Rock n Roll Sinner

zused short shorts pop records (21)

Mr Harriet drove his car slowly up the drive of his house, switched off the engine and seethed. You could hear the heavy beat coming from his front room a mile away. It was a wonder the house itself wasn’t vibrating. Jungle music. Scandalous. Disgraceful. Ungodly. He hauled himself from his car and walking fast, but not quite running, he headed for the front door.

Inside his son Richard, eighteen years old and a high school graduate, gyrated to the music. From a disc a man was wailing. Mr Harriet couldn’t make out the words. “Cecile?” What was that all about? Richard was oblivious to his father’s presence. In ecstasy; hips gyrating, arms twirling, head waving, heart pounding. Mr Harriet stood aghast. Astonished. He rushed to the record player, swiped the arm from the disc, pulled it away and puce in the face smashed it once, twice, three times against the back of a wooden chair until it was shattered to pieces.

Richard stood eyes burning with distain and watched his father, sweat streaming from his contorted face, turn to a pile of discs and with his right forearm swipe them from the shelf. “Ungodly. Disgraceful. Jungle music!” he screamed.

Richard watched, his fists clenched. His father was drawing in gulps of air, struggling to regain equilibrium. He bent forward, hands on knees wheezing. A little calmer, he eyed his son with despair. The boy was dressed as if for the beach. A tee-shirt and shorts so short his thighs were visible. “Dear God,” Mr Harriet said aloud, “How has it come to this?”

Mr Harriet loved his children – all six of them. He had provided for them and his wife all his life.  He worked long hours; hard work, done without resentment. He had brought them up as good God-fearing church attendees. And now this. Where did he go wrong?

He stood face to face with his son. The boy was maybe an inch shorter than his father and a hundred pounds lighter. He didn’t flinch. He kept his father’s furious stare. “How many times have I told you about this music?” his father said, attempting, but not quite achieving, stillness. “It’s the Devil’s music. It is sinful. Full of lust. Ungodly. Music of the jungle.”

Richard was impassive. He had heard it many times before. He knew his father’s next sentence. “And don’t think I don’t know you sneak off to those n______  clubs at night. Dens of iniquity. Drugs. Whores.” Spittle dribbled down Mr Harriet’s chin.

“Well ….” Mr Harriet left the sentence unfinished. Richard didn’t bother to follow his father with his eyes as the old man strode across the room. He knew where he was going. Mr Harriet reached up to a hook on the wall. From it dangled a stout wooden paddle. He took it down and tested it in his hand, as if he had never held it before. It was about fourteen inches long and five wide, not including the handle. It had six holes drilled in the blade. It was made of maple and heavy.

Mr Harriet brandished the wood at Richard. The feel of the paddle had a calming effect. Mr Harriet placed his hand on his son’s shoulder. He loved him so much. God loved him so much. Didn’t the boy see that? Why did he forsake his father and God? He must be saved. How would he enter the kingdom of Heaven?

Richard flinched at his father’s touch, his fists still bunched. Mr Harriet removed his hand from his son’s shoulders and rubbed it along the length of the paddle’s blade, emphasising is length and strength. It was an unnecessary gesture; Richard had felt the power of that paddle many times in the past. It was awesome. In his father’s hands it would tear his backside to pieces.

“Son,” Mr Harriet almost whispered. “You know you have sinned. You know you must be punished,” his eyes were moist. “I love you.” He rubbed the paddle once more. “The Good Book says ‘spare the rod, spoil the child’,” he choked back tears, “But if you promise me that you will never play that music again, nor go to those clubs, if you promise me that son, then I won’t beat you.” He wiped his tears on the sleeve of his shirt.

When his eyes were dried Mr Harriet watched astonished as his son without hesitation unbuckled his shorts and pulled the zipper. They slithered down his thighs. Richard parted his knees and they continued south to his feet. Not looking at his father, he hitched his thumbs into his underpants and tugged them down to his knees. He turned on his heels, faced the back of the couch and in one simple athletic movement he bent forward. He wriggled into place; head low, naked bottom high, legs slightly apart. A perfect target.

Mr Harriet took a deep breath and eyes heavenward, he muttered words that Richard could not decipher. The eighteen-year-old stared down at the couch cushion and tried to stop his heart rushing. He felt the cold wooden blade against his cool naked buttocks. He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. The wood rose and fell with a terrific swipe into his pert bottom. A dark red image of the paddle seared into the flesh. Richard shook his head. That hurt. A lot. So did the next swipe. And the next. And the next.

His father had God and righteousness on his side. The paddle rose and fell. Again, and again and again. Richard’s buttocks were small and the paddle large in comparison. Not a single square inch of flesh was left untoasted. From the sensitive sit-spot where the buttocks meet the thighs, across the curves themselves and along the top close to the spine. The once creamy-white flesh turned quickly pink, then red, then mauve. Blisters formed wherever the edge of the paddle pounded flesh.




Two years later Mr Harriet knelt on his bedroom floor, forehead to the ground, tears streaming, his face awash with snot. He was incoherent. Inconsolable. “Oh God! Oh God!” he wailed. On the nightstand was a newspaper. Rickie Harriet and his band the Rebels had reached number one in the Billboard chart with their new disc “Rock n Roll is here to stay.”

Picture credit: unknown

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Charles Hamilton the Second

The Country Club

z used twosome coutry club

His name was Arthur, but I didn’t discover that until much later. It was a hot day in midsummer. Arthur wore the smallest and tightest shorts, pale yellow with dots; like ones you would wear to the beach. His smooth tanned body glistened with sweat. His blond, shaggy hair was drenched. I watched the muscles in his back, his arms, his legs twist as he pushed the mower across the grass. It looked like he had already cut acres, but he wasn’t even half way done.

It was at Brocklehurst Country Club. Arthur was a labourer and he had a young manual-worker’s body. Hard, with not enough fat to sizzle a sausage. I was the son of the Club’s President, hanging around for no good reason during my vacation from university. I sat on the porch of a summerhouse, staring, mesmerized by his tight arse pointing at me as he struggled to get the mower through overgrown grass. Even at a distance I could see he wore no underwear. Abruptly, he stopped his efforts. He turned his head and looked over his shoulder. Some instinct must have told him he had an admirer. He flashed me a smile. His ice-blue eyes glinted. I stared back. We had never met before.

The front of his shorts suddenly bulged. My pupils dilated. He smiled, his nose wrinkled. He ran the tip of his tongue across his lips. It was a grotesque parody of a tart. He was saying (but not actually speaking) “Come up and see me sugar.” I nodded my assent. He pointed to the summerhouse. I knew his intentions immediately. It took him two seconds to reach me and together we crashed through the door.

I lost a couple of buttons when Arthur ripped my shirt over my head. Then he popped the fastener on my jeans and pulled them down to my ankles, dragging my white underpants with them. I clutched at Arthur’s shorts. His rock-hard penis short skywards as they fell to his feet.

I didn’t immediately take his dick into my mouth. I poked out my tongue and licked up and down the rigid shaft, concentrating on the rim of the swollen head. Arthur gasped. He grabbed hold of my hair and pulled my head forward towards his cock. It was difficult for me to breathe, but I kept up the licking, spluttering saliva up the full length of his eight-inch member. I don’t think I had ever held a cock that was so hard. A thick vein ran the full length, the whole thing was purple and I was sure it was about to explode, but Arthur must have had tremendous will-power because I kept on licking for several minutes. Then I opened my mouth and Arthur slid the top half of his dick inside.

I was sure they would hear Arthur’s groan of pleasure all the way back at the clubhouse. “Take it all, take it all,” he huffed. We tumbled to the floor and I was able to get the entire shaft into my mouth. Arthur thrust his hips and the tip of his cock hit my throat. I pushed his body back a bit to stop me from choking to death.

“Argh, that is so good,” Arthur moaned, his fingers were trailing through my soft hair. Then they slid down on to the smooth, silky skin of my shoulders. Then he was all over me. My back, my arse. He slipped his finger in my crack but seemed to have second thoughts and immediately withdrew it. He went for my thighs and then the ball sack. My cock was throbbing hard. I couldn’t hold out much longer. I gave out a low groan. Arthur pinched my left nipple. I shot a load.

“I’m cumming,” Arthur screamed a warning. Too late. A gallon of spunk shot into my mouth.

We had sex often that summer. Arthur was uninhibited. We did it every which way you could imagine – and some ways you could not. We never became friends. We were the same age but he had left Gumshoe Lane Tech School at fifteen and had been in and out of mundane jobs since. I had attended St. Tom’s, a well-known public (that is elite private) school. I was at university and would soon enjoy a lucrative career in merchant banking. He was as thick as two short planks: what the boys at school called an oik. I took to calling Arthur, Arty. He loved it. I think it sounded glamourous to him: American perhaps. I meant it as R.T. – as in Rough Trade, but be that as it may.

One day it was hotter than ever and I spent a languid afternoon watching Arthur work. He really was the sexiest animal; all muscles and brawn. I think he liked to have me watching. I suppose he was proud of his body; let’s face it he had nothing else much going for him. He had finished cutting back bushes near the tennis courts and his shorts were drenched in sweat. I saw the tip of his – as yet still flaccid – cock through the transparent material. I was ready for more red-hot sex. Arthur had other ideas.

“I know where we can get some beer,” he flashed a smile. His lips were so red it looked as if he had been drinking raspberry cordial. “Without paying,” he added with a note of triumph. He was like a ten-year-old boy who thought he knew a secret nobody in the entire world but himself knew about. Bless him.

There was a store of crates full of beer by the clubhouse bar. Ours for the taking. The bar staff “nicked them” all the time, he told me. It would be easy. It was too. The clubhouse bar was closed during the afternoons (the ridiculous local licensing laws) and left unattended. The bar steward would not return until nearly six in the evening to reopen it.

We took four bottles – two each. They were for personal use, as a defence lawyer might tell a court. They were warm and we ran them under a water tap in an unsuccessful attempt to cool them down. Warm Double Diamond beer; it is one of the great memories of my youth. That and Watney’s Party Seven. But I digress. We took them back to the summerhouse, knocked them back in a trice and set about sucking each other’s cocks.

It was close to five when, nearly exhausted by sexual gymnastics, we ambled back to the clubhouse. If we returned the empties, Arthur assured me, they would never know the beer had been stolen. It might have worked too, if Sergeant Harry the bar steward hadn’t decided to use the afternoon to clean the beer taps. Long story short: we were caught. Bang to rights. Thieves.

Harry was another loser. He was in his forties, I guess, but seemed much older to me at the time. He was tall but his shoulders slumped, like he had been ground down. He had probably been a barman all his life. That or a waiter or some other step-and-fetch. He wore a fake uniform, with sergeant stripes on his sleeves. You saw that a lot; doormen, messengers, cinema commissionaires; men who had nothing to show for their lives except when they had been forced to go into the Military and were led by the nose by superior officers to become their batmen or valets. Typical Working Class. The members of the Country Club saw this. Harry loved it when they called him “Serge”, but he didn’t have the wit to see they were patronising the hell out of him.

Harry frowned and then slowly his face creased. I could almost hear the rusty cogs in his brain turning. He was trying to think. To come up with an idea. To make a decision. I stood impatiently, waiting for something to happen. Arthur was impassive. At last Harry spoke. “I’ll have to report you,” he said slowly, as if waiting for our confirmation that he had made the right decision. Harry leaned in toward me. I could smell cheap roll-up cigarettes on his clothing. “I’ll have to tell your father.” I swear he leered.

My father was the President of the Country Club, the top banana; the Field Marshall to Harry’s Sergeant. Of course Harry had to report me. I took the news calmly. I wasn’t about to go into a funk in front of the servants. Father would not be best pleased. I was a thief. If the thing became public, his own reputation would suffer. Good God if it went to the magistrate court and I was convicted (as I should be) my career would be in tatters before it had even started. Merchant banking and thieving do not go together.

By chance my father was at the club that evening attending some committee meeting or other. I waited in the bar while Harry delivered his news. Arthur and I remained silent. I knew precisely what would happen. There was not the slightest doubt. I was a public school man. We had rules about these things.

About thirty minutes later my father appeared in the bar. He was a large man. We used to call such people “stout” but today we would be more truthful. His double chin wobbled as he shook his head wildly. “Impossible”, “unbelievable”, “incredible”. He was at a loss for words. “Is it true?” he asked, although he knew the answer.

If there was one thing I learned at St. Tom’s it was never get caught. Obviously, I hadn’t learned that lesson well. The second lesson was if you were caught red-handed admit it and accept the consequences. Arthur stood beside me dumbstruck. He wasn’t much of a talker at the best of times. He stared rather shamefaced at his canvas shoes. I spoke for both of us; in monosyllables. Yes we had done it. There wasn’t much to say.

Father harrumphed. He shook his head. I watched the glistening fat of his jowls and chin quiver. “To the boardroom,” he growled. “The pair of you. Now.”  The room was a short distance down a passageway from the bar. Without a word to each other Arthur and I shambled away, leaving my father mumbling into his chest as he ambled towards the telephone.

The boardroom was oak-panelled and distinguished, as befitting a country club for gentleman. A long rectangular table with a highly-polished top dominated its centre. Glass-fronted bookcases ran along three sides. I had never been in the room before but I could tell the leather-bound volumes were rarely read. An open fire, of course unlit since it was the height of summer, stretched along the fourth wall. Large, heavy, solidly upholstered chairs ran along two sides of the table. We stood at one end and waited. It felt like I was back at the headmaster’s study at St. Tom’s.

After a minute or two I heard the sound of a vehicle’s engine outside the window. A door opened and closed. Two men whispered to each other. Moments later the door of the boardroom flew open. Father stood breathless. He made no attempt to disguise that he held a long thick punishment cane in his hand. I recognised it at once. He had seconded it from our home. He lay it on the table top. Arthur’s eyes shone at its sight. He had attended oik-school so I don’t suppose he had seen such a thing before. The rubber-soled gym plimsoll was the punishment instrument of choice there, I believe. At worst they would get a smack of a solid bamboo rod across the open palm of the hand. This would be unknown territory for him.

Not for me. The cane on the table was longer and denser than the ones they flogged our behinds with at St. Tom’s. It didn’t have the traditional curved handle either. This was a Malacca cane, the kind that they used on juvenile delinquents in Kenya where my father was stationed for many years. It was designed not only to hurt (naturally, or else what was the point?) but to leave deep welts that would last days or weeks. This was an awesome rod.

Father unbuttoned his jacket and with some difficulty slipped it from his shoulders. A roll of fat hung over the waist of his trousers. His shirt was soaked in sweat. He waddled across the room and hung the jacket on a hat stand in the corner. He had not spoken a word since entering the room. With his left hand he unbuttoned the cuff of his shirt and slowly rolled the right sleeve over and over. He stopped when it was above the elbow so that his forearm was bare. He flexed his arm to ensure it could move unimpeded. Satisfied, he reached forward and picked up the cane. My eyes followed Arthur’s stare as he followed my father’s movements. Father flexed the cane between his hands reminding me of its surprising flexibility. He showed its whippy-ness by swishing it through the empty air. Arthur’s blue eyes shone as he watched it fly.

It was at about this time I became aware that Sgt. Harry was standing on the other side of the window. He made no attempt to hide. He had an unobstructed view of the proceedings. He licked his lips in anticipation.

Father was ready. The first words he spoke since entering the room was to Arthur. Father tapped the cane against the edge of the table. “Stand there boy.” Arthur blanched; he appeared to be breathing heavily. He made no protest. He walked to the spot indicated. “Shorts and pants down.” Father’s face was awash with sweat. Arthur undid the shorts. They were the same poker-dot ones he wore the first day we met. As always he wore no underpants. More tapping of the cane. “Bend over.”

I was mightily impressed that Arthur submitted himself to my father’s will. I expected as much from a public-school man, but the oiks were well-known to be cowards. It went with their renowned idleness. Arthur leaned forward and rested the palms of his hands on the table top, evidently unsure how to present himself for a thrashing. “All the way, flat on the table,” my father barked. Arthur slid forward. He folded his arms and rested his face in them. Behind him he bent his knees and spread his legs a little. I had a perfect view of his bottom. My cock stirred. I had been in and out of his hole for most of the summer.

Father took hold of Arthur’s t-shirt and pushed it up his back. This was not strictly necessary since it did not impinge on the target area. Arthur shivered. He shook some more as my father sawed his cane across the centre of Arthur’s mounds. The cheeks twitched; his hole blinked. Father planted his feet firmly on the ground about a yard apart. He bent his knees and gripped the cane so tightly his knuckles began to blanch. I watched transfixed as he rose the cane to above shoulder height; then he twisted his body and brought the rod crashing through the air in an arc. The swoosh as it went reminded me it was weightier than the canes the headmaster used at St. Tom’s. It smacked into Arthur’s stretched haunches and sank deep into the flesh. A thick dark-pink line immediately spread across the cheeks. A perfect shot. There was a second of so of total silence before Arthur expelled a lung-full of air through his clenched teeth. His back buckled and his hips rose fully ten inches from the table. His knees caved. His head rose from his arms and then with a monumental example of self-control he forced it back into position. I saw him suck on his forearm, stifling the scream his agonised body so obviously wanted him to yell.

Father pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. It was a copious size. It needed to be to mop up the rivers of perspiration that soaked his face and neck. He dried himself off and let the handkerchief fall onto the table top. It would be needed many more times before my father completed his duties that afternoon.

He ran the cane along the underside of Arthur’s cheeks, at the sensitive “sit spot” where buttocks meet the thigh. He did the body twisting thing again but this time he landed the Malacca cane with an upward stoke. A bright red stripe lit up Arthur’s bottom in parallel to the first. I had forgotten what an expert my father was. Arthur’s body twisted and turned, his legs stomped up and down like a soldier on sentry duty. He bit deep into his arm. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Harry, his jaw dropped and eyes on stalks.

Arthur’s incredible gymnastics as the third stroke flogged the upper curves were awe-inspiring; an  absolute frenzy of jerking and twisting of his arms, legs and naked buttocks. A red soreness had spread across the teenager’s rear end, from the top of the globes near the spine, over the fleshy hills and into the smooth underside. This was a thoroughly-thrashed criminal.  But, father had not finished. He wiped himself dry once more, taking time to ensure his palms were free of sweat and his grip on the cane unimpaired. Father’s face already bright red was turning purple. Swipe! Arthur let escape a hiss so loud and so prolonged it reminded me of a steam train settling down at the railway station.

Grudgingly I admired Arthur’s stoicism. I had been beaten many times in the past. St. Tom’s was that kind of school. I had once been lashed by my father after my brother and I made a visit to the seaside without permission, but none compared to this. Father put every ounce of his considerable weight into the flogging. I admired Arthur’s bum for its beefiness. He had globes like peaches. When I caressed them in the palms of my hand their solidness sent waves of desire through my body. Now, they were being ripped to shreds. The cane rose again and swiped down into that flesh cutting deeply. His backside started to resemble a map of Clapham Junction.

At last it was over. Six-of-the-very-best, delivered with vim and vigour by an expert in his craft. Arthur lay face down wheezing like a beached whale. The back of his neck was as scarlet as his rear-end. Cold sweat soaked the back of his t-shirt. Father left him there. His own breathing was strained. The handkerchief did its work once more. After what seemed an eternity, he ordered Arthur to stand. He hauled himself to his feet and stumbled a little before clutching onto the table’s edge. His neck was red but his face was deathly pale. He couldn’t (or wouldn’t) look at me. Sure that he was steady on his feet, he leaned over to retrieve his shorts from his ankles affording me a delightful view of his brutalized buttocks. My eyes shot straight to his hole, so inviting.

Father flexed his cane, swished it in my direction and intoned, “Take his place.” Determined not to let myself down in front of a boy from the lower orders, I moved into position. I was ready to bare myself for deserved punishment. I reached for and undid the button on the waistband of my jeans. Suddenly, I stopped. I couldn’t do this. Not now. Not with my father, Andrew and Harry all watching.

“Don’t keep me waiting,” my father growled. His eyes glared fiercely. I caught a smirk on Arthur’s face. He thought I was a coward, chickening out. I couldn’t allow that. I had to go through with it. I had to lower my jeans, despite the intense humiliation I felt.

I pulled the zipper and let the jeans fall. I closed my eyes in embarrassment, hooked my thumbs into my underpants and tugged them down. My cock crowed. It was six inches and growing. I don’t think it had ever been so hard. It poked at the ceiling; already the tip was glistening. I cannot describe the look of horror on my father’s face as I shuffled forward and with great difficulty lay flat against the table top.


Picture credit: Unknown


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Charles Hamilton the Second

Uncle Jack

z used after jeans endart

Uncle Jack fumbled with his key, his anger had not calmed. Never in his whole life had he felt to humiliated. All his friends, the neighbours too would be laughing behind his back.

At the third attempt his key entered the lock, he turned it and in a rage pushed against the door. It flew open. He paused to catch his breath. A coat hung on a hook in the hall, still wet. So, Tony was home. Uncle Jack gulped in a deep breath. He kicked the door closed and headed for the sitting room. Deserted. His brat of a nephew must be upstairs. Lying on his bed. Oblivious to what was in store for him.

Uncle Jack surveyed the room. It was quite large for a semi-detached house and sparsely furnished. A sofa and two easy chairs dominated. A hard straight-backed chair that belonged with the dining table in the next room was against a wall. A chest of drawers sat in a corner. Uncle Jack strode towards it and pulled the top drawer. It opened with a tremendous rattle. His temper had still not abated.

He looked inside. Good. He had found what he needed. He reached in a gripped a large, heavy wooden clothes brush. Ideal, he thought. He turned walked back across the room, his heart pounding. He took hold of the straight-backed chair and manhandled it into the middle of the room. He placed the chair on its seat. He was ready.

He walked to the bottom of the stairs, took a deep breath and bellowed, “Tony, get yourself down here. Now!” Uncle Jack stood a little over six feet tall in his stockinged feet. He was broad at the shoulders and flabby at the waist. His arms were strong befitting a man who had spent most of his working life on building sites.

“Tony!” he called once more. “Don’t make me have to come up there!” Uncle Jack’s voice boomed. Tony had been lodging with his uncle for a little over a week. If he had learned anything in that short time, it was not to ignore his uncle. He hurriedly slipped his cock back inside his pants, zipped up his jeans and shuffled to the bedroom door, “Wossup?” he queried.

Uncle Jack’s blood pressure was high, he was in no mood to be messed with. “Get down here and find out. Now!” Tony checked his flies and slowly descended the stairs.

“Get in there,” Uncle Jack swiped his hand across the back of Tony’s head and pushed him towards the sitting room. The nineteen-year-old ducked, raising his arm in defence. “Wossup?” he repeated, “What’ve I done?”

“I’ll tell you what you’ve down,” Uncle Jack’s face was purple. Tony blanched. Whatever it was, it spelt trouble. He stood uncertain, his bright blue eyes shining, his greased black hair sticking out his head at all angles.

“Pissing in the street,” Uncle Jack blurted the words and then stopped dead. Unable to continue. The humiliation was too much. Earlier that day the guys at work has ribbed him mercilessly. His nephew and a gang of louts in the High Street, tanked up with beer, causing mayhem and urinating in shop doorways.

“But Uncle Jack,” Tony blustered. He wanted to say it wasn’t his fault. The pubs were closed, he had a belly full of beer and there were no public toilets open. What was he supposed to do? He wanted to say this but his uncle had started a rant. Shame. Humiliation. Disgrace. On and on, he listed his embarrassment. “And everyone saw you. They knew you were my nephew. They knew you were living with me now. They knew you were my responsibility.” Uncle Jack gulped the words. This was no playacting. He wasn’t putting on the style to show his displeasure. This was genuine. Uncle Jack was mortified.

Tony hopped from one foot to the other. His bright open face flushed with embarrassment. And fear. Embarrassed by his uncle’s openly-expressed emotions; fearful of the old man’s reputation. This would not end well for Tony. Tony’s dad was a weak man, he let his sons get away with ill-discipline all their young lives. Not so Uncle Jack. He believed in discipline; in order. He taught his own sons how to behave. You wouldn’t find them pissing in the streets.

Suddenly, Tony noticed the chair in the middle of the room. It had been moved from its usual resting place. His heart leapt. The heavy, wooden clothes brush rested on the seat. He blinked hard, there was no doubting his uncle’s intention.

Uncle Jack read his nephew’s mind. “It’s entirely up to you. You can pack your bags and leave or you can have a second chance.” He emphasised second chance. It was code for damn good spanking. Tony blinked harder and faster, his brain whirled. He couldn’t move out. He had only just started his job, he had no money. Where could he go? He’d have to give up the job and move back with his mum an dad, fifty miles away. It had taken him nearly a year to find work, he couldn’t go back on the dole.

Uncle Jack believed a spanking should be delivered without any great ceremony. Putting a boy over his knee left him in no doubt about who’s in charge. He picked up the brush and sat down in a straight-backed wooden chair. “Come here,” he spoke softly, “Take down your jeans and pants and bend over my knee.”

Tony froze. He knew he had to go through with this. He must submit himself to his uncle’s will. He had to take his punishment. His brain told him all these things, but his body had other ideas. He stared down at his uncle’s legs and the rolls of fat at his belly. Tony had never been spanked before. How exactly was this done? His uncle seemed so small. Absurdly he found himself wondering, why did the spanking have to be over his knee? There was no way he could fit comfortably in that position. It would make more sense to bend over the back of the settee. That way he could point his bum at his uncle and he would have plenty of space to whack his brush into his bared buttocks.

“Come on, I haven’t got all day.”

Tony’s body woke up. His jeans were tight fitting and needed no belt, so he popped the button at the top of his jeans and pulled the zipper. The front flapped open showing his white underpants. He was surprised at his own calm. Here he was undressing in front of an older man. Baring his backside so Uncle Jack could assault it with a wooden brush. It was absurd.

The jeans trickled down his thighs, he spread his knees and they slithered to his shins. Tony took a deep breath and put his thumbs under the elasticated waistbands of his underpants and with a single movement, pushed both of them down to his knees. Then, in one athletic move he dived across his uncles’s legs. He was so tall that both his hands at the front and his feet at the back touched the carpet. He had to bend his knees slightly so that his bared bottom was raised sufficiently high above his uncle’s right thigh to receive the stinging slaps from the brush.

With Tony’s jeans and pants out of the way, Uncle Jack gripped the teenager’s vest into a ball and yanked it over his back. He was now naked from the shoulders to the knees, revealing a pair of peachy white buttocks that were twitching as they contemplated their fate.

Tony played a lot of football and his bottom was muscular, without being large. It was pert, and joined smoothly with strong, broad thighs and long legs. He had very sparse, fine blond leg hair, with none on his behind. As his uncle pushed the vest up towards the broad shoulders, the tapered torso was revealed, lightly tanned from exposure to the sun.

Uncle Jack sucked in a deep breath, raised the brush and brought it down hard in the centre of Tony’s bum. The boy let out a yelp and tightened his bottom. His uncle whacked the brush down again, this time on the lower part of the cheeks.

The brush being quite large and the teenager’s bottom quite small in comparison, his uncle had already achieved good coverage of what he could see. Anxious to avoid spanking in the same place twice if he could, Uncle Jack tipped Tony towards him and walloped the left side of his bottom and quickly moved him the other way and did the same on the right side.

The whacking quickened, the brush slapped into the naked flesh harder and faster, somehow always catching Tony by surprise, finding fresh flesh to sting. His bottom rose and fell and rolled like waves at sea and despite Tony’s age and size he could feel the heavy, wooden brush roasting his backside. Big red imprints of the oval-headed brush covered the whole of his bottom.

Despite his resolve to take his punishment Tony yelped and struggled but his uncle held him tight, continuing with a steady stream of spanks. Tony felt the downpour of smacks to his bare bottom; they were harder, hotter, faster, and more rapidly biting into his buttocks and thighs. He twisted his head and neck, and leaned back upwards trying to figure out what was branding his bottom. It was his uncles brush, slapping blistering smacks onto and into his bum cheeks and inner and outer thighs.

The teenager shrieked, higher and higher in volume and in pitch and his right hand involuntarily left the floor to defend his rear-end, only to be seized firmly and pulled up behind his back, and held between his shoulder blades for the rest of the onslaught.

Tony’s eyes alternately squinted and widened with shock and pain.  Worse still were his behind and his pride. He was nineteen years old, yet now found himself overturned, sprawled across his uncle’s lap. His face was pushed into the carpet, his right arm held up against his shoulders and his feet and legs thrashing and kicking into the air.

Uncle Jack continued to pound the slipper across his nephew’s backside, and despite his protests and wriggling he held him down and continued. After about another three minutes of continuous swats he stopped and rested the brush across the now frying buttocks.

Tony was still lying there quivering, sobbing and shaking. His uncle reached under his chest and gently, but firmly, lifted him up to stand in front of him. The boy stumbled on trembling, wobbly legs, unable to stand still for shaking and shuddering, and jumping and bouncing up and down. He was doubled over and his hands flew to clasp and rub his fiery buttocks and upper legs. He was a grown man, crying like a five year old.

“Get dressed,” Uncle Jack spoke softly. He watched Tony pull his pants and jeans back to their rightful place. His nephew was still in some distress, clutching the palms of both hands to his burning backside while gritting his teeth.

“You had better go to your room.” Uncle Jack hurled himself to his feet and started to move the chair. Tony didn’t need telling twice, he shot from the room and taking them two at a time, he bounded up the stairs to his room.

Downstairs, Uncle Jack quietly replaced the brush in the drawer. He ambled to the kitchen and switched on the kettle. As he waited for it to boil, he reflected silently: how long would it be before the boner in his pants went limp?

Picture credit: Endart

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Charles Hamilton the Second

The Moped Gang

By Charles Hamilton II and Cayenne.

The headmaster leaned forward in his chair, rested his arms on his desk, clasped his hands together and stared intently at the five sixth-formers standing before him.  His unkempt moustache bristled as he sneered, “Well, well, well, Gentlemen, welcome! I seem to have convened an impromptu meeting of the Moped Gang!”

All five eighteen year olds stared blankly, trying with varying degrees of success to look unconcerned. It would be a lecture, of course. Mr Lynch would lambast them about their behaviour and send them on their way. Maybe with an essay to write, Why I should be a credit to the school, something like that.

The headmaster shook his head wearily. “The five lads from my school who have been terrorising the neighbourhood.” Juvenile delinquents, he told himself. They were mighty fortunate not to be up before the Magistrates’ Court. Out loud he said, “You have been inflicting your loutish behaviour all over the neighbourhood.”

He paused, waiting for a reaction. When none came, he carried on. “You have been riding those infernal mopeds disturbing all and sundry.” He suppressed a smile. Mopeds; bicycles with hairdryers for engines. Hardly the Hells Angels. Nonetheless the good name of the school was at stake. “You have been smoking and drinking and,” the headmaster shuddered at the thought, “urinating in most inappropriate places. The churchyard and the gardens of the Masonic Hall, I hear. And often you are foolish enough to do this in school uniform! You are a disgrace!”

Mr Lynch hauled himself to his feet. He was a stout man, some would say he was running to fat. At six feet, he was taller than any of the boys standing in his study. Five pairs of eyes watched him intently as he shuffled across the room towards a bookcase. It ran most of the length of one wall and had glass doors. The shelves were stacked with history text books. Mr Lynch liked to keep his hand in in the classroom. A tall thin cupboard divided the bookcase. He fumbled in his pocket for barely a moment before bringing out a key. His hand trembled as he inserted it in a lock and opened the cupboard. His body obscured the boys’ view but an unmistakable rattling sound revealed its contents.

Mr Lynch turned to face the delinquents. “It’s a shame that you are all eighteen and so too old for this cane of mine.  Isn’t that so, Smith?” The headmaster held the rod between his hands and flexed it.

“Err, yes, Sir,” Smith blustered.

The headmaster swiped the cane through thin air. “Too old for this cane, Passey?”

“Yes, Sir.” Passey stared intently at the cane. It was a little over three feet long with a curved handle.

Swish! The cane flew again. “Too old, Wilkinson?”

“Yes indeed, Sir,” the lad coughed nervously, sensing some kind of trap.

Mr Lynch took a step forward, leaning into a thin, lanky boy. “And how about you, Jenkin, just turned eighteen, I believe, so too old for this cane of mine?”

“Yes, Sir, Mr. Lynch, Sir.” Jenkin returned the headmaster’s gaze. He wished he would just get on with it. An essay. A detention even. He wanted to get away, the Moped Gang had a meet that evening.

Mr Lynch swivelled on his left heel. “And finally, we get to you, Davies.”

“Yes Sir?” a short, stocky boy narrowed his eyes. He didn’t understand the tone in the headmaster’s voice.

“You’re a little bit different from the others here, aren’t you?”

“I am, Sir?” He felt his cheeks flush, what was the Old Man talking about?

“Oh yes! You may be eighteen like the others here, but I understand that your father beats you regularly. With a cane just like this!” He swiped it twice through the air for emphasis. “He told me all about it when we were at the Model Railway Club. We are both members, you see.  He’s the life and soul of the club, old ‘Deltic’ Davies, you know. He often tells us he’s had to get his cane out.”

Jenkin suppressed a snort. The cane, from his dad, he thought. Wait until he told the other sixth-formers. Davies’ face reddened with embarrassment and shame.  He felt no shame being up before the headmaster, but for the Old Man to know he was caned at home; that was unbearable.  And now, the shame that his friends had just found out about it too.

But there was more. The shame that his father played trains! Diesel trains too. And Dad was friends with headmaster. That had to be the worst! No, wait! Did the headmaster know that Davies had his trousers at his ankles and his underpants at his knees as he bent across the dining room table for lashes from Dad’s cane across his bared bottom?

What if all of that became public? It would be the end for Davies. How could he remain leader of the Moped gang? Davies stared at his scuffed shoes. He couldn’t look the headmaster in the eye. Neither could he look at his mates. He knew inwardly they were smirking. He wouldn’t hear the end of it once the headmaster released them from his study.

Mr Lynch flexed his cane some more, he tapped it gently against his right leg, then he swished it through the air again. He knew he was an old ham. This was supposed to intimidate a boy. Usually it worked. But maybe not this time, he thought. Davies’ face was scarlet, but the other four seemed unconcerned.

“So we’re all agreed that you are all too old for this cane of mine?” Mr Lynch’s moustache quivered as he bared his yellow teeth in a smile. There was a murmur of agreement from the boys.  Davies sighed a little too loudly and the headmaster shot him a withering look.

“I have decided,” the headmaster continued, “that you are right. At eighteen, you are all much too old for this cane.  For this junior cane.” He swiped it through the air again. It made a terrific Whoosh! as it travelled. “No, what you lads need is the senior cane. Just right for your sturdy rumps! Jenkin! Go and ask Miss Glossop for the senior cane. Here, you can take this junior one back with you.”

Wilkinson had been right, the headmaster had been playing them for fools, and they were trapped in his game. Jenkin took hold of the cane. It was surprisingly light. He had never seen a cane up close before. Brocklehurst Grammar was a traditional school – traditional curriculum, uniform, sports, religion and above all traditional discipline. And, that meant the whippy, crook-handled rattan cane. Could there be any boy in the sixth-form who had not offered his stretched backside to a master for a stinging six-of-the-best at some time during his school career? Jenkin was an exception; he had only joined the school the previous year after his father moved to the town with his job. This would be Jenkin’s first caning; an experience he did not relish.

Miss Glossop, the headmaster’s secretary, sat in an anteroom perched over her typewriter. Her long, thin nose and shiny black hair made her look like a crow. Jenkin shuddered as he handed the cane over. “He didn’t use it then? I’m surprised!” she barked disdainfully. If she had her way all five boys would be in front of a school assembly bent across a long table while the headmaster flogged their naked buttocks. And, she, Miss Glossop, would be seated in the front row.

“He was very annoyed. Is he going to expel you?” she asked.

“No, no, nothing like that. At least I hope not. He told me to ask you for the senior cane.”

“Ah, of course!” Absent-mindedly, she ran the tip of her tongue across her bottom lip, leaving behind a trail of spittle. “That makes sense. He really is annoyed with you then. The senior one is reserved for the wickedest of the wicked. You bad lads!”

She rose from her swivel chair and sashayed to a tall metal locker at the far end of the room. Jenkin watched mesmerised as her bottom wiggled suggestively. She unlocked the locker and withdrew the cane. Just as the headmaster had done, she flexed the rod between her hands. Blood rushed to Jenkin’s cock. A sudden vision of himself bent across Miss Glossop’s desk, trousers and pants at the floor, made the cock stiffen. Hurriedly he clasped his hands together and held them in front of his balls.

“Here it is then. The senior model. Extra painful.” Miss Glossop narrowed her eyes and handed the stick over. “Be sure to tell the headmaster that there are a couple more in stock in case this one breaks.”

“Err, will do Miss Glossop,” he blustered. He took the cane, unsure how to handle it. It was a little longer and thicker than the junior cane. At first he took it be the curved handle and let it fall by his side. It was long enough to touch the ground and reminded him of a walking stick. That didn’t seem right, so then he gripped it half way down. It was a sturdy rod with notches every four inches or so along its length. It was awesome; it would pack one heck of a punch. For one absurd moment he thought of Charlie Chaplin and how the clown would twirl his cane in the silent movies.

“You’d better be getting back,” Miss Glossop said grumpily. Jenkin jerked back into life, tucked the cane under his arm rather like a sergeant-major did and returned to the headmaster’s study.

“You four,” the headmaster waved his arm, “stand and face the bookcase.” He watched as the teenagers shuffled into place, no longer unconcerned. “Jenkin,” he pointed with the cane to a worn armchair. “Bend over.” Manufacturers called these chairs “comfy” or “comfortable”  chairs but Mr Lynch was determined that Jenkin’ visit would be anything but comfortable. The chair was old and worn. The material on the apex of the back was shiny with age. How many boys had contributed to that, Jenkin wondered.

“Bend over, lad,” the headmaster had had his little joke with the boys, now he was anxious to get on with it; the sixth-formers less so. Jenkin stood a foot or so away from the back of the chair. How exactly was this done? He took a deep breath rubbed the palms of his hands together and reluctantly fell forward, rather like a diver going into an icy pond. Jenkin was so small and the chair so tall, that his stomach rested easily on the top of the chair’s back. He felt his pale-grey trousers ride up his buttocks. He couldn’t see himself, but he was sure the material had separated his cheeks.

“Legs further apart. Up higher.” It was a calm command and Jenkin obeyed without question and struggled to get into the requested position. “Head nice and low, please.” Now, his bottom was resting at a perfect angle to receive a thrashing from the headmaster. Jenkin gripped the seat cushion and closed his eyes. He had never been caned before and nor ever spoken to a boy who had been. His previous school had been quite liberal and corporal punishment was unheard of. His buttock cheeks clenched. He had not meant to do this, it was as if his body was trying to find a natural way to protect him from the pain ahead.

“Relax lad. Relax.” The headmaster “sawed” his cane across the underside of Jenkin’s now upturned bottom. He was finding his spot, taking his aim. Jenkin’s firm bottom stretched his now very tight grey trousers, a point the headmaster was careful to observe as he positioned himself behind him.

“Stick your bottom out more, lad, hollow your back. Mr Lynch knew this was Jenkin’s first caning and he intended it to be memorable. “Jenkin when I cane I make sure it hurts. There is no point in giving a boy a beating if it doesn’t. I won’t lie to you, your backside will be on fire and you will be sore for a few days. The marks will last about two weeks but you will live.”

It had the desired effect and tears started to dampen Jenkin’s eyes before the first stroke had cracked against his tight backside. He gripped the chair cushion so tightly his knuckles ached.

The headmaster grasped the cane and took two steps away. To calm down he took a few “air shots” before finally returning to stand to Jenkin’s left. Then, with his arm outstretched he lay the cane tip half way across the cheek of the teenager’s further buttock. Jenkin flinched slightly as the rattan touched the middle of his bum. The headmaster raised it slowly then brought it whistling down. It landed with a satisfying thwack right across the cheeks.

“Oww! Gosh, oww!” Jenkin yelped, trying to keep his scorching bottom still after his first ever stroke of the cane.

The study was again filled with the sound of the cane swishing through the air, followed by that awful crack that signalled another searing bout of pain across his already sore bottom. The headmaster drew the cane back for another stroke. Jenkin arched his back and screwed his face up as he experienced the smarting of yet another assault to his now red-raw bottom.

Despite the shocking pain, Jenkin resolved to take the caning bravely and silently; he didn’t want to show himself up in front of his mates. But when slash number three connected with the seat of his trousers he lost all control, his feet beat a frenzied tattoo, as his hips twisted and squirmed. He desperately wanted to jump up and run from the study clutching his buttocks in both hands, but some schoolboy instinct kept him down. He was grateful that he had the chair cushion to grip, even though his hands were now grasping it so tightly his fingernails dug deeply.

The next swipe was greeted with a howl and Jenkin was now audibly muttering: “No!” and “Please!” But there was to be no mercy in the study that afternoon. Mr Lynch stood back, took aim again and the cane flashed through the air with a whoosh and the resulting blow snapped into Jenkin’s waiting backside with venom.

A river of tears cascaded down Jenkin’s face as he waited, heart thumping madly, for the final crack which the headmaster put right across the middle of his buttocks, angled, so that it crossed about three of the other cuts.

It took some time after the last stroke for Jenkin to realise the ordeal was over. “Yes,” the headmaster sighed. “That concludes your punishment, Jenkin. I hope you have learned your lesson.”

Like so many thrashed schoolboys before him, Jenkin remained slumped across the back of the chair, just trying to absorb the line of fire across his bum. Nothing had prepared him for the pain or for the feeling that his bottom had being cut into slices and then set on fire.

“Up lad!” the headmaster commanded, “We haven’t got all day.” With great difficulty, Jenkin’s hands scrabbled for the arm of the chair and he pushed himself upright, panting and sobbing. He danced on the spot, clutching the seat of his trousers. Even through the material he could feel the six vivid and very painful stripes decorating his hindquarters.

“Stand and face the bookcase,” the headmaster intoned. “Wilkinson, take his place.”


Thirty minutes later Owen Davies steered his moped through the gate of a large detached house. Home. The intense pain from his caning had dissolved into a dull ache, but the hard seat of his Honda had set the welts on his bum throbbing. He kicked the stand on his bike and left it standing by the door of the house. The Moped Gang were meeting later.

He opened the front door to find his brother Dai standing, waiting for him in the hallway. A supercilious grin slit the twenty-year-old’s face. “Who’s been a naughty little boy then?” he chirped in the sing-song voice of a child as he swished an imaginary cane through the air. Owen grimaced. This was the last thing he needed.

“I got a phone call from your headmaster,” Dai’s grin broadened. “He wanted to speak to Dad, but I told him he was at that toy train convention until Saturday.”

Owen moved towards the stairs, intent on ignoring his annoying brother. He wanted to get to his bedroom for a close look at his bum.

“So,” Dai blocked his brother’s way, “he told me all about you and your Moped Gang. Six-of-the-best, eh?” He swiped the imaginary cane again. “You naughty, naughty little boy.”

“Piss off,” Owen sneered. He hated his brother. Always had done. Owen was the bright boy in the family. Dai wasn’t clever enough to go to grammar school. He left Gumshoe Lane Secondary Modern aged sixteen. How Owen despised him. Thick as two short planks. A waste of space.

“Of course,” Dai jeered, “When Dad finds out you’ll get another caning.” His arm flew through the air again. “And,” Dai was enjoying himself and he wanted his little brother to know it. “What was it Dad said last time?” He poked the underside of his chin with an index finger, pretending that he was thinking. “Oh yes, I remember.” Owen clenched his fists, for two pins he’d sock his brother on the jaw. He knew what Dad had said.

“He said if you got into any more trouble on that phut-phut he’d confiscate it and sell it. Then where would you be little brother?” Dai reached out and ruffled Owen’s hair. “You’ll be on the bus like the rest of the kids.”

Owen stood devastated. Dai was right. That was what Dad had said. He would do it too. A bare-arsed caning and no moped. That bike was his life. He was the leader of a gang. It made him feel really important. The other guys actually looked up to him. Now what would happen? He knew only too well; no bike, no gang, no life.

“Of course,” Dai spread his arms wide like a market trader offering a bargain to passers-by, “Dad need never know.” He grinned and stared intently at his little brother. Dai had a plan. One that he would really enjoy putting into action. “What’d’ya say little brother?”

Owen sucked in air. What the hell was Dai talking about? Why did he have to behave like an idiot all the time?

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he spat. He hated his brother. Owen couldn’t wait until the autumn when he could leave the house and go away to university. His imbecile brother would probably have to live at home the rest of his life.

Dai shrugged his shoulders and showed Owen the palms of his hands. “A little plan, dear brother,” he said in a mocking accent that made his brother’s skin crawl.

Owen hated himself for doing it, but he asked none-the-less, “What plan?”

“Ha,” Dai spoke in that mocking voice again. “Now, he wants to know. Now, he asks me ‘What is the plan’”?

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, I want to go out,” Owen pushed past his brother and started toward the stairs. Fearful, he might have missed his chance Dai said in a rush, “I won’t tell Dad your headmaster called. I’ll cane you instead.” Owen stopped in his tracks and turned. The surprised expression on his face asked “What?”

Dai took a deep breath, “You’ll get to keep your moped.”

The room span. Owen gripped the banister rail for support. His mouth opened, but before he could tell his brother once more to “fuck off” he shut it tight. He should not be too hasty. That bike was his life. There was only one way for him to keep it. His head spun. This could not be happening. If he let his brother cane him he got to keep the bike.

Thinking about it later, Owen could hardly believe he spoke the next words, “You promise you won’t tell Dad?” Dai’s cold blue eyes blazed, “Scout’s honour,” he said and waved two fingers in the air. “All right,” Owen whispered.

“Good-oh!” Dai smiled broadly. “We must do it now, my shift at the Wimpy starts at five-thirty.” Gingerly Owen rubbed his fingertips across the seat of his trousers. His bum still ached from the headmaster’s caning. Now, he had to let his obnoxious brother beat him on the bare bottom. He would rip it to shreds. He grimaced. You couldn’t make it up, he thought.

Owen watched Dai rush up the stairs and fling open the door to Dad’s bedroom and enter. Moments later he came out crestfallen. “The wardrobe’s locked.” He let the importance of his message hang in the air. Owen needed no explanation. Dad kept his canes in that wardrobe, if they couldn’t get it open there was nothing to beat him with. He would lose his moped after all.

Owen sighed, “Can we get a cane someplace else?”

Dai snapped his fingers to indicate a thought had come to him. “Of course, let’s go round the neighbours and ask if anyone can lend us a cane,” he said sarcastically.

Owen sneered. “All right, but there must be a way round this.”

Dai did the snapping of the fingers thing again. This time he was serious, “It doesn’t have to be a cane. I can spank you.” When Owen looked doubtful, he added, “You know, over the knee, like a little boy.”

Owen blanched. It would have been mortifying enough to go over the dining room table for a caning, but over-the-knee to have his bare bottom spanked; that was too much. Dai read his brother’s mind. He wasn’t about to let this chance to thoroughly humiliate his brother pass. “You’ll get to keep the moped,” he reminded him.

That was enough. It was the only way. With his heart pounding and temples throbbing, Owen nodded his assent.

“Good-oh,” Dai brightened up. “Go wait in the sitting room. I’ll fetch something.” Sorrowfully, Owen trudged across the hallway. Seconds later Dai bounded down the stairs brandishing a heavy wooden clothes brush. He bounced into the sitting room, noting with delight the gloomy expression on his kid brother’s face. He picked up a large armless chair that lay against a wall and plonked it down in the centre of the room. He sat down, spread his legs wide and, waving the brush wildly, called across to Owen. “Come here you naughty little boy.”

Owen grimaced. How he would like to smash his fist into Dai’s smug face. He stood and glared. Dai’s smirk was undisguised. “Come on, let’s get on with this.” He snapped his fingers and pointed to a spot on the carpet close to his right knee. “Stand there.” Owen refused to look at his brother as he shuffled the three paces it needed to take up the position.

Dai sucked in a lungful of air. His eyes sparkled. “Trousers down, little man. Trousers down.” Owen avoided his brother’s gaze and instead concentrated his attention on the far wall. He had never really noticed the painting that hung there before. Some modern art thing. All oranges and reds. It looked like the artist was having a fit when he painted it. Owen stared hard at the picture as he reached for his belt buckle. He was surprised how little his fingers fumbled as they loosened the belt, popped the button at the waistband and pulled the zipper. His pale-grey trousers slid down his thighs unaided and snagged at his knees.

“Ha!” Dai smirked, “White Y-fronts, I forgot your snob school made you wear those. Do they do a pants inspection every morning?” He laughed aloud. Owen sucked on his cheek, determined not to raise to his brother’s bait. “Pants down. All the way,” Dai pointed at Owen’s feet. The eighteen-year-old closed his eyes tight. Think about the moped, he said to himself. If you let him do this you keep the bike. He tucked his thumbs under the elasticated waistband of his pants and guided them south.

Dai tapped the brush against the palm of his left hand. “Bend over my knee, you naughty boy.” I’ll get you for this one day you bastard, Owen told himself as he guided himself across his brother’s lap. Owen was short and squat while Dai was tall and lanky and the boy fitted perfectly. He spread his arms wide and placed his palms flat into the deep-pile carpet. Behind him his toes merely brushed the ground. His bottom was raised against Dai’s right thigh, at a perfect angle for the brush. A cool breeze from the open window behind him caressed his naked legs.

Owen felt his brother pull the tail of his shirt up the small of his back until it bunched at his shoulders. “Woweee!” Dai exploded with glee. Implanted across his brother’s bared buttocks were six distinct welts. “Your headmaster has given you a good set of marks.” He put the index finger of his right hand into his mouth and soaked it in saliva. Then, carefully he traced along each cut with the fingertip. Owen shuddered as the pain in each welt reignited. Dai cupped his hand and roughly rubbed it first across the left buttock and then the right. “It feels like corrugated cardboard back here.” He didn’t try to hide the fun he was having.

Owen shut his eyes. He couldn’t see, but he guessed his brother had a perfect view of his crack and could even see up his hole. He could die from embarrassment. This will soon be over, he reassured himself. Then I can go out on my moped and lead a gang who respect me.

Dai tested the brush in his hand for weight. It was about a foot long with an oval-shaped head three inches wide. It’s primary purpose was to keep clothes clean but it also made a splendid spanking implement. Dai tapped the brush against the centre of Owen’s left buttock so that it fell across three of the cane marks. “This should set them on fire again,” he grinned as he smacked the wood down hard. There was a dull thud as the brush connected with Owen’s firm flesh, followed by an elongated hiss of air escaping through pursed lips; it sounded like a steam train settling down. Owen’s body shook; he raised himself an inch off his brother’s lap and his legs flailed. “No you don’t buster,” Dai gripped Owen around the waist. “You’re not going anywhere.” Satisfied his younger brother was firmly secured he hammered the brush across Owen’s bum. It was like machine gun fire. Rat-a-tat-tat; rat-a-tat-tat. Within seconds every square inch of Owen’s bottom was on fire, from the top of the curves, across the mounds themselves and into the ultra-sensitive underside, the part of the bum that connected with the chair when you sat down.

Even without the cane wounds this would have been a severe spanking. The relatively small area of shiny polished wood attacked his tender buttocks. Owen wriggled and writhed; he waved his arms around; he kicked his legs; his head flailed to left and right and then up and down (just like a horse does when he neighs) as his brother pounded away. The agony in his backside was intense. He gave up and gave in completely, hanging and dangling over his brother’s knees, his squalling taking over, as he gasped, choked, sobbed, and shook. He felt the fiery blistering on his bottom driving him to still deeper wailing and weeping.

This encouraged Dai to renewed vigour. Owen’s legs thrashed about so much he kicked his trousers across the room and the struggle continued so greatly that long before his brother had finished the bare-bottomed spanking the white briefs dangled from his left ankle.

Owen wrestled to escape the relentless torrent of increasing pain that had set his buttocks ablaze. He fought to escape from the very firm grip of his brother’s left arm around his waist. He pleaded, begged, promised and threatened endlessly between his gulps and his gasping for breath. But to no avail.

Dai hadn’t known he possessed such strength: not only was he able to pin his rowdy eighteen-year-old brother in place across his knees, face down, bared bottom high, he continued to batter his buttocks with the brush.  He pounded away at the boy for almost another five minutes, Owen struggled and pleaded but his brother continued; he was having too much fun to stop just yet.

He was so engrossed in his task and Owen so overcome with pain and indignity that neither heard the gentle burr outside in the drive. Four moped riders stared in astonishment through the open window.  They saw that their gang leader had just had his second humiliating beating of the day.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second

An old English custom

z used belt taking hook (22)

He stared through the window at the garden below. Rain drops fell plip-plop against the sill. It seemed it had rained the whole summer. English weather. He must go downstairs for breakfast. Arriving late for meals had consequences. He had learned that quickly.

When he turned eighteen he was taken from his prestigious school and sent half way across the world to an English language college at Brocklehurst: a strange place; not quite country, not quite town. His orders were to learn the language like a native. Immerse himself in the culture. He obeyed. He always obeyed: his father, his school, his Party, his Leader. Obedience had brought him a long way, it would take him much further.

He quickly learnt a lot about English culture. He knew about cricket and tennis. And a strange game they called Crown Green Bowls. And, he knew about the culture of discipline and punishment.

He had been sent to board with the Smith’s. Smith; could there be a more English name? John Smith was a Party functionary, a bureaucrat, a safe pair of hands. He too knew about obedience. The Smiths had a large house in The Avenue, an upscale part of town. Both their sons, now grown into adulthood, were in military service somewhere behind enemy lines.

He had been told to obey Mr Smith; he did so without question. He wanted to know English customs; it was important for his nation. The Leader had plans where England was concerned. He learnt quickly. From the very first moment. He hadn’t noticed it to begin with. That is he saw it easily enough. But, he didn’t register its importance. It hung in the kitchen on a hook next to Mr Smith’s flat cap and scarf (two garments he still needed in the damp summer months). It was a long, thick, wide leather belt. He saw nothing unusual in that. He had two or three of his own. That’s how he kept his trousers from falling down.

Less than a fortnight after he arrived he discovered this particular belt had a specific purpose. Mr Smith imposed rules. He had expected that; the English loved rules. They delighted in bossing people about. Do this, don’t do that. Be here, go there. There’s a times to get up, a time to come home. Meal times, bath times.

It was the fault of a girl. She had large breasts and long flowing ginger hair. Her lips were full and her eyes blazed with mischief. He was a red-blooded young man. How could he resist? Mr Smith never found out about the girl. All Mr Smith knew was that he had missed curfew twice. There could be only one consequence: corporal punishment.

There was no long lecturer, just a statement of fact. They stood in the kitchen, Mr Smith reached towards the hook and took down the belt. He sat in a large, straight-backed wooden chair, spread his legs and planted his feet firmly on the ground. The English have many rituals for corporal punishment. There are any number of implements to choose from; a brush, slipper, cane. A boy might be positioned across a desk, a chair, a vaulting horse or simply touching toes. There would be many future opportunities for him to experience all of these, but for now, this first time, it would be, “Trousers down. Over my knee.”

His hands shook as he unbuckled the belt that held up his baggy serge trousers. He stared down at the puddle of clothing at his feet. It seemed to be a very long way away.

He stared intently at the belt in Mr Smith’s hand. It was a long, thick, wide strip of leather. It looked terrifically heavy as Mr Smith folded it once and then again until he had a punishment strap about a foot long.

Mr Smith ran the tip of his tongue across his top lip; he moved, making himself more comfortable on his hard chair. “Shall we get this over with then?  Come over here and bend across my knee.”

He blinked at Mr Smith; it was as if he had never seen the man before. His hard face was set in a scowl. In middle-age, he still had a fine head of black hair cut with military-style short back and sides. His tongue was darting in and out of his mouth. His shirt was stained under the armpits and open at the neck. Mr Smith wore brown thick corduroy trousers that had almost worn smooth at the knees.

He prepared himself. His glistening white Y-front underpants clung to his flat stomach; there was not a spare ounce of fat anywhere on his body. His heartbeat quickened and perspiration began to seep through the his shirt. His trousers at his ankles inhibited movement and he wobbled three or four steps to take up position.

He stood for a second on Mr Smith’s right side. The man’s legs were parted by about three feet to provide a platform for him to lay across. He gulped, drawing in air and the stink of sour tobacco. He leaned forward. The muscles in his back rippled as he wriggled to get into place. He was some athlete. His legs were like tree trunks and his bottom was firm and round. He stretched himself across Mr Smith’s legs.

He had never been spanked before, nor had he ever seen a boy go over the knee for punishment, but instinctively he knew what was expected of him. He spread his arms ahead of him and placed the palm of each hand four feet apart and firmly into the wooden floorboards. Behind him his trousers at his feet inhibited movement so his legs were hardly more than six or seven inches apart. He kept his knees straight so that his bottom, clad in smooth cotton, rested at an angle against Mr Smith’s right knee. He was perfectly positioned for punishment. He stared down at the floor and waited. He was quite comfortable considering what was soon to happen would be far from that, but he wriggled a little because a bunch of keys Mr Smith had in his trouser pocket dug into his side.

Mr Smith felt the weight of the belt in his hand as he tap-tap-tapped it against the left cheek. Gently, he took hold of the waistband of the underpants and pulled so that the smooth white cotton kissed the buttocks. Then, he moved the increasingly damp shirt a few inches up the back, exposing hairless and suntanned flesh.

Now, he was ready. Without further warning, Mr Smith raised the weighted strap to the fullest extent of his arm and brought it down with a resounding crack into the right cheek. A startled gasp hissed across the room. It hurt. He screwed up his eyes as a second and third thwap!!! landed. The echo of leather on tight cotton bounced around the room.

He was a spanking virgin and did not know what a spanking was supposed to feel like. The belt rose and fell as Mr Smith found his rhythm. A dull pain spread across both buttocks and he stared down at the backs of his hands.

Mr Smith lashed the leather belt again and again into the muscular bottom. The  cheeks were so tight there was no “give” in the flesh. Without warning, Mr Smith stopped walloping and unceremoniously pulled once more at the waistband of the pants. This time, instead of making them tighter he dragged them down across the hips and over the round bum.

Mr Smith wrapped his arm around the midriff to hold him firmly in place, raised the leather strap to maximum height and brought it down over and over again into the firm flesh. Gasps quickly turned to little yelps and then to larger cries. He wriggled his body across Mr Smith’s lap to the left and to the right. He was strong and in a fair fight he could have knocked Mr Smith for six; but this was no fair fight. He had to obey and allow himself to be held firmly across the knees of his punisher, bare bum high to receive lash after lash from the leather belt. He must hang on for dear life and take what was coming to him.

His bottom was covered in a rash of raw marks where the short heavy belt had scorched into him. Hardly any of the buttocks and the tops of his thighs were untouched by the strap. Tiny graze marks widened into deeper scratches.

Whop! whop! whop! Mr Smith went around the circuit one more time; from the top of the cheeks, across the mounds and into and beyond the crease where the bum meets the thighs. The dull pain had long since transformed into an almighty throb only to become an agonisingly searing pain across the whole of his bottom area. The whacking had knocked the breath out of him and he lost strength. He had no power to resist and lay face down staring at the floorboards. Involuntary tears washed the backs of his eyes and soon they trickled down his cheeks.

Every square inch of his bottom had been toasted. Dozens of imprints of the belt emblazoned the buttocks and the tops of his thighs. It was a job well done. He had been well and truly spanked. Mr Smith spread his feet out in front of him so that he could lift himself clumsily off his lap. Slowly, he knelt and then stood up. His hands disappeared behind him as he rubbed away gingerly. In silence, he tugged up the underwear and trousers from the top of his shoes. He tucked in his shirt.

In silence, Mr Smith replaced the belt on the hook. Already most of the pain had gone. His bottom was still warm and in places it was tender to touch, but soon even that would disappear. The red marks would turn to bruises and he would wear them for some days to come. They would be a reminder to him of one very particular English custom.

Picture credit: Unknown

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Fake News #12

slipper otk white pants bed straightladsspanked (4)

Dads’ Crusade: Bring Back the Slipper

EXCLUSIVE The Daily Globe


Dads across the nation are calling on the government to relax the ban on corporal punishment in the home with the rallying cry: “Bring back the slipper.”

It is their response to official figures showing the rise in juvenile-related crime. The say their sons need a “damn good hiding” to keep them out of trouble and on the straight-and-narrow. And, they think they are the right people to give it.

“We see eighteen, nineteen, twenty year olds totally out of control. They have never been taught how to behave. It is still not too late,” said Mr. Nosher Sykes, of the pro-spanking organisation Beat Their Backsides.

“I would gladly take any one of them across my knee for a good dose of the slipper. Of course they would have to take down their trousers – and probably their pants too – otherwise it wouldn’t hurt much.”

The campaign is gathering pace and local groups of Beat Their Backsides have been started across the country.

Mr. Ernie Flynn, 52, started one in Brocklehurst, Brockshire. He says it already has more than 100 supporters. He told the Daily Globe in an interview, “We are firm believers in corporal punishment for unruly young men. They are totally out of control now we can’t dish out a damn good hiding.”

He added, “The young don’t understand that actions have consequences. What they need is a jolly good over-the-knee spanking with a slipper. Preferably with their trousers down and maybe even their pants.”

A counter group calling itself “Hands to Yourself” seeking to keep the no-spanking law has been formed by older teenagers and young men.

A spokesperson for the Slipper Manufacturers Association anticipated an increase in sales should the law be relaxed. He said, “We can manufacture slippers in a variety of sizes and weights that would satisfy the needs of any disgruntled father.”

The Ministry of Justice which supported the ban on corporal punishment said there was no plan to change the law.


Picture credit: straightladsspankeddotcom

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Only a glass of wine

z used pants wine glass Endymion Hill

C’mon Uncle Jack it was only a glass of wine

It wasn’t only a glass of wine, it was my wine. Wine I told you not to touch.


And judging by the state of you when I came in last night you had drunk a lot more than one glass of wine.


I told you when I took you in you had to obey my rules. I’m not a soft touch like your dad.

No, but.

But nothing. I’m gonna spank you, like I told you I would.

But Uncle, I’m nineteen.

Yeah, you are nineteen. That’s plenty old enough to be making your own way in the world. Maybe you should just pack your bags and go.

No, Uncle, no.

Then you must accept discipline.

Oh, but Uncle.

Here, look at this. Have you seen it?

What’s that?

I bought it at Aldi. They call it a serving board, but look at it, it’s exactly the same size and weight as a spanking paddle. Like the Americans use.

You’re gonna spank me with a bread board?

Thank your lucky stars I don’t use a cane on you. You can get authentic school canes on eBay. If you don’t learn to behave, I’m going online for next time.

No, Uncle, no.

Stand there, by the table. Quickly. Now take down your jeans.

No Uncle, not my jeans.

Too right. They’re so thick you’d hardly feel a thing. Now, get on with it.

No, Uncle, please.

Do you want me to come over there and do it?

Oh, Uncle.

OK have it your way. Go pack your bags, I want you out of here before ten o’clock.

No, sorry Uncle. Here.

That’s right. Get them right down to your ankles . . . Jeez those pants look lived in. When did you last change them?


Disgusting. Now, lift up your shirt and bend over the table . . . Not like that. Lay flat on the table top. Stick your bum out.

Oh, Uncle.

Right. Now don’t say I didn’t warn you. You’ve nobody to blame but yourself.

Ouch! Owww!

Oh don’t be such a baby. I’ve hardly started.

Oww! Oww! Oww!

Keep still. Hold on to the edge of the table.


Stop that! Keep your hands out of the way.


Get back down. Now! I shan’t tell you again. Do you want extra swats?

Oh Uncle.

So much fuss. And you such a big boy.


Just be thankful I don’t take down your pants and give you a few on your bare buttocks.

No Uncle, No!

Well, behave yourself. Take your punishment like a man.

Owww! Sniff, sniff

Are you crying?

No, Uncle. Owwwwwwww!


Picture Credit: Endymion Hill

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