University encounter

z used otk jeans bed (125)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wrong again.

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

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

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

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

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

“You should tidy this place up.”

Who did he think he was, my mother?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I set off the fire alarm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Picture credit: Spank This

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Boss’s Son

z used art office otk ruler chair (8)

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

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

 

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The sleep over

z used pillow fight (4b)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

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Dad, spank me please

z used short shorts (62)

Terry stood astride his bicycle at the end of The Avenue. He winced a little, the narrow hard leather seat pressed into a tender spot on his backside. Halfway down the street he saw his great pal Davey outside his house washing the family car. He cycled a few yards further and stopped again.

Davey hadn’t heard Terry’s approach. He splashed water and soap suds over the Cortina. It was a blistering hot day and he was dressed only in skimpy football shorts. Terry admired how the boy’s buttocks filled out the nylon when he stretched across the car and muscles in his suntanned back rippled.

“Hi,” he called. Davey looked up from his work and grinned. They had been best friends since they were seven; often they didn’t need words to communicate.

Eventually, Terry asked, “How did your dad take last night?”

“I have to wash the car and I’m grounded for a week.”

“A week! You’ll miss the match tomorrow and the gig on Friday.”

“I know,” Davey replied and carried on washing. He was making a mess of it and water soaked the front of his shorts making them transparent. Terry could see his friend wasn’t wearing underpants.

There was companionable silence for some moments before Davey asked, “What did your dad say?”

Terry grinned. “Dad still thinks it’s the nineteen-fifties.”

Davey knew where this was going. “No.” It was a statement rather than a question.

“Yes, he spanked me.” Involuntarily, he moved his bum away from the cycle saddle. Only an hour earlier he had been draped across his father’s knee with his jeans at his ankles while dad hammered a heavy wooden clothes brush into the seat of his underpants.

“But you’re nineteen!” Davey wasn’t really surprised at the news. But, nineteen, surely that was too old to spank a boy.

“Well its better than missing the footie and the concert.”

Davey wasn’t so sure. “But doesn’t it hurt?”

Terry recalled the sight of his buttocks when he had examined them in the mirror. They were bright red from the top of the globes, across the mounds and into the under curves. Bruises were forming and they would probably stay for sometimes. Some spots, especially where the cheeks met the thighs were tender to touch. It made riding his bike a bit painful.

“Yeah,” he grinned. He wasn’t embarrassed, he told his pal everything. (Well, perhaps not everything.) “But it’s not like he ripped my arse to shreds.”

Terry had lost count, but dad must have laid the brush across his backside at least a hundred times. He always spanked on the underpants, never on the bare. Terry was grateful for that, it would be too humiliating to have to lay face down across dad’s lap and let him see his crack and hole.

The teenagers lapsed into silence. Davey stood on tiptoes to stretch across the roof of the large car. His shorts rode up and Terry got a glimpse of his pal’s bare arse. Terry wriggled as his cock began to twitch.

“You should ask your dad to spank you.”

“Warr..?”

“Seriously, ask him to whop you instead of grounding. Then you don’t have to stay home all week.”

Davey stopped soaking the car and peered at his friend. “You’re serious.”

“Of course.”

“But isn’t it a bit weird? How many boys ask their dads to spank them? Isn’t it usually the other way round?” Then he affected the voice of a wailing child, “Please daddy don’t spank me I will be good. Boo. Hoo.”

Both lads roared with laughter.

“Think about it,” Terry said, mounting his bicycle. “I’ve got to go; I’ll be late for lunch.” As he pedalled away, he turned and called over his shoulder. “You’ve got too many suds, you’ll never be able to clear them away, the car will be streaked all over.”

Then, painfully he cycled home.

Terry had been right – about the car; it was covered in ugly streaks. Davey’s dad was not best pleased so Terry hid in his room for a while to keep out of the way. The heat was becoming unbearable. He stripped off his shorts and lay naked on the bed. He stared at his limp cock. He hadn’t masturbated since before breakfast, so he closed his eyes and imagined Terry bent across his dad’s knee. Terry was about six feet tall and he thought his pal would probably have to bend his knees a bit so that his bum was properly positioned against his dad’s thigh to receive whacks from the brush.

Terry had a big bum. It was round and meaty and jutted out the back of his jeans. It was a backside that cried out to be spanked.

Davey’s cock stiffened. He reached into his bedside cabinet and found the Johnson’s Baby Lotion. He soaked his palm. It felt cold against his still soft cock. It twitched and the tips of Davey’s fingers lightly stroked along the length of his penis. The cock filled out as he imagined the hard wooden brush spanking into his pal’s backside as he lay submissively over his dad’s knee.

His fingers enclosed the hardening shaft near the base and he glided his palm slowly up the length of his twitching dick. At the top, he tweaked the sensitive edges of his foreskin, giving himself a gasp of pleasure. It was a difficult admission to have to make, but he knew that he fancied Terry’s arse something rotten.

His grip tightened and he tensed up. Then his hand made several slow, firm strokes along the full length of his now fully erect cock. His other hand cupped his balls, gently kneading them between his fingers.

Then, whoosh! His belly was soaked with cum. Davey’s heart raced and his eyes watered. He lay back breathing heavily, slightly disappointed. He always came too soon.

He stared down at the sticky goo on his stomach. It was too hot to go to the bathroom to clean up. He would let it harden.

What, he wondered, would it be like to be spanked? It would be painful, of course, but Terry had said it wasn’t too bad. Would it turn him on? What if his own dad took him across his knee and whacked him with a hairbrush, would he end up coming all over the old man’s leg?

He smiled at the absurdity of it all. But deep down he knew he wanted to be spanked. He might never forgive himself if he didn’t experience it at least once.

An hour later, once dressed now in football shorts and pants but no shirt, he padded into the lounge. Dad was pretending not to be watching wrestling on World of Sport.

Davey had rehearsed a script. “Sorry about the car,” he started and immediately stalled. His dad grunted.

“And, sorry about last night.” Another growl from dad. This wasn’t going quite to plan.

“Do you know what Terry’s dad did?”

His dad turned his gaze away from the television.

Davey gulped. It was now or never. “He spanked him.” He stopped, he could feel his cheeks flaming.

Dad knotted his brows and looked at his son quizzically. He knew that Mr. Tomlinson used corporal punishment on his sons. He had often discussed discipline with him. He didn’t use it himself – he was afraid Davey would resent it and hate him forever if he put a slipper across the boy’s backside.

“Look it’s the local derby tomorrow. City and United,” Davey spoke in a rush. “And, The Starbirds are playing on Friday. We’ve got tickets and I was thinking, wondering …” he trailed off. He had rehearsed this in his bedroom but now it was showtime he had forgotten his lines.

Dad folded his arms and sat back in his armchair and struggled to suppress a smile. He let his son babble on some more. Eventually the nineteen-year-old got to the point and blurted, “Would you let me off the grounding and spank me instead.” Then he added a final plea, “Please.”

Davey tried again, “I know I should be punished, but …” he had run out of words again.

This was typical of Davey, his father thought. He was a good boy most of the time. He had done well at school and gone on to university, but he did get into scrapes. He always took responsibility for his actions.

Mr. Tony Pilfold loved his son dearly. The boy had been a damn fool last night, drinking too much and allowing a drunk pal to drive him home. He could have been killed.

He looked at his son, trying to read his mind. He was a football fanatic and The Starbirds were probably the top group in the whole world; it couldn’t have been easy to get tickets. The boy looked forlorn. His wide open brown eyes, eyes that usually sparkled with mischief, were dull. His sadness tugged at his dad’s heartstrings.

Suddenly, he was transported back thirty years to his own youth. His father was a schoolmaster; he never once spanked him as a child. But there was one time when he was about Davey’s age when he and a friend took a car. They were caught of course. The police, who said they had better things to do than deal with two middle-class joyriders, handed them over to their parents.

Next morning his dad brought home a long thick swishy rattan cane from his school. It was awesome, Tony remembered. Even now he could picture it. It had the traditional crooked handle and was a dark yellow colour. It had notches every three or four inches along its length. When his dad flexed it between his hands and then swished it through the air, it sent a wave of terror through Tony’s body.

His dad was an old-fashioned stubborn schoolmaster. He expected to be obeyed. He made his son change into his pyjamas and report to the sitting room. It was quite a large room, dominated by an old worn leather couch. It was a cold evening and the teenager could not stop shivering. It might not have been only the cold. Tony trembled with fear, waiting for the inevitable bluff command.

It was not long coming. “Bend over the couch.”

It was a new experience and Tony made sure it was never repeated. It was literally the thrashing of a lifetime. Dad put twelve stingers across the seat of his pyjamas. Tony would like to think he took his beating stoically, but in truth the nineteen-year-old howled the house down. His face was washed in tears and snot. His backside felt like he had been forced to sit on a barbecue. His buttocks were covered with welts; some took weeks to clear.

It wasn’t a spanking; it was a savage whipping. Mr. Pilfold wriggled in his armchair at the recollection. It was as if the memories had reignited the pain in his buttocks.

He continued looking at his son. He couldn’t subject his lovely son to that. But, Davey was so sad that he would miss the football and concert. Maybe he should back down, rescind the grounding. No, Mr. Pilfold was determined. There had to be punishment.

He couldn’t believe that he asked the next question. “How did Mr. Tomlinson spank Terry?”

Davey was startled. “With a hairbrush, I think.” His face reddened.

A hairbrush? No that was no good. The only hairbrush in the house belonged to his wife. It was an expensive delicate thing. It would be smashed to pieces if he spanked Davey with that.

In his head he listed the possible implements that he might use instead. He didn’t have bedroom slippers, nor plimsolls. Obviously, there was no swishy rattan cane. What else did people use? Of course, a belt. He had several leather belts in all shapes and sizes. One in particular was thick and heavy, it would do the job admirably.

Heck, he pulled himself up. Why was he thinking like this? Did he really intend to whack his son’s backside? Then in a heartbeat he made a decision that would change his darling son’s life.

“If I do it, will you take your spanking without fuss?” Mr. Pilfold sounded calmer than he felt.

Davey’s pulse raced. At once his mouth dried. “Yes,” he croaked. His hands were shaking.

“Go to your room and wait for me.” It was a soft instruction. Mr. Pilfold had inherited none of his own father’s bluntness.

Davey rushed from the room.

Mr. Pilfold steadied himself. He needed to take deep breaths. What had he agreed to do? And why? It was a mystery to him, but instinctively he knew this was what his son wanted. No, it was what he needed. And he didn’t mean that in the way a father might say, “What you need young man is a jolly good spanking.”

Slowly, he ascended the stairs. His was grateful that his wife and daughters were shopping in town. He and Davey had the house to themselves. Together they would share an intimate father and son moment. He entered his own bedroom and rummaged through the wardrobe. It had been a long time since he had worn the belt. Wide, heavy belts were no longer fashionable.

He found it and felt its weight in his hand. Then, he doubled it up and tested its effectiveness by smacking it into his open palm. He flinched. Just a little smack hurt a lot. It would cause considerable pain if he whacked it hard across Davey’s backside.

He paused and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked old and grey, despite his suntan. His hair was thinning and his waist thickening. He thought of his slender son who was so full of youth and vitality. Had he been like that at the time his own dad had caned him? How quickly a body deteriorates with age.

He took several deep breaths and exited the room. The door of his son’s room was open so he walked straight in. Davey sat apprehensively on the bed. He so wanted this spanking to happen. He knew that for certain. Buy why did he want it? He couldn’t quite convince himself that it was only so he could attend the footie and a concert.

He eyed the heavy strap in his father’s hand. If his dad was serious and spanked him properly the belt could leave him severely battered.

“Stand up. Let’s get on with this.” Mr. Pilfold picked up two pillows and placed them in the centre of the bed.

Quietly, almost in a whisper, he instructed. “Lie face down across the pillows. Try to keep your bottom high.”

Davey hesitated. He stood rooted.

“Come on. You wanted this,” his father said softly, thinking his son was having a last-minute change of heart.

“No,” his son replied emphatically. “Terry gets it on the pants.” Then in one continuous movement the teenager hooked his fingers into the waistband of his football shorts and pushed them to his knees. They slipped down his shins and landed in a puddle at his feet. He stepped out of them and knelt on the bed, before lowering himself across the pillows. He wasn’t sure where to put his arms so he spread them out, one on either side of his head. His legs were parted and it made him look like he was sky-diving.

His dad had never seen his son like this before. He realised he had not looked closely at him for some time. He was a fit, athletic boy. There was hardly enough spare fat on his body to sizzle a sausage. His back was hairless, but there was a thin covering of down on his legs. His mustard-coloured briefs clung to taut buttocks. A tan line showed just below his bum.

Mr. Pilfold doubled up the leather belt. He was no expert, but he knew a spanking was supposed to hurt. He must lash the strap across his son’s bum with some vigour. Somehow, he knew his son would want that. It needed to be a spanking that he could compare to Terry’s.

He took a deep breath raised the strap high and slashed it into the seat of the briefs. Davey let a stream of air escape through his teeth. He scrunched up his face. It had hurt, but not too much. It was the shock of the sting that affected him most.

Another smack quickly followed and then another. His bum hotted up with each successive whack and the pain mounted. He clasped his arms around his head to help him absorb the pain. It helped a little.

Soon, his buttocks were bouncing up and down over the pillow. His hips swayed and his legs kicked. He wasn’t in control of his body. His twitchings and jerkings were reflex actions. They were his body’s way of coping with the onslaught.

Whack, whack whack. Neither dad nor Davey were counting, but his father must have delivered fifty or sixty strokes. Sweat poured off Mr. Pilfold’s shirt. Davey, despite his near-nakedness, was perspiring heavily too.

It was time to stop. Mr. Pilfold held the leather belt in his hand and allowed it to dangle down his leg. He looked intently at his son, still face down across the pillows. He was lost for words. How was a spanking supposed to end? Sheepishly, he left the room.

Davey stayed in position, reliving the past minutes in his head. He tried to imagine how he looked, stretched submissively across the bed with his bum raised for the kiss of the leather. He realised his head was perfectly clear. It was a euphoria he had not experienced before. No drug could compare with the high he had got from dad’s spanking.

Slowly, he eased himself from the bed. A raging erection tented the front of his briefs. He tugged them down and then off to give his cock room to breathe. He saw his reflection in the mirror. His buttocks were adorned with dozens of thick sunset-red stripes. The pain had almost disappeared leaving behind a warm glow. Carefully, he traced his fingertips across the marks that criss-crossed his cheeks. Some were tender and it felt good to reignite the pain.

Gingerly, he lay on the bed. He laid on his back and enjoyed the throbbing sensation as his buttocks sank into the hard mattress. He leaned over to the drawer for the baby lotion. He had experienced his first spanking and he knew without a shadow of a doubt that the next one could not come soon enough.

 

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Warren’s awakening

Home for the half term

The Helpful Neighbour Part 1

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

New experiences

Ian closed the door and headed down the walkway towards the stairs. It was cold and he wanted to hurry along to the pub to meet his mates. He passed the window of the flat of his friend Richard and halted. A strange noise echoed from the kitchen. Thwack! There it was again.

The curtain was open and Ian had an unobscured view. It was just as well; he wouldn’t have believed what he saw otherwise. Mr. Fitzsimons, Richard’s dad, sat on a cheap plastic chair and draped across his lap with his face close to the worn linoleum was his son. The nineteen-year-old’s jeans were at his ankles and his briefs were rolled down to his thighs. The middle-aged man gripped an old-fashioned carpet slipper in his right hand. He raised it high, kept it hovering in mid-air for some moments and then brought it crashing down into the centre of Richard’s bare left buttock. Then, he raised the slipper once more, paused for an inordinate length of time, and smashed it into the left cheek.

Ian stared in wonderment. His friend lay submissively allowing his old man to thwack the rubber-soled slipper again and again across his bare bum. The teenager’s face was as red as his bottom, but otherwise he showed no outward sign of distress.

Suddenly, Mr. Fitzsimons placed the slipper on the nearby table. Gently, he massaged Richard’s bum. It looked pretty sore from where Ian stood.

“Get up.” It was the first time either of them had spoken since Ian arrived. Richard pushed himself up and using his dad’s knees as leverage he rose to his feet and then started to pull up his pants. Afraid that he might be spotted, Ian hastened along the landing.

What had he just seen? Ian couldn’t make it out. His friend had been spanked by his dad. His nineteen-year-old friend. Nobody got spanked these days. They had outlawed the cane in schools ten years before Ian had been born. His own dad never spanked him. He couldn’t remember ever being hit by his parents; not even as a toddler. Certainly, dad had never ordered him to bend over his knee, bare arse to the wind, while he whacked a slipper into his backside. And, never when he was nineteen.

What had Richard done? What does anyone have to do these days to get a spanking? What did a nineteen-year-old have to do? Ian wondered if he would ever find out. Somehow, he couldn’t imagine having the courage to ask Richard. It would be too embarrassing. Besides, he didn’t want people to think he was a snooper.

Ian kept his new information to himself when he reached the pub. He was pretty certain Richard wouldn’t want his mates to know his dad spanked him. It turned into a good night, Toby said he was trying to start a “relationship” with Susan. Everybody laughed. Nobody had “relationships” they just had sex. Sex was always available. The boys wanted it. The girls wanted it. Often after a night at the pub they would pair off and go back to someone’s place and have sex. Sex was easy; who needed “relationships?”

There were no girls about, so Ian went home alone. He was a bit drunk, but he had been worse. He woke up in the middle of the night with a raging hard-on, just in time to stop himself soiling the bedsheets. He had dreamt of Mr. Fitzsimons. Only, this time it was Ian bent over the knees, staring at the floor with his bared-bottom high while Richard’s dad did his thing with the slipper.

Ian was troubled, he had never dreamt of spanking before – at least, not that he remembered, and he had never thought about it when he was awake. Spanking? Wasn’t that a gay thing? He wasn’t gay. Definitely not. He had had sex with enough girls to know that. He started to obsess. When he remembered how submissive Richard was across his dad’s knee, he reckoned it wasn’t the first time his pal had been spanked. It would probably happen again, so Ian hung around the landing hoping for a repeat performance. He spent so much time there if it wasn’t that he had lived in the flats all his life, neighbours might think he was a burglar biding his time.

One afternoon he had a massive erection in the middle of the call centre where he worked. Jo-Jo, his boss, who was fit in at least two senses of the word, was only a few years older than Ian. He wore cream chinos that flattered his buttocks and thighs. He was sitting on a chair with his legs a little apart and his feet firmly planted. For no reason that he knew, Ian suddenly imagined himself bent across Jo-Jo’s knees wearing very smart brown corduroy short trousers with razor sharp creases. They were much shorter than the shorts lads usually wore. In Ian’s mind, Jo-Jo slapped the palm of his hand into the seat of Ian’s trousers and as Richard had done in real life, Ian lay uncomplaining face down, bottom high, accepting his punishment meekly.

It was getting out of hand. That night for the first time in his life, Ian tossed himself off thinking about a man. Ian was across Jo-Jo’s knees again; this time totally naked. In the following days, he couldn’t stop thinking about spanking. Everywhere he went he saw people he wanted to spank him: a fat old man on the bus; a fellow in Tesco’s with a moustache and unkempt grey hair who had the air of an old-fashioned schoolmaster. Ian wouldn’t mind bending over the back of a chair for him.

It scared him a little. Something had to be done. Somehow, he needed to find someone to put him through his paces. How? Instinctively, he knew it wouldn’t be enough to ask one of the girls to smack his bum before they had sex. He needed a man. He would ask his gay friend, Nick. He had been around a bit; he would know, Ian thought. Spanking? He was sure it was a gay thing.

“No, I’ve never been spanked. Never thought about it.” Nick’s response was disappointing. “There’s this club, meets every month in The Village, you should go. The Whacko! Club. I’ve seen their flier. The name says it all.”

Ian looked doubtful.

“Come on, all the old queens would love you. Make their day.”

Ian’s tired smile was full of despair. Nick’s beaming face was more enthusiastic.

“Do you want me to do it?” he asked and when his friend stared blankly, he added, “Spank you. How difficult could it be? What is it that turns you on, the humiliation or the pain?” Nick saw from the glint in Ian’s eye, he had found the solution.

“I’ll spank you if you give me a blowjob after.”

Ian’s mouth gaped. Nick sucked on the neck of his beer bottle.

“Why not. Then we both get something out of it. Think about it, you’d get two new experiences in one day.”

Within the hour, they were at Nick’s flat. “So, do you want a real spanking?” Nick perched his buttocks against the dining table, “Or is it just love taps? Or what?

Later, Ian would reflect on how calm he had been. He totally trusted Nick. “The real deal,” he said without hesitation.

“Face the wall. Hands on head. Don’t move.” Ian shuffled in position. Nick watched impassively. His friend was very cute. He was a little shorter than Nick and you could see he never went to the gym, but he was far from fat. His jeans hung loosely from his hips and fell over his Nike trainers. His blue tee-shirt was from Primark and therefore cheap, but he wore it well.

Nick went to the bathroom, found his flatmate’s large black hairbrush and tested it in his hands. It was heavier than it looked. It would pack a punch. Back in the living room, Ian was finding his “naughty-boy” position hard to maintain. His arms ached terribly and he fidgeted.

“Keep still,” Nick barked. Ian straightened up.

Nick looked around the room. If he was going to take Ian across his knee there wasn’t so much to choose from. It was a tiny room and sparsely furnished.  He decided on a low stool.

“Turn around. Come here.” Ian obeyed instantly. Nick tried to read his friend’s flushed face. He was definitely nervous, but was he also turned on? Well, he thought, it’s too late now. He asked for a punishment spanking and that’s what he was going to get.

Ian still had his hands on his head. Nick reached forward and undid the button at the waist of his jeans. The zipper fell instantly revealing Nick was wearing blue checked shorts. Primark again. As the jeans slithered down Ian’s legs Nick admired the flatness of his friend’s stomach. Nick’s cock was twitching, but it was a long from being on the march.

“Bend over my knee.”

Ian’s mouth was suddenly dry. He ran the tip of his tongue around his lips; it didn’t help much. Slowly, he lowered himself forward until his stomach rested over Nick’s legs. They were thin, but strong. Ian hesitated. How was this done exactly? He rested his arms on the stool and looked forward, across the room he saw a faint reflection of himself in the television screen.

“These aren’t much use,” Nick said as he tugged the waistband of Ian’s shorts over his buttocks, and left them at his thighs. It was an impressive arse. Nick took time to admire it. Really, he thought, he wouldn’t mind having Ian kneeling on his bed and shafting him. He might yet get his chance, he reckoned, there were plenty of straight guys out there who liked to cross over the road from time to time. Ian was probably one.

Nick gripped the hairbrush, took his aim and brought it down with moderate force across the centre of Ian’s left bum cheek. Then the right. Then the left again. He had no idea how hard you were supposed to hit someone for a spanking. He decided to go by instinct. Ian’s hairless bum quickly turned a shade of deep pink. The nineteen-year-old gasped a little, but he didn’t seem in distress.

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Nick upped the ante. The next six slaps were harder.  Ian felt those and the next six which were harder still. The teenager’s body twitched and his legs kicked in a reflex action. Nick whacked another dozen; harder still. Ian yelped like a little whipped puppy and his hand gripped Nick’s leg. It was the only way he could stop himself reaching back to protect his now glowing arse from the onslaught from the hairbrush.

Another dozen. Ian was crying. Real tears. He wasn’t wailing, his gritted teeth prevented that, but his face was awash. Nick hesitated. Maybe it was time to stop. How many whacks would a “real” naughty boy get as punishment? He had no idea. He was about to lay down his brush when Ian moved his hips. A massive erection dug into Nick’s thigh.

“More,” Ian gasped, and then when his friend showed no sign of continuing, he added a plaintive, “Please.”

The brush hammered into the naked backside. Not one square centimetre was left unblistered. Sweat soaked Ian’s shirt. Nick was not much better. Ian bounced up and down across his punisher’s lap. He was humping his erection into Nick’s thigh and digging his fingernails into his leg. Any moment now, he would explode.

“Enough.” Nick pushed Ian to the ground where he lay on his side gasping for air like a goldfish out of water. His boner was rock hard; the tip glistening. Nick gaped. He knelt beside his friend rolled him onto his back and took the throbbing gristle into his mouth. His tongue washed the shaft, then he started on the ball sack. In seconds his face was soaked with Ian’s cum.

They both lay on their backs catching their breath. Then, Nick wriggled out of his trousers and pants. His uncut cock pointed at the sky. “Your turn,” he huffed.

Three days later, Ian made his first visit to The Whacko! Club.

 

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Where’s the paddle, hon?

When Dad got home

One hot summer afternoon

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Paying the rent

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Rik hid behind the curtain and gazed into the garden below. His neighbour Ste lifted his shirt over his head; he was about to lay in the sun. Rik’s cock stiffened at the sight. What a body, a six-pack to die for. Not a spare gram of fat anywhere.

Ste was now nearly naked; only a tiny pair of shorts covered his manhood. Rik peered; were they shorts or were they Boxers, he wondered? Ste was probably the type to parade in public in his underwear. God only knew he had the body to carry it off. If they were Boxers, the floral pattern told Rik they hadn’t been bought in Tesco.

Rik unzipped his own shorts and let them full to his ankles, his cock strained against his tight underpants. He tugged them down. His dick was long and hard, a deep blue vein throbbed along its entire length. He had already jerked himself dry once that morning, dreaming he had the gorgeous Ste in his arms. He pulled open the drawer to his dressing table. Damn. He had used the last of the lube. He gobbed spit into the palm of his hand and stretched out on the bed.

Rik had moved into the room a week previously. It was a good set up. A large house converted into four self-contained rooms and there were a couple of communal rooms too. It was like having a house share, but with more privacy. Ste had spotted an ad on the Internet. The landlord didn’t seem much older than Rik. A bit of a hunk too. He took care of himself. The rent was pretty cheap, especially for your own front door. Rik was sure he had landed on his feet, a great room and a sexy neighbour, who wasn’t afraid to let you know.

Ste wasn’t gay, more’s the pity, Rik thought. In the week since he moved in Rik had seen Ste with two different women. A blonde girl with legs up to her chin on Monday morning, and a petite redhead with freckles on Wednesday. Ste could have anyone he wanted, Rik reckoned, and who could blame him?

Rik was no gargoyle. He had piercing blue eyes and fair hair. His boyish grin and tight bottom got him a long way at the clubs. But Rik was cute in a boy-next-door kind of way. Ste was sexy, as in hot-hot-hot, fuck-my-brains-out.

Rik shot a load over his stomach and lay staring at the ceiling. Oh Ste, Ste, why couldn’t you be gay?

Rik cleaned himself down. He should hurry, he was already more than an hour late for his shift at the supermarket. His boss was already on his case; he’d been told one more time and he would lose his job.

“Why so glum, Rik?” It was Ste, naked except for those shorts, standing in the communal hallway. Rik paused, how he wanted to kiss those nipples and then run his tongue all over that hard chest and stomach. Then, he would rip down those shorts – they were Boxers; up close Rik could see the fly. He’d take his balls in his mouth before sucking Ste’s shaft and then …

“Rik?”

Rik woke with a start. “Sorry Ste, my mind was somewhere else.”

“Why you so miserable?”

I’ve been sacked.”

“Hard luck. Where’d you work?”

“Tesco.”

“Oh, not much of a job then.”

“No, but it paid the rent.”

Ste’s dark brown eyes sparkled. He grinned, “There’s more than one way to pay the rent,” and he sashayed his delightfully tight little arse up the stairs to his room.

Rik stared, his cock throbbing once more. Pay the rent. There was no way he could pay the rent. He had no savings, no job prospect. He couldn’t go home, his parents more or less disowned him the moment they found he was gay. He’d be on the streets by the end of the month. Despondently, he trudged up the stairs, his hard-on still raging.

It was four days later when they next met on the stairs. Rik’s mouth gaped, his cock roared, he had never seen anything like it before. Even the boys at the clubs never dressed like this. Ste’s cock and arse was barely covered by the shortest, tightest white cotton shorts imaginable. Rik tried not to stare. He failed. Now, he knew his neighbour had been circumcised. What a pity, he thought. Rik’s chest and torso glistened with lotion.

Ste grinned, “Down boy,” and glanced down at the bulge, now tenting the front of Rik’s shorts. Rik’s mouth opened and closed. What was it he wanted to say.

“Can’t stop to chat, the landlord’s here. I’ve got to pay the rent.” Ste flashed that cheeky grin again and eased past Rik, wriggling his buttocks in an exaggerated walk as he went. Rik watched him enter the communal sitting room. His cock throbbed, he needed a wank. He headed up the stairs but stopped before he reached the top. Masturbation must wait. Something mysterious was going on.

He tiptoed down the stairs and through the hallway. The door to the sitting room was wide open. All was silent. Rik paused. It was an instinct. Something was happening in the room. He couldn’t hear a thing, but he was certain Ste and Mr Cresswell, the landlord, were there. Something immense was happening. Rik had two choices; to creep forward and spy on the pair or flee back to his room. If he left now he might regret never knowing the truth.

Stealthily, he crept forward. He was three metres from the room but through the open door he had a clear view. Mr Cresswell sat on a heavy wooden straight-backed chair. He was a fit man in his early thirties, he had his legs wide apart, army boots planted firmly in the carpet. He wore military camouflaged trousers and a white sleeveless singlet that held in place his gym-honed muscles. His biceps bulged. Ste lay entirely naked face-down across the wide platform that were Cresswell’s legs. The nineteen-year-old’s arms dangled in mid-air to the landlord’s left and his legs and feet to the right. Cresswell sucked his index finger making sure it was covered in spit and then gently he traced it along the length of Ste’s spine from the neck to his arse crack. Rik shivered and his trooper stood to attention once more.

Ste lay motionless, staring blankly at the beige carpet in front of his face. His breathing was regular. His buttocks twitched slightly when Cresswell’s finger reached the top of his crack. Then the landlord cupped the palm of his right hand and make soft circular motions across the tiny hills that were Ste’s buttock cheeks. From his vantage point, Rik could not see his neighbour’s face or his neighbour’s shining eyes.

Cresswell caressed Ste’s arse for a minute or two before directing his palm down the teenager’s thighs. When he was satisfied with that he returned his attention to his tenant’s muscular back. Rik’s cock throbbed raw. Any moment now, without the least encouragement from his right fist it would explode in his pants. He should get away now to the bathroom while he still had a chance.

His willpower was weak. He gaped, the saliva draining from his mouth as Cresswell raised his right palm about a metre from Ste’s naked bum and slapped it down with some force. It made little impact; Ste had buns of steel. Rik wouldn’t be surprised if Cresswell’s hand hurt much more than Ste’s bum. The landlord spanked again and again. They were unhurried spanks. It was no frenzied punishment session. It was an act of devotion. Ste stared down at the carpet, his body still and inviting, as his landlord spanked his bottom to the colour of a good claret wine. Creswell paused his spanking and once again cupped his palm and caressed the submissive buttocks bent across his knees and pointing at the ceiling. The flesh felt hot. Hand spankings often do more damage and cause more pain than the uninitiated might suspect.

He cracked three dozen hand swats at power and speed into the underside of Ste’s bum. The boy felt those alright, his body quivered and squirmed. It was a reflex action as much as anything. His body was being assaulted and this was its way of coping.  Then it was over. Creswell panted and wheezed. Ste opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish. Both needed to get their breath back.

“Stand up.” It was a command. Cresswell expected to be obeyed. The only way Ste could get off his landlord’s lap was to roll sideways and fall onto the carpet. He lay face down for a moment and then dragged himself to a kneeling position. Cresswell rose from the chair. Rik stared transfixed. He saw his new landlord unbuckled the wide heavy leather belt from his trousers. Then he released the clasp of his fatigues and tugged the zipper. The weight of the military camouflages sent them slithering to his ankles.

No words were spoken. Ste reached forward and gently took hold of the waist of Creswell’s navy-blue Boxers. It took three tugs to get them to rest on top of the trousers. Creswell’s cock was long thick, uncut ad as hard as steel. Ste’s mouth soon got sore from keeping it wide open for so long. Rik watched as his own cock oozed cum into his pants. Ste held Creswell’s dick by the base and swirled his tongue around it.

Creswell moaned, his eyes tightly closed. He was close to coming. “Slowly, slowly,” he commanded. Ste took the cock from his mouth and gasped for air. He took the throbbing muscle in his right hand and slowly massaged it, stroking along the full length from base to head, then letting go and returning to the base again.

“That’s it. That’s it. Slowly,” Creswell panted. He opened his eyes. Two metres ahead of him stood Rik, blushing profusely, the front of his shorts covered in sticky goo.

“Hello young man,” the landlord gasped. “Have you come to pay your rent as well?”

 

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My drunken nephew

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Over the headmaster’s knee

I was draped across the lap of the headmaster, my trousers around my ankles, my white pants yanked down, and my bare bottom exposed and waiting for pain. I was eighteen years old and until a few moments earlier had been a senior prefect. That privilege had been taken away – along with my dignity.

I didn’t resist when Dr. Foster took my arm and pulled me forward. If he had been putting my head into a guillotine, I wouldn’t have struggled any more or less. I was like a rag doll, limp and pliable. I felt myself being drawn forward and down. I went along helplessly. My face passed closely over Dr. Foster’s lap. I could see the bulge of his crotch.

I silently and submissively laid across his lap, placing my naked pelvis directly over his slightly parted legs.  Dropping my head, I was very aware of my hands and feet touching the ground, and of my naked flesh resting against the soft cotton trousers that covered his legs.  I was even more aware – frighteningly so – of my naked, unhappy bottom, quivering freely in the air as the highest point of my body, under the headmaster’s direct gaze. 

I was staring at the floor on the other side of him, my heart pounding so loudly it hurt. My face burned with shame. This was impossibly humiliating. I moaned, wiggling as best I could. I could see under the chair to my own feet and to my right, I could see Dr. Foster’s legs in brogue shoes and dark socks and his hand-tailored suit-trousers.

An over the knee spanking was the punishment of choice for the headmaster. Not for we boys the sting of the whippy rattan cane across the seat of our stretched trousers. Dr. Foster was well practiced in delivering some very scalding spankings, leaving a boy’s bare buttocks as rosy and glowing as the setting sun. Sometimes it was a slipper, the smooth worn sole of which, my pals told me, created a wide-spreading smarting sting, which lingered long after the underpants and the trousers had been restored to the proper places.

Other times it was a heavy wooden brush. Its first purpose in life had been as a clothes brush, but boys at the school suspected Dr. Foster had purchased it for its weight and effectiveness as an instrument of punishment. My fate was to be the brush.

He lifted his hand and I tautened with anticipation. The first contact of brush with my bare bottom was a total shock. I’d never felt such pain before. He delivered the first blow with extraordinary energy. I had little time to think about this slap, since he landed another one to exactly the same spot immediately. I gasped; truly, I had no idea how painful it would be. I ground my teeth in mental rage and Dr. Foster moved his hand across to my other buttock and repeated a sharp application of two hard whacks. All the force of the headmaster’s powerful arm was concentrated into that little wooden surface. It felt cold when the brush first struck, then quickly it started to burn. The second stroke was worse, and the pain just kept building.

Before I could begin to absorb the stinging pain of one blow another landed on the same spot, then another and another in rapid succession. My right leg kicked up involuntarily as the stinging brush smacked home across my throbbing bum. Dr. Foster’s brow knitted in concentration as he rained down one powerful blow after another across the stinging, reddening target.

It took him somewhere between five and ten minutes of spanking to turn my bare bottom a colour that matched that of my embarrassed face. The burn spread over my whole bottom, even places he hadn’t swatted in a while. I squirmed across his knee now, alternating between clutching at his trouser leg and pushing myself up on the side of the chair. I needed to make it stop, somehow.

I would never forget how humiliating it was that first time: the hard wooden brush stinging my bare behind again and again, his left hand gripping my right wrist firmly, holding it away from the burning target so he could spank uninterrupted.

After dozens of whacks, my red, tear-soaked face registered a look of total dread, desperation, and pain, while the spanking still continued. I heard my voice howling and shrieking throughout the smarting, stinging, biting session over the headmaster’s lap. I lunged, thrusting out with each consecutive strike of the brush on my flaming under-curves, wailing pleas for mercy.

My mistake had been not believing the headmaster when he said he would spank me. I was a senior sixth-former, it was April, I only had two more months before I left school for good. I was eighteen-years-old and legally an adult, for pity’s sake. None of that mattered. I had forgotten that in a school the headmaster was the law. He could do pretty much what he wished, short of actually killing a pupil.

In some schools, punishments were unbelievably harsh. Boys were routinely flogged with heavy birch rods across their naked haunches. I had heard rumours of boys hospitalised. Compared to that a bared-bottomed over-the-knee spanking was of little significance. Unless, of course, you were the teenager giving the headmaster a bird’s eye view of your crack and hole.

I had defied Dr. Foster’s direct instruction. Our town football team had made it to the semi-finals of the FA Cup. For us that was a very big deal. Every fan wanted a ticket. The only way you could get one was to queue up at the football ground. But, it would mean skipping school. Dr. Foster, who must have been a rugby man, spoke at school assembly. There would be the direst consequences if a boy “hopped the wag,” as we called truanting. Any boy who did so could expect to be peering at the red-and-black patterned rug in the headmaster’s study with his bared-bottom raised high. He didn’t say it quite so elegantly, but the message was clear.

The message was indeed clear and I clearly disregarded it. There was nothing I could say in mitigation. Over the knee I must go. Such was the life of a schoolboy. But I had two tickets safely tucked away in my sock drawer in my bedroom. A schoolboy’s life wasn’t all pain.

At last, my spanking was over. I hauled myself off Dr. Foster’s lap. My raw, scorched, buttocks were hot to the touch. I did the traditional “spanking dance,” hopping from foot to foot, while simultaneously rubbing my flaming bottom. My cock and balls bounced in front of me.

The agony quickly turned to throbbing and then to a warm glow. My tears dried immediately. I bent to retrieve my trousers and Y-fronts from my ankles. Soon I was respectfully dressed in long mid-grey trousers, grey shirt and blue and yellow blazer. I waited patiently while Dr. Foster completed details in the punishment book. I think I grinned like a Cheshire Cat when he handed it to me and demanded I initial the entry.

My head was light. I was elated. I had never felt so good before. If I said I had an “out of body experience” you would probably laugh at me. But, I swear I was looking down on the scene; me and the headmaster in his study.

Once dismissed, I rushed to the bogs and thankful that they were empty I whipped down my trousers and pants and pointed my bare bum at the mirror. The whole of my arse was a dark pink and there were some mauve bruises forming. Gently, I rubbed my fingertips across the contours of my buttocks, caressing them lovingly. My cock stood to attention. Within seconds, it throbbed almost as much as my bum had after my spanking.

I nipped into a cubicle. Ours was a posh school, we even had toilet paper. I banged the door shut behind me, unravelled a yard of tissue and wanked my brains out.

That happened to me more than forty years ago and I have been spanked, caned – and yes, birched – hundreds of times since. I have enjoyed terrific times and met wonderful people in the CP community – but nothing has ever compared to that first genuine spanking across the headmaster’s knee.

Other stories you might like.

Peeping Tom

Yank at English school gets ‘six of the best’

The Tyrant Headmaster 5: Back in short trousers

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com