Lodging with Uncle Ralph

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“Come up here Robert, I want you to see this. You need to learn something.” It was Uncle Ralph calling from the bedroom. I knew something not nice was happening, I had felt an extreme tension in the house the moment I returned from college.

With some reluctance I trudged up the stairs. The bedroom door was open. My cousin John stood miserably, his usually pale face, now a deathly shade of white. Towering over him was his father, my Uncle Ralph. Uncle’s whiskers bristled; he turned to me and growled, “I want you to see this. The same will happen to you if you ever break my rules.”

I glanced at John; now his face was deep scarlet. I had no idea what was happening. I had moved in with Uncle Ralph and his family a few days previously after I joined Brocklehurst University. Uncle Ralph was a weird fellow. He was ex-military and had in his time been a colonel. He spent much of his life outside of England. It might be 2019, but somewhere in his head it was still about 1935. One of the first things he did on my arrival was to give me a long list of rules of the house. It went on for pages of closely printed script. I didn’t read it all. That was to be my downfall.

I was still standing on the landing. Uncle Ralph glared at me from the bedroom. “Stand there, in the doorway. Watch and learn,” he spoke in a clipped style; I suppose this was how he spoke to his men in the army. I paused, a little embarrassed. What was going on here? Why was he so agitated? I looked over at John hoping I might get a signal from him, but he was too engrossed staring down at his own feet.

“Right lad!” Uncle Ralph barked. “This is what you are going to do.” He paused and wiped spittle from his beard with the back of his hand. “Take down those trousers.” I’m sure my jaw must have dropped, I was gaping. John’s face contorted, I knew he wanted to say something, to perhaps make a protest, but he seemed to bite back his thoughts. His forehead shone with sweat although the room was quite cool.

“Get them down. Now, lad,” Uncle Ralph glared. “Or do you want me to do it for you?” “No Father, no,” the threat spurred John into action. He wore cheap track pants and all he had to do was pinch the sides of the elasticated waistband and guide them down over his thighs. They snagged at the knees. “All the way. Step out of them,” Uncle Ralph ordered.

I am no expert on these things, but it looked like John was in a trance. He kept his eyes trained on the floor as he leaned forward and took hold of the sweats and wriggled his feet free of them. He straightened up and now stared blankly at the wall. I followed his gaze; there was nothing in his sightline, only plain white wallpaper. He stood, shoulders straight, hands clasped behind his back. His plain blue t-shirt hung long enough to cover most of his tight, yellow-and-maroon-striped briefs. I noticed John’s legs were virtually hairless.

My own throat dried as I it began to dawn on me what Uncle Ralph intended to do. I don’t have the words to describe my thoughts, but I was baffled. John was clearly in Uncle Ralph’s power. He would obey any command of the old man. That became clear when Uncle Ralph intoned. “Take down the pants. Step out of them.” My heart beat fast; I can only imagine what was going on inside John’s chest. The perspiration had now spread from his forehead and his top lip was moist. Still in a trance, he slipped his thumbs under his pants and pushed them south. He stood unsteadily on one leg and then on the other so he was able to step out of them without toppling to the floor.

John was now naked from the waist down. He straightened up. His shirt covered some of his privates but I had a clear view of his hairy ball sack. John was on some kind of autopilot. He stood waiting for Uncle Ralph’s next instruction. Almost without thinking he cupped his hands together and rested them so they obscured my view of his cock.

All this couldn’t have taken more than a few seconds but for me time was standing still. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion making it seem like minutes had passed. Uncle Ralph was in no hurry. He stood impassively, looking down his long curved nose at his son. His beady eyes were glazed. Through his beard I saw the tip of his tongue dart out of his mouth and slowly run across his top lip. He shot John a withering look and without a word he walked across the bedroom. I watched transfixed as he stopped at an old battered dressing table, opened a drawer and reached inside. I heard a clumping sound before his hand emerged holding a block of wood. Uncle Ralph used his hip to close the drawer before turning to face me. The block of wood was about the size of a DVD cover. He held it by a small handle. He waved it through the air and said, “In this house you follow the rules. Or else.”

He said no more and then slowly he walked the three or four steps necessary to take him to the bed. He sat down on the edge, rather like it was a sofa so that his feet were firmly planted on the floor. He looked across at John. “Bend over my knee.” It was a clipped command. Uncle Ralph was used to being obeyed. There was not the slightest doubt in his mind that John would submit to his will. And so he did.

I realised at that moment that this scene that was so strange and unusual to me had probably been played out many times before. Or ones very similar to it. John definitely knew the part he had to play in this drama and he did not fluff his lines. He looked across at Uncle Ralph, now sitting legs apart, took a deep breath and in one continuous movement took two paces forward and lowered himself across Uncle Ralph’s knees. He wriggled for a moment until his chest and arms were stretched out along the mattress. From where I was at the bedroom door I had a perfect view of John’s backside which he raised high over Uncle Ralph’s lap.

There was a second or two while Uncle Ralph ran his eyes over John’s prone body, I could tell that he felt something wasn’t quite right. Then he took hold of the end of John’s shirt and pushed it further up his back. Now, John’s buttocks were completely bare.  I hadn’t noticed before (why should I?) that John’s bum was broad and meaty, it was as hairless as his legs and the skin was quite pale.

I was rooted to the ground. My eyes must have been out on stalks. My heart pounded and I was now as sweaty as John. I had never witnessed anything like this before. It didn’t seem real. I couldn’t wait for Uncle Ralph to whack that wood across John’s naked, meaty bum. But Uncle wasn’t quite ready; he looked across at me and said, “I will not hesitate to give you the same treatment if your behaviour warrants it.” I croaked back, “Yes, sir.”

Uncle Ralph turned his attention back to the job in hand. He used John’s back as a shelf to rest the wood and with his left hand he gripped John around the waist. He cupped the other hand and with his palm he gently traced the contours of John’s left cheek, around the circumference and into the undercurve where the bum and thigh meet. He slapped the bum gently at the highest point of the mounds. I clearly saw the flesh wobble. Once he had gone round the circuit of the left cheek, Uncle Ralph did the same with the right. I might have imagined this but John’s entire body appeared to relax while this took place.

John might have been relaxed, but I was not. My temples were now throbbing and I knew very soon I would have a raging headache – the tension was so great. Uncle Ralph retrieved the wood from John’s back and gripped the handle tightly. The muscles in his arms tensed. He raised the wood high and rocked back on the mattress; then he pounded it across the meatiest part of John’s right cheek. I heard a long, low whistling sound. John rose to his elbows and this just encouraged Uncle Ralph to press his hand into the small of John’s back. He was pinned down and was going nowhere. Uncle Ralph was in total control. The wood rose and fell and swatted into the left cheek.

I suppose the whole scene was surreal; dreamlike. Can you imagine in this day and age an eighteen-year-old boy submissively offering up his bared bottom to his father so the old man can spank it severely with a block of wood? Well, it happened. I am witness to that.

It didn’t take more than four or five swats of the small block to cover all of John’s fat bottom. His skin was pale and reddened very easily. In no time at all his bottom was aflame. If would have glowed in the dark if we turned off the lights. Even from a distance I saw the skin beginning to break. John was stoical, I suppose. He kept his bum raised high as best he could, but the spanking clearly hurt him. He dug his elbows into the mattress and raised his head, shaking it from side to side as each successive swat added to the heat in his rear end. His hair was wet with sweat and from what I cold see of it, his face was as scarlet as his bum. He wriggled his hips and his knees buckled, but he didn’t try to break free. I suppose all that writhing around was his body’s natural reaction to the pain.

z used otk bare bed sting

Uncle Ralph kept up a rhythmic pounding. First one cheek, then the next. Higher, then lower. Under the crease. On the crest of the mounds. Into the back of the thighs.  Even I , with my lack of experience, could see this was a thorough, well-planned and well-executed spanking. All done with military precision.

When he was ready, and only then, did Uncle Ralph lay the wood down on the mattress beside him. He paused a few seconds while John’s body recovered a little. Then, he intoned, “Punishment over. Stand up.” He released John’s waist and my cousin scurried off his knees and stood unsteadily. His eyes searched the room for his briefs and sweats. “Dismissed.” Uncle Ralph sounded like he was on parade. John found his clothes and without waiting to dress he bundled them under his arm and fled the room.

I moved to one side to let him pass. I stood unsure what I was supposed to do next. Uncle Ralph was breathless, his shirt stuck to his back, his beard glistened with sweat. He replaced the wood in the drawer. When he turned from the dresser the startled look in his eyes suggested he had forgotten I was there. He recovered instantly, “So now you know.” I nodded sagely, as if he were one of my professors explaining a complicated new theory.

“Good,” Uncle Ralph stepped ominously towards me, “Because now we have to deal with the little matter of your absence without leave from college yesterday afternoon.”

My knees buckled. In my mind I saw John’s toasted backside, the glowing, flesh, the small cuts to the flesh. The humiliation of presenting his bare bottom for chastisement. My mouth gaped open and shut, it was a good impression of a goldfish stranded out of water.

“Wait for me in the kitchen,” Uncle Ralph spoke clearly and with authority. “I have to change my shirt.” He glowered at me, “Off! Now!” I sprang into action, only now getting some inkling of the control this man possessed. No wonder John had been so submissive. It was almost addictive.

I waited in the kitchen for ten minutes or so. How had he known I had skipped Uni. yesterday afternoon? What else did he know? I paced the room. I had no doubt what Uncle Ralph intended to do. Would I let him? Could I let him? Would I have the same fortitude as John to submit to punishment. Me, eighteen years old, nineteen next September, spanked on the bare bottom! All kinds of absurd thoughts befuddled my brain. What if the guys at Uni. ever found out!

Uncle Ralph’s arrival in the kitchen brought me back to earth. He had obviously showered and a heady aroma of coal tar soap wafted from him. I hardly noticed this; all I saw was the heavy, wooden hairbrush he gripped in his fist.

“So, AWOL from college. Yes.” I suppose he might have meant it as a question, but it sounded like a very definitive statement to me so I stayed quiet. “Yes?” he spoke loudly, as if to a hundred men, “Yes! Guilty as charged?” I murmured agreement. “Right,” he picked up a straight-backed kitchen chair with one hand and manoeuvred it away from a table and into space. He set it down heavily. “You now understand the rules of engagement.” It was another question posed as a statement. My head was spinning. What was he talking about. Engagement?

“Doh!” he was losing what little patience he ever had. “You know what is expected of you?” I must have still looked blank. “You know what to do?” He sat on the chair and wriggled his buttocks until he was comfortable. He sat upright in the chair and leaned back. He parted his legs slightly. Even I, befuddled as I was, could see he had prepared a perfect platform for me to submit myself.

“Right lad,” he barked, Uncle Ralph was incapable of speaking in a normal tone of voice, “Stand there.” He clicked his fingers and pointed to a spot on the floor a metre or so from his right knee. Looking back, some of what happened is hazy in my memory, but other parts are as clear as a bell. I know it happened, I’ve got the bruises to prove it. It was like an out-of-body experience. I stood where instructed. Uncle Ralph waved a hand at me. “Get those jeans down.” I stared down at myself. Of course, I’ve taken jeans off thousands of times before but at this precise moment I was unclear how it was done. I was baffled by the complexity of my belt. How do I get the end out of the buckle. What do I do with that prong thing? It seemed to take me for ever to get the damn thing unbuckled and open. Then, there was the challenge of undoing the top button and getting the zipper to work. Somehow , don’t ask me how, I got the jeans to me knees. “All the way down,” Uncle Ralph’s voice, loud as it was, seemed to be coming from a very long distance. I bent from the trunk and with my hands pushed the jeans until they bundled on top of my feet.

“Bend over my knee,” the command was terse. How was this done exactly? I had seen John earlier go over Uncle Ralph’s lap, but that was on a bed and John rested his arms on the mattress; where I was I supposed to put mine? Despite these absurd thoughts, I slowly lowered myself over Uncle Ralph’s right leg. There is a certain amount of instinct involved in something like this, so with my stomach perched over his thigh I stretched my body so my chest lay on his left knee. This meant my arms naturally were ahead of me. I parted them by a metre or so and pressed my palms into the cold floor tiles. I couldn’t see because I was now staring directly down but behind me my own knees were slightly bent and my bottom was poking up at an angle.

I felt Uncle Ralph lay the wooden brush on my back, just as he had with John. I flinched as he took hold of the top of my pants. But, instead of ripping them down and exposing my bare bottom, he griped the waistband and tugged. They already fitted me snugly, but now they were so tight I could feel the cotton pulled up into my crack. Uncle Ralph took me lightly by the hip to hold me steady. That was when I felt his big hand rub across my buttocks. He was smoothing away any wrinkles in the pants – and (I suspect) having a good feel while he was at it.

He said nothing while doing all this so I had no warning when he started slapping his hand across my backside. Through the thin underpants I could tell his hand was hard and rough. I had no experience being spanked so I didn’t know how much it was supposed to hurt. He lay it on hard and rapidly. Smack-smack-smack. It was much quicker than the way he had spanked John. My bum was warming up. It didn’t hurt – well, not too much – it was like an intense tingle, if that makes any sense.

z used brush otk pants chair brush straightladsspankedotcom (1a)

I lay face down looking intently at the floor. A ball of dust floated by my face. I noticed a water stain where the tiles had not been dried properly after they were cleaned. I concentrated on this, as if it might take my mind off the humiliation I was suffering. I felt a movement in Uncle Ralph’s body. He picked up the brush and whacked me hard with it. I gasped at the shock of this sudden pain. It hurt so much more than the palm of his hand. I heard Uncle Ralph wheezing as he laid the brush across my stretched underpants. Oh my how it hurt!

I don’t know how many whacks he gave me. I do know I kicked my legs and waved my arms about. “Keep still. Keep still,” Uncle Ralph ordered. I had very little control over my body, I couldn’t have obeyed even if I wanted to. “Keep still, it’ll be all the worst for you,” he said. The warning was lost on me. I kept on struggling. Suddenly, the pounding stopped, I drew in great gulps of air. The pain was intense but as soon as he stopped hammering my bottom, it started to dissolve into something like a constant throbbing.

If I thought my spanking was over, Uncle Ralph had another idea. He lay the brush on my back again and with both hands he clutched the waist of my underpants. I might have made a yell of protest, I can’t be sure. Not that it did me any good. My bum was bare. Uncle Ralph took hold of the brush again and he took my tail off! He pressed his elbow into my back and that stopped me wriggling around too much. I may not have been willingly submitting myself to him, but he was my master. He could (and would) spank me for as long and as hard as he wished and I had to lay there face down, bared-bottom quivering until he was ready to stop.

This is where my recollection becomes hazy. I know my bum was on fire and my entire body ached, but also in some crazy way that I don’t have the words to explain, I was flying high. I’ve smoked some dope in my time and taken other drugs at parties, but nothing had ever made me fly like this. Go figure, I can’t.

At some point, Uncle Ralph set me free. I remember jumping up and down and rubbing away at my roasted bottom. Then, I was face down on my bed. Next morning, I had to sneak into the utility room very early and launder the bedsheets before my aunt saw them. Later, I spent time very carefully reading the printed list of rules Uncle Ralph gave me when I arrived. I made careful note of all the offences I could commit that would earn me a jolly good spanking.

 

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures / straight lads spanked dot com

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Uncle loses his patience

z used new story 2

z used pyjamas taking down domestic sting (2a)

Right Trent, this is what’s going to happen. You are going to take down those pyjama bottoms and bend over my knee. I’ve warned you often enough. Ever since we took you in you’ve been nothing but trouble. Now, you’ve left your aunt in tears with your rudeness. I will not stand for it. I won’t have it. Do you understand?

You’re well overdue a spanking. I don’t know how your father brought you up, but in this house we know how to behave. You stick to the rules. My rules. And Aunt Marie’s, of course. You don’t do that, you get a spanking. It really is as simple as that. And, if you don’t like it you can see if your new stepdad will take you in. I doubt it. Who would want an obnoxious brat like you living it them? If you weren’t Aunt Marie’s nephew, I’d’ve thrown you out a long time ago.

Take them down, I said. I’m not playing games here. Let’s see if a bare-bottomed belting will buck your ideas up.

Don’t wave your arms at me! You are not too old for a spanking. And, I’ll tell you something else, you might be nearly nineteen but for as long as you live in my house I’ll spank you every time I think you need it. You don’t want to be spanked, then learn to behave, it really I as simple as that. Now, take down those pyjamas, unless you want me to do it for you.

That’s better. Now, let them fall all the way. Don’t worry you’ve got nothing I haven’t seen before. Now, bend over my knee. No, keep your hands well out of the way. Stretch out in front of you. Touch the floor. Or hold on to the chair leg. Keep your head nice and low. Try to lift up your bottom a little.

That’s better. Now, let’s get this jacket out of the way. Let the dog see the rabbit. There we are. A nice bare bottom. I don’t suppose this has ever been spanked before. More’s the pity. If your dad had used his belt on you I wouldn’t need to be doing this.

Be quiet. You’re a big lad, you ought to be able to take a strapping without all this fuss. You deserve this and you know it. I’ll tan your hide until it’s good and red. You’ll be sleeping on your stomach tonight lad, if I have my way. I’d like to see you explain the marks away to your girlfriend tomorrow ….

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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Uncle keeps his word

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z used after pyjamas bed sting (6)

Once upon a time there was a young man called Nick. Nick had just finished school and was waiting for his examination results and he hoped they would be good enough for him to go to university.

Nick was a typical eighteen year old. He thought the world owed him a living and that everything would be put on a plate for him and he wouldn’t have to make an effort. One day Nick’s Mum and Dad said they were going to go away on holiday, but they didn’t want him to go with them.

“Suits me fine,” he said. “I don’t mind.” And, he really didn’t mind because he had a plan all worked out for when they were away. My, what fun he could have with the house to himself. Party time! Oh, he thought of all the beer and the drugs and the girls. Especially, the girls. He rubbed his hands together with glee.

“Your Uncle George will be staying in the house while we’re away,” his Mother told him. Oh, how Nick’s face fell. “Not Uncle George,” he groaned. “Yes,” his Mother said. “He’s promised to decorate our bedroom and the kitchen while we’re away. Isn’t that kind of him,” she beamed. “Oh,” she said, as if she had only just thought of the idea, “Since you haven’t got a job, I want you to help him.” What she meant, of course, is because you haven’t bothered to get a job you lazy good for nothing …

Nick groaned some more and stormed out of the room and up the stairs to his room. He took the magazine with dirty pictures from under his mattress and tossed himself off a couple of times, while he waited for his Mother to make him his tea. “Bloody Uncle George,” he fumed.

So, it was that two weeks later Uncle George arrived. He was Nick’s Mother’s brother and was a few years older than her. His own children had all grown up and flown the nest. When he was younger Nick had been pally with his cousin, Terry. Oh the tales Terry told him. Nick didn’t know whether to believe some of them. “He spanks you when you don’t do what he tells you,” Nick was astounded, “with a clothes brush!” No, he knew Terry was having him on. That was until one day, when the two of them were alone in Uncle George’s house, Terry took down his trousers, and his underpants, and then he pointed his bare bum at Nick. There embossed in red over and over and over again all across Terry’s cheeks were the images of the head of the brush. Every inch of the eighteen-year-old’s bum was scorched.

So when Uncle George arrived to start his decorating  job, Nick decided to keep out of the way. He hardly left his bedroom. Not until Uncle George came hammering on Nick’s door. “Oi! Get up you lazy so-and-so. There’s work to be done.” Luckily for Nick, Uncle George didn’t hear the youngster’s response that he should …. Well, you can probably guess what he said.

Uncle George burst open the door. Oh, how annoyed he was to see Nick was on his bed and still in his pyjamas, even though it was gone two in the afternoon. Uncle George’s mouth opened and closed like a goldfish but no words came out. He was astounded. This would never be allowed in his house, Uncle George thought to himself. I would never allow it. Something had to be done.

Uncle George was a fair man. He thought everybody deserved a chance. That was only right and proper. But then again they only deserved one chance. Uncle George stood in the doorway with his feet spread wide. He was much taller and heavier (and, of course, older) than Nick and he made an imposing figure. “Right, young man,” he spoke forcefully and Nick could only lay there and listen.

Uncle George told his nephew the facts of life. The facts of life when Uncle George was in control. Uncle George told Nick what time he was to get up in the morning. What tasks he was going to do helping with the decorating. Then he told Nick that it was going to be his job to do the grocery shopping and the cooking. The list of things Nick had to do just went on and on. Then, at last, Uncle George finished by telling Nick he had to be home no later than ten-thirty every night and he had better not go out drinking if he knew what was good for him.

Nick was dumbfounded. He didn’t know what to do. He wouldn’t admit it to anybody but he was a little afraid of Uncle George and after what cousin Terry had shown him, Nick knew he had every reason to be. He didn’t argue with Uncle George. He couldn’t see the point. He would just ignore him. Well, okay he thought, he could help with the painting. But the shopping and cooking. No way Jose.

“Now, get up, you lazy little so-and-so,” Uncle George growled. He waited until Nick was out of bed and in the bathroom before he went downstairs to make himself a cup of tea. It was some time later before Nick put in an appearance. Uncle George did not hide his irritation. At that moment he knew for sure that Nick was going to be a handful. He wouldn’t play ball easily. That was why Uncle George said to Nick, “You know what I expect from you. If I don’t get your full cooperation, it will be a spanking for you. I think you know  mean it.”

Nick couldn’t see his own face but he was pretty sure it had turned scarlet. Spanking. Yes, Nick believed his uncle. “A spanking, he thought, “Just you try it buster.”

Like I said, Nick thought the world revolved around him and always would. He had no intention of coming home at half-ten. No way was he going to stay out of the pub. Why should he, just because Uncle George said so.

So later that day Nick went to meet his friends. They had a right good time. Nick copped a feel with some girl he used to go to school with, but she wouldn’t give him more than that. After about six pints of Stella Artois he rumbled home at close to midnight and crawled into bed. Uncle George knew he had missed curfew but had no intention of waiting up half the night for his nephew to come home.

Next morning Uncle George had to make his own breakfast because lazy Nick was still in bed. He watched the minute hand on the clock move closer to the twelve. It was now ten o’clock. “Right,” Uncle George said out loud even though he was quite alone in the room, “That does it. I told him. I am a man of my word.”

Uncle George had expected trouble with Nick so he was prepared for it when it came. Slowly, for he was not in a temper, he went up the stairs into the room that he was sleeping in. There, resting on the bedside table was his heavy, wooden clothes brush. Uncle George had owned the brush for years and he was very well acquainted with its properties. That is to say, as well as taking fluff off his jackets, it made a mighty fine spanking implement. He gripped it by the handle and could feel its weight. The head was oval shaped and was about six inches by four. It could leave a mark, especially when walloped with great force into bared buttock cheeks.

Uncle George stood still for a moment or two and took some deep breaths. He was just getting himself ready. He had already planned what he had to do. He didn’t expect Nick to meekly submit himself. There was no point Uncle George saying, “Come here you naughty boy. Take down your pyjamas and come and bend over my knee.” No, Uncle George knew that wasn’t going to happen. Unlike Uncle George’s own sons, Nick had not been brought up like that. He hadn’t had the training. And besides, Uncle George had no doubt that Nick was just a snivelling little coward.

Uncle George took a firm grip of the brush. Calmly, he left his room and took the few paces across the landing. He paused outside the door, counting to ten in his head. He was ready for action; locked to go. He turned the handle and with his shoulder shoved open the door. The noise he made woke Nick who was still dozing under the blanket. “Wor the …?” Nick’s blurry puzzlement meant he was caught off guard.

“I warned you.” That was all Uncle George said. Before Nick could move a muscle, Uncle George had ripped the blanket off Nick’s body. At that moment Nick saw the brush in Uncle George’s hand. “No!” he wailed but it was too late. Uncle George was strong and besides he had surprise on his side. He gripped Nick by the lapels of his pyjama jacket and with one almighty tug he had the eighteen-year-old sitting up. Then, Uncle George gripped Nick by the shoulders and in one quick, continuous movement he had Nick face down on the bed. The protests Nick made were muffled because he was almost chewing the mattress.

Uncle George was almost ready. There was only one thing still to be done. Nick was wriggling and writhing but Uncle George held him firmly down with his left arm. Then, with his right hand he gripped the waist of Nick’s pyjamas. They didn’t have elastic in them, but luckily (for Uncle George, but not Nick) the drawstring was not tied. This was because earlier Nick had undone it himself so he could get at his erect cock. Now, Uncle George could pull the pyjama bottoms down far enough that both bum cheeks were fully exposed.

Now, Uncle George put his right knee into Nick’s back. The lad was pinned face down. He was going nowhere. Not until Uncle George said so. And, Uncle George had no intention of saying so, not for some time yet. The thwack of the heavy, wooden brush connecting with young, firm flesh was a dull thud. But, each time the brush thudded it was accompanied by a gasp, or a yowl, or a yelp, and even a full-throated yell. Nick’s mouth was so close to the bed that most of the time he was spluttering. Spit dribbled from his mouth and along with the tears that pretty quickly flowed from his eyes, the bedsheet was pretty soon soaking.

Uncle George hammered the brush so that every pore of Nick’s flesh was scorching. He covered all of both buttock cheeks and even went into that really sensitive part where the bum meets the back of the thighs. Uncle George was an expert. He knew his job well and he was showing Nick the extent of his great expertise. On and on, he spanked.

Uncle George believed in retribution. You break the rules, you get punished. And, oh did Uncle George believe Nick deserved that spanking. He walloped him as if he had the strength of ten men. Nick quite truthfully had not known what hit him. Uncle George believed in punishment, but he was no sadist. He knew when to stop. And, he was nearly ready. He went round the circuit one more time, landing on areas of raw flesh that were already blistering. Then, satisfied with a job well done, Uncle Gorge stopped.

Uncle George did not say a word. He stood up and for a few moments he stood and watched Nick who was just lying face down and bleating like a new-born lamb who had lost its mother. Uncle George walked to the door and let himself out of the room. He paused one more time before closing it.

“Well,” he thought. “Now, the brat knows that I’m a man of my word.” Then Uncle George went down to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Double trouble – his first time

new story 2

z used otk pyjamas twosome chair sting (24)

Richard watched from the window as the small police panda car chugged down the long drive towards the road. “We’re for it now, once my father finds out,” he told his cousin Adrian. His companion shrugged his shoulders with indifference. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Richard sighed as the police car disappeared from sight. “It’ll be a spanking for sure,” he looked at his watch and wondered how long he had until his father returned home.

“What?” Adrian snapped, not able to hide the irritation he often felt with his cousin.

“A spanking,” Richard replied and left it at that.

“Ha! Ha! You’re joking, of course,” Adrian smiled but he felt no joy.

“We’re lucky PC Plodder hasn’t charged us. We’d be in big trouble then.”

“What are you talking about?” Adrian bunched his hand into a fist to try to control his temper.

“He’s in the same Lodge as my father. That’s why he didn’t book us. He knows father will take care of it.”

Adrian turned to his cousin, his face now colouring. He was beginning to understand his predicament. “You mean the copper and your father are friends?”

“Not friends exactly. Masons, you know the secret Lodge. Members look after one another.”

“So what? The copper thinks your father’s going to spank us?” Adrian failed to keep the scornful tone out of his voice.

“That’s about the size of it.”

“But, I’m eighteen,” Adrian barked with incredulity.

“Well so am I,” his cousin responded evenly. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“You cannot be serious!” Adrian stormed across the room and exited in a fury. “You’ve taken leave of your senses.” Richard watched quietly as he went. “You’ve got a lot to learn,” he said but there was nobody in the room to hear.

Richard followed his cousin out of the house into the spacious grounds. “Come on,” he said cheerfully, “Let’s go to the tennis court for a while.” They started knocking a ball back and forth half-heartedly, not speaking. After an hour they saw Maisie, one of the housemaids, exit the house and purposefully approach them. She curtseyed and spoke respectfully to Richard. “The Master says you are both to change into your pyjamas and then go to his study.” She blushed, turned on her heels and scurried back to the house.

Adrian stared open mouthed at her arse. “Quite a tart that one,” he said with admiration in her hearing. “Great arse. Nice pair of tits too. Do you shag her?” Richard blushed a scarlet rage. “Come on!,” he snapped, “We mustn’t keep my father waiting.” He hurried off leaving his cousin in his wake.

Adrian caught Richard up in the bedroom. Already he was stripping out of his clothes. “So, you’re going through with this?”

Richard sighed, “Get changed quickly. We mustn’t keep him waiting. We’ll get extra.”

Adrian looked dumbfounded, “You’re going to let him spank you?”

Richard could not hide his irritation. “Don’t blame me. It’s your fault. I didn’t want to break into that orchard.  Told you we’d get caught. I don’t even like apples.”

Adrian struggled to retain his temper. This was too much. His cousin was such a wimp.

Richard pulled on his pyjama bottoms, “C’mon, it’s just a spanking, that’s all.” He caught the embarrassed eye of his cousin. “Oh no!” he shrieked and waved his arms theatrically. “I don’t believe it. You’ve never been spanked!”

“Well …” Adrian spoke, but his words trailed off.

“You haven’t!” Richard giggled. “You cause so much trouble, I should have thought your father was always tanning your hide.” Adrian gave a crooked half smile and shrugged his shoulders in embarrassment.

Richard continued, “Your father doesn’t spank?”

“No. Never.”

“Oh well are you in for a treat. Now hurry up and change.”

Adrian was rooted to the spot. Richard by now buttoning up his pyjama jacket tried to console his cousin, “Don’t worry it won’t hurt so much.” Still Adrian made no move to change his clothes. “There’s no getting out of it, you do know that. Don’t you?”

Adrian grimaced. A spanking. At his age. His first spanking and he was eighteen years old. Reluctantly, he began to unbutton his shirt. It might have been a labour of Hercules it took him so long to change. Richard kept looking at his watch, time was disappearing fast. His father would be in a fury when they eventually arrived.

At last Adrian was ready. His face was like flint. His resentment was not hidden. “C’mon,” Richard gave him a playful slap on the bum. Adrian was not amused. “Let’s go,” Richard smiled ruefully. Adrian moved sluggishly as if he was being forced to carry the weight of the whole world on his shoulders.

Richard led the way from the room. “C’mon,” he said with mock cheerfulness, “It won’t be that bad.”

“Huh! Sez you,” Adrian struggled to control his temper as he followed his cousin from the room.

Richard despised his cousin at that moment. Adrian was the cause of all the trouble, but he refused to accept punishment. What a jerk! “Oh,” he called spitefully over his shoulder as he led the way down the stairs towards his father’s study, “Did I tell you he spanks us on the bare?” Oh how he enjoyed the look on Adrian’s fuming face.

Mr Jennings was a very angry man. His youngest son Richard and his nephew Adrian had disgraced the family. Common thieves. Guttersnipes! He was lucky PC Plodder had been the one to find them, otherwise the news would be all over the town. He grinded his teeth as he paced the room and waited for the pair to present themselves, his patience long ago evaporated.

“About time too,” he growled when the two eighteen-year-old boys at last stood in the doorway to his study. “What kept you?” Richard glowered at his cousin. They would get extra whacks for sure. He mumbled something or nothing in reply, but his father wasn’t interested.

“A disgrace,” he fumed. “Thieving. I don’t believe it.” The pair had the good grace to stare down at their feet shamefaced. There was nothing they could say. They had been caught, apples in hand. Bang-to-rights, as they said in the cheaper detective novels.

“Pah!” Mr Jennings let rip. He tore into them. His words were harsh. At last, exhausted he finished his verbal tirade. There was silence. Richard looked up from his carpet slippers and caught a glimpse of his father’s florid face. He saw genuine anger. He was not hamming it up. Things did not look good.

“You,” he barked at Adrian. The boy did not react. “Look at me when I’m talking to you!” reluctantly, Adrian straightened up. Did I tell you he spanks us on the bare? He had been unable to get Richard’s words out of his confused brain. This could not be happening. If he told his friends back home about this (not that he would dare) they would never believe him.

Mr Jennings now had his nephew’s full attention. “When I allowed you to stay with us while your parents were in India I promised your father I would treat you like a son,” he said, a wry smile on his lips. “I’d rather you didn’t,” Adrian thought but could not say. It would never have occurred to his own father to spank his bare backside, no matter how heinous was his crime. “I assume Richard has informed you of my standards,” Mr Jennings continued. Adrian in misery bit his bottom lip.

“Speak up boy!” Mr Jennings leaned into Adrian. “What have you got to say?” Adrian, usually a very confident, not to say cocky youngster, could only shrug his shoulders. “Spanking!” Mr Jennings barked. “In this house thieves get a spanking.” Adrian could not see it but he knew his face was on fire. Indignity mixed with embarrassment and just a touch of fear.

“Bah! Let’s get on with this. You,” he waved towards the far wall, “stand over there.” With trepidation Adrian shuffled the few paces necessary to cross the room. “Face the wall.” Mr Jennings sounded like an irate schoolmaster but he fell short of also instructing, “Hands on head.”

“Right,” Mr Jennings busied himself moving furniture. It was small room that he like to call his study but in fact it was an office he used for his business. It was dominated by a large desk and in the space between that and the door stood two armless leather chairs and a small coffee table. He moved the table with his leg and lifted one of the chairs and swivelled it so it faced into the room. It gave him enough room for his purpose. “Hand me one of your slippers,” his instruction was terse. He expected to be obeyed (he always was). Richard hopped on one leg and trying not to fall flat on his face he dislodged the slipper from his left foot. He handed it to his father, trying hard not to catch the old man’s eyes.

Richard was no stranger to corporal punishment as he had made plain to Adrian. Even so, he liked it to be over and down with. His father had other ideas. Although he had never consciously thought about it Mr Jennings believed there ought to be ritual involved in a spanking. He was not a man to grab his victim by the scruff of the neck and haul him across a desk, a chair or indeed his knee. Mr Jennings was calm and collected, as he was in all aspects of his life.

Now that he had the instrument of punishment in his hand he sat himself down on the chair. He wriggled his bottom until he was comfortable and pressed his knees together. “Take down your pyjama bottoms and bend over my knee,” he commanded. At that point Adrian who had stood, his heart pounding and his nose inches from the dusty wall, spun his head round and stared with astonishment at the two. He had never been spanked in his life, nor had he seen anyone else so punished. His throat dried and his breathing quickened as he watched his cousin with steady hands untie the drawstring to his pyjamas. Then he let them tumble to his ankles. He stood naked from the waist down.  Adrian’s eyes popped. He had never seen a cock quite so long. He had given up physical education classes at school when he was sixteen and was not a sportsman so had never seen a fully-grown man naked.

His awaking was short lived since Richard stoically placed the palms of his hands on his father’s right thigh and slowly lowered himself until he lay across his knee. Mr Jennings was an expert disciplinarian; he knew the perfect position for his son. He had not spread his legs to create a platform for Richard to drape across. Instead, Mr Jennings’ knees were so close together they formed a pinnacle which meant Richard’s bottom was raised high. Like this his head was low and he could have kissed the hard wooden floor had he wished. Behind him his knees were bent so that his toes hardly brushed the ground.

Adrian had never seen a man’s cock before, nor had he seen a bare bottom. He stared with fascination. Richard’s buttocks were smooth and hairless. Adrian had never inspected his own bum but he was sure it was not as beautiful as his cousin’s. Richard’s buttocks were round and meaty, but Adrian could see there was not an ounce of spare fat.

Although it was not necessary for any practical purpose, Mr Jennings took hold of his son’s pyjama jacket and carefully rolled it up his back. It was part of the ritual of spanking. Adrian saw Richard’s back was as hairless as his bottom. Adrian saw his uncle grip the slipper in his left hand while with his right palm he carefully caressed Richard’s buttocks. It was as if he were trying to smooth away wrinkles. Richard stared blankly at the floorboards and pressed both palms down into the ground, he was preparing himself for the ordeal about to start.

His father was not quite ready. He traced his palm across Richard’s buttocks, stroking each cheek. He patted the undersides where they meet the thighs and gave him a couple of almost friendly slaps across the peak of the mounds.

What little spit that was in Adrian’s mouth dried as he watched Mr Jennings transfer the slipper from his left to his right hand. Without further ado he raised it high above his shoulder and brought it down with a resounding crack across Richard’s tight bottom. The noise it made echoed around the small room, startling Adrian. Richard blinked hard but otherwise gave no sigh that his left buttock was throbbing. Mr Jennings hammered the slipped across every available inch of creamy-white flesh. Within seconds the imprint of the sole of the slipper had been embossed over and over and over across Richard’s bottom.

Adrian watched in fascination. Richard’s bum was glowing. It looked very hot. It must be incredibly painful. “Face the wall. I shan’t tell you again.” Mr Jennings roared. Adrian pressed his nose against the wall. He could no longer see his cousin being spanked but the sound of slipper connecting with flesh rapidly and with force reminded Adrian that before too long he and Richard would be changing positions. He rubbed his palms across his own bottom in anticipation.

Richard was a veteran. He took his spanking well. That meant he gave little resistance. He kept his bottom high and his head low and submitted himself to punishment. His bum was sore and his heartrate quickened. Air hissed through his clenched lips. His eyes blinked ferociously. When his father pounded the slipper across Richard’s naked thighs the pain intensified. Richard’s legs flailed and his waist wriggled. There was nothing Richard could do about any of this, it was his body’s natural reflex action as it tried to deal with the pain. Mr Jennings tightened his grip around his son’s waist and carried on. He was a long way yet from the finishing line.

In the hall outside the study Maisie, the housemaid, tea things at the ready, waited patiently. The door was ajar so she peeked inside. She was pleased nobody was around so she was able to crack a broad smile and enjoy the spectacle when Adrian dropped his pyjamas and offered up his bare bottom to Mr Jennings’ slipper.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The party’s over

new story 2

z used belt twosome pants couch sting 2

Dick and Dave were sure they were in the clear. Dominic would never find out. They had covered their tracks well. It was A Result. But, they hadn’t reckoned on a nosey neighbour.

Dominic was going away to an important conference in Paris; his son Dave and nephew Dick were eighteen; he thought surely they were old enough to behave responsibly while he was gone. Then, he saw an old movie on television. It put doubts in his mind. It was Risky Business the early Tom Cruise one where he dances around in his tighty-whities. While his parents are away he holds a party and before you know it the house is turned into a brothel. A priceless glass object gets damaged along the way.

“If it had been me I’d have had that Tom Cruise over the back of the couch,” the man from across the road told Dominic, “And I’d have paddled his backside until it glowed in the dark. After first taking down those underpants.” There was no answer to that so Dominic didn’t even try.

It put him in a bad mood. What if the kids did have a party and it got out of hand? Dominic thought he had found the answer. He called Dick and Dave together and clearly in words of one syllable he ordered, “No parties while I’m away. No guests. No nothing.” That was settled: they knew the rules.

Teenagers being teenagers the words went in one ear and out the other. The lads had already made plans before Dominic spoke. The party was swell. Lots of people turned up and there was booze and drugs. Dave got laid. Dick didn’t; he was beginning to realise he didn’t much like girls. He still had to come to terms with that. No drinks were spilt; no priceless objects were damaged and no carpets were burnt with cigarettes. After the vacuum cleaner had done its work, no one would have known the party had happened.

Except the man across the street. The Avenue is a long road of mostly detached houses. Dominic’s was sheltered from the road by a wall and a gate. That didn’t stop the man. His lace curtains twitched the whole time Dominic was away and his camera phone was never far from his hand.

Dave never much liked the man. He thought he was a bit creepy and always looked at him oddly. He wasn’t the least surprised when his dad told him the man had split on him and Dick. “I am very disappointed in the pair of you,” Dominic said. He was too. It was bad enough that they had a party but they had defied his explicit instructions. He could never allow defiance; the world would go to Hell in a handcart if he did.

“I told you no parties and you defied me,” he said as he unbuckled his belt. If Dick and Dave had any doubts about his intentions they vanished when he pulled the belt through the loops on his trousers with a flourish. The belt made a terrific THWAP sound. Dick’s eyes popped on stalks, “B.. we’re too old to be spanked,” he stuttered. Inwardly Dave cursed his cousin, “Don’t say that, it’ll only encourage him to wallop us even harder.”

Dominic grunted. He was a man used to giving orders. He expected them to be obeyed – without question. His business empire was built on this. He spoke quietly and clearly, “What I want you two to do is take off your jeans and kneel on that sofa and bend over the back of it.” He waved the leather belt at a small two-seater couch in case there was any doubt what he meant.

“B …” Dick tried to speak but the fierce glare in Dominic’s hazel eyes stopped him dead. Dave, no stranger to his dad’s belt was already unfastening his jeans. “You too,” Dominic pointed at Dick, “Get on with it.”

Dick’s face coloured bright red. How could this be happening? He was eighteen years old, a student at a top university and here he was being made to take off his jeans so his uncle could spank his bottom with a belt. A sudden thought gripped him, “Please God don’t make me take down my pants!” By now, Dave had slipped his jeans over his feet and laid them neatly on a coffee table. He stood without obvious embarrassment in t-shirt and boxer shorts and waited for his cousin to catch up.

Dick eyed Dave; noticing the bulge in the front of his boxers. Dave gave him a half-smile by way of encouragement. He wanted this over as quickly as possible. Dick responded by pulling the zipper of his jeans. He couldn’t easily control his hands but at last he had the jeans down and over his feet. He dropped them untidily alongside Dave’s on the table.

“Get over the sofa,” Dominic folded his belt as he spoke. In response to Dick’s puzzled look, he said, “Watch Dave, he’ll show you how to do it.” Dave turned to face the sofa and climbed on the seat one knee at a time. Once settle he leaned over its back so that his face was staring down at the carpet. In this way his head was low and his bottom high. It made a very good target for Dominic’s belt. Dick watched in awe. Until then he hadn’t realised how firm and round his cousin’s bum was. His navy-blue boxers fitted him snugly and contrasted with his smooth, almost hairless legs.

His own pale-blue boxers didn’t fit him half as well; it served him right for buying cheap ones at Primark. His hands had stopped shaking so much and he placed them on the back of the sofa to steady himself as he copied his cousin’s position. The two eighteen-year-olds were now side by side over the back of the couch, their heads so close together Dick could smell the beer on Dave’s breath. He turned his head slightly to look closely at his cousin, he seemed perfectly calm. How many times had Dave been over this sofa, he wondered.

He felt Uncle Dominic take hold of his t-shirt and move it up his back. A slight breeze from an open window flowed over his naked flesh. He felt his uncle move and realised he was doing the same with Dave’s shirt. He closed his eyes. Unlike Dave he had never been spanked before. Not once; not even as a very small kid. He felt his buttocks tense as Uncle Dominic touched his belt across the middle of his left cheek. He was getting his aim.

Dominic paused, he wasn’t quite ready. “Bottoms a little higher please, jut them out more.” He knew having a lad kneel like this was by far the best posture for punishment. It curved the buttocks and exposed more flesh for the belt so it could make contact with large areas. It was most effective when he stood near the boy’s head and brought the strap down from over his shoulder. This way he achieved considerable movement so the strikes of the leather were fearsome and the long belt connected with the bum and thighs with every stroke.

It was embarrassing enough to be aged eighteen and spanked for the first time but getting it alongside your cousin was too much. Dick thought he would die after he let out an almighty squeal as the strap connected with his lower bottom and thigh. By contrast, Dave took each lash without fuss. In no time both lads’ bottoms were a mass of welts: Dominic was some expert with the belt. “Keep that bottom still,” he chided Dick whose buttocks bounced up and down and his waist slew from side to side. Dave stared down at the carpet concentrating on a small dark stain and thinking maybe after all they hadn’t cleaned up so well after the party.

Dominic leathered each boy in turn: one for Dick, one for Dave and then back to Dick. And so it went on, leather rising and pounding into buttocks, again and again and again. Dick could not see this but beneath the cotton boxers his bum first turned deep pink and then various shades of yellow and orange until it was deep crimson. He sucked in great gulps of air and shut his teeth as the pain intensified. It was a warm afternoon and soon Dominic’s face was drenched in sweat but he was strong as an ox, he felt he could go on all day. Dominic believed in punishment, deep in his soul he was a man of God.

A dull pain had long since transformed into an almighty throb only to become an agonisingly searing pain across the whole of Dick’s bottom area. He had no power to resist and knelt face-down staring at the floor. Tears washed the backs of his eyes and soon they trickled down his cheeks.

Dave held back his tears but his bum felt like he had been forced to sit in a bath of scolding water. His temples throbbed and his heart was pounding.

Dominic was not a cruel man but he believed in retribution and punishment. He would make the two eighteen year olds suffer for disobeying him. He whipped another two dozen lashes across the four buttock cheeks presented submissively to him. That was enough. Dominic was certain he had made his point.

The two lads crawled off the sofa and stood unsteadily. “Get dressed,” Dominic ordered and watched Dick and Dave struggle into their jeans. Pain was etched on their faces. He congratulated himself on a job well done. “Go to your rooms.” Dominic watched Dick and Dave hobble out the door all three of them unaware of a shadow stretching across the window blinds as the man from across the street pocketed his camera phone and tiptoed down the path towards the gate.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Uncle Dwight has a ‘little word’

new story 2

I stood up and then I sat down again. I fidgeted for a few moments and then I stood up. I paced across the tiny room. It took no more then five steps. I turned, looked at the clock on the mantlepiece. He was late. I peered out of the window. The sun hadn’t yet gone down. It was a little after seven. It was early summer. It wouldn’t get dark for three more hours at least. I wanted him to hurry up. I promised to meet my mates in the pub at eight.

I paced back to the armchair and sat down. I looked at my watch. It was hardly a minute since I had last checked the time. I fidgeted some more. I picked up the Brocklehurst Bugle. With intense irritation I turned the pages. There was nothing worth reading. There never was. Nothing ever happened in Brocklehurst. I couldn’t wait to get away. I wouldn’t have too long to wait; I had an escape route planned.

Uncle Dwight was supposed to be here at seven. He was late. Damn him! Why couldn’t he be on time. It was his idea to meet. I would rather not, but I had no choice. He wanted to have “a little word” – just the two of us. Sometime when we could be alone. Well Friday night was the only time I had the house to myself. Mum was at her Bingo! and my younger sister at Brownies. It was the only time all week I could be sure of being alone. Not that I ever stayed in. Friday night was pub night with the guys from school. Well to be honest that wasn’t entirely true. Friday night was Have A Wank Night; then a shower and then out to the Dog and Biscuit pub.

But not this time. I wasn’t in the mood to pull one off. I did try but even the “hard core” magazine we lads had been swopping was no use. Uncle Dwight was coming to have his “little word”; and that put all other thoughts out of my head.

I paced the room again and pulled the net curtains to one side to see through the window. I had a reasonable view of the street. No sight of Uncle yet. I looked at the clock. Ten past: what was keeping him. Of course, when Uncle said he wanted “a little word” he didn’t really mean a little word he meant something else. I didn’t expect there to me much talking.

Uncle Dwight was my mum’s brother. He worked mostly on the oil rigs and was only in town for a few weeks every year. During that time he liked to “catch up” on family events. I called it poking his nose in where it wasn’t wanted, but, of course, I had no say in the matter. Things were tense at home. I was eighteen and hated it there. I couldn’t wait to get out of that dreadful house and the stinking town. My school examinations were due in a few weeks’ time. I intended to pass and go off to university; then I’d never have to return to Brocklehurst ever again.

I knew I’d get to the university.  I had passed my eleven-plus exam at the end of primary school and went to the grammar, where I excelled. Mum was a cleaning-lady and had left school aged fourteen. She had no use for book-learning. I don’t suppose she had read a book in her whole life. She was so ignorant she used to call the romance magazines she bought “books”. When I was much younger I made excuses for her ignorance. There had been a war on when she was a child and she went to work on the land. She didn’t have a chance. During my left-wing political phase (when I was about thirteen) I saw her as a martyr of “the system”, but then I discovered parents of my schoolfriends with similar histories had made decent lives for themselves. In truth, I thought, she wallowed in her ignorance.

I couldn’t stand to be in the same house as her. I spent a lot of time in the public library and when I was at home I hardly ever left my bedroom. After the age of about sixteen I don’t suppose I spoke a civil word to her. It’s a cliché, but in my case it was true, that I treated the house like a hotel. If I had the money I would’ve gladly lived in a hotel.

On his latest visit Mum unburdened herself to Uncle Dwight. He told me I was “rude, insolent, uncouth and offensive.” At least his vocabulary was wider than Mum’s. That wasn’t the end of it. Uncle Dwight said I had no respect for all the work she put in keeping me clothed and fed. If it wasn’t for her I wouldn’t have been able to stay on at school after I was sixteen. “Not true,” I barked back at him and told him of the scholarships I had won. “Me, alone,” I told him, “By using my brains.” I didn’t say it in so many words but I was letting Uncle Dwight know that I had no respect for him either. He was a manual worker although on more than one occasion I had heard him refer to himself as “semi-skilled”. I tried not to laugh.

By the time I had made my little speech, a “rant” Uncle Dwight called it, he had probably made up his mind. “You need taking down a peg or two. You’re getting too big for your britches,” he said. Britches! Where did he dig that one up, the sad old ignorant man? So, that was why I was pacing the tiny front room at the house waiting for hm to come for his “little word”.

Uncle Dwight eventually arrived close to half-past-seven. I suppose the bus was late. He had no car and couldn’t afford a taxi. Loser! He had his own door key so could let himself into the house. I stayed seated sinking into the armchair. Let him come find me. Why should I make an effort. Uncle Dwight was a large man, he was easily six or seven inches taller than me and probably had as many extra inches around his waist. He wore baggy jeans; cheap ones, bought at a supermarket and a collarless shirt that stretched against his vast belly and what people today call his “man boobs”. He sweated copiously; the summer weather is no friend to obese people. I looked him up and down in distain. How I loathed that man. I stayed seated and he came and stood over me; he blocked out the sun. I knew why he had come and he knew why he was there so there was no reason to go through all my supposed misdeeds again. No reason, but that didn’t stop Uncle Dwight from listing all my so-called faults. He finished his speech by saying that thing about being, “Too big for my britches” again. I managed not to sneer.

Then, he was ready to get down to business. “Stand up,” he ordered and when I didn’t he gripped hold of my forearm and hauled me to my feet. He may have been carrying about ten more stone in weight than me but he still had a lot of strength. I pouted and he pushed me away from the chair. He snarled and then took hold of the chair and turned it on its axis so that it pointed in a different direction. I watched, my heart racing (I admit it). This confirmed to me his intention. I had expected this. I was a bright boy after all. I was prepared for what I would do. “You need a darn good spanking!” he said. Darn! That, I was sure, was not a word they used on the oil rigs. “And that’s what you’re going to get,” he added unnecessarily since by now he was unbuckling his belt and trying to loosen it through the loops of his copious jeans. I watched in wonderment as he tried to perform this task: before then I hadn’t realised just how fat he really was.

In time he got the belt free. It was so long that he had to fold it three times before he could get it to a length that it might be used to whip me. I watched patiently and a little perplexed. He intended to spank me. Me, an eighteen-year-old man. An adult; a person who had the vote. He waved the belt around a bit; I supposed it was to intimidate me. Truthfully, it didn’t work. Oh how I hated him. I hated him because he was pig-ignorant; thick as two short planks (or, if you prefer, pig shit). I hated him because even though he was a moron, at this moment in time he had power over me. He had decided I should be spanked and what could I do about it? The obvious answer to that was refuse. Tell him: No, I wouldn’t let him. Then what? There would be an unseemly fight. He might over-power me, but I doubted it. The best would be he’d pin me down for a bit and whack at me indiscriminately with his belt. Some of the blows would certainly land.

I could walk out and go down the pub. How would that help? I’d have to come home sometime and we’d have the fight then. I knew Uncle Dwight was trying to keep our meeting secret from Mum so maybe the second round of the contest would be postponed for a week. But it would have to take place and there was a great chance Mum would find out. I didn’t want that to happen. Not because I wanted to spare her feeling, I just could stand all that huffing and sighing I would have to endure from her.

No! I had already decided. I hated all of them and in a couple of months (a few weeks!) I would have passed my examinations and be set to go away to university. My escape route. There was light at the end of the tunnel. Soon I would be free. Even at aged eighteen I understood the value of pragmatism. I would let the bastard belt me. So what! Who cared! Let him get on with it.

I didn’t say any of this to Uncle Dwight, I simply stood passively waiting for him to make his next move. This development might have thrown him somewhat. I remember he blustered, “Bend over the chair,” as he tapped his limp belt against the chair’s arm. I shrugged my shoulders in defiance. It was my way of saying, “Yeah! Whatever!” The chair was quite low and I could tell that a better bet would have been for me to go across its back as this way I would have presented a better target to Uncle Dwight. He couldn’t even get that right.

z used jeans couch waiting

I eased myself down across the arm of the chair. I was too tall for that position and had to tuck my arms into the side and bend my knees a lot so my bum could rest over the arm. A person needed to be a contortionist to do this right. I was as ready as I would ever be.

Like this my jeans stretched tightly across my buttocks and it felt like my cheeks had been lifted and separated. Uncle Dwight was silent. He shuffled behind me and although I couldn’t see him I knew he was trying to work out where he could stand so he could take aim at my bum. See, I knew I should have been over the back of the chair. He was wheezing mightily already and he hadn’t started yet. I had never been spanked, nor caned before but I had enough imagination to know what was likely to happen next. After much shuffling Uncle Dwight seemed to have worked out where he should stand.

I waited patiently, determined that I would not feel humiliated to be there, aged eighteen, offering up my bottom to be spanked by a fat middle-aged man. I could count the weeks before I would be free. Darn him! Let him do his worst. He whacked the belt across my backside. There was a loud crack as leather struck tight denim. I suddenly realised the window was wide open and feared any passer-by could hear. The last thing I wanted was the nosey neighbours knowing I had my bottom spanked. I buried my head in my arms and let Uncle Dwight get on with it.

He whacked the belt down about six or seven times before I realised I couldn’t feel a thing. The belt made a terrific noise there was no doubt about that, but as an instrument of punishment it was useless. Thinking about it later it was obvious why. The strap was thin and narrow and had no weight to speak of. My jeans were nearly new and made of thick denim. I was also wearing underpants. Add to that the fact that I was eighteen and not eight and was tough enough to withstand much more pain that Uncle Dwight could ever hope to inflict with his belt.

I lay passively, my head down and raised my bum as best as I could. “Come on then,” I was saying with my body, “Give it your best shot. You loser.” I can’t remember how many strokes (you couldn’t honestly call them “lashes”) he gave me but he could have gone on all night for all the effect it had on me. Before too long the effort was too much for him. He was not a man given to taking exercise and his body was about to remind him of that. If he continued he might have fallen down dead with a heart attack.

At last he wised up to the fact that it was time to stop. He was bent double (as far as his waist would allow) gasping for breath when I got to my feet. I stood watching him with utter contempt. I had not felt a thing during his so-called punishment.  I knew that once he had left and I checked my bum for damage it would be unblemished. What a loser! He couldn’t even spank me properly.

I didn’t wait for his permission before I headed upstairs. If I didn’t get a move on I’d be late meeting my pals. By the time I came down five minutes later Uncle Dwight had left the house. I gathered my wallet and keys and headed for the pub.

AFTERWARD.

That happened to me in 1973. I went to university and subsequently gained a masters degree and a doctorate. I travelled all over the world with my work. Mum and Uncle Dwight are both long since dead. I never returned to Brocklehurst; not even for their funerals.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Wiping the slate clean

new story 2

zused paddle otk pants domestic bbfc (2)

I was on a downward spiral, totally out of control, about to crash and burn. Everything I did or touched turned to dust. I had no hope left. Before long I would be in the gutter, my life in ruins. Or even worse, they’d be scooping my dead body off a pavement. Then, Uncle Gavin came along and helped me to wipe the slate clean.

My Dad died when I was thirteen. I’m not blaming him for what happened next, I’m just trying to put it into context. He had a heart attack and was gone. Mum was devastated, but I’m not blaming her either. I have no excuses, I know that now.  It was down to me. I have learnt to take responsibility for my actions; Uncle Gavin taught me that.

Dad left us well provided, so mine isn’t a story a story of depravation, of a boy reduced to abject poverty. Mum had her job working in an office for the Council. We were pretty well off. There was only me and her. We didn’t go without.

I don’t know if I’m a bright lad or not. I never applied myself at school. I wasn’t interested, so I never worked. I know you’re going to say, “You must have been interested in something,” and you’d be right. I should have made the effort, but I didn’t. Some would ask, “Isn’t it the job of teachers to make kids interested in learning?” I don’t blame them, looking back I can see they tried. Some of them very hard.

So, I left school at sixteen with no qualifications. I drifted a bit and ended up bouncing from one job to another. I flipped burgers for a while, put leaflets around the doors for a double-glazing firm, and delivered pizza on a bike. I couldn’t keep any of them. Mostly I got bored and didn’t turn up for work and before long they “let me go,” which is modern-speak for “sacked me.” I resented them at the time, said they didn’t understand me. Said they should give a man his “space.” I was talking bollocks, of course. I know that now, thanks to Uncle Gavin. What “space” did I need? What was I going to do when I got it?

I ended up at the Tesco supermarket, working unloading trucks and filling shelves. That went well and I sort of enjoyed it. There were lots of lads like myself, just having a laugh and getting away with as much as we could. We spent more energy skiving work than we ever put into our jobs. A few of us would steal bottles of booze and in the evening take them over to the waste ground and get pissed. I was also smoking a lot of dope at the time. I was out of my head more often than not.

We got caught thieving the booze eventually. I now can see I was dead lucky. They could have got the police onto us and taken us to court. We were bang to rights, we’d get community service or something, I suppose. We would have just laughed, but it would mean a criminal record.

It broke Mum’s heart. Me a thief. I didn’t care. Long before that I had stopped doing what she told me. I still lived at home but I came and went as I liked. She stopped cooking for me in the end, I missed so many meals.

It was about this time, I was sweet eighteen, that I was hurtling on that downward spiral I told you about. Then, Uncle Gavin came into my life. Uncle Gavin is Mum’s brother. I didn’t see much of him as I was growing up as he worked abroad a lot. He was a teacher and he worked in Africa for years, but I don’t know why he had to come home.

Now, he was back he found out about me. Mum told him everything, I suppose, especially about how upset she was. That was when Uncle Gavin took charge. I’m surprised I let him. Why would I care what old people thought of me and my mates? He told me he knew all about me and my kind. He wasn’t angry. He didn’t put me down at all. He just said he was an “educator” and he knew about these things. I didn’t have a clue what an “educator” was but it turns out it’s a teacher. Not only a teacher, you know somebody who teaches you a subject like maths or geography, he was into the whole growth of the young person. Well, something like that.

He was very friendly with me. I can’t say we were actually “friends”, we didn’t go drinking together or smoke weed. But, he didn’t put me down at all. He said he wanted to “understand” what I was feeling. He said he wanted to help me. It sounded like bollocks.

But, it wasn’t. The first thing that happened was he said I should think carefully about what I wanted in life. He was very insistent it should be what I wanted, not anybody else. Then, I had to make a plan that would get me from where I was to where I wanted to be. He called in a “roadmap”. He said I had to take responsibility for my actions. I had to take control of my life.

He was so persuasive that I soon came round to the idea. He said I should write down a list of what he called “objectives”; when I had done that I should plan how to achieve them. He said it might take some time – years even – but to take it one step at a time.

I realised it wasn’t bollocks after all. I liked the idea. Uncle Gavin said it would be a good idea if I moved out of home. It would give me a rest from Mum and would give me some of that space I talked about. He said I could move in with him. He has a huge house in some place called Brocklehurst, which is a small town. He had plenty of room for me. He said it would get me out of my “environment” and bad influences. I could make a fresh start.

So I packed a couple of bags and away I went. Uncle found me a job. It was filling shelves. He didn’t tell them I had form for thieving. He said he trusted me not to do it again. He said I was a “good lad”, which I knew wasn’t true. I suppose he was trying to be kind.

He set me down to make that list of objectives. It was hard work. I had always moaned that I was bored and couldn’t find things to interest me. Uncle Gavin gave me some help. I decided I should try to go to college. I should try to get a trade of some sort – a plumber or electrician maybe.

Uncle Gavin reminded me I should take it one step at a time. He said I still had to learn some basics about life. He said he knew a lot about this, him being an “educator” and all. He told me I might be eighteen but I was far from being an adult. I couldn’t be an “adult” until I had learned self-discipline.  It was all about taking responsibilities for my actions. He said he could help me with this.

By now I liked Uncle Gavin. I could see he had my best interests at heart. I knew if I did what he told me I could turn my life around. I trusted him. Shortly after I moved in with him and I started on my list of “objectives” he said to me that in the school where he taught he had a way to encourage better behaviour in pupils. He said it worked a treat. Unfortunately, he told me, those ways were no longer fashionable in this country.

I didn’t understand him. Oh, he said to me, it’s quite simple. You have a set of rules. You keep to them and everything is hunky-dory (whatever that means). You don’t stick to them, you get punished. I understood that all right. It was what he did next that threw me. We were in the living room and he went over to a drawer in a sideboard and took out a block of wood. It was dark brown and polished to a shine. It was a rectangle with a handle at one end. I must have looked puzzled because he said, “It’s a paddle. It’s what we used at the school.”

I’d never seen such a thing before but I got what he was talking about when he said, “It’s for spanking.” He held it by the handle and tapped it against his open left palm. It looked pretty heavy from where I stood. “Do you understand what I mean?” he asked. I must have coloured up and got a bit tongue-tied because I couldn’t say anything. “Do you?” he asked again.

Then he answered his own question. “You set your objectives, we agree them. You work hard to meet them,” he looked thoughtfully at the paddle in his hand, “that’s fine. You don’t then ..” he smacked it into his palm. I remember the thwack it made against the flesh.

I can’t really explain what I thought about it. I’m not very good with words, but somehow what he was saying made sense. Work hard, get rewarded. Don’t, get punished. We talked about it and because I trusted Uncle Gavin and reckoned he had my best interests at heart we agreed that’s how we’d go.

“Good,” he said, and I knew he was genuinely pleased. “You are a good lad,” he said and then hesitated, “No,” he said, “You can be a good lad, but you haven’t been very good up to now, have you?” I knew he was talking about my stealing, not keeping a job, giving Mum a hard time. “No,” I agreed, “I haven’t.”

“D’you know what?” he said, it wasn’t really a question, “You need to atone for you past.” I didn’t know what “atone” meant and I said so. I could ask Uncle Gavin anything. “You need to be punished for your past misdeeds.” I suppose I looked unsure so he said, “That way you wipe the slate clean. Start with a new beginning.” He didn’t say, “Turn over a new leaf,” but I got his drift.

He picked up the paddle and stared down at it. “I want you to take down your trousers,” he sat down in a chair, “and then come and bend across my knee.” He gripped the paddle in his right fist. “You need to be spanked. You do understand that, don’t you?”

Again, I can’t find the words I need. Spanked. I need to be spanked. Until that day it had never entered my mind that I needed to be spanked. Uncle Gavin must have known I would be a bit dumbfounded. He said, “It will hurt a very great deal. That is the point. But you will have atoned and after you will feel very much better. Put your past behind you. Look to the future.”

Uncle Gavin was very convincing. I did want a better, brighter tomorrow. I trusted him to help me find it. If he said I needed to be spanked, then who could argue? “Take down your trousers,” he said. His voice was coming from miles away. I don’t know what came over me. It seemed the most natural thing in the world. An eighteen-year-old in need of discipline, taking down his trousers before bending over his uncle’s knee for a sound spanking with a paddle.

I remember I was wearing sweatpants and they had elastic at the waist so I just gripped hold of them and tugged them down. They bunched up at the knees. It was a warm day and I only wore a t-shirt. “Come and bend over my knee,” Uncle Gavin spoke softly; he didn’t bark an order. He wasn’t forcing me to do anything I didn’t want. I was some distance from him and with the sweats now slipping down my shins I had to waddle like a penguin across the room.

I stood a little to his right and looked down. Uncle was in jeans and a t-shirt as well. He parted his legs a little bit. He didn’t say anything at this point but I understood this was to give me a platform to drape my body over. I had never been spanked (obviously) so I was travelling on instinct. I looked down at Uncle’s lap and placing both hands on his knee I leaned forward and lowered myself down. “Put your arms in front of you. Palms on the floor. I don’t want you trying to reach back.” I followed his instructions. My legs took care of themselves and stretched behind me. My toes didn’t quite reach the floor. I couldn’t see but it felt like my bum was pointing up at an angle over Uncle Gavin’s thigh. I must have been in a perfect position because Uncle took hold of me around the waist with his left hand and began to rub the paddle over my bum.

My pants were tight and had ridden up my crack; they fitted me like a second skin. I lay in position waiting. I remember I was perfectly calm. There was no fuss. Uncle Gavin had not manhandled me across his knee. There had been no dispute, no unseemly fight. I had submitted to him. He had explained why I needed to be spanked and I agreed. Of course, I didn’t know then how much a spanking on the underpants with a paddle would hurt. If I did I might not have been so calm.

I soon found out. Uncle Gavin patted my bottom with the paddle. He took aim at the underside of the cheeks where, I suppose, there was most padding (my bum was pert and hard in those days). He lifted the wood and smacked it down with tremendous force. It knocked all the air out of me. I gasped with shock. I had no time to recover before a second, third and fourth swat pounded into my bum. My legs flailed and my body twisted left and right. It looked like I was trying to swim off his lap. Uncle Gavin gripped my waist tighter and began to take my arse off with that paddle.

I have no other words to describe it. The pain was intense. Each thwack into the stretched flesh felt as if he had pressed Mum’s hot iron into me. My bum was on fire. Uncle Gavin had promised me a severe spanking and that was what he gave. My groans and gasps turned to sobs. I was never openly crying, not bawling like a kid, but my eyes were flooded by the time he let me up.

I have no idea how long he spanked me for. Looking back, I don’t suppose it was more than a minute or two: to me it felt like hours. At last he stopped. He released his grip on my body and I slithered from his knees onto the floor. I was winded, but in seconds I had scrambled to my feet and tugged my sweats up. The agony in my bum was easing into a hard throbbing; soon it would become a warm glow. It would hurt to sit down for hours.

“Come here,” Uncle Gavin was still seated in the chair. He opened his arms to me and I stepped into them. He hugged my tightly. “Good boy,” he whispered. “Now, go to your room and think about the bright future we can create together.”

 

Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com