Late for breakfast

new 5z used white pants vest window cody ferguson (17)

Mr Weatherspoon sauntered into the kitchen and sighed. He could not,  would not, hide his irritation. “Where is he?” he demanded of his wife.

“He’s not here.”

“Well, I can see he’s not here,” Mr Weatherspoon snarled. “Is he still upstairs?”

“What do you think?” his wife’s sarcasm was not lost on Mr Weatherspoon.

“I’ve told him about this before,” Mr Weatherspoon pulled up a chair and sat at the table.

“Yes, you’ve told him before. You’ve told him lots of things before,” she banged a plate of bacon and eggs in front of him.

Mr Weatherspoon eyed his wife cautiously, “Come on Mary.”

“Don’t Come on Mary me, Jack,” what else did you tell him, eh? It’s me that cooks breakfast that gets ruined because he’s late down. I fetch and carry for him all the time. He’s got worse since he started work. He treats this place like a hotel and me like a skivvy.”

Jack stared down at his breakfast. Would she give him no peace?

No she wouldn’t because she went on, “What did you say you’d do if he was late down again? Well, what was it?”

Jack filled his mouth with a forkful of bacon. This was not a conversation he wished to have.

“You told him you’d give him a damn good hiding. Remember that Jack. You said he needed to buck up his ideas. You said that Jack.”

Jack chewed thoughtfully. He had said that. But, it was the heat of the moment. Surely she hadn’t taken him seriously. “He’s eighteen Mary. A bit old for spanking don’t you think?”

Mary stared scornfully, “He was eighteen when you said it, Jack. What’s changed? He certainly hasn’t!” She sat down in a huff and slashed at her own eggs and bacon. She seethed as she poured tea. “Go up now. Do it. Take my hairbrush. The ebony one, it’s on the dressing table.”

Jack slurped tea. How he wished he had a newspaper to hide behind. “Oh Mary,” he bleated and then trailed off, ashamed.

Mary had finished eating. She let her knife and fork fall with a clutter on her plate. “Do you want me to do it? Is that it? I will you know. If you won’t, I will. I swear I will.” She observed her husband from the corner of her eye. She had touched a sore spot with him and she knew it. “Let me just finish this tea,” she added slyly.

“Bah!” Jack rose from the table sharply, banging his knee as he stood. “No, don’t worry. I’ll do it,” he fumed, “If I must. If that’s what you want?”

“It’s not what I want, Jack,” she said scornfully, “It’s what you promised to do.” She allowed herself a wry smile as she watched her defeated husband slink from the room. “The heavy ebony one. On the dressing table,” she called after him.

Wayne was out of bed, but he was not quite fully awake. He stood by the window in his vest and underpants stretching. His head was a little befuddled from the six pints he sank at the Three Fishers the night before. His Dad had surprise on his side. The door burst open and there he stood brandishing in his right fist, a black, wooden hairbrush.

“I did warn you. You can’t say you weren’t warned,” Dad babbled as he strode through the door. Instinctively, Wayne backed away, but it was a small room and there was nowhere for him to run. Dad had no clear plan, he hadn’t thought anything through; he would have to work on instinct, fuelled by adrenaline.

He sat on the narrow bed, reached forward, grabbed Wayne by the left wrist and tugged him towards him. The teenager was off balance and toppled forward easily. Then he was face down across Dad’s legs with his chest and head bouncing on the mattress. Dad wriggled about and quickly put his right leg across his son’s ankles. He had him pinned down. Wayne twisted and turned, “Gerroff! Wodya doing? Stop! No!” He could struggle all he wanted to; he was going nowhere.

Dad had surprised himself. It had been easy. He had feared some kind of stand-up fight. Wayne was eighteen, he had youth – and strength – on his side; Dad could not expect to win. Instead, he had the brat face down across his knee. If not exactly submissive, he was nonetheless at his mercy. Wayne twisted and turned but when Dad lay his left arm across the boy’s back, that put an end to that.

Dad smiled. How he wished his wife was here to witness his victory. He looked down at his son’s buttocks. He had never examined them before. The boy was slender and thin and the cheeks were round and soft. Dad ran his hand over them slowly, feeling the “give” in them. They were some way off being “buns of steel”. He had never spanked Wayne before; never spanked anyone before (unless you count the “slap-and-tickle” games he and Mary played in their younger days). How was this done, exactly? He let instinct take over once more. He took hold of the top of Wayne’s pants. That set he boy wriggling and hollering again, “No! Dad, no!” He was mightily relieved when Dad didn’t tug the pants down to his thighs and expose his bare bottom. Instead, he pulled the pants tight so the smooth white cotton stretched across the buttocks as if they were a second skin. They also dug into the crack, in effect lifting and separating each cheek. Dad had made a perfect target.

He took hold of the brush, his palms were sweaty but that didn’t impair his grip. He raised it a couple of feet away from Wayne’s backside, the brush was heavy in his hands. He paused, took a deep breath and smacked it down exactly in the middle of the right cheek. Then, he raised it again and did the same with the left.

That set Wayne off. As Dad spanked the brush over and over again into the soft cheeks, his son let out a continuous barrage of protest and howls. “No, No Dad, Stop, Oww! Ouch! Eeek! Yowl! No. Stop. Please Dad. Oww! Yowlll! No. Pleeeasse!”

Dad was in no mood to stop. He was rather enjoying himself. He should have done this a long time ago, he told himself. The brat had been asking for it for a very long time. Whack-whack-whack. He increased the pace and equally Wayne’s howling and pleading intensified. “Come down to breakfast when you’re called.” Whack-whack. “Don’t give your Mum grief.” Whack-whack. “Don’t stay out till all hours.” Whack-whack. “Tidy up this room.” Whack-whack. And, on and on.

How long should a spanking last? Dad had no idea. Instinct told him it had to be until Wayne had learned his lesson. But how would Dad know? He decided to ask. “Have you learned your lesson?” Whack-whack. “Are you going to do as you’re told in future?” Whack-whack. “Will you behave?”

“Yes Dad, oww! Ouch! Yes Dad. Honestly. Ouch! Ouch! No more. Please.”

The boy was not in tears but he was in considerable distress. The spanking was getting through to him. Dad walloped another dozen all around the target. High near the back, over the crest of the mounds and down into the undercurve. Whack-whack. “Okay. That’s it. You can get up now.”

He cocked his leg and set his son free. Wayne jumped to his feet and hopped about and at the same time rubbed away at his toasted bottom. For his part, Dad was surprised how breathless he was. He hadn’t felt the least bit tired while he was taking Wayne’s backside apart. Now, he took a few deep breaths. He looked closely at the brush in his hand. Mary had been right, it was the perfect tool for spanking.

“Right. Get downstairs for breakfast,” he said sternly and when Wayne started searching for his jeans, he added, “No go like you are in your vest and pants. You’ve wasted enough of your Mum’s time as it is.” He watched with deep satisfaction as without a murmur of dissent Wayne left the room.

Moments later Wayne arrived in the kitchen. Mary Weatherspoon noticed at once his air of remorse.  She saw also the deep pink marks on the backs of his thighs. As she set a plate before her son she felt the stirrings of respect for her husband.

 

Picture credit: Cody Ferguson

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Economics failure

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z used white pants paddle chair (3a)

Come in! Which one are you? Callaghan is it? I have a list. Yes, you’re on it here. You skipped my Economics 101 class and you haven’t handed in your coursework. Yes? Well, you are about to learn a very painful lesson. That’s the trouble with so many of you freshers. You don’t think you’re at school to study. It’s just fun and games for the likes of you. Well, believe me when I say it catches up with you in the end.

We have a very clear policy in the Economics Faculty. Some people would say we’re a little old fashioned. Well, I for one say I don’t mind being old-fashioned in air quotes if it delivers results. And, given time we get the results.

I don’t recognise you. Have you attended any of my classes? I suppose you sit at the back of the lecture hall, goofing around with your friends, disturbing everyone else. Why did you ever sign up for university? Your parents, I suppose. You and your kind have a sense of entitlement. You think you just have to register and we’ll give you a college degree. I don’t suppose you’ve done a hard day’s work in your life.

Well, Callaghan, I’ve got news for you. You do the work, or else! I could just flunk you and make you come back next year and do the course again. I could, but let me level with you. If I fail you that makes me look bad. Makes out I’m a bad instructor, do you see what I mean? But don’t let that make you think I’m just going to sign you off with a pass. That’s not going to happen.

What I am going to do Callaghan, is I’m going to give you a second chance. An opportunity to turn yourself around. It won’t be easy – well, not easy for you that is. You need self-discipline to succeed in life and if at your age you don’t have it in you, you need somebody older and a lot wiser to impose that discipline. Do you understand Callaghan?

Do you see what this is boy? Don’t look so blank. You’re pretty intelligent or you wouldn’t have made it here to begin with. What I’m going to do Callaghan is I’m going to paddle your rear end. Don’t pout at me. Read the university regulations. It’s clearly stated. You signed up to them when you came here.

Right. Pick up that chair and put it there by my desk.

Just do it, I don’t want any argument from you, Callaghan.

Right. Stand in front of the chair. I’m going to give you the spanking you so richly deserve. That’s six swats for cutting my class and six swats for not handing in coursework. To run consecutively. That means one after the other, Callaghan. Twelve swats in total.

Right. Take down your jeans and bend over the chair.

Yes, take down your jeans. You’re in Big School now. How old are you – eighteen, nineteen? You need more than a little boy’s spanking. If this paddling is going to turn around your life, it must be memorable. Afterwards, I want to see you hopping all the way down the corridor to the elevator. I want you to monitor the bruises on your butt over the coming week as they turn from deep purple then though all shades of mauves and yellows before they finally disappear. Do you have a girlfriend Callaghan? Better think up a few excuses not to see her. How would you explain them?

Right. Stop making a fuss and down with those jeans.

That’s better. You should learn to face the consequences of your actions like a man. You skip my classes, you don’t do coursework … this is the consequence.

Let those jeans fall all the way. Bend over the chair. Grip the seat. Legs apart. It’s best if you look straight ahead. Don’t try to see what I’m doing back here. Keep that back arched. Head low. Bottom out.

Right Callaghan, let’s see if we can rescue your university career. You might not think so right now, but one day you’ll thank me for this …

Picture credit: Man’s Hand Films

 

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The spanking I thoroughly deserved

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Colonel Blincoe’s folly

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z used folly 4

The tower in Colonel Blincoe’s garden had originally been built as one those architectural follies by an eccentric gentlemen back in the midst of history. Or, about 1920, as local folklore had it. It was built of brick in the shape of a cone and consisted of two small rooms one on top of the other, with a small balcony attached to the outside. You reached the upper floor by a staircase that ran around the outside making it look a little like an old-fashioned fairground helter-skelter. From the upper floor and the balcony it was just possible to see over high garden walls and hedges into neighbouring gardens. To facilitate his enjoyment of this facility, the colonel had purchased a pair of high-powered ex-military field glasses.

None of his neighbours was aware that the colonel would pass away lonely days peering through the binoculars, investigating nearby houses. He rarely saw anything of interest. After all, what was there to see? This was The Avenue, one of the most highly-desirable residential streets in Brocklehurst, one hardly expected to see an opium den in operation. Nor, was there ever likely to be a murder committed. The colonel had hoped he might get a small thrill catching a couple “at it” in their beds, but his near neighbours had reached the age where that sort of thing had become very rare indeed.

So, it was with no great expectation that one afternoon late in the summer he removed his field glasses from their leather box and polished the lenses. The Braithwaites in the house next door were not at home, or so he expected. He had seen suitcases being piled into a taxi the previous Saturday and Mrs Braithwaite had climbed inside. His neighbours were, the colonel supposed, off on holidays. He thought no more of it until he noticed a movement inside the house. It was from an upper window. Burglars! The colonel’s aged heart beat faster. He had caught them red-handed. Damn! he cussed himself mildly, there was no telephone in his tower and he had never felt the need to acquire one of those new-fangled portable phone things. He couldn’t call the police. Instead, he resolved to use his binoculars and observe as much as he could. He would make notes, of the criminals’ descriptions and such like and hand them over to the authorities in due course.

He only had a partial view of the room. In fact, most of it was obscured and all he could see clearly was that space directly in front of the smallish sash window. He cursed once more and settled himself as close to his own window as was possible. He focussed the glasses and waited. There was definitely a figure in the room; a man, and quite elderly too, he thought. The colonel saw him from the back. He wore a weighty tweed jacket and dark-grey flannel trousers. The colonel was puzzled: that didn’t seem to be the correct attire for burglary. He hardly expected the man to wear a striped vest and be carrying a bag marked “swag” but a warm summer’s day required something a little less formal.

There seemed to be another man in the room. He was speaking to a companion. Two of them! The colonel’s heart beat faster. He was a keen reader of crime fiction of the more traditional variety. For a moment he imagined himself as the village sleuth, the “amateur” who captures the criminal that the local detectives cannot find. He licked his lips in anticipation of the excitement ahead. Then, the man turned and his face was fully visible. The colonel’s balloon popped. It was Mr Braithwaite himself. In his own home. Not a burglar at all. What of the holiday trip, the colonel wondered.

His disappointment was short-lived. No robbery was in place but something queer was afoot. Now, he saw the other man. He was younger and perhaps not a man at all. He wore a green school blazer and as the boy moved across the window the colonel clearly saw he was dressed in pale-grey short trousers. He disappeared from view leaving the colonel once again perplexed. The school uniform looked remarkably like that worn by boys at St Francis Independent Grammar School, the most upscale school in the district, but to his uncertain knowledge the boys did not wear short trousers. And, wasn’t the boy too old for such trousers? He adjusted the focus and peered intently at the window.

Seconds later he was rewarded by a clear view. It wasn’t a small boy at all. He wasn’t any kind of boy. The colonel recognised him at once. He knew him reasonably well. Without a doubt it was Bobby, the barman at The Three Fishers, the unsavoury hostelry the colonel himself frequented. What the hell was going on? He was definitely dressed in school uniform, the colonel could see the blazer, striped tie and grey shirt as clear as day.

Mr Braithwaite said something to Bobby and the boy turned. He said something back and then disappeared from view, only to return two seconds later carrying a wooden chair. The colonel recognised the chair, he had some quite like it in his own house. A straight-backed armless thing, the kind that went with a dining table. Bobby placed it on the floor with its back directly in front of the window. The colonel couldn’t hear anything as the house was too far away but he sensed Bobby was listening to something Mr Braithwaite said. Then Mr Braithwaite came into view. The colonel’s heart stopped for a second. His mouth dried of all saliva. Perspiration moistened his bald dome.

Mr Braithwaite carried a thin, whippy school-type cane. The colonel recognised it at once. It had a curved handle just like the ones masters used at St. Tom’s, the elite boarding school he had attended more than fifty years earlier. The colonel’s jaw tightened. The tip of his tongue poked out his mouth and ran along his bottom lip. Then his jaw dropped. It literally fell. He gaped. Bobby unfastened the snake-shaped buckle of his belt. Then, staring right out of the window and not looking at his hands, Bobby popped the button at the top of his short trousers and when the waistband hung open by an inch, he gripped the metal fly zipper and tugged. The short trousers slithered down his thighs, past his knees, and the colonel supposed (because this was out of his sight) fell in a puddle at his feet. Bobby stood straight ahead, hands behind his back, offering the colonel a perfect view of his gleaming white Y-front underpants. They fitted snugly, confirming to the colonel that this was no boy.

Mr Braithwaite must have given Bobby an instruction because his face flushed and still intent on staring out of the window he put both thumbs inside the waistband of the pants and slowly helped them down so they passed over his buttocks and travelled south to meet the short trousers. Then, Bobby stood once more hands behind his back, presumably to await further orders. The colonel’s hands shook slightly as he adjusted the focus on the glasses. He honed in on Bobby’s naked cock and balls, cursing all the while: the back of the wooden chair obscured them from his view.

Mr Braithwaite passed into the frame. He held the thin, swishy cane between his hands, flexing it thoughtfully. In a trice the colonel was transported back fifty years. He is in the housemaster’s study. It is early summer, no window is open and the room is airless. Mr Corlett is jawing him. “Attitude,” he intones. “Lazy,” he adds. “A disgrace,” he concludes. “You will never pass your examinations and go up to university.” Corlett flexes the cane, just as Mr Braithwaite was doing in the house across the garden. “Good God boy!” Corlett rages, “If you don’t get to university, you’ll have to join the Army!” The housemaster swishes the cane through the air. “Trousers, underwear down. Bend over the chair,” and at the age of eighteen the not-yet colonel submitted his bared bottom to the savage Mr Corlett.

The memory passed through the colonel’s mind at the speed of light. It had been a comfortable leather armchair in his case but the principle was much the same as the scenario being played out in front of him. “Bend over. Brace yourself. This is going to hurt. It is meant to. Otherwise, we should both be wasting our time.” Bobby held onto the chair, his head bowed and face hovering above the wooden seat. His back was arched and his legs spread. Mr Braithwaite stood behind him, he took hold of the end of the blazer and pushed it up the boy’s back. He did the same with the tail of his shirt. The colonel cussed that Bobby was not positioned the other way round; bare bottom facing the window. He saw the boy close his eyes and shut his teeth tight. Mr Braithwaite tapped the cane across the centre of Bobby’s bum. He took aim, raised the cane, held it in mid-air for a couple of seconds and then with forearm thrust he swiped it across Bobby’s naked haunches. The look of anguish on the boy’s face as the cane bit deep into his flesh was priceless. The colonel saw his mouth open and close but the boy’s yell and obvious distress did not travel. The colonel might have been watching a silent movie.

Mr Braithwaite took two steps back, examined Bobby’s backside with a malevolent eye, raised the cane high and rushed forward while simultaneously whipping the cane home. Hard! Bobby leapt to his feet; still the colonel couldn’t hear the boy’s shrieks but it was beyond doubt that he was in some distress. The colonel’s own backside twitched in sympathy. Had, his own housemaster at school beaten him as hard? The years had dulled his memory and he could not say for certain. It had been excruciatingly painful to sit down after that final thrashing. He had eaten his tea that afternoon standing at the mantlepiece in the study; he couldn’t use a chair for some considerable time.

He watched Bobby resume his position. What a trooper he was, the colonel decided, but why did he do it? Why let Mr Braithwaite cane his bare backside so viciously? Did the man have some “hold” over the barman. Perhaps, he had caught him stealing bar takings. “It’s a thrashing from me or I go to the police!” It was possible, the colonel supposed, but unlikely. What would the police or the law courts do about it? Bobby would end up with a slapped wrist at worst, not a blisteringly sore bum. Such was the state of the nation these days.

z used cane bare chair seen through window school

No, the colonel saw it all now and he did not approve. What was it they called young men like Bobby? Rent boys? Bah! Disgusting. The colonel watched Mr Braithwaite flog twelve stingers across Bobby’s backside. He could only imagine what the once creamy-white flesh looked like. Certainly there were deep red lines all across his cheeks. Welts would be weeping. Bobby himself was beyond weeping, tears washed his face as unashamedly he howled and howled.

Mr Braithwaite gave some instruction and the boy let go of the chair and straightened himself up. He hopped up and down like some demented Red Indian in a bad Western movie and rubbed away at his throbbing rear end. He hobbled away from the window and out of the colonel’s view. Mr Braithwaite had already vanished. The colonel waited disappointed. His own heartbeat was racing off the scale. He had once suffered a mild cardiac arrest and he didn’t want another. He put the field glasses on a chair nearby and bent double to suck in great gasps of air; soon he was calming down.

He shuffled across the room, opened a small refrigerator and took out a bottle. Within moments he was sipping on a reviving gin-and-tonic. “Well, well, well,” he said aloud although he lived alone and there was no one to hear him. “Who would have thought it? The things that go on behind closed doors in respectable suburbia.” He would see Bobby the barman at The Three Feathers in a new, harsher light from now on. He went back to the window in the vain hope he would see more action. The room was empty; he had to concede it was over.

“Perverts,” he snorted, as he rubbed his sweaty palms against his thighs, rearranging the gypsy-style dress that he wore over pale-cream gossamer-light knickers.

Picture credits: The Folly Fellowship / Unknown

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Summer spent staring at the carpet

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z used otk chair head bbfc (200)

I cannot begin to remember how often I had a close-up view of the carpet that summer. My nose hovering inches above the dusty, cheap flooring. Trousers at my ankles, underwear at the knees and Uncle Simon flogging a birch rod into my naked buttocks. Yowl! I can still feel the sting as I recall the pain and indignity of it all.

Nineteen years old and over an older man’s knees for a bare-arsed whipping. Can you imagine such a thing?

I’m not sure where to begin. It was 1974. A lifetime away. I had spent the previous six months banged up at Her Majesty’s Pleasure. They called it Youth Detention in those days, a bit like borstal really. It doesn’t much matter what you called it, it was still locked up three to a cell for most of the day. I was a menace to society, apparently. Okay, I stole cars. Lots of them in fact. Can you be addicted to stealing cars? Perhaps I was. Do they have a special name for it? Probably. I never did much with them. I drove around at high speed and when I had my fill I dumped them. Crazy really. It didn’t take the cops long to find me. The daft magistrates gave me community service the first time. Making tea at some old granny’s day centre. At the end of the third day there, I stole a Cortina and thrashed it along the motorway. The magistrate gave me a fine that time.

The fifth time I was up before the Bench, he sent me to YD. Mum disowned me when I came out. Step forward Uncle Simon.

“What he needs,” he told my mum, “is a good dose of the birch. None of that namby-pamby community service.” And, he knew what he was talking about. Uncle Simon was no angel when he was younger. House breaking was his thing. Stealing wireless sets his speciality. I know, it just shows you how long ago that was. The Assizes ordered him to six strokes of the birch. Bare-arsed, naturally. “Still got the scars to prove it,” Uncle Simon boasted. I never believed him. I asked him once to drop his kecks and show me his bare arse. Enough said on that matter.

I was to find out myself that the birch can take your arse off, but the cuts soon heal. Uncle Simon took me into his home which was a dingey little flat on a council estate near Widdicombe Woods. It was near one of the poshest suburbs of Brocklehurst and I thought nothing of bunking over garden walls and taking my pick from summer houses and sheds. Now and again one of the old geezers who lived there left a french window carelessly unlocked. Bingo! In those days you could easily sell a video in the pub. Ha!

What I didn’t reckon with was that Uncle Simon hadn’t changed so much. He liked to drink in the less savoury joints and hang out with petty criminals so when one time I waltzed into The Three Fishers with a video recorder hidden in a Tesco’s bag who should I see propping up the bar? He didn’t say anything. His deadly stare was enough to make me leg it out of the pub. I knew I was for it later. Still, I thought, in for a penny in for a pound. Or, better to be hung for a sheep than for a lamb.  Actually, I probably didn’t really think that at the time (I hadn’t learned about fancy words; that came later). What I did was I went touring the pubs until I sold the video. So, at least my pockets were jangling with cash by the time I got home.

Uncle Simon was waiting. He had put the time since I saw him to good use. The second I walked through the door the very strong smell of freshly-cut tree branches hit me. Uncle Simon was in the kitchen busy with a bread knife. But he wasn’t cutting sandwiches; he had a pile of birch twigs neatly stacked on the kitchen table. I stood half in the doorway and watched, as he collected about a dozen of the twigs together and wrapped sticking plaster around one end. This made a makeshift, but effective handle. As he finished off the second birch rod, he acknowledged my presence. I probably blushed to my roots, but I didn’t say a word. Uncle Simon didn’t say much. He took both birch rods in his hands and nodded in a direction behind me. “Living room. Now!”

I didn’t need to ask for confirmation or explanation. I knew precisely what he intended to do. Now, at this point in my story, you too know what happens next. But, you might also be asking yourself, “Why did he let his Uncle do this?” You probably think I should have told him to go to hell and refused to have anything to do with his plan. And it would be perfectly reasonable of you to say that. I have no answer to you. Except to say that this was a very long time ago and I had been through the youth detention system and maybe I was conditioned to this kind of thing. I lived a regimented life; there were rules and you were expected to obey them. If you didn’t you were punished. Sometimes that meant a birching. That’s life. What I can say to those of you with suspicious minds, not for one moment did I enjoy this.

So, I trudged into the living room with Uncle Simon following closely behind me. The room was very small, like the rest of the flat, and had a cheap, vinyl settee and two small armchairs that did not match it. There was a beat-up table in the corner and a worn, wooden straight backed armless chair. “Put that there!” Uncle spoke softly and in a monotone voice. I knew what he meant and I picked up the chair and took it into the middle of the room. As I did that Uncle Simon laid the birch rods on the table. He left one there and took the other with him as he went and sat on the chair. He spread his legs the way you do at times like this and told me quietly and sternly, “Take down your jeans and pants. You know what to do.”

I did. And I knew why I was about to be birched. Uncle Simon had not said a word about my thieving. He knew that I knew and that was enough. All he wanted was to get on with it. He didn’t even give me time to take off my coat. I stood about a yard distance from Uncle’s  right thigh and stared at him. At the time I thought he was an old man but now I look back I suppose how wasn’t much over fifty. He was padding out a bit and he had a muffin belly that hung a little over his belt. He still had all his hair, but it was going grey at the temples. I looked at the birch in his hands. By this time I had become familiar with this. We all called it “a birch” but I think it was actually made of about a dozen hazel twigs; he had cut each of them to about ten or twelve inches and tied them into a handle at one end. Despite its size it wasn’t very heavy; not like the birches Uncle Simon had been flogged with back in the day. He had constructed the birch so he could swish my bare arse while I was bent across his knee in the traditional naughty-little-boy fashion. Of course, since I was face down staring at the carpet I never saw this, but I’m pretty certain that the birch rods spread enough to cover both my cheeks in a single swipe.

So, Uncle Simon told me to strip down and I did. My jeans were puddled over my trainers and my boxer shorts hung over my knees. “Bend over,” he said and again I did as I was told. I was roughly the same height as Uncle Simon but a lot leaner and my body fitted comfortably across his lap. He spread his legs so there was a platform for my stomach and chest to rest on. My arms and head dangled forward. Uncle gripped my right arm and twisted it up my back so I was pinned down. My bare bum was raised high over his thigh and my legs stretched behind me and with my knees bent a little my toes hovered above the carpet. I waited submissively. I had no intention of fighting Uncle Simon.

It was summer, but the day was not particularly warm. A window was open and a breeze cooled my bare bottom and legs. Uncle Simon teased me by gently caressing my naked cheeks with the birch. It was ticklish. But not for long. I felt the birch being raised, Uncle Simon held it aloft for a second or so and then there was an almighty swishing noise as it swooped through the air and connected with terrific force across the undercurves of my buttocks. My entire body shuddered, my knees buckled and a long, shrill hiss of air escaped through my clenched teeth. Another second or so passed and I felt a searing pain as the skin on my bum burned like the fires of Hell.

Uncle Simon repeated the manoeuvre and this time he laid the birch high on the crest of my mounds. Now, ever square inch of my bottom was alight. It throbbed madly and I knew small cuts were creeping across the whole target area. My heartbeat was off the scale and my temples ached almost as much as my bum. I did the wriggling and writhing thing again, but Uncle had a very firm hold of me and I wasn’t going anywhere until he said so.

Of course, with both cheeks roaring any further swipes of the birch could only land on already raw flesh and reignite the intense pain. Uncle Simon showed no mercy. Swipe! Swish! Swipe! Swish! Six cuts had opened up the flesh. No matter how many times I went across Uncle Simon’s knee that summer I never got used to the sting of the birch. I kicked; I wriggled; I swayed; I yelped; I yelled; I hollered. I was out of control. I had no choice. It was an entirely physical reaction, it was my body’s way of coping with the assault. That was why my face was awash with tears after three stokes and my chin was soaked in snot after six.

He stopped after nine. I hopped to my feet and rubbed away like fury. My bum felt like raw hamburger meat. The cheeks were criss-crossed with dozens and dozens of thin lines; some were white and others glowed dark pink. Before long the whole lot would merge into a deep mauve that in the days to come would transform into oranges and yellows before eventually disappearing. My bum felt like it had swollen to twice its normal size. I glared at Uncle Simon, not with fury but remorse. My eyes were on stalks and I could hardly see through the tears. It would take some time yet before my heartrate steadied, my breathing eased and my body returned to its natural state. I couldn’t bear the pain involved in pulling up my boxers and jeans so with them at my ankles I waddled like a penguin from the room and staggered across the passage to my bedroom. I lay face down sobbing for the rest of the day.

Did it do me any good; that summer spent staring at the carpet? Well, the truth is I did carry on stealing. Uncle Simon lost patience and threw me out. I left Brocklehurst and thumbed a lift North. One day with a couple of equally coked-up pals I attempted to rob an off-licence. We got five years jail time for that and I’ve been in and out ever since.

 

Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club

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Changed Times 6. Birched live on TV

The hotel swimming pool

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Uncle Martin lends a hand

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z used otk chair jeans down (1a)

I remember when Uncle Martin first told me that if I didn’t start doing as I was told, he would take down my jeans and underpants, take me across his knee and spank my bare bottom very hard indeed, I thought he was joking.

I didn’t call him out on it and say, “You’re having a laugh. I’m nineteen years old.” I didn’t shrug my shoulders nonchalantly as if to tell him, “I don’t care.” I think I just blushed cherry red and rushed from the room.

This happened a long time ago. Nineteen-seventy-three. Things were different then. Corporal punishment was everywhere. Not like today. We got the swishy, bendy cane from the headmaster and the rubber soled plimsoll in gym class. “Bend over. Touch toes.” Swipe! Swipe! Swipe! Six-of-the-best, across the seat of the stretched trousers. Ouch! Kids today don’t know they’re born. Fathers were not afraid to whip a belt across the backsides of their misbehaving sons. Or a slipper. The dad of a schoolfriend of mine used to keep a wooden paddle hanging from a nail in the cupboard under the stairs, always ready for action.

I had just passed my school A-levels and had a place at the university in Brocklehurst. As fate would have it Uncle Martin had a house in the same town so my parents decided (I didn’t have a say in the matter) I would lodge with him and Aunt Marie. Uncle Martin was my mother’s brother and a few years older than her. His own children were grown and had flown the coop, so he had a couple of spare bedrooms doing nothing.

Looking back after all these years I see I was a bit full of myself. What teenager isn’t. I treated Uncle’s house like it was a hotel. Of course, Aunt Marie cooked my meals, did my washing and generally skivvied for me. Me, I stayed in bed most of the morning (early lectures be damned) and I came and went as I pleased. Often, I would get back from the university, eat my dinner and then – without a word to either of them – I’d go out and not return until the early hours. What did I care?

Uncle was beside himself. I was going off the rails. All I could look forward to was failure in the end of term exams. The inevitable happened. How could he explain that to his sister, my mum? He couldn’t, but he could make sure it wouldn’t happen again. His solution? A damn good spanking.

“What did I say would happen?” Uncle Martin growled at me the day the results came out. He waved the letter from college in my face. “You’ll have to do summer school and retake the exams in October!” His complexion turned from pink to various shades of red before settling on puce. “Well!” spittle flew from between his cracked lips, “I’m going to make sure you don’t screw up again. I’m going to warm that bottom of yours, to encourage you to put your intelligence to some good use. Come here!”

He grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and hauled me from the kitchen into the living room. My feet skidded across the carpet as I desperately tried to escape his cutches. “C’mon,” I wailed, “I’m too old for this. You can’t spank me!”

That was the wrong thing to say. I’m certain it only encouraged Uncle Martin. He was a man on a mission. He was going to save me. Save me, from myself. He released my neck and took a chunk of my hair in his fist. With his free arm he tugged a wooden, straight-backed chair from under the dining table. It toppled over but he soon had it upright again. I was still effing and jeffing, telling him to let me go.

I swear he sneered at me. A look of total contempt spread across his face. He didn’t say a word. He just sat himself on the chair. Now, he let go of my hair. He reached out and unzipped my jeans and down they went, then down came my underwear. He stood me there a moment with my nineteen-year-old bottom bare. I think my chin was quivering from the embarrassment of standing with my dick hanging out. I had no idea how strong a man Uncle was, but I was about to find out. He gripped my forearm and tugged me over to his right side. He spread his knees about six inches. Then came the command, “Bend over.” I stood frozen. “Bah!” he exclaimed and pulled me over his knee. I toppled over and spread my hands on the floor to break my fall. I was face down with my back slightly arched. My knees were bent and my toes hovered over the floor.

I was quite a lightweight in those days and Uncle Martin was stocky and strong. I was completely dominated. He put his arm round my waist and moved me so that my cock and balls were between his knees. I looked underneath me and could see my toes above the floor in the back. Looking to my right, I could see the side of my bare, pale bum sticking up in the air, inviting him to whack it. And that is what he did.

He started on my left cheek. An almighty slap in the centre, where I had most flesh. Not that I had much of that if truth be told. My bum was as hard as a rubber ball. Those were the days before McDonald’s really took off and my diet became mainly hamburgers. Uncle’s hands were as big as shovels and they were rough and tough. He had no need of a hairbrush or a belt. He held me down and spanked me hard. Just as he had promised to do. First on the left cheek, then five seconds later on the right. Then higher on the left, then lower on the right. In no time he had gone right round the circuit. I squirmed, kicked, yelled, pleaded, wailed and threatened. Uncle just spanked on and on: steadily, relentlessly.

“I’ll give you something to yell about,” he growled  as each spank hurt more than the last. I don’t think he was spanking me harder and harder; it was the accumulation, the way the pain built up with each additional spank.

I should’ve known better than to put my hand over my bum to try to protect myself from Uncle’s onslaught. He pinned my hand half way up my back. “Don’t you dare,” he snarled and gave me ten or twelve very fast, very hard spanks.

I squirmed and kicked and tried to cover my reddening cheeks, but it didn’t help. He held me in place, face down, bottom up and didn’t miss a beat drumming on my bare backside.

That was the first time Uncle Martin spanked my bare bottom, but it wasn’t to be the last. I soon became acquainted with his wide range of ‘attitude adjusters’ that he kept in a box on top of the wardrobe in his bedroom. I wonder what became of them. I heard yesterday that my own grandson has been ‘excluded’ from school because of his disruptive behaviour. I might have put them to good use.

Picture credit Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Smoking on the bus

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I don’t often travel on the bus in the afternoon, but this day I had to leave work early for an urgent dental appointment. How is it that one small tooth can cause a grown man so much pain?

The bus was crowded – the schools had just let out – and I was obliged to take my throbbing jaw up to the top deck. The bus jolted throwing me along the gangway. I kept my balance, if not my dignity, and slumped into an empty seat. I rubbed my cheek hoping that by some miracle the ache would go away.

My head was pounding and my general mood wasn’t helped by the raucous noise echoing across the top deck. I must have been the only ‘civilian’ passenger among a sea of schoolboys. They wore green-and-gold blazers so I knew they must be from some posh school. The local grammar perhaps. Suddenly, from somewhere close behind me I smelt a familiar aroma. Someone was puffing a cigarette and the smoke was billowing across my face. Greatly irritated, I turned, intending to have an argument.

My mouth opened, but my aching jaw dropped. Sitting behind me was a schoolboy and between his fingers he held a lighted cigarette. His hand was held high and it seemed to me that he was waving it round for all to see. He showed little inclination to actually put it between his lips and suck. At first he didn’t notice me. That gave me time to notice the small badge pinned to the lapel of his blazer: Prefect. My head buzzed. A senior boy, a prefect no less. Smoking in public. On the bus. In his school uniform. In front of so many junior boys.

Suddenly, he noticed I had turned in my seat to face him. He didn’t speak at first, but the look of distain on his face spoke volumes. “Who do you think you’re looking at?” it said. I answered his unspoken question. “You shouldn’t be smoking,” I said. He glared at me in silence and made me continue, “You’re too young.” I trailed off. I couldn’t think what else to say.

What did I expect him to do? Apologise profusely? Stub out the cigarette? Promise never to smoke again? He did none of these things. His stare of contempt sent a shiver through my body. “I am eighteen,” he said haughtily. “I am old enough to smoke.” Then with great emphasis, he continued. “It. Is. Not. Against. The. Law.”

I am not a man who welcomes confrontation. The boy’s arrogant smirk unnerved me. I had wanted to say something like, “No, but it is against the rules of your school,” but I was too timid. The boy looked closely at the cigarette in his hands and slowly placed it between his lips. He drew smoke into his mouth, held it there for a moment and then quite deliberately exhaled it so that it blew across my face.

I told myself later that if the bus had not at that moment reached my stop I should have remonstrated with him. As it was I had to leave our skirmish unfinished. I am certain the boy smirked openly and encouraged his pals to do likewise as I bounced down the aisle towards the stairs. The meeting with the conceited schoolboy did nothing to calm me. I found it hard to contain the humiliation I felt and the raging pain in my mouth. By the time I presented myself to the dentist’s receptionist I had determined I would track down the boy’s school and report the incident to his headmaster.

Yes, I congratulated myself. I would not be intimidated by some snotty eighteen-year-old schoolboy. My mood had improved considerably by the time the dentist placed a mask over my mouth and asked me to count down from ten and I drifted off.

The next thing I remember was pacing an enormous room. A huge desk stood in the middle and there was a large armchair off to its right. The room was surrounded by book-lined shelves. An unlit fireplace dominated one wall. I was wearing a suit and over it hung a heavy black academic gown. On my head, slipping a little, I sported a mortar-board cap with its tassel dangling against my neck. In my hands I flexed a stout, yellow-coloured, rattan cane. It was more than three feet long and as thick as a pencil, yet also as light as a feather. At one end was a curved handle. The cane had notches along its length and the tip – the business end if you will – was frayed. This little beauty had seen some action in its time.

I swished the cane through the air. Butler, the arrogant boy from the bus, stood before me, hands clasped firmly behind his back. His head was bowed contritely. “An absolute disgrace, Butler,” I intoned. “You have let the school down. I won’t have it Butler. I simply won’t have it.” Butler’s neck reddened, but his face remained deathly pale. “To begin with, you will hand over your prefect’s badge. You are not fit for high office in this school.”

Butler said nothing. His forehead glistened with perspiration. Not daring to look at me, he fumbled with the pin of the badge and unclasped it from his blazer. “Put it there. On the desk,” I growled. Sorrowfully, Butler did as instructed. “Now, remove your blazer.” Butler unbuttoned the front and slipped the jacket from his shoulders. “Place it on my desk.” He did this, all the time ensuring that I could not see his face. “Right,” I swished the cane through the air one more time. “Let’s proceed shall we.”

It wasn’t a question, it was a statement of my intent. “Stand by that chair.” I pointed the cane at the armchair in case there was any doubt. The whippy rattan cane wobbled violently as I did this. Butler, his head still bowed, shuffled the four or five paces necessary to cross the study. He stopped some distance from the chair. “Stand behind the chair,” I stressed the word, as if talking to a boy of low intelligence. He shuffled some more and stood feet slightly apart. “Pah!” I ejaculated. “Closer boy. Closer.” I could not be sure if Butler was an idiot or if he was deliberately trying to be difficult. He took a step closer to the chair.

Butler was eighteen years old and on the cusp of manhood. He stood about an inch taller than myself but he was much thinner and lighter. He wore a regulation white, long-sleeved shirt and pale-grey trousers. They were a big snug across the backside and fell to an inch above his shoes. He was clearly a growing lad and I supposed his mother had decided it wasn’t worth the expense of buying him new trousers so close to the end of his school career.

“Right Butler,” I spoke slowly and clearly. I do not believe in histrionics. I am the headmaster and he is the schoolboy. I give him orders and he obeys them. That is the nature of the universe. “Lower your trousers, Butler,” I instructed. A slight shudder of his shoulders informed me that Butler had not anticipated such a development. Clearly, he expected to be beaten. That had been clear from the moment he received the summons to attend at my study. Butler was a senior boy – a prefect no less – and his crime had been so public that nothing but the most exemplary punishment would suffice.

z used cane armchair white pants CP-L (6)

I flexed the cane between my hands as I watched Butler unbuckle his belt, pop the buttons of his fly and encourage the trousers to slip down his thighs, over his knees and land at his feet. A moustache of perspiration now glowed over his top lip. His hands shook slightly as he straightened up. Once again, he clasped them behind his back. I wobbled the cane and touched the tip against the apex of the armchair. “Bend over Butler,” I intoned. He screwed his eyes tightly shut, then opened them. He sucked in a deep breath and rubbed the palms of his hands together. He was obviously preparing himself for the ordeal to come. Once prepared, he leaned forward and in a very athletic movement he was over the back of the armchair. He stretched his arms out front and gripped the furthest edge of the seat cushion. His stomach cleared the chair by an inch or two.

I flexed the cane and moved so I stood slightly to Butler’s left. “Head low. Bottom high. Legs further apart.” Butler wriggled his position until I was satisfied. Now, his stomach rested on the chair and he had to reach almost on tiptoe so that his face was so close to the cushion that he could probably smell the dust. When Butler was standing his bottom was a little flabby, but the flesh tightened when he was prostrated across the chair. It was round and hard. I tapped my cane across the fleshiest part of his bottom. I wasn’t yet satisfied.

I tucked the cane under my arm and approached Butler. His white Y-front underpants hung loosely. His entire body tensed when I gripped the elasticated waistband. The stupid boy had supposed I was about to rip down his pants and thrash him on the bare. I had no such intention. At least not unless and until he was found smoking again. Instead, I pulled the underpants tight so that all creases were smoothed out of the cotton material. The Y-fronts now fitted like a second skin and dug a little way up the crack that separated the buttocks. I cupped my right palm and gently caressed each cheek, ensuring that the last of the wrinkles was gone. I was now ready.

I slipped the cane back into my hand and took up position about three feet from Butler. I tapped the cane so that the tip bounced off the very centre of his right buttock. His bottom tensed. Bottoms always do under such circumstances, it is a natural reflex reaction. I withdrew the cane, raised it above my shoulder and through an arc returned it with some vigour so that it struck Butler across the centre of both cheeks. I was rewarded with a lovely line across the taut cotton pants and a very long and loud hissing sound escaping between the boy’s pursed lips. His bottom rose an inch or so from the chair but he gripped the seat cushion for dear life and stopped himself making further movement.

I hadn’t announced such, but there is an unspoken rule between headmaster and naughty boy that said boy should remain submissively in position and take his beating like a man. Anything else will be rewarded with extra stokes. I put the second stroke a little lower, into the more sensitive “sit-spot”. Butler hissed some more and stomped his feet up and down rather like a guard on sentry duty. His face was now as red as I supposed his backside to be at that moment.

I let the boy settle. A caning is more effective if you allow the initial shock of the stroke to sink into the boy’s bottom. The pain will them travel up and down his legs and if it has been severe enough also to other parts of the body. The initial agony will be intense. Very quickly that will settle into a roaring pain. That is the point when the next stroke should be delivered. In that way the pain of the punishment grows with each successive stroke.

I waited about twenty seconds and swiped in the third stroke. This one went higher on the crest of the mounds. Now there were three pulsating cuts running across his bottom in parallel lines. There would be a strip about two inches wide throbbing under his underpants. Butler’s head was bobbing up and down and his face was butting the cushion. His fingers continued to grip the cushion and even from some distance I could see his knuckles were white.

I flexed the cane once more, enjoying the power I had over the obnoxious boy. I would teach him a lesson. No more would he smoke in public. No more would he be rude to his elders and betters. I tapped the cane across the highest point of his stretched bottom and let fly. The crack of rattan against tight flesh resounded around the room. He yelped, just like a little whipped puppy. His back arched and he threw his head from left to right and then up and down. He reminded me of a neighing horse. His knees buckled and his bottom slipped off the top of the chair, but still he hadn’t jumped to his feet howling, clutching his posterior with both hands in a fruitless attempt to rub the pain away.

“Back in position boy. Bottom high. Head low. Legs apart,” I paced the study observing Butler as he struggled to present himself for the final two strokes. His face was scarlet, his hair was soaked with sweat. His eyes were hollow. I had no doubt he was in intense pain. I did not care. That was the point of the exercise. What was the point of a caning, if it did not hurt. Butler would never dare smoke again. He would never cheek fine upstanding members of the community.

He offered me his bottom. I adjusted my position slightly and laid the cane so it rested in a diagonal running from the bottom of the left cheek to the top of the right. Boys at the school knew this to be my signature punishment. It was what made a “headmaster’s caning” so feared. I whopped the cane across his backside with all my might. It was like I was beating a carpet. Of course, it struck across the four welts already throbbing across his bottom, reigniting the pain in them all and adding a new layer of agony.

I am not sure how in practical terms a “shriek” differs from a “yell” so I might not be able to adequately describe the racket Butler made at that point. I can attest that tears flooded down his face as if a dam had burst. Rasping guttural noises filled the study. Butler humped the back of the chair. His feet marched up and down. He did the head shaking thing again. But, through all of that, he continued to grip tightly the seat cushion. He did not stand up. I rather admired the boy’s fortitude.

I probably don’t have to tell you that for the final stroke I laid the cane on the opposite diagonal. By the time I had finished Butler had a perfect “X” marked across his buttocks. Snot poured from his nose and mixed with the tears. His entire body convulsed with sobs.

Slowly, I paced the study until I reached the far corner. There, I hung the cane on the umbrella stand. I turned and admired my handiwork. The boy was still bent across the chair, unable to stand until I gave permission. That was another of the unspoken rules. To do so would incur extra stokes and I had no doubt Butler was in no state to take those.

I waited a minute and then another, just watching the boy bellowing into the seat cushion. I was engulfed by a feeling of deep accomplishment. My heart was racing and my temples throbbed a little. I shook my head. Suddenly, from a long way away I heard a voice.

“Welcome back,” it was my dentist. He smiled, “So, how does that feel?”

The light in my eyes was strong. I blinked. “That feels very good indeed,” I told him, not thinking for a moment about the tooth he had just extracted.

Picture credit: CP Services, London

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Clubbing

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z used jeans outdoors contrite (2)

Yes, I can see that you’ve got a splitting headache. That’s what happens when you sneak out at night to go clubbing. What was it booze? Or, God help me, drugs?

What? Speak up. Stop mumbling. Booze! You’d better not be lying to me. It’s bad enough that you broke my house rules without you breaking the law as well.

When I said you could come back and live with your mother and me I made it absolutely clear that there would be rules. Yes? I am not telling you anything you don’t already know.

Oh for pity’s sake stop shaking your head. I told you to enrol in college and study hard. Yes? And what else did I say?

Well, what else did I say.

Stop mumbling. I said there would be a curfew. Every night. Never later than 11.30. I don’t care if you are nearly twenty, you’ve shown you cannot act responsibly.  So there have to be boundaries. It’s straightforward. It’s not rocket science.

So, you knew about the curfew. Yes? But you stayed out late anyway. And got drunk. Or high! Or whatever you kids call it these days. You came rolling home at half-past-two this morning. Your mother was sick to death with worry. I had to stop her ringing round the hospitals.

Then you chucked up all over the garden path. And don’t expect me or your mother to clean that up. You’ll do it right after I’ve finished with you.

Yes! Don’t look so surprised. Don’t think you’re getting away with this. I will not have it. You deliberately broke my rules. In my house. I should throw you out. You can go back and live in that squalid squat; or sleep on the streets.

No? You don’t want that. I didn’t think so. No, I’m not going to throw you out. Not this time. You have your mother to than for that. If I had my way …

But you have to be punished. Don’t scowl at me like that. Of course, you must be punished. What choice do I have? Be quiet! You knew damn well I wouldn’t let you get away with this. You can’t behave like an adult. If you insist on behaving like a little kid that’s how I’ll treat you.

Yes. I’ve still got that paddle. I never thought I’d have to use it again, but I never got rid of it. It’s still hanging on that hook in the cupboard under the stairs. Go get it.

I said go get it! Don’t make me have to fetch it myself. Do you want extra swats?

No I didn’t think so. Fetch it and take it into the living room.

The ‘living room’ was at the back of the house overlooking a sizeable garden and well away from the prying eyes of neighbours. Dad need not feel inhibited here. Mark could holler as much as he wanted it would do him no good. Dad was going to take the brat’s backside off; it would do the boy good. He needed to be led back to the straight-and-narrow path.

Mark slouched into the room and timidly handed his dad the paddle. It was ancient and worn. It had been in the family for generations. Dad’s own grandfather had made it himself. It was a simple blade attached to a handle. The business end was maybe twelve inches by three and a quarter inch thick. Someone had drilled holes in it so it could fly through the air at greater speed and leave an added impact on any upturned bottom.

Dad took the paddle and examined it carefully. There was no need for this, he had seen it (and used it) many times before. He knew what damage it could do. Mark’s shoulders drooped and he stared at the floor beneath his feet. His head throbbed like crazy and he felt sick and it wasn’t only last night’s booze that caused it.

Dad gripped the paddle by the handle and slapped the blade into his open left palm. Then, he gently tapped it against his own thigh. “I think you know how this is done,” he said sternly, watching Mark’s eyelids flicker with apprehension. Indeed, he knew only too well. He and both his elder brothers had felt the sting of the paddle many times while growing up. Neither of them (as far as Mark knew) had been spanked when they were nineteen years old.

“Right then, let’s have those jeans down,” for no useful reason Dad pointed at Mark’s jeans and wiggled his finger up and down. Mark got the message. His mouth opened to speak but Mark shut it back quickly. There was no point protesting. Dad was in charge. It was his way or the highway and Mark definitely did not want to go back on the streets.

“Come on,” Dad growled. “Let’s get this done before your mother comes back from shopping.” He waved the paddle through the air and in Mark’s direction. Colour drained from the boy’s face, he swallowed down a nugget of bile in his throat. Slowly he unbuttoned the top of his jeans and pulled the zipper. They were ‘skinny’ jeans and clung to the contours of his body like a second skin. They were not easy to remove. He got them down to his knees and then realised he was wearing sneakers. Dad saw this too. “Just down to the shins. No need to take them right off.”

Mark straightened himself up but could not look at Dad. What next? Would he have to take down his tight bright-blue cotton briefs. In the past Dad always spanked him on the briefs; but in the past he hadn’t been nineteen.

“Put yourself across the table,” Dad pointed the paddle at a small dining table. Mark swivelled his head to look at it but made no effort to move. “Now!” Dad blasted. “You are sorely trying my patience. Quick. Bend over. Flat across the table.”

It was as if Mark had only just woken up. He shook his head vigorously as if you clear it of sleep. He turned away from Dad and with his jeans restricting his walking he shuffled to the table. Once there he didn’t hesitate but leaned forward and rested his stomach on the cool table top. It was a small table and there was hardly any room for his arms, so he folded them and rested his chin on top. “Lets apart. Stick your bottom out more,” Dad ordered and he stared intently at his son until he was in a satisfactory position.

Mark wore a black t-shirt and it wasn’t very long, but even so Dad took hold of the hem and pushed it up Mark’s back so it was well clear of the underpants. Mark’s bottom, like the rest of his body, was thin and without an ounce of spare fat. If he had wanted to, Dad could have held an entire cheek in one hand. He didn’t do this; what he did do was to take hold of the elasticated waistband and tug hard so that the briefs dug up into Mark’s crack and so the cotton was smooth against the skin with no creases.

Dad was ready. Mark had a close up view of the wooden table. He shut his eyes tightly and tried to pretend that this was not happening. The heavy tap of the paddle against the centre of his right cheek brought him back to reality. Dad was taking aim. Suddenly Mark felt the paddle lift away from his backside and a second later it returned at high velocity and swatted him with tremendous force. He heard the CRACK! as wood connected with flesh. The noise resounded around the room. Only then did he feel the pain. It was like Dad had pressed his mother’s iron into him. Mark’s body jerked and his knees buckled. He had no control over this. It was just a natural reaction to the agony he felt.

Dad tapped the blade on the left cheek and WHOOP! Brought it down hard. It was like he was beating dust from a rug. Both cheeks burned like the fires of Hell. Mark’s head bounced up and down, but he kept his arms tightly folded but this time one foot crossed over the other as he struggled to stay in position, submissively face-down across the table with his bottom jutting out so that Dad continued to have a perfect aim.

Dad put the next swats lower. The underpants were so small and tight they didn’t cover the whole of Mark’s cheeks. That meant the paddle struck him on bare flesh where the bum meets the legs. That hurt! That really hurt! Dad saw the outline of the paddle embossed across the backs of his son’s thighs. It shone bright-pink. Dad allowed himself a moment of self-congratulation before walloping down another couple of swats; this time higher across the top of the mounds. He had now covered every part of Mark’s pert, hard bottom.

Dad was no monster. He didn’t believe in torture. He knew his son’s bum was blazing. But, he also knew the boy was a serial offender. This wasn’t the first time he had submitted his bottom for discipline. If Dad didn’t lay it on thick there was every chance it wouldn’t be the last time either. So, Dad went right round the circuit one more time. Across the top of the bum near where it meets the back, then over the mounds themselves and then into the undercurves. He was rewarded by a series of quiet yaps from Mark that soon developed into cries, and yelps and them Oh Glory! Into a full-throated yell. Dad was pleased they were far enough away from nosey neighbours. He didn’t want social workers coming round to investigate.

“Right,” Dad said as calmly as he could, even though the effort he was making with the paddle had made him short of breath, “I hope you are learning your lesson. My house. My rules.” He didn’t expect Mark to reply so he whacked another four swats across the behind (two per cheek) and then said, “Right. Stand up. Get dressed.”

Mark did not need telling twice. He sprung to his feet so quickly he nearly tumbled to the carpet. The jeans tightly wrapped around his shins made it difficult to move. He tried to bend down to pull them up and nearly over-balanced. So, even though it hurt his red-raw bum to do it, he sat on a hard wooden chair so that he could tug the jeans up as far as his knees, then he stood up and pulled them over his blistered bottom and zipped himself up.

His eyes were watering but he wasn’t crying. His head ached even more than his buttocks and his stomach churned. If he didn’t get away quickly there was a real chance he would chuck up all over the floor. Dad was a man of few words at a time like this. He had done his duty. His son had misbehaved, he had been called out over it and he had been punished. What more was there to say?

“Here,”” he handed Mark the paddle. “Put this back where you found it.” He watched his son shuffle from the room. As he did so the front door opened. “Ha!” Dad thought, “She’s back from shopping. Good. I could murder a nice cup of tea.”

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com