Two naughty boys

new story 2

z used shorts playing (17)

To Mr Naughton it seemed like a good idea – and it was for a time. His friend and neighbour came up with it. The problem started with Mr Naughton’s eighteen-year-old son, Benji; he was off the rails. He truanted from school, stayed away from home until all hours of the night and was rude and surly when he was there. Something had to be done before the lad failed his examinations and was put on the scrapheap.

Alan Thomas from across the street had the perfect solution. It was a brainwave – and so simple to put into place. He said he had tried it with his son Alfie – Benji’s classmate – and it was working a treat. He would certainly recommend it.

So Mr Naughton did. It was a stroke of generous. What he did was he bought Benji a new school uniform. It wasn’t too different from the one he wore for the comprehensive school (when he could be bothered to attend). But – and here was the stroke of genius – instead of the typical mid-grey long trousers he substituted a smart pair of short trousers. He added socks that came up to the knee and  the outfit was complete.

Then he said Benji had to wear the new school uniform, especially the short trousers and knee socks, at all times when he wasn’t at school. Given his way he would have demanded he wore them there as well, but he knew that would be going too far. For it to work, he confiscated all Benji’s long trousers, jeans, sweats and so on and locked them away in a cupboard. The eighteen-year-old had no choice.

Mr Thomas had told his friend that the benefit of doing this was at least twofold. First, it reminded his son that he wasn’t really grown-up. He might be eighteen, but it took more than that to become an adult. He needed to realise he was still a child and living under his parents’ rules and supervision. The second benefit was it stopped the kid going out at night. How could he dare be seen in public wearing school uniform with short trousers? It meant he stayed home and although he was still quiet and surly at least his parents could keep an eye on him and make sure he did his homework. Mr Thomas swore by the new regime and said his son’s grades at school had improved immeasurably. Putting the boy back into short trousers was the best move he had ever made.

So, Mr Naughton had a go. He was quietly surprised at how easily he found an outlet on the Internet that sold school short trousers large enough to fit an eighteen-year-old. Of course, Benji rejected the idea (as Mr Thomas had warned he would). But once all his clothes had been confiscated he had no choice, unless he wanted to go around in his underwear all the time.

Things went really well until about three months before the final exams were due. As part of the coursework in Geography pupils had to work in pairs on a project. What better, Mr Naughton and Mr Thomas thought, than put Alfie and Benji together. No. It went downhill from there. What did they expect? If you put two eighteen year olds together and dress them up as if they were eight they were going to revert to type.

They would meet at Benji’s house but instead of working on the project they had pretend wrestling matches all the time. Benji had an old book on origami and learnt how to make water bombs out of paper. Then, one day Alfie arrived with a new toy he had bought online. An old-fashioned catapult. It wasn’t one of those industrial-sized slingshots you can get to go hunting with. It was a silly wooden thing with a rubber band; like kids in comics used to have. Oh my, they encouraged one another, what mischief they could make with these.

The postman didn’t know what hit him when he strolled up the drive to deliver his letters. Benji and Alfie were hidden behind the chimney stack on the roof. Benji lobbed his water bomb. “Perfect hit,” he squealed with delight as the poor man’s neck was soaked.

The two naughty boys completely forgot about their schoolwork, they were having far too much fun. The catapult was put to good use terrorising the cats in the neighbourhood. The houses in The Avenue were mostly hidden behind walls and hedges and had large gardens. It was a paradise for cats. Or it had been until the deadly duo set about stalking them. One large brown moggy got a stone smack on the side of the head. “Ha! Ha! Ha!” Alfie was beside himself with glee.

But they hadn’t reckoned on one nosey neighbour. Alfie had never liked the man, he thought he was creepy and always looked at him oddly. He would like him even less now. For the man stood at his window camera phone in hand, gathering evidence.

Mr Thomas was furious when he was shown the video. “Grrr,” he said, shaking his fist. “You know what I think?” he asked Mr Naughton.

“No, what?” he replied because he really had no idea.

“I think they need to be spanked, that’s what I think,” he said, shaking his head this time.

“But they’re eighteen years old.”

“Well it’s about time they started acting like it, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Mr Naughton replied. “Yes, I really do.”

“Shall we, then?” Mr Thomas was pacing the room.

“Yes, let’s,” Mr Naughton’s mind was easily made up. “Call the scamps in.”

The boys had been playing catch with a small rubber ball in the lounge room when they heard their names called. Innocently, they followed the sound and found their fathers both stern faced in the room Mr Naughton liked to call his study.

“So,” Mr Thomas said gravely after he had related the boys’ mischievous behaviour, “You will both be spanked.” Benji and Alfie exchanged furtive glances but before either of them had time to say, “You cannot be serious,” their fathers had already arranged two chairs close together in the centre of the room. Within seconds they were seated.

“Come on you,” Mr Thomas scowled at Alfie, “If you insist on behaving like an eight-year-old that’s how you’ll be treated. Bend over my knee.” He slapped his hand on his right thigh to make his command crystal clear. Alfie caught Benji’s eye and suppressed a giggle. He shrugged his shoulders and took two paces across the room. He stood to the right of his seated father and looked down at the old man’s knees. He was still dressed in his business suit and for one stupid moment Alfie worried that he might spoil the sharp creases in his father’s trousers with his weight.

“I’m waiting,” Mr Thomas growled. This was Alfie’s cue to lean forward, place his hands on his father’s lap and gently to lower himself so he was face down and looking at the rug. Benjie stared transfixed and  watched as his pal wriggled his body until his head was as low as he could get it and his bottom pointed up at the ceiling over his father’s right thigh.

“You too,” Mr Naughton growled at Benji. The boy, almost on autopilot, followed his friend’s example. Now there were two eighteen year olds dressed in their school uniforms with grey short trousers and long socks submissively bent across the knees of their fathers waiting to receive their first-ever spankings.

They didn’t wait long. Mr Thomas struck the first blow and Mr Naughton soon followed. Within seconds and without speaking a word the two fathers were spanking in unison, each man slapping the left buttock of his son and then the right as they went about synchronised spanking. Benji and Alfie let them do it. They put up no resistance as slap after slap connected with the seat of their short trousers.

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To be fair, they were not being brave soldiers. Wearing thick trousers with underpants beneath meant they hardly felt a thing. Mr Naughton and Mr Thomas were not experienced spankers. They didn’t realise the palms of their hands were hurting much more than the boys’ bums. After about a hundred smacks had been delivered, Mr Thomas once again took the lead. He ordered Alfie to stand. Then Mr Naughton did the same with his son.

“Right now then, act your age in future,” Mr Thomas growled. “Now get back to your schoolwork.”

The two boys rushed from the room. When they were safely out of sight of their fathers they collapsed into fits of giggles. “Didn’t feel a thing,” said Alfie as he loosened his short trousers and pulled them down to show his friend his bare bottom, “Not a mark. Look. What about you?” Without a blush Benji did the same. “Nope,” he grinned, “Not even red.”

The boys wrestled each other to the ground and rolled around on the carpet. It was their way of saying they rather liked being naughty boys and had no intention of changing any time soon.

Picture credits: Unknown / Sting Pictures

Other stories you might like

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

Mr Gregory and the work experience boy

You, in the housemaster’s study

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Coffee shop memory

new story 2

z used twosome coffeeshop

I was in town the other day and it was freezing so I went into a coffeeshop to warm myself up with a hot chocolate. It’s not one of those horrible chain shops, this one’s just off the High Street and is a bit run down to be honest. It attracts a lot of young people, which I like. Some of them are quite sexy-looking and at my age unless you’re willing to pay for it looking is all you can do. Friends tell me its popular because they deal drugs there but I don’t know if that’s true.

It was the middle of the afternoon on a Wednesday and it wasn’t that busy. When I was settled at a table I noticed two lads who seemed to be having an argument in whispers. I don’t know them but I’d seen them in the shop a few times before. They were maybe twenty, perhaps a year younger. One, had a face on him like flint and the other who from where I sat looked a bit girly to tell the truth hid behind a long scarf that he kept wrapping around his mouth.

“I warned you. You know what will happen when we get back to the house,” the flint-faced one said. The other one buried his head in the scarf and the look in his eyes while not of terror was certainly of fear. Instinctively, I leaned forward to try to hear more of their conversation but no more was said. After a minute or so they left.

I knew exactly what would happen when they got home. The girly one would be across flint-faced’s knee with his jeans at the ankles and underwear at the knees getting his bare bum blistered with his boyfriend’s hairbrush. The look on girly’s face told me he was not looking forward to this.

I perused the front page of the Brocklehurst Bugle (and read that another train strike is looming) and finished my drink. As I walked home I thought about a time some decades ago when I was about the same age as those two. I was eighteen and had just left school. My mother who was divorced had remarried and I was no longer welcome at home. I wasn’t chucked out and there was no big row it was just that they wanted to be together. Naturally, I had no money and no way of getting the rent together for a place of my own so my brother let me stay with him.

His name is Jonathon but everybody calls him James for reasons I don’t recall (if indeed I ever knew). James was twenty-three at the time and had been to university and was doing well in his chosen career in a bank. I don’t know if he really wanted a kid like me under his feet at home, but the say blood is thicker than water, so perhaps he felt obliged.

Things got off to a bad start. Like all eighteen year olds across time I was lazy, self-centred, untidy and a lot of the time uncommunicative. I would spend hours sleeping late and when I was awake more often than not I’d stay in bed playing with myself. We didn’t have the Internet back then and a group of us would swop porno magazines. One called Whitehouse was very popular. I remember once by the time I got my turn it had several pages stuck together.

James did his best with me, but he had standards and I couldn’t meet them. One evening he brought a girl back and the place was like a pigsty with unwashed dishes all over the place and dirty clothes hanging on the furniture. All of them mine. The mess put the girl off and she left pretty quickly. That was the final straw for James; now it was my fault he wasn’t getting his leg over.

That brought things to a head. He laid down the law: do this; don’t do that. Get out find a job, start paying some rent. Have some self-respect. All I gave him in return was a pout, a sneer and a slammed door as I stormed off to my pit of a bed.

I don’t know how much thought James put into it but what he did later changed our relationship forever. The next day was Saturday, so there was no work for James. I could hear the Hoover going as he cleaned the house. I buried my head under the blankets and tried to get back to sleep. Some time later James burst into the room unannounced (thank god I wasn’t having a wank!) and told me to get up. My reply to him suggested sex and travel. “I’m warning you,” he threatened “I’ll be back in five minutes.”

I went back under the blankets. I didn’t keep time but before I knew about it the door flew open again and James loomed over me. He was about three inchers taller than me and broad at the shoulders. He was a keen rugby player and often turned out for a team at the bank. “What did I tell you?” he roared and without waiting for my answer he ripped the blankets and sheet off my body. I was stark naked and had no time to cover up my cock (which almost certainly was standing at half-mast) before James grabbed me by the hair and hauled me from the bed. Then, he dragged me across the room. My feet slipped on the old, thin carpet as he towed me with great force out of the bedroom, through the hallway and into the lounge.

I was effing and jeffing at him but he took no notice. He was a man on a mission; nothing was going to stop him now. The lounge was a small room dominated by a dining table. James had left one of its wooden chairs in the centre of the room. Before I even realised what was happening and still tugging my hair he sat himself down. He let go of my hair only long enough for him to take my wrist and heave me so I fell face down across his lap. I didn’t know then but I was to enjoy many close-up views of the loungeroom carpet before that summer was over.

I was no match for James’ strength. He held me tightly around the waist, reached over to the table where he had strategically left the brush that usually hung in the shower, and blistered my backside with it. I had a round, hard bottom in those days (photographs of me at the time don’t do it justice.) James took that brush which must have been twice the size of a hairbrush and three times as heavy and pounded it into my bum. He was like a man possessed (maybe it was not having sex with that girl that spurred him on). I hollered the flat down and called him all the names under the sun but he would not let up.

Have you ever been spanked with a bath brush? No, I don’t suppose you have: why should you? Let me tell you, the size of it and the weight and the speed with which James attacked my buttocks turned my cheeks at first red, then mauve and before he had finished the underside had started to turn blue.

The pain was awesome; I’d never experienced anything like it before. It started as a sharp sting when the first half dozen or so swats landed on different parts of my arse. Once James had covered the full circuit (as it were) he landed that brush on parts that were already smarting. They set off a new wave of throbbing and by now I was twisting and turning over James’ lap. My legs must have been flailing around as well. The ache in my bum travelled up and down my legs and then north-south, east-west across my entire body. I howled so loudly my mouth drained of spit.

I was shrieking with indignation. It is true the spanking hurt like billy-oh, but I was an eighteen-year-old adult and quite tough. I was wailing at the indignity of being completely naked and across the knees off my elder brother while he spanked my bare bottom with a bath brush like I was eight or something.

At last he let off; he had nowhere else to go, every square inch of flesh was scorched. My bum felt like it had swollen to twice its natural size. I wrapped my buttocks with the palms of my hands and the heat I felt could have warmed a small room. My cock bounced up and down in front of James’ face as I tried to rub away the pain. My humiliation was complete and I ran from the room.

James spanked me a number of times that summer. I hated it each and every time. I don’t think it improved my behaviour. I didn’t really grow up and develop self-respect until my mid-twenties when, like James, I had embarked on a successful career. I have no interest in spanking as a fetish and nor I believe does James. He genuinely thought it would improve my behaviour. I dimly remember when we were kids James went off the rails a bit and he was spanked once or twice by an uncle (a real one, my mother’s brother) and maybe that taught him a lesson. I never spanked any of my own children (or nephews for that matter) and It wouldn’t have occurred to me to do so.

Perhaps spanking works for some people. I wonder about the two in the coffeeshop. I’ll have to drop in again tomorrow to see if girly’s attitude has improved.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

Coffee morning

The morning after

Neighbourhood Watch Vigilantes

 

 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A night on the tiles

new story 2

z used dinner jacket mirror posh by Leyendecker (1)

“When Mr Winston comes in send him immediately to my study.”

The words were spoken imperiously by an elderly gentlemen with a sharp, deeply-lined face, and narrow slit eyes. Robbins, the butler, knew from his master’s tone that Mr Winston Cardew had in some way violated his father’s authority. With a sedate, “Yes, sir,” Robbins retreated feeling a sense of benign pity for the breezy blue-eyed youth – the only son of the bookworm and recluse.

“Wonder what Mr Winston has been up to now,” Robbins remarked to his fellow servants. “The master looks black as thunder this afternoon.”

Upstairs, Mr Cardew gazed unseeingly upon the open page of the book before him. His anger was all-consuming. He remembered his sweet-voiced, dearly loved but now departed wife. How she used to say, “Don’t be hard on little Winston.” Bah! Now “Little Winston” was no longer so small. He was nineteen-years-old, not yet legally an adult, but he was acting as though he were. He was without doubt off the rails. He needed to be reined in. Mr Cardew knew exactly what Little Winston needed.

He had expected such great things from his son. Instead, he only had misery and heartache. He sent his son to the best schools money could buy, but he was expelled from them all. He had no interest in studying. At each opportunity he would absent himself from the dormitory and go carousing. From an extraordinarily young age he spent more time in the alehouses and billiard rooms than in his study. His schoolwork suffered and he failed his examinations. It had been a dashed hard thing to find him gainful employment since. Mr Cardew had called in some favours among former business acquaintances to secure the boy a position.

As he pondered these things the door to his study opened unceremoniously. A tall young man with fair hair, greased and styled in the latest fashion stood before him. Winston was dressed in a tailcoat and striped trousers. His stiff collar was a little askew and his tie loose. The boy clearly had only now returned from some social event or other, a little the worse for wear. Mr Cardew knew his son to be vain about his appearance. He would spend hours in front of the mirror before leaving the mansion to descend on London. Winston would admire his reflection in every window he passed along the journey.

“Oh! So you’ve come at last,” Mr Cardew growled, closing his book with a heavy slam and tapping it irritably with his fingers.

“Yes,” the boy responded calmly, “I did not know you wanted me till Robbins gave me your message or I should have been a little sooner.”

Mr Cardew made a snarling sound, “Hum!,” he said, “You think because I don’t go out and about in the world that I sit at home hearing and seeing nothing. Allow me to tell you sir, that in this you are mistaken. I do see and I do hear – I am neither deaf nor blind – and rumour carries fast, evil rumour especially. Now explain, if you can, why you violate my expressed wishes and associate with low-born actresses – women of the stage?”

Winston flushed deeply, “Really, I don’t understand you,” he exclaimed. In his mind he recalled events over the past week. Which of these had his father heard? Women of the stage? Winston was genuinely perplexed.

“Well,” his father continued relentlessly, “Can you deny that yesterday afternoon you were seen escorting a certain Miss Fox from the theatre at which she is playing after the afternoon matinee?”

Winston’s blue eyes glazed. Miss Fox. It was only about Miss Fox. “She is not low-born,” he stuttered. “She is a friend of mine.”

“Oh! I know the sort of friend!” sneered Mr Cardew. “I know the way of the world. When young men make friends with such women they generally end___” he spluttered and left the final words unsaid. Mr Cardew glared through his spectacles at his son. He struck the desk with his fist violently. “I’ll stand no nonsense. I have repeatedly told you so.” When his temper was thoroughly roused argument became useless. Winston was forbidden to speak in his own defence.

“I have warned you of the consequences of your own behaviour. Repeatedly. Mark my words sir I’ll stand no nonsense. I will cut you off without a shilling, you shall be no son of mine.”

Winston’s attempt at protest was overruled. “I shall give you one last chance,” Mr Cardew’s eyes blazed, his face attained a red flush. “I intend to thrash you most severely.” He spoke hurriedly, “You have consistently and wilfully disobeyed me. If you do so again you will be asked to leave the house, never to return.”

Winston stood still. It would do no use to complain that at nineteen he was too old to be beaten. When his father sat on the local magistrates’ bench he sentenced men far older than Winston to cuts of the birch. Also, he did not want to prolong this conversation with his father, too many secrets might be revealed. His heart raced as he watched his father make his way across the study. Winston knew his father’s destination. In one corner of the study, alongside a magnificent glass-fronted bookcase stood a narrow, tall mahogany cabinet. His father fumbled with its door, opened it and reached in. A familiar rattling noise echoed from within. Winston took a deep breath.

His father held a splendid ashplant cane. It was about three feet long and as thick as his little finger. A curved handle had been shaped at one end and its entire length had been expertly smoothed. Mr Walker from the village had made it. He supplied local schools and many more fathers in the district. Winston knew his own father had quite a collection hidden in the cabinet.

Mr Cardew tucked the cane under his arm and faced his son. “We should not delay. You know how to prepare yourself. Indeed Winston did. A boy with his scholastic record was very used to presenting his rear end to a headmaster’s cane. Also, his father was no stranger to his son’s bared buttocks.

With steady hands Winston unbuttoned his tail coat and slipped it from his shoulders. He glanced around the study unsure where he should leave it. It was a large room with several armchairs and a large horsehair sofa as well as his father’s magnificent desk and two smaller occasional tables.

“Place it there,” Mr Cardew said brusquely, nodding his head towards a small walnut table. Winston did so. “Now stand there.” Another nod directed the boy to his father’s desk. Winston shuffled forward and stood three feet away. He placed his hands behind his back and with head bowed slightly, he awaited further instructions. “Too far away!” his father barked. “Stand closer.” Once positioned to his father’s satisfaction Winston heard the words that are designed to make a young scoundrel’s blood freeze. “Bare your but-tocks.” Mr Cardew placed great emphasis on the final word.

Winston had bared his buttocks many times but no matter how experienced he had become in such a matter, he still found the act of disrobing in front of a master profoundly embarrassing. To do so before his father was especially humiliating. Nonetheless, Winston was aware he had no choice. His father must have his way. He must accept a thrashing. He had little doubt that the punishment would not make him mend his ways. His future conduct would not change; could not change. His father did not know the full extent of Winston’s behaviour.

With an unsteady heart and shaking hands, Winston released the braces on his dress trousers. They immediately fell with a thud to his feet, revealing that the boy was wearing the most fashionable woollen drawers. His father sneered at the sight. The young were going to Hell in a handcart! Winston gripped the tops of the drawers and turning his back on his father, he eased them down his thighs. They snagged at his knees and he left them there. He felt a sharp slap from the cane across his now naked flanks, “Bend over the desk, bend over,” his father sounded both impatient and exasperated.

Winston took one more deep breath and with some expertise born of experience in one flowing movement he stretched forward, lay his stomach and chest flat on the huge desk and reached forward with his arms and clutched its far edge. His bared buttocks rested at an angle over the nearside edge. He opened his legs slightly and wriggled so that his Manhood did not press into the desk. In this position he offered his father a splendid target for his cane. He then closed his eyes tightly and in his imagination he conjured up memories of joyful scenes from the previous days.

The first stroke brought him back to reality. The cane sliced across his buttocks at an angle. Winston heard a swooshing sound and a dull thud as it struck his stretched cheeks. There was a delay of six or seven seconds (there always is in such circumstances) before he felt the agony. It was as if his father had pressed a red-hot poker from the fire across his bottom. Winston bit deeply into his bottom lip. It suppressed any yelp, but he could not stop the trembling in his body. His shoulders shuddered and his waist twisted.

His father waited for the boy to settle. He knew that it would take several seconds for the impact of the stroke to travel fully through Winston’s body. Only then would he lay on the next cut. This one higher, across the top of Winston’s quivering bottom. A dark welt immediately raised where the cane fell. It was raw and sent a wave of tremendous throbbing through Winston’s backside.

Mr Cardew was not a cruel man, but he was exasperated. His son had consistently disobeyed him. He had always been lazy and unreliable but now he brought the family name into disrepute. He did not want to disown the boy; he truly wanted him reformed. A thrashing might do that. It was, he believed fervently, his duty to get Winston back on a straight-and-narrow path to decency. He swiped and he slashed the cane. After eight cuts the lines across Winston’s once white, but now red-raw, buttocks resembled a map of a railway junction. The boy’s face was almost as scarlet as his backside.

Winston very nearly bit off his tongue in an effort to stifle yells. He wanted to, he wanted to express the agony he was feeling. It was a physical emotion. Any person suffering so much pain would want to howl like a banshee. But, he was an English gentleman’s son, he was raised to suffer stoically.

Mr Cardew raised the cane high again and jumping a little from the floor slashed a swipe into Winston’s posterior. He waited for the impact of that to subside before taking three steps backwards, raising the cane high above his shoulder and rushing in at Winston, swishing the most almighty slash into his backside.

At last it was over, Mr Cardew, his whole body shaking threw the ashplant onto the sofa and panting for breath he slumped into an armchair. From this vantage point he surveyed Winston’s bare buttocks. Thick red welts criss-crossed the cheeks, it looked from a distance that some might be weeping blood. The boy himself was in some distress, but he hid it well and Mr Cardew admired him for that. His breathing was harsh and irregular. His knuckles were white as he continued to grip the edge of the desk. The back of his neck was moist with perspiration.

“You had better stand,” Mr Cardew’s voice croaked. Slowly, and obviously in agony, Winston slid his body backwards across the smooth top of the desk. He planted his feet firmly on the ground and using his hands as support he rose. He had to grip the desk to stop from toppling to the floor. He took several deep breaths, trying to gain full control of his body once more. The pain was intense. It felt like he had been forced to sit in a pan of boiling water. He desperately wanted to knead his savaged cheeks, to try to rub away the pain. This, of course, was not permitted. A chap never did this in front of his punisher. He had to pretend he was not at all hurt.

After at least a minute, Winston felt able to gingerly reach down for his woollen drawers. He pulled them up wincing as the soft material connected with his wounds. This sent a new shockwave through his body and he bent forward almost double to absorb it. Then, slowly, with every small movement reigniting the pain, he took hold of his fine, fancy trousers and returned them to their rightful place. He stood, his backside burning, his head pounding, his throat raw and his temples throbbing. As he took the few steps across the study to retrieve his coat it felt as if his bottom was being stabbed with sharp knives.

He climbed into his coat. He headed towards the study door. “Aren’t you forgetting something,” his father’s voice was clear and calm. Winston stopped and turned. His father was on his feet again, his own composure seemingly fully recovered.

Winston winced, “Thank you, sir,” he grimaced through gritted teeth and offered his hand for his father to shake.

Moments later in his room, face down on the bed and his head buried in a pillow, Winston cried like a baby. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sit comfortably for a week. The cuts and bruises would last much longer. Oh what was he to do? How would he explain this to his friends? What life could he live henceforth?

What would his father do when he learns his liaison with Miss Fox the actress was nothing but a ruse. The true love of his life was Tommy Alsop, the stagehand at the Majestic Theatre.

 

Picture Credit:  J C (Joseph Christian) Leyendecker

 

Inspired by the opening paragraphs of ‘The Fairy With the Grey Beard’ by Winifred Graham. The Strand Magazine, June 1900.

Other stories you might like

Two cousins in need of spanking

Trousers down. Over my knee

Portrait of an artist

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The ritual

new story 2

z used otk pyjamas chair sting (20)

You sit on the edge of your bed and wait. You are very calm, you know exactly what’s about to happen. You are wearing your blue-and-white-striped pyjamas. Usually, you sleep naked, but this time the jim-jams are not for sleeping in. The room is cool although it is the middle of summer. Minutes pass; you don’t mind, you are in no hurry.

There is a knock on the door, you call out “Yeah!” it opens slightly and you see the face of your twenty-year-old brother. It is flushed and you see perspiration along his hairline. “Your turn, good luck,” he says without emotion and disappears to his own room. You take a deep breath and rise from the bed. As you take the few steps towards the door your pyjama bottoms slip down over your hips. You grab them and take a few seconds to retie the drawstring. Satisfied they won’t plunge to your feet you cross the landing and pad down the stairs.

You know your father will be waiting in the lounge room. You live in a large house and there are any number of other rooms, but without being told you know where to go. Father is waiting. He sits on a wooden chair that he has placed in the centre of the room. He nods his head slightly as a kind of greeting as you enter the room. Even today a lifetime after the event you always picture father the same way. He wears dark grey trousers (part of a business suit). They are held up by both a leather belt and braces. He has a white shirt and a tightly fastened necktie. The shirt is buttoned to the top. That’s your father: buttoned up. You cannot recall ever seeing him dressed for leisure.

He speaks to you and you listen. You don’t expect him to interrogate you, he simply states the facts. They are that you, your brother and two pals were spotted drinking in the Three Fishers pub. You know father forbids you to drink alcohol. It is one of his many rules: there is, of course, no smoking and also no going with girls into Widdicombe Woods. In those days no fathers thought about drugs. There are also rules about attendance at church and doing chores about the house.

The Three Fishers is a dive of a pub, tucked away off the main street of town. It is notorious for serving under-aged drinkers and for much else. Bohemians hang out there, and so do prostitutes both male and female. A neighbour spotted you and told your father.

You are unconcerned. You break father’s rules all the time. Sometimes you get caught; often you don’t. You know the penalty. It is what it is. Once father finishes his speech, the ritual begins in earnest. It is always the same, nothing changes. That’s what makes it a ritual. This is not the first time you have been here and in all probability it won’t be the last, even though you are fast approaching your nineteenth birthday.

“Stand there,” father points to a spot on the carpet a little to his right. You do as you are told. “Lower your pyjama bottoms,” father speaks slowly and clearly pronounces each word. There is no need for him to show anger or any other emotion, he knows you will obey his instructions. Without question. Your hands are steady and you untie the drawstring on your pyjama bottoms. They fall with a swoosh to your feet (rather like clown’s trousers). You feel no embarrassment standing half-naked in front of your father; he has seen it all before.

You look down at your father’s lap. He spreads his legs slightly to give you a platform to lower yourself across. You know the ritual is that you bend over his knees and place the palms of your hands flat against the floor. You bend your knees behind you so that your toes hover above the ground. Your bared bottom is raised at an angle over your father’s thigh. It is perfectly positioned for the spanking you are about to receive.

You wait patiently for the next stage of the ritual. You don’t think it unusual that an eighteen-year-old is bent across his father’s knee for a spanking. It is just the way things are. Father always punishes you like this. Not all fathers are the same. Your pal across the road will be bending over the back of an armchair, trousers at his feet, underpants at the knees while his father lashes a dozen hard strokes of a whippy, curved-handled rattan school cane into his naked buttocks. That’s his way. Your friend down the street will be holding onto the seat of a wooden dining room chair his arse also bare to the wind while his father whips him with a leather riding crop. That’s a small hard whip people use to encourage horses along. Horses. His father knows nothing about horses, he hasn’t even seen one since the coal merchant started using lorries.

Your own father has taken the tail of your pyjama jacket and pulled it half way up your back. This ensures that it is well away from the target area. You wait patiently. You stare down at the ugly copper-coloured pattern in the carpet inches from your face. Now father is running the palm of his right hand over your left buttock. He gently traces its outline, patting and preening. He pauses when he reaches the highest point of the globe and gives it a gentle slap. Then he does the same with the other cheek. You know that by now he is ready to go.

The spanks rain down. They are hard and rapid. The sound of the slap of his hand on your bare bum echoes around the room. Inside a minute he has delivered forty or fifty whacks; he goes that fast. It stings, but you are not in great pain. No matter how hard or how quickly father spanks you with the palm of his hand it hardly hurts. You are after all eighteen and strong. Does father realise this? You feel obliged to give some reaction. It’s what your brother calls, “Making show.” You gasp as the harder slaps connect across the peaks of your mounds. You wriggle your neck in mock pain when father’s hand connects with the backs of your thighs. That actually does hurt, but really not much.

You feel your bottom warming up. The buttocks tingle and the thighs sting. You settle down and wait patiently. You cannot see it but you know your bum is now deep pink; father will spank on until it’s the colour of a tomato.

At last he achieves his aim. There is one final part of the ritual. He stops spanking and intones, “Stand up.” You rest your hands on his left knee and haul yourself to your feet. You turn your back on father and rub the palms of your hands ruefully across your buttocks and hop from one foot to the other. Your brother will be impressed by your playacting. Now, you bend down and retrieve the pyjama bottoms from your ankles, pull them up and tie the drawstring.

Father sends you back to your bedroom with words designed to encourage you in your future behaviour. Your brother is waiting for you on the landing, you both going into his bedroom and examine each other’s marks, such as they are. Already, in your mind you are planning your next visit to the Three Fishers.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The party’s over

new story 2

z used belt twosome pants couch sting 2

Dick and Dave were sure they were in the clear. Dominic would never find out. They had covered their tracks well. It was A Result. But, they hadn’t reckoned on a nosey neighbour.

Dominic was going away to an important conference in Paris; his son Dave and nephew Dick were eighteen; he thought surely they were old enough to behave responsibly while he was gone. Then, he saw an old movie on television. It put doubts in his mind. It was Risky Business the early Tom Cruise one where he dances around in his tighty-whities. While his parents are away he holds a party and before you know it the house is turned into a brothel. A priceless glass object gets damaged along the way.

“If it had been me I’d have had that Tom Cruise over the back of the couch,” the man from across the road told Dominic, “And I’d have paddled his backside until it glowed in the dark. After first taking down those underpants.” There was no answer to that so Dominic didn’t even try.

It put him in a bad mood. What if the kids did have a party and it got out of hand? Dominic thought he had found the answer. He called Dick and Dave together and clearly in words of one syllable he ordered, “No parties while I’m away. No guests. No nothing.” That was settled: they knew the rules.

Teenagers being teenagers the words went in one ear and out the other. The lads had already made plans before Dominic spoke. The party was swell. Lots of people turned up and there was booze and drugs. Dave got laid. Dick didn’t; he was beginning to realise he didn’t much like girls. He still had to come to terms with that. No drinks were spilt; no priceless objects were damaged and no carpets were burnt with cigarettes. After the vacuum cleaner had done its work, no one would have known the party had happened.

Except the man across the street. The Avenue is a long road of mostly detached houses. Dominic’s was sheltered from the road by a wall and a gate. That didn’t stop the man. His lace curtains twitched the whole time Dominic was away and his camera phone was never far from his hand.

Dave never much liked the man. He thought he was a bit creepy and always looked at him oddly. He wasn’t the least surprised when his dad told him the man had split on him and Dick. “I am very disappointed in the pair of you,” Dominic said. He was too. It was bad enough that they had a party but they had defied his explicit instructions. He could never allow defiance; the world would go to Hell in a handcart if he did.

“I told you no parties and you defied me,” he said as he unbuckled his belt. If Dick and Dave had any doubts about his intentions they vanished when he pulled the belt through the loops on his trousers with a flourish. The belt made a terrific THWAP sound. Dick’s eyes popped on stalks, “B.. we’re too old to be spanked,” he stuttered. Inwardly Dave cursed his cousin, “Don’t say that, it’ll only encourage him to wallop us even harder.”

Dominic grunted. He was a man used to giving orders. He expected them to be obeyed – without question. His business empire was built on this. He spoke quietly and clearly, “What I want you two to do is take off your jeans and kneel on that sofa and bend over the back of it.” He waved the leather belt at a small two-seater couch in case there was any doubt what he meant.

“B …” Dick tried to speak but the fierce glare in Dominic’s hazel eyes stopped him dead. Dave, no stranger to his dad’s belt was already unfastening his jeans. “You too,” Dominic pointed at Dick, “Get on with it.”

Dick’s face coloured bright red. How could this be happening? He was eighteen years old, a student at a top university and here he was being made to take off his jeans so his uncle could spank his bottom with a belt. A sudden thought gripped him, “Please God don’t make me take down my pants!” By now, Dave had slipped his jeans over his feet and laid them neatly on a coffee table. He stood without obvious embarrassment in t-shirt and boxer shorts and waited for his cousin to catch up.

Dick eyed Dave; noticing the bulge in the front of his boxers. Dave gave him a half-smile by way of encouragement. He wanted this over as quickly as possible. Dick responded by pulling the zipper of his jeans. He couldn’t easily control his hands but at last he had the jeans down and over his feet. He dropped them untidily alongside Dave’s on the table.

“Get over the sofa,” Dominic folded his belt as he spoke. In response to Dick’s puzzled look, he said, “Watch Dave, he’ll show you how to do it.” Dave turned to face the sofa and climbed on the seat one knee at a time. Once settle he leaned over its back so that his face was staring down at the carpet. In this way his head was low and his bottom high. It made a very good target for Dominic’s belt. Dick watched in awe. Until then he hadn’t realised how firm and round his cousin’s bum was. His navy-blue boxers fitted him snugly and contrasted with his smooth, almost hairless legs.

His own pale-blue boxers didn’t fit him half as well; it served him right for buying cheap ones at Primark. His hands had stopped shaking so much and he placed them on the back of the sofa to steady himself as he copied his cousin’s position. The two eighteen-year-olds were now side by side over the back of the couch, their heads so close together Dick could smell the beer on Dave’s breath. He turned his head slightly to look closely at his cousin, he seemed perfectly calm. How many times had Dave been over this sofa, he wondered.

He felt Uncle Dominic take hold of his t-shirt and move it up his back. A slight breeze from an open window flowed over his naked flesh. He felt his uncle move and realised he was doing the same with Dave’s shirt. He closed his eyes. Unlike Dave he had never been spanked before. Not once; not even as a very small kid. He felt his buttocks tense as Uncle Dominic touched his belt across the middle of his left cheek. He was getting his aim.

Dominic paused, he wasn’t quite ready. “Bottoms a little higher please, jut them out more.” He knew having a lad kneel like this was by far the best posture for punishment. It curved the buttocks and exposed more flesh for the belt so it could make contact with large areas. It was most effective when he stood near the boy’s head and brought the strap down from over his shoulder. This way he achieved considerable movement so the strikes of the leather were fearsome and the long belt connected with the bum and thighs with every stroke.

It was embarrassing enough to be aged eighteen and spanked for the first time but getting it alongside your cousin was too much. Dick thought he would die after he let out an almighty squeal as the strap connected with his lower bottom and thigh. By contrast, Dave took each lash without fuss. In no time both lads’ bottoms were a mass of welts: Dominic was some expert with the belt. “Keep that bottom still,” he chided Dick whose buttocks bounced up and down and his waist slew from side to side. Dave stared down at the carpet concentrating on a small dark stain and thinking maybe after all they hadn’t cleaned up so well after the party.

Dominic leathered each boy in turn: one for Dick, one for Dave and then back to Dick. And so it went on, leather rising and pounding into buttocks, again and again and again. Dick could not see this but beneath the cotton boxers his bum first turned deep pink and then various shades of yellow and orange until it was deep crimson. He sucked in great gulps of air and shut his teeth as the pain intensified. It was a warm afternoon and soon Dominic’s face was drenched in sweat but he was strong as an ox, he felt he could go on all day. Dominic believed in punishment, deep in his soul he was a man of God.

A dull pain had long since transformed into an almighty throb only to become an agonisingly searing pain across the whole of Dick’s bottom area. He had no power to resist and knelt face-down staring at the floor. Tears washed the backs of his eyes and soon they trickled down his cheeks.

Dave held back his tears but his bum felt like he had been forced to sit in a bath of scolding water. His temples throbbed and his heart was pounding.

Dominic was not a cruel man but he believed in retribution and punishment. He would make the two eighteen year olds suffer for disobeying him. He whipped another two dozen lashes across the four buttock cheeks presented submissively to him. That was enough. Dominic was certain he had made his point.

The two lads crawled off the sofa and stood unsteadily. “Get dressed,” Dominic ordered and watched Dick and Dave struggle into their jeans. Pain was etched on their faces. He congratulated himself on a job well done. “Go to your rooms.” Dominic watched Dick and Dave hobble out the door all three of them unaware of a shadow stretching across the window blinds as the man from across the street pocketed his camera phone and tiptoed down the path towards the gate.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

We need to talk about Jake

new story 2

zused otk paddle jake story spankingstraightboysdotcom

Wayne and Sharon Grimethorpe were watching Newsnight on television in the front room of their terraced house in Brocklehurst. “Jake’s late again,” Sharon said to her husband. He didn’t hear her. He was too engrossed in an item about the birching of juvenile delinquents at the new Short, Sharp Shock detention centres. They were going to put them on YouTube to prove to taxpayers they were getting value for money.

Sharon sighed, “I said Jake’s late again. That’s the third time this month.”

“Fourth, actually,” Wayne was paying attention now. Newsnight had moved on to an item about budget cuts for regional theatres.

“Well, you know what you’ll have to do when he comes in. He knows what time curfew is.”

“Yes, I know,” Wayne hesitated and then said, “It’s not like it’s the first time.”

“No,” Sharon said with great irritation, “It’s not. You know you’ll have to spank him when he gets in don’t you.”

“Yes, I know. The paddle’s in the drawer.”

Jake was their twenty-year-old son.

They watched the television some more. Wayne had a question he wanted to ask his wife. A difficult question. Probably an embarrassing question. He didn’t know how to ask it. They didn’t talk much. Not to each other. They never had really. Wayne wriggled his buttocks on the sofa; movement hid his embarrassment.

“Yes,” he said. “He knows he has to be home by half-ten. That’s the curfew. If he’s late he gets spanked. That’s the rule.” Sharon stretched her legs. Why was her husband telling her things she already knew? “So?” she didn’t try to hide her annoyance.

Wayne cowered. “Well, it’s just …” He couldn’t find the words to finish his sentence. The silence was far from comfortable. Sharon glowered, “What is it! Tell me what you want to say.” Wayne knew he was blushing, deep to his roots. Inwardly, he cursed himself for bringing up the subject.

“This spanking lark,” he said. “Does it work?” He turned his head to avoid his wife’s glare. “I mean four times this month.”

“Maybe you’re not doing it properly,” she retorted. She thought Wayne was a wimp. He should wallop Jake properly, that’d put an end to it. Wayne’s mouth opened and closed but no words came. That’s unfair, he thought. He had watched several of the instructional videos online. They were very explicit. He had purchased a heavy, square wooden paddle. One of the authorised ones stamped with the approval of the Department of Juvenile Corrections.

“What does Mike from across the road do?” his wife did not intend to stay silent on the matter.

“He got one of those tawses,” Wayne felt more confident when talking about other people. “You know those leather things with the two tails. He’s hung it on a hook in the passage. It’s the first thing you see when you go in the house.”

“And does he use it?” his wife was determined to find fault in her husband. “Does he spank David four times a month?”

“No, he says he’s never had to use it. David’s as good as gold.”

“Well bully for him,” Sharon snorted. She envied her colleagues at work and the neighbours who had no discipline trouble with their kids, even the older ones. They knew how to control them, not like her poor excuse for a husband.

“Maybe you need to be more assertive. Whack Jake a bit harder or something,” she peered across the tiny room at her husband.

Wayne frowned. Why couldn’t he pluck up the courage to tell her what he was thinking? “I do everything I’m supposed to,” he said defensively. “Like they say in the videos. You’ve seen them,” he added trying to get his wife to share some of the blame for their failure. “I tell him what he’s done wrong. Then I send him upstairs to change into his pyjamas. When he comes down again I tell him to bend over my knee. Then, I whack him on the you-know-where with the paddle. Hard,” his eyes narrowed as if he were concentrating, “Very hard. Lots of times.” He sighed, “What more am I supposed to do?”

His wife picked up the remote control and flicked through channels: two-hundred-and-seventy-five and nothing worth watching. “Well,” she said, “It’s not doing much good is it?”

At that moment they heard the sound of a key in the front door. “He’s here at last,” Sharon threw the remote onto the settee and stood up. “I’ll leave you to it,” she said leaving the room. Wayne heard her voice in the passage, “Late again! Your father’s waiting for you.”

Wayne scratched his head and rose from his chair, “What time do you call this?” he growled as his son entered the room. The boy shrugged his shoulders, peered across the room at a clock and replied, “Eleven-fifteen.”

“Don’t get smart with me, you know what I mean.”

Jake, stood unconcerned. He was late. He’d missed curfew. There was no mystery about what would happen next. He had seen it all before.

“You missed curfew,” his father said, stating the obvious. Jake stood watching his father’s complexion gradually darken. Jake thought Dad was no great intellectual; he rarely had much of interest to say. Tonight would be no different. Or, so he supposed.

Wayne was flustered. How he wished he had asked his wife that burning question. He told his son something else he already knew, “That’s four times this month.” It didn’t occur to Wayne to ask where the boy had been. Who was he with? What were they doing?

“Sorry, Dad,” Jake told his father, but the tone of his voice suggested otherwise. He had been late that evening, he would be late again. Sorry had nothing to do with it.

Wayne was flustered, he stood hopping from one foot to another, gripped by indecision. What was he to do about Jake?

“Dad, shall I go upstairs and get changed into my pyjamas?”

Wayne’s jaw dropped. His heart missed a beat with fear. The nerve of the boy. Who did he think he was? What did he think he was doing? There were so many questions and Wayne had none of the answers.

“No!” Wayne said with more authority than he actually felt. “No. Not this time. Just stay where you are.”

Jake hid his puzzlement well. What was going on? Dad always had his routine. Get changed into pyjamas, come downstairs, bend over his knee. Get a sound paddling. It was always like that. He watched as his father moved to a sideboard and opened a drawer. Jake relaxed. He knew what was happening now. Dad was going for the paddle. They were back on track.

It was a small paddle, it had been especially designed and endorsed by the Department of Juvenile Corrections to be used at close quarters. It was no bigger than a table tennis bat and about three centimetres thick. It was constructed of hard wood with a small handle at one end. It was recommended for over-the-knee spankings. Jake could testified to its effectiveness.

Wayne gripped the paddle tightly and brandished it at his son. He had an idea. There would be change tonight. He would do things differently. He needed an answer to his question. Please God! he thought, let it be the right one.

Jake’s eyes followed the paddle. Sweat moistened his brow and his round, open face flushed. He always went like this when Dad was getting ready to spank him. Dad picked up a small chair and plonked it down in a space by the window. This confirmed to Jake that a spanking was imminent.

“No pyjamas this time,” Dad croaked. His mouth was dry so he poked his tongue out and ran the tip around his lips. It didn’t do much good. Jake had also gone dry. That usually happened, he wasn’t worried. Dad sat on the chair. It looked like Dad was ready for business. “Take down your trousers.”

Jake’s eyes glistened. Take down my trousers. His heart skipped a beat. This wasn’t how it usually went. What was Dad up to? “B-b-but,” he started a protest but Dad cut him short. “Just get on with it. It’s late we should both be in bed.”

Jake was surprised how much his hand shook as he undid his belt. He was entering unchartered territory. Dad was a creature of habit. This wasn’t how he spanked. What was different this time? Why had he changed?

With the belt loosened, Jake popped the button on the waist of his jeans, pulled the zipper and with his hands helped them fall to his knees. Then he placed the hands in front of his crutch. His boxers were tight and he was afraid Dad might see the outline of his cock and balls.

“Bend over my knee,” it was not a confident command. Wayne’s question had still to be answered. Jake shuffled a step and stood to his Dad’s right. He had been here before, he knew the drill. He was back on familiar territory. He gauged the distance between himself and Dad’s knees and slowly lowered himself down. He used Dad’s thighs as a ledge to hold on to as he manoeuvred himself into position. As was his custom he placed the palms of his hands flat against the floor and kept his knees straight behind him. Doing this left his bottom pointing up at an angle and his crotch pressing into Dad’s thigh.

Jake was about the same height as his Dad and suited the over-the-knee position. His bottom made a terrific target for Dad’s paddle. The bum itself was round and fleshy. Like so many boys of his age Jake could benefit from time in the gym. Jake felt his Dad’s arm take him around the waist and his body tensed. Soon he would feel the paddle caress the peaks of his mounds as Dad found his aim. Then the first whack would burn into his buttocks. Jake closed his eyes.

That’s how it always was. That’s how his Dad spanked him. Not this time. Dad rested the paddle on Jake’s back. Jake’s eyes opened. What was this? Dad had taken hold of the waistband of the pants. “Nooooo! Dad,” Jake wailed. It was an involuntary act. He hadn’t planned to protest. “Be quiet!” Dad scolded as he tugged the thin cotton shorts over Jake’s plump behind. “There: let the dog see the rabbit.” He left the underwear bunched at Jake’s thighs.

“No!!!” the twenty-year-old repeated the protest to no avail. The paddle pounded first his left cheek, then the right. Jake’s buttocks clenched tight as the burning began. The paddle flew across the naked bottom at great speed and Dad pulverised his son. In no time its outline was embossed as deep-pink rectangles across the whole target area.

Jake wailed. It was the surprise of it all as much as the pain. Dad always spanked with vitality; that’s what the instructional videos said to do. It’s punishment. Make it hurt, that’s the point. Deter them from future misbehaviour. The bare-bottomed paddling hurt – a lot! – but not much more than it did when applied across the thin cottoned seat of his pyjamas. Jake realised he was frightened (close to real terror) of being naked from the waist down in front of his Dad. Oh the humiliation!

This was a first for Dad as well. He had never seen at close hand the effects of the paddle. The scorched flesh and the vivid welts caused by its edge were intense. He admired the way the paddle sank into the flesh on Jake’s bottom. And the way it wobbled as he withdrew it to lift it high so he could crash it down again. The video instructor would be proud of him.

He whacked another half dozen swats. There wasn’t a square-centimetre that didn’t throb red hot. Jake (as he always did) lay across his knee, almost impassively. His eyes were closed tight, his mouth opened from time to time to allow air to hiss through his lips. The spanking hurt, Dad was certain of that but Jake seemed to have a high pain threshold.

But now the teenager was wriggling and writhing across his knee. His body was heaving up and down. Jake covered his face with his hands. Was he crying? If so, it would be the first time. “No. No.” Jake was moaning softly. “Noooooo.”

Dad stopped paddling with a jolt. A warm gooey liquid was spreading across his thigh. “What the ….!” He exclaimed and with great dread released the grip on his son’s waist. Jake took his chance. He scrambled off Dad’s knee, jerked his pants back to their rightful place and with jeans still at his ankles he stumbled from the room.

Wayne sat still. Exhausted. His heart beat so fast he felt blood rush to his ears. The liquid soaking his own jeans was starting to solidify. The stench was appalling. Then he realised. He jumped from the chair and skipped from foot to foot as if in some way that would clean his trousers. He felt sick. He bent double as vomit flew to the back of his throat. He needed the toilet. Too late, no time. Instead he bounced off the walls and into the kitchen. He leaned across the sink and retched up the contents of his stomach.

Minutes later after he had peeled off his jeans and stuffed them in the washing machine he opened the fridge and found a beer. He needed something stronger, but this would have to do. He downed half a bottle in one swig. He felt no better. What was he to do? What should he tell his wife? What did the future hold? There were so many more questions to ask now that he knew the answer to why spankings did not improve Jake’s behaviour.

 

 

Picture credit: spanking straight boys dot com

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Uncle Dwight has a ‘little word’

new story 2

I stood up and then I sat down again. I fidgeted for a few moments and then I stood up. I paced across the tiny room. It took no more then five steps. I turned, looked at the clock on the mantlepiece. He was late. I peered out of the window. The sun hadn’t yet gone down. It was a little after seven. It was early summer. It wouldn’t get dark for three more hours at least. I wanted him to hurry up. I promised to meet my mates in the pub at eight.

I paced back to the armchair and sat down. I looked at my watch. It was hardly a minute since I had last checked the time. I fidgeted some more. I picked up the Brocklehurst Bugle. With intense irritation I turned the pages. There was nothing worth reading. There never was. Nothing ever happened in Brocklehurst. I couldn’t wait to get away. I wouldn’t have too long to wait; I had an escape route planned.

Uncle Dwight was supposed to be here at seven. He was late. Damn him! Why couldn’t he be on time. It was his idea to meet. I would rather not, but I had no choice. He wanted to have “a little word” – just the two of us. Sometime when we could be alone. Well Friday night was the only time I had the house to myself. Mum was at her Bingo! and my younger sister at Brownies. It was the only time all week I could be sure of being alone. Not that I ever stayed in. Friday night was pub night with the guys from school. Well to be honest that wasn’t entirely true. Friday night was Have A Wank Night; then a shower and then out to the Dog and Biscuit pub.

But not this time. I wasn’t in the mood to pull one off. I did try but even the “hard core” magazine we lads had been swopping was no use. Uncle Dwight was coming to have his “little word”; and that put all other thoughts out of my head.

I paced the room again and pulled the net curtains to one side to see through the window. I had a reasonable view of the street. No sight of Uncle yet. I looked at the clock. Ten past: what was keeping him. Of course, when Uncle said he wanted “a little word” he didn’t really mean a little word he meant something else. I didn’t expect there to me much talking.

Uncle Dwight was my mum’s brother. He worked mostly on the oil rigs and was only in town for a few weeks every year. During that time he liked to “catch up” on family events. I called it poking his nose in where it wasn’t wanted, but, of course, I had no say in the matter. Things were tense at home. I was eighteen and hated it there. I couldn’t wait to get out of that dreadful house and the stinking town. My school examinations were due in a few weeks’ time. I intended to pass and go off to university; then I’d never have to return to Brocklehurst ever again.

I knew I’d get to the university.  I had passed my eleven-plus exam at the end of primary school and went to the grammar, where I excelled. Mum was a cleaning-lady and had left school aged fourteen. She had no use for book-learning. I don’t suppose she had read a book in her whole life. She was so ignorant she used to call the romance magazines she bought “books”. When I was much younger I made excuses for her ignorance. There had been a war on when she was a child and she went to work on the land. She didn’t have a chance. During my left-wing political phase (when I was about thirteen) I saw her as a martyr of “the system”, but then I discovered parents of my schoolfriends with similar histories had made decent lives for themselves. In truth, I thought, she wallowed in her ignorance.

I couldn’t stand to be in the same house as her. I spent a lot of time in the public library and when I was at home I hardly ever left my bedroom. After the age of about sixteen I don’t suppose I spoke a civil word to her. It’s a cliché, but in my case it was true, that I treated the house like a hotel. If I had the money I would’ve gladly lived in a hotel.

On his latest visit Mum unburdened herself to Uncle Dwight. He told me I was “rude, insolent, uncouth and offensive.” At least his vocabulary was wider than Mum’s. That wasn’t the end of it. Uncle Dwight said I had no respect for all the work she put in keeping me clothed and fed. If it wasn’t for her I wouldn’t have been able to stay on at school after I was sixteen. “Not true,” I barked back at him and told him of the scholarships I had won. “Me, alone,” I told him, “By using my brains.” I didn’t say it in so many words but I was letting Uncle Dwight know that I had no respect for him either. He was a manual worker although on more than one occasion I had heard him refer to himself as “semi-skilled”. I tried not to laugh.

By the time I had made my little speech, a “rant” Uncle Dwight called it, he had probably made up his mind. “You need taking down a peg or two. You’re getting too big for your britches,” he said. Britches! Where did he dig that one up, the sad old ignorant man? So, that was why I was pacing the tiny front room at the house waiting for hm to come for his “little word”.

Uncle Dwight eventually arrived close to half-past-seven. I suppose the bus was late. He had no car and couldn’t afford a taxi. Loser! He had his own door key so could let himself into the house. I stayed seated sinking into the armchair. Let him come find me. Why should I make an effort. Uncle Dwight was a large man, he was easily six or seven inches taller than me and probably had as many extra inches around his waist. He wore baggy jeans; cheap ones, bought at a supermarket and a collarless shirt that stretched against his vast belly and what people today call his “man boobs”. He sweated copiously; the summer weather is no friend to obese people. I looked him up and down in distain. How I loathed that man. I stayed seated and he came and stood over me; he blocked out the sun. I knew why he had come and he knew why he was there so there was no reason to go through all my supposed misdeeds again. No reason, but that didn’t stop Uncle Dwight from listing all my so-called faults. He finished his speech by saying that thing about being, “Too big for my britches” again. I managed not to sneer.

Then, he was ready to get down to business. “Stand up,” he ordered and when I didn’t he gripped hold of my forearm and hauled me to my feet. He may have been carrying about ten more stone in weight than me but he still had a lot of strength. I pouted and he pushed me away from the chair. He snarled and then took hold of the chair and turned it on its axis so that it pointed in a different direction. I watched, my heart racing (I admit it). This confirmed to me his intention. I had expected this. I was a bright boy after all. I was prepared for what I would do. “You need a darn good spanking!” he said. Darn! That, I was sure, was not a word they used on the oil rigs. “And that’s what you’re going to get,” he added unnecessarily since by now he was unbuckling his belt and trying to loosen it through the loops of his copious jeans. I watched in wonderment as he tried to perform this task: before then I hadn’t realised just how fat he really was.

In time he got the belt free. It was so long that he had to fold it three times before he could get it to a length that it might be used to whip me. I watched patiently and a little perplexed. He intended to spank me. Me, an eighteen-year-old man. An adult; a person who had the vote. He waved the belt around a bit; I supposed it was to intimidate me. Truthfully, it didn’t work. Oh how I hated him. I hated him because he was pig-ignorant; thick as two short planks (or, if you prefer, pig shit). I hated him because even though he was a moron, at this moment in time he had power over me. He had decided I should be spanked and what could I do about it? The obvious answer to that was refuse. Tell him: No, I wouldn’t let him. Then what? There would be an unseemly fight. He might over-power me, but I doubted it. The best would be he’d pin me down for a bit and whack at me indiscriminately with his belt. Some of the blows would certainly land.

I could walk out and go down the pub. How would that help? I’d have to come home sometime and we’d have the fight then. I knew Uncle Dwight was trying to keep our meeting secret from Mum so maybe the second round of the contest would be postponed for a week. But it would have to take place and there was a great chance Mum would find out. I didn’t want that to happen. Not because I wanted to spare her feeling, I just could stand all that huffing and sighing I would have to endure from her.

No! I had already decided. I hated all of them and in a couple of months (a few weeks!) I would have passed my examinations and be set to go away to university. My escape route. There was light at the end of the tunnel. Soon I would be free. Even at aged eighteen I understood the value of pragmatism. I would let the bastard belt me. So what! Who cared! Let him get on with it.

I didn’t say any of this to Uncle Dwight, I simply stood passively waiting for him to make his next move. This development might have thrown him somewhat. I remember he blustered, “Bend over the chair,” as he tapped his limp belt against the chair’s arm. I shrugged my shoulders in defiance. It was my way of saying, “Yeah! Whatever!” The chair was quite low and I could tell that a better bet would have been for me to go across its back as this way I would have presented a better target to Uncle Dwight. He couldn’t even get that right.

z used jeans couch waiting

I eased myself down across the arm of the chair. I was too tall for that position and had to tuck my arms into the side and bend my knees a lot so my bum could rest over the arm. A person needed to be a contortionist to do this right. I was as ready as I would ever be.

Like this my jeans stretched tightly across my buttocks and it felt like my cheeks had been lifted and separated. Uncle Dwight was silent. He shuffled behind me and although I couldn’t see him I knew he was trying to work out where he could stand so he could take aim at my bum. See, I knew I should have been over the back of the chair. He was wheezing mightily already and he hadn’t started yet. I had never been spanked, nor caned before but I had enough imagination to know what was likely to happen next. After much shuffling Uncle Dwight seemed to have worked out where he should stand.

I waited patiently, determined that I would not feel humiliated to be there, aged eighteen, offering up my bottom to be spanked by a fat middle-aged man. I could count the weeks before I would be free. Darn him! Let him do his worst. He whacked the belt across my backside. There was a loud crack as leather struck tight denim. I suddenly realised the window was wide open and feared any passer-by could hear. The last thing I wanted was the nosey neighbours knowing I had my bottom spanked. I buried my head in my arms and let Uncle Dwight get on with it.

He whacked the belt down about six or seven times before I realised I couldn’t feel a thing. The belt made a terrific noise there was no doubt about that, but as an instrument of punishment it was useless. Thinking about it later it was obvious why. The strap was thin and narrow and had no weight to speak of. My jeans were nearly new and made of thick denim. I was also wearing underpants. Add to that the fact that I was eighteen and not eight and was tough enough to withstand much more pain that Uncle Dwight could ever hope to inflict with his belt.

I lay passively, my head down and raised my bum as best as I could. “Come on then,” I was saying with my body, “Give it your best shot. You loser.” I can’t remember how many strokes (you couldn’t honestly call them “lashes”) he gave me but he could have gone on all night for all the effect it had on me. Before too long the effort was too much for him. He was not a man given to taking exercise and his body was about to remind him of that. If he continued he might have fallen down dead with a heart attack.

At last he wised up to the fact that it was time to stop. He was bent double (as far as his waist would allow) gasping for breath when I got to my feet. I stood watching him with utter contempt. I had not felt a thing during his so-called punishment.  I knew that once he had left and I checked my bum for damage it would be unblemished. What a loser! He couldn’t even spank me properly.

I didn’t wait for his permission before I headed upstairs. If I didn’t get a move on I’d be late meeting my pals. By the time I came down five minutes later Uncle Dwight had left the house. I gathered my wallet and keys and headed for the pub.

AFTERWARD.

That happened to me in 1973. I went to university and subsequently gained a masters degree and a doctorate. I travelled all over the world with my work. Mum and Uncle Dwight are both long since dead. I never returned to Brocklehurst; not even for their funerals.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

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Summer holiday camp

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com