Noisy neighbour

new 5

I’m not particularly proud of what I did, but I’m not ashamed either. I never planned it. It just happened on the spur of the moment. If I’d thought about it beforehand I know I’d never have done it. I’m far too timid a man. I could try to blame the drink, but I’ll make no excuses.

It started with the late lunch. I arranged to meet with some pals at that new bistro in town. The one behind the library. It’s summer so we weren’t in any great hurry. The food was pretty good, if you like everything cooked in sauces (which I do) and the wine was better – and very cheap.  I was drinking the house Muscadet. Very cold. Very dry. None of us were driving so we necked it. I must have polished off a bottle or more on my own.

So, after about three hours of good company, I caught the bus home. Looking back, the state I was in it might’ve been wiser to get a cab. Well, there’s no point in being wise after the event. By the time the bus got to my suburb, I think I might have sobered up a little. I got off the bus near Widdicombe Wood, crossed the road and turned into The Avenue where I live. It was a fine afternoon; not particularly hot, but warm enough to bring people out into their gardens.

I had hardly walked twenty yards when I heard loud music coming from somewhere. Most of the houses here are large and they stand behind walls or tall hedges. Although I couldn’t see anything I knew immediately that the racket was coming from number thirty-three. The couple who owned the place were away for the summer at their villa in the south of France. They had left their son Wilson behind. He’s about twenty – maybe even older – so I suppose they thought he was a responsible adult and he’d make sure the house didn’t burn down or get burgled. Also, I think there was a cat that needed feeding involved somewhere.

Unfortunately, Wilson (what a bloody stupid name that is, if you ask me) was not quite as mature as his parents supposed. It seemed to me there had been one long party from the moment the taxi came to take them to the airport and it showed every sign of continuing until it brought them home again. The Avenue is a very sedate kind of street. Very little happens here and it is fair to say that people like to keep themselves to themselves. We are also quite an elderly community, so you don’t need me to spell out how disruptive Wilson’s partying was. I know for a fact that Mrs Richards, the widow at number thirty-one, had complained about the noise. She was given short shrift, which is a polite way of saying she was told to go to blazes (which, come to think of it is also a polite way of saying what is was they actually told her to do). I shouldn’t be surprised if other neighbours got a similar response if they complained.

On this particularly afternoon, perhaps emboldened by drink or the heat of the day, I stopped at the gate to the front drive. Unusually for around here it was open so I hung around for a moment to see if I could spot any of the louts and tell them to button it. I saw the side gate was open and the loud voices I heard left me in no doubt a party was in progress. I entered the back garden. I could see seven people, mostly young men about Wilson’s age and two slightly older women. They took no notice of me. The garden was large and like so many in The Avenue it was made beautiful by professional help. At the far end there was a trestle table with stacks of what looked like empty beer cans. There was a very distinct aroma floating in the air; it was herbal but it had no connection to any plant growing in the garden. A sliding door to a loungeroom was wide open and inside there was a music system blaring out some noise that I suppose young people call “music”.

I was inside the garden and still I had no idea what I intended to do. The obvious thing would be to ask them to turn the volume down and be more considerate to neighbours. People who know me would never say that I have unique attributes so I did the obvious. “Can you turn the music down,” I almost shouted to Wilson, and then, because I am a polite, considerate, timid neighbour, I added, “please.”

Wilson either did not hear me, or he professed not to, and he shook his head in bewilderment. I got close enough to smell the beer on his breath and the cannabis smoke in his hair and repeated my question. He grimaced the way people from a certain social class do, shrugged his shoulders and turned away to speak to a friend nearby; dismissing me. I hate people who think they are entitled to have everything they want. Sorry, but that’s the way I am and if you think that makes me a socialist, well more fool you. The fact remains that Wilson was behaving like a spoilt brat.

I shouted after him but he ignored me again. Some of the young men close by turned to look down their noses at me. Then they brayed. That might have been the final straw. The one that broke the camel’s back. I still had no clear idea what to do, but I did know I wasn’t going to meekly turn around and sneak back to my house with my tail between my legs. “Wilson, please …” I began to try again, but I wasn’t allowed to finish my sentence. He swivelled to face me, turned his nose up in the air as if he had trod in a pile of pig shit, and drawled, “Oh little man, are you still here?”

Little man. Statistically speaking, I am bigger than he is: taller and heavier. My mouth gaped open. I had never been spoken like that before; not ever. By anyone. My face flushed with embarrassment and it felt like at least seven pairs of eyes were burning into me. I turned away from him, attempting to hide my humiliation. As I did this I spotted a few yards away a wooden folding garden chair. It was unoccupied. I have no rationale for what I did next, except to say I was bloody angry with that brat Wilson.

I swear I was furious but I was also calm and collected at the same time. I took the few steps necessary to reach the chair and I picked it up. It was light to carry back to where Wilson was giggling with his pals. I plonked the chair down on the lawn and then reached out and grabbed Wilson. He was wearing a cotton jacket so I had something to hang on to. Then, in one continuous movement I sat myself down on the chair, planted my feet firmly on the ground and I pulled Wilson forward. He uttered a cry of surprise as he fell facedown across my knee. He had to spread his arms wide ahead of himself to stop hurtling to the grass.

Wilson wore those elasticated cotton shorts that they all wear. I gripped the waist and tugged hard. Before I knew it I had both the shorts and his underpants up and over his buttocks. He was bare-arsed to the wind. I suppose Wilson was drunk, or high, or conceivably both, because he just lay across my knees and stared at the grass. His stomach was leaning against my thigh so I couldn’t take the shorts and pants down further, but even where they were I had plenty of his bum to aim at. Like so many of his generation, Wilson could do with losing a few pounds. His bottom was large and flabby, but made a terrific target. I raised my hand and spanked him, good and hard. I let fly, smacking the palm of my hand across his bum at the rate of at least sixty slaps a minute. The fleshy cheeks wobbled and by now Wilson realised what was happening. He was getting his bare bottom spanked just like the disrespectful brat deserved.

z used otk shorts down chair outdoors (2)

I quickly got into my stride and the imprint of my palm and fingers was reproduced in red all over his bum. I pulled his jacket away from the target area so I could get at the very tops. I kept tugging at his shorts and finally managed to get access to his undercurves and even to the back of his naked thighs. He yelped and hollered and called me all the names under the sun. When this didn’t deter me from my mission, he yelled to his friends, “Get him off me, get him off!”

It was a quite natural request to make I suppose but his so-called friends roared with laughter. Rather than help Wilson or shout at me to stop they yelled me on to greater efforts. “Hey! Mister, you’ve missed a bit!” shouted one of the guys who I noticed had approached to get a closer look.

I had never intended to take Wilson across my knee and spank his bare bottom, so it followed I had no plan on how (or when) to stop. He squirmed and wriggled about so much I gripped him around the waist. It was amazingly easy to hold him in place. Maybe it was because I had taken him by surprise; maybe he was too stoned to struggle free. Who knows?

His bottom was a deep pink and I suppose he might have been quite sore by now. The palm of my hand certainly was. It was quite possible that it was smarting much more than his bum. If I had planned my attack on Wilson I would certainly have gone armed with a weapon – a hairbrush or a slipper, say.

My arm was aching too by now, and here I must make another confession, my bladder was full and I was in desperate need of the toilet. That’s what comes of age and drinking a bottle and a bit of wine. I had no choice I had to end the spanking. I didn’t know how to do that, so I simply stopped slapping him and pushed him off my lap so that he rolled onto the grass. He squirmed around for a while and rubbed at his bottom.

“And turn that music down,” I roared as I strode to the gate, leaving a posse of startled youngsters behind. As I reached the main gate I was delighted to hear the noise silenced. It seemed I had won the day. I hurried home and reached the loo just in time before I lay on my bed and must have dozed off. I awoke in time to hear the start of “PM” on the radio. My throat was dry and my head ached and as I looked at the ceiling and tried to follow the news report I wondered if I had just had the most remarkable dream.

Picture credit: Unknown


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Charles Hamilton the Second

Missing petty cash

new story 2

z used otk jeans chair office sting

Mrs Douglas was in a terrible state. She had checked the cashbox twice. She had gone through all the receipts. She had doublechecked the register. She had added everything up twice. She even got Julie from the typing pool to check her sums. There was no doubt about it – money was missing. It could only mean one thing: there was a thief in the office.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” she fretted. Mr Robbins her boss would be furious. She didn’t know what he would do. She hoped the police wouldn’t be called. “Oh dear, oh dear,” she said again, working herself into a bit of a state.

Raleigh Robbins sat at his desk, his stomach was rumbling it had been at least an hour since he had enjoyed his mid-morning tea and sticky bun. He checked his watch, it was too early to slip away for lunch; even if he was the boss. He checked through a file of figures on his desk. God, he thought, this is tedious: monthly sales reports. But, he had nothing to complain about. Business was good; excellent, even. His agents would make him a fine bonus this month. He studied the data closely; well, maybe not all of them. Some new fellow called Axford wasn’t pulling his weight. He made a mental note to get Mrs Douglas to call him in for a meeting.

Just then there was a knock on the door, it was Mrs Douglas herself. She held the cashbox and the register. “Oh dear, oh dear,” she flustered. Raleigh Robbins suppressed a sigh. Poor Mrs Douglas, she was forever in a dither. What was it this time? Before, he could ask her what was wrong she burst out, “Cashbox – money – register – missing.” Raleigh Robbins rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair. Mrs Douglas was a stalwart of the firm. She had been there since Noah was a boy. Everyone loved Mrs Douglas. Even Raleigh Robbins in his way, but how he wished she would get to the point.

“I’m afraid there is petty cash missing. Three pounds and ten shillings. Whatever shall we do?” Raleigh Robbins knew better than to ask, “Are you certain?” If Mrs Douglas said it was missing, then missing it most undoubtedly was.

Instead, he asked, “Do you know who might have taken it?” Mrs Douglas blushed to the roots of her Twink perm. Raleigh Robbins felt himself flushing too. Dear Mrs Douglas, he thought, she does know who took it. She doesn’t want to get anyone into trouble.

Raleigh Robbins gave a gentle laugh, “Come on Mrs D. Out with it. Who’s the culprit?”

“Well, of course, I can’t be absolutely certain …” And, then she rambled on. Raleigh Robbins knew without a scintilla of doubt Mrs Douglas would cough up a name; but in her own good time. He let her go on, and on and on. At last she reached a verdict, “I think it is that boy from the post room. The one who started last month, I forget his name.”

“Peter,” Raleigh Robbins interjected a little too quickly and then bit his bottom lip at Mrs Douglas puzzled stare.

“Peter?” she said, “He has been hanging around out office a lot. And not always when he’s working. I thought he might be a bit sweet on Julie, but now I think he was looking around for something to steal.”

Raleigh Robbins stood from his chair and walked around the front of his desk. He was a man of action. He didn’t get where he was today without making quick decisions. “Well, Mrs D. why don’t you send this Peter chappie to my office and I’ll grill him a bit. Get to the bottom of it, so to speak.” His warm smile reassured Mrs Douglas that all would be well. “Yes, yes,” she trilled, “I’ll do that right away.”

Raleigh Robbins returned to his chair, leaned back and gazed at the ceiling. The morning had just got a whole lot more interesting. His stomach roared but an hour later his departure for lunch was interrupted by the sound of a timid knock on the door. Startled, Raleigh Robbins called, “Come in.” The door slowly opened revealing a nervous young man. He stood, hopped from foot to foot, looked down at the floor and then across at Raleigh Robbins. He coughed to clear his throat and spoke timidly, “You wanted to see me, Sir.”

Raleigh Robbins took a moment to size up the figure before him. Peter Clarke, aged eighteen, newly arrived at the firm. Needed a haircut. Somewhere under that fringe were grey eyes. They offset his suntanned features. He was casually dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt.

“Come in, close the door behind you.” Raleigh Robbins waited for the boy to enter the room. “Stand there,” he snapped his fingers and pointed to a spot in front of his desk. Raleigh Robbins congratulated himself: he sounded just like his former housemaster at St. Tom’s. He would stand no nonsense.

“Do you know why I sent for you?” Raleigh Robbins studied the teenager and was pleased to note Peter Clarke’s contrition. “No, Sir,” the post boy mumbled.

“If I were to say ‘missing money from petty cash’ how would you respond?”

“Dunno, Mr Robbins, Sir,” Peter had found a stain on the carpet beneath his feet and concentrated his attention on it.

“Ha!” Raleigh Robbins exclaimed, “Let me just say you are in very serious trouble. It is in your best interest to tell the truth.” The silence was oppressive.

“Did you steal from the petty cash?” More silence. “Be truthful,” Raleigh Robbins spoke gently. “Do you want the police involved?”

“Oh, no Sir.” Peter blushed and halted, unable to say more.

“So, you admit you stole the money.”

Raleigh Robbins spread his fingers on the desk before him as he heard the confession. Peter Clarke was no hardened criminal. He was a stupid boy. “Why did you steal it?”

Peter shrugged his shoulders. “I just did. I wanted to go to the pub with my mates. I needed money.”

Raleigh Robbins sucked on his lower lip. Well, he thought, at least he’s honest about that.

“So now Peter, you are a thief,” Raleigh Robbins shook his head sadly. “Whatever would your mother think. Wouldn’t she die from shame?”

“Oh my God. No please Mr Robbins Sir, don’t tell my mother!” The boy’s eyes watered. “No please. I’ll pay it back. Honest.”

“Do you still have the money?”

Peter’s face blushed scarlet. “At the end of the month. I’ll pay it back …” he trailed off. Raleigh Robbins’ frown told him this was not a solution.

“You don’t get off so easily,” Raleigh Robbins shook his head to emphasise his decision. “No, Peter, you must be punished.”

“P-p-punished?” Peter’s eyes blinked uncontrollably, sweat moistened his top lip.

“I should call the police.”

“No!” he shouted, alarmed. “No, please; no police.”

Raleigh Robbins covered his face with his hand but couldn’t entirely hide a smile. He knew what was coming next.

“Please,” Peter wailed, “No police. I’ll do anything …”

“D’you know what Peter?” Raleigh Robbins glared at the boy standing embarrassed in front of him. “If it were my son who stole money, do you know what I would do?”

Peter’s temples throbbed; he stared back at the stain. He was not an educated boy but he knew a rhetorical question when he heard one. He didn’t answer.

Raleigh Robbins continued, “A damned good spanking. That’s what. What do you say to that?”

Peter gulped hard, his eyes wouldn’t stop blinking.

“Yes,” Raleigh Robbins had decided. He stood from his chair, “That’s what we’ll do. A jolly good spanking. Across my knee.” Raleigh Robbins was a man of action, he grabbed a straight-backed chair that was tucked under a table and plonked it down in the middle of the office. He sat in it. “Come here lad,” he reached out and took Peter by the left wrist. The post boy did not resist. Two seconds later he was face-down over his boss’s knee with his palms pressed into the scratchy carpet. His head was low and his bottom high. Raleigh Robbins raised his right hand and brought it down with a resounding smack in the centre of Peter’s left buttock.

The boy did not resist. He lay quietly submissive as Raleigh Robbins spanked his bottom – just as if Peter was eight years old. Raleigh Robbins was no fool and pretty soon he realised his hand was hurting much more than Peter’s bum. With his jean and underpants on the post boy wouldn’t feel a thing.

Raleigh Robbins stopped, “This is no good,” he intoned. “Stand up.” Gratefully, Peter got to his feet. “Don’t think it’s over, young man,” Raleigh Robbins growled as he undid the top button and zip of Peter’s jeans. With two tugs he had the jeans and his pants at the boy’s knees. Raleigh Robbins hurled Peter back over his knee. Still, Peter gave no resistance.

Raleigh Robbins surveyed the bottom in front of him. His left arm went firmly around Peter’s waist and his right hand took firm hold of a soft warm bottom cheek. He squeezed and fondled it with circular motions, assessing its ability to absorb the spanking he was about to administer.

Peter felt his boss press his elbow down against the centre of his back. He was pinned down, he couldn’t escape even if he had wanted to. If he tried to wiggle off Raleigh Robbins’s lap, he would simply drag him back into place. If he tried to rear upwards, his boss’s elbow would press down and prevent it.

Then, Raleigh Robbins’s hand started rising and falling with sharp, jolting smacks to Peter’s soft and tender bare bottom. Crisply landing on the warm and tender flesh and each sharp smack making the soft buttocks hotter. Smacks to the right cheek and to the left; to the full undercurve and to the higher flanks. Slaps to the thighs. His hand fell hard and fast and bounced off Peter’s pliable flesh. The pain was growing but just as bad was the embarrassment of being bared like this and summarily dealt with at his age.

Then as if it was a reflex action (his body trying to protect itself from pain) Peter threw his hand back to try to protect his toasting buttocks from the torrent of spanks. In a second Raleigh Robbins had the teenager’s arm in a strong half-nelson and he pushed the boy’s bum higher with his right knee, bringing him off balance.

“Keep still or I’ll fetch a paddle and give you a world class hiding,” he growled and continued to spank Peter’s fiery red bottom with a thoroughness that left the eighteen-year-old bouncing across his lap. It looked like he was trying to swim off Raleigh Robbins’s knees.

It felt like hours to the teenager, but it was all over in a couple of minutes. Peter hopped from foot-to-foot while simultaneously rubbing at his sore bum. He didn’t notice his cock bouncing up and down just inches from Raleigh Robbins’ face.

Peter stooped to retrieve his jeans and pants. “Not so fast buster, keep them down.” Raleigh Robbins replaced the chair under the table. “Stand in the that corner,” he nodded, “hands on head. You can stay like that until I get back from lunch.”

Glum-faced, Peter shuffled like a penguin across the room. Raleigh Robbins picked a pad from his desk and scribbled a note. On his way out he left it on Mrs Douglas’ desk. She would act upon his instruction later.

“Call Axford. Tell him to report to my office at six tonight.”


Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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Charles Hamilton the Second



new story 2

z used otk slipper pyjamas (8)

“Right lad. Let’s get you spanked and sent to bed.” Jackson looked at me from the vantage point of his chair. He was trying to grimace, to look grim. His moon face gave him away. He couldn’t hide the smirk, he was enjoying this too much. “Take down your pyjama bottoms and bend over my knee. And be quick about it.” Jackson gripped one of his own bedroom slippers in his right fist.

He knew I would obey his order. I had done so in the past and would do it again many times in the future. I took hold of the drawstring of my pyjamas and untied it. The bottoms slipped down to my thighs. I held on to them so they didn’t hurtle to my feet. I shuffled over to Jackson’s side. He spread his legs to offer me a platform. He was in his own pyjamas but wearing a dressing gown. He always did this. I suppose it stopped his tackle dangling out.

I reached forward so that my body fell across his lap. My bare bottom was perfectly placed. Moments later I felt the familiar sting and rush of adrenaline as the slipper connected for the first time with my right buttock cheek.

I had met Jackson at the beginning of my second year at university. Me and two pals rented a furnished flat in the High Street over a chiropodist’s office. A chiropodist is a foot doctor – did you know that? I didn’t. Jackson was that chiropodist and also our landlord. There was nowhere for the postman to leave letters at our flat so I would collect the mail from the receptionist at the chiropodist’s office every day. Sometimes Jackson was around and he would stop for a little chat. Inconsequential stuff; I can’t for the life of me remember anything that we talked about.

In the winter there was an emergency at the flat and the entire plumbing needed fixing. It meant we had to vacate. My two mates found people to put them up for the few days it would take before we could move back in. But, I was stuck. Jackson said he had a spare room at his house; so I went to stay.

Jackson was old enough to be my father and I don’t suppose we had too much in the way of common interests. I am gay and have never hidden it but to look at me you might not know. I look pretty ordinary and it’s not easy to tell. I don’t want to say I look “normal”, but I think you know where I’m coming from.

Jackson spotted I was gay straight away. It takes one to know one, I suppose. He didn’t make a pass at me or anything, but we did share a bottle of wine one evening while we chatted and got to know each other a little bit.

The first Friday I was staying with Jackson I went out and got bladdered. I was a student after all; it’s what students do. I got back to the house in the early hours three sheets to the wind. I was so drunk I couldn’t get my key into the front door. I guess I made quite a racket trying and failing to get into the house because Jackson had to come down and let me in. Even in my state I could see he was pretty pissed off with me, but he didn’t say anything.

Not until the next day. On Saturday afternoon, he called me into the room we laughingly called “the library”. It was just a standard living room really, but Jackson had put shelves around the walls and he kept all his books in there so they didn’t clutter up the rest of the house. There were a couple of low easy chairs and a table. I used the room myself for studying because I had no table in my bedroom.

Jackson gave me a good talking to. A right telling off. He told me he was angry about being dragged out of bed to let me in. I apologised. He had a right to be upset, I said. I’m sorry. “Good,” he said and he stared fiercely at me, “Because if it happens again, you’ll have to be spanked. Now, clear off. Don’t you have studying to do?”

I stumbled out of the library in a daze. “Spanking?” He was joking right? Of course he was, I assured myself. Spanking indeed. What did he take me for – a little kid? I didn’t think any more about Jackson’s threat until hours later when once again I was drunk as a skunk. I staggered down The Avenue, the upscale suburban street where Jackson lived (foot doctoring clearly pays well). I held on to the gatepost at the end of the drive that went up to the house. I searched my pockets to find my key. I gripped it tightly and taking small pigeon steps I scrunched up the gravel path. I reached the door and hesitated. I had to make a decision. I closed one eye and carefully lined up my key with the lock. After two unsuccessful attempts I got it in. I could enter the house quietly and go to bed. Or, I could make an almighty clatter and wake up Jackson. If it happens again, you’ll have to be spanked. I hesitated some more, trying to clear my head. I turned the key quietly, entered the house and tip-toed across the hallway. I thought I was doing pretty well until, I tripped over a wellington boot Jackson had carelessly left at the foot of the stairs. As I fell arse over tit I took the hat stand with me. The row it made would have woken the dead, let alone Jackson. But as it happens he was already awake. As I stumbled from my knees to my feet the door to the library opened and Jackson stood there, hands on hips. He pursed his lips so it looked like he had sucked on a lemon.

“Bed now. I’ll speak to you tomorrow,” he growled. Holding tightly to the banisters I crawled up the stairs. I crashed out on the bed and slept the sleep of the unjust for about nine hours. My head was pretty clear when I woke. I had the typical recovery powers of a nineteen-year-old. I only had a vague recollection of the previous night, but the words, “I’ll speak to you tomorrow” were clear in my mind.

As were If it happens again, you’ll have to be spanked. I did the three S’s – shit, shower and shave – and then went downstairs. I found Jackson in the kitchen surrounded by the Sunday Times. He peered over the top of the gardening section, his face stern. “Ah, good morning. Or should I say afternoon,” he dripped sarcasm. I nodded a perfunctory greeting and grabbed a bowl from the draining board and filled it with cornflakes. Jackson rose from his chair. “When you’ve eaten that come to the library. Don’t be long.”

I dragged it out as long as I could like it was a condemned man’s final meal. Spanking. Did he really intend to spank me? Absurd though it may sound to you, I thought he actually might. I had never been spanked in my life and I don’t remember that any of my friends growing up were either. They had the cane at school, but I never got it. You could say that I was a virgin to corporal punishment. No, I said to myself as I made my way to the library; all he’s going to do it give me a bollocking. Which, I would readily admit, I deserved.

Jackson was seated in one of the easy chairs. He peered at me as I entered the room as if I were a stranger and he was sizing me up for the first time. I stood, embarrassed. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to say. I hoped he would start talking soon. He did, but he had few words for me.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he said and then without further warning he leaned forwards and with his left hand he grabbed my right wrist. He pulled me towards him and then downwards so hard that I almost flew across his knees. I hollered a protest and kicked my legs about but it didn’t stop Jackson slapping his hand onto my backside. He went at a rush and struck me with some force. He put his whole effort into spanking my rear end. He gripped me tight at the waist and despite my kicking and flailing I was stuck face down, bottom up across Jackson’s knee. I stared down at the carpet incredulously: I was having my backside spanked. Me, nineteen years old, across the knees of a much older man getting whacked. Could you imagine such a thing?

I was pinned into position, I was going nowhere. I was at Jackson’s mercy. I couldn’t believe it. And, here’s something else I couldn’t believe: I was loving every moment of it. I think it must have been a submissive thing. Of course, with my jeans and pants on I didn’t feel a thing. Poor Jackson’s hand was hurting much more than my backside. He must have known that, but it didn’t stop him pounding my bum. He must have had a beautiful target. My buttocks were firm and pert in those days and my jeans were shrunk to fit. They left nothing to the imagination. Jackson spanked every square inch of my bum at least three times over and then he turned his attention to the back of my thighs.

I could have stayed there all day. Jackson on the other hand was running out of steam. At last, almost exhausted, he released his grip on my body and pushed me so that I rolled off his lap and onto the floor. My own heart was racing and my temples throbbed. The room was blurred (when it wasn’t spinning). I had taken all kinds of drugs in the past but none of them had done this to me.

I stumbled to my knees. I was only inches from Jackson’s crotch. He might have been an “old” man but his tackle seemed to be in good working order. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson,” Jackson’s voice seemed to be coming from a great distance. It echoed like we were in a canyon not a small room in a suburban house. I blinked to clear my head a little. He repeated himself, “I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”

I heard him more clearly the second time. I grinned. My eyebrows shot heavenwards. I said nothing. I didn’t have the words. Jackson’s moon face shone. He grinned, “Oh, It’s like that is it, young man.” He gripped my wrist once more and hauled me to my feet. In one swift expert movement he had my jeans at my ankles and my underpants at my knees. He threw me back across his knee and this time I felt every one of those vicious slaps as Jackson almost literally took my arse off.

At the end of the academic year me and my friends decided to give up the flat above the chiropodist’s. They went back to their families for the long vacation. I could have gone to mine, but I was twenty years old now and being with my Mum and Dad held no attractions. I mentioned it to Jackson when I went to give him notice to quit. “Come and stay with me,” he said quietly. “If you want to, of course,” he added with a wink. I moved in at the end of the month.


Picture credit: Unknown

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Charles Hamilton the Second

Two naughty boys

new story 2

z used shorts playing (17)

To Mr Naughton it seemed like a good idea – and it was for a time. His friend and neighbour came up with it. The problem started with Mr Naughton’s eighteen-year-old son, Benji; he was off the rails. He truanted from school, stayed away from home until all hours of the night and was rude and surly when he was there. Something had to be done before the lad failed his examinations and was put on the scrapheap.

Alan Thomas from across the street had the perfect solution. It was a brainwave – and so simple to put into place. He said he had tried it with his son Alfie – Benji’s classmate – and it was working a treat. He would certainly recommend it.

So Mr Naughton did. It was a stroke of generous. What he did was he bought Benji a new school uniform. It wasn’t too different from the one he wore for the comprehensive school (when he could be bothered to attend). But – and here was the stroke of genius – instead of the typical mid-grey long trousers he substituted a smart pair of short trousers. He added socks that came up to the knee and  the outfit was complete.

Then he said Benji had to wear the new school uniform, especially the short trousers and knee socks, at all times when he wasn’t at school. Given his way he would have demanded he wore them there as well, but he knew that would be going too far. For it to work, he confiscated all Benji’s long trousers, jeans, sweats and so on and locked them away in a cupboard. The eighteen-year-old had no choice.

Mr Thomas had told his friend that the benefit of doing this was at least twofold. First, it reminded his son that he wasn’t really grown-up. He might be eighteen, but it took more than that to become an adult. He needed to realise he was still a child and living under his parents’ rules and supervision. The second benefit was it stopped the kid going out at night. How could he dare be seen in public wearing school uniform with short trousers? It meant he stayed home and although he was still quiet and surly at least his parents could keep an eye on him and make sure he did his homework. Mr Thomas swore by the new regime and said his son’s grades at school had improved immeasurably. Putting the boy back into short trousers was the best move he had ever made.

So, Mr Naughton had a go. He was quietly surprised at how easily he found an outlet on the Internet that sold school short trousers large enough to fit an eighteen-year-old. Of course, Benji rejected the idea (as Mr Thomas had warned he would). But once all his clothes had been confiscated he had no choice, unless he wanted to go around in his underwear all the time.

Things went really well until about three months before the final exams were due. As part of the coursework in Geography pupils had to work in pairs on a project. What better, Mr Naughton and Mr Thomas thought, than put Alfie and Benji together. No. It went downhill from there. What did they expect? If you put two eighteen year olds together and dress them up as if they were eight they were going to revert to type.

They would meet at Benji’s house but instead of working on the project they had pretend wrestling matches all the time. Benji had an old book on origami and learnt how to make water bombs out of paper. Then, one day Alfie arrived with a new toy he had bought online. An old-fashioned catapult. It wasn’t one of those industrial-sized slingshots you can get to go hunting with. It was a silly wooden thing with a rubber band; like kids in comics used to have. Oh my, they encouraged one another, what mischief they could make with these.

The postman didn’t know what hit him when he strolled up the drive to deliver his letters. Benji and Alfie were hidden behind the chimney stack on the roof. Benji lobbed his water bomb. “Perfect hit,” he squealed with delight as the poor man’s neck was soaked.

The two naughty boys completely forgot about their schoolwork, they were having far too much fun. The catapult was put to good use terrorising the cats in the neighbourhood. The houses in The Avenue were mostly hidden behind walls and hedges and had large gardens. It was a paradise for cats. Or it had been until the deadly duo set about stalking them. One large brown moggy got a stone smack on the side of the head. “Ha! Ha! Ha!” Alfie was beside himself with glee.

But they hadn’t reckoned on one nosey neighbour. Alfie had never liked the man, he thought he was creepy and always looked at him oddly. He would like him even less now. For the man stood at his window camera phone in hand, gathering evidence.

Mr Thomas was furious when he was shown the video. “Grrr,” he said, shaking his fist. “You know what I think?” he asked Mr Naughton.

“No, what?” he replied because he really had no idea.

“I think they need to be spanked, that’s what I think,” he said, shaking his head this time.

“But they’re eighteen years old.”

“Well it’s about time they started acting like it, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Mr Naughton replied. “Yes, I really do.”

“Shall we, then?” Mr Thomas was pacing the room.

“Yes, let’s,” Mr Naughton’s mind was easily made up. “Call the scamps in.”

The boys had been playing catch with a small rubber ball in the lounge room when they heard their names called. Innocently, they followed the sound and found their fathers both stern faced in the room Mr Naughton liked to call his study.

“So,” Mr Thomas said gravely after he had related the boys’ mischievous behaviour, “You will both be spanked.” Benji and Alfie exchanged furtive glances but before either of them had time to say, “You cannot be serious,” their fathers had already arranged two chairs close together in the centre of the room. Within seconds they were seated.

“Come on you,” Mr Thomas scowled at Alfie, “If you insist on behaving like an eight-year-old that’s how you’ll be treated. Bend over my knee.” He slapped his hand on his right thigh to make his command crystal clear. Alfie caught Benji’s eye and suppressed a giggle. He shrugged his shoulders and took two paces across the room. He stood to the right of his seated father and looked down at the old man’s knees. He was still dressed in his business suit and for one stupid moment Alfie worried that he might spoil the sharp creases in his father’s trousers with his weight.

“I’m waiting,” Mr Thomas growled. This was Alfie’s cue to lean forward, place his hands on his father’s lap and gently to lower himself so he was face down and looking at the rug. Benjie stared transfixed and  watched as his pal wriggled his body until his head was as low as he could get it and his bottom pointed up at the ceiling over his father’s right thigh.

“You too,” Mr Naughton growled at Benji. The boy, almost on autopilot, followed his friend’s example. Now there were two eighteen year olds dressed in their school uniforms with grey short trousers and long socks submissively bent across the knees of their fathers waiting to receive their first-ever spankings.

They didn’t wait long. Mr Thomas struck the first blow and Mr Naughton soon followed. Within seconds and without speaking a word the two fathers were spanking in unison, each man slapping the left buttock of his son and then the right as they went about synchronised spanking. Benji and Alfie let them do it. They put up no resistance as slap after slap connected with the seat of their short trousers.


To be fair, they were not being brave soldiers. Wearing thick trousers with underpants beneath meant they hardly felt a thing. Mr Naughton and Mr Thomas were not experienced spankers. They didn’t realise the palms of their hands were hurting much more than the boys’ bums. After about a hundred smacks had been delivered, Mr Thomas once again took the lead. He ordered Alfie to stand. Then Mr Naughton did the same with his son.

“Right now then, act your age in future,” Mr Thomas growled. “Now get back to your schoolwork.”

The two boys rushed from the room. When they were safely out of sight of their fathers they collapsed into fits of giggles. “Didn’t feel a thing,” said Alfie as he loosened his short trousers and pulled them down to show his friend his bare bottom, “Not a mark. Look. What about you?” Without a blush Benji did the same. “Nope,” he grinned, “Not even red.”

The boys wrestled each other to the ground and rolled around on the carpet. It was their way of saying they rather liked being naughty boys and had no intention of changing any time soon.

Picture credits: Unknown / Sting Pictures

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Charles Hamilton the Second

Wishful thinking

new story 2

z used otk pants chair student sting

Dr Duncan Rawlinson, Senior Lecturer in Liberal Studies at Brocklehurst University, sits at his desk, head in hands. His temples throb, his throat is raw. Blood rushes through his arteries, he cannot catch his breath. Oh my God! he gasps, I’m having a stroke. He puts his head between his knees, breathes deeply. In, out. In, out. In, out. In, out.

He can’t go on, not like this. Life is not worth living. This is not why he became a teacher. Those effing students. They treat him like he was a joke. They turn up to seminars when they feel like it and then with not a stroke of preparation done. They don’t meet deadlines for coursework. When they do, their essays are plagiarised from the Internet. They don’t want to work. They think just because they pay fees they should be given a degree. Lazy, lazy bastards!

Dr Rawlinson’s head slumps onto the desk. The room is spinning, furniture appears to be swirling through the air. He thinks he’s going to be sick. It’s going dark. A fierce wind blows through the office. There is a bang and he looks up. Jake Worthington, surely one of the laziest of his students, is standing there. He looks anxious and so he should.

“I have had enough of this, Jake,” Dr Worthington says, “I won’t stand for it any more. Do you understand me?”

Jake stands contrite, head bowed, staring down at the floor. His bottom lip trembles. “Sorry, sir,” he mumbles. Dr Rawlinson glowers. He has heard this all before. They all say “Sorry”, but only because they think it might get them off a spanking. No way. He hasn’t just fallen from a tree. The boy is to be punished. It is only right and proper.

“You know you must be disciplined don’t you Jake,” he says, leaning back in his chair and peering at the lazy student through half-rimmed spectacles.

“Yes, sir,” Jake struggles to keep composure. He wants to cry. Just like a little boy. A little naughty boy.

“Say it, then,” Dr Rawlinson does not intend to let the boy off lightly. He wants his pound of flesh.

Jake blushes. His face is usually bright and open and his skin clear; he doesn’t grow enough beard to need to take a daily shave. His hair is cut short and neat. Now, his usually smiling face is set firm; grim. He blushes profusely, enough warmth comes off him to heat a room.

“I am a lazy boy,” he begins. “I have not done my homework and I have not been attending classes.” There is quite a long list like this. He does not hand assignment in on time. He never goes to the library. He cuts-and-pastes from Wikipedia. He is as good as a cheat.

“And what else?” Dr Rawlinson is relaxing. Perhaps the boys is not so evil after all.  He is just young. Not quite nineteen years old; still a child really. Jake is losing his way. He needs adult guidance. He needs a helping hand. And, Dr Rawlinson knows precisely where that hand needs to go.

“I have been disrespectful of my tutors,” Jake goes on. “And of you, sir,” Jake cannot stop twisting his fingers behind his back. He hops from one foot to the other, his embarrassment consumes him.

“And …” Dr Rawlinson is not satisfied. He won’t be. Not until Jake reaches the logical conclusion.

Jake’s eyes glisten, he fights back tears. “And?” he gulps.

“Bah!” Dr Rawlinson snorts, “And, what do you think I should do about it, Jake?”

Colour drains from Jake’s face. “Please, no!” he thinks, “No! Don’t make me have to say it. Not out loud.”

“Well Jake,” Dr Rawlinson stretches his arms, his back is aching, “Neither of us has all day. Get on with it.”

Involuntarily Jake’s hands reach behind his back, his thumbs caress the seat of his jeans. They fit across his buttocks snugly; he is meaty, but by no means fat. He is a long way from being obese, unlike many of his fellow students. Jakes sucks in a great draught of air. His mouth is parched, he wriggles his tongue around trying to create some spit. Then, he croaks, “Please Dr Rawlinson, I deserve to be punished,” he trails off thinking his humiliation is complete.

But it isn’t, “And tell me Jake how should I punish you?”

The teenager’s voice breaks, he is almost in tears now. “But sir,” he pleads. It does no good.

“Well Jake?”

“Sir, I deserve to be spanked.”

“How so?”

“You should take down my trousers and put me across you knee,” Jake is scarcely whispering now. There is a long pause. Dr Rawlinson waits for Jake to continue and when he doesn’t the lecturer nods his head vigorously to encourage the boy to say more.

“Then, you should spank me, sir. Hard. I deserve it. I am a bad boy.”

Dr Rawlinson allows a hint of a smile to crack his lips. He hauls himself to his feet and a little unsteadily because there is not much room in the office he makes his way to the front of the desk. He feels Jake’s moist eyes burning into him; watching every move he makes. His fear growing.

Dr Rawlinson picks up a lightweight, plastic straight-backed chair and places in the small space between his desk and the door. He sits down and with a contemptuous click of his fingers he indicates that the student should stand in front of him. Jake, now as miserable as he has ever been in his life, obeys. He can’t look at Dr Rawlinson. Instead, he gazes across the office. There is a calendar on the wall produced by a publishing company and he concentrates on the list of forthcoming titles it advertises. Jake doesn’t see, but he certainly feels, Dr Rawlinson take a grip on Jake’s belt. Dr Rawlinson needs two hands to get it unbuckled. It doesn’t take long for him to lower the zipper and open the front of Jake’s jeans. When he lets go the jeans slip down and bunch at Jake’s thighs.

The student tries to concentrate on the calendar. There’s a book due out this month on cultural studies. That’s the last Jake sees because Dr Rawlinson grips him by the arm and with more strength than the boy expects he pulls him down and over his lap. Jake pushes his palms out towards the floor to break his fall. His legs dangle behind him and his bottom rests high over the lecturer’s right thigh.

Dr Rawlinson shifts his own buttocks on the hard wooden chair and slowly repositions Jake. Not much, but enough for him to adjust the boy’s bottom. Now it is a terrific target. His underwear is stretched across his bum, lifting and separating the cheeks. His legs are virtually hairless.

Jake knows his face is flushing. Could he be more embarrassed? He closes his eyes as if this will block out reality. Even like this, he still feels his master take hold of his shirt and move it up his back. A cool breeze from the window brushes against his naked flesh. Dr Rawlinson is almost ready. At this point Jake could struggle free, maybe smack his tormentor in the mouth and then make his escape.

But he doesn’t. Jake knows he deserves punishment and Dr Rawlinson is in charge. He will submit himself in any way he is instructed. His stomach digs into Dr Rawlinson’s leg, it is surprisingly bony. Jake wriggles slightly trying to get comfortable. The lecturer misinterprets this, thinking he is resisting punishment. Dr Rawlinson grips him tightly around the waist and presses his elbows into the small of Jake’s back. He is pinned down, going nowhere. Not until his master has spanked his bottom good and hard.

Dr Rawlinson is not quite ready to start. He smooths Jake’s grey-striped briefs, removing any wrinkles from the cotton. Satisfied that they now hug the contours of the young man’s buttocks, he is good to go.

Jake’s breathing is heavy, he clenches his buttocks tight, ready to absorb the full impact of the first swat. “Relax, Jake,” Dr Rawlinson is kind and caring. “Don’t squeeze up your bottom.”

Jake tries, he wants to present himself submissively, but for some reason he cannot understand he does not have control of his body. He shudders, feeling the cheeks of his bottom exposed to the lecturer’s gaze. The underpants are tight against his full buttocks; they are certainly not going to offer any protection in a spanking.

Dr Rawlinson lets the student lie still for a while over his knee, waiting. He rests his hand lightly on the boy’s backside and then began a slow, steady methodical succession of moderate whacks delivered to alternate buttocks. Jake responds only with tiny, almost imperceptible movements, as if he is relaxing and making himself comfortable. If this is hurting, he gives no sign of it.

Dr Rawlinson takes his time to get the measure of Jake. He increases the pace to deliver a good, hard, old-fashioned hand spanking; not holding back. Jake jolts at the shock of the new impact. Gasps of surprise hiss through his not-quite-clenched lips, and only his master’s tight grip stops his right hand flying up to protect his now-smarting bottom. Some smacks land on the back of his bare thighs.

He is embarrassed to be locked in place over the lecturer’s lap, being spanked like a kid. Yet he is powerless to stop it or evade it. He has broken the rules, been disrespectful to Dr Rawlinson. He only has himself to blame for this. For about fifty or so spanks he wriggles and writhes, kicking his feet, squirming around on the master’s knees. But there is no escape and he can’t stop the volley of hand-spanks heating up his rear end.

Jake stops wriggling and tries to take each new whack stoically; the spanking is hurting, but he is not in any real pain. He is a young adult and his bum is pretty tough. The pain of the hand spanking has little effect on him, but the humiliation of having an older man take down his jeans and force him across his knee for a spanking should be enough to ensure his future obedience.

Dr Rawlinson looks down at Jake, prone across his knees, his face is red (and so probably is his backside). It is time to end. He hammers down another dozen smacks for good measure, spanked harshly into the young man’s buttock crease; the tender part of the bottom that meets the thigh. A perfect spot to end a spanking, he thinks.

Jake is breathless as he lays over the lap. It is over. Now, he thinks, would you please let me get up? But, Dr Rawlinson is not quite ready. “Will you behave in future Jake?”

“Yes, Dr Rawlinson,” his reply is met by a harsh slap in the centre of his left buttock.

“Yes, sir!.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good boy,” he rubs Jakes’s buttocks gently, feeling their warmth. “Now, you may get up.”

Jake puts both hands on the floor and rolls off the doctor’s knees, stands and immediately reaches for his jeans.

“Oh, no. Keep them down,” Dr Rawlinson is enjoying dominating this young man very much indeed. “Now face the wall, hands on your head!” he snaps. “Stand there and think about your behaviour.” His humiliation now complete, Jake shuffles his feet, dragging his jeans across the dirty floor with him and stands where directed. He rests his forehead against the wall mortified, while Dr Rawlinson resumes his position behind his desk, leans back in his chair and in his imagination admires his handiwork before falling sobbing to the floor in a heap.


Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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Charles Hamilton the Second

The ritual

new story 2

z used otk pyjamas chair sting (20)

You sit on the edge of your bed and wait. You are very calm, you know exactly what’s about to happen. You are wearing your blue-and-white-striped pyjamas. Usually, you sleep naked, but this time the jim-jams are not for sleeping in. The room is cool although it is the middle of summer. Minutes pass; you don’t mind, you are in no hurry.

There is a knock on the door, you call out “Yeah!” it opens slightly and you see the face of your twenty-year-old brother. It is flushed and you see perspiration along his hairline. “Your turn, good luck,” he says without emotion and disappears to his own room. You take a deep breath and rise from the bed. As you take the few steps towards the door your pyjama bottoms slip down over your hips. You grab them and take a few seconds to retie the drawstring. Satisfied they won’t plunge to your feet you cross the landing and pad down the stairs.

You know your father will be waiting in the lounge room. You live in a large house and there are any number of other rooms, but without being told you know where to go. Father is waiting. He sits on a wooden chair that he has placed in the centre of the room. He nods his head slightly as a kind of greeting as you enter the room. Even today a lifetime after the event you always picture father the same way. He wears dark grey trousers (part of a business suit). They are held up by both a leather belt and braces. He has a white shirt and a tightly fastened necktie. The shirt is buttoned to the top. That’s your father: buttoned up. You cannot recall ever seeing him dressed for leisure.

He speaks to you and you listen. You don’t expect him to interrogate you, he simply states the facts. They are that you, your brother and two pals were spotted drinking in the Three Fishers pub. You know father forbids you to drink alcohol. It is one of his many rules: there is, of course, no smoking and also no going with girls into Widdicombe Woods. In those days no fathers thought about drugs. There are also rules about attendance at church and doing chores about the house.

The Three Fishers is a dive of a pub, tucked away off the main street of town. It is notorious for serving under-aged drinkers and for much else. Bohemians hang out there, and so do prostitutes both male and female. A neighbour spotted you and told your father.

You are unconcerned. You break father’s rules all the time. Sometimes you get caught; often you don’t. You know the penalty. It is what it is. Once father finishes his speech, the ritual begins in earnest. It is always the same, nothing changes. That’s what makes it a ritual. This is not the first time you have been here and in all probability it won’t be the last, even though you are fast approaching your nineteenth birthday.

“Stand there,” father points to a spot on the carpet a little to his right. You do as you are told. “Lower your pyjama bottoms,” father speaks slowly and clearly pronounces each word. There is no need for him to show anger or any other emotion, he knows you will obey his instructions. Without question. Your hands are steady and you untie the drawstring on your pyjama bottoms. They fall with a swoosh to your feet (rather like clown’s trousers). You feel no embarrassment standing half-naked in front of your father; he has seen it all before.

You look down at your father’s lap. He spreads his legs slightly to give you a platform to lower yourself across. You know the ritual is that you bend over his knees and place the palms of your hands flat against the floor. You bend your knees behind you so that your toes hover above the ground. Your bared bottom is raised at an angle over your father’s thigh. It is perfectly positioned for the spanking you are about to receive.

You wait patiently for the next stage of the ritual. You don’t think it unusual that an eighteen-year-old is bent across his father’s knee for a spanking. It is just the way things are. Father always punishes you like this. Not all fathers are the same. Your pal across the road will be bending over the back of an armchair, trousers at his feet, underpants at the knees while his father lashes a dozen hard strokes of a whippy, curved-handled rattan school cane into his naked buttocks. That’s his way. Your friend down the street will be holding onto the seat of a wooden dining room chair his arse also bare to the wind while his father whips him with a leather riding crop. That’s a small hard whip people use to encourage horses along. Horses. His father knows nothing about horses, he hasn’t even seen one since the coal merchant started using lorries.

Your own father has taken the tail of your pyjama jacket and pulled it half way up your back. This ensures that it is well away from the target area. You wait patiently. You stare down at the ugly copper-coloured pattern in the carpet inches from your face. Now father is running the palm of his right hand over your left buttock. He gently traces its outline, patting and preening. He pauses when he reaches the highest point of the globe and gives it a gentle slap. Then he does the same with the other cheek. You know that by now he is ready to go.

The spanks rain down. They are hard and rapid. The sound of the slap of his hand on your bare bum echoes around the room. Inside a minute he has delivered forty or fifty whacks; he goes that fast. It stings, but you are not in great pain. No matter how hard or how quickly father spanks you with the palm of his hand it hardly hurts. You are after all eighteen and strong. Does father realise this? You feel obliged to give some reaction. It’s what your brother calls, “Making show.” You gasp as the harder slaps connect across the peaks of your mounds. You wriggle your neck in mock pain when father’s hand connects with the backs of your thighs. That actually does hurt, but really not much.

You feel your bottom warming up. The buttocks tingle and the thighs sting. You settle down and wait patiently. You cannot see it but you know your bum is now deep pink; father will spank on until it’s the colour of a tomato.

At last he achieves his aim. There is one final part of the ritual. He stops spanking and intones, “Stand up.” You rest your hands on his left knee and haul yourself to your feet. You turn your back on father and rub the palms of your hands ruefully across your buttocks and hop from one foot to the other. Your brother will be impressed by your playacting. Now, you bend down and retrieve the pyjama bottoms from your ankles, pull them up and tie the drawstring.

Father sends you back to your bedroom with words designed to encourage you in your future behaviour. Your brother is waiting for you on the landing, you both going into his bedroom and examine each other’s marks, such as they are. Already, in your mind you are planning your next visit to the Three Fishers.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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Charles Hamilton the Second

A family firm

new story 2

z used otk white pants down chair office sting

Parker’s is a family business. Always has been and if I have any say in the matter it always will be. I inherited it from my father, and I’ve built it up a lot since then. There must be a hundred-and-fifty-people employed here now. Family. Every last one of them.

We have a lot of youngsters here. Mostly young men, just out of school a lot of them. We have girls too, but not so many. They tend to get married and, of course, they leave to take care of their husbands. Just as a wife should. That’s what family means.

At Parker’s we are just one big happy family and I’m at the head. I’m in loco parentis or is it pater familias? The one that says the firm is a family and as its head I can treat everyone here as if they were my children. And I do. I love and nurture them all. That is my duty. I am, if you will, a loving father.

Being a father has its responsibilities. It is especially my job to make sure the youngsters in my care grow up into fine, responsible, obedient adults. Many of the boys and girls here have yet to attain the age of twenty-one and so legally they remain children. That is the way of the world and children need a firm hand to guide them along the rocky path to adulthood. At Parker’s I am that hand. It is a tough job but somebody has to do it.

Every successful business must set targets. These may be many and varied. There are production deadlines and sales targets. Our salesmen are given incentives to do their best. The diligent and hardworking succeed and are richly rewarded with bulging pay packets. The indolent, the idle do not succeed, but they too are rewarded in a manner of speaking.

A father knows that his lazy son requires inducements for him to succeed. The encouragement may take many forms. In a truly loving home father gives carrots to spur the boy on. If that fails there is always the stick to fall back on. So it is at Parker’s. The carrot I have already spoken about. Currency notes make fine carrots. But what about the stick?

I am not a bully. I believe in rules and I believe they must be obeyed. Disobedience results in punishment. So, to make an example, each of my salesman is given his own monthly target to meet. This will vary depending upon a number of factors that I won’t bore you with. But you must know that the target is fair and it is achievable. If it is not met, the salesman has some explaining to do.

So at the end of each month I am inevitably called upon to do my familial duty. Is it a task I enjoy? Certainly not. But like all employers I understand my responsibility. If a worker does not learn at a tender age what is required of him, he never will. And then where should we all be?  Parker’s can say “goodbye” to its profits and a hundred-and-fifty people will join the millions starving in hovels across the nation.

Yes, it is an unpleasant task, but as I say it is my duty. It is a duty I shall not shirk. This very afternoon I was required to take Robinson to task. Robinson has been with me for nearly three years and after a successful spell as an office clerk he was promoted to salesman. He was highly delighted (as indeed was his mother who relies almost entirely on his salary to feed her growing family) and set about fulfilling his new obligations with great enthusiasm. Alas, this did not last. His sales returns slipped and his targets were missed.

Like a good father I have put my finger on the problem. I have analysed the personality of the boy and I have made my conclusion. He lacks self-discipline. When he worked in the office he was constantly under the eye of his supervisor. His work was monitored. He had no opportunity to deviate from a set path.

But now he is “on the road” so to speak that supervision is no more. He has to motivate himself to perform and to work hard. This he is failing to do. It is a great shame. I genuinely believe Robinson has great talent. He will make Parker’s a lot of money. But before he can do that he needs a guiding hand.

So the carrot has not entirely worked, so now it had to be the stick. I use the word stick figuratively. I am not an ogre, nor am I a bully. I am a loving father. I did not wish to see young Robinson flayed until the skin on his buttocks bled. That is cruel and unnecessary. But he had to be punished and I was not adverse to that being of the physical variety. No loving father would take a whip to his son and I would not do that to Robinson.

A father expresses love for his son in many and varied ways. I would be doing Robinson no kindness if I did not punish him severely. He had to learn his lesson. Be in no doubt about that. And, I firmly believe, this should be learned through his backside. But oh no not a whipping. A spanking. When a father takes his son across his knee for correction he is saying, “I love you. I love you so much that I have to discipline this way. Our bodies entwine as if in a loving caress.” I did not use these words to Robinson. He is intelligent enough to understand how I feel. Parker’s is a family firm. I am the father, he is the son.

He arrived at my office at the appointed time. My secretary made the arrangements and I do not know if she spelled out exactly why he had been summoned. Robinson has been at the firm long enough, he surely knew his fate. My office is really rather cosy considering I am the head of an important company. I take business meetings in the board room and leave my office for more day-to-day administration. That is why the desk is rather small and most of the space is taken up with armchairs and such like. Some of my employees likened the experience of visiting my office to that of a summons to the headmaster’s study. Nothing could be further from the truth. There are no solid bookcases, no hat stand with crook-handled canes dangling from it. No cap and gown hanging on hooks.

Even so, when Robinson appeared before me it was difficult not to see him as some kind of naughty schoolboy. He is only eighteen years old and so (I suppose) had he enjoyed the privilege of an upper-class upbringing he might conceivably still be attending some minor public school somewhere. Certainly, in his white shirt and pale-grey trousers he had the air of a sixth-former about him. He shuffled his feet on the rug in front of my desk and bowed his head in shame (or possibly embarrassment).

I don’t see myself as a headmaster, but nonetheless I had to explain to him in forthright terms why he was before me. Of course, he knew that already. I reminded him of his obligations and the consequences of not meeting them. He was mostly silent throughout offering up half-whispered “Yes sirs” and “No sirs” at appropriate moments. I had no wish to prolong the interview so I hurried to the conclusion. “You will have to be spanked. You understand that don’t you?” His response was the merest nod of the head.

I pulled myself to my feet and stepped into the middle of the office. Robinson’s eyes rose from the floor and followed my every move. He had never been spanked (at least not by me) and he must have been uncertain of the procedure. I lifted a straight-backed wooden chair from against a wall and set it down where I would have enough room to perform my task. I sat and wriggled about a bit to get comfortable. I indicated to Robinson that he should stand in front of me.

As a loving father I see it as my task to prepare the boys. A headmaster would bark something like, “Bend over that chair!” or “Lower your trousers,” and so on. That would mean the punishment was at some remove. The headmaster or borstal governor or whosoever was administering the punishment would give clear commands and the boy would obey and prepare himself accordingly. Where is the love in that? That is a contest, the boy sets himself against the master. It can only lead to resentment, not redemption.

No, that was not my way. With Robinson now in front of me I asked him in a very civil tone to place his hands on his head. He understood immediately my instruction, it is the kind of thing a lady nursery school teacher might require of her naughty pupil. With his hands out of the way I proceeded to unbuckle and then loosen Robinson’s belt. His body tensed and I noticed he deliberately moved his head so that he stared past my shoulder at a photograph on the far wall. It did not distract me. I soon had his trousers open. It took the merest movement for me to have them at his feet. He had on white cotton briefs which were somewhat worn and baggy.

I looked at his face which by now was scarlet. I smiled inwardly. Soon, I intended to ensure that his buttocks were of a similar hue. “Give me your arm,” I said, still coolly. I took hold of his left wrist and guided him over and down across my knees. He offered no resistance. As Robinson fell into position he instinctively reached his hands forward and placed them into the rug. He was small enough that his legs hovered above the floor with his toes barely brushing it. His bottom was perfectly position over my right thigh.

When I spank one of my family of employees I prefer not to keep up a running commentary. The boy knows why he is there and what is to happen. It is best to just get on with it. So, I took hold of the tail of his shirt and pushed it a little away from the target area. I gripped him by the waist at the same time pushing my elbow into his lower back. He was pinned down and I was ready to go.

An over-the-knee spanking must be the most “nursery” style of corporal punishment and should be the form most often used in the home. That is why I prefer it. What could be more appropriate than a spanking from Father’s own hand, stiffened into a flexible punishing surface, and applied again and again to a naughty little bottom? I set about Robinson with sound and fury. The noise as my hand cracked against his stretched flesh resounded around the small office. Robinson gasped and he gulped as his rear-end began to glow but he gave no fight. It is true his bottom heaved up and down as my palm made its way around the circuit of his buttocks. I have seen many boys do this, it is a natural physical reaction to the assault on his body. It does not necessarily mean he is trying to evade just punishment.

I made sure I had connected with every part of the target moving my way down from below the spine and across the fine hills that constitute the bulk of his buttocks. I gave extra attention to the crease where the bum and the thighs connect for this is the most tender part of the bottom. It is also the part that connects with a chair when a boy sits down and will remind him for some time to come of the penalties to be paid for missing targets.

I satisfied myself that no inch of his posterior had been left unspanked before I moved on to phase two. This is the most unbearable moment for my boys for it is delicately humiliating. I ceased my assault on his bottom and for a moment I rested my hand against his right cheek and removed my elbow from his back. I felt a movement in his body; he was trying to lift himself off my lap. The poor boy thought his spanking was at an end. Ha! What a novice Robinson was. I took both my hands and pinched the cotton at the waistband of his underpants. He gasped. He wriggled. Now, he understood my intention. He lifted his arms from the floor and cradled his head in them. He stopped wriggling and waited submissively.

Slowly and deliberately I pinched the elasticated waist of his underpants and with both hands I tugged them down enough to expose his very pink buttocks. “Oh,” I said, “You weren’t expecting that! A bare bottom! I hope you are learning your lesson.” I didn’t expect an answer and received none. I resumed my spanking, possibly a little faster and harder than before. With the buttocks no longer encased in baggy cotton I got a clearer view of Robinson’s shape. He bum was a little rounder and meatier than I had previously realised. It made a kind of squelching noise as my hand connected over and over with his naked flesh.

As loving fathers know a hand spanking is a very effective punishment but after a time your hand begins to hurt just as much (if not more) than the boy’s buttocks. That is to be expected. A loving father must expect such. He is after all performing a painful duty.

I slapped Robinson’s rear end and the back of his thighs until all was a rosy-pink glow. By now he was breathing heavily and I was certain his rear end was aflame. As I said I am not a brute, it was time to complete the punishment. I went round the circuit two more times at high speed and sent two dozen slaps into the backs of his thighs for good measure. That was it. It was over. Duty done.

I released my grip but this time Robinson lay motionless, face down, perhaps unable to believe I really had finished. “Stand up,” I said quietly and I helped him off my knee. He nearly tripped over the trousers at his feet and pants at the knees, but kept his balance. Without waiting for my permission, he dressed himself.

I am a loving father. I saw he was in some distress. His face was scarlet and his breath came in gulps. His bottom was sore, but he would not be in agony. He shuffled from foot to foot, eyes once more studying the pattern in the rug. I spoke warmly. I reminded him that he was fine young man who had simply lost his way. I wished to guide him on to success. He whispered a “Thank you, sir.” I reached forward, gently pulled him towards me and kissed him on the cheek.


Picture credit: Sting Pictures


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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second