Harry discovers he’s not too old …

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The doorbell rang. Babs was flustered, she looked at the clock in the hallway. “Damn,” she said aloud although nobody was there to hear her, “She’s on time.” Babs wasn’t ready. Something had cropped up. Something unexpected. This really wasn’t a good time to have a neighbour call. She hurried down the hall and quietly closed the door to the front room. If she was careful she could steer her friend into the kitchen. She need never know.

Babs wiped her hands on her dress, slowly counted to five and opened the door. Mags from across the road smiled weakly, “I thought you were never going to answer. Brrrr, it’s perishing. I didn’t put on my heavy coat.” She didn’t need an invitation, she brushed past Babs into the inviting warmth of the house and headed towards the front room.

“No! Not there,” Babs realised her voice was too shrill but it was too late to moderate it, “Let’s go into the kitchen.” Mags looked startled. They always used the front room. What was up? Babs read her mind, “Oh it’s such a mess in there. You know Christmas,” she gave a frown and exaggerated shrug of the shoulders. “Come in here. It’ll be warmer,” she led the way to the kitchen. Mags hesitated. Couldn’t she hear voices – raised voices – coming from the front room?

They sat in uncomfortable silence waiting for the kettle to boil. Something was wrong, Mags sensed it. She had known her friend for many years. She had never seen her so … so what? Nervous?  Worried? Edgy? Agitated? She smiled softly, hoping Babs might spill the beans.

“Won’t be long. Won’t be long,” Babs glanced at her watch and then at the cold kettle.

Her husband George was in the front room with the couple’s nineteen-year-old son, Harry. He was staying for the holidays. Things were not going well. He had lived away from his parents for more than two years. Life in the big city was so different from his small hometown of Brocklehurst. Harry was a different person now. He played by his own rules. He had a job, he shared a house with three other guys. He was, he insisted, an adult.

Parents struggle when their children grow and fly the nest. To Mum and Dad Harry would always be about ten years old. The small boy. In need of love and guidance: firm rules, backed up when necessary by a firm hand. The past few days had been difficult. Harry arrived on Christmas Eve and it was now December 28th. Harry had become restless confined to the house, making small talk with his parents and visiting neighbours. He needed some Life.

So, the previous night he had sneaked out to The Three Fishers, the most notorious pub in sleepy Brocklehurst. It had been packed and by chance he met up with lads from school. One thing led to another. And another. He rolled back home at three in the morning, woke everybody in the house (and possibly the neighbours too) because he no longer had a door key. Dad was none too pleased to be dragged out of a warm bed in the freezing cold. His irritation was multiplied when Harry emptied the contents of his stomach over the carpet as he fell up the stairs.

Dad was old-fashioned. He had standards. He believed an Englishman’s home was his castle. He made the rules. Harry knew that. Puking up on the carpet was most certainly against the rules.

Harry sobered up quickly; nineteen year olds have remarkable powers of recovery. So it was that next morning a confrontation took place. Harry’s mother told him quietly he ought to get himself downstairs and into the front room.

His heart had lain heavily in his stomach as he awaited his father. Then it seemed to rise into his throat. Dad stood frowning in the doorway. Harry watched forlornly as his father crossed the room and seated himself on the sofa.

“Come here, Harry,” he said. The teenager rose and with leaden legs shuffled across the room. “Closer please. Stand exactly there.” His father indicated a spot on the carpet. “ Now, Harry, what have you to say for yourself? ”

“I don’t know, Dad.”

“You don’t know. You know what I’m talking about don’t you?”

“Yes, Dad,” Harry sucked on his bottom lip.

“Drunk,” his father sighed. “Look, son, you’re nineteen. You’ve been moody and disrespectful the whole holiday. Mum and me shouldn’t be troubled with your constant misbehaviour. You should have learned how to behave by now. You’ve spoiled your mum’s Christmas, you know that.”

Harry bowed his head in embarrassment, but not shame. He had enjoyed himself greatly at The Three Fishers, a pub frequented by available girls and given the chance he would visit again before he went back to the city.

His dad sighed again. He shook his head sorrowfully, “I wonder Harry if anything I am saying is getting through to you. I could tell you off until my face turns blue. You must get a grip of yourself. The time for childish behaviour is over. You’re growing up. You have got to act responsibly. Coming home drunk through the streets for all the neighbours to see.

“This is a small town, Harry. Your reputation goes with you everywhere. You used to be admired by some round here as a charming child and you are a good example some times. Now you must learn to discipline yourself and be well behaved all the time, not only when you feel like it.

“If you can’t discipline yourself, well,” he shook his head, “you know what must happen don’t you?”

Harry stared vacantly at the floor beneath his feet. He knew this moment would come, but he dreaded it nonetheless. “Yes Dad,” he whispered.

“Good,” his father said sternly. “You know what to do. Let’s have those jeans down.” He nodded at the boy’s Levis as if there was any doubt what he meant. Harry’s face coloured, he took a deep breath. He knew he ought to argue. To say, “I’m nineteen, I’m too old for this.” And it was true: he was nineteen, but his behaviour had been bad. He had let Mum and Dad down. Heck, he knew, he had let himself down. Instead of arguing, he took hold of his belt and began to unbuckle.

“All the way down,” his father encouraged. Then, “Good. Come, bend over my knee.”

Harry obeyed, lying himself across his father’s lap, his upper body resting on the vacant seat of the sofa.

“Put your hands under me,” coaxed his father. It was his practice when administering a severe spanking to sit on Harry’s hands, this made it impossible for the boy to struggle.

Harry manoeuvred his hands under his father’s heavy thighs. Harry had a slim build with slender hips and a small, hard bottom. His underpants had snugged against his cheeks and into his crack, lifting and separating his buttocks.

He was pinned firmly and he felt his father’s hand gently caressing his left cheek. The old man was smoothing out the last remaining wrinkles from Harry’s cotton pants. The teenager gasped slightly as the hard palm of his father’s hands explored the circuit of his two buttocks and into the undercurves and across the back of his naked thighs.

He knew how he was to be disciplined. He had seen the hairbrush waiting on the seat, and watched his Dad pick it up before he positioned himself across his knee. In truth, it was not actually a hairbrush, although that is what it was always called. It was a round-headed bath-brush, long, heavy and with a back flat enough for its purpose. There were numerous of these brushes in the shops, glistening in their light-brown glossy timber. There was a severity about these implements, so ideal for their purpose as spanking tools and versatile enough to use in the shower as well.

z used otk pants brush couch (5)

Harry tensed himself involuntarily as he felt a motion in his father’s body: the first stroke was coming. The flat, heavy, stinging shock exploded across his skin, penetrating the cotton pants as if they had not been there at all. Such delicate protection was powerless against the heavy thwack of the brush.

His legs stiffened, his body reared a little, though his hands were pressed immobile by warm, masculine thighs.

“I hope you are not going to resist,” his father grunted. “I have all day if you do. Relax, please. Submit yourself. You deserve this spanking and you know you do.”

Harry forced his body to go limp, letting himself go to the will of his father. The brush smacked home again, tingling-sore upon the surface of his bottom, yet deeply hurting too. These were not “love taps”, they were heavy strokes. A third, a fourth, a fifth and a sixth thwacked with force against his bucking backside. Harry yelped, tensed, tried to untense and tensed again.

He had endured spankings from his father better than this in the past, but punishment is a curious thing. In the right mood he could absorb so much, submitting himself. But today was different, Harry could hardly bear to be touched. The ringing, flood waves of pain were almost intolerable.

Often his father scolded him all through a spanking. Today he seemed to have said all he had to say. Harry knew what was expected. If he tensed and arched himself, the punishment would go on. If he submitted it would come in the end.

Unable to help himself and although he was pinned by the hands, Harry twisted his legs to avoid the pain, opening his thighs in an ungainly manner. His father deftly brought down the hard brush in agonising reproof across Harry’s exposed inner thighs.

The teenager squealed like a wounded animal and closed his legs as his only way of protecting the sensitive flesh. For the rest of the spanking his legs remained neatly side by side, despite the mounting pain in his bottom and thighs. The burning soreness would make sitting a delicate task for the rest of the day.

His father had found his rhythm now. Hard, swinging slaps fell with easy force upon the cotton-covered bottom and thighs. The flesh was becoming hot. Even father’s own thighs were hot and moist against Harry’s clenching, powerless hands.

Harry was blubbing now. He was resigned to the long, hard spanking. Harry’s fingertips were digging deep into his father’s thighs. The ordeal was far greater than he had expected. His involuntary squeals of acute distress as hard wood bit his flesh flowed through the house.

Back in the kitchen Harry’s mother Babs listened to the rhythmic strokes, each one accompanied by a high, soulful moan. Her embarrassment level was off the scale. Beside her drinking tea demurely sat her neighbour, Mags. Babs smiled coyly. “Another cup of tea? We have some mince pies left over.”

Mags nodded politely although she wanted neither tea nor cakes. Her thoughts were back across The Avenue at her house where her son Malcolm was still tucked up in bed. He hadn’t raised a finger to help all holidays. He was sour and surly when spoken to. He drank most of his father’s whisky yesterday.

The sound of hard wood against taut bottom still pounded from the nearby room. She accepted the offered teacup gracefully but was lost in her thoughts. How she envied her friend Babs with her husband unafraid to instil a little discipline where it was needed. She took a nibble of the mince pie, her heart sinking at the thought of what awaited her when she returned home.

 

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Days later Babs and Mags were in the front room sipping tea.

“George will be down in a minute, he’s just sorting something out with Harry,” Babs said and blew on her tea to cool it.

“Yes I thought your boy was still here on his holidays,” Mags said. They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Babs hoped her husband wouldn’t be too long.

“Did you do anything last night, for the new year?” Mags asked for want of something better to say.

“Nothing much, we don’t really bother.”

More silence. More sipping of tea.

“Did you hear all that racket in the street about one o’clock this morning?” Mags piped up.

“Rather,” Babs blushed, she looked at the ceiling as if she could see into the rooms above.

“Bunch of louts,” Mags warmed to her theme, “Waking the whole street. Disgraceful. You don’t expect behaviour like that in The Avenue, do you?”

“No,” Babs sighed, “No, you do not.”

“I know what I’d like to do to them if I got my hands on them,” Mags slurped on her tea so some dribbled down her chin.

“Yes, I quite agree,” Babs whispered.

Upstairs, her husband was “sorting something out” with nineteen-year-old Harry. “An absolute disgrace. All of you. Drunken louts,” he seethed. “Waking all the neighbours. What do you think they will say if they find out you were one of them? Your mother won’t be able to hold her head up at the shops. An utter disgrace,” he fumed.

Harry’s hands sweated. His head still ached from last night and his throat was as dry as a camel’s whatsit. He nodded along with his father’s reprimands, he had no strength to argue. “I am utterly ashamed of you. I spanked you the other day for coming home drunk, now look at you.” He paused and literally looked over Harry from the top of his gelled head to his feet.arryHarry

“I hope you’re ashamed too,” he paused for an answer. None came. For Harry the room was spinning, his head ached, he just wanted this over with so he could go back to bed.

The silence angered his father. “Dumb insolence. Right, that’s it,” he roared. “You are going to get the thrashing of your life.” He started to unbuckle his belt. Harry’s eyes glazed. “Right,” his father hissed, “Get those jeans down. Underpants too. Lay face down on the bed.” He pulled the wide leather belt from the loops of his trousers and folded it in two.

Harry had not moved. “Be quick about it,” his father snapped. “Or do you want me to do it for you?” That moved the teenager to slow action. Through moist eyes he unbuckled his own belt and unclipped and unzipped the jeans. He turned away from his father, hoping the old man wouldn’t see his naked cock and balls. He inserted his thumbs into the waistband and inch by inch lowered his jeans and pants together. He just about uncovered his buttocks. Gingerly, so not to reveal himself to his father, he crawled onto the bed and lay on his stomach.

z used belt jeans down bed

His father held the belt loosely as he waited for his son to submit himself. “Pah!” he groaned. “Not like that,” he did not hide his irritation. “Pull them right down.” He took two paces towards the bed, leaned forward and ripped the jeans and pants down until they uncovered his thighs and bunched at his knees.

“That’s better,” his father sneered, “Let the dog see the rabbit.”

Harry gripped a pillow and buried his aching head in it. “Right lad,” his father hissed, “a sound leathering that’s what you need and that’s what you’re going to get. You can only blame yourself. You never learn.” He gripped the belt tightly and towered over his prone son. The bed was made for a child so was narrow and low. His father flapped the belt and let it rest over Harry’s naked buttocks. He was finding his aim. He stood straight, then lifted the belt to shoulder height so that the leather tapped his own back. Then in one swift continuous movement he whipped it high, then forward and landed it with a resounding crack across Harry’s bottom. A thick deep pink stripe immediately appeared. Harry winced and pushed his face deeper into the pillow.

It had been some years since his father had used a belt in this way and he was quietly satisfied that he hadn’t lost his touch. The belt had landed exactly where intended. Now, he aimed a little higher. Harry’s bum was meaty, but hard. There was a lot to aim at. Up went the belt and down it came with astonishing speed. Bingo! A second sunset band glowed across the naked bottom. Harry’s legs shook on the impact.

“Feeling that, aren’t you. Good,” his father grizzled. “It’s what you deserve. It’s what you need.” He whipped another two cuts in quick succession. Most of Harry’s bum blazed red hot. “I thought after last time, I wouldn’t have to do this again. How wrong I was.” He scolded and slashed. “Look at you, nineteen years old and getting your bare backside belted by your father. What would those other louts say if they could see you.”

Harry had no idea what his friends would say. What he did know for certain was that none of them would be submitting themselves as he was to their dads for a spanking.

“And don’t be thinking that you’re too old for this,” his father said, reading his son’s mind. “You are never too old. Not in my house.” He whipped another three hard slashes across the under cheeks. “Good shots,” he told himself, “he’ll feel those every time he sits down for some time to come.”

Whack-whack-whack. His father had forgotten to keep count, but he was sure he had landed at least twenty-four. “Right lad,” he said, “That’s the belting over.” Harry sprang to his feet and started to tug his pants up. “

“Not so fast mister,” his father chided, “I’ve not finished yet. This is only half time.” Harry’s mouth opened and closed but he could find no words of protest. “Now for the cane,” his father crossed the room to the open door and reached out into the landing. When he turned back he held a length of bamboo he had taken from the garden shed earlier. It was about two feet long and rigid. He brandished it at Harry. “Leave those jeans and pants down. Kneel on the bed. Keep your head low and your bottom high.”

“Oh, c’mon Dad,” Harry had found his voice. “I’ve had enough.”

“Enough,” his father coughed, “I spanked you last time for drinking. Well, it didn’t seem to work did it? This time I’m going to do the job properly. Now get a move on.”

Defeated, Harry climbed on the bed. “Head low,” his father encouraged. Soon Harry’s forehead and nose were squashed into the mattress. “Bottom high, spread those legs.” His father watched intently as his son manoeuvred himself. He had a perfect view into the teenager’s crack and of his dangling ball sack.

He held the cane in both hands. It was too rigid to bend. His father frowned with disappointment. What he really wanted was an old-fashioned whippy school cane, made of rattan and with a curved handle. One he could swish around before landing it across his son’s bare bottom. He promised himself he would search the Internet later to see what he could find.

For now he lined the stiff rod across the highest point of Harry’s mounds. Tap-tap-tap, then lift and return. The cane didn’t swish through the air and it landed with a dull thud but it left a deep mark across Harry’s bare cheeks. “Not bad,” his father mused to himself, “Not bad, but not as good as a proper cane would be.”

He said aloud, “Six of the best, for you, m’lad.” He imagined himself as an ancient schoolmaster. He landed the next stroke higher. The third went lower. That one snagged across the back of Harry’s thighs. He howled.

The noise travelled downstairs to the kitchen. Babs and Mags sat silently. Both aware of what was going on upstairs in the bedroom but neither feeling it was polite to discuss it. Another loud “Yowll!” rent the air.

Mags stared at her empty teacup and wondered quietly where her own son Malcolm had been at one o’clock that morning.

Picture credits: Both unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Restrictions

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solo couch by eitan

Wilf Hepplewhite took his latchkey and opened the door of his house. He stood in the hallway for a moment. His ears pricked. There was a faint, but unmistakable sound coming from the lounge. Someone was in the room. Carefully, so that he could not be heard, he closed the door. He put down his case and hung his coat on a hook, all the time craning his neck towards the sound. It was indeed unmistakable. He knew the room should be in silence. Furtively, he tip-toed towards the room. He stood outside and put his ear to the door. “Damn and blast,” he said to himself as his annoyance rose. He threw open the door.

Jake, his eighteen-year-old nephew, was slumped on a couch, feet on a table, watching television. The boy barely registered him as he entered the room and stood angrily. “What the b…” Mr Hepplewhite stammered, as he gesticulated wildly at Jake.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he found his voice at last.

The teenager merely glanced at his uncle. “Watching television,” he just managed not to add sarcastically, “what does it look like?”

His uncle’s face darkened. “You’re on restrictions. Did I say you were off restriction?”

Jake straightened himself up in the chair.

“And take your feet off the table,” Uncle Wilf growled. Reluctantly, Jake did so, silently glowering.

“And what’s this?” Uncle Wilf spotted what looked like bread crumbs. “What are my rules about eating in this room?”

Jake shrugged his shoulders and twisted his mouth. “I didn’t make a mess.”

“What. Are. My. Rules?” Uncle Wilf did not disguise his irritation. “What did I say?”

Sulkily, Jake replied, “No food.”

“Right. No food in this room.”

Uncle Wilf spotted a glass on the floor near Jake’s chair. “What’s this?” He had a clear suspicion as he swooped and grabbed it and wafted it under his nose. “I don’t believe it!” he stormed. “Whisky, you’ve been drinking my whisky,” he waved the glass in Jake’s face and repeated loudly, “I don’t believe it!”

Jake stayed slouched on the couch, trying to ignore his uncle, still with his eyes set on the television screen. “Doh!” Uncle Wilf was close to exploding. He grabbed the remote from the table and swung round to face the TV. The picture faded. He turned back to his disobedient nephew. “I cannot believe this,” he said again, struggling to find the words to match his anger.

“You’ve been nothing but trouble since I took you in.”

“Snot my fault,” Jake said sullenly. “I didn’t want to come.”

Uncle Wilf’s ire was rising. “I can’t wait until you finish school and you can join your mum and dad in their new home up north.” He paced the room, failing to control his rising temper. “I told you when you came there would be rules. It’s not much to ask to treat me and Aunt Sarah with respect. You are rude to her all the time. You treat this house like a hotel. She is not your chambermaid!”

The boy stared at the blank screen.

Uncle Wilf continued, “Your bedroom is like a pigsty and you leave a mess all over the house,” he waved his arms angrily. “Now, you don’t respect me when I punish you. Only yesterday, I said you weren’t to use the television.”

Jake grimaced, “I thought that was only for yesterday.”

“Did I say it was only for yesterday?” and when Jake remained silent, Uncle Wilf’s voice rose an octave, “Did I!”

“Well, no,” Jake reluctantly conceded.

“No,” Uncle Wilf paced the room, his heartbeat racing. “I’ve had just about all I’m going to take from you, Jake,” he raged as he walked. “What you need is a darn good spanking.”

Jake’s face fell, “A spanking?” he asked incredulously.

“That’s just what you deserve. A good old-fashioned spanking.”

“You’re joking right?”

“Do I look as if I’m joking,” Uncle Wilf stared intently at the teenager, still slumped. Then he began to unbuckle his belt.

Jake blushed, silenced for a moment by the sight of his uncle taking off his wide, thick leather belt and doubling it up. He was getting ready for action. He was not bluffing.

“B… but I’m too old to be spanked,” Jake blustered at a loss for words. “You.. you can’t.”

“Ha!” Uncle Wilf held the belt between both hands and snapped it making a loud crack! “Can’t I. We’ll see about that young man.” He glared at Jake. “Stand up.”

The boy slunk back on the couch. “No. No, you can’t,” he wailed.

“See if I can’t.” Uncle Wilf reached over Jake, gripped him by the wrist and tugged hard. The boy skidded to his feet. “Stop it. You can’t,” he wriggled and then swore hard.

“Right. That’s it.” Uncle Wilf kept his grip on Jake and sat down on the couch. It took a second to pull the still-protesting boy down so he was spread-eagled across his lap. “Stop that!” Uncle Wilf held the wriggling boy down. “I’m going to blister your backside and you are going to take it. Understand!” It was an instruction, not a question. “If not, you can pack your bags and be out tonight. I don’t care where you go. You’re not staying here.”

He did not wait for a reply. Jake was wearing “leisure pants” with an elasticated waist. Uncle Wilf took a fist full of material and tugged hard. The boy’s trousers and underpants came down together. Jake protested loudly but he was no longer wriggling so hard. Soon, his buttocks were bare. Uncle Wilf gripped the boy around the waist and hauled him so that his chest was laid out along the couch.  His legs dangled behind him with his knees straight and toes hovering above the carpet. Like this his bare cheeks were displayed at an angle across Uncle Wilf’s thigh. They were perfectly positioned for the spanking Jake was about to receive.

“You’ve been asking for this for a long time, young man,” Uncle Wilf said as he took up his belt and carefully doubled it. It was wide, thick and heavy and would make a perfect punishment tool. Jake’s bare bottom twitched and the cheeks clenched. They were firm and round and made to be spanked. Uncle Wilf took a firm grip of the boy’s waist so he was pinned down. He raised the belt high and with as much strength as he could find he lashed it across the very centre of his target. He was delighted to be rewarded with two sunset stripes. He whacked again and again and in no time Jake’s bottom resembled a plan of a railway junction.

The boy gasped as the leather lashed him. After a dozen or so more whacks he began to quietly yap.

“Good, you’re feeling that,” Uncle Wilf scoffed. “Am I getting through to you?” he asked. This time he expected an answer and when none came he lashed the belt harder, “I said, am I getting through to you?”

“Yes, yes,” Jake was breathless. “You’re hurting me please stop,” he wailed.

“I’ll stop when I’m ready to stop,” Uncle Wilf responded slashing the belt across the backs of Jake’s thighs.

“Ouch! Ooooh! Please stop. I’ve had enough!”

Uncle Wilf hammered the leather belt across Jake’s naked bottom. “You’ve had enough when I say you’ve had enough,” and he continued the thrashing. By now the whole of Jake’s bottom glowed scarlet. The outline of the belt was embossed across his cheeks and thighs. The boy’s yaps increased in volume to become yelps.

“Are you going to start behaving now?” Uncle Wilf was gasping himself.

“Yes,” Jake answered with alacrity.

“Yes, what?” Uncle Wilf landed an especially hard swipe.

“Yes, I’ll behave.”

“Yes, what?” Another swipe landed on the underside of the cheeks in the most sensitive sit-spot. “Yes, sir!” Uncle Jake roared.

“Yes, sir,” Jake mewed.

“Good, that’s what I like to hear. Have you learnt your lesson?”

“Yes, yes,” Jake almost screamed. “Please stop. Please.”

Uncle Wilf’s heart was racing. His blood pressure was off the scale. If he didn’t stop spanking soon he might have a seizure.

“I’m not so sure,”’ he answered his nephew and laid another six slashes low on the boy’s left cheek. Jake was spent. He lay submissively across his uncle’s lap, stretched across the couch. Entirely at the older man’s mercy.

“If I have to do this again …” Uncle Wilf let the thought trail off and landed six more across the right cheek. The boy’s entire bottom was hot and welted. Later when Jake rubbed the palms of his hands gingerly across his buttocks the surface would feel like leather.

Uncle Wilf slashed two more across each cheek for good measure. “Okay. That’s it. Stand up.”

Jake sprang to his knees, he stumbled and held on to the table to stop himself tumbling to the ground. He hopped from one foot to the other doing the traditional spanking dance. His hair was wet with sweat. His face glowed and was as scarlet as his bottom. His eyes shone. He wriggled as he returned his trousers and pants to their rightful place. He couldn’t bear to look at his uncle.

“Will I have to do this again,” Uncle Wilf asked calmly. Jake was still rubbing his bottom, “No, sir,” he replied meekly.

“Good. Go to your room.”

Jake hobbled across the room and Uncle Wilf heard him take the stairs two at a time before there was the sound of a slamming bedroom door.

Uncle Jake threaded the belt through the loops on his trousers. The front door opened and his wife walked in. Her face fell as she caught sight of him. Then it dawned on her what had happened and she smiled. “You look like you’ve been to hell and back.”

He snorted a laugh. “Make us some tea and I’ll tell you all about it.”

 

Picture credit: Eitan

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

After corner time

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z used after corner (6)

Right lad, get your nose right in that corner and don’t you dare move. Leave your jeans and pants down. I haven’t finished with you yet. Not by a long chalk. That belting was just the start. How dare you disobey me and stay out to all hours. Spending your allowance on drugs. My money. You can’t even hold down a job. You lazy sod. You can pack your bag and go for all I care. It’s only your mother who’s stopping me throwing you out on to the street.

Now, you stay there and don’t move. I won’t be long. I’ll be back in a moment. I want to see your nose sniffing that corner when I get back.

….

Right turn around. Face me. Yes! This is a surprise isn’t it. You didn’t know I had one of these. I bought it on eBay. An authentic school cane. Don’t stare at your feet, look at it.  See how easily it bends. Look how thick it is. Just think what that’s going to do to your bare bottom. Stop pouting, you only have yourself to blame. You deserve everything that’s coming to you.

Right, come over here. No, leave those jeans down. Just waddle. I don’t care if you do feel a complete prat. Stand behind that armchair. Now lad!

Don’t make me have to come over there and drag you.

Right, bend over the back of the chair.

No, not like that. Right over. Head low, bottom high. I want to see you smelling that seat cushion. That’s better. Hold on to the front of the seat, I don’t want you trying to cover up your bum. Good. Now spread those legs a bit. Give me something to aim at.

Be quiet. You are not too old to be caned. You might be twenty, but you have never in your life behaved like an adult. You deserve to be treated like a little kid. Keep still.

Let’s get this t-shirt out of the way. That’s better, now I can see the target. That belting has left a good set of marks, but that’s nothing compared with what you’re going to get now.

Stop whining. Keep perfectly still. Take your beating like a man. Don’t make a sound. I don’t want you worrying your mother.

Right then. Here we go. Stroke one ….

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

Another adventure at Camp Cottage

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z used treasure-hunter-map-600x475

See also: Adventure at Camp Cottage — click here

 

Julian bounded into the sitting room. The sun was shining brightly. My, the boy thought, what another gay day. The sun has been shining every day since I came to Camp Cottage to spend the summer with my Uncle Dick and Aunt Fanny.

“Does the sun never stop shining, Timmy,” he chortled to his cousin Timothy. The boy looked up from the map he was studying hard. “Only at night time, you chump!”

“Oh, ha! Ha! Very funny,” Julian loved his cousin, they had become great friends and he knew he was going to have a super hols being with him, but he was a little nervous that he was being made fun of.

“Well really, old chap!” Timothy beamed, his smile lit up his face. “Of course the sun always shines. Wouldn’t life be extremely dull if it didn’t.”

“It rains back home in the city,” Julian retorted glumly.

“That’s why you have to come to the country to have adventures. It never rains here in Westmoreland!”

“Jolly, super, I’m so glad I came.”

“Yes, I bet you’re jolly pleased that your mother and father left you behind when they went touring war-torn Europe taking Bibles to peasant people.”

“Oh rather! I am eighteen years old and could have stayed in our family house in the town, I suppose, but Father thought it would be better if I came here to Camp Cottage.” Julian pulled up a chair and sat beside his cousin at the dinner table. Only then did he notice he had a map unfurled in front of him. It was all yellowy and looked frightfully old.

“What’s that?” he asked cheerfully.

“It’s a map.”

Julian frowned, in case Timothy was pulling his leg again. “What’s it a map of?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant and not let on that he was desperately excited to know the answer.

“It’s a map of hidden treasure,” Timothy said, running his hand over it.

“Gosh! Hidden treasure, how thrilling!” Julian ejaculated, unable to contain his excitement. “Where did you get the map?”

Timothy beamed so that his whole face lit up. “Oh Ju!” he laughed, “You are such a Town Boy,” he ruffled his cousin’s untidy brown hair. “Don’t you know the country is practically full of maps of hidden treasure? Why, around here people practically trip over them all the time.”

“Golly gosh!” Julian still could not hide his excitement. “Where is this hidden treasure?”

“Who knows? It’s hidden, silly!” Timothy beamed and ruffled Julian’s hair again. He liked the way it felt so soft in his hand.

“Oh Timmy!” Julian huffed, “You know what I meant.”

Timothy beamed! He loved to tease his cousin, but he also wanted to share his secret with him. He hoped they would go off together on an adventure to find the treasure. “It’s an old school building just a few miles from here at Curran. It was abandoned at the start of the war. Look!,” he pointed to the top left hand corner of the map. There is a hidden cupboard of some sort behind a wooden panel. All we have to do it locate the room, find the panel and hey presto! the treasure is ours.”

“Yippee!” Julian screamed. “What an adventure! When can we go to discover the treasure?”

“Let’s do it right now. It’s such a beautiful summer’s day. We can cycle there. I have my bike and you can borrow my brother’s.”

“What a spiffing idea!”

“Yes, I’ll get Joanne, our family cook, to make us a picnic lunch. We can have Spam sandwiches and sticky buns!”

“Rather!” Julian ejaculated again with excitement, “And lashings of ginger beer!”

The two adventurers went to seek out Aunt Fanny to tell her of their plans. They found her asleep in a chair in the drawing room. “Yes, go! Go! Go!” she waved her arms and pointed to the door.

“I say, Timmy” Julian beamed, “Did you see how red her face was? I think she’s been in the sun too long.”

“Yes. Perhaps,” Julian replied quietly.

Soon they were ready to set off. The journey was about five miles and because both boys were very fit it wouldn’t take them any time at all. Timothy said they would ride through the village and then up into the hills, the school was in a very isolated spot. He led the way through Curran, they passed the post office, the little church and then the much larger pub. Suddenly, Timothy waved at Julian. He wanted him to stop. “What’s up, Timmy?” Julian asked, puzzled at why they had stopped outside a high wall that surrounded what appeared to be an apple orchard.

“I just wanted to get some apples,” Timothy said brightly.

“Apples?” Julian frowned. “Why do you want apples? We could’ve picked them from the trees in the garden at Camp Cottage.”

“Oh, don’t be a silly,” Timothy grinned. “This is much more fun!” He dismounted his bicycle and leaned it against the brick wall. “Here,” he chortled, “Give me a leg up, I’m going to scale the wall.”

“Oh my,” Julian suddenly realised his cousin’s jape. Oh, no, he thought, what a naughty thing to do.

“It’s only scrumping,” Timothy had read his pal’s thoughts. “This is the country, everybody does it,” he explained. “Now link your fingers together so I can stand on them. Julian’s heart raced. He was not usually a naughty boy! What adventures he was having at Camp Cottage! He linked his hands and Timothy stepped into them and with a fine athletic movement he climbed onto the top of the wall and let himself over to the other side.

Julian sat astride his bike, wheeling it backwards and forwards and anxiously looked up and down the road. What if somebody came along! What trouble they would be in! Suddenly, the top of Timothy’s head appeared over the wall, he pulled himself up and tumbled head first to the ground. He grinned at his cousin, “C’mon matey, let’s scarper!” Just as he mounted his bicycle an elderly man, dressed in baggy brown trousers and an old jacket with a flat cap on his head appeared at a gate in the wall.

“Grrr!” he called and shook his fist. “Grrr! I know you! You little blighter Bylton! Grrr! Stealing my apples. Grrr!” His face was purple with rage. The two boys sped off on their bicycles with the words of the angry old man ringing in their ears. “You wait Bylton! Wait till I tell PC Plank, the village policeman, what you did. Just you wait!”

The two boys peddled like fury for a hundred yards and when they were quite sure they were far enough away from the angry old man they stopped to catch their breath. “Oh, Timmy,” Julian said, his voice full of concern, “Do you think he’ll really report you to the village policeman?”

Timothy frowned, “Most likely, yes.”

“Oh dear, Timmy, I suppose he’ll give you the most frightful ticking-off,” Julian’s face was full of concern.

“Yes,” Julian examined the handlebars of his bicycle miserably, “Something like that, I suppose.” He wriggled his bottom on the hard seat of his bicycle. Then, his face brightened and he rummaged in the pocket of his short trousers. “Here catch!” and he threw a lovely juicy apple to his cousin. “It’ll taste all the sweeter now,” he grinned and the two boys munched away.

Oh my! If only they had cycled away and headed on their way to the treasure hunt PC Plonker would never have caught up with them. Instead, before they had finished eating they heard a horrid working class voice shouting, “Oi! Youse two. Bylton and t’other one, you just stay roight where you are.”

“Crikey, he does look angry,” Julian said. PC Plonker was all red in the face. He was a very fat man and he had his heavy blue tunic buttoned up ever so tightly. On such a lovely warm day as this that was a silly thing to do! The poor man was sweating so very badly. “Oi!,” he hollered again and peddled his bicycle until he came alongside the two naughty boys. “I heard all about it,” PC Plonker could hardly catch his breath. “I did indeed. Farmer Giles told me everything. Where are those apples? Give them here” PC Plonker held out his hand but Timothy only smirked. “Eaten. All eaten,” he grinned. “Here,” he opened the palm of his hand, “You can have the core if you want it,” he grinned cheekily.

“Pah! Bah! Bish!” PC Plonker took off his heavy helmet and rested it on the handlebars of his bicycle. Then he took a large white handkerchief from his tunic pocket and shook it about until it was open. Then, slowly, he mopped his brow and his big wobbly jowls. Then, he folded it up carefully and put it back in his pocket.

z used policeman fat wipes brow skipper (3)

“My police house is over there,” he pointed down the country road. “Come with me you little perishers!” Julian blushed to the roots of his hair. “Oh my,” he said, “We are in trouble, Timmy.” His cousin frowned, “You don’t know the half of it, Ju. Really you don’t.”

In no time at all they were at PC Plonker’s cottage. It was a very small house and not at all like Camp Cottage. There was one small room and a kitchen downstairs and upstairs another room and a place for PC Plonker to wash. His toilet was a shed in the back garden.

PC Plonker was so very angry. “Get in there, both of you,” he growled and pointed to the kitchen. It wasn’t very big but there was a wooden table set down right in the middle. PC Plonker unbuttoned his tunic and all the fat from his belly flowed out over the waistband of his heavy serge trousers. Timothy stared at the big, wide heavy leather belt that held up PC Plonker’s trousers. All the water drained from Timothy’s mouth.

“You are nothing but little thieves,” PC Plonker told them. He was very angry and he waved his arms around. “What would your father say if I told him what you did?” Timothy blushed to his roots. He knew what his father would do, if he found out. Oh my! He didn’t want him to find out.

PC Plonker stood by the doorway of the kitchen and put his hands deep into his pockets. “Well young Bylton,” he growled at Timothy, “Youse been here before, youse knows what’s to ’appen.” Timothy’s mouth opened and closed but he couldn’t think of anything to say. “Youse was caught red-handed, youse was,” PC Plonker said with a glint in his eye. “Don’t blame me …” PC Plonker stopped talking then and Timothy and Julian both stared at the policeman as he took hold of his own belt and unbuckled it. Their eyes popped out on stalks when PC Plonker took hold of the belt and pulled it fast that whoosh! it came away from his trousers and flew through the air. PC Plonker’s belly was so fat his trousers didn’t fall down. Really, he didn’t need a belt at all. Well, not to keep his trousers up!.

PC Plonker folded the belt into three so that it was about fourteen inches long and he held it by the buckle. He swiped it against the leg of his trousers. His eyes narrowed and he stared right at Timothy. “Well young un,” he growled. “You know what to do.” Then he glowered at Julian. “You too, matey!” Julian stood still. He was very frightened. He didn’t like the look of that belt in PC Plonker’s hand, not at all. But, he didn’t know what PC Plonker wanted him to do. Julian looked at his cousin. He knew Timothy would know.

“Do like this,” Timothy whispered and then he undid the belt of his own corduroy short trousers. Julian gaped. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Slowly Timothy unbuttoned his trousers and let them fall down his thighs and his legs to the floor. “Go on,” he nodded to Julian.

Poor Julian was very flustered. Now, he knew what PC Plonker meant. Now, he knew why the policeman had taken off his belt. Oh my! Julian could feel tears welling up in his eyes. Oh my! He had been a naughty boy and now he was to be punished. He didn’t say a word, he just undid his own short trousers and he blushed to his roots when he saw his own underpants. But, he let the short trousers go and they whistled down to his feet.

PC Plonker snapped the belt between his hands. The crack! it made echoed around the small room. He stared right at Timothy and then he nodded at the boy. Timothy understood right away. He didn’t need to have it explained to him. He looked at his cousin and with his eyes he told Julian he must follow what he was about to do. Then, he turned to face the kitchen table. He nibbled on his bottom lip for a second and then he leaned forward. He went so far that his stomach lay on the cold wooden table top. He reached his arms out ahead of him and he gripped the edge of the table.

Julian watched. He was astonished. He could see his cousin stretched over the table and he saw the way the boy’s bottom was raised high. The underpants had stretched right across his buttocks and up into the crack between the two cheeks. “C’mon, lets-be-aving-you,” PC Plonker gasped and then because he didn’t think Julian understood, he explained, “Bend over the table, next to yer partner in crime.”

Oh my! Julian was so scared. He had never been spanked before. Not ever. Not even as a very little boy. He wanted to say something but didn’t know what to say. If his father ever found out about this he would be so ashamed. Stealing! That was a crime. People went to prison for that. Somewhere in his head he heard a little voice. It was very faint, but it was also very clear. “Take your punishment,” it said. “You are a very naughty boy. You deserve to have your little bottom spanked.”

So, Julian shuffled over to the table and stood alongside his cousin. He could see him from the corner of his eye. Timothy was face down, with his stomach and chest along the table top. He held his bottom high and also gripped hold of the far edge of the table. Julian licked his lips and slowly let himself fall forward. In no time at all, he was spread-eagled alongside his cousin.

Oh my! PC Plonker looked down at the two naughty boys. What delightful targets they made. How he hated the posh boys from the village. They thought they were so much better than people like himself. Ha! Ha! He’d soon show them. He gripped hold of the belt at the buckle end and swished it though the air. Then, he stood very close to Timothy. The eighteen-year-old boy’s bottom twitched. It was the backside of a very naughty boy and was no stranger to punishment, but that didn’t stop it shivering in anticipation of the pain to come. PC Plonker held the belt high and swished it down with all his might and it smacked really hard across Timothy’s bottom. The naughty boy grimaced and closed his eyes tightly.

Then, PC Plonker took a step to his right so that he could get a good aim at Julian’s posterior. PC Plonker smiled when he saw the cheeks tighten up and pretended they were hard rubber balls. It was their way of trying to protect themselves. Whack!! The leather hit Julian right in the middle of his right cheek. PC Plonker hit him no harder than his companion, but Julian had never been spanked before and because of that it seemed to hurt him much, much more. He whistled through his teeth, the pain was like nothing he had felt before.

PC Plonker went back to Timothy and walloped him once more. Then it was Julian’s turn again. PC Plonker went from one to the other lashing his belt across the backsides of the two very naughty boys. Poor Julian; he twisted and turned with every stroke of the heavy, leather belt. His head nodded up and down, it hurt so much. But, valiant little fellow he hung on tightly to the table’s edge and not once did he jump to his feet so he could hop up and down and rub his scorching bottom.

Oh my! Timothy was a trooper. PC Plonker spanked him every bit as hard as he did Julian but Timothy was no stranger to corporal punishment. Yes, his bottom was sore but the belt was nothing compared to the swishy rattan cane that his housemaster used on him at school. And his father’s wooden paddle was harder and heavier than even PC Plonker’s thick belt. Timothy knew he could take it. He closed his eyes, kept his bottom high and held on tightly to the table. He would let PC Plonker get on with it. His punishment would be over soon enough.

Well, PC Plonker didn’t count the number of times he lashed those naughty bottoms, but he made sure that there wasn’t any part of them without dark-red lines. They were everywhere, right on the crest of the cheeks, and all over the mounds themselves and into the undercurves. PC Plonker even landed a few across the back of their thighs. On the naked flesh! Oh my! How that hurt. Even Timothy had to admit to himself that that hurt.

PC Plonker was a very fat man and very fat people are not very fit. They don’t have much energy and soon the policeman realised his heart was racing away with him. His shirt was soaked with perspiration and his head ached very badly. He might have a heart attack if he didn’t stop soon. So, he gave each cheek two more slaps (that’s eight slaps in total) and then wheezing mightily, he exclaimed, ‘Righty-ho! That’s you done,” and he sat down with a thump on one of the wooden chairs and tried to get his breath back.

Timothy was the first to his feet. He found his corduroy short trousers and he pulled them on and buttoned them up. Julian was not so fast. He stood up but had to hold on to the table for a little while. His bottom was very sore and before he found his short trousers that he had kicked half-way across the kitchen he gave his bottom a good rub. He kneaded them hard, but to his dismay it didn’t seem to ease the ache in his sit-upon. “Come on Ju,” Timothy was dressed now, “Let’s go.” Sorrowfully, Julian stepped into his short trousers and buttoned up. He was still rubbing the seat of his shorts when the pair picked up their bicycles.

“Come on Ju,” Timothy cocked his leg over the crossbar of his bicycle. “We’ve got hidden treasure to find,” he chortled as he peddled down the country lane.

 

Picture credits: B C Freeman / Skipper

Other stories you might like

Summer holiday camp

One hot summer afternoon

The students next door

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Uncle Graham’s belt

new 5

z used drawing belt hold (25)

Uncle Graham stood feet firmly planted eighteen inches apart, his back erect, the muscles in his forearms rippling. I stood, my eyes popping, as slowly and with great deliberation he unbuckled his thick, wide leather belt. He glowered as he took hold of the buckle and tugged the belt so that it slipped majestically through the loops of his trousers. Within seconds it was free. He allowed it to dangle from his fist so that the far end almost touched the floor.

“Come here,” his voice was fierce. It was an order, not a request. He doubled up the black belt and tapped it into the palm of his left hand. I slouched forward, attempting defiance. “Now!” Uncle Graham barked. I stood for a moment. How I despised myself for allowing him to whip me.

“You know the drill,” Uncle Graham glowered. “Get on with it.”

I did. I knew the drill well. I was eighteen years old and had been here many times before. I fumbled with the buckle of my own belt, but my fingers refused to work, they were numbed by my humiliation. “Do you want me to do it for you?” Uncle Graham sneered.

At last the belt undone, I popped the clasp at the waistband of my trousers and then tugged the zipper tab until the front of my trousers were wide open. I shook my legs and gravity took them slipping down my thighs and they snagged at my knees. Uncle Graham shot me a withering look. He did not try to hide his contempt. I hooked my thumbs inside my boxer shorts and with a flick of the wrists sent them down to meet my trousers.

My bum was bare and my small, thin cock hung limply. I drew in a deep breath. I shuffled like a penguin for a couple of steps until I reached the back of the settee. I counted to five in my head, rubbed my sweaty palms together, closed my eyes and slowly fell forward. My stomach rested on the back of the settee. I opened my eyes again and stared down at the dirty seat cushion. I pushed my arms forward and took a firm grip of its far end.

“Bum higher!” Uncle Graham growled. “Get right over that settee.” I wriggled my hips a little and stood up on my toes. My face was even closer to the cushion and I could smell sour sweat where countless people had sat over many years.

I closed my eyes and waited. I heard Uncle Graham swish the belt through the air. There was an almighty crack that echoed around the small living room when he slashed the belt against the top of the settee. I couldn’t stop a shudder convulsing my body. Then, I felt the cold leather touch my naked flesh. Uncle Graham rested the belt so it covered the centre of both cheeks. He was finding his aim.

A chill draught blew across my naked legs. Blood rushed to my face, it always did when I was bent over in this position. I braced myself for a very intense session with the belt.

The first time I had been strapped it had been agony and I had been miserable for hours afterwards. Now, after so many strappings it was different. I knew I could “take it” without a fuss, but I never overcame the sense of humiliation. Eighteen years old and belted like a little kid. I  willed himself not to move. I stayed submissively bent over, holding my backside high so Uncle Graham could lash my buttocks over and over.

I felt him tap the belt across my bottom and then raise it away. He must have taken it over his shoulder and then he brought it whipping down into me. The crack! sounded like gunfire in the tiny room. My body buckled under the lash and I bit into my lower lip; trickles of spit dribbled from my mouth.

The second lash curled itself viciously over my exposed buttocks and unfurled. My backside quivered with the force. My body jolted and I clenched the fingers of both hands together.  My throat tightened. After three or four strokes the heavy, wide thick belt had whacked all my buttocks; from the soft undercurve where the globes meet the back of the thighs, over the meaty mounds and across the tops of the globes. Every square inch was toasted. He snapped another six hard stingers across the very centre of my buttocks. One after the other in rapid succession.

The aching in my bum was growing. It had started as a tingle, turned to a throb and then became pounding pain. Not one square inch of my buttocks was untouched by the leather belt. I clung onto the seat cushion valiantly. When you have been under the lash as often as I have you develop a high pain threshold. A less experienced boy would be hollering, howling and begging for mercy. Not me. My buttocks quivered, my hips wriggled and from time to time my knees bent, but that was just my body’s natural reaction. A reflex, if you like, a way for my body to protect itself against the pain.

Uncle Graham was no novice to spanking. He knew his job. Satisfied that he had whipped my buttocks red and raw he then turned his attention to the back of my thighs. If you’ve been spanked yourself you’ll know that it the most sensitive part of the target area. I stamped my feet, then wrapped one foot around the other. My heart raced and my temples throbbed almost as much as my bum. But I didn’t cry out. I refused to give Uncle Graham the satisfaction.

He paused the onslaught for five seconds while he took hold of the belt and adjusted it so the buckle was uppermost. This meant not only did he have the weight of the leather strap to flog me, but a heavy piece of metal with a sharp point that could take my arse off. After a dozen strokes of this small cuts ran across my mounds and the flesh looked like raw hamburger meat in places.

Then, it was over. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson.” Uncle Graham finished his spanking with three extra-hard licks. When he told me to get up, I forgot about being too old for a spanking. I hopped around doing the famous spanking dance with my penis flopping, while I tried to rub the sting out of my bare behind that had just been roasted to 350-degrees Fahrenheit.

My bum was hideous; a mass of magenta marks and burgundy bruises. Already some of the bruises were growing dark, almost brown. I could feel the welts from the strap and the heat glowing off my bum could have heated a greenhouse.

Uncle Graham let me get dressed and he sent me off to my room. Only then did I allow the tears of pain and humiliation to flow.

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

My first spanking — aged 18!

The spanking I thoroughly deserved

The Helpful Neighbour Part 1

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

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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