Put Back Into Short Trousers

z used uniform short shorts (56)

 

Joe crossed the road to his neighbour’s house, walked up the garden path and rang the doorbell.

As he waited for the door to be opened he idly looked through the bay window into the living room. There seated at the dining table he saw Aaron, the neighbour’s eighteen-year-old son. He appeared to be busy on his school homework. But something was not quite right.

The boy was dressed in his school uniform, nothing unusual in that. Joe’s own son Ant was in the same class as Aaron; Joe was familiar with the light blue blazer, white shirt and dark blue and light blue ties the boys wore. But something was different: Aaron was dressed in mid-grey short trousers and long knee socks. They were most certainly not the uniform of Midchester School.

The door opened and Alan immediately saw the puzzled expression on his friend’s face.

“Yes,” he said without waiting to be asked, “We’ve put him back into short trousers.”

The two men went into the kitchen. “Here have a beer, while I go and fetch your power drill.”

Two minutes later Alan was back and telling his story.

“He’s been like it since Christmas. He did really badly in his A-level mock examinations.”

Joe nodded thoughtfully. Ant’s results had been pretty dire too.

“Val and I reckoned he’d been spending too much time away from his books. He would spend hours each evening hanging around the bus stops with his mates.”

Yes, Joe thought, and Ant was almost certainly one of them.

“And we had no idea what he was doing most of the weekend. He was never at home. One thing we did know was that he wasn’t doing his schoolwork.” Alan took a slug of his beer and realising that Joe was not going to ask him a question, he carried on with his story.

“We needed to find a way to stop him going out all the time so we came up with this.”

“Making him wear short trousers?”

“Yes, it was such a simple idea. Val read about it somewhere on the Internet. We took all his clothes and we’ve locked them away. Now, he’s only allowed to wear his long trousers to school. He has to come home immediately school ends and change into his short trousers. We lock up the long trousers and don’t let him have them back until breakfast time next morning.”

Joe nodded encouragement, so Alan continued.

“Now if he wants to go out at night or at the weekend he must go wearing his short trousers and school uniform. So he stays at home. I don’t think he would want to let all his mates see him dressed like that. And they are proper short trousers; they are not the leisure shorts kids wear today. You would never mistake them for that, not even from a distance. They are trousers that are short. Properly tailored trousers. Actually, if you ask me I think he looks rather good in them.”

Joe had always been a practical man so he asked, “Where did you get them? They don’t make short trousers for eighteen year olds do they?”

“You’d be surprised. Ordinary school uniform suppliers often have them. We found them on the Internet. I think they make them large now because so many young kids are fat; obsess even. The ones we got for Aaron fit him at the waist but they are a bit short in the leg; but that’s okay, it just emphasises that he is still a child and not an adult.”

Joe was warming to the idea. “Does it work? Have his grades improved?”

“Yes,” Alan beamed, he really was pleased with himself. “So far, it’s been a total success; he stays at home and gets on with his work. We had to change the password for the wi-fi connection, so when he’s at home he can’t get on the Internet. He’s doing English Lit A-level so he should be reading books, not tossing himself off to internet porn.”

The two men sat in companionable silence taking sips of their beer.

Alan wasn’t sure he should tell Joe this; it might sound a bit odd, but he did. “Oh, and another thing; being dressed as a child reminds him that he isn’t yet an adult. That’s the trouble with teenagers today they think they are grown up when they are not. He needs to be reminded that we are his parents and it is his job to obey us. He should also obey his teachers and all other adults. All teenagers should remember that. If I had my way all boys would be kept in short trousers until they left school, even until they’re eighteen.”

They finished their beers and Joe picked up the drill and made to leave. Would this work for Ant, he wondered. “How did Aaron take it; when you told him he must wear short trousers?” Joe asked.

Alan smiled. He certainly wasn’t going to tell the whole truth. “He wailed the house down. You know the way teenagers do.”

Yes, Joe certainly did, his own son was just like that.

“But,” Alan continued, “He had no choice. We had his long trousers. It’s not like we’ve chained him to the banisters; he’s not a prisoner. He can still go out if he wants, but he has to wear the short trousers and school uniform when he does.”

Joe gave a weak smile, thanked Alan for the beer and returned home deep in thought. Ant was on the road to examination failure; that was certain. Should he put Ant back into short trousers? Would it work for him? Why not, it had worked for Aaron. Maybe he should ask Alan for the Internet address of the school uniform supplier.

Alan sat back down at the kitchen table and cracked open another can of beer. He was very pleased with himself. He and his wife had told nobody about this. They had discussed sending Aaron to school wearing his short trousers; but they knew they would have busy-body teachers (and even social workers) on their doorstep within hours. They would look odd to people in these days of political correctness.

And, they certainly did not, and would not, tell the other half of the story. Alan might tell Joe that it was the short trousers regime that had bucked up Aaron’s ideas; but he knew that wasn’t entirely true. It was the spankings that really did it.

The first time he put a clothes brush across Aaron’s bum, it had not been planned. Alan had told the truth that his son had wailed the house down. At first he flatly refused to wear the short trousers. He had no long trousers, so he lounged around the house in his underpants. Well, okay, Alan had thought, he still had to remain at home; he could not go out in his briefs.

But, Alan had been very taken by the Internet site’s insistence that teenaged boys be put in short trousers to remind them they were still children who must obey their parents. Aaron clearly had not accepted that. Alan endured hours of moaning and pouting from Aaron and then he snapped.

It had not been planned. Alan was sitting in the living room trying to read his newspaper; Alan was nearby pouting and screaming that he would not wear the short trousers. A clothes brush lay on the sideboard. In a flash, without thinking of the possible consequence, Alan grabbed the brush, took Aaron by the back of the head, gripped his hair (it was well overdue cutting) and forced the boy face down over the back of the couch. Then he pressed against the back of the wretched boy’s neck so that he was chewing on a scatter cushion.

Then he unleashed a frenzied attack on the seat of the boy’s underpants. Aaron’s attempted yells of protest were stifled by the cushion and his mouth was soon full of dust. His father’s grip was so strong the eighteen-year-old had no choice but to remain head low, bottom high, over the crown of the couch while his father whipped swat after swat into his tight buttocks.

The pain was intense, but there was no escaping it. He struggled to the left and right but the grip on his neck was too powerful. He was at the mercy of his father: but the irate man was not showing any. In one last desperate attempt to free himself, Aaron kicked out his left leg and caught his father a blow on the shin. Rather than dissuading the older man from his mission to toast his son’s buttocks it spurred him on.

With all the struggling the boy’s honeycomb-coloured pants had slid down his buttock so that the top of his curves were visible. Encouraged by the sight of bare flesh, Alan tugged at the briefs and pulled them further down until they rested bunched below the crease where the buttock meets the thigh. Then with an increasingly furious pace he pounded the clothes brush into the boy’s now naked backside.

His pain, humiliation and the dust from the cushion was taking its toll on Aaron. His breathing was fast and his blood pressure sky high. The pain in his bottom was intense; his father was raining down swat after swat without let up. He was whacking the brush into Aaron’s bum at the rate of eighty a minute.

Spit dribbled from the boy’s mouth and tears and snot cascaded down his face. His protests quickly turned to owwws, and then arghhhhs, through to yelps and finally on to full-throated yells. But, on and on Alan spanked the brush into his son’s bare bottom. Red patches quickly turned to blue and some were going purple. The imprint of the large oval head of the brush was imprinted dozens of times across the boy’s globes.

If he had the breath to do so, Aaron would have been pleading for mercy. He would wear the short trousers; he would obey his mum and dad; he would do anything they asked, so long as his father would stop hurting him.

Not one part of Aaron’s buttocks and the back of his thighs was left untouched before Alan released his grip on his son’s neck. Now free and without waiting for permission, Aaron shot up from the couch, pulled his briefs up and rushed from the room. He took the stairs two at a time, crashed into his bedroom, slammed the door behind him, threw himself face down on the bed and sobbed his guts up. He had been utterly defeated by his father.

The boy wore his short trousers after that and although he still hated his father he knew it was an opinion he had best keep to himself.

The second time Aaron was spanked was altogether different. An essay on Chaucer was graded C, with the comment from his teacher, “must make more effort”. That was enough for Alan; the boy was slipping back into old ways and needed a reminder; a maintenance spanking.

So a dining-room chair was placed in the middle of the room and the brush retrieved from the sideboard drawer. Aaron was summoned from his room. It was no surprise, he was expecting this. On command, he meekly lowered his short trousers and eighteen years old though he was, he bent across his father’s lap to receive his second buttock roasting. No matter how much he would hate this ordeal, he knew one thing was for certain: it was better to accept the inevitable than try to fight with his dad.

 

Picture credit: Unknown.

This story was first published in September 2015

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Hotel Duty Manager

do not disturb sign

The duty manager stood at his office window scanning the hotel complex for trouble. It was three days since he had any action and he was getting very tense.

Then he saw them. Yes, this would do nicely.

Two teenaged boys, obviously English judging by their pale skins, were dancing on the balcony of their rooms, dressed only in their underpants. Drunk, of course, he thought. Unless they were high on drugs.

He couldn’t hear from a distance but he was pretty sure loud music would be coming from the room, disturbing other hotel guests.

What’s this? One of the boys wriggled his bottom provocatively at his friend. What the Hell? In what the boy supposed to be a seductive dance, he lowered his bright yellow briefs and thrust out his pert little, now bare, buttocks.

The duty manager went to his computer and after a few mouse clicks the information he wanted appeared on screen. Yes, the thought so: Peter Giles, aged eighteen, and Wayne Calderwood, aged nineteen. They were part of a package group from England: arrived yesterday for ten days.

Yes, they would be ideal, he told himself, as he picked up his keys and briefcase.

Five minutes later he was hammering on their hotel door.

“Duty manager here. Please open the door.”

A few seconds elapsed before the music was turned off and the door opened.

“Duty manager,” he showed his ID card and entered the room. The boys were still in their underpants and judging by the glazed look in their eyes, they had been drinking heavily. The empty beer bottles confirmed that.

Typical English louts, the duty manager thought, away from their parents for an orgy of sun, sand, booze and sex.

“I have had complaints about the noise from this room,” he rasped sternly. Drunk though they were, the boys remained silent and heard him out.

“And, I witnessed myself, your lewd behaviour on the balcony.”

Both boys blushed scarlet at the thought their little secret was out.

“Now, I have your names here; which one of you is Wayne?”

The boy in the yellow pants raised his hand.

“So, you must be Peter?” he told the other boy.

“Right, Peter, Wayne, I want you to pack your bags and leave the hotel.”

The boys had not expected this and they sobered up pretty quickly. There was nowhere they could go. They were on a tourist deal and their flight home didn’t leave for more than a week.

Peter piped up, “We are sorry, Sir. We promise not to do it again.”

“Sir”. The duty manager liked that. This was going to be easy.

Peter and Wayne slurred their explanations. They were on a package tour. There was no way they could fly back to England now. If they were thrown out of the hotel, they would be destitute.  They would have to sleep on the beach.

What would their friends say?

God! What would their fathers say? No what would their fathers DO, when they found out.

Wayne knew what his father would do. It took weeks for the bruises and scars to completely heal after dad heard he had been driving the family car without permission and well over the drink-drive limit.

It had been the whipping of his lifetime. But, the teenager was certain the thrashing he would get when his dad heard about this would be ten times worse, especially if dad had to buy him an air ticket to rescue him from Lanzarote.

The duty hotel manager could read the hooligans like a book.

“No, you must leave. We cannot have this kind of behaviour. We are a respectable hotel.”

That wasn’t strictly true, many things happened at the hotel that were far from respectable. That’s why so many youngsters stayed there.

Peter could feel his eyes welling up. He was such a cry baby.

The duty manager let them suffer a while.

“How old are you boys?”

Peter, “Eighteen, Sir.”

Wayne, “Nineteen, nearly twenty.” And, then he added, “Sir.”

“Doh! If I were your fathers I’d give you each a damn good spanking.”

The boys were literally speechless. Who was this man? How did he know so much about their fathers?

The duty manager eyed each boy carefully, “Do you know in this country we have the law of pater familias?”

The boys looked at each other blankly; they didn’t quite shrug their shoulders to express ignorance; but the duty manager could tell they were clueless.

Pater familias means the head of the household takes responsibility for all those who are aged less than twenty-one years. He acts in the place of their fathers. Do you understand?”

They didn’t, so he carried on.

“In law while you are staying at the hotel you are part of my household and I act in pater familias. I am your father.” And, then a little more sharply, “Do you understand that?”

Yes, they said, they understood that.

The duty manager had them where he wanted. They were so dumb. The products of a fine English education, he thought.

“If you solemnly promise that you will not disturb your neighbours and you will not behave in that disgusting fashion again, I am prepared to act in pater familias. Do you understand?”

Peter still did not, but a light bulb lit above Wayne’s head, “You’re going to spank us.”

The two boys exchanged glances but they said nothing.

“Yes, I am. If you swear you will behave. The alternative is for you both to leave.”

The boys could not look each other in the eyes. The duty manager took their silence as assent and went to his briefcase to extract a wooden paddle. As paddles went, it was not a vicious object; similar ones were still used in a few America schools to whack the backsides of misbehaving schoolchildren.

He held the paddle in one hand as if testing its weight. Then, pointing it towards the door of the room, he said, “Both of you stand there and put your hands on your head.”

Without question, they did as instructed. Raising their hands helped to define their bodies. The duty manager took a moment to admire the muscle tone of each boy; obviously they worked out at the gym a little, but they weren’t obsessive body builders. Each boy had very clear skin and had he taken the trouble to inspect the bathroom he would find an array of lotions that had made that possible.

The rooms in the hotel were small and the duty manager knew from experience the most effective way to swing a paddle was to have the boy over his knees. He sat on a bed and motioned Peter to step forward.

“Come here, Peter and bend over my knee.”

Silently, Peter walked forward. The duty manager could see tears forming already. If he’s like this now, what will be like once I’ve blistered his backside for him?

Peter stared vacantly at the legs of the duty manager. Was he really expected to bend over them to allow this commanding man to whip his arse?

“Come on Peter,” he held out his hand to take the teenager by the arm and gently glide him over his lap. The boy did not resist and allowed the masterful man to adjust him until his chest lay across the bed and his legs stretched out behind him so his toes just reached the carpet. His bottom, the highest part of his body, rested over the duty manager’s lap.

The duty manager rubbed his huge hand over Peter’s underpants to smooth any creases from the cotton. Peter’s breathing became irregular as he waited the first swat of the paddle.

Wallop! It hit into the left cheek. Peter gasped a little, but the pain was not too great. It tingled a little that was all.

The duty manager held the boy firmly around the waist. He could see Peter had taken too much sun today; the skin on his back would be burnt by tonight. The skin on his backside would also be sore by the time he was finished.

The spanking was sound, but not brutal. Peter was in tears by the fourth swat.

By the time the twelfth and last swat smacked home, Peter’s buttocks were raw, but the pain had already turned to stinging sensation and quickly it would become a warm, pleasant glow.

The spanking over, the duty manager sent Peter to stand by the door once more, hands on head. He faced the door, away from sight.

“Wayne, you know the procedure.”

Wayne was determined to be brave in front of Peter. In their relationship, he always was the leader; the strong one.

He put himself over the duty manager’s lap and wriggled around so his backside was in the prime spot to receive the paddle.

The duty manager was annoyed that Wayne did not seem especially anxious. Well, this should make him worry more. He took hold of the pants at the waist and pulled them down to his thighs.

“There, you seem to like showing off your bare bottom. Let’s all have a look.”

Wayne hadn’t expected this; but he knew he must try to take anything the duty manager could dish out; even bare butt.

And, he could. The duty manager whacked him twelve times with the paddle; Wayne writhed a little, but mostly stayed quiet. It hurt like hell and he was a little worried about the bruises. He wanted to show off his body on the beach, but his skimpy swimming trunks hardly covered a thing. What would the boys think when they saw he had been spanked?

His duty to his other guests completed, the duty manager packed up his paddle, and prepared to leave. Both boys were rubbing their hot buttocks to convince him it had been a job well done.

“I shall be keeping an eye on you to for the rest of the stay. I hope we don’t have to have a repeat of this afternoon,” he said, unconvincingly.

Back in his office with the blinds drawn and the door locked, the duty manager reached for the suntan lotion and unzipped his trousers.

The gullible English, he thought. There’s one born every minute.

Picture Credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

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Cutting College

cane (6)

Mr Braithwaite closed the car door and strode the fifty yards to his house. A neighbour had phoned him at work to tell him what was going on. He was furious. When he got hold of his son there would be hell to pay.

There was his confirmation, even before he had the front door open. He could see Arthur through the window of the sitting room. He was lolling around on the settee, drinking beer with another lad. Damn! Mr Braithwaite slammed the door behind him. The brat was cutting college again. Well: there was only one thing to do now. The boy couldn’t say he hadn’t been warned.

He had been warned and more than once. Arthur was nineteen years old and on his second year at the community college. Well, he should have been on his second year. But he failed so many courses in year one, they made him retake the whole lot again.

Mr Braithwaite burst into the sitting room and the furious father let rip, “What did I say would happen if you cut classes again? What did I say?”

A startled Arthur could only mouth, “B..b..b..” before his father harangued him again.

“What did I say?” Mr Braithwaite shouted.

“Dad…” his son wailed, looking across the settee to his pal Tony. He had regained some power of speech but he did not want to have this conversation. Not now. Not in front of Tony.

“And who is this?” Mr Braithwaite waved his arm in the general direction of Tony, who blushed bright red at all the commotion.

Mr Braithwaite half knew the answer to his question. He had seen Tony once or twice at the off-licence where the boy sometimes worked. He remembered him because he thought the boy was a bit precious.

Arthur mumbled something about, “a friend from college”.

His father growled. He was determined to get an answer from his son. “What did I say would happen if you cut college again!” his voice had reached fever pitch.

Now, Arthur was equally as red in the face as his pal. He was sure he would die with the humiliation.

“But dad, please …” he implored.

“Doh!” his father answered his own question. “I said I would fetch that cane from the back of my wardrobe and I’d put it across your backside and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

“But dad …” Arthur tried to reason with his dad, but the man had already left the room and was striding up the stairs two at a time to his bedroom.

Arthur and Tony exchanged embarrassed stares, but no word was spoken.

Twenty seconds later, Mr Braithwaite returned to the room. His anger had not lessened. In his hand he clutched a whippy school-type cane.

Tony had never seen such a thing before. It was about three-feet-six long, as thick as a pencil and dark yellow in colour. It was curved at one end and the other end was frayed by much use. The boy’s mouth gaped as he watched Mr Braithwaite swish the rod through empty air fiercely. The cane was awesome. Where had it come from? Did they still make things like that? Maybe you could buy them on e-Bay.

Tony had so many questions, but the most important was: Did Mr Braithwaite really intend to beat Arthur with it?

“You,” Mr Braithwaite wobbled the cane in Tony’s face. “Get away from the settee,” he said before swishing the cane and pointing it at the opposite side of the room. “Go stand over there.”

Tony was transfixed by the sight of the rod slicing through the air. It looked a mightily effective cane. It would surely take any boy’s arse off.

Obediently, he moved from the couch, not daring to look at his pal, who was sweating profusely. Oh no! Arthur recoiled at the realisation; not only was dad going to cane him, he was going to do it in front of his best pal Tony.

“You,” he pointed the cane at his son. “Pick up the end of the settee and move it away from the wall.”

Arthur stared dolefully at his father. One more time he tried to make a protest. “Aww dad…” but the words would not come. His voice broke and desperately he tried to choke down a tear.

In seconds the settee was moved. Arthur stood mournfully. It needed no imagination to guess what would happen next. Please God! Arthur prayed silently, please don’t make me take down my trousers.

Twack!! Mr Braithwaite swiped the cane viciously across the back of the settee and a dust cloud rose.

“You,” he glared at his now ashen-faced son. “You, bend over that settee. You know how to do it.”

Tony stared down at the carpet, too embarrassed to witness his friend take two steps towards the settee and ease himself over.

“You,” Mr Braithwaite swished the cane at Tony, “Move over there – out of the way.”

Tony’s heart raced. Never before had he seen a cane in action and somehow he already knew the events of this day would stay with him forever.

He shuffled over to the bay window. Jesus. He realised anyone walking down the street could look in and see his nineteen-year-old pal stretched across the back of the couch his backside pointed upwards waiting for his dad to lash his backside raw with a whippy school cane.

The muscles in Arthur’s back flexed as he clutched a scatter cushion to his chest. The boy spent a little too much time in the gym. His entire body was firm and across much of his torso even his muscles had muscles.

He had buttocks of steel that filled out the fabric of his dark blue polyester ‘leisure pants’. They had fallen slightly down the top of his buttocks, exposing his green-and-yellow checked boxer shorts, but his father quickly dealt with that. It took one tug at the elasticated waistband and the seat of the trousers clung to the lad’s buttocks so tightly each cheek and his deep crack were clearly defined. It made a wonderful target for Mr Braithwaite to lash down his fearsome cane.

Tony watched fascinated as Mr Braithwaite positioned himself a cane’s length to the left of Arthur and very gently tapped the frayed tip of the rattan across the very centre of his son’s bottom. It was then that Tony realised this wasn’t the first time this little scenario had played out in Arthur’s sitting room.

Satisfied that he had his aim, Mr Braithwaite slowly raised the cane away from the stretched seat until it was above the height of his own shoulder then with an almighty swipe he sent it crashing down into Arthur’s rock-hard bum.

They might have been ‘buns of steel’ but that did not stop the cane penetrating deep into the boy’s nerve ends. He let out a breathless ‘whoop!’ and bit deep down into the scatter cushion to muffle the yell he really wanted to make.

Slash two followed immediately. Arthur’s legs stamped up and down in a useless attempt to stop the pain roaring from his bum across his whole body. Saliva dripped from the cushion as he stuffed it further into his mouth. No way was he going to yell out. No matter how much this thrashing hurt, he would not let himself down in front of Tony. And he wouldn’t give his dad the satisfaction of knowing he had wounded him.

Cuts three and four ripped into the lower part of his cheeks, just where they meet the thigh. They were the most painful cuts yet. The lad’s once ashen face was now bright scarlet, as was his neck. If he had eyes in his backside he would see both cheeks were scarred by four deep welts, which were already a dark pink in colour and would very quickly turn to horrible purple gashes.

Cuts five and six were aimed higher on the top of the curves. Now the boy’s buttocks had a half dozen deep welts running almost parallel from the top to bottom of the cheeks. The pain was astonishing. Blood coursed through Arthur’s body at the speed of sound and he was sure it would soon come rushing out through his nose. His breathing came in short pants, hindered by the scatter cushion that had made such an effective job in stifling his yells. Without it the boy would have screamed like a banshee: so loud that neighbours would be opening their front doors and coming onto the street to see where the murder was.

His arse felt like it was twice its normal size. Sitting down comfortably would be a big problem for some time to come and the cuts emblazoned into his backside would be visible for many days: there could be no visits to the gym for some considerable time.

But, despite his agony, he thought, he had not disgraced himself. He had taken the thrashing rather well, considering.

But it was not over yet. Mr Braithwaite misunderstood the situation. So, his son was not yelling and screaming and as yet although the lad’s face was puce and he was sweating buckets, clearly the punishment had not been severe enough.

“Well,” he growled, “Since you don’t seem to be making too much of a fuss, these should come down.” He gripped the waistband of the boy’s trousers and tugged them over his buttocks and down his thighs until the rested bunched up at his knees. Arthur closed his eyes tight and bit even deeper into the cushion.

The checked boxer shorts rose up the boy’s buttocks. Tony winced at the sight of the dark red ridges gouged across his friend’s handsome bum. What agony his poor friend must be in. Why was Arthur’s father so cruel to inflict such punishment?

Mr Braithwaite smoothed down the thin cotton material of the underwear, sending a further shockwave through his son’s body. Arthur braced himself for round two of the onslaught. Nothing he had experienced so far that afternoon could prepare him for what was to follow.

Mr Braithwaite gripped the cane just below the curved handle. His hold was so tight his knuckles started to go white. Then in a coolly calculated manoeuvre he brought the cane swiping down six times without pause. Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat. It was like machinegun fire as the sound of rattan biting deeply into tight flesh echoed around the small sitting room.

Then it was over. Mr Braithwaite stepped back from the couch to admire his handiwork. He saw his son, still prostrate across the back of the settee. His feet were stomping and he wriggled his hips from side to side. He was gulping in great gasps of air; like a beached whale, trying to force his lungs to work. His head was banging up and down head-butting the back of the settee. His face and neck were scarlet and his eyes glazed like monster’s.

“All right. That’s over. You may stand.” Mr Braithwaite was calm, almost kind.

Gingerly Arthur hauled himself to his feet. He grabbed onto the settee as he nearly toppled to the floor trying to pull up his trousers. Within seconds he was fully dressed. The intense agony he felt as each successive swipe had bitten into him had lessened. His buttocks still throbbed like crazy, but he knew very soon even that pain would ease. Much of his buttocks would be too tender to touch for a long time yet, but the worst was now over.

He stood not daring to look at either his father or his pal Tony. Involuntarily, tears welled behind his eyes and washed down his face.

“You!” Mr Braithwaite had not finished his work. He turned to face Tony. “Your turn now.”

Tony pushed past Arthur, exited the room, opened the front door and hurried up the street outside.

“Bah! Coward! You know he’s a poofter!” Mr Braithwaite sneered as he tossed the cane onto the settee. “I’m going back to work and you should get off to college.”

Seconds later he left the house. Gingerly, Arthur hobbled into the passageway and tugged down his trousers to inspect his toasted buns in the mirror. The whole of both buttocks was a deep red, with purplish bruises forming at the edges. Across the centre of his cheeks were twelve distinct cuts; some had overlapped others and droplets of blood seeped where they crossed. He was wondering where his mum kept the Germolene when the doorbell rang. Through the opaque glass Arthur could see the distinct figure of his pal Tony.

He opened the door to find a very sheepish friend hopping from one foot to the other in embarrassment.

“I thought you’d be half way to Sheffield by now,” Arthur grinned as he let his pal into the house.

For some moments the boys stood, unsure who should speak first. Eventually, Tony piped up. “Does it hurt?” he asked, nodding in the direction of Arthur’s backside.

“No, it tickles,” the boy growled but then seeing the hurt in Tony’s deep brown eyes, he relented. “No, it’s not so bad now. I’ll live.”

The two boys looked each other in the eye in companionable silence.

“C’mon, we didn’t finish the beers,” Tony said as he led the way into the sitting room.

Arthur stood shuffling his feet and Tony sat in an armchair while they slurped on their cans. Then Tony spotted the cane on the settee; he seemed transfixed by it.

“Of course, it’s all your fault,” Arthur nodded at his pal.

“What is?”

“This,” Arthur said holding both his hands against his buttocks as if trying to rub away the pain. “It was you who said we should cut college.”

Tony blushed. He had; but both boys had readily agreed to go to Arthur’s house for a bit of fun. He couldn’t be blamed for what happened next.

Arthur stooped down and picked up the cane and thoughtfully flexed it between both hands. It was very supple and he easily made it bend into an arc. Tony’s eyes followed Arthur’s hand as the boy swished the cane through the air. Tony’s mouth suddenly dried and he gulped on his beer.

“I think you should get the same as me,” Arthur stared intently at his friend to measure his reaction. Then he wobbled the cane in front of Tony. The boy’s round brown eyes shone. Arthur knew that look in his friend. He had seen him give similar looks before.

“So,” he swished the cane once more. “What do you say? Should I cane you?”

Tony knew his face had flushed. His breathing was tight as well. His heart beat faster with excitement.

“Well lad, what do you say?” It was a commanding order.

Tony stared down at the garishly-patterned carpet beneath his feet. “Yes, Sir,” he whispered.

“Speak up boy. Do you want me to thrash you?” Arthur rolled the word “thrash” around his tongue.

“Oh yes, Sir,” Tony whimpered. Arthur snorted. His friend could be such a wimp sometimes.

“Have you ever been caned before?”

Tony flushed, as if embarrassed by his answer, “Oh no, Sir.”

“Then this will be an awesome experience for you, won’t it?” Arthur realised he was loving this. It would be an awesome experience for them both.

“Shall we say six on the trousers and another six on the pants? Which pants are you wearing?”

“You know; those tight dark green ones.”

Arthur tapped the worn end of the cane against the wooden surface of the dining room table. “Bend over the table, boy.” He was enjoying himself. “I am going to thrash your bottom. Very. Hard. Indeed,” he tried to sound like an old-fashioned schoolmaster about to administer six-of-the-best to some misbehaving sixth-former.

Tony’s breathing quickened and his mind flooded with contradictory thoughts. He knew he wanted his pal Arthur to cane his backside; but he wasn’t sure he could take the pain that would result.

He shuffled forward to the table and bending at the waist he gipped its far edge.

“No, it’s better if you lay flat on your stomach,” Arthur clearly had more expertise in such matters than his pal.

Obediently, Tony repositioned himself so that his belly and chest rested on the table top and his legs stretched out behind him. This way his bottom was raised over the edge of the table at just the right angle for Arthur to lash the cane across the centre of both buttock cheeks.

Tony buried his face in his folded arms and waited for the intense pain to start.

Arthur swiped the cane through the air and observed his pal’s rounded buttocks clench and unclench and then clench again. Arthur had always thought Tony’s bum was his finest asset and having it presented to him in this way confirmed that view.

“Relax. Relax; it is better if you can relax your buttocks.” Arthur tapped the cane across the centre of his target.

It was easier said than done, but Tony gave it his best shot. But, if the mind was willing, the body was not. The buttocks continued to remain clenched.

“Are you ready?” Arthur’s kind question was met with a muffled groan from Tony’s mouth which was now buried deep in his arms.

Swish! Arthur’s first stroke caught his pal in the centre of the bum. Tony gasped, his head shot up and Arthur could see his pal’s beautiful brown eyes were shining.

“Keep still, now,” stoke number two landed a centimetre lower than the first. Despite his best efforts, Tony’ buttocks lifted off the table and he swung his hips from left to right in response to the pain now shooting down his legs.

Arthur smiled at his pal’s histrionics. He wasn’t caning the lad one-tenth as hard as his dad had beaten him. What a wimp.

The third stroke was met with a girlish shriek and “Ow, ow, ow.” Again, Tony sashayed his hips and his round bum danced across the table top.

“Keep still.” It was such an inviting target that Arthur wanted to land at least one cut with full force across the lad’s full bottom.

Swish! Thwack! Bingo: right on target Tony let out a loud yelp and jumped from the table, hopping from foot to foot and massaging his injured bum.

Arthur looked deep into his pal’s shining eyes. He couldn’t read his expression: was he loving or hating this caning.

Swish! Arthur swished the cane menacingly. “C’mon boy. Take this with some dignity can’t you. Get back over.”

Tony knew he had let himself down. His great pal Arthur had received one hell of a beating from his dad and he didn’t howl and holler. He buried his face in his arms once more and gritted his teeth.

Swipe! Swipe! Two strokes fell in quick succession. Tony’s bottom reprised its table-top dance but the boy stayed face down. The first six was over. Now, it was trousers-down time.

“Stand up. Take down your trousers.”

Tony was a ghostly white as he raised himself from the table. He smiled enigmatically, but made no effort to unbutton his trousers.

Arthur stared at his best pal. A bright smile creased his own face. Then he burst into laughter.

“Get them down,” he laughed. “At once you naughty little boy.”

“Okay, you asked for it,” Tony giggled and ripped down his trousers, revealing a massive erection straining to break free of his bottle-green briefs.

Arthur also had a tent pole in his pants. Without a word, he grabbed Tony’s pants and pulled them to his knees; then he took the lad’s cock into his own mouth.

“Wait, wait,” gasped Tony as he struggled out of his t-shirt and pulled his trousers and pants off his legs. In seconds Arthur had his own clothes on the floor and the two nineteen-year-olds entwined together fell on the carpet as naked as the day they were born.

And that was how Mr Braithwaite would have found them if earlier in the day he had arrived home five minutes later.

 

Other caning stories you might like.

My belligerent nephew

His Eldest Brother

The expenses fiddle

 

This story was first uploaded in December 2015.

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Found Out on Facebook

z used facebook blow job notice (1)

I know I shouldn’t have done it. It’s sneaky and shows a lack of trust. Sometimes it’s best not to know; to be in the dark about things. I know all of this. But I did it; and I’m glad I did.

My eighteen-year-old son Ricky had been away at university for three months: more than 150 miles away. Out of my sight, but not out of my mind.

Maybe he was a typical student; once he was away he forgot about home. Never phoned, emailed and naturally did not write.

So, I did what any loving parent would do: I created a false identity for myself and I got onto his Facebook page.

Ye Gods! Have you seen your own teenaged sons Facebook page? I don’t suppose it would be much different to Ricky’s.

Dozens and dozens of photographs of drunken parties (at last I hope it was not drugs) decorated his “wall.” Not all of them were of him.

I scrolled down the screen; there seemed to be large numbers of students involved. All of them were holding beer bottles or cans; many, including the girls, in various stages of undress.

I was livid. I was paying hundreds of pounds a month keeping my son at university and this was how he repaid me.

I kept scrolling hoping against hope that I’d find at least one photograph of him working: studying in the library; on a field trip; anything that would show that he wasn’t completely wasting his time at university.

Then I saw it. It had been posted about two months previously. A photo of Ricky. It had hundreds of comments attached and had been shared dozens of times.

Ricky was completely naked, except for a poster he held strategically in front of his you-know-whats. And on the poster was written: “If I give you a smile, will you give me a blowjob.”

He was flashing a cute smile, it must be said.

I was fuming. I read through the comments. Well, you don’t want to know what they said, but there were offers from lots of girls – and from more than a few boys too.

That’s it! I actually shouted this out loud, even though I was alone in the house. I’m going to the university on Saturday to sort this boy out.

I paced over to the sideboard and opened the bottom drawer. Yes, it was still there. I reached inside and pulled out a heavy two-tailed Lochgelly taws.

This thing had seen some action, I’d used in on Ricky a few times over the years. My father used it on me and granddad used it on him. I don’t know if granddad’s dad used it, but this strap was certainly a family heirloom.

I held it in my right hand and smacked it down into the palm of my left. Traditionally, these tawses were used to beat the palms of errant schoolboys. The Scots, in particular, used them this way. Not in my family. We used it across the backside. It could pack a punch, even if the naughty boy was wearing his trousers and pants. Not that he did in my family.

The strap had last seen action about eighteen months previously. Ricky’s grades were slipping and he needed a “wake-up” call ahead of the mock exams. A dozens whacks, bared arsed naturally, soon put him back on course. He put in a few more hours in the library after that.

I think it was only the threat of another trip over the back of the couch that made him knuckle down to pass his A-levels.

I thwacked the taws into my palm again. Yes, without this little incentive he would never have made it to university.

Now, for sure, he had demonstrated he had no self-discipline.   If he didn’t buck his ideas up and start studying hard, he’d fail his university course and be put on the scrapheap, aged nineteen.

So, if he doesn’t have self-discipline, clearly he will need to have discipline imposed upon him.

I didn’t warn Ricky I was coming and arrived at his student pod around about noon.

His student pod? They’re something new. Whole blocks have been built, not of flats, or even bed-sitting rooms: of pods. They are tiny self-contained units, with a single bed, a desk, a closet and a walk-in shower.

I thought the rooms in the halls of residence were small when I was at university, but they were palaces compared to a pod.

I went straight to his pod and hammered on the door.

“Wh… who is it?”

I was greeted by a muffled cry from within.

“It’s your father. Open up at once!”

It was fully thirty seconds before the door opened and my son’s bleary eyes poked around.

Even in his sleepy state he could express shock.

“What! Why?” he stumbled. “Is everything alright at home?”

He must have thought I had come to fetch him to take him home for a family emergency.

“Everything is fine at home, I could have said,” but didn’t “It’s what’s going on here that worries me.”

What I did say was, “Can I come in?”

A look of terror replaced the bleariness in his eyes.

“Well?” I rapped.

Reluctantly, he opened the door slightly and I squeezed myself into the pod.

“Hello, you must be Ricky’s dad.”

I stood, my mouth gaping a little, unsure how to react.

“Yes, eh… hello.”

The boy, well young man actually, he was about Ricky’s age, was sitting up in bed, naked from the waist up. I couldn’t see beneath the duvet, but it was a fair bet the rest of him was naked too.

Ricky’s usually fresh open face was scarlet. He looked as if he might vomit at any moment.

“Perhaps, I should leave,” the boy said. Then unselfconsciously he pulled the duvet to one side and stepped out. In seconds he had located his underpants, jeans and t-shirt and calling, “I’ll catch you later, hon,” to Ricky, he sashayed out the door.

“That was Tony. He missed his bus home.”

“Really,” I sneered. “Did the party go on late?”

Ricky’s bright blue eyes gazed at me under heavy eyelids. He seemed genuinely baffled.

“Don’t think I don’t know about the parties; the drinking and all the rest of it,” I blurted.

I had planned to talk calmly to my son about his wayward behaviour and try to disguise the fact I had been prying on his Facebook page. I failed. I was in shock. It was seeing the naked boy that set me off.

Instead, it all gushed out. The photographs of the parties; the drunkenness; the nudity and above all the blowjob picture.

Ricky was stunned into silence. However else he imagined his Saturday might pan out, he could not have expected his father to turn up unannounced, find him in bed with his male lover and then to castigate him over his irresponsible behaviour.

But, the worst was still to come.

I lectured the brat about how much money of mine he was wasting; how he needed to make something of himself and how no son of mine was going to get away with behaving like this.

I could see Ricky desperately wanted to argue with me: it was in his eyes. He was just about to open his mouth, when he realised I was carrying a plastic bag. Instinctively, he knew its contents.

Unceremoniously, I withdrew the taws. It was about two feet in length, with a long thin handle and the “business end” was fourteen inches. It was a fine specimen; craftsmen had melded together two strips of leather to create tails about a half inch thick.

I didn’t have to say anything. Ricky knew what this weapon could do.

“No, No,” Ricky wailed. “You can’t. No.” He was panicking. His father intended to leather his arse with the taws. He was a grown man now, living away from home. He had left all that childish stuff behind.

He thought all of those things, but only managed to whine, “But, I’m too old …” before tailing off.

“I am paying good money to send you here. While I do that, you had better believe you are under my jurisdiction.”

His face fell. I thought he would burst into tears.

“Your choice,” I told him. “You obey my instructions and I carry on paying the money. You choose to go your own way; the money stops.”

I don’t know if I really believed what I had just told him. Crucially, he did.

“You know what must happen,” I spoke gently now.

He nodded, despondently.

I held the taws in my right hand and looked around. There was almost literally no room to swing a cat. There was a small plastic chair that he could drape over, but I wouldn’t have space to swing back the leather and crash it into his bum.

There was only one answer.

“Straighten that duvet on the bed. Then put the pillows in the middle.”

He immediately got the picture. He was miserable as he tidied the bed and placed the pillows in position.

I was calm, and so was Ricky.

“Now, lower your jeans and underpants and lay across the pillows.”

He looked at me through pleading eyes, but we both knew the parts we had to play in this little drama.

He unbuckled his belt, popped the rivet on his jeans and placing his thumbs under the waist of his underpants, he pulled down his jeans and pants so they just reached below his buttocks. Then, he knelt onto the bed and placed his stomach across the pillows.

It took a little manoeuvring until his bared buttocks were placed to my satisfaction. His legs were covered with fair hair, but his buttocks were completely bald. Obviously, he had shaved (or somebody had done it for him). Last time I whipped that backside, it was covered with short soft hairs.

I tested the taws by holding it over my shoulder so that the tails tapped against the small of my back. Then I arced it up and forward, making sure it would not hit the ceiling when I tried to lash it down. It cleared with a couple of inches to spare.

Satisfied on my height, I then tested my distance. I stood three feet, then two feet from the edge of the bed. My intention was that the taws should lash Ricky in the very centre of his two mounds. It look a little practice, but soon I had the aim correct.

All the while my eighteen-year-old son buried his face into the duvet. I could see he had strategically placed a crease in the cotton cover into his mouth. In this way he would try to chew away the agony of the thrashing.

I raised the leather strap across my shoulder and brought it crashing down into Ricky’s flesh. The crack! sounded like pistol fire in the small room. Ricky’s body buckled under the lash and he bit deep into the duvet. Trickles of salvia dripped from the corner of his mouth.

With the second lash the strap curled itself viciously over the exposed buttocks and unfurled into Ricky’s meaty backside. His whole body jolted and his fingers clawed at the duvet. His throat tightened to hold back a scream.

It only took three or four lashes of the two-tailed taws to cover the entire area of his now buckling buttocks.

Sunset stripes adorned his globes and already purplish bruises were forming.

Ricky bit deep into the duvet as unmercifully I snapped another six hard stingers across the very centre of his mounds. One after the other in quick succession.

His legs flapped and his back arched as he threw back his head and released a blood-curdling yell that must have been heard throughout the residential block.

I stopped and rested the leather on the very apex of the boy’s bare curves. It lingered long enough to give him some false respite. Then I curled it back over my shoulder. Ricky braced himself for a further onslaught of controlled and accurate lashes.

I found my rhythm as the lashes embedded themselves harder and harder into bare flesh.

He chewed the duvet and I could see rivulets of saliva dripping from his mouth. Despite his best efforts, he was wailing like an eight-year-old.

Stepping back I snapped the leather down again as hard as I could. I tried to clear from my mind the fact that I was whipping my son, whom I loved dearly.

I channeled my thoughts on all the bad things he had done since coming up to university. That picture of Ricky naked and that vile poster he held would haunt my dreams for years to come.

This gave me the strength to apply the leather with as much strength as I could muster. As the thrashing continued my darling son convulsed in agony.

Despite my resolution, I found myself welling with tears at his choked heartfelt pleas for mercy.

He was pleading for me to stop. I lashed the last stroke hard across the now red-raw welted bottom cheeks.

“That’s it,” I almost whispered             .

Breathless, I now realized I was drenched in sweat. My breathing was heavy, but it was nowhere as bad as Ricky’s. He wheezed and gulped in great mouthfuls of air as his body thrashed from left to right. Curiously, he reminded me of a goldfish out of water.

His face was almost as red as his backside as he struggled to retain control of himself. He buried his face into the duvet and sobbed and sobbed.

That was my signal to leave. I found the plastic bag and wrapped up the taws. Then, without a further word, I quietly made my exit.

Outside in the corridor I met the boy who had been in Ricky’s bed. He was deathly pale: he must have heard it all. We did not exchange words and I found my car and drove home.

Picture credit: Unknown, but genuinely found on Facebook, and it inspired this story

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

Other stories you might like

In the farmhouse

The university major

Waiting my turn

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The fireraiser

z used otk pantz down slipper chair (10a) (2)

My dad only ever spanked me once, and I was eighteen years old when he did it.

And, you bet I deserved it.

Looking back at it now, I’m shocked at my own behaviour.

We lived in a small council flat in inner London and I could easily have burnt the place down and the whole block with it.

I can’t explain why I did it, it was just so stupid.

As a teenager, I used to like to lock myself in the bathroom. No, I know we all did, but that’s not what I’m talking about. I used to take a stack of paper and a box of matches in and make a bonfire in the bath.

I would wait until I was the only one in the flat before I set the damn thing alight. All it needed was for a lick of flame to catch a curtain and the whole place would be on fire.

I was easily found out. The smell of burning paper would hang around for a long time and was still there hours after I put out my private blaze.

One day my dad asked me about it. I lied, of course, and dad let it go. He was a very weak man and I don’t suppose he was good at confrontation. So, I carried on burning. A few weeks passed and he quizzed me after he once again caught the tell-tale whiff of smoked paper.

I didn’t lie this time, but I made an excuse. I said I had been doing a chemistry experiment in the bathroom and paper caught fire by accident. I don’t know if he really believed me, but once again he didn’t argue with me.

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

Yes, I had another bonfire and again, even though I opened the windows to let out the smoke, I was caught out by the incriminating smell.

This time, dad had decided he would take action. He confronted me with the accusation I was a fire bug and I had no choice but to admit it.

I suppose he had made a plan of action in advance. He gave me a little lecture about the dangers of fire. I didn’t take much notice of him. Looking back I realise I’d always despised him. He was a factory worker of the lowest grade possible and had been for twenty years and always would be. Even at the age of eighteen, when I was still studying for my A-levels, I knew I was going to leave him a long way behind. And, the sooner I did that, the better, as far as I was concerned.

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

My heart was thumping. I had no idea what was going on. Despite my arrogance towards my father, I was quite a shy, timid kid.

He pulled me into the next room. Our flat was tiny and there wasn’t much in the living room: a beat-up three piece suite, dining room table and chairs, a sideboard by the window and a TV set.

He pulled one of the dining room chairs into the middle of the carpet. Before, I could fathom what was going on; he reached towards the fireplace and picked up one of his slippers.

Then I knew. I suppose I could have just told him to stuff it and walk out the door, but, as I say, I was a bit timid. Like father, like son, I suppose. I was also a couple of inches taller than him and he was running to fat, even then, so he wouldn’t have been able to force me across his knee.

He sat down in the chair, holding his bedroom slipper in his right hand.

I stood looking at him. The pathetic man, I thought.

My heart hadn’t stopped racing since our confrontation in the kitchen, but I was also now finding it difficult to catch my breath. Something strange was going on inside of me: a part of me really wanted dad to spank me. God knows, I deserved it.

Without saying a word, he reached out and took me by my left arm and hauled me across his knees. To my utter surprise I didn’t struggle. I could easily have forced my way to my feet and left the room. Instead, I adjusted myself across his knees, until I was in position with my arms out in front of me, palms down on the carpet. My torso rested comfortably across his lap and I kept my knees straight so my legs were an inch or so off the floor at the back.

Dad took hold of me around the middle of my body to make sure I wasn’t going to fall off as he went about spanking my bottom.

I was wearing two-toned Sta-Press trousers – very fashionable at the time – which had an adjustable waist so you needn’t wear a belt. There were no back pockets, so dad had a fine view of my bum and would have seen I was wearing but the briefest of underpants, which left a lot of my buttock cheeks uncovered. Clearly, the trend setters of fashion at the time had no expectation that people wearing their clothes might need protection from their dad’s slipper.

I lay across dad’s knee, waiting for the first slap. There was quite a pause – was he having second thoughts? – before Whack!! Down it came. I gasped a little. Then came another slap and another.

My bum was warming up, but I wasn’t in any great pain. Nonetheless, I wriggled across his lap: was it just a reflex action against the assault on my bottom?

The next whacks were harder and I grimaced and screwed up my face up in quite some discomfort.

But, the pain, such as it was, was bearable.

I’m not sure how many smacks with the slipper he gave me: but it was probably no more than a dozen.

He let me up and I stood in front of him, not quite knowing what I was supposed to do next. My face was bright red from being upside down, but I doubt if my bum was more than a shade of pink.

My bottom was hot, but it wasn’t particularly sore and certainly not throbbing. I don’t think I even felt the need to rub it.

“Go upstairs,” dad said. And, that was it: my first and only spanking.

I went to my bedroom and in time-honoured fashion I stood in front of the mirror, took down my trousers and pants and inspected the damage. Truthfully, there was nothing much to show for it.

I lay on my bed for a while reliving the past ten minutes. I couldn’t believe that I had been taken across my dad’s knee and given a dose of the slipper. As I recalled each moment of the spanking, from being scolded in the kitchen, dragged into the living room, forced down over his knees and then walloped with the slipper, I felt an unfamiliar stirring within me.

I closed my eyes tight to try to visualise what I must have looked like draped over dad’s knee, the slipper rising and falling and smacking into the seat of my trousers.

The vision in my mind’s eye stirred my cock a little and I realised it was turning me on. My hand went down to touch it, but it wasn’t quite getting hard. I wasn’t aroused enough.

How typical of my dad – he couldn’t even spank me properly.

Tugging at my todger, I let my imagination take over and re-ran my spanking as it should have been.

We are in the living room. Dad has lectured me and I know I am to get the spanking of my life: and I deserve every whack of it.

Dad pulls the chair out from behind the table, puts it in the centre of the room and sits down. In his hand is a bedroom slipper. I am shaking my head and babbling on about “never doing it again.” But, like millions of naughty children before in the same situation, it does no good. I am going across dad’s knee.

Dad points to a spot to the right of where he is sitting. “Stand there,” he orders, and I do as I am told.

“Take down your trousers.”

Slowly and carefully, I undo the button, slide down the zip, and push the trousers down until they drop of their own accord to my ankles. My grey t-shirt covers all but the lowest inch of my honeycombed-coloured pants.

I blush, my face going cherry red, standing in front of dad with just my thin pants covering my bottom.

“Bend over my knee.”

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

I let him position me across his lap. My arm is taken and folded up my back, securing me and preventing any possible escape.

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

Then dad takes hold of the top of my pants. I panic. He’s going to bare my arse.

Then, I am lying across dad’s knee, bottom bare. I breathe in sharply. Suddenly, there’s a loud crack echoing round the room as my bum gets a mighty whack that stings me across both my pert round buttocks.

“Ah!” I cry.  After just two more weighty blows from the large slipper, I can feel my bottom aflame with a smarting soreness that hurts and stings.

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

Dad’s large slipper thumps heavily down on my naked bottom time and time again. My bottom is really very sore now, and my arm hurts where I have been struggling and dad has restrained me.

I am howling and kicking like a child, begging dad to stop hurting me. Dad takes no notice: he is the master of me and he is giving me the sound spanking I so thoroughly deserve.

As the spanking continues, I realize with shock that my ass is on fire. It burns with a pain that bewilders me. Every fresh smack of the slipper tears a gasp from me, and I am crying; in fact, I’ve been crying for some time.

Yes, tears are flowing down my eighteen-year-old face, and nothing I can do will stop them flowing. My body lies flopped across dad’s lap and I just sob and sob as he pounds away.

Then it is over. With contempt dad rolls me off his lap and I fall to the floor, weeping buckets of tears. I stumble to my feet, disorientated. I am not sure where I am.

My face is red and hot. My hands go to try to sooth my burning bottom.

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

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

Now, dad is warning me that if I ever start another fire he will take a cane to my bare backside, young adult or not!

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

Yes, that’s the way to give a proper spanking.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first published in August 2015

 

Other st0ries you might like

The Gaffer of the Academy: 1. Beginnings

Max of the ‘Champion’ 2. The deputy editor

The debut

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Lazy Students Home for the Hols.

z used corner boy in corner from student story (8)

Mr Howard wasn’t prepared for what he saw through the lounge window of his friend and neighbour.

Nineteen-year-old Tristian Miller stood facing the corner of the room, his hands on his head in the classic ‘naughty boy’ position. His jeans were at his ankles and his multi-coloured briefs were bunched up just below his buttocks. His T-shirt had ridden up his back clearly exposing his bared cheeks. They were lowing red hot. Mr Howard could see even at some distance that Tristian had been on the receiving end of a severe bare-bottomed spanking.

Suddenly, the front door opened and Tristian’s father George greeted his dinner guests. The Howards and the Millers were old friends; they went back twenty years at least.

“Come in, come in,” George launched into the traditional pleasantries, but immediately he saw his guests were distracted.

“Oh, that!” he nodded in Tristian’s direction. “He’s just back from university. Come in, I’ll tell you all about it.”

The Howards knew Tristian very well; he was a close pal with their own son Wayne. They had grown up together, played in the same parks, gone to the same school, and now as teenagers they had gone off to the same university together. They even had rooms in the same university dorm.

Mr Miller mixed drinks and when everyone was settled he told his story.

“He got back from university today. It hasn’t been a great success, I’m afraid. I found out he has been wasting his time and my money,” he sighed.

“He spends too much time in the bar or on the sports field, I think. Failed some of his courses, as well. He has to do resits during the summer and if he doesn’t pass them, he won’t be allowed to return to the university.”

Mrs Howard made suitable noises in sympathy.

Mr Miller took a swig of his whisky and carried on, “So, I didn’t have much choice really did I? I’ve given him a damn good spanking. Hairbrush. Over my knee. Pants down.”

He took another swig. “So how did your Wayne get on?”

Neither Mr Howard nor his wife could answer that question. They realised they had no idea what grades their son had achieved in his exams. When they had questioned him about it, he simply mumbled, “Fine” and swiftly changed the subject.

Mr Howard knew how close his son and Tristian were and resolved to interrogate Wayne further on the subject as soon as possible.

“Isn’t Tristian a bit old to be spanked?” Mrs Howard asked. She was not opposed to corporal punishment and her husband at various times in the past had spanked Wayne, but had not for some years. The boy must have been fifteen, the last time he was hauled over his father’s knee for a taste of his bedroom slipper. Actually, now she thought about it, it was when Wayne and Tristian had been caught by a local farmer stealing apples from his orchard. Both lads got stinging backsides that day.

“No,” Mr Miller was certain about this. “He is not too old. The boy must learn self-discipline and if he cannot, and clearly he has demonstrated that he cannot, then I must impose that discipline upon him. It is for his own good.”

Mr Miller loved his son dearly and knew that the blistered backside he was at this moment nursing in the lounge would act as an incentive for him to work harder. Tristian would not want to go through a repeat performance during the Christmas holidays. Eventually, he would graduate from the university and enjoy a successful career. It would be days like this that would ensure his future would be as rosy as his backside currently was.

Twenty minutes later, Tristian, now fully dressed, put his head round the door to speak to his father. His bottom was still sore to touch but he showed no resentment about the humiliating spanking he had been subjected to. He knew he had done wrong and also that his father loved him dearly. It was his own fault; he had let himself and his parents down badly. He had already resolved to pass his resit exams and work harder next term.

“Can I please go out to visit Wayne?”

His father assented, “Yes, but don’t forget your curfew.”

With that the teenager departed and domestic harmony continued at the Miller’s home.

Tristian and Wayne were great friends and they told each other everything. So, only minutes later the nineteen-year-old whipped his jeans and pants down and bent over to show off the damage to his buttocks. Gingerly, his friend traced with his fingers the contours of the brush. The cheeks were a mass of bruises and an oval outline could be clearly seen imprinted in the flesh dozens of times. His entire bottom was swollen and starting to turn black.

“At least it’s not bleeding,” Wayne offered a crumb of comfort.

“Yeah, but it still stings like blazes. At first it felt like I was being whacked with my mother’s steam iron.”

They both laughed out loud. Poor Tristian: nineteen years old and spanked on his bare bottom by his father like he was nine. But Wayne knew Tristian was not alone. Soon his father would discover the truth about his own slacking and there could be only one consequence.

Tristan lay face down on the bed, waiting for his pal to locate the antiseptic cream in the bathroom cabinet. Soon Wayne’s fingers would gently massage the ointment into his firm buttocks.

….

When Mr Miller confronted him about his university studies, Wayne confessed. He wasn’t an especially virtuous teenager but he knew his father would demand to see the written transcript of his exam results and this would confirm his failure.

His father’s lecture was short and to the point. The nineteen year old’s failures were catalogued. His excuses (or lack of them) were heard in mitigation: but to no avail. Wayne knew, and accepted, there could be only one outcome. He had resolved to submit to his father’s will, however humiliating it would be.

His father pronounced sentence: the slipper, over the knee, bare bottom. He looked across at his son and for the first time the absurdity of the situation struck him. The boy was at least six-feet tall, broad shouldered and trim waisted. His white blond hair was longer than most would expect, lush, shiny, brushed back and flowing. Wayne wasn’t a little boy, he was clearly an adult.

Mr Miller pulled a straight-backed chair into the middle of the room and sat down, placing his feet about three feet apart. He would need a large platform for his lanky son to drape himself across to present his bottom to him for the spanking.

It had been one of the hottest days of the summer so far and Wayne wore only the shortest of bright green sports shorts and a garish yellow T-shirt that was a size too large.

“Come here,” his father spoke softly, “Take down your shorts and pants and bend over my knee.”

Despite his resolve to present himself submissively, Wayne hesitated. He stared down at the corduroy-covered thin legs of his father. Why did the spanking have to be over his knee? There was no way he could fit comfortably in that position. It would make more sense to bend over the back of the settee. That way he could point his bum at his father and he would have plenty of space to whack his slipper into his bared buttocks.

“Come on, I haven’t got all day.”

Wayne put his thumbs under the elasticated waistbands of his shorts and pants and with a single movement, pushed both of them down to his knees. Then, in one athletic move he dived across his father’s legs. He was so tall that both his hands at the front and his feet at the back touched the carpet. He had to bend his knees slightly so that his bared bottom was raised sufficiently high above his father’s right thigh to receive the stinging slaps from the slipper.

With Wayne’s shorts and pants at his knees, his father gripped the teenager’s shirt into a ball and yanked it over his back. He was now naked from the shoulders to the knees, revealing a pair of peachy white buttocks that were twitching as they contemplated their fate. Wayne was a swimmer, and his bottom was muscular, without being large. It was pert, and joined smoothly with strong, broad thighs and long legs. He had very sparse, fine blond leg hair, with none on his behind. As his father pushed the shirt up towards the broad shoulders, the tapered torso was revealed, lightly toasted from exposure to the sun.

Mr Miller took a deep breath, raised the slipper and brought it down hard in the centre of Wayne’s bum. The boy let out a yelp and tightened his bottom. His father whacked the slipper down again, this time on the lower part of the cheeks.

The slipper being quite large and the teenager’s bottom quite small in comparison, his father had already achieved good coverage of what he could see. Anxious to avoid spanking in the same place twice if he could, father tipped Wayne towards him and slippered the left side of his bottom and quickly moved him the other way and slippered the right side.

The spanking accelerated, the slipper slapped into the naked flesh harder and faster, somehow always catching Wayne by surprise, finding fresh flesh to sting. His bottom rose and fell and rolled like waves at sea and despite Wayne’s age and size he could feel the rubber-soled slipper toasting his backside. Big red imprints of the slipper covered the whole of his bottom.

Despite his resolve Wayne yelped and struggled but his father held him tight and continued with a steady pattern of spanks.

Wayne felt the downpour of smacks to his bare bottom; they were harder, hotter, faster, and more rapidly biting into his buttocks and thighs. He twisted his head and neck, and leaned back upwards trying to figure out what was branding his bottom. It was his dad’s slipper, slapping blistering smacks onto and into his bum cheeks and inner and outer thighs.

The teenager shrieked, higher and higher in volume and in pitch and his right hand involuntarily left the floor to defend his butt, only to be seized firmly and pulled up behind his back, and held between his shoulder blades for the rest of the onslaught.

Wayne’s eyes alternately squinted and widened with shock and pain.  Worse still were his behind and his pride. He was nineteen years old, yet now found himself overturned, sprawled across his father’s lap. His face was pushed into the carpet, his right arm held up against his shoulders and his feet and legs thrashing and kicking into the air.

Mr Miller continued to pound the slipper across his son’s backside, and despite his protests and wriggling he held him down and continued. After about another three minutes of continuous swats he stopped and rested the slipper across his now frying buttocks.

Wayne was still lying there quivering, sobbing and shaking. His father reached under his chest and gently, but firmly, lifted him up to stand in front of him. The boy stumbled on trembling, wobbly legs, unable to stand still for shaking and shuddering, and jumping and bouncing up and down. He was doubled over and his hands flew to clasp and rub his fiery buttocks and upper legs. He was a grown man, crying like a five year old.

Upstairs in his bedroom, Wayne immediately inspected the damage. His buttocks and thighs were covered in dark blue bruises where every square inch of flesh had been assaulted by the slipper. After a short, fast shower he hobbled back to his room, where he gingerly slid onto the bed on his tummy to avoid any pressure on his tender bottom and rested his tear stained face on the pillow. He ran his hands over his stinging, burning bottom and to his astonishment his soldier saluted. Wayne reached under his stomach and took it in his right hand. With his left he reached over to the bedside table and took a handful of tissue.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Rules of the House

z used otk pants down bed straightladsspankeddot com (2)

Joe Winterbottom was a middle-aged divorced man and he enjoyed a comfortable life in the suburbs; until his idle, disobedient, waste of space son, came to live with him.

Joe was happy to be divorced and even happier when his son Martin went to live with his mother. She could keep him, as far as Joe was concerned. The lazy good-for-nothing.

As Joe had predicted Martin left school as soon as legally possible when he was sixteen and was out of work more often than he was in. When he did work they were dead-end jobs; mostly labouring or factory jobs. Now, he was out of work again.

Joe could not care less. He did not like his son and the feeling was mutual. They rarely met these days, the boy was twenty years old and an adult, he could take care of himself, Joe thought.

Except that he couldn’t. Martin still lived with this mother, who did everything for him. It wasn’t that she doted on him, because she didn’t, but she had just got into a routine of cleaning, cooking and waiting on him hand and foot; the way mother’s did.

But, her life was about to change, she was going to remarry and move home; and Martin was decidedly not invited.

Joe said, “No way. Definitely not. Over my dead body,” when his wife suggested that Martin moved in with him.

But, the reality was different. For Martin it was either move in with his dad or sleep on the streets and against his better judgement, Joe agreed he could stay with him temporarily until he found another place to live.

It was a disaster from the start. Martin wasn’t going to change; he expected everything to be done for him; he rarely got out of bed before the afternoon and he messed up the house with unwashed cups and plates. And, if that wasn’t bad enough, he didn’t mind helping himself to Joe’s whiskey: the good stuff.

Joe reckoned he needed a plan to get his son on his feet and out of the house for good. First, he needed to find the boy a job where he could earn enough money to rent a room of his own; then he had to make Martin clear out.

The job was easier than he imagined. A colleague at work told him about a burger bar in town, they were always hiring; his own son worked there for a while. His boy had learned a lot of discipline at the bar, he reported rather enigmatically.

Joe wasn’t so sure, working at a burger bar was a dead-end, it wouldn’t lead anywhere; it was the place students worked for extra cash while they were studying, it wasn’t a real job.

But, another night of unwashed cups and Martin lazing around the house while he was still wearing yesterday’s shirt changed Joe’s mind.

Joe knew he would have to take the initiative and went to the burger bar himself. The manager said he would be happy to try the boy out and that was how Martin joined the world of the employed.

His first shift started at 9am on Tuesday, but no way was he going to make it. It was already 8.15 and he was still under the bed clothes stroking his penis.

Joe burst into the room. “Come on Martin. Up, you’ll be late for work!”

Martin didn’t care; he ignored his dad, rolled over and faced the wall, “Fuck off it’s too early.”

When he thought about it later, Joe could not understand what came over him. It wasn’t planned and it wasn’t something he had ever done before.

In a fury, he ripped the bedclothes off his son’s back, and grabbed the boy’s arm. Martin was too startled to realise what was happening, or to resist.

Before he knew it Martin was on his feet and his dad was sitting on the bed, then without a word, Joe pulled his son face down on top of him, ripped down the boy’s underpants, and spanked his bare bottom like he was eight years old.

Joe had the advantage of surprise and held his son firmly around the waist while he pummelled away at his buttocks. It was a furious barrage of slaps all over both of the boy’s cheeks. Martin cursed his dad and tried to struggle free, but Joe had him across his knees so high that his upper body was face down on the bed; he could wriggle left and right over his dad’s lap but he couldn’t lift himself free.

Joe put all his effort into the spanking; this was for all the slovenly behaviour, that’s for the laziness, the rudeness, stealing his malt whiskey and most of all for disrupting his quiet life.

Eventually, he released his grip and Martin sprang to his knees. Humiliated that his dad could see his genitals he stooped down to pick up his underpants and covered himself up. His bottom was bright red and stung like mad.

“Quickly, get washed and I’ll give you a lift into work,” Joe said, and meekly his son obeyed.

Martin avoided his father at home that evening; and that suited Joe very well. He hoped it meant the spanking had worked and his son would be better behaved in future. The next morning Martin was up in good time to take himself to work and Joe was very pleased, but the boy soon slipped back into his old ways.

Maybe I should give him another spanking, Joe thought. He probably couldn’t though; last time he had the element of surprise, if he tried again, Martin would be ready and put up a struggle. He was a fit lad and could do his dad some serious damage in a fair fight.

The only way it would work was if Martin was submissive and agreed to be spanked.

Martin went out clubbing on Friday and missed work completely on Saturday. That’s it, Joe decided, he will have to accept discipline, or go.

When Martin eventually got out of bed, Joe called him into the living room and put it to him simply. He had rehearsed it once or twice, until it didn’t sound so silly; he was asking a grown man of twenty to accept a spanking from him and to agree that unless his behaviour and attitude improved there would be more like that to come.

“So, that’s my decision, Martin,” he said. “I am going to spank you for staying out late and for missing work.”

“No, you’re not,” it was simple defiance. Joe had expected it and knew he couldn’t force the issue, but he tried one more time.

“Either, you take a spanking, or you can pack your bags and go.”

“Yeah, right,” and with that Martin stormed off to his room.

It was the easiest thing in the world to get a locksmith and when Martin arrived at the house from work on Monday he discovered he was homeless.

Joe let him scream and holler on the doorstep; who cared what the neighbours thought. He opened a new bottle of whiskey, turned up the volume on his music centre and waited. Eventually, Martin went away and Joe really didn’t care where to.

The phone rang and he knew it would be his ex-wife, so he didn’t answer. A little drunk – that’s what you get for drinking whiskey on an empty stomach – he went to bed.

He couldn’t ignore his wife’s calls forever. She wasn’t going to take Martin back, it was Joe’s turn to look after him.

No it wasn’t, he was twenty years old and he could look after himself. Their argument went nowhere and eventually Joe hung up on his wife.

Martin was stuck, his mother’s new husband was adamant the boy could not stay with them, and since it was his house and he paid the bills, his word was law.

Martin asked around at work but no one could help; they mostly still lived with their parents. The boss, Billy, said he had a spare room; he lived in a council flat on a run-down estate, but it wasn’t as bad as it sounded.

Martin was about to jump at the chance; but one of the lads took him to one side. Billy had a reputation. There was this story about the student who worked there one summer and messed up once too often. The boy was made to stay after the burger bar was closed. Billy thought everyone had gone home but he was wrong. That’s how people knew he made the eighteen-year-old take down his jeans and bend across his knee. By all accounts he gave him one heck of a spanking.

Martin blanched, “No, you’re kidding; you’re winding me up.” No way, he spanked that kid. No way. It was just one of those stories people made up about their boss.

But, Martin decided to pass on Billy’s offer.

Joe was still getting grief from his ex-wife. She was scared for Martin; was he sleeping in a shop doorway at night? To get her off his back, Joe agreed to go visit his son at the burger bar to see what was going on.

Martin was feeling desperate; he was scared witless for the future, he had no real friends, no money and now nowhere to live. He was very pleased when his dad turned up, but wasn’t about to let him know.

Joe felt forced by his wife into taking Martin back, but no way was he going to retreat. The boy had to accept his discipline.

Then there was an unexpected turn of events. They had shared a drink in a nearby pub and suddenly Joe mellowed to his son; but not by much.

He heard himself saying, “The offer is still open. You take a spanking.”

A man at the next table pretended not to hear, but listened intently.

“Dad!” Martin was embarrassed to be talking about this at all; but he didn’t want to discuss it in the middle of a crowded pub.

“Let me know your decision,” Joe drained his glass and went home.

Martin was very drunk by the time he rang the bell of his dad’s house. Joe let him in anyway.

The next day Joe stopped off at little shop he knew, tucked away off the town centre. He had bought magazines there in the past and noticed they also sold “adult toys.” The paddle he purchased seemed authentic enough. It was about eighteen inches long by three wide and about a quarter-inch thick. Some joker had painted “The Board of Education” on one side.

Joe thought he would be more embarrassed than he was, but the shop assistant knew how to wrap a toy discreetly.

Martin knew what was waiting for him when he got home, but he didn’t delay his return. He knew it would hurt, but he was no stranger to corporal punishment. He had been punished by the teachers at school many times. Yes, Martin hated his dad for it and he knew the spanking from him would hurt, but he had no choice, his father was in control. If Martin wanted to stay living under his dad’s roof, he had to obey his rules.

Joe couldn’t work out why exactly, but he seemed to be looking forward to this. If only he had given the boy a dose of the paddle years ago, they wouldn’t be in this mess now. He needed to make up for lost time and Martin’s bum would have to suffer – a lot.

It happened in the front room; there was a large couch, ideal for a boy of Martin’s size to bend over in comfort, but what would happen next would be far from comfortable, Joe would make damn sure of that. Apart from last week, when he did it in a blind fury, Joe had never spanked a person before. Surely there can’t be that much to it; the objective was to cause the maximum pain possible and to do that he would whack the paddle into the buttocks. Simple. So long as Martin was submissive and didn’t put up a fight and try to get out of it.

Joe needn’t have worried; Martin had made up his mind. To be twenty years old and spanked was humiliating enough, he wouldn’t make matters worse by yelling and screaming.

“Martin, stand there,” Mr Winterbottom pointed to the back of the couch and Martin took up position a couple of feet behind it. Joe had prepared a little speech, to make clear to his son why he was being beaten. He recounted all of Martin’s faults: it was a long list.

The boy remained silent, there wasn’t much to say. Everything his father said was true, but he didn’t feel remorse; he despised his dad and this beating would just make him loathe him more.

Joe picked up the paddle and tested it for weight. Let’s get on with it, he thought.

“Pants down.”

If looks could kill. Martin silently unbuckled his belt, unzipped, and his pants fell to his knees, revealing he was wearing a pair of baggy shorts.

“Underwear too.”

This was too much.

“Dad! No, not on the bare.”

Joe’s withering stare was enough of an answer and turning his back on his father so he wouldn’t see his cock and balls, Martin whipped down the shorts.

“Bend over.”

Martin swooped over the back of the couch, grabbed the seat cushions tightly, and presented his bare bum perfectly for the attention of his father and his paddle.

Joe hadn’t seen many men’s bums in his life, but he reckoned Martin’s baby smooth, creamy, buttocks must be exceptional.

Exceptional, they might be, but they didn’t remain smooth and creamy for long. Joe brought the paddle down with some force across the centre of both cheeks.

Martin’s eyes popped and he gripped the cushions even tighter. He had been beaten a few times in the past, but never on the bare bottom and nothing before had hurt so much.

Whack! number two landed higher and Whack! number three, lower so the whole of the buttocks was stinging red.

Martin gasped and then groaned as the pain mounted across his fleshy globes. He was determined not to let himself down, so clung desperately to the cushions.

His breathing was heavier as Whack! Whack! four and five bit home. He raised his head in agony and let out a silent cry.

The cry became a yell as six and seven did their worse. Martin’s legs danced up and down in a futile attempt to ease the fiery agony coursing through his buttocks and thighs.

Joe could clearly see the image of the paddle tattooed in red marks across his son’s backside. He knew Martin was in torment, but instead of causing him sorrow or regret, the sight of the raw buttocks spurred him on in his mission.

Whack! number eight crashed into the crease where the ass and the thighs meet. Martin raised himself ready to jump up and down, clutching his throbbing buttocks, but at the last second he regained control enough to remain in position. He would not give his dad the satisfaction of witnessing his defeat.

Whacks!! nine and ten walloped down across the centre of the bum, reigniting all the existing wounds. The swats were so hard Martin lost his control. His legs stomped up and down on the spot as he wailed like a little boy. Tears cascaded down his face and he choked for breath. Mr Winterbottom could see snot rolling down his son’s mouth. His whole body was heaving with convulsions.

Joe took a step back to admire his handiwork. Martin’s buttocks were red and raw; blood was beginning to seep from some of the bruises. It reminded him of the hamburger meat at the burger bar.

“Stand up,” Joe commanded. He felt an unaccustomed sense of authority. Things would never be the same again.

Slowly and in agony, Martin climbed off the back of the couch. He was too distressed even to worry that his father could see his manhood. Gingerly, he put his hands on his throbbing buttocks, but removed them instantly; the pain was like sitting on a hotplate.

“Go to your room.”

Without waiting to put on his trousers and shorts (an impossible task in his state of agony) he rushed from the room, took the stairs two at a time and crashed through his bedroom door and hurled himself onto his bed, burying his face deep into the pillow, sobbing his guts up.

Downstairs, Mr Winterbottom poured himself another whiskey, then took a pen and paper from his briefcase and began to write.

Rules of the house.

Number 1. Curfew …….

Picture credit: straightladsspankeddotcom

This story was first uploaded in August 2015.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com