The Boy From Across The Street

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The boy from across the street had been staying with me for nearly six weeks and he was becoming a right pain in the neck. I say “Boy” but he had just graduated from university so he must’ve been twenty-one or twenty-two.

His widowed mother had remarried and Garry wasn’t welcome at the house. They didn’t throw him out onto the streets but you know how it is. I’d known him and his mum for more than ten years so it seemed right to offer him a room at mine. I live alone and have four bedrooms so there’s no problem with space.

I had no idea how difficult young men could be. He was bone idle and laid in bed all morning. When he was up he was surly and uncommunicative. He came and went as he pleased and sometimes came home in the early hours drunk. Well, I say “drunk” but my pal told me young people today don’t drink, they take drugs so for all I knew he might’ve been high. In my house. Breaking the law.

Something had to change. I went on the Internet to see if I could find advice. You’d be surprised how much there is out there about guiding teenagers into adult life. I hoped I hadn’t left it too late with Garry.

The main advice was about setting clear boundaries. Make sure he knows what the rules are. And, this is the difficult part, apply sanctions when they are broken. Coming up with rules would be easy enough but what about sanctions? What could I do to get him to obey me?

One website in America reckons it has the answer. Corporal correction. I had to do a double take when I first saw it. What the heck’s “Corporal correction”? It turns out they mean corporal punishment or good old spanking. They are very keen on it.  The site is run by a bunch of Christians and they believe that a good paddling works wonders. There are even husbands who spank their wives when occasion demands. And all for Jesus.

Well who am I to argue with Jesus? I shared my problem with my pal and he shook his head sadly. “Pie in the sky. It’ll never work. The lad’s hardly going to meekly bend over your knee to let you whack him with a belt or whatnot.”

He had a point. The best I could hope for would be to wildly slash my belt across his shoulders and back while having some kind of stand-up fight. It wouldn’t work. The whole point was for Garry to admit he has broken the rules and to submit himself to punishment. Then when I am satisfied he has been spanked enough, he apologies for his behaviour and promises to do better. And, if he does not, he’s back over my knee, or the armchair for another dose. Harder, this time.

I let the matter rest hoping against hope the problem would just solve itself. But a few mornings later I came out of my bedroom to go to the toilet and stepped on a sticky damp patch on the carpet. In my bare feet. The sod had sicked-up and left it there. I calmed down a little while I streamed piss into the lavatory, but not by much.

Determined to confront him, I burst open his bedroom door ready to shout the house down. My jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe what I saw. To say I was astonished wouldn’t cover it. Garry was in his bed with his arm cradled around another young man. They were both stark naked and judging by the pungent odour in the air the bedsheet was awash with cum. Embarrassed, I turned on my heels. Moments later as I waited for the kettle to boil, I devised a plan. I phoned my pal and he roared with laughter, but agreed to help. Together we could make it work.

I would need to get rid of the boy first. I didn’t have much choice, I just let nature take its course. Eventually, they woke up. The boy couldn’t get out of the house fast enough. That left me alone with Garry. He gave me the merest shrug of the shoulder when I berated him about the vomit. I had already cleaned up the mess, I couldn’t stand the smell on the landing. He just couldn’t care less.

Well don’t care was made to care, as my old Mum used to say when she reached for her hairbrush. I phoned my pal; he could be at my house within minutes. That gave me time to lecture Garry. I went through the list of his misdeeds; laziness, never lifting a finger around the house, the drinking, the drug-taking. I didn’t mention the boy in the bed, I didn’t want to sound like a homophobe.

He listened quietly, nodding his head from time to time as if agreeing. “Well, what have you got to say for yourself?” I asked breathlessly. He thought for a moment, head bowed, and then whispered, “Don’t know.”

“Bah! You need to be punished, you know that don’t you?”

He looked up at me, his dark-brown eyes glistening. “How do you think you should be punished?” I asked, calmly, as if it was the most reasonable question to ask a twenty-two-year old. He stared blankly.

“It says on the Internet,” I told him, “That a spanking is the best punishment.”

He looked startled, his mouth gaped before he spoke, “You want to spank me?” he asked incredulously.

“I don’t want to spank you,” I said trying to stress how much I didn’t want this to happen. “But you must be punished.”

His nose crinkled, I could see his brain was ticking over. He seemed to be debating in his head. I watched him for some moments. He looked so much younger than his twenty-two years. Perhaps that was his problem; arrested development. He should have been having this conversation when he was sixteen, not today.

The doorbell rang and I shuffled off to let my pal in. We had a whispered conversation in the kitchen. “How exactly do you want to do this?” he asked. “Shall I hold him down while you wallop him? What will you use, your belt?”

I hadn’t quite thought through the details. For sure Garry would have to be restrained. Perhaps my pal could hold him bent across the dining room table while I whacked his arse. My belt was thin and wouldn’t make a suitable weapon. What else did I have? I don’t wear carpet slippers. My hairbrush was a cheap plastic thing. Naturally I didn’t have a school cane or a paddle about the house (who did these days?).

“Here use this,” my pal picked a large wooden spoon from the draining board, he tested its weight by smacking it into the palm of his hand. “It packs quite a punch,” he said with deep satisfaction. “C’mon, let’s get on with this.”

I returned to the living room with my pal in tow. Garry caught sight of the wooden spoon in my hand, his eyes blinked furiously and his face flushed. “Well,” I started a sentence but trailed off. I wasn’t quite sure how to proceed. Garry took away what little wind I had in my sails.

“OK,” he gulped, struggling to look at me. Silence engulfed the room. I gave a quizzical look. “OK,” he repeated, “You should spank me.” Now it was my turn to look incredulous. “I have behaved badly, I deserve to be punished,” he spoke as if reading from a memorized script. “I deserve it.”

I heard my pal snort, but I ignored him. “Are you sure, Garry?” I asked. I was completely unprepared for this turn of events. He nodded shyly. He stood up and started to leave the room. He looked over his shoulder at my pal. “We should do this privately,” he said with some confidence, “in my room.” I followed him gripping the wooden spoon in my hand.

The bedroom smelt musty, Garry had removed the soiled sheet but the room needed airing. It was a small room, dominated by the bed. There was a small chair, but it was obviously not up to the task. Garry would not be able to bend over it and still leave room for me to get a swing at his backside. It would have to be an over-the-knee spanking.

I had never spanked anyone before. How exactly was this done? Of course, you relied a lot on instinct. Since Garry was submissive there would be no fisticuffs. I sat on the edge of the bed and wriggled my bum about until I felt secure. I spread my legs. This way Garry would be able to bend across one thigh and stretch out across the mattress, That should give me ample room to spank his backside.

Garry watched silently as I made my preparations. He was a shortish lad, maybe a couple of centimetres smaller than me. He had a firm waist (unlike so many of his contemporaries these days) and muscular thighs. He was wearing heavy blue jeans. Even with my lack of experience I knew these would give Garry a lot of protection against the wooden spoon. He must have read my mind. Without waiting for my command, he unbuttoned at the waist, slipped the zipper and pushed the jeans as far as his knees. He took a deep breath and leaned forward placing himself across my right thigh. Then he did something truly astonishing. He raised his bottom high, it was as if he were saying, “Yes, I have been a naughty boy, you must spank me. Good and hard.”

In this position his bottom was very firm. His black underpants clung to his cheeks, separating them. It was a terrific target. I took a deep breath and raised the spoon, his buttocks clenched in anticipation of my next move. I whacked the spoon down in the centre of Garry’s right cheek. He gasped slightly. I whacked the left cheek. I didn’t know how much a spanking would hurt a twenty-two-year-old but I made it my business to lay it on as hard as circumstances allowed. I walloped the wood up and down his left cheek leaving no spot untouched. Then I did the same with the right buttock.

Garry wriggled his bum. It was hotting up nicely, I thought. I smacked hard into the underside of his bum, where the cheeks meet the thighs. That hurt, I could tell. Garry’s legs kicked out instinctively. It was a reflex action against the pain that was travelling through his bum. At one point he raised his face off the mattress to yelp, but thought better of it and instead shielded his head with his hands. Sweat was soaking his shirt. He smelt sour, I don’t think he had showered that day.

I suppose I whacked him for about three or four minutes, I had rather lost track of time. How long should a spanking go on for? Obviously, in Garry’s case he needed (no, deserved) more than six-of-the-best. I stopped whacking him and took hold of the elasticated waist of his underpants. I was rewarded with a wailed, “No!!!” Garry thought I was pulling them down to continue his spanking on the bare buttocks. I wasn’t. I wanted to see the results of my efforts. I saw both cheeks were a rather delicious rosy red. The imprint of the bowl of the spoon had been reproduced over and over again on his flesh. Yes, I congratulated myself, a job well done.

I gave him another dozen on each cheek for good measure and released my grip on him. Garry lay across my thigh breathing heavily but making no effort to move. “Get up,” I said pushing him away. He stumbled to his feet and turned his back on me before bending down to pull up his jeans. He rubbed his bottom ruefully and stood still awaiting further instructions.

I suppose I should have lectured him about his future conduct and the dire consequences if he broke my rules again. Instead, rather tamely I stood up. This was his room after all, so it was for me to make an exit. I did so and returned to the kitchen where my pal had brewed tea. He asked me for details and I gave a blow-by-blow account.

Upstairs, Garry was admiring my handiwork in the bedroom mirror, his cock rigid. I think I must have spanked him three or four more times over the following weeks before the truth dawned on me.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

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Letter of Regret

The choice is yours

The exam results are out

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

My First Time

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I had just turned twenty and was a few weeks into my first “proper” job – as a trainee reporter on a local newspaper. I couldn’t believe my luck when a colleague at work told me there was a room for rent in a large detached house in one of the town’s leafiest suburbs.

I was gobsmacked the first time I saw The Avenue; what palaces! I had been brought up in a tiny council flat in inner London; what did I know about big bedrooms, conservatories and gardens? My landlord was some kind of accountant and he lived in a five bedroom house with his wife and her sister. Everything about the place said “Money”. I didn’t stop to wonder why they needed to take in a lodger. None of my business, I suppose.

I got my second shock of the day when I met my landlord for the first time. He was in his mid-forties and had thick black, greased-back hair. But his most notable feature was a black, neatly-trimmed beard. I thought he was Gerry Adams, at that time a suspected IRA terrorist. The sight of him put the fear of God into me. This fear somewhat diminished the moment he opened his mouth. For instead of ranting with a heavy Irish brogue, he spoke quietly in a very upper class English accent, as befitting a chap who had attended one of England’s more exclusive public schools.

I was far from the perfect tenant. I came and went at all hours and was often late down for breakfast. I was untidy, inconsiderate of others and frequently came home drunk. But worse than all this; I rarely paid my rent on time. It wasn’t that I couldn’t afford to pay – although cub reporters are not paid much – it was because I couldn’t be bothered. It didn’t occur to me that the money I paid helped to keep “Mr. Adams” and his family afloat.

Things came to a head one morning. In his usual softly-spoken manner Mr. Adams told me I must pay my overdue rent by the end of the day. Did I promise to do so? I genuinely don’t remember, I really wasn’t bothered what he wanted.

I would pay later for that lack of attention because what I missed him saying was, “If you don’t pay tonight I am going to cane your backside very hard indeed.”

I was late home that day, I had covered a meeting of the local council and gone onto the pub after. I had been drinking, but I was far from drunk. I let myself into the house as I always did and was surprised when Mr. Adams glided from his magnificent lounge and stood in front of me, blocking my path to the stairs and my bedroom.

“Do you have my rent?” he whispered. I had to crane my neck forward to catch his words. He repeated himself believing that I had not heard. His face fell when I confessed I had not. I had totally forgotten his request. He sighed deeply and wrung his hands together as if he carried all the troubles of the world on his shoulders.

“Do you remember what I said would happen?” he murmured. I think I shrugged my shoulders or crinkled my face, because I simply had no idea what he was talking about. His eyes flamed behind his round spectacles, his eyebrows shot heavenwards.

“Well,” he spoke slowly and calmly. “You know what I shall do.”

I didn’t. I started to say I would go to the bank first thing in the morning and sort out his rent.

“Too late, you have made promises before,” his crisply-enunciated words made me shiver. “You need a life-lesson young man.”

I had no idea what a “life lesson” was, but I was about to find out. He glided across the passageway to a tall thin cupboard. It looked like a grandfather clock but without the dial. He opened a door and reached inside. I thought our conversation was over and started towards the stairs.

“Wait where you are,” he spoke more sternly now and I swirled around to face him. My heart skipped a beat. In his right hand he held a long, thin, crook-handled cane. I was transfixed. I had never seen anything like it before. Canes were still legal in schools but I had been to a progressive comprehensive and corporal punishment was unheard off. Parents around my way tended not to spank their children, so I was now entering uncharted territory.

Mr. Adams wobbled the cane in front of him and then sliced it through the air. It was thin and whippy but made a terrific whoosh! as it went. He waved the cane toward the lounge room. “Go in there,” he said quietly. I stood my ground, my heart was thumping. Of course, now I understood Mr. Adams’ intention. He wanted to beat me with his cane. I couldn’t understand my emotions. I seemed to be equally frightened and excited at the same time.

Up to that moment I had never given corporal punishment a thought. There was a campaign running at the time to have the cane banned from schools. I had no opinion one way or the other. I had never thought about being caned nor did I wish to cane another person.

“I said, go into the lounge room,” Mr. Adams repeated himself softly.

I suppose I could have refused to obey. It would mean leaving the house and finding other lodgings. That wouldn’t be so bad. A colleague at work knew guys who were looking for someone to join them in a house share.  I wouldn’t have to live in a cardboard box.

What I did next profoundly changed my life. I took a deep breath to try to calm my raging heartbeat and walked into the lounge. The room was dimly lit by a standard light in one corner, I hardly saw Mrs. Adams and her sister lolling on a sofa. They stood as I come in; it seemed they were expecting me.

Mr. Adams followed me into the room. He had the cane tucked under his arm, looking something like a sergeant-major. I stood in the middle of the room. It was about the size of a five-a-side football pitch. One end was dominated by a dining table and chairs. The other end had a huge glass-fronted cabinet with china ornaments. As well as the sofa there was a heavy leather Chesterfield couch, two padded armchairs, what we used to call a pouffe (but probably don’t today) and a coffee table.

Mr. Adams looked around the room as if he had never seen it before. He seemed to be searching for something. At last his gaze settled on one of the padded armchairs. He slipped the cane from his arm into his hand and gripped it just below the crook handle. He pointed with it to the chair. “Stand over there.”

I hesitated. There was still time to flee. Mrs. Adams and her sister moved across the room and settled by the table. Clearly, they were going to stay to watch the fun. I wiped my sweaty palms on the legs of my trousers and walked forward and stopped a couple of paces from the chair.

“Closer, boy, closer,” Mr. Adams sounded exasperated. I shook my head silently admonishing myself, of course I wouldn’t be able to bend over the back of the chair from this distance. I shuffled forward. For the first  time that evening Mr. Adams noticed I was wearing a light-grey suit. “Take off your jacket, hand it to Mrs. Adams.”

She hurried over to me with alacrity, holding out her hand to receive my jacket. She had to wait. I couldn’t get my fingers to work. My brain told me I wanted to do this – to take off my jacket and hand it over – but my body seemed incapable of obeying. At last the task was completed. I looked down at the black leather armchair. Only then did I wonder how this was done. How did you present yourself for a caning? Where did the hands go? What about the head?

One question took my breath away. Was this done trousers up or trousers down? I would soon know.

“You need to lower your trousers,” Mr. Adams whispered, “But you may keep your underpants on,” he added, kindly. My head was buzzing as (again with fumbling fingers) I unbuckled my belt. I screwed my eyes tightly, I couldn’t believe this was happening. Me, a twenty-year-old man was about to take down my trousers, bend over a chair and offer up my backside to my forty-something landlord for a caning as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

I unzipped and the handful of coins I had in my pocket from the pub plus gravity sent my trousers hurtling to my feet. I wore white underpants “tighty-whities” which were very fashionable at the time. The fitted me snugly and I was very conscious of the bulge in the front, which was a little larger than it had been five minutes ago. I had on a smart dress shirt with a tail that covered my buttocks and the backs of my thighs.

“You should lift up your shirt please and then bend over the back of the chair, thank you,” Mr. Adams sounded almost apologetic. I gathered up the cotton shirt and pulled it chest-high so that my flat, hairless stomach and lower back was uncovered. I hesitated for a second time. I needed to gear myself up for this. It would take some bravery on my part to go through with it. I saw the two ladies move behind me (for a better view presumably) as I fell forward over the chair. The leather was cold against my naked flesh and I shivered.

The issue about where to place hands and head resolved itself. I reached forward and gripped the far end of the soft seat cushion. My face stared down at a throw coloured in browns and yellows. I waited with anticipation for the first stroke to hit. But was it eagerness or fear?

Mr. Adams was not quite ready. He tapped the end of the cane across the centre of my bum. I could feel the cotton underpants had pulled tightly over my submissive bottom. I was presenting my landlord with a terrific target. The pants lifted and separated my cheeks creating a deep ravine between the two. In those days I was still fit and healthy, this was before years of pubbing with journalists and contacts took their toll. I had a thirty-inch waist and firm round buttocks.

Mr. Adams had found his aim; he lifted the cane away from my bottom. I gripped the cushion hard and concentrated on the autumnal pattern on the throw. My bum quivered. “Relax, relax,” Mr. Adams cooed. Then came the most excruciating pain I had ever felt. The whippy rattan whistled through the air before landing on the soft underside of my rear end. Air hissed through my clenched mouth, a strip of pain throbbed across both cheeks. My shoulders shuddered in sympathy.

That was my first-ever stroke of the cane. Mr. Adams gave me five more cuts. I was due six-of-the-best. My bum wriggled and writhed. My feet stomped into the plush deep-piled carpet. I hissed and yelped. Sweat soaked the back of my neck. My ears popped as blood thundered through my body.

Then it was over. “You may stand now,” Mr. Adams had replaced the cane under his arm by the time I stood and turned to face him. My head was light and spinning. Is it adrenalin? I had taken drugs before (and many since) but nothing compares to the high I get from a good thrashing. “You should get dressed,” Mr. Adams was kindness personified. I suppose he must have seen the erect cock pushing against the front of my tight pants. Before gingerly I pulled my trousers up I explored my sore seat with my two thumbs; my bum was corrugated. When I explored the damage later in my bedroom I found six dark welts running almost parallel across both buttocks. I had to conclude that Mr. Adams was an experienced and expert caner.

I lodged with Mr. Adams for another six months and you will not be surprised to hear I was often late with the rent. It nearly broke my heart when my work sent me to a newspaper 100 miles away to further my training and experience. But, I soon discovered The Whacko! Club, and that is a story (or stories) for another day.

Picture credit: Unknown

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Changed Times 7. Pub landlord

The Chamber pot incident

Vigilantes

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Better believe in Santa Claus

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Little Jimmy Lomas, six years old and a sweet as he could be, sucked the top of his red crayon.

Writing to Santa Claus was harder than he thought. He knew what toys he wanted Father Christmas to bring. Mummy had told him to write down a list. Later they would burn it on the open fire in the living room and it would go up the chimney. Then, at midnight Santa would come down that very chimney.

How did you spell “astronaut”? He would have to ask mummy. Just then the door opened and his older half-brother Lucas slouched in.

“What are you doing?” he sneered. “What’s this carrot and glass of milk?”

“It’s for Rudolph the reindeer and Santa,” Jimmy grinned. “You have to leave them or you don’t get any presents.”

Lucas snatched the paper from Jimmy’s hand. “Writing to Santa Claus. Don’t you know there’s no such thing as Santa Claus?”

Jimmy looked puzzled. Of course, there was a Santa Claus; he brought you presents. But only if you were a good boy. And, there was Rudolph and elves.

“It’s all made up, you moron,” Lucas sneered.

Jimmy’s eyes moistened. Tears trickled down his dimpled cheeks. “There is!! There is!”

Lucas smirked, “It’s my dad; he’s the one who gives you your presents.”

“Not true! Not true!” Jimmy fled from the room. “Mummy! Mummy!”

Lucas Lomas, twenty years old and as bitter as Kentucky sour mash. He hated Christmas. He hated his dad for divorcing and getting married again to a much younger woman. He hated his mother for throwing him out of her home days after he turned eighteen. He hated the way his copper-coloured hair curled and couldn’t be combed. His face was square and his nose too big. No girl would look at him twice.

He hated the sweaty room he lived in. He hated his job at the supermarket. He hated being forced to spend Christmas with his “family.”

His dad barged into the room, his face purple with fury. “What did you have to go and do that for? What’s Jimmy ever done to you?”

Lucas snarled, “Father Christmas. What a load of crap. There are at least five Santas in the High Street. How do you explain that to him?”

“I hope you’re not going to be like this all over Christmas?”

“Don’t worry, I’m going out with my mates.”

“Where you going?”

“None of your business.”

“Well don’t come back pissed and wake the house.”

“Don’t worry, and I promise not to disturb Santa and his reindeer.” He slumped on the couch and grabbed the television remote. “Fuck me, Morecambe and Wise again. They died before I was even born.”

“Ah! Christmas. Don’t you just love it,” his father reached to the sideboard and unscrewed the lid from the Eat Me Dates.

“Oh, I’m out of here.”

Two hours later Lucas and his pals were leaning against the bar of the Shaggy Dormouse, the place-to-be-seen when you were twenty and the-place-to-avoid at twenty-three. He slurped on his snakebite. The place was steaming and so were most of the customers, packed in cheek by jowl, an ocean of pasty-pale faces, except for the ones flushed deep pink with alcohol. There was no space to move, it was too loud to hear friends speak. It was people having fun on Christmas Eve.

After six pints at the Dormouse, Lucas and four pals bounced through the High Street. It might be Christmas Eve but they were dressed only in jeans and tee-shirts, the typical attire of the macho male.

“Shit. I need a piss,” Lucas hopped from one foot to another. “Over here,” he ran towards a doorway.

“You can’t. That’s someone’s flat.”

“Fuck that!” Lucas unzipped his jeans and a steaming stream of urine soaked the doorway.

“Let’s go to The Cock and do over some queers.”

“Nah, not tonight, The Beaver’s open. C’mon.”

It was nearly two in the morning. The walk home hadn’t done much to sober him up. Lucas tried once, he tried twice and only on the third attempt, and after closing one eye to gauge his distance, he poked the key into the slot and opened the door. A blast of icy cold air ripped his bare arms.

“What the …?”

It seemed to come from the living room. Lucas stood almost literally frozen. A pink radiance seeped from the room, the glow dazzled him. Suddenly sober, he edged closer to the light, shielding his eyes. He heard the sound. Rustling activity. Someone was in the room. A burglar.

“Who’s there?” he called, feeling foolish the moment the words left his lips. The rustling continued. Cautiously, attempting bravery he didn’t truly feel, Lucas inched further to the door.

The room glowed pink, like the cheapest club dancefloor. Lucas peered through hooded eyelids. A shadowy figure was under the Christmas tree, holding a tiny spacesuit.

“He’s thieving our presents,” Lucas thought. He said aloud, “Stop that, leave them alone.”

Lucas’s eyes burned, all he saw were blurs.

“Ho-ho-ho, young man,” the figure raised what looked like an empty glass in his hand in salute. “Don’t you know who I am? I’m Santa Claus.”

“Dad is that you? Stop pissing about.”

“Now, now Lucas, m’boy, watch your language. You’re in enough trouble as it is.”

Lucas paused. This wasn’t his dad. He wasn’t a burglar either. Not dressed in a Santa suit.

“Stop p…” he corrected himself just in time, “… playing around, who are you?”

“You know who I am Lucas. I am Santa Claus. And, you know why I am here. I give out presents to the nice children; but what do I do to the naughty ones, Lucas.”

The twenty-year-old gaped. How did this odd man know his name?

“Well, Lucas, what happens to the naughty boys?”

“I haven’t been naughty, Santa,” Lucas felt his cheeks flush. How absurd he felt, who was this weirdo?

“Come Lucas, I know you went to the toilet in the doorway of poor Mrs. Hetherington. Think how she’ll feel on Christmas morning when she has to clear up your mess.”

Lucas’s mouth opened and closed, but he couldn’t get words to form.

“I know what you said to Jimmy today,” Santa screwed up his face with distain, “That I don’t exist. Well we’ll see about that.”

Santa stretched his arms and glared at the shivering figure before him. “So, Lucas, what does Santa do to naughty boys?”

“Piss off.”

“Wrong answer, Lucas,” Santa stepped forward menacingly. Instinctively, Lucas turned to run. His legs wouldn’t work. He was rooted to the spot; unable to move.

“Not so fast, buster. We have unfinished business.”

Lucas’s heart pounded, he could only stand and watch. First, Santa picked up a small wooden chair and carefully placed in under the Christmas tree. “Ho-ho-ho,” he hummed to himself. Then, he turned to face the quivering young man. “Look at this Lucas,” he snapped his fingers and a heavy wooden clothes brush appeared in his gloved hand. “Look what Santa’s brought for you Lucas.”

Lucas stared transfixed. What had he just witnessed?

Santa sat on the small chair, spread his legs a little and wriggled his buttocks until he was comfortable. “Lucas, I want you to take down your jeans and your underpants and come and bend across Santa’s knee.”

“Piss off.”

“Tut-tut,” Santa shook his head, “You haven’t quite understood, have you?” Santa gave an exaggerated blink and he sat back in his chair.

Lucas tried to fight it; he couldn’t. It was like an out-of-body experience. His hands reached for his own belt buckle. There was nothing he could do. He had no control over his movements. In seconds the belt was loosened and his fingers fumbled with his zipper. Santa tapped the clothes brush into the palm of his left hand; watching. Waiting.

With the jeans at his feet, Lucas pinched the waistband of his Boxer shorts and with a deft flick of the wrist, he sent them south to join his jeans. The merest flicker of a smile was hidden by Santa’s untidy whiskers. It was not often he got to see such a package. Santa would never understand why Lucas couldn’t get himself a girl.

“Come, bend across my knee, Lucas,” Santa’s instruction was gentle. He knew it would be obeyed. When he thought about it later, and for the many times he would recall this night for the rest of his life, Lucas would never be able to explain what happened next. Meekly, he shuffled across the floor. He stood a foot or so to Santa’s left, staring down at the legs clad in bright red trousers. Then, and Lucas was almost certain of this, then of his own accord, he lowered himself forward. The palms of his hands rested on the carpet, his legs bent at the knees and the toecaps of his trainers hovered an inch above the ground. The smooth red material of Santa’s trousers felt warm against Lucas’s naked skin.

In the moments before the heavy wooden brush fell for the first time, Lucas’s conscience clicked in. “I deserve this. It is what I have always needed,” it told him.

Santa’s smooth gloved hand took hold of the tail of Lucas’s tee-shirt and moved it away from the target area. Then, he gently caressed first the right cheek and then the left. The young man’s bottom was fleshy. It had a lot of bounce. If Lucas didn’t change his lifestyle and cut down on the booze and hamburgers, he would soon run to fat.

Lucas stared down at the carpet, waiting patiently. His breathing was even, his heartbeat steady. He was calm.

But not for long. The first smack caught him in the centre of the left cheek; the brush sank into the fleshiest part of the buttock. Santa was satisfied with the deep pink outline the brush left behind. He was delighted with the eleven more he crashed into Lucas’s backside; all more or less on the same spot. Rat-a-tat-tat. It sounded like machinegun fire echoing around the room. Then, without a pause, Santa walloped a dozen into the right cheek.

The first stinging smack made Lucas’s mouth open, but no sound came out until the third one. It was a choked cry. By the time the brush bounced off his bum for the sixth time, he was squirming and wriggling. By a dozen his bum felt like he had sat on a barbecue.

The stinging, burning agony was kept alive by each whack from the heavy wooden brush. His bottom was blood-red and swollen, but Santa slammed the brush into his buttocks again and again and again. Lucas’s sobs became yelps and soon they were full-throated yells as he twisted and turned his body as if he was trying to swim off Santa’s lap.

It felt like hours to Lucas, but it was only minutes. Not one part of his buttocks and the back of his thighs was left unmarked. Santa spanked on and on. Lucas had an arse that cried out to be spanked and Santa never shirked his duty.

Father Christmas had seen many spanked bottoms in the hundreds of years he had been in the job, but nothing quite matched Lucas Lomas’s rear end. The mass of scarlet flesh was outstanding. It was like he was wearing a pair of red cycling shorts. Lucas lay slumped across Santa’s lap – literally a beaten man.

Santa raised his right hand to his mouth and with his teeth he loosened each finger until he was able to remove his woollen glove. Gently, he patted Lucas’s burning bum. Then, softly Santa made circular motions with his palm across both mounds. The flesh was hot to the touch. Lucas wheezed, Santa’s hand felt smooth against his roaring rear.

He was still face down and couldn’t see the broad grin splitting Santa’s face. “Well Lucas,” he beamed, ‘Do you believe in Santa Claus now?”

“Oh yes, Santa,” Lucas gasped. “”Yes, I do.”

Picture credit: Alan Paul

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Night Before Christmas

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It as the night before Christmas and little Joe was ever so excited. This was the time Santa came to deliver all his presents – and Joe had a very long list indeed.

It was late, almost midnight, and he knew he should be in bed, but he couldn’t pass up the chance of meeting Santa.

The house had no chimney and Joe was worried. How could Santa get in? Don’t worry, dada had said, he doesn’t have to use the chimney, he can get in by magic.

Satisfied, with dada’s explanation, Joe set out his store: a glass of milk for Santa and a carrot for the reindeer. It was a cold frosty night, but the central heating was on high, so Joe sat in the living room dressed only in his pyjamas and waited. His pyjamas were bright yellow with pictures of racing cars all over them. How he hated those pyjamas; he longed for a pair like the big boys wore with blue-and-white stripes and a drawstring around the waist to pull them together.

He was sleepy and dozing a little. Because it was Christmas Eve dada had prepared a big meal and there had been lots to drink. He had even eaten some Smarties. It was too much; his tummy was beginning to ache and he felt a little sick.

He checked over his list. A Playstation, an iPhone, a Tablet. Then there were what dada called the “stocking filers”; a table tennis bat, cricket stumps and a pair of bedroom slippers.

What a wonderful time he would have playing with all his new gifts. Yes, it would be a very merry Christmas indeed for Joe.

Suddenly, he heard a sound. It was soft and seemed a long distance off. What could it be, Joe wondered. Then he remembered the poem about the mouse and he was scared. You must be brave, he told himself. There’s nothing to be afraid off. A little mouse. But, he curled his legs up under him and sat back on the couch. A mouse couldn’t run up his pyjama trousers leg if he kept his feet off the floor.

But, it wasn’t a mouse. Slowly, the door opened. Joe’s tummy churned once more; the room was spinning a little; was he about to be sick?

“Ho-ho-ho!” He knew that sound. It was no mouse: it was Santa Claus and he had the reddest-red suit and the whitest-white beard and the roundest-round belly.

“Ho-ho-ho!” Santa roared. He really was the jolliest fellow, Joe thought; no wonder children all over the world loved him so much.

But, something was not quite right. Santa was not carrying a sack. Where were all the presents?

“Ho-ho-ho!” Santa’s record seemed to be stuck. Joe was panicking – where were his presents?

Joe was not always the politest little boy, especially when he wasn’t getting his way.

“Ho-ho-ho!” Santa was irritating Joe now. Where were his presents?

“Ho-ho-ho! little boy. Are you Joe?” Santa cheeks flushed bright red. It must have been the cold frosty air. The journey from Lapland had been a long one.

“Yes, Santa,” an excited Joe confirmed who he was. His face brightened, but he was still puzzled for he could see no presents.

“Ho-ho-ho,” uninvited Santa rested his big fat body down on the couch, forcing Joe to uncurl his legs and make room. He was a very irritated little boy.

“Where are my presents?” he snapped.

“Presents?” Santa looked at him quizzically. “Presents? Which presents are they?”

Joe pursed his lips. This wasn’t how it was meant to be. “The Playstation, iphone, the ….” He recited his long list of demands. “I sent you the letter weeks ago,” he finished, as if this somehow proved his point.

Santa’s face clouded. He enjoyed his job most of the time. Who wouldn’t like being Santa; you only worked one night of the year and you brought joy and happiness to children. Yes, it was a lovely job. But, there was a downside.

“Only good boys get presents,” Santa was feeling grumpy, he wanted to get on with this. “Have you been a good boy Joe?”

“Yes, I have!” he huffed and only just stopped himself adding, “Now, give me my presents.”

“Ho-ho-ho,” there he went again. “No, Joe. I have you down on the naughty boys list.” And as if to prove a point he pulled a large sheet of writing paper from his pocket.

Joe’s eyes widened. What nonsense was this? He had stayed awake until nearly midnight waiting for this magical fat man to appear and now what? No presents.

“No, Santa, I’ve been a good boy,” and then he flashed his cutest “little boy” smile, the one that broke the hearts of so many, and said, “Honest, Santa. I’m a good boy.”

Santa snorted. There was no ho-ho-ho this time. “No, Joe. That’s not true now is it? Listen to this list. You don’t do your chores at home; you are disrespectful to your dada; you sometimes go out to play and stay out late.”

“No, Santa, no, it’s not true,” Joe wailed. This was not going to plan at all. But, the naughty little boy could deny it all he liked – he, and Santa, knew it was true.

“Do you know what Santa does to naughty boys, Joe?”

“No, Santa,” he spoke as if he genuinely did not.

“Santa takes them across his knee, Joe, and Santa spanks their naughty bottoms, that’s what Santa does Joe.” Then, he added, making Joe’s blood curdle, “Ho-ho-ho.”

“No, Santa, no! I’m a good boy. I am. Really!” But Joe was only adding the crime of lying to Santa to all the others on the list.

Santa hauled himself off the couch. Joe stared wide-eyed as Santa rummaged in a deep pocket and with his own eyes gleaming, he pulled out a heavy wooden clothes brush.

“Ho-ho-ho. Look Joe, look what Santa’s got for you!”

“No, Santa!” Alarmed, Joe tried to make a run for the door, but fat old Santa was too quick for him. He gripped the terrified little boy by his arm and pulled him forward. It took only a moment for Santa to retain his seat on the couch and drag the kicking and wailing naughty little boy face down across his knees.

“No, Santa, no. I’m sorry. I’ll be a good boy. Please. You can keep the presents. I don’t want them.”

Ha! Santa beamed. That’s what all the boys say. They will plead and promise him anything – as long as he didn’t spank them.

But, Santa had his job to do. Joe must have his bottom spanked. He had to stick to the rules. It was only the threat of a spanking from Santa at Christmas that kept many naughty boys on the straight and narrow.

Joe was in no position to argue. Santa had him pinned across his legs, so that his head and chest rested along the couch on one side and his legs stretched out behind him on the other. His naughty little spankable bottom rested vulnerably over Santa’s crotch. Joe wriggled to the left and the right, but Santa’s grip was tight and he was going nowhere.

“Ho-ho-ho,” Santa gripped the waist of Joe’s pyjama bottoms and tugged them down.

“No, Santa, no,” Joe gasped, but by now he realised he had no choice. Santa was in charge. He could do anything he wanted to and there was nothing the naughty little boy could do to stop it.

“Ho-ho-ho,” Santa admired the sight across his lap. It was a smooth pert bottom, and completely hairless, as were the boy’s thin legs.

Santa wasn’t quite ready to go. He pulled off his thick woollen gloves and with the palm of his right hand he gently caressed Joe’s buttocks; making circular motions, first on the right cheek and then the left. The buttocks clenched and rose off Santa’s lap in protest.

“You have a lovely bottom, Joe. Very boyish. I shall enjoy spanking it. It feels very soft. Very soft and very small, but nicely rounded,” Santa kept his thoughts to himself.

Instead, he said. “Relax Joe. It is better if you relax. You know that.” Santa’s words were kind. He did not despise the boy across his laps. He had been naughty and like all naughty boys, he deserved to have his bare bottom spanked. And it would happen. But, then it would be over. Joe would have atoned for his naughtiness and everyone could get on with their lives.

“Ho-ho-ho,” Santa chuckled as he raised the heavy wooden clothes brush about three inches above the boy’s right buttock and whacked it down into the fleshiest part of the cheek. Joe winced, but had no time to do anything else before the next blow fell, this time across the left buttock.

The boy gasped a little. It hurt, but not much. Santa slapped the brush down for a quick dozen whacks. Santa could see Joe’s bottom was warming up nicely. Yes, it was a lovely shade of pink.

“Ho-ho-ho,” Santa was enjoying himself now.

Joe’s bottom was beginning to throb with the pain and he tried to move his right hand to protect his cheeks but Santa was having none of it. He leaned across the boy making it impossible for him to reach back to his increasingly reddening bottom. But Joe continued to writhe and squirm uselessly while kicking his legs up and down against the soft cushion of the couch. Santa dominated him completely.

“Stop it Joe, I am going to spank you until I think you’ve been properly punished, and until I reach that point, I’m just going to keep stinging that bare bottom of yours hard and fast,” and Santa whacked the brush again and again into Joe’s bouncing bottom, concentrating  on the very tender spot where the cheeks join the thighs.

In the distance, church bells were calling out for Midnight Mass. It was getting late, Santa wanted to move on. He had other things to do tonight before he could fall into his bed.

Satisfied that he had delivered a classic old-fashioned bottom warming with all the trimmings, Santa finally stopped. He released his grip on the naughty little boy across his lap and Joe sprang to his feet, clasping his sore bottom with both hands.

“Ho-ho-ho!” Santa beamed. Joe’s cock was pointing at him at a forty-five degree angle, rigid and inviting. Its uncut tip glistened.

Santa ripped off his fat suit and stood in his boxers and vest. His own member throbbed to escape the confines of the tight cotton shorts. He wouldn’t be able to control it for too much longer.

Joe’s grin was so wide it seemed his face might split in two. This was what he really loved about Christmas. Tradition. He and Jamie had played this game every year since they first met.

Joe sank to his knees and took Jamie’s cock sideways in his mouth, running his tongue along the shaft from the ball sack to the moist tip.

Jamie reeled back in ecstasy. “Ho-ho-ho! Here cums Santa Claus!” he shrieked.

First published Christmas 2015

Picture Credit: Unknown

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Morning After the Night Before

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Steve stood shivering in his vest and underpants. It was the cold. And the anger. Mostly it was his anger. “I cannot believe the way he behaved,” he fumed. “I’ll never hear the end of this.”

He pulled on his trousers and a shirt and shuffled into the bathroom. The shower was warm. It dealt with his cold. But not his anger.

Soon, he was in the kitchen opening and banging shut cupboard doors. He slammed a bowl onto the table and sent an avalanche of cornflakes into it. A handful missed and sprayed onto the floor. He left them there. The brat Tony could deal with them later.

Steve opened the fridge, picked up a carton and sniffed it. He drenched the cereal with milk and bounded into the living room. He switched on the gas fire. The chill soon disappeared. But not his fury. He sat back in an armchair and gulped his breakfast. Needles were falling off the Christmas tree. Why did they have to get a real tree, he wondered. They were more trouble than they were worth. He’d be picking needles out of his feet for days.

Christmas was nearly over for another year. Thank the Lord. Why did they bother? He had spent the day with his parents and family. He and Tony. That’s what you were supposed to do at Christmas. It was a time for families. Everybody knew that. It was in all the TV commercials. Happy, smiling faces.

Bah! Humbug!

Drunkenness. Rows, recriminations. Words said that could never be unsaid. There had very nearly been a fist-fight. Tony was in the middle of it all.

Steve returned to the kitchen. Ran his bowl under the tap. Switched on the kettle. Sat. Waited. Upstairs floorboards creaked. Tony was up. Steve’s heart raced. There would have to be a confrontation. It couldn’t be avoided. Tony couldn’t be allowed to get away with it.

Kettle boiled. Coffee made. Steve was back in the front room. He switched on the television and ran through three hundred and ten channels. Then he switched it off. Nothing worth watching. Went to the window. Cold grey skies. December. Why did it never snow at Christmas? Wasn’t it supposed to be a tradition?

The door opened. Tony stood on the threshold. Not sure whether to enter the room. Steve’s glare sent him scuttling to the kitchen.

“Don’t you run away from me!” Steve yelled after him.

“What do you want?” Tony stood sheepishly. Hopping from foot to foot. Hands to his front. Fingers entwined. A very naughty boy.

“You know damn well.”

Tony stared at the carpet. Silent.

“I have never been so embarrassed in my life.”

“What’s it to do with you, anyway?”

Steve flushed. “How dare ….”

Tony cut him off. “You need to remember you’re my kid brother.”

“That’s it. That’s it.” Steve rose from his chair and advanced on Tony. His brother dodged into the kitchen. “Get back here. I’m going to do what Dad should have done yesterday.”

“Oh do shut up!”

“Get back in here now!”

Tony returned, coffee mug in hand.

“Put that down. Get over here.” Steve pulled a hard-seated dining room chair into the middle of the room.

“Piss off. You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“You behave like a brat; I’ll treat you like one.”

Tony gulped on his coffee. He gasped. Too hot.

“Get over here.”

“Have you taken leave of your senses. No way.”

Steve sat down. Spread his legs wide. “I won’t tell you again.”

Tony’s face was crimson; his heart pounded.

“No, c’mon Steve. I’m sorry.”

“No you’re not. You enjoy it. You go out of your way to wind them up. You spoiled everyone’s Christmas Day.”

“Come off it. They didn’t need me. Aunt Edna could do that on her own. And, Mum’s not much better.”

“You started it.”

“No I didn’t. Edna did. Going on about me having no job. And you having to put me up to keep me off the streets.” Tony bristled. He was having a hard time of it. He didn’t need his family to rub it in.

Steve seized his chance. “If you don’t want to go back on the streets, you’d better do what I say.”

A flash of anger. Controlled just in time. “C’mon Steve.” Pleading in his voice. This was just too embarrassing.

“Let’s have those trousers down. Pants too.”

“C …” Tony cut his own sentence. What could he say? What could he do? His own kid brother had him by the short and curlies. Would he really throw him out the house? He just might. Tony couldn’t take the chance.

“Quickly. Or do you want me to do it for you.” Steve rose from the chair.

“Leave me alone.”

“Shall we go upstairs and pack your bag?” Steve was reasonableness itself. As if his elder brother had any choice.

“No, I didn’t think so. Come here.” He reached for Tony’s left arm and dragged him along. He sat on the chair and tugged his brother by the waist. No resistance. The belt unbuckled easily. The front of the trousers opened. They slid to his knees. Baggy, ill-fitting Boxer shorts followed.

“Get over my knee,” Steve growled and he guided his brother face-down.

“Just like Dad used to do it.” Steve’s palm smacked into Tony’s ample arse. Up and down; up and down. He was surprised how quickly the image of his hand was imprinted time and again in the pink wobbly flesh.

Tony gasped. Surprised how much it hurt. Steve smacked on. Hard. Rapid. Continuous. Soon, every square inch of his big round bum was a dark pink. Satisfied with his work so far, he started on the back of the thighs.

“Ooohh.” That hurt. Tony wriggled. Kicked his legs about.

“No you don’t.” Steve lay his arm across his brother’s back. He was going nowhere.

It seemed like an hour to Tony, but it was probably only a couple of minutes.

“Are you learning your lesson?”

Silence.

Smack! Smack!

“Do I need to go fetch the bath-brush!”

“No. No. I’m learning … I’ve learnt my lesson.”

“I’m not so sure.”

Another minute or so. Another hundred rapid spanks. Steve’s palm was raw. But, he knew darn well, not as sore as his brother’s buttocks. The flesh shook as each successive slap sank home.

“Enough. Stand up.”

Tony struggled to his feet. Couldn’t look his brother in the eye. Bent and retrieved his Boxers. Then, his trousers. His bum was hot. Throbbing. Had his Dad’s spankings ever hurt so much?

Steve rose. Put the chair back where it belonged.

“Why don’t you piss off back to your room. Keep out of my sight for the rest of the day.”

Tony took the stairs two at a time. Crashed through the door. Whipped his trousers and pants down. Poked his bum at the mirror. What a sight. Could a hand really do so much damage?

Fell face down on the bed. Rubbed his sore bum. Tears welled in his eyes. Forty years old and spanked by his kid brother. Who would ever believe it?

Picture credit: C of Sweden

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Book. Collection of Spanking Stories

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Charles Hamilton II’s Collection of Spanking Stories

Here’s another free-to-download book containing a selection of my favourite male-on-male spanking stories. It has some of my earliest writings and some of my most recent. I hope there’s something for every taste from military, judicial, dad-and-son, the vicar, my best friend and many more besides. All characters are aged 18 or over.

The book which also has many illustrations runs for more than 26,000 words.

Please enjoy.

Click on the link below to download Charles Hamilton II’s Collection of Spanking Stories

collection-of-spanking-stories-vol-1-by-charles-hamilton-ii

Picture credit: Mancspank

For more free-to-download books click here

 

Book. Six of the best school stories

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Six of the best school stories

In this free-to-download book of stories we venture behind the walls of the school. The swish of the rattan and the crack of the paddle resound. Pyjama bottoms are lowered. Men of all ages present their bottoms for chastisement. A prefect shows a new boy at school who is boss and we get an insight into the life of the author Charles Hamilton II. But which of the stories is inspired by a real incident in his life? You work it out.

This book runs for more than 17,000 words and like the other books in this series it can be downloaded as a PDF file and read on your computer, laptop or a variety of e-book readers.

Click on the link below:

six-of-the-best-school-stories-by-charles-hamlton-ii

Picture credit: Unknown

For more free-to-download books click here