My Drunken Nephew

z used drawing brush hold otk (4)

 

“What that boy needs is a damn good spanking!”

That’s what the Police Constable said to me as he delivered my eighteen-year-old nephew drunk as a skunk to my doorstep the other week.

The police officer told me Denny had been out around the town with his mates and they all had a skin full of beer. That’s when the trouble started. They were running and shouting through the town centre, urinating in shop doorways and just making life as unpleasant as possible for everyone.

The police officer explained that kids like Denny were a right pain in the arse, so they should be given one in return. I got the feeling he used that line on a lot of the parents he delivered drunken kids to. He told me the problem was that there wasn’t much the law could do with louts like Denny. The youths who stole cars or beat people up could get arrested and go to court. They were proper villains. But the courts were too busy to deal with the likes of Denny and there wasn’t much they could do at the police station except give the lads a good telling off and that was no use at all. The only people who might do any good were the parents.

I wasn’t Denny’s father, but I was his guardian. Denny was the son of my brother Alan and his wife Sarah. They had moved with Alan’s work to some god-forsaken place in Africa that nobody had ever heard of, but because Denny was in his final year at school, they all thought it was better if he stayed behind.

It seemed to me like a good idea at the time, and my wife was thrilled. We have two kids of our own. Susan has left home and is working in London and my son Paul is in his second year at university. He’s staying at a small guest house run by a married couple. I met the landlord, Mr Jarvis, once when I dropped off Paul at the beginning of term. Jarvis told me Paul was a delightful tenant and he enjoyed having him at the house. Jarvis reckoned it was all down to discipline. I think he thought I must have tanned Paul’s bottom a few times as a kid.

I didn’t think much of what the policeman said to me about spanking Denny, until a couple of days ago, when I had to suffer a repeat performance. It was a different officer who brought him home this time after Denny and his pals had been up to their old tricks again. This time the officer just dumped him and left, without offering parenting advice.

Maybe they were right, maybe Denny did need a belting or something, but let’s be honest it was hardly likely to happen. Even if I wanted to teach him a lesson, he’s eighteen years old and hardly likely to let me put him across my knee.

Even so, I couldn’t get the idea out of my head. He definitely needed discipline. What could I do? I couldn’t stop his pocket money, I didn’t give him any. He had his own money from a Saturday job at the supermarket. And, I feared that if I tried to ‘ground’ him and stop him going out at night he would only defy me and where would we be then?

No, if there was to be discipline, it needed to be a spanking. But how could I do it?

I knew the basics of how to do it, of course. Who doesn’t? My dad spanked me when I was a kid, but not when I was eighteen. I loved my dad (I still do) and he loved me. I deserved the spanking and I genuinely believe it did me some good.

Just as I genuinely believe a spanking will do Denny some good. He deserved a spanking without doubt, but the problem was how could it be done?

I’ve never spanked anyone in my life. Both my children were well behaved and they were hardly ever naughty. Even as teenagers they didn’t give me and my wife a hard time. Paul was a scholarship boy at a posh grammar school, so maybe they taught him how to behave. His landlord Mr Jarvis was quite wrong to think I had too much to do with Paul’s discipline.

So, how would I go about spanking Denny? Most people know by instinct how to whack an eight-year-old, but how do you do it to a young adult?

I surfed the Internet to see if I could find an answer. You won’t believe this but there are lots of websites out there about spanking. It seems there are adults spanking each other all the time. Often they are about wives spanking their husbands for not doing the chores and such like. Some people do what they call ‘role play’ where one person dresses up as, say, a ‘headmaster’ and another is in short trousers and school uniform ready to get six-of-the-best. Who would believe it?

I didn’t get very far in my search for help with spanking Denny. The websites were for people who wanted to be spanked, not for out-of-control teenagers who definitely did not.

There was one site that gave advice on how to get someone across your knee who didn’t want to go. It seems you stun them by slapping them across the face and while they are figuring out what happened you pull them down over your knee. Alternatively, you pull them by the hair and drag them over the knee that way.

This wouldn’t work with Denny, it looks like it would be test of strength and I’m not betting man but I’m sure Denny would win that one hands down.

But, I could try I suppose. The only other thing would be to get someone strong to help me and we could drag him across a table and then beat his backside black and blue.

But supposing I do get him ‘in position,’ how would I spank him? Whacking him with my hand would be a waste of time and for it to have any chance of being effective the spanking would have to be administered on the bare.

So, I needed an implement. As I say I never used corporal punishment on my children, so I don’t have canes, tawses, paddles and so forth about the house. I would have to use something whose main purpose in life was not to put bruises on buttocks.

The belts I have to hold up my trousers are all thin and no use at all. Slippers are no good. Modern ones have plastic soles and won’t hurt a fly. These days you couldn’t even buy plimsolls, they’re all trainers or ‘sneakers’ as the Americans insist on calling them. They have thick soles and they are so big it’s impossible to get a grip on them so you can take a swing.

We had plimsolls at my school and we feared them. We were a secondary modern and teachers didn’t use the cane, but every one of the male teachers kept a plimsoll ready to whack your backside. You were likely to get it any time up until the end of your fourth year, but after that you got away with bad behaviour. Maybe the teachers were scared of trying to hit the older boys, in case they hit them back.

I think it was different in the physical education classes where the slipper was used right up until a boy left the school. I did hear tell that the sixth-form boys used to whack each other on the bare bum with the slipper as punishment if they played badly in a match: missed an open goal at football, that kind of thing, but that might just be a rumour.

So I needed to find something at home. After walking around each room of the house looking in cupboards and drawers, I found the perfect thing: a clothes brush. It’s about nine inches long, including the handle. It’s a kind of oval shape and two inches wide at its broadest point.   I picked it out of the drawer and was disappointed it didn’t feel very heavy. But, after making sure, my wife was nowhere near to see me, I tested it out by bending over and whacking my own backside with it a couple of times. Even wearing trousers and pants I could feel the thwack of the brush hit home and a warm glow appeared where it connected with my bum.

Good, it could hurt Denny a lot, even on his trousers, but only if I could get a good swing at him. I reckoned if he went across my knee I would have an excellent opportunity to give him some serious buttock-pain.

So, that was the plan, Denny across my knee for a spanking with the clothes brush.

It was only at this point I remembered Alan, my brother. He was Denny’s father, not me. Maybe, he should be the one to administer the spanking; it’s a father’s job (a duty some would say) after all. But that was physically impossible; he was on the other side of the world in Africa. Even so, it was only right that he should know what was going on with his son.

I emailed Alan and told him all about what Denny had been up to: the drunkenness, the urinating in shop doorways and the obnoxious behaviour. I told him what the policeman had said about Denny needing a damn good spanking. I stopped short of telling him I had resolved to do just that the next time there was a ring at the doorbell and it was the police with Denny in tow.

I didn’t hear from Alan for three days and then I received an email from him that astonished me.

Alan was appalled to hear my news; Denny had been in trouble like this before and had promised his dad it would never happen again. It was only because of this promise of better behaviour in the future that Denny had been allowed to stay in England and not accompany his mum and dad to Africa. This was news to me, I hadn’t realised that the family wanted Denny to go with them, but he had resisted, and was only allowed to stay with me on the strict understanding he would be a good boy.

But, it was what Alan wrote next that stopped me in my tracks. Yes, Denny most certainly needed a spanking. He, Alan, had spanked him in the past, and here’s what took my breath away, the most recent spanking was earlier this year after Denny had been drunk and obnoxious.

And, Alan, continued, would I mind awfully spanking Denny now for the past two offences. He knew I probably hated the idea and never spanked my own kids etc etc, but, obviously, Alan couldn’t do it himself.

I should, Alan, said, make Denny take down his trousers and underpants and bend across my knee. He then advised that I whack the bare backside until it was a dark shade of cherry. Don’t be worried, he advised, if Denny’s buttocks bruise, they did this quite easily, but the bruises went away after a day or two.

And, the implement I should use:  a bath brush. A bath brush? That idea hadn’t occurred to me, but I knew that the one we had was a flimsy plastic effort that would break in two the first time I whacked it across Denny’s hide.

Alan, finished his email by saying that if I consented, he would send an email to Denny instructing him to accept whatever punishment I chose without fuss, or he (Denny) would be on the next plane to Africa.

Emails flew across continents at the speed of thought and later that day Denny and I were in the lounge of my house. It’s a modern room, dominated by a picture window affording a view of a typical English garden: that is a lawn with flower beds. All very conventional, as was the room itself which had a suite made up of a Chesterfield couch and two gargantuan leather chairs, with footrests and rockers.

None of the chairs were particularly suitable for the job in hand so I brought one in from the kitchen. No arms, a straight back and just the right height for me to take Denny across my knee.

Denny stood in front of me, head bowed, choosing not to meet my eye. I hadn’t realised it until now, but I had never really looked at the boy before and it was as if I saw him for the first time. He was about five-eight or five nine, slim in build, probably a bit of an athlete since he didn’t appear to have enough spare fat on his body to fry a sausage.  With his head bowed, I had a perfect view of the top of his head. He had very dark hair, slightly waved and it looked a mess. It probably cost a small fortune at the barber to affect such a style.

Quietly I told him to look at me and I began to tell him all his misdeeds. He looked at me square in the face and told me he was sorry; he had been a bad boy; he would mend his ways. His open face was almost angelic. I wondered if the girls called him ‘cute’. Butter would not melt in this boy’s mouth. Who would not believe him? I nearly fell for it, but I knew he had probably said all of this before to his dad and the moment dad was out of the way Denny was back in the pub and causing mayhem. Either he was congenitally unable to keep a promise, or he told bare-faced lies. And as boys over the centuries have learned: bare-faced lies can lead to bare-bottomed spankings.

I let him say what he had to say, all the time looking at him standing, hands behind his back, every inch the contrite naughty schoolboy. But there was something a little odd about him. It was the way he was dressed. He wore short trousers about two inches above the knee, tight at the waist (he needed no belt to keep them up) in some kind of military green colour. He wore the shorts with long grey socks pulled up to an inch below the knee. The outfit was completed by a dark blue and light blue checked shirt, with long sleeves and unbuttoned at the neck.

It made him look younger and more boyish than he really was. It also looked like he had stepped out of the pages of history, maybe from the 1940s. He was in all probability dressed in the height of today’s fashion, what would I know?

And me? I’m not quite fifty, thickening up a bit at the waist, but not gone to seed. My hair is receding, but you couldn’t say I was bald. I was dressed as I always am when not at work in brown corduroy trousers with turn-ups; a white shirt with a military striped tie, topped off with a jacket from an old suit of mine where the trousers had long ago worn away and been discarded. Light blue socks and brown brogue shoes completed my ensemble. Come to think of it, sartorially Denny and I were probably made for each other.

The preliminaries were over. I sat in the kitchen chair back upright and feet planted firmly on the ground, just as illustrated in one of the websites I had visited.

“All right let’s get on with this,” I said calmly. I’d read you weren’t supposed to bark out orders like a sergeant-major. Denny looked up at me, with no real change of expression. He was still contrite and not seemingly in any way afraid.

“Please take down your trousers,” I said, maybe taking the website instructions a little too literally. Denny looked down at his midriff and found the clasp that was fastening the waistband of his short trousers and unhitched it. To my surprise the short trousers had a four buttoned fly rather than a zipper. The short trousers fell to his feet. He wasn’t wearing shoes and I could see that he wasn’t sure if he should step out of the short trousers altogether.

“You may leave them where they are,” I said. I noticed he was wearing white briefs, presumably part of the ‘1940s’ look. “Now come here please and bend over my knee.” Denny did as instructed without hesitation. He approached from my right took one step, put his hands forward and leaning against my left leg lowered himself over. I was surprised how heavy he was. Not that he was fat, but I suppose I had forgotten that no eighteen-year-old boy was going to be featherweight in this position.

Denny settled himself into position without instruction. He was clearly more experienced in this situation than me. He placed both palms about three feet apart on the parquet floor in front of him. He leaned forward making me lower my left leg to accommodate him. He wriggled slightly, not in an attempt to escape punishment, but in order to raise his bottom higher, with the groove below his stomach resting on my right leg. I noticed his white briefs fitted him like a second skin, there were no wrinkles. A combination of expensive designer pants and a pert and muscular bottom combined to make the perfect target for a spanking.

But we weren’t ready yet. The spanking was to be on the bare. I learned from the websites that the spanker should always be the one to bare the bottom (don’t ask the lad being punished to pull his own pants down). You had to ‘talk’ the underwear down. That is you grasp hold of the waistband and when the lad realises its bare bum time you say something like, “Oh you weren’t expecting this? Well. I hope you’re feeling ashamed,” Or, “But it’s not a proper spanking unless it’s on the bare.”

I went for the first option. It must have sounded daft to Denny who knew all along he was going to get it on the naked bum.

I took hold of the top of his pants, but with him prone on top of me it was harder to remove them than I expected. I tugged at them until it was clear that I could move the back of the pants down a bit, but if I was going to take them down to the knees, which was my intention, I would need to pull the front of the pants down too. I was beginning to wonder if I should order him to stand up and pull down his own pants after all, when Denny came to the rescue. He lifted his body up enough from my knees to allow me to slide the pants down. Mission accomplished.

And, now I had Denny bare-bottomed across my knee. I am far from an expert on men’s bare bottoms, but I did think something was wrong here. It was just too smooth. The skin was smooth and the bottom round and there wasn’t a hair to be seen. Without thinking I placed my right hand on his right buttock and caressed it. No, I was sure there was not a hair to be felt.

As my hand moved across his bottom I moved the flesh a little and there, hardly visible at first I saw something suspicious. With my curiosity aroused by this I rubbed a little bit harder on both buttocks and it was unmistakable: there were some very faint thin lines running the width of his buttocks. Surely, only one thing could have caused such marks: Denny had been given a caning some time recently and the welts had not quite cleared away. At first thought this was probably not unexpected given Denny’s record as a naughty boy, but caning was abolished in schools here about twenty-five years ago, long before Denny was even born.

I decided now was not the time to ask questions about previous punishments, I had my own task to perform. With my left hand I reached for the tail of the boy’s shirt and pushed it four or five inches further up his back. His pants were resting at his knees and he was naked from there to almost his shoulders, I had my target.

I raised the brush and brought it down on his left buttock, then again on the right. I had learned that you should start a spanking softly and build up a momentum until the whacks were reigning down hard. I couldn’t quite remember why now. I did know that Alan had told me to beat him until he was the colour of deep cherry. WHACK! WHACK! I set about my task.

Denny held his position steady. His bum was resting high on my right leg and his back and head were sloped at a near perfect forty-five degree angle towards the floor. His buttocks were perfectly placed for my aim and I had no difficultly slapping away with the brush. Six on the left, six on the right, then one in turn on each; two at the top and two at the bottom of each buttock.

Denny was taking it magnificently, I thought. His bum was turning a darker red now and his breathing was harder. He was in some pain, I assumed, but he wasn’t about to show it to me. I’d read that once you started the spanking you had to keep on going silently until you were ready to finish. By ‘silently’ I mean you didn’t keep scolding the naughty boy, he might want to be noisy, hollering for you to stop and so on and that was to be expected, encouraged even. But apart from the breathing Denny was taking it stoically.

From my vantage point way above him I looked down at his head. His hair was flopped over his eyes, a fringe falling towards the floor. I saw a silent grimace as my brush hit his buttocks time and again. He screwed his eyes a little in pain, but no sound came from his lips and no tear from his eye.

I remembered what I’d read on the websites: start gently and work your way up to a climax (so to speak). Now was the time to move up a couple of gears. I raised the brush as far above my head as I could and with all my strength brought it crashing down.

Yeowwwwww! Victory. I repeated the move. Again, and again and again. Bruises were forming on both of Denny’s buttocks. Bang! Bang! Bang! Now it was his thighs, then the tops of his buttocks, then the fleshy bit in the middle. Denny was yelping in genuine pain. His legs were kicking out and he was wriggling from side to side across my laps like he was trying to do the crawl swimming stroke.

At last I had him. I just kept on whacking. I thought at any moment he would break free and probably run from the room. But, I hadn’t realised how much he did not want to be sent off to Africa. I whacked him and whacked him. It hurt, he hated it, he was in agony now, but he stayed in position the best that he could.

The buttocks were cherry now – all over, apart that is from the bits that were deep blue with bruises.  Whack! Whack! on and on I went.

He was sobbing now, uncontrollably and it seemed at least without shame. We were on the home straight but not at the finishing line quite yet.

I broke the Internet rule and started scolding him. Whack! That’s for all the people you insulted when you were drunk. Whack! That’s for the people who had to clean up your filth after you urinated in their doorways. Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! That’s for all the police you swore at. Whack! Whack! Whack! That’s for bringing police to my front door and shaming us with the neighbours Whack! Whack! Whack! That’s for all the bad things you have done, that I never got to find out about.

Whack! Whack! Whack! That’s to remind you that I have permission from your father to spank you whenever I feel you need it and if you don’t obey me you’re on the next plane to Africa.

Whack! Whack! Whack!

He was gone. Sobbing into the parquet floor. Broken. I stopped, but I didn’t let him stand. I left him there across my lap, his once lily-white bottom scarred, bruised and blistered. He was still kicking his legs, I’m not sure why. I’d stopped hitting him some time ago.

I left him there a few more moments and let him up. His face was as red as his backside. Snot was running down his chin. Unsteadily on his feet he reached down and pulled up his pants and short trousers.

I sat in my chair the clothes brush still in my hand. How were you supposed to end a session? I couldn’t remember reading anything about that. My father would have walked silently from the room and next day told me he loved me.

I didn’t have to worry about this for long. As soon as he was dressed, Denny was straight out the room and I could hear him running up the stairs to his room.

I rose, picked up the chair and took it back to the kitchen where it belonged. I put the brush in the drawer of the kitchen table and put the kettle on. I needed a cup of tea.

Later, I would email Alan to tell him how it went.

But, I wasn’t sure if I’d mention the cane marks.

 

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The Rooming House

Roger stared at the ceiling. It was a freezing cold night but he was snug and warm under the blankets. Cautiously he ran his fingers across the welts that criss-crossed his buttocks. The pain had gone now, but one or two were still tender when he touched them.

Perce, his boyfriend, lay by Roger’s side, breathing heavily: he seemed to be dreaming. Earlier, when they had made love, Roger could see Perce’s once dark blue bruises were turning a lighter shade, almost turquoise. It would take several days, more than a week possibly, before the evidence cleared of the twelve severe strokes of the cane they had been forced to endure on their naked buttocks.

Upstairs, in the top flat, Higgins, their landlord, slept the sleep of the just; alone in his bed. Higgins had moved in after his wife left him for another man. His children were grown up and making their own ways in life. He was very content to live in the block of flats his late mother had bequeathed to him.

He had never met such people as his tenants. As well as the gay boys, there was Lucy who had a small baby, but no husband. Upstairs from her was Miss Alison, an aging spinster, who apparently was once a successful actress. Higgings thought she was probably very lonely. Mr Weston, who lived in the flat next to the boys, was from the West Indies. Mr Higgins had never met a West Indian before he moved in. Now, he knew many: Mr Weston was a gregarious man and had many friends.

Higgins wondered what his colleagues at school would make of it if they knew about his band of tenants. Gay boys, unmarried mothers and West Indians did not feature much at the grammar school. St Francis was a traditional school: traditional classes, traditional sports, traditional religion and traditional discipline.

Higgins believed in corporal punishment. He knew the cane applied with some force across the stretched bottom of an errant schoolboy was a great motivator for good behaviour. Even those boys who came back for more eventually discovered the errors of their ways.

Higgins had taken an awesome school cane back his flat when he was forced to deal with Sterling. The boy had the flat next to Miss Alison. The aging actress was all alone in life and vulnerable to the advances of the nineteen-year-old charmer. Sterling was not after sex, of course. He wanted the money he firmly believed she had hidden in her flat. It was easy to befriend a lonely person. In no time he was running her errands and sharing cups of tea. When her back was turned he removed her door key and later had a copy made.

One Thursday morning; it was pension day and the only time in the week Miss Alison would be certain to be out of her flat, Sterling made his move. It was a small flat and it only took minutes to search. He went under the mattress, in the tea caddy, behind the drawers in the kitchenette. There was nothing to find. Frustrated, he was half way through the circuit again in case he had missed something when the door eased open. There was nowhere to hide.

Higgins was no fool. He sized up the situation immediately. Despite his willingness to inflict severe pain on schoolboys, Higgins was a kind man. Miss Alison never discovered that Sterling’s friendship was a sham; a trick simply so that he could steal her money.

And, Sterling? Later that day he found himself in Higgins’s flat. It was a straight choice: the police or a thrashing. It was no choice at all, not with Sterling’s record. If the police got involved, he would do time, there was no doubt about that.

Sterling had been fifteen the last time he felt the cane across his backside. It had been four years ago, only weeks before he finished school forever and embarked on his life of dead-end jobs and petty crime. It had not been too bad. Bend over, whack! whack! whack! stand up. It was all over in seconds. He had a bit of a sore bum, but it was nothing to worry about.

Yes, Sterling agreed, rather too enthusiastically to Higgins’s liking, he would take the stick.

“Where do you want me?”

Higgins detected a smirk. Was the boy daring him?

The experienced schoolmaster knew how to wipe a stupid grin from a boy’s face.

Sterling stood nonchalantly, unconcerned about the events about to unfold.

With his anger rising, Higgins tugged open a drawer and pulled out the cane.

Swish! Higgins swiped the stick through the air. Then he smiled. Sterling had for the first time caught sight of the rod that was going to be used on him. It was nothing like the short rigid bamboo stick they had used at his council school.

Higgins grasped the cane which he had chosen to use to inflict the beating. It was not particularly long, thick or heavy, but what made it fearsome was the series of roughly-shaped and hardened knots which decorated every three or four inches of its length. These gave the cane its remarkable ability to bruise boys’ bottoms, leaving marks that might last for a month and making sitting down a delicate and painful business for the unlucky victim. A severe beating would usually split the skin of the suffering boy and bloody his arse as a further reminder of the penalty for misbehaviour.

Sterling’s cocky demeanour vanished instantly. His face paled and he could feel his hair dampen with sweat.

His mouth gaped open, but no words came as he realised there was nothing he could say, except beg for mercy and his pride was not about to let him do that.

Swish! the cane flew through empty air. Higgins pointed the wicked rod at a low armchair.

“Right. I want you take down your trousers and underpants and bend across the chair.”

This time, Sterling did speak. “Wha …?” was all he could say before an impatient Higgins cut him short.

“It is the police or the cane. You choose, but you must do it now.”

Tears were already forming behind the nineteen-year-old’s eyes as mournfully he unzipped his tight loon pants and helped them over his buttocks and left them to slide to his knees. His breathing was laboured as he tucked his thumbs into the waistband of his mauve underpants and sent them in the same direction to meet his loons.

Sterling’s pale face turned scarlet as he realised he was now standing half-naked in front of this old man; a man who in a moment was going to rip his arse to shreds.

“Bend over,” Higgins feigned impatience.

Sterling closed his eyes, took a deep breath and curved himself over the back of the armchair. He was too tall to fit comfortably over the chair and had to bend at the knees. In this position his creamy-white buttocks jutted out behind him, offering a wonderful target for the cane to lash into him.

Only then did it occur to Higgins: despite all his years as a schoolmaster and the countless canings he had delivered, he had never before thrashed a boy on his naked buttocks. And, rarely, had he beaten a boy as big as Sterling (although there had been a time when he had thrashed five of the first XV rugby team and they had all been exceptionally large schoolboys).

Even so, Higgins laid it on with vigour. Sterling’s arse convulsed and he lifted one foot off the floor as the pain flooded from his backside throughout his body. But, he submissively stayed in position, hands gripping the seat cushion with some strength but with his behind still offered bravely for the remainder of the beating that Higgins continued with enthusiasm.

Higgins gave his bruised and now very colourful bottom a further four cuts in rapid succession. The two after that were directed at the crease between thigh and buttock and were laid one on top of the other. Sterling was now bellowing with pain, clenching and unclenching his quivering deeply ridged backside, and working extremely hard to maintain the correct position bent over the chair.

In the nearby flat, Miss Alison turned up the volume of her wireless.

Higgins was a hard and accurate caner and he delivered twelve of his very best, leaving Sterling hugging the chair and holding on for a minute when the landlord put the cane away and sat down.

There was no lecture. There was no need for one. In his own time, Sterling rose from his submissive position. He made no attempt to hide the tears that choked him. Gingerly, he pulled up his underpants and buttoned up the loon pants and without a word he shuffled from the flat and staggered down the staircase to his own room.

Three days later Sterling moved out and Higgins never heard from him again.

2

I think the gay boys Roger and Peace are my favourite tenants. They are so full of vim and energy. I know that probably has a lot to do with the pep pills they take; I’m not naive.

I’d never met any homosexuals before (at least not that I knew of). The boys were not what I expected. I thought homosexuals were all swishy and feminine, as if they were men trapped inside women’s bodies. Roger and Perce are nothing like that; you wouldn’t know they were gay to look at them. Although they are very well groomed; so that might be a clue. They are members of the youth cult called ‘the Mods.’ They have very tidy short hair and wear sharp well-cut Italian suits. Or for ‘leisure’ they wear brightly-coloured pullovers. They also have green Parka coats and ride around on Italian motor scooters.

I don’t think the Mods are gay; but I might be wrong. But there are so many of them, it can’t be possible. The Mods have a rival cult called the ‘Rockers’ who have untidy greasy long hair and wear leather jackets and jeans and ride large motorbikes. The two groups are known to have big battles at seaside towns on holiday weekends.

I don’t think Roger and Perce go out fighting, I’d never seen them with cuts and bruises, until I laid a few of them on the pair myself.

The boys seem pretty respectable. The government decriminalised homosexual acts for men aged twenty-one and over last year so it is perfectly legal for Roger and Perce to be sleeping in the same bed together.

They are mostly good tenants, although they sometimes come home in the early hours and disturb us with their scooters; or they play their music a bit too loud. But, all young people do that; my own sons were the same.

I do have one big problem with them: they don’t pay the rent. Or more accurately, they are late payers, or sometimes they only pay part of what they owe. There is no excuse: they both have good jobs at the John Lewis department store: Roger’s in men’s out-fitting and Perce is in soft furnishings. Between them they earn more than enough to afford the rent I charge.

But, instead of paying rent, they prefer to spend their money on sharp clothes and their motor scooters. I genuinely have lost count of the number of times I have asked them to pay up and the number of broken promises they have made to me.

So, I lost patience with them. They might be twenty-one-year-old adults but they still needed to be taught a lesson in responsibility. All I was asking was that they paid the rent before they spent the rest of their money on their luxuries.

They needed a short sharp shock to pull them up a little, and I knew exactly how I was going to do that.

They are not evil like Sterling, so it would not be right to flog them with the knotted cane I used to rip his backside to shreds. Instead, I collected a stout senior rattan cane from my large collection at school. It was the same one that I used on the five eighteen-year-old rugby players who disgraced the school by getting drunk after a match one weekend. It packs a great punch, especially when I am the one wielding it.

Of course, at school I was only allowed to administer a maximum of six strokes per boy and then only on the seat of his trousers. But in my flats I make the rules, so Roger and Perce were to get twelve each on the bare buttocks.

I gave the boys one last chance to pay me what I was owed. All I got were promises in return; the same as the last time I asked and the time before.

They didn’t seem surprised when I announced I was going to cane them. Nobody in the flats had ever spoken to me about the thrashing Sterling received, but I think my tenants knew what had happened.

I launched into a prepared speech. They could get the cane or they could leave the flats; and whatever they chose to do they would still have to pay me the rent. Leaving the flat was not an option; the law on homosexual acts might have changed, but gays could still be sacked from their jobs or thrown out of their homes. If the boys left my flat they would find it almost impossible to find another place where they could be together.

But, I didn’t want that. I wanted my rent money and if putting a whippy rattan cane across their naked arse cheeks got me that, I would be satisfied.

Meekly, both boys accepted the inevitable. I sent Perce to the kitchen, while I dealt with Roger. I had no idea if either of them had been caned before and I didn’t care. I intended to lay on a sharp dozen cuts that would leave even the most experienced receiver in agony. I was not, as our American cousins are apt to say, blowing smoke here.

Roger could not take his eyes of the cane as I swished a few practice stokes through the air. His trepidation was clear. He was not looking forward to this impending thrashing one little bit. Nervously, he lowered his trousers and pants and bent over the armchair.

He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth as rat-a-tat-tat I swiped six hard stingers across the crown of his buttocks. Then after a pause of twenty seconds to allow him and me to catch our breath, I whipped in another six, this time all in the under curve where the cheeks meet the thighs.

When he rose his eyes were blazing, but he successfully held back the tears. His face was deathly pale, but his neck was as scarlet as his buttocks.

I allowed him to dress and then ordered Perce to change places with him. I had always thought of Perce as a cute little mouse; he was short with dark brown eyes and sticking-out ears. Usually, he had a perpetual smile on his face; but not now.

I don’t know what was going through his head, but unbidden by me, he lowered his trousers and pants and almost threw himself across the chair in his eagerness to offer me his bottom. I had known schoolboys adopt the same attitude; they were arrogant in their belief that nothing I and my whippy cane could do would hurt them. I always disabused them of that idea.

I am pretty sure Perce had never been across a chair before for a caning. I had to instruct him to keep his head low, his bottom high and his legs apart. It took him several attempts before his body was positioned to my satisfaction.

Once he was positioned correctly, I rolled his shirt clear of his bottom. Picking up the cane I swished it a couple of times then stood to his left and gently tapped his pale buttocks. I lifted my arm to shoulder height then let the cane swish hard onto the naked cheeks. Perce gasped as the first stroke landed and he wriggled his bottom.

Perce’s compact but nicely rounded bottom had plenty of give. His chunky buttocks were first compressed by the force of the first blow before springing back as the cane was withdrawn ready for the second strike.

I was still new to the experience of beating boys on their naked bottoms, but I was beginning to see its advantages over caning on the trousers. I could see the strokes as they landed, enabling me to see where they struck, and if I was hitting too hard, or too weakly, to adjust my power.

The punishment on the bare was more painful and of course there was the added humiliation for the boy of having to lower his trousers and present his bottom submissively for the beating.

Perce was unable to contain his distress and gave out a series of loud shouts, not for mercy but simply to release the tension of the mounting agony in his beleaguered backside.

The next swipe propelled a lung-full of breath out of Perce’s mouth, and left him gasping and grunting inarticulately. The cane rose again and landed once more on almost the exact same spot, emptying the lad’s lungs for a second time.

“Last one, boy!” Try to take this one quietly please,” I requested with little sincerity as I cracked a deliberately extra hard stroke down, causing Perce to yell and stand up clutching at his battered bottom. I simply stared as he danced around clutching and kneading the burning flesh of his buttocks.

I brought the two tenants together and lectured them about fiscal responsibility: they must pay my rent. I did not say, but it was implied, that if the money was not forthcoming they would be back over the chair for another thrashing.

….

Roger stared at the ceiling, reliving the events from earlier in the day. If he missed a payment on his motor scooter and delayed buying that Italian suit he so craved, he should be able to pay off his rent arrears. No way did he want to go back over that chair, he thought as he caressed the scars on his buttocks.

Perce beside him was stirring. In his dream, he was in what he imagined was Mr Higgins’s oak-paneled study at the grammar school. The schoolmaster was dressed in an academic gown and he wore a mortar-board on his head. In his hand he swished a cane. Perce, was unbuckling the snake belt of his short grey flannel trousers before lowering them and then his sparkling-white underpants to his ankles, prior to bending forward to touch his toes.

3

Higgins replaced the telephone receiver in its cradle and stared through the window into the darkness outside. It was an intriguing idea and it might just work. But, he did not even know the boy; it had nothing to do with him. It was probably best to leave him alone.

The call had been from Professor Ambrose from Brocklehurst University. Higgins had known Ambrose for thirty years or more, since as a boy the professor had been a pupil at St Francis and Higgins a junior master. Higgins could not be certain but he fancied Ambrose might have been the first boy he had ever caned: the first in a very long line of proffered buttocks that stretched across three decades. The very thought of it made Higgins feel old.

Ambrose was now among other things a senior tutor at the university with responsibility for the pastoral wellbeing of students. He had a problem, he had told Higgins in the phone call and it was a problem he felt certain Higgins could solve for him.

It was Baxter, a first-year student who was going off the rails and if drastic action was not taken immediately the eighteen-year-old boy would become a train wreck.

The story was simple; Baxter had arrived at university after a successful career at a very traditional school; Higgins would know the type, Ambrose assured him. He was, of course, referring to St Francis: traditional classes, traditional sports, traditional religion and above all, traditional discipline. But, at university Baxter had let things slip; seduced by the high-life of Brocklehurst he was neglecting his studies by spending too much time in coffee bars and chasing after girls.

Back home, in his small town in Scotland, Baxter’s widowed mother continued to scrimp and save and neglect herself to pay for her son’s university education.

Baxter had one last chance, Ambrose had said. He could re-sit his examinations in two months’ time, but to be able to pass, he would need to knuckle down to some hard work. Baxter needed an incentive; the knowledge of his poor widowed mother’s sufferings would not do the trick. Baxter would not work hard on his own; he lacked self-discipline. That was where Higgins came in. Would he take the boy under his wing and impose the discipline that Baxter lacked?

Universities faced a problem when disciplining students: there was not much they could do. Young people were not legally adults until they reached the age of twenty-one, so university staff acted in ‘loco parentis,’ that is the university stood in for their parents. But, that only went so far: a professor could not give a boy a damn good hiding when he needed it. Ambrose and some of his senior colleagues lamented that the university had no regulation that permitted them to use corporal punishment. If somebody had swished a cane across Baxter’s backside the first time he skipped a tutorial or failed to hand in an essay, he would not be in this mess.

Higgins sympathized with Ambrose. He had married late to a woman twenty years his junior and his youngest son Horatio was still at university. Higgins hoped the boy’s professors would show the same concern for him if he was not performing. Indeed, if Higgins found out Horatio was slacking, he would take the boy across his knee for a bared-bottomed encounter with the hairbrush: twenty years old or not.

Higgins continued to stare through the window, rain was softly falling and soon there would be a heavy downpour. The room had darkened, but he did not switch on a light. In his mind he weighed up the possibilities.

He had an empty room since Sterling had moved out suddenly; he could easily accommodate Baxter. If the boy accepted the new regime, it would not be too difficult to draw up a kind of contract concerning curfews, deadlines for completing homework and general behaviour about drinking and smoking. The penalty for breaking the contract would be corporal punishment. Higgins knew from a lifetime’s career in school-mastering that corporal punishment worked; he had no doubts about that and it would work with Baxter.

Higgins thought about the boy’s widowed mother and the sacrifices she had made for her son. Higgins owed it to her to save the boy. The boy had lacked a father figure growing up; perhaps now, he could be the father that the boy needed.

Yes, he decided, tomorrow he would call Ambrose and say he would take on the case.

Two days later Alexander Baxter, aged eighteen, first-year university student, stood impassively in the front room of Higgins’ flat. His new landlord had just helped him move his belongings from the university hostel. Higgins noted with dismay the boy had a portable gramophone and a number of records, but no books. To Higgins that summed up the boy’s problem.

Higgins eyed the boy, he was only a few months older than the sixth-formers at his school, but he looked as if he had visited from another planet. His expensively-styled hair flopped over his collar and he wore the tightest multi-coloured ‘tank top’ pullover imaginable. His trousers were equally as tight at the waist and across the buttocks, but the legs flared down into ‘bell bottoms’ that left folds of cloth covering his wet-look shoes.

Higgins had a lecture prepared, but the boy was not listening. Baxter had endured an embarrassing meeting with his professor and he already knew the score. He had not been too surprised when the subject of corporal punishment was raised: he was used to feeling the sting of leather across the palms of his hands. He had last received a beating only a few months previously, when in his final week at school he had let his guard down and had been caught smoking. He was a chronic smoker, but was rarely caught. The two-tailed taws was in everyday use at his old school, but he had thought he had left it behind when he moved to university.

He also knew that punishment by leather strap across the palms was almost unheard of in England. Here the preferred method of punishment was three feet of flexible rattan administered with some force across the seat of a boy’s trousers. Baxter did not like the idea of that one little bit.

However, the boy decided, it was all academic. He was not stupid; he knew he was in danger of expulsion. He was letting himself down and, yes, his mother also. He also had a strange feeling he might be letting Prof Ambrose down as well. He did not know why it was but his senior tutor appeared to be taking a strong interest in him. Baxter was not the only slacker student in his year, but he was the only one to be given this last chance.

Higgins completed his lecture.

“Well, Alexander?”

The boy started. He had not been listening. Had the old man asked him a question?

“Were you listening to me?”

Baxter’s blush confirmed he had not.

“Doh!” Higgins was losing patience with the boy. The sooner he spanked his backside black and blue the better.

Higgins had thought about it a lot over the previous two days. The boy needed a new discipline regime to make sure he behaved well and worked hard in future. But, he could not be allowed to get away with his past slacking. He would need to be spanked immediately, so that he understood why he was here and what his failings were.

Higgins had concluded it would be a spanking and not a caning. Higgins believed in the efficacy of corporal punishment and had no compunction in caning the boys at school, but he used a different method at home.

He had always spanked his sons on their bare bottoms while they lay (or in their younger days were held forcibly) across his knees. This was the appropriate way for a loving father to discipline his sons. At school a beating was more bureaucratic; the boys broke a rule and the regulation stated they should be beaten on the bottom with a cane (“on the seat as normally clothed”, as the instruction from the Department of Education had it). In that way the punishment of the boy by the schoolmaster was quite literally at arm’s length. But, a parental spanking was more intimate. It was almost an act of love with father and son in close proximity with the boy’s bared bottom bouncing across the man’s legs.

Higgins wanted to be a father to Baxter, or Alexander as he would call him, and he would treat him like a son from the very start. He had used a very heavy hairbrush on his own sons, but his wife had taken that when she left. Undeterred, he had visited the Co-operative Retail Store that morning and purchased a large oval-shaped clothes brush that would make a very fine substitute.

“I said Alexander that you will have to be spanked. You are to take down your trousers and your underpants and bend across my knee.”

Baxter’s impassive look cracked and Higgins could see the boy had not been prepared for this.

“I thought Professor Ambrose had explained …” Higgins let the sentence tail off.

“Yes, but …” Baxter was no better at completing his sentences.

“Perhaps you need time to think it over. I do not want to make you do anything that you do not agree to. If you want to stay here with me you will have to accept that I am going to spank you on your bare bottom for all your misbehaviour since you came to Brocklehurst. You must also understand that I will use corporal punishment on you in the future if you do not abide by our contract.

“If you do not want to do this, you may leave and return to the university hostel. But, you should know that in all probability you will fail your examinations and be sent down from the university.”

Baxter was perplexed. He understood corporal punishment and had received it many times at school, every boy did, it was that kind of school. Professor Ambrose had told him he would be subjected to it if he continued to break the rules, but he had not been expecting to be punished for his past actions. But, he understood it made sense that he should be.

Yes, he concluded he deserved to be punished, but not in this way. He expected the strap on his hands, or since this was England, the cane across his bum. But, this old man expected him to take down his trousers and pants and bend across his lap so he could spank his bare buttocks like he was eight years old.

Higgins was reasonableness itself. “I can give you until tomorrow morning to make up your mind. Then, you must either take your spanking or leave.”

I spent the most fretful night. I did not know what to do and I had no one to turn to. I couldn’t go back to my pals at the varsity and tell them what was happening: I’d be a laughing stock. I’m getting my bare little botty smacked. Wah! Wah! Wah!. I’d never hear the end of it.

I stayed in my room all night. It was a great room, much bigger than at the university hostel, with its own little cooker and wash basin. Higgins was going to charge me the same rent as at the university: it was a great bargain. I’d fallen on my feet, except for the very sore bum I had to suffer.

I unpacked my things. At the bottom of my bag were the pyjamas my mother had bought me on the eve of my departure from home. She said my others were a disgrace and I couldn’t be seen dead in them. I don’t know who she thought would see me in my pyjamas. They were a cheap pair, they were all she could afford, made of flannelette with blue-and-white stripes. They could have been worse; the last ones she bought for me had designs of football players all over them. I had never worn the new pyjamas. I considered myself ‘grown up’ now and preferred to sleep in only my underpants, even on very cold nights.

As I unpacked the pyjamas I realised how much I missed my mother. She loved me so much and made so many sacrifices for me. And, how had I repaid her? I went out on the town as often as I could and neglected my studies. Soon I would be sent down from the university and the shame of that would break her heart.

It was not that I was unintelligent, I was brighter than average. When I bothered to do any studying I found it quite easy and I scored good grades. The thing was I was lazy: Professor Ambrose had spotted that. I was my own worst enemy; I had no self-discipline.

I stripped off my fashionable clothes and pulled on the pyjama bottoms. The flannelette material was thick and soft. I didn’t think they still made flannelette pyjamas; surely, the fashion was for cool cotton.  Then I put on the jacket. It was a bit too big for me and when I glanced at myself in the mirror I looked like the small child I had until recently been. I couldn’t help it and I dissolved into tears.

After that, it was an easy decision to make. I had let my mother down and I had let myself down. I was the luckiest boy alive; I was being given a second chance. The next morning, despite the intense humiliation I would suffer, I would let the old man take me over his knee and spank my bare bum.

I think Higgins was surprised when the next morning I knocked on his door and he opened it to see a remorseful pyjama-clad teenager. The jim-jams symbolised to me that I was still not an adult and I needed to be reminded of that. I also thought somehow they represented my mother; they were the kind of clothes she would expect me to wear; not the fashionable cosmopolitan clothes I wore at university.

As I prepared to knock on the door one of the neighbours came by on the stairs; he was short and mouse-like, with shiny brown eyes and sticking-out ears. He beamed at me and I swear gave a wink as he hurried on his way. Something about him intrigued me and I hoped soon we would get to know each other better.

I did not have to say much to Mr Higgins. Once I told him I accepted his terms he was ready to get down to business. He walked to a sideboard, opened a cupboard and extracted a shiny light brown brush. The look on my face must have told him I had not expected this.

“You are too old for me to spank you with my hand, you wouldn’t feel a thing.” I swear he smiled when he said this. It wasn’t an unkind snarl; he was only stating a fact as he saw it. I had no way of knowing the truth of his statement, despite my beatings at school I had never been spanked on the bottom. My father had died when I was very young and my mother never laid a finger on me; not even when on the many occasions that I was spiteful and disrespectful to her. My Uncle Gordon, exasperated at my bad manners, had once threatened to take his belt to my backside if I did not stop giving my mother grief, but although I continued my shameful behaviour he never carried out his threat. I think my mother may have had a word with him.

Mr Higgins pulled a straight-backed armless dining room chair from beneath a table and placed it heavily in the centre of the room. Then, he sat down and spread his legs by maybe two or three feet. In doing so he had created a perfect platform for me to bend across his lap.

I had been awake half the night visualising this scene. I had determined that I would not make a fuss; I would ‘take it like a man.’ But, now the moment had arrived I was not so sure that I could be brave. The thought of taking down my trousers and exposing my private parts to a stranger (to anyone, really) filled me with horror. And, then to lie across his lap and show him my bare buttocks with the crack and everything was beyond any humiliation I had ever endured in my life.

I had not even started to think about the pain I would suffer. The strap whistling down across the palm of the hand had been agonising and I doubted that a beating on the bottom could be worse.

“Come here Alexander,” Mr Higgins’ tone was gentle and in a way that I couldn’t quite understand, this calmed me.

He reached his hand out and gently took the elbow of my right arm. Before I knew it he had guided me across his lap and I found myself face down staring at a dusty and slightly worn carpet. My feet were a little above the ground and my middle was resting on the plateau Mr Higgins had created with his open legs.

Instinctively, I tried to cover my buttocks with my hand, but found that Mr Higgins had positioned me so far forward that it was physically impossible for me to do this. I was soon to discover that Mr Higgins was an expert spanker and he knew how to place a naughty boy across his knees for maximum impact.

I was still wearing my pyjama bottoms, but any hope I retained that this would not by a spanking on the bare was dashed when he gripped the elasticated waist and slowly eased them down over my buttocks as far as my thighs. Then he raised my jacket away from the target area so that I was naked from my shoulders to almost my knees. I did not realise it at the time, but my new master had deliberately spared me the humiliation of taking down my trousers and exposing my genitals to him.

z used otk pyjamas chair sting (16)

I felt a movement in Mr Higgins’ body: he was making his final preparations. Then: I had never experienced such a concentration of pain in my life. The brush crashed down into the centre of my left buttock; I exhaled so quickly that it seemed that I had no more breath in my body. Before I could gulp fresh air into my lungs, the brush landed with equal ferocity on my right buttock. Then it hit the left cheek again; and then the right. Then the left. Over and over again, he whacked his brush into my fleshy globes. There was no let-up; he set up a steady rhythm, spanking each cheek on and on.

My legs kicked out involuntarily and I wriggled my body to the left and right. I must have looked as if I was trying to do the crawl stroke at swimming. But, I was going nowhere: Mr Higgins had me securely gripped around the waist and the angle of my upper body across his knee was so acute that I had no means of escape. I had no choice: I had to lie there face down, bared bottom high, and let Mr Higgins spank the living daylights out of me. When he was satisfied I had suffered enough, and only then, would he release me.

I don’t know how many times he whacked that heavy brush into my buttocks but when it was eventually over and, back in my room, I inspected the damage in the mirror, I could see every square inch of my buttocks from the top where the spine is, across the fleshy globes, into the under curves, where the cheeks meet the thighs and the tops of the thighs themselves, were a mass of dark blue and mauve bruises. At the edges of the cheeks I could clearly see the oval shape of the brush imprinted into my flesh.

From the first whack to a long time after the final wallop hit home I was gagging for breath. I think the fact that I was gasping for air stopped me yelling and screaming with the pain. I was crying copious tears. I had never cried when I got the strap: boys never did. We were allowed to yelp with the pain; that was something we could not control, but any boy who blubbed would have been treated badly. The boys would have called them ‘girls.’ or even something much worse.

Eventually, Mr Higgins released his grip and allowed me to stand. He averted his eyes, so as not to see my cock, as I tugged my pyjama bottoms up. The pain was intense, but even as I stood hopping from foot to foot in front of the man who had punished me, it was turning to a throb that very soon would become a warm glow. I had suffered one heck of a spanking, but Mr Higgins was not a brutal man.

He smiled as I rubbed away at my bum.

“Will I need to do that again?” It was a gentle question. He did not seem to be a demented, angry man.

“No, Sir,” I sniffed. I meant it too. The slate had been wiped clean. I had been punished for all my misdemeanours since I had arrived at Brocklehurst. It was now up to me. Once I had been given time to recover from my spanking Mr Higgins and I sat down (me, gingerly) to agree a contract of behaviour. If Mr Higgins had cause to assault my backside again, I would only have myself to blame.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

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Father Must Be Obeyed

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Put Back Into Short Trousers

z used uniform short shorts (56)

 

Joe crossed the road to his neighbour’s house, walked up the garden path and rang the doorbell.

As he waited for the door to be opened he idly looked through the bay window into the living room. There seated at the dining table he saw Aaron, the neighbour’s eighteen-year-old son. He appeared to be busy on his school homework. But something was not quite right.

The boy was dressed in his school uniform, nothing unusual in that. Joe’s own son Ant was in the same class as Aaron; Joe was familiar with the light blue blazer, white shirt and dark blue and light blue ties the boys wore. But something was different: Aaron was dressed in mid-grey short trousers and long knee socks. They were most certainly not the uniform of Midchester School.

The door opened and Alan immediately saw the puzzled expression on his friend’s face.

“Yes,” he said without waiting to be asked, “We’ve put him back into short trousers.”

The two men went into the kitchen. “Here have a beer, while I go and fetch your power drill.”

Two minutes later Alan was back and telling his story.

“He’s been like it since Christmas. He did really badly in his A-level mock examinations.”

Joe nodded thoughtfully. Ant’s results had been pretty dire too.

“Val and I reckoned he’d been spending too much time away from his books. He would spend hours each evening hanging around the bus stops with his mates.”

Yes, Joe thought, and Ant was almost certainly one of them.

“And we had no idea what he was doing most of the weekend. He was never at home. One thing we did know was that he wasn’t doing his schoolwork.” Alan took a slug of his beer and realising that Joe was not going to ask him a question, he carried on with his story.

“We needed to find a way to stop him going out all the time so we came up with this.”

“Making him wear short trousers?”

“Yes, it was such a simple idea. Val read about it somewhere on the Internet. We took all his clothes and we’ve locked them away. Now, he’s only allowed to wear his long trousers to school. He has to come home immediately school ends and change into his short trousers. We lock up the long trousers and don’t let him have them back until breakfast time next morning.”

Joe nodded encouragement, so Alan continued.

“Now if he wants to go out at night or at the weekend he must go wearing his short trousers and school uniform. So he stays at home. I don’t think he would want to let all his mates see him dressed like that. And they are proper short trousers; they are not the leisure shorts kids wear today. You would never mistake them for that, not even from a distance. They are trousers that are short. Properly tailored trousers. Actually, if you ask me I think he looks rather good in them.”

Joe had always been a practical man so he asked, “Where did you get them? They don’t make short trousers for eighteen year olds do they?”

“You’d be surprised. Ordinary school uniform suppliers often have them. We found them on the Internet. I think they make them large now because so many young kids are fat; obsess even. The ones we got for Aaron fit him at the waist but they are a bit short in the leg; but that’s okay, it just emphasises that he is still a child and not an adult.”

Joe was warming to the idea. “Does it work? Have his grades improved?”

“Yes,” Alan beamed, he really was pleased with himself. “So far, it’s been a total success; he stays at home and gets on with his work. We had to change the password for the wi-fi connection, so when he’s at home he can’t get on the Internet. He’s doing English Lit A-level so he should be reading books, not tossing himself off to internet porn.”

The two men sat in companionable silence taking sips of their beer.

Alan wasn’t sure he should tell Joe this; it might sound a bit odd, but he did. “Oh, and another thing; being dressed as a child reminds him that he isn’t yet an adult. That’s the trouble with teenagers today they think they are grown up when they are not. He needs to be reminded that we are his parents and it is his job to obey us. He should also obey his teachers and all other adults. All teenagers should remember that. If I had my way all boys would be kept in short trousers until they left school, even until they’re eighteen.”

They finished their beers and Joe picked up the drill and made to leave. Would this work for Ant, he wondered. “How did Aaron take it; when you told him he must wear short trousers?” Joe asked.

Alan smiled. He certainly wasn’t going to tell the whole truth. “He wailed the house down. You know the way teenagers do.”

Yes, Joe certainly did, his own son was just like that.

“But,” Alan continued, “He had no choice. We had his long trousers. It’s not like we’ve chained him to the banisters; he’s not a prisoner. He can still go out if he wants, but he has to wear the short trousers and school uniform when he does.”

Joe gave a weak smile, thanked Alan for the beer and returned home deep in thought. Ant was on the road to examination failure; that was certain. Should he put Ant back into short trousers? Would it work for him? Why not, it had worked for Aaron. Maybe he should ask Alan for the Internet address of the school uniform supplier.

Alan sat back down at the kitchen table and cracked open another can of beer. He was very pleased with himself. He and his wife had told nobody about this. They had discussed sending Aaron to school wearing his short trousers; but they knew they would have busy-body teachers (and even social workers) on their doorstep within hours. They would look odd to people in these days of political correctness.

And, they certainly did not, and would not, tell the other half of the story. Alan might tell Joe that it was the short trousers regime that had bucked up Aaron’s ideas; but he knew that wasn’t entirely true. It was the spankings that really did it.

The first time he put a clothes brush across Aaron’s bum, it had not been planned. Alan had told the truth that his son had wailed the house down. At first he flatly refused to wear the short trousers. He had no long trousers, so he lounged around the house in his underpants. Well, okay, Alan had thought, he still had to remain at home; he could not go out in his briefs.

But, Alan had been very taken by the Internet site’s insistence that teenaged boys be put in short trousers to remind them they were still children who must obey their parents. Aaron clearly had not accepted that. Alan endured hours of moaning and pouting from Aaron and then he snapped.

It had not been planned. Alan was sitting in the living room trying to read his newspaper; Alan was nearby pouting and screaming that he would not wear the short trousers. A clothes brush lay on the sideboard. In a flash, without thinking of the possible consequence, Alan grabbed the brush, took Aaron by the back of the head, gripped his hair (it was well overdue cutting) and forced the boy face down over the back of the couch. Then he pressed against the back of the wretched boy’s neck so that he was chewing on a scatter cushion.

Then he unleashed a frenzied attack on the seat of the boy’s underpants. Aaron’s attempted yells of protest were stifled by the cushion and his mouth was soon full of dust. His father’s grip was so strong the eighteen-year-old had no choice but to remain head low, bottom high, over the crown of the couch while his father whipped swat after swat into his tight buttocks.

The pain was intense, but there was no escaping it. He struggled to the left and right but the grip on his neck was too powerful. He was at the mercy of his father: but the irate man was not showing any. In one last desperate attempt to free himself, Aaron kicked out his left leg and caught his father a blow on the shin. Rather than dissuading the older man from his mission to toast his son’s buttocks it spurred him on.

With all the struggling the boy’s honeycomb-coloured pants had slid down his buttock so that the top of his curves were visible. Encouraged by the sight of bare flesh, Alan tugged at the briefs and pulled them further down until they rested bunched below the crease where the buttock meets the thigh. Then with an increasingly furious pace he pounded the clothes brush into the boy’s now naked backside.

His pain, humiliation and the dust from the cushion was taking its toll on Aaron. His breathing was fast and his blood pressure sky high. The pain in his bottom was intense; his father was raining down swat after swat without let up. He was whacking the brush into Aaron’s bum at the rate of eighty a minute.

Spit dribbled from the boy’s mouth and tears and snot cascaded down his face. His protests quickly turned to owwws, and then arghhhhs, through to yelps and finally on to full-throated yells. But, on and on Alan spanked the brush into his son’s bare bottom. Red patches quickly turned to blue and some were going purple. The imprint of the large oval head of the brush was imprinted dozens of times across the boy’s globes.

If he had the breath to do so, Aaron would have been pleading for mercy. He would wear the short trousers; he would obey his mum and dad; he would do anything they asked, so long as his father would stop hurting him.

Not one part of Aaron’s buttocks and the back of his thighs was left untouched before Alan released his grip on his son’s neck. Now free and without waiting for permission, Aaron shot up from the couch, pulled his briefs up and rushed from the room. He took the stairs two at a time, crashed into his bedroom, slammed the door behind him, threw himself face down on the bed and sobbed his guts up. He had been utterly defeated by his father.

The boy wore his short trousers after that and although he still hated his father he knew it was an opinion he had best keep to himself.

The second time Aaron was spanked was altogether different. An essay on Chaucer was graded C, with the comment from his teacher, “must make more effort”. That was enough for Alan; the boy was slipping back into old ways and needed a reminder; a maintenance spanking.

So a dining-room chair was placed in the middle of the room and the brush retrieved from the sideboard drawer. Aaron was summoned from his room. It was no surprise, he was expecting this. On command, he meekly lowered his short trousers and eighteen years old though he was, he bent across his father’s lap to receive his second buttock roasting. No matter how much he would hate this ordeal, he knew one thing was for certain: it was better to accept the inevitable than try to fight with his dad.

 

Picture credit: Unknown.

This story was first published in September 2015

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Waiting for Robert

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Untidy Bathroom

z used otk pyjamas bed brush (2a)

Terry must have thought I was joking when I said I would spank his backside if he continued to leave the bathroom in a mess: because he did it again.

I was hurrying to get ready in the morning, the way you do, and had to step in puddles of water on the bathroom floor, the tub hadn’t been wiped and there was a squeezed toothpaste tube in the hand basin. I was livid. Terry knows I can’t stand it when he is slovenly like this and I have scolded him about it often enough.

Right, if that’s the way he wants to behave it’s time to take this to another level. I picked up the bath brush and went into the bedroom.

Terry was startled when I banged my way through the door brandishing the brush; he’s a smart lad, he knew exactly what was about to happen.

“What have I told you about leaving the bathroom in a state?” It wasn’t the kind of question that needed an answer, but I still wanted Terry to acknowledge his misbehaviour.

Instead, all I got was sullenness. No words, just a slump of the shoulders and a pout. He hadn’t flipped me the bird, but it meant the same thing.

That did it; no more warnings, it’s a spanking for you my lad.

I sat on the bed, grabbed him by the arm and pulled him toward me. “You’re never too old for this.”

With that I pulled him across my lap so that his head and chest rested on the bed, his bottom was over my knees and his legs stretched behind him. I moved my own right leg and pinned his feet so there was no escape.

Usually, I have a great deal of affection for Terry, but he had been getting on my nerves recently. Our relationship was changing; he was becoming defiant and he no longer wanted to accept me as an authority figure; in the kind of way that adolescents often did.

I took hold of the waist of his pyjama bottoms and slowly lowered them, exposing his buttocks for the severe spanking I intended to inflict.

This jerked him into action and he tried to struggle free, but with his legs restrained there was little he could do, but holler, “No daddy, please! No! Please, daddy!”

I looked down upon his quivering naked butt over my lap waiting for me to spank it. “You’ve had this coming for a long time Terence.” I always called him Terence when I was annoyed with him.

Then without further ado, I raised the brush high and whacked it into his left buttock and then the right. I kept up a steady rhythm, like the beating of a big bass drum. The outline of the brush was clearly imprinted in both buttocks after only three or four whacks.

He howled like a banshee and pummelled his fists into the bed. I had spanked him many times before and I knew he was acting up. “Stop squirming, it’s just a spanking.”

Then I hit my stride and now it really did hurt him. Each new swat felt like a flame searing his inner and outer buttocks, inner and outer thighs, and the sit-spots. It took me less than three minutes to break him. Terry’s wails and screams of protest threatened to lift off the roof but, almost machine like, I continued whacking every square inch of his buttocks.

I could see his eyes widen with shock, and his head jerked backwards, as the jolt of each swat radiated into his brain from the intensifying fire I was creating in his bottom.

He kept wriggling and pleading, but I held him tightly. He was going nowhere.

I was in complete control, I would teach the surly brat to obey me in future. I kept peppering his bare, and by now badly bruised, reddish-purple butt with the brush.

“I’m sorry, daddy. Really! Please stop, daddy, I’ll clean up the bathroom, honestly I will.”

He had no resistance left, he screamed and bawled, genuinely now, as he tried to thrash around on my leg to escape his punishment, but it was no use, of course.

He tried to reach back with his right arm, to cover his bottom, but I released my hold on his waist, and simply yanked his arm up into the middle of his back, lifting his pyjama jacket with it.

I am not a brute, my intention was to teach him a lesson and I had succeeded. I stopped spanking and put the brush on the bed beside me, but I wasn’t ready to set him free just yet.

As his crying began to subside to whimpers, I inspected his well-blistered buttocks and thighs; they were red, looked like raw hamburger and were bleeding a bit from dozens of little cuts where the brush bit really hard.

I lifted him up by his waist and stood me on his feet in front of me. “I spanked your bare bottom! I did it because I love you son and I need to teach you how to behave. And, I’ll spank you again if you deserve it, but nothing will ever change my love for you.”

He was jumping up and down in agony, I could see my spanking had left him very sore and he would have difficultly sitting down all day. He said nothing, but gave me a stare that exuded defiance. I could tell this would not be the last time I would have to take him across my knee.

Later in the car I could tell Terry’s butt was still terribly sore as he kept moving from one buttock cheek to the other to try to avoid sitting on a tender spot. He was sulking and not talking to me, but when I dropped him off at his office I knew that during the day he would calm down and that tonight he would find many exciting ways to tell me he still loved me.

Picture credit: Sting pictures

This story was first uploaded in August 2015.

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The Chamber pot incident

Oh my papa

It was thirty years ago

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Over the Boss’s Knee

z used otk chair head (15)

 

“What did I say would happen if you were late to work again?”

I knew I was supposed to say, “You’d give me a spanking Mr Johnson, Sir!”, but I wasn’t going to give the bastard the satisfaction.

But, despite my reluctance to say it out loud there was no doubt I was going over Mr Johnson’s knee for a whacking.

Mr Johnson was the deputy office manager. Only the ‘deputy’ but he ruled the roost and his word was law. End of. He was a real bully.

I’d only worked for the company for a little over a month. I was twenty years old and I’d been out of work since leaving school two years previously. Jobs were hard to get in this town and the money I brought home made all the difference in my family. Mr Johnson might be a bastard, but I needed to keep this job, so I had to do what he said.

“Well Hamilton?”

This time I told him what he wanted to hear. “You said I’d get a spanking Mr Johnson, Sir.” I tried to put a bit of a sneer into the word “sir”, but I don’t think he got the intonation.

I was standing in Mr Johnson’s office. It was portioned off from the main office and the wall between the two was mostly glass. Mr Johnson could see everything that was going on in the office. And, unless he drew the blinds on the window, all the office could see what Mr Johnson was doing.

Mr Johnson stood up and took off his jacket, hanging it up on a stand-alone coat stand.

“Take off your jacket and hang it up.”

I did as I was told.

While I was doing this Mr Johnson took his chair and placed it in front of his desk. I could see through the window that my fellow workers had started to take notice. They knew something very interesting was about to happen.

My fellow workers were all women and considerably older than me, most of them could have been my mum. I was the ‘office junior’ and as far as they were concerned that meant they could treat me as the lowest of the low.

I felt very small knowing they were all about to watch my spanking. Actually, I was very small. I was only skin and bones really.  Not much more than five-feet-five tall and my tiny waist probably didn’t measure more than twenty-six inches. Most people where I lived looked like this. That’s what generations of poverty did to you.

“Stand there,” Mr Johnson, who was as overweight as I was under, snapped his fingers and pointed to a spot a couple of feet to his right.

I did as I was told. Standing there with my back to my work colleagues I realised they were going to get a prime view of my backside as I went across the boss’s knee. The mail boy arrived just in time to catch the show.

Mr Johnson started to scold me about my bad time keeping and my general attitude. I didn’t pay much attention; my gaze was transfixed on the man’s knees. He sat in his dark blue cheap business suit, his legs slightly apart creating a flabby platform where any moment now I’d be lying face down. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought there might be a slight bump in among all the flesh where his cock was poking up.

Without speaking, Mr Johnson reached out and grabbed the buckle of my belt. I instinctively took a step back but, clutching the waistband of my trousers, he pulled me closer to him and unbuckled the belt. I had no choice but to let him unzip my fly and tug my trousers down to my thighs.

I hopped from foot to foot in embarrassment and the movement and gravity encouraged my trousers to slip down to my shins.

“Bend over.” I didn’t. For a moment I did consider making a run for it. Nobody in their right mind would have blamed me if I did, but such an action was unthinkable. If I didn’t do as Mr Johnson demanded, he’d make sure I’d lose my job and I couldn’t do that to my family.

“Over!” I’d never been spanked before and believe it or not I wasn’t quite sure how to do it. I hesitated while I worked out whether I was supposed to throw myself over his body (rather like diving into a swimming pool) or whether I should put my hands on his knees and lower myself into position.

Mr Johnson must have thought I wasn’t going to take my spanking at all. He grabbed me by the left arm and manhandled me across his lap. Instinctively I put both hands in front of me to break my fall and badly jarred my left shoulder as a result.

I was across Mr Johnson’s knees, but not quite where he wanted me. He put one arm under my body and moved me forward a couple of inches. I was light enough and he strong enough to lift me to a spot to his satisfaction.

My face was low on the ground and I was eye to eye with the office carpet. My legs were a couple of inches off the ground and my bottom was neatly placed high in the middle of a mound of Mr Johnson’s flesh.

I couldn’t see this, but my fellow office workers had all left their desks and were stood watching the action. What they saw was a boy bent over an older man’s knees, with his bony bottom pointing up to the ceiling and prepared for a spanking.

I wasn’t to know this (yet) but although this was unexplored territory for me, it wasn’t for Mr Johnson or his staff. He had had many an office boy over his knee in his day and they had witnessed them all.

I felt my face burn red, just as I supposed my bottom cheeks would any time now.

Mr Johnson didn’t say a word as he put one arm around my body to hold me tightly in place. With his right hand he grasped the waist of my underpants and pulled them down over my tiny bottom to rest above my trousers.

Before I could protest the spanks rained down. This wasn’t going to be six slaps and you’re done. He spanked me so rapidly and so hard I could barely catch my breath. His spanks were not delivered from a great height, but were a series of short sharp blows one after another.

My cheeks were burning. I tried to wriggle free, but Mr Johnson held me firmly in place. I wasn’t going anywhere until he decided he had punished me enough.

Slap! Slap! Slap! It just went on and on. It hurt so much I wanted to cry out for him to stop, to say I promised not to be late for work again, if only he would stop spanking me. But, even with this pain I refused to give Mr Johnson the satisfaction.

And then he did stop. It was over. I caught my breath.

“Dolly!”

“Yes, Mr Johnson?”

“Dolly, I don’t think this is getting through to Hamilton, do you have a hairbrush?”

“Yes, Mr Johnson,” and with that she hurried off to her handbag and Mr Johnson resumed his hand spanks on my by now bright red bottom.

Dolly returned with the brush and handed it over. From my position staring at the carpet I couldn’t see Mrs Baker, as I was expected to call her in the office, but I knew damn well she could see me, bared arsed and humiliated.

Bang! Bang! Bang! The hairbrush came down on my arse. Mr Johnson didn’t let up one little bit. He whacked me just as hard with the wooden brush as he had with his hand. The pain was intense and I knew that I couldn’t take any more of this. Tears began to flow easily.

Mr Johnson eased up a bit, but he didn’t stop.

“Will you be late for work again?”

“No sir,” I gulped.

Spank! Spank!

“Do you apologise for all the times you were late before.”

“Yes,”

Spank!

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Mr Johnson, sir”

Spank! Spank! Spank! “Say it out loud. Tell all your work colleagues that you apologise to them for being late.”

I hesitated.

Whack! Whack! A dozen hard spanks in quick succession hit into my buttocks. There wasn’t enough flesh in my bum to absorb all this. My backside was literally black and blue with the beating.

“I’m sorry everyone,” I choked out the words, hating Mr Johnson with every fibre of my body. The bastard bully.

“Do we accept his apology folks?”

He carried on beating me while they decided what to say.

The spanks seemed to go on forever. What’s the matter: were they having a vote on it?

“Yes, he’s had enough”.

It was a man’s voice.

“Let him go.”

It was Mr Grice, the office manager. Mr Johnson’s boss.

Suddenly, he released his grip on my body and I jumped off his lap. Unsteady on my feet, I pulled up my trousers and pants. I know it’s what everyone says, but my bum really did feel like it was on fire. I was having trouble breathing and I knew I had tear streaks down my face.

“Go get cleaned up,” Mr Grice told me.

I didn’t need telling twice I pushed past the both of them and through the small crowd of women spectators and rushed out of the office to the Gents.

What I didn’t see was Mr Grice pull down the blinds in Mr Johnson’s office. Words were being said.

In the toilet I soaked lavatory paper in water and swabbed at my blistered bum. I hate you Mr Johnson. One day, I thought, I’ll be long gone from this company and if I ever meet you then, I’ll make sure that you never walk again.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in August 2015

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Late at the office

Changed Times 4. Global Petroleum

A public service

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Lazy Students Home for the Hols.

z used corner boy in corner from student story (8)

Mr Howard wasn’t prepared for what he saw through the lounge window of his friend and neighbour.

Nineteen-year-old Tristian Miller stood facing the corner of the room, his hands on his head in the classic ‘naughty boy’ position. His jeans were at his ankles and his multi-coloured briefs were bunched up just below his buttocks. His T-shirt had ridden up his back clearly exposing his bared cheeks. They were lowing red hot. Mr Howard could see even at some distance that Tristian had been on the receiving end of a severe bare-bottomed spanking.

Suddenly, the front door opened and Tristian’s father George greeted his dinner guests. The Howards and the Millers were old friends; they went back twenty years at least.

“Come in, come in,” George launched into the traditional pleasantries, but immediately he saw his guests were distracted.

“Oh, that!” he nodded in Tristian’s direction. “He’s just back from university. Come in, I’ll tell you all about it.”

The Howards knew Tristian very well; he was a close pal with their own son Wayne. They had grown up together, played in the same parks, gone to the same school, and now as teenagers they had gone off to the same university together. They even had rooms in the same university dorm.

Mr Miller mixed drinks and when everyone was settled he told his story.

“He got back from university today. It hasn’t been a great success, I’m afraid. I found out he has been wasting his time and my money,” he sighed.

“He spends too much time in the bar or on the sports field, I think. Failed some of his courses, as well. He has to do resits during the summer and if he doesn’t pass them, he won’t be allowed to return to the university.”

Mrs Howard made suitable noises in sympathy.

Mr Miller took a swig of his whisky and carried on, “So, I didn’t have much choice really did I? I’ve given him a damn good spanking. Hairbrush. Over my knee. Pants down.”

He took another swig. “So how did your Wayne get on?”

Neither Mr Howard nor his wife could answer that question. They realised they had no idea what grades their son had achieved in his exams. When they had questioned him about it, he simply mumbled, “Fine” and swiftly changed the subject.

Mr Howard knew how close his son and Tristian were and resolved to interrogate Wayne further on the subject as soon as possible.

“Isn’t Tristian a bit old to be spanked?” Mrs Howard asked. She was not opposed to corporal punishment and her husband at various times in the past had spanked Wayne, but had not for some years. The boy must have been fifteen, the last time he was hauled over his father’s knee for a taste of his bedroom slipper. Actually, now she thought about it, it was when Wayne and Tristian had been caught by a local farmer stealing apples from his orchard. Both lads got stinging backsides that day.

“No,” Mr Miller was certain about this. “He is not too old. The boy must learn self-discipline and if he cannot, and clearly he has demonstrated that he cannot, then I must impose that discipline upon him. It is for his own good.”

Mr Miller loved his son dearly and knew that the blistered backside he was at this moment nursing in the lounge would act as an incentive for him to work harder. Tristian would not want to go through a repeat performance during the Christmas holidays. Eventually, he would graduate from the university and enjoy a successful career. It would be days like this that would ensure his future would be as rosy as his backside currently was.

Twenty minutes later, Tristian, now fully dressed, put his head round the door to speak to his father. His bottom was still sore to touch but he showed no resentment about the humiliating spanking he had been subjected to. He knew he had done wrong and also that his father loved him dearly. It was his own fault; he had let himself and his parents down badly. He had already resolved to pass his resit exams and work harder next term.

“Can I please go out to visit Wayne?”

His father assented, “Yes, but don’t forget your curfew.”

With that the teenager departed and domestic harmony continued at the Miller’s home.

Tristian and Wayne were great friends and they told each other everything. So, only minutes later the nineteen-year-old whipped his jeans and pants down and bent over to show off the damage to his buttocks. Gingerly, his friend traced with his fingers the contours of the brush. The cheeks were a mass of bruises and an oval outline could be clearly seen imprinted in the flesh dozens of times. His entire bottom was swollen and starting to turn black.

“At least it’s not bleeding,” Wayne offered a crumb of comfort.

“Yeah, but it still stings like blazes. At first it felt like I was being whacked with my mother’s steam iron.”

They both laughed out loud. Poor Tristian: nineteen years old and spanked on his bare bottom by his father like he was nine. But Wayne knew Tristian was not alone. Soon his father would discover the truth about his own slacking and there could be only one consequence.

Tristan lay face down on the bed, waiting for his pal to locate the antiseptic cream in the bathroom cabinet. Soon Wayne’s fingers would gently massage the ointment into his firm buttocks.

….

When Mr Miller confronted him about his university studies, Wayne confessed. He wasn’t an especially virtuous teenager but he knew his father would demand to see the written transcript of his exam results and this would confirm his failure.

His father’s lecture was short and to the point. The nineteen year old’s failures were catalogued. His excuses (or lack of them) were heard in mitigation: but to no avail. Wayne knew, and accepted, there could be only one outcome. He had resolved to submit to his father’s will, however humiliating it would be.

His father pronounced sentence: the slipper, over the knee, bare bottom. He looked across at his son and for the first time the absurdity of the situation struck him. The boy was at least six-feet tall, broad shouldered and trim waisted. His white blond hair was longer than most would expect, lush, shiny, brushed back and flowing. Wayne wasn’t a little boy, he was clearly an adult.

Mr Miller pulled a straight-backed chair into the middle of the room and sat down, placing his feet about three feet apart. He would need a large platform for his lanky son to drape himself across to present his bottom to him for the spanking.

It had been one of the hottest days of the summer so far and Wayne wore only the shortest of bright green sports shorts and a garish yellow T-shirt that was a size too large.

“Come here,” his father spoke softly, “Take down your shorts and pants and bend over my knee.”

Despite his resolve to present himself submissively, Wayne hesitated. He stared down at the corduroy-covered thin legs of his father. Why did the spanking have to be over his knee? There was no way he could fit comfortably in that position. It would make more sense to bend over the back of the settee. That way he could point his bum at his father and he would have plenty of space to whack his slipper into his bared buttocks.

“Come on, I haven’t got all day.”

Wayne put his thumbs under the elasticated waistbands of his shorts and pants and with a single movement, pushed both of them down to his knees. Then, in one athletic move he dived across his father’s legs. He was so tall that both his hands at the front and his feet at the back touched the carpet. He had to bend his knees slightly so that his bared bottom was raised sufficiently high above his father’s right thigh to receive the stinging slaps from the slipper.

With Wayne’s shorts and pants at his knees, his father gripped the teenager’s shirt into a ball and yanked it over his back. He was now naked from the shoulders to the knees, revealing a pair of peachy white buttocks that were twitching as they contemplated their fate. Wayne was a swimmer, and his bottom was muscular, without being large. It was pert, and joined smoothly with strong, broad thighs and long legs. He had very sparse, fine blond leg hair, with none on his behind. As his father pushed the shirt up towards the broad shoulders, the tapered torso was revealed, lightly toasted from exposure to the sun.

Mr Miller took a deep breath, raised the slipper and brought it down hard in the centre of Wayne’s bum. The boy let out a yelp and tightened his bottom. His father whacked the slipper down again, this time on the lower part of the cheeks.

The slipper being quite large and the teenager’s bottom quite small in comparison, his father had already achieved good coverage of what he could see. Anxious to avoid spanking in the same place twice if he could, father tipped Wayne towards him and slippered the left side of his bottom and quickly moved him the other way and slippered the right side.

The spanking accelerated, the slipper slapped into the naked flesh harder and faster, somehow always catching Wayne by surprise, finding fresh flesh to sting. His bottom rose and fell and rolled like waves at sea and despite Wayne’s age and size he could feel the rubber-soled slipper toasting his backside. Big red imprints of the slipper covered the whole of his bottom.

Despite his resolve Wayne yelped and struggled but his father held him tight and continued with a steady pattern of spanks.

Wayne felt the downpour of smacks to his bare bottom; they were harder, hotter, faster, and more rapidly biting into his buttocks and thighs. He twisted his head and neck, and leaned back upwards trying to figure out what was branding his bottom. It was his dad’s slipper, slapping blistering smacks onto and into his bum cheeks and inner and outer thighs.

The teenager shrieked, higher and higher in volume and in pitch and his right hand involuntarily left the floor to defend his butt, only to be seized firmly and pulled up behind his back, and held between his shoulder blades for the rest of the onslaught.

Wayne’s eyes alternately squinted and widened with shock and pain.  Worse still were his behind and his pride. He was nineteen years old, yet now found himself overturned, sprawled across his father’s lap. His face was pushed into the carpet, his right arm held up against his shoulders and his feet and legs thrashing and kicking into the air.

Mr Miller continued to pound the slipper across his son’s backside, and despite his protests and wriggling he held him down and continued. After about another three minutes of continuous swats he stopped and rested the slipper across his now frying buttocks.

Wayne was still lying there quivering, sobbing and shaking. His father reached under his chest and gently, but firmly, lifted him up to stand in front of him. The boy stumbled on trembling, wobbly legs, unable to stand still for shaking and shuddering, and jumping and bouncing up and down. He was doubled over and his hands flew to clasp and rub his fiery buttocks and upper legs. He was a grown man, crying like a five year old.

Upstairs in his bedroom, Wayne immediately inspected the damage. His buttocks and thighs were covered in dark blue bruises where every square inch of flesh had been assaulted by the slipper. After a short, fast shower he hobbled back to his room, where he gingerly slid onto the bed on his tummy to avoid any pressure on his tender bottom and rested his tear stained face on the pillow. He ran his hands over his stinging, burning bottom and to his astonishment his soldier saluted. Wayne reached under his stomach and took it in his right hand. With his left he reached over to the bedside table and took a handful of tissue.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

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Warren’s awakening

Home for the half term

Home late

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Uncle Jack

z used after jeans endart

Uncle Jack fumbled with his key, his anger had not calmed. Never in his whole life had he felt to humiliated. All his friends, the neighbours too would be laughing behind his back.

At the third attempt his key entered the lock, he turned it and in a rage pushed against the door. It flew open. He paused to catch his breath. A coat hung on a hook in the hall, still wet. So, Tony was home. Uncle Jack gulped in a deep breath. He kicked the door closed and headed for the sitting room. Deserted. His brat of a nephew must be upstairs. Lying on his bed. Oblivious to what was in store for him.

Uncle Jack surveyed the room. It was quite large for a semi-detached house and sparsely furnished. A sofa and two easy chairs dominated. A hard straight-backed chair that belonged with the dining table in the next room was against a wall. A chest of drawers sat in a corner. Uncle Jack strode towards it and pulled the top drawer. It opened with a tremendous rattle. His temper had still not abated.

He looked inside. Good. He had found what he needed. He reached in a gripped a large, heavy wooden clothes brush. Ideal, he thought. He turned walked back across the room, his heart pounding. He took hold of the straight-backed chair and manhandled it into the middle of the room. He placed the chair on its seat. He was ready.

He walked to the bottom of the stairs, took a deep breath and bellowed, “Tony, get yourself down here. Now!” Uncle Jack stood a little over six feet tall in his stockinged feet. He was broad at the shoulders and flabby at the waist. His arms were strong befitting a man who had spent most of his working life on building sites.

“Tony!” he called once more. “Don’t make me have to come up there!” Uncle Jack’s voice boomed. Tony had been lodging with his uncle for a little over a week. If he had learned anything in that short time, it was not to ignore his uncle. He hurriedly slipped his cock back inside his pants, zipped up his jeans and shuffled to the bedroom door, “Wossup?” he queried.

Uncle Jack’s blood pressure was high, he was in no mood to be messed with. “Get down here and find out. Now!” Tony checked his flies and slowly descended the stairs.

“Get in there,” Uncle Jack swiped his hand across the back of Tony’s head and pushed him towards the sitting room. The nineteen-year-old ducked, raising his arm in defence. “Wossup?” he repeated, “What’ve I done?”

“I’ll tell you what you’ve down,” Uncle Jack’s face was purple. Tony blanched. Whatever it was, it spelt trouble. He stood uncertain, his bright blue eyes shining, his greased black hair sticking out his head at all angles.

“Pissing in the street,” Uncle Jack blurted the words and then stopped dead. Unable to continue. The humiliation was too much. Earlier that day the guys at work has ribbed him mercilessly. His nephew and a gang of louts in the High Street, tanked up with beer, causing mayhem and urinating in shop doorways.

“But Uncle Jack,” Tony blustered. He wanted to say it wasn’t his fault. The pubs were closed, he had a belly full of beer and there were no public toilets open. What was he supposed to do? He wanted to say this but his uncle had started a rant. Shame. Humiliation. Disgrace. On and on, he listed his embarrassment. “And everyone saw you. They knew you were my nephew. They knew you were living with me now. They knew you were my responsibility.” Uncle Jack gulped the words. This was no playacting. He wasn’t putting on the style to show his displeasure. This was genuine. Uncle Jack was mortified.

Tony hopped from one foot to the other. His bright open face flushed with embarrassment. And fear. Embarrassed by his uncle’s openly-expressed emotions; fearful of the old man’s reputation. This would not end well for Tony. Tony’s dad was a weak man, he let his sons get away with ill-discipline all their young lives. Not so Uncle Jack. He believed in discipline; in order. He taught his own sons how to behave. You wouldn’t find them pissing in the streets.

Suddenly, Tony noticed the chair in the middle of the room. It had been moved from its usual resting place. His heart leapt. The heavy, wooden clothes brush rested on the seat. He blinked hard, there was no doubting his uncle’s intention.

Uncle Jack read his nephew’s mind. “It’s entirely up to you. You can pack your bags and leave or you can have a second chance.” He emphasised second chance. It was code for damn good spanking. Tony blinked harder and faster, his brain whirled. He couldn’t move out. He had only just started his job, he had no money. Where could he go? He’d have to give up the job and move back with his mum an dad, fifty miles away. It had taken him nearly a year to find work, he couldn’t go back on the dole.

Uncle Jack believed a spanking should be delivered without any great ceremony. Putting a boy over his knee left him in no doubt about who’s in charge. He picked up the brush and sat down in a straight-backed wooden chair. “Come here,” he spoke softly, “Take down your jeans and pants and bend over my knee.”

Tony froze. He knew he had to go through with this. He must submit himself to his uncle’s will. He had to take his punishment. His brain told him all these things, but his body had other ideas. He stared down at his uncle’s legs and the rolls of fat at his belly. Tony had never been spanked before. How exactly was this done? His uncle seemed so small. Absurdly he found himself wondering, why did the spanking have to be over his knee? There was no way he could fit comfortably in that position. It would make more sense to bend over the back of the settee. That way he could point his bum at his uncle and he would have plenty of space to whack his brush into his bared buttocks.

“Come on, I haven’t got all day.”

Tony’s body woke up. His jeans were tight fitting and needed no belt, so he popped the button at the top of his jeans and pulled the zipper. The front flapped open showing his white underpants. He was surprised at his own calm. Here he was undressing in front of an older man. Baring his backside so Uncle Jack could assault it with a wooden brush. It was absurd.

The jeans trickled down his thighs, he spread his knees and they slithered to his shins. Tony took a deep breath and put his thumbs under the elasticated waistbands of his underpants and with a single movement, pushed both of them down to his knees. Then, in one athletic move he dived across his uncles’s legs. He was so tall that both his hands at the front and his feet at the back touched the carpet. He had to bend his knees slightly so that his bared bottom was raised sufficiently high above his uncle’s right thigh to receive the stinging slaps from the brush.

With Tony’s jeans and pants out of the way, Uncle Jack gripped the teenager’s vest into a ball and yanked it over his back. He was now naked from the shoulders to the knees, revealing a pair of peachy white buttocks that were twitching as they contemplated their fate.

Tony played a lot of football and his bottom was muscular, without being large. It was pert, and joined smoothly with strong, broad thighs and long legs. He had very sparse, fine blond leg hair, with none on his behind. As his uncle pushed the vest up towards the broad shoulders, the tapered torso was revealed, lightly tanned from exposure to the sun.

Uncle Jack sucked in a deep breath, raised the brush and brought it down hard in the centre of Tony’s bum. The boy let out a yelp and tightened his bottom. His uncle whacked the brush down again, this time on the lower part of the cheeks.

The brush being quite large and the teenager’s bottom quite small in comparison, his uncle had already achieved good coverage of what he could see. Anxious to avoid spanking in the same place twice if he could, Uncle Jack tipped Tony towards him and walloped the left side of his bottom and quickly moved him the other way and did the same on the right side.

The whacking quickened, the brush slapped into the naked flesh harder and faster, somehow always catching Tony by surprise, finding fresh flesh to sting. His bottom rose and fell and rolled like waves at sea and despite Tony’s age and size he could feel the heavy, wooden brush roasting his backside. Big red imprints of the oval-headed brush covered the whole of his bottom.

Despite his resolve to take his punishment Tony yelped and struggled but his uncle held him tight, continuing with a steady stream of spanks. Tony felt the downpour of smacks to his bare bottom; they were harder, hotter, faster, and more rapidly biting into his buttocks and thighs. He twisted his head and neck, and leaned back upwards trying to figure out what was branding his bottom. It was his uncles brush, slapping blistering smacks onto and into his bum cheeks and inner and outer thighs.

The teenager shrieked, higher and higher in volume and in pitch and his right hand involuntarily left the floor to defend his rear-end, only to be seized firmly and pulled up behind his back, and held between his shoulder blades for the rest of the onslaught.

Tony’s eyes alternately squinted and widened with shock and pain.  Worse still were his behind and his pride. He was nineteen years old, yet now found himself overturned, sprawled across his uncle’s lap. His face was pushed into the carpet, his right arm held up against his shoulders and his feet and legs thrashing and kicking into the air.

Uncle Jack continued to pound the slipper across his nephew’s backside, and despite his protests and wriggling he held him down and continued. After about another three minutes of continuous swats he stopped and rested the brush across the now frying buttocks.

Tony was still lying there quivering, sobbing and shaking. His uncle reached under his chest and gently, but firmly, lifted him up to stand in front of him. The boy stumbled on trembling, wobbly legs, unable to stand still for shaking and shuddering, and jumping and bouncing up and down. He was doubled over and his hands flew to clasp and rub his fiery buttocks and upper legs. He was a grown man, crying like a five year old.

“Get dressed,” Uncle Jack spoke softly. He watched Tony pull his pants and jeans back to their rightful place. His nephew was still in some distress, clutching the palms of both hands to his burning backside while gritting his teeth.

“You had better go to your room.” Uncle Jack hurled himself to his feet and started to move the chair. Tony didn’t need telling twice, he shot from the room and taking them two at a time, he bounded up the stairs to his room.

Downstairs, Uncle Jack quietly replaced the brush in the drawer. He ambled to the kitchen and switched on the kettle. As he waited for it to boil, he reflected silently: how long would it be before the boner in his pants went limp?

Picture credit: Endart

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In the farmhouse

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com