The punk rocker

z used otk punk rocker brush CS (1)

I cannot believe it is now 40 years since the “Summer of Punk Rock.’’ Queen Elizabeth’s Silver Jubilee. Johnny Rotten and The Sex Pistols: “God Save The Queen, she ain’t no human bean.”

To hear some people talk Punk was a social movement; a revolution. The ideology of punk, and all that. Bollocks!. It was just kids doing what kids across the ages have always done (and still do today): finding new ways to piss off their parents.

My nephew Harry was a punk. Actually, he was a punk in the older sense of the word as well. He was a bone idle layabout. He drifted out of school aged fifteen with no qualifications and by 1977 he was eighteen years old  and had never been able to keep down a job for more than a minute. Not even at the Wimpy Burger Bar. It’s hard to believe but we didn’t have McDonalds back then. To save my sister’s sanity, Harry stayed with me in my council flat in Edmonton (north London) for most of that summer. He thought he was the real deal; Mohican haircut, safety pin in his nose, bondage trousers. For all I knew he and his mates spent their time gobbing at strangers in the high street.

I warned him if he didn’t get himself out of bed and find a job he’d feel the blunt end of my hairbrush. He sneered of course.

Late one evening I got back to the flat after a gruellingly hot day labouring on a building site to the unmistakable aroma of evostik drifting from the living room. Glue sniffing! That was the final straw. There’s a saying that when you find rat in your room you don’t have a discussion with it, you put the boot in. Same with glue sniffing. No discussion. Within seconds I was rifling through the drawer of the sideboard for the hairbrush.

It was no contest.

Harry was only skin and bones and with all my labouring I had muscles on my muscles. I grabbed him by the wrist and hauled him to his feet. He gave no resistance. He was probably a bit zonked out. I called him all the names under the sun as I plonked myself down on the settee and set about undoing his clunky leather belt. The bondage trousers were surprisingly easy to force down, even though they were skin tight. I had to smile to myself then; he was wearing boxer shorts from Marks and Spencer. Not very punk-ish – his mother must have bought them for him.

In one smooth continuous tug, I had him face-down across my knees. That woke him up. He hollered blue murder and I hadn’t even touched him yet. He wriggled this way and the other, but I gripped him tightly around the waist. Let him wave his arms about and kick his legs; he was going nowhere. Not until I had pounded his creamy-white arse black and blue.

It was a pretty standard hairbrush. The bristle end was oval shaped and maybe four inches long. In those days brushes were made of solid wood, not like the lightweight plastic things they sell you today. My brush was perfect for doing your hair but in homes up and down similar ones were also being used to keep recalcitrant youngsters in order.

I remember my abject fear when I first spelt the glue. This was no longer a game. Harry could dress up as much as he wanted and who really cared that he had a ridiculous haircut? But glue-sniffing! That was poison.  The newspapers were full of stories about kids dying by overdosing. That was not going to happen to my Harry. So eighteen-years-old or not I set about spanking his bare bum. I spanked him harder than I had ever done before or since. I lifted the brush as high as my arm would take it and brought it crashing down in the centre of his left cheek with terrific force. A dark-pink oval mark appeared. Within seconds I had tattooed every square inch of his bum, right from the top where it joins the back, over what mounds he had (did I say he was a weedy lad?) and into the underside of his cheeks. He hollered fit to bring the house down. It was a small flat with thin walls and I have no doubt old Mrs. Baker next door would have heard every yell. I did not care. What would she say anyhow? She and people like her walked the streets in fear of punks and their arch enemies the Teddy Boys. Mrs. Baker would probably urge me on in my endeavour.

Satisfied that his buttocks were toasted, I walloped the brush across the backs of Harry’s thighs. He tried to kick but his tight bondage trousers restricted him. It was like he were tied at the ankles. I took a deep breath and hammered the heavy wooden brush with all the force I could muster again and again and again all across his pert cheeks. Never again, I vowed, would he put his nose anywhere close to a can of glue.

His cream bum turned from pink to crimson through to the colour of a Hirondelle wine. He had stopped yelling now, but only because he was too busy coughing and spluttering. He was choked with tears and snot flowed over his mouth.

At last I let him free. He lay on the floor at my feet juddering like a beached dolphin. I let him be. Eventually, he staggered to his feet and pulled up his underwear. He couldn’t quite get the tight bondage trousers above his knees so waddling like a penguin he stumbled to his bedroom.

I locked him in his room for a week. The summer turned to autumn and then it was Christmas. When I saw him at a family party, he had permed his hair, wore glitter under his eyes and had ruby-red lips. He wore a garment that to me suspiciously looked like a dress. So did his boyfriend.

Picture credit: C of Sweden

Other stories you might like

Rules of the house

My houseboy Nate

The boy in the front row



More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second


Thank you, Uncle Walter

z used otk grandad 3

It started more than forty years ago in nineteen-seventy-four. I was nineteen and Uncle Walter was … well I don’t know how old, but old enough to be my uncle. Dad was a milkman and Mum worked part-time in a supermarket so there was never much money at home. I managed to get a couple of indifferent A-levels and a place on a business degree at a polytechnic.

This will astound modern-day students but in those days we were given grants to study and they didn’t have to be paid back. It was like being given money from Heaven. I didn’t do much work and spent my time drinking beer and chasing (and sometimes catching) girls. Of course, I flunked most of my exams; but such were the days, the polytechnic and the local education authority let me go back and start all over again.

So, I didn’t have much incentive to learn. Until Uncle Walter arrived on the scene. Dad was very weak-willed, but Uncle Walter was strong. He had an iron will and strength in his body, as I was to experience again and again over the next years. He lived about thirty miles from the poly. and arrived unannounced one afternoon at the house I shared with three other idle layabouts.

He knew everything. “Laziness,” he called it. “Bone idle.” “Indolent.” He tore me off a strip. I probably gaped open-mouthed as on and on he went, listing my faults. He paused for breath and then he did something that truly astonished me. He pulled a straight-backed dining room chair away from the table, set it down in the middle of the room and sat down. Then, and even as I write this so many years after the event, I can’t really believe this happened. Then he gripped me by the arm and pulled me towards him. I was dumbfounded and astounded. It happened so quickly. One moment I was standing facing him, wondering what in hell he was doing; the next he had gripped my belt and unbuckled it. He popped the stud at the waistband of my jeans and pulled the zipper. The denims fell to my knees.

Still I had not moved. He tugged my underpants down and the next I knew I was face down over his knees and he was hammering the rough palm of his hand into my silky white buttocks. They were neither silky nor white for long.  I didn’t know what a spanking was supposed to feel like but pretty soon he had warmed up my bum. By the time he was done, it could have glowed in the dark.

I wriggled and I squirmed but Uncle Walter held me firmly at my waist. I had to grab hold of uncle’s leg to stop from toppling to the floor. Wham, bam, splat! He spanked on and on. He was a man with a mission.

At last he let me go. I sprang to my feet and pulled my jeans and pants up. My face was as red as my bum. I was mortified, that someone could just throw me across their knee and spank the living daylights out of me. The humiliation was intense. But it wasn’t to end there.

Uncle Walter had come prepared with a plan. Once I had calmed down, he pulled a document from his jacket pocket. A contract, he called it. It was typed. It looked pretty official to me. There were even spaces for his and my signatures.

It went like this. I had to promise to attend classes, work hard, spend a minimum twelve hours a week in the library and stay clear of the student union bar. I had to guarantee never to get less than B+ in an essay or assignment. If I achieved all of these things, Uncle Walter undertook not to spank me again. If I failed in any or all of the endeavours my arse would be on fire.

“You’ll thank me for this one day,” he said as each of us signed our names. Yeah, right.

I think it was less than a month before I got my next close-up view of the carpet while Uncle Walter battered my buttocks with a heavy wooden brush. Now, I knew the true meaning of pain. Not a single square inch of my admittedly small buttocks was left untouched by that horrible brush. I felt like I’d accidentally sat in scalding bath water. You could have fried an egg on my bum by the time he had finished. I wailed the house down. Thank God it was the evening and my housemates were at the bar. I would have died if they ever found out I was being spanked on my bare bottom by my uncle.

“You’ll thank me for this one day,” he said as I stood hands on knees sobbing my guts up.

Uncle Walter made a habit of visiting me once a week to check on things. Sometimes, my bum went unscathed. My grades improved and I began to discover I actually liked studying. But, I also liked the pubs, my mates and the girls. So, occasionally I found myself over the back of the armchair or sprawled across the dining room table while Uncle Walter walloped a belt or – oh my God how much it hurt! –  a whippy school cane into my bared buttocks.

Just last week I took early retirement from the large metropolitan borough council where I was finance director. After I graduated with a first class honours in business, I made a career in local government. It was well paid – well, in management it was, I’m not talking bin collecting here – and I have a house, a flash car and a place in the country. My pension is brilliant and I can look forward to a very wealthy retirement.

None of this would have been possible without my degree. If I had failed the second time I would have left the polytechnic and probably ended up flipping burgers. A life of drudgery and poverty would have followed. Uncle Walter passed on more than fifteen years ago, so I never had the chance to say, “Thank you.” Thank you for caring, thank you for realising that I had the potential for greatness. Thank you for having the courage to do something about it. And, yes, thank you for giving me the spankings I so richly deserved to guide me on my way.

But, I intend to do more than simply say “Thank you” to a man who is now dead. Later this evening I shall be visited by Kenny. Kenny is a student at the local university. His grades are failing and he is a ship tossing on a stormy sea.

Already, I have placed my heavy wooden clothes brush on the dining room table.


Other stories you might like

High school reunion

Untidy bathroom

In the farmhouse


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second



Drunk last night

used brush drunk last night

Jack raised his face to the shower head and let the warm water cascade across his forehead and down his nose. He spluttered as accidentally he swallowed a mouthful. He wetted his hair, then allowed the water to run down his spine. He bent forward and soaked his arse crack. He was coming back to life.

It had been a heavy night. They had had nine maybe ten pints, he couldn’t remember. Pissed as farts. “Bladdered” they called it. Some people even said, “We caned it.” Huh! Perhaps, not the best term to use in the circumstances, he reckoned.

His head was clear now. Nineteen year olds had remarkable constitutions. They could be legless at two in the morning and running to catch the bus for work at eight. There was no work today as it was Saturday. Usually, he would have a lie in. Snuggling under the duvet wanking himself raw. Not today though. He had an appointment and woe betide him if he were a second late.

He stepped from the shower, reached over for the towel and wiped himself down. It always took an age to dry. He laughed out loud when he saw the old films on telly, when Elvis Presley or some other has-been steps out of the swimming pool gets handed a towel and is ready to go in seconds. Some hope. It always took Jack hours just to get his cock and balls dry.

He wrapped the towel round his waist, opened the door slightly to see the coast was clear and satisfied that it was he dashed across the landing into his bedroom. Damn it, he silently cursed. His undercarriage was still damp. He set to work again.

At last he was ready to dress. It was the height of summer and already the day was hotting up. A tee-shirt and shorts should be enough. He scrutinised his naked body in the mirror. There were two hairs near his left nipple; he’d need to shave before the weekend was over. His cock and balls were tidy, he never shaved but he did give them a trim now and again. It was Sex in the City that put him on to it. One of the old dames in the TV show took scissors to a guy she was about to give a blow job. Jack could see her point, she could be gagging on hairs all night.

Was he good looking? He was never sure. His skin was smooth and he rubbed in body lotion every day. He was about average height and build. He never worked out. He didn’t see the point, he already had a well-defined chest and his hips and waist were narrow. If he went to the gym he’d turn into a Muscle Mary, then everyone would think he was gay and how would that get him laid?

He glanced at his watch, three minutes to nine. He needed to get his skates on, he mustn’t be late. He opened his closet door and reached in for a tee-shirt, then he stepped into a pair of briefs before tugging on his shorts. He paused a second, maybe it would be wiser to wear heavy jeans. In the circumstances. Ha! He snorted out loud. Who was he kidding?

He straightened his shirt so it hung over his shorts, drew in a deep breath and opened the bedroom door.

He knew Uncle Matt would be in the lounge room. Jack had been drunk as a skunk when he bounced off the walls at two that morning, but not so far gone he couldn’t feel the full wrath of his uncle. Curfew missed. Second time in a month. The lounge. Nine o’clock. Get to bed. That was the gist of it.

Uncle Matt was waiting, as Jack knew he would be, dressed as if for the office. Despite the sweltering day in prospect, he wore a jacket and a tie, tightly knotted at his throat. He sat on a hard, dining room chair and by his side on a table was a heavy wooden clothes brush.

Jack paused at the door, heart thumping. This was hardly unchartered territory for him. His uncle had made it clear from the first day Matt had arrived. “It’s my way or the highway.” He meant he had rules. They had to be obeyed. You broke them, you got your arse blistered. You didn’t like it, “Ship out Mister.”

“Well!” Uncle Matt sneered, “What are you waiting for?” He could be a man of few words. He knew why Jack was here. Jack knew too. What more was there to say?

Except. “Come here. Take down those shorts and pants. Bend over my knee.” Swift and to the point.

Jack chewed his lip. Paused. Then waited some more. He should argue his case. He was nineteen years old. None of his mates would be going over their dads’ knees this morning for a bare-arsed spanking. So, he had gotten drunk. They all did it. Where was the harm?

Jack formulated the word in his head. But, what was the point. “My way, or the highway.” It couldn’t be clearer.

Uncle Jack wriggled his buttocks on the wooden seat of the chair and spread his legs a little further. He snapped his fingers. “Get on with it,” he growled, “we haven’t got all day.”

Actually, Jack thought, he did have all day and he wouldn’t mind one little bit if they took all the time in the world.

“Now!” It was a bark so sharp it startled Matt. In seconds he was across the room and standing by Uncle Matt’s side. He was a foot or so from his uncle, looking down at the middle-aged man’s powerful legs. The creases in uncle’s grey worsted trousers were so sharp you could cut your finger on them.

“Doh!” Uncle Matt had lost what little patience he had. He gripped the elastic waistband of Matt’s yellow sports shorts and in one tug had them at the teenager’s knees. His underpants snagged and bunched at the undercurve of Matt’s buttocks. Uncle Matt paused, looking at his nephew’s cock and balls poking over the top of the mauve cotton briefs. He scowled and sent them south to meet the shorts.

Jack flushed deep pink. It didn’t matter how many times his buttocks were bared for his uncle’s administrations, nor how often his cock and balls were on display, Jack could never get used to the humiliation. A grown man, half-naked being prepared to go over uncle’s lap for a sound bare-bottomed spanking. Who would ever believe such a thing possible?

“Bend over.” Uncle Matt preferred Jack to present himself submissively for punishment. It was as if he were saying, “I know I have broken your rules and I know I should be punished. Please spank my naughty bottom. Thank you, uncle.”

In his dreams that was how Uncle Matt saw it. It was true the first time he had ordered his nephew to prepare himself for punishment, he had refused and there had been an unseemly fight. But, resistance was futile. Jack might have been a fit eighteen-year-old at the time with all the strength that entails, but Uncle Matt was an experienced operator. The lad was face down over the back of the couch with his right arm pressed into his shoulder blades before he could say Jack Robinson. His shorts and pants were at his knees in a trice and the clothes brush was already blistering his backside. Round One to Uncle Matt.

There was no Round Two. Jack’s buttocks and thighs were toasted. Three days later he was still wriggling around when he sat on a hard dining room chair. Lesson learned: submit to Uncle Matt’s will, it is less painful in the long run.

The lesson was well learned. That was why Jack now eased himself across his uncle’s lap. He was not a tall boy and he fitted rather well. Uncle had parted his own thighs by about two feet, offering his nephew a perfect platform to present himself. The teenager’s stomach rested against uncle’s left thigh and the lad’s legs stretched behind him; his legs slightly bent and his toes brushing the deep pile Axminister carpet.

His arms reached forward and Jack’s palms rested firmly in the carpet. In this position, he had a close view of its ugly yellow-and-brown pattern. If he chose to, he could look under the chair and see his own feet, now covered by his shorts and underpants.

Uncle Matt wasn’t quite ready to go. He gripped Jack’s tee-shirt and although there was no need to do so since it wasn’t anywhere near to the teenager’s bared buttocks, he pushed it up towards his shoulder blades. Jack was now naked from his shoulders to his feet.

Uncle Matt cupped his right hand and gently rubbed the palm over Jack’s smooth skin, tracing the lad’s tan-line. He was almost entirely nut-brown; only a small portion around his buttocks was still the original white. The boy had been spending a little too much time in the sun wearing only skimpy swimming trunks.

Jack shut his eyes tight. He hated it when Uncle Matt “felt him up”, he knew the old man could see right into his crack. That was why he had spent a little extra time in the shower making sure it was sparkling clean. Jack felt his uncle’s body move. He couldn’t see, but he knew he was reaching across to the table to take up the heavy, wooden clothes brush. Any moment now the onslaught would begin.

Uncle Matt fingered the brush. It was about ten inches long and maybe three at its widest. A pal had given it to him when they were at university together. It had seen some action in its time, but he would be hard pressed to remember when it had last been used for its intended purpose.

He gripped the handle tightly and patted Jack’s bare bum with it. The teenager’s bottom was taut and stretched across his uncle’s knee it was as hard as a rubber ball. There was certainly no “give.” The term “buns of steel” might have been made for Jack.

Whack. The first stroke connected in the dead centre of Jack’s left buttock. A deep pink oval mark immediately appeared. Jack’s bum always reddened easily, it only took a slap of Uncle Matt’s hand to make it glow.

The second whack landed in the centre of the right cheek. Jack sucked on his bottom lip. It hurt. Like crazy. There was something special about the heat that a wooden brush could cause. It was a different pain from a flexible bedroom slipper or a cane. Jack would know; he had felt them all at one time or another. A heavy wooden brush applied with some effort across a bared backside left a burning sensation, like someone had pressed a hot poultice into the flesh.

Uncle Matt had a spanking technique he had perfected since his early twenties. It was all in the wrist action. Some people would raise the brush as high above their shoulder as they could reach before bringing it crashing down into the bum. It looked pretty spectacular, but a lot of the downward force was lost as the brush travelled over a distance. It was much better to keep the brush only a few inches above the bum and using wrist action wallop it across the naughty boy’s hindquarters. A golfer would probably be able to explain the technique better.

Uncle Matt raised the brush and brought it down on his left buttock, then again on the right. He had learned that you should start a spanking softly and build up a momentum until the whacks were reigning down hard.

Jack held his position steady. His bum was resting high on his uncle’s right leg and his back and head were sloped at a near perfect forty-five-degree angle towards the floor. His buttocks were perfectly placed for his uncle’s aim and he had no difficultly slapping away with the brush. Six on the left, six on the right, then one in turn on each; two at the top and two at the bottom of each buttock.

Jack wasn’t a howler; he didn’t cry either. He would shut his mouth by biting on his bottom lip. It stopped him yelping, but sometimes he bit so hard and so deep the pain in his lip lasted much longer than the ache in his backside.

Uncle Matt wasn’t deterred by his nephew’s stoicism. He knew a bare-buttock spanking with a heavy wooden brush hurt like hell. Jack’s bum was always red and raw and so hot you could probably fry an egg on it by the time Uncle Matt was finished.

Jack’s bum was turning a darker red now and his breathing was harder. He was in some pain, but he wasn’t about to show it. From his vantage point way above his nephew, Uncle Matt looked down at his head. His hair was flopped over his eyes, a fringe falling towards the floor. He saw a silent grimace as the brush hit his buttocks time and again. Jack screwed his eyes a little in pain, but no sound came from his lips and no tear from his eye.

The heat of the bare-bottomed spanking travelled from the buttocks and up and down Jack’s legs. The pain was intense as each successive slap connected with his flesh. The pain disappeared almost immediately the brush moved off his bum only to be replaced by more pain as the next crack hit its target.

Then it was over. Suddenly, the spanking stopped. Uncle Matt released his grip on Jack’s body and the teenager rolled off his uncle’s lap and landed on the carpet. The teenager’s cock and balls were on full display. Uncle Matt professed not to notice. Jack pulled up his underpants and stood up so he could return his shorts to their rightful place.

Uncle Matt stood himself and put the brush back on the table. He looked immaculately dressed. A stranger could not tell that over the past five minutes or so he had delivered to Jack the spanking of his lifetime. Not one hair on his head was out of place. No perspiration dampened his body.

Jack rushed from the room, took the stairs two at a time, crashed through his bedroom door and threw himself face-down on his bed where he cried piteously into his pillow.

Uncle Matt left the room, slipped out of his jacket and hung it on a hook in the hallway. Then, more sedately than his nephew, he ascended the stairs and made his way to the bathroom. There, he ripped down his trousers and pants and set to work on his raging boner.


Picture credit: End Art

Other stories you might like

Theft of petty cash

Boy at the photocopier

The military camp


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second

Waiting my turn

I am facing the door in my uncle’s living room and in a moment he is going to take me over his knee and spank me.

I am shaking like a leaf and I am trying not to cry, but my eyes are getting wet.

Me and my cousin John were naughty at school today and now we are for it.

I can hear Uncle Sal moving a wooden chair into the middle of the carpet. Now he has sat down he has his back to me so I can turn round for a peek.

He is calling John over to him.

“I’m fed up with you; it’s time you learnt how to behave. Take your trousers down; take them down.”

John unbuckles his elastic snake belt and it goes pop. Now, he is undoing his grey short trousers and they fall down.

His face is red but he is trying to be brave. I know he has been spanked before, but I never have. I am scared that it will hurt too much.

John is standing moving his feet a bit. The white shirt of his school uniform is very long at the back and it covers his pants; it looks like he is wearing a dress.

Uncle Sal is very angry, “Come on, bend over. I am going to spank that naughtiness right out of you.”

John moves a bit so he is standing in front of him, but he is a long way away. Uncle Sal is standing up, grabbing his left arm, and dragging John around to his right. He is sitting back down and pulling him down and across his knees.

Uncle has him on his huge left leg and knee, and he is moving John around so his back is bent and he is hanging down facing the floor. John’s bottom is sticking up for punishment.

Uncle is loosening his tie and rolling up his shirt sleeves. He is so big and John is so small. John’s feet don’t touch the ground at the back and his arms are waving about at the front.

Now, uncle is taking John’s shirt and pulling it up away from his bottom, right the way up his back to near his shoulders.

Uncle is tugging at John’s white pants so they are really tight, just like he is giving him a wedgie.

I can see John’s face and he is looking down at the carpet, he is sweating a bit.

Uncle has very strong arms and he is putting his hand over one of John’s cheeks; it is so big it covers all of it. He is raising it high and smacking it into John’s bum. John screws his eyes up and I can see it hurt him a lot.

Uncle is smacking away at John’s bottom, it looks like it really aches. My heart is beating faster; I am going to be spanked like this in a minute.

Uncle is smacking John’s bottom really slowly, he is hitting one cheek then the other. I can see John must be sore, he is wriggling on Uncle Sal’s lap but he can’t get away. John is kicking his legs, but they can’t reach the floor.

“Keep still.” Uncle is slapping the back of his legs. “If you don’t keep still I’ll take your pants down and see how you like that.”

I am turning back to the wall. I don’t want to see this. I hear the smacks hitting my cousin’s bum and I can hear John saying, “Ow, ow, ow,” as the slaps hit him.

Then it goes quiet. I turn around to see what is going on.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Uncle is pulling John’s pants down over his hips, cheeks, thighs, knees, to his feet,

“No, please, no,” John is sniffing.

Uncle looks very cross and goes on smacking John.

I can see John’s bottom is very red. It must be burning hot and there are pink marks where uncle’s fingers hit him.

John is still fighting hard, twisting around and his arms are trying to reach back to stop uncle spanking him. Uncle is picking him up and moving him forward and now John’s face is nearly on the carpet and he has to put his hands down to keep steady.

Uncle is holding him tightly around the waist and is hitting him harder and faster. Smack, smack, smack, smack. I can see tears on John’s face, but he isn’t saying anything.

How long is this going on for? I haven’t counted them all but I think uncle must have smacked him a hundred times, easily, and still he is going on.

John’s face is bright red and so is his bottom. He has given up trying to escape and he has his arms around uncle’s leg, just holding on, as he goes on spanking him. John is crying louder now and I can see he is choking. He is shaking his head from side to side and there are lots of tears.

This is getting me going and I am crying almost as much as John.

Uncle is still smacking him. He is hitting him on the top of his legs and John’s bottom is really red all over his cheeks and on his legs as well.

John is punching the floor; the spanking is hurting him that much and his bottom looks like it is on fire.

I can’t stand this, I’m so scared. Uncle will spank me like this and I won’t be able to stand it. John is a year older than me and tough. If he is like this, what will I be like? I think I’m going to run away.

John is breathing in big gasps of air and uncle is still slapping his bum. I can see uncle’s face is all screwed up as he raises his hand and hits John as hard as he can.

Uncle has stopped spanking John. He is still holding his son across his lap and he is bawling his eyes out.

Now, Uncle is letting him go and lifting up the back of John’s shirt to try to get a look at his bum, but he is jumping up and down, rubbing his poor bottom, it looks really, really sore.

Uncle is letting go of him. “Shorts and pants up.”

Ouch! I can see John is in agony. His hands are shaking and he is bending down to pull up his pants and he is screwing up his face because it hurts so much when they touch his bottom.

Now, he is picking up his grey short trousers; he kicked them across the room when Uncle spanked him. He is pulling them up and is having trouble getting the buttons to work. The snake belt has come out of the loops and he can’t get it to go back in. He is still crying like a baby and I can see a lot of snot around his nose.

“Go to your room and stay there until tea time.”

Now, I can hear him running up the stairs.


Oh no, now it’s my turn … Eighteen years old and about to go over uncle’s knee for my first-ever bare-bottomed spanking. We truly are living in a parallel universe.

zused hands on head shorts

Other stories you might like

Step-dad’s little trick

The vicar and the gay boys

The Tyrant Headmaster 1. The boy at the bar


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second

Uncle gets a shock

z used white pants Jonathan

It came as a total shock when I discovered my nephew Anthony was turned on by being spanked. At least that explained why any number of trips across my knee for the slipper, hairbrush or palm of my hand had not improved his behaviour. Once, I even gave him a thrashing with an old-fashioned whippy school cane. Nothing. He still broke every rule I every laid down for him.

Anthony is nineteen now – going on twenty – and has been living with me for eighteen months since his dad changed jobs and moved down south. The boy has a job of his own at a record shop and didn’t want to go with his parents. Rather, than eek out an existence in a sweaty room in a boarding house, he took up my offer to lodge with me.

Now, I think about it, he agreed with alacrity to my demands that if he came to live with me, he must abide by the rules – or suffer the consequences. I left him in no doubt what that meant: a very sore backside indeed.

He was trouble from the very start. I know something about teenagers; they like to test authority. It’s in their DNA to push boundaries and see how far they can go. The first time I ordered him across my knee was when he repeatedly broke his curfew. Home by eleven, I told him. I could not have been clearer. When he rolled in at eleven-fifteen one evening, I lectured him hard. “Next time, you will feel my slipper across your backside, young man,” I told him. I could not have been clearer.

So, when the following Saturday he arrived home so late it was Sunday morning, I was as good as my word. “Go to the sitting room. Wait for me,” I ordered. Meekly, he shuffled across the hallway and stood head slightly bowed and hands firmly behind his back. He waited like this while I dragged a heavy dining-room chair and plonked it down in the very centre of the room. I sat myself down and manoeuvred a slipper from my right foot.  I wriggled around a bit to get comfortable and when I was ready I squeezed the slipper tightly in my fist. It was a typical bedroom slipper, with the checked cloth upper and the springy sole. A slipper is a perfect spanking tool, which is why it is so popular with fathers and uncles tasked with instilling discipline into the young.

I grunted something to attract Anthony’s attention and he looked up. His eyes widened at the sight of me, a forty-five-year-old man of some physical stature, willing and able to inflict severe pain to his bottom.

Anthony stands at about five-feet-seven, I suppose. He is quite sporty and although I don’t think he goes to the gym, he has a very well-proportioned body. As I would soon discover he hardly had enough spare fat on his body to sizzle a sausage.

He was wearing jeans and a woollen jumper. That was no good to me. He wouldn’t feel a thing through heavy denims. “Take them down,” I instructed and then as if he hadn’t already understood my order, I added, “The jeans. Right down. To the ankles.”

Anthony is fair haired, almost blond, and his skin is very pale. This time, though, his face was so red it reminded me of beetroot. His eyes shone. I suspected he was so embarrassed, he might start to cry. I was prepared to ignore any pleading he might make to be let off. Boys about to be spanked will promise absolutely anything about their future good behaviour if only they could be spared a whacking.

In fact, he made no pleas. With slightly shaking hands, he undid the buckle of his belt and undid the top button on his ice-blue jeans. Once the zipper had been lowered the denims slid down his thighs and snagged at the knees. He spread his legs a little and they slithered down his shins and rested on top of his trainer shoes.

He wore very tight cotton briefs in a multitude of colours. Even in a standing position they hung tightly to the contours of his body. I could see his cock had been circumcised. “Come, bend over my knee,” I slapped my thigh as an encouragement.

He sucked down a lung-full of air and leaned forward, putting his hands on my right thigh and lowering himself down. It took a second or two for him to work out where his hands needed to be and how to present his bottom in the perfect position for my slipper. When he had settled, the palms of his hands were pressed down into the deep-pile carpet and his knees were slightly bent so that his toes hovered an inch or so from the ground. His bum was angled across my right leg, giving me unrestricted access to his buttocks.

The tight cotton briefs clung to his cheeks so tightly it looked like they had been sprayed on him. At this point I had a choice. Should I take hold of the elasticated waistband of the briefs and tug them over his firm bottom until the buttocks were bared, or should I allow them to stay in place and let him have the last vestiges of dignity? Since this was his first spanking – or at least the first I had administered – I left the pants up. In any case, I figured, if there needed to be a repeat performance of this sometime in the future I should have some way to up the ante as it were. That is to increase the severity of the punishment next time.

I wrapped by left arm around Anthony’s middle to hold him in place and began my assault on his dignity. My slipper crashed into the centre of his very tight bottom over and over again.  The sound of rubber against cotton echoed around the room. Anthony opened and closed his mouth, rather like a goldfish, but he uttered no sound. His head bounced up and down once or twice and his bum rose and fell across my knee, but all that was, I suspect, simply a natural reaction from his body. He was, in fact, taking his slippering remarkably well.

I’m not sure how many whacks I gave him, but I made sure that every square inch of his buttocks was toasted. I even lay one or two across the back of his thighs, below the hem of his pants. That hurt him, I could see that, but apart from some heavy breathing, he remained silent. I was delighted to see a dark-pink imprint of the sole of my slipper embossed in his pale flesh.

Satisfied that I had spanked him enough for now, I released him. Anthony shot to his feet, turned his back to me and bent down to retrieve his jeans. He had them zipped and buckled before he faced me, his hands held contritely in front of him. His cheeks were scarlet and I knew his buttocks would be too. His hair was drenched with sweat and I could see by the gleam in his eye that he desperately wanted me to dismiss him so he could rush to his room. I imagined that in a moment or two he would be face down on his bed sobbing his guts up into a pillow.

I lectured him a little and reminded him that I had an array of spanking instruments in the cupboard under the stairs that I would not hesitate to use and sent him on his way.

Well, over the coming months each and every one of those tawses, paddles and straps connected with Anthony’s backside. I went so far as to buy a couple of “authentic” school canes off eBay. I had the nineteen-year-old across my knee, bending over the back of the armchair and spread-eagled across the dining table. He was an incorrigible rule-breaker. No amount of punishment could make him obey.

Now I know why.

This evening I received a phone call from the owner of the record shop where Anthony works. He hadn’t been in today, was everything all right? I confronted my nephew and he told me he had skived off work with some mates and queued all day to get tickets for the forthcoming FA Cup quarter final. Now, I like football as much as the next man, but I know I have responsibilities to my employer and I can’t just not turn in. I also have responsibilities to Anthony to make sure he understands such things.

He was not surprised when he arrived in the kitchen after I had called him from his room that I was brandishing a heavy wooden hairbrush. He had felt its power across his naked buttocks more than once before. I sighed so hard to demonstrate to him how much of the world’s burdens I was asked to shoulder and ordered him to lower his cargo shorts and bend over my knee. He did so without question.

Once in position I dragged his gleaming white briefs down to his thighs and assaulted his bare buttocks with the brush. It is a mightily effective punishment tool and soon the centre of each cheek was glowing crimson. Anthony shook his head from side to side, rather like a horse does when it neighs, and his legs kicked out. The spanking was hurting, that’s for sure. I whacked on and on over the same spots on his bum until the flesh turned dark red and then purple. If I spanked any harder or for any longer blood would seep from the wounds. I did not want that. I believe in punishment and not in torture.

When I released him, he tugged his pants and shorts up and fled from the kitchen, not waiting for me to lecture him. I let the brush fall on to the kitchen table and switched on the kettle. I desperately needed a cup of tea.

I also needed to use the bathroom. As I climbed the stairs I noticed the door to Anthony’s room was slightly open. Suddenly, I had an overwhelming urge to know whether he was sobbing into his pillow. In all the times I had spanked him he never shed a tear in my presence. Rather absurdly, I tiptoed along the landing and stood outside his door with my ear pressed against it. I could not hear anything. Thinking that maybe the weight of the door was obstructing the sound, I pushed against it gently.

Nothing would ever be the same again.

Anthony was standing in front of the dressing table mirror. His rather large and extremely hard cock was in his hand and he was pumping away. His eyes were closed and he was stifling moans of ecstasy. I turned to leave. Too late. He heard a creak on the floorboard, opened his eyes and in the reflection in the mirror saw me. His face glowed with embarrassment, he pulled up his pants and turned to face me.

I don’t know what happened next, I skedaddled and locked myself in the bathroom.

That was a little over an hour ago. I have drunk three cups of tea and have calmed down considerably. A young man who likes to be spanked, who would ever have thought such a thing. Still, it certainly explained a thing or two to me about his bad behaviour.

I started to giggle; I think it was the tannin in all that tea. Now, I had a plan. I shall confront Anthony and tell him this. In future, he will obey his curfew, he will do all the chores about the house that I give him. He will respect my wishes at all times and follow all my instructions. If he does these things to my total satisfaction I will spank him. Very hard indeed. I think they call that ‘psychology’. It is in any case a win-win situation for both of us.


Picture credit: Jonathan / colour by Buckcub


Other stories you might like

Late home from a date

The headmaster’s guests

My first spanking — aged 18!


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second


Spanked by my uncle: who enjoyed it the most?

When my uncle put me across his knee and spanked my bare bottom I don’t know which of us enjoyed it more, him or me.

I come from a strange family. Mum was one of ten children. Ten! Poor gran; she must have been exhausted the whole time. I bet granddad had a whale of a time though.

Uncle Neil was the youngest of the lot. I was eighteen and he was only twenty-eight. I was causing my mum a lot of problems. The main problem was that I was eighteen. Like so many people that age I was totally selfish, I thought the world should revolve around me. I was arrogant and you couldn’t tell me anything. I disrespected my mother at every turn.

I had left school at sixteen – the earliest possible age – and I hadn’t had anything that you could call a proper job since. I lazed about the flat all day and drove mum mad.

My dad had skedaddled after my younger brother was born and left mum on her own to raise two kids. How could she cope with me? At last mum and Uncle Neil said I needed a “time out.” They said I should go stay with him for a while, until I sorted myself out a bit.

Uncle Neil might only be twenty-five, but already he was a great success. He had an important job with an advertising agency. I’m not sure exactly what he did but it bought him a smashing apartment on the fourth floor of a block overlooking the marina. It had every conceivable gadget. He drove a flash Jeep and spent a lot of cash on his clothes and his looks.

The expensive facials, haircuts and nail jobs he paid for made him stand out in a crowd. He was gym-fit. He tried to encourage me to take exercise – he said I should go running or to go work out. He reckoned it would make me a much happier person. He said when you exercised hard chemicals in your brain changed and it made you feel really good – it was much better than taking drugs. I can’t remember what the chemical was called, but it was something like “dolphins.”

I didn’t do anything about it. I couldn’t be bothered.

He didn’t have a girlfriend. When I asked him about it he flushed scarlet and said he was too busy at work. I didn’t believe him; he would be a great catch for any girl. I reckoned there was some special lady he was trying to capture, but she was giving him a hard time. Who knew, perhaps she was already married; not that that seemed to bother people these days.

Uncle Neil wanted me to get a job. Any job, he said. I whined that there were no jobs, not for people like me who left school with no qualifications. He scoffed. He was having none of it. He said I should take any job going, even if it was only part-time. There was plenty going in burger bars and pubs. Supermarkets always wanted people to fill shelves and carry boxes.

Once I had a job, he lectured me, I could make your way up the company. Or, after a while I could get a better job somewhere else. If nothing else, I could get some “work discipline” and prove that I could get up in the morning and put in a shift – every day.

I ignored him on that too.

After a month with me lounging around the apartment in my underwear most of the time, Uncle Neil snapped. He gave me an ultimatum. It was, he said, my choice. I had to take some responsibility for myself. If I didn’t have a job by the end of the month, he would throw me out the apartment. He said my mum wouldn’t take me back, so I would be on my own.

I didn’t believe him. Yes, he would throw me out probably, but I wouldn’t be on my own. I had nine aunts and uncles – and that was just on my mother’s side. We were family; someone would take me in.

I pretended to Uncle Neil that I was looking for a job. I had to anyway to get my welfare payment each fortnight, but I wasn’t really. If I had been a more sensitive type I should have noticed that he was coming to the end of his tether.

That happened one night. I had just got my money and I went drinking with mates. I got back late and pretty high. Next day, Uncle Neil sat me down and gave me the lecture. I vaguely knew that at work he was a boss of something. From his tone, I knew he was used to being obeyed. He told you to jump; you asked how high? That was, I guess, the secret of his success. Decisive action.

“If you do anything like that again,” he said calmly, “I am going to take you across my knee and spank your bare bottom so hard it will glow in the dark.”

I stared at him. His gaze was steely. I hadn’t noticed before how piercing his blue eyes were. He meant it. He was deadly serious. If my mum had said something like that I would have laughed and told her where to go. I would have used the “F” word a lot. With Uncle Neil, I just gaped. My jaw probably quite literally dropped.

What could I say? I looked him up and down. He had the kind of body that had muscles on top of muscles. I was the opposite. I hadn’t taken any exercise since I was fifteen when we did PE classes at school. I was no match for Uncle Neil. If he wanted to haul me across his knee, he could.

I went to my room confused. I stood at the window and watched the yachts and small boats in the harbour below. Spanking? He’d give me a spanking? I had never been spanked in my life. The cane had been banned in schools long before I was born – before Uncle Neil was born too – and mum never hit us; Lord knows why not, I deserved it.

Uncle Neil was bluffing, I reckoned. He had already said he would throw me out of the apartment; surely he thought that was a bigger threat.

I obviously didn’t know Uncle Neil.

It was only two days later when he asked me to do some grocery shopping. He left a list and some cash. Even I wasn’t so lazy or so stupid as to ignore him. I got the bus to Tesco and wheeled my trolley around the store. Uncle Neil had been right about jobs. There was a notice near the entrance advertising part-time jobs. Apply within. I pretended not to see it.

After I left the checkout, I realised I had more than five pounds in change. He’d never notice. I didn’t think twice about it. It would be my tip for doing the shopping. I stopped at an off licence and spent the money on cheap beer.

I was pretty far gone by the time Uncle Neil got home. He asked about the change. I lied and told him there wasn’t any. He sighed, “Go to bed. I’ll deal with you in the morning.”

Deal with me? I staggered from the room. Deal with me? Was he really serious?

Next morning was Sunday; even Uncle Neil didn’t work Sunday. I laid in bed dealing with my Morning Glory. I had just shot my load into a fistful of Kleenex when he knocked on the door. Hurriedly, I tugged up my Boxer shorts. Just in time. He didn’t wait for permission, he barged in through the door.

I think his speech had been prepared. Certainly, he was fluent, short and to the point. He had warned me about me behaviour. True. He had told me what he would do. True again. So why did I do it? Good question. The answer was probably, “Because I could.” I had been getting away with things my whole life. Nobody had stopped me. It had become a habit. My life was all me, me, me.

“Come here,” he leant forward and grabbed a hunk of my hair. I yelped as he pulled me up and out of the bed. Then without a further word he dragged me from the room and hauled me into the lounge. Even in my distressed state, I could see the furniture had been rearranged. A soft-backed, armless chair had been turned away from the dining table, so it faced into the room.

Still holding a clump of my hair he sat down and stretched his legs wide. Then, he pulled me across his left knee and immediately draped his right leg over the back of my calves. I was pinned down. Uncle Neil and I are about the same height; I was too tall to go over his knee. My elbows rested on the carpet in front of me and my knees bent behind me and still my feet rested on the ground. I couldn’t see this, but my bum was raised at a forty-five-degree angle over his knee.

I was only wearing Boxer shorts and a tee-shirt that I used for sleeping. He pushed his left hand into my shoulder so hard he winded me. While I gasped for air, I felt him grip the waistband of my shorts and he yanked them down over my buttocks and down my thighs and he left them bunched at my knees.

He mumbled something that I couldn’t quite catch. It sounded like, “You deserve this and you know it.” Then he smacked the palm of his hand into my right buttock and then the left. I don’t know what a spanking is supposed to feel like; it should hurt, naturally, otherwise what’s the point. He hit me so hard and so rapidly that within seconds my bum began to heat up. He had strong arms, but very soft hands; even so I felt each and every one of the slaps as he made his way around my globes. He concentrated on the under-curves, just under the cheeks, where they meet the thighs.

I wriggled and squirmed, but with his legs across my calves and with his hand on my shoulders he had me trapped. I was going nowhere. My bum cheeks quivered and I felt my crack open and close involuntarily. Only then did I think he might have a perfect view in my crack and up my hole. I don’t think I have ever felt so humiliated. It was worse because I knew I hadn’t showered since the last time I’d taken a dump. It would be pretty rancid back there.

The pain was building into a constant throbbing across my whole backside. It hurt a lot, but I could take it. I didn’t know how many spanks he intended to deliver, but I was pretty confident he wouldn’t do much damage. Then he stopped.

I felt his body twist and he reached behind him. When I was dragged into the room I hadn’t noticed the heavy brush on the table. I hadn’t seen, it but soon I felt it. The first almighty whack across the centre of both cheeks took my breath away. By the time the sixth hit home, I was on fire. By the tenth I was yelping. By number twenty I was yelling.

My heart raced and I gasped for air. I couldn’t suck air into my lungs. Blood raced through my arteries so quickly I thought my ears would pop. Then I realised with horror my cock was stiff. My soldier wasn’t fully on the march, but it was standing to attention. I wriggled and writhed over Uncle Neil’s knee. It was involuntary, it was my body’s reflex action to the pounding it was getting at my rear end. Each time I moved my dick rubbed against my uncle’s leg. In no time it throbbed almost as madly as my bum.

I could hear Uncle Neil wheezing. The effort of spanking me was taking its toll, yet, on and on he hammered the bath brush into my naked arse. I didn’t know it yet but the whole of my buttocks from the top near my spine, over the mounds and into the crease was now toasted scarlet. My bum was so hot you could probably fry an egg back there.

The more he spanked, the more my body gyrated. The more my body spun, the more my prick pulsated. Any moment now I would shoot a load. What could I do? I knew when I masturbated that the way to control an orgasm was to stop tugging for a while and let it settle. I couldn’t do that here.

Even as I thought, “No! No! No!” my whole body shook, like a dog does when it comes out of water. I must have shot a pint of cum over Uncle Neil’s already cream chinos. He let out a mild screech, released my legs and shoulders and pushed me off his knee onto the carpet, where I lay face down, desperately failing to hide my humiliation.

“You dirty bugger,” Uncle Neil snarled. “Look what you’ve done to my trousers.” He tried to sound angry, but I knew he wasn’t really. I was certain, because from my position at his feet I looked up at my handsome muscular uncle towering above me and saw that he had a boner so big and so hard that it could have been a tent pole in the front of his pants.

I gazed in wonderment. My head was the clearest it had ever been. I was glowing. Never in my life had I felt so good. Uncle Neil peered down at me, our eyes met for a brief moment. We didn’t say a word to each other. What could we say? He was my uncle. But we both knew we felt the same way.


Other stories you might like

The Dean of Dorm Discipline

The vicar and the gay boys

The padded armchair


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

The thieving nephew


Zachary’s uncle sat in a straight-backed chair, a belt hanging limply from his hand. His aunt stood by his side, arms folded across her bosom. The old man’s face was set firm. Determined. His intention was clear. He was going to spank Zachary’s backside. Zachary blinked, bewildered. He was twenty-two years old.

The young man’s faced glowed. He had never been spanked before. Never. Nobody he knew ever had been. This was 2016, that sort of thing ended in the fifties. Surely that was so, Zachary thought. He felt his aunt’s glare burning into him. Unnerved, he stared down at the beige carpet beneath his feet. This could not be happening. It just couldn’t. Nothing in his whole life’s experience had prepared him for this.

Through the corner of his eye he saw his uncle shift his buttocks on the chair. He spread his knees, preparing a platform for Zachary to bend across. Uncle’s impatience was showing. He wanted to get this over with. He would truck no nonsense from his nephew. He must submit himself to discipline. It was uncle’s house. His rules. His way or the highway.

Zachary didn’t need telling that. He had been staying with Uncle Frank and Aunt Marie for more than three months. He had no choice. He had graduated with a first-class honours degree in film production from one of the top schools in the country. Now, desperate to become a director, he was working as an unpaid intern at Global Pictures, a world leader. That was where the trouble with Uncle Frank started. Unpaid. No money.

It was typical of the business these days. Youngsters eager to make their way had to work without pay; for months. Years sometimes.

Zachary could afford no rent, so his uncle and aunt opened up their home to him. He thought it extraordinarily generous. How naïve. He didn’t know it; his mum and dad were paying for his keep. Zachary supposed he had no choice. Obey Uncle Frank’s demands or leave. Leave the home. The internship. Give up his dreams.

A young man cannot live on fresh air. He needed money. Without a way to earn an income, he took to pilfering. At first Aunt Marie didn’t notice the small amounts of cash missing from her purse. Zachary felt no remorse. Like so many of his generation he thought the world owed him a living. Damn it, he thought, he was working for nothing, wasn’t that enough. His aunt was no pauper. She owned a hair salon. She wasn’t short of a few bob.

The recriminations were long-drawn out. How could you? We brought you into our home. We trusted you. Blah, blah, blah. Zachary wasn’t impressed. That was then. This was now.

“Look at me, Zachary,” his uncle was firm. In charge. He knew what was required. This might be his nephew’s first spanking, but the old man was something of an expert. Just ask his own sons. Fine young men. Disciplined. Making their way in the world. At least Uncle Frank assumed so. He hadn’t seen or heard from either of them in years.

Reluctantly, Zachary drew his eyes away from the carpet. Aunt Marie pursed her lips, like she was sucking sherbet. Her clear hazel eyes shone, her contempt evident. Uncle Frank straightened his back, took the belt in two hands and carefully folded it into two. It was now a wide leather strap about a foot long. It would make a mighty effective weapon. Zachary stared at it.

“Take down those jeans. Underpants too.”

Zachary’s heart thumped. He couldn’t catch his breath. His temples throbbed. The back of his eyes dampened.

“B …” bewildered, he started a protest. Words would not form. What could he say? He was a thief. Caught red-handed. Convicted. And, now sentenced. Within moments the punishment would be delivered.

“Quickly.” Another firm order from Uncle Frank. “I don’t have all day.”

“But.” This time a word did escape his lips. Zachary nodded at Aunt Marie. His face blushed deeper. He wanted to plead. No. No please don’t spank me. Not in front of Aunt Marie.

Rooted. He couldn’t move. Tears wetted his eyes. In time they would be cascading down his cheeks.

“Doh!” Uncle Frank leaned across and pulled Zachary forward by the waistband. Within seconds he had his nephew’s belt unbuckled. A tug at the zip fly and the front of his jeans were open. It seemed to Zachary like an out of body experience. This was happening to somebody else. His denims and briefs were at his knees. His cock and balls dangled in front of Aunt Marie. A flicker of a smile creased her puckered lips.

Zachary had inherited his mother’s genes. Everyone noticed his piercing blue eyes and dark hair. His cheekbones were high and a boyish dimple formed when he smiled. His athletic build was natural. Aunt Marie had long admired his strong defined chest and narrow waist. His legs were strong, slender and hairy. His appendage was exactly as she had imagined.

Uncle Frank grabbed his twenty-two-year-old nephew by the arm and pulled him over his knees so that he was dangling, feet and head both off the ground. Zachary threw his hand behind him, desperately trying to cover his naked buttocks. He heard his uncle sigh as the old man gripped his wrist and held it tightly in the small of his back.

Zachary sensed his aunt move a pace. Oh, my God, she can see right into my crack. For a moment, his naked humiliation filled his thoughts. But not for long. He felt his uncle move, the belt hovered over Zachary’s bum. Seconds later he heard an explosion. After a moment, he felt the fire ignite across his bared bottom. There was another explosion, then another.

The first crack of leather on skin was deafening, but Zachary had no chance to appreciate it, since that it was immediately followed by another, and then another. His uncle was beating out a rhythm on his backside. Zachary made no sound at all. He stayed fairly still, except for reflex jerking from the force of impact of belt against buttock.

The young man wasn’t keeping time. It felt like an age. Staring down at the carpet; pinned across his uncle’s knee while a leather belt rose and crashed, then rose and crashed again into his firm naked flesh. For about two minutes there was no noise except for the continuous thwack, smack, of the leather. Then Zachary started to twitch. Then hiss, a low noise, through his teeth. He was trying to keep his breathing steady.

A minute later, he started to groan. Then, “Ow, ow, ow.” At five minutes it became more vocal. Louder. Low-pitched yelping. It took a full seven minutes for Zachary to start crying. From way down deep. The hand behind his back was still pinned up near his shoulders. With his other hand he gripped his uncle’s trouser leg. It did nothing to relieve the pain.

Zachary was bawling his eyes out, crying harder than he had ever done in his life. Crying not only because of the pain his uncle was inflicting with every lick but also crying for getting himself in this situation. He would never, ever steal again.

Then it was over. Zachary lay sobbing, trying to catch his breath. His uncle dropped the belt to the floor beside him and rubbed his nephew’s scorched cheeks. The once creamy-white buttocks were deep crimson. Dozens of stripes covered the bum and the backs of Zachary’s legs. The young man now able to lie without squirming, brought his face to touch his uncle’s legs and bawled like a whipped puppy.

Aunt Marie, her face as flushed as Zachary’s, quietly left the room. Moments later she was locked in the bathroom.

Other stories you might like

In the farmhouse

Don’t bully our mum

Two brothers



More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second