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

Other stories you might like

I remember like it was yesterday

The swim coach

Thank you, Uncle Walter

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

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

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Book. Troublesome Teens

troublesome-teens-book-cover-pic

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.

troublesome-teens-by-charles-hamilton-ii

Picture credit: Unknown

For more free-to-download books click here

Book. The Dean of Dormitory Discipline

used-drawing-paddle-on-jeans-3

The Dean of Dormitory Discipline and other university tales

The Dean of Dorm Discipline regularly beats misbehaving students and there was never a weekend when his paddle did not fly through the air. This gave them ample opportunity to swap stories about their spankings and their bruises became badges of honour when displayed in the communal showers.

Now, Mitch must pay for his missed curfew …

The Dean of Dorm Discipline is one of six corporal punishment tales from universities that appears in the my free-to-download book.

This one runs for more than 15,000 words and like the other books in this series it can be downloaded as a PDF file and read on your computer, laptop or a variety of e-book readers.

Click on the link below:

the-dean-of-dorm-discipline-by-charles-hamilton-ii

For more free-to-download books click here

 

Letter of Regret

z used otk pyjamas bed head bare domestic london

45 The Avenue

Brocklehurst

 

Dear Mr. Lesame,

I am writing to you to say sorry about breaking the window in your greenhouse with my cricket ball. I know you told us many times not to play cricket outside your house but we ignored you.

After you told my Dad he was very cross with me. He said I had disgraced the family. He said I was rude and arrogant and ill disciplined. He said I needed to be taken down a peg or two. He would give me the spanking of my life.

Dad believes that we must be accountable for our actions. He has taught me this all my life and I think he is right and I take responsibility for disobeying you and breaking your window. I am eighteen and I should act like an adult. If I cannot do this then Dad says I should be treated like a child.

That is what he did. I stood remorsefully in the sitting room while he lectured me some about my behaviour and then he sent me to my room and told me to get into my pyjamas. It wasn’t long before Dad came in. “Mitch, I’m sorry I have to do what I am about to do, but I’ve got to teach you never, ever to do anything like that again,” he said.

He had a hairbrush in his hand. The bristles are all worn down on it and it isn’t much good for brushing hair (Dad’s practically bald anyway), it is the wide, flat wooden type that is ideal for spanking.

He sat down on the edge of my bed. I knew what was coming and I started blubbing because I was really going to get it. My legs were shaking as he made me come to his side. I was horrified when he yanked my pj’s down so my bum was bare. They fell at my feet and then Dad ordered me to step out of them. Man was he mad. I knew I was going to get it hot.

He told me to bend over his knees. I am just the right height so that the palms of my hands rested in the carpet in the front and my toes just touched the ground at the back. My bare buttocks were arched over his lap. I felt his arm hold me firmly over his knee. Now, I was staring at the carpet (not an unfamiliar position) while my bum was in front of his face and my cock was rubbing against his thigh.

Dad was true to his word. He gave me a spanking like I never had before. Within seconds I was kicking and screaming. The hairbrush landed again and again on my red and now very sore bottom. Blisters started forming as he spanked me over and over. I yelped, I wailed, I yelled. Nothing was stopping him from giving me the whacking of my life.

Dad tanned my bare bottom so well that at the end all I could do was sink to my knees and grabbing my toasted bottom bawl my eyes out for a few moments. By the time Dad left me to nurse my battered bum, I felt about six years old. After Dad left the room I flopped face-down on my bed, trying to quiet my choking sobs. Tears flowed freely down my face as I tried to rub the soreness away from my scarlet bottom. I had spent the best part of ten minutes struggling across Dad’s knees, bottom bared as he very soundly and thoroughly spanked my eighteen-year-old bottom with his hairbrush.

Dad says he hopes I have learned my lesson and that you will approve of the punishment he has given me. But, he says if you don’t think I have been disciplined enough he will give you permission to take down my trousers and pants and haul me over your knee for a spanking on the bare bottom.

Yours Faithfully,

Michael Manning.

P.S. I’m horny as Hell, see you Thursday after school.

 

Picture credit: CP Services London

Other stories you might like

The padded armchair

Caught in their underpants

Housemate pays the rent

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Book. The St Francis Independent Grammar School stories

st figs logo headmaster

 

In this free-of-charge book offering we revisit St Francis Independent Grammar School. St FIGS is a traditional school – traditional curriculum; traditional sports; traditional uniform and traditional discipline. We meet John Allison, eighteen years old and a new boy at school, as he discovers just what that means.

The thwack of the cane against stretched buttocks echoes through the passageways. No naughty sixth-former is spared a throbbing backside. As John himself will soon find out.

The book runs for more than 23,000 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.

 

Tales from the study 1. St Francis Grammar School by Charles Hamilton II

For more free-to-download books click here

Book. The Swish of the Rattan

cane pants couch bratski

The swish of the rattan

 

I see from the statistics that WordPress churn out all the time that the most popular search term from visitors to this site is “Cane”. The second is “Bare” (you naughty boys!).

So, I thought as a special treat for lovers of the swish of the whippy rattan rod I would put together fifteen of my favourite caning stories into a free-to-download book. Backsides are blistered in the home, the office and at university. Dads, uncles, professors, housemates, bosses all show their prowess with the cane.

I hope you enjoy the tales which run to about 35,000 words, but please know there are no traditional school stories in this collection.

Lovers of those can find two other collections of stories. Click on the titles below for more details. All characters are aged eighteen or over.

Tales from the study 1: St. Francis Independent Grammar School

Tales from the study 2: Six of the best school stories

 

ALEXANDER ALDRIDGE WAS dumbfounded. His mouth literally gaped open. Before him stood a figure menacingly flexing a school cane between his huge hairy hands.

“Y… you want to cane me?” It was question as much as a statement.

The sun was quickly setting and the drawing room was gloomy. Soon they would need to turn on the electric light.

“Yes. And I hope it will bring you to your senses.”

William Beaver swished the cane through the air with some force. Alexander blanched. His housemate seemed to be entirely serious.

William gently tapped the cane against his right leg. “You must pay the rent. You cannot expect to get away with it.”

At that moment, their other housemate George Templeton entered the room. “Don’t start without me,” he chortled.

Extract from Housemate pays the rent

Download The Swish of the Rattan below

The swish of the rattan by Charles Hamilton II

Picture credit: Keith and Bratski

For more free-to-download books click here