The boom-box boy

new 5

z used short shorts outdoors 2

We had a lovely summer’s day last week and you don’t get many of those in Brocklehurst so I decided to make the most of it and lounge out in the garden, fortified by some gin-and-tonic and an ice bucket.

Imagine my annoyance when after about five minutes of catching the rays, I was assaulted by the sound of heavy rock music. No, not the sound, the noise, the racket, the din of rock music. It wasn’t that it was rock music that did my head in; I should’ve felt the same if it had been Beethoven’s Fifth or some other classical stuff. It was the intrusion into my peaceful afternoon that I objected to. Someone, somewhere close by, was playing loud music and couldn’t give a damn if he was disturbing the whole neighbourhood. I say he, without even seeing the culprit: I was certain no woman would ever be as thoughtless as this.

I could stand it no longer and went through the gate in my garden and into The Avenue. The paving stones were almost vibrating to the noise of the music and its source was immediately obvious. Just across the road, half way up a ladder painting the front of the house was a young workman. I say young; he might have been somewhere in his thirties but at my age that’s pretty young. Near the foot of the ladder was a contraption that was blaring out the music. I did a “double-take” when I saw what it was. I honestly don’t think I’ve seen such a thing in twenty years or more.

It was what we used to call a ghetto-blaster until the politically-correct folk told us we had to say “boom-box”. It was one of those combinations of a radio and cassette tape (I think CDs hadn’t been invented when they were fashionable.) I think they went on the scrapheap when the Sony Walkman came out and suddenly we were all “wired for sound” behind our own personal ear-phones.

I was about to cross the road and kick the ladder away so that the blighter fell from a height onto the accursed boom-box and (hopefully) flattened it to destruction when I had a sudden thought. Things like this often happen to me on days when the sun shines brightly. I suppose a psychiatrist might explain it better than me but I  had a flashback; that is to say I remembered something from a past summer that I hadn’t thought about in more than 40 years. It was the boom-box that did it.

I was still at college and living in the halls of residence and there was this fellow student who always – and I truly mean always – had his ghetto blaster going at full tilt. He carried it with him wherever he went. He had a room somewhere on the third floor but the cacophony he created could be heard all over the building, even where I stayed on the ground floor (just next to the entrance if you insist I pinpoint it.)

I remember him so clearly, even though this was 1974 I’m talking about. He called himself Ian C. Hirst. We thought he was a bit of a tit because of the “Ian C.” bit. Nobody used their middle initial in their name. We didn’t say, “Good morning, I’m Alan P. Taylor,” or what have you. Only Americans did that sort of thing. Perhaps, Ian C. Hirst wanted people to think he was American, although why anyone would want to do that is beyond me. [That’s meant to be a joke, please don’t write to me]. Ian C. thought a lot of himself. I remember it was a long, hot summer that year and he paraded around college wearing only a pair of white shorts and nothing else. Shorts were properly short in those days; I’ve seen underwear today longer than those shorts. He had a muscular, hairless torso and dreamy brown eyes. His hair was curled and fashionably long. He turned the heads of all the girls, and a quite a few of the boys secretly had a crush on him (I can testify to that).

So, Ian C., sexy or not, was a complete pain in the you-know-where. It was summer and exams were fast approaching but how could we expect to study with all that racket going on? Naturally, those who had rooms on the same landing asked him to turn it down. He did so and we all sighed with relief. But before too long the building was shaking once again. Back in those days people didn’t talk much about “rights” and there were no student residents’ committees and in short there was no one to complain too. Today, an Ian C. Hirst would be out on his ear, but in 1974 we were left on our own.

So what to do? I think it was my pal Edward Anthony who made the suggestion. It might plausibly have been me. Whoever it was, it was an idea conceived in drink, of that I can be certain. It seemed like a good idea at the time. And, as time would show, it was. We couldn’t do it on our own, there needed to be a gang of us. The more the merrier. There would be safety in numbers. When we discussed it again in the cold light of sobriety we began to have our doubts. It did seem to be an extreme measure. What if it didn’t work and Ian C. turned on us? He was bigger and fitter and although I’d have been happy to wrestle around with him, I didn’t fancy getting my face bashed in.

Don’t worry, Edward Anthony said, there would be plenty of the boys ready and willing to join with us. And, indeed that turned out to be the case. There were easily a dozen in all. Poor Ian C. Hirst, he never stood a chance.

It was late afternoon and lectures had finished and we students were back at the halls of residence. In about an hour people would start to prepare meals in the communal kitchens; so this was the perfect time to pounce. Naturally, with the music blaring from his room, he never heard us coming. It took some hammering on his door before he realised he had visitors. As he opened the door, he also appeared to be buttoning up his shorts. His hair was messy (he was famous at college for using half a can of hairspray every day to keep his locks in place) and I wondered if we had interrupted him with a girl (or please God, a boy!) but his room was tiny and it was immediately obvious that he was alone.

“Grab him!” One of our gang yelled and six pairs of hands grabbed out. “Worr…!!” Ian C. bellowed in reply but he didn’t get much chance to say any more because already he was being manhandled down the corridor towards the communal kitchen. As so often during that summer, he wore only his shorts and we had very little to grip hold to as we bundled him along. He was effing and jeffing, of course, and called us all the names under the sun, but we had so effectively overpowered him he had no choice but allow himself to be carried along.

We had the kitchen to ourselves. Somebody locked the door. We were not going to be disturbed and Ian C. had no escape. I remember someone, I’m pretty certain it was Simon Aldridge, had written a charge sheet so Ian C. knew exactly why he was there. Simon sounded a bit pompous when he read it out, but it must have been good practice for him because later in life he went on to become a well-known lawyer in London.

This wasn’t a court of law and it most certainly wasn’t a democracy, so we didn’t ask Ian C. to speak in his own defence. We went straight to carrying out the sentence. It doesn’t matter how fit and strong you are, or how good a fighter, when eight people simultaneously take hold of you then you are defeated. So it was with Ian C. We had it planned. It was simple and like many simple plans it was entirely effective.

The kitchen was a large room with six laminated tables pushed together in the centre so up to sixteen students could sit down to eat at the same time. It took only seconds for us to heave him up and spread-eagle him face down on the table. He yelled blue murder, but Alan Keefe had shown the presence of mind to bring the boom-box along with him. When he switched it on it drowned out all of Ian C.’s protests. He had a boy at each corner, his wrists and ankles holding him firmly down. Ian C. wriggled and writhed, but he was going nowhere. Even though that was entirely obvious he squirmed and struggled. Another couple of boys held his legs and that settled him. We were nearly ready.

There was still one important matter to deal with before we could start properly. I delegated myself to perform this task. It was, as I joked beforehand, a difficult job but somebody had to do it. Ian C. was reasonably sedate for now, but that changed immediately I reached out beneath his body and searched for the button at the top of his shorts. It indeed proved to be a difficult job because the full weight of Ian C.’s body was resting on his stomach and he wasn’t about to raise his torso to give me clearer access to his shorts.

Eventually, after much fumbling, I got the top of his shorts open. Then, it was a fairly simple mission to get the zipper down. The shorts, as I said previously, were very short and also extremely tight fitting. I had hoped to take hold of his shorts and with some ceremony lower them down over his buttocks and then down his thighs before abandoning them somewhere near his knees. I would then, with even greater ceremony deal with his smooth cotton briefs.

Alas, the combination of his weight, the tightness of his shorts and Ian C.’s continued attempts to wriggle free meant that I had no opportunity to debag him with great ritual. His shorts and underpants slithered down his bum together and I left them at his knees. Another of our gang by the name of Patel (I blush to recall that he was universally known by the nickname “Inky”) then lowered the garments further until they settled at his feet.

I had a perfect bird’s eye view of Ian C.’s naked bottom. It was as I had imagined: smooth and hairless; meaty but firm. His cheeks were creamy white in stark contrast to the rest of his body which was a deeply tanned. I did not resist the urge to rub his mounds with the palm of my hand. I knew for certain I was not the only fellow present who desired to do this.

Obviously, there had been no possibility of rehearsing or practising what we wanted to do, but we all knew what was intended. As I had been removing Ian C.’s shorts and pants, the rest of the gang had removed their own leather belts which by now they had doubled (or trebled, depending upon their length). One boy, James Banks, had with him an authentic leather taws. It was one with two tails at one end and he later told us he had purloined it from his school near Edinburgh when he had left two years previously.

So we were set. Ian C.’s feet and wrists were firmly held, he was face-down on the table top. His bottom was bare to the breeze. He was an easy target. And we all took advantage. There were eight boys armed with straps, they took up position four on each side and to put it simply; they let him have it.

I don’t know if you have ever been belted or maybe seen another boy belted, but a heavy strap quickly leaves its mark on naked flesh. Within half a minute Ian C’.s backside was criss-crossed with deep-pink lines. It resembled an aerial shot of a railway junction. After a couple of minutes the deep-pink had turned red and soon mauve and purple blotches appeared. Ian C. fought like a trooper and I was very pleased that we had so many people in our gang that we were able to hold him down. I wouldn’t fancy our chances otherwise.

At one point we all ceased our own battering to allow James a free-range with his taws. I have to report he was something of an expert. He positioned himself to the right of Ian C. and took aim by first laying the two-tailed strap which was probably fourteen inches long so that it rested across the highest point of both cheeks. Then he adjusted his own position so that he had enough room to raise the taws and rest it over his own shoulder so that it tapped the small of his back. Then he practised to make sure he could swing the taws in an arc up and over without touching the ceiling of the kitchen and then bring it down right on target. He took two practice swings and then let rip for real. My! The CRACK! of the leather on Ian C.’s hard, naked bum echoed around the room. I think we were all relived that Alan had brought the boom-box and that the music from it drowned Ian C.’s shriek. James let fly with a half-dozen swipes before making way for some of the others to resume with their own more modest belts.

So, that was it. Ian C.’s bum looked like raw hamburger meat. He never played his boom-box in the halls again, we all studied hard, sat our exams and went our separate ways. And that happened in 1974 and I hadn’t given it a thought in more than forty years. There was one other thing I remembered: after we had finished with Ian C. I went back alone to my own room and shot my load about two feet high. I was twenty-one then; I couldn’t do that today. I know because I’ve just tried.

And, as for the young man painting the house? I didn’t kick his ladder away. I didn’t get a gang of neighbours together and tan his backside. I pointed out to him that he was causing a disturbance. He blushed prettily, apologised profusely and turned his boom-box off. He was, I mused to myself, as I poured my second gin-and-tonic in my garden, really rather sweet.

Picture credit: Unknown

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Uncle loses his patience

z used new story 2

z used pyjamas taking down domestic sting (2a)

Right Trent, this is what’s going to happen. You are going to take down those pyjama bottoms and bend over my knee. I’ve warned you often enough. Ever since we took you in you’ve been nothing but trouble. Now, you’ve left your aunt in tears with your rudeness. I will not stand for it. I won’t have it. Do you understand?

You’re well overdue a spanking. I don’t know how your father brought you up, but in this house we know how to behave. You stick to the rules. My rules. And Aunt Marie’s, of course. You don’t do that, you get a spanking. It really is as simple as that. And, if you don’t like it you can see if your new stepdad will take you in. I doubt it. Who would want an obnoxious brat like you living it them? If you weren’t Aunt Marie’s nephew, I’d’ve thrown you out a long time ago.

Take them down, I said. I’m not playing games here. Let’s see if a bare-bottomed belting will buck your ideas up.

Don’t wave your arms at me! You are not too old for a spanking. And, I’ll tell you something else, you might be nearly nineteen but for as long as you live in my house I’ll spank you every time I think you need it. You don’t want to be spanked, then learn to behave, it really I as simple as that. Now, take down those pyjamas, unless you want me to do it for you.

That’s better. Now, let them fall all the way. Don’t worry you’ve got nothing I haven’t seen before. Now, bend over my knee. No, keep your hands well out of the way. Stretch out in front of you. Touch the floor. Or hold on to the chair leg. Keep your head nice and low. Try to lift up your bottom a little.

That’s better. Now, let’s get this jacket out of the way. Let the dog see the rabbit. There we are. A nice bare bottom. I don’t suppose this has ever been spanked before. More’s the pity. If your dad had used his belt on you I wouldn’t need to be doing this.

Be quiet. You’re a big lad, you ought to be able to take a strapping without all this fuss. You deserve this and you know it. I’ll tan your hide until it’s good and red. You’ll be sleeping on your stomach tonight lad, if I have my way. I’d like to see you explain the marks away to your girlfriend tomorrow ….

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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In the farmhouse

Andy lay on his bed staring at the ceiling. Waiting anxiously. It was a scorching hot day and he was naked except for a pair of jeans cut down to skimpy shorts. Sweat soaked from his torso to the sheet beneath him. Cold sweat. The sweat of fear.

Any moment now his dad would return from the farm for his lunch. Then Andy would face the consequences.

He told himself he hadn’t meant to do it. Things just got out of hand. A row with his mother about college; words were exchanged. He cussed her out. If he could do it all again he would have played it better. But words once said could not be unsaid.

He closed his eyes tight and brushed away the mosquitoes. He heard the sound of the front door closing. His father was home. Soon his mother would recount the events of the morning, then all hell would let loose

Moments later came the call. “Andrew!” it was his dad. He knew it was bad, his dad only called him “Andrew” when he was mad. “Andrew, come in here now!”

Without hesitation, Andy climbed from his bed and headed out the door. He knew better than to keep his dad waiting.

It was no surprise to see his dad standing in the dining room, a wide, thick leather belt doubled up in his right hand. The belt was rarely used for its intended purpose; it spent most of its life in a dark cupboard, only seeing the light on days like this.

A dining room chair had been placed in the centre of the room, confirming to Andy the inevitable.

“Your mother has told me what you said to her,” his dad waved the belt threateningly at his son.

Andy stood motionless, expecting his father to say more. But, that was all. His father did not ask for explanation, nor mitigation. Nor, did he detail Andy’s crimes. The boy knew what he had done. There was no point in stringing this out. His dad wanted his lunch and to be back on the farm; he didn’t have time to waste on this.

“Get yourself over,” he pointed at the straight-backed wooden chair with his belt.

“But, dad,” Andy didn’t know what had come over him. You didn’t argue with dad. You just didn’t.

“But dad, I’m too old for this, I’m an adult.”

It was the wrong thing to say. His dad’s sunburned face turned a deep shade of puce.

“You are not an adult. You are an adult when you behave like an adult. You do not do your chores, you cuss your mother. And, now you’re telling us you’re quitting college. That is not the behaviour of an adult. That is the behaviour of a brattish kid. And, you are going to get a whopping a brat like you deserves. Bend over that chair.”

His dad was an imposing man. He had been a farmer all his life. Not only did he have strength, he had presence too. When he told his farm hands to “jump”, they merely asked, “how high?”

Meekly, Andy turned on his heels and walked to the chair. Without pausing he reached over the back and grabbed hold of its wooden seat; one hand on either side.

used belt holding (1)

His dad fiddled with the belt trebling it up so he had a leather strap about twelve inches long; the perfect length to crash into his son’s backside and cause maximum pain. Satisfied with his handiwork he stood close to Andy’s right side. The boy’s jeans were cut so short they barely covered his stretched buttocks; but they were still big enough to accommodate two large thick patch pockets.

“This is no good, stand up.” Genuinely puzzled, the boy lifted himself up and turned to face his dad.

“Those jeans are too thick. Take them down.”

Astonished, Andy mouthed a silent, “But..”

“Take the shorts down. Right now. This instance.”

Andy could not dare disobey such a command. Without looking, he undid the button on the waist of his shorts, unzipped, and let them sail to his feet. Only then did his dad realise his son was not wearing underpants.

Andy stood embarrassed in front of his dad, his nakedness confirming that indeed he was a young man and not a boy.

Unabashed, his dad ordered him back over the chair. Back in position, Andy was now naked from his neck to his ankles. It had been three or four years since he had last presented his bottom to his dad for punishment; but this was the first time it was with his shorts at his feet.

Dad had been a farmer all his life and was a strong man; he could, and he would, lay on a thrashing with incredible force. Andy’s buttocks involuntarily clenched in anticipation of the first lash.

“Keep still. Relax,” his dad ordered as he patted his cold strap across Andy’s already hot buttocks. Sweat was pouring from the boy: a combination of the scorching heat and the fear of the imminent thrashing.

SPLAT! The belt crashed across the centre of both buttocks, leaving a sunset stripe a couple of inches wide. By the time the third stroke hit home bruises were already forming at the edges of the strap marks.

In the kitchen, his mother stopped preparing lunch. Once she had reported the boy’s behaviour, she knew this would be the inevitable consequence. Good. Andrew deserved everything he was getting. And more. The brat.

Andy took twelve strokes as stoically as he could. The pain was awesome, it was the worst belt whipping he had ever had to endure from his dad and there had been a few of them over the years. He wanted to yell out each time the strap cut into his meaty bared backside, but he was determined not to give his old man the satisfaction of seeing how much he had hurt him.

As the ninth and tenth whacks cut him, drawing blood, he bit his tongue hard to stifle the wail that would have echoed around the room before travelling the distance to the barn where the farm hands were having lunch.

“Stand up.” Dad’s tone had not softened. He had thrashed Andrew; his son deserved it, but dad would not know if it had been effective until he was sure the boy’s behaviour would improve. No more cutting chores, no more disrespecting his mother. And, no more nonsense about leaving college.

Unsteadily, Andy rose from the chair; a spasm rippled the length of his body. Still completely naked he clenched his fingers into fists, stretched his arms down the side of his body and hopped from one foot to the other, all in a futile attempt to relieve the agony that had started in his fleshy globes and now moved down his thighs.

“Get dressed,” it was another curt command from his dad. Andy bent forward to retrieve his shorts. He winced as the hard denim brushed against his throbbing cheeks.

“Now, I want to see a definite improvement in your attitude, do you understand me?”

Andy blinked back the tears that were forming; he desperately did not want to let his dad see him cry. He nodded his assent.

“Good, because if I have to do this again, I’m going to get one of the farm hands to cut some birch twigs and we’ll see how much you like that.”

It wasn’t a question, but Andy felt he had to say something in reply. All he could think of was to mumble, “Sorry.”

“Yes, and so you should be sorry. Now, go to your room. There’s no lunch for you.”

Back in his bedroom, Andy ripped down his shorts to inspect the damage to his buttocks in the mirror. His dad had done a good job, God knows, Andy thought, he had had enough practice. The cheeks were raw from the top near his spine, across the globes, to the crease where they met the thighs. Dark blue bruises had already formed across most of his bum, and he knew from experience, they would get worse before they got better.

He pulled a tissue from a box near his bed and wiped away a few drops of blood that was seeping from the wounds.

Gingerly he sat on the bed. It didn’t increase the pain too much. When his dad left to go back to work he would go to the kitchen and get some antiseptic cream from the first-aid box.

Until then he lay on his stomach, reliving in his mind the events of the day, safe in the knowledge that he would do his chores, never cuss his mother again and he would be at college when classes resumed on Monday.

This story was first uploaded in March 2016.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The rookie deputy sheriff

new story 2

z used cop otk belt younger cop

Sheriff Connelly stared down his long nose at the snivelling rookie deputy quaking before him. “What a fool. A complete idiot. A waste of space,” he thought. His grey eyes blazed, “What kind of people is the City employing these days?”

Connelly held his temper. Deputy Bahr squirmed. Sweat soaked his forehead and his head beneath closely-cropped blond hair itched like crazy. The room was too darned hot. He could hardly breathe. The words of his boss seemed to be coming from a long way away. Bahr feared he might fall to the floor in a faint at any moment.

Connelly gripped a cardboard folder in his left fist. He waved it in Bahr’s face. “Not good. Not good at all.” This he said out loud. “Is there any one of your duties that you can do without screwing up?” It was meant as a rhetorical question but Bahr hadn’t done too well at school and he missed the subtleties of the sheriff’s lecture. He tried his hardest to answer. His mind was a whirl. He thought of all the different things he did during a day’s shift. He was quite good at helping children across the road when the traffic was busy. He was about to relay this information to the sheriff but Connelly had moved on.

They were at the front desk in the reception area. Things were quiet and no members of the public were around to see Bahr’s dressing down. Sheriff Connelly saw three other deputies standing near the main entrance, they were due out on patrol, but sensing there might be some fun to be had they were waiting around.

“You have screwed up your evaluation, Bahr. It is not good enough,” Connelly sensed the three deputies tense. He paused waiting until he had their full attention. “Yes, Bahr,” Connelly let out a deep sigh like wind searing across a dry desert. “Not good enough.” He tut-tutted and shook his head; every inch the older man concerned about the well-being of his young charge. Connelly was the father and Bahr, the son.

“You leave me no choice,” Connelly frowned. “You do know that, don’t you?” His question was rewarded with a blank stare. It was clear Bahr had no clue what was being said to him. Just in the corner of his eyeline Connolly saw Deputy Orlando nudge one of his companions. Orlando meant, Just wait and see what happens next.

“No choice at all.” Connelly left the words hanging in the air. “A belting. It has to be a belting.”

Bahr’s fair, open face flushed red. “Wor …?” He couldn’t find the words to express the disbelief – or, maybe, shock – he felt.

Connelly shook his head from left to right slowly. “You are, of course, fully aware of Regulation one-nine-seven-six, paragraph C, part little two,” he stared directly at the twenty-year-old rookie deputy. The stupid boy didn’t understand a word. Connolly heaved one of his deep sighs. “The code of discipline as it relates to new deputy sheriffs?” He asked it as a question, but he meant it as a statement.

Bahr couldn’t stop his eyes blinking, “Regulation one-nine …?” he faltered, unable to repeat back to the sheriff the full details of the code. Connelly sighed once more. Across the reception area three deputy sheriffs watched on intently. Deputy Orlando wiped perspiration from his brow with a large, not-so-clean kerchief.

Connelly took a deep breath and repeated the regulation, stumbling as he reached the part about paragraph C. “You do know it, Bahr?” he glowered. Bahr remembered there were a lot of rules and regulations to being a deputy sheriff. Pages and pages of them. He had tried to go through them all but they were written in complicated language and he wasn’t much of a reader.

“Yes,” he drawled unconvincingly.

“Good,” Sheriff Connelly perked up, “You know it says a sheriff may administer corporal punishment at his entire discretion in cases where rookie deputies fail to meet required standards.” He watched without passion as Bahr’s face glowed red hot, his eyes blinked continuously and the boy bit down into his bottom lip.

“We should not delay,” Connolly tucked his thumbs under the belt that was wrapped around his muscular waist. “Follow me.” Without looking at Bahr, Sheriff Connelly stepped from behind the reception counter and entered a small room nearby. Sorrowfully, Bahr shuffled behind as instructed. The room had a table and two cheap armless chairs. Usually it was used when members of the public wanted to speak to an officer in confidence. Today, Connolly had found an entirely different use for it.

He pulled a chair into the middle of the room. “Stand there!” he snapped his fingers and indicated a place a few feet from the chair. Miserably, Bahr shuffled into position. The room was even hotter than the reception area. He could scarcely breathe. It all seemed so unreal.

“Leave the door open, we need some air,” Sheriff Connolly spoke as he unbuckled his belt and swished it through the loops that held it onto his pants. Connolly sat down on the chair. Bahr stood and stared. This cannot be happening. This is some kind off nightmare.

“Did your Pappy ever spank you?” Connolly folded the leather belt in half as he spoke. Bahr’s throat was as dry as a camel’s, he could hardly make a rasp when he tried to answer. No, he had never been spanked. Not once. Not even as a very small kid. This was twenty-nineteen, people didn’t get spanked these days.

“OK,” Connolly spread his legs, I want you to bend over my knee.” Bahr’s temples throbbed, his eyes moistened. He looked down at the sheriff’s thick thighs, covered in uniform blues. His big leather boots shone brightly. Bahr hesitated, what if he refused, what would happen then?

Sheriff Connolly read the rookie’s mind, “Don’t forget of Regulation nine-one-three-two, paragraph E, part little two,” he gripped the belt tightly. “Let’s get this over with. We’ve both got duties to attend to. Bend over my knee. Now!” The harshness in the sheriff’s voice startled Bahr. Jesus H. he thought. I’ve got to do this. I’ve got to let Sheriff Connolly spank me. It’s in the regulations.

He shuffled forward until he stood inches from the sheriff’s right thigh. How did you do this exactly? He hesitated. “Bah!” Connolly ejaculated. He gripped Bahr by the left arm and in one continuous tug he guided the twenty-year-old across his knee. Bahr fell with a plop. Before he knew it he was face down with his nose close to the floor. He stretched out his left hand to break his fall and with his other he held tightly to the sheriff’s leg. Behind him his legs dangled in mid-air. He couldn’t see this but his bottom was angled perfectly across the sheriff’s thigh. His pants were so tight they lifted and separated his buttock cheeks. Connolly had a terrific target.

Bahr was facing into the room and did not see the three deputies move closer to the open door, giving themselves ringside seats for the belt-on-britches action that was to follow. Sheriff Connolly was in his mid-forties but he had always kept himself fit with regular trips to the gym. He was as strong as an average civilian half his age. And he demonstrated that when he whipped the leather belt at great speed into Bahr’s rear end. Whip! Whip! Whip! The pain got through, even with thick pants and underwear for protection. Connolly gripped Bahr’s waist with his left arm while his right thrashed the leather belt across the young man’s butt.

Bahr wriggled and writhed. He screwed up his face each time the belt crashed int his tight flesh. Very soon the seat of his pants were shining. Connelly knew the cheeks underneath would be warming up too. He nodded an acknowledgement at the three deputies, telling them through smiles and winks he thought he was doing a splendid job.

Bahr’s legs kicked and his arms flailed. The spanking hurt, but not that much. His reaction was of humiliation and disbelief. Here he was a young rookie deputy across the knee of a much older dominant man getting the first spanking of his life.

Nobody was counting but the sheriff must have hammered home fifty or more lashes before he let up. As soon as the whipping stopped, Bahr wriggled his hips, trying to break free and get back on his feet. Sheriff Connolly let him stand. Once upright, Bahr realised for the first time he had an audience. His sense of humiliation deepened. He stood uncertain what he was supposed to do next. Was he allowed to leave to go back on duty? He made a move toward the door.

“Not so fast buster,” Sheriff Connolly took hold of Bahr’s shirt, turning him so they faced each other. Then, in an expert move, he unbuckled the rookie’s belt and within seconds had his uniform blues in a heap over his boots. Before Bahr could utter his astonishment, his shorts went the same way and the rookie was once more toppled face-down over the sheriff’s knee.

Connolly took a moment to admire the sight before him. Bahr was a fit young man, with a muscular chest and flat stomach. Now that they were presented to him in their nakedness Connolly was able to see what magnificent buttocks Bahr had. It was a butt that cried out to be spanked. Connolly was happy to oblige. Their creamy white surfaces were already criss-crossed with reddish lines where the belt had performed its task. Now, Connolly set about performing his duty with a renewed will.

Bahr’s buttocks clenched. It was a natural reflex as the crack of the leather connecting with naked flesh resounded around the small, airless room. Each crack sounded like a pistol shot, there were no layers of clothing to muffle the noise.

Connolly got into his rhythm whipping at a rate of about one lash every ten seconds. Soon every square inch of bare flesh was coloured sunset red.

Connolly paused but he kept his tight grip on the rookie’s waist. The young man knew it wasn’t over yet. With his own uniform soaked in sweat, the sheriff prepared himself for an almighty onslaught.

Swipe! The leather belt now landed with maximum force. The belt rose and fell in quick succession. Bahr’s pants and shorts were at his ankles and restricted his legs from thrashing about too much. If he had not been wearing huge leather boots he would have kicked his clothes clear across the room.

Still the relentless pounding of his backside continued. He couldn’t help but yelp, just like a little whipped puppy. His arms flapped and his body struggled from side to side. He looked like he was trying to do the doggy paddle in a swimming pool.

Without letting up on the downward strokes, Sheriff Connolly grabbed Bahr’s right arm and roughly shoved it up his back pinning his hand against the shoulder blades. Bahr was going nowhere until the older man said so.

With Bahr restrained in this way the sheriff could do as he wished. Bahr was at his total mercy, not that the sheriff intended showing any of that. Bahr had no choice but to lay face down, bare bottom high to receive a severe spanking.

The belt went up and down; up and down; at considerable speed. The rookie gasped in air, but couldn’t fill his lungs. Every time he tried to suck in oxygen he had to wheeze out breath to counter the intense pain that was running from his buttocks and engaging every nerve in the body.

His tears flowed freely and snot ran from his nose. At that point Sheriff Connolly stopped, he rested the belt on the small of Bahr’s back. He had his own problems breathing. It was time to finish before he suffered a stroke. The sheriff released Bahr and without waiting to pull up his pants and shorts he ran howling from the room. Connolly watched him go and wondered silently how long it would take the idiot rookie to realise there was no such thing as Regulation one-seven-whatever. When would he notice that day’s date?: The First of April.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

Father Must Be Obeyed

The Chamber pot incident

A memory in the attic

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Fake News # 14

new story 2

New Neighbourhood Watch scheme a roaring success

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Brocklehurst Bugle

A group of Brocklehurst residents are claiming a rip-roaring success with their new neighbourhood watch scheme.

It came after people in The Avenue, a select street close to Widdicombe Wood, spotted ‘undesirables’ loitering around their houses.

“They were mostly older teenaged boys,” Mr Ernie Flynn, 52, tells the Brocklehurst Bugle. “We decided right away we didn’t want them here.”

So, Mr Flynn and a group of like-minded residents set up Neighbourhood Watch. They take turns to patrol the area in groups at night and weekends. “When we find strangers we deal with them. We don’t take prisoners,” Mr Flynn chuckles.

Mrs. Amelia Worthington, who lives alone at her house, says, “It is a great comfort that we have big, strong men here who are prepared to defend their own homes.”

Mr Eric Sloop, aged 45, a shop manager, describes the action they take once they have apprehended a stranger.

“We are very determined that they should not get away unpunished. There’s no point informing the police. I know they want to help but they are under resourced. Some people might say we are a bit old-fashioned.”

Mr Sloop says the residents dish out corporal punishment. “A short, sharp shock,” he calls it.

“We usually strip them of their shirts and then bare their backsides,” he adds. “We do it in the middle of the street so everyone can see.

“We the take turns in beating their unclothed bottoms. Very hard indeed.

“They don’t like it, of course. You can hear their howls from one end of the street to the other. Believe me, they don’t come back for more.”

Residents use a range of punishment instruments. Most such as leather belts, hairbrushes and slippers are readily found in peoples’ homes.

“Widdicombe Wood is close by so we do have the option of making up birch rods, if we wish,” Mr Sloop says ominously.

Sgt. George Nixon at Brocklehurst Police says he is told by residents that the scheme is a “rip-roaring” success. He tells the Bugle, “I take my helmet off to them. They are keeping the streets clean of filth and are saving the police a lot of trouble. We really don’t need the paperwork dealing with these youth. I would encourage more residents to set up their own schemes.”

The final word goes to Mr Flynn. “This has brought the community closer together. It is the thrill of the chase. And then delivering a well-spanked bare backside that makes it all so worthwhile.”

 

Picture credit: Unknown.

More Fake News stories here

Other stories you might like

The military kid

The Young Conservative

Skipping school to watch football

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The party’s over

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Dick and Dave were sure they were in the clear. Dominic would never find out. They had covered their tracks well. It was A Result. But, they hadn’t reckoned on a nosey neighbour.

Dominic was going away to an important conference in Paris; his son Dave and nephew Dick were eighteen; he thought surely they were old enough to behave responsibly while he was gone. Then, he saw an old movie on television. It put doubts in his mind. It was Risky Business the early Tom Cruise one where he dances around in his tighty-whities. While his parents are away he holds a party and before you know it the house is turned into a brothel. A priceless glass object gets damaged along the way.

“If it had been me I’d have had that Tom Cruise over the back of the couch,” the man from across the road told Dominic, “And I’d have paddled his backside until it glowed in the dark. After first taking down those underpants.” There was no answer to that so Dominic didn’t even try.

It put him in a bad mood. What if the kids did have a party and it got out of hand? Dominic thought he had found the answer. He called Dick and Dave together and clearly in words of one syllable he ordered, “No parties while I’m away. No guests. No nothing.” That was settled: they knew the rules.

Teenagers being teenagers the words went in one ear and out the other. The lads had already made plans before Dominic spoke. The party was swell. Lots of people turned up and there was booze and drugs. Dave got laid. Dick didn’t; he was beginning to realise he didn’t much like girls. He still had to come to terms with that. No drinks were spilt; no priceless objects were damaged and no carpets were burnt with cigarettes. After the vacuum cleaner had done its work, no one would have known the party had happened.

Except the man across the street. The Avenue is a long road of mostly detached houses. Dominic’s was sheltered from the road by a wall and a gate. That didn’t stop the man. His lace curtains twitched the whole time Dominic was away and his camera phone was never far from his hand.

Dave never much liked the man. He thought he was a bit creepy and always looked at him oddly. He wasn’t the least surprised when his dad told him the man had split on him and Dick. “I am very disappointed in the pair of you,” Dominic said. He was too. It was bad enough that they had a party but they had defied his explicit instructions. He could never allow defiance; the world would go to Hell in a handcart if he did.

“I told you no parties and you defied me,” he said as he unbuckled his belt. If Dick and Dave had any doubts about his intentions they vanished when he pulled the belt through the loops on his trousers with a flourish. The belt made a terrific THWAP sound. Dick’s eyes popped on stalks, “B.. we’re too old to be spanked,” he stuttered. Inwardly Dave cursed his cousin, “Don’t say that, it’ll only encourage him to wallop us even harder.”

Dominic grunted. He was a man used to giving orders. He expected them to be obeyed – without question. His business empire was built on this. He spoke quietly and clearly, “What I want you two to do is take off your jeans and kneel on that sofa and bend over the back of it.” He waved the leather belt at a small two-seater couch in case there was any doubt what he meant.

“B …” Dick tried to speak but the fierce glare in Dominic’s hazel eyes stopped him dead. Dave, no stranger to his dad’s belt was already unfastening his jeans. “You too,” Dominic pointed at Dick, “Get on with it.”

Dick’s face coloured bright red. How could this be happening? He was eighteen years old, a student at a top university and here he was being made to take off his jeans so his uncle could spank his bottom with a belt. A sudden thought gripped him, “Please God don’t make me take down my pants!” By now, Dave had slipped his jeans over his feet and laid them neatly on a coffee table. He stood without obvious embarrassment in t-shirt and boxer shorts and waited for his cousin to catch up.

Dick eyed Dave; noticing the bulge in the front of his boxers. Dave gave him a half-smile by way of encouragement. He wanted this over as quickly as possible. Dick responded by pulling the zipper of his jeans. He couldn’t easily control his hands but at last he had the jeans down and over his feet. He dropped them untidily alongside Dave’s on the table.

“Get over the sofa,” Dominic folded his belt as he spoke. In response to Dick’s puzzled look, he said, “Watch Dave, he’ll show you how to do it.” Dave turned to face the sofa and climbed on the seat one knee at a time. Once settle he leaned over its back so that his face was staring down at the carpet. In this way his head was low and his bottom high. It made a very good target for Dominic’s belt. Dick watched in awe. Until then he hadn’t realised how firm and round his cousin’s bum was. His navy-blue boxers fitted him snugly and contrasted with his smooth, almost hairless legs.

His own pale-blue boxers didn’t fit him half as well; it served him right for buying cheap ones at Primark. His hands had stopped shaking so much and he placed them on the back of the sofa to steady himself as he copied his cousin’s position. The two eighteen-year-olds were now side by side over the back of the couch, their heads so close together Dick could smell the beer on Dave’s breath. He turned his head slightly to look closely at his cousin, he seemed perfectly calm. How many times had Dave been over this sofa, he wondered.

He felt Uncle Dominic take hold of his t-shirt and move it up his back. A slight breeze from an open window flowed over his naked flesh. He felt his uncle move and realised he was doing the same with Dave’s shirt. He closed his eyes. Unlike Dave he had never been spanked before. Not once; not even as a very small kid. He felt his buttocks tense as Uncle Dominic touched his belt across the middle of his left cheek. He was getting his aim.

Dominic paused, he wasn’t quite ready. “Bottoms a little higher please, jut them out more.” He knew having a lad kneel like this was by far the best posture for punishment. It curved the buttocks and exposed more flesh for the belt so it could make contact with large areas. It was most effective when he stood near the boy’s head and brought the strap down from over his shoulder. This way he achieved considerable movement so the strikes of the leather were fearsome and the long belt connected with the bum and thighs with every stroke.

It was embarrassing enough to be aged eighteen and spanked for the first time but getting it alongside your cousin was too much. Dick thought he would die after he let out an almighty squeal as the strap connected with his lower bottom and thigh. By contrast, Dave took each lash without fuss. In no time both lads’ bottoms were a mass of welts: Dominic was some expert with the belt. “Keep that bottom still,” he chided Dick whose buttocks bounced up and down and his waist slew from side to side. Dave stared down at the carpet concentrating on a small dark stain and thinking maybe after all they hadn’t cleaned up so well after the party.

Dominic leathered each boy in turn: one for Dick, one for Dave and then back to Dick. And so it went on, leather rising and pounding into buttocks, again and again and again. Dick could not see this but beneath the cotton boxers his bum first turned deep pink and then various shades of yellow and orange until it was deep crimson. He sucked in great gulps of air and shut his teeth as the pain intensified. It was a warm afternoon and soon Dominic’s face was drenched in sweat but he was strong as an ox, he felt he could go on all day. Dominic believed in punishment, deep in his soul he was a man of God.

A dull pain had long since transformed into an almighty throb only to become an agonisingly searing pain across the whole of Dick’s bottom area. He had no power to resist and knelt face-down staring at the floor. Tears washed the backs of his eyes and soon they trickled down his cheeks.

Dave held back his tears but his bum felt like he had been forced to sit in a bath of scolding water. His temples throbbed and his heart was pounding.

Dominic was not a cruel man but he believed in retribution and punishment. He would make the two eighteen year olds suffer for disobeying him. He whipped another two dozen lashes across the four buttock cheeks presented submissively to him. That was enough. Dominic was certain he had made his point.

The two lads crawled off the sofa and stood unsteadily. “Get dressed,” Dominic ordered and watched Dick and Dave struggle into their jeans. Pain was etched on their faces. He congratulated himself on a job well done. “Go to your rooms.” Dominic watched Dick and Dave hobble out the door all three of them unaware of a shadow stretching across the window blinds as the man from across the street pocketed his camera phone and tiptoed down the path towards the gate.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

Other stories you might like

This is for your own good

The students’ landlord

Uncle David has a plan

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Junior Salesman

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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 pointon 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.

the-junior-salesman-by-charles-hamilton-ii

Picture credit: Unknown

 

Other books to download

 

The Dean of Dormitory Discipline and other university tales

Charles’ Picture Album

The Private Tutor

All in the Family. Tales of Domestic discipline

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com