Garden boy

new 5

z used after naked mowing lawn outdoors

I must make a confession right away. There’s not much to this story. Not by way of plot anyway, but I hope you’ll find it interesting nonetheless. It happened to me a few summers ago. That year when it was really hot for about the whole of June and July and then went a long way downhill after that until August could easily have been mistaken for November.

I was in a lot of trouble at home. I had left school when I was sixteen without a qualification to my name and (who would have thought?) I couldn’t get much of a job. I got into petty thieving; from shops and market stalls. I smoked a little weed. I stayed around at home until Mum got so fed up with me she threatened to throttle me if I didn’t move in with her brother Nigel.

Uncle Nigel had his own little business doing people’s gardens. He mowed their lawns and dug their weeds. He would prune your trees if you paid him enough. He worked the suburbs of Brocklehurst which is a small town too far from where I lived. Uncle Nigel offered to make me his assistant and put me up at his house, so all of a sudden in the wink of an eye I had a new job and a new home: a whole new life.

It started well, business was booming. We would share the work, maybe I would mow the front lawn while Uncle Nigel did the back. After not too long there was so much work, Uncle Nigel said we should split up. He would do some houses on his own and I’d do others. He told me he thought I was a good worker and he trusted me not to let him down. I was walking on air. Nobody had ever said anything like that to me before.

We had a number of customers in a posh street called The Avenue. The houses were mostly hidden behind high walls and some of them had lawns the size of football pitches (well, maybe five-a-side ones). Uncle Nigel said The Avenue would be my responsibility. I was well “made-up”. My own patch to work.

The people in The Avenue were rich. I had never been close to such large houses. And the garages! Some could take three cars, and no exaggeration. All went well with my work, but fool that I am I could never leave things alone. One afternoon I was working on one of the houses. I forget which number and I never knew the name of the owner so I’ll just call him The Man. I was in the back garden getting the mower ready when I noticed the door to the kitchen was open slightly. I couldn’t resist having a peak inside. The kitchen was enormous. Mum would have loved a place like this. There was every appliance and gadget she would ever want. I stood at the open door gaping. A counter ran through the middle of the room, it was as big as the lunch counter at Robinson’s the department store back home. Well maybe not that long, but you could have sat half a dozen people at it. I was just about to get back to work when I spotted a leather wallet on a small table. Even from a distance I could tell it was bulging. A lump came to my throat, my heart pounded. I swear my eyes watered. Maybe the palms of my hands also itched. I was out of control. Without a second’s thought I was inside the kitchen, the wallet was in my hands and I had a five pound note between my sticky fingers.

I couldn’t have timed it more badly. The kitchen door glided open and there The Man stood, open mouthed. He sized up the situation, his face darkened, his jowls wobbled. I stared at him and then looked down sheepishly at the fiver in my hands.

If I found someone in my kitchen stealing from my wallet I am pretty sure I would have leapt across the room and smashed his face in. The Man just shook his head slowly from side to side. “Stand there!” he pointed to a corner of the kitchen away from the door. “While I phone for the police.” My knees buckled. I should have legged it. The Man was too old and too fat to chase after me. I could be gone in a flash. I didn’t. I stood rooted. My mouth opened and closed but I couldn’t get the words out. I wanted to say something like: don’t do it, Uncle Nigel would kill me. Mum would never let me go home again. I’d lose my job. I’d be homeless. I said none of this. I stood meekly, my bright blue eyes pleading.

The Man pursed his lips. He stepped further into the kitchen. He leaned forward as if to get a closer look at me. He had no fear of me. I did the goldfish out of water impression again, still unable to speak.

“No,” The Man towered over me. I caught a faint aroma of coal tar soap on his body. “No,” he repeated, “not the police.” I mouthed a silent, “Thank you.” He peered closely at me. His grey eyes seemed to burn into me, as if he could read right into my soul. “No,” he said calmly, “No police, I can deal with this myself.” The way he said the word deal sent a shiver through me.

“Did you know,” he said as his eyes sized me up from the top of my head to my feet, “I was once a schoolmaster.” He stopped speaking there and his eyes narrowed. The silence was overpowering: was I supposed to say something here? I might have said, “Oh,” but I can’t remember. When it was clear I had no more to say, he continued. “I have a great deal of experience dealing with boys like you,” his lips curled into a sneer. I blinked hard, fearing where he was going with this.

If the look in his eyes was a clue, he seemed to be debating with himself in his head. “It is a great pity that I no longer possess a rattan cane,” he said aloud and lapsed into silence again. Then he said wistfully, “A sound swishing would sort this matter out.” I had never heard the term a sound swishing before, but I instinctively knew what he meant. He wanted to cane my backside like I was one of his naughty schoolboys from back in the day.

The Man’s eyes glazed. A frown covered his face. He was deep in thought again. “Ah, but maybe.” I had no idea what he was talking about, but he seemed to have made up his mind about something. He waddled from the room. This was my second chance to leg it. For the second time I stood rooted. He returned to the kitchen moments later. “Here,” he beamed, his face alight with a wide smile. In his right fist he held a large wooden brush. It was like the one Mum had at home hanging in the passageway. She used it for brushing clothes. He waved it in my face, “This will be perfect.” It was about a foot long, including the handle. The oval-shaped head was probably five inches by three. My eyes followed it as The Man waved it provocatively in my face.

“Right, boy,” he said. His tone of voice had changed. He was speaking to me like I was about thirteen years old. Once a schoolmaster, always a schoolmaster, I suppose. He was in charge. He would order me what to do and I would obey. Without question. “Stand there,” he pointed towards the centre of the room, “By the counter,” he added, in case there was any doubt what he meant. I stared at him, my mouth gaping. He wanted to spank me with that clothes brush. And to do so he needed me to meekly subject myself to his will.

In any other circumstance I could have (would have!) punched him in the face and left him kneeling in a pool of blood before calmly walking away. There was no way he could bodily force me to be spanked. Of course not; but he had no need to do that. He held all the cards; he knew who I was, he could call the police or tell Uncle Nigel. Whatever he did, I was toast. You might not believe this but my best option was to do as The Man ordered. I shuffled the few paces it needed for me to cross the kitchen to the counter.

“Drop those shorts. Underpants too.” It was a hot summer afternoon and I wore no shirt, if I did as he ordered I’d be stark naked. I didn’t speak a word, but the look on my face must have betrayed my inner thoughts. The Man tapped the brush into the palm of his left hand, “It’s not a proper spanking unless it’s on the bare,” he growled, as if delivering a perfectly rational explanation. Like it was normal for him to instruct a nineteen-year-old to strip naked before him in his kitchen.

“Shorts, underpants down,” he repeated, adding, “Bend over the counter.” My heart thumped and although I couldn’t see it I knew my face was burning scarlet. I had never been spanked in my life and the cane had been banned at school years before. Now, here I was being told to strip naked by a complete stranger. “Do you want me to do it for you?” The Man leered. He started to approach me, his hand outstretched. I froze. I guess it was like an out-of-body experience. It was as if I was looking down on us both from a high point. The Man put his fingers into the waist of my cut-off jeans and tugged me forward. The shorts fitted me snugly and had no belt. Still holding the brush in his left hand, with his right he skilfully undid the fastener at the top of my shorts and slowly unzipped me. The weight of a bunch of keys I had in a pocket sent the shorts hurtling to my feet. Seconds later he had my lemon-coloured briefs resting on top of them.

I hadn’t moved an inch. He took my left wrist in his fist and swivelled me around so I faced the counter, then he pushed me hard in the shoulder blades and I allowed myself to fall forward. Even on a hot afternoon the counter top felt cold against my naked stomach and chest. The Man pressed his hand into the small of my back. I had hardly recognised the perilous position I was in before there was a tremendous whack! and the heavy, wooden brush connected with great energy against my left buttock. Two breaths later, it pounded into my right cheek. That knocked the wind out of me, but was nothing as compared to the next eight or nine whacks he pounded at speed into my naked bottom.

My bum was ablaze. Of course, I stomped my legs up and down and I wriggled my hips and I tried to launch myself to my feet, but The Man was stronger than he looked and he had me pinned face down over the counter. I gritted my teeth determined not to cry out. Even at my age and never been spanked before I knew instinctively the code of the naughty boy through the ages: never let your master know he has hurt you.

The pain was intense and each successive spank added to it until the agony was such it felt like I had been forced to sit in a bath of boiling water. But, I don’t know, after the first fifty or so whacks I must have reached a threshold of pain, because after that no matter how many more times he pounded that brush into my bare bum I didn’t feel it, even though my backside throbbed like crazy. I lost count of how long I was face down over that cold counter but at last The Man released his grip on my shoulder.

I jumped up, hopping from foot to foot while at the same time rubbing away at my raw bum. The skin was hard and felt like leather. While I did the spanking dance I kicked my shorts and pants away. The Man ducked down, picked them up and immediately left the kitchen with them. He returned seconds later emptyhanded. He let me calm down and when he was satisfied I was okay, he said quietly, “You have still to mow the lawn. Get on with it. You’ve wasted enough time this afternoon.”

He gently pushed me towards the garden. I was completely naked, except for my shoes. “B…” I began a protest, but the steely look in his eyes spoke volumes and I shut up. He was my master. Decades of schoolmastering could do this to a person. He was in control. I could do nothing but obey. Not daring to look at The Man I took hold of the lawn mower and pushed it across the grass. The pain in my backside has eased a lot by now but my head was spinning but not enough that I didn’t hear the clicking of the camera shutter as The Man photographed my predicament for posterity.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

 

The dope smoker

Coffee shop memory

Nothing ventured, nothing gained

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Lodging with Uncle Ralph

new 5

“Come up here Robert, I want you to see this. You need to learn something.” It was Uncle Ralph calling from the bedroom. I knew something not nice was happening, I had felt an extreme tension in the house the moment I returned from college.

With some reluctance I trudged up the stairs. The bedroom door was open. My cousin John stood miserably, his usually pale face, now a deathly shade of white. Towering over him was his father, my Uncle Ralph. Uncle’s whiskers bristled; he turned to me and growled, “I want you to see this. The same will happen to you if you ever break my rules.”

I glanced at John; now his face was deep scarlet. I had no idea what was happening. I had moved in with Uncle Ralph and his family a few days previously after I joined Brocklehurst University. Uncle Ralph was a weird fellow. He was ex-military and had in his time been a colonel. He spent much of his life outside of England. It might be 2019, but somewhere in his head it was still about 1935. One of the first things he did on my arrival was to give me a long list of rules of the house. It went on for pages of closely printed script. I didn’t read it all. That was to be my downfall.

I was still standing on the landing. Uncle Ralph glared at me from the bedroom. “Stand there, in the doorway. Watch and learn,” he spoke in a clipped style; I suppose this was how he spoke to his men in the army. I paused, a little embarrassed. What was going on here? Why was he so agitated? I looked over at John hoping I might get a signal from him, but he was too engrossed staring down at his own feet.

“Right lad!” Uncle Ralph barked. “This is what you are going to do.” He paused and wiped spittle from his beard with the back of his hand. “Take down those trousers.” I’m sure my jaw must have dropped, I was gaping. John’s face contorted, I knew he wanted to say something, to perhaps make a protest, but he seemed to bite back his thoughts. His forehead shone with sweat although the room was quite cool.

“Get them down. Now, lad,” Uncle Ralph glared. “Or do you want me to do it for you?” “No Father, no,” the threat spurred John into action. He wore cheap track pants and all he had to do was pinch the sides of the elasticated waistband and guide them down over his thighs. They snagged at the knees. “All the way. Step out of them,” Uncle Ralph ordered.

I am no expert on these things, but it looked like John was in a trance. He kept his eyes trained on the floor as he leaned forward and took hold of the sweats and wriggled his feet free of them. He straightened up and now stared blankly at the wall. I followed his gaze; there was nothing in his sightline, only plain white wallpaper. He stood, shoulders straight, hands clasped behind his back. His plain blue t-shirt hung long enough to cover most of his tight, yellow-and-maroon-striped briefs. I noticed John’s legs were virtually hairless.

My own throat dried as I it began to dawn on me what Uncle Ralph intended to do. I don’t have the words to describe my thoughts, but I was baffled. John was clearly in Uncle Ralph’s power. He would obey any command of the old man. That became clear when Uncle Ralph intoned. “Take down the pants. Step out of them.” My heart beat fast; I can only imagine what was going on inside John’s chest. The perspiration had now spread from his forehead and his top lip was moist. Still in a trance, he slipped his thumbs under his pants and pushed them south. He stood unsteadily on one leg and then on the other so he was able to step out of them without toppling to the floor.

John was now naked from the waist down. He straightened up. His shirt covered some of his privates but I had a clear view of his hairy ball sack. John was on some kind of autopilot. He stood waiting for Uncle Ralph’s next instruction. Almost without thinking he cupped his hands together and rested them so they obscured my view of his cock.

All this couldn’t have taken more than a few seconds but for me time was standing still. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion making it seem like minutes had passed. Uncle Ralph was in no hurry. He stood impassively, looking down his long curved nose at his son. His beady eyes were glazed. Through his beard I saw the tip of his tongue dart out of his mouth and slowly run across his top lip. He shot John a withering look and without a word he walked across the bedroom. I watched transfixed as he stopped at an old battered dressing table, opened a drawer and reached inside. I heard a clumping sound before his hand emerged holding a block of wood. Uncle Ralph used his hip to close the drawer before turning to face me. The block of wood was about the size of a DVD cover. He held it by a small handle. He waved it through the air and said, “In this house you follow the rules. Or else.”

He said no more and then slowly he walked the three or four steps necessary to take him to the bed. He sat down on the edge, rather like it was a sofa so that his feet were firmly planted on the floor. He looked across at John. “Bend over my knee.” It was a clipped command. Uncle Ralph was used to being obeyed. There was not the slightest doubt in his mind that John would submit to his will. And so he did.

I realised at that moment that this scene that was so strange and unusual to me had probably been played out many times before. Or ones very similar to it. John definitely knew the part he had to play in this drama and he did not fluff his lines. He looked across at Uncle Ralph, now sitting legs apart, took a deep breath and in one continuous movement took two paces forward and lowered himself across Uncle Ralph’s knees. He wriggled for a moment until his chest and arms were stretched out along the mattress. From where I was at the bedroom door I had a perfect view of John’s backside which he raised high over Uncle Ralph’s lap.

There was a second or two while Uncle Ralph ran his eyes over John’s prone body, I could tell that he felt something wasn’t quite right. Then he took hold of the end of John’s shirt and pushed it further up his back. Now, John’s buttocks were completely bare.  I hadn’t noticed before (why should I?) that John’s bum was broad and meaty, it was as hairless as his legs and the skin was quite pale.

I was rooted to the ground. My eyes must have been out on stalks. My heart pounded and I was now as sweaty as John. I had never witnessed anything like this before. It didn’t seem real. I couldn’t wait for Uncle Ralph to whack that wood across John’s naked, meaty bum. But Uncle wasn’t quite ready; he looked across at me and said, “I will not hesitate to give you the same treatment if your behaviour warrants it.” I croaked back, “Yes, sir.”

Uncle Ralph turned his attention back to the job in hand. He used John’s back as a shelf to rest the wood and with his left hand he gripped John around the waist. He cupped the other hand and with his palm he gently traced the contours of John’s left cheek, around the circumference and into the undercurve where the bum and thigh meet. He slapped the bum gently at the highest point of the mounds. I clearly saw the flesh wobble. Once he had gone round the circuit of the left cheek, Uncle Ralph did the same with the right. I might have imagined this but John’s entire body appeared to relax while this took place.

John might have been relaxed, but I was not. My temples were now throbbing and I knew very soon I would have a raging headache – the tension was so great. Uncle Ralph retrieved the wood from John’s back and gripped the handle tightly. The muscles in his arms tensed. He raised the wood high and rocked back on the mattress; then he pounded it across the meatiest part of John’s right cheek. I heard a long, low whistling sound. John rose to his elbows and this just encouraged Uncle Ralph to press his hand into the small of John’s back. He was pinned down and was going nowhere. Uncle Ralph was in total control. The wood rose and fell and swatted into the left cheek.

I suppose the whole scene was surreal; dreamlike. Can you imagine in this day and age an eighteen-year-old boy submissively offering up his bared bottom to his father so the old man can spank it severely with a block of wood? Well, it happened. I am witness to that.

It didn’t take more than four or five swats of the small block to cover all of John’s fat bottom. His skin was pale and reddened very easily. In no time at all his bottom was aflame. If would have glowed in the dark if we turned off the lights. Even from a distance I saw the skin beginning to break. John was stoical, I suppose. He kept his bum raised high as best he could, but the spanking clearly hurt him. He dug his elbows into the mattress and raised his head, shaking it from side to side as each successive swat added to the heat in his rear end. His hair was wet with sweat and from what I cold see of it, his face was as scarlet as his bum. He wriggled his hips and his knees buckled, but he didn’t try to break free. I suppose all that writhing around was his body’s natural reaction to the pain.

z used otk bare bed sting

Uncle Ralph kept up a rhythmic pounding. First one cheek, then the next. Higher, then lower. Under the crease. On the crest of the mounds. Into the back of the thighs.  Even I , with my lack of experience, could see this was a thorough, well-planned and well-executed spanking. All done with military precision.

When he was ready, and only then, did Uncle Ralph lay the wood down on the mattress beside him. He paused a few seconds while John’s body recovered a little. Then, he intoned, “Punishment over. Stand up.” He released John’s waist and my cousin scurried off his knees and stood unsteadily. His eyes searched the room for his briefs and sweats. “Dismissed.” Uncle Ralph sounded like he was on parade. John found his clothes and without waiting to dress he bundled them under his arm and fled the room.

I moved to one side to let him pass. I stood unsure what I was supposed to do next. Uncle Ralph was breathless, his shirt stuck to his back, his beard glistened with sweat. He replaced the wood in the drawer. When he turned from the dresser the startled look in his eyes suggested he had forgotten I was there. He recovered instantly, “So now you know.” I nodded sagely, as if he were one of my professors explaining a complicated new theory.

“Good,” Uncle Ralph stepped ominously towards me, “Because now we have to deal with the little matter of your absence without leave from college yesterday afternoon.”

My knees buckled. In my mind I saw John’s toasted backside, the glowing, flesh, the small cuts to the flesh. The humiliation of presenting his bare bottom for chastisement. My mouth gaped open and shut, it was a good impression of a goldfish stranded out of water.

“Wait for me in the kitchen,” Uncle Ralph spoke clearly and with authority. “I have to change my shirt.” He glowered at me, “Off! Now!” I sprang into action, only now getting some inkling of the control this man possessed. No wonder John had been so submissive. It was almost addictive.

I waited in the kitchen for ten minutes or so. How had he known I had skipped Uni. yesterday afternoon? What else did he know? I paced the room. I had no doubt what Uncle Ralph intended to do. Would I let him? Could I let him? Would I have the same fortitude as John to submit to punishment. Me, eighteen years old, nineteen next September, spanked on the bare bottom! All kinds of absurd thoughts befuddled my brain. What if the guys at Uni. ever found out!

Uncle Ralph’s arrival in the kitchen brought me back to earth. He had obviously showered and a heady aroma of coal tar soap wafted from him. I hardly noticed this; all I saw was the heavy, wooden hairbrush he gripped in his fist.

“So, AWOL from college. Yes.” I suppose he might have meant it as a question, but it sounded like a very definitive statement to me so I stayed quiet. “Yes?” he spoke loudly, as if to a hundred men, “Yes! Guilty as charged?” I murmured agreement. “Right,” he picked up a straight-backed kitchen chair with one hand and manoeuvred it away from a table and into space. He set it down heavily. “You now understand the rules of engagement.” It was another question posed as a statement. My head was spinning. What was he talking about. Engagement?

“Doh!” he was losing what little patience he ever had. “You know what is expected of you?” I must have still looked blank. “You know what to do?” He sat on the chair and wriggled his buttocks until he was comfortable. He sat upright in the chair and leaned back. He parted his legs slightly. Even I, befuddled as I was, could see he had prepared a perfect platform for me to submit myself.

“Right lad,” he barked, Uncle Ralph was incapable of speaking in a normal tone of voice, “Stand there.” He clicked his fingers and pointed to a spot on the floor a metre or so from his right knee. Looking back, some of what happened is hazy in my memory, but other parts are as clear as a bell. I know it happened, I’ve got the bruises to prove it. It was like an out-of-body experience. I stood where instructed. Uncle Ralph waved a hand at me. “Get those jeans down.” I stared down at myself. Of course, I’ve taken jeans off thousands of times before but at this precise moment I was unclear how it was done. I was baffled by the complexity of my belt. How do I get the end out of the buckle. What do I do with that prong thing? It seemed to take me for ever to get the damn thing unbuckled and open. Then, there was the challenge of undoing the top button and getting the zipper to work. Somehow , don’t ask me how, I got the jeans to me knees. “All the way down,” Uncle Ralph’s voice, loud as it was, seemed to be coming from a very long distance. I bent from the trunk and with my hands pushed the jeans until they bundled on top of my feet.

“Bend over my knee,” the command was terse. How was this done exactly? I had seen John earlier go over Uncle Ralph’s lap, but that was on a bed and John rested his arms on the mattress; where I was I supposed to put mine? Despite these absurd thoughts, I slowly lowered myself over Uncle Ralph’s right leg. There is a certain amount of instinct involved in something like this, so with my stomach perched over his thigh I stretched my body so my chest lay on his left knee. This meant my arms naturally were ahead of me. I parted them by a metre or so and pressed my palms into the cold floor tiles. I couldn’t see because I was now staring directly down but behind me my own knees were slightly bent and my bottom was poking up at an angle.

I felt Uncle Ralph lay the wooden brush on my back, just as he had with John. I flinched as he took hold of the top of my pants. But, instead of ripping them down and exposing my bare bottom, he griped the waistband and tugged. They already fitted me snugly, but now they were so tight I could feel the cotton pulled up into my crack. Uncle Ralph took me lightly by the hip to hold me steady. That was when I felt his big hand rub across my buttocks. He was smoothing away any wrinkles in the pants – and (I suspect) having a good feel while he was at it.

He said nothing while doing all this so I had no warning when he started slapping his hand across my backside. Through the thin underpants I could tell his hand was hard and rough. I had no experience being spanked so I didn’t know how much it was supposed to hurt. He lay it on hard and rapidly. Smack-smack-smack. It was much quicker than the way he had spanked John. My bum was warming up. It didn’t hurt – well, not too much – it was like an intense tingle, if that makes any sense.

z used brush otk pants chair brush straightladsspankedotcom (1a)

I lay face down looking intently at the floor. A ball of dust floated by my face. I noticed a water stain where the tiles had not been dried properly after they were cleaned. I concentrated on this, as if it might take my mind off the humiliation I was suffering. I felt a movement in Uncle Ralph’s body. He picked up the brush and whacked me hard with it. I gasped at the shock of this sudden pain. It hurt so much more than the palm of his hand. I heard Uncle Ralph wheezing as he laid the brush across my stretched underpants. Oh my how it hurt!

I don’t know how many whacks he gave me. I do know I kicked my legs and waved my arms about. “Keep still. Keep still,” Uncle Ralph ordered. I had very little control over my body, I couldn’t have obeyed even if I wanted to. “Keep still, it’ll be all the worst for you,” he said. The warning was lost on me. I kept on struggling. Suddenly, the pounding stopped, I drew in great gulps of air. The pain was intense but as soon as he stopped hammering my bottom, it started to dissolve into something like a constant throbbing.

If I thought my spanking was over, Uncle Ralph had another idea. He lay the brush on my back again and with both hands he clutched the waist of my underpants. I might have made a yell of protest, I can’t be sure. Not that it did me any good. My bum was bare. Uncle Ralph took hold of the brush again and he took my tail off! He pressed his elbow into my back and that stopped me wriggling around too much. I may not have been willingly submitting myself to him, but he was my master. He could (and would) spank me for as long and as hard as he wished and I had to lay there face down, bared-bottom quivering until he was ready to stop.

This is where my recollection becomes hazy. I know my bum was on fire and my entire body ached, but also in some crazy way that I don’t have the words to explain, I was flying high. I’ve smoked some dope in my time and taken other drugs at parties, but nothing had ever made me fly like this. Go figure, I can’t.

At some point, Uncle Ralph set me free. I remember jumping up and down and rubbing away at my roasted bottom. Then, I was face down on my bed. Next morning, I had to sneak into the utility room very early and launder the bedsheets before my aunt saw them. Later, I spent time very carefully reading the printed list of rules Uncle Ralph gave me when I arrived. I made careful note of all the offences I could commit that would earn me a jolly good spanking.

 

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures / straight lads spanked dot com

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Spanked by my uncle: who enjoyed it the most?

Visit to Uncle Roy

The smiling boy

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A bug on the wall

Come here, I’m going to spank you.

Spank me? I’m a bit too old to be spanked, don’t you think?

No, what are you? Eighteen?

Nineteen.

Nineteen is not too old to be spanked. Plenty of nineteen year olds would benefit from a damn good spanking. And, you’re one of them mister.

Huh?

Go upstairs and bring down the bathbrush.

Can’t we talk about this?

There is nothing to talk about. You stole my car.

I did not steal your car. It’s called taking and driving away. I did not intend to deprive you of your property.

Don’t get fresh with me. You did not have my permission. You are not insured to drive my car. Do you even have a license?

Hmm.

No, I thought not. Go upstairs and fetch that brush.

But, you can’t spank me. You love me.

It is because I love you that I’m gonna spank you.

Oh come on.

It’s up to you. You take a spanking; we move on. You don’t take a spanking; you move out.

You cannot be serious.

Oh yes I am mister. Remember Ryan?

Oh …

Upstairs. Bring that brush down and be quick about it.

[A minute of silence elapses.]

Good. Hand it to me.

But …

Come. Here. Keep still. You didn’t think I’d let you keep these heavy jeans on did you?

Oh come on …

Now, get here. Lay across my knee. Rest your head and arms here. Stretch your legs out behind you. Yeah, that’s it.

I can’t believe …

You better believe it buster. I am gonna blister your butt.

Hey, you can’t do that!

Yes, I can. It’s not a real spanking if it’s not on the bare.

Please, no.

z used brush otk bare chair RYM

Whack!

Oww!

Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack!

Oww! Oww! Com’on no! Pleeease!

Whack! Whack!

That’s enough. Ouch You’re hurting me.

That’s the point young man (wheeze). That’s the point.

Smack!  Smack!

Hissss. Yow!

Smack! Smack!

Ouch. Enough. Pleeease!

Smack! Smack!

You only have yourself to blame.

(Whack!) Are (Whack!) you (Whack!) gonna (Whack!) steal (Whack!) my (Whack!) car again? (Whack! Whack!)

No-ooow!

Smack! Smack!

Am I getting through to you?

Yes.

Whack!!!

Yes, what?

Whack!!!

Yes, Sir. I’m sorry.

Yes, you will be. By the time I’ve finished with you mister. You’ll be sorry then.

Whack!!! Whack!!!

Two minutes later.

Whack!!! Whack!!! Whack!!!

There. Will I have to do this again?

Sob, sob. No. I’m sorry. Sob, sob.

Get up.

Sorry, Sob. Sob.

Here, come here. Give me a kiss.

Sorry dada.

I love you.

I love you too.

Outside fifty yards down the road, in the back of an unmarked white van two newspaper reporters silently exchange glances. One switches off the recording device. Another working day is drawing to a close.

This story was first uploaded in January 2016.

Picture credit: Reluctant Young Men

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Where’s the paddle, hon?

“Where’s the paddle, hon?”

“Sorry?”

“The spanking paddle. Where is it? I can’t find it.”

“Did you try under the stairs?”

“Yes, and in the garage.”

Hank Betterman had looked everywhere. And he would look in some more places too. But, he would never find it. It was on the city dump site, where it was taken after his nineteen-year-old son Dylan sneaked it into the trash.

“Dylan missed curfew again. And he’d been drinking too,” Hank told his wife Julia. “When I find that paddle I’ll toast his buns with it.”

Hank and Julia were new to spanking. It was less than a year since they first put a paddle across the seat of Dylan’s pants. They had read about it on the Internet. On a site about disciplining older teens. They learnt that a lot of parents spanked their eighteen and nineteen year olds. And older kids too. Especially in Good Christian Households.

“Well I can’t think where it’s gotten too,” Julia thought hard. When had she last seen it?

“It’s no good,” her husband was beginning to realise he might never find it.

“Don’t worry, hon. We’ve got that new utility brush. That’ll pack a punch.”

Yes, Hank smiled, of course. It was a heavy wooden beast. They had bought it to scrub the rust off the bottom of the car. It would make a terrific spanking tool.

“I’ll go fetch it,” Julia started towards the garage, “You call Dylan. Let’s get on with this.”

“Oh, dad, I’m too old to be spanked,” Dylan wailed moments later when confronted by his dad.

“I’ll say when you’re too old,” he gripped the brush tightly in his hand. It was about eighteen inches long, including the handle. The manufacturers had put on a rubber grip so it wouldn’t fly out of the hand when it was used.

“Get in there,” he nodded towards the living room.

“Oh dad,” Dylan pouted, but obeyed his dad.

“Missed curfew. And you’d been drinking.” Hank Betterman summarised his son’s faults. Dylan tried to mouth a protest but was cut short.

“Don’t deny it. I saw you. It was gone midnight and you couldn’t get your key in the door.”

Dylan blushed. His dad was right on all accounts. There was no way he could deny it.

“So, young man,” his dad sat down in the middle of the couch. “I’m going to spank you. Get over here.”

“But dad!” Dylan tried again. “I’m nineteen dad. I’m at college.” Then rather pitifully, he added, “Please dad.”

Hank Betterman was stony faced. His son could moan all he wanted to. Not only had he disobeyed his father on the curfew, he had also been drinking alcohol. And that was illegal for a kid of his age. Hank Betterman had no doubt, none at all, that it was his Christian duty to whip his son’s backside.

“Take down those sweats and get across my knee.”

“Oh dad,” Dylan was not quite ready to give up.

“Don’t make me have to do it for you,” Hank reached forward and took his son by the arm pulling the teen toward him. Then, he dragged the boy face down across his lap.

He cracked an almighty whack with the brush across the boy’s left buttock.

“Keep still.”

Then he gripped the elasticated waist of the sweats and tugged them down across his son’s cheeks until they were bunched at his thighs.

Smack! Another blow landed, this time on the right cheek.

z used otk pants chair bbfc (6b)

“Right, now give me your arm.”

He took Dylan’s right wrist and pulled his arm up his back in a half nelson wrestling manoeuvre.

“Right you’re not going anywhere.”

Hank Betterman looked at his son horizontal across his lap. He was a tall boy, easily two or three inches taller than his dad. The couch was a four-seater so there was plenty of room for Dylan to stretch his whole body along its length. His head rested on a cushion at one end and his legs stretched out behind him at the other. His buttocks were raised at a gentle angle across his dad’s lap.

With his son in this position, Hank Betterman had the best possible aim. The teenager was pinned down; he wouldn’t be able to get up until he said so. He was at his dad’s mercy; not that he intended to show any.

Dylan’s buttocks were full and round and filled out his Jockey shorts. There was plenty for Hank Betterman to aim at.

His dad took a deep breath to prepare himself, just as an athlete or a swimmer might. Then he raised the brush, no higher than a foot away from the boy’s flesh, and hammered it down with all his might. Again and again and again.

At first Dylan opened and closed his mouth uttering silent “owws” and “ouches,” but the pain grew quickly and within seconds his yelps and cries were audible. Then, they became full-throated yells.

Dylan might live to regret throwing the paddle in the trash. The wooden brush was heavier and packed one heck of a punch. It felt like blisters had formed on his under-curves after only six or seven swats.

Dylan wriggled and squirmed, but it was useless activity. Dad had the advantage.

“Enough dad, enough,” he cried.

“I’ll say when you’ve had enough,” Hank Betterman carried on relentlessly. Every square inch of the buttocks and a good deal of the thighs had colored dark pink.

Then Hank Betterman stopped. A relieved Dylan made to lift himself off his dad’s lap.

“Not so fast buster,” Hank Betterman took hold of the top of the Jockeys. “That was for breaking curfew. This is for the drinking.” He pulled the shorts down and left them with the sweats. He was surprised at how bruised Dylan’s cheeks were.

Undeterred he whacked on. He had his duty to perform.

A dozen swats on the left and then a dozen on the right. Dylan’s hollering was so loud, Hank Betterman didn’t hear the front doorbell.

His wife Julia opened the door. It was Delores from across the street. She always came over at this time for coffee. Her ears pricked up at the sound of Dylan’s piteous cries.

“Just a little domestic issue,” Julia said as she busied herself making the coffee.

“Missed curfew. Drinking beer,” Julia filled her friend in on the details.

Still the faint sound of wooden brush connecting with bare flesh and the considerably louder wails of Dylan in distress wafted in from the sitting room.

Then, Delores remembered. Her son Mason, a great buddy of Dylan’s, missed his curfew last night. She needed to get to the bottom of that.

“Where did we put the paddle?” she wondered to herself.

Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club

This story was first uploaded in January 2016.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

A little word

z used new story 2

`z used domestic defiant chest (10)

Come in Adam. Stand there. I want a little word. These exam results are atrocious. Terrible. Even worse than last time. Look here: F-s in three subjects. D-s in two others. What on earth is going on? You need to spend less time working out in the gym and more time in the library studying, m’lad.

Do you know how much it costs your mother and me to keep you at university? No, I bet you don’t. What’s the point of it, if you aren’t going to apply yourself?

What did I say last time would happen if your results didn’t improve?

Don’t pout. Take your hands out of your pockets. Stand up straight. What did I say? You know darn well what I said. A spanking. I said I’d give you a darn good spanking. And I meant it.

Look at these results. You need to buck up your ideas. You need a jolly good spanking and you know you do. Don’t even try to argue. It’s the only thing you understand. You only have yourself to blame. Get over here.

Stand there. Right there. Take down your trousers. Don’t argue with me lad. You need a darn good spanking. I should have done this a long time ago. Then we wouldn’t be here this morning. Take them down and don’t argue.

Do you want me to take them down for you?

Right. Now bend over my knee. Right over. Good. Now keep your hands well out of the way. Press your palms into the carpet. That’s right. Keep your head low. Let’s have your bottom higher. Right, let’s have these underpants down.

Keep still. Stop wriggling. Keep still, I tell you.

There you are. A bared bottom. How do you feel now? I hope you feel ashamed. Look at you. Nineteen years old and taken across Daddy’s knee for a bare-bottom spanking. Just like a little boy. Well, don’t say you don’t deserve it. You’ve been asking for this for a long time. And, now you’re going to get it.

Keep quiet. Let’s see if this hairbrush of your mother’s can knock some sense into you. I want to see a marked improvement next term. I hope I don’t have to do this again.

Let this spanking teach you a lesson …..

Picture credit: Unknown

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Rory and Alistair – part 1

z used twosome outdoors Vanguard

Rory MacDonald eased down the handle of the dormitory door with his elbow. His arms were full of cricketing gear and he feared one of the bats was about to tumble to the ground.

He was sweltering in the ninety-degree heat. Would this heat-wave never end? In an ungainly fashion he had the door open and stepped inside. He flashed one of his trademark grins; it split his face in two. In front of him was his best friend Alistair. The eighteen-year-old lay face down on the bed snoozing. He was dead to the world – and totally naked.

Quietly so as not to wake his chum, Rory let the cricket gear fall on to his own bed. Then he sat down and gazed in admiration at Alistair’s body. He was a fine-limbed athletic boy; about five-feet-eight in height. He was hairless on his chest face and buttocks and there was merely down on his legs.

Rory shook his head in amazement. Alistair’s arse and thighs were covered in awesome blue-black bruises. Even from across the room the boy could see the distinctive oval-shaped mark left behind by the hairbrush, which clearly had been applied with some vigour.

Rory looked at his watch; it was time they both got going. He hauled himself from the bed and crossed the room so that he stood towering over his friend. Come on Alistair, he thought, we have a date in town.

Then puckering his lips and leaning forward he planted a wet kiss in the centre of Alistair’s firm left buttock.

The boy awoke like a princess in a fairy-tale.

“Ouch! That hurt,” he grinned.

“Ouch! That hurt,” his friend replied satirically, mocking Alistair’s tone. Both boys exchanged huge grins, puckered up and kissed each other on the lips.

“Pendleton?” Rory asked, nodding at his friends toasted buttocks.

“Who else?” Alistair’s grin never faded. He was not about to let his recent ordeal upset him.

Pendleton was the Head of Wilson’s House. And Pendleton had his own way of instilling discipline among his charges. All the boys who were Head of their House at Willadong Academy were allowed to inflict corporal punishment. There was no set law, but by custom and practice the rattan cane was the instrument of choice. Some Head of Houses used a rubber-soled gym shoe on the youngest of the boys.

Only Pendleton used a hairbrush, applied to a boy’s bared bottom while he was draped across the lap of the Head of House.  And, Pendleton did not care about age and seniority. He would just as easily take eighteen-year-old Alistair Crombie across his knee as the most junior fag in the school.

Alistair and Rory were oddities at the school. They were both in their final year at the school, but had never received any privileges. Although they were old enough to be in the sixth-form, they were treated by everyone, masters and fellow pupils alike, as juniors.

They were even required to dress like juniors. Only boys in the sixth-form were permitted to wear long trousers: it was seen as a badge of privilege. The two boys remained in short trousers and would do so until the day they left school. Not that they cared. Temperatures rarely fell below eighty degrees for most of the year; let the “privileged” sixth-formers swelter in their heavy flannel trousers, it was much better to be free to the wind in short trousers.

A short-sleeved white shirt completed the summer uniform at Willadong. Mostly boys did not wear ties or even socks. They would run bare-footed around the school buildings and slip into thongs when outside.

Rory and Alistair could never conform to boarding school life with its myriad rules and regulations. Get up at seven, bed at nine-thirty. Don’t do that; don’t go there. They were more suited to the life of the boys in town. They had made many friends in Woolverton and how they envied them their freedoms. None of the teenagers they knew had fathers who would order them to bend across the armchair for six stingers from a whippy cane because they were out of bed at midnight.

Alistair’s blazing bottom was the result of one such adventure. Bored and unable to sleep, he had climbed through the window and taken himself for a walk. He committed no mischief; he disturbed no boy’s sleep; all he did was to enjoy the moonlight and the clear warm air of midnight.

He was spotted and in the usual matter of course he was reported to Pendleton. Pendleton was not such a huge fellow. He probably was an inch taller than Alistair, but a little thicker set. The Head of House was a fine cricketer and could slog a cricket ball way over the boundary. He had great upper body strength which he put to good use with the hairbrush.

This was not even the first time the eighteen-year-old had been across Pendleton’s knee. The first time he had been ordered to unbuckle his belt and pull down his short trousers, he had been bewildered. He had expected the standard six-of-the-best on the seat; probably whipped in with some force; everyone knew that Pendleton was a bit of a bully. But, to be ordered to go across the prefect’s knee like he was six years old was a shock.

Alistair had no choice. The alternative would have been a visit to the headmaster’s study and a thrashing of a lifetime, almost certainly bare arsed and no doubt with the awesome Malacca cane. That could take a boy’s backside off, leaving him in considerable pain for many days.

No, unconventional though it was, Alistair had to submit himself to Pendleton.

The hairbrush had once belonged to his nanny. Pendleton had felt its sting across his own bared bottom many times until when at the age of eight he was sent off to prep school. The hairbrush was the only memento he had of nanny; he stole it from her room the day he found her dead in her bed.

The over-the-knee bare-bottom spanking hurt like crazy, but it was nothing like getting the cane; even when wearing trousers and underpants. Alistair supposed the ordeal was meant to humiliate him. If so, Pendleton had chosen the wrong boy. He dropped his short trousers and unbidden stepped out of them. Then perfecting an air of unconcern, he put his thumbs in the waistband of his pants and lowered them down his thighs and let them fall to his feet, then he stepped out of them too and kicked them a few feet behind him. He now stood naked from the waist down in front of his would-be tormentor.

Alistair was very proud of his body and was not ashamed to be seen naked. His pal Rory was one of his greatest admirers and often they would compliment one another on their anatomy. Rory, for one, had a very distinctive penis; it must have been almost the only uncut specimen in the whole school.

Rory had no idea what was going through Pendleton’s mind as he draped himself across the boy’s legs, lowered his head so he was almost kissing the carpet and keeping his own knees straight, raised his taut athletic buttocks high to receive his spanking.

Wow! Pendleton was in a frenzy. Had some demon taken possession of him? Relentlessly he whacked the heavy oval hairbrush up and down into and across both buttocks. With no respite between smacks, he covered every square inch of buttocks and thighs inside thirty seconds and then he just kept on whacking and whacking.

Alistair had never been spanked like this before, so he was not sure how much it was supposed to hurt. It did considerably, but to his puzzlement he found the pain increased rapidly with the first few dozen slaps and then plateaued. He had gone through some king of pain barrier. After a time, he could feel the heavy wood crunch into his globes but each additional whack did not increase the pain.

The teenager sucked in his breath and waited as patiently as he could in the circumstances for Pendleton to complete his task.

He was beaten quite literally black-and-blue. But, even as he climbed back into his underpants and short trousers Alistair realised the pain had subsided, leaving behind a gentle throb that quickly turned to a warm glow. Some parts of his bum, especially the bit where the cheeks met the thighs were tender to the touch and he might feel the spanking for some time when he sat down on a hard surface.

Pendleton was a young man of few words and he dismissed Alistair without benefit of a lecture. As he exited the study, Alistair turned and flashing his sparking white teeth, he grinned, “Thank you Pendleton, I enjoyed that. I hope you did too.” Then he closed the door and ran down the passageway in case the Head of House had resolved to drag him back inside for a repeat performance.

Picture credit: Vanguard

 

This story was first uploaded in February 2016.

 

Other stories about Rory and Alistair are here

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Father deals with idle student

“I am going to spank you and that is an end to the matter. You can submit yourself and take it with some dignity, or I can call my assistant Rodgers in and he will hold you down. Either way you are getting a spanking.”

Simon had expected a call from his father; he knew he had met with his university tutor and words such as lazy, indolent, idle and workshy would have been used to describe the boy.

Simon was in his first year at university and things were not going well. He had failed his mid-terms and he awaited the results of his final exams with some anxiety.  It wasn’t that Simon was a stupid boy; that was far from the truth, but he did lack self-discipline.

You could blame his school for that. His father had paid a small fortune to send him to a very select boarding school and his outlay was repaid when his son had passed his A-level examinations with flying colours. His father had then laid out more money to send him to university.

That’s where the trouble started. What his father did not realise, and nor did Simon until recently, was that it was the discipline regime (or more truthfully, the punishment regime) at the school that had ensured his son’s success. Bucksbury Manor had its standards and if these were not met, the boys paid the price: with their backsides.

Simon learnt from an early age that the best way to avoid bruises on his buttocks was to work hard. He mostly succeeded in this, but there were tell-tale signs in the sixth-form when he was eighteen years old that his standards were beginning to slip and he was no longer an A-student.

His housemaster was an experienced teacher and he knew that boys of Simon’s age often became distracted from their work, especially if they discovered the delights of the nearby town, and particularly its girls.

Mr Bailey also knew the perfect remedy for this slacking. That was why Simon found himself unexpectedly summoned one afternoon to the housemaster’s study. Posner, one of the House junior boys – believe it or not they were called “fags” at the school – came to find him to deliver Mr Bailey’s instruction to report immediately.

“What’s it about?” Simon inquired innocently.

Posner claimed not to know; actually, he hadn’t been told the reason, but from experience he knew that a summons like this usually meant a boy was to get a thrashing.

Simon was ignorant of the fate that awaited him and untroubled he walked through the wood-panelled hall, past the honours boards, the school photographs, the noticeboards, the glass fronted cupboards with various trophies and the paintings of past headmasters to his housemaster’s study.

He was aware that the housemaster was very strict and any boy sent to him for breaking the rules would feel the full strength of his powerful right arm and leave the study with an aching backside.

But, he was in the sixth-form and senior boys were not caned. In any case he hadn’t done anything wrong.

He knocked on the study and waited for the command, “Enter!” It was a dark room with wood panels around three walls, in the middle of the room was a huge oak desk, to the side was a large leather armchair, a long window and behind the desk was a wicker basket containing several swishy canes, each of them capable of leaving a boy with a throbbing backside.

Simon could not take his eyes of the wicker basket; he did not expect to be on the receiving end of one of the canes, but they were still an intimidating sight.

Mr Bailey took off his horn rimmed glasses and toyed with them while he spoke, “You are producing sloppy work and your grades are slipping. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Simon was dumbfounded; it was true his grades were poor, but he hadn’t expected to be hauled in by his housemaster about it.

He had no excuses and he knew it. His housemaster punctured the silence. “You are slacking and that is inexcusable. You have the brains to do well in your examinations and I am going to make sure you use them.”

Simon, blushed to his roots, and stared at the carpet. Mr Bailey was right he had been slacking off, spending too much time in town or, to be perfectly honest, looking at magazines and playing with himself down at the copse.

His housemaster, having discarded his gown and jacket, was pacing the study swishing a senior cane.

“I am going to beat you and I shall beat you every time you are caught slacking from now until your examinations. Is that perfectly clear?”

Quaking, Simon agreed that it was indeed perfectly clear, thank you, Sir.

“Carter remove your blazer and hang it up, please.”

Hands trembling, Simon undid the buttons, slid the blazer off his back and placed it on a hook behind the door.

“Stand in front of the desk. Drop your trousers.”

Jesus! Simon hadn’t expected this and the look on his face told his housemaster so.

“This is to be an exemplary beating Carter. It is designed to ensure you stop slacking in your school work. But, if I have to deal with you again, you will be caned on the bare.”

Simon saw he had no choice. He was guilty as charged and was to receive a sound thrashing as punishment. Schoolboys have a code of honour and it says you take your beatings like a man.

Despite his intense embarrassment, Simon undid the buttons and pushed his trousers to his knees. His white shirt was long enough to cover his buttocks.

“Lift up your shirt and then bend over the desk.” Simon’s humiliation was complete; with his shirt held high the housemaster was able to get a full view of the boy in his tight white underpants; front and back.

Mr Bailey had no interest in ogling his pupils in their underwear; his only desire was to have the target for his cane unobstructed.

Simon lowered himself across the desk, stretched his arms across and gripped the far side, pointing his backside in the air ready to take a most humiliating caning.

The housemaster with determination set to work lashing the cane hard across the waiting buttocks. Simon’s head shot up as the bite of the first stroke got to him, once again the housemaster raised the cane before lashing number two across the boy’s backside. Simon yelled out with each stroke as the thin underwear offered no protection.

z used cane pants school London

By the time Mr Bailey lashed the cane the sixth time across the pants, Simon was in utter distress. When instructed he stood up and his hands furiously clutched his stinging buttocks.

From that day, until he joined the university, Simon had knuckled down to his studies.

But, without the incentive of the threat of his housemaster’s cane across his bare buttocks, Simon had let things slip, until it was so bad that his future at the university was in jeopardy. He was grateful that his father loved him enough that he made this special visit to the university to sort out the problem.

Now, he was in a hotel suite, facing his father’s anger.

“I have spoken to your university tutor and she assures me that there I still some hope for you and you might be able to re-sit your examinations. I have agreed that I will pay the extra fees this will involve. Now, I need to give you an incentive to work harder.

“I am going to spank you and that is an end to the matter. You can submit yourself and take it with some dignity, or I can call my assistant Rodgers in and he will hold you down. Either way you are getting a spanking.”

Although, Simon was no longer a pupil at Bucksbury Manor he still abided by the code: take it like a man. His father opened his briefcase and drew out a heavy wooden brush with a short handle. Then he seized an armless chair and quickly sat down.

Mr Carter was expecting more resistance from his son and with an iron grasp on the back of Simon’s neck he hauled the university student over his lap and moved him around until his bottom was directly over his knee. To stop his son trying to scramble off his lap, he encircled his waist with his strong left arm and slid him over and down, swinging his right leg over and around Simon’s legs, locking them.

He held him in place for a minute letting him settle down and get used to this new position and rested the brush across the centre of his backside. His father patted the boy’s bottom firmly and lectured him about how upset he was with him and how it hurt him having to do this; then he was ready to start the traditional father / son discipline dance.

Simon was enormously embarrassed at having to go over his father’s knee at his age for a spanking. Why couldn’t he just have caned him instead?

Suddenly, he felt his father gripping the waist band of his sweatpants, yanking them over his bum and down his thighs, past his knees, and down his shins to his ankles. Before he could protest his tight yellow briefs quickly followed.

Simon felt his right arm pulled back and twisted up against his upper back, as he lay trapped hanging over his father’s knees. His legs were stretched so that his tip toes hardly touched the carpet.

Then he began to spank away at his son’s buttocks; twenty, forty, sixty wallops. Simon’s backside was shining, he was yelling out in fear, but Mr Carter continued to pound away at the boy’s bottom.

Simon had thought nothing could be more torture than that housemaster’s caning on his underpants, but this bare-bottomed spanking was far worst. His face screwed up in agony and he fought to be brave, but as the brush smacked and smacked on and on into his fleshy globes he started to whimper and then squeal and soon he was really howling with his legs jerking about as he bounced up and down.

His father could tell Simon was in distress, but his kept laying into him, smack after smack after smack. Then the begging started, but it fell on deaf ears. Mr Carter went on spanking.

Simon’s backside and the top of his thighs were red raw, tears were streaming down his face as he bawled like a child of eight. He just dangled there, resigned, jolting around on his father’s lap as each blazing whack sent him bouncing, rocking and twisting in unbearable pain, humiliation and disgrace.

He knew he would rather be anywhere in the world than lying upside down across his father’s knee with trousers and briefs down and that evil brush pounding away at his bare buttocks, the pain and humiliation was just not worth it. Through his tears he promised his father he had learned his lesson, hoping and praying that this will be the end.

He would study hard, if only his father would stop hitting him.

After another twenty swats, his father did stop spanking him, he was crying steadily and his bottom was as red as a tomato. Drenched with pain and perspiration, young Simon staggered to his feet and stood mortified with embarrassment as his father lifted the tail of his shirt to inspect the blazing red blisters that covered his bum and upper thighs.

Pulling himself away, his hands hovered around his burning buttocks and he stared in abject remorse at his father, tears streaming down his face. He jumped on the spot trying to make the agony go away.

His father was not a tyrant, he could see his son was defeated and left the room with the brush in his hand leaving Simon hugging his burning backside and still crying both from pain and humiliation.

Simon eventually graduated with honours from the university and in the years to come he would look back on this day and others that followed with gratitude.

Picture credit: CP Services London

 

This story was first uploaded in March 2016.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com