Party time!

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z used christmas drunk school college boy (1)

I don’t believe it. I just DO NOT believe it. The state you were in. I have never been so humiliated in all my life. I’ll never be able to face the neighbours. It’ll be all round the street. All over town. I’ll never live it down. You’ll never live it down. I Just CANNOT believe it.

I said go have fun. Why not? It’s Christmas. The end of term. It’s time to party. But I never for one moment expected this. Why should I? I haven’t – we haven’t, your mother and me – we haven’t brought you up like this. You have disgraced us both. I just DON’T believe it.

I’m just glad your mother didn’t see you in that state. That’s all I can say […] Be quiet! You speak when I say you can speak. You have no excuse. None at all. A school party. There shouldn’t have been any booze. Where did that come from then? Who snuck it in. You? Those crazy mates of yours in the rugby team. I know for sure none of the teachers had any idea. You’re seniors. Eighteen years old, they thought they could trust you. I thought I could trust you. Well I’ve learnt my lesson there.

You were absolutely out of your skull. Dressed up in girls’ shoes. What else? What else don’t I know? Drag? Were you dressed in women’s clothes? School skirt? Blouse? Navy blue knickers? Ha! That sounds like the rugby team to me.

I have no idea what your headmaster’s going to say when he finds out. God help us. Back in my day you’d be hauled into his study. “Bend over that desk.” Yes. A sound caning. Six-of-the-best. […] Don’t look at me like that. That’s exactly what you deserve. But he can’t. It’s against the law […] God help us, I hope he doesn’t expel you. What then? We’d never find another school to take you. So close to the exams. You’ll have to go to that shitty sixth-form college. Bang goes your career in the Foreign Office.

I’ll have to see the headmaster. Try to iron it over. Another humiliation. Begging him to keep you on. I just hope to God you weren’t the only one. Were you the leader? Did you take in the beer? It wasn’t just beer was it? The state you were in. What else. Whisky? Vodka? Isn’t vodka the trendy drink? I wouldn’t know of course […] Oh my God. It was booze wasn’t it? Don’t tell me it was drugs. Are you on drugs? My God if you’ve doing drugs […]

You deny it? Drugs. Well. I’ll tell you something. If anything like this happens again, I’m taking you down the doctors. Blood test. We’ll see what’s in your blood. Blood test, just like the athletes have […]

Don’t pout at me lad. I will not have it. I will not STAND for it […] Be quiet. You are in a lot of trouble, I’d keep quiet if I were you.

I have never been so humiliated. Called out at midnight to collect you. To take you home. Incapable of getting home alone. I don’t know what happened to your so-called friends. Abandoned you. Or were they so smashed they just disappeared.

Well lad, I will not put up with it. I will not stand for it. You’re sober now so get out of that bed […] NOW! I’m not wasting my entire morning on you. I will not put up with this. I will not tolerate your behaviour. Humiliating me like this.

Don’t look at me like that. Get out of bed NOW […] I know you haven’t got any clothes on. I put you to bed last night remember. No! Of course you don’t remember. I don’t suppose you remember chucking up all over the bathroom floor. Who cleared up that mess? Not you for sure. Now get out of bed. […] Do you want me to pull you out? […]

Right. Now, lad. I will not put up with this. I will not tolerate it. No you come here. Over my knee. The headmaster might not be able to do anything, but that doesn’t stop me […] Don’t you dare fight me. You come here. That’s better. Right over. You take it like a man […] Too old for this! Too old! I’ll be the one to judge when you’re too old for a spanking. You need to learn a lesson lad. And it’s my job to teach it […] Keep still […] Get those hands out the way. Right away […] Put them in front of you. Lay still […] Keep that bottom high.

z used otk naked bed sting

[…] It hurts! Of course it hurts. That’s the whole point young man. Your backside will be glowing red hot by the time I’ve finished. Keep still […] Do you want me to fetch your mother’s hairbrush? […] No, I didn’t think so. Take your punishment with some dignity […] I hope to God I’m not the only father doing this this morning. Discipline. You kids DO NOT get enough discipline these days. Well, not in this house brother. This drunken behaviour has got to stop. It WILL stop. I’ll make sure of that […]

Huh, you’re feeling that. Good. I hope you’re learning your lesson young man […] Will I have to do this again?  […] No? […] You’re sorry. I’ll give you sorry. You’ll be sorry by the time I’ve finished. You won’t be sitting down for the rest of the day. You can have your breakfast standing up […]

I told you to stop wriggling […] Don’t fight me […] DO NOT FIGHT ME. Keep still. Damn you. Well, don’t say I haven’t warned you. WENDY. CAN YOU FETCH YOUR HAIRBRUSH!! [……]

Thanks love. Now, can you hold his shoulders down while I tackle his rear end […]

 

Picture credits: Unknown / Sting Pictures

Other stories you might like

Over the schoolmaster’s knee

An unexpected recollection

John’s jam jar

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

The escapee (or Blakey on the run)

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z used solo boy escaping industrial school Hots

The bars across the window had been sawn through weeks before. They hadn’t been fixed. Money was tight. There were more important things to worry about. Blakey pulled open the sash windows. It was almost dark. The rest of the “students” would be down in the recreation rooms in the hour before bedtime. Now, was the perfect time. He lowered himself to the ground. Crouched, just to check that there were no master around. The coast was clear. He ran towards the gate and was through it and on the road through the Widdicombe Woods in seconds.

It was hardly The Great Escape. Central Industrial School was an establishment for young offenders; chiefly petty, but persistent criminals. Society looked them up in school where they learned a trade before being allowed back to live among decent folk.

It wasn’t high security prison. Really, it was just like an ordinary boarding school; except for the bars. Inmates – or “students” as the authorities preferred to call them – escaped from time to time. Nobody at the schools cared too much; they always got caught. Some found so-called “freedom” tough and handed themselves in. When the masters – as they called the “warders” – found out Blakey had absconded they wouldn’t lose too much sleep.

Blakey wouldn’t get far. The uniform he was forced to wear would give hm away. Someone would soon spot him and know he was on the run. There are not many nineteen-year-old boys running around wearing blue short trousers. And certainly not in November.

No sirens were sounded; no road blocks set up. Blakey wasn’t a murderer or a rapist, breaking into gas meters was his speciality. In time local police would be informed.

Central Industrial School was two miles outside the small town of Brocklehurst and that was Blakey’s destination. He had a girl there. Blakey had needs. So did many of the students at Central Industrial School. It was the way they met those needs that upset Blakey. He needed the real thing and Doris, his girl, would see to it that he got it.

He lasted nearly two whole days. Two officers in a police car took him back. Capt. Harris, the “headmaster” and chief “housemaster” Mr White were ready to receive him. Preparations had already been made. Before the police car had made it to the end of the school’s drive, Capt. Harris gave the order, “Take him down to the gymnasium.”

Blakey made no protest. He didn’t struggle. Calmly, but not meekly, he followed Mr White. There was an eerie quietness about the place. Students were in classes in the main school building. The gymnasium stood on its own at the far end of the school grounds, a little behind the football pitches. It was cold, a frost had not melted and Blakey’s feet crunched along the ground as he trudged to his fate.

Mr White was silent. He had nothing to say. He didn’t care to ask why Blakey had run away; why the boy had done it in the clear knowledge that he would be caught. And what would happen to him upon capture. There was no secret about these things.

The gymnasium was a dilapidated building constructed mostly of wooden slats. It was cold and damp, uninviting at the best of times, even less so on this bitter winter’s afternoon. The door had been left ajar. “Get in,” Mr White barked. He stood aside to allow the nineteen-year-old absconder to enter ahead of him. Mr White feared the lad might try to make another run for it. The gymnasium was dark and dank, and almost completely empty. The first thing Blakey saw as he entered was Mr Albion; another of the school’s housemasters. Mr Albion taught mathematics. He also held a special role in the school. One that made him both feared and hated by the boys.

Blakey blinked hard. It took a second for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. He saw Mr Albion standing behind an old, worn down vaulting horse. But that was not what startled Blakely. Behind Mr Albion and lined up against the wall were three huge enamel buckets and poking out of each of them were a bunch of birches, each soaking in what appeared to be dirty water. Blakey couldn’t stop his eyes from blinking rapidly. This time it wasn’t the poor light that had his lashes flickering. It was trepidation. He peered closely and even at a distance he saw each birch rod was a cluster of nine or ten leafless branches three feet long and tightly bound at the base with sticking plaster.

“Step forward, stand in front of the horse,” Mr Albion barked. Blakey hesitated. He wanted to comply; he couldn’t get his body to agree. “Hurry up Lad!” Mr Albion did not try to hide his impatience or his disdain for the “student” standing before him. At last Blakey’s legs were able to obey and he stood, unsteady on his feet. He heard little of what Mr Albion said next, he was staring at the leather horse. It was about four feet off the ground and had four short and sturdy wooden legs. Attached to each of these legs, around eight inches from the ground, were heavy leather straps. There could be no doubt of its purpose.

Only then did Blakey notice Mr Albion had moved towards the enamel buckets. Now, he stood gripping a bound birch rod in his hand, its long and thin twigs provocatively splayed.

“Remove your clothes,’ the terse order seemed to be made by a voice from a very long distance.”

Blakey croaked. His throat was dry, his legs shook and his stomach lurched with sickening fear. He couldn’t formulate a response. Mr Albion repeated himself, “Remove your clothes. All of them. Make a pile over there.” He swished the birch rod in the direction of a near corner. Water droplets flew from it and left a damp patch on the floor near his feet.

Blakey’s body once more refused to move. The enormity of his situation dawned on him. The horse, the straps, the birch, all threateningly combined for an attack on his fragile body.

Mr Albion glared at the wretched boy in front of him. “Do as I say and we can get this over and done with.”

Blakey could still not speak but his body responded. He was on some kind of auto-pilot. He removed his jacket and let it drop to the ground. His baggy, ill-fitting shorts fell to the floor the moment he released the belt. His shirt was next. Then he was dressed only in undervest and drawers. He stood, eyes now pleading with Mr Albion.

“Everything. All of it. Naked,” he roared, no longer speaking in sentences.

Blakey put his fumbling hands underneath his vest and, nervously pulled the rough material over his head. As he did so he smelt his own sweat. His armpits were rancid. He dropped the vest at his feet. Then, he slipped his thumbs inside the waist of his grey, woollen drawers. Like all of his clothes they were ill-fitting and they were soon down to his ankles. Immediately, and instinctively, he clasped his hands in front to hide his privates.

“Step out of them,” Mr Albion swished the birch rod again. “Kick them away. Right out of the way.”

An observer of this scene might have been surprised to witness what happened next. There were no abject pleas for mercy. No cursing and swearing. No struggles. No unseemly fight as Blakey fought to escape the terrible ordeal that was ahead. The lad allowed himself to be led by the arm to the horse. There he was bent over and tied, first by the hands and then by the legs. The downward slope of the horse meant that his backside was raised unusually high. In a moment his bare behind would feel the first kiss of the birch. Two hard, round hairless buttocks quivered as Mr Albion gently touched the splaying twigs against the naked flesh.

z used restrained naked horse (1)

Then, he raised the birch and remorselessly, and with a skill honed by experience, lashed it down across the upturned naked cheeks. Blakey yelled. He was no stranger to corporal punishment, his backside had been blistered by any number of whippy, rattan school canes. This was different. The cane delivers a single blow each time it falls, the birch causes more pain, owing to the number of thin supple rods. The more Blakey yelled the more Mr Albion lashed the unrelenting birch across his arched backside. Each combined thrash of the individual twigs found every inch of the lad’s mounds.

By the third stroke Blakey was lurching both to the left and the right. By the fifth stroke, realising that unremitting straps held his naked frame firmly in place, he begged for release. On the eighth he sobbed uncontrollably. “Please sir, no more. Please!’

The ninth stroke of the birch caught the underside of Blakey’s buttocks. “No more. Oh god, no more.”

The tenth and eleventh strokes lashed across the dividing curves of the young and, still smooth, backside. The twelfth stroke, firm and true, fell hard across the centre of all that had gone before.

Mr Albion’s birch had done its work for the final time. The last stroke embedded itself in the bare flesh and, having left a final mark, dragged down the outstretched legs and rested.

Blakey gradually ceased his screaming but continued to sob and bleat. Even that faded away to nothingness until, eventually, an eerie silence and stillness fell upon the gymnasium. Only the picture of a beaten lad, stretched naked across a vaulting horse. Mr Albion and Mr White left and did not return for ten minutes but, when they did, a still and exhausted lad had resumed his quiet sobbing.

Then the man who had birched Blakey’s bottom gently released the restraining straps and, just as gently, lifted him off the horse. For a moment Blakey was unbalanced and dizzy but, as Mr Albion put a steadying hand on his shoulders, his own hands moved to ease his burning rear. In silence and with much difficulty Blakey climbed back into his clothes.

“Come with me, that backside of yours needs some attention,” Mr White demanded and he led the way from the gymnasium, a bulge in his right hand trouser pocket causing him to limp a little.

 

 

Picture credits: Hotspur / Unknown

Other stories you might like

Changed Times 6. Birched live on TV

The sneak thief

Trousers down. Over my knee

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Garden boy

new 5

z used after naked mowing lawn outdoors

I must make a confession right away. There’s not much to this story. Not by way of plot anyway, but I hope you’ll find it interesting nonetheless. It happened to me a few summers ago. That year when it was really hot for about the whole of June and July and then went a long way downhill after that until August could easily have been mistaken for November.

I was in a lot of trouble at home. I had left school when I was sixteen without a qualification to my name and (who would have thought?) I couldn’t get much of a job. I got into petty thieving; from shops and market stalls. I smoked a little weed. I stayed around at home until Mum got so fed up with me she threatened to throttle me if I didn’t move in with her brother Nigel.

Uncle Nigel had his own little business doing people’s gardens. He mowed their lawns and dug their weeds. He would prune your trees if you paid him enough. He worked the suburbs of Brocklehurst which is a small town too far from where I lived. Uncle Nigel offered to make me his assistant and put me up at his house, so all of a sudden in the wink of an eye I had a new job and a new home: a whole new life.

It started well, business was booming. We would share the work, maybe I would mow the front lawn while Uncle Nigel did the back. After not too long there was so much work, Uncle Nigel said we should split up. He would do some houses on his own and I’d do others. He told me he thought I was a good worker and he trusted me not to let him down. I was walking on air. Nobody had ever said anything like that to me before.

We had a number of customers in a posh street called The Avenue. The houses were mostly hidden behind high walls and some of them had lawns the size of football pitches (well, maybe five-a-side ones). Uncle Nigel said The Avenue would be my responsibility. I was well “made-up”. My own patch to work.

The people in The Avenue were rich. I had never been close to such large houses. And the garages! Some could take three cars, and no exaggeration. All went well with my work, but fool that I am I could never leave things alone. One afternoon I was working on one of the houses. I forget which number and I never knew the name of the owner so I’ll just call him The Man. I was in the back garden getting the mower ready when I noticed the door to the kitchen was open slightly. I couldn’t resist having a peak inside. The kitchen was enormous. Mum would have loved a place like this. There was every appliance and gadget she would ever want. I stood at the open door gaping. A counter ran through the middle of the room, it was as big as the lunch counter at Robinson’s the department store back home. Well maybe not that long, but you could have sat half a dozen people at it. I was just about to get back to work when I spotted a leather wallet on a small table. Even from a distance I could tell it was bulging. A lump came to my throat, my heart pounded. I swear my eyes watered. Maybe the palms of my hands also itched. I was out of control. Without a second’s thought I was inside the kitchen, the wallet was in my hands and I had a five pound note between my sticky fingers.

I couldn’t have timed it more badly. The kitchen door glided open and there The Man stood, open mouthed. He sized up the situation, his face darkened, his jowls wobbled. I stared at him and then looked down sheepishly at the fiver in my hands.

If I found someone in my kitchen stealing from my wallet I am pretty sure I would have leapt across the room and smashed his face in. The Man just shook his head slowly from side to side. “Stand there!” he pointed to a corner of the kitchen away from the door. “While I phone for the police.” My knees buckled. I should have legged it. The Man was too old and too fat to chase after me. I could be gone in a flash. I didn’t. I stood rooted. My mouth opened and closed but I couldn’t get the words out. I wanted to say something like: don’t do it, Uncle Nigel would kill me. Mum would never let me go home again. I’d lose my job. I’d be homeless. I said none of this. I stood meekly, my bright blue eyes pleading.

The Man pursed his lips. He stepped further into the kitchen. He leaned forward as if to get a closer look at me. He had no fear of me. I did the goldfish out of water impression again, still unable to speak.

“No,” The Man towered over me. I caught a faint aroma of coal tar soap on his body. “No,” he repeated, “not the police.” I mouthed a silent, “Thank you.” He peered closely at me. His grey eyes seemed to burn into me, as if he could read right into my soul. “No,” he said calmly, “No police, I can deal with this myself.” The way he said the word deal sent a shiver through me.

“Did you know,” he said as his eyes sized me up from the top of my head to my feet, “I was once a schoolmaster.” He stopped speaking there and his eyes narrowed. The silence was overpowering: was I supposed to say something here? I might have said, “Oh,” but I can’t remember. When it was clear I had no more to say, he continued. “I have a great deal of experience dealing with boys like you,” his lips curled into a sneer. I blinked hard, fearing where he was going with this.

If the look in his eyes was a clue, he seemed to be debating with himself in his head. “It is a great pity that I no longer possess a rattan cane,” he said aloud and lapsed into silence again. Then he said wistfully, “A sound swishing would sort this matter out.” I had never heard the term a sound swishing before, but I instinctively knew what he meant. He wanted to cane my backside like I was one of his naughty schoolboys from back in the day.

The Man’s eyes glazed. A frown covered his face. He was deep in thought again. “Ah, but maybe.” I had no idea what he was talking about, but he seemed to have made up his mind about something. He waddled from the room. This was my second chance to leg it. For the second time I stood rooted. He returned to the kitchen moments later. “Here,” he beamed, his face alight with a wide smile. In his right fist he held a large wooden brush. It was like the one Mum had at home hanging in the passageway. She used it for brushing clothes. He waved it in my face, “This will be perfect.” It was about a foot long, including the handle. The oval-shaped head was probably five inches by three. My eyes followed it as The Man waved it provocatively in my face.

“Right, boy,” he said. His tone of voice had changed. He was speaking to me like I was about thirteen years old. Once a schoolmaster, always a schoolmaster, I suppose. He was in charge. He would order me what to do and I would obey. Without question. “Stand there,” he pointed towards the centre of the room, “By the counter,” he added, in case there was any doubt what he meant. I stared at him, my mouth gaping. He wanted to spank me with that clothes brush. And to do so he needed me to meekly subject myself to his will.

In any other circumstance I could have (would have!) punched him in the face and left him kneeling in a pool of blood before calmly walking away. There was no way he could bodily force me to be spanked. Of course not; but he had no need to do that. He held all the cards; he knew who I was, he could call the police or tell Uncle Nigel. Whatever he did, I was toast. You might not believe this but my best option was to do as The Man ordered. I shuffled the few paces it needed for me to cross the kitchen to the counter.

“Drop those shorts. Underpants too.” It was a hot summer afternoon and I wore no shirt, if I did as he ordered I’d be stark naked. I didn’t speak a word, but the look on my face must have betrayed my inner thoughts. The Man tapped the brush into the palm of his left hand, “It’s not a proper spanking unless it’s on the bare,” he growled, as if delivering a perfectly rational explanation. Like it was normal for him to instruct a nineteen-year-old to strip naked before him in his kitchen.

“Shorts, underpants down,” he repeated, adding, “Bend over the counter.” My heart thumped and although I couldn’t see it I knew my face was burning scarlet. I had never been spanked in my life and the cane had been banned at school years before. Now, here I was being told to strip naked by a complete stranger. “Do you want me to do it for you?” The Man leered. He started to approach me, his hand outstretched. I froze. I guess it was like an out-of-body experience. It was as if I was looking down on us both from a high point. The Man put his fingers into the waist of my cut-off jeans and tugged me forward. The shorts fitted me snugly and had no belt. Still holding the brush in his left hand, with his right he skilfully undid the fastener at the top of my shorts and slowly unzipped me. The weight of a bunch of keys I had in a pocket sent the shorts hurtling to my feet. Seconds later he had my lemon-coloured briefs resting on top of them.

I hadn’t moved an inch. He took my left wrist in his fist and swivelled me around so I faced the counter, then he pushed me hard in the shoulder blades and I allowed myself to fall forward. Even on a hot afternoon the counter top felt cold against my naked stomach and chest. The Man pressed his hand into the small of my back. I had hardly recognised the perilous position I was in before there was a tremendous whack! and the heavy, wooden brush connected with great energy against my left buttock. Two breaths later, it pounded into my right cheek. That knocked the wind out of me, but was nothing as compared to the next eight or nine whacks he pounded at speed into my naked bottom.

My bum was ablaze. Of course, I stomped my legs up and down and I wriggled my hips and I tried to launch myself to my feet, but The Man was stronger than he looked and he had me pinned face down over the counter. I gritted my teeth determined not to cry out. Even at my age and never been spanked before I knew instinctively the code of the naughty boy through the ages: never let your master know he has hurt you.

The pain was intense and each successive spank added to it until the agony was such it felt like I had been forced to sit in a bath of boiling water. But, I don’t know, after the first fifty or so whacks I must have reached a threshold of pain, because after that no matter how many more times he pounded that brush into my bare bum I didn’t feel it, even though my backside throbbed like crazy. I lost count of how long I was face down over that cold counter but at last The Man released his grip on my shoulder.

I jumped up, hopping from foot to foot while at the same time rubbing away at my raw bum. The skin was hard and felt like leather. While I did the spanking dance I kicked my shorts and pants away. The Man ducked down, picked them up and immediately left the kitchen with them. He returned seconds later emptyhanded. He let me calm down and when he was satisfied I was okay, he said quietly, “You have still to mow the lawn. Get on with it. You’ve wasted enough time this afternoon.”

He gently pushed me towards the garden. I was completely naked, except for my shoes. “B…” I began a protest, but the steely look in his eyes spoke volumes and I shut up. He was my master. Decades of schoolmastering could do this to a person. He was in control. I could do nothing but obey. Not daring to look at The Man I took hold of the lawn mower and pushed it across the grass. The pain in my backside has eased a lot by now but my head was spinning but not enough that I didn’t hear the clicking of the camera shutter as The Man photographed my predicament for posterity.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

 

The dope smoker

Coffee shop memory

Nothing ventured, nothing gained

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Landlord is sick of the lodger

z used new story 2

I lay flat on my back in bed, staring at the ceiling, the ache in my pulsating cock driving me crazy. The strain against my already tight underpants was intense. It was Sarah, the girl with the big tits who serves in the Three Fishers. I couldn’t get her out of my mind. My face, those bazoomas. I turned to my side and reached over to the cabinet and grabbed a handful of Kleenex. I rolled onto my back and urgently ripped down my pants. I gobbed spit onto the palm of my right hand and set to work.

My head still spun. It had been one hell of a night. It always is at The Three Fishers. Lots of girls, of course. I didn’t get anywhere. They prefer the students. What have they got that I haven’t. God alone knows what time I returned to my lodgings. I was three sheets to the wind. How the hell I got back, I’ll never know. I was steaming. Had I been sick? I had a vague idea I might have been.

I slowly massaged my swollen cock, stroking along the full length from base to head, then letting go and returning to the base again. I closed my eyes, imagining Sarah’s breasts and my tongue, licking, then slurping. Nipples erect. Me sucking, she groaning with ecstasy.

A groan of pure pleasure. This time real. My own. My fingers continuing to massage the warm, sticky, foreskin covered head. My other hand played with my own nipples, pinching one then the other tightly between finger and thumb, the sharp pain adding to the intensely erotic mixture of sensations my body was experiencing. I was building up towards orgasm. I writhed on the bed as it seemed to go on and on. Suddenly the cock in my hand started to pulse and throb and white fluid splashed across my stomach.

I cleaned myself down and screwed up the soiled tissues. I left them to flush down the toilet later. I turned over, snuggled under the duvet, hugged a pillow to my chest and tried to get back to sleep.

I wasn’t to know that downstairs, my landlord Mr Dickens sat at his kitchen table in despair, peering down at the pool of cold, congealed sick in the middle of the floor. He eased himself from the chair and shuffled across the room, picked up a kettle and filled it from the cold water tap. While he waited for it to boil he stared closer at the putrid mass on the floor. This wasn’t the first time. If he didn’t do something about it, it would be the last either.

The kettle switched itself off. Mr Dickens put a level teaspoon of instant coffee into the bottom of a mug and carefully poured the boiling water. He opened the fridge door. There was no milk. He cursed under his breath. That brat of a lodger has drunk it. He returned to his chair and blew across the top of the mug in a futile attempt to cool the coffee. It was then he formulated his plan.

The coffee was soon okay to drink. He sipped it thoughtfully.

….

I dozed, not quite awake, but not quite asleep either. If I had been more alert I might have been able to do something about it. I might have heard Mr Dickens stomping up the stairs. I never saw it coming.  The bedroom door flew open. A huge man framed the doorway. Tall and broad and muscled. A sour expression on his face. Mr Dickens, my landlord with a huge heavy wooden brush in his hand.

“You brat. It’s time you were taught a lesson.” That’s all he said. There was no need for explanation. I knew immediately what he meant. I tried to sit up but before I cold Mr Dickens rushed forward and tugged the duvet onto the floor. I was naked. He grabbed me by the arm. His physical strength startled me. I had never noticed before. He was just the old geezer who was my landlord.

z used otk naked bed straightladsspankdeddotcom

It took two tugs for him to haul me to my feet. I whimpered a protest. It was something like, “But… you can’t.” But, he could and he did. I was clear of the bed standing dumbfounded. He plonked his backside down on the mattress and bounced as his weight sank. He still had my arm. He pulled me to his left and within a blink of an eye I was spread-eagled, face-down over his knees. Me, total naked. Absurdly, I remember my balls were trapped under the weight of my body and were pressing into the coarse denim jeans he wore. The tip of my cock dribbled spunk. Mr Dickens didn’t seem to mind his jeans being soiled (perhaps, he didn’t realise.)

He said nothing. His intention was clear. He gripped his left hand around my waist. Of course, I struggled. I twisted this way and that. I kicked out my legs. My shoulders heaved. I lifted my head and shouted. I called him all the names under the sun. Truth be told, I couldn’t escape. He was naked, face down across my landlord’s knees. Totally at the mercy of Mr Dickens and that heavy brush.

My protests just spurred him on to action. I heard the thwack of the heavy wooden brush connect with my naked buttock cheek a nanosecond before I felt the intense sting. It was like he had pressed a boiling hot wet cloth into my flesh. I gasped and wriggled and he sent a second and then a third whack across my upturn rear.

I hadn’t given it much consideration before, but my bum is actually quite small. Like the rest of me, I suppose. The huge head of the brush covered about half a cheek, so by the time he had walloped me six or seven times, not one square centimetre of my bum was un-toasted. The pain was intense. I don’t know about you, but I had never been spanked before in my life. I don’t suppose there are many eighteen year olds these days who have been. I didn’t know what a spanking was supposed to be like. It had to hurt (obviously) otherwise what was the point of it? But, somehow, instinctively, I reckoned Mr Dickens wasn’t just giving me a common or garden type of spanking. This was something special.

My bum was on fire. He whacked that goddam brush everywhere. He went for that fleshy part that’s like the crest of the hills, then he pummelled into the top of the mounds. Then (oh God, this hurt so much!) he slapped the undercurves, just where the buttocks meet the backs of the thighs. When he did that I thought I would never feel anything that hurt so much. How wrong I was! He raised that brush so high and brought it down with maximum force right across the back of the thighs themselves. I hollered.  I howled. I cannot deny it. I couldn’t breathe. I thought I would pass out. My heart was thumping so much I though it would burst through my chest.

“Nooooo! Please!!!!” I yowled. My humiliation was total. Me, eighteen years old, a trainee solicitor in a prestigious firm in town, stark naked across the knee of an older, powerful man, getting my little bottom blistered with a heavy wooden brush. Just like I was an eight year old kid.

Mr Dickens ignored my pleas. He was a man on a mission. He was possessed. Whap! Bang! Splat! On and on and on, he spanked me.

Sweat poured off Mr Dickens. His armpits were drenched. Be he was not deterred. He had the strength of an ox. At last he stopped. He still gripped my waist. I was still face down. Still naked. Still totally humiliated.

“Right, you brat!” Mr Dicken released me, I jumped to my feet. I jumped from one foot to the other (the spanking dance). My cock and balls flopped up and down. My hands shot to my backside. The skin felt like tough leather. It was intensely hot. Suddenly, Mr Dickens grabbed a hunk of my hair, he dragged me across the room. My bare feet could not get a grip and slid as he pulled me over the carpet. My elbow banged on the doorway as he bundled me through. My arms flailed. I tried to punch at him, but he was wise to me. Within seconds he had me bouncing down the stairs. We came to an unsteady halt on the lower landing. He released his grip on my hair and took my wrist instead. I was powerless to stop him.

He pushed me into the kitchen. “Now,” he growled as he forced me down on my knees. “Clear up that mess.”

The doorbell rang. He left me and went to answer the door. I heard him call “Get on with it,” as he opened the door. Moments later his daughter and her two young sons stood and watched opened mouthed as naked and on hands and knees I wiped up my vomit.

Picture credit: straight lads spanked dot com

Other stories you might like

A Robust Response

Keynes College Caning Case

A memory in the attic

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Coffee shop memory

new story 2

z used twosome coffeeshop

I was in town the other day and it was freezing so I went into a coffeeshop to warm myself up with a hot chocolate. It’s not one of those horrible chain shops, this one’s just off the High Street and is a bit run down to be honest. It attracts a lot of young people, which I like. Some of them are quite sexy-looking and at my age unless you’re willing to pay for it looking is all you can do. Friends tell me its popular because they deal drugs there but I don’t know if that’s true.

It was the middle of the afternoon on a Wednesday and it wasn’t that busy. When I was settled at a table I noticed two lads who seemed to be having an argument in whispers. I don’t know them but I’d seen them in the shop a few times before. They were maybe twenty, perhaps a year younger. One, had a face on him like flint and the other who from where I sat looked a bit girly to tell the truth hid behind a long scarf that he kept wrapping around his mouth.

“I warned you. You know what will happen when we get back to the house,” the flint-faced one said. The other one buried his head in the scarf and the look in his eyes while not of terror was certainly of fear. Instinctively, I leaned forward to try to hear more of their conversation but no more was said. After a minute or so they left.

I knew exactly what would happen when they got home. The girly one would be across flint-faced’s knee with his jeans at the ankles and underwear at the knees getting his bare bum blistered with his boyfriend’s hairbrush. The look on girly’s face told me he was not looking forward to this.

I perused the front page of the Brocklehurst Bugle (and read that another train strike is looming) and finished my drink. As I walked home I thought about a time some decades ago when I was about the same age as those two. I was eighteen and had just left school. My mother who was divorced had remarried and I was no longer welcome at home. I wasn’t chucked out and there was no big row it was just that they wanted to be together. Naturally, I had no money and no way of getting the rent together for a place of my own so my brother let me stay with him.

His name is Jonathon but everybody calls him James for reasons I don’t recall (if indeed I ever knew). James was twenty-three at the time and had been to university and was doing well in his chosen career in a bank. I don’t know if he really wanted a kid like me under his feet at home, but the say blood is thicker than water, so perhaps he felt obliged.

Things got off to a bad start. Like all eighteen year olds across time I was lazy, self-centred, untidy and a lot of the time uncommunicative. I would spend hours sleeping late and when I was awake more often than not I’d stay in bed playing with myself. We didn’t have the Internet back then and a group of us would swop porno magazines. One called Whitehouse was very popular. I remember once by the time I got my turn it had several pages stuck together.

James did his best with me, but he had standards and I couldn’t meet them. One evening he brought a girl back and the place was like a pigsty with unwashed dishes all over the place and dirty clothes hanging on the furniture. All of them mine. The mess put the girl off and she left pretty quickly. That was the final straw for James; now it was my fault he wasn’t getting his leg over.

That brought things to a head. He laid down the law: do this; don’t do that. Get out find a job, start paying some rent. Have some self-respect. All I gave him in return was a pout, a sneer and a slammed door as I stormed off to my pit of a bed.

I don’t know how much thought James put into it but what he did later changed our relationship forever. The next day was Saturday, so there was no work for James. I could hear the Hoover going as he cleaned the house. I buried my head under the blankets and tried to get back to sleep. Some time later James burst into the room unannounced (thank god I wasn’t having a wank!) and told me to get up. My reply to him suggested sex and travel. “I’m warning you,” he threatened “I’ll be back in five minutes.”

I went back under the blankets. I didn’t keep time but before I knew about it the door flew open again and James loomed over me. He was about three inchers taller than me and broad at the shoulders. He was a keen rugby player and often turned out for a team at the bank. “What did I tell you?” he roared and without waiting for my answer he ripped the blankets and sheet off my body. I was stark naked and had no time to cover up my cock (which almost certainly was standing at half-mast) before James grabbed me by the hair and hauled me from the bed. Then, he dragged me across the room. My feet slipped on the old, thin carpet as he towed me with great force out of the bedroom, through the hallway and into the lounge.

I was effing and jeffing at him but he took no notice. He was a man on a mission; nothing was going to stop him now. The lounge was a small room dominated by a dining table. James had left one of its wooden chairs in the centre of the room. Before I even realised what was happening and still tugging my hair he sat himself down. He let go of my hair only long enough for him to take my wrist and heave me so I fell face down across his lap. I didn’t know then but I was to enjoy many close-up views of the loungeroom carpet before that summer was over.

I was no match for James’ strength. He held me tightly around the waist, reached over to the table where he had strategically left the brush that usually hung in the shower, and blistered my backside with it. I had a round, hard bottom in those days (photographs of me at the time don’t do it justice.) James took that brush which must have been twice the size of a hairbrush and three times as heavy and pounded it into my bum. He was like a man possessed (maybe it was not having sex with that girl that spurred him on). I hollered the flat down and called him all the names under the sun but he would not let up.

Have you ever been spanked with a bath brush? No, I don’t suppose you have: why should you? Let me tell you, the size of it and the weight and the speed with which James attacked my buttocks turned my cheeks at first red, then mauve and before he had finished the underside had started to turn blue.

The pain was awesome; I’d never experienced anything like it before. It started as a sharp sting when the first half dozen or so swats landed on different parts of my arse. Once James had covered the full circuit (as it were) he landed that brush on parts that were already smarting. They set off a new wave of throbbing and by now I was twisting and turning over James’ lap. My legs must have been flailing around as well. The ache in my bum travelled up and down my legs and then north-south, east-west across my entire body. I howled so loudly my mouth drained of spit.

I was shrieking with indignation. It is true the spanking hurt like billy-oh, but I was an eighteen-year-old adult and quite tough. I was wailing at the indignity of being completely naked and across the knees off my elder brother while he spanked my bare bottom with a bath brush like I was eight or something.

At last he let off; he had nowhere else to go, every square inch of flesh was scorched. My bum felt like it had swollen to twice its natural size. I wrapped my buttocks with the palms of my hands and the heat I felt could have warmed a small room. My cock bounced up and down in front of James’ face as I tried to rub away the pain. My humiliation was complete and I ran from the room.

James spanked me a number of times that summer. I hated it each and every time. I don’t think it improved my behaviour. I didn’t really grow up and develop self-respect until my mid-twenties when, like James, I had embarked on a successful career. I have no interest in spanking as a fetish and nor I believe does James. He genuinely thought it would improve my behaviour. I dimly remember when we were kids James went off the rails a bit and he was spanked once or twice by an uncle (a real one, my mother’s brother) and maybe that taught him a lesson. I never spanked any of my own children (or nephews for that matter) and It wouldn’t have occurred to me to do so.

Perhaps spanking works for some people. I wonder about the two in the coffeeshop. I’ll have to drop in again tomorrow to see if girly’s attitude has improved.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

Coffee morning

The morning after

Neighbourhood Watch Vigilantes

 

 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The morning after

new story 2

zused after bed naked messy (3)

Scott buried his head in the pillow, it still ached terribly, but the pain in his backside was easing. His stomach was churning and he feared he might be sick at any moment. His bed smelt rancid; close to his nose was a chunk of scrunched up toilet paper, soaked with his own spunk. All around him were filthy underpants, a damp bath towel, a shirt worn for three days and then dumped.

Gingerly, he reached behind him and with the tips of his fingers traced the contours of his buttocks. They were tender around the edges, but the crests of the mounds themselves had the consistency of leather.

He groaned quietly, trying to piece it together. What the hell had just happened? There was a distant memory of the student union bar. They had been smoking weed all afternoon. Then there were “snakebites”, an especially potent beer combination. Then what happened? And, how the hell did he get home?

Downstairs in the kitchen his dad struggled to raise a mug of tea to his lips; his hands trembled. He couldn’t get them to obey his brain; it was like he had Parkinson’s Disease. His wife sat opposite him at the table. “You did the right thing, Tony,” she sipped her own tea. He looked back at her doubtfully. “He’s had it coming for a long time. What did he expect?” she tried to console him.

Dad gave up his struggle and put the mug down, slopping a quarter of its contents over the laminated table top. His eyes were blazing, his heart hadn’t stopped thumping. He had only just regained his breath. He looked across at his wife, silently pleading.

“He’s been off the rails for months,” his wife rose from the table and placed her mug in the sink. “We’ve been on at him for ages,” she turned on the tap and watched it fill the washing-up bowl. “You did warn him what you’d do,” she turned around exasperated. “And if you hadn’t been a wimp for so many years, he wouldn’t have got like this,” is what she wanted to say. Of course, she stayed silent.

Dad stared at his wife’s large ebony hairbrush that was on the table, almost reproaching him. He shuddered, then shook his head violently as if trying to dislodge a memory from his brain. He had been out of control upstairs. It scared him.

“You not drinking that?” his wife picked up the mug and took it to the sink. She returned with a damp cloth in her hand and wiped up the spillage. “You did the right thing, Tony,” she brushed her hand against his shoulder as a comfort.

“I know, I know,” he whispered in reply, but he didn’t mean it. He glanced at the clock on the wall. “Look at that, nearly one and he’s still in that pit of a bed.”

His wife, at the sink, her back turned to her husband, frowned, “And you’ll do it again, the next time as well.” And, she knew there would be a next time. Her Scott had not learned his lesson just yet.

Dad stared down at the table top, his hands had stopped shaking and his heartrate was back to normal. It was over. For now. Until the next time.

It had been going on for months. Ever since Scott went to the university really. Unlike so many kids his age he hadn’t gone away to university, he wasn’t going to give up his home comforts. The university’s halls of residence couldn’t compete with that. Although he lived at home he enjoyed the life of a debauched student. A little to freely. Mum and Dad doubted that he did much actual studying; he seemed to be high or drunk most of the time. He never cleaned his room, hardly ate meals Mum had cooked and disrespected his parents like … well, like a teenager.

Dad was not a strong disciplinarian. He never raised a finger to any of his boys as they grew up. The older two had left home years ago and were making good, honest lives for themselves. It was only Scott who had fallen by the wayside.

Dad discussed it one night in the pub with a neighbour pal. He was astounded (but also comforted) to learn his pal’s son was just as bad. Or, had been just as bad. “A damn good spanking,” his pal had said. “A taste of the leather belt,” he had continued. “Across the bare arse,” he concluded. “No trouble since.”

It turned out Alan (his pal) had to belt the boy on more than one occasion, but it did the trick. Dad told his wife about it. She agreed with great enthusiasm. She had the perfect thing: her old wooden hairbrush, an heirloom from her grandmother.

They were together when they told Scott. It had been a one-sided conversation. Dad said something like, “If you don’t buck up your ideas, I’ll spank you.” Scott jeered, “Yeah, right,” and stormed from the room. That had been last weekend.

“He can’t say he wasn’t warned,” his wife dried her hands on the tea towel. “Don’t fret so much over it, Tony.”

And Scott couldn’t. He rolled in the house at two that morning and rolled was the appropriate word as he bounced off the walls and practically on hands-and-knees climbed the stairs to his room. Almost certainly he did not hear his Dad’s words following him, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Of course, he would see Scott in the morning, as he did each day. But this time see you in the morning had a different meaning. He meant, “I’ll spank the living daylights out of your bare bottom, young man.”

Dad had an uncomfortable night. Boats had been burned. He had announced to his wife, and to his son himself, his intended action. He couldn’t back down now. He would loose too much face. He was supposed to be the man of the house. His word ruled. He would be a laughing-stock. He had to go through with it. He lay awake imagining. His son was nearly nineteen; he was a drunkard but he was a fit, strong drunkard. In any kind of tussle, never mind a fight, he could knock Dad on the floor. Scott was hardly likely to meekly offer up his backside (bared or otherwise) for a spanking.

Way into the night Dad stared at the ceiling, irritated by his wife snoring beside him. But, before he drifted off into a troubled sleep, he had a plan.

It was way past midday, the brat was still in his stinking pit of a bed. Dad paced the living room. He should take the initiative. His wife vacuumed around him. The noise cut through him. She switched off the  machine and put a hand in a pocket of her apron. “Here,” she said quietly. She handed him her grandmother’s hairbrush. He took it and was surprised by its weight. It was about fourteen inches long, including the handle, and the end with the bristles was about four inches wide and oval shaped. Absent-mindedly, he tapped it against his open palm. His wife had been right, this was a marvellous spanking tool.

“Go on,” she egged him, “Better get on with it.”

“Yes,” he was timid, reluctant. “I suppose so.”

With heavy steps and heavier heart he tramped up the stairs, rehearsing in his mind his plan of action. He hesitated outside Scott’s bedroom door. There was no sound from inside, he must still be asleep. Dad took three deep breaths to steady himself. Oh, how he did not want a fist-fight with his son. He eased open the door, the stench of sour body odour overwhelmed him. He stood, gripping the brush in his right fist. His son lay face down on the bed, farting gently. Dad’s stomach turned; he couldn’t be sure if it was disgust or nerves. Scott was sound asleep and completely naked. Dad paused, inspecting the room, a slight smile might have crossed his face. This might be possible after all.

His plan had been to take Scott by surprise, somehow haul him across his knee and then batter his backside with the brush as best he could. It was a good plan, it would have worked. It needed the element of surprise.  He watched Scott’s back rise and fall in rhythm with his breathing. The teenager’s body was almost completely hairless. Dad had never noticed that before; was it natural? Did he shave himself? He shook the questions from his head. This was a chance too good to miss. Almost on tiptoes he walked further into the room until he was by the bed and towering over his son. The boy was out of it, oblivious to his surroundings. Dad would never get a better chance.

In one continuous movement, he leaned forward, stood on one leg, put his other knee across Scott’s shoulders, gripped the brush tightly, raised it high and brought it crashing down across the very centre of Scott’s left buttock. That woke the boy up. “Whaaaaa!!” it was a screech both of pain and terror. Dad pounded the buttocks with a ferocity that surprised him. “Noooo!!” Scott’s legs buckled. He tried to wriggle free but Dad’s weight on his prone body had him pinned down. His arms flailed, he tried to twist and turn so he could rain punches but each one missed by a mile. He was restrained as effectively as if he had been tied to the bed with ropes.

“Drink. Drugs. University. Mother. Meals. Hotel. Washing.” Dad was wailing himself, incoherently as he hammered the brush into Scott’s hard, meaty buttocks. The once-creamy flesh quickly turned deep pink, the brush bouncing up and down leaving imprints of the oval head behind. In no time the whole of Scott’s backside shone red.

“Waa, gerroff, waa!” Scott made no more sense than his Dad. Now fully awake he knew for certain what was going on. This was the spanking Dad had threatened last week. Later, when it was at an end and he was nursing his wounded pride, Scott would reflect that Dad wasn’t such a sucker after all. But that would have to wait. For now, he had to endure his Dad’s wrath. The agony was awesome. His bum glowed red hot. Every time the brush hammered into him a fresh ache would radiate from the cheeks and travel up and down his legs. His bum was aching even more than his head.

Dad whacked on and on, battling the strength of his son who even after fifty, sixty, seventy wallops continued his fight to escape. Sweat poured down Dad’s back, the effort was killing him, but he was a man possessed (by what, he didn’t know. It scared him). Bang, bang, bang! The brush splattered into the boy’s flesh. Dad was mesmerised by the thudding sound it made.

Then he was dimly aware of another noise. Not the sound of Scott’s howling, nor the drumming of the brush. This was coming from a distance. From behind him.

“Ok Tony, he’s had enough. You should stop now.” It was his wife. She seemed so far away. “C’mon, love, give it here.” She reached out her hand. Dad looked at the brush in his fist; dazed, mystified, wondering how it had got there. He glanced down at his son trapped beneath his knee, as if seeing him for the first time, the crimson buttocks pulsating . Shamefaced, he meekly passed over the brush.

“C’mon love,” his wife breathed quietly, “Let’s go downstairs, I’ll make a nice cup of tea.”

 

Picture credit: unknown

Other stories you might like:

Public Birching

Be Home by Eleven, Not Half-Past Twelve

The Scotch Whisky Mystery

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The Visitor

new story 2

Albert stood at the twelfth-storey window watching the city below him, sucking on a heavy glass tumbler and half listening to the news wafting from the radio in his lounge room. It’s all doom and gloom, he mused to himself. Why doesn’t anything happy ever happen? The doorbell rang; absent-mindedly he turned the radio down and glanced at the clock on the wall. Twenty past six.

He opened the door and stood puzzled. An agitated young man, not much more than a boy really, shuffled from one foot to the other. He was dressed in a schoolboy’s blazer and short trousers, a little too tight. Silence hung in the air.

The boy spoke. “Hullo Mr Cartwright, I’m Alan.” Albert furrowed his brow. The boy continued. “One of Mr Hennessey’s boys. Sorry, I’m late. Had trouble finding you.” Albert peered at the boy before him. Neatly-cut dark hair, slim but muscular, clear skin, total absence of tattoos on the body. His grey eyes shone.

“Can I come in?” Albert moved away from the door and the boy entered. Only then did Albert notice he was carrying a long, thin canvas bag. A cricket bag, he guessed. The boy put it on the carpet and straddling across it he bent down and unzipped it. Albert’s heart jumped. He had a terrific view of the boy’s perfectly round buttocks. The legs were thin and hairless.

“I’ve got all sorts of toys, Mr Cartwright,” the boy opened the bag further. Albert saw a pair of jeans and a yellow t-shirt on top. “I’ve got canes, a taws, paddle, slipper, an old-fashioned razor strop,” the boy spoke at breakneck pace. Clearly, he had learned a script. His words were enunciated clearly, but they came out in a rush.

“We can play it however you want. You can be the schoolmaster and I’ll be the pupil. Or you can be my dad or my uncle and I’ve come home from school with a note saying I’ve been a naughty little boy,” he paused for breath, “Or if you have a special scenario we can discuss that. I’ve a note saying you’ve paid upfront.”

Albert stood casually watching the boy’s performance. Nobody speaks that quickly, he thought. He must be tweaked. Not exactly high perhaps, but on his way.

The boy stopped and stared at Albert. He flashed a practiced smile. “Mr Cartwright?”

Albert started, only just realising he was expected to say something. He peered at the boy, aware that his own dick was swelling with blood. This boy was gorgeous. So clear skinned. So thin. How often did you see a boy who wasn’t rolling in fat and covered in tattoos? And so young? “How old are you son?”

The boy found the practiced smile once more. This wasn’t the first time he had been asked that question. “I’m nineteen,” the words sped out, “I look a bit younger because I’m not very tall. It runs in the family. You should see my granddad, he’s four-foot-ten. In this clobber,” he indicated he was wearing a school uniform, “I get half fares on the trams,” he giggled at his own joke and lapsed into silence.

The silence became embarrassing. The boy broke it “Where do you want us to go?” he nodded at a door that he assumed led to a living room of some sort.

“Oh yes, right,” Albert was regaining his wits, “come this way.” The lounge room was large enough to accommodate a couch, two armchairs a dining table, bookcases and a television and entertainment unit. The boy appraised the room with a single glance, the gleam in his eye suggested approval. There was money here.

The boy glanced at the clock; time was getting on, he had arrived late. “Have you chosen from the menu?” his hands shook slightly so he hid them behind his back.

Albert shook his head, not to indicate a negative reply but to regain his reason. He cleared his throat with a hacking cough. He was sure his neck and face had coloured up. “Can we do this naked?” he blurted, then hurriedly corrected himself. “That is you naked, not me. Not both of us.” He silently rebuked himself for his fear. His cock was raging, it wanted to get on with this.

The boy painted the smile across his chops. “Say more?” he nodded to show possible approval. Sweat was starting to soak through Albert’s back. “You naked, across my knee, me spanking you with a belt.” He threw his arms wide to show his own belt holding up his heavy twill trousers.

The boy shrugged his shoulders, “Sure why not?” Albert nearly choked. The boy looked around the room, “On the settee?” Albert, his head spinning wildly, could hardly nod his assent. His heart raced, his temples throbbed, adrenaline flooded through his body. He was a fit man in his forties but he feared any second now he might have a stroke. He leaned against the dining table for support.

The boy undressed un-self-consciously as if preparing for bed. He slipped the blazer from his shoulders and lay it carefully on an armchair. He tugged a striped tie from his neck, then unbuttoned his shirt. Albert’s eyes stalked as the boy’s hairless torso was revealed. Nobody could be that hairless. Albert had heard of beauty parlours in town that could pluck every hair from the body. Every one. Even on the you-know-where. Muscles on the boy’s back tensed as he removed the shirt. Albert stared intensely at the boy’s flat stomach as he popped the waistband of his grey short trouser. His top teeth bit into his bottom lip at the first glimpse of gleaming white cotton underpants. Like the trousers themselves they were a size or two too small. They snugged the boy’s penis; even at a distance Albert saw he was uncut. The boy stepped out of his trousers, put his thumbs in the waistband of the underpants and eased them down his thighs and past the knees. He let them drop the rest of the way to his feet. He kicked them away. He started on his socks.

“No, no,” Albert was bursting to go. “That’s all right,” he almost screeched as he fumbled with the buckle of his own belt. At last it was free. His hands trembled as the belt flew through the loops on his trousers. “Come here! Come here!” he staggered backwards and fell with a thump on the couch. “Come. Over my knee.”

The boy paused, expecting some little drama to be played out. Some naughtiness at school; a neighbour complaining about a football being kicked against the house, scrumping apples.

“Now!” Albert’s blood pressure was soaring. Any moment his heart might explode. The boy appraised the situation, approached Albert and without a word he eased himself forward. The couch was small so he settled himself across Albert’s left knee and stretched across it. A scatter cushion blocked his way so he took hold and buried his face in it. He felt Albert grip him around the waist. He dangled across Albert’s knee. It wasn’t the most comfortable position, and he knew it wouldn’t give Albert the best view of his arse, nor the best target for him to lash. He was about to suggest he reposition himself when the first swipe landed on his right cheek. Albert’s wheezing almost drowned out the sound of leather belt rising, falling and connecting with naked flesh. It was a frenzied attack; rat-a-tat-tat. Like machinegun fire. Nobody was counting, but there he must have been going at a rate of forty lashes a minute.

The boy bit deep on the cushion as his bottom warmed up. Albert whacked on and on, astounded at how quickly the boy’s creamy white bottom turned crimson. The outline of his belt was reproduced time and again across naked flesh, from the top of the cheeks, across the mounds themselves and into the tender sit-spot. The boy’s legs buckled. It was a natural reflex action, for in truth he was feeling very little pain; a little blue pill swallowed earlier had seen to that. Albert was no expert at administering corporal punishment, but the boy was a seasoned receiver. He grimaced and groaned, raised his head from the cushion and pleaded for forgiveness: all part of the service.

Albert lost sense of time and place: he might have gone on all night. But suddenly he heard a familiar tune coming from the radio. The Archers was about to start. Seven o’clock. Where had the time gone? He shook his head clear; his chest ached and so did his cock, any moment now one or other would explode. He released his grip on the boy who took his chance and rolled off Albert’s lap and lay on the floor.

The boy caught his breath, glanced at the time, as anyone who works by the clock does. He saw Albert’s scarlet face and dark hooded eyes. The bulge in his trousers was unmissable. The boy painted a smile. “Do you want a blow-job?” Albert’s eyes gave silent assent. The boy rose on his knees in front of his master and expertly opened the front of his trousers. The boy’s tongue poked out his mouth. It was broad and flat. Keeping eye contact with Albert he licked the entire length of the older man’s steel-hard cock. Then he took the tip inside his mouth; sucking, swirling,  flicking.

He wrapped one hand around the base of the shaft, moving it up and down in time with the movements of his tongue. His fingers delicately caressed Albert’s testicles. “Huff, huff, huff.” Albert gasped without control. His hips gyrated, his thighs swayed. The boy moved his mouth just in time to receive a load full in the face. The boy rolled away across the carpet and watched Albert’s gasping, retching body doubled up on the couch.

“Can I use your kitchen?” Without waiting for a reply the boy left the room. Seconds later he was wiping his face clean with damp paper towels. He twisted his body to inspect his backside. Yellow bruises were already coming through. He had taken worse, he knew. No real harm done. He returned to the living room, packed away his school uniform in the cricket bag and dressed in jeans and t-shirt. Albert did not move from the couch. His natural pasty white colouring was returning.

“Thank you, Mr Cartwright,” the boy hovered at the door, ready to leave. But not quite ready. He glared at the old, wheezing man on the couch. “I’ll be going now then, Mr Cartwright; back to Mr Hennessey’s.”

Albert nodded a farewell. The boy now exasperated snapped. “You have paid upfront, but it is customary to offer a tip.”

Albert in a daze stumbled to his feet, staggered to a drawer and withdrew a wallet. He looked inside chose a couple of banknotes and handed them over, croaking, “Thank you.”

The boy’s smile was genuine. “Thanks Mr Cartwright, I hope we meet again.” Without further ado he let himself out.

Albert was regaining his strength. He went to the kitchen, switched on the kettle and sat at the table. While he waited for it to boil he pondered silently, “Who the hell are Mr Cartwright and Mr Hennessey?”

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Picture credit: Unknown

For more stories involving Mr Hennessey’s Boys click here

 

Other stories you might like

Secret in the loft

Don’t bully our mum

The domestic service agreement

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com