A very British spanking

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, sir,” he agreed meekly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir,” Henry replied humbly.

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

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

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

Other stories you might like

For your own good

We need to talk about Jake

Max of the ‘Champion’ 1. The policeman

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Party time!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Picture credits: Unknown / Sting Pictures

Other stories you might like

Over the schoolmaster’s knee

An unexpected recollection

John’s jam jar

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The exam results

new 5

A theatre play

Setting.

A suburban living room. It is the present. It is nearly Christmas so there could be a tree or decorations to show this. What furniture there is can be at the discretion of the theatre depending on what is available, but it must that it is the modern day the furniture etc (e.g. flat screen TV). There must at least be a couch and a set of drawers (possibly a sideboard). A Table / Smart phone and a wooden paddle are the only two essential props.

Characters.

NATE: A 19-year-old university student. Dressed in jeans and a top. He wears colourful underpants.

DAD: In his late forties / early fifties. He is dressed casually for a day spent at home.

MUM: Roughly same age as DAD and also dressed for a day at home

 

Curtain rises showing MUM and DAD in the living room. DAD is holding a Tablet. MUM stands close by watching him read from the screen

 

DAD (Peering into Tablet). I’m into Nate’s exam results here. (face drops) Jeez, look at this. Five subjects. One’s an F. That’s fail. Nothing higher than a D. They’re worse than the midterms.

MUM. (Looking over his shoulder). What are we paying all this money for to send him to university? What a waste.

DAD. (Anger showing in his face) We told him. Back in October. This is just not good enough.

MUM. It can’t go on like this. This is too bad. What’s he doing? Too much time in the bar, not enough in the library.

DAD. I know what he needs. (Pauses) I did warn him.

MUM. But he’s eighteen (let’s the sentence trail off)

DAD. That’s not too old.

MUM. Maybe.

DAD. It’s what got him through his A-levels. Remember? He failed his mocks. He soon bucked up his ideas after that. Did quite well in the end. Good enough to get to university.

MUM. Yes, that’s true. Will it work again?

DAD. I don’t see why not. He just needs a wake up call. It worked before. It’ll work again.

MUM. (Showing doubt) Well ….

DAD. Just a bit of maintenance. Put him back on the straight and narrow. To remind him that we’re keeping an eye on him.

MUM. (Frowning) I guess so. (Pause as she thinks about it some more). Yes …. OK … Right …

At that moment Nate enters. He is a bit dishevelled and it is clear he has only just got out of bed. He sees DAD with the Tablet but doesn’t realise its importance.

MUM. (Berating NATE) You just got up? Look at the time. It’s nearly eleven. Late night. (Pause) Again. You need to go out an get a job for the holidays. I don’t want you lying in bed all day.

NATE. (Showing insolence) OK Mum.

DAD. (Snapping) Don’t talk to your mother like that.

NATE. (Sulks) Ohhh.

MUM. Don’t expect me to make you breakfast.

NATE. (Snaps) Don’t want none.

DAD. What’s up with you. Got a hangover?

NATE. (Grimaces but says nothing)

DAD. (Holding up the Tablet) I’ve got your exam results.

NATE. (Taken aback) Worr…?

DAD. You heard. Exam results. What a disgrace

NATE turns away to leave the room – he does not want to have this conversation

DAD. Woah. Hold your horses. Wait a minute. You’re not going anywhere.

NATE. pauses, considers disobeying DAD, but stays waiting at the door.

DAD. One fail. Nothing higher than a D. (Pauses, expecting NATE to respond. When he doesn’t DAD’s anger shows) Well! (Pause). Well, what have you got to say.

NATE embarrassed, shrugs his shoulders but says nothing.

DAD. Well. (Pause. His anger rising) We talked about this at midterm. (He waves the Tablet to confirm what he is talking about).

NATE stands by the door contemplating whether he should make a run for it

DAD. Did you go to lectures? Do you even know where the library is? Did you do any work at all?

NATE embarrassed looks at his feet

DAD. Well? Answer me. (More silence) Bah! You know what you need don’t you.

NATE looks startled. He opens his mouth intending to respond but thinks better of it

DAD. (speaking rapidly as if he is himself embarrassed) A damn good spanking. That’s what. A good hiding. That’ll buck your ideas up. A sore backside.

NATE. (eyes wide with astonishment) Dad …. (he is lost for words) But …. I’m too old ….

DAD. (cutting NATE short) You’re not too old. I’ll tell you when you’re too old. When you start acting like a responsible adult, that’s when you’re too old.

NATE. (Struggling to find the words) But Dad. You can’t … I mean….

DAD. (Cutting NATE short) I can. (Pause for effect) And I will. (Pause) Now get back in here.

NATE. But Dad ..

DAD. Come here. (Points to the couch)

NATE. Oww Dad. C’mon Dad.

DAD. (Pointing to the couch) I won’t tell you again.

NATE (pouts). But Dad …

MUM walks across the room. NATE stops and his eyes follow MUM as she walks. NATE has a concerned look. MUM reaches a drawer and opens it. DAD and NATE watch her carefully as MUM reaches in the drawer. She searches with her hand for a moment. MUM’s expression is puzzled. It seems she cannot find what she is looking for. Then, MUM gives a half-smile. MUM turns to face DAD and NATE, she is holding a wooden punishment paddle.

NATE (Alarmed). Oh, c’mon Mum. (Pause) Dad? (Pause) No, come on. No, you can’t.

MUM (Hands the paddle to DAD. Looks at NATE). You have nobody to blame but yourself.

DAD takes paddle and weighs it in his hand, demonstrating that it is a substantial piece of wood and has some weight. NATE’s eyes pop as he watches DAD tap the blade of the paddle into the palm of his hand.

MUM. (To NATE) You were warned. You can’t say you weren’t.

NATE (Mouth opens and closes like a goldfish). But Mum.. (Looks at DAD who is now tapping thee paddle against his own thigh. Then in a plea)  Dad ….. No ….

DAD sits on the edge of the couch. Waves paddle at NATE.

DAD (To NATE). Let’s get this over with. (Pause) Come here, son.

NATE Doesn’t speak but body language says he is considering whether he should run from the room. He appears to be debating with himself in his head. He doesn’t realise the thumbs of both hands are gently caressing the seat of his jeans.

DAD (Losing patience). Don’t make me ask you twice.

NATE shows no signs of moving.

DAD (Speaks fiercely). NOW!

NATE jolts, then slowly moves towards DAD. NATE stands a metre or so away from DAD and looks sorrowfully at DAD

NATE (Pleading). Dad …

DAD (looking stern). Your fault…. Not mine. This is to make sure you work harder next semester.

NATE shuffles his feet with embarrassment, dreading DAD’s next words

DAD (Slowly looks NATE up and down, from head to feet and back again. DAD’s eyes rest on NATE’s waist). You better take those jeans down.

NATE looks astonished, silently mouths ‘But Dad’.

DAD (As if speaking to himself). They’re too thick. You won’t hardly feel a thing. Take them down.

NATE stands rooted to the spot, his face red with shame.

NATE (Pleading). C’mon Dad, please. Not jeans down. C’mon. Please.

DAD. Now. If I have to do it for you, I’ll take the pants down too.

NATE hurriedly finds the buckle of his belt and tugs it open. He looks pleadingly at DAD as if hoping DAD will relent at the last moment and let him keep the jeans up. DAD stares into the middle distance. NATE looks down at his jeans for a moment. Reluctantly NATE undoes the button on the waistband of his jeans. He pulls the zip fly. The jeans fall open showing the front of NATE’s colourful briefs. NATE closes his eyes as if to persuade himself that this is not really happening to him. Slowly he pushes the jeans down his thighs. They snag at his knees and he leaves them there. He glances pitifully at DAD.

DAD (Calmly but with authority). All the way.

NATE spreads his knees and the jeans slip further down until they rest in a puddle over his feet.

DAD grips the handle of the paddle and pushes it towards NATE. NATE recoils slightly, but stands his ground.

DAD spreads his legs to create a platform and taps his own right thigh

DAD. Bend  over my knee.

NATE looks down at DAD’s lap. NATE hesitates

DAD taps his own thigh again

DAD. Just like last time.

NATE shuffles forward and stands to the right of DAD, Slowly, NATE places the palms of his hands on DAD’s thighs and lowers himself down. Once his stomach is resting across DAD, NATE stretches his arms forward and presses the palms of his hands into the ground. NATE’s legs are left to dangle in mid-air (or his toes touch the carpet, depending upon the height of the actor playing the role). NATE’s bottom is raised over DAD’s thigh at a perfect angle to receive swats of the paddle.

DAD, slowly and with great deliberation takes hold of the elasticated waistband of NATE’s briefs. NATE’s face registers fear as he thinks DAD is about to pull down his underpants and bare his backside.

DAD does not do this. DAD tugs the waistband so that the cotton briefs fit snugly across NATE’s bottom. All creases are removed and the briefs are so tight that each buttock cheek is clearly defined, offering DAD a terrific target to spank. DAD takes hold of NATE’s shirt and pulls it up NATE’s back so that the audience now has an unrestricted view of the whole buttock area. DAD places his left hand around NATE’s waist to hold him in place. NATE and DAD are now both adopting the traditional spanking posture as demonstrated by fathers and sons across the ages.

NATE’s body is tense. NATE closes his eyes and shuts his mouth tight.

DAD gently taps the blade of the paddle against the underside of NATE’s left buttock cheek. NATE’s buttocks clench as if they are firming up to protect themselves from the painful spanking that is about to start.

DAD (Still tapping to find his aim, says almost inaudibly). Relax, son. Relax.

DAD raises the paddle to above shoulder height.

NATE’s whole body tenses

DAD pauses with the paddle raised high. He counts “one, two, three,” in his head then brings the paddle pounding down into NATE’s left buttock.

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NATE winces with pain. His legs kick.

DAD raises the paddle and repeats the previous manoeuvre, this time swatting the right buttock.

NATE’s head raises up and down. NATE’s mouth forms the perfect “O” shape, but he does not make a sound.

DAD slowly hammers another two swats across each cheek, making a total of six whacks.

NATE is feeling the pain. NATE’s head shakes from side to side, like a horse bothered by a fly.

DAD quickens the momentum of the spanking. Instead of counting “one, two, three” before each swat he spanks rapidly: bang-bang-bang, like machinegun fire.

NATE’s hips swivel, his shoulders shake. NATE acts as if he is trying to swim away off DAD’s lap. DAD grips NATE harder around the waist and continues spanking, making sure that the paddle whacks the fleshiest part of NATE’s bum, as well as the tender undersides, the sit-spot, where the bum meets the thighs. DAD also swipes the peaks of the mounds, so that no square-centimetre of bum is left untoasted.

DAD (While he is spanking). There. This is just what you deserve. Maybe you’ll work harder next semester. Why do you think your mother and I are paying for you to go to university. So you get a good degree. Have a decent career.

DAD (spanks the paddle with rhythm; one spank per word). This (spank) is (spank) how (spank) you (spank) repay (spank) us (spank).

NATE reaches his hand back to try to protect his backside from the onslaught. His body is tipped at such an angle he cannot quite manage this. DAD grips NATE’s wrist and together they struggle. DAD pushes NATE’s arm half way up his back.

(At this point the theatre director has a decision to make. In real life, because NATE was causing trouble and refusing to take his punishment stoically the DAD would pull down his underpants and continue the spanking across the bared buttocks. This might not be possible during the theatrical performance. Local districts have their own laws or regulations about nudity in public places and, of course, these must be respected. Even where laws permit bared buttocks to be shown, audiences might not appreciate the sight of a young man’s naked bottom writhing across lap of a much older man. It is a matter for the theatre director, producer and management to decide. For what it is worth, it is the preference of the play’s author, that NATE’s bottom is fully bared at this point so that his spanking might be exemplary. However, the script from this point on assumes that NATE’s underpants remain in place.)

DAD (Struggling with NATE). Oh, no you don’t.

NATE (Said as spanking continues). Oww, no, please, Dad. No more. I’m sorry. I will. I’ll work harder. Promise. Owww

DAD (breathless, still spanking hard). That’s what you said last time. (DAD spanks even faster and harder). It didn’t do much good.

NATE (squirming and writhing). I will. I will. I will. I promise. I’ll go to lectures.

DAD (Spanking hard, but now showing signs of fatigue). Library (huff). More time studying (huff)

NATE. Yes, ouch! Yes Dad, Yes Dad.

DAD (Spanking). Stop partying.

NATE. Yes, yes, yes Dad,. Please stop. Please I’ve had enough.

DAD stops paddling and looks across at MUM. He speaks no words but his look says “Has he had enough? Do you think he’ll behave now?” MUM nods “Yes”

DAD hammers a further six swats across the fleshiest part of the buttocks. Three on each cheek. They are the hardest swats so far. Then, he releases his hold on NATE.

NATE rolls from DAD’s lap and lays on the floor gasping for breath, like a beached dolphin.

DAD grips the paddle and tries to control his own heavy breathing.

MUM watches NATE closely as NATE struggles to his knees and then to his feet. NATE ruefully rubs the seat of his underpants. The backs of his thighs are bright red where the paddle blade struck. NATE pulls up his jeans, zips up and does up the button. He does not do up the belt. NATE stands shamefaced, looking at the floor unable to meet the eye of MUM or DAD.

MUM (Calmly). You should go to your room. Make sure it’s tidy.

NATE still not looking at MUM or DAD makes for the door.

MUM (calling after NATE). And, I want you to go out this afternoon and find a job. Lots of the shops at The Exchange are looking for staff.

NATE (Patting the seat of his jeans as he exits the room). Yes, Mum.

DAD watches NATE leave, then turns to MUM

DAD (Hands her the paddle). There, put that back. Somehow, I think we’ll need it again, next mid-term.

MUM smiles ruefully. Takes the paddle and replaces it in the drawer. Then, MUM and DAD look at one another from across the room.

DAD. Know what, I could kill for a cup of tea, love.

Curtain falls.

 

Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

You, called home

new 5

You sit glumly, as the green fields become first factories, then houses, then offices and shops. The train rattles into the station. Nearly home. Only a short bus ride before you meet up with father. The carriage is nearly empty of passengers, Saturday is not a busy day on the railway at Brocklehurst. You try to listen to your music but you can’t concentrate. The sounds blur in your ears.

An unintelligible voice crackles through the speaker. You can’t understand a word, but you know the guard is announcing the train is approaching Brocklehurst: your home town. Like a good citizen you wait until the train comes to a complete standstill before you rise from your seat and reach to the overhead shelf and take down your bag. You feel the weight of your dirty laundry as you sling it over your shoulder. At least one good thing will come from this visit: mother will do your washing.

You alight from the train and with no enthusiasm make your way down the platform. You have your ticket ready to get through the automatic barrier. In no hurry, you walk through the station, your footsteps echoing against the hard floor tiles. Ghost town. You have been away only three months, but already you have forgotten how dull this place is.

The bright lights of Newcastle have seduced you. Your new home. New friends. New experiences. That’s what university is supposed to give you. And, that is the problem. That’s why father has called you home.

The buses stop right outside the station. They call this ‘Brocklehurst Parkway’, a transport hub for the 21st century. As if buses never stopped outside train stations in the past. But that’s modern life, the ordinary is branded as if it were something new.

The buses run every twenty minutes. The number 66 – your bus – pulls up at the stop the second you exit the station. You pause, consider letting it go. Waiting for the next one. Or the one after. You are in no hurry to get home. Father doesn’t know what time your train is due. You can string this out for a while yet.

A nagging voice in your head tells you, “Get on that bus. Do not deceive your father.” It is your conscience. Those nagging voices have been troubling you since the day you arrived at the university. You are eighteen years old and free from your parents for the first time in your life. Free from all kinds of authority. There are few rules at the university. At your first class you were told, “Failure is a process, not an event.” The lecturer meant it was up to you – and your fellow students – to work hard, attend lectures, do the reading, submit the assignments on time. Go the whole nine yards (or whatever). If you do, success would follow. If but you do not, you will fail. Nobody is going to stand over you with a big stick to make sure you work.

You step onto the bus, offer your credit card for the fare and take a seat near the back. A light rain begins to fall as the bus pulls away. Your mid-term exams didn’t go so well. That lecturer was right. Too much time spent at student social clubs, playing football, discovering bars. Alcohol. A drop had never passed your lips before Newcastle. You soon made up for lost time.

Your father never touched a drop. The devil’s brew. There is something about it in the Bible. You know there are a lots of things in the Bible. About how to behave and how not to behave. Nobody you know at home drinks. Everyone goes to church – the same church. That’s the House of the Sacred Light. It came as a shock when you discovered The Sacred Light doesn’t operate in Newcastle. You are a member of a select band of people. You all know the true way. The Light. You know this to be true: it’s what you are taught.

You still read your Bible; you haven’t changed that much in the time you’ve been away. It makes a lot of sense to you. It is your guiding light. You’ve just lost your way a little. You need help to get back on the straight and narrow path. You know that. That’s why father has called you home. To help you. To guide you. You shuffle your buttocks on the hard seat as the bus takes a roundabout a little too quickly.

Traffic is light and the bus soon arrives at Widdicombe Wood, which is where you get off. Your street, The Avenue, is opposite. The rain has stopped but it’s cloudy and dank, it will start again fairly soon. Saturday is usually busy in The Avenue. Cars are washed and gardens attended. Two teenagers lounge idly with their bicycles. One, a fat youth with a face scarlet with acne and pus, leers at you as you pass. Your heart misses a beat. Can he read your mind? Does he know? Do all the neighbours know? Know why you have been called home.

You pass several large detached house, each hidden in its own way from the scrutiny of neighbours. Your house is surrounded by high ivy-covered walls. The gate is closed but unlocked. You pause for a moment to allow your heartrate to slow. Then with your knee you push the gate open, but only so far that you can squeeze your body through. Once inside you back-kick the gate and it slowly creaks back to its original state.

There is a light on in the loungeroom, although it is only midday. Father is probably waiting there for you. Mother will be hidden away in her own private ‘den’ pretending to make a dress with her new state-of-the-art sewing machine. You walk up the drive – slowly. Any passing tortoise would beat you in a race. You silently curse that the drive is not longer. You arrive at the front door. You have your own key and you let yourself in.

There is an eerie silence. Usually chamber music plays from an old-fashioned record player. Not today. You close the door and plonk your bag in the hall. Mother will deal with that later. You take off your coat and hang it neatly on a coat stand. While you are doing this you make sure to move all the other coats. You are checking. You don’t know what to think. The two whippy school-type rattan punishment canes that usually dangle from their curved handles here are missing.

Just then, Mother bustles from the lounge. “I thought I heard you come in,” she says shyly. “Do you have laundry?” You point to the bag. She picks it up and hurries into the utility room where she will stay for the next several hours. You watch her go, holding back your resentment that she hasn’t even said, “Hello, how are you?”

You have no time for further thoughts on the matter as father now emerges from the lounge. He looks at you sternly. “Good. You’re here at last,” he says. Again, there s no welcome. You nod blindly as if agreeing that indeed you are here. “Come in here,” he says sternly and walks back into the lounge.

The room hasn’t changed in the past three months. It is a large room that is dominated by two couches and a set of armchairs. Small tables are dotted around the room. There is no television set. But something is out of place. Your eyes settle on a chair, it is armless and has a straight back. It belongs in the kitchen. It has been brought into the lounge for a reason. It has been placed close to a corner facing into the room. You know why it is there. A heavy wooden paddle left on a nearby table confirms your thought.

Your father gives a little cough. He is both clearing his throat and gaining your attention. You stand, hands behind your back and look at him, making clear to your father that he has your rapt attention. Father looks as he always does whatever the time of day or the day of the week. He is dressed in a sober dark suit with a white shirt and red tie. You cannot remember ever seeing him dressed otherwise.

He begins to speak and you know – almost word for word – what he is going to say. He knows you failed your midterms and he thinks he knows why. You meekly confirm his suspicions. You know you have not worked this semester. You know if you don’t buck your ideas up you will fail at Christmas. You know you have let your mother and father down. You tell father this. He nods sagely, it is what he wants to hear.

You promise him you will work harder. He is pleased to hear it, he says. You say sorry again. You know this is expected. It is a kind of ritual. You go through the motions, knowing already what comes next.

Father picks up a Bible from one of the tables and flicks through the pages, finding his place. He reads several passages at great length and solemnity. Honour your mother and father. Work hard. Spare the rod. You know this by heart, but you show you are paying attention as if hearing it all for the very first time.

Father finishes reading and replaces the Bible on the table. He closes his eyes and begins to pray aloud. He is seeking the strength of the Lord. You are obliged to join in with the Amen.

Father says no more. Now, he unbuttons his jacket and slips it from his back. Carefully, he folds it and places it on the seat of a couch. You watch him intently as he does this and then he sits in the kitchen chair. He beckons to you with a crooked finger. He wants you to stand close to him. Silently, you take the three or four paces necessary.

You are standing so close that you can smell the aroma of coal tar soap and hair oil that follows your father around. He licks his lips, gives that little cough again and says, “I think you know what to do.” You don’t need clarification. This is your cue to prepare myself. You are soberly dressed in a white shirt and black trousers. At home you are always required to dress like this. You look a bit like a senior schoolboy. Not that you ever attended school – not a proper school. Parents of The Sacred Light ‘home-schooled’ which meant they taught their children themselves. There were several of you and you had classes at the church. You wore a distinctive school uniform with a grey shirt and pale-grey short trousers – even when you were eighteen. It taught you humility; walking to and from the church dressed like that.

Today you are wearing the long grey socks from school and the unusual and unflattering grey underwear worn by all males of The Sacred Heart. You have several pairs of grey short trousers in your bedroom and you wouldn’t be surprised if father insists you go upstairs to change. But, he has not. So, you must prepare yourself now.

You take a deep breath as if preparing yourself for an ordeal. Then you take hold of the buckle of the belt keeping your trousers up and open it. There’s a button on the waistband of your trousers and your fingers shiver a little so you fumble getting it undone. From the corner of your eye you see father is silently in prayer. You tug the zip fly and the front of the trousers fall open. The material of the trousers is heavy and with the weight of the belt and some keys and coins in your pocket, the trousers tumble to your shins.

Father has stopped praying and watches you as you place each of your thumbs in the waistband of your underwear and with not much more than a flick of the wrists you sent the pants south to meet your trousers. A faint breeze wafts in from somewhere to cool your naked legs and buttocks. Father slaps his thigh with his right hand. He is becoming impatient. Which is a sin, so he stops slapping and says quietly, “Bend across my knee, son.”

As he says this he parts his knees slightly and you look down at his thighs. He has made a platform for you to present your body. Carefully, you rest the heels of your hands on his right leg and slowly ease yourself down and forward. Within seconds you are across his knee in the traditional to-be-spanked posture. You make fists with your hands and push these into the carpet. Your bottom is raised over father’s lap and your legs are stretched out behind you so that the tips of your shoes brush the ground.

You hear father’s breathing getting heavier. You wait patiently. Father takes the end of your shirt and pushes it gently up your back so that it is away from his target area. Not long now. Your buttocks clench in anticipation. Now father has cupped the palm of his right hand and he is caressing each buttock cheek. You close your eyes and shut your teeth tightly. Any moment now. Father leans his left arm across your back holding you in position.

Slap! You hear the noise of his palm spanking your left buttock a split-second before you feel the sting. It tingles, but it doesn’t really hurt. Then father slaps the right cheek. Quickly he gets into a rhythm, slapping down hard across your bum. He works enthusiastically and in no time the whole area is glowering pink. The pain is building, but you are eighteen-years-old and no matter how hard father slaps the palm of his hand into you backside – even your bare backside – it isn’t going to do you much harm.

z used otk pants down chair sting (6)

You know this and father knows this. The spanking is so far symbolic. Father is expressing his displeasure and you are submissively presenting yourself for punishment. You know your place. You are your father’s son. You father is doing his duty to God. All is well.

But, father knows there is a difference between mere discipline and punishment. You have to be punished. Without adequate punishment you will not mend your ways. You will not work harder. You will fail your exams, be excluded from university and your future will be ruined. This punishment is for your own good. Father stops slapping your bare bum. You feel a movement in his body as he reaches over to the nearby table. He grips the paddle. It is a little bigger than a paperback book or a DVD cover, but a great deal heavier. Without warning father lifts it high and whacks it down with maximum impact across the underside of your cheeks – the sensitive ‘sit-spot’.

The suddenness of the move and the pain is creates takes you by surprise and for the first time this afternoon a yelp escapes your tight lips. Father spanks with the paddle as hard and as quickly as he had with his hand. Your backside quickly roasts. You can’t help it, your hips sway and your legs kick. Father presses his arm down into your back. You are going nowhere. Not for a considerable time to come.

You lose all sense of time. It might be one minute, it might be twenty. Up and down, up and down. The paddle flies, biting into your fleshy backside. It burns. Your temples throb almost as much as your backside. Tears fill your eyes but do not fall. Your throat is tight, but that doesn’t stop a series of “Owwws” and “Ouches” escaping your mouth. You are burning.

Father has covered every square centimetre of your buttocks which are now shining bright red. So, he turns his attentions to the backs of your thighs. Whack! “Noooooo! Stop!!!!! Please!!!!” you yell for mercy, but none is forthcoming. Father is on a mission.

You kick and wriggle and squirm and yell. It does no good. It never does. Father will spank you for as long as it takes. Until he is satisfied you have learned a lesson. Your head is buzzing. You hear the sound of wood connecting with naked flesh, but you feel no more pain. You have reached a plateau. A literal pain barrier.

Perhaps father realises this, because he eases off. The paddle continues to pound into your bottom but the whacks are not so heavy and less frequent. Then – at last – they stop completely. You lay face down staring at the carpet, your heartbeat races, your blood pressure is off the scale. Your backside feels like you have sat in a bathtub of boiling water. You hear your father’s uneven breathing. The spanking has taking it out of him as well.

At last he croaks, “Get up.” You scramble to your feet and instinctively your hands go to your naked buttocks. Your flesh feels like leather. The pain is already easing but both cheeks throb like mad. You are unconcerned that you are standing half-naked in front of father exposing your privates. Father hauls himself from the chair and reaches for his jacket. You take this cue and get dressed yourself, gingerly puling your underwear over your scorching buttocks. You bend down and retrieve your trousers. Pain reignites when you pull them over your bum. You zip up but leave the belt undone.

Father reaches for the Bible. Your head spins. You feel high. It must be the adrenaline, or something. You know father is reading to you but you can’t make out the words. This goes on for a long minute before father intones, “Amen.” Hurriedly, you echo that.

“Go to your room,” father says quietly. You hobble away. As you walk towards the staircase you hear the sound of a washing machine and catch the smell of detergent. Mother is washing your clothes. You wonder how long you will have to wait before you can get the train back to university.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Perils of drink-driving

new 5

Angela Davis’ face was ashen and her hands shook as she prepared her husband’s bacon and egg breakfast. Her bottom lip trembled, “He came home late again last night. He’d taken his car. He’d been drinking.”

“He” was their nineteen-year-old son Michael, who was sleeping it off upstairs.

“John,” Angela choked back tears, “I’m terrified. He’ll kill someone one day. He’ll kill himself.”

John took the plate of food from his wife’s quaking hands and put it safely on the table. “I know love. It scares me too. We’ve told him,” he breathed, struggling to control his own terror. “We’ve told him often enough,” he cut a piece of bacon and dipped it into egg yolk and with it precariously balanced on his fork, slid it into his mouth.

He chewed thoughtfully. “I’ll have a word with him tonight. I’ll sort it,” he said doubtfully.

“You need to do more than talk to him John. I’m at my wits’ end, it can’t go on like this. It just can’t.”

John chewed on in silence. He finished his breakfast and quietly lay the knife and fork down. He reached for his jacket. “I’ll sort it out tonight love. Promise.” He pecked her on the cheek and left the house. As he opened the door he saw Michael had left his car parked with one wheel on the pavement. “Just how drunk was he?” he muttered to himself as he put the key in the lock of his Ford.

It was six-thirty that evening when John finally had his “word”. Angela was in the kitchen preparing tea. The father and son had the lounge to themselves. It had been on John’s mind all day. What was he to say? What was he to do?

“Look son,” he started cordially. “Your mother is beside herself with worry about you?”

Michael flushed with confusion. He had no idea what Dad was talking about so he let him go on. “You were drinking again last night,” he said calmly. It was not an accusation, it was a statement of fact. “You were driving your car …” he let the sentence trail off. His meaning was obvious.

Michael stood awkwardly. What was he supposed to say to that? He couldn’t deny it. He felt the temperature in his face rise. He blushed easily. There was no way he could bluff his way out of this. His father continued, “We’ve spoken to you about this before son. You know we have.”

Michael nodded sagely as if the pair of them were having an intelligent discussion about some abstract matter of public importance. His father leaned against the back of an armchair and took a deep breath. He was determined to stay calm and reasonable. He loved his son to pieces and he was genuinely terrified that the lad would end up in a hospital ward. Or worse still in the cemetery. “You know it’s against the law,” he said weakly. He paused and stared at his son’s blank expression. Did he realise how serious this was? He was nineteen years old; at that age where kids have no fear of death. They think they’re immortal.

“Look son,” John tried a different tack. “You could have an accident. You could cause an accident. What if you ran someone over,” he garbled. “What if you killed someone. What if you killed a child.” John’s blood pressure was rising. Why wouldn’t Michael say something? “What if you killed yourself,” he snapped.

Michael suddenly found the sight of his feet very interesting. He stared intently at the toecaps of his shoes. Dad was right of course. But somehow he couldn’t explain – not to his dad, nor even to himself – he never thought of things like that. It hadn’t happened to him. No one he knew ever had a car accident, drunk or sober. These were things that happened to other people.

“It can’t go on,” his father insisted. “You’re driving your mum into an early grave,” he caught himself just in time so that he didn’t snort at the unintended pun he had made.

Michael’s eyes stayed rooted, a stance that fuelled his father’s indignation. “Bah!” he struggled to keep his temper. “I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve told you about this,” he began to wave his hands angrily. “I took your car keys away. It didn’t make any difference.”

It was a statement not a question and Michael elected not to argue the point. How could he? Everything Dad said was the God’s honest truth.

His father took a series of slow breaths to prepare himself. His right hand quivered, he could feel his temperature rising. “It can’t go on like this Michael. You know it can’t,” he wheezed. “It’s got to stop. Stop right now.”

Michael nodded his head slowly in agreement because he thought that’s what he was supposed to do.

“Good,” his father had regained control of his breathing. “I’m glad you agree, son,” he spoke mildly. “Because your mum and I have decided you need to be punished.”

Michael’s eyebrows shot heavenwards. Punished. What did he mean punished? He looked quizzically across the room and saw his father walk slowly across the lounge. He reached the settee and sank to his knees before reaching for something hidden under it. He took hold and rose back to his feet.

“Wh…? Wh…?” Michael gasped. The question he was trying to ask might have been What? or it might have been Why?

The What? was the thin, whippy school cane his father now held between his hands. The Why? was pretty obvious. Nothing else had worked, now drastic measures were needed.

His father flexed the cane between his hands and looked at it closely as if he had never seen it before. It was a typical school punishment cane; about three feet in length and as thick as a pencil. It was dark yellow and had a curved handle at one end. It was old and worn, it had seen much action over the years.

Michael gaped and his father answered his unspoken question. “Your Uncle Ernie brought it from his school.” Uncle Ernie was a master at St Francis Independent Grammar School. Although corporal punishment was being phased out across the country St FIGS stuck to its traditions. It’s reputation as the premier caning school in Brocklehurst was renowned.

His father tucked the cane under his arm and looked intently at his son. “We’ve tried everything else son. It’s because we love you. We don’t want you to kill yourself. This is for your own good. Believe me.”

Michael had at last found his voice, but not his power of speech, “But Dad,” he spluttered, “C’mon. Y’know. Really?”

“Yes, really.” His father shook his head sorrowfully. “It’s come to this. We’ve tried everything else. You’ve left us no choice.”

Michael flushed, “Sorry. I promise I won’t drink and drive again. There. Satisfied?”

His father sucked in his cheek, “You’ve said that before, Michael. Nothing came of it. Perhaps, you mean it when you say it, but you don’t have the self-discipline to see it through. What you need is someone to impose that discipline on you.” He winced inwardly at the corny line he had spoken and lapsed into silence.

“But, Dad ….” Michael faltered. Again, Dad was absolutely correct. Michael had made promises; lots of them. He hadn’t kept any. His father slipped the cane from under his arm and into his hand. He let it dangle and mechanically tapped it gently against his right leg. “Next time you think about drinking and driving you’ll remember this evening,” he chided.

Michael stared at the cane, his heartbeat raced. Dad was serious. He was determined to cane him. His Dad! The man who hadn’t ever raised a finger to him. He was overcome with remorse. His jaw shuddered.

His father wobbled the cane and pointed at a small dining table. “Stand over there,” he exclaimed with more confidence than he really felt. What if Michael refused? Then what? It was too humiliating to contemplate. He hoped his face didn’t betray his sense of relief when his son meekly crossed the room.

He studied his son. He was nineteen years old and clearly a young man. He stood an inch or more taller than his Dad and was heavily built. He still regularly turned out for a football team on Sunday mornings (if he could shake off the hangover in time). He couldn’t see his son’s usually clear, open face; now clouded by a frown.

Michaels’s head was filled with the memory of school. He had been caned by his housemaster on two occasions (not that he ever let mum or dad know). St FIGS was that kind of school, was there any boy there who hadn’t presented his bottom for the cane at least once? It had hurt. A lot. The pain was searing, but he had lived through it. He would survive Dad’s caning, but he wondered, would his lovable Dad? What torments the poor man must be going through.

His father took deep breaths to steady his nerves. Michael wore a cheap cotton t-shirt and denim jeans. As John feared, the jeans were thick and heavy. They gave too much protection against the cane. They would have to come down.

He steeled himself to give the instruction. He coughed. “Those jeans will have to come down,” he said too meekly. Michael smiled to himself. “Yes, Dad’s right again. Jesus. The cane on the pants!” He said nothing aloud. Instead, with steady hands he unbuckled the wide, leather belt that held his jeans in place. They were loose-fitting and started to slither over his hips even before he popped the button on the waist and tugged the zipper. With that done they hurtled to his feet.

Michael stared ahead. He was standing in front of his Dad dressed only in pants and t-shirt. He was mortified for sure, but he felt even more embarrassed for his Dad. The poor man must want the ground to open and swallow him up.

“Bend over,” his father croaked. Michael was tall and the table low, so he had to bend his knees so his body could rest comfortably across the table top. There wasn’t much room so he folded his arms in front of him. The table was against a window and the teenager stared ahead into the back garden, grateful that the room didn’t face the front of the house in full view of neighbours and passers-by.

z used cane pants table (1)

His father stood back to take in the scene. He admired his son’s fortitude. He lay across the table submissively. His firm bottom filled out his blue cotton underpants and rested on the edge of the table. It was presented at a perfect height for a caning. He had never beaten a boy in his life so his brother Ernie had given some tips when he came to deliver the cane. It was quite straightforward so long as the boy stayed still. If not, it could prove to be a disaster.

As instructed, he stood about three feet to Michael’s left (a cane’s length). He patted the boy’s bottom with the whippy rattan rod and tapped the end across the centre of the far cheek. The idea, Ernie had told him, was to raise the cane back in an arc until it was about shoulder height and then using the strength of the forearm bring it crashing down with maximum force across Michael’s backside. If done correctly, the cane should strike both buttocks equally. Ernie had held a seat cushion from the armchair in place while he practised.

Now for real, he “sawed” the cane across the centre of his son’s bottom. It surprised him how firm it was; he had never had reason to notice before. The buttocks clenched and became harder, like a rubber ball. He tap-tap-tapped trying to get his confidence. He couldn’t chicken out now. He had to go through with it. It was for Michael’s own good. It might even save his life. He had to beat his darling son. He had to do it. It was his responsibility. He had to cane his backside – and cane it hard.

He pulled the cane back in an arc, held it so high the tip nearly hit the ceiling, then as instructed he whipped it across Michael’s backside with terrific force. A crack like a pistol shot rang around the small room. A thick line immediately appeared in the stretched cotton across the plumpest part of the buttocks. Michael’s shoulders heaved, his already bent legs buckled further. His mouth opened and closed but no sound come through.

His father sucked in a deep breath. Bingo! Right on target. That gave him confidence. His son stayed bent across the table, ready to take swipe number two.

His father was a novice at caning and took his time. He wasn’t to know this was a good move. The most effective canings are delivered with plenty of time between the stokes. That allows the boy to register the pain completely. If delivered efficiently the cane will bite deep into the flesh and feel like a hot wire has been pressed into the bum. That penetrating pain lasts only seconds before it becomes an intense throb. Soon even that dies down into a powerful ache. That is the time to land the next stroke, then the agony cycle starts all over again.

He landed the second one lower. “Ouch!” Michael couldn’t help it. He had told himself he wouldn’t holler. Usually a boy being punished wouldn’t want the master to know he had been hurt. It was a kind of contest between schoolmaster and boy. The boy wouldn’t give the master the satisfaction. But this was different. Michael didn’t want Dad to know he had caused him great pain – it would break the Old Man’s heart.

Michael shut his teeth and braced himself for the next stroke. It landed above the first one and now he had a roaring pain about two inches wide across the centre of his cheeks. His head shook from side to side and butted up and down on the table top. He stared through the window. A squirrel dodged across the lawn, halted and chewed a nut before rushing off again, all the time oblivious to the teenager spread-eagled across the dining table with his backside on fire.

Father was no expert and with three cuts already turning to welts under Michael’s underpants it was inevitable that the next stroke would land across one or other of them. It did and it reignited the pain. Michael was sure a welt across his bum was weeping. He bit down into his bare arm to silence the yell his body demanded he make, leaving deep teeth marks behind.

Father’s own blood pressure was off the scale. His head throbbed and his ears were so full of blood he was almost deaf. Determined, he tapped the cane higher than before, on the highest point of the boy’s bum, close to his back. He let fly, the pistol crack bounced around the room again. Michael’s hips swayed, his legs kicked, his head bounced. Never before, in his short experience of such things, had a caning hurt so much. It felt like Dad had forced him to sit in a bathtub of scalding water.

Last one. He hoped. Dad hadn’t said “Six of the best”, but it was always six. Wasn’t it? Please sweet Jesus, Michael prayed silently, no more than six. Swipe! Crack! Intense agony. The floorboards squeaked. He could hear footsteps. He couldn’t see, but he was sure Dad was walking away. It was over.

His father stood silently noting from a distance his handiwork. The boy was in some distress. His breathing was uneven. The back of his neck was as scarlet as he supposed Michael’s bottom was at this moment. The boy was fighting it. He didn’t want to show it. But, he had definitely felt it. A job well done, he hoped.

“You should stand up now, son,” he said soothingly. “It’s over. Pull up your jeans.” He let the cane drop on to the settee and stood awkwardly, uncertain how this should end. He watched Michael struggle into his jeans and grimace as he pulled them over his scorched buttocks. Michael’s eyes shone and what looked like tears dampened his usually bright, cheerful face. It broke his father’s heart.

“Sorry Dad,” Michael sniffled. “Sorry.”

“No, my lovely son, I’m the one who’s sorry,” his father wanted to say, but knew he must not. This was a punishment that Michael deserved. The teenager must think that he would be prepared to beat him again should he drink and drive.

Instead, he said, “Go to your room. Don’t let your mum see you like this.”

“No Dad, sorry Dad,” Michael said again as ruefully he hobbled from the room, touching the seat of his jeans gingerly.

Moments later Angela entered he room carrying a tray with teacups. “You did the right thing John, I’m very proud of you.” She offered him a cup. He took it and sipped slowly, tears welling in his eyes.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Act your age

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Ted and his brother Derek were sipping pints in The Three Fishers. Ted was downcast, he was having trouble with his eighteen-year-old son.

“He acts like a little kid. I can’t believe it. He has this catapult. You know like one of those kids in the Beano comic. He smashed a window in Mrs Whittington’s greenhouse. She came to complain. I nearly died of embarrassment.”

Derek sipped on his beer and said philosophically, “Eighteen can be a very difficult age. They can act very mature and grown up and then suddenly they regress and behave like they’re eight again.”

Ted snorted, “So what am I supposed to do?”

“Well for now, treat him like he was eight.”

“What you mean dress him up in short trousers and a striped jersey like Dennis the Menace?” Ted chortled.

“Something like that,” Derek nodded sagely. “Remember what happened to Dennis the Menace?”

“How do you mean?”

“You know. What happened to Dennis in the last picture of the story? Almost every week.”

Ted’s brow furrowed. He had no idea what his brother was talking about and told him so.

Derek’s face brightened, “He got the slipper. His dad took him across his knee and spanked his backside. Remember.” He gulped beer triumphantly.

Ted couldn’t work it out. He sipped more beer to hide his confusion. “You mean I should spank Gavin?” his face wrinkled with disbelief, “With a slipper?”

Derek took another sip. “Not necessarily with a slipper.”

The two drank on in companionable silence, then Derek went to the bar for refills. By the time he returned Ted had gathered his thoughts. “I can’t spank him. He’s eighteen. He’s too old to be spanked.”

Derek set the glasses on the table. “It didn’t stop Dad. Remember that time I got caught stealing magazines from Clark’s newsagents? I was nineteen. He whacked my backside with Mum’s hairbrush. Remember?”

Ted nodded, he did. He hadn’t thought about that in nearly thirty years. “Yes, but did it do any good?”

“Well, I never stole again.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Did it hurt then? Was that it?”

“Not really. It hurt a bit, but it was more ….” Derek blushed at the memory, “I just felt a right fool that’s all. Dad taking me across his knee and spanking me like a little kid. That was the  worst part.”

Ted stared into his glass. Would it work with Gavin? Would it stop him acting like a child? Would it stop him showing Ted up in front of the neighbours? He drank more beer. “But, he’d never let me,” he sighed, “He’s hardly going to bend across my knee when I tell him to,” he paused, hoping he was wrong, before adding, “Would he?”

Derek remembered that day all those years ago. He hadn’t been expecting it. There was no warning. One minute his dad was standing in the sitting room telling him off and the next thing he knew Dad was sitting on the settee and pulling Derek down and across his knees. Dad had total surprise on his side. Then whack-whack-whack. He pounded the seat of Derek’s football shorts with that goddam hairbrush.

Derek told his brother this. “Get your Laura’s hairbrush. Have everything ready. Wait for Gavin to come home. Tell him what a fool he’s been and then … Bob’s your uncle.

Ted listened carefully. It sounded easy. “Didn’t you struggle. Fight with Dad. I would have done.”

“Ha!” Derek sneered. “No you wouldn’t. Not you. You couldn’t fight your way out of a paper bag.”

Ted smiled, he knew his brother was joshing. “Still can’t. If Gavin wants to he stop me doing it …”

Derek shook his head, “Not if you work it out. The first thing he’ll know something’s up is when he’s over your knee and staring down at the carpet. Then, you hammer that hairbrush into his backside for as long as you can.”

Ted drained his glass. “You’re bloody mad you are. Crackers. It’ll never happen. Do you want another?”

An hour later, not too much the worst for beer, Ted arrived home. Laura, his wife, was waiting with bad news. “I’ve had another complaint. Gavin’s put a cricket ball through Old Thommo’s window. He wants you to go and see him. He wants you to pay for the damage.”

“Oh bloody Nora, Laura!” Ted bellowed. “What is wrong with that kid? He ain’t retarded. He’s got those qualifications from school. He’s off to the tech. college in September.”

“I don’t know,” Laura’s chin wobbled. “He’s driving me to distraction. What on earth can we do?” She rose from her chair and ambled towards the kitchen, “Cup of tea, love?”

Ted sank into the settee. What could he do? Ha! His brother’s words came back to him. Dad was sitting on the settee and pulling me down and across his knees. Dad had total surprise on his side. Ted shook his head. No, he told himself, it would never work.

Laura returned with a tray and cups. “He’s up in his room now, sulking,” she said as she set the  tray down on the table. “Laura,” Ted began uneasily, “I was talking to Derek just now and he says …” They sipped their tea as Ted shared Derek’s plan. “What do you think? Should we?” he asked at the end.

He was alarmed by the eagerness of his wife’s reply, “Yes!” she said emphatically. “If it worked with your Derek, why wouldn’t it work with our Gavin?”

Ted’s mouth opened and closed. He tried but failed to find a reasonable objection. Both Derek and Laura thought it was a splendid idea. Ted was in a minority of one. “It’s all right for them,” he thought, but did not say aloud, “They’re not the ones who have to do it. What if Gavin laughs in my face. Or pushes me away. Or punches me in the face.”

Laura collected the cups, “I’ll put these in the sink, then I’ll go fetch my hairbrush.” She bustled from the room, leaving Ted alone to make his silent protest.

The brush was some kind of family heirloom. It had been Laura’s grandmother’s and possibly her grandmother’s mother’s. Nobody could be sure. What was certain was it had an oval-shaped head that was at least six inches at its longest point. It was made of ebony wood and was extremely heavy. “Here,” Laura said calmly, as she handed it to her husband. “I’ll go call him. It’s best if I keep out of the way.”

Again, she left before Ted could share his doubts. He swore under his breath. What had he got himself into? Was it too late to back out? Suddenly, his son loomed over him, “Wossup Dad?” he moaned, “I was in the middle of something.”

Ted noticed the zipper of the teenager’s jeans was half open. He just managed not to say, “Yes, and I know what it was.”

Gavin stood irritably. His huffing and puffing pushed Ted’s buttons. “I’ve had complaints,” Ted babbled. He hadn’t planned what he was going to say. He felt awkward. He wished Derek was there to help him along. “Catapult,” he blurted, “Cricket ball. Broken windows. Neighbours are complaining. Who’s going to pay for it?” It all come out in a rush.

Gavin’s long, angular face creased into a sneer.

“That’s just like you,” Ted tried to keep his temper. He had to stay calm, be in control. “You don’t care. It’s about time you started acting your age. You’re not a kid any more. A catapult. I ask you.”

Gavin stared at his dad, not hiding his scorn. Blah, blah, blah. Here he goes again.

“It can’t go on like this. It can’t,” Ted felt himself babbling. He needed to act fast. The element of surprise was vital. “You need to be taught a lesson. How to act responsibly. It’s for your own good,” he chided as he took hold of a dining room chair and placed it gently in front of the settee.

Gavin watched impassively. Then, his dad sat himself down on the chair. He reached out his arm. “Come here, son. This is long overdue.” Gavin was at least two inches taller but that didn’t stop Ted tugging him forward. The boy stumbled as he went flying face down over his dad’s lap. He had no control, his arms fell ahead of him and he had to rest his palms in the carpet to steady himself. His knees bent and his toes brushed the ground. Gavin couldn’t see it himself, but could feel his bottom was raised high over his dad’s knee.

Ted gripped the boy around the waist. He was going nowhere. He had never noticed it before but his son was thin and wiry. His jeans fitted him tightly and stretched across his buttocks so that each cheek was clearly outlined. Ted took a deep breath and smacked the palm of his hand against the meatiest part of Gavin’s left cheek. Then he did the same with the right.

“Hey, worr-you-doing? Gerroff! Hey! Stop it!” Gavin kicked his legs against open air. He tried to wriggle off Dad’s knees but the Old Man held him firmly down. Gavin waved his arms about, trying to reach back to protect his bottom, but his head was too low he couldn’t do it.

z used otk jeans chair (52a)

Ted spanked all across Gavin’s buttocks. The cheeks were solid; was this what “buns of steel” were? Soon the palm of Ted’s hand stung. In all the excitement he had forgotten the brush. It lay on the table within easy reach. He gripped it. The heavy weight felt good in his hand. Whap! He pounded it into the underside of Gavin’s left cheek. The boy gasped, wriggled and continued his protests.

To no avail. Ted had the boy where he wanted him. Face down, across his knee. Pinned in position. He could yell and holler all he wanted to, but that would not stop Ted. His confidence grew with each successive whack.

“Are you learning your lesson, son,” he wheezed. It wasn’t really a question. “I hope you’ll start acting your age now.” He spanked the hairbrush into the peaks of the cheeks. “This is for your own good.” Now, he went higher. The jeans had two thick pockets sewn into the seat, Ted tried to avoid them – they gave too much protection. Gavin’s hips wriggled and his bottom rose and fell. He was feeling this all right. Ted remembered Derek said his spanking hadn’t hurt so much. The thought encouraged Ted to spank right into the undercurve (away from the pockets) with renewed energy. “Ahhhh! Arrgggh,” Gavin cold not stop himself crying out.

“No more catapults. Be careful where you play cricket,” Ted was wheezing. He was not an energetic  man at the best of times, and now with five pints of beer inside him, he was slowing down. Gavin’s energy levels were higher. He wriggled his hips, and waved his arms like his life depended on it. His fury was unbounded. Put across his Dad’s knee for a spanking with a hairbrush like a little kid. Jesus, what if his friends found out.

At last, Ted admitted defeat. He was spent. If he carried on one minute more he might collapse in a heap. He released his grip on Gavin and the teenager bounded to his feet. He hopped from one foot to another, trying hard to keep his temper. Why, for two bob he’d smack the bastard in the chops.

Ted stayed seated. He was getting his breath back. He watched his son moving around the room. The boy’s face was scarlet, his eyes shone. “Will I have to do that again,” Ted asked reasonably.

Gavin gaped. To his own astonishment he heard himself reply, “No Dad. Sorry Dad.” His could not meet his father’s eyes. He stood, hands behind his back overcome with embarrassment.

“Good lad,” Ted rose from the chair and, also self-conscious, returned the chair to its rightful place. “You’d better go back to your room,” he whispered.

Laura came in, carrying more tea. “That’s the first good idea your Derek has had in his life,” she giggled as he handed over a cup.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Over Pop’s knee with Perce

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z used otk scrumping white pants down sting

I read a report in the Brocklehurst Bugle today. It was about a young lad, nineteen years old, who stole some beer from a shop. He was up in court and they fined him something. Now he has a criminal record. As I read about him I had a senior moment, or an acid flashback or some such. If you and me were characters in a corny movie at this point the picture would go all wobbly and then fuzzy and there’d be that do-do-do-do kind of music and we’d be transported back sixty, yes sixty, years …

Rising Bollard wasn’t much more than a village back then. I was eighteen and me and my best pal Perce were inseparable. Had been since we were in our prams. I worked as a baker’s assistant at Sidebottom’s and Perce was a labourer on Arkwright’s farm. It’s a housing estate today. Has been for thirty years. Sidebottom’s is a Greggs.

So, me and Perce weren’t bad lads. We hung around the cemetery with the rest of the village idiots and tried to chat up girls. We drank horrible cheap VP wine and smoked those really rough Player’s Weights cigarettes. Do you remember them? In packets of five. They burnt the back of your throat away.

It was the cigarettes that got me and Perce into trouble. We had been working lads since we were fifteen and of course we gave our mums housekeeping money, but we were never skint. Perce had a motorbike, even then. What I’m trying to say is that we could afford to buy cigarettes, but we preferred to steal them. Don’t ask me why? Did you ever do that? Steal stuff from shops for no good reason. Just for the fun of it. Maybe to look big with your mates?

We got away with it too. Cigs and tobacco weren’t locked away like Fort Knox or the Bank of England like they are nowadays. They were on the counter. If you worked in pairs all you had to do was for one of you to distract the shopkeeper (get him to climb up his ladder and fetch something from the top shelf at the other end of the shop) and while he’s doing that the other one pockets a packet of fags. We weren’t Big Time Charlies, one packet at a time was enough for us.

Like I said we got away with it too. Until one day we didn’t. Rising Bollard was a sleepy place and we could always find a time when the shop was empty. It didn’t take long to slip a packet of fags into your pocket. So, one day I did that and was sloping out the shop but what happened but I walked slap bang into the arms of Harry Gate. Or Police Constable Harry Gate to give him his full title. He was in plain clothes, but if you’re the copper for a couple of villages like Harry was I don’t suppose you were ever off duty.

“Well, well, well,” says Harry, like all comic policemen did in those days, “What have we ’ere?” He says this as he twists my ear, like he was making some rubbish joke. “Turn out your pockets.”

It was all over in about ten seconds. Caught red handed. Bang to rights, as crooks in the films used to say. Harry didn’t have to ask our names or our addresses, Harry knew every one and everyone knew Harry. He made me hand back the cigarettes to Mr Higginbottom, the shopkeeper. I knew what was coming next.

In fact, it turned out I didn’t know. I thought he would take us into the back room and leather our backsides. He was known for doing that. He was the law. But, he didn’t do that. Now I think of it he was in his civvy clothes and wasn’t wearing the thick, heavy leather belt that went with his policeman’s uniform.

No, he didn’t spank our bare arses. He marched us the half mile or so to my house. Just my luck Pop was there on his dinner break. Well, the Old Man went scarlet with embarrassment when the village policeman turned up on the doorstep with me and Perce in tow.

“I’ll leave it to you Mr Ramsbottom,” Harry says, with a bit of a sly wink, as he bids Pop goodbye and gets back to his shopping or whatever it was he was doing in the village.

Pop nearly sank to his knees with gratitude. His son a thief. What a scandal. But Harry wouldn’t tell. They’d be no court case. No scandal for the family to live down. Pop could deal with it just the way that Pops were supposed to.

They were different days back then. Do you remember? More innocent. People took care of things themselves. “Right, you, come here,” Pop says even before Harry had disappeared down the street. Pop turns his back on me and marches into the kitchen. Me and Perce follow like obedient little puppies.

“Stand there,” he points at the wall and Perce and me meekly do as we’re told. I don’t suppose eighteen years  lads would do that nowadays. Do as they’re told, I mean. Times are different. Pop picks up an old wooden chair and plonks it down in the middle of the room. He sits down, glares at me and he says, “I cannot believe it. I just cannot. Thieving. What possessed you?” He goes on like this for quite a while actually and I’ve got my head bowed in shame. He’s absolutely right, of course. He says, “It’ll break your mother’s heart; she’s not to find out about this.”

I loved my Pop. That was him all over. He loved my Mum, he loved my brothers and he loved me. He wasn’t an educated man (not many were around Rising Bollard) but he did the best that he could. “I don’t want any more of this stealing,” he says.

“No, Pop,” I says, “Sorry, Pop, I won’t do it again.” I felt such a heal. “I know you won’t son,” he says, and I can see he is very upset with me. “And, I’m going to make sure you don’t.”

I knew what was coming. It was common in those days. No one thought anything about it back then. “Thieves in this house get spanked.”

So, did you see that coming? Like I say all the Pops in Rising Bollard spanked their kids and back then you didn’t get to be legally an adult until you were twenty-one, so it wasn’t such a surprise to see an eighteen-year-old like me get his bum blistered. Tell that to kids today!

How did your Pop spank you? I know some who lost their rag and lashed out with a belt all over the back and arms. My Pop wasn’t like that. He was a gentle-man. I know that sounds a daft thing to say Gentle when he was about to spank my backside and very hard indeed. I mean he never lost his temper, he was always in control. He knew what he was doing. He had told me very quietly why he was going to spank me. Now, he was going to get on and do it.

“Come here,” Pop says and he waves his hand at his side. That was my cue to leave the wall and stand beside him. It was summer and I had on those thick corduroy shorts we used to wear. “Take ’em down,” he says. I didn’t argue. He was my Pop. I was a thief. I was glad he didn’t know about all the other times I got away with it.

“Bend over,” he slaps his thigh like I don’t know what it is I’m supposed to go. I expected it but my face burned scarlet with embarrassment. I’d been spanked before, but never in public – and never in front of my best friend Perce. I lowered myself. I must have been at least as tall as Pop, but even so I fitted over his knee quite well. How did you present yourself for an over-the-knee spanking? The only way I knew was to stretch my arms out and rest the palms of my hands on the floor. Then with my head low and my bottom high my legs were left to dangle behind me. I suppose I could have held on to Pop’s legs or maybe even covered my head with my hands.

So, there I was in position. Submissive. Letting Pop spank my naughty little backside. And it was little back then. I used to do the deliveries for the bakery and rode a bicycle for miles each day. That keeps the stomach flat and the buttocks pert. I truly believe Pop did not like spanking me or my brothers. He wasn’t a tyrant, he was a decent man trying to do his best. “I hope this teaches you a lesson,” he says as he smooths out my cotton underpants until all the creases are gone. “I don’t want to have to do this again.”

Then he starts to spank me. Me, an eighteen-year-old thief. If I told my great-grandchildren that I was spanked like that they’d fall on their backs laughing with their legs waving in the air. “You let him do that?” they’d holler.

Yes, I let him do that. It was the right thing to do. I had done wrong. I wasn’t a hooligan. I hadn’t beaten anyone up. I hadn’t robbed an old lady. But, I had stolen from a shop. There was no need to waste time and money sending me to court. Why turn me into a convicted criminal and blot the rest of my life? No. I needed to be punished and a jolly good spanking would do the trick. Pop knew that. I knew that.

So, Pop spanked me. Pop had a ritual when he spanked. He was slow and methodical. He made sure no part of my bum was left untouched. So he started across the middle where there’s most meat (even in my rock-hard bum) and when he was satisfied he had tenderised both cheeks, he went to the top of the mounds just below he back. When three-quarters of my bum was burning, he turned his attention to the soft undercurves. That’s the part that touches the chair when you sit down. It’s almost the most sensitive part of the bum. If you’ve been spanked yourself, you know what I’m saying. Well that hurt. It had me wriggling my hips and buckling my knees. Pop had to hold on tight to my waist to stop me tumbling to the floor.

“I hope I’m getting through to you son,” Pop says kindly. “No more thieving.”

“No, Pop,” I says, because I suppose he wants an answer, “Sorry pop.”

“Sorry,” he says and pauses. His body jerks like he’s suddenly remembered something. “Sorry,” he repeats, “You will be by the time I’ve finished.” Then I feel him grip the elasticated waist of my white Y-fronts. “No Pop, No!” I stutter, as he starts to tug the pants down over my buttocks. “No, sorry. Sorry!” I’m wailing now.

It doesn’t stop Pop. He has the pants at my knees. It’s summer but I feel a cool breeze waft across my naked cheeks. I also hear Perce gasp. I’d forgotten he was watching.  He has a perfect view of me, submissively bent over Pop’s knee with my shorts at my feet and my pants at the knees and my arse bare to the wind. He can see everything. I mean everything. My balls, my crack and right up into the hole. My embarrassment turns to humiliation. How can I ever face my best pal again?

Pop spanks my bare bum hard. And rapidly. Whack-whack-whack. He slaps me about eighty times a minute. I feel my bum heating up. If you didn’t think a hand spanking (even on the bare) could have much impact on an eighteen-year-old, think again. My bum was glowing. Pop spanks me like this for a few minutes, then as a finale he goes for the back of my thighs. Now, if the undercurves are sensitive (and they are) the bare thighs give twice the value. I am gasping and yapping and twisting and kicking. You have to admire Pop’s stamina. He was a manual worker all his life, believe me he was a strong man.

At last (thank God, at last!) he stops spanking. He lets go of my waist and I take my chance and leap to my feet. My bum throbs and I hop from foot to foot and try to rub the soreness away from my bum. I don’t care who sees me do it. Then, I lean down to pull up my pants. “Leave them where they are,” Pop sighs, he is a little out of breath, “Stand by the wall. I want you to think about what you have done and why I have spanked you.”

I hobble over and stand beside Perce. I can’t catch his eye. The throbbing pain in my bum is easing into a warm glow. Perce shuffles with embarrassment. Neither of us wants to speak. Pop regains his breath and says quietly, “Percy, I am not your father. It is not really my job to punish you.”

From the corner of my eye I see Perce turn to face my Pop. Pop says, “I should tell him what you have done. It is for him to decide what to do.” Pop sounds sorrowful. It’s not that he wants to spank Perce, Pop’s just unhappy that our behaviour has brought him to this.

“Sorry, Mr Ramsbottom,” I hear Perce’s voice quiver. I think he’s about to cry. I blush, embarrassed for him. But he doesn’t turn on the water taps, he’s just getting himself ready to say what he wants to say. It can’t be easy. I don’t think I would do the same if I was Perce. He says, “Mr Ramsbottom, we were both in it together. You can’t spank Perce and not spank me too.”

Well! You could’ve knocked me down with a feather, because I know for a fact Perce’s Pop is probably the only Pop in Rising Bollard who doesn’t believe in spanking. He’s never raised a finger to any of his kids. Best he’d do to Perce is make him stay at home a couple of weekends and clean up the yard or something. What a pal! Perce and me. Me and Perce. Together.

“Right, Percy,” Pop calls from the chair. “I think you know how this is done. Stand there. Take down your shorts. Bend over my knee.”

And Perce did. And I got to see his bare bum and the rest of it, so I didn’t have any worries about how I was going to face him.

So, two eighteen-year-old shoplifters from sixty years ago got their backsides spanked. We both went on to have honest, respectable lives. The shopkeeper got his goods back, we were punished. The world went on.

I wonder about that lad in the Brocklehurst Bugle. Given the chance what would people like to happen to him? A sound spanking and a second chance or a life blighted by a criminal record?

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com