Seasonal spankings – compilation

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Picture credit: Joe Phillips

Tis the season of goodwill to all men, but not necessarily all boys. Santa has his list of who’s been naughty and who’s been nice. Expect a few sore bottoms before the holiday is over. Here are a selection of my stories from Christmases past for you to enjoy for the first time or rediscover. Click on the links.

Enjoy the festive season, play safe and I’ll see you all in the New Year

Shopping for toys

Herbert goes shopping for Christmas toys at the local department store and has an unexpected encounter with Santa

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Picture credit: CP4Men dot net

 

Better believe in Santa Claus

Lucas Lomas is a stroppy teenager and the magic of Christmas means nothing to him. There is no such person as Santa Claus he tells his kid brother — but is he right?

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Picture credit: Alan Paul

 

Approved-School Santas

Inmates at a school for young offenders are forced to show Christmas spirit to a group of orphans, but greed gets the better of them.

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Picture credit: The Hotspur

 

The Morning After the Night Before

Tony’s bad behaviour spoiled everyone’s Christmas Day. His friend Tony knows how to deal with that …

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Picture credit: C of Sweden

 

Only Three Thieving Days to Christmas

Ben McKenzie works at a supermarket where he decides to steal bottles of booze to give as Christmas presents, but then his boss finds out …

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Picture credit: Unknown

 

When Santa Claus was caned

Three old men play Santa at a school’s Christmas party. All is well until silver trophies go missing.

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Picture credit: The Hotspur

The School Dance

The Christmas school dance always gets out of hand. More so when two horny virgin boys are enticed by the girls from St. Winnie’s.

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Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

The Night Before Christmas

It was the night before Christmas and little Joe was ever so excited. This was the time Santa came to deliver all his presents – and Joe had a very long list indeed. But had Joe been a good boy? What do you think? And we all know what Santa does to naughty boys.

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Picture credit: Unknown

 

Fake News at Christmas

Santa Claus Irked at Unexpected Productivity Hike … Santa Claus is reportedly mad at a new directive forcing him to extend his naughty boys’ list to include guys up to the age of 21.

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Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club

 

Snowballs

When the headmaster bans all snowball fights at the school it gives George Baker, a Sixth-former and prefect a bright idea. But will he get away with his curious plan?

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Picture credit: The Magnet

 

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

Step-son home for the holiday

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“No, I’m not having him here again for Christmas, not after last year. I don’t want an argument about it.” Martin’s face coloured. It did this when he was angry. Diana knew he meant it. It would take a lot to get him to change his mind.

“But he’s my son,” she said. “We can’t exclude him from Christmas.”

Martin paced the room. He was trying to control his temper. The disaster of last Christmas was fresh in his mind. That brat of a step-son was not welcome here. He shook his head, “No, love. No. I think he resents me. He’s never made an effort to get on. Look how rude and surly he was last time. He was so drunk on Boxing Day he insulted Bob and Martha from next door. I could have died from embarrassment.”

Diana took a deep breath. Martin was right. Joey had been outrageous. He stayed in bed on Christmas Day and didn’t come down until dinner was served. Then he was miserable all afternoon, he quite spoiled the day for Martin’s two young children.

“I know Marty, but he’s family. Christmas is about family.” She trailed off. What a rubbish excuse. Yes, Christmas was about family. People getting together for once every year. Of course, there was a reason why they didn’t meet more often – they hated the sight of one another. Most families were a bit like that. Even so, she pressed on, “Where’s he supposed to go instead?”

Martin stopped pacing. He stopped at the cocktail cabinet and grabbed a bottle of gin. “He can stay in his own bed all day,.” He unscrewed the cap. “It’ll save him the train fare getting here.” He gave a short snort of laughter and poured a glass of gin.

“Want one?” he smiled. Diana shook her head. She wasn’t letting him off just yet. He took a gulp of neat gin and grimaced as it hit the spot. “First of the day,” he said for no reason except to break the silence in the room. He knew he was about to be defeated.

He sat in a deep armchair and surveyed the room. Diana stood and watched him. She knew her man. It was only a matter of time. Martin took a cautious sip of the gin. “Well, alright, he can come, but there have to be conditions. He has to be told.”

“Yes dear,” Diana grinned. She had won again.

“I’m serious. A list of rules. Nothing unusual. He can’t lay in bed all day. He can’t be rude to you. And definitely not me. No heavy drinking. He has to play with the boys. He has to be cheerful.”

Diana nodded her head with mock enthusiasm. “Anything else Mein Fuhrer. You make it sound like a prison sentence.”

“Well, it is to me, love. It is to me,” Martin drained his glass. “You have to tell him. He has to know he has got to behave.”

Diana kept her counsel. Joey wasn’t a bad lad, but he could be headstrong at times. When he was in one of his darker moods he didn’t mind what he said or who he upset. It might prove difficult to rein him in over the holidays.

“I mean it, Di, he has to know. You have to tell him.”

Diana sighed. “Alright, I’ll do it. But what if he breaks your rules?”

“Tell him I’ll spank him.”

“Ha!” Diana roared with laughter. She couldn’t stop herself. How absurd!

“I’m serious. Make sure he knows it. I’m not afraid to take him across my knee and batter his backside.”

“Don’t be daft. He’s twenty years old.”

“Well he should have learned to behave by now shouldn’t he.”

“What does that mean?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you saying I didn’t bring him up right.”

“Oh for Pete’s sake …” Martin paused. Actually, that was exactly what he was saying but he knew better than to tell his new wife that.

“Just tell him will you. I’ll write down the rules, so there’s no mistake. And, he’ll get the thick end of my belt if he causes trouble again this year. I’ll put that in writing as well if you like.”

And he did too. When he printed it out it covered a full side of A4 paper. Fifteen different rules. All to be obeyed. None of them unreasonable. And in the final sentence, printed in red were the words. “Failure to comply with any of these rules will result in a spanking.” There, Martin thought as he read through the final draft, it couldn’t be clearer.

“You’re off your head,” Diana said, not unkindly, when her husband handed her the rules.

“What’s the worry. All he has to do is behave himself. We’ll get through the holiday, he’ll go back to his home and we can get on with our lives.” He nodded at the sheet of paper, “And I won’t have to see him again until next year. What could be simpler?”

“I’ll email him a copy,” Diana said.

“Good. Let him know if he doesn’t like it he’s welcome to stay at his own home for Christmas.”

Joey received the email on his phone while sitting up in his bed. He read it. Twice. He didn’t believe it either time. He turned to his boyfriend Spencer and told him about Martin’s threat. “Spanking!” Spencer chortled, “Oh yes please! Can I come.”

Joey bristled, it wasn’t funny. But Spencer hadn’t finished. “What a wicked step-father you have. It’s just like a fairy story.” He paused long enough to realise Joey hadn’t got the joke. “Well,” he continued, “It is a bit kinky don’t you think?”

Kinky? Joey didn’t know that, but it was madness. The twenty-year-old was in no doubt, Martin – or his mother’s latest husband, as he preferred to call him – was deadly serious.

Spencer pulled the duvet off his naked body and climbed out of bed. He trilled, “Be sure to tell me all about it when you get back. Don’t forget to take a selfie, you naughty little boy.” He smacked his own bottom playfully and sashayed around the room. Joey groaned and read through the list of rules one more time.

“Your step-papa is right. You are a pain in the arse sometimes,” Spencer would not let it go. “You never tidy up. You leave your scuzzy pants on the floor for me to pick up. When did you last wash up a mug?” He sat down on the bed, heart racing, “Yes, what a good idea.” He paused waiting a little breathlessly for his boyfriend’s response. When none came, he rolled over on the mattress and faced Joey. “Spanking.” He let the word hang in the air. Joey’s clean, bright face cracked into a smile when he realised what his boyfriend meant. “Dream on lover boy.”

Spencer nodded with mock solemnity. “Spanking. Yes, the naughty little boy needs his bottom slapped.” He rose so he now knelt beside Joey. Joey, still smiling told him, “You can try.”

It was the hint Spencer needed. He rolled from the mattress and ran around to Joey’s side of the bed. He gripped his wrist and tried to pull him up. “No, no,” Joey shrieked with laughter, “I was joking, I was joking.” He struggled as Spencer demonstrated his superior strength. Within seconds Spencer had Joey to his feet. Then Spencer sat on the end of the bed. He pulled Joey forward across his lap. Now his boyfriend was face-down. In the perfect position to have his bare bottom spanked.

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Both boys were naked. In the two months since they first met Spencer had seen his boyfriend naked many times before. His skin was smooth and hairless. There wasn’t enough spare fat on him to sizzle a sausage. His bum was pert and firm.

Slap. Slap. Spencer’s smacks were love taps. Joey didn’t feel a thing. He lay still. Submissive. Spencer had never acted like this before. So manfully. “What a nice, little spankable bottom you have,” Spencer pinched the hard cheeks. He cupped his hands and caressed each globe. His hands were large and Joey’s buttocks quite small. The palm covered about half of one cheek. He tapped Joey’s bottom again. Going through the motions. Pretending to spank him. Not really trying. His hand shook. He had never felt like this before. He didn’t understand it. What was happening to him?

Joey twisted his body so he could look behind him and face Spencer. “Do it properly. Like you mean it,” he said simply. He turned back, face down in the mattress and raised his bottom higher. Spencer’s cock twitched. Sweat soaked the palm of his hand. He rubbed it dry on the bed. He bit his bottom lip with nervousness. He raised his right hand. He paused. Joey’s bum flinched with the tension. Crack! Spencer’s hand walloped Joey’s left buttock with force. The outline of Spencer’s palm appeared in pink across his boyfriend’s creamy-white skin. He slapped again this time on the left cheek.

Joey moaned gently and buried his face in the duvet. Spencer slapped him again. And again. And again. Joey’s bum warmed. Each slap stung his tight arse. It hurt. Joey couldn’t understand. It hurt, but it wasn’t really pain. His bottom tingled. He liked it. The more Spencer spanked him, the more his bum glowed. The tingles mingled and merged, growing into a dull throb.

“More, more,” he groaned softly. Joey was across Spencer’s lap. Both were naked. Their cocks pressed together. Joey’s hard-on raged. That excitement encouraged Spencer in his task. He slapped harder. Not one spot on Joey’s gorgeous bum was unmarked. The imprint of Spencer’s palm and fingers was stamped all over the boy’s cheeks. Spencer turned to the more sensitive thighs. Joey squealed with pleasure. His cock pulsated against Spencer’s. He wriggled and writhed to build momentum. It was like having sex. But then again, Joey knew, not like any sex he had ever had. His head spun. His body tingled with excitement. His bottom and thighs throbbed. Ecstasy!

Martin had a miserable Christmas Eve. His step-son was murder from the moment he arrived. He was more surly, more rude, even than the previous year. Joey had already upset the boys with his bullying, overbearing manner. Martin cornered the boy in the kitchen. “You haven’t forgotten the rules I set have you?” he growled. “What I warned I would do?”

Joey replied calmly, “No. I haven’t forgotten a thing.”

Picture credit: Unknown

 

Other stories you might like

The Morning After the Night Before

Warren’s awakening

Called in for a Caning

 

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

 

His first time

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SWISH!! The cane fell in a blurred arc on the firm, pert naked cheeks raised high over the edge of the bed. It only took a second for a thin white stripe to change to a vivid scarlet welt.

Air escaped through Michael’s clenched teeth; it sounded like a steam engine settling down. It was followed by a long, piercing banshee-like wail. This was the first time in all his twenty-one years Michael had felt the firm rod of discipline. He screwed his eyes tightly shut against the intensity of the pain.

Unremittingly, the second stroke swiped into his quivering cheeks, landing an inch below the first. Michael’s cheeks clenched together; it was a reflex action, their way of protecting themselves from the assault. Now, Michael gave a loud and pleading yell.

“Yoewwwww! No please stop. No! No! No! Oh please Seymour, No more! No! I can’t take it!” But Seymour was in no mood for mercy. He waited for the cheeks to relax again before he lifted the yellow, whippy rattan cane high above his head, paused a moment and brought it flogging down across the naked buttocks. It fell just below the previous two, in perfect parallel.

This time Michael’s slim, athletic legs kicked up, and he tried to rise from his shameful position, but a firm hand in the centre of his back held him face down against the mattress.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! No more, no more!” he pleaded.

“You should have thought of that when you were making such a disgusting exhibition of yourself at the party, flirting with everyone. You showed yourself up. You humiliated me,” Seymour replied grimly, taking a firmer grip on the long cane.

“But I love you Seymour, how can you hurt me so much?” Michael’s head bounced up and down. To demonstrate just how much, Seymour laid an even firmer stroke across the lower curves of the boy’s bare bottom. Michael screeched in agony; tears shot out of his eyes, soaking the bedcover. Seymour was unmoved. The cane rose and fell rhythmically delivering the stinging correction.

Michael twisted and turned, trying desperately to avoid the biting, fiery rod. His feet stomped up and down. His legs flailed.

But then something unexpected happened. Michael’s yells softened into deep groans; then they became more relaxed. His frantic breathing was more regular and even. His bottom rose to meet the challenge of the cane. Seymour saw what was happening. He changed his strokes; now they fell more rapidly, but were gentler and directed low down at the centre of Michael’s firm bottom.

“Oh Seymour,” Michael wheezed huskily, “don’t stop now, it’s such a wonderful feeling. What’s happening to me?”

“Oh Seymour. I’m coming. Oh. I’m coming. oh! oh! oh! ohhh!”

 

Picture credit: Darrien

Other stories you might like

A whopping for Warminster

Late home from school

How Many Strokes Will it Be?

 

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

A summer to remember

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I first developed my taste for spanking when I was eighteen and very keen on hill climbing. During the summer holiday between school and university I would go out every day on the Downs just outside Brocklehurst where I lived. As luck would have it is was on one of these outings that I met Wilberforce Crick, another fresh air enthusiast. I soon learned that he was lodging with his uncle, a vicar in the nearby village of Aston Budleigh.

Wilberforce was a year older than me and was strikingly handsome. His high cheekbones, and wavy fair hair gave him a dreamlike quality. His racy smile and quick wit captivated me. But what occupied my thoughts most was Wilberforce’s round, firm bottom. I already knew of my tendency in this direction as I had developed a passion for a boy while a schoolboy at St. Tom’s. We would sneak away to the cricket pavilion during summer nights and explore each other.

As we rambled through the hills and over the nearby cliffs I would encourage Wilberforce to walk ahead of me, thus allowing me to admire his two cheeks, like two firm peaches inside his loose baggy shorts.

After that initial meeting we would walk out together every day. We were lucky with the weather and I don’t remember a single occasion when rain stopped our play. We would halt in a little woodland glen to eat our picnic. One day I noticed as we walked together that Wilberforce seemed uncomfortable and was not his usual joyful self. When we stopped to eat to my utter astonishment he began to cry bitterly. Tentatively, I put my hand around his shoulder to comfort him. I feared he might push me away, calling me all the nasty names under the sun: fruit, pansy and so on. To my delight he put his arm around my shoulder and we embraced. Then he told me his problem.

“Uncle whipped me yesterday,” he croaked between tears. I was stunned. Had I heard correctly? The vicar had whipped him. Whipped? What did that mean? Literally, a whip. Like you might take to a horse?

I could feel my cock tighten inside my underpants. “What did he whip you with?” I asked, hoping he wouldn’t sense the excitement that was rising in my body.

“Oh, a rotten old cane he has.”

“On your hand?” I croaked, hardly daring to breathe.

“Oh no. On my…” he hesitated, drawing on his innermost thoughts. “On my bottom; it’s always on my bottom.”

All the saliva drained from my mouth. I coughed gently, I could feel my face flushing “Tell me about it.” I pulled Wilberforce closer to me. I could smell his hair oil. His bright blue eyes shone as he told me what happened.

“He got terribly cross when I told him a lie. Of course, I denied it and that made it worse. He’s very strict. Everyone in the village knows that. He sent me into the room that he calls his study. He keeps a couple of canes in there, hanging from hooks on the wall. They’re just like the ones from school, with the curved handles.”

I nodded thinking he might need encouragement to continue with the story, but Wilberforce seemed only too willing to tell me everything.  “I said I was too old to caned. He just snorted and told me to get a move on. I had no choice. I know if I complained to my father, he would only say Uncle is a man of the cloth and should be obeyed at all times.”

Wilberforce was leaning against my body and I moved slightly so he wouldn’t rub against my stiff cock. He continued, “So I went into the study. Not many people are allowed in there. It’s where he works, and where …” his voice broke a little, but he composed himself, “where he punishes you,” he completed the sentence haltingly.

“He has his rituals. I have to go and stand in the corner and think about how naughty I am. He left me like that for about ten minutes. Just waiting, wondering how much it would hurt this time. Thinking; would it be trousers up or trousers down. Or even,” he whispered the next bit as if in that wilderness there was anyone there but me to hear him, “on the bared bottom.”

He was silent for a moment. My heart was pounding. I had dreamt about Wilberforce and his wonderful buttocks. He had a bottom crying out to be spanked.

Wilberforce continued his story, “At last I heard the door to the study open and he came into the room. He didn’t say a word. I was still facing the wall, but I could hear floorboards creak as he crossed over to where the canes hung on the wall. The rattan cane rattled when he took it down. My blood ran cold when he swished it through the air. It made a terrific whoosh! as it flew.

‘“Well, my boy,’ uncle said, ‘perhaps this will teach you to tell the truth’, he swiped the cane again and then said, ‘Stand by the chair.’ I knew he meant the large armchair that’s in the middle of the room, so I turned from the wall and faced him. I tell you the look on his face frightened the life out of me. I could tell this would be no ordinary caning. He was possessed by the wrath of God.”

I licked my lips, I couldn’t help myself. The tension was rising in me. Wilberforce continued, “Uncle said, ‘Take down your trousers. Pants too. Bend over that chair.  Try to take your whipping as befits a great big boy like you.’ I begged and pleaded with him to let me off, but that only made him more angry.

“So, there I was with my trousers at my ankles, and pants at the knees. I lay across the back of the armchair and gripped the soft cushion for all I was worth. Uncle took hold of the end of my shirt and pulled it right up over my back. I was naked from my shoulders to the knees. Then, I could feel him tap the cane right across the centre of my bottom. ‘Are you not ashamed of yourself, a great big boy like you, with your backside bare, just like a naughty little child? We shall see what a good dose of the cane can do to teach you that liars of any age deserve to be punished.’”

Wilberforce was speaking in a rush, Was he as excited as me? “All the time,” Wilberforce went on, “uncle was tapping the cane against my bottom. Suddenly, I felt the cane lift, there was a hiss, and I felt this incredible pain across my bottom. I shrieked and tried to kick, but he pressed his hand into my back to hold me down. Before I knew it, the cane swept down again and again. I can’t describe the feeling. He gave me eighteen strokes and I had to stay there and submit to it with my bared bottom raised high. There was nothing else I could do.”

I listened in astonishment to his story. I still had my arm about him and tried to comfort him, but in truth I was excited at the thought of this beautiful boy having to take down his trousers and pants to have his scrumptious bare bottom properly caned.

“My poor Wilberforce,” I said, “How could your uncle be so cruel?” Then, the most extraordinary thing happened. It was almost like one of my dreams. Gently, Wilberforce broke away from me. I sat open mouthed as he stood up and loosened the belt on his cotton shorts. Soon the front gaped open and they sailed to his feet. I gaped at his tight white Y-front underpants and the obvious bulge that they concealed. He turned his back to me, dug his thumbs into the waistband of the pants and wriggled his bottom, while at the same time pushing them down until they were resting on top of his shorts.

What I saw remains clear to me today and, if I did but know it at the time, determined the pattern of the rest of my life. The skin of his bottom was perfectly smooth, but crossing the pert, firm buttocks were red gashes, their edges sharply raised. It looked like a map of a railway junction. Offering false words of sympathy, I kissed each etched line gently. Wilberforce whimpered yelps, which at first I supposed to be cries of pain, but I soon realised were groans of pleasure. Soon we were fondling forbidden parts. That was first time we made love. Each day after that we hurried to our secret hiding place, for me to caress and adore the scarred cheeks. But as the marks faded so did my passion for Wilberforce. I missed the rosy glow in his cheeks. I hatched a plan to bring it back.

So, I pretended to find fault with him. He turned up late one morning and I scolded him. Another time he forgot his sandwiches and I accused him of being lazy. He became surly and rude. “You know,” I told Wilberforce, “I think your uncle is right. Maybe you do need a spanking now and again to keep you in line.” I held my breath tightly. What would I do if he became angry and maybe stormed off, never to return?

His bright, open face beamed. “You can try,” he giggled. I jumped on his back and we tumbled to the ground. Soon, we were rolling around on the grass. I sat up and pulled him across my knees. He didn’t resist. I slapped my hand into the seat of his shorts. They were made of thick cotton and he didn’t feel a thing. He lay passively while I walloped away at his hard bum.

“Oh! This is useless,” I laughed waving my hand around to show that my palm hurt much more than his bottom. “Stand up.” I released my grip on his waist and pushed him off my knees. He stood and hopped up and down, while rubbing the seat of his shorts, pretending that my spanking had hurt.

“You can stop that, right now,” I smiled. “I know it didn’t hurt one little bit. Now take down those shorts and get back over my knee.” I had never seen Wilberforce move so quickly. A thick leather belt held the shorts up but he swiftly had it unbuckled and then his shorts were at his ankles. He almost dove across my knees in his eagerness.

My heartrate was off the scale. Had I been an older person, I might have suffered a stroke. His muscular body was stretched submissively and his gorgeous bottom rested at an angle against my knee. I pressed him against my raging cock. I took hold of the tail of his shirt and quickly pushed it up his back and away from his buttocks. Then, roughly I gripped the waistband of his underpants and ripped them over his bum. They snagged and Wilberforce raised his body so I could more easily take them down the back of his legs to his knees.

I was enthralled by the smooth but hard rounded cheeks. They were hairless except for a wisp in the deep cleft. I wrapped my left arm around his slim waist and started to smack his gorgeous posterior lightly with my hand. He sighed a little at each slap, but then began to move his bottom in a circular motion, as if to encourage me in my endeavour. I gaped open-mouthed as his creamy-white cheeks turned at first to a charming pink and then deeper red. I was astonished to see the outline of my fingers embossed on his firm bottom. Each time my hand landed, it sank into Wilberforce’s springy flesh.

Wilberforce’s circular movements progressed to a vigorous back and forwards motion in time with the slaps. He seemed to be humping my rigid, throbbing cock while at the same time uttering breathless groans. He clenched his bottom cheeks together tightly and this encouraged me to step up the pace and ferocity of my spanking. Now, it was clear to me that his cock was as stiff as mine. I took that as my cue to stop slapping his beautiful, upturned rear end. I released my grip on his waist. He rolled on his back and gaped at me, still breathless, “I’m glad I was a naughty little boy.” Then he pulled me forward so I fell on top of him. We made love.

Summer was drawing to a close, but each day we returned to the Downs and repeated the delightful spanking episode. Wilberforce would tell me of some (often imagined) fault he had committed the previous evening so I would have an excuse to take him across my knee and bare his lovely bottom.

At the end of the summer we went our separate ways. Wilberforce, back to his home somewhere in the North and me to university. I never saw him again.

 

Picture credit: Boys’ Own Paper

Other stories you might like

The Country Club

Taming Timothy

A Short, Sharp Lesson

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Over the limit

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Brian peeked behind the curtain watching with some concern the postman make his way up the driveway. The letterbox rattled and several envelopes plopped onto the doormat. Brian could destroy the evidence if he moved quickly. Reg wouldn’t find out. Not, for now at least. But was there any point? It would only put off the inevitable. Brian must be found out. It was only a matter of time.

Nervously, Brian picked up the mail. The credit card statement was top of the pile. Suddenly, Reg emerged from the kitchen, hurrying towards the stairs. He was late for work. “Anything interesting?” he called cheerfully as he passed his boyfriend. He was too busy to notice Brian’s pale face and the perspiration forming over his top lip. “No, nothing. Not really,” Brian croaked. His heart did not stop racing until Reg had disappeared into the bedroom. Even then, he couldn’t quite catch his breath.

Reg hurried down the stairs, now dressed in his suit. He stooped to pick up his briefcase  from under the hallstand. He took his car keys from a hook by the full-length mirror and paused to admire his reflection. He might be pushing thirty-five, he told himself, but he still had the figure and build of a man ten years younger.

Brian edged toward the front room, hoping Reg might forget about the mail. “Hey,” Reg called amiably as he opened the door, “Give me the credit card bill, I’ll sort it out later.” Brian tried hard to disguise the misery he felt as he handed it over. “Thanks lover,” Reg smiled and pecked Brian on the lips. “See you at six. Have a nice day!” Brian watched from the doorway as Reg manoeuvred the car down the drive and into The Avenue.

Have a nice day! Some chance, Brian moped. Not once Reg had read that credit card bill. Not once he saw that Brian had spent way over the monthly limit Reg had set for him. Brian had lived with Reg for only four months and in that short time he lived a life of luxury. He adored Reg. He was strong and considerate and loving. And rich. Brian knew a good thing when he had it laid in his lap. He feared he had screwed up. Reg had given him a generous allowance to spend on the credit card, but Brian let greed rule him.

He spent the day in idleness. He worked part-time filling shelves at a supermarket, but mostly (he knew, and accepted) he was Reg’s houseboy. He cooked and cleaned and performed tricks for his boyfriend. It wasn’t a bad life. And one he hoped would not come to a premature end.

At six o’clock precisely, Reg’s car drew up outside the house. Brian watched pensively from the doorway as his boyfriend unloaded his case. Reg strode towards him. “You. Front room. Now.” That put an end to any hope Brian had that he wasn’t in trouble. Deep trouble.

Reg ran a company with fifty people working under him. He was a man of action. He knew how to make a decision and he had decided how to deal with Brian. “I’m not going to argue with you. I give you a generous allowance and still you spend over the limit. You spend my money like it was water.”

Brian bit down on his lower lip. There was no point telling Reg he was made of money and could afford to increase his allowance a hundred times over. He decided silence was the better part of valour.

“Doh!” Reg almost exploded. “Go fetch the cane. Let’s not waste time. You know where it is.”  He did know where the cane was kept; in the wardrobe in the spare bedroom. Reg had showed it to him before Brian moved in. Reg told Brian he would feel it across his backside if he misbehaved. Of course, he hadn’t believed him. Men of twenty-five didn’t get caned. It was only a joke.

Brian knew Reg was a “bottom man” and he loved playing around with guys’ arses. Reg made no secret of that the first time he saw Brian at The Three Fishers. Reg was all over him; patting and preening his rock-hard buttocks. Not, that Brian objected. He fancied the pants off Reg. He went for the older man. Especially one as strong and as handsome as Reg. The fact that Reg dripped in money added to the attraction. He was happy to latch on to a rich man. Next time they met Brian wore his most flattering trousers; the ones that showed off the delightful roundness of his bottom without being so tightly-fitting they made him look like a hustler.

Reg had cupped his two cheeks in his hands and stroked and caressed them. Then, he smacked Brian’s bottom. Gently at first and when Brian didn’t object, harder. Brian sashayed his hips and jutted his bottom out, encouraging Reg. Then the slaps became full-blown whacks. Brian hadn’t realised but if they hadn’t been in the middle of a crowded bar, Reg would have upended him before throwing him across his knee for proper old-fashioned spanking.

Reg growled, “I said, fetch the cane. Do it now. Or else.” Brian’s head spun. Or else. Or else what? Or else, pack your bags and go? The cane. It must be a joke. Reg couldn’t be serious. Men of twenty-five didn’t get caned. In a trance Brian trudged up the stairs. There were five bedrooms in the massive house, but he knew which one contained the wardrobe that held the cane. It was at the back, overlooking the long, narrow garden. His heart raced and his head throbbed as he opened the cupboard door. There was nothing inside except a long, thin, yellow rattan cane hanging from the rail by its curved handle. With an unsteady hand Brian took it down. It was a little more than three feet long and as thick as a pencil. It weighed no more than a feather. He couldn’t resist holding it between his hands and flexing it. It easily made an arc. Saliva rained from his mouth. They still used canes at school, but not often and he had never seen one close up. He swished it through the air. It was an awesome weapon.

Slowly, he returned downstairs. Reg was waiting impatiently. “Hand it to me,” he barked. His eyes shone and his cheeks were ruddy. He took hold of the rattan and just as Brian had a moment earlier he swished it through the air. Reg was about six-feet-four with broad shoulders and a muscular chest. Brian was probably no more than five-eight in his socks and weighed about ten stones when sopping wet. Reg flexed the cane so that it formed an arc between his hands. Brian stared, transfixed.

Reg stopped bending the cane. He gripped it close to its curved handle and tapped the other end gently against the dining table. A broad grimace split his face. Brian’s heart skipped a beat. “Bend over the table,” Reg ordered, his voice betraying an edge of steel. “Grip the far end tightly.”

z used drawing cane hold (42)

It is just a joke, Brian told himself. He wants to admire my gorgeous bum. He isn’t really going to beat my backside with a cane. His journey across the room was wobbly. He held onto to the table to steady himself before stretching out across it. He reached forward in the way that Reg had demanded but wasn’t sure where to put his head. He tried propping his chin against the cold wood but he couldn’t get comfortable. He settled on resting his left cheek on the table and staring at a Lowry print in a frame on the wall.

Reg’s hand stroked Brian’s tight buttocks. He couldn’t see but Brian knew his tight trousers had ridden up his crack, separating each cheek. His stomach rested on the edge of the table meaning his legs were parted and his bum was presented to Reg at an enticing angle.

He felt Reg caress his bottom and legs, apparently in appreciation. That cane is just a joke, he told himself. Suddenly, Reg picked it up and swiped it through the air. It made a sinister swish as it flew. He’s not gong to use it … he’s just playing around, Brian tried to convince himself. Then there was another almighty swipe which ended with a tremendous crack! as the cane thwacked into Brian’s tight backside. Brian yelped with pain. He let go of the table and jumped to his feet.

“Get back over. Do as you are told,” Reg growled. “It’s six-of-the-best for you young man. Bend over. I don’t want to hear any more of that noise. Any more trouble from you and I’ll make it a dozen.”

Brian felt the room spin around him. He closed his eyes tight but that didn’t make it stop. He didn’t understand. It was as if he was on some kind of drug.

“Bend over,” Reg pushed Brian towards the table and the young man obediently fell forward. Once more he gripped the far edge. The cane cut him again. No this was no joke. These were not love-taps. Reg swiped the cane into the upturned bottom. A spray of dust rose from the tightly-stretched trousers as if he were beating a carpet.

The pain was fantastic. It was like Reg had pressed a red hot wire across Brian’s pert buttocks. Once more he tried to get up, but this time Reg pressed his hand into the small of Brian’s back.

“I told you. Stop that noise. Any more and you will regret it. This is your last warning. Do you understand?”

Brian didn’t… couldn’t, reply. Reg slapped his bottom with his open hand.

“Well, do you understand?”

Meekly he wheezed, “Yes, Sir.”

He had no idea why he had called Reg “Sir,” somehow it seemed the right thing to do. The cane bit hard into his rock-hard bottom again. Through a super human effort Brian swallowed down the yells of pain he so desperately wanted to make. Only muffled grunts could be heard.

Reg admired the clear mark that had formed along the seat of the tight cotton trousers, extending across both cheeks in a thin line. The stroke had landed a quarter of an inch below the first. Reg had an expert aim. The third and fourth cut bit into Brian’s backside in rapid succession. By now he was losing control. The gasps became yelps.

Reg paused before stroke five, knowing that the pain would be searing across Brian’s backside and through his legs. Brian’s breathing was uneven, tears welled in his eyes. Swish! Whack! Number five flogged home. Brian made a move to rise himself from the table, but Reg’s earlier threat rang in his ears: he didn’t want extra strokes.

Brian knew he had welts forming under his pants where five parallel strokes had hit home. No, they had done more than hit home, they had been struck with such force they had gone through the flesh into the meat of his buttocks.

Number six was the worst of all. Reg paused, counted to ten in his head, took three steps backward, raised the cane in the air and rushed forward and struck.

The sixth stroke was laid diagonally across the previous five, creating a five-bar gate, cutting each welt and creating searing pain. Brian was gone, tears came in huge gulps, he wanted the pain to end, to curl up in the foetal position and die.

Reg watched him writhing across the table, satisfied with his own handiwork.

“Stand up,” the instruction was gentle, no longer an order. Brian staggered to his feet, unsure what to do first. To wipe his tears and the snot that was coming from his nose, or to clench his burning buttocks with both hands in an attempt to rub away the agony.

But he didn’t have time. “Turn and stand in front of me,” Reg commanded. “Look at me when I’m talking to you boy.” He raised his eyes. “Will I need to do this again?” Brian  hardly had the wind in him to utter, “No, Sir.”

“Good. Because if I do we shall see how you like it with your trousers and pants down. Doh! Stop your snivelling. Go upstairs don’t come down again until you’ve calmed down.”

He watched his younger companion hobble from the room. Then, he tossed the cane that was still into his sweaty hand onto to the sofa. He walked across the room to the cocktail cabinet and poured himself three inches of whisky. He took his glass and sat in an armchair by the window. He sipped the drink slowly. “One hundred pounds over his spending limit,” he laughed to himself, “and worth every penny of it.”

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Suddenly one summer

new story 2

otk jeans armchair youngsters (14)

The house was deserted and so it seemed was the entire street. The middle of the day in the middle of the week in the middle of summer in the middle of suburbia. Not a soul stirred. I was bored out of my skull.

I had finished school and was waiting for my exam results. I would be going to university in October and was treading water. The economy had tanked and there were no jobs for proper people so what chance did a nearly-university student have? These were the days long before 24-hour supermarkets and bicycle delivery services.

My friend Martin was in the same boat. We spent a lot of time together that summer. Being bored. Martin said we should take a trip up to town, maybe go swimming. Or at least hang around the town and try to meet girls.

It sounded like a great idea,  except for one problem. I was grounded. I’m not even sure we called it ‘grounded’ in those days. We adopted that horrible Americanism some years later. Anyhow, Dad had said I couldn’t go out for a week. It had to do with not helping around the house and giving Mum more than a bit of lip.

I suppose I was lucky only to be grounded. When I was younger I would have found myself across Dad’s knee, jeans at the ankles and quite possibly pants at the knees while he took my backside off with a paddle. You get the idea. Dad believed in spanking.  But now I was eighteen I was beyond all that.

Which was a pity because although a spanking hurts like crazy (otherwise what’s the point of it?) it is over quickly. Bad deed done, spanking delivered, apologies made and then we all move on with our lives. It’s got to be better than being forced to stay at home for a whole week – in the middle of summer.

I told Martin as much. His eyes widened. “Paddle?” he said, screwing up his eyes to empathise he had no idea what I was talking about. “What’s a paddle?” Another Americanism, I suppose. I had no idea if Martin’s dad ever spanked him and if he did what he used. I supposed the preferred instrument of persuasion would be the slipper. Or a hairbrush. Or that heavy, leather razor strop he inherited from Granddad. Maybe, even a thin, swishy, curve-handled rattan school-type cane.

“Look,” I said as I led him to the cupboard under the stairs. Martin did the widening of his eyes thing again when he saw hanging from a hook was a huge wooden board, probably eighteen inches long and five wide. It looked homemade. If Dad made it with his own hands it would have been about the only thing he had ever made in his life. He couldn’t even mend a fuse when the lights went out.

Martin bent his back and poked his head inside the small cupboard. “Is that a paddle?” he asked. I was about to give him a sarcastic response about his lack of observation, when he said, “I thought like a canoe or a row boat.”

I let it go. Martin peered closely at it. Then, he raised his right hand and very gently touched it. It was a delicate movement, made as if he feared he might break it. “He used to spank you with this?” He spoke softly, almost reverentially.

“Sure,” the level of pride in my voice surprised me. “Twelve swats. More sometimes.” I had no idea why I lied like that. Yes, I did get taken across Dad’s knee and I was spanked with that very paddle. Often on the underpants and sometimes on the bare. But he never gave me more than six swats. Six-of-the-best: the English way.

Martin shook his head in amazement. “Well I never,” he said softly, as if to himself. I watched as gently he took the paddle from the hook and caressed it in his hands, admiring the smooth surface. “It’s heavy,” he said backing out of the cupboard and standing erect in the hallway. He gripped the handle tightly and swished it trough the air. “Careful,” I cried. The hallway was narrow and he very nearly knocked a china ornament to the floor.

Martin’s eyes were wide and glowing when he looked at me. “What does it feel like?” He tapped the paddle’s blade it into the palm of his hand. He winced. “Blimey. It feels like it would really hurt.”

“You might well believe that, but I couldn’t possibly comment,” I laughed. Martin joined in. We both recognised it as a line from a popular political thriller on television. “Does it hurt?” Martin held the paddle gently, like it was a precious artefact.

“Well, what do you think?” I sounded more cross than I actually felt.

“Quite a bit, I suppose,” he conceded. His usually sparkling blue eyes seemed a bit vacant, as if he was not in the hallway with me. He sucked down on his bottom lip. He was thinking. I hadn’t known Martin for long, his family had only moved to The Avenue last year, but I knew him to be a quiet, thoughtful person.

“Why don’t we try it?” he suddenly blurted.

I must have gaped open-mouthed. It made the poor boy blush to his roots. “W-what do you mean?” I asked, although his question had been clear enough.

He ran his tongue around his lips. “Try it. To see what it’s like.”

I sucked down a laugh. “I already know what it feels like, thank you very much,” I tried to make light of it, but there was definitely tension in the air.

“Why not?” I thought I detected a pleading look in his eyes.

I don’t suppose I was much of a man of the world in those days (not like now of course) and I knew nothing of men’s desires. As kids we had often exchanged experiences of our spankings. At school it was the done thing after a caning to go down to the bogs to whip down your trousers and pants and show off your marks.

I asked Martin, “Have you ever been spanked?” It was a daft question. He wouldn’t want to try it out to see how it felt if he had.

Maybe it was my boredom. Perhaps it was a genuine attempt to help a fellow man gain experience in life. Whatever the reason, I said, “Okay then. Why not?”

“Where shall we do it?” Martin almost danced with excitement.

“In the lounge. There’s more room.”

Martin’s eyes blazed with gratitude. He took the paddle in both hands and handed it to me, as if it were a religious relic.

I led the way into the lounge. It was a typical living room, I suppose. There was a sofa and a couple of armchairs and cupboards. We had a separate dining room where we ate our meals. I stood in the middle of the room trying to plan my next move. When Dad spanked me he usually sat in one of the straight backed dining chairs that had no arms. These were in the other room. I was about to tell Martin we needed to go next door when he blurted out, “There! The armchair. You sit in it and I’ll bend over your knee.” He was almost licking his lips. I didn’t have the heart to argue. I could already see that the chair would be too cramped for me to get a decent swing of the paddle at his bum.

I sat in the chair and perched my own buttocks on the edge of the seat cushion. In his eagerness to be spanked, Martin didn’t give me a chance to spread my legs to create a decent platform for him to bend across. For an eighteen-year-old who had never been spanked before he knew the drill. I had hardly sat down before he stood to my right side and lowered himself across my knee. Inside a second he had his hands pressed into the carpet. His knees were straight and the toes of his trainers brushed the floor. His bum was at an angle over my thigh.

The arms of the chair boxed me in and I couldn’t get a decent swing with the paddle. This relived me a little. When I agreed to spank Martin I hadn’t given any thought to how he would react. Done properly a paddling is very painful. I know, Dad was an expert. God knows he had plenty of practice with me and my two brothers. Would Martin howl the house down?

I gripped the paddle in my right fist. Martin was about the same height as me and a bit podgy. His thighs and backside were well padded. The jeans he wore were not well fitting and his bottom was not well defined. The denim material was thick and would give him some protection from the paddle. That suited me. I didn’t want to hurt Martin. He wriggled his bottom as if to encourage me to get on with it. I took the hint and raised the paddle blade about six inches above his bum and smacked it into his left cheek. Martin didn’t react. I waited maybe ten seconds then hit the right buttock.

Martin’s sigh of disappointment could probably be heard across the street. He turned his head so he could see me as best he could. “C’mon. Not like that, do it properly.” He was right in his criticism. I had delivered love taps. The youngest, weakest kid wouldn’t feel a thing. Martin stared down at the floor again. I saw his buttocks tense in anticipation. I gripped the paddle hard. I raised it high. Then I stopped. “Bugger this for a game of soldiers,” I exhaled. “Get up. Go on, stand up.”

Martin stayed across my knee and began a protest from his prone position.

I smacked the palm of my hand into the seat of his jeans and then rubbed his left buttock. “This is no good. These jeans are too thick. You won’t feel a thing. Stand up. Take them down. Then get back over my knee.”

With eagerness, Martin sprang to his feet. He stood before me. His face was flushed and his bright blue eyes watered. “Take them down?” Martin sought confirmation. There was no hint of apprehension in his voice. He was not anxious. He couldn’t wait to get back over my knee.

“Yes,” I confirmed. “Jeans down to your ankles. Then back over.” I felt ridiculous. I had never spanked a friend before. Why should I? Who would. I remembered the stories we used to read about boarding schools where the older prefects would cane the younger boys. Perhaps it wasn’t such a strange idea after all. But Martin had done nothing to deserve a spanking.

My train of thought was interrupted. Martin had unbuckled his belt, pulled the zipper and pushed his jeans to his shins. I tried not to notice the significant bulge in the front of his bright-red Y-fronts as once more he lowered himself across my knee. The cotton underpants fitted his bum much better than the jeans. They lifted and separated each cheek and dug into his crack. I was no expert but I would say his bum was perfectly presented for the spanking I was about to give him.

“I’m going to do this hard,” I threatened, as I tapped the paddle across the fleshiest part of his left cheek. “Hard as you can,” he answered, gritting his teeth for the blow. His whole body tensed in anticipation. I saw this as a dare. I had promised full-force, now I would have to deliver. I tapped some more, marvelling at the impression the paddle made against the snug cotton pants. I also enjoyed how Martin’s buttock cheeks clenched and then hardened like a rubber ball. Tap-tap-tap. Swat! I let fly. Even in my confined space It was a whopper! The paddle struck the surface of his bum, then sank into the flesh before raising out again. Martin gasped. His hips wriggled and his head bounced up and down. There was no doubt: he felt that.

There was a long pause. It probably wasn’t for more than few seconds, but it felt like forever. I could see Martin’s buttocks twitching, almost impatiently, waiting for the next stinging blow. He must have been thinking about this for years, imagining how it would feel to be bent submissively across someone’s knee and spanked on his naughty little bottom.

I took aim again and landed the paddle across the other cheek. A sonic boom echoed around the room. It was so enormous. I couldn’t remember my own spanking sounding like that. For one absurd moment I feared the neighbours would hear. Luckily, the houses in The Avenue were detached from one another with sizeable gardens between them.

Martin did the wriggling thing again so I gripped him tightly around the waist. He wasn’t going anywhere; not until I said so. He had made his bed, he must lie in it. He wanted a spanking and a spanking was what he was getting. I knew by now, even after only two swats, his bum would be slowly burning. As I delivered each new swat that would morph into a sharp biting feeling. The pain would grow until it felt like I had rubbed his bare bum with a Mum’s red hot iron.

I looked down at Martin. His head was neighing from side to side. Those beautiful blue eyes were huge, nearly bulging out of his head. “Are you all right?” I asked. He gasped. “Yeah, I’m fine. Holy cow that hurt! I can’t believe it.” Tears welled in his eyes.

“Good,” I growled, “It’s supposed to hurt,” and I pounded the third swat into his tender bum.

I lifted the paddle again. It was some weight and harder to manoeuvre with one hand than I had expected. Martin was wriggling a bit, but – brave boy that he was – he kept his bottom aligned across my thigh. He was probably in agony, but Martin was determined to see this through to the bitter end. His pants had ridden up further into his crack and the lower half of his buttocks was bare. I thought about ripping down his pants so his bum was completely naked. I was wise to control my urge. I don’t think Martin could have endured that: not on his first spanking.

I grinned, remembering how much Dad’s spankings had hurt me. I felt a strange power, being in control over Martin. I realised I liked it a very great deal. I walloped him again twice in quick succession rat-a-tat, cutting across the bare part of his buttocks. I felt the firmer. meatier, deeper part of his bum as it resisted the paddle, causing the board to bounce off his bottom.

Martin’s deep-throated howl scared me. I released my grip on his waist and he rolled off my lap, he rested a second face-down on the carpet, gasping for air like a beached dolphin. Before I could stand myself he was up on his feet, his hands grasping his battered bottom. Tears flowed easily and he hopped up and down. I had never done that after a spanking. I had assumed only characters in the comics did such a thing.

I knew from my own experience the burning agony Martin was suffering would very quickly die down to become a constant throbbing. Within minutes it would be a dull ache. It would be uncomfortable for him to sit on a hard surface for an hour or two and there would be bruises for some days. Apart from that he would live.

Martin soon calmed down and stood rubbing his bum while trying to peer over his shoulder to get a good look at it. He soon realised that with his pants still up he couldn’t see a thing.

“I have to go now,” he gasped as he tugged his jeans up and buckled his belt. Before I could say a word he was at the front door and away. I stood at the window and watched as he ran down the drive towards his home. I imagined in a few moments time he would be in his bedroom with his jeans and pants down, pointing his bottom at the mirror. It didn’t occur to me at the time that he would probably also have one of the most satisfactory wanks of his young life.

Martin never asked me to spank him again. That was a pity because I had really enjoyed it. I had unexpectedly discovered an important side of my personality. When Martin came over to my house we sometimes looked wistfully at the door to the cupboard under the stairs. We didn’t need words to express what we shared.

I went to the local university and Martin went to one up North. I don’t think he got on with his parents because he never returned to Brocklehurst. We never saw each other again after that summer. I don’t know what became of Martin, but hey pal if you’re reading this, please get in touch – for old time’s sake.

Picture credit: Man’s Hand Films

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

My Friend Justin

z used school longs after (8)

“What did I say would happen if you scored a B+ in your English essay? What did I say?”

“Spanking. You said you’d give me a spanking.”

“Yes, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

Justin was the best friend anyone could ever have. We were eighteen years old at the time and had known each other all our lives. We’d grown up on the same street, played with the same children and attended the same school.

So, when I had to unburden myself of a secret, one that had been eating away at me for years, he was the one I told.

He was brilliant; he didn’t say I was queer or anything like that. He just asked me for all the details. And, then he came up with a plan.

Well, where do I start? I told him that I wanted to be spanked, but I did feel I had to make it clear I didn’t want to be spanked by him especially, which was true. I didn’t fancy him at all, still don’t actually.

I fantasied about being spanked by older men. There was one dream I kept having; it involved a teacher at school. Mr King his name was. A right old fossil; he must have been sixty if he was a day. I wanted him to cane me in front of the whole class: all my sixth-form mates. I was dressed in my school uniform; black blazer, dark grey long trousers, grey shirt, and I would, on his command, submissively undo my leather belt, pull the buttons on my trousers and let them drop to my knees.

Then, when he told me to I had to bend over a table, head to the front, legs to the back, with my bum positioned high over the top.

Then, he would pull my gleaming white underpants so tight they stretched over my buttocks and then slowly he would swish his whippy cane, the one with a curved handle, into my taut little bum. That fantasy got me every time. It’s getting me again, even as I am writing this all these years later.

I was too embarrassed to tell anyone about this; but now as I get older I realise that every adolescent male has these fantasies; the only difference between me and most others is that they were dreaming of the French mistress spanking them.

Despite my wicked fetish for spanking there was not much I could do about it. Corporal punishment had been abolished in schools years earlier, so I could not engineer a caning or a slippering. Gone were the days when I could make sure I got caught smoking a cigarette behind the bike sheds so I would end up touching my toes in the Year Master’s office. If that were only possible, I would be a twenty-a-day man believe me.

I couldn’t get spanked at home. My dad was a bit of a wimp to be honest and he pretty much let me get away with anything. Not that I was a wicked kid, I wasn’t, but maybe he could have bent me over the armchair and taken his belt to the seat of my jeans when I was cheeky, or worse insolent; which was often.

I had tried to raise spanking with my friends, but was too inept to do it. I do remember when we were very young, seven or eight maybe, the girls in the street were playing “schools” and someone talked about “getting the cane.” Even then, something inside me stirred at the mention of corporal punishment, but I was too young to understand and, of course, my fetish hadn’t really developed at that age.

I used to read lots of comics, we all did in those days, and especially went for the stories where the naughty boys (who remembers Roger the Dodger or Dirty Dick?) ended up in the last frame of the story pictured across dad’s knee for a spanking with the slipper. Come to think of it there were plenty of stories about naughty girls (Beryl the Peril, Minnie the Minx come to mind) who also ended up over dad’s knee. Try writing kids’ comics like that today: how innocent we were then.

Once when I was a bit older, Brian, a friend of a friend, and I were at my house and we acted out stories from the comics, but when it came to the smacked bottom scene we were both too timid to go through with it. Looking back, I suspect Brian was as disappointed as me that we didn’t.

I did go on the Internet to find spanking porn. It was not quite as advanced as it is today, so you couldn’t get videos, but I did find some pictures. One set that really got me going was about a dad who found his son dressed only in his underpants reading a porn mag and dragged him into the bedroom. The boy must have been twenty years old but that didn’t stop his dad. Then, with his pants around his ankles, the boy gets a butt blistering from dad’s hairbrush. Yep! That had me squirting my jizz.

I told Justin about my spanking desires one afternoon after school when we were around his place. He was a “single parent” child and his ma worked long hours for crap pay at a factory, so he had the house to himself a lot.

“So do you want me to spank you? Is that it?”

I couldn’t believe it. He had the same desires as me. My face must have gone scarlet and my reply was mumbled incoherently.

“I’ll take that for a Yes, shall I?” he laughed.

“Only if you want to,” I eventually stuttered.

I learned over the years to come that Justin was completely unshockable. He wasn’t the least turned on by the thought of spanking me or being spanked by me. If I had said I wanted a sex change to become a woman, he would have reacted in the same cool, matter-of-fact way. He would probably have asked me what the procedure involved and how much it would cost, but he wouldn’t have judged me.

“What have you done to earn a spanking?”

I hadn’t expected this question and rushed to think of some naughtiness I had committed.

“I’ve been rude to my ma,” was the best that I could come up with.

He laughed again. Looking back he was always laughing, “So what’s new about that? No, you have to do something to earn the spanking.”

I didn’t understand at first, but then I hadn’t realised that Justin might one day make an expert psychologist.

He explained, “You want to be spanked, so you have to do something to earn it: something that you should do but wouldn’t normally do.”

I wasn’t following, so he went on.

“Say in the old days your dad might say, ‘If you don’t clean up your room, it’s my slipper for you, my lad.’ If you didn’t want a spanking you’d clean up the room; but if you did want the slipper, you wouldn’t. So, the room would not get cleaned up and you get spanked. So, you have achieved your wish, but your dad has failed in getting the room cleaned. Are you with me so far?”

Not really, so he went on.

“But, say you want to be spanked and your dad wants the room cleaned; the best thing for both of you is for him to say, ‘Clean up the room and if you do it well, I’ll take you across my knee and tan your arse with my slipper.’ Get me now?”

I was beginning to. “So I have to do something that I should do but I am not doing and if I do it then I get spanked.”

It was as clear as mud.

“Look,” Justin was on a roll and could not be stopped. “You are not a good student. It’s a fact, don’t argue. You are bright, but you don’t work, so you will fail your exams. Let’s say, if you pass your A-levels, I’ll spank you. It’ll be an incentive for you to work hard.”

Okay, I got it now, but the A-levels were months away and I told him so. I wanted my spanking now; preferably this evening before his ma came home.

But, it was not to be. Instead, we compromised. There was an essay due in this week for the English Literature course that I was failing. Justin’s plan was if I got a mark of B+ or more, I would be rewarded by him with several marks across my backside, courtesy of a large wooden clothes brush. A deal had been sealed.

I had hardly ever worked so hard on a school essay; I even read the set book, rather than the “crib” notes, that’s how keen I was to get a good grade.

Mr Archer, our English Lit teacher, made a snide comment when he returned my essay. “B+, had a little help David?” Yes, I had, but not in the way he meant.

Justin laughed.

We hadn’t spoken about our deal since the moment we made it and I wasn’t sure if he intended to stick to the bargain. Then, in the middle of the lesson, he lent across to me and whispered. “My place, four o’clock.”

I couldn’t concentrate on my work for the rest of the day; there was nothing new in that, but this time it was because of the anticipation of what was to come. In the past few days, I had fantasised about what would happen, but much as I liked Justin, I should have preferred it if my spanker were an older man. Actually, come to think of it, it would have been more pleasurable if Mr Archer really did believe I had cheated on my essay and threw me across his knee as punishment.

I was eager and arrived too early at Justin’s house and had to wait on the doorstep until he got home. He had, of course, stopped off at the library after classes ended.

Justin could see I was nervous. Was he nervous too? Looking back I can see the absurdity of it; one eighteen-year-old was about to take another across his knee and spank him. When did that ever happen in real life?

I watched as Justin rummaged through a drawer and found what he was looking for. Then he turned to me, clothes brush in hand.

“What did I say would happen if you scored a B+ in your English essay? What did I say?”

“Spanking. You said you’d give me a spanking.”

“Yes, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do. Take off your blazer and put it on the table.”

While I was taking off my blazer, Justin did the same, and then he took a wooden backed chair and placed it in the middle of the room. My pulse was racing; this really was going to happen. I could feel my cock stirring in my trousers, God, I hadn’t thought about that; I am going to pop wood.

He sat down in the chair, “Come stand there,” he pointed to a spot to his right. I moved, breathing heavily. I had just realised we hadn’t discussed how he was going to spank me; do my trousers come down? If they do, he’ll see my todger is standing to attention like a soldier on sentry duty.

He snapped his fingers. “Bend over my knee.”

I hesitated. I could see Justin’s legs in front of me, they were thin and spindly, as you might expect from someone his age. In my dreams the laps of my spankers were always huge and well-padded. I wasn’t sure this was right at all.

I think Justin must have misread my hesitation. “Do you want to call it off?”

No, I did not. Without a word, I lowered myself over his knee. Again, it wasn’t quite as I expected. I was too close to the floor. In my dreams I suppose I was a little kid, not a strapping eighteen-year-old sixth-form schoolboy.

“Ouch!” I couldn’t help but cry out as the first whack hit me in the middle of my left buttock, followed almost immediately by another on the right. Then another. And another.

Jeez, it hurt! I gasped at the shock of it. I found myself wriggling involuntarily over Justin’s lap. I was in pain, but it wasn’t agony. My bum stung a lot, but quickly it turned to a warm glow.

Justin wasn’t acting, they weren’t love taps he was giving me these were proper wallops with the brush. He was crashing the wood into my trouser-covered buttocks with great force. I was gasping for air as my blood pressure rose. Blood was also surging to my cock and my hard-on was now raging.

Justin giggled, “Oh, you’re enjoying this are you?” and he carried on whacking my bum with renewed vigour, whacking three stinging spanks on one side of my bum, three on the other side and then a real hard thwack on my sit spot. Then he did it all over again.

I was losing control, my reflect movements had me bucking and kicking and struggling to get off his lap but he held on tight and kept spanking me.

And then the inevitable happened: I was beginning to orgasm; I shot my load, creaming my underpants and my trousers.

“You dirty bugger!” Justin snorted, stopped spanking me and pushed me off his lap so that I tumbled to the floor. My hands went to my arse to rub at the pain as I circled around on the carpet, kicking my legs.

“Ow! Ow! Ow!” I cried. I was in pain, but not much. Despite the intensity of Justin’s spanking, my trousers and pants had given me considerable protection. As I would learn in future, had he spanked me that hard with such a heavy brush on my bare bum, it would be ripped to shreds by now.

Justin was off the chair and doubled over with mirth. At that moment we heard a click at the front door and a cry, “Just. are you home?”

I jumped to my feet and noticed how large the stain was on the front of my trousers, just as Justin’s ma came into the room. I fled the house in embarrassment, leaving my pal to explain to his ma what was going on.

At home I admired Justin’s handiwork in the mirror. My bum was dark pink and some bluish bruises had formed at the end of my cheeks. The imprint of the brush was distinct where he had spanked my thighs. The sight of my battered bum set my todger off again and I grabbed a handful of tissues and lay on the bed.

I have a lot to thank my great friend Justin for; not least my success in my A-level exams; but that’s another story … or six.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com