Don’t bully our mum

z used drawing brush hold otk young man (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.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

 

This story was first uploaded in January 2016.

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The Post Office Thief

The spanking I thoroughly deserved

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Coffee shop memory

new story 2

z used twosome coffeeshop

I was in town the other day and it was freezing so I went into a coffeeshop to warm myself up with a hot chocolate. It’s not one of those horrible chain shops, this one’s just off the High Street and is a bit run down to be honest. It attracts a lot of young people, which I like. Some of them are quite sexy-looking and at my age unless you’re willing to pay for it looking is all you can do. Friends tell me its popular because they deal drugs there but I don’t know if that’s true.

It was the middle of the afternoon on a Wednesday and it wasn’t that busy. When I was settled at a table I noticed two lads who seemed to be having an argument in whispers. I don’t know them but I’d seen them in the shop a few times before. They were maybe twenty, perhaps a year younger. One, had a face on him like flint and the other who from where I sat looked a bit girly to tell the truth hid behind a long scarf that he kept wrapping around his mouth.

“I warned you. You know what will happen when we get back to the house,” the flint-faced one said. The other one buried his head in the scarf and the look in his eyes while not of terror was certainly of fear. Instinctively, I leaned forward to try to hear more of their conversation but no more was said. After a minute or so they left.

I knew exactly what would happen when they got home. The girly one would be across flint-faced’s knee with his jeans at the ankles and underwear at the knees getting his bare bum blistered with his boyfriend’s hairbrush. The look on girly’s face told me he was not looking forward to this.

I perused the front page of the Brocklehurst Bugle (and read that another train strike is looming) and finished my drink. As I walked home I thought about a time some decades ago when I was about the same age as those two. I was eighteen and had just left school. My mother who was divorced had remarried and I was no longer welcome at home. I wasn’t chucked out and there was no big row it was just that they wanted to be together. Naturally, I had no money and no way of getting the rent together for a place of my own so my brother let me stay with him.

His name is Jonathon but everybody calls him James for reasons I don’t recall (if indeed I ever knew). James was twenty-three at the time and had been to university and was doing well in his chosen career in a bank. I don’t know if he really wanted a kid like me under his feet at home, but the say blood is thicker than water, so perhaps he felt obliged.

Things got off to a bad start. Like all eighteen year olds across time I was lazy, self-centred, untidy and a lot of the time uncommunicative. I would spend hours sleeping late and when I was awake more often than not I’d stay in bed playing with myself. We didn’t have the Internet back then and a group of us would swop porno magazines. One called Whitehouse was very popular. I remember once by the time I got my turn it had several pages stuck together.

James did his best with me, but he had standards and I couldn’t meet them. One evening he brought a girl back and the place was like a pigsty with unwashed dishes all over the place and dirty clothes hanging on the furniture. All of them mine. The mess put the girl off and she left pretty quickly. That was the final straw for James; now it was my fault he wasn’t getting his leg over.

That brought things to a head. He laid down the law: do this; don’t do that. Get out find a job, start paying some rent. Have some self-respect. All I gave him in return was a pout, a sneer and a slammed door as I stormed off to my pit of a bed.

I don’t know how much thought James put into it but what he did later changed our relationship forever. The next day was Saturday, so there was no work for James. I could hear the Hoover going as he cleaned the house. I buried my head under the blankets and tried to get back to sleep. Some time later James burst into the room unannounced (thank god I wasn’t having a wank!) and told me to get up. My reply to him suggested sex and travel. “I’m warning you,” he threatened “I’ll be back in five minutes.”

I went back under the blankets. I didn’t keep time but before I knew about it the door flew open again and James loomed over me. He was about three inchers taller than me and broad at the shoulders. He was a keen rugby player and often turned out for a team at the bank. “What did I tell you?” he roared and without waiting for my answer he ripped the blankets and sheet off my body. I was stark naked and had no time to cover up my cock (which almost certainly was standing at half-mast) before James grabbed me by the hair and hauled me from the bed. Then, he dragged me across the room. My feet slipped on the old, thin carpet as he towed me with great force out of the bedroom, through the hallway and into the lounge.

I was effing and jeffing at him but he took no notice. He was a man on a mission; nothing was going to stop him now. The lounge was a small room dominated by a dining table. James had left one of its wooden chairs in the centre of the room. Before I even realised what was happening and still tugging my hair he sat himself down. He let go of my hair only long enough for him to take my wrist and heave me so I fell face down across his lap. I didn’t know then but I was to enjoy many close-up views of the loungeroom carpet before that summer was over.

I was no match for James’ strength. He held me tightly around the waist, reached over to the table where he had strategically left the brush that usually hung in the shower, and blistered my backside with it. I had a round, hard bottom in those days (photographs of me at the time don’t do it justice.) James took that brush which must have been twice the size of a hairbrush and three times as heavy and pounded it into my bum. He was like a man possessed (maybe it was not having sex with that girl that spurred him on). I hollered the flat down and called him all the names under the sun but he would not let up.

Have you ever been spanked with a bath brush? No, I don’t suppose you have: why should you? Let me tell you, the size of it and the weight and the speed with which James attacked my buttocks turned my cheeks at first red, then mauve and before he had finished the underside had started to turn blue.

The pain was awesome; I’d never experienced anything like it before. It started as a sharp sting when the first half dozen or so swats landed on different parts of my arse. Once James had covered the full circuit (as it were) he landed that brush on parts that were already smarting. They set off a new wave of throbbing and by now I was twisting and turning over James’ lap. My legs must have been flailing around as well. The ache in my bum travelled up and down my legs and then north-south, east-west across my entire body. I howled so loudly my mouth drained of spit.

I was shrieking with indignation. It is true the spanking hurt like billy-oh, but I was an eighteen-year-old adult and quite tough. I was wailing at the indignity of being completely naked and across the knees off my elder brother while he spanked my bare bottom with a bath brush like I was eight or something.

At last he let off; he had nowhere else to go, every square inch of flesh was scorched. My bum felt like it had swollen to twice its natural size. I wrapped my buttocks with the palms of my hands and the heat I felt could have warmed a small room. My cock bounced up and down in front of James’ face as I tried to rub away the pain. My humiliation was complete and I ran from the room.

James spanked me a number of times that summer. I hated it each and every time. I don’t think it improved my behaviour. I didn’t really grow up and develop self-respect until my mid-twenties when, like James, I had embarked on a successful career. I have no interest in spanking as a fetish and nor I believe does James. He genuinely thought it would improve my behaviour. I dimly remember when we were kids James went off the rails a bit and he was spanked once or twice by an uncle (a real one, my mother’s brother) and maybe that taught him a lesson. I never spanked any of my own children (or nephews for that matter) and It wouldn’t have occurred to me to do so.

Perhaps spanking works for some people. I wonder about the two in the coffeeshop. I’ll have to drop in again tomorrow to see if girly’s attitude has improved.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

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Coffee morning

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Neighbourhood Watch Vigilantes

 

 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Moped Gang

By Charles Hamilton II and Cayenne.

The headmaster leaned forward in his chair, rested his arms on his desk, clasped his hands together and stared intently at the five sixth-formers standing before him.  His unkempt moustache bristled as he sneered, “Well, well, well, Gentlemen, welcome! I seem to have convened an impromptu meeting of the Moped Gang!”

All five eighteen year olds stared blankly, trying with varying degrees of success to look unconcerned. It would be a lecture, of course. Mr Lynch would lambast them about their behaviour and send them on their way. Maybe with an essay to write, Why I should be a credit to the school, something like that.

The headmaster shook his head wearily. “The five lads from my school who have been terrorising the neighbourhood.” Juvenile delinquents, he told himself. They were mighty fortunate not to be up before the Magistrates’ Court. Out loud he said, “You have been inflicting your loutish behaviour all over the neighbourhood.”

He paused, waiting for a reaction. When none came, he carried on. “You have been riding those infernal mopeds disturbing all and sundry.” He suppressed a smile. Mopeds; bicycles with hairdryers for engines. Hardly the Hells Angels. Nonetheless the good name of the school was at stake. “You have been smoking and drinking and,” the headmaster shuddered at the thought, “urinating in most inappropriate places. The churchyard and the gardens of the Masonic Hall, I hear. And often you are foolish enough to do this in school uniform! You are a disgrace!”

Mr Lynch hauled himself to his feet. He was a stout man, some would say he was running to fat. At six feet, he was taller than any of the boys standing in his study. Five pairs of eyes watched him intently as he shuffled across the room towards a bookcase. It ran most of the length of one wall and had glass doors. The shelves were stacked with history text books. Mr Lynch liked to keep his hand in in the classroom. A tall thin cupboard divided the bookcase. He fumbled in his pocket for barely a moment before bringing out a key. His hand trembled as he inserted it in a lock and opened the cupboard. His body obscured the boys’ view but an unmistakable rattling sound revealed its contents.

Mr Lynch turned to face the delinquents. “It’s a shame that you are all eighteen and so too old for this cane of mine.  Isn’t that so, Smith?” The headmaster held the rod between his hands and flexed it.

“Err, yes, Sir,” Smith blustered.

The headmaster swiped the cane through thin air. “Too old for this cane, Passey?”

“Yes, Sir.” Passey stared intently at the cane. It was a little over three feet long with a curved handle.

Swish! The cane flew again. “Too old, Wilkinson?”

“Yes indeed, Sir,” the lad coughed nervously, sensing some kind of trap.

Mr Lynch took a step forward, leaning into a thin, lanky boy. “And how about you, Jenkin, just turned eighteen, I believe, so too old for this cane of mine?”

“Yes, Sir, Mr. Lynch, Sir.” Jenkin returned the headmaster’s gaze. He wished he would just get on with it. An essay. A detention even. He wanted to get away, the Moped Gang had a meet that evening.

Mr Lynch swivelled on his left heel. “And finally, we get to you, Davies.”

“Yes Sir?” a short, stocky boy narrowed his eyes. He didn’t understand the tone in the headmaster’s voice.

“You’re a little bit different from the others here, aren’t you?”

“I am, Sir?” He felt his cheeks flush, what was the Old Man talking about?

“Oh yes! You may be eighteen like the others here, but I understand that your father beats you regularly. With a cane just like this!” He swiped it twice through the air for emphasis. “He told me all about it when we were at the Model Railway Club. We are both members, you see.  He’s the life and soul of the club, old ‘Deltic’ Davies, you know. He often tells us he’s had to get his cane out.”

Jenkin suppressed a snort. The cane, from his dad, he thought. Wait until he told the other sixth-formers. Davies’ face reddened with embarrassment and shame.  He felt no shame being up before the headmaster, but for the Old Man to know he was caned at home; that was unbearable.  And now, the shame that his friends had just found out about it too.

But there was more. The shame that his father played trains! Diesel trains too. And Dad was friends with headmaster. That had to be the worst! No, wait! Did the headmaster know that Davies had his trousers at his ankles and his underpants at his knees as he bent across the dining room table for lashes from Dad’s cane across his bared bottom?

What if all of that became public? It would be the end for Davies. How could he remain leader of the Moped gang? Davies stared at his scuffed shoes. He couldn’t look the headmaster in the eye. Neither could he look at his mates. He knew inwardly they were smirking. He wouldn’t hear the end of it once the headmaster released them from his study.

Mr Lynch flexed his cane some more, he tapped it gently against his right leg, then he swished it through the air again. He knew he was an old ham. This was supposed to intimidate a boy. Usually it worked. But maybe not this time, he thought. Davies’ face was scarlet, but the other four seemed unconcerned.

“So we’re all agreed that you are all too old for this cane of mine?” Mr Lynch’s moustache quivered as he bared his yellow teeth in a smile. There was a murmur of agreement from the boys.  Davies sighed a little too loudly and the headmaster shot him a withering look.

“I have decided,” the headmaster continued, “that you are right. At eighteen, you are all much too old for this cane.  For this junior cane.” He swiped it through the air again. It made a terrific Whoosh! as it travelled. “No, what you lads need is the senior cane. Just right for your sturdy rumps! Jenkin! Go and ask Miss Glossop for the senior cane. Here, you can take this junior one back with you.”

Wilkinson had been right, the headmaster had been playing them for fools, and they were trapped in his game. Jenkin took hold of the cane. It was surprisingly light. He had never seen a cane up close before. Brocklehurst Grammar was a traditional school – traditional curriculum, uniform, sports, religion and above all traditional discipline. And, that meant the whippy, crook-handled rattan cane. Could there be any boy in the sixth-form who had not offered his stretched backside to a master for a stinging six-of-the-best at some time during his school career? Jenkin was an exception; he had only joined the school the previous year after his father moved to the town with his job. This would be Jenkin’s first caning; an experience he did not relish.

Miss Glossop, the headmaster’s secretary, sat in an anteroom perched over her typewriter. Her long, thin nose and shiny black hair made her look like a crow. Jenkin shuddered as he handed the cane over. “He didn’t use it then? I’m surprised!” she barked disdainfully. If she had her way all five boys would be in front of a school assembly bent across a long table while the headmaster flogged their naked buttocks. And, she, Miss Glossop, would be seated in the front row.

“He was very annoyed. Is he going to expel you?” she asked.

“No, no, nothing like that. At least I hope not. He told me to ask you for the senior cane.”

“Ah, of course!” Absent-mindedly, she ran the tip of her tongue across her bottom lip, leaving behind a trail of spittle. “That makes sense. He really is annoyed with you then. The senior one is reserved for the wickedest of the wicked. You bad lads!”

She rose from her swivel chair and sashayed to a tall metal locker at the far end of the room. Jenkin watched mesmerised as her bottom wiggled suggestively. She unlocked the locker and withdrew the cane. Just as the headmaster had done, she flexed the rod between her hands. Blood rushed to Jenkin’s cock. A sudden vision of himself bent across Miss Glossop’s desk, trousers and pants at the floor, made the cock stiffen. Hurriedly he clasped his hands together and held them in front of his balls.

“Here it is then. The senior model. Extra painful.” Miss Glossop narrowed her eyes and handed the stick over. “Be sure to tell the headmaster that there are a couple more in stock in case this one breaks.”

“Err, will do Miss Glossop,” he blustered. He took the cane, unsure how to handle it. It was a little longer and thicker than the junior cane. At first he took it be the curved handle and let it fall by his side. It was long enough to touch the ground and reminded him of a walking stick. That didn’t seem right, so then he gripped it half way down. It was a sturdy rod with notches every four inches or so along its length. It was awesome; it would pack one heck of a punch. For one absurd moment he thought of Charlie Chaplin and how the clown would twirl his cane in the silent movies.

“You’d better be getting back,” Miss Glossop said grumpily. Jenkin jerked back into life, tucked the cane under his arm rather like a sergeant-major did and returned to the headmaster’s study.

“You four,” the headmaster waved his arm, “stand and face the bookcase.” He watched as the teenagers shuffled into place, no longer unconcerned. “Jenkin,” he pointed with the cane to a worn armchair. “Bend over.” Manufacturers called these chairs “comfy” or “comfortable”  chairs but Mr Lynch was determined that Jenkin’ visit would be anything but comfortable. The chair was old and worn. The material on the apex of the back was shiny with age. How many boys had contributed to that, Jenkin wondered.

“Bend over, lad,” the headmaster had had his little joke with the boys, now he was anxious to get on with it; the sixth-formers less so. Jenkin stood a foot or so away from the back of the chair. How exactly was this done? He took a deep breath rubbed the palms of his hands together and reluctantly fell forward, rather like a diver going into an icy pond. Jenkin was so small and the chair so tall, that his stomach rested easily on the top of the chair’s back. He felt his pale-grey trousers ride up his buttocks. He couldn’t see himself, but he was sure the material had separated his cheeks.

“Legs further apart. Up higher.” It was a calm command and Jenkin obeyed without question and struggled to get into the requested position. “Head nice and low, please.” Now, his bottom was resting at a perfect angle to receive a thrashing from the headmaster. Jenkin gripped the seat cushion and closed his eyes. He had never been caned before and nor ever spoken to a boy who had been. His previous school had been quite liberal and corporal punishment was unheard of. His buttock cheeks clenched. He had not meant to do this, it was as if his body was trying to find a natural way to protect him from the pain ahead.

“Relax lad. Relax.” The headmaster “sawed” his cane across the underside of Jenkin’s now upturned bottom. He was finding his spot, taking his aim. Jenkin’s firm bottom stretched his now very tight grey trousers, a point the headmaster was careful to observe as he positioned himself behind him.

“Stick your bottom out more, lad, hollow your back. Mr Lynch knew this was Jenkin’s first caning and he intended it to be memorable. “Jenkin when I cane I make sure it hurts. There is no point in giving a boy a beating if it doesn’t. I won’t lie to you, your backside will be on fire and you will be sore for a few days. The marks will last about two weeks but you will live.”

It had the desired effect and tears started to dampen Jenkin’s eyes before the first stroke had cracked against his tight backside. He gripped the chair cushion so tightly his knuckles ached.

The headmaster grasped the cane and took two steps away. To calm down he took a few “air shots” before finally returning to stand to Jenkin’s left. Then, with his arm outstretched he lay the cane tip half way across the cheek of the teenager’s further buttock. Jenkin flinched slightly as the rattan touched the middle of his bum. The headmaster raised it slowly then brought it whistling down. It landed with a satisfying thwack right across the cheeks.

“Oww! Gosh, oww!” Jenkin yelped, trying to keep his scorching bottom still after his first ever stroke of the cane.

The study was again filled with the sound of the cane swishing through the air, followed by that awful crack that signalled another searing bout of pain across his already sore bottom. The headmaster drew the cane back for another stroke. Jenkin arched his back and screwed his face up as he experienced the smarting of yet another assault to his now red-raw bottom.

Despite the shocking pain, Jenkin resolved to take the caning bravely and silently; he didn’t want to show himself up in front of his mates. But when slash number three connected with the seat of his trousers he lost all control, his feet beat a frenzied tattoo, as his hips twisted and squirmed. He desperately wanted to jump up and run from the study clutching his buttocks in both hands, but some schoolboy instinct kept him down. He was grateful that he had the chair cushion to grip, even though his hands were now grasping it so tightly his fingernails dug deeply.

The next swipe was greeted with a howl and Jenkin was now audibly muttering: “No!” and “Please!” But there was to be no mercy in the study that afternoon. Mr Lynch stood back, took aim again and the cane flashed through the air with a whoosh and the resulting blow snapped into Jenkin’s waiting backside with venom.

A river of tears cascaded down Jenkin’s face as he waited, heart thumping madly, for the final crack which the headmaster put right across the middle of his buttocks, angled, so that it crossed about three of the other cuts.

It took some time after the last stroke for Jenkin to realise the ordeal was over. “Yes,” the headmaster sighed. “That concludes your punishment, Jenkin. I hope you have learned your lesson.”

Like so many thrashed schoolboys before him, Jenkin remained slumped across the back of the chair, just trying to absorb the line of fire across his bum. Nothing had prepared him for the pain or for the feeling that his bottom had being cut into slices and then set on fire.

“Up lad!” the headmaster commanded, “We haven’t got all day.” With great difficulty, Jenkin’s hands scrabbled for the arm of the chair and he pushed himself upright, panting and sobbing. He danced on the spot, clutching the seat of his trousers. Even through the material he could feel the six vivid and very painful stripes decorating his hindquarters.

“Stand and face the bookcase,” the headmaster intoned. “Wilkinson, take his place.”

….

Thirty minutes later Owen Davies steered his moped through the gate of a large detached house. Home. The intense pain from his caning had dissolved into a dull ache, but the hard seat of his Honda had set the welts on his bum throbbing. He kicked the stand on his bike and left it standing by the door of the house. The Moped Gang were meeting later.

He opened the front door to find his brother Dai standing, waiting for him in the hallway. A supercilious grin slit the twenty-year-old’s face. “Who’s been a naughty little boy then?” he chirped in the sing-song voice of a child as he swished an imaginary cane through the air. Owen grimaced. This was the last thing he needed.

“I got a phone call from your headmaster,” Dai’s grin broadened. “He wanted to speak to Dad, but I told him he was at that toy train convention until Saturday.”

Owen moved towards the stairs, intent on ignoring his annoying brother. He wanted to get to his bedroom for a close look at his bum.

“So,” Dai blocked his brother’s way, “he told me all about you and your Moped Gang. Six-of-the-best, eh?” He swiped the imaginary cane again. “You naughty, naughty little boy.”

“Piss off,” Owen sneered. He hated his brother. Always had done. Owen was the bright boy in the family. Dai wasn’t clever enough to go to grammar school. He left Gumshoe Lane Secondary Modern aged sixteen. How Owen despised him. Thick as two short planks. A waste of space.

“Of course,” Dai jeered, “When Dad finds out you’ll get another caning.” His arm flew through the air again. “And,” Dai was enjoying himself and he wanted his little brother to know it. “What was it Dad said last time?” He poked the underside of his chin with an index finger, pretending that he was thinking. “Oh yes, I remember.” Owen clenched his fists, for two pins he’d sock his brother on the jaw. He knew what Dad had said.

“He said if you got into any more trouble on that phut-phut he’d confiscate it and sell it. Then where would you be little brother?” Dai reached out and ruffled Owen’s hair. “You’ll be on the bus like the rest of the kids.”

Owen stood devastated. Dai was right. That was what Dad had said. He would do it too. A bare-arsed caning and no moped. That bike was his life. He was the leader of a gang. It made him feel really important. The other guys actually looked up to him. Now what would happen? He knew only too well; no bike, no gang, no life.

“Of course,” Dai spread his arms wide like a market trader offering a bargain to passers-by, “Dad need never know.” He grinned and stared intently at his little brother. Dai had a plan. One that he would really enjoy putting into action. “What’d’ya say little brother?”

Owen sucked in air. What the hell was Dai talking about? Why did he have to behave like an idiot all the time?

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he spat. He hated his brother. Owen couldn’t wait until the autumn when he could leave the house and go away to university. His imbecile brother would probably have to live at home the rest of his life.

Dai shrugged his shoulders and showed Owen the palms of his hands. “A little plan, dear brother,” he said in a mocking accent that made his brother’s skin crawl.

Owen hated himself for doing it, but he asked none-the-less, “What plan?”

“Ha,” Dai spoke in that mocking voice again. “Now, he wants to know. Now, he asks me ‘What is the plan’”?

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, I want to go out,” Owen pushed past his brother and started toward the stairs. Fearful, he might have missed his chance Dai said in a rush, “I won’t tell Dad your headmaster called. I’ll cane you instead.” Owen stopped in his tracks and turned. The surprised expression on his face asked “What?”

Dai took a deep breath, “You’ll get to keep your moped.”

The room span. Owen gripped the banister rail for support. His mouth opened, but before he could tell his brother once more to “fuck off” he shut it tight. He should not be too hasty. That bike was his life. There was only one way for him to keep it. His head spun. This could not be happening. If he let his brother cane him he got to keep the bike.

Thinking about it later, Owen could hardly believe he spoke the next words, “You promise you won’t tell Dad?” Dai’s cold blue eyes blazed, “Scout’s honour,” he said and waved two fingers in the air. “All right,” Owen whispered.

“Good-oh!” Dai smiled broadly. “We must do it now, my shift at the Wimpy starts at five-thirty.” Gingerly Owen rubbed his fingertips across the seat of his trousers. His bum still ached from the headmaster’s caning. Now, he had to let his obnoxious brother beat him on the bare bottom. He would rip it to shreds. He grimaced. You couldn’t make it up, he thought.

Owen watched Dai rush up the stairs and fling open the door to Dad’s bedroom and enter. Moments later he came out crestfallen. “The wardrobe’s locked.” He let the importance of his message hang in the air. Owen needed no explanation. Dad kept his canes in that wardrobe, if they couldn’t get it open there was nothing to beat him with. He would lose his moped after all.

Owen sighed, “Can we get a cane someplace else?”

Dai snapped his fingers to indicate a thought had come to him. “Of course, let’s go round the neighbours and ask if anyone can lend us a cane,” he said sarcastically.

Owen sneered. “All right, but there must be a way round this.”

Dai did the snapping of the fingers thing again. This time he was serious, “It doesn’t have to be a cane. I can spank you.” When Owen looked doubtful, he added, “You know, over the knee, like a little boy.”

Owen blanched. It would have been mortifying enough to go over the dining room table for a caning, but over-the-knee to have his bare bottom spanked; that was too much. Dai read his brother’s mind. He wasn’t about to let this chance to thoroughly humiliate his brother pass. “You’ll get to keep the moped,” he reminded him.

That was enough. It was the only way. With his heart pounding and temples throbbing, Owen nodded his assent.

“Good-oh,” Dai brightened up. “Go wait in the sitting room. I’ll fetch something.” Sorrowfully, Owen trudged across the hallway. Seconds later Dai bounded down the stairs brandishing a heavy wooden clothes brush. He bounced into the sitting room, noting with delight the gloomy expression on his kid brother’s face. He picked up a large armless chair that lay against a wall and plonked it down in the centre of the room. He sat down, spread his legs wide and, waving the brush wildly, called across to Owen. “Come here you naughty little boy.”

Owen grimaced. How he would like to smash his fist into Dai’s smug face. He stood and glared. Dai’s smirk was undisguised. “Come on, let’s get on with this.” He snapped his fingers and pointed to a spot on the carpet close to his right knee. “Stand there.” Owen refused to look at his brother as he shuffled the three paces it needed to take up the position.

Dai sucked in a lungful of air. His eyes sparkled. “Trousers down, little man. Trousers down.” Owen avoided his brother’s gaze and instead concentrated his attention on the far wall. He had never really noticed the painting that hung there before. Some modern art thing. All oranges and reds. It looked like the artist was having a fit when he painted it. Owen stared hard at the picture as he reached for his belt buckle. He was surprised how little his fingers fumbled as they loosened the belt, popped the button at the waistband and pulled the zipper. His pale-grey trousers slid down his thighs unaided and snagged at his knees.

“Ha!” Dai smirked, “White Y-fronts, I forgot your snob school made you wear those. Do they do a pants inspection every morning?” He laughed aloud. Owen sucked on his cheek, determined not to raise to his brother’s bait. “Pants down. All the way,” Dai pointed at Owen’s feet. The eighteen-year-old closed his eyes tight. Think about the moped, he said to himself. If you let him do this you keep the bike. He tucked his thumbs under the elasticated waistband of his pants and guided them south.

Dai tapped the brush against the palm of his left hand. “Bend over my knee, you naughty boy.” I’ll get you for this one day you bastard, Owen told himself as he guided himself across his brother’s lap. Owen was short and squat while Dai was tall and lanky and the boy fitted perfectly. He spread his arms wide and placed his palms flat into the deep-pile carpet. Behind him his toes merely brushed the ground. His bottom was raised against Dai’s right thigh, at a perfect angle for the brush. A cool breeze from the open window behind him caressed his naked legs.

Owen felt his brother pull the tail of his shirt up the small of his back until it bunched at his shoulders. “Woweee!” Dai exploded with glee. Implanted across his brother’s bared buttocks were six distinct welts. “Your headmaster has given you a good set of marks.” He put the index finger of his right hand into his mouth and soaked it in saliva. Then, carefully he traced along each cut with the fingertip. Owen shuddered as the pain in each welt reignited. Dai cupped his hand and roughly rubbed it first across the left buttock and then the right. “It feels like corrugated cardboard back here.” He didn’t try to hide the fun he was having.

Owen shut his eyes. He couldn’t see, but he guessed his brother had a perfect view of his crack and could even see up his hole. He could die from embarrassment. This will soon be over, he reassured himself. Then I can go out on my moped and lead a gang who respect me.

Dai tested the brush in his hand for weight. It was about a foot long with an oval-shaped head three inches wide. It’s primary purpose was to keep clothes clean but it also made a splendid spanking implement. Dai tapped the brush against the centre of Owen’s left buttock so that it fell across three of the cane marks. “This should set them on fire again,” he grinned as he smacked the wood down hard. There was a dull thud as the brush connected with Owen’s firm flesh, followed by an elongated hiss of air escaping through pursed lips; it sounded like a steam train settling down. Owen’s body shook; he raised himself an inch off his brother’s lap and his legs flailed. “No you don’t buster,” Dai gripped Owen around the waist. “You’re not going anywhere.” Satisfied his younger brother was firmly secured he hammered the brush across Owen’s bum. It was like machine gun fire. Rat-a-tat-tat; rat-a-tat-tat. Within seconds every square inch of Owen’s bottom was on fire, from the top of the curves, across the mounds themselves and into the ultra-sensitive underside, the part of the bum that connected with the chair when you sat down.

Even without the cane wounds this would have been a severe spanking. The relatively small area of shiny polished wood attacked his tender buttocks. Owen wriggled and writhed; he waved his arms around; he kicked his legs; his head flailed to left and right and then up and down (just like a horse does when he neighs) as his brother pounded away. The agony in his backside was intense. He gave up and gave in completely, hanging and dangling over his brother’s knees, his squalling taking over, as he gasped, choked, sobbed, and shook. He felt the fiery blistering on his bottom driving him to still deeper wailing and weeping.

This encouraged Dai to renewed vigour. Owen’s legs thrashed about so much he kicked his trousers across the room and the struggle continued so greatly that long before his brother had finished the bare-bottomed spanking the white briefs dangled from his left ankle.

Owen wrestled to escape the relentless torrent of increasing pain that had set his buttocks ablaze. He fought to escape from the very firm grip of his brother’s left arm around his waist. He pleaded, begged, promised and threatened endlessly between his gulps and his gasping for breath. But to no avail.

Dai hadn’t known he possessed such strength: not only was he able to pin his rowdy eighteen-year-old brother in place across his knees, face down, bared bottom high, he continued to batter his buttocks with the brush.  He pounded away at the boy for almost another five minutes, Owen struggled and pleaded but his brother continued; he was having too much fun to stop just yet.

He was so engrossed in his task and Owen so overcome with pain and indignity that neither heard the gentle burr outside in the drive. Four moped riders stared in astonishment through the open window.  They saw that their gang leader had just had his second humiliating beating of the day.

Other stories you might like

Don’t bully our mum

His eldest brother

Bend over. Touch your toes

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Book. Collection of Spanking Stories

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Charles Hamilton II’s Collection of Spanking Stories

Here’s another free-to-download book containing a selection of my favourite male-on-male spanking stories. It has some of my earliest writings and some of my most recent. I hope there’s something for every taste from military, judicial, dad-and-son, the vicar, my best friend and many more besides. All characters are aged 18 or over.

The book which also has many illustrations runs for more than 26,000 words.

Please enjoy.

Click on the link below to download Charles Hamilton II’s Collection of Spanking Stories

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Picture credit: Mancspank

For more free-to-download books click here

 

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

Other stories you might like

Where’s the paddle, hon?

Fr. Pat’s paddle

The chamber pot incident

 

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

The sneak thief

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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.

z-used-jeans-couch-4

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.

 

Other stories you might like

Be careful what you wish for

Put back into short trousers

The man across the hall

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com