Drunk last night

used brush drunk last night

Jack raised his face to the shower head and let the warm water cascade across his forehead and down his nose. He spluttered as accidentally he swallowed a mouthful. He wetted his hair, then allowed the water to run down his spine. He bent forward and soaked his arse crack. He was coming back to life.

It had been a heavy night. They had had nine maybe ten pints, he couldn’t remember. Pissed as farts. “Bladdered” they called it. Some people even said, “We caned it.” Huh! Perhaps, not the best term to use in the circumstances, he reckoned.

His head was clear now. Nineteen year olds had remarkable constitutions. They could be legless at two in the morning and running to catch the bus for work at eight. There was no work today as it was Saturday. Usually, he would have a lie in. Snuggling under the duvet wanking himself raw. Not today though. He had an appointment and woe betide him if he were a second late.

He stepped from the shower, reached over for the towel and wiped himself down. It always took an age to dry. He laughed out loud when he saw the old films on telly, when Elvis Presley or some other has-been steps out of the swimming pool gets handed a towel and is ready to go in seconds. Some hope. It always took Jack hours just to get his cock and balls dry.

He wrapped the towel round his waist, opened the door slightly to see the coast was clear and satisfied that it was he dashed across the landing into his bedroom. Damn it, he silently cursed. His undercarriage was still damp. He set to work again.

At last he was ready to dress. It was the height of summer and already the day was hotting up. A tee-shirt and shorts should be enough. He scrutinised his naked body in the mirror. There were two hairs near his left nipple; he’d need to shave before the weekend was over. His cock and balls were tidy, he never shaved but he did give them a trim now and again. It was Sex in the City that put him on to it. One of the old dames in the TV show took scissors to a guy she was about to give a blow job. Jack could see her point, she could be gagging on hairs all night.

Was he good looking? He was never sure. His skin was smooth and he rubbed in body lotion every day. He was about average height and build. He never worked out. He didn’t see the point, he already had a well-defined chest and his hips and waist were narrow. If he went to the gym he’d turn into a Muscle Mary, then everyone would think he was gay and how would that get him laid?

He glanced at his watch, three minutes to nine. He needed to get his skates on, he mustn’t be late. He opened his closet door and reached in for a tee-shirt, then he stepped into a pair of briefs before tugging on his shorts. He paused a second, maybe it would be wiser to wear heavy jeans. In the circumstances. Ha! He snorted out loud. Who was he kidding?

He straightened his shirt so it hung over his shorts, drew in a deep breath and opened the bedroom door.

He knew Uncle Matt would be in the lounge room. Jack had been drunk as a skunk when he bounced off the walls at two that morning, but not so far gone he couldn’t feel the full wrath of his uncle. Curfew missed. Second time in a month. The lounge. Nine o’clock. Get to bed. That was the gist of it.

Uncle Matt was waiting, as Jack knew he would be, dressed as if for the office. Despite the sweltering day in prospect, he wore a jacket and a tie, tightly knotted at his throat. He sat on a hard, dining room chair and by his side on a table was a heavy wooden clothes brush.

Jack paused at the door, heart thumping. This was hardly unchartered territory for him. His uncle had made it clear from the first day Matt had arrived. “It’s my way or the highway.” He meant he had rules. They had to be obeyed. You broke them, you got your arse blistered. You didn’t like it, “Ship out Mister.”

“Well!” Uncle Matt sneered, “What are you waiting for?” He could be a man of few words. He knew why Jack was here. Jack knew too. What more was there to say?

Except. “Come here. Take down those shorts and pants. Bend over my knee.” Swift and to the point.

Jack chewed his lip. Paused. Then waited some more. He should argue his case. He was nineteen years old. None of his mates would be going over their dads’ knees this morning for a bare-arsed spanking. So, he had gotten drunk. They all did it. Where was the harm?

Jack formulated the word in his head. But, what was the point. “My way, or the highway.” It couldn’t be clearer.

Uncle Jack wriggled his buttocks on the wooden seat of the chair and spread his legs a little further. He snapped his fingers. “Get on with it,” he growled, “we haven’t got all day.”

Actually, Jack thought, he did have all day and he wouldn’t mind one little bit if they took all the time in the world.

“Now!” It was a bark so sharp it startled Matt. In seconds he was across the room and standing by Uncle Matt’s side. He was a foot or so from his uncle, looking down at the middle-aged man’s powerful legs. The creases in uncle’s grey worsted trousers were so sharp you could cut your finger on them.

“Doh!” Uncle Matt had lost what little patience he had. He gripped the elastic waistband of Matt’s yellow sports shorts and in one tug had them at the teenager’s knees. His underpants snagged and bunched at the undercurve of Matt’s buttocks. Uncle Matt paused, looking at his nephew’s cock and balls poking over the top of the mauve cotton briefs. He scowled and sent them south to meet the shorts.

Jack flushed deep pink. It didn’t matter how many times his buttocks were bared for his uncle’s administrations, nor how often his cock and balls were on display, Jack could never get used to the humiliation. A grown man, half-naked being prepared to go over uncle’s lap for a sound bare-bottomed spanking. Who would ever believe such a thing possible?

“Bend over.” Uncle Matt preferred Jack to present himself submissively for punishment. It was as if he were saying, “I know I have broken your rules and I know I should be punished. Please spank my naughty bottom. Thank you, uncle.”

In his dreams that was how Uncle Matt saw it. It was true the first time he had ordered his nephew to prepare himself for punishment, he had refused and there had been an unseemly fight. But, resistance was futile. Jack might have been a fit eighteen-year-old at the time with all the strength that entails, but Uncle Matt was an experienced operator. The lad was face down over the back of the couch with his right arm pressed into his shoulder blades before he could say Jack Robinson. His shorts and pants were at his knees in a trice and the clothes brush was already blistering his backside. Round One to Uncle Matt.

There was no Round Two. Jack’s buttocks and thighs were toasted. Three days later he was still wriggling around when he sat on a hard dining room chair. Lesson learned: submit to Uncle Matt’s will, it is less painful in the long run.

The lesson was well learned. That was why Jack now eased himself across his uncle’s lap. He was not a tall boy and he fitted rather well. Uncle had parted his own thighs by about two feet, offering his nephew a perfect platform to present himself. The teenager’s stomach rested against uncle’s left thigh and the lad’s legs stretched behind him; his legs slightly bent and his toes brushing the deep pile Axminister carpet.

His arms reached forward and Jack’s palms rested firmly in the carpet. In this position, he had a close view of its ugly yellow-and-brown pattern. If he chose to, he could look under the chair and see his own feet, now covered by his shorts and underpants.

Uncle Matt wasn’t quite ready to go. He gripped Jack’s tee-shirt and although there was no need to do so since it wasn’t anywhere near to the teenager’s bared buttocks, he pushed it up towards his shoulder blades. Jack was now naked from his shoulders to his feet.

Uncle Matt cupped his right hand and gently rubbed the palm over Jack’s smooth skin, tracing the lad’s tan-line. He was almost entirely nut-brown; only a small portion around his buttocks was still the original white. The boy had been spending a little too much time in the sun wearing only skimpy swimming trunks.

Jack shut his eyes tight. He hated it when Uncle Matt “felt him up”, he knew the old man could see right into his crack. That was why he had spent a little extra time in the shower making sure it was sparkling clean. Jack felt his uncle’s body move. He couldn’t see, but he knew he was reaching across to the table to take up the heavy, wooden clothes brush. Any moment now the onslaught would begin.

Uncle Matt fingered the brush. It was about ten inches long and maybe three at its widest. A pal had given it to him when they were at university together. It had seen some action in its time, but he would be hard pressed to remember when it had last been used for its intended purpose.

He gripped the handle tightly and patted Jack’s bare bum with it. The teenager’s bottom was taut and stretched across his uncle’s knee it was as hard as a rubber ball. There was certainly no “give.” The term “buns of steel” might have been made for Jack.

Whack. The first stroke connected in the dead centre of Jack’s left buttock. A deep pink oval mark immediately appeared. Jack’s bum always reddened easily, it only took a slap of Uncle Matt’s hand to make it glow.

The second whack landed in the centre of the right cheek. Jack sucked on his bottom lip. It hurt. Like crazy. There was something special about the heat that a wooden brush could cause. It was a different pain from a flexible bedroom slipper or a cane. Jack would know; he had felt them all at one time or another. A heavy wooden brush applied with some effort across a bared backside left a burning sensation, like someone had pressed a hot poultice into the flesh.

Uncle Matt had a spanking technique he had perfected since his early twenties. It was all in the wrist action. Some people would raise the brush as high above their shoulder as they could reach before bringing it crashing down into the bum. It looked pretty spectacular, but a lot of the downward force was lost as the brush travelled over a distance. It was much better to keep the brush only a few inches above the bum and using wrist action wallop it across the naughty boy’s hindquarters. A golfer would probably be able to explain the technique better.

Uncle Matt raised the brush and brought it down on his left buttock, then again on the right. He had learned that you should start a spanking softly and build up a momentum until the whacks were reigning down hard.

Jack held his position steady. His bum was resting high on his uncle’s 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 his uncle’s aim and he 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.

Jack wasn’t a howler; he didn’t cry either. He would shut his mouth by biting on his bottom lip. It stopped him yelping, but sometimes he bit so hard and so deep the pain in his lip lasted much longer than the ache in his backside.

Uncle Matt wasn’t deterred by his nephew’s stoicism. He knew a bare-buttock spanking with a heavy wooden brush hurt like hell. Jack’s bum was always red and raw and so hot you could probably fry an egg on it by the time Uncle Matt was finished.

Jack’s bum was turning a darker red now and his breathing was harder. He was in some pain, but he wasn’t about to show it. From his vantage point way above his nephew, Uncle Matt looked down at his head. His hair was flopped over his eyes, a fringe falling towards the floor. He saw a silent grimace as the brush hit his buttocks time and again. Jack screwed his eyes a little in pain, but no sound came from his lips and no tear from his eye.

The heat of the bare-bottomed spanking travelled from the buttocks and up and down Jack’s legs. The pain was intense as each successive slap connected with his flesh. The pain disappeared almost immediately the brush moved off his bum only to be replaced by more pain as the next crack hit its target.

Then it was over. Suddenly, the spanking stopped. Uncle Matt released his grip on Jack’s body and the teenager rolled off his uncle’s lap and landed on the carpet. The teenager’s cock and balls were on full display. Uncle Matt professed not to notice. Jack pulled up his underpants and stood up so he could return his shorts to their rightful place.

Uncle Matt stood himself and put the brush back on the table. He looked immaculately dressed. A stranger could not tell that over the past five minutes or so he had delivered to Jack the spanking of his lifetime. Not one hair on his head was out of place. No perspiration dampened his body.

Jack rushed from the room, took the stairs two at a time, crashed through his bedroom door and threw himself face-down on his bed where he cried piteously into his pillow.

Uncle Matt left the room, slipped out of his jacket and hung it on a hook in the hallway. Then, more sedately than his nephew, he ascended the stairs and made his way to the bathroom. There, he ripped down his trousers and pants and set to work on his raging boner.

 

Picture credit: End Art

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Not like at school

David Busby eyed himself in the mirror, took hold of his necktie and unstraightened it so it didn’t have quite such a perfect knot. He was nearly ready. He climbed into a red-and-white-blazer. Proper wool: the real-deal, he was fond of telling people. He licked his lips; they usually dried out at this point.

He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his tailored light-grey shorts. Up to the knees. He liked to keep the short trousers until last. His cock tingled. It always did. He hopped to his feet and carefully pulled the flannel shorts over his sparkling white Y-front underpants. The new short trousers fitted perfectly. They ought to, it had cost him a fortune to have them made. The button-fly made all the difference.

He admired his view in the mirror. Not bad. Not bad at all. David Busby, aged forty-two, going on what? Eight? Nine? An insurance salesman transformed into a prep. school boy. Jennings and Derbyshire eat your hearts out.

He wiped the sleeve of his blazer across his brow. He was sweating badly, but the room was quite cool. It had nothing to do with the temperature, David Busby (or, more formally, “Busby” from here on in) couldn’t stop his pulse racing. Blood rushed through his body, his face flushed scarlet. His cock swelled inside his tight underpants. Any moment now he would leave the room, walk two or three steps across the landing and rap his knuckles on the door. What a thrill.

Busby had never been to prep. school. They were for the sons of the rich. His dad was a milkman, Busby had to make do with a back-street primary school and a bog-standard comprehensive. He couldn’t remember exactly, but he was pretty sure he had never worn short trousers as a kid. Not proper smart grey shorts. Definitely, not to school. They had a uniform at the comp. Just an ordinary black blazer, nothing as fanciful as the one he wore now.

He wiped his sweaty palms against the legs of his short trousers, gulped down a lung-full of air and reached for the door handle. He shuffled across the landing and stalled at his final destination. It was a plain door, eggshell in colour. He paused, hesitating, wishing that his heart would behave itself. His mouth drained of what little saliva he had left. He raised his hand and with a confidence belying his supposed age he firmly rapped three times.

Five second passed. Then an imperious command bellowed from the other side of the door. “Come!”

Busby’s hand trembled as he reached for the handle. Absurdly, considering his predicament, he noted dark finger marks on the door. Someone needs to take a J-cloth to that, he thought as he turned the handle down and pushed against the door.

It was a small room. It had once housed a bed, wardrobe and dressing table, but now it was almost empty. A small, rickety wooden desk dominated. A grey, metallic armless chair and a hat-stand were the only other furniture.

Busby stood in the open doorway. He had entered this room many times in the past. Yet, he still took a moment to sniff the atmosphere. Dr. ELT Mastertone, headmaster of this parish, sat behind the desk, his facial features gravely set. He was not an elderly man (he would be about forty-five) but he liked to act much older. Mr. Chips might have been his role model. The tattered academic gown around his shoulders and the mortar-board cap perched precariously on his head, certainly placed him in the 1930s.

He pursed his lips and sneered, “Come in boy, don’t dawdle. Close the door.” He watched the boy fumble with the door and satisfied that he had, at last, managed to close it, he snapped his fingers. “Stand there!” He pointed to the grey tiles in front of his desk.

Busby shuffled to position. His eyes flickered. He couldn’t stop blinking. His hands shook so much he clasped them behind his back. He stared down at his scuffed black shoes.

“Look at me boy when I’m talking to you!” Dr. Mastertone barked. He lived to intimidate small boys. Unenthusiastically, Busby raised his head. Ah!, the headmaster sighed with satisfaction, the boy’s dark-brown eyes were glistening. He was already half way to his goal. He wanted nothing less than tears: real tears, before he would allow the wretch to depart the study.

“Well, Busby, I have a report here from your housemaster,” Dr. Mastertone waved a single sheet of paper above his head. “It is not good boy, it is not good.”

Busby shuffled his feet. He knew what was written in the report. He took a deep breath and stared ahead of him, determined to take what was coming to him bravely.

“Bah!” the headmaster peered closely at the paper in his hand. “Disgraceful. Outrageous. Shameful. Shocking.”

The boy before him nodded his head sagely. It was all true. Every word of it. He twisted his fingers, prepared for more of Dr. Mastertone’s outpourings.

“This is criminal, Busby. Actually, criminal,” the headmaster thrust the paper at the boy standing before him. Busby winced, falling back a half-step. For this was no childish misdemeanour; this was an honest-to-goodness real adult crime.

“Drunk-driving!” spittle flew from Dr. Mastertone’s mouth. “You darn fool! You could have killed someone. You could have lost your licence. Your job!”

Busby’s knees buckled. This was the bit he loved the most; even more than the sound thrashing that was sure to follow. Being told off like a little child.

“You’re a very naughty boy!” Music to Busby’s ears.

“What have you to say for yourself, boy!”

There was nothing to say. It was Friday night, too many drinks with the lads after work, a curry; then the drive home. There was no accident, no police pulled him over. He got to his flat and crawled into bed. He would probably do it all over again next week.

“Sorry, Sir. Won’t do it again, Sir. Promise, Sir.”

“Pah!” Dr. Mastertone glared across the desk. “Sorry. Sorry. You soon will be boy!” He placed the palms of his hands flat on the desk and hauled himself to his feet. “Stand there boy,” he nodded across the room. “Face the wall. Hands on your head.”

Busby shambled across the study, his sore cock made it uncomfortable to walk. He stuck his nose as close to the wall as it would go, interlocked his fingers and put his hands on his head in the classic naughty-boy pose. His hair gel made his hot, sweaty hands even stickier. The headmaster watched with mounting pleasure as his pupil submitted himself to his will. Soon, pleasure would turn to ecstasy.

Dr. Mastertone took the grey kitchen chair from its place in the corner of the room and lifted it with one hand. He plonked it down with an echoing smack in the middle of the room. Busby flinched. He couldn’t see, but he knew what was being prepared. Satisfied that the chair was in its rightful place, the headmaster sauntered to the opposite corner and the hat-stand. It had no hats, nor coats. It never did have. Its sole purpose was to support the stout but whippy curve-handled rattan school cane that presently dangled from it.

The headmaster reached up and snatched it from its mooring. Eagerly, he flexed it between his hands. He had thrashed countless backsides with this stick, but even so every time he picked it up he liked to reacquaint himself with its supple power by first flexing it between his hands and then swishing it with tremendous force through the air. The terrific swooshing! noise it made as it went sent a shudder up Busby’s back. He barked a dry cough as he contemplated the agony he would endure when that awesome rod flogged across his buttocks.

“Turn around boy,” Dr. Mastertone was ready. Slowly, the pupil turned on his heels. “Bend over the chair,” the headmaster tapped the tip of the rattan against the chair’s grey cloth seat. Busby’s tongue darted in and out through not-quite closed lips, making him look a little like a lizard.

At a snail’s pace, he edged forward, making every second count.

“Bend over boy. You know the drill!” Dr. Mastertone was eager to get on.

Busby did indeed know the drill; he had presented his backside to the headmaster for punishment on times too numerous to remember. He stood behind the chair, took a deep breath, rubbed his sticky palms together and like a diver going into an icy pond, he threw himself forward. He was the perfect height for the chair, his stomach rested comfortably over the metal back. In that position he was able to grip each side of the chair’s seat with his face about nine inches above the stained cloth seat.

“Legs further apart boy,” Dr. Mastertone said this every time, even though on this occasion there was no need as Busby’s bottom was perfectly poised to receive the headmaster’s cane.

The headmaster took up position to the boys left and slowly “sawed” his cane across the centre of his buttocks. He stopped and tucked the cane under his arm. Something was not quite right. A white lining was visible under the short trousers. He leant forward towards Busby, cupped his right hand and rubbed it across both buttocks.

“Ha!” he cried. “Well I never. Who would have thought it, eh boy!” He rubbed Busby’s bum some more, just to be certain he was not mistaken. “Who needs a book down the back of the trousers when you’ve got these!”

The short trousers were made of thick flannel and beneath that the entire insides were covered with a double lining. They were beautifully-tailored short trousers. Elegant and hard-wearing, but entirely useless for corporal punishment. Any boy wearing these for a caning wouldn’t feel a thing.

“Stand up boy!” Dr. Mastertone suppressed a smile. “This won’t do Busby. Won’t do at all. Do you take me for a fool?” Before waiting for an answer, he added, “Take down these shorts. It’ll be twelve on the underpants,” he swished his cane in anticipation of the fun to come, “Followed by another twelve on the bare, for thinking you could get away with this ruse.”

But Sir! Busby mouthed the words, but no sound came. He straightened his back and stood and hesitated, uncertain what to do next.

“C’mon boy. I haven’t got all day.”

Busby’s once scarlet complexion was now puce.

“Quickly boy,” the headmaster flexed the cane and steadily paced the room. Busby eyed him on his travels and when his back was turned, he hurriedly unbuttoned his flies, let his heavy short trousers tumble to his feet and once more bent across the chair, this time presenting an expanse of gleaming white cotton to his master.

“Ah! That’s better.” Dr. Mastertone admired the beefy buttocks on offer. They were nowhere near pert and nobody would claim they were “buns of steel” but they were far from flabby. He tapped his cane across the fleshiest part, then paused once more. It took a second to tug the waistband of the pants so that the cotton hugged Busby’s bum like a second skin.

He took a pace back, raised the cane high and like a golfer taking a swing he thudded it across the very centre of the backside. Busby shuddered and air hissed through his lips. He mouthed a silent “ouch!” A burning pain. Like someone had rested a hot poker on his bum.

Swipe! Lower this time. Swipe! Now higher. A throbbing strip of flesh two or three inches wide. Whack! One on the underside of the cheek. Nearly on the bare thigh. Busby wriggled. He couldn’t help himself. It was his body’s natural reaction to the assault taking place. Twelve hard cuts. Dr. Mastertone admired his own handiwork. Each stroke expertly delivered.

“Keep still boy!” The headmaster tucked the cane under his arm and gripped the waist of Busby’s white Y-fronts. The boy shut his eyes tight. The pants snagged on their journey south. Busby’s rock-hard cock throbbed even more than his raw arse.

Back in position the headmaster did the sawing thing again. There wasn’t a quarter inch of the naked bum offered up submissively unmarked by the cane. Dr. Mastertone ran the tip of his tongue around his cracked lips. It is what it is, he thought. He had no alternative; slice the cane across already battered flesh.

So, that’s what he did. Thwip-twip-twhip! The springy rattan cane sank into the meaty mounds before bouncing off again. The agony was ecstasy.

The final slice fell. Two men sweating. Huffing for breath. Blood pressure off the scale.

“Stand up boy,” Dr. Mastertone croaked. Busby hauled himself up, stood erect before his master. Cock pointing at the ceiling.

“Bend over the desk boy.”

Shuffling like a penguin, short trousers at the ankles, pants at the knees. Busby stands by the edge of the desk. Lifts his red-and-white blazer half way up his back. Slowly, carefully manoeuvres himself across the bashed-up wooden desk. Puts his weight against the aching cock. Closes his eyes. Hears Dr. Mastertone open the desk drawer. Doesn’t see this, but he knows what is happening. Hears the ripping of a condom packet, a jar of Vaseline is opened. Busby buries his head in his arms. Ready. Willing. Thinking, Schooldays were never like this.

z used shorts self

Picture credit: Charles Hamilton II

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Going to the beach

Z USED beach surfers bare bum Joe Phillips

Picture credit: Joe Phillips

 I’m going on my hols, see you again sometime in August. While I’m away why not enjoy some of these free-to-download books containing collections of my stories. Click on the titles to find out more.

 Summer at Uncle’s

 Peter, an eighteen-year-old from a small town, stays with Uncle Barnabas in London for the summer. The country boy soon learns the wicked ways of the city as he is introduced into the world of corporal punishment by a cast of characters including his cousin Albert; “out-and-proud” Nickie; and an old-fashioned schoolmaster by the unlikely name of Dr Cains.

The Private Tutor

What can fathers do when their sons fail their school exams because they spend too much time out with girlfriends, clubbing and playing in a rock band?

Call for The Private Tutor. Using traditional educational approaches, he will soon lick them into shape.

The whippy rattan cane, the taws, the paddle and the gym slipper are some of methods he uses as he guides them towards their A-levels.

St Francis Independent Grammar School

St FIGS is a traditional school – traditional curriculum; traditional sports; traditional uniform and traditional discipline. Meet John Allison, eighteen years old and a new boy at school, as he discovers just what that means.

The thwack of the cane against stretched buttocks echoes through the passageways. No naughty sixth-former is spared a throbbing backside. As John himself will soon find out.

Paul and his landlord

Young men who are away from the parental home, often for the first time, are apt to stray from the straight and narrow. How lucky that responsible adults in the shape of landlords are on hand to show them the error of their ways, even if it means delivering sound spankings and other corporal punishment.

It might even be a life-changing experience for them – it certainly was for Paul.

All in the Family

“What that boy needs is a damn good spanking.” It was a policeman speaking about my drunken nephew. He was right, of course. But the police can’t use corporal punishment. So it is up to the family to instil discipline. These tales demonstrate that up and down the land fathers, uncles, granddad’s – and even older brothers – don’t shirk their duty.

The cane, the brush and the paddle are much in evidence as young men learn the painful way how to behave.

The Junior Salesman

The twenty-year-old junior salesman slowly unclasped his belt and unbuttoned his trousers. He pushed them over his hips and let go. From there they slithered slowly down his legs.

A breeze from the nearby open window brushed against his naked legs as he awaited the next command.

Tyler looked over at his boss; in his hands was a wicked-looking school cane, around three feet in length and with a curved handle.  Mr. Davenport’s huge grin exposed his decaying teeth as he tapped a point
on the floor in front of him with the cane, “Please bend over and touch your toes.”

  • Extract from The Junior Salesman

The boy in the scarlet blazer

 Timothy Hutchins is a young man with a wicked spanking fetish. There is little he can do about it until Billy, the boss of the burger bar where he works, takes him under his wing. Or more truthfully across his knee

Timothy enters the world of the boy for hire and soon becomes a spanking-movie star. Everybody wants a piece of his backside.

 The Dean of Dorm Discipline

The Dean of Dormitory Discipline regularly beat misbehaving students and there was never a weekend when his paddle did not fly through the air. This gave them ample opportunity to swap stories about their spankings and their bruises became badges of honour when displayed in the communal showers.

Now, Mitch must pay for his missed curfew …

Troublesome teens

They might think they are adults, but older teens are not. They are still children and they need to act like it. They should respect their parents and obey adults. Without question. And if they don’t? These stories will remind them of the consequences of bad behaviour. A very sore backside indeed.

The swish of the rattan

Fifteen of my favourite caning stories. Backsides are blistered in the home, the office and at university. Dads, uncles, professors, housemates, bosses all show their prowess with the cane; but please know there are no traditional school stories in this collection.

The terrible twins

z used twosome on couch football shirt by M Pegasi (1a)

Last summer I had quite two of the naughtiest boys imaginable staying with me at my house.

Antonio and Pedro were foreign language students. The idea was they came over for some intensive English training and they stayed with “hosts” who helped them with “conversational English.” We were also asked to teach them something about our traditions and customs. Well, before their stay was over I taught the pair of them something about one English custom they wouldn’t forget in a hurry.

I called them The Terrible Twins, even though they weren’t twins. They weren’t even brothers, but they were both Spanish and did look alike. Well, a little anyway.

I take a couple of students each year. I don’t need the money. I’ve retired on a very good pension, but I like the company of young people and a friend owns the language school so I help out.

The Terrible Twins were eighteen years old, but you’d never believe it the way they behaved. I was continually scolding them for larking about around the house, having “pretend” wrestling matches and fighting on the sofa in the living room.

I began to wonder if they were a little retarded, but when I checked with my friend I found they had both done extremely well at school and were off to university in the autumn.

They were young people and spent a lot of time in the town at bars and clubs. I imagine they chased girls, although they never brought any home. They were both extremely handsome in the way young Spaniards can be, with hard bodies, snake hips, wavy black hair, clear olive skin, cheeky grins and dark brown eyes. I would have thought the girls of this town would have been queueing up. So many of the young men around here are pasty and already well on the way to obesity.

I don’t make many rules for my summer guests. The school expects me to give them breakfast but otherwise they come and go as they please. I do insist that they do not use the parlour at the back of the house; I do like a little privacy. It is also where I keep the liquor.

Despite my clear instructions, I twice found them in the room. What were they doing? There was nothing for them to see. Were they attracted there simply because it was out of bounds? They stood heads bowed while I gave them a stiff telling-off.

They bought catapults and stalked local cats, firing stones at them. A pane of glass in Mr. Axford’s greenhouse was smashed. They made friends with a boy down the street and spent evenings drinking cheap cider at bus shelters and abusing passers-by.

One Saturday afternoon I returned from the shops and was confronted by an irate next-door neighbour. Mr. Adams was livid. Did I know what my two brats had just done? Well, no I didn’t and that was clear because Mr. Adams had just seen me pull into my own driveway. I was open mouthed. The Terrible Twins had climbed onto the roof of the house and hurled water bombs (something they had made from folded paper) at Mr. Adams and his wife. What was I going to do about it?

I was aghast. What in God’s name possessed them to do such a thing.

“They need a good hiding. The pair of them,” Mr. Adams growled at me.

Indeed they did.

“Well, what are you going to do?” Mr. Adams’ anger would not abate for some considerable time.

Spanking? This was 2016. A lot of people think spanking had been confined to distant history. It is true the cane was abolished in schools in the nineteen-eighties, but things were different in the home. There were still many responsible men who saw it as their duty to help young people navigate the choppy waters of life into adulthood. Mr. Adams was one of them. And, there were plenty of others to my certain knowledge even here in The Avenue who were ready to blister backsides when the occasion demanded.

Yes, they needed a spanking right enough. I should have done it sooner.

I confronted the Terrible Twins about their behaviour. I was rewarded with fits of giggles. Sometimes eighteen year olds can be insufferable. “It was a lark. A wheeze,” Pedro grinned at me. I frowned, genuinely puzzled. Where had he picked up such old-fashioned idioms?

Well, if they thought this was a joke, I’d soon disillusion them. Deliberately, I unfastened the buckle of my wide, heavy leather belt and slowly pulled it through the loops of my trousers. Antonio’s eyes stalked. I saw real fear. Sweat glistened his already shiny black hair. Pedro whispered something in Spanish to him, but it didn’t seem to calm the boy. I stretched the belt between my hands and with great care I folded it in thirds, leaving myself with a leather strap about eighteen inches long.

Antonio wiped the palms of his hands against his shorts. Pedro, as far as I could see, was impassive; waiting for events to take their course.

“Stand by the back of the sofa,” I instructed. Pedro took the three paces necessary to obey my command. Antonio stood his ground, immobilised by fear. Antonio gestured with his hand that his amigo should join him and with obvious reluctance he shuffled and took up position next to his companion in dishonour. I wondered at that moment whether Pedro had been the leader among the pair and Antonio, the led. He did seem to be the dominant force at this time.

I pulled the belt between my hands creating a loud snap. Antonio jumped. Pedro stayed calm. I was nearly ready. “Take down your trousers,” I said calmly. Antonio’s eyes saucered, he glanced at his friend whose entire demeanour was subservient. He was ready to obey my every command. Pedro fumbled with the buckle of his belt, but then calmly popped the button at the waist and pulled the zipper of his jeans. They slithered down to his knees. He parted his legs a little and they continued their journey and rested on top of his trainers. He stood with his hands rather demurely clasped in front of his manhood

Antonio was rigid. It was as if he was cemented to the ground.

“Doh!” I exhaled and threw my belt on the couch. Pedro’s eyes glazed as I gripped the waist of his cargo shorts, and with an expertise I didn’t know I possessed, I had them at his feet within seconds. His face shone with embarrassment. I picked up the belt and re-folded it and made it ready for action. I looked at the two eighteen year olds. They wore identical canary-yellow briefs. Both teenagers’ legs were entirely hairless.

“Bend over the couch,” I tapped the belt across the padded back so there was no doubt of my instructions. Pedro gave a sideway glance to his friend before falling forward. The couch was quite low and Pedro’s body easily cleared its back. He gripped the front of the seat cushion and spread his feet. He had presented me with a terrific target.

Antonio, of course, did not move. By now, I had anticipated I would have to intervene every step of the way. Holding my belt in my right hand, I used my left to grip Antonio by the scruff of his neck and push him forward. It was like throwing a reluctant child into a swimming pool. Antonio threw his hands forward to break his fall. To his credit, he did not try to escape. His amigo                 took hold of his hand.

Antonio was breathing heavily, Pedro was calmness personified. I had one more task to perform. The twins’ bottoms were firm, not quite “buns of steel” but not far off. Their briefs, were exactly that, and hardly covered the buttocks. In Pedro’s case a strip of bare buttock was visible below the hem of the pants. I should have dearly loved to belt them bare-bottomed, but in this day and age one cannot be too careful. So, instead I smoothed down wrinkles in their cotton briefs so that they fitted so well they might have been sprayed on.

I took up position to Pedro’s right and lashed the belt into the centre of his right cheek. Then I walloped the left. Then Antonio’s right, then the left. Then I returned to the start of the line and belted them again. And, again. The crack of leather against tight backsides resounded around the walls. The room was at the front of the house and the window wide open. My front garden is large but any passer-by would still be able to hear. Indeed, they would also be able to see two teenaged boys bent submissively across the back of a sofa having their naughty backsides tanned with a leather belt. Just another day in an English suburb.

A belt employed with some vim can deliver serious pain. The Terrible Twins “ooo’d” and “ahhhh’d” as swipe after swipe connected with firm buttocks. But, neither boy cried out. Even Antonio, who I had feared might howl the house down, took his whipping stoically. Pedro winced and sucked in air, when (quite by accident, honestly) my belt struck the bare area below his pants. He gripped the seat cushion tightly at that point and held on gamely.

I belted them with such energy you might have thought I was beating a carpet. A spanking has to hurt otherwise what is the point? These two would learn a real lesson. Actions have consequences and sometimes those consequences can be very painful indeed.

I lost count of the times I went up and down the line, spanking buttock after buttock. I must have laid it on well because my own breathing was soon laboured and my heartrate was off the scale. It was time to stop.

“You may stand up,” I intoned. They climbed to their feet in perfect harmony, the Terrible Twins might have been synchronised swimmers. Each teenager instinctively rubbed the seat of his underpants with some vigour. Then, Antonio saw me looking at him and he whipped up his shorts with alacrity. A huge grin split Pedro’s face when he realised what his amigo had done. More sedately, he pulled up his own jeans and buckled up.

They hovered before me, unsure what to do next. Both had shiny faces and damp eyes, but beyond that they seemed unaffected by their ordeal. Pedro clasped his hands behind his back and surreptitiously caressed his buttocks with his thumbs. Antonio stood head bowed, his hands in front of his crotch, every inch the contrite naughty boy.

I saw no reason to lecture them further. They had been disobedient boys and they had been spanked. And, I have to say, they had taken it rather well. I dismissed them to their rooms.

@

Antonio lay on his back, the pain had gone a long time ago, but the marks would probably last for ages. His throbbing cock pointed at the ceiling. Pedro knelt over him, his own dick thick and stiff. They were so long and hard the boys could have had a sword fight. Pedro leant in; his tongue was received by Antonio’s open mouth. A half-empty tube of KY jelly lay waiting on the pillow.

 

Picture credit: M. Pegasi

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 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Waiting my turn

I am facing the door in my uncle’s living room and in a moment he is going to take me over his knee and spank me.

I am shaking like a leaf and I am trying not to cry, but my eyes are getting wet.

Me and my cousin John were naughty at school today and now we are for it.

I can hear Uncle Sal moving a wooden chair into the middle of the carpet. Now he has sat down he has his back to me so I can turn round for a peek.

He is calling John over to him.

“I’m fed up with you; it’s time you learnt how to behave. Take your trousers down; take them down.”

John unbuckles his elastic snake belt and it goes pop. Now, he is undoing his grey short trousers and they fall down.

His face is red but he is trying to be brave. I know he has been spanked before, but I never have. I am scared that it will hurt too much.

John is standing moving his feet a bit. The white shirt of his school uniform is very long at the back and it covers his pants; it looks like he is wearing a dress.

Uncle Sal is very angry, “Come on, bend over. I am going to spank that naughtiness right out of you.”

John moves a bit so he is standing in front of him, but he is a long way away. Uncle Sal is standing up, grabbing his left arm, and dragging John around to his right. He is sitting back down and pulling him down and across his knees.

Uncle has him on his huge left leg and knee, and he is moving John around so his back is bent and he is hanging down facing the floor. John’s bottom is sticking up for punishment.

Uncle is loosening his tie and rolling up his shirt sleeves. He is so big and John is so small. John’s feet don’t touch the ground at the back and his arms are waving about at the front.

Now, uncle is taking John’s shirt and pulling it up away from his bottom, right the way up his back to near his shoulders.

Uncle is tugging at John’s white pants so they are really tight, just like he is giving him a wedgie.

I can see John’s face and he is looking down at the carpet, he is sweating a bit.

Uncle has very strong arms and he is putting his hand over one of John’s cheeks; it is so big it covers all of it. He is raising it high and smacking it into John’s bum. John screws his eyes up and I can see it hurt him a lot.

Uncle is smacking away at John’s bottom, it looks like it really aches. My heart is beating faster; I am going to be spanked like this in a minute.

Uncle is smacking John’s bottom really slowly, he is hitting one cheek then the other. I can see John must be sore, he is wriggling on Uncle Sal’s lap but he can’t get away. John is kicking his legs, but they can’t reach the floor.

“Keep still.” Uncle is slapping the back of his legs. “If you don’t keep still I’ll take your pants down and see how you like that.”

I am turning back to the wall. I don’t want to see this. I hear the smacks hitting my cousin’s bum and I can hear John saying, “Ow, ow, ow,” as the slaps hit him.

Then it goes quiet. I turn around to see what is going on.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Uncle is pulling John’s pants down over his hips, cheeks, thighs, knees, to his feet,

“No, please, no,” John is sniffing.

Uncle looks very cross and goes on smacking John.

I can see John’s bottom is very red. It must be burning hot and there are pink marks where uncle’s fingers hit him.

John is still fighting hard, twisting around and his arms are trying to reach back to stop uncle spanking him. Uncle is picking him up and moving him forward and now John’s face is nearly on the carpet and he has to put his hands down to keep steady.

Uncle is holding him tightly around the waist and is hitting him harder and faster. Smack, smack, smack, smack. I can see tears on John’s face, but he isn’t saying anything.

How long is this going on for? I haven’t counted them all but I think uncle must have smacked him a hundred times, easily, and still he is going on.

John’s face is bright red and so is his bottom. He has given up trying to escape and he has his arms around uncle’s leg, just holding on, as he goes on spanking him. John is crying louder now and I can see he is choking. He is shaking his head from side to side and there are lots of tears.

This is getting me going and I am crying almost as much as John.

Uncle is still smacking him. He is hitting him on the top of his legs and John’s bottom is really red all over his cheeks and on his legs as well.

John is punching the floor; the spanking is hurting him that much and his bottom looks like it is on fire.

I can’t stand this, I’m so scared. Uncle will spank me like this and I won’t be able to stand it. John is a year older than me and tough. If he is like this, what will I be like? I think I’m going to run away.

John is breathing in big gasps of air and uncle is still slapping his bum. I can see uncle’s face is all screwed up as he raises his hand and hits John as hard as he can.

Uncle has stopped spanking John. He is still holding his son across his lap and he is bawling his eyes out.

Now, Uncle is letting him go and lifting up the back of John’s shirt to try to get a look at his bum, but he is jumping up and down, rubbing his poor bottom, it looks really, really sore.

Uncle is letting go of him. “Shorts and pants up.”

Ouch! I can see John is in agony. His hands are shaking and he is bending down to pull up his pants and he is screwing up his face because it hurts so much when they touch his bottom.

Now, he is picking up his grey short trousers; he kicked them across the room when Uncle spanked him. He is pulling them up and is having trouble getting the buttons to work. The snake belt has come out of the loops and he can’t get it to go back in. He is still crying like a baby and I can see a lot of snot around his nose.

“Go to your room and stay there until tea time.”

Now, I can hear him running up the stairs.

“James.”

Oh no, now it’s my turn … Eighteen years old and about to go over uncle’s knee for my first-ever bare-bottomed spanking. We truly are living in a parallel universe.

zused hands on head shorts

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The new office boy

z used twosome office short shorts Adam's Gay Reader (5)

Dirk was too excited to notice the stir he was making as he passed through the accounts department. It was the first day at his new job. His first job ever. After two years unemployed. Jobs were hard to come by these days.

One man leaned across the workstation to a co-worker, “Meet the new office boy; same as the old office boy.”

“Yes, Mr. Anderson likes them pert,” his companion guffawed.

Dirk found his boss’s office, knocked on the door and entered when instructed. Mr. Anderson was in his forties, lean with fair hair. He had a warm smile of greeting. “Sit down, Dirk,” he pointed to the chair in front of his desk. Dirk sat, a little embarrassed. The bright yellow shorts he wore were just a little too snug, if he wasn’t careful his balls would hang out. He thought it odd when he was given his new uniform; people hadn’t worn these kind of shorts in decades.

Mr. Anderson hovered above Dirk, pacing the office, taking in the view of the teenager’s slim legs. He liked the boy’s shock of jet black hair and the cute look of innocence his open face portrayed.

“You’ll be a ‘gofer’,” he explained to Dirk and when he boy looked baffled, Mr. Anderson laughed brightly. “It’s our little joke. ‘Gofer’ – you know gofer this, gofer that! You’ll be a general assistant in the office.”

Mr. Anderson took a new office boy every few months. He soon tired of them. The young guys were probably relieved to get away. They always went outwards and upwards. There were plenty of opportunities at Global Petroleum. The world was literally theirs.

Mr. Anderson sent Dirk away to his workstation, watching the pert buttocks encased in tight yellow cotton sashay as he walked.

Global was a huge company and Dirk soon met lots of guys his own age. He didn’t understand why so many of them smirked when he said Mr. Anderson was his boss. “Don’t worry,” a petite blond boy whispered in his ear while they drank coffee, “I was moved on after three months.” Dirk returned to his duties, very puzzled indeed.

All became clear the following day. Dirk had been sent across town to deliver a package. It was a fine day and he thought he might make a detour into the mall. He would only be an hour, who would find out?

“Dirk, come into my office,” Mr. Anderson called across the accounts department.

“Here we go,” one worker smiled, “Rosy red cheeks.” He turned to his co-worker. “Look, what did I tell you,” he roared with laughter. Mr. Anderson was pulling down the blinds in his office.

Dirk stood casually in front of Mr. Anderson’s desk. “Stand up straight, don’t be a lout .” Mr. Anderson’s usual sunny disposition had evaporated. Startled, Dirk straightened his back and put his arms by his side.

“One hour late. Delivering the package. I have received a complaint.”

Dirk blanched. No one had told him it was urgent.

“What did you do, sneak off to the mall?” Dirk’s blushes confirmed it was so.

“There’s a lesson you need to learn young man,” Mr. Anderson frowned. “And I have just the thing here to give it.”

Dirk’s mouth gaped. Mr. Anderson had bent down, opened a drawer to his desk and taken out a large wooden paddle. The teenager’s eyes stood on stalks. It was awesome, easily two-feet long and five inches wide. The blade had large holes cut into it.

“What’s the matter boy?” Mr. Anderson sneered. “Surely you’ve seen one of these before,” he smacked it into his left palm. “Felt it a few times as well at school, I shouldn’t doubt.”

Dirk wasn’t sure he was supposed to answer. No, he hadn’t seen a paddle close up before. And as for feeling the sting of one at school? What decade was Mr. Anderson living in?

“Come,” Mr. Anderson had walked to the front of his desk. His stare burnt a hole in Dirk’s head. The boy shuddered. His boss was serious. He really wanted to spank him with that wood. “But …” he began to speak but was cut short.

“But, nothing. You truanted from work. You screwed up with an important client. Now you’re going to pay with your butt.” All the time Mr. Anderson spoke he waved the paddle menacingly. Dirk’s eyes followed it as it swung.

“I want you to bend across my desk,” Mr. Anderson spoke calmly. He was the boss, he expected to be obeyed. All colour drained from Dirk’s usually open face, his eyes blazed with fear. He could feel his legs buckling.

Mr. Anderson had seen office boys hesitate before. He had the perfect rejoinder. “Or, we can go to human resources and have you terminated.” He tapped the paddle once more into his palm. He waited for Dirk to submit. There was a reason why Mr. Anderson always chose boys who had been unemployed for years. They knew if they were dismissed by him they would probably never work again.

Dirk breathed heavily. He had no choice. He knew he had to go through with this. He would prostrate himself across the desk. He had decided to give in, but he couldn’t seem to convince his body to agree.

“Come on,” Mr. Anderson gripped him by the elbow and propelled him forward. Now, he stood against the very edge of the desk, unsteady on his feet. He felt a shove in the small of his back and he fell forward. The desk was small and so was Dirk, and he managed to stretch his arms ahead of him to reach the far side. His legs were spread and his bottom was raised at a perfect angle to receive Mr. Anderson’s paddle.

His boss was taking his time. Dirk closed his eyes. This could not be happening to him. It was crazy. Who would believe an eighteen-year-old teenager was submissively bending across his boss’s desk to have his backside spanked with a paddle?

Mr. Anderson’s tongue darted in and out of his mouth, like a lizard. Dirk was short and wiry. His white cotton shirt had ridden up exposing some inches of hairless back. The yellow shorts clung to his buttocks and the top of his green-coloured briefs poked over the top. Mr. Anderson would have dearly loved to rip the shorts down and paddle Dirk’s bared buttocks so hard and so often until they shone in the dark. That would have to wait for another time. He knew the importance of grooming – of breaking a boy in.

Dirk barely suppressed a squeal as he felt his boss take hold of the waistband of his shorts. “He’s going to pull them down. He wants me bare-arsed,” his panicked thoughts told him. But, Mr. Anderson only wanted to pull the shorts tighter until he could see the outline of the teenager’s underwear. Now, it looked like they had been sprayed on his bottom.

Mr. Anderson took up position a little to Dirk’s left. It was a smallish office, but there was enough room to get a full swing of the paddle. He “sawed” the wood across the centre of Dirk’s rear end. The paddle was so huge and Dirk’s buttocks so pert, that the paddle almost covered both.

Mr. Anderson smiled to himself. Dirk’s cheeks were twitching. Most boys did that, especially the first time they were paddled. Crack! he brought the paddle down with some force. Dust rose from the seat of the shorts. Dirk wriggled his hips from left to right. For a moment his stomach rose from the desk. He hissed air through his lips. That hurt. A lot. But, he had survived.

The second swat landed higher, on the top of his mounds. Dirk heard the paddle’s dull thud as it connected with his stretched flesh a second before he felt the pain. It burned like the fires of Hell. He repeated the wriggling and added some foot stomping.

Mr. Anderson liked the way the paddle had left an imprint in the tight shorts, he knew from experience there would be a similar dark-pink mark embossed in Dirk’s flesh. Encouraged by his success so far, he whacked the wood lower, in the sensitive sit spot. That got Dirk yelling. The teenager’s shorts were so skimpy half the paddle had landed on the bare flesh of his thighs. It felt like someone had poured scalding water over him.

He wasn’t technically crying, but Dirk’s eyes flooded. His heartbeat raced and he gulped in great draughts of air. He didn’t believe someone could inflict so much pain on another person. But Mr. Anderson could; and it wasn’t finished yet.

The fourth swat landed across two welts created by previous strokes. It reignited the pain. The whole of Dirk’s arse throbbed. He felt the pulsating ache start at the buttocks before travelling up and down his legs.

Bang! The fifth stroke landed fully across the crest of both buttocks. The terrific burning agony took his breath away. Tears flowed down his cheeks, snot dribbled from his nose. He swallowed down vomit that rose to his throat. He bounced his forehead up and down headbutting the desktop.

Then, he heard the clank as the paddle hit the desk. “That’s enough for now. Stand up.” He didn’t need telling twice. He jumped to his feet and hopped from foot to foot in the traditional spanking dance. He kneaded his cheeks, desperately trying to rub away the pain. It didn’t work.

Mr. Anderson waited for the teenager to calm. He knew the pain would be intense, but within moments it would ease to a throb and then a dull ache. Before long it would be gone completely, although the red mark on Dirk’s bare thigh would give him twinges when he sat down on a hard chair.

“Will I need to do that again?” Mr. Anderson intoned. Dirk shook his head, “No,” he said miserably and then quickly added, “Sir,” because he felt it was expected.

“Well, we’ll see about that. Wipe your face.” He offered a fistful of tissues.

Dirk limped from the office too engrossed with the pain and humiliation to see the curious stares from the accounts department. Jesus, he thought still rubbing the seat of his shorts, three more months of this. My arse won’t stand it.

Picture credit:Adam’s Gay Readers

 

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charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com