Double trouble – his first time

new story 2

z used otk pyjamas twosome chair sting (24)

Richard watched from the window as the small police panda car chugged down the long drive towards the road. “We’re for it now, once my father finds out,” he told his cousin Adrian. His companion shrugged his shoulders with indifference. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Richard sighed as the police car disappeared from sight. “It’ll be a spanking for sure,” he looked at his watch and wondered how long he had until his father returned home.

“What?” Adrian snapped, not able to hide the irritation he often felt with his cousin.

“A spanking,” Richard replied and left it at that.

“Ha! Ha! You’re joking, of course,” Adrian smiled but he felt no joy.

“We’re lucky PC Plodder hasn’t charged us. We’d be in big trouble then.”

“What are you talking about?” Adrian bunched his hand into a fist to try to control his temper.

“He’s in the same Lodge as my father. That’s why he didn’t book us. He knows father will take care of it.”

Adrian turned to his cousin, his face now colouring. He was beginning to understand his predicament. “You mean the copper and your father are friends?”

“Not friends exactly. Masons, you know the secret Lodge. Members look after one another.”

“So what? The copper thinks your father’s going to spank us?” Adrian failed to keep the scornful tone out of his voice.

“That’s about the size of it.”

“But, I’m eighteen,” Adrian barked with incredulity.

“Well so am I,” his cousin responded evenly. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“You cannot be serious!” Adrian stormed across the room and exited in a fury. “You’ve taken leave of your senses.” Richard watched quietly as he went. “You’ve got a lot to learn,” he said but there was nobody in the room to hear.

Richard followed his cousin out of the house into the spacious grounds. “Come on,” he said cheerfully, “Let’s go to the tennis court for a while.” They started knocking a ball back and forth half-heartedly, not speaking. After an hour they saw Maisie, one of the housemaids, exit the house and purposefully approach them. She curtseyed and spoke respectfully to Richard. “The Master says you are both to change into your pyjamas and then go to his study.” She blushed, turned on her heels and scurried back to the house.

Adrian stared open mouthed at her arse. “Quite a tart that one,” he said with admiration in her hearing. “Great arse. Nice pair of tits too. Do you shag her?” Richard blushed a scarlet rage. “Come on!,” he snapped, “We mustn’t keep my father waiting.” He hurried off leaving his cousin in his wake.

Adrian caught Richard up in the bedroom. Already he was stripping out of his clothes. “So, you’re going through with this?”

Richard sighed, “Get changed quickly. We mustn’t keep him waiting. We’ll get extra.”

Adrian looked dumbfounded, “You’re going to let him spank you?”

Richard could not hide his irritation. “Don’t blame me. It’s your fault. I didn’t want to break into that orchard.  Told you we’d get caught. I don’t even like apples.”

Adrian struggled to retain his temper. This was too much. His cousin was such a wimp.

Richard pulled on his pyjama bottoms, “C’mon, it’s just a spanking, that’s all.” He caught the embarrassed eye of his cousin. “Oh no!” he shrieked and waved his arms theatrically. “I don’t believe it. You’ve never been spanked!”

“Well …” Adrian spoke, but his words trailed off.

“You haven’t!” Richard giggled. “You cause so much trouble, I should have thought your father was always tanning your hide.” Adrian gave a crooked half smile and shrugged his shoulders in embarrassment.

Richard continued, “Your father doesn’t spank?”

“No. Never.”

“Oh well are you in for a treat. Now hurry up and change.”

Adrian was rooted to the spot. Richard by now buttoning up his pyjama jacket tried to console his cousin, “Don’t worry it won’t hurt so much.” Still Adrian made no move to change his clothes. “There’s no getting out of it, you do know that. Don’t you?”

Adrian grimaced. A spanking. At his age. His first spanking and he was eighteen years old. Reluctantly, he began to unbutton his shirt. It might have been a labour of Hercules it took him so long to change. Richard kept looking at his watch, time was disappearing fast. His father would be in a fury when they eventually arrived.

At last Adrian was ready. His face was like flint. His resentment was not hidden. “C’mon,” Richard gave him a playful slap on the bum. Adrian was not amused. “Let’s go,” Richard smiled ruefully. Adrian moved sluggishly as if he was being forced to carry the weight of the whole world on his shoulders.

Richard led the way from the room. “C’mon,” he said with mock cheerfulness, “It won’t be that bad.”

“Huh! Sez you,” Adrian struggled to control his temper as he followed his cousin from the room.

Richard despised his cousin at that moment. Adrian was the cause of all the trouble, but he refused to accept punishment. What a jerk! “Oh,” he called spitefully over his shoulder as he led the way down the stairs towards his father’s study, “Did I tell you he spanks us on the bare?” Oh how he enjoyed the look on Adrian’s fuming face.

Mr Jennings was a very angry man. His youngest son Richard and his nephew Adrian had disgraced the family. Common thieves. Guttersnipes! He was lucky PC Plodder had been the one to find them, otherwise the news would be all over the town. He grinded his teeth as he paced the room and waited for the pair to present themselves, his patience long ago evaporated.

“About time too,” he growled when the two eighteen-year-old boys at last stood in the doorway to his study. “What kept you?” Richard glowered at his cousin. They would get extra whacks for sure. He mumbled something or nothing in reply, but his father wasn’t interested.

“A disgrace,” he fumed. “Thieving. I don’t believe it.” The pair had the good grace to stare down at their feet shamefaced. There was nothing they could say. They had been caught, apples in hand. Bang-to-rights, as they said in the cheaper detective novels.

“Pah!” Mr Jennings let rip. He tore into them. His words were harsh. At last, exhausted he finished his verbal tirade. There was silence. Richard looked up from his carpet slippers and caught a glimpse of his father’s florid face. He saw genuine anger. He was not hamming it up. Things did not look good.

“You,” he barked at Adrian. The boy did not react. “Look at me when I’m talking to you!” reluctantly, Adrian straightened up. Did I tell you he spanks us on the bare? He had been unable to get Richard’s words out of his confused brain. This could not be happening. If he told his friends back home about this (not that he would dare) they would never believe him.

Mr Jennings now had his nephew’s full attention. “When I allowed you to stay with us while your parents were in India I promised your father I would treat you like a son,” he said, a wry smile on his lips. “I’d rather you didn’t,” Adrian thought but could not say. It would never have occurred to his own father to spank his bare backside, no matter how heinous was his crime. “I assume Richard has informed you of my standards,” Mr Jennings continued. Adrian in misery bit his bottom lip.

“Speak up boy!” Mr Jennings leaned into Adrian. “What have you got to say?” Adrian, usually a very confident, not to say cocky youngster, could only shrug his shoulders. “Spanking!” Mr Jennings barked. “In this house thieves get a spanking.” Adrian could not see it but he knew his face was on fire. Indignity mixed with embarrassment and just a touch of fear.

“Bah! Let’s get on with this. You,” he waved towards the far wall, “stand over there.” With trepidation Adrian shuffled the few paces necessary to cross the room. “Face the wall.” Mr Jennings sounded like an irate schoolmaster but he fell short of also instructing, “Hands on head.”

“Right,” Mr Jennings busied himself moving furniture. It was small room that he like to call his study but in fact it was an office he used for his business. It was dominated by a large desk and in the space between that and the door stood two armless leather chairs and a small coffee table. He moved the table with his leg and lifted one of the chairs and swivelled it so it faced into the room. It gave him enough room for his purpose. “Hand me one of your slippers,” his instruction was terse. He expected to be obeyed (he always was). Richard hopped on one leg and trying not to fall flat on his face he dislodged the slipper from his left foot. He handed it to his father, trying hard not to catch the old man’s eyes.

Richard was no stranger to corporal punishment as he had made plain to Adrian. Even so, he liked it to be over and down with. His father had other ideas. Although he had never consciously thought about it Mr Jennings believed there ought to be ritual involved in a spanking. He was not a man to grab his victim by the scruff of the neck and haul him across a desk, a chair or indeed his knee. Mr Jennings was calm and collected, as he was in all aspects of his life.

Now that he had the instrument of punishment in his hand he sat himself down on the chair. He wriggled his bottom until he was comfortable and pressed his knees together. “Take down your pyjama bottoms and bend over my knee,” he commanded. At that point Adrian who had stood, his heart pounding and his nose inches from the dusty wall, spun his head round and stared with astonishment at the two. He had never been spanked in his life, nor had he seen anyone else so punished. His throat dried and his breathing quickened as he watched his cousin with steady hands untie the drawstring to his pyjamas. Then he let them tumble to his ankles. He stood naked from the waist down.  Adrian’s eyes popped. He had never seen a cock quite so long. He had given up physical education classes at school when he was sixteen and was not a sportsman so had never seen a fully-grown man naked.

His awaking was short lived since Richard stoically placed the palms of his hands on his father’s right thigh and slowly lowered himself until he lay across his knee. Mr Jennings was an expert disciplinarian; he knew the perfect position for his son. He had not spread his legs to create a platform for Richard to drape across. Instead, Mr Jennings’ knees were so close together they formed a pinnacle which meant Richard’s bottom was raised high. Like this his head was low and he could have kissed the hard wooden floor had he wished. Behind him his knees were bent so that his toes hardly brushed the ground.

Adrian had never seen a man’s cock before, nor had he seen a bare bottom. He stared with fascination. Richard’s buttocks were smooth and hairless. Adrian had never inspected his own bum but he was sure it was not as beautiful as his cousin’s. Richard’s buttocks were round and meaty, but Adrian could see there was not an ounce of spare fat.

Although it was not necessary for any practical purpose, Mr Jennings took hold of his son’s pyjama jacket and carefully rolled it up his back. It was part of the ritual of spanking. Adrian saw Richard’s back was as hairless as his bottom. Adrian saw his uncle grip the slipper in his left hand while with his right palm he carefully caressed Richard’s buttocks. It was as if he were trying to smooth away wrinkles. Richard stared blankly at the floorboards and pressed both palms down into the ground, he was preparing himself for the ordeal about to start.

His father was not quite ready. He traced his palm across Richard’s buttocks, stroking each cheek. He patted the undersides where they meet the thighs and gave him a couple of almost friendly slaps across the peak of the mounds.

What little spit that was in Adrian’s mouth dried as he watched Mr Jennings transfer the slipper from his left to his right hand. Without further ado he raised it high above his shoulder and brought it down with a resounding crack across Richard’s tight bottom. The noise it made echoed around the small room, startling Adrian. Richard blinked hard but otherwise gave no sigh that his left buttock was throbbing. Mr Jennings hammered the slipped across every available inch of creamy-white flesh. Within seconds the imprint of the sole of the slipper had been embossed over and over and over across Richard’s bottom.

Adrian watched in fascination. Richard’s bum was glowing. It looked very hot. It must be incredibly painful. “Face the wall. I shan’t tell you again.” Mr Jennings roared. Adrian pressed his nose against the wall. He could no longer see his cousin being spanked but the sound of slipper connecting with flesh rapidly and with force reminded Adrian that before too long he and Richard would be changing positions. He rubbed his palms across his own bottom in anticipation.

Richard was a veteran. He took his spanking well. That meant he gave little resistance. He kept his bottom high and his head low and submitted himself to punishment. His bum was sore and his heartrate quickened. Air hissed through his clenched lips. His eyes blinked ferociously. When his father pounded the slipper across Richard’s naked thighs the pain intensified. Richard’s legs flailed and his waist wriggled. There was nothing Richard could do about any of this, it was his body’s natural reflex action as it tried to deal with the pain. Mr Jennings tightened his grip around his son’s waist and carried on. He was a long way yet from the finishing line.

In the hall outside the study Maisie, the housemaid, tea things at the ready, waited patiently. The door was ajar so she peeked inside. She was pleased nobody was around so she was able to crack a broad smile and enjoy the spectacle when Adrian dropped his pyjamas and offered up his bare bottom to Mr Jennings’ slipper.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

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The rising star wanes

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The party’s over

new story 2

z used belt twosome pants couch sting 2

Dick and Dave were sure they were in the clear. Dominic would never find out. They had covered their tracks well. It was A Result. But, they hadn’t reckoned on a nosey neighbour.

Dominic was going away to an important conference in Paris; his son Dave and nephew Dick were eighteen; he thought surely they were old enough to behave responsibly while he was gone. Then, he saw an old movie on television. It put doubts in his mind. It was Risky Business the early Tom Cruise one where he dances around in his tighty-whities. While his parents are away he holds a party and before you know it the house is turned into a brothel. A priceless glass object gets damaged along the way.

“If it had been me I’d have had that Tom Cruise over the back of the couch,” the man from across the road told Dominic, “And I’d have paddled his backside until it glowed in the dark. After first taking down those underpants.” There was no answer to that so Dominic didn’t even try.

It put him in a bad mood. What if the kids did have a party and it got out of hand? Dominic thought he had found the answer. He called Dick and Dave together and clearly in words of one syllable he ordered, “No parties while I’m away. No guests. No nothing.” That was settled: they knew the rules.

Teenagers being teenagers the words went in one ear and out the other. The lads had already made plans before Dominic spoke. The party was swell. Lots of people turned up and there was booze and drugs. Dave got laid. Dick didn’t; he was beginning to realise he didn’t much like girls. He still had to come to terms with that. No drinks were spilt; no priceless objects were damaged and no carpets were burnt with cigarettes. After the vacuum cleaner had done its work, no one would have known the party had happened.

Except the man across the street. The Avenue is a long road of mostly detached houses. Dominic’s was sheltered from the road by a wall and a gate. That didn’t stop the man. His lace curtains twitched the whole time Dominic was away and his camera phone was never far from his hand.

Dave never much liked the man. He thought he was a bit creepy and always looked at him oddly. He wasn’t the least surprised when his dad told him the man had split on him and Dick. “I am very disappointed in the pair of you,” Dominic said. He was too. It was bad enough that they had a party but they had defied his explicit instructions. He could never allow defiance; the world would go to Hell in a handcart if he did.

“I told you no parties and you defied me,” he said as he unbuckled his belt. If Dick and Dave had any doubts about his intentions they vanished when he pulled the belt through the loops on his trousers with a flourish. The belt made a terrific THWAP sound. Dick’s eyes popped on stalks, “B.. we’re too old to be spanked,” he stuttered. Inwardly Dave cursed his cousin, “Don’t say that, it’ll only encourage him to wallop us even harder.”

Dominic grunted. He was a man used to giving orders. He expected them to be obeyed – without question. His business empire was built on this. He spoke quietly and clearly, “What I want you two to do is take off your jeans and kneel on that sofa and bend over the back of it.” He waved the leather belt at a small two-seater couch in case there was any doubt what he meant.

“B …” Dick tried to speak but the fierce glare in Dominic’s hazel eyes stopped him dead. Dave, no stranger to his dad’s belt was already unfastening his jeans. “You too,” Dominic pointed at Dick, “Get on with it.”

Dick’s face coloured bright red. How could this be happening? He was eighteen years old, a student at a top university and here he was being made to take off his jeans so his uncle could spank his bottom with a belt. A sudden thought gripped him, “Please God don’t make me take down my pants!” By now, Dave had slipped his jeans over his feet and laid them neatly on a coffee table. He stood without obvious embarrassment in t-shirt and boxer shorts and waited for his cousin to catch up.

Dick eyed Dave; noticing the bulge in the front of his boxers. Dave gave him a half-smile by way of encouragement. He wanted this over as quickly as possible. Dick responded by pulling the zipper of his jeans. He couldn’t easily control his hands but at last he had the jeans down and over his feet. He dropped them untidily alongside Dave’s on the table.

“Get over the sofa,” Dominic folded his belt as he spoke. In response to Dick’s puzzled look, he said, “Watch Dave, he’ll show you how to do it.” Dave turned to face the sofa and climbed on the seat one knee at a time. Once settle he leaned over its back so that his face was staring down at the carpet. In this way his head was low and his bottom high. It made a very good target for Dominic’s belt. Dick watched in awe. Until then he hadn’t realised how firm and round his cousin’s bum was. His navy-blue boxers fitted him snugly and contrasted with his smooth, almost hairless legs.

His own pale-blue boxers didn’t fit him half as well; it served him right for buying cheap ones at Primark. His hands had stopped shaking so much and he placed them on the back of the sofa to steady himself as he copied his cousin’s position. The two eighteen-year-olds were now side by side over the back of the couch, their heads so close together Dick could smell the beer on Dave’s breath. He turned his head slightly to look closely at his cousin, he seemed perfectly calm. How many times had Dave been over this sofa, he wondered.

He felt Uncle Dominic take hold of his t-shirt and move it up his back. A slight breeze from an open window flowed over his naked flesh. He felt his uncle move and realised he was doing the same with Dave’s shirt. He closed his eyes. Unlike Dave he had never been spanked before. Not once; not even as a very small kid. He felt his buttocks tense as Uncle Dominic touched his belt across the middle of his left cheek. He was getting his aim.

Dominic paused, he wasn’t quite ready. “Bottoms a little higher please, jut them out more.” He knew having a lad kneel like this was by far the best posture for punishment. It curved the buttocks and exposed more flesh for the belt so it could make contact with large areas. It was most effective when he stood near the boy’s head and brought the strap down from over his shoulder. This way he achieved considerable movement so the strikes of the leather were fearsome and the long belt connected with the bum and thighs with every stroke.

It was embarrassing enough to be aged eighteen and spanked for the first time but getting it alongside your cousin was too much. Dick thought he would die after he let out an almighty squeal as the strap connected with his lower bottom and thigh. By contrast, Dave took each lash without fuss. In no time both lads’ bottoms were a mass of welts: Dominic was some expert with the belt. “Keep that bottom still,” he chided Dick whose buttocks bounced up and down and his waist slew from side to side. Dave stared down at the carpet concentrating on a small dark stain and thinking maybe after all they hadn’t cleaned up so well after the party.

Dominic leathered each boy in turn: one for Dick, one for Dave and then back to Dick. And so it went on, leather rising and pounding into buttocks, again and again and again. Dick could not see this but beneath the cotton boxers his bum first turned deep pink and then various shades of yellow and orange until it was deep crimson. He sucked in great gulps of air and shut his teeth as the pain intensified. It was a warm afternoon and soon Dominic’s face was drenched in sweat but he was strong as an ox, he felt he could go on all day. Dominic believed in punishment, deep in his soul he was a man of God.

A dull pain had long since transformed into an almighty throb only to become an agonisingly searing pain across the whole of Dick’s bottom area. He had no power to resist and knelt face-down staring at the floor. Tears washed the backs of his eyes and soon they trickled down his cheeks.

Dave held back his tears but his bum felt like he had been forced to sit in a bath of scolding water. His temples throbbed and his heart was pounding.

Dominic was not a cruel man but he believed in retribution and punishment. He would make the two eighteen year olds suffer for disobeying him. He whipped another two dozen lashes across the four buttock cheeks presented submissively to him. That was enough. Dominic was certain he had made his point.

The two lads crawled off the sofa and stood unsteadily. “Get dressed,” Dominic ordered and watched Dick and Dave struggle into their jeans. Pain was etched on their faces. He congratulated himself on a job well done. “Go to your rooms.” Dominic watched Dick and Dave hobble out the door all three of them unaware of a shadow stretching across the window blinds as the man from across the street pocketed his camera phone and tiptoed down the path towards the gate.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Uncle Dwight has a ‘little word’

new story 2

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

new story 2

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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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Uncle David has a plan

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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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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

In Uncle Gascoigne’s Library

new story 2

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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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

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