Using the Paddle

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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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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

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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

 

Be Home by Eleven, Not Half-Past Twelve

new story 2

z used slipper otk white pants bed straightladsspanked (4)

Jack lay face down, his nose only centimetres from the mattress. Uncle Albert’s bony knees pressed into his stomach and chest. Jack’s pulse sped, his face burned. He had been here many times before, but he could never get used to it. Over Uncle’s knee, trousers down, bottom high.

He could feel Uncle preparing himself. He gripped Jack’s blue shirt and yanked it up his back, away from the target area. Jack’s buttocks clenched: he couldn’t help it, it was a reflex action. Uncle Albert pressed his hand into Jack’s back, steadying the teenager.

Uncle Albert studied the top of his nephew’s head. His fashionably-cut black hair reeked of gel.

Uncle gripped his bedroom slipper in his right hand. “You know you deserve this,” he spoke gently. Jack stayed silent. He knew it was a rhetorical question. There was no argument. Uncle was in charge. His house, his rules. That was clear. That was accepted.

Sheepishly, Jack lifted his eyes. They were dark brown and already watery. He breathed deeply. How he wished Uncle Albert would just get on with it.

“We know why we are here,” Uncle Albert sighed, as if he was forced to carry the troubles of the whole world on his shoulders. He paused. It was Jack’s cue to speak, but the nineteen-year-old stayed tight-lipped.

“When I say curfew is eleven o’clock,” Uncle Albert sighed, “I do not mean half-past-twelve.”

Jack sucked in breath. Uncle was right. “Bah!” Uncle Albert grimaced and tapped his slipper against Jack’s right buttock cheek. The teenager’s white pants fitted snugly. He was an athletic lad, not fat and flabby like so many youngsters these days. His bottom was firm and meaty.

The room which had been on the cool side until then, suddenly seemed to warm. Jack’s temperature was rising. Sweat started to soak into his shirt.

Uncle Albert moved his nephew’s body a little. He was suddenly conscious that the opening of his own striped pyjamas was perilously close to Jack’s generously endowed manhood.

Uncle Albert was no novice in the spanking stakes. Years of administering chastisement had taught him that often “less means more”. He was not one of those uncles who take their errant nephews across the knee and then proceed to slap their bottoms a hundred times or more. Often, such “punishment” hurt his hand much more than junior’s backside.

No, a couple of minutes of hard whacks with the slipper would achieve the desired outcome. It would deliver red, raw buttocks with no pain experienced by himself.

Jack’s bottom quivered, his hole winked open and shut. His buttocks clenched, as if trying to harden like a rubber ball. All this was instinctive. Jack was not in control, it was his backside’s natural defence mechanism taking over.

During the first few times that he had been spanked, Jack couldn’t work out where he was supposed to put his head. It might have been easier if Uncle Albert sat on an armless chair. Then Jack could drape himself across the old man’s knees, head down, palms of the hands pressing firmly into the carpet. But, Uncle always sat on the bed, that meant Jack had to lay across his body, with his head and chest resting on the mattress and his legs sticking out behind him. That meant his legs sometimes just dangled over Uncle’s lap.

And, where did the head go exactly? Should he press his face into the mattress and take a mouthful of duvet cover? Or was it best to turn the head and rest the left cheek of his face in a pillow?

When Uncle gripped him around the waist, Jack knew the action was about to start. Involuntarily, his buttocks tensed, although his bum was pretty hard anyway.

Uncle had a rhythm when he spanked. The first whack would slam into the centre of Jack’s left cheek and then after a pause of maybe ten seconds, it slapped into the right one. Uncle would put six into each buttock and then take breath. A spanking should be a spanking, otherwise what was the point of it all? So, although Uncle believed his son must submit himself to his authority, he also wanted the spanking to hurt.

The first dozen whacks with the slipper warmed him up nicely. Then uncle turned up the pressure, increasing the speed and walloping home a couple of dozen without let-up – like machinegun fire.

His buttocks were sore and Jack knew from old that most of his bottom was already a deep pink colour. When Uncle was finished, it would be pillar-box red.

After another pause, Uncle Albert headed for the bare spot under the curves and was rewarded with an imprint of the sole of the slipper across Jack’s flesh. Jack chomped his teeth tight; that hurt. His legs kicked. Jack had been spanked many times in the past and had a high pain threshold, but the whacks on the undercurve and bare thigh had him squirming. He balled up his face, chewed his bottom lip and closed his eyes.

Uncle wasn’t keeping count, but he probably put a dozen or fourteen slaps across that most tender part of Jack’s body. “Ah!” Jack felt that!  After just two more weighty blows from the large slipper he could feel his bottom aflame with a smarting soreness that hurt and stung. With just two or three seconds between each smack, the spanking quickly developed into a slow steady rhythmic rising and falling of the slipper. Each time it contacted forcefully with his once pale creamy white bottom, he grimaced and shook his head in pain.

It was nearly over. Only one more part of the ritual still to come and it would be the most humiliating for Jack. Uncle rested the slipper on the small of his son’s back and with both hands free he rolled the teenager’s tight briefs over the mounds of his now-toasted buttocks until they snagged on his thighs. The bum was now completely bared. Uncle Albert allowed himself a moment of self-praise. Not one square centimetre of his nephew’s bottom had missed his attention. What a lovely rosy sheen! With renewed energy, he picked up the slipper, gripped it tightly, took a deep breath and hammered twelve almighty whacks into the naked buttocks.

Uncle’s large slipper thumped heavily down on Jack’s bottom time and time again. His bum was really very sore now. One whack hit him squarely in the middle of his left bum cheek. The next on the right. Uncle was no sadist, when he gave spankings he intended for Jack to get the message and mend his ways, but he didn’t want to brutalise him.

Those feet and legs waved about again; Jack did the scrunching thing with his face, but by the time Uncle had finished and said, “That’s it. Stand up,” Jack was silent.

The nineteen-year-old eased himself up and using Uncle Albert’s legs as support he got to his feet. He hopped from one foot to another, rather like footballers do when they try to “run off” an injury. Conscious that his dick and balls were bouncing up and down in front of his Uncle’s face, Jack reached down and slipped up his briefs.

His buttocks throbbed, but even now most of the pain was going. In moments, it would turn to a warm glow before disappearing altogether. He would be tender for a while; if Jack touched the lower half of his cheeks he would reignite some of the pain. Lying on his back in bed would be awkward for a while. His bum was red and bruises would quickly form. If past experience taught him anything, they would hang around for days turning from purple through shades of yellow until finally disappearing.

Uncle hauled himself from the bed, replaced the slipper on his foot and without a word exited from the room, his duty done.

 

Picture credit: Straight Lads Spanked

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The drunken neighbour

First day at St CIGS

The TV repairman

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Face the Music

new story 2

z used pants bathroom window domestic by MCicconneT

Anthony stared anxiously out of the bathroom window. How much longer could he hide here, he wondered. Soon Dad would want to know why he wasn’t at the breakfast table. There could be a problem if he was late down. He didn’t need that, he was in enough trouble as it was.

“Anthony, where the hell are you?” It was Dad calling from the landing. The bathroom door handle rattled. “Are you in there! Come out now. I haven’t got all day.”

Anthony blanched. Damn. It was time to face the music. He flushed the lavatory hoping his Dad would think he had been going to the toilet and not hiding. Hiding from the consequences of last night.

He shuffled to the door, flicked the lock, turned the handle and opened it. Dad loomed in the doorway. He was a huge man, thick set and more than a little on the heavy side. He towered over his son, casting a shadow. “At last,” he growled, “You know I have to get off to work.”

Anthony stood, head bowed, hoping he wouldn’t catch Dad’s eye. He was embarrassed as hell, standing on the landing in just his tight briefs. A shiver ran through him, although it wasn’t especially cold. It was the heavy wooden clothes brush in Dad’s hand. If there had been any doubt about what was about to happen, that put an end to it.

“Get into your room,” Dad prodded his shoulders towards a half-open door. Anthony did not resist. He would have loved to. He wanted to jump down the stairs two at a time and flee the house. But, what would be the point? He could hardly run down the road wearing only his underpants. Besides, he would have to come back home sometime and there would be hell to pay. No, better to face the music now.

He tumbled into his room. His bed took up most of the space. Piles of dirty clothes and discarded magazines covered the floor. A tiny wardrobe sat in one corner. A mirror was screwed to the wall.

“Jeez! Look at the mess in here,” his Dad growled.  “And what is that smell?” he screwed his nose. Anthony went scarlet. He had left a wodge of tissue soaked in cum under the duvet.

Dad gripped the wooden brush tightly in his hand as if noticing for the first time it was there. “Well?” he snarled. Silence engulfed the room. Anthony fidgeted from foot to foot. Was it a question? Did Dad want an answer?

“Well,” actually was Dad’s shorthand. It was his way of saying: we both know that you rolled home last night at gone midnight and by the smell of your breath you’d been drinking beer.

They didn’t need to fill in the details. Curfew was at eleven and Dad didn’t care a hoot if Anthony was eighteen and he didn’t want to know that his son was legally allowed to drink alcohol. Not on Dad’s watch. His house, his rules. My way or the highway. Say it how you like. Stick to the rules or else. And in this case “else” meant a very sore backside indeed.

Dad knew this. Anthony knew this. There was little room for discussion. Dad waved the brush towards his son’s face. “You know what to do.”

Indeed, Anthony did. He was eighteen years old after all; he had been here before. He waited patiently as Dad settled his vast backside on the edge of the bed, leaving a huge indent in the mattress. Dad’s thighs were huge, great mounds of fat. They made a perfect platform to receive Anthony’s body.

“Bend over my knee,” Dad barked and slapped his leg with the brush in case there was any doubt about his meaning. Anthony grimaced. He wanted to protest. “Dad I’m eighteen. None of the guys I was with last night will be getting spanked this morning.” He could have reminded Dad this was 2018 and, well, kids just don’t get taken over their Dad’s knees anymore. And definitely not when they’re eighteen.

But, what would be the point? My way or the highway. Pack your bags and go. There was no choice. Anthony took a deep breath and stepped forward. He was about a metre from Dad when he leaned forward and glided over his knee. His bottom rested at an angle against Dad’s right thigh and his naked torso stretched over the mattress. Although he couldn’t himself see, Anthony knew his bottom was at  the perfect angle to receive the attention of the brush.

Dad was no showman. He believed in getting on with the job. Time waited for no man. He pushed the palm of is right hand into the small of Anthony’s back, pinning him firmly. He was ready. He raised the brush high and with a resounding swipe brought it crashing down into the centre oh his son’s right cheek. Two seconds later it bounced off the left. Then the right again. Dad hammered the heavy oval-shaped head of the brush into Anthony’s backside. Bam! Bam! Bam! It sounded like machinegun fire as the noise echoed around the tiny room.

Anthony’s hips swayed from left to right. His stomach rose and fell over Dad’s knees. His arms flailed. If he hadn’t been pinned down he would have swam right away. Instead he was locked face down, bottom high while Dad delivered his just punishment.

Who was counting? But Dad probably walloped the brush across Anthony’s rear end fifty or more times. It hurt like crazy. The first whacks warmed up his bottom and it became increasingly sore as the punishment went on. Anthony was a veteran. He had been here before, but he couldn’t help wriggling and writhing; that was his body’s natural defence mechanism. It wanted the hurt to stop.

Dad rested. Anthony caught his breath. He lay still, his mouth and nose close to the rancid duvet. The eighteen-year-old knew better than to try to stand. His punishment wasn’t over yet. He felt a movement in his Dad’s body. He was gripping the elasticated waist of Anthony’s underpants. They fitted snugly and there wasn’t much room for movement. It took Dad four tugs to get them fully over his buttocks so they snagged around his thighs. His son’s bum was completely bare. Dad paused a second or two to admire his handiwork. Anthony’s buttocks glowed bright pink. Not a square centimetre was left un-bashed; from the undercurves near the thighs, over the fleshy mounds themselves and even the tops were scorched.

Dad gripped the brush with renewed energy and brought it whacking down, across the back of Anthony’s naked thighs. The boy’s head rose in shock and he shut his teeth firmly to hold back the yell he truly wanted to scream. Dad knew the thighs were the most sensitive spot to spank. That’s why he left them to the last.

Up and down, up and down, the brush hammered its message. Rules are rules. Obey them. If you don’t – well you only have yourself to blame for the consequences. Dad was not a cruel man. He didn’t believe in torture, but he wanted to make his point. If a job was worth doing, it was worth doing well. He tanned Anthony’s backside and thighs good and proper.

“Dan!” It was his wife calling from the landing. “Quickly, you’ll miss your bus.”

“Coming, Lil!” He stopped spanking and released his grip on Anthony. The teenager rolled off Dad’s legs and jumped up, dancing from one foot to the other, while simultaneously rubbing at his bare bum for all he was worth. He didn’t care that his cock and balls were bouncing in front of Dad’s eyes.

“Enough!” Dad pushed past his son and left the room, hurrying down the stairs. Anthony collapsed face down on the bed, still furiously massaging his naked buttocks.

The agony soon subsided into a nagging pain before transmuting into a dull ache. The worst was over. Some bruises might stay for a day, but he had survived. He lay naked, uncertain why his dick was standing to attention. Never one to miss an opportunity, he gobbed spit into the palm of his hand. He was working his way up and down the shaft when his phone pinged. It was a message from his mate Charlie. “See you at the pub at ten.”

Picture Credit: MCicconneT

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Father deals with idle student

New boy at Albion

Commander Reynolds’ rooming house

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Letter of Gratitude

new story 2

z used caption graduate

Dear Uncle Algernon

Today I leave to travel to Newcastle to start my new job and new career. I will be living 200 miles away from you and I know our lives will never quite be the same again. How can I express my gratitude for all you have done for me and the love you show me?

I am shamed when I look back at how much I resented it when you took me in to your home and gave me a roof over my head when I was eighteen. I now shudder when I think how different things might have been. I would probably today be sleeping in a shop doorway or at best I’d be in some homeless men’s hostel maybe with a job sweeping floors somewhere. Now the world is my oyster. I owe it all to you.

When you persuaded me (Ha! Ha! Persuaded, let’s be honest forced me kicking and screaming) to take up that college course I resented the hell out of you. Going back to school at nineteen. I didn’t know then how much you wanted the best for me and you were prepared to make sacrifices. You were the first – and probably still the only – person ever to do such a thing. I didn’t know at the time just how much you loved me. You said you would do what it takes to get me on track: on the straight and narrow.

I didn’t believe you. I do now. I remember the first time you took your belt to me and leathered my backside. Do you remember the fight? You grabbing me by the scruff of the neck, forcing me face down over the back of the sofa and setting my rear end on fire. Nobody but you would ever have done such a thing. Such a kindness. My own parents all but abandoned me. Was it any surprise I dropped out of school and wandered through life aimlessly. I know it’s a cliché but you were my guiding light in a storm.

I spent much on the next few months appreciating the pattern on the carpet in your lounge. Me across your knee; you pounding a paddle across the seat of my underpants. Ha! Ha! I can laugh about it now; but then, not so. It took a while for me to appreciate you had my best interest at heart. That ‘contract of objectives’ we drew up was a masterstroke. I set my goals in life, we worked out how to measure my achievements and if (indeed often it was when) I fell short you were there to catch me; with that goddamn  paddle, or that heavy leather taws. Where did you get that?

I owe it to you and your efforts and yes your love that I passed my examinations and won a place at the university. Me, at university! No one in our family – not even you dear uncle – had ever achieved such a distinction.

We thought I was ready for the challenge. We thought I was mature enough to set sail on my own, so I signed up at a university away from home. From your home, from the place that I call home and with your permission would like to think of my home always. I was now absent from your day-to-day influence but I carried in my heart the lessons you had taught me.

Uncle, you know what happened next. I was nearly twenty-one years old, but I regressed to being sixteen again. My studies started well, but the cheap beer in the student guild bar and the women – oh there were so many women available. How was I to know I was such a handsome chap (Ha! Ha!). Uncle, the women came to me. Of course, the inevitable happened. By the second semester I was in danger of failing my courses. Disaster. But once more you rode to my rescue.

Who but my loving Uncle would take the time and the effort to take me in hand. You explained that women were all right in their place. A young man has needs. But there has to be a balance in life. We drew up one of those contracts. Time for study, time for women. Once the assignments were written, I could allow myself a treat.

Your insistence on what you called “reinforcement” was a master stroke (or strokes, Ha! Ha!). I appreciate greatly your sensitivity. You knew I lived in the student halls of residence where the walls of the rooms were paper thin. I needed to be “dealt with” but this was a relationship best kept between us two. The rest of the student population need not know of our arrangement. The Motel With a View, on the A-287 trunk road was perfectly discreet. It was the first (but by no means the last) time I felt that intense sting that can be delivered only by a stout but whippy rattan cane used in such a determined manner. I remember you piled three pillows on the bed. I removed my shoes, socks, trousers and underwear to lie face down on the bed. I chewed the fourth pillow. My what strength you have. I have never been forced to sit on an electric fire but if I were ever made to do so it could not possible hurt less than one of your canings. That time it was twelve stripes. Ouch! Each searing into my flesh. As you know (you’ve seen it at close quarters often enough, Ha! Ha!) my bottom is really quite small. There is no meat back there to speak of so your lashes sank deep and left behind terrific welts. My bum felt like corrugated cardboard at the end. Oh how I needed that pillow.

Yes, Uncle I owe everything to you. Without you I should never have graduated university. And, now look at me, a young professional man with a future ahead of me. I don’t know however I shall be able to repay you. Thank you, thank you, thank you! But dear Uncle I have a request. Please don’t abandon me now. Newcastle is so far away and the temptations in my new life will be so great. You have taught me well, but I fear for the future, please reassure me that you will be there for me, ready to whip me in to shape when the occasion demands.

Affectionately Yours,

Gideon.

Picture credit: Laurence Fellows

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The vicar and the gay boys

No Smoking!

Letter of Regret

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

My Drunken Nephew

z used drawing brush hold otk (4)

 

“What that boy needs is a damn good spanking!”

That’s what the Police Constable said to me as he delivered my eighteen-year-old nephew drunk as a skunk to my doorstep the other week.

The police officer told me Denny had been out around the town with his mates and they all had a skin full of beer. That’s when the trouble started. They were running and shouting through the town centre, urinating in shop doorways and just making life as unpleasant as possible for everyone.

The police officer explained that kids like Denny were a right pain in the arse, so they should be given one in return. I got the feeling he used that line on a lot of the parents he delivered drunken kids to. He told me the problem was that there wasn’t much the law could do with louts like Denny. The youths who stole cars or beat people up could get arrested and go to court. They were proper villains. But the courts were too busy to deal with the likes of Denny and there wasn’t much they could do at the police station except give the lads a good telling off and that was no use at all. The only people who might do any good were the parents.

I wasn’t Denny’s father, but I was his guardian. Denny was the son of my brother Alan and his wife Sarah. They had moved with Alan’s work to some god-forsaken place in Africa that nobody had ever heard of, but because Denny was in his final year at school, they all thought it was better if he stayed behind.

It seemed to me like a good idea at the time, and my wife was thrilled. We have two kids of our own. Susan has left home and is working in London and my son Paul is in his second year at university. He’s staying at a small guest house run by a married couple. I met the landlord, Mr Jarvis, once when I dropped off Paul at the beginning of term. Jarvis told me Paul was a delightful tenant and he enjoyed having him at the house. Jarvis reckoned it was all down to discipline. I think he thought I must have tanned Paul’s bottom a few times as a kid.

I didn’t think much of what the policeman said to me about spanking Denny, until a couple of days ago, when I had to suffer a repeat performance. It was a different officer who brought him home this time after Denny and his pals had been up to their old tricks again. This time the officer just dumped him and left, without offering parenting advice.

Maybe they were right, maybe Denny did need a belting or something, but let’s be honest it was hardly likely to happen. Even if I wanted to teach him a lesson, he’s eighteen years old and hardly likely to let me put him across my knee.

Even so, I couldn’t get the idea out of my head. He definitely needed discipline. What could I do? I couldn’t stop his pocket money, I didn’t give him any. He had his own money from a Saturday job at the supermarket. And, I feared that if I tried to ‘ground’ him and stop him going out at night he would only defy me and where would we be then?

No, if there was to be discipline, it needed to be a spanking. But how could I do it?

I knew the basics of how to do it, of course. Who doesn’t? My dad spanked me when I was a kid, but not when I was eighteen. I loved my dad (I still do) and he loved me. I deserved the spanking and I genuinely believe it did me some good.

Just as I genuinely believe a spanking will do Denny some good. He deserved a spanking without doubt, but the problem was how could it be done?

I’ve never spanked anyone in my life. Both my children were well behaved and they were hardly ever naughty. Even as teenagers they didn’t give me and my wife a hard time. Paul was a scholarship boy at a posh grammar school, so maybe they taught him how to behave. His landlord Mr Jarvis was quite wrong to think I had too much to do with Paul’s discipline.

So, how would I go about spanking Denny? Most people know by instinct how to whack an eight-year-old, but how do you do it to a young adult?

I surfed the Internet to see if I could find an answer. You won’t believe this but there are lots of websites out there about spanking. It seems there are adults spanking each other all the time. Often they are about wives spanking their husbands for not doing the chores and such like. Some people do what they call ‘role play’ where one person dresses up as, say, a ‘headmaster’ and another is in short trousers and school uniform ready to get six-of-the-best. Who would believe it?

I didn’t get very far in my search for help with spanking Denny. The websites were for people who wanted to be spanked, not for out-of-control teenagers who definitely did not.

There was one site that gave advice on how to get someone across your knee who didn’t want to go. It seems you stun them by slapping them across the face and while they are figuring out what happened you pull them down over your knee. Alternatively, you pull them by the hair and drag them over the knee that way.

This wouldn’t work with Denny, it looks like it would be test of strength and I’m not betting man but I’m sure Denny would win that one hands down.

But, I could try I suppose. The only other thing would be to get someone strong to help me and we could drag him across a table and then beat his backside black and blue.

But supposing I do get him ‘in position,’ how would I spank him? Whacking him with my hand would be a waste of time and for it to have any chance of being effective the spanking would have to be administered on the bare.

So, I needed an implement. As I say I never used corporal punishment on my children, so I don’t have canes, tawses, paddles and so forth about the house. I would have to use something whose main purpose in life was not to put bruises on buttocks.

The belts I have to hold up my trousers are all thin and no use at all. Slippers are no good. Modern ones have plastic soles and won’t hurt a fly. These days you couldn’t even buy plimsolls, they’re all trainers or ‘sneakers’ as the Americans insist on calling them. They have thick soles and they are so big it’s impossible to get a grip on them so you can take a swing.

We had plimsolls at my school and we feared them. We were a secondary modern and teachers didn’t use the cane, but every one of the male teachers kept a plimsoll ready to whack your backside. You were likely to get it any time up until the end of your fourth year, but after that you got away with bad behaviour. Maybe the teachers were scared of trying to hit the older boys, in case they hit them back.

I think it was different in the physical education classes where the slipper was used right up until a boy left the school. I did hear tell that the sixth-form boys used to whack each other on the bare bum with the slipper as punishment if they played badly in a match: missed an open goal at football, that kind of thing, but that might just be a rumour.

So I needed to find something at home. After walking around each room of the house looking in cupboards and drawers, I found the perfect thing: a clothes brush. It’s about nine inches long, including the handle. It’s a kind of oval shape and two inches wide at its broadest point.   I picked it out of the drawer and was disappointed it didn’t feel very heavy. But, after making sure, my wife was nowhere near to see me, I tested it out by bending over and whacking my own backside with it a couple of times. Even wearing trousers and pants I could feel the thwack of the brush hit home and a warm glow appeared where it connected with my bum.

Good, it could hurt Denny a lot, even on his trousers, but only if I could get a good swing at him. I reckoned if he went across my knee I would have an excellent opportunity to give him some serious buttock-pain.

So, that was the plan, Denny across my knee for a spanking with the clothes brush.

It was only at this point I remembered Alan, my brother. He was Denny’s father, not me. Maybe, he should be the one to administer the spanking; it’s a father’s job (a duty some would say) after all. But that was physically impossible; he was on the other side of the world in Africa. Even so, it was only right that he should know what was going on with his son.

I emailed Alan and told him all about what Denny had been up to: the drunkenness, the urinating in shop doorways and the obnoxious behaviour. I told him what the policeman had said about Denny needing a damn good spanking. I stopped short of telling him I had resolved to do just that the next time there was a ring at the doorbell and it was the police with Denny in tow.

I didn’t hear from Alan for three days and then I received an email from him that astonished me.

Alan was appalled to hear my news; Denny had been in trouble like this before and had promised his dad it would never happen again. It was only because of this promise of better behaviour in the future that Denny had been allowed to stay in England and not accompany his mum and dad to Africa. This was news to me, I hadn’t realised that the family wanted Denny to go with them, but he had resisted, and was only allowed to stay with me on the strict understanding he would be a good boy.

But, it was what Alan wrote next that stopped me in my tracks. Yes, Denny most certainly needed a spanking. He, Alan, had spanked him in the past, and here’s what took my breath away, the most recent spanking was earlier this year after Denny had been drunk and obnoxious.

And, Alan, continued, would I mind awfully spanking Denny now for the past two offences. He knew I probably hated the idea and never spanked my own kids etc etc, but, obviously, Alan couldn’t do it himself.

I should, Alan, said, make Denny take down his trousers and underpants and bend across my knee. He then advised that I whack the bare backside until it was a dark shade of cherry. Don’t be worried, he advised, if Denny’s buttocks bruise, they did this quite easily, but the bruises went away after a day or two.

And, the implement I should use:  a bath brush. A bath brush? That idea hadn’t occurred to me, but I knew that the one we had was a flimsy plastic effort that would break in two the first time I whacked it across Denny’s hide.

Alan, finished his email by saying that if I consented, he would send an email to Denny instructing him to accept whatever punishment I chose without fuss, or he (Denny) would be on the next plane to Africa.

Emails flew across continents at the speed of thought and later that day Denny and I were in the lounge of my house. It’s a modern room, dominated by a picture window affording a view of a typical English garden: that is a lawn with flower beds. All very conventional, as was the room itself which had a suite made up of a Chesterfield couch and two gargantuan leather chairs, with footrests and rockers.

None of the chairs were particularly suitable for the job in hand so I brought one in from the kitchen. No arms, a straight back and just the right height for me to take Denny across my knee.

Denny stood in front of me, head bowed, choosing not to meet my eye. I hadn’t realised it until now, but I had never really looked at the boy before and it was as if I saw him for the first time. He was about five-eight or five nine, slim in build, probably a bit of an athlete since he didn’t appear to have enough spare fat on his body to fry a sausage.  With his head bowed, I had a perfect view of the top of his head. He had very dark hair, slightly waved and it looked a mess. It probably cost a small fortune at the barber to affect such a style.

Quietly I told him to look at me and I began to tell him all his misdeeds. He looked at me square in the face and told me he was sorry; he had been a bad boy; he would mend his ways. His open face was almost angelic. I wondered if the girls called him ‘cute’. Butter would not melt in this boy’s mouth. Who would not believe him? I nearly fell for it, but I knew he had probably said all of this before to his dad and the moment dad was out of the way Denny was back in the pub and causing mayhem. Either he was congenitally unable to keep a promise, or he told bare-faced lies. And as boys over the centuries have learned: bare-faced lies can lead to bare-bottomed spankings.

I let him say what he had to say, all the time looking at him standing, hands behind his back, every inch the contrite naughty schoolboy. But there was something a little odd about him. It was the way he was dressed. He wore short trousers about two inches above the knee, tight at the waist (he needed no belt to keep them up) in some kind of military green colour. He wore the shorts with long grey socks pulled up to an inch below the knee. The outfit was completed by a dark blue and light blue checked shirt, with long sleeves and unbuttoned at the neck.

It made him look younger and more boyish than he really was. It also looked like he had stepped out of the pages of history, maybe from the 1940s. He was in all probability dressed in the height of today’s fashion, what would I know?

And me? I’m not quite fifty, thickening up a bit at the waist, but not gone to seed. My hair is receding, but you couldn’t say I was bald. I was dressed as I always am when not at work in brown corduroy trousers with turn-ups; a white shirt with a military striped tie, topped off with a jacket from an old suit of mine where the trousers had long ago worn away and been discarded. Light blue socks and brown brogue shoes completed my ensemble. Come to think of it, sartorially Denny and I were probably made for each other.

The preliminaries were over. I sat in the kitchen chair back upright and feet planted firmly on the ground, just as illustrated in one of the websites I had visited.

“All right let’s get on with this,” I said calmly. I’d read you weren’t supposed to bark out orders like a sergeant-major. Denny looked up at me, with no real change of expression. He was still contrite and not seemingly in any way afraid.

“Please take down your trousers,” I said, maybe taking the website instructions a little too literally. Denny looked down at his midriff and found the clasp that was fastening the waistband of his short trousers and unhitched it. To my surprise the short trousers had a four buttoned fly rather than a zipper. The short trousers fell to his feet. He wasn’t wearing shoes and I could see that he wasn’t sure if he should step out of the short trousers altogether.

“You may leave them where they are,” I said. I noticed he was wearing white briefs, presumably part of the ‘1940s’ look. “Now come here please and bend over my knee.” Denny did as instructed without hesitation. He approached from my right took one step, put his hands forward and leaning against my left leg lowered himself over. I was surprised how heavy he was. Not that he was fat, but I suppose I had forgotten that no eighteen-year-old boy was going to be featherweight in this position.

Denny settled himself into position without instruction. He was clearly more experienced in this situation than me. He placed both palms about three feet apart on the parquet floor in front of him. He leaned forward making me lower my left leg to accommodate him. He wriggled slightly, not in an attempt to escape punishment, but in order to raise his bottom higher, with the groove below his stomach resting on my right leg. I noticed his white briefs fitted him like a second skin, there were no wrinkles. A combination of expensive designer pants and a pert and muscular bottom combined to make the perfect target for a spanking.

But we weren’t ready yet. The spanking was to be on the bare. I learned from the websites that the spanker should always be the one to bare the bottom (don’t ask the lad being punished to pull his own pants down). You had to ‘talk’ the underwear down. That is you grasp hold of the waistband and when the lad realises its bare bum time you say something like, “Oh you weren’t expecting this? Well. I hope you’re feeling ashamed,” Or, “But it’s not a proper spanking unless it’s on the bare.”

I went for the first option. It must have sounded daft to Denny who knew all along he was going to get it on the naked bum.

I took hold of the top of his pants, but with him prone on top of me it was harder to remove them than I expected. I tugged at them until it was clear that I could move the back of the pants down a bit, but if I was going to take them down to the knees, which was my intention, I would need to pull the front of the pants down too. I was beginning to wonder if I should order him to stand up and pull down his own pants after all, when Denny came to the rescue. He lifted his body up enough from my knees to allow me to slide the pants down. Mission accomplished.

And, now I had Denny bare-bottomed across my knee. I am far from an expert on men’s bare bottoms, but I did think something was wrong here. It was just too smooth. The skin was smooth and the bottom round and there wasn’t a hair to be seen. Without thinking I placed my right hand on his right buttock and caressed it. No, I was sure there was not a hair to be felt.

As my hand moved across his bottom I moved the flesh a little and there, hardly visible at first I saw something suspicious. With my curiosity aroused by this I rubbed a little bit harder on both buttocks and it was unmistakable: there were some very faint thin lines running the width of his buttocks. Surely, only one thing could have caused such marks: Denny had been given a caning some time recently and the welts had not quite cleared away. At first thought this was probably not unexpected given Denny’s record as a naughty boy, but caning was abolished in schools here about twenty-five years ago, long before Denny was even born.

I decided now was not the time to ask questions about previous punishments, I had my own task to perform. With my left hand I reached for the tail of the boy’s shirt and pushed it four or five inches further up his back. His pants were resting at his knees and he was naked from there to almost his shoulders, I had my target.

I raised the brush and brought it down on his left buttock, then again on the right. I had learned that you should start a spanking softly and build up a momentum until the whacks were reigning down hard. I couldn’t quite remember why now. I did know that Alan had told me to beat him until he was the colour of deep cherry. WHACK! WHACK! I set about my task.

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

Denny was taking it magnificently, I thought. His bum was turning a darker red now and his breathing was harder. He was in some pain, I assumed, but he wasn’t about to show it to me. I’d read that once you started the spanking you had to keep on going silently until you were ready to finish. By ‘silently’ I mean you didn’t keep scolding the naughty boy, he might want to be noisy, hollering for you to stop and so on and that was to be expected, encouraged even. But apart from the breathing Denny was taking it stoically.

From my vantage point way above him I looked down at his head. His hair was flopped over his eyes, a fringe falling towards the floor. I saw a silent grimace as my brush hit his buttocks time and again. He screwed his eyes a little in pain, but no sound came from his lips and no tear from his eye.

I remembered what I’d read on the websites: start gently and work your way up to a climax (so to speak). Now was the time to move up a couple of gears. I raised the brush as far above my head as I could and with all my strength brought it crashing down.

Yeowwwwww! Victory. I repeated the move. Again, and again and again. Bruises were forming on both of Denny’s buttocks. Bang! Bang! Bang! Now it was his thighs, then the tops of his buttocks, then the fleshy bit in the middle. Denny was yelping in genuine pain. His legs were kicking out and he was wriggling from side to side across my laps like he was trying to do the crawl swimming stroke.

At last I had him. I just kept on whacking. I thought at any moment he would break free and probably run from the room. But, I hadn’t realised how much he did not want to be sent off to Africa. I whacked him and whacked him. It hurt, he hated it, he was in agony now, but he stayed in position the best that he could.

The buttocks were cherry now – all over, apart that is from the bits that were deep blue with bruises.  Whack! Whack! on and on I went.

He was sobbing now, uncontrollably and it seemed at least without shame. We were on the home straight but not at the finishing line quite yet.

I broke the Internet rule and started scolding him. Whack! That’s for all the people you insulted when you were drunk. Whack! That’s for the people who had to clean up your filth after you urinated in their doorways. Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! That’s for all the police you swore at. Whack! Whack! Whack! That’s for bringing police to my front door and shaming us with the neighbours Whack! Whack! Whack! That’s for all the bad things you have done, that I never got to find out about.

Whack! Whack! Whack! That’s to remind you that I have permission from your father to spank you whenever I feel you need it and if you don’t obey me you’re on the next plane to Africa.

Whack! Whack! Whack!

He was gone. Sobbing into the parquet floor. Broken. I stopped, but I didn’t let him stand. I left him there across my lap, his once lily-white bottom scarred, bruised and blistered. He was still kicking his legs, I’m not sure why. I’d stopped hitting him some time ago.

I left him there a few more moments and let him up. His face was as red as his backside. Snot was running down his chin. Unsteadily on his feet he reached down and pulled up his pants and short trousers.

I sat in my chair the clothes brush still in my hand. How were you supposed to end a session? I couldn’t remember reading anything about that. My father would have walked silently from the room and next day told me he loved me.

I didn’t have to worry about this for long. As soon as he was dressed, Denny was straight out the room and I could hear him running up the stairs to his room.

I rose, picked up the chair and took it back to the kitchen where it belonged. I put the brush in the drawer of the kitchen table and put the kettle on. I needed a cup of tea.

Later, I would email Alan to tell him how it went.

But, I wasn’t sure if I’d mention the cane marks.

 

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

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