The Letter

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Mr. Rouke stared down at the letter as he fingered buttered toast into his mouth. Brocklehurst University, Registrar’s Office. Addressed to his son. He didn’t need X-ray eyes to tell its contents. The Christmas vacation was here. Examinations had been taken, results released.

He licked a drop of butter from his lips and picked up his tea cup. Why would they be writing to Jimmy, he wondered. The results would have been put online ages ago, before the students set off for their homes.

It could only mean one thing. Trouble. He looked at the carriage clock. Nearly eight o’clock, he must leave for work soon. He really didn’t want this hanging over him all day. He strode to the bottom of the stairs. “Jimmy!!” he called.

His wife’s face appeared over the upstairs banister. “He’ll still be in bed. Asleep most likely.”

“Mr. Rouke’s face contorted. “What time did he get in last night? Or do I mean this morning?”

His wife shrugged her shoulders; she knew her husband didn’t really want an answer.

“Doh. Wake him up. Tell him to get down here straight away.” He returned to the dining room, poured a second cup of tea and waited. From a distance he heard voices. Jimmy was resisting.

“James! Get down here now!” he called from the stairs . “Don’t make me have to come up!”

James. That’s what did it. Dad only called him James when he was angry with him. Better not make matters worse. The bedroom door opened and with bleary eyes Jimmy appeared. He wrapped the jacket of his pyjamas around his body. There was a nip in the air. “Wossup!” he called from the top of the stairs.

“Get down here, you’ll find out soon enough,” his Dad said sullenly. “Hurry up about it. Some of us have got work to go to.”

Jimmy padded down the carpeted stairs. The pile felt warm beneath his bare feet. He entered the room, “Wossup,” he said a little more softly this time, sensing trouble.

“That,” Mr. Rouke nodded at the letter on the table. “Why’s the university writing to you?”

“Oh, um, nothing, everyone gets one,” Jimmy blustered, his face blanching. He reached over to pick it up. “Not so fast, open it,” Dad grabbed the letter and handed it across to the eighteen-year-old. He didn’t need to be a detective to know the envelope contained bad news.

They had argued at midterm. Jimmy’s results had been appalling. He was headed for failure. Too much time spent at the Student Union, not enough in the lecture hall and library.

Jimmy’s hands shook as he tried to get a corner of the envelope’s flap to rip the letter open. There would be no escaping the consequence. At last, the envelope open, he withdrew the single sheet. His pale face darkened as he scanned the heading.

“Give it here,” his Dad snatched it from his grasp. “What’s it say?” he read swiftly. There were not many words. The heading summed it up perfectly. “Notice of Impending Failure.” A grade-point-average of less than two: courses would have to be resit.

Mr. Rouke sucked in breath. He wasn’t trying to quell his anger. He was angry. He wanted to be angry. It was costing a fortune to send his layabout son to university. What a waste. He looked up at his son. Jimmy cowered. His father stood between himself and the door. There was no escape.

“Right.” Mr. Rouke strode forward, picked up an armless dining chair and turned it towards him. Then, he reached across and gripped Jimmy by the wrist. “No Dad, no,” his son moaned.

“Pah!” Mr. Rouke ejected a puff of wind through almost clenched teeth. He sat on the chair and tugged his son face down across his lap. “No, Dad, no,” Jimmy wailed, “I’m too old for this.”

The teenager wriggled from left to right as his Dad gripped the elasticated waist of his pyjama bottoms and with two tugs had Jimmy’s buttocks exposed. “You’ll be too old when you have learned to be a responsible adult,” he growled as he spanked his rough palm across the boy’s bare bottom.

“No, no, no,” Jimmy writhed, kicking his legs, head bucking. Dad had a firm grip of the boy and he was going nowhere. Not until Dad had purged his annoyance. After a few dozen spanks, Jimmy’s bottom had turned a deep pink. “Ha!” his Dad stopped hammering his palm into the boy’s bum.

“This is no good,” Dad’s hand was hurting much more than his son’s bottom. “Get up.” He released his grip and Jimmy shot to his feet and bent down to pull up his pyjamas. “Leave them!” The intensity of the command startled Jimmy. “Leave them. Stand there. Don’t you dare move,” Dad  snarled and hurriedly left the room.

Jimmy stood, pyjamas at his feet, his cock and balls dangling, and watched Dad’s departing figure. What had he gone to fetch? His slipper? Mum’s hairbrush perhaps? He didn’t have to wait long to find out. Almost immediately, Dad returned. Jimmy blinked in disbelief and took a step backwards as Mr. Rouke re-entered the room.

“B.. b..” Jimmy was dumbfounded. Under his arm, Dad held an thick, whippy authentic crook-handled rattan school cane. “B.. b..” Jimmy tried again but no words would come.

Dad smiled sardonically, “I bought it on eBay, after out little talk at midterm. I thought it might be needed.” He slipped the cane into his hand and wobbled it at Jimmy. Then he swiped it through the air. Jimmy who had never seen a cane before – they had been banned from schools thirty years ago – watched transfixed. Then Dad took the cane between his hands and flexed it. It was extremely flexible. Then, as a final flourish, Dad swished it once more. Jimmy’s throat dried. It was a mightily effective rod and there was no doubt what Dad intended to do with it.

Dad moved forward, gripped Jimmy by the arm and propelled him across the room. With the pyjamas at his ankles, the eighteen-year-old shuffled like a penguin. They reached the table where Dad released his grip and simultaneously pushed his son in the back. He fell face down across the table. It was oblong-shaped and Jimmy’s torso fitted it snugly. Dad pushed his arm into the small of the boy’s back. “Don’t you dare move.” Still holding his son, Dad raised the cane and whipped it across the centre of his buttocks. A dark pink line immediately appeared. Jimmy howled.

What followed wasn’t pretty. This was not a scene with a boy submitting himself like a gentleman for a caning. He did not hold his bottom high for deserved lashes from the rod. There was no ritual; no shake of the hand at the end between punished and punisher. No “thank-yous” from a boy who knew he had done wrong and deserved his punishment.

Instead, we had one stroppy teenager, howling, fighting, swearing as his furious father lashed the cane at the struggling buttocks in the best way he could. Most swipes met their intended target; a few did not. That was why Jimmy had so many red marks across the back of his naked thighs. The pain there was excruciating; for this is a far more sensitive area than the buttocks. Ironically, had Jimmy been a more experienced receiver of the cane, he would know the best way to endure a beating is through stoicism: offer up your bum, let the master do his business and take it as best you can. Six evenly delivered strokes across proffered buttocks (clothed or naked) will hurt (a lot), but that pain is as nothing compared to the agony of lashes delivered to all parts of the legs and body. Who was it said that God made the buttocks for spanking?

Jimmy’s howls were awesome. He would live to regret not taking his punishment quietly, like a man. As Dad whipped and Jimmy hollered, Dan, an ex-school pal of the boy’s, pulled up outside in a delivery van. Christmas was a busy time, and there was none to waste. He took his package and skipped up the garden path. As he opened the door to the porch he heard the yelling. And who could not? Intrigued, he followed the noise. He didn’t have far to go. The window was two metres away.

He stared, possibly open-mouth. A grin split his face. What joy. For this was Jimmy Rouke, a boy at school who had made his life a torment. Queer this, poofter that. He never let off. Dan reached for his phone, found the right app and held it close to the window.

That night the video was shared countless times by Jimmy’s pals. After Dan uploaded it to boyzblazingbuttz it clocked up 250,000 views before Christmas.

Revenge, they say is a dish best served cold.

 

Picture credit: Mancspank

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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

used drawing christmas otk CS (20)

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

After the party

The parent-teacher association Christmas party was in full swing in the school hall. Wine was being glugged and cheese snacks nibbled. Adam and Steve, senior prefects and bastions of St Simon’s Independent Grammar School, their hosting duties nearly at an end, hurried away from the festivities.

“Quick, in here,” Adam opened a classroom door and ushered his pal into the darkened room. He removed a torch from the pocket of his fancy green and red school blazer and directed its beam into the far corner. “Look what I’ve got.” He leaned forward and picked up a wine bottle. “Goldener Oktober, Liebfraumilch,” he beamed. “Classy stuff. There’s another bottle there,” he nodded into the shadows. “They’ll never miss a couple.”

He pulled out his Swiss Army knife, cut the metal fastening on the bottle and dug out the cork. Then he raised the bottle to his lips and drank heartily before handing it to Steve. The wine was warm, even though the room was not. Steve shivered as the alcohol hit his stomach. Within seconds the bottle was half empty.

The two eighteen year olds perched their buttocks on the edge of a desk, their thighs touching. Their eyes met. Steve tilted his head. Opened his mouth a little. Leant towards Adam’s welcoming lips. Tongues entwined. Fingers ran through hair. The taste of wine intermingled with tobacco from cigarettes smoked earlier.

Adam pulled away. Couldn’t breathe. Needed air. Lungs once again full, he plunged forward. Cocks ached. Steve tugged at Adam’s belt buckle. Undid it. “No, not here,” Adam pushed his pal’s hands away. Not too vigorously. “Someone might come.”

“C’mon, there all at the party. It won’t finish for half hour at least.”

“Okay.” Adam had no willpower. He loved it when Steve tossed him off. Flies were soon undone and trouser fronts opened wide. Aching dicks strained against white cotton Y-fronts.

“Here, let me.” Steve tugged at the elastic waistband pulling the pants over his pal’s smooth buttocks and liberating the erect penis. Steve’s drowned his tongue with spit, leant forward, made a perfect “O” with his lips and took the swelling member in his mouth.

Mr Doughty, the housemaster of Queen’s, needed to pee. He had drunk too much wine and it was going straight through him. The boys’ bogs were close at hand. He would go there. He lurched down the passageway. It was too dark. He reached for the walls to guide him on his way. What was that noise? It sounded like a screeching cat.

He saw a faint light through the window of a classroom and went to investigate. He peered into the gloom and saw two sixth formers; one lying back across a desk, the other leaning into him with the boy’s cock in his mouth.

Doughty’s bladder was about to burst. He rushed on to the lavatories. He knew the boys. He taught one of them. White. What a delightful boy. His cobalt blue eyes could light up a classroom. His crooked smile melted the heart. Often Doughty dreamed of running his fingers through the teenager’s unruly fair hair.

The housemaster rested his head against cold wall tiles as he directed piss into the urinal, his cock stiffening in his hand.

Moments later he was back at the classroom. He shoved open the door and switched on the lights. “What the … ?” Two terrified pupils, trousers and underpants at their knees, gaped.

“I have never in my life … Words fail me …” the housemaster stared at Steve White’s steel-hard cock. Then, quickly averted his gaze.

“We have guests. Parents. School governors …” Doughty’s brain could not communicate with his mouth. His stomach churned. “My study. Tomorrow morning. Both of you.” He closed the door and unsteadily returned to the party, leaving behind two bewildered schoolboys.

The next day dawned brightly and sunbeams hit Steve in the face as he lay in bed. He had barely slept. His life was about to end. He and Adam had talked about it. Expulsion from school was the least of their worries. Would Doughty tell the police? Steve was too scared to go to prison. Everyone would know. His friends would desert him. God! What would his father say? Or do? Steve might be homeless before the day ended.

Doughty had a bad night too. His wife assumed he was drunk, as he often was. The schoolmaster’s mind was filled with the hugeness of Steve’s throbbing cock. When Doughty reached for it the teenager thrust his hips forward. The hot throbbing prick felt like a velvet covered steel rod in his hand; and, when Doughty started stroking it, Steve inhaled deeply, moaning softly.

Doughty’s own dick stood rock hard and his wife took full advantage.

Hours later, Adam and Steve stood fretfully outside the housemaster’s study. Steve could see his reflection in the shiny brass plate. He knocked nervously, waited for the call, “Enter”, turned the heavy handle and pushed open the door.

It was a large room with a desk in front of a bay window looking out onto the quadrangle. To one side was a two-seater sofa; on the other, a wall of books. There were a couple of straight-back wooden chairs in front of the desk, but the sixth formers knew they wouldn’t be invited to sit. The chairs would have a different function that morning.

Doughty sat in a leather swing chair glaring. The two teenagers stood meekly in front of the desk, eyes downcast at the patterned rug beneath their feet. Neither boy dared look straight ahead. They did not want to meet the icy stare of the housemaster. But worse than that, behind Doughty’s shoulders, screwed to the wall, was an ornate rack containing four yellow crook-handled rattan canes.

The boys shifted uneasily. Behind them an open fire blazed away. The heat was intense.

Doughty’s tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. He wanted to rip into the boys and tell them they were “disgusting perverts” but the tongue wouldn’t cooperate, except to make sputtering noises.

Eventually, he formed coherent words. “Revolting,” “Repulsive,” “Disgusting,” “Nauseating.”

Adam and Steve stood in silence, guts churning.

“I have the honour of the school to protect,” Doughty was in full flow now. “If I report you to the police, as indeed I could, it would do irreparable harm to the reputation of St Simon’s.” He watched carefully the boys’ reactions. Both were simultaneously deathly pale and sweating profusely.

“So, I will deal with the matter myself. Here. Now,” he growled.

Steve’s face flushed with relief. Adam stared impassively at his shoes.

“It will be a flogging,” Doughty croaked, suddenly his mouth drained of saliva.

He cleared his throat. “Stand facing the wall. Hands on head.” He watched intently as the two teenagers shuffled meekly into position. With hands on head, the tails of their blazers rose up their backs uncovering their backsides. Steve’s pale-grey trousers clung to his buttocks, so that each cheek was defined, the crack sharply divided by the seam of his trousers. Adam was quite different. His trousers appeared to be a size or two too large. Grey material folded across his backside and it was impossible to see where one buttock cheek ended and the other started.

Doughty heaved himself from his chair and walked to the front of the desk. He lifted the two straight-backed chairs closer to the middle of the room and arranged them so they were back to back. Then, he returned to his desk and reached up to the cane rack. All four canes were roughly the same length, a little over three feet, not counting the curved handles. They were of differing thicknesses and densities. He chose the cane at the top of the rack; it was a dark yellow and a little warped from age and use.

He flexed it thoughtfully between his hands. His mouth dried once more. He wished he had had the foresight to bring a glass of water from the staff common room.

“White. You first. Turn around.” Doughty swished the whippy cane through empty air. It made a terrific whooshing! sound as it went. Every nerve in Steve’s body seemed to him to jangle. Pins and needles shot up and down his arms. Slowly he turned. He saw the wicked rod in Doughty’s hands and the boy’s entire body succumbed to uncontrolled shaking and trembling.

“Stand there,” Doughty pointed the tip of his cane at a spot by the chair. Steve stumbled across the study, unable to fully control his legs.

“Hands on head.” Steve’s cobalt blue eyes dimmed. He couldn’t stop them blinking fast. Doughty stared into the teenager’s open face. The schoolmaster hadn’t before noticed how clear the boy’s skin was. In his present predicament, it was almost translucent. The wretched boy’s long curling eyelashes beat up and down. His usually smiling lips were downturned into a deep frown.

Doughty hesitated for a second, then he reached forward and unfastened Steve’s belt. He sensed the teenager’s shock as he fumbled with his zip and the front of his trousers fell open. Once done, Doughty gripped their back and lowered them to Steve’s ankles. Steve’s eyes closed. Doughy hesitated for another second before he gripped the back of Steve’s gleaming white Y-front underpants, inserted his fingers in the waistband and pulled them down exposing the boy’s limp cock and balls.

Steve opened his eyes in shock. They moistened immediately.

“Kneel on the chair,” Doughy tapped the wooden seat of one, “and stretch yourself across the back and hold on to the other chair.”

Steve stood rooted. He couldn’t move. His legs shook so violently he feared he would faint to the floor. “Get on with it,” Doughty couldn’t stop looking at Steve’s long, thin, cut, cock. Steve didn’t know how he willed himself to move. Soon he was in position, kneeling on one hard wooden seat and stretching across two chair backs to stare down at a different worn wooden seat. His knees hurt terribly.

Doughty walked slowly around the prostrate boy. With his back arched and his legs apart the housemaster had a perfect view into Steve’s hairless crack. The boy’s buttocks were as smooth as a baby’s and his ball sack and cock dangled.

The buttocks trembled and Steve’s hole winked open and shut with nervousness. Doughty gripped the boy’s blazer and tugged it up his back. Now there were several inches of bared back. It was as hairless as the boy’s bottom. Doughty gave the naked bottom a preliminary smack with his open palm. There was a sound of flesh meeting flesh. The bottom wobbled at the contact. Steve, his face in close proximity to the chair seat, gave a sharp gasp. This was mortifying.

used drawing cane hold (28)

Doughty raised his cane. Bent across two chairs, Steve was in the perfect position for his punisher to whip the cane at force into the fleshiest part of the backside. Doughty placed the cane just below the apex of the mounds and rubbed it backwards and forwards. He felt Steve’s body tense. The buttocks clenched. Steve gripped the wooden chair so hard his knuckles began to whiten.

He felt the cane move away from his bared bottom, there was a second or so pause and then an almighty whooshing noise resounded around the study. Steve felt the intense agony a split-second later. It felt like the housemaster had pressed a red-hot wire into his rear. Saliva washed his mouth. He choked. For a moment he feared he would gag and send a stream of vomit across the room. Instead, a deadly howl screeched from his throat. His body shuddered, his hips juddered and his head bounced up and down.

Doughty observed with great satisfaction as a dark red welt formed across the very centre of Steve’s previously snow-white bottom. Suddenly and without warning a tremendous rage engulfed Doughty. How he hated the pretty boy whose arse was now wobbling in agony across the hard wooden chairs. The same boy he had caressed in his dreams.

He raised his right arm high and brought the cane down with tremendous power again and again in mighty strokes. Deep red welts crisscrossed the firm young buttocks and Steve yelled out his torment uncontrollably, tears pouring down his pale cheeks. Lumpy red welts blossomed under persistent lashes from the raging housemaster. Steve yelled in torment, his body flailing as each new cane stroke whipped into his agonised buttocks, now red raw from the relentless bombardment. His crimson bottom humped up and down frenziedly.

Doughty gave him twelve strokes in total. When he had finished a tense silence fell in the study as Doughty’s eyes focused intently on the Steve’s flogged buttocks, the deep dividing cleft, the glimpse of fair curling hair at the confluence with the thighs. Steve silently gulped in great draughts of air, filling his lungs. Tears flowed like a river going downhill. His chin was covered in snot.

Adam stared in wonder. He had witnessed each frenzied stroke of the cane as it cut his lover’s bare arse to shreds. His own head popped as blood thrashed through his body. He could hardly catch his breath. Adam gaped as he watched Steve’s body wriggle and writhe as the teenager fought to come to terms with the agony travelling through his entire body from his savaged buttocks.

Doughty swished the cane though the air and wobbled it in Adam’s face. “Your turn,” the master growled. “Trousers, pants down.”

Adam stood fixed to the spot. Rooted. No way could he take down his trousers. The humiliation would be too great. Doughty flexed the cane between his two hands and stared intently at the school prefect standing before him. Sweat poured down the teenager’s brow, his face was deathly pale. Doughty’s lips curled. He lay down the cane on his desk and silently reached for Adam’s belt buckle. Within seconds, the trousers and pants were at the eighteen-year-old’s knees revealing his rock-hard erection glistening with pre-cum.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first published in December 2016.

Other stories you might like

The pubbing sixth-formers

A whopping for Warminster

By order of the court

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Home for the Holiday

z used drawing man in armchair with slipper (1)

I stared into the room and dad was seated in an armchair apparently reading a book. There could be no doubt about my fate. He had already removed one of his slippers from his foot. I know what you’re thinking; this is the twenty-first century; nobody gets spanked any more. But, I think dad’s head is in the nineteen-thirties somewhere. You only have to look at the way he dresses.

It started three months previously. I was on my way to university. He gave me the lecture. The whole nine yards. Study hard. Keep out of the pubs. This is costing us a fortune. Blah, blah, blah.

There was blah, blah, from mum too. Eat properly. Fruit. Vegetables. But most of it was from dad. Pass those exams. He didn’t actually say, or else, but I knew him well enough to add that part myself.

Did I do as I as told? I’m eighteen. What do you think? It was my first time away from home. There was beer to be drunk and parties to go to. Then there were the girls, but none of the lads got as much as they claimed. At least, I hope not. Please don’t let me be the only virgin at uni.

I was on nodding terms with the lecture halls and at a stretch I might be able to name one or two of my lecturers. But mostly I was missing in action.

When the exam results came out this morning, I had four Fs and a D-minus. Four fails and a scraped pass. Dad might have old-fashioned attitudes, but he knows his way around a modern computer. He knew my grades before I did.

It was my elder brother Harley who gave me the news. I was under the duvet having a four-finger shuffle when he burst in my room. “Dad wants to see you,” he couldn’t keep the joy out of his voice. “Now.”

He must have seen the puzzled look on my face. What had I done? He can’t have heard already that last night I was caught stealing a bottle of tequila from the supermarket where I work.

“Uni results,” Harley’s face brightened. He swished his arm through the air imitating dad and his slipper. “Ouch,” he laughed, clasping his hands on his buttocks. “You’d better get a shift on. He’s pretty mad.”

I rolled out of bed. I was wearing my underpants and a tee-shirt. I stepped into my jeans. They were heavy denim. I pulled them up and buckled the belt. The thick material stretched across my buttocks. I ran my hands across them. Yep, they would be some protection against dad’s slipper.

Who was I kidding? The jeans would be at my ankles and my pants at the knees.

I shuffled down the stairs. It was only a few days before Christmas and there was a frost on the back lawn. The house was chilly but I couldn’t feel it. I was burning up. I couldn’t get my heart to stop racing.

Dad was waiting. He had already taken one of his slippers off his foot. I stood at the open doorway, not wanting to enter. My eyes transfixed on that slipper. It wasn’t as big as bedroom slippers usually are. It was a slip-on affair. You’d have thought it couldn’t do much damage; even on the bare. You’d be wrong. The sole was supple leather. That slipper packed a punch harder than a leather paddle and in dad’s experienced hand it would scorch my bum.

There was more blah, blah, blah from dad. What had I told you? Why didn’t you study? Do you think we’re made of money? What could I say? I stood, every inch a naughty boy. Everything dad said was true. I had royally screwed up.

I mumbled an apology. I’ll try harder next semester. He growled back. There won’t be a next semester for you. He had read it on the university website. I had failed so many courses I wouldn’t be allowed back for at least a semester, then I’d have to start all over again. Shit. I genuinely did not know that. If I did, I would’ve put in a bit of effort.

So, I was excluded from university. For many, that would be punishment enough. Not for dad. He wanted his pound of flesh. Or more accurately he wanted to pound my flesh. My bared backside. He was a man of few words. He knew what he was going to do and he knew that I knew too. He didn’t have to spell it out.

He nodded towards the dining room table. “Jeans. Pants. Down. Bend over.” He picked up the slipper from the floor and waved it at me as if there was any doubt about what he intended to do next.

So, there I was, just about to turn nineteen preparing myself to be spanked by my dad. I was pretty sure I wasn’t the only kid who failed at university, but it was a fair bet I’d be the only one showing his father his bared buttocks for a taste of the slipper.

I know from painful experience I had to submit myself willingly to my dad. He would not hear any argument. There was to be no pleading. I must make no attempt to evade punishment. My job was to take the jeans and pants down, lift my shirt half way up my back and bend forward across the table. Dad’s preferred method was for me to lie flat on the table. It puts my bum at a perfect angle for him to catch the fleshiest part of the buttocks, the underside of the curves. That’s the most painful spot to aim for.

I closed my eyes and fumbled for the buckle of my belt. I popped the button on the waistband and pulled the zipper. The heavy jeans slithered down my thighs and bunched at my knees. I opened my legs slightly and they continued their journey to my ankles. Then, I gripped the elastic in my pants and tugged them over my bum and let them stay at my thighs. A cold draught caught my cock and balls.

I opened my eyes long enough to waddle across the floor to the table. I paused for a moment. I could hear my dad breathing heavily behind me and the slap, slap, slap he made as he smacked the slipper into the palm of his hand. I pulled my shirt up, took a deep breath and fell forward across the table.

I parted my legs offering my dad a larger target. I did this even though I knew he would be able to see into my crack. I was pretty sure it was clean. I hadn’t taken a crap since I showered yesterday morning.

I couldn’t see what happened next, but dad walked to the far end of the room, removed his jacket, then took a short run towards me and landed the first swat. A loud splat filled the room. I gasped. It hurt like crazy. I could feel the heat in my left buttock rising. Dad walked back to his starting position. My bum throbbed like mad. He ran again and whacked my right bum cheek. Air escaped with a long hiss through my clenched lips. That hurt more than the first.

But he wasn’t finished yet. My bum felt like it was on fire and each new hard spank seemed to fan the flames. I was astonished by the fantastic heat. My bum was sizzling. Sweat poured down my face. I wasn’t crying – I never do – but my face was drenched. I couldn’t catch my breath. Each time I sucked in air, dad would land his leather slipper and I would gasp it all out again.

It doesn’t matter how many times you get slippered, it hurts like holy fuck. I knew by the time dad was ready to let me go both buttocks and the back of my thighs would be glowing red hot. When I inspected the damage in my bedroom mirror bruises would have formed. They would turn all colours of the rainbow for many days before finally fading away.

Dad stopped his run-ups. He was standing over me now, crashing the slipper hard and fast into my buttocks from a distance of only inches. The pain was intense. Burning. Scolding. It felt like I’d sat in a bath of boiling water.

Suddenly, the door opened. Mum stood embarrassed. “Sorry,” she whispered. “I thought you had finished.”

“Nearly finished,” dad said as he pounded another dozen into my stretched flesh. Then he finished. “Was there something?” he asked as if it was perfectly natural to have a half-naked eighteen-year-old boy draped across the dining room table.

“Yes,” my mother replied softly. “Mr. Blenkinsop from Harry’s supermarket is on the phone. He’s asking to speak to you.”

I screwed my eyes tight. When dad heard about my thieving my bottom would glow all over again. Like a tequila sunset.

Picture Credit: Unknown

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

If you dress like a little boy …

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Uncle Vernon had gone doo-lally. Crazy. Off his trolley. Bonkers. He said to me if I insisted on dressing like a little kid, he would treat me like one. If I didn’t buck up my ideas he would take me over his knee and spank my backside. Very hard indeed.

It was the short trousers that set him off. We all wear them. Grey shorts. They’re not like the ones people wear in summer, these are proper tailored short trousers. Trousers that are short. Like the ones eight year olds wear to school. Except I’m nineteen and at college.

The band The Dudes wear them and that set the fashion. We don’t dress up in the full school uniform, with blazers and caps; that would be too kinky. We usually wear a coloured shirt or a patterned jumper. The short trousers look really smart. The girls love them, especially if the boy has great legs and a terrific arse (which in all modesty, I do).

I’d not been getting on too well with Uncle Vernon. I’ve been lodging with him and Aunt June for nearly a year since my family moved to London with Dad’s job. I’m doing my City & Guilds in plumbing at Brocklehurst Tech. and it was best for me to stay behind and lodge with my uncle and aunt.

Things hadn’t been going too well. Uncle Vernon reckoned I needed taking down a peg or two. “You treat this house like a hotel, you stay out late, you’re never on time for meals and you’ve been skiving off college. And,” he said with some menace in his tone, “you disrespect Aunt June.”

I hadn’t thought about it until he had his little rant, but I was guilty as charged. On all counts. I had been spending a lot of time out the house with people from college. I live in a small town but it’s easy to get weed – and I am a student after all – so I spend a lot of time high. It makes it easier to get my end away as well. The girls’ inhibitions (and mine) evaporate after a smoke.

When Uncle Vernon promised to spank my backside I think I just coloured up with embarrassment. I didn’t really believe him, but what was I expected to say? Later, I honestly did think about what he said about my misdeeds. I had caused a lot of tension in the house. There wasn’t much Uncle Vernon and Aunt June could do about me. I’m an adult. I suppose the only sanction they had was to throw me out. And, that would be a pretty drastic move. So, instead they just sulked at my behaviour and I sulked back. We were getting nowhere.

Was spanking be so bad? I mean I’d never been spanked before (who has in this day and age) but the glory of a smacked bottom was that it brought everything to a head. “You have been a naughty boy, come here, bend over my knee.” Smack. Smack. Smack. Then it’s all over and done with. Air cleared. We all move on with our life.

Not that I was saying Uncle Vernon should spank me. I was thinking more in the abstract. I mean, how humiliating it would to be to submit myself to Uncle.

Things came to a head last Wednesday. I had disappeared under a fog of smoke for most of the weekend and Uncle had heard that day from a friend of his that me and his son had been in trouble at college for bunking off.

I came home about seven. I’d missed my tea. To be honest I had lost track of time. We’d been smoking weed that afternoon. I wasn’t completely off my head, but I didn’t exactly have my feet on the ground.

“That’s it. Enough.” Uncle Vernon told me after he had listed all my recent sins and lectured me about throwing away my future by missing college. If I qualified as a plumber, he said, I would be made for life. Especially since all the Poles would be going home after Brexit.

“I told you I would spank your backside and that’s what I’m going to do,” he declared. I probably looked at him dumbstruck. I know I struggled not to giggle. He strode across the living room and gripped me by the wrist. It was a large room in a mammoth house. Uncle is not short of a few bob and his place is decked out like a palace. He dragged me across the shiny wooden floor, my feet slipping as we went, until he reached a heavy burgundy-coloured armless leather chair. He steadied himself and without releasing his grip he sat down. If I hadn’t been so high I probably would have resisted. Instead, next thing I knew was he had let go of me for a moment, but only long enough to push me over so that I fell face down across his knees.

I put my hands out in front of me to break my fall, my knees were bent behind me and I was very aware that my backside was pointing upwards at an angle over his right leg. My nose was centimetres from a brown-patterned rug.

Uncle Vernon didn’t say a word, he pounded the palm of his hand across my backside. His spanks were heavy and rapid. In no time he had slapped me across every part of my bum. From the top, across the fleshier mounds and into the under curves. Smack-smack-smack.

Of course, with my short trousers and underpants on I hardly felt a thing. Pretty soon he realised that the palm of his hand must have been hurting much more than my bum. That’s when he stopped.

“Doh! This is no good,” he sighed. “Get up.”

I scrambled off his lap, but if I thought Uncle Vernon had given up I had to think again. The short trousers fitted snugly and I had no need for a belt. Deftly he unbuttoned them at the waist and tugged at my zipper. The heavy cotton grey school short trousers hurtled to the floor. I couldn’t take a breath before he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of my microbriefs and tugged them down to my knees. He could see my dick flapping up and down.

It was then that he must have realised he was wearing bedroom slippers. He slipped one off his left foot and gripped it tightly in his fist. It was a typical slipper with some cloth type upper and a very springy sole. Are they made out of rubber? I’m not sure. He pulled me across his knee and once more I had a close-up view of the carpet.

I felt him take the end of my shirt and push it way up my back. I was now naked from my knees to my shoulders. I wriggled in embarrassment. He had my naked arse across his lap with a perfect view of my crack and hole. I  felt the hole winking and my buttocks clench in anticipation of the bare-arsed spanking I was about to get.

Uncle Vernon hammered the slipper home every bit as hard and rapidly as he had with his palm. This time it hurt. A lot. The springy-soled slipper warmed my backside in seconds. I felt the heat rising, especially around the very sensitive “sit-spot” at the lower end of my cheeks. I flapped my arms about and flailed my legs. It was as if I was trying to swim away off his lap. But Uncle Vernon was having none of it. He had me across his knee at such an acute angle I could not escape, no matter how much I wriggled and writhed. I waggled my bum left and right and up and down so it looked like I was humping him, but that just encouraged Uncle Vernon to wrap his left arm around my waist to pin me into position. I was going nowhere; not until Uncle Vernon said so. And, he was nowhere near ready.

I didn’t try to count the number of spanks he gave me. It seemed to go on forever. Whack-whack-whack, the slipper blistered my backside. It sounded like a machinegun going off.

At last he let off. Uncle Vernon kept me facedown over his knees. “Please God, let it be over,” I thought. I couldn’t be sure if he was finished or only taking a breather. My back was covered in sweat and my temples throbbed almost as much as my backside. I gulped in lung-fulls of air. The agony as the slipper rose and fell, rose and fell, had been intense, but already it was turning into a throbbing pain. Before long it would subside to a warm glow.

Uncle Vernon was breathing hard himself. Suddenly and without a word he released his grip on my middle. I took this as my cue to clamber off his knees on onto my feet. I hopped from foot to foot simultaneously rubbing my scorched buttocks until I noticed my cock and balls were bouncing in front of Uncle Vernon’s face. Hurriedly, I tugged up my briefs and returned the short trousers to their rightful place. I couldn’t look Uncle Vernon in the eye and to be honest I don’t think he wanted look at me, so sullenly – and still rubbing my bum ruefully – I legged it through the door and up to my bedroom.

When I ripped down my short trousers and briefs and poked my bum at the dressing table mirror  I saw my bum glowing dark pink. Not a single square centimetre was untouched. There was an imprint of the slipper embossed over and over again across both cheeks and on the backs of my thighs.

My phone vibrated. It was Cindy from college sending a photo of herself with her tits out. I eased myself gently onto the bed, reached out for a fistful of Kleenex and got to work on my todger.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com