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.

 

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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

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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

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

That Connor Kid

z used solo defiant connor kid (2)

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

“What time is it?”

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

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

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

Ingrid switched on the bedside lamp.

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

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

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

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

Peace once again reigned in the street.

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, it should,” the neighbour agreed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rip Connor never knew a thing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But they could. And they did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now shut up!”

Rip Connor could only gurgle his protest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whack, whack whack! Another three.

Then another three.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He found two young police officers.

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

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

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

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

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

It was obvious what had happened.

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

“Hey! It’s Rip Connor.”

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

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

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

So, Rip got away with it all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in December 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The sling-shot

z used cane marks

Jimbo stared out of the bedroom window as the grey cold drizzle ran down the pane. The twelve scolding lines of pain emblazoned across his rear end burned and throbbed.

He could hardly believe what he had done. He was in such big trouble. What an idiot he had been. The police could have been called. He might have ended up in prison.

He had not meant to hurt anyone. He just had not thought. He was so stupid. The girl was almost killed. If only he could turn back the clock.

Hidden in a drawer was the weapon he had used: an industrial strength sling-shot. He had been bored, that was the only explanation. So bored, he had gone to the back garden for target practice. He lined up a few tin cans and shot stones at them. He was not very good, to tell the truth.

So, he became even more bored, he tried shooting stones into the trees, aiming wildly at birds, but they were too quick for him. Then, he went to the garden shed. Why had he done it? He still did not know; he never would know.

He found a packet of steel ball-bearings. He had no idea how they got there or who they belonged to. Seconds later he was back in the garden, loading the heavy balls into the sling-shot. He did not aim at tin cans or at birds in the tree. He just pulled at the enormous sling and sent the balls high into the air.

Three streets away, Mr Harris was turning his car into his drive when a missile whizzed from the sky, crashed through his windscreen and missed his three-year-old niece’s head by a whisker.

Jimbo launched six of the balls into the stratosphere, before, once again becoming bored, he went back to his bedroom to flick through a pornographic magazine, oblivious to the drama he had created.

A neighbour, Mr West, out tending to his roses, witnessed some of it. Only later when word spread around the estate about Mr Harris, his car and his niece’s close escape, could he fill in the details.

It was the talk of the neighbourhood. That Anderson boy. The thug. The brat. He needs locking up.

“He needs a damn good thrashing, that’s what he needs.” This was Mr Featherstone at number twenty-four. A group of neighbours were standing in the street; talking. Gossiping. They had already fingered Jimbo for the crime.

“Someone call the police,” said Mrs Titterington, the lady who worked at the nearby newsagent. “It shouldn’t be allowed.”

“Let’s talk to his parents first. See what they have to say about it,” said Mr Rillington, the aged pensioner who did not like the police. Never had done. Not since he was a nipper.

That’s when Mr Featherstone chimed in. “He needs a bloody good hiding. A dose of the cane, that’s what he needs.” The others lapsed into an embarrassed silence.

Just the sort of thing the pervert would say, Mr Hindcroft, who was a motor engineer when he was actually in work, thought. He did not say it out loud, but he was not the only one thinking it. Hindcroft had his doubts about Featherstone. He was a bit too fancy, too lah-de-dah. Always immaculately turned out in smart suits and tightly-knotted neck ties. He was a bit of a you-know-what, if you wanted Mr Hindcroft’s opinion.

Jimbo’s dad Peter always got on with the neighbours. He sometimes worked behind the bar at the local social club; he knew all the men by name and they knew him. Many of them knew Jimbo, although they knew him as Jimmy, the name he was called since he was a toddler.

He had reinvented himself as ‘Jimbo’ at school. It made him more modern, he thought. And more like a tough lad. Jimmy was what you called a little kid; someone still in short trousers. Jimbo had left kid’s stuff and short trousers behind, a long time ago.

Peter could tell something was up when he turned his car off the main road into the suburban avenue where he lived. There were too many adults on the street and he knew that quite a few of them did not live there. He recognised ‘Harry’ Harris; he lived two or three streets away, what was he doing there?

Peter hardly had time to get out of the car and lock it before a gang of neighbours was on his doorstep.

Did he know? What was he going to do about it? The girl could have been killed. A flurry of voices all wanted to speak at once.

“What are you talking about?” Peter was irritated; he was hot and tired and he needed a cup of tea and a sit-down.

They all started talking at once.

“Stop! All of you! What’s up, what do you want?” Peter was losing his temper.

Mr Harris started. He talked about the steel ball crashing through the car’s windscreen. His daughter could have been killed.

Mr West provided the details about Jimbo. “Six balls, shot in the air. No consideration for anyone.”

Mr Featherstone stopped himself in time from saying, “He needs a good caning.”

Peter Anderson was dumb-struck. He did not believe a word of it. He did not want to believe a word of it, but the evidence was there and so was the witness.

“I’m sorry Harry,” he said to Mr Harris, “I’ll make sure he pays for the damage.”

“Is that all? He should pay a damn site more than that.” This time Mr Featherstone could not stop himself. “He needs to be …” he trailed off, fearing that he might be drawing attention to himself.

“Come inside Harry,” Peter unlocked the front door, “Let’s talk about this inside.”

He had meant just himself and Harry, but half the neighbourhood pushed their way into his house. Upstairs, oblivious to the commotion he had caused Jimbo unzipped his jeans and opened the front. His pants were soon over his thighs as he tugged away with his right hand imagining what he would do to the sexy young minx in the magazine he was holding in his left.

Calm now, the neighbours discussed what to do.

“Call the police, he needs locking up, he’s a lunatic,” Mrs Titterington had not changed her tune.

“No, not the police,” Harry Harris spoke softly.

“He needs to be punished,” somebody that Peter did not know, said.

Yes, Peter thought the boy needed to be punished and he knew just how. It was none of his neighbours’ business and he did not want to broadcast the fact, but Peter Anderson believed in corporal punishment and he was not shy of using it on his own boys.

“Do you want me to beat him?” it was a simple question, calmly asked.

Mr Harris pondered; was there an alternative?

“What do you propose to do?”

“You should cane him,” Mr Featherstone chirped. “And, I think I know where I can get you a cane to use.”

I bet you do you bloody shirt-lifter, Mr Hindcroft thought but did not say aloud.

“No, that won’t be necessary,” Peter replied absent-mindedly.

“Shall we, then?” he asked Mr Harris so matter-of-factly he might have been suggesting making a cup of tea.

“Well, if you think so,” Mr Harris was embarrassed. He did not want to be the one to decide.

“That’s settled, thank you everyone we’ll take it from here”, he said and began to usher people out of the room. Reluctantly, for they really wanted to stay to enjoy the show, they drifted onto the pavement outside.

“If you want me to …”

“Thank you Mr Featherstone, I can handle it,” Peter replied, irritated by the suave gentleman’s interest.

Moments later Peter and Harry were alone.

“Let’s get this over with shall we.”

He stood at the foot of the stairs and yelled, “Jimmy come down here now!”

Startled, Jimbo released his grip, but his soldier still stood to attention.

“Now!”

Jimbo knew his dad’s tone of voice. He was in trouble, that was for certain; but he did not quite know why. Which of his many misdemeanours committed in recent times had he discovered? He hoped it was not that misunderstanding he had with Mandy Malcolm. Had she told her dad? Had he complained to his own father?

He tucked his cock back in his pants as best he could and zipped himself up. It would soften of its own accord pretty quickly he reckoned.

No, it was not to do with Mandy Malcolm, he quickly discovered. It was much worse than that.

“Another half inch to the left and the ball would have killed her. What were you thinking?” Peter’s father was genuinely distressed.

His distress was nothing compared to his son Jimbo’s. The teenager was a fool sometimes, often lazy and neglected his schoolwork and the chores he was meant to do around the house. He had all these faults, but he was not a bad lad at heart.

“I.. I..” he began but he could not find the words to express his sorrow. And it was genuine sorrow; he had meant no harm. He just had not thought.

Jimbo missed most of his father’s lecture about responsibility; how he was eighteen years old now. He was an adult and he should start behaving like one. Jimbo’s mind was somewhere else. He had a vivid imagination and could see the little girl with her head smashed open, her brains oozing onto the car dashboard.

“You know you have to be punished for this, don’t you?” his dad spoke so softly that Jimbo missed what he had said.

“I said,” he almost shouted this time. Jimbo had no choice but to hear it.

Punished. Christ, he knew what that meant. The last time he could not sit down comfortably for a day and it took two weeks for the bruises to clear. He had to truant from school to avoid the PE classes; there was no way he was going to let his fellow pupils know he had been beaten black and blue with his dad’s cane.

“You are a big boy now, Jimmy. You are an adult. I cannot force you to take a caning; you must do it of your own free will.”

Jimmy blushed deeply. He did not want to take a thrashing, especially if Mr Harris, a stranger to him, was to be a witness. It would certainly be bare-arsed and the agony would be excruciating. But, he could not get the image of the smashed brains out of his head. He had screwed up royally and he needed to be punished. Perhaps, the beating would be an end to the matter; some kind of closure. He could put the girl out of his mind and move on with his life.

“OK dad, I’ll do it.”

There was no more to say.

Mr Harris looked on a little astonished at what was happening.

“Fetch the cane, you know where it is.”

Jimbo did indeed. It was always kept in the cupboard under the stairs. It felt light and innocuous as he handed it over to his father, but he knew from painful experiences that in the hands of his dad this thin, whippy curve-handled dragon cane could take his arse off.

“Err, should I?” Mr Harris indicated towards the door.

“No, Mr Harris please, you should stay. I might need you.”

It was not the answer Mr Harris had hoped for. He had instigated the teenager’s thrashing, but was now not so sure he wanted to witness it.

“Take down your trousers and pants and bend over the armchair.”

It sounded to Mr Harris as if such an order was regularly made in this house: and just as regularly obeyed.

Jimbo was relived his erection had died. It would be humiliating enough to be naked from the waist down in front of a stranger without the added embarrassment of displaying a raging hard-on.

A distraught Jimbo Anderson tugged his jeans and pants down in a single movement and he leaned forward over the back of the soft leather armchair. His nose touched the back of the chair and a faint smell of sweat invaded his nostrils.

The posture arched his teenage buttocks out to receive correction, buttocks that now quivered with the anticipation of feeling the harsh sting of the whippy cane.

“Take hold of his hands, please Mr Harris.”

How he wished he had not got involved. His daughter was fine, she had not been injured. The boy had not meant to do harm. Why had he not let it be? Now, not only was he being forced to witness this flogging, he was being made to take part.

“Please Mr Harris.”

With a very heavy heart, he walked to the front of the chair and gripped the boy’s wrists. He closed his eyes and turned his head away; he did not want to see this.

Jimbo’s father stood to the left of the waiting youth, cane in his hand. Jimbo’s bare buttocks were presented submissively over the back of the armchair. His trousers and underpants bunched around his knees and his shirt rolled clear.

Peter drew his arm back. The cane whistled. Crack!

“Owww…dad!” A red stripe appeared across the cute teenage bottom.  Again the cane struck. Crack! Another stripe matched the first.

“Yeoww…dad! Please!” He looked over his shoulder, pleading.

“You hold still and take your licking,” hissed his father.

Twelve times the stout cane whistled and cracked across Jimbo’s tender bottom. With each one, the teenager yelled in anguish and shifted from foot to foot. Mr Harris held on to the boy’s wrists like his life depended on it.

Outside on the pavement all the neighbours except Mr Featherstone had dispersed. He nodded to himself in quiet satisfaction as Jimbo’s yells echoed around the small sitting room and escaped outside through the window.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Jimbo got up, the change of the contours of his arse seem to make the pain worse as the biting strokes burned deep across his rear end, his hands went back and gently massaged the burning welts.

He stood up and hoisted his briefs and trousers back into place. The material rubbed against his injured flesh. All the same, it was a not unpleasant sensation. He felt cleansed. He smiled at Mr Harris and sighed, “I am so sorry, Sir. I deserved that, didn’t I?”

Mr Harris gasped. The teenager’s demeanour shocked him. His eyes were blazing and his face was as red as his backside. His breathing was shallow and clearly he was in considerable agony.

The thrashing was severe and Mr Harris had expected the skin to break and blood to fall, but Jimbo’s bottom remained intact, though the colour of the bruising became an ever-more spectacular display of black, purple and cobalt blue. This might have proved the old adage that a boy’s bottom gets tougher with regular punishment, and that you cannot beat a boy’s arse too often.

Mr Harris looked away from the boy across the room to his father. He was calm but breathing heavily. Sweat stained the underarms of his shirt. He had put all his energy and then some more into the strokes.

“I.. I ..” Mr Harris could not find the words to express the disgust he felt at the spectacle he had been forced to participate in, so he rushed from the room, and was through the front door before either Jimbo or his father realised he was gone.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in December 2015.

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The Fare Dodger

new story 2

z used otk pants chair sting (64)

Hamilton slouched in his seat, impatiently staring ahead. The bus was filling up, St Francis had just let out. A dozen or so kids were jostling past the bored driver, flashing their passes or return tickets at him. Senior boys, he thought, prefects mainly, judging from the shiny lapel badges they wore. Nicely turned out. Fancy green-and-gold blazers, pale grey trousers. Yes, Hamilton liked that. St Francis had ceased to be a grammar school years ago, but it still had standards.

He pretended to read his newspaper, but peaked around the pages, watching the bouncing buttocks of the boys as they ran up the stairs to the top deck. One boy, slimmer than the others, strode to the window and reached toward it. “Ye Gods!” Hamilton barked to himself. “He’s going to open the window. It’s freezing.” He steadied himself ready to make an indignant protest and watched as the boy opened the window and dropped his bus ticket onto the pavement outside. Then he closed it and not bothering to look around him to see if he had been spotted, he disappeared taking the stairs two at a time.

There were only seconds for Hamilton to see another boy bend down and pick up the ticket, before the bus drove away. Hamilton huffed. What a ruse, and so simple. They must play the same trick every day. Two rides on one bus ticket. The driver was always too busy to notice, Hamilton reckoned, and if even if he did he probably wouldn’t be bothered to do anything about it. The boy, now safely upstairs and out of the way, obviously never expected a passenger to make a fuss.

Well, the aging man thought, the boy was in for a shock.

Hamilton closed his eyes, all the better for him to plot his scheme. The boy hadn’t noticed Hamilton. If he had seen him half hidden behind his copy of the Metro, the boy would have recognised him immediately. Hamilton certainly knew the boy. His name was Jack and he lived on the other side of the street from Hamilton, a few doors down. About ten minutes later the boy danced down the stairs and clung to the strap handle waiting for the bus to stop. Hamilton dropped his newspaper to the floor, rose from his seat and as the doors swung open he quietly followed Jack. The boy walked at some pace. Hamilton followed more sedately, there was no need to hurry. He knew where Jack lived. The boy was neither tall nor short, not fat like so many teenagers these days. His dark hair was not short, but not so long as to raise the ire of a St Francis schoolmaster. His green-and-gold jacket fitted snugly as did the pale-grey trousers. The boy would be leaving school for good in a few months, obviously his mother didn’t see the need for new clothes. He carried a bag on his back, it hung low. It often annoyed Hamilton that young men had such bags, it was impossible to get a clear view of the line of their buttocks.

They were nearly at Jack’s home. Hamilton quickened his pace. Just as he boy moved through the garden gate and approached the front door Hamilton called out, “Good afternoon Jack!” The boy stopped in his tracks turning slightly to see who was speaking. “Oh hullo Mr Hamilton,” he said, not trying to hide his irritation at having to talk to the old man.

Hamilton smiled, rather like a shark might when it spots its prey. “Good trick with the bus ticket,” he spoke evenly, trying not to betray his annoyance. There would be time later for that. Jack found a key from his pocket determined to escape inside. “I said,” Hamilton spoke a little louder, “Nice trick.”

Jack pushed the door open and stepped inside. Hamilton pushed forward and stood in the hallway before Jack had a chance to protest. “I assume you play the same trick every day.” Jack wriggled the pack from his back and set it down at his feet. His face flushed slightly, Hamilton could see the boy was trying to compose a reply. Jack slipped out of his blazer and hung it on a hook. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It was the best he could do, even as the words formed on his lips he knew how inadequate they were.

Hamilton sneered. “Don’t give me that. I saw you. You and your pal had it all planned out. Nice trick.” He paused pleased to see Jack’s face was now glowing red. “It is, of course, against the law. Fare dodging. You could go to court. Get a fine.”

Jack’s eyes watered. He was generally a quiet lad. He was no good at confrontation. How, he wondered silently, was he going to get rid of this interfering old man.

Hamilton waved his right hand towards the school blazer. “What would they say at school?” He peered at a red lapel badge, “And you the head boy too.” He grimaced, “They don’t cane you anymore do they?” He delighted at Jack’s look of astonishment. “More’s the pity,” Hamilton added to rub the point home.

“It’s the first time we did it,” Jack blustered, desperately feeling that he must say something to make this end.

“Oh per-lease!” Hamilton scoffed. “I bet you’ve been doing this for years. You must have swindled the bus company out of hundreds, no thousands, of pounds.” He lent forwards and pointed at Jack’s chest. “Just wait until the magistrate hears about that.”

Jack’s mouth opened and closed, but no words came. Magistrate. Fines. It had never occurred to him they were doing anything wrong. Not really wrong. Not criminal. It was just dodging a bus fare. Who would pay a fare if they didn’t have to?

Hamilton pressed home his advantage. “A criminal record. You can kiss goodbye to a decent job. Were you hoping to go to university? Would they let you in with a criminal record?”

Sweat glistened Jack’s brow. He could feel his palms perspiring. He rubbed them against his trouser leg. “I won’t do it again,” his voice croaked, his throat was terrifically dry. “Honest, I won’t.”

The corner of Hamilton’s mouth turned up. “Oh I’m certain of that,” he sneered.

Jack’s brown eyes sparkled. “Will you let me off then?” He paused, then pleaded, “Please Mr Hamilton.”

Hamilton shuffled his feet and counted to ten in his head. Let the boy sweat a little, he thought. Make it look like you are genuinely considering it. Then pounce. “No, I don’t think I can do that,” he spoke with authority, sounding, he hoped, a little like an old-fashioned headmaster. “No, no, no,” he shook his head for emphasise, sounding as if he was carrying the weight of the whole world on his shoulders. “No, no, no,” he repeated. “I can’t let you off,” Hamilton’s eyes narrowed. “You must be punished.”

Jack’s look of puzzlement delighted Hamilton. He could almost see cogs moving inside the boy’s head as he tried to compose a response. “Punished?” The word was drawn out, as if it was composed of three syllables.

Hamilton tried not to gloat. “Yes, I could punish you. There’d be no need to trouble the magistrates.”

Jack’s face contorted, he didn’t understand.  “You?” he paused, trying to comprehend. “How?”

Hamilton beamed. “Oh a good old-fashioned spanking should do the trick, don’t you think?” Jack’s jaw dropped. “Spanking,” he said incredulously. “Yes,” Hamilton said and taking the initiative, added, “Do you have some kind of brush? A clothes brush or some such. Something heavy. Made of wood.” He brushed past Jack and entered the lounge room, looking around him hoping to spot a suitable spanking instrument. Jack stared disbelieving as Hamilton opened and closed drawers. “Well,” Hamilton said over his shoulder, as be rummaged inside a small cupboard, “help me out here.”

“There’s one in the hallway cupboard,” Jack blurted, unable to believe he had spoken the words. Hamilton left the room returning seconds later brandishing a shiny wooden oval-headed brush at the bewildered teenager. “Right then, lad let’s get on with this.” Hamilton picked up a straight-backed wooden chair and deceived by its weight, manhandled it unsteadily into the middle of the room. He sat down, wriggled his buttocks to get comfortable and spread his legs wide.

Jack watched motionless. This was not happening, he told himself. It was like an out-of-body experience. He wasn’t really here. “Come on, trousers down,” the cold command shook Jack awake. Yes, this really was happening. The old man from across the street wanted to spank him. “Quickly, or do you want me to take them down for you.”

“B … “ Jack’s mouth opened and closed. “It’s up to you,” Hamilton interrupted Jack’s protest. “A spanking or the magistrates’ court. What’s it to be?” He waved the brush for emphasis. It felt to Jack as if someone else’s fingers were unbuckling his belt and unzipping his trousers. Soon they snagged at his knees. Hamilton smacked his hand against his own leg and commanded, “Right lad, bend over my knee.”

Submissively Jack peered down at Hamilton’s legs. He was a small man and his thighs were thin, but with his legs parted he offered a perfect platform for any naughty boy to present himself for deserved punishment. Jack took a deep breath and first resting his hands against Hamilton’s right thigh, he gently lowered himself. Instinctively, for he had never been in this position before, nor had he seen anyone else like this (not even in a photograph or video), he angled his body across Hamilton’s legs so that his bottom was raised at a forty-five degree angle. He placed the palms of his hands flat against the carpet and let his legs dangle behind him so his toes hovered barely a centimetre above the ground.

Hamilton took a moment to appraise the situation. Jack’s bottom filled out a pair of white cotton underpants. White cotton, Hamilton licked his bottom lip, it wouldn’t have occurred to him that schoolboys still wore such pants. Stretched across Hamilton’s knee, Jack’s bum was taut. Gently Hamilton caressed the warm, smooth cotton. The buttocks were rock hard. Buns of steel! The tip of Hamilton’s tongue darted in and out through pursed lips. He placed the brush on the floor by his feet. Slowly his right palm patted and preened Jack’s bottom, in a trice all wrinkles were removed from the smooth cotton. Hamilton gently lifted the tail of Jack’s dazzling white shirt and pushed it up the teenager’s back and away from the target area. He stifled a gasp at the sight of smooth, hairless, tanned flesh. He raised his right arm and let it hang there. Jack’s body stiffened in anticipation. The buttocks clenched. Hamilton counted to five and brought the palm of his hand crashing down. Without pausing it rose and fell, rose and fell, hammering into Jack’s taut flesh. Over and over, rapidly. Like machinegun fire. A long drawn out hiss escaped Jack’s lips. He wriggled this way and that. Hamilton pushed his left hand into Jack’s shoulders. The boy was going nowhere. Not for some considerable time.

Jack’s bum rose and fell and his legs kicked out. “Eighteen years old and never been spanked,” a voice inside his head told Hamilton. “No wonder he can’t stay still for a moment. If he’s like this now, wait til you pick up the clothes brush.”

Nobody was counting, but if the smarting in Hamilton’s hand was any measure he must have walloped that rock-hard bum a thousand times. “I think,” that voice in his head spoke again, “Your palm must be hurting more than his backside.” Hamilton stopped his assault and, still gripping Jack with one arm he leant down and retrieved the wooden brush.

“No Mr Hamilton,” there was genuine pleading in Jack’s voice, “Please I’ve had enough.”

“Ha!” it was a derisive snort. “Enough! We haven’t even started.” With that Hamilton hammered the brush a dozen times across the back of Jack’s bare thighs. That got the boy hollering. Real yells. “Owww, ouch, owwww,” Jack had never felt such pain. Satisfied he was making an impact, Hamilton whacked the brush across Jack’s underpants. The teenager’s buttocks were small and firm. It took no time for the brush to leave its marks on every square centimetre of by-now scorching flesh. “I don’t think you’ll be dodging bus fares again, my lad,” Hamilton delighted as Jack’s legs kicked behind him. The boy’s trousers were slipping down his legs, soon he would be sending them flying across the room.

Jack’s lungs were bursting. Yelling, pleading, screaming almost. “Such a fuss over a little spanking,” the voice in Hamilton’s head was off again, this time warning him, “Be careful, the neighbours might hear. They’ll think a murder is taking place.

“Enough! Enough! Please Mr Hamilton!” Tears flowed down Jack’s face.

“It’ll be enough when I say so,” Hamilton snarled and gripped the elasticated waist of the underpants and tugged them down.

“No!!!”Jack wailed.

……

The bus pulled to the side of the road and the doors hissed open. Hamilton stumbled through the bus and stepped down onto the pavement. He pulled his woollen hat down over his ears and bent into the wind. Shortly, he would be in his dingy council flat with a large warming whisky in his fist. Then, he could imagine just how battered the boy’s bum was when the underpants fell to his ankles.

 

Picture Credit: Sting Pictures

(Story inspired by a real incident).

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 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com