Caught drinking beer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now! …. I shan’t tell you again.”

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

“Right stand up. Come over here.”

“No!” Lucas protested. “What for?”

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

“No, you can’t. You can’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The jeans puddled at the teenager’s feet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

Other stories you might like

The Gaffer of The Academy 3. Caned-off

Perils of drink-driving

Tompkins in the housemaster’s study

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Seasonal spankings – compilation

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Picture credit: Joe Phillips

Tis the season of goodwill to all men, but not necessarily all boys. Santa has his list of who’s been naughty and who’s been nice. Expect a few sore bottoms before the holiday is over. Here are a selection of my stories from Christmases past for you to enjoy for the first time or rediscover. Click on the links.

Enjoy the festive season, play safe and I’ll see you all in the New Year

Shopping for toys

Herbert goes shopping for Christmas toys at the local department store and has an unexpected encounter with Santa

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Picture credit: CP4Men dot net

 

Better believe in Santa Claus

Lucas Lomas is a stroppy teenager and the magic of Christmas means nothing to him. There is no such person as Santa Claus he tells his kid brother — but is he right?

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Picture credit: Alan Paul

 

Approved-School Santas

Inmates at a school for young offenders are forced to show Christmas spirit to a group of orphans, but greed gets the better of them.

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Picture credit: The Hotspur

 

The Morning After the Night Before

Tony’s bad behaviour spoiled everyone’s Christmas Day. His friend Tony knows how to deal with that …

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Picture credit: C of Sweden

 

Only Three Thieving Days to Christmas

Ben McKenzie works at a supermarket where he decides to steal bottles of booze to give as Christmas presents, but then his boss finds out …

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Picture credit: Unknown

 

When Santa Claus was caned

Three old men play Santa at a school’s Christmas party. All is well until silver trophies go missing.

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Picture credit: The Hotspur

The School Dance

The Christmas school dance always gets out of hand. More so when two horny virgin boys are enticed by the girls from St. Winnie’s.

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Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

The Night Before Christmas

It was the night before Christmas and little Joe was ever so excited. This was the time Santa came to deliver all his presents – and Joe had a very long list indeed. But had Joe been a good boy? What do you think? And we all know what Santa does to naughty boys.

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Picture credit: Unknown

 

Fake News at Christmas

Santa Claus Irked at Unexpected Productivity Hike … Santa Claus is reportedly mad at a new directive forcing him to extend his naughty boys’ list to include guys up to the age of 21.

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Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club

 

Snowballs

When the headmaster bans all snowball fights at the school it gives George Baker, a Sixth-former and prefect a bright idea. But will he get away with his curious plan?

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Picture credit: The Magnet

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A very British spanking

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“I don’t care if it is the holidays, Martha, I will not put up with it,” Charles Snapdragon paced the carpet. “Call me old fashioned, I don’t care.” He paused by the radiogram and thrust his hands into his pockets. “I have standards. Always have. Always will.”

His wife pursed her lips but remained silent. She knew better than to argue. Charles Snapdragon was a man of decision. He liked to think, even a man of destiny.

“Rules. We need rules,” Charles Snapdragon was waving his hands around. “Without rules where would we be?” he spoke as if addressing a street corner meeting. “Nowhere. Nowhere. That’s where.” He nodded vigorously, agreeing wholeheartedly with himself.

“Rules must be obeyed. That’s why we have them,” Chares Snapdragon raised his chin and stared into the middle distance. Which considering the smallness of his sitting room meant to the farthest wall. He focused his attention on the three plaster ducks flying across the rose-patterned wallpaper. “And,” Charles Snapdragon straightened his back and imagined himself to be dressed in the uniform of a high military commander, “And if they are not,” his voice rose to a crescendo, “there must be consequences.” He paused and then repeated for effect, “Consequences.”

His twenty-year-old son Henry lay upstairs on the bed in the room that had once been his. He stared hard at the Union Jack flag on the wall. Across the room a framed portrait of Queen Elizabeth II stared intently at him. He shivered. It was like being spied on. What on earth had possessed his father to decorate his old bedroom like that?

He smiled to himself, closed his eyes and brought to mind the girl from last night. Blond, bright blue eyes, big breasts. Firm. His cock twitched. Those wet luscious lips. High cheekbones. He unzipped his jeans and slipped his fingers inside taking hold of his growing member. Oh what he would have done with that girl given half the chance. His cock expanded with his imagination. He unbuckled his belt and wriggled his jeans over his hips and buttocks. His dick tented his underpants. With more wriggling they were soon bunched up over his thighs. He kicked his jeans to the floor, gobbed spit into the palm of his right hand and rubbed himself slowly.

Charles Snapdragon still paced the carpet. “He knows my rules,” he glared at the ducks. “I made it perfectly clear. If he came back to my house,” he made great emphasis on the words my house, “that  he would have to obey my rules. An Englishman’s house is his castle.”

His wife nodded. She knew that was expected of her. The wife always supported her husband: it was a known fact.

“So he rolls in here in the middle of the night. Way after curfew.” Charles Snapdragon spoke mechanically as if he were reading from a charge sheet. “Been drinking. Smoking. No consideration for us. The neighbours. Only himself.” he paused and rested both hands on the dining room table. “He knows the rules.” He stared hard at his wife and repeated, “He knows the rules.”

Martha spoke for the first time, “Yes, dear,” she said softly. She knew her husband’s mind was made up, there was no need for her to say more.

“Right then.” Charles Snapdragon tugged on the cuffs of his shirt, straightening the sleeves. “Let’s get on with it.”

Upstairs Henry eyes were still closed as he imagined the girl from last night. He made light stroking movements on his cock, each rub moving a tiny bit further upwards. A gasp hissed through his teeth as the tips of his fingers made fleeting contact with the top of his dick. He lightly rubbed along the length of his penis, making it stand to attention as it filled out, flopping onto his stomach. His fingers lightly enclosed the shaft down near the base and then slid slowly up the length of the twitching member. Reaching the top, Henry’s fingers gently tweaked the sensitive edges of his foreskin, making him gasp with pleasure.

His grip tightened and his hand made a couple of slow, firm strokes along the full length of the fully erect cock. His other hand cupped his balls, gently kneading them between his fingers. His eyes opened and he watched with rapt concentration the aroused organ he held in his fist.

His hand was slowly massaging his swollen cock, stroking along the full length from base to head, then letting go and returning to the base again. Henry shifted his hips, torn between wanting to go faster and wanting this feeling to last as long as possible.

A groan of pure pleasure escaped from Henry’s throat. “Fuck, take it all,” he gasped, and his wrist flew. “Huff-huff-huff,” Henry gasped. He writhed on the bed as his orgasm seemed to go on and on as white juice splashed across his stomach.

Breathless, he reached to the bedside table and grabbed a fistful of paper tissues. His breathing was returning to normal. He cleaned the goo from his belly, screwed the tissue into a ball and casually threw it across the room.

That was the moment the bedroom door flew open and his father stood stern-faced on the threshold. Henry tugged his underpants up to their rightful place. He knew his face was blazing scarlet. There was nothing he could do about that.

Charles Snapdragon was a man of few words. “Last night,” he said in staccato, “missed curfew. Drinking. Smoking. Won’t do. Against the rules. You know that.”

Henry wriggled his buttocks on the bed until he sat upright. He sucked on his bottom lip. There was nothing he could say. Everything his father had said was true. He hadn’t really meant to be late. It was that damned girl.

“It’s been a while,” his father spoke slowly and carefully without emotion, “since you were last here. I do not believe that you have forgotten my rules.” He paused and when Henry realised he expected an answer he replied, “No, sir.”

Charles Snapdragon nodded his approval. “Good,” he said and added enigmatically, “It’s been a while.” He fell into silence and looked hard at his twenty-year-old son. Was he getting taller? He had definitely thickened out a bit. He was no longer the scrawny kid he had been at school.

“You are not too old for this.” Charles Snapdragon walked into the room and stood over the bed. Henry looked at his father’s midriff.

“No, sir,” he agreed meekly.

“The last time I spanked you was just before you left home,” Charles Snapdragon frowned. “You couldn’t keep a job. No self-discipline. That’s why I had to impose discipline. My duty too.”

Henry pulled himself up further and leaned with his back against the wall. “They worked,” he said simply. “All those spankings,” he gave a rueful smile. “I’ve got a good job. I share a flat.”

“Things are looking good for you,” his father interrupted. “I’m glad.”

“Yes, sir.” Henry hesitated. Should he confide in his father?

Charles Snapdragon cut him short. “I knew it would in the end. Once you learned discipline.”

Henry couldn’t hold it in. He had to speak. He had to confess to his father. He blurted, “I’m not sure that I have.”

His father’s brow creased, “I don’t understand.”

Henry spoke in a rush, words tumbling without him thinking. “I’m not sure I have learned discipline. Sometimes I am late to work. I never help around the flat. I’m running up debts,” he broke off with a croak.

His father took a step forward so he now towered over his son.

Henry rediscovered his voice, “I need discipline. Your discipline. Just to keep me on track. Stop me going over the edge.”

His father sucked down a lung full of air, “I fully intend to spank you for last night.” He paused and when his son made no response, he continued, “So I should also punish you for other offences, also?”

“Yes sir,” Henry gasped, his heart thumping through his chest. “I deserve it. I deserve to be spanked. Hard. Really hard.”

A smile flickered across Charles Snapdragon’s face. Here was proof if any were needed that his method of child rearing had worked. “I see,” he spoke almost with a whisper. “But first things first,” he reached forward and took his son by the wrist and guided him to his feet. “First we must deal with last night. He released his hold on Henry and sat down on the edge of the narrow bed. “You know what you must do. Bend over my knee.”

Without hesitation the twenty-year-old moved to stand to the right of his father, then slowly he lowered himself forward so that his stomach was across his father’s knee. His arms rested ahead of him on the mattress. His bottom jutted out at an angle. The bed was low so Henry had to bend his own knees so they hovered above the ground.

“This is a spanking you so richly deserve,” his father intoned as he gripped the waistband of his son’s underpants and tugged them hard. He couldn’t get them down so Henry obliged by raising his body so his father could pull the pants over his buttocks and leave them bunched over his thighs. Then Henry lowered himself once more across his father’s lap not realising he was leaving a sticky patch on his father’s trousers.

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Charles Snapdragon took hold of Henry’s shirt and moved it a little up his back so it was away from the target area. He cupped the palm of his right hand and slowly caressed his son’s right buttock. Then he did the same with the left. Henry had a little more padding than the last time he was spanked, but he was far from fat. Charles Snapdragon raised his hand and brought it crashing down with a resounding SMACK!

It had been more than a year but he hadn’t lost the knack. He was an expert spanker and soon had both cheeks glowing bright pink. Henry gasped as tingles mingled together and became a dull throb. The palm of Charles Snapdragon’s hand was as hard as any hairbrush. Henry wondered if the Old Man soaked it in vinegar, the way kids did with conkers to make them tougher.

“You only have your self to blame for this,”’ his father scolded as slap after slap pounded into Henry’s fleshy bum. “Only yourself.”

The pain was building. Henry was no stranger to spanking. He had taken a few in his days. But it had been some time since his last one and he was finding the going rather hard. His heart raced and blood rushed to his head so that his temples throbbed almost as much as his bottom. He gasped and sucked back the yaps and yelps he so desperately wanted to make.

“You deserve this. You deserve this,” he told himself silently. “You are a very naughty boy. You need to have your bare bottom spanked. Hard. Very hard.”

He winced as his father’s hand slapped into the back of his naked thigh. That was when Henry yelped. He couldn’t help it. His hips wriggled and his knees buckled.

“Keep still,” his father admonished. “You deserve this. You know you do. So, take it like a man,” he growled and he slapped the thighs harder still.

Five minutes later Charles Snapdragon hammered six final slaps into the undercurves of Henry’s cheeks – right on the sensitive sit-spot. The bum glistened with sweat and glowed a rosy red. Charles Snapdragon’s hand hurt but not as much as Henry’s bottom.

“Stand up,” he ordered and his son, not needing to be told twice, jumped to his feet. He performed the traditional spanking dance hopping from foot to foot while at the same time rubbing away at his sore bum. He bent down and tugged his pants up and stood respectfully before his father.

“Good boy. I know you will try to behave better in future.”

“Yes, sir,” Henry replied humbly.

“I’m glad to hear it. Now get shaved, have a shower and then come downstairs. Mother has Christmas dinner prepared. After lunch you and I shall repair to the back room. I still have those two canes hanging in the cupboard under the stairs.

“Yes, sir. Thank you sir,” Henry gasped as he moved aside to allow his father to leave the room.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

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For your own good

We need to talk about Jake

Max of the ‘Champion’ 1. The policeman

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Step-son home for the holiday

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“No, I’m not having him here again for Christmas, not after last year. I don’t want an argument about it.” Martin’s face coloured. It did this when he was angry. Diana knew he meant it. It would take a lot to get him to change his mind.

“But he’s my son,” she said. “We can’t exclude him from Christmas.”

Martin paced the room. He was trying to control his temper. The disaster of last Christmas was fresh in his mind. That brat of a step-son was not welcome here. He shook his head, “No, love. No. I think he resents me. He’s never made an effort to get on. Look how rude and surly he was last time. He was so drunk on Boxing Day he insulted Bob and Martha from next door. I could have died from embarrassment.”

Diana took a deep breath. Martin was right. Joey had been outrageous. He stayed in bed on Christmas Day and didn’t come down until dinner was served. Then he was miserable all afternoon, he quite spoiled the day for Martin’s two young children.

“I know Marty, but he’s family. Christmas is about family.” She trailed off. What a rubbish excuse. Yes, Christmas was about family. People getting together for once every year. Of course, there was a reason why they didn’t meet more often – they hated the sight of one another. Most families were a bit like that. Even so, she pressed on, “Where’s he supposed to go instead?”

Martin stopped pacing. He stopped at the cocktail cabinet and grabbed a bottle of gin. “He can stay in his own bed all day,.” He unscrewed the cap. “It’ll save him the train fare getting here.” He gave a short snort of laughter and poured a glass of gin.

“Want one?” he smiled. Diana shook her head. She wasn’t letting him off just yet. He took a gulp of neat gin and grimaced as it hit the spot. “First of the day,” he said for no reason except to break the silence in the room. He knew he was about to be defeated.

He sat in a deep armchair and surveyed the room. Diana stood and watched him. She knew her man. It was only a matter of time. Martin took a cautious sip of the gin. “Well, alright, he can come, but there have to be conditions. He has to be told.”

“Yes dear,” Diana grinned. She had won again.

“I’m serious. A list of rules. Nothing unusual. He can’t lay in bed all day. He can’t be rude to you. And definitely not me. No heavy drinking. He has to play with the boys. He has to be cheerful.”

Diana nodded her head with mock enthusiasm. “Anything else Mein Fuhrer. You make it sound like a prison sentence.”

“Well, it is to me, love. It is to me,” Martin drained his glass. “You have to tell him. He has to know he has got to behave.”

Diana kept her counsel. Joey wasn’t a bad lad, but he could be headstrong at times. When he was in one of his darker moods he didn’t mind what he said or who he upset. It might prove difficult to rein him in over the holidays.

“I mean it, Di, he has to know. You have to tell him.”

Diana sighed. “Alright, I’ll do it. But what if he breaks your rules?”

“Tell him I’ll spank him.”

“Ha!” Diana roared with laughter. She couldn’t stop herself. How absurd!

“I’m serious. Make sure he knows it. I’m not afraid to take him across my knee and batter his backside.”

“Don’t be daft. He’s twenty years old.”

“Well he should have learned to behave by now shouldn’t he.”

“What does that mean?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you saying I didn’t bring him up right.”

“Oh for Pete’s sake …” Martin paused. Actually, that was exactly what he was saying but he knew better than to tell his new wife that.

“Just tell him will you. I’ll write down the rules, so there’s no mistake. And, he’ll get the thick end of my belt if he causes trouble again this year. I’ll put that in writing as well if you like.”

And he did too. When he printed it out it covered a full side of A4 paper. Fifteen different rules. All to be obeyed. None of them unreasonable. And in the final sentence, printed in red were the words. “Failure to comply with any of these rules will result in a spanking.” There, Martin thought as he read through the final draft, it couldn’t be clearer.

“You’re off your head,” Diana said, not unkindly, when her husband handed her the rules.

“What’s the worry. All he has to do is behave himself. We’ll get through the holiday, he’ll go back to his home and we can get on with our lives.” He nodded at the sheet of paper, “And I won’t have to see him again until next year. What could be simpler?”

“I’ll email him a copy,” Diana said.

“Good. Let him know if he doesn’t like it he’s welcome to stay at his own home for Christmas.”

Joey received the email on his phone while sitting up in his bed. He read it. Twice. He didn’t believe it either time. He turned to his boyfriend Spencer and told him about Martin’s threat. “Spanking!” Spencer chortled, “Oh yes please! Can I come.”

Joey bristled, it wasn’t funny. But Spencer hadn’t finished. “What a wicked step-father you have. It’s just like a fairy story.” He paused long enough to realise Joey hadn’t got the joke. “Well,” he continued, “It is a bit kinky don’t you think?”

Kinky? Joey didn’t know that, but it was madness. The twenty-year-old was in no doubt, Martin – or his mother’s latest husband, as he preferred to call him – was deadly serious.

Spencer pulled the duvet off his naked body and climbed out of bed. He trilled, “Be sure to tell me all about it when you get back. Don’t forget to take a selfie, you naughty little boy.” He smacked his own bottom playfully and sashayed around the room. Joey groaned and read through the list of rules one more time.

“Your step-papa is right. You are a pain in the arse sometimes,” Spencer would not let it go. “You never tidy up. You leave your scuzzy pants on the floor for me to pick up. When did you last wash up a mug?” He sat down on the bed, heart racing, “Yes, what a good idea.” He paused waiting a little breathlessly for his boyfriend’s response. When none came, he rolled over on the mattress and faced Joey. “Spanking.” He let the word hang in the air. Joey’s clean, bright face cracked into a smile when he realised what his boyfriend meant. “Dream on lover boy.”

Spencer nodded with mock solemnity. “Spanking. Yes, the naughty little boy needs his bottom slapped.” He rose so he now knelt beside Joey. Joey, still smiling told him, “You can try.”

It was the hint Spencer needed. He rolled from the mattress and ran around to Joey’s side of the bed. He gripped his wrist and tried to pull him up. “No, no,” Joey shrieked with laughter, “I was joking, I was joking.” He struggled as Spencer demonstrated his superior strength. Within seconds Spencer had Joey to his feet. Then Spencer sat on the end of the bed. He pulled Joey forward across his lap. Now his boyfriend was face-down. In the perfect position to have his bare bottom spanked.

z used otk naked youngsters bed (12)

Both boys were naked. In the two months since they first met Spencer had seen his boyfriend naked many times before. His skin was smooth and hairless. There wasn’t enough spare fat on him to sizzle a sausage. His bum was pert and firm.

Slap. Slap. Spencer’s smacks were love taps. Joey didn’t feel a thing. He lay still. Submissive. Spencer had never acted like this before. So manfully. “What a nice, little spankable bottom you have,” Spencer pinched the hard cheeks. He cupped his hands and caressed each globe. His hands were large and Joey’s buttocks quite small. The palm covered about half of one cheek. He tapped Joey’s bottom again. Going through the motions. Pretending to spank him. Not really trying. His hand shook. He had never felt like this before. He didn’t understand it. What was happening to him?

Joey twisted his body so he could look behind him and face Spencer. “Do it properly. Like you mean it,” he said simply. He turned back, face down in the mattress and raised his bottom higher. Spencer’s cock twitched. Sweat soaked the palm of his hand. He rubbed it dry on the bed. He bit his bottom lip with nervousness. He raised his right hand. He paused. Joey’s bum flinched with the tension. Crack! Spencer’s hand walloped Joey’s left buttock with force. The outline of Spencer’s palm appeared in pink across his boyfriend’s creamy-white skin. He slapped again this time on the left cheek.

Joey moaned gently and buried his face in the duvet. Spencer slapped him again. And again. And again. Joey’s bum warmed. Each slap stung his tight arse. It hurt. Joey couldn’t understand. It hurt, but it wasn’t really pain. His bottom tingled. He liked it. The more Spencer spanked him, the more his bum glowed. The tingles mingled and merged, growing into a dull throb.

“More, more,” he groaned softly. Joey was across Spencer’s lap. Both were naked. Their cocks pressed together. Joey’s hard-on raged. That excitement encouraged Spencer in his task. He slapped harder. Not one spot on Joey’s gorgeous bum was unmarked. The imprint of Spencer’s palm and fingers was stamped all over the boy’s cheeks. Spencer turned to the more sensitive thighs. Joey squealed with pleasure. His cock pulsated against Spencer’s. He wriggled and writhed to build momentum. It was like having sex. But then again, Joey knew, not like any sex he had ever had. His head spun. His body tingled with excitement. His bottom and thighs throbbed. Ecstasy!

Martin had a miserable Christmas Eve. His step-son was murder from the moment he arrived. He was more surly, more rude, even than the previous year. Joey had already upset the boys with his bullying, overbearing manner. Martin cornered the boy in the kitchen. “You haven’t forgotten the rules I set have you?” he growled. “What I warned I would do?”

Joey replied calmly, “No. I haven’t forgotten a thing.”

Picture credit: Unknown

 

Other stories you might like

The Morning After the Night Before

Warren’s awakening

Called in for a Caning

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Party time!

new 5

z used christmas drunk school college boy (1)

I don’t believe it. I just DO NOT believe it. The state you were in. I have never been so humiliated in all my life. I’ll never be able to face the neighbours. It’ll be all round the street. All over town. I’ll never live it down. You’ll never live it down. I Just CANNOT believe it.

I said go have fun. Why not? It’s Christmas. The end of term. It’s time to party. But I never for one moment expected this. Why should I? I haven’t – we haven’t, your mother and me – we haven’t brought you up like this. You have disgraced us both. I just DON’T believe it.

I’m just glad your mother didn’t see you in that state. That’s all I can say […] Be quiet! You speak when I say you can speak. You have no excuse. None at all. A school party. There shouldn’t have been any booze. Where did that come from then? Who snuck it in. You? Those crazy mates of yours in the rugby team. I know for sure none of the teachers had any idea. You’re seniors. Eighteen years old, they thought they could trust you. I thought I could trust you. Well I’ve learnt my lesson there.

You were absolutely out of your skull. Dressed up in girls’ shoes. What else? What else don’t I know? Drag? Were you dressed in women’s clothes? School skirt? Blouse? Navy blue knickers? Ha! That sounds like the rugby team to me.

I have no idea what your headmaster’s going to say when he finds out. God help us. Back in my day you’d be hauled into his study. “Bend over that desk.” Yes. A sound caning. Six-of-the-best. […] Don’t look at me like that. That’s exactly what you deserve. But he can’t. It’s against the law […] God help us, I hope he doesn’t expel you. What then? We’d never find another school to take you. So close to the exams. You’ll have to go to that shitty sixth-form college. Bang goes your career in the Foreign Office.

I’ll have to see the headmaster. Try to iron it over. Another humiliation. Begging him to keep you on. I just hope to God you weren’t the only one. Were you the leader? Did you take in the beer? It wasn’t just beer was it? The state you were in. What else. Whisky? Vodka? Isn’t vodka the trendy drink? I wouldn’t know of course […] Oh my God. It was booze wasn’t it? Don’t tell me it was drugs. Are you on drugs? My God if you’ve doing drugs […]

You deny it? Drugs. Well. I’ll tell you something. If anything like this happens again, I’m taking you down the doctors. Blood test. We’ll see what’s in your blood. Blood test, just like the athletes have […]

Don’t pout at me lad. I will not have it. I will not STAND for it […] Be quiet. You are in a lot of trouble, I’d keep quiet if I were you.

I have never been so humiliated. Called out at midnight to collect you. To take you home. Incapable of getting home alone. I don’t know what happened to your so-called friends. Abandoned you. Or were they so smashed they just disappeared.

Well lad, I will not put up with it. I will not stand for it. You’re sober now so get out of that bed […] NOW! I’m not wasting my entire morning on you. I will not put up with this. I will not tolerate your behaviour. Humiliating me like this.

Don’t look at me like that. Get out of bed NOW […] I know you haven’t got any clothes on. I put you to bed last night remember. No! Of course you don’t remember. I don’t suppose you remember chucking up all over the bathroom floor. Who cleared up that mess? Not you for sure. Now get out of bed. […] Do you want me to pull you out? […]

Right. Now, lad. I will not put up with this. I will not tolerate it. No you come here. Over my knee. The headmaster might not be able to do anything, but that doesn’t stop me […] Don’t you dare fight me. You come here. That’s better. Right over. You take it like a man […] Too old for this! Too old! I’ll be the one to judge when you’re too old for a spanking. You need to learn a lesson lad. And it’s my job to teach it […] Keep still […] Get those hands out the way. Right away […] Put them in front of you. Lay still […] Keep that bottom high.

z used otk naked bed sting

[…] It hurts! Of course it hurts. That’s the whole point young man. Your backside will be glowing red hot by the time I’ve finished. Keep still […] Do you want me to fetch your mother’s hairbrush? […] No, I didn’t think so. Take your punishment with some dignity […] I hope to God I’m not the only father doing this this morning. Discipline. You kids DO NOT get enough discipline these days. Well, not in this house brother. This drunken behaviour has got to stop. It WILL stop. I’ll make sure of that […]

Huh, you’re feeling that. Good. I hope you’re learning your lesson young man […] Will I have to do this again?  […] No? […] You’re sorry. I’ll give you sorry. You’ll be sorry by the time I’ve finished. You won’t be sitting down for the rest of the day. You can have your breakfast standing up […]

I told you to stop wriggling […] Don’t fight me […] DO NOT FIGHT ME. Keep still. Damn you. Well, don’t say I haven’t warned you. WENDY. CAN YOU FETCH YOUR HAIRBRUSH!! [……]

Thanks love. Now, can you hold his shoulders down while I tackle his rear end […]

 

Picture credits: Unknown / Sting Pictures

Other stories you might like

Over the schoolmaster’s knee

An unexpected recollection

John’s jam jar

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

You, called home

new 5

You sit glumly, as the green fields become first factories, then houses, then offices and shops. The train rattles into the station. Nearly home. Only a short bus ride before you meet up with father. The carriage is nearly empty of passengers, Saturday is not a busy day on the railway at Brocklehurst. You try to listen to your music but you can’t concentrate. The sounds blur in your ears.

An unintelligible voice crackles through the speaker. You can’t understand a word, but you know the guard is announcing the train is approaching Brocklehurst: your home town. Like a good citizen you wait until the train comes to a complete standstill before you rise from your seat and reach to the overhead shelf and take down your bag. You feel the weight of your dirty laundry as you sling it over your shoulder. At least one good thing will come from this visit: mother will do your washing.

You alight from the train and with no enthusiasm make your way down the platform. You have your ticket ready to get through the automatic barrier. In no hurry, you walk through the station, your footsteps echoing against the hard floor tiles. Ghost town. You have been away only three months, but already you have forgotten how dull this place is.

The bright lights of Newcastle have seduced you. Your new home. New friends. New experiences. That’s what university is supposed to give you. And, that is the problem. That’s why father has called you home.

The buses stop right outside the station. They call this ‘Brocklehurst Parkway’, a transport hub for the 21st century. As if buses never stopped outside train stations in the past. But that’s modern life, the ordinary is branded as if it were something new.

The buses run every twenty minutes. The number 66 – your bus – pulls up at the stop the second you exit the station. You pause, consider letting it go. Waiting for the next one. Or the one after. You are in no hurry to get home. Father doesn’t know what time your train is due. You can string this out for a while yet.

A nagging voice in your head tells you, “Get on that bus. Do not deceive your father.” It is your conscience. Those nagging voices have been troubling you since the day you arrived at the university. You are eighteen years old and free from your parents for the first time in your life. Free from all kinds of authority. There are few rules at the university. At your first class you were told, “Failure is a process, not an event.” The lecturer meant it was up to you – and your fellow students – to work hard, attend lectures, do the reading, submit the assignments on time. Go the whole nine yards (or whatever). If you do, success would follow. If but you do not, you will fail. Nobody is going to stand over you with a big stick to make sure you work.

You step onto the bus, offer your credit card for the fare and take a seat near the back. A light rain begins to fall as the bus pulls away. Your mid-term exams didn’t go so well. That lecturer was right. Too much time spent at student social clubs, playing football, discovering bars. Alcohol. A drop had never passed your lips before Newcastle. You soon made up for lost time.

Your father never touched a drop. The devil’s brew. There is something about it in the Bible. You know there are a lots of things in the Bible. About how to behave and how not to behave. Nobody you know at home drinks. Everyone goes to church – the same church. That’s the House of the Sacred Light. It came as a shock when you discovered The Sacred Light doesn’t operate in Newcastle. You are a member of a select band of people. You all know the true way. The Light. You know this to be true: it’s what you are taught.

You still read your Bible; you haven’t changed that much in the time you’ve been away. It makes a lot of sense to you. It is your guiding light. You’ve just lost your way a little. You need help to get back on the straight and narrow path. You know that. That’s why father has called you home. To help you. To guide you. You shuffle your buttocks on the hard seat as the bus takes a roundabout a little too quickly.

Traffic is light and the bus soon arrives at Widdicombe Wood, which is where you get off. Your street, The Avenue, is opposite. The rain has stopped but it’s cloudy and dank, it will start again fairly soon. Saturday is usually busy in The Avenue. Cars are washed and gardens attended. Two teenagers lounge idly with their bicycles. One, a fat youth with a face scarlet with acne and pus, leers at you as you pass. Your heart misses a beat. Can he read your mind? Does he know? Do all the neighbours know? Know why you have been called home.

You pass several large detached house, each hidden in its own way from the scrutiny of neighbours. Your house is surrounded by high ivy-covered walls. The gate is closed but unlocked. You pause for a moment to allow your heartrate to slow. Then with your knee you push the gate open, but only so far that you can squeeze your body through. Once inside you back-kick the gate and it slowly creaks back to its original state.

There is a light on in the loungeroom, although it is only midday. Father is probably waiting there for you. Mother will be hidden away in her own private ‘den’ pretending to make a dress with her new state-of-the-art sewing machine. You walk up the drive – slowly. Any passing tortoise would beat you in a race. You silently curse that the drive is not longer. You arrive at the front door. You have your own key and you let yourself in.

There is an eerie silence. Usually chamber music plays from an old-fashioned record player. Not today. You close the door and plonk your bag in the hall. Mother will deal with that later. You take off your coat and hang it neatly on a coat stand. While you are doing this you make sure to move all the other coats. You are checking. You don’t know what to think. The two whippy school-type rattan punishment canes that usually dangle from their curved handles here are missing.

Just then, Mother bustles from the lounge. “I thought I heard you come in,” she says shyly. “Do you have laundry?” You point to the bag. She picks it up and hurries into the utility room where she will stay for the next several hours. You watch her go, holding back your resentment that she hasn’t even said, “Hello, how are you?”

You have no time for further thoughts on the matter as father now emerges from the lounge. He looks at you sternly. “Good. You’re here at last,” he says. Again, there s no welcome. You nod blindly as if agreeing that indeed you are here. “Come in here,” he says sternly and walks back into the lounge.

The room hasn’t changed in the past three months. It is a large room that is dominated by two couches and a set of armchairs. Small tables are dotted around the room. There is no television set. But something is out of place. Your eyes settle on a chair, it is armless and has a straight back. It belongs in the kitchen. It has been brought into the lounge for a reason. It has been placed close to a corner facing into the room. You know why it is there. A heavy wooden paddle left on a nearby table confirms your thought.

Your father gives a little cough. He is both clearing his throat and gaining your attention. You stand, hands behind your back and look at him, making clear to your father that he has your rapt attention. Father looks as he always does whatever the time of day or the day of the week. He is dressed in a sober dark suit with a white shirt and red tie. You cannot remember ever seeing him dressed otherwise.

He begins to speak and you know – almost word for word – what he is going to say. He knows you failed your midterms and he thinks he knows why. You meekly confirm his suspicions. You know you have not worked this semester. You know if you don’t buck your ideas up you will fail at Christmas. You know you have let your mother and father down. You tell father this. He nods sagely, it is what he wants to hear.

You promise him you will work harder. He is pleased to hear it, he says. You say sorry again. You know this is expected. It is a kind of ritual. You go through the motions, knowing already what comes next.

Father picks up a Bible from one of the tables and flicks through the pages, finding his place. He reads several passages at great length and solemnity. Honour your mother and father. Work hard. Spare the rod. You know this by heart, but you show you are paying attention as if hearing it all for the very first time.

Father finishes reading and replaces the Bible on the table. He closes his eyes and begins to pray aloud. He is seeking the strength of the Lord. You are obliged to join in with the Amen.

Father says no more. Now, he unbuttons his jacket and slips it from his back. Carefully, he folds it and places it on the seat of a couch. You watch him intently as he does this and then he sits in the kitchen chair. He beckons to you with a crooked finger. He wants you to stand close to him. Silently, you take the three or four paces necessary.

You are standing so close that you can smell the aroma of coal tar soap and hair oil that follows your father around. He licks his lips, gives that little cough again and says, “I think you know what to do.” You don’t need clarification. This is your cue to prepare myself. You are soberly dressed in a white shirt and black trousers. At home you are always required to dress like this. You look a bit like a senior schoolboy. Not that you ever attended school – not a proper school. Parents of The Sacred Light ‘home-schooled’ which meant they taught their children themselves. There were several of you and you had classes at the church. You wore a distinctive school uniform with a grey shirt and pale-grey short trousers – even when you were eighteen. It taught you humility; walking to and from the church dressed like that.

Today you are wearing the long grey socks from school and the unusual and unflattering grey underwear worn by all males of The Sacred Heart. You have several pairs of grey short trousers in your bedroom and you wouldn’t be surprised if father insists you go upstairs to change. But, he has not. So, you must prepare yourself now.

You take a deep breath as if preparing yourself for an ordeal. Then you take hold of the buckle of the belt keeping your trousers up and open it. There’s a button on the waistband of your trousers and your fingers shiver a little so you fumble getting it undone. From the corner of your eye you see father is silently in prayer. You tug the zip fly and the front of the trousers fall open. The material of the trousers is heavy and with the weight of the belt and some keys and coins in your pocket, the trousers tumble to your shins.

Father has stopped praying and watches you as you place each of your thumbs in the waistband of your underwear and with not much more than a flick of the wrists you sent the pants south to meet your trousers. A faint breeze wafts in from somewhere to cool your naked legs and buttocks. Father slaps his thigh with his right hand. He is becoming impatient. Which is a sin, so he stops slapping and says quietly, “Bend across my knee, son.”

As he says this he parts his knees slightly and you look down at his thighs. He has made a platform for you to present your body. Carefully, you rest the heels of your hands on his right leg and slowly ease yourself down and forward. Within seconds you are across his knee in the traditional to-be-spanked posture. You make fists with your hands and push these into the carpet. Your bottom is raised over father’s lap and your legs are stretched out behind you so that the tips of your shoes brush the ground.

You hear father’s breathing getting heavier. You wait patiently. Father takes the end of your shirt and pushes it gently up your back so that it is away from his target area. Not long now. Your buttocks clench in anticipation. Now father has cupped the palm of his right hand and he is caressing each buttock cheek. You close your eyes and shut your teeth tightly. Any moment now. Father leans his left arm across your back holding you in position.

Slap! You hear the noise of his palm spanking your left buttock a split-second before you feel the sting. It tingles, but it doesn’t really hurt. Then father slaps the right cheek. Quickly he gets into a rhythm, slapping down hard across your bum. He works enthusiastically and in no time the whole area is glowering pink. The pain is building, but you are eighteen-years-old and no matter how hard father slaps the palm of his hand into you backside – even your bare backside – it isn’t going to do you much harm.

z used otk pants down chair sting (6)

You know this and father knows this. The spanking is so far symbolic. Father is expressing his displeasure and you are submissively presenting yourself for punishment. You know your place. You are your father’s son. You father is doing his duty to God. All is well.

But, father knows there is a difference between mere discipline and punishment. You have to be punished. Without adequate punishment you will not mend your ways. You will not work harder. You will fail your exams, be excluded from university and your future will be ruined. This punishment is for your own good. Father stops slapping your bare bum. You feel a movement in his body as he reaches over to the nearby table. He grips the paddle. It is a little bigger than a paperback book or a DVD cover, but a great deal heavier. Without warning father lifts it high and whacks it down with maximum impact across the underside of your cheeks – the sensitive ‘sit-spot’.

The suddenness of the move and the pain is creates takes you by surprise and for the first time this afternoon a yelp escapes your tight lips. Father spanks with the paddle as hard and as quickly as he had with his hand. Your backside quickly roasts. You can’t help it, your hips sway and your legs kick. Father presses his arm down into your back. You are going nowhere. Not for a considerable time to come.

You lose all sense of time. It might be one minute, it might be twenty. Up and down, up and down. The paddle flies, biting into your fleshy backside. It burns. Your temples throb almost as much as your backside. Tears fill your eyes but do not fall. Your throat is tight, but that doesn’t stop a series of “Owwws” and “Ouches” escaping your mouth. You are burning.

Father has covered every square centimetre of your buttocks which are now shining bright red. So, he turns his attentions to the backs of your thighs. Whack! “Noooooo! Stop!!!!! Please!!!!” you yell for mercy, but none is forthcoming. Father is on a mission.

You kick and wriggle and squirm and yell. It does no good. It never does. Father will spank you for as long as it takes. Until he is satisfied you have learned a lesson. Your head is buzzing. You hear the sound of wood connecting with naked flesh, but you feel no more pain. You have reached a plateau. A literal pain barrier.

Perhaps father realises this, because he eases off. The paddle continues to pound into your bottom but the whacks are not so heavy and less frequent. Then – at last – they stop completely. You lay face down staring at the carpet, your heartbeat races, your blood pressure is off the scale. Your backside feels like you have sat in a bathtub of boiling water. You hear your father’s uneven breathing. The spanking has taking it out of him as well.

At last he croaks, “Get up.” You scramble to your feet and instinctively your hands go to your naked buttocks. Your flesh feels like leather. The pain is already easing but both cheeks throb like mad. You are unconcerned that you are standing half-naked in front of father exposing your privates. Father hauls himself from the chair and reaches for his jacket. You take this cue and get dressed yourself, gingerly puling your underwear over your scorching buttocks. You bend down and retrieve your trousers. Pain reignites when you pull them over your bum. You zip up but leave the belt undone.

Father reaches for the Bible. Your head spins. You feel high. It must be the adrenaline, or something. You know father is reading to you but you can’t make out the words. This goes on for a long minute before father intones, “Amen.” Hurriedly, you echo that.

“Go to your room,” father says quietly. You hobble away. As you walk towards the staircase you hear the sound of a washing machine and catch the smell of detergent. Mother is washing your clothes. You wonder how long you will have to wait before you can get the train back to university.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

Other stories you might like

Bible College

Trousers down. Over my knee

More in sorrow …

 

 

 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Over Pop’s knee with Perce

new 5

z used otk scrumping white pants down sting

I read a report in the Brocklehurst Bugle today. It was about a young lad, nineteen years old, who stole some beer from a shop. He was up in court and they fined him something. Now he has a criminal record. As I read about him I had a senior moment, or an acid flashback or some such. If you and me were characters in a corny movie at this point the picture would go all wobbly and then fuzzy and there’d be that do-do-do-do kind of music and we’d be transported back sixty, yes sixty, years …

Rising Bollard wasn’t much more than a village back then. I was eighteen and me and my best pal Perce were inseparable. Had been since we were in our prams. I worked as a baker’s assistant at Sidebottom’s and Perce was a labourer on Arkwright’s farm. It’s a housing estate today. Has been for thirty years. Sidebottom’s is a Greggs.

So, me and Perce weren’t bad lads. We hung around the cemetery with the rest of the village idiots and tried to chat up girls. We drank horrible cheap VP wine and smoked those really rough Player’s Weights cigarettes. Do you remember them? In packets of five. They burnt the back of your throat away.

It was the cigarettes that got me and Perce into trouble. We had been working lads since we were fifteen and of course we gave our mums housekeeping money, but we were never skint. Perce had a motorbike, even then. What I’m trying to say is that we could afford to buy cigarettes, but we preferred to steal them. Don’t ask me why? Did you ever do that? Steal stuff from shops for no good reason. Just for the fun of it. Maybe to look big with your mates?

We got away with it too. Cigs and tobacco weren’t locked away like Fort Knox or the Bank of England like they are nowadays. They were on the counter. If you worked in pairs all you had to do was for one of you to distract the shopkeeper (get him to climb up his ladder and fetch something from the top shelf at the other end of the shop) and while he’s doing that the other one pockets a packet of fags. We weren’t Big Time Charlies, one packet at a time was enough for us.

Like I said we got away with it too. Until one day we didn’t. Rising Bollard was a sleepy place and we could always find a time when the shop was empty. It didn’t take long to slip a packet of fags into your pocket. So, one day I did that and was sloping out the shop but what happened but I walked slap bang into the arms of Harry Gate. Or Police Constable Harry Gate to give him his full title. He was in plain clothes, but if you’re the copper for a couple of villages like Harry was I don’t suppose you were ever off duty.

“Well, well, well,” says Harry, like all comic policemen did in those days, “What have we ’ere?” He says this as he twists my ear, like he was making some rubbish joke. “Turn out your pockets.”

It was all over in about ten seconds. Caught red handed. Bang to rights, as crooks in the films used to say. Harry didn’t have to ask our names or our addresses, Harry knew every one and everyone knew Harry. He made me hand back the cigarettes to Mr Higginbottom, the shopkeeper. I knew what was coming next.

In fact, it turned out I didn’t know. I thought he would take us into the back room and leather our backsides. He was known for doing that. He was the law. But, he didn’t do that. Now I think of it he was in his civvy clothes and wasn’t wearing the thick, heavy leather belt that went with his policeman’s uniform.

No, he didn’t spank our bare arses. He marched us the half mile or so to my house. Just my luck Pop was there on his dinner break. Well, the Old Man went scarlet with embarrassment when the village policeman turned up on the doorstep with me and Perce in tow.

“I’ll leave it to you Mr Ramsbottom,” Harry says, with a bit of a sly wink, as he bids Pop goodbye and gets back to his shopping or whatever it was he was doing in the village.

Pop nearly sank to his knees with gratitude. His son a thief. What a scandal. But Harry wouldn’t tell. They’d be no court case. No scandal for the family to live down. Pop could deal with it just the way that Pops were supposed to.

They were different days back then. Do you remember? More innocent. People took care of things themselves. “Right, you, come here,” Pop says even before Harry had disappeared down the street. Pop turns his back on me and marches into the kitchen. Me and Perce follow like obedient little puppies.

“Stand there,” he points at the wall and Perce and me meekly do as we’re told. I don’t suppose eighteen years  lads would do that nowadays. Do as they’re told, I mean. Times are different. Pop picks up an old wooden chair and plonks it down in the middle of the room. He sits down, glares at me and he says, “I cannot believe it. I just cannot. Thieving. What possessed you?” He goes on like this for quite a while actually and I’ve got my head bowed in shame. He’s absolutely right, of course. He says, “It’ll break your mother’s heart; she’s not to find out about this.”

I loved my Pop. That was him all over. He loved my Mum, he loved my brothers and he loved me. He wasn’t an educated man (not many were around Rising Bollard) but he did the best that he could. “I don’t want any more of this stealing,” he says.

“No, Pop,” I says, “Sorry, Pop, I won’t do it again.” I felt such a heal. “I know you won’t son,” he says, and I can see he is very upset with me. “And, I’m going to make sure you don’t.”

I knew what was coming. It was common in those days. No one thought anything about it back then. “Thieves in this house get spanked.”

So, did you see that coming? Like I say all the Pops in Rising Bollard spanked their kids and back then you didn’t get to be legally an adult until you were twenty-one, so it wasn’t such a surprise to see an eighteen-year-old like me get his bum blistered. Tell that to kids today!

How did your Pop spank you? I know some who lost their rag and lashed out with a belt all over the back and arms. My Pop wasn’t like that. He was a gentle-man. I know that sounds a daft thing to say Gentle when he was about to spank my backside and very hard indeed. I mean he never lost his temper, he was always in control. He knew what he was doing. He had told me very quietly why he was going to spank me. Now, he was going to get on and do it.

“Come here,” Pop says and he waves his hand at his side. That was my cue to leave the wall and stand beside him. It was summer and I had on those thick corduroy shorts we used to wear. “Take ’em down,” he says. I didn’t argue. He was my Pop. I was a thief. I was glad he didn’t know about all the other times I got away with it.

“Bend over,” he slaps his thigh like I don’t know what it is I’m supposed to go. I expected it but my face burned scarlet with embarrassment. I’d been spanked before, but never in public – and never in front of my best friend Perce. I lowered myself. I must have been at least as tall as Pop, but even so I fitted over his knee quite well. How did you present yourself for an over-the-knee spanking? The only way I knew was to stretch my arms out and rest the palms of my hands on the floor. Then with my head low and my bottom high my legs were left to dangle behind me. I suppose I could have held on to Pop’s legs or maybe even covered my head with my hands.

So, there I was in position. Submissive. Letting Pop spank my naughty little backside. And it was little back then. I used to do the deliveries for the bakery and rode a bicycle for miles each day. That keeps the stomach flat and the buttocks pert. I truly believe Pop did not like spanking me or my brothers. He wasn’t a tyrant, he was a decent man trying to do his best. “I hope this teaches you a lesson,” he says as he smooths out my cotton underpants until all the creases are gone. “I don’t want to have to do this again.”

Then he starts to spank me. Me, an eighteen-year-old thief. If I told my great-grandchildren that I was spanked like that they’d fall on their backs laughing with their legs waving in the air. “You let him do that?” they’d holler.

Yes, I let him do that. It was the right thing to do. I had done wrong. I wasn’t a hooligan. I hadn’t beaten anyone up. I hadn’t robbed an old lady. But, I had stolen from a shop. There was no need to waste time and money sending me to court. Why turn me into a convicted criminal and blot the rest of my life? No. I needed to be punished and a jolly good spanking would do the trick. Pop knew that. I knew that.

So, Pop spanked me. Pop had a ritual when he spanked. He was slow and methodical. He made sure no part of my bum was left untouched. So he started across the middle where there’s most meat (even in my rock-hard bum) and when he was satisfied he had tenderised both cheeks, he went to the top of the mounds just below he back. When three-quarters of my bum was burning, he turned his attention to the soft undercurves. That’s the part that touches the chair when you sit down. It’s almost the most sensitive part of the bum. If you’ve been spanked yourself, you know what I’m saying. Well that hurt. It had me wriggling my hips and buckling my knees. Pop had to hold on tight to my waist to stop me tumbling to the floor.

“I hope I’m getting through to you son,” Pop says kindly. “No more thieving.”

“No, Pop,” I says, because I suppose he wants an answer, “Sorry pop.”

“Sorry,” he says and pauses. His body jerks like he’s suddenly remembered something. “Sorry,” he repeats, “You will be by the time I’ve finished.” Then I feel him grip the elasticated waist of my white Y-fronts. “No Pop, No!” I stutter, as he starts to tug the pants down over my buttocks. “No, sorry. Sorry!” I’m wailing now.

It doesn’t stop Pop. He has the pants at my knees. It’s summer but I feel a cool breeze waft across my naked cheeks. I also hear Perce gasp. I’d forgotten he was watching.  He has a perfect view of me, submissively bent over Pop’s knee with my shorts at my feet and my pants at the knees and my arse bare to the wind. He can see everything. I mean everything. My balls, my crack and right up into the hole. My embarrassment turns to humiliation. How can I ever face my best pal again?

Pop spanks my bare bum hard. And rapidly. Whack-whack-whack. He slaps me about eighty times a minute. I feel my bum heating up. If you didn’t think a hand spanking (even on the bare) could have much impact on an eighteen-year-old, think again. My bum was glowing. Pop spanks me like this for a few minutes, then as a finale he goes for the back of my thighs. Now, if the undercurves are sensitive (and they are) the bare thighs give twice the value. I am gasping and yapping and twisting and kicking. You have to admire Pop’s stamina. He was a manual worker all his life, believe me he was a strong man.

At last (thank God, at last!) he stops spanking. He lets go of my waist and I take my chance and leap to my feet. My bum throbs and I hop from foot to foot and try to rub the soreness away from my bum. I don’t care who sees me do it. Then, I lean down to pull up my pants. “Leave them where they are,” Pop sighs, he is a little out of breath, “Stand by the wall. I want you to think about what you have done and why I have spanked you.”

I hobble over and stand beside Perce. I can’t catch his eye. The throbbing pain in my bum is easing into a warm glow. Perce shuffles with embarrassment. Neither of us wants to speak. Pop regains his breath and says quietly, “Percy, I am not your father. It is not really my job to punish you.”

From the corner of my eye I see Perce turn to face my Pop. Pop says, “I should tell him what you have done. It is for him to decide what to do.” Pop sounds sorrowful. It’s not that he wants to spank Perce, Pop’s just unhappy that our behaviour has brought him to this.

“Sorry, Mr Ramsbottom,” I hear Perce’s voice quiver. I think he’s about to cry. I blush, embarrassed for him. But he doesn’t turn on the water taps, he’s just getting himself ready to say what he wants to say. It can’t be easy. I don’t think I would do the same if I was Perce. He says, “Mr Ramsbottom, we were both in it together. You can’t spank Perce and not spank me too.”

Well! You could’ve knocked me down with a feather, because I know for a fact Perce’s Pop is probably the only Pop in Rising Bollard who doesn’t believe in spanking. He’s never raised a finger to any of his kids. Best he’d do to Perce is make him stay at home a couple of weekends and clean up the yard or something. What a pal! Perce and me. Me and Perce. Together.

“Right, Percy,” Pop calls from the chair. “I think you know how this is done. Stand there. Take down your shorts. Bend over my knee.”

And Perce did. And I got to see his bare bum and the rest of it, so I didn’t have any worries about how I was going to face him.

So, two eighteen-year-old shoplifters from sixty years ago got their backsides spanked. We both went on to have honest, respectable lives. The shopkeeper got his goods back, we were punished. The world went on.

I wonder about that lad in the Brocklehurst Bugle. Given the chance what would people like to happen to him? A sound spanking and a second chance or a life blighted by a criminal record?

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

Other stories you might like

 

By order of the court

Room 414

The sixpenny bazaar

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com