Hey neighbour! – the compilation

One of my favourite story themes is the ‘neighbour’ – the fellow next door or along the street who is only too willing to lend a hand (or some suitable implement) to put across the backside of some wayward young man.

Some years back I wrote  three-part series called The Helpful Neighbour. If you missed it first time around or want to read it again follow the links.

Further down this page there are some other stories involving neighbours. I hope you find something you like.

Charles

The helpful neighbour, part 1

z used cane holding (5)

My neighbour Peggy was distraught. Tears flowed steadily down her cheeks. Her hands trembled as she tried to raise the teacup to her lips. She was at her wits end. What could she do?

I knew some of the story already. Along with most people in the street probably I had been kept up until the small hours by the noise.

Poor Peggy. Between great gulps, she filled me in on the details.

It was Oliver, her eighteen-year-old son. He was off the rails. He had stopped attending college ages ago and was sure to fail all his exams. Then what? A life of unemployment – or at best dead-end jobs.

The helpful neighbour, part 2

A lot had happened since I first thrashed Oliver with my cane after I had caught him trying to steal from my garden shed. It turned out that he was a serial thief. He was completely off the rails. He had stopped attending sixth-form college; he stayed out half the night and his mother could no longer control him.

The thrashing had touched a nerve in Oliver. So to speak. Of course, the pain I inflicted on him ignited many nerves in his backside. But, I what I mean is that somewhere deep inside of himself Oliver realised that he deserved the twelve stokes I had administered across his underpants. His life was out of control. Maybe, just maybe, I could get it back on track.

The helpful Neighbour, part 3

Oliver had been at university for nearly eight months and was living in a house he shared with other students. His mother came to me distraught. Late the previous night she had received an unwanted telephone call. It was the police. Oliver had been arrested with some fellow student. He was being charged with being a passenger in a stolen car. What should she do? She asked the question as if she didn’t already know the answer. But, I obliged none the less. She should call the boy home and if she wished I would fetch my rattan cane from upstairs and put it across his backside with some vigour.

OTHER STORIES

 

The kid across the hall

Arnold opened the front door to his apartment and gestured his friend Tony to come in. “What’s all that bloody noise?” Tony winced as he closed the door behind him. “You can even hear it in here.”
“It’s the kid across the hall. He’s always playing that music too loud.”
Well, what can you do? Tony certainly knew ….

 

Brian’s redemption

z used jeans chair (1)

Picture credit: Unlnown

When Mr. Bell told Brian to bend over his chair for a caning he never dreamt in a million years he would do it. But, he learnt that boys know when they have overstepped the mark and need to be punished. Brian was the boy from across the street. “Boy?” he must be nineteen or twenty years old. He’d been working for at least a couple of years to Mr. Bell’s certain knowledge.

Like so many youngsters his age Brian thought the world revolved around him. He was rude, inconsiderate and full of himself. He took no notice of his parents and came and went as he pleased. He also drank too much and was high on drugs half the time. It was the drink that pushed Mr. Bell over the edge.

 

The boy in the street

z used solo boy in the street

Picture credit: Unknown

I cannot deny it, every time I saw the boy my cock stiffened. It was like I was fifteen again. Fifteen. Jesus, I’ve got grandchildren older than fifteen.

It was when I saw him the second time, a few days later, that I started to fantasise. He is too tall to go across my knees comfortably, so I have him bent across the back of an armchair in my sitting room. It is just the right height to take a lanky lad. The trousers are at his knees …

The boy in the tree

Ricky was the perfect teen. He had just graduated high school top of his class and was waiting to go on to an Ivy League university. He was an avid church attender and believed everything the elders said. But, Ricky had a problem he couldn’t understand and there was nobody he could talk to about it. It was Mr Peters, a man who had moved into the street a couple of months previously…

 

Other neighbour stories you might like:

 

The drunken neighbour

Back on the straight-and-narrow

Noisy neighbour

That Connor Kid

The sling-shot

The Dope Smoker

The Man Across the Hall

The Boy From Across The Street

Letter of Regret

The imp next door

The new neighbour

The paper boy and Candy

Changed times 2: Neighbourhood watch

The students next door

The military kid

 

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

Back on the straight-and-narrow

new 5

When I was in my mid- to late-teens my head was so messed up I was in danger of going right off the rails. I carried so much guilt around with me it’s a wonder my head didn’t explode. In my view of myself I could never do anything right. It was building up inside me like a pressure cooker.

Guilt can be a terrible thing. It wasn’t like I was particularly religious. I went to church but only because my mum and dad dragged me there. It was just a habit with me. It’s not as if I was a Believer. If I had told my parents I didn’t want to go any more that would’ve added to my guilty feelings.

I have Mr Thoroughgood to thank for saving my sanity. He was an expert on boys and he knew just what I needed. And he was prepared to go that extra mile for me.

I look back after twenty years or so and I don’t recognise the teenager I was. I probably wasn’t so bad; not much different from any other teenager. Mr Thoroughgood saw that. That’s why he knew how to treat me. He had the experience. He was the expert.

I don’t want you to go away with the idea that I was some great villain, I wasn’t. My problem wasn’t drug-taking or knife crime. My big problem was my temper. I would shoot my big mouth off and my words hurt. No one was immune. Certainly not Mum, or my Nan. Even Dad felt the rough end of my tongue. He was too gentle a man to deal with me. He just sucked it up. That made it worst for me. I instinctively knew what I was doing was wrong and that was when the remorse kicked in.

I was also a lazy old sod. I never worked at school to the best of my ability. I was guilty about that. I didn’t have the sense to study and get some exams behind me. I might have got to university. Then what? How different my life might have been. I needed someone to mentor me. The teachers at my school were alright, I suppose, but they never took me by the scruff f the neck and gave me a good shaking.

I was heavily into self-abuse. Of course, I later learnt that everybody was at it – girls as well as boys. I used to get home from school and when the house was empty I’d get my stash of porn mags out and bash my meat until I was raw. I never was caught, but oh my how the sorrow ate away at me.

One Saturday I travelled from my home into Brocklehurst on the train. There was no one at the barrier so I waltzed by without buying a ticket. I was never caught. Now, that I’ve remembered that perhaps I’ll write the train company a cheque and post it to them anonymously.

There is no doubt that I was in serious trouble. I was being eaten away by guilt. There was no escaping it. It seemed like every day there was another thing to add to the guilt trip.

What would have happened without Mr Thoroughgood? Might it have got so bad that I ended up jumping in front of that train to Brocklehurst?

Mr Thoroughgood was a teacher at my school. I never had him for any lessons and to me he was only a mysterious figure seen occasionally walking through the corridors. You would easily spot him. He always wore a dark suit with a pressed white shirt and sober tie. This was in the days when at my school most of the men teachers wore jeans and jumpers with holes in them.

I was eighteen and had left school a few months when I saw Mr Thoroughgood in a café by the bus station. It was a Saturday, but he still wore a formal suit. I couldn’t miss him among all the down-trodden riff-raff that were most of the customers. He noticed my eye linger on him and since the café was busy he gestured that I should join him at his table.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” he said with great manners and an accent that might have belonged to a minor member of the English Royal Family, “I know you were a pupil at the Academy, but I don’t think I know your name.”

I told him and before I had finished my coffee and sandwich I had told him my career history since leaving school. He was a great listener and so very easy to talk to. He made his excuses and left leaving me bereft. There’s no other way to describe it. In the few minutes we had talked I felt a bond form between us.

I could not get the schoolteacher out of my brain. What was it about him that had mesmerised me? I had to meet him again. I had no idea where he lived. I went back to the café the following Saturday and waited for hours. He did not come. I tried the week after. Still no success. I had to see him again. He could help me, I convinced myself. I had no clue how he would do this. But he was to be my saviour.

I had no choice, I went to the Academy late one afternoon and waited at the gate.  My guardian angel was looking out for me. After no more than ten minutes I spied him coming through the main entrance. He stopped in his tracks when he saw me. It looked like he was debating with himself whether he could make a run for it and escape me. I called across to him. His natural good manners made him stop and chat.

I burbled some nonsense about just happening to be passing. What a coincidence we should meet. He didn’t fall for it. He was a tall, middle-aged man and he towered above me, he seemed to be eyeing me up and down. He was making a judgement. What was he looking for? What did he want to know?

He read me like a book. “Let’s go back inside, find an empty classroom. We should have a talk.”

And, that was it. We talked – correction I talked – for about half an hour. I told him everything. The temper, the guilt. I told him I had been drinking too much alcohol.  I told him of the cruel things I had said to Mum and Nan. I drew the line at the masturbation.

When I had finished he spoke softly. The words he said would change my life forever. “It is not your fault,” he said. “Not your fault at all,” he repeated. It was manna from heaven. He was going to absolve me of my sins.

What he then said went something like this, “I blame society. It (we) have let you down. You, your fellows. All of you. There was a time, in my youth for example, when rules were clearly laid out. You knew how you were expected to behave and you knew how you were expected not to behave.

“If you broke the rules you were punished. Call it retribution, if you will. You were called to account. Call it restitution, if you will. You had behaved badly, you were punished. You had paid the price. You, we, all of us, were able to go on with our lives.

“Alas, for you the rules are not laid down. You do not know where the boundaries are. You are made to find them yourselves. And then what? Who is there to guide you? To punish you? To allow you to pay for your crimes – your sins, if you will?”

It was a long speech and it all made perfect sense to me. Mr Thoroughgood had hit the nail on the head. I had been left to find my own boundaries. When I found I had transgressed them there was nothing I could do except bottle up the guilt.

I needed more information on this. When he said “punished” what did he mean exactly? He let out a throaty chuckle. “Well, back in the day, for example, a boy of your undoubted talent who wilfully refused to study hard would find himself up before the headmaster,” he said. He let the import of that statement hang in the air for a while, before continuing. “A sound caning. Six-of-the-best. We called it a ‘short, sharp, shock’. Something to pull you together. To buck your ideas up. To get you back on the straight and narrow.”

Corporal punishment had been outlawed in schools about ten years previously. The most severe punishment we ever had was an hour’s detention after school. Hardly, a life-changing experience.

“It is such a pity,” Mr Thoroughgood spoke so softly I had to lean in towards him to hear, “that corporal punishment was not an option available in your case.” Again he let his statement float in the air. “You would have benefited greatly.”

The moment he said the words I knew he was right. I needed to pay restitution. I had to take responsibility for my actions. I had to make amends. Merely saying “Sorry” to Mum and Nan would not be enough. I had to show remorse. I had to suffer.

Mr Thoroughgood was an astute man. “It may not be too late.” My confused expression spurred him on to elaborate. “There are ways,” he said, “Things that can be done. A boy of your age still has so much to learn.”

He was right and I told him so. “I can help,” he said. “I’ll be happy to help.”

Two nights later I was walking down a street of terraced houses, searching for number 17. It was a small, run-down place with paint peeling from window frames and door. Not the sort of place I imagined a schoolteacher like Mr Thoroughgood living. I checked my watch, it was the expected time. I did not hesitate. I pushed the bell and held my finger there.

Mr Thoroughgood still wore his suit. He nodded a wordless greeting and opened the door slightly. I slid my body through the narrow gap and he slammed the door shut. He led me across the hallway to a room at the back of the house. It was tiny and dominated by a two-seater couch and a small table. A single dining room chair was against the far wall.

Mr Thoroughgood wasted no time. “Did you do as I asked?” he said and on cue I pulled a sheet of paper from my jeans pocket. I offered it to him. He refused and instead of taking it he said, “Read it to me. All of it.”

It was an account of all my crimes and misdemeanours. All of the faults that had weighed so heavily on my mind. The reasons for my guilt. Mr Thoroughgood listened thoughtfully. “So many,” he said with a frown. “I don’t think we may expunge them all in one evening.” He was a schoolteacher and he realised at once I had no idea what “expunge” meant. “To remove them,” he said helpfully.

I nodded my agreement. Yes, the list of my sins was long, I could not expunge them all in one go.

“Let us deal with the insolence towards your parents and grandparent,” he said. It was a statement, not a question so I gave no reply. He cleared his throat with a raucous cough and left the room. When he returned a few moments later he had removed his jacket and tie. In his hand he clutched a miniature cricket bat.

That’s what it looked like to me. It was a block of wood about ten inches long and maybe three wide. It had a handle at one end. Again, Mr Thoroughgood immediately detected my ignorance. “It’s called a paddle. It is the preferred instrument of punishment used by our American cousins,” he told me. To demonstrate, he slapped the blade end into the palm of his left hand. “Very effective,” he said as if speaking to himself.

“Take off your coat and stand there,” he pointed to the straight-backed chair. I left the coat on the settee and without hesitation stood where ordered. Mr Thoroughgood sat himself down on the chair and once more slapped his palm with the wood. I could see close up that it was indeed a powerful punishment tool.

“Now Sturgess,” he said, “This is going to hurt. It is supposed to. That is the entire point of it. Now, since this is your first time I will be a little lenient.” He hesitated and it took a moment before I realised I was supposed to thank him. When at last I did so, he continued, “I want you to take your punishment, stoically – without fuss. Now, bend across my knee. There’s a good boy.”

I hadn’t expected this. After Mr Thoroughgood’s talk in the classroom I had expected to find myself over the back of a chair or possibly bending over and touching my toes. Six-of-the-best, Mr Thoroughgood had said. That meant a whippy school cane.

Mr Thoroughgood misinterpreted my hesitation. “I do hope you are not going to prove difficult. Bend over my knee.”

I hadn’t done anything remotely like this in my life – eighteen years old and never been spanked. Using only instinct to guide me I rested my hands on his right thigh and eased myself forward. He had parted his legs to make a platform for my stomach and chest. This meant I could spread my arms ahead of me and rest my palms on the carpet. My legs dangled behind me. At first I kept my head high and this way I was able to look behind me and see my backside was presented to Mr Thoroughgood at a perfect angle.

My jeans fitted snugly and in those days my stomach was still flat and my bottom round and firm. There was plenty of meat back there to absorb that paddle. I felt Mr Thoroughgood grip me around the waist with his left hand and slowly and gently he began tapping the paddle across my buttocks. He was taking an aim low down so he would hit the part of the cheek that connected with the chair when I sat.

z used paddle otk jeans chair bbfc (3)

The patting was gentle, but what happened next was anything but. He lifted the paddle away, my whole body tensed, he held it high for a moment and then brought it crashing down. My eyes closed (they did it themselves, I had no control) and I sucked hard on my bottom lip. Before I had absorbed the pain of my first-ever swat Mr Thoroughgood pounded my backside with all the energy he could find. Rapidly. Bang-bang-bang. Like machinegun fire. My legs kicked, my hips writhed, my head shook from side to side.

I gasped. Desperately, I tried to suck in air. I could not breath. “Huff-huff-huff,” I wheezed. At last enough air got to my lungs to let me holler blue murder. It hurt! Oh my, how it hurt! Mr Thoroughgood kept hammering my backside with that cricket-bat-thing.

“I hope this is getting through to you,” he said, not for a moment letting up beating my backside black and blue. “You will learn not to be disrespectful to your parents and grandparent,” he was himself breathless. “This will teach you a valuable lesson.”

Have you ever stood too close to an open coal fire that your flesh felt singed? That’s how my bum felt. Mr Thoroughgood covered every square-inch of my bum. Then, for good measure, he turned to the backs of my thighs. When I later inspected the damage red blotches covered both buttocks, with the under-cheeks a deep mauve. The surface of the skin felt like leather.

I think he spanked me methodically for about ten minutes that night. My head throbbed so much I thought I was losing all sense of where I was. Could it really be Jimmy Sturgess, aged 18, across the knee of an elderly schoolmaster, getting his meaty arse spanked with a paddle? Well, the answer was: Yes!

At last he let me go. I stumbled to my feet and without hesitation rubbed the seat of my jeans vigorously. Mr Thoroughgood spoke gently, “That is for your misbehaviour to your parents and grandparents. We need say no more about it. You have paid the price.” I nodded heartily, “Yes sir, thank you sir,” I said and I meant it. But, Mr Thoroughgood had not finished, “Unless of course, you repeat the offence, in which case I shall deal with you very severely indeed.”

“Yes sir, thank you sir,” I repeated. My heartrate was off the scale and I had to bend forward with my hands on my knees to catch my breath.

Mr Thoroughgood rose from his chair. He put the paddle down and picked up my list of crimes. He placed his hand on my shoulder, “Good boy. You took your punishment well. There is hope for you yet.” He read the list silently. “You should go home now. Return on Saturday at 7 p.m. and we can deal with your laziness and lack of drive.”

I found my coat and was leaving the room when he called, “Of course, next time, we’ll have those jeans at your ankles,” he opened the front door for me and patted me gently on the bottom as I squeezed past him.

Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club

Other stories you might like

High school reunion

The boy on the train

More in sorrow …

 

 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

 

Noisy neighbour

new 5

I’m not particularly proud of what I did, but I’m not ashamed either. I never planned it. It just happened on the spur of the moment. If I’d thought about it beforehand I know I’d never have done it. I’m far too timid a man. I could try to blame the drink, but I’ll make no excuses.

It started with the late lunch. I arranged to meet with some pals at that new bistro in town. The one behind the library. It’s summer so we weren’t in any great hurry. The food was pretty good, if you like everything cooked in sauces (which I do) and the wine was better – and very cheap.  I was drinking the house Muscadet. Very cold. Very dry. None of us were driving so we necked it. I must have polished off a bottle or more on my own.

So, after about three hours of good company, I caught the bus home. Looking back, the state I was in it might’ve been wiser to get a cab. Well, there’s no point in being wise after the event. By the time the bus got to my suburb, I think I might have sobered up a little. I got off the bus near Widdicombe Wood, crossed the road and turned into The Avenue where I live. It was a fine afternoon; not particularly hot, but warm enough to bring people out into their gardens.

I had hardly walked twenty yards when I heard loud music coming from somewhere. Most of the houses here are large and they stand behind walls or tall hedges. Although I couldn’t see anything I knew immediately that the racket was coming from number thirty-three. The couple who owned the place were away for the summer at their villa in the south of France. They had left their son Wilson behind. He’s about twenty – maybe even older – so I suppose they thought he was a responsible adult and he’d make sure the house didn’t burn down or get burgled. Also, I think there was a cat that needed feeding involved somewhere.

Unfortunately, Wilson (what a bloody stupid name that is, if you ask me) was not quite as mature as his parents supposed. It seemed to me there had been one long party from the moment the taxi came to take them to the airport and it showed every sign of continuing until it brought them home again. The Avenue is a very sedate kind of street. Very little happens here and it is fair to say that people like to keep themselves to themselves. We are also quite an elderly community, so you don’t need me to spell out how disruptive Wilson’s partying was. I know for a fact that Mrs Richards, the widow at number thirty-one, had complained about the noise. She was given short shrift, which is a polite way of saying she was told to go to blazes (which, come to think of it is also a polite way of saying what is was they actually told her to do). I shouldn’t be surprised if other neighbours got a similar response if they complained.

On this particularly afternoon, perhaps emboldened by drink or the heat of the day, I stopped at the gate to the front drive. Unusually for around here it was open so I hung around for a moment to see if I could spot any of the louts and tell them to button it. I saw the side gate was open and the loud voices I heard left me in no doubt a party was in progress. I entered the back garden. I could see seven people, mostly young men about Wilson’s age and two slightly older women. They took no notice of me. The garden was large and like so many in The Avenue it was made beautiful by professional help. At the far end there was a trestle table with stacks of what looked like empty beer cans. There was a very distinct aroma floating in the air; it was herbal but it had no connection to any plant growing in the garden. A sliding door to a loungeroom was wide open and inside there was a music system blaring out some noise that I suppose young people call “music”.

I was inside the garden and still I had no idea what I intended to do. The obvious thing would be to ask them to turn the volume down and be more considerate to neighbours. People who know me would never say that I have unique attributes so I did the obvious. “Can you turn the music down,” I almost shouted to Wilson, and then, because I am a polite, considerate, timid neighbour, I added, “please.”

Wilson either did not hear me, or he professed not to, and he shook his head in bewilderment. I got close enough to smell the beer on his breath and the cannabis smoke in his hair and repeated my question. He grimaced the way people from a certain social class do, shrugged his shoulders and turned away to speak to a friend nearby; dismissing me. I hate people who think they are entitled to have everything they want. Sorry, but that’s the way I am and if you think that makes me a socialist, well more fool you. The fact remains that Wilson was behaving like a spoilt brat.

I shouted after him but he ignored me again. Some of the young men close by turned to look down their noses at me. Then they brayed. That might have been the final straw. The one that broke the camel’s back. I still had no clear idea what to do, but I did know I wasn’t going to meekly turn around and sneak back to my house with my tail between my legs. “Wilson, please …” I began to try again, but I wasn’t allowed to finish my sentence. He swivelled to face me, turned his nose up in the air as if he had trod in a pile of pig shit, and drawled, “Oh little man, are you still here?”

Little man. Statistically speaking, I am bigger than he is: taller and heavier. My mouth gaped open. I had never been spoken like that before; not ever. By anyone. My face flushed with embarrassment and it felt like at least seven pairs of eyes were burning into me. I turned away from him, attempting to hide my humiliation. As I did this I spotted a few yards away a wooden folding garden chair. It was unoccupied. I have no rationale for what I did next, except to say I was bloody angry with that brat Wilson.

I swear I was furious but I was also calm and collected at the same time. I took the few steps necessary to reach the chair and I picked it up. It was light to carry back to where Wilson was giggling with his pals. I plonked the chair down on the lawn and then reached out and grabbed Wilson. He was wearing a cotton jacket so I had something to hang on to. Then, in one continuous movement I sat myself down on the chair, planted my feet firmly on the ground and I pulled Wilson forward. He uttered a cry of surprise as he fell facedown across my knee. He had to spread his arms wide ahead of himself to stop hurtling to the grass.

Wilson wore those elasticated cotton shorts that they all wear. I gripped the waist and tugged hard. Before I knew it I had both the shorts and his underpants up and over his buttocks. He was bare-arsed to the wind. I suppose Wilson was drunk, or high, or conceivably both, because he just lay across my knees and stared at the grass. His stomach was leaning against my thigh so I couldn’t take the shorts and pants down further, but even where they were I had plenty of his bum to aim at. Like so many of his generation, Wilson could do with losing a few pounds. His bottom was large and flabby, but made a terrific target. I raised my hand and spanked him, good and hard. I let fly, smacking the palm of my hand across his bum at the rate of at least sixty slaps a minute. The fleshy cheeks wobbled and by now Wilson realised what was happening. He was getting his bare bottom spanked just like the disrespectful brat deserved.

z used otk shorts down chair outdoors (2)

I quickly got into my stride and the imprint of my palm and fingers was reproduced in red all over his bum. I pulled his jacket away from the target area so I could get at the very tops. I kept tugging at his shorts and finally managed to get access to his undercurves and even to the back of his naked thighs. He yelped and hollered and called me all the names under the sun. When this didn’t deter me from my mission, he yelled to his friends, “Get him off me, get him off!”

It was a quite natural request to make I suppose but his so-called friends roared with laughter. Rather than help Wilson or shout at me to stop they yelled me on to greater efforts. “Hey! Mister, you’ve missed a bit!” shouted one of the guys who I noticed had approached to get a closer look.

I had never intended to take Wilson across my knee and spank his bare bottom, so it followed I had no plan on how (or when) to stop. He squirmed and wriggled about so much I gripped him around the waist. It was amazingly easy to hold him in place. Maybe it was because I had taken him by surprise; maybe he was too stoned to struggle free. Who knows?

His bottom was a deep pink and I suppose he might have been quite sore by now. The palm of my hand certainly was. It was quite possible that it was smarting much more than his bum. If I had planned my attack on Wilson I would certainly have gone armed with a weapon – a hairbrush or a slipper, say.

My arm was aching too by now, and here I must make another confession, my bladder was full and I was in desperate need of the toilet. That’s what comes of age and drinking a bottle and a bit of wine. I had no choice I had to end the spanking. I didn’t know how to do that, so I simply stopped slapping him and pushed him off my lap so that he rolled onto the grass. He squirmed around for a while and rubbed at his bottom.

“And turn that music down,” I roared as I strode to the gate, leaving a posse of startled youngsters behind. As I reached the main gate I was delighted to hear the noise silenced. It seemed I had won the day. I hurried home and reached the loo just in time before I lay on my bed and must have dozed off. I awoke in time to hear the start of “PM” on the radio. My throat was dry and my head ached and as I looked at the ceiling and tried to follow the news report I wondered if I had just had the most remarkable dream.

Picture credit: Unknown

 

Other stories you might like

The Helpful Neighbour Part 1

Over the headmaster’s knee

Keynes College Caning Case

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The drunken neighbour

It was at least nine o’clock at night, but it was still light. I was standing at the bedroom window and I watched him stagger down the street. He was drunk. Or on drugs. He lurched against my front gate leant over the low fence and vomited into my flowerbed.

He was the boy from next door. I say “boy” but he was easily in his mid-twenties. There were three of them in the house. Sharing. People move about a lot at that age. They certainly did in the house next door. I think the boy might have lived there for a few weeks before our encounter.

Next morning I went to inspect my roses. The vomit was gone. Dogs or urban foxes probably ate it. I wasn’t sure what I should do about the boy next door. Should I make a fuss?

My friend Geoffrey was clear. I call Geoffrey my “friend”. I’m pushing sixty years old and from an older more reticent generation. Today’s youngsters would say “partner”. You can get married now so some of them would be “husbands”. I can’t see myself ever calling Geoffrey my “husband”.

Geoffrey said the boy next door needed a good spanking. Geoffrey would say that. That’s how we first got together. Geoffrey is about twenty years younger than me. He was a post-grad student at the university where I taught. Heaven knows how he got such a good first degree; he was pretty feckless. He had no self-discipline.

That’s where I came in. There was some older-younger man chemistry. He needed a mentor to take him under his wing. To give him a guiding hand, as it were. And that’s what he got. My guiding hand across his backside.

Geoffrey was in his twenties at the time, about the same age as the boy next door now. Mostly I kept Geoffrey on the straight and narrow by regular use of a heavy wooden bath brush applied with some energy across his bare buttocks. I would sit on a straight-backed chair, make him take down his trousers and underpants and put himself across my lap. He would always be submissive.

It wasn’t a sexual fetish. It was genuine punishment, applied to correct the misbehaviour of an errant young man. It worked. I haven’t had to spank Geoffrey for ten years or more.

The boy next door certainly needed his backside toasted, but I wasn’t so sure he would see it that way.

I didn’t know much about the boy. I knew he worked as a “community policeman.” What exactly is a “community policeman?” In my day we had “special constables,” who were volunteer policeman. Are community policemen like that, only paid?

Whatever they were, surely they were supposed to be responsible people. They shouldn’t be getting drunk (or worse, high) and puking into the neighbour’s garden.

I made it my business to be pottering in the garden the next afternoon so I could “accidently” meet the boy. I knew it was no use in the morning. He would still be in bed.

It was the height of summer and a hot sticky day. When he eventually left the house he was wearing running shorts and nothing else but a pair of training shoes. He looked very sheepish when I called a cheery “hello”. How much of his behaviour last night could he remember?

I watched him run down the road. He was taller than average and clearly physically very fit. He was also “fit” in the way youngsters use the word these days. I couldn’t see enough spare fat anywhere on his body to fry a sausage. He was so unlike most of the flabby obese youngsters you see hanging around the shopping centres today.

It was three days later, a Friday night, when we had a repeat performance. This time there was no vomit in my garden, but I watched the boy bounce down the street. When he got to his house, he stumbled for his key and was so out of it he couldn’t get it into the lock. I expected one of his housemates to open the door and let him in, but after a few minutes it was clear to me that there was no one at home.

So, I did the neighbourly thing. I went down and I let him in. He staggered up the stairs and I heard the door to the bathroom crash open. It was time to vomit again.

I was about to leave the key on the hall table and go home when I had a thought. Instead I pocketed it. He would have to come to me for it. There would be a price to pay for its return.

I spoke with Geoffrey about it. Yes, he agreed the boy needed a damn good spanking. Geoffrey was utterly convinced of it. He said the spankings I gave him at university turned his life around. He would have been a waster without me. Instead, he got a doctoral degree and went on to become one of the most respected economists in the country.

We agreed the boy needed a spanking, but for it to be effective he had to accept he had erred and needed correction. He had to take his punishment submissively. There was little likelihood of that happening. Corporal punishment was no longer in use. The cane had been abandoned in schools thirty years ago. The boy was not going to put himself over my knee.

It was conceivable that together Geoffrey and I could force him across the dining room table and tie him down. But what would be the point of that?

Anyway, if we did, the moment he was released he would call the police. Then where would we be? Two queens assaulting their cute next door neighbour. We’d get jail time.

Next day the boy appeared on my doorstep. It was a cooler day and he was dressed in a t-shirt and the enormous baggy pants the kids wear. He was not gracious.

“You got my key,” he snarled. It was an accusation disguised as a question.

I have worked with surly teenagers most of my life and I know how to intimidate them. The boy next door was easy to handle. Before he had realised it he was inside my house and the door was closed behind him.

He pouted when I demanded an explanation for the previous night’s behaviour. I could read his mind. Who did I think I was? It was none of my business.

“Give me my key,” his eyes glared. He wasn’t going to take lecturers from an old poof.

“What will you do? Call the police?”

“Ba..” he started to say something, but stopped himself just in time.

I told him I knew he was a community policeman. I lectured him on role models and setting an example. Then I played my ace card. “What will they say at the police headquarters when I report your drunken behaviour?”

I had expected him to get angry. Youngsters today are full of themselves. They think they are the centre of the universe. They are not about to take lecturers from anyone about anything.

But, he didn’t. He seemed stumped for an answer. He was silent. His blue-grey eyes told me I had hit a sensitive spot.

I knew from experience youngsters often bottled up their worries. A small problem was allowed to grow. In time it became a crisis. It was better to get things out into the open. I was sure the boy had something to tell me.

So, I said, “Tell me what’s wrong.”

So, he said he was in trouble at work and was on what they called “probation.” If there were any more problems he would be out of a job. He was drinking too much, but that was because of the job.

“If only I could sort myself out,” he trailed off rather miserably.

“I can help you,” I said and moved from the hallway into one of the large “reception” rooms in the house. The boy meekly followed.

Geoffrey used to tell me that I had a “powerful presence,” and that I was “masterful.” This was especially so when he was younger and saw me as an older authority figure. I had never recognised this in myself before. I was, I thought, just “myself.”

I told the boy he needed help. Structure. He must sort out his priorities. Set objectives. He should strive to meet them. If he failed through lack of endeavour, laziness, slothfulness, he must be punished.

He listened attentively. Those expressive blue-grey eyes confirmed Geoffrey’s opinion of me. I was masterful.

The boy opened up. We spoke for several minutes. But, it was mostly him. He said he had never thought of it before, but everything I had said was true. It all applied to him. He had never been given boundaries. He had done poorly at school because nobody – his parents, his teachers – seemed to care. He had been left – and this was his exact word – “rudderless.”

Geoffrey who had been listening from the shadows piped up. “Mr Hamilton here can help you with that.”

The boy looked at him disbelievingly.

Then Geoffrey smiled, “Believe me. I know.”

The dam had been breached.

I had never heard Geoffrey talk before to anyone about our discipline arrangements. He told the boy everything and with great enthusiasm. To my astonishment, he finished, “You should let Mr Hamilton take care of you.”

“You mean…” the boy couldn’t quite find the words.

“Yes,” Geoffrey confirmed. “You should start right now.” Then he turned to me, “Isn’t that right, Mr Hamilton.”

I too was lost for words. This wasn’t how I expected my meeting with the boy to have been. I managed to nod.

Geoffrey took this as a cue to leave us. I heard him running up the stairs. I had a good idea where he was heading.

He returned a minute later holding a large heavy wooden bath brush. It wasn’t the same one I had used to blister Geoffrey’s backside all those years ago, but it was petty similar. It would make a mightily effective spanking tool.

Geoffrey made great play of testing the brush’s weight by smacking it into the palm of his hand. Then he passed it over to me.

The boy’s deeply suntanned face blanched. I could tell from his eyes he was having second thoughts.

I gave him a lifeline. This would only work if he consented; if he understood that this spanking was to be for his own good.

“It is your decision. You can stay and be spanked or you can take your key and go home.”

I couldn’t have been any clearer. The boy was equally clear in his response.

“I want to stay.” Then he added pleadingly. “Please.”

Geoffrey had been very explicit in his description of my methods so the boy knew exactly what he was letting himself in for.

I cleared some newspapers from our large couch and sat down in its centre. The boy’s breathing had become shallower. I suspected his heartbeat was racing.

“Come here,” I stretched out my arm and took him by the wrist, pulling him closer to me.

“I think you understand the drill,” I said quietly. It was important to stay calm. This spanking was to be part of a well-organised structured disciplinary process. It wasn’t a wild uncontrolled beating given on the spur of the moment in anger.

“You must take down your trousers,” I said, in case he had forgotten.

By now, I am sure the boy had convinced himself that he must go through with this. Geoffrey had sold him on it benefits.

I believe his hands shook a little as he undid the drawstring that fastened his trousers at the waist and let them fall to his feet.

“Come lay across my lap.”

The couch was long enough to fit the boy. His legs were stretched out behind him on the seat cushion and his chest, head and arms were ahead of him. His stomach and bottom rested over my lap.

He wasn’t quite in the perfect position. Willingly, he moved back and forth until I was satisfied that his bum was at the exact angle I required.

Spankings should be about punishment and not humiliation. However, to be truly effective a spanking must be delivered to the bare buttocks. Spankings should be painful; clothing, even just cotton underpants, gets in the way.

To be naked in public can be a humiliating experience for many, especially young men who are asked to display their private parts. To reduce the embarrassment, I never asked Geoffrey to bare his backside prior to going over my knee. I always allowed him to keep on his underwear. When he was securely in position, head low, bum high, I would then myself pull down his drawers.

That was how I treated the boy. He wore loose-fitting Calvin Klein’s.  I caught hold of the waist and tugged at it, but because so much of the boy’s body was across my lap I couldn’t get his underwear over his buttocks and down to his thighs.

z used otk couch (53)

The boy then did something that reassured me that we had made the right decision to spank him. Without my instruction, he lifted his body an inch or so off my lap to allow me to bare his backside. He was telling me that he accepted this spanking. He deserved it. Maybe even he wanted it.

The twenty-something young man lay expressionless across my lap, waiting. I took a grip around his waist to hold him in place and let fly with the bath brush. The boy’s buttocks were surprisingly springy. The heavy wooden head of the brush was about the size of my palm; it covered almost the whole of one bum cheek. It struck home, sank into the flesh and emerged a second later leaving behind a dark pink mark, a perfect imprint of the brush’s oval head.

I whacked six or seven smacks into his bum in quick succession, not letting up for a second. Then I paused to admire my handiwork. The whole of both buttocks was now deep pink. Later I would turn my attention to the thighs.

The boy wriggled from the moment the first blow struck. Involuntarily, I think, he clenched and unclenched his buttocks to try to ward off the blows. It was useless as any spanked boy would tell you. Indeed, it is best to keep the bum as relaxed as possible during a tanning. There will be fewer lasting bruises that way.

I battered the boy’s behind for about a minute: maybe ninety seconds, I wasn’t keeping time. By now the whole area from the top of his cheeks near the spine, across the centre of his mounds, into the crease at the bottom end and right down the back of his thighs was bright red and raw.

I had always supposed this was the boy’s first spanking. If it truly was, he took it very well. Of course, he struggled. How could he not? The pain would be intense, even for an experienced spankee. But, he mostly kept his cool. He gasped every time the heavy wood met with his flesh and he mouthed silent “owws” and “owches” throughout. His blue-grey eyes were moist, but he stopped himself short of actually crying.

He held on tightly to a scatter cushion, rather as a young child does with a cuddly toy.

It was never my intention to “break” the boy. I did not need to see him wailing and begging for mercy. I did need to feel that he had been sufficiently punished for his drunkenness and vomiting in my garden.

I whacked on for a further minute. The slaps were rapid, like machinegun fire. By the time I was finished I had probably laid two hundred or more whacks into the boy.

One technique I had developed with Geoffrey was to smack three or four times one after another in the same spot. The pain it caused was incredible and it left severe bruises. The boy’s bum must have been softer than Geoffrey’s, or it had not been toughened up by repeated spankings. The rapid same-spot spanks opened up the skin and blood rose to the surface. His bottom reminded me of raw hamburger meat.

That decided me. It was time to stop. I still held the boy face down. He was breathing heavily into the dusty cushion. Tears flowed down his cheeks, but he was not sobbing uncontrollably. He had taken the spanking well. It remained to be seen if it would have any effect on his future behaviour.

I released my grip and the boy rolled off my lap onto the floor. From a kneeling position he looked me straight in the eye. I do not think I am deceiving myself here: it was a look of gratitude. He got to his feet and pulled up his shorts and trousers and tied them up.

I wasn’t sure how to end the session. I supposed a lecture was in order. But, I had no time to deliver it. Geoffrey wrapped his arm around the boy’s shoulder and guided him into the kitchen.

It was five minutes or more before I heard the front door close.

Geoffrey came into the reception room. “We’ll be seeing a lot more of him. He wants you to be his mentor.”

I blushed and reached over to the cocktail cabinet and poured us each a whisky.

I was going to change his life for him. I would be the most important person in his world so far.

I sipped at my drink. It was at that moment I realised I didn’t know the boy’s name.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in January 2016.

 

More stories about neighbours who take action that you might like.

That Connor boy!

The dope smoker

The man across the hall

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Will life imitate art?

new story 2

z used twosome older younger shower josman (2a) (2)

Mr and Mrs Pettit thought they had found the perfect solution to their problem. It was so simple really. What could possibly go wrong? They thanked their lucky stars. Now, they just had to convince their son Ant.

The thing was Mr Pettit had been promoted by his company to become a regional director. He and his wife were over the moon. It meant more prestige, more money, an even bigger home, a flashier car. The whole nine yards. The problem was this: the region he was going to “direct” was three hundred miles away at the other end of the country. They would have to move away.

Ant was in his final year at school with just six months to go until he took his examinations. He couldn’t change schools now. That was where Gordon Conway came in. He was a friend and neighbour. He had a spare room. He said Ant could move in with him until his exams were over and then Ant would be able to join his parents in the summer. What could be simpler?

Ant told his pal Will about it when they were sinking a couple of pints at the Three Fishers. “Oh yes, that’s a really good idea,” Will said, dripping irony.

“What’s wrong?” Ant was genuinely perplexed.

“A middle-aged man living on his own,” Will slurped beer down his throat. “Takes in a cute, blond eighteen-year-old boy as a lodger.” Will laughed and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “He’s a queen. Just make sure you keep the bathroom door locked, that’s all I can say.”

“He is not a queen,” Ant wasn’t sure if his pal was just joshing him. “He was married. She left him for another bloke.”

Will’s eyes shone. He laughed, “I rest my case, m’lud. A poofter. It’s backs to the wall boys!” They drank on into the evening.

Later that night in bed Ant gently stroked his erect cock. Was Mr Conway gay? What if he were. He thought about the many stories he had read online as he worked his fist up and down his shaft.  They usually went something like this: for some reason a teenager has to move out of his parents’ home and move in with an uncle, or grandparents, or maybe even a neighbour. Suddenly, his whole life changes. His new “guardians” won’t put up with his disrespectful and slovenly ways. There are rules. He is told: “It’s my way or the highway.”  A night time curfew is imposed. Alcohol is banned. No drugs. Do this, don’t do that. Be polite to your aunt / grandmother. And if he disobeys …..

Ant had never given Mr Conway a second thought before. He was just someone from further down The Avenue that his parents knew. Now, he couldn’t get the man out of his mind.

They are standing in lounge room. Mr Conway rests his buttocks against the edge of the dining table. In his hand he holds a single sheet of paper. He reads from it, slowly at dictation speed. “Curfew is ten-thirty on school nights and eleven-forty-five on other days. You will have homework completed and ready for my inspection at nine o’clock. You will not be allowed to use the back room or to enter the room upstairs that I call my study.”

Ant nods his assent as each new rule is read to him. Mr Conway drones through his list. “And finally,” he says, with no inflection in his voice, “You will be subjected to corporal punishment at my complete discretion should you break any of the rules. Please sign your name at the place indicated.” He hands the sheet of paper and a ballpoint pen to Ant. The eighteen-year-old takes it and signs.

Mr Conway takes back the sheet of paper and carefully folds it in two. “Right,” he says, “Let’s test you out.” He walks across the room, opens a drawer to a sideboard and slips the newly-signed contract in. Then he closes it and opens a second drawer. This time he reaches in. Ant watches him. His own heart is thumping. His head feels like church bells are clanging inside it. His eyes moisten when he sees Mr Conway take out a well-worn white plimsoll. He grips it in his right fist and turns to face Ant.

“Right,” he says. He sits himself down on a straight-backed, armless chair. When he speaks again he is quiet and unemotional. He delivers instructions clearly and concisely. He might be ordering a takeaway meal on the telephone. “Stand there.” He points to a spot a metre from his thigh. “Take down your jeans. Bend over my knee. Place your hands flat on the floor. Keep your head low. Raise your bottom as high as you can. Keep perfectly still. Keep as quiet as you can. We do not need to disturb the neighbours. Do not try to resist me. If you do I shall start the punishment all over again. Do you understand?”

Ant croaks, “Yes sir.” He is now on some sort of automatic pilot. He fumbles a bit with his belt and the jeans have buttons and they refuse at first to be undone. At last he slips the jeans down his thighs and over his knees. Gravity takes them the rest of the way to his feet. He is still a short distance from Mr Conway, so when Ant moves towards him he waddles like a penguin.

Mr Conway is not a large man, in fact he is shorter than Ant. Ant notices for the first time that Mr Conway is very muscular. He is strong for a man of his age, which Ant supposes might be forty-five or more. Mr Conway is also wearing jeans and he parts his legs to create a platform for Ant to submit his body across. For a second, Ant glances at Mr Conway’s privates which bulge against tight denim cloth.

Ant has not done this before, so he takes some deep breaths while he works out what to do exactly. He decides to rest the palms of his hands on Mr Conway’s right knee and then lower his body down so that his belly rests across the plateau made by Mr Conway’s thighs. Then, as previously instructed, Ant stretches his arms forward and presses the palms of his hands into the deep-pile carpet. He wriggles a little as he tries to get his bottom into the required position. Ant cannot see behind him so cannot be sure if his bum is pointing up at the correct angle. He supposes Mr Conway will tell him soon enough if he has got it wrong.

Prostrate like this, his knees bend and his toes hover just above the ground. Ant cannot be sure whether he ought to close his eyes tight until the spanking is over or should he stare down at the carpet. If he lifts his head a centimetre or two he can look across the room. In his eyeline there is a large painting of a bowl of fruit. Ant thinks he could concentrate on that to take his mind off the whacking that is about to come.

He decides to close his eyes tight and tries to imagine what he must look like. Here he is an eighteen-year-old schoolboy draped across the knees of his middle-aged neighbour who is grasping an old worn gym shoe that he is about to whack into Ant’s pert bottom.

Ant’s imaginings are interpupted.  He feels Mr Conway take hold of the end of his shirt and roughly he pushes it halfway up his back so it is away from the target area. Ant is sure the inside of his head is about to explode when Mr Conway takes a firm hold of the elasticated waistband of Ant’s underpants. It takes only two fierce tugs to have the small briefs up and over Ant’s neat bottom and resting at his knees. Ant is now naked from the shoulders to his knees. Totally at the mercy of his neighbour’s hard, rubber-soled slipper.

Back in the real world, in his bed Ant’s right wrist is pumping like a steam piston. He scrunches his eyes tight trying both to visualise his bared buttocks as the plimsoll hammers into his naked flesh and at the same time he tries not to ejaculate too soon.

Downstairs Mr and Mrs Pettit share a bottle of red wine and congratulate themselves on finding the perfect solution to their problem. They think how lucky they are to have such an understanding son.

 

Picture credit: Josman

Other stories you might like

The interview

Called to Account

The glorious summer

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

All in the Family. Tales of Domestic discipline

z used otk jeans brush chair (122b)

“What that boy needs is a damn good spanking.” It was a policeman speaking about my drunken nephew. He was right, of course. But the police can’t use corporal punishment. So it is up to the family to instil discipline. These tales demonstrate that up and down the land fathers, uncles, granddad’s – and even older brothers – don’t shirk their duty.

In another free-of-charge book offering, the cane, the brush and the paddle are much in evidence as young men learn the painful way how to behave.

The book runs for more than 17,000 words and can be downloaded by clicking the link below. The PDF file can be read on computers, laptops and a variety of e-book readers.

all-in-the-family-by-charles-hamilton-ii

Picture credit: Unknown

Another book to download

The Private Tutor

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The kid across the hall

new story 2

z used otk jeans domestic spk-prods

Arnold opened the front door to his apartment and gestured his friend Tony to come in. “What’s all that bloody noise?” Tony winced as he closed the door behind him. “You can even hear it in here.”

“It’s the kid across the hall. He’s always playing that music too loud.”

“What kid?”

“He’s on holiday from university. His parents have gone away and left him on his own.”

“It’s a disgrace,” Tony scowled. “You can hear it all over the building. Why don’t you tell hm to turn it down?”

Arnold shrugged. He was a mild-mannered man; people always took advantage of him. “I tried. He didn’t take any notice. I think he might have been drunk.”

“On drugs more like. They’re always high, students. Known fact.”

“Well, I dunno,” Arnold led the way into the kitchen. “Cup of tea?” He switched on the kettle and reached into a high cupboard for mugs.

The music seemed to get louder.

“Oh this is ridiculous,” Tony put his hands over his ears. “He’s got to stop. Somebody’s got to tell him.”

“I think the others have tried as well. He doesn’t take any notice.”

“He needs a damn good spanking! That’s what he needs.”

“Yeah, good luck with that.”

The music stopped suddenly. “Thank Christ,” Tony barked, “a bit of peace at last.” Seconds later it started again, louder than ever. “He was just changing a record.”

“This is too much,” Tony’s face darkened. “I’m going over there.”

“What are you going to do?”

“What do you think?” Without waiting for the answer he strode out of the apartment. Seconds later he was hammering on the kid’s front door, the ground beneath his feet shaking to the pulverising music.

No answer. He pounded again. Of course, the music was so loud the brat couldn’t hear anyone knocking. At last the door opened slowly and a bleary face peered around. “Wodja want?” a teenager leered.

“What do I …” Tony pushed the kid inside his own apartment. “I want you to turn off that row!” He nodded towards the lounge room as if there was any doubt about what he meant.

“Oo are you?” the teenager’s speech slurred, his face betrayed his puzzlement.

“Typical,” Tony confirmed in his own mind, “High as a kite.” He surveyed the small, thin wispy lad standing unsteadily before him. “I’m from across the hall. I want you to turn off that music.”

The boy’s eyes shone. Now he understood. “It’s nothing to do with you. Fuck off.”

Smack! The palm of Tony’s right hand struck the boy clean across his left cheek. A dark-pink imprint instantly glowed. He reeled back with the shock of the blow and the unexpected pain. He raised his arm to his face to touch the stinging flesh. Tony grabbed the boy by the arm and pulled him forward. He had never been in the apartment before, he quickly appraised its layout. The music was coming from the lounge; dragging the boy with him, he headed there.

His head throbbed to the pounding noise. China ornaments on an old wooden sideboard danced to the vibrating sounds. Tony saw a wooden chair with its back to an open fireplace. Still holding the boy in a vice-like grip he pulled him along. Tony sat in the chair and spread his legs. The boy gave no resistance as he was hauled face down across Tony’s knees.

The boy was off balance, his head was low towards the floorboards and his bottom jutted high over Tony’s right thigh. It was at the perfect angle. He whacked the palm of his hand against the boy’s tight bottom. He was wearing almost new Wrangler jeans and as he spanked and spanked Tony could tell his hand was hurting much more than the boy’s bum.

The boy was silent. Probably too stoned to do anything about it, Tony supposed. He spanked across both buttocks, going into the undercurves and into the meatiest part of the cheeks. He even walloped him on the back of the thighs.

“This is no good,” Tony said to himself. “The denim’s too thick. He won’t feel a thing.”

Frustrated, but unbowed, he released his grip and the boy stumbled from his lap onto the floor. With some difficulty and clearly in no pain he retained his footing and stood unsteadily eyeing Tony malevolently.

“Bah!” Tony growled, refusing to admit his defeat. He marched across the room and switched off the music centre. The peace was bliss. The boy had not moved, his hooded eyes watched, Tony thought, contemptuously.

“Right.” He commanded. “That stays off. If I hear one squeak out of you again I’m coming back and next time I’ll have your jeans and pants down and we’ll see how you like my belt across your bare arse.”

Feeling a little foolish, he made towards the front door and left. The boy pouted.

Tony and Arnold sipped their tea, enjoying the silence. Across the way the boy unzipped his jeans, releasing his throbbing cock. His head buzzed with a high that had no connection to the weed he had smoked. He spat on his palm and worked it along his shaft.

The words “Jeans and pants down” repeated in his brain. “Belt. Bare arse.” Slowly, not entirely certain what his next move should be, the boy moved across the room. He waited a moment, sucked down a deep breath and turned the music centre on at full volume.

 

Picture credit: SPK Productions

Other stories you might like

Room 203 at the motel

The new neighbour

The Tyrant Headmaster 4. Smoking on Saturday

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com