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

new story 2

z used bed waiting pyjamas (12)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

z used pyjamas down chair (16a)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Picture credits: Unknown

 

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A maintenance spanking

Peeping Tom

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

His Father’s Wrath

new story 2

z used drawing white shorts by spy (2)

Tommy slammed the car door, waved goodbye to his friends and bounded up the driveway towards his house. It was seven p.m. and he knew he was late. Breathless, he pushed the front door open and entered the hallway.

“Your father is looking for you, Mr Thomas” it was Clara the cook / housekeeper, “Said you’re to see him the moment you get in.”

“Thanks Clara!” he called, intending to ignore her and hurry to his room to change out of his tennis clothes.

Then, his mother appeared from the drawing room. “Do you know what time it is?” Tommy frowned, he wanted to look at his watch in an ostentatious manner and say “It’s just gone seven mama,” but her stern frown warned him not to be flippant. “Where have you been to this hour?”

“Tennis, obviously,” he indicted with a flourish that he was wearing tennis shirt and shorts.

“Don’t be fresh darling,” his mother admonished him. Tommy headed towards the stairs, not wanting a confrontation.

“Your father wants to see you,” she called after him. “In his study.”

“Later,” Tommy called over his shoulder.

“No darling. Now.”

Tommy stopped in his tracks. He recognised that tone of voice.

“He’s been waiting for hours. Better not keep him any longer.”

Tommy sucked on his bottom lip, a habit he did when he was concerned. Something was up. It couldn’t just be that he was late home. What was it? Any number of possibilities went through his mind. Maybe his father had found him a job for the summer. He had threatened to find him a position working in an office with one of his clients. Blast! If that was it. He had hoped to spend the summer playing tennis and at the beach.

His father’s study was on the first floor of their mansion, tucked way at the end of a long, dark passageway. Tommy hesitated. Should he get changed first? No, better to get whatever it was out of the way first. Then he could have a cocktail and get ready for dinner. Tommy rarely visited his father’s study. It was his place of work, where he prepared the complicated cases he presented in the law courts. The passageway was dark and surprisingly cool on such a warm summer’s day. The floorboards beneath his feet creaked as he made his way towards the heavy oak door. He stopped outside, suddenly unsure how he should proceed. Was this similar to visiting the housemaster’s study? Was he to knock politely and wait for the summons “Enter!” Or would it be permissible simply to open the door and barge in?

Tommy was rarely on familiar terms with his father. They were father and son; not dad and son. There was very little bonhomie in their lives together. He knocked politely. “Come in!” his father’s call was as imperious as that from any pompous headmaster. Tommy, surprised that his hand was shaking, turned the handle and pushed against the heavy door.

His father was sat behind a large walnut desk, sheaves of official-looking documents were strewn across it. His father was dressed in his business clothes, striped trousers, black jacket and waistcoat. He had made no concessions to the weather. He raised his head, took off his glasses and held them in his right hand. “Ah, Thomas. Home at last I see.” He looked his son up and down, not attempting to hide his distain at his appearance. “An arduous day was it?” he snarled. Tommy so wished he had changed clothes first.

He pushed the door closed and stood awkwardly. There was a hardback chair and a comfortable armchair in the room, but he wasn’t sure if he was permitted to use them. He waited, shuffling from one foot to the other, for an invitation to sit. None came.

His father shuffled through his papers, tut-tutting silently to himself. Finally, he found the envelope he was looking for. “Have you seen your examination results?” Tommy’s eyes blinked uncontrollably. No, of course he hadn’t seen them. The school would have sent them directly to his father. “Failures, all of them,” he threw a sheet of paper down on the desk, “Well damn nearly all of them. Pah!”

He let his exasperation hang in the air. With shaking hands, Tommy leaned forward and picked up the paper. He scanned it for confirmation. He let it fall with a flutter onto the desk top. His father leaned back in his chair. He was a successful advocate and he knew how to compose a sentence and how to deliver it with devastating effect. He could leave a judge and a jury in no doubt what he thought (and by extension what they should think too).

“I have engaged a private tutor, he will arrive on Monday and he will work with you throughout the summer. You will retake your examinations and you will pass them.”

Tommy could not stop his eyelids fluttering. His palms were sweating and all the saliva seemed to have dried from his mouth. “Thank you father,” he croaked. He knew he had not been summoned to engage in a conversation. His father had delivered his message and that was to be an end to it. So much for the tennis club and the beach. He would have to stay indoors in a stuffy room with an even stuffier private tutor. Damn and blast!

Supposing the meeting was at an end, he turned towards the door.

“Not so fast Thomas!” the fierceness of his father’s tone surprised him. He turned to see genuine anger on the old man’s face. “We have not yet finished.” His father’s pale complexion darkened. He placed the palms of both hands on the desk and leaned forward, his steely grey eyes glaring. “You might remember that I was far more successful at school than you have manged to be,” he spoke sharply. This was no question; it was a statement of fact. “I achieved the rank of house captain. If we had a slacker like you in the house we should have known how to deal with him.” He paused for dramatic effect. It worked, Tommy sucked in a lung-full of air, he was hanging on every word. “A beating. A damn good beating. God knows why that school of yours didn’t give you a damn thrashing is beyond me.”

Tommy knew his jaw had dropped and his mouth was now wide open. He watched astonished as his father pulled himself from his chair and walked the short distance across his study. He stopped at a cupboard, opened its door and delved inside. Seconds later he was brandishing a long, thick school cane. Tommy’s mouth opened and closed, but he could form no words. His father tucked it under his arm, rather like a sergeant-major with a baton, and moved to the centre of the room. “Turn around. Face me.” Tommy swivelled on his heels. His father slipped the cane into his hand and then as schoolmasters have done throughout history he flexed it between both hands. A flicker of smile passed his lips as if he had recalled a fond memory. He swished the cane through the air. Aware that his son’s face appeared to have lost some of its tan, he pointed the tip of the cane at the boy’s chest.

“I should have done this years ago.”

Tommy’s heart told him to protest. “No! I’m eighteen, I’m not a child, I’m far too old to be caned,” he could say. His head told his otherwise. His father was in total control. In control of this moment and in control of Tommy’s entire life. He had failed his examinations, he had no opportunity to go to university and little chance of getting a half-decent job. He needed his father’s money and his influence if he was ever going to get out of this mess.

“Take down those shorts, bend over and touch your toes.”

If Tommy’s face had been pale, it was now scarlet. Shorts down! A caning on the underpants. The humiliation. The cane swished through the air. “I shall not tell you again,” he growled and the proceeded to do just that, “Shorts down, bend over and touch your toes.”

His tennis shorts fitted well and needed no belt. With fumbling fingers he undid the clasp at the waistband and allowed the weight of the cloth to send the shorts tumbling to his feet. Tommy was an athlete and was fit enough to take his father’s instruction literally. Toes meant toes, not shins or knees. He parted his feet and bent forward stretching his fingertips so they rested gently on the toecaps of his shoes. The muscles in his hairless legs and buttocks tensed so that he presented a hard, round bottom for his father’s attention. Stretched in this way his rear end was as hard as a rubber ball.

His father had not beaten a bottom in twenty five years, but he supposed it was rather like riding a bike; once you learned the technique you never forgot. As house captain, he had believed that a beating must be memorable. A caning should be laid on with some vim. He developed a reputation for beating backsides with as much energy as a maid might beat a carpet.

He stood to the left of his son’s bending body. His son had closed his eyes in anticipation of what he was about to receive. The buttocks flinched as his father laid the cane squarely across the centre of both mounds. He took careful aim, then satisfied of his target, he raised the cane high, and brought it crashing down, twisting his body slightly as he did so. His strong golf swing was much admired at the club. The cane landed where he had intended. Tommy’s eyes opened wide and he shut his teeth together to stifle the yelp that threatened to escape his lips. His knees buckled slightly and his fingertips rose an inch or so above his shoes. He steadied himself. A thick line pulsed across his backside. It hurt, but so far he could take it.

His father adjusted his swing and brought the second stroke down hard across the top of the boy’s buttocks. The cotton of the underpants was so thin he saw a clear welt develop before his eyes. The throbbing was intense. Tommy closed his eyes tight and his knees swayed from side to side, but again he managed to control his body. Two down, four to go. He was proud of himself so far.

Number three was an uppercut entering the underside of the cheeks on the tender ‘sit spot’. Tommy would be reminded of that stroke whenever he sat down over the coming day.

Sweat poured from his father; the heat of the day and his exertions were taking their toll. He rested the cane on the desk and proceeded to remove his jacket and waistcoat. As he did so he looked across the room at his son. What a world, he thought. How well it is ordered. They had the law to thank for that. His son was before him, bent over, touching toes, willingly submitting his bottom for a thrashing. He had not been coerced. He was not tied to a bench or held down against his will by burly prison guards. No, he had acknowledged his transgression, accepted he must atone and was now taking his just punishment. He rather admired his son for that.

Now, a little cooler, he returned to his task. Could any other father had delivered two swipes of the cane with such energy and intent? He rather doubted it. Bang! Bang! The strokes sank deep into the boy’s flesh. He wriggled and writhed but stayed in position (just) to the bitter end. Through the underpants his father could see six distinct lines each travelling from left to right embossed in his backside covering a distance of about two inches from top to bottom. “A good set of marks, even if I say so myself,” he congratulated himself silently.

Aloud, he said, “Stand up. Get dressed.” Tommy did not need telling twice, he gripped the waistband of his tennis shorts and bounded to his feet; kneading his raw flesh with one hand while trying to fix the clasp with the other. He stood before his father, face scarlet and eyes moist.

His father resumed his place behind the desk. “You are dismissed. Be ready to receive your tutor on Monday.” He watched his son limp from the room, gave himself a moment for his heartbeat to ease and then returned his attention to his documents.

Picture credit: Spy

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

 

The Fare Dodger

new story 2

z used otk pants chair sting (64)

Hamilton slouched in his seat, impatiently staring ahead. The bus was filling up, St Francis had just let out. A dozen or so kids were jostling past the bored driver, flashing their passes or return tickets at him. Senior boys, he thought, prefects mainly, judging from the shiny lapel badges they wore. Nicely turned out. Fancy green-and-gold blazers, pale grey trousers. Yes, Hamilton liked that. St Francis had ceased to be a grammar school years ago, but it still had standards.

He pretended to read his newspaper, but peaked around the pages, watching the bouncing buttocks of the boys as they ran up the stairs to the top deck. One boy, slimmer than the others, strode to the window and reached toward it. “Ye Gods!” Hamilton barked to himself. “He’s going to open the window. It’s freezing.” He steadied himself ready to make an indignant protest and watched as the boy opened the window and dropped his bus ticket onto the pavement outside. Then he closed it and not bothering to look around him to see if he had been spotted, he disappeared taking the stairs two at a time.

There were only seconds for Hamilton to see another boy bend down and pick up the ticket, before the bus drove away. Hamilton huffed. What a ruse, and so simple. They must play the same trick every day. Two rides on one bus ticket. The driver was always too busy to notice, Hamilton reckoned, and if even if he did he probably wouldn’t be bothered to do anything about it. The boy, now safely upstairs and out of the way, obviously never expected a passenger to make a fuss.

Well, the aging man thought, the boy was in for a shock.

Hamilton closed his eyes, all the better for him to plot his scheme. The boy hadn’t noticed Hamilton. If he had seen him half hidden behind his copy of the Metro, the boy would have recognised him immediately. Hamilton certainly knew the boy. His name was Jack and he lived on the other side of the street from Hamilton, a few doors down. About ten minutes later the boy danced down the stairs and clung to the strap handle waiting for the bus to stop. Hamilton dropped his newspaper to the floor, rose from his seat and as the doors swung open he quietly followed Jack. The boy walked at some pace. Hamilton followed more sedately, there was no need to hurry. He knew where Jack lived. The boy was neither tall nor short, not fat like so many teenagers these days. His dark hair was not short, but not so long as to raise the ire of a St Francis schoolmaster. His green-and-gold jacket fitted snugly as did the pale-grey trousers. The boy would be leaving school for good in a few months, obviously his mother didn’t see the need for new clothes. He carried a bag on his back, it hung low. It often annoyed Hamilton that young men had such bags, it was impossible to get a clear view of the line of their buttocks.

They were nearly at Jack’s home. Hamilton quickened his pace. Just as he boy moved through the garden gate and approached the front door Hamilton called out, “Good afternoon Jack!” The boy stopped in his tracks turning slightly to see who was speaking. “Oh hullo Mr Hamilton,” he said, not trying to hide his irritation at having to talk to the old man.

Hamilton smiled, rather like a shark might when it spots its prey. “Good trick with the bus ticket,” he spoke evenly, trying not to betray his annoyance. There would be time later for that. Jack found a key from his pocket determined to escape inside. “I said,” Hamilton spoke a little louder, “Nice trick.”

Jack pushed the door open and stepped inside. Hamilton pushed forward and stood in the hallway before Jack had a chance to protest. “I assume you play the same trick every day.” Jack wriggled the pack from his back and set it down at his feet. His face flushed slightly, Hamilton could see the boy was trying to compose a reply. Jack slipped out of his blazer and hung it on a hook. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It was the best he could do, even as the words formed on his lips he knew how inadequate they were.

Hamilton sneered. “Don’t give me that. I saw you. You and your pal had it all planned out. Nice trick.” He paused pleased to see Jack’s face was now glowing red. “It is, of course, against the law. Fare dodging. You could go to court. Get a fine.”

Jack’s eyes watered. He was generally a quiet lad. He was no good at confrontation. How, he wondered silently, was he going to get rid of this interfering old man.

Hamilton waved his right hand towards the school blazer. “What would they say at school?” He peered at a red lapel badge, “And you the head boy too.” He grimaced, “They don’t cane you anymore do they?” He delighted at Jack’s look of astonishment. “More’s the pity,” Hamilton added to rub the point home.

“It’s the first time we did it,” Jack blustered, desperately feeling that he must say something to make this end.

“Oh per-lease!” Hamilton scoffed. “I bet you’ve been doing this for years. You must have swindled the bus company out of hundreds, no thousands, of pounds.” He lent forwards and pointed at Jack’s chest. “Just wait until the magistrate hears about that.”

Jack’s mouth opened and closed, but no words came. Magistrate. Fines. It had never occurred to him they were doing anything wrong. Not really wrong. Not criminal. It was just dodging a bus fare. Who would pay a fare if they didn’t have to?

Hamilton pressed home his advantage. “A criminal record. You can kiss goodbye to a decent job. Were you hoping to go to university? Would they let you in with a criminal record?”

Sweat glistened Jack’s brow. He could feel his palms perspiring. He rubbed them against his trouser leg. “I won’t do it again,” his voice croaked, his throat was terrifically dry. “Honest, I won’t.”

The corner of Hamilton’s mouth turned up. “Oh I’m certain of that,” he sneered.

Jack’s brown eyes sparkled. “Will you let me off then?” He paused, then pleaded, “Please Mr Hamilton.”

Hamilton shuffled his feet and counted to ten in his head. Let the boy sweat a little, he thought. Make it look like you are genuinely considering it. Then pounce. “No, I don’t think I can do that,” he spoke with authority, sounding, he hoped, a little like an old-fashioned headmaster. “No, no, no,” he shook his head for emphasise, sounding as if he was carrying the weight of the whole world on his shoulders. “No, no, no,” he repeated. “I can’t let you off,” Hamilton’s eyes narrowed. “You must be punished.”

Jack’s look of puzzlement delighted Hamilton. He could almost see cogs moving inside the boy’s head as he tried to compose a response. “Punished?” The word was drawn out, as if it was composed of three syllables.

Hamilton tried not to gloat. “Yes, I could punish you. There’d be no need to trouble the magistrates.”

Jack’s face contorted, he didn’t understand.  “You?” he paused, trying to comprehend. “How?”

Hamilton beamed. “Oh a good old-fashioned spanking should do the trick, don’t you think?” Jack’s jaw dropped. “Spanking,” he said incredulously. “Yes,” Hamilton said and taking the initiative, added, “Do you have some kind of brush? A clothes brush or some such. Something heavy. Made of wood.” He brushed past Jack and entered the lounge room, looking around him hoping to spot a suitable spanking instrument. Jack stared disbelieving as Hamilton opened and closed drawers. “Well,” Hamilton said over his shoulder, as be rummaged inside a small cupboard, “help me out here.”

“There’s one in the hallway cupboard,” Jack blurted, unable to believe he had spoken the words. Hamilton left the room returning seconds later brandishing a shiny wooden oval-headed brush at the bewildered teenager. “Right then, lad let’s get on with this.” Hamilton picked up a straight-backed wooden chair and deceived by its weight, manhandled it unsteadily into the middle of the room. He sat down, wriggled his buttocks to get comfortable and spread his legs wide.

Jack watched motionless. This was not happening, he told himself. It was like an out-of-body experience. He wasn’t really here. “Come on, trousers down,” the cold command shook Jack awake. Yes, this really was happening. The old man from across the street wanted to spank him. “Quickly, or do you want me to take them down for you.”

“B … “ Jack’s mouth opened and closed. “It’s up to you,” Hamilton interrupted Jack’s protest. “A spanking or the magistrates’ court. What’s it to be?” He waved the brush for emphasis. It felt to Jack as if someone else’s fingers were unbuckling his belt and unzipping his trousers. Soon they snagged at his knees. Hamilton smacked his hand against his own leg and commanded, “Right lad, bend over my knee.”

Submissively Jack peered down at Hamilton’s legs. He was a small man and his thighs were thin, but with his legs parted he offered a perfect platform for any naughty boy to present himself for deserved punishment. Jack took a deep breath and first resting his hands against Hamilton’s right thigh, he gently lowered himself. Instinctively, for he had never been in this position before, nor had he seen anyone else like this (not even in a photograph or video), he angled his body across Hamilton’s legs so that his bottom was raised at a forty-five degree angle. He placed the palms of his hands flat against the carpet and let his legs dangle behind him so his toes hovered barely a centimetre above the ground.

Hamilton took a moment to appraise the situation. Jack’s bottom filled out a pair of white cotton underpants. White cotton, Hamilton licked his bottom lip, it wouldn’t have occurred to him that schoolboys still wore such pants. Stretched across Hamilton’s knee, Jack’s bum was taut. Gently Hamilton caressed the warm, smooth cotton. The buttocks were rock hard. Buns of steel! The tip of Hamilton’s tongue darted in and out through pursed lips. He placed the brush on the floor by his feet. Slowly his right palm patted and preened Jack’s bottom, in a trice all wrinkles were removed from the smooth cotton. Hamilton gently lifted the tail of Jack’s dazzling white shirt and pushed it up the teenager’s back and away from the target area. He stifled a gasp at the sight of smooth, hairless, tanned flesh. He raised his right arm and let it hang there. Jack’s body stiffened in anticipation. The buttocks clenched. Hamilton counted to five and brought the palm of his hand crashing down. Without pausing it rose and fell, rose and fell, hammering into Jack’s taut flesh. Over and over, rapidly. Like machinegun fire. A long drawn out hiss escaped Jack’s lips. He wriggled this way and that. Hamilton pushed his left hand into Jack’s shoulders. The boy was going nowhere. Not for some considerable time.

Jack’s bum rose and fell and his legs kicked out. “Eighteen years old and never been spanked,” a voice inside his head told Hamilton. “No wonder he can’t stay still for a moment. If he’s like this now, wait til you pick up the clothes brush.”

Nobody was counting, but if the smarting in Hamilton’s hand was any measure he must have walloped that rock-hard bum a thousand times. “I think,” that voice in his head spoke again, “Your palm must be hurting more than his backside.” Hamilton stopped his assault and, still gripping Jack with one arm he leant down and retrieved the wooden brush.

“No Mr Hamilton,” there was genuine pleading in Jack’s voice, “Please I’ve had enough.”

“Ha!” it was a derisive snort. “Enough! We haven’t even started.” With that Hamilton hammered the brush a dozen times across the back of Jack’s bare thighs. That got the boy hollering. Real yells. “Owww, ouch, owwww,” Jack had never felt such pain. Satisfied he was making an impact, Hamilton whacked the brush across Jack’s underpants. The teenager’s buttocks were small and firm. It took no time for the brush to leave its marks on every square centimetre of by-now scorching flesh. “I don’t think you’ll be dodging bus fares again, my lad,” Hamilton delighted as Jack’s legs kicked behind him. The boy’s trousers were slipping down his legs, soon he would be sending them flying across the room.

Jack’s lungs were bursting. Yelling, pleading, screaming almost. “Such a fuss over a little spanking,” the voice in Hamilton’s head was off again, this time warning him, “Be careful, the neighbours might hear. They’ll think a murder is taking place.

“Enough! Enough! Please Mr Hamilton!” Tears flowed down Jack’s face.

“It’ll be enough when I say so,” Hamilton snarled and gripped the elasticated waist of the underpants and tugged them down.

“No!!!”Jack wailed.

……

The bus pulled to the side of the road and the doors hissed open. Hamilton stumbled through the bus and stepped down onto the pavement. He pulled his woollen hat down over his ears and bent into the wind. Shortly, he would be in his dingy council flat with a large warming whisky in his fist. Then, he could imagine just how battered the boy’s bum was when the underpants fell to his ankles.

 

Picture Credit: Sting Pictures

(Story inspired by a real incident).

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 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Uncle Festus

new story 2

z used otk birch CS

Neither of my parents were bothered with religion so I grew up without knowing about “Spare the rod and spoil the child.” My Uncle Festus was altogether different as I would find out. I went to a modern school, they taught us sciences as well as humanities. It was a progressive place and corporal punishment was unheard of. I was a bright child but distracted. I wasn’t lazy, but I never worked; not on my academic studies anyway. I was a good and popular sportsman and made many friends. There were girls at the school and in my later years they were a distraction.

I did badly in my examinations and my parents’ hopes that I would go to Oxford or Cambridge University were dashed. I wasn’t even qualified to attend one of the smaller, less prestigious varsities. That’s how I found myself at the Brocklehurst Crammer. Brocklehurst is a small town a long way from my home. My father arranged that I should attend the college for three months during the autumn. The idea was that I would be force-fed all the learning I had passed up at school and then retake my exams. That way, so the theory went, I could get a university place and get my life back on track.

I was never told why I was to be sent to Brocklehurst as there were many similar colleges close to my home. Looking back I suspect the deciding factor in sending me away was Uncle Festus. He lived alone in a large house in Brocklehurst. He had never married and was a pillar of the local community, especially one particular church. It was arranged that I would lodge with him, returning to his home at the end of each college day. I was not consulted over the arrangement, but I could see no reason to object. I would be the first to admit I had let myself and my parents down; I should be grateful to be afforded a second chance.

I took a very long journey by three steam trains and was near exhaustion when finally we chuffed into Brocklehurst Station. I had been told my uncle would meet me. I had rarely met him and had no idea what he looked like. I spotted him immediately. He was a young child’s nightmare of a latter day Old Testament prophet. His hair was wild, his side whiskers were overgrown, a waxed moustache curled above his upper lip. Wild blue eyes stared through half-moon glasses. It was a late summer day and seasonably warm but Uncle Festus was dressed in a heavy serge suit with buttoned-up waistcoat. Cutting into his neck was a stiff cardboard collar from which a tightly knotted tie hung.

He recognised me too. Father had insisted that I wear my old school uniform.  My bright red blazer shone in the sunlight. I had abandoned the stiff collar and tie but wore a white shirt and pale grey trousers. Uncle Festus grunted something that might have been a greeting. He peered at me over the top of his glasses, inspecting first my hair and then my face. Evidently he was not pleased with what he saw. “Hair needs cutting. No cap. Where’s your collar?” He did not wait for my response and instead turned on his heels and sped off in the direction he had come. “Follow me!” he barked. I watched him disappear down the platform. When it became clear that I was not following he stopped. He stared at me from a distance of fifty feet; his eyes blazed, I swear I saw then spin, he drew back his shoulders, gulped down air into his lungs and roared, “I said follow me!” The few people still at the station stopped what they were doing and turned startled, wondering what manner of emergency had taken place.

My face reddened, my hands trembled, I was sure tears were close to forming. “B.. b..” I stumbled, terrified to speak. At last I found the courage and the wind, “But Uncle, I have to get my luggage from the train,” I bleated pitifully. Thankfully, at the a moment a porter approached pushing a trolley heavily loaded with two trunks and a suitcase; the provisions for my stay.

The porter might well have encountered my uncle in the past and knowing of the old man’s temper, he kept his distance and waited silently for instructions. “Pah!” my uncle ejaculated. “Take them to the trap,” he barked and like a frightened rabbit the ancient porter scurried on his way.

The nag pulling the trap was on its last legs, before too long its dead body would be served to cats. I sat behind Uncle Festus as we bumped over every hole in the roads, and there were many. He was silent the entire journey. I sat despondent. My uncle’s appearance and attitude had scared the living daylights out of me and his silence as we made our way to his house was oppressive. I had a close view of his broad shoulders and powerful back, I had no idea what he did or a living but from my short distance he had the appearance of a manual labourer. He certain had the tang of one; he omitted a sour aroma which was unsurprising considering the warmth of the day and the heaviness of his clothing.

At last the pony and trap turned into a wide street called The Avenue. The road was paved with cobbles and the noise of the pony’s hooves as it clip-clopped along was deafening. The house on each side were large and imposing, nearly all of them hidden behind vast hedges and ancient trees so high they blocked out the sun. The driver cried out “Whoa there!” and the pony shuddered to a halt. Neither the driver not my uncle made to move. I sat for a moment before it dawned on me I was expected to haul the trunks and case from the trap and drag them into the house on my own; surely an impossible task. I was summoning up the courage to ask the driver or my uncle to help when a boy, about my age, bounded out through the gateway of one of the houses. This was evidently my uncle’s home. The boy nodded a greeting to me and took hold of one end of a trunk. He said nothing yet I understood perfectly his intention. I took hold of the other end and together we manhandled it into the house.

The boy led the way into the house. Once inside I could see immediately that it was vast. I would later learn there were five bedrooms and two living rooms along with a private room that uncle used, as well as the usual kitchen and so on. The hallway was dark and cold, you would never guess it was summertime. Gas lamps were attached to the walls at long intervals. The boy led the way up the wide staircase and took me to the room that I had been allocated. It was large and musty and sparsely furnished. A large bed with what I supposed was a cast-iron bedstead dominated. The floors were bare, without even a worn rug. A bowl and water jug was on a stand in one corner. In another there was a cupboard. Next to the bed was a set of drawers and on top of this stood a candle in a dish with hardened melted wax.

It was then I realised the house had no electricity. By that time electricity was available cheaply all over the country and there could have been no reason but by choice that uncle had not had it connected.

The boy helped me to put the trunk down and we went out to fetch the rest of my luggage. The boy seemed to me to be rather preoccupied with his own thoughts and he made no attempt to make conversation. I wondered if he was in fact a little simple.

At last my possessions were in my room. I was uncertain what I was expected to do next as Uncle Festus had given me no instructions; he had hardly said two words to me since we met on the station platform. I resolved I would seek him out. I was making my way through the dark passageway when the front door opened and six men all dressed in similar fashion to my uncle entered. Each had a thick black book in his right hand. They moved swiftly through the hallway and entered uncle’s private room. The boy emerged from another room and joined then. I stood on the staircase and watched. They appeared to have come for a meeting of some sort.

My uncle was already in the room and I saw him close the door. I am not generally a curious boy, which is one reason why I didn’t do so well with my studies, but this time my interest was aroused. I tip-toed down the stairs and approached the now-closed door, very aware that my footsteps were amplified by the bare floorboards. My heart thumped as I pressed my ear against the heavy oak door. It was too thick for sound to pass through and I could not hear what the group inside were saying. I stooped down and placed my eye on the eyehole. I am not one who is often wracked with guilt but I felt my presence snooping at the keyhole would not be well received by my uncle if I was discovered. It would be in my own interest to make my exit.

Intrigued, and determined to discover what they were doing inside uncle’s room I left the house and entered the garden. The house was huge and there was no shortage of windows but at last I found the one I was looking for. It was closed, despite the fine day. I thought how hot and stuffy it must be in the room, especially since by now there was a small crowd of people, all dressed in heavy clothes. The aroma of uncle’s stale sweat came to my mind. Large trees overshadowed most of the house and I used one as a cover and I was able to secret myself and still have a passable view into the room. The men were on their knees with their books open in their hands. They were reading something aloud in unison. A prayer, I supposed.

I remembered that Uncle Festus was an active member of his church. Was this a service of some sort? I wondered. That might have been the case but this was a Tuesday; perhaps it was some kind of Bible study group.

I watched for a moment or two and since nothing much was happening I was about to leave to explore the rest of the house and garden when I saw the boy stand. Even from my distance and peering through dirty glass into an unlit room I could see he appeared in some distress. He sank to his knees and held his hands together as if in prayer. The others then stood and in unison recited an incantation. The boy looked close to tears. Intrigued I resolved to stay and watch developments. I didn’t have long to wait. My uncle suddenly placed his Bible on a small table and then with great deliberation, he unbuttoned his coat and slipped it from his shoulders. With solemnity he handed it to a colleague who hung it on a hat stand. While that was being done, Uncle Festus slowly undid the buttons of his waistcoat. All eyes in the room were transfixed.

Having loosened his clothing he took a couple of paces across the room and leaned towards a vase-like ornament that stood easily three feet tall. He reached his hand inside and with a flourish (rather like a magician taking a rabbit from a hat) he extracted a bunch of twigs. No one in the room was the least surprised, but I almost fell backwards with amazement. There were about a dozen or so twigs or small branches and they were tied together at one end to make a handle. Even I, with my great lack of knowledge of such things, recognised it as a birch. Any number of the trees in the garden where I stood could have supplied the wherewithal to construct it. Uncle Festus held it upright in the palms of both hands and presented it as if it was an offering to the assembled audience.

There was complete silence. I watched astounded. There was movement in the room. It seemed everyone knew their role in the unfolding drama. Two men took hold of a large, ornate armless chair that was leaning against a wall and manoeuvred it into the middle of the room. Uncle Festus seated himself. I had not noticed but while Uncle Festus was taking centre stage, the boy had removed his own coat and shirt collar. He stood forlornly. Uncle Festus made some remark to his congregation and they chanted their response. Satisfied with that my uncle turned towards the boy. Uncle’s face was set firmly. I did not see his lips move but he must have spoken some words because as if following a command the boy proceeded to loosen his britches. They had complicated fastenings and the boy’s trembling hands made heavy work of getting them to fall to his feet. He made a better job with his underwear and within seconds his buttocks were bared. He had his back to me so I have no way of knowing his expression or gauging his sense of humiliation which must have been acute.

My uncle squeezed his thighs together, the boy shuffled forward, and with a practiced move he dived headlong over Uncle Festus’s knees. He stretched his arms forward and placed both palms firmly into the ground. His naked buttocks rested across uncle’s right thigh and he kept his knees straight. They were presented to my uncle at a perfect angle. Uncle Festus was not yet quite satisfied, he took hold of the long tail of the boy’s shirt and gently tucked it away up the small of his back and away from the target.

All eyes, my own included, were glued to the boy’s naked, quivering milk-white posterior. Uncle Festus raised the birch twigs high above his own head; there was a collective intake of breath in the room. I bit my bottom lip hard. Uncle whipped the boy over the upturned bottom, the boy gasped as pink flecks, bruises, and abrasions burst across his shapely buttocks. Uncle’s arm rose again and the strong, broad-shouldered man flogged the birch down with increased vim. The boy twitched, sniffed and quivered.

With the window tightly shut I could not hear a sound from the room. I have no idea if the boy, yelped, yelled or screamed. Certainly, as the beating continued he wriggled and writhed. His hips swivelled, his legs kicked. I imagined that was only to be expected, his body was being asked to absorb great pain, to twist and turn must surely be a natural physical reaction to such an assault.

The men in the room watched impassively.

Uncle Festus set about his duty at a steady pace. The birch lifted and fell. The spread of the twigs was such that a single stroke covered most of the boy’s bottom. Soon, his once smooth, white buttocks were a mass of scratches, cuts and grazes. His cheeks flamed crimson. I couldn’t begin to imagine how sore they must feel; the sting must be agonising.

I didn’t think to count the number of strokes delivered, but by the time it was over the boy’s bottom, from the top of the globes, over the peaks themselves and into the under cheeks resembled raw meat. I couldn’t imagine that he would be able to sit down after that for a week or more. When there was no more flesh to flay, Uncle Festus desisted. Again, no word was spoken, but he released his hold on the boy who immediately sprang to his feet.

For a moment he looked unbalanced and dizzy but Uncle Festus put a steadying hand on his shoulders, while the boy’s own hands moved to ease his burning rear and he sobbed gently. Then, uncle put his hand firmly on the top of the boy’s head and took up what seemed to me to be a low moan. My heart fell; he was in ecstasy. The congregation joined the chanting and it continued for what seemed like several minutes. At last uncle released his grip on the boy’s scalp and unbidden he reached down and retrieved first his underwear and then his britches. Once suitable attired, he was handed his coat and silently and without ceremony he left the room.

Within moments they all left. I thought it unwise to be caught snooping and moved off to the furthest part of the garden as far away as possible from uncle and his cronies. There, I replayed it all in my mind. I had not the slightest idea what I had witnessed, but I knew for certain my three months lodging with Uncle Festus would prove to be the longest of my life.

 

Picture credit: C of Sweden

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Father deals with idle student

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Face the Music

new story 2

z used pants bathroom window domestic by MCicconneT

Anthony stared anxiously out of the bathroom window. How much longer could he hide here, he wondered. Soon Dad would want to know why he wasn’t at the breakfast table. There could be a problem if he was late down. He didn’t need that, he was in enough trouble as it was.

“Anthony, where the hell are you?” It was Dad calling from the landing. The bathroom door handle rattled. “Are you in there! Come out now. I haven’t got all day.”

Anthony blanched. Damn. It was time to face the music. He flushed the lavatory hoping his Dad would think he had been going to the toilet and not hiding. Hiding from the consequences of last night.

He shuffled to the door, flicked the lock, turned the handle and opened it. Dad loomed in the doorway. He was a huge man, thick set and more than a little on the heavy side. He towered over his son, casting a shadow. “At last,” he growled, “You know I have to get off to work.”

Anthony stood, head bowed, hoping he wouldn’t catch Dad’s eye. He was embarrassed as hell, standing on the landing in just his tight briefs. A shiver ran through him, although it wasn’t especially cold. It was the heavy wooden clothes brush in Dad’s hand. If there had been any doubt about what was about to happen, that put an end to it.

“Get into your room,” Dad prodded his shoulders towards a half-open door. Anthony did not resist. He would have loved to. He wanted to jump down the stairs two at a time and flee the house. But, what would be the point? He could hardly run down the road wearing only his underpants. Besides, he would have to come back home sometime and there would be hell to pay. No, better to face the music now.

He tumbled into his room. His bed took up most of the space. Piles of dirty clothes and discarded magazines covered the floor. A tiny wardrobe sat in one corner. A mirror was screwed to the wall.

“Jeez! Look at the mess in here,” his Dad growled.  “And what is that smell?” he screwed his nose. Anthony went scarlet. He had left a wodge of tissue soaked in cum under the duvet.

Dad gripped the wooden brush tightly in his hand as if noticing for the first time it was there. “Well?” he snarled. Silence engulfed the room. Anthony fidgeted from foot to foot. Was it a question? Did Dad want an answer?

“Well,” actually was Dad’s shorthand. It was his way of saying: we both know that you rolled home last night at gone midnight and by the smell of your breath you’d been drinking beer.

They didn’t need to fill in the details. Curfew was at eleven and Dad didn’t care a hoot if Anthony was eighteen and he didn’t want to know that his son was legally allowed to drink alcohol. Not on Dad’s watch. His house, his rules. My way or the highway. Say it how you like. Stick to the rules or else. And in this case “else” meant a very sore backside indeed.

Dad knew this. Anthony knew this. There was little room for discussion. Dad waved the brush towards his son’s face. “You know what to do.”

Indeed, Anthony did. He was eighteen years old after all; he had been here before. He waited patiently as Dad settled his vast backside on the edge of the bed, leaving a huge indent in the mattress. Dad’s thighs were huge, great mounds of fat. They made a perfect platform to receive Anthony’s body.

“Bend over my knee,” Dad barked and slapped his leg with the brush in case there was any doubt about his meaning. Anthony grimaced. He wanted to protest. “Dad I’m eighteen. None of the guys I was with last night will be getting spanked this morning.” He could have reminded Dad this was 2018 and, well, kids just don’t get taken over their Dad’s knees anymore. And definitely not when they’re eighteen.

But, what would be the point? My way or the highway. Pack your bags and go. There was no choice. Anthony took a deep breath and stepped forward. He was about a metre from Dad when he leaned forward and glided over his knee. His bottom rested at an angle against Dad’s right thigh and his naked torso stretched over the mattress. Although he couldn’t himself see, Anthony knew his bottom was at  the perfect angle to receive the attention of the brush.

Dad was no showman. He believed in getting on with the job. Time waited for no man. He pushed the palm of is right hand into the small of Anthony’s back, pinning him firmly. He was ready. He raised the brush high and with a resounding swipe brought it crashing down into the centre oh his son’s right cheek. Two seconds later it bounced off the left. Then the right again. Dad hammered the heavy oval-shaped head of the brush into Anthony’s backside. Bam! Bam! Bam! It sounded like machinegun fire as the noise echoed around the tiny room.

Anthony’s hips swayed from left to right. His stomach rose and fell over Dad’s knees. His arms flailed. If he hadn’t been pinned down he would have swam right away. Instead he was locked face down, bottom high while Dad delivered his just punishment.

Who was counting? But Dad probably walloped the brush across Anthony’s rear end fifty or more times. It hurt like crazy. The first whacks warmed up his bottom and it became increasingly sore as the punishment went on. Anthony was a veteran. He had been here before, but he couldn’t help wriggling and writhing; that was his body’s natural defence mechanism. It wanted the hurt to stop.

Dad rested. Anthony caught his breath. He lay still, his mouth and nose close to the rancid duvet. The eighteen-year-old knew better than to try to stand. His punishment wasn’t over yet. He felt a movement in his Dad’s body. He was gripping the elasticated waist of Anthony’s underpants. They fitted snugly and there wasn’t much room for movement. It took Dad four tugs to get them fully over his buttocks so they snagged around his thighs. His son’s bum was completely bare. Dad paused a second or two to admire his handiwork. Anthony’s buttocks glowed bright pink. Not a square centimetre was left un-bashed; from the undercurves near the thighs, over the fleshy mounds themselves and even the tops were scorched.

Dad gripped the brush with renewed energy and brought it whacking down, across the back of Anthony’s naked thighs. The boy’s head rose in shock and he shut his teeth firmly to hold back the yell he truly wanted to scream. Dad knew the thighs were the most sensitive spot to spank. That’s why he left them to the last.

Up and down, up and down, the brush hammered its message. Rules are rules. Obey them. If you don’t – well you only have yourself to blame for the consequences. Dad was not a cruel man. He didn’t believe in torture, but he wanted to make his point. If a job was worth doing, it was worth doing well. He tanned Anthony’s backside and thighs good and proper.

“Dan!” It was his wife calling from the landing. “Quickly, you’ll miss your bus.”

“Coming, Lil!” He stopped spanking and released his grip on Anthony. The teenager rolled off Dad’s legs and jumped up, dancing from one foot to the other, while simultaneously rubbing at his bare bum for all he was worth. He didn’t care that his cock and balls were bouncing in front of Dad’s eyes.

“Enough!” Dad pushed past his son and left the room, hurrying down the stairs. Anthony collapsed face down on the bed, still furiously massaging his naked buttocks.

The agony soon subsided into a nagging pain before transmuting into a dull ache. The worst was over. Some bruises might stay for a day, but he had survived. He lay naked, uncertain why his dick was standing to attention. Never one to miss an opportunity, he gobbed spit into the palm of his hand. He was working his way up and down the shaft when his phone pinged. It was a message from his mate Charlie. “See you at the pub at ten.”

Picture Credit: MCicconneT

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Father deals with idle student

New boy at Albion

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Letter of Gratitude

new story 2

z used caption graduate

Dear Uncle Algernon

Today I leave to travel to Newcastle to start my new job and new career. I will be living 200 miles away from you and I know our lives will never quite be the same again. How can I express my gratitude for all you have done for me and the love you show me?

I am shamed when I look back at how much I resented it when you took me in to your home and gave me a roof over my head when I was eighteen. I now shudder when I think how different things might have been. I would probably today be sleeping in a shop doorway or at best I’d be in some homeless men’s hostel maybe with a job sweeping floors somewhere. Now the world is my oyster. I owe it all to you.

When you persuaded me (Ha! Ha! Persuaded, let’s be honest forced me kicking and screaming) to take up that college course I resented the hell out of you. Going back to school at nineteen. I didn’t know then how much you wanted the best for me and you were prepared to make sacrifices. You were the first – and probably still the only – person ever to do such a thing. I didn’t know at the time just how much you loved me. You said you would do what it takes to get me on track: on the straight and narrow.

I didn’t believe you. I do now. I remember the first time you took your belt to me and leathered my backside. Do you remember the fight? You grabbing me by the scruff of the neck, forcing me face down over the back of the sofa and setting my rear end on fire. Nobody but you would ever have done such a thing. Such a kindness. My own parents all but abandoned me. Was it any surprise I dropped out of school and wandered through life aimlessly. I know it’s a cliché but you were my guiding light in a storm.

I spent much on the next few months appreciating the pattern on the carpet in your lounge. Me across your knee; you pounding a paddle across the seat of my underpants. Ha! Ha! I can laugh about it now; but then, not so. It took a while for me to appreciate you had my best interest at heart. That ‘contract of objectives’ we drew up was a masterstroke. I set my goals in life, we worked out how to measure my achievements and if (indeed often it was when) I fell short you were there to catch me; with that goddamn  paddle, or that heavy leather taws. Where did you get that?

I owe it to you and your efforts and yes your love that I passed my examinations and won a place at the university. Me, at university! No one in our family – not even you dear uncle – had ever achieved such a distinction.

We thought I was ready for the challenge. We thought I was mature enough to set sail on my own, so I signed up at a university away from home. From your home, from the place that I call home and with your permission would like to think of my home always. I was now absent from your day-to-day influence but I carried in my heart the lessons you had taught me.

Uncle, you know what happened next. I was nearly twenty-one years old, but I regressed to being sixteen again. My studies started well, but the cheap beer in the student guild bar and the women – oh there were so many women available. How was I to know I was such a handsome chap (Ha! Ha!). Uncle, the women came to me. Of course, the inevitable happened. By the second semester I was in danger of failing my courses. Disaster. But once more you rode to my rescue.

Who but my loving Uncle would take the time and the effort to take me in hand. You explained that women were all right in their place. A young man has needs. But there has to be a balance in life. We drew up one of those contracts. Time for study, time for women. Once the assignments were written, I could allow myself a treat.

Your insistence on what you called “reinforcement” was a master stroke (or strokes, Ha! Ha!). I appreciate greatly your sensitivity. You knew I lived in the student halls of residence where the walls of the rooms were paper thin. I needed to be “dealt with” but this was a relationship best kept between us two. The rest of the student population need not know of our arrangement. The Motel With a View, on the A-287 trunk road was perfectly discreet. It was the first (but by no means the last) time I felt that intense sting that can be delivered only by a stout but whippy rattan cane used in such a determined manner. I remember you piled three pillows on the bed. I removed my shoes, socks, trousers and underwear to lie face down on the bed. I chewed the fourth pillow. My what strength you have. I have never been forced to sit on an electric fire but if I were ever made to do so it could not possible hurt less than one of your canings. That time it was twelve stripes. Ouch! Each searing into my flesh. As you know (you’ve seen it at close quarters often enough, Ha! Ha!) my bottom is really quite small. There is no meat back there to speak of so your lashes sank deep and left behind terrific welts. My bum felt like corrugated cardboard at the end. Oh how I needed that pillow.

Yes, Uncle I owe everything to you. Without you I should never have graduated university. And, now look at me, a young professional man with a future ahead of me. I don’t know however I shall be able to repay you. Thank you, thank you, thank you! But dear Uncle I have a request. Please don’t abandon me now. Newcastle is so far away and the temptations in my new life will be so great. You have taught me well, but I fear for the future, please reassure me that you will be there for me, ready to whip me in to shape when the occasion demands.

Affectionately Yours,

Gideon.

Picture credit: Laurence Fellows

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

What a Disappointment . . .

z used longs touch toes school sting

No sixth-former had ever been caned at my school, so I made history that day.

Actually, hardly anyone had been caned in living memory – it was a “progressive” school and I had thought corporal punishment had been abolished a long time ago.

But, as I was to find out it had only fallen into disuse and that day it was making a comeback.

And, I welcomed its return, thank you very much, Sir.

I was eighteen years old and for a long as I could remember I had had a thing about corporal punishment. I used to fantasize about what it would be like to go over someone’s knee for the slipper or be sent to the headmaster’s study for six-of-the-best with the cane.

And, now my fantasy was to come true: or so I hoped.

It was all rather unexpected. I was in no way a bad lad, a rebellious teen, or a troublemaker. In fact I was such a goody-goody I was a prefect at the school and tipped to go on to university.

I had fallen foul of one of the school’s most fearsome battle-axes: Miss Lowenstein. She really was an old crone. One of the ugliest women you’d ever be likely to meet, with buck teeth and a gammy leg, courtesy of a childhood bout of polio.

She was, of course, a spinster and we boys all thought she was sex starved (as if we weren’t). And, she was a tough disciplinarian. She called herself a “martinet” and woe betides anyone who did not call her “ma’am”. No way were we allowed to call her “miss”, like we did all the other women teachers.

She had a mean streak and that’s how it was that I was about to break the record and take a caning.

We had a school magazine, it wasn’t a posh one, professionally published, but just something we cobbled together on an old Roneo printer. It was mostly short stories and poems (well doggerel verse really). It was my prowess as a poet that got me in trouble. I’d penned a verse that did not name her, but everyone knew who I meant. Somewhere in there it called her a “crow” and that she did not like.

So, before I knew it she was onto Mr Henderson, the head of Upper School, whining on that something must be done. And, the only “something” that would satisfy the bat was me bent over getting a sore arse.

When I realised I was for it I was not the least worried. I had dreamt about this for so long. I was fascinated by school canings and read lots of stories and comics that involved schoolboys getting their backsides tanned.

My favourite stories took place in public schools which were a world away from the inner city comprehensive I attended. In England “public” schools are expensive private schools, often where pupils boarded. What they all had in common was the thwack of the cane across the seat of the trousers that rewarded boys who misbehaved.

At home I used to pretend I was one of the boys sent for “six on the bags” as the school stories had it. Often I would dress up in my school uniform and pose in front of the full-length mirror in the passageway of our council flat. I would bend over touching my toes admiring the reflection of my bum in the mirror.

I never did anything about my spanking fantasy. I was young and we were all very naïve in those days. We didn’t have Internet then, so I wasn’t to know that there were plenty of people out there who shared my interest. Let’s face it there would have been plenty of people ready to cane an eighteen-year-old schoolboy’s backside raw (and much else besides) if they knew he was ready and willing.

I had one friend who looking back I think might have shared my interest. We were too young to express to each other our true feelings and the closest we got to doing anything was one day, while playing in his house, we found some sticks and had a go at sword-fighting. I can’t remember how it happened, but we moved on from medieval knights or whatever to naughty boys.

To this day, I remember he was willing to get a whacking from me. He bent over the back of the couch. We were both children so he couldn’t quite stretch all the way over. But, I do remember his chubby buttocks stretching against his corduroy trousers. He made a perfect target and if I hadn’t been so shy, I would have (no, should have) swished the stick into his arse.

But I chickened out. Why? I don’t know. But even now nearly fifty years after the event I still have pangs of regret.

So, I wasn’t about to give up the chance of a proper headmaster’s caning from Mr Henderson.

I went to a pretty ordinary school and we had no airs and graces: my school uniform was a very standard black blazer with grey trousers.

My uniform was ordinary and if truth be told I was pretty ordinary too: about five-foot-seven, a little over eight-stone in weight, and properly proportioned, not like the obese teenagers you see today.

At the appointed time I went to the concrete and glass Admin Block and knocked on the door of Mr Henderson’s office. My heart was thumping as if I had run a mile in a minute to be there. Something exciting was happening here and I couldn’t easily describe it, but I hoped that after this afternoon I wouldn’t quite be the same again.

I entered on Mr Henderson’s command. I was surprised to find Miss Lowenstein waiting there: not only was she determined to make sure I got my beating; she was going to personally witness it.

Mr Henderson had a modern office and it was very small. With all the filing cabinets you couldn’t swing a cat (or hardly a cane) in it. He probably looked like a typical comprehensive schoolteacher: wearing a rather scruffy shirt and plain tie with beige trousers that had seen better days since he bought them at a cheap chain store many years ago.

There wasn’t much room with all three of us present. I stood as best I could in front of Mr H’s Formica-covered desk. It was a mess, piled high with files and school notebooks. Miss Lowenstein moved out of my eyesight, probably all the better to get a view of what was to happen next.

Mr Henderson didn’t quite know what to say. He called me “Walton,” which isn’t quite my name. He mumbled something about how awful I had been. He actually said my behaviour was “ugly” and I suppressed a laugh at that, knowing that word perfectly described Miss Lowenstein.

I said something nondescript in return and then he told me matter-of-factly that he was going to cane me.

He moved to a filing cabinet. I hadn’t noticed before, but on top of it lay a short stick. This was no crook-handled ashplant cane beloved of public school masters; this was a  piece of bamboo, a little over two feet long and so rigid it would be impossible to bend it, or get much of a swish out of it.

Then he said the wonderful words I had dreamt of hearing for so long, “Bend over, Walton.”

There wasn’t anything to bend over, a desk or a chair, so heart thumping madly I just bent down. He hadn’t given the time-honoured command “touch your toes,” so I leaned forward a bit and keeping my legs straight I put my hands on my knees. That was enough. I was stooped there showing sufficient backside to serve the purpose.

I waited staring down at the worn carpet for the first stroke to land, remembering all those times I had bent touching my toes in front of the mirror. It didn’t matter how much it hurt I would shut my teeth and stick it, just like the boys in the stories I loved so much.

There was no swish as the cane landed on my bum, just a dull thud. I felt it, but there was no searing pain. The second and third stoke landed. What a disappointment. I hardly felt a thing. Mr Henderson’s heart was not in this. I felt terribly let down.

I got six strokes, but there’s no way anyone could have mistaken them for “six-of-the best.” I remained bent over after the last one landed. I knew the etiquette was you stayed in position until you were given permission to stand up. In the stories if a boy stood up before being allowed he got extra strokes. I wouldn’t have minded some more, but I doubt Mr Henderson would have obliged.

Eventually, rather absent-mindedly Mr Henderson said I should get up. I did as I was told. Did my face show my disappointment? I can’t be sure, but I could see Miss Lowenstein had a face like thunder. She was not impressed. Had she wanted to see me jumping about from foot to foot clutching my bum in agony and choking in fits of sobs?

Maybe she did. I’m sure that’s what I wanted too.

Mr Henderson was still holding the cane, not sure what to do with it, or how to dismiss me from his office. I don’t suppose he had much experience caning schoolboys since corporal punishment had all but been abolished at the school.

Eventually he summoned up enough wit to send me on my way.

I was in no real pain. In the stories I would have been rubbing my backside furiously as I rushed back to my study. I did have a surreptitious feel of the seat of my trousers, just a quick rub with my thumb, but there was no sensation there.

I knew I couldn’t go to the lavs to inspect the damage (if there was any) because they would be full of smokers and there’d be no privacy.

Instead, I went straight home. Thirty minutes later I was lying on my bed, my trousers and pants on the floor beside me. I was sorely disappointed. I couldn’t find a trace of the cane’s marks. It was as if it hadn’t happened.  There were no welts or bruises that would last for days and no chance that I would have difficulty in sitting down at tea time or have to sleep on my stomach tonight.

I leaned over and took an ancient storybook and a handful of tissues from the bedside table. They certainly knew how to deal with misbehaving seniors at St Tom’s School.

Dr Tulke rose from his writing-table. To Wooton’s surprise, he picked up a cane. Wooton could not see what the cane was wanted for.
He was, however, soon to discover.
“Senior boys,” said the Head, “are not usually caned at St, Tom’s, but there are exceptional cases that can be dealt with in no other way. Bend over that desk, Wooton!”
“Eh?”
“Bend over that desk!”
Wooton – bewildered and dismayed – bent over the desk.
Swipe! Swipe, Swipe, Swipe, Swipe, Swipe!

It was not merely “six.”  It was as thorough a licking as Dr Tulke had ever administered; such a licking as Wooton had seldom or never experienced before.
It seemed like a horrid dream to Wooton of the Sixth. But it was no dream; it was painful reality. Very painful! The head was a venerable gentleman, but he seemed to have a lot of beef in his right arm. He put it all into that whacking.
Wooton fairly squirmed.
“Now,” said the head, breathing hard, “you may go, Wooton! Not another word, or I shall cane you again! Go!”

Wooton almost tottered from the study. He left with pale face and compressed lips. His eyes were burning like hot coals.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

This story was first uploaded in August 2015

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com