Late for breakfast

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

“He’s not here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Picture credit: Cody Ferguson

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My belligerent nephew

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Summer spent staring at the carpet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club

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Changed Times 6. Birched live on TV

The hotel swimming pool

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Uncle Martin lends a hand

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture credit Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Clubbing

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

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

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

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

Well, what else did I say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture credit: Unknown

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The military camp

Damien’s mid-term results

Put back into short trousers, aged 18

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The selfie

new 5

z used after selfie (1)

There! Take a look at that. Are you satisfied? It’s all your fault. I told you I didn’t want to skip Uni. You made me do it. I said if he found out, my Dad would tan my hide. You just laughed. You thought I was making a joke. Well,  just take a close look. I’m not laughing, am I?

Of course, Dad found out; he always does. One of the neighbours grassed me up. Dad was waiting for me the moment I got home. “Oh, how was university today?” he sneered at me. I knew straight away he knew. I lied of course. Jesus! Why did I do that? It only made things worse. He knew all about it. We were spotted in Widdicombe Wood. Thank God we still had our clothes on.

Well, you don’t know my Dad. I got the full lecture. It’s costing him a fortune to keep me at university. My grades aren’t good enough for me to be bunking off. He’s warned me before. It’s all true, actually.

So, he says, if I insist on acting irresponsibly, it’s a spanking for me. I bet you’re wetting yourself now. Do you know what he did? Can you even guess? Yes, he takes me by the arm and bundles me into the living room. He’s already got a chair plonked down in the middle of the room. On the table there’s Mum’s hairbrush.

He sits himself down and says to me, “Take down your trousers.” Just like that, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. I’m nearly twenty, I tell him. “It’s my house. My way or the highway,” he says. God knows where he got that from. Is it some American saying? It must be from one of those rotten sit-coms he watches on telly.

Of course, I just stand there like a fool. He leans forward and pulls me towards him. Next thing he’s got the front of my trousers open and they’re falling to my feet. I’m giving him some lip at this point, but he doesn’t care. Suddenly he pulls me forward and I topple over his knee. Face down. I really hurt my arm when it crashed against the floor as I tried to get some balance. Of course, I’m kicking and hollering, but Dad is pretty strong. It’s a lifetime working on building sites that does it. He’s got me around the waist and I’m going nowhere.

Then, God almighty I can’t believe I’m telling you this; then he takes hold of the waist of my underpants and he only pulls them down. Just like that. There’s nothing I can do about it. I’m lying there, face down, with my arse bare to the wind. Then, he reaches out, picks up Mum’s hairbrush and he wallops the living daylights out of me.

Have you ever been spanked with a hairbrush? On the bare bottom? No, I don’t suppose you have. Your dad’s far too refined to do such a thing. Well, I can tell you, it hurts like crazy. Whack-whack-whack, he goes, with no let up. Pounding away at my poor arse. I thought it was on fire. I have never felt so much pain. Not ever.

So he spanks that goddam hairbrush into every part of my bum and once there’s no square centimetre untouched, he starts all over again. I’m hollering fit to bust. Not only with the pain, which is intense, but just the sheer shock of it all. I’m being held down over an older man’s knee while he spanks my bare little bottom and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it. Spanking me on and on and on.

He’d still be spanking me now, if Mum hadn’t come into the room. “What’s all that hollering,” she says. “The noise is fit to wake the dead. You’ll have the neighbours complaining.” Well, if it’s that old biddy who grassed me up, he’d probably be delighted to know I got my backside blistered. I’ve seen the way he looks at me when I waltz down the street in those tight jeans I have.

So Dad stops spanking me then and I roll off his knee. I fell flat on my face (honestly, literally) when I tried to pull up my trousers and pants and run from the room at the same time.

I couldn’t resist going to the bathroom to have a look. Look at it yourself. Look how red my bum is. I cannot tell you how much it hurt. It’s died down a bit now. It was throbbing before, but it’s more of a dull ache now. I bet you I’ll have bruises in the morning.

So, don’t forget I hold you personally responsible for this. It was your idea to skip Uni. I didn’t want to do it. You made me, even though you knew what Dad would do if he found out. I get spanked; you get off scott free. Well, at least until tomorrow. Because I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to get hold of Mum’s hairbrush and I’m going to find you and I’m going to give you exactly what Dad gave me. And more besides. On your bare bottom.

Over my knee for a bare-arsed spanking from me. Think about that when you’re trying to get to sleep tonight. So, goodnight. Until tomorrow lover boy!

 

Picture credit: Unknown

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The Morning After the Night Before

Tyrone misses curfew

Oh my papa

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Uncle Graham’s belt

new 5

z used drawing belt hold (25)

Uncle Graham stood feet firmly planted eighteen inches apart, his back erect, the muscles in his forearms rippling. I stood, my eyes popping, as slowly and with great deliberation he unbuckled his thick, wide leather belt. He glowered as he took hold of the buckle and tugged the belt so that it slipped majestically through the loops of his trousers. Within seconds it was free. He allowed it to dangle from his fist so that the far end almost touched the floor.

“Come here,” his voice was fierce. It was an order, not a request. He doubled up the black belt and tapped it into the palm of his left hand. I slouched forward, attempting defiance. “Now!” Uncle Graham barked. I stood for a moment. How I despised myself for allowing him to whip me.

“You know the drill,” Uncle Graham glowered. “Get on with it.”

I did. I knew the drill well. I was eighteen years old and had been here many times before. I fumbled with the buckle of my own belt, but my fingers refused to work, they were numbed by my humiliation. “Do you want me to do it for you?” Uncle Graham sneered.

At last the belt undone, I popped the clasp at the waistband of my trousers and then tugged the zipper tab until the front of my trousers were wide open. I shook my legs and gravity took them slipping down my thighs and they snagged at my knees. Uncle Graham shot me a withering look. He did not try to hide his contempt. I hooked my thumbs inside my boxer shorts and with a flick of the wrists sent them down to meet my trousers.

My bum was bare and my small, thin cock hung limply. I drew in a deep breath. I shuffled like a penguin for a couple of steps until I reached the back of the settee. I counted to five in my head, rubbed my sweaty palms together, closed my eyes and slowly fell forward. My stomach rested on the back of the settee. I opened my eyes again and stared down at the dirty seat cushion. I pushed my arms forward and took a firm grip of its far end.

“Bum higher!” Uncle Graham growled. “Get right over that settee.” I wriggled my hips a little and stood up on my toes. My face was even closer to the cushion and I could smell sour sweat where countless people had sat over many years.

I closed my eyes and waited. I heard Uncle Graham swish the belt through the air. There was an almighty crack that echoed around the small living room when he slashed the belt against the top of the settee. I couldn’t stop a shudder convulsing my body. Then, I felt the cold leather touch my naked flesh. Uncle Graham rested the belt so it covered the centre of both cheeks. He was finding his aim.

A chill draught blew across my naked legs. Blood rushed to my face, it always did when I was bent over in this position. I braced myself for a very intense session with the belt.

The first time I had been strapped it had been agony and I had been miserable for hours afterwards. Now, after so many strappings it was different. I knew I could “take it” without a fuss, but I never overcame the sense of humiliation. Eighteen years old and belted like a little kid. I  willed himself not to move. I stayed submissively bent over, holding my backside high so Uncle Graham could lash my buttocks over and over.

I felt him tap the belt across my bottom and then raise it away. He must have taken it over his shoulder and then he brought it whipping down into me. The crack! sounded like gunfire in the tiny room. My body buckled under the lash and I bit into my lower lip; trickles of spit dribbled from my mouth.

The second lash curled itself viciously over my exposed buttocks and unfurled. My backside quivered with the force. My body jolted and I clenched the fingers of both hands together.  My throat tightened. After three or four strokes the heavy, wide thick belt had whacked all my buttocks; from the soft undercurve where the globes meet the back of the thighs, over the meaty mounds and across the tops of the globes. Every square inch was toasted. He snapped another six hard stingers across the very centre of my buttocks. One after the other in rapid succession.

The aching in my bum was growing. It had started as a tingle, turned to a throb and then became pounding pain. Not one square inch of my buttocks was untouched by the leather belt. I clung onto the seat cushion valiantly. When you have been under the lash as often as I have you develop a high pain threshold. A less experienced boy would be hollering, howling and begging for mercy. Not me. My buttocks quivered, my hips wriggled and from time to time my knees bent, but that was just my body’s natural reaction. A reflex, if you like, a way for my body to protect itself against the pain.

Uncle Graham was no novice to spanking. He knew his job. Satisfied that he had whipped my buttocks red and raw he then turned his attention to the back of my thighs. If you’ve been spanked yourself you’ll know that it the most sensitive part of the target area. I stamped my feet, then wrapped one foot around the other. My heart raced and my temples throbbed almost as much as my bum. But I didn’t cry out. I refused to give Uncle Graham the satisfaction.

He paused the onslaught for five seconds while he took hold of the belt and adjusted it so the buckle was uppermost. This meant not only did he have the weight of the leather strap to flog me, but a heavy piece of metal with a sharp point that could take my arse off. After a dozen strokes of this small cuts ran across my mounds and the flesh looked like raw hamburger meat in places.

Then, it was over. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson.” Uncle Graham finished his spanking with three extra-hard licks. When he told me to get up, I forgot about being too old for a spanking. I hopped around doing the famous spanking dance with my penis flopping, while I tried to rub the sting out of my bare behind that had just been roasted to 350-degrees Fahrenheit.

My bum was hideous; a mass of magenta marks and burgundy bruises. Already some of the bruises were growing dark, almost brown. I could feel the welts from the strap and the heat glowing off my bum could have heated a greenhouse.

Uncle Graham let me get dressed and he sent me off to my room. Only then did I allow the tears of pain and humiliation to flow.

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

My first spanking — aged 18!

The spanking I thoroughly deserved

The Helpful Neighbour Part 1

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The French student

new 5

z used otk head bare

Back in the day I was a great defender of the English way of life. This was long before we got mixed up in the European Union and lost our national identity.

Every summer for years I took into my home students from France who were in town to learn English. Also, the college that paid me asked me teach them something about our ‘culture’. A pleasure, I said. I meant it too.

The kids were eighteen or nineteen. They’d finished school and were often waiting to go off to university back home. In those days you didn’t become a legal adult until you turned twenty-one, so my houseguests were still children in my mind. That meant I was responsible for them, a bit like I was their father.

I took my responsibilities seriously. With the help of the college I drew up a contract of behaviour that I insisted all students who stayed with me signed. It wasn’t complicated. There was something about night time curfews (they were here to learn, they were not on vacation); meal times and so on. I have a huge house with three different ‘reception’ rooms and I told them which were out of bounds.

The college praised me for my foresight in having such a contract. I beamed with pleasure when they said that. Only later did I add the paragraph about the use of corporal punishment.

Being an Englishman that meant the whippy, rattan cane. There was a sixpenny bazaar in the High Street that sold traditional ‘school-type’ canes. They came in a variety of lengths and thicknesses and I stocked up with half a dozen (“Six of the best,” I joked to the young salesman who served me). Some came with crook handles and others had twine wrapped around one end to make a handle.

I cleared out a cupboard in one of my lounge rooms and deposited the canes inside. I also collected together some other items from around the house that might come in useful. I still had a heavy rubber-soled gym shoe from when I was at school. That went in the cupboard. Also, a heavy ebony hairbrush that I once bought at a junk shop in the Portobello Road in London. I added to that an ancient leather razor strop that had been in my family for generations. A shaving razor had not been near it in decades.

By the time I was finished I had quite a collection. I was ready for any eventuality.

The students were all surprisingly similar. Mostly they came from small towns or villages and had been kept on tight reins by their parents and schoolmasters. Now, as they saw it, out in the free world they thought they could run wild. I have to say that our town of Brocklehurst is hardly a den of iniquity but we can boast a sizeable university so even in those days there were clubs and bars to entice them.

My guests were only too willing to be tested, hence the need for that contract. I was a stickler for curfew. Home by ten every night. In bed, lights out by eleven on a college night. I let them stay up until eleven-thirty at other times. I always believed in the old adage “early to bed, early to rise …” I didn’t see why my routine should be disturbed by a noisy teenager.

I think the kids signed my contract without reading it too closely (English wasn’t their first language after all). They didn’t always take note of the section headed: Corporal punishment (administration of). Not, until it was too late.

Pierre was one of the first kids who boarded with me. He was eighteen and was on some kind of ‘gap year’ between finishing school and going on to university. I was to learn he was a typical boy let loose away from his parents. Brocklehurst in those days was a staid place but some people knew they could make a few quid out of the students so they set up places like coffee bars and dance halls where they could relieve them of their money. Pierre was only too willing to go anywhere that offered the chance of ‘fun’, especially if that included the chance to meet girls.

Need I say that the possibility to meet girls far outweighed his obligation to return to my home before curfew. I am not a hard man, but I believe in rules. I believe in order. I believe in being in charge. I warned Pierre of the consequences if he stayed out late. I showed him the contents of my cupboard. He was left in no doubts. He could only blame himself.

So I lectured him on responsibility, self-discipline, consideration for others. It was quite a speech. He looked bemused half the time. I suppose his English wasn’t up to it. He might not have understood all I was saying but he got it when I said, “Now I am going to spank you.” His face blanched, despite the deep suntan. He blustered. Now it was my turn not to understand. I suppose for some things there’s a universal language. His tone of voice told me he was saying, “No, but, you can’t,” and so on. He might even have said, “I’m too old to be spanked.” Certainly, that was something many of them told me over the years. Too old Bah! Eighteen and nineteen is not too old to be spanked.

I had no intention of flogging him into a pulp, but he needed a wakeup call, that was for sure. I had a choice: a cane, a heavy strap, a plimsoll, hairbrush, you name it. But no, what Pierre needed was a good old-fashioned spanking. Do they say fessee in France? Trousers and pants down and over my knee. Bare bottomed. Spanked until his cheeks burnt red hot. Spanked until they glowed in the dark.

Back in the day I hadn’t yet run to fat. I was no athlete, but I still had some strength. Pierre, was probably an inch or so taller than myself and as thin as most kids were in those days. Despite his constant rule-breaking he was a pretty conventional kid. I have no idea if his father ever spanked him, or an uncle or some other adult in his life. Certainly, he understood the concept of  the instruction, “bend over my knee.”

We were in the room I called my lounge. There were a couple of armchairs and a sofa. Against the wall stood a straight-backed chair. I pulled it into the centre of the room. Pierre’s eyes popped. If he hadn’t believed it before, he did now: I was deadly serious. I sat down and spread my legs. I wriggled my buttocks to get comfortable. Pierre gaped, the tip of his tongue poked through his lips. He was silent but the apprehension was clear in his face. He was standing some distance from me. “Come here,” I ordered. He flinched and started to turn his back on me.

“Pah!” I exclaimed and reached forward, took him by the forearm and pulled him towards me. He may have been too astonished to resist. I was done lecturing, now was the time for action. He wore fashionable loon pants trousers that had no waistband. They were held up with a single button. It took two seconds to release it and tug his zipper down. The loons slid down his bony thighs. I took hold of his wrist and pulled him so that unbalanced he toppled face down across my knee.

I suppose I had the element of surprise because Pierre did not struggle. He waved his arms about but that was so he could keep his balance and not tumble to the floor. He wore tight maroon-coloured briefs. They fitted his tight cheeks perfectly; like a second skin almost. I did not hesitate. “These serve little purpose at a time like this,” I told him as I dug my fingers under the elasticated waistband and with three tugs I had them clear of his bottom.

That’s when he began to struggle. But he was too late. His head was low and his bottom high. At this angle it was impossible for him to reach back with his hands to protect his bottom. I pressed my left arm hard against his shoulders. He was pinned down, going nowhere until I said so. He called out in French, obviously protesting about the indignity of his position.

I peeled up the end of his t-shirt so it was well clear of his bottom. I took a second to observe my target. Two small, round unblemished cheeks rested against my thigh, perfectly positioned for the task I had to perform. I curved the palm of my hand and slapped him hard. Again, and again and again. The sound of my palm against his rock-hard bottom resounded around the small room. The rapid spanks sounded like machinegun fire; I landed eighty or more slaps in the first minute. I was rewarded with an extended hissing from Pierre as he exhaled all the air from his lungs. His head rose and fell. Then he shook it from left to right. His arms flailed about, and his hips swerved. It was like he was trying to swim off my lap. Fat chance.

I was spanking him too quickly to be able to count how many slaps I delivered. I was delighted to see the outline of my palm reproduced in red all across his buttocks; from the peaks of his mounds, over the crests and into the soft spot where the crease meets the thighs. Satisfied that every square inch of his bum was now red hot, I went for the back of his thighs.

“Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!” I didn’t need a translator to understand that. Pierre was in pain. I couldn’t see his face clearly, but the back of his neck was as scarlet as his backside. His shirt was soaked with perspiration. The eighteen-year-old foreign language student was feeling this spanking.

By now my hand was smarting almost as much as Pierre’s bum. I didn’t care. It was a small price to pay. It was my duty to punish Pierre. And to teach him; teach him a little about the English way of life. I would happily have kept up the bare-bottomed spanking for half an hour or more, but suddenly I was aware of an urgent tapping on the window. Without pausing my onslaught on Pierre’s writhing bum, I looked up. Peering through the window was a man in uniform and wearing a peaked cap. He was holding up a parcel at the window for me to see. Startled, I momentarily relaxed my grip on Pierre and taking his chance he wriggled off my lap and fell to the floor where in one athletic movement he rolled over, leapt to his feet and while still tugging up his pants and trousers, fled from the room.

I went to the front door. The postman handed me a long, thin parcel and walked back down the path without a word. I glanced at the postmark: Lochgelly. Eagerly, I took it into the kitchen. I lit the gas under the kettle before ripping open the brown paper. A lovely two-tailed leather taws slipped into my hands. I caressed it and lovingly lifted it to my face to savour the aroma of fresh leather. A new toy for my collection. The kettle whistled and I made myself tea which I sipped slowly wondering how long I would have to wait before I had Pierre across the kitchen table.

Picture credit: Franco

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The TV repairman

A visit to Uncle Roy’s

Put back into short trousers, aged 18

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com