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

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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

University encounter

z used otk jeans bed (125)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wrong again.

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

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

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

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

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

“You should tidy this place up.”

Who did he think he was, my mother?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I set off the fire alarm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Picture credit: Spank This

 

Other stories you might like

One hot summer afternoon

Milo, the grad student

Pyjama bottoms down. Bend over (again)

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Boss’s Son

z used art office otk ruler chair (8)

I had to stand there in the office and listen when dad told Mr. Furlong, “If he’s any trouble. Any trouble at all. I want you to take him across your knee and spank his backside for him. Hard.” Mr. Furlong’s face lit up and he cracked a broad smile. “I’m not joking, man,” my dad barked. “I mean it. I’ll be checking. If he doesn’t buck his ideas up and make some improvements with himself, I’ll know who to blame.” His eyes darkened. He was a hard taskmaster. Mr. Furlong knew exactly what dad meant – his job was on the line.

Extract from The Boss’s Son, a new exclusive story from Charles Hamilton II uploaded to The Canery website. Click here to read it

 

Other workplace stories you might like

Theft of petty cash

The boys in the mailroom

Over the boss’s knee

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The sleep over

z used pillow fight (4b)

Simon sat in his favourite chair, a weak gin and tonic at his elbow, trying to read the evening newspaper. The noise from the bedroom above was disturbing him. Typical, every time the boys came around for a sleep-over, something like this happened. It sounded like they were having a pillow fight.

He got out of his chair and shuffled into the kitchen. The noise was louder in there. He delved into the freezer, scooped three ice cubes into a glass, and prepared another G&T. The shouts from the bedroom were worse. Simon stood at the foot of the stairs and called up, “Be quiet, you two or I’ll be up there to sort you out. You know I will!”

He returned to the lounge and picked up The News. He sipped at his drink and rifled through the pages of the newspaper in search of juicy court cases. He found none. Boring, he thought, nothing interesting ever happened in Brocklehurst.

The electric light above his head shook. Leo and Edward seemed to be on the floor, wrestling. A high-pitched giggle reverberated around the room. And then another. Simon crumpled the newspaper and threw it onto the couch. Enough, he fumed. Well, they can’t say they weren’t warned.

Slowly and with purpose, Simon plodded up the stairs. He reached the bedroom and without knocking, he gripped the handle and flung the door open. Leo and Edward, dressed only in underpants were on the floor. Edward was on his back and Leo straddled him. He appeared to be gently slapping the boy across his face.

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Simon wailed, “Get up, the pair of you. Why can’t you play nicely?”

Leo rolled off his friend, stood and then sat on the bed. Edward, red in the face, climbed to his feet and stood sheepishly.

“You’re at university now,” Simon berated them. “You should have grown out of these childish games.” He glowered first at Edward and then at Leo. “I’m not even going to ask who started it; you’re both as bad as each other.”

Leo’s mouth opened as if he was about to say something. He closed it again; he had thought better of it.

“We’ll what did I say last time would happen if you behaved like this?” Simon’s question was not directed at one boy in particular. The two nineteen-year-olds exchanged glances. They knew the answer to the question, but neither wanted to say the words out loud.

“Well, then?” Simon scowled, and when no response was still forthcoming, he looked at Leo, still sat on the bed. “Stand up.” Leo made no attempt to move. “Now!” Simon barked. He meant business.

Leo hauled himself to his feet, affecting an air of resentment.  Simon brushed by him and sat himself squarely in the middle of the bed, his feet hanging over the edge. “Come, here and put yourself across my legs.” He reached out to Leo, in case the teenager proved reluctant. But, Leo once more exchanged looks with Edward, before stepping forward and lowering himself over the bed.

The bed was wide and Leo relatively short, so his body lay flat across the mattress. His stomach rested over Simon’s legs, lifting his own bottom a little. He stretched his arms out ahead of him and his legs were pushed out behind him.

Simon gripped the elasticated waist of Leo’s underpants and tugged them until the teenager’s bottom was completely bare. Leo at first closed his eyes, then tuned his head sideways. When he opened them again, Edward was in his direct vision standing close to the bed with a perfect view of the proceedings.

Simon smacked his hand into Leo’s left cheek and then into the right. Leo swam a lot and the muscles on his body and backside reflected this. The teenager’s bum was round and hard. Simon rained more spanks into the naked bottom and was pleased to see dark pink handprints appear all over the curves and into the crease. He turned his attention to the top of the mounds. After a couple of minutes of spanking the whole of Leo’s bottom from the top where the cheeks met the spine, over the hills, and into the undercurves was rosy, but the youngster had made no sign that he was in pain.

“Stand up,” Simon spoke brusquely. Leo climbed from Simon’s knees and rolled off the bed. He pulled up his pants and stood close to the wardrobe.

“You next,” Simon nodded at Edward. The nineteen-year-old stood his ground. He was going nowhere.

“Doh!” Simon exhaled. He bounced his bottom along the mattress and sat on the edge of the bed. Before Edward realised what was happening, Simon had gripped him by the wrist and pulled him forward. He rested over the older man’s knees, his torso stretched across the mattress and his feet firmly on the ground. Simon soon had Edward’s orange briefs at the boy’s ankles. Bent over this way, Edward’s bum was stretched and as Simon whacked away at his bared bottom, it felt like it might be made of solid rubber.

Leo shuffled along the wall to get a better view as his friend’s arse was spanked from pink to rosy. Edward’s bum always coloured easily and after a couple of minutes it had turned scarlet.

Soon, it dawned on Simon that both boys had buns of steel. His own hand hurt a lot more than Leo’s and Edward’s backsides.

“Oh, this is pointless, Simon moaned. “Get up.” The teenager sprang to his feet and pulled up his pants.

“You didn’t feel a thing. I’m going to have to start all over again,” he said as he unbuckled his heavy leather belt and pulled it clear of his trousers.

“No, come on Uncle Simon, that’s not fair,” Edward spoke first, but Leo soon joined in. “You’ve spanked us once, you can’t do it again.”

Simon doubled the belt in his hand. “Oh, can’t I. We’ll soon see about that.” He pulled the leather belt between his two hands so it made a resounding, “Crack!”

“Kneel by the side of the bed,” Simon waved the belt so there could be no misunderstanding, “And, then bend across it.”

“B …” Leo started to protest, but stopped. Edward had already taken up the position, as ordered. He was submitting to Uncle Simon.  There was no way Leo could let his pal be belted and refuse to take it himself. With some trepidation, he knelt down beside Edward.

“We don’t need these,” Simon gripped both boys’ pants simultaneously until he was rewarded with two sets of naked buttocks.

Edward looked to his left; Leo to his right. The pals would have eye contact throughout the ordeal they would suffer together.

Smack! The belt thwacked across Leo’s backside, a dep red stripe instantly appeared. The teenager’s mouth was opening and closing, registering the pain, just as the strap bit into Edward’s bum. His eyes widened. That hurt. A lot.

Simon grinned. They would certainly feel this belting. With gusto, he laid a dozen stripes across each boy’s naked haunches. They wriggled and squirmed. Edward took it better than his pal. Tears streamed down Leo’s face after the first half dozen and he was yelping like a lost puppy by the time Simon had finished.

Edward was more stoical. His eyes blazed and his face was ashen by the time Simon permitted them to stand. He was in great pain, but mostly he kept it hidden from Leo and Simon.

Sweat poured from Simon’s body, although it was quite a cool evening. “Get to bed the pair of you and I don’t want to hear a peep from you until morning. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Uncle Simon,” only Edward spoke; Leo was still gently sobbing.

Simon replaced his belt and exited. Moments later, he lay on the bed in his own room. In a few minutes, he knew, he would be disturbed by the noise of Edward’s and Leo’s frantic lovemaking. Simon would have to make do with solitary masturbation.

 

 

Other stories you might like

Brad, the spanking-movie star

The paying guest

The TV repairman

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com