After corner time

new 5

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

Other stories you might like

Letter of Regret

The sleep over

Through the window

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Another adventure at Camp Cottage

new 5

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

 

Other stories you might like

Professor Paddle

The scavenger hunt

The Gaffer of The Academy 3. Caned-off

 

 

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

Other stories you might like

After the party

Saving souls

A kiss too far

 

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.

 

Other stories you might like

 

One hot summer afternoon

The pub visit

The fire-raiser

 

                                            

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