The Dope Smoker

z used cane holding (80)

As Mr Carter drove his car onto his driveway he had the shock of his life – a teenaged boy was breaking into his garden shed.

But, soon it would be the boy who was in shock: when Mr Carter revealed his little secret.

He got out of the car, intending to shout at the boy and chase him away when he recognised who it was. It was Adam, a kid who lived a couple of houses down the street. This was unexpected, this was a respectable district and one didn’t expect to have one’s shed broken into by neighbours.

By the time Mr Carter unlocked the gate, Adam was inside the shed. Mr Carter realised he could lock the door, trap the boy inside and then call the police. It was a simple plan to execute, but curiosity got the better of him and he decided to confront the boy. What on earth was he expecting to steal from his shed that was worth anything?

“Hey you boy! I know you’re in there, what do you want?” Mr Carter wasn’t scared, whatever happened next he was sure he wasn’t going to be assaulted by the neighbour’s kid.

There was no answer from within the shed, so he hammered on the door.

“Come out! I know you’re in there.” But, still no response.

Carefully, Mr Carter opened the door and peered inside. There inside was Adam, collapsed on the floor. Thinking he had passed out and might need urgent medical treatment, Mr Carter rushed to the teenager’s side. But, he needn’t have worried. One sniff of Adam’s body told him what was wrong: the boy was high as a kite on cannabis.

“Wake up! Wake up!” Mr Carter shook the boy, but couldn’t rouse him. Slap! Slap! Two hefty whacks across the boy’s face had him murmuring, “Whhhhhhhat’s up?” It took a few more shakes before Adam came round sufficiently to realise he was in a strange shed with his neighbour Mr Carter standing over him.

“Come on, you should go home, you can’t stay here.”

The boy looked at Mr Carter with real fear, bordering on terror. “No, no, please, not yet.”

“You can’t stay here, now move it, sonny,” Mr Carter was angry about being disturbed from his daily routine and doubly angry because it was some dope fiend who was causing that trouble.

“Please I can’t go home like this,” there was real pleading in the boy’s dark brown eyes and Mr Carter who had a soft spot for teenage boys fell for it.

“Come on, into the house, sober up before you go home.”

He helped Adam into the house and lay him down on his couch, where he promptly fell asleep. Mr Carter sat and watched the boy: he was dead to the world. He looked so beautiful and innocent, breathing rhythmically, his mouth slightly open.

Mr Carter sat, admiring his cute unexpected house guest and wondered what he should do now. The boy had got sky high on an illegal drug and broken into his shed. All right he probably didn’t intend to steal anything, but he had committed at least two serious crimes.

Then, there were his parents. Mr Carter knew them quite well. They had all lived in the street for at least ten years and Mr Carter had watched, from a respectable distance, Adam grow up. He knew that he had just left school and was presently working in a supermarket (filling shelves mostly) before going off to university. He seemed a good kid from a respectable family.

Should he say something to his mum and dad? Was it any of his business, anyway? For all he knew the kid was a dope fiend and was already on his way to a ruined life. Did his parents know of his drug habit?

What if this was a one-off, an experiment that had gone badly wrong. Should the boy get a criminal record and be made to suffer for the rest of his life for a youthful indiscretion?

Mr Carter had come to no useful conclusion by the time Adam came out of his stupor.

“So, Adam, do you want to tell me what’s been going on?”

Adam was intelligent and articulate and, it seemed to Mr Carter, truthful. Mr Carter had warmed to the boy. It turned out that Adam was a regular drug user, but only, for what he called “recreational purposes.” He had got high on some weed that was stronger than he thought and had gone on a bit of a “trip.” He had broken into the shed to sleep it off. He wouldn’t break into Mr Carter’s shed again, honest.

But, would he stop smoking cannabis? No, he couldn’t promise that, but he would be more careful in future.

That was the wrong answer. Mr Carter would have been prepared to forget the whole episode if Adam had promised to give up drugs. It would have meant he had learned a lesson and mended his ways.

“I’m not going to tell the police, but I am going to tell your parents. They need to know that you are taking drugs and that you are getting into trouble,” Mr Carter told Adam.

“No, please, don’t tell my parents,” the boy was so endearing when imploring.

“Please, Mr Carter, don’t do that, please, Mr Carter,” he was melting the man’s heart.

That was when Mr Carter had an idea. It was a strange plan he was concocting, but, if it worked, it would ensure that the boy was punished properly and it need not involve the police or Adam’s parents.

Upstairs in a cupboard in the spare bedroom were a half-dozen whippy rattan canes. He would thrash the boy with one of these and send him on his way.

What Adam didn’t know, and Mr Carter hoped nor did any of his other neighbours, was that Mr Carter was a very enthusiastic member of the corporal punishment scene. He regularly attended the Whacko! Club, where he and like-minded individuals punished one another with canes, slippers, straps and no end of everyday household implements.

Mr Carter himself was an expert wielder of the cane. Six-of-the-best delivered by him could leave a backside scarred and tender for a week – and that was if the trousers were up. Imagine what the buttocks would be like when he caned on the bare.

The Whacko! Club had one drawback, Mr Carter thought, nearly all its members were middle-aged or older men. They never had much chance to cane the bottoms of the younger generation, and, as Adam was a case in point, some of them could do with a damn good thrashing.

“Adam, you cannot go unpunished for this, you know that don’t you?” Mr Carter was working up to making the boy an offer he hoped he couldn’t refuse. Adam agreed this was the case and that gave Mr Carter the confidence to go through with his plan.

“Adam, we don’t need to involve the police or your parents in this.” Adam beamed and nearly fell on Mr Carter’s neck with gratitude.

“But there is a third option,” he took a deep breath, “I could cane you.”

Adam’s glorious eyes rolled. Had he heard correctly? Was he still tripping on the drug?

“Yes you heard correctly. It would be a short sharp shock that would help you to mend your ways. What do you say to that?”

In truth Adam was speechless, the proposition was preposterous: he was eighteen years old and had never been caned in his life, not even spanked.

Mr Carter moved on swiftly to fill the gap left by the teenager’s silence. “I intend to give you six-of-the-best; it will be intensely painful at first that is the point. The pain will go quite quickly but your bottom will be very tender for some hours after. But, it will not kill you.”

Mr Carter had decided not to tell Adam that his bottom would be striped with six red welts that might last several days, or even a week, depending on how sensitive his skin was.

“I hope you will learn a lesson from this and the next time you are tempted to take cannabis, you will remember this afternoon.”

Adam had recovered his speech by now, but not by much. “The c-c-c-cane?”

“It is entirely up to you,” Mr Carter said, desperately hoping the boy would allow him to thrash him. “Either we go to the police or to your parents or you take six-of-the-best. What’s it to be?”

And, that’s how Adam found himself alone in Mr Carter’s living room, waiting for him to return from upstairs with the cane that he was going to use to beat his backside raw.

Mr Carter sorted through his cane collection. He had a variety in different lengths and thicknesses. He was very familiar with the attributes of each cane, but nonetheless he picked up each one and swished it through the air to test its suppleness. He settled on a medium length cane with the thickness of a pencil. He knew it was a marvellously effective rod and would pack a punch. This would be Adam’s first-ever caning and, sadly, Mr Carter thought, probably his last, this cane would make it a memorable experience.

He took it downstairs half expecting to find Adam had done a runner. In fact, the boy had considered fleeing, but he reckoned there was no point. Mr Carter knew where he lived and if he didn’t allow him to cane him he would certainly call the police.

At the sight of the cane in Mr Carter’s hand, Adam’s face blanched, even with his summer sun tan.

He swished the cane menacingly. “So, Adam do you consent to being caned?” Mr Carter was beginning to feel a little guilty. Was he taking advantage of the boy? Was he still high on drugs and not able to make a rational choice? Was he breaking the law by beating the boy against his will?

“Well Adam?”

Mr Carter looked right into Adam’s puppy dog eyes. He could see the boy was thinking about it. How painful would it be? Surely, not very much, after all in his dad’s day (as he was always telling Adam) boys were caned at school all the time.

He took a deep breath, then, he nodded. He would take the caning.

“Bend over the back of the Chesterfield.”

But, despite having consented, Adam showed no intention of moving, so Mr Carter brought the cane down with a resounding Thwack!! across the leather back of the couch.

“I said bend over. Do it now, or I will give you extra strokes.”

Adam bent over for his first-ever caning.

“Head down, bottom high. Legs further apart boy.”

His jeans-covered arse made a terrific target, the outline of his tight briefs were clearly visible. Mr Carter liked the Chesterfield, it was just the right height and width to take any shape of “boy.”

Mr Carter was unsure how hard to make the first stroke. He had been caning men’s backsides for nearly twenty years, but mostly they were guys who were beaten once a month on average and they had tough hides. Adam was a caning virgin.

Oh well, Mr Carter thought, the point is to make him suffer, so he brought the cane down across the middle of Adam’s backside with some vigour. The teenager’s eyes widened and he puffed out a blast of air, but remained steady. Mr Carter could see a thin white line had appeared across the tight denim and he knew a red welt would have formed beneath Adam’s underpants.

Number two struck home a quarter of an inch below the first, Adam’s hips moved from side to side, but he kept down across the couch.

Number three hurt the most so far. Adam was in real agony and wanted to leap up and rub at his poor bottom to make the pain go away. But he didn’t. Some schoolboy instinct told him he must remain in position, he didn’t want extra strokes.

Number four landed across the welts made by the previous cuts and the boy screamed.

“Stay down boy,” Mr Carter instructed. He was enjoying beating the boy. Despite his lust, he genuinely wanted Adam to give up drugs. He hoped this thrashing would set him on the straight-and-narrow. He decided to make the final two strokes exemplary.

He lashed them down in quick succession, SWISH! SWISH! Adam did a little stomping dance on the spot, desperately hoping it would make the agony in his backside go away.

It was over, Adam lay across the Chesterfield, his arse felt like it had been hit by a red hot poker. It must have swollen to at least twice its normal size, he reckoned.

“Stand up, boy,” it was a curt command and Adam obeyed.

“Stand there.” Mr Carter pointed with his cane to a spot close to the dining room table.

Adam was desperately rubbing away at his bottom. Usually, Mr Carter would have ordered a punished boy to stop that immediately, but not this time: Adam looked so cute.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you boy.” Mr Carter could see Adam’s beautiful eyes were moist, he wasn’t crying, not yet at least, but Mr Carter knew that as soon as he was left alone in private, Adam would bawl his eyes out.

“If I hear you have been taking drugs again, you will be back over my Chesterfield again. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir.” Mr Carter very much liked the way the boy said, “Sir.”

“Only next time, I’ll give you six strokes on your bare bottom. Do you understand, that, Adam?”

Another wonderful, “Yes, Sir.”

“You are dismissed, go home.”

Mr Carter poured himself a glass of whiskey. Wow! How he had enjoyed that, but the guilt was returning. Had he taken advantage of the boy? Was Adam’s judgment impaired by the cannabis? Would Mr Carter live to regret this moment?

It was three weeks later when the doorbell rang and Adam was at the door, giggling. “Sir, I have to tell you something ….”

Picture Credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Untidy Bathroom

z used otk pyjamas bed brush (2a)

Terry must have thought I was joking when I said I would spank his backside if he continued to leave the bathroom in a mess: because he did it again.

I was hurrying to get ready in the morning, the way you do, and had to step in puddles of water on the bathroom floor, the tub hadn’t been wiped and there was a squeezed toothpaste tube in the hand basin. I was livid. Terry knows I can’t stand it when he is slovenly like this and I have scolded him about it often enough.

Right, if that’s the way he wants to behave it’s time to take this to another level. I picked up the bath brush and went into the bedroom.

Terry was startled when I banged my way through the door brandishing the brush; he’s a smart lad, he knew exactly what was about to happen.

“What have I told you about leaving the bathroom in a state?” It wasn’t the kind of question that needed an answer, but I still wanted Terry to acknowledge his misbehaviour.

Instead, all I got was sullenness. No words, just a slump of the shoulders and a pout. He hadn’t flipped me the bird, but it meant the same thing.

That did it; no more warnings, it’s a spanking for you my lad.

I sat on the bed, grabbed him by the arm and pulled him toward me. “You’re never too old for this.”

With that I pulled him across my lap so that his head and chest rested on the bed, his bottom was over my knees and his legs stretched behind him. I moved my own right leg and pinned his feet so there was no escape.

Usually, I have a great deal of affection for Terry, but he had been getting on my nerves recently. Our relationship was changing; he was becoming defiant and he no longer wanted to accept me as an authority figure; in the kind of way that adolescents often did.

I took hold of the waist of his pyjama bottoms and slowly lowered them, exposing his buttocks for the severe spanking I intended to inflict.

This jerked him into action and he tried to struggle free, but with his legs restrained there was little he could do, but holler, “No daddy, please! No! Please, daddy!”

I looked down upon his quivering naked butt over my lap waiting for me to spank it. “You’ve had this coming for a long time Terence.” I always called him Terence when I was annoyed with him.

Then without further ado, I raised the brush high and whacked it into his left buttock and then the right. I kept up a steady rhythm, like the beating of a big bass drum. The outline of the brush was clearly imprinted in both buttocks after only three or four whacks.

He howled like a banshee and pummelled his fists into the bed. I had spanked him many times before and I knew he was acting up. “Stop squirming, it’s just a spanking.”

Then I hit my stride and now it really did hurt him. Each new swat felt like a flame searing his inner and outer buttocks, inner and outer thighs, and the sit-spots. It took me less than three minutes to break him. Terry’s wails and screams of protest threatened to lift off the roof but, almost machine like, I continued whacking every square inch of his buttocks.

I could see his eyes widen with shock, and his head jerked backwards, as the jolt of each swat radiated into his brain from the intensifying fire I was creating in his bottom.

He kept wriggling and pleading, but I held him tightly. He was going nowhere.

I was in complete control, I would teach the surly brat to obey me in future. I kept peppering his bare, and by now badly bruised, reddish-purple butt with the brush.

“I’m sorry, daddy. Really! Please stop, daddy, I’ll clean up the bathroom, honestly I will.”

He had no resistance left, he screamed and bawled, genuinely now, as he tried to thrash around on my leg to escape his punishment, but it was no use, of course.

He tried to reach back with his right arm, to cover his bottom, but I released my hold on his waist, and simply yanked his arm up into the middle of his back, lifting his pyjama jacket with it.

I am not a brute, my intention was to teach him a lesson and I had succeeded. I stopped spanking and put the brush on the bed beside me, but I wasn’t ready to set him free just yet.

As his crying began to subside to whimpers, I inspected his well-blistered buttocks and thighs; they were red, looked like raw hamburger and were bleeding a bit from dozens of little cuts where the brush bit really hard.

I lifted him up by his waist and stood me on his feet in front of me. “I spanked your bare bottom! I did it because I love you son and I need to teach you how to behave. And, I’ll spank you again if you deserve it, but nothing will ever change my love for you.”

He was jumping up and down in agony, I could see my spanking had left him very sore and he would have difficultly sitting down all day. He said nothing, but gave me a stare that exuded defiance. I could tell this would not be the last time I would have to take him across my knee.

Later in the car I could tell Terry’s butt was still terribly sore as he kept moving from one buttock cheek to the other to try to avoid sitting on a tender spot. He was sulking and not talking to me, but when I dropped him off at his office I knew that during the day he would calm down and that tonight he would find many exciting ways to tell me he still loved me.

Picture credit: Sting pictures

This story was first uploaded in August 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Man Across the Hall

z used drawing cane hold (16)

The party was jumping; the music blaring, the vodka flowing, the air was thick with dope. Kenny was staggering around holding on to his friends to stay upright. The night was a success and soon everyone would get laid.

Kenny’s parents were away on holiday and as the saying goes: while the cat’s away. He wasn’t allowed to use the family apartment for a party, but as that other saying goes: what the eyes don’t see.

Kenny was vaguely aware of a hammering on the door. He was too smashed to do anything about it, but one of the boys opened the front door to see what was up. It was Mr Posner, the old man from the apartment across the hall. He didn’t seem too happy. He was protesting about something.

“Hey Kenny! He wants you!”

Mr Posner wanted the music turned down. The guys were taking the piss, he was getting nowhere.

Kenny staggered over to the door.

“Turn the music down will you. Please.” Mr Posner was trying to stay polite.

“Oh fuck off will you,” Kenny sneered and slammed the door in his face. “That will show him, the pathetic old man,” he laughed to his friends.

They partied until dawn and then it took another hour to get everyone out of the apartment. Eventually, Kenny crashed into bed.

When he awoke, the apartment was empty and he was left alone to clear up the mess. Mum and dad were due back tomorrow and he had to make sure they never got to know about the party.

He was busy clearing up the debris and vacuuming the carpets when he was interrupted by a knock at the door.

Unsuspectingly, he opened it. “Oh!” It was Mr Posner. Kenny flushed, he couldn’t remember much about last night, but he had a vague image of the old man complaining.

“I don’t suppose your parents are at home?” Mr Posner knew the answer, but couldn’t think of an opening gambit. He was very friendly with Kenny’s parents and knew they were away on holiday; he also knew the problems they were having with Kenny.

Without being asked, he walked past Kenny into the apartment. “Good, you’re cleaning up the mess, that’s something at least.”

Kenny was irritated with the man and didn’t mind letting him know in the tone of his voice, “What do you want?”

“Don’t take that tone with me young man. You’re in enough trouble as it is.”

Trouble? What was he talking about?

“How much do you remember about last night?” It was a question with threatening undertones.

Kenny mumbled something about being “Sorry.”

But, Mr Posner wasn’t letting him off lightly. He wanted his pound of flesh from the boy, and if he got his way it was going to be a pound of flesh from his backside.

His neighbour knew much more about Kenny than the boy could ever imagine. He had the brat over a barrel and very soon he intended to have him over the back of his couch as well.

Mr Posner knew Kenny wasn’t getting on with his parents. He had been at university for two years now and things weren’t going well. He spent too much time partying, drunk or high on drugs. His studies were suffering and he might end up failing his degree. His dad had just about had enough and told him if he didn’t straighten himself out (he meant stay sober for a while and do some studying) he should move out permanently and leave his parents in peace. That would be a disaster for Kenny, there was no way he could afford to live away from home: he really had to keep on their good side.

The old man was calm and calculated as he tore into Kenny. The noise, the booze, the drugs, the sex and most of all his disgusting language were among the highlights that he would be recounting to his parents at the weekend. He didn’t say it out loud, but he knew and Kenny knew, that would be the end for him. His father would certainly say: when you return to university don’t come back.

Kenny was silent; there was nothing he could say. Everything Mr Posner said about him was true, but he didn’t feel remorse. He really didn’t care that he had upset the old man with his noise or that he swore at him. He just didn’t care. But, he did care that he would be thrown out of his parents’ home because of it.

Perhaps he could make a deal with the old man for his silence; but what? He had no money so he couldn’t offer a bribe, besides he was the kind of old sod that wouldn’t take a king’s ransom if it were offered. He probably wanted revenge; the vengeful old git.

How right Kenny was; but not in the way he thought.

Mr Posner had devised a plan. He would get his revenge and he would make Kenny suffer, but he would allow the boy to keep a roof over his head.

Still very calm and deliberate, Mr Posner said, “What you need is a damn good thrashing.”

He left the sentence dangling in the air. There was silence. Kenny had heard correctly, but that didn’t stop him saying crossly, “Do what?”

“I said you deserve a damn good thrashing and that is what you are going to get.”

Kenny’s face went deathly pale as he tried to comprehend the new information. He wants to “thrash” me. What does that mean? He wants to tie me to a tree and whip me until the skin peels off my back?

“A damn good caning.”

Kenny was still struggling to find a way to respond. He wanted to cane him, what like a schoolboy or something? Did they still have canes? Weren’t they abolished years ago?

Corporal punishment was unknown to Kenny; the schools didn’t use it and certainly it would never have occurred to his mum or dad to spank his backside when he misbehaved. A caning? This was unchartered territory for him.

Still calm, Mr Posner said, “I will give you a choice, either take a thrashing from me or I will report your behaviour to your parents.”

This stark choice woke the boy up. He summed up his situation in an instant: he had no choice. With no conviction, he said, “No way. You must be crazy.”

Mr Posner knew he was going to win this argument: he had the whip hand, so to speak.

“There will be no negotiation. Consent to your punishment and we will go across to my apartment.”

Kenny’s head whirled; how could he let this old man beat his arse? But, then again, in the circumstances, how could he not? Could he stand a thrashing? What would it be like; how many strokes would he get? God Almighty, why was he thinking like this?

Mr Posner turned his back, opened the front door and said over his shoulder, “Come with me now to my apartment.”

For Kenny, it was like an out-of-body experience. He didn’t seem to be in control, he could see himself meekly following Mr Posner across the hallway and into his own apartment.

He was led into the living room and what he saw there brought him down to Earth with a bump. There on the table was a long, thin cane. Kenny stared at it for some moments; he had never seen one before; it must have been longer than three feet and curved at the top.

Mr Posner could see the boy was fascinated. “Never seen a rattan cane before boy?”

“No,” he gulped.

“Well I shall be glad to introduce it to you.” He picked up the cane and effortlessly bent it between his two hands until it formed a perfect arc, then he swished it menacingly through the air and brought it crashing down with an almighty Whack! across the back of the leather couch.

What a satisfying sound it made, he thought and in a very few moments it will be coming down across the buttocks of this vile brat.

Kenny jumped as the cane thwacked into the leather. He considered running for his life and was just about to when the reality kicked in. There was nowhere to go; he had to stay here and let this man have his wicked way: the pervert.

Mr Posner swished the cane a few more times. “I used this on my two sons and they grew up into fine disciplined adults. What a pity your father didn’t do the same with you.”

Kenny was breathing heavily and he could feel sweat forming under his armpits; even though it was quite cool in the room.

Mr Posner could see the cane was intimidating Kenny, so he swished it some more.

“Are you ready?”

Ready? Ready for what exactly?

“Do you consent to be caned by me?”

Consent? What does the bastard mean?

“I need you to say that you agree to me punishing you.”

What the Hell?

“I have a paper here; I want you to sign it. It says that you agree that you have committed these crimes and that you consent to be beaten with a cane.”

Mr Posner had worked it out; it might not be a perfectly legal document, but if sometime in the future the boy wanted to cause trouble over it, he could always wave his piece of paper in his face.

This cannot be happening, Kenny thought. There is no way this is happening.

“Here,” Mr Posner handed him the document and a pen. His hands were shaking but Kenny managed to scrawl something, but it wasn’t really his signature.

“Come over here. Stand behind the couch,” Mr Posner guided him to a place two feet away from the couch. Kenny was shivering and tears were already forming behind his eyes.

Now, it would get tricky. Mr Posner wanted to beat the boy on his bare buttocks, but, in Kenny’s present state, he wasn’t sure he could stand it.

Should he risk it? Damn it why not. Kenny was wearing football shorts with elastic around the waist; it shouldn’t be too difficult to organise.

“Bend over the back of the couch.” Kenny stood firm. “Kenny,” he spoke gently, ‘this has to happen. It will be better for you, if you are brave. Bend over, take your beating and it will be over. I promise I will not inform your parents.”

Kenny was openly crying now, the tears started slowly, but within seconds turned to floods.

“Now, be a good boy. Bend over.”

Humiliated and gulping back his sobs, Kenny lowered himself over. It was a large couch and he had no choice but to place the palms of his hands flat on the seat cushions to steady himself. In that position, his buttocks were perfectly presented to Mr Posner.

Kenny was breathing heavily as he awaited the first stroke of the cane. But, Mr Posner was not yet ready. With no word of warning he grabbed hold of Kenny’s shorts and tugged them to his thighs; his underpants fell with them.

Before, Kenny had time to protest, the cane rose and fell twice, slashing across the boy’s tight buttocks. He screamed and was about to jump up to clutch his burning bottom, when Mr Posner shoved him in the back and forced him to return over the couch.

“You will stay in position. If you get up before I give permission, I will give you two extra strokes each time you try. Is that clear?” Kenny was sobbing uncontrollably, so Mr Posner had to assume he had got the message.

Two deep welts had already formed when the old man lashed down another two cuts a quarter of an inch below. Kenny wailed and gripped the cushions hard. His knuckles were already white.

Two more slashes and Kenny was coughing saliva over the couch. His bum looked like raw hamburger. He had never in his life experienced such agony. His bottom throbbed like mad and so did his head. He couldn’t take any more of this, he was sure he was about to faint.

Slash! Slash! Arrrrrrrrrrgggggggggghhhhhh! The shriek could be heard in neighbouring apartments and Mr Posner was pleased it was the afternoon and his neighbours were at work. Surely, if they had been at home they would now be dialling the police to report a murder in process.

Kenny desperately tried to remain in position; his legs drummed away at the carpet and his fists pounded the seat cushions. Who would have known a caning could hurt so much, no wonder they banned it in schools.

Of course, as any experienced caner could see, Mr Posner was not administering a schoolboy’s six-of-the-best; this was the most vicious thrashing he had ever delivered. To have beaten his own sons this harshly would have been unthinkable. He caned them because he loved them; he was caning Kenny because he hated him.

Twice more the cane rose and fell, Kenny’s rear end thrashed about over the couch as he desperately tried to stay in position. Every fibre of his body willed him to get up and run from the apartment; he was literally a beaten man. If he could only turn back the clock to last night, he would never have used obscene language to the old man. No better, he would never have thrown the party.

Tears, snot and saliva rolled over the cushions; Kenny was gasping for breath, his blood pressure was so high his ears were popping. If he had to endure more intense pain he felt his heart might give out.

Slash! Slash! The final two were flogged into the buttocks with such force they even scared Mr Posner. He didn’t know he had such strength. Kenny let out a scream so loud it induced a coughing fit. Unable to control his breathing he flailed around, arms waving and legs kicking.

Mr Posner panicked and he pulled the boy to his feet, pushing his head between his legs. Slowly, his breathing slowed and became more regular, but the uncontrollable sobbing went on and on.

Kenny’s arse was red hot and covered in deep red welts and bruising had already formed on the outer edges of his buttocks, where the tip of the cane repeatedly fell. Kenny was running on the spot trying to make the agony go away. Attempts to rub at his buttocks only aggravated the pain, increasing it to searing torture.

Mr Posner had seen enough, he had completed his task; revenge was his. Now, he wanted the boy out of his home.

“Come on, pull yourself together!” he snapped. Slowly, agonisingly, Kenny tried to pull up his pants, but the kiss of the thin cotton briefs on his blistered buttocks only reignited the pain.

“Leave them,” Mr Posner commanded. “Take them with you. Go now.”

He took hold of the boy’s arm and guided him to the door, opened it and pushed Kenny, naked from the waist down, into the hallway. In the distance he heard the sound of the elevator whirring.

Petrified that someone would see him in his present state; Kenny pushed open the front door and fell into his apartment. He lay feverishly on the carpet, struggling to catch his breath; he thought he was having a seizure. Then he heard a key scraping into the lock of the door; followed by the sound of it opening. He turned his aching body to see his mother and father enter the apartment; they had decided to come back from holiday a day early.

Picture credit: Endart

This story was first uploaded in August 2015.

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

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

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

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

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

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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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

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.

Other stories you might like

Don’t bully our mum

His eldest brother

Bend over. Touch your toes

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com