Just a little weed

new story 2

Mr Tripper pulled the car gently through the gates and slowly headed to the house. The afternoon was hot, just a bit too hot. Even with the air conditioning at full blast, his scalp itched with sweat. It did nothing for his mood.

He came to a halt and switched off the purring engine. He sat, his rear end a little sticky against the leather seats. He held onto the steering wheel and peered through the windscreen, noticing for the first time the dead bugs squashed against the glass.

He drummed his fingers; his irritation was getting the better of him. He did not like skipping work early. And he hated lying to his secretary about an urgent dental appointment. He wiped his wet brow with the back of his hand and opened the car door. He stood on the gravel pathway and stared towards the house. Sean would be in the bedroom at the far left on the top floor. Failing that he’d be laid out on the couch in the front lounge. Either way, Mr Tripper did not want the young man to hear his approach.

That might be easier said than done. Mr Tripper was a heavy set man and even a lightweight would fail to make crunching footsteps in the gravel. He felt absurd as he tip-toed the five or six paces from his car to the front door. He found his keys in his trouser pocket and quietly opened the door. He stood, ears pricked, seeking sound. He didn’t need bat-like radar, music (well, Sean would call the cacophony music) swelled from behind a door at the far end of the hallway. Mr Tripper congratulated himself on his prediction; the brat was in the front lounge.

He closed the door silently. The back of his shirt was drenched with perspiration, the airless hallway was no help. He was suddenly aware that his heartrate was speeding. His temples throbbed. Soon, his mouth would dry. Mr Tripper recognised the symptoms. He had them every time he confronted Sean. He made no attempt at stealth as he approached the closed door. There was no way the brat would hear him coming over all that noise.

He reached his destination and paused with his hand hovering over the door handle. Jeez, he groaned silently. He recognised the sweet, cloying aroma that drifted from under the door. Not again! After what I said last time. The bastard. And, in my house too.

He pushed against the door and it opened with a flourish. Mr Tripper stood framed in the doorway. The smell was overpowering. He cleared his throat. Sean lay on a couch at the far end of the room. Mr Tripper’s eyes narrowed, his anger was rising. Sean shuffled to something like a sitting position. He peered back at Mr Tripper through large black shades. His long, well-designed hair flopped over his forehead. He nodded a slight welcome gesture and took a long suck on the cigarette he held unsteadily between two fingers.

“What the …?” Mr Tripper barked.

“Huh?” Sean grunted.

“That!” Mr Tripper nodded in Sean’s general direction.

Sean looked at the cigarette in his hand as if seeing it for the first time. “It’s just a little weed,” he slurred.

“It is not just a little weed,” Mr Tripper took a deep breath. He was trying to control his temper, but instead he sucked down the cannabis secondary-smoke. He coughed. “It is not just a little weed. It is drugs.” He flailed his arms, pointing first at the twenty-four-year-old spaced out on the couch and then at the large window that took up most of one wall. “Anyone can see you.”

Sean furrowed his brow and beneath his dark glasses scrunched up his eyes. “It’s the garden,” he wheezed before taking another drag.

‘It is pot. It. Is. Illegal.” Mr Tripper’s arms continued to thrash about. “In my house. I cannot believe it!” But, he could. It wasn’t the first time. Sean was that kind of guy; never too far away from a smoke. You only had to look at him: long hair, posy sunglasses, very short cut-down denims and a sleeveless black vest with an anti-nuclear symbol emblazoned on the front. Clearly, Sean was not the nine-to-five type.

z used solo short shorts smoking by john kohlburn

Mr Tripper moved forward so he towered over Sean’s prone body. “For goodness sake, put it out can’t you!” He waved his hand in front of his face in a fruitless attempt to stop himself inhaling the smoke.

“Wor …?” Sean dragged on the cigarette twice in quick succession and hiccupped. It was almost finished. He took a third hit and belched loudly, sending a cold shiver through Mr Tripper. Then very slowly Sean licked the tops of his thumb and forefinger and snuffed the tip of the lighted cigarette. Now, it was his turn to flail his arms as he tried to find an ashtray to set it down.

“Bugger!” Mr Tripper ejaculated. His sudden movement startled Sean and his shades slid down his nose. “I told you! I told you!” Mr Tripper repeated his statement for emphasis. “No drugs in my house. I told you.” He turned his back on the young man and strode across the room. He stopped, turned around and faced Sean once more. “Don’t say, I didn’t tell you. I won’t have it. I just won’t have it.”

Sean sat upright on the couch. His head was buzzing but he had enough sense left to see he was in trouble.

“What did I say? What did I say would happen, if I caught you with drugs again?” Mr Tripper’s already sweaty face was now puce with rage. “What …?”

Suddenly, Sean realised he was supposed to give an answer. Now, what was it the old man had said? He knew, he was sure he knew. But, just at this moment he couldn’t quite recall. He watched Mr Tripper try to open a drawer in a mahogany sideboard. It seemed to be stuck. The clattering noise he made as he tugged away clanged like cathedral bells in Sean’s’ head.

At last it was open. Through bleary eyes Sean saw Mr Tripper reach in the drawer. He thought he knew what he was searching for … if only he could remember. Then Mr Tripper waved a large, heavy wooden paddle in his fist. “I told you. I warned you. I did.” Mr Tripper seemed to be trying to convince himself.

Sean staggered to his feet, leaving the sunglasses dangling from one ear. He snatched at them and they fell to the floor. He left them where they were; he had other concerns right now. Mr Tripper clutched the paddle in his right fist and waved it, only inches from Sean’s glazed eyes. “A spanking I said. A darned good spanking. And, I meant it too. Get over here.”

He didn’t wait for Sean to move, instead he gripped the young man by the elbow and pulled him away from the couch and across the room. Sean did not resist. Mr Tripper left him swaying in front of a large table. The table itself had no real purpose, they ate their meals in a designated dining room. This one was for show, it just filled space in one of the dozen rooms in Mr Tripper’s house. He carefully removed an empty vase that decorated the centre of the table and laid it on the sideboard. Sean watched the older man as he made his preparations. His head buzzed. It was like he was on the ceiling looking down on scene. These two men were strangers. He might be watching a play at a theatre. They were acting out a scene.

With the vase safely out of the way, Mr Tripper turned his attention once more to Sean. “Take down those shorts. Underpants too. Bend across the table.” He tapped the table with the edge of his paddle so Sean could be in no doubt about the instruction he had been given. The young man stood rooted. He made no sound, nor gesture. He stared blankly at a painting on the wall beyond the table. It consisted of green and red slashes and there were blue squiggles in there too. The whole thing swirled before Sean’s eyes.

“Bah!” Mr Tripper explosion of exasperation made him sound like a very old man; some ancient headmaster in a boys’ comic from the nineteen-thirties. “Well, if you won’t, I shall.” He dropped the paddle onto the couch and without a further word he stood directly in front of the young man. He stooped his shoulders and clutched at Sean’s belt buckle. It was soon open. He undid the metal fastening on the waistband and the tight, short cut-offs flapped open. Sean was motionless, still trying to make sense of the swirling picture.

Mr Tripper’s hand trembled and it made him fumble with the zipper of Sean’s denims. Once he had it halfway open, the weight of the leather belt had the shorts slipping down his thighs and over his knees until they fell in a puddle at his feet. His underpants were the briefest known to man. They had to be since his cur-offs were no bigger than boxer shorts. Mr Tripper could hardly not notice Sean’s cock and balls pressing against the snug cotton. This was no mere boy standing before him.

“Well …?” Mr Tripper might as well have been talking to himself. Sean remained still when Mr Tripper put both his thumbs behind the elastic waistband of the pants and with two simple tugs he had them over Sean’s tight buttocks and resting on top of the shorts. His long, thick cock flapped in the breeze. From where Mr Tripper stood and gazed it seemed to be on the march.

“Bend over the table,” Mr Tripper ordered as he retrieved the paddle. It was immediately clear Sean had no intention to move so Mr Tripper simply took hold of his neck and pressed him forward. He didn’t have to force the young man, Sean had no resistance in him. Instead, he rested his stomach on the wooden table top and stretched his arms to his sides and gripped the edges of the table. He pressed his left cheek against the table. He was sorry he could no longer see the swirling picture.

Mr Tripper studied the paddle in his hand. It was not so big, maybe about eight inches long, and about four inches wide. It was made of oak, a hardwood, and it had a few holes in the middle, this was to let the air underneath it to escape, insuring it would burn like hell each time it made contact with skin.

He turned his attention to Sean’s buttocks. They were as manly as his cock. Although Mr Tripper knew Sean to be a lazy so-and-so, the young man retained a muscular body. His legs were covered with dark hair, but the buttocks were not. The tiniest nick of a blade was visible inside his crack.

Mr Tripper breathed deeply. The afternoon had turned sweltering. The room was airless. He wondered for  moment if he dared open a window. Sean had been right, it did open onto the garden. The Avenue was some distance away, no passer-by would hear him. But there was nosy Mr Flynn at Number 52. Mr Tripper wouldn’t put it past him to be spying behind the fence.

He let it be. Sean was breathing evenly. His buttocks twitched slightly, as if inviting him to get on with the business. To do his worst. Mr Tripper took his time. Pat, pat on the left cheek. Then, the same on the right. Taking his aim. Then, Swat! It was a hard blow and the paddle blade was outlined in red across the cheek. He counted to fifteen in his head before landing the second blow.

He started in the very centre of the backside, across the highest and fleshiest part of the cheeks. The second swipe was lower; the third higher. That way Sean’s whole bum was ablaze and glowing red-hot after only three swats. Then, he went for the top of the mounds near the spine, over the crest of flesh and into the underside where buttocks meet the thighs.

Sean’s once smooth bottom was ridged with red welts. The surface of his buttocks soon took on the consistency of leather.

Sean made no sound. His bum absorbed the power of the paddle. Once or twice he twitched, it was his body’s natural reaction to the assault being made upon it.

In the right hands a paddle is a mightily effective spanking tool. It leaves the rear end blistered and bruised. A young man will find it painful to sit on a hard surface for a considerable time after. Unlike a cane or  switch, or even a riding crop, a paddle doesn’t cut. It is unlikely to leave the buttocks bloodied. A paddle does the job, but it isn’t torture. It is the preferred instrument of the loving father or educator.

Mr Tripper wasn’t keeping count but he must have laid three dozen swats across Sean’s backside before he reckoned there wasn’t one square inch of flesh left untenderized. All he saw was throbbing, scarlet  flesh. Sean’s haunches were on fire, surely he was in considerable pain. He struck one low, against the naked thigh. It left a deep imprint, but Sean barely reacted. Mr Tripper smiled to himself: he’s stoned – can’t feel a thing.

His arm ached and his heartrate was off the scale. The intense stuffiness of the room was getting to him. If he didn’t take care, he might fall to the floor in a dead faint. It was time to call a halt. He whacked another three swats against Sean’s thighs for good measure and then reeling a little, he swayed away from the table. Gasping like a fish out of its bowl he threw the paddle onto the couch. From a distance he observed Sean. He was still face down across the desk, arms spread-eagled, face staring off to the side. His backside was red and raw. In places the cheeks resembled uncooked hamburger meat. The young man was breathing heavily but otherwise he seemed unmoved by his ordeal.

“Stand up,” Mr Tripper called from across the room and when Sean gave no sign that he intended to move, he walked over and tapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, it’s over,” he said gently. Sean’s eyes watered. Mr Tripper could not tell if this was because of tears or the heavy smoking he had done. He took hold of Sean’s upper arm and helped him upright.

Now standing, Sean shook his head from side to side violently, rather like a horse does when neighing. The vigorous movement seemed to wake him up. His lips curled with a weak smile. He said nothing. Gently he pushed Mr Tripper back a little so they were both in space in the middle of the room. He sank to his knees in front of the old man. His fingers were surprisingly nimble as he undid the front of Mr Tripper’s trousers. Sean released the old man’s cock from its mooring.

It was long and narrow, curving slightly up the right. He was uncircumcised, the tip just protruding from the foreskin. Something on the tip glimmered. Sean placed his palm on the side of it, toward the base, and slowly wrapped his fingers around like he was griping a bat. Mr Tripper squirmed with appreciation. Sean took the pressure off his grip and ran his hand gently upward over nearly eight inches of cock.

Mr Tripper grabbed a hunk of Sean’s hair and forced the young man’s face towards his own throbbing penis. “’No, no. Take me. Suck me. Now. Now,” he gasped. “That’s what I paid you for.”

Picture credit: John Kohlburn

Other stories you might like

Don’t Knock it Until You’ve Tried

Public Birching

The interview

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

One hot summer afternoon

Simon Harmer glanced out of the bedroom window. It was hot and humid. The weather was about to break; a thunderstorm was coming.

He was in deep trouble with his dad. The old man was downstairs preparing himself. Soon, within minutes probably, he would burst through the door. Intent on doing his duty. It would be a whipping, for sure.

Simon was a first-year university student; home for the holidays. He was only nineteen years old, but he had done a lot of living in the past year.

A bolt of lightning cracked the sky. He waited, counting the seconds in his head. Nine, ten, eleven. Then came the clap of thunder. The storm was still some way off.

Simon had passed all his exams. In many ways he was a model-A student. He studied hard and didn’t party too much. He went dinking with friends, but steered clear of weed. Cannabis smoking led to heroin injection, everybody knew that.

He had been home for a few weeks and landed a job at one of the new large supermarkets that were springing up everywhere. It wasn’t much of a job; filling shelves mostly and humping boxes around. But there were lots of youngsters just like Simon working there, so he was making lots of friends.

Like Tony. Tony was a special friend.

People hardly noticed Tony. There was nothing unusual about him. A person couldn’t be more “ordinary” or more “normal” than Tony. He had long straggly, curly brown hair down to his collar. He never combed it; there was no point. “Wild,” was a good word to describe Tony’s hair. It had a mind of its own. Don’t bother trying to put a parting in it.

Simon was growing his hair too. It was the longest it had ever been in his life; but he still had some distance to go to catch up on Tony.

Tony had acne scars around his chin. He was a little self-conscious about it. But Simon didn’t even notice it. His teeth were crooked too. They weren’t as bad as the tombstones Simon’s dad had. He had huge hazel eyes; like whirlpools. They shone green when he laughed – which was often. Simon could have eaten them with a spoon.

Tony was really very thin. Not sickness thin. Just thin. Simon noticed it the first item the pair went walking together around Widdicombe Wood. It was swelteringly hot, so they took their shirts off. You could see Tony’s ribs poking through the skin.

He had spindly legs too. Simon and Tony wore fashionable snug sport shorts. They hardly covered their pants. His legs were like two matchsticks hanging down. He had the snakiest hips and no buttocks to speak of: just two pimples, really.

Simon’s dad was in the lounge. Reading his Bible. He had read it many times before. He wanted to go through a particular passage before he went upstairs to deal with his son.

Simon had been brought up on the Good Book. He could recite whole chapters. That gave his dad a great deal of satisfaction. Simon never told dad this, but he no longer believed a lot of it. There was no “Road to Damascus.” He just found that as he went through school and then to university he became more educated. More questioning. The history of how the Bible was written was well documented. How could anybody believe it was the literal word of God?

Simon wanted to call Tony. To get him on the telephone and tell him what was happening to him. He couldn’t. The phone was in the hallway and his dad wouldn’t let him, even if he tried.

If he was a character in one of those silly “teen” movies they showed at the pictures, he would climb out the window and go visit Tony. Guys were always doing that; goofing off to see their girlfriends.

But this was not a movie: this was real life. The window in his bedroom only opened a couple of inches at the bottom. Not even Tony was thin enough to climb through that.

Another lightning fork lit up the night sky. The thunder clap was closer.

Miserably, he lay down on his bed. He caught the faint whiff of Tony’s “Denim” aftershave. He always used just a splash too much. He put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes.

It had happened hardly thirty minutes before. Dad was prowling the house. He did that a lot. Opening and closing doors. Spying. When Simon had challenged his dad once about this lack of privacy, he was told, “This is my house and I’ll go where I want.”

It was masturbation. Wanking. Jerking off. Tossing.  Spanking the monkey. One off the wrist. Dad fretted that his three sons were abusing themselves. No door in the house, not even the bathroom (especially not the bathroom) could be locked. Simon and his brothers could expect their bedroom door to burst open at any hour of the night and day. Dad would be standing there, eyes popping. Checking them out.

It hadn’t been masturbation that afternoon. It was something, in dad’s mind, far worse.

Simon and Tony were in the room. They weren’t doing anything much. Listening to the radio. Talking. Hanging out. The room was small. It was hot and sticky. So were the boys.

Nothing was planned. Off came their shirts. It didn’t help. The heat was unbearable. Sweat glistened on Simon’s defined torso. A pool of perspiration soaked the top of Tony’s snug blue sport shorts. Tony grabbed his own shirt and wiped down his friend’s body; making circular motions across the chest and stomach, like he was polishing a car.

Simon squawked. It was a giggle the like he had never shrieked before.

Tony laughed. His eyes shone green. He pushed his best pal onto the bed and leapt on top of him.

Small children call it “pretend fighting.” It’s when they wrestle around on the floor, but they’re not really trying to hurt one another.

The teenagers rolled on the narrow bed. Simon, accidentally hit his head on the wall. Tony banged his knee on the bedside table. They held each other tightly. In each other’s arms.

That was when the door burst open. Simon’s dad paled. His jaw dropped. And, then his eyes exploded. The sport shorts were tight. They were snug. Soldiers stood at full salute. There was nowhere to hide the bulges.

Bile flooded to Mr Harmer’s throat. He held his hand to his mouth like an embarrassed maiden in a Victorian melodrama.

“Out!” The roar could be heard all down The Avenue. A stranger passing by stopped in his tracks, puzzled. What was that scream? Mr Harmer’s eyes protruded, a vein throbbed on the side of his neck, blood vessels on his nose were about to burst.

Tony grabbed his shirt and shoes and barged through the door; knocking Simon’s dad to the floor in his haste. In the distance, Simon heard the front door open and close.

Speechless. His dad gasped. The fury he felt was left unspoken, but the expression on his terrified face was enough. Struggling for breath, he picked himself up and staggered down the stairs.

Now, Simon waited for the inevitable retribution. Vengeance would be the Lord’s, and also his dad’s.

He didn’t understand what had happened that afternoon. He wasn’t naïve. University students knew about these things. Men going with men. Was Simon “one of them?” He didn’t think so, but so what if he was. It was legal. Well, legal if you were aged twenty-one or over. But, try telling that to dad. To him it was an “abomination.” Plain and simple. No discussion allowed.

What happened between Simon and Tony had seemed perfectly natural. Two pals having a bit of fun. Where was the harm in that?

His self-philosophising was cut short. The door burst open once more. His dad had returned.

Dad knew most of the Bible by heart. That afternoon he had the passages about men laying down with men and parents sparing the rod uppermost in his mind.

The “rod” in the Harmer household did not mean a cane or a stick. The “rod” was a magnificent three-tailed leather taws. The leather was scuffed, worn down by use. It was so old Noah might have used it himself.

There was a spanking ritual at the Harmer’s

“Take off those ridiculous shorts,” dad spat. “Pants too!”

While his son readied himself, Mr Harmer plumped up two pillows and set them down in the dead centre of the narrow bed.

“You know what to do.”

Indeed, Simon did. He knelt on the bed and gently eased himself forward so that his stomach, his cock and his balls, pressed into the duck feathers. His bare bottom was raised at an angle to greet the strap.

A three-tailed taws is an awesome weapon. When it flew, the business end could be more than ten inches from tip to tip. Mr Harmer tapped the taws across the centre of Simon’s cheeks. His shorts had covered so little of his anatomy that only a narrow strip across the teenager’s buttocks remained creamy white. The rest of his body was nut-brown, tanned by the strong sun.

z used drawing taws hold (11)

Mr Harmer set himself a challenge. By the time he was finished no square inch of the flesh would remain white. His heavy leather strap would turn it first to pink, then claret, then yellow and blue, until finally the cheeks would be bruised a deep purple.

Satisfied that he had his aim, he pulled the taws by its stiff handle in an arc over his own shoulder until the tails rested in the small of his back. He bent his knees slightly to give him momentum and then slashed the leather at great speed into the submissive buttocks.

The crack of leather connecting with flesh echoed around the room. Three dark pink marks spread from the top of the cheeks into the under-curve where bum and thighs meet. Simon closed his eyes tight and waited patiently for swipe number two.

His father’s eyes glowed with righteousness. He was so intent on doing God’s work, he failed to hear the creaking of floorboards outside the bedroom. Luke, Simon’s twenty-two-year-old brother, peaked through the partly-open door. He had the perfect view of his father’s back and his brother’s raised naked bum.

Up and down fell the strap. Still, Simon remained silent. Up, down. Up, down. Soon six sets of marks scarred his buttocks. Not one gasp escaped the teenager’s lips. He had long ago developed a high pain threshold.

Six more. Then another six.

Luke’s mouth dried. He remembered the thrashing his father had administered to him. Only last February. The pain and humiliation he had felt was often on his mind. His heartbeat sped. Sweat poured from beneath his shirt collar. He appeared to be in a worse state than his brother who was stoically enduring the wrath and the lash of their father.

“Oh, please God! No, not again.” It was a silent prayer. Luke was having thoughts again. He gazed on as his father renewed his efforts. The thwack and the splat as leather bit deep into Simon’s bottom had an unwelcome effect on Luke. “Please, no!”

Too late. Nearly. He rushed into his own bedroom, pulling at his shorts as he went. He dived onto the bed and wriggled out of his underpants. A load shot over his belly after only two strokes.

Mr Hamer was nearly done. The once-creamy white backside was now fifty shades of spanked. He had succeeded in his task. The boy’s bum looked like raw hamburger meat.

Another half-dozen. Just to finish the boy off.

Then, it was over. Mr Harmer tucked the taws under his armpit, tuned on his heels and exited, making sure to leave the bedroom door wide open.

Simon lay face down. The agony in his arse was already subsiding, but he knew from experience the pain would stay for a considerable time.

All seemed still. The house was silent. Even his noisy brother Luke wasn’t playing his records.

Simon rolled off the pillows and hauled himself from the bed. Quickly he pulled on his pants and shorts. He didn’t want to inspect the damage in the dresser mirror. He had seen it all before. It did no good. There was no point dwelling on the intense damage his father caused him.

He picked by his shoes and padded down the carpeted stairs to the front door. He slipped into them and made his way down the garden path. He knew inside the house his father would be on his knees, praying to God for Simon’s salvation.

Simon would leave him to it. He needed to find Tony.

Overhead, a lightning bolt flashed. Thunder struck. The heavens opened.

This story was first uploaded in January 2016.

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

A teenager’s tale

The pub visit

Rules of the house

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

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 pointon 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

 

Other books to download

 

The Dean of Dormitory Discipline and other university tales

Charles’ Picture Album

The Private Tutor

All in the Family. Tales of Domestic discipline

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Private Tutor

school shorts touch toes (1)

I recently uploaded my 500th story to this website – thanks to everyone for your support.  I know it can sometimes be difficult to navigate your way around to find stories on the topics that interest you. To help you a little, back in 2016 I started to collect together stories on the same theme and upload them as free-of-charge e-books.

Here is one of the earliest: The Private Tutor

What can fathers do when their sons fail their school exams because they spend too much time out with girlfriends, clubbing and playing in a rock band?

 Call for The Private Tutor. Using traditional educational approaches, he will soon lick them into shape.

 The whippy rattan cane, the taws, the paddle and the gym slipper are some of methods he uses as he guides them towards their A-levels.

Click the link below for the book in a PDF file

 The Private Tutor by Charles Hamilton II

 

Picture credit: Unknown

A further episode involving The Private Tutor is here

The private tutor: 4

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

That Connor Kid

z used solo defiant connor kid (2)

“War..warr’s going on?” Lars Alexanderson woke from his sleep with a start.

“What time is it?”

From the street outside his bedroom music was blaring rock-stadium loud.

“What is it?” His wife Ingrid was awake now.

“It’s that goddam Connor kid. What time is it?”

Ingrid switched on the bedside lamp.

“Nearly two o’clock. This is the third time this week.”

In at least three other houses in the street middle-aged couples were having similar conversations.

That Connor kid was out of control, they all said. Something had to be done.

Rip Connor, switched off the engine of his Chevy, silencing the music system in the car. Unsteadily, he opened the car door and staggered to his house. After a minute or two fumbling, he found his house key and after a bit more effort, he located the lock, opened the door and lurched inside.

Peace once again reigned in the street.

Rip Connor was a menace. He was way out of control. All the neighbours agreed. But what could they do?

Rip was nineteen years old, going on twenty. His father had left home for another dame years ago and his mother, a career woman, was now working in corporate finance in Hong Kong, leaving Rip alone in the family house.

And the teen loved every minute of it. In theory he was attending a business college, but in reality he was partying his life away. Most nights he hit the bars and clubs and when he wasn’t doing that he had “friends” over to the house.

The neighbours thought they lived in a quiet, respectable, street. They had experienced nothing like it before.

“Something must be done. We can’t go on living like this,” Mr Alexanderson told his next door neighbour, Mr Handsson, later that morning.

“Yes, it should,” the neighbour agreed.

“But what?” Alexanderson seemed genuinely at a loss and he trudged away to complain to more of his neighbors.

Handsson knew exactly what the boy needed. If any of his sons dared stay out late, got drunk and then woke up the neighbours; he would blister their butts. And, he had the perfect tool to do it with.

Just ask his son Soren. The boy was eighteen years old the last time his father dealt with him. It was his “attitude,” of course. Soren had forgotten his father was head of the household, not himself. Soren disobeyed the rules; did not complete his chores and then (fatally) missed his 10.30 pm curfew.

That was enough. Handsson’s house did not have an actual woodshed, but Soren was at least figuratively-speaking taken to the woodshed.

It was in fact a small storage area in the basement; just off the utility room. The Handsson’s didn’t use it for much else, except as a punishment room. An old worn razor strop (it had been in the family for generations) hung from a specially inserted hook on the wall, alongside an authentic school paddle.

Handsson had constructed a platform from wooden crates piled on top of each other and covered with canvas sheeting. It made an ideal spanking horse; its height could be adjusted with more or fewer crates to accommodate the size any one of his four sons.

Soren was a tall boy, but still growing: his poppa had to pile up four crates to create a spanking horse to fit him.

Corporal punishment was used frequently in the Handsson household. All his boys had suffered it and as far as Poppa Handsson was concerned they would all be subjected to it until the day they left his home: no matter what their age.

Soren knew he had screwed up. He didn’t know why he constantly argued with his parents. Somehow, in a way he didn’t understand, he just couldn’t help himself. The missed curfew was another matter. He did mean that. He had met this girl and he thought he was in with a chance of something. Of course, he was wrong. Dejected, he trudged home, sexually frustrated, to face his poppa’s wrath and the razor strop.

There was a ritual when Poppa Handsson spanked his boys. He would lecture them a little and they would apologise profusely and promise that they would never do it again.

Then he humiliated them. It was simple really. They had to humbly ask him to remove their pants and underwear from them and “thrash me to make me a better person.”

Soren hated that part. It was so creepy. He knew his friends were also spanked at home, but none of them had a special “punishment room” in the basement, and as far as he knew they weren’t made to beg for a thrashing. For them, it was pretty straight-forward. Their mad dad unceremoniously took them across his knee (or couch, or table) and whacked their ass with (usually) a paddle. End of story.

Soren was a very experienced receiver of corporal punishment and by the age of eighteen had a very high threshold of pain. That didn’t mean the whippings didn’t hurt: they did. But, he had developed a coping mechanism and most times he father lashed him with the leather strop he managed to stay reasonably quiet and absorb the pain.

This time he thought of Helen, the girl who had made him miss curfew. He conjured up the sight of her in his mind: her beautiful blonde hair; her clear skin and her pert breasts. He hoped by concentrating on something pleasant the agony of the lash would not be so bad.

Obediently, he bent across the punishment horse. His head and arms dangled on one side and his legs stretched on tip-toes on the other. His naked buttocks, covered by downy, almost invisible, blond hair rested submissively across the top of the chests.

He thought of Helen and what he would like her to do to him. To his horror his penis stood to attention. His face blushed scarlet and he prayed his poppa would not notice. God forbid that he should think this whipping turned him on.

Handsson stroked the heavy worn leather strap in his two hands; getting the measure of the weapon that would in a moment take his son’s butt off. He stepped back a little and rested the razor strop on the curves of the boy’s cheeks; in the centre where there was most flesh. The boy was no athlete, but he was trim, with little unnecessary body fat.

Satisfied with his aim, Handsson pulled the strop up and rested it across his own shoulder. Then the thick broad heavy leather strap curled itself viciously over the exposed buttocks.

Soren sucked in breath. It had hurt like crazy and any boy with less experience receiving corporal punishment would have yelled the basement down, leapt from the punishment horse and fled the room.

Soren’s breathing was heavy but he made no sound, even though his fingers gripped at the rough canvas covering the chests.

Stepping back his poppa struck again. Still Soren absorbed the pain. He wanted to bawl loudly but he would not give poppa the satisfaction of seeing his hurt.

Handsson was no fool. He had lost count of the number of times he had beaten his sons over the years. He was no stranger to the lash himself; his own father and grandfather were enthusiastic spankers. Handsson knew young Soren was in agony; but was too brave to show it. He rather admired his son for that.

He lashed the next stroke as hard as he could, thinking of all the wicked things his son had done. This gave Handsson the strength to apply the leather with as much strength as he could.

Soren took twelve lashes without an outward murmur. It was over. Another whipping delivered and received.

Gingerly, he lifted himself from the punishment horse; his dick was aching as much as his buttocks. Hurriedly, he turned his back away from his poppa and pulled up his pants and underwear. His buttock cheeks felt like they were made of leather. He could not be certain, but he thought he could feel blood seeping from wounds.

Later, in the privacy of his bedroom, Soren inspected the damage. His butt was fifty shades of red from just below the top of the crack to where it met the thighs. He could clearly see some of the individual strap marks.

Soren lay on his bed, face down. The thought of Helen’s hair and face and breasts haunted him. His penis refused to fall. In agony he reached into his bedside cabinet and extracted a handkerchief.

Handsson knew without a doubt that Rip Connor needed some butt pain. The boy was running wild; his father had left a long time ago and his mother seemed not to care. But, Handsson wanted to believe, because he had always liked Mrs Connor, perhaps she did not know about her son’s bad behavior.

Even if she did; there was nothing she could do about it; how would she be able to force a nineteen-year-old youth over her knee for the darned good spanking he so richly deserved?

Handsson was contemplating this when there was a knock on his door. It was three of his neighbours.

“Can we come in?” Lars Alexanderson asked, and entered without waiting for a reply.

“We’ve come about the Connor kid. We’ve all had enough.”

It seemed Lars was the spokesperson for the group. They had been talking about the boy and his bad behavior. The night-time disturbances were too much. He was selfish and destructive. Something must be done about it.

“OK,” Handsson replied, “What exactly do you think we should do?”

He rather hoped they had come to the same conclusion as he: blister the boy’s butt. But they hadn’t. Not yet at least.

“We should go over to his house together and tell him this behaviour must stop,” Lars told him.

Reluctantly, Handsson agreed to join them on a visit to the boy.

Five minutes later they were knocking at the door. It was another five minutes before Rip, bleary-eyed and unwashed, inched open the door.

What he saw was four of his neighbours, middle-aged, balding, thickening around the waist.

“Warr..?” His head ached from too much booze and partying.

The conversation was over in seconds. Lars Alexanderson tried to be polite.

“It’s about your behavior,” he stumbled, unsure how to put it. ”You are coming home too late …”

Rip Connor’s pale face pinkened slightly. What! Who were they to tell him what to do? Who did they think they were? He hated these sanctimonious Swedes, with their perfect kids, always getting high grades at school.

He said none of this out loud. Instead, he simply said, “Fuck off!” and slammed the door in their faces.

The neighbors regrouped at Handsson’s house. Over tea and much muttering about how disgraceful the lout was they hatched a plan.

It was Handsson’s idea mainly. But they all agreed. Yes, if Connor were any of their sons (or daughters even) they would do the same thing.

Rip Connor never knew a thing.

Minutes later the neighbors were back hammering on his front door. The teenager poked his head from behind the curtains of his bedroom window and recognising his tormentors he pulled on a t-shirt and a pair of sweat pants and rushed downstairs.

He flew open the door ready to give some verbal abuse to the old-timers in his front yard.

But before he had even opened his mouth Lars put a meal sack over his head. Blinded and disorientated Rip could do nothing except allow himself to be dragged twenty yards across the street and into Handsson’s house.

The sack was removed from his head when they were safely in the basement punishment room.

Rip Connor gave them a stream of abuse. He called his neighbors every name under the sun and then some.

They let him get on with it. Let him shout and scream all he wanted. Handsson knew the basement was sound proof: nobody would hear a thing.

Eventually, he paused. Spent. He had no more breath to curse them with. Then, wearily he surveyed the room. The canvas-covered crates, the paddle and strop hanging from the wall: what was this place?

His heart raced as the truth sank in. Paddle. Strap. It could mean only one thing.

It had been Handsson’s idea originally, but Lars Alexanderson was now in control.

Calmly, he tore into Rip Connor. Every last misdeed was recounted: the late nights, the noise the partying. All of these were bad enough, Alexanderson said. But all that misbehaviour had been topped by his foul language to them early that morning.

“So, now you little brat,” he turned to Rip face on, “We are going to teach you a lesson.”

Rip’s worst fear was confirmed. He pushed past Alexanderson, but could not make it to the door. Four of his heavily-built neighbors had him trapped. Even in his hung-over state, Rip could have taken on one, even two, of them, but not all four together.

“But…” he blustered, not sure what he wanted to say. “You can’t …”

But they could. And they did.

Handsson and Alexanderson took an arm each and pulled Rip across the crates. It was a Titanic struggle at first. Rip’s fear gave him the strength of many men. But he stumbled as he was tugged by his neighbors and once he was face down across the canvas-topped punishment horse, he could go nowhere.

The two other neighbors held the boy down firmly while Handsson and Alexanderson released their grip. They had other roles to play in the drama that was unfolding.

Handsson crossed the room, reached up to the wall and removed the heavy paddle from its moorings.

As he did this Alexanderson approached Rip from behind, grabbed at the elasticated waist of his pants and tugged them tight, so they formed a wedgie, leaving no space between the cotton pants and his butt.

“No!!!” Rip wailed and struggled fiercely, but the two men held him forcibly down. He was going nowhere until they said so.

“Pah!”  Handsson snorted at Alexanderson. “What are you doing?”

Then, without a further word, Handsson grabbed the sweatpants and underwear and in one smooth movement pulled both down until they rested at Rip Connor’s shins. The boy kicked out in fury and caught Handsson squarely on the chest.

Alright he thought if that’s how you want it. Handsson rushed into the next-door utility room and returned seconds later with a length of rope. It took thirty seconds to securely tie Connors knees together. The lout would do no more kicking this morning.

Rip was terrified. These men now had him secured and tied, face down over the crates. His pants and underwear were at his feet and his ass was high, bare and exposed for anything they might want to do.

It was like a scene from a horror movie he had once seen. The cute young boy had been strip naked, held down and raped by four members of a rival gang.

Did his four portly neighbours have similar intent? The teenager screamed for help.

“Tut, tut,” Alexanderson said, as he calmly removed from his pocket a handkerchief which he stuffed into Connor’s mouth.

“Now shut up!”

Rip Connor could only gurgle his protest.

Handsson was first to go: after all it had been his idea. The paddle was about twenty inches long, four inches wide and three-quarters of an inch thick. Handsson knew it didn’t take many whacks with this wood to give a good spanking.

He took up position behind Connor who was still struggling, but he was pinned down so effectively he had no choice but to take his whipping.

The boy had a small waist, which emphasized the perfectly-shaped hemispheres of his bubble butt. Their unblemished creamy pale skin contrasted beautifully with his suntanned legs.

The first three swats with the paddle changed all this. Handsson gripped the handle with both hands, as if it were a baseball bat, arced it back over his right shoulder and brought it down with maximum force Bang! Bang! Bang!

Rip Connor’s whole body shook and he lifted an inch or two from the crates. But the strength of his two neighbors was too much and they forced his chest back into the canvas, squeezing all his breath from his lungs.

Three more swats crashed into Rip’s buttocks: two on the left cheek and one on the right. The six swats had covered every square inch of the boy’s beefy bottom and already purplish bruises were forming.

Handsson admired the six clearly defined marks on the lout’s ass: the outline of the paddle was clearly visible embossed into the once creamy-white buttocks.

He ignored the teenager’s muffled screams. He could not see from his vantage point at the rear, Rip’s scarlet face and blazing eyes.

Whack, whack whack! Another three.

Then another three.

A dozen mighty fierce swats were whipping the boys butt to shreds. And, it had only taken thirty seconds maximum.

Sweating profusely (there was little natural air in the punishment room and the physical exertion was taking its toll) Handsson bent double and rested his hands on his knees.

Tears flooded down Rip Connor’s face and salvia dribbled from his mouth. Every nerve in his body ached. His blood pressure was through the roof and his ears popped. He sucked in air desperately. Any moment, he feared he would have a heart attack.

“Here, let me.” Lars Alexanderson reached to his waist and in a smooth movement he had his belt unbuckled, through the loops of his pants, and doubled up in his right hand ready for action.

It was a heavy strap, not too thick and not so wide; but he knew from years of experience this little beauty could pack a punch. His own sons would testify for that.

When he spanked his own kids he demanded that they lay face down on the bed; pillows heaped up under their middle with their bared asses raised high. He stood more or less on top of the boy and only had to whip the belt down to inflict maximum pain.

Rip Connor was a different proposition. Alexanderson had to approach him from the side and get the belt to crash into his mounds from below. This was more difficult than he realised.

The first lash missed the teen’s butt completely and landed on the top of his thighs. Even with his mouth gagged, Rip let out a piercing scream.

Undeterred, Alexanderson repositioned. This time the belt landed right across the very center of both cheeks: a result.

Rip’s attempted shrieks were now low moans. How he hated these men. Never in his life had he been subjected to the total control of another person. He was completely at the mercy of his angry neighbors: not that they planned to show him any.

The belt lashed again and again into the increasingly bloodied cheeks.

Loud knocking on the front door distracted them. Someone had their finger pushed into the door-bell. Who was so anxious to get in?

“Better stop,”Handsson told his neighbour. “For now. Let me see who’s at the door.”

He found two young police officers.

“Good morning officers.” Handsson hoped the guilt he felt didn’t show on his face. He wasn’t feeling guilt about thrashing Connor, but he knew he and the neighbors had taken the law into their own hands.

“We have a report of a young man being kidnapped and brought into this house.”

Handsson was an honest man and without fuss took the two cops to the punishment room.

There they saw two men holding Connor face down across a punishment horse. A third man had a belt in his hand doubled up and ready for action.

Connor was gasping for breath. His buttocks were red raw and so bloodied they looked like raw hamburger meat. The backs of his thighs were marked with sunset stipes where the belt had lashed into them.

It was obvious what had happened.

One of the cops strode into the room, ready to break up the scene and arrest the men. Then he saw who it was showing his naked ass.

“Hey! It’s Rip Connor.”

He turned to his fellow cop. “Well, well. Rip Connor.”

Rip was well known to the two officers. They had lost count of the times they had moved him and his loutish friends on from street corners. Or picked them up drunk. Rip and his friends were always abusive.

“Oink, oink!” they would laugh making exaggerated pig noises. They knew there was very little the law could do about them. They were small beer. The brass at One Police Plaza and the judges didn’t want to be bothered with the likes of them. There were much bigger criminal fish to fry.

So, Rip got away with it all.

The two officers looked at one another. No word needed to be exchanged.

Office Brady smiled, “I don’t see anything happening here; do you Joe?”

“No,” his fellow officer agreed. “I don’t see nothing.”

Officer Brady had always wanted to beat the brat Connor on the bare ass; just as his own daddy would have done if he behaved like he did.

The two cops turned. As he made his way up the stairs, Officer Brady turned to Handsson. “Give him some for us.”

So, Handsson and the neighbors who always believed in obeying the police did exactly that.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in December 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

My Friend Justin

z used school longs after (8)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What have you done to earn a spanking?”

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

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

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

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

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

I wasn’t following, so he went on.

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

Not really, so he went on.

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

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

It was as clear as mud.

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

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

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

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

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

Justin laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Paul And His Landlord

z used cane hold kernled (13)

The sight Paul saw through the bay window of the house pulled him up sharp.

There, laid stretched across the stout wooden dining room table with his chubby backside in the air was Charlie, the eighteen-year-old son of Paul’s landlord.

And, standing there waving a crooked-handled cane in the air was the landlord himself, Mr Jarvis.

Crack! The cane swished down into Charlie’s stretched grey Terylene. The boy jerked as the rattan hit home.

Paul stood in the courtyard transfixed. There was Charlie, dressed in his school uniform: dark blue jumper with yellow braiding around the edges, grey trousers and black shoes, laying stomach down over the table, gripping the far edge with both hands for all he was worth.

Crack! Mr Jarvis, Charlie’s father, was an elderly man, easily in his sixties, Paul reckoned, whacked the cane down again. This was no token tap, Mr Jarvis was trying his damndest to cause real pain and from what Paul could see, he was succeeding in his task.

Charlie stoically gripped the table for all he was worth. The cuts of the rattan were searing into his rump, but he wasn’t about to let his dad know this.

Swish! Crack!

Paul was a twenty-year-old second-year university student, interested in his studies and no real trouble to anyone. He had moved into the boarding house owned and run by Mrs Jarvis at the start of the academic year about five weeks ago. It was a small boarding house, in fact a large domestic house built in Edwardian times when families were larger and servants had to be accommodated. Today, it was the Jarvis family home, with three spare bedrooms let out to paying guests.

The “family” consisted of Mr Jarvis, his much younger wife, Suzanne, who was probably in her forties and the aforementioned Charlie. Paul didn’t know much about the family really. He spent his days at the university and often stayed late into the evening at the library. Apart from at breakfast he hardly ever saw any of them.

It was just before five o’clock now and Paul was rarely at the house at this time, so he couldn’t be sure if what he was witnessing was a regular occurrence or something special.

Swish! Whack! The cane cut into Charlie once more. Then it was all over. “Get up,” Mr Jarvis ordered. Charlie sprung to his feet. He didn’t need telling twice. “Get out of here.”

Paul entered the house just as Charlie sprung out of the room red-faced (and surely red-bottomed as well) before taking the stairs two at a time and bounded up to his bedroom.

Paul had to pass the open door of the lounge to make his way up the same stairs to his own room. It was then that Mr Jarvis spotted him. “Paul, come in here please, I want to speak to you about last night.”

Last night? Actually, more like early this morning. Paul immediately understood. He had come back to the house at some God-awful time, pretty drunk. He was so drunk he couldn’t quite remember how he had got back from the club and what time it was.

What he could remember was that he was locked out. Drunk as he was he was able to get his key in the lock, but it wouldn’t open the door.  Someone had put the locks and chain on the door from the inside.

To cut a long story short, Paul had to hammer on the door and ring on the bell to get attention. He probably woke the whole house up for all he knew. Maybe he did, but it was Charlie who padded down the stairs and opened the door.  He was befuddled when he saw Paul standing on the doorstep demanding admission. But in no time Charlie assessed the situation and poked a lot of fun at Paul, whom he considered to be too much of a “goody-goody,” an assessment he reached after only a day of two of Paul’s tenancy.

Mrs Jarvis, who saw to the security of the house at night, hadn’t deliberately locked Paul out. He was never out late at night; she just assumed he was tucked up in bed as he usually was. But this time, no. Paul had been to the library last evening and somehow got in with a group of other students, some of who were in his Eng. Lit. class. They went out for a “quick drink” and one thing led to another (Paul had no idea how).

Paul was never like this, but at university that day he met up with different students who had seen him and the others last night and they pulled his leg a lot about just how “out of order” he had been. Surprising himself, Paul realised he quite liked the idea that people might think he was a bit “naughty.”

“Come in here Paul,” Mr Jarvis said and without further ado, Paul obeyed. As he entered the lounge, Paul’s eye caught sight of the cane, lying on the table where it had been used to thrash Charlie only moments before.

Paul tried to avert his eyes from the cane, but they kept flickering back as Mr Jarvis started on a lecture about his bad behaviour the night before. Paul wasn’t paying that much attention. How did the old man find out? he wondered. Had he woken up the whole house or had Charlie split on him. It was beginning to finger Charlie for the deed, because Paul had seen Mr Jarvis briefly at breakfast and he hadn’t said anything about it then.

“Mrs Jarvis can’t be disturbed in her sleep; she has to be up early in the morning to deal with the guests.” Paul shook awake from his meandering thoughts. There was a pause and he realised he was supposed to say something in reply. “Sorry”, was all he could think of. And immediately realising this was probably inadequate, he added, “It won’t happen again, I promise.”

It was then Paul noticed his landlord was holding the cane. He wasn’t flexing it between his outstretched hands in the way drawings of headmasters did in old comics, or how Jimmy Edwards did as the eccentric headmaster in the TV show, Whacko! No, Mr Jarvis simply held the cane perpendicular to his body and was gently tapping it against his leg.

Paul was mesmerised. Mr Jarvis was an old man, not very tall. Charlie might even be taller than his dad, Paul reckoned. He was dressed in a crumpled suit with a worn woollen waistcoat that stretched across his expansive stomach.

Tap, tap, tap, went Mr Jarvis as he continued with his lecture and Paul could not keep his eyes off the cane, something his landlord noticed.

“Sorry Mr Jarvis, it won’t happen again, I promise,” Paul said.

“I certainly hope it won’t. Do you know what Paul I think we need to give you some incentive, something to think about the next time you feel the temptation to be so thoughtless.”

It was now Mr Jarvis’s turn to look at the cane. Then he caught Paul’s eye and immediately knew the action he was going to take. He tapped the cane against his leg rhythmically.  “You know, I think you would benefit from a dose of what Charlie just had.”

Paul could feel his blood rushing and his face blushing. Clearly, Mr Jarvis was expecting him to reply, but he stayed silent. His heart was racing, but he didn’t quite understand: was this because he didn’t want a thrashing, or because he did?

He could not take his eyes off the cane as it flicked against Mr Jarvis’s legs.

Now was the time for decisive action. Mr Jarvis raised the cane and pointed with it to the far end of the room. “Go stand by that chair.” Later, recalling this moment, Paul couldn’t remember if he hesitated and thought about making a run for it. What he could remember was that meekly he did as instructed.

The armchair was standing with its back to the wall; it was quite a small affair, with a low back and with cushions and a padded back in an awful floral print pattern. Paul stood facing it, not quite sure what should happen next. Was he supposed to face the chair and clutch the cushions, or even bend over the arm? No, surely not, he was too big to fit across that.

He needn’t have worried, Mr Jarvis had it all worked out. “Turn the chair round so that the back is facing you.” That was that sorted. Paul was going over the back of the chair.

He was no expert in such things, but Paul could see that given the circumstances: a small armchair and a five-feet-eight-inches young man, this was the best modus operandi for a caning.

He did as he was told. “Stand there,” the landlord pointed with his cane to a spot behind the chair. Paul obliged. “Bend over.”

And that was that: the start of something big. Paul might not have been able to articulate clearly his thoughts at that moment but for the next two years, while he remained a student and a paying guest at the Jarvis home, he would be under the control of his landlord. And, if ever the time came to tell the truth, Paul would have to admit, he loved every swish of it.

Paul was over the chair. The cushion was soft in his hands. He could feel the back of the chair sticking into his stomach. His trousers were very tight. He was both frightened and excited.

Mr Jarvis took a couple of steps back to take in the scene. Paul was much different than Charlie. Whereas his own son was large and chubby, Paul was smaller and wiry, with not an ounce of fat on him anywhere.

Rather like the chair he was presently bent over, Paul was a bit “old-fashioned” himself. He was wearing blue trousers with a pinstripe (hardly the attire of the typical student), with a tank-top slipover jumper and a white shirt. His hair was cut in a crew cut that wouldn’t look out of place in the US Marines.

Paul was absolutely the right size for the chair. Mr Jarvis saw that the chair back rested comfortably in the groove of Paul’s stomach and his arms stretched out perfectly to grasp the front of the seat cushion.

Paul lay in position ready for the first whack. He felt intense embarrassment, but somehow it was exciting. He shut his eyes and gritted his teeth. This was going to hurt!

Paul was perplexed, he couldn’t be sure if he hated what was about to happen, or loved it.

He didn’t have time to reach a conclusion. He felt a light tapping of the cane against the trousers stretched across his left buttock. He turned his head back slightly to see his landlord, his master.

“Face the front. You’ll soon find out what’s going on back here.”

He could hear a cane being swished. “Here we go, we’re under starter’s orders,” Paul thought.

Swish! Crack! The first cut thudded into the seat of his trousers. Paul felt it, but it didn’t hurt so much.

Swish! Number two. Paul felt it, but with a sense of disappointment: it didn’t hurt enough.

Numbers three and four were harder. Was the landlord trying to find Paul’s level of tolerance?

Swish five! Gasp. Yes, that’s better. That one actually hurt.

Swish six! hit the spot on the crease just where the bottom reaches the top of the leg. That one definitely hurt. More like that please.

But, now the punishment was over. “Stand up boy.”

Paul could feel blood rushing to his face; his cheeks were scarlet with the effort of being face down over the chair. His buttocks tingled, but in no way could he claim to be in pain. The mild caning he had received was as nothing compared to Charlie’s thrashing. Oh, how he envied that boy.

Mr Jarvis eyed Paul thoughtfully. “Stand there.” He swished his cane at a spot in the centre of the room. “Will I need to ever do that again?”

Paul mumbled, “No, Sir.” He thought that was what was expected of him, but truly he wanted more.

Mr Jarvis misread the situation magnificently. “If I have to do this again, you will have your trousers and underpants at your ankles. Is that clear young man!”

Paul’s pulse raced: yes, it was very clear.

“Off to your room!” It was a curt command. Paul took the stairs two at a time in his haste to inspect the damage.

Back in his room, it took mere seconds to whip down his trousers and pants. Twisting his body in front of the mirror he was able to inspect his buttocks. What a disappointment, his usually white cheeks were a little pink, but he doubted that he would have any bruises to speak of.

He lay on the bed, his trousers and pants still at his ankles and relived in his mind the past twenty minutes. The landlord’s chubby son had his arse whipped with a thin rattan cane. The Paul, himself, a “goody-goody”, according to Charlie, had himself been across the chair, for his first-ever dose of corporal punishment.

As he conjured up the picture of Charlie writhing under the lash, Paul felt his cock stir. Leaning back into the pillows, he closed his eyes and imagined himself bent across the chair, tight trousers stretched across his buttocks.

His soldier stood to attention and Paul hawked a gob of spit into the palm of his hand and worked it up and down his shaft. The words of his landlord seemed to echo around the room, “If I have to do this again, you will have your trousers and underpants at your ankles.”

Paul gasped as his palm sped up and down; up and down.

He shot his load and gasping for breath he lay back, closed his eyes and began to devise a plan for the next time.

Picture credit: Kernled

This story was first uploaded in August 2015

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Charles Hamilton the Second

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