The Junior Salesman

z used cane holding (4)

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

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

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

Submissively, Tyler did as he was told.  He rubbed his hands together, flexed the muscles in his arms, arched his back and stooped forward to present his buttocks for a thrashing. With his feet planted a yard apart and his legs straight, he was in the perfect position. His bottom was thrust up with only the thin material of his underpants between him and the cane. He felt like his arse was on offer, raised provocatively to his master.

Mr Davenport waited. There was no need to hurry. The longer this took the more he would enjoy it.

“You’ve been late for work too many times, lad. You take long lunches and, my God! your sales results this month are appalling,” Mr Davenport swished the cane through the air as he catalogued Tyler’s faults.

Bent double, with his fingertips touching his toes, Tyler was in no position to argue. It didn’t matter what he had to say in mitigation (in truth he had nothing, he was guilty as charged on all counts), his boss had already decided on his course of action. The young salesman had no real choice but to obey: for him it was the swish of cane or the unemployment line.

His bottom was thrust out backwards invitingly as he touched his toes, stretching the cotton underpants tight. Tyler’s hair fell forward untidily and his buttocks trembled nervously, making ripples in the fabric that betrayed his growing apprehension as he waited for the thrashing to begin.

Mr Davenport believed there was no point caning a boy unless it hurt, so he always caned on the bare buttocks. He set the cane down on his desk and approached Tyler from behind. In one swift movement he grasped the young man’s underpants at each hip and gently lowered them down his thighs until they rested precariously at his knees. One sharp move from Tyler would see them tumble down his shins to a final resting place at his feet.

The boss admired Tyler’s creamy white hairless buttocks. It was obvious he had recently shaved: back and front. The young salesman felt incredibly foolish, his bottom bared, offered for chastisement. He twitched in anticipation as his boss moved behind him. Surely, he was ready now? Why did he always play these games; making him wait, and wait, before cracking the first agonising stoke across his bum?

His boss’s cold hands rested on his tender mounds as he slowly pushed the tail of his jacket well clear of his target. He was a big man, physically fit. Tyler had been beaten by him before so knew how much it was going to hurt.

Nearly ready, the tip of Mr Davenport’s tongue licked his lips, as he flexed the cane and began tapping it gently on Tyler’s naked arse. Slowly he removed the cane and then lashed it down viciously into his naked haunches. Tyler gasped as the pain kicked in. That first searing stroke reminded him just why the cane was to be feared.

After a long pause, stroke two slashed down, slicing into his sore cheeks with real force. His arse throbbed and ached.

Swish-Crack!  Mr Davenport whipped a third stroke down on the bare buttocks. The cheeks gave way as the cane sliced like a hot knife through butter.

Another stroke followed and landed just below the first. This time the young man gasped and felt tears coming into his eyes as the intense sting burned deep into his buttocks, The following strokes landed lower down before he could catch his breath another lashed right into his sit-spot where the cheeks met the thighs.

As he struggled for breath, Tyler felt the gentle (reassuring almost) touch of his boss’s hand on his back, just between his shoulder blades, this was before a further three strokes lashed across his bottom leaving him yelling and crying bitterly as Mr Davenport raised weal after weal across his sorry burning backside.

Mr Davenport was enjoying this. He adjusted his own trousers and raised the cane once more before whipping it down viciously. The noise of this stroke was incredible and resounded all around the small office.

Then there was an eerie silence, broken only by Tyler’s gulps and gasps for breath and his sobbing. Mr Davenport stepped back and looked at the boy still bent over, his buttocks quivering. “It’s over,” he said. “You can get up now.”

Tyler managed to raise himself up, the change of position made his arse hurt even more; how he wanted to rub it, but he knew his master never allowed that till you left the office. In severe pain he bent and pulled first his underpants and then his trousers up over his blistered cheeks. The touch of cloth on burning flesh reignited the agony in his buttocks.

“I think you have learned your lesson, haven’t you?”  his boss asked rhetorically, but Tyler tried to gulp a reply. He knew this was his cue to leave. Brushing away tears from his eyes he thanked his punisher, turned and left the office. Once outside he gave his arse a much needed rub then hobbled off to the lockers to collect his belongings and go home; safe in the knowledge that he would get a pay cheque for at least one more month.

Mr Davenport pulled open his desk drawer and withdrew a box of tissues before ripping down the front of his trousers. He was stiff and aching and he came almost immediately.

Relaxing minutes later with a mug of fresh coffee, he recalled the first time he saw Tyler, four months ago at Whacko! a club for corporal punishment enthusiasts. Tyler and another lad just turned up out of the blue. They were dressed like schoolboys, in long grey trousers; white shirt, striped tie: they were obviously on the make. If they weren’t quite rent boys, they weren’t far off. Mr Davenport enjoyed Whacko! – you could do all kinds of things in the playrooms: canings, slipperings, beltings; but nothing too heavy. The only drawback was so many of the men were middle aged; you never had the chance to take a youngster across your knee for a bare-bottomed spanking or order them to, “Bend over and touch your toes.”

That night the club members drank their fill, including Mr Davenport. Tyler was most obliging. Mr Davenport could feel his penis rising at the memory of it: Tyler bent over his knees; head down, legs straightened behind him; his muscular buttocks perfectly positioned to feel the stinging slaps from the palm of his hand.

“You have the most magnificent arse,” Mr Davenport was breathless in his admiration. Tyler smiled inwardly: he had hooked another one.

He didn’t spank him hard; the arse was so glorious, it was enough for him to pat and preen it; to rub his palm over the smooth cotton of the boy’s tight white underpants and then down his thighs. Then over his strong back to the shoulders. But, yes eventually he did spank the arse, but not in anger; he loved the feeling as his hand connected with Tyler’s firm cheeks; they were meaty, but bouncy to the touch. Tyler was a fit lad, there wasn’t enough spare fat on him to fry a sausage; he was a spanker’s delight.

Mr Davenport’s appetite could not be satisfied; he wanted more. Tyler gave him his phone number, muttering something about “a private session,”, before heading off home with a very sore bum, but pockets bulging with cash.

Mr Davenport couldn’t get Tyler out of his mind, he dreamt of having him in every spanking position imaginable. He must see him again. It was easy to arrange; and Tyler was just as obliging in Mr Davenport’s apartment as at Whacko! Mr Davenport wasn’t really an over-the-knee man; the swishy school cane was his fantasy of choice and he had a fine collection hidden behind the wardrobe in his spare bedroom. Tyler played the stroppy teenager and when Mr Davenport made him pay with his arse Tyler made Mr Davenport pay from this wallet.

Mr Davenport was hooked, he wanted more and more; but with a divorced wife and two children he couldn’t afford it; that’s when he hatched a plan. He had once read a fantasy story in a magazine; why couldn’t he do it in real life?

They say that in life timing is everything: it certainly was for Mr Davenport. He struck lucky. Tyler had been jobless for ages, and now he had no home either. Relationships are complicated and Tyler had just found himself dumped for a younger model. But, one man’s meat is another man’s poison, and Mr Davenport was ready to pick up the option.

It was a fiendishly simple plan. Tyler was to work at the sales company Mr Davenport owned. He would be a junior salesman on the staff with a proper salary and when he screwed up; it would be sore-arse time. A fantasy made reality.

In truth, Mr Davenport thought it was a ludicrous idea and was astonished that Tyler signed up. But, it worked perfectly; Tyler had no discipline, could never get to work on time, often drifted home early, stayed out on long lunches and to cap it all, he was a truly abysmal salesman.

And from that day forward Mr Davenport owned Tyler’s arse.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

 

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The apprentices

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The University Major

z used otk paddle older

Gerard Underwood was no ordinary first year Freshman at the university. For a start he was forty years old and second he had just been made redundant as a Major from the army.

Not that Underwood minded. He took a large pay off and set off to the university to explore a great love of his: English Literature.

Suitable housing had been in short supply so the university set him up in a room at one of the student halls of residence. That’s how he came to be living cheek-by-jowl with a group of eighteen- and nineteen-year-old students.

It hadn’t been easy. They were a boisterous lot who liked to make a lot of noise: for some reason the Major didn’t understand music always had to be played at the highest possible level. That irritated him a lot. But, he was even more put out by the constant mess the lads made in the communal areas such as the kitchen. That really offended his military sensibilities: everything should be tidily put away in its place.

He had complained several times but the boys didn’t take much notice. In fact, they considered him a bit of a joke.

What they needed, Major Underwood knew, was some discipline. A spell in the Military would soon sort them out. But, that was just a dream; it was never going to happen.

But, Underwood concluded, if they couldn’t be put in uniform, they could at least be put across his knee for some old-fashioned discipline, courtesy of his stout wooden paddle.

The Major believed in corporal punishment, he had used it on his own three boys. Not when they were in their late teens, of course. He had put them across his knee from an early age and they soon got the message.

Actually, that wasn’t quite true. He did have a run-in with Gerard Junior, his eldest boy, when he was eighteen. The boy was getting out of control, staying out late and drinking alcohol. It came to a head one night when Gerard had arrived home roaring drunk. The next day words were said and the boy soon found himself trousers down, over his father’s knee, a place he hadn’t been for the past six or seven years.

There followed a severe spanking and the sound of wood crashing into the soft yielding flesh could be heard all the way from the boy’s bedroom into the street. So too could Gerard Jr’s howls of outrage and pain.

His son soon mended his way. Yes, Major Underwood knew for certain: spanking worked. It worked on his own sons and it would work on his fellow lazy, thoughtless, students.

After a weekend back at his home, the Major returned to the university with his trusted paddle. It was about a foot in length and a quarter of an inch or more thick with large holes drilled into its face, the better to get a good swing at the target backside.

He had told some of the students they needed some discipline and if they didn’t mend their ways he might just be the person to administer it. They didn’t want to take him seriously.  Whoever heard of nineteen-year-old students getting their backsides blistered?

But, there were also some uncomfortable glances between the boys after the Major made his promise. Deep down inside some of the boys at least thought he might just be serious.

And he was, as Tommy was about to find out. Tommy was eighteen years old and the Major thought as slovenly as anyone could possibly be. He never washed up his things when he made a meal in the communal kitchen and he always played his music at deafening levels.

But, the Major decided this night he was about to get his comeuppance.

It was quite late one evening and there were only the two of them in the kitchen. Tommy had left his dirty dishes unwashed on the table. Did he expect someone to wash up for him? the Major thought to himself. Maybe at home his mother did.

It was all over in a matter of moments. The Major barked an order at Tommy as he was half way to the door and the boy stopped in his tracks.

A few short sentences from the Major were all it took to let Tommy know he was in real trouble. He had been warned previously and had chosen to ignore it and now he must face the consequences.

The Major ordered Tommy to stand still and wait. He obeyed without question.

Major Underwood strode to his locker and from it retrieved the paddle. The boy’s eyes were transfixed on the older, powerful, man.

“Come here, Tommy,” the Major gestured with the paddle for him to move forward. As the boy did so, the Major pulled a wooden bench clear of the table and sat down on it.

“Right boy bend over my knee.”

To the Major’s surprise, Tommy meekly did as he was told. In one continuous movement he approached the Major, took a deep breath and almost fell across the older man’s lap. He came to rest with his head low on the floor and his bottom raised high over the Major’s right leg, ready to receive the thwack of the paddle into the seat of his faded Levi jeans.

This is not a new experience for this boy, the Major thought. He must have been in this position before.

He put his hand into the small of Tommy’s back to hold him steady and swiftly brought the wood down with an almighty THWACK!!! into Tommy’s backside. The boy let out a gasp, but continued to keep his bottom raised high, seemingly welcoming his punishment.

THACK!!! number three had just hit home when the kitchen door opened and in walked Wayne. This boy was just as badly behaved as Tommy and the Major intended to make sure that before too long he too would be presenting his buttocks for the paddle.

Wayne stopped in his tracks, immediately sized up the situation and blanched. He was about to turn on his heels and exit swiftly when the Major called out.

“Not so fast Wayne. Wait right there. You’re next.”

Without hesitation, the boy turned and fled. No matter, he’s going nowhere: there’s nowhere for him to run, the Major reckoned.

Undeterred, he raised the paddle again, high into the air, and brought it crashing down again into the Levis.

He stopped after a dozen licks. Tommy had had enough. The major, too, was satisfied. He wasn’t a sadist, but he believed in the efficacy of corporal punishment and that meant when you whacked a boy you made sure you did it good and hard.

Tommy slowly rose to his feet. His face was crimson, as in all probability was his backside. He was in pain, and his eyes were watery, but he successfully stopped himself from crying.

His buttocks throbbed, the denim jeans had been no protection against the expertly handled wooden paddle. Tommy dearly wanted to rub his fleshy globes, but that would have to wait a few more moments until he was in the privacy of his bedroom.

“Will I have to do this again, Tommy?”

“No, sir.”

The Major noted the word “Sir” – the boy knew when he was beaten: both literally and figuratively.

“I hope not. Mend your ways quickly, or next time we’ll see how you like it with your jeans around your ankles and your underwear around your knees.”

Tommy shrank from the major at the thought of it.

“Yes, Sir. I will Sir.”

The Major believed he meant it. He would try to be better, that was for sure. Whether he would succeed was another matter.

…..

Twenty minutes later the Major was back in his own bedroom, reading Shakespeare’s Macbeth, when music started playing so thunderously that the walls of his room vibrated.

That bloody brat, Wayne.

Pausing only to pick up his paddle, the Major hurried from the room. He hammered on the boy’s bedroom door, but it took a while for it to open and for Wayne’s head to poke outside.

Without a word the Major pushed the boy backwards, entered the room and unplugged the music.

Wayne put up a protest. In the time since he had witnessed his friend’s humiliation across the Major’s knees he had vowed to himself that he was not going the same way.

But, the protestation was in vain. The Major told the boy in no uncertain terms that he had over-stepped the mark for the last time.

No way are you whacking me, Wayne thought, and pushed Major Underwood towards the door.

That was entirely the wrong thing to do. The boy might be more than twenty years younger than the ex-Military man, but in any trial of strength he would come off second best: as he was about to find out.

The Major made a grab for the boy’s hair, intending to bend him double so he could get swats at his backside, but Wayne was too quick for him. The room was too small to swing a paddle properly and the Major knew he would have to overpower the boy so he could get up close to deliver the licks.

Getting the boy across his knee was out of the question. Instead he made a grab for the boy’s throat and pushed him on the bed. He fell on his back, winded, and from there it was easy for the Major to get up close and turn Wayne over onto his stomach.

The Major knelt on the bed beside the boy and with a strength Wayne could not believe he could possess he pinned him down with his face in the pillow. The boy was his for the taking.

The Major really despised a boy who couldn’t take his punishment without a fuss. Tommy had been no trouble; he went down across his knees the moment he was instructed. He was a fine lad; you could make a man out of him.

But, Wayne was just a brat – and a cowardly brat at that. He should be taught a lesson.

With one hand holding him face down, the Major used the other to tug at the elasticated waist of Wayne’s sweat pants. In no time his buttocks were bared. He tried desperately to escape, but the Major was in complete control: the boy was going nowhere until he had been punished severely.

The Major released Wayne’s arm for just long enough for him to put his knee in the small of his back. This gave him the opportunity to swing the paddle from a great height and smack it at extreme force into the boy’s fleshy cheeks.

A dozen swats crashed down in quick succession. Bang! Bang! Bang! one after another. Wayne wailed and kicked his feet but his screams were muffled by the pillow his face was buried in, but the yells must still have been heard by all his neighbours: the walls of the students’ rooms were paper thin.

Tears and snot rolled down Wayne’s face and he gasped for air, partly because of the intense pain he was feeling, but also because of the mouthful of pillow he was swallowing.

Then it was over. Wayne’s buttocks were dark red and already turning to purple bruises. He would feel the effects of this bare-bottomed thrashing for a long time to come.

The Major stood looking down on the whipped boy. He had no compassion for him. He knew the brat deserved all he got but he wasn’t man enough to take it.

The Major left the room. Outside a small crowd of students had gathered, attracted by the noise and their curiosity excited by the certainty that one of their own was getting his bottom blistered.

They parted as the Major exited the room and watched in awe as he returned to his own room, swinging the paddle nonchalantly as he went.

The boys looked at each other in silence, each one thinking the same thing: which of them would be next?

While Wayne was getting his buttocks toasted, Tommy was back in his own room with his Levis and pants around his ankles stroking away at his todger. He panted hard as he relived the past five minutes and his soldier stood to attention.

Breathing heavily, Tommy stared at the ceiling: he had done it. At last, he had gotten the real spanking he had craved all his life.

Tommy had been interested in spanking for as long as he could remember. When he was ten-years-old he loved to take out the old books in the children’s library modern kids never wanted to read. His favourites were the stories from boarding school, where teenaged boys were always being ordered to bend over for a “swishing” from the form master, or even, oh glory!, a birching from the headmaster.

He would read and re-read these stories for hours, imagining that he was the boy summoned to the Beak’s study for six on the bags with an ashplant.

Growing up, he desperately wanted to be spanked, but he never got the chance. That’s not strictly true; he did remember once that his father got hold of a rigid bamboo cane, one of those that you would use in the garden, from somewhere. He had no idea where it came from: they lived on the seventh storey of a block of flats; they had no use for it. He could vaguely remember that once, he must have been quite young, his dad chased him with it around the flat, intending to give him a whacking, but he ran away bawling his eyes out. His dad (soft thing) gave up her chase, showed tremendous remorse, and the cane disappeared forever.

Many times since, Tommy played that scene in his dreams, only this time there was no chase: instead he pictured himself in the front room, bent over touching his toes, his jeans pulled down to his ankles and his father thwacking a proper whippy rattan cane with a curved handle across his stretched underpants. This time, he did the job properly.

So, Tommy had never received corporal punishment, but he did try many times to spank himself. When he was alone in the flat he would lock himself in the bathroom, take his trousers down, bend over the side of the bathtub and whack his bottom with a bath brush. He couldn’t get much of a swing so the results were unsatisfactory.

Tommy could not believe it when Major Underwood turned up at the university’s halls of residence and lambasted him and his fellow students about their noise and the mess they made in the kitchen. The students all thought he was a bit of a joke and a loser: who was still at university at the age of forty?

Tommy didn’t take much notice of the Major, until one evening Underwood declared that if the students did not shape up he would take a paddle to their backsides.

That night Tommy had a wet dream. In it he and the Major were in the kitchen, Tommy had been playing his music too loud and he had not washed up his dishes. Now, he was for it. Many times in the past, Tommy had dreamt about being put across a strong man’s knee: Tommy was always submissive. His favourite position was head way down, almost kissing the carpet, his bottom raised high over the thigh with his legs dangling in the air behind him.

Usually, he had his trousers at his ankles. Sometimes, but not always, he would be wearing tight briefs, so short they hardly covered his buttocks. Other times, his spanker would pull the briefs down to expose bare cheeks before whacking into him with the palm of his hand, or a hairbrush, or a slipper. In his dreams, Tommy had never been spanked with a paddle.

In real life Tommy didn’t play his music loud (he preferred listening through headphones, anyway) and he wasn’t especially untidy about the residences. Tommy wasn’t one of the students the Major should be worrying about. Underwood didn’t know that: as far as he was concerned all the students were as blameworthy as one another.

Even though he craved to be taken over the Major’s knee for a bottom-blistering spanking with the paddle, Tommy could not summon up the courage to contrive it. That evening he had lain on his bed, torturing himself with fantasies about himself and the Major. Tommy was going crazy; he had to do something about this.

He went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea and found the Major there alone, as usual the sink and draining board were full of unwashed dishes.

“Are these yours!” the Major barked at Tommy. There weren’t, but Tommy was too dumbfounded to reply.

The Major was in a strop, he tore a strip off Tommy and without waiting for a response strode to his locker and took out his paddle.

Tommy was breathless. He was going to get spanked. At last! He was so excited blood popped in his ears.

Within seconds, Tommy was across the Major’s lap and he wriggled himself into the position he had dreamt about many times: head far down, bottom far up.

Tommy’s breath came in short gasps; he hoped he would be able to take his first over-the-knee spanking well. However much it hurt, and he hoped it was much more painful than when he had spanked his own bum with the bath brush, he would try to take it without fuss.

SMACK!!!! the first lick of the paddle fell across his tight jeans. Tommy’s gasps turned to wheezes as the shock of the pain forced him to expel air from his lungs.

Marvellous! He had never experienced such pain before. WHACK! SMACK! the paddle rose and fell in the hands of a master. Tommy was in agony when he the kitchen door opened and the eighteen-year-old boy’s best friend Wayne came in.

The thought that Wayne was witnessing his spanking sent a wave of desire through Tommy’s body and he could feel a prominent erection under his pants.

The Major called out to Wayne, but as soon as the boy realised what was going on he scarpered, fearful he would be next over the strong knee of Major Underwood.

Alone together again, the Major continued with the licking.

When it was over, Tommy stood in front of the Major, his buttocks glowing and his cock throbbing, with his hands cupped in front of his crotch. To the Major it looked like an act of submission, but actually the boy was trying to hide the huge bulge behind his zipper.

Tommy’s shirt had stuck to his back with sweat, his breathing was irregular, his buttocks were roasted and he was in Heaven!

Back in his room, Tommy was in ecstasy! His soldier stood to attention once again as he relived it all in his mind: the command to “bend over my knee;” the agony as the paddle swiped into his globes; Wayne’s appearance and finally being scolded like a little boy by the Major.

And, the Major promised next time the spanking would be with his trousers at his ankles and his pants at his knees. Oh Joy!

As Tommy started rubbing himself he heard a commotion from the next room. Wayne was getting it too! The spunk shot a foot in the air, staining his blanket.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The fireraiser

z used otk pantz down slipper chair (10a) (2)

My dad only ever spanked me once, and I was eighteen years old when he did it.

And, you bet I deserved it.

Looking back at it now, I’m shocked at my own behaviour.

We lived in a small council flat in inner London and I could easily have burnt the place down and the whole block with it.

I can’t explain why I did it, it was just so stupid.

As a teenager, I used to like to lock myself in the bathroom. No, I know we all did, but that’s not what I’m talking about. I used to take a stack of paper and a box of matches in and make a bonfire in the bath.

I would wait until I was the only one in the flat before I set the damn thing alight. All it needed was for a lick of flame to catch a curtain and the whole place would be on fire.

I was easily found out. The smell of burning paper would hang around for a long time and was still there hours after I put out my private blaze.

One day my dad asked me about it. I lied, of course, and dad let it go. He was a very weak man and I don’t suppose he was good at confrontation. So, I carried on burning. A few weeks passed and he quizzed me after he once again caught the tell-tale whiff of smoked paper.

I didn’t lie this time, but I made an excuse. I said I had been doing a chemistry experiment in the bathroom and paper caught fire by accident. I don’t know if he really believed me, but once again he didn’t argue with me.

It was about two weeks after that I ended up over his knee with a bedroom slipper slapping into my upturned bum.

Yes, I had another bonfire and again, even though I opened the windows to let out the smoke, I was caught out by the incriminating smell.

This time, dad had decided he would take action. He confronted me with the accusation I was a fire bug and I had no choice but to admit it.

I suppose he had made a plan of action in advance. He gave me a little lecture about the dangers of fire. I didn’t take much notice of him. Looking back I realise I’d always despised him. He was a factory worker of the lowest grade possible and had been for twenty years and always would be. Even at the age of eighteen, when I was still studying for my A-levels, I knew I was going to leave him a long way behind. And, the sooner I did that, the better, as far as I was concerned.

What happened next surprised me. We had been talking in the kitchen when he said we should go next door to the living room. I hesitated and found he had gripped my arm quite tightly and was pushing me out the door.

My heart was thumping. I had no idea what was going on. Despite my arrogance towards my father, I was quite a shy, timid kid.

He pulled me into the next room. Our flat was tiny and there wasn’t much in the living room: a beat-up three piece suite, dining room table and chairs, a sideboard by the window and a TV set.

He pulled one of the dining room chairs into the middle of the carpet. Before, I could fathom what was going on; he reached towards the fireplace and picked up one of his slippers.

Then I knew. I suppose I could have just told him to stuff it and walk out the door, but, as I say, I was a bit timid. Like father, like son, I suppose. I was also a couple of inches taller than him and he was running to fat, even then, so he wouldn’t have been able to force me across his knee.

He sat down in the chair, holding his bedroom slipper in his right hand.

I stood looking at him. The pathetic man, I thought.

My heart hadn’t stopped racing since our confrontation in the kitchen, but I was also now finding it difficult to catch my breath. Something strange was going on inside of me: a part of me really wanted dad to spank me. God knows, I deserved it.

Without saying a word, he reached out and took me by my left arm and hauled me across his knees. To my utter surprise I didn’t struggle. I could easily have forced my way to my feet and left the room. Instead, I adjusted myself across his knees, until I was in position with my arms out in front of me, palms down on the carpet. My torso rested comfortably across his lap and I kept my knees straight so my legs were an inch or so off the floor at the back.

Dad took hold of me around the middle of my body to make sure I wasn’t going to fall off as he went about spanking my bottom.

I was wearing two-toned Sta-Press trousers – very fashionable at the time – which had an adjustable waist so you needn’t wear a belt. There were no back pockets, so dad had a fine view of my bum and would have seen I was wearing but the briefest of underpants, which left a lot of my buttock cheeks uncovered. Clearly, the trend setters of fashion at the time had no expectation that people wearing their clothes might need protection from their dad’s slipper.

I lay across dad’s knee, waiting for the first slap. There was quite a pause – was he having second thoughts? – before Whack!! Down it came. I gasped a little. Then came another slap and another.

My bum was warming up, but I wasn’t in any great pain. Nonetheless, I wriggled across his lap: was it just a reflex action against the assault on my bottom?

The next whacks were harder and I grimaced and screwed up my face up in quite some discomfort.

But, the pain, such as it was, was bearable.

I’m not sure how many smacks with the slipper he gave me: but it was probably no more than a dozen.

He let me up and I stood in front of him, not quite knowing what I was supposed to do next. My face was bright red from being upside down, but I doubt if my bum was more than a shade of pink.

My bottom was hot, but it wasn’t particularly sore and certainly not throbbing. I don’t think I even felt the need to rub it.

“Go upstairs,” dad said. And, that was it: my first and only spanking.

I went to my bedroom and in time-honoured fashion I stood in front of the mirror, took down my trousers and pants and inspected the damage. Truthfully, there was nothing much to show for it.

I lay on my bed for a while reliving the past ten minutes. I couldn’t believe that I had been taken across my dad’s knee and given a dose of the slipper. As I recalled each moment of the spanking, from being scolded in the kitchen, dragged into the living room, forced down over his knees and then walloped with the slipper, I felt an unfamiliar stirring within me.

I closed my eyes tight to try to visualise what I must have looked like draped over dad’s knee, the slipper rising and falling and smacking into the seat of my trousers.

The vision in my mind’s eye stirred my cock a little and I realised it was turning me on. My hand went down to touch it, but it wasn’t quite getting hard. I wasn’t aroused enough.

How typical of my dad – he couldn’t even spank me properly.

Tugging at my todger, I let my imagination take over and re-ran my spanking as it should have been.

We are in the living room. Dad has lectured me and I know I am to get the spanking of my life: and I deserve every whack of it.

Dad pulls the chair out from behind the table, puts it in the centre of the room and sits down. In his hand is a bedroom slipper. I am shaking my head and babbling on about “never doing it again.” But, like millions of naughty children before in the same situation, it does no good. I am going across dad’s knee.

Dad points to a spot to the right of where he is sitting. “Stand there,” he orders, and I do as I am told.

“Take down your trousers.”

Slowly and carefully, I undo the button, slide down the zip, and push the trousers down until they drop of their own accord to my ankles. My grey t-shirt covers all but the lowest inch of my honeycombed-coloured pants.

I blush, my face going cherry red, standing in front of dad with just my thin pants covering my bottom.

“Bend over my knee.”

Leaning down, momentarily I place a hand on dad’s thigh to steady myself, and then lower myself across his lap, reaching down for the carpet beyond.

I let him position me across his lap. My arm is taken and folded up my back, securing me and preventing any possible escape.

My shirt is neatly folded up, exposing my lower back to the cool air of the room.

Then dad takes hold of the top of my pants. I panic. He’s going to bare my arse.

Then, I am lying across dad’s knee, bottom bare. I breathe in sharply. Suddenly, there’s a loud crack echoing round the room as my bum gets a mighty whack that stings me across both my pert round buttocks.

“Ah!” I cry.  After just two more weighty blows from the large slipper, I can feel my bottom aflame with a smarting soreness that hurts and stings.

With just two or three seconds between each smack of the slipper, the spanking quickly develops into a slow steady rhythmic rising and falling of the slipper. Each time the slipper contacts forcefully with my once pale creamy-white bottom, I grimace and screw my face up in some pain.

Dad’s large slipper thumps heavily down on my naked bottom time and time again. My bottom is really very sore now, and my arm hurts where I have been struggling and dad has restrained me.

I am howling and kicking like a child, begging dad to stop hurting me. Dad takes no notice: he is the master of me and he is giving me the sound spanking I so thoroughly deserve.

As the spanking continues, I realize with shock that my ass is on fire. It burns with a pain that bewilders me. Every fresh smack of the slipper tears a gasp from me, and I am crying; in fact, I’ve been crying for some time.

Yes, tears are flowing down my eighteen-year-old face, and nothing I can do will stop them flowing. My body lies flopped across dad’s lap and I just sob and sob as he pounds away.

Then it is over. With contempt dad rolls me off his lap and I fall to the floor, weeping buckets of tears. I stumble to my feet, disorientated. I am not sure where I am.

My face is red and hot. My hands go to try to sooth my burning bottom.

I have spent the last ten minutes or so draped across dad’s knee with my trousers around my ankles and underpants around my knees. Dad has given my bottom and the top of my legs a thorough spanking. Not one square millimetre of my rear end has avoided his attention. My bum is aglow.

It has been a long, humiliating and very painful bare bottom spanking.

Now, dad is warning me that if I ever start another fire he will take a cane to my bare backside, young adult or not!

“Get up to your room,” he orders. I thank him before leaving the living room, closing the door quietly behind me.

Yes, that’s the way to give a proper spanking.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first published in August 2015

 

Other st0ries you might like

The Gaffer of the Academy: 1. Beginnings

Max of the ‘Champion’ 2. The deputy editor

The debut

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Baxter’s Beating

z used cane hold kernled (21)

Baxter stretched his limbs beneath the itchy grey blanket. The clock on the bookcase said eleven-fifteen. He clasped his hands together and put them behind his head. Too late to go to lectures now, he thought. Not that he had intended to.

He surveyed the room. His trousers were strewn over the small leather armchair. His jacket and shirt was on the solid oak table. What a night it had been. He and Marshall had taken in a show and then it was back to his pal’s room for drinks and smokes.

Baxter’s cock still ached. Marshall had been insatiable; gobbling him five times at least. What a mouth, large and round. And he knew how to keep his teeth out of the way. He hadn’t had so much pleasure since the young guardsman at Hyde Park. He had taken out his dentures so had no teeth before he went to work.

Baxter’s cock stiffened, he licked the palm of his right hand and gently massaged the tip of his manhood. He was interrupted by a heavy knock on the door. “Who is it,” he called not bothering to hide the irritation in his voice.

“Manners, Sir,” came a clearly enunciated reply. Baxter groaned. “Yes, what do you want, Manners?” He released his grip on his cock. “I have a message Sir, from the Tutor.” Baxter sighed, “Slip it under the door, there’s a good chap.”

A white rectangular envelope glided under the door. Baxter watched uninterested. I must tip the servant five-bob sometime, he reminded himself before with the sound of Manners’ footsteps fading into the distance on the stone stairway he returned his attention to his throbbing cock.

It was much time later that he remembered the message. It was a printed card with the time and date filled in by hand summoning him to his first meeting with his tutor; the man who would oversee his studies during the three years Baxter would be at the university. Jolly good chap, he thought, he’s inviting me for tea, he had a deserved reputation for providing a good spread.

Baxter admired his reflection in the mirror as he went about his toilet; it was 1926 and all was well in the world. He was at university and his father was paying his bills. He spent most of his time at the theatre or cinema. He wrote revue sketches that he performed wherever and whenever he could. He was a hit a parties. His was perfecting one character in a particular; a middle-aged schoolma’am irritated by a group of young gals (“Don’t do that Clarisa!”). His mother provided the frocks.

A chap only had to attend the first lecturer of term, write his name in the attendance book, and then he need never return. After three years of this there would be examinations, but Baxter did not care; three years was a lifetime.

Baxter was puzzled when he arrived at Mr. Townsend’s study to find he was to be the only visitor. There was no party. Mr. Townsend was  a senior man maybe in his fifties with a younger, vivacious wife – much loved by the students – but Townsend himself was a bit of a cold fish. He had unruly grey hair and a neatly-cut beard. His conventional double-breasted jacket fitted him too tightly. He peered down his angular nose through eyes that were a little too close together.

He was courtesy personified. “Mr. Baxter,” he sighed, at the nineteen-year-old undergraduate standing before him. “Rules permit those residing in College to be out late a maximum of three times a week. You have been late six times this week and a further five last.” He drew in breath and continued, “I have not been informed about your behaviour in the previous weeks.”

Baxter blinked furiously. Manners had ratted on him. Well he could say ta-ta to that five bob.

“Mr. Baxter, you are at the university to learn. You must attend lectures and tutorials.”

“Yes, Sir,” Baxter mumbled. It was like being back at school.

“You were at St. Tom’s were you not?” Mr. Townsend stretched his arms.

“Yes, Sir,” mumbled again for Baxter was unsure if he was expected to answer.

“A very traditional school, I believe?”

“Eh, yes, Sir.” What did his old school have to do with it?

“So you understand the meaning of discipline?”

Baxter was silent. He didn’t like where this one-sided conversation was going.

“I am sure your headmaster would have given you Six for slacking, Mr. Baxter.”

Colour rose up Baxter’s face. “But we’re not at school.”

Mr. Townsend frown and then a slight smile worked the corners of his lips. That’s what they all said, he thought. Aloud he said, “You are not an adult until your attain the age of twenty-one,” it sounded to Baxter that the Tutor was reading from a script. “I stand if you will in loco parentis. You might considered me to be your father, but that might lead to unwanted complications. Instead, you must think of me as your housemaster at school.”

He paused and peered intently at the young man’s puzzled expression struggling to understand the full import of the Tutor’s statement.

The Tutor stood, stretched his arms and walked slowly across the study. It was a small room, dominated by a walnut desk and three small leather armchairs. A bookcase filled a whole wall. He paused in front of it, but not to choose a volume. There was a tall, thin cupboard at one end and Baxter watched uncomfortably as the Tutor took a key from his pocket, inserted it into the lock and opened the door. The undergraduate could only see Mr. Townsend’s back as he reached inside, but the rattling noise he heard was unmistakable. Seconds later the Tutor turned to face the boy; in his hand was a thin, whippy rattan cane.

Mr. Townsend eyed the rod as if seeing it for the first time. Ignoring Baxter’s burning stare he first flexed it between his two hands and then swished it through empty air. Baxter gulped. It was a little shorter and quite a bit thinner than those used at St. Tom’s but he had no doubt it would sting like the blazes.

“But, Sir, can’t we talk about this?” Baxter blustered.

Mr. Townsend’s lips pursed. They all said that as well. “There is nothing to say Mr. Baxter, unless you want to be sent down for the rest of the term. What would your father think about that?”

Baxter squirmed. He knew darn well what Dad would think. There’d be no more university; he’d have to work for his living. He said none of this to the Tutor, instead he shrugged his shoulders in defeat.

Mr. Townsend busied himself turning one of the low armchairs so that its back now faced into the room. Baxter hopped from one foot to the other. There was no turning back. He would be brave. This was not the first time he had been caned.

“Please lower your bags and bend over the back of the chair.”

Baxter blanched. That was a first; a trousers-down caning. “B… b…” he started a protest but stopped himself immediately. What was the point? The tutor was in charge, Baxter had broken the rule about late nights and a few others that the Tutor did not seem to know about.

“Come on please Mr. Baxter,” the Tutor tapped his cane on the back of the hard leather chair, the noise ricocheted around the room.  “I have others to deal with this evening.”

Baxter took a deep breath. His belt unfastened easily and his loose-fitting trousers slipped over his hips. It took the slightest tug to have them at his shoes. Penguin-like he shuffled two steps closer to the chair, looked over his shoulder to give his master an imploring look, found the Tutor determined, and slid himself over the chair.

He looked down at the seat cushion inches in front of his face. It was patterned in greens and blues. Summer colours. He concentrated carefully. He needed to focus on something. Such as the large, round, greasy, indentation. Hundreds, possibly thousands, of posteriors had contributed to the dent. It was an old chair. It had seen much action. He gripped the cushion edge tightly. Waiting.

His heavy trousers were at a puddle at his feet. His grubby off-white underpants were riding up into his buttock crack. He couldn’t have felt more self-conscious. Embarrassed. Humiliated, even. A cool gust of wind brushed his naked legs. The study window was slightly ajar. He felt Mr. Townsend’s strong hand grip the tail of his shirt and roughly bundle it up his back. He did the same with the singlet. Now, there was nothing between Baxter’s cotton-covered backside and the Tutor’s cane.

He could feel it pressing into his flesh. Mr. Townsend was finding his spot. Preparing himself. It would be any moment now. Baxter waited, heart racing, teeth clenched, eyes tightly shut, while Mr. Townsend, a powerful upright man and as strong as an ox adjusted his academic gown so he could get a better swing. Then Baxter imagined, the Tutor flexing the cane.

He did not have to imagine his shudder of anticipation as the Tutor laid the cane across the centre of his buttocks and pressed it hard into the meat. He was getting his aim. The boy felt the cane move off his bum; then there was an almighty swish and it came crashing down, hitting his buttocks and sinking deep into the flesh.

“Hisssssssss.” It wasn’t a yell, it was almost silent. The sound of air being expelled. The boy tightened his grip on the seat cushion.

Swipe number two was equally as hard and landed almost exactly on top of the first. The pain shot from the centre of his bum and sped up and down his legs. He wriggled his hips and waggled his buttocks.

Two down. The pain was excruciating; so much more than Baxter had expected. The cane was smaller and thinner than at St. Tom’s but somehow it had more whip and sting than those at school. Mr. Townsend was an expert caner. He was able to inflict maximum pain with seemingly minimal effort

The third stroke interrupted his thoughts. It landed lower, across the crease. Each swipe had been laid on with vigour. The Tutor was giving it some beef; he could have been beating a carpet. Baxter bit down into his bottom lip, stifling his desire to yell. It felt as though there were three throbbing ridges beneath his underpants.

Baxter was astonished by the severity and intensity of the strokes. He felt flushed and humiliated. Cold perspiration ran down his shoulders. After number four hit home his legs were marching up and down on the carpet. Tears flooded his eyes.

Number five hit low. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the chair. His feet stamped up and down but the smooth soles of his shoes could not grip the cheap carpet beneath them and his legs slid from behind him. He banged his head up and down on the chair. His temples throbbed almost as much as his backside as blood rushed through his entire body and tried to exit through his ears.

Mr. Townsend adjusted his position. Baxter’s body tensed. He knew what was coming. The Tutor laid the cane diagonally across both buttocks from the lower part of the left cheek to the top of the right. Slash! Baxter’s bum had a perfect imprint of a five-bar gate. His backside vibrated vigorously and he let out a piercing howl. For a moment he released his grip on the chair and started to stand, he wanted to dance a jig – anything to deaden the agony. He regained composure and resumed his hold on the chair tightly.

“Enough. It’s over. You may stand.” Mr. Townsend continued to talk as Baxter dressed. “I hope we do not have to repeat this Mr. Baxter, but if we do, please be aware that next time I shall double the tariff and reduce the protection of clothing.”

Baxter fastened himself up. The throbbing in his corrugated bum was intense. He might be bleeding. He nodded vigorously at the Tutor but said nothing. “Time for you to leave,” the Tutor smiled, extending his hand. They shook like gentlemen. Baxter hobbled to the door, turned the handle and opened it. He was not surprised to see Marshall standing outside, ashen faced.

Picture Credit: Kernled

Other stories you might like

It’s the waiting …

Shoplifting

Why me?

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Book. The Dean of Dormitory Discipline

used-drawing-paddle-on-jeans-3

The Dean of Dormitory Discipline and other university tales

The Dean of Dorm Discipline regularly beats misbehaving students and there was never a weekend when his paddle did not fly through the air. This gave them ample opportunity to swap stories about their spankings and their bruises became badges of honour when displayed in the communal showers.

Now, Mitch must pay for his missed curfew …

The Dean of Dorm Discipline is one of six corporal punishment tales from universities that appears in the my free-to-download book.

This one runs for more than 15,000 words and like the other books in this series it can be downloaded as a PDF file and read on your computer, laptop or a variety of e-book readers.

Click on the link below:

the-dean-of-dorm-discipline-by-charles-hamilton-ii

For more free-to-download books click here

 

BOOK. The Junior Salesman

used drawing cane hold (4)

The Junior Salesman and other workplace whackings

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

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

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

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

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

the-junior-salesman-by-charles-hamilton-ii

Picture credit: Unknown

For more free-to-download books click here

Book. Paul and his Landlord

used drawing cane hold (27)

Paul and His Landlord – and other troublesome tenants

Young men who are away from the parental home, often for the first time, are apt to stray from the straight and narrow. How lucky that responsible adults in the shape of landlords are on hand to show them the error of their ways, even if it means delivering sound spankings and other corporal punishment.

It might even be a life-changing experience for them – it certainly was for Paul.

Paul and his landlord and other troublesome tenants is another in a series of collections of my stories being published in book form. It runs for more than 21,000 words and has many illustrations. You should be able to read it on your lap top or e-book reader.

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

paul-and-his-landlord-by-charles-hamilton-ii

 

Picture credit: Unknown

 

For more free-to-download books click here