After corner time

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Right lad, get your nose right in that corner and don’t you dare move. Leave your jeans and pants down. I haven’t finished with you yet. Not by a long chalk. That belting was just the start. How dare you disobey me and stay out to all hours. Spending your allowance on drugs. My money. You can’t even hold down a job. You lazy sod. You can pack your bag and go for all I care. It’s only your mother who’s stopping me throwing you out on to the street.

Now, you stay there and don’t move. I won’t be long. I’ll be back in a moment. I want to see your nose sniffing that corner when I get back.

….

Right turn around. Face me. Yes! This is a surprise isn’t it. You didn’t know I had one of these. I bought it on eBay. An authentic school cane. Don’t stare at your feet, look at it.  See how easily it bends. Look how thick it is. Just think what that’s going to do to your bare bottom. Stop pouting, you only have yourself to blame. You deserve everything that’s coming to you.

Right, come over here. No, leave those jeans down. Just waddle. I don’t care if you do feel a complete prat. Stand behind that armchair. Now lad!

Don’t make me have to come over there and drag you.

Right, bend over the back of the chair.

No, not like that. Right over. Head low, bottom high. I want to see you smelling that seat cushion. That’s better. Hold on to the front of the seat, I don’t want you trying to cover up your bum. Good. Now spread those legs a bit. Give me something to aim at.

Be quiet. You are not too old to be caned. You might be twenty, but you have never in your life behaved like an adult. You deserve to be treated like a little kid. Keep still.

Let’s get this t-shirt out of the way. That’s better, now I can see the target. That belting has left a good set of marks, but that’s nothing compared with what you’re going to get now.

Stop whining. Keep perfectly still. Take your beating like a man. Don’t make a sound. I don’t want you worrying your mother.

Right then. Here we go. Stroke one ….

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

Letter of Regret

The sleep over

Through the window

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Late for breakfast

new 5z used white pants vest window cody ferguson (17)

Mr Weatherspoon sauntered into the kitchen and sighed. He could not,  would not, hide his irritation. “Where is he?” he demanded of his wife.

“He’s not here.”

“Well, I can see he’s not here,” Mr Weatherspoon snarled. “Is he still upstairs?”

“What do you think?” his wife’s sarcasm was not lost on Mr Weatherspoon.

“I’ve told him about this before,” Mr Weatherspoon pulled up a chair and sat at the table.

“Yes, you’ve told him before. You’ve told him lots of things before,” she banged a plate of bacon and eggs in front of him.

Mr Weatherspoon eyed his wife cautiously, “Come on Mary.”

“Don’t Come on Mary me, Jack,” what else did you tell him, eh? It’s me that cooks breakfast that gets ruined because he’s late down. I fetch and carry for him all the time. He’s got worse since he started work. He treats this place like a hotel and me like a skivvy.”

Jack stared down at his breakfast. Would she give him no peace?

No she wouldn’t because she went on, “What did you say you’d do if he was late down again? Well, what was it?”

Jack filled his mouth with a forkful of bacon. This was not a conversation he wished to have.

“You told him you’d give him a damn good hiding. Remember that Jack. You said he needed to buck up his ideas. You said that Jack.”

Jack chewed thoughtfully. He had said that. But, it was the heat of the moment. Surely she hadn’t taken him seriously. “He’s eighteen Mary. A bit old for spanking don’t you think?”

Mary stared scornfully, “He was eighteen when you said it, Jack. What’s changed? He certainly hasn’t!” She sat down in a huff and slashed at her own eggs and bacon. She seethed as she poured tea. “Go up now. Do it. Take my hairbrush. The ebony one, it’s on the dressing table.”

Jack slurped tea. How he wished he had a newspaper to hide behind. “Oh Mary,” he bleated and then trailed off, ashamed.

Mary had finished eating. She let her knife and fork fall with a clutter on her plate. “Do you want me to do it? Is that it? I will you know. If you won’t, I will. I swear I will.” She observed her husband from the corner of her eye. She had touched a sore spot with him and she knew it. “Let me just finish this tea,” she added slyly.

“Bah!” Jack rose from the table sharply, banging his knee as he stood. “No, don’t worry. I’ll do it,” he fumed, “If I must. If that’s what you want?”

“It’s not what I want, Jack,” she said scornfully, “It’s what you promised to do.” She allowed herself a wry smile as she watched her defeated husband slink from the room. “The heavy ebony one. On the dressing table,” she called after him.

Wayne was out of bed, but he was not quite fully awake. He stood by the window in his vest and underpants stretching. His head was a little befuddled from the six pints he sank at the Three Fishers the night before. His Dad had surprise on his side. The door burst open and there he stood brandishing in his right fist, a black, wooden hairbrush.

“I did warn you. You can’t say you weren’t warned,” Dad babbled as he strode through the door. Instinctively, Wayne backed away, but it was a small room and there was nowhere for him to run. Dad had no clear plan, he hadn’t thought anything through; he would have to work on instinct, fuelled by adrenaline.

He sat on the narrow bed, reached forward, grabbed Wayne by the left wrist and tugged him towards him. The teenager was off balance and toppled forward easily. Then he was face down across Dad’s legs with his chest and head bouncing on the mattress. Dad wriggled about and quickly put his right leg across his son’s ankles. He had him pinned down. Wayne twisted and turned, “Gerroff! Wodya doing? Stop! No!” He could struggle all he wanted to; he was going nowhere.

Dad had surprised himself. It had been easy. He had feared some kind of stand-up fight. Wayne was eighteen, he had youth – and strength – on his side; Dad could not expect to win. Instead, he had the brat face down across his knee. If not exactly submissive, he was nonetheless at his mercy. Wayne twisted and turned but when Dad lay his left arm across the boy’s back, that put an end to that.

Dad smiled. How he wished his wife was here to witness his victory. He looked down at his son’s buttocks. He had never examined them before. The boy was slender and thin and the cheeks were round and soft. Dad ran his hand over them slowly, feeling the “give” in them. They were some way off being “buns of steel”. He had never spanked Wayne before; never spanked anyone before (unless you count the “slap-and-tickle” games he and Mary played in their younger days). How was this done, exactly? He let instinct take over once more. He took hold of the top of Wayne’s pants. That set he boy wriggling and hollering again, “No! Dad, no!” He was mightily relieved when Dad didn’t tug the pants down to his thighs and expose his bare bottom. Instead, he pulled the pants tight so the smooth white cotton stretched across the buttocks as if they were a second skin. They also dug into the crack, in effect lifting and separating each cheek. Dad had made a perfect target.

He took hold of the brush, his palms were sweaty but that didn’t impair his grip. He raised it a couple of feet away from Wayne’s backside, the brush was heavy in his hands. He paused, took a deep breath and smacked it down exactly in the middle of the right cheek. Then, he raised it again and did the same with the left.

That set Wayne off. As Dad spanked the brush over and over again into the soft cheeks, his son let out a continuous barrage of protest and howls. “No, No Dad, Stop, Oww! Ouch! Eeek! Yowl! No. Stop. Please Dad. Oww! Yowlll! No. Pleeeasse!”

Dad was in no mood to stop. He was rather enjoying himself. He should have done this a long time ago, he told himself. The brat had been asking for it for a very long time. Whack-whack-whack. He increased the pace and equally Wayne’s howling and pleading intensified. “Come down to breakfast when you’re called.” Whack-whack. “Don’t give your Mum grief.” Whack-whack. “Don’t stay out till all hours.” Whack-whack. “Tidy up this room.” Whack-whack. And, on and on.

How long should a spanking last? Dad had no idea. Instinct told him it had to be until Wayne had learned his lesson. But how would Dad know? He decided to ask. “Have you learned your lesson?” Whack-whack. “Are you going to do as you’re told in future?” Whack-whack. “Will you behave?”

“Yes Dad, oww! Ouch! Yes Dad. Honestly. Ouch! Ouch! No more. Please.”

The boy was not in tears but he was in considerable distress. The spanking was getting through to him. Dad walloped another dozen all around the target. High near the back, over the crest of the mounds and down into the undercurve. Whack-whack. “Okay. That’s it. You can get up now.”

He cocked his leg and set his son free. Wayne jumped to his feet and hopped about and at the same time rubbed away at his toasted bottom. For his part, Dad was surprised how breathless he was. He hadn’t felt the least bit tired while he was taking Wayne’s backside apart. Now, he took a few deep breaths. He looked closely at the brush in his hand. Mary had been right, it was the perfect tool for spanking.

“Right. Get downstairs for breakfast,” he said sternly and when Wayne started searching for his jeans, he added, “No go like you are in your vest and pants. You’ve wasted enough of your Mum’s time as it is.” He watched with deep satisfaction as without a murmur of dissent Wayne left the room.

Moments later Wayne arrived in the kitchen. Mary Weatherspoon noticed at once his air of remorse.  She saw also the deep pink marks on the backs of his thighs. As she set a plate before her son she felt the stirrings of respect for her husband.

 

Picture credit: Cody Ferguson

 Other stories you might like

The fire-raiser

My belligerent nephew

Rock ‘n’ roll truants

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Clubbing

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Yes, I can see that you’ve got a splitting headache. That’s what happens when you sneak out at night to go clubbing. What was it booze? Or, God help me, drugs?

What? Speak up. Stop mumbling. Booze! You’d better not be lying to me. It’s bad enough that you broke my house rules without you breaking the law as well.

When I said you could come back and live with your mother and me I made it absolutely clear that there would be rules. Yes? I am not telling you anything you don’t already know.

Oh for pity’s sake stop shaking your head. I told you to enrol in college and study hard. Yes? And what else did I say?

Well, what else did I say.

Stop mumbling. I said there would be a curfew. Every night. Never later than 11.30. I don’t care if you are nearly twenty, you’ve shown you cannot act responsibly.  So there have to be boundaries. It’s straightforward. It’s not rocket science.

So, you knew about the curfew. Yes? But you stayed out late anyway. And got drunk. Or high! Or whatever you kids call it these days. You came rolling home at half-past-two this morning. Your mother was sick to death with worry. I had to stop her ringing round the hospitals.

Then you chucked up all over the garden path. And don’t expect me or your mother to clean that up. You’ll do it right after I’ve finished with you.

Yes! Don’t look so surprised. Don’t think you’re getting away with this. I will not have it. You deliberately broke my rules. In my house. I should throw you out. You can go back and live in that squalid squat; or sleep on the streets.

No? You don’t want that. I didn’t think so. No, I’m not going to throw you out. Not this time. You have your mother to than for that. If I had my way …

But you have to be punished. Don’t scowl at me like that. Of course, you must be punished. What choice do I have? Be quiet! You knew damn well I wouldn’t let you get away with this. You can’t behave like an adult. If you insist on behaving like a little kid that’s how I’ll treat you.

Yes. I’ve still got that paddle. I never thought I’d have to use it again, but I never got rid of it. It’s still hanging on that hook in the cupboard under the stairs. Go get it.

I said go get it! Don’t make me have to fetch it myself. Do you want extra swats?

No I didn’t think so. Fetch it and take it into the living room.

The ‘living room’ was at the back of the house overlooking a sizeable garden and well away from the prying eyes of neighbours. Dad need not feel inhibited here. Mark could holler as much as he wanted it would do him no good. Dad was going to take the brat’s backside off; it would do the boy good. He needed to be led back to the straight-and-narrow path.

Mark slouched into the room and timidly handed his dad the paddle. It was ancient and worn. It had been in the family for generations. Dad’s own grandfather had made it himself. It was a simple blade attached to a handle. The business end was maybe twelve inches by three and a quarter inch thick. Someone had drilled holes in it so it could fly through the air at greater speed and leave an added impact on any upturned bottom.

Dad took the paddle and examined it carefully. There was no need for this, he had seen it (and used it) many times before. He knew what damage it could do. Mark’s shoulders drooped and he stared at the floor beneath his feet. His head throbbed like crazy and he felt sick and it wasn’t only last night’s booze that caused it.

Dad gripped the paddle by the handle and slapped the blade into his open left palm. Then, he gently tapped it against his own thigh. “I think you know how this is done,” he said sternly, watching Mark’s eyelids flicker with apprehension. Indeed, he knew only too well. He and both his elder brothers had felt the sting of the paddle many times while growing up. Neither of them (as far as Mark knew) had been spanked when they were nineteen years old.

“Right then, let’s have those jeans down,” for no useful reason Dad pointed at Mark’s jeans and wiggled his finger up and down. Mark got the message. His mouth opened to speak but Mark shut it back quickly. There was no point protesting. Dad was in charge. It was his way or the highway and Mark definitely did not want to go back on the streets.

“Come on,” Dad growled. “Let’s get this done before your mother comes back from shopping.” He waved the paddle through the air and in Mark’s direction. Colour drained from the boy’s face, he swallowed down a nugget of bile in his throat. Slowly he unbuttoned the top of his jeans and pulled the zipper. They were ‘skinny’ jeans and clung to the contours of his body like a second skin. They were not easy to remove. He got them down to his knees and then realised he was wearing sneakers. Dad saw this too. “Just down to the shins. No need to take them right off.”

Mark straightened himself up but could not look at Dad. What next? Would he have to take down his tight bright-blue cotton briefs. In the past Dad always spanked him on the briefs; but in the past he hadn’t been nineteen.

“Put yourself across the table,” Dad pointed the paddle at a small dining table. Mark swivelled his head to look at it but made no effort to move. “Now!” Dad blasted. “You are sorely trying my patience. Quick. Bend over. Flat across the table.”

It was as if Mark had only just woken up. He shook his head vigorously as if you clear it of sleep. He turned away from Dad and with his jeans restricting his walking he shuffled to the table. Once there he didn’t hesitate but leaned forward and rested his stomach on the cool table top. It was a small table and there was hardly any room for his arms, so he folded them and rested his chin on top. “Lets apart. Stick your bottom out more,” Dad ordered and he stared intently at his son until he was in a satisfactory position.

Mark wore a black t-shirt and it wasn’t very long, but even so Dad took hold of the hem and pushed it up Mark’s back so it was well clear of the underpants. Mark’s bottom, like the rest of his body, was thin and without an ounce of spare fat. If he had wanted to, Dad could have held an entire cheek in one hand. He didn’t do this; what he did do was to take hold of the elasticated waistband and tug hard so that the briefs dug up into Mark’s crack and so the cotton was smooth against the skin with no creases.

Dad was ready. Mark had a close up view of the wooden table. He shut his eyes tightly and tried to pretend that this was not happening. The heavy tap of the paddle against the centre of his right cheek brought him back to reality. Dad was taking aim. Suddenly Mark felt the paddle lift away from his backside and a second later it returned at high velocity and swatted him with tremendous force. He heard the CRACK! as wood connected with flesh. The noise resounded around the room. Only then did he feel the pain. It was like Dad had pressed his mother’s iron into him. Mark’s body jerked and his knees buckled. He had no control over this. It was just a natural reaction to the agony he felt.

Dad tapped the blade on the left cheek and WHOOP! Brought it down hard. It was like he was beating dust from a rug. Both cheeks burned like the fires of Hell. Mark’s head bounced up and down, but he kept his arms tightly folded but this time one foot crossed over the other as he struggled to stay in position, submissively face-down across the table with his bottom jutting out so that Dad continued to have a perfect aim.

Dad put the next swats lower. The underpants were so small and tight they didn’t cover the whole of Mark’s cheeks. That meant the paddle struck him on bare flesh where the bum meets the legs. That hurt! That really hurt! Dad saw the outline of the paddle embossed across the backs of his son’s thighs. It shone bright-pink. Dad allowed himself a moment of self-congratulation before walloping down another couple of swats; this time higher across the top of the mounds. He had now covered every part of Mark’s pert, hard bottom.

Dad was no monster. He didn’t believe in torture. He knew his son’s bum was blazing. But, he also knew the boy was a serial offender. This wasn’t the first time he had submitted his bottom for discipline. If Dad didn’t lay it on thick there was every chance it wouldn’t be the last time either. So, Dad went right round the circuit one more time. Across the top of the bum near where it meets the back, then over the mounds themselves and then into the undercurves. He was rewarded by a series of quiet yaps from Mark that soon developed into cries, and yelps and them Oh Glory! Into a full-throated yell. Dad was pleased they were far enough away from nosey neighbours. He didn’t want social workers coming round to investigate.

“Right,” Dad said as calmly as he could, even though the effort he was making with the paddle had made him short of breath, “I hope you are learning your lesson. My house. My rules.” He didn’t expect Mark to reply so he whacked another four swats across the behind (two per cheek) and then said, “Right. Stand up. Get dressed.”

Mark did not need telling twice. He sprung to his feet so quickly he nearly tumbled to the carpet. The jeans tightly wrapped around his shins made it difficult to move. He tried to bend down to pull them up and nearly over-balanced. So, even though it hurt his red-raw bum to do it, he sat on a hard wooden chair so that he could tug the jeans up as far as his knees, then he stood up and pulled them over his blistered bottom and zipped himself up.

His eyes were watering but he wasn’t crying. His head ached even more than his buttocks and his stomach churned. If he didn’t get away quickly there was a real chance he would chuck up all over the floor. Dad was a man of few words at a time like this. He had done his duty. His son had misbehaved, he had been called out over it and he had been punished. What more was there to say?

“Here,”” he handed Mark the paddle. “Put this back where you found it.” He watched his son shuffle from the room. As he did so the front door opened. “Ha!” Dad thought, “She’s back from shopping. Good. I could murder a nice cup of tea.”

Picture credit: Unknown

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The military camp

Damien’s mid-term results

Put back into short trousers, aged 18

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The selfie

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There! Take a look at that. Are you satisfied? It’s all your fault. I told you I didn’t want to skip Uni. You made me do it. I said if he found out, my Dad would tan my hide. You just laughed. You thought I was making a joke. Well,  just take a close look. I’m not laughing, am I?

Of course, Dad found out; he always does. One of the neighbours grassed me up. Dad was waiting for me the moment I got home. “Oh, how was university today?” he sneered at me. I knew straight away he knew. I lied of course. Jesus! Why did I do that? It only made things worse. He knew all about it. We were spotted in Widdicombe Wood. Thank God we still had our clothes on.

Well, you don’t know my Dad. I got the full lecture. It’s costing him a fortune to keep me at university. My grades aren’t good enough for me to be bunking off. He’s warned me before. It’s all true, actually.

So, he says, if I insist on acting irresponsibly, it’s a spanking for me. I bet you’re wetting yourself now. Do you know what he did? Can you even guess? Yes, he takes me by the arm and bundles me into the living room. He’s already got a chair plonked down in the middle of the room. On the table there’s Mum’s hairbrush.

He sits himself down and says to me, “Take down your trousers.” Just like that, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. I’m nearly twenty, I tell him. “It’s my house. My way or the highway,” he says. God knows where he got that from. Is it some American saying? It must be from one of those rotten sit-coms he watches on telly.

Of course, I just stand there like a fool. He leans forward and pulls me towards him. Next thing he’s got the front of my trousers open and they’re falling to my feet. I’m giving him some lip at this point, but he doesn’t care. Suddenly he pulls me forward and I topple over his knee. Face down. I really hurt my arm when it crashed against the floor as I tried to get some balance. Of course, I’m kicking and hollering, but Dad is pretty strong. It’s a lifetime working on building sites that does it. He’s got me around the waist and I’m going nowhere.

Then, God almighty I can’t believe I’m telling you this; then he takes hold of the waist of my underpants and he only pulls them down. Just like that. There’s nothing I can do about it. I’m lying there, face down, with my arse bare to the wind. Then, he reaches out, picks up Mum’s hairbrush and he wallops the living daylights out of me.

Have you ever been spanked with a hairbrush? On the bare bottom? No, I don’t suppose you have. Your dad’s far too refined to do such a thing. Well, I can tell you, it hurts like crazy. Whack-whack-whack, he goes, with no let up. Pounding away at my poor arse. I thought it was on fire. I have never felt so much pain. Not ever.

So he spanks that goddam hairbrush into every part of my bum and once there’s no square centimetre untouched, he starts all over again. I’m hollering fit to bust. Not only with the pain, which is intense, but just the sheer shock of it all. I’m being held down over an older man’s knee while he spanks my bare little bottom and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it. Spanking me on and on and on.

He’d still be spanking me now, if Mum hadn’t come into the room. “What’s all that hollering,” she says. “The noise is fit to wake the dead. You’ll have the neighbours complaining.” Well, if it’s that old biddy who grassed me up, he’d probably be delighted to know I got my backside blistered. I’ve seen the way he looks at me when I waltz down the street in those tight jeans I have.

So Dad stops spanking me then and I roll off his knee. I fell flat on my face (honestly, literally) when I tried to pull up my trousers and pants and run from the room at the same time.

I couldn’t resist going to the bathroom to have a look. Look at it yourself. Look how red my bum is. I cannot tell you how much it hurt. It’s died down a bit now. It was throbbing before, but it’s more of a dull ache now. I bet you I’ll have bruises in the morning.

So, don’t forget I hold you personally responsible for this. It was your idea to skip Uni. I didn’t want to do it. You made me, even though you knew what Dad would do if he found out. I get spanked; you get off scott free. Well, at least until tomorrow. Because I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to get hold of Mum’s hairbrush and I’m going to find you and I’m going to give you exactly what Dad gave me. And more besides. On your bare bottom.

Over my knee for a bare-arsed spanking from me. Think about that when you’re trying to get to sleep tonight. So, goodnight. Until tomorrow lover boy!

 

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

The Morning After the Night Before

Tyrone misses curfew

Oh my papa

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Adventure at Camp Cottage

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Julian thought Uncle Dick was a queer fellow. He was the most extraordinary looking man, very tall and very dark and with a rather fierce frown on his wide forehead. Julian couldn’t help shivering the very first time he saw him and it wasn’t even a cold day.

“Hello Uncle,” he said in his usual cheerful sing-song voice. But Uncle Dick just shrugged his shoulders and hurried through the house into the back garden.

“Oh don’t fret about him,” Aunt Fanny smiled, her round red face beaming. “He’s off to his shed.” She bustled off into the kitchen. Julian stood in the dark room. It was old and rather mysterious somehow, the furniture was ancient, he might have been standing in an antique shop.

Just then Uncle Dick returned into the house, his frown was even more deep set. “Where’s Timothy,” he growled.

“Oh the naughty boy, I told him to wait in the garden for you,” Aunt Fanny smiled and wringed her hands. “Now he’s gone off somewhere.”

“He needs a good spanking,” said Uncle Dick. Julian blushed to the roots of his hair. Surely Uncle Dick was joking. “Send him to me the moment he returns,” Uncle Dick’s brow furrowed some more and his dark eyes glowered as he rushed out the door striding towards his shed. Aunt Fanny stood around like she wasn’t sure what she should do and then wandered absent-mindedly into the kitchen. Julian could smell the wonderful aroma of baking bread.

Minutes passed and Julian waited unsure what he was supposed to do. His heavy suitcase rested against his bare leg. He was very excited to be staying with Uncle Dick and Aunt Fanny and his two cousins for the summer. Oh, he thought, wouldn’t it be marvellous! In the country, away from the hot and smoky city.

It had been a very long time before the train reached the little station that served Curran, but at last it was there steaming slowly and stopping at the tiny platform. He jumped out eagerly to see if anyone had come to meet him. No – the station was deserted. Suddenly, he felt so lonely. Where was Camp Cottage, the home of his aunt and uncle? He didn’t even have a proper address. Just Camp Cottage, Curran, Westmoreland. How did the postman know where to deliver his letters? Oh, Julian supposed, this was the country, perhaps everyone knew everyone else. Someone would surely know the way.

But who could he ask? The station seemed abandoned. Luckily, it was a bright sunny day. If it had been the middle of winter with fog swirling and rain teeming, poor Julian would have felt very lonely. It would be like he was in the middle of a ghost story instead of in a delightful summery tale. He sat down on his huge suitcase to have a good think. He was really hungry and more than a little thirsty. If he didn’t get to Camp Cottage soon, he might die of starvation.

Julian felt miserable. Was this holiday such a good idea after all? When his father told him he and mother were taking a trip through Europe, Julian thought it was a queer thing to do. Most of the big cities had been bombed to smithereens, what was there to see? But mother and father were very religious and thought they could spread the word of God among the peasant people.

“Sorry, Ju,” Father had said, “But you can’t come with us. It might be too dangerous.” Julian had been delighted. He didn’t want to spend summer among the ruins of Europe. And anyway, he would have the house to himself. Wouldn’t that be fun! But Father had a different idea: Uncle Dick and his family.

“Blast!” Julian ejaculated when he heard the news. He wanted to tell Father, “Look I’m eighteen years old, practically an adult, I can look after myself.” But, he knew not to argue with his parents. They loved him and wanted the best for him. Besides, he hadn’t seen his cousins Timothy and George for simply ages. It really would be fun!

But just now, abandoned on the hot, dusty platform it didn’t seem like so much fun after all. Just then a wizened old man appeared at the end of the platform. My, Julian thought, he looks like he’s about to keel over and die. But, the teenager’s spirits bucked up. He was certain to know where Camp Cottage was.

Before Julian could ask directions, the old man spoke. “C’mon, young ’un, pick up your bag. Get moving.” My, Julian thought, what a rude old working-class man! He needs to learn some manners. The old man turned and slowly shuffled back in the direction he had come. Over his shoulder he wheezed, “Follow me.”

I suppose the queer old fellow is going to take me to Camp Cottage, Julian mused. He gripped the suitcase and pulled it along after him. Oh it was so heavy! What had mother packed? It felt like there was a dead body inside. The old fellow led him towards a small pony and trap. “Put yer bag in the back,” he growled. Julian paused for breath and stared at the small pony. It was almost as ancient as the old man. It would be a contest to see which of them expired first. Julian heaved his case onto the trap. As he was doing this a pungent odour wafted across his turned-up nose. “Oooh, poo!” he wanted to say out loud, but he was a polite boy and he kept his thought buttoned up. What a pong! Then he giggled, where was the smell coming from? Did the old man smell as awful as the pony?

Julian settled himself in the trap and off they went. It was a slow drive along narrow roads. The old man dozed in the heat. The pony seemed to know its way, it really didn’t need a driver! Julian watched the hedges slowly pass by. How beautiful! Oh he was pleased to be in the country! What fun this holiday would be! He hoped his cousins would be good sorts. Timothy was exactly his own age and George, two years older. They would have lots in common, wouldn’t they? What adventures they would have!

At last the pony and trap edged up to Camp Cottage. It was a very old house indeed. Julian’s father said it was at least three hundred years old. It wasn’t really a cottage, but quite a big house, built of old white stone. Roses climbed over the front of it and the garden was full of bushes.

Aunt Fanny had been waiting for them to arrive. She came stumbling out the old wooden door as soon as she saw the pony and trap draw up outside. “Welcome, welcome!” her red face beamed and she led Julian into the house.

Minutes went by and just as Julian thought he had been abandoned forever, a small rotund lady dressed in a wrap-around pinafore popped her head through the open doorway. “Hello, young Julian, I’m Joanne, the cook, come with me, I bet you’re hungry aren’t you?”

“Oh rather!” Julian smiled. “I could eat that pony outside!” He was a little disappointed when Joanne frowned and wrinkled her nose in disgust. “We’ll have none of that talk here Thank You Very Much.” Julian knew his face must be glowing with embarrassment and his ears felt hot as he followed the cook as she waddled to the kitchen.

Oh what a wonderful smell! A table groaned under the weight of a plate of freshly-baked buns and a great big iced cake. There was not much left after Julian had satisfied his hunger. Then he washed it all down with lashings of ginger beer.

He was working on the last crumbs when his cousin Timothy walked in. He did look flustered. “Hello,” he mumbled, looking with despair at the empty plates where the buns and cake had been. “None left for me then?” Timothy spoke softly. Julian blushed. What a greedy boy he was. He hadn’t thought to leave some buns and cake for his cousin.

“A condemned man is entitled to a last meal, isn’t he?” Timothy said mysteriously. Julian was about to ask him what he meant by that when Aunt Fanny bustled into the kitchen. “Timothy, you naughty boy! Your father is looking for you. You must report to him in the shed.”

Julian saw his cousin’s face go pale. “What now?” he blustered. “I thought I would show Julian his room and help him to get settled.”

Julian saw Aunt Fanny’s bright red face drop. “You know better than to keep your father waiting when he’s in one of his moods.”

Timothy sucked on his bottom lip, he plunged his hands into the pockets of his corduroy short trousers, and forced a determined look onto his face. Without a word, he turned on his heels and left the room.

Julian was puzzled. What was going on? He wanted to ask his Aunt Fanny but somehow he knew that would not be a good idea. He would ask Timothy later. When they were alone. Then he would discover the mystery!

Timothy walked slowly along the passageway of the house, heading for the back door and the garden. His hands made fists inside his pockets. His heart was beating just a little too fast. Suddenly, his throat was dry. How he wished he had swigged a bottle of ginger beer before he had left the kitchen.

His father’s shed was really a summer house. It was where he did his work. He hated to be in the house with his wife and children bustling around! It was even worse when they had visitors. How would he survive a whole summer with both his sons and a nephew cluttering up the place? Timothy walked slowly down the stone path. The gardener had recently mown the lawn and the scent of freshly-cut grass was everywhere. It tickled the back of his throat.

Timothy had made this journey many times before. It only took seconds to get to the shed from the house, but he tried to make the walk last as long as possible. Timothy knew what was waiting for him at the end of it! He wasn’t going to hurry.

He hesitated outside the door and slowly counted up to five in his head (one hippopotamus … two hippopotamus …). Finally, he took a deep breath and rapped his knuckles on the heavy wooden door. His father looked up from his writing at the knocking. He glanced at his watch. “About time too,” he fumed quietly. More loudly, he called, “Get in here. Now!”

He sat back and watched as slowly, the handle turned and the door inched open. “Come on in! Hurry up! I haven’t got all day!” he called irritably. Timothy stood hands deep in pockets, his head bowed. He could see the floor beneath his sandals was dusty. He waited patiently. He knew his father had a ritual at times like these. There was nothing Timothy could do. He had to let events take their course.

It started with the lecture. The summer holidays had started and that inevitably meant his school report had arrived. Timothy was a border at Albion School. His father liked it that way. It meant he did not have to see his son for weeks on end. But, the fees cost a small fortune and father wanted value for his money! Timothy was a disappointment. He was a bright boy but a little lazy and oh so full of mischief. If he spent as much time on his studies as he did playing pranks he would right now be coasting his way to the university. Instead, his father waved the school report above his head, rather like Mr Chamberlain on his way back from Munich.

“Maths, failed! History, failed! English language for pity’s sake, failed! Need I say more?” It wasn’t a question. His father could go on and on and on. Timothy stared down at the floor. “And take your hands out of your pockets!” Father roared. The eighteen-year-old removed them with tremendous haste. His palms were soaked with sweat. Without thinking, he rubbed them dry on the legs of his short trousers. The shed felt airless. Sweat soaked his scalp. His heart raced.

“This will not do. I have spent a fortune on school fees for nothing! What will become of you? You can’t get to university with this!” He waved the school report once more. “I doubt the Army will take you. Yee Gods, that just leaves the Clergy!” He hauled himself from his chair. Timothy’s eyes followed him as he stumbled across the shed to a far wall. He didn’t really need to watch for he already knew what was there. His father paused and turned to Timothy. “I have engaged a private tutor for the summer. You will retake your examinations in October and,” he paused for dramatic effect, “you will pass them.”

With that, he reached up to the wall and took down a block of wood that was hanging from a hook. It wasn’t just any block of wood. Timothy’s father had made it specially. It was about eight inches long and four wide. It was probably a quarter of an inch thick. What made it unusual was the handle that was attached to it and turned it from just a block of wood to a very effective punishment tool. It was what the American’s called a “paddle”. Timothy had laughed the first time he heard the term. A paddle! Why that was the long pole with a flipper at each end that you used to propel a canoe down the river!

But Father’s little paddle was no laughing matter. It had nothing to do with canoes. His father gripped the handle and brandished it at Timothy. Oh my, the colour drained from the teenager’s face. Timothy knew his father’s intention. There was to be no escape! The punishment must fit the crime! Five failed exams!

“You know what to do! Assume the position!” his father growled. Yes, Timothy knew what to do only too well. He had been here many times before! Without a word, he took hold of the buckle of his belt and with fumbling hands, he loosened it. Then he un-popped the fly buttons on his brown corduroy short trousers. They quickly slipped down his thighs and snagged at his knees. Timothy parted his feet a little and the shorts slithered down until they made a puddle on top of his sandals.

He sucked in a deep breath of air. Oh, my the room was so hot, it felt like he was boiling. He leaned forward and gripped his shins. He had a close up view of his heavy grey socks and bare knees. He had been playing in the sun a lot and they were as brown as a berry! He closed his eyes and felt his father take hold of the blue short-sleeved summer shirt and pull it away from his bottom and right up his back until it reached his shoulder blades. Then father gripped the waistband of his underwear and tugged hard so that there were no creases in his woollen drawers. The wooden blade of the paddle felt heavy as his father tap, tap, tapped it across the centre of his buttocks so that it touched both cheeks. Suddenly, Father lifted the paddle away and with a resounding thwack! he brought it crashing down!

Oh! How that hurt! Timothy scrunched up his eyes in pain. It burned so much! His body shook but valiantly Timothy clutched his shins and waited for the second wallop. Bang! It hit him a little lower than the first and the impact of the blow knocked him forward. The soles of his sandals slipped on the dusty floor and almost sent him toppling over. He stopped himself just in time and straightened up so that once more his bottom was pointing up in the air ready to take the next whack in the spanking that he so richly deserved!

“Ouch! Gosh! Yarroo!” That hurt! Timothy couldn’t help himself crying out. Father was spanking him with some vim. He swiped him so hard it was as if he was trying to beat dust out of an old carpet. Timothy’s bottom was on fire. It felt like he had accidentally sat in a bath full of scolding water. Whack! Wallop! There were no bounds in Father’s determination to punish his naughty son. No part of the teenager’s buttocks was left unbruised! The naughty lad would find it painful to sit on a hard surface for the rest of the day. But, it was a just punishment. One day Timothy would thank his father for days such as these!

Father spanked him fifteen times with the paddle, that was three whacks for each examination failed. Timothy’s bottom was well and truly toasted! When at last he was allowed to stand, the poor boy’s hands shot to his throbbing posterior. Oh how he tried to rub away the pain! It hurt like billy-oh!

At last his father sent him on his way with a flea in his ear. Bother, Timothy thought, not only was he spanked, he also had to put up with a personal tutor for the whole summer. Well, he said to himself, we’ll see about that! There was no way he was going to have his summer spoiled. Not now he had his cousin Julian to play with!

Timothy took a short walk through the village and into the woods. He couldn’t go back to his cousin quite yet. The agony in his bottom soon eased until it became only a constant throb. After a while that turned to a warm glow. It still hurt, especially the sit-upon part where the cheeks meet the thigh, but he was ready to return home. He was pleased that he hadn’t cried; he didn’t want Julian to know he had been spanked and red eyes would be give away his secret!

When Timothy returned to Camp Cottage he was surprised to see his cousin Julian still in the living room with his suitcase. Uncle Dick was beavering away in his shed and Aunt Fanny had disappeared upstairs, never to return.

“Come on Ju,” Timothy beamed. His bottom was still a little sore but he was ready for his recent spanking with the paddle to become just a distant memory. “I’ll show you where you’re sleeping. I do hope you like it!”

Julian was delighted! The room was huge and there was a magnificent bed with a wrought iron bedstead.

“This is my room,” Timothy beamed. “Isn’t it a fantastic bed! It’s easily big enough for two of us!” he giggled. “A lot of the rooms here are locked up. If you don’t want to share, I’m sure we can find a camp bed somewhere or you can sleep on a settee or something!”

Julian was delighted. “No! It’s a marvellous bed,” he pressed both his hands in to the solid mattress, “and it’s really springy!”

“That’s settled then!” Timothy threw himself onto the bed and bounced up and down just like he was on a trampoline. “Of course, George is away for a few days, so you could have his room for a while, I suppose,” Timothy said, but then he frowned, “But, I don’t know that he wants anyone to go in his room while he’s away.”

Julian remembered George as quite a queer fellow. He bet he had lots of secrets. George was a tall, lanky man, now aged twenty. Julian remembered Timothy once telling him that at Albion School the boys called him “Georgina” because he acted like a girl and had the habit of holding one hand on his hip as he walked. They might have called him Georgina, but only behind his back. George was one of the select band of senior prefects at Albion who were supplied with bendy canes with curved handles to impose discipline and he wasn’t shy about using his.

“Where is George,” Julian inquired. “Oh, he’s with a new curate in the village. Fellow named Crick,” Timothy rolled his eyes, “They’re as thick as thieves,” he smirked. “They’re running some boys’ camp on the other side of the village. Juvenile delinquents, would you believe!”

Julian beamed, it sounded like the sort of batty project his parents would be involved with.

“They’re borstal boys, or some such,” Timothy couldn’t hide the mocking tone in his voice. “What a bunch of oiks hey!” He rolled on the bed and hoped his cousin hadn’t noticed his wince as a particularly tender part of his bottom connected with the hard mattress. “Half the village are up in arms. They think they’ll be murdered in their beds. Or they’ll be robbed of the family silver! Ha! Ha! Ha!

“But, don’t worry about George,” he giggled, “there’s plenty of time to meet him. We’ve got an adventure of our own to go on.”

“Oh,” Julian beamed, “What fun!” How he was going to enjoy his summer at Camp Cottage!

To be continued ….

Picture credit: E.H. Davie

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Lodging with Uncle Ralph

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“Come up here Robert, I want you to see this. You need to learn something.” It was Uncle Ralph calling from the bedroom. I knew something not nice was happening, I had felt an extreme tension in the house the moment I returned from college.

With some reluctance I trudged up the stairs. The bedroom door was open. My cousin John stood miserably, his usually pale face, now a deathly shade of white. Towering over him was his father, my Uncle Ralph. Uncle’s whiskers bristled; he turned to me and growled, “I want you to see this. The same will happen to you if you ever break my rules.”

I glanced at John; now his face was deep scarlet. I had no idea what was happening. I had moved in with Uncle Ralph and his family a few days previously after I joined Brocklehurst University. Uncle Ralph was a weird fellow. He was ex-military and had in his time been a colonel. He spent much of his life outside of England. It might be 2019, but somewhere in his head it was still about 1935. One of the first things he did on my arrival was to give me a long list of rules of the house. It went on for pages of closely printed script. I didn’t read it all. That was to be my downfall.

I was still standing on the landing. Uncle Ralph glared at me from the bedroom. “Stand there, in the doorway. Watch and learn,” he spoke in a clipped style; I suppose this was how he spoke to his men in the army. I paused, a little embarrassed. What was going on here? Why was he so agitated? I looked over at John hoping I might get a signal from him, but he was too engrossed staring down at his own feet.

“Right lad!” Uncle Ralph barked. “This is what you are going to do.” He paused and wiped spittle from his beard with the back of his hand. “Take down those trousers.” I’m sure my jaw must have dropped, I was gaping. John’s face contorted, I knew he wanted to say something, to perhaps make a protest, but he seemed to bite back his thoughts. His forehead shone with sweat although the room was quite cool.

“Get them down. Now, lad,” Uncle Ralph glared. “Or do you want me to do it for you?” “No Father, no,” the threat spurred John into action. He wore cheap track pants and all he had to do was pinch the sides of the elasticated waistband and guide them down over his thighs. They snagged at the knees. “All the way. Step out of them,” Uncle Ralph ordered.

I am no expert on these things, but it looked like John was in a trance. He kept his eyes trained on the floor as he leaned forward and took hold of the sweats and wriggled his feet free of them. He straightened up and now stared blankly at the wall. I followed his gaze; there was nothing in his sightline, only plain white wallpaper. He stood, shoulders straight, hands clasped behind his back. His plain blue t-shirt hung long enough to cover most of his tight, yellow-and-maroon-striped briefs. I noticed John’s legs were virtually hairless.

My own throat dried as I it began to dawn on me what Uncle Ralph intended to do. I don’t have the words to describe my thoughts, but I was baffled. John was clearly in Uncle Ralph’s power. He would obey any command of the old man. That became clear when Uncle Ralph intoned. “Take down the pants. Step out of them.” My heart beat fast; I can only imagine what was going on inside John’s chest. The perspiration had now spread from his forehead and his top lip was moist. Still in a trance, he slipped his thumbs under his pants and pushed them south. He stood unsteadily on one leg and then on the other so he was able to step out of them without toppling to the floor.

John was now naked from the waist down. He straightened up. His shirt covered some of his privates but I had a clear view of his hairy ball sack. John was on some kind of autopilot. He stood waiting for Uncle Ralph’s next instruction. Almost without thinking he cupped his hands together and rested them so they obscured my view of his cock.

All this couldn’t have taken more than a few seconds but for me time was standing still. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion making it seem like minutes had passed. Uncle Ralph was in no hurry. He stood impassively, looking down his long curved nose at his son. His beady eyes were glazed. Through his beard I saw the tip of his tongue dart out of his mouth and slowly run across his top lip. He shot John a withering look and without a word he walked across the bedroom. I watched transfixed as he stopped at an old battered dressing table, opened a drawer and reached inside. I heard a clumping sound before his hand emerged holding a block of wood. Uncle Ralph used his hip to close the drawer before turning to face me. The block of wood was about the size of a DVD cover. He held it by a small handle. He waved it through the air and said, “In this house you follow the rules. Or else.”

He said no more and then slowly he walked the three or four steps necessary to take him to the bed. He sat down on the edge, rather like it was a sofa so that his feet were firmly planted on the floor. He looked across at John. “Bend over my knee.” It was a clipped command. Uncle Ralph was used to being obeyed. There was not the slightest doubt in his mind that John would submit to his will. And so he did.

I realised at that moment that this scene that was so strange and unusual to me had probably been played out many times before. Or ones very similar to it. John definitely knew the part he had to play in this drama and he did not fluff his lines. He looked across at Uncle Ralph, now sitting legs apart, took a deep breath and in one continuous movement took two paces forward and lowered himself across Uncle Ralph’s knees. He wriggled for a moment until his chest and arms were stretched out along the mattress. From where I was at the bedroom door I had a perfect view of John’s backside which he raised high over Uncle Ralph’s lap.

There was a second or two while Uncle Ralph ran his eyes over John’s prone body, I could tell that he felt something wasn’t quite right. Then he took hold of the end of John’s shirt and pushed it further up his back. Now, John’s buttocks were completely bare.  I hadn’t noticed before (why should I?) that John’s bum was broad and meaty, it was as hairless as his legs and the skin was quite pale.

I was rooted to the ground. My eyes must have been out on stalks. My heart pounded and I was now as sweaty as John. I had never witnessed anything like this before. It didn’t seem real. I couldn’t wait for Uncle Ralph to whack that wood across John’s naked, meaty bum. But Uncle wasn’t quite ready; he looked across at me and said, “I will not hesitate to give you the same treatment if your behaviour warrants it.” I croaked back, “Yes, sir.”

Uncle Ralph turned his attention back to the job in hand. He used John’s back as a shelf to rest the wood and with his left hand he gripped John around the waist. He cupped the other hand and with his palm he gently traced the contours of John’s left cheek, around the circumference and into the undercurve where the bum and thigh meet. He slapped the bum gently at the highest point of the mounds. I clearly saw the flesh wobble. Once he had gone round the circuit of the left cheek, Uncle Ralph did the same with the right. I might have imagined this but John’s entire body appeared to relax while this took place.

John might have been relaxed, but I was not. My temples were now throbbing and I knew very soon I would have a raging headache – the tension was so great. Uncle Ralph retrieved the wood from John’s back and gripped the handle tightly. The muscles in his arms tensed. He raised the wood high and rocked back on the mattress; then he pounded it across the meatiest part of John’s right cheek. I heard a long, low whistling sound. John rose to his elbows and this just encouraged Uncle Ralph to press his hand into the small of John’s back. He was pinned down and was going nowhere. Uncle Ralph was in total control. The wood rose and fell and swatted into the left cheek.

I suppose the whole scene was surreal; dreamlike. Can you imagine in this day and age an eighteen-year-old boy submissively offering up his bared bottom to his father so the old man can spank it severely with a block of wood? Well, it happened. I am witness to that.

It didn’t take more than four or five swats of the small block to cover all of John’s fat bottom. His skin was pale and reddened very easily. In no time at all his bottom was aflame. If would have glowed in the dark if we turned off the lights. Even from a distance I saw the skin beginning to break. John was stoical, I suppose. He kept his bum raised high as best he could, but the spanking clearly hurt him. He dug his elbows into the mattress and raised his head, shaking it from side to side as each successive swat added to the heat in his rear end. His hair was wet with sweat and from what I cold see of it, his face was as scarlet as his bum. He wriggled his hips and his knees buckled, but he didn’t try to break free. I suppose all that writhing around was his body’s natural reaction to the pain.

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Uncle Ralph kept up a rhythmic pounding. First one cheek, then the next. Higher, then lower. Under the crease. On the crest of the mounds. Into the back of the thighs.  Even I , with my lack of experience, could see this was a thorough, well-planned and well-executed spanking. All done with military precision.

When he was ready, and only then, did Uncle Ralph lay the wood down on the mattress beside him. He paused a few seconds while John’s body recovered a little. Then, he intoned, “Punishment over. Stand up.” He released John’s waist and my cousin scurried off his knees and stood unsteadily. His eyes searched the room for his briefs and sweats. “Dismissed.” Uncle Ralph sounded like he was on parade. John found his clothes and without waiting to dress he bundled them under his arm and fled the room.

I moved to one side to let him pass. I stood unsure what I was supposed to do next. Uncle Ralph was breathless, his shirt stuck to his back, his beard glistened with sweat. He replaced the wood in the drawer. When he turned from the dresser the startled look in his eyes suggested he had forgotten I was there. He recovered instantly, “So now you know.” I nodded sagely, as if he were one of my professors explaining a complicated new theory.

“Good,” Uncle Ralph stepped ominously towards me, “Because now we have to deal with the little matter of your absence without leave from college yesterday afternoon.”

My knees buckled. In my mind I saw John’s toasted backside, the glowing, flesh, the small cuts to the flesh. The humiliation of presenting his bare bottom for chastisement. My mouth gaped open and shut, it was a good impression of a goldfish stranded out of water.

“Wait for me in the kitchen,” Uncle Ralph spoke clearly and with authority. “I have to change my shirt.” He glowered at me, “Off! Now!” I sprang into action, only now getting some inkling of the control this man possessed. No wonder John had been so submissive. It was almost addictive.

I waited in the kitchen for ten minutes or so. How had he known I had skipped Uni. yesterday afternoon? What else did he know? I paced the room. I had no doubt what Uncle Ralph intended to do. Would I let him? Could I let him? Would I have the same fortitude as John to submit to punishment. Me, eighteen years old, nineteen next September, spanked on the bare bottom! All kinds of absurd thoughts befuddled my brain. What if the guys at Uni. ever found out!

Uncle Ralph’s arrival in the kitchen brought me back to earth. He had obviously showered and a heady aroma of coal tar soap wafted from him. I hardly noticed this; all I saw was the heavy, wooden hairbrush he gripped in his fist.

“So, AWOL from college. Yes.” I suppose he might have meant it as a question, but it sounded like a very definitive statement to me so I stayed quiet. “Yes?” he spoke loudly, as if to a hundred men, “Yes! Guilty as charged?” I murmured agreement. “Right,” he picked up a straight-backed kitchen chair with one hand and manoeuvred it away from a table and into space. He set it down heavily. “You now understand the rules of engagement.” It was another question posed as a statement. My head was spinning. What was he talking about. Engagement?

“Doh!” he was losing what little patience he ever had. “You know what is expected of you?” I must have still looked blank. “You know what to do?” He sat on the chair and wriggled his buttocks until he was comfortable. He sat upright in the chair and leaned back. He parted his legs slightly. Even I, befuddled as I was, could see he had prepared a perfect platform for me to submit myself.

“Right lad,” he barked, Uncle Ralph was incapable of speaking in a normal tone of voice, “Stand there.” He clicked his fingers and pointed to a spot on the floor a metre or so from his right knee. Looking back, some of what happened is hazy in my memory, but other parts are as clear as a bell. I know it happened, I’ve got the bruises to prove it. It was like an out-of-body experience. I stood where instructed. Uncle Ralph waved a hand at me. “Get those jeans down.” I stared down at myself. Of course, I’ve taken jeans off thousands of times before but at this precise moment I was unclear how it was done. I was baffled by the complexity of my belt. How do I get the end out of the buckle. What do I do with that prong thing? It seemed to take me for ever to get the damn thing unbuckled and open. Then, there was the challenge of undoing the top button and getting the zipper to work. Somehow , don’t ask me how, I got the jeans to me knees. “All the way down,” Uncle Ralph’s voice, loud as it was, seemed to be coming from a very long distance. I bent from the trunk and with my hands pushed the jeans until they bundled on top of my feet.

“Bend over my knee,” the command was terse. How was this done exactly? I had seen John earlier go over Uncle Ralph’s lap, but that was on a bed and John rested his arms on the mattress; where I was I supposed to put mine? Despite these absurd thoughts, I slowly lowered myself over Uncle Ralph’s right leg. There is a certain amount of instinct involved in something like this, so with my stomach perched over his thigh I stretched my body so my chest lay on his left knee. This meant my arms naturally were ahead of me. I parted them by a metre or so and pressed my palms into the cold floor tiles. I couldn’t see because I was now staring directly down but behind me my own knees were slightly bent and my bottom was poking up at an angle.

I felt Uncle Ralph lay the wooden brush on my back, just as he had with John. I flinched as he took hold of the top of my pants. But, instead of ripping them down and exposing my bare bottom, he griped the waistband and tugged. They already fitted me snugly, but now they were so tight I could feel the cotton pulled up into my crack. Uncle Ralph took me lightly by the hip to hold me steady. That was when I felt his big hand rub across my buttocks. He was smoothing away any wrinkles in the pants – and (I suspect) having a good feel while he was at it.

He said nothing while doing all this so I had no warning when he started slapping his hand across my backside. Through the thin underpants I could tell his hand was hard and rough. I had no experience being spanked so I didn’t know how much it was supposed to hurt. He lay it on hard and rapidly. Smack-smack-smack. It was much quicker than the way he had spanked John. My bum was warming up. It didn’t hurt – well, not too much – it was like an intense tingle, if that makes any sense.

z used brush otk pants chair brush straightladsspankedotcom (1a)

I lay face down looking intently at the floor. A ball of dust floated by my face. I noticed a water stain where the tiles had not been dried properly after they were cleaned. I concentrated on this, as if it might take my mind off the humiliation I was suffering. I felt a movement in Uncle Ralph’s body. He picked up the brush and whacked me hard with it. I gasped at the shock of this sudden pain. It hurt so much more than the palm of his hand. I heard Uncle Ralph wheezing as he laid the brush across my stretched underpants. Oh my how it hurt!

I don’t know how many whacks he gave me. I do know I kicked my legs and waved my arms about. “Keep still. Keep still,” Uncle Ralph ordered. I had very little control over my body, I couldn’t have obeyed even if I wanted to. “Keep still, it’ll be all the worst for you,” he said. The warning was lost on me. I kept on struggling. Suddenly, the pounding stopped, I drew in great gulps of air. The pain was intense but as soon as he stopped hammering my bottom, it started to dissolve into something like a constant throbbing.

If I thought my spanking was over, Uncle Ralph had another idea. He lay the brush on my back again and with both hands he clutched the waist of my underpants. I might have made a yell of protest, I can’t be sure. Not that it did me any good. My bum was bare. Uncle Ralph took hold of the brush again and he took my tail off! He pressed his elbow into my back and that stopped me wriggling around too much. I may not have been willingly submitting myself to him, but he was my master. He could (and would) spank me for as long and as hard as he wished and I had to lay there face down, bared-bottom quivering until he was ready to stop.

This is where my recollection becomes hazy. I know my bum was on fire and my entire body ached, but also in some crazy way that I don’t have the words to explain, I was flying high. I’ve smoked some dope in my time and taken other drugs at parties, but nothing had ever made me fly like this. Go figure, I can’t.

At some point, Uncle Ralph set me free. I remember jumping up and down and rubbing away at my roasted bottom. Then, I was face down on my bed. Next morning, I had to sneak into the utility room very early and launder the bedsheets before my aunt saw them. Later, I spent time very carefully reading the printed list of rules Uncle Ralph gave me when I arrived. I made careful note of all the offences I could commit that would earn me a jolly good spanking.

 

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures / straight lads spanked dot com

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Spanked by my uncle: who enjoyed it the most?

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Two brothers

I should have guessed I was in for a spanking the moment we sat down for breakfast.

We were all sat at the table, tucking into the traditional fried English breakfast. “We” were my dad, mum, my twenty-year-old brother, Barry, and me, Michael, an eighteen-year-old schoolboy living in Brocklehurst, a modern “New Town” in England.

The kitchen was a reasonably sized room. Our family was not rich, but we weren’t poor either. We had all the “mod-cons” of the day: the fridge, the washing machine, you know the kind of things.

The room was dominated by a huge Welsh dresser stacked with fancy china plates that we never used and a large wooden kitchen table. Dad was at one end of the table sitting to attention, his back straight as a ram-rod. Mum was at the other end, hiding behind the morning newspaper, and me and Barry were next to each other along one side.

Breakfast was not usually taken in a hurry, but today I could sense an atmosphere in the room. Mum was agitated and hurriedly finished eating and left the room saying to no one in particular she had, “Things to do.”

Barry, who was usually the first one to finish was lingering. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry. I should have realised then that they knew something that I didn’t.

Dad started it off. “Michael you came in last night at two o’clock, and you were covered in mud.”

Oh, I get it. I’m for it.

Barry was going nowhere until dad said, “Barry, please leave us alone.” My brother had a huge smirk in his face as he reluctantly did as he was told.

“Now, Michael.” dad wasn’t one to mince his words. He told me my behaviour was unacceptable. As a schoolboy, I was too young to be out at that time. He reminded me that he’d told me about this before, but I was taking no notice.

And that was it. “Stand up please.” Dad scraped his chair back from the table so his knees were clear of it.

I did as I was told, pushed my own chair back and stood.

Dad was probably in his forties, but looked much older. He was medium height and lean with hair cut in the short-back-and-sides fashion he had worn it since his days twenty years before when he had done his National Service in the Army. The hair was slicked back with greasy hair oil known as Brylcreem.

He had a short, well-groomed moustache, but it was not as dark as his hair. It hid the top lip of his pasty-white face.

Whenever I think of him, he always looked the same. That’s because he always did look the same, come summer or winter. He wore a beige cardigan with the buttons done up from bottom to top, over a white shirt pulled down to the wrists and a tightly knotted neck tie. He wore old dark trousers – part of a suit relegated from work-day use to what we never called in those days “leisure wear.”

Grey socks and bedroom slippers completed his outfit.

Dad was aware of Barry smirking through the serving hatch that separated our kitchen from the dining room. Turning his body slightly to the left, dad spoke over his shoulder. “Barry, do you want to join him?”

“No dad.”

Barry darted away from the hatch.

Satisfied that he was alone with his son, dad reached down and removed the slipper from his right foot.

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

“Take down your jeans, please.” Again, 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.

I could see Barry had again taken up a position the other side of the serving hatch so he could witness my spanking. He was still smirking: he had a clear open face that was made for smiling: he did it all the time, but I wished he wouldn’t do it now.

Dad had forgotten all about Barry. If he had known he was spying, dad would have brought him into the kitchen and given him a darned-good spanking as well – twenty years old or not.

“Bend over my knee, please.”

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, a very fashionable (at the time) mauve floral print one, 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.

As I was leaving the kitchen to go to my room, dad swivelled to his left and caught sight of Barry’s smirking face.

“Barry, come in here please.”

That wiped the stupid grin off his face.

I waited for Barry to go into the kitchen and then took his place in the dining room.

This was going to be too good to miss.

Barry reluctantly entered the kitchen, just as dad cleared away the breakfast things from the table top.

Dad and Barry stood facing each other, eye to eye. I hadn’t really noticed it before but Barry was probably an inch or so taller than dad, and who knows, maybe if he wanted to Barry could beat dad in a fight. But there was to be no fight: not today.

Not too many words were exchanged between the two. Barry knew why he was here. Not only had he been spying on my spanking, he continued to do so even though dad had ordered him not to.

I think dad saw the disobedience as a more serious crime than the spying. Anyhow, it was a double whammy for Barry and he was going to get one heck of a hiding.

“Trousers and pants down.”

It was simple, calm instruction. Barry loosened his belt and pulled his shirt tail out from his trouser waistband. Then holding both his jeans and his underpants by the waist, in one movement he pulled them down. The weight of his belt took the Levis to his feet and the dangled around his knees.

z used taking down jeans sting (2)

“Bend over the table.” Just as I had done, Barry did as he was told without question. He reached forward over the kitchen table with his stomach and chest resting on the table top. At first he seemed unsure where to place his arms, but settled for folding them in front of him so he could bury his face in his arms.

Barry moved his legs slightly so they were tucked in almost under the table, and his bare behind jutted out from the table, positively inviting the whacking he was about to receive.

Dad was in no hurry. I had a perfect view of proceedings, but dad never noticed me (or, maybe he did, but thought that since Barry had witnessed my spanking, I was entitled to witness his).

Dad moved over to the side drawer of the kitchen table, the drawer was stiff, but eventually it opened. Without looking dad put his hand inside and after a few moments fished out what he was searching for: his razor strop.

The strop was old-fashioned even then. It was a long strip of brown leather maybe an inch or two wide and at least a quarter-inch thick. I don’t know if dad ever used the strop for its rightful purpose – safety razors had been invented a long time ago – but this was the first time I ever knew him to use it for its secondary purpose. I suppose generations of naughty boys had felt one of these across their backsides, clothed or bare, but I wasn’t aware of anyone that I knew being on the deadly end of one. And, certainly no twenty year old.

As dad was going about his business, I saw Barry turn his head to the left to see what was going on.

“Face the front,” dad snapped. “You’ll find out soon enough what’s going on here.”

Barry had a very open face, fresh and boyish some people might say. I know a lot of girls found it very kissable. So did quite a few boys, we were to discover once Barry had gone off to work in Manchester.

Dad was ready now. He stood close to Barry on the right hand side, so he was almost touching him, and with no real swing he moved the strop back by about a foot and brought it crashing down into Barry’s naked flesh.

Barry winced visibly, but otherwise kept his composure.

CRACK! The second and then CRACK! the third lash cut into Barry’s bare buttocks. One on the left: one on the right.

Barry let out a kind of repressed whistle, showing that the leathering he was getting was effective indeed.

He buried his head deeper into his arms. I didn’t have a perfect few of his rear end, but I could tell Barry’s bottom was reddening quickly. Soon it would be cherry coloured and before the thrashing was over, purple.

CRACK! It must have been blow number ten when Barry raised his head from his arms and let out a piecing yell. It was as horrible as it was unexpected. Tears were gushing from Barry’s eyes and he was clearly in great distress.

Oddly, I felt no sympathy with Barry at that point. Instead I could only wonder if the neighbours could hear the noise, and guess that one or other of us was getting a damn good hiding from dad. The thought of them knowing disturbed me a little.

CRACK! I don’t know if Barry had the same thought because this time he raised his fist to his mouth to stifle his yell.

CRACK! Barry’s body jiggled from left to right as he tried to absorb the pain and desperately stop himself from jumping off the table to rub away the sting from his bum.

And, then it was over. As I’ve said dad was no sadist. Barry had taken a dozen lashes with the strop and judging from the tears flooding down his cheeks the belting had left its marks.

On dad’s instruction, Barry lifted himself off the table and bending down he gingerly pulled up his underpants. I could see him wince again as the pants brushed against his blistered bum as he pulled them to his waist. With both hands he rubbed his buttocks furiously through his cotton pants.

Then another grimace as he bent over once more to reach to his feet for his trousers. A second or so later they too were at his waist. I could see that Barry just wanted to rub and rub away at his throbbing backside, but instead he fastened his trousers and stood in front of dad, shuffling uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

A few words from dad and he was ordered to his room. I waited a few seconds and followed him up. We were two brothers who had both had a spanking from their dad and despite any other rivalries we might have in our lives there was nothing that could break that bonding.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

This story was first uploaded in January 2016.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com