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

 

Mr Hennessey’s Boys: The hotel suite

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It was all very simple. There was never anything complicated about it. Everything was organised well. All we had to do was turn up at the right place at the appointed time and let him do it.

I did it four times, then I suppose he got bored with me and he got someone else. He probably had more than one of us on the go at any one time, anyway.

I have no regrets. I’m not telling you this story because I feel outraged or injured. I’m not. I wasn’t. Well, ha! ha! I supposed I was ‘injured’ a little. If you get my meaning. I mean it’s supposed to hurt, isn’t it? Isn’t that the point of it all?

I wasn’t the only one. By the end there was quite a gang of us from Brocklehurst Sixth Form College. If you don’t know, a sixth-form college is where kids go if they leave school at sixteen. You can do A-level exams or vocational courses. It’s a lot less formal than school. There are no uniforms and you call teachers lecturers. You are students, not pupils. In some colleges lecturers let you call them by their first names. Students’ ages range from sixteen up to nineteen.

The people involved in my story were all eighteen at least. You had to be. So it was legal. A man called Mr Hennessey arranged it all. It was mostly by word of mouth. It was only boys. No girls required. I think ‘Mr Hennessey’ was his real name. Nobody thought to question him. Why bother? He seemed pretty legit.

At first he got one or two boys working for him and then they kind of recommended others. It was done very quietly. When I was dropped, I suggested a couple of other lads. I got what they called a ‘finder’s fee’ for that.

We were well paid for our trouble. Very well paid. One evening’s work was worth about a month’s pay flipping burgers or filling supermarket shelves. When I say  ‘evening’ I mostly mean a couple of hours.

We all said we did it for the money. That’s all. We said it’s a ‘gay thing’ isn’t it? None of us were gay. Not that there’s anything wrong with being gay etc etc. But I’m not gay and that’s just a fact. So, we said, we didn’t do it for pleasure. It was just the money. And, I think, the excitement. It felt dangerous. Something you wouldn’t want your mum and dad to find out about.

Mr Hennessey arranged everything. He was most particular about your age. Eighteen and above only. I had trouble convincing him. I look a little younger than I am. To be honest I was getting away with paying the under-sixteen fare on the buses. He didn’t believe me. I didn’t have a passport or driving licence. He said the birth certificate I showed him could have been for anybody. In the end I signed up for a provisional driving licence and away I went.

He was happy then. He said I would be very welcome. “Cheeky grin. Fabulous arse,” he said. Those were the requirements. If you didn’t have the grin, you might get away with just the fabulous arse. But I had both.

Mr Hennessey wanted me for a particular client. Mr Bradshaw. I don’t know anything about him. I don’t suppose he’s name’s really Mr Bradshaw. He looked like he was made of money. He used a suite at the Excelsior Hotel. Do you know it? It’s that new luxury hotel that stands where the library and civic centre used to be.

I had to sign some legal document. It said I was doing this of my own free will. Which I was. I was up for it alright. I did have my doubts at first, of course I did. My pal Ryan had been a few times and he was the one who passed my name on. He told me what happened. What you had to do. How you earned your money.

I’d never done anything like this before. Who had? I had concerns: would it hurt (much)? Did I have to take my clothes off? Did Mr Bradshaw do anything else, like … well you know? Ryan told me it all. It helped me. “Tell you what,” he said, “Why don’t we have a run-through, a kind of rehearsal?”

It seemed a good idea. So we met up at his house after college finished and before his folks got home from work. Have you ever been spanked? No, me neither. People don’t these days do they. I must say I felt a bit of a twit when Ryan took me into his living room. He sat himself down on a dining chair, spread his legs, patted his thigh and said, “Right lad, bend over.”

I gaped a bit. I know I coloured up (in a manner of speaking). I felt my face burn. I just stopped myself from laughing. “Come on,” Ryan said, kindly, “This is the whole point. It’s what you have to do. It’s what you get paid for.” He smiled broadly and added, “A lot of money.” I still looked dubious. “Come on,” Ryan encouraged, “Bend over my knee, like a good naughty boy.”

I’d never done this before and wasn’t sure how it was done. I looked down at Ryan’s knees. He was a slim guy and they were very bony. He parted his legs a little to make a platform for me to lean across. I went on autopilot and proceeded on instinct. I leaned down and rested the palms of my hand on his right leg, bent my legs and eased myself down. “Stretch your arms out and rest your hands on the carpet,” Ryan said helpfully.

I did this and my back arched. My legs dangled behind me and the toes of my shoes just about brushed the floor. My bum was raised at an angle over his thigh. “Purr-fect, just purr-fect,” he laughed. “What a lovely little botty-wotty you have.” He started to caress, first my right buttock and then my left. He was feeling me up.

“Oi!” I exclaimed. It was an instinctive cry, I wasn’t thinking.

Ryan was calm, “It’s what he’ll do,” he told me. “Give you a good rub.” He patted the fleshiest part of my bottom. “You’ve still got your jeans on. Just wait until you’re bare-arsed over his knee.” He could see my discomfort. He laughed, “Don’t worry, you soon get used to it.”

He slapped his hand into the seat of my jeans. He hit me hard, but with the denim and my underpants I hardly felt a thing. He spanked me like this for a minute or so and then stopped. I lay face-down, unsure what I was supposed to do. Was that it? Was there nothing more? Really? It was money for jam.

Except, of course, it wasn’t. “Stand up. Take down your jeans. Back over.” He pushed me in my midriff to encourage me to stand. Once upright my embarrassment returned. Jeans down! I hesitated a little too long. Ryan grimaced, “It’s the deal. Jeans. Pants. Bare-arsed. If you’re not up to it, you need to tell Mr Hennessey. You can’t chicken out on a client.”

My pride was hurt. I knew Ryan had been through this and one or two of my other mates at college. If they could do it, well so would I. Odd though it may seem to you, it was an honour thing. Like being in a gang, but without the drugs and knives. I steadied my nerves and reached for my belt buckle.

Ryan put me through my paces. He spanked me with his hand as hard as he could. It hurt, but not much. I was a fit eighteen-year-old with buns of steel. He was never going to do me much damage. The wooden clothes brush he then used on me was something else. It was heavy and had a large oval-shaped dead. Just a couple of whacks with that had me squirming across his knees. Ryan had to grip me hard around the waist to stop me falling to the floor. I squirmed and I hollered. “Good boy,” Ryan encouraged me, “That’s the way to do it. Make a show.” He thought I was play-acting. Believe me I was not.

When he let off and I was hopping from foot to foot and rubbing away at the sting in my backside I didn’t appreciate how grateful I would later be to Ryan.  He taught me the ropes. Not that ropes were involved, there was none of that monkey business, just honest to goodness spanking (oh, and the whippy rattan cane, of course).

Despite my training I was very nervous the first time I visited Mr Bradshaw. Mr Hennessey had set it up and he told me exactly what was expected. What the limits were. I went in with my eyes wide open. No complaints. No regrets.

I was given the number of Mr Bradshaw’s suite and told to go straight there without stopping off at reception. Easier said than done. An eighteen-year-old black kid sticks out like a sore thumb in a posh hotel. The security man pounced. If he had been wearing a side arm, he would have drawn it and plugged me. But this was Brocklehurst, not Chicago. He just verbally assaulted me. I mentioned Mr Bradshaw by name. The security guard’s nose twisted like he was getting the stink of shit from off my shoe. He waved me on. It hurt him to do it, but Mr Bradshaw was a rich guest and hotels in Brocklehurst could not afford to be too choosy.

I studied my reflection in the mirror in the lift. My skin shone. Maybe I’d overdone the body lotion. Smooth skin, I had been told. That’s what Mr Bradshaw most desired. And no tattoos. I was sweating like a pig even though it was a cool evening. The lift pinged and I had reached the correct floor. The door opened. I stood rooted. I could not move. My nerve had gone. The door closed. The lift stood motionless. My heart was trying to escape through my chest. My head spun. I closed my eyes tight. I had come this far. I couldn’t back down now. I couldn’t chicken out. Ryan and the guys would never let me hear the end of it. With a hand shaking like I had a palsy, I stabbed the door-open button and hauled myself out of the lift.

Mr Bradshaw’s suite was opposite. I took two deep breaths, strode purposefully towards the door and with more strength than I intended I hammered on it. Mr Bradshaw might have thought I was the police about to raid the joint. He took some time before he opened up. Maybe he was hiding the incriminating evidence from view. Eventually the door inched open.

Mr Bradshaw was a man in his fifties. He had lost much of his hair and his face betrayed the easy life he had led. I was later to discover that his hands were as soft as a baby’s. He looked at me, failing to hide his surprise. Had Mr Hennessey not told him I was black? He recovered himself quickly and flew open the door. As I entered, Mr Bradshaw stepped into the corridor, before following me into the room.

I’d never been inside a hotel suite before, so I had nothing to compare it to. It seemed opulent. There were at least two rooms and a bathroom. The main living area seemed as big as the council flat I lived in. Mr Bradshaw stood and watched as I lay down my backpack. His tongue darted out of closed lips, “Have you brought everything?” he almost drooled. I had been given a list of requirements. Mr Hennessey was a very thorough man.

Mr Bradshaw proved to be a man of few words. In all the times I visited he never engaged in small talk. It was right down to business. “You can change in there.” He nodded towards the bedroom. I picked up my bag and hurried away. There was a full-length mirror in the corner of the room. I caught myself staring back at me. I couldn’t stop myself laughing. What a lark! I shook my head as if to say, “Who would believe this if I ever told them?”

I opened the backpack. I tugged out a pair of pyjamas. They were brand new, I never wore jim-jams in real life? Did anybody over the age of eight? I lay them on the bed. Then I took out the school blazer. I shook it to get rid of creases and held it up to the light. This was the real deal. Green-and-gold, just like the ones they wore at St Francis Academy. I took a hanger from the wardrobe and hung it up. Then I retrieved the grey-short trousers from the bag and the knee-length socks. I was nearly ready. But something was missing. I cursed myself. I had left it behind. A very important item. Damn and Blast! Mr Bradshaw would be annoyed. In my anger I took hold of the backpack and tipped it up and shook. To my relief the green-and-gold striped school tie slithered onto the bed.

I kicked off my shoes, pulled the t-shirt over my head and slipped down my jeans. I admired my physique in the mirror. I was quite a sight – a dish, even if I say so myself. Even though I was wearing old-fashioned white Y-front underpants. I slipped my thumbs into the waistband and with a flick of the wrists sent them to my feet. I stepped out of them and hesitated. Should I keep the socks on? I actually laughed out loud at myself. I sat on the bed and tugged them off. I was now as naked as the day I was born.

I stood and admired my taut, hairless, smooth – and shining – body. My soft, uncut cock hung between my thighs.  “Come and get it girls,” I grinned. Time was passing and Mr Bradshaw was probably raring to go next door. I picked up the pyjama bottoms, stepped into them, pulled them up and tied the drawstring. I climbed into the jacket and rippled the muscles in my stomach before I buttoned up. I took another look in the mirror. Yes, I told myself, I’m good to go.

Mr Hennessey had given me instructions. There wasn’t much of what he called a “scenario”. I wasn’t expected to do much, except let Mr Bradshaw get on with it. I was expected to knock on the door and wait until told to enter. I took a final look in that mirror. God, I was tasty. I rubbed sweat from my palms, took a deep breath, counted slowly from one to five and knocked. My head buzzed, the room began to spin.

It seemed like an eternity. At last he called, “Come in!” I pushed open the door. Mr Bradshaw was sat on a straight-backed armless chair. He was formally dressed but had no jacket. He could have been your boss at work. “Come in Alexander,” he called. I had no idea who “Alexander” was, it’s certainly not my name. That wasn’t me. It made what happened next seem more surreal. “You know why you’re here,” he said. I didn’t, but it wasn’t my place to tell him.

I hesitated in the doorway. My head was light. I didn’t feel as if I was in the room. I was somewhere else. A long way off. Looking down on this scene. Like I was in a helicopter, or some such. Is this what they mean by an out-of-body experience?

Mr Bradshaw snapped his fingers. “Stand there, Alexander.” He pointed to a spot by the chair. I don’t know how I managed it, but I got my body to stand where commanded. My heart thumped so loud I was sure Mr Bradshaw could hear it. He slowly examined me with his eyes, travelling from the soles of my bare feet to the top of my shaved head. Then he lowered his eyes and lingered over the waistband of my pyjamas.

“Take down your pyjama bottoms, Alexander.”

The room was spinning. What was going on with me? I got hold of the drawstring and pulled. Rather than loosen my waistband I tightened it. My PJ’s were not coming down. Mr Bradshaw frowned; then he tut-tutted. He was loosing patience. I tugged and tugged. Did anyone have a knife? That would do it. Cut the drawstring. All kinds of absurd ideas swirled through my mind. Suddenly with a lurch, the drawstring gave. The front of my pyjama bottoms gaped open. They slid over my buttocks and held. Mr Bradshaw did that thing with his tongue poking through his mouth again as he ogled my long, thin soft cock.

I wriggled my hips and the pyjamas slithered down my thighs and bunched at my shins. Mr Bradshaw still gazed at my cock. I caught a faint aroma of some expensive aftershave or deodorant. He cleared his throat raucously, then said, “Bend over my knee, Alexander.”

Who the hell was Alexander! It worried me. Had he got the wrong boy? Was he expecting someone else? Had Mr Hennessey got his arrangements wrong? My head was in a whirl. I hesitated.

“Now, lad!” Mr Bradshaw barked. I came to. In one swift athletic move (I had practiced this with Ryan) I was across his knees. My head was low, my bottom high. My face was close to the carpet. Mr Bradshaw cupped the palm of his hand and with it gently traced the curve of my rock-hard left buttock. He was so gentle, it sent a shiver through my body. He did the same with the other cheek, making sure he traced the entire curves, across the peaks, up to the tops and into the undercurves. He lingered around my crack.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

His first time

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z used cane father bare bed darrien (1a)

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

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

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

A startling conversation

new story 2

Tom peered across at his roommate stretched out on the bed opposite. “Have you ever been spanked?”

Jake stared up at the swirling ceiling, “What do you mean?”

“What do I mean? Spanked.”

“What like …” he trailed off, unable to think of an example.

“Like, come here you naughty boy, bend over my knee. Smack. Smack. Smack.”

“Oh.” A long pause. “No, I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so?”

“No.”

“Isn’t it something you’d remember? Pushed over the back of the chair. Trousers taken down. Walloped with a belt.”

“Oh, I see.” Jake closed his eyes to stop the room moving around.”

A long pause.

“Of course, they can’t cane you at school. Not anymore. Not for years, actually.”

“No?”

“They used to do it all the time. Six-of-the-best on the arse, y’know.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” A very long pause. “Years ago,” Tom sighed wistfully.

Jake risked opening his eyes again. The room seemed a little steadier now. He turned and rested on his elbow. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you asking?”

“Why not?” A very pregnant pause. “I want to spank you.”

Jake snorted. “Spank me! Why what have I done?” he rolled on his back in fits of giggles.

“You don’t have to have done anything, but it’s better if you have.”

“Better?”

“Yes, if you had been naughty,” he gagged a little.

“Oh ….”

“Have you?”

“Have I what?”

“Been a bad lad?” A long pause. “Missing lectures. Drunk. You pissed in that shop doorway the other night.”

Jake couldn’t control the giggles, “I’ve been a wery norky likkle boy.”

“Good, then you should be spanked.”

“No thank you!”

“Go on, it’ll be fun.”

“Fun! You’re blasted. No way!”

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”

“Yeah right! You try it.”

“Alright, come here.” Tom hauled himself from the bed and lurched across the room.

“No, no, I was joking,” more giggling.

“You should be spanked.” Tom gripped Jake by the arm and forced him to his feet. Tom stumbled back onto the bed, his buttocks bouncing on the heavy mattress. He pulled his roommate face down across his knees and slapped the palm of his hand hard into the seat of his heavy cotton shorts.

“Geroff!” Jake wriggled and writhed, his piercing giggles rebounding around the tiny dorm room.

Tom spanked on and on. “Nah, this is useless. You can’t feel a thing.”

“I can! I can!” Still giggling. “Ouch, ouch, ouch.”

“Get up.” Tom helped Jake to his feet. Satisfied that he wasn’t himself about to topple to the floor, he reached across to a shelf and grabbed the clothes brush there. Then, in a single movement he pulled Jake back over his knees and dragged him so his legs were spread out across the mattress.

“That’s more like it,” Tom sang. “Now let’s get these shorts down.” Jake gave no resistance as Tom bared his bottom.

“It’s not a proper spanking unless it’s on the bare.” He bounced the wooden brush into Jake’s chubby buttocks.

“Ouch, ouch, ouch,” the cries were genuine this time.

In the room next door, Ted’s ears pricked up at the sound. And shortly after, so did his dick.

z used youngsters skaterspankdotcom (4)

Picture credit: Skaterspank dot com

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Cutting College

cane (6)

Mr Braithwaite closed the car door and strode the fifty yards to his house. A neighbour had phoned him at work to tell him what was going on. He was furious. When he got hold of his son there would be hell to pay.

There was his confirmation, even before he had the front door open. He could see Arthur through the window of the sitting room. He was lolling around on the settee, drinking beer with another lad. Damn! Mr Braithwaite slammed the door behind him. The brat was cutting college again. Well: there was only one thing to do now. The boy couldn’t say he hadn’t been warned.

He had been warned and more than once. Arthur was nineteen years old and on his second year at the community college. Well, he should have been on his second year. But he failed so many courses in year one, they made him retake the whole lot again.

Mr Braithwaite burst into the sitting room and the furious father let rip, “What did I say would happen if you cut classes again? What did I say?”

A startled Arthur could only mouth, “B..b..b..” before his father harangued him again.

“What did I say?” Mr Braithwaite shouted.

“Dad…” his son wailed, looking across the settee to his pal Tony. He had regained some power of speech but he did not want to have this conversation. Not now. Not in front of Tony.

“And who is this?” Mr Braithwaite waved his arm in the general direction of Tony, who blushed bright red at all the commotion.

Mr Braithwaite half knew the answer to his question. He had seen Tony once or twice at the off-licence where the boy sometimes worked. He remembered him because he thought the boy was a bit precious.

Arthur mumbled something about, “a friend from college”.

His father growled. He was determined to get an answer from his son. “What did I say would happen if you cut college again!” his voice had reached fever pitch.

Now, Arthur was equally as red in the face as his pal. He was sure he would die with the humiliation.

“But dad, please …” he implored.

“Doh!” his father answered his own question. “I said I would fetch that cane from the back of my wardrobe and I’d put it across your backside and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

“But dad …” Arthur tried to reason with his dad, but the man had already left the room and was striding up the stairs two at a time to his bedroom.

Arthur and Tony exchanged embarrassed stares, but no word was spoken.

Twenty seconds later, Mr Braithwaite returned to the room. His anger had not lessened. In his hand he clutched a whippy school-type cane.

Tony had never seen such a thing before. It was about three-feet-six long, as thick as a pencil and dark yellow in colour. It was curved at one end and the other end was frayed by much use. The boy’s mouth gaped as he watched Mr Braithwaite swish the rod through empty air fiercely. The cane was awesome. Where had it come from? Did they still make things like that? Maybe you could buy them on e-Bay.

Tony had so many questions, but the most important was: Did Mr Braithwaite really intend to beat Arthur with it?

“You,” Mr Braithwaite wobbled the cane in Tony’s face. “Get away from the settee,” he said before swishing the cane and pointing it at the opposite side of the room. “Go stand over there.”

Tony was transfixed by the sight of the rod slicing through the air. It looked a mightily effective cane. It would surely take any boy’s arse off.

Obediently, he moved from the couch, not daring to look at his pal, who was sweating profusely. Oh no! Arthur recoiled at the realisation; not only was dad going to cane him, he was going to do it in front of his best pal Tony.

“You,” he pointed the cane at his son. “Pick up the end of the settee and move it away from the wall.”

Arthur stared dolefully at his father. One more time he tried to make a protest. “Aww dad…” but the words would not come. His voice broke and desperately he tried to choke down a tear.

In seconds the settee was moved. Arthur stood mournfully. It needed no imagination to guess what would happen next. Please God! Arthur prayed silently, please don’t make me take down my trousers.

Twack!! Mr Braithwaite swiped the cane viciously across the back of the settee and a dust cloud rose.

“You,” he glared at his now ashen-faced son. “You, bend over that settee. You know how to do it.”

Tony stared down at the carpet, too embarrassed to witness his friend take two steps towards the settee and ease himself over.

“You,” Mr Braithwaite swished the cane at Tony, “Move over there – out of the way.”

Tony’s heart raced. Never before had he seen a cane in action and somehow he already knew the events of this day would stay with him forever.

He shuffled over to the bay window. Jesus. He realised anyone walking down the street could look in and see his nineteen-year-old pal stretched across the back of the couch his backside pointed upwards waiting for his dad to lash his backside raw with a whippy school cane.

The muscles in Arthur’s back flexed as he clutched a scatter cushion to his chest. The boy spent a little too much time in the gym. His entire body was firm and across much of his torso even his muscles had muscles.

He had buttocks of steel that filled out the fabric of his dark blue polyester ‘leisure pants’. They had fallen slightly down the top of his buttocks, exposing his green-and-yellow checked boxer shorts, but his father quickly dealt with that. It took one tug at the elasticated waistband and the seat of the trousers clung to the lad’s buttocks so tightly each cheek and his deep crack were clearly defined. It made a wonderful target for Mr Braithwaite to lash down his fearsome cane.

Tony watched fascinated as Mr Braithwaite positioned himself a cane’s length to the left of Arthur and very gently tapped the frayed tip of the rattan across the very centre of his son’s bottom. It was then that Tony realised this wasn’t the first time this little scenario had played out in Arthur’s sitting room.

Satisfied that he had his aim, Mr Braithwaite slowly raised the cane away from the stretched seat until it was above the height of his own shoulder then with an almighty swipe he sent it crashing down into Arthur’s rock-hard bum.

They might have been ‘buns of steel’ but that did not stop the cane penetrating deep into the boy’s nerve ends. He let out a breathless ‘whoop!’ and bit deep down into the scatter cushion to muffle the yell he really wanted to make.

Slash two followed immediately. Arthur’s legs stamped up and down in a useless attempt to stop the pain roaring from his bum across his whole body. Saliva dripped from the cushion as he stuffed it further into his mouth. No way was he going to yell out. No matter how much this thrashing hurt, he would not let himself down in front of Tony. And he wouldn’t give his dad the satisfaction of knowing he had wounded him.

Cuts three and four ripped into the lower part of his cheeks, just where they meet the thigh. They were the most painful cuts yet. The lad’s once ashen face was now bright scarlet, as was his neck. If he had eyes in his backside he would see both cheeks were scarred by four deep welts, which were already a dark pink in colour and would very quickly turn to horrible purple gashes.

Cuts five and six were aimed higher on the top of the curves. Now the boy’s buttocks had a half dozen deep welts running almost parallel from the top to bottom of the cheeks. The pain was astonishing. Blood coursed through Arthur’s body at the speed of sound and he was sure it would soon come rushing out through his nose. His breathing came in short pants, hindered by the scatter cushion that had made such an effective job in stifling his yells. Without it the boy would have screamed like a banshee: so loud that neighbours would be opening their front doors and coming onto the street to see where the murder was.

His arse felt like it was twice its normal size. Sitting down comfortably would be a big problem for some time to come and the cuts emblazoned into his backside would be visible for many days: there could be no visits to the gym for some considerable time.

But, despite his agony, he thought, he had not disgraced himself. He had taken the thrashing rather well, considering.

But it was not over yet. Mr Braithwaite misunderstood the situation. So, his son was not yelling and screaming and as yet although the lad’s face was puce and he was sweating buckets, clearly the punishment had not been severe enough.

“Well,” he growled, “Since you don’t seem to be making too much of a fuss, these should come down.” He gripped the waistband of the boy’s trousers and tugged them over his buttocks and down his thighs until the rested bunched up at his knees. Arthur closed his eyes tight and bit even deeper into the cushion.

The checked boxer shorts rose up the boy’s buttocks. Tony winced at the sight of the dark red ridges gouged across his friend’s handsome bum. What agony his poor friend must be in. Why was Arthur’s father so cruel to inflict such punishment?

Mr Braithwaite smoothed down the thin cotton material of the underwear, sending a further shockwave through his son’s body. Arthur braced himself for round two of the onslaught. Nothing he had experienced so far that afternoon could prepare him for what was to follow.

Mr Braithwaite gripped the cane just below the curved handle. His hold was so tight his knuckles started to go white. Then in a coolly calculated manoeuvre he brought the cane swiping down six times without pause. Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat. It was like machinegun fire as the sound of rattan biting deeply into tight flesh echoed around the small sitting room.

Then it was over. Mr Braithwaite stepped back from the couch to admire his handiwork. He saw his son, still prostrate across the back of the settee. His feet were stomping and he wriggled his hips from side to side. He was gulping in great gasps of air; like a beached whale, trying to force his lungs to work. His head was banging up and down head-butting the back of the settee. His face and neck were scarlet and his eyes glazed like monster’s.

“All right. That’s over. You may stand.” Mr Braithwaite was calm, almost kind.

Gingerly Arthur hauled himself to his feet. He grabbed onto the settee as he nearly toppled to the floor trying to pull up his trousers. Within seconds he was fully dressed. The intense agony he felt as each successive swipe had bitten into him had lessened. His buttocks still throbbed like crazy, but he knew very soon even that pain would ease. Much of his buttocks would be too tender to touch for a long time yet, but the worst was now over.

He stood not daring to look at either his father or his pal Tony. Involuntarily, tears welled behind his eyes and washed down his face.

“You!” Mr Braithwaite had not finished his work. He turned to face Tony. “Your turn now.”

Tony pushed past Arthur, exited the room, opened the front door and hurried up the street outside.

“Bah! Coward! You know he’s a poofter!” Mr Braithwaite sneered as he tossed the cane onto the settee. “I’m going back to work and you should get off to college.”

Seconds later he left the house. Gingerly, Arthur hobbled into the passageway and tugged down his trousers to inspect his toasted buns in the mirror. The whole of both buttocks was a deep red, with purplish bruises forming at the edges. Across the centre of his cheeks were twelve distinct cuts; some had overlapped others and droplets of blood seeped where they crossed. He was wondering where his mum kept the Germolene when the doorbell rang. Through the opaque glass Arthur could see the distinct figure of his pal Tony.

He opened the door to find a very sheepish friend hopping from one foot to the other in embarrassment.

“I thought you’d be half way to Sheffield by now,” Arthur grinned as he let his pal into the house.

For some moments the boys stood, unsure who should speak first. Eventually, Tony piped up. “Does it hurt?” he asked, nodding in the direction of Arthur’s backside.

“No, it tickles,” the boy growled but then seeing the hurt in Tony’s deep brown eyes, he relented. “No, it’s not so bad now. I’ll live.”

The two boys looked each other in the eye in companionable silence.

“C’mon, we didn’t finish the beers,” Tony said as he led the way into the sitting room.

Arthur stood shuffling his feet and Tony sat in an armchair while they slurped on their cans. Then Tony spotted the cane on the settee; he seemed transfixed by it.

“Of course, it’s all your fault,” Arthur nodded at his pal.

“What is?”

“This,” Arthur said holding both his hands against his buttocks as if trying to rub away the pain. “It was you who said we should cut college.”

Tony blushed. He had; but both boys had readily agreed to go to Arthur’s house for a bit of fun. He couldn’t be blamed for what happened next.

Arthur stooped down and picked up the cane and thoughtfully flexed it between both hands. It was very supple and he easily made it bend into an arc. Tony’s eyes followed Arthur’s hand as the boy swished the cane through the air. Tony’s mouth suddenly dried and he gulped on his beer.

“I think you should get the same as me,” Arthur stared intently at his friend to measure his reaction. Then he wobbled the cane in front of Tony. The boy’s round brown eyes shone. Arthur knew that look in his friend. He had seen him give similar looks before.

“So,” he swished the cane once more. “What do you say? Should I cane you?”

Tony knew his face had flushed. His breathing was tight as well. His heart beat faster with excitement.

“Well lad, what do you say?” It was a commanding order.

Tony stared down at the garishly-patterned carpet beneath his feet. “Yes, Sir,” he whispered.

“Speak up boy. Do you want me to thrash you?” Arthur rolled the word “thrash” around his tongue.

“Oh yes, Sir,” Tony whimpered. Arthur snorted. His friend could be such a wimp sometimes.

“Have you ever been caned before?”

Tony flushed, as if embarrassed by his answer, “Oh no, Sir.”

“Then this will be an awesome experience for you, won’t it?” Arthur realised he was loving this. It would be an awesome experience for them both.

“Shall we say six on the trousers and another six on the pants? Which pants are you wearing?”

“You know; those tight dark green ones.”

Arthur tapped the worn end of the cane against the wooden surface of the dining room table. “Bend over the table, boy.” He was enjoying himself. “I am going to thrash your bottom. Very. Hard. Indeed,” he tried to sound like an old-fashioned schoolmaster about to administer six-of-the-best to some misbehaving sixth-former.

Tony’s breathing quickened and his mind flooded with contradictory thoughts. He knew he wanted his pal Arthur to cane his backside; but he wasn’t sure he could take the pain that would result.

He shuffled forward to the table and bending at the waist he gipped its far edge.

“No, it’s better if you lay flat on your stomach,” Arthur clearly had more expertise in such matters than his pal.

Obediently, Tony repositioned himself so that his belly and chest rested on the table top and his legs stretched out behind him. This way his bottom was raised over the edge of the table at just the right angle for Arthur to lash the cane across the centre of both buttock cheeks.

Tony buried his face in his folded arms and waited for the intense pain to start.

Arthur swiped the cane through the air and observed his pal’s rounded buttocks clench and unclench and then clench again. Arthur had always thought Tony’s bum was his finest asset and having it presented to him in this way confirmed that view.

“Relax. Relax; it is better if you can relax your buttocks.” Arthur tapped the cane across the centre of his target.

It was easier said than done, but Tony gave it his best shot. But, if the mind was willing, the body was not. The buttocks continued to remain clenched.

“Are you ready?” Arthur’s kind question was met with a muffled groan from Tony’s mouth which was now buried deep in his arms.

Swish! Arthur’s first stroke caught his pal in the centre of the bum. Tony gasped, his head shot up and Arthur could see his pal’s beautiful brown eyes were shining.

“Keep still, now,” stoke number two landed a centimetre lower than the first. Despite his best efforts, Tony’ buttocks lifted off the table and he swung his hips from left to right in response to the pain now shooting down his legs.

Arthur smiled at his pal’s histrionics. He wasn’t caning the lad one-tenth as hard as his dad had beaten him. What a wimp.

The third stroke was met with a girlish shriek and “Ow, ow, ow.” Again, Tony sashayed his hips and his round bum danced across the table top.

“Keep still.” It was such an inviting target that Arthur wanted to land at least one cut with full force across the lad’s full bottom.

Swish! Thwack! Bingo: right on target Tony let out a loud yelp and jumped from the table, hopping from foot to foot and massaging his injured bum.

Arthur looked deep into his pal’s shining eyes. He couldn’t read his expression: was he loving or hating this caning.

Swish! Arthur swished the cane menacingly. “C’mon boy. Take this with some dignity can’t you. Get back over.”

Tony knew he had let himself down. His great pal Arthur had received one hell of a beating from his dad and he didn’t howl and holler. He buried his face in his arms once more and gritted his teeth.

Swipe! Swipe! Two strokes fell in quick succession. Tony’s bottom reprised its table-top dance but the boy stayed face down. The first six was over. Now, it was trousers-down time.

“Stand up. Take down your trousers.”

Tony was a ghostly white as he raised himself from the table. He smiled enigmatically, but made no effort to unbutton his trousers.

Arthur stared at his best pal. A bright smile creased his own face. Then he burst into laughter.

“Get them down,” he laughed. “At once you naughty little boy.”

“Okay, you asked for it,” Tony giggled and ripped down his trousers, revealing a massive erection straining to break free of his bottle-green briefs.

Arthur also had a tent pole in his pants. Without a word, he grabbed Tony’s pants and pulled them to his knees; then he took the lad’s cock into his own mouth.

“Wait, wait,” gasped Tony as he struggled out of his t-shirt and pulled his trousers and pants off his legs. In seconds Arthur had his own clothes on the floor and the two nineteen-year-olds entwined together fell on the carpet as naked as the day they were born.

And that was how Mr Braithwaite would have found them if earlier in the day he had arrived home five minutes later.

 

Other caning stories you might like.

My belligerent nephew

His Eldest Brother

The expenses fiddle

 

This story was first uploaded in December 2015.

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com