Waiting my turn

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

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

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

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

He is calling John over to him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, please, no,” John is sniffing.

Uncle looks very cross and goes on smacking John.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, I can hear him running up the stairs.

“James.”

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

zused hands on head shorts

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Sam’s caning

z used cane white pants down table

Sam glanced at the long, thin yellow-coloured crook-handled cane lying on the table and shuddered nervously at the thought of the wretched thing curling itself around his buttocks. He hated the dreadful waiting. Not that he was eager to have his backside beaten; he knew matters had to take their course. There was no escaping the inevitable and how he wished his dad would just get on with it.

The ticking of the clock echoed around the room. Dad was doing it deliberately, he knew. As if the pain of the thrashing wasn’t enough, dad wanted to increase the punishment by making him anticipate it.

At last, the door to the sitting room edged open. Sam eyed his dad apprehensively as he entered, quietly closing the door behind him. He was a bulky man, well into middle-age. His face was set tight. Nothing would prevent him from doing his duty. The list of Sam’s misdeeds had already been intoned remorselessly by his dad while Sam stood eyes focussed on the Axminster carpet.

Dad clicked his fingers and pointed to a spot close to the dining room table. Sam blanched and shuffled into position. He waited, head bowed, for further instructions.

“You persist in playing the rebel. I think a dose of the cane will teach you some manners and it must be hard and plentiful. That’s the only way to get the message across.”

He picked up the cane. It rattled provokingly against the table top. Dad flexed the wickedly supple yard of rattan effortlessly into a half circle and then swished it through the air as if testing its weight. It was light and whippy, a novice might think it too ineffective as a punishment tool. Mr. Ramsden knew otherwise.

Without thinking, Sam put his hands behind his back and smoothed his fingers over his bottom.

“You know what to do,” Mr. Ramsden was sharp and business like. Unable to look his dad in the eye, Sam unzipped his tight pale-blue jeans and pushed them down to his ankles.

“Bend over the table.”

Pulling up his shirt, he leaned over the table, as he had done so many times in the past. The rule was you had to keep your legs together, with your feet on the ground, and your arms flat on the table. You could wiggle, writhe, and scream all you wanted, but you couldn’t get out of position. You had to stay there and suffer, accept the pain willingly and demonstrate your submission.

Sam reckoned there was pride in being able to take a caning properly. He was twenty years old, it would be shameful to make a fuss.

His underpants were snug and he felt the soft cotton dig into his crack as he stretched forward. “Oh,” he gasped when dad gripped the waistband and slowly, inch by inch, drew Sam’s Y-fronts inside out and down to his thighs. His bum was plump and round, the skin smooth and hairless.

Dad “sawed” the cane across the fleshiest part of his son’s naked buttocks. The cheeks clenched, as if this might protect Sam from the fearful thrashing that was about to start.

“Relax,” his dad, tapped the cane into the underside of Sam’s curves. Then he raised the rattan and took a fairly substantial swing back. Suddenly the tip of the cane vanished in a blur as it travelled at incredible speed with a whistling Swish! followed immediately by the satisfying (to dad) resounding Thwack! of rattan against sensitive flesh.

It landed squarely on the middle of the target area. For two or three seconds Sam felt nothing, then suddenly it seemed like a red-hot poker had been seared into his flesh. He grit his teeth and gripped the edge of the table.

Mr. Ramsden admired the imprint of the cane springing up instantly on the pale skin of his son’s bottom. He waited before delivering his next cut, he wanted the young backside to glow in agony before inflicting further punishment.

Mr. Ramsden believed that speed with which a cane strikes the buttocks was a key element in any caning, the faster the better; and Sam’s plump rump would need a lot of caning. Swishing the cane, he waited and then lashed the stick across the offered bottom. A red stripe flamed the hairless buttocks, it was angled diagonally, higher on the left buttock lower across the right.

Sam gasped; the strike of a hard cane stroke was like an electric shock. Mr. Ramsden swished the cane again and waited a few seconds, observing his buttocks carefully. The next stroke would be squarely across the ripest curve of the round cheeks. Mr. Ramsden caned often; he was an expert. He could place each blow where he wanted it.

Swish! There was a gurgling gasping yelp from Sam. The stricken bottom did a frantic dance. Sam had no control, it had a mind of its own. He settled, concentrating hard on keeping his bottom absolutely still. Despite the torrent of fire that seemed to have been poured over his arse, he managed it.

But, Sam’s bum wobbled as Mr. Ramsden’s stick struck again. Another red stripe blazed across the bottom. Sam gasped, he couldn’t get air into his lungs. He thrashed his head about, like a horse neighing. He clamped his eyes shut. His arms were rigidly extended and his fists tightly clenched.

Mr. Ramsden filled his own lungs, leaned back and thrashed an exceptionally severe stroke. Sam wheezed, another vivid bright stripe appeared across his pale skin. He grunted, gasped, wriggled. Mr. Ramsden whipped him again, and Sam yapped a high, piercing “owwww!”

His whole system leapt with the shock of the intense pain. Bolts of electricity surged through his bum and travelled up and down his legs. His body writhed and the searing pain followed his every movement. His shoulders shuddered and his hands clenched and unclenched on the table.

As if in a trance Sam waited. He was dizzy with the sensations of pain and heat, stabbing through his naked bottom in surging waves. But there was no respite and his dad administered the last four strokes in quick succession. Sam twisted and turned as if to escape the lashing pain, and the compelling pulse in his throbbing bottom. All his senses concentrated on this one aching area.

“It’s over. Stand up.”

Sam allowed himself a long relieved sigh, and he leapt upright, his flat, large palms each caressed a cheek. He rubbed them up and down vigorously, making little jumps as his long fingers kneaded his hot, rubbery buttocks.

The pain in Sam’s welted bottom quickly turned to a warm glow, it was almost quite pleasant. His heart still raced and his head seemed remarkably clear. None of the drugs he had ever taken did this to him. His soldier tingled. It wasn’t at attention yet, but it was on the march. He stood, jeans and pants still at his ankles, facing his dad. Dad’s face flushed as he realised the effect of the caning on his son.

He turned and rushed from the room, leaving Sam to stretch his pants and jeans over his flaming bottom. Still clutching the rattan cane, dad took the stairs two at a time and barged into the bathroom. He had desperate need of a damp face cloth.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

University encounter

z used otk jeans bed (125)

I was eighteen, he was twenty-one. Maybe I was a little immature for my age. He told me if I insisted on behaving like that, he’d take me across his knee and spank my bottom. Hard.

I didn’t believe him. Okay, so I was naïve as well as immature.

I was a first-year student at Brocklehurst University, away from the restrictions of my parents for the first time. There was nobody to nag me, “Do this. Don’t do that.”

The university made first-years stay in their halls of residences and then got senior students to keep an eye on them. I think the idea was to be a big brother or big sister to us. I don’t know what kind of big brother Clive had, but mine never treated me like this.

He looked like any other student; he wore jeans and tee-shirts, but he was a member of the Brocklehurst Fellowship, a God-squad outfit that thought they were a cut above the rest of us and were on a mission to make sure we conformed to their standards.

I first encountered Clive one night after I returned to the halls after a session at the union bar. He was lurking outside my room. “Do you know what time it is?” he asked sternly. I was a little merry and didn’t like the tone of his voice, so I replied sarcastically, “You’ve got a watch, haven’t you?”

Wrong thing to say. “It’s nearly midnight. It’s too late for you to be out,” he told me.

Whoa! Hold your horses, pal. There was no curfew at the halls and so long as we came and went quietly we could roll up at any hour we chose. And, I told Clive this.

Wrong again.

“I’m keeping an eye on you, Pooley,” he snarled. “Now, get off to bed with you.” I watched with disdain as he stormed down the passageway, then I let myself into my room. I crawled into bed and forgot about him. I was full of thoughts of Angela Bailey, a girl I had met in the bar, and her big breasts. I tossed one off and fell asleep.

I made pals easily. We lived on beans on toast, went to lectures, studied in the library (but not too often), hung around bars and tried with varying degrees of success to get into girls’ knickers.

Early one evening there was a knock on my door. I cursed silently. I hadn’t expected visitors and I had my jeans and pants at my knees and was tugging away over a Page Three Girl in the Sun. I called out, “Who is it?” but got no reply. Instead, the knocking continued, a little more insistently.

I pulled up my jeans and pants. My cock was still hard, but I tucked it away as best I could and hoped the bulge behind my flies wasn’t too obvious.

I opened the door to find Clive shuffling from one foot to the other, clearly irritated. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you,” I said. I assumed he was annoyed that I took so long to open the door. He scowled and uninvited brushed by me and entered the room. His nose crinkled as he looked around. It was a small room and no untidier than any of my pals’. He took particular objection at a small pile of unwashed clothes beneath my small desk. His eyes flared when he saw the newspaper open on my bed. I can’t be certain but I think he surreptitiously checked out my flies. Luckily, I had gone soft by then.

“You should tidy this place up.”

Who did he think he was, my mother?

“Get those clothes washed,” he nodded at the pile under the desk. If he were Mum, he would have just scooped them up and put them in the washing machine, returning them next day clean and ironed. I didn’t argue the point with Clive.

“I have had a complaint,” he intoned. He drew himself up to his six-foot height and frowned. Maybe he thought that gave him an air of authority. It just irritated the hell out of me. Complaint? What was he on about?

In his own time, he continued. “Loud music, coming from this room at all hours.” I stared blankly. Even as we stood together, the sound of a music centre thumped from a room on the floor above. I didn’t press the point. I just wanted the irritating little tyke out of my room.

He berated me for my supposed misdemeanours. It mustn’t happen again. I should be considerate to my neighbours. Blah, blah, blah.  “If you insist on behaving immaturely, I shall take you across my knee and spank your bottom. Hard,” he ended, before closing the door behind him.

I sat back on the bed, loosened my jeans and returned to the Sun.

I asked my pals, did they get a visit from Clive? What did they think about him? All I got in response were blank stares. “Who’s Clive?” Nobody had seen or heard of him.

The weekend after my visit, we had a bit of a party in the halls. It was a kind of belated welcome to the university for all the new students. Now, I’m not especially proud of this, but I had had a skin-full. It’s not an excuse, I accept that, but it is an accurate description of what happened. It seemed like a good idea at the time. But, not for long after.

I set off the fire alarm.

In the great scheme of things this was not such a disaster. Nobody took any notice of it. Does anybody ever? False fire alarms go off all the time. The party-goers groaned, swigged their cheap wine, shared their joints and carried on snogging. I got a blow-job from a spotty, cross-eyed girl I’d never met before.

The following day I was back in my room flicking through a copy of Whitehouse, a porn mag that was being passed around by the boys. A couple of its pages were stuck together, but the close-up pictures of ladies’ thingies did nothing for me. I closed my eyes and tried to remember the girl and the blow-job, but all I saw were her spots.

There was a hammering on the door. It was Clive. Why was I not surprised? Of course, he knew about the fire alarm. “Juvenile.” “Childish.” “Infantile.” “Immature.” Clive must have swallowed a thesaurus. He berated me on and on. His sallow face was flushed with his indignation. His eyes blazed with righteousness.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he growled. A puzzled look was my only response. “Spanking.” He let the one word hang in the air, as if it was a perfect explanation. Still no comprehension from me.

“I said I would take you over my knee and spank you. Hard,” he said with an air of triumphalism, as if somehow he had won a prize.

Then, I remembered Clive’s passing shot to me when he had left my room. I had taken no notice. I had hardly heard him at all.

Clive sat on my bed, reached out and grabbed my arm. I hadn’t realised before but he was a strong man, not obviously muscular but beneath his black tee-shirt was a powerful body. He was about six-foot tall and towered four or five inches over me. He tugged me forward, I had no strength to resist. I was over his knee with my face in the duvet cover. He tucked an arm around my waist. To my horror, I was powerless. I kicked my legs and wriggled my hips a little. Then he moved his arm and pinned my shoulders with his elbow.

Then he spanked me. A grown man of eighteen. He spanked me, just like he said he would. I was across his knee and he pounded the palm of his hand into the seat of my jeans. I gasped, infuriated at my humiliation. He whacked me about a dozen times and I sprang to my feet. My face was hot with embarrassment. I couldn’t look my tormentor in the face. My shoulders slumped and I stared down at my feet.

Of course, with my jeans on I hardly felt a thing. When I checked later there was no sign on my bare bum that I had been assaulted at all. My fury and my humiliation was that he had been able to take me across his knee at will and do whatever he wanted. There was nothing I could do about it.

At last, I had the courage to look at him. His face was flushed scarlet. It was not because of the effort he made in spanking me; it was the porn mag open on the bed by his side. He looked like he might vomit at any moment. He stood from the bed and headed for the door. Before leaving, he called over his shoulder. “Next time, I’ll bring a hairbrush and we’ll see how you like that with your jeans and pants at your ankles.”

That night, I slept badly. A vision of myself across Clive’s knee with him hammering a brush into my bare arse wouldn’t leave me. We are in the kitchen at my parents’ home (go figure!). Clive is sitting on a metal armless chair. His legs are spread wide and at angles to one another. He has already manhandled me so that I am face down over the left knee.  He has wrapped his other leg around the back of my calves and I cannot move. My face stares down at the worn floor tiles. I can see they are overdue cleaning.

I am wearing blue-striped pyjamas (go figure again, I’ve not worn jim-jams since I was about eight years old and they had pictures of Fireball XL 5 all over them). Clive takes hold of the tail end of the pyjama jacket and lifts it high up my back so it bunches at the shoulders. Then, slowly and with relish he goes for the elasticated waistband of the PJ bottoms and grips them. He is taking his time. He wants me to feel the full force of this humiliating experience. He tugs the waistband slowly across the mounds that are my buttocks. He struggles a little since there is no space between my body and his knee to pull them properly down. He sighs and slaps a resounding smack across the cotton seat of the pyjamas. I take it as my instruction to raise my stomach a little so he has a gap he can ease the bottoms through. I lower myself back against his powerful knee. I feel a cool breeze from an open window gently caress my naked bottom and thighs.

Clive is not yet ready. He wants this to be a painful lesson for me. But, that does not only mean my backside must be blistered, I must also learn that he has complete control over me. He cups the palm of his right hand and gently traces the contours of my buttocks. First, he brushes the left cheek, pausing at the highest, plumpest point. There he presses two fingers into the flesh. He is testing how much “give” there is in my bum. I am trim, but I don’t quite have “buns of steel.” His hairbrush will sink into the meat and leave me battered and bruised.

He repeats the caressing and poking on the right cheek. Finally, and unexpectedly (to me), he leans forward towards my face. He raises the middle finger of his right hand and rests it against the closed lips of my mouth.

“Suck it,” he says softly. It is an order and one that I am expected to obey, but it is not barked. Obediently, I open my mouth and he gently inserts it. I work up some spit and soak his finger. He removes it from my mouth and moves it back to my buttocks. My spine shivers. He has washed my crack and inserted the fingertip into my hole.

My face is crimson. Soon my arse will be a similar colour. He is ready. He lifts the hairbrush to about a foot-and-a-half from the surface from my bum and in a frenzy he whacks the heavy wood across his target area. Whack-whack-whack. It sounds like machinegun echoing around the kitchen. Surely, my mother will hear and come running to see what is the commotion.

Clive hammers down at least three dozen whacks without let up. I don’t suppose thirty seconds has passed and my arse in on fire. I try to wriggle and writhe but the combination of his leg across mine and his strong arm against my shoulders means I am helpless. I am a perfect target. He can (and he will) continue to spank my backside black-and-blue for as long as he wishes.

Not one square inch of my buttocks and the backs of my thighs escapes the attention of his brush. The pain is awesome. Nothing I’ve experienced in the whole of my eighteen years comes close to this. Is this what it feels like to have accidentally sat down on a blazing barbecue?

On and on he spanks me. I can’t move to the left and right or forwards and backwards. The only way my body can respond to this intense onslaught is to jolt up and down. With each successive slap to my bum my body humps Clive’s knee. The heat of my bare-bottomed thrashing is travelling to my loins.

No, please God. Don’t let it end like this.

When in the early hours, I emerge from my fitful sleep the bedsheet is soaked in cum.

 

Picture credit: Spank This

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The porn mag

z used slipper caught wanking Jonathan 03-10a

Craig had warned his younger brother Jason he would spank his bare bottom black and blue if he ever brought a porn magazine into the house again. Craig’s girlfriend hated them, and anyhow they were demeaning to women, he had said.

Jason tried. He tried very hard, but he was an eighteen-year-old boy with needs and there was only one way to satisfy them. He was a good-looking blond guy with a lean, well-proportioned body and a cute bum. He should have no trouble getting a girl. But poor Jason was a social misfit. He’d just spent seven years at St. Tom’s, a boys-only boarding school and he didn’t have the first idea of how to talk to a girl, never mind getting into her knickers.

Jason thought he was alone in the house and the coast was clear. Craig and Janice were at the shopping mall. She was looking for a new dress; they’d be hours. Jason pulled a copy of Big and Bouncy from under the mattress in his room. It was a hot afternoon, so he took off his shirt and stepped out of his jeans. His cock was already swelling at the thought of the delights to come. He threw his underpants on the bed and dived into the bedside table for a box of tissues.

“Huff-huff-huff,” he tugged away at his cock. He had never seen a girl naked (not in the flesh, as it were), but he’d seen many boys and he knew that as todgers went, his was quite special. When he compared it with the boys in the dorm, his was by far the longest and the thickest. Even Niblet couldn’t get it into his mouth properly and it was reputed he had tasted every cock in the sixth-form.

Jason settled down into a rhythm. He had no body lotion so he gobbed spit on his palm and used that to work his fist up and down the shaft. “Huff-huff-huff,” his heart sped and his eyes were popping. Any moment now. Whoosh! Half a pint or more of cum splashed over his fist and belly.

“Jason, are you in?” Craig’s shout echoed up the stairs. “Jason, come and see Janice’s new dress.” Jason panicked. Desperately, he wiped the sticky goo from his hands. He shot to his feet ready to grab his clothes. There were only seconds until he was discovered.

Too late, the door burst open and Craig stood, mouth gaping. “You little ….” He began and stopped himself using a dirty word. Jason stood holding the offending magazine so that it covered his disgrace. His face blushed cherry red. Caught in the act.

Craig scowled. “What did I tell you would happen?” his eyes darted around the room. Jason stood silently. Was he supposed to answer? Was it a rhetorical question?

“Well …” Craig started a sentence and paused. Under the bed he saw a carpet slipper. He stooped and picked it up and holding it in his right hand he tapped it gently into the left. “A spanking,” he grinned. “Black and blue.”

“No man. C’mon,” Jason protested. His elder brother couldn’t be serious. A spanking?

But he was. Craig didn’t really care one way or the other about porno mags but Janice did and he wanted to keep the peace with her. Craig was also a bully. He would love to take his kid brother across his knee and spank his bare bum with a slipper. Not necessarily because he deserved it, but because he could. He had all the power and Jason had none.

Jason was staying with Craig during the summer until it was time to go up to university. There was nowhere else for him to go. Mum and dad lived in the States now and had left the boys to their own devises. If Craig chucked Jason out the house, the teenager would have nowhere to go. He would be homeless. It was a spanking or a cardboard box; the choice was Jason’s.

Some choice.

“C’mon, let’s get this done.” Craig picked up Jason’s clothes from the bed and threw them on the floor. “Euwww” he groaned at the sight of a wodge of sticky tissue. “You disgusting little boy.” He sat down on the edge of the bed and brandished the slipper. “C’mon little boy, bend over my knee.”

Jason stood transfixed. “Please …” he wailed. “No …” Craig leaned forward and ripped the magazine from his brother’s grasp and threw it to the ground. The teenager was now totally naked. Craig hoped Jason didn’t notice him staring at his brother’s huge cock.

“Get here,” he growled and took Jason’s right arm and pulled him towards him. Jason fell face down across Craig’s lap.

Craig wore tight cycling shorts and was only too aware that the outline of his own, much smaller cock, was visible through the Lycra.

Jason’s face pressed into the duvet. “This cannot be happening. It’s all a nightmare,” he told himself. “Any moment now I’ll wake up.”

But, it was no dream. Craig took his brother’s arm and held it up the teenager’s back. Jason wriggled his hips, trying desperately to escape. He was pinned down. He was going nowhere. Not until Craig had toasted his bared buttocks.

Craig tapped the springy-soled slipper against Jason’s right cheek, enjoying the way the flesh wobbled. Tap-tap, he took his aim and then whacked a stinger in the centre of his brother’s left cheek. A deep pink imprint of the slipper was immediately embossed on the pale skin.

“Ow.” It was more of a gasp then a yell, but Jason hated himself for making a sound. At that moment he hated his brother with a passion. He didn’t want the brute to know he had hurt him.

Craig was no expert at spanking; but there had been a girl before Janice who liked him to warm her up a little. So, he knew it was possible to work up a kind of brightly polished surface on a bottom if you put the effort into it. It took about fifty whacks to get Jason’s bum to glow with a red sheen. His brother was biting into the pillow and the contortions of his body told Craig he was in some pain. Good. Craig stopped hammering with the slipper and gave himself the pleasure of letting his hand caress the heated flesh stretched across his lap. He felt his cock stir.

He gripped the slipper once more and went round the circuit of Jason’s buttocks a few more times: across the top, over the crest of the mounds and into the soft, tender undercurve at the sit-spot.

Craig!” Janice was calling. “Where are you?” She paused at the open door. In a single sweep of the room she appraised the porn mag, the spanked teenager and her sweating boyfriend. She had never seen such a rosy arse.

Embarrassed by the presence of his girlfriend, Craig let go of his brother’s arm. Jason shot to his feet and jumped up and down, his cock and balls swinging freely. Janice’s eyes stalked. Jason covered himself with his hands and then with a face now much redder than his bum, he uncovered them again while he danced from foot to foot trying to get into his underpants.

Janice tore her gaze away from Jason to her boyfriend still sitting on the bed. Craig couldn’t read the gleam in her eyes. “Come Craig,” she reached out her hand to help him from the bed. “Let’s go.” She held him by the hand like a mother with a small child.

“Come,” she said sternly and pulled him toward the door. Then abruptly she stopped and released her hold on her boyfriend. “Craig, you’d better bring the slipper with you,” she said as she headed for their own bedroom.

 

Picture credit: Jonathan

Other stories you might like

Where’s the paddle, hon?

Fr. Pat’s paddle

The chamber pot incident

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Two for the taws

z used sitting room by Leyendecker (59)

“Finlay! MacDonald!” Colonel MacIntosh leaned through the open window and bellowed at the two youngsters practising their golfing putts on the lawn. “Come to the sitting room at once!” His ruddy complexion betrayed his fury.

Finlay gripped his golf club tightly and exchanged a doleful glance with his cousin.  They had been expecting a summons; they had just hoped it wouldn’t come so soon.

“At once!” I say. Col. MacIntosh glared at his son and nephew and clenched his fist, his rage increasing with every moment.

“Coming father!” Finlay let the club fall to the immaculately-cut grass and without waiting for MacDonald he hurried towards the house. History had taught him never to keep the colonel waiting. He paused on the top stone step in front of the entrance and looked over his shoulder.

“C’mon Mac,” he whispered, “Let’s get this over with.”

MacDonald’s freckled face darkened. That blasted vicar, he left the words unspoken. Why couldn’t he mind his own business?

It wasn’t the vicar’s fault. The two eighteen year olds had nobody to blame but themselves. The Three Fishers Hotel was a notorious den of iniquity. The whole community knew that. That was why it was so popular with under-aged drinkers and good-time Charlies. Ladies (and some gentlemen too) of easy virtue were known to frequent its back bar.

Refreshed by a couple of lunchtime pints of beer, Finlay and MacDonald left the hostelry to return to MacIntosh Lodge, the family retreat. Only to, almost quite literally, bump into Rev. Macwhirter on his bicycle. They had been caught in the act. There was no mitigation to give. So, they legged it.

It was a small community, everyone knew each other’s business. They could be no escaping the consequences of the illicit pub visit. Nor, was there to be.

Col. MacIntosh paced the large drawing room. “Just wait until those scallywags get here,” he said aloud, although he was quite alone in the room. He bit deep into his bottom lip, a habit he had when angry.

Outside in the passageway, Finlay and MacDonald were faced with a closed door. What to do? Should they simply turn the handle, open the door and enter? This was their home, after all.

“Wait,” MacDonald commanded brusquely. The teenager was a frequent visitor to his headmaster’s study; he knew there was a certain etiquette with these things. “We should knock first.”

Finlay’s look of incredulity went unheeded. MacDonald balled his right hand into a fist and rapped it against the wood panelling. The silence was intense. Had his uncle not heard? He thought he had knocked pretty hard. He was debating with himself whether to knock again, when an imperious command resonated from within the room, “Enter!”

Suddenly aware that his hand was shaking, MacDonald turned the handle and pushed open the heavy door.

Col. MacIntosh was an imperious figure dressed for summer in a crumpled linen suit. He was a veteran of two Indian campaigns and his glare could fell a tiger at twenty paces. He stood straight as a ram-rod and gripped his hands behind his back.

“Stand there,” he nodded to a space close to an open window. It did not go unnoticed to the two miscreants that an armchair was conveniently placed nearby.

Finlay and MacDonald shuffled into place; eyes downcast. MacDonald could not persuade his hands to stop quivering. He gripped the legs of his trousers in a vain hope that would help. Finlay stood passively, sweat drenched his short ginger hair, it felt like someone had emptied a sponge full of water over his head. Freckles hid his beetroot face. His green eyes shone.

Col. MacIntosh was used to command. He was used to obedience and he never expected to explain himself. He spoke in short, sharp incomplete sentences. “Drinking. Three Fishers. Den of iniquity. Vicar. Warned before. Will not be tolerated.” The colonel shook his head furiously as he spat out the words.

This was not a court of law. Not even a court martial. The colonel had no wish to hear a defence. He proceeded straight to sentence.

“Finlay stand behind the chair. MacDonald face the wall.”

The colonel strode across the room towards a large wooden sideboard. Finlay stared intently; his heart pounding. Saliva drained from his mouth as he watched his uncle bend his knees so he could reach to a bottom drawer. He pulled it open and delved inside. Seconds later he was standing straight once more.

Finlay had no need to wait for his father to turn around to reveal what he had taken from the drawer. He knew well enough. It was a long thick leather strap, cut into three fingers at one end. It was a little over two-feet long and the business end was easily eighteen inches. He ran his dry tongue over cracked lips as his father tested the weight of the taws in his hand. This manoeuvre served little purpose, since the colonel was well aware of the capacities of the strap. He had had cause to use it often enough.

Col. MacIntosh sniffed the air, as if a sudden new pungent odour had entered the room. His eyes narrowed when he barked, “Trousers down. Underwear too!”

The command was not unexpected. His father always tanned on the bare, but Finlay could not stop his body reacting violently. Blood coursed through his body so that his ears hurt and his temples throbbed. His heartrate was off any scale a doctor might find acceptable. His eyes welled.

His belt was wide and heavy and at times like this difficult to loosen. Col. MacIntosh pah’d and bah’d as he waited impatiently for his son to obey his command. At last the trousers were open and the weight of the leather belt took the grey flannels to Finlay’s knee. He unbuttoned his woollen drawers and helped them down to meet his bags.

He stood naked from the waist down, conscious of a slight breeze from the open window cooling his cock and balls. The colonel swished the leather taws through the air; taking its measure. Finlay drew in breath; he wished the old man would just get on with it.

At last, the words he waited for were spoken, “Bend yourself over the chair.”

Finlay shuffled two or three steps to the chair. He paused and then in one athletic movement he dived over the back of the chair, his trousers and underwear slithered to his feet when he spread his legs. The eighteen-year-old gripped the seat. It was an ugly armchair. Finlay had always though so and he had seen it like this at close quarters many times. It was covered in the same material as the curtains. He doubted it had ever been cleaned. The material was worn and greying where so many pairs of buttocks had rested.

He felt his father take hold of his white cotton shirt and tug it forcefully up his back, ensuring that he was now naked from his shoulders to his ankles. The colonel stood back to admire his charge. Finlay was a short lad, no more than five-feet-seven. His build was athletic, he ran cross country for the school and was a keen golfer. Parts of his body were ruddy from the fierce Scottish winds that blew, even in summer.

“Legs further apart.”

Finlay shuffled his compliance. His crack widened and his hole was clearly visible. The colonel’s brow furrowed. It should not look like that. But, the colonel was a man of the world, he knew well enough what went on in school dormitories and army barracks.

He rested the three fingers of leather across his son’s buttocks. They were firm, pert cheeks. The taws covered most of them. He drew his arm back, twisted his body and crashed the taws across Finlay’s backside. He was rewarded by three livid pink stripes and a hissing sound that sounded like a steam engine settling down.

The colonel was a keen golfer and he knew how to put maximum force into a swing. The leather struck home again; this time a little lower. Already, after only two swipes, the whole of Finlay’s bum was glowing red hot.

MacDonald watched, his own heart thumping against his chest. The tanning looked severe, but his cousin seemed to be taking it well. He doubted he could be so stoical under the colonel’s lash. It was a cute bum, MacDonald had often admired it, especially now, naked and stretched over the back of an armchair.

A third and a fourth cut flogged across Finlay’s buttocks, welts started to appear where one stroke landed on top of a previous one. The teenager wriggled and stamped his feet up and down. His flesh was scalded, it felt like someone had poured the contents of a teapot over his bum.

Col. MacIntosh paused in his efforts. The room was close and muggy and sweat built up under the armpits of his linen jacket. In one athletic movement he had it off his shoulders and resting on a table. Thus, loosened up he prepared to continue with his duty. Twelve lashes fell in total. No part of Finlay’s buttocks was left unpunished. Vivid red stripes criss-crossed his cheeks and one burned into the back of his thigh. That would teach him to keep still for his whipping.

The teenager’s eyes blazed. This had been some whopping. His father had swiped his leather strap across his cheeks with so much force it was like he was beating a carpet. The wind had been knocked out of Finlay, he gasped air into his lungs and hacked a dry cough.

MacDonald stood transfixed. Finlay’s beautiful bum had been savaged by the beating. From where he was it seemed to glow like a lantern. He watched his cousin slowly rise from the chair. As Finlay bent to retrieve his drawers, his crack and hole widened. In seconds he was fully dressed and shuffling across the room to stand beside his pal.

“Your turn MacDonald,” Col. MacIntosh swished the leather through the air, pointing it in the general direction of the chair.

“B…” the teenager started to protest, but stopped himself short. There was nothing he could say. He must submit himself for punishment. He clenched his eyes shut tightly. This would be too mortifying. He was aware of Finlay behind him, still hopping from one foot to the other as the agony in his buttocks turned to a constant throbbing.

This was too humiliating. What would Col. MacIntosh think? Jesus what would Finlay think?

“Quickly, boy,” Col. MacIntosh’s glare stunned the teenager. He stepped forward uneasily and stood behind the garish armchair. Col. MacIntosh huffed his displeasure at being kept waiting. Scarlet of face, MacDonald unfastened his trousers.

At first Finlay gasped, then he cackled laughter. His cousin’s cock stood at fall salute. A deep-blue vein ran along the shaft from the balls to the tip and cum dribbled onto his underwear.

 

Picture credit: J. C. Leyendecker

 

Other stories you might like

 

Two brothers

Visit to Uncle Roy

Changed Times 7. Pub landlord

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The boss’s son

z used art office otk ruler chair (8)

People round here think because I’m the boss’s son I’ve got it made. In a year or so I’ll be on the Board and raking in the profits from all their hard work. I wish it were true. If they only knew the half of it.

Dad is a self-made man. He worked from the age of fourteen on a barrow in the street market and hauled himself up by his bootstraps. Or, so he’s always telling me. But the past is a foreign country; you couldn’t do something like that today. The self-made men (and women) of today are all sitting at computer screens.

Dad does want me to be part of the business, but I have to work my way up from the bottom. And, funnily enough that’s literally what’s happening to me.

I confess, I am not the hardest worker in the world. It’s nothing to do with having a wealthy dad, I would be lazy if my old man worked at Tesco’s. Dad knows this and when he set me to work at one of the regional offices of his global empire, he gave the guy who was to be my local boss strict instructions.

I had to stand there in the office and listen when dad told Mr. Furlong, “If he’s any trouble. Any trouble at all. I want you to take him across your knee and spank his backside for him. Hard.” Mr. Furlong’s face lit up and he cracked a broad smile. “I’m not joking, man,” my dad barked. “I mean it. I’ll be checking. If he doesn’t buck his ideas up and make some improvements with himself, I’ll know who to blame.” His eyes darkened. He was a hard taskmaster. Mr. Furlong knew exactly what dad meant – his job was on the line.

I was set to work doing routine tasks in the purchasing department, chasing orders and such like. Tedious. I couldn’t concentrate and spent a lot of my time skiving out of the office. I’ve always been like this. Whenever I could I avoided work; even at school. I had to get a lot of help with my A-level coursework or else I’d never have passed the exams.

I worked at a large industrial plant set over several acres, and it was very easy to find places to skive away from work. One trick I devised was to lie to my supervisor that I had been asked to run a message for one of the bosses and then disappear for an hour or so. There were many places to hide. A favourite I and lazy juniors hung out at was a disused basement room. Nobody ever went near the place, so we were undisturbed smoking cigarettes and reading sports magazines.

It was a different kind of magazine that got me into trouble. I was at another of my hiding places; a piece of open ground behind the main administration centre. Well let’s just say I have no self-control and overcome by the pictures of naked bodies in the magazine, I soon had the front of my trousers open and worked away at my todger until I came.

Only later in the day, did I learn the horrible truth. Every gasp and grunt had been filmed on a closed-circuit television camera. It was George, the security guard, who told me. “So, laddie, do you want this uploaded to YouTube for everyone to see?”

I crumpled to the floor, gasping for breath. George, fearing I was having a fit rushed to the phone and called the medical emergency number. Minutes later I was in the sick bay; calm now. It was only a panic attack the nurse assured me. I would be all right now, she said. But she was wrong.

As I sat sipping hot sweet tea, Mr. Furlong strode down the corridor in a fury, clutching a thick heavy ruler in his fist. He barged into the medical room. I mistook the look of anger on his face for one of concern. “It’s all right Mr. Furlong. I’m fine. It was nothing,” I chirruped.

Mr. Furlong’s face glowered dark red. “It is not all right and it is not fine!” he blasted. George had told him everything. In detail and with great relish.

“What a tosser! Hah! Hah! Hah!” he had guffawed. “Trousers round his knees! Wanking away! Too stupid even to see the camera. Hah! Hah! Hah!”

“You come with me!” I was startled by Mr. Furlong’s ferocity. “Now!”

Alarmed and uncertain about what was happening, I remained seated.

“I said…” Mr. Furlong did not finish his sentence. He grabbed me by the arm and dragged me from the room. Then prodding me all the time in the back, he frog-marched me down the corridor.

Within seconds he pushed me through the door of an empty office. We stood facing one another, each breathing heavily.

“You … you …” Mr. Furlong could not quite find the words. Eventually, he regained his power of speech. I was a moron, he told me, masturbating at work, in front of the camera. Did I not realise how he had made a fool of myself? More than that: everyone knew he was the boss’s son; and I had made Mr. Furlong look a complete idiot.

As his temper grew and the pitch of his voice rose, he brandished the heavy ruler in my face.

“You know what your father instructed me to do.” He was sweating heavily, although the room was quite cold. “What do you think he will say when he hears about this?”

God no! He must never find out. Nor must my older brother Kevin; I’d never hear the end of it.

“You know what!” Mr. Furlong was becoming increasingly hysterical. “I’m going to give you the hiding of your life!”

I gaped. Had dad really been serious when he said Mr. Furlong should throw me across his knee and spank my bum?  “But … but… you can’t,” I started to protest, but words failed me.

Mr. Furlong looked around the room, eyes searching for something. Then he found it. A heavy office chair with no arms and a straight back. “This will do perfectly,” he seemed to be talking to himself. He walked the length of the office and picked up the chair. It was quite a weight but he manoeuvred it into an open space. He stared wild-eyed across the room at me. “Come here,” he brandished the ruler and when I stayed rooted to the spot, he barked, “Now!”

Mr. Furlong was probably in his forties. He was not yet middle aged, but he was on the slide. His hair was thinning and his waist thickening. He wore a conventional business suit and I could see his belly hung over his belt. He waved the ruler once more. “Get here, now.”

We stared at one another for ages. I was starting to panic. Could I make a break for the door and run for it? I seriously considered it; but I also knew the reality of my situation. Dad had given Mr. Furlong his instructions and had made darned sure that I knew my boss was in total charge of me. If Mr. Furlong said I must be spanked than spanked I assuredly would be.

Mr. Furlong smacked the ruler into his left hand. “Now, I think we should get started. I haven’t got all day. Some of us have got work to do.”

I could not take my eyes from the ruler that at any moment would smack into my buttocks. It was a solid piece of wood, twelve inches long and about an inch wide. It was maybe a quarter-inch thick. It could pack a wallop, but surely with my trousers and pants on, I’d hardly feel a thing. It was absurd that a twenty-year-old man was being ordered to take a spanking, but I resolved not to make a fuss. If I didn’t take my medicine now there would be hell to pay when dad found out.

I slouched across the room and stood by Mr. Furlong. He sat on the chair and spread his legs a little. His thighs were flabby and as I stared down at them I found myself thinking what a perfect platform they would make for my prostrated body. He tapped his left palm with the ruler. It seemed we were ready to go. I started to lean forward to bend over his knees.

“Not so fast, Buster,” Mr. Furlong pushed me so I was forced to resume a standing position. My quizzical look got an immediate answer. “Trousers down. Pants too.”

I am sure my face reddened; both with shock and embarrassment. Go over his knees for a bare-bottomed spanking. Me, a twenty-year-old man. Could you imagine such a thing? My mouth dried and my temples started to throb. I was aware of blood rushing through my whole body. It was getting a little difficult to breath properly.

Mr. Furlong sneered, “Come on, laddie. Trousers down.” The look of contempt on his face turned to something quite different. It took me a second or two to decipher. He was enjoying this.

I closed my eyes tight and tried to pretend this wasn’t happening. It was all a dream. I had to go through with this, that was for certain. Even though I despised the old man sitting in front of me clutching a wooden ruler in his fist, I had absolutely no choice but to submit myself to him. My hands trembled as I gripped the buckle of my belt and unfastened it. Soon fumbling fingers had loosened the trousers of my smartly-tailored suit. Once I opened them and let go they fell at speed to the floor. The tail of my shirt covered most of my boxer shorts.

“Those too,” Mr. Furlong nodded at my underwear. “And be quick about it,” he rasped.

I hitched my thumbs into the waistband of the shorts and pushed them towards my feet. I was thankful that the shirt hid most of my manhood.

“Lift up your shirt,” Mr. Furlong face contorted. I’m certain he smirked when he saw my expression of horror. “Away from the buttocks, c’mon now.”

With shaking hands, I lifted the rich cotton shirt an inch or two higher.

“Doh!” Mr. Furlong spat as he slapped my hands away and grabbed my shirt and lifted it to half way up my stomach. Then, with great strength he pushed me in the small of the back until I toppled forward. I had to quickly take evasive action with my arms to stop me crashing into the hard, wooden floor.

I was winded by the unexpected ferocity of Mr. Furlong’s action. As I caught my breath, he tucked my shirt further up my back, ensuring my bared buttocks were now fully exposed. I felt him “saw” the wooden ruler across the centre of my bum. He was getting his aim. Then the ruler flew through the air in a wide arc to land with a resounding crack across my bum. My buttocks wobbled with the impact and then clenched and spasmed. The ruler was a surprisingly fearsome weapon and I couldn’t help myself groaning as the stinging pain travelled from my rear down the back of my legs.

With each painful swipe, my legs jumped and my feet kicked. My buttocks rolled slowly from side to side, clenching and writhing as the heavy wood turned my white creamy round buttock cheeks into a mass of painful stripes.

Apart from a few noisy gasps, I did not cry out at first, but as swipe after swipe connected with my bottom, I could control myself no longer. Tears flowed down my face and my sharp yelps turned to full-throated yells as my bum become red and swollen. I clung to the leg of the chair for dear life. Some instinct told him I had to suffer this. I must take everything Mr. Furlong had in store for me. No matter what, I needed to get through this. Somewhere deep inside myself I knew I had screwed up royally and I deserved all that I was getting.

I wasn’t counting the strokes. Mr. Furlong whacked the heavy ruler into my bare buttocks over and over again until every square inch of the flesh was covered by thin welts. He went from the top of the cheeks where they meet the spine, across both fleshy globes and into the under curves, the sensitive sit-spot where the buttocks and the thighs met.

My tears flowed freely and snot covered my mouth and chin. I was sobbing uncontrollably, but still I hung on to the chair.

When there was no flesh unscathed by the ruler, Mr. Furlong stopped.

“Up!” It was a curt command. I was engulfed with pain. I jumped up and did a merry dance, hopping around and rubbing my bottom, very conscious that my cock was flopping up and down in front of Mr. Furlong’s face. He was unable to resist staring at it. I don’t blame him – it is a whopper.

I pulled my trousers and shorts up while Mr. Furlong waited patiently. I was in control of myself now. I had stopped crying and my breathing was easier.

Mr. Furlong looked at his watch like he needed to be somewhere important. Without saying a word, he left, leaving me to nurse my swollen buttocks. I couldn’t return to my work station. Not yet. I still had important work to do. I had to find George, the security guard, and get that CCTV recording.

He seemed to know – or to have guessed – that Mr. Furlong had given me a seeing too. He oozed smugness. He would let me have the recording on one condition.

“No,” I replied a little too haughtily. “I don’t do deals with security guards.”

“Hah,” he snorted dismissing me as if I were something he had found on the sole of his shoe. “Please yourself. Enjoy watching YouTube.”

He had a point. Okay, I had to concede. What was his condition?

“Simple,” he started to unbuckle his wide leather belt. “Trousers, pants down. Bend over the chair.”

 

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Paying the rent

Don’t bully our mum

Missed Opportunities

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Changed Times 8. Just another day

z used cane pants down touch toes

 

Click here for all episodes of Changed Times

 

Mr. Burton heaved a heavy sigh and glared at the three young men standing in front of his desk. Won’t they ever learn? The law had been in place for three years, they knew the rules – and the penalty for breaking them.

Osbourne, Rowe and Tapler, three twenty-something trainee managers stood hands behind backs, head slightly bowed. Contrite. Waiting for the inevitable. Mr. Burton noticed how all the young men a Global Petroleum looked like peas in a pod. Dark, perfectly creased trousers, gleaming white shirt, tie knotted tightly at the throat. Neat, short hair. Clean shaven.

There wasn’t much to be said. They knew why they were there. Just returned from a company residential course. They had too much to drink one night and missed the start of the following day. That would not do. Not do at all. Action had to be taken.

“It was a serious training school, not a vacation,” Mr. Burton leaned forward in his chair, planting his forearms on the desk. He was a tall wiry man in his early fifties. He was known as one of the “old guard” – staff who had been at Global since before the changes. When Britain was still in the European Union and before the huge economic crash. Things had changed when the New Democrats came into power. Mr. Burton was a keen supporter, the country had been going to the dogs – especially the young people.

“Well, let’s get on with this shall we,” he lifted himself from his sumptuous leather chair and made his way across the office, conscious of three pairs of eyes craning to watch him go. His destination was a long table. It had a drawer running along its length. Mr. Burton tugged it open, creating a rattling sound. To the three young men it seemed to echo around the office, the sound bouncing off the walls. Osbourne’s hands started to shake. Rowe stared intently at his highly polished black leather shoes. Tapler absent-mindedly rubbed his thumbs across the seat of his trousers.

It took Mr. Burton only seconds to reach in the drawer and withdraw a long, thin whippy rattan school cane. They still called them “school” canes, but since the law was passed it was permissible to beat young people in all walks of life. It started when they brought back corporal punishment to schools and soon its use spread to colleges and universities. Then misbehaving apprentices found they could have their backsides blistered. Suddenly, young people learned how to behave. The public loved it. Next thing the law allowed anyone in authority over the young to beat them black and blue.

This cane was made of the traditional rattan and when Mr. Burton flexed it between his hands he effortlessly made an arc. He looked across at the three young men, each still facing his desk. Three backsides waiting to be beaten. He walked slowly back to his desk, gently swishing the cane as he went.

“I think twelve strokes should do it, don’t you?” It was so gently said Mr. Burton might have been asking a genuine question. As if the lads were able to negotiate. “You know what Mr. Burton, I rather think I deserve three dozen.”

Rowe stared at the cane in his boss’s hand. “But we already got dealt with by Mr. Richardson.”

“Be quite! I don’t care about Mr. Richardson.”

Rowe blushed. It wasn’t fair. The workshop facilitator had already spanked them. Twenty-three years old and bent over Mr. Richardson’s knee, trousers at his ankles, underpants at his knees while the old man hammered a heavy wooden ruler into his bared buttocks. Could you imagine such a thing?

Mr. Burton swiped the cane through the air. “Rowe, Osbourne, stand by the wall.” He nodded to his left and the two young men obediently shuffled. “Tapler. Stand there.” He tapped the tip of his cane in the middle of a red-patterned rug. Tapler breathed deeply. His palms were sweating. He rubbed them against his trouser legs and set off across the office.

“Take down your trousers. Bend over.”

The three young men expected this. They weren’t the first employees to be beaten by Mr. Burton. They wouldn’t be the last. Even so, Tapler’s open faced coloured. His palms dampened again. This was too embarrassing. He saw Mr. Burton tap the cane against his own leg impatiently.

“C’mon lad, I haven’t got all day.”

Tapler’s wet fingers unbuckled his narrow back leather belt. He popped the button on the waistband of the trousers and tugged the zipper. The weight of his keys in his pocket helped them slither down his legs. He felt a slight breeze as they went.

“Bend over, lad.” More tapping against his leg.

Mr. Burton used to order a lad to, “Touch your toes.” He wasn’t sure why. It was the traditional way, he supposed. What generations of schoolmasters had done. He quickly learned it was better to have the lad grab his shins. It kept the knees straight and the bum was beautifully rounded to receive the swish of the rattan.

That was how Tapler presented himself. His spotted boxer shorts fitted snugly against his stretched cheeks. The lad’s shirttail hung down and covered most of his buttocks. It was no effort for Mr. Burton to take the edge and push it up the lad’s back to his shoulders. Mr. Burton was surprised how hairy the twenty-two-year-old was. Quite the hairiest youngster he had ever dealt with.

Tapler stared at the rug. It had a pattern but he couldn’t work out what it was. Some modern art perhaps. From the corner of his eye, he saw Mr. Burton take up position. He felt the cane being “sawed” across the centre of his tight buttocks. Then it was lifted away. He heard the swoosh as the cane flew and the crack as it connected with the seat of his underwear. It was a second or so later that he felt the tremendous pain. A thick welt was already forming under his boxers. It throbbed like mad.

Tapler gripped his calves so tightly his fingernails scratched the flesh. The second and third swipes bounced off his bum; landing in almost the same spot. It knocked the wind out of him. He shut his teeth just in time to stifle the “yowelll!” he wanted to make.

Osborne and Rowe looked on apprehensively. Their pal seemed to be taking the thrashing well. Rowe had howled when Mr. Richardson spanked him, he couldn’t imagine taking a trousers-down caning stoically.

Tapler’s head ached and saliva drained from his mouth. His boss continued his task with determination. It was his duty to instil discipline in the young. One day, when they were managers and making a good career at Global they would thank him for days like this. All his employees would. Mr. Burton was convinced corporal punishment worked. A sore arse never did any harm. The youngster broke the rules, learnt a very painful lesson and the world moved on. God was in his Heaven.

Twelve swipes of the cane across the underwear is an awesome punishment. By the time Tapler was allowed to stand his bum was ripped to shreds. Even without rubbing his hands across his buttocks he knew there were high ridges rising on the flesh. It felt like his shorts were stuck to the skin. That was either sweat, or God forbid, blood.

“Osbourne.”

The trainee manager took Tapler’s place. Tapler’s ashen face and damp eyes made Osbourne’s skin crawl. Osbourne took up position, let his trousers fall and bent to stare at the rug. Mr. Burton grimaced. Osbourne wore the most garish briefs, in a kind of zebra pattern. He had noticed that although young men dressed outwardly alike, they favoured outlandish underwear.

“Brace yourself boy.” He lashed the first cut home.

He had landed number eight when the office door swung open. Mr. Harris the section head – Mr. Burton’s boss – stood in the threshold. He was younger and beefier than Mr. Burton. He smiled broadly. “I heard there was something going on in here.”

He stared across at the zebra-covered arse. “Don’t I know you,” he grunted. “Didn’t I have occasion to thrash you the other week?”

“Yes, Sir,” the reply was addressed to the rug.

“Give me that, Burton,” he grabbed the cane from his hand and marched up to Osbourne. Rowe and Tapler watched in horror as Mr. Harris gripped the waist of the twenty-three-year-old’s pants and ripped them to his knees, completely baring the buttocks.

“You’ve given him a good set of marks, Burton,” he said with genuine admiration. Eight thick parallel lines ran from the top of the globes, over the crest of the buttocks and into the soft sit-spot. Mr. Harris raised the cane high and thrashed six stingers into the bare flesh. Rat-tat-tat, like machinegun fire. Osbourne howled like a banshee. His body twisted this way and that. His knees buckled and straightened as he fought to stop himself jumping to his feet and rubbing away at the scolding flesh.

“Here, carry on,” Mr. Harris handed the cane back and perched his buttocks on the edge of the desk. He folded his hands demurely over his crotch and made himself comfortable to watch the rest of the show.

 

Other stories you might like

Pyjama bottoms down. Bend over (again)

My boy Dixon

Fr. Christian

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com