Fake News #2

z used fake news otk sport chair (12)

Spanking for Fighting Soccer Star

EXCLUSIVE The Daily Globe

Sam Spencer, the nineteen-year-old Premier League footballer caught on CCTV brawling outside a nightclub, has been given “an old-fashioned” spanking, we can exclusively reveal.

Spencer whose fight went viral on social media was taken across the knee of Newton Rovers manager Ron Thwistlethorp yesterday for a bare-bottom tanning.

Thwistlethorp, the no-nonsense Yorkshireman, was reportedly “livid with anger” when told news of Spencer’s late night nightclub visit. Spencer was seen on closed-circuit TV allegedly brawling with two other young men. Spencer was seen yesterday morning at club training with bruising to his face.

Now an insider tells The Daily Globe Spencer has quite a few bruises on another part of his body.

“We have high standards at the club. We expect our players to behave themselves, there is no excuse for this kind of behaviour,” the insider said.

The insider revealed that Spencer, who has scored nine goals in the Premier League this season, was summoned to the manager’s office after training.

“Ron Thwistlethorp is a hard taskmaster. He won’t put up with this kind of behaviour. It doesn’t matter if you are an international star or the lowliest apprentice. They all get treated the same.”

And that meant Spencer, who was called up to the England squad for the vital World Cup qualifying match against the Isle of Man last month, found himself over his manager’s knee staring at a rug.

The insider said, “Thwistlethorp doesn’t do things in half measures. He made the teenager remove his football shorts and underwear. It has to be on the bare, otherwise it isn’t a proper spanking.”

Thwistlethorp used a heavy wooden-backed hairbrush, borrowed especially for the purpose from his secretary.

“It packed quite a punch. Sam Spencer was squirming and yelping long before Mr. Thwistlethorp finished.

“He really let him have it. It wasn’t just some little smacked botty,” the insider said.

One source said Spencer was locked in with Thwistlethorp for at least 10 minutes.

Spencer was reportedly spotted later in the club showers with cherry-red buttocks. “It looks like he sat on a barBQ,” teammate Freddie Fiske Tweeted.

Footage of the spanking recorded on a Smartphone was uploaded to the Internet. By midnight it had received more than two million views.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

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charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The honourable thing

“You cannot say that we haven’t discussed this in the past.” Uncle Simon stood, legs slightly apart, rolling on the balls of his feet. Daniel breathed deeply. This wasn’t going to end well.

Uncle Simon clasped his hands behind his back, it made him seem more imposing somehow. Not that he needed much help. At six-feet-four he towered over his nephew. His shoulders were broad, his arms muscular. He was the eldest of his family, easily ten years older than Daniel’s father. He had always been the dominant brother. Daniel suspected his father was a little in fear of the man.

Uncle Simon’s fleshy face contorted, as if a sudden pungent aroma had seeped into the drawing room. His crisp blue eyes watered. He let the tip of his tongue explore the outer edge of his bottom lip. He too sucked in breath. Then he continued, “I made it perfectly clear when I allowed you to stay that there would be rules. Did I not?”

Daniel shifted uneasily. Yes, there had been rules. It was worse than being back at St. Tom’s. Do this. Don’t do that. Curfews. No drinking alcohol. No visiting cinemas or other places of lurid entertainment. The parlour was out of bounds. Bed by eleven o’clock. Rules, rules and more rules.

Daniel’s head bobbed, nodding assent. His had no words. What was he expected to say?

“You were late home last Thursday,” Uncle Simon spoke evenly, as if reading from a written charge sheet. He paused for effect, as if losing his place on the page for a moment. “I spoke to you about it at the time.” He waited some more. Daniel would know what Uncle Simon had said. He let the import of his words sink in. “And now,” his voice rose slightly, “and now you have repeated the offence.”

Daniel felt his face redden. Suddenly he was hot, but the room itself was decidedly cool – rather like Uncle Simon’s demeanour. He stared down at the parquet floor, ashamed.

“You will be going up to the varsity next week,” Uncle Simon ran the fingers of his right hand through his hair, feeling the stickiness of Brylcreem on them. “You will need to be self-disciplined. Study hard. Perform well. What chance will you have?”

The silence was intense. The tick-tock, tick-tock of the ancient grandfather clock pounded Daniel’s temples.

“Eh boy?” Uncle Simon’s patience like his flecked grey hair was thinning.

Daniel’s top teeth bit into his lower lip. He gurned his face. What was he supposed to say? Did Uncle Simon expect a speech of repentance? Was the eighteen-year-old meant to confess his sins? To invite retribution?

“Pah!” Uncle Simon waved his arms through the air, as if conducting an imaginary orchestra. “This will not do. This will not do,” he intoned. Perspiration began to dribble from his brow. Without thinking, he wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. “Well,” he sighed, as if he had been called upon to carry the woes of the entire world on his shoulders, “let’s get on with it.”

Daniel blinked hard. This was not entirely unexpected. He had broken the rules. He had been warned of his consequences. He had been caught a second time. Punishment was inevitable. He watched his uncle move across the room. It was large and cluttered with furniture. Daniel’s eyes flickered from the heavy leather Chesterfield coach, over to the dark oak dining table, taking in two overstuffed horsehair armchairs on the way. Any moment now he expected the instruction to present himself for punishment draped across one or other of these.

Uncle Simon made his way to a sideboard, hesitated for a second as if trying to remember an important detail. Then, he tugged at a drawer. It stuck hard and Uncle Simon cursed under his breath as he struggled to open it. At last, with a resounding clutter, he did so. He reached inside and ran his hand through the contents. It was the easiest thing to find what he sought.

Daniel watched puzzled. He supposed it would be a swishing. With a stout but whippy rattan cane – just like the ones he had endured at St. Tom’s. But, the drawer was too small to accommodate such a thing. What was Uncle up to? Daniel soon found out. With a look of distinct satisfaction on his lips, Uncle Simon gripped a large ebony hairbrush. He thought better of trying to close the drawer, so  turning on his heels he brandished it at his nephew.

It was about a foot long and the business end about four inches wide. The head was made of dark ebony wood. Instinctively, the tips of Daniel’s fingers brushed the seat of his trousers. Memories of encounters in the nursery startled him. Nanny had been very proficient with one of these.

Uncle Simon glowered at Daniel through narrowed eyes, then turned his attention to his surroundings. He came upon a large dining chair with ornate carvings tucked under the table. “There,” he said vaguely, “that will do.” Then, more forcefully, he said to his nephew. “Take hold of that chair and place it in the middle of the room.” He nodded to an open space near the horsehair armchairs.

Daniel’s heart raced. Could this really be happening? He could tell at a glance that the back of the chair was too high for him to bend himself across. Surely his uncle did not intend ….

His thoughts were interrupted. “Now, if you please. I wish to conclude this before your aunt comes down.” Startled into action, Daniel shuffled the five or six paces necessary to reach the chair. He paused and a little surprised by how damp the palms of his hands were, he rubbed them along the sides of his legs. The rough texture of his trousers scratched them. He reached for the chair and gripping it by the back he lumbered it across the room and plonked it into position. He stood; embarrassed, unsure what was now expected of him.

Uncle Simon watched with interest. His nephew cut a scrawny figure. He was hardly five-feet-seven-inches in his stockinged feet. Clearly, he was a stranger to the rugby field. No part of his body appeared muscular. The boy’s deathly-white complexion attested to time spent in study halls and libraries. His too-long fair hair flopped over his forehead and ears. From a distance and in a certain light he might be mistaken for a girl, Uncle Simon thought unkindly.

Uncle Simon held the brush in his right fist and tapped it into the palm of his left hand. It was time to take action. He strode to the chair and sat down. He spread his long legs wide and shifted his buttocks until he had attained the posture he desired, all the time conscious that his nephew’s stare burned into him.

Satisfied that he was now ready, Uncle Simon snapped his fingers and spoke. “Stand there. Take down your trousers.”

Simon’s already pale visage blanched even more. His uncle intended he should go over his knee for a spanking. “Dash it all,” he thought but did not speak aloud, “that’s not cricket. That’s not how a chap should be punished.” Daniel was an honourable chap. Like generations of boys at St. Tom’s he had grown up knowing the code of conduct. If a chap got found out in some misdeed, he took his punishment, fair and square. That was the right thing to do. A chap took his punishment like a man. But this …..? To take his trousers down and bend over his uncle’s knee? It was not manly. It was the punishment of a child; of the nursery.

“I have already scolded you for dallying,” Uncle Simon scowled. “Lower those trousers.”

Daniel was determined to do the honourable thing. Uncle Simon was his master, he should be obeyed. He wore no jacket nor waistcoat so was able to quickly put his thumbs under the straps of his braces and manoeuvre them over his shoulders. Thus released his trousers, which hung somewhat loosely at his waist, began to slip over his hips. His fingers trembled as he unbuttoned and helped them on their way south to puddle at his shoeless feet. He waited hands held loosely at his side for the inevitable next instruction.

It wasn’t long in coming. “Remove your underwear.”

This was really too much. The humiliation was great. Over uncle’s knee for a bare-bottomed spanking with a hairbrush. Dammit, why didn’t he just invite the housemaid and the footman in to witness the spectacle? At that moment the door behind rattled; Daniel alarmed twisted his head. It was only a gust of wind. His disgrace would go unwitnessed by the servants. He turned his attention once more to the matter in hand. His woollen drawers were held up by buttons and again his darned fingers were reluctant to obey his brain. At last they met with his trousers.

Daniel clasped his hands together as if in prayer and used them to obscure the sight of his private parts from his uncle. The old man professed not to notice, but although he intended to treat him as such, he could see his nephew decidedly was not a little boy.

Daniel stood head bowed. His uncle’s legs were parted some distance and the folds of his tweed trousers cloaked his own manhood. “Come, bend over my knee,” Uncle Simon spoke the words so hoarsely, Daniel did not hear. Only an accompanying hand gesture confirmed to the eighteen-year-old what was expected of him.

This was too much, Daniel thought. What couldn’t Uncle Simon beat him with a cane. He could do it on the naked buttocks if he believed Daniel’s offence warranted such treatment. Daniel would submit. But being spanked on the bared bottom nursery style was beyond the pale. He sucked in breath. He had no choice. He was an honourable boy, he must go through with this. He leaned forward and at first resting his hands on Uncle Simon’s left knee he eased himself down until his body rested across the platform the old man had created. Uncle was so tall and Daniel so small that he easily fitted into position. His fingers stretched out ahead of him and barely brushed against the wooden floor. Behind him his feet dangled in mid-air. His waist rested at an angle against Uncle Simon’s right knee, thereby offering his naked buttocks at a perfect angle to his uncle.

Despite his earlier entreaty for Daniel to get a move on, Uncle Simon was in no hurry. Carefully, he took hold of the boy’s shirttail and rolled it away from the target area up towards his shoulders. He noted his nephew’s hairless back and skinny waist. There was hardly any fat on the boy’s buttocks either. His nerve ends were entirely unprotected. This would indeed be an exceedingly painful experience for the boy.

Uncle Simon lay the heavy ebony-backed hairbrush on the small of Daniel’s back. He wasn’t yet quite ready to start. Instead, he cupped the palm of his right hand and slowly explored the contours of Daniel’s small, pert, buttock cheeks. He stared at the top near the spine and with deft circular motions explored the crest of the mounds, before squeezing the undercurves. Then for the sake of completeness he pat-pat-patted Daniel’s thighs. He could not be certain, but had he detected the slightest purring sound from his nephew as he performed this final task?

Now ready, he picked up the brush once more and gently stroked it over the highest point of Daniel’s right buttock cheek. His nephew’s body stiffened in anticipation of the hurt to come. Smack! The heavy wooden brush slammed with force. It met little resistance and a pink shape, replicating the hairbrush’s head immediately appeared. Daniel gasped but had little time to do more before a second and then a third swipe landed in almost exactly the same spot. He wriggled. It was an involuntary movement, a natural reaction from his body to the pain it felt.

Just as quickly three whacks bounced off his left buttock. The boy’s bum glowed a deep pink. Without hesitation Uncle Simon delivered another six on each globe. Each one of them landing with extreme force. Daniel’s legs flailed and his hips wriggled this way and that. Uncle Simon gripped the boy’s waist with his left arm and leaned his elbow against Daniel’s back. The boy was going nowhere; not until Uncle Simon decided he had been punished enough.

When he thought about it later, Daniel concluded the hairbrush spanking had hurt terrifically. He was no stranger to corporal punishment; St. Tom’s was that kind of school. But the masters there always used a whippy rattan cane. Six-of-the-best was the standard tariff and delivered with the expertise of the experienced schoolmaster it always hurt like billy-o whether trousers were up or down. The cane was thin and whippy and cut deep into the flesh, always causing intense pain and often leaving deep welts that reignited even hours later whenever a punished boy tried to sit. The pain from the hairbrush was altogether different. Its effects were terrible at the point of correction, but the pain rapidly faded into a throb before becoming merely an intense glow.

Uncle Simon was not a cruel man. He believed in discipline and he believed in punishment. He did not believe in torture. It was his intention to blister every square inch of his nephew’s buttocks and thighs, but no more. The pink marks quickly turned deeper red and after a few dozen spanks with the heavy brush a colour not unlike that of a good claret wine had been achieved. Daniel, now more securely pinned by his uncle’s elbow was unable to resist. Not that he wished to. The kicking and writhing had been purely physical reactions of his body of which he had no control. He had been determined to accept his just punishment. Rules had been stated, rules had been broken, the consequence of further rule-breaking made clear, the warning ignored and punishment meted out. Daniel offered no cause for complaint.

At last, satisfied with his own handiwork, Uncle Simon made one final circuit with his hairbrush before landing six stingers across the backs of Daniel’s thighs. It was over. He released his grip on his nephew and watched in awe as the eighteen-year-old staggered to his feet and performed the traditional “spanking dance”, hopping first from one foot and then to the other all the time rubbing the palms of his hands across the scorched flesh of his buttocks. Daniel seemed not to notice his cock and balls bouncing up and down inches from Uncle Simon’s glistening face.

Uncle Simon gave no instruction, but once the pain in his bum started to ease, Daniel bent down and began to pull up his drawers, offering his uncle a perfect view of his battered buttocks and his crack and hole. The underwear was in place in a trice and the trousers soon followed.

Uncle Simon heaved himself from his chair, a little surprised by his own breathlessness. He shook his nephew’s hand when the boy offered it. The way gentlemen do in such circumstances. Daniel with as much dignity as he could muster for an eighteen-year-old boy who had been across the knees of an older man for a bare-bottomed spanking left the room.

Uncle Simon reached inside his trouser pocket and finding a handkerchief pulled it out to mop his soaking head. Sweat soaked the armpits of his shirt and he felt the cotton sticking also to his back. The front of his trousers were tight and he knew he ought to withdraw from the room quickly and return to his bedroom.

Upstairs, Daniel in his own room had lowered his trousers and underwear and was inspecting the results his uncle’s administrations. “Oh well,” he said out loud although he was entirely alone, “I jolly well deserved it. Nobody can say that Uncle Simon isn’t a just man.”

used drawing brush hold (9)

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The punk rocker

z used otk punk rocker brush CS (1)

I cannot believe it is now 40 years since the “Summer of Punk Rock.’’ Queen Elizabeth’s Silver Jubilee. Johnny Rotten and The Sex Pistols: “God Save The Queen, she ain’t no human bean.”

To hear some people talk Punk was a social movement; a revolution. The ideology of punk, and all that. Bollocks!. It was just kids doing what kids across the ages have always done (and still do today): finding new ways to piss off their parents.

My nephew Harry was a punk. Actually, he was a punk in the older sense of the word as well. He was a bone idle layabout. He drifted out of school aged fifteen with no qualifications and by 1977 he was eighteen years old  and had never been able to keep down a job for more than a minute. Not even at the Wimpy Burger Bar. It’s hard to believe but we didn’t have McDonalds back then. To save my sister’s sanity, Harry stayed with me in my council flat in Edmonton (north London) for most of that summer. He thought he was the real deal; Mohican haircut, safety pin in his nose, bondage trousers. For all I knew he and his mates spent their time gobbing at strangers in the high street.

I warned him if he didn’t get himself out of bed and find a job he’d feel the blunt end of my hairbrush. He sneered of course.

Late one evening I got back to the flat after a gruellingly hot day labouring on a building site to the unmistakable aroma of evostik drifting from the living room. Glue sniffing! That was the final straw. There’s a saying that when you find rat in your room you don’t have a discussion with it, you put the boot in. Same with glue sniffing. No discussion. Within seconds I was rifling through the drawer of the sideboard for the hairbrush.

It was no contest.

Harry was only skin and bones and with all my labouring I had muscles on my muscles. I grabbed him by the wrist and hauled him to his feet. He gave no resistance. He was probably a bit zonked out. I called him all the names under the sun as I plonked myself down on the settee and set about undoing his clunky leather belt. The bondage trousers were surprisingly easy to force down, even though they were skin tight. I had to smile to myself then; he was wearing boxer shorts from Marks and Spencer. Not very punk-ish – his mother must have bought them for him.

In one smooth continuous tug, I had him face-down across my knees. That woke him up. He hollered blue murder and I hadn’t even touched him yet. He wriggled this way and the other, but I gripped him tightly around the waist. Let him wave his arms about and kick his legs; he was going nowhere. Not until I had pounded his creamy-white arse black and blue.

It was a pretty standard hairbrush. The bristle end was oval shaped and maybe four inches long. In those days brushes were made of solid wood, not like the lightweight plastic things they sell you today. My brush was perfect for doing your hair but in homes up and down similar ones were also being used to keep recalcitrant youngsters in order.

I remember my abject fear when I first spelt the glue. This was no longer a game. Harry could dress up as much as he wanted and who really cared that he had a ridiculous haircut? But glue-sniffing! That was poison.  The newspapers were full of stories about kids dying by overdosing. That was not going to happen to my Harry. So eighteen-years-old or not I set about spanking his bare bum. I spanked him harder than I had ever done before or since. I lifted the brush as high as my arm would take it and brought it crashing down in the centre of his left cheek with terrific force. A dark-pink oval mark appeared. Within seconds I had tattooed every square inch of his bum, right from the top where it joins the back, over what mounds he had (did I say he was a weedy lad?) and into the underside of his cheeks. He hollered fit to bring the house down. It was a small flat with thin walls and I have no doubt old Mrs. Baker next door would have heard every yell. I did not care. What would she say anyhow? She and people like her walked the streets in fear of punks and their arch enemies the Teddy Boys. Mrs. Baker would probably urge me on in my endeavour.

Satisfied that his buttocks were toasted, I walloped the brush across the backs of Harry’s thighs. He tried to kick but his tight bondage trousers restricted him. It was like he were tied at the ankles. I took a deep breath and hammered the heavy wooden brush with all the force I could muster again and again and again all across his pert cheeks. Never again, I vowed, would he put his nose anywhere close to a can of glue.

His cream bum turned from pink to crimson through to the colour of a Hirondelle wine. He had stopped yelling now, but only because he was too busy coughing and spluttering. He was choked with tears and snot flowed over his mouth.

At last I let him free. He lay on the floor at my feet juddering like a beached dolphin. I let him be. Eventually, he staggered to his feet and pulled up his underwear. He couldn’t quite get the tight bondage trousers above his knees so waddling like a penguin he stumbled to his bedroom.

I locked him in his room for a week. The summer turned to autumn and then it was Christmas. When I saw him at a family party, he had permed his hair, wore glitter under his eyes and had ruby-red lips. He wore a garment that to me suspiciously looked like a dress. So did his boyfriend.

Picture credit: C of Sweden

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Thank you, Uncle Walter

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It started more than forty years ago in nineteen-seventy-four. I was nineteen and Uncle Walter was … well I don’t know how old, but old enough to be my uncle. Dad was a milkman and Mum worked part-time in a supermarket so there was never much money at home. I managed to get a couple of indifferent A-levels and a place on a business degree at a polytechnic.

This will astound modern-day students but in those days we were given grants to study and they didn’t have to be paid back. It was like being given money from Heaven. I didn’t do much work and spent my time drinking beer and chasing (and sometimes catching) girls. Of course, I flunked most of my exams; but such were the days, the polytechnic and the local education authority let me go back and start all over again.

So, I didn’t have much incentive to learn. Until Uncle Walter arrived on the scene. Dad was very weak-willed, but Uncle Walter was strong. He had an iron will and strength in his body, as I was to experience again and again over the next years. He lived about thirty miles from the poly. and arrived unannounced one afternoon at the house I shared with three other idle layabouts.

He knew everything. “Laziness,” he called it. “Bone idle.” “Indolent.” He tore me off a strip. I probably gaped open-mouthed as on and on he went, listing my faults. He paused for breath and then he did something that truly astonished me. He pulled a straight-backed dining room chair away from the table, set it down in the middle of the room and sat down. Then, and even as I write this so many years after the event, I can’t really believe this happened. Then he gripped me by the arm and pulled me towards him. I was dumbfounded and astounded. It happened so quickly. One moment I was standing facing him, wondering what in hell he was doing; the next he had gripped my belt and unbuckled it. He popped the stud at the waistband of my jeans and pulled the zipper. The denims fell to my knees.

Still I had not moved. He tugged my underpants down and the next I knew I was face down over his knees and he was hammering the rough palm of his hand into my silky white buttocks. They were neither silky nor white for long.  I didn’t know what a spanking was supposed to feel like but pretty soon he had warmed up my bum. By the time he was done, it could have glowed in the dark.

I wriggled and I squirmed but Uncle Walter held me firmly at my waist. I had to grab hold of uncle’s leg to stop from toppling to the floor. Wham, bam, splat! He spanked on and on. He was a man with a mission.

At last he let me go. I sprang to my feet and pulled my jeans and pants up. My face was as red as my bum. I was mortified, that someone could just throw me across their knee and spank the living daylights out of me. The humiliation was intense. But it wasn’t to end there.

Uncle Walter had come prepared with a plan. Once I had calmed down, he pulled a document from his jacket pocket. A contract, he called it. It was typed. It looked pretty official to me. There were even spaces for his and my signatures.

It went like this. I had to promise to attend classes, work hard, spend a minimum twelve hours a week in the library and stay clear of the student union bar. I had to guarantee never to get less than B+ in an essay or assignment. If I achieved all of these things, Uncle Walter undertook not to spank me again. If I failed in any or all of the endeavours my arse would be on fire.

“You’ll thank me for this one day,” he said as each of us signed our names. Yeah, right.

I think it was less than a month before I got my next close-up view of the carpet while Uncle Walter battered my buttocks with a heavy wooden brush. Now, I knew the true meaning of pain. Not a single square inch of my admittedly small buttocks was left untouched by that horrible brush. I felt like I’d accidentally sat in scalding bath water. You could have fried an egg on my bum by the time he had finished. I wailed the house down. Thank God it was the evening and my housemates were at the bar. I would have died if they ever found out I was being spanked on my bare bottom by my uncle.

“You’ll thank me for this one day,” he said as I stood hands on knees sobbing my guts up.

Uncle Walter made a habit of visiting me once a week to check on things. Sometimes, my bum went unscathed. My grades improved and I began to discover I actually liked studying. But, I also liked the pubs, my mates and the girls. So, occasionally I found myself over the back of the armchair or sprawled across the dining room table while Uncle Walter walloped a belt or – oh my God how much it hurt! –  a whippy school cane into my bared buttocks.

Just last week I took early retirement from the large metropolitan borough council where I was finance director. After I graduated with a first class honours in business, I made a career in local government. It was well paid – well, in management it was, I’m not talking bin collecting here – and I have a house, a flash car and a place in the country. My pension is brilliant and I can look forward to a very wealthy retirement.

None of this would have been possible without my degree. If I had failed the second time I would have left the polytechnic and probably ended up flipping burgers. A life of drudgery and poverty would have followed. Uncle Walter passed on more than fifteen years ago, so I never had the chance to say, “Thank you.” Thank you for caring, thank you for realising that I had the potential for greatness. Thank you for having the courage to do something about it. And, yes, thank you for giving me the spankings I so richly deserved to guide me on my way.

But, I intend to do more than simply say “Thank you” to a man who is now dead. Later this evening I shall be visited by Kenny. Kenny is a student at the local university. His grades are failing and he is a ship tossing on a stormy sea.

Already, I have placed my heavy wooden clothes brush on the dining room table.

 

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Wait til your father gets home

z used pyjamas otk (4e)

Danny pulls up his pyjama bottoms and sits on the edge of his bed. Waiting. He doesn’t realise he is chewing his fingernails to the quick. “Go to your room, put your pyjamas on and wait til your father gets home,” his mother had told him, so that’s what he is doing.

Any minute now dad will walk through the door, hairbrush in hand. It won’t be the first time, it won’t be the last. Eighteen years old and still being spanked by his dad. Danny stands, crosses the small bedroom and closes the window. He doesn’t want the neighbours to hear. If his pal Kenneth next door ever found out, Danny would be a laughing stock.

He paces the room. Three steps one way and then he reaches the wall, turns round. Then six paces to the other wall. Why does dad do this to him, he wonders. Danny is an adult. He’s been working for two years. He’s too old to be spanked. He knows the answer. Dad’s house; dad’s rules. His way or the highway. Danny’s big mouth got him into trouble. Sassing his mother. Again. This time she has had enough of it. So, “Go to your room. Wait til your father gets home.”

The door bursts open. Dad stands in the threshold, brandishing mum’s hairbrush. There is no polite knocking at the door. This is his house, he’ll go where he pleases. Dad snarls. Mum has told him all about it. Danny steps back. His dad is huge, easily six-four. He towers over Danny. Poor lad s hardly five-six. He takes after his mother’s side of the family.

Danny opens and closes his mouth, wanting to plead mitigation. But, he has no excuses. He is guilty as charged. Rude. Offensive. Insolent. Dad bares his teeth. His face a picture of fury. His dark bushy eyebrows and thick moustache give him more than a hint of menace. Dad doesn’t say much. What is there to say? He waves the brush in Danny’s face, the teenager retreats. Fearful. He has his back to the wall . There is no escape.

“That chair. Here.” Dad nods towards a worn wooden chair. Danny knows what he is expected to do. He carries the heavy chair and plonks it down so that its back rests against the wall. There is just enough space in the room for dad to do his duty. Dad sits on the chair and peers at his son. The boy can’t meet his father’s gaze. He studies his bare feet, noticing his toenails need cutting.

Dad clutches the hairbrush tightly. Its large head is heavy, almost circular. It is as if it was made for spanking. Dad is nearly ready. It might be 2017 but dad lives by traditional values. It is the duty of fathers to guide their sons through the choppy seas of life to adulthood. Too many parents these days fail their children. They let them run wild. Give them no boundaries. And, look how they turn out. Not, Danny. Mr. Knight will not allow that.

“Bend over,” he slaps his thighs for emphasis. Danny looks from the ground and stares wide-eyed. His father is huge and he is small. The old man’s legs are as thick as tree trunks. He has parted them wide to give his son the perfect platform for submission. The muscles in dad’s arms are huge, they ripple as he holds the brush.

All saliva drains from Danny’s mouth. The room is hot now the window is closed. His knees tremble a little. Dad slaps his thigh once more. Impatiently. Danny draws in breath. It won’t do to keep dad waiting. He step forward and hurls himself across dad’s legs, like a diver going into an icy pool. His arms hardly stretch beyond dad’s left knee, his legs dangle in the air behind him. His bottom rests in the gap between dad’s knees.

Danny stares ahead of him, his shock of blond hair failing into his eyes. He concentrates on the poster of Manchester United that is stuck to his wall. He closes his eyes. Then opens them again. Then closes them. Contemplating the agony to come. He feels dad grip the elasticated waistband of his pyjama bottoms. He knows dad always does this this but still a shockwave travels his body. This is too humiliating, he thinks. But, the baring of the bottom is one of dad’s rituals. “There,” he seems to be saying, “Don’t you feel ashamed of yourself? Having your bare bottom spanked.”

Dad pulls the pyjamas down just enough that two buttocks are exposed. He is nearly ready, but not quite. Gently, he takes the end of Danny’s pyjama jacket and pushes it half way up the eighteen-year-old’s back. He is presented with an area of hairless flesh. Danny’s cheeks are round and fleshy, but firm. They were made to be spanked. They clench and unclench. They always do. Dad grips his son across the back with his left arm. Danny turns his head, trying to look over his shoulder at his dad, but the old man has him locked tightly.

Smack! The brush hammers into the centre of Danny’s left cheek. Then another strikes the right. Dad admires his handiwork. Two deep-pink circular marks are imprinted in his son’s bum. Danny’s fair skin reddens easily. Whack-whack-whack. The heavy hairbrush rises and falls. Danny’s legs kick. It is a reflex action, he can’t control himself. As more swipes rain down into his unprotected buttocks, Danny’s body weaves left and right. He holds on to his dad’s legs to stop himself tumbling to the floor.

Dad continues to snarl as he whacks the brush on and on. Deliberately he smacks Danny across the back of the bare thighs. Hard. That gets his son howling. Good! dad thinks; a spanking is supposed to hurt otherwise what’s the point? Danny is yelping with every whack that hammers into his bare bum, but he is not crying. He used to shed bucket loads when dad spanked him. Now, he has a higher level of self-control. It took a lot of practice. He will not let dad see him cry, not today, not ever.

Dad is strong, he can go on spanking all night long. Every square inch of Danny’s buttocks and thighs has been toasted. There is no virgin flesh for dad to attack. So he goes round the circuit again, slapping his brush into already tender flesh. The top of the buttocks, the crest of the mounds, the tender under-curves and the thighs; none of it is missed. Satisfied that he has whacked it all, dad goes round one more time.

Danny holds on to dad’s leg or dear life. He can’t breathe too well and his temples throb almost as much as his backside. Sweat is soaking his pyjama jacket. He can’t take much more of this.

Suddenly, the door opens. Mum is standing watching her husband tan the tail of her son. She thinks dad is doing a good job. That will teach the brat not to be sassy in future.

“Your programme is about to start,” she tells her husband. It is an ordinary conversation, you would not know Danny was lying face down across his dad’s knees having his bottom blistered.

“Alright, I’m coming,” dad says. He whacks the hairbrush at maximum force six more times across the very centres of both cheeks. Then he releases his grip on Danny, who stumbles from his dad’s knees and lies on the floor gasping for wind, like a beached dolphin. Dad steps over him and with his wife leaves the room.

Danny struggles to his knees and then is fully standing. He dives onto his bed, buries his face in the pillow and sobs his guts up.

 

Picture credit: Does anyone know this artist? I see his work all over the Internet, but have never discovered his name

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Drunk last night

used brush drunk last night

Jack raised his face to the shower head and let the warm water cascade across his forehead and down his nose. He spluttered as accidentally he swallowed a mouthful. He wetted his hair, then allowed the water to run down his spine. He bent forward and soaked his arse crack. He was coming back to life.

It had been a heavy night. They had had nine maybe ten pints, he couldn’t remember. Pissed as farts. “Bladdered” they called it. Some people even said, “We caned it.” Huh! Perhaps, not the best term to use in the circumstances, he reckoned.

His head was clear now. Nineteen year olds had remarkable constitutions. They could be legless at two in the morning and running to catch the bus for work at eight. There was no work today as it was Saturday. Usually, he would have a lie in. Snuggling under the duvet wanking himself raw. Not today though. He had an appointment and woe betide him if he were a second late.

He stepped from the shower, reached over for the towel and wiped himself down. It always took an age to dry. He laughed out loud when he saw the old films on telly, when Elvis Presley or some other has-been steps out of the swimming pool gets handed a towel and is ready to go in seconds. Some hope. It always took Jack hours just to get his cock and balls dry.

He wrapped the towel round his waist, opened the door slightly to see the coast was clear and satisfied that it was he dashed across the landing into his bedroom. Damn it, he silently cursed. His undercarriage was still damp. He set to work again.

At last he was ready to dress. It was the height of summer and already the day was hotting up. A tee-shirt and shorts should be enough. He scrutinised his naked body in the mirror. There were two hairs near his left nipple; he’d need to shave before the weekend was over. His cock and balls were tidy, he never shaved but he did give them a trim now and again. It was Sex in the City that put him on to it. One of the old dames in the TV show took scissors to a guy she was about to give a blow job. Jack could see her point, she could be gagging on hairs all night.

Was he good looking? He was never sure. His skin was smooth and he rubbed in body lotion every day. He was about average height and build. He never worked out. He didn’t see the point, he already had a well-defined chest and his hips and waist were narrow. If he went to the gym he’d turn into a Muscle Mary, then everyone would think he was gay and how would that get him laid?

He glanced at his watch, three minutes to nine. He needed to get his skates on, he mustn’t be late. He opened his closet door and reached in for a tee-shirt, then he stepped into a pair of briefs before tugging on his shorts. He paused a second, maybe it would be wiser to wear heavy jeans. In the circumstances. Ha! He snorted out loud. Who was he kidding?

He straightened his shirt so it hung over his shorts, drew in a deep breath and opened the bedroom door.

He knew Uncle Matt would be in the lounge room. Jack had been drunk as a skunk when he bounced off the walls at two that morning, but not so far gone he couldn’t feel the full wrath of his uncle. Curfew missed. Second time in a month. The lounge. Nine o’clock. Get to bed. That was the gist of it.

Uncle Matt was waiting, as Jack knew he would be, dressed as if for the office. Despite the sweltering day in prospect, he wore a jacket and a tie, tightly knotted at his throat. He sat on a hard, dining room chair and by his side on a table was a heavy wooden clothes brush.

Jack paused at the door, heart thumping. This was hardly unchartered territory for him. His uncle had made it clear from the first day Matt had arrived. “It’s my way or the highway.” He meant he had rules. They had to be obeyed. You broke them, you got your arse blistered. You didn’t like it, “Ship out Mister.”

“Well!” Uncle Matt sneered, “What are you waiting for?” He could be a man of few words. He knew why Jack was here. Jack knew too. What more was there to say?

Except. “Come here. Take down those shorts and pants. Bend over my knee.” Swift and to the point.

Jack chewed his lip. Paused. Then waited some more. He should argue his case. He was nineteen years old. None of his mates would be going over their dads’ knees this morning for a bare-arsed spanking. So, he had gotten drunk. They all did it. Where was the harm?

Jack formulated the word in his head. But, what was the point. “My way, or the highway.” It couldn’t be clearer.

Uncle Jack wriggled his buttocks on the wooden seat of the chair and spread his legs a little further. He snapped his fingers. “Get on with it,” he growled, “we haven’t got all day.”

Actually, Jack thought, he did have all day and he wouldn’t mind one little bit if they took all the time in the world.

“Now!” It was a bark so sharp it startled Matt. In seconds he was across the room and standing by Uncle Matt’s side. He was a foot or so from his uncle, looking down at the middle-aged man’s powerful legs. The creases in uncle’s grey worsted trousers were so sharp you could cut your finger on them.

“Doh!” Uncle Matt had lost what little patience he had. He gripped the elastic waistband of Matt’s yellow sports shorts and in one tug had them at the teenager’s knees. His underpants snagged and bunched at the undercurve of Matt’s buttocks. Uncle Matt paused, looking at his nephew’s cock and balls poking over the top of the mauve cotton briefs. He scowled and sent them south to meet the shorts.

Jack flushed deep pink. It didn’t matter how many times his buttocks were bared for his uncle’s administrations, nor how often his cock and balls were on display, Jack could never get used to the humiliation. A grown man, half-naked being prepared to go over uncle’s lap for a sound bare-bottomed spanking. Who would ever believe such a thing possible?

“Bend over.” Uncle Matt preferred Jack to present himself submissively for punishment. It was as if he were saying, “I know I have broken your rules and I know I should be punished. Please spank my naughty bottom. Thank you, uncle.”

In his dreams that was how Uncle Matt saw it. It was true the first time he had ordered his nephew to prepare himself for punishment, he had refused and there had been an unseemly fight. But, resistance was futile. Jack might have been a fit eighteen-year-old at the time with all the strength that entails, but Uncle Matt was an experienced operator. The lad was face down over the back of the couch with his right arm pressed into his shoulder blades before he could say Jack Robinson. His shorts and pants were at his knees in a trice and the clothes brush was already blistering his backside. Round One to Uncle Matt.

There was no Round Two. Jack’s buttocks and thighs were toasted. Three days later he was still wriggling around when he sat on a hard dining room chair. Lesson learned: submit to Uncle Matt’s will, it is less painful in the long run.

The lesson was well learned. That was why Jack now eased himself across his uncle’s lap. He was not a tall boy and he fitted rather well. Uncle had parted his own thighs by about two feet, offering his nephew a perfect platform to present himself. The teenager’s stomach rested against uncle’s left thigh and the lad’s legs stretched behind him; his legs slightly bent and his toes brushing the deep pile Axminister carpet.

His arms reached forward and Jack’s palms rested firmly in the carpet. In this position, he had a close view of its ugly yellow-and-brown pattern. If he chose to, he could look under the chair and see his own feet, now covered by his shorts and underpants.

Uncle Matt wasn’t quite ready to go. He gripped Jack’s tee-shirt and although there was no need to do so since it wasn’t anywhere near to the teenager’s bared buttocks, he pushed it up towards his shoulder blades. Jack was now naked from his shoulders to his feet.

Uncle Matt cupped his right hand and gently rubbed the palm over Jack’s smooth skin, tracing the lad’s tan-line. He was almost entirely nut-brown; only a small portion around his buttocks was still the original white. The boy had been spending a little too much time in the sun wearing only skimpy swimming trunks.

Jack shut his eyes tight. He hated it when Uncle Matt “felt him up”, he knew the old man could see right into his crack. That was why he had spent a little extra time in the shower making sure it was sparkling clean. Jack felt his uncle’s body move. He couldn’t see, but he knew he was reaching across to the table to take up the heavy, wooden clothes brush. Any moment now the onslaught would begin.

Uncle Matt fingered the brush. It was about ten inches long and maybe three at its widest. A pal had given it to him when they were at university together. It had seen some action in its time, but he would be hard pressed to remember when it had last been used for its intended purpose.

He gripped the handle tightly and patted Jack’s bare bum with it. The teenager’s bottom was taut and stretched across his uncle’s knee it was as hard as a rubber ball. There was certainly no “give.” The term “buns of steel” might have been made for Jack.

Whack. The first stroke connected in the dead centre of Jack’s left buttock. A deep pink oval mark immediately appeared. Jack’s bum always reddened easily, it only took a slap of Uncle Matt’s hand to make it glow.

The second whack landed in the centre of the right cheek. Jack sucked on his bottom lip. It hurt. Like crazy. There was something special about the heat that a wooden brush could cause. It was a different pain from a flexible bedroom slipper or a cane. Jack would know; he had felt them all at one time or another. A heavy wooden brush applied with some effort across a bared backside left a burning sensation, like someone had pressed a hot poultice into the flesh.

Uncle Matt had a spanking technique he had perfected since his early twenties. It was all in the wrist action. Some people would raise the brush as high above their shoulder as they could reach before bringing it crashing down into the bum. It looked pretty spectacular, but a lot of the downward force was lost as the brush travelled over a distance. It was much better to keep the brush only a few inches above the bum and using wrist action wallop it across the naughty boy’s hindquarters. A golfer would probably be able to explain the technique better.

Uncle Matt raised the brush and brought it down on his left buttock, then again on the right. He had learned that you should start a spanking softly and build up a momentum until the whacks were reigning down hard.

Jack held his position steady. His bum was resting high on his uncle’s 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 his uncle’s aim and he 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.

Jack wasn’t a howler; he didn’t cry either. He would shut his mouth by biting on his bottom lip. It stopped him yelping, but sometimes he bit so hard and so deep the pain in his lip lasted much longer than the ache in his backside.

Uncle Matt wasn’t deterred by his nephew’s stoicism. He knew a bare-buttock spanking with a heavy wooden brush hurt like hell. Jack’s bum was always red and raw and so hot you could probably fry an egg on it by the time Uncle Matt was finished.

Jack’s bum was turning a darker red now and his breathing was harder. He was in some pain, but he wasn’t about to show it. From his vantage point way above his nephew, Uncle Matt looked down at his head. His hair was flopped over his eyes, a fringe falling towards the floor. He saw a silent grimace as the brush hit his buttocks time and again. Jack screwed his eyes a little in pain, but no sound came from his lips and no tear from his eye.

The heat of the bare-bottomed spanking travelled from the buttocks and up and down Jack’s legs. The pain was intense as each successive slap connected with his flesh. The pain disappeared almost immediately the brush moved off his bum only to be replaced by more pain as the next crack hit its target.

Then it was over. Suddenly, the spanking stopped. Uncle Matt released his grip on Jack’s body and the teenager rolled off his uncle’s lap and landed on the carpet. The teenager’s cock and balls were on full display. Uncle Matt professed not to notice. Jack pulled up his underpants and stood up so he could return his shorts to their rightful place.

Uncle Matt stood himself and put the brush back on the table. He looked immaculately dressed. A stranger could not tell that over the past five minutes or so he had delivered to Jack the spanking of his lifetime. Not one hair on his head was out of place. No perspiration dampened his body.

Jack rushed from the room, took the stairs two at a time, crashed through his bedroom door and threw himself face-down on his bed where he cried piteously into his pillow.

Uncle Matt left the room, slipped out of his jacket and hung it on a hook in the hallway. Then, more sedately than his nephew, he ascended the stairs and made his way to the bathroom. There, he ripped down his trousers and pants and set to work on his raging boner.

 

Picture credit: End Art

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com