University encounter

z used otk jeans bed (125)

I was eighteen, he was twenty-one. Maybe I was a little immature for my age. He told me if I insisted on behaving like that, he’d take me across his knee and spank my bottom. Hard.

I didn’t believe him. Okay, so I was naïve as well as immature.

I was a first-year student at Brocklehurst University, away from the restrictions of my parents for the first time. There was nobody to nag me, “Do this. Don’t do that.”

The university made first-years stay in their halls of residences and then got senior students to keep an eye on them. I think the idea was to be a big brother or big sister to us. I don’t know what kind of big brother Clive had, but mine never treated me like this.

He looked like any other student; he wore jeans and tee-shirts, but he was a member of the Brocklehurst Fellowship, a God-squad outfit that thought they were a cut above the rest of us and were on a mission to make sure we conformed to their standards.

I first encountered Clive one night after I returned to the halls after a session at the union bar. He was lurking outside my room. “Do you know what time it is?” he asked sternly. I was a little merry and didn’t like the tone of his voice, so I replied sarcastically, “You’ve got a watch, haven’t you?”

Wrong thing to say. “It’s nearly midnight. It’s too late for you to be out,” he told me.

Whoa! Hold your horses, pal. There was no curfew at the halls and so long as we came and went quietly we could roll up at any hour we chose. And, I told Clive this.

Wrong again.

“I’m keeping an eye on you, Pooley,” he snarled. “Now, get off to bed with you.” I watched with disdain as he stormed down the passageway, then I let myself into my room. I crawled into bed and forgot about him. I was full of thoughts of Angela Bailey, a girl I had met in the bar, and her big breasts. I tossed one off and fell asleep.

I made pals easily. We lived on beans on toast, went to lectures, studied in the library (but not too often), hung around bars and tried with varying degrees of success to get into girls’ knickers.

Early one evening there was a knock on my door. I cursed silently. I hadn’t expected visitors and I had my jeans and pants at my knees and was tugging away over a Page Three Girl in the Sun. I called out, “Who is it?” but got no reply. Instead, the knocking continued, a little more insistently.

I pulled up my jeans and pants. My cock was still hard, but I tucked it away as best I could and hoped the bulge behind my flies wasn’t too obvious.

I opened the door to find Clive shuffling from one foot to the other, clearly irritated. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you,” I said. I assumed he was annoyed that I took so long to open the door. He scowled and uninvited brushed by me and entered the room. His nose crinkled as he looked around. It was a small room and no untidier than any of my pals’. He took particular objection at a small pile of unwashed clothes beneath my small desk. His eyes flared when he saw the newspaper open on my bed. I can’t be certain but I think he surreptitiously checked out my flies. Luckily, I had gone soft by then.

“You should tidy this place up.”

Who did he think he was, my mother?

“Get those clothes washed,” he nodded at the pile under the desk. If he were Mum, he would have just scooped them up and put them in the washing machine, returning them next day clean and ironed. I didn’t argue the point with Clive.

“I have had a complaint,” he intoned. He drew himself up to his six-foot height and frowned. Maybe he thought that gave him an air of authority. It just irritated the hell out of me. Complaint? What was he on about?

In his own time, he continued. “Loud music, coming from this room at all hours.” I stared blankly. Even as we stood together, the sound of a music centre thumped from a room on the floor above. I didn’t press the point. I just wanted the irritating little tyke out of my room.

He berated me for my supposed misdemeanours. It mustn’t happen again. I should be considerate to my neighbours. Blah, blah, blah.  “If you insist on behaving immaturely, I shall take you across my knee and spank your bottom. Hard,” he ended, before closing the door behind him.

I sat back on the bed, loosened my jeans and returned to the Sun.

I asked my pals, did they get a visit from Clive? What did they think about him? All I got in response were blank stares. “Who’s Clive?” Nobody had seen or heard of him.

The weekend after my visit, we had a bit of a party in the halls. It was a kind of belated welcome to the university for all the new students. Now, I’m not especially proud of this, but I had had a skin-full. It’s not an excuse, I accept that, but it is an accurate description of what happened. It seemed like a good idea at the time. But, not for long after.

I set off the fire alarm.

In the great scheme of things this was not such a disaster. Nobody took any notice of it. Does anybody ever? False fire alarms go off all the time. The party-goers groaned, swigged their cheap wine, shared their joints and carried on snogging. I got a blow-job from a spotty, cross-eyed girl I’d never met before.

The following day I was back in my room flicking through a copy of Whitehouse, a porn mag that was being passed around by the boys. A couple of its pages were stuck together, but the close-up pictures of ladies’ thingies did nothing for me. I closed my eyes and tried to remember the girl and the blow-job, but all I saw were her spots.

There was a hammering on the door. It was Clive. Why was I not surprised? Of course, he knew about the fire alarm. “Juvenile.” “Childish.” “Infantile.” “Immature.” Clive must have swallowed a thesaurus. He berated me on and on. His sallow face was flushed with his indignation. His eyes blazed with righteousness.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he growled. A puzzled look was my only response. “Spanking.” He let the one word hang in the air, as if it was a perfect explanation. Still no comprehension from me.

“I said I would take you over my knee and spank you. Hard,” he said with an air of triumphalism, as if somehow he had won a prize.

Then, I remembered Clive’s passing shot to me when he had left my room. I had taken no notice. I had hardly heard him at all.

Clive sat on my bed, reached out and grabbed my arm. I hadn’t realised before but he was a strong man, not obviously muscular but beneath his black tee-shirt was a powerful body. He was about six-foot tall and towered four or five inches over me. He tugged me forward, I had no strength to resist. I was over his knee with my face in the duvet cover. He tucked an arm around my waist. To my horror, I was powerless. I kicked my legs and wriggled my hips a little. Then he moved his arm and pinned my shoulders with his elbow.

Then he spanked me. A grown man of eighteen. He spanked me, just like he said he would. I was across his knee and he pounded the palm of his hand into the seat of my jeans. I gasped, infuriated at my humiliation. He whacked me about a dozen times and I sprang to my feet. My face was hot with embarrassment. I couldn’t look my tormentor in the face. My shoulders slumped and I stared down at my feet.

Of course, with my jeans on I hardly felt a thing. When I checked later there was no sign on my bare bum that I had been assaulted at all. My fury and my humiliation was that he had been able to take me across his knee at will and do whatever he wanted. There was nothing I could do about it.

At last, I had the courage to look at him. His face was flushed scarlet. It was not because of the effort he made in spanking me; it was the porn mag open on the bed by his side. He looked like he might vomit at any moment. He stood from the bed and headed for the door. Before leaving, he called over his shoulder. “Next time, I’ll bring a hairbrush and we’ll see how you like that with your jeans and pants at your ankles.”

That night, I slept badly. A vision of myself across Clive’s knee with him hammering a brush into my bare arse wouldn’t leave me. We are in the kitchen at my parents’ home (go figure!). Clive is sitting on a metal armless chair. His legs are spread wide and at angles to one another. He has already manhandled me so that I am face down over the left knee.  He has wrapped his other leg around the back of my calves and I cannot move. My face stares down at the worn floor tiles. I can see they are overdue cleaning.

I am wearing blue-striped pyjamas (go figure again, I’ve not worn jim-jams since I was about eight years old and they had pictures of Fireball XL 5 all over them). Clive takes hold of the tail end of the pyjama jacket and lifts it high up my back so it bunches at the shoulders. Then, slowly and with relish he goes for the elasticated waistband of the PJ bottoms and grips them. He is taking his time. He wants me to feel the full force of this humiliating experience. He tugs the waistband slowly across the mounds that are my buttocks. He struggles a little since there is no space between my body and his knee to pull them properly down. He sighs and slaps a resounding smack across the cotton seat of the pyjamas. I take it as my instruction to raise my stomach a little so he has a gap he can ease the bottoms through. I lower myself back against his powerful knee. I feel a cool breeze from an open window gently caress my naked bottom and thighs.

Clive is not yet ready. He wants this to be a painful lesson for me. But, that does not only mean my backside must be blistered, I must also learn that he has complete control over me. He cups the palm of his right hand and gently traces the contours of my buttocks. First, he brushes the left cheek, pausing at the highest, plumpest point. There he presses two fingers into the flesh. He is testing how much “give” there is in my bum. I am trim, but I don’t quite have “buns of steel.” His hairbrush will sink into the meat and leave me battered and bruised.

He repeats the caressing and poking on the right cheek. Finally, and unexpectedly (to me), he leans forward towards my face. He raises the middle finger of his right hand and rests it against the closed lips of my mouth.

“Suck it,” he says softly. It is an order and one that I am expected to obey, but it is not barked. Obediently, I open my mouth and he gently inserts it. I work up some spit and soak his finger. He removes it from my mouth and moves it back to my buttocks. My spine shivers. He has washed my crack and inserted the fingertip into my hole.

My face is crimson. Soon my arse will be a similar colour. He is ready. He lifts the hairbrush to about a foot-and-a-half from the surface from my bum and in a frenzy he whacks the heavy wood across his target area. Whack-whack-whack. It sounds like machinegun echoing around the kitchen. Surely, my mother will hear and come running to see what is the commotion.

Clive hammers down at least three dozen whacks without let up. I don’t suppose thirty seconds has passed and my arse in on fire. I try to wriggle and writhe but the combination of his leg across mine and his strong arm against my shoulders means I am helpless. I am a perfect target. He can (and he will) continue to spank my backside black-and-blue for as long as he wishes.

Not one square inch of my buttocks and the backs of my thighs escapes the attention of his brush. The pain is awesome. Nothing I’ve experienced in the whole of my eighteen years comes close to this. Is this what it feels like to have accidentally sat down on a blazing barbecue?

On and on he spanks me. I can’t move to the left and right or forwards and backwards. The only way my body can respond to this intense onslaught is to jolt up and down. With each successive slap to my bum my body humps Clive’s knee. The heat of my bare-bottomed thrashing is travelling to my loins.

No, please God. Don’t let it end like this.

When in the early hours, I emerge from my fitful sleep the bedsheet is soaked in cum.

 

Picture credit: Spank This

 

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Pyjama bottoms down. Bend over (again)

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Mr. Bashford takes charge

z used after jeans down by endart

 

“I hope you’ve learnt your lesson young man,” Mr. Bashford growled as he sat back in his chair to admire his handiwork.  Robert stood before him, jeans and underpants at his shins, gently patting his glowing buttocks.

“Just you stand like that, until I say you may go. Think about your behaviour,” he watched carefully as the nineteen-year-old pouted his disapproval. The teenager’s eyes glistened. There was no cause for tears, Mr. Bashford reckoned. He had delivered a sound spanking, but it had been no beating. That might come in the future if the brat dared to do it again.

Mr. Bashford gripped his wife’s large oval ebony hairbrush tightly. He felt its weight in his right hand as he smacked the business end down into his left. There was a reason that a hairbrush had a flat end, he thought with some satisfaction. It didn’t look much, but it was a mighty effective spanking tool. Generations of naughty boys (and some girls too) could testify to that.

People might think it odd that a nineteen-year-old needed to have his bare bottom spanked, but young people must be taught that there are boundaries. Mr Bashford studied Robert carefully. He was probably an inch or so taller than himself, but his body was much slighter: thin and wiry.  He would soon be a fully-grown man: an adult. But he was not yet mature; he was still a boy and sometimes, like on this day, he needed to be reminded of the fact.

Robert’s eyes widened with genuine surprise when he saw Mr. Bashford rummage in his jacket pocket and withdraw the large ebony-backed hairbrush. Without saying a word he placed it on the table to allow him to remove his jacket before laying it carefully next to it.

Then, he undid and removed his tie and started to roll up his shirt sleeves. He had very large arms and hands: as befitting a man who played rugby for his county when he was younger. His face was covered with a brown beard and the rest of his body was covered in thick hair and he still looked very fit.

Instantly, Robert was panicked and nervous, fully realizing what he intended to do, and what was about to happen. It looked very much like he was to be spanked with the hairbrush. He had never been spanked before.  He watched horrified as the old man pulled a wooden chair from the corner of the room, picked up the hairbrush and sat down.

Robert stood several feet away unsure what he was expected to do. Mr. Bashford knew his role in this little drama. The spanking had to be over the knee, but would the boy consent to draping himself across his lap to receive the full force of the heavy wooden hairbrush?

And if he didn’t comply? Would there be an unseemly fight while Mr. Bashford forcibly heaved him over? Mr. Bashford  reached across to him, took hold of his right arm and upper back, and firmly pulled him forward (the boy’s feet scooting and scuffing along) before hauling him over, and depositing him stretched out, hanging across his knees with his face pushed into the rug.

Then, swiftly without warning, he set up a snapping, cracking rhythm of the hairbrush as he peppered Robert’s rear-end with a series of bites.

Mr Bashford was pleased the nineteen-year-old had not resisted, but, Robert could afford to be impassive, with the denim of his jeans combined with the cotton of his underpants he hardly felt a thing as the old man fell into a tempo that covered all of his buttocks.

But, Mr. Bashford had a plan and Robert soon found the old man’s fingers fumbling with the elasticated waistband of his jeans, before jerking them down over the teenager’s bony hips and small, flat, but thin and muscled bottom. In a panic Robert thrashed his legs about, but rather than preventing the lowering of his jeans, the movements encouraged them to drop to his bare feet at the floor, leaving only his tight white briefs covering his mounds.

Mr. Bashford held the boy firmly around the waist and rained his hairbrush down with maximum force, covering every square inch of the cheeks, the upper thighs, and the curved area where they meet. The relatively small area of shiny polished wood which was attacking his tender buttocks delivered a level of pain well beyond its assumed potential.

The boy’s body lay flopped across Mr. Bashford’s lap as he pounded away. If Robert had felt no pain before, now the agony in his backside was intense. He gave up and gave in completely, hanging and dangling over the knees, his squalling taking over as he gasped, choked and shook. The fiery blistering on his bottom driving him to still deeper despair.

Not satisfied that an over-the-knee spanking on tight white underpants was enough indignity for the boy, Mr Bashford grabbed the waistband of the briefs and sent them the same way as Robert’s jeans.

The action encouraged renewed vigour in the boy who shook his body from left to right in a fruitless attempt to break free. Robert’s right hand involuntarily left the floor to defend his blistered bottom, only to be seized firmly and pulled up behind his back.

Robert wrestled to escape the relentless torrent of increasing pain which was setting his buttocks ablaze. He fought to escape from the very firm grip of the left arm pressing into his back. He pleaded, begged, promised, apologised endlessly between his gulps and his gasping for breath. But to no avail. The punishment pursued its unswerving path and the pattern on the rug became an indistinguishable blur.

Mr Bashford hadn’t known he possessed such strength: not only was he able to pin the nineteen-year-old brat in place across his knees, face down, bared bottom high, he continued to batter his buttocks with the hairbrush.  He pounded away at the boy for almost another five minutes, while Robert struggled and pleaded but he continued in his duty.

Finally at long last he stopped the spanking and put the brush down on the table. The boy’s buttocks were scarlet. This certainly would teach him to behave in the future. The defeated teenager was breathing convulsively as the cool air of the room contrasted starkly with the hot, red, blistered flesh of his buttocks and thighs. The surface of his bottom felt like someone had poured boiling liquid onto it.

Slowly – ever so slowly – he got up; the change of the contours of his bum cheeks seemed to make the pain worse across his rear end.

“Stand there. I hope you’ve learnt your lesson young man,” Mr. Bashford growled, as red of face and crimson of bottom, Robert shuffled into position. “And, if I catch you stealing from my shop again, beware I have a very heavy whippy cane that I won’t hesitate to use on you.”

Robert gulped audibly and continued patting his sore bottom.

 

Picture credit: Endart

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Breath-taking

z used hustler by Josman (1)

Danny only had a split-second to decide. Should he drive off to Maureen’s Peak with the sexy stranger and shag him senseless, or should he return the car to dad on time as he had promised.

It was a no-brainer. He opened the car door and let him in. He would face the consequences with dad later.

They didn’t shag; that is go all the way. Instead, Danny sucked the stranger’s eight-inch cock until he shot a load in his mouth. Then he had a second decision to make. The wine taster’s dilemma: should he spit or should he swallow? He swallowed. He couldn’t risk staining the seats in dad’s car. He knew from experience cum stains were impossible to wash off.

Dad was exasperated. He paced the sitting room, looking at his watch every ten seconds. Danny was fifteen minutes late. Then, he was thirty. Dad stood at the front gate peering down the quiet suburban street. No sign of his son. He looked at his watch again. He would never admit it, but he was scared. Had Danny been in a traffic accident? Was his shiny new car damaged? Had his son been hurt?

He’d damn well hurt him when he did get home. It wasn’t that dad wanted to go anywhere in the car; he didn’t. It was his irresponsible nineteen-year-old son that was the problem. Danny had disobeyed dad. Again. It wasn’t just the car, it was everything. He was surly around the house, he wouldn’t do his chores unless his mother nagged him. He came and went as he pleased, treating the house like a hotel. It had to stop and dad was quite sure how to make it.

At last, dad saw the car turn the corner of The Avenue. It looked intact. His son was safe. He hurried back into the house. He didn’t want Danny to know he had been anxious.

Danny parked the car and checked the time. Ninety minutes late. Dad would be mad. Oh well, he thought, it had been worth it. The memory of the stranger’s huge cock was fresh. He felt his own dick tingle. Danny’s usually cobalt blue eyes shone. He put his key in the front door lock and prepared to face the consequences.

“In here. Now.” The fury in his dad’s voice seemed genuine. Danny closed the door, put his cap on a coat hook and went to meet his fate.

Danny’s face was flushed and his eyes sparkling. “You’ve been drinking!” Dad’s own eyes widened. “I can see it from here.”

Danny bristled. He hadn’t been drinking, but he could hardly tell dad what he had been doing. “No, I’ve not,” he pouted instead.

“Come here. Now.” Dad snapped his fingers. Reluctantly, Danny moved further into the sitting room. “Breathe out, let me smell your breath.”

Danny’s face reddened.

“I thought so. Drinking. And driving!”

“No, no ..” Danny wasn’t sure what to say.

“Let me smell your breath.”

Danny sucked in air as if somehow that would take the stink away.

“Breathe in my face.”

“Huff..”

Dad’s nose wrinkled. What was that smell? He knew what it was, but  he couldn’t quite place it. The aroma was sweet and a little sickly.

“Again.” Dad leaned forward towards his son to get the full blast. Danny heaved into dad’s face.

No, dad still couldn’t quite name it. He didn’t know what it was, but it certainly wasn’t alcohol.

“OK,” he conceded reluctantly, “You haven’t been drinking. What was it, some girl?” Dad roared with genuine mirth when Danny’s face went the colour of beetroot.

“I might have known,” dad’s smile was fading. “But it doesn’t excuse your disobeying my instruction and coming home late. I’ve lost count the number of times you’ve disobeyed me or your mother. Well, it’s going to stop and it’s going to stop right now, understand.”

Dad was a master at the upscale St. Francis Independent Grammar School in town. He knew all about discipline – and everything about punishment. St. FIGS was a traditional school: traditional curriculum, traditional uniform, traditional sports and, most of all, traditional discipline. Dad knew the effectiveness of corporal punishment. At school his weapon of choice was the whippy, crook-handled rattan cane. It certainly made its point when whipped across stretched buttocks.

But, that was school and this was home. At school he was the master, at home he was a loving dad. Caning was an impersonal punishment; something delivered quite literally at arm’s length. There was a necessary distance between the punisher and the punished.

At home it was quite different. The father-son relationship was based on love. Dad loved his son and as part of that loving he knew he must punish him. The punishment should not be remote or distant, it should be close. That was why he intended to take Danny across his knee.

“I think you know what must happen now,” dad might be a loving father, but even at home he had the air of the schoolmaster. He would stand no nonsense from the teenager.

Danny stared at the carpet. Of course he knew what was coming. He had lived his whole life under dad’s domination. He had no choice: he must grin and bare it. One day when his studying was over and he had a job and could afford to move out he would begin an independent life. Until then it was dad’s house, dad’s rules.

Danny was transfixed by the grey-patterned Axminster so did not see his dad rummage through the sideboard drawer. He heard the rattle of dinner mats being moved, he knew what dad was searching for.

At last he found it.

“Come stand over here.” Dad was already seating himself in the centre of a long leather Chesterfield couch. Danny’s cobalt blue eyes blinked rapidly. They always did at times like this. His father clutched a large wooden clothes brush. He waved it through the air. “Trousers. Underpants down. Come lay across my lap.”

They were clear instructions. Dad knew they would be obeyed. And, they were. Danny’s cargo shorts had no belt, they hugged his waist beautifully. With the button unfastened and the zip lowered they hurtled to his feet. Danny stood in his gaily-patterned briefs. A sudden panic. They must be stained with his cum. With alacrity he hitched his thumbs in the waistband and with the merest flick of the wrists he sent them south the land on top of his shorts.

Dad tapped the brush against his thigh with impatience. Danny looked on curiously, his father was a tall man and as befitting someone his age he was running to fat.  His lap was large and offered a substantial platform for the teenager to present himself for a spanking. Dad’s arms were surprisingly well-developed; he built his strength through the constant gardening he did at weekends. Dad’s face was grey and lined and his hair thinning, but he insisted in having a combover to disguise his baldness.

Danny took a deep breath and lowered himself over his dad’s knees. He knew the drill. He raised his legs so they stretched out behind him and along the couch. He rested his elbows on the couch so that his head was raised and he could see ahead of him. “Bugger,” he thought. He could see through the open window into the street outside. A passer-by might easily see in.

His cock dug into dad’s thigh so he wriggled his body until he was comfortable; although, of course, what was to happen next would be far from comfortable.

Danny was shorter than average and slim so he fitted this spanking position perfectly. He noticed the curtain sway gently in the breeze. Then, he felt the excruciating pain of a heavy wooden brush crash into the centre of his left buttock. There was very little flesh to absorb the impact. He cupped his hands together and covered his mouth.

Bang-bang-bang. Dad kept up a steady rhythm. Danny blew hard into his hands, suddenly so overwhelmed by the stink of his own breath it made him gag a little.

Danny’s bum was small and dad’s brush so large that the whole of the target area was a mass of dark-pink marks within seconds. Dad always marvelled at how the shape of the oval head of the brush could be reproduced again and again across creamy-white buttocks.

Danny’s bum rose and fell against dad’s legs. The nineteen-year-old had no control of this, it was his body’s natural reaction to the pounding it was taking. Dad gripped him across the shoulders. He was going nowhere – not until dad said so. At first Danny’s bum stung with each successive blow but soon the whole of his arse throbbed. As dad whacked on and on the throbbing grew to an intense ache. His backside was on fire, it felt like he had sat in a bucket of boiling water.

Oh, no! Danny saw a figure he recognised standing in his front garden peering through the window. It was Alan, a pal from down the road. They often tossed each other off when Alan’s parents were at work. Alan grinned so wide his teeth might fall out. He pulled his phone from his pocket and held it high. He would wank himself dry later viewing and reviewing the video.

Dad was not a cruel man, he believed in chastisement not torture, but years of schoolmastering had taught him that for corporal punishment to be effective it had to hurt. Otherwise, what was the point of it?

Satisfied that he had scorched every square-inch of his son’s posterior dad tuned his attention to the back of Danny’s thighs. Whack-whack-whack. That had the teenager writhing and kicking. A dark-blue bruise appeared almost immediately.

Dad took one more circuit around the target area and then landed six more into the fleshiest part of Danny’s cheeks. Then he was done.

He released his hold on Danny’s shoulders and before he could give the instruction, “Stand up,” the teenager was on his feet hopping up and down rubbing away at his burnt flesh. His cock and balls waved around in front of his dad’s face.

“Get dressed. Quickly.” A look, something close to horror invaded dad’s face. Dad watched, his heart thumping as his son struggled into his tight pants and pulled up his cargo shorts.

“Go, go,” dad waved his arms frantically, “Go to your room.” Danny didn’t need telling twice, he took the stairs two at a time and hurtled into his bedroom. Dad gaped open mouthed into the middle distance; staring, but seeing nothing. A rush of vomit touched the back of his throat, but he swallowed it down.

Unsteady on his feet he rose from the couch and walked to the cocktail cabinet. With shaking hands he poured a large gin and drank half of it in a single gulp. It did nothing for his nerves. He took the glass and stood at the open window, looking disconsolately at his beloved garden.

“What is to become of us all,” he wailed. Life would never be the same again. Not now he had identified the smell on Danny’s breath.

 

Picture credit: Josman

 

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The spanking I thoroughly deserved

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Hardly Boys and the case of the blistered buttocks

z used hardy boys (8)

 

Joe Hardly stretched his arms and looked across the den at his elder brother Frank. “I’m bored,” he faked a yawn, “We haven’t busted any crime in ages.”

Just as well, Frank thought, after the whopping their dad had given them last time. “You want another whipping?” he asked.

Frank rubbed the palm of his hand across the seat of his jeans. His dick stirred as he recalled the sight of his brother bent over dad’s knee in the parlour. His pants were at his feet and his shorts at his shins and his dad pounded the twenty-year-old’s naked buttocks with a brush. He could still hear the yelps Joe made as the monster wood cracked into taut bare flesh.

Dad also kept a paddle hanging on a nail in the woodshed. There was an old worn razor strop next to it in case dad wanted a little variety. And, he wasn’t afraid to use either of them.

“Well,” Joe grinned, “We can’t always be right.” He didn’t resent his dad’s beating. It was an occupational hazard. You win some you lose some. “That guy could have been a master criminal.” He meant a shady character the two boys had been tailing for a week, waiting for him to make his criminal move. “He wore a black hat and a black coat; why was he dressed like a gangster?”

“Because he worked in a funeral home!” his brother retorted, slamming down the magazine he was reading on the coffee table.

“C’mon Frank,” Joe was not deterred by one little failure, “Let’s go to the shore, there are bound to be smugglers,” he paced the room and stood at the door. “Or there will be some criminal on the run hiding out in a cave.” He turned on his heels and left.

“Blast my kid brother,” Frank said in his mind as he rushed to catch Joe at the front door.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Uncle gets a shock

z used white pants Jonathan

It came as a total shock when I discovered my nephew Anthony was turned on by being spanked. At least that explained why any number of trips across my knee for the slipper, hairbrush or palm of my hand had not improved his behaviour. Once, I even gave him a thrashing with an old-fashioned whippy school cane. Nothing. He still broke every rule I every laid down for him.

Anthony is nineteen now – going on twenty – and has been living with me for eighteen months since his dad changed jobs and moved down south. The boy has a job of his own at a record shop and didn’t want to go with his parents. Rather, than eek out an existence in a sweaty room in a boarding house, he took up my offer to lodge with me.

Now, I think about it, he agreed with alacrity to my demands that if he came to live with me, he must abide by the rules – or suffer the consequences. I left him in no doubt what that meant: a very sore backside indeed.

He was trouble from the very start. I know something about teenagers; they like to test authority. It’s in their DNA to push boundaries and see how far they can go. The first time I ordered him across my knee was when he repeatedly broke his curfew. Home by eleven, I told him. I could not have been clearer. When he rolled in at eleven-fifteen one evening, I lectured him hard. “Next time, you will feel my slipper across your backside, young man,” I told him. I could not have been clearer.

So, when the following Saturday he arrived home so late it was Sunday morning, I was as good as my word. “Go to the sitting room. Wait for me,” I ordered. Meekly, he shuffled across the hallway and stood head slightly bowed and hands firmly behind his back. He waited like this while I dragged a heavy dining-room chair and plonked it down in the very centre of the room. I sat myself down and manoeuvred a slipper from my right foot.  I wriggled around a bit to get comfortable and when I was ready I squeezed the slipper tightly in my fist. It was a typical bedroom slipper, with the checked cloth upper and the springy sole. A slipper is a perfect spanking tool, which is why it is so popular with fathers and uncles tasked with instilling discipline into the young.

I grunted something to attract Anthony’s attention and he looked up. His eyes widened at the sight of me, a forty-five-year-old man of some physical stature, willing and able to inflict severe pain to his bottom.

Anthony stands at about five-feet-seven, I suppose. He is quite sporty and although I don’t think he goes to the gym, he has a very well-proportioned body. As I would soon discover he hardly had enough spare fat on his body to sizzle a sausage.

He was wearing jeans and a woollen jumper. That was no good to me. He wouldn’t feel a thing through heavy denims. “Take them down,” I instructed and then as if he hadn’t already understood my order, I added, “The jeans. Right down. To the ankles.”

Anthony is fair haired, almost blond, and his skin is very pale. This time, though, his face was so red it reminded me of beetroot. His eyes shone. I suspected he was so embarrassed, he might start to cry. I was prepared to ignore any pleading he might make to be let off. Boys about to be spanked will promise absolutely anything about their future good behaviour if only they could be spared a whacking.

In fact, he made no pleas. With slightly shaking hands, he undid the buckle of his belt and undid the top button on his ice-blue jeans. Once the zipper had been lowered the denims slid down his thighs and snagged at the knees. He spread his legs a little and they slithered down his shins and rested on top of his trainer shoes.

He wore very tight cotton briefs in a multitude of colours. Even in a standing position they hung tightly to the contours of his body. I could see his cock had been circumcised. “Come, bend over my knee,” I slapped my thigh as an encouragement.

He sucked down a lung-full of air and leaned forward, putting his hands on my right thigh and lowering himself down. It took a second or two for him to work out where his hands needed to be and how to present his bottom in the perfect position for my slipper. When he had settled, the palms of his hands were pressed down into the deep-pile carpet and his knees were slightly bent so that his toes hovered an inch or so from the ground. His bum was angled across my right leg, giving me unrestricted access to his buttocks.

The tight cotton briefs clung to his cheeks so tightly it looked like they had been sprayed on him. At this point I had a choice. Should I take hold of the elasticated waistband of the briefs and tug them over his firm bottom until the buttocks were bared, or should I allow them to stay in place and let him have the last vestiges of dignity? Since this was his first spanking – or at least the first I had administered – I left the pants up. In any case, I figured, if there needed to be a repeat performance of this sometime in the future I should have some way to up the ante as it were. That is to increase the severity of the punishment next time.

I wrapped by left arm around Anthony’s middle to hold him in place and began my assault on his dignity. My slipper crashed into the centre of his very tight bottom over and over again.  The sound of rubber against cotton echoed around the room. Anthony opened and closed his mouth, rather like a goldfish, but he uttered no sound. His head bounced up and down once or twice and his bum rose and fell across my knee, but all that was, I suspect, simply a natural reaction from his body. He was, in fact, taking his slippering remarkably well.

I’m not sure how many whacks I gave him, but I made sure that every square inch of his buttocks was toasted. I even lay one or two across the back of his thighs, below the hem of his pants. That hurt him, I could see that, but apart from some heavy breathing, he remained silent. I was delighted to see a dark-pink imprint of the sole of my slipper embossed in his pale flesh.

Satisfied that I had spanked him enough for now, I released him. Anthony shot to his feet, turned his back to me and bent down to retrieve his jeans. He had them zipped and buckled before he faced me, his hands held contritely in front of him. His cheeks were scarlet and I knew his buttocks would be too. His hair was drenched with sweat and I could see by the gleam in his eye that he desperately wanted me to dismiss him so he could rush to his room. I imagined that in a moment or two he would be face down on his bed sobbing his guts up into a pillow.

I lectured him a little and reminded him that I had an array of spanking instruments in the cupboard under the stairs that I would not hesitate to use and sent him on his way.

Well, over the coming months each and every one of those tawses, paddles and straps connected with Anthony’s backside. I went so far as to buy a couple of “authentic” school canes off eBay. I had the nineteen-year-old across my knee, bending over the back of the armchair and spread-eagled across the dining table. He was an incorrigible rule-breaker. No amount of punishment could make him obey.

Now I know why.

This evening I received a phone call from the owner of the record shop where Anthony works. He hadn’t been in today, was everything all right? I confronted my nephew and he told me he had skived off work with some mates and queued all day to get tickets for the forthcoming FA Cup quarter final. Now, I like football as much as the next man, but I know I have responsibilities to my employer and I can’t just not turn in. I also have responsibilities to Anthony to make sure he understands such things.

He was not surprised when he arrived in the kitchen after I had called him from his room that I was brandishing a heavy wooden hairbrush. He had felt its power across his naked buttocks more than once before. I sighed so hard to demonstrate to him how much of the world’s burdens I was asked to shoulder and ordered him to lower his cargo shorts and bend over my knee. He did so without question.

Once in position I dragged his gleaming white briefs down to his thighs and assaulted his bare buttocks with the brush. It is a mightily effective punishment tool and soon the centre of each cheek was glowing crimson. Anthony shook his head from side to side, rather like a horse does when it neighs, and his legs kicked out. The spanking was hurting, that’s for sure. I whacked on and on over the same spots on his bum until the flesh turned dark red and then purple. If I spanked any harder or for any longer blood would seep from the wounds. I did not want that. I believe in punishment and not in torture.

When I released him, he tugged his pants and shorts up and fled from the kitchen, not waiting for me to lecture him. I let the brush fall on to the kitchen table and switched on the kettle. I desperately needed a cup of tea.

I also needed to use the bathroom. As I climbed the stairs I noticed the door to Anthony’s room was slightly open. Suddenly, I had an overwhelming urge to know whether he was sobbing into his pillow. In all the times I had spanked him he never shed a tear in my presence. Rather absurdly, I tiptoed along the landing and stood outside his door with my ear pressed against it. I could not hear anything. Thinking that maybe the weight of the door was obstructing the sound, I pushed against it gently.

Nothing would ever be the same again.

Anthony was standing in front of the dressing table mirror. His rather large and extremely hard cock was in his hand and he was pumping away. His eyes were closed and he was stifling moans of ecstasy. I turned to leave. Too late. He heard a creak on the floorboard, opened his eyes and in the reflection in the mirror saw me. His face glowed with embarrassment, he pulled up his pants and turned to face me.

I don’t know what happened next, I skedaddled and locked myself in the bathroom.

That was a little over an hour ago. I have drunk three cups of tea and have calmed down considerably. A young man who likes to be spanked, who would ever have thought such a thing. Still, it certainly explained a thing or two to me about his bad behaviour.

I started to giggle; I think it was the tannin in all that tea. Now, I had a plan. I shall confront Anthony and tell him this. In future, he will obey his curfew, he will do all the chores about the house that I give him. He will respect my wishes at all times and follow all my instructions. If he does these things to my total satisfaction I will spank him. Very hard indeed. I think they call that ‘psychology’. It is in any case a win-win situation for both of us.

 

Picture credit: Jonathan / colour by Buckcub

 

Other stories you might like

Late home from a date

The headmaster’s guests

My first spanking — aged 18!

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Taming Timothy

z used taming timothy (27)

Young men need order and discipline. They know they do. Indeed, they crave it.

That might sound unlikely if the only young men you know are the ones who get bladdered at weekends and spew their guts up on the pavements of our town and city centres. Or, the louts who hang around bus stops smoking weed and abusing innocent passers-by.

There are many – too many – young men like that around. But, they can’t help themselves. They have never been taught how to behave, to have self-respect and how to make something of themselves. I blame society – that’s you and me. It’s our fault for not guiding the young and disciplining, and let’s face it, punishing them when they needed it.

I hadn’t thought much about this until quite recently. Like you perhaps I thought it was all the fault of the young men themselves. Then, I discovered the Society for the Betterment of Offenders (SOBOFF). They soon put me straight and taught me that as a responsible citizen, I could make a difference in a young man’s life. If only, I would commit myself to the cause.

That’s where Timothy came in. He had just turned twenty when SOBOFF put me on to him. I was to learn that his was a typical tale. He attended some bog-standard comprehensive school where the teachers were probably on as many drugs as the kids. I don’t suppose any of them noticed that by the age of fourteen he had stopped attending classes. He would hang around the city centre in the amusement arcades or at the street market where he would steal anything his sticky fingers could grab.

By the time he was eighteen he had a list of ASBOs as long as your arm. An ASBO? It’s a legal slap on the wrist. Apparently, it costs too much to take people to court, so they give them this official ‘telling-off’. I now know that Timothy needed more than a slap on the wrist. A raging red-raw backside was what he needed. He didn’t know that then, but he does now. And SOBOFF can take credit for that.

To start with we work in groups of three or four men. Until, he learns the values of submission a young man will resist any kind of punishment. At first, there is no point in ordering him to take down his trousers, and possibly his underpants too, and bend over the back of a sofa while you lay into his bared buttocks with a cane. He simply won’t comply. He hasn’t yet discovered how much he needs to be punished and just what benefits a stingy backside, coupled with a proper disciplined lifestyle, could afford him.

I first came across Timothy through Mr Dyer, a regional organiser for SOBOFF. He was rounding up a posse to give the twenty-year-old his first taste of punishment. Timothy had been found stealing from a garden shed in The Avenue, a rather upscale street in our town. He was high on weed and looking to steal something to pay for his habit. He picked the wrong shed – or the right one, depending on your viewpoint. The householder was a friend of Mr Dyer. They immediately recognised a soul in need of saving.

I wasn’t present at the initial meeting, but I have attended many similar ones since. In it, Timothy, now sober, was required to explain his actions. Why did he smoke weed? How did he live? What were his ambitions for the future? His answers ran something like this: Because I like it. He lived in a squat. He had no ambitions. He was ripe for SOBOFF.

SOBOFF’s mission statement (as it were) is about discipline. Self-discipline. But, before a young man could reach that exalted state, he had first to understand the connection between discipline and punishment. Timothy was about to have his first lesson.

We met in the home of Mr Walker. Timothy had been lodging there for a week or so. Things were not going well. Despite, the young man’s assurances that he would give up drugs and find himself a job, nothing had transpired.

“He needs a little encouragement,” Mr Dyer announced. “And we are just the ones to give it to him.”

Timothy tried to struggle, but it was pointless. Mr Dyer made a little speech about how Timothy was being give chances that many desperate young men like himself would die for. Timothy did not know how lucky he was. He was doubly-lucky because SOBOFF would not abandon him.

“You might not believe me now,” he said sternly, “But, one day you will thank us for this.”

I was surprised that Timothy was silent. We are so used to young men “mouthing off” in the streets and being rude and aggressive. I later learnt that was how louts behaved in groups. If you got them on their own in certain circumstances they could be very contrite.

This was such a circumstance. Timothy was outnumbered four to one.

Mr Dyer carried a large Marks & Spencer plastic carrier bag. It seemed almost empty, but Mr Dyer withdrew a strange-looking leather strap. It was about eighteen inches in length and three wide. There was a handle and the other end was cut into two tails. I had never seen anything like it before.

“They used these in schools in Scotland, in the good old days” Mr Dyer informed us as he practiced slashing it through the air. I could see it was a specially-made instrument. It could have no other use than for punishment. Unlike, say, a belt that could keep your trousers from falling down or a slipper that kept the feet warm.

Timothy blanched. I could see he contemplated flight. We were not so stupid. His exit from the dining room was blocked by two of us and Mr Dyer and myself were on hand to take part in a pursuit, should the boy manage to force his way through.

“We can do this the hard or the easy way,” Mr Dyer had made similar speeches many times before. He said Timothy could prepare himself for the thrashing to come and take it with modicum of dignity. I could see Timothy did not understand the word “modicum”, but we let that pass.

If he chose the other way, we would strip off all his clothes and manhandle him naked face-down across the dining room table. Either way, Timothy’s bared buttocks were to be tawsed. Of that, the lad was left in no doubt.

I got to know Timothy very well over the coming months and years. He was a good boy who had lost his way. We – all of us – had deserted him and countless like him. That day with Mr Dyer was the start of his rebirth.

He didn’t submissively offer up his bared bum to the crack of the leather, but neither did he make much resistance. He wore a bright-green tee-shirt and those polyester leisure pants that have elasticated waists. It took nothing for us to take an arm each and force him over the dining room table. He struggled, but to me it seemed half-hearted. Token resistance. With the twenty-year-old prostrate and held firmly, it was no problem for me to grip the waist of his trousers and tug them down to his knees. His boxer shorts came part the way with them, snagging at the lower part of his buttocks.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I expected him to be hollering and yelling, but he remained calm. No neighbours would be disturbed that morning. Unheeded, I pulled the boxer shorts down until the buttocks, including the underside, were completely bare.

I stood back, my part in the proceedings were over. I had a terrific view of Timothy’s bare buttocks, his legs were parted just enough that I saw his ball sack dangling. His bottom was not bald, but the fine fair hairs covering it made it seem so. There was darker hair growing from the crack between the cheeks.

Timothy had a well-proportioned body, there was no spare fat on him anywhere. Perhaps, that was the consequence of drug-taking. We did not follow through on our threat to strip him naked. There was no practical reason to do that. His buttocks were perfectly presented and his thin tee-shirt had ridden half way up his back. I was surprised, and pleased, that he had no tattoos on his body. So many young people today cover themselves with garish images. I have a view that a person’s intelligence is inversely proportional to the amount of flesh covered with tattoos.

Timothy wiggled his bare bum in anticipation of the hurt to come. He had never been spanked before; more’s the pity since if he had been we would not have needed to thrash him that day.

Mr Dyer stood behind Timothy’s behind (so to speak) and raised the worn leather taws over his shoulder so that the two tails tapped against the small of his own back. Then, with an almighty swipe he brought it crashing down across Timothy’s left cheek. A deep pink line immediately formed in a north-to-south direction. The boy’s legs kicked out; he tried to break free but the grip of my two colleagues kept him firmly in place. I saw his head rise and shake, just as a horse does when it neighs.

While this was happening, Mr Dyer took up his position once more and delivered a penetrating swipe to the right cheek. Timothy now had parallel lines on his buttocks. From where I stood, they rather looked like railway tracks. He did the neighing thing again and gasped for air. His tousled, fairish hair was already soaked with sweat.

Even from my vantage point at the rear I could see the boy’s face was ghastly pale, yet the back of his neck was as scarlet as his hind quarters.

Mr Dyer was an expert. He brought the strap crashing down across the buttocks with such skill that each successive stroke landed a little to the side of the previous one. In that way, Timothy’s bottom soon glowed red-hot. Not a single square inch of flesh was left unscorched.

I am not sure how I expected a young man in such a situation to react. I suppose I anticipated tears at least, and probably screams and pleas for mercy. We got none of that from Timothy. When we released him, his eyes were awash, but no real tears flowed. He was deathly pale and by the way he was bent double, with his hands on his knees, I could tell he was desperately trying to suck in air. He was in terrible pain, but determined not to show it.

Two weeks after that first belting, Timothy moved in with me. I became his guardian and guiding hand. Although, “hand” had very little to do with the punishments I administered to him. Under my tutelage, he got a job filling shelves at a supermarket and he is studying part-time for a City & Guilds in plumbing. He is on the road for a successful life.

It is not all plain sailing. There are relapses. I am sure he is off the drugs now, but sometimes he skips college or misses a shift at work. We have a punishment ritual now. I send him to his room where he is required to strip down to his underwear. He waits submissively, head bowed and hands behind his back.

When I am ready, I take my heavy wooden clothes brush from the drawer in my sideboard. I make him detail his faults. He always finishes his little speech with the words, “I have let myself down and I deserve to be punished. Please spank me.”

I always reply, “Of course.”

Then, I sit on his bed. When I am comfortable, I nod at my knees. This is his cue. He puts his thumbs in the waistband of his underpants and sends them to a puddle at his feet. He steps out of them and now totally naked he places himself across my knee. His legs dangle at one end and his stomach and chest rest on the mattress. In this way, his smooth bared bottom rests at a perfect angle against my thigh.

I raise the heavy brush and whack it down with force into his backside. Twenty-four times. Never more. Never less.

 

Other stories you might like

Father deals with idle student

The apprentices

Boy at the photocopier

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Dad, spank me please

z used short shorts (62)

Terry stood astride his bicycle at the end of The Avenue. He winced a little, the narrow hard leather seat pressed into a tender spot on his backside. Halfway down the street he saw his great pal Davey outside his house washing the family car. He cycled a few yards further and stopped again.

Davey hadn’t heard Terry’s approach. He splashed water and soap suds over the Cortina. It was a blistering hot day and he was dressed only in skimpy football shorts. Terry admired how the boy’s buttocks filled out the nylon when he stretched across the car and muscles in his suntanned back rippled.

“Hi,” he called. Davey looked up from his work and grinned. They had been best friends since they were seven; often they didn’t need words to communicate.

Eventually, Terry asked, “How did your dad take last night?”

“I have to wash the car and I’m grounded for a week.”

“A week! You’ll miss the match tomorrow and the gig on Friday.”

“I know,” Davey replied and carried on washing. He was making a mess of it and water soaked the front of his shorts making them transparent. Terry could see his friend wasn’t wearing underpants.

There was companionable silence for some moments before Davey asked, “What did your dad say?”

Terry grinned. “Dad still thinks it’s the nineteen-fifties.”

Davey knew where this was going. “No.” It was a statement rather than a question.

“Yes, he spanked me.” Involuntarily, he moved his bum away from the cycle saddle. Only an hour earlier he had been draped across his father’s knee with his jeans at his ankles while dad hammered a heavy wooden clothes brush into the seat of his underpants.

“But you’re nineteen!” Davey wasn’t really surprised at the news. But, nineteen, surely that was too old to spank a boy.

“Well its better than missing the footie and the concert.”

Davey wasn’t so sure. “But doesn’t it hurt?”

Terry recalled the sight of his buttocks when he had examined them in the mirror. They were bright red from the top of the globes, across the mounds and into the under curves. Bruises were forming and they would probably stay for sometimes. Some spots, especially where the cheeks met the thighs were tender to touch. It made riding his bike a bit painful.

“Yeah,” he grinned. He wasn’t embarrassed, he told his pal everything. (Well, perhaps not everything.) “But it’s not like he ripped my arse to shreds.”

Terry had lost count, but dad must have laid the brush across his backside at least a hundred times. He always spanked on the underpants, never on the bare. Terry was grateful for that, it would be too humiliating to have to lay face down across dad’s lap and let him see his crack and hole.

The teenagers lapsed into silence. Davey stood on tiptoes to stretch across the roof of the large car. His shorts rode up and Terry got a glimpse of his pal’s bare arse. Terry wriggled as his cock began to twitch.

“You should ask your dad to spank you.”

“Warr..?”

“Seriously, ask him to whop you instead of grounding. Then you don’t have to stay home all week.”

Davey stopped soaking the car and peered at his friend. “You’re serious.”

“Of course.”

“But isn’t it a bit weird? How many boys ask their dads to spank them? Isn’t it usually the other way round?” Then he affected the voice of a wailing child, “Please daddy don’t spank me I will be good. Boo. Hoo.”

Both lads roared with laughter.

“Think about it,” Terry said, mounting his bicycle. “I’ve got to go; I’ll be late for lunch.” As he pedalled away, he turned and called over his shoulder. “You’ve got too many suds, you’ll never be able to clear them away, the car will be streaked all over.”

Then, painfully he cycled home.

Terry had been right – about the car; it was covered in ugly streaks. Davey’s dad was not best pleased so Terry hid in his room for a while to keep out of the way. The heat was becoming unbearable. He stripped off his shorts and lay naked on the bed. He stared at his limp cock. He hadn’t masturbated since before breakfast, so he closed his eyes and imagined Terry bent across his dad’s knee. Terry was about six feet tall and he thought his pal would probably have to bend his knees a bit so that his bum was properly positioned against his dad’s thigh to receive whacks from the brush.

Terry had a big bum. It was round and meaty and jutted out the back of his jeans. It was a backside that cried out to be spanked.

Davey’s cock stiffened. He reached into his bedside cabinet and found the Johnson’s Baby Lotion. He soaked his palm. It felt cold against his still soft cock. It twitched and the tips of Davey’s fingers lightly stroked along the length of his penis. The cock filled out as he imagined the hard wooden brush spanking into his pal’s backside as he lay submissively over his dad’s knee.

His fingers enclosed the hardening shaft near the base and he glided his palm slowly up the length of his twitching dick. At the top, he tweaked the sensitive edges of his foreskin, giving himself a gasp of pleasure. It was a difficult admission to have to make, but he knew that he fancied Terry’s arse something rotten.

His grip tightened and he tensed up. Then his hand made several slow, firm strokes along the full length of his now fully erect cock. His other hand cupped his balls, gently kneading them between his fingers.

Then, whoosh! His belly was soaked with cum. Davey’s heart raced and his eyes watered. He lay back breathing heavily, slightly disappointed. He always came too soon.

He stared down at the sticky goo on his stomach. It was too hot to go to the bathroom to clean up. He would let it harden.

What, he wondered, would it be like to be spanked? It would be painful, of course, but Terry had said it wasn’t too bad. Would it turn him on? What if his own dad took him across his knee and whacked him with a hairbrush, would he end up coming all over the old man’s leg?

He smiled at the absurdity of it all. But deep down he knew he wanted to be spanked. He might never forgive himself if he didn’t experience it at least once.

An hour later, once dressed now in football shorts and pants but no shirt, he padded into the lounge. Dad was pretending not to be watching wrestling on World of Sport.

Davey had rehearsed a script. “Sorry about the car,” he started and immediately stalled. His dad grunted.

“And, sorry about last night.” Another growl from dad. This wasn’t going quite to plan.

“Do you know what Terry’s dad did?”

His dad turned his gaze away from the television.

Davey gulped. It was now or never. “He spanked him.” He stopped, he could feel his cheeks flaming.

Dad knotted his brows and looked at his son quizzically. He knew that Mr. Tomlinson used corporal punishment on his sons. He had often discussed discipline with him. He didn’t use it himself – he was afraid Davey would resent it and hate him forever if he put a slipper across the boy’s backside.

“Look it’s the local derby tomorrow. City and United,” Davey spoke in a rush. “And, The Starbirds are playing on Friday. We’ve got tickets and I was thinking, wondering …” he trailed off. He had rehearsed this in his bedroom but now it was showtime he had forgotten his lines.

Dad folded his arms and sat back in his armchair and struggled to suppress a smile. He let his son babble on some more. Eventually the nineteen-year-old got to the point and blurted, “Would you let me off the grounding and spank me instead.” Then he added a final plea, “Please.”

Davey tried again, “I know I should be punished, but …” he had run out of words again.

This was typical of Davey, his father thought. He was a good boy most of the time. He had done well at school and gone on to university, but he did get into scrapes. He always took responsibility for his actions.

Mr. Tony Pilfold loved his son dearly. The boy had been a damn fool last night, drinking too much and allowing a drunk pal to drive him home. He could have been killed.

He looked at his son, trying to read his mind. He was a football fanatic and The Starbirds were probably the top group in the whole world; it couldn’t have been easy to get tickets. The boy looked forlorn. His wide open brown eyes, eyes that usually sparkled with mischief, were dull. His sadness tugged at his dad’s heartstrings.

Suddenly, he was transported back thirty years to his own youth. His father was a schoolmaster; he never once spanked him as a child. But there was one time when he was about Davey’s age when he and a friend took a car. They were caught of course. The police, who said they had better things to do than deal with two middle-class joyriders, handed them over to their parents.

Next morning his dad brought home a long thick swishy rattan cane from his school. It was awesome, Tony remembered. Even now he could picture it. It had the traditional crooked handle and was a dark yellow colour. It had notches every three or four inches along its length. When his dad flexed it between his hands and then swished it through the air, it sent a wave of terror through Tony’s body.

His dad was an old-fashioned stubborn schoolmaster. He expected to be obeyed. He made his son change into his pyjamas and report to the sitting room. It was quite a large room, dominated by an old worn leather couch. It was a cold evening and the teenager could not stop shivering. It might not have been only the cold. Tony trembled with fear, waiting for the inevitable bluff command.

It was not long coming. “Bend over the couch.”

It was a new experience and Tony made sure it was never repeated. It was literally the thrashing of a lifetime. Dad put twelve stingers across the seat of his pyjamas. Tony would like to think he took his beating stoically, but in truth the nineteen-year-old howled the house down. His face was washed in tears and snot. His backside felt like he had been forced to sit on a barbecue. His buttocks were covered with welts; some took weeks to clear.

It wasn’t a spanking; it was a savage whipping. Mr. Pilfold wriggled in his armchair at the recollection. It was as if the memories had reignited the pain in his buttocks.

He continued looking at his son. He couldn’t subject his lovely son to that. But, Davey was so sad that he would miss the football and concert. Maybe he should back down, rescind the grounding. No, Mr. Pilfold was determined. There had to be punishment.

He couldn’t believe that he asked the next question. “How did Mr. Tomlinson spank Terry?”

Davey was startled. “With a hairbrush, I think.” His face reddened.

A hairbrush? No that was no good. The only hairbrush in the house belonged to his wife. It was an expensive delicate thing. It would be smashed to pieces if he spanked Davey with that.

In his head he listed the possible implements that he might use instead. He didn’t have bedroom slippers, nor plimsolls. Obviously, there was no swishy rattan cane. What else did people use? Of course, a belt. He had several leather belts in all shapes and sizes. One in particular was thick and heavy, it would do the job admirably.

Heck, he pulled himself up. Why was he thinking like this? Did he really intend to whack his son’s backside? Then in a heartbeat he made a decision that would change his darling son’s life.

“If I do it, will you take your spanking without fuss?” Mr. Pilfold sounded calmer than he felt.

Davey’s pulse raced. At once his mouth dried. “Yes,” he croaked. His hands were shaking.

“Go to your room and wait for me.” It was a soft instruction. Mr. Pilfold had inherited none of his own father’s bluntness.

Davey rushed from the room.

Mr. Pilfold steadied himself. He needed to take deep breaths. What had he agreed to do? And why? It was a mystery to him, but instinctively he knew this was what his son wanted. No, it was what he needed. And he didn’t mean that in the way a father might say, “What you need young man is a jolly good spanking.”

Slowly, he ascended the stairs. His was grateful that his wife and daughters were shopping in town. He and Davey had the house to themselves. Together they would share an intimate father and son moment. He entered his own bedroom and rummaged through the wardrobe. It had been a long time since he had worn the belt. Wide, heavy belts were no longer fashionable.

He found it and felt its weight in his hand. Then, he doubled it up and tested its effectiveness by smacking it into his open palm. He flinched. Just a little smack hurt a lot. It would cause considerable pain if he whacked it hard across Davey’s backside.

He paused and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked old and grey, despite his suntan. His hair was thinning and his waist thickening. He thought of his slender son who was so full of youth and vitality. Had he been like that at the time his own dad had caned him? How quickly a body deteriorates with age.

He took several deep breaths and exited the room. The door of his son’s room was open so he walked straight in. Davey sat apprehensively on the bed. He so wanted this spanking to happen. He knew that for certain. Buy why did he want it? He couldn’t quite convince himself that it was only so he could attend the footie and a concert.

He eyed the heavy strap in his father’s hand. If his dad was serious and spanked him properly the belt could leave him severely battered.

“Stand up. Let’s get on with this.” Mr. Pilfold picked up two pillows and placed them in the centre of the bed.

Quietly, almost in a whisper, he instructed. “Lie face down across the pillows. Try to keep your bottom high.”

Davey hesitated. He stood rooted.

“Come on. You wanted this,” his father said softly, thinking his son was having a last-minute change of heart.

“No,” his son replied emphatically. “Terry gets it on the pants.” Then in one continuous movement the teenager hooked his fingers into the waistband of his football shorts and pushed them to his knees. They slipped down his shins and landed in a puddle at his feet. He stepped out of them and knelt on the bed, before lowering himself across the pillows. He wasn’t sure where to put his arms so he spread them out, one on either side of his head. His legs were parted and it made him look like he was sky-diving.

His dad had never seen his son like this before. He realised he had not looked closely at him for some time. He was a fit, athletic boy. There was hardly enough spare fat on his body to sizzle a sausage. His back was hairless, but there was a thin covering of down on his legs. His mustard-coloured briefs clung to taut buttocks. A tan line showed just below his bum.

Mr. Pilfold doubled up the leather belt. He was no expert, but he knew a spanking was supposed to hurt. He must lash the strap across his son’s bum with some vigour. Somehow, he knew his son would want that. It needed to be a spanking that he could compare to Terry’s.

He took a deep breath raised the strap high and slashed it into the seat of the briefs. Davey let a stream of air escape through his teeth. He scrunched up his face. It had hurt, but not too much. It was the shock of the sting that affected him most.

Another smack quickly followed and then another. His bum hotted up with each successive whack and the pain mounted. He clasped his arms around his head to help him absorb the pain. It helped a little.

Soon, his buttocks were bouncing up and down over the pillow. His hips swayed and his legs kicked. He wasn’t in control of his body. His twitchings and jerkings were reflex actions. They were his body’s way of coping with the onslaught.

Whack, whack whack. Neither dad nor Davey were counting, but his father must have delivered fifty or sixty strokes. Sweat poured off Mr. Pilfold’s shirt. Davey, despite his near-nakedness, was perspiring heavily too.

It was time to stop. Mr. Pilfold held the leather belt in his hand and allowed it to dangle down his leg. He looked intently at his son, still face down across the pillows. He was lost for words. How was a spanking supposed to end? Sheepishly, he left the room.

Davey stayed in position, reliving the past minutes in his head. He tried to imagine how he looked, stretched submissively across the bed with his bum raised for the kiss of the leather. He realised his head was perfectly clear. It was a euphoria he had not experienced before. No drug could compare with the high he had got from dad’s spanking.

Slowly, he eased himself from the bed. A raging erection tented the front of his briefs. He tugged them down and then off to give his cock room to breathe. He saw his reflection in the mirror. His buttocks were adorned with dozens of thick sunset-red stripes. The pain had almost disappeared leaving behind a warm glow. Carefully, he traced his fingertips across the marks that criss-crossed his cheeks. Some were tender and it felt good to reignite the pain.

Gingerly, he lay on the bed. He laid on his back and enjoyed the throbbing sensation as his buttocks sank into the hard mattress. He leaned over to the drawer for the baby lotion. He had experienced his first spanking and he knew without a shadow of a doubt that the next one could not come soon enough.

 

Other stories you might like

Warren’s awakening

Home for the half term

The Helpful Neighbour Part 1

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com