Rock n Roll Sinner

zused short shorts pop records (21)

Mr Harriet drove his car slowly up the drive of his house, switched off the engine and seethed. You could hear the heavy beat coming from his front room a mile away. It was a wonder the house itself wasn’t vibrating. Jungle music. Scandalous. Disgraceful. Ungodly. He hauled himself from his car and walking fast, but not quite running, he headed for the front door.

Inside his son Richard, eighteen years old and a high school graduate, gyrated to the music. From a disc a man was wailing. Mr Harriet couldn’t make out the words. “Cecile?” What was that all about? Richard was oblivious to his father’s presence. In ecstasy; hips gyrating, arms twirling, head waving, heart pounding. Mr Harriet stood aghast. Astonished. He rushed to the record player, swiped the arm from the disc, pulled it away and puce in the face smashed it once, twice, three times against the back of a wooden chair until it was shattered to pieces.

Richard stood eyes burning with distain and watched his father, sweat streaming from his contorted face, turn to a pile of discs and with his right forearm swipe them from the shelf. “Ungodly. Disgraceful. Jungle music!” he screamed.

Richard watched, his fists clenched. His father was drawing in gulps of air, struggling to regain equilibrium. He bent forward, hands on knees wheezing. A little calmer, he eyed his son with despair. The boy was dressed as if for the beach. A tee-shirt and shorts so short his thighs were visible. “Dear God,” Mr Harriet said aloud, “How has it come to this?”

Mr Harriet loved his children – all six of them. He had provided for them and his wife all his life.  He worked long hours; hard work, done without resentment. He had brought them up as good God-fearing church attendees. And now this. Where did he go wrong?

He stood face to face with his son. The boy was maybe an inch shorter than his father and a hundred pounds lighter. He didn’t flinch. He kept his father’s furious stare. “How many times have I told you about this music?” his father said, attempting, but not quite achieving, stillness. “It’s the Devil’s music. It is sinful. Full of lust. Ungodly. Music of the jungle.”

Richard was impassive. He had heard it many times before. He knew his father’s next sentence. “And don’t think I don’t know you sneak off to those n______  clubs at night. Dens of iniquity. Drugs. Whores.” Spittle dribbled down Mr Harriet’s chin.

“Well ….” Mr Harriet left the sentence unfinished. Richard didn’t bother to follow his father with his eyes as the old man strode across the room. He knew where he was going. Mr Harriet reached up to a hook on the wall. From it dangled a stout wooden paddle. He took it down and tested it in his hand, as if he had never held it before. It was about fourteen inches long and five wide, not including the handle. It had six holes drilled in the blade. It was made of maple and heavy.

Mr Harriet brandished the wood at Richard. The feel of the paddle had a calming effect. Mr Harriet placed his hand on his son’s shoulder. He loved him so much. God loved him so much. Didn’t the boy see that? Why did he forsake his father and God? He must be saved. How would he enter the kingdom of Heaven?

Richard flinched at his father’s touch, his fists still bunched. Mr Harriet removed his hand from his son’s shoulders and rubbed it along the length of the paddle’s blade, emphasising is length and strength. It was an unnecessary gesture; Richard had felt the power of that paddle many times in the past. It was awesome. In his father’s hands it would tear his backside to pieces.

“Son,” Mr Harriet almost whispered. “You know you have sinned. You know you must be punished,” his eyes were moist. “I love you.” He rubbed the paddle once more. “The Good Book says ‘spare the rod, spoil the child’,” he choked back tears, “But if you promise me that you will never play that music again, nor go to those clubs, if you promise me that son, then I won’t beat you.” He wiped his tears on the sleeve of his shirt.

When his eyes were dried Mr Harriet watched astonished as his son without hesitation unbuckled his shorts and pulled the zipper. They slithered down his thighs. Richard parted his knees and they continued south to his feet. Not looking at his father, he hitched his thumbs into his underpants and tugged them down to his knees. He turned on his heels, faced the back of the couch and in one simple athletic movement he bent forward. He wriggled into place; head low, naked bottom high, legs slightly apart. A perfect target.

Mr Harriet took a deep breath and eyes heavenward, he muttered words that Richard could not decipher. The eighteen-year-old stared down at the couch cushion and tried to stop his heart rushing. He felt the cold wooden blade against his cool naked buttocks. He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. The wood rose and fell with a terrific swipe into his pert bottom. A dark red image of the paddle seared into the flesh. Richard shook his head. That hurt. A lot. So did the next swipe. And the next. And the next.

His father had God and righteousness on his side. The paddle rose and fell. Again, and again and again. Richard’s buttocks were small and the paddle large in comparison. Not a single square inch of flesh was left untoasted. From the sensitive sit-spot where the buttocks meet the thighs, across the curves themselves and along the top close to the spine. The once creamy-white flesh turned quickly pink, then red, then mauve. Blisters formed wherever the edge of the paddle pounded flesh.




Two years later Mr Harriet knelt on his bedroom floor, forehead to the ground, tears streaming, his face awash with snot. He was incoherent. Inconsolable. “Oh God! Oh God!” he wailed. On the nightstand was a newspaper. Rickie Harriet and his band the Rebels had reached number one in the Billboard chart with their new disc “Rock n Roll is here to stay.”

Picture credit: unknown

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Charles Hamilton the Second

The Country Club

z used twosome coutry club

His name was Arthur, but I didn’t discover that until much later. It was a hot day in midsummer. Arthur wore the smallest and tightest shorts, pale yellow with dots; like ones you would wear to the beach. His smooth tanned body glistened with sweat. His blond, shaggy hair was drenched. I watched the muscles in his back, his arms, his legs twist as he pushed the mower across the grass. It looked like he had already cut acres, but he wasn’t even half way done.

It was at Brocklehurst Country Club. Arthur was a labourer and he had a young manual-worker’s body. Hard, with not enough fat to sizzle a sausage. I was the son of the Club’s President, hanging around for no good reason during my vacation from university. I sat on the porch of a summerhouse, staring, mesmerized by his tight arse pointing at me as he struggled to get the mower through overgrown grass. Even at a distance I could see he wore no underwear. Abruptly, he stopped his efforts. He turned his head and looked over his shoulder. Some instinct must have told him he had an admirer. He flashed me a smile. His ice-blue eyes glinted. I stared back. We had never met before.

The front of his shorts suddenly bulged. My pupils dilated. He smiled, his nose wrinkled. He ran the tip of his tongue across his lips. It was a grotesque parody of a tart. He was saying (but not actually speaking) “Come up and see me sugar.” I nodded my assent. He pointed to the summerhouse. I knew his intentions immediately. It took him two seconds to reach me and together we crashed through the door.

I lost a couple of buttons when Arthur ripped my shirt over my head. Then he popped the fastener on my jeans and pulled them down to my ankles, dragging my white underpants with them. I clutched at Arthur’s shorts. His rock-hard penis short skywards as they fell to his feet.

I didn’t immediately take his dick into my mouth. I poked out my tongue and licked up and down the rigid shaft, concentrating on the rim of the swollen head. Arthur gasped. He grabbed hold of my hair and pulled my head forward towards his cock. It was difficult for me to breathe, but I kept up the licking, spluttering saliva up the full length of his eight-inch member. I don’t think I had ever held a cock that was so hard. A thick vein ran the full length, the whole thing was purple and I was sure it was about to explode, but Arthur must have had tremendous will-power because I kept on licking for several minutes. Then I opened my mouth and Arthur slid the top half of his dick inside.

I was sure they would hear Arthur’s groan of pleasure all the way back at the clubhouse. “Take it all, take it all,” he huffed. We tumbled to the floor and I was able to get the entire shaft into my mouth. Arthur thrust his hips and the tip of his cock hit my throat. I pushed his body back a bit to stop me from choking to death.

“Argh, that is so good,” Arthur moaned, his fingers were trailing through my soft hair. Then they slid down on to the smooth, silky skin of my shoulders. Then he was all over me. My back, my arse. He slipped his finger in my crack but seemed to have second thoughts and immediately withdrew it. He went for my thighs and then the ball sack. My cock was throbbing hard. I couldn’t hold out much longer. I gave out a low groan. Arthur pinched my left nipple. I shot a load.

“I’m cumming,” Arthur screamed a warning. Too late. A gallon of spunk shot into my mouth.

We had sex often that summer. Arthur was uninhibited. We did it every which way you could imagine – and some ways you could not. We never became friends. We were the same age but he had left Gumshoe Lane Tech School at fifteen and had been in and out of mundane jobs since. I had attended St. Tom’s, a well-known public (that is elite private) school. I was at university and would soon enjoy a lucrative career in merchant banking. He was as thick as two short planks: what the boys at school called an oik. I took to calling Arthur, Arty. He loved it. I think it sounded glamourous to him: American perhaps. I meant it as R.T. – as in Rough Trade, but be that as it may.

One day it was hotter than ever and I spent a languid afternoon watching Arthur work. He really was the sexiest animal; all muscles and brawn. I think he liked to have me watching. I suppose he was proud of his body; let’s face it he had nothing else much going for him. He had finished cutting back bushes near the tennis courts and his shorts were drenched in sweat. I saw the tip of his – as yet still flaccid – cock through the transparent material. I was ready for more red-hot sex. Arthur had other ideas.

“I know where we can get some beer,” he flashed a smile. His lips were so red it looked as if he had been drinking raspberry cordial. “Without paying,” he added with a note of triumph. He was like a ten-year-old boy who thought he knew a secret nobody in the entire world but himself knew about. Bless him.

There was a store of crates full of beer by the clubhouse bar. Ours for the taking. The bar staff “nicked them” all the time, he told me. It would be easy. It was too. The clubhouse bar was closed during the afternoons (the ridiculous local licensing laws) and left unattended. The bar steward would not return until nearly six in the evening to reopen it.

We took four bottles – two each. They were for personal use, as a defence lawyer might tell a court. They were warm and we ran them under a water tap in an unsuccessful attempt to cool them down. Warm Double Diamond beer; it is one of the great memories of my youth. That and Watney’s Party Seven. But I digress. We took them back to the summerhouse, knocked them back in a trice and set about sucking each other’s cocks.

It was close to five when, nearly exhausted by sexual gymnastics, we ambled back to the clubhouse. If we returned the empties, Arthur assured me, they would never know the beer had been stolen. It might have worked too, if Sergeant Harry the bar steward hadn’t decided to use the afternoon to clean the beer taps. Long story short: we were caught. Bang to rights. Thieves.

Harry was another loser. He was in his forties, I guess, but seemed much older to me at the time. He was tall but his shoulders slumped, like he had been ground down. He had probably been a barman all his life. That or a waiter or some other step-and-fetch. He wore a fake uniform, with sergeant stripes on his sleeves. You saw that a lot; doormen, messengers, cinema commissionaires; men who had nothing to show for their lives except when they had been forced to go into the Military and were led by the nose by superior officers to become their batmen or valets. Typical Working Class. The members of the Country Club saw this. Harry loved it when they called him “Serge”, but he didn’t have the wit to see they were patronising the hell out of him.

Harry frowned and then slowly his face creased. I could almost hear the rusty cogs in his brain turning. He was trying to think. To come up with an idea. To make a decision. I stood impatiently, waiting for something to happen. Arthur was impassive. At last Harry spoke. “I’ll have to report you,” he said slowly, as if waiting for our confirmation that he had made the right decision. Harry leaned in toward me. I could smell cheap roll-up cigarettes on his clothing. “I’ll have to tell your father.” I swear he leered.

My father was the President of the Country Club, the top banana; the Field Marshall to Harry’s Sergeant. Of course Harry had to report me. I took the news calmly. I wasn’t about to go into a funk in front of the servants. Father would not be best pleased. I was a thief. If the thing became public, his own reputation would suffer. Good God if it went to the magistrate court and I was convicted (as I should be) my career would be in tatters before it had even started. Merchant banking and thieving do not go together.

By chance my father was at the club that evening attending some committee meeting or other. I waited in the bar while Harry delivered his news. Arthur and I remained silent. I knew precisely what would happen. There was not the slightest doubt. I was a public school man. We had rules about these things.

About thirty minutes later my father appeared in the bar. He was a large man. We used to call such people “stout” but today we would be more truthful. His double chin wobbled as he shook his head wildly. “Impossible”, “unbelievable”, “incredible”. He was at a loss for words. “Is it true?” he asked, although he knew the answer.

If there was one thing I learned at St. Tom’s it was never get caught. Obviously, I hadn’t learned that lesson well. The second lesson was if you were caught red-handed admit it and accept the consequences. Arthur stood beside me dumbstruck. He wasn’t much of a talker at the best of times. He stared rather shamefaced at his canvas shoes. I spoke for both of us; in monosyllables. Yes we had done it. There wasn’t much to say.

Father harrumphed. He shook his head. I watched the glistening fat of his jowls and chin quiver. “To the boardroom,” he growled. “The pair of you. Now.”  The room was a short distance down a passageway from the bar. Without a word to each other Arthur and I shambled away, leaving my father mumbling into his chest as he ambled towards the telephone.

The boardroom was oak-panelled and distinguished, as befitting a country club for gentleman. A long rectangular table with a highly-polished top dominated its centre. Glass-fronted bookcases ran along three sides. I had never been in the room before but I could tell the leather-bound volumes were rarely read. An open fire, of course unlit since it was the height of summer, stretched along the fourth wall. Large, heavy, solidly upholstered chairs ran along two sides of the table. We stood at one end and waited. It felt like I was back at the headmaster’s study at St. Tom’s.

After a minute or two I heard the sound of a vehicle’s engine outside the window. A door opened and closed. Two men whispered to each other. Moments later the door of the boardroom flew open. Father stood breathless. He made no attempt to disguise that he held a long thick punishment cane in his hand. I recognised it at once. He had seconded it from our home. He lay it on the table top. Arthur’s eyes shone at its sight. He had attended oik-school so I don’t suppose he had seen such a thing before. The rubber-soled gym plimsoll was the punishment instrument of choice there, I believe. At worst they would get a smack of a solid bamboo rod across the open palm of the hand. This would be unknown territory for him.

Not for me. The cane on the table was longer and denser than the ones they flogged our behinds with at St. Tom’s. It didn’t have the traditional curved handle either. This was a Malacca cane, the kind that they used on juvenile delinquents in Kenya where my father was stationed for many years. It was designed not only to hurt (naturally, or else what was the point?) but to leave deep welts that would last days or weeks. This was an awesome rod.

Father unbuttoned his jacket and with some difficulty slipped it from his shoulders. A roll of fat hung over the waist of his trousers. His shirt was soaked in sweat. He waddled across the room and hung the jacket on a hat stand in the corner. He had not spoken a word since entering the room. With his left hand he unbuttoned the cuff of his shirt and slowly rolled the right sleeve over and over. He stopped when it was above the elbow so that his forearm was bare. He flexed his arm to ensure it could move unimpeded. Satisfied, he reached forward and picked up the cane. My eyes followed Arthur’s stare as he followed my father’s movements. Father flexed the cane between his hands reminding me of its surprising flexibility. He showed its whippy-ness by swishing it through the empty air. Arthur’s blue eyes shone as he watched it fly.

It was at about this time I became aware that Sgt. Harry was standing on the other side of the window. He made no attempt to hide. He had an unobstructed view of the proceedings. He licked his lips in anticipation.

Father was ready. The first words he spoke since entering the room was to Arthur. Father tapped the cane against the edge of the table. “Stand there boy.” Arthur blanched; he appeared to be breathing heavily. He made no protest. He walked to the spot indicated. “Shorts and pants down.” Father’s face was awash with sweat. Arthur undid the shorts. They were the same poker-dot ones he wore the first day we met. As always he wore no underpants. More tapping of the cane. “Bend over.”

I was mightily impressed that Arthur submitted himself to my father’s will. I expected as much from a public-school man, but the oiks were well-known to be cowards. It went with their renowned idleness. Arthur leaned forward and rested the palms of his hands on the table top, evidently unsure how to present himself for a thrashing. “All the way, flat on the table,” my father barked. Arthur slid forward. He folded his arms and rested his face in them. Behind him he bent his knees and spread his legs a little. I had a perfect view of his bottom. My cock stirred. I had been in and out of his hole for most of the summer.

Father took hold of Arthur’s t-shirt and pushed it up his back. This was not strictly necessary since it did not impinge on the target area. Arthur shivered. He shook some more as my father sawed his cane across the centre of Arthur’s mounds. The cheeks twitched; his hole blinked. Father planted his feet firmly on the ground about a yard apart. He bent his knees and gripped the cane so tightly his knuckles began to blanch. I watched transfixed as he rose the cane to above shoulder height; then he twisted his body and brought the rod crashing through the air in an arc. The swoosh as it went reminded me it was weightier than the canes the headmaster used at St. Tom’s. It smacked into Arthur’s stretched haunches and sank deep into the flesh. A thick dark-pink line immediately spread across the cheeks. A perfect shot. There was a second of so of total silence before Arthur expelled a lung-full of air through his clenched teeth. His back buckled and his hips rose fully ten inches from the table. His knees caved. His head rose from his arms and then with a monumental example of self-control he forced it back into position. I saw him suck on his forearm, stifling the scream his agonised body so obviously wanted him to yell.

Father pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. It was a copious size. It needed to be to mop up the rivers of perspiration that soaked his face and neck. He dried himself off and let the handkerchief fall onto the table top. It would be needed many more times before my father completed his duties that afternoon.

He ran the cane along the underside of Arthur’s cheeks, at the sensitive “sit spot” where buttocks meet the thigh. He did the body twisting thing again but this time he landed the Malacca cane with an upward stoke. A bright red stripe lit up Arthur’s bottom in parallel to the first. I had forgotten what an expert my father was. Arthur’s body twisted and turned, his legs stomped up and down like a soldier on sentry duty. He bit deep into his arm. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Harry, his jaw dropped and eyes on stalks.

Arthur’s incredible gymnastics as the third stroke flogged the upper curves were awe-inspiring; an  absolute frenzy of jerking and twisting of his arms, legs and naked buttocks. A red soreness had spread across the teenager’s rear end, from the top of the globes near the spine, over the fleshy hills and into the smooth underside. This was a thoroughly-thrashed criminal.  But, father had not finished. He wiped himself dry once more, taking time to ensure his palms were free of sweat and his grip on the cane unimpaired. Father’s face already bright red was turning purple. Swipe! Arthur let escape a hiss so loud and so prolonged it reminded me of a steam train settling down at the railway station.

Grudgingly I admired Arthur’s stoicism. I had been beaten many times in the past. St. Tom’s was that kind of school. I had once been lashed by my father after my brother and I made a visit to the seaside without permission, but none compared to this. Father put every ounce of his considerable weight into the flogging. I admired Arthur’s bum for its beefiness. He had globes like peaches. When I caressed them in the palms of my hand their solidness sent waves of desire through my body. Now, they were being ripped to shreds. The cane rose again and swiped down into that flesh cutting deeply. His backside started to resemble a map of Clapham Junction.

At last it was over. Six-of-the-very-best, delivered with vim and vigour by an expert in his craft. Arthur lay face down wheezing like a beached whale. The back of his neck was as scarlet as his rear-end. Cold sweat soaked the back of his t-shirt. Father left him there. His own breathing was strained. The handkerchief did its work once more. After what seemed an eternity, he ordered Arthur to stand. He hauled himself to his feet and stumbled a little before clutching onto the table’s edge. His neck was red but his face was deathly pale. He couldn’t (or wouldn’t) look at me. Sure that he was steady on his feet, he leaned over to retrieve his shorts from his ankles affording me a delightful view of his brutalized buttocks. My eyes shot straight to his hole, so inviting.

Father flexed his cane, swished it in my direction and intoned, “Take his place.” Determined not to let myself down in front of a boy from the lower orders, I moved into position. I was ready to bare myself for deserved punishment. I reached for and undid the button on the waistband of my jeans. Suddenly, I stopped. I couldn’t do this. Not now. Not with my father, Andrew and Harry all watching.

“Don’t keep me waiting,” my father growled. His eyes glared fiercely. I caught a smirk on Arthur’s face. He thought I was a coward, chickening out. I couldn’t allow that. I had to go through with it. I had to lower my jeans, despite the intense humiliation I felt.

I pulled the zipper and let the jeans fall. I closed my eyes in embarrassment, hooked my thumbs into my underpants and tugged them down. My cock crowed. It was six inches and growing. I don’t think it had ever been so hard. It poked at the ceiling; already the tip was glistening. I cannot describe the look of horror on my father’s face as I shuffled forward and with great difficulty lay flat against the table top.


Picture credit: Unknown


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Charles Hamilton the Second

Fake News #12

slipper otk white pants bed straightladsspanked (4)

Dads’ Crusade: Bring Back the Slipper

EXCLUSIVE The Daily Globe


Dads across the nation are calling on the government to relax the ban on corporal punishment in the home with the rallying cry: “Bring back the slipper.”

It is their response to official figures showing the rise in juvenile-related crime. The say their sons need a “damn good hiding” to keep them out of trouble and on the straight-and-narrow. And, they think they are the right people to give it.

“We see eighteen, nineteen, twenty year olds totally out of control. They have never been taught how to behave. It is still not too late,” said Mr. Nosher Sykes, of the pro-spanking organisation Beat Their Backsides.

“I would gladly take any one of them across my knee for a good dose of the slipper. Of course they would have to take down their trousers – and probably their pants too – otherwise it wouldn’t hurt much.”

The campaign is gathering pace and local groups of Beat Their Backsides have been started across the country.

Mr. Ernie Flynn, 52, started one in Brocklehurst, Brockshire. He says it already has more than 100 supporters. He told the Daily Globe in an interview, “We are firm believers in corporal punishment for unruly young men. They are totally out of control now we can’t dish out a damn good hiding.”

He added, “The young don’t understand that actions have consequences. What they need is a jolly good over-the-knee spanking with a slipper. Preferably with their trousers down and maybe even their pants.”

A counter group calling itself “Hands to Yourself” seeking to keep the no-spanking law has been formed by older teenagers and young men.

A spokesperson for the Slipper Manufacturers Association anticipated an increase in sales should the law be relaxed. He said, “We can manufacture slippers in a variety of sizes and weights that would satisfy the needs of any disgruntled father.”

The Ministry of Justice which supported the ban on corporal punishment said there was no plan to change the law.


Picture credit: straightladsspankeddotcom

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Charles Hamilton the Second

Father Must Be Obeyed

z used uniform short shorts (56)

“Trousers down. Bend over my knee.” The command from his Father was crystal clear. And totally expected. John shivered with cold. The short grey school trousers and knee socks he wore were totally inappropriate for the middle of winter. But that was Father for you. “You are still a child and you will be treated like a child,” was almost a holy mantra with Father.

So, it was that at eighteen years old, John was still dressing in grey school short trousers, and as often as not a white shirt and striped tie. If Father could have his way his son would wear the short trousers to school as well, but he was worldly-wise enough to know that would bring a gang of do-gooding teachers down on his head.

They were a good God-fearing family. John knew the meaning of obedience. Obedience to God, to his Father, to adults, to schoolteachers. To just about anyone really. It was all in the Bible; so was that bit about “Spare the rod and spoil the child.”

Father had all kinds of rules that must be obeyed. When to get up in the morning, a curfew at night. Bible studies, school work, chores about the house. No alcohol, no drugs (without question). No girls. Boundaries were set.

The lounge was cold and gloomy, a small table lamp failed to illuminate much of the room. Father sat with his back rigid in a wooden chair, his feet planted firmly on the carpet about eighteen inches apart. This was part of the ritual. In his hand he gripped a small wooden paddle. It had been especially made thirty years previously. It was a kind of family heirloom. It had been made with one purpose only one purpose: to inflict a terrific sting across a boy’s buttocks. The paddle’s blade was about the size of a DVD cover and a little thicker. Holes had been drilled in it; that made it speed faster through the air as it went on its mission.

Father held the paddle in his right hand and tapped it gently into the palm of his left. He watched his son make his preparations. This ritual had been played out countless times in the past. There would undoubtedly be many more reruns in the future. John would not legally be an adult until he reached the age of twenty-one. Even then if he stayed under Father’s roof, he would continue to be subjected to Father’s rules.

John knew what was expected. Father had made clear his displeasure and now John must pay the price. There was no argument. Pleas for clemency were out of the question. Actions had consequences. He looked at his Father impassively; the old man never changed. He was in his early fifties with grey, thinning hair. He was still remarkably thin, a lifetime’s abstinence from alcohol probably contributed to this. He wore dark grey trousers, a white shirt and tie. He was always dressed as if for the office, even though he actually worked on the bins at the local council.

John’s grey short trousers had an elasticated waist and needed no belt. He undid the metal clasp and pushed them to his knees. Gravity did the rest.  His Father ceased tapping the paddle in his hand and spread his arms wide creating space for his son. The end of John’s shirt covered his crotch and buttocks, so he took a hold and lifted it to expose his flat, hairless stomach. Then, he leaned forward stretching out his arms before him to break his fall. He put his hands palm down and pressed them into the worn wooden floor. Behind him his toes hardly touched the ground. His stomach rested at an angle against his Father’s thigh so that his bottom was presented at a perfect angle for the paddle.

John stared down at the floor. Although worn by age it was spotlessly clean. It always was. That was his Mother’s doing. John waited patiently. There was more ritual to perform. Slowly, Father grasped the waist of John’s white cotton underpants and pulled them gently over the curves of his buttocks. John raised his body slightly above his Father’s lap to allow him the drag the pants down his thighs, past his shins before depositing them above his short trousers at his feet.

“There,” his Father sighed, “I hope you feel ashamed.” He never pulled down John’s pants in silence. He always had something to say. Oftentimes he would make his little joke, “These serve very little purpose at a time like this,” he would say as he bared John’s bottom.

A cold draught brushed against John’s naked flesh. His cheeks clenched. They always did. He had no control over this, it was just a natural reaction. He didn’t feel ashamed, his Father had seen John’s bare bottom (and much more besides) many times. His Father gripped the paddle tightly; he was ready to go. Father did not believe himself to be a cruel man. He was doing his duty: to God and to his son. The boy had to learn obedience. He must obey without question. How else would he get into the Kingdom of Heaven?

Father knew it was his responsibility to spank John’s bottom. Good and hard. It must hurt a lot, otherwise what was the point of it all? He rubbed the paddle across John’s left buttock, pressing it into the flesh as it went. John was a lean teenager with hardly enough fat on his body to sizzle a sausage; unlike so many of the obese teenagers Father saw hanging around the shopping centre. Father raised the paddle high and with a sharp downwards swipe sent it crashing down across John’s bare bum. The imprint of the paddle blade burned into the naked flesh. John’s legged bucked (another reflex action) and silently he expelled air through pursed lips.

Father made a second imprint on his son’s bottom. The paddle was so large and John’s bum so small that by now most of the cheeks were glowing bright pink. Already it looked like John’s buttocks were severely sun-burned. Six slaps hit John squarely across his bum, hitting both cheeks equally. He let out a quiet groan as each whack! struck the target. He wanted to take his punishment without fuss; that was what Father expected. Even so with each blow he wriggled his hips and his bum writhed. Father gripped him around the waist, steadying him.

Father carried on whacking the eighteen-year-old with a steady rhythm with the strikes.. Whack! Whack! One every three seconds or so. Whack! Whack! Whack!

John wasn’t in tears (it had been years since he blubbed during a spanking) but the pain was getting to him. He kept his palms flat on the floor, but my shoulders and back continued to writhe with the blows.

“Keep still.” Whack! Whack! Whack!

“You’re getting what you deserve.”

Father was right, John knew this. He deserved his spanking. Father did not enjoy beating him. He did it because he loved him.

Whack! Whack! Whack!

“I’m sorry,” John said. Another part of the ritual was being played out: repentance.

Father was impressed but carried on with the pulsating blows. John was breathless, losing more wind as each successive wallop bounced off his taut bottom.

The next dozen or so whacks were a little harder. The pain was growing, travelling down John’s legs. Whack! Whack!

No square inch of John’s buttocks or the back of his thighs was left untouched. Red blotches were already turning purple. His undercurves were tender and blood was rising under the skin, it looked a little like raw hamburger meat. Sweat soaked John’s back, despite the chill air in the room. The back of the teenager’s neck was almost as scarlet as his beaten bottom. Father was not an ogre, he was not a cruel man, it was time to stop.

John lay face down gulping in breath. Father continued to hold him tightly at the waist. He examined his handiwork. John’s bottom was swelling and would be tender for some considerable time to come. He would be reminded of the need to show obedience every time he sat on a hard surface for the rest of the day. The bruises might take a week or more to clear. Father congratulated himself on a job well done.

He let his son stand and watched impassively as John retrieved his grey short trousers from the middle of the room where he had kicked them during the worst of the spanking. Within seconds they were securely buckled at their rightful place.

John had regained his composure. “Sorry Father,” he said quietly and he meant it. He did so want to please God and his Father.

“Go to your room. Once you are settled I’ll come up and we shall read the Bible together.”

John flashed a smile of gratitude and gently rubbing the seat of his short trousers he left the room. His Father sat in the gloom lightly polishing his paddle.


Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second

The Letter

z used otk pyjamas down chair domestic mancspank (1c) (2)

Mr. Rouke stared down at the letter as he fingered buttered toast into his mouth. Brocklehurst University, Registrar’s Office. Addressed to his son. He didn’t need X-ray eyes to tell its contents. The Christmas vacation was here. Examinations had been taken, results released.

He licked a drop of butter from his lips and picked up his tea cup. Why would they be writing to Jimmy, he wondered. The results would have been put online ages ago, before the students set off for their homes.

It could only mean one thing. Trouble. He looked at the carriage clock. Nearly eight o’clock, he must leave for work soon. He really didn’t want this hanging over him all day. He strode to the bottom of the stairs. “Jimmy!!” he called.

His wife’s face appeared over the upstairs banister. “He’ll still be in bed. Asleep most likely.”

“Mr. Rouke’s face contorted. “What time did he get in last night? Or do I mean this morning?”

His wife shrugged her shoulders; she knew her husband didn’t really want an answer.

“Doh. Wake him up. Tell him to get down here straight away.” He returned to the dining room, poured a second cup of tea and waited. From a distance he heard voices. Jimmy was resisting.

“James! Get down here now!” he called from the stairs . “Don’t make me have to come up!”

James. That’s what did it. Dad only called him James when he was angry with him. Better not make matters worse. The bedroom door opened and with bleary eyes Jimmy appeared. He wrapped the jacket of his pyjamas around his body. There was a nip in the air. “Wossup!” he called from the top of the stairs.

“Get down here, you’ll find out soon enough,” his Dad said sullenly. “Hurry up about it. Some of us have got work to go to.”

Jimmy padded down the carpeted stairs. The pile felt warm beneath his bare feet. He entered the room, “Wossup,” he said a little more softly this time, sensing trouble.

“That,” Mr. Rouke nodded at the letter on the table. “Why’s the university writing to you?”

“Oh, um, nothing, everyone gets one,” Jimmy blustered, his face blanching. He reached over to pick it up. “Not so fast, open it,” Dad grabbed the letter and handed it across to the eighteen-year-old. He didn’t need to be a detective to know the envelope contained bad news.

They had argued at midterm. Jimmy’s results had been appalling. He was headed for failure. Too much time spent at the Student Union, not enough in the lecture hall and library.

Jimmy’s hands shook as he tried to get a corner of the envelope’s flap to rip the letter open. There would be no escaping the consequence. At last, the envelope open, he withdrew the single sheet. His pale face darkened as he scanned the heading.

“Give it here,” his Dad snatched it from his grasp. “What’s it say?” he read swiftly. There were not many words. The heading summed it up perfectly. “Notice of Impending Failure.” A grade-point-average of less than two: courses would have to be resit.

Mr. Rouke sucked in breath. He wasn’t trying to quell his anger. He was angry. He wanted to be angry. It was costing a fortune to send his layabout son to university. What a waste. He looked up at his son. Jimmy cowered. His father stood between himself and the door. There was no escape.

“Right.” Mr. Rouke strode forward, picked up an armless dining chair and turned it towards him. Then, he reached across and gripped Jimmy by the wrist. “No Dad, no,” his son moaned.

“Pah!” Mr. Rouke ejected a puff of wind through almost clenched teeth. He sat on the chair and tugged his son face down across his lap. “No, Dad, no,” Jimmy wailed, “I’m too old for this.”

The teenager wriggled from left to right as his Dad gripped the elasticated waist of his pyjama bottoms and with two tugs had Jimmy’s buttocks exposed. “You’ll be too old when you have learned to be a responsible adult,” he growled as he spanked his rough palm across the boy’s bare bottom.

“No, no, no,” Jimmy writhed, kicking his legs, head bucking. Dad had a firm grip of the boy and he was going nowhere. Not until Dad had purged his annoyance. After a few dozen spanks, Jimmy’s bottom had turned a deep pink. “Ha!” his Dad stopped hammering his palm into the boy’s bum.

“This is no good,” Dad’s hand was hurting much more than his son’s bottom. “Get up.” He released his grip and Jimmy shot to his feet and bent down to pull up his pyjamas. “Leave them!” The intensity of the command startled Jimmy. “Leave them. Stand there. Don’t you dare move,” Dad  snarled and hurriedly left the room.

Jimmy stood, pyjamas at his feet, his cock and balls dangling, and watched Dad’s departing figure. What had he gone to fetch? His slipper? Mum’s hairbrush perhaps? He didn’t have to wait long to find out. Almost immediately, Dad returned. Jimmy blinked in disbelief and took a step backwards as Mr. Rouke re-entered the room.

“B.. b..” Jimmy was dumbfounded. Under his arm, Dad held an thick, whippy authentic crook-handled rattan school cane. “B.. b..” Jimmy tried again but no words would come.

Dad smiled sardonically, “I bought it on eBay, after out little talk at midterm. I thought it might be needed.” He slipped the cane into his hand and wobbled it at Jimmy. Then he swiped it through the air. Jimmy who had never seen a cane before – they had been banned from schools thirty years ago – watched transfixed. Then Dad took the cane between his hands and flexed it. It was extremely flexible. Then, as a final flourish, Dad swished it once more. Jimmy’s throat dried. It was a mightily effective rod and there was no doubt what Dad intended to do with it.

Dad moved forward, gripped Jimmy by the arm and propelled him across the room. With the pyjamas at his ankles, the eighteen-year-old shuffled like a penguin. They reached the table where Dad released his grip and simultaneously pushed his son in the back. He fell face down across the table. It was oblong-shaped and Jimmy’s torso fitted it snugly. Dad pushed his arm into the small of the boy’s back. “Don’t you dare move.” Still holding his son, Dad raised the cane and whipped it across the centre of his buttocks. A dark pink line immediately appeared. Jimmy howled.

What followed wasn’t pretty. This was not a scene with a boy submitting himself like a gentleman for a caning. He did not hold his bottom high for deserved lashes from the rod. There was no ritual; no shake of the hand at the end between punished and punisher. No “thank-yous” from a boy who knew he had done wrong and deserved his punishment.

Instead, we had one stroppy teenager, howling, fighting, swearing as his furious father lashed the cane at the struggling buttocks in the best way he could. Most swipes met their intended target; a few did not. That was why Jimmy had so many red marks across the back of his naked thighs. The pain there was excruciating; for this is a far more sensitive area than the buttocks. Ironically, had Jimmy been a more experienced receiver of the cane, he would know the best way to endure a beating is through stoicism: offer up your bum, let the master do his business and take it as best you can. Six evenly delivered strokes across proffered buttocks (clothed or naked) will hurt (a lot), but that pain is as nothing compared to the agony of lashes delivered to all parts of the legs and body. Who was it said that God made the buttocks for spanking?

Jimmy’s howls were awesome. He would live to regret not taking his punishment quietly, like a man. As Dad whipped and Jimmy hollered, Dan, an ex-school pal of the boy’s, pulled up outside in a delivery van. Christmas was a busy time, and there was none to waste. He took his package and skipped up the garden path. As he opened the door to the porch he heard the yelling. And who could not? Intrigued, he followed the noise. He didn’t have far to go. The window was two metres away.

He stared, possibly open-mouth. A grin split his face. What joy. For this was Jimmy Rouke, a boy at school who had made his life a torment. Queer this, poofter that. He never let off. Dan reached for his phone, found the right app and held it close to the window.

That night the video was shared countless times by Jimmy’s pals. After Dan uploaded it to boyzblazingbuttz it clocked up 250,000 views before Christmas.

Revenge, they say is a dish best served cold.


Picture credit: Mancspank

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second

Home for the Holiday

z used drawing man in armchair with slipper (1)

I stared into the room and dad was seated in an armchair apparently reading a book. There could be no doubt about my fate. He had already removed one of his slippers from his foot. I know what you’re thinking; this is the twenty-first century; nobody gets spanked any more. But, I think dad’s head is in the nineteen-thirties somewhere. You only have to look at the way he dresses.

It started three months previously. I was on my way to university. He gave me the lecture. The whole nine yards. Study hard. Keep out of the pubs. This is costing us a fortune. Blah, blah, blah.

There was blah, blah, from mum too. Eat properly. Fruit. Vegetables. But most of it was from dad. Pass those exams. He didn’t actually say, or else, but I knew him well enough to add that part myself.

Did I do as I as told? I’m eighteen. What do you think? It was my first time away from home. There was beer to be drunk and parties to go to. Then there were the girls, but none of the lads got as much as they claimed. At least, I hope not. Please don’t let me be the only virgin at uni.

I was on nodding terms with the lecture halls and at a stretch I might be able to name one or two of my lecturers. But mostly I was missing in action.

When the exam results came out this morning, I had four Fs and a D-minus. Four fails and a scraped pass. Dad might have old-fashioned attitudes, but he knows his way around a modern computer. He knew my grades before I did.

It was my elder brother Harley who gave me the news. I was under the duvet having a four-finger shuffle when he burst in my room. “Dad wants to see you,” he couldn’t keep the joy out of his voice. “Now.”

He must have seen the puzzled look on my face. What had I done? He can’t have heard already that last night I was caught stealing a bottle of tequila from the supermarket where I work.

“Uni results,” Harley’s face brightened. He swished his arm through the air imitating dad and his slipper. “Ouch,” he laughed, clasping his hands on his buttocks. “You’d better get a shift on. He’s pretty mad.”

I rolled out of bed. I was wearing my underpants and a tee-shirt. I stepped into my jeans. They were heavy denim. I pulled them up and buckled the belt. The thick material stretched across my buttocks. I ran my hands across them. Yep, they would be some protection against dad’s slipper.

Who was I kidding? The jeans would be at my ankles and my pants at the knees.

I shuffled down the stairs. It was only a few days before Christmas and there was a frost on the back lawn. The house was chilly but I couldn’t feel it. I was burning up. I couldn’t get my heart to stop racing.

Dad was waiting. He had already taken one of his slippers off his foot. I stood at the open doorway, not wanting to enter. My eyes transfixed on that slipper. It wasn’t as big as bedroom slippers usually are. It was a slip-on affair. You’d have thought it couldn’t do much damage; even on the bare. You’d be wrong. The sole was supple leather. That slipper packed a punch harder than a leather paddle and in dad’s experienced hand it would scorch my bum.

There was more blah, blah, blah from dad. What had I told you? Why didn’t you study? Do you think we’re made of money? What could I say? I stood, every inch a naughty boy. Everything dad said was true. I had royally screwed up.

I mumbled an apology. I’ll try harder next semester. He growled back. There won’t be a next semester for you. He had read it on the university website. I had failed so many courses I wouldn’t be allowed back for at least a semester, then I’d have to start all over again. Shit. I genuinely did not know that. If I did, I would’ve put in a bit of effort.

So, I was excluded from university. For many, that would be punishment enough. Not for dad. He wanted his pound of flesh. Or more accurately he wanted to pound my flesh. My bared backside. He was a man of few words. He knew what he was going to do and he knew that I knew too. He didn’t have to spell it out.

He nodded towards the dining room table. “Jeans. Pants. Down. Bend over.” He picked up the slipper from the floor and waved it at me as if there was any doubt about what he intended to do next.

So, there I was, just about to turn nineteen preparing myself to be spanked by my dad. I was pretty sure I wasn’t the only kid who failed at university, but it was a fair bet I’d be the only one showing his father his bared buttocks for a taste of the slipper.

I know from painful experience I had to submit myself willingly to my dad. He would not hear any argument. There was to be no pleading. I must make no attempt to evade punishment. My job was to take the jeans and pants down, lift my shirt half way up my back and bend forward across the table. Dad’s preferred method was for me to lie flat on the table. It puts my bum at a perfect angle for him to catch the fleshiest part of the buttocks, the underside of the curves. That’s the most painful spot to aim for.

I closed my eyes and fumbled for the buckle of my belt. I popped the button on the waistband and pulled the zipper. The heavy jeans slithered down my thighs and bunched at my knees. I opened my legs slightly and they continued their journey to my ankles. Then, I gripped the elastic in my pants and tugged them over my bum and let them stay at my thighs. A cold draught caught my cock and balls.

I opened my eyes long enough to waddle across the floor to the table. I paused for a moment. I could hear my dad breathing heavily behind me and the slap, slap, slap he made as he smacked the slipper into the palm of his hand. I pulled my shirt up, took a deep breath and fell forward across the table.

I parted my legs offering my dad a larger target. I did this even though I knew he would be able to see into my crack. I was pretty sure it was clean. I hadn’t taken a crap since I showered yesterday morning.

I couldn’t see what happened next, but dad walked to the far end of the room, removed his jacket, then took a short run towards me and landed the first swat. A loud splat filled the room. I gasped. It hurt like crazy. I could feel the heat in my left buttock rising. Dad walked back to his starting position. My bum throbbed like mad. He ran again and whacked my right bum cheek. Air escaped with a long hiss through my clenched lips. That hurt more than the first.

But he wasn’t finished yet. My bum felt like it was on fire and each new hard spank seemed to fan the flames. I was astonished by the fantastic heat. My bum was sizzling. Sweat poured down my face. I wasn’t crying – I never do – but my face was drenched. I couldn’t catch my breath. Each time I sucked in air, dad would land his leather slipper and I would gasp it all out again.

It doesn’t matter how many times you get slippered, it hurts like holy fuck. I knew by the time dad was ready to let me go both buttocks and the back of my thighs would be glowing red hot. When I inspected the damage in my bedroom mirror bruises would have formed. They would turn all colours of the rainbow for many days before finally fading away.

Dad stopped his run-ups. He was standing over me now, crashing the slipper hard and fast into my buttocks from a distance of only inches. The pain was intense. Burning. Scolding. It felt like I’d sat in a bath of boiling water.

Suddenly, the door opened. Mum stood embarrassed. “Sorry,” she whispered. “I thought you had finished.”

“Nearly finished,” dad said as he pounded another dozen into my stretched flesh. Then he finished. “Was there something?” he asked as if it was perfectly natural to have a half-naked eighteen-year-old boy draped across the dining room table.

“Yes,” my mother replied softly. “Mr. Blenkinsop from Harry’s supermarket is on the phone. He’s asking to speak to you.”

I screwed my eyes tight. When dad heard about my thieving my bottom would glow all over again. Like a tequila sunset.

Picture Credit: Unknown


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

Book. Troublesome Teens


Troublesome Teens

They might think they are adults, but older teens are not. They are still children and they need to act like it. They should respect their parents and obey adults. Without question. And if they don’t? These stories will remind them of the consequences of bad behaviour. A very sore backside indeed.


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.

– Extract from Put Back in Short Trousers


The book runs for more than 16,000 words and can be downloaded by clicking the link below. The PDF file can be read on computers, laptops and a variety of e-book readers.


Picture credit: Unknown

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