You, a dad doing his duty

new story 2

z used belt pyjamas bare couch mancspank (1)

You get home from work late. Dog tired. Another double shift at the warehouse. Christmas is coming and everyone’s busy. You look forward to something to eat and some sleep. But your wife is upset. She’s had a hell of a day. It’s that brat of a son of yours. Treats the house like a hotel. Comes and goes as he likes. Missed tea again today. Food wasted. Does he think money grows on trees.

It’s nothing new. You’ve heard it all before. He’s at that age. Eighteen years old and thinks he’s all grown up now he’s left school and got a job himself. You know eighteen isn’t grown up and you’ve told him often enough. He’s still got a lot of learning to do. You tell him there are rules. They have to be kept. That’s life. There are consequences if you don’t stick to them. You’ve taught him that since he was a little kid. He knows that for a fact.

This time it’s different. You eat your tea (or whatever you call your six o’clock meal when it’s eaten at half-past-ten), slurp from a bottle of beer and listen to your wife. Your temper is short at the best of times. As she tells you her story you are ready to explode. “He called you what?” You say you cannot believe it but you can. This is not the first time. You had it out with him before. Where is his respect? Where is yours? You know you cannot let this matter rest.

“Where is he?” you splutter as you clean your plate with a slice of bread and stuff it into your mouth. Your wife bristles. “Upstairs. In his room.” That’s all you need to know. You have to deal with this now. You can’t let it wait until the morning. You know exactly what you are going to do. There is no doubt about that. You are the boss in this house and you have a right to rule the roost. Also, he has disrespected his mother and it is your duty as a father to get retribution.

You finish your beer and rest the bottle on the table. You take a deep breath and haul yourself to your feet. “Let’s do this right now,” you say. Your wife picks up your plate and takes it to the sink and runs the hot water. You know she doesn’t want to be involved. Not in this kind of thing. She says it’s a dad-and-son thing. You don’t argue. There is no point. You know she wants you to do this, she just doesn’t want to see you do it. He’s still her precious boy, you suppose.

You go to the foot of the stairs and stand and listen. There is no sound coming from his bedroom. You know that means nothing. He could be asleep. Could be listening to music on his Smartphone. Might be watching porn and having a wank. You call his name. You get no answer. You call again, louder. Still, no response. Is he taking the piss? You can’t be sure he’s not just ignoring you. Your anger is rising. You stomp up the stairs. There is a light under the door so you know he’s not asleep. You grip the handle ready to storm the room. It is in your hand but you hesitate. What if he is polishing one off? You thump on the door and call his name. You count to ten in your head then throw the door open.

He is laying on the bed, not under the duvet. He is wired for sound (as you know young people no longer say). You can hear a faint rhythmic noise coming from his ear buds. You’ve startled him, his body shakes when he realises it is you. You are in no mood for small talk. “What did you call your mum?” you roar and before he has a chance to respond you repeat, ”What did you say?” His face goes white. He knows exactly what you’re talking about. You see his mouth open and close like a goldfish but he can’t think of anything to say.

“You little …” you just about stop yourself from calling him a dirty name. You know you can’t punish him for using filthy language if you use it yourself. So instead you say, “What have I told you about your mum?” The question makes no sense but he understands what you are trying to say anyway. “Sorry Dad,” he wriggles so that he is now sitting up and not laying down. You stare at your son. His face is still pale, his eyes are damp. He needs a shave.

“Bah,” you say. Sorry, you think. Yes, my lad you’ll soon be sorry. Then you say, “Get down stairs now. Right away. The living room.” You don’t need to say more. He knows exactly what you mean. “Oh Dad!” he wails. “No, Dad!” You move towards the bed ready to grab him by the hair if need be to haul him to his feet. He knows you’ll do it. “No, Dad,” he says again and jumps to his feet. You are blocking his pathway to the door so you stand aside. You fetch him a clip around the head as he passes. “Get downstairs. Now!” you bark.

You hear his soft footsteps on the stairs. You know he will do as you tell him from here on in. This isn’t the first time this sort of thing has happened. You had hoped you wouldn’t need to do it again. You take a deep breath and look around the room. It looks like a bomb’s hit it. The floor is covered with dirty clothes. There is a musty aroma about the place. You can’t place it. It might be dried spunk. There’s probably wodges of soiled toilet paper under the duvet. Or is it the smell of dope? You make a mental note to have a word with him about this. But not tonight.

You make your way downstairs. You can hear music coming from the kitchen. Your wife has the radio on. A little too loud. Sounds like Radio 2 is playing. You ignore this and turn towards the living room. The door is open and you see your son waiting nervously. You pause to look. He is wearing pyjamas. You know he’s always worn pyjamas but you still think it odd for a boy of his age. He’s eighteen, not eight. You think the pyjamas make him look younger, more childlike. You snap out of it. C’mon, it’s not as if the pyjamas have drawings of racing cars all over them. They’re just a cheap pair with checks from Primark.

You walk into the room. Your son’s body stiffens. He doesn’t know where to look. His eyes flicker everywhere, taking in the whole room, but he can’t meet your eye. It is a tiny room and you can’t help but stand close to him. You smell tobacco on his breath. Not for the first time you notice your son is a couple of inches taller than you. He’s stronger too. This doesn’t worry you. It will not stop you doing your duty. You are in charge. You know this. He knows this.

You tell him what your wife told you. He doesn’t deny it. “Why?” you ask, genuinely at a loss to understand. He doesn’t answer. He can’t answer. He doesn’t know. “Well,” you say. “You know what happens now.”

“Oh, Dad,” he wails. He doesn’t say, “But, I’m too old for this.” He knows your thinking on this. Your house. Your rules. Your way or the highway. You have taught him that you believe in discipline. What dad doesn’t tell his son that? You think the trouble with the world today is that dads say they believe in discipline, but they don’t do anything when rules are broken. You believe in discipline, but you also believe in punishment. You think that’s what makes you different. Special, even.

You know there is no more to be said. You unbuckle your belt and draw it through the loops on your jeans. They feel a bit loose and you hope they won’t slip down your hips. The belt is a standard leather thing, available to purchase at all good chain stores. You fold the belt in two and hold it by the buckle. Like this it makes a perfect spanking tool. You know this for a fact. It has (if you like) been road tested many times.

Your son looks mournfully at the belt, now dangling from your right fist. He starts to plead for forgiveness. “Sorry Dad, I won’t do it again. Promise.” What boy doesn’t say these things if he thinks it will get him off a spanking? You take no notice. You slap the belt against your thigh. You nod towards the couch standing against the wall. It is a small two-seater fabric affair. Bought cheaply from Argos one Black Friday.

“Bend over,” you say grimly. You want it to sound like you carry the weight of the whole world on your shoulders. “You know you must be spanked,” you say. He mouths, “Oh, Dad,” one more time, but he does not resist. He never does. He walks to the couch and stands at one side. The couch is against the wall so he cannot go across the back. Instead, he stretches forward and bends over the arm. He is tall and the couch is low so most of his body rests over the seat cushions. He props himself up on his elbows and this raises his bottom at an angle. He keeps his legs straight and his toes just touch the ground. He waits for you. You are pleased he is so submissive.

You stand to his side. He is at a perfect height for you to lash the belt across his backside. You are almost ready to go, but not quite. There is still one thing more to do. You lean over your son and grip the elasticated waist of his pyjama trousers. You tug them over his round buttock cheeks until they are completely bared. You pull them down as far as his knees. You know if you leave them there (rather than taking them all the way to the feet) it will restrict his movement if he decides to kick about a bit during the spanking.

He shows no emotion. You know he expected to have his bottom bared. It is your way. You could demand that he lowers the pyjamas himself before bending over the couch but you know if he did this his meat-and-two-veg would flap about. You don’t want that thank you very much.

You are now ready. Your son’s bum is well padded and can take a sound spanking without damage. You rest the belt across the centre of his cheeks to get an aim, you lift it up and down to test the distance. Then you let fly. A sunset stripe immediately appears. You see you son bury his head in his hands, but otherwise he makes no reaction. You repeat the lash with frequency and intensity. The whole bum quickly goes dark-pink. You know you are warming him up. Your son sucks on his wrist. It is his way of absorbing the pain. He scrunches his face as he successfully stifles “ouches”.

Once the buttocks are glowing red you turn the belt onto the back of his thighs. This is always painful. He wriggles his waist and buckles his knees. You are pleased you left the pyjama trousers there otherwise he might kick out at you. His face is as red as his bum and a coating of sweat glistens on his neck. He headbutts the soft foam seat cushion.

You don’t expect tears and you don’t get them. You are not a brute. You don’t want to flog him into pulp. You are a kind, loving dad and you are making your point. You are punishing his bad behaviour and encouraging your son to strive to do better in future.

You are a dad doing his duty.

 

Picture credit: Mancspank Productions

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The punk rocker

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Six of the best seasonal stories


santa hat on spanked bottom bbfc

For those of us who like their stories with a seasonal flavour, here are six of my favourites from previous years. Click on the titles.

 

Better believe in Santa Claus

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

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Approved-School Santas

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

 

The Morning After the Night Before

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

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Only Three Thieving Days to Christmas

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

When Santa Claus was caned

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

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The School Dance

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

 

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Picture credits: British Boys Fetish Club / Alan Paul / C of Sweden / Hotspur / Sting Pictures

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

 

Uncle David has a plan

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z used belt jeans chair sting 2

David looked on helplessly. Tears flowed down his kid sister’s face, she sat scrunched up on the couch, shoulders convulsing with sobs.

“I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to do,” she wailed. David turned his back, he couldn’t bare to watch. Snot was flooding down Carol’s face.

He paced the small living room trying to contain his own anger.

“What can I do?” she howled. “I don’t know what to do.”

You could start by calming down a little, David thought but stopped short of saying it out loud. He didn’t blame his sister. It wasn’t her fault. It had all come as an almighty shock. She was right, what was she to do? What were they to do?

“I had no idea,” Carol wiped her face on the sleeve of her cardigan. “No idea. None at all.” She searched a pocket, found a handkerchief and dapped at her eyes. She was beginning to get a grip.

“It’s all my fault,” she sniffed. Her hanky was already soaked. David reached into his own pocket and found his own handkerchief. Man-sized. For industrial strength weeping. It was neatly pressed. Clean this morning. Unused. He handed it over. Carol took it and dried her face, smudging her makeup.

“It’s not your fault, Sis, you mustn’t think that,” he said. His assurance lacked authenticity. Could it be her fault? he wondered.

“I never knew,” Carol’s words came in gulps, but the tears had stopped. For now. “Not until the police rang my doorbell. I never knew.”

David shrugged his shoulders. Kept his opinion to himself. Could she be to blame?

“Brought home in a police car. For all the neighbours to see. The disgrace,” Carol breathed deeply, maintaining control. “I never knew.”

David paced the room once more, then stood looming over his sister. “Smoking dope. In Widdicombe Woods,” he said as if she didn’t already know the sordid details. “At least they’re not charging him.”

“I know,” Carol flared, “The police just don’t care. He’s on drugs and they couldn’t give a damn. They just take them home to their parents. What am I supposed to do about it?”

“He doesn’t have a father …” David began but tailed off unsure where he was going with this.

“Oh so it’s my fault is it!” she snapped.

“No Sis, I just meant, oh I don’t know. If he had a man about the house. You know when he was growing up.”

“We’re well shot of that cheating bastard. At least I got the house.”

“Yes, but,” David did not want to go through the details of the acrimonious divorce all over again. “I just meant that Matt might have benefitted from a firm hand. You know growing up.”

“Oh so now I’m a bad parent.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I can’t discipline my own son,” Carol’s voice rose an octave.

“Well,” David paused to gather courage, “Not discipline so much but punishment.”

“Punishment?”

“Yeah, punishment. For when discipline breaks down.”

Carol stared, her eyes on stalks, “What on earth are you talking about?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” David didn’t want an argument. Not now. Not with his sister in this state. “You know, what happens when he breaks the rules.”

She peered at her brother trying, and failing, to read the expression on his face. “You’ve lost me now.”

“Oh for pity’s sake. You know. Maybe a firm hand ..”

“Firm hand? What firm hand? Where?”

David smiled, “Well across the backside now and again might have helped.”

“Ha!” it was a snort, not a laugh. “You think he needs a spanking. He’s eighteen for chrissake. A bit too old don’t you think.”

“Hmmm,” David sat in an armchair opposite his sister. “Is it? Really? Do you think so?”

“Are you serious?”

“Well why not? Like you said yourself ‘What are you to do?’ Do you have any plan?”

Carol sat moodily. In a huff. No she hadn’t a plan. But a spanking. Did people still spank their kids, never mind their eighteen-year-old student sons? “So I’m supposed to take him over my knee and spank him with my hairbrush?”

David grinned. It helped disguise his thought: Many eighteen-year-olds would jump at the chance to be spanked by an older woman. Instead, he said, “I could do it,” he paused and added, “If you would like me to , that is.”

“Cloud Cuckoo Land,” she sneered. “You think he’s going to let you tan his backside?”

“Well what’s your suggestion?” he snapped back. “Ground him? Send him to bed early without any supper?” He leaned forward in his chair, encroaching into his sister’s space, “Do you think that’s going to nip this in the bud?”

“Jesus H. Christ,” she shook her head, “I don’t believe this.”

….

David didn’t believe it either. Not really. But even so it happened. The next afternoon he visited the house once more. Matt had been told to be at home for his uncle’s visit. The pair had not been close while Matt grew up. David had worked abroad in developing countries for much of his adult life and had only returned to Brocklehurst sixteen or so months ago. David was a little aloof around Matt as might be expected from a plantation manager who had come to expect deference and instant obedience from his young workers. He wasn’t averse to swishing a heavy cane across backsides when he though the occasion demanded.

David had that indefinable quality of the stern taskmaster. He could quell a rebellion at fifty paces. Matt had never encountered anything quite like him. It unnerved him.

“Stand there,” Uncle David clicked his fingers and pointed to a spot in the middle of the living room the moment Matt entered. As if in a spell, the teenager obeyed instantly. “Now, young man,” David knew how to lecture an errant worker. How to list the defects, the misbehaviours, the wickedness. How to draw out a confession from even the most unruly lad. Matt was like putty in his hands.

The full sordid story unfolded. The cannabis smoking in the woods (not the first time, but definitely the last if Uncle David had his way), the ride in the police car, the shame brought on Matt’s mother. The boy’s face flushed at first before turning a deeper crimson. His eyes glazed, then watered. David had expected airy indifference from Matt.

The lecture was over. Now it was time for action. At the plantation he would order a boy to bend over his desk. Without question (and certainly no argument) he would submit himself submissively for a caning. How would Matt react? David was prepared for a struggle. He might have to force the teenager face down over the dining room table and take swats at his rear end as best he could.

He had no cane of course. That would be David’s weapon of choice. He knew how to extract maximum pain with minimum effort from a metre or so of whippy rattan. That option was not available. Punishment canes were not readily available for sale. He supposed he could go online, but time was at the essence – and anyhow he had no desire to do business with a fetish or sex shop somewhere.

He had searched for a suitable alternative. Carol’s hairbrush was a cheap plastic effort from Boot’s. There were no bedroom slippers in the house, no purpose-made paddles. He settled on a belt. He didn’t have many; one made of heavy leather would have to do. He had left it in readiness waiting on the table. Now was the time to use it.

He took a deep breath, “You deserve to be punished,” David had rehearsed a little speech. It wasn’t too different from the one he used at the plantation. “I want you to bend over that chair,” he pointed to a cheap fabric and wooden armchair as if there was any doubt which he meant. Matt’s eyebrows knitted, his forehead wrinkled. His nose twitched. His brain whirled. He said nothing. David watched intently as his nephew processed the information. It was now or never; the teenager would either submit or rebel. And, rebel big time.

Matt’s nose twitched once more, he sucked in a lung-full of air and with out a word or hesitation he turned to look at the chair. He took one step forward, hesitated a moment, then took a second. He was close to the back of the chair. David watched as the boy appeared to debate with himself. Was he daring himself on? He rubbed the palms of his hands together and leaned forward. He was of tall, thin build. He reached ahead of himself and gripped the front of the cushion and rested his elbows on the wooden arms. His groin rested on the apex of the chair and he parted his long legs by a metre-and-a-half so that he didn’t have to bend his knees to get his bottom angled in the ideal position for punishment.

Uncle David breathed a sigh of relief. There was to be no unseemly struggle after all. He was far from sure he would have been able to get the lad face down over the table. Still, he thought, as he retrieved the belt and slowly folded it into thirds, that was all irrelevant now. He stood to the left of his target. Matt was a fit lad (in more than one sense of the word) and stretching across the low armchair emphasised his muscles. His bottom was hard and firm – the phrase “buns of steel” could have been invented for him.

Uncle David fingered the belt in his hands, all to aware of its flimsiness. It would hardly make a dent in Matt’s backside. He hoped all this would not be in vain. This was supposed to be a punishment, intended to teach Matt a valuable lesson. To deter him from future drug taking. Oh well, Uncle David thought, if the pain doesn’t teach him maybe the humiliation of being forced to present himself submissively to an older man for a spanking would have some effect.

He took his aim by resting the belt across the centre of both buttocks, trying for the patch of denim between the two back pockets. He tap-tap-tapped the leather, then pulled the belt away and raised it in an arc before bringing it down with extreme force across the boy’s bum. The sound of the Crack! of leather on denim bounced off the four walls in the small room. A faint line appeared across the jeans where the belt had landed, but Matt remained motionless.

Undeterred Uncle David pounded twelve lashes across Matt’s backside, all running parallel to one another. Not a single square centimetre of the bum was unattended. Still he teenager did not react. Uncle David paused and stepped forward a little so he could get a clear look at the boy’s face. It was bright and open; a little red but that could be because his head was angled at an unusual position. The older man took aim once more and landed another twelve. Than he let fly with a dozen more.

His arm was aching. It probably hurt a lot more than Matt’s bum, Uncle David thought ruefully. This was no good. He had done his best. How he wished he had a cane at his disposal. Uncle David was defeated, but he would not let on. “Stand up,” he intoned in the severest voice he could muster. He stood back and watched the boy haul himself to his feet. Matt stood, head bowed, staring intently at his own trainers. Then he raised his head and for the first time that afternoon looked directly into his uncle’s eyes.

No word was spoken. Matt scrunched up his nose, blinked heavily four or five times. Silently, he took hold of his own belt and swiftly unbuckled it. He had the front of his jeans open before Uncle David realised what was happening. In a trice the jeans were at Matt’s feet, he turned on his heels, dived across the back of the chair and resumed his submissive position.

Uncle David needed no further invitation. Matt’s underwear was off the briefest kind, they hardly covered his buttock cheeks. There was but the faintest colouring on them from the belting so far. Encouraged by the terrific target now presented to him Uncle David found his aim and whipped the leather across the nearly-bared bum. He was rewarded by a series of sunset stripes across the nearly-white flesh. Matt’s head rose and fell with each lash. He felt those alright. Crack! Crack! Crack! It is a cliché to say the beating was like machinegun fire, but in truth that’s exactly how it did sound. The noise was complemented by a series of “ahhhs and ohhhs” slipping through Matt’s clenched teeth.

Uncle David had found his second wind. Tirelessly, he pounded the leather into Matt’s tight buttocks. He paused for a moment to catch his breath but also to grip hold of the boy’s underwear.  Uncle David had two options. One was to tug them down over Matt’s thighs and leave them on top of the teenager’s jeans at his feet. He choose the second. He gripped the flimsy briefs and pulled tightly thereby giving the boy the most painful wedgie. His buttocks were completely bare but the cotton rode up into his crack. The effect was the same as a full bare-bottomed thrashing, but without the added humiliation of exposing the crack and hole to general view.

Uncle David lost count. Maybe he lashed the leather thirty, forty or fifty more times. Both buttocks were scarred with red stripes, some turning blue at the edges. None of the flesh was left unscorched. Uncle David believed in punishment; he did not believe in torture. The boy’s bum was on fire, tears rolled down his face, his head rose and fell, his hips wriggled from side to side. He stamped his feet up and down. It was the definition of a sound spanking.

Enough. Uncle David wiped sweat from his forehead and only now realised his shirt was soaked with the exertion. “You may stand,” he barked. Slowly, Matt pushed his hands against the arms of the chair and rose unsteadily to a standing position. Immediately his hands rubbed at his roasting buttocks. He kneaded at sore flesh. It made no difference to the level of pain. It never does.

Matt wheezed, drawing in great gulps of air, his temples throbbed almost as much as his buttocks. The room spun around him, his heart beat fast, his eyes stood on stalks. His Uncle David was a mere blur across the room. Behind his eyes he saw every colour of the rainbow. It was the best high he had ever experienced.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

In Uncle Gascoigne’s Library

new story 2

z used uncle gascoigne study (21)

Harry slouched disconsolately in the corner seat. The third-class carriage was empty, as was most of the train. A Thursday afternoon in late November was not a popular time to travel. His buttocks ached on the hard wooden seat. He hugged his arms around his body. Miserably, he shivered. At this rate, he reflected, he’d end up in the hospital with pneumonia.

It had been five hours earlier that the porter at St. Tom’s had put him unceremoniously on the train. There was no word of farewell; the brute hadn’t even carried his suitcase. That’s how they treated a chap when he was sacked.

At last, the steam train chugged into Weatherstone Halt. Journey’s End. Or, Harry supposed, New Journey Starts. What did his future have in store? Who knew? The only certainty was that first he must face Uncle Gascoigne.

He stepped from the train into a swirling mist. It engulfed the small platform; he could barely see a hand in front of his face. His feet slipped on the frost beneath his feet. An eerie silence enveloped him. If Harry had been a reader, he might have likened it to a scene from a Victorian ghost story. He stood, uncertain, suitcase by his side. How was he to get to Weatherstone Manor? It was some distance off; too far to walk with a heavy case.

“Hello Master Harry!” it was a croaking voice. It seemed to come from nearby, but the mist was thickening and he couldn’t see. “Over here!” As if by some magic the fog cleared and Harry saw an old man wrapped in a heavy overcoat, a scarf and a big woollen hat. It was Tom, his uncle’s Faithful Retainer.

The journey by pony and trap was short. A biting wind tore through Harry. He wore only his school blazer and it was no use against the cold. Nor did his grey trousers give protection from the wind. Tom, drove in silence. He was a man of few words as was expected from a devoted servant. He geed the pony and steered it along the narrow lanes to the Manor. His was the only vehicle on the road. Harry hugged his own body with cold and let the wintry countryside pass him by unnoticed.

The Manor loomed; an imposing Gothic pile. Even on a summer’s day it looked unwelcoming. On this day and in these circumstances it seemed especially hostile. Tom steadied the pony while Harry climbed down. “I’ll take care of your case, Master Harry,” the Faithful Retainer spoke with a hint of regret, “Your uncle says you are to go directly to the library.” He studied his own hands intently.

“Oh,” Harry spoke softly. The summons had not been unexpected, but he had hoped there might be some interval before he faced Uncle Gascoigne. He trudged towards the door. The inside of the manor was as ugly and imposing as the outside. The hallway could have been the entrance to a municipal town hall. It might be large enough to house a cricket pitch. Several doors of heavy dark oak ran into it. Harry was not concerned with these. The room he sought was up the imposing spiral staircase on the first floor. He trudged up it.

Harry was a boy of little imagination, so as he made his journey he did not reflect on its similarity to St. Tom’s. He had been summoned to the housemaster’s study countless times, each journey requiring a long trek through School House, along a narrow passageway towards a heavy wooden door. On the other side he would be confronted by a cane-wielding master. What happened next can be safely left to the reader’s imagination.

Harry reached the library door and paused, unsure how to proceed. Should he turn the handle, fling open the door wide and burst into the room and offer Uncle Gascoigne a cheerful “Hello Uncle! I’m home!” Perhaps not. Uncle Gascoigne was not by temperament a cheerful fellow and was generally feared and respected in equal measure by his household and the tenants of the estate he ruled over. He was dreaded by the petty villains who appeared before him at the local magistrates’ bench. Harry tapped his knuckles respectfully against the panelled door.

“Come!” the boomed command was self-important. Uncle Gascoigne was a man who demanded obedience. And invariable received it. With a quaking hand, Harry turned the handle and eased the door open, making only enough space for him to squeeze into the room. He stood anxiously. Uncle Gascoigne sat in a large, padded armchair, a cup and saucer held daintily in his hands. “Close the door boy! Close the door! You’re letting the heat out!” he barked.

Once this was done, Harry stood, hands deferentially held behind his back. Uncle Gascoigne called the room his “library” but in truth it was a drawing room with shelves of books. Harry had never once troubled himself to handle any of the hundreds of volumes that surrounded him. As well as an armchair the room contained a dining table, matching chairs and an ancient Chesterfield-type couch.

Uncle Gascoigne returned his cup and saucer to the table and stretched his arms wide. He was an imposing figure, standing head and shoulders above Harry, who himself was no dwarf. He wore a frockcoat, waistcoat and striped trousers. Harry did not know this but he had recently returned from the Magistrates’ Court. Even as they spoke seven youths were under the lash of the local police sergeant.

Uncle Gascoigne frowned. He gripped the lapel of his coat and steadied himself. This was how he stood when making speeches at the Tory Association. He had prepared some words. Harry did not change his stance; hands behind back, head high. At St. Tom’s the form was always to look at a master when he was jawing you.

“Since your parents passed on,” Uncle Gascoigne droned, “I have taken care of you. I have paid for your education.” He delivered a liturgy on his generosity. “So this is how you repay me.” He picked up a letter from the table and (for dramatic effect) peered closely at it. It was an unnecessary gesture since he knew its contents by heart. It was a letter from the headmaster at St. Tom’s detailing Harry’s misdeeds leading to the inevitable conclusion that the eighteen-year-old must leave the school forthwith.

“You spend your time playing billiards in some God-awful public house when you should be at your studies.”

Harry suppressed a smile. He did much more at the Three Fishers than play billiards, but it was better that the headmaster and Uncle Gascoigne did not hear about that.

“A disgrace!” Uncle Gascoigne had used similar words to the louts at the court earlier that day. For it was true, Harry was no better than they. For all his privileges, he was a wastrel. “We shall have to consider your future at a later date,” Uncle Gascoigne said, his puffy eyes narrowing, “For now …” he let the words trail away and glanced across the room. Harry followed his gaze. His heartbeat skipped, standing in the corner of the room was a large enamel bucket and soaking in water and sticking from its top was a freshly-cut birch rod.

Silently, Uncle Gascoigne took hold of one of the dining room chairs and moved it so that it was in front of Harry. His beady eyes met those of his nephew. He hesitated, trying to read the mind of the wayward teenager. Harry’s eyes were dull; unreadable. “Bah!” Uncle Gascoigne ejaculated. “Take off your blazer, put it on the table. Lower your trousers and underwear. Bend over the chair.” It was a simple set of commands, sternly spoken. The boy would do as he was instructed, Uncle Gascoigne was in no doubt.

While Harry climbed out of his school blazer, Uncle Gascoigne stood over the enamel bucket and gripped the birch rod by its handle. He swished it through the air allowing droplets of water to dampen the solid wooden floor. He tested the rod in his hands, taking its weight. Birch rods were made for purpose and each was unique. They could be long or short; heavy or light. They might have six branches or dozens.

The one Uncle Gascoigne held was not in fact strictly-speaking a birch rod, since it was constructed of hazel branches. Hazel was more easily available in local woods and had the properties of both suppleness and strength. It had been made at the local police station. It was unheard of for Uncle Gascoigne to request them to make him personally a birch, but they asked no questions when he did. Col. Trumpington-Smythe, his fellow magistrate, often made such a demand.

The rod in Uncle Gascoigne’s hand had been expertly constructed. There were fifteen twigs, each almost perfectly straight, that were between twenty-six and thirty inches long. They had been clipped into a conical shape. The ends and tips had been trimmed and a handle bound with cord made. It tapered gracefully from handle to tip and felt comfortable and balanced as he held it. He swished it through the air once more, it had been soaked in water overnight and felt fresh and supple.

Harry watched aghast. His blazer was safely laying on the table but his trousers and underwear were still in their rightful position. “Quickly!” Uncle Gascoigne snapped. “Or do you want additional strokes?” It was a question that needed no answer. Harry had no doubt that his uncle was serious. He forced his hands to unfasten his trousers, the weight of the heavy wool sent them hurtling to his knees. He wore fashionable athletic underwear of the short variety. He hesitated until Uncle Gascoigne’s heavy, impatient breath spurred him onwards. Soon he was bare from the waist to his ankles.

“Bend over the chair,” Uncle Gascoigne swiped the birch, “I assume you know the drill.” Indeed Harry did. Schoolmasters had their own peculiarities when administering canings. One might require a boy to present himself touching toes, knees straight; that was probably the most “traditional” position known. It was, however, not the most efficient method. The posterior was stretched and bent at such and angle that the size of the target was diminished. Others would make a boy go over a chair. How this was done depended on the furniture available. The back of an armchair could be used, but so many of them were tall and a boy could not properly reach over. Most studies had at least one hard wooden chair and this was perfect. A boy faced the seat, gipped tightly on both sides, spread his legs, arched his back and jutted his rear end out. A perfect target, offering up a generous expanse of stretched bottom for the schoolmaster’s cane. Harry chose that latter position.

Uncle Gascoigne was no expert at birching. It was one of his roles in life to order others to perform such acts. He acted on instinct. He supposed the general idea was to assault as great an area of the naked buttocks now on show as possible. The posterior should end up raw and tender, but there was no need to leave the boy bloodied and battered.

He took up position to Harry’s left. The cheeks quivered in anticipation of the  assault to come. The other end of Harry appeared stoical. He held the seat cushion tightly, his eyes focused on a small stain on its fabric. His breathing was easy. Uncle Gascoigne rested the birch against his nephew’s bottom so that it covered nearly every square inch.

Harry bit down on his lower lip. He had long since been hardened to the ordeal of corporal punishment, but the application of a well-made birch rod wielded by his angry uncle might prove to be a torment of great proportions.

With the skill of a golfer, Uncle Gascoigne turned his body, screeched, and then flogged the birch across the eighteen-year-old’s bare bottom with startling speed. Harry’s head rose, his mouth gaped and his face tightened, but he uttered no sound.

The birch struck again and the delinquent schoolboy swayed noticeably. His face was now as scarlet as his bottom. He shook his head from side to side, rather like a braying donkey. A third cut slashed his once-pale buttocks, small cuts ranged from his undercurves over the fleshiest part of his bottom. Already his bum was beginning to resemble raw hamburger meat.

Harry gasped, drank in a mouthful of air, then sighed long and loudly. He wriggled and writhed, but he knew better than to try to stand. To do that in the middle of punishment always meant extra strokes (it was an unwritten law). His heartrate sped as the agony travelled through his body; his legs in particular ached terribly.

Uncle Gascoigne slashed two more into the pulsating cheeks. Whip-whip. The second swipe fell low, across the backs of Harry’s thighs. His almighty screech bounced around the library. In the passageway outside, with his ear close to the door, Old Tom the Faithful Retainer winced in sympathy.

“I think you are learning your lesson,” Uncle Gascoigne intoned.

“Yes, Sir,” Harry croaked, feeling he was required to answer.

The birch flew through the air applied with considerable beef one more time connecting with the battered and bruised bottom higher. Harry convulsed. His legs marched up and down like a demented sentry, his hips swayed from left to right and his cheeks rose and fell. He wheezed heavily, sucked a throatful of vomit back down and sniffed back the snot that was promising to drip from his nostrils.

Blood raced through his body, his temples throbbed; his ears were about to explode. The agony was intense, but it was over. “Get up.” Uncle Gascoigne, himself wheezing, returned the birch to the enamel bucket. As it jangled against the side he noted how sturdy the rod was. Very expertly made, he thought.

He turned to see Harry struggling back into his underwear and trousers, the boy’s face was drenched in tears. He stood unsteady, holding the back of the chair for balance. His backside felt like he had been forced into a bathtub of boiling water; he thought he would be unable to sit down for a week.

Uncle Gascoigne pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and swabbed his brow and the back of his neck. The flogging had taken more out of him than he had expected. “You may go,” he grimaced, “And ask Old Tom outside to fetch me a glass of whisky.”

 

Picture credit: The Magnet

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The penny drops

new story 2

z used mowing lawn cutting grass prior to spanking

I had just left my home on Saturday lunchtime to take the dog for a walk when I saw Terry, my neighbour’s son, mowing the small patch of lawn in front of his house. I’ve known him since he was knee high to a grasshopper so I stopped for a chat.

He’s a strapping young man now, as was clear for all to see. He wore no shirt and the physical work of cutting the grass emphasised the muscles in his arms and back. His jeans fitted snugly around his beefy buttocks and he needed no belt to keep them up.

“Hello Terry,” I said cheerfully. I don’t think he heard me at first. Perhaps the noise from the mower was too loud. I tried again. This time he acknowledged me. He seemed a little startled. I had heard from his mother he was doing very well at the university, so I thought I’d pay him a compliment. “Good exam results. Congratulations.”

His face flushed. He seemed embarrassed. He put his head down and continued pushing the mower. He was making a good job of it. When it was clear he wasn’t going to respond to my remark, I tried another tack. “Mowing the lawn.” I said, feeling foolish as it was obvious that’s what he was doing. “Helping your parents out. Good for you.”

Again, my pleasantry provoked no response. This was unlike Terry. Usually he was a very polite young man. Unlike so many youngsters these days, his manners were always so good. I’d always thought he was a credit to his parents. He took the mower into a corner of the lawn and then it was obvious he had completed the job.

“Nice, job,” I said. With his task finished he had no choice but the switch off the mower. “I said, you made a good job of it,” I repeated. He frowned and shrugged his shoulders. I couldn’t remember seeing him mow the lawn before. As I thought about it I realised this was something his father often did on a Sunday morning.

“Is this your job from now on?” my attempts at chatting were going nowhere. He looked over my shoulder towards his house; he seemed anxious. I supposed he wanted to get back inside and get on with his Saturday. I was about to give up on the conversation and take my dog to Widdicombe Wood when the front door of Terry’s house opened. Terry visibly shuddered. Beneath his suntan his face paled. His father stood in the doorway.

I pulled on the dog’s leash and was about to leave when I heard Terry’s Dad say fiercely, “Now, you’ve finished the lawn, get yourself into the garage.” The aggressive tone of his voice startled me. I turned to face him and got another shock. His dad was brandishing a heavy wooden spanking paddle. Terry almost died on the spot. Now, I could see why he hadn’t wanted me to hang around. His face now a deep cherry red, he sloped off to the garage. The door was already open.

His Dad watched his son trudge away. He looked at me and down at the paddle in his hand. He was entirely unself-conscious, but he did not say a word. I was silent too, but I nodded at the wood in his hand in the hope it would encourage him to explain.

“There was a whole gang of them partying at Widdicombe Wood,” he began. I needed no more detail. During the summer evenings some of the kids took their cars to the woods, which bordered The Avenue. They would play loud music from boom-boxes and drink beer. Sometimes it was so loud it disturbed the residents.

“I told him he couldn’t go, Frank,” he continued, addressing me by name. “He disobeyed me and came home well Brahms this morning,” he gripped the handle of the paddle, “What does he expect?” I didn’t answer. It was very clear to me precisely what Terry expected his Dad would do. I shrugged my shoulders and waved my arms making one of those what can you do? gestures.

“A damn good spanking,” he said, as if I hadn’t already received the message. He slapped the paddle into the palm of his left hand. I had never seen a spanking paddle close up, but I do know what they are. In so far as I’ve ever thought about it, I supposed they were something the Americans used. Can you even buy them here? He slapped some more and I could see this one looked like a miniature cricket bat – perhaps it was.

“Can’t stop chatting,” he grimaced, “Got work to do.” I watched him walk over to and then disappear inside the garage. I could hear his muffed voice from where I was standing. He was tearing Terry off a strip. I am not entirely proud of what I did next. I was fully aware what was about to happen. I could have left well alone. This should be an intimate moment between father and son.

Blow that! I thought. A garage with its door wide open into the street is hardly a private space. I edged a little closer. The Avenue is a very select street and many of the houses are hidden behind their own walls or high hedges, I don’t suppose many of my neighbours were aware what was happening. I had the spectacle to myself.

When I reached the garage the lecture was over. I arrived just in time to see Terry spread his legs wide and bend down to grab his ankles. He kept his knees straight and his head low. The muscles in his arms and back rippled. In this position his buttocks were huge, but firm and tight. I had a perfect view, rather like being behind the bowler’s arm (to continue the cricketing metaphor). Dad rubbed the paddle across his son’s bottom; he seemed ready to go. Unexpectedly, he stopped and gripped the waistband of Terry’s jeans. I thought they were tight enough but by pulling hard Dad dug the denim deep into the crack between the cheeks. It was like he had performed a wedgie; from where I stood I could see the outline of Terry’s briefs.

The young man waited submissively, his bottom raised for the swats of the paddle. He made no fuss. It was clear this little drama had been played out many times previously. Dad (I don’t know why I keep calling him that, he’s not my father, his name is Reg). So, Reg rubbed the paddle once more across the seat of Terry’s jeans, raised it high and then swung it down in an arc. The crack as wood met denim echoed around the small garage.

I saw the wood sink into the hard meat, the impact forcing Terry’s body forward a little, but he remained in position. Sweat soaked Reg’s shirt, while his son’s back seemed perfectly dry. Swat two was aimed lower so that it came from underneath and powered upwards. I imagine it left an imprint across the lower buttocks and thighs. It might make sitting down a little uncomfortable.

I don’t know what a paddling is supposed to look like. Until I saw Reg and Terry I had thought nobody spanked their kids these days. It has to be thirty years or more since the cane was banned in schools. I share my ignorance with you because I cannot “review” the spanking. I don’t know if Reg laid it on well or not. Is a spanking supposed to leave the punished boy (the spankee?) in tears? Is that how we measure a “darned good spanking”? I don’t know. I can tell you that Reg whacked what to me looked like a dozen pretty impressive stingers across Terry’s rear end before he let him stand.

The boy’s face was scarlet and I suppose his bum was too. He looked more embarrassed than distressed. I suppose his pride might have been hurt more than his backside; how can you tell?

I could see they were ready to leave, I didn’t want to embarrass Terry more than was necessary so I tugged my dog down the street towards Widdicombe Woods. As I watched it frolic around the trees a sudden realisation struck me, the penny had dropped: now I understood why Terry was always such a polite and well-mannered boy.

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Trousers down. Over my knee

new story 2

z used paddle hold christian dad

Richard’s knees ache against the hard floor. He has made his peace with God, he rises and straightens his back. Now, he has to face his Dad. He knows he will be waiting for him in the front room, there is a certain ritual to these things. Everything is in its place, ready to be played out. He knows what is expected. Matters must take their course.

Dad sits patiently; waiting. Patience is a virtue, he has all the time in the world. He is doing God’s will, there’s no need to hurry. He has been to his special cupboard on the top floor landing where he keeps his tools. He has quite a collection it was years in the making. There’s something for every occasion; thick and thin whippy canes (big ones, small ones). Leather straps. Tawses; some with two tails, some with three. An old worn out gym plimsoll, its sole smooth and shiny. It has never seen a running track, that’s for sure. He selected a wooden paddle this time. Small and heavy with five big holes drilled in the business end. They help it fly through the air and cut down wind resistant. It packs a punch. Just what Dad needs to help do God’s work. It is also just what Richard needs.

Richard shuffles across the passageway, he is in no hurry he can wait a moment or two more. He touches the seat of his chino trousers. It is a reflex action preparing for the ordeal ahead. It is thick material. Who is he kidding? They will be no protection, no use at all, when they are flapping around his ankles. The door is open, he sees Dad sitting on a wooden stool the paddle in his hand. He is mumbling to himself. No, not himself, he is communing with God, explaining himself, taking guidance. Suddenly, his head lifts, his blue eyes shine, he sees his son. Dad grimaces, holds the paddle in his right hand and beckons Richard forward with a finger of his left. No word is spoken. There is no need, they have both been here before, they know the script by heart.

There is no more to be said, they have already had it out. Richard has been seen in the town with boys his own age smoking cigarettes. Not Richard; he doesn’t smoke but some of the others were. That is enough; keeping bad company. There’s no point saying they are all eighteen years old and not breaking the law. Whose law? Dad would retort. Not God’s law, smoking is a sin. There is no more to be said. Poor Richard. There are so many sins: smoking, drinking, lying, swearing. And, don’t get us started on S.E.X.

Dad raises his paddle. Richard halts his progress, stops in front of Dad, looks down at him. He is probably at least fifty but looks younger with bright blue eyes, clear skin, blond hair, trim waist, thick set muscles. Every ounce a Muscular Christian. His body a temple. He frowns slightly, “Trousers down, over my knee.”

A totally expected command, but Richard’s mouth still dries. His heart beats a little faster. His stomach turns. It is his body’s way of getting ready. Preparing itself for the ordeal; for the shame, for the pain. His fingers are steady as he finds the buckle of his belt. He doesn’t need to look down, he can remove his trousers blindfolded if he has to. He’s had enough practice. The belt loosens, he pops the button at the top of his fly, then lowers the zipper. The front of his chinos open showing his gleaming white underpants; evidence of his Mother’s good housekeeping. He wriggles his hips and the chinos sliver down his thighs and bunch at the knees. He spreads his legs and the trousers puddle at his feet.

He takes a deep breath, places both palms on Dad’s right thigh and eases forward. He reaches out his hands and puts his palms flat on the carpet. Behind him his legs are short and dangle in mid-air, toes an inch or so short off the floor. His groin presses into Dad’s leg; his bottom rests at an angle.

Dad is not quite satisfied and moves Richard slightly. It gives himself a better aim at his son’s bum. Richard’s legs are further from the ground and face closer to the carpet.

Dad has his little spanking rituals; always has done. It is his job to prepare the bottom for punishment. He will be the one to take down Richard’s underpants. Dad rests his paddle on the small of the teenager’s back and with both of his hands free gently takes the elasticated waist of the pants. Slowly, carefully he eases them down over hips and across meaty (and a little chubby) cheeks. Now they are clear of the buttocks and resting at the thigh.

Richard feels a slight breeze blowing across his exposed flesh from the open window. He is breathing a little heavily. Dad is taking his time. Richard can’t see him, but feels movements in his body as he retrieves the paddle from the small of the boy’s back and rests it higher up, near the shoulder. Then carefully he grasps the tail of Richard’s shirt and folds it once, then twice until it rests neatly at the shoulders. Richard is now naked from the shoulders to the thighs.

Dad takes the paddle in his right hand and grips it tightly at the handle. It is about six inches of hard wood. Dad hovers it above the fleshy bottom; he could easy make one smack land across the centre of both cheeks at once. Or he could go lengthwise and wallop the whole of one buttock from the very top to the very bottom.

He takes the first option and brings the wood crashing down three times across the centre of both mounds. Richard gasps at the shock and screws his fingers into a claw. Dad whacks another three lower, where the curves meet the thighs. Richard yelps and kicks his legs out. A reflex to the pain that is starting in the bum then travelling down the legs.

Dad then goes for option two. Puts three whacks the length of the left cheek and three into the right. Dad doesn’t use much energy. He raises the paddle a foot or so away from the target area and brings it down with a mighty force.

Richard’s cheeks clench tighter. The paddle hangs threateningly overhead waiting for them to relax again. Then the wood falls with fury, slamming another dose of intense pain into the naked bottom.

The paddle goes up and down; up and down. Richard is stoical. He never cries. No yelp escapes his lips, he has a high pain threshold. He couldn’t count the number of times he’s been spanked. The paddle sinks into his meaty bum and remerges leaving behind another deep pink mark. Soon dozens and dozens of images of the paddle blade are emblazoned across both cheeks. And, the back of his legs.

Dad is not finished. He wants to make sure he does God’s work properly. He has a calling. Richard understands that. He is completely at the mercy of Dad (and God). So, the spanking goes on and on.

And on.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The morning after

new story 2

zused after bed naked messy (3)

Scott buried his head in the pillow, it still ached terribly, but the pain in his backside was easing. His stomach was churning and he feared he might be sick at any moment. His bed smelt rancid; close to his nose was a chunk of scrunched up toilet paper, soaked with his own spunk. All around him were filthy underpants, a damp bath towel, a shirt worn for three days and then dumped.

Gingerly, he reached behind him and with the tips of his fingers traced the contours of his buttocks. They were tender around the edges, but the crests of the mounds themselves had the consistency of leather.

He groaned quietly, trying to piece it together. What the hell had just happened? There was a distant memory of the student union bar. They had been smoking weed all afternoon. Then there were “snakebites”, an especially potent beer combination. Then what happened? And, how the hell did he get home?

Downstairs in the kitchen his dad struggled to raise a mug of tea to his lips; his hands trembled. He couldn’t get them to obey his brain; it was like he had Parkinson’s Disease. His wife sat opposite him at the table. “You did the right thing, Tony,” she sipped her own tea. He looked back at her doubtfully. “He’s had it coming for a long time. What did he expect?” she tried to console him.

Dad gave up his struggle and put the mug down, slopping a quarter of its contents over the laminated table top. His eyes were blazing, his heart hadn’t stopped thumping. He had only just regained his breath. He looked across at his wife, silently pleading.

“He’s been off the rails for months,” his wife rose from the table and placed her mug in the sink. “We’ve been on at him for ages,” she turned on the tap and watched it fill the washing-up bowl. “You did warn him what you’d do,” she turned around exasperated. “And if you hadn’t been a wimp for so many years, he wouldn’t have got like this,” is what she wanted to say. Of course, she stayed silent.

Dad stared at his wife’s large ebony hairbrush that was on the table, almost reproaching him. He shuddered, then shook his head violently as if trying to dislodge a memory from his brain. He had been out of control upstairs. It scared him.

“You not drinking that?” his wife picked up the mug and took it to the sink. She returned with a damp cloth in her hand and wiped up the spillage. “You did the right thing, Tony,” she brushed her hand against his shoulder as a comfort.

“I know, I know,” he whispered in reply, but he didn’t mean it. He glanced at the clock on the wall. “Look at that, nearly one and he’s still in that pit of a bed.”

His wife, at the sink, her back turned to her husband, frowned, “And you’ll do it again, the next time as well.” And, she knew there would be a next time. Her Scott had not learned his lesson just yet.

Dad stared down at the table top, his hands had stopped shaking and his heartrate was back to normal. It was over. For now. Until the next time.

It had been going on for months. Ever since Scott went to the university really. Unlike so many kids his age he hadn’t gone away to university, he wasn’t going to give up his home comforts. The university’s halls of residence couldn’t compete with that. Although he lived at home he enjoyed the life of a debauched student. A little to freely. Mum and Dad doubted that he did much actual studying; he seemed to be high or drunk most of the time. He never cleaned his room, hardly ate meals Mum had cooked and disrespected his parents like … well, like a teenager.

Dad was not a strong disciplinarian. He never raised a finger to any of his boys as they grew up. The older two had left home years ago and were making good, honest lives for themselves. It was only Scott who had fallen by the wayside.

Dad discussed it one night in the pub with a neighbour pal. He was astounded (but also comforted) to learn his pal’s son was just as bad. Or, had been just as bad. “A damn good spanking,” his pal had said. “A taste of the leather belt,” he had continued. “Across the bare arse,” he concluded. “No trouble since.”

It turned out Alan (his pal) had to belt the boy on more than one occasion, but it did the trick. Dad told his wife about it. She agreed with great enthusiasm. She had the perfect thing: her old wooden hairbrush, an heirloom from her grandmother.

They were together when they told Scott. It had been a one-sided conversation. Dad said something like, “If you don’t buck up your ideas, I’ll spank you.” Scott jeered, “Yeah, right,” and stormed from the room. That had been last weekend.

“He can’t say he wasn’t warned,” his wife dried her hands on the tea towel. “Don’t fret so much over it, Tony.”

And Scott couldn’t. He rolled in the house at two that morning and rolled was the appropriate word as he bounced off the walls and practically on hands-and-knees climbed the stairs to his room. Almost certainly he did not hear his Dad’s words following him, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Of course, he would see Scott in the morning, as he did each day. But this time see you in the morning had a different meaning. He meant, “I’ll spank the living daylights out of your bare bottom, young man.”

Dad had an uncomfortable night. Boats had been burned. He had announced to his wife, and to his son himself, his intended action. He couldn’t back down now. He would loose too much face. He was supposed to be the man of the house. His word ruled. He would be a laughing-stock. He had to go through with it. He lay awake imagining. His son was nearly nineteen; he was a drunkard but he was a fit, strong drunkard. In any kind of tussle, never mind a fight, he could knock Dad on the floor. Scott was hardly likely to meekly offer up his backside (bared or otherwise) for a spanking.

Way into the night Dad stared at the ceiling, irritated by his wife snoring beside him. But, before he drifted off into a troubled sleep, he had a plan.

It was way past midday, the brat was still in his stinking pit of a bed. Dad paced the living room. He should take the initiative. His wife vacuumed around him. The noise cut through him. She switched off the  machine and put a hand in a pocket of her apron. “Here,” she said quietly. She handed him her grandmother’s hairbrush. He took it and was surprised by its weight. It was about fourteen inches long, including the handle, and the end with the bristles was about four inches wide and oval shaped. Absent-mindedly, he tapped it against his open palm. His wife had been right, this was a marvellous spanking tool.

“Go on,” she egged him, “Better get on with it.”

“Yes,” he was timid, reluctant. “I suppose so.”

With heavy steps and heavier heart he tramped up the stairs, rehearsing in his mind his plan of action. He hesitated outside Scott’s bedroom door. There was no sound from inside, he must still be asleep. Dad took three deep breaths to steady himself. Oh, how he did not want a fist-fight with his son. He eased open the door, the stench of sour body odour overwhelmed him. He stood, gripping the brush in his right fist. His son lay face down on the bed, farting gently. Dad’s stomach turned; he couldn’t be sure if it was disgust or nerves. Scott was sound asleep and completely naked. Dad paused, inspecting the room, a slight smile might have crossed his face. This might be possible after all.

His plan had been to take Scott by surprise, somehow haul him across his knee and then batter his backside with the brush as best he could. It was a good plan, it would have worked. It needed the element of surprise.  He watched Scott’s back rise and fall in rhythm with his breathing. The teenager’s body was almost completely hairless. Dad had never noticed that before; was it natural? Did he shave himself? He shook the questions from his head. This was a chance too good to miss. Almost on tiptoes he walked further into the room until he was by the bed and towering over his son. The boy was out of it, oblivious to his surroundings. Dad would never get a better chance.

In one continuous movement, he leaned forward, stood on one leg, put his other knee across Scott’s shoulders, gripped the brush tightly, raised it high and brought it crashing down across the very centre of Scott’s left buttock. That woke the boy up. “Whaaaaa!!” it was a screech both of pain and terror. Dad pounded the buttocks with a ferocity that surprised him. “Noooo!!” Scott’s legs buckled. He tried to wriggle free but Dad’s weight on his prone body had him pinned down. His arms flailed, he tried to twist and turn so he could rain punches but each one missed by a mile. He was restrained as effectively as if he had been tied to the bed with ropes.

“Drink. Drugs. University. Mother. Meals. Hotel. Washing.” Dad was wailing himself, incoherently as he hammered the brush into Scott’s hard, meaty buttocks. The once-creamy flesh quickly turned deep pink, the brush bouncing up and down leaving imprints of the oval head behind. In no time the whole of Scott’s backside shone red.

“Waa, gerroff, waa!” Scott made no more sense than his Dad. Now fully awake he knew for certain what was going on. This was the spanking Dad had threatened last week. Later, when it was at an end and he was nursing his wounded pride, Scott would reflect that Dad wasn’t such a sucker after all. But that would have to wait. For now, he had to endure his Dad’s wrath. The agony was awesome. His bum glowed red hot. Every time the brush hammered into him a fresh ache would radiate from the cheeks and travel up and down his legs. His bum was aching even more than his head.

Dad whacked on and on, battling the strength of his son who even after fifty, sixty, seventy wallops continued his fight to escape. Sweat poured down Dad’s back, the effort was killing him, but he was a man possessed (by what, he didn’t know. It scared him). Bang, bang, bang! The brush splattered into the boy’s flesh. Dad was mesmerised by the thudding sound it made.

Then he was dimly aware of another noise. Not the sound of Scott’s howling, nor the drumming of the brush. This was coming from a distance. From behind him.

“Ok Tony, he’s had enough. You should stop now.” It was his wife. She seemed so far away. “C’mon, love, give it here.” She reached out her hand. Dad looked at the brush in his fist; dazed, mystified, wondering how it had got there. He glanced down at his son trapped beneath his knee, as if seeing him for the first time, the crimson buttocks pulsating . Shamefaced, he meekly passed over the brush.

“C’mon love,” his wife breathed quietly, “Let’s go downstairs, I’ll make a nice cup of tea.”

 

Picture credit: unknown

Other stories you might like:

Public Birching

Be Home by Eleven, Not Half-Past Twelve

The Scotch Whisky Mystery

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com