Pub talk

new story 2

z used bare bum holding whisky bottle

“I don’t know what to do, I’m at my wit’s end really I am,” Tony stared down into his half full glass of lager. “It’s that bloody kid of mine.”

“What Shane?” his pal munched on a potato crisp.

“No the older one, Dwayne,” Tony sipped his tepid drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, clearly distressed.

“What’s up. Not in trouble with the law?”

“Soon will be the way things are going. I don’t know what to do,” Tony drank heavily.

“What did he do this time?”

“Everything,” Tony drained his lager and stared down at the foam in his glass. “He hasn’t done a day’s work since he left school last summer. Nothing. It’s not like there ain’t jobs out there.” He peered across the gloomy bar to his pal who nodded agreement. Encouraged, he carried on, “I wouldn’t mind if it was just a burger bar, or filling shelves at Tesco. It wouldn’t have to pay much.”

His pal interjected, “Just to bring some money in. They can learn stuff on the job, then get a better one later.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony was relived to have a sympathetic ear, he had become quite depressed in recent weeks over the antics of Dwayne. “It might give him some self-respect.” He swirled the dregs of beer in his glass, silently recollecting. “He stays in bed to all hours of the day and then goes out until God knows what time. Treats the house like a hotel and gives his mother lip all day long.”

“I know the feeling mate,” his pal stood up and headed for the bar. “Let’s have another drink and you can tell me all about it.”

Fortified by alcohol, Tony recounted the tribulations. “He’s driving Sharon up the wall, even said she wouldn’t mind chucking him out.”

“Onto the street?”

“She don’t mean it of course, she’s just at her wit’s end. Me too.”

His pal broke into a broad smile, irritating the hell out of Tony. “I don’t see there’s anything to laugh about,” he fumed. “It ain’t no joking matter.”

“Nah mate, nah,” his pal waved his hand through the air to calm Tony. “I just mean I know what you’re going through; we had exactly the same trouble with Wayne.”

Tony leaned forward across the table to hear more, trailing his shirtsleeve in spilt lager. When his pal stayed silent, Tony prompted him, “Well what happened? What did you do?”

His pal’s face flushed and it wasn’t the beer. It was the memory of his solution. “I don’t think I can say,” he blustered. “It was all a bit weird.”

“What d’you mean? Tell me.” Tony couldn’t hide his irritation.

“No, well, I dunno. I might get into trouble.” He blinked hard, debating with himself whether to continue, “You know with the social workers, or police, or somethink.”

“What the bloody hell you talking about? You can’t get me going and then not tell me what happened,” Tony grinned.

“Well,” his pal took a long draught of beer and settled back to tell his tale. “Wayne was exactly like your Dwayne. Lazy, no job, never did a stroke around the house. A real pain in the arse.” He broke off and laughed. “Yeah, that’s about it, a real pain in the arse. I was going mad, didn’t know what to do. I spoke to my brother about it and he tells me that he had exactly the same problem with his kid. No job, sloppy, rude, the whole nine yards. So know what he did?”

Tony shook his head and his pal continued. “He only gave him a right good spanking.”

Tony frowned; had he heard correctly? “A spanking? What you mean like …” he struggled to find the right word, so gave up, “… a spanking?”

“Yeah,” his friend leaned in closer in case the girls at the nearby table overheard. “Yeah, as in whacking, walloping, y’know.”

“But Wayne’s eighteen.”

“So what. His lad was nineteen if he was a day.”

“But ….” Tony trailed off speechless.

“Yeah,” his pal spoke in a whisper, “That’s what I thought. Besides, even if I reckoned it was a good idea, how could I do it? Wayne’s built like a brick outhouse and look at me.” There was no need for Tony to look, he knew his pal was running to fat. Too many nights supping lager in the pub. He wouldn’t stand a chance in a stand-up fight with his son.

The subsequent silence went on for too long, so Tony thought he’d better say something, “So nothing happened then?”

“Nah, I didn’t say that. I couldn’t get it out of my mind. Ken, that’s my brother, he swore it was the best thing he ever done. His boy’s now at college, he’s gonna be a plumber. So you can see I was tempted.” He took a swig of beer, looked Tony squarely in the eye, and carried on. “Then one night, my Louise is at bingo and I get home about seven and you’ll never credit it.” He paused for effect and when Tony stayed dumb he filled in the details.

“I gets into the kitchen and what do you think I see, it’s only Wayne. And he’s as pissed as a fart and he’s only half naked. No trousers, no pants. Nothing down below. And he’s only got a bottle of my booze in his hand. Stolen it out of the kitchen cupboard. So I says something like ‘What you doing?’ and he turns round and tells me to fuck off. Yes! Really.”

Tony’s mouth gaped open; he tried not to laugh. Even his Dwayne had never sworn at him like that. “What did you do?”

His pal shook his head as if he couldn’t believe himself what he did next. “Well, I just flipped. I went apeshit. I never planned it, I swear.” He waited to get a nod of consent from Tony and carried on. “There was this board on the kitchen counter. Y’know the thing you use to chop vegetables and the like. So I just grabbed hold of it. It was no bigger than a DVD cover and I just hurled myself at the brat. He never saw me coming.”

Tony gaped, he had guessed what happened next. “You never did.”

“I did. I grabbed him by the neck and before he knew it I had him bent over, face down over the table. He was really effing and jeffing now. But I didn’t care. I just whacked that board across his arse. He was stark naked of course and his bum was as red as a pillar box after I walloped him two or three times.”

He refreshed his mouth with lager, “But I didn’t stop at that. I was whacking every inch of his bum. Really hard. And I was telling him about all the bad things he had done and how he needed to get a job and make something of himself.”

“Didn’t he fight with you?”

“I think it was the drink … and the surprise. I don’t really know. I had him pinned down by the shoulders and he wasn’t going nowhere. Anyway at last I let him go and he ran back to his room hollering.”

Tony shook his head in disbelief. He could see why his pal didn’t want the Social or the police to know. It seemed like his pal had finished his story, but Tony thought there must be more to it. “What happened next? Didn’t he just carry on like before?”

His could see his pal’s eyes twinkle. “You know what,” he said, “I’m no head doctor, you know a trick cyclist like, but I think I touched a nerve.” He grinned at his own joke, “I mean not just the nerves in his arse. It was the first time I’d really showed him that I cared. The next day we had a good talk about it and I told him that there were rules in life. You have to put something in to get something out.”

“Did he understand? Did he change?”

“Well, no. Not straight away.  But I told him that if he didn’t buck up his ideas, I’d do it again. The spanking like. And, I’d keep on doing it until he grew up and learned how to behave proper.”

“I bet that went down a storm,” Tony remarked sarcastically. His pal drew on his beer and peered at Tony over the rim of his glass. “You know what, it did. I really think he tried. He even went out looking for a job (or at least he said he did).”

“Good for him.”

“I really thought things were going to get better. Then, suddenly, it was like nothing had happened. He stayed in bed all day, was surly around the house, y’know.”

“So what happened?”

His pal blushed and his eyes misted. “Well, we had a right heart-to-heart. Y’know, proper like. Father and son. And, I said I loved him.” Tony could feel his own face warming. He could never talk to his own son that way. His pal continued, “And, I said I promised him that if he didn’t buck his ideas up, I’d give him another spanking.” He was nodding his head vigorously now.

“You didn’t.”

“I did.”

“What did he do, punch you in the kisser?”

“No. I told you I had hit some nerve or something. I told him I was going to give him a good hiding with my belt. ‘Right, I said. Go and get a chair from the kitchen and bring it here. He did that.” He paused, enjoying having Tony’s rapt attention. “Then I said, ‘Take down those jeans and bend over the back of the chair’. You should’ve seen his face. What a picture.”

Tony gulped down a mouthful of lager too quickly, he choked it back up, covering his mouth with his hand to stop it spewing over the table. His pal continued his tale. “And, he only went and did it. No argument. He just undid his belt, pulled down his jeans and leaned over the back of the chair, pointing his arse at me. Meekly. No questions.”

“And …?”

“Well, I gave him a right leathering. On his underpants. He ooohed and argghed, the way you would and just stayed there, head down, bottom up and let me get on with it. Whack. Whack. Whack.” Tony stared in fascination as his pal drained his glass.

His pal smacked his lips. “D’you know what. By the next week he had a job, he started paying us rent. He was a changed lad. Because we showed him the way. Set boundaries. Self-respect, you see. Now he’s doing City and Guilds or some-such in electrics and soon he’ll be a skilled man and,” he winked jovially, “rolling in money. Loadsamoney!”

Tony collected their glasses and headed for the bar wondering whether he could ever find the courage to do the same.

z used white pants chair (1a)

Picture credits: Unknown

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Rhodesian days

A fine young man


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

Get to bed! I’ll be up to see you later

new story 2

z used bed waiting pyjamas (12)

Get to bed. There’s no supper for you tonight. I’ll be up to see you later.

How many times did I hear those words growing up? Way too many, that’s how many. I must have had a hole in my head. I never learned. I was about twenty the last time Dad made one of those visits to my room.

That was the time just before at last I left home. I had outgrown it years before. I left school at fifteen and went to work in a wine gum factory. Really, I kid you not. My first job was standing alongside the conveyor belt as all the sweets came along and picking out the deformed ones. I was allowed to eat as many as I liked. I soon got sick of that job.

I suppose I thought I was all grown up and not a kid anymore. Dad had other ideas, of course. His house; his rules. I don’t think I was any different from my friends and neighbours. It was just the way things were. Know your place. Do as you’re told. Behave yourself. Or else!

The Or Else in Dad’s case was a heavy two-tailed leather taws. God alone knows where he got that from. It was kept in a special drawer all on its own in the sideboard in the living room. It was old and worn. It could’ve been a hundred years old for all I knew. It must have been a family heirloom.

It saw some action in its time. I was the youngest of three boys and from time to time Dad felt it necessary to remind us of the fact – we were boys, not men.

Today, if a Dad took a leather strap to his son’s backside the social workers would swarm all over him. I’d bet a penny to a pound he’d end up in magistrates’ court. Back in the day, of course, it was all perfectly natural. Expected. Just the way things were.

As an adult now and again I’d meet men who resented being punished as a kid. Whether with a cane at school or the belt (or whatnot) at home. They took a grudge with them wherever they went all their lives. Not me. I have no complaint. I know Dad was doing what he thought best. Trying to bring up his sons right. So we would become fine, responsible adults.

I guess he succeeded. After the wine gum factory I had a load of jobs. In those days we didn’t have burger bars or fast food places, but I did all kinds of unskilled jobs. I worked on a building site for a while. Not as boring as wine gums, but bloody back-breaking.

I raised a family – three girls so I never had to tan their backsides – and now have grandchildren, with the first great-grandchild on the way. If I’m honest I owe it to Dad. He taught me to know my place, behave myself. Obey orders. It served me well.

I don’t suppose I thought much of this at the time. Dad wasn’t a tyrant, he didn’t flog the living daylights out of us. He just wanted us to get the message. I should have known better by the time I was eighteen or nineteen but I had outgrown home. I wanted to be my own man, to come and go when I wanted to and to hell with Mum’s routine. She said I treated the place like a hotel; coming and going when I wanted to.

She’d moan at me about it and I’d give her a bit of lip back. Wrong thing to do. We call it ‘disrespecting’ these days. Then it was just called ‘bloody rude.’ I don’t think she ever uttered those immortal words, ‘Wait until your father gets home!’. There was no need. The moment the words tumbled from my mouth I knew what the future held. Nineteen or not.

Dad drove a lorry for the local council, he and a gang went round emptying bins. As the driver he never got his hands dirty and that gave him status among the team. He was somebody. At home he was the king of his castle. It was a dank, dark hole. A terraced house like millions across the country.  It was draughty in winter and airless in summer. Beetles everywhere. Home sweet home.

I waited irritably in the living room pretending to read the Daily Herald. Reading wasn’t my thing, so mostly I looked at the pictures and tried to work out why the comic strips were supposed to be funny. Dad would be home by seven. I paced the room. The smell of boiled cabbage drifted from the kitchen. All our houses smelt of cabbage; morning, noon and night, come summer or winter. My stomach churned. I hadn’t eaten since dinner time, but I knew there’d be none for me this night. Not when Dad got home.

It was getting gloomy, but Mum wouldn’t let us switch the light on until it got properly dark. She didn’t have the pennies for the metre. I looked half-heartedly out of the window. It was beginning to rain heavily, the cobbled streets were wet, puddles formed in dips in the road. Any minute now I would see my Dad turn the corner of the street. My stomach knotted, not with hunger this time.

It was the waiting that was the worst. Don’t ask me why, I knew full well what was going to happen when Dad got home. I had been through this before. Many times. And in my stupidity it would surely happen again.

At last I saw him wobbling down the road. He had a rocking gait. He was rotund to say the least. Fat. Today we would probably call him obese. He wore old faded denims; this was long before jeans became the fashion status of the young. Back in the day they were just cheap, sturdy clothes worn by working men. He had a black donkey jacket, made of serge with a big leather patch on the shoulders and half way down the back.

I heard the door open and dad call to mum. It was a nightly ritual. Dad telling us all that the master was home. Best behaviour everyone! I couldn’t see him but I knew he would be hanging up his jacket in the passageway. Then he would saunter toward he kitchen. He wouldn’t go in, that was Mum’s domain. He would lean on the doorframe, point his nose in the air like one of the Bisto Kids and say, “Eh love, that smells grand!’ Same thing every day for nigh on fifty years.

On this night I heard voices. They were making conversation. They weren’t the types to talk to one another much. Broody or companionable silences were the order of the day in my house. I knew what they were talking about. I sucked in a couple of deep breaths, getting myself ready.

Suddenly Bang! the door to the sitting room flew open and dad filled the doorframe. His three chins wobbled as he shook his head. He peered at me through pig-like eyes. I always suspected he might need glasses. He frowned and then scowled. “Get to bed. There’s no supper for you tonight. I’ll be up to see you later.”

He rolled backwards to give me space to squeeze past him, the stench of his stale sweat cloyed in my throat. It was Thursday and bath night was Sunday. Wordlessly – for there was no point in arguing with the man – I shuffled up the stairs to my bedroom.

We had a ritual Dad and me. We both had roles to play when it came to spanking. They didn’t need to be spelled out. Get to bed, meant exactly that. It might only be just gone seven, but I was expected to be in my pyjamas and in bed by the time Dad arrived to deal with me. Nineteen years old and sent to bed for a spanking at seven o’clock. What would my grandsons say if I told them that?

My bedroom was small and sparse. There was one small worn rug over decaying wooden floorboards. The bed was tired and rickety, springs stuck out through the mattress. An old Tall Boy stood in the corner alongside a chest three drawers (one of them empty). We didn’t have much in the way of clothes and stuff in those days. The only other furniture was a small armchair with wooden back and arms and soft cushions. It was old and cheap but it did offer some comfort, although that night the use Dad would put it to would be far from comfortable.

I washed myself, brushed my teeth and jumped into bed. There was a chill in the air but the room had no heating. I pulled my blanket up over my body and waited. It would be some time before Dad visited. I could smell supper, Dad would have his feed before he came upstairs. He might even roll himself a cigarette and have a look at the Herald before coming up to do his duty.

I wished he would get it over with. We were a simple family. We didn’t hold grudges. I misbehaved, Dad spanked me, we carried on. The world did not end. He had made his point.

At last the door flew open, Dad was incapable of opening a door quietly. He stood a little unsteady and stared at me. I looked away. I didn’t need to see. I knew in his right hand he was holding the heavy leather taws. He mumbled something about me and my Mum. I didn’t take it in. I didn’t need to. He was right and I was wrong. Matters had to take their course.

“Get out of bed,” he was quiet and orderly. There was no need for drama. He knew I would obey. Without question. It was just the way of the world. He nodded toward the armchair. I pushed my blanket away from my body and swung my legs over the side of the bed. I was young and athletic and was on my feet in a trice.

Dad took hold of the handle of the taws. The business end was about twelve or fifteen inches long. Each tail was probably an inch wide and half inch thick. It could pack a hefty punch. I never knew where Dad got that leather strap. I’ve since discovered that the taws was mostly used in Scottish schools. We lived in London, and I don’t think anyone in my family had ever travelled north of the border. Why would we? Who would want to?

He held the taws in his right fist and tapped the tails into the palm of his left hand. He was biding his time, waiting for me to prepare myself. I shivered – more with cold than fear, I was an old hand at this and knew what to expect. I faced the back of the chair. I towered over it. There was a time when I would have struggled to reach high enough to rest my stomach on the apex of the chair. That’s how often over the years I was made to present my backside to Dad’s strap.

z used pyjamas down chair (16a)

I made sure my back was facing Dad before I untied the drawstring and loosened my pyjama bottoms. Dad might have considered me to be still a child but my cock and balls told a different story. I helped the pyjamas slip over my buttocks and held them at my thighs while I leaned forward over the back of the chair. I think I succeeded in hiding the sight of my privates from Dad. Once safely in position, I let go of the pyjama bottoms and they duly slithered down my legs and rested in a puddle at my feet.

Dad took hold of the tail end of the pyjama jacket and moved it further up my back so I was naked from the shoulders to my feet. A cold breeze wafted across my bare flesh; goose bumps formed in a vain attempt to warm my body.

I felt Dad tap the heavy strap across the very centre of my bum cheeks. He was taking aim. I don’t know if you’ve ever been spanked on the arse with a taws, in fact it isn’t really suited for the task. In Scotland they whack kids across the palm of the hand, not the bum. The taws is heavy and quite solid, it doesn’t whip like a belt does. It is easier to aim a taws up and down on outstretched hands, rather than whack it in at an angle across buttocks quivering over the back of an armchair. It would have been far more effective if Dad had made me lay face down on the bed and stood next to me to tan my backside that way. Of course, I wasn’t going to tell this to him.

I wriggled over the back of the chair, trying to get comfortable. I know that sounds crazy, but it really helps if you are properly positioned. Head low, bottom high. Feet a little apart firmly planted on the ground (that’s more difficult than it sounds if you have bare feet on wooden floorboards, you can’t help slipping). I gripped the soft seat cushion and waited. I was ready to take anything Dad had to throw at me.

The leather taws moved away from my bum, there was a pause, just a beat or two, then a whistle as the strap flew through the air. Then, SPLAT! It connected with great force across my naked cheeks. I couldn’t see (of course) but I felt a deep red mark form across the once creamy-white flesh. It burned like Hell. Don’t let anyone tell you that a spanking doesn’t always hurt; that it’s something you can get used to. It doesn’t matter how many times I was tawsed by Dad he always sent shockwaves of pain coursing through my arse and up and down my legs. The only difference was that as I got more experienced in receiving whackings I was able to control my reaction.

I gripped the cushion, closed my eyes, shut my teeth tightly and let Dad get on with it. Number two landed lower than the first. The third went higher. Now, I had a burning strip across my bum about four or five inches wide. And it was burning. I don’t know about you but I know from painful experience that a whippy rattan cane like they used at my school would cut deep into the flesh (even when wearing trousers and underpants) and leave an intense biting sting that throbs for ages. Long after the headmaster has sent you on your way.

The leather taws is an altogether different type of pain. It doesn’t cut into you, it slaps, covering a wider area than the cane with a single stroke. It burns like billy-o and the soreness stays for a while but it doesn’t have the powerful after-sting of the cane. You can get the strap on the bare bum delivered by an athlete with super muscles in his arm and it still won’t come close to the agony of the cane. Well, that’s my experience anyway.

I heard Dad wheezing hard, trying to get his breath as he landed another three strokes across my backside. Just as I had become an expert at receiving a spanking, so he was well-practiced in delivering one. I was, after all, the youngest of three boys. My bum was well alight by now. I knew that when I inspected the damage later I would see the outlines of the tails embossed in my flesh. Each line would be scarlet and by the time Dad had finished his work the edges of some of them would be turning blue.

I sucked in a lungful of air and waited for the next three. As I said there was a ritual to this. Dad whacked three strokes at a time, then took a rest. He was no brute, he laid on each one with full strength, but he was never a monster. It wasn’t his intention to batter me and leave me beaten and blooded. He just wanted to make his point.

The next three landed well low; across the back of the thighs. That had me dancing; stomping my feet up and down on the cold hard wooden floor. My knees buckled and my back arched but I held on tightly to the cushion. My eyes blazed almost as much as my bum and there were getting a bit watery. I wasn’t about to cry, but this is the sort of thing your body does when it’s in pain. The eyes water, the heart pounds, blood rushes through your arteries. You want to cry out. I couldn’t control my heartbeat (who can?) but I did stop myself crying out. It had been many years since I hollered or cried during one of Dad’s spankings.

There was another longer pause. I turned my head slightly to see what was going on. Dad was dabbing his flabby face with a dirty grey handkerchief. His whole body was drenched in sweat, he was in a bad way. I stared down once more, waiting for the next three. They would be the last. A round dozen, twelve strokes, that was always Dad’s way. Like I said, it wasn’t a battering.

He let fly. I think the sweat must have got into his eyes because they landed all over the place. One even went north to south along the length of one cheek. Everyone knows that’s a waste, the most efficient stroke always goes from left to right, preferably on the fleshiest part of the buttocks that connects to the chair when the naughty boy attempts to sit down.

“All right,” Dad coughed a little. “Don’t make me have to do that again.” With that he wobbled from my room leaving me to rub away the hurt. Each whack was intensely painful as it landed but the agony quickly turned to a dull pain and by the time Dad was back in the sitting room listening to the wireless it had gone completely. If I touched my bum in the places where one or more strokes had overlapped I could reignite the pain but by now it was no more than a dull throb.

I had no mirror in the room so I lay face down on the bed and by twisting my body I got a close up look at the damage. Some bruises discoloured my bottom but I knew by morning they would probably have gone. By the time I went down for breakfast there would be no trace. Mum and Dad would never talk about it again (they never did after a spanking) and life would carry on as before.

I never really learned not to treat the house as a hotel or to back-chat Mum. It was just as well for me that shortly after my twentieth birthday I got called up for National Service and after that I never lived at home again.


Picture credits: Unknown


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 Charles Hamilton the Second

The Cruel Housemaster

new story 2

z used drawing cane master (7)

Percy Westerman paced his study, halted at the wall and for a moment studied the photograph hanging there. He had seen it many times before. It was the House Rugby XV from twenty years ago: 1914. Two years before he was born. Its significance was lost on him.

He glanced across at the clock on the mantelshelf. He still had a few moments before his appointment. Silently, he cursed. How he hated this school. In a few months he would be free of the place and its petty tyrannies. It could not come a second too soon.

He stood at the window. His view was not a picturesque one. He could see one side of the quadrangle of Stockton School – a grey, smoke-grimed pile, looking even more prisonlike in the grey shades of evening. Surrounded by four buildings was the only open space that Stockton School possessed, a rectangle of cinder-covered ground, without grass and ground down by the feet of a hundred scholars.

Stockton was an old and well-known school in the heart of Cokley, a large town in the north of England. Fifty years ago the school had been on the outskirts of the town and was bounded on three sides by green fields. Since then Cokley had grown until it had swallowed its rural surroundings in a mass of factories, furnaces, slag-heaps, railway sidings, and small tenements, while Stockton School remained like an oasis of mid-Victorian architecture in a desert of unlovely bricks and mortar.

Percy drew in a deep breath, even the air smelt foul. Stockton was so unlike the boarding schools he had read about in story papers as a young boy. Greyfriars had never been like this. The big hand on the clock juddered further towards twelve. It was time to go; time to face the music.

If the exterior of Stockton had been encased by grime, its interior still resonated with the past. He passed the mullioned windows of the library, entered the clock tower, took the stairs at a pace slower than a snail’s, and reached the study door. Here he paused, took a deep breath and tapped his knuckles softly against an oak panel.

It was a typical housemaster’s study, smelling of old books, leather and pipe tobacco. There was a polished walnut desk; an old, worn dark upholstered armchair; a glass-fronted cupboard partially concealing books and trophies and other paraphernalia. Dominating one wall was a wooden rack from which hung a number of whippy, rattan canes, bent not only with old age but with the frequent use on the backsides of generations of offending schoolboys.

Mr Brewster the housemaster was in a bad temper and he was liverish. As a master Brewster was a failure. He was unsympathetic. He looked upon boys in general as great nuisances. In his opinion stern discipline was the only way to keep order, and in trying to keep order he bordered on tyranny.

He glared at Percy Westerman standing before him. He was a tall, thin boy of eighteen, dressed in a blue blazer with its red braiding around the collar, cuffs and pockets and dark grey flannel baggy trousers. He wore a grey waistcoat, orange and blue diagonally striped tie and a blue-and-white-hooped school cap.

Brewster’s thin lips snarled. His almost bald pate glistened. His cruel grey eyes narrowed. He cleared his throat and from his hard wooden chair he leaned across the desk, forcing his elbows into the hard surface.

“You have frequently been guilty of impertinence, and more frequently of egging on weaker boys to be impertinent. Of late your whole character seems to have taken a turn for the worse,” he had prepared a speech. Westerman, no stranger to the housemaster’s study let him get on with it. What was the point? Brewster would not be derailed from the journey he had begun. His voice was not loud, but it was deep. His face was inflamed with rage.

“You are a slacker. Your work is appalling,” he peered intently at the boy before him, now hopping uncomfortably from foot to foot. Brewster glared, “Under the circumstances, I must conclude that I have no alternative but to administer a punishment.”

Percy stared resolutely at the rug beneath his feet. His eyes hardly moved when Brewster hauled himself from his chair to his feet, then a little unsteadily he progressed across the study. Percy knew where the master was headed. Seconds later he heard the tell-tale rattle. It was a cane being removed from the rack. Swish! The housemaster let fly. There was no purpose to the action, he was very aware of the properties of each and every one of his collection. He had used them all often enough.

This time he had chosen his favourite “dragon” cane. This was no longer or thicker than any of the traditional whippy curve-handled rattan rods on his rack. It was however more dense. It packed a punch and would leave even a senior boy such as Westerman in severe pain. He turned to face the sixth-former. “Look at me boy,” he intoned and flexed the cane menacingly between his hands. Then, he swiped it once more through empty air. He seemed satisfied.

“Bend over that chair,” the housemaster pointed the cane at the worn armchair as if there could be any doubt in his intentions. “Bend over that chair!” he rapped out the words once more. The armchair had a high back, far too high for even the tallest, lankiest schoolboy to put himself over and stretch out his arms to clutch the seat cushion for dear life.

Westerman knew the routine. A boy was expected to drape himself over one of the upholstered arms, tuck his knees into the side of the chair and thereby raise his bottom high to greet the thwack of the rattan cane.

Percy sucked on his bottom lip, rubbed his sweaty palms together, took a couple of deep breaths and then after one flowing movement he had his face in the seat cushion. It was dusty with a faint smell of sweat where visitors had previously sat in comfort to enjoy conversation, and who knew, tea, with Mr Brewster.

Percy could be assured that after what he was about to receive he would not be able to enjoy a comfortable sit-down for some time to come. Tonight he would be taking supper standing up, that was for certain.

With his face in the cushion the eighteen-year-old couldn’t be sure of Mr Brewster’s movements, but he heard him shuffle across the hard floor of the study. He was taking up his position. He was not yet fully prepared. The room was eerily silent except for the sound of a cane being swished through the air. Instinctively Percy Westerman moved his back slightly, the better to look round to see what was going on.

“Keep perfectly still,” the housemaster growled. Percy burrowed his head in the cushion.

Up went the cane with a whiz and down it came with a fearful slash.


Swipe! YOW!

Mr Brewster’s cane flogged across Percy’s tight backside. He could not have struck harder if he had been beating dust from a carpet.

Swipe! YAROOOOOOH! The savage cane rang across Percy’s bottom like a crack from a pistol. He shut his teeth tightly, just keeping back another cry of pain.

Swipe! YOW-OW-OW!

Percy squirmed; he twisted. Mr Brewster didn’t care; he had a cruel streak and would have gladly cut any boy to shreds.


The cane bounced across Percy’s seat and dust blew off his trousers.

Swipe! Arrrrgggggg!

Percy was close to choking, vomit clogged the back of his throat. Six of the best. Delivered and received. It felt like his bottom had swelled to twice its natural size. He could feel welts throbbing beneath his trousers. It had been a terrific thrashing, quite the worst he had ever received. It would hurt for ages. Sitting down would be unpleasant for some time to come. But, it was over. He had survived.

Swipe! Swipe! Brewster laid on two more fearful slashes. The housemaster’s knuckles grew white his grip on the cane was so tight.

Swipe! Swipe! Percy howled with agony as the cane rose and fell without mercy.

Swipe! Swipe! They were blows such as no master ought to ever have dealt, but Brewster was too furious to care how much he hurt the boy.

That was a dozen cuts. Percy lay limp and suffering trying his best not to blub, waiting for the master to give the command to get up. He seemed to be taking an eternity.

“That’s over,” he growled. “You may remove yourself.”

Percy staggered to his feet; his face ghostly white. Blood coursed through his arteries and his temples throbbed almost as much as his shredded buttocks. Despite every code of honour known to schoolboys he rubbed his cheeks furiously. Mr Brewster averted his eyes pretending not to notice him as he did this, but he did not suppress his smile. He was a very satisfied man.

“You may go, Westerman .”

Without a word Percy left the study. He closed the door hard – with a slam. Brewster started, his eyes sparkled and the words rose to his lips to call the boy back. It was an act of intentional disrespect and Brewster was not the master to forgive it, as a rule. But he did not call Westerman back. The senior’s punishment had already been severe and the master let him go.

Percy paused in the passageway, uncontrollable hate and rage welling up in his breast. He pressed his hands against the seat of his trousers in a dismal attempt to manage the pain, but the relief was very little. The strokes had been laid on with a strong arm and the pain was aching and tingling through all his nerves.

He went down the passage. His white, drawn face attracted glances from several fellows he passed and one or two of them stopped to inquire what was the matter.

Percy did not answer them; he did not even hear them. He went straight to his room, where he knew he would be alone. In the long, lofty, shadowing room the wretched boy flung himself upon his bed, and no longer fearing observation, the hard held tears burst out in a torrential flood.


Picture Credit: Unknown

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 Charles Hamilton the Second


Using the Paddle

new story 2

z used paddle holding 2 wikihow

I spank with a heavy oak paddle that is about twenty inches long, four wide and maybe threequarters of an inch thick. It doesn’t take many swats for this wood to turn a backside deep cherry.

I spank on the bare bottom and I don’t believe in light paddywhackings and if they are sitting down too quickly after a spanking something is wrong, as my nephew Philip discovered. A good session with the paddle did wonders for his attentiveness to his studies.

The nineteen-year-old brat actually sneered at me when I told him if he didn’t buck up his ideas and hit the books I’d paddle his rear end until it glowed in the dark. Well, more fool him.

When the kid came to live with me I promised his mother and father that I’d look after him and take charge of his welfare. I meant his moral welfare every bit as much as his physical wellbeing. Of course, I put a roof over his head and my wife makes sure he gets three squares a day. If he played his cards right he could be very well pampered. All he needs to do is go to college and study hard. What could be more simple?

Do I need to spell it out? Kids today! No sense of responsibility. Philip is fine allowing his parents to pay his school fees and shell out cash to me for his board and lodgings, but he is not so willing to fulfil his side of the bargain.

It started well. He left us about eight-thirty every morning and returned at six. As far as we knew he was attending classes and hanging out in the library. Perhaps, he was. But, soon he staying out late and we had to practically drag him out of his bed for breakfast. In no time at all he was missing the first class. Then it just went from bad to worst.

We set a curfew. If he went out at night he had to be home by eleven on a school night. We extended that to midnight at weekends. That was plenty of time to socialise. But we soon discovered he had no sense of responsibility. He rocked home in the early hours and often it was obvious he had been drinking – or even worse. It was after the night when he emptied his stomach in our front hedge that I told him about the paddle.

“I will whack you so long and so hard until you backside glows in the dark,” I said. Philip is a small lad with a rather wiry body; I don’t suppose he weighs more than a hundred and forty pounds. He has boyish features, with a snub nose and grey eyes that sparkle. He flashed me a grin, muttered something that sounded a bit like, “Yeah, right,” and flounced from the room. I watched his tight buttocks sashay and my palms itched to grab hold of my paddle.

Before I could make a move I heard the front door slam shut; Philip had made his escape.

I repeated my warning at breakfast the next morning. I am, I hope people who know me would agree, a very fair man. I set out my rules. They were very simple. They hadn’t changed since the day Philip had arrived. Go to college, study hard, pass your tests. To that I added the times of the curfew. I couldn’t have been clearer.

Philip was sullen. He didn’t make much of a coherent response. What could he say? The whole point of his being at my house was so he could attend college. Otherwise he could just as easily stay with his parents. Or get a job somewhere and strike out on his own.

He grabbed his bag and set off for college. I thought (I hoped?) he had taken my little lecture to heart and that would be the last of it. Although I fervently believe in the efficacy of spanking (it works in in my personal experience it has proven on many occasions to work) I do not go out of my way to find excuses to wield the paddle. But if I have to I shall. It is, if you like, my duty to keep young men like Philip on the straight and narrow. They might think they are already grown up but they are not. They still need a guiding hand on the rocky road to adulthood.

Perhaps, I should have shown Philip my paddle. If I had let him handle it and to feel its weight. If he had tested its power by perhaps smacking it down into the palm of his hand, or even whacked his own backside, he might have modified his behaviour to avoid a proper spanking with it.

But that never happened. I have to report to you that Philip ignored my instructions. It is true that he did attend the college, but as the results of his midterms would soon testify, he was not studying hard. We were not yet to know this. What was more immediately obvious was that he disobeyed me over the curfew. Two nights after my breakfast time lecture he rolled home at past midnight. “Rolled home” is an apt description since he was obviously drunk (or perhaps high, I know nothing about the effects of drugs).

Corporal punishment was necessary. I had promised him an awesome spanking and now I would have to deliver on that promise. It would have less of an effect in his inebriated state so I sent him to bed with the clear understanding of what lay in store for him next day.

The young have great powers of recovery and by breakfast time he was sober and without a hangover. He was ripe for spanking. I heard the shower running and decided to let him perform his morning ablutions before calling him down to our living room. It was a squeaky clean Philip who later presented himself before me.

“Do you remember what I said when you rolled home after curfew?” I asked him in a reasonable tone. I don’t believe in barking or hectoring a boy hen he is in the wrong. I let my paddle do the talking. Philip at least had the good grace to bow his head in what I hoped was shame.

“I told you it would be a spanking …” His look of incongruity startled me and I hesitated. Had he really not thought I was serious? Did he think I said such things for the benefit of my health.

“Yes,” I said, regaining my speech. “A spanking.” I walked across the room to an old sideboard and bet down to open a drawer. I could feel Philip’s eyes boring into the back of my neck. I reached into the drawer and picked up the paddle. The boy’s eyes popped when he saw it. I wonder if he had ever seen a paddle before. I suspect his own father had never smacked Philip’s backside in anger (more’s the pity; otherwise we might not be where we were).

Colour drained from the nineteen-year-old’s face. Now he believed me! He rocked on his heels. I’m no mind reader but I truly believe he might have contemplated flight at that moment. He could have legged it from the room. Maybe he considered it. What would be the point? He would have to return at some time and he must have known that his punishment would be even more severe.

I gripped the paddle and tapped it into the palm of my left hand. My actions spoke, “Let’s get on with this.” I actually spoke, “Take down your trousers and underpants and bend across the table.” There was a round dining table dominating the room. It was an ideal height for him to prostrate himself across and submit his bared buttocks to me.

Philip’s face blushed scarlet, his eyes watered. He stood his ground, terrified. Literally, he could not move. “Bah!” I snarled. I had half-expected something like this. I had already calculated that some unseemly struggle might be necessary. Where Philip is small and wiry I am tall and well built. Despite my obvious advanced age, I still have a great deal of body strength. I also had the element of surprise. I moved forward, grabbed the boy by the hair and before he could utter a single word of protest I had him face down over the table, his mouth tasting the Formica top .

He wriggled and writhed a bit but, he was going nowhere. I had already noted he was wearing sweatpants with an elasticated waistband. I rested my paddle on his shoulders and gripped hold of his trousers. In one swift, almighty tug I had both his sweats and his briefs at his knees. His creamy-white buttocks were fully exposed. I still had surprise on my side. Before Philip could fully comprehend his plight, I seized the paddle, rubbed it across the very centre of the target area and crashed it down with terrific force.

A dark red rectangular mark immediately appeared. Then another, and yet another. I walloped five heavy swats across his rather small hindquarters. Now, both buttocks glowed red. The boy squealed like a stuck pig. In all my years administering spankings I had never heard wailing quite like it. Air rushed from his midriff, through his throat and out of his mouth. His head first swished from left to right, then he banged his forehead up and down as he headbutted the table top.

I paused to both admire the job done so far and also to determine what area of flesh was as yet untouched. I aimed at the underside of the cheeks, that spot where the bum meets the thighs. It is an especially sensitive area. Soon, my paddle had left ridges. Philip would feel pain every time he sat down for many hours to come. To my puzzlement he stopped struggling. He gasped rather like a beached dolphin, his chest heaved up and down.

I had promised him a severe spanking and that was what I delivered. I said earlier I believed in spanking hard. I never picked up a paddle unless I intended to deliver at least 15 swats. I soon reached that tally. His bottom was a fine cherry red. I had said I would make it glow in the dark. That of course is just a saying. It is not possible to literally beat a boy so hard his bottom could light up a dark room. Nonetheless I could (and I would) whack him until his rear end was bright red.

Philp’s bum was one of those that reddened easily. It was scarlet after my first onslaught. Very quickly the colour deepened and bruises formed after fifteen wallops. In no time it was a rather delicious mauve.

My nephew’s gasps quickly became sobs. He cried openly, unable to hide his intense distress. I feared he would flood the table top. I had expected pleas for me to stop, for mercy, with promises to reform. I got none of these. Philp was quite simply unable to talk, such was his distress. It was obvious to me that I had won; at least round one. I went once more round the circuit, putting extra effort across the curves and then I stopped. I released my grip on his shoulders. Only then did I realise how hard I was sweating.

I moved to the sideboard and replaced the paddle. Philip took his chance to stumble to his feet, grab his sweats and briefs and while still pulling them up, flee from the room. I heard him take the stirs two at a time and his bedroom door open and close. At that moment my wife appeared at the door to announce she had just poured me a nice cup of tea. We drank in companionable silence, neither of us wishing to dwell on the past few minutes.

Picture credit: Wikihow

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Charles Hamilton the Second

A Preacher Teaches Humility

z used otk pantz down chair sting (44)

“Hi hon, is the preacher at home?” Cheryl breezed into the church reception area ignoring the two middle-aged men who were waiting apprehensively and flashed her toothy smile at Karen, the receptionist-cum-secretary.

Karen raised her eyes from the Bible she was reading to acknowledge her fellow church-attendee.

“Not immediately, no,” she whispered, nodding in the direction of the visitors. Then soundlessly she mouthed the words, “It’s that time of the month.”

Oh, Cheryl got it. That time of the month. Of course, she had forgotten. It had nothing to do with the biological clock; it was the twenty-sixth; the day each month when Preacher Pasternauch got intimate with God.

“Oh, I forgot. Never mind I’ll come back tomorrow,” then turning to the two men, she called cheerily, “Good luck,” and departed just as breezily as she had arrived. Karen returned to studying the Bible.

On the other side of the wall, Preacher Pasternauch was listening to Luke.

“I have been lusting with my eyes, Preacher.” Luke, twenty-five and married with two lovely daughters (blessings from God), was distressed.

“Tell me all about it,” the preacher sat back in his lush padded leather armchair and closed his eyes; the better to concentrate on Luke’s tale of wickedness.

“Lusting with the eyes,” it was a common fault among male members of the preacher’s congregation. Luke had been punished by God for this offence before.

It was the young lady at the drugstore. Her big breasts bounced, seemingly uncontrolled, under her loose woollen sweater. He struggled to keep his eyes off them whenever he visited the store.

“Women are wicked, Luke,” the preacher adopted the tone of voice that he had convinced himself demonstrated that he was a caring father. Caring and loving. A father whose duty was to help his sons (whatever their ages) to grow in the image of God. He should praise them fulsomely when they did well, and punish them severely when they erred.

“What else have you been doing? Have you been touching yourself?” the preacher would need to hear all the details before he could ask God to pronounce the sentence that he should carry out.

Luke blushed, “Oh, no preacher, nothing like that.”

“Are you sure, Luke?” the preacher tried to hide his disappointment. Luke had visited the preacher three months previously to report similar stirrings. That time it had been a teenaged girl in the gas station.

“Tell me everything, boy. Don’t spare me the details.”

Preacher Pasternauch was the emissary from God. He acted for God on Earth. God was kind, but he was also stern. God directed the preacher to punish the wrong-doers in his congregation. They must learn to fight their wickedness and when they found they were failing Preacher Pasternauch would offer them encouragement.

Luke’s tale was short. He was guilty only of “lusting with the eyes,” but not masturbation or adultery.

“I think you know what must happen now, don’t you Luke,” the preacher said as he rose from his cosy chair and walked five paces across the room to the far wall, where hanging on hooks were three wooden paddles of differing lengths and thicknesses.

Luke was the preacher’s third visitor that morning and there were at least two more awaiting their turn outside. His first visitor had been Matthew the retiree. The preacher was uncertain, but thought the man was at least seventy years old. His wickedness was alcohol. On three separate days this past month he had drunk more than three beers. His drunkenness was a curse. He tried to fight it, but he was weak.

Matthew tried to fight his booze habit; but he believed himself to be a feeble man. He could not do it on his own. He visited the preacher on the twenty-sixth day of each month and had been doing so for as long as the preacher had held these sessions. The old man had left the preacher with his rear blazing and hobbled back to his dark, lonely, room.

Preacher Pasternauch was not a philosopher; he did not ask why the regular spankings could not make Matthew kick the booze habit. Even, as he replaced the heavy wood on its hook it did not enter his head why Matthew would be back in his office for a repeat performance in thirty days’ time.

The second visitor was a newcomer. He was not new to the church, he had been attending for many years; but this was his first visit to Preacher Pasternauch’s monthly “confessionals”. The preacher held open house; any one of his male congregants (aged eighteen or over) could turn up, no appointment necessary, to confess his wickedness. They would pray together and the preacher would administer a stern dose of corporal punishment. God, through the right arm of the preacher, would pardon them of their wickedness. Now, they were fit to return to their community and once again live for the glory of God.

John ran a small accounting firm, just off Main Street. It was doing very well and he made a comfortable living. Just lately his work had begun to bore him; there was no excitement in his life. His life was empty.

No, he rushed to assure the preacher, not empty of Jesus Christ, but just empty: uneventful, devoid of excitement.

So, John, for the first time in his forty-two years on this planet had taken to gambling. He knew it was wicked, but the lure of the state lottery ticket had proved too enticing. He had spent, lost, and therefore wasted, ten whole dollars each month for the past six months. Now, despite the financial losses (he was an accountant after all, so he knew the danger of losses) he found he could not give up the thrill of the chase.

He had toyed with the idea of visiting the preacher for some weeks before, but he was afraid. But, while praying hard to God he received a message; he must confess to the preacher. It was no secret that the preacher held monthly spanking sessions, so John knew what was in store for him when eventually he visited. That was the problem.

John had a great deal of experience receiving corporal punishment. His father had been a keen spanker. Well into his early twenties (the age he finally could afford to move out of the family house) John had been subjected to his dad’s discipline.

Sometimes, more than twenty years after his last thrashing, John could still feel the welts. His father had broken three switches, cut especially for the purpose from the backyard, across his bare buttocks. That would teach him to cut classes at the accountancy college.

The preacher listened sympathetically, gave a short homily on the wickedness of gambling, conducted a much longer prayer for forgiveness and then took the skin off John’s rear end. The poor man was howling by the time he was instructed to pull up his pants and leave.

It hurt like crazy. He knew it could not possibly be as painful as the switching from his father, but back in those days his backside had grown used to the lash. In the intervening twenty or so years, his buttocks had grown flabby and he felt intense agony as each whack of the wood connected.

Now it was the turn of Luke. “So Luke, let us pray.” Both men knelt on the floor of the office. The hard nylon-based carpeting cut into Luke’s knees. It was painful, but he ignored it; you were not supposed to be comfortable while praying to God.

The prayer took five minutes to conclude. God was told of all the young man’s lustful thoughts and of his history of wickedness. Then both men were silent while Preacher Pasternauch received his instructions from God.

“Yes, Lord.” The preacher rose from his kneeling position, convinced that he was about to perform the will of God.

“Pain and humility,” that was how Preacher Pasternauch would explain it later to the county judge. Not only would he spank the men hard, he would ensure that they demonstrated the right degree of humility. Not to himself, of course, but to God.

The preacher sat in a large, heavy, straight-backed wooden chair. Luke had been here before; he knew what was expected. He was twenty-five years old. It was the lunch hour and he had motored from his office downtown to the church. He had left his jacket in the car so was dressed in a crisp white dress shirt with a sober tie. His trousers, part of a matching suit, were dark grey, with a hint of a blue stripe running through them. They fitted snugly; Luke was not fat; and certainly not obese like many of his fellow church attendees.

His face was bright and open and his skin clear. He had been well into his twenties before he had developed enough beard that it needed shaving daily. His hair was cut short and neat. Luke was the conventional young man any of us might see in the street and never actually notice.

The preacher sat himself down and Luke, without instruction, moved to stand a couple of feet away from the older man’s right leg. No words were spoken, but the preacher simply pointed with his index finger at the young man’s waist and with a downward movement mimed that the pants should be lowered.

Luke could feel his face flush. The last time this had been the worst part; preparing himself, taking down his pants and exposing his underwear. The preacher had kindly informed him this was about “humility.” He was showing that he was humble before the preacher and therefore before God.

It certainly was embarrassing, even this second time. But, Luke knew that this was God’s will. He would submit himself to the preacher in any way that he was instructed. Finally, he had his pants resting on his shoes.

“Lift up your shirt so that it is away from your buttocks and then please bend over my legs.” It was a kind, friendly request. The preacher knew that his congregants accepted they had behaved wickedly and were ready to pay the necessary price for redemption.

Luke lowered himself across the preacher’s lap and with his arms stretched out in front he placed his hands firmly palms down into the nylon flooring. Once again, he sensed its hardness and it felt scratchy against his skin. But, something was not quite right; his necktie had caught under his body and was pulling at this throat, if he was not careful he might choke. He lifted himself an inch or so above the preacher’s lap and with his right hand pulled the tie clear and left it dangling in front of his face. He rested once again on the preacher’s lap. He was now in a comfortable position and Luke was pleased about that, but he knew what was to happen next would be far from comfortable.

The preacher was not quite ready to start. He smoothed Luke’s maroon-colored briefs, removing any wrinkles from the cotton. Satisfied that they now hugged the contours of the young man’s globes, the preacher prepared for the onslaught.

He had chosen his middle-sized paddle. It was maybe twelve inches long and three wide and about a half-inch thick. It was the perfect size and weight to deliver a sound over-the-knee spanking. He had wrapped Scotch tape around the handle to give him an extra grip; he didn’t want the paddle to slip from his fist while he was in full flow.

Luke’s breathing was heavy, and involuntarily he clenched his buttocks tight, ready to absorb the full impact of the first swat.

“Relax, Luke,” again the preacher sounded kind and caring. “Don’t scrunch up your bottom.”

Luke tried, he wanted to satisfy God and present himself submissively, but for some reason he did not understand he did not have control of his body.

Whack! the wood crashed right across the center of both buttocks. “Please God, save me from my wickedness. Help make me a good man,” Luke did not say the words out loud but he repeated them over and over in his mind as the preacher tore his buttocks to shreds. He knew this agony and humiliation was God’s will. He knew it because the preacher had told him it was so.

It had to be a pants down, over-the-knee spanking. God wanted him to show humility and this was how it had to be done. The preacher had explained everything the first time he made the twenty-five-year-old father-of-two submit his bottom to the paddle.

Whack! Whack! Luke’s crack opened and closed each time the paddle connected with his bottom. The pain was increasing and he found his legs were kicking out. He did not mean to do it; he so wanted to show God he would submit to his will. His mind said this, but his body had other ideas; it was a natural reflex action.

The paddle was not the largest in the preacher’s collection but it was big enough to cover the area of Luke’s cheek. Vigorously the heavy wood slapped the two reddening cheeks in rapid succession, until, still unwillingly, Luke began to writhe and twist his body, bending his legs up, and ultimately swinging his right hand away from the carpet to shield his toasting buns from the stinging impact of the preacher’s frenzied attack.

Preacher Pasternauch was on a mission from God. His strong right arm increased the speed and force with which it pummeled the paddle from one cheek to the other, making Luke gasp and groan. The crashing sound of wood connecting with cotton-encased flesh echoed round the room like machinegun fire.

In the waiting room two middle aged men paid extra attention to their newspapers and pretended they could not hear the whacks and the increasing yelps coming from the preacher’s office.

The preacher was as breathless as the young man he was punishing. A dozen, then two dozen, then three dozen whacks struck Luke’s cheeks, sank into the flesh and bounced off, leaving behind deep red marks, that rapidly turned to blue.

The preacher held the young man tightly at his midriff, ensuring the poor suffering creature could not escape. On and one went the beating, and even as the pain increased to agony, Luke continued talking to God in his head. “Please help me defeat my wicked sexual thoughts!”

Luke did not know how long the spanking went on, but when the preacher stopped he lay on the floor holding his destroyed bottom and crying like a baby for at least ten minutes. The preacher returned to his plush leather armchair, closed his eyes and pressed the fingers of his two hands together as if in prayer. He could wait all afternoon if that was what it took for Luke to recover.

In time Luke pulled his pants up and withdrew a handkerchief from a pocket and wiped his tear-stained face. Then, with no further word, he hobbled from the office in search of his car.

The preacher remained seated awaiting his own recovery. Once his heart rate had returned to normal, he poured a glass of water and buzzed Karen to send in the next one.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

This story was first uploaded in December 2015.

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Charles Hamilton the Second

That Connor Kid

z used solo defiant connor kid (2)

“War..warr’s going on?” Lars Alexanderson woke from his sleep with a start.

“What time is it?”

From the street outside his bedroom music was blaring rock-stadium loud.

“What is it?” His wife Ingrid was awake now.

“It’s that goddam Connor kid. What time is it?”

Ingrid switched on the bedside lamp.

“Nearly two o’clock. This is the third time this week.”

In at least three other houses in the street middle-aged couples were having similar conversations.

That Connor kid was out of control, they all said. Something had to be done.

Rip Connor, switched off the engine of his Chevy, silencing the music system in the car. Unsteadily, he opened the car door and staggered to his house. After a minute or two fumbling, he found his house key and after a bit more effort, he located the lock, opened the door and lurched inside.

Peace once again reigned in the street.

Rip Connor was a menace. He was way out of control. All the neighbours agreed. But what could they do?

Rip was nineteen years old, going on twenty. His father had left home for another dame years ago and his mother, a career woman, was now working in corporate finance in Hong Kong, leaving Rip alone in the family house.

And the teen loved every minute of it. In theory he was attending a business college, but in reality he was partying his life away. Most nights he hit the bars and clubs and when he wasn’t doing that he had “friends” over to the house.

The neighbours thought they lived in a quiet, respectable, street. They had experienced nothing like it before.

“Something must be done. We can’t go on living like this,” Mr Alexanderson told his next door neighbour, Mr Handsson, later that morning.

“Yes, it should,” the neighbour agreed.

“But what?” Alexanderson seemed genuinely at a loss and he trudged away to complain to more of his neighbors.

Handsson knew exactly what the boy needed. If any of his sons dared stay out late, got drunk and then woke up the neighbours; he would blister their butts. And, he had the perfect tool to do it with.

Just ask his son Soren. The boy was eighteen years old the last time his father dealt with him. It was his “attitude,” of course. Soren had forgotten his father was head of the household, not himself. Soren disobeyed the rules; did not complete his chores and then (fatally) missed his 10.30 pm curfew.

That was enough. Handsson’s house did not have an actual woodshed, but Soren was at least figuratively-speaking taken to the woodshed.

It was in fact a small storage area in the basement; just off the utility room. The Handsson’s didn’t use it for much else, except as a punishment room. An old worn razor strop (it had been in the family for generations) hung from a specially inserted hook on the wall, alongside an authentic school paddle.

Handsson had constructed a platform from wooden crates piled on top of each other and covered with canvas sheeting. It made an ideal spanking horse; its height could be adjusted with more or fewer crates to accommodate the size any one of his four sons.

Soren was a tall boy, but still growing: his poppa had to pile up four crates to create a spanking horse to fit him.

Corporal punishment was used frequently in the Handsson household. All his boys had suffered it and as far as Poppa Handsson was concerned they would all be subjected to it until the day they left his home: no matter what their age.

Soren knew he had screwed up. He didn’t know why he constantly argued with his parents. Somehow, in a way he didn’t understand, he just couldn’t help himself. The missed curfew was another matter. He did mean that. He had met this girl and he thought he was in with a chance of something. Of course, he was wrong. Dejected, he trudged home, sexually frustrated, to face his poppa’s wrath and the razor strop.

There was a ritual when Poppa Handsson spanked his boys. He would lecture them a little and they would apologise profusely and promise that they would never do it again.

Then he humiliated them. It was simple really. They had to humbly ask him to remove their pants and underwear from them and “thrash me to make me a better person.”

Soren hated that part. It was so creepy. He knew his friends were also spanked at home, but none of them had a special “punishment room” in the basement, and as far as he knew they weren’t made to beg for a thrashing. For them, it was pretty straight-forward. Their mad dad unceremoniously took them across his knee (or couch, or table) and whacked their ass with (usually) a paddle. End of story.

Soren was a very experienced receiver of corporal punishment and by the age of eighteen had a very high threshold of pain. That didn’t mean the whippings didn’t hurt: they did. But, he had developed a coping mechanism and most times he father lashed him with the leather strop he managed to stay reasonably quiet and absorb the pain.

This time he thought of Helen, the girl who had made him miss curfew. He conjured up the sight of her in his mind: her beautiful blonde hair; her clear skin and her pert breasts. He hoped by concentrating on something pleasant the agony of the lash would not be so bad.

Obediently, he bent across the punishment horse. His head and arms dangled on one side and his legs stretched on tip-toes on the other. His naked buttocks, covered by downy, almost invisible, blond hair rested submissively across the top of the chests.

He thought of Helen and what he would like her to do to him. To his horror his penis stood to attention. His face blushed scarlet and he prayed his poppa would not notice. God forbid that he should think this whipping turned him on.

Handsson stroked the heavy worn leather strap in his two hands; getting the measure of the weapon that would in a moment take his son’s butt off. He stepped back a little and rested the razor strop on the curves of the boy’s cheeks; in the centre where there was most flesh. The boy was no athlete, but he was trim, with little unnecessary body fat.

Satisfied with his aim, Handsson pulled the strop up and rested it across his own shoulder. Then the thick broad heavy leather strap curled itself viciously over the exposed buttocks.

Soren sucked in breath. It had hurt like crazy and any boy with less experience receiving corporal punishment would have yelled the basement down, leapt from the punishment horse and fled the room.

Soren’s breathing was heavy but he made no sound, even though his fingers gripped at the rough canvas covering the chests.

Stepping back his poppa struck again. Still Soren absorbed the pain. He wanted to bawl loudly but he would not give poppa the satisfaction of seeing his hurt.

Handsson was no fool. He had lost count of the number of times he had beaten his sons over the years. He was no stranger to the lash himself; his own father and grandfather were enthusiastic spankers. Handsson knew young Soren was in agony; but was too brave to show it. He rather admired his son for that.

He lashed the next stroke as hard as he could, thinking of all the wicked things his son had done. This gave Handsson the strength to apply the leather with as much strength as he could.

Soren took twelve lashes without an outward murmur. It was over. Another whipping delivered and received.

Gingerly, he lifted himself from the punishment horse; his dick was aching as much as his buttocks. Hurriedly, he turned his back away from his poppa and pulled up his pants and underwear. His buttock cheeks felt like they were made of leather. He could not be certain, but he thought he could feel blood seeping from wounds.

Later, in the privacy of his bedroom, Soren inspected the damage. His butt was fifty shades of red from just below the top of the crack to where it met the thighs. He could clearly see some of the individual strap marks.

Soren lay on his bed, face down. The thought of Helen’s hair and face and breasts haunted him. His penis refused to fall. In agony he reached into his bedside cabinet and extracted a handkerchief.

Handsson knew without a doubt that Rip Connor needed some butt pain. The boy was running wild; his father had left a long time ago and his mother seemed not to care. But, Handsson wanted to believe, because he had always liked Mrs Connor, perhaps she did not know about her son’s bad behavior.

Even if she did; there was nothing she could do about it; how would she be able to force a nineteen-year-old youth over her knee for the darned good spanking he so richly deserved?

Handsson was contemplating this when there was a knock on his door. It was three of his neighbours.

“Can we come in?” Lars Alexanderson asked, and entered without waiting for a reply.

“We’ve come about the Connor kid. We’ve all had enough.”

It seemed Lars was the spokesperson for the group. They had been talking about the boy and his bad behavior. The night-time disturbances were too much. He was selfish and destructive. Something must be done about it.

“OK,” Handsson replied, “What exactly do you think we should do?”

He rather hoped they had come to the same conclusion as he: blister the boy’s butt. But they hadn’t. Not yet at least.

“We should go over to his house together and tell him this behaviour must stop,” Lars told him.

Reluctantly, Handsson agreed to join them on a visit to the boy.

Five minutes later they were knocking at the door. It was another five minutes before Rip, bleary-eyed and unwashed, inched open the door.

What he saw was four of his neighbours, middle-aged, balding, thickening around the waist.

“Warr..?” His head ached from too much booze and partying.

The conversation was over in seconds. Lars Alexanderson tried to be polite.

“It’s about your behavior,” he stumbled, unsure how to put it. ”You are coming home too late …”

Rip Connor’s pale face pinkened slightly. What! Who were they to tell him what to do? Who did they think they were? He hated these sanctimonious Swedes, with their perfect kids, always getting high grades at school.

He said none of this out loud. Instead, he simply said, “Fuck off!” and slammed the door in their faces.

The neighbors regrouped at Handsson’s house. Over tea and much muttering about how disgraceful the lout was they hatched a plan.

It was Handsson’s idea mainly. But they all agreed. Yes, if Connor were any of their sons (or daughters even) they would do the same thing.

Rip Connor never knew a thing.

Minutes later the neighbors were back hammering on his front door. The teenager poked his head from behind the curtains of his bedroom window and recognising his tormentors he pulled on a t-shirt and a pair of sweat pants and rushed downstairs.

He flew open the door ready to give some verbal abuse to the old-timers in his front yard.

But before he had even opened his mouth Lars put a meal sack over his head. Blinded and disorientated Rip could do nothing except allow himself to be dragged twenty yards across the street and into Handsson’s house.

The sack was removed from his head when they were safely in the basement punishment room.

Rip Connor gave them a stream of abuse. He called his neighbors every name under the sun and then some.

They let him get on with it. Let him shout and scream all he wanted. Handsson knew the basement was sound proof: nobody would hear a thing.

Eventually, he paused. Spent. He had no more breath to curse them with. Then, wearily he surveyed the room. The canvas-covered crates, the paddle and strop hanging from the wall: what was this place?

His heart raced as the truth sank in. Paddle. Strap. It could mean only one thing.

It had been Handsson’s idea originally, but Lars Alexanderson was now in control.

Calmly, he tore into Rip Connor. Every last misdeed was recounted: the late nights, the noise the partying. All of these were bad enough, Alexanderson said. But all that misbehaviour had been topped by his foul language to them early that morning.

“So, now you little brat,” he turned to Rip face on, “We are going to teach you a lesson.”

Rip’s worst fear was confirmed. He pushed past Alexanderson, but could not make it to the door. Four of his heavily-built neighbors had him trapped. Even in his hung-over state, Rip could have taken on one, even two, of them, but not all four together.

“But…” he blustered, not sure what he wanted to say. “You can’t …”

But they could. And they did.

Handsson and Alexanderson took an arm each and pulled Rip across the crates. It was a Titanic struggle at first. Rip’s fear gave him the strength of many men. But he stumbled as he was tugged by his neighbors and once he was face down across the canvas-topped punishment horse, he could go nowhere.

The two other neighbors held the boy down firmly while Handsson and Alexanderson released their grip. They had other roles to play in the drama that was unfolding.

Handsson crossed the room, reached up to the wall and removed the heavy paddle from its moorings.

As he did this Alexanderson approached Rip from behind, grabbed at the elasticated waist of his pants and tugged them tight, so they formed a wedgie, leaving no space between the cotton pants and his butt.

“No!!!” Rip wailed and struggled fiercely, but the two men held him forcibly down. He was going nowhere until they said so.

“Pah!”  Handsson snorted at Alexanderson. “What are you doing?”

Then, without a further word, Handsson grabbed the sweatpants and underwear and in one smooth movement pulled both down until they rested at Rip Connor’s shins. The boy kicked out in fury and caught Handsson squarely on the chest.

Alright he thought if that’s how you want it. Handsson rushed into the next-door utility room and returned seconds later with a length of rope. It took thirty seconds to securely tie Connors knees together. The lout would do no more kicking this morning.

Rip was terrified. These men now had him secured and tied, face down over the crates. His pants and underwear were at his feet and his ass was high, bare and exposed for anything they might want to do.

It was like a scene from a horror movie he had once seen. The cute young boy had been strip naked, held down and raped by four members of a rival gang.

Did his four portly neighbours have similar intent? The teenager screamed for help.

“Tut, tut,” Alexanderson said, as he calmly removed from his pocket a handkerchief which he stuffed into Connor’s mouth.

“Now shut up!”

Rip Connor could only gurgle his protest.

Handsson was first to go: after all it had been his idea. The paddle was about twenty inches long, four inches wide and three-quarters of an inch thick. Handsson knew it didn’t take many whacks with this wood to give a good spanking.

He took up position behind Connor who was still struggling, but he was pinned down so effectively he had no choice but to take his whipping.

The boy had a small waist, which emphasized the perfectly-shaped hemispheres of his bubble butt. Their unblemished creamy pale skin contrasted beautifully with his suntanned legs.

The first three swats with the paddle changed all this. Handsson gripped the handle with both hands, as if it were a baseball bat, arced it back over his right shoulder and brought it down with maximum force Bang! Bang! Bang!

Rip Connor’s whole body shook and he lifted an inch or two from the crates. But the strength of his two neighbors was too much and they forced his chest back into the canvas, squeezing all his breath from his lungs.

Three more swats crashed into Rip’s buttocks: two on the left cheek and one on the right. The six swats had covered every square inch of the boy’s beefy bottom and already purplish bruises were forming.

Handsson admired the six clearly defined marks on the lout’s ass: the outline of the paddle was clearly visible embossed into the once creamy-white buttocks.

He ignored the teenager’s muffled screams. He could not see from his vantage point at the rear, Rip’s scarlet face and blazing eyes.

Whack, whack whack! Another three.

Then another three.

A dozen mighty fierce swats were whipping the boys butt to shreds. And, it had only taken thirty seconds maximum.

Sweating profusely (there was little natural air in the punishment room and the physical exertion was taking its toll) Handsson bent double and rested his hands on his knees.

Tears flooded down Rip Connor’s face and salvia dribbled from his mouth. Every nerve in his body ached. His blood pressure was through the roof and his ears popped. He sucked in air desperately. Any moment, he feared he would have a heart attack.

“Here, let me.” Lars Alexanderson reached to his waist and in a smooth movement he had his belt unbuckled, through the loops of his pants, and doubled up in his right hand ready for action.

It was a heavy strap, not too thick and not so wide; but he knew from years of experience this little beauty could pack a punch. His own sons would testify for that.

When he spanked his own kids he demanded that they lay face down on the bed; pillows heaped up under their middle with their bared asses raised high. He stood more or less on top of the boy and only had to whip the belt down to inflict maximum pain.

Rip Connor was a different proposition. Alexanderson had to approach him from the side and get the belt to crash into his mounds from below. This was more difficult than he realised.

The first lash missed the teen’s butt completely and landed on the top of his thighs. Even with his mouth gagged, Rip let out a piercing scream.

Undeterred, Alexanderson repositioned. This time the belt landed right across the very center of both cheeks: a result.

Rip’s attempted shrieks were now low moans. How he hated these men. Never in his life had he been subjected to the total control of another person. He was completely at the mercy of his angry neighbors: not that they planned to show him any.

The belt lashed again and again into the increasingly bloodied cheeks.

Loud knocking on the front door distracted them. Someone had their finger pushed into the door-bell. Who was so anxious to get in?

“Better stop,”Handsson told his neighbour. “For now. Let me see who’s at the door.”

He found two young police officers.

“Good morning officers.” Handsson hoped the guilt he felt didn’t show on his face. He wasn’t feeling guilt about thrashing Connor, but he knew he and the neighbors had taken the law into their own hands.

“We have a report of a young man being kidnapped and brought into this house.”

Handsson was an honest man and without fuss took the two cops to the punishment room.

There they saw two men holding Connor face down across a punishment horse. A third man had a belt in his hand doubled up and ready for action.

Connor was gasping for breath. His buttocks were red raw and so bloodied they looked like raw hamburger meat. The backs of his thighs were marked with sunset stipes where the belt had lashed into them.

It was obvious what had happened.

One of the cops strode into the room, ready to break up the scene and arrest the men. Then he saw who it was showing his naked ass.

“Hey! It’s Rip Connor.”

He turned to his fellow cop. “Well, well. Rip Connor.”

Rip was well known to the two officers. They had lost count of the times they had moved him and his loutish friends on from street corners. Or picked them up drunk. Rip and his friends were always abusive.

“Oink, oink!” they would laugh making exaggerated pig noises. They knew there was very little the law could do about them. They were small beer. The brass at One Police Plaza and the judges didn’t want to be bothered with the likes of them. There were much bigger criminal fish to fry.

So, Rip got away with it all.

The two officers looked at one another. No word needed to be exchanged.

Office Brady smiled, “I don’t see anything happening here; do you Joe?”

“No,” his fellow officer agreed. “I don’t see nothing.”

Officer Brady had always wanted to beat the brat Connor on the bare ass; just as his own daddy would have done if he behaved like he did.

The two cops turned. As he made his way up the stairs, Officer Brady turned to Handsson. “Give him some for us.”

So, Handsson and the neighbors who always believed in obeying the police did exactly that.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in December 2015.

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Charles Hamilton the Second


Late Home From School

z used uniform short shorts (46)

I walk the streets slowly. It is nearly six o’clock and I am late home from school. Dad told me if that happened again he would take me over his knee with my trousers at my ankles and my underpants at my knees. I believe him.

It was detention. A few of us were mucking about in class. It was nothing really: but it was enough. After detention some of us hung out and smoked cigarettes. Now, I wish I hadn’t. If dad smells it on me I’ll get extra for sure.

Sometimes when I walk these streets people look at me hard. Who can blame them? I have a really distinctive school uniform. A bright blue blazer with yellow and white verticals stripes running through it. Dad says they don’t make blazers like that any longer. I have light grey short trousers; very smart with creases down the front and back so sharp you could cut your finger on them. My long grey socks with red toppings come up to my knees, but the short trousers are properly short and there are inches of bare leg on show. This is November and almost winter so it’s not really the weather to be out at night in short trousers. My legs could turn blue if I’m not careful. My bright scarlet school cap sits tightly on my head: at least that’s warm.

I turn the corner into The Avenue. The lights are on at Number sixteen. Dad is at home: waiting.

Dad has never spanked me on the bare. I wonder what it will be like. It was bad enough last time, just on the underpants. Dad has this leather paddle that he uses. It’s not much bigger than a hairbrush really and it’s really bendy. To look at it you wouldn’t think it could do much damage; but Wow! it ripped my buttocks to shreds, I can tell you.

It could be worse. My pal Wayne has a dad who uses a thick whippy cane on him. Bare arsed. Last time he got it he showed me the damage. Thick dark red cuts right across both cheeks. It took a week for them to clear and even longer for the bruises to go.

The Avenue is deserted. It’s too cold for people to be on the streets and it’s probably tea time for the kids in most of the houses. The Mickey Mouse watch on my wrist bleeps six o’clock as I raise my hand to the doorbell. I catch a glimpse of the old biddy across the road in number forty-two peering behind lace curtains, minding everybody’s business but her own.

Within seconds the door opens. “Where have you been, do you know what time it is,” dad says and clips me around the back of the head. “Get in here,” he walks into the front room and since I know how this is going to play out, I follow him.

When dad deals with me there is a set routine. He spends ever such a long time berating me for my misdeeds. I am “irresponsible,” “undependable,” “foolish,” “thoughtless” and much else besides. He tells me he warned me before what would happen if I am late home again.

Everything he tells me is true. This is not the first time I have been late and it will not be the first time he has spanked me because of it. I tell him about the detention and he goes ballistic. I decide not to fess up to the smoking as well.

“Stand there,” he points to a corner of the room. “Put your hands on your head and think about how naughty you have been.”

I shuffle across the room and stand a couple of feet away from the wall.

“Closer,” dad barks, “Get your nose right into the corner.”

It is not easy to stand right in the corner with your nose against it and at the same time have your hands on your head; there’s nowhere for your elbows to go.

“Alright,” dad concedes, “Put your nose in the corner and your hands behind your back.”

Comfortable, at last, I stand with my nose pressed against the wallpaper. I do not think about how naughty I have been as dad instructed. I can’t help thinking about how sore I am going to be when dad spanks me bare-arsed for the first time.

I cannot see him, but I am pretty sure dad is sitting in his favourite armchair, just staring at me. I suppose it is his way of making me stew. When you are a naughty boy standing in the corner waiting to be spanked you lose track of time. I don’t know if I was there for thirty seconds or ten minutes.

Eventually, I hear a movement. It is dad getting ready. He picks up a dining room chair and I hear him put it in the centre of the carpet.

“Turn round and face me,” it is a curt command. I obey instantly. “Put your hands on your head.”

I face him and watch as he makes further preparations. In his hand he already has the leather paddle he intends to use on my bare bottom. Carefully, he sits himself on the chair and spreads his knees by two feet or so. He is not a pretty sight. He is running to fat and because of this he sweats a lot, even in the cold weather. He would be almost completely bald, except he grows what little hair he has in long strands so that he can comb it over. His face is ruddy and in need of a decent shave. I suppose he has been at work all day because he really needs a shower.

Without a further word, he reaches forward and with his right hand takes hold of the waistband of my short trousers and pulls me forward. I am off balance and stumble until I am standing close by his right leg. Then with both hands he undoes my top button and the other four that make up the flies of my short trousers. I still have my hands on my head and submissively I let him do this.

With the top of my trousers open it is easy for him to guide them over my thighs and past my knees so they make a puddle at my feet. I feel myself blushing. I know the next stage will be the removal of my white Y-front underpants. Suddenly, I panic; I do not want dad to see my private parts. But I have no choice. Unless, I am going to grab my short trousers, pull them up and flee from the room I have no choice but to let him have his way.

Slowly, ever so slowly (he appears to be enjoying himself very much), he puts his hands either side of my pants, pinches the cloth and gently guides them down over my hips until they rest at my knees. I see he pretends not to notice my privates, but he is having a good look.

I stand there still in my school blazer, but now naked from my waist to my knees. My hands remain on my head. Dad is wheezing a little and for the first time tonight I pick up the faint odour of beer on his breath.

“Right!” he slaps his right thigh, “Bend over my knee.”

The first ever time he ordered me to do this I didn’t know how to do it. It might seem simple enough, but there are many different ways to achieve this position. You can dive across both knees and land on the far side without actually touching your dad. Or, you can rest your hands on his knees and lower yourself over and then once you are staring at the carpet you adjust your bum so that it where it needs to be. Or, there are many ways between these two options.

I find it easier to stretch across dad’s knees and then lower myself down. That’s what I do now. Within seconds, I am over his lap with both of my palms pressed into the carpet, my knees bent a little and my toes an inch or so off the ground. My bum is high over his right thigh and although I have never been able to actually see what I look like in this position I do know that it gives dad all the room he needs to bring his leather paddle crashing down into my arse.

Dad doesn’t like me to make a fuss. He wants me to lie over his knee and take what he thinks I deserve. Of course, it’s not always possible to take a spanking quietly.  I have been known to gasp and yelp a little and last time, when I got it on the pants, my eyes were moist and my nose was running by the time he finished toasting me.

He tugs at my blazer and pushes it up my back by a few inches while I wait patiently for my first-ever bare-bottomed spanking from dad to begin. I can feel his rough hand tracing the contours of my globes. He rests it for a while on the undercurve of my right cheek, just where it meets with the back of the leg. Then I feel him lift his hand away and immediately bring it crashing down at some force across the centre of my buttock. Then he slaps the left cheek, then the right. He is spanking me with the palm of his hand, rapidly and with some force. It hurts much more than I expected. There is no let-up, smack, smack, smack: on and on he goes, all over both buttocks and across the back of my legs.

It hurts; in fact it hurts a great deal, but it is not agony. I have had worse. I stare down at the orange-and-yellow-patterned carpet and wonder how much longer this will go on for. Outside the window I hear a car draw up. It is the next door neighbour coming home from work. For the first time since going over dad’s knee I feel acute embarrassment: what if the neighbour can hear me being spanked.

If dad had heard the neighbour he didn’t let it deter him from his mission. The hand spanks rain down harder and faster.

Suddenly they stop. I feel a movement in his body and the pain starts again. This time it is more intense. He is whacking his leather paddle into my buttocks: over and over again on the same spot, right in the middle of the left cheek. I can’t count them all, they are coming too fast, but there must be dozens of them. Then he pauses before repeating it again, this time in the centre of my right cheek.

I am wriggling. I can’t help it. The pain is too much and my body is instinctively trying to get away from it. I thrash my legs about and turn my body from left to right as if I am trying to swim away off his lap. Dad grips me tightly around the waist with his left arm and pounds away, with even harder whacks. Will he ever tire of this?

I am gulping and although I know I am not supposed to I let out a series of “ouchs” and yelps. My lungs gulp in air and my breathing is harsh. Soon I am coughing my guts up.

On and on dad spanks me. He has not said a word since he took me over his knee and began pounding away. His breathing seems a little laboured now; perhaps we are getting near the end.

Or perhaps not. He pauses to regain his composure and then raises the leather paddle high and whacks my arse harder than he has done so far. My legs kick out behind me and without warning he smacks the paddle across the back of each leg. I scream. A real blood-curdling scream. If dad thought these slaps would stop me kicking about he was wrong. I have no control, I couldn’t stop kicking even if I wanted to.

My watch beeps six-thirty and as if on cue, dad stops spanking me. He releases his grip and I roll off his lap onto the carpet.

“Stand in the corner.” This time I don’t have to put my nose right in it. I stand panting for breath with my hands on my head and my back to dad.

I can hear him wheezing behind me. My buttocks are hot. I want to give them a rub, but I dare not do it; I don’t want to give dad the excuse to start all over again.

I wait as patiently as I can in the circumstances. Now the spanking is over I want to be out of there and quick.

Dad’s wheezing intensifies. I don’t know what he was doing behind me and instinctively reckon I don’t want to know either.

After maybe a minute the wheezing climaxes and I hear the door open and dad leave the room.

Gingerly I rub my bottom, there is no mirror in the room, but by twisting my body I get some view of my heavily bruised bottom. Both cheeks have a hard leathery coating. The back of my legs are red raw. I pull up my underpants and button up my short trousers. To my great distress I see the shorts do not cover all my injuries and everyone will see my legs have been spanked.

I hear dad run up the stairs, presumably to the bathroom. I wait a few moments before I go into the passageway and pick up the envelope he has left for me near the telephone. After checking its contents, I let myself out the front door.

It is freezing and about to rain. I must hurry back to my bedsitting room, change out of this school uniform and put on something warmer.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second