Noisy neighbour

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

z used otk shorts down chair outdoors (2)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture credit: Unknown

 

Other stories you might like

The Helpful Neighbour Part 1

Over the headmaster’s knee

Keynes College Caning Case

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The French student

new 5

z used otk head bare

Back in the day I was a great defender of the English way of life. This was long before we got mixed up in the European Union and lost our national identity.

Every summer for years I took into my home students from France who were in town to learn English. Also, the college that paid me asked me teach them something about our ‘culture’. A pleasure, I said. I meant it too.

The kids were eighteen or nineteen. They’d finished school and were often waiting to go off to university back home. In those days you didn’t become a legal adult until you turned twenty-one, so my houseguests were still children in my mind. That meant I was responsible for them, a bit like I was their father.

I took my responsibilities seriously. With the help of the college I drew up a contract of behaviour that I insisted all students who stayed with me signed. It wasn’t complicated. There was something about night time curfews (they were here to learn, they were not on vacation); meal times and so on. I have a huge house with three different ‘reception’ rooms and I told them which were out of bounds.

The college praised me for my foresight in having such a contract. I beamed with pleasure when they said that. Only later did I add the paragraph about the use of corporal punishment.

Being an Englishman that meant the whippy, rattan cane. There was a sixpenny bazaar in the High Street that sold traditional ‘school-type’ canes. They came in a variety of lengths and thicknesses and I stocked up with half a dozen (“Six of the best,” I joked to the young salesman who served me). Some came with crook handles and others had twine wrapped around one end to make a handle.

I cleared out a cupboard in one of my lounge rooms and deposited the canes inside. I also collected together some other items from around the house that might come in useful. I still had a heavy rubber-soled gym shoe from when I was at school. That went in the cupboard. Also, a heavy ebony hairbrush that I once bought at a junk shop in the Portobello Road in London. I added to that an ancient leather razor strop that had been in my family for generations. A shaving razor had not been near it in decades.

By the time I was finished I had quite a collection. I was ready for any eventuality.

The students were all surprisingly similar. Mostly they came from small towns or villages and had been kept on tight reins by their parents and schoolmasters. Now, as they saw it, out in the free world they thought they could run wild. I have to say that our town of Brocklehurst is hardly a den of iniquity but we can boast a sizeable university so even in those days there were clubs and bars to entice them.

My guests were only too willing to be tested, hence the need for that contract. I was a stickler for curfew. Home by ten every night. In bed, lights out by eleven on a college night. I let them stay up until eleven-thirty at other times. I always believed in the old adage “early to bed, early to rise …” I didn’t see why my routine should be disturbed by a noisy teenager.

I think the kids signed my contract without reading it too closely (English wasn’t their first language after all). They didn’t always take note of the section headed: Corporal punishment (administration of). Not, until it was too late.

Pierre was one of the first kids who boarded with me. He was eighteen and was on some kind of ‘gap year’ between finishing school and going on to university. I was to learn he was a typical boy let loose away from his parents. Brocklehurst in those days was a staid place but some people knew they could make a few quid out of the students so they set up places like coffee bars and dance halls where they could relieve them of their money. Pierre was only too willing to go anywhere that offered the chance of ‘fun’, especially if that included the chance to meet girls.

Need I say that the possibility to meet girls far outweighed his obligation to return to my home before curfew. I am not a hard man, but I believe in rules. I believe in order. I believe in being in charge. I warned Pierre of the consequences if he stayed out late. I showed him the contents of my cupboard. He was left in no doubts. He could only blame himself.

So I lectured him on responsibility, self-discipline, consideration for others. It was quite a speech. He looked bemused half the time. I suppose his English wasn’t up to it. He might not have understood all I was saying but he got it when I said, “Now I am going to spank you.” His face blanched, despite the deep suntan. He blustered. Now it was my turn not to understand. I suppose for some things there’s a universal language. His tone of voice told me he was saying, “No, but, you can’t,” and so on. He might even have said, “I’m too old to be spanked.” Certainly, that was something many of them told me over the years. Too old Bah! Eighteen and nineteen is not too old to be spanked.

I had no intention of flogging him into a pulp, but he needed a wakeup call, that was for sure. I had a choice: a cane, a heavy strap, a plimsoll, hairbrush, you name it. But no, what Pierre needed was a good old-fashioned spanking. Do they say fessee in France? Trousers and pants down and over my knee. Bare bottomed. Spanked until his cheeks burnt red hot. Spanked until they glowed in the dark.

Back in the day I hadn’t yet run to fat. I was no athlete, but I still had some strength. Pierre, was probably an inch or so taller than myself and as thin as most kids were in those days. Despite his constant rule-breaking he was a pretty conventional kid. I have no idea if his father ever spanked him, or an uncle or some other adult in his life. Certainly, he understood the concept of  the instruction, “bend over my knee.”

We were in the room I called my lounge. There were a couple of armchairs and a sofa. Against the wall stood a straight-backed chair. I pulled it into the centre of the room. Pierre’s eyes popped. If he hadn’t believed it before, he did now: I was deadly serious. I sat down and spread my legs. I wriggled my buttocks to get comfortable. Pierre gaped, the tip of his tongue poked through his lips. He was silent but the apprehension was clear in his face. He was standing some distance from me. “Come here,” I ordered. He flinched and started to turn his back on me.

“Pah!” I exclaimed and reached forward, took him by the forearm and pulled him towards me. He may have been too astonished to resist. I was done lecturing, now was the time for action. He wore fashionable loon pants trousers that had no waistband. They were held up with a single button. It took two seconds to release it and tug his zipper down. The loons slid down his bony thighs. I took hold of his wrist and pulled him so that unbalanced he toppled face down across my knee.

I suppose I had the element of surprise because Pierre did not struggle. He waved his arms about but that was so he could keep his balance and not tumble to the floor. He wore tight maroon-coloured briefs. They fitted his tight cheeks perfectly; like a second skin almost. I did not hesitate. “These serve little purpose at a time like this,” I told him as I dug my fingers under the elasticated waistband and with three tugs I had them clear of his bottom.

That’s when he began to struggle. But he was too late. His head was low and his bottom high. At this angle it was impossible for him to reach back with his hands to protect his bottom. I pressed my left arm hard against his shoulders. He was pinned down, going nowhere until I said so. He called out in French, obviously protesting about the indignity of his position.

I peeled up the end of his t-shirt so it was well clear of his bottom. I took a second to observe my target. Two small, round unblemished cheeks rested against my thigh, perfectly positioned for the task I had to perform. I curved the palm of my hand and slapped him hard. Again, and again and again. The sound of my palm against his rock-hard bottom resounded around the small room. The rapid spanks sounded like machinegun fire; I landed eighty or more slaps in the first minute. I was rewarded with an extended hissing from Pierre as he exhaled all the air from his lungs. His head rose and fell. Then he shook it from left to right. His arms flailed about, and his hips swerved. It was like he was trying to swim off my lap. Fat chance.

I was spanking him too quickly to be able to count how many slaps I delivered. I was delighted to see the outline of my palm reproduced in red all across his buttocks; from the peaks of his mounds, over the crests and into the soft spot where the crease meets the thighs. Satisfied that every square inch of his bum was now red hot, I went for the back of his thighs.

“Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!” I didn’t need a translator to understand that. Pierre was in pain. I couldn’t see his face clearly, but the back of his neck was as scarlet as his backside. His shirt was soaked with perspiration. The eighteen-year-old foreign language student was feeling this spanking.

By now my hand was smarting almost as much as Pierre’s bum. I didn’t care. It was a small price to pay. It was my duty to punish Pierre. And to teach him; teach him a little about the English way of life. I would happily have kept up the bare-bottomed spanking for half an hour or more, but suddenly I was aware of an urgent tapping on the window. Without pausing my onslaught on Pierre’s writhing bum, I looked up. Peering through the window was a man in uniform and wearing a peaked cap. He was holding up a parcel at the window for me to see. Startled, I momentarily relaxed my grip on Pierre and taking his chance he wriggled off my lap and fell to the floor where in one athletic movement he rolled over, leapt to his feet and while still tugging up his pants and trousers, fled from the room.

I went to the front door. The postman handed me a long, thin parcel and walked back down the path without a word. I glanced at the postmark: Lochgelly. Eagerly, I took it into the kitchen. I lit the gas under the kettle before ripping open the brown paper. A lovely two-tailed leather taws slipped into my hands. I caressed it and lovingly lifted it to my face to savour the aroma of fresh leather. A new toy for my collection. The kettle whistled and I made myself tea which I sipped slowly wondering how long I would have to wait before I had Pierre across the kitchen table.

Picture credit: Franco

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The TV repairman

A visit to Uncle Roy’s

Put back into short trousers, aged 18

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Stepson submits

new 5

zused paddle otk pants down domestic bbfc

Can you picture the situation? A slim eighteen-year-old with a tight bottom is face-down across your knees with his jeans at his ankles. The bottom clothed in tight, dark-blue cotton briefs needs a sound spanking. Jake asks you to pull down the underpants so that the spanking is on the bare bottom. “You are now my stepdad, I have broken so many of your rules surely you are going to punish me in the proper way. I truly deserve a sound spanking,” he says. “Now you are my dad you should deal with me the old fashioned way. A damn good whacking is what I need.”

You hold an old, worn oak paddle. It is about twelve inches long and four wide. It has seen some action in its time, but never before on Jake. You grip him by the waist. He is submissive for now, but you cannot be sure how he will react once your paddle warms up his bared backside. Jake reaches forward and presses the palms of his hands into the carpet. He stares down. You feel his body tense. You tap the paddle against his naked flesh. His bottom is round and pert. The paddle covers about half of the target area.

Yes, Jake is correct, he has broken many of your rules. He has needed this spanking for some time. It is something his own father should have done a long time ago. But that is in the past, there is no point dwelling on that. This is now. You are Jake’s new dad, it is your duty to steer him onto the straight-and-narrow. You are very pleased that the boy has realised this. There is hope for him yet.

You rub the paddle across the fleshiest part of his cheeks. He doesn’t have much padding back there. He is a thin, wiry lad, who spends too much time in the gym. In truth, he is strong and muscular. You could never in a million years force him across your knee for a spanking. If you tried there would be an unseemly fight and Jake would win it hands down.

Instead, he is submissive. “Spank me hard. I deserve it,” he is telling you so you tap the paddle against his bottom, then raise it about ten inches high and smack it down with some force. A dark red patch immediately appears on his creamy-white skin. He sucks in his breath. He felt that. It hurt. But, probably not much. He is a tough eighteen-year-old after all. You raise the paddle again and slap it down lower, into the undercurve. Jake shakes his head to side to side, but he keeps staring down at the stained carpet. His palms still press hard into the floor. He is determined to accept the spanking he so richly deserves.

You land the next swat on the back of his thighs. You are rewarded by a definite “Ouch,” from your misbehaving stepson. His body wriggles. You grab him harder around the waist. He is not trying to escape from your knees, but he is finding it hard going. Maybe, much harder than he thought.

You wallop him for a fourth time. This is going very well. You are deeply satisfied. You have been wanting to do this for months.

Yes, you can picture the situation, but alas I suspect it can only be in your imagination.

 

Picture Credit: British Boys Fetish Club

 

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The military camp

Trouble at the mall

Memories of Dad’s slipper

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Lodging with Uncle Ralph

new 5

“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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Spanked by my uncle: who enjoyed it the most?

Visit to Uncle Roy

The smiling boy

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A bug on the wall

Come here, I’m going to spank you.

Spank me? I’m a bit too old to be spanked, don’t you think?

No, what are you? Eighteen?

Nineteen.

Nineteen is not too old to be spanked. Plenty of nineteen year olds would benefit from a damn good spanking. And, you’re one of them mister.

Huh?

Go upstairs and bring down the bathbrush.

Can’t we talk about this?

There is nothing to talk about. You stole my car.

I did not steal your car. It’s called taking and driving away. I did not intend to deprive you of your property.

Don’t get fresh with me. You did not have my permission. You are not insured to drive my car. Do you even have a license?

Hmm.

No, I thought not. Go upstairs and fetch that brush.

But, you can’t spank me. You love me.

It is because I love you that I’m gonna spank you.

Oh come on.

It’s up to you. You take a spanking; we move on. You don’t take a spanking; you move out.

You cannot be serious.

Oh yes I am mister. Remember Ryan?

Oh …

Upstairs. Bring that brush down and be quick about it.

[A minute of silence elapses.]

Good. Hand it to me.

But …

Come. Here. Keep still. You didn’t think I’d let you keep these heavy jeans on did you?

Oh come on …

Now, get here. Lay across my knee. Rest your head and arms here. Stretch your legs out behind you. Yeah, that’s it.

I can’t believe …

You better believe it buster. I am gonna blister your butt.

Hey, you can’t do that!

Yes, I can. It’s not a real spanking if it’s not on the bare.

Please, no.

z used brush otk bare chair RYM

Whack!

Oww!

Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack!

Oww! Oww! Com’on no! Pleeease!

Whack! Whack!

That’s enough. Ouch You’re hurting me.

That’s the point young man (wheeze). That’s the point.

Smack!  Smack!

Hissss. Yow!

Smack! Smack!

Ouch. Enough. Pleeease!

Smack! Smack!

You only have yourself to blame.

(Whack!) Are (Whack!) you (Whack!) gonna (Whack!) steal (Whack!) my (Whack!) car again? (Whack! Whack!)

No-ooow!

Smack! Smack!

Am I getting through to you?

Yes.

Whack!!!

Yes, what?

Whack!!!

Yes, Sir. I’m sorry.

Yes, you will be. By the time I’ve finished with you mister. You’ll be sorry then.

Whack!!! Whack!!!

Two minutes later.

Whack!!! Whack!!! Whack!!!

There. Will I have to do this again?

Sob, sob. No. I’m sorry. Sob, sob.

Get up.

Sorry, Sob. Sob.

Here, come here. Give me a kiss.

Sorry dada.

I love you.

I love you too.

Outside fifty yards down the road, in the back of an unmarked white van two newspaper reporters silently exchange glances. One switches off the recording device. Another working day is drawing to a close.

This story was first uploaded in January 2016.

Picture credit: Reluctant Young Men

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Winker Wilson’s visit

Late home from a date

Fr. Pat’s paddle

 

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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After the party

Saving souls

A kiss too far

 

Two brothers

I should have guessed I was in for a spanking the moment we sat down for breakfast.

We were all sat at the table, tucking into the traditional fried English breakfast. “We” were my dad, mum, my twenty-year-old brother, Barry, and me, Michael, an eighteen-year-old schoolboy living in Brocklehurst, a modern “New Town” in England.

The kitchen was a reasonably sized room. Our family was not rich, but we weren’t poor either. We had all the “mod-cons” of the day: the fridge, the washing machine, you know the kind of things.

The room was dominated by a huge Welsh dresser stacked with fancy china plates that we never used and a large wooden kitchen table. Dad was at one end of the table sitting to attention, his back straight as a ram-rod. Mum was at the other end, hiding behind the morning newspaper, and me and Barry were next to each other along one side.

Breakfast was not usually taken in a hurry, but today I could sense an atmosphere in the room. Mum was agitated and hurriedly finished eating and left the room saying to no one in particular she had, “Things to do.”

Barry, who was usually the first one to finish was lingering. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry. I should have realised then that they knew something that I didn’t.

Dad started it off. “Michael you came in last night at two o’clock, and you were covered in mud.”

Oh, I get it. I’m for it.

Barry was going nowhere until dad said, “Barry, please leave us alone.” My brother had a huge smirk in his face as he reluctantly did as he was told.

“Now, Michael.” dad wasn’t one to mince his words. He told me my behaviour was unacceptable. As a schoolboy, I was too young to be out at that time. He reminded me that he’d told me about this before, but I was taking no notice.

And that was it. “Stand up please.” Dad scraped his chair back from the table so his knees were clear of it.

I did as I was told, pushed my own chair back and stood.

Dad was probably in his forties, but looked much older. He was medium height and lean with hair cut in the short-back-and-sides fashion he had worn it since his days twenty years before when he had done his National Service in the Army. The hair was slicked back with greasy hair oil known as Brylcreem.

He had a short, well-groomed moustache, but it was not as dark as his hair. It hid the top lip of his pasty-white face.

Whenever I think of him, he always looked the same. That’s because he always did look the same, come summer or winter. He wore a beige cardigan with the buttons done up from bottom to top, over a white shirt pulled down to the wrists and a tightly knotted neck tie. He wore old dark trousers – part of a suit relegated from work-day use to what we never called in those days “leisure wear.”

Grey socks and bedroom slippers completed his outfit.

Dad was aware of Barry smirking through the serving hatch that separated our kitchen from the dining room. Turning his body slightly to the left, dad spoke over his shoulder. “Barry, do you want to join him?”

“No dad.”

Barry darted away from the hatch.

Satisfied that he was alone with his son, dad reached down and removed the slipper from his right foot.

He gestured with it that I should stand close to his right hand side. I shuffled forward a pace or two into position.

“Take down your jeans, please.” Again, without complaint, I did as instructed. My hands trembled more than I thought they should as I unbuckled my belt, unfastened the two buttons at the waistband and the four on the fly and pushed my Levis to my knees, exposing my dark blue underpants.

Dad adjusted himself on his chair. He moved his bottom a bit, making sure his spine was firmly resting against the back of the chair. He separated his legs by a foot or so to provide a platform where my stomach and chest would rest.

I could see Barry had again taken up a position the other side of the serving hatch so he could witness my spanking. He was still smirking: he had a clear open face that was made for smiling: he did it all the time, but I wished he wouldn’t do it now.

Dad had forgotten all about Barry. If he had known he was spying, dad would have brought him into the kitchen and given him a darned-good spanking as well – twenty years old or not.

“Bend over my knee, please.”

I was across him in one movement. I stretched my hands in front of me and kept my knees straight, leaving my toes resting an inch above the floor.

I waited patiently. I had a close up view of the dark- and light-blue patterned lino floor covering and the scuff marks where for years chairs had scraped in and out under the kitchen table.

Dad grabbed hold of the tail of my shirt, a very fashionable (at the time) mauve floral print one, and pulled it way up my back, nearly to my shoulders. He smoothed my pants out: first across one buttock and then across the other, eliminating all wrinkles.

I took a deep breath.

The first whack hit me square in the middle of the left bum cheek. The second was on the right. Dad wasn’t a sadist, when he gave spankings he intended for us to get the message and mend our ways, but he didn’t want to brutalise us.

I gasped a little as the third and fourth wallops hit right on top of the previous two. Then he quickened the pace. Slap here, whack there, wallop again.

He stopped after a dozen whacks. It hurt alright. I was sore, but I wasn’t about to burst into sobs or anything.

Dad was finished spanking, but he continued to hold me down over his knees. He still had things to do.

“Have you learned you lesson?”

“Yes dad.”

“And what lesson is that?”

“Don’t come home late.”

“Good boy.”

“Will I have to do this again?”

“No dad.”

“Good, because if I do it will be a lot worse for you. Understand?”

“Yes dad.”

“Good, get up son.”

I struggled to my feet, pulled up my jeans and did them up.

As I was leaving the kitchen to go to my room, dad swivelled to his left and caught sight of Barry’s smirking face.

“Barry, come in here please.”

That wiped the stupid grin off his face.

I waited for Barry to go into the kitchen and then took his place in the dining room.

This was going to be too good to miss.

Barry reluctantly entered the kitchen, just as dad cleared away the breakfast things from the table top.

Dad and Barry stood facing each other, eye to eye. I hadn’t really noticed it before but Barry was probably an inch or so taller than dad, and who knows, maybe if he wanted to Barry could beat dad in a fight. But there was to be no fight: not today.

Not too many words were exchanged between the two. Barry knew why he was here. Not only had he been spying on my spanking, he continued to do so even though dad had ordered him not to.

I think dad saw the disobedience as a more serious crime than the spying. Anyhow, it was a double whammy for Barry and he was going to get one heck of a hiding.

“Trousers and pants down.”

It was simple, calm instruction. Barry loosened his belt and pulled his shirt tail out from his trouser waistband. Then holding both his jeans and his underpants by the waist, in one movement he pulled them down. The weight of his belt took the Levis to his feet and the dangled around his knees.

z used taking down jeans sting (2)

“Bend over the table.” Just as I had done, Barry did as he was told without question. He reached forward over the kitchen table with his stomach and chest resting on the table top. At first he seemed unsure where to place his arms, but settled for folding them in front of him so he could bury his face in his arms.

Barry moved his legs slightly so they were tucked in almost under the table, and his bare behind jutted out from the table, positively inviting the whacking he was about to receive.

Dad was in no hurry. I had a perfect view of proceedings, but dad never noticed me (or, maybe he did, but thought that since Barry had witnessed my spanking, I was entitled to witness his).

Dad moved over to the side drawer of the kitchen table, the drawer was stiff, but eventually it opened. Without looking dad put his hand inside and after a few moments fished out what he was searching for: his razor strop.

The strop was old-fashioned even then. It was a long strip of brown leather maybe an inch or two wide and at least a quarter-inch thick. I don’t know if dad ever used the strop for its rightful purpose – safety razors had been invented a long time ago – but this was the first time I ever knew him to use it for its secondary purpose. I suppose generations of naughty boys had felt one of these across their backsides, clothed or bare, but I wasn’t aware of anyone that I knew being on the deadly end of one. And, certainly no twenty year old.

As dad was going about his business, I saw Barry turn his head to the left to see what was going on.

“Face the front,” dad snapped. “You’ll find out soon enough what’s going on here.”

Barry had a very open face, fresh and boyish some people might say. I know a lot of girls found it very kissable. So did quite a few boys, we were to discover once Barry had gone off to work in Manchester.

Dad was ready now. He stood close to Barry on the right hand side, so he was almost touching him, and with no real swing he moved the strop back by about a foot and brought it crashing down into Barry’s naked flesh.

Barry winced visibly, but otherwise kept his composure.

CRACK! The second and then CRACK! the third lash cut into Barry’s bare buttocks. One on the left: one on the right.

Barry let out a kind of repressed whistle, showing that the leathering he was getting was effective indeed.

He buried his head deeper into his arms. I didn’t have a perfect few of his rear end, but I could tell Barry’s bottom was reddening quickly. Soon it would be cherry coloured and before the thrashing was over, purple.

CRACK! It must have been blow number ten when Barry raised his head from his arms and let out a piecing yell. It was as horrible as it was unexpected. Tears were gushing from Barry’s eyes and he was clearly in great distress.

Oddly, I felt no sympathy with Barry at that point. Instead I could only wonder if the neighbours could hear the noise, and guess that one or other of us was getting a damn good hiding from dad. The thought of them knowing disturbed me a little.

CRACK! I don’t know if Barry had the same thought because this time he raised his fist to his mouth to stifle his yell.

CRACK! Barry’s body jiggled from left to right as he tried to absorb the pain and desperately stop himself from jumping off the table to rub away the sting from his bum.

And, then it was over. As I’ve said dad was no sadist. Barry had taken a dozen lashes with the strop and judging from the tears flooding down his cheeks the belting had left its marks.

On dad’s instruction, Barry lifted himself off the table and bending down he gingerly pulled up his underpants. I could see him wince again as the pants brushed against his blistered bum as he pulled them to his waist. With both hands he rubbed his buttocks furiously through his cotton pants.

Then another grimace as he bent over once more to reach to his feet for his trousers. A second or so later they too were at his waist. I could see that Barry just wanted to rub and rub away at his throbbing backside, but instead he fastened his trousers and stood in front of dad, shuffling uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

A few words from dad and he was ordered to his room. I waited a few seconds and followed him up. We were two brothers who had both had a spanking from their dad and despite any other rivalries we might have in our lives there was nothing that could break that bonding.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

This story was first uploaded in January 2016.

 

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The vicar and the gay boys

The padded armchair

The fire-raiser

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com