Through the window

z used belt pants couch spankingboysdoteu (110c)

“You’ll never guess what I saw today,” Alan blew across the top of his mug of tea, wallowing in the suspense he hoped to create in the postal distribution centre canteen. “I was in The Avenue, you know those posh houses.” His co-workers nodded assent. “So, I’m walking up the driveway and I can see through the window and what did I see?”

He paused, genuinely expecting his pals around the table to guess. When no one took the bait, he continued. “There’s this huge front room and this guy, he must have been about twenty, and he’s only wearing underpants,” he sipped his tea, to build the tension. “And he’s bent over the back of a massive settee with his arse held high. And standing over him is an old geezer,” he stared intently at his three pals waiting to gauge their reaction to his impending punchline, “and he’s got this belt and he’s whipping the kid on his arse; giving him a right good spanking.”

“Unbelievable,” a co-worker munched on a sandwich.

“I ain’t lying, why would I lie?” Alan couldn’t hide his indignation.

“No,” his pal explained, “Unbelievable. Who’d think it would happen today. It’s 2018.”

A second postman piped up. “Was it a kinky thing? I’ve heard all sorts of stories about what goes on in The Avenue.”

“Well,” Alan grinned. “The kid didn’t look like he was enjoying it.”

“So,” the first pal spoke again, “It was a proper spanking? Discipline. Punishment, like?”

“Alan says the kid was twenty,” the second postman interjected. “That right? Bit too old to have his bum smacked, ain’t he.”

“I don’t know,” Alan said, “I can think of a few louts round my way who could do with a bloody good spanking.”


Earlier that day.

Mr Grainger slumped on the plush leather sofa and stared at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. Almost ten o’clock and that brat was still in bed, he fumed silently. He heard the sound of the tap running in the kitchen and hoisted himself to his feet and waddled out the room. Jack was making tea, naked, except for a pair of underpants.

“Too bone idle even to get dressed,” Mr Grainger blasted the twenty-year-old. “Look at you.”

Jack switched the kettle on, turned and gave Mr Grainger his best scornful glare.

“You’re late for college. Again.” Mr Grainger growled. “And what time did you get in last night?” Jack shrugged his shoulders. “I dunno.” Mr Grainger flared his nostrils. “Half past twelve. You know curfew is eleven o’clock on a school night.”

The kettle boiled and Jack poured water over a tea bag in a single mug.

“Pah! What did I say I would do if you didn’t pull yourself together?” Mr Grainger fumed.

Jack set his mug on the table. “Wordya mean?”

“A spanking. I said I’d give you a jolly good spanking.”

Jack let his jaw slacken, then he said, “Oh come on Gramps, I’m too old to be spanked.”

“Nonsense,” Mr Grainger waved his arms. “I was still taking a cane to your father’s backside when he was twenty-one.”

Jack stared blankly. The silence could be cut with a knife. He waited for Gramps next move.

“Come with me. Into the lounge,” Mr Grainer gripped Jack’s left ear and propelled him forward.

“Ouch! Leggo!” he cried, but was forced to allow Gramps to drag him away and pull him towards the sofa. He released his grip on the ear and with one swift movement pushed the brat forward so that he was face down over its back.

“Now stay there. Don’t move,” Mr Grainer ordered as he unbuckled his belt and drew it through the loops of his trousers. Jack gazed vacantly at the seat cushion centimetres from his face. Mr Grainger doubled the belt. It was narrow and thin and he held it between his two hands and stretched it so it make a thwacking sound. Jack’s head rose from the settee at the sound of the crack.

“Don’t say you weren’t warned,” Mr Grainger swished the leather belt through the air and took up position by the brat’s side. Jack was small and stocky and fitted comfortably across the settee. His weight pressed into the leather. With his knees slightly bent his bottom was perfectly positioned for Gramp’s purpose.

Jack’s Calvin Klein underpants were a snug fit. He was far from fat, but he carried a little bulk. “A terrific target,” Mr Grainger thought to himself. He rubbed the belt across the centre of Jack’s buttocks, delighting as the brat’s bum tensed. The twenty-year-old was steadying himself for the ordeal about to come.

Smack! The thud of leather hitting cotton-covered buttocks resounded around the room. A line creased the pants where the belt landed. Gramps raised the belt again and lashed it a centimetre or so below it. Then he whipped again and again. Within seconds there were stripes across the whole of Jack’s bum, from below the spine, over the fleshy mounds in into the under-cheeks. Jack took his whipping without a murmur. This perplexed the old man. A spanking should hurt, otherwise what was the point.

Deliberately, he landed a slash low, so that it avoided Jack’s pants altogether and landed on his naked left thigh. “Ouch!” Jack felt that one all right. Gramps watched with great satisfaction as a dark pink line formed. Then he slashed one into the brat’s right thigh.

Mr Grainger might be a senior citizen, but he had some stamina despite his old age. He returned his attention to Jack’s cotton-covered backside and spanked him with his belt for a further five minutes.

“Get up,” he ordered. Jack sprung to his feet. His face was scarlet and his untidy hair soaked in sweat. He rubbed his buttocks, even though they didn’t hurt so much. What pain there was quickly turned to a tingle before almost immediately disappearing.

Mr Grainger returned his belt to its rightful place and sat on a large leather armchair. He spread his legs wide. “Come here,” he gestured to Jack. The brat eyed Gramps cautiously. What did he want? Was he going to take him across his knee for another spanking? Gramps patted his own leg. Now Jack understood. He hurried forward and sat on the old man’s lap. Gramps put his arms around the brat and pulled him forward into a caress.

“Well,” he whispered kindly, “What did you think of that?” Jack smiled, “Not much really. It hardly hurt. Not like the paddle.”

Mr Grainger grinned and pushing Jack to his feet, said, “OK. Go fetch the paddle and we’ll go again.” With mounting excitement, he watched Jack’s beautiful buttocks sashay from the room.


Picture credit: spankingboysdoteu

Other stories you might like

Wait til your father gets home

The boy band

The Senior Tutor



More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second

Book. The Dean of Dormitory Discipline


The Dean of Dormitory Discipline and other university tales

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

Now, Mitch must pay for his missed curfew …

The Dean of Dorm Discipline is one of six corporal punishment tales from universities that appears in the my free-to-download book.

This one runs for more than 15,000 words and like the other books in this series it can be downloaded as a PDF file and read on your computer, laptop or a variety of e-book readers.

Click on the link below:


For more free-to-download books click here


BOOK. The Junior Salesman

used drawing cane hold (4)

The Junior Salesman and other workplace whackings

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

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

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

 The Junior Salesman and other workplace whackings is another collection of my stories published in book form. It runs for more than 19,000 words and has many illustrations. You should be able to read it on your lap top or e-book reader.

Click on the link below to download it free-of-charge.


Picture credit: Unknown

For more free-to-download books click here

The beach house

Randy breathed in the warm air, summer was on the way at last. It had been a cruel winter with record amounts of snow. But that was then. The top of the car was down, rock music blared from the radio. He was happy as a pig in shit.

He was almost there. Another fifteen minutes should do it. He should arrive by about five. That would give him plenty of time.

He passed the road sign. Belinda Beach Welcomes Carful Drivers. He always liked that joke. Carful. Car-full. A pun on careful. Belinda Beach was a holiday resort, it depended on cars full of visitors. He drove along the beach. The holiday season hadn’t quite begun but the beach was busy. Youngsters mostly. College kids. Drop-outs, those kind of people. The families and the rich folk wouldn’t be here until another week or two.

He pulled the car over. He was here now. The beach house. He switched the engine off and sat, admiring the house. How he wished he could afford such a place. Anyhow, he’d get some use of it over the next few days. He climbed out of the car. He had a job to do. He needed to get the house ready before his boss and his family moved in.

He found the key in his pocket and put it in the lock of the front door. No need. The door swung open with a slight nudge. Clearly, it had been forced. His heart jumped. Burglars. Could they still be inside? Were they armed? He peered inside. Nothing seemed to be disturbed. He decided to take the risk; cautiously he entered.

All seemed in order. There wasn’t much for a thief to take, unless they wanted the furniture. Slowly, Randy entered the living room. Nothing unusual. Same with the kitchen. Emboldened, he tried upstairs. He opened the door to the master bedroom. He peered inside. He didn’t need the skills of the homicide detectives he loved to watch on TV. The bed was unmade.  A bag lay nearby, a used shirt poked from its top. He tried the next room and the one beside that.  There was no doubt about it, he knew the story of The Three Bears. Somebody was staying in the house. Without permission.

Randy cursed to himself. This was a hassle he would rather not have. Who were these people? Beach bums, he answered his own question. Cursing some more he made his way downstairs. He needed to call the police. He didn’t even try the phone in the hall, he knew it wouldn’t be connected yet. He exited the house and made his way over to the beach in search of a payphone.

The police were courteous, but Randy reckoned they didn’t seem much interested. They’d send a patrol car over as soon as they could. Randy hopped from foot to foot with indignation, unsure what to do now. If he went back to the house, would the bums return? How would he deal with them? He didn’t want a fight. He found the packet of cigarettes in his pocket and lit one, inhaling deeply. It was a warm evening, he would wait on the beach until he saw a police car approach the house.

He didn’t wait long. Officers Brady and Colhoun were there within minutes. “We were close by,” the larger and older of the two replied when Randy expressed gratitude for a speedy turn out. They went inside and the officers quickly searched the premises. “Anything missing?” Officer Brady, who seemed to Randy to be in charge, asked.

“Not that I can see,” Randy felt a little foolish calling the police. “But,” he went on, “somebody, bodies, are clearly staying here. Isn’t that trespass or something?”

“Civil, not criminal, you need a lawyer. A court order,” Officer Brady stretched his arms. He had been sitting in the patrol car too long. “To be perfectly honest sir, we are a small town here, with a tiny police force, we couldn’t afford to call this in and put the perps. through the system.”

Randy exhaled, “You mean they should just get away with it?”

Officer Brady bristled. “I didn’t say that sir. We have quite a few of these cases at this time of year. Kids come to the beach with no place to stay and they break into houses that have been locked up for the winter. We have a way of dealing with them.”

Randy was intrigued and said so.

“Well,” Officer Brady warmed to his theme, “It’s all very unofficial, you understand.” Randy nodded eagerly, encouraging the cop to tell him more.



It was an hour later when Randy heard the beach house door open and voices. “Good evening gentlemen,” he smiled weakly at the two startled teens. “Shit,” one breathed almost inaudibly.

“Shit indeed,” Randy had decided he would enjoy this. He eyed them up and down. They were dressed in identical blue-and-white-hooped t-shirts and denims cut right down to the buttocks. “Fags,” Randy silently sneered. They were about nineteen years old, he reckoned, and judging by their suntans they had spent much of the last few weeks on the beach.

Both looked sheepish. Randy liked that. “So,” he had prepared a little speech, “the police say they have a plan for kids like you who break into houses.”

The phrase “their jaws dropped” is a cliché, but their jaws actually did dip as the teens realised their fate.

“Wait,” one of them said. Randy leaned forward so intimidatingly that the teen dried up and looked sulkily across at his companion.

“I am to call Officer Brady,” Randy rose to his feet. “I have to make a phone call,” he went towards the door. “Don’t bother to try to run away, the cops have taken your bags, they know who you are and where to find you. If you know what’s best for you …” he glared at them with contempt, then left the house.


Officer Brady knocked on the door and entered. “Well, well, well. Draper and Bartlett, we meet again.” Despite their tan both the teens blanched. “Hello Officer Brady,” the one who turned out to be Draper smiled weakly.

“So, I evict you from the Hollander’s place and you set up residence here.” Both boys stared at the wooden floor, unsure if they were expected to answer. Officer Brady snorted a laugh. “Well, you can’t say you don’t know what’s gonna happen now.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I guess you see it as an occupational hazard.”

“Oh man,” Bartlett’s eyes shone. Yes, he did know what was going to happen next and if it was half as bad as last time. He tried to get the thought out of his mind.

Randy looked on. He was in his late fifties and it was sometime since he had been a teenager. They didn’t hang out to beaches when he had been young. They left school and went to work. Got married. Raised families. The kids today …  He was roused from his thoughts. Officer Brady was saying something to him.

“I said do you want to deal with this or do you want me to do it?” Randy’s eyes flickered, it took a second for him to work out what the cop was asking. “You’d better do it. You know what to do. You’ve had the experience.”

Officer Brady grimaced. Yes, he knew what to do alright. “Right you two,” he barked like a sergeant-major, “stand over there!” He nodded to the corner of the room. Sorrowfully, Draper and Bartlett shuffled. No words were spoken. What was the point? The cops were in control.

Officer Brady waited until the boys were settled, then he dropped his bombshell. “Right, take your clothes off. All of them. Completely.” It provoked his desired reaction. Shock followed by humiliation. “But,” Draper was close to tears, “last time …”

Officer Brady cut him short. “Yes, last time it was an over-the-knee spanking. Well,” his voice was stern and authoritarian, “that didn’t teach you much of a lesson did it? Let’s do it properly this time shall we. Now strip off.”

The two nineteen year olds stood, rigid, unwilling or unable to move. They watched stone-faced as Officer Brady walked out the room and returned seconds later carrying a bar stool. This he placed in the centre of the room. He studied it for a moment and deciding it was not yet fit for purpose, he looked around the room, noticed a couch and took from it a dark blue cushion. This he placed on top of the stool. Perfect, he thought to himself, just the right height.

“I don’t see you undressing,” he barked. “Do you want me to …?” He left the sentence unfinished. Do what? He couldn’t forcibly strip them naked. Even if he had the strength to do so (which he doubted) how would it look if it became public? Police chiefs turned a blind eye to unofficial corporal punishment. Privately, they welcomed it because it made their own jobs much easier by reducing bureaucracy,  but forcibly stripping young men naked might be a bit too much.

Draper and Bartlett were too naïve to realise this. A moment’s contemplation would have been enough. People – even teens – have rights and wasn’t there something about “due process” in the Constitution.

Draper was first to move. He took the bottom hem of his t-shirt and pulled it over his head. Randy noticed the guy’s hairless torso was as tanned as his face and arms. Taking his lead, Bartlett took his shirt off too. Did Randy detect a slight rueful smile on Bartlett’s face as in synchrony the two teens popped the buttons on the top of their cut-offs and with a slight wriggle of the hips let them sail to their feet. Neither wore underwear. With a certain air of defiance they stepped out of their shorts and stood naked except for their socks.

Randy reckoned the teens were at too much at ease naked together. Definitely fags, he thought.

Officer Brady unbuckled his wide, heavy, black leather belt and with a flourish pulled it from his pants’ belt loops. He doubled it so the leather was now about eighteen inches long. He swished the belt through the air. “Bartlett, face the corner. Draper, bend over the stool.” He swiped the belt through the air in case there was any doubt what he meant.

z used belt stool naked sting

Draper had already decided he would take the whipping as stoically as he could. He wouldn’t give the bastard cop and this millionaire beach house owner the satisfaction of seeing him beg. He walked over to the stool, halted a foot or so from it, peered down at the dusty cushion, took a deep breath, rubbed his hands together and fell forward. The stool was low enough that his could rest his palms against the wooden floor. He legs were straight and his stockinged feet slipped on the wooden floor.

He waited. He could not see the cop but he felt the heavy officer’s movements through the floor as he took up position someway behind him and to his left. A faint aroma of perspiration drifted over him. Draper’s heart pounded and already blood was rushing through his body. He closed his eyes anticipating the first lash. His buttocks clenched involuntarily as if trying to protect him from the onslaught that lay ahead.

“Relax, relax,” Officer Brady tapped the leather belt across the centre of the nineteen-year-old’s naked buttocks. He licked his lips, raised the belt and with as much power as he could make, whipped it down. To his great satisfaction a sunset stripe immediately appeared where the belt landed. Draper inhaled, held it and slowly exhaled, trying in vain to ease the agony he felt in his rear end.

Randy’s eyes flickered. He had never before seen a man naked, let along one who submitted himself buttocks high across a stool for a leathering from a much older guy. Not realising he was doing so, Randy edged himself a little closer to the action so that he got a better view of Draper’s naked haunches.

Smack! Smack! Two lashes flogged across the under-curve of Draper’s buttocks. His body shook. He couldn’t stop it. His head banged up and down in empty air and he gripped the legs of the stool tightly. Smack! Smack! Two more, higher this time. The whole of Draper’s naked ass was alight. A yelp, like that of a whipped puppy, escaped his lips. Bartlett, who until then had his nose pressed against the wall, whirled around startled by the noise. He blanched at the sight, not only in sympathy for his pal, but in sorrow in the knowledge that it was his turn next.

Another half dozen cracked down. Sweat soaked Draper’s long hair, the back of his neck was as scarlet as his buttocks. Another half dozen fell and then six more. Tears ran down his face and snot dribbled from his nose.

Watching on, Randy experienced a novel sensation. He had never met these two teens before this evening, but oh how much he wanted to see them suffer. The heavy leather had raised welts on Draper’s flesh, now Randy wanted them to bleed. On and on Officer Brady lashed his leather belt. Draper was spent, his yelps had transformed into a constant sobbing. He might have been spent, but he would not beg for the cop to stop. He was already utterly humiliated, he needed to keep a semblance of pride.

Officer Brady was not a fit man. His shirt was soaked with sweat and his heartbeat was off the scale. If he didn’t let off soon he might have a stroke. He whipped another half dozen across Draper’s already disfigured cheeks and let off. “Alright,” he wheezed, “you can get up. Go stand in the corner. Bartlett, get yourself here.”

Draper hauled himself off the stool and stood unsteady on his feet. His ass was on fire, it looked and felt like he had sat on a griddle. He stumbled towards the corner and slouched against the wall, still sobbing gently.

Dazed, Bartlett shuffled forward and stood apprehensively at the stool. Officer Brady examined the leather belt in his hands and snapped it so a resounding crack bounced around the room. He looked across at Randy. “Here,” he handed the belt over, “you do this one.”

Randy’s hands shook. Too eagerly, he reached and grabbed the belt. “Get over the stool. Head down, legs apart. As far as you can get them,” Randy barked the order. Bartlett submissively complied. The teen’s hairless crack was open and his hole winked open and shut. Randy patted the teen’s buttocks with the belt, carefully taking his aim.

Smack! The leather landed. Randy paused to admire his handiwork. Yea! He lined up another one, not yet conscious of the bulge in his own underwear that would soon reveal to the room just how much fun he was having.


Picture credit: Sting Pictures


Other stories you might like

Expelled from school

An early morning call

The terrible twins


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second


The autumn of 49

z used autumn of 49 harvester

George Nettles grasped the fading photograph with trembling hands. He could barely hold anything steady these days. The warders gave him his tea in a plastic cup. With a lid screwed on. He had to sip it through a hole cut in the top. He called them the “warders”, but they preferred to be called “care assistants”. Bugger that, he thought. Their main job was to stop the residents doing anything.

His granddaughter had brought him the photograph. A young man – a boy really – eighteen years old. In a corn field. On a harvester. In shorts and an open shirt. Waving. Who at? George couldn’t remember. It was so long ago – 1949. He peered intently at the smiling boy. Had he really been so carefree? Nearly seventy years ago.

Carefree? Was that really the right word? He remembered it as if it were yesterday, which was strange because he couldn’t truly recall what he did yesterday. He would struggle to remember what he had eaten for breakfast that morning.

1949: Tomkinson’s Farm. East Anglia. Tomkinson, George’s face cracked into a broad smile. He hadn’t thought about the brute in six decades or more. It was the Church that had sent him to the farm. The Second World War was over, but the peace had still to be won. That’s how people talked in those days. Everyone had to chip in. Do their bit; play a part. Volunteers descended  on the farms to bring in the harvest.

He went with a chap called Roger. Damn it, George screwed his eyes tightly. What was the fellow’s second name? No, it would come to him later. Small for his age. Jet black curly hair. Lots of spots. My did they get into a lot of trouble. Townies in the country. Away from parental control for the first time in their lives. George winced. It was as if Tomkinson’s thick, heavy belt had once more slashed across his naked buttocks.

The kids today wouldn’t believe you if you tried to tell them. Things were so different then. Eighteen was nothing. You didn’t become an adult until you were twenty-one. They all knew their place. The Church was really big, the priest was God himself.

The trouble started over booze. George’s eyes glistened at the memory. No different to today’s kids really. They wanted to drink alcohol, to be grown up. There wasn’t the money around and even if there were there were the pubs would never serve under-age kids. So they made their own. Cider. There were plenty of apples around. It didn’t take much.

George shuffled in his chair, his legs had been giving him pain for some days. He could hardly walk. Cider. Moonshine more like. They made it in buckets. My, he smiled at the memory, a group of the lads from all the farms around got rip-roaring drunk. He was sick as a dog. He’d never had a hangover like it since; and he had been in some gin joints when he was in the Army.

Of course, Tomkinson found out. Took it as a personal affront. As if George and Roger had done it to spite him. George didn’t have to close his eyes to conjure up the farmhouse kitchen. A large, draughty room, dominated by a rickety wooden table and a Welsh dresser for cups and saucers. And lots of heavy straight-backed wooden chairs.

George sighed, pulled himself from his own chair. He really ought to call a warder for help. Damn them, he thought. He didn’t need help every time he wanted to sit on his bed. Summoning strength from somewhere, he hauled himself to his feet. The bed was only three steps away. Come on George, he berated himself, you can do it. His knees ached like mad. His balance was shot to pieces. C’mon, lad! One foot dragged across the harsh industrial-strength carpet. Then another. Aaaah! George toppled forward, landing with a thump on his thin mattress.

“See,” he said to nobody in particular, “Who needs help?” He rolled on his back and wheezing gazed up at the ceiling. The room span. He closed his eyes.

“You’re a disgrace, the pair of you,” it was Mr. Tomkinson speaking. George and Roger stood, heads bowed, hands behind their backs, knees bent slightly, feet shuffling. “What do you think St. Francis will say when I tell them?” He meant the church in Stepney that had sent them to work in the fields. “And your dads. I know what they’d say,” he growled and sneered ominously, “and what they’d do.”

Mr. Tomkinson was a large, strong man with a ruddy complexion, as befitting a farmer who worked the fields from dawn to dusk. He was god-fearing and observed the world around him in black and white terms. Illegal drinking, hangovers that kept them from working in the fields. The harvest delayed. Flour mills waiting for supplies. Bread not baked. Families going hungry. All because two stupid boys guzzled themselves sick on homemade cider.

Too much harm had been caused, Mr. Tomkinson told himself, for the boys to remain unpunished.

“You need a leathering …” he left the sentence unfinished. George glanced across at Roger, but the boy’s intense stare never left the floor. Mr. Tomkinson already was unbuckling his belt. He whisked it through the loops of his trousers. George watched intently as the farmer folded it once, then twice so it was about eighteen inches long.

“And, that’s just what I’m going to give you,” Mr. Tomkinson said, completing his sentence.

He was a man of few words. He grabbed hold of a chair and moved it away from underneath the wooden table. He swished his belt through the air and then addressing Roger, he growled, “Stand there, by the table.”

On his back on the bed nearly seventy tears after the event, George had a perfect view of what happened next. As indeed he had in the farmhouse kitchen that autumnal morning. Roger opened and closed his mouth as if in protest, but no words came. Doubtless, he wanted to say the farmer had no right to belt him, only his father could do that. But what would be the point? Mr. Tomkinson was in charge, he had the weight of public opinion on his side. Given the chance, the priest would thrash him and so would his dad. Probably, both of them. Spanked twice for the same offence. If he had the intelligence to rationalise his situation, Roger would have submitted to the farmer’s will.

He did not have the wit of a barrack-room lawyer, so there was no argument from Roger. Instead, he took the three paces it needed to take up position by the table. George watched as his pal stood submissively, waiting for the inevitable next instruction. He was a smallish boy of eighteen. People were smaller in those days and he probably didn’t reach five-feet-six. Despite the work in the fields, he retained the stature of a scrawny townie. His short trousers hung loosely from his hips, kept up by an elasticated “snake” belt. His blue cotton shirt was untucked and three open buttons revealed his hairless but tanned chest.

Mr. Tomkinson grasped the belt in his right hand. It was wide and thick and trebled up as it was it promised to inflict a severe beating. “Shorts down. Pants too.” It was a clear order, not barked, but Mr. Tomkinson expected to be obeyed. And he was. But, Roger stumbled as he tried to find the clasp of his belt. Its snake’s head refused to allow itself to be released, but after several tries and a loud grunt from the farmer Roger had it free. His black short trousers needed no help to slip over his hips and slither down to his knees. Unbidden, Roger spread his legs a little and they continued their journey to the ground.

George had seen Roger without his trousers – and much less besides – many times and was not surprised to see his pal’s off-white underpants were shapeless and baggy – and also appeared to be several times too big for him. They quickly joined his short trousers at his feet.

“Bend over.” The order was hardly unexpected but still it took Roger’s breath away. He was expected to submit his bared bottom to the attention of Mr. Tomkinson, his employer, and a man he hardly knew. It would be difficult enough to do this for his father, a man who was very well acquainted with Roger’s bottom – clothed and bared.

When Roger finally leaned forward, resting his stomach on the worn pine table, George noticed just how thin his pal was. There wasn’t enough spare fat on his entire body to sizzle a sausage. Roger wriggled this way and that, unsure where to put his arms and hands. He tried stretching them ahead of himself to grip the far edge of the table, but it was too long and he too short for that to work. So he tried for the side edges so he was positioned rather as if for a crucifixion, but that was no good. Finally, he settled on folding his arms and resting his face in them. That way, he was ready to receive his lashing from Farmer Tomkinson.

George watched transfixed. He was no stranger to corporal punishment; which boy of his era was not, but he had never before witnessed a boy take a beating. What he saw was an eighteen-year-old presenting himself stoically; that is there were no histrionics, no pleadings for mercy, no complaints. Roger merely lay, his breathing a little shallow, for his master to do his business. His legs twitched when Mr. Tomkinson lay the belt gently across the middle of boy buttocks. He was taking his aim. He stood a little to Roger’s left – a belt length’s away – and when he had found his spot, he raised the leather to above shoulder height and twisting his body as he did so, he lashed down a stroke. A couple of sunset stripes immediately glowed across the tiny target area; Roger sucked in air and slowly released it through clenched teeth. That hurt. That hurt a lot.

As if in sympathy for his pal, George’s hands fumbled to his own buttocks and he patted them ruefully. Thwack! the sound of leather bouncing back from stretched flesh resounded around the large farm kitchen. Roger snorted through his nose and screwed his eyes. Even from his distance George could make out the clear welts forming across the teenager’s bum

And so it went on, leather rising and pounding into naked buttocks, again and again and again. Roger’s bum turned from white, to pink, and then through a strange amalgam of yellows and oranges to a deep crimson. Roger sucked on his wrists, gulped in air, shut his teeth and once in a while wriggled his hips and legs as the pain intensified. But not once did he utter a sound of distress. Perspiration drenched Mr. Tomkinson’s ruddy face, but he was strong as an ox, he could go on all night if he need arose. But it did not. The farmer believed in chastisement, he believed in the lash, he had no doubt he was performing God’s work. But enough is sufficient. At last he rested the belt on the wooden table.

“Get up. George, your turn.”

Roger leapt to his feet and not waiting to rub away at his scorched backside he pulled his underpants and short trousers up together. Now, it was George’s turn.

From  his bed, George watches his younger self slip his short trousers down to his feet, then hitch his thumbs beneath the waistband of his underpants. In a trice his buttocks are bared. Having studied Roger, he knows precisely how to position himself across the farm kitchen table. He sees the farmer swish the belt, taking practice swipes, although of course he would never have been able to see this back in 1949. The belt rises …

The body on the bed stirs slightly. It shows no outward sign of the shock. Its heart clenches and stops. Later, a twenty-year-old care giver will wonder just for a moment who was the boy on the harvester?

Picture credit: Boy’s Own Paper

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 Charles Hamilton the Second

The movie mogul

Ned, the mailroom manager, looked up from his paperwork. Henderson, the boss’s minion strode across the floor: a man on a mission. “Here comes trouble,” Ned sighed.

“Henderson!” his smile was painted. “What can I do for you today – and so early on a Monday morning.”

Henderson towered over Ned, fingering a foolscap manila folder. Only he knew it contained blank sheets of paper. He had to carry something. It gave him gravitas.

“You’ve got a new intern,” he pretended to consult his notes, “Robert Mitchum.” He grinned, suddenly realising. “That his real name?”

“He calls himself Robbie,” Ned shrugged his shoulders, What can you do?

“HW wants you to send him upstairs.”

Ned’s face flushed. “How did HW know about the new intern?” He didn’t say the words aloud, but his expression said enough.

“HW sees all the files. He selects the interns.”

“Yeah, I bet he does,” again best not said aloud. Ned was not naïve. HW was President of Global Pictures Inc. The top banana. The big cheese. Numero Uno. He could (and did) make a career with the stroke of a pen (and God only knew what else).

“The kid’s a film school grad. Wants a break in pictures …” he let his words trail off. This wasn’t Henderson’s first such mission; it wouldn’t be the last.

“Send him up at ten. Don’t be late. He’s on a tight schedule this morning.” Henderson turned on his heels. There was some Latino boy in the canteen he still had to track down.




Five to ten. Robbie didn’t want to be late. You didn’t keep Herb Winklestein waiting. Well maybe only once. You never got a second chance. He stood nervously in front of the personal assistant’s desk. Why was it surprised it was a guy. Weren’t PAs always women? Wasn’t that a thing? Secretary equals women’s work. Well, Robbie supposed, this was nineteen-seventy-six; the film business was blazing a trail for equality.

The young PA seemed nervous. “He’s got someone with him, do you want to sit and wait,” he nodded towards a row of seats. “He’ll see you when he’s …” he stopped himself in time and blushed. Robbie shuffled to the seating area, sat and looked back across at the PA. Did everyone in the movie business have film-star good looks, he wondered. The guy was maybe in his early twenties, with tanned flawless skin. Clearly, he worked out. His sober grey suit hugged his developed muscles. A wild shock of brown curly hair was expensively cut, emphasising his grey sparkling eyes. A phone rang, the PA reached out, picked it up and spoke. Robbie was mesmerised by the guy’s thick red lips and gleaming white teeth.

A door opened and a small, very thin Latino boy shuffled out. He seemed in some distress. His dark eyes glistened. Neither looking to left nor right he hurried past Robbie, the PA guy and another young man who was coming towards HW’s office. He passed the elevator, pushed upon the doors to the emergency exit with his shoulder and taking the stairs two at a time disappeared from view.

“Mr. Winklestein will see you now,” the PA guy called over to Robbie. “Just knock and go in,” he instructed, then paused. “Good luck,” he added in the softest of voices.

It was a large office, about the size of a football field probably. A gargantuan desk strewn with telephones was at the far end, but Mr. Winklestein was at the opposite side of the room slouched on a couch surrounded by three armless ‘easy’ chairs.

“Come,” Winklestein waved a hand, “Robbie, isn’t it? Come stand here. In front of me.”

Robbie had seen him in photographs and on the television of course, but Winklestein looked larger in real life. He was in his early forties (according to the official records at least) but looked a lot older in person. He was going to flab, a roll of fat drooped over his belt (fastened a little too tightly) and his smartly trimmed beard could not fully disguise the man’s jowls. Round, rimless slightly-tinted spectacles disguised the colour of his eyes.

Robbie moved forward, his mouth suddenly drained of saliva and his heart thumping. Awkwardly, he stood in front of the “world’s greatest movie mogul” (hadn’t Variety called him that last fall?).

“I’ve heard a lot about you, young man,” Winklestein spluttered. The tip of his tongue brushed over his top lip. He shifted his buttocks on the grey leather couch and crossed and uncrossed his legs. Robbie sucked in breath. This was unreal. The second week of his internship and here he was in front of the great man himself.

“I hear you come highly recommended. Top of your class in film school. A star in the making.” Winklestein disregarded Robbie’s puzzled frown. None of what the producer said was true. Yes, Robbie was a film school graduate, but from an unknown community college – and his GPA was nothing to write home about.

“So,” Winklestein continued. He had a prepared script. “I want you to work here in my office. Do your internship here.” His tongue did the licking thing again, this time taking in both top and bottom lips.

Robbie bit down on his own bottom lip. He was trying not to leer.

“What do you say?” Winklestein shuffled his buttocks and started to rise to his feet, appeared to think twice about it, and settled back against the hard leather.

Robbie’s mouth opened and closed. Like a goldfish. What could he say? There could be only one response. What’s the catch?

Winklestein shuffled again. This time he managed it all the way to his feet. He stood inches from Robbie; so close the twenty-two-year-old intern could smell the tobacco on his breath. “You really are a delightful thing,” Winklestein’s voice cracked a little. His left hand gently touched Robbie on the small of his back. The intern closed his eyes and suppressed a flinch. The film producer’s hand stroked his hip and then gently caressed Robbie’s left buttock. The smell of the tobacco increased with Winklestein’s wheezing.

“What you need young man,” Winklestein spoke clearly. “Is a darn good spanking.” He slapped the palm of his hand across Robbie’s left buttock. “And,” then he slapped the right cheek, “I think you know it.”

Robbie had taken an acting class or two at community college. That helped him in what happened next. “Yes, Sir,” he said with contrition. “I need to be punished.”

He suppressed his giggles. So the rumours about the old goat were true. Robbie had wondered why he had gotten an internship at the world’s top film company. He was glad he let his pal Arlo take those “artistic”  photographs to put in his portfolio.

“I’ve been a bad, bad boy,” Robbie prepared to launch into a soliloquy, listing his (supposed) misdeeds, but Winklestein cut him short.

“Darn right you have mister!” He walked a away across the office, wheezing, “and now you’ve got to pay for it.” Robbie watched as the film producer grabbed a straight-backed office chair and settled it clear of other furniture. Then, with hands shaking he undid his wide thick leather belt and tugged it free of his trousers. His belly flopped an inch downwards grateful to be released. Winklestein eased his flabby buttocks down on the hard seat. He looked across at Robbie, snapped his fingers and pointed to a spot close to his feet. “Stand there.”

Robbie moved slowly. Darn, he thought, if only he had been able to sneak Arlo into the office. His photographs would be dynamite.

“Take down your jeans.” It was a calm, clear instruction. Winklestein was in charge – and didn’t he know it. Just as calmly, Robbie dealt with the buckle of his belt and popped the button at his waistband. He felt Winklestein’s eyes burn into him as he tugged the metal zipper and let the jeans slip down his thighs to his knees.

A cheap novelist would at this point write that Winklestein’s eyes stood out on stalks. But that’s the only way to describe it. Robbie’s tight, ice-blue briefs clung to the contours of his body, hardly covering the young man’s dick and ball sack. Robbie couldn’t breathe. Blood rushed to his ears and his eyes welled. He was about to cry. No! That must not happen.

“Bend over my knee.”

Robbie knew he had to do this. His life was flipping burgers and crap rooming houses.  But that could be the past. Here was the future. Bending across Winklestein’s knee. Taking a spanking.

Robbie moved forward and rested his hands on Winklestein’s left leg, before slowly easing himself forward and placing both palms flat on the floor ahead of him. His legs were straight behind him with his pert butt bursting against tight cotton resting snugly over Winklestein’s right leg.

Robbie stared at the plush deep-pile carpet as Winklestein prepared. He used the young man’s back as a shelf and rested the belt, then with slow deliberate care he held the waist of the ice-blue briefs and pulled gently. First one cheek popped free, then the other. What delicious buttocks. Then Winklestein tugged the briefs down to the thighs. His heart skipped, the butt was as tanned as the rest of Robbie’s sexy body. Winklestein smacked his hand into the left cheek. “You been running around naked!” He slapped him some more; hard. Real stingers. Robbie gasped. The spanking was getting to him already and it hadn’t really begun.

Robbie couldn’t find his breath. His mouth was drying. Saliva collecting at his throat made him gag a little.

The intern was submissive. He knew Winklestein was in charge. This might be Robbie’s only chance in life. He raised his butt higher, making an easier target. It was as if he were saying, “I am a bad, bad boy and I deserve to have my bottom spanked. And you are the one to do it.”

Winklestein picked up the belt from off Robbie’s back. It was long; too long to whip Robbie at short distance, so he folded it into two pieces. He grasped it in his right hand and tapped it gently over the centre of the twenty-two-year-old’s buttocks; finding his spot, testing his aim.

Robbie sucked in air. His buttocks trembled, his hole winked and his crack opened and closed. It was a physical reflex, there was nothing he could do to control it. Winklestein licked his middle finger of his left hand and ran it down the hairless crack. He stopped at the hole. It was wide open and he inserted his finger gently. Robbie winced. Winklestein needed to cut his fingernails.

Winklestein raised his arm as high as it could go. Ready to lash the leather into the bared flesh. As hard as he possibly could. The buttocks clenched (another natural reflex) as Robbie had no control over them.

used drawing belt hold otk (7)

Whap. Crack! The sound of a thick leather belt connecting with bare flesh bounced around the huge office. Robbie’s eyes glared. Pain. It was not too bad. He kept still, butt still raised high. Waiting for number two.

It was not long coming. Winklestein usually spanked to a rhythm. He lashed the leather down, one whack every ten seconds. Again and again and again. In no time every part of Robbie’s sun-tanned buttocks were sunset red.

Then, Winklestein stopped. Robbie wheezed, gasping hard, he couldn’t suck air into his lungs. The pain grew in intensity. The bruises would be around for some time. No more hanging out at the beach.

But, Winklestein hadn’t done. He was only pausing; he gripped Robbie tightly at the waist, preparing an onslaught. Making sure the naughty little intern was going nowhere.

Swipe! The leather belt landed with maximum force with the power of a man possessed.

The belt rose and fell quickly. Robbie’s legs buckled at the knees. He kicked out. His body squirmed and his arms flailed. His ice-blue briefs were at his feet and they stopped him thrashing about too much, but then he kicked them clear and they landed yards away.

The relentless pounding continued. Robbie wanted to be brave, to be stoic and not cry out. That’s how a guy should take his spanking. Wasn’t it? Darn, but what if Winklestein preferred his victims to holler and scream. What if Robbie wasn’t doing it right. To go through all this and get it wrong. To miss out on the prize at the end. Robbie yelped; quietly at first and then a bit louder until he sounded like a little whipped puppy.

With no let up on the downward strokes, Winklestein grabbed Robbie’s right arm and roughly shoved it up his back, so his hand was pinned at the shoulder blades. He was going nowhere until Winklestein said so. Winklestein could do what he wanted. Robbie was at his total mercy. He had no choice, he must lay there face down, bare butt high and take a severe spanking.

The belt went up and up and down. Up and down, at terrific speed. Robbie gasped in air, but couldn’t fill his lungs. He wheezed out breath and tried to counter the intense pain running from his ass and tingling every nerve in his body.

Tears flowed. Snot ran from his nose. Please God in heaven make sure I’m doing this right, he prayed.

Robbie felt a movement in Winklestein ’s body. The film mogul rested the belt on the small of the intern’s back. Winklestein had his own problems breathing. He was exhausted himself.

Robbie was still across his knees, but Winklestein had let go his grip. Robbie could stand up and flee if he wanted to. He didn’t. His breathing was easier now, he was calming down. He would stay in position until Winklestein said he could get up.

It was taking a long time. Robbie hoped he was not just resting and finding energy for another attack on his scorched buttocks. He had had enough; he couldn’t take any more.

Then Winklestein spoke. “Get up. Slowly.” Robbie put both hands on the floor ahead of him. Lifted his body from Winklestein’s knees and tried to stand, but stumbled forward, hitting the floor where he stayed a while, his whole body shaking.

Robbie lifted himself off the floor onto his knees. His forehead bounced against the carpet as he gasped and wheezed, trying to get the energy to stand. Winklestein sat in his chair, his feet inches from Robbie’s face. The intern leaned forward and puckered his lips, kissing Winklestein’s left foot and then his right.

Two minutes later, Robbie closed the office door behind him. Not many words had been spoken. Winklestein dismissed him curtly and sent him back to the mailroom. As Robbie slouched towards the elevator he heard the PA Guy speak to a young man in a business suit. “Mickey, Mr. Winklestein will see you now.”

Picture credit: Endart


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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second

Changed Times 9. The truck

A glimpse into the near future. Other Changed Times stories are here.

z used bum bent over truck (1)


I thought Mr. Whittaker was kidding me when he said if I arrived late one more time he would make me take down my trousers and pants and bend over the back of the truck for a belt whipping.

Well, really. I’m twenty years old not some baby.

I hadn’t reckoned on the new law that allows employers to spank their younger workers. Nobody my age is safe now.

I’m not good in the morning. I always wake up with a raging hard-on and it takes me half an hour to deal with that (you don’t want to hurry these things) and then if the bus is delayed or full I’m late for work.

Mr. Whittaker is older than my dad; bigger and stronger too. It’s all the outdoor work we do. He keeps his corduroy trousers up with a thick, wide, leather belt. I tried to pretend I wasn’t late. I’d just been to the toilet for a slash, but he was having none of it.

I swear he grinned when he said, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Go stand by the truck.”

“But, Mr. Whittaker …” I wailed.

“Don’t ‘Mr. Whittaker’ me,” he sneered, reaching for the buckle of his belt. “We do this or you can go back to the dole queue.”

He had me there and he knew it. There are no jobs out there, especially not for young people. If you’re out of work for more than three months they send you to a workcamp. What happens there is a bit of a secret, but if the rumours are true I for one don’t want to go there.

Mr. Whittaker read my thoughts. “You’ve only got yourself to blame. Get outside.”

My legs felt like they were made of lead as I trudged out of the portable office and into the yard. The moment I was outside everything stopped and my workmates gathered around to see the fun. Some of the older ones had huge grins; they were going to enjoy the sport – me, bare-arsed across the truck. Sandy and Jake, two lads about my age, were deathly pale. They knew that it could be one of them next.

It was a late spring morning and quite warm, but I couldn’t stop shivering. I’d never been spanked before. That was bad enough, but I had to take down my jeans and boxers and let Mr. Whittaker see my cock and balls. And, Jesus H. Christ, my crack and hole when I bent over. And, now the whole firm was standing around as well.

Mr. Whittaker pulled his belt through the trouser loops with a flourish, like a magician pulling a cloth away during a trick. He’s got some beer gut and it turns out he doesn’t really need the belt to keep his trousers up. He wears it just for show, or maybe to have something at hand to whip his workers.

He folded the belt in two; it must have been a couple of feet long. He waved it around, just to make sure I knew what it looked like. It seemed very heavy, in the right hands it could take my arse off.

“Trousers and pants down. Come on.”

I resolved not to make a fool of myself by pleading for mercy or making a fuss, but I could not get my fingers to move.

“Do you want me to do it for you?” Mr. Whittaker snarled. I swear I heard a snigger somewhere in the audience. At last I had my own belt undone. I wear my jeans loose; we used to wear them half way down our arses, but they started arresting kids for indecency, so that fashion soon stopped. I undid the button on my jeans and they slipped down my legs. I was wearing blue boxers with white dots. My mum bought them for me, I don’t think I’ve ever bought my own pants in my life.

“Those too,” Mr. Whittaker nodded and swished his belt about again. I turned my back to the crowd, screwed my eyes tight and slowly lowered my boxers. More than one of the guys wolf-whistled. I only hope one of them wasn’t that poofter Barclay.

They could see my bare bum but not my tackle. I’m not usually this shy. I do a lot of football and we’re always together in the showers waving our willies around. No lady would be disappointed with me, if you get my drift.


There was no way out of this. I had to let this old man whip my bare arse with his belt. Mr. Whittaker had already lowered the truck’s tailgate, so I leant forward. It was just like bending across a table. I kept my knees together so they couldn’t see my crack, folded my arms and buried my head in them. I felt a warm breeze cross my naked bum. Then, Mr. Whittaker rested the heavy leather belt across the centre of my cheeks. He was taking aim.

He let fly. Crack, he got me right on the sit-spot, the soft underside of the buttocks. It hurt, but not as much as I expected. He whipped me again and again. There was a deathly hush, all you could hear was the leather cracking against my bum. I’ve got a bit of meat back there, so the belt sank deep. The belt was snaking around my buttocks and connecting with the side of my cheeks. Later when I had a look there were ugly purple welts.

I didn’t count the strokes, but later Sandy told me it had been fifty lashes. My bum was sore, but I wasn’t really in agony. My cheeks were a mess though, they were so criss-crossed with lines it looked like a map of Clapham Junction. The skin on my bum felt like leather.

The pain quickly eased, except for a couple of lashes that had hit on the back of my thighs. They throbbed a bit, especially when I sat down.

Mr. Whittaker seemed a little disappointed when it was over. He grunted to me to get dressed and hurried off to the toilet. My workmates carried on with their business.

Mr. Whittaker said no more about my spanking. Next day, I arrived on time find he had brought a thick, whippy, curve-handled cane and hung it on a nail on the office wall that he had hammered in specially.


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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second