The penny drops

new story 2

z used mowing lawn cutting grass prior to spanking

I had just left my home on Saturday lunchtime to take the dog for a walk when I saw Terry, my neighbour’s son, mowing the small patch of lawn in front of his house. I’ve known him since he was knee high to a grasshopper so I stopped for a chat.

He’s a strapping young man now, as was clear for all to see. He wore no shirt and the physical work of cutting the grass emphasised the muscles in his arms and back. His jeans fitted snugly around his beefy buttocks and he needed no belt to keep them up.

“Hello Terry,” I said cheerfully. I don’t think he heard me at first. Perhaps the noise from the mower was too loud. I tried again. This time he acknowledged me. He seemed a little startled. I had heard from his mother he was doing very well at the university, so I thought I’d pay him a compliment. “Good exam results. Congratulations.”

His face flushed. He seemed embarrassed. He put his head down and continued pushing the mower. He was making a good job of it. When it was clear he wasn’t going to respond to my remark, I tried another tack. “Mowing the lawn.” I said, feeling foolish as it was obvious that’s what he was doing. “Helping your parents out. Good for you.”

Again, my pleasantry provoked no response. This was unlike Terry. Usually he was a very polite young man. Unlike so many youngsters these days, his manners were always so good. I’d always thought he was a credit to his parents. He took the mower into a corner of the lawn and then it was obvious he had completed the job.

“Nice, job,” I said. With his task finished he had no choice but the switch off the mower. “I said, you made a good job of it,” I repeated. He frowned and shrugged his shoulders. I couldn’t remember seeing him mow the lawn before. As I thought about it I realised this was something his father often did on a Sunday morning.

“Is this your job from now on?” my attempts at chatting were going nowhere. He looked over my shoulder towards his house; he seemed anxious. I supposed he wanted to get back inside and get on with his Saturday. I was about to give up on the conversation and take my dog to Widdicombe Wood when the front door of Terry’s house opened. Terry visibly shuddered. Beneath his suntan his face paled. His father stood in the doorway.

I pulled on the dog’s leash and was about to leave when I heard Terry’s Dad say fiercely, “Now, you’ve finished the lawn, get yourself into the garage.” The aggressive tone of his voice startled me. I turned to face him and got another shock. His dad was brandishing a heavy wooden spanking paddle. Terry almost died on the spot. Now, I could see why he hadn’t wanted me to hang around. His face now a deep cherry red, he sloped off to the garage. The door was already open.

His Dad watched his son trudge away. He looked at me and down at the paddle in his hand. He was entirely unself-conscious, but he did not say a word. I was silent too, but I nodded at the wood in his hand in the hope it would encourage him to explain.

“There was a whole gang of them partying at Widdicombe Wood,” he began. I needed no more detail. During the summer evenings some of the kids took their cars to the woods, which bordered The Avenue. They would play loud music from boom-boxes and drink beer. Sometimes it was so loud it disturbed the residents.

“I told him he couldn’t go, Frank,” he continued, addressing me by name. “He disobeyed me and came home well Brahms this morning,” he gripped the handle of the paddle, “What does he expect?” I didn’t answer. It was very clear to me precisely what Terry expected his Dad would do. I shrugged my shoulders and waved my arms making one of those what can you do? gestures.

“A damn good spanking,” he said, as if I hadn’t already received the message. He slapped the paddle into the palm of his left hand. I had never seen a spanking paddle close up, but I do know what they are. In so far as I’ve ever thought about it, I supposed they were something the Americans used. Can you even buy them here? He slapped some more and I could see this one looked like a miniature cricket bat – perhaps it was.

“Can’t stop chatting,” he grimaced, “Got work to do.” I watched him walk over to and then disappear inside the garage. I could hear his muffed voice from where I was standing. He was tearing Terry off a strip. I am not entirely proud of what I did next. I was fully aware what was about to happen. I could have left well alone. This should be an intimate moment between father and son.

Blow that! I thought. A garage with its door wide open into the street is hardly a private space. I edged a little closer. The Avenue is a very select street and many of the houses are hidden behind their own walls or high hedges, I don’t suppose many of my neighbours were aware what was happening. I had the spectacle to myself.

When I reached the garage the lecture was over. I arrived just in time to see Terry spread his legs wide and bend down to grab his ankles. He kept his knees straight and his head low. The muscles in his arms and back rippled. In this position his buttocks were huge, but firm and tight. I had a perfect view, rather like being behind the bowler’s arm (to continue the cricketing metaphor). Dad rubbed the paddle across his son’s bottom; he seemed ready to go. Unexpectedly, he stopped and gripped the waistband of Terry’s jeans. I thought they were tight enough but by pulling hard Dad dug the denim deep into the crack between the cheeks. It was like he had performed a wedgie; from where I stood I could see the outline of Terry’s briefs.

The young man waited submissively, his bottom raised for the swats of the paddle. He made no fuss. It was clear this little drama had been played out many times previously. Dad (I don’t know why I keep calling him that, he’s not my father, his name is Reg). So, Reg rubbed the paddle once more across the seat of Terry’s jeans, raised it high and then swung it down in an arc. The crack as wood met denim echoed around the small garage.

I saw the wood sink into the hard meat, the impact forcing Terry’s body forward a little, but he remained in position. Sweat soaked Reg’s shirt, while his son’s back seemed perfectly dry. Swat two was aimed lower so that it came from underneath and powered upwards. I imagine it left an imprint across the lower buttocks and thighs. It might make sitting down a little uncomfortable.

I don’t know what a paddling is supposed to look like. Until I saw Reg and Terry I had thought nobody spanked their kids these days. It has to be thirty years or more since the cane was banned in schools. I share my ignorance with you because I cannot “review” the spanking. I don’t know if Reg laid it on well or not. Is a spanking supposed to leave the punished boy (the spankee?) in tears? Is that how we measure a “darned good spanking”? I don’t know. I can tell you that Reg whacked what to me looked like a dozen pretty impressive stingers across Terry’s rear end before he let him stand.

The boy’s face was scarlet and I suppose his bum was too. He looked more embarrassed than distressed. I suppose his pride might have been hurt more than his backside; how can you tell?

I could see they were ready to leave, I didn’t want to embarrass Terry more than was necessary so I tugged my dog down the street towards Widdicombe Woods. As I watched it frolic around the trees a sudden realisation struck me, the penny had dropped: now I understood why Terry was always such a polite and well-mannered boy.

Picture credit: Unknown

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Dad, spank me please

Max of ‘The Champion’ 5. The town boss

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The students’ landlord

new story 2

z used solo jeans and jumper by peter samuelson

When Roderick was given a list of rules with his rent book by the landlord at his new university digs he didn’t bother to read them. He was soon to regret this.

Nobody would accuse Roderick of being a brilliant scholar but he was a diligent worker. He attended all his lectures and tutorials; he spent hours each day in the library and he handed his essays in on time. He would graduate comfortably and his professors wished him well for the future.

He had a place at Mr Higginbottom’s boarding house where he kept his room clean, never missed a meal time and was unfailingly polite to his landlord and fellow tenants.

Unlike some of the students who roomed with Mr Higginbottom he was a pleasure to know.

Roderick had been with Mr Higginbottom for about six weeks when one evening he attended a classical music concert at the Free Trade Hall in town: the Brahms Piano Concerto No.2  and Dvorák Symphony No.7 led by the world-renowned conductor, Alphonso Romesco. As is the way with the world-renowned, Romesco had little regard for his audience and he lifted his baton about an hour late. Roderick missed the last bus to his digs.

The night was fresh, summer was turning into autumn and the three mile walk home was not arduous for a young man of twenty years. It was past midnight when he walked through the empty streets of the Brocklehurst suburb where he lived. Curtains in the houses were drawn, lights were off; The Avenue was asleep. Except at number ninety-seven where the porch light glowered.

Roderick thought nothing of this. He had never returned to the house so late, he wasn’t to know this was unusual. He rummaged in his pocket for the door key and let himself in. He was tired and ready for a wash down and to clean his teeth. He had a lecture at nine and looked forward to a good night’s rest.

Inside the house was dark and at once Roderick felt uneasy. Old houses at night could do this to a person. The boards creaked beneath his feet; it seemed to Roderick the noise his feet caused was reverberating around the hallway. “Oh dear,” he thought, “I must be careful, I don’t want to wake anybody.”

As he was a considerate young man, he squatted down and hopping on one leg and then the other, he slipped off his shoes. It was difficult for him to balance but he succeeded without mishap. A little absurdly, he tip-toed towards the staircase, his shoes in his hands. He raised his foot to climb the first step when the hall light blazed. He was blinded for a second and confused.

But not for long.

“Aha! Sneaking in late after curfew!” It was Mr Higginbottom. “Thought I wouldn’t notice.” Roderick blinked heavily. He was not yet used to the glaring light. But more than that, it was the sight of his landlord dressed in his dressing gown and pyjamas. He was a portly figure, a kind man would say he had a double chin, but in fact he had at least four. His hair was unkempt and with closer examination Roderick could have deduced that he had been sleeping in an armchair; he had that dishevelled air about him. He stood a little under six feet tall, and his shoulders were broad. If you could image an oblong shape with a large belly; that would be Mr Higginbottom.

Roderick had of course seen Mr Higginbottom many times before (even in his night clothes) so he not surprised at the sight that greeted him. Not entirely, that is. What did bring the young man up sharply was that in his right hand his landlord held a long, thin whippy cane. He held it gently so that it dangled alongside his leg. It was as if he himself hardly knew it was there.

“Missed curfew,” Mr Higginbottom repeated again. Roderick hardly heard him, he was transfixed by the cane. It was maybe three feet long and looked quite thick. It had a curved handle at one end. Although Roderick had never been on the receiving end of one, he knew it was a typical punishment cane that was in regular use in schools up and down the country. His brow furrowed, his mouth stopped short of gaping.

“You know the rules,” Mr Higginbottom spoke calmly. Roderick could not take his eyes from the cane as it tap, tap, tapped against his landlord’s leg. The young man’s frown deepened. He spoke no words, but his look betrayed his puzzlement.

Mr Higginbottom sighed. He wanted to get this over with so he could be off to bed. He had to be up early to cook breakfasts. “The house rules,” he said, “Curfew is at eleven on a school night,” he looked at his wrist and realising he wore no watch, he blustered, “It’s well past midnight …” he trailed off annoyed that he was unable to cite Roderick’s crime with precision.

“Yes, but,” Roderick was no more articulate than his landlord. Rules? he thought, wracking his brain for an answer to the conundrum he faced. He found none so asked politely, “Please Mr Higginbottom, What rules?”

The landlord liked the boy. He paid his rent assiduously; he never broke the rules (until now) and was in all respects the perfect lodger. Unlike Smythe in room seven he never gave a moment’s trouble.

“You signed an agreement to abide by the rules,” Mr Higginbottom explained. “When you first came to live here.”

Roderick blushed, the penny had dropped. The rules. Yes, he remembered. There were two pages of closely typed script. He had signed it, it was true. “Silly,” his inner voice told him, “You didn’t read them.”

He repeated the gist of those words aloud to his landlord, “I’m ever so sorry, Mr Higginbottom, but I never read them. I never realised.”

Mr Higginbottom stared at the young man. Roderick’s bright, open freckled face was the picture of innocence. The landlord had long ago formed an opinion of him; he was telling the truth.

“The rules state that if you miss a curfew you are to receive corporal punishment.” He looked down at the cane in his hand as if for the first time realising it was there. “A caning,” he added unnecessarily.

Roderick’s jaw did drop this time. “Oh no, please, Mr Higginbottom. I didn’t know.”

The landlord’s own jaw firmed (as much as it could when there were four chins). “The rule is quite clear,” he stated. He felt like some old magistrate somewhere in rural England laying down the law: firm, but fair.

Roderick was bright enough to see where this drama was leading. “But, I won’t do it again, I promise Mr Higginbottom,” he was beginning to plead.

The landlord frowned, the cane tapped against his leg more rapidly. He was thinking. Weighing up his options. It did not take him long to reach a verdict. “I am sure you are true to your word. I do not think you will misbehave in future,” he started on a short speech. Roderick’s hopes were rising. Only to be dashed. “But,” (there was always a “but”) “but, we cannot ignore your past behaviour. We must deal with that.”

Roderick could not quite suppress a wail, “But, Mr Higginbottom, please! I promise I won’t do it again.” He then recounted his evening, the late conductor, the missed bus, the long walk home.

The landlord’s face coloured. He was not used to being argued with. He gripped the cane tightly. “Enough!” he growled, his tone taking Roderick aback a little. “You have broken the rules, you shall be punished. All boys here must obey the rules.” He was becoming agitated, he raised the cane and wobbled it in front of himself. “I cannot make exceptions for one.” He stared at the young man, noticing his face was now almost as red as his ginger hair. “Last week I beat Harrison for a similar offence. It was his first time also.”

Mr Higginbottom stopped speaking. He had said his piece, there was no more to say. He would truck no argument. “Now,” he waved the cane ahead of him, “Come into my sitting room. Let’s get this over with.”

Roderick gazed in amazement, his mind in a spin. The landlord intended to beat him. With a cane. On the bottom. Like a mischievous schoolboy. He had beaten his pal Harrison last week? That was the first Roderick knew of it. What a to-do, he thought. He had broken the rules (albeit unintentionally) and punishment was due. What choice did he have? To refuse would mean what? Eviction almost certainly. Would he be in trouble with the university?

“Come on boy, it’s late as it is,” Mr Higginbottom stood in the doorway, brandishing the cane. With skipping heart, Roderick followed him into the sitting room. It was the first time he had been in there. He took a moment to find his bearings. It was a large room, dominated by old, but good quality furniture. A bookcase, with few actual books, ran along one side of the room. Another was dominated by an open and now extinguished fire. A Chesterfield couch was against the far wall. In the middle of the room there were two heavy, well-padded armchairs and a beaten wooden low table. A sideboard was pushed into a space below a bay window.

Roderick stood bemused and watched as Mr Higginbottom manhandled one of the armchairs so that its back now faced into the room. Roderick was no expert on such matters but he read his landlord’s intentions. It was a large chair, but its back was relatively low. Even from a distance the young man could see it was the perfect height for his landlord’s purpose.

“Stand by the chair,” Mr Higginbottom pointed his cane in case there was any doubts which one he meant. Roderick, by now resigned to his fate, shuffled forward and stood a pace or two behind it. He couldn’t get his heartbeat to slow. His head was buzzing. The scene was unreal. Would he awaken at any moment to discover it was all a very strange dream?

“Closer boy,” his landlord barked, his impatience evident. Roderick snapped out of his thoughts. He looked at the chair and then at his feet, realising immediately that he had halted at too far a distance from the chair. He shuffled a pace forward and waited in trepidation.

“Bend over.” It was a clear command. Mr Higginbottom had his rituals and he expected them to be respected. Roderick looked down at the chair, unsure of his next move. Bend over? What did that mean exactly. Well, he was bright enough to understand that it meant lean over the back of the chair, but then what? Where did the arms and hands go? What about his head?

“Pah!” Mr Higginbottom recognised a novice when he saw one; but that didn’t stop him being irritated. “Bend over, grip the cushion in front of you. Legs apart. Head low. Bottom high.” They were perfect instructions and Roderick was grateful to receive them. He took a deep breath, rubbed his hands together for no apparent reason and in one smooth, athletic movement he dived forward. Within seconds he had positioned himself to his landlord’s satisfaction.

Mr Higginbottom wheezed. He couldn’t help it. He found he always did this at the moment one of his charges presented their buttocks to him for punishment. It would soon pass. He took time to review the situation. Roderick was submissive, waiting apprehensively, but in control. He would take his punishment like the honourable chap he was. His head was low and his bottom high. It was a tight bum, filling out a pair of denim jeans splendidly. His waist was slim and the cheeks round. The young man was wearing a green woollen sweater and Mr Higginbottom took hold of the end and curled it up so that an expanse of Roderick’s shirt was visible. Then he tugged the tail of that so it was clear of the waistband of the tight jeans, exposing an inch or two of bare, hairless flesh. Roderick’s hips wriggled, but he settled again without further fuss.

Mr Higginbottom was almost ready. He took a firm grip of the cane and flexed it between his hands. It was a stout rod, but also very whippy. He took its measure, even though he had used it many times previously and knew its capabilities. Then (because he liked the sound that it made, and he hoped it intimidated his boys) he swiped it through the empty air. It made a fine swooshing sound as it went.

Roderick’s buttocks clenched at that sound. He had not asked them to do this, it was simply a natural reflex. They were preparing to protect themselves for the onslaught ahead. “Relax, boy, relax,” Mr Higginbottom said as he gently tapped the cane across the centre of the student’s backside. Naturally, this made the cheeks tense even more. The already trim, tight buttocks now had the consistency of a hard rubber ball.

Mr Higginbottom allowed himself a smile. There was nothing he could do about this. He took his aim, drew the cane away and high and thwacked it down with great force across Roderick’s bum. A thin white line was immediately embossed into the tight denim. Roderick who had shut his teeth in preparation for the pain opened them wide, allowing a gasp of air to escape at top speed. He shook his head gently, but otherwise gave no reaction. It was his first ever stroke of the cane and he took it rather well.

Mr Higginbottom took aim once more. This time a little to the under-cheek. The cut it delivered would reignite when Roderick sat down at the breakfast table. Two down and four more to go. The landlord had his rules and punishments for those who broke them, but he was not a monster. He didn’t want to flog his charges with a frenzy. His duty was to help these young men into adulthood. It was a rocky journey and they would make mistakes along the way. His guidance would help them to the straight-and-narrow path.

He third stroke landed on top of the first. Roderick felt that one, he managed to stifle a yell, but his knees buckled and his legs stamped up and down. Mr Higginbottom paused and admired his own prowess. A job well done, young Roderick would never again sign a document without first reading its contents.

Roderick’s heart had not settled, now his temples throbbed and his eyes watered. He had absolutely no control over his body and it scared him. His bottom was sore but (he supposed) it might be worse. He had no idea what a caning should feel like; how much distress should he be in? It hurt terribly when the cane connected with his stretched bottom and for a second the agony was almost intolerable, sending shockwaves up and down his legs. But (and this surprised him) the intense pain subsided almost immediately into a pounding throb, only to be set off again when the next stroke cut him.

Mr Higginbottom delivered six strokes. It wasn’t “six-of-the-best” – he always kept something in reserve during a boy’s first caning. He needed some threat over them against future bad behaviour. The true recidivists, those who constantly broke the rules, would in time find themselves over the chair, bum held high with their trousers at their ankles and pants snagged at the knees. But, Mr Higginbottom was certain he would never again get such a close-up view of Roderick’s bottom.

“Up,” it was a curt command and one that Roderick was pleased to obey. He pulled himself to his feet; his bum hurt terribly, but even as he waited to be dismissed to his bedroom the worst of it was subsiding. The aching throb was dissolving and soon it would be a warm glow. Later, in the privacy of his room he would inspect the damage and be startled by the sight of six clear stripes running in parallel across his buttocks. They were dark red and when he touched his bottom gingerly it felt like corrugated carboard. He pulled on his pyjamas and climbed into bed. The pain was nearly gone but as he lay in the dark he traced his index figure along the marks, enjoying the sensation it caused reigniting the ache.

 

Picture credit: Peter Samuelson

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Mr Gregory and the work experience boy

new story 2

z used school office longs cane touch toes sting

Mr Gregory sighed deeply, his eyelids drooped. The office was hot and stuffy. The new central heating was always turned up too high. His throat was parched, his head ached a little (but that was almost certainly last night’s whisky). He let the document in his hand slip through his fingers and flutter to the desk. If he wasn’t careful, he’d be asleep any moment.

The office was large, too big really, he didn’t need much space. He was a boss and, of course, bosses don’t do much work. If you ask a boss what he does, he’ll likely say, “I’m responsible for …” a response to make the questioner retort irritably, “Yes, but what do you actually do?”

Mr Gregory was Administration Manager. He was responsible for all the staff in Administration at Mega Fastenings. That was just about everybody who wasn’t in sales or in purchasing; from the most junior to the senior. One of the juniors was troubling him at the moment.

Ian Norman wasn’t strictly-speaking a junior, he was a student attached for a year to the company for work experience. Mr Gregory didn’t much like young people; he didn’t understand them for one thing. Their daft haircuts, the clothes they wore, the music they played. His had been a mundane life; people his age had never been young. He was born in Bethnal Green, which despite its promising name was not a rural paradise. It was a poor area of London near the docks and heavily bombed by the German Luftwaffe. He left school aged fourteen and drifted aimlessly from job to job. Kids did in those days, there was plenty of work and nobody had much care for the future.

Mr Gregory had lived in Tylesbury for more than twenty years. It was what was still called a ‘new town.’. It had been built in the 1950s to house people cleared from the slums of London. Tylesbury was full of bright little homes for people to live in and factories and offices for them to work at. It was a socialist vision for the future.

He did his National Service in the Royal Air Force. It was in the Pay Corps so there was not much glamour in that. For the first time in his life, Mr Gregory found he was good at something. Mr Gregory was well-organised and meticulous. When he was demobbed he fetched up at Mega Fastenings on the Herbert Morrison Estate in Tylesbury and he had been there ever since; making his way from general clerk to the exalted rank of Administration Manager.

He would never say it out loud, but he resented the hell out of the university students who did work experience. Take Ian Norman, he was close to twenty-one years old and was already made for life. Mr Gregory had checked the lad’s personnel file: posh fee-paying public school; top university. His father was probably some top dog somewhere. In a proper big company, not some backwater like Mega Fastenings.

He resented Ian even more because he was lazy and arrogant. Of course Ian never said anything out loud, but Mr Gregory could smell the scent of superiority on him. He was better than Mega Fastenings, he was here because it was a requirement for his BSc in Management Science (whatever that was, Mr Gregory certainly didn’t know). He’d go through the motions, get his degree and probably daddy would set him up somewhere. Bah!

Well, Mr Gregory’s head nodded over his desk. He would see about that. He had a way to deal with lazy juniors. A tried and tested method. All very informal, of course; nothing written down. It would do Mr Ian Norman a power of good. Take him down a peg. Put him in his place.

The air in the office was muggy, he really ought to open a window. Mr Gregory’s throat was dry. How he could kill for a glass of whisky. A half empty bottle of Bells was in his bottom drawer.

He leaned into the intercom on his desk, pushed down the middle button and sent a message to his secretary. “Get Ian Norman, the work experience boy, to come to my office at five-thirty.” His face cracked. Both his nose and chin were pointed, when he cackled he looked like a witch. “There’s no need for you to be here, Miss Prentice,” he cleared his throat. Outside Miss Prentice glowered. “Indeed not,” she said to herself, “I go home at five.”

He must have dozed off. Before he knew it there was a confident knock on the office door. Mr Gregory started and stared across the room. He found it hard to concentrate. There was a lot of noise from traffic on the estate as people hurried to escape from work. His temples were throbbing a little.

Tap, tap, the knock came again. “Come in!” Mr Gregory’s voice was crisp and clear; it oozed authority. The door was opened confidently. A youth walked in, closing the door. His eyes searched around the room, at first ignoring Mr Gregory. He was looking for a chair, but there was none. He frowned and stood in front of Mr Gregory’s desk, feet slightly apart, hands clasped behind his back. Mr Gregory drank in the sight. Ian Norman was a little under six feet tall and a little on the stocky side. His hair was short, a crew cut growing out. He wore a white shirt, striped tie and pale grey trousers. If he were a couple of years younger, Mr Gregory thought, he could have passed for one of the senior sixth-formers at Tylesbury School.

Ian shuffled his feet; it was uncomfortable standing like this. In front of the desk; suddenly he had a flashback to one afternoon years ago in his housemaster’s study; it was not a pleasant memory.

Mr Gregory leaned forward; he stretched his arms wide and pressed the palms of his hands into the desk. This way his gnarled, lined face eased closer to the boy. Ian flushed, the stink of Mr Gregory’s breath repelled him. Mr Gregory had a speech prepared. He had memorised the student’s many faults. “You often arrive at work late,” he began, “You disappear for hours on end and nobody knows where you are,” he lied. “Your work is of a very poor standard,” he concluded.

Ian Norman stared in disbelief. He had no respect for his ‘boss’. What a loser. An old man stuck at some godforsaken outpost like Mega Fastenings. He resented being at the company. What could these people teach him. He just wanted the year out of the way, to get the credits on his academic record and move on.

“Not good enough, Mr Norman. Not good enough,” Mr Gregory leaned in closer. “It won’t do. Won’t do at all.” Ian blanched, the foul breath and the stare from the old man’s beady eyes unnerved him. “I intend to write to your supervisor at the university to tell him to remove you.” He sucked on his lower lip, savouring the moment. He had the brat just where he wanted him.

“But …” Ian began a protest. The accusations had shocked him. There was a grain of truth in them but he could not argue. Investigation once started might unearth other things more serious than being late for work.  His cynical indifference to the company and the little racket he had selling stolen company products might come to light.

“Indeed,” Mr Gregory grimaced. “If you return to the university in disgrace it will have a detrimental effect on your studies. I suppose you won’t be able to graduate?” He spoke as if it were a question, but it was a statement of fact.

Ian Norman stood silently. He was in deep water and he knew it. For the first time since his schooldays he was at someone else’s mercy.

Mr Gregory looked the youth up and down. He was a little podgy, and would soon run to fat. A few sessions in the gym or time on the football pitch would do him some good. “I am a fair man,” he intoned, as if he carried all the worries of the world on his shoulders, “I would not like to see a young man’s life ruined over something like this.” He was enjoying this: justice tempered with mercy. How could Ian refuse his offer. “I have my own way of dealing with wayward junior staff …”

He stood from his chair, and ambled across the room, delighting to see Ian’s eyes follow him. “Do you know what that is?” he halted at a wooden cupboard alongside a bookcase filled with lever arch files. He paused, actually expecting a response and when none came he wheezed, “Pah!” he leaned forward, opened the cupboard door and reached in. Ian Norman’s eyebrows arched. He thought he recognised the faint rattling sound.

Seconds later his suspicion was confirmed. Mr Gregory held a thin, whippy school cane. It was just like the one his housemaster used on him. Mr Gregory flexed it thoughtfully between his hands. It was about thirty inches long and as thick as a pencil; it had the traditional curved handle at one end. Mr Gregory swished it through the air.

“I think you know what happens now,” he growled. Usually at this point a junior clerk or whatnot might try a plea for mercy. “It’s the cane or the sack, it’s up to you. Choose now!” Mr Gregory would retort. Ian Norman stared at him sullenly. This was absurd. A twenty-year-old man forced to submit his backside for a caning from his boss. Whoever would imagine such a thing?

Mr Gregory felt the power of his position. “If you would stand on the rug there,” he pointed his cane to a spot in front of his desk. “And bend over and touch your toes please. All the way. Toes, not knees.” It excited him that Ian Norman stood silently. He flexed his cane and studied the young man’s face. He could read his mind. The game was up, the student had no choice. If he wanted his degree and the life he and his family had mapped out for him, he must go through with it.

Ian’s face paled, he turned his back on his tormentor, paused, psyching himself up, knowing matters had to take their course. He took a deep breath and bent forward. Despite his bulk he reached his toes with ease, his fingertips brushed against his shoes, his knees were straight, legs slightly apart. Mr Gregory watched with deep satisfaction. The boy’s bottom was round and beefy. The material of his trousers stretched across his buttocks so tightly Mr Gregory could see the outline of his underpants. He positioned himself to Ian’s side and swiped the cane through empty air one more time before tapping its tip against the centre of the boy’s right bum cheek. Tap, tap, tap. He enjoyed seeing Ian close his eyes and grit his teeth. He pulled the cane away, rose it high and brought it down with tremendous force across Ian’s buttocks. The boy flinched as the pain hit him, his face reddened, his mouth opened and a gust of wind escaped through his lips. A thin white line was embossed along the boy’s tight trousers.

Ian had a close-up view of his striped tie dangling in front of his face. He concentrated on a small stain near the tip. Mr Gregory flexed his cane once more. He looked across at Ian, bent submissively, offering up his backside for punishment.

Ian felt the cane tap against his stretched trousers once more. The first slash had burnt a welt across the centre of his bum; trousers and underpants weren’t much protection. Mr Gregory really laid it on. Any moment now. Ian knew it would hurt. A great deal. Swish! The cane swiped through the air and landed with even greater power, an inch lower than the first. Ian hissed, his head nodded back and forth. He couldn’t help it. It was a reflex action. There was nothing he could do about it.

Another landed. Ian’s buttocks were blazing. Mr Gregory was an expert with the cane.

Swipe number four connected with the top of his thigh. “Jeeeez!” He wriggled his hips left and right. Fingers left the toecaps of his shoes. He nearly jumped to his feet. That was low. Too low, he would have a deep purple mark there. The pain seared. He had never had a stroke of the cane hurt him so much.

Mr Gregory paused, allowing Ian to settle down. He took a careful aim, he hadn’t intended to whip the boy across the thighs. That was jolly bad form. He struck the next high, on the top of the curves and was pleased to be rewarded with a clear yelp. Good, the young pup needs it. That’ll knock some of the arrogance out of him.

Ian breathed hard. Welts had risen under his tightly-stretched underpants in neat parallel lines leaving a strip about two inches wide blazing across his buttocks. It felt like Mr Gregory had pressed a red hot poker into his bum.

Mr Gregory adjusted his position, placed the cane at a diagonal across both cheeks, so it went bottom left to top right. Tap, tap, tap. Ian tensed his whole body. His shoulders heaved. Whop! The cane flew at the speed of sound, crashing down into the boy’s bum. It connected with the welts already weeping under the boy’s pants, setting each one of them on fire again. Ian gripped his shins. He wanted to jump up and stamp his feet about, or march up and down like a sentry guard. But he managed to stay down. It was over. His bum felt like he had sat on a barbecue, but he had survived.

Mr Gregory slowly paced his office. Opened the door to his cupboard and returned the cane. He turned and looked across at Ian Norman, still bent double, touching his toes. Submissively.

There was a sudden rapping sound on the door. It opened and a small, fat woman entered pushing a trolley loaded with cleaning materials. “Sorry Mr Gregory,” she chirped cheerfully, pretending not to notice the man slumped, head down on his desk. “I thought you had gone home. Can I do you now sir?”

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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Mr Gregory, the Office Manager

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Coffee morning

new story 2

z used after corner (13)

“Welcome, Christine, how are you?,” Madge Axford opened the front door wider allowing her neighbour into the house. “So glad you could come at short notice.” She beamed and turned towards the back room. Christine Blanderford stopped in her tracks, her face flushed, her hand raised automatically to cover it. “Oh my,” she gasped.

Madge smiled, “Yes, he’s why I called you all together,” she said primly. Christine stared, mouth gaping, through the open door to the lounge. She knew she was blushing (probably profusely) but she couldn’t divert her attention away. Facing the window by the corner, his hands firmly placed on his head, was Christine’s 22-year-old son Michael. His trousers and underpants were at his knees; his t-shirt was ridden up his back. His bare bottom glowed red. “What a big round bottom,” Christine kept her thoughts to herself. “And, so soundly spanked!”

They bustled into the back room, Christine somewhat reluctantly. “I’ve got the kettle on, but let’s wait for the others to arrive before we have tea,” Madge pointed to a chair, “Please, sit down.”

Christine spluttered, “Is it because of …?” she couldn’t quite frame her question. Madge was unabashed. “Yes, I assume all the world and his wife knows about it?” she said mildly.

“Well, I read about it in the Brocklehurst Bugle.”

Madge nodded vigorously. “Yes, that’s the first we knew too. He didn’t warn us,” she shook her head, determined not to be defeated by her son. “In court. For drunkenness and using insulting words. Of course, the moment we saw it Norm was on the phone, ordering him back home. We are not putting up with that kind of behaviour.” She sighed deeply, “He got here this morning.”

Christine nodded with approval. She had no children of her own and believed that young people were a menace to society. She blamed the parents. No discipline. Well, it seemed that didn’t apply to Madge Axford.

“So …?” Christine said, anxious to hear the details.

“I think you can see the answer to that,” she nodded in the vague direction of the front room. “Norm was having none of it. It’s a public disgrace of course. I said we would never be able to hold our heads up again in The Avenue. Well, he said, we should let people know we won’t stand for this behaviour from Michael.”

Christine nodded sagely. “So,” she said again, to encourage Madge in her tale.

“Well,” she said eager to share the experience. “Norm tears him off a right strip. ‘No son of mine can behave like this,’ he tells him.” Her face flushed, her admiration for her husband knew no bounds. “So it had to be a spanking, didn’t it?”

“Oh,” Christine felt her own face redden. She remembered Michael’s meaty buttocks on public display in the next room.

“I have this very old hairbrush. It’s made of ebony or some such. Really heavy. The head is about this size.”  She steepled her fingers and made a large oval shape with her hands. “Very effective in the spanking department, if you get my meaning.”

Christine’s throat was suddenly dry. She hoped tea would be served soon. Madge continued. “Norm is the head of this family. He says to Michael he might not live at home any more but he still comes under Norm’s jurisdiction. His rules, you know?”

Christine leaned forward in her chair. Madge continued, “Norm says, ‘It’s a spanking for you my lad. One that you won’t forget in a hurry. I’ll make sure of that.’ Next thing I see Norm has one of the dining room chairs in the middle of the room and he sits down and says to Michael. ‘Trousers and pants down. Right down. To the ankles,’ he says. Michael just stares at him, his mouth gaping like a goldfish. But Norm waves the brush about and tells him to get on with it. So down they come. Quick as you like.”

Christine’s imagination raced. She had witnessed the young man naked from the rear, what was he like from the front? Her thoughts were interrupted by Madge, “So he goes over Norm’s knee, just like a naughty little boy. Michael’s quite a size and you know Norm’s really a bit small, but that didn’t matter. He just put his head down to the carpet, raised his behind high and so Norm could spank his bare little bottom. Well,” Madge gabbled in her over-excitement, “he fair pounded him. He was right, he won’t forget it in a hurry.”

She stopped for breath. Christine was a little short of wind too. The vision of Michael (whose bottom was far from little as his mother described it) over his father’s knee being soundly spanked with a heavy ebony hairbrush would stay with her for a long time. “Where’s Norm now?” she said to break the growing silence.

“He told Michael there’d be one spanking for the drunkenness and another for the swearing. He’s gone to Harris’s in the High Street to buy a cane. You know the whippy ones with the curved handle they use in schools. They’ve become quite in demand now they’ve changed all those laws. Seems like everyone’s buying them,” Madge said.

Christine nodded, she had heard that. Even young adults were getting their backsides tanned. Good job too, she thought.

“I’ve invited a few of the gang from the Conservative Women’s Alliance over,” Madge looked at her watch, “they should be here any moment. Norm said we shouldn’t hide away. He wanted people to know how angry we are with Michael and we won’t let him get away with such behaviour. He’s going to give him a right good caning and you’re all invited to witness it.”

The doorbell rang and Madge shuffled through the passageway to answer it, leaving a very flushed neighbour spluttering into her handkerchief.

 

Picture credit: unknown

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Brocklehurst Crammer

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A Preacher Teaches Humility

z used otk pantz down chair sting (44)

“Hi hon, is the preacher at home?” Cheryl breezed into the church reception area ignoring the two middle-aged men who were waiting apprehensively and flashed her toothy smile at Karen, the receptionist-cum-secretary.

Karen raised her eyes from the Bible she was reading to acknowledge her fellow church-attendee.

“Not immediately, no,” she whispered, nodding in the direction of the visitors. Then soundlessly she mouthed the words, “It’s that time of the month.”

Oh, Cheryl got it. That time of the month. Of course, she had forgotten. It had nothing to do with the biological clock; it was the twenty-sixth; the day each month when Preacher Pasternauch got intimate with God.

“Oh, I forgot. Never mind I’ll come back tomorrow,” then turning to the two men, she called cheerily, “Good luck,” and departed just as breezily as she had arrived. Karen returned to studying the Bible.

On the other side of the wall, Preacher Pasternauch was listening to Luke.

“I have been lusting with my eyes, Preacher.” Luke, twenty-five and married with two lovely daughters (blessings from God), was distressed.

“Tell me all about it,” the preacher sat back in his lush padded leather armchair and closed his eyes; the better to concentrate on Luke’s tale of wickedness.

“Lusting with the eyes,” it was a common fault among male members of the preacher’s congregation. Luke had been punished by God for this offence before.

It was the young lady at the drugstore. Her big breasts bounced, seemingly uncontrolled, under her loose woollen sweater. He struggled to keep his eyes off them whenever he visited the store.

“Women are wicked, Luke,” the preacher adopted the tone of voice that he had convinced himself demonstrated that he was a caring father. Caring and loving. A father whose duty was to help his sons (whatever their ages) to grow in the image of God. He should praise them fulsomely when they did well, and punish them severely when they erred.

“What else have you been doing? Have you been touching yourself?” the preacher would need to hear all the details before he could ask God to pronounce the sentence that he should carry out.

Luke blushed, “Oh, no preacher, nothing like that.”

“Are you sure, Luke?” the preacher tried to hide his disappointment. Luke had visited the preacher three months previously to report similar stirrings. That time it had been a teenaged girl in the gas station.

“Tell me everything, boy. Don’t spare me the details.”

Preacher Pasternauch was the emissary from God. He acted for God on Earth. God was kind, but he was also stern. God directed the preacher to punish the wrong-doers in his congregation. They must learn to fight their wickedness and when they found they were failing Preacher Pasternauch would offer them encouragement.

Luke’s tale was short. He was guilty only of “lusting with the eyes,” but not masturbation or adultery.

“I think you know what must happen now, don’t you Luke,” the preacher said as he rose from his cosy chair and walked five paces across the room to the far wall, where hanging on hooks were three wooden paddles of differing lengths and thicknesses.

Luke was the preacher’s third visitor that morning and there were at least two more awaiting their turn outside. His first visitor had been Matthew the retiree. The preacher was uncertain, but thought the man was at least seventy years old. His wickedness was alcohol. On three separate days this past month he had drunk more than three beers. His drunkenness was a curse. He tried to fight it, but he was weak.

Matthew tried to fight his booze habit; but he believed himself to be a feeble man. He could not do it on his own. He visited the preacher on the twenty-sixth day of each month and had been doing so for as long as the preacher had held these sessions. The old man had left the preacher with his rear blazing and hobbled back to his dark, lonely, room.

Preacher Pasternauch was not a philosopher; he did not ask why the regular spankings could not make Matthew kick the booze habit. Even, as he replaced the heavy wood on its hook it did not enter his head why Matthew would be back in his office for a repeat performance in thirty days’ time.

The second visitor was a newcomer. He was not new to the church, he had been attending for many years; but this was his first visit to Preacher Pasternauch’s monthly “confessionals”. The preacher held open house; any one of his male congregants (aged eighteen or over) could turn up, no appointment necessary, to confess his wickedness. They would pray together and the preacher would administer a stern dose of corporal punishment. God, through the right arm of the preacher, would pardon them of their wickedness. Now, they were fit to return to their community and once again live for the glory of God.

John ran a small accounting firm, just off Main Street. It was doing very well and he made a comfortable living. Just lately his work had begun to bore him; there was no excitement in his life. His life was empty.

No, he rushed to assure the preacher, not empty of Jesus Christ, but just empty: uneventful, devoid of excitement.

So, John, for the first time in his forty-two years on this planet had taken to gambling. He knew it was wicked, but the lure of the state lottery ticket had proved too enticing. He had spent, lost, and therefore wasted, ten whole dollars each month for the past six months. Now, despite the financial losses (he was an accountant after all, so he knew the danger of losses) he found he could not give up the thrill of the chase.

He had toyed with the idea of visiting the preacher for some weeks before, but he was afraid. But, while praying hard to God he received a message; he must confess to the preacher. It was no secret that the preacher held monthly spanking sessions, so John knew what was in store for him when eventually he visited. That was the problem.

John had a great deal of experience receiving corporal punishment. His father had been a keen spanker. Well into his early twenties (the age he finally could afford to move out of the family house) John had been subjected to his dad’s discipline.

Sometimes, more than twenty years after his last thrashing, John could still feel the welts. His father had broken three switches, cut especially for the purpose from the backyard, across his bare buttocks. That would teach him to cut classes at the accountancy college.

The preacher listened sympathetically, gave a short homily on the wickedness of gambling, conducted a much longer prayer for forgiveness and then took the skin off John’s rear end. The poor man was howling by the time he was instructed to pull up his pants and leave.

It hurt like crazy. He knew it could not possibly be as painful as the switching from his father, but back in those days his backside had grown used to the lash. In the intervening twenty or so years, his buttocks had grown flabby and he felt intense agony as each whack of the wood connected.

Now it was the turn of Luke. “So Luke, let us pray.” Both men knelt on the floor of the office. The hard nylon-based carpeting cut into Luke’s knees. It was painful, but he ignored it; you were not supposed to be comfortable while praying to God.

The prayer took five minutes to conclude. God was told of all the young man’s lustful thoughts and of his history of wickedness. Then both men were silent while Preacher Pasternauch received his instructions from God.

“Yes, Lord.” The preacher rose from his kneeling position, convinced that he was about to perform the will of God.

“Pain and humility,” that was how Preacher Pasternauch would explain it later to the county judge. Not only would he spank the men hard, he would ensure that they demonstrated the right degree of humility. Not to himself, of course, but to God.

The preacher sat in a large, heavy, straight-backed wooden chair. Luke had been here before; he knew what was expected. He was twenty-five years old. It was the lunch hour and he had motored from his office downtown to the church. He had left his jacket in the car so was dressed in a crisp white dress shirt with a sober tie. His trousers, part of a matching suit, were dark grey, with a hint of a blue stripe running through them. They fitted snugly; Luke was not fat; and certainly not obese like many of his fellow church attendees.

His face was bright and open and his skin clear. He had been well into his twenties before he had developed enough beard that it needed shaving daily. His hair was cut short and neat. Luke was the conventional young man any of us might see in the street and never actually notice.

The preacher sat himself down and Luke, without instruction, moved to stand a couple of feet away from the older man’s right leg. No words were spoken, but the preacher simply pointed with his index finger at the young man’s waist and with a downward movement mimed that the pants should be lowered.

Luke could feel his face flush. The last time this had been the worst part; preparing himself, taking down his pants and exposing his underwear. The preacher had kindly informed him this was about “humility.” He was showing that he was humble before the preacher and therefore before God.

It certainly was embarrassing, even this second time. But, Luke knew that this was God’s will. He would submit himself to the preacher in any way that he was instructed. Finally, he had his pants resting on his shoes.

“Lift up your shirt so that it is away from your buttocks and then please bend over my legs.” It was a kind, friendly request. The preacher knew that his congregants accepted they had behaved wickedly and were ready to pay the necessary price for redemption.

Luke lowered himself across the preacher’s lap and with his arms stretched out in front he placed his hands firmly palms down into the nylon flooring. Once again, he sensed its hardness and it felt scratchy against his skin. But, something was not quite right; his necktie had caught under his body and was pulling at this throat, if he was not careful he might choke. He lifted himself an inch or so above the preacher’s lap and with his right hand pulled the tie clear and left it dangling in front of his face. He rested once again on the preacher’s lap. He was now in a comfortable position and Luke was pleased about that, but he knew what was to happen next would be far from comfortable.

The preacher was not quite ready to start. He smoothed Luke’s maroon-colored briefs, removing any wrinkles from the cotton. Satisfied that they now hugged the contours of the young man’s globes, the preacher prepared for the onslaught.

He had chosen his middle-sized paddle. It was maybe twelve inches long and three wide and about a half-inch thick. It was the perfect size and weight to deliver a sound over-the-knee spanking. He had wrapped Scotch tape around the handle to give him an extra grip; he didn’t want the paddle to slip from his fist while he was in full flow.

Luke’s breathing was heavy, and involuntarily he clenched his buttocks tight, ready to absorb the full impact of the first swat.

“Relax, Luke,” again the preacher sounded kind and caring. “Don’t scrunch up your bottom.”

Luke tried, he wanted to satisfy God and present himself submissively, but for some reason he did not understand he did not have control of his body.

Whack! the wood crashed right across the center of both buttocks. “Please God, save me from my wickedness. Help make me a good man,” Luke did not say the words out loud but he repeated them over and over in his mind as the preacher tore his buttocks to shreds. He knew this agony and humiliation was God’s will. He knew it because the preacher had told him it was so.

It had to be a pants down, over-the-knee spanking. God wanted him to show humility and this was how it had to be done. The preacher had explained everything the first time he made the twenty-five-year-old father-of-two submit his bottom to the paddle.

Whack! Whack! Luke’s crack opened and closed each time the paddle connected with his bottom. The pain was increasing and he found his legs were kicking out. He did not mean to do it; he so wanted to show God he would submit to his will. His mind said this, but his body had other ideas; it was a natural reflex action.

The paddle was not the largest in the preacher’s collection but it was big enough to cover the area of Luke’s cheek. Vigorously the heavy wood slapped the two reddening cheeks in rapid succession, until, still unwillingly, Luke began to writhe and twist his body, bending his legs up, and ultimately swinging his right hand away from the carpet to shield his toasting buns from the stinging impact of the preacher’s frenzied attack.

Preacher Pasternauch was on a mission from God. His strong right arm increased the speed and force with which it pummeled the paddle from one cheek to the other, making Luke gasp and groan. The crashing sound of wood connecting with cotton-encased flesh echoed round the room like machinegun fire.

In the waiting room two middle aged men paid extra attention to their newspapers and pretended they could not hear the whacks and the increasing yelps coming from the preacher’s office.

The preacher was as breathless as the young man he was punishing. A dozen, then two dozen, then three dozen whacks struck Luke’s cheeks, sank into the flesh and bounced off, leaving behind deep red marks, that rapidly turned to blue.

The preacher held the young man tightly at his midriff, ensuring the poor suffering creature could not escape. On and one went the beating, and even as the pain increased to agony, Luke continued talking to God in his head. “Please help me defeat my wicked sexual thoughts!”

Luke did not know how long the spanking went on, but when the preacher stopped he lay on the floor holding his destroyed bottom and crying like a baby for at least ten minutes. The preacher returned to his plush leather armchair, closed his eyes and pressed the fingers of his two hands together as if in prayer. He could wait all afternoon if that was what it took for Luke to recover.

In time Luke pulled his pants up and withdrew a handkerchief from a pocket and wiped his tear-stained face. Then, with no further word, he hobbled from the office in search of his car.

The preacher remained seated awaiting his own recovery. Once his heart rate had returned to normal, he poured a glass of water and buzzed Karen to send in the next one.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

This story was first uploaded in December 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Late Home From School

z used uniform short shorts (46)

I walk the streets slowly. It is nearly six o’clock and I am late home from school. Dad told me if that happened again he would take me over his knee with my trousers at my ankles and my underpants at my knees. I believe him.

It was detention. A few of us were mucking about in class. It was nothing really: but it was enough. After detention some of us hung out and smoked cigarettes. Now, I wish I hadn’t. If dad smells it on me I’ll get extra for sure.

Sometimes when I walk these streets people look at me hard. Who can blame them? I have a really distinctive school uniform. A bright blue blazer with yellow and white verticals stripes running through it. Dad says they don’t make blazers like that any longer. I have light grey short trousers; very smart with creases down the front and back so sharp you could cut your finger on them. My long grey socks with red toppings come up to my knees, but the short trousers are properly short and there are inches of bare leg on show. This is November and almost winter so it’s not really the weather to be out at night in short trousers. My legs could turn blue if I’m not careful. My bright scarlet school cap sits tightly on my head: at least that’s warm.

I turn the corner into The Avenue. The lights are on at Number sixteen. Dad is at home: waiting.

Dad has never spanked me on the bare. I wonder what it will be like. It was bad enough last time, just on the underpants. Dad has this leather paddle that he uses. It’s not much bigger than a hairbrush really and it’s really bendy. To look at it you wouldn’t think it could do much damage; but Wow! it ripped my buttocks to shreds, I can tell you.

It could be worse. My pal Wayne has a dad who uses a thick whippy cane on him. Bare arsed. Last time he got it he showed me the damage. Thick dark red cuts right across both cheeks. It took a week for them to clear and even longer for the bruises to go.

The Avenue is deserted. It’s too cold for people to be on the streets and it’s probably tea time for the kids in most of the houses. The Mickey Mouse watch on my wrist bleeps six o’clock as I raise my hand to the doorbell. I catch a glimpse of the old biddy across the road in number forty-two peering behind lace curtains, minding everybody’s business but her own.

Within seconds the door opens. “Where have you been, do you know what time it is,” dad says and clips me around the back of the head. “Get in here,” he walks into the front room and since I know how this is going to play out, I follow him.

When dad deals with me there is a set routine. He spends ever such a long time berating me for my misdeeds. I am “irresponsible,” “undependable,” “foolish,” “thoughtless” and much else besides. He tells me he warned me before what would happen if I am late home again.

Everything he tells me is true. This is not the first time I have been late and it will not be the first time he has spanked me because of it. I tell him about the detention and he goes ballistic. I decide not to fess up to the smoking as well.

“Stand there,” he points to a corner of the room. “Put your hands on your head and think about how naughty you have been.”

I shuffle across the room and stand a couple of feet away from the wall.

“Closer,” dad barks, “Get your nose right into the corner.”

It is not easy to stand right in the corner with your nose against it and at the same time have your hands on your head; there’s nowhere for your elbows to go.

“Alright,” dad concedes, “Put your nose in the corner and your hands behind your back.”

Comfortable, at last, I stand with my nose pressed against the wallpaper. I do not think about how naughty I have been as dad instructed. I can’t help thinking about how sore I am going to be when dad spanks me bare-arsed for the first time.

I cannot see him, but I am pretty sure dad is sitting in his favourite armchair, just staring at me. I suppose it is his way of making me stew. When you are a naughty boy standing in the corner waiting to be spanked you lose track of time. I don’t know if I was there for thirty seconds or ten minutes.

Eventually, I hear a movement. It is dad getting ready. He picks up a dining room chair and I hear him put it in the centre of the carpet.

“Turn round and face me,” it is a curt command. I obey instantly. “Put your hands on your head.”

I face him and watch as he makes further preparations. In his hand he already has the leather paddle he intends to use on my bare bottom. Carefully, he sits himself on the chair and spreads his knees by two feet or so. He is not a pretty sight. He is running to fat and because of this he sweats a lot, even in the cold weather. He would be almost completely bald, except he grows what little hair he has in long strands so that he can comb it over. His face is ruddy and in need of a decent shave. I suppose he has been at work all day because he really needs a shower.

Without a further word, he reaches forward and with his right hand takes hold of the waistband of my short trousers and pulls me forward. I am off balance and stumble until I am standing close by his right leg. Then with both hands he undoes my top button and the other four that make up the flies of my short trousers. I still have my hands on my head and submissively I let him do this.

With the top of my trousers open it is easy for him to guide them over my thighs and past my knees so they make a puddle at my feet. I feel myself blushing. I know the next stage will be the removal of my white Y-front underpants. Suddenly, I panic; I do not want dad to see my private parts. But I have no choice. Unless, I am going to grab my short trousers, pull them up and flee from the room I have no choice but to let him have his way.

Slowly, ever so slowly (he appears to be enjoying himself very much), he puts his hands either side of my pants, pinches the cloth and gently guides them down over my hips until they rest at my knees. I see he pretends not to notice my privates, but he is having a good look.

I stand there still in my school blazer, but now naked from my waist to my knees. My hands remain on my head. Dad is wheezing a little and for the first time tonight I pick up the faint odour of beer on his breath.

“Right!” he slaps his right thigh, “Bend over my knee.”

The first ever time he ordered me to do this I didn’t know how to do it. It might seem simple enough, but there are many different ways to achieve this position. You can dive across both knees and land on the far side without actually touching your dad. Or, you can rest your hands on his knees and lower yourself over and then once you are staring at the carpet you adjust your bum so that it where it needs to be. Or, there are many ways between these two options.

I find it easier to stretch across dad’s knees and then lower myself down. That’s what I do now. Within seconds, I am over his lap with both of my palms pressed into the carpet, my knees bent a little and my toes an inch or so off the ground. My bum is high over his right thigh and although I have never been able to actually see what I look like in this position I do know that it gives dad all the room he needs to bring his leather paddle crashing down into my arse.

Dad doesn’t like me to make a fuss. He wants me to lie over his knee and take what he thinks I deserve. Of course, it’s not always possible to take a spanking quietly.  I have been known to gasp and yelp a little and last time, when I got it on the pants, my eyes were moist and my nose was running by the time he finished toasting me.

He tugs at my blazer and pushes it up my back by a few inches while I wait patiently for my first-ever bare-bottomed spanking from dad to begin. I can feel his rough hand tracing the contours of my globes. He rests it for a while on the undercurve of my right cheek, just where it meets with the back of the leg. Then I feel him lift his hand away and immediately bring it crashing down at some force across the centre of my buttock. Then he slaps the left cheek, then the right. He is spanking me with the palm of his hand, rapidly and with some force. It hurts much more than I expected. There is no let-up, smack, smack, smack: on and on he goes, all over both buttocks and across the back of my legs.

It hurts; in fact it hurts a great deal, but it is not agony. I have had worse. I stare down at the orange-and-yellow-patterned carpet and wonder how much longer this will go on for. Outside the window I hear a car draw up. It is the next door neighbour coming home from work. For the first time since going over dad’s knee I feel acute embarrassment: what if the neighbour can hear me being spanked.

If dad had heard the neighbour he didn’t let it deter him from his mission. The hand spanks rain down harder and faster.

Suddenly they stop. I feel a movement in his body and the pain starts again. This time it is more intense. He is whacking his leather paddle into my buttocks: over and over again on the same spot, right in the middle of the left cheek. I can’t count them all, they are coming too fast, but there must be dozens of them. Then he pauses before repeating it again, this time in the centre of my right cheek.

I am wriggling. I can’t help it. The pain is too much and my body is instinctively trying to get away from it. I thrash my legs about and turn my body from left to right as if I am trying to swim away off his lap. Dad grips me tightly around the waist with his left arm and pounds away, with even harder whacks. Will he ever tire of this?

I am gulping and although I know I am not supposed to I let out a series of “ouchs” and yelps. My lungs gulp in air and my breathing is harsh. Soon I am coughing my guts up.

On and on dad spanks me. He has not said a word since he took me over his knee and began pounding away. His breathing seems a little laboured now; perhaps we are getting near the end.

Or perhaps not. He pauses to regain his composure and then raises the leather paddle high and whacks my arse harder than he has done so far. My legs kick out behind me and without warning he smacks the paddle across the back of each leg. I scream. A real blood-curdling scream. If dad thought these slaps would stop me kicking about he was wrong. I have no control, I couldn’t stop kicking even if I wanted to.

My watch beeps six-thirty and as if on cue, dad stops spanking me. He releases his grip and I roll off his lap onto the carpet.

“Stand in the corner.” This time I don’t have to put my nose right in it. I stand panting for breath with my hands on my head and my back to dad.

I can hear him wheezing behind me. My buttocks are hot. I want to give them a rub, but I dare not do it; I don’t want to give dad the excuse to start all over again.

I wait as patiently as I can in the circumstances. Now the spanking is over I want to be out of there and quick.

Dad’s wheezing intensifies. I don’t know what he was doing behind me and instinctively reckon I don’t want to know either.

After maybe a minute the wheezing climaxes and I hear the door open and dad leave the room.

Gingerly I rub my bottom, there is no mirror in the room, but by twisting my body I get some view of my heavily bruised bottom. Both cheeks have a hard leathery coating. The back of my legs are red raw. I pull up my underpants and button up my short trousers. To my great distress I see the shorts do not cover all my injuries and everyone will see my legs have been spanked.

I hear dad run up the stairs, presumably to the bathroom. I wait a few moments before I go into the passageway and pick up the envelope he has left for me near the telephone. After checking its contents, I let myself out the front door.

It is freezing and about to rain. I must hurry back to my bedsitting room, change out of this school uniform and put on something warmer.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The Smiling Boy

z used face by Cat Bounds (15)

Archie Louden knew the boy was trouble from the start and it would end in tears.

It was all the fault of that infatuated vicar. He had a scheme to help “deprived youngsters” and against his will and his better judgement Archie agreed to let the boy into his home.

He could do your cleaning, laundry, vacuuming and so on, the vicar had assured him. It annoyed Archie that the vicar thought he was a vulnerable person in need of the church’s assistance.

“This is Dean,” the vicar gushed, clearly smitten by the twenty-year-old man with the sparkling hazel eyes and dazzling smile he brought to Archie’s house.

“Deprived?” Archie, thought, a “villain” more like. He could smell it on the boy from a mile away. The boy, an expert manipulator, had the vicar wrapped around his little finger. It was the eyes and the smile that did it. It was a warm smile that could melt the iciest of hearts, Dean knew this: he had practised it often enough in reform school. The smile could sell a lot of toothpaste.

Archie lived in a large house; he had been alone since his divorce twenty years previously. He children were now grown up with kids of their own and Archie lived the life of a lonely bachelor.

It was not that he wanted to be alone; in fact he only went to church because of the widow across the street attended. Archie was not the least interested in religion and he did not need the church’s help in cleaning his house. If he did, he would employ a cleaning lady.

Dean worked hard on his “bubbly personality.” Unlike so many youngsters his age, he was completely free of tattoos, and kept himself clean and tidy. He had a certain working-class character that Archie recognised; he was very like the cheeky chappies who used to work at his catering business before he sold it off; they always had some scheme going on.

Right from the start, Dean came on to Archie. A rich old bachelor, he thought, ripe for the taking. Archie was no fool; he could see that Dean made every excuse to point his backside at him while he did the vacuuming and cleaning. His jeans were not tight, not even snug, but they fitted him well, Archie smiled to himself, Dean was trying a little too hard.

Later one night after dining in an expensive restaurant with the widow, Archie thumbed through the banknotes in his wallet. Something was not quite right; some money appeared to be missing, but he could not be sure. He was not a poor man and the money left in his wallet was more than enough to pay for the meals. Had he spent the money? Was he getting forgetful in his old age? He had been to the grocery store, the fishmonger and the greengrocer earlier in the day; perhaps he had spent more than he remembered.

Archie thought no more it until the next visit from Dean. Money went missing again. He was almost certain of it. After Dean’s third visit, Archie called the vicar. He had set a trap for the boy. Archie had counted the money in his wallet before Dean arrived and marked each banknote with a small cross in pencil just below the Queen’s chin.

Archie was furious. He confronted the interfering vicar. How many times had Dean stolen from people before? Had he stolen from poor people who could not afford it? Were they going without meals or heating because of this lout?

“You must search the boy quickly before he spends the money,” Archie demanded.

An hour later the vicar phoned back to confirm what Archie already knew: Dean had the marked notes in his pocket.

“I’m calling the police,” Archie said and he meant it. He had no sympathy for the boy and this numbskull vicar.

“Oh no, please don’t do that,” the vicar was almost begging. If Archie had thought about it for a moment he would realise the vicar was more interested in his own reputation, than the smiling boy. What would people think of him allowing criminals into the homes of vulnerable people?

“If not the police, what do you intend to do about it?”

The vicar had no answer.

Then Archie had a germ of an idea. Years ago when he was about Dean’s age Archie had stolen money from his uncle’s wallet. Missing money was discovered, accusations made and after many initial denials a confession was obtained.

What happened next stayed with Archie for the rest of his life. His uncle had ordered him to strip naked and then to lay face down across the dining room table. Then he tied Archie’s wrists to the table legs.

Then a cane was produced and his uncle lashed his bare buttocks until they bled. This was not a caning; the sort schoolmasters might inflict on misbehaving pupils, this was a terrible flogging.

Archie shuddered at the recollection. Where did his bachelor uncle get that cane from?

He knew he would not be allowed to beat Dean the way his uncle had flogged him, but the boy deserved a good hiding at the very least.

When he put the idea to the vicar, Archie was very surprised that he did not argue the point.

“I’ll see what I can do,” the vicar said meekly, before putting down the telephone.

The next day Dean and the vicar stood nervously in the living room of Archie’s house. Dean still flashed his ingratiating smile, perhaps believing that even at this last minute he could still melt Archie’s ice cold heart.

But in his own heart Dean knew he had to take a spanking. He had a criminal record as long as his arm and if the police discovered the number of times he had recently stolen from pensioners in their homes he would certainly go to prison.

Archie had made preparations. He had a utility brush with sharp metal bristles that builders had left behind after they made repairs to the roof.  It was heavy and large, the wooden back would be very effective indeed.

Archie had never spanked anyone before but he reckoned Dean was a big lad and the brush would not hurt him enough so he also must be humiliated. Just as his uncle had humiliated him more than forty years ago,

“Strip naked.”

Dean was not smiling now.

“But surely Mr Louden could it not just be on the seat of his trousers?” the vicar tried to intervene.

Archie’s derisive snort put an end to any argument.

Resigned to his fate, Dean slipped his t-shirt over his head; loosened the belt of his jeans and let them fall to his feet. Then he kicked off his trainers and jeans. Now he stood in just his white socks and green and yellow striped briefs.

He hesitated and flashed that smile one more time. Archie could be an imposing figure when he chose to be and one look from him was enough. Dean pulled his socks off and then reluctantly put his thumbs in the waistband of his pants and tugged them down to his ankles and stepped out of them.

Archie waited impassively and the vicar hoped no one noticed him sneaking admiring glances.

Dean’s scarlet face spoke volumes.

“You have nothing I haven’t seen before,” Archie lied. When did he ever have the chance to see a young man naked?

The sitting room was huge and easily accommodated an expensive leather sofa. It could seat three people and Archie plonked himself in the centre. Then with a snap of his fingers he ordered Dean to lay face down across his lap.

The young man complied and within seconds he was stretched out on the sofa, his legs resting to one side of Archie and his torso and head to the other. His buttocks were raised above Archie’s lap. Instinctively, the older man parted his legs a little so Dean’s genitals slipped between them to be out of harm’s way during the blistering buttock roasting he was about to get.

Even though he was a novice Archie made an excellent job destroying Dean’s arse. The heavy brush made a fearsome weapon. Dean was a large boy with expansive buttocks. It was difficult for Archie to get a good aim at the cheek nearest to him, but it did not stop the effectiveness of the spanking.

After only a few whacks Dean was hollering so loud Archie feared his neighbours might call the police to report a murder in progress.

He stopped long enough to ask the vicar for a handkerchief – which he then stuffed in Dean’s mouth.

Archie pounded the brush into Dean’s arse. The young man struggled with all his might to break free and lifted his body off the sofa and flailed his legs about. It was like he was trying to swim away, even though Archie had him pinned down across the waist.

“Hold his shoulders down,” it was a curt command to the vicar. He took hold of Dean’s naked shoulders and held on tightly hoping that the boy would not see the bulge in the front of his trousers. Not that Dean had much chance to; his face was now buried deep into the seat cushion.

The thrashing went on and on. Every part of the buttocks and the tops of the thighs were covered in bruises, which soon seeped blood. Dean’s face was puce and with the handkerchief in his mouth and his face pressed into the cushion, he found it hard to catch his breath.

But still Archie spanked on. He was in complete control. This was not a frenzied attack, but coolly calculated, just as Dean’s thieving had been. His bawling and sobbing became emotionally unrestrained screaming and wailing – like a ten year old. The boy’s tears flowed and the sobs grew louder and louder, and higher-pitched as he trembled with each new swat.

Eventually it was over and with contempt Archie pushed the young thief off his lap and onto the floor where Dean laid, his naked body jerking like a goldfish out of water.

The vicar fearing he might be dying took the hanky out of his mouth and fondly wiped Dean’s tear-and-snot-stained face.

Archie looked on. The boy was a pitiful sight and for a second, but only a second, he felt remorse for him, but he quickly checked himself. Dean deserved all he got. The flogging Archie had received from his uncle ensured he never stole again. Perhaps someone should have done this to Dean a long time ago.

Dean was still face down on the carpet, unable to move. Unbidden, the vicar went into the kitchen where Archie could hear the sound of water running. The vicar returned with a bowl of warm water and a tea towel and tenderly washed Dean’s bloodied buttocks. The vicar’s groin was throbbing almost as much as the boy’s backside.

Eventually, Dean was able to haul himself to his feet and in intense agony with the help of the vicar he managed to dress.

No words were exchanged between Archie and the boy or the vicar. Once they had left, Archie, his hands trembling, poured a glass of whisky.

He never saw Dean or the vicar again.

Picture credit: Cat Bounds

This story was first uploaded in December 2015.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com