbed; his ears were about to explode. The agony was intense, but it was over. “Get up.” Uncle Gascoigne, himself wheezing, returned the birch to the enamel bucket. As it jangled against the side he noted how sturdy the rod was. Very expertly made, he thought.

He turned to see Harry struggling back into his underwear and trousers, the boy’s face was drenched in tears. He stood unsteady, holding the back of the chair for balance. His backside felt like he had been forced into a bathtub of boiling water; he thought he would be unable to sit down for a week.

Uncle Gascoigne pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and swabbed his brow and the back of his neck. The flogging had taken more out of him than he had expected. “You may go,” he grimaced, “And ask Old Tom outside to fetch me a glass of whisky.”

 

Picture credit: The Magnet

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Using the Paddle

new story 2

z used paddle holding 2 wikihow

I spank with a heavy oak paddle that is about twenty inches long, four wide and maybe threequarters of an inch thick. It doesn’t take many swats for this wood to turn a backside deep cherry.

I spank on the bare bottom and I don’t believe in light paddywhackings and if they are sitting down too quickly after a spanking something is wrong, as my nephew Philip discovered. A good session with the paddle did wonders for his attentiveness to his studies.

The nineteen-year-old brat actually sneered at me when I told him if he didn’t buck up his ideas and hit the books I’d paddle his rear end until it glowed in the dark. Well, more fool him.

When the kid came to live with me I promised his mother and father that I’d look after him and take charge of his welfare. I meant his moral welfare every bit as much as his physical wellbeing. Of course, I put a roof over his head and my wife makes sure he gets three squares a day. If he played his cards right he could be very well pampered. All he needs to do is go to college and study hard. What could be more simple?

Do I need to spell it out? Kids today! No sense of responsibility. Philip is fine allowing his parents to pay his school fees and shell out cash to me for his board and lodgings, but he is not so willing to fulfil his side of the bargain.

It started well. He left us about eight-thirty every morning and returned at six. As far as we knew he was attending classes and hanging out in the library. Perhaps, he was. But, soon he staying out late and we had to practically drag him out of his bed for breakfast. In no time at all he was missing the first class. Then it just went from bad to worst.

We set a curfew. If he went out at night he had to be home by eleven on a school night. We extended that to midnight at weekends. That was plenty of time to socialise. But we soon discovered he had no sense of responsibility. He rocked home in the early hours and often it was obvious he had been drinking – or even worse. It was after the night when he emptied his stomach in our front hedge that I told him about the paddle.

“I will whack you so long and so hard until you backside glows in the dark,” I said. Philip is a small lad with a rather wiry body; I don’t suppose he weighs more than a hundred and forty pounds. He has boyish features, with a snub nose and grey eyes that sparkle. He flashed me a grin, muttered something that sounded a bit like, “Yeah, right,” and flounced from the room. I watched his tight buttocks sashay and my palms itched to grab hold of my paddle.

Before I could make a move I heard the front door slam shut; Philip had made his escape.

I repeated my warning at breakfast the next morning. I am, I hope people who know me would agree, a very fair man. I set out my rules. They were very simple. They hadn’t changed since the day Philip had arrived. Go to college, study hard, pass your tests. To that I added the times of the curfew. I couldn’t have been clearer.

Philip was sullen. He didn’t make much of a coherent response. What could he say? The whole point of his being at my house was so he could attend college. Otherwise he could just as easily stay with his parents. Or get a job somewhere and strike out on his own.

He grabbed his bag and set off for college. I thought (I hoped?) he had taken my little lecture to heart and that would be the last of it. Although I fervently believe in the efficacy of spanking (it works in in my personal experience it has proven on many occasions to work) I do not go out of my way to find excuses to wield the paddle. But if I have to I shall. It is, if you like, my duty to keep young men like Philip on the straight and narrow. They might think they are already grown up but they are not. They still need a guiding hand on the rocky road to adulthood.

Perhaps, I should have shown Philip my paddle. If I had let him handle it and to feel its weight. If he had tested its power by perhaps smacking it down into the palm of his hand, or even whacked his own backside, he might have modified his behaviour to avoid a proper spanking with it.

But that never happened. I have to report to you that Philip ignored my instructions. It is true that he did attend the college, but as the results of his midterms would soon testify, he was not studying hard. We were not yet to know this. What was more immediately obvious was that he disobeyed me over the curfew. Two nights after my breakfast time lecture he rolled home at past midnight. “Rolled home” is an apt description since he was obviously drunk (or perhaps high, I know nothing about the effects of drugs).

Corporal punishment was necessary. I had promised him an awesome spanking and now I would have to deliver on that promise. It would have less of an effect in his inebriated state so I sent him to bed with the clear understanding of what lay in store for him next day.

The young have great powers of recovery and by breakfast time he was sober and without a hangover. He was ripe for spanking. I heard the shower running and decided to let him perform his morning ablutions before calling him down to our living room. It was a squeaky clean Philip who later presented himself before me.

“Do you remember what I said when you rolled home after curfew?” I asked him in a reasonable tone. I don’t believe in barking or hectoring a boy hen he is in the wrong. I let my paddle do the talking. Philip at least had the good grace to bow his head in what I hoped was shame.

“I told you it would be a spanking …” His look of incongruity startled me and I hesitated. Had he really not thought I was serious? Did he think I said such things for the benefit of my health.

“Yes,” I said, regaining my speech. “A spanking.” I walked across the room to an old sideboard and bet down to open a drawer. I could feel Philip’s eyes boring into the back of my neck. I reached into the drawer and picked up the paddle. The boy’s eyes popped when he saw it. I wonder if he had ever seen a paddle before. I suspect his own father had never smacked Philip’s backside in anger (more’s the pity; otherwise we might not be where we were).

Colour drained from the nineteen-year-old’s face. Now he believed me! He rocked on his heels. I’m no mind reader but I truly believe he might have contemplated flight at that moment. He could have legged it from the room. Maybe he considered it. What would be the point? He would have to return at some time and he must have known that his punishment would be even more severe.

I gripped the paddle and tapped it into the palm of my left hand. My actions spoke, “Let’s get on with this.” I actually spoke, “Take down your trousers and underpants and bend across the table.” There was a round dining table dominating the room. It was an ideal height for him to prostrate himself across and submit his bared buttocks to me.

Philip’s face blushed scarlet, his eyes watered. He stood his ground, terrified. Literally, he could not move. “Bah!” I snarled. I had half-expected something like this. I had already calculated that some unseemly struggle might be necessary. Where Philip is small and wiry I am tall and well built. Despite my obvious advanced age, I still have a great deal of body strength. I also had the element of surprise. I moved forward, grabbed the boy by the hair and before he could utter a single word of protest I had him face down over the table, his mouth tasting the Formica top .

He wriggled and writhed a bit but, he was going nowhere. I had already noted he was wearing sweatpants with an elasticated waistband. I rested my paddle on his shoulders and gripped hold of his trousers. In one swift, almighty tug I had both his sweats and his briefs at his knees. His creamy-white buttocks were fully exposed. I still had surprise on my side. Before Philip could fully comprehend his plight, I seized the paddle, rubbed it across the very centre of the target area and crashed it down with terrific force.

A dark red rectangular mark immediately appeared. Then another, and yet another. I walloped five heavy swats across his rather small hindquarters. Now, both buttocks glowed red. The boy squealed like a stuck pig. In all my years administering spankings I had never heard wailing quite like it. Air rushed from his midriff, through his throat and out of his mouth. His head first swished from left to right, then he banged his forehead up and down as he headbutted the table top.

I paused to both admire the job done so far and also to determine what area of flesh was as yet untouched. I aimed at the underside of the cheeks, that spot where the bum meets the thighs. It is an especially sensitive area. Soon, my paddle had left ridges. Philip would feel pain every time he sat down for many hours to come. To my puzzlement he stopped struggling. He gasped rather like a beached dolphin, his chest heaved up and down.

I had promised him a severe spanking and that was what I delivered. I said earlier I believed in spanking hard. I never picked up a paddle unless I intended to deliver at least 15 swats. I soon reached that tally. His bottom was a fine cherry red. I had said I would make it glow in the dark. That of course is just a saying. It is not possible to literally beat a boy so hard his bottom could light up a dark room. Nonetheless I could (and I would) whack him until his rear end was bright red.

Philp’s bum was one of those that reddened easily. It was scarlet after my first onslaught. Very quickly the colour deepened and bruises formed after fifteen wallops. In no time it was a rather delicious mauve.

My nephew’s gasps quickly became sobs. He cried openly, unable to hide his intense distress. I feared he would flood the table top. I had expected pleas for me to stop, for mercy, with promises to reform. I got none of these. Philp was quite simply unable to talk, such was his distress. It was obvious to me that I had won; at least round one. I went once more round the circuit, putting extra effort across the curves and then I stopped. I released my grip on his shoulders. Only then did I realise how hard I was sweating.

I moved to the sideboard and replaced the paddle. Philip took his chance to stumble to his feet, grab his sweats and briefs and while still pulling them up, flee from the room. I heard him take the stirs two at a time and his bedroom door open and close. At that moment my wife appeared at the door to announce she had just poured me a nice cup of tea. We drank in companionable silence, neither of us wishing to dwell on the past few minutes.

Picture credit: Wikihow

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

You! Come Here!

new story 2

z used brush holding (2)

“You!” he glares at me, his mouth snarling. I stand, a shiver running across my shoulders. I peer into the half-darkness. The room is small, sparsely furnished. It is cold. There’s a faint smell of damp walls. My bare feet scratch against on the threadbare carpet. My pyjama jacket hangs loosely, the coarse material itches.

“Come here!” Uncle Roy beckons me towards him with his finger. I shuffle a pace forward, hesitate and stand still. “Here!” I crane my neck forward, only now noticing the large wooden hairbrush he grips in his right hand.

He is seated on a hard, stiff-backed kitchen chair. His legs are spread. His intentions are clear. “Here!” the single word snaps in the cold air. He feels no need to explain. I know why I am here. I am no stranger to this. The word “virgin” has no meaning here.

I lumber forward until I am one step away from him. I stand, a little to his righthand side. I am close enough to touch him. But, I don’t. Not yet. Instead, I hop from one foot to another. My mouth is dry. The tip of my tongue moistens my upper lip. I begin to perspire at the temples. Uncle Roy wriggles his bottom, spreads his legs wider. His thighs are fleshy, his belly is soft, but he is far from fat. I wait for him to settle himself. Soon he is ready, he has created with his legs a perfect platform.

I am about five-seven tall, although I am eighteen years old I still have some growing to do. And thickening out. My waist is twenty-six inches, my chest thirty-four. My face, when not hot as it is tonight, is clear and bright. It has yet to feel the scrape of a razor blade.

I take a deep breath, hold it for a moment and slowly let air exhale through my pursed lips. I am readying myself. No matter how many times I do this, there is always trepidation. I should be used to it by now. I can predict precisely what is going to happen. It is after all a well-worn ritual.

I get a whiff of Uncle Roy’s body. Coal tar soap. A proper manly smell. You wouldn’t catch him splashing Brut 33 all over. My hands tremble, almost imperceptibly. I don’t know if Uncle can tell. Without lowering my head, I search for the drawstring of my pyjama bottoms. It is loosely tied, it takes only a tiny tug to open up the front. I let go and the cotton pyjamas tumble down my legs. They snag at my knees so I part them slightly and they continue the journey to my feet.

Instinctively, my hands clasp in front of my privates. I don’t know why I bother. Uncle Roy will get a close-up sight any moment now. Not to mention a bird’s eye view of my crack and hole. A cool breeze I hadn’t noticed before brushes against my naked bottom. I do the breathing thing again, preparing myself. Almost ready.

Uncle Roy’s tobacco breath is strong, his chest heaves. The muscles in his right arm tense as he tightens his grip on the brush. He is ready, it is time to go. I reach forward and rest the palms of my hands on his right thigh, his leg buckles a little as he takes the weight of my body. Safely over I stretch my arms ahead of me and plant my hands firmly into the carpet. I arch my back. My stomach digs into his strong leg. My head is low and my bottom high. I have choices, I can keep my head high and stare across the gloomy room towards the distempered wall or I can stare down at the floor. I do neither of these things. Instead, I crane my neck so that I can see under the chair for a perfect view of my own feet, sheathed by my crumpled pyjama bottoms.

Uncle Roy takes hold of my pyjama jacket and drags it halfway up my back and leaves it bunched up at my shoulders. This serves no practical purpose. The jacket is nowhere near his target area. My buttocks are entirely bared. It is of course just another of those rituals. I am now naked from the shoulders to the ankles, completely submissive. I am allowing Uncle Roy to do his duty. I have no reason for complaint. He says I deserve a sound spanking and he is right.

My bottom is angled high above Uncle Roy’s right thigh. I feel the rough palm of his hand gently caressing first my left buttock and then the right. Then he rubs the back of my thighs. Involuntarily my bottom clenches. There is very little fat back there, now my bum probably resembles a rubber ball,  tough, hard and with very little “give”. Buns of steel.

I feel a movement in Uncle Roy’s body. I cannot see but I can imagine that now he has taken hold of the heavy wooden hairbrush. Then I feel its cold back touch against my firm bum. Uncle is taking aim. Suddenly it lifts away from the surface and a split second later returns at incredible speed and force to crash down right in the middle of my left bum cheek. Before I can register the pain it rises and falls again; this time into my right buttock. I gasp at the shock. My flesh is scolding. I wriggle at the waist. It is a natural reaction; my body’s way of dealing with the pain. I have no intention of trying to escape. I deserve this spanking.

Uncle Roy believes a whacking should hurt. Otherwise, he says, what’s the point of it? He is not one of those uncles who gives his nephew one or two token slaps. Lovetaps! Not my uncle. He takes a boy’s arse off! If you’ll pardon my bad language. It takes him about ten seconds to cover my whole backside. Admittedly, it’s not that large! It stings all over. From the top of the curves just below the spine, to the very sensitive undercurves. But mostly, across the fleshiest part of the bum, the mounds. I am on fire! I wriggle and writhe but it doesn’t matter how much I squirm Uncle is in control. He grips my waist with his left arm and with his right he continues to wallop my bare backside with that hairbrush. Did I say that Uncle Roy is as bald as a coot? He has no wife or lady friend. A hairbrush has no use in his household except as a tool to inflict the severest pain to my misbehaving bottom.

I bite down on my lip, it helps to stop me crying out in anguish. I see my own feet flailing about as they instinctively react to the intense pain that is building up in my buttocks and travelling up and down my legs. Very soon the agony is moving north, south, east and west across my whole body. My temples are throbbing almost as much as the flesh on my bum. Despite the coldness of the room, perspiration is soaking my pyjama jacket.

Bang, bang, bang, bang. On and on it goes. It sounds like machinegun fire echoing around the near-empty room. My breath comes in short pants, my heart races, my body pulsates The hot-blooded spanking is going to my loins. Oh my God! My penis hardens, it is as large and as tight as a fist. Spank, spank, spank. No, no, no! I have to stop this happening!

Dring, dring, dring, dring! Somewhere in the distance a bell is ringing. What the …! It is getting closer. Dring, dring, dring, dring! Alarm bells sound. A warm patch moves across the front of my underpants. I wriggle with discomfort. Suddenly awake, I groan, reproaching myself. The mess is spreading. Next to me my wife stirs. “Your turn to make the tea,” she grunts before rolling over for a few more moments of precious sleep.

 

Picture credit: unknown

 

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Uncle Festus

new story 2

z used otk birch CS

Neither of my parents were bothered with religion so I grew up without knowing about “Spare the rod and spoil the child.” My Uncle Festus was altogether different as I would find out. I went to a modern school, they taught us sciences as well as humanities. It was a progressive place and corporal punishment was unheard of. I was a bright child but distracted. I wasn’t lazy, but I never worked; not on my academic studies anyway. I was a good and popular sportsman and made many friends. There were girls at the school and in my later years they were a distraction.

I did badly in my examinations and my parents’ hopes that I would go to Oxford or Cambridge University were dashed. I wasn’t even qualified to attend one of the smaller, less prestigious varsities. That’s how I found myself at the Brocklehurst Crammer. Brocklehurst is a small town a long way from my home. My father arranged that I should attend the college for three months during the autumn. The idea was that I would be force-fed all the learning I had passed up at school and then retake my exams. That way, so the theory went, I could get a university place and get my life back on track.

I was never told why I was to be sent to Brocklehurst as there were many similar colleges close to my home. Looking back I suspect the deciding factor in sending me away was Uncle Festus. He lived alone in a large house in Brocklehurst. He had never married and was a pillar of the local community, especially one particular church. It was arranged that I would lodge with him, returning to his home at the end of each college day. I was not consulted over the arrangement, but I could see no reason to object. I would be the first to admit I had let myself and my parents down; I should be grateful to be afforded a second chance.

I took a very long journey by three steam trains and was near exhaustion when finally we chuffed into Brocklehurst Station. I had been told my uncle would meet me. I had rarely met him and had no idea what he looked like. I spotted him immediately. He was a young child’s nightmare of a latter day Old Testament prophet. His hair was wild, his side whiskers were overgrown, a waxed moustache curled above his upper lip. Wild blue eyes stared through half-moon glasses. It was a late summer day and seasonably warm but Uncle Festus was dressed in a heavy serge suit with buttoned-up waistcoat. Cutting into his neck was a stiff cardboard collar from which a tightly knotted tie hung.

He recognised me too. Father had insisted that I wear my old school uniform.  My bright red blazer shone in the sunlight. I had abandoned the stiff collar and tie but wore a white shirt and pale grey trousers. Uncle Festus grunted something that might have been a greeting. He peered at me over the top of his glasses, inspecting first my hair and then my face. Evidently he was not pleased with what he saw. “Hair needs cutting. No cap. Where’s your collar?” He did not wait for my response and instead turned on his heels and sped off in the direction he had come. “Follow me!” he barked. I watched him disappear down the platform. When it became clear that I was not following he stopped. He stared at me from a distance of fifty feet; his eyes blazed, I swear I saw then spin, he drew back his shoulders, gulped down air into his lungs and roared, “I said follow me!” The few people still at the station stopped what they were doing and turned startled, wondering what manner of emergency had taken place.

My face reddened, my hands trembled, I was sure tears were close to forming. “B.. b..” I stumbled, terrified to speak. At last I found the courage and the wind, “But Uncle, I have to get my luggage from the train,” I bleated pitifully. Thankfully, at the a moment a porter approached pushing a trolley heavily loaded with two trunks and a suitcase; the provisions for my stay.

The porter might well have encountered my uncle in the past and knowing of the old man’s temper, he kept his distance and waited silently for instructions. “Pah!” my uncle ejaculated. “Take them to the trap,” he barked and like a frightened rabbit the ancient porter scurried on his way.

The nag pulling the trap was on its last legs, before too long its dead body would be served to cats. I sat behind Uncle Festus as we bumped over every hole in the roads, and there were many. He was silent the entire journey. I sat despondent. My uncle’s appearance and attitude had scared the living daylights out of me and his silence as we made our way to his house was oppressive. I had a close view of his broad shoulders and powerful back, I had no idea what he did or a living but from my short distance he had the appearance of a manual labourer. He certain had the tang of one; he omitted a sour aroma which was unsurprising considering the warmth of the day and the heaviness of his clothing.

At last the pony and trap turned into a wide street called The Avenue. The road was paved with cobbles and the noise of the pony’s hooves as it clip-clopped along was deafening. The house on each side were large and imposing, nearly all of them hidden behind vast hedges and ancient trees so high they blocked out the sun. The driver cried out “Whoa there!” and the pony shuddered to a halt. Neither the driver not my uncle made to move. I sat for a moment before it dawned on me I was expected to haul the trunks and case from the trap and drag them into the house on my own; surely an impossible task. I was summoning up the courage to ask the driver or my uncle to help when a boy, about my age, bounded out through the gateway of one of the houses. This was evidently my uncle’s home. The boy nodded a greeting to me and took hold of one end of a trunk. He said nothing yet I understood perfectly his intention. I took hold of the other end and together we manhandled it into the house.

The boy led the way into the house. Once inside I could see immediately that it was vast. I would later learn there were five bedrooms and two living rooms along with a private room that uncle used, as well as the usual kitchen and so on. The hallway was dark and cold, you would never guess it was summertime. Gas lamps were attached to the walls at long intervals. The boy led the way up the wide staircase and took me to the room that I had been allocated. It was large and musty and sparsely furnished. A large bed with what I supposed was a cast-iron bedstead dominated. The floors were bare, without even a worn rug. A bowl and water jug was on a stand in one corner. In another there was a cupboard. Next to the bed was a set of drawers and on top of this stood a candle in a dish with hardened melted wax.

It was then I realised the house had no electricity. By that time electricity was available cheaply all over the country and there could have been no reason but by choice that uncle had not had it connected.

The boy helped me to put the trunk down and we went out to fetch the rest of my luggage. The boy seemed to me to be rather preoccupied with his own thoughts and he made no attempt to make conversation. I wondered if he was in fact a little simple.

At last my possessions were in my room. I was uncertain what I was expected to do next as Uncle Festus had given me no instructions; he had hardly said two words to me since we met on the station platform. I resolved I would seek him out. I was making my way through the dark passageway when the front door opened and six men all dressed in similar fashion to my uncle entered. Each had a thick black book in his right hand. They moved swiftly through the hallway and entered uncle’s private room. The boy emerged from another room and joined then. I stood on the staircase and watched. They appeared to have come for a meeting of some sort.

My uncle was already in the room and I saw him close the door. I am not generally a curious boy, which is one reason why I didn’t do so well with my studies, but this time my interest was aroused. I tip-toed down the stairs and approached the now-closed door, very aware that my footsteps were amplified by the bare floorboards. My heart thumped as I pressed my ear against the heavy oak door. It was too thick for sound to pass through and I could not hear what the group inside were saying. I stooped down and placed my eye on the eyehole. I am not one who is often wracked with guilt but I felt my presence snooping at the keyhole would not be well received by my uncle if I was discovered. It would be in my own interest to make my exit.

Intrigued, and determined to discover what they were doing inside uncle’s room I left the house and entered the garden. The house was huge and there was no shortage of windows but at last I found the one I was looking for. It was closed, despite the fine day. I thought how hot and stuffy it must be in the room, especially since by now there was a small crowd of people, all dressed in heavy clothes. The aroma of uncle’s stale sweat came to my mind. Large trees overshadowed most of the house and I used one as a cover and I was able to secret myself and still have a passable view into the room. The men were on their knees with their books open in their hands. They were reading something aloud in unison. A prayer, I supposed.

I remembered that Uncle Festus was an active member of his church. Was this a service of some sort? I wondered. That might have been the case but this was a Tuesday; perhaps it was some kind of Bible study group.

I watched for a moment or two and since nothing much was happening I was about to leave to explore the rest of the house and garden when I saw the boy stand. Even from my distance and peering through dirty glass into an unlit room I could see he appeared in some distress. He sank to his knees and held his hands together as if in prayer. The others then stood and in unison recited an incantation. The boy looked close to tears. Intrigued I resolved to stay and watch developments. I didn’t have long to wait. My uncle suddenly placed his Bible on a small table and then with great deliberation, he unbuttoned his coat and slipped it from his shoulders. With solemnity he handed it to a colleague who hung it on a hat stand. While that was being done, Uncle Festus slowly undid the buttons of his waistcoat. All eyes in the room were transfixed.

Having loosened his clothing he took a couple of paces across the room and leaned towards a vase-like ornament that stood easily three feet tall. He reached his hand inside and with a flourish (rather like a magician taking a rabbit from a hat) he extracted a bunch of twigs. No one in the room was the least surprised, but I almost fell backwards with amazement. There were about a dozen or so twigs or small branches and they were tied together at one end to make a handle. Even I, with my great lack of knowledge of such things, recognised it as a birch. Any number of the trees in the garden where I stood could have supplied the wherewithal to construct it. Uncle Festus held it upright in the palms of both hands and presented it as if it was an offering to the assembled audience.

There was complete silence. I watched astounded. There was movement in the room. It seemed everyone knew their role in the unfolding drama. Two men took hold of a large, ornate armless chair that was leaning against a wall and manoeuvred it into the middle of the room. Uncle Festus seated himself. I had not noticed but while Uncle Festus was taking centre stage, the boy had removed his own coat and shirt collar. He stood forlornly. Uncle Festus made some remark to his congregation and they chanted their response. Satisfied with that my uncle turned towards the boy. Uncle’s face was set firmly. I did not see his lips move but he must have spoken some words because as if following a command the boy proceeded to loosen his britches. They had complicated fastenings and the boy’s trembling hands made heavy work of getting them to fall to his feet. He made a better job with his underwear and within seconds his buttocks were bared. He had his back to me so I have no way of knowing his expression or gauging his sense of humiliation which must have been acute.

My uncle squeezed his thighs together, the boy shuffled forward, and with a practiced move he dived headlong over Uncle Festus’s knees. He stretched his arms forward and placed both palms firmly into the ground. His naked buttocks rested across uncle’s right thigh and he kept his knees straight. They were presented to my uncle at a perfect angle. Uncle Festus was not yet quite satisfied, he took hold of the long tail of the boy’s shirt and gently tucked it away up the small of his back and away from the target.

All eyes, my own included, were glued to the boy’s naked, quivering milk-white posterior. Uncle Festus raised the birch twigs high above his own head; there was a collective intake of breath in the room. I bit my bottom lip hard. Uncle whipped the boy over the upturned bottom, the boy gasped as pink flecks, bruises, and abrasions burst across his shapely buttocks. Uncle’s arm rose again and the strong, broad-shouldered man flogged the birch down with increased vim. The boy twitched, sniffed and quivered.

With the window tightly shut I could not hear a sound from the room. I have no idea if the boy, yelped, yelled or screamed. Certainly, as the beating continued he wriggled and writhed. His hips swivelled, his legs kicked. I imagined that was only to be expected, his body was being asked to absorb great pain, to twist and turn must surely be a natural physical reaction to such an assault.

The men in the room watched impassively.

Uncle Festus set about his duty at a steady pace. The birch lifted and fell. The spread of the twigs was such that a single stroke covered most of the boy’s bottom. Soon, his once smooth, white buttocks were a mass of scratches, cuts and grazes. His cheeks flamed crimson. I couldn’t begin to imagine how sore they must feel; the sting must be agonising.

I didn’t think to count the number of strokes delivered, but by the time it was over the boy’s bottom, from the top of the globes, over the peaks themselves and into the under cheeks resembled raw meat. I couldn’t imagine that he would be able to sit down after that for a week or more. When there was no more flesh to flay, Uncle Festus desisted. Again, no word was spoken, but he released his hold on the boy who immediately sprang to his feet.

For a moment he looked unbalanced and dizzy but Uncle Festus put a steadying hand on his shoulders, while the boy’s own hands moved to ease his burning rear and he sobbed gently. Then, uncle put his hand firmly on the top of the boy’s head and took up what seemed to me to be a low moan. My heart fell; he was in ecstasy. The congregation joined the chanting and it continued for what seemed like several minutes. At last uncle released his grip on the boy’s scalp and unbidden he reached down and retrieved first his underwear and then his britches. Once suitable attired, he was handed his coat and silently and without ceremony he left the room.

Within moments they all left. I thought it unwise to be caught snooping and moved off to the furthest part of the garden as far away as possible from uncle and his cronies. There, I replayed it all in my mind. I had not the slightest idea what I had witnessed, but I knew for certain my three months lodging with Uncle Festus would prove to be the longest of my life.

 

Picture credit: C of Sweden

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com