The Prodigal Son

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Mr Craddock slumped in front of the television set watching the horse racing. A newspaper open at the racing cards was at his feet. Nearby was a mug of steaming tea. He gripped a half-eaten bacon sandwich. He was in his element. A peaceful Saturday afternoon. What could be better?

Then, his wife entered the room, wiping her hands on her pinafore as she moved. The look on her face warned Mr Craddock that his peace was about to be disturbed.

“It’s Pete,” she said, clearly agitated, “He’s just been on the phone.” Mr Craddock’s eyes shot heavenward: what now? What scrape had his son gotten himself into this time?

“What now?” he spluttered through a mouthful of sandwich. His obvious irritation did nothing to soothe his wife’s nerves.

“He wants to speak to you,” she was clearly worried.

“What is it now? Is he still on the phone?”

“No he’s coming round. He wants to see you in person.”

Mr Craddock swallowed hard. This could mean only one thing. “He wants to borrow money again. He already owes me a fortune. I’ve been paying off his debts forever.”

His wife hopped from one foot to the other. “He says he’ll come right over.”

Mr Craddock sighed, he would miss the four o’clock race at Chepstow now. He had money on a horse in that one. Pete was 24 years old and had been nothing but bother since he left school. He was in and out of jobs, in trouble with the law. Oftentimes he was drunk about the house. He seemed incapable of keeping a civil tongue in his head. Mr Craddock had all but thrown him out of the house five months ago. Pete now lived in some sweaty bedsitting room on the other side of town.

“I’ve had enough, mother,” Mr Craddock always called his wife “mother” it was some kind of family tradition. “What can I do? I’ve tried everything with him. Do you remember I even spanked his backside for him. When was that? Last year? Doesn’t seemed to have done much good.” He rested back in his chair and eyed the clock on the mantlepiece. With luck he would just have time to catch the 3.45 race at Folkestone.

He did, but he missed the four o’clock and all the rest of the racing that afternoon. Pete had something important to discuss. It was, he reckoned, a matter of life and death. His life might never be the same again.

Mr Craddock eyed his son suspiciously. The lad’s fair hair was dirty, he had bags under his eyes and his usually fresh face was grey and lined.

“Dad, Dad,” he spluttered once his mother had left the two of them alone in the living room. “I have to talk to you.” He couldn’t meet his dad’s eye and that fact alone made Mr Craddock fear the worst.

“Is it money again. Are you in debt to loan sharks?”

“No, Dad, no,” Pete tried to laugh off the suggestion but his face remained grey and solemn.

“The police, are you in trouble with the law?”

“No, Dad, no.”

“Drugs. Is it drugs?” Mr Craddock was losing patience, were they about to play a game of Twenty Questions?

Again the answer was negative.

“Oh for pity’s sake, tell me what’s going on,” Mr Craddock had a short fuse.

On the trip over Pete had rehearsed what he wanted to say but now he was confronted with his Dad the words had gone. He babbled for a while getting more and more flustered as his Dad’s temper deteriorated.

At last he managed to turn words into sentences. “Look Dad,” he said and pulled a wad of banknotes from his pocket, “Here’s the money I owe you. All of it.”

His Dad flushed, his heart beat faster, “Where did this come from? Did you steal it.”

Pete laughed weakly. “No Dad, no. I’ve got a job. A proper job. At Tilotson’s. In the office.”

His dad was not convinced. “Since when? Is it a proper job?”

“Yes, Dad I’ve been there three weeks. I got my first pay yesterday.” He handed the money over and Mr Craddock counted it, scrutinising each banknote as if it might be counterfeit.

“Thank you son,” he whispered. He was flummoxed. Never in a month of Sundays did he expect his son to hold down a proper job.

His son wriggled in his chair. Clearly he had more to say and just as clearly he wasn’t sure how to say it. So he jumped in with both feet. “Dad, I don’t know how to say this. I want you to do me a favour.”

Mr Craddock sighed. He knew this was too good to be true. There was some kind of trouble after all. He leaned forward in his chair waiting for the worst. His son collected his thoughts and continued. “Dad I’m very sorry for everything I’ve done. I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused you and Mum. I’m sorry for all the debts. I’m really sorry for the trouble with the police. Things are going to change from now on.”

Mr Craddock’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “It’s alright son.”

But Pete had not finished. He apologised once more for all the heartache he had caused. All the bad things he had said to his Dad over the past years.

“It’s alright son, it’s alright.” Mr Craddock was not a man who liked to share emotions. That was another of the family traits.

“It’s not alright, Dad,” Pete wrung his hands together. “I’m not sleeping. I don’t eat. I’m making myself ill.”

Mr Craddock stared at his son. The young man’s furrowed features were testament to that. He couldn’t find words to comfort his son so he babbled, “It’s alright son. You’ve paid me back. You’ve given me the money.”

“It’s not alright, Dad,” Pete was pleading. “It’s not. I’m full of guilt. Guilt for all the things I’ve done. The way I’ve treated you and Mum. I can’t get away from the guilt.”

An uneasy silence descended between the two. Mr Craddock looked at the clock and wondered if his horse had come home at Chepstow. Eventually, Pete spoke once more, “Dad I want you to do something for me? Please Dad.”

Mr Craddock held his breath, what was troubling his son. “Yes, what can I do?” he forced himself to ask, while wishing Pete would just go home.

“Dad,” Pete spoke more clearly than he had up to this point. “Dad, I want you to help me get rid of this guilt.”

Mr Craddock winced and waited. After a pause Pete continued, “Dad I want you to spank me. Like you did those times before.”

His Dad shook his head from side to side, like a horse often does when it is trying to clear its head. “Oh come on son,” he blustered, hoping to hide his embarrassment, “There’s no need for that.”

“But there is Dad, there is,” Peter interrupted. His insistent tone unsettled Mr Craddock. “I have to get rid of this guilt. It’s the only way.”

His Dad sat bemused. He had spanked Pete many times over the years, even quite recently. The last time was shortly before he insisted his son move out and find a place of his own to live. He hadn’t liked doing it, but nothing else had worked. Not talking (arguing really) nor grounding him. There weren’t that many punishments that a dad could inflict on his son; especially not one who was in his early twenties. The over-the-knee spankings had truly been administered as a last resort. Mr Craddock was a little surprised to find that they appeared to have worked.

“Oh, I don’t know son,” he was still uncertain. The request was so unusual it could almost be called bizarre. He shook his head again.

“Please Dad. I know you love me. Please do it. Let me get rid of all this guilt. Use Mum’s hairbrush, like you did last time.”

Mr Craddock did love his son. Very much indeed, but he had no words to express that love. But he liked to think of himself as a man of action, someone who could make a decision. Well, he told himself, if that’s what Pete wanted then so be it. And if he got a move on he might still catch the last race at Folkestone.

“Right,” he said climbing from the chair. “I won’t be a minute. You’ve still got time to change your mind.” He left the room leaving Pete sitting on the couch breathing heavily.” Moments later, he returned clutching a large, heavy hairbrush.

“Are you sure,” he said, hoping that Pete had come to his senses and changed his mind.

“Yes Dad,” his son replied confidently. “I deserve this.”

Mr Craddock picked up an old straight-backed wooden chair and set it down in the middle of the room. He sat down and brandishing the brush ordered, “Come here, bend over my knee.” Pete rose from the couch, took a deep breath and then crossed the room. He stood to his Dad’s left, hesitated for a moment as if debating something in his head. Then, he rested his hands on his Dad’s right knee and eased himself down.

Pete was easily a couple of inches taller than his dad but he fitted well across the older man’s lap. He was in the classic over-the-knee spanking position. He was able to rest the palms of his hands on the floor in front of him and behind his toes just about scraped the carpet. Like that his bottom was raised at an angle to receive the swats from the hairbrush.

Mr Craddock wasted no time. He raised the brush and slapped it into the seat of Pete’s heavy trousers. Then he did the same thing again and again. They were moderate smacks; not too light and not too severe.

“No Dad,” Pete protested, “You’ve got to do it properly. Like last time.” He wriggled his hips and his dad let him get to his feet.

“Are you sure?” Mr Craddock could still not quite believe his son’s attitude.

“Yes Dad. I deserve this. I’ve got to get rid of the guilt.” Then without waiting for his dad’s response Pete unbuckled his belt. Seconds later his trousers were at his ankles and his white shorts snagged against his knees. Once more, he eased himself across his dad’s knees.

“Well,” Mr Craddock gripped the heavy hairbrush in his fist, “Just remember I’m not going to stop until I think you have been punished properly.” He caressed Pete’s left buttock with the head of the brush and then tapped gently to get an aim.

“Thank you Dad,” Pete wheezed, “I really deserve this, for the way I treated you and Mum. And for all the trouble I brought you. I am really, truly sorry.”

His dad raised the brush high, “You will be,” he said to himself as he realised the last race of the afternoon was now over. He pounded the brush into Pete’s round, firm buttock and was delighted to see the dark pink imprint left behind by the brush. The hiss of air escaping Pete’s clenched mouth was equally satisfying.

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Mr Craddock set about his task with a will. If a job was worth doing, it was worth doing well. That was a motto that had run in his family for generations. In no time both buttocks glowed dark pink. Pete’s hands clutched at his dad’s legs. It was the only way he could stop himself flailing about and falling to the floor.

“Well I hope this is doing you some good,” Mr Craddock rebuked his son, “A boy of your age taken across his dad’s knees for a sound spanking with a hairbrush. And on the bare bottom too,” he intoned as he walloped the brush across Pete’s quivering cheeks. Soon no square inch of flesh was untoasted.

“Sorry. Sorry. I deserve this,” Pete almost shrieked. The pain was intense. It was far worse than the last spanking dad had delivered. “Oww, ouch, arghhh,” he grimaced. He bum felt like it was blistered. Despite his resolve to take the thoroughly-deserved spanking without fuss, Pete could not control his body’s natural reflexes. His body twisted and turned. His legs kicked out behind him. His head nodded up and down. His eyes smarted almost as much as his backside and tears soon trickled down his face.

“Thank you, thank you,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Ouch! Owww!”

Now, Mr Craddock turned his attention away from Pete’s bottom and attacked the backs of his thighs. That sent his son into spasms of pain. Heat seemed to be rising from the naked flesh. It was so hot Mr Craddock was sure he would be able to warm his hands.

It was time to wind down. But not before he took the brush on one more circuit. He pounded the peaks of the young man’s mounds. Then he went for the topside and by now Pete was breathless, gasping for air. So his dad hammered the undercurves, on the most sensitive sit-spot. Finally, he returned to the thighs.

Mr Craddock was almost as breathless as his son. His shirt clung to his back with sweat. Rivers of perspiration ran from his armpits. It was definitely time to stop.

“Stand up.”

Pete did not need telling twice. He bounded to his feet and hopped about while at the same time rubbing hard at his buttocks. He didn’t care that his cock and balls were bouncing up and down close to his dad’s face.

“Get dressed.”

It took Pete longer to get his shorts and trousers back on than it had to lower them. As he reached towards his feet the flesh across his buttocks stretched sending fresh waves of pain through his body. At last he was once again fully dressed. Colour was returning to his pale face and his breathing was now more regular. The intense pain in his backside was already easing and soon would become a constant throbbing. Before long it would just be a dull ache, but the pain would return over the coming hours every time he sat on a hard surface.

Mr Craddock felt sheepish. Even now he couldn’t fully understand what had happened. “How do you feel?” he asked and immediately felt what a stupid question that was to ask. In the circumstances.

Pete rubbed the seat of his trousers ruefully. “The guilt is all gone. I am so sorry for everything. I will be good from now on. I promise.”

My story took place in 1986 and I am happy to report that Pete kept his promise and from that day on became both a model citizen and a very loving son.

Picture credit: Ken Beverley

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The Brocklehurst crammer

The liquor store

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Commander Reynolds’ boarding house

Commander Albert Reynolds, RN (retd.) turned the volume of his wireless down low and sat back in his comfortable chair. The boys had given him a strange proposition but he was not sure he should have turned them down.

He pressed his fingers together, pursed his lips and closed his eyes, allowing the sound of Henry Hall’s dance band to drift into his consciousness.

The three boys, well they were young men really, had departed back to their rooms, leaving the old man to re-evaluate their offer.

It had started a couple of months previously. Jack, James and Arthur had come to live at the Commander’s rooming house. They were from respectable families; otherwise he would never have let them stay.

They were students, just up at the Varsity. Out in the big world on their own for the first time in their lives.

The Commander recalled Mrs Rollington; Jack’s mother. “He’s a fine God-fearing boy, Commander,” she had intoned, rather fiercely, he thought. “He has been brought up in a good Christian family. His morals are impeccable.”

The Commander laughed at that as Henry Hall’s soothing voice introduced the next dance tune. “Impeccable morals, my eye,” he thought.

That had been the problem. Three eighteen-year-old boys let loose on the big city after years cooped up in high class boarding schools. The Commander was an old naval man, he knew what young men could get up to when out on the town. There was smoking, drinking, and, yes, even possibly the occasional woman: Jack, James and Arthur had been making up for lost time.

The Commander was no hypocrite; young men had appetites, he realised that. But there were his other tenants to consider. And there had been complaints; especially from Mr Bunyan at number eight.

Mr Bunyan had called on the Commander four times now. At each visit he was a little more irritated – and, irritating. The Commander knew the type, always finding something to complain about, but maybe this time he had a point.

“It’s just too much Commander Reynolds, Sir,” Bunyan had simpered, the first time he laid down the complaint. It had been about the boys arriving back in the early hours of the morning, clearly the worse for drink.

“It’s the ladies I feel sorry for.” He meant the women tenants. Apart from the three boys and the Commander, Bunyan was the only man lodging at the house, although the Commander was not so sure the word “man” quite described the flamboyant creature that stood before him. Was that a whiff of gardenia in the air?

The Commander was a leader of men and he expected to be obeyed. He had what he described to Bunyan as “a little word” with the boys.

Things improved, but not for long. By the time Bunyan was tapping on the Commander’s door with his fourth complaint, the Commander’s patience was exhausted.

That had been last Friday and it was yesterday he gave the boys formal notice to quit the lodgings. To go, find rooms somewhere else, leave Bunyan and the Commander in peace.

“Oh my, what will my mother say?” It was Jack who spoke first. The three boys were contemplating the devastating news – chucked out of their lodgings for immoral behaviour.

James and Arthur were equally aghast. James most certainly did not want to face his father with this news. Mr Miller expected impeccable behaviour from his sons, especially in public. He was old school, with the emphasis on “school.” He would not hesitate to take his whippy dragon cane down from its hook in the study and apply it with great force across his errant son’s backside; eighteen years old or not.

Arthur had no such fear of his own father. He had never laid a finger on him in his life. There would be no thrashing, but Mr Rhodes would show a deep sense of disappointment that would cut into Arthur much more acutely than any lashes with a cane across his bared buttocks.

“The Commander is right, we have behaved pretty badly,” Arthur had been raised to have a grave sense of guilt. But, neither of the other fellows disagreed. They were guilty as charged. They were not used to freedom that was the reason. They had spent the past ten years imprisoned at one boarding school or another; their lives totally regimented. Rules governed their lives. Do this, do that! Rules that must be followed, and of course, punishments endured if they were not.

“Yes, we have been rather foolish.” It was an understatement from Arthur. Too much wine, women and song had led them to this downfall.

“What if the university finds out? Will we be sent down?” James raised the question. Expulsion for bringing the university into disrepute would be disastrous. It would be the end of James’ chances of a career in the Foreign Office.

The three boys fell silent, each contemplating their own personal disaster.

Jack eventually piped up. “If we had been caught smoking and drinking at Bridgetown, my housemaster would have thrashed us.”

He left the sentence hanging. It was true; the consequence at school for bad behaviour was a very sore backside indeed. But, every boy who ever was ordered to “bend over that chair” to offer up his buttocks to a dominant master, agreed it was worth it. Six-of-the-best meant atonement. The crime had been committed, the punishment was accepted and everybody moved on with their lives.

“It was the same at my school,” James was almost misty-eyed with nostalgia. “Mr Horridge would’ve had us across his desk. Trousers and underpants at our ankles. Even when we were seniors. My hat! We couldn’t sit down for a week after that.”

James and Jack joined in companionable laughter. Arthur’s face drained of colour. How could they find this amusing? Bare-bottomed thrashings. Not sitting down for a week. What brutes these schoolmasters were.

“What about you Arthur?” James peered through his spectacles at his young friend. “What did they do at your school? Did you get it bare?”

Startled, Arthur found himself saying, “Oh, my yes, of course, ouch! Yarroo!”

Why had he lied? Was he ashamed that he had attended a Quaker school, founded by pacifists? Corporal punishment was unheard of. He had never even seen a school cane in his life, let alone felt one across his stretched bottom.

“Hey! I’ve got an idea!” It was James who made the suggestion. It was such an obvious solution. He was sure the Commander would agree. He must have been a public school man himself. Surely, he would understand.

“Let’s offer to take a beating. Apologise, say we’ll never do it again. And we should mean it.”

Jack’s face lit up. “Yes, that’s it. He’ll understand. We could offer to go bare, if that’s what it took.”

The two boys were so taken by their proposed solution they failed to notice Arthur’s coughing fit.

So it was that the three boys stood in Commander Reynolds sitting room, hands behind their backs, feet slightly apart, eyes downcast inspecting a rather worn green-patterned carpet.

It had been James’ idea, so he was the boys’ representative.

“So you see Commander,” it was a confident address. The boys might have spent a little too much time on the town recently, but they were intelligent articulate teenagers. In time they would all make their mark on the world, but now, on this day, they had to dig themselves out of a rather big hole.

“If we behaved like this at our schools we should have been soundly beaten by our housemasters.”

Jack found himself inadvertently nodding his agreement, but still he stared at the carpet, unable to look the Commander in the eye. Cold sweat poured down Arthur’s back, he was certain he would be sick at any moment.

The Commander looked at the three boys in astonishment. Beat them, as if they were schoolboys and he was their housemaster. Who had ever heard of such an idea?

“So, we respectfully ask that you punish us with a beating and then allow us to stay on as tenants.” James finished his little speech. He had decided not to include the offer to take it trousers and underwear down.

The Commander silently counted to ten. His mother had taught him this when he was a very small boy. If you think you are going to lose your temper count to ten before you speak.

Eight, nine, ten. “No, that is not a good idea. You will all vacate your rooms as previously ordered.”

James opened his mouth, but the Commander cut him off. He would not hear argument. “That is all. You are dismissed!”

Two crestfallen (and one very relieved) teenagers trudged up the stairs to their rooms.

Now, in a darkened room, sitting in his chair, was the Commander having second thoughts? Corporal punishment, was it such a bad idea?

Heavy rain lashed against the window, almost drowning out the dance music. Suddenly, in his mind it was at least thirty years ago, he was a sub-lieutenant, young men in thin white trousers were being bound hand and foot, and forced to bend their bodies over a triangle. Handkerchiefs were stuffed into their mouths. A chief petty officer armed with a cane lashed twelve strokes into their taut buttocks.

It happened all the time; there was nothing unusual about it. It was perfectly legal and still happened today.

There were lighter, more informal punishments. The Commander silently chuckled. There had been this boy; what was his name? He was no older than the three tenants upstairs. He was an incorrigible rogue, but not an evil sort. It soon became a ritual. Anderson was he called? Anderson would be caught smoking or absent from his post, the Commander (he was not a Commander then) would be informed. Guilt would be established. Then Anderson was given a choice: be put a charge or go across the knee.

He was a tiny fellow, this Anderson. He looked like a small child. Perhaps that was why the Commander felt he should punish him like a naughty boy. A heavy wooden clothes brush was kept in a drawer. Anderson would be ordered to fetch it while the Commander settled himself into his favourite chair. Then, without further instruction, Anderson would hand the Commander the brush before unbuckling his own belt and lowering his trousers.

Then with an air of resignation on his face he would lower himself across the Commander’s knees. He remembered it as if it had happened that morning. The underpants were a rather grubby grey-white colour. He would pull the drawers up tight so the outline of Anderson’s buttocks were clearly visible and then at a slow, rhythmic pace he would crash twenty-four hard whacks into the boy’s stringy buttocks.

It hurt the boy, probably a great deal, but he never showed his pain. It must have been a matter of pride, to be able to take a whacking stoically. The spanking over, Anderson would jump to his feet replace his trousers and stand to attention, thumbs in line with the seams of his trousers.

“Thank you Sir, I deserved that.” He always said the same thing after every spanking. Had the Commander made him say that or had he thought to do it himself?

A thunderclap woke the Commander from his dream. Heavens, he had not thought about Anderson in more than thirty years. Poor boy, he died in action before he reached his twentieth birthday.

The Commander had been on the receiving end himself. Many times; beyond the age of eighteen. He had attended a naval training ship. There had been this one time, he was with a party of about thirty boys who misbehaved themselves ashore; they had to be rounded up by the ship’s authorities. They used a birch in those days. It was not as heavy as the judicial birch that was still in use today. One by one the boys were forced to lower their trousers and go across the block. The Commander wriggled in his chair as if the scars of the birching were still troubling him.

He moved from his chair and switched on a light. Perhaps the boys had a point. They could atone for their crimes. He did not want them to get into further trouble at the university.

He had listened to the news earlier on the wireless. Mr Chamberlain had returned from Munich with a peace agreement. The Commander did not believe it for a moment. War in Europe was coming and these boys would soon be fighting for their country. The Commander himself would probably be recalled.

Damn it, let’s do it. The Commander was a man of decision. Yes, a caning. Twelve each: on the bare. It must be an exemplary thrashing, but once delivered and received that would be an end to it.

That was how the following evening the three young men stood once more before the Commander, staring down at the carpet.

The Commander had made much preparation. First, he had to purchase a cane. They are readily available in most oil shops, as any naughty boy could attest. The embarrassment of being sent by father to purchase a cane was intense. The shopkeepers never believed a boy’s tale that the cane was needed because they were “playing schools.”

The Commander wanted a special cane, a Malacca for preference. The thick dense rod was as whippy as a school’s rattan cane but it packed more of a punch and with ridges every four inches or so along its length it would leave deep bruises on the boys’ buttocks. They had asked for a caning and would certainly be given a caning to remember.

There was a specialist shop he knew in Earls Court that supplied just the thing.

The Commander was now armed with a suitable weapon, but he had another problem. He was not the boys’ parent or guardian and he had no legal jurisdiction over them. In short, he had no right to punish them.

He was not a legal expert, but he drew up a short contract. The boys were not yet twenty-one and so were not adults. Even so, he would make them sign to say they consented to a thrashing. Next, he needed a witness in case something went wrong. Nearly all of his tenants were women and it would not be right to ask them to see the boys bare their buttocks. Bunyan would have to be the witness. He agreed a little too eagerly when asked.

There were no speeches or ceremony. They all knew why they were there. The Commander went over to the far end of the room, swung round the large horsehair armchair that was to serve as the punishment chair and pushed it into the centre of the room. Having done that, he turned back towards a cabinet and opened the top drawer from which he took the cane.

“Right, Miller,” he swished the cane at James, “Trousers and underwear down.”

James knew he was blushing as he removed his jacket then unzipped his trousers and pulled them down. He stood behind the chair and peeled his underwear from his buttocks before letting them drop on top of his trousers.

“I assume that you know the procedure,” the Commander was still swishing the cane menacingly. “Over the chair, with your legs well apart.”

James did of course know exactly what was required. As he got over the chair, he pushed his arms out along the full length of its armrests, so that his buttocks were raised over the apex of the chair and his legs were stretched apart.

The Commander turned his shirt back and Bunyan sat upright on a sofa, ensuring a clearer view.

Unceremoniously, the Commander tapped the waiting buttocks then raised his arm to shoulder height, before with a flick of the wrist he brought the cane down hard across the exposed backside. James clenched his teeth but a groan still escaped as he absorbed the first of twelve stokes. The Commander was soon into his stride, ensuring he spread the strokes across the teenager’s bottom. Starting in the middle, he worked his way down till number six landed hard across the top of James’ thighs.

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No amount of teeth clenching could stop the loud howl that escaped from the boy’s throat. The Commander paused to admire the six thick red, almost parallel, lines across James’ once creamy white buttocks. He landed number seven higher up, before changing his stance and lashing number eight diagonally crossing the previous seven welts. James roared and his bottom gyrated. The Commander was breathing almost as heavily as the boy he was punishing as he whacked the rest of the strokes diagonally across the buttocks, from the left and from the right.

James gagged as howls and sobs were wrenched from his body and he clutched onto the horsehair sofa as if his very life depended on it.

Then it was Jack’s turn. He had been panting vigorously since the start of James’ beating and his short, sharp breaths now grew more urgent as he lay across the chair.

His bottom was well-rounded with firm and toughened muscles, but it had no protective layer of flesh. There would be no give and compression of the cheeks as the cane struck home, its impact would be imparted directly into the muscle of the suffering boy. Movement would remain agonising long after the beating had been completed and all strokes administered. The lack of absorbent meat on his buttocks meant that the knots of the Malacca cane were likely to tear the skin and cause bleeding, perhaps even with a single stroke.

With incredible speed, accuracy and force, the Commander lurched forward and delivered three rapid strokes which ricocheted off the boy’s backside, making him writhe and jerk and gasp loudly before slumping back over the chair, panting and twitching, in total subjection.

The Commander wielded the cane with stunning skill. The stinging lines of pain which sliced their way across Jack’s backside exceeded any previous canings he had received at school. He bounced up and down on the back of the chair and strained every muscle in his legs to hold them straight and apart.

The twelfth and final stroke was imminent. Jack’s clenched fists, wet with the saliva from his mouth into which they had been thrust to hold back his cries, and stinging with the imprint of his teeth, groped desperately to cling on to the chair.

The cane rose and fell. The collision was formidable. The cane cracked with unrestrained vengeance across the bare flesh of Jack’s buttocks. The sound reverberated around the room and a shudder rippled through the teenager’s body as the full impact of the stroke bit into him.

Arthur stood gazing at the sight of Jack’s striped, bruised, red and purple blotched buttocks clenching and unclenching, trembling like jelly. His own legs buckled and for a moment he feared he would fall onto the floor in a fainted heap.

“Over!” the Commander swished the cane impatiently. Arthur wanted to push past the Commander and his fearful cane, and dash from the room. He would not stop running until he had reached his mother’s arms at his home one hundred and fifty miles way.

That is what he wanted to do. But it was not what he did. His two great friends Jack and James had endured their thrashings. They had been brutal, but the two boys had behaved honourably. They had misbehaved and had accepted their due punishment. No matter how terrible the ordeal might be, Arthur resolved to take the caning. He deserved it. He would not let himself down in front of his friends.

In a trance he stepped forward towards the chair. He clenched his eyes tightly shut and fumbled at his trousers. He could not quite get his fingers to work and it took an age before he felt the heavy cloth of his trousers slide down his thighs before travelling past his knees to rest at his shins. His underpants followed reluctantly.

The Commander’s impatience grew. “Hurry up boy, I haven’t got all day.”

Arthur felt the colour draining from his face. His legs became weak and an immovable lump came into his throat. His eyes displayed the sheer horror and despair which was consuming him. A sudden realisation that this boy was terrified brought a sneer to Bunyan’s lips.

With eyes still tightly closed, Arthur stretched himself forward and offered up his bared buttocks to his tormentor.

The boy’s apprehension was obvious, even without studying the quivering vibration of his naked and expectant bottom, the Commander knew that he was terrified of the pain of the beating to come. He was horrified that he might fail the test.

No matter, events must take their course. The Commander, surprised that his palms had suddenly begun to sweat tucked his cane under his arms so he could wipe his hands against his trousers. Bun too was sweating, but anxious to get on with the show.

The Commander slipped the cane from his arm into his hand and prepared to administer the third thrashing of the evening.

The first cut bounced into Arthur’s mounds and sank deep into the flesh, before it re-emerged leaving behind a thick red mark across the centre of both cheeks. Arthur let out a piercing scream and jumped from the chair, both hands grabbing his ferociously boiling buttocks. He stamped up and down on the carpet in a fruitless attempt to ease the agony.

James’ eyes widened at the spectacle. He had seen many boys caned in his lifetime, but none had behaved like this. What was wrong with the boy?

The Commander thought he knew. This boy had never before been on the receiving end of a caning. How could such a thing happen? Was he not eighteen years old and the product of an English public school? The public schools – which were in fact expensive independent private schools – were renowned across the British Empire for their discipline. The school cane had been one of the country’s finest exports for a hundred years or more. How could this boy be a virgin to its lash at his age?

“Back over!” it was a ferocious command. “Do not dare behave in such a disgraceful way. Take your beating like a man!”

Totally humiliated and with tears streaming down his cheeks, Arthur prepared once more to receive the kiss of the cane.

The Commander was a military man through to his inner core. This shaking, wailing boy bent over the chair, bared buttocks pointing upwards at him, might be experiencing this for the first time, but he must not be lenient.  He was as guilty as his two fellows and he must be punished in exactly the same way. It would not be fair on them. Besides, if he laid the cane on lightly, Jack and James would know and they would despise Arthur for it. No, the right thing to do would be to tear the boy’s buttocks to shreds.

And, that is precisely what the Commander did.

The Commander saw the tension taking over Arthur’s entire body and sensed the teenager holding his breath to bursting point, as the older man realigned the cane to deliver a diagonal stroke to cut across the previous one.

His arm swept down. The cane struck the springy globes with a swish and leapt away. Arthur’s body convulsed on the chair, his fingers scrabbled and wrenched, he gave a pitiful whine and then settled again, ready for the next stroke.

The next lashes fell a fraction below each other getting lower and lower with number six landing right on the crease, by now Arthur was bawling and tears had fallen from his eyes and the chair cushion was wet with teardrops. His hands were tightly gripping the chair as another stroke landed at a right angle crossing all the previous stripes. Arthur howled once more and his backside wobbled and shook as he came to terms with this latest onslaught.

When number twelve landed the Commander whipped it with a will right on top of stroke number seven on the crease, Arthur’s head shot up and he screamed in agony.

“That will do.” It was a calm, courteous statement. The punishment was over.

Arthur let go of the seat cushion; his knuckles now bleached white. Nothing registered clearly or coherently as quickly he got up, but his hands immediately went round to feel his scalded buttocks and he could not get dressed immediately until the pain reached its peak.

The pain was so intense that in spite of his eighteen years he could hardly see for the tears which were flooding his eyes: he had taken as severe a caning as could have been delivered.

Five minutes later, the Commander was once more alone in his room. The three boys were upstairs admiring their corrugated backsides and congratulating one another on their fortitude. Mr Bunyan was lying on his bed, his trousers at his ankles. In the distance a thunderclap heralded yet another rain storm.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in February 2016.

 

Other stories you might like

How other people live

My landlord’s slipper

The Meter Reader

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Strict landlords- the compilation

Many years ago when I was a student I lived in lodgings with a family who rented out three rooms in their large house. The man of the house was retired and although quite old (to my youth he may have seemed ancient) he was very distinguished. There was a small armchair in my room and many nights I would fantasise that he had me across its back while he lashed a whippy-school-type cane into my pyjama-clad bottom.

I had no idea then that decades later I would use this fantasy as the basis of a series of my stories. One of the first that I ever wrote and published was called Paul and His Landlord. In real life, one night I got back to the house so late that the front door was locked and I had to ring the bell hard and waken the household to get in. I must have inconvenienced many people that night, but nothing was ever said about it.

Not so in my story where I end up receiving a well-deserved caning.

I wrote two episodes of Paul and his Landlord and you can read them by clicking the links below. Remember, they are stories although inspired by real life.

I have written other stories about landlords that were similarly inspired by other real places that I lodged. Links to those are also below.

I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I have enjoyed fantasising and writing about them.

Charles

 Paul And His Landlord

z used cane hold kernled (13)

Picture credit: Kernled

 Where it all began. That late night home. —- It was then Paul noticed his landlord was holding the cane. He wasn’t flexing it between his outstretched hands in the way drawings of headmasters did in old comics, or how Jimmy Edwards did as the eccentric headmaster in the TV show, Whacko! No, Mr Jarvis simply held the cane perpendicular to his body and was gently tapping it against his leg. Paul was mesmerised.

Paul and his landlord 2

Paul stood, his hands behind his back. Waiting. Breathing heavily. He looked down at the huge padded vinyl armchair. It was a very comfortable chair. But, this evening he would not be sitting down in comfort. Not in that chair or anywhere else.

His landlord tapped the thick crook-handled rattan cane against his right leg. Tap, tap, tap. Then, swoosh! it roared through the air as Mr Jarvis swiped it in front of the twenty-year-old’s face.

“I caned you once before for coming home late drunk and disturbing the whole household.” Mr Jarvis flexed the cane, making a perfect bow. “But evidently I didn’t cane you hard enough.”

Foreign Language Student

z used short shorts couch (2d)

Picture credit: Unknown

I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do. I stood about two feet away from the arm looking across at the couch. It was so big four adults could probably have sat on it in complete comfort.

The top of the padded arm of the couch was about a metre high and maybe 75cm wide.

“Bend over the chair,” Mr Martin ordered. He was angry and I was scared. Nothing like this had ever happened to me before and I couldn’t figure out how the hell I was going to get out of this.

My First Time

What I did next profoundly changed my life. I took a deep breath to try to calm my raging heartbeat and walked into the lounge. The room was dimly lit by a standard light in one corner, I hardly saw Mrs. Adams and her sister lolling on a sofa. They stood as I come in; it seemed they were expecting me.

My house. My rules

“You will address me as ‘Mr. Shults’ and you will address my wife as ‘Mrs. Shults.’ You will be polite at all times and obey without question any instructions that either of us might give you.

“These are the rules of the house. It is my house and I make the rules. If you choose to brake one of my rules, you will be spanked. With your trousers down. I shall spank you on your underpants and if you dare to repeat your rule-breaking you will be spanked on your bared bottom.”

The broken window

Mr. Epson strode into the lounge brandishing his cane. Jerome stared, confused, unsure what he should do.

“Bend over. I’m going to beat you with this cane. With your trousers and underpants on it probably won’t hurt you much, but it will give me a considerable amount of pleasure.” Mr. Epson thought this, but did not say it out loud.

Instead, he did say, “Bend over. Touch your toes.”

No Smoking!

z used otk pants chair (12)

Picture credit: Unknown

Meekly, Steph draws in a lungful of air, takes a half a step forward, steadies his nerve, places his palms on Mr. Walter’s right leg and eases himself down. He stretches his arms forward then spreads them a little and presses his palms into the scratchy carpet. He cannot see this but his bottom rests high over Mr. Walter’s lap. If he cares to look, Steph can see under the chair to his feet where his toes don’t quite touch the floor. Steph keeps his head low and stares at the carpet. He wants to pretend he does not have an audience of fellow lodgers, but their nervous breathing is louder than the bird calls from the garden beyond the open bay window.

The spanking I thoroughly deserved

The weirdest thing happened to me last week Sunday; my landlord took me across his knee and spanked my bare bottom with a brush very hard indeed – and I let him do it.

It wasn’t a fetish thing; you know where people spank each other for sexual kicks; it was discipline – or more truthfully, punishment.

Kevin’s landlord

Kevin’s landlord is flexing the cane between his two hands. This is real enough. Kevin is confused. Kevin is over the back of the armchair; he is just the right height. The cushion soft in his hands. He feels the back of the chair sticking into his stomach. His trousers are very tight. Kevin’s landlord makes his preparations. Kevin waits in position ready for the first stroke. He does not know what to feel. It is unreal. It is absurd. A nineteen-year-old presenting his bottom to his ageing landlord so he can whack it with a school cane. It may be absurd, but it is also intensely exciting.

 

The stories Paul and His Landlord with others about troublesome tenants is also available as a free-to-download book (PDF file).  You should be able to read it on your lap top or e-book reader.

Click on the link below

paul-and-his-landlord-by-charles-hamilton-ii

Other stories involving landlords you might like:

 

The Rooming House

A memory in the attic

The boys in room 3b

The terrible twins

The troublesome lodger

Someone needs his bottom spanked

My landlord’s slipper

The domestic service agreement

Commander Reynolds’ rooming house

Home early

Donald knows his place

Paying the rent

The exhibitionist

The tenants and the headmaster

Landlord is sick of the lodger

MacTaggart’s House for Naughty Boys

You didn’t pay the rent

A spanking before bedtime

The French student

Strictly no alcohol

The students’ landlord

An old English custom

The Spanking Vicar of Aston Budleigh – the compilation

House rules

Enhanced community training

The Post Office Thief

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Rhys, 21, and the bath brush

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Rhys Foster had just finished his cup of tea and was about to get up from the table when his father walked into the breakfast room and calmly said, “Rhys, go upstairs, fetch the bath brush and then wait for me in the sitting room.”

The short, stocky fair-haired twenty-one-year-old gasped, put his hand to his mouth, and glowed scarlet. “But, F-f-f-father why? What have I done?” Seeing his father’s stern eyes, the young man turned even redder.

“Rhys,” he said patiently, “Mrs Thompson from across the road has just telephoned to tell me of your exploits yesterday evening. Do you need me to say more?”

Rhys burned scarlet. What had she seen him do? He had been out with friends, just idling around the bus stop mainly. There had been a bit of skylarking, nothing more. Suddenly he remembered Ginger had brought that cheap cider. Had she seen him drinking that?

Rhys shook his head sorrowfully, he didn’t want to know the finer details. He was in trouble, that was all he needed to know. And, it was abundantly clear what his father intended to do. He trembled, his lips quivered and his sky-blue eyes began to moisten.

“Very well. I see that you realize your faults and understand why you have to be punished. Now go and do as you are told,” his father chided.

“Y-yes, F-father,” Rhys whispered and he hurried from the room.

Sorrowfully, he trudged up the stairs. Spanked. At his age. It was absurd. But, Rhys knew very well, this was his father’s way. It always had been and always would be. At least until the day Rhys packed his bags and left to make his own way in the world. Not that there was much chance of that, for he was an extremely lazy young man. His mother fetched and carried for him, cooked his meals, washed his laundry. He was never going to give that up. Not until he found a wife to do all those things.

He was in no hurry but eventually he reached his parents’ bathroom. He knew where to find the bath brush. This was not the first time he had been sent to fetch it. It was not one of the light plastic ones they sell today. This was at least twenty-five centimetres long and the head was a good fifteen. His heart skipped when he tested its weight in his hands. A recent memory prompted him to cautiously caress his own backside.

By the time Rhys reached the sitting room his father had prepared himself on the couch. His intentions were clear. Rhys’s hands were at his sides, his fists clenched in apprehension. Awkwardly he shifted from foot to foot.

Father looked up at the unhappy young man. “I’m sorry I have to do this but you just won’t learn after all the talks we’ve had about the company you keep and hanging around street corners. What do you think the neighbours say?

“I-I’m sorry, F-father,” Rhys stammered, his eyes cast down because he dared not look at him.

“Your mother tells me that she might have a job for you next week. Is that so?”

“Y-yes, F-father. She says a Mr. Haroldson would like to interview me next week.”

“Good! I think a job is just what you need, young man. But for the moment, you’re still behaving like a naughty, thoughtless child, and I still have to punish you. It will help you remember that you are supposed to be a grownup. Do you admit that you were drinking cider at the bus stop?”

“Y-Yes, F-father. But …..” he couldn’t find the words. There was no “but” he had done all the things his father said. He was guilty as charged.

His father commanded, “Hand me the bath brush, young man!” Meekly, Rhys extended his hand and his father took it.

“You may prepare!” his father ordered. Rhys was no stranger to his father’s spankings. He knew the rituals. He sucked on his bottom lip as if this would aid his concentration and he slowly unbuckled his belt. Gradually, he undid his trousers and tugged the zip fly. The front of the trousers flapped open. Rhys knew his face was burning brightly but there was nothing he could do. Events must take their course. He pushed the trousers down over his thighs and they tricked down his legs and bunched at his shins.

His father noticed that the brief white underpants pants hardly covered his son’s private parts. He reached forward. Rhys’s body stiffened.

“I hope this lesson will be effective,” his father said dryly as he reached for Rhys’s pants, inserted his fingers under the waistband and slowly began to work them down. Rhys’s penis flopped. His father left the pants at his son’s knees. Then suddenly with both his hands he grasped Rhys’s upper waist.

“Stretch out on the couch over my lap, now,” he admonished.

He had put the bath brush over to his right side and behind him and he saw that Rhys’s tear-blurred big blue eyes were anxiously fixed on the menacing weapon of chastisement.

Rhys at once pillowed his head in his arms and closed his eyes. He kept his long legs clenched tightly together. Calmly his father shoved Rhys’s shirt almost up to his armpits, then twisted the tight pants so that they would act as an effective restraint when Rhys began to kick, as he certainly was going to do very shortly, once the brush began its work.

Then, his left arm tucking Rhys’s waist, he reached for the brush with his right hand and began the spanking. As he usually did, he started with about twenty light taps, alternating on the cheeks from the tops of Rhys’s hips to the base of his upturned, creamy-white bottom.

Apart from a few groans and gasps, Rhys took this part of the spanking very well, not lifting his head. Only an occasional squirming and shivering reaction, and sometimes a stifled “Ohh!” escaped as the flat back of the brush made impact with the bouncy, resilient bare flesh.

Pausing now, his father readjusted his grip around the slim waist, and then resumed the spanking. Now the crisp “Smack!” and “Thwack!” became more audible, and so were Rhys’s gasps and sobs. His body began to jerk and stiffen each time the bath brush landed, decorating his squirming naked bottom with a brighter pink than before.

Now his father paused again, contemplating his handiwork. Once again he shifted his arm which curved round the culprit’s waist, and Rhys groaned, now looking back, his elbows pressed hard against the couch and his fists clenched and his wide eyes blurred.

“Oh please, F-father, I’ll be good, I promise I will, please don’t spank so hard!” he begged.

“You big crybaby, you know perfectly well I haven’t given you half your spanking yet. Now stay still and keep in position, young man.”

Then the bath brush came down with a hard “Thwack!” and at once both Rhys’s legs kicked up, though they were hampered by his twisted, clinging pants. His feet waved in the air, and now he glanced back almost every time as the brush fell, producing a wail of “Ahrrr, I’ll be good, oh don’t spank so hard, I’ll be good, please, Father”. But his father continued relentlessly.

After about twenty of these vigorously hard spanks, Rhys was twisting and struggling frantically. His bottom was a flaming red from the top of the mounds, over the peaks and into the undercurves. His father hadn’t touched the thighs yet.

Now pausing, pressing the flat back of the brush over the crease of those plump cheeks, his father demanded, “Are you going to be hanging round street corners drinking cider again?”

“Oh no Father. No. I won’t really. Truthfully.”

His father stopped spanking. “Very well, young man. That is the first part of your punishment. But just stay where you are, because I have something else to discuss with you. Now then, I want the truth!” His father raised the bath brush and brought it down with a quick little smack on the upper right thigh.

“Oww! That hurts! Oh please, no more, please no more!” Rhys wailed.

His father could see that the young man’s hands were just dying to reach back and protect his pink cheeks, but he also knew that Rhys, understood perfectly well that if he tried such a trick he would get a good deal of extras.

z used otk brush pants down couch bbfc (1)

“Now pay attention and tell me the truth. Yesterday morning, when your mother made up your bed, she noticed that there was a wet spot. Also, you had a wad of tissues stuffed under your pillow. Now I want to know what’s going on?”

“Ohhh!” Rhys’s face was a furious scarlet. Then he buried his face in his hands and began to sob with humiliation.

“I want an explanation, young man, and quickly! Did you hear me? Did you —  did you?” Each time, the bath brush punctuated the question with a stinging whack which made poor Rhys’s bottom bound and twist and squirm frantically. Now he couldn’t control himself and he plunged his hands back to cover up his burning bottom.

“The very idea!” his father scolded. “Take those hands away at once. Now I want the truth, or I’m going to start all over again, and I’ll use the bristled side if I have to!”

“Oh please, F-father, I’m so ashamed, please-please try to understand — I didn’t — oh Father, please!” Rhys blubbered.

Smack — Thwack — Crack — the bath brush fell three stinging, noisy times, right over the crease and pinching the inner edges of the buttocks.

Rhys screamed and kicked his legs, once again he tried to put his hands back, but this time, his father caught the struggling wrists in his left hand and pinned them at the small of the young man’s back.

“That’s no answer! Are you going to tell or do I have to use the bristles on your bottom, young man?” This time, reversing the brush, he gave a light little tap with the bristled side of the bath brush right down the sensitive buttock crease, and Rhys gave up.

“Owwahrrr!! Oh don’t, not there, not with the bristles, Father! Oh please, please, I’m so ashamed, I want to die! Please don’t sp-sp-spank anymore, I’ll tell, F-father!” Rhys wailed.

During this part of the spanking, he had wriggled and twisted herself so frantically over his father’s lap that his father had to pull his body back, abandoning Rhys’s wrists and, his left arm around the bare waist, forcing Rhys’s trembling body back closer to his. “Tell, then!” he warned as he added another light smack with the bristled side in the very same place.

“Owweeeyeoww!! I’ll tell, I’m going to tell, only please let up, Father, oh you’re killing me!” Rhys wailed.

“I-I was thinking about D-Doreen, and I guess I couldn’t help it, honest I couldn’t.”

“I’m glad you told me the truth. Then you did play with yourself, Rhys?”

In a dying voice, his shoulders heaving with sobs, the culprit faintly confessed his sin of masturbation.

“All right. I’m not going to blame you too much for that, young man, because I understand what your needs probably are. Only don’t you do it again from now on, do you understand? The next time I find any Kleenex or wet spots on the couch, you’ll get your entire spanking with the bristled side of this brush, is that clearly understood?”

“Y-yes, Father,” Rhys sobbed.

“You may get off now, and I’ll pull your pants up first. And don’t forget to thank me for the spanking!” his father said sarcastically as he began to tug up the twisted little white pants till they covered the flaming backside.

Slowly Rhys slipped down to the floor, and then at once plunged his hands back to his burning behind and rubbed, the tears streaming down his face.

“Th-thank- thank you for sp-sp-spanking m-me, F-father,” he blubbered, head hanging, his shoulders heaving with his sobs.

“Not at all,” his father replied, “After all, I am only a loving father who is doing his duty.”

Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club

 

Other stories you might like:

Back on the straight-and-narrow

Hotel duty manager

Bring back the cane

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Caught drinking beer

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Mr Harding parked the car in the driveway of his house. His head throbbed. It must be the flu, he feared. Better to leave the office behind, take a few aspirins and get into bed. He unlocked the front door. As he headed for the stairs he saw the door to the kitchen was ajar. The house should be empty. What was going on? Stealthily, he approached wondering if he had burglars.  He needn’t have worried. It was his nineteen-year-old son Lucas. But, why wasn’t he at college?

Mr Harding’s temper was already frayed and he let fly, “What are you doing at home during the afternoon? What the hell have you got there! Drinking. I thought we agreed no more drinking during the day. Not after you were arrested for drink-driving. I just cannot believe you.”

Lucas shrugged his shoulders and drained the bottle in his hand.

“Don’t shrug your shoulders at me. How many of those have you had? Are you drunk?” Mr Harding fumed. “Look at you. You’re nineteen years old. You’re supposed to be at college and here you are skiving off classes. You can’t be trusted. I’ve tried to treat you like an adult. To give you responsibilities. But look at you. This is how you behave.”

Lucas could not hide his indifference. It was like a red rag to a bull. His father waved his arms hysterically,  “You don’t give me much choice do you? If you can’t behave like an adult, I’ll have to carry on treating you like a child won’t I?”

It wasn’t really a question but Mr Harding paused in the hope he might get some response from his surly son. When none came Mr Harding’s temperature rose another ten degrees. “Yes. You know what that means don’t you. You’ve only got yourself to blame. God knows I’ve tried with you and this is how you repay me.”

Suddenly Lucas’s ears pricked up. He had only been half listening. Now he was getting his father’s drift. His eyes widened and his jaw sagged. “But …” he wheezed, but his father was now on a roll.

“Spanking. I thought we were done with this, but clearly we are not.”

“I’m too old for this,” Lucas had found his voice.

“No, you are not too old for this. You’re too old for this when you demonstrate to me you can be trusted. Put that beer bottle down.”

Lucas stared at the label of the bottle in his hand as if only just realising it was there.

“Now! …. I shan’t tell you again.”

Hurriedly, the boy but the bottle on the table. He watched his father pick up a straight-backed wooden chair and set it down in the middle of the room.

“Right stand up. Come over here.”

“No!” Lucas protested. “What for?”

“You know what for. Now, come over here. Get across my knee.”

“No, you can’t. You can’t.”

“I can and I will.” Mr Harding gripped Lucas by his left wrist and pulled him forward. The nineteen-year-old struggled hard but his feet slipped on the shiny floor tiles as he resisted and he toppled forward. Soon he was face down over his father’s knees: head low, bottom high in the classic ‘naughty boy’ position.

“You have nobody to blame but yourself. Skipping college and drinking during the afternoon. You deserve all you get.”

Mr Harding held Lucas tightly around the waist. The teenager wriggled and writhed but he was going nowhere. His bum was wide and meaty and his buttocks filled out the seat of his denims. A perfect target Mr Harding told himself as he raised his hand high and brought it down hard across his son’s left cheek. Then he raised the hand again and motored. Slap after slap rained down across Lucas’s bum. It was like machinegun fire.

Lucas did not take it well. “Stop that noise,” his father fumed. “You deserve this. A damn good spanking. I should have done this before. When you got arrested for drink-driving. I know you got fined and banned but think of what might have happened. You could have killed somebody. A child. You stupid oaf. I should have taken my belt to your backside then.”

Mr Harding slapped his hand into Lucas’s hard bottom. His palm was hurting badly. He hoped he was having some effect on the boy’s backside. Just then, the front door opened and his wife appeared. She stood, mouth gaping in the doorway to the kitchen.

z used otk jeans kitchen sting 4

“I came home early and found him at home. Skiving off college and drinking beer. After all that trouble before,” Mr Harding told her.

His wife watched her husband’s hand as it pounded into the seat of Lucas’s jeans. “You’re wasting your time with that. You’re not getting through. You’re not hurting him one little bit.”

Mr Harding paused in his efforts. “What’s that? … Yes, I think you’re right.” He looked down at his son sprawled across his knee. “You’re not really feeling this are you?” He looked over at his wife. “Hey, love can you go fetch your hairbrush. You know that big black one. The heavy one that used to be your grandma’s. That’ll make an impression.”

Mr Harding continued spanking his son’s bum as his wife hurried from the room. His hand was definitely hurting now. Lucas’s hips bucked and his hips swayed. In a moment he was likely to topple off his father’s lap and land in a heap on the floor.  Just then his wife reappeared. In her hand she brandished the hairbrush. It was a monster – easily thirty centimetres long with the handle. The head was oval shaped and measured about ten centimetres across. She held on tightly to it and tapped the head into the palm of her hand demonstrating how heavy it was. It made a fantastic spanking implement.

Mr Lucas stopped spanking. “Right you. Get up.” Sourly, Lucas climbed to his feet. He saw the mighty brush in his mother’s hand and considered making a run for it.

His father had other ideas. “Stay where you are. I’m not finished yet. Not by a long way. You’ll regret skiving off college and drinking beer before I’m through with you young man. You need to learn a lesson and by God I’m going to teach it to you.”

Mr Harding took the brush from his wife and waved it close to his son’s face. The boy blanched. He had felt the power of this brush before. He had hoped never to encounter it again.

Mr Harding smacked the brush into the palm of his hand. “Right you. Let’s have those jeans down.”

Lucas said nothing but the look on his face spoke volumes. “Yes,” his father confirmed. “Right down.”

“No, but Dad, c’mon,” Lucas had found his voice.

“Don’t you dare argue with me. Take them down. NOW! Do you want me to get your mother to take them down for you?”

Lucas’s face was already scarlet. The force of the spanking and the acute embarrassment he felt did that. He fumbled with his jeans.

“No,” his father growled, “I didn’t think so. Get them down. All the way. To the ankles.”

The jeans puddled at the teenager’s feet.

“That’s right. Good. Be thankful you’re not taking your pants down as well. I’d happily give to a bare-bottomed spanking, but we need to spare your mother’s blushes. Right. Now bend across the kitchen table. Yes. The table. Stop whining please and just do it.”

Mr Harding watched dispassionately as his son waddled the three or four steps needed to get to the table. The jeans snagged around his ankles and nearly sent him toppling face-down to the floor. Lucas stood hesitantly at the table. He looked forlornly across at his mother, his eyes appealing to her to intervene, to stop his father spanking his bottom with the heavy hairbrush. He got no joy from her. Her face was grimly set. Lucas needed his backside blistered and she was glad her husband had the courage to do his duty.

Lucas looked at his father, now brandishing the hairbrush threateningly. He was raring to go. He tested the weight of the brush in his hand. Sadly, Lucas lowered himself forward. His stomach and chest rested on the cold wood. He hesitated a moment working out in his head where he should put his arms. He decided to reach forward and grip the far edge of the table top.

His father waited for his son to settle before approaching. Lucas had submitted himself to the deserved punishment. His bottom twitched in anticipation of the pain to come. Mr Harding was almost ready, but not quite. Lucas’s body tensed when his father gripped the elasticated waistband of his cotton underpants. He gasped, fearful that his father had changed his mind and he was going to bare Lucas’s buttocks.

He needn’t have worried. His father took the waistband and pulled hard. The cotton underpants now fitted snugly against the buttocks. The cheeks were lifted and separated and the crack between them was clearly visible under the cloth. Now satisfied, Mr Harding tapped the head of the brush against the fleshiest part of the left buttock. He took his aim, raised the brush high, paused for a second or two with it in the air and hammered it down with all the force he could muster. It sank into the left cheek. Lucas opened and closed his mouth but managed to stifle the yap his body insisted he make.

The second whack – this time on the right cheek hurt just as much. Mr Harding pounded the brush across Lucas’s backside all the while scolding his son.

“That’s hurting I see. Good. It’s supposed to, otherwise we’d both be wasting our time. I hope you feel ashamed. Look at you, bent across the kitchen  table with your jeans at your ankles. With your bottom in the air. Getting a spanking, like a silly little boy. Well, young man, let me tell you, if you do not buck up your ideas and start behaving around here, I’ll have you across this table again and again. And I’ll do it until you learn. Don’t think I enjoy doing this because I don’t. I do it because I love you. We love you. Your mother and me. We want you to grow to be a good man.”

Mr Harding increased the force and the speed of the spanks. Lucas kicked his legs. He wriggled his hips. His privates humped the side of the table. His hands gripped the far edge, his knuckles turned white. His head nodded up and down until he was headbutting the tabletop. He had no breath. The pain in his backside spread across his body. His head ached. His eyes watered. He bit down on his lower lip; anything to stop himself crying out. And still, his father walloped that brush at full pelt into his bucking bum. And still, he scolded his son.

“We want you to be a credit. To yourself and to us. And if that means I have to spank your backside until it’s black and blue, well that’s just what I’m going to do. Remember, this is for your own good. If you don’t want to go through this again, all you have to do is behave yourself. Do you think you can do that?”

The doorbell rang. Mr Harding broke off his lecture. He looked quizzically at his wife. She dashed to the window. “It’s my mother. What does she want?”

Her husband frowned. “Blast. Wait a second. She can’t see this. I’d die of shame if she knew we still had to spank Lucas at his age.” He pounded the brush across the boy’s bottom one last time. “Right lad. Get up and get dressed. You’ve been saved by the bell. Get dressed quickly. It’s over. Go to your room. Stay there until we call you down to meet your grandmother. Remember it’s over this time, but I won’t hesitate to have you back over that table again. Now skedaddle!”

He turned to his wife, “Go open the door love. Your mother will wonder what’s going on.”

Lucas rushed from the room and took the stairs two at a time. He crashed through the door of his bedroom and threw himself face down on the bed. He rubbed and rubbed at his aching arse. Later he would inspect the damage in the mirror. The oval head of the heavy hairbrush was imprinted all across his buttocks and the back of his thighs. The whole area was one continuous red blotch. Mauve marks were forming at the edges. It would take days for them to clear. The pain had already turned to a dull ache but it would reignite every time he sat down on a hard surface for the rest of the day.

He buried his head in his pillow and let the tears of shame and embarrassment soak it.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

Other stories you might like

The Gaffer of The Academy 3. Caned-off

Perils of drink-driving

Tompkins in the housemaster’s study

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

An unexpected lesson for Alfie

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I’ll be glad when the holidays are over and my nephew goes back to college. He’s been staying with me because his parents have taken themselves off for a New Year’s cruise down to the Caribbean. Lucky them.

It never occurred to me that Alfie would be so much trouble. He’s nineteen – twenty in February – and has been living away at university for a couple of years. I thought he was all grown up, but he keeps acting like a little kid.

The trouble is he treats my home like it’s a hotel. It’s driving my wife Carol to distraction. Nearly every morning we have the same problem: he just will not get out of bed. She cooks his breakfast and wakes him up but then what? Nothing. He never goes down to the kitchen to eat it.

Then, I have to run up and down the stairs all morning to see if he’s gotten out of bed.

 

Well, let me tell you something. I soon tired of that. Alfie’s a good kid, but sometimes he just needs to be pulled up a bit. He needs to be reminded that the world doesn’t revolve around him. I told him what would happen if he didn’t start playing by my rules.

My wife has this hairbrush she picked up at an antiques shop when we went on a visit to Brocklehurst. It’s a great heavy thing made of ebony wood. It’s nothing like those light plastic things they make today. It’s excellent for brushing her hair, but I quickly realised it could have a pretty good secondary use as well.

So last week Monday when I entered my nephew’s room that morning for the fourth time, I was carrying that hairbrush. I threw back his bed covers and delivered a sound smack that had him awake in a second. Before he was totally aware of what was going on I had pulled him to his feet. I sat myself down on the bed and hauled him over my knees. By this time he was awake well enough to be pleading for me to stop. “I will come down to breakfast,” he promised, “Please stop spanking me!” He was wailing like a little kid. Of course, they’ll promise you anything if only you’d stop spanking them.

I was having none of it. I had him where I wanted him and I might not get another chance. I pulled down his pants and started whacking his bare backside with the brush. He’s nineteen years old and entirely too big for this type of a spanking and I did more arguing and threatening than actual spanking while trying to keep him in position. He was flailing and kicking and hollering like crazy but I did succeed in getting in about twenty five whacks before I let him up.

He came down to breakfast on time after that.

I thought that would be the end of it. I had made my point that he ought to be a bit more thoughtful about others and I expected we wouldn’t have any more trouble with him. I could never have imagined what happened next.

It was getting close to midnight on the following Saturday and me and Carol were just getting ready to turn in when the phone rang. It startled us because no one calls us at that time of night. I said, “It won’t be for us, let it ring out,” but my wife said it might be urgent bad news and grabbed the handset. It was bad news all right. It was the local police station. They had Alfie and would someone please come and collect him. Carol melted with shame. He and some other louts had been hauled in for being drunk and incapable.

I had to get the car out and go fetch him. Naturally, I was angry with him but that was nothing to how I felt about the police. The sergeant at the station said Alfie and the others wouldn’t be prosecuted. It was only drunk and incapable, he told me. Not drunk and disorderly. It wasn’t worth the cost and effort taking him to court. He’d only get a ticking off, anyway.

So, Alfie was going to get off scot-free. He had disgraced himself and me and the wife. We wouldn’t be able to show our faces if the neighbours found out. I took him home. I said I’d have a word in the morning and left him to stagger off to bed.

Of course, when I said “a word” that was a code which meant his backside would be doing the listening while my heavy hairbrush did the talking.

I told my wife what had happened and what I intended to do. “The hairbrush,” she scoffed. “He needs a darn sight more than the hairbrush.” Maybe he did, but what did she expect me to do? That was when she reminded me of her Uncle Bill. Bill had been a housemaster at a very posh boarding school for many years. “He knows about this sort of thing,” she said as she rolled over and instantly fell asleep.

Uncle Bill hoped he had not shown too much enthusiasm when he was asked to help out his niece. He had retired as a schoolmaster many years before but he had kept a few souvenirs; among them his tattered academic gown and mortar-board cap along with three stout but whippy curve-handled rattan canes.

When he received the phone call he said he’d be happy to come out of retirement. If that’s what she really wanted. Carol was not a woman to mince words. “Yes, it is. Definitely. When can you get here?”

It was mid-afternoon and the winter sun was quickly setting when Uncle Bill arrived. He was a sprightly man in his seventies but many who met him for the first time thought him much younger. He still ran three miles every other day and was envied among his friends for his strength.

“Does he know that I am here?” Uncle Bill asked once he had taken off his coat and put the cane he had selected down on the dining room table. Carol nodded emphatically, “Oh yes, he knows what to expect.”

Alfie was no stranger to Uncle Bill. The old man had been much used by exasperated parents within the family across a number of generations. His expertise was much in demand and Uncle Bill shared his skill willingly. After all, what were families for?

“Call him down,” Uncle Bill stretched his arm and shoulder muscles, limbering himself up as he spoke, “You don’t need to be present if you’d rather not,” he added. He watched impassively as his niece headed for the stairs.

Shortly, Alfie appeared in the doorway. He wasn’t especially tall for his age, probably about five-feet-eight with a slim build. Uncle Bill was taken by the nineteen-year-old’s blond hair, dark at the roots (obviously dyed). It was parted down the centre and hung down over his eyes, partially obscuring a pale face that might have been thought cute if not for the attempted sneer that twisted the corners of his mouth.

“Come in,” Uncle Bill snapped, he had assumed his oft-repeated role of the disgruntled schoolmaster. “Take that look off your face.” He gestured to a far wall. Alfie hesitated, he could not fail to see the small, white straight-backed dining room chair that stood there, its back unnaturally facing into the room.

He glanced at the old man, but remained silent.

Uncle Bill sighed, “You know why you are here.” Alfie knew it was a statement, not a question and stayed silent. His heart thumped against his chest. “I manged to email your father, he is appalled by your behaviour. Do you want to know what he said?”

This time it was a question, but Alfie had no words. His mouth was parched, his temples were throbbing. The crook-handled cane lay on the table in plain sight. He didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to work out what was about to happen.

“He agreed I should cane you,” Uncle Bill answered his own question. “What do you say to that?” Another question.

If he were a member of any other family, Alfie might have said, “But I’m nearly twenty, I’m too old for this.” But his was no ordinary family. Uncle Bill’s standing was well-known. In the summer he had dealt with Arron and he was twenty-two and in trouble with the law. Rumour had it the young man could hardly walk, let alone sit down, for two days.

Uncle Bill picked up the cane. It was a typical old-fashioned school cane, made of rattan and a little over three feet long. It was as thick as a biro but was wonderfully whippy. Uncle Bill brandished it at Alfie and then menacingly flexed it between his hands. It made a perfect arc. Alfie’s eyes transfixed on the rod’s smoothness. What little saliva there was in his mouth drained. His throat hurt. The room began to move slowly.

“Six of the best,” Uncle Bill said, almost jauntily. “Stand there.” He brandished the cane and swished it towards the small chair.

Alfie didn’t understand: what was happening to him. His knees groaned, the light jumper he wore was beginning to soak with sweat. He desperately needed a drink.

He heard the cane swoosh once more through the air. “Yes, just there,” Uncle Bill tapped the back of the chair with the tip of the cane. “Turn round and bend over.” Alfie’s look of incomprehension would not deter Uncle Bill. “You need it to support you. It will hurt you more this way. That is the purpose of a caning you know.”

Bewildered, Alfie looked at the chair in front of him. He towered over it. What was he supposed to do? Bend over? What did that mean exactly?

Uncle Bill was used to dealing with boys who were about to receive their first caning. They had to be “talked through” the process. He tapped the cane on the seat of the chair. “Stand behind the chair. Place both hands on the seat. Arch your back enough so that your backside juts out. It helps if you spread your feet.”

Looking back, Alfie couldn’t believe what he did next. Instead of fleeing to the sanctuary of his room, he sidled up to the chair. The seat looked a long way down. He reached over and took hold of it and waited.

“No further than that,” Uncle Bill snapped. “Bend over as far as you can,” he pushed Alfie’s shoulders down. “Further!” Uncle Bill stepped back to get a better look. “Good, now hold on for dear life. Spread those legs. Yes, but keep the knees straight.”

As Alfie stood head lowered, bottom raised, the room span. Uncle Bill observed the teenager’s hard bottom straining against the seat of his jeans. The denim was pretty thick. Could he risk ordering the boy to take them down for a caning across the underpants? He mused for a moment and dismissed the idea. The brat deserved a severe caning. It would do him good. It would buck his ideas up a bit. But, Uncle Bill feared Carol might think it overstepped the boundaries of modesty. “Oh well,” he consoled himself, “maybe next time.”

Uncle Bill was lefthanded so he stood to Alfie’s right and tapped the whippy, heavy cane on the rounded backside. He was tempted to lay at least one dark weal across the boy’s muscular thighs swelling under the denim but he decided to slash each stroke squarely into the seat of the jeans.

Alfie felt the weight of the cane, stinging him lightly but unpleasantly even when applied with almost no force. He felt its heavy, threatening mass. He squeezed his eyes shut, holding on tightly to the chair.

“Well,” said Uncle Bill. “I had better cane you, hadn’t I?”

“Not now!” Alfie kept the thought to himself . “Not yet! I’m not ready for it!”

But when would he ever be ready for it? The cane descended with a low-toned whoosh. The impact was heavy and almost numbing. It knocked him forward, and as he went two of the legs of the chair rose from the ground almost making him lose his balance. For a split second it did not seem to have hurt him very greatly. Then the pain came welling up like a biting, stinging, bruising wave. He wanted to let go of the chair and stand up to rub the pain away, but he dared not. Some long dormant instinct told him this was not the way to behave. He must pretend that the thrashing had not hurt.

The second stroke came, and now the pain mounted to a terrible crescendo. Alfie’s head shook from left to right vigorously like an old horse troubled by a fly. Wind escaped his pursed lips which made it sound like he was neighing.

There was a pause. Uncle Bill knew his business. He waited for the pain of the two strokes to soak in for a quarter of a minute. Then he tapped the heavy cane again on the seat of the jeans. Alfie winced both at the pain it caused on his already sore bum and the anticipation of what was to follow.

Uncle Bill drew back the cane and sank another satisfyingly hard stroke into the blue surface. Three clear lines were now etched into the tight denim. Beneath the jeans welts were throbbing. Alfie felt the impact; his body hated the pain, but his brain sent him different signals. Alfie gasped. It was all he could do to keep holding the chair.

z used cane jeans touch toes domestic

“Your punishment is half-way through,” Uncle Bill intoned. “I trust you are enjoying it.” He bit into his lip. What a thing to say.

“Thank you, sir,” Alfie wheezed.

Uncle Bill’s eyebrows arched. Had he heard Alfie’s tone correctly?

Alfie’s heart raced and sweat ran down the back of his shirt. The same number of strokes still to go. He wondered how he could endure it.

Slowly and in measured fashion. Uncle Bill delivered three more strokes with all his force, squarely across the bucking backside. The heavy, whippy cane felt firm and powerful, the gasps and small cries of the nineteen-year-old submitting himself to him were intensely satisfying and he enjoyed the impact which seemed to rock Alfie forward each time. He knew he was putting him through a dreadful ordeal and he liked it.

The boy’s mother might have been horrified, but Uncle Bill had a certain matter-of-fact harshness that represented the attitude of countless schoolmasters through the ages.

He would never have committed any real cruelty, of course, but he knew how beneficial an authentic caning could be. Anything less would detract from the quality of the thing and leave the boy ultimately disappointed. Uncle Bill knew Alfie was not enjoying his ordeal, but there was nonetheless something in the way he had said, “Thank you, sir.”

On some level that Alfie could not yet imagine this caning was satisfying to him as well as to Uncle Bill.

The man was experienced enough to understand that deeper level and not to hold back or feel regret because of the superficial layer of pain he was inflicting, although to Alfie that was the only thing his mind and body understood at this moment.

Nothing but the thought of repeating the caning from the beginning, kept Alfie from gripping the chair through those desperate moments as Uncle Bill lashed those terrible last three strokes. Each one seemed to cut him in half and impel him with a force beyond resistance to leap up.

But reason held sway over nature and Alfie held the seat.

“Good lad,” Uncle Bill cooed approvingly, ten seconds after the sixth and final stroke had seared across the hard target. Alfie’s bottom was on fire. It felt like Uncle Bill had forced him to sit in an open coal fire.

“You may stand.”

Alfie rose to his feet, his face flushed almost to match his backside. His head swooned. Colours passed the back of his eyes. It was like being on drugs.

“ T…t…t…thank you, sir,” he stammered.

Uncle Bill flexed the sturdy cane. “ Now that, young man, was a caning,” he said, with the appreciation of a connoisseur. He had truly enjoyed it; not in a cruel or vindictive way, but with a genuine artistic pleasure.

“Yes, sir,” Alfie said as he furiously rubbed the seat of his jeans. The agony was already dimming to a throbbing ache. Somehow, in a way he could not yet articulate, he thought he understood Uncle Bill.

“You should go upstairs,” Uncle Bill tucked the cane under his arm in the fashion of a sergeant-major.

Alfie rushed to the bathroom and splashed his flushed face. He drank some cold water and slipped his hands down the back of his jeans and under his briefs. His burning, tender, welted backside felt like corrugated cardboard.

It was still painful to touch and he dared not look. He glanced at his face in the mirror, not recognising the ghostly-pale vision that stared back. His head had stopped spinning. He felt somehow purified and pleased with himself to have come through the ordeal. As he went back down the stairs he was filled with the most curious mixture of sensations. He felt at once tearful and tremulous, throbbing with lingering pain, slightly queasy, proud, peaceful and cleansed. He felt glad to have had the experience and was not absolutely determined to avoid having it again at any cost.

Picture credit: Unknown

 

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A whopping for Warminster

Over Pop’s knee with Perce

Don’t borrow dad’s car

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Harry discovers he’s not too old …

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The doorbell rang. Babs was flustered, she looked at the clock in the hallway. “Damn,” she said aloud although nobody was there to hear her, “She’s on time.” Babs wasn’t ready. Something had cropped up. Something unexpected. This really wasn’t a good time to have a neighbour call. She hurried down the hall and quietly closed the door to the front room. If she was careful she could steer her friend into the kitchen. She need never know.

Babs wiped her hands on her dress, slowly counted to five and opened the door. Mags from across the road smiled weakly, “I thought you were never going to answer. Brrrr, it’s perishing. I didn’t put on my heavy coat.” She didn’t need an invitation, she brushed past Babs into the inviting warmth of the house and headed towards the front room.

“No! Not there,” Babs realised her voice was too shrill but it was too late to moderate it, “Let’s go into the kitchen.” Mags looked startled. They always used the front room. What was up? Babs read her mind, “Oh it’s such a mess in there. You know Christmas,” she gave a frown and exaggerated shrug of the shoulders. “Come in here. It’ll be warmer,” she led the way to the kitchen. Mags hesitated. Couldn’t she hear voices – raised voices – coming from the front room?

They sat in uncomfortable silence waiting for the kettle to boil. Something was wrong, Mags sensed it. She had known her friend for many years. She had never seen her so … so what? Nervous?  Worried? Edgy? Agitated? She smiled softly, hoping Babs might spill the beans.

“Won’t be long. Won’t be long,” Babs glanced at her watch and then at the cold kettle.

Her husband George was in the front room with the couple’s nineteen-year-old son, Harry. He was staying for the holidays. Things were not going well. He had lived away from his parents for more than two years. Life in the big city was so different from his small hometown of Brocklehurst. Harry was a different person now. He played by his own rules. He had a job, he shared a house with three other guys. He was, he insisted, an adult.

Parents struggle when their children grow and fly the nest. To Mum and Dad Harry would always be about ten years old. The small boy. In need of love and guidance: firm rules, backed up when necessary by a firm hand. The past few days had been difficult. Harry arrived on Christmas Eve and it was now December 28th. Harry had become restless confined to the house, making small talk with his parents and visiting neighbours. He needed some Life.

So, the previous night he had sneaked out to The Three Fishers, the most notorious pub in sleepy Brocklehurst. It had been packed and by chance he met up with lads from school. One thing led to another. And another. He rolled back home at three in the morning, woke everybody in the house (and possibly the neighbours too) because he no longer had a door key. Dad was none too pleased to be dragged out of a warm bed in the freezing cold. His irritation was multiplied when Harry emptied the contents of his stomach over the carpet as he fell up the stairs.

Dad was old-fashioned. He had standards. He believed an Englishman’s home was his castle. He made the rules. Harry knew that. Puking up on the carpet was most certainly against the rules.

Harry sobered up quickly; nineteen year olds have remarkable powers of recovery. So it was that next morning a confrontation took place. Harry’s mother told him quietly he ought to get himself downstairs and into the front room.

His heart had lain heavily in his stomach as he awaited his father. Then it seemed to rise into his throat. Dad stood frowning in the doorway. Harry watched forlornly as his father crossed the room and seated himself on the sofa.

“Come here, Harry,” he said. The teenager rose and with leaden legs shuffled across the room. “Closer please. Stand exactly there.” His father indicated a spot on the carpet. “ Now, Harry, what have you to say for yourself? ”

“I don’t know, Dad.”

“You don’t know. You know what I’m talking about don’t you?”

“Yes, Dad,” Harry sucked on his bottom lip.

“Drunk,” his father sighed. “Look, son, you’re nineteen. You’ve been moody and disrespectful the whole holiday. Mum and me shouldn’t be troubled with your constant misbehaviour. You should have learned how to behave by now. You’ve spoiled your mum’s Christmas, you know that.”

Harry bowed his head in embarrassment, but not shame. He had enjoyed himself greatly at The Three Fishers, a pub frequented by available girls and given the chance he would visit again before he went back to the city.

His dad sighed again. He shook his head sorrowfully, “I wonder Harry if anything I am saying is getting through to you. I could tell you off until my face turns blue. You must get a grip of yourself. The time for childish behaviour is over. You’re growing up. You have got to act responsibly. Coming home drunk through the streets for all the neighbours to see.

“This is a small town, Harry. Your reputation goes with you everywhere. You used to be admired by some round here as a charming child and you are a good example some times. Now you must learn to discipline yourself and be well behaved all the time, not only when you feel like it.

“If you can’t discipline yourself, well,” he shook his head, “you know what must happen don’t you?”

Harry stared vacantly at the floor beneath his feet. He knew this moment would come, but he dreaded it nonetheless. “Yes Dad,” he whispered.

“Good,” his father said sternly. “You know what to do. Let’s have those jeans down.” He nodded at the boy’s Levis as if there was any doubt what he meant. Harry’s face coloured, he took a deep breath. He knew he ought to argue. To say, “I’m nineteen, I’m too old for this.” And it was true: he was nineteen, but his behaviour had been bad. He had let Mum and Dad down. Heck, he knew, he had let himself down. Instead of arguing, he took hold of his belt and began to unbuckle.

“All the way down,” his father encouraged. Then, “Good. Come, bend over my knee.”

Harry obeyed, lying himself across his father’s lap, his upper body resting on the vacant seat of the sofa.

“Put your hands under me,” coaxed his father. It was his practice when administering a severe spanking to sit on Harry’s hands, this made it impossible for the boy to struggle.

Harry manoeuvred his hands under his father’s heavy thighs. Harry had a slim build with slender hips and a small, hard bottom. His underpants had snugged against his cheeks and into his crack, lifting and separating his buttocks.

He was pinned firmly and he felt his father’s hand gently caressing his left cheek. The old man was smoothing out the last remaining wrinkles from Harry’s cotton pants. The teenager gasped slightly as the hard palm of his father’s hands explored the circuit of his two buttocks and into the undercurves and across the back of his naked thighs.

He knew how he was to be disciplined. He had seen the hairbrush waiting on the seat, and watched his Dad pick it up before he positioned himself across his knee. In truth, it was not actually a hairbrush, although that is what it was always called. It was a round-headed bath-brush, long, heavy and with a back flat enough for its purpose. There were numerous of these brushes in the shops, glistening in their light-brown glossy timber. There was a severity about these implements, so ideal for their purpose as spanking tools and versatile enough to use in the shower as well.

z used otk pants brush couch (5)

Harry tensed himself involuntarily as he felt a motion in his father’s body: the first stroke was coming. The flat, heavy, stinging shock exploded across his skin, penetrating the cotton pants as if they had not been there at all. Such delicate protection was powerless against the heavy thwack of the brush.

His legs stiffened, his body reared a little, though his hands were pressed immobile by warm, masculine thighs.

“I hope you are not going to resist,” his father grunted. “I have all day if you do. Relax, please. Submit yourself. You deserve this spanking and you know you do.”

Harry forced his body to go limp, letting himself go to the will of his father. The brush smacked home again, tingling-sore upon the surface of his bottom, yet deeply hurting too. These were not “love taps”, they were heavy strokes. A third, a fourth, a fifth and a sixth thwacked with force against his bucking backside. Harry yelped, tensed, tried to untense and tensed again.

He had endured spankings from his father better than this in the past, but punishment is a curious thing. In the right mood he could absorb so much, submitting himself. But today was different, Harry could hardly bear to be touched. The ringing, flood waves of pain were almost intolerable.

Often his father scolded him all through a spanking. Today he seemed to have said all he had to say. Harry knew what was expected. If he tensed and arched himself, the punishment would go on. If he submitted it would come in the end.

Unable to help himself and although he was pinned by the hands, Harry twisted his legs to avoid the pain, opening his thighs in an ungainly manner. His father deftly brought down the hard brush in agonising reproof across Harry’s exposed inner thighs.

The teenager squealed like a wounded animal and closed his legs as his only way of protecting the sensitive flesh. For the rest of the spanking his legs remained neatly side by side, despite the mounting pain in his bottom and thighs. The burning soreness would make sitting a delicate task for the rest of the day.

His father had found his rhythm now. Hard, swinging slaps fell with easy force upon the cotton-covered bottom and thighs. The flesh was becoming hot. Even father’s own thighs were hot and moist against Harry’s clenching, powerless hands.

Harry was blubbing now. He was resigned to the long, hard spanking. Harry’s fingertips were digging deep into his father’s thighs. The ordeal was far greater than he had expected. His involuntary squeals of acute distress as hard wood bit his flesh flowed through the house.

Back in the kitchen Harry’s mother Babs listened to the rhythmic strokes, each one accompanied by a high, soulful moan. Her embarrassment level was off the scale. Beside her drinking tea demurely sat her neighbour, Mags. Babs smiled coyly. “Another cup of tea? We have some mince pies left over.”

Mags nodded politely although she wanted neither tea nor cakes. Her thoughts were back across The Avenue at her house where her son Malcolm was still tucked up in bed. He hadn’t raised a finger to help all holidays. He was sour and surly when spoken to. He drank most of his father’s whisky yesterday.

The sound of hard wood against taut bottom still pounded from the nearby room. She accepted the offered teacup gracefully but was lost in her thoughts. How she envied her friend Babs with her husband unafraid to instil a little discipline where it was needed. She took a nibble of the mince pie, her heart sinking at the thought of what awaited her when she returned home.

 

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Days later Babs and Mags were in the front room sipping tea.

“George will be down in a minute, he’s just sorting something out with Harry,” Babs said and blew on her tea to cool it.

“Yes I thought your boy was still here on his holidays,” Mags said. They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Babs hoped her husband wouldn’t be too long.

“Did you do anything last night, for the new year?” Mags asked for want of something better to say.

“Nothing much, we don’t really bother.”

More silence. More sipping of tea.

“Did you hear all that racket in the street about one o’clock this morning?” Mags piped up.

“Rather,” Babs blushed, she looked at the ceiling as if she could see into the rooms above.

“Bunch of louts,” Mags warmed to her theme, “Waking the whole street. Disgraceful. You don’t expect behaviour like that in The Avenue, do you?”

“No,” Babs sighed, “No, you do not.”

“I know what I’d like to do to them if I got my hands on them,” Mags slurped on her tea so some dribbled down her chin.

“Yes, I quite agree,” Babs whispered.

Upstairs, her husband was “sorting something out” with nineteen-year-old Harry. “An absolute disgrace. All of you. Drunken louts,” he seethed. “Waking all the neighbours. What do you think they will say if they find out you were one of them? Your mother won’t be able to hold her head up at the shops. An utter disgrace,” he fumed.

Harry’s hands sweated. His head still ached from last night and his throat was as dry as a camel’s whatsit. He nodded along with his father’s reprimands, he had no strength to argue. “I am utterly ashamed of you. I spanked you the other day for coming home drunk, now look at you.” He paused and literally looked over Harry from the top of his gelled head to his feet.arryHarry

“I hope you’re ashamed too,” he paused for an answer. None came. For Harry the room was spinning, his head ached, he just wanted this over with so he could go back to bed.

The silence angered his father. “Dumb insolence. Right, that’s it,” he roared. “You are going to get the thrashing of your life.” He started to unbuckle his belt. Harry’s eyes glazed. “Right,” his father hissed, “Get those jeans down. Underpants too. Lay face down on the bed.” He pulled the wide leather belt from the loops of his trousers and folded it in two.

Harry had not moved. “Be quick about it,” his father snapped. “Or do you want me to do it for you?” That moved the teenager to slow action. Through moist eyes he unbuckled his own belt and unclipped and unzipped the jeans. He turned away from his father, hoping the old man wouldn’t see his naked cock and balls. He inserted his thumbs into the waistband and inch by inch lowered his jeans and pants together. He just about uncovered his buttocks. Gingerly, so not to reveal himself to his father, he crawled onto the bed and lay on his stomach.

z used belt jeans down bed

His father held the belt loosely as he waited for his son to submit himself. “Pah!” he groaned. “Not like that,” he did not hide his irritation. “Pull them right down.” He took two paces towards the bed, leaned forward and ripped the jeans and pants down until they uncovered his thighs and bunched at his knees.

“That’s better,” his father sneered, “Let the dog see the rabbit.”

Harry gripped a pillow and buried his aching head in it. “Right lad,” his father hissed, “a sound leathering that’s what you need and that’s what you’re going to get. You can only blame yourself. You never learn.” He gripped the belt tightly and towered over his prone son. The bed was made for a child so was narrow and low. His father flapped the belt and let it rest over Harry’s naked buttocks. He was finding his aim. He stood straight, then lifted the belt to shoulder height so that the leather tapped his own back. Then in one swift continuous movement he whipped it high, then forward and landed it with a resounding crack across Harry’s bottom. A thick deep pink stripe immediately appeared. Harry winced and pushed his face deeper into the pillow.

It had been some years since his father had used a belt in this way and he was quietly satisfied that he hadn’t lost his touch. The belt had landed exactly where intended. Now, he aimed a little higher. Harry’s bum was meaty, but hard. There was a lot to aim at. Up went the belt and down it came with astonishing speed. Bingo! A second sunset band glowed across the naked bottom. Harry’s legs shook on the impact.

“Feeling that, aren’t you. Good,” his father grizzled. “It’s what you deserve. It’s what you need.” He whipped another two cuts in quick succession. Most of Harry’s bum blazed red hot. “I thought after last time, I wouldn’t have to do this again. How wrong I was.” He scolded and slashed. “Look at you, nineteen years old and getting your bare backside belted by your father. What would those other louts say if they could see you.”

Harry had no idea what his friends would say. What he did know for certain was that none of them would be submitting themselves as he was to their dads for a spanking.

“And don’t be thinking that you’re too old for this,” his father said, reading his son’s mind. “You are never too old. Not in my house.” He whipped another three hard slashes across the under cheeks. “Good shots,” he told himself, “he’ll feel those every time he sits down for some time to come.”

Whack-whack-whack. His father had forgotten to keep count, but he was sure he had landed at least twenty-four. “Right lad,” he said, “That’s the belting over.” Harry sprang to his feet and started to tug his pants up. “

“Not so fast mister,” his father chided, “I’ve not finished yet. This is only half time.” Harry’s mouth opened and closed but he could find no words of protest. “Now for the cane,” his father crossed the room to the open door and reached out into the landing. When he turned back he held a length of bamboo he had taken from the garden shed earlier. It was about two feet long and rigid. He brandished it at Harry. “Leave those jeans and pants down. Kneel on the bed. Keep your head low and your bottom high.”

“Oh, c’mon Dad,” Harry had found his voice. “I’ve had enough.”

“Enough,” his father coughed, “I spanked you last time for drinking. Well, it didn’t seem to work did it? This time I’m going to do the job properly. Now get a move on.”

Defeated, Harry climbed on the bed. “Head low,” his father encouraged. Soon Harry’s forehead and nose were squashed into the mattress. “Bottom high, spread those legs.” His father watched intently as his son manoeuvred himself. He had a perfect view into the teenager’s crack and of his dangling ball sack.

He held the cane in both hands. It was too rigid to bend. His father frowned with disappointment. What he really wanted was an old-fashioned whippy school cane, made of rattan and with a curved handle. One he could swish around before landing it across his son’s bare bottom. He promised himself he would search the Internet later to see what he could find.

For now he lined the stiff rod across the highest point of Harry’s mounds. Tap-tap-tap, then lift and return. The cane didn’t swish through the air and it landed with a dull thud but it left a deep mark across Harry’s bare cheeks. “Not bad,” his father mused to himself, “Not bad, but not as good as a proper cane would be.”

He said aloud, “Six of the best, for you, m’lad.” He imagined himself as an ancient schoolmaster. He landed the next stroke higher. The third went lower. That one snagged across the back of Harry’s thighs. He howled.

The noise travelled downstairs to the kitchen. Babs and Mags sat silently. Both aware of what was going on upstairs in the bedroom but neither feeling it was polite to discuss it. Another loud “Yowll!” rent the air.

Mags stared at her empty teacup and wondered quietly where her own son Malcolm had been at one o’clock that morning.

Picture credits: Both unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com