Not too old to be spanked by grandad

z used belt pants (2)

When would grandad stop treating him like a child? Matt wondered silently as he unbuckled his jeans and let them slip to his knees. Twenty-three years old and still getting the belt.

“C’mon grandad, is this really necessary?” he wailed, “I’m too old for this.”

Matt’s question only got a grunt from grandad as he continued to unbuckle and remove his brown leather belt.

“What do you expect? You come home drunk in the middle of the night waking the whole neighbourhood.”

“I didn’t wake the neighbours.”

“Don’t answer me back.”

Grandad had doubled up his heavy belt and was ready to inflict the whipping he knew his grandson deserved.

Matt was sweating a little; he had a humdinger of a hangover from the night before.

Grandad was not a patient man. “You live in my house, you obey my rules. It’s not unreasonable to ask you not to come home drunk,” he barked.

There was no answer to that. It was true he was plastered last night, he couldn’t even remember getting home. Had one of his mates dropped him off?

Grandad stood waiting. Determined. He might have grandchildren but he was no wizened old man. He stood more than six feet tall and weighed the same as he did when he was thirty. Years of manual work could do that to a man.

Matt knew from experience he should not try to argue with grandad. He was of the “old school”, he was the man of the house – the head of the household – and he expected to be obeyed: by his wife and by his children and the grandchildren.

Matt was defeated; he knew resistance was futile; he would have to submit to this spanking. He leaned forward across the low vaulting horse, feeling his briefs pull tightly across his buttocks.

Matt stared down at the ground as a chill draught blew across his naked legs. Blood rushed to his face, it always did when he was bent over in this position. If he stayed like this for too long he would get a head ache. Not that that concerned him now. It was the ache in his arse that worried him more.

He wriggled his waist a little to make himself more comfortable. It was a small vaulting horse. Wherever did that come from? None of the family were gymnasts. Grandad kept it in a large shed in his garden. Sometimes he joked it was his own little “woodshed”.

Matt stretched his arms ahead of him and placed his palms flat on the ground. He could hardly believe this was happening: his body was bent almost double across the horse while to the side of him he heard grandad preparing to lash his leather belt into his cotton-covered buttocks. He braced himself for a very intense session with the belt.

Grandad was in no hurry. He was satisfied that his grandson was now submissive, meekly offering up his bum for him to do with as he wished.

Now, Matt heard a soft clinking noise. He twisted his head around and saw that his grandfather was folding up his belt. He doubled it in half for control and precision, and stepped forward. Matt turned his head again – he didn’t want to look. Instead, he waited with his plump buttocks pointing up in the air while that long, agonizing moment of preparation passed. The buttocks clenched and unclenched.

He heard grandad suck in a lung-full of air before the belt splatted down across the seat of his pants. It hurt.

The first time Matt had been strapped it had been agony and he had been miserable for hours afterwards. Now, after so many strappings, it was different. He took a pride in being able “to take it” without a fuss. He reckoned could bear the pain of the fierce strap without flinching.

Matt willed himself not to move. He stayed bent over, holding his backside in place so that his grandad could lash his buttocks over and over. And he did so, swinging the belt down hard across the lower edge of the vulnerable bottom and lashing some strokes into the bare thighs.

Matt’s resistance nearly crumbled; the pain didn’t lessen and the belt didn’t stop. For a full ten minutes grandad methodically brought the strap lashing across his grandson’s underpants, sparing not a single inch of his buttocks.

“I hope you’ve learned your lesson.” Grandad finished his spanking with three extra-hard licks.

Later, in the privacy of his bedroom, Matt inspected the damage done to his bottom in the mirror. His cheeks were dark red and the welts from the strap were prominent, the heat coming from his bum would be enough to warm a small room. Slowly he walked back to his bed and lay face down. His mobile phone vibrated, he reached out to see the caller ID.

“Yello,” he answered and listened intently. “Sure, I’ll come right over,” he said. It was his pal Chris calling from the pub.

 

Picture credit: Eastbourne Daddy

Other stories you might like

 

The Dean of Dorm Discipline

Spanked by my uncle: who enjoyed it the most?

New boy at school

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Late up in the morning

late up in the morning

When Grandpa said if I continued to lay in bed in the morning and be late for work, he would come up to my room and toast my buns with a slipper, I didn’t believe him. Well, would you?

The thing is I have this problem and I know I’m not alone. I always wake up with a massive hard on in my pants. I can never remember what I’ve been dreaming about but I know the only way I can get rid of the thing is to give my cock a good tug. That’s not something you want to hurry, so I’m always downstairs late for grandma’s breakfast.

Yesterday, I’d just come in a handful of tissues when the door bursts open and there’s grandpa. True to his word he’s got one of those old-fashioned plimsoll / gym shoes stuck in his fist. Man, is he angry. “Your gran’s had breakfast on the table for hours,” he shouts all the while waving the plimsol about.

Just because he’s my grandpa don’t go thinking he’s a wizened old man. I’m twenty myself and grandpa had my dad when he was about my age, so what does that make grandpa; forty-something? He works out every week and runs most days. He would put people half his age to shame.

So he comes into my room growling, “I told you.  I warned you,” and grabs hold of the duvet and rips it off the bed. I open my mouth to protest, but he tugs a fistful of my hair and somehow – I don’t know how – he has me face down on the mattress and I’m biting on the pillow. I’m “effing and blinding” but he doesn’t stop. Actually, thinking about it later I think my swearing just encourages him in his efforts.

He kneels on my back, knocking the stuffing out of me. I wriggle like a fish but I can’t get free. He weighs a ton. Then, Jesus H. you’ll never believe this, he grips the waistband of my pants and he pulls them down and leaves them at my knees. I am bare-arsed to the wind. I don’t have time to be frightened because just as I realise what his game is, he hammers the slipper into my bum. I turn my head to swear some more, so with his strong left arm he make me suck on the pillow.

With that and his knee in my back I am pinned down. I am going nowhere. I’m totally at his mercy; and he isn’t about to show any of that. I guess my arse is quite small and the plimsol is quite big so it only takes a few whacks before every inch of my bum is glowering red-hot. I can’t see it (not yet anyway) but my cheeks are quickly turning a deep pink and then a scorching red. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been spanked with a slipper, but believe me when I say this; it smarts.

“This’ll teach you,” grandpa says and starts to whack me on the back of the thighs. Oh, my god! If my bum was smarting, this was agony. I’ve stopped swearing and now I’m yelling. Blue murder. If the neighbours are at home they’ll be phoning the police by now to report a murder taking place next door.

On and on he whacks me. It feels like hours, but I suppose it’s only a couple of minutes. Then he stops, and gets off my back. I cough my guts up trying to breathe properly. I’m gasping in air like a goldfish out of water. Grandpa growls at me from the open bedroom door. “Downstairs. Breakfast. Now!”

I check out my arse in the mirror. I’ve always liked my bum, it’s nice and round. There’s a bit of meat there, but no fat. Solid. It’s dark red, the colour of a good claret wine. I can see the outline of the slipper embossed all over my buttocks.

So, that was yesterday. The pain went away quite quickly and by bedtime even the marks had gone. I spent a lot of the night playing it all over again in my head. Me, completely helpless. Grandpa spanking the living daylights out of me. The pain. The humiliation.

I’ve got a stiffy now just thinking about it. I’m late for work again. Is that grandpa I hear coming up the stairs? I sure hope so.

 

Picture credit: Craig Esposito

 

Other stories you might like

The padded armchair

Don’t bully our mum

What a jolly jape

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

All in the Family. Tales of Domestic discipline

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“What that boy needs is a damn good spanking.” It was a policeman speaking about my drunken nephew. He was right, of course. But the police can’t use corporal punishment. So it is up to the family to instil discipline. These tales demonstrate that up and down the land fathers, uncles, granddad’s – and even older brothers – don’t shirk their duty.

In the latest free-of-charge book offering, the cane, the brush and the paddle are much in evidence as young men learn the painful way how to behave.

The book runs for more than 17,000 words and can be downloaded by clicking the link below. The PDF file can be read on computers, laptops and a variety of e-book readers.

 

all-in-the-family-by-charles-hamilton-ii

 

Another book available to download free-of-charge.

PAUL AND HIS LANDLORD

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Put back into short trousers, aged 18

used uniform shorts white shirt (61)

I have my own key so I can let myself into the house. I am late home from school. I’ve been in detention. I hope granddad doesn’t find out. He said the next time he took me across his knee I’d have my trousers at my ankles.

It’s five-thirty and he isn’t due back from work until six, so I have time to change out of my long trousers and start on my homework before he gets in. I am eighteen years old but he makes me wear short trousers.

I have to wear my school uniform all the time; even at weekends. When I moved in with him about two months ago he took away all my jeans and long trousers and said, “I am going to put you back in short trousers.”

He lets me wear long trousers to school, but the moment I get home I have to take them off and leave them in the sitting room. Then he locks them away so I can’t get at them. He brings them out again at breakfast time.

He said there were two reasons why I had to go back into short trousers. One, was that at eighteen I was not yet an adult and I had to remember that. I was too big for my britches; I needed to be taken down a peg or two. I should do as I was told, respect my elders, and behave myself at all times.

The second reason he put me in short trousers was to stop me going out the house. He said I spent too much time in the evenings hanging around the bus stops with my friends and at weekends nobody knew where I was. He reckoned I should be at home doing my homework, or reading or engaging in what he called “improving activities,” whatever they’re meant to be.

He said I wouldn’t be so keen to go out the house if I was wearing my school uniform with short trousers and long grey knee socks.

He was dead right. These are not leisure shorts; the kind you would wear in warm weather. These are proper trousers that are short and come to an inch above the knee. They are made of polyester and viscose, and are dark grey and have sharp creases in them. If you saw someone in the street wearing these there’s no way you would recognise them as anything but school uniform short trousers.

The label says they are the size for fifteen-year-old boys. But, they have an elasticated waist so they fit me perfectly.

I moved in with granddad when my dad’s work sent him to Pakistan. My mum went with him as well. They’re only away for three months so I’ll soon be out of this hell-hole. My granddad is not the cuddly old gramps they show you on kids’ TV. My grandad is a tyrant. He rules with an iron fist, or more truthfully as I discovered soon after I moved in, with a wooden paddle.

Don’t go away with the idea that because he’s a granddad he’s a wizened old man. No way. He’s still in his fifties and he’s been working out at the gym for the past thirty years. Even his muscles have muscles. He has real presence. If he’s in a room, everyone notices. If he tells you to jump; you don’t argue, you just say, “how high?”

He calls me “Charles.” Nobody calls me Charles. Mum and dad call me “Charlie” and the kids at school call me “H.” That’s H for Hamilton, which is my surname. My full name is Charles Hamilton the Second. Granddad is called Charles Hamilton and my dad is Charles Hamilton Junior. If I ever have a son they’ll expect me to call him Charles Hamilton the Third. It’s like Royalty; everyone’s got the same name.

There are lots of rules in granddad’s house. I have to do my homework as soon as I get in and have it finished no later than nine. He checks that I’ve done it and then later he checks the marks I got for it. He knows all my grades at school and I will get into deep trouble if they drop. I have to be in bed by nine-thirty and up and ready for school by seven-thirty. I’m not allowed to watch TV and there’s no Internet connection. I am cast adrift from all my friends.

And he spanks me.

Spanks me. Is that even legal? My dad has never raised a finger to me in all my life. Even when I am behaving really stroppy I don’t think it would even occur to him to put a belt across my backside.

Not so, granddad. The paddle came out on my second day here. I gave him a mouthful when he told me to get the vacuum cleaner out and attack the carpets. Big mistake.

Have you ever seen a paddle? I hadn’t. It’s just a piece of wood really – with a handle attached. Granddad’s paddle is not much bigger than a paperback book. It’s like a scaled-down version of the chopping board my mum has in her kitchen.

So there we were: granddad and me. He was sat in a chair holding the paddle and I was standing with my mouth gaping open.

“Bend over my knee.”

He said it like he actually expected me to do it. What person in their right mind offers themselves up so that they can be spanked with a paddle (or anything else for that matter)? Surely you would run a mile and your granddad would have to chase after you taking swipes while trying to hit your bum or the back of your legs.

“Bend over my knee,” he said. And I did. I said granddad had presence and if he said “jump”, you jumped. Or in this case, if he said, “Bend over,” then over you bent.

Have you ever been bent over somebody’s knee for a spanking? Grandad was about my height and you might have thought I was too big to go over his knee. Not so. He spread his legs apart by about a yard to give me the perfect platform to lie across. His legs were very muscular and surprisingly comfortable.

My face was a few inches above the carpet (he was right, it did need vacuuming) and my legs were stretched out behind me. My toes couldn’t quite reach the floor so I was left dangling a bit. Then granddad man-handled me over his lap until he had my bum just where he wanted it. I did not resist; I just let him get on with it.

I had no idea what a spanking was like, but I reckoned it couldn’t hurt much. I’m eighteen and a pretty fit boy; there couldn’t be much that the old man could do to me.

By the time he had finished moving me about my face was a little closer to the faded blue-and-gold-patterned carpet. My striped school tie was hanging down in front of my face. I could see under the chair and looked back at my own feet; my long knee socks needed pulling up. My short trousers had ridden up a little and were very tight across my buttocks and between my legs.

Granddad didn’t say a word, but I could feel him preparing himself by rolling up his shirt sleeve. At any moment he would start to spank me. I put the palm of my left hand into the carpet and placed the palm of my right hand across the back of my left hand. Whatever happened next, I reckoned, I would be able to hold myself in place.

I felt granddad grasp me around the waist. Now, he had me pinned down. He could do anything he wanted to me and all I could do was to lay there submissively with my face down and my bum high and take it.

I was wrong when I said it couldn’t hurt much. It could and it did.

Whack! Whack! Whack! three swats hit me across the middle of my bum; all more or less in the same place. I wanted to yelp, but I couldn’t. The shock knocked all the wind out of me and all I could do was wheeze. Huff-huff-huff.

Then three on the left cheek and three more on the right. I got my second wind and groaned aloud. I wasn’t yet ready to howl. That came later.

Three rapid swats: bang-bang-bang! Then another three. It sounded like machinegun fire. My legs wanted to flail around (they seemed to have a mind of their own; I was not in control). But, granddad had my calves firmly pinned. He had put me so far forward across his lap that I couldn’t reach my hands back to protect my poor bottom.

Another double dose of three swats. I could no longer keep my palms on the ground and I clenched both hands together, a bit like people do when they pray, and tried to ride out the pain.

It did not work.

I have no idea what a spanking should feel like, so I can’t say if granddad was laying into me, trying to take my arse off. Maybe he was; but maybe also this was a mild spanking with just enough hurt to let me know what could be in store if I ever misbehaved again.

He put six swats low down, just at the hem of my short trousers. At least two of them missed completely and smacked into my bare legs. That was when I howled and I howled. If the neighbours were at home next door they might have thought someone was being murdered here.

Then granddad stopped. He released his grip and I shot off his lap. I bent over double trying to get my breath back, while at the same time trying to rub the agony away from my throbbing backside. That rubbing thing doesn’t work, I can tell you.

My cheeks (the ones on my face, not my behind) were covered with tears and snot was dribbling from my nose, but slowly I was regaining some composure.

My poor bum felt like it had swollen to twice its proper size. I really wanted to rush to my bedroom and pull down my short trousers and pants to inspect the damage.

That would have to wait. Granddad still sat in his chair, the paddle in his hand. Who would have thought that such a small piece of wood could cause so much pain? He lectured me for what seemed like forever. I don’t remember a word of what he said.

But, I do remember how he finished. “Next time you go over my knee, you’ll have your trousers at your ankles.”

I got that. The pain of the paddle across my shorts and pants was intense. I never wanted to experience that ever again. To get it with only my cotton underpants to protect me would be unbearable.

Since that day I have done everything granddad has asked of me. I have yes-sirred and no-sirred him; even when I really wanted to tell him where to shove it. I have done my homework and gone to bed and got up on time. I do my chores around the house. I wear my short trousers; I do not go out the house: ever, except to go to school. I am granddad’s house slave.

And, I will do this for four more weeks until my mum and dad come back from Pakistan and rescue me. Please, granddad do not spank me with your paddle again.

As I was writing those words I realised something for the first time. That paddle must have been around for some time. I’m pretty certain granddad didn’t buy it specially to spank me. My own dad, Charles Hamilton Jr, must have had his bum blistered with it. And, knowing how strict granddad is; poor old dad probably got it more than once. Which means he got it on the pants; and what do you think, even on the bare?

Dad knows how brutal a paddling can be. Was that why he has never raised a finger to me? Was he sparing me the agony he had to endure as a boy? Weird thought, but if so, “Thank You Dad.”

I just heard the front door open. Granddad is home. I must stop this story here. I’m supposed to be doing my homework and if he finds out I’m not, my short trousers will soon enough be at my shoes.

Other stories you might like

When Dad got home

My first spanking — aged 18!

Rory and Alistair

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

My first spanking — aged 18!

paddle free paddle 2

I had just turned eighteen when my granddad took me across his knee to give me my first-ever spanking. He said I needed to be taken down a peg or two.

I had been living with him and gran for a few months by then and I had driven the pair of them to distraction.

I left school when I was sixteen and worked in a record shop. It was a great job which paid well (for a teenager anyway) and I had lots of money to spend on clothes and other things for myself. I lived at home and gave my mum some money for my keep and lived a selfish life.

Then my dad lost his job when the company he worked for went bust and he had to move to a town 100 miles away. Naturally, the family went with him, but I didn’t want to give up the record shop. I didn’t want to give up the home comforts, either. On my wages I would be able to rent a room somewhere, but I wouldn’t be able to afford all the new clothes and luxuries as well.

Gran and granddad didn’t want me to live with them and who could blame them. Their own kids had grown up, left home and started families. Now, it was time for gran and granddad to have a little peace and quiet: they definitely didn’t need an unruly teenager living with them.

Anyway, they took me in (the emotional blackmail that families are famous for probably had a hand in it).

I was happy; I just carried on as I had done at home. I came and went as I wanted to; I was surly and uncommunicative to my hosts and sometimes just downright rude. I made a habit of coming home in the early hours of the morning and staying in bed late. I didn’t lift a finger to help around the house and didn’t think it wrong for gran to wait on me hand and foot.

Granddad tried to get me to see sense more than once, but he was up against one of the rudest self-absorbed and selfish people he had ever met. He tried to talk to me about coming home late drunk and spending all the next day in bed, but I was not to be reasoned with.

I had always been rude to both of them, but the straw that broke granddad’s back was when I gave gran a lot of back-chat. I forget what the row was about, but gran had recently started using a hearing aid, so when in the middle of an argument, I shouted, “Are you daft as well as deaf?” she ran from the room in tears.

Granddad had no choice. Of course, he couldn’t let me get away with treating his wife like that. If I had been granddad I’d have taken me across my knee and spanked my backside good and hard as well.

So, that’s how I ended up in the sitting room, standing in front of my granddad getting a verbal roasting, prior to getting my buttocks toasted.

Looking back after all these years, I can now see gran and granddad loved me. Why else would they have let me live with them in the first place. They also wanted me to grow up to be a good person, hardworking, kind and considerate. I was none of these things: I liked to think I was a full-grown adult, but my grandparents knew I wasn’t quite there yet. Sometimes, and recently far too often, I had behaved like a spoilt little child and I needed to be taught a lesson.

Granddad could have thrown me out on my ear. He even told me I was eighteen years old now and it was high time I stood on my own two feet. But, he said, he was prepared to give me one last chance.

I hadn’t been expecting it when he leaned over to the sideboard, opened a drawer and pulled out a small shiny wooden object. He gripped it in his right hand and waved it in my direction. It was light brown and oblong (maybe eight inches by thee and half and three-quarters of an inch thick). It had a small shaped handle to hold it by. As he threatened me with it, I could see it had six neat holes drilled into it. It was a purpose-built spanking paddle.

I probably blanched at the point, because he looked me in the eye and said, “You need to be taken down a peg or two.”

I’d never heard the phrase before, but I immediately knew what he meant. He was going to use that paddle on my backside.

I don’t remember exactly what I said, but it was along the lines of, “You can’t do that, I’m too old to be spanked.” What I didn’t say (and should have done) was “I’m sorry. I’ll be a better person in the future.”

Granddad was not impressed. “Too old! You are not too old to move out and live on your own. You can pack your bags and go.”

He meant it too. He had tried his level best with me over the months and I had thrown all his kindness and hospitality back in his face. And, to top it all, I had been rude and incredibly cruel to gran. Who would blame them for throwing me out?

“Or,” he said, and this is where I now realise how much he loved me, “I will take this to your backside and see if I can beat some manners into you.” He waved the paddle at me in case I hadn’t followed his drift.

I stood dumbfounded. I was eighteen years old, an adult, I had been working for nearly two years and here was my granddad telling me he was going to spank me like I was an eight-year-old kid. And, to top it all, I had no choice but to let him do it.

He pulled a chair away from the dining table and set it down in the middle of the carpet. There was a three piece suite, a sideboard, the table and four chairs and a TV set crammed into the small room.

He sat down on the chair, keeping his own back straight and planting his feet three feet apart. Just because he was my granddad don’t go away with the idea that he was a shrivelled old man. He would have still been in his fifties at the time and was big and strong. He had been a manual worker all his life and after a spell in the Army, he continued to make regular visits to the gym.

I looked at him as I contemplated my fate. He was a thick-set muscular man. He was clean shaven, but much of his body was covered in hair. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top and a clump of thick black hair poked through. For the first time in my life I noticed his biceps were well-developed and his hands were the size of shovels. He would pack one hell of a wallop when the time came.

The legs over which I would soon find myself draped were powerful and from where I was standing looked to be as thick as tree trunks.

My breathing became irregular as my heart raced and my blood pressure went sky high. I could feel my temples pounding as I began to realise just what damage granddad could do to my rear end with his paddle.

“Stand there.” He pointed to a spot right in front of him. As if in a trance, I obeyed. “Hands on head.” I obeyed that command too.

He reached over to the waistband of my trousers. In those days we wore trousers with ridiculously high waistbands. They were those ones that had about twenty-four inch flares to the legs and we wore them with platform-soled shoes that added an extra three inches to your height.

Despite all the material, they were cut tight across the buttocks area and if, like me, you had a flat stomach they showed off your bum to perfection. I was presenting to my granddad a bottom that was crying out to be spanked.

I knew I had a great bum, one of the girls I knew was always telling me so. I didn’t fancy her at all, she was chubby and reminded me a bit of a younger version of the district nurse character who appeared in one of the TV comedy shows of the time.

I was very inexperienced and naïve at the time and I didn’t understand what the girl was offering me. It was a wasted opportunity: it’s true that I didn’t lust after her, but she would have been something for me to practice on.

Granddad had trouble undoing all five buttons on my waistband, but eventually the job was done. It was easier for him to pull at the zipper at my fly and open up the front of my trousers to reveal my tight multi-coloured mini briefs.

He slipped the trousers over my bony hips and down my slim thighs until they fell in a heap on the floor at my feet.

Granddad paused. He seemed to be debating with himself about what to do next. The decision reached, he took hold of the elastic waist of my garish mini-briefs and gently pulled them down over my trim buttocks until they settled at my knees. I still had my hands on my head so the old man had every opportunity to observe that I was indeed a fully grown man and not a small boy.

I was kept standing with my trousers and pants down and my penis flopping for what seemed like hours, but I don’t suppose it was more than a minute. During that time I thought I heard voices coming from the flat next door. Absurdly, I realised the family next door would be able to hear me being spanked and that embarrassed me much more than my present predicament; standing naked from the waist down in front of my granddad.

“Come here and bend across my knee.” It was a quiet instruction, not a barked order. Once again, granddad was showing me that he loved me.

I hesitated for a split second. I had never been across someone’s knee before and I wasn’t quite sure how it was done. I took my hands from my head and turned to face granddad from the side. Looking down I could see the massive expanse of grey flannel trousers encasing his legs. Slowly, I lowered my body, first reaching out my hands so they held onto his left knee so I could then cautiously let my stomach rest across his huge thighs. Then, it was a simple matter to stretch my arms out in front of me so the palms of my hands sank into the pile of the carpet.

In this position, my legs were straight behind me, bent a little at the knees and my toes just about touched the carpet. My bared bottom lay across the centre of my granddad’s laps.

I was completely humiliated, bent across granddad’s knee offering him my naked buttocks. I knew he could see right into my crack. But, I wasn’t positioned to granddad’s satisfaction. His strength surprised me as he was able to place his arm round my middle and lift me to manoeuvre my body an inch this way and another inch that way until he had my bum just where he wanted it to receive the spanks from his paddle.

But, he wasn’t quite ready to start. As I stared into the fading pattern of the carpet: it was a dirty grey now, but had once, I think, been green, I could feel him grab the tail of my shirt and pull it up my back until it rested just below the shoulders.

There I was an eighteen-year-old man submissively bent across his granddad’s knee, trousers and underpants at his feet, shirt at the shoulders and naked between the two points. My bared backside was resting over his right thigh, pointing up at a forty-five degree angle and twitching a little in anticipation of the onslaught to come. Granddad was gripping the square black spanking paddle so tightly that his knuckles were beginning to turn white.

I remember feeling the cool wood of the paddle rest on my right buttock cheek and then without warning granddad whacked it down with maximum force; again and again and again. First on one cheek, then on the other, then right in the middle across both buttocks at once.

Then he went high, then low, high, high, low, low. Then on the crease where the bum meets the thigh, then right in the middle of my globes. On and on and on.

I howled from the very first smack and didn’t stop yelling and screaming until what seemed like half an hour (but I later discovered was closer to five minutes) he finally laid down the paddle and released me. I struggled this way and that, pounding my feet and kicking my legs about. I was astonished by my granddad’s strength: he wrapped his left arm around my middle, pinning my body to his lap while with his right hand he continued to assault my bared backside with the paddle.

I tried to reach my arm back to protect my bum from the searing slashes of the wood, but granddad had me so effectively pinned facedown that I could do nothing except flail my arms and legs about, as if I were trying to swim doggy-paddle style.

Granddad kept whacking into me. He beat at a rhythm: I was in too much agony to keep count, but it must have been about forty swats to the minute. Later I would see that dark blue bruises covered the whole of my buttock area and my inner and outer thighs. I had so little meat on my bum there was not enough padding to absorb the shockwaves from the wooden paddle.

There was no sound in the small room apart from the whack! whack! whack! of the paddle hitting my bum and my howls of agony. Not a word was exchanged between granddad and me. He gave me no sermons on changing my behaviour and I in turn made no pleas for mercy.

I wailed so much I was choking and breathing became difficult. My heartbeat was racing and I thought at any moment I would pass out. But on and one, granddad spanked me: calmly and methodically: he knew his duty was to reform me and this was how he would do it.

Satisfied that he had made a sufficient impression on me and my bum, granddad stopped the spanking. I was exhausted: the pain had started at my roasted buttocks and travelled at high speed across my whole body: my chest ached and my head throbbed almost as much as my bum.

“Get up son.” I think this was the first time granddad had ever called me son: could that be true, or am I after all these years being sentimental?

He released me and I was able to pull myself off his legs. Just as I had done so when presenting myself for the spanking, I rested my hands on his knee, but this time rather than lowering myself into a face-down position, I hauled myself up to my feet.

I couldn’t help it, but I found myself jumping up and down on the spot performing some crazy spanking dance. These days commentators in football matches on TV often say that a player who has been injured can “run off” the pain. Believe me it certainly didn’t work for me after granddad’s spanking.

Nor, did rubbing away at my toasted buttocks with my hands. Actually, contact with the by now raw nerves in my pert bottom only increased the pain.

I bent double, gasping for breath, trying to regain some composure. Tears and snot poured down my face and chin. I rubbed myself clean with the sleeve of my shirt only to find more tears and snot falling.

I actually howled in agony again when I tried to pull up my tight mini briefs. They were designed to fit snuggly against my bottom and they had the same effect on my pain level as my hands had earlier. Quickly I pulled them down and off and stood semi-naked not sure what to do next.

“Pick up your trousers and pants and go to your room.” It was the obvious solution. So, I rushed from the living room and dashed up the stairs two at a time with my naked blistered buttocks on full display. Thankfully my gran was not around to witness this.

I didn’t know at the time that she had been in the kitchen during my spanking, fully aware or what granddad was doing to me (and fully supportive that he should do so). She could have witnessed my spanking herself, but she loved me too much to make me endure that additional humiliation.

Once in my bedroom, I was able to inspect the full horror of the damage caused to my buttocks. The bruises were deep and as I twisted my body this way and that in order to get a good view in the mirror I detected what looked like dozens of squares branded into the flesh. It would take a couple of weeks before the bruises finally cleared.

The pain mostly cleared in a matter of hours, but some parts of my lower bottom and thighs remained tender for days; so that when I sat on the shop assistant’s high stool at the cash desk in the record shop I was reminded of the humiliation granddad had put me through.

I’d like to be able to report that my behaviour changed after that spanking and I became a model citizen. But “attitude adjustment” doesn’t work like that. Behaviour modification is incremental; it changes one step at a time and so although this was the first spanking I had ever received, it did not turn out to be the last.

 

Other stories you might like.

Two brothers

Where’s the paddle, hon?

When Dad got home

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com