Six of the best seasonal stories


santa hat on spanked bottom bbfc

For those of us who like their stories with a seasonal flavour, here are six of my favourites from previous years. Click on the titles.

 

Better believe in Santa Claus

Lucas Lomas is a stroppy teenager and the magic of Christmas means nothing to him. There is no such person as Santa Claus he tells his kid brother — but is he right?

used drawing santa otk brush (2)

Approved-School Santas

Inmates at a school for young offenders are forced to show Christmas spirit to a group of orphans, but greed gets the better of them.

 

The Morning After the Night Before

Tony’s bad behaviour spoiled everyone’s Christmas Day. His friend Tony knows how to deal with that …

used drawing christmas otk CS (20)

Only Three Thieving Days to Christmas

Ben McKenzie works at a supermarket where he decides to steal bottles of booze to give as Christmas presents, but then his boss finds out …

When Santa Claus was caned

Three old men play Santa at a school’s Christmas party. All is well until silver trophies go missing.

used when santa was caned title (3)

The School Dance

The Christmas school dance always gets out of hand. More so when two horny virgin boys are enticed by the girls from St. Winnie’s.

 

z used school cane pants chair (19)

Picture credits: British Boys Fetish Club / Alan Paul / C of Sweden / Hotspur / Sting Pictures

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

 

The morning after

new story 2

zused after bed naked messy (3)

Scott buried his head in the pillow, it still ached terribly, but the pain in his backside was easing. His stomach was churning and he feared he might be sick at any moment. His bed smelt rancid; close to his nose was a chunk of scrunched up toilet paper, soaked with his own spunk. All around him were filthy underpants, a damp bath towel, a shirt worn for three days and then dumped.

Gingerly, he reached behind him and with the tips of his fingers traced the contours of his buttocks. They were tender around the edges, but the crests of the mounds themselves had the consistency of leather.

He groaned quietly, trying to piece it together. What the hell had just happened? There was a distant memory of the student union bar. They had been smoking weed all afternoon. Then there were “snakebites”, an especially potent beer combination. Then what happened? And, how the hell did he get home?

Downstairs in the kitchen his dad struggled to raise a mug of tea to his lips; his hands trembled. He couldn’t get them to obey his brain; it was like he had Parkinson’s Disease. His wife sat opposite him at the table. “You did the right thing, Tony,” she sipped her own tea. He looked back at her doubtfully. “He’s had it coming for a long time. What did he expect?” she tried to console him.

Dad gave up his struggle and put the mug down, slopping a quarter of its contents over the laminated table top. His eyes were blazing, his heart hadn’t stopped thumping. He had only just regained his breath. He looked across at his wife, silently pleading.

“He’s been off the rails for months,” his wife rose from the table and placed her mug in the sink. “We’ve been on at him for ages,” she turned on the tap and watched it fill the washing-up bowl. “You did warn him what you’d do,” she turned around exasperated. “And if you hadn’t been a wimp for so many years, he wouldn’t have got like this,” is what she wanted to say. Of course, she stayed silent.

Dad stared at his wife’s large ebony hairbrush that was on the table, almost reproaching him. He shuddered, then shook his head violently as if trying to dislodge a memory from his brain. He had been out of control upstairs. It scared him.

“You not drinking that?” his wife picked up the mug and took it to the sink. She returned with a damp cloth in her hand and wiped up the spillage. “You did the right thing, Tony,” she brushed her hand against his shoulder as a comfort.

“I know, I know,” he whispered in reply, but he didn’t mean it. He glanced at the clock on the wall. “Look at that, nearly one and he’s still in that pit of a bed.”

His wife, at the sink, her back turned to her husband, frowned, “And you’ll do it again, the next time as well.” And, she knew there would be a next time. Her Scott had not learned his lesson just yet.

Dad stared down at the table top, his hands had stopped shaking and his heartrate was back to normal. It was over. For now. Until the next time.

It had been going on for months. Ever since Scott went to the university really. Unlike so many kids his age he hadn’t gone away to university, he wasn’t going to give up his home comforts. The university’s halls of residence couldn’t compete with that. Although he lived at home he enjoyed the life of a debauched student. A little to freely. Mum and Dad doubted that he did much actual studying; he seemed to be high or drunk most of the time. He never cleaned his room, hardly ate meals Mum had cooked and disrespected his parents like … well, like a teenager.

Dad was not a strong disciplinarian. He never raised a finger to any of his boys as they grew up. The older two had left home years ago and were making good, honest lives for themselves. It was only Scott who had fallen by the wayside.

Dad discussed it one night in the pub with a neighbour pal. He was astounded (but also comforted) to learn his pal’s son was just as bad. Or, had been just as bad. “A damn good spanking,” his pal had said. “A taste of the leather belt,” he had continued. “Across the bare arse,” he concluded. “No trouble since.”

It turned out Alan (his pal) had to belt the boy on more than one occasion, but it did the trick. Dad told his wife about it. She agreed with great enthusiasm. She had the perfect thing: her old wooden hairbrush, an heirloom from her grandmother.

They were together when they told Scott. It had been a one-sided conversation. Dad said something like, “If you don’t buck up your ideas, I’ll spank you.” Scott jeered, “Yeah, right,” and stormed from the room. That had been last weekend.

“He can’t say he wasn’t warned,” his wife dried her hands on the tea towel. “Don’t fret so much over it, Tony.”

And Scott couldn’t. He rolled in the house at two that morning and rolled was the appropriate word as he bounced off the walls and practically on hands-and-knees climbed the stairs to his room. Almost certainly he did not hear his Dad’s words following him, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Of course, he would see Scott in the morning, as he did each day. But this time see you in the morning had a different meaning. He meant, “I’ll spank the living daylights out of your bare bottom, young man.”

Dad had an uncomfortable night. Boats had been burned. He had announced to his wife, and to his son himself, his intended action. He couldn’t back down now. He would loose too much face. He was supposed to be the man of the house. His word ruled. He would be a laughing-stock. He had to go through with it. He lay awake imagining. His son was nearly nineteen; he was a drunkard but he was a fit, strong drunkard. In any kind of tussle, never mind a fight, he could knock Dad on the floor. Scott was hardly likely to meekly offer up his backside (bared or otherwise) for a spanking.

Way into the night Dad stared at the ceiling, irritated by his wife snoring beside him. But, before he drifted off into a troubled sleep, he had a plan.

It was way past midday, the brat was still in his stinking pit of a bed. Dad paced the living room. He should take the initiative. His wife vacuumed around him. The noise cut through him. She switched off the  machine and put a hand in a pocket of her apron. “Here,” she said quietly. She handed him her grandmother’s hairbrush. He took it and was surprised by its weight. It was about fourteen inches long, including the handle, and the end with the bristles was about four inches wide and oval shaped. Absent-mindedly, he tapped it against his open palm. His wife had been right, this was a marvellous spanking tool.

“Go on,” she egged him, “Better get on with it.”

“Yes,” he was timid, reluctant. “I suppose so.”

With heavy steps and heavier heart he tramped up the stairs, rehearsing in his mind his plan of action. He hesitated outside Scott’s bedroom door. There was no sound from inside, he must still be asleep. Dad took three deep breaths to steady himself. Oh, how he did not want a fist-fight with his son. He eased open the door, the stench of sour body odour overwhelmed him. He stood, gripping the brush in his right fist. His son lay face down on the bed, farting gently. Dad’s stomach turned; he couldn’t be sure if it was disgust or nerves. Scott was sound asleep and completely naked. Dad paused, inspecting the room, a slight smile might have crossed his face. This might be possible after all.

His plan had been to take Scott by surprise, somehow haul him across his knee and then batter his backside with the brush as best he could. It was a good plan, it would have worked. It needed the element of surprise.  He watched Scott’s back rise and fall in rhythm with his breathing. The teenager’s body was almost completely hairless. Dad had never noticed that before; was it natural? Did he shave himself? He shook the questions from his head. This was a chance too good to miss. Almost on tiptoes he walked further into the room until he was by the bed and towering over his son. The boy was out of it, oblivious to his surroundings. Dad would never get a better chance.

In one continuous movement, he leaned forward, stood on one leg, put his other knee across Scott’s shoulders, gripped the brush tightly, raised it high and brought it crashing down across the very centre of Scott’s left buttock. That woke the boy up. “Whaaaaa!!” it was a screech both of pain and terror. Dad pounded the buttocks with a ferocity that surprised him. “Noooo!!” Scott’s legs buckled. He tried to wriggle free but Dad’s weight on his prone body had him pinned down. His arms flailed, he tried to twist and turn so he could rain punches but each one missed by a mile. He was restrained as effectively as if he had been tied to the bed with ropes.

“Drink. Drugs. University. Mother. Meals. Hotel. Washing.” Dad was wailing himself, incoherently as he hammered the brush into Scott’s hard, meaty buttocks. The once-creamy flesh quickly turned deep pink, the brush bouncing up and down leaving imprints of the oval head behind. In no time the whole of Scott’s backside shone red.

“Waa, gerroff, waa!” Scott made no more sense than his Dad. Now fully awake he knew for certain what was going on. This was the spanking Dad had threatened last week. Later, when it was at an end and he was nursing his wounded pride, Scott would reflect that Dad wasn’t such a sucker after all. But that would have to wait. For now, he had to endure his Dad’s wrath. The agony was awesome. His bum glowed red hot. Every time the brush hammered into him a fresh ache would radiate from the cheeks and travel up and down his legs. His bum was aching even more than his head.

Dad whacked on and on, battling the strength of his son who even after fifty, sixty, seventy wallops continued his fight to escape. Sweat poured down Dad’s back, the effort was killing him, but he was a man possessed (by what, he didn’t know. It scared him). Bang, bang, bang! The brush splattered into the boy’s flesh. Dad was mesmerised by the thudding sound it made.

Then he was dimly aware of another noise. Not the sound of Scott’s howling, nor the drumming of the brush. This was coming from a distance. From behind him.

“Ok Tony, he’s had enough. You should stop now.” It was his wife. She seemed so far away. “C’mon, love, give it here.” She reached out her hand. Dad looked at the brush in his fist; dazed, mystified, wondering how it had got there. He glanced down at his son trapped beneath his knee, as if seeing him for the first time, the crimson buttocks pulsating . Shamefaced, he meekly passed over the brush.

“C’mon love,” his wife breathed quietly, “Let’s go downstairs, I’ll make a nice cup of tea.”

 

Picture credit: unknown

Other stories you might like:

Public Birching

Be Home by Eleven, Not Half-Past Twelve

The Scotch Whisky Mystery

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Two cousins in need of spanking

new story 2

z used twosome pants cheeky boys (21a)

“Doh! Pah! Bah!” Bill Briggs was exasperated, “They’re like a couple of little kids,” he sipped on his hot coffee and flapped his hand at his brother Ben. “What they need is a damn good spanking. Mine is definitely going over my knee.”

Ben flushed, unable to hide his embarrassment. He sipped thoughtfully at his own Nescafe.

By “mine” Bill meant his son William; it was up to Ben what he did about his own boy, John. “A bloody good hiding’s coming his way.”

“Well …” Ben was doubtful and said so. “But they’re both eighteen, ain’t they a bit old for that sort of thing.”

“Pah!” Bill was no to be dissuaded, “They’ve shown they are not adults. I ask you. Climbing up onto the roof of your house and firing catapults in the air; someone could have been killed!” He paused, catching himself in a exaggeration, “Well, injured anyway,” he trailed off, taking another swig from his mug.

Ben shrugged, this was a conversation he did not want to have. Bill was determined, “They’ve been arsing around all summer. I mean they set the hosepipe off during the barbecue, you can’t say that wasn’t deliberate.” Ben nodded sagely; his brother was right on that one. Ben was one of those who got soaked.

“And,” Bill was on a roll now, “They were chasing Old Mrs Willow’s cat with that damn slingshot thing,” he paused for effect. “That deserved a spanking on its own.”

Ben was unsure. His brother had always dominated him, ever since they were kids. He didn’t want to be railroaded into something now. “But,” he peered into his now empty mug, “A spanking, that’s a bit severe isn’t it?”

“Ha!” Bill roared, incredulously. His brother was such a wimp. “I’m no talking about tying him up to an A-frame and flogging his bare arse until the blood runs down his legs.” He stared at his brother wild-eyed. “Just a spanking. I’ve got a heavy hairbrush. I’ll take him over my knee, pull down his pants and wallop him until he’s so rosy, he’ll glow in the dark.”

“But …” Ben couldn’t find the words he needed. Bill filled in the gaps. “Don’t worry, it won’t be the first time he’s been over my knee.” He grinned, “Probably won’t be the last either.”

Ben stood up and walked over to a sideboard and opened a drawer. He pulled out a large, wooden clothes brush. The head was about nine inches by four and oval-shaped. “The very thing,” he said holding it in his right fist and patting it menacingly into his left palm. He looked across at his brother, now glowing pink with embarrassment.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to batter him. It won’t be brutal. Just a tanning so he gets the point. Bring him up sharp. Put him back on the straight and narrow. A couple of dozen on his bare bum should do the trick.” He whacked the brush into his palm with some force, savouring the burning sensation. “What do you think? I’ll do yours if you want.”

He left the offer hanging in the air and moved to the door, he put his head into the hallway and shouted up the stairs. “William! Get yourself down here!” After ten seconds there was no sound of movement. “Now! Don’t make me have to come up there!” He waved the brush in the empty hallway. Upstairs a door opened, a head appeared over the banister of the landing. “Wor?” William halted the protest he had started when he saw the brush in his Dad’s hand.

“Down here now.”

“But Dad, I’m not dressed.” William stood in his white Y-front underpants and singlet. “Pah! Don’t mind that,” his dad growled, knowing his lack of clothing made his intended task that much easier. He was greeted by the sound of stockinged feet pattering down the stairs. “Get in here!” Dad gripped his eighteen-year-old son by the arm and pulled him into the lounge. William blushed scarlet, he was a fit, athletic boy, easily as tall, but a lot thinner, than his dad. He could have broken free of his grip, told his dad where to get off and returned to his room. It never occurred to him to do that.

William was not an evil person; but he was a rascal. A scamp. He was on the cusp of adulthood, but often (too often if truth be told) he was immature and unthinking; a child. He still needed a father’s hand to guide him on the rocky road to maturity. And, sometimes that hand had to be applied with great force across his pert bottom.

Bill released his grip on his son, who stood, face reddening, staring at the carpet. He knew why he had been summoned downstairs. He didn’t need it spelled out; but Bill listed his many misdeeds anyway. William bit on his lower lip; this could end only one way. Soon, his dad confirmed that. He pulled a straight-backed dining chair into the middle of the room, and without ceremony sat down on it and spread his legs. He waved the brush in his right hand. “Come here, son. Bend over my knee.”

William had been here before; he knew the drill. There was a certain ritual to his father’s spankings. He would not resist. But, this time it was different. Dad always spanked him in private, not even his mum was present, not even when he was tanned for his rudeness and inconsideration towards her. Uncle Ben was standing in the corner of the room watching. He would have a perfect view.

Ben stood uneasily, hopping from foot to foot, unable to mask his discomfort. Should he stay or should he go? Why couldn’t he make up his mind? “Come on son, over my knee,” Bill’s command put an end to the indecision. William shuffled a pace forward, stood about a yard to the right of his father and paused. He sucked in a lung full of air and in one continuous movement he leaned forward. In a moment he was perfectly positioned for the spanking he richly deserved. His arms were stretched forward so that his fingertips brushed against the carpet. His toes hovered an inch or so above the ground. His groin rested on his dad’s right thigh so that his cotton-covered bottom was raised and presented at an angle of forty-five degrees.

From his vantage point, Ben had a perfect side view. William waited patiently for his dad to begin. His face was scarlet (as it should be since blood was rushing to his head). The boy’s fair hair was short and remained undisturbed, a testimony to the properties of Brylcreem. His eyes were open and he stared down at the patterned carpet inches away. No further word was spoken. Bill rested the brush on his son’s back and with both hands now free he gripped the elasticated waist of the white cotton Y-fronts. Without instruction, William lifted his body slightly so his dad could slip the pants over his buttocks and down his thighs. He left them in a bunch at his knees. Then, for no practical purpose because it was already clear of the target area, Bill pushed the vest half way up his son’s back.

Ben surprised himself by noticing how clear and smooth William’s skin was. His lower legs displayed tufts of fine, fair hair, but the lad’s bottom and back were completely hairless. He watched his brother grip the handle of the heavy wooden brush tightly, then he tapped it gently across the very centre of his son’s left buttock cheek. It was round and firm and there was no “give” in the flesh, not even at its meatiest peak. Bill raised the brush as high as his arm would allow and brought it cracking down into his son’s bum. A dark pink imprint of the oval head was instantly embossed in the creamy-white skin.

Ben saw William’s eyes close tight as the brush impacted his bottom, then they opened wide. He blinked furiously, but otherwise gave no sign that his bum was blazing. The brushed tapped the right cheek before Dad set that one on fire too.

Ben had no idea what a spanking should look like. He had never touched his own boys and had no personal experience of being draped over an older man’s knee. Instinctively, he knew his brother was an expert. It took about six swats to cover the whole buttocks area. It didn’t take much doing; the brush was large and William’s bum relatively small. The pattern of the oval head was reproduced on the undercurves, the peak of the mounds and across the tops.

Determined than no square inch of bum should remain untoasted,  Bill went around the circuit again. And again, and for good measure one more time. I’ll take him over my knee, pull down his pants and wallop him until he’s so rosy, he’ll glow in the dark – Ben recalled what his brother had said earlier. He was a man of his word; William’s bum was shining.

The teenager himself was taking it rather well. His face was bursting bright red and his head nodded up and down and from side to side as he absorbed the pain that travelled from his raised backside down through his legs. His heart pounded and his head throbbed, but he showed little outward sign of his distress. Ben wondered if his own son John would be so impassive.

Bang-bang-bang. Three final swats pounded into the crown of William’s buttocks. “That’s it,” his dad said, unemotionally. “Get up.” Ben watched the teenager spring to his feet, his hands rubbing away at the sting in his bottom. The boy’s cock bounced. Then he bent down, gathered his pants from his feet and returned them to their rightful place. His dad waved the brush in William’s face. “Will I have to do this again?” he asked, all hints of rancour gone from his voice. “No, Dad,” his son replied with a confidence he didn’t really feel. He could not be sure if Mr Hargreaves from down the street had yet reported his broken window.

“Alright,” his dad smiled and patted his son on his bottom. “Go upstairs and ask John to come down.” He waited for William to leave before turning to his astonished brother and handing him the brush. “Your turn, I think.”

 

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

Put back into short trousers, aged 18

Don’t borrow Dad’s car – encore

Late home from a date

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Coffee morning

new story 2

z used after corner (13)

“Welcome, Christine, how are you?,” Madge Axford opened the front door wider allowing her neighbour into the house. “So glad you could come at short notice.” She beamed and turned towards the back room. Christine Blanderford stopped in her tracks, her face flushed, her hand raised automatically to cover it. “Oh my,” she gasped.

Madge smiled, “Yes, he’s why I called you all together,” she said primly. Christine stared, mouth gaping, through the open door to the lounge. She knew she was blushing (probably profusely) but she couldn’t divert her attention away. Facing the window by the corner, his hands firmly placed on his head, was Christine’s 22-year-old son Michael. His trousers and underpants were at his knees; his t-shirt was ridden up his back. His bare bottom glowed red. “What a big round bottom,” Christine kept her thoughts to herself. “And, so soundly spanked!”

They bustled into the back room, Christine somewhat reluctantly. “I’ve got the kettle on, but let’s wait for the others to arrive before we have tea,” Madge pointed to a chair, “Please, sit down.”

Christine spluttered, “Is it because of …?” she couldn’t quite frame her question. Madge was unabashed. “Yes, I assume all the world and his wife knows about it?” she said mildly.

“Well, I read about it in the Brocklehurst Bugle.”

Madge nodded vigorously. “Yes, that’s the first we knew too. He didn’t warn us,” she shook her head, determined not to be defeated by her son. “In court. For drunkenness and using insulting words. Of course, the moment we saw it Norm was on the phone, ordering him back home. We are not putting up with that kind of behaviour.” She sighed deeply, “He got here this morning.”

Christine nodded with approval. She had no children of her own and believed that young people were a menace to society. She blamed the parents. No discipline. Well, it seemed that didn’t apply to Madge Axford.

“So …?” Christine said, anxious to hear the details.

“I think you can see the answer to that,” she nodded in the vague direction of the front room. “Norm was having none of it. It’s a public disgrace of course. I said we would never be able to hold our heads up again in The Avenue. Well, he said, we should let people know we won’t stand for this behaviour from Michael.”

Christine nodded sagely. “So,” she said again, to encourage Madge in her tale.

“Well,” she said eager to share the experience. “Norm tears him off a right strip. ‘No son of mine can behave like this,’ he tells him.” Her face flushed, her admiration for her husband knew no bounds. “So it had to be a spanking, didn’t it?”

“Oh,” Christine felt her own face redden. She remembered Michael’s meaty buttocks on public display in the next room.

“I have this very old hairbrush. It’s made of ebony or some such. Really heavy. The head is about this size.”  She steepled her fingers and made a large oval shape with her hands. “Very effective in the spanking department, if you get my meaning.”

Christine’s throat was suddenly dry. She hoped tea would be served soon. Madge continued. “Norm is the head of this family. He says to Michael he might not live at home any more but he still comes under Norm’s jurisdiction. His rules, you know?”

Christine leaned forward in her chair. Madge continued, “Norm says, ‘It’s a spanking for you my lad. One that you won’t forget in a hurry. I’ll make sure of that.’ Next thing I see Norm has one of the dining room chairs in the middle of the room and he sits down and says to Michael. ‘Trousers and pants down. Right down. To the ankles,’ he says. Michael just stares at him, his mouth gaping like a goldfish. But Norm waves the brush about and tells him to get on with it. So down they come. Quick as you like.”

Christine’s imagination raced. She had witnessed the young man naked from the rear, what was he like from the front? Her thoughts were interrupted by Madge, “So he goes over Norm’s knee, just like a naughty little boy. Michael’s quite a size and you know Norm’s really a bit small, but that didn’t matter. He just put his head down to the carpet, raised his behind high and so Norm could spank his bare little bottom. Well,” Madge gabbled in her over-excitement, “he fair pounded him. He was right, he won’t forget it in a hurry.”

She stopped for breath. Christine was a little short of wind too. The vision of Michael (whose bottom was far from little as his mother described it) over his father’s knee being soundly spanked with a heavy ebony hairbrush would stay with her for a long time. “Where’s Norm now?” she said to break the growing silence.

“He told Michael there’d be one spanking for the drunkenness and another for the swearing. He’s gone to Harris’s in the High Street to buy a cane. You know the whippy ones with the curved handle they use in schools. They’ve become quite in demand now they’ve changed all those laws. Seems like everyone’s buying them,” Madge said.

Christine nodded, she had heard that. Even young adults were getting their backsides tanned. Good job too, she thought.

“I’ve invited a few of the gang from the Conservative Women’s Alliance over,” Madge looked at her watch, “they should be here any moment. Norm said we shouldn’t hide away. He wanted people to know how angry we are with Michael and we won’t let him get away with such behaviour. He’s going to give him a right good caning and you’re all invited to witness it.”

The doorbell rang and Madge shuffled through the passageway to answer it, leaving a very flushed neighbour spluttering into her handkerchief.

 

Picture credit: unknown

Other stories you might like

Brocklehurst Crammer

Waiting for Robert

First day at St CIGS

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A startling conversation

new story 2

Tom peered across at his roommate stretched out on the bed opposite. “Have you ever been spanked?”

Jake stared up at the swirling ceiling, “What do you mean?”

“What do I mean? Spanked.”

“What like …” he trailed off, unable to think of an example.

“Like, come here you naughty boy, bend over my knee. Smack. Smack. Smack.”

“Oh.” A long pause. “No, I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so?”

“No.”

“Isn’t it something you’d remember? Pushed over the back of the chair. Trousers taken down. Walloped with a belt.”

“Oh, I see.” Jake closed his eyes to stop the room moving around.”

A long pause.

“Of course, they can’t cane you at school. Not anymore. Not for years, actually.”

“No?”

“They used to do it all the time. Six-of-the-best on the arse, y’know.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” A very long pause. “Years ago,” Tom sighed wistfully.

Jake risked opening his eyes again. The room seemed a little steadier now. He turned and rested on his elbow. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you asking?”

“Why not?” A very pregnant pause. “I want to spank you.”

Jake snorted. “Spank me! Why what have I done?” he rolled on his back in fits of giggles.

“You don’t have to have done anything, but it’s better if you have.”

“Better?”

“Yes, if you had been naughty,” he gagged a little.

“Oh ….”

“Have you?”

“Have I what?”

“Been a bad lad?” A long pause. “Missing lectures. Drunk. You pissed in that shop doorway the other night.”

Jake couldn’t control the giggles, “I’ve been a wery norky likkle boy.”

“Good, then you should be spanked.”

“No thank you!”

“Go on, it’ll be fun.”

“Fun! You’re blasted. No way!”

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”

“Yeah right! You try it.”

“Alright, come here.” Tom hauled himself from the bed and lurched across the room.

“No, no, I was joking,” more giggling.

“You should be spanked.” Tom gripped Jake by the arm and forced him to his feet. Tom stumbled back onto the bed, his buttocks bouncing on the heavy mattress. He pulled his roommate face down across his knees and slapped the palm of his hand hard into the seat of his heavy cotton shorts.

“Geroff!” Jake wriggled and writhed, his piercing giggles rebounding around the tiny dorm room.

Tom spanked on and on. “Nah, this is useless. You can’t feel a thing.”

“I can! I can!” Still giggling. “Ouch, ouch, ouch.”

“Get up.” Tom helped Jake to his feet. Satisfied that he wasn’t himself about to topple to the floor, he reached across to a shelf and grabbed the clothes brush there. Then, in a single movement he pulled Jake back over his knees and dragged him so his legs were spread out across the mattress.

“That’s more like it,” Tom sang. “Now let’s get these shorts down.” Jake gave no resistance as Tom bared his bottom.

“It’s not a proper spanking unless it’s on the bare.” He bounced the wooden brush into Jake’s chubby buttocks.

“Ouch, ouch, ouch,” the cries were genuine this time.

In the room next door, Ted’s ears pricked up at the sound. And shortly after, so did his dick.

z used youngsters skaterspankdotcom (4)

Picture credit: Skaterspank dot com

Other stories you might like

Changed Times 4. Global Petroleum

Bend over. Touch your toes

The thieving window cleaner

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The Smiling Boy

z used face by Cat Bounds (15)

Archie Louden knew the boy was trouble from the start and it would end in tears.

It was all the fault of that infatuated vicar. He had a scheme to help “deprived youngsters” and against his will and his better judgement Archie agreed to let the boy into his home.

He could do your cleaning, laundry, vacuuming and so on, the vicar had assured him. It annoyed Archie that the vicar thought he was a vulnerable person in need of the church’s assistance.

“This is Dean,” the vicar gushed, clearly smitten by the twenty-year-old man with the sparkling hazel eyes and dazzling smile he brought to Archie’s house.

“Deprived?” Archie, thought, a “villain” more like. He could smell it on the boy from a mile away. The boy, an expert manipulator, had the vicar wrapped around his little finger. It was the eyes and the smile that did it. It was a warm smile that could melt the iciest of hearts, Dean knew this: he had practised it often enough in reform school. The smile could sell a lot of toothpaste.

Archie lived in a large house; he had been alone since his divorce twenty years previously. He children were now grown up with kids of their own and Archie lived the life of a lonely bachelor.

It was not that he wanted to be alone; in fact he only went to church because of the widow across the street attended. Archie was not the least interested in religion and he did not need the church’s help in cleaning his house. If he did, he would employ a cleaning lady.

Dean worked hard on his “bubbly personality.” Unlike so many youngsters his age, he was completely free of tattoos, and kept himself clean and tidy. He had a certain working-class character that Archie recognised; he was very like the cheeky chappies who used to work at his catering business before he sold it off; they always had some scheme going on.

Right from the start, Dean came on to Archie. A rich old bachelor, he thought, ripe for the taking. Archie was no fool; he could see that Dean made every excuse to point his backside at him while he did the vacuuming and cleaning. His jeans were not tight, not even snug, but they fitted him well, Archie smiled to himself, Dean was trying a little too hard.

Later one night after dining in an expensive restaurant with the widow, Archie thumbed through the banknotes in his wallet. Something was not quite right; some money appeared to be missing, but he could not be sure. He was not a poor man and the money left in his wallet was more than enough to pay for the meals. Had he spent the money? Was he getting forgetful in his old age? He had been to the grocery store, the fishmonger and the greengrocer earlier in the day; perhaps he had spent more than he remembered.

Archie thought no more it until the next visit from Dean. Money went missing again. He was almost certain of it. After Dean’s third visit, Archie called the vicar. He had set a trap for the boy. Archie had counted the money in his wallet before Dean arrived and marked each banknote with a small cross in pencil just below the Queen’s chin.

Archie was furious. He confronted the interfering vicar. How many times had Dean stolen from people before? Had he stolen from poor people who could not afford it? Were they going without meals or heating because of this lout?

“You must search the boy quickly before he spends the money,” Archie demanded.

An hour later the vicar phoned back to confirm what Archie already knew: Dean had the marked notes in his pocket.

“I’m calling the police,” Archie said and he meant it. He had no sympathy for the boy and this numbskull vicar.

“Oh no, please don’t do that,” the vicar was almost begging. If Archie had thought about it for a moment he would realise the vicar was more interested in his own reputation, than the smiling boy. What would people think of him allowing criminals into the homes of vulnerable people?

“If not the police, what do you intend to do about it?”

The vicar had no answer.

Then Archie had a germ of an idea. Years ago when he was about Dean’s age Archie had stolen money from his uncle’s wallet. Missing money was discovered, accusations made and after many initial denials a confession was obtained.

What happened next stayed with Archie for the rest of his life. His uncle had ordered him to strip naked and then to lay face down across the dining room table. Then he tied Archie’s wrists to the table legs.

Then a cane was produced and his uncle lashed his bare buttocks until they bled. This was not a caning; the sort schoolmasters might inflict on misbehaving pupils, this was a terrible flogging.

Archie shuddered at the recollection. Where did his bachelor uncle get that cane from?

He knew he would not be allowed to beat Dean the way his uncle had flogged him, but the boy deserved a good hiding at the very least.

When he put the idea to the vicar, Archie was very surprised that he did not argue the point.

“I’ll see what I can do,” the vicar said meekly, before putting down the telephone.

The next day Dean and the vicar stood nervously in the living room of Archie’s house. Dean still flashed his ingratiating smile, perhaps believing that even at this last minute he could still melt Archie’s ice cold heart.

But in his own heart Dean knew he had to take a spanking. He had a criminal record as long as his arm and if the police discovered the number of times he had recently stolen from pensioners in their homes he would certainly go to prison.

Archie had made preparations. He had a utility brush with sharp metal bristles that builders had left behind after they made repairs to the roof.  It was heavy and large, the wooden back would be very effective indeed.

Archie had never spanked anyone before but he reckoned Dean was a big lad and the brush would not hurt him enough so he also must be humiliated. Just as his uncle had humiliated him more than forty years ago,

“Strip naked.”

Dean was not smiling now.

“But surely Mr Louden could it not just be on the seat of his trousers?” the vicar tried to intervene.

Archie’s derisive snort put an end to any argument.

Resigned to his fate, Dean slipped his t-shirt over his head; loosened the belt of his jeans and let them fall to his feet. Then he kicked off his trainers and jeans. Now he stood in just his white socks and green and yellow striped briefs.

He hesitated and flashed that smile one more time. Archie could be an imposing figure when he chose to be and one look from him was enough. Dean pulled his socks off and then reluctantly put his thumbs in the waistband of his pants and tugged them down to his ankles and stepped out of them.

Archie waited impassively and the vicar hoped no one noticed him sneaking admiring glances.

Dean’s scarlet face spoke volumes.

“You have nothing I haven’t seen before,” Archie lied. When did he ever have the chance to see a young man naked?

The sitting room was huge and easily accommodated an expensive leather sofa. It could seat three people and Archie plonked himself in the centre. Then with a snap of his fingers he ordered Dean to lay face down across his lap.

The young man complied and within seconds he was stretched out on the sofa, his legs resting to one side of Archie and his torso and head to the other. His buttocks were raised above Archie’s lap. Instinctively, the older man parted his legs a little so Dean’s genitals slipped between them to be out of harm’s way during the blistering buttock roasting he was about to get.

Even though he was a novice Archie made an excellent job destroying Dean’s arse. The heavy brush made a fearsome weapon. Dean was a large boy with expansive buttocks. It was difficult for Archie to get a good aim at the cheek nearest to him, but it did not stop the effectiveness of the spanking.

After only a few whacks Dean was hollering so loud Archie feared his neighbours might call the police to report a murder in progress.

He stopped long enough to ask the vicar for a handkerchief – which he then stuffed in Dean’s mouth.

Archie pounded the brush into Dean’s arse. The young man struggled with all his might to break free and lifted his body off the sofa and flailed his legs about. It was like he was trying to swim away, even though Archie had him pinned down across the waist.

“Hold his shoulders down,” it was a curt command to the vicar. He took hold of Dean’s naked shoulders and held on tightly hoping that the boy would not see the bulge in the front of his trousers. Not that Dean had much chance to; his face was now buried deep into the seat cushion.

The thrashing went on and on. Every part of the buttocks and the tops of the thighs were covered in bruises, which soon seeped blood. Dean’s face was puce and with the handkerchief in his mouth and his face pressed into the cushion, he found it hard to catch his breath.

But still Archie spanked on. He was in complete control. This was not a frenzied attack, but coolly calculated, just as Dean’s thieving had been. His bawling and sobbing became emotionally unrestrained screaming and wailing – like a ten year old. The boy’s tears flowed and the sobs grew louder and louder, and higher-pitched as he trembled with each new swat.

Eventually it was over and with contempt Archie pushed the young thief off his lap and onto the floor where Dean laid, his naked body jerking like a goldfish out of water.

The vicar fearing he might be dying took the hanky out of his mouth and fondly wiped Dean’s tear-and-snot-stained face.

Archie looked on. The boy was a pitiful sight and for a second, but only a second, he felt remorse for him, but he quickly checked himself. Dean deserved all he got. The flogging Archie had received from his uncle ensured he never stole again. Perhaps someone should have done this to Dean a long time ago.

Dean was still face down on the carpet, unable to move. Unbidden, the vicar went into the kitchen where Archie could hear the sound of water running. The vicar returned with a bowl of warm water and a tea towel and tenderly washed Dean’s bloodied buttocks. The vicar’s groin was throbbing almost as much as the boy’s backside.

Eventually, Dean was able to haul himself to his feet and in intense agony with the help of the vicar he managed to dress.

No words were exchanged between Archie and the boy or the vicar. Once they had left, Archie, his hands trembling, poured a glass of whisky.

He never saw Dean or the vicar again.

Picture credit: Cat Bounds

This story was first uploaded in December 2015.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

My Friend Justin

z used school longs after (8)

“What did I say would happen if you scored a B+ in your English essay? What did I say?”

“Spanking. You said you’d give me a spanking.”

“Yes, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

Justin was the best friend anyone could ever have. We were eighteen years old at the time and had known each other all our lives. We’d grown up on the same street, played with the same children and attended the same school.

So, when I had to unburden myself of a secret, one that had been eating away at me for years, he was the one I told.

He was brilliant; he didn’t say I was queer or anything like that. He just asked me for all the details. And, then he came up with a plan.

Well, where do I start? I told him that I wanted to be spanked, but I did feel I had to make it clear I didn’t want to be spanked by him especially, which was true. I didn’t fancy him at all, still don’t actually.

I fantasied about being spanked by older men. There was one dream I kept having; it involved a teacher at school. Mr King his name was. A right old fossil; he must have been sixty if he was a day. I wanted him to cane me in front of the whole class: all my sixth-form mates. I was dressed in my school uniform; black blazer, dark grey long trousers, grey shirt, and I would, on his command, submissively undo my leather belt, pull the buttons on my trousers and let them drop to my knees.

Then, when he told me to I had to bend over a table, head to the front, legs to the back, with my bum positioned high over the top.

Then, he would pull my gleaming white underpants so tight they stretched over my buttocks and then slowly he would swish his whippy cane, the one with a curved handle, into my taut little bum. That fantasy got me every time. It’s getting me again, even as I am writing this all these years later.

I was too embarrassed to tell anyone about this; but now as I get older I realise that every adolescent male has these fantasies; the only difference between me and most others is that they were dreaming of the French mistress spanking them.

Despite my wicked fetish for spanking there was not much I could do about it. Corporal punishment had been abolished in schools years earlier, so I could not engineer a caning or a slippering. Gone were the days when I could make sure I got caught smoking a cigarette behind the bike sheds so I would end up touching my toes in the Year Master’s office. If that were only possible, I would be a twenty-a-day man believe me.

I couldn’t get spanked at home. My dad was a bit of a wimp to be honest and he pretty much let me get away with anything. Not that I was a wicked kid, I wasn’t, but maybe he could have bent me over the armchair and taken his belt to the seat of my jeans when I was cheeky, or worse insolent; which was often.

I had tried to raise spanking with my friends, but was too inept to do it. I do remember when we were very young, seven or eight maybe, the girls in the street were playing “schools” and someone talked about “getting the cane.” Even then, something inside me stirred at the mention of corporal punishment, but I was too young to understand and, of course, my fetish hadn’t really developed at that age.

I used to read lots of comics, we all did in those days, and especially went for the stories where the naughty boys (who remembers Roger the Dodger or Dirty Dick?) ended up in the last frame of the story pictured across dad’s knee for a spanking with the slipper. Come to think of it there were plenty of stories about naughty girls (Beryl the Peril, Minnie the Minx come to mind) who also ended up over dad’s knee. Try writing kids’ comics like that today: how innocent we were then.

Once when I was a bit older, Brian, a friend of a friend, and I were at my house and we acted out stories from the comics, but when it came to the smacked bottom scene we were both too timid to go through with it. Looking back, I suspect Brian was as disappointed as me that we didn’t.

I did go on the Internet to find spanking porn. It was not quite as advanced as it is today, so you couldn’t get videos, but I did find some pictures. One set that really got me going was about a dad who found his son dressed only in his underpants reading a porn mag and dragged him into the bedroom. The boy must have been twenty years old but that didn’t stop his dad. Then, with his pants around his ankles, the boy gets a butt blistering from dad’s hairbrush. Yep! That had me squirting my jizz.

I told Justin about my spanking desires one afternoon after school when we were around his place. He was a “single parent” child and his ma worked long hours for crap pay at a factory, so he had the house to himself a lot.

“So do you want me to spank you? Is that it?”

I couldn’t believe it. He had the same desires as me. My face must have gone scarlet and my reply was mumbled incoherently.

“I’ll take that for a Yes, shall I?” he laughed.

“Only if you want to,” I eventually stuttered.

I learned over the years to come that Justin was completely unshockable. He wasn’t the least turned on by the thought of spanking me or being spanked by me. If I had said I wanted a sex change to become a woman, he would have reacted in the same cool, matter-of-fact way. He would probably have asked me what the procedure involved and how much it would cost, but he wouldn’t have judged me.

“What have you done to earn a spanking?”

I hadn’t expected this question and rushed to think of some naughtiness I had committed.

“I’ve been rude to my ma,” was the best that I could come up with.

He laughed again. Looking back he was always laughing, “So what’s new about that? No, you have to do something to earn the spanking.”

I didn’t understand at first, but then I hadn’t realised that Justin might one day make an expert psychologist.

He explained, “You want to be spanked, so you have to do something to earn it: something that you should do but wouldn’t normally do.”

I wasn’t following, so he went on.

“Say in the old days your dad might say, ‘If you don’t clean up your room, it’s my slipper for you, my lad.’ If you didn’t want a spanking you’d clean up the room; but if you did want the slipper, you wouldn’t. So, the room would not get cleaned up and you get spanked. So, you have achieved your wish, but your dad has failed in getting the room cleaned. Are you with me so far?”

Not really, so he went on.

“But, say you want to be spanked and your dad wants the room cleaned; the best thing for both of you is for him to say, ‘Clean up the room and if you do it well, I’ll take you across my knee and tan your arse with my slipper.’ Get me now?”

I was beginning to. “So I have to do something that I should do but I am not doing and if I do it then I get spanked.”

It was as clear as mud.

“Look,” Justin was on a roll and could not be stopped. “You are not a good student. It’s a fact, don’t argue. You are bright, but you don’t work, so you will fail your exams. Let’s say, if you pass your A-levels, I’ll spank you. It’ll be an incentive for you to work hard.”

Okay, I got it now, but the A-levels were months away and I told him so. I wanted my spanking now; preferably this evening before his ma came home.

But, it was not to be. Instead, we compromised. There was an essay due in this week for the English Literature course that I was failing. Justin’s plan was if I got a mark of B+ or more, I would be rewarded by him with several marks across my backside, courtesy of a large wooden clothes brush. A deal had been sealed.

I had hardly ever worked so hard on a school essay; I even read the set book, rather than the “crib” notes, that’s how keen I was to get a good grade.

Mr Archer, our English Lit teacher, made a snide comment when he returned my essay. “B+, had a little help David?” Yes, I had, but not in the way he meant.

Justin laughed.

We hadn’t spoken about our deal since the moment we made it and I wasn’t sure if he intended to stick to the bargain. Then, in the middle of the lesson, he lent across to me and whispered. “My place, four o’clock.”

I couldn’t concentrate on my work for the rest of the day; there was nothing new in that, but this time it was because of the anticipation of what was to come. In the past few days, I had fantasised about what would happen, but much as I liked Justin, I should have preferred it if my spanker were an older man. Actually, come to think of it, it would have been more pleasurable if Mr Archer really did believe I had cheated on my essay and threw me across his knee as punishment.

I was eager and arrived too early at Justin’s house and had to wait on the doorstep until he got home. He had, of course, stopped off at the library after classes ended.

Justin could see I was nervous. Was he nervous too? Looking back I can see the absurdity of it; one eighteen-year-old was about to take another across his knee and spank him. When did that ever happen in real life?

I watched as Justin rummaged through a drawer and found what he was looking for. Then he turned to me, clothes brush in hand.

“What did I say would happen if you scored a B+ in your English essay? What did I say?”

“Spanking. You said you’d give me a spanking.”

“Yes, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do. Take off your blazer and put it on the table.”

While I was taking off my blazer, Justin did the same, and then he took a wooden backed chair and placed it in the middle of the room. My pulse was racing; this really was going to happen. I could feel my cock stirring in my trousers, God, I hadn’t thought about that; I am going to pop wood.

He sat down in the chair, “Come stand there,” he pointed to a spot to his right. I moved, breathing heavily. I had just realised we hadn’t discussed how he was going to spank me; do my trousers come down? If they do, he’ll see my todger is standing to attention like a soldier on sentry duty.

He snapped his fingers. “Bend over my knee.”

I hesitated. I could see Justin’s legs in front of me, they were thin and spindly, as you might expect from someone his age. In my dreams the laps of my spankers were always huge and well-padded. I wasn’t sure this was right at all.

I think Justin must have misread my hesitation. “Do you want to call it off?”

No, I did not. Without a word, I lowered myself over his knee. Again, it wasn’t quite as I expected. I was too close to the floor. In my dreams I suppose I was a little kid, not a strapping eighteen-year-old sixth-form schoolboy.

“Ouch!” I couldn’t help but cry out as the first whack hit me in the middle of my left buttock, followed almost immediately by another on the right. Then another. And another.

Jeez, it hurt! I gasped at the shock of it. I found myself wriggling involuntarily over Justin’s lap. I was in pain, but it wasn’t agony. My bum stung a lot, but quickly it turned to a warm glow.

Justin wasn’t acting, they weren’t love taps he was giving me these were proper wallops with the brush. He was crashing the wood into my trouser-covered buttocks with great force. I was gasping for air as my blood pressure rose. Blood was also surging to my cock and my hard-on was now raging.

Justin giggled, “Oh, you’re enjoying this are you?” and he carried on whacking my bum with renewed vigour, whacking three stinging spanks on one side of my bum, three on the other side and then a real hard thwack on my sit spot. Then he did it all over again.

I was losing control, my reflect movements had me bucking and kicking and struggling to get off his lap but he held on tight and kept spanking me.

And then the inevitable happened: I was beginning to orgasm; I shot my load, creaming my underpants and my trousers.

“You dirty bugger!” Justin snorted, stopped spanking me and pushed me off his lap so that I tumbled to the floor. My hands went to my arse to rub at the pain as I circled around on the carpet, kicking my legs.

“Ow! Ow! Ow!” I cried. I was in pain, but not much. Despite the intensity of Justin’s spanking, my trousers and pants had given me considerable protection. As I would learn in future, had he spanked me that hard with such a heavy brush on my bare bum, it would be ripped to shreds by now.

Justin was off the chair and doubled over with mirth. At that moment we heard a click at the front door and a cry, “Just. are you home?”

I jumped to my feet and noticed how large the stain was on the front of my trousers, just as Justin’s ma came into the room. I fled the house in embarrassment, leaving my pal to explain to his ma what was going on.

At home I admired Justin’s handiwork in the mirror. My bum was dark pink and some bluish bruises had formed at the end of my cheeks. The imprint of the brush was distinct where he had spanked my thighs. The sight of my battered bum set my todger off again and I grabbed a handful of tissues and lay on the bed.

I have a lot to thank my great friend Justin for; not least my success in my A-level exams; but that’s another story … or six.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com