University encounter

z used otk jeans bed (125)

I was eighteen, he was twenty-one. Maybe I was a little immature for my age. He told me if I insisted on behaving like that, he’d take me across his knee and spank my bottom. Hard.

I didn’t believe him. Okay, so I was naïve as well as immature.

I was a first-year student at Brocklehurst University, away from the restrictions of my parents for the first time. There was nobody to nag me, “Do this. Don’t do that.”

The university made first-years stay in their halls of residences and then got senior students to keep an eye on them. I think the idea was to be a big brother or big sister to us. I don’t know what kind of big brother Clive had, but mine never treated me like this.

He looked like any other student; he wore jeans and tee-shirts, but he was a member of the Brocklehurst Fellowship, a God-squad outfit that thought they were a cut above the rest of us and were on a mission to make sure we conformed to their standards.

I first encountered Clive one night after I returned to the halls after a session at the union bar. He was lurking outside my room. “Do you know what time it is?” he asked sternly. I was a little merry and didn’t like the tone of his voice, so I replied sarcastically, “You’ve got a watch, haven’t you?”

Wrong thing to say. “It’s nearly midnight. It’s too late for you to be out,” he told me.

Whoa! Hold your horses, pal. There was no curfew at the halls and so long as we came and went quietly we could roll up at any hour we chose. And, I told Clive this.

Wrong again.

“I’m keeping an eye on you, Pooley,” he snarled. “Now, get off to bed with you.” I watched with disdain as he stormed down the passageway, then I let myself into my room. I crawled into bed and forgot about him. I was full of thoughts of Angela Bailey, a girl I had met in the bar, and her big breasts. I tossed one off and fell asleep.

I made pals easily. We lived on beans on toast, went to lectures, studied in the library (but not too often), hung around bars and tried with varying degrees of success to get into girls’ knickers.

Early one evening there was a knock on my door. I cursed silently. I hadn’t expected visitors and I had my jeans and pants at my knees and was tugging away over a Page Three Girl in the Sun. I called out, “Who is it?” but got no reply. Instead, the knocking continued, a little more insistently.

I pulled up my jeans and pants. My cock was still hard, but I tucked it away as best I could and hoped the bulge behind my flies wasn’t too obvious.

I opened the door to find Clive shuffling from one foot to the other, clearly irritated. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you,” I said. I assumed he was annoyed that I took so long to open the door. He scowled and uninvited brushed by me and entered the room. His nose crinkled as he looked around. It was a small room and no untidier than any of my pals’. He took particular objection at a small pile of unwashed clothes beneath my small desk. His eyes flared when he saw the newspaper open on my bed. I can’t be certain but I think he surreptitiously checked out my flies. Luckily, I had gone soft by then.

“You should tidy this place up.”

Who did he think he was, my mother?

“Get those clothes washed,” he nodded at the pile under the desk. If he were Mum, he would have just scooped them up and put them in the washing machine, returning them next day clean and ironed. I didn’t argue the point with Clive.

“I have had a complaint,” he intoned. He drew himself up to his six-foot height and frowned. Maybe he thought that gave him an air of authority. It just irritated the hell out of me. Complaint? What was he on about?

In his own time, he continued. “Loud music, coming from this room at all hours.” I stared blankly. Even as we stood together, the sound of a music centre thumped from a room on the floor above. I didn’t press the point. I just wanted the irritating little tyke out of my room.

He berated me for my supposed misdemeanours. It mustn’t happen again. I should be considerate to my neighbours. Blah, blah, blah.  “If you insist on behaving immaturely, I shall take you across my knee and spank your bottom. Hard,” he ended, before closing the door behind him.

I sat back on the bed, loosened my jeans and returned to the Sun.

I asked my pals, did they get a visit from Clive? What did they think about him? All I got in response were blank stares. “Who’s Clive?” Nobody had seen or heard of him.

The weekend after my visit, we had a bit of a party in the halls. It was a kind of belated welcome to the university for all the new students. Now, I’m not especially proud of this, but I had had a skin-full. It’s not an excuse, I accept that, but it is an accurate description of what happened. It seemed like a good idea at the time. But, not for long after.

I set off the fire alarm.

In the great scheme of things this was not such a disaster. Nobody took any notice of it. Does anybody ever? False fire alarms go off all the time. The party-goers groaned, swigged their cheap wine, shared their joints and carried on snogging. I got a blow-job from a spotty, cross-eyed girl I’d never met before.

The following day I was back in my room flicking through a copy of Whitehouse, a porn mag that was being passed around by the boys. A couple of its pages were stuck together, but the close-up pictures of ladies’ thingies did nothing for me. I closed my eyes and tried to remember the girl and the blow-job, but all I saw were her spots.

There was a hammering on the door. It was Clive. Why was I not surprised? Of course, he knew about the fire alarm. “Juvenile.” “Childish.” “Infantile.” “Immature.” Clive must have swallowed a thesaurus. He berated me on and on. His sallow face was flushed with his indignation. His eyes blazed with righteousness.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he growled. A puzzled look was my only response. “Spanking.” He let the one word hang in the air, as if it was a perfect explanation. Still no comprehension from me.

“I said I would take you over my knee and spank you. Hard,” he said with an air of triumphalism, as if somehow he had won a prize.

Then, I remembered Clive’s passing shot to me when he had left my room. I had taken no notice. I had hardly heard him at all.

Clive sat on my bed, reached out and grabbed my arm. I hadn’t realised before but he was a strong man, not obviously muscular but beneath his black tee-shirt was a powerful body. He was about six-foot tall and towered four or five inches over me. He tugged me forward, I had no strength to resist. I was over his knee with my face in the duvet cover. He tucked an arm around my waist. To my horror, I was powerless. I kicked my legs and wriggled my hips a little. Then he moved his arm and pinned my shoulders with his elbow.

Then he spanked me. A grown man of eighteen. He spanked me, just like he said he would. I was across his knee and he pounded the palm of his hand into the seat of my jeans. I gasped, infuriated at my humiliation. He whacked me about a dozen times and I sprang to my feet. My face was hot with embarrassment. I couldn’t look my tormentor in the face. My shoulders slumped and I stared down at my feet.

Of course, with my jeans on I hardly felt a thing. When I checked later there was no sign on my bare bum that I had been assaulted at all. My fury and my humiliation was that he had been able to take me across his knee at will and do whatever he wanted. There was nothing I could do about it.

At last, I had the courage to look at him. His face was flushed scarlet. It was not because of the effort he made in spanking me; it was the porn mag open on the bed by his side. He looked like he might vomit at any moment. He stood from the bed and headed for the door. Before leaving, he called over his shoulder. “Next time, I’ll bring a hairbrush and we’ll see how you like that with your jeans and pants at your ankles.”

That night, I slept badly. A vision of myself across Clive’s knee with him hammering a brush into my bare arse wouldn’t leave me. We are in the kitchen at my parents’ home (go figure!). Clive is sitting on a metal armless chair. His legs are spread wide and at angles to one another. He has already manhandled me so that I am face down over the left knee.  He has wrapped his other leg around the back of my calves and I cannot move. My face stares down at the worn floor tiles. I can see they are overdue cleaning.

I am wearing blue-striped pyjamas (go figure again, I’ve not worn jim-jams since I was about eight years old and they had pictures of Fireball XL 5 all over them). Clive takes hold of the tail end of the pyjama jacket and lifts it high up my back so it bunches at the shoulders. Then, slowly and with relish he goes for the elasticated waistband of the PJ bottoms and grips them. He is taking his time. He wants me to feel the full force of this humiliating experience. He tugs the waistband slowly across the mounds that are my buttocks. He struggles a little since there is no space between my body and his knee to pull them properly down. He sighs and slaps a resounding smack across the cotton seat of the pyjamas. I take it as my instruction to raise my stomach a little so he has a gap he can ease the bottoms through. I lower myself back against his powerful knee. I feel a cool breeze from an open window gently caress my naked bottom and thighs.

Clive is not yet ready. He wants this to be a painful lesson for me. But, that does not only mean my backside must be blistered, I must also learn that he has complete control over me. He cups the palm of his right hand and gently traces the contours of my buttocks. First, he brushes the left cheek, pausing at the highest, plumpest point. There he presses two fingers into the flesh. He is testing how much “give” there is in my bum. I am trim, but I don’t quite have “buns of steel.” His hairbrush will sink into the meat and leave me battered and bruised.

He repeats the caressing and poking on the right cheek. Finally, and unexpectedly (to me), he leans forward towards my face. He raises the middle finger of his right hand and rests it against the closed lips of my mouth.

“Suck it,” he says softly. It is an order and one that I am expected to obey, but it is not barked. Obediently, I open my mouth and he gently inserts it. I work up some spit and soak his finger. He removes it from my mouth and moves it back to my buttocks. My spine shivers. He has washed my crack and inserted the fingertip into my hole.

My face is crimson. Soon my arse will be a similar colour. He is ready. He lifts the hairbrush to about a foot-and-a-half from the surface from my bum and in a frenzy he whacks the heavy wood across his target area. Whack-whack-whack. It sounds like machinegun echoing around the kitchen. Surely, my mother will hear and come running to see what is the commotion.

Clive hammers down at least three dozen whacks without let up. I don’t suppose thirty seconds has passed and my arse in on fire. I try to wriggle and writhe but the combination of his leg across mine and his strong arm against my shoulders means I am helpless. I am a perfect target. He can (and he will) continue to spank my backside black-and-blue for as long as he wishes.

Not one square inch of my buttocks and the backs of my thighs escapes the attention of his brush. The pain is awesome. Nothing I’ve experienced in the whole of my eighteen years comes close to this. Is this what it feels like to have accidentally sat down on a blazing barbecue?

On and on he spanks me. I can’t move to the left and right or forwards and backwards. The only way my body can respond to this intense onslaught is to jolt up and down. With each successive slap to my bum my body humps Clive’s knee. The heat of my bare-bottomed thrashing is travelling to my loins.

No, please God. Don’t let it end like this.

When in the early hours, I emerge from my fitful sleep the bedsheet is soaked in cum.

 

Picture credit: Spank This

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Watch out for her brothers!

z used drawing face blond Greenleaf Classic (3)

Gwyn Jones was twenty years old and there was one thing he knew for certain; girls gagged for sex just as much as boys. And, Gwyn was very happy to take as much as they would give. He even went with the plainer girls, happy to help out a damsel in distress.

Gwyn didn’t have to try too hard. He had fashionably cut blond hair and clear healthy skin. When it caught the sun, his nut-brown complexion highlighted his dazzling white straight teeth and sparkling blue eyes. He stood at about five-nine and everything was in proper proportion. He could wear any clothes. His arse looked great in cheap Tesco Bomber jeans from the supermarket or in the most expensive designer labels.

A few of the guys at the university’s Gay Soc said they’d have him any day. He might be a year younger than the local law allowed, but they’d take the risk, they said.

Pam Cobb was a girl in his year. They were in the same faculty, but they didn’t take classes together. He met her through Audrey Henley, a rather lanky girl who was a bit of a star in the varsity netball team. He could now report with great confidence to any of his pals who doubted it that netball players were not a bunch of lesbians. Audrey had spent her childhood at a posh independent ladies’ college and was making up for lost time with the boys.

She wasn’t looking for a husband (not yet), so was pleased to pass on her “Great Shag” to her friend, Pam. Pam was twenty-years old, going on forty-five. Polite people might say she was “homely”; she favoured fluffy pink jumpers and Levi jeans that emphasised her plump behind. Her permed hair reminded folks of her mother.

Of course, Gwyn would “give her one.” Those weren’t the exact words he used when Audrey told him Pam was willing, but nobody was under any illusion. Pam lived at home with her parents in a large detached place on The Avenue. “Very nice,” Gwyn gaped when Pam parked her Mini in front of the five-bedroomed (two with en-suite bathrooms) house, resplendent with two acres of garden and a gazebo. It was a step-up from the cramped room in the student residences he usually used.

Gwyn was ready for action the moment they set foot through the door. His cock was bursting; trying to climb over the waistband of his briefs. It was like that most of the time, he couldn’t control it. It was only a little after midday, but he’d tossed off twice already that day.

“Come,” Pam took his hand and led him through the hallway and up the stairs. “Let’s use the guest bedroom.”

It was tastefully furnished in greens and blues. Some expertise had been used in its design. All Gwyn saw was the huge bed. There was so much room, four people could sleep in it and never need to brush against one another.

Pam struggled out of her fluffy jumper and wriggled down her jeans. Her naked flesh wobbled like jam. Gwyn’s eyes stalked and his todger throbbed. If he didn’t get a shift on he would cum in his underpants. Pam’s eyes resembled saucers as she watched Gwyn’s cock soar towards her, a Cruise missile couldn’t fly so fast.

They didn’t make love. They had messy sex. It was over in no time. Gwyn lay silently on his back looking at the ornate carvings on the ceiling. It had been a shag, but nothing special. Pam needed to practice more, he reckoned. Moments later, his cock pulsated again. He looked across at Pam. Yes, she nodded, “I’m ready for round two.”

Stephen and Alistair, Pam’s brothers, were puzzled when they pulled up outside the house. What was Pam’s car doing there at that time of day. She should be at university. She never came home before five.

“Something must be wrong,” Stephen said anxiously, hurrying into the house, for he loved his kid sister dearly. “Is she sick, do you think?” Alistair followed on in his brother’s wake (as he so often did). “Pam! Pam! Are you there!” Stephen bounded up the stairs, heading for his sister’s bedroom. He knocked on the door. No reply. Gingerly, he worked the door handle, eased open the door and shyly peeked inside. Empty. She wasn’t there.

“Argggg!” A grunt from the adjoining room. It sounded like a sow on heat. “Ahhh! Ahhh!” Except it was clearly a man’s noise. Heart-thumping, Stephen rushed across the hallway and threw open the door.

Gwyn had shot his second load. It was better than the first, he had made it last longer. He was face-down in the bedsheet, catching his breath. Pam saw her brother first and swiftly pulled a sheet around her nakedness.

“Worrrrrr!” her brother exploded, summing up the situation immediately. Pam fled the room.

Gwyn sat on the bed, a sheepish grin betraying his self-satisfaction.

“You bastard!” Stephen’s anger was not feigned. Gwyn recoiled. In front of him was a tall, muscular thirtysomething man, his square face blazing fury.

“No, it’s not what you think,” Gwyn panicked. “She agreed.”

Just then another, younger man wheezed into the room. His facial features and the extra pounds of lard he carried on his body confirmed he was Pam’s brother.

“You’re not getting away with this,” Stephen clenched his fists, ready to fight. Gwyn slunk back against the bed’s headboard. He was no fighter. The angry man towering above him could knock six bells out of him. No trouble.

“We have ways of dealing with your sort.” Stephen stepped back from the bed, a plan already formulated in his head.

“Ali, help me,” he leant forward and gripped Gwyn by the arm. The boy struggled but Ali joined his brother and pinned him down on the bed.

“Turn him over,” Stephen ordered. Ali would never disobey his brother. He took Gwyn’s other arm. Resistance was futile. He was face down, nose in the soiled bedsheet.

“Hold him down. Sit on his head if you have to!”

Alistair flopped his considerable weight across Gwyn’s back, winding him. The boy’s arse and legs flailed. “Ger-off,” he squealed. “I didn’t do anything.”

Stephen’s eyes ran across the room, searching for a suitable weapon. Nothing. He opened and closed drawers, not sure what he expected to find. Still zilch.

Then, the ghost of an idea flickered. There was something Stephen hadn’t seen in years. Did they still have it? He wasn’t at all sure. But, if they did, it would be in the back of the linen cupboard.

“Ali, Keep him there. Don’t let him go,” he called over his shoulder as he rushed out the door. The linen cupboard was huge and packed with bedsheets and towels and goodness only knows what else. When they were kids they used to play in this cupboard, pretending they were in a spaceship bound for Mars.

Yes, it was there. He pulled out a heavy leather razor strop. Back in the day his grandfather had used it for shaving. It had a mightily effective alternative use as well, as Stephen himself could testify. This little beauty could take a boy’s arse off.

“Hold him still,” Stephen commanded. Gwyn was terror-struck. That damn girl. Had she set him up? Was she listening at the keyhole stroking her wet pussy? Loving every moment.

Stephen stood over the bed and assessed his target. Even from a close distance Gwyn’s body looked completely hairless. It wasn’t. His bum was bald but his legs were covered in a down of fine fair hair. What little Stephen could see of the boy’s back was lean but muscular and his waist was trim. There wasn’t enough spare fat anywhere on his body to sizzle a sausage.

Gwyn’s bum was firm and meaty. The flesh was milky white, the outline of skimpy swimming trunks contrasted with the rest of his deeply-tanned body.

The strop was nearly two feet long and several inches wide. Stephen tested the weight of it in his hand before resting it across the centre of Gwyn’s bum. It covered half of the target. He saw the bottom go hard, tensing into a solid, round ball. He couldn’t see it, but the boy’s nipples hardened on his tight chest.

Stephen removed the strop, raised it high towards the ceiling, held it there for two beats and brought it crashing down across Gwyn’s naked arse. A thick dark-pink stripe three inches wide immediately flamed across the naked flesh. The boy’s bottom shuddered and he kicked his legs against the agony travelling through his body.

A second whack hammered home, landing above the first. The whole of Gwyn’s bum was crimson. He shook his head from side to side and whined, rather like a horse whinnying. The weight of Ali on his back and the agony coursing through his body took his breath away. Sweat soaked his hairline and his temples throbbed almost as much as his backside.

Stephen paused. The whole of his prisoner’s bum was cherry red; not a square inch had been left uncovered. Where should he place the next swipe? There were two choices; either he should stop the punishment now, or land another cut over the existing wounds. He wasn’t about to let up yet, so he pulled the strop high, swung it a little in the air and brought it down low. Just where the bum meets the thighs. He was rewarded with a tremendous howl from his captive. Gwyn’s body shook violently and his head butted up and down against the mattress.

His yowls were pitiful, but his pious tormentor had little pity. He bounced the strap off Gwyn’s mounds three times in rapid fire. Bang-bang-bang. The boy’s flesh was raw, a purple strip of raised flesh ran across the very centre of both cheeks.

Gwyn was weeping openly. He had never experienced anything like this in his life.

Stephen had a sadistic streak, and he relished this opportunity to indulge it. A flicker of a grin creased his lips as he rested the heavy leather strop on the back of Gwyn’s thighs. “Nooooo!” The boy kicked out, terrified. The grin broadened, the strop rose and whacked down on the back of Gwyn’s legs. The shrieks that bounced off the walls of the opulent bedroom were deeply satisfying, so Stephen repeated the action two more times.

Gwyn’s body shuddered violently for ten or more seconds and went still. Ashen-faced Ali leapt from the bed.

“He’s dead! He’s dead!” he yelled.

He wasn’t. His breathing was shallow and he was weeping copiously into the mattress.

“Leave him!” Stephen growled at his brother. “Go see if Pam’s all right.”

Obediently, Ali left the room.

Stephen stood over Gwyn’s prostrate body. The boy’s arse twitched convulsively. The flesh from the base of his spine to an inch above the back of the knees was red-raw. In places it looked like uncooked hamburger meat. The boy’s breathing was gaining strength.

Stephen looked over his shoulder, noticed the door was still open. He would need to act quickly. He shoved it shut with his foot and turned to face the bed. Gwyn’s arse was glowing like dying ambers of coal.

“Get ready because here I come,” Stephen trilled merrily and unbuckled his belt. Puzzled, Gwyn looked over his own shoulder to see his tormentor ripping down his trousers and pants. Stephen’s cock crowed. Gwyn’s eyes blazed. He turned face-down on the bed once more, raised himself to his knees, spread his legs and bit on the pillow.

Picture Credit: Greenleaf Classics

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

A kiss too far

z used drawing face posh by Leyendecker (6)

The heat in the room was stifling. The windows couldn’t be opened because there was a danger insects would get in, although a daddy-long-legs was pummelling from wall to wall. John stared down at the battered leather strap lying across the equally beaten oak table. It had been in the family for generations hadn’t it? His father had used it on John often enough and he was damned sure grandfather had beaten father. Had grandfather’s father whipped him? Almost certainly, John thought. Flogging was a family tradition.

He was to be thrashed now. No doubt about it. His father paced the room; six steps one way, turnabout, six paces back. All the time he lectured. “Damn bad show. Shouldn’t be allowed.”

It was no such thing, but John couldn’t argue. It wasn’t his place. His place was to do what his father said. Without argument. And, John knew for certain that was exactly what he would do.

It was all Elinor’s father’s fault. He man was a monster. Well, not a monster perhaps, but at least unreasonable. Her skin had felt cool, John’s hands hot and heavy. When he lowered his mouth to hers it tasted of salt. She looked at him nervously. He shut his eyes. Her tongue threshed against his. Suddenly, he felt her neck muscles go rigid as she tried to push away.

“Whoaaaa!” Her father was suddenly on the scene His cry, a mixture of shock and rage, sent Elinor scurrying from the room. John thought Mr Rankling would flog him there and then. He was probably fortunate no horsewhip lay close to hand. Instead, John’s father was summoned and a tale told. To hear Elinor’s father tell it the eighteen-year-old was found writhing naked on his daughter; caught in the act of deflowering her. It was not like that at all; but if only, John wished.

Two adults kissing. What was the harm in that? Elinor was a year older than John; did she not have some say in how she behaved? Adults? Not in John’s father’s eyes. You attained the age of majority at twenty-one. That’s when you were legally an adult. But adulthood was not defined by age. Adulthood meant achieving maturity; only once that state was reached could a boy be called an adult. John’s father had no doubt – none at all – that his middle son was still very much a child.

Sweat soaked John’s shirt. The room was unbearable. His father’s constant pacing didn’t help. What was about to take place was routine, the teenager’s flesh would be scarred, but, oh how he wished father would just get on with it. At last the old man came to a halt and stood behind the table, leaning forward, palms of his hands pressing into the ancient wood. He was nearly six feet when standing; he had long ago ceased to be the powerful rugby scrum-half he had once been. His jowls wobbled, his waist (such as could be detected) hung over his trousers. His face, poorly shaven that morning, reddened with every word he spoke.

John was slightly shorter than his father, slim, high cheekbones, red lips,  greased hair – what woman could resist such. His grey eyes dulled. He heard his father’s words, but he wasn’t listening. What was the point? His father would not allow a response. This was not a court of law. John had already been tried and convicted; all that was to be determined was the sentence.

At last it came. “Trousers, drawers down. Present yourself across the table.” His father snatched the leather strap from the table and resumed his pacing. He paused at the far end of the room and stood, feet apart, like a soldier at ease, and studied his son. The boy unfastened his trousers and allowed the weight of the silver cigarette case in the pocket to send them tumbling to his feet. The woollen drawers were of the fashionable type; designed for easy removal. One assumed the manufacturers had not envisaged the wearer would need a speedy exit to facilitate a spanking from father. John undid the buttons at the waist and pushed them down his thighs. They snagged at his knees.

Even from a distance, his father could see his son’s manhood was well developed. How fortunate it was that Elinor’s father had intervened in time to spare his daughter. Unselfconsciously, for John had been semi-naked in front of his father many times, he lifted the tail of his crisp white shirt half way up his back so that his buttocks were properly bared.

The crazed daddy-long-legs hammered into his head. John swatted it away with his right hand while clinging on to his shirt with the left. Then, he lowered himself down. In the intolerably hot room, the wood felt cool against his naked stomach. He reached ahead of him and held the table’s edge. He shuffled his feet a little and wriggled his hips until his stomach rested at a perfect angle for his bared buttocks to receive his father’s administrations. The cheeks were full, chubby even, unlike the rest of John’s lean body.

John’s father shuffled the length of the room and stood to his son’s left. The daddy-long-legs crashed into his face. With fury he lashed the strap through the air. For two pins he could hunt the bugger down and crush it into a pulp. But, there were more important things to concern him.

The strap was about eighteen inches long and four wide. It was a heavy beast and when he laid it across the centre of John’s naked haunches it easily covered half the area. There had been a time (had John’s father been in the mood for remembrances) that he would have recalled the days when the strap could cover both of his son’s cheeks with room to spare.

John’s buttocks clenched as the worn leather touched his vulnerable flesh. It always did this. It was a reflex action; John had no control of the matter. Was it his body’s natural reaction? A way to protect itself from the hurt that was about to be unleashed?

From his vantage point standing over the eighteen-year-old, his father had a clear view of the teenager’s crack. The hole seemed a little larger than the last time he had seen it. Some filthy things had taken place in the school dormitory, he supposed.

Determined not to be side-tracked by these thoughts, the old man lifted the strap high above his head, twirled it in a full circle and brought it whizzing down with great speed and tremendous force into the very centre of his son’s bum. He was rewarded by the sight of a dark-pink stripe immediately forming across the defenceless flesh and the sound of John’s gasp as he tried with considerable success to stifle the yell he most assuredly wanted to make.

John gripped the table edge and waited, heart thumping for the second crack to land. It came thirty seconds after the first. Exactly: for his father was counting the time in his head. This one landed a little above the first, on the top of the mounds, near the boy’s back. The agony was searing, pain travelled up and down his legs and he could not control himself; his legs stamped up and down like a soldier on sentry duty.

Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty. The third swipe caught him on the soft, sensitive sit-spot, at the point where the bum meets the thighs. That one hurt. John’s mouth opened and closed, he clamped his top lip over the lower and dug his teeth in. It stopped the yell, but at some cost; an acrid taste of blood. By the time his father was through with him, John would be in no state for kissing.

His father admired his handiwork. Not a single square inch of his son’s buttocks had escaped the strap. They glowed pink. He swiped the fourth so that it connected across two of the previous marks. Mauve bruises were already forming as he lifted the strap high once more and brought it down again. The skin broke and blood rose to the surface; soon John’s bottom would resemble raw minced-meat.

John’s forehead bounced up and down and he head-butted the solid oak table top. He was losing control. There was a haze before his eyes as he waited for the next blow. It’s never been as bad as this, he thought as the strap cut him once more. It’s that damn girl! At that moment he began to hate her. But, that thought would pass.

A dozen lashes ripped John’s buttocks to shreds. Then it was over. “Up. Get dressed. Go.” His father never had much to say once a thrashing was completed. He had done his duty. Offence committed. Punishment delivered. Time to move on. That was his principle.

John sucked in lung-fulls of air. His heart raced; his temples throbbed, even as much as his buttocks. He pushed himself up from the table and not able to look his punisher in the face, he turned his back on his father and bent down to retrieve his woollen drawers. It gave the old man a last chance to admire his own prowess with the strap. He glowed with self-satisfaction.

With his trousers now fastened, John faced his father and offered him his right hand. It was a family tradition after a whipping. Shake hands. Behave like English gentlemen. Formalities observed, John shuffled from the room.

He scarcely noticed Elinor hovering in the hallway. He trudged through the hallway to the wide staircase that led to the upper floors and his room. He took the stairs two at a time and crashed through the door. Within seconds his trousers and drawers were once more at his feet. He poked his bottom towards a full-length mirror. “God, what a mess,” he said out loud, although he was all alone in the room.

But not for long. Suddenly, the door burst open. John turned, startled to see Elinor standing there. Her eyes bulged and her lips poked in and out of her mouth like a lizard. John’s cock trembled. Elinor blushed. John turned his back, hiding his cock and balls but offering the girl a terrific view of his mashed backside.

“Let’s try some of this,” she said, and only then did John notice the white glass jar of cream she was holding. “Lie down,” she smiled sweetly. “On the bed,” she added unnecessarily. John licked his own lips and did as requested, slyly manoeuvring his body so that his did not put weight on his now raging erection.  Elinor scooped out a handful of the smooth white cream and gently laid it on John’s right buttock. It felt like ice on a burning desert. Tenderly she spread it carefully around the delightful curved forms, bringing some comfort to the savaged flesh and hard ridges.

John lay passive, gladly accepting the gentle massaging palms and the fragrant sticky cream. Elinor gently patted the chubby curves of John’s bottom. Poor John, she thought and was about to lean down and plant a gentle kiss on the raw, tormented flesh when the door suddenly opened and her father stormed into the room.

 

Picture credit: J. C. Leyendecker

 

Other stories you might like

 

The military camp

Bug on the wall

He knew the boy would be trouble

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The exhibitionist

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I came home from work one evening to find my lodger dressed only in his underpants sprawled out on the sofa face down. Nearby, was an empty can of Tesco lager. I know it looks like a cliché: a fat slob couch potato, but Tommy is far from that.

He is always dressed only in underpants, except for the times when he pads around the house completely stark bollock naked. He is, I think, what they call an “exhibitionist.” One day when we were smoking weed he told me of the time at his parents’ house when he cycled naked up and down the street in broad daylight to the horror of his neighbours. “They thought a lunatic had escaped,” he giggled uncontrollably. I don’t know if this was a true story, but the more I saw of Tommy, the more likely it seemed.

Not that I object to his nudity. I am not gay. No, really, I’m not in denial. I’m not gay, I have had girlfriends, I just don’t have one at the moment. I’m not gay, but I know a fit looking guy when I see one. Tommy is cute in a boy-next-door kind of way. He stands about five-feet-seven and has a lean body. He is hairless on his chest, back and arse. I’m pretty certain he shaves himself, because his legs are hairy. He doesn’t have tattoos, which, I think, adds to his boyish charms.

Tommy’s not gay either. I know that because one morning I came down to breakfast and found he was with Pam, a girl from the office. They had that glow about them that people have after they’ve had sex. Later, I saw him pushing his bedsheets into the washing machine and that confirmed it.

My name is Reg and I’m thirty-three years old. I’m Purchasing Manager at Tillotson’s on the Industrial Estate. Tommy came to work in the Sales Department as an “administrator” doing routine clerical work three months ago. He needed somewhere to live and to be honest I needed someone to help me pay the mortgage. The Avenue is in a select suburb and I was fighting above my weight when I took on the loan, but with Tommy’s rent I’m okay now.

Tommy and I sleep together sometimes. The first time we did it I knew it was perfectly natural. It was just a guy thing. Lots of straight men do it. We hugged and cuddled a little and then Tommy jerked me off. Like all men I masturbate a lot, so it made a nice change to have someone else do it for me. I have quite a collection of photographs of women dressed up as provocative schoolgirls, being spanked by elderly uncles or cane-wielding headmasters that I use to get me going.

One day, Tommy said his twenty-first birthday was coming up and could he have a party at the house? I was surprised; I hadn’t realised how young he was. What is it about twenty-first birthdays? Eighteen has been the legal age of adulthood for at least two generations, but people celebrate their twenty-first as if it still had some special meaning.

I was reluctant to hold a party at the house. The Avenue is very upscale and middle class and the people here are very dull and straight-laced. But, what the hay, you’re only twenty-one once. There was a good turnout. I only recognised a few people from work. I assumed the others were old school pals of Tommy’s. I was in the lounge room talking to a guy I didn’t know about Jose Mourinho and his chances at Manchester United when there was a huge cheer and everyone around me started to chant, “Tom-my! Tom-my! Tom-my!”

I spun on my heels and there he was framed in the doorway. I think my mouth might have literally gaped open. Certainly, I was astonished. I couldn’t believe what I saw. The flashes of camera phones blinded me for a few seconds, but there was no mistaking it. Tommy sashayed into the room. He was dressed as a provocative schoolgirl. The grey school skirt he wore was authentic, but cut so short it barely came beyond his arse, which was wrapped in white tight frilly lace panties. Black sheer stockings were held up by fluffy garters. His white blouse was unbuttoned to the navel revealing a pair of fake breasts that Gazza would have been proud to wear. On his (or by now, should I be saying, her?) head was a very realistic wig of long blonde hair. His cheeks were rouged so badly, he looked like a pantomime dame.

Tommy circled the room, sashaying his bum, wriggling his hips and flouncing his breasts all the while mouthing “come and get me boys”. Even for Tommy, this was some exhibition. After a few moments of wild cheering and whooping, someone picked up a dining room chair and set it down in the middle of the room. Tommy wiggled up to me; his eyes were blazing. I’d seen him high on chemicals in the past, but this was something altogether different. This was a natural high; no drugs necessary.

He ran his hands through my hair, wriggled his bum and said loudly enough for the whole room to hear, “Time for my birthday spanking!” This set up a whole new round of cheering and chanting.

“Sit down Reg,” someone whose name I did not know said, as he pushed me down on the chair. Tommy waited until I had settled and then stood to my right. He lifted what little skirt there was high so that his white lace panties were uncovered. Then, he leant forward across my lap. The flashlights blinded me, but once they had cleared I had the perfect view of birthday-boy’s pert young bum.

Out of nowhere, a party reveller leaned across me and gripped Tommy’s panties by the waist. The cheers were deafening as he ripped them down over his buttocks. I have seen many photographs of women’s bare arses being spanked. This was like none of them. It was no shapely, prominent, firm bottom. I had caressed Tommy’s buttocks a number of times, but I had never seen them from this angle. They were small and tight. I gently rubbed his left cheek. The whole buttock fitted comfortably in the palm of my hand.

“Come on, get on with it!” someone in the crowd called and was greeted by wild cheers. “One!” they yelled. I had never witnessed a “birthday spanking” but I knew the concept. I was to deliver one spank for each of Tommy’s twenty-one years and one to grow on. My heart raced as I raised my hand and slapped it gently into his left cheek.

Tommy who was face down across my lap with his hands spread ahead of him, turned his head towards me and hissed, “No, do it properly. A real spanking.”

“Two!” The audience was becoming impatient. My mouth dried as I slapped his right cheek with all the power I could muster. A dark pink mark appeared immediately. Tommy made no movement nor sound. Had that not been hard enough?

I am no expert in spanking. Corporal punishment has all but disappeared in England. It would never have occurred to my dad to take me across his knee, no matter how much I irritated him. And, despite my spanking fetish, I’ve never plucked up the courage to try to spank a girlfriend, or to get her to punish me. I was a spanking virgin, but I couldn’t be certain the same was true of Tommy.

The crowd called out the number and I smacked Tommy’s bum. By number twelve my hand was probably hurting as much, if not more, than his bottom. Surely, a hand spanking no matter how furiously delivered couldn’t make much impact on a twenty-one-year-old’s bum.

My hand was sore, and so was my cock. If my underpants hadn’t been so tight, there would have been a tent pole in the front of my trousers. Tommy must have felt my bulge against his stomach because he deliberately rubbed against it with his body every time I smacked my palm into his bared bottom. His own crotch was uncovered and it was obvious his penis was fully erect. Maybe his body movements were to stimulate himself and not me.

We were fast approaching the climax of the spanking. By number eighteen, the whole of his buttock area was a deep pink. The outline of my fingers was tattooed across the outer edges of his cheeks.

“And one to grow on!” I whacked him for the twenty-second time. The cheers were ear-splitting. I shouldn’t be surprised if the people in the house next door came knocking on the door to complain. I sat gasping for breath. Tommy’s cock was as hard as steel. Mine was hardly softer. In his undressed state people would immediately see he had a boner. How could we hide it? The humiliation of discovery would be too great.

How naïve could a fellow be? Tommy jumped off my knee and hopped from foot to foot while simultaneously rubbing away at his backside, as if the spanking had really hurt. His stiff cock pointed to the ceiling. I was surprised the noise of the cheering didn’t raise the roof.

I rose from the chair. The ache in my pants was unbearable. I needed to sneak to the bathroom and rub one off. I started to push my way through the crowd, when I felt hands on my shoulder, preventing my movement. I turned. It was Tommy. The blaze in his eyes was even more intense. I could see a dark blue vein running the length of his pulsating shaft.

He said nothing. Instead, he gripped the buckle of my belt and expertly unfastened it. Next, my flies were down and the front of my trousers were wide open. When he pulled down my pants my dick was as stiff and throbbing as Tommy’s. I had no time to object or to consent. Tommy was on his knees and his tongue was hungrily licking first my balls and then the lower end of my shaft. I could have protested. I didn’t. I couldn’t. I was too busy moaning in ecstasy.

Tommy’s tongue reached the tip of my sword. My eyes were closed. I was in a frenzy. I was excited by the cheering of the party-goers. Tommy’s mouth must have been sore from holding it so wide open but he found a little rhythm that seemed to please him. He didn’t move his mouth from my cock; even when I shot my load down the back of his throat.

 

Other stories you might like

The fire-raiser

Never too old

Murph in the headmaster’s study

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

At the girls’ showers

Bob Brewer was a young man with a problem. Eighteen years old and never been laid. Never even come close. But, now he was living in the halls of residence of Brocklehurst University that would change. He fervently hoped.

There were lots of girls around, that was for sure. The halls weren’t segregated. In his section of twelve rooms there were six girls and six boys. They shared everything. The kitchen, a television lounge. Even the showers.

That was another problem. Knowing there were naked women in the hall. The individual showers had a small area where people could undress before getting under the water. Later, they could towel themselves dry before they returned to their room.

Actually, Bob discovered soon after he moved in, people preferred to undress in their room, wrap themselves up in a towel and head for the showers. When they had finished, they would maybe dry their hair a little before heading back, still damp.

Well, Bob figured, he couldn’t be blamed if just by chance he was in the hall when a dripping damsel rushed from the shower. He might still be a virgin, but he knew a sexy young thing when he saw it.

“He’s doing it on purpose. Just loitering there.” Jill was in the kitchen talking to Pam. “He’s trying to see us naked,” the twenty-two-year-old Business major sighed.

“He’s just like some twelve-year-old,” Pam giggled. “Someone should have a word with him.”

“Someone should smack his bottom. Hard.” Jenifer, a social work student, wheezed.

“No point. He’d probably enjoy it,” Alison said, poured boiling water into coffee mugs.

The door opened and Ken, Pam’s boyfriend, entered.

“Can’t Ken do something about him?” Jill asked of nobody in particular.

“About who?” Ken took a steaming mug and blew into it. The girls explained their predicament.

“You’re a senior, Ken. Can’t you do something?” Alison piped up.

“Senior? This isn’t a school. We don’t have prefects,” Ken sipped tentatively at his coffee.

“No, I suppose not,” Alison pursed her lips and shook her head so her long blonde hair no longer hung across her face. Ken watched her voluptuous breasts wobble.

“But, you are a final year. He’s a fresher. Can’t you sort him out?” Pam liked to boss her boyfriend. She usually got her way. “Be like his elder brother. Or uncle or something.”

“Uncle?” Ken sipped on his coffee. He wasn’t liking where this was going.

“Spank him,” Jenifer rose from her chair. “Good and hard.” She glared at Ken, daring him to defy her.

Ken shrugged his shoulders and stared into his mug.

“Yes, darling, please.” Pam gave him her baby-doll smile. The one she used when she was telling him she was ready to have sex. It had been nearly a week since they had made love. He was gagging.

“Yes, Ken, please do it,” Jill beamed. “And make sure we get to watch.”

Bob Brewer had his jeans at his shins and his tight briefs at his knees. In his mind he saw Alison, a towel hanging limply against her body. The outline of her large, firm breasts clearly visible. He spat on his palm and manoeuvred it up and down his throbbing shaft. “Huff, huff, huff,” he fought his urge to spray cum all over his belly. Not yet, he willed himself as his body shook with desire.

“Hello Bob, are you in there?” Fingertips were tapping on his door. It was Ken Charlton’s voice.

“Whar ….?” Bob gasped.

“C’mon Bob, I need a word. Now.”

“Hang on!” Desperately the eighteen-year-old dragged up his briefs. His cock was so stiff, it stood like a tentpole. It wanted to poke out of the fly. He pulled up his jeans and buckled his belt. His dick ached like crazy.

“C’mon, c’mon, I haven’t got all day.” Ken wanted this over with. He desperately needed a shag.

Scarlet faced, Bob unlocked the door and opened it an inch. His puzzled expression spoke volumes.

“The girls want to see you in the kitchen,” Ken barked. “They’re fed up with you spying on them.”

Bob’s mouth gaped. No words came. He knew exactly what Ken meant. Of course, they had noticed him loitering in the hallway. They weren’t stupid.

Ken took Bob’s wrist and guided him out of the room. Then half dragging, he propelled him towards the girls and his fate.

“You want to spank me?” Bob spluttered. His heart raced. His cock had softened, but now it once more stood to attention. Which of these sexy minxes would it be? Please, he thought silently, please let it be Alison.

“No,” Pam was in control. “Ken will spank you.”

The look of disappointment was obvious.

“It’s a man’s thing; something like this.” Pam trailed off, suddenly embarrassed.

Nobody spoke. The girls lined up with their backs against the fridge-freezer. Its humming sound dominated the silent room.

“Let’s get this over with, shall we?” Ken pulled a chair away from the table and sat down. Bob stared blankly. Was this really happening? This senior student was going to spank him? This could not be happening.

“Come here and bend over my knee.”

Alison’s wheezing drowned out the fridge’s humming.

Bob stood, uncertain, staring at Ken. His punisher spread his legs. His thighs were large.

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Ken was a track athlete. Fit and strong. His muscles bulged through a tight, white tee-shirt.

“B… b …” tears welled behind Bob’s eyes. He felt Ken’s heavy grip on his wrist as he was forced forward and pulled face-down across the older student’s knees.

Bob gasped. With shock and humiliation. He pressed the palms of his hands into the worn grey floor tiles. He felt Ken’s arm push into his back, holding him in position. Then: smack! Ken’s hand hit Bob’s left buttock. Then, his right.

He hardly felt a thing. Bob had never been spanked in his life. This was 2017, who had been? He didn’t know how much it was meant to hurt. He might be a spanking virgin, but he knew it was supposed to be worse than this.

He sensed the girls move from in front of the fridge. Alison was leading the way. She wanted a better view of Bob’s tight arse. It really was magnificent, she thought. Why hadn’t she noticed before?

Ken whacked a dozen slaps into Bob’s denim-covered bum. Then, he stopped. His hand was hurting much more than Bob’s backside.

“This is useless,” he waved his hand exaggeratedly. “I’m not getting through to him”

“Wait.” Alison breathed excitedly. She did not want this end. “I have a hairbrush. I’ll go fetch it.” She darted from the room.

Ken looked down at the young man spread-eagled across his lap. Only now, did the absurdity of the situation hit him. He was spanking an eighteen-year-old student. A young man. Only three years younger than himself. Spanking him. On his bum. Across his knee.

Bob stared at the floor. Humiliated. Surely, he thought, Ken could feel his boner pushing into his thigh. Bob doubted that he had ever had such a long, stiff erection. It ached terrifically.

The door pushed open and Alison excitedly entered, a large oval-headed hairbrush in her fist.

“Here,” she handed it to Ken. “Give him what-for with that.” She stood back to regain her view of Bob’s beautiful buttocks.

Whack! Bob gasped. That hurt. That really stung. As did the next dozen that Ken hammered into the seat of his jeans. The denim was thick, but it was scant protection from Ken’s powerful spanking.

Bob wriggled and squirmed.

“Keep still,” Ken growled as he aimed the wooden brush into the underside of Bob’s bum. “Or I might miss your bum and hit the back of your thighs.” Then, deliberately, he sent the brush crashing into that very spot. He was extremely self-satisfied when Bob yelped. He sounded like a little whipped puppy.

Bob’s bum was warming up. He bounced over the older student’s knees. His stiff cock rubbed against the front of his denim jeans. Up and down he went. As if humping Ken’s legs. The tension in his cock was unbearable. Bob puffed and wheezed. Any moment now, he would shoot his load and fill the front of his underpants with sticky goo.

“Do you promise not to spy on the girls again?”

“Yes, yes, I promise. I’m sorry.” Bob would promise anything to make the spanking stop before he disgraced himself.

“I hope so, because next time we’ll see how you like it with your jeans at your ankles.” Ken smacked the brush into the centre of each of Bob’s buttocks. “Has he had enough girls?”

“Yes, let him go,” Alison was breathless. “Let him get up.”

Ken released his grip and Bob shot to his feet, desperately trying to keep his back to his tormentors. His face was scarlet.

“Looks like the naughty little boy has learned his lesson,” Pam beamed. Turning to Ken, she flashed the baby-doll smile. “C’mon, you. Let’s go.”

The left, with Jill tagging behind.

Bob stood uncertain. The bulge in the front of his pants was enormous. He desperately needed to polish one off.

Alison smiled. Held out her hand. “C’mon big boy,” she wheezed. “Let’s go to my room.”

 

Other stories you might like

The sting in the tail

The students next door

Peeping Tom

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Be careful what you wish for

“Your aunt said she’d spank you!”

“I know! I know!”

“Your aunt. The MILF. That aunt?”

“She said, ‘I should take you across my knee and smack your bottom. Hard.’”

“Was she serious?”

“Oh, I hope so!”

Ro and Jack sucked on their beer bottles. Ro was staying with his Aunt Elsie and Uncle Frank while he was doing his certificate in plumbing at college. He wasn’t an unusual eighteen-year-old. He thought the world revolved around him. He wanted everything for nothing. Nobody could tell him anything. He came and went as he felt. He missed meal times; never helped about the house. He lay in bed to all hours, even on college days. A typical teenager.

Aunt Elsie put up with a lot. That’s how it was for women. They worked at a job all day and then came home to start all over again. Even the most tolerant people could snap.

“Can’t you at least tidy up the living room, while I’m out,” she scolded.

“Why? That’s what I pay my rent for.”

“You need taking down a peg or two, my lad!” she roared.

He hadn’t the least idea what that meant and silently sneered.

That’s when she said it. Across her knee. A spanking. On the bottom. Hard.

That night in bed, Ro played the scene in his head. They are in the living room. Aunt is seated on a straight-backed wooden chair. She is wearing her corduroy trousers tucked into thigh-length leather boots. Her roll-neck woollen jumper is tight and he can clearly see the outline of her breasts.

He is wearing blue-and-white-striped pyjamas. Where had they come from? He hadn’t worn jim-jams since he was nine years old. The last pair he had were bright yellow and had drawings of racing cars all over them.

He meekly lowers himself across Aunt Elsie’s knee. He is a short, thick-set lad. He places the palms of his hands on the carpet. Behind him his toes dig into the deep pile. His cotton-covered bottom is across her lap, his crotch presses into the rough corduroy.

No word is spoken. Aunt Elsie grips the elasticated waist of the pyjama bottoms and in a series of small tugs she tries to force them down. She can’t get them clear of his buttocks, so he lifts his body off her lap and she takes them down as far as his knees.

He resumes his position, his cock growing. The first smack gets him in the centre of the left buttock. It tingles. So does the one that strikes him on the right cheek. Smack, smack, smack.

Ro has never been spanked before. He doesn’t know what it is supposed to feel like. His bum is warming up; so is his dick. He lifts his body and lets it fall again. In time to the rhythm of the spanking. His cock throbs much more than his bum.

He woke next morning with his pants full of cold cum. Later, at Primark when he bought pyjamas his cock was semi-erect. Oh, how he wanted to live that dream.

How could he push Aunt Elsie over the edge?

He lazed around the house. No response.

He stayed in bed all day, missing college. Nothing.

He came home late: drunk. Zilch. Perhaps his aunt hadn’t meant it after all.

This could not go on. His fantasies became more feverish. He is stark naked and dripping wet from the shower. She, angry that he has soiled the bedsheets with his cum, drags him by the damp hair into the bedroom. He is pushed face down across the mattress. Then – from God knows where – she picks up an old-fashioned whippy rattan cane and flogs it into his naked arse.

Then, one day he cracked it. He was rude to the vicar when he made his regular weekly visit. Ro didn’t believe in God and why should he listen to the old fake. He told him that to his face. Ro stormed upstairs in a huff.

He fumed in his bedroom. “Bloody vicars. They’re all nonces,” he told himself. He read the newspapers. He knew what was going on.

He heard the front door open and close. Moments later, a voice called. “Rowland!” It was Aunt Elise from the bottom of the stairs. “Come down here. I want a word.”

Ro’s heart pounded. A word? Word? That was a code, wasn’t it? It had to be. “I want a word,” meant, “I’m going to take you across my knee and smack your bottom. Hard.”

He had planned for this moment. He pulled open the second drawer of the dresser and pulled out the still-unworn pyjamas. With shaking hands, he lowered his trousers and pants and stepped out of them. He tugged his pullover and shirt over his head. He stood before the mirror, naked. He sat on the bed and pulled the pyjama bottoms on. He stood. They fitted perfectly. So did the jacket.

He glanced in the mirror, admiring his firm but stocky body. Suddenly, his cock poked out the fly of the pyjamas. It always did have a mind of its own. Damn! He couldn’t go down to Aunt Elsie in this state. It would be too humiliating. And, it would give the game away.

He grabbed a handful of tissues from the bedside table, gobbed spit into his palm and polished one off. Moments later, breathing heavily, he padded down the stairs to the front room and the over-the-knee spanking from Aunt Elsie he craved.

He paused outside the closed door, took three deep breaths, and pushed it open. Uncle Frank sat in the armchair. Alone.

“I … I … Aunt Elsie?” Ro gazed around the room, as if expecting to find his aunt hiding under the table. Then he saw it. Left in clear view on the polished sideboard. Uncle Frank lifted himself out of the chair, leant forward and picked it up. A worn brown taws. An eighteen-inch length of hard leather, cut into two tails.

“B …” Ro started with alarm. This could not be happening.

Uncle Frank scrutinised the strap in his hand as if he had never seen it before. “This is not a job for a woman,” he said, tapping the taws into the palm of his hand.

“No ….!” Ro’s heart raced.

Uncle Frank swished the taws through the air. He pointed it at the settee. “Bend over,” he growled. Then, in case he hadn’t been properly understood, he added, “Over the arm.”

Ro stood frozen. This wasn’t how it was meant to be. His sexy aunt was supposed to be pulling down his pyjamas. Not this fat, sweaty, old man.

“I won’t tell you again.” Uncle Frank moved toward his nephew. If the stupid brat wouldn’t put himself across the settee he would have to do it for him.

“No, no,” Ro did not move. Uncle Frank smelt the fear on him. He wasn’t a strong man, but he gripped his nephew by the hair and pushed him forward, face down, across the huge settee. To his surprise, the eighteen-year-old lay submissively. His bottom was high and his hands rested on the settee cushion. The boy turned his head toward his uncle, his face impassive.

 

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What Ro saw was his overweight uncle lift the taws high over his shoulder. He let it rest against his back. He paused. He seemed to be counting in his head. Then, satisfied that enough time had elapsed, he brought the strap crashing down across the centre of Ro’s bum. The boy heard the whistle as the strap flew and a crack as it connected with the seat of his pyjamas. It felt like an age before the searing pain registered. It was as if Uncle Frank had put a hot wire across Ro’s buttocks.

The teenager gasped in shock. Then, a second and a third swipe hit him in quick succession. Ro’s legs buckled. His hips wriggled. He beat his fists into the cushion. He wanted to yelp, but all the air had been squeezed out of his body.

He sucked in a lungful. The strap whipped him again. “Yeowwww!” he shrieked in shock and pain. Uncle Frank rested the taws against his back, counted to six and brought it down with tremendous power again and again in mighty strokes. Ro’s bottom made frantic efforts to minimise the pain and discomfort.

“Keep still!” his uncle barked.

Ro twisted violently, bouncing his head into the cushion. His bottom blazed with fire.

Out of his eye line, Aunt Elsie stood in the doorway. Her face flushed. Her breathing as strained as Ro’s. She watched transfixed as the leather strap bit over and over again into her nephew’s deliciously stretched bum.

Later, in her bed, she regretted allowing Frank to persuade her at the last minute to allow him to beat young Ro. As she slipped her hand inside her panties she promised herself next time it would be different.

 

Other stories you might like

 Where’s the paddle, hon?

When Dad got home

Don’t bully our mum

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The Junior Salesman book

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THE TWENTY-YEAR-old junior salesman slowly unclasped his belt and unbuttoned his trousers. He pushed them over his hips and let go. From there they slithered slowly down his legs.

A breeze from the nearby open window brushed against his naked legs as he awaited the next command.

Tyler looked over at his boss; in his hands was a wicked-looking school cane, around three feet in length and with a curved handle.  Mr. Davenport’s huge grin exposed his decaying teeth as he tapped a pointon the floor in front of him with the cane, “Please bend over and touch your toes.”

 

The Junior Salesman and other workplace whackings is the latest in a series of collections of my stories being published on Mondays. It runs for more than 19,000 words and has many illustrations. You should be able to read it on your lap top or e-book reader.

Click on the link below to download it free-of-charge.

 

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Another book available for download free-of-charge.

ALL IN THE FAMILY. TALES OF DOMESTIC DISCIPLINE

 

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com