Summer spent staring at the carpet

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z used otk chair head bbfc (200)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club

Other stories you might like

Changed Times 6. Birched live on TV

The hotel swimming pool

A night on the tiles

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Adventure at Camp Cottage

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z used house by E.H. Davie 6

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To be continued ….

Picture credit: E.H. Davie

Other stories you might like

Summer at uncle’s

The glorious summer

How Many Strokes Will it Be?

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Uncle Graham’s belt

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z used drawing belt hold (25)

Uncle Graham stood feet firmly planted eighteen inches apart, his back erect, the muscles in his forearms rippling. I stood, my eyes popping, as slowly and with great deliberation he unbuckled his thick, wide leather belt. He glowered as he took hold of the buckle and tugged the belt so that it slipped majestically through the loops of his trousers. Within seconds it was free. He allowed it to dangle from his fist so that the far end almost touched the floor.

“Come here,” his voice was fierce. It was an order, not a request. He doubled up the black belt and tapped it into the palm of his left hand. I slouched forward, attempting defiance. “Now!” Uncle Graham barked. I stood for a moment. How I despised myself for allowing him to whip me.

“You know the drill,” Uncle Graham glowered. “Get on with it.”

I did. I knew the drill well. I was eighteen years old and had been here many times before. I fumbled with the buckle of my own belt, but my fingers refused to work, they were numbed by my humiliation. “Do you want me to do it for you?” Uncle Graham sneered.

At last the belt undone, I popped the clasp at the waistband of my trousers and then tugged the zipper tab until the front of my trousers were wide open. I shook my legs and gravity took them slipping down my thighs and they snagged at my knees. Uncle Graham shot me a withering look. He did not try to hide his contempt. I hooked my thumbs inside my boxer shorts and with a flick of the wrists sent them down to meet my trousers.

My bum was bare and my small, thin cock hung limply. I drew in a deep breath. I shuffled like a penguin for a couple of steps until I reached the back of the settee. I counted to five in my head, rubbed my sweaty palms together, closed my eyes and slowly fell forward. My stomach rested on the back of the settee. I opened my eyes again and stared down at the dirty seat cushion. I pushed my arms forward and took a firm grip of its far end.

“Bum higher!” Uncle Graham growled. “Get right over that settee.” I wriggled my hips a little and stood up on my toes. My face was even closer to the cushion and I could smell sour sweat where countless people had sat over many years.

I closed my eyes and waited. I heard Uncle Graham swish the belt through the air. There was an almighty crack that echoed around the small living room when he slashed the belt against the top of the settee. I couldn’t stop a shudder convulsing my body. Then, I felt the cold leather touch my naked flesh. Uncle Graham rested the belt so it covered the centre of both cheeks. He was finding his aim.

A chill draught blew across my naked legs. Blood rushed to my face, it always did when I was bent over in this position. I braced myself for a very intense session with the belt.

The first time I had been strapped it had been agony and I had been miserable for hours afterwards. Now, after so many strappings it was different. I knew I could “take it” without a fuss, but I never overcame the sense of humiliation. Eighteen years old and belted like a little kid. I  willed himself not to move. I stayed submissively bent over, holding my backside high so Uncle Graham could lash my buttocks over and over.

I felt him tap the belt across my bottom and then raise it away. He must have taken it over his shoulder and then he brought it whipping down into me. The crack! sounded like gunfire in the tiny room. My body buckled under the lash and I bit into my lower lip; trickles of spit dribbled from my mouth.

The second lash curled itself viciously over my exposed buttocks and unfurled. My backside quivered with the force. My body jolted and I clenched the fingers of both hands together.  My throat tightened. After three or four strokes the heavy, wide thick belt had whacked all my buttocks; from the soft undercurve where the globes meet the back of the thighs, over the meaty mounds and across the tops of the globes. Every square inch was toasted. He snapped another six hard stingers across the very centre of my buttocks. One after the other in rapid succession.

The aching in my bum was growing. It had started as a tingle, turned to a throb and then became pounding pain. Not one square inch of my buttocks was untouched by the leather belt. I clung onto the seat cushion valiantly. When you have been under the lash as often as I have you develop a high pain threshold. A less experienced boy would be hollering, howling and begging for mercy. Not me. My buttocks quivered, my hips wriggled and from time to time my knees bent, but that was just my body’s natural reaction. A reflex, if you like, a way for my body to protect itself against the pain.

Uncle Graham was no novice to spanking. He knew his job. Satisfied that he had whipped my buttocks red and raw he then turned his attention to the back of my thighs. If you’ve been spanked yourself you’ll know that it the most sensitive part of the target area. I stamped my feet, then wrapped one foot around the other. My heart raced and my temples throbbed almost as much as my bum. But I didn’t cry out. I refused to give Uncle Graham the satisfaction.

He paused the onslaught for five seconds while he took hold of the belt and adjusted it so the buckle was uppermost. This meant not only did he have the weight of the leather strap to flog me, but a heavy piece of metal with a sharp point that could take my arse off. After a dozen strokes of this small cuts ran across my mounds and the flesh looked like raw hamburger meat in places.

Then, it was over. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson.” Uncle Graham finished his spanking with three extra-hard licks. When he told me to get up, I forgot about being too old for a spanking. I hopped around doing the famous spanking dance with my penis flopping, while I tried to rub the sting out of my bare behind that had just been roasted to 350-degrees Fahrenheit.

My bum was hideous; a mass of magenta marks and burgundy bruises. Already some of the bruises were growing dark, almost brown. I could feel the welts from the strap and the heat glowing off my bum could have heated a greenhouse.

Uncle Graham let me get dressed and he sent me off to my room. Only then did I allow the tears of pain and humiliation to flow.

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

My first spanking — aged 18!

The spanking I thoroughly deserved

The Helpful Neighbour Part 1

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Lodging with Uncle Ralph

new 5

“Come up here Robert, I want you to see this. You need to learn something.” It was Uncle Ralph calling from the bedroom. I knew something not nice was happening, I had felt an extreme tension in the house the moment I returned from college.

With some reluctance I trudged up the stairs. The bedroom door was open. My cousin John stood miserably, his usually pale face, now a deathly shade of white. Towering over him was his father, my Uncle Ralph. Uncle’s whiskers bristled; he turned to me and growled, “I want you to see this. The same will happen to you if you ever break my rules.”

I glanced at John; now his face was deep scarlet. I had no idea what was happening. I had moved in with Uncle Ralph and his family a few days previously after I joined Brocklehurst University. Uncle Ralph was a weird fellow. He was ex-military and had in his time been a colonel. He spent much of his life outside of England. It might be 2019, but somewhere in his head it was still about 1935. One of the first things he did on my arrival was to give me a long list of rules of the house. It went on for pages of closely printed script. I didn’t read it all. That was to be my downfall.

I was still standing on the landing. Uncle Ralph glared at me from the bedroom. “Stand there, in the doorway. Watch and learn,” he spoke in a clipped style; I suppose this was how he spoke to his men in the army. I paused, a little embarrassed. What was going on here? Why was he so agitated? I looked over at John hoping I might get a signal from him, but he was too engrossed staring down at his own feet.

“Right lad!” Uncle Ralph barked. “This is what you are going to do.” He paused and wiped spittle from his beard with the back of his hand. “Take down those trousers.” I’m sure my jaw must have dropped, I was gaping. John’s face contorted, I knew he wanted to say something, to perhaps make a protest, but he seemed to bite back his thoughts. His forehead shone with sweat although the room was quite cool.

“Get them down. Now, lad,” Uncle Ralph glared. “Or do you want me to do it for you?” “No Father, no,” the threat spurred John into action. He wore cheap track pants and all he had to do was pinch the sides of the elasticated waistband and guide them down over his thighs. They snagged at the knees. “All the way. Step out of them,” Uncle Ralph ordered.

I am no expert on these things, but it looked like John was in a trance. He kept his eyes trained on the floor as he leaned forward and took hold of the sweats and wriggled his feet free of them. He straightened up and now stared blankly at the wall. I followed his gaze; there was nothing in his sightline, only plain white wallpaper. He stood, shoulders straight, hands clasped behind his back. His plain blue t-shirt hung long enough to cover most of his tight, yellow-and-maroon-striped briefs. I noticed John’s legs were virtually hairless.

My own throat dried as I it began to dawn on me what Uncle Ralph intended to do. I don’t have the words to describe my thoughts, but I was baffled. John was clearly in Uncle Ralph’s power. He would obey any command of the old man. That became clear when Uncle Ralph intoned. “Take down the pants. Step out of them.” My heart beat fast; I can only imagine what was going on inside John’s chest. The perspiration had now spread from his forehead and his top lip was moist. Still in a trance, he slipped his thumbs under his pants and pushed them south. He stood unsteadily on one leg and then on the other so he was able to step out of them without toppling to the floor.

John was now naked from the waist down. He straightened up. His shirt covered some of his privates but I had a clear view of his hairy ball sack. John was on some kind of autopilot. He stood waiting for Uncle Ralph’s next instruction. Almost without thinking he cupped his hands together and rested them so they obscured my view of his cock.

All this couldn’t have taken more than a few seconds but for me time was standing still. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion making it seem like minutes had passed. Uncle Ralph was in no hurry. He stood impassively, looking down his long curved nose at his son. His beady eyes were glazed. Through his beard I saw the tip of his tongue dart out of his mouth and slowly run across his top lip. He shot John a withering look and without a word he walked across the bedroom. I watched transfixed as he stopped at an old battered dressing table, opened a drawer and reached inside. I heard a clumping sound before his hand emerged holding a block of wood. Uncle Ralph used his hip to close the drawer before turning to face me. The block of wood was about the size of a DVD cover. He held it by a small handle. He waved it through the air and said, “In this house you follow the rules. Or else.”

He said no more and then slowly he walked the three or four steps necessary to take him to the bed. He sat down on the edge, rather like it was a sofa so that his feet were firmly planted on the floor. He looked across at John. “Bend over my knee.” It was a clipped command. Uncle Ralph was used to being obeyed. There was not the slightest doubt in his mind that John would submit to his will. And so he did.

I realised at that moment that this scene that was so strange and unusual to me had probably been played out many times before. Or ones very similar to it. John definitely knew the part he had to play in this drama and he did not fluff his lines. He looked across at Uncle Ralph, now sitting legs apart, took a deep breath and in one continuous movement took two paces forward and lowered himself across Uncle Ralph’s knees. He wriggled for a moment until his chest and arms were stretched out along the mattress. From where I was at the bedroom door I had a perfect view of John’s backside which he raised high over Uncle Ralph’s lap.

There was a second or two while Uncle Ralph ran his eyes over John’s prone body, I could tell that he felt something wasn’t quite right. Then he took hold of the end of John’s shirt and pushed it further up his back. Now, John’s buttocks were completely bare.  I hadn’t noticed before (why should I?) that John’s bum was broad and meaty, it was as hairless as his legs and the skin was quite pale.

I was rooted to the ground. My eyes must have been out on stalks. My heart pounded and I was now as sweaty as John. I had never witnessed anything like this before. It didn’t seem real. I couldn’t wait for Uncle Ralph to whack that wood across John’s naked, meaty bum. But Uncle wasn’t quite ready; he looked across at me and said, “I will not hesitate to give you the same treatment if your behaviour warrants it.” I croaked back, “Yes, sir.”

Uncle Ralph turned his attention back to the job in hand. He used John’s back as a shelf to rest the wood and with his left hand he gripped John around the waist. He cupped the other hand and with his palm he gently traced the contours of John’s left cheek, around the circumference and into the undercurve where the bum and thigh meet. He slapped the bum gently at the highest point of the mounds. I clearly saw the flesh wobble. Once he had gone round the circuit of the left cheek, Uncle Ralph did the same with the right. I might have imagined this but John’s entire body appeared to relax while this took place.

John might have been relaxed, but I was not. My temples were now throbbing and I knew very soon I would have a raging headache – the tension was so great. Uncle Ralph retrieved the wood from John’s back and gripped the handle tightly. The muscles in his arms tensed. He raised the wood high and rocked back on the mattress; then he pounded it across the meatiest part of John’s right cheek. I heard a long, low whistling sound. John rose to his elbows and this just encouraged Uncle Ralph to press his hand into the small of John’s back. He was pinned down and was going nowhere. Uncle Ralph was in total control. The wood rose and fell and swatted into the left cheek.

I suppose the whole scene was surreal; dreamlike. Can you imagine in this day and age an eighteen-year-old boy submissively offering up his bared bottom to his father so the old man can spank it severely with a block of wood? Well, it happened. I am witness to that.

It didn’t take more than four or five swats of the small block to cover all of John’s fat bottom. His skin was pale and reddened very easily. In no time at all his bottom was aflame. If would have glowed in the dark if we turned off the lights. Even from a distance I saw the skin beginning to break. John was stoical, I suppose. He kept his bum raised high as best he could, but the spanking clearly hurt him. He dug his elbows into the mattress and raised his head, shaking it from side to side as each successive swat added to the heat in his rear end. His hair was wet with sweat and from what I cold see of it, his face was as scarlet as his bum. He wriggled his hips and his knees buckled, but he didn’t try to break free. I suppose all that writhing around was his body’s natural reaction to the pain.

z used otk bare bed sting

Uncle Ralph kept up a rhythmic pounding. First one cheek, then the next. Higher, then lower. Under the crease. On the crest of the mounds. Into the back of the thighs.  Even I , with my lack of experience, could see this was a thorough, well-planned and well-executed spanking. All done with military precision.

When he was ready, and only then, did Uncle Ralph lay the wood down on the mattress beside him. He paused a few seconds while John’s body recovered a little. Then, he intoned, “Punishment over. Stand up.” He released John’s waist and my cousin scurried off his knees and stood unsteadily. His eyes searched the room for his briefs and sweats. “Dismissed.” Uncle Ralph sounded like he was on parade. John found his clothes and without waiting to dress he bundled them under his arm and fled the room.

I moved to one side to let him pass. I stood unsure what I was supposed to do next. Uncle Ralph was breathless, his shirt stuck to his back, his beard glistened with sweat. He replaced the wood in the drawer. When he turned from the dresser the startled look in his eyes suggested he had forgotten I was there. He recovered instantly, “So now you know.” I nodded sagely, as if he were one of my professors explaining a complicated new theory.

“Good,” Uncle Ralph stepped ominously towards me, “Because now we have to deal with the little matter of your absence without leave from college yesterday afternoon.”

My knees buckled. In my mind I saw John’s toasted backside, the glowing, flesh, the small cuts to the flesh. The humiliation of presenting his bare bottom for chastisement. My mouth gaped open and shut, it was a good impression of a goldfish stranded out of water.

“Wait for me in the kitchen,” Uncle Ralph spoke clearly and with authority. “I have to change my shirt.” He glowered at me, “Off! Now!” I sprang into action, only now getting some inkling of the control this man possessed. No wonder John had been so submissive. It was almost addictive.

I waited in the kitchen for ten minutes or so. How had he known I had skipped Uni. yesterday afternoon? What else did he know? I paced the room. I had no doubt what Uncle Ralph intended to do. Would I let him? Could I let him? Would I have the same fortitude as John to submit to punishment. Me, eighteen years old, nineteen next September, spanked on the bare bottom! All kinds of absurd thoughts befuddled my brain. What if the guys at Uni. ever found out!

Uncle Ralph’s arrival in the kitchen brought me back to earth. He had obviously showered and a heady aroma of coal tar soap wafted from him. I hardly noticed this; all I saw was the heavy, wooden hairbrush he gripped in his fist.

“So, AWOL from college. Yes.” I suppose he might have meant it as a question, but it sounded like a very definitive statement to me so I stayed quiet. “Yes?” he spoke loudly, as if to a hundred men, “Yes! Guilty as charged?” I murmured agreement. “Right,” he picked up a straight-backed kitchen chair with one hand and manoeuvred it away from a table and into space. He set it down heavily. “You now understand the rules of engagement.” It was another question posed as a statement. My head was spinning. What was he talking about. Engagement?

“Doh!” he was losing what little patience he ever had. “You know what is expected of you?” I must have still looked blank. “You know what to do?” He sat on the chair and wriggled his buttocks until he was comfortable. He sat upright in the chair and leaned back. He parted his legs slightly. Even I, befuddled as I was, could see he had prepared a perfect platform for me to submit myself.

“Right lad,” he barked, Uncle Ralph was incapable of speaking in a normal tone of voice, “Stand there.” He clicked his fingers and pointed to a spot on the floor a metre or so from his right knee. Looking back, some of what happened is hazy in my memory, but other parts are as clear as a bell. I know it happened, I’ve got the bruises to prove it. It was like an out-of-body experience. I stood where instructed. Uncle Ralph waved a hand at me. “Get those jeans down.” I stared down at myself. Of course, I’ve taken jeans off thousands of times before but at this precise moment I was unclear how it was done. I was baffled by the complexity of my belt. How do I get the end out of the buckle. What do I do with that prong thing? It seemed to take me for ever to get the damn thing unbuckled and open. Then, there was the challenge of undoing the top button and getting the zipper to work. Somehow , don’t ask me how, I got the jeans to me knees. “All the way down,” Uncle Ralph’s voice, loud as it was, seemed to be coming from a very long distance. I bent from the trunk and with my hands pushed the jeans until they bundled on top of my feet.

“Bend over my knee,” the command was terse. How was this done exactly? I had seen John earlier go over Uncle Ralph’s lap, but that was on a bed and John rested his arms on the mattress; where I was I supposed to put mine? Despite these absurd thoughts, I slowly lowered myself over Uncle Ralph’s right leg. There is a certain amount of instinct involved in something like this, so with my stomach perched over his thigh I stretched my body so my chest lay on his left knee. This meant my arms naturally were ahead of me. I parted them by a metre or so and pressed my palms into the cold floor tiles. I couldn’t see because I was now staring directly down but behind me my own knees were slightly bent and my bottom was poking up at an angle.

I felt Uncle Ralph lay the wooden brush on my back, just as he had with John. I flinched as he took hold of the top of my pants. But, instead of ripping them down and exposing my bare bottom, he griped the waistband and tugged. They already fitted me snugly, but now they were so tight I could feel the cotton pulled up into my crack. Uncle Ralph took me lightly by the hip to hold me steady. That was when I felt his big hand rub across my buttocks. He was smoothing away any wrinkles in the pants – and (I suspect) having a good feel while he was at it.

He said nothing while doing all this so I had no warning when he started slapping his hand across my backside. Through the thin underpants I could tell his hand was hard and rough. I had no experience being spanked so I didn’t know how much it was supposed to hurt. He lay it on hard and rapidly. Smack-smack-smack. It was much quicker than the way he had spanked John. My bum was warming up. It didn’t hurt – well, not too much – it was like an intense tingle, if that makes any sense.

z used brush otk pants chair brush straightladsspankedotcom (1a)

I lay face down looking intently at the floor. A ball of dust floated by my face. I noticed a water stain where the tiles had not been dried properly after they were cleaned. I concentrated on this, as if it might take my mind off the humiliation I was suffering. I felt a movement in Uncle Ralph’s body. He picked up the brush and whacked me hard with it. I gasped at the shock of this sudden pain. It hurt so much more than the palm of his hand. I heard Uncle Ralph wheezing as he laid the brush across my stretched underpants. Oh my how it hurt!

I don’t know how many whacks he gave me. I do know I kicked my legs and waved my arms about. “Keep still. Keep still,” Uncle Ralph ordered. I had very little control over my body, I couldn’t have obeyed even if I wanted to. “Keep still, it’ll be all the worst for you,” he said. The warning was lost on me. I kept on struggling. Suddenly, the pounding stopped, I drew in great gulps of air. The pain was intense but as soon as he stopped hammering my bottom, it started to dissolve into something like a constant throbbing.

If I thought my spanking was over, Uncle Ralph had another idea. He lay the brush on my back again and with both hands he clutched the waist of my underpants. I might have made a yell of protest, I can’t be sure. Not that it did me any good. My bum was bare. Uncle Ralph took hold of the brush again and he took my tail off! He pressed his elbow into my back and that stopped me wriggling around too much. I may not have been willingly submitting myself to him, but he was my master. He could (and would) spank me for as long and as hard as he wished and I had to lay there face down, bared-bottom quivering until he was ready to stop.

This is where my recollection becomes hazy. I know my bum was on fire and my entire body ached, but also in some crazy way that I don’t have the words to explain, I was flying high. I’ve smoked some dope in my time and taken other drugs at parties, but nothing had ever made me fly like this. Go figure, I can’t.

At some point, Uncle Ralph set me free. I remember jumping up and down and rubbing away at my roasted bottom. Then, I was face down on my bed. Next morning, I had to sneak into the utility room very early and launder the bedsheets before my aunt saw them. Later, I spent time very carefully reading the printed list of rules Uncle Ralph gave me when I arrived. I made careful note of all the offences I could commit that would earn me a jolly good spanking.

 

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures / straight lads spanked dot com

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Spanked by my uncle: who enjoyed it the most?

Visit to Uncle Roy

The smiling boy

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Uncle loses his patience

z used new story 2

z used pyjamas taking down domestic sting (2a)

Right Trent, this is what’s going to happen. You are going to take down those pyjama bottoms and bend over my knee. I’ve warned you often enough. Ever since we took you in you’ve been nothing but trouble. Now, you’ve left your aunt in tears with your rudeness. I will not stand for it. I won’t have it. Do you understand?

You’re well overdue a spanking. I don’t know how your father brought you up, but in this house we know how to behave. You stick to the rules. My rules. And Aunt Marie’s, of course. You don’t do that, you get a spanking. It really is as simple as that. And, if you don’t like it you can see if your new stepdad will take you in. I doubt it. Who would want an obnoxious brat like you living it them? If you weren’t Aunt Marie’s nephew, I’d’ve thrown you out a long time ago.

Take them down, I said. I’m not playing games here. Let’s see if a bare-bottomed belting will buck your ideas up.

Don’t wave your arms at me! You are not too old for a spanking. And, I’ll tell you something else, you might be nearly nineteen but for as long as you live in my house I’ll spank you every time I think you need it. You don’t want to be spanked, then learn to behave, it really I as simple as that. Now, take down those pyjamas, unless you want me to do it for you.

That’s better. Now, let them fall all the way. Don’t worry you’ve got nothing I haven’t seen before. Now, bend over my knee. No, keep your hands well out of the way. Stretch out in front of you. Touch the floor. Or hold on to the chair leg. Keep your head nice and low. Try to lift up your bottom a little.

That’s better. Now, let’s get this jacket out of the way. Let the dog see the rabbit. There we are. A nice bare bottom. I don’t suppose this has ever been spanked before. More’s the pity. If your dad had used his belt on you I wouldn’t need to be doing this.

Be quiet. You’re a big lad, you ought to be able to take a strapping without all this fuss. You deserve this and you know it. I’ll tan your hide until it’s good and red. You’ll be sleeping on your stomach tonight lad, if I have my way. I’d like to see you explain the marks away to your girlfriend tomorrow ….

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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Saving souls

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Uncle keeps his word

new story 2

z used after pyjamas bed sting (6)

Once upon a time there was a young man called Nick. Nick had just finished school and was waiting for his examination results and he hoped they would be good enough for him to go to university.

Nick was a typical eighteen year old. He thought the world owed him a living and that everything would be put on a plate for him and he wouldn’t have to make an effort. One day Nick’s Mum and Dad said they were going to go away on holiday, but they didn’t want him to go with them.

“Suits me fine,” he said. “I don’t mind.” And, he really didn’t mind because he had a plan all worked out for when they were away. My, what fun he could have with the house to himself. Party time! Oh, he thought of all the beer and the drugs and the girls. Especially, the girls. He rubbed his hands together with glee.

“Your Uncle George will be staying in the house while we’re away,” his Mother told him. Oh, how Nick’s face fell. “Not Uncle George,” he groaned. “Yes,” his Mother said. “He’s promised to decorate our bedroom and the kitchen while we’re away. Isn’t that kind of him,” she beamed. “Oh,” she said, as if she had only just thought of the idea, “Since you haven’t got a job, I want you to help him.” What she meant, of course, is because you haven’t bothered to get a job you lazy good for nothing …

Nick groaned some more and stormed out of the room and up the stairs to his room. He took the magazine with dirty pictures from under his mattress and tossed himself off a couple of times, while he waited for his Mother to make him his tea. “Bloody Uncle George,” he fumed.

So, it was that two weeks later Uncle George arrived. He was Nick’s Mother’s brother and was a few years older than her. His own children had all grown up and flown the nest. When he was younger Nick had been pally with his cousin, Terry. Oh the tales Terry told him. Nick didn’t know whether to believe some of them. “He spanks you when you don’t do what he tells you,” Nick was astounded, “with a clothes brush!” No, he knew Terry was having him on. That was until one day, when the two of them were alone in Uncle George’s house, Terry took down his trousers, and his underpants, and then he pointed his bare bum at Nick. There embossed in red over and over and over again all across Terry’s cheeks were the images of the head of the brush. Every inch of the eighteen-year-old’s bum was scorched.

So when Uncle George arrived to start his decorating  job, Nick decided to keep out of the way. He hardly left his bedroom. Not until Uncle George came hammering on Nick’s door. “Oi! Get up you lazy so-and-so. There’s work to be done.” Luckily for Nick, Uncle George didn’t hear the youngster’s response that he should …. Well, you can probably guess what he said.

Uncle George burst open the door. Oh, how annoyed he was to see Nick was on his bed and still in his pyjamas, even though it was gone two in the afternoon. Uncle George’s mouth opened and closed like a goldfish but no words came out. He was astounded. This would never be allowed in his house, Uncle George thought to himself. I would never allow it. Something had to be done.

Uncle George was a fair man. He thought everybody deserved a chance. That was only right and proper. But then again they only deserved one chance. Uncle George stood in the doorway with his feet spread wide. He was much taller and heavier (and, of course, older) than Nick and he made an imposing figure. “Right, young man,” he spoke forcefully and Nick could only lay there and listen.

Uncle George told his nephew the facts of life. The facts of life when Uncle George was in control. Uncle George told Nick what time he was to get up in the morning. What tasks he was going to do helping with the decorating. Then he told Nick that it was going to be his job to do the grocery shopping and the cooking. The list of things Nick had to do just went on and on. Then, at last, Uncle George finished by telling Nick he had to be home no later than ten-thirty every night and he had better not go out drinking if he knew what was good for him.

Nick was dumbfounded. He didn’t know what to do. He wouldn’t admit it to anybody but he was a little afraid of Uncle George and after what cousin Terry had shown him, Nick knew he had every reason to be. He didn’t argue with Uncle George. He couldn’t see the point. He would just ignore him. Well, okay he thought, he could help with the painting. But the shopping and cooking. No way Jose.

“Now, get up, you lazy little so-and-so,” Uncle George growled. He waited until Nick was out of bed and in the bathroom before he went downstairs to make himself a cup of tea. It was some time later before Nick put in an appearance. Uncle George did not hide his irritation. At that moment he knew for sure that Nick was going to be a handful. He wouldn’t play ball easily. That was why Uncle George said to Nick, “You know what I expect from you. If I don’t get your full cooperation, it will be a spanking for you. I think you know  mean it.”

Nick couldn’t see his own face but he was pretty sure it had turned scarlet. Spanking. Yes, Nick believed his uncle. “A spanking, he thought, “Just you try it buster.”

Like I said, Nick thought the world revolved around him and always would. He had no intention of coming home at half-ten. No way was he going to stay out of the pub. Why should he, just because Uncle George said so.

So later that day Nick went to meet his friends. They had a right good time. Nick copped a feel with some girl he used to go to school with, but she wouldn’t give him more than that. After about six pints of Stella Artois he rumbled home at close to midnight and crawled into bed. Uncle George knew he had missed curfew but had no intention of waiting up half the night for his nephew to come home.

Next morning Uncle George had to make his own breakfast because lazy Nick was still in bed. He watched the minute hand on the clock move closer to the twelve. It was now ten o’clock. “Right,” Uncle George said out loud even though he was quite alone in the room, “That does it. I told him. I am a man of my word.”

Uncle George had expected trouble with Nick so he was prepared for it when it came. Slowly, for he was not in a temper, he went up the stairs into the room that he was sleeping in. There, resting on the bedside table was his heavy, wooden clothes brush. Uncle George had owned the brush for years and he was very well acquainted with its properties. That is to say, as well as taking fluff off his jackets, it made a mighty fine spanking implement. He gripped it by the handle and could feel its weight. The head was oval shaped and was about six inches by four. It could leave a mark, especially when walloped with great force into bared buttock cheeks.

Uncle George stood still for a moment or two and took some deep breaths. He was just getting himself ready. He had already planned what he had to do. He didn’t expect Nick to meekly submit himself. There was no point Uncle George saying, “Come here you naughty boy. Take down your pyjamas and come and bend over my knee.” No, Uncle George knew that wasn’t going to happen. Unlike Uncle George’s own sons, Nick had not been brought up like that. He hadn’t had the training. And besides, Uncle George had no doubt that Nick was just a snivelling little coward.

Uncle George took a firm grip of the brush. Calmly, he left his room and took the few paces across the landing. He paused outside the door, counting to ten in his head. He was ready for action; locked to go. He turned the handle and with his shoulder shoved open the door. The noise he made woke Nick who was still dozing under the blanket. “Wor the …?” Nick’s blurry puzzlement meant he was caught off guard.

“I warned you.” That was all Uncle George said. Before Nick could move a muscle, Uncle George had ripped the blanket off Nick’s body. At that moment Nick saw the brush in Uncle George’s hand. “No!” he wailed but it was too late. Uncle George was strong and besides he had surprise on his side. He gripped Nick by the lapels of his pyjama jacket and with one almighty tug he had the eighteen-year-old sitting up. Then, Uncle George gripped Nick by the shoulders and in one quick, continuous movement he had Nick face down on the bed. The protests Nick made were muffled because he was almost chewing the mattress.

Uncle George was almost ready. There was only one thing still to be done. Nick was wriggling and writhing but Uncle George held him firmly down with his left arm. Then, with his right hand he gripped the waist of Nick’s pyjamas. They didn’t have elastic in them, but luckily (for Uncle George, but not Nick) the drawstring was not tied. This was because earlier Nick had undone it himself so he could get at his erect cock. Now, Uncle George could pull the pyjama bottoms down far enough that both bum cheeks were fully exposed.

Now, Uncle George put his right knee into Nick’s back. The lad was pinned face down. He was going nowhere. Not until Uncle George said so. And, Uncle George had no intention of saying so, not for some time yet. The thwack of the heavy, wooden brush connecting with young, firm flesh was a dull thud. But, each time the brush thudded it was accompanied by a gasp, or a yowl, or a yelp, and even a full-throated yell. Nick’s mouth was so close to the bed that most of the time he was spluttering. Spit dribbled from his mouth and along with the tears that pretty quickly flowed from his eyes, the bedsheet was pretty soon soaking.

Uncle George hammered the brush so that every pore of Nick’s flesh was scorching. He covered all of both buttock cheeks and even went into that really sensitive part where the bum meets the back of the thighs. Uncle George was an expert. He knew his job well and he was showing Nick the extent of his great expertise. On and on, he spanked.

Uncle George believed in retribution. You break the rules, you get punished. And, oh did Uncle George believe Nick deserved that spanking. He walloped him as if he had the strength of ten men. Nick quite truthfully had not known what hit him. Uncle George believed in punishment, but he was no sadist. He knew when to stop. And, he was nearly ready. He went round the circuit one more time, landing on areas of raw flesh that were already blistering. Then, satisfied with a job well done, Uncle Gorge stopped.

Uncle George did not say a word. He stood up and for a few moments he stood and watched Nick who was just lying face down and bleating like a new-born lamb who had lost its mother. Uncle George walked to the door and let himself out of the room. He paused one more time before closing it.

“Well,” he thought. “Now, the brat knows that I’m a man of my word.” Then Uncle George went down to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

Other stories you might like

Two naughty boys

A Short, Sharp Lesson

Vigilantes

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

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

Shopping for toys

The liquor store

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com