It’s the waiting …

z used bed chest nick backes

It’s the waiting that gets me. It always does. I know it’s going to happen, there’s no doubt about that. But when? Why won’t he just get on with it.

I know I deserve it. I won’t argue with that. Rules are rules. Clear as a bell. No ambiguity. Don’t break curfew. Don’t drink alcohol. I did both. Caught bang-to-rights. No argument from me.

I thought I had got one over on Dad. Sometimes I do. I get away with it. This is what I do. About nine in the evening, I get all sleepy eyed. The family’s sat in front to the television. Usually it’s some dopey soap opera, or one of those series about midwives or doctors set in the nineteen-fifties. They’re boring enough to really send me to sleep.

Anyhow, I do the yawning and arm stretching thing. “Yawn, yawn. I’m tired. I think I’ll have an early night.” Then I make sure everyone knows I’m off to my bedroom. “Goodnight Mum. Goodnight Dad. Goodnight John Boy,” you get the idea. Then, as in the script, I go to my bedroom.

So far, so good. I turn the light off and wait about ten minutes. But I don’t go to bed. My bedroom is at the back of the house and everyone is glued to the telly so it’s easy to open up the window, climb out and leg it down to the pub.

I get away with it more often than not. I would have last night as well. But what do you know, just as I was rolling home at half past midnight, Dad had a call of nature. A what? you’re asking. All right; he got up for a piss. Just as I was quietly putting my key in the lock of the front door.

As I said, caught bang-to-rights. So there was Dad dressed in his old, baggy underwear bearing down on me. Not something one wants to see in a parent. “Where have you been?” he growls at me. “Out,” I say back, which of course, is the literal truth, but that’s not what he wants to hear. He says so and I tell him the details. Well, an edited version anyhow. “I’ve been out with my mates,” I tell him.

Still not convinced he isn’t getting only the edited highlights, he advances down the stairs. “You’ve been drinking?” He says it as if it’s a question, but really it’s a statement of fact. I smell of booze. He stands close to me so he can smell my breath. He grimaces (a bit theatrically, if you ask me). The aroma of his own stale sweat drifts between us.

He takes a deep breath and shaking his head (he would make a fine ham actor in one of those soap operas) he says his lines. To be honest with you he has said them all before. What had he told me about curfew? What had he said about drinking alcohol? What happened last time? What should he do this time?

Naturally, they were all rhetorical questions. That is he wasn’t expecting me to answer. The answers in case you’re interested would have been: curfew was eleven on a school night (even though I am eighteen and in my final year); no alcohol to be drunk, ever; last time I was caught he spanked me and what should he do this time? In my own estimation he should forget about it and go to bed.

He has other ideas. “Go to bed. I’ll deal with you in the morning.” With that he shuffles up the stairs giving me a perfect view of his shorts slipping down his hairy arse exposing the top half of his crack.

“I’ll deal with you.” I know what that means. Well I know in the abstract, as we say in our English Lit. classes at school. In the abstract I’m getting a spanking. Only the when and the how has to be revealed.

Last time – how can I forget it was less than three weeks ago – it was Dad’s bedroom slipper. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him wear slippers, but the ones he has (cloth uppers in a brown check pattern and very springy soles) are ancient and worn. I’m still in bed when he bursts into the room. It is his house and he doesn’t think he needs to knock on doors.

He towers over me, gripping the slipper in his right hand. It is a cold morning so I wear pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt with a design of Thailand on it that my mate Dean brought back from holiday. It wasn’t the only thing he brought back, but a shot or two at the clinic soon dealt with that.

Dad doesn’t make big speeches. “Out,” he says, waving the slipper at me. He means get out of bed and do it now. I don’t make a fuss. I know, I know. I’m eighteen years old. This is 2017. My Dad’s going to spank my bottom because I was at the pub and got home late. Can you imagine such a thing? I’m not a betting man but I’d wager the house (as they say) that none of my mates are going across their Dad’s knees at this moment.

I push back the sheet and wriggle my bum along the mattress until my legs dangle over the edge of the bed and I am able to pull myself to my feet. Dad scowls a little. “C’mon,” he says as he sits himself down on the bed and spreads his legs. He doesn’t have to say more. I have been here before, I know the drill.

I shuffle forward until I am standing beside Dad’s right leg. He sits at an angle, so I am expected to lower myself over his knees and stretch out the top half of my body across the mattress. This way, my bum rests perfectly across his lap and my arms are out of the target area. My legs hang over the edge of the bed and my knees bend slightly so that my toes hover a few centimetres above the carpet.

I do this and wait patiently. Dad holds me firmly at the waist. Have you ever been slippered? Well, to be honest it doesn’t hurt that much. There’s a stinging pain as the springy sole connects with the bum and it lasts a second or two, until the next swipe smacks home. But once the battering’s over the pain goes quickly although it tingles for a minute or so after. Dad likes to spank at a rapid rate, like a machinegun: rat-a-tat-tat. He puts his full effort into it.

This time (he doesn’t always do this), he grips the elasticated waistband of my pyjamas and tugs them over my bum until the buttocks are bared. I feel a slight cool breeze coming from the door that Dad has left slightly open. Rats. My brother Joe will be able to hear. Perhaps Dad has done this on purpose. It increases my embarrassment to know Joe might hear and it serves as a warning to my brother about the consequences of his own behaviour.

I don’t like being spanked on the bare. I don’t suppose it increases the pain much compared to the thin cotton pyjama bottoms, but I know Dad can see right into my crack and I haven’t had a shower yet. I try to remember when I last had a crap. Before I showered yesterday? Then I should be clean.

With no further ado, Dad grips the slipper tightly, hovers it over my left buttock and let’s fly. Bang-bang-bang. It hurts, a lot. But it is not agony. I’ve never discussed this with Dad, but I am pretty sure his intention is not to really hurt me. You know in the sense of whip me senseless. He’s trying to make a point. Spank-spank-spank. And he is using his slipper and my bare arse to do it.

I know he cares for me. It’s the booze thing mostly. Nobody talks about it in the family, but my Granddad (Dad’s dad) was an alcoholic and the drink killed him in the end. But not before he made his family’s life a total misery. Dad has never touched a drop in his life; afraid (I suppose) of like-father-like son.

Dad whacks me with great efficiency. My legs kick out, but this is a reflex action. I have no control, it is my body’s natural reaction to the assault being made upon it. No square centimetre of flesh is left unscathed. When I check myself in the mirror later I see the imprint of the slipper appears from the top of my buttocks, over the mounds and into the very sensitive under-curves where the bum meets the back of the thighs. Hats off to Dad, he is an expert spanker.

His job done, he releases his grip on me and taking my cue I climb off his lap. I turn my back on him (I don’t want him to see my cock and ball sack) and bend down to tug up my pyjama bottoms. He growls something that I don’t quite catch and then he says, ‘Don’t make me have to do this again.’

That was then and this is now. I wait as patiently as I can in the circumstances. I think back to last night. Was it worth it? My cock stiffens at the memory. Yes, it was. Definitely. I get a raging hardon. It was Shelley’s tits that did it. Do I have time? Can I risk it? My dick aches. Shit. I can’t stand this. I open my palm and hawk a couple of gobs of spit into it and start to work my sodden hand up and down my shaft.

The door swings open …

Picture credit: Nick Backes

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A passing phase

z used sex on couch by sorachan and Hanatsuke

I came home unexpectedly early that afternoon. A pipe had burst and we had to evacuate the office to let the plumbers in. I’d expected the house to be empty. Colin, the only one of my kids still living at home, would have been at business college and my wife was at work. As I closed the front door I heard strange noises coming from the sitting room. They sounded human, but they weren’t exactly voices. I went to investigate.

I don’t know what I expected to see, but I’m absolutely convinced about what I didn’t expect. There on the couch naked as the day they were born was my son and a young man I did not know. They were kissing and cuddling. I think I let out a shriek, like some old maid. The other boy stared at me startled. He went pillar-box red, climbed off Colin, grabbed his clothes and dashed into the hallway.

There the boy – to this day I don’t know his name – hurriedly dressed before flying through the door, leaving me to confront my son. I was naturally dumbstruck. Literally struck dumb. Unable to speak. Colin took the opportunity of my silence to pick up his own clothes and still naked he took the stairs two at a time and I heard his bedroom door slam.

Only then did I think what to do. Father O’Kelly is our parish priest. He’d know what to do. I picked up the phone, dialled his number and put in place this train of events.

@

I’m not gay. Really, I’m not, but I am curious, I think. It was Jake who came on to me. I know him from college; he’s training to be an accountant. He came on to me, holding my hand, stroking my hair. Not that I objected. I want to make to clear that  I’m not claiming sexual harassment here, nor assault. Like I say I was curious, so I went along with it.

I’ve done it twice with Sandra, a girl at college, so I know I’m not gay. That was nothing like doing it with Jake. She was soft and cuddly; he was hard and muscular. And, of course, there’s the cock. Have you ever seen an erect dick? I mean really looked. I’ve jerked mine off many times, but I’ve never actually looked at it.

@

More young men than you might expect are homosexually inclined. They are attracted to their own genitals and to the bodies of other young men. I told this to Colin’s father when he called me. It is a sin, but it is usually only a passing phase; something that a boy must pass through. I have seen many young men through this passage of their lives. I was ready to help Colin. Together we could get him back on the straight and narrow path to God.

@

I wasn’t surprised when Dad said I must visit Fr. O’Kelly; he is a devout Catholic (Dad that is, I can’t be so sure about the priest). I go to Mass every week, but I think mainly that’s just to keep the peace at home. I do believe in God and all that and I like to think I’m a good person (most of the time).

Fr. O’Kelly asked me to see him at his home, which puzzled me. I thought we would meet at the church where the confessionals are. He has quite an ordinary home for a priest; it’s a detached house in a street called The Avenue, which is in an up-scale part of town. A very leafy suburb. I had to get two buses from our council flat.

Fr. O’Kelly was in his “civvie” clothes; black trousers and a grey roll-neck sweater. He is about fifty years old and stands a little over six feet; he has a spare tyre at his waist and his face is fleshy. His eyes always seem to me to be pink and watery. I think he had only just showered and shaved as there was a distinct whiff of Lifebuoy about him.

He directed me into a living room. I stood unsure what I was supposed to do. It’s a smallish room, with a two-seater couch, a leather armchair and a coffee table.  There’s a glass-fronted bookcase along one wall. I must have been shuffling from one foot to the other a bit impatiently waiting for the Father to join me in the room, before I saw it. I honestly had never seen anything like it before. Where had it come from? Why did a Roman Catholic priest have one?

Resting on the coffee table was what I can only describe as a school cane. These things had been banned about thirty years ago; long before I was even born. It was about a metre long and a light brown (almost yellow) colour. One end was bent to make a handle. I couldn’t resist picking it up. It was as thick as a pencil and had four notches along its length. When I held it between both hands I found it could easily bend and when I let I go it sprang back into shape.

“You should really put that back where you found it.” I’m sure I blushed as Fr. O’Kelly swept into the room. Hastily, I returned the cane to the coffee table. The priest perched himself on the edge of the couch, I stood embarrassed, unsure if I was permitted to sit. It was like being in the headmaster’s study (not that this had ever happened to me at school).

I clasped my hands behind my back and with head bowed I listened to his speech. It sounded prepared, like a sermon he might pull out of his pocket when it was necessary. He said that it was not unusual to have homosexual urges, but they were a sin. It was only a passing phase and they could be overcome. A young man’s life need not be ruined.

I was glad to hear this. Since my experiment with Jake I had worried tremendously. I didn’t want to be gay; I wanted to be normal. Like everybody else; like my Dad; like the people at church; like Fr. O’Kelly.

I don’t remember all that the priest said, but there was something about redemption. And, there was something about penitence. I missed most of this. Suddenly, there was silence. I blushed. Had he asked me a question, was I expected to answer?

“I said,” Fr. O’Kelly repeated himself, “It is necessary to beat this sin out of you.” I heard that all right. “It will cure you of your affliction and help you to live a normal, healthy life.” I watched spellbound as Fr. O’Kelly reached over to the coffee table and picked up the cane. He flexed it between his hands, rather as I had done earlier, then he swished it with terrific force through the air. It made an intimidating swoosh as it flew. My heart beat fast.

Fr. O’Kelly took two paces across the room and stood close to the leather armchair. “Come, stand with me,” he said. It was a gentle command, but a command nonetheless. The priest expected to be obeyed. I shuffled close to him; the scent of the soap tickled my nostrils and for one absurd moment I thought I was going to sneeze.

Fr. O’Kelly flexed the cane once more. “I want you to lower your trousers and underpants and bend over the chair.” He tapped the tip of the cane against the apex of the chair in case there was any doubt what he meant.

I suppose I stared in astonishment, I certainly did not move. “Trousers, pants down,” he said a little more sternly this time. Maybe my jaw dropped, I’m pretty sure my mouth opened and closed, but I couldn’t form words. He said it for the third time, “Trousers and pants down,” as if it were the most natural thing in the world for a nineteen-year-old boy to undress in front of a fifty-something priest to offer up his bare arse for a thrashing with a school cane. All to cure a homosexual trait.

I can’t fully explain what happened next. I’m not sure I will ever understand, but some power overcame me. I knew beyond any doubt whatsoever that Fr. O’Kelly was right. I had to undergo penitence; I needed to show remorse; be contrite. It would cure me of my urges and I would be able to lead a normal, happy life.

My hands trembled, but I got them to unbuckle my belt. My brown chinos hung loosely at my waist and they started slipping over my hips. I unbuttoned at the waist and they hurtled down my legs, passed my knees and flopped at my ankles. I was wearing micro-briefs and as I lifted up my shirt and pullover and looked down my flat hairless stomach, I saw they were so small and so tight they hardly encased my cock and balls. Tufts of pubic hair sprang out the sides. I put my two thumbs either side of the waistband and guided the briefs down my legs, abandoning them just below the knees.

I was once again aware that I was not alone. Fr. O’Kelly tapped his cane against the back of the chair and spoke, “Bend over.” I had never been caned; I had never been spanked. I don’t think I had ever even been slapped as a very small child. I was entering uncharted territory. I was determined to cooperate. This was for my own good. I would emerge from the experience a better person.

I lifted up my shirt and pullover so they were completely clear of my buttocks and leaned forward. The soft leather felt cold against my bare stomach. I rested my palms in the seat cushion and spread my fingers. The seat back was quite low and my torso sank into the soft leather. Instinctively I parted my legs, but I was restricted by the trousers at my ankles. Over the edge of the chair seat I could see a red-and-beige-patterned rug. I was facing a bay window and when I lifted my head I realised it was open. Had it not been for lace curtains I would have been able to see into the garden.

Fr. O’Kelly pressed the cane into my stretched bum. First he went to the top of the crown, then he “sawed” the stick across the fleshiest part of the buttocks, before turning his attention to the “sit-spot”, the underside of the curves. He seemed to be taking an inordinate time setting up his aim. I did not object to this; I would have been quite content if he delayed a lot longer.

At last he was ready. I felt the cane lifting away from my bum, there were a few moments silence followed by a tremendous whoosh and the rod bit deep into the very centre of both buttocks. I heard the thwack as rattan connected with meat a second or so before I felt the agony. It was as if Fr. O’Kelly had pressed a white-hot wire into my bum.

My knees buckled. The palms of my hands slid on the smooth leather seats. I wanted to grip hold of something tightly to help me absorb the pain but there was nothing, so I bunched my hands into fists and dug my nails deep into my palms. I shut my eyes tight and opened them almost immediately. My ears stung as blood flooded into them.

I had no time to recover from the shock before Fr. O’Kelly flogged the second cut into my under-curves. My top teeth bit deep into my bottom lip and I tasted blood. My head flailed left and right and up and down. I wanted to twist one foot over the other to stop the pain but my trousers prevented this.

The third and fourth strokes came in immediate succession. Bam! Bam! That was when I lost it. I coughed up bile and swallowed it down again. I howled. There really is no other way to describe it. A banshee would have been proud of the noise. I could no longer see the pattern on the rug, my vision was blurred by tears.

By now I had lost all sense of time and space, but I am pretty certain there was a delay before the fifth swipe was delivered. What I do know is that I felt the cane being once more “sawed” across my buttocks as the priest found his spot. This time the cane lay in a diagonal from the bottom of my left cheek to the top of the right. When Father O’Kelly let fly the whippy rattan flogged across the four previously delivered cuts, reigniting the agony in them all. I lifted my feet off the floor, wrapped my arms around my head, gasping, desperately sucking in air.

My heart very nearly gave out at that point. My blood pressure must have been off the scale. I was aware of arteries throbbing. My temples pounded. Any moment now I might have a stroke.

I wasn’t aware of such things at the time, but the “traditional” tariff for schoolboy beatings was “Six-of-the-best”. Fr O’Kelly was nothing if not a traditionalist. He took his aim for the sixth and last time. Now, he had the cane resting along the opposite diagonal. My bum was so toasted and my nerve ends so frayed that I could not feel this. I felt the resultant swipe right enough. When I inspected the damage later I saw he had imprinted a perfect “X” on my arse.

He had finished, but he left me heaving over the back of the leather armchair.  My nose was so close to the soft cushion I could smell the leather and the sweat of countless backsides. My bum felt like I had sat on a barbecue, the agony was intense. But even as I lay there waiting for permission to stand, the pain was already easing into an intense throb. Soon it would be merely sore and then just a tingle. I had problems sitting on a hard surface for some hours and it was days before the bruises disappeared.

Fr. O’Kelly let me stand and dress and he said a little prayer. I was on the path to salvation, he said. I was cured of my homosexual inclinations; of that I was certain. What puzzled me was why I had a raging hardon that night in bed when in my mind I recounted my bare-arsed flogging.

 

Picture credit: Sorachan

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The honourable thing

“You cannot say that we haven’t discussed this in the past.” Uncle Simon stood, legs slightly apart, rolling on the balls of his feet. Daniel breathed deeply. This wasn’t going to end well.

Uncle Simon clasped his hands behind his back, it made him seem more imposing somehow. Not that he needed much help. At six-feet-four he towered over his nephew. His shoulders were broad, his arms muscular. He was the eldest of his family, easily ten years older than Daniel’s father. He had always been the dominant brother. Daniel suspected his father was a little in fear of the man.

Uncle Simon’s fleshy face contorted, as if a sudden pungent aroma had seeped into the drawing room. His crisp blue eyes watered. He let the tip of his tongue explore the outer edge of his bottom lip. He too sucked in breath. Then he continued, “I made it perfectly clear when I allowed you to stay that there would be rules. Did I not?”

Daniel shifted uneasily. Yes, there had been rules. It was worse than being back at St. Tom’s. Do this. Don’t do that. Curfews. No drinking alcohol. No visiting cinemas or other places of lurid entertainment. The parlour was out of bounds. Bed by eleven o’clock. Rules, rules and more rules.

Daniel’s head bobbed, nodding assent. His had no words. What was he expected to say?

“You were late home last Thursday,” Uncle Simon spoke evenly, as if reading from a written charge sheet. He paused for effect, as if losing his place on the page for a moment. “I spoke to you about it at the time.” He waited some more. Daniel would know what Uncle Simon had said. He let the import of his words sink in. “And now,” his voice rose slightly, “and now you have repeated the offence.”

Daniel felt his face redden. Suddenly he was hot, but the room itself was decidedly cool – rather like Uncle Simon’s demeanour. He stared down at the parquet floor, ashamed.

“You will be going up to the varsity next week,” Uncle Simon ran the fingers of his right hand through his hair, feeling the stickiness of Brylcreem on them. “You will need to be self-disciplined. Study hard. Perform well. What chance will you have?”

The silence was intense. The tick-tock, tick-tock of the ancient grandfather clock pounded Daniel’s temples.

“Eh boy?” Uncle Simon’s patience like his flecked grey hair was thinning.

Daniel’s top teeth bit into his lower lip. He gurned his face. What was he supposed to say? Did Uncle Simon expect a speech of repentance? Was the eighteen-year-old meant to confess his sins? To invite retribution?

“Pah!” Uncle Simon waved his arms through the air, as if conducting an imaginary orchestra. “This will not do. This will not do,” he intoned. Perspiration began to dribble from his brow. Without thinking, he wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. “Well,” he sighed, as if he had been called upon to carry the woes of the entire world on his shoulders, “let’s get on with it.”

Daniel blinked hard. This was not entirely unexpected. He had broken the rules. He had been warned of his consequences. He had been caught a second time. Punishment was inevitable. He watched his uncle move across the room. It was large and cluttered with furniture. Daniel’s eyes flickered from the heavy leather Chesterfield coach, over to the dark oak dining table, taking in two overstuffed horsehair armchairs on the way. Any moment now he expected the instruction to present himself for punishment draped across one or other of these.

Uncle Simon made his way to a sideboard, hesitated for a second as if trying to remember an important detail. Then, he tugged at a drawer. It stuck hard and Uncle Simon cursed under his breath as he struggled to open it. At last, with a resounding clutter, he did so. He reached inside and ran his hand through the contents. It was the easiest thing to find what he sought.

Daniel watched puzzled. He supposed it would be a swishing. With a stout but whippy rattan cane – just like the ones he had endured at St. Tom’s. But, the drawer was too small to accommodate such a thing. What was Uncle up to? Daniel soon found out. With a look of distinct satisfaction on his lips, Uncle Simon gripped a large ebony hairbrush. He thought better of trying to close the drawer, so  turning on his heels he brandished it at his nephew.

It was about a foot long and the business end about four inches wide. The head was made of dark ebony wood. Instinctively, the tips of Daniel’s fingers brushed the seat of his trousers. Memories of encounters in the nursery startled him. Nanny had been very proficient with one of these.

Uncle Simon glowered at Daniel through narrowed eyes, then turned his attention to his surroundings. He came upon a large dining chair with ornate carvings tucked under the table. “There,” he said vaguely, “that will do.” Then, more forcefully, he said to his nephew. “Take hold of that chair and place it in the middle of the room.” He nodded to an open space near the horsehair armchairs.

Daniel’s heart raced. Could this really be happening? He could tell at a glance that the back of the chair was too high for him to bend himself across. Surely his uncle did not intend ….

His thoughts were interrupted. “Now, if you please. I wish to conclude this before your aunt comes down.” Startled into action, Daniel shuffled the five or six paces necessary to reach the chair. He paused and a little surprised by how damp the palms of his hands were, he rubbed them along the sides of his legs. The rough texture of his trousers scratched them. He reached for the chair and gripping it by the back he lumbered it across the room and plonked it into position. He stood; embarrassed, unsure what was now expected of him.

Uncle Simon watched with interest. His nephew cut a scrawny figure. He was hardly five-feet-seven-inches in his stockinged feet. Clearly, he was a stranger to the rugby field. No part of his body appeared muscular. The boy’s deathly-white complexion attested to time spent in study halls and libraries. His too-long fair hair flopped over his forehead and ears. From a distance and in a certain light he might be mistaken for a girl, Uncle Simon thought unkindly.

Uncle Simon held the brush in his right fist and tapped it into the palm of his left hand. It was time to take action. He strode to the chair and sat down. He spread his long legs wide and shifted his buttocks until he had attained the posture he desired, all the time conscious that his nephew’s stare burned into him.

Satisfied that he was now ready, Uncle Simon snapped his fingers and spoke. “Stand there. Take down your trousers.”

Simon’s already pale visage blanched even more. His uncle intended he should go over his knee for a spanking. “Dash it all,” he thought but did not speak aloud, “that’s not cricket. That’s not how a chap should be punished.” Daniel was an honourable chap. Like generations of boys at St. Tom’s he had grown up knowing the code of conduct. If a chap got found out in some misdeed, he took his punishment, fair and square. That was the right thing to do. A chap took his punishment like a man. But this …..? To take his trousers down and bend over his uncle’s knee? It was not manly. It was the punishment of a child; of the nursery.

“I have already scolded you for dallying,” Uncle Simon scowled. “Lower those trousers.”

Daniel was determined to do the honourable thing. Uncle Simon was his master, he should be obeyed. He wore no jacket nor waistcoat so was able to quickly put his thumbs under the straps of his braces and manoeuvre them over his shoulders. Thus released his trousers, which hung somewhat loosely at his waist, began to slip over his hips. His fingers trembled as he unbuttoned and helped them on their way south to puddle at his shoeless feet. He waited hands held loosely at his side for the inevitable next instruction.

It wasn’t long in coming. “Remove your underwear.”

This was really too much. The humiliation was great. Over uncle’s knee for a bare-bottomed spanking with a hairbrush. Dammit, why didn’t he just invite the housemaid and the footman in to witness the spectacle? At that moment the door behind rattled; Daniel alarmed twisted his head. It was only a gust of wind. His disgrace would go unwitnessed by the servants. He turned his attention once more to the matter in hand. His woollen drawers were held up by buttons and again his darned fingers were reluctant to obey his brain. At last they met with his trousers.

Daniel clasped his hands together as if in prayer and used them to obscure the sight of his private parts from his uncle. The old man professed not to notice, but although he intended to treat him as such, he could see his nephew decidedly was not a little boy.

Daniel stood head bowed. His uncle’s legs were parted some distance and the folds of his tweed trousers cloaked his own manhood. “Come, bend over my knee,” Uncle Simon spoke the words so hoarsely, Daniel did not hear. Only an accompanying hand gesture confirmed to the eighteen-year-old what was expected of him.

This was too much, Daniel thought. What couldn’t Uncle Simon beat him with a cane. He could do it on the naked buttocks if he believed Daniel’s offence warranted such treatment. Daniel would submit. But being spanked on the bared bottom nursery style was beyond the pale. He sucked in breath. He had no choice. He was an honourable boy, he must go through with this. He leaned forward and at first resting his hands on Uncle Simon’s left knee he eased himself down until his body rested across the platform the old man had created. Uncle was so tall and Daniel so small that he easily fitted into position. His fingers stretched out ahead of him and barely brushed against the wooden floor. Behind him his feet dangled in mid-air. His waist rested at an angle against Uncle Simon’s right knee, thereby offering his naked buttocks at a perfect angle to his uncle.

Despite his earlier entreaty for Daniel to get a move on, Uncle Simon was in no hurry. Carefully, he took hold of the boy’s shirttail and rolled it away from the target area up towards his shoulders. He noted his nephew’s hairless back and skinny waist. There was hardly any fat on the boy’s buttocks either. His nerve ends were entirely unprotected. This would indeed be an exceedingly painful experience for the boy.

Uncle Simon lay the heavy ebony-backed hairbrush on the small of Daniel’s back. He wasn’t yet quite ready to start. Instead, he cupped the palm of his right hand and slowly explored the contours of Daniel’s small, pert, buttock cheeks. He stared at the top near the spine and with deft circular motions explored the crest of the mounds, before squeezing the undercurves. Then for the sake of completeness he pat-pat-patted Daniel’s thighs. He could not be certain, but had he detected the slightest purring sound from his nephew as he performed this final task?

Now ready, he picked up the brush once more and gently stroked it over the highest point of Daniel’s right buttock cheek. His nephew’s body stiffened in anticipation of the hurt to come. Smack! The heavy wooden brush slammed with force. It met little resistance and a pink shape, replicating the hairbrush’s head immediately appeared. Daniel gasped but had little time to do more before a second and then a third swipe landed in almost exactly the same spot. He wriggled. It was an involuntary movement, a natural reaction from his body to the pain it felt.

Just as quickly three whacks bounced off his left buttock. The boy’s bum glowed a deep pink. Without hesitation Uncle Simon delivered another six on each globe. Each one of them landing with extreme force. Daniel’s legs flailed and his hips wriggled this way and that. Uncle Simon gripped the boy’s waist with his left arm and leaned his elbow against Daniel’s back. The boy was going nowhere; not until Uncle Simon decided he had been punished enough.

When he thought about it later, Daniel concluded the hairbrush spanking had hurt terrifically. He was no stranger to corporal punishment; St. Tom’s was that kind of school. But the masters there always used a whippy rattan cane. Six-of-the-best was the standard tariff and delivered with the expertise of the experienced schoolmaster it always hurt like billy-o whether trousers were up or down. The cane was thin and whippy and cut deep into the flesh, always causing intense pain and often leaving deep welts that reignited even hours later whenever a punished boy tried to sit. The pain from the hairbrush was altogether different. Its effects were terrible at the point of correction, but the pain rapidly faded into a throb before becoming merely an intense glow.

Uncle Simon was not a cruel man. He believed in discipline and he believed in punishment. He did not believe in torture. It was his intention to blister every square inch of his nephew’s buttocks and thighs, but no more. The pink marks quickly turned deeper red and after a few dozen spanks with the heavy brush a colour not unlike that of a good claret wine had been achieved. Daniel, now more securely pinned by his uncle’s elbow was unable to resist. Not that he wished to. The kicking and writhing had been purely physical reactions of his body of which he had no control. He had been determined to accept his just punishment. Rules had been stated, rules had been broken, the consequence of further rule-breaking made clear, the warning ignored and punishment meted out. Daniel offered no cause for complaint.

At last, satisfied with his own handiwork, Uncle Simon made one final circuit with his hairbrush before landing six stingers across the backs of Daniel’s thighs. It was over. He released his grip on his nephew and watched in awe as the eighteen-year-old staggered to his feet and performed the traditional “spanking dance”, hopping first from one foot and then to the other all the time rubbing the palms of his hands across the scorched flesh of his buttocks. Daniel seemed not to notice his cock and balls bouncing up and down inches from Uncle Simon’s glistening face.

Uncle Simon gave no instruction, but once the pain in his bum started to ease, Daniel bent down and began to pull up his drawers, offering his uncle a perfect view of his battered buttocks and his crack and hole. The underwear was in place in a trice and the trousers soon followed.

Uncle Simon heaved himself from his chair, a little surprised by his own breathlessness. He shook his nephew’s hand when the boy offered it. The way gentlemen do in such circumstances. Daniel with as much dignity as he could muster for an eighteen-year-old boy who had been across the knees of an older man for a bare-bottomed spanking left the room.

Uncle Simon reached inside his trouser pocket and finding a handkerchief pulled it out to mop his soaking head. Sweat soaked the armpits of his shirt and he felt the cotton sticking also to his back. The front of his trousers were tight and he knew he ought to withdraw from the room quickly and return to his bedroom.

Upstairs, Daniel in his own room had lowered his trousers and underwear and was inspecting the results his uncle’s administrations. “Oh well,” he said out loud although he was entirely alone, “I jolly well deserved it. Nobody can say that Uncle Simon isn’t a just man.”

used drawing brush hold (9)

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Never too old

Rock ’n’ roll truants

University student late for class

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Shoplifting

I am walking down Brocklehurst High Street heading for the Pound Shop. It is late summer and college restarts the next week and I need provisions like pens and paper and such like. Not, if I am going to be particularly honest about it, that I will put them to good use, since college for me is just an opportunity to skive. I know the Pound Shop is a good place to go; not because of the low cost of their products (the clue is in the store’s name) but it is an easy place to steal things from.

I am of the opinion that there is no reason to pay for something when you can take it for free and those of you who have visited such places as the Pound Shop know they have little use for security. I take what I want and simply hide it under my coat and make my leave.

I think this day is to be no exception. I choose Saturdays because; one) it is a little busier than during the week and two) because it is staffed by “Saturday workers” who by and large are school or college kids working for the day and they really couldn’t give  a shit. About anything.

I am making my selection and heading to the sunlight uplands of the high street with a bulge under my coat when I hear a voice call out. It says, “Hey you there, stop!” I am not sure the voice – it is a gruff sound and is clearly a man and quite possibly an older guy at that – is directed at me so I just keep on going. I have a date with my girlfriend and don’t want to be late on account that her folks are visiting her gran this day and the house will be empty for some hours and as they say, “While the cat’s away …”

“You! Stop!” The old geezer shouts again and now people are looking at him and looking at me and some Good Citizen steps in front of me to block my path.

“You!” I turn around and see I was right. It is a man who will never see fifty again, he has a paunch the size of a football hanging over the waist of his cheap dark-blue polyester trousers. His matching jacket is a little too tight and he sweats like he has just run a marathon rather than walking maybe a hundred feet from the shop doorway.

He is a security guard and doesn’t he know it. Now, I know and you probably know too, that security guards are the scum of the earth. They get minimum wage, an ill-fitting suit, and the chance to beat up on ordinary citizens just going about their not-so lawful business.

“Would you please come with me sir,” he says, sneering the word “sir” because he doesn’t really mean it. What he wants to say is, “I’ve got you bang to rights sunny boy, let’s see you grovel out of this one.”

I am standing in the middle of the crowded street seeing my afternoon shag-fest melting in the hot sun. I think about running. I have no practice at athletics preferring to spend my waking hours at Tablet screens or in dark pubs. And, sometimes I do both these things at the same time. I am not fit but I can outrun the old security guard.

I get ready to leg it when the security guard speaks. He says, “I know you. You’re …” and he gives up my name. Both bits. The first name and the last. “You live at The Avenue,” he is triumphant. “I know your dad.”

Now, how old fattyboy here, who is a nobody on minimum wage and who has always been and always will be, knows my dad, who just happens to be the director of administrative affairs at the local borough council and a big cheese in town to boot, escapes me. The news makes me hesitate my flight and next thing I feel his hand on my shoulder and I am going nowhere. Nowhere, that is except back into the shop.

There is a small room close to the self-service checkouts that he takes me to. It looks like a store room, but there is a cheap plastic-looking table, so it might be an office. There is only one window high up in the wall. It is frosted glass and hardly any daylight gets in. Fatty flicks a switch and a dim bulb sparks into action.

Well, Fatty goes on at me a bit, asks me what I’ve got under my jacket, have I got receipts, the whole nine yards. I cough to it. Who cares? The total value of my swag is four pounds. It’s hardly worth the trouble calling the police. It’ll cost the store more money to prosecute people than they ever lose in theft. I know it and I pretty sure Fatty boy here knows it too.

I let him have his moment in the spotlight and I’m just getting ready to say, “Call the cops or let me go,” like we were in some two-bit drama show on cable TV, when he goes to his pocket, pulls out a dirty handkerchief and very deliberately mops his brow with it. I watch mesmerised. He is really a fat, ugly reptile of a specimen. His brownish eyes are dull and I can see he is thinking about something. He is trying out the words he is about to say out loud. It is like he is rehearsing them like an actor in that TV drama I just told you about.

Then he says, “I think I’ll call your dad, let’s see what he has to say about it.” Then he smiles and I see half his teeth are missing and those that aren’t are dirty yellow and decayed. “What do you think about that?” he says. It isn’t really a question because he damn well knows what I think about that. I don’t think much of that at all.

I wonder how he knows of my dad. But if he really knows him at all, he knows that my dad will have my hide when he finds out. Now, “have my hide” is a saying that has been about for decades and means many different things to many different people. But when I say dad will “have my hide”, I don’t mean, “no more movies for a week or two, no more running round with the usual crew”, I mean “have my hide”, as in “take the skin off my rear end”.

Fatty grins at me and my stomach turns over. It turns over; one) because Fatty is repulsive to look at and more so when he shows the inside of his mouth, and two) because I do not want to be bent across the end of my bed at home with my trousers at my ankles and underpants at the knees while dad whips me with a thick, whippy, old-fashioned school-type cane he purchased off e-Bay especially for the purpose. I’ve been there and done that and no thank you I don’t need the t-shirt.

z used after pants down bed (2)

Fatty grins at me some more and I swear licks his lips, like he is sizing me up as his next meal. I am silent. What can I say? What exactly does he want?

I find out soon enough, when he wipes that snotty handkerchief over his face again and then he speaks. He says, “I have a little something in that drawer I keep for people like you,” and he nods towards a long drawer that is part of the table as if I can’t work out for myself what it is he is talking about.

He opens the drawer and pulls out a piece of wood. I know right away what it is because I see lots of these last time I’m at the TK Maxx store. It is a chopping block like you use in a kitchen for cutting carrots and onions and what-not. Fatty holds the board by the handle and waves it at me. I realise for the first time the chopping block has another use. The  chopping end is maybe thirty-five centimetres long and fifteen wide and not at all thick. He licks those lips again and his dull eyes blaze now.

He says nothing, but I know he wants to spank me with the chopping board. I am in a jam. I can leg it out of there and go screw my girlfriend, but I know when I get home later dad will be waiting, flexing his curved-handled cane between his hands. I can do that or I can stay and let Fatty do his worst. I know that Fatty’s worst will be nothing like dad’s. I see the blade of the chopping block could pack a punch and might blister my bum, but dad’s cane will rip me to shreds and I’ll still know about it in two weeks’ time.

Fatty might be a mind reader because he says to me, “It’s me or your dad,” and he leaves it at that. He doesn’t say more. He knows that I know what he means. Either way, I cop it. It’s him or dad. If you were in my shoes, what would you do?

“You need to take down those trousers and bend over the table,” Fatty says as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to have a nineteen-year-old kid with his jeans down bending across a table in an airless room on a Saturday lunchtime while he wallops his backside with a chopping board.

“And, you need to do it now,” he goes on, like this is something he does all the time. He licks those frigging lips again.

I close my eyes and see the sight of my bare arse when I look at it in the mirror after dad finished with me last time. Think about Clapham Junction railway lines. I open the peepers again and reach down to my belt and tug it open. Soon my zipper is lowered and my jeans slip down my thigh. Fatty has the chopping board by the handle and is thumping it into the palm of his left hand. He is trying to frighten me, but I say to myself there is nothing to worry about because no way is that piece of wood going to hurt me one little bit when I think of what dad’s cane will do.

So, I shuffles forward like a penguin until I reach the table. I am a tall guy and the table is quite low. I stop and think. How do I do this? Do I spread my legs and lean forward and grab the table and stick my bum out? That would do it. Or do I lay on the table spread-eagled with my legs splayed.

“Put your elbows on the table and stick yer arse out,” Fatty is breathing heavily, but I get what he is trying to tell me. I do as he says. I don’t see myself, but I can tell this puts me in a mightily good position. My head is low, my back arched, my legs are apart and my bum juts out at a perfect angle for Fatty to spank me.

I still have my jacket on so Fatty takes hold of the tail end and moves it away from his target area. I wear mini briefs (my girl’s favourite) and they stick to my cheeks like a second skin. Still, Fatty rubs his hand over my arse to smooth the cotton down some more. It feels like the briefs have ridden up my crack.

The table top is old and stained. It has seen much action. I think I recognise one of the stains and it has no connection to tea, coffee or other beverage. I feel Fatty move away and then I feel a kiss of wood against my stretched flesh, then Wham! The wood cracks into my arse. I get a burning sensation where it lands. Bam! Another hits, just below the first blow. Crack! and so on.

My buttocks are sizzling. The sound of the crack of wood on cotton underwear bounces off the walls of the small room and I think surely the store staff on the other side of the door can hear what is going on. Any moment someone is coming in to see what the commotion is.  I bite my bottom lip as the pain intensifies. It starts at my bum and travels up and down my legs. I keep my position well. I can stand it. Fatty spanks the chopping board across every square centimetre of my bum and wallops the back of my thighs for good measure. I hear him wheezing. Soon it becomes full out coughing.

He stops spanking me before he suffers a stroke. I stand and without looking at the fat old man who is now struggling for breath, I pull up and fasten my jeans. My bum is sore, but even now it is turning from pain to only a throb. I rub the seat of my jeans and can’t find any trace of welts, but my bum will be bruised for sure.

I pick up my pens and writing paper and without a backward glance at Fatty I leave the office. I am walking down the High Street and I think, how do I explain the bruises to my girlfriend? I think I could just tell her the truth, but honestly who would believe me?

 

Other stories you might like

Bible College

Memories of Uncle Edgar

The shoplifter

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The autumn of 49

z used autumn of 49 harvester

George Nettles grasped the fading photograph with trembling hands. He could barely hold anything steady these days. The warders gave him his tea in a plastic cup. With a lid screwed on. He had to sip it through a hole cut in the top. He called them the “warders”, but they preferred to be called “care assistants”. Bugger that, he thought. Their main job was to stop the residents doing anything.

His granddaughter had brought him the photograph. A young man – a boy really – eighteen years old. In a corn field. On a harvester. In shorts and an open shirt. Waving. Who at? George couldn’t remember. It was so long ago – 1949. He peered intently at the smiling boy. Had he really been so carefree? Nearly seventy years ago.

Carefree? Was that really the right word? He remembered it as if it were yesterday, which was strange because he couldn’t truly recall what he did yesterday. He would struggle to remember what he had eaten for breakfast that morning.

1949: Tomkinson’s Farm. East Anglia. Tomkinson, George’s face cracked into a broad smile. He hadn’t thought about the brute in six decades or more. It was the Church that had sent him to the farm. The Second World War was over, but the peace had still to be won. That’s how people talked in those days. Everyone had to chip in. Do their bit; play a part. Volunteers descended  on the farms to bring in the harvest.

He went with a chap called Roger. Damn it, George screwed his eyes tightly. What was the fellow’s second name? No, it would come to him later. Small for his age. Jet black curly hair. Lots of spots. My did they get into a lot of trouble. Townies in the country. Away from parental control for the first time in their lives. George winced. It was as if Tomkinson’s thick, heavy belt had once more slashed across his naked buttocks.

The kids today wouldn’t believe you if you tried to tell them. Things were so different then. Eighteen was nothing. You didn’t become an adult until you were twenty-one. They all knew their place. The Church was really big, the priest was God himself.

The trouble started over booze. George’s eyes glistened at the memory. No different to today’s kids really. They wanted to drink alcohol, to be grown up. There wasn’t the money around and even if there were there were the pubs would never serve under-age kids. So they made their own. Cider. There were plenty of apples around. It didn’t take much.

George shuffled in his chair, his legs had been giving him pain for some days. He could hardly walk. Cider. Moonshine more like. They made it in buckets. My, he smiled at the memory, a group of the lads from all the farms around got rip-roaring drunk. He was sick as a dog. He’d never had a hangover like it since; and he had been in some gin joints when he was in the Army.

Of course, Tomkinson found out. Took it as a personal affront. As if George and Roger had done it to spite him. George didn’t have to close his eyes to conjure up the farmhouse kitchen. A large, draughty room, dominated by a rickety wooden table and a Welsh dresser for cups and saucers. And lots of heavy straight-backed wooden chairs.

George sighed, pulled himself from his own chair. He really ought to call a warder for help. Damn them, he thought. He didn’t need help every time he wanted to sit on his bed. Summoning strength from somewhere, he hauled himself to his feet. The bed was only three steps away. Come on George, he berated himself, you can do it. His knees ached like mad. His balance was shot to pieces. C’mon, lad! One foot dragged across the harsh industrial-strength carpet. Then another. Aaaah! George toppled forward, landing with a thump on his thin mattress.

“See,” he said to nobody in particular, “Who needs help?” He rolled on his back and wheezing gazed up at the ceiling. The room span. He closed his eyes.

“You’re a disgrace, the pair of you,” it was Mr. Tomkinson speaking. George and Roger stood, heads bowed, hands behind their backs, knees bent slightly, feet shuffling. “What do you think St. Francis will say when I tell them?” He meant the church in Stepney that had sent them to work in the fields. “And your dads. I know what they’d say,” he growled and sneered ominously, “and what they’d do.”

Mr. Tomkinson was a large, strong man with a ruddy complexion, as befitting a farmer who worked the fields from dawn to dusk. He was god-fearing and observed the world around him in black and white terms. Illegal drinking, hangovers that kept them from working in the fields. The harvest delayed. Flour mills waiting for supplies. Bread not baked. Families going hungry. All because two stupid boys guzzled themselves sick on homemade cider.

Too much harm had been caused, Mr. Tomkinson told himself, for the boys to remain unpunished.

“You need a leathering …” he left the sentence unfinished. George glanced across at Roger, but the boy’s intense stare never left the floor. Mr. Tomkinson already was unbuckling his belt. He whisked it through the loops of his trousers. George watched intently as the farmer folded it once, then twice so it was about eighteen inches long.

“And, that’s just what I’m going to give you,” Mr. Tomkinson said, completing his sentence.

He was a man of few words. He grabbed hold of a chair and moved it away from underneath the wooden table. He swished his belt through the air and then addressing Roger, he growled, “Stand there, by the table.”

On his back on the bed nearly seventy tears after the event, George had a perfect view of what happened next. As indeed he had in the farmhouse kitchen that autumnal morning. Roger opened and closed his mouth as if in protest, but no words came. Doubtless, he wanted to say the farmer had no right to belt him, only his father could do that. But what would be the point? Mr. Tomkinson was in charge, he had the weight of public opinion on his side. Given the chance, the priest would thrash him and so would his dad. Probably, both of them. Spanked twice for the same offence. If he had the intelligence to rationalise his situation, Roger would have submitted to the farmer’s will.

He did not have the wit of a barrack-room lawyer, so there was no argument from Roger. Instead, he took the three paces it needed to take up position by the table. George watched as his pal stood submissively, waiting for the inevitable next instruction. He was a smallish boy of eighteen. People were smaller in those days and he probably didn’t reach five-feet-six. Despite the work in the fields, he retained the stature of a scrawny townie. His short trousers hung loosely from his hips, kept up by an elasticated “snake” belt. His blue cotton shirt was untucked and three open buttons revealed his hairless but tanned chest.

Mr. Tomkinson grasped the belt in his right hand. It was wide and thick and trebled up as it was it promised to inflict a severe beating. “Shorts down. Pants too.” It was a clear order, not barked, but Mr. Tomkinson expected to be obeyed. And he was. But, Roger stumbled as he tried to find the clasp of his belt. Its snake’s head refused to allow itself to be released, but after several tries and a loud grunt from the farmer Roger had it free. His black short trousers needed no help to slip over his hips and slither down to his knees. Unbidden, Roger spread his legs a little and they continued their journey to the ground.

George had seen Roger without his trousers – and much less besides – many times and was not surprised to see his pal’s off-white underpants were shapeless and baggy – and also appeared to be several times too big for him. They quickly joined his short trousers at his feet.

“Bend over.” The order was hardly unexpected but still it took Roger’s breath away. He was expected to submit his bared bottom to the attention of Mr. Tomkinson, his employer, and a man he hardly knew. It would be difficult enough to do this for his father, a man who was very well acquainted with Roger’s bottom – clothed and bared.

When Roger finally leaned forward, resting his stomach on the worn pine table, George noticed just how thin his pal was. There wasn’t enough spare fat on his entire body to sizzle a sausage. Roger wriggled this way and that, unsure where to put his arms and hands. He tried stretching them ahead of himself to grip the far edge of the table, but it was too long and he too short for that to work. So he tried for the side edges so he was positioned rather as if for a crucifixion, but that was no good. Finally, he settled on folding his arms and resting his face in them. That way, he was ready to receive his lashing from Farmer Tomkinson.

George watched transfixed. He was no stranger to corporal punishment; which boy of his era was not, but he had never before witnessed a boy take a beating. What he saw was an eighteen-year-old presenting himself stoically; that is there were no histrionics, no pleadings for mercy, no complaints. Roger merely lay, his breathing a little shallow, for his master to do his business. His legs twitched when Mr. Tomkinson lay the belt gently across the middle of boy buttocks. He was taking his aim. He stood a little to Roger’s left – a belt length’s away – and when he had found his spot, he raised the leather to above shoulder height and twisting his body as he did so, he lashed down a stroke. A couple of sunset stripes immediately glowed across the tiny target area; Roger sucked in air and slowly released it through clenched teeth. That hurt. That hurt a lot.

As if in sympathy for his pal, George’s hands fumbled to his own buttocks and he patted them ruefully. Thwack! the sound of leather bouncing back from stretched flesh resounded around the large farm kitchen. Roger snorted through his nose and screwed his eyes. Even from his distance George could make out the clear welts forming across the teenager’s bum

And so it went on, leather rising and pounding into naked buttocks, again and again and again. Roger’s bum turned from white, to pink, and then through a strange amalgam of yellows and oranges to a deep crimson. Roger sucked on his wrists, gulped in air, shut his teeth and once in a while wriggled his hips and legs as the pain intensified. But not once did he utter a sound of distress. Perspiration drenched Mr. Tomkinson’s ruddy face, but he was strong as an ox, he could go on all night if he need arose. But it did not. The farmer believed in chastisement, he believed in the lash, he had no doubt he was performing God’s work. But enough is sufficient. At last he rested the belt on the wooden table.

“Get up. George, your turn.”

Roger leapt to his feet and not waiting to rub away at his scorched backside he pulled his underpants and short trousers up together. Now, it was George’s turn.

From  his bed, George watches his younger self slip his short trousers down to his feet, then hitch his thumbs beneath the waistband of his underpants. In a trice his buttocks are bared. Having studied Roger, he knows precisely how to position himself across the farm kitchen table. He sees the farmer swish the belt, taking practice swipes, although of course he would never have been able to see this back in 1949. The belt rises …

The body on the bed stirs slightly. It shows no outward sign of the shock. Its heart clenches and stops. Later, a twenty-year-old care giver will wonder just for a moment who was the boy on the harvester?

Picture credit: Boy’s Own Paper

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Breath-taking

Put back into short trousers, aged 18

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 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Called home

z used otk pants chair beard (1)

Wayne trudged across the glistening pavement. The rain had stopped at last, but not for long, he reckoned. His shoes leaked and he squelched along. He turned the corner and there it was looming ahead of him. Nelson Mandela Tower, damp, grey and ugly. He had thought he had left this all behind.

The street was deserted: even the junkies hated the rain. He opened the huge communal doorway and entered the building. A familiar stink of stale piss overwhelmed him. Gagging a little he sucked in breath and headed for the lifts. Dad lived on the twelfth floor, he hoped to God they were working.

They were. The only bit of fortune for Wayne that night. He stubbed a finger at the call button and waited. Why was he doing this, he wondered. Hadn’t he escaped all this?

A faint whirling of machinery grew louder and the lift door lumbered open. He stood aside to let out a girl, no older than himself, pushing a buggy. A nearly-new born baby slept fitfully. A toddler, hardly two years old, clutched his mother’s hand.

Wayne hesitated. He could just turn around and head back home. He could. He should. But if he did, he knew he could never return. Bridges would be burnt. There would be no turning back.

With heart thumping, he walked into the lift. A too familiar stench of human sweat greeted him. The temperature was rising. Perspiration wet his beard. He rubbed it away with the back of his hand. He pushed button twelve and the lift door closed. He stood feet slightly apart, knees a little bent, hands behind his back and waited. Without realising, he rubbed the crown of his buttocks with his thumbs.

Seconds later the lift shuddered to a halt and lumbering once more the door opened. Wayne stepped out. Paused. Waited for the door to close. There was no further sound. The lift was waiting. Teasing him. One last chance to escape.

Why wouldn’t his heart stop thumping?

He shuffled forward. Dad’s flat was across the landing. The front door gleaming red. Newly painted.

One, two, three. He counted in his head. Over the top.

He leaned on the doorbell. Somewhere deep inside the flat he heard a chime. A familiar cheesy tune. But what was it? He knew it. The name was on the tip of his tongue.

The door opened wide. Dad stood in the threshold. He was a bit on the short side, befitting a man of his generation and social class. He wore a shirt and tie. His trousers were pressed. He had dressed for the occasion. A visit from his eldest son.

“Come in,” he said curtly. “Close the door behind you.”

Wayne watched his father turn and shamble along the passageway. Wayne hesitated. There was still time. He could turn and run, be at the lift before Dad realised he was gone. If it was still waiting he could be gone in seconds.

“Don’t dawdle,” Dad barked.

Wayne kicked the door shut and resigned that matters must take their course, he followed his Dad.

The room was almost bare. A small sideboard rested against one wall and a dining table and two chairs against another.

“Well, lad ….” Dad spoke harshly and then became silent. Wayne had no idea what he was supposed to say. Well lad was it a question he had to answer? Or a statement of fact. Well lad you know why you are here.

Dad glared at Wayne, barely suppressing a sneer.

Christ. Let’s get this over with. Wayne dared not say it out loud, but it was how he felt. He had passed the point of no return. They had said it all in the phone call. There was nothing more to say. Accusations had been made. Excuses offered. There was no mitigation. Wayne had been sacked from his job. Again. That is to say not sacked again from the same job, just sacked from another. Bone idle, his Dad called it. Irresponsible. Can’t act like an adult. No self-discipline.

Well, Dad had a solution for that. If he couldn’t discipline himself, it was up to Dad to do it for him. That’s what dads were for. It was in the contract. The one between parent and child.

Dad walked the three paces it took to cross the room. Ignoring his son, he turned his back, leant forward slightly and picked up a dining chair. It wasn’t heavy. He needed only one hand to manoeuvre it away from the wall and set it down in the centre of the room. Wayne watched, licked his lips in anticipation of what was to come, and did the thumbs rubbing the backside thing again.

Satisfied the chair was in the perfect position, Dad sat down, wriggled his buttocks until he was comfortable and spread his legs by about eighteen inches. Wayne towered above his Dad. The old man’s legs looked thin and insubstantial, as if they would buckle once Wayne put himself in the traditional over-the-knee position.

Dad clicked his fingers. He always did that. It was his signal that he was ready for action. Wayne knew the sign. This wasn’t the first time he had presented himself before his dad. He hoped to hell it would be the last.

“Jeans down. Right down,” Dad snapped. Wayne hesitated. Not for the first time that day he contemplated the absurdity of the situation. A twenty-six year-old man going over Dad’s knee for a spanking.

Absurd or not, without protest he gripped the buckle of his wide leather belt and unfastened it. His Dad’s heavy breathing momentarily distracted him. Then he popped the rivet at the waistband and pulled the zipper. The weight of the heavy denim and the belt sent the jeans slithering down his thighs. They rested at his knees. Wayne gripped the waistband and folded them down to his shins.

Dad licked his lips and professed not to notice his adult son was wearing underpants with drawings of motorcars. Truly childish, he thought, impervious to any ironical intent from Wayne.

“Get over my knee.”

Wayne shuffled a step forward so he was directly to the right of Dad’s legs. He looked down, once again noting the spindly knees. Gently he lowered himself forward. His flabby stomach rested against Dad’s right knee and he stretched his torso forward. He rested his fingers on the cheap carpet to steady himself. He looked straight ahead taking note of the slightly open door. It was chipped and in need of painting.

Wayne felt Dad tug the end of his short-sleeved shirt away from the target area, he felt a breeze blowing from somewhere. Dad pressed his left hand into Wayne’s shoulder blades, intending to pin him should the young man resist.

Wayne felt dad’s right hand rub across the seat of his underpants. He was smoothing down creases. He would be ready for action any moment.

Slap-slap-slap. Three stingers rained down, but rather than aim them at Wayne’s ample buttocks his Dad spanked into his bare thigh. Over and over. It hurt. More than an inexperienced spankee might think. A rough palm on bare flesh, especially a part of the body with so many nerve endings, will cause pain. In no time the flesh was raw, glowing deep pink and then red.

Wayne shut his eyes and pressed his hands deeper into the thin carpet. Dad turned his attention to Wayne’s buttocks, hammering his palm into the fleshiest part of the mounds. Involuntarily, Wayne wriggled his hips. It was a reflex action He had no real control, it was his body’s natural way of dealing with the assault being made upon it.

On and on Dad spanked. It felt like hours to Wayne, but it was probably only three or four minutes. Wayne always marvelled at dad’s stamina. He could probably spank all night if the mood took him. Soon he stopped. Wayne lay still, unmoving. He knew it wasn’t the end. Dad had just paused. Now, they would go to the next level.

Dad slipped his fingers into the elasticated waistband of Wayne’s pants and after three tugs had them lowered so that his son’s buttocks were entirely bared. He admired his own handiwork. The bum was a deep pink from the top of the mounds where the buttocks meet the back, over the fleshy curves, into the underside and way down his thighs. This was one well-spanked boy, Dad thought, as he lifted his hand and whacked it down rapidly and a speed. Rat-tat-tat. It sounded like machine gun fire.

Wayne sucked in air, the bristles on his own beard tickled him. He shook his head from left to right, rather like a horse does when neighing. He pressed the palms of his hands flat into the scratchy carpet. The heat in his bum was rising, the pain was growing.

Dad hammered on, encouraged by the imprints of his own palm that were being embedded into his son’s backside.

Sweat soaked Dad’s shirt. His heart raced, his temples throbbed.

Suddenly the door chimes rang out. Dad stopped spanking. A gasp of relief escaped Wayne’s lips. It was over. Saved by the bell.

“Stand up,” Dad growled. “Don’t think this is over.”

Wayne hauled himself to his feet. His bum was hot. He wanted to rub it, but he wouldn’t give Dad the satisfaction.

The doorbell rang again.

“Face the wall. Hands on head. Leave your jeans down,” Dad snapped.

Wayne shuffled like a penguin, put his nose to the dusty wall, interlocked his fingers and placed them on top of his closely-cropped head.

“Ah vicar,” he heard his Dad say. “I didn’t think you were coming. I started without you. Did you bring your canes?”

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The punk rocker

z used otk punk rocker brush CS (1)

I cannot believe it is now 40 years since the “Summer of Punk Rock.’’ Queen Elizabeth’s Silver Jubilee. Johnny Rotten and The Sex Pistols: “God Save The Queen, she ain’t no human bean.”

To hear some people talk Punk was a social movement; a revolution. The ideology of punk, and all that. Bollocks!. It was just kids doing what kids across the ages have always done (and still do today): finding new ways to piss off their parents.

My nephew Harry was a punk. Actually, he was a punk in the older sense of the word as well. He was a bone idle layabout. He drifted out of school aged fifteen with no qualifications and by 1977 he was eighteen years old  and had never been able to keep down a job for more than a minute. Not even at the Wimpy Burger Bar. It’s hard to believe but we didn’t have McDonalds back then. To save my sister’s sanity, Harry stayed with me in my council flat in Edmonton (north London) for most of that summer. He thought he was the real deal; Mohican haircut, safety pin in his nose, bondage trousers. For all I knew he and his mates spent their time gobbing at strangers in the high street.

I warned him if he didn’t get himself out of bed and find a job he’d feel the blunt end of my hairbrush. He sneered of course.

Late one evening I got back to the flat after a gruellingly hot day labouring on a building site to the unmistakable aroma of evostik drifting from the living room. Glue sniffing! That was the final straw. There’s a saying that when you find rat in your room you don’t have a discussion with it, you put the boot in. Same with glue sniffing. No discussion. Within seconds I was rifling through the drawer of the sideboard for the hairbrush.

It was no contest.

Harry was only skin and bones and with all my labouring I had muscles on my muscles. I grabbed him by the wrist and hauled him to his feet. He gave no resistance. He was probably a bit zonked out. I called him all the names under the sun as I plonked myself down on the settee and set about undoing his clunky leather belt. The bondage trousers were surprisingly easy to force down, even though they were skin tight. I had to smile to myself then; he was wearing boxer shorts from Marks and Spencer. Not very punk-ish – his mother must have bought them for him.

In one smooth continuous tug, I had him face-down across my knees. That woke him up. He hollered blue murder and I hadn’t even touched him yet. He wriggled this way and the other, but I gripped him tightly around the waist. Let him wave his arms about and kick his legs; he was going nowhere. Not until I had pounded his creamy-white arse black and blue.

It was a pretty standard hairbrush. The bristle end was oval shaped and maybe four inches long. In those days brushes were made of solid wood, not like the lightweight plastic things they sell you today. My brush was perfect for doing your hair but in homes up and down similar ones were also being used to keep recalcitrant youngsters in order.

I remember my abject fear when I first spelt the glue. This was no longer a game. Harry could dress up as much as he wanted and who really cared that he had a ridiculous haircut? But glue-sniffing! That was poison.  The newspapers were full of stories about kids dying by overdosing. That was not going to happen to my Harry. So eighteen-years-old or not I set about spanking his bare bum. I spanked him harder than I had ever done before or since. I lifted the brush as high as my arm would take it and brought it crashing down in the centre of his left cheek with terrific force. A dark-pink oval mark appeared. Within seconds I had tattooed every square inch of his bum, right from the top where it joins the back, over what mounds he had (did I say he was a weedy lad?) and into the underside of his cheeks. He hollered fit to bring the house down. It was a small flat with thin walls and I have no doubt old Mrs. Baker next door would have heard every yell. I did not care. What would she say anyhow? She and people like her walked the streets in fear of punks and their arch enemies the Teddy Boys. Mrs. Baker would probably urge me on in my endeavour.

Satisfied that his buttocks were toasted, I walloped the brush across the backs of Harry’s thighs. He tried to kick but his tight bondage trousers restricted him. It was like he were tied at the ankles. I took a deep breath and hammered the heavy wooden brush with all the force I could muster again and again and again all across his pert cheeks. Never again, I vowed, would he put his nose anywhere close to a can of glue.

His cream bum turned from pink to crimson through to the colour of a Hirondelle wine. He had stopped yelling now, but only because he was too busy coughing and spluttering. He was choked with tears and snot flowed over his mouth.

At last I let him free. He lay on the floor at my feet juddering like a beached dolphin. I let him be. Eventually, he staggered to his feet and pulled up his underwear. He couldn’t quite get the tight bondage trousers above his knees so waddling like a penguin he stumbled to his bedroom.

I locked him in his room for a week. The summer turned to autumn and then it was Christmas. When I saw him at a family party, he had permed his hair, wore glitter under his eyes and had ruby-red lips. He wore a garment that to me suspiciously looked like a dress. So did his boyfriend.

Picture credit: C of Sweden

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Rules of the house

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The boy in the front row

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com