Over the limit

z used new story 2

Brian peeked behind the curtain watching with some concern the postman make his way up the driveway. The letterbox rattled and several envelopes plopped onto the doormat. Brian could destroy the evidence if he moved quickly. Reg wouldn’t find out. Not, for now at least. But was there any point? It would only put off the inevitable. Brian must be found out. It was only a matter of time.

Nervously, Brian picked up the mail. The credit card statement was top of the pile. Suddenly, Reg emerged from the kitchen, hurrying towards the stairs. He was late for work. “Anything interesting?” he called cheerfully as he passed his boyfriend. He was too busy to notice Brian’s pale face and the perspiration forming over his top lip. “No, nothing. Not really,” Brian croaked. His heart did not stop racing until Reg had disappeared into the bedroom. Even then, he couldn’t quite catch his breath.

Reg hurried down the stairs, now dressed in his suit. He stooped to pick up his briefcase  from under the hallstand. He took his car keys from a hook by the full-length mirror and paused to admire his reflection. He might be pushing thirty-five, he told himself, but he still had the figure and build of a man ten years younger.

Brian edged toward the front room, hoping Reg might forget about the mail. “Hey,” Reg called amiably as he opened the door, “Give me the credit card bill, I’ll sort it out later.” Brian tried hard to disguise the misery he felt as he handed it over. “Thanks lover,” Reg smiled and pecked Brian on the lips. “See you at six. Have a nice day!” Brian watched from the doorway as Reg manoeuvred the car down the drive and into The Avenue.

Have a nice day! Some chance, Brian moped. Not once Reg had read that credit card bill. Not once he saw that Brian had spent way over the monthly limit Reg had set for him. Brian had lived with Reg for only four months and in that short time he lived a life of luxury. He adored Reg. He was strong and considerate and loving. And rich. Brian knew a good thing when he had it laid in his lap. He feared he had screwed up. Reg had given him a generous allowance to spend on the credit card, but Brian let greed rule him.

He spent the day in idleness. He worked part-time filling shelves at a supermarket, but mostly (he knew, and accepted) he was Reg’s houseboy. He cooked and cleaned and performed tricks for his boyfriend. It wasn’t a bad life. And one he hoped would not come to a premature end.

At six o’clock precisely, Reg’s car drew up outside the house. Brian watched pensively from the doorway as his boyfriend unloaded his case. Reg strode towards him. “You. Front room. Now.” That put an end to any hope Brian had that he wasn’t in trouble. Deep trouble.

Reg ran a company with fifty people working under him. He was a man of action. He knew how to make a decision and he had decided how to deal with Brian. “I’m not going to argue with you. I give you a generous allowance and still you spend over the limit. You spend my money like it was water.”

Brian bit down on his lower lip. There was no point telling Reg he was made of money and could afford to increase his allowance a hundred times over. He decided silence was the better part of valour.

“Doh!” Reg almost exploded. “Go fetch the cane. Let’s not waste time. You know where it is.”  He did know where the cane was kept; in the wardrobe in the spare bedroom. Reg had showed it to him before Brian moved in. Reg told Brian he would feel it across his backside if he misbehaved. Of course, he hadn’t believed him. Men of twenty-five didn’t get caned. It was only a joke.

Brian knew Reg was a “bottom man” and he loved playing around with guys’ arses. Reg made no secret of that the first time he saw Brian at The Three Fishers. Reg was all over him; patting and preening his rock-hard buttocks. Not, that Brian objected. He fancied the pants off Reg. He went for the older man. Especially one as strong and as handsome as Reg. The fact that Reg dripped in money added to the attraction. He was happy to latch on to a rich man. Next time they met Brian wore his most flattering trousers; the ones that showed off the delightful roundness of his bottom without being so tightly-fitting they made him look like a hustler.

Reg had cupped his two cheeks in his hands and stroked and caressed them. Then, he smacked Brian’s bottom. Gently at first and when Brian didn’t object, harder. Brian sashayed his hips and jutted his bottom out, encouraging Reg. Then the slaps became full-blown whacks. Brian hadn’t realised but if they hadn’t been in the middle of a crowded bar, Reg would have upended him before throwing him across his knee for proper old-fashioned spanking.

Reg growled, “I said, fetch the cane. Do it now. Or else.” Brian’s head spun. Or else. Or else what? Or else, pack your bags and go? The cane. It must be a joke. Reg couldn’t be serious. Men of twenty-five didn’t get caned. In a trance Brian trudged up the stairs. There were five bedrooms in the massive house, but he knew which one contained the wardrobe that held the cane. It was at the back, overlooking the long, narrow garden. His heart raced and his head throbbed as he opened the cupboard door. There was nothing inside except a long, thin, yellow rattan cane hanging from the rail by its curved handle. With an unsteady hand Brian took it down. It was a little more than three feet long and as thick as a pencil. It weighed no more than a feather. He couldn’t resist holding it between his hands and flexing it. It easily made an arc. Saliva rained from his mouth. They still used canes at school, but not often and he had never seen one close up. He swished it through the air. It was an awesome weapon.

Slowly, he returned downstairs. Reg was waiting impatiently. “Hand it to me,” he barked. His eyes shone and his cheeks were ruddy. He took hold of the rattan and just as Brian had a moment earlier he swished it through the air. Reg was about six-feet-four with broad shoulders and a muscular chest. Brian was probably no more than five-eight in his socks and weighed about ten stones when sopping wet. Reg flexed the cane so that it formed an arc between his hands. Brian stared, transfixed.

Reg stopped bending the cane. He gripped it close to its curved handle and tapped the other end gently against the dining table. A broad grimace split his face. Brian’s heart skipped a beat. “Bend over the table,” Reg ordered, his voice betraying an edge of steel. “Grip the far end tightly.”

z used drawing cane hold (42)

It is just a joke, Brian told himself. He wants to admire my gorgeous bum. He isn’t really going to beat my backside with a cane. His journey across the room was wobbly. He held onto to the table to steady himself before stretching out across it. He reached forward in the way that Reg had demanded but wasn’t sure where to put his head. He tried propping his chin against the cold wood but he couldn’t get comfortable. He settled on resting his left cheek on the table and staring at a Lowry print in a frame on the wall.

Reg’s hand stroked Brian’s tight buttocks. He couldn’t see but Brian knew his tight trousers had ridden up his crack, separating each cheek. His stomach rested on the edge of the table meaning his legs were parted and his bum was presented to Reg at an enticing angle.

He felt Reg caress his bottom and legs, apparently in appreciation. That cane is just a joke, he told himself. Suddenly, Reg picked it up and swiped it through the air. It made a sinister swish as it flew. He’s not gong to use it … he’s just playing around, Brian tried to convince himself. Then there was another almighty swipe which ended with a tremendous crack! as the cane thwacked into Brian’s tight backside. Brian yelped with pain. He let go of the table and jumped to his feet.

“Get back over. Do as you are told,” Reg growled. “It’s six-of-the-best for you young man. Bend over. I don’t want to hear any more of that noise. Any more trouble from you and I’ll make it a dozen.”

Brian felt the room spin around him. He closed his eyes tight but that didn’t make it stop. He didn’t understand. It was as if he was on some kind of drug.

“Bend over,” Reg pushed Brian towards the table and the young man obediently fell forward. Once more he gripped the far edge. The cane cut him again. No this was no joke. These were not love-taps. Reg swiped the cane into the upturned bottom. A spray of dust rose from the tightly-stretched trousers as if he were beating a carpet.

The pain was fantastic. It was like Reg had pressed a red hot wire across Brian’s pert buttocks. Once more he tried to get up, but this time Reg pressed his hand into the small of Brian’s back.

“I told you. Stop that noise. Any more and you will regret it. This is your last warning. Do you understand?”

Brian didn’t… couldn’t, reply. Reg slapped his bottom with his open hand.

“Well, do you understand?”

Meekly he wheezed, “Yes, Sir.”

He had no idea why he had called Reg “Sir,” somehow it seemed the right thing to do. The cane bit hard into his rock-hard bottom again. Through a super human effort Brian swallowed down the yells of pain he so desperately wanted to make. Only muffled grunts could be heard.

Reg admired the clear mark that had formed along the seat of the tight cotton trousers, extending across both cheeks in a thin line. The stroke had landed a quarter of an inch below the first. Reg had an expert aim. The third and fourth cut bit into Brian’s backside in rapid succession. By now he was losing control. The gasps became yelps.

Reg paused before stroke five, knowing that the pain would be searing across Brian’s backside and through his legs. Brian’s breathing was uneven, tears welled in his eyes. Swish! Whack! Number five flogged home. Brian made a move to rise himself from the table, but Reg’s earlier threat rang in his ears: he didn’t want extra strokes.

Brian knew he had welts forming under his pants where five parallel strokes had hit home. No, they had done more than hit home, they had been struck with such force they had gone through the flesh into the meat of his buttocks.

Number six was the worst of all. Reg paused, counted to ten in his head, took three steps backward, raised the cane in the air and rushed forward and struck.

The sixth stroke was laid diagonally across the previous five, creating a five-bar gate, cutting each welt and creating searing pain. Brian was gone, tears came in huge gulps, he wanted the pain to end, to curl up in the foetal position and die.

Reg watched him writhing across the table, satisfied with his own handiwork.

“Stand up,” the instruction was gentle, no longer an order. Brian staggered to his feet, unsure what to do first. To wipe his tears and the snot that was coming from his nose, or to clench his burning buttocks with both hands in an attempt to rub away the agony.

But he didn’t have time. “Turn and stand in front of me,” Reg commanded. “Look at me when I’m talking to you boy.” He raised his eyes. “Will I need to do this again?” Brian  hardly had the wind in him to utter, “No, Sir.”

“Good. Because if I do we shall see how you like it with your trousers and pants down. Doh! Stop your snivelling. Go upstairs don’t come down again until you’ve calmed down.”

He watched his younger companion hobble from the room. Then, he tossed the cane that was still into his sweaty hand onto to the sofa. He walked across the room to the cocktail cabinet and poured himself three inches of whisky. He took his glass and sat in an armchair by the window. He sipped the drink slowly. “One hundred pounds over his spending limit,” he laughed to himself, “and worth every penny of it.”

Picture credit: Unknown

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Charles Hamilton the Second



Memories of Dad’s slipper

z used new story 2

z used slipper handing over sting (2)

He gestured that I should stand close to his right hand side. I shuffled forward a pace or two into position.

“Take down your jeans, please.” Without complaint, I did as instructed. My hands trembled more than I thought they should as I unbuckled my belt, unfastened the two buttons at the waistband and the four on the fly and pushed my Levis to my knees, exposing my dark blue underpants.

Dad adjusted himself on his chair. He moved his bottom a bit, making sure his spine was firmly resting against the back of the chair. He separated his legs by a foot or so to provide a platform where my stomach and chest would rest.

“Bend over my knee, please,” Dad said quietly.

I was across him in one movement. I stretched my hands in front of me and kept my knees straight, leaving my toes resting an inch above the floor.

I waited patiently. I had a close up view of the dark- and light-blue patterned lino floor covering and the scuff marks where for years chairs had scraped in and out under the kitchen table.

Dad grabbed hold of the tail of my shirt and pulled it way up my back, nearly to my shoulders. He smoothed my pants out: first across one buttock and then across the other, eliminating all wrinkles.

I took a deep breath.

The first whack hit me square in the middle of the left bum cheek. The second was on the right. Dad wasn’t a sadist, when he gave spankings he intended for us to get the message and mend our ways, but he didn’t want to brutalise us.

I gasped a little as the third and fourth wallops hit right on top of the previous two. Then he quickened the pace. Slap here, whack there, wallop again.

He stopped after a dozen whacks. It hurt alright. I was sore, but I wasn’t about to burst into sobs or anything.

Dad was finished spanking, but he continued to hold me down over his knees. He still had things to do.

“Have you learned you lesson?”

“Yes Dad.”

“And what lesson is that?”

“Don’t come home late.”

“Good boy.”

“Will I have to do this again?”

“No Dad.”

“Good, because if I do it will be a lot worse for you. Understand?”

“Yes Dad.”

“Good, get up son.”

I struggled to my feet, pulled up my jeans and did them up.

It was about two weeks after that I ended up over his knee with a bedroom slipper slapping into my upturned bum.

I had started a fire in the garden. For no good reason, except to see the flames burn. It wasn’t the first time. Dad had warned me. I knew what was coming. He confronted me with the accusation I was a fire bug and I had no choice but to admit it.

I suppose he had made a plan of action in advance. He gave me a little lecture about the dangers of fire. I didn’t take much notice of him. I was eighteen, I had been round the block once or tice with Dad. I had a good idea what was coming.

We had been talking in the kitchen when he said we should go next door to the living room. I hesitated and he gripped my arm quite tightly and pushed me out the door.

My heart was thumping. He pulled me into the lounge. It was a small room with a three piece suite, dining room table and chairs, a sideboard by the window and a TV set.

I was a couple of inches taller than Dad and he was running to fat a bit and if push came to shove he wouldn’t have been able to force me across his knee. But I didn’t struggle. I was raised to this. It wasn’t going to be my first spanking; nor my last. I didn’t finally escape Dad’s slipper until I had moved away from home and married. Until then, I would always be his little boy.

He sat down in the chair, holding his bedroom slipper in his right hand. I stood looking at him.

My heart hadn’t stopped racing since our confrontation in the kitchen and I found it difficult to catch my breath. I remember I wearing two-toned Sta-Press trousers – very fashionable at the time – which had an adjustable waist so you needn’t wear a belt. There were no back pockets, so Dad had a fine view of my bum and would have seen I was wearing very brief underpants that left a lot of my buttock cheeks uncovered. Clearly, the trend setters of fashion at the time had no expectation that people wearing their clothes might need protection from their dad’s slipper.

Without saying another word Dad pulled the chair out from behind the table, put it in the centre of the room and sat down. He gripped the slipper in his fist. Dad pointed to a spot to the right of where he sat. “Stand there,” he ordered, and I did as I was told.

“Take down your trousers.”

Slowly and carefully, I undid the button, slid down the zip, and pushed the trousers until they dropped of their own accord to my ankles. My yellow shirt covered all but the lowest inch of my honeycombed coloured pants.

I was standing in front of dad with just my thin pants covering my bottom.

“Bend over my knee.”

Leaning down, momentarily I placed a hand on Dad’s thigh to steady myself, and then lowered myself across his lap, reaching down for the carpet beyond.

I let him position me across his lap. He took my arm and folded it up my back, securing me and preventing any possible escape.

My shirt was neatly folded up, exposing my lower back to the cool air of the room.

Then Dad took hold of the top of my pants. Then, I was lying across Dad’s knee with a bare bottom. I breathed in sharply. Suddenly, there was a loud crack echoing round the room as my bum got a mighty whack that stung me across both my pert round buttocks.

“Ah!” I gasped.  After just two more weighty blows from the large slipper, I felt my bottom starting to flame with a smarting soreness that hurt and stung.

With just two or three seconds between each smack of the slipper, the spanking quickly developed into a slow steady rhythmic rising and falling of the slipper. Each time it contacted forcefully with my once pale creamy white bottom, I grimaced and screwed my face up in some pain.

Dad’s large slipper thumped heavily down on my naked bottom time and time again. My bottom was really very sore now, and my arm hurt where I had been struggling and Dad had restrained me. He was the master of me and he gave me the sound spanking I so thoroughly deserved.

The spanking continued and my bum was burning. Every fresh smack of the slipper tore a gasp from me. Then it is over. Dad rolled me off his lap and I fell to the floor. I stumbled to my feet, my face red and hot. My hands tried to sooth my burning bottom.

I had spent the past ten minutes or so draped across Dad’s knee with my trousers around my ankles and underpants around my knees. Dad had given my bottom and the top of my legs a thorough spanking. Not one square millimetre of my rear end avoided his attention. My bum was aglow.

It had been a long, humiliating and very painful bare bottom spanking.

Then, Dad is warned me that if I ever started another fire he would take a cane to my bare backside, young adult or not!

“Get up to your room,” he ordered. I thanked him before leaving the living room, closing the door quietly behind me.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures


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Charles Hamilton the Second



Father deals with idle student

“I am going to spank you and that is an end to the matter. You can submit yourself and take it with some dignity, or I can call my assistant Rodgers in and he will hold you down. Either way you are getting a spanking.”

Simon had expected a call from his father; he knew he had met with his university tutor and words such as lazy, indolent, idle and workshy would have been used to describe the boy.

Simon was in his first year at university and things were not going well. He had failed his mid-terms and he awaited the results of his final exams with some anxiety.  It wasn’t that Simon was a stupid boy; that was far from the truth, but he did lack self-discipline.

You could blame his school for that. His father had paid a small fortune to send him to a very select boarding school and his outlay was repaid when his son had passed his A-level examinations with flying colours. His father had then laid out more money to send him to university.

That’s where the trouble started. What his father did not realise, and nor did Simon until recently, was that it was the discipline regime (or more truthfully, the punishment regime) at the school that had ensured his son’s success. Bucksbury Manor had its standards and if these were not met, the boys paid the price: with their backsides.

Simon learnt from an early age that the best way to avoid bruises on his buttocks was to work hard. He mostly succeeded in this, but there were tell-tale signs in the sixth-form when he was eighteen years old that his standards were beginning to slip and he was no longer an A-student.

His housemaster was an experienced teacher and he knew that boys of Simon’s age often became distracted from their work, especially if they discovered the delights of the nearby town, and particularly its girls.

Mr Bailey also knew the perfect remedy for this slacking. That was why Simon found himself unexpectedly summoned one afternoon to the housemaster’s study. Posner, one of the House junior boys – believe it or not they were called “fags” at the school – came to find him to deliver Mr Bailey’s instruction to report immediately.

“What’s it about?” Simon inquired innocently.

Posner claimed not to know; actually, he hadn’t been told the reason, but from experience he knew that a summons like this usually meant a boy was to get a thrashing.

Simon was ignorant of the fate that awaited him and untroubled he walked through the wood-panelled hall, past the honours boards, the school photographs, the noticeboards, the glass fronted cupboards with various trophies and the paintings of past headmasters to his housemaster’s study.

He was aware that the housemaster was very strict and any boy sent to him for breaking the rules would feel the full strength of his powerful right arm and leave the study with an aching backside.

But, he was in the sixth-form and senior boys were not caned. In any case he hadn’t done anything wrong.

He knocked on the study and waited for the command, “Enter!” It was a dark room with wood panels around three walls, in the middle of the room was a huge oak desk, to the side was a large leather armchair, a long window and behind the desk was a wicker basket containing several swishy canes, each of them capable of leaving a boy with a throbbing backside.

Simon could not take his eyes of the wicker basket; he did not expect to be on the receiving end of one of the canes, but they were still an intimidating sight.

Mr Bailey took off his horn rimmed glasses and toyed with them while he spoke, “You are producing sloppy work and your grades are slipping. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Simon was dumbfounded; it was true his grades were poor, but he hadn’t expected to be hauled in by his housemaster about it.

He had no excuses and he knew it. His housemaster punctured the silence. “You are slacking and that is inexcusable. You have the brains to do well in your examinations and I am going to make sure you use them.”

Simon, blushed to his roots, and stared at the carpet. Mr Bailey was right he had been slacking off, spending too much time in town or, to be perfectly honest, looking at magazines and playing with himself down at the copse.

His housemaster, having discarded his gown and jacket, was pacing the study swishing a senior cane.

“I am going to beat you and I shall beat you every time you are caught slacking from now until your examinations. Is that perfectly clear?”

Quaking, Simon agreed that it was indeed perfectly clear, thank you, Sir.

“Carter remove your blazer and hang it up, please.”

Hands trembling, Simon undid the buttons, slid the blazer off his back and placed it on a hook behind the door.

“Stand in front of the desk. Drop your trousers.”

Jesus! Simon hadn’t expected this and the look on his face told his housemaster so.

“This is to be an exemplary beating Carter. It is designed to ensure you stop slacking in your school work. But, if I have to deal with you again, you will be caned on the bare.”

Simon saw he had no choice. He was guilty as charged and was to receive a sound thrashing as punishment. Schoolboys have a code of honour and it says you take your beatings like a man.

Despite his intense embarrassment, Simon undid the buttons and pushed his trousers to his knees. His white shirt was long enough to cover his buttocks.

“Lift up your shirt and then bend over the desk.” Simon’s humiliation was complete; with his shirt held high the housemaster was able to get a full view of the boy in his tight white underpants; front and back.

Mr Bailey had no interest in ogling his pupils in their underwear; his only desire was to have the target for his cane unobstructed.

Simon lowered himself across the desk, stretched his arms across and gripped the far side, pointing his backside in the air ready to take a most humiliating caning.

The housemaster with determination set to work lashing the cane hard across the waiting buttocks. Simon’s head shot up as the bite of the first stroke got to him, once again the housemaster raised the cane before lashing number two across the boy’s backside. Simon yelled out with each stroke as the thin underwear offered no protection.

z used cane pants school London

By the time Mr Bailey lashed the cane the sixth time across the pants, Simon was in utter distress. When instructed he stood up and his hands furiously clutched his stinging buttocks.

From that day, until he joined the university, Simon had knuckled down to his studies.

But, without the incentive of the threat of his housemaster’s cane across his bare buttocks, Simon had let things slip, until it was so bad that his future at the university was in jeopardy. He was grateful that his father loved him enough that he made this special visit to the university to sort out the problem.

Now, he was in a hotel suite, facing his father’s anger.

“I have spoken to your university tutor and she assures me that there I still some hope for you and you might be able to re-sit your examinations. I have agreed that I will pay the extra fees this will involve. Now, I need to give you an incentive to work harder.

“I am going to spank you and that is an end to the matter. You can submit yourself and take it with some dignity, or I can call my assistant Rodgers in and he will hold you down. Either way you are getting a spanking.”

Although, Simon was no longer a pupil at Bucksbury Manor he still abided by the code: take it like a man. His father opened his briefcase and drew out a heavy wooden brush with a short handle. Then he seized an armless chair and quickly sat down.

Mr Carter was expecting more resistance from his son and with an iron grasp on the back of Simon’s neck he hauled the university student over his lap and moved him around until his bottom was directly over his knee. To stop his son trying to scramble off his lap, he encircled his waist with his strong left arm and slid him over and down, swinging his right leg over and around Simon’s legs, locking them.

He held him in place for a minute letting him settle down and get used to this new position and rested the brush across the centre of his backside. His father patted the boy’s bottom firmly and lectured him about how upset he was with him and how it hurt him having to do this; then he was ready to start the traditional father / son discipline dance.

Simon was enormously embarrassed at having to go over his father’s knee at his age for a spanking. Why couldn’t he just have caned him instead?

Suddenly, he felt his father gripping the waist band of his sweatpants, yanking them over his bum and down his thighs, past his knees, and down his shins to his ankles. Before he could protest his tight yellow briefs quickly followed.

Simon felt his right arm pulled back and twisted up against his upper back, as he lay trapped hanging over his father’s knees. His legs were stretched so that his tip toes hardly touched the carpet.

Then he began to spank away at his son’s buttocks; twenty, forty, sixty wallops. Simon’s backside was shining, he was yelling out in fear, but Mr Carter continued to pound away at the boy’s bottom.

Simon had thought nothing could be more torture than that housemaster’s caning on his underpants, but this bare-bottomed spanking was far worst. His face screwed up in agony and he fought to be brave, but as the brush smacked and smacked on and on into his fleshy globes he started to whimper and then squeal and soon he was really howling with his legs jerking about as he bounced up and down.

His father could tell Simon was in distress, but his kept laying into him, smack after smack after smack. Then the begging started, but it fell on deaf ears. Mr Carter went on spanking.

Simon’s backside and the top of his thighs were red raw, tears were streaming down his face as he bawled like a child of eight. He just dangled there, resigned, jolting around on his father’s lap as each blazing whack sent him bouncing, rocking and twisting in unbearable pain, humiliation and disgrace.

He knew he would rather be anywhere in the world than lying upside down across his father’s knee with trousers and briefs down and that evil brush pounding away at his bare buttocks, the pain and humiliation was just not worth it. Through his tears he promised his father he had learned his lesson, hoping and praying that this will be the end.

He would study hard, if only his father would stop hitting him.

After another twenty swats, his father did stop spanking him, he was crying steadily and his bottom was as red as a tomato. Drenched with pain and perspiration, young Simon staggered to his feet and stood mortified with embarrassment as his father lifted the tail of his shirt to inspect the blazing red blisters that covered his bum and upper thighs.

Pulling himself away, his hands hovered around his burning buttocks and he stared in abject remorse at his father, tears streaming down his face. He jumped on the spot trying to make the agony go away.

His father was not a tyrant, he could see his son was defeated and left the room with the brush in his hand leaving Simon hugging his burning backside and still crying both from pain and humiliation.

Simon eventually graduated with honours from the university and in the years to come he would look back on this day and others that followed with gratitude.

Picture credit: CP Services London


This story was first uploaded in March 2016.


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 Charles Hamilton the Second


Just a little weed

new story 2

Mr Tripper pulled the car gently through the gates and slowly headed to the house. The afternoon was hot, just a bit too hot. Even with the air conditioning at full blast, his scalp itched with sweat. It did nothing for his mood.

He came to a halt and switched off the purring engine. He sat, his rear end a little sticky against the leather seats. He held onto the steering wheel and peered through the windscreen, noticing for the first time the dead bugs squashed against the glass.

He drummed his fingers; his irritation was getting the better of him. He did not like skipping work early. And he hated lying to his secretary about an urgent dental appointment. He wiped his wet brow with the back of his hand and opened the car door. He stood on the gravel pathway and stared towards the house. Sean would be in the bedroom at the far left on the top floor. Failing that he’d be laid out on the couch in the front lounge. Either way, Mr Tripper did not want the young man to hear his approach.

That might be easier said than done. Mr Tripper was a heavy set man and even a lightweight would fail to make crunching footsteps in the gravel. He felt absurd as he tip-toed the five or six paces from his car to the front door. He found his keys in his trouser pocket and quietly opened the door. He stood, ears pricked, seeking sound. He didn’t need bat-like radar, music (well, Sean would call the cacophony music) swelled from behind a door at the far end of the hallway. Mr Tripper congratulated himself on his prediction; the brat was in the front lounge.

He closed the door silently. The back of his shirt was drenched with perspiration, the airless hallway was no help. He was suddenly aware that his heartrate was speeding. His temples throbbed. Soon, his mouth would dry. Mr Tripper recognised the symptoms. He had them every time he confronted Sean. He made no attempt at stealth as he approached the closed door. There was no way the brat would hear him coming over all that noise.

He reached his destination and paused with his hand hovering over the door handle. Jeez, he groaned silently. He recognised the sweet, cloying aroma that drifted from under the door. Not again! After what I said last time. The bastard. And, in my house too.

He pushed against the door and it opened with a flourish. Mr Tripper stood framed in the doorway. The smell was overpowering. He cleared his throat. Sean lay on a couch at the far end of the room. Mr Tripper’s eyes narrowed, his anger was rising. Sean shuffled to something like a sitting position. He peered back at Mr Tripper through large black shades. His long, well-designed hair flopped over his forehead. He nodded a slight welcome gesture and took a long suck on the cigarette he held unsteadily between two fingers.

“What the …?” Mr Tripper barked.

“Huh?” Sean grunted.

“That!” Mr Tripper nodded in Sean’s general direction.

Sean looked at the cigarette in his hand as if seeing it for the first time. “It’s just a little weed,” he slurred.

“It is not just a little weed,” Mr Tripper took a deep breath. He was trying to control his temper, but instead he sucked down the cannabis secondary-smoke. He coughed. “It is not just a little weed. It is drugs.” He flailed his arms, pointing first at the twenty-four-year-old spaced out on the couch and then at the large window that took up most of one wall. “Anyone can see you.”

Sean furrowed his brow and beneath his dark glasses scrunched up his eyes. “It’s the garden,” he wheezed before taking another drag.

‘It is pot. It. Is. Illegal.” Mr Tripper’s arms continued to thrash about. “In my house. I cannot believe it!” But, he could. It wasn’t the first time. Sean was that kind of guy; never too far away from a smoke. You only had to look at him: long hair, posy sunglasses, very short cut-down denims and a sleeveless black vest with an anti-nuclear symbol emblazoned on the front. Clearly, Sean was not the nine-to-five type.

z used solo short shorts smoking by john kohlburn

Mr Tripper moved forward so he towered over Sean’s prone body. “For goodness sake, put it out can’t you!” He waved his hand in front of his face in a fruitless attempt to stop himself inhaling the smoke.

“Wor …?” Sean dragged on the cigarette twice in quick succession and hiccupped. It was almost finished. He took a third hit and belched loudly, sending a cold shiver through Mr Tripper. Then very slowly Sean licked the tops of his thumb and forefinger and snuffed the tip of the lighted cigarette. Now, it was his turn to flail his arms as he tried to find an ashtray to set it down.

“Bugger!” Mr Tripper ejaculated. His sudden movement startled Sean and his shades slid down his nose. “I told you! I told you!” Mr Tripper repeated his statement for emphasis. “No drugs in my house. I told you.” He turned his back on the young man and strode across the room. He stopped, turned around and faced Sean once more. “Don’t say, I didn’t tell you. I won’t have it. I just won’t have it.”

Sean sat upright on the couch. His head was buzzing but he had enough sense left to see he was in trouble.

“What did I say? What did I say would happen, if I caught you with drugs again?” Mr Tripper’s already sweaty face was now puce with rage. “What …?”

Suddenly, Sean realised he was supposed to give an answer. Now, what was it the old man had said? He knew, he was sure he knew. But, just at this moment he couldn’t quite recall. He watched Mr Tripper try to open a drawer in a mahogany sideboard. It seemed to be stuck. The clattering noise he made as he tugged away clanged like cathedral bells in Sean’s’ head.

At last it was open. Through bleary eyes Sean saw Mr Tripper reach in the drawer. He thought he knew what he was searching for … if only he could remember. Then Mr Tripper waved a large, heavy wooden paddle in his fist. “I told you. I warned you. I did.” Mr Tripper seemed to be trying to convince himself.

Sean staggered to his feet, leaving the sunglasses dangling from one ear. He snatched at them and they fell to the floor. He left them where they were; he had other concerns right now. Mr Tripper clutched the paddle in his right fist and waved it, only inches from Sean’s glazed eyes. “A spanking I said. A darned good spanking. And, I meant it too. Get over here.”

He didn’t wait for Sean to move, instead he gripped the young man by the elbow and pulled him away from the couch and across the room. Sean did not resist. Mr Tripper left him swaying in front of a large table. The table itself had no real purpose, they ate their meals in a designated dining room. This one was for show, it just filled space in one of the dozen rooms in Mr Tripper’s house. He carefully removed an empty vase that decorated the centre of the table and laid it on the sideboard. Sean watched the older man as he made his preparations. His head buzzed. It was like he was on the ceiling looking down on scene. These two men were strangers. He might be watching a play at a theatre. They were acting out a scene.

With the vase safely out of the way, Mr Tripper turned his attention once more to Sean. “Take down those shorts. Underpants too. Bend across the table.” He tapped the table with the edge of his paddle so Sean could be in no doubt about the instruction he had been given. The young man stood rooted. He made no sound, nor gesture. He stared blankly at a painting on the wall beyond the table. It consisted of green and red slashes and there were blue squiggles in there too. The whole thing swirled before Sean’s eyes.

“Bah!” Mr Tripper explosion of exasperation made him sound like a very old man; some ancient headmaster in a boys’ comic from the nineteen-thirties. “Well, if you won’t, I shall.” He dropped the paddle onto the couch and without a further word he stood directly in front of the young man. He stooped his shoulders and clutched at Sean’s belt buckle. It was soon open. He undid the metal fastening on the waistband and the tight, short cut-offs flapped open. Sean was motionless, still trying to make sense of the swirling picture.

Mr Tripper’s hand trembled and it made him fumble with the zipper of Sean’s denims. Once he had it halfway open, the weight of the leather belt had the shorts slipping down his thighs and over his knees until they fell in a puddle at his feet. His underpants were the briefest known to man. They had to be since his cur-offs were no bigger than boxer shorts. Mr Tripper could hardly not notice Sean’s cock and balls pressing against the snug cotton. This was no mere boy standing before him.

“Well …?” Mr Tripper might as well have been talking to himself. Sean remained still when Mr Tripper put both his thumbs behind the elastic waistband of the pants and with two simple tugs he had them over Sean’s tight buttocks and resting on top of the shorts. His long, thick cock flapped in the breeze. From where Mr Tripper stood and gazed it seemed to be on the march.

“Bend over the table,” Mr Tripper ordered as he retrieved the paddle. It was immediately clear Sean had no intention to move so Mr Tripper simply took hold of his neck and pressed him forward. He didn’t have to force the young man, Sean had no resistance in him. Instead, he rested his stomach on the wooden table top and stretched his arms to his sides and gripped the edges of the table. He pressed his left cheek against the table. He was sorry he could no longer see the swirling picture.

Mr Tripper studied the paddle in his hand. It was not so big, maybe about eight inches long, and about four inches wide. It was made of oak, a hardwood, and it had a few holes in the middle, this was to let the air underneath it to escape, insuring it would burn like hell each time it made contact with skin.

He turned his attention to Sean’s buttocks. They were as manly as his cock. Although Mr Tripper knew Sean to be a lazy so-and-so, the young man retained a muscular body. His legs were covered with dark hair, but the buttocks were not. The tiniest nick of a blade was visible inside his crack.

Mr Tripper breathed deeply. The afternoon had turned sweltering. The room was airless. He wondered for  moment if he dared open a window. Sean had been right, it did open onto the garden. The Avenue was some distance away, no passer-by would hear him. But there was nosy Mr Flynn at Number 52. Mr Tripper wouldn’t put it past him to be spying behind the fence.

He let it be. Sean was breathing evenly. His buttocks twitched slightly, as if inviting him to get on with the business. To do his worst. Mr Tripper took his time. Pat, pat on the left cheek. Then, the same on the right. Taking his aim. Then, Swat! It was a hard blow and the paddle blade was outlined in red across the cheek. He counted to fifteen in his head before landing the second blow.

He started in the very centre of the backside, across the highest and fleshiest part of the cheeks. The second swipe was lower; the third higher. That way Sean’s whole bum was ablaze and glowing red-hot after only three swats. Then, he went for the top of the mounds near the spine, over the crest of flesh and into the underside where buttocks meet the thighs.

Sean’s once smooth bottom was ridged with red welts. The surface of his buttocks soon took on the consistency of leather.

Sean made no sound. His bum absorbed the power of the paddle. Once or twice he twitched, it was his body’s natural reaction to the assault being made upon it.

In the right hands a paddle is a mightily effective spanking tool. It leaves the rear end blistered and bruised. A young man will find it painful to sit on a hard surface for a considerable time after. Unlike a cane or  switch, or even a riding crop, a paddle doesn’t cut. It is unlikely to leave the buttocks bloodied. A paddle does the job, but it isn’t torture. It is the preferred instrument of the loving father or educator.

Mr Tripper wasn’t keeping count but he must have laid three dozen swats across Sean’s backside before he reckoned there wasn’t one square inch of flesh left untenderized. All he saw was throbbing, scarlet  flesh. Sean’s haunches were on fire, surely he was in considerable pain. He struck one low, against the naked thigh. It left a deep imprint, but Sean barely reacted. Mr Tripper smiled to himself: he’s stoned – can’t feel a thing.

His arm ached and his heartrate was off the scale. The intense stuffiness of the room was getting to him. If he didn’t take care, he might fall to the floor in a dead faint. It was time to call a halt. He whacked another three swats against Sean’s thighs for good measure and then reeling a little, he swayed away from the table. Gasping like a fish out of its bowl he threw the paddle onto the couch. From a distance he observed Sean. He was still face down across the desk, arms spread-eagled, face staring off to the side. His backside was red and raw. In places the cheeks resembled uncooked hamburger meat. The young man was breathing heavily but otherwise he seemed unmoved by his ordeal.

“Stand up,” Mr Tripper called from across the room and when Sean gave no sign that he intended to move, he walked over and tapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, it’s over,” he said gently. Sean’s eyes watered. Mr Tripper could not tell if this was because of tears or the heavy smoking he had done. He took hold of Sean’s upper arm and helped him upright.

Now standing, Sean shook his head from side to side violently, rather like a horse does when neighing. The vigorous movement seemed to wake him up. His lips curled with a weak smile. He said nothing. Gently he pushed Mr Tripper back a little so they were both in space in the middle of the room. He sank to his knees in front of the old man. His fingers were surprisingly nimble as he undid the front of Mr Tripper’s trousers. Sean released the old man’s cock from its mooring.

It was long and narrow, curving slightly up the right. He was uncircumcised, the tip just protruding from the foreskin. Something on the tip glimmered. Sean placed his palm on the side of it, toward the base, and slowly wrapped his fingers around like he was griping a bat. Mr Tripper squirmed with appreciation. Sean took the pressure off his grip and ran his hand gently upward over nearly eight inches of cock.

Mr Tripper grabbed a hunk of Sean’s hair and forced the young man’s face towards his own throbbing penis. “’No, no. Take me. Suck me. Now. Now,” he gasped. “That’s what I paid you for.”

Picture credit: John Kohlburn

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Don’t Knock it Until You’ve Tried

Public Birching

The interview


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second


After I missed curfew

new story 2

used drawing slipper hold otk (2)

I knew what I was supposed to do. I was no stranger to this. You might even say that I was raised to it. Even so, my heart thumped so hard that I wouldn’t be surprised if the old crone who lived next door could hear it.

I took a deep breath and headed across the living room. There wasn’t much space once the settee and armchairs were there. Along the wall was one of the latest radiogram sets. It had a hidden door that when you opened it revealed an empty cocktail cabinet. In the far corner was a colour television set. It cost Dad an arm and a leg. The most modern technology available anywhere in the country. Colour television! I was the envy of all my friends. What a pity most of the programmes broadcast were in black-and-white.

The TV was propped up on a stand and underneath it there was a shelf. My eyes were focused on it. It wasn’t the shelf itself that mesmerised me. My attention was fixed on the somewhat worn pair of bedroom slippers that nestled there. I have no doubt that when Dad tucked his feet into these he was as comfortable as any man could be. Lucky old Dad! Nor so much me. The slippers had another purpose and let me tell you right away when Dad used them for that, comfort was far from his mind.

“Fetch a slipper,” Dad had said. I knew not to argue. Dad had made up his mind. I know from let-me-say “painful experience” that I should bite my tongue and just let matters take their course. I shuffled across the carpet and leaned forward to reach one of the slippers. There was more than a faint odour of stale, sweaty feet about them. I wrinkled my nose as I took hold of the one nearest to me. It was a typical bedroom slipper. It had a soft top made of some kind of checked material (it felt a little like carpet fabric, which might be why they were sometimes called “carpet slippers”). The sole was quite solid and (I think) made of rubber. Whatever, I know for certain that when Dad takes it between his hands it is very flexible and when he bends it the heel can almost touch the toe. In the right hands this is an extremely effective punishment tool. And Dad has the right hands.

When I straightened up and turned to hand it over to Dad, I could see he had already taken one of the wooden chairs from under the dining table and placed it carefully in the very centre of the room. He took the slipper from me, hardly even acknowledging that I was there. He gripped it by the heel in his right hand and then he backed his flabby backside onto the seat of the chair. It only took a second or two for him to part his legs and wriggle his buttocks until he was comfortable. He gripped the slipper tightly in his right fist and smacked it down hard into his left palm. The resulting Smack! seemed to echo around the room. It probably didn’t really do this, but my nerves were jangling and my senses were all over the place.

“Come here,” Dad snapped his fingers and pointed to a spot close to his right thigh. He was ready for action. I hopped from foot to foot embarrassed. I’m nineteen-years-old but Dad still treats me like I was nine. Surely, I’m too old to be spanked. I can’t believe any of the guys at university get spanked by their dads. Mind you, I don’t suppose they would go round telling people if they were. I’d die of shame if any of them knew I was about to go over Dad’s knee for a dose of the slipper.

I knew my face was colouring red as I waited for Dad’s next instruction. I knew what it would be. It was less than a month ago that I was standing in this very same spot. You might say I am a veteran at this. I knew Dad likes his little rituals. Who was I to argue? My heart sped even faster and suddenly all spit drained from my mouth. No matter how many times in the past I had done this, I always found it totally humiliating.

Dad snapped his fingers again. “Take ’em down,” he ordered.

My trousers had elastic at the waist. All I had to do was to take hold of their top, pull the waistband away from my hips and help them slide down my thighs. My fingers trembled as I did this and the  soft material snagged a bit at the knees. I had to bend forward and with my thumbs push them until they bunched at my shins.

A window was open and a cool draught brushed against my bare legs. I suddenly realised just how tiny my snug briefs were. I could see my cock and bulls bulging against the smooth cotton. They hardly covered my buttock cheeks at the rear. I imagined the lower half of my bum would be naked once I was in position. Another snap of Dad’s fingers startled me. Oh, man, I sucked in a lung full of air and waited for the final instruction. “Bend over my knee.”

I had no choice. Dad was in charge. When he told me or any of my brothers to “Bend over,” then over we bent. I just about stopped myself shrugging my shoulders as if to say “Whatever …” I took a half step forward so I was almost on top of my Dad. I’m quite tall and he is shorter than me. It can be a bit tricky to get across his knee and have my bum in the right position so he can get a good aim. I learned forward and stretched out my arms ahead of me so my hands rested on the dusty carpet. Like this my toes touched the floor behind. Dad’s thighs provided the platform for me to rest my body. I was at an angle; head low, bottom high, bent over his knee so I looked a bit like a hair grip that had been forced open.

I settled myself by staring directly at the floor. I knew what was going to happen next, believe me I was in no hurry. It was always the same routine. Dad took the end of my shirt and tugged it up my back as far as he could get it. He did this every time. His ritual. There was no good reason to do this; my shirt wasn’t even near my bum. It wasn’t like it was an extra layer of protection. I shuddered as I felt the draught from the window against my naked lower back. I couldn’t help it, it was my body’s natural reaction to the cool air. And, I admit, the tension I felt only seconds ahead of a sound spanking with the slipper.

Dad and I had been through this before. I accept my punishment. It is my job to stay as calm as I can (under the very difficult circumstances) and submit myself to Dad’s will. He does this because I deserve it. He gets no joy from spanking me. It is his duty as a father. Our Church teaches us this. Dad was not the kind of man to punish his son by wildly lashing out, perhaps with a belt, and whipping him all over the body; the back, the shoulders and the legs.

The point of the spanking is for me so show self-control and submit to the authority of my father. It is supposed to a lesson for me. The House of the Sacred Light teaches us to obey our parents (and of course, The Lord). It is more about obedience than any pain inflicted. I might be nineteen, but nineteen year olds are not yet adults. We still have a long way to go on that journey. I have to obey my Dad and abide by his rules, and if I cannot – or will not – I deserve to be punished.

I cannot blame Dad. I knew the curfew was eleven o’clock and when I rolled home last night (or more accurately, this morning) at gone midnight, I knew the consequences. I can only be grateful Dad hadn’t discovered I had shared a bottle of beer with a friend. That would mean two spankings: one today for the curfew and another tomorrow for the illicit alcohol.

I felt Dad  wrap his left arm around my waist. Another of the routines. I am no virgin to a spanking, I would not become hysterical and wriggle and writhe; nor shout and scream. I would remain as stoical as it was possible to be in such circumstances and take my punishment. Even so, Dad gripped me tightly; it was his way of saying, “You’re not going anywhere son. Not until I say so.”

I was an old hand at this but still I felt foolish and humiliated. As Dad made his final preparations I pressed the palms of my hands into the harsh carpet. The first few times I was spanked, I couldn’t work out where I was supposed to put my head. I am now tall enough that I could probably rest it on the floor, or I could look straight ahead to the far wall. There was one time when I wrapped my arms around my head.

Now, I realise it is more comfortable (is “comfortable” the correct word to use when describing a spanking?) to let my head hang at an angle so that I can look underneath the chair Dad is sitting on and see my own legs. It is a weird sensation to see the trousers at my own ankles and then to watch to see if my feet kicked about as the slipper came whacking down across my bum. It was as if the legs belonged to some other teenager being spanked by his Dad; a kind of “out-of-body” experience.

When Dad gripped me around the waist, I knew the action was about to start. Involuntarily, for it was another reflex action of my body, my buttocks tensed. My bum is pretty hard anyway, but in this state they tightened up to resemble a hard rubber ball. It was nothing to do with me; it was my body’s natural way of protecting itself from the onslaught.

Dad had a rhythm when he spanked. The first whack would slam into the centre of the left cheek and then after a pause of maybe ten seconds, it whacked into the right one. Dad would put six into each buttock and then take a breather. A spanking should be a spanking, otherwise what was the point of it all. So, although Dad believed I should submit himself to his authority, he also wanted the spanking to hurt.

The first dozen whacks with the slipper warmed up my buttocks. Then Dad upped the pace. He got into his stride and pounded home a couple of dozen without let up. Bang-bang-bang. It was as rapid as machinegun fire. At about this time I could see my knees bend and my feet kick about. My bum was sore and I knew from past experience that most of my bottom would already be a deep pink colour. Before Dad was over, it would be cherry red.

After another pause, Dad went for the bare spot under the curves, leaving an imprint of the slipper’s flexible sole emblazoned across the naked flesh. By now I was sucking in great gulps of air. It hurt. It really hurt. My legs kicked again. I had been spanked many times in the past and was nineteen years old after all, so I had a high pain threshold. Even so, the whacks on the undercurve and bare thigh had me squirming, scrunching up my face, clenching my teeth and shutting my eyes. At least so far I was still pretty quiet: sucking down all the yelps I really wanted to make.

I wasn’t keeping count (maybe Dad was) but he probably put a dozen or fourteen slaps of the slipper across that most tender part of my rear-end; just where the cheeks meet the back of the thighs. I found it very uncomfortable to sit on a hard surface for a very long time after that.

It was nearly over. Only one more part of the ritual still to come and it would be the most humiliating. Dad rested the slipper on the small of my back and with both hands free he rolled my tight briefs over the mounds of my now-flame-roasted buttocks until they snagged on my thighs. My bum was now completely bared. I hated this; Dad could see right into my crack and up the hole.

No square inch of my bum had missed the attention of the slipper. Unblemished, it was hairless and creamy-white. After the attentions of Dad’s slipper, it had a rosy sheen. He picked up the slipper, gripped it tightly, took a deep breath and hammered twelve almighty whacks into the naked buttocks. Those feet and legs waved about again; I did the scrunching thing with my face, but by the time Dad had finished and said, “That’s it. Stand up,” I had remained silent. It was a small victory for my dignity.

I eased myself up and using Dad’s legs as support I clambered off his knees and staggered to my feet. I hopped from one foot to another and then embarrassingly aware that my dick and balls were bouncing up and down in front of Dad’s face, I quickly reached down and slipped up my briefs. Then, I bent down and pulled up the trousers

Dad’s curt dismissal sent me to my bedroom where I whipped down my trousers and briefs and pointed my bare bottom at the mirror. My bum was scarlet and bruises were quickly forming. I knew they would probably hang around a day or two turning from purple through shades of yellow until finally disappearing. My buttocks throbbed, but even then most of the pain was going. In moments, it would turn to a warm glow before disappearing altogether. I would be tender for a while; and when I touched the lower half of my cheeks I would set some of the pain off again. Sitting down would be awkward for a while.

I took hold of the copy of Football Monthly from my bedside table and gingerly settled down on my bed. I turned on my side and flicked through the pages and tried to take my mind off things until Mum called me down for tea.


Picture credit: Unknown


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The political intern

Home for the half term

Winker Wilson’s visit

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second


In the farmhouse

Andy lay on his bed staring at the ceiling. Waiting anxiously. It was a scorching hot day and he was naked except for a pair of jeans cut down to skimpy shorts. Sweat soaked from his torso to the sheet beneath him. Cold sweat. The sweat of fear.

Any moment now his dad would return from the farm for his lunch. Then Andy would face the consequences.

He told himself he hadn’t meant to do it. Things just got out of hand. A row with his mother about college; words were exchanged. He cussed her out. If he could do it all again he would have played it better. But words once said could not be unsaid.

He closed his eyes tight and brushed away the mosquitoes. He heard the sound of the front door closing. His father was home. Soon his mother would recount the events of the morning, then all hell would let loose

Moments later came the call. “Andrew!” it was his dad. He knew it was bad, his dad only called him “Andrew” when he was mad. “Andrew, come in here now!”

Without hesitation, Andy climbed from his bed and headed out the door. He knew better than to keep his dad waiting.

It was no surprise to see his dad standing in the dining room, a wide, thick leather belt doubled up in his right hand. The belt was rarely used for its intended purpose; it spent most of its life in a dark cupboard, only seeing the light on days like this.

A dining room chair had been placed in the centre of the room, confirming to Andy the inevitable.

“Your mother has told me what you said to her,” his dad waved the belt threateningly at his son.

Andy stood motionless, expecting his father to say more. But, that was all. His father did not ask for explanation, nor mitigation. Nor, did he detail Andy’s crimes. The boy knew what he had done. There was no point in stringing this out. His dad wanted his lunch and to be back on the farm; he didn’t have time to waste on this.

“Get yourself over,” he pointed at the straight-backed wooden chair with his belt.

“But, dad,” Andy didn’t know what had come over him. You didn’t argue with dad. You just didn’t.

“But dad, I’m too old for this, I’m an adult.”

It was the wrong thing to say. His dad’s sunburned face turned a deep shade of puce.

“You are not an adult. You are an adult when you behave like an adult. You do not do your chores, you cuss your mother. And, now you’re telling us you’re quitting college. That is not the behaviour of an adult. That is the behaviour of a brattish kid. And, you are going to get a whopping a brat like you deserves. Bend over that chair.”

His dad was an imposing man. He had been a farmer all his life. Not only did he have strength, he had presence too. When he told his farm hands to “jump”, they merely asked, “how high?”

Meekly, Andy turned on his heels and walked to the chair. Without pausing he reached over the back and grabbed hold of its wooden seat; one hand on either side.

used belt holding (1)

His dad fiddled with the belt trebling it up so he had a leather strap about twelve inches long; the perfect length to crash into his son’s backside and cause maximum pain. Satisfied with his handiwork he stood close to Andy’s right side. The boy’s jeans were cut so short they barely covered his stretched buttocks; but they were still big enough to accommodate two large thick patch pockets.

“This is no good, stand up.” Genuinely puzzled, the boy lifted himself up and turned to face his dad.

“Those jeans are too thick. Take them down.”

Astonished, Andy mouthed a silent, “But..”

“Take the shorts down. Right now. This instance.”

Andy could not dare disobey such a command. Without looking, he undid the button on the waist of his shorts, unzipped, and let them sail to his feet. Only then did his dad realise his son was not wearing underpants.

Andy stood embarrassed in front of his dad, his nakedness confirming that indeed he was a young man and not a boy.

Unabashed, his dad ordered him back over the chair. Back in position, Andy was now naked from his neck to his ankles. It had been three or four years since he had last presented his bottom to his dad for punishment; but this was the first time it was with his shorts at his feet.

Dad had been a farmer all his life and was a strong man; he could, and he would, lay on a thrashing with incredible force. Andy’s buttocks involuntarily clenched in anticipation of the first lash.

“Keep still. Relax,” his dad ordered as he patted his cold strap across Andy’s already hot buttocks. Sweat was pouring from the boy: a combination of the scorching heat and the fear of the imminent thrashing.

SPLAT! The belt crashed across the centre of both buttocks, leaving a sunset stripe a couple of inches wide. By the time the third stroke hit home bruises were already forming at the edges of the strap marks.

In the kitchen, his mother stopped preparing lunch. Once she had reported the boy’s behaviour, she knew this would be the inevitable consequence. Good. Andrew deserved everything he was getting. And more. The brat.

Andy took twelve strokes as stoically as he could. The pain was awesome, it was the worst belt whipping he had ever had to endure from his dad and there had been a few of them over the years. He wanted to yell out each time the strap cut into his meaty bared backside, but he was determined not to give his old man the satisfaction of seeing how much he had hurt him.

As the ninth and tenth whacks cut him, drawing blood, he bit his tongue hard to stifle the wail that would have echoed around the room before travelling the distance to the barn where the farm hands were having lunch.

“Stand up.” Dad’s tone had not softened. He had thrashed Andrew; his son deserved it, but dad would not know if it had been effective until he was sure the boy’s behaviour would improve. No more cutting chores, no more disrespecting his mother. And, no more nonsense about leaving college.

Unsteadily, Andy rose from the chair; a spasm rippled the length of his body. Still completely naked he clenched his fingers into fists, stretched his arms down the side of his body and hopped from one foot to the other, all in a futile attempt to relieve the agony that had started in his fleshy globes and now moved down his thighs.

“Get dressed,” it was another curt command from his dad. Andy bent forward to retrieve his shorts. He winced as the hard denim brushed against his throbbing cheeks.

“Now, I want to see a definite improvement in your attitude, do you understand me?”

Andy blinked back the tears that were forming; he desperately did not want to let his dad see him cry. He nodded his assent.

“Good, because if I have to do this again, I’m going to get one of the farm hands to cut some birch twigs and we’ll see how much you like that.”

It wasn’t a question, but Andy felt he had to say something in reply. All he could think of was to mumble, “Sorry.”

“Yes, and so you should be sorry. Now, go to your room. There’s no lunch for you.”

Back in his bedroom, Andy ripped down his shorts to inspect the damage to his buttocks in the mirror. His dad had done a good job, God knows, Andy thought, he had had enough practice. The cheeks were raw from the top near his spine, across the globes, to the crease where they met the thighs. Dark blue bruises had already formed across most of his bum, and he knew from experience, they would get worse before they got better.

He pulled a tissue from a box near his bed and wiped away a few drops of blood that was seeping from the wounds.

Gingerly he sat on the bed. It didn’t increase the pain too much. When his dad left to go back to work he would go to the kitchen and get some antiseptic cream from the first-aid box.

Until then he lay on his stomach, reliving in his mind the events of the day, safe in the knowledge that he would do his chores, never cuss his mother again and he would be at college when classes resumed on Monday.

This story was first uploaded in March 2016.


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One hot summer afternoon

The pub visit

The fire-raiser



More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second


The shoplifter

“Are you alright Fred?”

It was my pal Charlie, sitting opposite me at the canteen table, a mug of steaming hot tea in his fist.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

No, I was not alright, but I wasn’t about to admit that to Charlie.

It was tea break at the factory and I was reading the Brocklehurst Bugle, our local newspaper. Nothing ever happens in Brocklehurst and we all like it that way. This week was no different. The Mayor had opened this; local councillors were complaining about that; St Francis Grammar School had held its sports day. It was the same old, same old.

Then I saw it. Some kid was in court for stealing a phone from a shop. He pleaded guilty. Fined £150; with costs. It made a big splash in the paper; we don’t have much crime in Brocklehurst.

The kid’s name: Timothy John Mallinson. Aged 19. Address: 17 Albertson Street. My address. My son.

People often say when they’ve had a shock, “I thought I was having a heart attack.” Well, I truly thought I was. I think that’s what Charlie saw.

What the hell did Timothy think he was doing? I thought he was a good kid. He has a job in an office; he has wages coming in every week, why does he need to go round shoplifting?

After, the initial shock wore off, the anger kicked in. It’s all over the paper; everyone I know reads the Bugle. And those folk who don’t will soon hear about it from those who do. Tim had bought shame and disgrace to the family.

Why hadn’t he told me? Did he think I wouldn’t find out?

My anger grew to fury. I’ll give that kid what for when I get home tonight.

I got in from work just after 7 pm and the house seemed deserted. I knew my wife was at her bingo, but I expected Tim, the only one of my children living at home at present, to be around somewhere.

I entered the lounge and there he was sprawled out on his back on the sofa, plugged into his MP3 player, seemingly oblivious to the world.

Tim looks a lot younger than his years: mostly because he’s a bit on the short side and he has a cherubic face. He was wearing white sports socks and baggy beige trousers that fitted snugly at the waist and a short white t-shirt advertising some band I’d never heard of. It showed off his sun tan perfectly.

He had on a huge pair of headphones over his neatly cropped strawberry blond hair. He had one of those fringes at the front that spiked up. I reckoned it made him look a bit like the cartoon character Tin-Tin, but when I pointed it out to him once and said we should call him Tim-Tim from now on, he hadn’t a clue what I was talking about.

He was a very pretty boy (like Tin-Tin again) with flawless pale skin and red lips. I suppose he had already kissed a lot of girls, or maybe even boys: I did have my doubts about my son.

“I want a word with you!” I barked. He didn’t answer. The music he was listening to seemed to have transfixed him. He’d either not heard me or was pretending not to.

I gestured for him to take off his headphones. When he did so I could hear the music blaring from them.

I said it again. “I want to talk to you”

“What about?” he replied sulkily.

His attitude did nothing to calm my temper.

“This!” I yelled poking the newspaper in his chest.

That got his attention. His face turned a deathly white.

“Timothy, what the hell’s going on?”

I only called him “Timothy” when I was annoyed with him and my son knew that he was now in big trouble.

“Oh Dad!”

“Thieving from a shop.” It was a question as much as it was a statement.

He pouted, but didn’t answer. Timothy knew what was coming next.

I took a dining room chair from under the table and placed it in the middle of the room. Then, I reached out and took Timothy by the left arm and pulled him off the couch to his feet. I saw he had six or seven of those wrist bands that kids wear these days: what’s all that about?

“Over here.”

Very reluctantly, Timothy took a small step toward me getting just close enough so I could grab the waist of his trousers and pull him down and over my knees. Then I held his middle region and moved him about so that he was in a perfect position over my lap with his pelvis raised and his legs and crotch settled down right over my lap and spread out a bit. Timothy’s hands reached down to the floor, and I was ready to spank his pert little bottom.

“Dad, let me go, come on dad, I’m nineteen,” he protested as he struggled to break free from my hold, but the more he struggled the more embarrassing it must have been for him because he realised that I was in complete control.

“No, come on dad, this is humiliating, will you quit it dad.”

I slapped into his buttocks and immediately realised my mistake. His buttocks were as hard as steel and as I rained down hefty spanks into his backside I could tell he was not feeling a thing.

“This is useless,” I admitted my mistake, “get up,” and I helped him onto his feet. If Timothy thought his humiliation was over, he was wrong, it had only just begun.

Without a word, I reached for the waist of his trousers, popped the button and pulled down his zipper. In a second the trousers were at his feet and I hauled him back over my knees.

I had a lot more success this time as he only had thin cotton underpants for protection. Timothy bounced and shifted over my knees, as I rapidly spanked into the whole of his buttock area, from the tops near his spine across the fleshy globes into the under cheeks where the bum meets the thighs. His gasps and breathless aaaghhhs suggested that even if his bum were made of steel, my son was feeling this spanking.

z used otk pants chair bbfc (7)

I stopped whacking him and he gave out a deep sigh of relief. He must have thought his punishment was over but I still held him in position. This punishment needed to be severe. Timothy had turned into a thief and unless I sorted him out now he could ruin his whole life.

He struggled violently as he realised my hand was pulling at the top of his underpants, but I had him forcefully at my mercy and there was nothing he could do.

He pleaded with me, “No, dad, please dad, no!” Timothy sounded like he was scared to death.

Inch by inch, the underpants came down, exposing his bare buttocks. I felt a spasm move through Timothy’s body and he put his face even closer to the carpet.

What SLAP! the SLAP! hell SLAP! did SLAP! you SLAP! think SLAP! you SLAP! were SLAP! doing? SLAP!

I whacked into his bare buttocks to emphasis each word. The pain must have been intense as Timothy’s body writhed each time my hand hit his flesh.

Timothy mumbled something into the carpet.

Speak SLAP! up SLAP! Timothy SLAP! tell SLAP! me SLAP!

He turned his head slightly to try to look at me, but I still held him tightly across my lap, so he directed his explanation such as it was to the carpet. I could hear sobs in Timothy’s voice.

He cried out in real pain as my slaps pounded into his bare arse. The usually pale flesh on his buttocks was bright red and obviously raw. I felt his bum with my hand and it genuinely felt red hot.

“Not only are you a thief, you have disgraced your family. I’m going to whack you like you’ve never been spanked before. Get up.”

I let him up to his feet and looked him full in the face His eyes were watering, but tears were not yet flowing. He looked away so I couldn’t see.

I gestured with my hand to the other end of the room.

“Fetch me one of those slippers.” They were on a shelf under the television set.

Timothy still had his trousers around his feet and his pants at the knees, but he managed to waddle penguin-like across the room. When he bent down to pick up a slipper I had the perfect view of his bottom. It was bright red and the outline of the palm of my hand was clearly visible against his once snow-white skin.

Timothy winced as he stretched his body to pick up the slipper. In seconds he was back standing in front of me.

I spread my legs and ordered him to bend over my left knee and with my right leg I pinned both his legs so he couldn’t move. Then I took hold of his right arm and twisted it up to his shoulders. There was no way Timothy was going to escape the onslaught from my rubber-soled slipper.

I smacked his backside ferociously over and over with the heavy slipper – the cheeks, the thighs, inner, outer, and sit-spots. Timothy howled from the first loud swat on his bare flesh. He immediately broke down and the tears spilled down his cheeks. He tried to kick as hard as he could but I had him pinned into the position I wanted him: he was going nowhere until I said so.

I continued to spank his naked bottom, now much faster than before. Timothy’s buttocks bounced and quivered under the rain of blows and he gulped with each, successive, fiery slap. Each biting smack toasted another part of his upended, bare rump. He grunted and groaned, trying to move his bottom from the line of fire, but of course, could not.

As the spanking continued, Timothy realized with shock that his bottom was on fire. It burned with a pain that bewildered him. Every fresh smack of the slipper tore a gasp from him, and he realized with surprise that he was weeping; in fact, he’d been crying for some time.

I could see Timothy was spent; he was quite literally a beaten boy. When I heard him gasping for air, seriously unable to breathe, I decided he had had enough.

I released his body and still gasping for air he rolled off my knees onto the floor where he lay sobbing into the carpet. In time he got up, shaking like a leaf and in agony pulled up his underpants and then his trousers. Then fully dressed he stood dazed and disorientated, not daring to look at me.

At that moment I had no compassion for him. He deserved everything he got.

Not one inch of his backside was untouched from the crown to the top of the thighs. His bum was scalded and throbbed like it was three times its normal size. Slipper marks were clearly visible right across both buttocks.

“Now, go to your room and stay there.”

I watched as Timothy slowly and in agony made his way from the room. Not only would he have trouble sitting down for a very long time, standing was going to be a problem for him as well.

Timothy dived face down on to his bed and rubbed at his throbbing buttocks through the cotton cloth of his beige trousers. Tears continued to trickle down his cheeks and he brushed them away with the back of his hand. Gradually he regained some composure.

Bloody hell. His dad had given him one hell of a whacking.

He reached out into his bedside cabinet and withdrew the brand new Tablet from within. Thank God, they didn’t catch me stealing this, he thought, as he powered it up.

Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club

This story was first uploaded in February 2016.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second