Stepson submits

new 5

zused paddle otk pants down domestic bbfc

Can you picture the situation? A slim eighteen-year-old with a tight bottom is face-down across your knees with his jeans at his ankles. The bottom clothed in tight, dark-blue cotton briefs needs a sound spanking. Jake asks you to pull down the underpants so that the spanking is on the bare bottom. “You are now my stepdad, I have broken so many of your rules surely you are going to punish me in the proper way. I truly deserve a sound spanking,” he says. “Now you are my dad you should deal with me the old fashioned way. A damn good whacking is what I need.”

You hold an old, worn oak paddle. It is about twelve inches long and four wide. It has seen some action in its time, but never before on Jake. You grip him by the waist. He is submissive for now, but you cannot be sure how he will react once your paddle warms up his bared backside. Jake reaches forward and presses the palms of his hands into the carpet. He stares down. You feel his body tense. You tap the paddle against his naked flesh. His bottom is round and pert. The paddle covers about half of the target area.

Yes, Jake is correct, he has broken many of your rules. He has needed this spanking for some time. It is something his own father should have done a long time ago. But that is in the past, there is no point dwelling on that. This is now. You are Jake’s new dad, it is your duty to steer him onto the straight-and-narrow. You are very pleased that the boy has realised this. There is hope for him yet.

You rub the paddle across the fleshiest part of his cheeks. He doesn’t have much padding back there. He is a thin, wiry lad, who spends too much time in the gym. In truth, he is strong and muscular. You could never in a million years force him across your knee for a spanking. If you tried there would be an unseemly fight and Jake would win it hands down.

Instead, he is submissive. “Spank me hard. I deserve it,” he is telling you so you tap the paddle against his bottom, then raise it about ten inches high and smack it down with some force. A dark red patch immediately appears on his creamy-white skin. He sucks in his breath. He felt that. It hurt. But, probably not much. He is a tough eighteen-year-old after all. You raise the paddle again and slap it down lower, into the undercurve. Jake shakes his head to side to side, but he keeps staring down at the stained carpet. His palms still press hard into the floor. He is determined to accept the spanking he so richly deserves.

You land the next swat on the back of his thighs. You are rewarded by a definite “Ouch,” from your misbehaving stepson. His body wriggles. You grab him harder around the waist. He is not trying to escape from your knees, but he is finding it hard going. Maybe, much harder than he thought.

You wallop him for a fourth time. This is going very well. You are deeply satisfied. You have been wanting to do this for months.

Yes, you can picture the situation, but alas I suspect it can only be in your imagination.

 

Picture Credit: British Boys Fetish Club

 

Other stories you might like

The military camp

Trouble at the mall

Memories of Dad’s slipper

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Lodging with Uncle Ralph

new 5

“Come up here Robert, I want you to see this. You need to learn something.” It was Uncle Ralph calling from the bedroom. I knew something not nice was happening, I had felt an extreme tension in the house the moment I returned from college.

With some reluctance I trudged up the stairs. The bedroom door was open. My cousin John stood miserably, his usually pale face, now a deathly shade of white. Towering over him was his father, my Uncle Ralph. Uncle’s whiskers bristled; he turned to me and growled, “I want you to see this. The same will happen to you if you ever break my rules.”

I glanced at John; now his face was deep scarlet. I had no idea what was happening. I had moved in with Uncle Ralph and his family a few days previously after I joined Brocklehurst University. Uncle Ralph was a weird fellow. He was ex-military and had in his time been a colonel. He spent much of his life outside of England. It might be 2019, but somewhere in his head it was still about 1935. One of the first things he did on my arrival was to give me a long list of rules of the house. It went on for pages of closely printed script. I didn’t read it all. That was to be my downfall.

I was still standing on the landing. Uncle Ralph glared at me from the bedroom. “Stand there, in the doorway. Watch and learn,” he spoke in a clipped style; I suppose this was how he spoke to his men in the army. I paused, a little embarrassed. What was going on here? Why was he so agitated? I looked over at John hoping I might get a signal from him, but he was too engrossed staring down at his own feet.

“Right lad!” Uncle Ralph barked. “This is what you are going to do.” He paused and wiped spittle from his beard with the back of his hand. “Take down those trousers.” I’m sure my jaw must have dropped, I was gaping. John’s face contorted, I knew he wanted to say something, to perhaps make a protest, but he seemed to bite back his thoughts. His forehead shone with sweat although the room was quite cool.

“Get them down. Now, lad,” Uncle Ralph glared. “Or do you want me to do it for you?” “No Father, no,” the threat spurred John into action. He wore cheap track pants and all he had to do was pinch the sides of the elasticated waistband and guide them down over his thighs. They snagged at the knees. “All the way. Step out of them,” Uncle Ralph ordered.

I am no expert on these things, but it looked like John was in a trance. He kept his eyes trained on the floor as he leaned forward and took hold of the sweats and wriggled his feet free of them. He straightened up and now stared blankly at the wall. I followed his gaze; there was nothing in his sightline, only plain white wallpaper. He stood, shoulders straight, hands clasped behind his back. His plain blue t-shirt hung long enough to cover most of his tight, yellow-and-maroon-striped briefs. I noticed John’s legs were virtually hairless.

My own throat dried as I it began to dawn on me what Uncle Ralph intended to do. I don’t have the words to describe my thoughts, but I was baffled. John was clearly in Uncle Ralph’s power. He would obey any command of the old man. That became clear when Uncle Ralph intoned. “Take down the pants. Step out of them.” My heart beat fast; I can only imagine what was going on inside John’s chest. The perspiration had now spread from his forehead and his top lip was moist. Still in a trance, he slipped his thumbs under his pants and pushed them south. He stood unsteadily on one leg and then on the other so he was able to step out of them without toppling to the floor.

John was now naked from the waist down. He straightened up. His shirt covered some of his privates but I had a clear view of his hairy ball sack. John was on some kind of autopilot. He stood waiting for Uncle Ralph’s next instruction. Almost without thinking he cupped his hands together and rested them so they obscured my view of his cock.

All this couldn’t have taken more than a few seconds but for me time was standing still. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion making it seem like minutes had passed. Uncle Ralph was in no hurry. He stood impassively, looking down his long curved nose at his son. His beady eyes were glazed. Through his beard I saw the tip of his tongue dart out of his mouth and slowly run across his top lip. He shot John a withering look and without a word he walked across the bedroom. I watched transfixed as he stopped at an old battered dressing table, opened a drawer and reached inside. I heard a clumping sound before his hand emerged holding a block of wood. Uncle Ralph used his hip to close the drawer before turning to face me. The block of wood was about the size of a DVD cover. He held it by a small handle. He waved it through the air and said, “In this house you follow the rules. Or else.”

He said no more and then slowly he walked the three or four steps necessary to take him to the bed. He sat down on the edge, rather like it was a sofa so that his feet were firmly planted on the floor. He looked across at John. “Bend over my knee.” It was a clipped command. Uncle Ralph was used to being obeyed. There was not the slightest doubt in his mind that John would submit to his will. And so he did.

I realised at that moment that this scene that was so strange and unusual to me had probably been played out many times before. Or ones very similar to it. John definitely knew the part he had to play in this drama and he did not fluff his lines. He looked across at Uncle Ralph, now sitting legs apart, took a deep breath and in one continuous movement took two paces forward and lowered himself across Uncle Ralph’s knees. He wriggled for a moment until his chest and arms were stretched out along the mattress. From where I was at the bedroom door I had a perfect view of John’s backside which he raised high over Uncle Ralph’s lap.

There was a second or two while Uncle Ralph ran his eyes over John’s prone body, I could tell that he felt something wasn’t quite right. Then he took hold of the end of John’s shirt and pushed it further up his back. Now, John’s buttocks were completely bare.  I hadn’t noticed before (why should I?) that John’s bum was broad and meaty, it was as hairless as his legs and the skin was quite pale.

I was rooted to the ground. My eyes must have been out on stalks. My heart pounded and I was now as sweaty as John. I had never witnessed anything like this before. It didn’t seem real. I couldn’t wait for Uncle Ralph to whack that wood across John’s naked, meaty bum. But Uncle wasn’t quite ready; he looked across at me and said, “I will not hesitate to give you the same treatment if your behaviour warrants it.” I croaked back, “Yes, sir.”

Uncle Ralph turned his attention back to the job in hand. He used John’s back as a shelf to rest the wood and with his left hand he gripped John around the waist. He cupped the other hand and with his palm he gently traced the contours of John’s left cheek, around the circumference and into the undercurve where the bum and thigh meet. He slapped the bum gently at the highest point of the mounds. I clearly saw the flesh wobble. Once he had gone round the circuit of the left cheek, Uncle Ralph did the same with the right. I might have imagined this but John’s entire body appeared to relax while this took place.

John might have been relaxed, but I was not. My temples were now throbbing and I knew very soon I would have a raging headache – the tension was so great. Uncle Ralph retrieved the wood from John’s back and gripped the handle tightly. The muscles in his arms tensed. He raised the wood high and rocked back on the mattress; then he pounded it across the meatiest part of John’s right cheek. I heard a long, low whistling sound. John rose to his elbows and this just encouraged Uncle Ralph to press his hand into the small of John’s back. He was pinned down and was going nowhere. Uncle Ralph was in total control. The wood rose and fell and swatted into the left cheek.

I suppose the whole scene was surreal; dreamlike. Can you imagine in this day and age an eighteen-year-old boy submissively offering up his bared bottom to his father so the old man can spank it severely with a block of wood? Well, it happened. I am witness to that.

It didn’t take more than four or five swats of the small block to cover all of John’s fat bottom. His skin was pale and reddened very easily. In no time at all his bottom was aflame. If would have glowed in the dark if we turned off the lights. Even from a distance I saw the skin beginning to break. John was stoical, I suppose. He kept his bum raised high as best he could, but the spanking clearly hurt him. He dug his elbows into the mattress and raised his head, shaking it from side to side as each successive swat added to the heat in his rear end. His hair was wet with sweat and from what I cold see of it, his face was as scarlet as his bum. He wriggled his hips and his knees buckled, but he didn’t try to break free. I suppose all that writhing around was his body’s natural reaction to the pain.

z used otk bare bed sting

Uncle Ralph kept up a rhythmic pounding. First one cheek, then the next. Higher, then lower. Under the crease. On the crest of the mounds. Into the back of the thighs.  Even I , with my lack of experience, could see this was a thorough, well-planned and well-executed spanking. All done with military precision.

When he was ready, and only then, did Uncle Ralph lay the wood down on the mattress beside him. He paused a few seconds while John’s body recovered a little. Then, he intoned, “Punishment over. Stand up.” He released John’s waist and my cousin scurried off his knees and stood unsteadily. His eyes searched the room for his briefs and sweats. “Dismissed.” Uncle Ralph sounded like he was on parade. John found his clothes and without waiting to dress he bundled them under his arm and fled the room.

I moved to one side to let him pass. I stood unsure what I was supposed to do next. Uncle Ralph was breathless, his shirt stuck to his back, his beard glistened with sweat. He replaced the wood in the drawer. When he turned from the dresser the startled look in his eyes suggested he had forgotten I was there. He recovered instantly, “So now you know.” I nodded sagely, as if he were one of my professors explaining a complicated new theory.

“Good,” Uncle Ralph stepped ominously towards me, “Because now we have to deal with the little matter of your absence without leave from college yesterday afternoon.”

My knees buckled. In my mind I saw John’s toasted backside, the glowing, flesh, the small cuts to the flesh. The humiliation of presenting his bare bottom for chastisement. My mouth gaped open and shut, it was a good impression of a goldfish stranded out of water.

“Wait for me in the kitchen,” Uncle Ralph spoke clearly and with authority. “I have to change my shirt.” He glowered at me, “Off! Now!” I sprang into action, only now getting some inkling of the control this man possessed. No wonder John had been so submissive. It was almost addictive.

I waited in the kitchen for ten minutes or so. How had he known I had skipped Uni. yesterday afternoon? What else did he know? I paced the room. I had no doubt what Uncle Ralph intended to do. Would I let him? Could I let him? Would I have the same fortitude as John to submit to punishment. Me, eighteen years old, nineteen next September, spanked on the bare bottom! All kinds of absurd thoughts befuddled my brain. What if the guys at Uni. ever found out!

Uncle Ralph’s arrival in the kitchen brought me back to earth. He had obviously showered and a heady aroma of coal tar soap wafted from him. I hardly noticed this; all I saw was the heavy, wooden hairbrush he gripped in his fist.

“So, AWOL from college. Yes.” I suppose he might have meant it as a question, but it sounded like a very definitive statement to me so I stayed quiet. “Yes?” he spoke loudly, as if to a hundred men, “Yes! Guilty as charged?” I murmured agreement. “Right,” he picked up a straight-backed kitchen chair with one hand and manoeuvred it away from a table and into space. He set it down heavily. “You now understand the rules of engagement.” It was another question posed as a statement. My head was spinning. What was he talking about. Engagement?

“Doh!” he was losing what little patience he ever had. “You know what is expected of you?” I must have still looked blank. “You know what to do?” He sat on the chair and wriggled his buttocks until he was comfortable. He sat upright in the chair and leaned back. He parted his legs slightly. Even I, befuddled as I was, could see he had prepared a perfect platform for me to submit myself.

“Right lad,” he barked, Uncle Ralph was incapable of speaking in a normal tone of voice, “Stand there.” He clicked his fingers and pointed to a spot on the floor a metre or so from his right knee. Looking back, some of what happened is hazy in my memory, but other parts are as clear as a bell. I know it happened, I’ve got the bruises to prove it. It was like an out-of-body experience. I stood where instructed. Uncle Ralph waved a hand at me. “Get those jeans down.” I stared down at myself. Of course, I’ve taken jeans off thousands of times before but at this precise moment I was unclear how it was done. I was baffled by the complexity of my belt. How do I get the end out of the buckle. What do I do with that prong thing? It seemed to take me for ever to get the damn thing unbuckled and open. Then, there was the challenge of undoing the top button and getting the zipper to work. Somehow , don’t ask me how, I got the jeans to me knees. “All the way down,” Uncle Ralph’s voice, loud as it was, seemed to be coming from a very long distance. I bent from the trunk and with my hands pushed the jeans until they bundled on top of my feet.

“Bend over my knee,” the command was terse. How was this done exactly? I had seen John earlier go over Uncle Ralph’s lap, but that was on a bed and John rested his arms on the mattress; where I was I supposed to put mine? Despite these absurd thoughts, I slowly lowered myself over Uncle Ralph’s right leg. There is a certain amount of instinct involved in something like this, so with my stomach perched over his thigh I stretched my body so my chest lay on his left knee. This meant my arms naturally were ahead of me. I parted them by a metre or so and pressed my palms into the cold floor tiles. I couldn’t see because I was now staring directly down but behind me my own knees were slightly bent and my bottom was poking up at an angle.

I felt Uncle Ralph lay the wooden brush on my back, just as he had with John. I flinched as he took hold of the top of my pants. But, instead of ripping them down and exposing my bare bottom, he griped the waistband and tugged. They already fitted me snugly, but now they were so tight I could feel the cotton pulled up into my crack. Uncle Ralph took me lightly by the hip to hold me steady. That was when I felt his big hand rub across my buttocks. He was smoothing away any wrinkles in the pants – and (I suspect) having a good feel while he was at it.

He said nothing while doing all this so I had no warning when he started slapping his hand across my backside. Through the thin underpants I could tell his hand was hard and rough. I had no experience being spanked so I didn’t know how much it was supposed to hurt. He lay it on hard and rapidly. Smack-smack-smack. It was much quicker than the way he had spanked John. My bum was warming up. It didn’t hurt – well, not too much – it was like an intense tingle, if that makes any sense.

z used brush otk pants chair brush straightladsspankedotcom (1a)

I lay face down looking intently at the floor. A ball of dust floated by my face. I noticed a water stain where the tiles had not been dried properly after they were cleaned. I concentrated on this, as if it might take my mind off the humiliation I was suffering. I felt a movement in Uncle Ralph’s body. He picked up the brush and whacked me hard with it. I gasped at the shock of this sudden pain. It hurt so much more than the palm of his hand. I heard Uncle Ralph wheezing as he laid the brush across my stretched underpants. Oh my how it hurt!

I don’t know how many whacks he gave me. I do know I kicked my legs and waved my arms about. “Keep still. Keep still,” Uncle Ralph ordered. I had very little control over my body, I couldn’t have obeyed even if I wanted to. “Keep still, it’ll be all the worst for you,” he said. The warning was lost on me. I kept on struggling. Suddenly, the pounding stopped, I drew in great gulps of air. The pain was intense but as soon as he stopped hammering my bottom, it started to dissolve into something like a constant throbbing.

If I thought my spanking was over, Uncle Ralph had another idea. He lay the brush on my back again and with both hands he clutched the waist of my underpants. I might have made a yell of protest, I can’t be sure. Not that it did me any good. My bum was bare. Uncle Ralph took hold of the brush again and he took my tail off! He pressed his elbow into my back and that stopped me wriggling around too much. I may not have been willingly submitting myself to him, but he was my master. He could (and would) spank me for as long and as hard as he wished and I had to lay there face down, bared-bottom quivering until he was ready to stop.

This is where my recollection becomes hazy. I know my bum was on fire and my entire body ached, but also in some crazy way that I don’t have the words to explain, I was flying high. I’ve smoked some dope in my time and taken other drugs at parties, but nothing had ever made me fly like this. Go figure, I can’t.

At some point, Uncle Ralph set me free. I remember jumping up and down and rubbing away at my roasted bottom. Then, I was face down on my bed. Next morning, I had to sneak into the utility room very early and launder the bedsheets before my aunt saw them. Later, I spent time very carefully reading the printed list of rules Uncle Ralph gave me when I arrived. I made careful note of all the offences I could commit that would earn me a jolly good spanking.

 

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures / straight lads spanked dot com

Other stories you might like

 

Spanked by my uncle: who enjoyed it the most?

Visit to Uncle Roy

The smiling boy

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A bug on the wall

Come here, I’m going to spank you.

Spank me? I’m a bit too old to be spanked, don’t you think?

No, what are you? Eighteen?

Nineteen.

Nineteen is not too old to be spanked. Plenty of nineteen year olds would benefit from a damn good spanking. And, you’re one of them mister.

Huh?

Go upstairs and bring down the bathbrush.

Can’t we talk about this?

There is nothing to talk about. You stole my car.

I did not steal your car. It’s called taking and driving away. I did not intend to deprive you of your property.

Don’t get fresh with me. You did not have my permission. You are not insured to drive my car. Do you even have a license?

Hmm.

No, I thought not. Go upstairs and fetch that brush.

But, you can’t spank me. You love me.

It is because I love you that I’m gonna spank you.

Oh come on.

It’s up to you. You take a spanking; we move on. You don’t take a spanking; you move out.

You cannot be serious.

Oh yes I am mister. Remember Ryan?

Oh …

Upstairs. Bring that brush down and be quick about it.

[A minute of silence elapses.]

Good. Hand it to me.

But …

Come. Here. Keep still. You didn’t think I’d let you keep these heavy jeans on did you?

Oh come on …

Now, get here. Lay across my knee. Rest your head and arms here. Stretch your legs out behind you. Yeah, that’s it.

I can’t believe …

You better believe it buster. I am gonna blister your butt.

Hey, you can’t do that!

Yes, I can. It’s not a real spanking if it’s not on the bare.

Please, no.

z used brush otk bare chair RYM

Whack!

Oww!

Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack!

Oww! Oww! Com’on no! Pleeease!

Whack! Whack!

That’s enough. Ouch You’re hurting me.

That’s the point young man (wheeze). That’s the point.

Smack!  Smack!

Hissss. Yow!

Smack! Smack!

Ouch. Enough. Pleeease!

Smack! Smack!

You only have yourself to blame.

(Whack!) Are (Whack!) you (Whack!) gonna (Whack!) steal (Whack!) my (Whack!) car again? (Whack! Whack!)

No-ooow!

Smack! Smack!

Am I getting through to you?

Yes.

Whack!!!

Yes, what?

Whack!!!

Yes, Sir. I’m sorry.

Yes, you will be. By the time I’ve finished with you mister. You’ll be sorry then.

Whack!!! Whack!!!

Two minutes later.

Whack!!! Whack!!! Whack!!!

There. Will I have to do this again?

Sob, sob. No. I’m sorry. Sob, sob.

Get up.

Sorry, Sob. Sob.

Here, come here. Give me a kiss.

Sorry dada.

I love you.

I love you too.

Outside fifty yards down the road, in the back of an unmarked white van two newspaper reporters silently exchange glances. One switches off the recording device. Another working day is drawing to a close.

This story was first uploaded in January 2016.

Picture credit: Reluctant Young Men

Other stories you might like

 

Winker Wilson’s visit

Late home from a date

Fr. Pat’s paddle

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Uncle loses his patience

z used new story 2

z used pyjamas taking down domestic sting (2a)

Right Trent, this is what’s going to happen. You are going to take down those pyjama bottoms and bend over my knee. I’ve warned you often enough. Ever since we took you in you’ve been nothing but trouble. Now, you’ve left your aunt in tears with your rudeness. I will not stand for it. I won’t have it. Do you understand?

You’re well overdue a spanking. I don’t know how your father brought you up, but in this house we know how to behave. You stick to the rules. My rules. And Aunt Marie’s, of course. You don’t do that, you get a spanking. It really is as simple as that. And, if you don’t like it you can see if your new stepdad will take you in. I doubt it. Who would want an obnoxious brat like you living it them? If you weren’t Aunt Marie’s nephew, I’d’ve thrown you out a long time ago.

Take them down, I said. I’m not playing games here. Let’s see if a bare-bottomed belting will buck your ideas up.

Don’t wave your arms at me! You are not too old for a spanking. And, I’ll tell you something else, you might be nearly nineteen but for as long as you live in my house I’ll spank you every time I think you need it. You don’t want to be spanked, then learn to behave, it really I as simple as that. Now, take down those pyjamas, unless you want me to do it for you.

That’s better. Now, let them fall all the way. Don’t worry you’ve got nothing I haven’t seen before. Now, bend over my knee. No, keep your hands well out of the way. Stretch out in front of you. Touch the floor. Or hold on to the chair leg. Keep your head nice and low. Try to lift up your bottom a little.

That’s better. Now, let’s get this jacket out of the way. Let the dog see the rabbit. There we are. A nice bare bottom. I don’t suppose this has ever been spanked before. More’s the pity. If your dad had used his belt on you I wouldn’t need to be doing this.

Be quiet. You’re a big lad, you ought to be able to take a strapping without all this fuss. You deserve this and you know it. I’ll tan your hide until it’s good and red. You’ll be sleeping on your stomach tonight lad, if I have my way. I’d like to see you explain the marks away to your girlfriend tomorrow ….

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

Other stories you might like

After the party

Saving souls

A kiss too far

 

The performance review

Lucas Hodges stood rooted. He wanted to get his legs to move, but they would not obey the command from his brain. He knew he must submit to his boss; not to do so would be unthinkable. The wretched man had complete control over him. Lucas was powerless. He must do what Mr Riley wanted; however perverted it might be.

There was sweat beneath Lucas’s crisp white shirt; but the room was cold. Snow continued to fall and settle on the pavement five storeys below the spacious office where Mr Riley and he stood. Lucas breathed deeply: in, out. In, out. He must regain the use of his legs. With tremendous effort he got the right foot to move; then with a willpower he never knew he possessed, the left foot followed it.

Like a penguin, Lucas shuffled a few paces across the office. Slowly, he reached the spot indicated by Mr Riley and he stood, knees slightly bent. He could not stomach to see his tormentor, the ugly, pot-bellied vile creature, so he cast his eyes down and studied the plush new deep-pile carpet beneath his feet.

The sweat was oozing. The back of his neck was damp and his closely cut ginger hair was soaking, like he had just stepped out of the shower. A moustache of moisture smeared his upper lip.

Mr Riley said nothing; but he was not silent. Air escaped between his lips. That was the old man’s default position. He always wheezed; even at times like this when he was rested in a deeply-padded leather couch. Later, when he put Lucas through his paces, Mr Riley’s breathing and blood pressure would take off into orbit. But that was for the future.

Lucas could not stop his hands from trembling. He bunched his palms into fists and held then rigidly beside the side of his body. Then he clenched the two hands together, interlocking his fingers and gripped them tightly behind his back. But, however he held them, the quaking would not stop.

Mr Riley ogled the twenty-two-year-old purchasing assistant. Lucas Hodges had never been summoned before him in this way before. According to the boy’s personnel record he had been with Asperton’s for four years; ever since he left school and just before the new government-inspired apprenticeship scheme came into force. Technically, Mr Riley was not permitted to treat him as an apprentice. Technically, schmechnically, Mr Riley did not give a hoot. The boy was in no position to complain. He would submit to Mr Lucas’s authority; or he could take his chances with the millions of unemployed slowly starving to death in dark corners of the nation.

Mr Riley did not know Lucas, but he had seen him in the office canteen at lunchtimes and had admired the boy’s lithe figure when he stretched across the pool table to reach a difficult shot. The boy’s tailored suit trousers would hug the contours of his firm round buttocks, affording Mr Riley a perfect view of his adorable arse. An arse, Mr Riley fervently hoped, he would have the pleasure of enjoying at closer quarters one day in the privacy of his office.

Mr Riley shuffled through a file on his lap: Lucas Hodge’s monthly performance review. Tasks had not been completed, deadlines had been missed and invoices had been left unprocessed for days.

In the modern day, at Asperton’s such behaviour would be dealt with in only one way. No excuses; no mitigation. Events had to take their course.

It was a large padded leather armchair. As Lucas swivelled it round so that its back pointed towards him, he saw the clear indentation in the chair’s crown. In the past few years, since the new employment laws had been in force, countless young men had contributed to its making; their heavy bodies pressing down into the soft leather. The channel was so well established that each new boy instinctively rested himself into the groove. The office workers required to submit their rear ends to Mr Riley found it was surprisingly comfortable, but of course what happened once they were ready was far from that.

The chair now in place, Lucas stepped back, his quaking hands once again grasped behind his back as he awaited further instructions.

Mr Riley was not ready yet. He hauled his clammy bulk from the couch, leaving behind a patch of moisture where his flabby buttocks had seeped sweat into the seat cushion. Wheezing, he staggered across the huge office, and rested beside an enormous desk, which appeared to be made of metal and glass. Drawing great gulps of air into his lungs, Mr Riley pulled at a wide drawer running the length of the desk.

Lucas had never been in this office before, but instinctively he knew what was contained within the drawer. Mr Riley delved his hand inside and a rattling sound from within confirmed the young man’s direst suspicions. Within seconds Mr Riley had seized and withdrawn a long, thin, whippy cane. The old man’s face glowered puce as he held the instrument of punishment between his two hands and flexed it thoughtfully.

Lucas had never seen a cane before and could not tell whether the specimen before him was an especially mild or a vicious example. When his boss, still gasping for breath, swished it three or four times through the empty air, however, Lucas knew it was a mightily effective rod that would take his arse off.

For a moment, it seemed to Lucas, Mr Riley was about to have a seizure. The ugly man’s heavy puce face was suffused with blood. The veins stood out on his forehead and temples like purple roots. His noisy breathing calmed to almost nothing so that Lucas could not be sure that he was breathing at all. Spittle dribbled through his unkempt bushy beard.

z used cane hold kernled (26)

Then, as if suddenly awakening from a deep sleep, Mr Riley spun on his heels to face Lucas. Then from half way across the office, he wobbled the cane at the petrified boy, and whispered, “Stand behind the chair.”

All the while he had been in the office with Mr Riley Lucas had tried to devise a plan. He had two choices. One was to tell the pervert to shove his cane where the sun doesn’t shine and to walk out of the office. That was no choice. Before the hour was over, Lucas would be dismissed from the company. Destitution would follow; for himself and his parents and younger sisters who were forced to survive on his salary.

The second choice: the only choice really, was to submit to whatever Mr Riley demanded. If Lucas could close off his brain in some way, to block out what the revolting man was doing to him, he could get through it. He faced a dreadful ordeal, but it would not kill him.

So, Lucas shuffled back to the chair.

Mr Riley spoke in a whisper, as if each word had to be clutched from his throat. His mouth was full of saliva, “Take down your trousers and undergarments and bend over the chair.”

Lucas tried to unbuckle his belt, but his fingers at first refused to comply with the instructions of his brain. After much fumbling, it was loose. It was easier to unfasten his smart city-style suit trousers and pull the zipper. The trousers slipped down his pale legs and settled at his shins.

Lucas was not a shy man; he played a lot of sports and was very comfortable undressing in the company of men. But this time, he felt a wave of embarrassment sweep through him. It was Mr Riley’s google-eyed stare that did it. His piggy hazel eyes popped out on stalks at the sight of Lucas in his tight fitting boxer briefs. The cotton clung to the boy’s buttocks and thighs and even from a distance it was evident that Lucas’s cock and balls were an exceptional size.

“Wheeze, wheeze …. Undergarments down, wheeze, wheeze …”

Looking back on this experience, Lucas supposed he had never despised anybody in his entire life as he did Mr Riley at that moment. Would any right-minded person blame him if he took a paperknife from the desk and stabbed the revolting man through the throat? Alas, for Lucas, the law courts did not comprise reasonable people and he would soon find himself on death-row if he did.

So, Lucas sent his boxer briefs to meet his trousers. Mr Riley would have liked to see more of Lucas’s uncut penis and his dangling ball sack, but the young man took a deep breath, rubbed the palms of his hands together to steady his nerves and like dozens (possibly hundreds) of his fellow workers before him, he settled himself into the channel over the back of the chair.

The armchair was the perfect height for young men to prostrate themselves across to offer up their arses. He fitted rather well with his stomach comfortably resting in the groove and his arms stretched out ahead of him clutching onto the seat cushion. In this position his face rested close to his own chest and he breathed in the heavy scent of Brut 33 splash-on lotion. Behind him his legs were parted and his knees held straight, offering a wonderful target to Mr Riley and his whippy cane.

Mr Riley took hold of the tail of Lucas’s shirt and pushed it up his back, revealing an area of pale white skin. From this vantage the boss could see right into the boy’s crack. There was not a hair to be seen, it was as if Lucas’s entire body was hairless, virginal.

Lucas’s bottom was slightly raised and nothing would impede the cane, shiny and whippy in Mr Riley’s right hand. He tapped it, impatiently, against his own left hand and then placed it gently across the centre of the boy’s buttock cheeks. Lucas squirmed and instinctively turned his head. His bottom involuntarily twitched and Mr Riley, his face now a deep purple, tapped the cheeks again as if to say, keep still and let my cane do its work.

Then, the cane thwipped down across the centre of Lucas’s pale backside. It was not a vicious stroke: Mr Riley liked to see a boy’s buttocks bounce under the impact of his cane leaving a vivid red line to slowly emerge across the surface of his skin. It hurt the boy, he sucked in his breath and closed his teeth tightly. He gripped the seat cushion firmly and waited for swipe number two.

When it came, impacting the lower part of the cheeks close to where they meet with the thigh, Lucas gasped and lifted his left leg slightly as if to ease the pain but, other than that, there was no movement and there was no sound. Lucas had never been caned in his life and had no real idea how much it should hurt, but instinct told him that Mr Riley was not delivering him a whipping.

The stroke had been clean and true, but not too hard, and as it echoed around the office another clear red line painted itself across the centre of the upturned cheeks. The pulsating soreness spread across Lucas’s shapely bottom.

“Uh!” Another sharp cut, lower this time, thwacked across Lucas’s round buttocks making his entire body shudder. Lucas felt his eyes begin to moisten as another stroke cut into his bottom, higher than the others.

From his place face down over the chair, Lucas could not see Mr Riley reach into his own trouser pocket and take a large blue-and-white-spotted kerchief which he used to mop up copious amounts of perspiration from his face and neck.

The delay set Lucas’s mind racing as he wondered was happening back there. Was Mr Riley wavering; was his limited strength giving out on him?

The cloth was sopping wet when Mr Riley returned it to his pocket and took up his station to thwip another stroke across Lucas’s, by now, red and sore buttocks.

“Eekk!” that one cut into the centre of Lucas’s tightly clad rear. He began to move a hand back towards his sore bottom then because he knew some unwritten law would not allow this he withdrew it and tucked the hand under his face.

“Eeekk!!” Again, the slender rattan cane bounced into Lucas’s by-now very tender bottom sending a dose of pain shooting across his backside and down the backs of his legs. He clung to the chair for all he was worth.  Mr Riley stared on, mesmerised by the luscious buttocks, which twitched, clenched and unclenched.

The cane met Lucas’s bare backside with a thump that swiftly transformed into a singing bite. A thin line of pain zipped across the apex of his buttocks, and the cane moved its attention to the lower section just above the top of the thighs. Another thwack hit with lightning speed. It was an even deeper, more painful bite, and its momentum pushed Lucas’s groin against the edge of the chair. The surface of the lush leather cushion clouded over with the hot breath propelled from the boy’s lungs.

Lucas fought back cries and when, eventually, gasping, groaning, heaving and writhing, he began to realise that the caning was over, that twelve strokes had been cut on his bare flesh, and that Mr Riley was admiring his work of art, he flopped over the chair and let the tears run down his face.

Mr Riley lowered his cane and rested it on his desk. The beating was over. Lucas Hodges slumped across the chair back, still gripping the rests, trying to maintain his composure. His buttocks were streaked with livid red weals. There were not twelve distinct lines because the whole of his rear end was covered with marks the colour of deep burgundy.

“You may get up.” Lucas almost missed the order Mr Riley’s voice was so shallow. The boy dragged himself up from the chair. His buttocks were aflame, but already, less than a minute after the end of his caning the pain was subsiding. Some parts of his once-creamy white buttocks would be tender to the touch for some hours to come, but mostly the worst was now over. The pain was quickly turning to a throbbing and would very soon become a warm glow.

Without waiting for permission, Lucas tugged first his boxer briefs and then his trousers over his savaged bottom. He was tightening and buckling his belt when with deep shock he realised his ordeal was not yet over. The worst was yet to come.

Mr Riley was unbuttoning his own trousers revealing baggy canary yellow-coloured boxer shorts. A vast belly hung over the waistband and even from some yards away Lucas could see a red indentation around Mr Riley’s middle where his waist should have been, caused by his tight underwear.

No words were spoken as the boss hitched his fingers into his boxers and pulled them down to his shins. The physical effort this entailed set off the abhorrent old man’s wheezing. Still without speaking, Mr Riley gestured to Lucas to step forward and take his semi-erect cock in his mouth.

Twenty minutes later Lucas was in the office lavatory. He could not be sure how much water he had forced down inside of him. Gallons and gallons, probably. But still he could not get rid of the taste of the filthy old man. In desperation he put two fingers down his throat and retched and retched.

Picture credit: Kernled

This story was first uploaded in January 2016.

 

Other stories you might like

Foreign language student

The junior salesman

The headmaster and Hutchins

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The rent collector

z used new story 2

z used solo defiant look pants by Bleuboyz (5)

The first thing you need to do is drop the attitude. You are in deep trouble, and you know it. You must have thought I was joking when I said I’d spank you if you didn’t come up with the rent. Well, you owe four weeks now, so you’d better start handing it over.

Haven’t got it? Well, why am I not surprised? Look at you. It’s nearly midday and you were still in bed when I called. Why don’t you get a job. There are plenty about, one’s that pay enough for the rent on this room. You’re just plain lazy and that’s the truth. Young people today think they’re owed a living. You are about to learn a painful lesson in life.

Do you see this? It’s a paddle. I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen one close up before. Never felt one across your ass, that’s for sure. See that blade. Those holes cut in it, they’re to make it fly quicker through the air. They leave blisters on your butt. By the time I’m through with you that creamy-white ass of yours will be covered in big red sores. You ain’t gonna be sitting down for some time buddy.

So? Do you have the money? No? How come, you must be getting it from somewhere. Look at all the empty beer cans here. I bet you’re on drugs too. All kids your age are. How old are you anyhow: twenty, twenty-one? You really ought to be earning your living by now. Out in the world, paying your way.

So, no rent gets you a spanking. Don’t look so smug. You’re getting a tanning. Ah! Who’s that at the door? Come in Mr Pritchard, thank you for joining us. Have you met Mr Pritchard? You might have seen him working the doors on one of the landlord’s many business enterprises in town. He’s here to assist me in my work. See, I reckon you ain’t about to meekly give me your little hiney to spank, so Mr Pritchard here is going to make sure I don’t go away disappointed. Isn’t that right Mr Pritchard?

So, are you going to come quietly? No, I didn’t think so. Mr Pritchard  grab him and hold him down across the table please.

Don’t fight him. You can’t win. Do you want two broken arms as well as a blistered butt? No, I didn’t think so. Stop struggling.

Thank you Mr Pritchard. Hold him face down. That’s right. Sit on his shoulders if you have to. Good. Right sonny, let me get your underwear down. Don’t fight me. You don’t want me to rip them, they look mighty expensive. Is that why you can’t pay the rent, you’re spending all your money on designer shorts? Or do you have a boyfriend buys them for you. I bet that’s it, a pretty boy like you. Does he pay for the beer and the drugs? You ought to get him to set you up in an apartment someplace.

Stop shouting. D’you want to disturb the neighbours? Look, if you don’t keep quite I’m going to put a sock in your mouth. Do you want that? No, I didn’t think so.

Right. My, what a magnificent butt. I bet you like to show that around The Village. Do you sell it? What a great piece of ass. I bet it fetches a premium. Okay, Mr Pritchard, hold him steady please. Let’s take the skin off his hiney. How may swats do you think? How about one swat for every dollar rent he owes. Does that sound fair?

One …

Two …

Three …

Hold him steady Mr Pritchard ….

Picture credit: Bleuboyz

Other stories you might like

My First Time

The bully

Over the schoolmaster’s knee

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Where’s the paddle, hon?

“Where’s the paddle, hon?”

“Sorry?”

“The spanking paddle. Where is it? I can’t find it.”

“Did you try under the stairs?”

“Yes, and in the garage.”

Hank Betterman had looked everywhere. And he would look in some more places too. But, he would never find it. It was on the city dump site, where it was taken after his nineteen-year-old son Dylan sneaked it into the trash.

“Dylan missed curfew again. And he’d been drinking too,” Hank told his wife Julia. “When I find that paddle I’ll toast his buns with it.”

Hank and Julia were new to spanking. It was less than a year since they first put a paddle across the seat of Dylan’s pants. They had read about it on the Internet. On a site about disciplining older teens. They learnt that a lot of parents spanked their eighteen and nineteen year olds. And older kids too. Especially in Good Christian Households.

“Well I can’t think where it’s gotten too,” Julia thought hard. When had she last seen it?

“It’s no good,” her husband was beginning to realise he might never find it.

“Don’t worry, hon. We’ve got that new utility brush. That’ll pack a punch.”

Yes, Hank smiled, of course. It was a heavy wooden beast. They had bought it to scrub the rust off the bottom of the car. It would make a terrific spanking tool.

“I’ll go fetch it,” Julia started towards the garage, “You call Dylan. Let’s get on with this.”

“Oh, dad, I’m too old to be spanked,” Dylan wailed moments later when confronted by his dad.

“I’ll say when you’re too old,” he gripped the brush tightly in his hand. It was about eighteen inches long, including the handle. The manufacturers had put on a rubber grip so it wouldn’t fly out of the hand when it was used.

“Get in there,” he nodded towards the living room.

“Oh dad,” Dylan pouted, but obeyed his dad.

“Missed curfew. And you’d been drinking.” Hank Betterman summarised his son’s faults. Dylan tried to mouth a protest but was cut short.

“Don’t deny it. I saw you. It was gone midnight and you couldn’t get your key in the door.”

Dylan blushed. His dad was right on all accounts. There was no way he could deny it.

“So, young man,” his dad sat down in the middle of the couch. “I’m going to spank you. Get over here.”

“But dad!” Dylan tried again. “I’m nineteen dad. I’m at college.” Then rather pitifully, he added, “Please dad.”

Hank Betterman was stony faced. His son could moan all he wanted to. Not only had he disobeyed his father on the curfew, he had also been drinking alcohol. And that was illegal for a kid of his age. Hank Betterman had no doubt, none at all, that it was his Christian duty to whip his son’s backside.

“Take down those sweats and get across my knee.”

“Oh dad,” Dylan was not quite ready to give up.

“Don’t make me have to do it for you,” Hank reached forward and took his son by the arm pulling the teen toward him. Then, he dragged the boy face down across his lap.

He cracked an almighty whack with the brush across the boy’s left buttock.

“Keep still.”

Then he gripped the elasticated waist of the sweats and tugged them down across his son’s cheeks until they were bunched at his thighs.

Smack! Another blow landed, this time on the right cheek.

z used otk pants chair bbfc (6b)

“Right, now give me your arm.”

He took Dylan’s right wrist and pulled his arm up his back in a half nelson wrestling manoeuvre.

“Right you’re not going anywhere.”

Hank Betterman looked at his son horizontal across his lap. He was a tall boy, easily two or three inches taller than his dad. The couch was a four-seater so there was plenty of room for Dylan to stretch his whole body along its length. His head rested on a cushion at one end and his legs stretched out behind him at the other. His buttocks were raised at a gentle angle across his dad’s lap.

With his son in this position, Hank Betterman had the best possible aim. The teenager was pinned down; he wouldn’t be able to get up until he said so. He was at his dad’s mercy; not that he intended to show any.

Dylan’s buttocks were full and round and filled out his Jockey shorts. There was plenty for Hank Betterman to aim at.

His dad took a deep breath to prepare himself, just as an athlete or a swimmer might. Then he raised the brush, no higher than a foot away from the boy’s flesh, and hammered it down with all his might. Again and again and again.

At first Dylan opened and closed his mouth uttering silent “owws” and “ouches,” but the pain grew quickly and within seconds his yelps and cries were audible. Then, they became full-throated yells.

Dylan might live to regret throwing the paddle in the trash. The wooden brush was heavier and packed one heck of a punch. It felt like blisters had formed on his under-curves after only six or seven swats.

Dylan wriggled and squirmed, but it was useless activity. Dad had the advantage.

“Enough dad, enough,” he cried.

“I’ll say when you’ve had enough,” Hank Betterman carried on relentlessly. Every square inch of the buttocks and a good deal of the thighs had colored dark pink.

Then Hank Betterman stopped. A relieved Dylan made to lift himself off his dad’s lap.

“Not so fast buster,” Hank Betterman took hold of the top of the Jockeys. “That was for breaking curfew. This is for the drinking.” He pulled the shorts down and left them with the sweats. He was surprised at how bruised Dylan’s cheeks were.

Undeterred he whacked on. He had his duty to perform.

A dozen swats on the left and then a dozen on the right. Dylan’s hollering was so loud, Hank Betterman didn’t hear the front doorbell.

His wife Julia opened the door. It was Delores from across the street. She always came over at this time for coffee. Her ears pricked up at the sound of Dylan’s piteous cries.

“Just a little domestic issue,” Julia said as she busied herself making the coffee.

“Missed curfew. Drinking beer,” Julia filled her friend in on the details.

Still the faint sound of wooden brush connecting with bare flesh and the considerably louder wails of Dylan in distress wafted in from the sitting room.

Then, Delores remembered. Her son Mason, a great buddy of Dylan’s, missed his curfew last night. She needed to get to the bottom of that.

“Where did we put the paddle?” she wondered to herself.

Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club

This story was first uploaded in January 2016.

 

More stories you might like.

The coach and the schoolmaster

The mailman delivers

Yellow Pages spanking

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com