The porn mag

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some choice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Picture credit: Jonathan

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Fr. Pat’s paddle

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

His big brother is not amused

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“I can’t believe you’ve been so stupid, after all I’ve done for you this is how you repay me,” Frank eyed his younger brother disdainfully. “And, you might’ve ruined your whole future, you stupid little …” he trailed off, before his anger got the better of him.

Anthony (Ant to his friends, but not to his eldest brother) slumped on the worn settee. Who did Frank think he was talking to like that?

“There’ll probably be a court case, you know that.” Frank paced the room, barely controlling his temper. “It’ll be in the Clarion for everyone to read about. You stupid …” Frank’s usually placid face was puce. “You were going to get A-levels, go to university. That’s why I took you in.”

Anthony wriggled uncomfortably, his brother had touched a nerve. Frank was twenty-five years old, the eldest of four boys. Their dad had walked out years ago, and when mum found herself another bloke and got married they didn’t want Anthony around spoiling the fun. He was sixteen at the time, old enough to fly the coop and get a job.

But, Anthony was a bright boy; he did well at school, which was more than could be said for any of his brothers. Frank worked in a factory for a while and when that went to the wall, he found a job at a call centre. All not much more than minimum wage jobs, but it kept a roof over his head. He did a deal with Anthony, he should stay on at school, get his A-levels and come and live with Frank. It was tough, Anthony would have to get a weekend job at a supermarket and pay something for his keep.

It went rather well, or so Frank thought. Anthony was now just weeks away from his examinations and if his coursework and “mocks” were an indication, he would ace his A-levels. University here he comes.

But, now this.

“I cannot believe you would be so stupid.” Frank was not letting up. Anthony pouted. Why wouldn’t his brother just get off his case?

“Stealing!” Frank shrieked. “From the same supermarket where you worked …” he trailed off, unable to complete his sentence.

“Everyone does it,” Anthony shrugged.

“Everyone! You’re not everyone.” Frank clenched his fist, any moment now he would punch his stupid brother in the face. He paced up and down the small sitting room, trying to control his anger.

“Now, you’ve got the sack and the police are involved. You’ll have a criminal record. Say goodbye to university.”

Anthony sighed, “It doesn’t work like that,” he began. He stopped when he saw Frank’s eyes blazing.

“You …” Frank couldn’t find the words.

“If they stopped people with criminal records going to university, they’d have no students,” Anthony’s heart raced. He didn’t like rowing with Frank. His brother wasn’t the brightest star in the sky, he could always beat him in an argument. “Think of all those drug convictions.”

Frank stood shaking. Oh, he thought, how he needed a drink. After all he had done for Anthony. He had been so proud when he got a place at sixth-form college. He was going to be the first person ever in the family to go to university.

“Really,” Anthony tried to calm his brother. “It won’t affect Uni. I’ll get a fine, probably.”

Frank fumed. “And, who’s going to pay that? And, how can you pay for your keep here with no job?”

“I’ll get another job.”

“Not with a criminal record, you won’t.” Frank glared at his younger brother. The brat just didn’t seem to care. He was supposed to be bright, didn’t he know his actions had consequences?

Anthony shuffled in his seat. Perhaps, Frank was right.

“Don’t think I’m letting you stay here after this,” Frank was surprised to hear himself say. “Go sponge off someone else.”

“C’mon Frank,” Anthony eyed his brother, he had never before seen him like this.

“I mean it. You’ve got to pack and go.”

Anthony blanched. His brother meant it too.

“I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

“What!” Frank exploded. “How can you do that. You can’t turn the clock back.”

“No, I promise I’ll never do it again. I’ll be good.”

“Hah! You don’t seem the least bit concerned,” Frank sneered. “Everybody does it,” he mimicked Anthony from earlier. “It won’t stop me going to Uni.”

Anthony blushed. His brother was right, he didn’t care. He wasn’t the only Saturday lad caught stealing whisky. Someone or other did it every weekend. They’d take the bottles of booze over to the waste ground and drink them. They hadn’t realised a new manager had taken over and his underlings were trying to impress him. So, blind eyes were no longer being turned.

Suddenly, Frank stopped his pacing. Anthony watched alarmed as his brother darted from the room. What was he up to?

He found out a minute or so later when Frank returned grim-faced. “This,” he spluttered. “This is what you deserve.” He violently waved an old, heavy hairbrush.

Anthony’s jaw dropped. What the …?

“A spanking,” Frank’s eyes narrowed with determination. “That’ll buck your ideas up. That’ll make you give a damn.” He waved the brush at his brother, in case there was any doubts about his intention.

“Don’t be daft,” Anthony squirmed. “Nobody gets spanked these days.”

“We’ll now’s a good time to start,” Frank advanced towards Anthony, brandishing the hairbrush.

“No gerroff!” Anthony swatted his brother’s arm away and slunk into the settee. “Leave me alone.”

Frank towered over Anthony. He grabbed his left wrist and hauled him to his feet. Standing up, he was only an inch or two taller. Anthony struggled, but his brother’s grip was firm. Their heads were only inches apart, Anthony could smell Frank’s foul breath.

“Here’s the deal,” Frank’s face was set. He meant what he was about to say. “You can either pack your bags and go. Take your chances. Or, you can have a spanking,” His stare intensified as he tried to read Anthony’s mind. “A proper spanking. You take down your trousers. And your pants and you let me whack your arse with this.” He waved the brush menacingly.

Anthony felt tears prick the back of his eyes. Any moment they wold be flowing down his cheeks. This was not for real. It couldn’t be. How could he pack his bags and go? Where to? He’d be on the streets; in a cardboard box. That would be the end of his A-levels. He really wouldn’t get to university.

He said none of this aloud, but Frank read his thoughts. He had won. His little brother would submit himself to his will. He released his grip on Anthony. “Let’s get on with this, shall we?”

Anthony hesitated. A spanking? What did that even mean? Was Frank going to take him across his knee? And, he had said trousers and pants down; bare arsed. That would just be too humiliating.

Frank took hold of a dusty heavy armchair and edged it around until its back faced toward him. He pointed to a spot on the carpet a foot or two behind it. “Stand there.”

Anthony’s mouth opened and closed but so sound came. He wanted to protest. To make a plea for clemency. But, he knew there was no point. Matters had to take their course. He had to submit to his brother, only then could he hope to regain Frank’s approval. He would subject himself to this humiliation, take a spanking, and then, perhaps, they could both move on with their lives. He stood behind the chair.

Frank’s breathing had been tight, it eased considerably now, but his heart was still thumping so hard he thought it would burst through his chest. “Take down your jeans and your pants.” He croaked the instruction. All saliva had drained from his mouth. Oh, he reckoned, how he needed a drink.

Anthony could not look at his brother. Then, a strange thought struck him. It had been ten years or more since Frank had seen him without his trousers; it was when three brothers used to share a bedroom. The thought gave him a strange comfort. He loved his brother, he didn’t ever show it much, but it was true. And, Frank loved him too. Look at all the sacrifice he had made since mum remarried.

Even with this comforting thought, Anthony struggled to undo his belt and pop the rivets in his jeans. His god-damn hands would not obey his brain’s instructions. At last, the denims were bunched at his shins. He felt his face burn as he stood in his underpants, his fingers trembling. From the corner of his eye, he saw his brother move toward him. Anthony was too slow to stop him. In a second, Frank had gripped the waistband of Anthony’s pants and swooshed them to his brother’s thighs. The teenager’s buttocks were naked and his cock and balls dangled in the breeze.

“Get over.” The command was calmer than Frank felt. What had he been thinking? Had he ever expected Anthony to agree to be spanked? Well, it was too late now. He simply had to go through with it. He couldn’t lose face. Besides, deep down, Frank suspected a real hard spanking would do his brother good. It should stop him ever stealing again.

Slowly, Anthony eased himself over the chair. He had never been spanked in his life and had never seen anyone spanked. He couldn’t recall seeing anything like it in a movie or on TV. How was this done? He relied on instinct. The back of the chair was high enough for the eighteen-year-old to rest his stomach against it. He reached forward and gripped the far end of the seat cushion. His feet were parted by twelve inches or so. He closed his eyes. He was ready.

Anthony’s tee-shirt was short and had ridden away from the target area. There was nothing more for Frank to do except whack his heavy, wooden hairbrush into his brother’s naked bum. He stood close to his brother so that his swing approached from above. From this angle, Anthony’s buttocks looked soft and round. Frank pressed the brush into the flesh to test how much “give” there was. Anthony was nowhere near fat, but there was some padding in the boy’s bum.

Frank took a deep breath and lifted the brush high and whacked it against Anthony’s left cheek. A deep pink imprint of the hairbrush’s head immediately appeared. Anthony sucked in breath, but otherwise was immobile.

Frank hesitated, he hadn’t expected to see the outline of the brush on his brother’s otherwise white bum. It looked pretty sore. He looked across the chair at his brother’s head. The back of his neck was reddening, but Frank didn’t know if this was because of pain or just that his head was down low so blood must be rushing to it. He took aim on the right cheek and let fly. Another mark instantly appeared. Anthony sucked in air.

Frank was no expert at spanking, but he guessed that a spanking was supposed to hurt, otherwise what was the point of it? He took aim again and pounded six hard whacks across Anthony’s bum. The eighteen-year-old felt those. His knees buckled and his feet slipped against the worn carpet. Pain started at his buttocks and shot up and down his legs. It took his breath away. “Huff-huff-huff” he gasped and he hacked out a dry cough.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Frank thought to himself. He crashed another dozen all over the target, from the top of the cheeks where they meet the spine, over the hills and into the sensitive sit-spot near the thighs. Anthony’s hips wriggled and his bum rose and fell, and he gripped the cushion determined not to make a fool of himself by jumping up and rubbing away at his bum. That was what he wanted to do but no way, he promised himself, would he do it.

Anthony’s bum look blistered. The deep pink had turned to cherry in some places and bruises were already starting on the outer edges of the arse. One last assault, Frank thought. He gripped the heavy hairbrush tightly, took a step backward so he would approach the target from a different angle and bashed another dozen all over the cheeks.

Anthony did the marching on the spot thing and swung his head back. His mouth was too dry for him to yelp so his cries were silent. Tears stung his eyes. Blood rushed through his arteries at such speed he was sure it would flood out of his nose.

“Stand up,” Frank was exhausted. Who would have known that delivering a spanking could take so much out of you?

Anthony shot to his feet. His bum was aglow. He didn’t care who saw, he rubbed and he rubbed away at his busted buttocks. He was glad tears were not flowing. It was some moments before he realised his cock and balls were bouncing up and down. Frank pretended not to notice, but he was pleased that his kid brother’s prick was a lot shorter than his own.

Slowly, Anthony dressed himself. There wasn’t much more to say, so he shuffled off to his bedroom, where he threw himself face-down onto the bed, pulled a pillow into his face and sobbed his guts up.

The two brothers never spoke of the spanking again. But, three years later, on the day of Anthony’s graduation from university, Frank was surprised to receive a gift in the mail. A hairbrush.

 

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The coach and the schoolmaster

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

 

His eldest brother

“What did you say?” Ritchie stared at his eldest brother in wide-eyed bewilderment.

“You heard. Bend over that settee, I’m going to cane your backside.” And to emphasise the point he wobbled the whippy rattan in front of the eighteen-year-old’s face.

What the … Where did that come from? Richie had never seen a school cane before, did people still make them? It was dark yellow and shiny; exactly like ones that schoolmasters had used on generations of unruly boys.

John swished the rod through the air a couple of times and then flexed it between both of his hands, menacingly. It was more than three-feet long and as thick as a pencil, but it was so supple he could make the business end almost touch the curved handle.

“You disgust me. Poor mum will be turning in her grave. Stealing from your boss.”

Ritchie averted his eyes from the cane and turned his attention to the carpet beneath his feet. John was right; he had been caught stealing magazines from the newsagent and general store where he worked.

“Stealing from nice Mr. Weaver. What were you thinking?”

Ritchie was unsure if he was expected to answer, but shrugged his shoulders just in case.

“Bah!” His brother expelled air through clenched teeth. “I told Mr. Weaver I would thrash the living daylights out of you if he didn’t call the police. Lucky for you he said yes.”

He swished the cane again.

“So, you bend over the settee and you take a caning. If you don’t, you’ll end up in the magistrates’ court. And, if that happens you can pack your bags and clear out. I’m not having a convicted thief living here.”

Ritchie knew his brother meant it too. He was in charge. His word was law. Ritchie and his two other brothers owed everything to John. He had kept the family together after his widowed mother had died suddenly five years ago. Ritchie was the youngest and the only one living at home now.

Swish, swish went the cane. John was certainly intimidating his kid brother.

Ritchie had no remorse. Not for Mr. Weaver anyway. He had a rubbish job in a crappy shop. The wages were lousy; why shouldn’t he steal stuff? He’d been doing it for years, it was a wonder he hadn’t been caught sooner.

Swish, swish.

Ritchie knew he had no choice. It had to be a sore arse or he would lose his job and his home. A life in a cardboard box beckoned.

Swish, swish.

His brother’s impatience was showing. Ritchie stared at the young man. He was a bit of a star at the local gym and his bulging torso tapered to a slim, muscular waist. He could pack a punch in the boxing ring and Ritchie had no doubt he would land a cane with some energy.

“Come on buster. Bend over the settee. Let’s get on with it.”

Swish, swish.

Ritchie’s brain was resigned to the beating, but his body had other ideas. He could not get his feet to walk the four or five paces across the living room it would take to reach the settee. A caning? How painful would it be? Could he take it? Would he humiliate himself in front of his brother by howling the house down?

Ritchie’s thoughts were interrupted by John’s strong hand as it gripped the teenager’s arm and tugged him across the room, his feet scrapping the carpet as he went. Then, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck, John propelled his brother face down across the arm of the settee.

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Ritchie put up no struggle. He stared impassively at the dusty dark blue patterned ‘throw’ that covered the cushions.

John pulled the boy’s shirt out of his jeans, and then pulled them up snugly, ensuring a tightly presented seat.

“Head lower, legs further apart. Stick your bottom out more.” John knew exactly how he wanted his younger brother positioned so he could whack his cane into his proffered backside with maximum effect. For a twenty-two-year-old man in the year 2017, John had a surprising amount of experience in such matters.

John took up position a cane’s length to the left of his younger brother and then tapped the rod one… two… three… times on the same spot and watched captivated as the firm but fleshy bottom cheeks wobbled with each tap.

The tension in the room was unbelievable. Ritchie’s buttocks clenched and unclenched involuntarily. He closed his eyes tight in anticipation of the searing agony about to come.

“Relax, it’s better if you relax,” John’s words were kind, but his younger brother was not in control of his backside and still the cheeks twitched.

John let a few seconds pass before he asked, “Ready?” There was a slight nod of Ritchie’s head, but it was enough. John laid the cane right across the centre of his brother’s rounded bottom then brought it up into the air. Ritchie flinched at the first touch of the rattan, knowing it to be only seconds away from causing him extreme pain.

Then John paused. Then there was the whistle as the cane swiped through the air and bit deep into stretched trousers. Ritchie released his breath with a “harrr.” It wasn’t a cry, just a sound. The teenager winced and his buttocks squirmed as it absorbed the first fiery stripe.

For a second time the cane was curled across the crown of Ritchie’s buttocks, which rose up simultaneously in angry response. A long cry of dismay erupted through the boy’s throat, and his legs tangled with each other as he tried to kill the burning pain which was taking over this entire backside.

John progressed slowly down his kid brother’s buttocks, making sure that each lash was delivered lower than the previous one. He knew exactly how long to wait between strokes to cause the maximum sting.

There were three or four loud intakes of breath that became sobs and Ritchie’s whole body shivered in shock. The pain raged through his backside. He longed to leap up, clasp his bum and run out of the room. By lash number six he was yelping and frantically writhing and twisting. He began to move his hand back towards his scorching bottom then thought better of it. Some long-dormant schoolboy instinct told him that if he obstructed his brother’s progress he would get extra strokes.

Instead, he gripped firmly onto the cushion of the settee, screwed up his eyes tightly and waited for the next agonising cut.

John stared impassively at his brother’s prostrate body. He felt the sense of power he had over his brother. He had delivered six-of-the-best strokes across Ritchie’s stretched buttocks. The teenager was quietly sobbing into the cushion of the settee. He seemed contrite. But, his crime had been serious. He had brought disgrace to the whole family and not only to himself. The punishment had to be exemplary. The boy must never be tempted to steal again. A thrashing of the utmost severity must be delivered.

He took up his position once more, found his aim, raised the cane high and like taking a swing with a golf club he brought it crashing down with force across the very centre of Ritchie’s buttocks. He yelled. It was a lusty cry and the boy’s sobs became great gulps. The cane rose again and John aimed it at an imaginary spot five or six inches beneath the surface of his brother’s buttock. The cane lashed through the soft and now very sore buttocks and bit deep into the flesh.

Ritchie released a blood-curdling scream, his feet drummed up and down on the carpet as if he were a soldier on sentry duty. The boy’s face was deep puce and tears flowed freely down his face. Huge sweat patches had formed under his armpits and the hair on his head was so wet it looked like he had just stepped out of a shower.

John was sweating buckets too. His breathing was heavy and his heart pounded with his exertions. He was a fit young man, but rarely, even on the hardest machine at the gym, had he felt such physical strain.

Whop! Whop!  Whop! He landed three scorchers one after another. His aim was perfect and they all landed within a centimetre of one another. Blood must surely be seeping from wounds beneath his brother’s tight jeans and snug cotton underpants.

Ritchie buried his head in his hands and held on grimly.

Two more strokes to go. John had a plan, he knew how excruciatingly painful it would be to land the final cuts diagonally across the boy’s arse. That way they would cut across the existing welts reigniting the pain. The result would be an unendurable agony.

He moved position slightly and whipped the cane down. Ritchie’s yell would not have shamed a banshee. “No!!!!!”

He did not scream for mercy. That was as well, since John would show his brother none. The final lash struck making a second diagonal so that the wretched boy’s buttocks now had a perfect X across them.

It was over. There was the slightest rattling sound as John laid the cane down on the dining room table. His brother’s yells had subsided to loud gulps as the poor lad tried desperately to suck air into his lungs. The agony in his arse had travelled north, south, east and west across his whole body, but now it was subsiding into a glowing throb.

“Get up, it’s over.” John could barely get the words out; his own metabolism was severely disturbed.

Unsteadily, Ritchie hauled himself up. Quickly he grabbed hold of the settee as he realised he did not have the strength to stand on his own two feet. Tears and snot covered his face and his shoulders heaved as more sobs evacuated his body.

John wanted to get this over with. “If you cause this family shame again, I’ll flog you on your bare buttocks. Now go to your room.”

Ritchie did not need telling twice. Holding on to the wall for support he eased his way up the stairs, crashed open the door of his room and dived onto his bed, burying his sobs into the pillow.

John meandered into the kitchen, picked up a coffee mug and filled it from the cold water tap. He stared through the window as he took great gulps. Oh, mum I miss you so very much.

 

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The man across the hall

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Don’t borrow Dad’s car – encore

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Joe smashed his way through the front door, leaving it swinging on its hinges. His fury was real. Just wait until he got hold of his kid brother.

“Al! Al!” I know you’re in here!” He raced through the hallway and took the stairs two at a time. “Where are you! Come out where I can see you!” Al’s bedroom door was wide open. It looked like a tornado had hit. Clothes, shoes, magazines everywhere. But his kid brother wasn’t there.

Then, Al heard the tell-tale tinkling of water. The bathroom. Joe put his shoulder to the door. It wasn’t necessary. It was unlocked. But Joe was a Marine and Marines never did things quietly.

His brother grinned. Totally naked. Wearing nothing. He let his balls swing as he worked a towel across his shoulders.

“What are you doing in the shower? In the afternoon?”

Al flashed him an inane grin. He loved winding his brother up.

“I’m hot and sticky,” he grinned again. Trying to make like he was telling a dirty joke. “I needed a rub down.”

Joe was no great intellectual. Al despised him for it. Thought he was as thick as shit. That’s why he was never able to get a proper job. The Marines would take anyone as long as they had brawn, Al reckoned. Muscle was what counted. Brains weren’t much use to a Marine.

Al had just graduated with honors from college. If he could get his Dad to pay, he was going to grad school. His future would be assured. Secure. Not, like his dumb-ass brother.

Joe frowned.

“I’ve just come in. There’s a heatwave going on. It’s humid as hell,” Al spoke softly. Slowly. As if he were talking to an imbecile.

Joe wasn’t that thick. He knew when someone was disrespecting him. He reached out and grabbed his kid brother by the arm.

“Hey gerrooff!” Joe struggled.

“You’ve been out in Dad’s car.” It was a statement, not a question.

Al flushed. A not-too-distant memory overtook him. He knew where this conversation was going.

“So, what if I have? What’s it to you?” Al pulled himself free from his brother’s grip.

“What happened last time you took the car?” Joe glared.

“Fuck off!” Al knew exactly what Joe meant. “What’s it matter to you? Dad will never find out.”

“That’s not the point. He put me in charge. He said we weren’t to use his car. It’s not insured for us to drive.”

Al continued towelling over his gym-honed body. He was especially proud of his pecs. He was lost for words, but the supercilious smirk on his face spoke volumes.

Joe snapped. “You need another spanking. You know that.”

He reached over to a bath brush hanging by the shower. He had used it to toast Al’s buttocks before. The last time he drove off in Dad’s car. Three years previously. The brat had promised faithfully he wouldn’t do it again. But, didn’t all freshly spanked kids say that? They probably meant it too. At the time.

Joe waved the brush in his brother’s face. “I should take you into your bedroom and put this across your naked ass.”

Al blinked. Was this really happening to him? He remembered an old video he had watched on-line. A Marine came home on leave and heard his kid brother had been giving their mom a hard time. So, the Marine takes own the boy’s pants and underwear and pushes him face-down on the bed. Then, he hammers a heavy wooden paddle into the boy’s naked cheeks. If Joe did that, would it be life imitating art? Al wondered.

“OK, Buster! March!” Joe pushed Al toward the bathroom door.

“Fuck off.” He struggled, it was true Al spent a lot of time in the gym, but his brother was a trained fighter. In a straight tussle, Joe would win every time. The towel slipped to the floor. Al was naked as his brother pulled him along into the bedroom.

For a moment, they stood silent. Unsure what to do next.

“You should assume the position,” Joe gripped the long, heavy bath brush in his fist.

Suddenly aware of his nakedness, Al clasped his hands in front of his balls. He was hot and sticky. It was a terribly humid afternoon. The room was airless. It was difficult to breathe.

“No way. No,” Al knew tears were forming behind his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Joe’s face split in a smile. “No you’re not. That’s what you said last time I spanked you. You jumped up and down with your dick flopping and said ‘Wah! Wah! I’ll never do it again.’” He was enjoying his brother’s embarrassment.

“So buster. What’s it to be? You know if I tell Dad, he’ll whip your ass with a switch until blood runs down your legs.” He grinned. “Then, he’ll do it some more when I tell him you took his car twice.”

Al looked daggers. How he hated his imbecile brother. The thick shit was enjoying this way too much.

“And, you can kiss goodbye to grad school. Dad’ll never pay when he finds out.”

Suddenly bile shot into the back of Al’s throat. He swallowed it down. His heart raced. Why hadn’t he thought of that. Joe was right. He looked across at his unmade bed. “Assume the position,” Joe had said. What did that mean exactly?

“Here,” sensing victory, Joe grabbed two pillows and set them down one on top of the other in the centre of the narrow bed. He nodded at them. “Lay face down. With your ass raised.”

Al’s eyes blazed. “And, you promise you won’t tell Dad?”

Joe stared back, puzzled. This was a sudden turn of events. His kid brother wasn’t so full of himself now.

“Just get on with it,” he waved the bath brush menacingly at the pillows. Al took a deep breath. Held it for some seconds, as if he were psyching himself up for a terrible ordeal. Then, he took two steps across the room, hesitated at the foot of the bed and then carefully lowered himself forward. His weight pressed into the two feather-filled pillows. His buttocks were hardly raised at all.

Joe ran his tongue around his lips. They felt cracked. He had no saliva in his mouth. He wished he could go to the kitchen for some iced lemonade. He knew he couldn’t do that. There was some drama taking place here. A refreshment break would kill the atmosphere stone dead.

It had been some time since he had seen his brother naked. Joe was used to seeing guys without their clothes on. He was a Marine, after all. But, it seemed wrong somehow, to see someone he was so close to naked. It was just too darned intimate.

His kid brother lay face down. He reached ahead of him and gripped the top edge of the mattress. His face was so close to the bedsheet he tasted cotton in his mouth. The muscles in his back rippled. His legs were well-defined. His buttocks were solid. There wasn’t enough fat there to cook a sausage.

Joe saw a tuft of blond hair in his brother’s crack. He swiftly averted his eyes. He was looking up his brother’s hole. What kind of guy did that make him? That was a place he didn’t want to go.

Al closed his eyes tight, took another deep breath and clenched his buttocks tight.

“Relax buddy. Relax.” Joe was soothing. As if his kid brother had just had a scare and needed succour. Then, he leaned forward, knelt his left knee on the bed and pushed his arm into the small of Al’s back. Raised the brush as high as it would go. Brought a crashing swipe down at full force across the centre of both cheeks. A raw stripe spread instantly. Al tried to haul his body off the bed. He couldn’t. His brother’s strength was too great for him.

The brush rose and crashed. Once. Twice. And, then once more. The muscular ass was on fire. Already, every square inch of flesh blazed. Al expelled wind at speed through pursed lips. He wheezed like a steam engine settling down. Once more, vomit filled the back of his throat.

Joe paused. He was admiring his handiwork. Then, he was ready to start over. He was quickly into a stride. One, two, three, the next strokes whistled down, right on target, across the centre of his brother’s buttocks. He was almost delirious.

Al chewed at the bedsheet as further swipes of the brush burned into his cheeks. Joe laid it into his brother with gusto, tanning stripe after fiery stripe across his bare butt cheeks until they glowed scarlet.

This beating was greater agony than the spanking Al had gotten last time.

Then, through his tears and pain, Al realized that it was over. His brother stood leaving Al gasping. The bitter taste of vomit choked him. Part of him wanted to jump up and run screaming from the room; back to the shower where cold water wash against his torn, burnt flesh. But, he couldn’t make himself move. The agony in his rear end was overwhelming, even now that the blows had ended.

“Ok. That’s it. It’s over.” Joe said. Unsure what to do next, he slouched from the room, leaving Al to sob and wheeze.

Slowly, Al rolled off the bed and stood. His ass was ablaze; he had never experienced such agony. From his standing position, he could see the reflection of his naked in the mirror. His torso was drenched in sweat. Both cheeks and the top of his thighs were crimson and the outline of the brush were all over the outer edges of his buttocks.

He didn’t try to dress. Instead, he carefully lowered himself face down on the bed and waited for the suffering to ease.

 

Other stories you might like

Don’t borrow dad’s car

Don’t bully our mum

Two brothers

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Max of the ‘Champion’ 2. The deputy editor

Max, a nineteen-year-old junior newspaper reporter, has exposed a rural policeman who unlawfully spanked young men. (see story here). Max did this by tricking the policeman into spanking him on the bare bottom with a hairbrush. Now read on …

The pain of the spanking had gone hours ago, but the journey on the train on hard unpadded seats had been uncomfortable. Max was in a dream. Something that he hardly recognized had been stirred inside him.

Now, back in his bedroom he couldn’t wait to inspect the damage and Max fumbled with the bib of his shorts. It was a glorious sunny day and he wore the shortest shorts he owned. They were beige cords and hardly covered his buttocks. The bib at the front fastened to the back of the waistband by two straps across his shoulders; making the snug-fitting shorts hug his buttocks so smoothly you could see the outline of the very briefest briefs beneath.

They weren’t the easiest shorts to get out of. At last they were at his feet and his briefs were at his knees. Wow! Max didn’t say it aloud; there was nobody with him to say it to. But Wow! Both buttocks and the back of his thighs were a mass of blue and purplish bruises. Not one spot on his previously creamy-white buttocks had been spared. Gingerly, he ran the tip of his index finger across the curves, wincing as he touched particularly tender spots.

He rested his hands on his knees and pointed his bottom out behind him. He turned away from the mirror and peered over his shoulder affording himself the best view yet of his glorious, but battered, arse.

It was a magnificent specimen. It was better without the bruises; but even as it stood the nineteen-year-old junior newspaper reporter knew it was something special. He was a fit lad in two senses of the word: he did press-ups and sit-ups every morning before breakfast and cycled everywhere. There wasn’t enough spare fat on his whole body to sizzle a sausage.

He rubbed the palm of his hand across both buttocks to give himself the thrill of reignited pain and without warning his cock started to swell. It wasn’t really an erection, but his penis was thinking about it.

Max could not get the events of the afternoon out of his mind. The journey out to Harkensbury in the middle of nowhere to find the pervert policeman had been a complete success. Max’s trip across PC Snodgrass’s knee and his whacking with the hairbrush had been caught on tape. He had, as newspapermen like to say, “a scoop.”

Max picked up the tape recorder, plugged in the earphone and set it to play.

“I can spank your backside for you.” It was the voice of PC Snodgrass and the prelude to Max’s first-ever spanking. The boy lay back on his bed, closed his eyes, and relived every whack and yelp of it.

“Oh yes, a spanking’s not a proper spanking unless it’s on the bare bottom.” It was Snodgrass’s voice again. In his mind Max could see the dirty carpet in the policeman’s house and he could feel his own bottom raised as high as it would go. The tape picked up every slap of the wooden hairbrush as it crashed at speed into Max’s pert muscular bottom.

Suddenly, without warning, his cock grew so strong Max thought it was going to fly off his body. Breathless, he laid his head back in the pillow and stared at the cracks in the ceiling. Only now and for the first time could he admit something to himself. It wasn’t a secret as such, but he knew he wouldn’t want people to know. He had a “thing” about spanking. Max couldn’t explain it; he didn’t understand it; but he knew it was true.

He had been having these dreams; about his eighteen-year-old brother mostly. The boy had been taking things from Max’s room without permission. So, over Max’s knee he went for a hard bare-bottomed spanking. Jesus! Max knew there was something weird about this and he should never tell anyone about it. What would Kenny say if he knew his brother dreamt of spanking him?

Max closed his eyes and conjured up the vision of Kenny naked except for his tight underpants bent submissively across Max’s lap as a springy bedroom slipper popped up and down into his buttocks. Max’s cock rose and instinctively the boy started rubbing.

Next door, in his own bedroom, his brother Kenny was also on his bed, shorts and underwear long since discarded, working his Vaseline-smeared palm up and down his member. In his head Kenny and Max are in the living room of their family home, bent across the back of the sofa. Their shorts are at their feet and pants bunched just below the buttocks. Kenny is humiliated; not only is he being spanked in front of his brother, he is getting it with his brother.

Their mother, a large matronly woman, whips a switch she has cut from the garden especially for the purpose; first into Kenny’s left cheek, then into his right. Then Max’s left; then his right. Then again and again and again. The boys are howling fit to bring the ceiling down, but their mother is on a mission.

….

Something was seriously wrong. Max could not get his todger to behave. It was permanently erect. He soaped another one off in the bath and hoping it might be a good boy now, he set off, as arranged, to meet Mr Arbuckle, the deputy editor of the newspaper.

It was a warm summer’s evening and Saturday, so they had agreed to meet at Arbuckle’s home; a cottage in its own grounds on the outskirts of town. Max had never visited the aging bachelor before; he had no reason to. Arbuckle was older than his dad, what would they have in common?

Arbuckle sat at the window, whisky glass in hand waiting for the boy. He was late; they had said seven-thirty; it was close to a quarter-to-eight. He hated people who could not be punctual. Newspaper reporters should always be on time; it was a golden rule.

He was ready to heave himself out of his comfortable armchair to replenish his glass when he spotted the bicycle. His heart skipped a beat; he had never seen Max like this. Gone were the formal jacket and dark grey trousers, collar and tie, that Max wore to the office. Here was a sun-tanned Adonis. The boy wore white sport shorts with a red trim and a matching sleeveless vest. And what shorts they were: Arkwright had underpants that covered more of his body. The boy’s muscles rippled as his legs rose and fell turning the pedals, mesmerising the old man.

Within seconds Max was at the door dismounting his bike. For the first time Arkwright glimpsed the firm pert buttocks, bursting against the tight white cotton of the shorts. He couldn’t be sure: was the boy not wearing underpants?

“Here have a drink,” without waiting for a reply Arkwright thrust a large glass of whisky into Max’s hand. The teenager wasn’t much of a drinker and would have preferred a glass of water; the cycle ride had been hot and dusty. But, drinking with his boss made him feel grown-up, so he took it.

Arkwright took a long gulp from his own glass. “So give me all the gory details. Was he the ‘spanking policeman’ after all?”

Max sipped hesitantly at the whisky. Suddenly with all the excitement of the day he realised he hadn’t eaten since lunchtime and the alcohol was already going to his head.

Arkwright drew on his glass as Max recounted the details of the day. The teenager sipped at his whisky and hoped his trooper would behave. Wearing his cycling shorts might not have been such a good idea.

Arkwright’s eyes were blazing. “Tell me again, do we have everything on tape? Can you clearly hear the hairbrush spanking into your bare bottom?”

“Oh, yes!” Max was proud of his work; he had exposed a perverted policeman and had paid with his own arse to do it. “Every last sound.” His eagerness to recount every last detail to the elderly man was obvious.

Arkwright drained his glass, stood and crossed the room to refill it. “Do you have the tape with you now?”

“No, it’s at home.” Max could feel Arkwright’s sense of disappointment. And his own; he would have loved to have played the tape to his boss and to relive the whole experience one more time.

“Here, drink up. Let me freshen you up.” Arkwright waited for the boy to gulp down the whisky and splashed a triple measure in the glass.

Max shouldn’t have drunk so quickly; the alcohol went straight to his head and he could feel the room spinning a little.

“So, you’ll be claiming from the paper for industrial injury will you?”

Max knew it was meant as a joke and joined in. “Oh yes, sir, and I’ll claim for the cushions I had to use to sit on.”

He really was a delightful boy, Arkwright hadn’t noticed before. He had a fresh open face and rather infectious grin. Max’s skimpy clothes showed off his muscle-tone to perfection. He was making the old man rather horny.

“Show us the damage then!” It was said with a grin. Arkwright was still joking. A little.

Max beamed. “Give us a bob and I’ll show you my bum.” He giggled as the words come out his mouth. It was something the girls used to say when they were kids; why had he suddenly remembered that?

Yes, such a delightful boy. Arkwright put down his glass, delved into his trouser pocket and found a coin. He tossed it across the room and Max caught it.

“What’s this,” the boy’s grin widened. It slashed his face from ear to ear. He knew very well what this was.

“It’s a shilling. Show us your bum.”

In devilment, Max stood up, turned his back on Arkwright, bent a little at the waist, pointed his bum at the man and pulled his shorts and pants down to below his buttocks. Then, he did a little dance, wobbling his bare cheeks from side to side. Then he covered up.

Arkwright gaped. “Oh my yes, it is a bottom crying out to be spanked. Come here.”

Their eyes met. No words were spoken. There was no need.

Max flashed a smile. That grin again. “You reckon?” he giggled.

Arkwright reached out for the boy, who shrieked with laughter and dodged the old man’s advances. It was a small room and there was nowhere to hide. Soon Arkwright had him by the arm. Still shrieking with laughter Max tried to break free, but within seconds his boss had him draped over his lap.

“No, no,” Max was still chuckling as his shorts and pants were tugged below his buttocks.

It was a game; they both knew that. Arkwright’s spanks were just love-taps. What a pity the buttocks were already so bruised; what a pleasure it would be to turn Max’s creamy-white cheeks to a dark shade of pink.

Max stopped struggling. It felt good to feel Arkwright’s hard hand fondle his pert cheeks. Max’s todger was waking up. And although his was hidden below two layers of cloth, so too was Arkwright’s.

Arkwright let the boy stand and hurriedly Max replaced his clothing. But, there was no hiding his erection.

Arkwright’s own member was also on the march.

“I have a taws in the drawer.”

Without waiting or a response Arkwright walked to the sideboard and removed a thick black leather strap.

Max was still chortling as Arkwright handed it to him. It was about two feet in length, with a long thin handle and the “business end” was fourteen inches. Max felt its weight. It was a fine specimen; craftsmen had melded together two strips of leather to create tails about a half inch thick. The taws had seen some action. Arkwight used it regularly on a young farmhand who was always most obliging at fifteen shillings a time.

Arkwright had been a secret spanker for nearly twenty years; in that time he had learnt that so many young men craved to be spanked by their elders. He could smell the desire on them. And, this delightful summer’s evening, he smelt it on Max.

“Come on lad, bend over the armchair.” He pointed the leather towards a low-backed chair. He had surmised Max correctly. The boy’s cock swelled and the front of his snugly-fitting white cotton shorts could barely contain it.

“Quickly, don’t dawdle.”

Max beautiful hazel eyes glazed. His heartbeat raced and the room spun a little. But, after stumbling at first and then regaining his balance, he took a few pigeon steps towards the armchair and after adjusting the bulge in his shorts he fell across its back, so that his cock throbbed against the crown of the chair.

Arkwright whistled at the gorgeous sight. The muscles in Max’s legs and arse were tight. The red edgings of the boy’s snug shorts enclosed his buttocks and presented them to his punisher with perfection.

Arkwight’s own member was also on the march and although he could feel it tightening inside his loose-fitting underpants, he knew it would not be as long or as rigid as the cock struggling inside Max’s shorts. Oh, to be a nineteen-year-old again, he thought.

Arkwright caressed the leather taws in both hands, then gripping the handle in his right fist, he tapped the two tails into the palm of his left hand. It was a heavy beast and even a relatively light tap stung him. He would have loved to raise the taws to the ceiling and bring it crashing down with all his strength into the tight arse that was presented submissively before him. That’s what he would do with Freddy, the farmhand. But Freddy was an expert receiver of punishment.

If Arkwright lashed just one stroke at full force into Max’s waiting bum, the boy would jump a mile and run screaming from the house clutching his buttocks, never to return. No, Arkwright had learnt with Freddy that you had to groom a boy. Start softly; smack just hard enough to make him gasp. Leave the boy with a tingling bottom; nothing more. Then the next time increase the strength of the stroke a little. In time the boy would be able and willing to have his arse leathered off.

“Are you ready boy?” Arkwright swished the taws through the air and rested it on the very centre of Max’s quivering arse cheeks.

“Yes, sir,” it was no more than a whisper, but the old man sensed the teenager’s willingness. Yes, sir, he was really saying, I am ready. I really, really want you to do this.

He pulled back the taws and let it smack into Max’s cheeks. The boy wheezed, but showed no sign that he was in much pain. A further three swats bounced into Max’s arse. He felt those alright. His back arched and his legs marched up and down on the spot; just like a soldier on sentry duty.

Again, the leather rose and fell into the tight cotton shorts. Arkwright was enjoying himself, but he knew that he was only using about ten percent of the strength that he used on Freddy.

Twelve strokes and it was over. It was hardly “twelve-of-the-best,” but to Max it was the most severe spanking he had ever received; even worse than the copper’s hairbrush spanking. He remained face down; head pressing into the armchair seat cushion; unsure what was to happen next. He could feel his cock was close to exploding.

“You may get up, lad,” it was a gentle instruction. Arkwright was a little short of breath; but not because of the energy he used in the beating. He wanted Max. He wanted to take the boy up his gorgeous arse and fuck the teenager’s brains out.

Gingerly, Max rose from the chair. The room was spinning so he bent double, placing his hands on his knees until he recovered a little. The sight of that stunning backside pointing in his direction was too much. Arkwright grabbed the boy’s arm and in one continuous movement he guided him to the couch, pushed the lad down on his back, ripped down his shorts and underwear, took his throbbing member in his mouth and gorged himself.

Max was not quite a virgin, but he was as good as. He had no experience in controlling his cock to give himself maximum pleasure. Within seconds his member exploded in Arkwright’s mouth. Coughing and spluttering, the old man fell backwards as cum splashed on his face.

Later, thinking about it in bed at home; at first Max tried to blame it on the whisky. But he was an intelligent lad; he knew in his heart that wasn’t true. Max wanted to do it. He wanted all of it. Everything that happened that evening: he wanted it. And, given the chance he would do it all again.

Episode 3, Max and the headmaster is here.

Other stories you might like.

The missed curfew

 The shoplifter

Bug on the wall

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Max of the ‘Champion’ 1. The policeman

british-police-helmet-bobby-35629338

Neighbours peered from behind lace curtains as the policeman propped his cycle near the front gate and carefully untied the string holding the school cane in place on the frame. It was a hot afternoon during one of those glorious summers we used to have years ago.

Twenty miles away, the editor of a newspaper in the far north of England was in his office talking to his deputy and Max, a junior reporter.

“I heard there’s a policeman in Harkensbury who’s taking the law into his own hands.”

“You mean gun fights in the street, people hanging from trees?”

“Where’s Harkensbury …?”

“About twenty miles north of here, on the edge of the moors. A few villages. Farms. Moors.”

“What’s going on?”

“Some copper dispensing his own justice.”

“How do you mean?”

“He catches people but he doesn’t take them to court.”

“What’s he do?”

“Spanking.”

“Spanking?”

“Yeah, spanking.”

“You mean children.”

“No, adults too I think.”

“Adults?”

“I don’t understand.”

“He spanks people if they break the law.”

“But surely not adults. You mean if you went up there and got drunk and later wee’d up the cemetery wall, he’d take you over his knee and smack your bottom?”

“No, not people my age, I suppose. Young adults I think. People like you Max. In the late teens. Twenties.”

“How likely is this?”

“You’d be surprised.”

“But why would he do it?”

“Old fashioned justice. Didn’t coppers in the past used to give kids a clip round the ear? Take a belt to their arses?”

“Sounds a bit kinky to me.”

“Why would they let it happen?”

“Who?”

“The people. The villagers.”

“Maybe they think it works. Keeps crime down.”

“What crime? It’s in the middle of nowhere.”

“I don’t know. Maybe it keeps the teenagers quiet. I don’t know.”

“But they wouldn’t put up with it.”

“Who? The kids?”

“The ‘young adults,’ the parents. The kids. None of them.”

“Not necessarily. What if they think it works. Or it’s better than going to court.”

“I heard a lot of it is motoring. The kids get stopped on their bikes. Speeding. Riding without insurance and the like. They don’t want to pay fines and have their licences endorsed. So, you know …”

“Some of it’s probably bravado.”

“How do you mean?”

“Like at school. You’re not one of the gang unless you’ve had a spanking off the policeman. They show off to their friends that they can take it.”

“No, I don’t believe it, it doesn’t ring true.”

“Why not?”

“Well, let’s say a load of yobs on their motorbikes are up at the moors and they stop at a café or a pub or something and they cause trouble. Then along comes Plod and he says, “You’re very naughty boys. Now, take down your trousers and bend over my knee.” Do you think they’re going to do it? Or course they’re not.”

“Maybe only locals.”

“Eh?”

“Only locals. He only does it to locals. If there are outsiders they go to court in the usual way. I suppose he needs to make some arrests. For appearances sake. You know.”

“Well, let’s find out.”

“What?”

“Max, I want you to find out.”

“Me? Why me?”

“Because you are the perfect person. How old are you? Eighteen? Nineteen?”

“Nineteen.”

“Nineteen, see, you’d be perfect.”

“Perfect? Perfect for what?”

“To go to Harkensbury and find out what’s going on.”

“How am I supposed to do that? I can’t just go in and say, ‘Excuse me officer, but I hear you illegally spank boys’ backsides. Boys’ bare backsides.’ Come on.”

“You could go and suss him out a bit. Go to the police station. Have a look; see if he’s got a cane hanging from the umbrella stand. You know one of those jobs with the curved handle.”

“Oh…”

“Look, Max. You can go up there and have a look round. Use your charms. Talk to some locals. Chat up the girls.”

“Girls? Is he spanking the girls too?”

“I don’t know. Find out. He might be.”

“No, their parents wouldn’t let him do that surely.”

“I don’t know, but the girls will know what’s going on. Maybe their brothers have been done. Or their boyfriends.”

“Maybe he does them both together.”

“You what?”

“You know, spanks the boys and girls together. He finds them canoodling behind a hay stack and they both get it. Over the knee, knickers down …”

“You’ve been reading too many porno stories [Laughter].”

“Seriously Max. I want you to go and find out.”

“But… What can I do? What will I be able to find out?”

“Use your initiative lad. What do we know? We know he spanks teenagers like yourself if they commit a nuisance or a crime or what have you.”

“So…”

“So, test it out. Like an old-time reporter.”

“What?”

“Before your time, Max. You know Harry when the ‘News of the Screws’ turned over massage parlours that were really brothels. The reporter would have his massage and then when the girl offered him the extras, you know the sex, he made an excuse and left.”

“You’re mad.”

“So in time-honoured fashion you go up there and cause some bother. I know, you get yourself caught stealing something from the village store. Then the policeman is called and you go back to the station and you know.”

“So, when he’s unbuckled my belt and is pulling my jeans down, I make an excuse and leave! And I end up with a criminal record.”

“Mmmmm. Looks like you’ll have to take the spanking then.”

“Very funny. Anyway, I can’t. Harkensbury is twenty miles away. I don’t have transport.”

“You’ve got your bike.”

“I can’t cycle twenty miles there and twenty miles back.”

“What a fit lad like you. Look at you, you’re always cycling …. Running ….”

“There’s a train station at Falney.”

“Falney…?”

“Yes, it’s three miles from Harkensbury. On a local line. Get the train up there and cycle the rest.”

“You can cycle around the villages, find out what you can.”

“Get a ticket for speeding.”

“Ha, ha, ha. Very funny.”

“If it’s true, it’s a cracking story.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Crime committed. No court hearing. He takes boys across his knee for bare bum spankings. He loves it. It’s called perverting the course of justice.”

….

The widow Graveney had been expecting PC Snodgrass and had the front door open to welcome him before he had liberated the cane from his bicycle.

Upstairs, her eighteen-year-old son Albert sneaked a peak from behind the bedroom curtain. The moment he had been dreading had arrived. He had spent the past half hour testing the thickness of each pair of trousers he possessed to decide which would offer the maximum protection during the ordeal he faced. He did not know his effort was wasted: PC Snodgrass had no intention of letting trousers get in the way of his duty. Nor, for that matter, underpants. The policeman had no wish to return to the house; he would make today’s thrashing so awesome, young Albert would never, ever, want to have to bare his backside for Snodgrass again.

Downstairs, PC Snodgrass and the Widow Graveney exchanged embarrassed pleasantries. Albert had not committed a crime, but he had started to get out of his mother’s control: he was surly, rude and constantly disobedient. He needed discipline and if his father had been alive he would have long ago tanned the youngster’s behind good and proper.

Snodgrass offered a private service to a number of women on his patch; there were many widows on account of the mining disaster and a number of young men who were going undisciplined. Mrs Graveney had received a recommendation from Mrs Wheeler; her Thomas had turned over a new leaf after the policeman caned his backside raw and, she was sure, Albert would benefit from the same treatment.

Snodgrass was the only policeman for miles around and on his patch he was the law. Nobody wanted to cross him; this was a law-abiding community of hard-working folk. They believed in right and wrong and if they did wrong, they expected to be punished. That extended to the young folk and the children as well; corporal punishment was as natural in their lives as the sun and the rain.

“Shall we get on with it, Mrs Graveney,” PC Snodgrass had another punishment visit to make later that morning and was keen to get things moving, “Why not call Albert down. Then I find the mothers usually prefer not to be present for the …” he hesitated, “well you know what.”

Snodgrass found that sometimes mothers lost their nerve at the crucial moment and didn’t want him to go through with it. No wonder their children were so ill behaved, if their mothers mollycoddled them like that.

Moments later Albert appeared in the front room. Snodgrass permitted himself a smile when he saw the teenager had dressed in trousers made from a heavy twill material.

Snodgrass had prepared a short sermon, nothing much, just a catalogue of Albert’s misdeeds followed by a homily on the blessedness of mothers and why they should be obeyed. Then he pronounced sentence.

Albert had listened, or at least pretended to listen, without expression to Snodgrass’s lecture. But then: “Twelve strokes, bare bottomed.” the boy’s deep suntan couldn’t disguise that his face had drained of natural colour.

Albert’s mouth opened and closed, like a goldfish. He wanted to protest, but no words came from his throat. But, what could he say; there was no doubt, none at all, that he was guilty as charged. He had been horrible to his mother for a very long time; and now the time had come to pay for his bad behaviour.

But, twelve and on the bare. He had been caned at school (who hadn’t been?) but that was never more than six strokes, sometimes it was less, and always on the seat of his trousers. It hurt a boy like crazy when the Head of Year lashed his heavy cane across his bum and the last time he got it, a month or so ago, the marks stayed with him for a week. That was awful, but twelve strokes trousers and pants down would be beyond his endurance.

Snodgrass swished the cane menacingly through the air; his intention was to intimidate the boy in front of him and he succeeded magnificently. Already tears were forming behind Albert’s eyes and he wanted to beg the policeman not to thrash him.

The policeman had never in his life had a boy refuse to prostrate himself before him to receive a beating. Once or twice they hesitated before taking up the required position, but they always did as instructed eventually. He knew Albert would not want to humiliate himself by being too cowardly to submit for his punishment.

Albert was shaking like the proverbial leaf as he unfastened his heavy trousers and let them fall to his feet, followed by his Aertex underpants. Instinctively, he cupped his hands over his manhood and blushed deeply at the shame of being naked before Snodgrass.

“Don’t be foolish boy. You have nothing I haven’t seen before.”

Albert blushed all the deeper.

“Bend over the table,” Snodgrass swished the cane at the dining room table.

As if in a trance Albert shuffled the few feet to the table and then, not being quite sure what to do, he leant down on his elbows. The white linen tablecloth slipped under him and he slithered forward.

“Not like that boy,” Snodgrass sneered, “flat on your stomach.”

Albert regained control and lay belly down on the table. It was circular so there was no far edge for the teenager to grip. So, instinctively he folded his arms in front of him and buried his face in them.

Snodgrass was faced with a pair of quivering buttocks. He lined the cane up across the fleshiest part of the cheeks, tapped once or twice to get his aim and then lashed into Albert. This was no love-tap, or token stroke, the policeman wanted the cane to enter the boy through his rear end with so much force that it could possibly exit through his front.

An ugly thick mark grew and redness deepened across the very centre of Albert’s bum. The first stroke seemed to take him by surprise, but the horror of the pain quickly kicked in. This was going to be no schoolboy caning.

Then an even harder stroke cut into the sit spot, making the boy wail. His bottom was now paying the consequences of his impertinence and rudeness to his mother.

Snodgrass was an expert. He calculated the strength of the next three blows to perfection and watched Albert’s squirming bottom for a few seconds before slashing home another three.

Albert was flogged until he sobbed and pleaded and finally fell silent – beaten and ashamed.

Then it was over. Like a zombie, the boy rose from the table and pulled up his pants and trousers. He could feel each and every stroke throbbing.

Snodgrass called up the stairs as he left the house, to let Mrs Graveney know his task was completed. As he retied the cane to the frame of his bicycle, the policemen was pleased to note that the neighbours were still at their windows.

Max is at home. It is night time and he is in his bedroom. His eighteen-year-old brother, naked except for his snugly-fitting bottle-green briefs, is across his knees. Max is pounding down slaps into his brother’s bottom: rapidly and very hard. Max thinks his brother has been taking things from his bedroom without permission: magazines, records and so on. He thinks he might even be stealing cash.

His brother knows he has been a naughty boy and deserves this spanking. He keeps his bottom raised high to give Max the maximum area to aim at. Max lays into him with enthusiasm, but his brother’s bottom is pert and seems to be made of steel. His own hand might be hurting much more than his brother’s buttocks.

Max has had variations of this dream over the past few days. Last night his brother was totally naked, his bottle green briefs at his ankles, but he still remained stoically across Max’s knees. Max caresses his brother’s buttocks, thighs, legs and back. His body is all over suntanned, except for the buttocks which are a creamy, hairless, white: they have been protected from the sun by the skimpiest of swimming trunks.

Again, his brother lies submissively across Max’s lap as he slaps the palm of his hand into his cheeks.

Max recalled his dreams as the train chugged its way to Falney. It was Saturday and he was off to Harkensbury in search of the spanking policeman.

Corporal punishment had been a topic much discussed in the office over the past week. There was an odd story in the journalists’ weekly trade newspaper. It seems an editor in Japan would spank his reporters with a wooden paddle when they made mistakes. This encouraged Arkwright, the aging bachelor chief sub-editor, to declare that he would bring a carpet slipper into the office to encourage the junior reporters (he meant Max, who was the only junior on the newspaper) to spell correctly. Everyone agreed what a good idea this was.

It was another glorious sunny day and Max decided to make the most of it. He would be cycling a lot so he chose to wear the shortest shorts he owned. They were beige cords and hardly covered his buttocks. They had a bib at the front that fastened to the back of the waistband by two straps across his shoulders; making the snug fitting shorts hug his buttocks so smoothly you could see the outline of the very briefest briefs beneath . A loose fitting yellow t-shirt was the only other clothing he wore.

Max admired his reflection in the train’s window. He had a deep suntan all over his body; well, nearly all over; as with his brother his buttocks remained white. He was a fit youngster; he cycled and ran and did press-up and sit-up exercises each morning, which toned his body to perfection. He knew the girls admired him when he walked around town, but he was too naïve to realise that so too did a few of the men.

Max’s editor was happy to encourage him in his choice of clothes for this trip, believing that the police constable’s spanking exploits were almost certainly a sexual fetish. When he took one look at Max, the tasty teenager in his skimpy shorts, he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off him.

Harkensbury turned out to be a one-horse town; well one-shop anyway. The general stores was about one hundred yards from the police station, so Max thought if he did have to resort to shoplifting they wouldn’t have far to drag him for his spanking. There were one or two cottages dotted about and he could see a church down a lane, but there didn’t seem to be a pub.

Max dismounted his cycle near the police station. It was a basic brick building and even from a distance he could see it was one office with a house attached. This must be where the constable lived. There was no vehicle outside and everything looked locked up; he hoped he hadn’t wasted his journey.

The teenager picked up his canvas shoulder bag, the one he used for carrying the newspaper’s camera and other things like a bottle of water and sometimes a sandwich. The camera was compact, but good enough for his purposes. He took a couple of snaps of the outside of the building and then checking to make sure nobody was about he crossed the road to the police station and peered through the windows. Did his editor really expect there would be a school cane hanging from a hat stand?

Max put the camera to the window and took a picture, before quickly dashing from window to window, imagining he was a spy collecting information about a foreign enemy.

“What the hell do you think you are doing?”

Max didn’t have to turn around to see who was speaking. He knew: the police constable must have just popped out to the store. He turned slowly to see a short squat man in a sweat-stained blue shirt, confirming his suspicions.

“Why are you taking photos through my window? Who the hell are you?”

Max remained silent. Should he lie, or should he tell the truth, “I’m a newspaper reporter and I’m here to expose you as a kinky spanker.”

Before Max could say anything Snodgrass grabbed the camera from his hands and opening the back pulled the roll of film from it – destroying all his pictures.

“Were you intending to rob the police station?”

Still Max stayed silent.

“Get in there you,” Snodgrass grabbed Max by the scruff of the neck and propelled him inside the building. The room was hot and airless. The police constable was sweating profusely, but it wasn’t entirely due to the heat.

“Can I have my camera back please?” The policeman meekly handed it back to Max, who opened up his canvas shoulder bag and took his time returning the camera.

Snodgrass’s breathing was laboured. What a glorious sight. Those legs. Those crazy shorts.

“You know I can do you for attempted burglary don’t you?”

“Oh, Sir, please don’t do that.” It seemed to Max the appropriate thing to say.

“I’m going to have you put in the cells until Monday and then you can go before the magistrate,” Snodgrass couldn’t take his eyes off the boy: that flat stomach; those thighs.

Max remained silent. It was Snodgrass who must do the talking.

“Or, we can deal with it another way.”

“Another way Sir, what would that be,” Max spoke clearly now.

“I can spank your backside for you.”

“You want to give me a spanking, did you say?”

Snodgrass had been clear enough the first time, but he repeated himself nonetheless.

“Yes, I can spank you and the magistrate doesn’t have to be bothered.”

“Spank me, isn’t that against the law?”

“Around here,” Snodgrass sneered, “I am the law.”

The police constable took Max’s silence to mean he agreed to his suggestion so he pulled a straight backed chair to the centre of the room.

“What are you doing with that chair?” Max asked, as if he really didn’t know.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Snodgrass spluttered as he delved into a drawer to find a large oval wooden-backed hair brush.

“Are you going to spank me with that hairbrush?” Snodgrass had only just met this delicious boy, but already he had concluded he was a bit dim-witted.

“Yes, that’s the general idea. Now come over here.”

Max put down the shoulder bag on the floor close to Snodgrass’s chair.

“So if I let you spank me, you will drop all charges against me,” Max asked for confirmation.

“I’ve already said that. Now, how do you get out of those shorts?”

“What you want me to take off my shorts?”

“Oh yes, a spanking’s not a proper spanking unless it’s on the bare bottom. Now,” Snodgrass reached over to Max, “tell me how I take these shorts down.”

The shorts might have been the height of fashion, but they weren’t very practical if you wanted to evacuate them in a hurry. Eventually, Max had the bib undone and the shorts at his ankles.

Snodgrass nearly had a heart seizure at the sight of the teenager’s pert bottom inside the smooth cotton of his briefs. The legs and the thighs were the best he had ever seen. The policeman would remember this spanking for a long time to come.

He tugged at Max’s pants and directed them to the boy’s feet.

“Now come here,” he took Max by the arm and guided him across his knees. Max made no attempt to resist and placed the palms of his hands squarely on the carpet in front of himself. He had never been spanked before, nor had he seen anyone spanked and he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do, so re-enacting his dream, he held his bottom as high as he comfortably could and waited for the hairbrush to strike.

“So you’re going to spank me on my bare bottom with that hairbrush,” Max asked, as if he needed confirmation.

“You bet, pal,” Snodgrass said and crashed the wood into Max’s rock hard left buttock.

Max didn’t know how much a spanking was supposed to hurt, but he reckoned the one he was getting now, was pretty painful. Actually, the nineteen-year-old would have been in more agony if his bottom contained more fat and less muscle.

Snodgrass loved every whack and spank of it. He raised the hairbrush high and brought it smacking down over and over and over again.

“Ouch, oooh, ouch, that hurts. Stop it please. I can’t take much more of this bare-bottomed spanking.”

Snodgrass had spanked countless boys, but he never encountered one who reacted quite like Max. Usually, they wriggled and squirmed and often they cried, but they never spoke like Max did.

The constable didn’t think much about it, he was enjoying himself too much. He spanked on for five minutes or more, completely toasting the small buttocks and Max’s thighs. The policeman’s breathing was uneven and the heat of the room and the excitement sent his blood pressure sky high. Max was in pain, but he was a very fit young man and he was taking the exertions in his very athletic stride.

Finally, Snodgrass had to admit it; if he carried on any longer he might have a heart attack or even die. It was time to stop.

Once released, Max jumped to his feet. He didn’t want to give Snodgrass the satisfaction of seeing him naked so hurriedly he pulled up his pants and climbed back into his shorts and bib.

Snodgrass was in a bad state, Max could see. Should he call an ambulance? He didn’t want the man to die on him.

“No, I’ll be alright”, Snodgrass wheezed, when Max asked.

“So, it’s over then. You have spanked me and I won’t have to go to the magistrates’ court?” Max asked.

“Yes, it’s over,” Snodgrass gasped.

“Thank you Sir, may I go now?”

“Yes, go.”

Carefully, Max picked up the shoulder bag that had lain on the floor during his spanking and left.

His buttocks were raw, but the pain was already turning into a warm glow. There would be bruises for few days, he supposed, but no lasting harm had been done.

He climbed onto his bicycle and rode away, but the hard seat against his buttocks reignited the pain of the bare-bottomed spanking. After a hundred yards, he pulled over to the side of the lane, as he had always intended doing. Dismounting the bike, he opened the shoulder bag and peered inside. The small tape recorder was still running. He stopped it, rewound a bit and then he pressed play. Bingo, loud and clear: his spanking.

He remounted the bike and despite the discomfort rode at full pelt to the train station with a huge grin on his face. What a scoop!

Episode 2, Max and the deputy editor is here.

Other judicial punishment stories you might like.

The sneak thief

Footballer’s judicial caning

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Don’t bully our mum

USED brush bedroom (2)Barry had just ended the phone call. It was his mum. She was in great distress. She hadn’t stopped crying. It was because of his kid brother Don.

Barry paced the room, he could feel the anger rising inside of him. It was his responsibility. He was the man of the house, even though he had moved out of “home” years ago. He had to be the one to deal with this.

He switched the kettle on. He would make a cup of coffee while he figured out what to do.

Don was nineteen years old and the only one of the three Donovan boys still living at home. Dad had moved out years ago and there was only Don and his mum left. Don was way out of line. He couldn’t be bothered to get a job, he was spending all his welfare money on weed and he was giving his mum one hell of a time.

“I can’t control him,” she had wailed to Barry on the phone. “I don’t know what to do,” she gulped through sobs. She was at her wits’ end, she said. Barry had to help her.

Barry didn’t know what to do either. How could he tame his kid brother?

Then he had an idea.

Barry was twenty-two years old and a successful semi-pro boxer. He couldn’t have been more different to Don. Where Barry was big and strong; Don was thin and puny. The solution was simple, Barry thought. He would go see Don, tell him he had to mend his ways with mum and start doing what she said. He had to get a job – there were plenty of burger bars in town – and start acting responsibly.

If he didn’t, Barry would punch his face in. He could do it; easily. And, he would do, if that’s what it took.

That was how the next night Barry came to have Don by the throat. The younger boy’s eyes popped as he gasped for breath. He was choking. If Barry didn’t let go soon, Don would pass out on the floor.

Barry was no thug, he was a pugilist. A boxer. An athlete. He set his brother free and watched in quiet satisfaction as his kid brother sank to his knees, gulping in great draughts of air, his face scarlet.

Barry had already decided not to punch Don’s face in. He deserved it that was for certain. But, Barry realised his mum would be in great distress when she saw her little baby with a bloody nose and a black eye.

There was another way to rein in his brother. A few months ago a pal had told him about his friend John. John was the same age as Barry and he had an out-of-control kid brother too. The eighteen-year-old had been caught stealing at the newsagent where he worked. So John took a whippy school cane to the brat’s backside. That sorted him out.

Barry had no idea where to get hold of a school cane. If he had known this John guy personally he could have asked for a loan of his. But he didn’t. So he couldn’t cane Don’s backside, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t give him one hell of a spanking.

Don sat on the floor regaining his composure. Barry knew the look of fear in the teenager’s eyes. He had seen it many times before. The boy knew when he was whipped. His brother dominated him; he could punch his lights out anytime he wanted.

“Stand up!” Barry didn’t give his brother a chance to do it under his own steam. He gripped the boy’s shirt and hauled him to his feet. He held on tightly and pulled the boy forward so their faces were only inches apart. Tears welled behind Don’s eyes.

“Right. You want to act like a brat, I’m going to treat you like a brat.” Barry stared blank-eyed at his brother. It was a look he had perfected in boxing. It scared the shit out of opponents; they thought it was the look of a crazy man.

It worked on Don. His body shook uncontrollably.

“This is what you are going to do.” Barry pulled his brother even closer. He could smell his stinky breath. “You are going to take down your trousers and pants. Then you are going to bend over my knee. Then I am going to spank your arse black and blue.”

“No way.” It was a natural terrified reaction, not a statement made with confidence. Don couldn’t fight off his brother.

“Yes way.”

Barry released his grip and rushed around the room, hurriedly opening and closing cupboards and doors. He quickly found what he was looking for. A large light brown clothes brush. It was nearly a foot long if you included the handle and the bristle side was easily four inches wide. It was heavy enough to inflict real pain; especially if whacked down with great force across a bared backside.

Don was rooted. If he tried to run, his brother would catch him. Then what? His brother was built like a brick outhouse. He’d probably get a good kicking. And then the spanking …

The nineteen-year-old watched as his brother grabbed a dining room chair and set it in the middle of the room. Barry sat down and glared at Don.

“B ..b..” Don was already blubbing like a little kid. “I’m sorry, I won’t do it again. I promise.”

His brother sneered. His contempt for his wimp of a brother was total. “Too right you won’t. Not after I’ve finished with this.” He waved the brush in the air. “Now, get over here.”

Don was a bully to his mother. He had terrorised her for years. Like so many bullies, he was also a coward. He stood his ground. He was too chicken to submit himself for his deserved punishment.

“Ahhh!” Barry rose from the chair, reached forward and dragged his brother forward. Then resuming his sitting position, he unbuckled the boy’s belt. Don was too terrified to resist. The button and zip on his jeans were soon open and the denims slipped down his legs. His Calvin’s quickly followed.

Barry’s strength was so great Don practically flew over his lap when he gripped his arm and propelled him downwards.

Barry had never spanked anyone before, nor had he seen it done. But he reckoned it couldn’t be that difficult. Without ceremony, he raised the brush and brought it crashing down in the middle of Don’s left buttock. A dark pink mark, a perfect match of the oval head of the brush, immediately appeared.

Spankings come in many shapes and sizes. At their best the one lying with his face down in the carpet accepts his wrongdoing. He is a bad, bad boy. He deserves to have his buttocks toasted. He agrees to take his hiding with fortitude. He will make as little fuss as possible.

At their worst, the one on the receiving end resists. He fights. He struggles. He kicks and punches. He yells and screams. He threatens every kind of retribution to the guy pounding away at his buttocks. He makes as much fuss as possible.

Don did not take his spanking well. Barry with his vastly superior strength was more than capable of pinning his kid brother over his lap. The boy was going nowhere. That didn’t stop Don kicking his legs and wriggling his body and flailing his arms. He desperately tried everything to break away.

It was Barry’s first time as a spanker, but he was a quick learner. To do the job effectively he needed unencumbered access to the target area: the buttocks. The kicking and flapping around of arms was impeding his access.

Barry pulled Don further forward over his lap to give him the room to swing his own right leg across his brother’s calves. That dealt with the legs. Then he grabbed the boy’s right hand and forced his arm up his back. There would be no more flailing and flapping. Don’s bare buttocks were now at the mercy of his brother. But Barry was showing none of that.

Bang! Bang! Bang! the sound of wooden brush connecting with stretched buttocks resounded around the room. Up and down, up and down, the brushed bounced off the boy’s by-now red-raw bum.

It was unrelenting, relentless, vicious, brutal. Barry’s huge muscular arm bulged with the effort. Don’s squeals turned to yelps; then increased to yells and grew to shrieks and screams. The pain started as a slight discomfort, became a dull throb and quickly turned to agony.

The teenager bawled his eyes out. Tears and snot cascaded down his face. He could scarcely breathe. His heartrate was off the scale, blood rushed through his body at speed; he felt sure it would burst through his ears.

Barry had the strength of the semi-pro boxer that he was. He could keep this up all night. On and on he whacked. His kid brother’s bum had once been creamy white. It soon turned deep pink, then red followed by dark claret. Now, it was mauve and soon it would be dark blue. Not one square inch of the boy’s buttocks or thighs had been left unscathed by the severity of the spanking.

When fighting in the ring, Barry never knew when to stop. Even when he was being beaten. He would never give up. Someone would have to throw in the towel. Only then would it be over.

Barry would have gone on all night. He didn’t care. He was on a mission. His duty was to protect his mum from his bullying little brother.

“Barry! Barry!” It was his mum. He heard her voice as she rushed into the room even over the screams of his brother. “Enough!”

She had consented to the spanking. When Barry told her his plan, she thought it was a jolly good idea. Someone should have given Don a good hiding years ago.  But this was too much. He had had enough.

Sheepishly, Barry released his grip. Like a dog out of a trap, Don sprang from his brother’s lap and without even taking up his jeans and pants he rushed from the room and headed up the stairs.

Barry and his mum were silent; neither of them knew what to say. Barry put the brush down on the dining room table and stood awkwardly.

What should happen next, he thought. How should this end?

“I’ll make a nice cup of tea,” his mum whispered and went to busy herself in the kitchen.

 

Other stories you might like

The drunken neighbour

When Dad got home

Toby’s father visits

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com