The Prodigal Son

new story 3

Mr Craddock slumped in front of the television set watching the horse racing. A newspaper open at the racing cards was at his feet. Nearby was a mug of steaming tea. He gripped a half-eaten bacon sandwich. He was in his element. A peaceful Saturday afternoon. What could be better?

Then, his wife entered the room, wiping her hands on her pinafore as she moved. The look on her face warned Mr Craddock that his peace was about to be disturbed.

“It’s Pete,” she said, clearly agitated, “He’s just been on the phone.” Mr Craddock’s eyes shot heavenward: what now? What scrape had his son gotten himself into this time?

“What now?” he spluttered through a mouthful of sandwich. His obvious irritation did nothing to soothe his wife’s nerves.

“He wants to speak to you,” she was clearly worried.

“What is it now? Is he still on the phone?”

“No he’s coming round. He wants to see you in person.”

Mr Craddock swallowed hard. This could mean only one thing. “He wants to borrow money again. He already owes me a fortune. I’ve been paying off his debts forever.”

His wife hopped from one foot to the other. “He says he’ll come right over.”

Mr Craddock sighed, he would miss the four o’clock race at Chepstow now. He had money on a horse in that one. Pete was 24 years old and had been nothing but bother since he left school. He was in and out of jobs, in trouble with the law. Oftentimes he was drunk about the house. He seemed incapable of keeping a civil tongue in his head. Mr Craddock had all but thrown him out of the house five months ago. Pete now lived in some sweaty bedsitting room on the other side of town.

“I’ve had enough, mother,” Mr Craddock always called his wife “mother” it was some kind of family tradition. “What can I do? I’ve tried everything with him. Do you remember I even spanked his backside for him. When was that? Last year? Doesn’t seemed to have done much good.” He rested back in his chair and eyed the clock on the mantlepiece. With luck he would just have time to catch the 3.45 race at Folkestone.

He did, but he missed the four o’clock and all the rest of the racing that afternoon. Pete had something important to discuss. It was, he reckoned, a matter of life and death. His life might never be the same again.

Mr Craddock eyed his son suspiciously. The lad’s fair hair was dirty, he had bags under his eyes and his usually fresh face was grey and lined.

“Dad, Dad,” he spluttered once his mother had left the two of them alone in the living room. “I have to talk to you.” He couldn’t meet his dad’s eye and that fact alone made Mr Craddock fear the worst.

“Is it money again. Are you in debt to loan sharks?”

“No, Dad, no,” Pete tried to laugh off the suggestion but his face remained grey and solemn.

“The police, are you in trouble with the law?”

“No, Dad, no.”

“Drugs. Is it drugs?” Mr Craddock was losing patience, were they about to play a game of Twenty Questions?

Again the answer was negative.

“Oh for pity’s sake, tell me what’s going on,” Mr Craddock had a short fuse.

On the trip over Pete had rehearsed what he wanted to say but now he was confronted with his Dad the words had gone. He babbled for a while getting more and more flustered as his Dad’s temper deteriorated.

At last he managed to turn words into sentences. “Look Dad,” he said and pulled a wad of banknotes from his pocket, “Here’s the money I owe you. All of it.”

His Dad flushed, his heart beat faster, “Where did this come from? Did you steal it.”

Pete laughed weakly. “No Dad, no. I’ve got a job. A proper job. At Tilotson’s. In the office.”

His dad was not convinced. “Since when? Is it a proper job?”

“Yes, Dad I’ve been there three weeks. I got my first pay yesterday.” He handed the money over and Mr Craddock counted it, scrutinising each banknote as if it might be counterfeit.

“Thank you son,” he whispered. He was flummoxed. Never in a month of Sundays did he expect his son to hold down a proper job.

His son wriggled in his chair. Clearly he had more to say and just as clearly he wasn’t sure how to say it. So he jumped in with both feet. “Dad, I don’t know how to say this. I want you to do me a favour.”

Mr Craddock sighed. He knew this was too good to be true. There was some kind of trouble after all. He leaned forward in his chair waiting for the worst. His son collected his thoughts and continued. “Dad I’m very sorry for everything I’ve done. I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused you and Mum. I’m sorry for all the debts. I’m really sorry for the trouble with the police. Things are going to change from now on.”

Mr Craddock’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “It’s alright son.”

But Pete had not finished. He apologised once more for all the heartache he had caused. All the bad things he had said to his Dad over the past years.

“It’s alright son, it’s alright.” Mr Craddock was not a man who liked to share emotions. That was another of the family traits.

“It’s not alright, Dad,” Pete wrung his hands together. “I’m not sleeping. I don’t eat. I’m making myself ill.”

Mr Craddock stared at his son. The young man’s furrowed features were testament to that. He couldn’t find words to comfort his son so he babbled, “It’s alright son. You’ve paid me back. You’ve given me the money.”

“It’s not alright, Dad,” Pete was pleading. “It’s not. I’m full of guilt. Guilt for all the things I’ve done. The way I’ve treated you and Mum. I can’t get away from the guilt.”

An uneasy silence descended between the two. Mr Craddock looked at the clock and wondered if his horse had come home at Chepstow. Eventually, Pete spoke once more, “Dad I want you to do something for me? Please Dad.”

Mr Craddock held his breath, what was troubling his son. “Yes, what can I do?” he forced himself to ask, while wishing Pete would just go home.

“Dad,” Pete spoke more clearly than he had up to this point. “Dad, I want you to help me get rid of this guilt.”

Mr Craddock winced and waited. After a pause Pete continued, “Dad I want you to spank me. Like you did those times before.”

His Dad shook his head from side to side, like a horse often does when it is trying to clear its head. “Oh come on son,” he blustered, hoping to hide his embarrassment, “There’s no need for that.”

“But there is Dad, there is,” Peter interrupted. His insistent tone unsettled Mr Craddock. “I have to get rid of this guilt. It’s the only way.”

His Dad sat bemused. He had spanked Pete many times over the years, even quite recently. The last time was shortly before he insisted his son move out and find a place of his own to live. He hadn’t liked doing it, but nothing else had worked. Not talking (arguing really) nor grounding him. There weren’t that many punishments that a dad could inflict on his son; especially not one who was in his early twenties. The over-the-knee spankings had truly been administered as a last resort. Mr Craddock was a little surprised to find that they appeared to have worked.

“Oh, I don’t know son,” he was still uncertain. The request was so unusual it could almost be called bizarre. He shook his head again.

“Please Dad. I know you love me. Please do it. Let me get rid of all this guilt. Use Mum’s hairbrush, like you did last time.”

Mr Craddock did love his son. Very much indeed, but he had no words to express that love. But he liked to think of himself as a man of action, someone who could make a decision. Well, he told himself, if that’s what Pete wanted then so be it. And if he got a move on he might still catch the last race at Folkestone.

“Right,” he said climbing from the chair. “I won’t be a minute. You’ve still got time to change your mind.” He left the room leaving Pete sitting on the couch breathing heavily.” Moments later, he returned clutching a large, heavy hairbrush.

“Are you sure,” he said, hoping that Pete had come to his senses and changed his mind.

“Yes Dad,” his son replied confidently. “I deserve this.”

Mr Craddock picked up an old straight-backed wooden chair and set it down in the middle of the room. He sat down and brandishing the brush ordered, “Come here, bend over my knee.” Pete rose from the couch, took a deep breath and then crossed the room. He stood to his Dad’s left, hesitated for a moment as if debating something in his head. Then, he rested his hands on his Dad’s right knee and eased himself down.

Pete was easily a couple of inches taller than his dad but he fitted well across the older man’s lap. He was in the classic over-the-knee spanking position. He was able to rest the palms of his hands on the floor in front of him and behind his toes just about scraped the carpet. Like that his bottom was raised at an angle to receive the swats from the hairbrush.

Mr Craddock wasted no time. He raised the brush and slapped it into the seat of Pete’s heavy trousers. Then he did the same thing again and again. They were moderate smacks; not too light and not too severe.

“No Dad,” Pete protested, “You’ve got to do it properly. Like last time.” He wriggled his hips and his dad let him get to his feet.

“Are you sure?” Mr Craddock could still not quite believe his son’s attitude.

“Yes Dad. I deserve this. I’ve got to get rid of the guilt.” Then without waiting for his dad’s response Pete unbuckled his belt. Seconds later his trousers were at his ankles and his white shorts snagged against his knees. Once more, he eased himself across his dad’s knees.

“Well,” Mr Craddock gripped the heavy hairbrush in his fist, “Just remember I’m not going to stop until I think you have been punished properly.” He caressed Pete’s left buttock with the head of the brush and then tapped gently to get an aim.

“Thank you Dad,” Pete wheezed, “I really deserve this, for the way I treated you and Mum. And for all the trouble I brought you. I am really, truly sorry.”

His dad raised the brush high, “You will be,” he said to himself as he realised the last race of the afternoon was now over. He pounded the brush into Pete’s round, firm buttock and was delighted to see the dark pink imprint left behind by the brush. The hiss of air escaping Pete’s clenched mouth was equally satisfying.

z used brush otk longz down chair (1)

Mr Craddock set about his task with a will. If a job was worth doing, it was worth doing well. That was a motto that had run in his family for generations. In no time both buttocks glowed dark pink. Pete’s hands clutched at his dad’s legs. It was the only way he could stop himself flailing about and falling to the floor.

“Well I hope this is doing you some good,” Mr Craddock rebuked his son, “A boy of your age taken across his dad’s knees for a sound spanking with a hairbrush. And on the bare bottom too,” he intoned as he walloped the brush across Pete’s quivering cheeks. Soon no square inch of flesh was untoasted.

“Sorry. Sorry. I deserve this,” Pete almost shrieked. The pain was intense. It was far worse than the last spanking dad had delivered. “Oww, ouch, arghhh,” he grimaced. He bum felt like it was blistered. Despite his resolve to take the thoroughly-deserved spanking without fuss, Pete could not control his body’s natural reflexes. His body twisted and turned. His legs kicked out behind him. His head nodded up and down. His eyes smarted almost as much as his backside and tears soon trickled down his face.

“Thank you, thank you,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Ouch! Owww!”

Now, Mr Craddock turned his attention away from Pete’s bottom and attacked the backs of his thighs. That sent his son into spasms of pain. Heat seemed to be rising from the naked flesh. It was so hot Mr Craddock was sure he would be able to warm his hands.

It was time to wind down. But not before he took the brush on one more circuit. He pounded the peaks of the young man’s mounds. Then he went for the topside and by now Pete was breathless, gasping for air. So his dad hammered the undercurves, on the most sensitive sit-spot. Finally, he returned to the thighs.

Mr Craddock was almost as breathless as his son. His shirt clung to his back with sweat. Rivers of perspiration ran from his armpits. It was definitely time to stop.

“Stand up.”

Pete did not need telling twice. He bounded to his feet and hopped about while at the same time rubbing hard at his buttocks. He didn’t care that his cock and balls were bouncing up and down close to his dad’s face.

“Get dressed.”

It took Pete longer to get his shorts and trousers back on than it had to lower them. As he reached towards his feet the flesh across his buttocks stretched sending fresh waves of pain through his body. At last he was once again fully dressed. Colour was returning to his pale face and his breathing was now more regular. The intense pain in his backside was already easing and soon would become a constant throbbing. Before long it would just be a dull ache, but the pain would return over the coming hours every time he sat on a hard surface.

Mr Craddock felt sheepish. Even now he couldn’t fully understand what had happened. “How do you feel?” he asked and immediately felt what a stupid question that was to ask. In the circumstances.

Pete rubbed the seat of his trousers ruefully. “The guilt is all gone. I am so sorry for everything. I will be good from now on. I promise.”

My story took place in 1986 and I am happy to report that Pete kept his promise and from that day on became both a model citizen and a very loving son.

Picture credit: Ken Beverley

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Warren’s awakening

Warren Hunter looked out the bedroom window anxiously. Any moment now his uncle would call him down to the sitting room. It would be a spanking for sure. He couldn’t complain. He knew he deserved everything that was coming to him.

Warren was in turmoil. He was so ashamed. How had things come to this?

He had been sent to stay at Uncle Alfred’s by his mother. She said it would be temporary; a “cooling off” period. But, he knew his uncle’s reputation; his arse would get a “warming up” first.

The row and the tears had been the final straw. He had been giving his mum a hard time for years. He was nineteen years old, there was no way she could control him. He didn’t have the words to explain what was going on in his head. Warren knew there was something wrong with him; but he didn’t know what. He had a crappy job in a supermarket; at home he rowed with everyone; his mum, his two older brothers and even the neighbours. Dad had walked out years ago leaving mum to cope with the kids on her own.

“Warren! Get down here!” Uncle Alfred was at the foot of the stairs. The teenager hesitated. He knew what would happen now. What choice did he have? Take a spanking or not; those were his options. If he did he could stay at his uncle’s place and try to sort out his life. If he didn’t; he’d be sleeping on the streets.

Warren was no philosopher; he wasn’t a deep thinker. If someone told him he was a “pragmatist” he wouldn’t know what they meant. He just knew he had to go through with this. He’d never been spanked before. Hell, he thought, a spanking, how bad could it be?

Slowly he padded down the stairs to find Uncle Alfred in the front room.

A dining room chair had already been placed in the centre of the room. Taking the teenager by the arm, Uncle Alfred led him to the chair and sat down, leaving Warren to stand as his uncle pushed up the sleeves of his own shirt. Then Uncle Alfred leaned forward and removed the bedroom slipper from his right foot.

A shiver went through Warren. His resolve to accept the spanking was evaporating. He wanted suddenly to hang back, to plead for mercy, promise to do better, to do anything if Uncle Alfred would just not spank him.

His uncle was not a pretty sight. He was in his forties and had a large belly that in his present sitting position flopped across his lap. His legs were fat and when his uncle parted them slightly he provided an ample platform for his nephew to drape himself over.

This might be Warren’s first-ever spanking but his uncle was a veteran. He had developed a ritual over many years. Quietly, he spoke, “Take down your jeans.” And when his nephew stared back with alarm, he added reasonably, “You won’t feel a thing with them on.”

Uncle Alfred squeezed the bedroom slipper in his fist and watched the nineteen-year-old fumble with the waistband of his jeans. He didn’t seem able to get his fingers to work. Slowly the fly buttons were opened and the denims slithered down his thighs and rested at his knees.

“Please God,” he prayed silently, “Don’t make me take down my underpants too.”

Uncle Alfred shifted his vast buttocks on the hard chair and straightened his back. He was almost ready to get on with the job.

“OK, over here,” Uncle Alfred slapped his knee to indicate Warren should bend over. It was a simple command, but one his uncle expected to be obeyed. Warren stood his ground, unable to move. Then he took a half step back, as if he intended to run away.

“Doh!” his uncle wheezed. Then, he took hold of the teenager’s arm and forcibly pulled him down across his knees. To break his fall, Warren placed both hands on the carpet in front of him. His legs were left dangling behind him.

Uncle Alfred wrapped his arm around his nephew’s waist. “Keep your legs straight, raise your bottom higher.”

z used otk white pants chair (19)

Warren twisted and turned until he was positioned to his uncle’s satisfaction: head low, bottom high. He could see his uncle’s feet and the ugly carpet. Dust tickled the back of the teenager’s throat

“Spread your legs more.”

Warren gasped as he felt Uncle Alfred grip the elasticated waist of his pants. The thought, “Oh, no! He’s going to pull them down!” flashed through his mind. But instead his uncle smoothed out the cotton of the boy’s underpants, eliminating all creases. Soon, the tight gleaming-white pants fitted the buttocks like a second skin.

“Give me your hand,” it was a final instruction. Uncle Alfred took hold of his nephew’s wrist and turned the boy’s arm up his back. No matter how hard Uncle Alfred spanked him and how much it hurt, Warren was trapped across his uncle’s knee. He wasn’t about to go anywhere until Uncle Alfred said so.

“Right young man this is going to teach you a lesson.”

Then, Uncle Alfred gripped the slipper tightly and put it to work, smacking Warren’s bum soundly and briskly. The teenager winced the moment the first slap hit home. Uncle kept up a momentum. Slap! Slap! Slap! Three on the left cheek: Slap! Slap! Slap! three on the right. With great expertise, he concentrated on the very tender spot where the bottom joins the thighs, dealing out crisp smacks.

Warren screwed his eyes closed with pain each time the slipper crashed into his bum. He was a lean lad and didn’t have much padding in the buttocks area.

One smack followed another as Uncle Alfred put the slipper to use. The pain of the whacking took the teenager’s breath away, but he resolved to remain silent. Warren wriggled as the slipper connected time and again with his buttocks. Uncle Alfred spanked him thirty times or more; then paused to get a tighter grip on the slipper in his hand and then let fly again.

Uncle Alfred hadn’t said how many strokes of the slipper Warren was to get and after a dozen or so, the boy was finding it hard going to stick to his resolve and remain silent.

He let out silent yells as the next three slaps fell in rapid succession, all landing on the same sensitive “sit spot” on the right cheek.

Uncle Alfred set about his task with a will, but he too was silent. The only sound in the room was the thud, thud, thud of his slipper as it hit Warren’s bum.

And so it went on, slap after slap. He was making a good job covering all over the target area. Some spanks went high, some low. Now on the left cheek: now on the right. Warren could feel his bum heating up with the punishment. It would be red raw by the time Uncle Alfred had finished.

Then, without warning, he took hold of the top of Warren’s pants and pulled them down, not too far, but enough to expose both cheeks. The boy grunted. Uncle Alfred resumed the slippering, perhaps twice as hard as before.

Warren raised his head and flinched in pain with every blow. He could hardly catch his breath, it hurt so badly, but he bit his lip so did not make a sound.

On and on he went, spanking Warren’s bare arse. His body was making involuntary movements with pain, but his uncle still had the boy’s arm pinned.

Warren’s shoulders and head jerked high as each blow from the slipper struck his bum.

His eyes were watering, but he told himself, “I will not cry, I will not cry.” But, he knew he wasn’t going to be able to stand much more without breaking down.

The humiliation was intense. There he was a nineteen-year-old man draped helplessly across Uncle Alfred’s knee, trousers at his feet, bare bum in the air, getting spanked like a little kid. His face was as scarlet as his battered bottom.

To Warren it seemed like an eternity, but the slippering lasted less than three minutes.

“Now, boy, you can stand up.”

In considerable pain, he rose from his uncle’s knees. Instinctively, his hands shot to rub his blistered backside. But, connecting his hands with the raw flesh only increased, the pain, it did not relieve it.

Warren was breathing hard, he was sweating badly and his eyes were full of tears, but he was not crying. His resolve had won through.

He twisted his body to inspect the damage; his buttocks were a deep cherry colour.

Gingerly, he pulled up his underpants. Uncle Alfred remained silent. He had delivered his punishment and as far as he was concerned it was all over. Until the next time.

Warren bent to his ankles and recovered his jeans. His hands were shaking, but he managed to button up the fly and buckle his belt.

“Go to your room.”

Warren took the stairs two at a time and crashed through the door into his bedroom. Within seconds his jeans and pants were back at his ankles. He pointed his bum at the dressing table mirror and traced the contours of his buttocks with his fingertips. The pain had mostly gone, but he found it would return if he pressed into his bony globes. He did and it felt really good. Warren had never looked at his bum before; not closely. It was almost totally bald; there were some wisps of hair in his crack that he’d never noticed before.

It was quite small. He could cup a cheek in the palm of one hand. There wasn’t much “give” either. Unlike his fat uncle, Warren was lean and wiry.

The teenager leaned forward and thrust his buttocks at the mirror. Without warning his cock stood stiff. Whoops. It always did have a mind of its own. It had embarrassed Warren on numerous occasions.

He lay on the bed and stroked it, reliving in his mind the past ten minutes. He imagined what he must have looked like draped over his uncle’s lap; bum held high. The more he pictured the more his todger ached.

Somehow, he knew this wasn’t the end of it. There’d be more spankings before he could demonstrate he was mature enough to be allowed home. Or would there? Maybe next time it would a more severe punishment.

Warren closed his eyes and saw himself bent over the back of the old worn green settee in the living room. Uncle Alfred stands behind him swishing an old-fashioned school cane. Warren’s trousers are at his feet; his pants at his knees. His bared buttocks are raised high. The teenager’s head is low, he is almost chewing the cushion.

Uncle taps the cane gently across the centre of the cheeks. They vibrate gently in anticipation of the searing pain to come.

Uncle lifts the cane high and brings it crashing down.

Back in the bedroom Warren shot a load all over his tight flat stomach.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in May 2016

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A snapshot from my Mind’s Eye

new story 3

otk pyjamas bed sting (72a)

This isn’t a real photograph, it’s a snapshot from my Mind’s Eye. A memory I can see in my head of something that really happened, quite a long time ago. The boy with his pyjama bottoms at his knees and his bare bum pointing at the ceiling is my cousin Mark. He’s over the knees of his father – my Uncle David – and, quite obviously, getting his backside spanked.

I’m not in the picture, but I am in the room. I suppose I must be standing where the camera is. I’m waiting my turn. It’s me next. Once he’s tanned Mark’s rear end until it’s the colour of a tomato, Uncle’s taking me over his knee.

Mark wears pyjamas. Even back then that was deeply unfashionable. I’m eighteen and Mark’s even older; no older teenage boy would be seen dead in jim-jams. Still, I suppose that’s Uncle David for you.

“Go upstairs and get changed for bed,” Uncle David barked before sending us up. So, Mark’s in pyjamas. Not me, I’m stripped down to my underpants. Very small briefs, if memory serves. Yellow – or possibly red – cut so tiny they hardly hold my cock and balls. My buttocks were small and soft back then, but I’d bet the lower cheeks were bare to the wind.

I was staying with Rich Uncle David for the end part of the summer. We called him “Rich” because, well he was rich. If not rich exactly, then certainly wealthy. He was my mum’s brother and he lived in a huge house in a suburb of Brocklehurst. He ran an import-export business. Correction: he owned an import-export business. Yes, he was seriously wealthy.

He was a man of action. What he said, happened. Not just in his successful business but at home as well. He had quite old-fashioned attitudes, even for the times. I vaguely knew that he was an advocate of corporal punishment and that he was not adverse to taking any one of his sons over his knee; even Kevin, the eldest who was knocking on twenty-three.

My dad was nothing like that. He was quite easy-going. I genuinely think it would never have occurred to him to have my pyjama bottoms down. Looking back, compared to Mark me and my brothers got away with murder. Dad was away at work a lot so Mum bore the brunt of our misbehaviour. We must have driven her to distraction.

When Uncle David came to pick me to take me to his home, Mum made a big production number telling him, “If he causes trouble, you have my permission to spank him.” He nodded sagely. Did I see them share a secret smile?

“Ha! Ha!” I laughed uneasily. “Spanked? Me, at my age. You’re joking of course. Nice one. Ha! Ha!” I didn’t say that last bit out loud. Deep down I wasn’t so sure.

When we arrived at The Avenue, his posh street in Brocklehurst, Uncle David was quick to tell me his rules. They weren’t so bad to be fair. I wasn’t allowed to go in the back room which was kept for ‘special’ and what he called his ‘study’ was out of bounds. I assumed this was some office that he used for his business.

There was other stuff about being on time for meals but since I had no intention of going hungry during my holiday I had no worries about this. Also on the list was something about no alcohol or smoking. Before then I hadn’t known he was zealous about these things.

It was a few days after I arrived – a Saturday – when me and Mark went on the town. Brocklehurst was far from Sin City but there were some pubs and at least one half-decent ‘disco.’ By chance we met a couple of Mark’s old school pals in the High Street and together we went of to some dive of a pub. I still remember its name: The Three Fishers. What a stupid name for a pub. What exactly are ‘Fishers’? Fishermen, I understand.

But I digress. We had a couple of pints of larger and checked out the local talent. This being The Three Fishers, the talent came at a price. We passed on that and slowly made our way home. Uncle David was waiting for us. It wasn’t late, but he was the only one still up in the house. We were nowhere near drunk but Uncle David could not be fooled. His nostrils flared. He could smell alcohol and tobacco at a hundred paces.

“Drinking. Smoking,” he announced. It wasn’t meant as a question and it wasn’t even an accusation, it was a matter of fact. I had completely forgotten Uncle David’s prohibition. It came back to me in a rush. “Shit!” I didn’t say that verbally, I’m not that stupid. Mark flushed bright pink and mumbled something I couldn’t make out.

Uncle David scowled, “I don’t believe it.” In my nervousness I stifled a giggle, he sounded exactly like Victor Meldrew, a grumpy fellow in a tv comedy who had that as his catchphrase. Uncle David chided, “Did I not make myself perfectly clear?” he leaned into me. I could smell his breath; definitely no illegal smells there. I was as incoherent as Mark. The correct answer, of course, was: Yes, you could not have been plainer.

“Bah!” Yes, he actually said, “Bah!” like he was some character in a children’s comic like the Beano. At least he didn’t wave his fist and go, “Grrrrr!” What he did do was to say, “Go upstairs and get ready for bed, I’ll be up in five minutes. Make sure you’re ready.”

In silence, we trudged upstairs. In the bedroom Mark quickly pulled his t-shirt over his head. Then he unbuckled his belt. He noticed that I was not undressing. “Hurry up,” he exclaimed, “We don’t have much time, he’ll be up soon.”

I stood my ground, bemused. What was happening? What was Uncle David going to do? I suspected I knew the answer to that but my brain would not compute.

“Quickly,” he snapped, “You don’t want to upset him.” He stepped out of his jeans as he spoke, “We’ll get extras, for sure.”

I gaped, “What exactly is he going to do?” Mark stared as if a moron had just spoken.

“A spanking,” he breathed, and in case I hadn’t understood, he repeated, “He’s going to spank us.”

“Don’t be so …” I started to tell him not to be an idiot before the expression on Mark’s face cut me short. We had been in the sun most of the day but the tan that was developing could not disguise the blanche. “Get undressed,” he hissed as he pulled on his pyjama bottoms and knotted the drawstring.

I wanted to argue, to tell Mark, “No way am I getting spanked. You have got to be kidding. I’m eighteen. You’re nearly twenty for Christ’s sake.” I didn’t say a thing. The look of complete resignation on my cousin’s face warned me to be silent. He knew what he was talking about. Uncle David had decided. Nothing we said, nothing we did could alter the course of events. I unbuttoned my shirt and slipped out of it.

I was folding my jeans to put them neatly on a chair when the door slowly opened and Uncle David stood in the threshold. He was dressed – as he nearly always was – in trousers that were part of a business suit, and a white shirt and tie. It could have been Monday morning at the office, not late on Saturday night. At first he didn’t come into the room, he glared at Mark, surveying him from the top of his unkempt dark hair down to the bare toes of his feet. Mark squirmed under the gaze. Then it was my turn for his fierce stare.

I was about the same height as Mark, but much fairer. Where his body was beefy and stocky, I was wiry and thin as a rake. When you saw us together you wouldn’t immediately take us for blood relations. My body shivered although it was a humid summer’s night. Instinctively I cupped my hands and held them in front of my privates. As I did this a corner of Uncle David’s mouth rose.

He came into the room and without a word, he took hold of my elbow and steered me across the floor. “Stand by that wall,” he grunted. I stood sullenly. “You,” he clicked his fingers at Mark, “Come here.”

Uncle David sat on the bed. It was even for those days an old-fashioned thing with metal springs and frame. He leaned back as far as he could, “Bend across my knee,” he ordered. I could see Mark was no novice to this. Immediately he loosened the drawstring of his pyjamas and let them slip. Then, in a single continuous movement, he placed one knee on the bed and spread himself across Uncle David’s lap so that his whole body was stretched on the mattress. He found the single pillow and buried his head in it.

I had a ringside seat and watched Uncle David carefully take hold of Mark’s pyjama bottoms and gently guide them further down my cousin’s legs. He left them around the knees. Then he brushed the pyjama jacket up Mark’s back so that it was well away from the target area. Mark was bare from the lower back to the knees. His bottom was raised at an angle over Uncle David’s lap so that it pointed towards the ceiling. Uncle David rested his left hand in Mark’s back to hold him steady: now he was good to go.

And away he went. I’d never seen a boy spanked before, I had no idea what should happen. Instinctively I could see Uncle David knew his business. The imprint of his palm was reproduced time and again across Mark’s bare bum. The red palm prints merged into one continuous dark-pink blotch. That quickly deepened to red. That bottom was on fire. If I leaned forward I could probably feel the heat lifting off the scorched flesh.

Each cheek of Mark’s bottom was a little bigger than Uncle David’s spread hand. The cheeks were well-defined with a nice overhang and there was nothing extreme about their curved shape. He was a normal, healthy, teenager: his bottom was as firm as only a teen’s could be yet had a degree of puppy fat.

Smack after hard smack kept coming for at least five minutes until suddenly Uncle David stopped. Mark lay breathing heavily. His bottom glowed. I thought he must be in great pain. My stomach turned. It looked like Uncle had finished with Mark. Now, it was my turn.

“Up,” Uncle David grunted. “Stand by the wall.” I watched Mark roll himself off his dad’s knees until he toppled onto the floor. He sprang to his feet, tugging his pyjama bottoms up as he steadied himself. “Leave them be,” Uncle David barked. “They can stay at your feet for a while. To remind you what a naughty boy you’ve been.”

Mark deliberately avoided my eye as sulkily he shuffled, penguin-like, across the room. As he passed me I saw his eyes blazed. “You’re next,” Uncle David gestured at me. “Come here. Take his place.”

Even now after so many years if I close my eyes I can see it like it’s happening right now. I hesitate, my heart is thumping and I imagine I can see a lump in my bare chest go in and out. Uncle David taps his right knee, he is encouraging me to bend over it. I remember how Mark climbed on top of Uncle David. He pulled down his own pyjamas. I am too, too what? Shy? Embarrassed? Ashamed? I don’t want Uncle David or Mark to see my cock and balls. I cannot pull down my pants. I just stretch myself across Uncle David with my face down in the scratchy Army-surplus blanket.

I cannot see, but I guess my bum is angled over Uncle David’s knee in the perfect position for his hand. My cotton briefs are so tight they dig into my crack. I feel a movement in Uncle David’s body and his right hand slowly caresses my right buttock. Gently. It feels as if he is smoothing any creases out of my pants.

Fool! Of course, he’s not doing this. He preens for a moment or two and then firmly grips the elasticated waist of the pants. I wriggle my hips in protest but he takes no notice. It takes maybe three tugs to have them over my buttocks and at my knees. I am now face down almost totally naked. I close my eyes tight. I cannot believe this is happening. I tell myself it isn’t. I’m just having one of my weird dreams.

Uncle David speaks, “Your mother tells me you have been needing this for quite some time.” He is caressing my now-bare bum. “You’ve had this coming.”

I think, but do not say, this is unfair. It was Mark’s friends who wanted to go to the pub. I only went because Mark wanted to. It’s not my fault. Don’t blame me. I keep quiet. It’s not my place to argue. Uncle David is in total control.  I feel muscles in his body tighten. My buttocks clench, trying to protect themselves.

He slaps his calloused hand cross my backside. Slowly at first. One slap on the left cheek, another on the right. It stings. Then he does it again – and again. Gradually he builds a head of steam. His hand whacks my behind with great force. Quickly. Hard. I gasp. My hips sway. My bum bucks. He grips me tightly at the waist. All the time the slaps rain down. No not rain, thunderstorm – they thunderstorm down. Or do I mean hail?

My bum hots up. I grab the pillow and chew on it. This is the first spanking I have received but obviously it is not the first Uncle David has administered. He is an expert. His hand pounds my mounds. The noise of palm across naked flesh echoes around the almost empty bedroom, like machinegun fire.

The heat in my bottom rises, from hot to something near boiling. My body is twisting and turning and my legs kick out, it’s like I’m trying to swim off Uncle David’s knees. He holds me tighter. “No, you don’t,” he growls. “You’re going nowhere. Not till I say so.”

I can’t see because I’ve still got my face in the pillow but I can feel every square inch of my buttocks has been toasted. All the way from the base of the spine, over the hillocks and into the undercurves. The ache is terrific. I can’t take much more of this. Then he starts on the back of my thighs. That hurts twice as much, no three times; no more. This is agony. I bite down into the pillow. Now, I can’t breathe. I raise my head and gasp for air. I’m starting to choke. Uncle David’s spanks harder still. I’m yapping like a little dog.

Uncle David scolds me, “I hope I’m getting through to you. This is how it’s going to be from now on in.” My eyes moisten. My head butts the pillow. Uncle David grips my waist even tighter and the pounding of my posterior continues.

You might wonder if this really happened. It could be a dream, a fantasy perhaps. A fetish fantasy. Naughty eighteen-year-old boy has his underpants taken down by Uncle before he is held across the old man’s knees for a bare-bottomed spanking. That might be some person’s fantasy, but not mine. This happened. This was for real. I think.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Commander Reynolds’ boarding house

Commander Albert Reynolds, RN (retd.) turned the volume of his wireless down low and sat back in his comfortable chair. The boys had given him a strange proposition but he was not sure he should have turned them down.

He pressed his fingers together, pursed his lips and closed his eyes, allowing the sound of Henry Hall’s dance band to drift into his consciousness.

The three boys, well they were young men really, had departed back to their rooms, leaving the old man to re-evaluate their offer.

It had started a couple of months previously. Jack, James and Arthur had come to live at the Commander’s rooming house. They were from respectable families; otherwise he would never have let them stay.

They were students, just up at the Varsity. Out in the big world on their own for the first time in their lives.

The Commander recalled Mrs Rollington; Jack’s mother. “He’s a fine God-fearing boy, Commander,” she had intoned, rather fiercely, he thought. “He has been brought up in a good Christian family. His morals are impeccable.”

The Commander laughed at that as Henry Hall’s soothing voice introduced the next dance tune. “Impeccable morals, my eye,” he thought.

That had been the problem. Three eighteen-year-old boys let loose on the big city after years cooped up in high class boarding schools. The Commander was an old naval man, he knew what young men could get up to when out on the town. There was smoking, drinking, and, yes, even possibly the occasional woman: Jack, James and Arthur had been making up for lost time.

The Commander was no hypocrite; young men had appetites, he realised that. But there were his other tenants to consider. And there had been complaints; especially from Mr Bunyan at number eight.

Mr Bunyan had called on the Commander four times now. At each visit he was a little more irritated – and, irritating. The Commander knew the type, always finding something to complain about, but maybe this time he had a point.

“It’s just too much Commander Reynolds, Sir,” Bunyan had simpered, the first time he laid down the complaint. It had been about the boys arriving back in the early hours of the morning, clearly the worse for drink.

“It’s the ladies I feel sorry for.” He meant the women tenants. Apart from the three boys and the Commander, Bunyan was the only man lodging at the house, although the Commander was not so sure the word “man” quite described the flamboyant creature that stood before him. Was that a whiff of gardenia in the air?

The Commander was a leader of men and he expected to be obeyed. He had what he described to Bunyan as “a little word” with the boys.

Things improved, but not for long. By the time Bunyan was tapping on the Commander’s door with his fourth complaint, the Commander’s patience was exhausted.

That had been last Friday and it was yesterday he gave the boys formal notice to quit the lodgings. To go, find rooms somewhere else, leave Bunyan and the Commander in peace.

“Oh my, what will my mother say?” It was Jack who spoke first. The three boys were contemplating the devastating news – chucked out of their lodgings for immoral behaviour.

James and Arthur were equally aghast. James most certainly did not want to face his father with this news. Mr Miller expected impeccable behaviour from his sons, especially in public. He was old school, with the emphasis on “school.” He would not hesitate to take his whippy dragon cane down from its hook in the study and apply it with great force across his errant son’s backside; eighteen years old or not.

Arthur had no such fear of his own father. He had never laid a finger on him in his life. There would be no thrashing, but Mr Rhodes would show a deep sense of disappointment that would cut into Arthur much more acutely than any lashes with a cane across his bared buttocks.

“The Commander is right, we have behaved pretty badly,” Arthur had been raised to have a grave sense of guilt. But, neither of the other fellows disagreed. They were guilty as charged. They were not used to freedom that was the reason. They had spent the past ten years imprisoned at one boarding school or another; their lives totally regimented. Rules governed their lives. Do this, do that! Rules that must be followed, and of course, punishments endured if they were not.

“Yes, we have been rather foolish.” It was an understatement from Arthur. Too much wine, women and song had led them to this downfall.

“What if the university finds out? Will we be sent down?” James raised the question. Expulsion for bringing the university into disrepute would be disastrous. It would be the end of James’ chances of a career in the Foreign Office.

The three boys fell silent, each contemplating their own personal disaster.

Jack eventually piped up. “If we had been caught smoking and drinking at Bridgetown, my housemaster would have thrashed us.”

He left the sentence hanging. It was true; the consequence at school for bad behaviour was a very sore backside indeed. But, every boy who ever was ordered to “bend over that chair” to offer up his buttocks to a dominant master, agreed it was worth it. Six-of-the-best meant atonement. The crime had been committed, the punishment was accepted and everybody moved on with their lives.

“It was the same at my school,” James was almost misty-eyed with nostalgia. “Mr Horridge would’ve had us across his desk. Trousers and underpants at our ankles. Even when we were seniors. My hat! We couldn’t sit down for a week after that.”

James and Jack joined in companionable laughter. Arthur’s face drained of colour. How could they find this amusing? Bare-bottomed thrashings. Not sitting down for a week. What brutes these schoolmasters were.

“What about you Arthur?” James peered through his spectacles at his young friend. “What did they do at your school? Did you get it bare?”

Startled, Arthur found himself saying, “Oh, my yes, of course, ouch! Yarroo!”

Why had he lied? Was he ashamed that he had attended a Quaker school, founded by pacifists? Corporal punishment was unheard of. He had never even seen a school cane in his life, let alone felt one across his stretched bottom.

“Hey! I’ve got an idea!” It was James who made the suggestion. It was such an obvious solution. He was sure the Commander would agree. He must have been a public school man himself. Surely, he would understand.

“Let’s offer to take a beating. Apologise, say we’ll never do it again. And we should mean it.”

Jack’s face lit up. “Yes, that’s it. He’ll understand. We could offer to go bare, if that’s what it took.”

The two boys were so taken by their proposed solution they failed to notice Arthur’s coughing fit.

So it was that the three boys stood in Commander Reynolds sitting room, hands behind their backs, feet slightly apart, eyes downcast inspecting a rather worn green-patterned carpet.

It had been James’ idea, so he was the boys’ representative.

“So you see Commander,” it was a confident address. The boys might have spent a little too much time on the town recently, but they were intelligent articulate teenagers. In time they would all make their mark on the world, but now, on this day, they had to dig themselves out of a rather big hole.

“If we behaved like this at our schools we should have been soundly beaten by our housemasters.”

Jack found himself inadvertently nodding his agreement, but still he stared at the carpet, unable to look the Commander in the eye. Cold sweat poured down Arthur’s back, he was certain he would be sick at any moment.

The Commander looked at the three boys in astonishment. Beat them, as if they were schoolboys and he was their housemaster. Who had ever heard of such an idea?

“So, we respectfully ask that you punish us with a beating and then allow us to stay on as tenants.” James finished his little speech. He had decided not to include the offer to take it trousers and underwear down.

The Commander silently counted to ten. His mother had taught him this when he was a very small boy. If you think you are going to lose your temper count to ten before you speak.

Eight, nine, ten. “No, that is not a good idea. You will all vacate your rooms as previously ordered.”

James opened his mouth, but the Commander cut him off. He would not hear argument. “That is all. You are dismissed!”

Two crestfallen (and one very relieved) teenagers trudged up the stairs to their rooms.

Now, in a darkened room, sitting in his chair, was the Commander having second thoughts? Corporal punishment, was it such a bad idea?

Heavy rain lashed against the window, almost drowning out the dance music. Suddenly, in his mind it was at least thirty years ago, he was a sub-lieutenant, young men in thin white trousers were being bound hand and foot, and forced to bend their bodies over a triangle. Handkerchiefs were stuffed into their mouths. A chief petty officer armed with a cane lashed twelve strokes into their taut buttocks.

It happened all the time; there was nothing unusual about it. It was perfectly legal and still happened today.

There were lighter, more informal punishments. The Commander silently chuckled. There had been this boy; what was his name? He was no older than the three tenants upstairs. He was an incorrigible rogue, but not an evil sort. It soon became a ritual. Anderson was he called? Anderson would be caught smoking or absent from his post, the Commander (he was not a Commander then) would be informed. Guilt would be established. Then Anderson was given a choice: be put a charge or go across the knee.

He was a tiny fellow, this Anderson. He looked like a small child. Perhaps that was why the Commander felt he should punish him like a naughty boy. A heavy wooden clothes brush was kept in a drawer. Anderson would be ordered to fetch it while the Commander settled himself into his favourite chair. Then, without further instruction, Anderson would hand the Commander the brush before unbuckling his own belt and lowering his trousers.

Then with an air of resignation on his face he would lower himself across the Commander’s knees. He remembered it as if it had happened that morning. The underpants were a rather grubby grey-white colour. He would pull the drawers up tight so the outline of Anderson’s buttocks were clearly visible and then at a slow, rhythmic pace he would crash twenty-four hard whacks into the boy’s stringy buttocks.

It hurt the boy, probably a great deal, but he never showed his pain. It must have been a matter of pride, to be able to take a whacking stoically. The spanking over, Anderson would jump to his feet replace his trousers and stand to attention, thumbs in line with the seams of his trousers.

“Thank you Sir, I deserved that.” He always said the same thing after every spanking. Had the Commander made him say that or had he thought to do it himself?

A thunderclap woke the Commander from his dream. Heavens, he had not thought about Anderson in more than thirty years. Poor boy, he died in action before he reached his twentieth birthday.

The Commander had been on the receiving end himself. Many times; beyond the age of eighteen. He had attended a naval training ship. There had been this one time, he was with a party of about thirty boys who misbehaved themselves ashore; they had to be rounded up by the ship’s authorities. They used a birch in those days. It was not as heavy as the judicial birch that was still in use today. One by one the boys were forced to lower their trousers and go across the block. The Commander wriggled in his chair as if the scars of the birching were still troubling him.

He moved from his chair and switched on a light. Perhaps the boys had a point. They could atone for their crimes. He did not want them to get into further trouble at the university.

He had listened to the news earlier on the wireless. Mr Chamberlain had returned from Munich with a peace agreement. The Commander did not believe it for a moment. War in Europe was coming and these boys would soon be fighting for their country. The Commander himself would probably be recalled.

Damn it, let’s do it. The Commander was a man of decision. Yes, a caning. Twelve each: on the bare. It must be an exemplary thrashing, but once delivered and received that would be an end to it.

That was how the following evening the three young men stood once more before the Commander, staring down at the carpet.

The Commander had made much preparation. First, he had to purchase a cane. They are readily available in most oil shops, as any naughty boy could attest. The embarrassment of being sent by father to purchase a cane was intense. The shopkeepers never believed a boy’s tale that the cane was needed because they were “playing schools.”

The Commander wanted a special cane, a Malacca for preference. The thick dense rod was as whippy as a school’s rattan cane but it packed more of a punch and with ridges every four inches or so along its length it would leave deep bruises on the boys’ buttocks. They had asked for a caning and would certainly be given a caning to remember.

There was a specialist shop he knew in Earls Court that supplied just the thing.

The Commander was now armed with a suitable weapon, but he had another problem. He was not the boys’ parent or guardian and he had no legal jurisdiction over them. In short, he had no right to punish them.

He was not a legal expert, but he drew up a short contract. The boys were not yet twenty-one and so were not adults. Even so, he would make them sign to say they consented to a thrashing. Next, he needed a witness in case something went wrong. Nearly all of his tenants were women and it would not be right to ask them to see the boys bare their buttocks. Bunyan would have to be the witness. He agreed a little too eagerly when asked.

There were no speeches or ceremony. They all knew why they were there. The Commander went over to the far end of the room, swung round the large horsehair armchair that was to serve as the punishment chair and pushed it into the centre of the room. Having done that, he turned back towards a cabinet and opened the top drawer from which he took the cane.

“Right, Miller,” he swished the cane at James, “Trousers and underwear down.”

James knew he was blushing as he removed his jacket then unzipped his trousers and pulled them down. He stood behind the chair and peeled his underwear from his buttocks before letting them drop on top of his trousers.

“I assume that you know the procedure,” the Commander was still swishing the cane menacingly. “Over the chair, with your legs well apart.”

James did of course know exactly what was required. As he got over the chair, he pushed his arms out along the full length of its armrests, so that his buttocks were raised over the apex of the chair and his legs were stretched apart.

The Commander turned his shirt back and Bunyan sat upright on a sofa, ensuring a clearer view.

Unceremoniously, the Commander tapped the waiting buttocks then raised his arm to shoulder height, before with a flick of the wrist he brought the cane down hard across the exposed backside. James clenched his teeth but a groan still escaped as he absorbed the first of twelve stokes. The Commander was soon into his stride, ensuring he spread the strokes across the teenager’s bottom. Starting in the middle, he worked his way down till number six landed hard across the top of James’ thighs.

cane man seated watching (1)

No amount of teeth clenching could stop the loud howl that escaped from the boy’s throat. The Commander paused to admire the six thick red, almost parallel, lines across James’ once creamy white buttocks. He landed number seven higher up, before changing his stance and lashing number eight diagonally crossing the previous seven welts. James roared and his bottom gyrated. The Commander was breathing almost as heavily as the boy he was punishing as he whacked the rest of the strokes diagonally across the buttocks, from the left and from the right.

James gagged as howls and sobs were wrenched from his body and he clutched onto the horsehair sofa as if his very life depended on it.

Then it was Jack’s turn. He had been panting vigorously since the start of James’ beating and his short, sharp breaths now grew more urgent as he lay across the chair.

His bottom was well-rounded with firm and toughened muscles, but it had no protective layer of flesh. There would be no give and compression of the cheeks as the cane struck home, its impact would be imparted directly into the muscle of the suffering boy. Movement would remain agonising long after the beating had been completed and all strokes administered. The lack of absorbent meat on his buttocks meant that the knots of the Malacca cane were likely to tear the skin and cause bleeding, perhaps even with a single stroke.

With incredible speed, accuracy and force, the Commander lurched forward and delivered three rapid strokes which ricocheted off the boy’s backside, making him writhe and jerk and gasp loudly before slumping back over the chair, panting and twitching, in total subjection.

The Commander wielded the cane with stunning skill. The stinging lines of pain which sliced their way across Jack’s backside exceeded any previous canings he had received at school. He bounced up and down on the back of the chair and strained every muscle in his legs to hold them straight and apart.

The twelfth and final stroke was imminent. Jack’s clenched fists, wet with the saliva from his mouth into which they had been thrust to hold back his cries, and stinging with the imprint of his teeth, groped desperately to cling on to the chair.

The cane rose and fell. The collision was formidable. The cane cracked with unrestrained vengeance across the bare flesh of Jack’s buttocks. The sound reverberated around the room and a shudder rippled through the teenager’s body as the full impact of the stroke bit into him.

Arthur stood gazing at the sight of Jack’s striped, bruised, red and purple blotched buttocks clenching and unclenching, trembling like jelly. His own legs buckled and for a moment he feared he would fall onto the floor in a fainted heap.

“Over!” the Commander swished the cane impatiently. Arthur wanted to push past the Commander and his fearful cane, and dash from the room. He would not stop running until he had reached his mother’s arms at his home one hundred and fifty miles way.

That is what he wanted to do. But it was not what he did. His two great friends Jack and James had endured their thrashings. They had been brutal, but the two boys had behaved honourably. They had misbehaved and had accepted their due punishment. No matter how terrible the ordeal might be, Arthur resolved to take the caning. He deserved it. He would not let himself down in front of his friends.

In a trance he stepped forward towards the chair. He clenched his eyes tightly shut and fumbled at his trousers. He could not quite get his fingers to work and it took an age before he felt the heavy cloth of his trousers slide down his thighs before travelling past his knees to rest at his shins. His underpants followed reluctantly.

The Commander’s impatience grew. “Hurry up boy, I haven’t got all day.”

Arthur felt the colour draining from his face. His legs became weak and an immovable lump came into his throat. His eyes displayed the sheer horror and despair which was consuming him. A sudden realisation that this boy was terrified brought a sneer to Bunyan’s lips.

With eyes still tightly closed, Arthur stretched himself forward and offered up his bared buttocks to his tormentor.

The boy’s apprehension was obvious, even without studying the quivering vibration of his naked and expectant bottom, the Commander knew that he was terrified of the pain of the beating to come. He was horrified that he might fail the test.

No matter, events must take their course. The Commander, surprised that his palms had suddenly begun to sweat tucked his cane under his arms so he could wipe his hands against his trousers. Bun too was sweating, but anxious to get on with the show.

The Commander slipped the cane from his arm into his hand and prepared to administer the third thrashing of the evening.

The first cut bounced into Arthur’s mounds and sank deep into the flesh, before it re-emerged leaving behind a thick red mark across the centre of both cheeks. Arthur let out a piercing scream and jumped from the chair, both hands grabbing his ferociously boiling buttocks. He stamped up and down on the carpet in a fruitless attempt to ease the agony.

James’ eyes widened at the spectacle. He had seen many boys caned in his lifetime, but none had behaved like this. What was wrong with the boy?

The Commander thought he knew. This boy had never before been on the receiving end of a caning. How could such a thing happen? Was he not eighteen years old and the product of an English public school? The public schools – which were in fact expensive independent private schools – were renowned across the British Empire for their discipline. The school cane had been one of the country’s finest exports for a hundred years or more. How could this boy be a virgin to its lash at his age?

“Back over!” it was a ferocious command. “Do not dare behave in such a disgraceful way. Take your beating like a man!”

Totally humiliated and with tears streaming down his cheeks, Arthur prepared once more to receive the kiss of the cane.

The Commander was a military man through to his inner core. This shaking, wailing boy bent over the chair, bared buttocks pointing upwards at him, might be experiencing this for the first time, but he must not be lenient.  He was as guilty as his two fellows and he must be punished in exactly the same way. It would not be fair on them. Besides, if he laid the cane on lightly, Jack and James would know and they would despise Arthur for it. No, the right thing to do would be to tear the boy’s buttocks to shreds.

And, that is precisely what the Commander did.

The Commander saw the tension taking over Arthur’s entire body and sensed the teenager holding his breath to bursting point, as the older man realigned the cane to deliver a diagonal stroke to cut across the previous one.

His arm swept down. The cane struck the springy globes with a swish and leapt away. Arthur’s body convulsed on the chair, his fingers scrabbled and wrenched, he gave a pitiful whine and then settled again, ready for the next stroke.

The next lashes fell a fraction below each other getting lower and lower with number six landing right on the crease, by now Arthur was bawling and tears had fallen from his eyes and the chair cushion was wet with teardrops. His hands were tightly gripping the chair as another stroke landed at a right angle crossing all the previous stripes. Arthur howled once more and his backside wobbled and shook as he came to terms with this latest onslaught.

When number twelve landed the Commander whipped it with a will right on top of stroke number seven on the crease, Arthur’s head shot up and he screamed in agony.

“That will do.” It was a calm, courteous statement. The punishment was over.

Arthur let go of the seat cushion; his knuckles now bleached white. Nothing registered clearly or coherently as quickly he got up, but his hands immediately went round to feel his scalded buttocks and he could not get dressed immediately until the pain reached its peak.

The pain was so intense that in spite of his eighteen years he could hardly see for the tears which were flooding his eyes: he had taken as severe a caning as could have been delivered.

Five minutes later, the Commander was once more alone in his room. The three boys were upstairs admiring their corrugated backsides and congratulating one another on their fortitude. Mr Bunyan was lying on his bed, his trousers at his ankles. In the distance a thunderclap heralded yet another rain storm.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in February 2016.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

What strange times they were

new story 3

z used solo blazer badge cravat (1)

“Take down your trousers,” he rasped. “Underpants too.” I shuffled uncomfortably. The room was cool, even though outside it was a fine spring afternoon. “Bend over my knee,” the vicar scrunched a large leather-soled bedroom slipper in his right fist. He wriggled his buttocks on the worn wooden armless chair and parted his legs a little. “I am going to spank you on your bare bottom,” his eyes blazed.

I was one of three lodgers at the vicarage – the vicar called us “paying guests”. We were all up at the university in the nearby town. Without hesitation, but also without enthusiasm, I set about slipping the braces that held my trousers aloft over my shoulders. The trousers were loose at the waist and I hardly needed to unbutton them before they slipped easily over my thighs and down to my shins.

My underwear was the modern type with drawers that were separate from the singlet. If I had worn the traditional “combinations” I should have had to strip off all of my clothes to be able to offer the vicar my bared buttocks.

I undid the drawstring of the underpants and guided them down. I hesitated, The vicar frowned. I knew what I was expected to do. This was not the first time I had been across the vicar’s knee. It wouldn’t be the last. All we lodgers got it. This Sunday it was my turn. We were on a kind of rota. It happened as regularly as clockwork. Every week. Winter, spring and autumn. The university was closed in summer.

The vicar had rules. Lots of them. We were expected to obey. Without question. People did in those days. He used to inspect our university work as well. If an essay scored less than a B-plus, out would come his whippy rattan cane. But more of that later.

I was standing a couple of yards from the vicar, my trousers and underpants at my shins. He twisted that slipper in his hand and tapped it against his right thigh. It was his way of saying, “Get on with it young man.” And I was a Young Man. I went into the vicarage aged nineteen and left three years later when I graduated with my degree from university.

I took the hint and shuffled two small steps forward so that I towered over the seated vicar. At the time he seemed to me to be an elderly man, but thinking back he was probably only in his forties. He was tall and stocky. He had spent many years before the war as a missionary in Africa, thinking nothing of trekking tens of miles through the bush to take the word of God to the heathens.

I suppose he was what we used to call “a Muscular Christian”. He certainly had muscles, especially in his right arm and upper body, as I can attest. A spanking from the vicar was an ordeal to be endured.  I lowered myself across the vicar’s knee. His thighs were as thick as tree stumps and I was a few inches shorter than he was so my body made a good fit across him. I stretched my arms forward and planted the palms of my hands firmly into the thin rug. I could feel the heavy wooden floorboards beneath.

My legs dangled behind me and the toes of my feet did not quite reach the ground. Of course, I could not see this myself but like this my bared bottom was presented across the vicar’s right thigh at a perfect angle to receive the slipper. As usual, he slowly and gently tucked the tail of my shirt away from the target area so that I was naked from the shoulder blades to the shins. Then, with his left hand he gripped me around the waist and he lent his forearm into my back. I was pinned, face down across his knees. My head low, my bottom high, ready in the traditional spanking position.

I clenched my buttocks. I always did this. I supposed that this would toughen up my cheeks and defend me – at least a little – from the onslaught of the vicar’s slipper. It was as if my body was taking up some natural protection. I imagined my bum was as tough as rubber.

It was only many years later that I discovered this was in fact the worst stance I could take in such a situation. Tensing the muscles did not lessen the pain, indeed it did the exact opposite. I read in a reputable medical text book that the best way to endure pain is to relax the muscles, not tense them. I forget the reasoning now. Also, one should try to ignore the pain; that is think about something else.

Oh well we live and learn. I clenched my cheeks and stared at the worn red-patterned rug beneath my face. I felt the leather sole of the slipper tap not too gently across the centre of my right cheek. That was the vicar finding his aim. Seconds later it was lifted away. There was a slight pause and then Whoosh! Bang! The slipper flew through space and landed with an enormous wallop across my bottom. The sting burned furiously. It had been a hefty swat with a heavy slipper. Bedroom slippers back then were nothing like the light plastic things that fill the shops these days.

Before I regained my breath a second and a third wallop had my backside blazing. The vicar was old school. He believed in discipline. He believed in punishment. He believed in the Wrath of God. Bam! Bam! Bam! He fair took my backside apart. He showed no mercy. In his eyes I had sinned. I had failed to perform my household chores to his satisfaction. I had been late down to breakfast one morning and – in his mind at least – I had been disrespectful to Miss Frotherinsham, an elderly spinster in the village who regularly visited the vicar in search of spiritual guidance (and a free cup of tea).

So, I was in for it. The vicar had his little rituals. He would start by tanning the highest points of the cheeks and when the pounding made them as hard of leather he would turn his attention to the top of the mounds. After maybe fifty whacks he would go underneath. You know, the place where the bum cheeks meet the thighs. That’s the part that connects with the chair when you sit down. It meant that the pain would reignite for hours later whenever you sat.

Finally when there was no square inch of flesh left untoasted, the vicar would go for the back of the thighs. If you weren’t gasping in pain and praying (silently) for it all to stop already, you certainly were now.

I remember many times after a bare-bottomed slippering examining my ravaged buttocks in the bedroom mirror. The flesh was dark red and oftentimes I would see the imprint of the slipper emblazed time and again across my bum. The skin felt like leather and when I cupped my buttocks in my hand they seemed to be twice their normal size.

As I said, we took many spankings like that. Even when we were twenty-one. In those days you didn’t legally become an adult until you were twenty-one and we youngsters were used to being treated like children. People’s eyes pop when I tell them how we were spanked back then. “Crazy,” they say. “Why did you let him?”

The answer is: everything was different back then. We were much more deferential. You respected a vicar like he truly was God’s representative on earth. The Second World war was recently over and many men did not come home. That put enormous pressure on the mothers who had to raise boisterous boys without a father. Men of standing in the community stepped forward to lend a hand. The vicar was often called to deal with errant boys in the village, a duty he was happy to fulfil. I often returned from university just in time to see a boy hobbling down the drive, rubbing his bottom ruefully with his eyes blazing.

In the village where I grew up the local medical doctor took on this role. He often visited the homes of his patients not to offer remedies to the sick but to put his thick, wide leather belt to use.

Such was the way of life. It was how things were and we accepted it. I suppose, you could say we knew our place.

I certainly knew mine. It would never have occurred to me for a moment not to bow to the vicar’s authority. Even, when logically he had no authority over me. A case in point was in my first term at the vicarage. I was new to the university and it took me time to settle. I had attended a traditional grammar school where masters supervised every move we made. It was not like that at the university. We rarely had lectures and met with our tutors maybe once a fortnight. We were given essay titles to work on and told to go to the library and get on with it.

I don’t need to spell it out. My first essays were pretty poor. They were not failures but they would not set the world of academia alight. The vicar had already ruled that should any of we paying guests receive less than a B-plus we should be caned. Pure and simple. No discussion. No mitigation.

The vicar had a selection of crook-handled canes. He kept them in plain sight standing in an oversized vase in one corner of his parlour. You could buy these on any High Street in those days. Every classroom had one. Some schoolmasters would leave one hanging from the corner of the blackboard in easy reach should it be needed to encourage learning.

They came in all sizes and makes. The vicar’s were made of whippy rattan. Each was at least three feet long and they varied in thickness to one that was not much more than a reed to the largest that was the size of a pencil.

He asked his maid to call me to his room. She was a young woman, not much older than myself. I think she was often in the house when the vicar dealt with the village ruffians. I know for a fact she hovered outside the parlour door the time Higgins, a fellow paying guest, was beaten. Her flushed face betrayed her feelings.

She tried not to smile when she gave me the vicar’s instruction. I shrugged, affecting nonchalance, but my heart beat fast, I had by this time been spanked twice by the vicar but never caned. His beatings were legendary. I was not looking forward to this.

I had been caned before at school. Who hadn’t? It was that kind of school. My last beating happened only days before I was due to leave forever. Myself and two pals, Richardson and Jenkins, were summoned to the head’s study. The headmaster was an old stick (he and the vicar would have got on well together) and very hard on what he called “form”. To him behaviour was either good form or bad form.

The exams were over but we senior boys were expected to continue to attend school until the official leaving date. We had little useful to do and spent some of the day idly playing cricket. Oftentimes a master or two would join in. I suppose since we were eighteen and about to leave school we saw ourselves as adults. Our manners and behaviour slipped. Richardson, I know, was unabashed about smoking cigarettes behind the cricket pavilion. We joshed with the masters. Sometimes cheekily.

As I said there was good form and bad form. How the headmaster learned of our laxed behaviour I do not know. But that is as irrelevant now as it was then. So, we found ourselves standing three in a line in front of the headmaster’s desk.

I can picture it now, as if the scene was caught in a sepia photograph. Three thin, gangly senior schoolboys. Dressed in ill-fitting striped blazers and grey flannel trousers. Perched on our heads are ridiculous hooped caps. What a picture of a bygone age. If we had been first or second formers we would be dressed in grey short trousers and knee socks.

The headmaster was an ogre. A tyrant. A fiend. Boys trembled in dread as he swept through the passageways of the school, his academic gown flapping all around him. In my memory he always carried a stout curve-handled cane. Could that memory be true? Surely, not always?

We stood in terror. The headmaster was a smallish man and very wide. We had just been through a war and food and other commodities were still scarce but he appeared to eat well. His double chin had an extra chin of its own. His arms and legs were pudgy. His gown hid his hanging belly.

I can’t remember exactly what he said. It was many years ago. I do know he said it at great length. Every sentence or two he would pause so that myself, or Richardson, or Jenkins, or all three of us, could agree that we were the most disgraceful, shocking, scandalous pupils ever to set foot in his study.

The study was a large room but the headmaster’s huge desk dominated it. It seemed to me to be the size of a small paddling pool. At the other end of the room were a couple of armchairs and a low table. Several straight-backed chairs were gathered around the room. An open and unlit fireplace dominated one wall and two others had glass-fronted bookcases. Stained glass windows were on the fourth wall.

As I think I’ve made clear corporal punishment was common in those days. I think they still flogged prisoners in jail, certainly the cane was used in borstal and other institutions for juvenile delinquents. I tell you this to explain why nobody thought it strange that on one of the walls between the bookcases there was a display cabinet containing three curve-handled canes of various gradations and thicknesses. One for the junior boys, another for the middle school and so on.

The headmaster growled and heaved himself to his feet. It took some doing. Out of the corner of an eye I watched him wobble away from his desk. His destination was clear. He puffed and wheezed as he made his journey. He sucked in a lung-full of air as he reached up to the cabinet. Without hesitation he picked the longest and thickest of the three canes. My heart sank. Richardson bit down deeply on his bottom lip.

The headmaster turned. “Face me,” he growled. His breathing had eased and his authority returned. He flexed the cane menacingly between his hands. Why did all schoolmasters do this? Isn’t it the hammiest acting ever? He swiped the cane through the air to demonstrate its power. He needn’t have troubled himself. Each of us had been caned in the past by housemasters. Jenkins several times. We knew the damage a well-handled cane could inflict.

“Jenkins. Richardson. Stand and face the wall,” the headmaster barked. Relieved that they were not the first to get it my two pals hastily retreated. I breathed deeply. My heart raced, I couldn’t help it. I had no control over the inner workings of my body. I clasped my hands behind my back to steady myself. “Cap, blazer off,” he wobbled the cane as he spoke.

Despite unsteady hands I got the cap off my head and hung it on a hook on the door. Getting the buttons of my blazer undone was more trouble. “Hurry boy. We haven’t got all day,” the headmaster snarled. As far as I was concerned we did have all day. I was in no hurry to be flogged. I flushed bright red and with difficulty placed the blazer alongside the cap.

“Bend over the desk.”

It was a firm command and, of course, one I expected to be made, but I couldn’t get my legs to work. I was only three steps away from my destination but as I attempted the first of them my knees buckled. I gathered myself before I fell to the floor. The humiliation avoided, I staggered like a drunk man to the desk.

I had been ordered over the desk before. It was my form-master’s preferred positioning. My housemaster in contrast preferred a sixth-former to go over the back of his armchair. It’s all about the angle that the bum is presented, I suppose. It would depend on how tall the boy was. If you have him over the chair your swing with the cane might be in the upwards direction; if over the desk it might be downwards.

“Over the desk,” to my form-master meant laying flat on the stomach across the desk top. You had a choice of gripping the edge of the desk with your hands of folding your arms and burying your face. In the absence of further instructions from the headmaster, I lay flat and gripped the far edge of the desk. I turned my head so my left cheek touched the cold wood. Like this I had a clear view through the window. All I could see was blue sky and the lightest of fluffy clouds.

The floorboards creaked with the headmaster’s weight as he shuffled into position. My cock and balls were pressed hard against the desk. My trousers were tight across my buttocks. Clothes were still rationed so I had to wear them even though they no longer fitted well. I heard the headmaster move to stand by my left. The tip of his heavy cane touched the centre of my right bum cheek. He “sawed” the cane across the plumpest parts of the buttocks. It lifted away. I held my breath. I gripped the edge of the desk tightly. I closed my eyes and sucked my lips.

Swish! Crack! An almighty swipe slashed across both buttocks. It whizzed with great speed and force and sliced through the meat of my bum like that hot knife and butter everyone talks about. I heard it land across the seat of my stretched trousers but it seemed an age before the agony followed. I’ve never had a red hot rod pressed into my bum before but if such a thing were to happen it would not hurt as much as the headmaster’s first stroke.

My whole body shuddered. My hips swivelled. I humped the edge of the desk like I was servicing a chambermaid. The agony was so great I didn’t have the strength to cry out.

Then the second swipe cut. Lower than the first but equally as deep. I could feel a welt rising under my underpants. My head banged up and down into the desk. Water filled my eyes, blinding me. A yap like a little whipped puppy might make fractured my throat.

“Huh!” The headmaster behind me seemed pleased with his handiwork so far. “Keep still boy,” he hissed. That was easier said than done. All the breath had been knocked out of me, I was gasping for air.

The third swipe sliced me across the top of the buttocks. The headmaster was an expert. He had landed three cuts perfectly parallel. I had a burning stripe about four inches wide across my backside. I didn’t know because I couldn’t see but my pals were staring at my blistering bum wide-eyed with terror.

“Face the wall!” the headmaster raged. “Do you want extra cuts?” That was a rhetorical question, if ever I have heard one.

The headmaster gave me a full Six. Six-of-the-best we called it back then. I don’t think that phrase did the headmaster’s beating justice. It was the harshest thrashing I had ever received. Each stroke delivered with aplomb, landing with power and accuracy. The man was the best – literally, a master.

You might wonder why I let him do it. Looking back after several decades I wonder why too? The exams were over, we were going to leave school for good in a few days’ time. What would have happened if we had refused?

Nothing. That’s the answer. But, as I said, things were different back then. Deference. We knew our place. It did not even occur to any of us: myself, Richardson or Jenkins, to refuse. Our superior ordered us across the desk, so across the desk we went.

So, when a few months later the vicar summoned me to the parlour for a taste of his cane, I went without question. And I went on doing so for three more years. Over the desk. Over the knee. What strange times they were.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

The sling-shot

The vicar delivers

The rookie deputy sheriff

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

 

Sports report

new 5

z used drawing football The Gem (54)

Good afternoon from the Old Mill ground where this thrilling First Division match ended with a 4-3 victory for the Town over title challengers Albion.

The star of the show was once again whiz kid Stanley Mitchell, the eighteen-year-old amateur player who has burst onto the scene this season. Mitchell who is still a schoolboy displayed all the brilliance we have come to expect of him from recent matches. He scored the first goal with a quite remarkable dribble from the halfway line. I lost count of the number of Albion players he left in his wake as he charged up the field.

His second goal was a wonderful volley from the edge of the penalty area that simply flew into the top corner of the net leaving goalkeeper Hanks with no chance.

But for all Mitchell’s undoubted footballing talent he once again showed his immaturity and ill-discipline. He was dismissed from the pitch in the 75th minute when he went down after being tackled in the Albion area. He claimed a penalty which the referee denied.

Mitchell refused to accept the decision and spent some time arguing violently with the referee Mr Calderstones. The air was quite blue. Mr Calderstones quite rightly sent off Mitchell who reacted by taking off his shirt and throwing it to the ground as he left the field.

Although he is a quite brilliant player Mitchell is garnering a reputation for being a spoilt, unruly, petulant young man. Much to the annoyance of his fellow players and his manager Mr Clapman.

I am told there was a scene in the dressing room after the match. Alf Mortenson, Town’s burley captain, intervened on behalf of his club-mates. Young Mitchell soon found himself across Mortenson’s knee in the fashion of many petulant boys. His football knickers and underwear were ripped down so that his bottom was quite bare. A size-12 rubber-soled plimsoll was then used with some vigour.

Many listeners may know  from their own experiences with physical-training instructors at school that the plimsoll in the right hands is an awesome punishment tool. Mortenson, who stands well over six-foot-five and weighs fifteen-stone was well placed to deliver Mitchell’s much-deserved spanking.

Mortenson was encouraged by his clubmates who watched and cheered as he hammered the slipper across the young brat’s naked bottom. No square inch of the buttocks was left unattended. The eighteen-year-old was said to be howling and hollering long before the captain let up.

One thing is for certain it will be a very uncomfortable ride home for Mitchell on the team bus.

We shall have to see whether there is an improvement in Mitchell’s behaviour at next week’s match against Rovers. Meanwhile, the wonderkid has to return to school on Monday and it remains to be seen if his headmaster has something more to say on the matter.

This is Raymond Gladhanding returning you to the studio. Eamonn.

Picture credit: The Gem

 Other stories you might like

Footballer’s Hairbrush Treatment

Oh my papa

Smoking on the bus

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Strict landlords- the compilation

Many years ago when I was a student I lived in lodgings with a family who rented out three rooms in their large house. The man of the house was retired and although quite old (to my youth he may have seemed ancient) he was very distinguished. There was a small armchair in my room and many nights I would fantasise that he had me across its back while he lashed a whippy-school-type cane into my pyjama-clad bottom.

I had no idea then that decades later I would use this fantasy as the basis of a series of my stories. One of the first that I ever wrote and published was called Paul and His Landlord. In real life, one night I got back to the house so late that the front door was locked and I had to ring the bell hard and waken the household to get in. I must have inconvenienced many people that night, but nothing was ever said about it.

Not so in my story where I end up receiving a well-deserved caning.

I wrote two episodes of Paul and his Landlord and you can read them by clicking the links below. Remember, they are stories although inspired by real life.

I have written other stories about landlords that were similarly inspired by other real places that I lodged. Links to those are also below.

I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I have enjoyed fantasising and writing about them.

Charles

 Paul And His Landlord

z used cane hold kernled (13)

Picture credit: Kernled

 Where it all began. That late night home. —- It was then Paul noticed his landlord was holding the cane. He wasn’t flexing it between his outstretched hands in the way drawings of headmasters did in old comics, or how Jimmy Edwards did as the eccentric headmaster in the TV show, Whacko! No, Mr Jarvis simply held the cane perpendicular to his body and was gently tapping it against his leg. Paul was mesmerised.

Paul and his landlord 2

Paul stood, his hands behind his back. Waiting. Breathing heavily. He looked down at the huge padded vinyl armchair. It was a very comfortable chair. But, this evening he would not be sitting down in comfort. Not in that chair or anywhere else.

His landlord tapped the thick crook-handled rattan cane against his right leg. Tap, tap, tap. Then, swoosh! it roared through the air as Mr Jarvis swiped it in front of the twenty-year-old’s face.

“I caned you once before for coming home late drunk and disturbing the whole household.” Mr Jarvis flexed the cane, making a perfect bow. “But evidently I didn’t cane you hard enough.”

Foreign Language Student

z used short shorts couch (2d)

Picture credit: Unknown

I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do. I stood about two feet away from the arm looking across at the couch. It was so big four adults could probably have sat on it in complete comfort.

The top of the padded arm of the couch was about a metre high and maybe 75cm wide.

“Bend over the chair,” Mr Martin ordered. He was angry and I was scared. Nothing like this had ever happened to me before and I couldn’t figure out how the hell I was going to get out of this.

My First Time

What I did next profoundly changed my life. I took a deep breath to try to calm my raging heartbeat and walked into the lounge. The room was dimly lit by a standard light in one corner, I hardly saw Mrs. Adams and her sister lolling on a sofa. They stood as I come in; it seemed they were expecting me.

My house. My rules

“You will address me as ‘Mr. Shults’ and you will address my wife as ‘Mrs. Shults.’ You will be polite at all times and obey without question any instructions that either of us might give you.

“These are the rules of the house. It is my house and I make the rules. If you choose to brake one of my rules, you will be spanked. With your trousers down. I shall spank you on your underpants and if you dare to repeat your rule-breaking you will be spanked on your bared bottom.”

The broken window

Mr. Epson strode into the lounge brandishing his cane. Jerome stared, confused, unsure what he should do.

“Bend over. I’m going to beat you with this cane. With your trousers and underpants on it probably won’t hurt you much, but it will give me a considerable amount of pleasure.” Mr. Epson thought this, but did not say it out loud.

Instead, he did say, “Bend over. Touch your toes.”

No Smoking!

z used otk pants chair (12)

Picture credit: Unknown

Meekly, Steph draws in a lungful of air, takes a half a step forward, steadies his nerve, places his palms on Mr. Walter’s right leg and eases himself down. He stretches his arms forward then spreads them a little and presses his palms into the scratchy carpet. He cannot see this but his bottom rests high over Mr. Walter’s lap. If he cares to look, Steph can see under the chair to his feet where his toes don’t quite touch the floor. Steph keeps his head low and stares at the carpet. He wants to pretend he does not have an audience of fellow lodgers, but their nervous breathing is louder than the bird calls from the garden beyond the open bay window.

The spanking I thoroughly deserved

The weirdest thing happened to me last week Sunday; my landlord took me across his knee and spanked my bare bottom with a brush very hard indeed – and I let him do it.

It wasn’t a fetish thing; you know where people spank each other for sexual kicks; it was discipline – or more truthfully, punishment.

Kevin’s landlord

Kevin’s landlord is flexing the cane between his two hands. This is real enough. Kevin is confused. Kevin is over the back of the armchair; he is just the right height. The cushion soft in his hands. He feels the back of the chair sticking into his stomach. His trousers are very tight. Kevin’s landlord makes his preparations. Kevin waits in position ready for the first stroke. He does not know what to feel. It is unreal. It is absurd. A nineteen-year-old presenting his bottom to his ageing landlord so he can whack it with a school cane. It may be absurd, but it is also intensely exciting.

 

The stories Paul and His Landlord with others about troublesome tenants is also available as a free-to-download book (PDF file).  You should be able to read it on your lap top or e-book reader.

Click on the link below

paul-and-his-landlord-by-charles-hamilton-ii

Other stories involving landlords you might like:

 

The Rooming House

A memory in the attic

The boys in room 3b

The terrible twins

The troublesome lodger

Someone needs his bottom spanked

My landlord’s slipper

The domestic service agreement

Commander Reynolds’ rooming house

Home early

Donald knows his place

Paying the rent

The exhibitionist

The tenants and the headmaster

Landlord is sick of the lodger

MacTaggart’s House for Naughty Boys

You didn’t pay the rent

A spanking before bedtime

The French student

Strictly no alcohol

The students’ landlord

An old English custom

The Spanking Vicar of Aston Budleigh – the compilation

House rules

Enhanced community training

The Post Office Thief

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com