Fake News #9

z used otk pants chair (200)

Sneak housebreaker gets short, sharp shock

Special to Standard-Recorder

 

A young housebreaker got more than he expected for when he snuck into a house in East Mason Creek Thursday.

He did not know it was occupied by Art Greer, aged 29, a martial-arts expert, and his brother Harvey, 31.

Mr. Greer told the Standard-Recorder in an interview, “He came from nowhere and went into the kitchen searching in cupboards. He didn’t see us in the room next door. I think he was high. When he saw us he started talking very quickly. We couldn’t understand a word he was trying to say.”

Mr. Greer, a UPS driver, added, “It didn’t take any effort to apprehend him.”

He decided not to call the police. “It would have cost taxpayer dollars to get the cops involved. There wasn’t anything they would have done that I couldn’t do myself.

“He was a weak little guy aged about nineteen.  He didn’t put up any resistance.”

Mr. Greer added, “If my brother and I went breaking into neighbors’ homes our Pop would’ve blistered our butts.”

Harvey Greer said together the brothers stripped the intruder of his jeans. “My brother is a martial arts expert, he can handle himself. The punk didn’t stand a chance. Art had him down and across his knee and was spanking him with a clothes brush before he knew what was hitting him.”

Art Greer added, “He tried to wriggle free but I had him pinned down. I blistered him.”

The brothers do not know the identity of the intruder. They say he was dressed in blue jeans and a red coat. He had blond cropped hair. He spoke with a county accent.

“We didn’t really say much to one another. I beat his butt for about five minutes and he howled a lot. That was all.”

Police Chief Paddy Callaghan when contacted by the Standard-Recorder said he had no record of the break-in.

“The householder appears to have dealt with the situation himself. The law allows for this. The punk was lucky Mr. Greer didn’t shoot him.”

The Police Chief said his officers were always on hand to assist householders troubled by young men.

“We have a highly-trained police force, equipped with stout maple paddles and we aren’t afraid to use them,” he said.

Harvey Greer took a photograph of the spanking (pictured above) which he later uploaded to his Facebook page. As of yesterday it had received more than 500,000 views.

Picture credit: TropixxxStudiosdotcom

More Fake News stories here

 

Other stories you might like

The mailman delivers

By order of the court

Never too old

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Fake News #8

joe phillips party

The Party’s Over for Rowdy University Students

EXCLUSIVE Brocklehurst Bugle

The party is over for rowdy students whose unruly behaviour disturbs neighbours. A new “Punishment Patrol” taskforce has been launched by Brocklehurst University.

For years residents have complained about students making noise late at night by partying, or simply playing loud music. But University authorities were powerless to act.

Until now.

A taskforce nicknamed the “Punishment Patrol” will be on hand 24/7 to respond to complaints.

Dr. Christine Thussu of the University’s Civic Service Unit, told the Brocklehurst Bugle in an interview, “The idea is to inflict instant punishment on troublemakers. New government legislation makes it possible for us to spank the backsides of students who step out of line.”

She said officers, specially-trained in the art of inflicting corporal punishment, are available to respond to complaints.

“They visit students and assess the severity of the offence. Then, they act immediately,” she said. “They are equipped with a variety of spanking implements including slippers, straps, brushes and canes.”

Dr. Thussu said in the recent past, students who range in ages from 18 to 23, had been “dealt with” by the Punishment Patrol. She added, “This could be a simple over-the-knee spanking on the seat of their trousers to a more severe whacking with a whippy rattan cane. They can also make the boy take down his trousers – and even his underpants – if they think fit.”

Mrs. Amelia Worthington, of The Avenue, Brocklehurst, who called in the Punishment Patrol to deal with a rowdy party last month, told the Brocklehurst Bugle, “There were about a dozen youngsters singing and dancing in the garden. It was well past nine o’clock, they should have been in bed.” She said she called the university and a vanload of men dressed like security guards pulled up outside the student house.

“They were carrying all sorts of things, but mostly canes.”

Mrs. Worthington added, “The guards soon got to work. My husband and I could hear the whackings from our bedroom. A lot of the students were hollering by the time they were done.”

Mr. Gerry Wiseman, President of the Brocklehurst University Students’ Union, said many students had complained about their treatment, citing violations of human rights.

However, he said, “Many students said they welcomed the new rules. It has made them spend less time partying and more studying in the library. They might even graduate with better degrees as a result.”

If you have a complaint against a student contact the Punishment Patrol at _____________

Picture credit: Joe Phillips

More Fake News stories here

 

Other stories you might like

That Connor boy!

Mr Hennessey’s Boys 4. Timothy’s story

Untidy bathroom

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Better believe in Santa Claus

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Little Jimmy Lomas, six years old and a sweet as he could be, sucked the top of his red crayon.

Writing to Santa Claus was harder than he thought. He knew what toys he wanted Father Christmas to bring. Mummy had told him to write down a list. Later they would burn it on the open fire in the living room and it would go up the chimney. Then, at midnight Santa would come down that very chimney.

How did you spell “astronaut”? He would have to ask mummy. Just then the door opened and his older half-brother Lucas slouched in.

“What are you doing?” he sneered. “What’s this carrot and glass of milk?”

“It’s for Rudolph the reindeer and Santa,” Jimmy grinned. “You have to leave them or you don’t get any presents.”

Lucas snatched the paper from Jimmy’s hand. “Writing to Santa Claus. Don’t you know there’s no such thing as Santa Claus?”

Jimmy looked puzzled. Of course, there was a Santa Claus; he brought you presents. But only if you were a good boy. And, there was Rudolph and elves.

“It’s all made up, you moron,” Lucas sneered.

Jimmy’s eyes moistened. Tears trickled down his dimpled cheeks. “There is!! There is!”

Lucas smirked, “It’s my dad; he’s the one who gives you your presents.”

“Not true! Not true!” Jimmy fled from the room. “Mummy! Mummy!”

Lucas Lomas, twenty years old and as bitter as Kentucky sour mash. He hated Christmas. He hated his dad for divorcing and getting married again to a much younger woman. He hated his mother for throwing him out of her home days after he turned eighteen. He hated the way his copper-coloured hair curled and couldn’t be combed. His face was square and his nose too big. No girl would look at him twice.

He hated the sweaty room he lived in. He hated his job at the supermarket. He hated being forced to spend Christmas with his “family.”

His dad barged into the room, his face purple with fury. “What did you have to go and do that for? What’s Jimmy ever done to you?”

Lucas snarled, “Father Christmas. What a load of crap. There are at least five Santas in the High Street. How do you explain that to him?”

“I hope you’re not going to be like this all over Christmas?”

“Don’t worry, I’m going out with my mates.”

“Where you going?”

“None of your business.”

“Well don’t come back pissed and wake the house.”

“Don’t worry, and I promise not to disturb Santa and his reindeer.” He slumped on the couch and grabbed the television remote. “Fuck me, Morecambe and Wise again. They died before I was even born.”

“Ah! Christmas. Don’t you just love it,” his father reached to the sideboard and unscrewed the lid from the Eat Me Dates.

“Oh, I’m out of here.”

Two hours later Lucas and his pals were leaning against the bar of the Shaggy Dormouse, the place-to-be-seen when you were twenty and the-place-to-avoid at twenty-three. He slurped on his snakebite. The place was steaming and so were most of the customers, packed in cheek by jowl, an ocean of pasty-pale faces, except for the ones flushed deep pink with alcohol. There was no space to move, it was too loud to hear friends speak. It was people having fun on Christmas Eve.

After six pints at the Dormouse, Lucas and four pals bounced through the High Street. It might be Christmas Eve but they were dressed only in jeans and tee-shirts, the typical attire of the macho male.

“Shit. I need a piss,” Lucas hopped from one foot to another. “Over here,” he ran towards a doorway.

“You can’t. That’s someone’s flat.”

“Fuck that!” Lucas unzipped his jeans and a steaming stream of urine soaked the doorway.

“Let’s go to The Cock and do over some queers.”

“Nah, not tonight, The Beaver’s open. C’mon.”

It was nearly two in the morning. The walk home hadn’t done much to sober him up. Lucas tried once, he tried twice and only on the third attempt, and after closing one eye to gauge his distance, he poked the key into the slot and opened the door. A blast of icy cold air ripped his bare arms.

“What the …?”

It seemed to come from the living room. Lucas stood almost literally frozen. A pink radiance seeped from the room, the glow dazzled him. Suddenly sober, he edged closer to the light, shielding his eyes. He heard the sound. Rustling activity. Someone was in the room. A burglar.

“Who’s there?” he called, feeling foolish the moment the words left his lips. The rustling continued. Cautiously, attempting bravery he didn’t truly feel, Lucas inched further to the door.

The room glowed pink, like the cheapest club dancefloor. Lucas peered through hooded eyelids. A shadowy figure was under the Christmas tree, holding a tiny spacesuit.

“He’s thieving our presents,” Lucas thought. He said aloud, “Stop that, leave them alone.”

Lucas’s eyes burned, all he saw were blurs.

“Ho-ho-ho, young man,” the figure raised what looked like an empty glass in his hand in salute. “Don’t you know who I am? I’m Santa Claus.”

“Dad is that you? Stop pissing about.”

“Now, now Lucas, m’boy, watch your language. You’re in enough trouble as it is.”

Lucas paused. This wasn’t his dad. He wasn’t a burglar either. Not dressed in a Santa suit.

“Stop p…” he corrected himself just in time, “… playing around, who are you?”

“You know who I am Lucas. I am Santa Claus. And, you know why I am here. I give out presents to the nice children; but what do I do to the naughty ones, Lucas.”

The twenty-year-old gaped. How did this odd man know his name?

“Well, Lucas, what happens to the naughty boys?”

“I haven’t been naughty, Santa,” Lucas felt his cheeks flush. How absurd he felt, who was this weirdo?

“Come Lucas, I know you went to the toilet in the doorway of poor Mrs. Hetherington. Think how she’ll feel on Christmas morning when she has to clear up your mess.”

Lucas’s mouth opened and closed, but he couldn’t get words to form.

“I know what you said to Jimmy today,” Santa screwed up his face with distain, “That I don’t exist. Well we’ll see about that.”

Santa stretched his arms and glared at the shivering figure before him. “So, Lucas, what does Santa do to naughty boys?”

“Piss off.”

“Wrong answer, Lucas,” Santa stepped forward menacingly. Instinctively, Lucas turned to run. His legs wouldn’t work. He was rooted to the spot; unable to move.

“Not so fast, buster. We have unfinished business.”

Lucas’s heart pounded, he could only stand and watch. First, Santa picked up a small wooden chair and carefully placed in under the Christmas tree. “Ho-ho-ho,” he hummed to himself. Then, he turned to face the quivering young man. “Look at this Lucas,” he snapped his fingers and a heavy wooden clothes brush appeared in his gloved hand. “Look what Santa’s brought for you Lucas.”

Lucas stared transfixed. What had he just witnessed?

Santa sat on the small chair, spread his legs a little and wriggled his buttocks until he was comfortable. “Lucas, I want you to take down your jeans and your underpants and come and bend across Santa’s knee.”

“Piss off.”

“Tut-tut,” Santa shook his head, “You haven’t quite understood, have you?” Santa gave an exaggerated blink and he sat back in his chair.

Lucas tried to fight it; he couldn’t. It was like an out-of-body experience. His hands reached for his own belt buckle. There was nothing he could do. He had no control over his movements. In seconds the belt was loosened and his fingers fumbled with his zipper. Santa tapped the clothes brush into the palm of his left hand; watching. Waiting.

With the jeans at his feet, Lucas pinched the waistband of his Boxer shorts and with a deft flick of the wrist, he sent them south to join his jeans. The merest flicker of a smile was hidden by Santa’s untidy whiskers. It was not often he got to see such a package. Santa would never understand why Lucas couldn’t get himself a girl.

“Come, bend across my knee, Lucas,” Santa’s instruction was gentle. He knew it would be obeyed. When he thought about it later, and for the many times he would recall this night for the rest of his life, Lucas would never be able to explain what happened next. Meekly, he shuffled across the floor. He stood a foot or so to Santa’s left, staring down at the legs clad in bright red trousers. Then, and Lucas was almost certain of this, then of his own accord, he lowered himself forward. The palms of his hands rested on the carpet, his legs bent at the knees and the toecaps of his trainers hovered an inch above the ground. The smooth red material of Santa’s trousers felt warm against Lucas’s naked skin.

In the moments before the heavy wooden brush fell for the first time, Lucas’s conscience clicked in. “I deserve this. It is what I have always needed,” it told him.

Santa’s smooth gloved hand took hold of the tail of Lucas’s tee-shirt and moved it away from the target area. Then, he gently caressed first the right cheek and then the left. The young man’s bottom was fleshy. It had a lot of bounce. If Lucas didn’t change his lifestyle and cut down on the booze and hamburgers, he would soon run to fat.

Lucas stared down at the carpet, waiting patiently. His breathing was even, his heartbeat steady. He was calm.

But not for long. The first smack caught him in the centre of the left cheek; the brush sank into the fleshiest part of the buttock. Santa was satisfied with the deep pink outline the brush left behind. He was delighted with the eleven more he crashed into Lucas’s backside; all more or less on the same spot. Rat-a-tat-tat. It sounded like machinegun fire echoing around the room. Then, without a pause, Santa walloped a dozen into the right cheek.

The first stinging smack made Lucas’s mouth open, but no sound came out until the third one. It was a choked cry. By the time the brush bounced off his bum for the sixth time, he was squirming and wriggling. By a dozen his bum felt like he had sat on a barbecue.

The stinging, burning agony was kept alive by each whack from the heavy wooden brush. His bottom was blood-red and swollen, but Santa slammed the brush into his buttocks again and again and again. Lucas’s sobs became yelps and soon they were full-throated yells as he twisted and turned his body as if he was trying to swim off Santa’s lap.

It felt like hours to Lucas, but it was only minutes. Not one part of his buttocks and the back of his thighs was left unmarked. Santa spanked on and on. Lucas had an arse that cried out to be spanked and Santa never shirked his duty.

Father Christmas had seen many spanked bottoms in the hundreds of years he had been in the job, but nothing quite matched Lucas Lomas’s rear end. The mass of scarlet flesh was outstanding. It was like he was wearing a pair of red cycling shorts. Lucas lay slumped across Santa’s lap – literally a beaten man.

Santa raised his right hand to his mouth and with his teeth he loosened each finger until he was able to remove his woollen glove. Gently, he patted Lucas’s burning bum. Then, softly Santa made circular motions with his palm across both mounds. The flesh was hot to the touch. Lucas wheezed, Santa’s hand felt smooth against his roaring rear.

He was still face down and couldn’t see the broad grin splitting Santa’s face. “Well Lucas,” he beamed, ‘Do you believe in Santa Claus now?”

“Oh yes, Santa,” Lucas gasped. “”Yes, I do.”

Picture credit: Alan Paul

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Night Before Christmas

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It as the night before Christmas and little Joe was ever so excited. This was the time Santa came to deliver all his presents – and Joe had a very long list indeed.

It was late, almost midnight, and he knew he should be in bed, but he couldn’t pass up the chance of meeting Santa.

The house had no chimney and Joe was worried. How could Santa get in? Don’t worry, dada had said, he doesn’t have to use the chimney, he can get in by magic.

Satisfied, with dada’s explanation, Joe set out his store: a glass of milk for Santa and a carrot for the reindeer. It was a cold frosty night, but the central heating was on high, so Joe sat in the living room dressed only in his pyjamas and waited. His pyjamas were bright yellow with pictures of racing cars all over them. How he hated those pyjamas; he longed for a pair like the big boys wore with blue-and-white stripes and a drawstring around the waist to pull them together.

He was sleepy and dozing a little. Because it was Christmas Eve dada had prepared a big meal and there had been lots to drink. He had even eaten some Smarties. It was too much; his tummy was beginning to ache and he felt a little sick.

He checked over his list. A Playstation, an iPhone, a Tablet. Then there were what dada called the “stocking filers”; a table tennis bat, cricket stumps and a pair of bedroom slippers.

What a wonderful time he would have playing with all his new gifts. Yes, it would be a very merry Christmas indeed for Joe.

Suddenly, he heard a sound. It was soft and seemed a long distance off. What could it be, Joe wondered. Then he remembered the poem about the mouse and he was scared. You must be brave, he told himself. There’s nothing to be afraid off. A little mouse. But, he curled his legs up under him and sat back on the couch. A mouse couldn’t run up his pyjama trousers leg if he kept his feet off the floor.

But, it wasn’t a mouse. Slowly, the door opened. Joe’s tummy churned once more; the room was spinning a little; was he about to be sick?

“Ho-ho-ho!” He knew that sound. It was no mouse: it was Santa Claus and he had the reddest-red suit and the whitest-white beard and the roundest-round belly.

“Ho-ho-ho!” Santa roared. He really was the jolliest fellow, Joe thought; no wonder children all over the world loved him so much.

But, something was not quite right. Santa was not carrying a sack. Where were all the presents?

“Ho-ho-ho!” Santa’s record seemed to be stuck. Joe was panicking – where were his presents?

Joe was not always the politest little boy, especially when he wasn’t getting his way.

“Ho-ho-ho!” Santa was irritating Joe now. Where were his presents?

“Ho-ho-ho! little boy. Are you Joe?” Santa cheeks flushed bright red. It must have been the cold frosty air. The journey from Lapland had been a long one.

“Yes, Santa,” an excited Joe confirmed who he was. His face brightened, but he was still puzzled for he could see no presents.

“Ho-ho-ho,” uninvited Santa rested his big fat body down on the couch, forcing Joe to uncurl his legs and make room. He was a very irritated little boy.

“Where are my presents?” he snapped.

“Presents?” Santa looked at him quizzically. “Presents? Which presents are they?”

Joe pursed his lips. This wasn’t how it was meant to be. “The Playstation, iphone, the ….” He recited his long list of demands. “I sent you the letter weeks ago,” he finished, as if this somehow proved his point.

Santa’s face clouded. He enjoyed his job most of the time. Who wouldn’t like being Santa; you only worked one night of the year and you brought joy and happiness to children. Yes, it was a lovely job. But, there was a downside.

“Only good boys get presents,” Santa was feeling grumpy, he wanted to get on with this. “Have you been a good boy Joe?”

“Yes, I have!” he huffed and only just stopped himself adding, “Now, give me my presents.”

“Ho-ho-ho,” there he went again. “No, Joe. I have you down on the naughty boys list.” And as if to prove a point he pulled a large sheet of writing paper from his pocket.

Joe’s eyes widened. What nonsense was this? He had stayed awake until nearly midnight waiting for this magical fat man to appear and now what? No presents.

“No, Santa, I’ve been a good boy,” and then he flashed his cutest “little boy” smile, the one that broke the hearts of so many, and said, “Honest, Santa. I’m a good boy.”

Santa snorted. There was no ho-ho-ho this time. “No, Joe. That’s not true now is it? Listen to this list. You don’t do your chores at home; you are disrespectful to your dada; you sometimes go out to play and stay out late.”

“No, Santa, no, it’s not true,” Joe wailed. This was not going to plan at all. But, the naughty little boy could deny it all he liked – he, and Santa, knew it was true.

“Do you know what Santa does to naughty boys, Joe?”

“No, Santa,” he spoke as if he genuinely did not.

“Santa takes them across his knee, Joe, and Santa spanks their naughty bottoms, that’s what Santa does Joe.” Then, he added, making Joe’s blood curdle, “Ho-ho-ho.”

“No, Santa, no! I’m a good boy. I am. Really!” But Joe was only adding the crime of lying to Santa to all the others on the list.

Santa hauled himself off the couch. Joe stared wide-eyed as Santa rummaged in a deep pocket and with his own eyes gleaming, he pulled out a heavy wooden clothes brush.

“Ho-ho-ho. Look Joe, look what Santa’s got for you!”

“No, Santa!” Alarmed, Joe tried to make a run for the door, but fat old Santa was too quick for him. He gripped the terrified little boy by his arm and pulled him forward. It took only a moment for Santa to retain his seat on the couch and drag the kicking and wailing naughty little boy face down across his knees.

“No, Santa, no. I’m sorry. I’ll be a good boy. Please. You can keep the presents. I don’t want them.”

Ha! Santa beamed. That’s what all the boys say. They will plead and promise him anything – as long as he didn’t spank them.

But, Santa had his job to do. Joe must have his bottom spanked. He had to stick to the rules. It was only the threat of a spanking from Santa at Christmas that kept many naughty boys on the straight and narrow.

Joe was in no position to argue. Santa had him pinned across his legs, so that his head and chest rested along the couch on one side and his legs stretched out behind him on the other. His naughty little spankable bottom rested vulnerably over Santa’s crotch. Joe wriggled to the left and the right, but Santa’s grip was tight and he was going nowhere.

“Ho-ho-ho,” Santa gripped the waist of Joe’s pyjama bottoms and tugged them down.

“No, Santa, no,” Joe gasped, but by now he realised he had no choice. Santa was in charge. He could do anything he wanted to and there was nothing the naughty little boy could do to stop it.

“Ho-ho-ho,” Santa admired the sight across his lap. It was a smooth pert bottom, and completely hairless, as were the boy’s thin legs.

Santa wasn’t quite ready to go. He pulled off his thick woollen gloves and with the palm of his right hand he gently caressed Joe’s buttocks; making circular motions, first on the right cheek and then the left. The buttocks clenched and rose off Santa’s lap in protest.

“You have a lovely bottom, Joe. Very boyish. I shall enjoy spanking it. It feels very soft. Very soft and very small, but nicely rounded,” Santa kept his thoughts to himself.

Instead, he said. “Relax Joe. It is better if you relax. You know that.” Santa’s words were kind. He did not despise the boy across his laps. He had been naughty and like all naughty boys, he deserved to have his bare bottom spanked. And it would happen. But, then it would be over. Joe would have atoned for his naughtiness and everyone could get on with their lives.

“Ho-ho-ho,” Santa chuckled as he raised the heavy wooden clothes brush about three inches above the boy’s right buttock and whacked it down into the fleshiest part of the cheek. Joe winced, but had no time to do anything else before the next blow fell, this time across the left buttock.

The boy gasped a little. It hurt, but not much. Santa slapped the brush down for a quick dozen whacks. Santa could see Joe’s bottom was warming up nicely. Yes, it was a lovely shade of pink.

“Ho-ho-ho,” Santa was enjoying himself now.

Joe’s bottom was beginning to throb with the pain and he tried to move his right hand to protect his cheeks but Santa was having none of it. He leaned across the boy making it impossible for him to reach back to his increasingly reddening bottom. But Joe continued to writhe and squirm uselessly while kicking his legs up and down against the soft cushion of the couch. Santa dominated him completely.

“Stop it Joe, I am going to spank you until I think you’ve been properly punished, and until I reach that point, I’m just going to keep stinging that bare bottom of yours hard and fast,” and Santa whacked the brush again and again into Joe’s bouncing bottom, concentrating  on the very tender spot where the cheeks join the thighs.

In the distance, church bells were calling out for Midnight Mass. It was getting late, Santa wanted to move on. He had other things to do tonight before he could fall into his bed.

Satisfied that he had delivered a classic old-fashioned bottom warming with all the trimmings, Santa finally stopped. He released his grip on the naughty little boy across his lap and Joe sprang to his feet, clasping his sore bottom with both hands.

“Ho-ho-ho!” Santa beamed. Joe’s cock was pointing at him at a forty-five degree angle, rigid and inviting. Its uncut tip glistened.

Santa ripped off his fat suit and stood in his boxers and vest. His own member throbbed to escape the confines of the tight cotton shorts. He wouldn’t be able to control it for too much longer.

Joe’s grin was so wide it seemed his face might split in two. This was what he really loved about Christmas. Tradition. He and Jamie had played this game every year since they first met.

Joe sank to his knees and took Jamie’s cock sideways in his mouth, running his tongue along the shaft from the ball sack to the moist tip.

Jamie reeled back in ecstasy. “Ho-ho-ho! Here cums Santa Claus!” he shrieked.

First published Christmas 2015

Picture Credit: Unknown

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Book. Troublesome Teens

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Troublesome Teens

They might think they are adults, but older teens are not. They are still children and they need to act like it. They should respect their parents and obey adults. Without question. And if they don’t? These stories will remind them of the consequences of bad behaviour. A very sore backside indeed.

 

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

– Extract from Put Back in Short Trousers

 

The book runs for more than 16,000 words and can be downloaded by clicking the link below. The PDF file can be read on computers, laptops and a variety of e-book readers.

troublesome-teens-by-charles-hamilton-ii

Picture credit: Unknown

For more free-to-download books click here

BOOK. The Junior Salesman

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The Junior Salesman and other workplace whackings

THE TWENTY-YEAR-old junior salesman slowly unclasped his belt and unbuttoned his trousers. He pushed them over his hips and let go. From there they slithered slowly down his legs.

A breeze from the nearby open window brushed against his naked legs as he awaited the next command.

Tyler looked over at his boss; in his hands was a wicked-looking school cane, around three feet in length and with a curved handle.  Mr. Davenport’s huge grin exposed his decaying teeth as he tapped a point
on the floor in front of him with the cane, “Please bend over and touch your toes.”

 The Junior Salesman and other workplace whackings is another collection of my stories published in book form. It runs for more than 19,000 words and has many illustrations. You should be able to read it on your lap top or e-book reader.

Click on the link below to download it free-of-charge.

the-junior-salesman-by-charles-hamilton-ii

Picture credit: Unknown

For more free-to-download books click here

Letter of Regret

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45 The Avenue

Brocklehurst

 

Dear Mr. Lesame,

I am writing to you to say sorry about breaking the window in your greenhouse with my cricket ball. I know you told us many times not to play cricket outside your house but we ignored you.

After you told my Dad he was very cross with me. He said I had disgraced the family. He said I was rude and arrogant and ill disciplined. He said I needed to be taken down a peg or two. He would give me the spanking of my life.

Dad believes that we must be accountable for our actions. He has taught me this all my life and I think he is right and I take responsibility for disobeying you and breaking your window. I am eighteen and I should act like an adult. If I cannot do this then Dad says I should be treated like a child.

That is what he did. I stood remorsefully in the sitting room while he lectured me some about my behaviour and then he sent me to my room and told me to get into my pyjamas. It wasn’t long before Dad came in. “Mitch, I’m sorry I have to do what I am about to do, but I’ve got to teach you never, ever to do anything like that again,” he said.

He had a hairbrush in his hand. The bristles are all worn down on it and it isn’t much good for brushing hair (Dad’s practically bald anyway), it is the wide, flat wooden type that is ideal for spanking.

He sat down on the edge of my bed. I knew what was coming and I started blubbing because I was really going to get it. My legs were shaking as he made me come to his side. I was horrified when he yanked my pj’s down so my bum was bare. They fell at my feet and then Dad ordered me to step out of them. Man was he mad. I knew I was going to get it hot.

He told me to bend over his knees. I am just the right height so that the palms of my hands rested in the carpet in the front and my toes just touched the ground at the back. My bare buttocks were arched over his lap. I felt his arm hold me firmly over his knee. Now, I was staring at the carpet (not an unfamiliar position) while my bum was in front of his face and my cock was rubbing against his thigh.

Dad was true to his word. He gave me a spanking like I never had before. Within seconds I was kicking and screaming. The hairbrush landed again and again on my red and now very sore bottom. Blisters started forming as he spanked me over and over. I yelped, I wailed, I yelled. Nothing was stopping him from giving me the whacking of my life.

Dad tanned my bare bottom so well that at the end all I could do was sink to my knees and grabbing my toasted bottom bawl my eyes out for a few moments. By the time Dad left me to nurse my battered bum, I felt about six years old. After Dad left the room I flopped face-down on my bed, trying to quiet my choking sobs. Tears flowed freely down my face as I tried to rub the soreness away from my scarlet bottom. I had spent the best part of ten minutes struggling across Dad’s knees, bottom bared as he very soundly and thoroughly spanked my eighteen-year-old bottom with his hairbrush.

Dad says he hopes I have learned my lesson and that you will approve of the punishment he has given me. But, he says if you don’t think I have been disciplined enough he will give you permission to take down my trousers and pants and haul me over your knee for a spanking on the bare bottom.

Yours Faithfully,

Michael Manning.

P.S. I’m horny as Hell, see you Thursday after school.

 

Picture credit: CP Services London

Other stories you might like

The padded armchair

Caught in their underpants

Housemate pays the rent

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com