Warren’s awakening

Warren Hunter looked out the bedroom window anxiously. Any moment now his uncle would call him down to the sitting room. It would be a spanking for sure. He couldn’t complain. He knew he deserved everything that was coming to him.

Warren was in turmoil. He was so ashamed. How had things come to this?

He had been sent to stay at Uncle Alfred’s by his mother. She said it would be temporary; a “cooling off” period. But, he knew his uncle’s reputation; his arse would get a “warming up” first.

The row and the tears had been the final straw. He had been giving his mum a hard time for years. He was nineteen years old, there was no way she could control him. He didn’t have the words to explain what was going on in his head. Warren knew there was something wrong with him; but he didn’t know what. He had a crappy job in a supermarket; at home he rowed with everyone; his mum, his two older brothers and even the neighbours. Dad had walked out years ago leaving mum to cope with the kids on her own.

“Warren! Get down here!” Uncle Alfred was at the foot of the stairs. The teenager hesitated. He knew what would happen now. What choice did he have? Take a spanking or not; those were his options. If he did he could stay at his uncle’s place and try to sort out his life. If he didn’t; he’d be sleeping on the streets.

Warren was no philosopher; he wasn’t a deep thinker. If someone told him he was a “pragmatist” he wouldn’t know what they meant. He just knew he had to go through with this. He’d never been spanked before. Hell, he thought, a spanking, how bad could it be?

Slowly he padded down the stairs to find Uncle Alfred in the front room.

A dining room chair had already been placed in the centre of the room. Taking the teenager by the arm, Uncle Alfred led him to the chair and sat down, leaving Warren to stand as his uncle pushed up the sleeves of his own shirt. Then Uncle Alfred leaned forward and removed the bedroom slipper from his right foot.

A shiver went through Warren. His resolve to accept the spanking was evaporating. He wanted suddenly to hang back, to plead for mercy, promise to do better, to do anything if Uncle Alfred would just not spank him.

His uncle was not a pretty sight. He was in his forties and had a large belly that in his present sitting position flopped across his lap. His legs were fat and when his uncle parted them slightly he provided an ample platform for his nephew to drape himself over.

This might be Warren’s first-ever spanking but his uncle was a veteran. He had developed a ritual over many years. Quietly, he spoke, “Take down your jeans.” And when his nephew stared back with alarm, he added reasonably, “You won’t feel a thing with them on.”

Uncle Alfred squeezed the bedroom slipper in his fist and watched the nineteen-year-old fumble with the waistband of his jeans. He didn’t seem able to get his fingers to work. Slowly the fly buttons were opened and the denims slithered down his thighs and rested at his knees.

“Please God,” he prayed silently, “Don’t make me take down my underpants too.”

Uncle Alfred shifted his vast buttocks on the hard chair and straightened his back. He was almost ready to get on with the job.

“OK, over here,” Uncle Alfred slapped his knee to indicate Warren should bend over. It was a simple command, but one his uncle expected to be obeyed. Warren stood his ground, unable to move. Then he took a half step back, as if he intended to run away.

“Doh!” his uncle wheezed. Then, he took hold of the teenager’s arm and forcibly pulled him down across his knees. To break his fall, Warren placed both hands on the carpet in front of him. His legs were left dangling behind him.

Uncle Alfred wrapped his arm around his nephew’s waist. “Keep your legs straight, raise your bottom higher.”

z used otk white pants chair (19)

Warren twisted and turned until he was positioned to his uncle’s satisfaction: head low, bottom high. He could see his uncle’s feet and the ugly carpet. Dust tickled the back of the teenager’s throat

“Spread your legs more.”

Warren gasped as he felt Uncle Alfred grip the elasticated waist of his pants. The thought, “Oh, no! He’s going to pull them down!” flashed through his mind. But instead his uncle smoothed out the cotton of the boy’s underpants, eliminating all creases. Soon, the tight gleaming-white pants fitted the buttocks like a second skin.

“Give me your hand,” it was a final instruction. Uncle Alfred took hold of his nephew’s wrist and turned the boy’s arm up his back. No matter how hard Uncle Alfred spanked him and how much it hurt, Warren was trapped across his uncle’s knee. He wasn’t about to go anywhere until Uncle Alfred said so.

“Right young man this is going to teach you a lesson.”

Then, Uncle Alfred gripped the slipper tightly and put it to work, smacking Warren’s bum soundly and briskly. The teenager winced the moment the first slap hit home. Uncle kept up a momentum. Slap! Slap! Slap! Three on the left cheek: Slap! Slap! Slap! three on the right. With great expertise, he concentrated on the very tender spot where the bottom joins the thighs, dealing out crisp smacks.

Warren screwed his eyes closed with pain each time the slipper crashed into his bum. He was a lean lad and didn’t have much padding in the buttocks area.

One smack followed another as Uncle Alfred put the slipper to use. The pain of the whacking took the teenager’s breath away, but he resolved to remain silent. Warren wriggled as the slipper connected time and again with his buttocks. Uncle Alfred spanked him thirty times or more; then paused to get a tighter grip on the slipper in his hand and then let fly again.

Uncle Alfred hadn’t said how many strokes of the slipper Warren was to get and after a dozen or so, the boy was finding it hard going to stick to his resolve and remain silent.

He let out silent yells as the next three slaps fell in rapid succession, all landing on the same sensitive “sit spot” on the right cheek.

Uncle Alfred set about his task with a will, but he too was silent. The only sound in the room was the thud, thud, thud of his slipper as it hit Warren’s bum.

And so it went on, slap after slap. He was making a good job covering all over the target area. Some spanks went high, some low. Now on the left cheek: now on the right. Warren could feel his bum heating up with the punishment. It would be red raw by the time Uncle Alfred had finished.

Then, without warning, he took hold of the top of Warren’s pants and pulled them down, not too far, but enough to expose both cheeks. The boy grunted. Uncle Alfred resumed the slippering, perhaps twice as hard as before.

Warren raised his head and flinched in pain with every blow. He could hardly catch his breath, it hurt so badly, but he bit his lip so did not make a sound.

On and on he went, spanking Warren’s bare arse. His body was making involuntary movements with pain, but his uncle still had the boy’s arm pinned.

Warren’s shoulders and head jerked high as each blow from the slipper struck his bum.

His eyes were watering, but he told himself, “I will not cry, I will not cry.” But, he knew he wasn’t going to be able to stand much more without breaking down.

The humiliation was intense. There he was a nineteen-year-old man draped helplessly across Uncle Alfred’s knee, trousers at his feet, bare bum in the air, getting spanked like a little kid. His face was as scarlet as his battered bottom.

To Warren it seemed like an eternity, but the slippering lasted less than three minutes.

“Now, boy, you can stand up.”

In considerable pain, he rose from his uncle’s knees. Instinctively, his hands shot to rub his blistered backside. But, connecting his hands with the raw flesh only increased, the pain, it did not relieve it.

Warren was breathing hard, he was sweating badly and his eyes were full of tears, but he was not crying. His resolve had won through.

He twisted his body to inspect the damage; his buttocks were a deep cherry colour.

Gingerly, he pulled up his underpants. Uncle Alfred remained silent. He had delivered his punishment and as far as he was concerned it was all over. Until the next time.

Warren bent to his ankles and recovered his jeans. His hands were shaking, but he managed to button up the fly and buckle his belt.

“Go to your room.”

Warren took the stairs two at a time and crashed through the door into his bedroom. Within seconds his jeans and pants were back at his ankles. He pointed his bum at the dressing table mirror and traced the contours of his buttocks with his fingertips. The pain had mostly gone, but he found it would return if he pressed into his bony globes. He did and it felt really good. Warren had never looked at his bum before; not closely. It was almost totally bald; there were some wisps of hair in his crack that he’d never noticed before.

It was quite small. He could cup a cheek in the palm of one hand. There wasn’t much “give” either. Unlike his fat uncle, Warren was lean and wiry.

The teenager leaned forward and thrust his buttocks at the mirror. Without warning his cock stood stiff. Whoops. It always did have a mind of its own. It had embarrassed Warren on numerous occasions.

He lay on the bed and stroked it, reliving in his mind the past ten minutes. He imagined what he must have looked like draped over his uncle’s lap; bum held high. The more he pictured the more his todger ached.

Somehow, he knew this wasn’t the end of it. There’d be more spankings before he could demonstrate he was mature enough to be allowed home. Or would there? Maybe next time it would a more severe punishment.

Warren closed his eyes and saw himself bent over the back of the old worn green settee in the living room. Uncle Alfred stands behind him swishing an old-fashioned school cane. Warren’s trousers are at his feet; his pants at his knees. His bared buttocks are raised high. The teenager’s head is low, he is almost chewing the cushion.

Uncle taps the cane gently across the centre of the cheeks. They vibrate gently in anticipation of the searing pain to come.

Uncle lifts the cane high and brings it crashing down.

Back in the bedroom Warren shot a load all over his tight flat stomach.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in May 2016

 

Other stories you might enjoy

It is what it is

One hot summer afternoon

Dad’s despair

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A very British spanking

new 5

“I don’t care if it is the holidays, Martha, I will not put up with it,” Charles Snapdragon paced the carpet. “Call me old fashioned, I don’t care.” He paused by the radiogram and thrust his hands into his pockets. “I have standards. Always have. Always will.”

His wife pursed her lips but remained silent. She knew better than to argue. Charles Snapdragon was a man of decision. He liked to think, even a man of destiny.

“Rules. We need rules,” Charles Snapdragon was waving his hands around. “Without rules where would we be?” he spoke as if addressing a street corner meeting. “Nowhere. Nowhere. That’s where.” He nodded vigorously, agreeing wholeheartedly with himself.

“Rules must be obeyed. That’s why we have them,” Chares Snapdragon raised his chin and stared into the middle distance. Which considering the smallness of his sitting room meant to the farthest wall. He focused his attention on the three plaster ducks flying across the rose-patterned wallpaper. “And,” Charles Snapdragon straightened his back and imagined himself to be dressed in the uniform of a high military commander, “And if they are not,” his voice rose to a crescendo, “there must be consequences.” He paused and then repeated for effect, “Consequences.”

His twenty-year-old son Henry lay upstairs on the bed in the room that had once been his. He stared hard at the Union Jack flag on the wall. Across the room a framed portrait of Queen Elizabeth II stared intently at him. He shivered. It was like being spied on. What on earth had possessed his father to decorate his old bedroom like that?

He smiled to himself, closed his eyes and brought to mind the girl from last night. Blond, bright blue eyes, big breasts. Firm. His cock twitched. Those wet luscious lips. High cheekbones. He unzipped his jeans and slipped his fingers inside taking hold of his growing member. Oh what he would have done with that girl given half the chance. His cock expanded with his imagination. He unbuckled his belt and wriggled his jeans over his hips and buttocks. His dick tented his underpants. With more wriggling they were soon bunched up over his thighs. He kicked his jeans to the floor, gobbed spit into the palm of his right hand and rubbed himself slowly.

Charles Snapdragon still paced the carpet. “He knows my rules,” he glared at the ducks. “I made it perfectly clear. If he came back to my house,” he made great emphasis on the words my house, “that  he would have to obey my rules. An Englishman’s house is his castle.”

His wife nodded. She knew that was expected of her. The wife always supported her husband: it was a known fact.

“So he rolls in here in the middle of the night. Way after curfew.” Charles Snapdragon spoke mechanically as if he were reading from a charge sheet. “Been drinking. Smoking. No consideration for us. The neighbours. Only himself.” he paused and rested both hands on the dining room table. “He knows the rules.” He stared hard at his wife and repeated, “He knows the rules.”

Martha spoke for the first time, “Yes, dear,” she said softly. She knew her husband’s mind was made up, there was no need for her to say more.

“Right then.” Charles Snapdragon tugged on the cuffs of his shirt, straightening the sleeves. “Let’s get on with it.”

Upstairs Henry eyes were still closed as he imagined the girl from last night. He made light stroking movements on his cock, each rub moving a tiny bit further upwards. A gasp hissed through his teeth as the tips of his fingers made fleeting contact with the top of his dick. He lightly rubbed along the length of his penis, making it stand to attention as it filled out, flopping onto his stomach. His fingers lightly enclosed the shaft down near the base and then slid slowly up the length of the twitching member. Reaching the top, Henry’s fingers gently tweaked the sensitive edges of his foreskin, making him gasp with pleasure.

His grip tightened and his hand made a couple of slow, firm strokes along the full length of the fully erect cock. His other hand cupped his balls, gently kneading them between his fingers. His eyes opened and he watched with rapt concentration the aroused organ he held in his fist.

His hand was slowly massaging his swollen cock, stroking along the full length from base to head, then letting go and returning to the base again. Henry shifted his hips, torn between wanting to go faster and wanting this feeling to last as long as possible.

A groan of pure pleasure escaped from Henry’s throat. “Fuck, take it all,” he gasped, and his wrist flew. “Huff-huff-huff,” Henry gasped. He writhed on the bed as his orgasm seemed to go on and on as white juice splashed across his stomach.

Breathless, he reached to the bedside table and grabbed a fistful of paper tissues. His breathing was returning to normal. He cleaned the goo from his belly, screwed the tissue into a ball and casually threw it across the room.

That was the moment the bedroom door flew open and his father stood stern-faced on the threshold. Henry tugged his underpants up to their rightful place. He knew his face was blazing scarlet. There was nothing he could do about that.

Charles Snapdragon was a man of few words. “Last night,” he said in staccato, “missed curfew. Drinking. Smoking. Won’t do. Against the rules. You know that.”

Henry wriggled his buttocks on the bed until he sat upright. He sucked on his bottom lip. There was nothing he could say. Everything his father had said was true. He hadn’t really meant to be late. It was that damned girl.

“It’s been a while,” his father spoke slowly and carefully without emotion, “since you were last here. I do not believe that you have forgotten my rules.” He paused and when Henry realised he expected an answer he replied, “No, sir.”

Charles Snapdragon nodded his approval. “Good,” he said and added enigmatically, “It’s been a while.” He fell into silence and looked hard at his twenty-year-old son. Was he getting taller? He had definitely thickened out a bit. He was no longer the scrawny kid he had been at school.

“You are not too old for this.” Charles Snapdragon walked into the room and stood over the bed. Henry looked at his father’s midriff.

“No, sir,” he agreed meekly.

“The last time I spanked you was just before you left home,” Charles Snapdragon frowned. “You couldn’t keep a job. No self-discipline. That’s why I had to impose discipline. My duty too.”

Henry pulled himself up further and leaned with his back against the wall. “They worked,” he said simply. “All those spankings,” he gave a rueful smile. “I’ve got a good job. I share a flat.”

“Things are looking good for you,” his father interrupted. “I’m glad.”

“Yes, sir.” Henry hesitated. Should he confide in his father?

Charles Snapdragon cut him short. “I knew it would in the end. Once you learned discipline.”

Henry couldn’t hold it in. He had to speak. He had to confess to his father. He blurted, “I’m not sure that I have.”

His father’s brow creased, “I don’t understand.”

Henry spoke in a rush, words tumbling without him thinking. “I’m not sure I have learned discipline. Sometimes I am late to work. I never help around the flat. I’m running up debts,” he broke off with a croak.

His father took a step forward so he now towered over his son.

Henry rediscovered his voice, “I need discipline. Your discipline. Just to keep me on track. Stop me going over the edge.”

His father sucked down a lung full of air, “I fully intend to spank you for last night.” He paused and when his son made no response, he continued, “So I should also punish you for other offences, also?”

“Yes sir,” Henry gasped, his heart thumping through his chest. “I deserve it. I deserve to be spanked. Hard. Really hard.”

A smile flickered across Charles Snapdragon’s face. Here was proof if any were needed that his method of child rearing had worked. “I see,” he spoke almost with a whisper. “But first things first,” he reached forward and took his son by the wrist and guided him to his feet. “First we must deal with last night. He released his hold on Henry and sat down on the edge of the narrow bed. “You know what you must do. Bend over my knee.”

Without hesitation the twenty-year-old moved to stand to the right of his father, then slowly he lowered himself forward so that his stomach was across his father’s knee. His arms rested ahead of him on the mattress. His bottom jutted out at an angle. The bed was low so Henry had to bend his own knees so they hovered above the ground.

“This is a spanking you so richly deserve,” his father intoned as he gripped the waistband of his son’s underpants and tugged them hard. He couldn’t get them down so Henry obliged by raising his body so his father could pull the pants over his buttocks and leave them bunched over his thighs. Then Henry lowered himself once more across his father’s lap not realising he was leaving a sticky patch on his father’s trousers.

z used otk pants down bed union jack sting

Charles Snapdragon took hold of Henry’s shirt and moved it a little up his back so it was away from the target area. He cupped the palm of his right hand and slowly caressed his son’s right buttock. Then he did the same with the left. Henry had a little more padding than the last time he was spanked, but he was far from fat. Charles Snapdragon raised his hand and brought it crashing down with a resounding SMACK!

It had been more than a year but he hadn’t lost the knack. He was an expert spanker and soon had both cheeks glowing bright pink. Henry gasped as tingles mingled together and became a dull throb. The palm of Charles Snapdragon’s hand was as hard as any hairbrush. Henry wondered if the Old Man soaked it in vinegar, the way kids did with conkers to make them tougher.

“You only have your self to blame for this,”’ his father scolded as slap after slap pounded into Henry’s fleshy bum. “Only yourself.”

The pain was building. Henry was no stranger to spanking. He had taken a few in his days. But it had been some time since his last one and he was finding the going rather hard. His heart raced and blood rushed to his head so that his temples throbbed almost as much as his bottom. He gasped and sucked back the yaps and yelps he so desperately wanted to make.

“You deserve this. You deserve this,” he told himself silently. “You are a very naughty boy. You need to have your bare bottom spanked. Hard. Very hard.”

He winced as his father’s hand slapped into the back of his naked thigh. That was when Henry yelped. He couldn’t help it. His hips wriggled and his knees buckled.

“Keep still,” his father admonished. “You deserve this. You know you do. So, take it like a man,” he growled and he slapped the thighs harder still.

Five minutes later Charles Snapdragon hammered six final slaps into the undercurves of Henry’s cheeks – right on the sensitive sit-spot. The bum glistened with sweat and glowed a rosy red. Charles Snapdragon’s hand hurt but not as much as Henry’s bottom.

“Stand up,” he ordered and his son, not needing to be told twice, jumped to his feet. He performed the traditional spanking dance hopping from foot to foot while at the same time rubbing away at his sore bum. He bent down and tugged his pants up and stood respectfully before his father.

“Good boy. I know you will try to behave better in future.”

“Yes, sir,” Henry replied humbly.

“I’m glad to hear it. Now get shaved, have a shower and then come downstairs. Mother has Christmas dinner prepared. After lunch you and I shall repair to the back room. I still have those two canes hanging in the cupboard under the stairs.

“Yes, sir. Thank you sir,” Henry gasped as he moved aside to allow his father to leave the room.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

Other stories you might like

For your own good

We need to talk about Jake

Max of the ‘Champion’ 1. The policeman

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

That time at Uncle Ron’s

new 5

“I’ve had enough of your behaviour. I won’t stand for it, do you hear? It has got to stop.” It was my Uncle Ron speaking. “I’ve told you before. You need to buck your ideas up my lad. Start obeying the rules around here. Or else.”

It was 1974, I was eighteen and staying with Uncle Ron and Aunt June for the summer while I worked at the car plant and before going onto university.

“Now,” Uncle’s nostrils flared, “let me make it very clear. You behave yourself. You do as Aunt June and me tell you. I shan’t tell you again. Next time it’ll be a hiding. And don’t think I won’t. If you don’t believe me just ask Alan or John.”

Alan and John were my cousins, nineteen and seventeen. Ask them, Uncle Ron had said so next chance I had, I did. Alan filled me in on the details. He was very candid. As if there wasn’t anything unusual about it. “Cane,” he said nonchalantly.

“Cane?” I queried.

“Cane,” Alan wasn’t the brightest star in the sky and I had to squeeze it out of him. It would have been easier to extract hens’ teeth. Eventually, he told me, “He keeps two canes. In the cupboard under the stairs.”

“Canes?” I frowned, still puzzled.

“Yes, canes,” I had never exactly hit it off with Alan, now I was irritating the hell out of him, as if I was the dumb one in this conversation. “You know,” he shook his head, bedazzled by my denseness. “Canes. Like at school.”

“We don’t have the cane at our school,” I told him.

“Lucky you,” he responded ruefully and fell into silence.

I waited hoping he might take the hint and continue. When he didn’t, I was forced to say, “So … your dad has two canes. And he canes you?”

“Yes,” Alan confirmed.

“Like at school? How so?”

“Like at school,” Alan rolled his eyes as if to say, Who is this moron.

“We didn’t have it at school,” I said, remembering this time to use the past tense because I had left that summer, “What does he do? How….?”

“Usual way,” Alan looked a little wistful. “Y’know,” I could see his brain ticking over as he tried to find the words, “Over the back of the chair. Settee. Bend over. Whack-whack-whack.”

I remember my heart skipped. Bent over the back of the chair. I wanted to ask more details but a natural caution kicked in. Did it hurt? How much? Did you ever get it trousers down? I concealed so many questions I didn’t want to sound eager.

“He says, he’ll give me a ‘good hiding’,” I said. “Suppose that means the cane.” I Paused hoping Alan would take the hint and spill some more details. No such luck.

“Suppose, it does,” Alan said and he walked away leaving me with a slack jaw.

So, the canes were kept in the cupboard under the stairs. I had a burning ambition to see them. To feel them. I had never seen a punishment cane before. I’d seen plenty of drawings in comics, of course. Corporal punishment hadn’t been abolished in those days. Sometimes on television you saw a schoolmaster swishing a cane and threatening some boy with it. Come to think of it none of them ever carried out their threat. More’s the pity.

It wouldn’t be too difficult to sneak a look of the canes under the stairs. But I would have to bide my time. I could think of nothing else; all day long at my mind-numbingly boring job on the production line. I was going frantic.

I knew my uncle and aunt went to Bingo on Friday nights and I expected Alan and John to be out somewhere, but not, of course, together. I would have the place to myself. I could hardly swallow my tea, I was that excited. At about 7.30, I heard the front door slam shut. That was uncle and aunt out of the way. Alan and John were unlikely to call “goodbye” as they left the flat, so I had to sneak around a bit to find out if they were still at home. When I heard no sounds of record player or radio coming from either of their rooms, I knew the coast was clear. I checked the bathroom, just in case. Empty.

I was home alone. I could raid the cupboard under the stairs undetected. I felt my heart thumping in my chest as I crept down the stairs and into the passageway. I stood for a long moment, waiting. Fearful. But, fearful of what? I couldn’t explain it to myself. What was my interest in these canes? Why did I seem to obsess over them?

My hands shook as I inched open the cupboard door. I was so fearful I might have been tackling an unexploded bomb. A broom toppled onto me when I opened the door fully. I cussed silently and pushed it to one side. I peered in. The cupboard was chock-a-block with household crap. Mops, buckets, another broom, a brush and pan. A vacuum cleaner. A slight aroma of sweat, or it might have been decomposition, drifted from near the outside wall. A dead mouse perhaps? I had no intention of trying to find out. I was searching for something much more important.

The cupboard was dark, I pulled the cord for the light, I heard it click but nothing happened. In the gloom I saw there was no bulb. I cussed again. I had no torch or flashlight. I was thinking of running to my room to fetch a box of matches, when in the semi-darkness I saw something. My mouth dried instantly. That heart of mine speeded up again. I couldn’t be sure. I reached in the cupboard, through the muddle of mops and brooms. I grasped it in my hand. It felt like a long pencil. Definitely made of some kind of wood, I told myself. I tugged, but it was stuck behind a box of empty beer bottles. I fell to my knees and crawled into the cupboard, excitedly pushing detergent packets and buckets to one side. I felt as excited as any explorer in an Egyptian tomb.

Oh joy. I had not one, but two school canes in my hand. Carefully, I reversed from the cupboard and into the light. In the passageway I stood upright and surveyed my catch. I might never have seen a school cane before, but these beauties were exactly as advertised in those comics and TV programmes. I let one drop to the floor and caressed the other. It was a light brown / yellow colour and about three feet long. It had the tell-tale curved handle. I clutched it in both hands as I had seen the schoolmasters in the films do. It was as thick as a pencil but surprisingly bendy.

I flexed it thoughtfully. In my imagination I was that schoolmaster from TV and standing in front of me was … Who, exactly? I can’t be sure. Was it me, standing in front of myself, expecting to be caned? It puzzled me for a moment, who was I in this little scenario. Was I the beater, or the beaten?

I didn’t spend much time in deep reflection, I was having too much fun flexing and swishing the cane. I examined it closely. It had notches every few inches along its length and the tip was fraying. It was a little warped and I had no idea at the time that this indicated the cane had been frequently used.

I let it drop to the floor and picked up the second cane. This was thinner and lighter than its brother and made one hell of a swooshing noise as I swished it through the air. My heart raced and the front of my underpants tightened.

I flexed the cane some more, again conjuring up the scene of me as the headmaster. This time the naughty boy standing there was definitely me, summoned to the study for a good old-fashioned six-of-the-best. I swished the cane some more, but I was becoming disheartened. I needed to test this out. I wanted to know how it worked. How it felt. How much would it hurt? I held one end of the cane near the handle and bent forward and took a swipe at my own bottom. What a waste of time. I hit my right buttock, but didn’t feel a thing.  I tried again, swiping harder. With huge disappointment I straightened up. It was impossible. I couldn’t get enough of a swing.

It was then I had a bright idea. I hurried into the living room. This was where Uncle Ron caned Alan. Bent over the back of the armchair or settee. It was a small room and crammed with furniture. I imagined how Uncle Ron might do it. There was hardly room to swing a cat, let alone a cane. I took an armchair and swivelled it round so the back faced into the room. Yes. That was it. I was sweating, but the room wasn’t warm. I stared at the armchair. I walked slowly towards it and stood about a foot from the back. I was about the same height as Alan and realised at once that I would fit perfectly over the chair. Just as he did when he went over for his caning.

I hadn’t planned this. I was on autopilot. I could not resist. Carefully I placed the cane on the settee. Then, returning to the chair, I stood still and imagined my uncle’s voice, “Bend over that chair.” I rubbed my sweaty palms together, took a deep breath and dived over the back. It felt surprisingly comfortable. It was an old padded chair and my stomach sank into the cushion. I imagined how it would look in real life: me bent over bottom high, head low, submitting myself to Uncle Ron’s cane.

I can still remember the sensation. Me, head low, bottom high. I opened my legs, as if I was offering Uncle Ron my bottom, perfectly positioned for punishment. I was submissive. I was saying to him, “Yes, I have been a naughty boy. I deserve to be caned. Punish me.”

I rested my forehead on the worn, indented seat cushion; inhaling the sweat secreted by hundreds of bottoms over many years. I was lost in my imagination. I hauled myself to a standing position. My head throbbed with excitement. The room seemed to spin. I stared ahead at the dull, faded wallpaper. I fixated on the pattern of roses. As I imagined I might if Uncle Ron was in the room with me. I heard him giving me instructions. I remained silent. I did not argue. I was a naughty little boy. I deserved this.

Not looking I took hold of the buckle of my belt and released it. My hands shook but I got them to find the zip on my fly and I tugged. My jeans fell open. I took hold of the waist and slowly and deliberately guided them down to my shins.

I paused. Uncle was giving me another order. I turned and faced the chair. I was wearing a white t–shirt that had a tail that fell over my underpants. Gently I took hold of the thin cotton material and I lifted the shirt half way up my body. It cleared my flat stomach and my taut buttocks. I let go and gently eased myself back over the armchair.

This time I gripped the arms and kept my head high, looking straight ahead. I felt Uncle tap the end of his cane across the middle of my bum. He was finding his aim. I closed my eyes tight waiting – no, fearing – the first stroke. It soon came. I wriggled my hips. It hurt. I steadied myself. The next stroke was harder, it made me rise on my toes and my knees buckled. “Ouch!” I said aloud, but there was no one there to hear.

I took six strokes. I had no idea if these were ‘six-of-the-best.’ I had a vague idea that not all school canings were “six-of-the-best”. Some beatings were more ferocious than others. Perhaps, because this was my first time Uncle might have gone easy on me. He might warn me that if there was to be a next time I should expect a much harder caning.

I wasn’t finished. I was still bent over with my jeans at my ankles and my cotton-encased backside angled against the back of the chair. Uncle spoke to me again. I voiced a protest. It did no good. I was still over the chair but I imagined Uncle moving towards me, with only one intent. The next bit was tricky. I reached my right arm behind me and although I can’t see what I’m doing I managed to find the waistband of my underpants. I took a grip and simultaneously lifted my body up an inch and tugged at the briefs so that slowly they descended across my buttocks. I let them snag over my thighs. They didn’t need to fall further, my buttocks were now completely bared.

“Oh no Uncle. No, please,” I wailed. “I will be good.”

“Bah!” Uncle says back to me. He was a man of few words. He took up position again. He lifted the cane. It swished through the air and landed across my naked bottom.

“Yaroooh!” I cried. It is a word I have read in school stories. It’s what the boys shouted when they were caned, so I knew it was the what you were supposed to do.

Uncle took my backside off. This time it was undoubtedly “six-of-the-BEST”. I wriggled and writhed. “Stand up,” Uncle intoned.

I hauled myself to my feet and jumped up and down while at the same time rubbing away at my scorching buttocks. My cock is stiff and I had trouble pulling my underpants up. But, soon I am dressed again. My head was buzzing. Was this what it feels like to be on drugs?

It takes a long moment for me to get my breath back. I was enjoying this too much, I didn’t want it to end. I picked up the cane again and searching around the room with my eyes spot a scatter cushion. I had a plan. It seemed original to me. I balanced the cushion on the apex of the chair. It was not perfect, but it would do. I stood a little to the left of the chair and tapped the frayed end of my cane across the cushion. It was the stand-in for my own backside. I was now my own Uncle Ron. I tapped some more, then with mounting excitement I raised the cane high, let it hover for a moment and brought it crashing down across the cushion. The loudness of the noise alarmed me. Could the whole block of flats hear? The cushion slid from the back of the chair to the floor.

I waited to catch my breath. Then I bent down to retrieve the cushion. That was when I saw two muddy training shoes. My eyes travelled north – now there was a pair of legs. I sprung to a standing position. Alan stared at me, his eyes popping. He had a befuddled look, his mouth opened and closed. He did this twice but no sound came out. He was like a goldfish. I was just as dumbstruck. “Ba .. ba..  but …” I began, but Alan had already turned on his heels and fled from the flat. My face blazed. How much had he seen? Any of it? Oh my god, not all of it!

I swivelled the chair back to its original position and in some distress I replaced the canes in the cupboard. The shame. My secret revealed. I trudged up the stairs to my room. I fell face down on the bed and buried my face in a pillow.

after bed jeans domestic (2)

The scene of me across the chair and my uncle caning my bare backside overwhelmed me. I caressed my own backside as I might have done after a thrashing. My cock swelled until I felt like I was lying on top of a baseball bat.  I turned on my back and tugged my jeans over my buttocks. Quickly, my underpants went the same way. My dick saluted me. I slowly massaged the blood-engorged head, stroking along the full length from base to head, then letting go and returning to the base again.

My hips rose and fell. I was torn between wanting to go faster and wanting the aching sensation to last forever. I cupped my balls with my other hand. My arse cheeks clenched. I wriggled the jeans and pants until they were clear of my legs, still tugging away. Huff-huff-huff. I had to be careful, any moment now I would shoot my load.

I let go of my balls and took hold of my shirt. Still, I tugged away. My eyes watered. I shrugged the shirt from my body. I was now completely naked except for my socks.

My cock twitched and I could feel sperm dribbling out. My body was tingling all over as pleasure washed through me like some tidal wave. I moaned louder than I’d ever done in my life.  I closed my eyes tightly, imagining it was someone else touching me. I ran my hands over the hard tense muscles of my chest and stomach. My hard six-inch cock was lying flat on my stomach drooling pre-cum. I felt my nuts tightening and the intensity increasing as cum started to rise through the throbbing length of my cock until the juice splashed across my stomach and I was overtaken by an own intense orgasm.

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

The thieving nephew

His new job

Winker Wilson’s visit

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Movie time

new 5

z used bed pants laptop

Trent was holding on as if his very life depended on it. He worked his fist up and down the full length. It was as thick as a broomstick. But not as long. And not as stiff. His heels beat against the mattress every time he kicked his legs. His heartrate was off the scale. Slowly, he eased his fist up and down. He groaned when he took his balls in his hand. The tip of his tongue darted through clenched lips as he cupped the sticky shaft. Slowly. Slowly. It was a battle. He had to slow down. But the sheer joy he felt as the fingers caressed his sensitive stick compelled him to go faster. Huff. Huff. Huff.

No! He told himself not now. Hold it back. Make it last longer. Not  now! Not now! His fist slowed. Too late. He arched his back, only his shoulders and feet remained on the mattress. He swivelled his hips. Fell back; crossed his ankles. Too late! With a whoosh of energy it spurted through his shaft. He closed his eyes tightly. He didn’t see that it flew so high it almost hit the ceiling. Hot, sticky goo splashed across his bare chest and stomach.

Huff. Huff. Huff. Oh, the joy, The ecstasy. He opened his eyes and peered down at the mess, rapidly cooling. His breathing eased. His heartrate slowed close to normal. Without turning his body, so none would drip onto the bedsheet, he reached his left arm across the bed to the length of toilet paper he knew was there. He scrunched it up and quickly wiped himself off. He tossed the crumpled tissue onto the floor.

Trent was spent, but the movie continued. He turned onto his side and pulled the laptop closer. It was one of his favourites. It always made him cum. Schoolboys in the headmaster’s study. They were supposed to be sixth-formers but the actors were obviously older than that. Not by much: nineteen or twenty  maybe. This one had one of the best of the lot. A fresh faced lad with a cheeky smile. His flat stomach and cute bum were very boyish.

The Swish! movies were the best. They were so professionally done. Real experts. The stories never changed though. Trent didn’t mind. Oh, how he wished he had gone to a school like that. The movie started with a boy they called Jimmy arriving at the headmaster’s study. He is in school uniform. Black blazer, white shirt, striped tie and pale-grey trousers. This time he’s wearing long trousers but often the movies have him in nice tailored short trousers that fall to just above the knee. Trent prefers the boys in ‘longs’ – just like he wore at school.

Jimmy has been caught smoking behind the gymnasium. Smoking tobacco that is. Smoking is the greatest crime imaginable in the world of Swish! movies. Well Jimmy knows what’s going to happen next. The headmaster, who is dressed in traditional academic gown, sometimes with and sometimes without the old-fashioned mortar-board cap on his head, goes to a hat-stand or a cupboard or over to a radiator. In any case he is going to choose a cane. He has a selection, but they are all about the same. They are about a metre long, no thicker than a pencil and all have the traditional – and sexy – curved handle. It is this that makes them authentic school canes, otherwise all the headmaster has is a stick that anyone could to hold up plants in the garden.

Trent is hooked at this point. Blood gorges to his cock when the headmaster takes a cane in his hand and thoughtfully flexes it between his hands to see how far it will bend. He replaces it and takes another. He flexes that one too and swishes it through the air. It is a mighty rod. It will leave marks across poor Jimmy’s bottom for sure.

“Take off your jacket. Take that chair and put it there,” the headmaster intones and Jimmy has to put his blazer on a hook on the door and move the furniture around the study and prepare his own seat of execution. This chair is made of leather with wooden arms. It has a low back and Jimmy will fit across it perfectly as he demonstrates when the headmaster swishes the cane sharply and orders, “Bend over.”

We get a shot of Jimmy’s rascally face as he recognises the gravity of his situation. He does not argue. He does not point out that he is an eighteen-year-old senior boy. He is legally an adult. He is too old for this. Instead, meekly he approaches the chair. He looks at it for a moment while the camera lingers on his back and legs. Then slowly he eases forward. He rests his stomach on the apex of the chair and grips the front of the seat cushion. The material of his pale-grey trousers caresses the curves of his cheeks. They are round and firm. Trent sees this in close up. “Oh,” Trent thinks to himself sadly, “I wish I went to a school like this.”

The headmaster swishes his cane and then taps it across the firmest part of Jimmy’s bottom. “Legs apart. Up over,” he says quietly. Jimmy adjusts his buttocks so that more meat is exposed to the cane. The headmaster steps back. He saws the cane across the centre of both cheeks. The cane rises. It falls, striking Jimmy’s bottom firmly. A line appears in the seat of the pale-grey trousers where the rod fell. Jimmy’s lips purse. His eyes shine. He felt that.

The headmaster delivers six-of-the-best in close up. Jimmy’s face is a picture. Each successive stroke hurts more than the last one. His face glows. He bites his lip. He grimaces. This is an authentic caning. It hurts, but he lives. The headmaster stands back and admires his handiwork. A true schoolboy beating. But he has not finished. “Stand up,” the headmaster intones. “Take down your trousers, then back over.”

The headmaster tucks the cane under his arm and watches as Jimmy hauls himself to his feet. Without looking to left or right, nor even down at his waist, the boy unbuckles his leather belt. Then he pops the clasp of his trousers, pulls the zipper and pushes his trousers down. They bunch at his shins. Then, with no further ado, he goes back over the chair. Trent loves this bit.

Corporal punishment had been outlawed at schools long before Trent was born. He knows that boys regularly faced the threat of the cane across the seat of their trousers. Nobody got it on the underpants. Did they? Who cares? Swish! do not make documentaries. Whoever tossed off to Panorama? Jimmy is wearing white cotton Y-fronts (as much a part of school uniform as blazer and tie). Once he is over the chair they stretch across his buttocks so that they fit like a second skin. The headmaster, still with the cane under his arm, approaches. He hesitates for a moment as if admiring the sights and then with both hands gently takes hold of the tail of Jimmy’s crisp white shirt. The headmaster lifts it and pulls it up Jimmy’s back until it is away from the target area. He reveals an area of smooth, hairless back.

Not yet ready to resume caning, the headmaster now takes hold of the waistband of the underpants. He plays a little game. He acts as though he is going to rip them down over Jimmy’s buttocks and haul them down to his knees so the teenager’s bum is bare. Instead, he tugs the waistband so that the already smooth underpants are even tighter. This way the cotton digs right up the crack and each cheek is lifted and separated. Jimmy has a gorgeous bum. It is (naturally) his prize asset.

The headmaster steps back, slips the cane from armpit to hand and takes aim. Trent sees that the Y-fronts do not fully cover the bum and there are red marks on naked flesh where the cane previously struck. Jimmy’s bottom quivers when the headmaster taps the cane into the underpart of his cheeks, where the bum and thighs meet. The cane is lifted. It strikes. Jimmy’s face contorts. His mouth opens wide. Those beautiful blue-grey eyes sparkle. “Ouch!” he mouths the word.

Jimmy takes another six-of-the-best. Trent sees headmaster. Trent sees cane rise. Trent see tighty-whitey cotton underpants. Trent sees cane fall. Trent sees Jimmy’s startled reaction. Trent’s cock throbs. He reaches for the lube.

“Stand up boy,” the headmaster pompously paces the study. He rests and watches Jimmy sorrowfully get to his feet. Will he ever smoke cigarettes again? Who knows? Trent has long ago forgotten the reason for the punishment. “Underpants down,” the headmaster growls as if it is the most natural thing in the world for him to say.

Trent is in a parallel universe. Usual rules do not apply here. The eighteen-year-old does not tell the headmaster where to get off. He does not stride across the study and punch the headmaster in the mouth and then pummel him into jam as he falls to the floor, before kicking him in the kidneys and leaving. Instead, Jimmy hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his tight, cotton Y-fronts and with no more than a flick of the wrist he sends them south to join his trousers. He turns back to the chair and as he bends forward Trent is given a marvellous close-up shot of Jimmy’s savaged buttocks. Thick wheals run across both cheeks. They are genuinely raw.

Jimmy takes up position again. Head low, bottom high, feet apart. The headmaster does the sawing thing again with his cane and then lets fly. By now, Trent has his eyes closed tight. He concentrates on the job in hand. He can still hear the sound from the movie. The swish. The crack! The arrghhs and ouches from Jimmy, but Trent is now in his own world. How he wants to be that boy bent over the back of the chair. He remembers Mr Watney, the aging headmaster at his inner-city comprehensive school. If only Mr Watney had caned him like that. Trent would gladly have smoked ten cigarettes a day.

In the movie the caning is over. Jimmy is sent to stand to face the wall where he rubs his marked cheeks vigorously. He smiles, a little more ruefully than cheekily. The headmaster sits in the chair. He gestures to Jimmy who at first looks bemused. His confusion does not last long. “Come, stand there,” the headmaster points to a spot beside him. Jimmy understands. He has lived in this unnatural world long enough. Still rubbing his throbbing backside he slowly makes his way across the study. He stands where indicated. “Bend over,” again the headmaster’s command is obeyed without question.

Jimmy is face down across the headmaster’s knee. Trent watches with half an eye. Sometimes in these movies the headmaster makes the boy strip off all his clothes and bend across his knee totally naked. Trent has a movie where Jimmy does this. He looks terrific naked; he is slender, yet muscular. His legs go all the way up to his terrific bum. He doesn’t seem to have a single hair anywhere on his body – not even around his cock.

Sexy though Jimmy is naked, he prefers the boys to be at least partly dressed. It makes the scene more authentic. Trent lets the movie move to its conclusion. He glances at the time in the corner of the screen. It is time to go. Carefully, so none of the cum drips onto the bed, he climbs off the mattress. He picks up the soggy Kleenex from the floor and walks across the room. He drops it into the lavatory pan, has a piss and then turns on the shower.

Minutes later, towelled dry, he opens a drawer and selects the clothes he will wear that night. He has tight-white Y-fronts, a grey shirt and grey trousers. He doesn’t have a blazer, but he doesn’t think he needs one. He slips a striped tie into his trouser pocket. He is off to The Three Fishers where he is certain to meet Fat Steven. He is always there on a Friday night. Fat Steven will bring the cane.

 

Picture credit: unknown

Other stories you might like

Brad, the spanking-movie star

Over the schoolmaster’s knee

The rookie deputy sheriff

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

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