Still spanked in short trousers

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z used otk school white pants taking down chair sting

Fred and Jim were in the Three Fishers bored out of their skulls and not talking about much when Jim suddenly piped up: You still keeping your lad in short trousers?

Which one? Fred inquired.

The eldest, Gavin.

Yeah, he’s left school now, nearly nineteen.

So it works then?

Oh yeah. He got through his exams and everything.

I thought you might have given up now.

No. It keeps him out trouble. Off the streets. He’s not going to want to go out at night dressed up like a little schoolboy. His mates would crucify him.

No, I see that.

You should try it with your Kevin. I hear he’s been seen drinking down here.

I know. But …

It’s easy. You can buy the short trousers on the internet. Proper ones, just like the boys wear at school. Even in Kevin’s size. I think it’s because even small kids today are really fat.

Well, I suppose I need to do something about Kevin.

A good hiding wouldn’t come amiss.

But he’s eighteen.

So what. I still spank Gavin.

Get away.

Yeah, why not? When he deserves it. Which is quite often, actually. D’you know what, I saw they were selling those old fashioned whippy canes on eBay like they used to use in schools back in the day. I’m thinking of getting one for Gavin if he doesn’t buck up his ideas.

I wouldn’t have the nerve.

Well … Start as you mean to go on. I still use the rubber-soled plimsoll. The one Gavin had for PE at school. A big heavy one. Works a treat. Packs a right punch.

What he lets you spank him?

Lets me? He doesn’t have much choice. My house. My rules. He knows that. It always has been, always will. He’s working now. He can leave home if he wants to. But even then, when he comes back to my place he has to behave himself.

Sounds fair enough. So you say you spanked Gavin. What, recently?

Last week. Sunday,

What’d he do?

Usual stuff. That was why I had to take him across my knee. He needed a reminder.

Reminder?

Yeah, like a wake-up call. He needs to come home for his meals. Liz cooks and he doesn’t turn up and it all gets wasted. Then, he never lifts a finger around the house. I told him it was his job to take the Hoover around the carpets every Saturday. Did he do it? Did he hell. Then last Saturday night – well Sunday morning actually – he rolls home drunk as a skunk. Couldn’t get his key in the door. Rings the bell wakes the whole house up. Well, after that what did he expect?

So what? You spanked him.

Too right. I waited until he had sobered up and I sent him off for a shit, shower and shave and I said, Get into those short trousers and then come down to the living room.

And he did?

Course, he did. No question about it.

So he comes down and he’s in the full togs. Neat grey short trousers, grey shirt, tie. The lot. He’s quite a big lad as you know, but when he’s dressed up like this it’s like he’s ten years old. That’s why I make him dress like that – he’ll never dare go out like it. What would people say?

And then what happened?

Well, I told him why he’d been a bad boy. Never doing the Hoovering, not even keeping his own room tidy. The drinking. He went red as a beetroot when I told him Liz had found a stinky wodge of tissue under the bed where he’d been wanking.

Oh my God! If it’d been me I’d have died of shame.

Ha! Ha! Well after I told him that he was putty in my hand. He couldn’t get out of there fast enough. He would’ve done anything I asked.

So what did you ask?

Same as always. Not asked, exactly. Told. I said, right let’s have them shorts down.

Shorts down!

Oh yeah. Those short trousers are pretty thick. They’re made to last ain’t they. Extra thick on the seat. Great for sitting down. Not so good for spanking. So down they have to come.

And he did?

Did what?

He took them down. Did as he was told?

He had to. He knew full well if he didn’t take them down, then I’d do it for him. And, he bloody well knew if I took his shorts down I’d take his pants down as well and he could get it on the bare bum.

Blimey!

Exactly. He didn’t want that did he?

No, he did not.

So, he does as he is told. Undoes the thing at the waist. Pulls the zipper and the trousers fall down.

I can’t believe this.

What’s not to believe? He’s done wrong. He has to be punished.  He knows that. If he doesn’t want to be spanked he just has to do as he’s told. So, now he’s standing their wearing old-fashioned Y-fronts.

What the white ones?

The very same. Like I say, just like a little boy. So I sit on a chair and I tell him bend over my knee.

And he does.

Without a murmur. Let’s be honest, he’s been here before. It’s not the first time. He knows what to expect. And over he goes. And I get to work with the slipper.

What is it six of the best?

Six! Nah, six wallops won’t make much impression. Six is only getting started. You wouldn’t cover all his backside with six. Not both cheeks. Takes a lot more than six.

Oh. How many then?

I’m not sure to be honest. I’ve never counted.  I start right in the middle of each bum cheek and then kind of work my way out. The middle, the top, the bottom – as it were – you know under the cheek. That sit-spot. That’s where my dad used to spank me. Hurt like mad every time I sat down for the rest of the day, know what I mean?

No, not really.

What you never spanked? Never spanked Kevin, neither?

No.

Explains a lot. Why your Kevin’s a bit of a tearaway.

Well …

Give him a good hiding. Like I do with Gavin. I roasted his backside with that slipper. Bang. Bang. Bang. Hurt like the fires of hell. Even with a big lad like Gavin. His big old bum was bucking up and down and his legs were kicking. Ha! I had to hold him really tight round the waist to stop him running away. He kicked so hard his short trousers went flying across the carpet. I hammered that slipper all over his BTM.

BTM?

BTM. His bottom. Bum. Posterior. Call it what you like.

His arse.

Well there’s no need to be crude.

Sorry.

And he’s still struggling. Kicking. Hollering the lot. He brings his hand back to try to stop me. That’s pretty hard to do because I’ve got him right over my knee. You know his face is nearly in the carpet and his bottom is pointing at the ceiling so it’s not easy to get your hand back there. But he keeps doing it and I warn him not to, but it makes no difference.

No it won’t. I suppose it’s hurting him a lot.

Yeah, of course. That’s the whole point ain’t it. A spanking is supposed to hurt, otherwise why bother.

Yeah, sorry.

So I warned him but he just kept on trying.

What did you do?

I’m coming to that. I took hold of the waist of his pants. Ha! You should have seen the way his body froze. He knew right away what I was going to go. No, no, please, not that, he yells.

Too late lad.

You took the words right out of my mouth. So I pulls them over his big butt-tocks and drag them down to his knees. Of course, he struggles all the more now.

He would. Who wouldn’t?

And that just encourages me. I grip that plimsol and I put all my effort into it. Whack!-Whack!-Whack! Fantastic! I could see the imprint of the sole glowing bright pink on his bare backside. What a sight! I toasted those butt-tocks good and proper. The spanking of a lifetime it was.

Sounds like it.

I’d still be there now, hammering away, but Liz heard all Gavin’s hollerings and she came in and made me stop. Still I made my point. He won’t want to go over my knee again anytime soon.

I don’t blame him.

Yeah, spanking works. Mark my words.

Okay, I believe you.

Oh look. There’s your Kevin just came in the bar. I thought he was supposed to be revising for his exams.

He is. Bloody hell.

Want a borrow of my plimsoll?

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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The fire-raiser

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 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

Rhys, 21, and the bath brush

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Rhys Foster had just finished his cup of tea and was about to get up from the table when his father walked into the breakfast room and calmly said, “Rhys, go upstairs, fetch the bath brush and then wait for me in the sitting room.”

The short, stocky fair-haired twenty-one-year-old gasped, put his hand to his mouth, and glowed scarlet. “But, F-f-f-father why? What have I done?” Seeing his father’s stern eyes, the young man turned even redder.

“Rhys,” he said patiently, “Mrs Thompson from across the road has just telephoned to tell me of your exploits yesterday evening. Do you need me to say more?”

Rhys burned scarlet. What had she seen him do? He had been out with friends, just idling around the bus stop mainly. There had been a bit of skylarking, nothing more. Suddenly he remembered Ginger had brought that cheap cider. Had she seen him drinking that?

Rhys shook his head sorrowfully, he didn’t want to know the finer details. He was in trouble, that was all he needed to know. And, it was abundantly clear what his father intended to do. He trembled, his lips quivered and his sky-blue eyes began to moisten.

“Very well. I see that you realize your faults and understand why you have to be punished. Now go and do as you are told,” his father chided.

“Y-yes, F-father,” Rhys whispered and he hurried from the room.

Sorrowfully, he trudged up the stairs. Spanked. At his age. It was absurd. But, Rhys knew very well, this was his father’s way. It always had been and always would be. At least until the day Rhys packed his bags and left to make his own way in the world. Not that there was much chance of that, for he was an extremely lazy young man. His mother fetched and carried for him, cooked his meals, washed his laundry. He was never going to give that up. Not until he found a wife to do all those things.

He was in no hurry but eventually he reached his parents’ bathroom. He knew where to find the bath brush. This was not the first time he had been sent to fetch it. It was not one of the light plastic ones they sell today. This was at least twenty-five centimetres long and the head was a good fifteen. His heart skipped when he tested its weight in his hands. A recent memory prompted him to cautiously caress his own backside.

By the time Rhys reached the sitting room his father had prepared himself on the couch. His intentions were clear. Rhys’s hands were at his sides, his fists clenched in apprehension. Awkwardly he shifted from foot to foot.

Father looked up at the unhappy young man. “I’m sorry I have to do this but you just won’t learn after all the talks we’ve had about the company you keep and hanging around street corners. What do you think the neighbours say?

“I-I’m sorry, F-father,” Rhys stammered, his eyes cast down because he dared not look at him.

“Your mother tells me that she might have a job for you next week. Is that so?”

“Y-yes, F-father. She says a Mr. Haroldson would like to interview me next week.”

“Good! I think a job is just what you need, young man. But for the moment, you’re still behaving like a naughty, thoughtless child, and I still have to punish you. It will help you remember that you are supposed to be a grownup. Do you admit that you were drinking cider at the bus stop?”

“Y-Yes, F-father. But …..” he couldn’t find the words. There was no “but” he had done all the things his father said. He was guilty as charged.

His father commanded, “Hand me the bath brush, young man!” Meekly, Rhys extended his hand and his father took it.

“You may prepare!” his father ordered. Rhys was no stranger to his father’s spankings. He knew the rituals. He sucked on his bottom lip as if this would aid his concentration and he slowly unbuckled his belt. Gradually, he undid his trousers and tugged the zip fly. The front of the trousers flapped open. Rhys knew his face was burning brightly but there was nothing he could do. Events must take their course. He pushed the trousers down over his thighs and they tricked down his legs and bunched at his shins.

His father noticed that the brief white underpants pants hardly covered his son’s private parts. He reached forward. Rhys’s body stiffened.

“I hope this lesson will be effective,” his father said dryly as he reached for Rhys’s pants, inserted his fingers under the waistband and slowly began to work them down. Rhys’s penis flopped. His father left the pants at his son’s knees. Then suddenly with both his hands he grasped Rhys’s upper waist.

“Stretch out on the couch over my lap, now,” he admonished.

He had put the bath brush over to his right side and behind him and he saw that Rhys’s tear-blurred big blue eyes were anxiously fixed on the menacing weapon of chastisement.

Rhys at once pillowed his head in his arms and closed his eyes. He kept his long legs clenched tightly together. Calmly his father shoved Rhys’s shirt almost up to his armpits, then twisted the tight pants so that they would act as an effective restraint when Rhys began to kick, as he certainly was going to do very shortly, once the brush began its work.

Then, his left arm tucking Rhys’s waist, he reached for the brush with his right hand and began the spanking. As he usually did, he started with about twenty light taps, alternating on the cheeks from the tops of Rhys’s hips to the base of his upturned, creamy-white bottom.

Apart from a few groans and gasps, Rhys took this part of the spanking very well, not lifting his head. Only an occasional squirming and shivering reaction, and sometimes a stifled “Ohh!” escaped as the flat back of the brush made impact with the bouncy, resilient bare flesh.

Pausing now, his father readjusted his grip around the slim waist, and then resumed the spanking. Now the crisp “Smack!” and “Thwack!” became more audible, and so were Rhys’s gasps and sobs. His body began to jerk and stiffen each time the bath brush landed, decorating his squirming naked bottom with a brighter pink than before.

Now his father paused again, contemplating his handiwork. Once again he shifted his arm which curved round the culprit’s waist, and Rhys groaned, now looking back, his elbows pressed hard against the couch and his fists clenched and his wide eyes blurred.

“Oh please, F-father, I’ll be good, I promise I will, please don’t spank so hard!” he begged.

“You big crybaby, you know perfectly well I haven’t given you half your spanking yet. Now stay still and keep in position, young man.”

Then the bath brush came down with a hard “Thwack!” and at once both Rhys’s legs kicked up, though they were hampered by his twisted, clinging pants. His feet waved in the air, and now he glanced back almost every time as the brush fell, producing a wail of “Ahrrr, I’ll be good, oh don’t spank so hard, I’ll be good, please, Father”. But his father continued relentlessly.

After about twenty of these vigorously hard spanks, Rhys was twisting and struggling frantically. His bottom was a flaming red from the top of the mounds, over the peaks and into the undercurves. His father hadn’t touched the thighs yet.

Now pausing, pressing the flat back of the brush over the crease of those plump cheeks, his father demanded, “Are you going to be hanging round street corners drinking cider again?”

“Oh no Father. No. I won’t really. Truthfully.”

His father stopped spanking. “Very well, young man. That is the first part of your punishment. But just stay where you are, because I have something else to discuss with you. Now then, I want the truth!” His father raised the bath brush and brought it down with a quick little smack on the upper right thigh.

“Oww! That hurts! Oh please, no more, please no more!” Rhys wailed.

His father could see that the young man’s hands were just dying to reach back and protect his pink cheeks, but he also knew that Rhys, understood perfectly well that if he tried such a trick he would get a good deal of extras.

z used otk brush pants down couch bbfc (1)

“Now pay attention and tell me the truth. Yesterday morning, when your mother made up your bed, she noticed that there was a wet spot. Also, you had a wad of tissues stuffed under your pillow. Now I want to know what’s going on?”

“Ohhh!” Rhys’s face was a furious scarlet. Then he buried his face in his hands and began to sob with humiliation.

“I want an explanation, young man, and quickly! Did you hear me? Did you —  did you?” Each time, the bath brush punctuated the question with a stinging whack which made poor Rhys’s bottom bound and twist and squirm frantically. Now he couldn’t control himself and he plunged his hands back to cover up his burning bottom.

“The very idea!” his father scolded. “Take those hands away at once. Now I want the truth, or I’m going to start all over again, and I’ll use the bristled side if I have to!”

“Oh please, F-father, I’m so ashamed, please-please try to understand — I didn’t — oh Father, please!” Rhys blubbered.

Smack — Thwack — Crack — the bath brush fell three stinging, noisy times, right over the crease and pinching the inner edges of the buttocks.

Rhys screamed and kicked his legs, once again he tried to put his hands back, but this time, his father caught the struggling wrists in his left hand and pinned them at the small of the young man’s back.

“That’s no answer! Are you going to tell or do I have to use the bristles on your bottom, young man?” This time, reversing the brush, he gave a light little tap with the bristled side of the bath brush right down the sensitive buttock crease, and Rhys gave up.

“Owwahrrr!! Oh don’t, not there, not with the bristles, Father! Oh please, please, I’m so ashamed, I want to die! Please don’t sp-sp-spank anymore, I’ll tell, F-father!” Rhys wailed.

During this part of the spanking, he had wriggled and twisted herself so frantically over his father’s lap that his father had to pull his body back, abandoning Rhys’s wrists and, his left arm around the bare waist, forcing Rhys’s trembling body back closer to his. “Tell, then!” he warned as he added another light smack with the bristled side in the very same place.

“Owweeeyeoww!! I’ll tell, I’m going to tell, only please let up, Father, oh you’re killing me!” Rhys wailed.

“I-I was thinking about D-Doreen, and I guess I couldn’t help it, honest I couldn’t.”

“I’m glad you told me the truth. Then you did play with yourself, Rhys?”

In a dying voice, his shoulders heaving with sobs, the culprit faintly confessed his sin of masturbation.

“All right. I’m not going to blame you too much for that, young man, because I understand what your needs probably are. Only don’t you do it again from now on, do you understand? The next time I find any Kleenex or wet spots on the couch, you’ll get your entire spanking with the bristled side of this brush, is that clearly understood?”

“Y-yes, Father,” Rhys sobbed.

“You may get off now, and I’ll pull your pants up first. And don’t forget to thank me for the spanking!” his father said sarcastically as he began to tug up the twisted little white pants till they covered the flaming backside.

Slowly Rhys slipped down to the floor, and then at once plunged his hands back to his burning behind and rubbed, the tears streaming down his face.

“Th-thank- thank you for sp-sp-spanking m-me, F-father,” he blubbered, head hanging, his shoulders heaving with his sobs.

“Not at all,” his father replied, “After all, I am only a loving father who is doing his duty.”

Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club

 

Other stories you might like:

Back on the straight-and-narrow

Hotel duty manager

Bring back the cane

 

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

 

Caught drinking beer

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Mr Harding parked the car in the driveway of his house. His head throbbed. It must be the flu, he feared. Better to leave the office behind, take a few aspirins and get into bed. He unlocked the front door. As he headed for the stairs he saw the door to the kitchen was ajar. The house should be empty. What was going on? Stealthily, he approached wondering if he had burglars.  He needn’t have worried. It was his nineteen-year-old son Lucas. But, why wasn’t he at college?

Mr Harding’s temper was already frayed and he let fly, “What are you doing at home during the afternoon? What the hell have you got there! Drinking. I thought we agreed no more drinking during the day. Not after you were arrested for drink-driving. I just cannot believe you.”

Lucas shrugged his shoulders and drained the bottle in his hand.

“Don’t shrug your shoulders at me. How many of those have you had? Are you drunk?” Mr Harding fumed. “Look at you. You’re nineteen years old. You’re supposed to be at college and here you are skiving off classes. You can’t be trusted. I’ve tried to treat you like an adult. To give you responsibilities. But look at you. This is how you behave.”

Lucas could not hide his indifference. It was like a red rag to a bull. His father waved his arms hysterically,  “You don’t give me much choice do you? If you can’t behave like an adult, I’ll have to carry on treating you like a child won’t I?”

It wasn’t really a question but Mr Harding paused in the hope he might get some response from his surly son. When none came Mr Harding’s temperature rose another ten degrees. “Yes. You know what that means don’t you. You’ve only got yourself to blame. God knows I’ve tried with you and this is how you repay me.”

Suddenly Lucas’s ears pricked up. He had only been half listening. Now he was getting his father’s drift. His eyes widened and his jaw sagged. “But …” he wheezed, but his father was now on a roll.

“Spanking. I thought we were done with this, but clearly we are not.”

“I’m too old for this,” Lucas had found his voice.

“No, you are not too old for this. You’re too old for this when you demonstrate to me you can be trusted. Put that beer bottle down.”

Lucas stared at the label of the bottle in his hand as if only just realising it was there.

“Now! …. I shan’t tell you again.”

Hurriedly, the boy but the bottle on the table. He watched his father pick up a straight-backed wooden chair and set it down in the middle of the room.

“Right stand up. Come over here.”

“No!” Lucas protested. “What for?”

“You know what for. Now, come over here. Get across my knee.”

“No, you can’t. You can’t.”

“I can and I will.” Mr Harding gripped Lucas by his left wrist and pulled him forward. The nineteen-year-old struggled hard but his feet slipped on the shiny floor tiles as he resisted and he toppled forward. Soon he was face down over his father’s knees: head low, bottom high in the classic ‘naughty boy’ position.

“You have nobody to blame but yourself. Skipping college and drinking during the afternoon. You deserve all you get.”

Mr Harding held Lucas tightly around the waist. The teenager wriggled and writhed but he was going nowhere. His bum was wide and meaty and his buttocks filled out the seat of his denims. A perfect target Mr Harding told himself as he raised his hand high and brought it down hard across his son’s left cheek. Then he raised the hand again and motored. Slap after slap rained down across Lucas’s bum. It was like machinegun fire.

Lucas did not take it well. “Stop that noise,” his father fumed. “You deserve this. A damn good spanking. I should have done this before. When you got arrested for drink-driving. I know you got fined and banned but think of what might have happened. You could have killed somebody. A child. You stupid oaf. I should have taken my belt to your backside then.”

Mr Harding slapped his hand into Lucas’s hard bottom. His palm was hurting badly. He hoped he was having some effect on the boy’s backside. Just then, the front door opened and his wife appeared. She stood, mouth gaping in the doorway to the kitchen.

z used otk jeans kitchen sting 4

“I came home early and found him at home. Skiving off college and drinking beer. After all that trouble before,” Mr Harding told her.

His wife watched her husband’s hand as it pounded into the seat of Lucas’s jeans. “You’re wasting your time with that. You’re not getting through. You’re not hurting him one little bit.”

Mr Harding paused in his efforts. “What’s that? … Yes, I think you’re right.” He looked down at his son sprawled across his knee. “You’re not really feeling this are you?” He looked over at his wife. “Hey, love can you go fetch your hairbrush. You know that big black one. The heavy one that used to be your grandma’s. That’ll make an impression.”

Mr Harding continued spanking his son’s bum as his wife hurried from the room. His hand was definitely hurting now. Lucas’s hips bucked and his hips swayed. In a moment he was likely to topple off his father’s lap and land in a heap on the floor.  Just then his wife reappeared. In her hand she brandished the hairbrush. It was a monster – easily thirty centimetres long with the handle. The head was oval shaped and measured about ten centimetres across. She held on tightly to it and tapped the head into the palm of her hand demonstrating how heavy it was. It made a fantastic spanking implement.

Mr Lucas stopped spanking. “Right you. Get up.” Sourly, Lucas climbed to his feet. He saw the mighty brush in his mother’s hand and considered making a run for it.

His father had other ideas. “Stay where you are. I’m not finished yet. Not by a long way. You’ll regret skiving off college and drinking beer before I’m through with you young man. You need to learn a lesson and by God I’m going to teach it to you.”

Mr Harding took the brush from his wife and waved it close to his son’s face. The boy blanched. He had felt the power of this brush before. He had hoped never to encounter it again.

Mr Harding smacked the brush into the palm of his hand. “Right you. Let’s have those jeans down.”

Lucas said nothing but the look on his face spoke volumes. “Yes,” his father confirmed. “Right down.”

“No, but Dad, c’mon,” Lucas had found his voice.

“Don’t you dare argue with me. Take them down. NOW! Do you want me to get your mother to take them down for you?”

Lucas’s face was already scarlet. The force of the spanking and the acute embarrassment he felt did that. He fumbled with his jeans.

“No,” his father growled, “I didn’t think so. Get them down. All the way. To the ankles.”

The jeans puddled at the teenager’s feet.

“That’s right. Good. Be thankful you’re not taking your pants down as well. I’d happily give to a bare-bottomed spanking, but we need to spare your mother’s blushes. Right. Now bend across the kitchen table. Yes. The table. Stop whining please and just do it.”

Mr Harding watched dispassionately as his son waddled the three or four steps needed to get to the table. The jeans snagged around his ankles and nearly sent him toppling face-down to the floor. Lucas stood hesitantly at the table. He looked forlornly across at his mother, his eyes appealing to her to intervene, to stop his father spanking his bottom with the heavy hairbrush. He got no joy from her. Her face was grimly set. Lucas needed his backside blistered and she was glad her husband had the courage to do his duty.

Lucas looked at his father, now brandishing the hairbrush threateningly. He was raring to go. He tested the weight of the brush in his hand. Sadly, Lucas lowered himself forward. His stomach and chest rested on the cold wood. He hesitated a moment working out in his head where he should put his arms. He decided to reach forward and grip the far edge of the table top.

His father waited for his son to settle before approaching. Lucas had submitted himself to the deserved punishment. His bottom twitched in anticipation of the pain to come. Mr Harding was almost ready, but not quite. Lucas’s body tensed when his father gripped the elasticated waistband of his cotton underpants. He gasped, fearful that his father had changed his mind and he was going to bare Lucas’s buttocks.

He needn’t have worried. His father took the waistband and pulled hard. The cotton underpants now fitted snugly against the buttocks. The cheeks were lifted and separated and the crack between them was clearly visible under the cloth. Now satisfied, Mr Harding tapped the head of the brush against the fleshiest part of the left buttock. He took his aim, raised the brush high, paused for a second or two with it in the air and hammered it down with all the force he could muster. It sank into the left cheek. Lucas opened and closed his mouth but managed to stifle the yap his body insisted he make.

The second whack – this time on the right cheek hurt just as much. Mr Harding pounded the brush across Lucas’s backside all the while scolding his son.

“That’s hurting I see. Good. It’s supposed to, otherwise we’d both be wasting our time. I hope you feel ashamed. Look at you, bent across the kitchen  table with your jeans at your ankles. With your bottom in the air. Getting a spanking, like a silly little boy. Well, young man, let me tell you, if you do not buck up your ideas and start behaving around here, I’ll have you across this table again and again. And I’ll do it until you learn. Don’t think I enjoy doing this because I don’t. I do it because I love you. We love you. Your mother and me. We want you to grow to be a good man.”

Mr Harding increased the force and the speed of the spanks. Lucas kicked his legs. He wriggled his hips. His privates humped the side of the table. His hands gripped the far edge, his knuckles turned white. His head nodded up and down until he was headbutting the tabletop. He had no breath. The pain in his backside spread across his body. His head ached. His eyes watered. He bit down on his lower lip; anything to stop himself crying out. And still, his father walloped that brush at full pelt into his bucking bum. And still, he scolded his son.

“We want you to be a credit. To yourself and to us. And if that means I have to spank your backside until it’s black and blue, well that’s just what I’m going to do. Remember, this is for your own good. If you don’t want to go through this again, all you have to do is behave yourself. Do you think you can do that?”

The doorbell rang. Mr Harding broke off his lecture. He looked quizzically at his wife. She dashed to the window. “It’s my mother. What does she want?”

Her husband frowned. “Blast. Wait a second. She can’t see this. I’d die of shame if she knew we still had to spank Lucas at his age.” He pounded the brush across the boy’s bottom one last time. “Right lad. Get up and get dressed. You’ve been saved by the bell. Get dressed quickly. It’s over. Go to your room. Stay there until we call you down to meet your grandmother. Remember it’s over this time, but I won’t hesitate to have you back over that table again. Now skedaddle!”

He turned to his wife, “Go open the door love. Your mother will wonder what’s going on.”

Lucas rushed from the room and took the stairs two at a time. He crashed through the door of his bedroom and threw himself face down on the bed. He rubbed and rubbed at his aching arse. Later he would inspect the damage in the mirror. The oval head of the heavy hairbrush was imprinted all across his buttocks and the back of his thighs. The whole area was one continuous red blotch. Mauve marks were forming at the edges. It would take days for them to clear. The pain had already turned to a dull ache but it would reignite every time he sat down on a hard surface for the rest of the day.

He buried his head in his pillow and let the tears of shame and embarrassment soak it.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

Other stories you might like

The Gaffer of The Academy 3. Caned-off

Perils of drink-driving

Tompkins in the housemaster’s study

 

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

An unexpected lesson for Alfie

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I’ll be glad when the holidays are over and my nephew goes back to college. He’s been staying with me because his parents have taken themselves off for a New Year’s cruise down to the Caribbean. Lucky them.

It never occurred to me that Alfie would be so much trouble. He’s nineteen – twenty in February – and has been living away at university for a couple of years. I thought he was all grown up, but he keeps acting like a little kid.

The trouble is he treats my home like it’s a hotel. It’s driving my wife Carol to distraction. Nearly every morning we have the same problem: he just will not get out of bed. She cooks his breakfast and wakes him up but then what? Nothing. He never goes down to the kitchen to eat it.

Then, I have to run up and down the stairs all morning to see if he’s gotten out of bed.

 

Well, let me tell you something. I soon tired of that. Alfie’s a good kid, but sometimes he just needs to be pulled up a bit. He needs to be reminded that the world doesn’t revolve around him. I told him what would happen if he didn’t start playing by my rules.

My wife has this hairbrush she picked up at an antiques shop when we went on a visit to Brocklehurst. It’s a great heavy thing made of ebony wood. It’s nothing like those light plastic things they make today. It’s excellent for brushing her hair, but I quickly realised it could have a pretty good secondary use as well.

So last week Monday when I entered my nephew’s room that morning for the fourth time, I was carrying that hairbrush. I threw back his bed covers and delivered a sound smack that had him awake in a second. Before he was totally aware of what was going on I had pulled him to his feet. I sat myself down on the bed and hauled him over my knees. By this time he was awake well enough to be pleading for me to stop. “I will come down to breakfast,” he promised, “Please stop spanking me!” He was wailing like a little kid. Of course, they’ll promise you anything if only you’d stop spanking them.

I was having none of it. I had him where I wanted him and I might not get another chance. I pulled down his pants and started whacking his bare backside with the brush. He’s nineteen years old and entirely too big for this type of a spanking and I did more arguing and threatening than actual spanking while trying to keep him in position. He was flailing and kicking and hollering like crazy but I did succeed in getting in about twenty five whacks before I let him up.

He came down to breakfast on time after that.

I thought that would be the end of it. I had made my point that he ought to be a bit more thoughtful about others and I expected we wouldn’t have any more trouble with him. I could never have imagined what happened next.

It was getting close to midnight on the following Saturday and me and Carol were just getting ready to turn in when the phone rang. It startled us because no one calls us at that time of night. I said, “It won’t be for us, let it ring out,” but my wife said it might be urgent bad news and grabbed the handset. It was bad news all right. It was the local police station. They had Alfie and would someone please come and collect him. Carol melted with shame. He and some other louts had been hauled in for being drunk and incapable.

I had to get the car out and go fetch him. Naturally, I was angry with him but that was nothing to how I felt about the police. The sergeant at the station said Alfie and the others wouldn’t be prosecuted. It was only drunk and incapable, he told me. Not drunk and disorderly. It wasn’t worth the cost and effort taking him to court. He’d only get a ticking off, anyway.

So, Alfie was going to get off scot-free. He had disgraced himself and me and the wife. We wouldn’t be able to show our faces if the neighbours found out. I took him home. I said I’d have a word in the morning and left him to stagger off to bed.

Of course, when I said “a word” that was a code which meant his backside would be doing the listening while my heavy hairbrush did the talking.

I told my wife what had happened and what I intended to do. “The hairbrush,” she scoffed. “He needs a darn sight more than the hairbrush.” Maybe he did, but what did she expect me to do? That was when she reminded me of her Uncle Bill. Bill had been a housemaster at a very posh boarding school for many years. “He knows about this sort of thing,” she said as she rolled over and instantly fell asleep.

Uncle Bill hoped he had not shown too much enthusiasm when he was asked to help out his niece. He had retired as a schoolmaster many years before but he had kept a few souvenirs; among them his tattered academic gown and mortar-board cap along with three stout but whippy curve-handled rattan canes.

When he received the phone call he said he’d be happy to come out of retirement. If that’s what she really wanted. Carol was not a woman to mince words. “Yes, it is. Definitely. When can you get here?”

It was mid-afternoon and the winter sun was quickly setting when Uncle Bill arrived. He was a sprightly man in his seventies but many who met him for the first time thought him much younger. He still ran three miles every other day and was envied among his friends for his strength.

“Does he know that I am here?” Uncle Bill asked once he had taken off his coat and put the cane he had selected down on the dining room table. Carol nodded emphatically, “Oh yes, he knows what to expect.”

Alfie was no stranger to Uncle Bill. The old man had been much used by exasperated parents within the family across a number of generations. His expertise was much in demand and Uncle Bill shared his skill willingly. After all, what were families for?

“Call him down,” Uncle Bill stretched his arm and shoulder muscles, limbering himself up as he spoke, “You don’t need to be present if you’d rather not,” he added. He watched impassively as his niece headed for the stairs.

Shortly, Alfie appeared in the doorway. He wasn’t especially tall for his age, probably about five-feet-eight with a slim build. Uncle Bill was taken by the nineteen-year-old’s blond hair, dark at the roots (obviously dyed). It was parted down the centre and hung down over his eyes, partially obscuring a pale face that might have been thought cute if not for the attempted sneer that twisted the corners of his mouth.

“Come in,” Uncle Bill snapped, he had assumed his oft-repeated role of the disgruntled schoolmaster. “Take that look off your face.” He gestured to a far wall. Alfie hesitated, he could not fail to see the small, white straight-backed dining room chair that stood there, its back unnaturally facing into the room.

He glanced at the old man, but remained silent.

Uncle Bill sighed, “You know why you are here.” Alfie knew it was a statement, not a question and stayed silent. His heart thumped against his chest. “I manged to email your father, he is appalled by your behaviour. Do you want to know what he said?”

This time it was a question, but Alfie had no words. His mouth was parched, his temples were throbbing. The crook-handled cane lay on the table in plain sight. He didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to work out what was about to happen.

“He agreed I should cane you,” Uncle Bill answered his own question. “What do you say to that?” Another question.

If he were a member of any other family, Alfie might have said, “But I’m nearly twenty, I’m too old for this.” But his was no ordinary family. Uncle Bill’s standing was well-known. In the summer he had dealt with Arron and he was twenty-two and in trouble with the law. Rumour had it the young man could hardly walk, let alone sit down, for two days.

Uncle Bill picked up the cane. It was a typical old-fashioned school cane, made of rattan and a little over three feet long. It was as thick as a biro but was wonderfully whippy. Uncle Bill brandished it at Alfie and then menacingly flexed it between his hands. It made a perfect arc. Alfie’s eyes transfixed on the rod’s smoothness. What little saliva there was in his mouth drained. His throat hurt. The room began to move slowly.

“Six of the best,” Uncle Bill said, almost jauntily. “Stand there.” He brandished the cane and swished it towards the small chair.

Alfie didn’t understand: what was happening to him. His knees groaned, the light jumper he wore was beginning to soak with sweat. He desperately needed a drink.

He heard the cane swoosh once more through the air. “Yes, just there,” Uncle Bill tapped the back of the chair with the tip of the cane. “Turn round and bend over.” Alfie’s look of incomprehension would not deter Uncle Bill. “You need it to support you. It will hurt you more this way. That is the purpose of a caning you know.”

Bewildered, Alfie looked at the chair in front of him. He towered over it. What was he supposed to do? Bend over? What did that mean exactly?

Uncle Bill was used to dealing with boys who were about to receive their first caning. They had to be “talked through” the process. He tapped the cane on the seat of the chair. “Stand behind the chair. Place both hands on the seat. Arch your back enough so that your backside juts out. It helps if you spread your feet.”

Looking back, Alfie couldn’t believe what he did next. Instead of fleeing to the sanctuary of his room, he sidled up to the chair. The seat looked a long way down. He reached over and took hold of it and waited.

“No further than that,” Uncle Bill snapped. “Bend over as far as you can,” he pushed Alfie’s shoulders down. “Further!” Uncle Bill stepped back to get a better look. “Good, now hold on for dear life. Spread those legs. Yes, but keep the knees straight.”

As Alfie stood head lowered, bottom raised, the room span. Uncle Bill observed the teenager’s hard bottom straining against the seat of his jeans. The denim was pretty thick. Could he risk ordering the boy to take them down for a caning across the underpants? He mused for a moment and dismissed the idea. The brat deserved a severe caning. It would do him good. It would buck his ideas up a bit. But, Uncle Bill feared Carol might think it overstepped the boundaries of modesty. “Oh well,” he consoled himself, “maybe next time.”

Uncle Bill was lefthanded so he stood to Alfie’s right and tapped the whippy, heavy cane on the rounded backside. He was tempted to lay at least one dark weal across the boy’s muscular thighs swelling under the denim but he decided to slash each stroke squarely into the seat of the jeans.

Alfie felt the weight of the cane, stinging him lightly but unpleasantly even when applied with almost no force. He felt its heavy, threatening mass. He squeezed his eyes shut, holding on tightly to the chair.

“Well,” said Uncle Bill. “I had better cane you, hadn’t I?”

“Not now!” Alfie kept the thought to himself . “Not yet! I’m not ready for it!”

But when would he ever be ready for it? The cane descended with a low-toned whoosh. The impact was heavy and almost numbing. It knocked him forward, and as he went two of the legs of the chair rose from the ground almost making him lose his balance. For a split second it did not seem to have hurt him very greatly. Then the pain came welling up like a biting, stinging, bruising wave. He wanted to let go of the chair and stand up to rub the pain away, but he dared not. Some long dormant instinct told him this was not the way to behave. He must pretend that the thrashing had not hurt.

The second stroke came, and now the pain mounted to a terrible crescendo. Alfie’s head shook from left to right vigorously like an old horse troubled by a fly. Wind escaped his pursed lips which made it sound like he was neighing.

There was a pause. Uncle Bill knew his business. He waited for the pain of the two strokes to soak in for a quarter of a minute. Then he tapped the heavy cane again on the seat of the jeans. Alfie winced both at the pain it caused on his already sore bum and the anticipation of what was to follow.

Uncle Bill drew back the cane and sank another satisfyingly hard stroke into the blue surface. Three clear lines were now etched into the tight denim. Beneath the jeans welts were throbbing. Alfie felt the impact; his body hated the pain, but his brain sent him different signals. Alfie gasped. It was all he could do to keep holding the chair.

z used cane jeans touch toes domestic

“Your punishment is half-way through,” Uncle Bill intoned. “I trust you are enjoying it.” He bit into his lip. What a thing to say.

“Thank you, sir,” Alfie wheezed.

Uncle Bill’s eyebrows arched. Had he heard Alfie’s tone correctly?

Alfie’s heart raced and sweat ran down the back of his shirt. The same number of strokes still to go. He wondered how he could endure it.

Slowly and in measured fashion. Uncle Bill delivered three more strokes with all his force, squarely across the bucking backside. The heavy, whippy cane felt firm and powerful, the gasps and small cries of the nineteen-year-old submitting himself to him were intensely satisfying and he enjoyed the impact which seemed to rock Alfie forward each time. He knew he was putting him through a dreadful ordeal and he liked it.

The boy’s mother might have been horrified, but Uncle Bill had a certain matter-of-fact harshness that represented the attitude of countless schoolmasters through the ages.

He would never have committed any real cruelty, of course, but he knew how beneficial an authentic caning could be. Anything less would detract from the quality of the thing and leave the boy ultimately disappointed. Uncle Bill knew Alfie was not enjoying his ordeal, but there was nonetheless something in the way he had said, “Thank you, sir.”

On some level that Alfie could not yet imagine this caning was satisfying to him as well as to Uncle Bill.

The man was experienced enough to understand that deeper level and not to hold back or feel regret because of the superficial layer of pain he was inflicting, although to Alfie that was the only thing his mind and body understood at this moment.

Nothing but the thought of repeating the caning from the beginning, kept Alfie from gripping the chair through those desperate moments as Uncle Bill lashed those terrible last three strokes. Each one seemed to cut him in half and impel him with a force beyond resistance to leap up.

But reason held sway over nature and Alfie held the seat.

“Good lad,” Uncle Bill cooed approvingly, ten seconds after the sixth and final stroke had seared across the hard target. Alfie’s bottom was on fire. It felt like Uncle Bill had forced him to sit in an open coal fire.

“You may stand.”

Alfie rose to his feet, his face flushed almost to match his backside. His head swooned. Colours passed the back of his eyes. It was like being on drugs.

“ T…t…t…thank you, sir,” he stammered.

Uncle Bill flexed the sturdy cane. “ Now that, young man, was a caning,” he said, with the appreciation of a connoisseur. He had truly enjoyed it; not in a cruel or vindictive way, but with a genuine artistic pleasure.

“Yes, sir,” Alfie said as he furiously rubbed the seat of his jeans. The agony was already dimming to a throbbing ache. Somehow, in a way he could not yet articulate, he thought he understood Uncle Bill.

“You should go upstairs,” Uncle Bill tucked the cane under his arm in the fashion of a sergeant-major.

Alfie rushed to the bathroom and splashed his flushed face. He drank some cold water and slipped his hands down the back of his jeans and under his briefs. His burning, tender, welted backside felt like corrugated cardboard.

It was still painful to touch and he dared not look. He glanced at his face in the mirror, not recognising the ghostly-pale vision that stared back. His head had stopped spinning. He felt somehow purified and pleased with himself to have come through the ordeal. As he went back down the stairs he was filled with the most curious mixture of sensations. He felt at once tearful and tremulous, throbbing with lingering pain, slightly queasy, proud, peaceful and cleansed. He felt glad to have had the experience and was not absolutely determined to avoid having it again at any cost.

Picture credit: Unknown

 

Other stories you might like

A whopping for Warminster

Over Pop’s knee with Perce

Don’t borrow dad’s car

 

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

Harry discovers he’s not too old …

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The doorbell rang. Babs was flustered, she looked at the clock in the hallway. “Damn,” she said aloud although nobody was there to hear her, “She’s on time.” Babs wasn’t ready. Something had cropped up. Something unexpected. This really wasn’t a good time to have a neighbour call. She hurried down the hall and quietly closed the door to the front room. If she was careful she could steer her friend into the kitchen. She need never know.

Babs wiped her hands on her dress, slowly counted to five and opened the door. Mags from across the road smiled weakly, “I thought you were never going to answer. Brrrr, it’s perishing. I didn’t put on my heavy coat.” She didn’t need an invitation, she brushed past Babs into the inviting warmth of the house and headed towards the front room.

“No! Not there,” Babs realised her voice was too shrill but it was too late to moderate it, “Let’s go into the kitchen.” Mags looked startled. They always used the front room. What was up? Babs read her mind, “Oh it’s such a mess in there. You know Christmas,” she gave a frown and exaggerated shrug of the shoulders. “Come in here. It’ll be warmer,” she led the way to the kitchen. Mags hesitated. Couldn’t she hear voices – raised voices – coming from the front room?

They sat in uncomfortable silence waiting for the kettle to boil. Something was wrong, Mags sensed it. She had known her friend for many years. She had never seen her so … so what? Nervous?  Worried? Edgy? Agitated? She smiled softly, hoping Babs might spill the beans.

“Won’t be long. Won’t be long,” Babs glanced at her watch and then at the cold kettle.

Her husband George was in the front room with the couple’s nineteen-year-old son, Harry. He was staying for the holidays. Things were not going well. He had lived away from his parents for more than two years. Life in the big city was so different from his small hometown of Brocklehurst. Harry was a different person now. He played by his own rules. He had a job, he shared a house with three other guys. He was, he insisted, an adult.

Parents struggle when their children grow and fly the nest. To Mum and Dad Harry would always be about ten years old. The small boy. In need of love and guidance: firm rules, backed up when necessary by a firm hand. The past few days had been difficult. Harry arrived on Christmas Eve and it was now December 28th. Harry had become restless confined to the house, making small talk with his parents and visiting neighbours. He needed some Life.

So, the previous night he had sneaked out to The Three Fishers, the most notorious pub in sleepy Brocklehurst. It had been packed and by chance he met up with lads from school. One thing led to another. And another. He rolled back home at three in the morning, woke everybody in the house (and possibly the neighbours too) because he no longer had a door key. Dad was none too pleased to be dragged out of a warm bed in the freezing cold. His irritation was multiplied when Harry emptied the contents of his stomach over the carpet as he fell up the stairs.

Dad was old-fashioned. He had standards. He believed an Englishman’s home was his castle. He made the rules. Harry knew that. Puking up on the carpet was most certainly against the rules.

Harry sobered up quickly; nineteen year olds have remarkable powers of recovery. So it was that next morning a confrontation took place. Harry’s mother told him quietly he ought to get himself downstairs and into the front room.

His heart had lain heavily in his stomach as he awaited his father. Then it seemed to rise into his throat. Dad stood frowning in the doorway. Harry watched forlornly as his father crossed the room and seated himself on the sofa.

“Come here, Harry,” he said. The teenager rose and with leaden legs shuffled across the room. “Closer please. Stand exactly there.” His father indicated a spot on the carpet. “ Now, Harry, what have you to say for yourself? ”

“I don’t know, Dad.”

“You don’t know. You know what I’m talking about don’t you?”

“Yes, Dad,” Harry sucked on his bottom lip.

“Drunk,” his father sighed. “Look, son, you’re nineteen. You’ve been moody and disrespectful the whole holiday. Mum and me shouldn’t be troubled with your constant misbehaviour. You should have learned how to behave by now. You’ve spoiled your mum’s Christmas, you know that.”

Harry bowed his head in embarrassment, but not shame. He had enjoyed himself greatly at The Three Fishers, a pub frequented by available girls and given the chance he would visit again before he went back to the city.

His dad sighed again. He shook his head sorrowfully, “I wonder Harry if anything I am saying is getting through to you. I could tell you off until my face turns blue. You must get a grip of yourself. The time for childish behaviour is over. You’re growing up. You have got to act responsibly. Coming home drunk through the streets for all the neighbours to see.

“This is a small town, Harry. Your reputation goes with you everywhere. You used to be admired by some round here as a charming child and you are a good example some times. Now you must learn to discipline yourself and be well behaved all the time, not only when you feel like it.

“If you can’t discipline yourself, well,” he shook his head, “you know what must happen don’t you?”

Harry stared vacantly at the floor beneath his feet. He knew this moment would come, but he dreaded it nonetheless. “Yes Dad,” he whispered.

“Good,” his father said sternly. “You know what to do. Let’s have those jeans down.” He nodded at the boy’s Levis as if there was any doubt what he meant. Harry’s face coloured, he took a deep breath. He knew he ought to argue. To say, “I’m nineteen, I’m too old for this.” And it was true: he was nineteen, but his behaviour had been bad. He had let Mum and Dad down. Heck, he knew, he had let himself down. Instead of arguing, he took hold of his belt and began to unbuckle.

“All the way down,” his father encouraged. Then, “Good. Come, bend over my knee.”

Harry obeyed, lying himself across his father’s lap, his upper body resting on the vacant seat of the sofa.

“Put your hands under me,” coaxed his father. It was his practice when administering a severe spanking to sit on Harry’s hands, this made it impossible for the boy to struggle.

Harry manoeuvred his hands under his father’s heavy thighs. Harry had a slim build with slender hips and a small, hard bottom. His underpants had snugged against his cheeks and into his crack, lifting and separating his buttocks.

He was pinned firmly and he felt his father’s hand gently caressing his left cheek. The old man was smoothing out the last remaining wrinkles from Harry’s cotton pants. The teenager gasped slightly as the hard palm of his father’s hands explored the circuit of his two buttocks and into the undercurves and across the back of his naked thighs.

He knew how he was to be disciplined. He had seen the hairbrush waiting on the seat, and watched his Dad pick it up before he positioned himself across his knee. In truth, it was not actually a hairbrush, although that is what it was always called. It was a round-headed bath-brush, long, heavy and with a back flat enough for its purpose. There were numerous of these brushes in the shops, glistening in their light-brown glossy timber. There was a severity about these implements, so ideal for their purpose as spanking tools and versatile enough to use in the shower as well.

z used otk pants brush couch (5)

Harry tensed himself involuntarily as he felt a motion in his father’s body: the first stroke was coming. The flat, heavy, stinging shock exploded across his skin, penetrating the cotton pants as if they had not been there at all. Such delicate protection was powerless against the heavy thwack of the brush.

His legs stiffened, his body reared a little, though his hands were pressed immobile by warm, masculine thighs.

“I hope you are not going to resist,” his father grunted. “I have all day if you do. Relax, please. Submit yourself. You deserve this spanking and you know you do.”

Harry forced his body to go limp, letting himself go to the will of his father. The brush smacked home again, tingling-sore upon the surface of his bottom, yet deeply hurting too. These were not “love taps”, they were heavy strokes. A third, a fourth, a fifth and a sixth thwacked with force against his bucking backside. Harry yelped, tensed, tried to untense and tensed again.

He had endured spankings from his father better than this in the past, but punishment is a curious thing. In the right mood he could absorb so much, submitting himself. But today was different, Harry could hardly bear to be touched. The ringing, flood waves of pain were almost intolerable.

Often his father scolded him all through a spanking. Today he seemed to have said all he had to say. Harry knew what was expected. If he tensed and arched himself, the punishment would go on. If he submitted it would come in the end.

Unable to help himself and although he was pinned by the hands, Harry twisted his legs to avoid the pain, opening his thighs in an ungainly manner. His father deftly brought down the hard brush in agonising reproof across Harry’s exposed inner thighs.

The teenager squealed like a wounded animal and closed his legs as his only way of protecting the sensitive flesh. For the rest of the spanking his legs remained neatly side by side, despite the mounting pain in his bottom and thighs. The burning soreness would make sitting a delicate task for the rest of the day.

His father had found his rhythm now. Hard, swinging slaps fell with easy force upon the cotton-covered bottom and thighs. The flesh was becoming hot. Even father’s own thighs were hot and moist against Harry’s clenching, powerless hands.

Harry was blubbing now. He was resigned to the long, hard spanking. Harry’s fingertips were digging deep into his father’s thighs. The ordeal was far greater than he had expected. His involuntary squeals of acute distress as hard wood bit his flesh flowed through the house.

Back in the kitchen Harry’s mother Babs listened to the rhythmic strokes, each one accompanied by a high, soulful moan. Her embarrassment level was off the scale. Beside her drinking tea demurely sat her neighbour, Mags. Babs smiled coyly. “Another cup of tea? We have some mince pies left over.”

Mags nodded politely although she wanted neither tea nor cakes. Her thoughts were back across The Avenue at her house where her son Malcolm was still tucked up in bed. He hadn’t raised a finger to help all holidays. He was sour and surly when spoken to. He drank most of his father’s whisky yesterday.

The sound of hard wood against taut bottom still pounded from the nearby room. She accepted the offered teacup gracefully but was lost in her thoughts. How she envied her friend Babs with her husband unafraid to instil a little discipline where it was needed. She took a nibble of the mince pie, her heart sinking at the thought of what awaited her when she returned home.

 

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Days later Babs and Mags were in the front room sipping tea.

“George will be down in a minute, he’s just sorting something out with Harry,” Babs said and blew on her tea to cool it.

“Yes I thought your boy was still here on his holidays,” Mags said. They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Babs hoped her husband wouldn’t be too long.

“Did you do anything last night, for the new year?” Mags asked for want of something better to say.

“Nothing much, we don’t really bother.”

More silence. More sipping of tea.

“Did you hear all that racket in the street about one o’clock this morning?” Mags piped up.

“Rather,” Babs blushed, she looked at the ceiling as if she could see into the rooms above.

“Bunch of louts,” Mags warmed to her theme, “Waking the whole street. Disgraceful. You don’t expect behaviour like that in The Avenue, do you?”

“No,” Babs sighed, “No, you do not.”

“I know what I’d like to do to them if I got my hands on them,” Mags slurped on her tea so some dribbled down her chin.

“Yes, I quite agree,” Babs whispered.

Upstairs, her husband was “sorting something out” with nineteen-year-old Harry. “An absolute disgrace. All of you. Drunken louts,” he seethed. “Waking all the neighbours. What do you think they will say if they find out you were one of them? Your mother won’t be able to hold her head up at the shops. An utter disgrace,” he fumed.

Harry’s hands sweated. His head still ached from last night and his throat was as dry as a camel’s whatsit. He nodded along with his father’s reprimands, he had no strength to argue. “I am utterly ashamed of you. I spanked you the other day for coming home drunk, now look at you.” He paused and literally looked over Harry from the top of his gelled head to his feet.arryHarry

“I hope you’re ashamed too,” he paused for an answer. None came. For Harry the room was spinning, his head ached, he just wanted this over with so he could go back to bed.

The silence angered his father. “Dumb insolence. Right, that’s it,” he roared. “You are going to get the thrashing of your life.” He started to unbuckle his belt. Harry’s eyes glazed. “Right,” his father hissed, “Get those jeans down. Underpants too. Lay face down on the bed.” He pulled the wide leather belt from the loops of his trousers and folded it in two.

Harry had not moved. “Be quick about it,” his father snapped. “Or do you want me to do it for you?” That moved the teenager to slow action. Through moist eyes he unbuckled his own belt and unclipped and unzipped the jeans. He turned away from his father, hoping the old man wouldn’t see his naked cock and balls. He inserted his thumbs into the waistband and inch by inch lowered his jeans and pants together. He just about uncovered his buttocks. Gingerly, so not to reveal himself to his father, he crawled onto the bed and lay on his stomach.

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His father held the belt loosely as he waited for his son to submit himself. “Pah!” he groaned. “Not like that,” he did not hide his irritation. “Pull them right down.” He took two paces towards the bed, leaned forward and ripped the jeans and pants down until they uncovered his thighs and bunched at his knees.

“That’s better,” his father sneered, “Let the dog see the rabbit.”

Harry gripped a pillow and buried his aching head in it. “Right lad,” his father hissed, “a sound leathering that’s what you need and that’s what you’re going to get. You can only blame yourself. You never learn.” He gripped the belt tightly and towered over his prone son. The bed was made for a child so was narrow and low. His father flapped the belt and let it rest over Harry’s naked buttocks. He was finding his aim. He stood straight, then lifted the belt to shoulder height so that the leather tapped his own back. Then in one swift continuous movement he whipped it high, then forward and landed it with a resounding crack across Harry’s bottom. A thick deep pink stripe immediately appeared. Harry winced and pushed his face deeper into the pillow.

It had been some years since his father had used a belt in this way and he was quietly satisfied that he hadn’t lost his touch. The belt had landed exactly where intended. Now, he aimed a little higher. Harry’s bum was meaty, but hard. There was a lot to aim at. Up went the belt and down it came with astonishing speed. Bingo! A second sunset band glowed across the naked bottom. Harry’s legs shook on the impact.

“Feeling that, aren’t you. Good,” his father grizzled. “It’s what you deserve. It’s what you need.” He whipped another two cuts in quick succession. Most of Harry’s bum blazed red hot. “I thought after last time, I wouldn’t have to do this again. How wrong I was.” He scolded and slashed. “Look at you, nineteen years old and getting your bare backside belted by your father. What would those other louts say if they could see you.”

Harry had no idea what his friends would say. What he did know for certain was that none of them would be submitting themselves as he was to their dads for a spanking.

“And don’t be thinking that you’re too old for this,” his father said, reading his son’s mind. “You are never too old. Not in my house.” He whipped another three hard slashes across the under cheeks. “Good shots,” he told himself, “he’ll feel those every time he sits down for some time to come.”

Whack-whack-whack. His father had forgotten to keep count, but he was sure he had landed at least twenty-four. “Right lad,” he said, “That’s the belting over.” Harry sprang to his feet and started to tug his pants up. “

“Not so fast mister,” his father chided, “I’ve not finished yet. This is only half time.” Harry’s mouth opened and closed but he could find no words of protest. “Now for the cane,” his father crossed the room to the open door and reached out into the landing. When he turned back he held a length of bamboo he had taken from the garden shed earlier. It was about two feet long and rigid. He brandished it at Harry. “Leave those jeans and pants down. Kneel on the bed. Keep your head low and your bottom high.”

“Oh, c’mon Dad,” Harry had found his voice. “I’ve had enough.”

“Enough,” his father coughed, “I spanked you last time for drinking. Well, it didn’t seem to work did it? This time I’m going to do the job properly. Now get a move on.”

Defeated, Harry climbed on the bed. “Head low,” his father encouraged. Soon Harry’s forehead and nose were squashed into the mattress. “Bottom high, spread those legs.” His father watched intently as his son manoeuvred himself. He had a perfect view into the teenager’s crack and of his dangling ball sack.

He held the cane in both hands. It was too rigid to bend. His father frowned with disappointment. What he really wanted was an old-fashioned whippy school cane, made of rattan and with a curved handle. One he could swish around before landing it across his son’s bare bottom. He promised himself he would search the Internet later to see what he could find.

For now he lined the stiff rod across the highest point of Harry’s mounds. Tap-tap-tap, then lift and return. The cane didn’t swish through the air and it landed with a dull thud but it left a deep mark across Harry’s bare cheeks. “Not bad,” his father mused to himself, “Not bad, but not as good as a proper cane would be.”

He said aloud, “Six of the best, for you, m’lad.” He imagined himself as an ancient schoolmaster. He landed the next stroke higher. The third went lower. That one snagged across the back of Harry’s thighs. He howled.

The noise travelled downstairs to the kitchen. Babs and Mags sat silently. Both aware of what was going on upstairs in the bedroom but neither feeling it was polite to discuss it. Another loud “Yowll!” rent the air.

Mags stared at her empty teacup and wondered quietly where her own son Malcolm had been at one o’clock that morning.

Picture credits: Both unknown

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Henry Pottinger’s souvenirs

Memories of Dad’s slipper

Commander Reynolds’ rooming house

 

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

A very British spanking

new 5

“I don’t care if it is the holidays, Martha, I will not put up with it,” Charles Snapdragon paced the carpet. “Call me old fashioned, I don’t care.” He paused by the radiogram and thrust his hands into his pockets. “I have standards. Always have. Always will.”

His wife pursed her lips but remained silent. She knew better than to argue. Charles Snapdragon was a man of decision. He liked to think, even a man of destiny.

“Rules. We need rules,” Charles Snapdragon was waving his hands around. “Without rules where would we be?” he spoke as if addressing a street corner meeting. “Nowhere. Nowhere. That’s where.” He nodded vigorously, agreeing wholeheartedly with himself.

“Rules must be obeyed. That’s why we have them,” Chares Snapdragon raised his chin and stared into the middle distance. Which considering the smallness of his sitting room meant to the farthest wall. He focused his attention on the three plaster ducks flying across the rose-patterned wallpaper. “And,” Charles Snapdragon straightened his back and imagined himself to be dressed in the uniform of a high military commander, “And if they are not,” his voice rose to a crescendo, “there must be consequences.” He paused and then repeated for effect, “Consequences.”

His twenty-year-old son Henry lay upstairs on the bed in the room that had once been his. He stared hard at the Union Jack flag on the wall. Across the room a framed portrait of Queen Elizabeth II stared intently at him. He shivered. It was like being spied on. What on earth had possessed his father to decorate his old bedroom like that?

He smiled to himself, closed his eyes and brought to mind the girl from last night. Blond, bright blue eyes, big breasts. Firm. His cock twitched. Those wet luscious lips. High cheekbones. He unzipped his jeans and slipped his fingers inside taking hold of his growing member. Oh what he would have done with that girl given half the chance. His cock expanded with his imagination. He unbuckled his belt and wriggled his jeans over his hips and buttocks. His dick tented his underpants. With more wriggling they were soon bunched up over his thighs. He kicked his jeans to the floor, gobbed spit into the palm of his right hand and rubbed himself slowly.

Charles Snapdragon still paced the carpet. “He knows my rules,” he glared at the ducks. “I made it perfectly clear. If he came back to my house,” he made great emphasis on the words my house, “that  he would have to obey my rules. An Englishman’s house is his castle.”

His wife nodded. She knew that was expected of her. The wife always supported her husband: it was a known fact.

“So he rolls in here in the middle of the night. Way after curfew.” Charles Snapdragon spoke mechanically as if he were reading from a charge sheet. “Been drinking. Smoking. No consideration for us. The neighbours. Only himself.” he paused and rested both hands on the dining room table. “He knows the rules.” He stared hard at his wife and repeated, “He knows the rules.”

Martha spoke for the first time, “Yes, dear,” she said softly. She knew her husband’s mind was made up, there was no need for her to say more.

“Right then.” Charles Snapdragon tugged on the cuffs of his shirt, straightening the sleeves. “Let’s get on with it.”

Upstairs Henry eyes were still closed as he imagined the girl from last night. He made light stroking movements on his cock, each rub moving a tiny bit further upwards. A gasp hissed through his teeth as the tips of his fingers made fleeting contact with the top of his dick. He lightly rubbed along the length of his penis, making it stand to attention as it filled out, flopping onto his stomach. His fingers lightly enclosed the shaft down near the base and then slid slowly up the length of the twitching member. Reaching the top, Henry’s fingers gently tweaked the sensitive edges of his foreskin, making him gasp with pleasure.

His grip tightened and his hand made a couple of slow, firm strokes along the full length of the fully erect cock. His other hand cupped his balls, gently kneading them between his fingers. His eyes opened and he watched with rapt concentration the aroused organ he held in his fist.

His hand was slowly massaging his swollen cock, stroking along the full length from base to head, then letting go and returning to the base again. Henry shifted his hips, torn between wanting to go faster and wanting this feeling to last as long as possible.

A groan of pure pleasure escaped from Henry’s throat. “Fuck, take it all,” he gasped, and his wrist flew. “Huff-huff-huff,” Henry gasped. He writhed on the bed as his orgasm seemed to go on and on as white juice splashed across his stomach.

Breathless, he reached to the bedside table and grabbed a fistful of paper tissues. His breathing was returning to normal. He cleaned the goo from his belly, screwed the tissue into a ball and casually threw it across the room.

That was the moment the bedroom door flew open and his father stood stern-faced on the threshold. Henry tugged his underpants up to their rightful place. He knew his face was blazing scarlet. There was nothing he could do about that.

Charles Snapdragon was a man of few words. “Last night,” he said in staccato, “missed curfew. Drinking. Smoking. Won’t do. Against the rules. You know that.”

Henry wriggled his buttocks on the bed until he sat upright. He sucked on his bottom lip. There was nothing he could say. Everything his father had said was true. He hadn’t really meant to be late. It was that damned girl.

“It’s been a while,” his father spoke slowly and carefully without emotion, “since you were last here. I do not believe that you have forgotten my rules.” He paused and when Henry realised he expected an answer he replied, “No, sir.”

Charles Snapdragon nodded his approval. “Good,” he said and added enigmatically, “It’s been a while.” He fell into silence and looked hard at his twenty-year-old son. Was he getting taller? He had definitely thickened out a bit. He was no longer the scrawny kid he had been at school.

“You are not too old for this.” Charles Snapdragon walked into the room and stood over the bed. Henry looked at his father’s midriff.

“No, sir,” he agreed meekly.

“The last time I spanked you was just before you left home,” Charles Snapdragon frowned. “You couldn’t keep a job. No self-discipline. That’s why I had to impose discipline. My duty too.”

Henry pulled himself up further and leaned with his back against the wall. “They worked,” he said simply. “All those spankings,” he gave a rueful smile. “I’ve got a good job. I share a flat.”

“Things are looking good for you,” his father interrupted. “I’m glad.”

“Yes, sir.” Henry hesitated. Should he confide in his father?

Charles Snapdragon cut him short. “I knew it would in the end. Once you learned discipline.”

Henry couldn’t hold it in. He had to speak. He had to confess to his father. He blurted, “I’m not sure that I have.”

His father’s brow creased, “I don’t understand.”

Henry spoke in a rush, words tumbling without him thinking. “I’m not sure I have learned discipline. Sometimes I am late to work. I never help around the flat. I’m running up debts,” he broke off with a croak.

His father took a step forward so he now towered over his son.

Henry rediscovered his voice, “I need discipline. Your discipline. Just to keep me on track. Stop me going over the edge.”

His father sucked down a lung full of air, “I fully intend to spank you for last night.” He paused and when his son made no response, he continued, “So I should also punish you for other offences, also?”

“Yes sir,” Henry gasped, his heart thumping through his chest. “I deserve it. I deserve to be spanked. Hard. Really hard.”

A smile flickered across Charles Snapdragon’s face. Here was proof if any were needed that his method of child rearing had worked. “I see,” he spoke almost with a whisper. “But first things first,” he reached forward and took his son by the wrist and guided him to his feet. “First we must deal with last night. He released his hold on Henry and sat down on the edge of the narrow bed. “You know what you must do. Bend over my knee.”

Without hesitation the twenty-year-old moved to stand to the right of his father, then slowly he lowered himself forward so that his stomach was across his father’s knee. His arms rested ahead of him on the mattress. His bottom jutted out at an angle. The bed was low so Henry had to bend his own knees so they hovered above the ground.

“This is a spanking you so richly deserve,” his father intoned as he gripped the waistband of his son’s underpants and tugged them hard. He couldn’t get them down so Henry obliged by raising his body so his father could pull the pants over his buttocks and leave them bunched over his thighs. Then Henry lowered himself once more across his father’s lap not realising he was leaving a sticky patch on his father’s trousers.

z used otk pants down bed union jack sting

Charles Snapdragon took hold of Henry’s shirt and moved it a little up his back so it was away from the target area. He cupped the palm of his right hand and slowly caressed his son’s right buttock. Then he did the same with the left. Henry had a little more padding than the last time he was spanked, but he was far from fat. Charles Snapdragon raised his hand and brought it crashing down with a resounding SMACK!

It had been more than a year but he hadn’t lost the knack. He was an expert spanker and soon had both cheeks glowing bright pink. Henry gasped as tingles mingled together and became a dull throb. The palm of Charles Snapdragon’s hand was as hard as any hairbrush. Henry wondered if the Old Man soaked it in vinegar, the way kids did with conkers to make them tougher.

“You only have your self to blame for this,”’ his father scolded as slap after slap pounded into Henry’s fleshy bum. “Only yourself.”

The pain was building. Henry was no stranger to spanking. He had taken a few in his days. But it had been some time since his last one and he was finding the going rather hard. His heart raced and blood rushed to his head so that his temples throbbed almost as much as his bottom. He gasped and sucked back the yaps and yelps he so desperately wanted to make.

“You deserve this. You deserve this,” he told himself silently. “You are a very naughty boy. You need to have your bare bottom spanked. Hard. Very hard.”

He winced as his father’s hand slapped into the back of his naked thigh. That was when Henry yelped. He couldn’t help it. His hips wriggled and his knees buckled.

“Keep still,” his father admonished. “You deserve this. You know you do. So, take it like a man,” he growled and he slapped the thighs harder still.

Five minutes later Charles Snapdragon hammered six final slaps into the undercurves of Henry’s cheeks – right on the sensitive sit-spot. The bum glistened with sweat and glowed a rosy red. Charles Snapdragon’s hand hurt but not as much as Henry’s bottom.

“Stand up,” he ordered and his son, not needing to be told twice, jumped to his feet. He performed the traditional spanking dance hopping from foot to foot while at the same time rubbing away at his sore bum. He bent down and tugged his pants up and stood respectfully before his father.

“Good boy. I know you will try to behave better in future.”

“Yes, sir,” Henry replied humbly.

“I’m glad to hear it. Now get shaved, have a shower and then come downstairs. Mother has Christmas dinner prepared. After lunch you and I shall repair to the back room. I still have those two canes hanging in the cupboard under the stairs.

“Yes, sir. Thank you sir,” Henry gasped as he moved aside to allow his father to leave the room.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

Other stories you might like

For your own good

We need to talk about Jake

Max of the ‘Champion’ 1. The policeman

 

 

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

 

Party time!

new 5

z used christmas drunk school college boy (1)

I don’t believe it. I just DO NOT believe it. The state you were in. I have never been so humiliated in all my life. I’ll never be able to face the neighbours. It’ll be all round the street. All over town. I’ll never live it down. You’ll never live it down. I Just CANNOT believe it.

I said go have fun. Why not? It’s Christmas. The end of term. It’s time to party. But I never for one moment expected this. Why should I? I haven’t – we haven’t, your mother and me – we haven’t brought you up like this. You have disgraced us both. I just DON’T believe it.

I’m just glad your mother didn’t see you in that state. That’s all I can say […] Be quiet! You speak when I say you can speak. You have no excuse. None at all. A school party. There shouldn’t have been any booze. Where did that come from then? Who snuck it in. You? Those crazy mates of yours in the rugby team. I know for sure none of the teachers had any idea. You’re seniors. Eighteen years old, they thought they could trust you. I thought I could trust you. Well I’ve learnt my lesson there.

You were absolutely out of your skull. Dressed up in girls’ shoes. What else? What else don’t I know? Drag? Were you dressed in women’s clothes? School skirt? Blouse? Navy blue knickers? Ha! That sounds like the rugby team to me.

I have no idea what your headmaster’s going to say when he finds out. God help us. Back in my day you’d be hauled into his study. “Bend over that desk.” Yes. A sound caning. Six-of-the-best. […] Don’t look at me like that. That’s exactly what you deserve. But he can’t. It’s against the law […] God help us, I hope he doesn’t expel you. What then? We’d never find another school to take you. So close to the exams. You’ll have to go to that shitty sixth-form college. Bang goes your career in the Foreign Office.

I’ll have to see the headmaster. Try to iron it over. Another humiliation. Begging him to keep you on. I just hope to God you weren’t the only one. Were you the leader? Did you take in the beer? It wasn’t just beer was it? The state you were in. What else. Whisky? Vodka? Isn’t vodka the trendy drink? I wouldn’t know of course […] Oh my God. It was booze wasn’t it? Don’t tell me it was drugs. Are you on drugs? My God if you’ve doing drugs […]

You deny it? Drugs. Well. I’ll tell you something. If anything like this happens again, I’m taking you down the doctors. Blood test. We’ll see what’s in your blood. Blood test, just like the athletes have […]

Don’t pout at me lad. I will not have it. I will not STAND for it […] Be quiet. You are in a lot of trouble, I’d keep quiet if I were you.

I have never been so humiliated. Called out at midnight to collect you. To take you home. Incapable of getting home alone. I don’t know what happened to your so-called friends. Abandoned you. Or were they so smashed they just disappeared.

Well lad, I will not put up with it. I will not stand for it. You’re sober now so get out of that bed […] NOW! I’m not wasting my entire morning on you. I will not put up with this. I will not tolerate your behaviour. Humiliating me like this.

Don’t look at me like that. Get out of bed NOW […] I know you haven’t got any clothes on. I put you to bed last night remember. No! Of course you don’t remember. I don’t suppose you remember chucking up all over the bathroom floor. Who cleared up that mess? Not you for sure. Now get out of bed. […] Do you want me to pull you out? […]

Right. Now, lad. I will not put up with this. I will not tolerate it. No you come here. Over my knee. The headmaster might not be able to do anything, but that doesn’t stop me […] Don’t you dare fight me. You come here. That’s better. Right over. You take it like a man […] Too old for this! Too old! I’ll be the one to judge when you’re too old for a spanking. You need to learn a lesson lad. And it’s my job to teach it […] Keep still […] Get those hands out the way. Right away […] Put them in front of you. Lay still […] Keep that bottom high.

z used otk naked bed sting

[…] It hurts! Of course it hurts. That’s the whole point young man. Your backside will be glowing red hot by the time I’ve finished. Keep still […] Do you want me to fetch your mother’s hairbrush? […] No, I didn’t think so. Take your punishment with some dignity […] I hope to God I’m not the only father doing this this morning. Discipline. You kids DO NOT get enough discipline these days. Well, not in this house brother. This drunken behaviour has got to stop. It WILL stop. I’ll make sure of that […]

Huh, you’re feeling that. Good. I hope you’re learning your lesson young man […] Will I have to do this again?  […] No? […] You’re sorry. I’ll give you sorry. You’ll be sorry by the time I’ve finished. You won’t be sitting down for the rest of the day. You can have your breakfast standing up […]

I told you to stop wriggling […] Don’t fight me […] DO NOT FIGHT ME. Keep still. Damn you. Well, don’t say I haven’t warned you. WENDY. CAN YOU FETCH YOUR HAIRBRUSH!! [……]

Thanks love. Now, can you hold his shoulders down while I tackle his rear end […]

 

Picture credits: Unknown / Sting Pictures

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Over the schoolmaster’s knee

An unexpected recollection

John’s jam jar

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