A drama in one scene

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A theatre play

The drama takes place sometime in the late 1960s / early 1970s. It is the sitting room / lounge / front room / parlour with typical furniture of the time, which could a settee, arm chairs, dining table, sideboard and television set. It must include at least one straight-backed chair.

Characters

UNCLE who can be aged anywhere between 40 and 55. He is a working-class man and should dress appropriately, such as dark trousers and a plain shirt. He could be dressed with no shirt but a discoloured singlet. He might be in work clothes, such as jeans or overalls.

NEPHEW aged 18. Ideally he should be slim and shorter in height than UNCLE. He can be dressed in basic jeans and shirt but if the theatre resources allow let him wear more “fashionable” clothes of the time such as baggy trousers, floral-print shirt and striped “tank top” pullover.

 

SCENE

Curtain opens onto the sitting room. After about five seconds UNCLE enters the room. He is guiding (not dragging) NEPHEW by the wrist. UNCLE takes NEPHEW to the centre of the room. Both stand while the dialogue takes place.

UNCLE [Not angry] I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve spoken to you.

NEPHEW shakes his wrist free and stares shamefaced at the floor.

UNCLE. Ever since you came to stay with me and Aunt Jane you’ve been nothing but trouble. [Waves his arms about.] You treat this place like a hotel. You stay out til all hours. Last night you came home drunk.

NEPHEW looks at his Uncle opens his mouth as if to protest but thinks better of it.

UNCLE. I’ve spoken to you about this before. Haven’t I?

NEPHEW shrugs shoulder and looks down at the floor.

UNCLE. Doh! Is that all you can do? Shrug your shoulder. Don’t you have anything to say for yourself.

NEPHEW gives a half smile, showing indifference.

UNCLE. Nothing I seem to say gets through to you lad. Nothing. Well, you leave me no alternative. You’re getting a spanking. That’s all.

NEPHEW. [Gapes] A spanking? But …

UNCLE. No buts. You’ve been asking for this for a long time. I said you had to be home by ten-thirty every night but you ignored me. You’re always rude to Aunt Jane. I told you about that. You don’t do yourself any favours.

NEPHEW. But uncle, I’m too old for a spanking.

UNCLE. Ha! You are not too old. If you don’t know how to behave, I’ll have to teach you. A spanking will soon bring you to your senses.

UNCLE picks up a straight-backed chair and plonks it down in the middle of the room.  NEPHEW stares uncle wide-eyed.

NEPHEW. But uncle  . ..

UNCLE sits on the chair.

UNCLE. Stand there.

UNCLE snaps fingers and points to the floor by his side. NEPHEW stares at his uncle. Twists his fingers with embarrassment.

NEPHEW. But uncle ….

UNCLE. Don’t “But uncle” me. Do as you’re told. Right now!

NEPHEW shuffles to the spot.

UNCLE. Right. Take down your trousers.

NEPHEW. [Gaping. Panicking] No uncle! No. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.

UNCLE. I know you won’t do it again. Not after I’ve spanked you. You’ll remember it next time you want to be rude to your aunt or stay out late. Now get em down.

NEPHEW takes a step back, looks around him as if he is thinking about running away.

UNCLE. Are you going to take those trousers down or do you want me to do it for you?

UNCLE reaches forward and takes hold of the waist of NEPHEW’S trousers and pulls him forward. Tries to unbuckle his belt. NEPHEW tries to retreat but UNCLE has grip on his belt.

NEPHEW. No, no uncle. Please. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. Really.

UNCLE. I’ve given you lots of chances. You threw them all back in my face. This is what you deserve. I don’t want to spank you. You don’t give me any choice. You need to learn to behave. You’ll thank me for this one day.

NEPHEW. But uncle. I’m eighteen. I’m too old to be spanked like a little kid. I’m an adult.

UNCLE. You are not an adult until you’re twenty-one. That doesn’t make you an adult anyway. You have to act like an adult. Take responsibility. You don’t do that. I’ve tried with you. God alone I’ve tried. We even thought about telling you you had to leave. We couldn’t stand it anymore. Do you want that? Do you want to go live in some stinking bedsit somewhere?

NEPHEW. No uncle.

UNCLE. Right then. Take down them trousers.

UNCLE waves his hands up and down in front of NEPHEW

NEPHEW. Oh Uncle.

NEPHEW’s hands shake as he fumbles with the buckle of his belt. At last it is open. He pauses and looks at UNCLE seeking pity, hoping for a last-minute reprieve. UNCLE watches him impassively. NEPHEW unbuttons the waist of his trousers and then pulls the zip fly. He looks at UNCLE who is wriggling his bottom to get comfortable on the chair. NEPHEW lets the trousers fall down his legs to his feet.

UNCLE. Good lad. Now, come bend over my knee.

NEPHEW has a look of horror on his face. He stares at UNCLE who parts his legs to make a platform for NEPHEW to bend across.

NEPHEW. Oh Uncle … please.

UNCLE slaps his own thigh to encourage NEPHEW to bend over.

UNCLE. C’mon lad. Let’s get this over with.

NEPHEW hugely embarrassed, chews on his bottom lip. He moves forward, rests his hands on UNCLE’S thigh and gently lowers himself across.

NEPHEW must be over UNCLE’s knee with his arms stretched ahead of him and palms flat on the ground. His bottom must be at an angle over UNCLE’s thigh. NEPHEW legs will dangle in the air behind him. He must be positioned submissively. He has decided he must take his spanking.

UNCLE takes his time to observe NEPHEW’s position over his lap. UNCLE is impassive. Slowly he takes hold of the elasticated waist of NEPHEW’s underpants. NEPHEW tenses visibly. Slowly UNCLE starts to pull the underpants down over NEPHEW’S buttocks.

UNCLE. It’s not a proper spanking if it’s not on the bare.

NEPHEW. [Panicking] No, uncle, no!

NEPHEW tries to reach his hand back to protect his bottom. UNCLE slaps it. Then grabs the arm and pushes it back towards the floor.

UNCLE. None of that. Keep that away. Don’t be a coward. Take your spanking. You deserve it. You know you do.

UNCLE continues to pull the pants down until they are at NEPHEW’S knees. NEPHEW closes his eyes tight. Covers his face with his hands.

UNCLE pats NEPHEW on the fleshiest part of his bottom. He presses gently into the flesh judging how much meat there is in the boy’s buttocks. He wraps his left arm around NEPHEW’s middle to make sure he isn’t going anywhere. Then, he raises his hand to a height of a foot or two and slaps hard across the middle of the bum. He spanks hard and fast. Within seconds the bottom is pink.

NEPHEW gasps. He uncovers his face and slumps forward. As the spanking intensifies he presses his hands into the ground and his body goes up and down. It is like he is doing press-ups.

UNCLE spanks rapidly. About sixty whacks per minute. He makes sure he goes round the entire circuit. He starts in the fleshiest part of the buttocks and systematically goes higher and then lower. He sees the overline of his own hand imprinted time and again across the buttocks.

NEPHEW gasps. He shakes his head from side to side and up and down like a horse trying to get rid of a troublesome fly.

z used otk chair bare (41)

UNCLE. I hope you’re feeling this. I hope it’s doing you some good.

NEPHEW opens his mouth as if to reply but cannot get the words out because he is too busy gasping.

UNCLE slaps his hand hard into the back of the legs where it is more sensitive. NEPHEW yaps with the shock and the pain.

UNCLE. Are you learning a lesson from this?

NEPHEW. Gasping. Yes, uncle yes. Please stop.

UNCLE. I’m not so sure. [Spanks the back of the legs harder] Maybe I should call Aunt Jane to bring down her hairbrush.

NEPHEW. No uncle, please. No. I’m sorry. I will be good. I will. I promise.

UNCLE. [Still spanking] I know you’ll behave. Because if you don’t I’ll have you back over my knee and it will be the hairbrush. How do you feel about that.

NEPHEW. [Pleading] No uncle. Please no.

UNCLE. [Spanking harder] Are you going to be rude again to your aunt?

NEPHEW. No uncle. No.

UNCLE. Are you going to stay out late at night?

NEPHEW. No uncle.

UNCLE. Promise?

NEPHEW. Yes, uncle. Please stop spanking me. You’re hurting me.

UNCLE. That’s the point son. That’s the point. It’s the only way you’ll learn.

NEPHEW covers his head with his hand.

NEPHEW. Oh uncle.

UNCLE spanks for another minute or so. He is not a brutal tyrant he is a caring uncle. He wants NEPHEW to learn to behave. NEPHEW is sore. His bottom feels like he has been made to sit in a bathtub of very hot water. It hurts like hell now, but once uncle stops slapping his bare bottom the pain will soon become a throbbing ache and within no time at all it will be only a tingle.

UNCLE [Stops spanking] OK. Get up.

NEPHEW jumps up. His trousers are still at his feet and the underpants at his knees. He rubs away at his toasted buttocks vigorously and screws his face up to emphasise the pain he feels. UNCLE stays seated watching impassively.

UNCLE. Get dressed.

NEPHEW tugs up his underpants and winces as the soft cotton connects with his raw bum. Then, slowly, he bends down to retrieve his trousers and pull them up. He is breathless.

UNCLE stands close to NEPHEW.

UNCLE. Will I have to do that again.

NEPHEW pats the seat of his trousers

NEPHEW. No uncle.

UNCLE. I hope not. I hope you’ve learned your lesson.

NEPHEW. Yes, I have uncle. Sorry uncle.

UNCLE. Good lad. Get off to your room.

NEPHEW walks gingerly from the room. UNCLE goes to the television, switches it on and sits in the armchair.

Lights fade to dark.

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

Uncle Graham’s belt

Lodging with Uncle Ralph

The TV repairman

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Over Pop’s knee with Perce

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z used otk scrumping white pants down sting

I read a report in the Brocklehurst Bugle today. It was about a young lad, nineteen years old, who stole some beer from a shop. He was up in court and they fined him something. Now he has a criminal record. As I read about him I had a senior moment, or an acid flashback or some such. If you and me were characters in a corny movie at this point the picture would go all wobbly and then fuzzy and there’d be that do-do-do-do kind of music and we’d be transported back sixty, yes sixty, years …

Rising Bollard wasn’t much more than a village back then. I was eighteen and me and my best pal Perce were inseparable. Had been since we were in our prams. I worked as a baker’s assistant at Sidebottom’s and Perce was a labourer on Arkwright’s farm. It’s a housing estate today. Has been for thirty years. Sidebottom’s is a Greggs.

So, me and Perce weren’t bad lads. We hung around the cemetery with the rest of the village idiots and tried to chat up girls. We drank horrible cheap VP wine and smoked those really rough Player’s Weights cigarettes. Do you remember them? In packets of five. They burnt the back of your throat away.

It was the cigarettes that got me and Perce into trouble. We had been working lads since we were fifteen and of course we gave our mums housekeeping money, but we were never skint. Perce had a motorbike, even then. What I’m trying to say is that we could afford to buy cigarettes, but we preferred to steal them. Don’t ask me why? Did you ever do that? Steal stuff from shops for no good reason. Just for the fun of it. Maybe to look big with your mates?

We got away with it too. Cigs and tobacco weren’t locked away like Fort Knox or the Bank of England like they are nowadays. They were on the counter. If you worked in pairs all you had to do was for one of you to distract the shopkeeper (get him to climb up his ladder and fetch something from the top shelf at the other end of the shop) and while he’s doing that the other one pockets a packet of fags. We weren’t Big Time Charlies, one packet at a time was enough for us.

Like I said we got away with it too. Until one day we didn’t. Rising Bollard was a sleepy place and we could always find a time when the shop was empty. It didn’t take long to slip a packet of fags into your pocket. So, one day I did that and was sloping out the shop but what happened but I walked slap bang into the arms of Harry Gate. Or Police Constable Harry Gate to give him his full title. He was in plain clothes, but if you’re the copper for a couple of villages like Harry was I don’t suppose you were ever off duty.

“Well, well, well,” says Harry, like all comic policemen did in those days, “What have we ’ere?” He says this as he twists my ear, like he was making some rubbish joke. “Turn out your pockets.”

It was all over in about ten seconds. Caught red handed. Bang to rights, as crooks in the films used to say. Harry didn’t have to ask our names or our addresses, Harry knew every one and everyone knew Harry. He made me hand back the cigarettes to Mr Higginbottom, the shopkeeper. I knew what was coming next.

In fact, it turned out I didn’t know. I thought he would take us into the back room and leather our backsides. He was known for doing that. He was the law. But, he didn’t do that. Now I think of it he was in his civvy clothes and wasn’t wearing the thick, heavy leather belt that went with his policeman’s uniform.

No, he didn’t spank our bare arses. He marched us the half mile or so to my house. Just my luck Pop was there on his dinner break. Well, the Old Man went scarlet with embarrassment when the village policeman turned up on the doorstep with me and Perce in tow.

“I’ll leave it to you Mr Ramsbottom,” Harry says, with a bit of a sly wink, as he bids Pop goodbye and gets back to his shopping or whatever it was he was doing in the village.

Pop nearly sank to his knees with gratitude. His son a thief. What a scandal. But Harry wouldn’t tell. They’d be no court case. No scandal for the family to live down. Pop could deal with it just the way that Pops were supposed to.

They were different days back then. Do you remember? More innocent. People took care of things themselves. “Right, you, come here,” Pop says even before Harry had disappeared down the street. Pop turns his back on me and marches into the kitchen. Me and Perce follow like obedient little puppies.

“Stand there,” he points at the wall and Perce and me meekly do as we’re told. I don’t suppose eighteen years  lads would do that nowadays. Do as they’re told, I mean. Times are different. Pop picks up an old wooden chair and plonks it down in the middle of the room. He sits down, glares at me and he says, “I cannot believe it. I just cannot. Thieving. What possessed you?” He goes on like this for quite a while actually and I’ve got my head bowed in shame. He’s absolutely right, of course. He says, “It’ll break your mother’s heart; she’s not to find out about this.”

I loved my Pop. That was him all over. He loved my Mum, he loved my brothers and he loved me. He wasn’t an educated man (not many were around Rising Bollard) but he did the best that he could. “I don’t want any more of this stealing,” he says.

“No, Pop,” I says, “Sorry, Pop, I won’t do it again.” I felt such a heal. “I know you won’t son,” he says, and I can see he is very upset with me. “And, I’m going to make sure you don’t.”

I knew what was coming. It was common in those days. No one thought anything about it back then. “Thieves in this house get spanked.”

So, did you see that coming? Like I say all the Pops in Rising Bollard spanked their kids and back then you didn’t get to be legally an adult until you were twenty-one, so it wasn’t such a surprise to see an eighteen-year-old like me get his bum blistered. Tell that to kids today!

How did your Pop spank you? I know some who lost their rag and lashed out with a belt all over the back and arms. My Pop wasn’t like that. He was a gentle-man. I know that sounds a daft thing to say Gentle when he was about to spank my backside and very hard indeed. I mean he never lost his temper, he was always in control. He knew what he was doing. He had told me very quietly why he was going to spank me. Now, he was going to get on and do it.

“Come here,” Pop says and he waves his hand at his side. That was my cue to leave the wall and stand beside him. It was summer and I had on those thick corduroy shorts we used to wear. “Take ’em down,” he says. I didn’t argue. He was my Pop. I was a thief. I was glad he didn’t know about all the other times I got away with it.

“Bend over,” he slaps his thigh like I don’t know what it is I’m supposed to go. I expected it but my face burned scarlet with embarrassment. I’d been spanked before, but never in public – and never in front of my best friend Perce. I lowered myself. I must have been at least as tall as Pop, but even so I fitted over his knee quite well. How did you present yourself for an over-the-knee spanking? The only way I knew was to stretch my arms out and rest the palms of my hands on the floor. Then with my head low and my bottom high my legs were left to dangle behind me. I suppose I could have held on to Pop’s legs or maybe even covered my head with my hands.

So, there I was in position. Submissive. Letting Pop spank my naughty little backside. And it was little back then. I used to do the deliveries for the bakery and rode a bicycle for miles each day. That keeps the stomach flat and the buttocks pert. I truly believe Pop did not like spanking me or my brothers. He wasn’t a tyrant, he was a decent man trying to do his best. “I hope this teaches you a lesson,” he says as he smooths out my cotton underpants until all the creases are gone. “I don’t want to have to do this again.”

Then he starts to spank me. Me, an eighteen-year-old thief. If I told my great-grandchildren that I was spanked like that they’d fall on their backs laughing with their legs waving in the air. “You let him do that?” they’d holler.

Yes, I let him do that. It was the right thing to do. I had done wrong. I wasn’t a hooligan. I hadn’t beaten anyone up. I hadn’t robbed an old lady. But, I had stolen from a shop. There was no need to waste time and money sending me to court. Why turn me into a convicted criminal and blot the rest of my life? No. I needed to be punished and a jolly good spanking would do the trick. Pop knew that. I knew that.

So, Pop spanked me. Pop had a ritual when he spanked. He was slow and methodical. He made sure no part of my bum was left untouched. So he started across the middle where there’s most meat (even in my rock-hard bum) and when he was satisfied he had tenderised both cheeks, he went to the top of the mounds just below he back. When three-quarters of my bum was burning, he turned his attention to the soft undercurves. That’s the part that touches the chair when you sit down. It’s almost the most sensitive part of the bum. If you’ve been spanked yourself, you know what I’m saying. Well that hurt. It had me wriggling my hips and buckling my knees. Pop had to hold on tight to my waist to stop me tumbling to the floor.

“I hope I’m getting through to you son,” Pop says kindly. “No more thieving.”

“No, Pop,” I says, because I suppose he wants an answer, “Sorry pop.”

“Sorry,” he says and pauses. His body jerks like he’s suddenly remembered something. “Sorry,” he repeats, “You will be by the time I’ve finished.” Then I feel him grip the elasticated waist of my white Y-fronts. “No Pop, No!” I stutter, as he starts to tug the pants down over my buttocks. “No, sorry. Sorry!” I’m wailing now.

It doesn’t stop Pop. He has the pants at my knees. It’s summer but I feel a cool breeze waft across my naked cheeks. I also hear Perce gasp. I’d forgotten he was watching.  He has a perfect view of me, submissively bent over Pop’s knee with my shorts at my feet and my pants at the knees and my arse bare to the wind. He can see everything. I mean everything. My balls, my crack and right up into the hole. My embarrassment turns to humiliation. How can I ever face my best pal again?

Pop spanks my bare bum hard. And rapidly. Whack-whack-whack. He slaps me about eighty times a minute. I feel my bum heating up. If you didn’t think a hand spanking (even on the bare) could have much impact on an eighteen-year-old, think again. My bum was glowing. Pop spanks me like this for a few minutes, then as a finale he goes for the back of my thighs. Now, if the undercurves are sensitive (and they are) the bare thighs give twice the value. I am gasping and yapping and twisting and kicking. You have to admire Pop’s stamina. He was a manual worker all his life, believe me he was a strong man.

At last (thank God, at last!) he stops spanking. He lets go of my waist and I take my chance and leap to my feet. My bum throbs and I hop from foot to foot and try to rub the soreness away from my bum. I don’t care who sees me do it. Then, I lean down to pull up my pants. “Leave them where they are,” Pop sighs, he is a little out of breath, “Stand by the wall. I want you to think about what you have done and why I have spanked you.”

I hobble over and stand beside Perce. I can’t catch his eye. The throbbing pain in my bum is easing into a warm glow. Perce shuffles with embarrassment. Neither of us wants to speak. Pop regains his breath and says quietly, “Percy, I am not your father. It is not really my job to punish you.”

From the corner of my eye I see Perce turn to face my Pop. Pop says, “I should tell him what you have done. It is for him to decide what to do.” Pop sounds sorrowful. It’s not that he wants to spank Perce, Pop’s just unhappy that our behaviour has brought him to this.

“Sorry, Mr Ramsbottom,” I hear Perce’s voice quiver. I think he’s about to cry. I blush, embarrassed for him. But he doesn’t turn on the water taps, he’s just getting himself ready to say what he wants to say. It can’t be easy. I don’t think I would do the same if I was Perce. He says, “Mr Ramsbottom, we were both in it together. You can’t spank Perce and not spank me too.”

Well! You could’ve knocked me down with a feather, because I know for a fact Perce’s Pop is probably the only Pop in Rising Bollard who doesn’t believe in spanking. He’s never raised a finger to any of his kids. Best he’d do to Perce is make him stay at home a couple of weekends and clean up the yard or something. What a pal! Perce and me. Me and Perce. Together.

“Right, Percy,” Pop calls from the chair. “I think you know how this is done. Stand there. Take down your shorts. Bend over my knee.”

And Perce did. And I got to see his bare bum and the rest of it, so I didn’t have any worries about how I was going to face him.

So, two eighteen-year-old shoplifters from sixty years ago got their backsides spanked. We both went on to have honest, respectable lives. The shopkeeper got his goods back, we were punished. The world went on.

I wonder about that lad in the Brocklehurst Bugle. Given the chance what would people like to happen to him? A sound spanking and a second chance or a life blighted by a criminal record?

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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By order of the court

Room 414

The sixpenny bazaar

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Justin learns a valuable lesson

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z used pants contrite (1)

I cannot believe you. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve had to tell you. What is the matter with you? You are a disgrace. Your aunt is in floods of tears. I cannot believe what you have said to her.

You need to learn some manners lad. You’re not a schoolboy any more. You’re at university for God’s sake. You’ve been such a disappointment since you moved in here. What would your mum and dad say, eh? You used to be such a sweet little boy. Look at you now. Rude. Arrogant. Insolent. Disrespectful. Bad-mannered. I just don’t get it. What’s got into you Justin?

Look at me when I’m talking to you. Don’t look down at the floor. Aren’t you the least bit ashamed? You treat our house like it’s a hotel. We know you haven’t got much money; we don’t charge much rent. Only enough to cover your keep. We are doing you a favour. And your mum and dad. If your weren’t family we would’ve chucked you out long ago.

Now, you come home drunk. At least I hope it was drunk. Was it drugs? Are you taking drugs? Is that why you’ve gone off the rails. Are you high all the time? Are you an addict? Do you need help? No, I don’t think you’re an addict, but you do need help. You can’t go on like this. You’ve got a lot of growing up to do, young man.

You’re not evil Justin. You seem to be working hard. Your grades aren’t bad. So far anyway. Are you still going to classes? You’d better be. I don’t want to find out too late that you’ve been skiving off uni. When you fail your exams at the ned of the semester.

What have you got to say for yourself?

Don’t pout at me. You must have some explanation. Why did you call Aunt Rose such a vile name? I still cannot believe you were so rude. What is the matter with you lad? What. No answer. I despair. I really do. You have got to change. I’ve told you often enough. I told you not to take food into the good lounge. What did you do? The room stinks of hamburgers. And what’s that stain on the carpet on the stairs? Looks like beer to me. I didn’t do it. Aunt Rose didn’t do it. It was you. Don’t shake your head at me lad. Don’t deny it.

You haven’t left me a lot of choice. You only have yourself to blame. I have told you over and over. You just take no notice. I despair, I really do. You know what Justin I’ve spoken to your dad and he agrees with me. He’s two hundred miles away or else he’d do it himself. But he’s told me to go ahead and do it myself. What do you think of that?

Don’t argue with me Justin. You know what I’m talking about. A good hiding. You’ve been asking for it for weeks. Now you’re going to get it. I don’t want any fuss from you. I don’t want to spank you. Look at you, you’re eighteen, nearly nineteen years old. You should be too old for this. But you’re not. You leave me no choice. I hope to God I can knock some sense into you.

….

Uncle Buster takes a deep breath. He’s little harangue is over. Now is the time for action. Justin watches, a little stunned, as his uncle crosses the lounge over to the stand where the television is. On the lower shelf are his bedroom slippers. He reaches down and grabs one. He grips it in his right fist and turns to face his nephew. He is very calm. He has no anger against the boy. Justin needs a dame good spanking. That is what he is going to get. Uncle Buster hopes it will do the trick. He wants Justin to grow up into a decent, responsible adult. He used to be a good kid – didn’t he get really good marks in his school exams – but somehow he’s lost his way. He needs guiding back onto the straight-and-narrow. A sore bum will show him the way.

“Come over here Justin,” Uncle Buster walks over to the dining table. He picks up one of the chairs and turns it round so it faces into the room. “Hurry up lad,” he sighs. He really doesn’t want a fuss. He wants Justin to take his punishment; he doesn’t need some unseemly row. Heaven forbid his nephew should fight him.

Justin stays motionless. He seems to be weighing things up. Having a discussion with himself in his head. Foremost, he is embarrassed. His uncle wants to spank him. Eighteen years old and to be spanked by his uncle. He cannot be serious. It is true, Justin knows he is all the things Uncle Buster says he is. But Justin likes his aunt and uncle. It’s just … It’s just …. Justin cannot explain it, not even to himself. He has no idea why he behaves the way he does.

Uncle Buster brandishes his slipper. “Come here lad,” he says more sternly. He sits down on the chair. It is obvious what his intentions are. He waves the rubber-souled slipper again. “Quickly,” his voice cracks. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

Justin frowns. Does he have a choice? If so, what is it? This is uncle’s house. It is a fine, comfortable house. His aunt and uncle are kind to him. Justin has repaid their generosity by making their lives a misery. A little shamefaced, he sucks down on his bottom lip. If he refuses, he will certainly be told to pack his bags and go. Then what? His dad will hit the roof, so Justin will have Dad and Uncle Buster to contend with. Justin knows he cannot defeat the both of them.

Justin is not a religious boy (who of his age is these days?) but he does feel shame. He has let Aunt Rose and Uncle Buster down. He has let Mum and Dad down. Heck, he begins to see, he has let himself down. He is better than this.

Uncle Buster is getting irritated. “Stand there,” he snaps his fingers to a place on the carpet close to his right leg. The snapping seems to wake up Justin. He sucks his lip again. He is a little surprised to find his legs are taking him across the room. He stands by his uncle. Justin stares at the man sitting on the chair. He is a large man, mostly because of the roll of fat that hangs over the waistband of his trousers. He has two chins and what are sometimes referred to as “man boobs”.

Uncle Buster holds the slipper by the heel and scrunches it in his right fist. “Bend over my knee, son,” he says apologetically. He doesn’t want to do this, but that won’t stop him. It is for Justin’s sake. He deserves to have his backside soundly spanked. He needs correction. He has to learn how to behave. It will be for his own good. He won’t think that today, but sometime in the future he’ll understand. He might even thank Uncle Buster for caring enough to take him across his knee.

Justin draws down a lung-full of air. His head feels light. Is he really here? In the lounge room. Standing by his Uncle Buster. About to bend across his knee. To let him spank him on the bottom with his slipper. Justin cannot believe it. It’s like it’s happening to some other disrespectful teenager, not Justin.

Uncle Buster parts his legs. His fatty thighs make a sizeable platform for his nephew. Justin doesn’t know what to do. Where are his hands supposed to go? Is he meant to lean on Uncle Buster’s thighs and slowly lower himself down? He decides to flop forward, a bit like the way he does when he dives into a swimming pool. His body sinks into uncle’s thighs. Justin reaches his arms forward and lets his legs dangle in mid-air. He is surprised how comfortable he feels. Uncle Buster has a lot of padding.

Justin is dressed only in underpants. When he is standing they cling to the contours of his buttocks. Now, stretched across uncle’s knees, they are even tighter. The smooth cotton digs into his crack. It’s like someone is giving him a wedgy. It makes him wriggle.

“Keep still Justin,” his uncle’s voice is soft. He shows no anger. “Now, please don’t make a fuss,” he whispers. Then he takes a firm hold of the waistband of Justin’s pants and starts to tug them down. They are tight and the boy is lying firmly across his lap and it is not easy for Uncle Buster to get them over the buttocks. “No, Uncle, no,” Justin pleads as the reality of his situation becomes clear.

“Underpants are of little use at a time like this,” Uncle Buster says stoically. “It’s not a proper spanking unless it’s on the bare.” After much tugging he has the pants at Justin’s knees. He hopes they might prevent his nephew from kicking his legs about too much.

“Remember Justin,” Uncle Buster says as he gently taps the slipper against the fleshiest part of the teenager’s left cheek, “You have been asking for this for a very long time. You only have yourself to blame.” Then he whacks the slipper down hard. The cheek wobbles. A pink mark slowly appears. Justin opens his mouth, forming a perfect “O” with his lips. His eyes blink. A second slap hits him on the other cheek. The pain is mounting.

Uncle Buster sets about slippering Justin’s bottom. He pounds the slipper across the quivering bum cheeks with great force. These are not “love taps”, this is a proper spanking. It has to be a genuine punishment, otherwise Justin will not learn. It has to hurt. Justin must fear a repeat performance if he does not improve his behaviour.

Very soon the imprint of the slipper’s sole is embossed all across Justin’s bum. He wriggles and he kicks his legs (the pants do act as a restraint). He waves his arms about. He looks like he’s trying to swim off Uncle Buster’s lap. He can’t help it. He has no control, it is his body’s natural reaction, trying to protect itself against the heavy onslaught. The bottom glows red. The boy tries to protect his bum with his hand. He can’t do it. He can’t reach back that far. He is over uncle’s knee at an acute angle; his head is low and his bottom is high. Uncle grips him tightly around the waist. Justin can’t do a thing. He is trapped; he’s not going anywhere. Not until Uncle Buster thinks he has been spanked enough. Then – and only then – will he be released.

Not one square centimetre of Justin’s buttocks are spared. They go dark pink and then red. Purple bruises burst out where the edge of the slipper catches his bottom awkwardly. Justin shuts his eyes tightly. His bum throbs. Each new whack of the slipper makes the temperature of his bum go higher.

“Are you learning your lesson?” Uncle Buster asks softly. Justin concentrates on dealing with the growing pain and does not hear the question. Uncle smiles affectionately. His nephew’s grunt and groans tell him the answer is Yes. Justin’s temples throb almost as much as his backside. His head feels like it has expanded to twice its natural size. His heart races and he can’t quite catch his breath. Tears trickle from the corner of his eyes.

Uncle is nearly finished. Just one more task left. He slaps the slipper six times across the back of Justin’s naked left thigh. That has the lad yapping like a little whipped puppy. The six he pounds into the other thigh turns the yaps to full-throated yells.

That’s enough, Uncle Buster says to himself. He is soaked with sweat. It is not easy for a man of his size to expend so much energy. If he isn’t careful he might have a seizure. He stops slippering, but continues to hold Justin face down across his lap. The boy’s breathing is uneven and heavy. Is this how a beached dolphin sounds? Uncle Buster admires his handiwork. Both buttocks shine. If he turned off the light they would glow in the dark. It is a sound spanking. Just as it should be. He feels no hatred or anger for the disobedient boy. Justin has taken his punishment. He hardly struggled. Uncle Buster is very proud of him. We hopes it will be the only time he needs to punish the boy.

“Get up,” he says quietly. Justin rolls off his uncle’s lap and plops onto the floor. Instinctively, he reaches to his burning bottom and rubs vigorously. Still on the ground he tugs his underpants up to their rightful place. Uncle Buster stands, walks to the sideboard and digs into a box of Kleenex. He hands Justin a fistful of tissues and quietly the teenager wipes the residue of tears from his face.

“Will I have to do that again?” Uncle Buster asks gently. Justin has regained full control. “No uncle. Sorry uncle,” his voice catches. He means it. The pain in his backside is easing, but it stings like a thousands wasps have been at it.

“Go to your room and make sure you apologise to Aunt Rose later,” Uncle Buster is replacing the chair.

“Yes uncle,” Justin walks unsteadily back to his bedroom where in the mirror he examines his battered bottom in minute detail. He shakes his head in disbelief. Did this really happen? In this day and age? To a disrespectful eighteen-year old? He rubs his eyes as if that might wake him from his dream. It doesn’t work. Gingerly, he lays down on his bed and with the tips of his fingers he gently massages his bottom.

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

The fire-raiser

What a disappointment!

Dreams of spanking

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Suddenly awoken

new 5

z used bed waiting pyjamas champion (3)

Hal woke with a start. He found himself sitting up in bed, his bottom still tingling. What had roused him? His dick throbbed and he shuddered with shame. Not again? He reached his hand inside the fly of his pyjama bottoms. The top of his cock was wet but still rigid. Quickly, he explored himself with his palm, then he tested the sheets. No, he had not ejaculated; he had caught himself just in time.

“Oh gosh,” he exclaimed aloud. There was someone in the room. It was gloomy, his eyes had not adjusted. He couldn’t see, but he could hear; someone was wheezing hard.

“What the …” Hal cried.

“Shussh. It’s all right.” Hal recognised the voice. It was his elder brother Roger.

“Shussh,” Roger whispered again, placing his index finger across his own mouth. “I’ve missed curfew. By a mile. I saw your window open. I climbed in.”

Hal looked across the room, the curtain was flapping gently in the breeze of a warm night. His brother tip-toed across the room like a cat in a cartoon sneaking up on a canary. Before he reached the bedroom door, Hal spoke in a normal, clear voice. “There’s no point doing that. Dad knows you’re late. I think he’s waiting downstairs with the strap,” he chuckled. As in all families Hal was delighted to know his brother was in trouble. It made a change that it wasn’t himself, Hal might be eighteen years old but he was still no stranger to his father’s knee and a close-up view of the carpet. Without thinking, he pressed his buttocks into the hard mattress, reigniting the pain from earlier. He could testify that father was not in a good mood.

“I don’t believe you,” Roger scorned. “I didn’t see any lights in the house. Everyone’s in bed.”

“Please yourself,” Hal shrugged his shoulders as his brother exited the room. Hal turned on his side, pulled the blanket over him and gently massaged his buttocks. The surface still felt a little like leather.

The house was old and Roger knew every creaking floorboard in the place. He manoeuvred across the hallway. There was no light under the door of his parents’ bedroom. Gingerly, he took hold of the handle on the door of his own room. His heart sped. He was almost safe. The door squeaked. Roger’s heart stopped. Slowly, ever so slowly, he eased the door open a few inches; just enough to squeeze his slim body through. He closed the door.

He could relax now, but even so he didn’t put the light on. The moon was bright and he could see well enough to get out of his clothes and into his pyjamas. He slid beneath the blanket. Safe at last. He had a fitful night, his sleep disturbed by recurring visions. He and Mary together. Her breasts. Her thighs. Her buttocks. The tantalising glimpse of petticoat. The things she would not let him do to her.

He was late down to breakfast in the morning. The house was eerie. Where was everyone? He sat alone in the breakfast room, mournfully sucking a piece of dry toast. Still he could not keep the image of Mary from his mind. A voice brought him back to earth. It was Miranda, the live-in maid. “Good morning Mr Roger. Your father says he wants to see you in the drawing room.” She paused to note cheerfully the sudden draining of colour from his face. “At once,” she emphasised and she cleared used plates from the breakfast table. Miranda hoped Roger did not see the smile she was failing to suppress.

Father was waiting. He was a stern man and this morning he looked even more severe. He sat irritably in a chair. “You’re late. What kept you? I haven’t got all day. Stand there.” He barked as Roger entered the room. He pointed to a spot two yards in front of him. Roger, who was no stranger to his father’s temper meekly took up position. He bowed his head, not daring to catch his father’s eye.

“Missed curfew,” father almost shouted. “Again!” He let the final word hang in the air. This was not a first offence. “Bah!” father continued. “What was it this time? Playing cards with those cads again?”

Roger hit down onto his lower lip. His father meant the boys who frequented The Three Fishers, a public house of ill repute. He nodded his head sorrowfully. Better to let him think that than to know Roger had been trying to get his hand inside a girl’s underwear. Father was strict Chapel. Being unchaperoned  with a girl was far higher on the list of sins, even than playing cards.

“Bah!” his father coughed loudly. He had prepared a speech. He always had a homily or two to deliver at times such as this. Roger listened patiently. There was no doubt at all how this meeting would end. He was in no hurry for proceedings to move along. Wicked. Sinful. Were two of the words Roger caught, although he had stopped listening after the first two minutes.

“No son of mine …” Roger’s ears pricked up. He recognised this sentence. It usually meant his father was about to conclude his sermon. Roger paid attention.

“So …” his father had finished his lecture. He was preparing for action. “Fetch the strap.” Roger sucked in a bellyful of air. He did not need further instruction. He turned his back on his father and walked to the far end of the large room. He paused momentarily and looked at the heavy strap that hung from a hook in the wall. He reached up. Not for the first time, he measured its weight in his hand. He looked at it as if seeing it only for the first time. It was old and worn and about fourteen inches long and two wide. It had been specially made as a punishment strap and the name of the manufacturer from the Scottish town of Lochgelly was embossed along one side.

“Hurry up. Bring it here, we haven’t all day to  waste.” His father barked. Roger carried the strap in both hands like it was a religious relic of some kind. With reverence, he handed the strap to his father. “Prepare yourself,” he intoned.

Roger needed no further instruction. Prepare yourself meant lower the trousers and underwear. Father only ever spanked on the bare buttocks. He had once said it was not a proper spanking otherwise. Roger knew there was no point reminding father that he was twenty years old; twenty-one in a few weeks’ time. He was not yet legally an adult. Beside, father would probably continue spanking him for years to come. Father was without doubt the head of the household. The gardener’s boy knew that to his cost and he was thirty years old if he were a day.

With steady hands, Roger prepared himself. His trousers and underwear bunched at his shins. He was not embarrassed to stand half-naked in front of his father. It was hardly the first time. His father shifted his own buttocks on the chair and leaned back so he would not topple once Roger was in position. He closed his knees and splayed his feet making a platform for his son. “Bend over,” he said imperiously.

Roger would submit to his father. He always did. A ritual was playing out between them and they both knew the part they had to play. Roger looked down at his father’s lap, then he rested his hands on his left knee and gently lowered himself. He let his arms fall in front of him. The chair was high and this meant that behind him his feet could brush the floor without him bending his knees. His bared bottom rested at an angle against his father’s knee.

Father was a stoical man. He had said his piece already, there was nothing more to say. He rubbed the strap across the highest point of his son’s bottom and made a sawing motion. He was taking his aim. Satisfied that he had it, father gripped the strap tightly, raised it high into the air and hammered it down with great vim. A dark pink line immediately formed across Roger’s bottom. He winced. That hurt. He knew it would. The second and third swipes landed almost simultaneously, ensuring that both cheeks quickly glowed red-hot. Roger’s hips wriggled and his knees bent slightly. There wasn’t anything he could do about this. His body had a life of its own, the movements were a natural reaction against the pain.

Father set out to make sure every part of Roger’s bottom glowed. He whacked the strap across the highest point of the mounds, then over the crests and finally into the undersides where the cheeks and the thighs meet. Once every square inch of flesh scorched he turned his strap to the backs of the thighs. Roger knew he would do this but that knowledge did not stop him yelping at the pain. He would be reminded of this every time he sat on a hard surface for many hours to come.

Swipe. Swipe. Swipe. Father kept a steady rhythm. He knew spanking his sons could be an exhausting experience so he liked to pace himself. There was no need to hurry. Roger was going nowhere. He was submissively offering up his bared bottom to the lashes of the strap. Father could go on all day if he so chose.

Roger’s cheeks clenched and unclenched. His head swayed from side to side like a horse worried by a fly. He shut his teeth to keep back the yaps and yelps his body wanted him to make. His shirt was sticking to his back with perspiration. His temples throbbed almost as much as his backside.

Roger’s bottom had been many shades of pink and was now a bright scarlet. Father knew that if he spanked him for only a little longer it would become the colour of a fine Burgundy wine. Then would be the time to stop. He raised the strap again brought it down.

A ritual was being played out between father and son. It was the kind of intimate affair best shared in private. Neither father or son would have been pleased to know that the maid Miranda stood by the half-opened door enjoying every lash of Roger’s punishment.

 

 

Picture credit: The Champion

Other stories you might like

A summer to remember

Waiting my turn

You can never escape from Dad

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Skipping night class

new 5

The public bar of The Three Fishers was not too busy. Frank and his neighbour Andy liked it that way. When it was crowded you couldn’t hear yourself talk. They didn’t usually drink on a Wednesday night but their wives were out on a “hen night” with the girls, and well, while the cats’ are away.

The Three Fishers was not the classiest pub in Brocklehurst, some might even say it was a bit sleazy. But, the beer was cheap and you never got troubled by the Salvation Army selling War Cry.  “Look,” Andy said, for something to say, “How old do you thing those kids are?” He nodded to a group of youngsters playing the machines and sipping lager slowly so it would last them all night. “About fifteen, I’d reckon.”

Frank gulped some beer. “You know what they say; you know you’re getting old when policemen and kids in bars look young.” It wasn’t a very clever thing to say, but conversation between them had slowed for a time. There’s only so much you could say about Liverpool’s chances of winning the Premier League.

Each of them stared into space for a while, enjoying the company, but also the quiet. Suddenly, Frank gagged on his beer as a mouthful went down the wrong hole. In between coughing and spluttering, he nodded towards the bar, “Look that’s my Harry and your Marcus.” Andy turned to see, his face reddened. “What the ….?” He was genuinely angry. Harry and Marcus were Frank and Andy’s sons.

Andy looked at his watch, “What’s the time. Not even nine. They’re supposed to be at night school. It doesn’t finish until ten.”

Frank had recovered his composure, “What are we paying for if they’re skiving off?” The boys were apprentice plumbers. It had cost both men a pretty packet to get them signed up by a big firm. The pair would be made for life once they qualified. More so now all the Polish plumbers were being sent packing back home by the government.

So far the boys had not noticed their dads. Frank stared aggressively across the pub. He noticed the way they were chatting casually with the barman. “Damn it!” he fumed, “See that! Looks like they’re regulars in here. Do they do this every week?” Andy shook his head: how could he possibly know?

Frank drained his glass. “What are we going to do?”

“I’ll have another pint, thanks,” Andy waved his glass in the air.

“No.” Frank’s face had turned puce. “About them. What are we going to do about the boys?”

Andy smiled wryly, “Well, I think we both know the answer to that.”

Frank headed for the bar, empty glasses in hand, “I’m going to have a word.”

Harry didn’t see his dad until it was too late. Suddenly, he was standing over him. “Good evening lads,” Frank sneered. “Fancy seeing you here. Night class cancelled was it?”

It was hard to tell which of the two eighteen-year-olds blanched the paler. Marcus almost dropped his glass. He glanced across at the exit and for a second contemplated making a run for it. “You dad’s over there,” Frank pointed back at Andy who was watching the proceedings with half a smile across his face. Andy waved mockingly.

“But Dad …” Harry tried to form a sentence. He was tongue-tied. It wasn’t the drink affecting him; he’d only taken two sips from his lager. It was the confusion. His dad never came to The Three Fishers; that’s why he and Marcus used it. They’d been coming for weeks.

Frank didn’t want to make a public scene. He had no cause to. He leaned in to the two boys and menacingly said, “You are going to put down those glasses and go to my house. Wait their until we get there. Do you understand?”

It wasn’t a question, it was an instruction. Frank expected it to be obeyed, and it was. Without hesitation, Harry and Marcus pushed their way to the bar, deposited their glasses among the slops there, and sorrowfully trudged to the door. Only once they were standing outside in the cold street did either utter a word. “We’re for it now,” Marcus spoke for both of them, but that didn’t stop Harry from agreeing, “Too right.”

Frank took the full glasses back to Andy and told him what he had done. “Good. Well, I know what I’m going to do. What about you?” Andy attacked the foam on his beer leaving himself with a white moustache. “I think we are in perfect agreement,” he said looking at his watch. “We shouldn’t leave it too late. Best to get it done before the girls get back.” They both sipped their beer thoughtfully.

Harry and Marcus walked the streets slowly, even though it was a cold night and the wind was bitter. “What will your dad do?” Marcus whispered.

“Same as yours, probably,” Harry replied, although he knew there was no “probably” about it.

“Bugger,” Marcus moaned. “What a life.”

The house was cool and in darkness when they arrived. The boys’ spirits were so low they made no effort to get the central heating going. They sat in the gloom. “How long do you think they’ll be?” Marcus sighed.

“Don’t be in such a hurry,” Harry snapped.

“Yeah, well …” Marcus paced the room. During the coming hour neither boy settled. The television stayed off and they made no effort to lighten their despair with music or other entertainment. Shortly before ten-thirty the sound of a key scraping in the lock of the front door announced the arrival of their fathers.

“Bloody hell, it’s like an icebox in here,” Frank shivered theatrically and headed upstairs to use the bathroom and switch on the heating. The boys stood, not daring to catch each other’s eye.

“That’s better,” Frank said, when he returned, rubbing the palms of his hands together to get his blood circulation going. “In here, you two,” he gestured to a sizeable open-plan room and led the way. Two sorrowful eighteen-year-olds followed with Andy bringing up the rear.

Frank stood, his feet apart and his hands behind his back. The two lads stared down at the expensive wooden flooring. “I’m not even going to dignify this with a lecture,” Frank spoke forcefully. He had appointed himself spokesman for the two fathers. The two boys looked sheepish. “We’ve spent a fortune on your apprenticeships and look how you repay us.”

Marcus’s eyes glazed. Frank’s words sounded like a lecture to him. “And, it’s not the first time is it?” Frank’s question went unanswered. “Is it!” he thundered. He was rewarded with muffled “Noes” from the wretched pair. “No, it’s not,” Frank confirmed. “Well, we’re not putting up with it, are we Mr Hutchins?”

Andy had not expected to be addressed by this name and missed his cue. “Are we?” Frank repeated. Andy’s response was to shake his head vigorously and intone, “No!” That proved to be his only contribution to the reprimand.

Frank was ready for action. “Pull up a stool,” he nodded at a set of low wooden seats and took hold of one himself. Andy followed his lead. Frank sat down on one. Andy did the same on his. “Right,” Frank gestured to his son Harry, “Stand by me.” Harry glanced at his pal Marcus but the boy did not see him, his eyes were transfixed at the floor.

“You too,” Andy snapped his fingers. That got Marcus’s attention. Soon both boys were in position. They made no objection. What objection could they make? They were in the wrong. Their fathers had right on their side. Matters had to take their course. That’s what made the world go round.

Frank spoke quietly but with authority, “Take down your jeans.” Harry’s eyes pleaded with his father. It was bad enough to be spanked by his dad, and worse to have it done in front of his friend, but jeans down was going too far. Embarrassment was one thing; humiliation was something else. Harry said none of this. Meekly, he fumbled with the belt of his jeans. They were baggy and the moment he un-popped the button at the waist they started to slide down his thighs, even with the zipper still fastened. They snagged at Harry’s knees which he bent slightly and this was enough to send them travelling down to his feet.

Harry stood by his dad’s side, looking down at the old man. “Bend over my knee.” Frank had a beer gut and this drooped over his lap, offering very little room for his son to present himself for a spanking. Harry eased himself down. Like father, like son, Harry was well padded himself and struggled to keep his balance. He pressed the palms of his hands into the floor and his toes rested comfortably on the ground behind him. His big bum was angled over his dad’s knee but he could feel himself slipping. Frank gripped him around the waist and this kept Harry steady.

Marcus was an altogether trimmer boy. His chino trousers clung to his slim body and once he unfastened the belt and zipper he was obliged to roll them down over his hips and thighs. He left them bundled at his knees. His dad Andy had some “middle-aged spread” but there was sufficient room for Marcus to offer his body comfortably across the lap.

The two dads faced each other. Frank gave a signal and they began spanking in unison. Synchronised spanking is not yet an Olympic sport but were it to become one the two dads might be in the running for Gold. They quickly got their rhythm. The stereophonic sound of two hands slapping two bums resounded around the room.

Although the two dads had eye contact, the boys did not. That saved them much embarrassment. But, Marcus realised that by looking to his right he had a perfect view of his friend’s fat bum, pointing in the air, the palm of Frank’s hand sinking into the flesh with each slap.

z used otk twosome Magic spanking factory (4)

An over-the-knee hand spanking on the underpants for eighteen-year-old boys is not much of a punishment. No matter how hard, or how rapid the slaps, after a short while it becomes apparent that Dad’s hand hurts far more than Junior’s bottom.

“Bah!” Frank wheezed. He stopped spanking. Andy did the same with Marcus. Was this the end? Andy hesitated, waiting to take his cue from Frank. He saw the tip of Frank’s tongue dart out of his mouth and wriggle around his lips. With that task completed Frank gripped the elasticated waistband of Harry’s pants. “These really don’t serve much purpose at a time like this,” he grinned as he tugged the pants over the fleshy mounds. Harry wriggled his bum in protest, “Nooooo,” he mouthed but not loud enough that his dad would hear.

Across the way Marcus saw Harry’s bottom was covered with dark-pink blotches. He could see right into his crack. But, his attention was diverted; his own father was pulling down Marcus’s pants. A cold breeze from somewhere wafted across his naked flesh.

The two dads resumed their synchronised spanking. Frank was delighted to see the imprint of his fingers reproduced time and again across Harry’s trembling buttocks. It encouraged him to wallop the boy harder and faster. Soon he was ahead of Andy. It was like a race where the horses keep together in a bunch until the final two furlongs when one of them makes a dash to the finishing line. Andy increased his speed and chased after Frank, ignoring Marcus’s gasps and yaps. He spanked with renewed vigour. He had found his second wind. He could spank all night, if need be.

So, they went on. Two sets of buttocks glowed. Smack, smack, smack. The noise from the slaps and the associated yaps and yelps filled the room. They didn’t hear the front door open. They didn’t hear footsteps in the hallway.

But, they did hear a woman’s voice, “Frank, I brought some of the girls back for a night cap.” They heard that and then the banshee-like screeches of a half-a-dozen women.

 

Picture credit: Magic Spanking Factory

Other stories you might like

Double trouble – his first time

The party’s over

Why me?

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Restrictions

new 5

solo couch by eitan

Wilf Hepplewhite took his latchkey and opened the door of his house. He stood in the hallway for a moment. His ears pricked. There was a faint, but unmistakable sound coming from the lounge. Someone was in the room. Carefully, so that he could not be heard, he closed the door. He put down his case and hung his coat on a hook, all the time craning his neck towards the sound. It was indeed unmistakable. He knew the room should be in silence. Furtively, he tip-toed towards the room. He stood outside and put his ear to the door. “Damn and blast,” he said to himself as his annoyance rose. He threw open the door.

Jake, his eighteen-year-old nephew, was slumped on a couch, feet on a table, watching television. The boy barely registered him as he entered the room and stood angrily. “What the b…” Mr Hepplewhite stammered, as he gesticulated wildly at Jake.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he found his voice at last.

The teenager merely glanced at his uncle. “Watching television,” he just managed not to add sarcastically, “what does it look like?”

His uncle’s face darkened. “You’re on restrictions. Did I say you were off restriction?”

Jake straightened himself up in the chair.

“And take your feet off the table,” Uncle Wilf growled. Reluctantly, Jake did so, silently glowering.

“And what’s this?” Uncle Wilf spotted what looked like bread crumbs. “What are my rules about eating in this room?”

Jake shrugged his shoulders and twisted his mouth. “I didn’t make a mess.”

“What. Are. My. Rules?” Uncle Wilf did not disguise his irritation. “What did I say?”

Sulkily, Jake replied, “No food.”

“Right. No food in this room.”

Uncle Wilf spotted a glass on the floor near Jake’s chair. “What’s this?” He had a clear suspicion as he swooped and grabbed it and wafted it under his nose. “I don’t believe it!” he stormed. “Whisky, you’ve been drinking my whisky,” he waved the glass in Jake’s face and repeated loudly, “I don’t believe it!”

Jake stayed slouched on the couch, trying to ignore his uncle, still with his eyes set on the television screen. “Doh!” Uncle Wilf was close to exploding. He grabbed the remote from the table and swung round to face the TV. The picture faded. He turned back to his disobedient nephew. “I cannot believe this,” he said again, struggling to find the words to match his anger.

“You’ve been nothing but trouble since I took you in.”

“Snot my fault,” Jake said sullenly. “I didn’t want to come.”

Uncle Wilf’s ire was rising. “I can’t wait until you finish school and you can join your mum and dad in their new home up north.” He paced the room, failing to control his rising temper. “I told you when you came there would be rules. It’s not much to ask to treat me and Aunt Sarah with respect. You are rude to her all the time. You treat this house like a hotel. She is not your chambermaid!”

The boy stared at the blank screen.

Uncle Wilf continued, “Your bedroom is like a pigsty and you leave a mess all over the house,” he waved his arms angrily. “Now, you don’t respect me when I punish you. Only yesterday, I said you weren’t to use the television.”

Jake grimaced, “I thought that was only for yesterday.”

“Did I say it was only for yesterday?” and when Jake remained silent, Uncle Wilf’s voice rose an octave, “Did I!”

“Well, no,” Jake reluctantly conceded.

“No,” Uncle Wilf paced the room, his heartbeat racing. “I’ve had just about all I’m going to take from you, Jake,” he raged as he walked. “What you need is a darn good spanking.”

Jake’s face fell, “A spanking?” he asked incredulously.

“That’s just what you deserve. A good old-fashioned spanking.”

“You’re joking right?”

“Do I look as if I’m joking,” Uncle Wilf stared intently at the teenager, still slumped. Then he began to unbuckle his belt.

Jake blushed, silenced for a moment by the sight of his uncle taking off his wide, thick leather belt and doubling it up. He was getting ready for action. He was not bluffing.

“B… but I’m too old to be spanked,” Jake blustered at a loss for words. “You.. you can’t.”

“Ha!” Uncle Wilf held the belt between both hands and snapped it making a loud crack! “Can’t I. We’ll see about that young man.” He glared at Jake. “Stand up.”

The boy slunk back on the couch. “No. No, you can’t,” he wailed.

“See if I can’t.” Uncle Wilf reached over Jake, gripped him by the wrist and tugged hard. The boy skidded to his feet. “Stop it. You can’t,” he wriggled and then swore hard.

“Right. That’s it.” Uncle Wilf kept his grip on Jake and sat down on the couch. It took a second to pull the still-protesting boy down so he was spread-eagled across his lap. “Stop that!” Uncle Wilf held the wriggling boy down. “I’m going to blister your backside and you are going to take it. Understand!” It was an instruction, not a question. “If not, you can pack your bags and be out tonight. I don’t care where you go. You’re not staying here.”

He did not wait for a reply. Jake was wearing “leisure pants” with an elasticated waist. Uncle Wilf took a fist full of material and tugged hard. The boy’s trousers and underpants came down together. Jake protested loudly but he was no longer wriggling so hard. Soon, his buttocks were bare. Uncle Wilf gripped the boy around the waist and hauled him so that his chest was laid out along the couch.  His legs dangled behind him with his knees straight and toes hovering above the carpet. Like this his bare cheeks were displayed at an angle across Uncle Wilf’s thigh. They were perfectly positioned for the spanking Jake was about to receive.

“You’ve been asking for this for a long time, young man,” Uncle Wilf said as he took up his belt and carefully doubled it. It was wide, thick and heavy and would make a perfect punishment tool. Jake’s bare bottom twitched and the cheeks clenched. They were firm and round and made to be spanked. Uncle Wilf took a firm grip of the boy’s waist so he was pinned down. He raised the belt high and with as much strength as he could find he lashed it across the very centre of his target. He was delighted to be rewarded with two sunset stripes. He whacked again and again and in no time Jake’s bottom resembled a plan of a railway junction.

The boy gasped as the leather lashed him. After a dozen or so more whacks he began to quietly yap.

“Good, you’re feeling that,” Uncle Wilf scoffed. “Am I getting through to you?” he asked. This time he expected an answer and when none came he lashed the belt harder, “I said, am I getting through to you?”

“Yes, yes,” Jake was breathless. “You’re hurting me please stop,” he wailed.

“I’ll stop when I’m ready to stop,” Uncle Wilf responded slashing the belt across the backs of Jake’s thighs.

“Ouch! Ooooh! Please stop. I’ve had enough!”

Uncle Wilf hammered the leather belt across Jake’s naked bottom. “You’ve had enough when I say you’ve had enough,” and he continued the thrashing. By now the whole of Jake’s bottom glowed scarlet. The outline of the belt was embossed across his cheeks and thighs. The boy’s yaps increased in volume to become yelps.

“Are you going to start behaving now?” Uncle Wilf was gasping himself.

“Yes,” Jake answered with alacrity.

“Yes, what?” Uncle Wilf landed an especially hard swipe.

“Yes, I’ll behave.”

“Yes, what?” Another swipe landed on the underside of the cheeks in the most sensitive sit-spot. “Yes, sir!” Uncle Jake roared.

“Yes, sir,” Jake mewed.

“Good, that’s what I like to hear. Have you learnt your lesson?”

“Yes, yes,” Jake almost screamed. “Please stop. Please.”

Uncle Wilf’s heart was racing. His blood pressure was off the scale. If he didn’t stop spanking soon he might have a seizure.

“I’m not so sure,”’ he answered his nephew and laid another six slashes low on the boy’s left cheek. Jake was spent. He lay submissively across his uncle’s lap, stretched across the couch. Entirely at the older man’s mercy.

“If I have to do this again …” Uncle Wilf let the thought trail off and landed six more across the right cheek. The boy’s entire bottom was hot and welted. Later when Jake rubbed the palms of his hands gingerly across his buttocks the surface would feel like leather.

Uncle Wilf slashed two more across each cheek for good measure. “Okay. That’s it. Stand up.”

Jake sprang to his knees, he stumbled and held on to the table to stop himself tumbling to the ground. He hopped from one foot to the other doing the traditional spanking dance. His hair was wet with sweat. His face glowed and was as scarlet as his bottom. His eyes shone. He wriggled as he returned his trousers and pants to their rightful place. He couldn’t bear to look at his uncle.

“Will I have to do this again,” Uncle Wilf asked calmly. Jake was still rubbing his bottom, “No, sir,” he replied meekly.

“Good. Go to your room.”

Jake hobbled across the room and Uncle Wilf heard him take the stairs two at a time before there was the sound of a slamming bedroom door.

Uncle Jake threaded the belt through the loops on his trousers. The front door opened and his wife walked in. Her face fell as she caught sight of him. Then it dawned on her what had happened and she smiled. “You look like you’ve been to hell and back.”

He snorted a laugh. “Make us some tea and I’ll tell you all about it.”

 

Picture credit: Eitan

 

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Uncle Graham’s belt

Clubbing

My friend Justin

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Take a very close look …

new 5

z used retro short shorts cane holding

Yes young man, take a very close look at it. It’s a Malacca cane. Feel the weight. Flex it, see how powerful it is. It’s one that we use at the young offenders’ institute. And, that’s where you’ll end up if you carry on thieving.

Can you imagine how much that is going to hurt when I put it across your backside? Your bare backside.

When I said you could stay at my house while you were at university I had no idea you would treat me like this. Your own uncle! I hope you feel thoroughly ashamed young man. You should. Stealing money from me. From my wallet. In my own house. I cannot believe it.

At least you had the good grace not to deny it when I confronted you. But you would never have owned up on your own would you?

Don’t try to deny that. You really have let yourself down. Yourself and your family. When I contacted your father and told him what you had done he readily agreed that I should give you the thrashing of your life. You might be eighteen, but so are some of the boys at the institute and that doesn’t stop them being caned.

Now, hand me the cane and go into the kitchen, let’s get on with this.

The kitchen was not huge but big enough to have a table that could seat four people. Simon stood staring at it. His hands trembled, so he clasped them behind his back. Uncle as right, Simon had stolen money, but more than Uncle realised. Simon had “owned up” when Uncle accused him of taking a ten shilling note, but he didn’t confess to the one he took last week and the handful of silver coins the week before. Stealing from Uncle had become something of a routine and subsidised his nights out in town. The government grant he received to study at Brocklehurst University didn’t go far, even though his Uncle wasn’t charging him a proper rent for his lodgings.

Simon stared at the table ahead of him. It was one of the modern kind with an artificial laminated top. He heard Uncle approach from behind and heard him bark, “Stand closer to the table, boy.” He heard the heavy cane swish through the air. It made a terrific noise as it travelled. Uncle had been correct when he said the cane was heavy and powerful. Simon had never been caned before: not at school and certainly not at home. Dad had never spanked him either; even though Simon recognised there were times when he had deserved a damn good hiding. He had no way of knowing just how much the caning he was about to endure would hurt.

Uncle was deputy governor at Brocklehurst Young Offenders’ Institution and one of his duties was to inflict corporal punishment. He believed in the power of the cane, he knew first hand how it kept unruly youth on the straight-and-narrow path. He was not sentimental, Simon would benefit from a good bare-bottomed thrashing. He wouldn’t steal again, not after Uncle had finished with him.

He flexed the cane thoughtfully. It wasn’t like the school canes that many people recognise. It had no curved handle, instead there was a leather grip at one end. It was roughly the same length as a school cane, around three feet, but it wasn’t as thin and whippy. The school cane was usually made of swishy rattan, but the cane he now held was made of more dense Malacca. It was thicker and had notches along its length, but it still was flexible enough to bend into an arc. It packed a more powerful punch than the rattan and was ideally designed for the older youth. It would take Simon’s backside off, especially when applied with some strength across his naked bottom. The lad wouldn’t be able to sit down comfortably for some time to come and the marks and bruises would probably hang around for a week or more.

Uncle stood behind Simon and ran his eye up and down his tiny frame. He was eighteen years old, but slightly built. He reckoned if he dressed him up in school uniform he might be able to sneak on the buses and get away with the children’s fare. The tight beige shorts he was wearing added to his youthful appearance. They were very short as was the fashion and showed off his bony legs. His waist was slim and from where Uncle was standing Simon’s bottom looked puny inside them. Not more than two pips, Uncle thought. At the Young Offenders’ Institute he was more used to thrashing more burly teenagers.

“Lower your shorts and your underpants,” Uncle spoke clearly. He was used to giving orders and always expected to be obeyed. The youth under his supervision had no choice but to obey and today neither did Simon. Uncle observed his nephew shudder. It ran through his whole body. He was terrified. Uncle expected this; most boys were in this situation, especially those enduring the cane for the first time. Uncle waited ten seconds and when it looked like Simon was not about to loosen his trousers, he barked, “Shorts, underpants down. Now!”

The angry tone in Uncle’s voice spurred Simon to action. Although his fingers nearly refused to move, the teenager managed to get them to tackle the buckle of the wide leather belt that held his shorts in place. The shorts fitted him snugly and the belt served no practical purpose, but Simon thought it drew attention to the bulge in his pants. After several tries he had the belt undone. It took more effort to get the top button open and to pull the metal zipper. The weight of the belt and the power of gravity made the shorts slide to his feet.

“Step out of them,” Uncle intoned. Simon wore no shoes so this was no difficulty. A slight breeze from somewhere tickled his bare legs. He looked down at his own body and saw that bulge in his pants close-up. “Get them down,” Uncle said evenly. Simon turned to make sure Uncle would not see his cock and balls once the pants were lowered. Uncle amused himself by swishing the cane through the air and affected not to look as Simon hitched his thumbs in the elasticated waistband of the pants and with the merest flick of the wrists sent them down to the floor. “Step out,” Uncle swished the cane once more. Simon now stood naked from the waist down. “Bend over the table.”

The table seated four people but it was still quite small. When he lay his stomach on the cold laminated top and stretched his arms ahead of him they dangled over the far edge. Even though Simon had no personal knowledge of such things, this didn’t feel right, so he spread his arms and gripped each side to his left and to his right. He decided spread-eagled like this was more comfortable. “Legs further apart, jut that bottom out further.” Simon followed Uncle’s instructions to the letter and now he was perfectly positioned to Uncle’s satisfaction.

Uncle wasn’t yet ready. Although Simon’s t-shirt was not very long its hem rested over the top part of his buttocks. In one swift practiced movement Uncle took hold of it and tugged it up Simon’s back. He was now bare from the shoulders all the way down to the soles of his feet. Now, Uncle was good to go. All he needed to do now was to take up position to the left of Simon’s prone, submissive body. He tapped the cane across the centre of the teenager’s furthest buttock, then he bent his own legs slightly. He tapped the tip of the cane gently to get his aim. Then, in one fast, complete movement, he raised, it brought it up and then along the same arc he swiped it with all the force he could muster across the very centre of both of Simon’s cheeks. An ugly red, raw line immediately appeared and maybe half a second later a tremendous howl echoed around the room. The boy’s body buckled, his head nodded up and down, his legs kicked, but somehow, through some resolve that Simon did not know he possessed, he managed not to leap to his feet and clasp his burning backside while dancing around the room.

Uncle let him settle. It took fully half a minute. Then, he rubbed the cane in a sawing motion across the lower part of Simon’s bum. The next stroke was equally as vicious as the first. It provoked the same response, and in addition this time tears flooded down Simon’s face. He gripped the edges of the table as if his very life depended on it. He wanted to beg for mercy, to tell Uncle that if he would only stop the caning now Simon would never, ever, steal again. But, some inborn instinct told him not to do this. There is some unwritten law that has been followed across the centuries that says a boy or young man under the lash (whether in the headmaster’s study at school, or the governor’s office at borstal or across the back of the sofa in the family home) must take his medicine with as little fuss as he may muster. Simon was not doing too well, but he vowed not to humiliate himself by pleading for mercy. Besides, he knew very well he would get none from Uncle.

So, the flogging continued. It was hell. By the time Uncle was done Simon had six deep cuts throbbing across his rear end. Already each had risen to a welt. The pain was intense, Simon had no idea what a caning was supposed to feel like, but by instinct he knew Uncle’s beating was classic. This had been no ordinary schoolboy’s six-of-the-best. Every square inch of his bum throbbed like crazy. His heart raced and he could feel the blood coursing at one hundred miles an hour through his arteries. His temples throbbed, almost as much as his poor savaged bottom. He could hardly see for the water in his eyes. The back of his throat was raw from his screeching. He could taste vomit inside his mouth.

Uncle tucked the cane under his arm. “Stand up!” he ordered, just as he would with any of the young offenders at the institute. Uncle watched with deep satisfaction as his nephew struggled to raise himself. Simon got to his feet but had to quickly clutch at the table’s edge to stop himself slipping to the floor. His legs didn’t seem to work. His bottom felt like he had been forced to sit in a bucket of boiling water. Gingerly, he reached behind him and to his shock he felt heat rising from his bum. Was that his imagination? He let the tip of his fingers brush his battered behind, even the slightest touch sent further shockwaves of pain streaming through his body. He resolved not to try to massage the pain away.

His head was clearing a little and after he wiped tears and snot away from his face he could see more clearly. He daren’t look at Uncle. Simon stood unsteadily breathing deeply, forcing down great lung-fulls of air. It seemed to him like hours before Uncle spoke again. “Pick up your shorts and pants. I wouldn’t try to put them on if I were you. Go up to your room.” He said this kindly. Despite appearances, Uncle was not a tyrant. Simon was a thief. He had been caught and now he had been punished. That should be an end to the matter. And if Simon did not repeat the offence, it would be. Punishment had been severe; but the lad deserved everything he got. Now, it was over: they could both move on with their lives.

Uncle watched unmoved as his nephew hobbled from the room and began the long and intensely painful journey up the stairs to his bedroom.

Picture credit: Unknown

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Memories of Dad’s slipper

Celebrity encounter

Not too old to be spanked by grandad

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com