Don’t Knock it Until You’ve Tried

zused drawing paddle hold cane cupboard (1)

Jake stared at the message on the screen of his iPhone. Finn was late but on his way. Jake hated sitting in The Three Fishers on his own. The pub was heaving. It was a bit of a sleaze ball. They had begun drinking there when they were sixteen; they weren’t particular about who they served. A group of old queens at the bar scanned the room searching for fresh meat. Jake felt their stares burning his flesh.

He concentrated on his phone, swiping through the sports news. He didn’t hear the man at first. “Sorry,” he shouted leaning forward to hear what he was saying.

“I said, do you like being spanked?”

Jake frowned, had he heard the old man correctly?

The man edged closer and put his mouth close to Jake’s ear. “Would you let me spank you? Are you in to being spanked?”

Jake’s mouth opened and closed. He had heard all right that time. What sort of question was that? Who was this man? He didn’t seem drunk. High. Crazy.

“I have a house. Lots of toys,” the man smiled.

Jake took a long draw on his drink. Playing for time. Just a little frightened. Bodies pushed past his table. He looked across to the door. Should he leave? Where was Finn?

“I can spank you. Do you like to be spanked?” the man asked again as if it was the most natural question to ask a guy in the pub. (“Do you want a peanut?”)

Jake took another gulp of beer. Dutch courage. “Wor … wor ..” he began, trying to find the right word. How to say “fuck off” without making a scene? He looked the man in the face. It was a bright, open face. Not at all sinister. The guy was no threat. Jake laughed. “Jesus. Does anybody ever say ‘yes’?”

The man’s smile was genuine. “You’d be surprised. But, not for you then?”

Jake shook his head, “No thanks.”

“Oh well, enjoy your evening. But if you ever change your mind …. ” The man disappeared into the crowd.

Five minutes later Finn put two pints on the table in front of his pal. He took a long draught, downing half of the glass.

“You’ll never guess what’s just happened to me?” Jake said and when Finn ignored him, he told the story anyway.

“I guy came up to me and asked if he could take me home and spank me. Incredible!”

Finn took another gulp. Shrugged his shoulders. “About fifty, greasy hair, going a bit bald, bit of a Welsh accent?”

“You know him?”

“Name’s Paddy Price. Least that’s what he calls himself.”

“How do you know him?”

Finn smirked, “How’d ya think?”

It took a moment for the penny to drop. “You’ve been with him?”

Finn snorted, drank some more. “He has a big place on The Avenue. Must be loaded.”

Jake stared at his friend. The room seemed to be spinning. What was happening here? “What he paid you?”

Finn’s nostrils flared, “Fuck off, what do you take me for a rent boy?”

Jake recoiled, Finn was genuinely angry. “No, but,” he paused, uncertain whether he should say this. “But isn’t it gay?”

Finn frowned, Jake could be a right dickhead sometimes. “No.” He nodded at the iphone on the table. “Go online, everybody’s into it.”

Finn was right. Later in bed Jake surfed the net. They were all at it. Guys on girls. Girls on guys. Girls on girls. Guys on guys. An entire industry of adult spanking. In one video there was a guy looked a bit like Finn. He wasn’t, of course, but he was the same height, same basic shape; not fat, but cuddly.

He was supposed to be a junior schoolboy, short trousers, knee socks. The lot. He had been found smoking a cigarette. Then he had to take down his shorts and underpants and bend over the knee of another lad who was the head boy to get a spanking on the bare bottom.

In another one the same Finn-a-like (still a schoolboy in short trousers) is caught smoking. In these videos smoking is the biggest sin a schoolboy can commit. Its shorts and trousers down again. This time he’s over the back of an armchair for a dose of a whippy rattan school cane from the headmaster.

Jake slept so fitfully the duvet was soiled. He dreamt he was back at school and Finn was head boy and Jake was that boy getting his bare arse slapped.


Nearly two weeks later Jake walked purposively through the suburban streets. The Avenue was longer than he had anticipated, if he wasn’t careful he would be late for his appointment. Paddy Price had ben most helpful when after three tries Jake had at last tracked him down at the Three Fishers. Of course, they could meet, let us make an appointment. Is an evening good for you? It was as if they were arranging to meet for tea.

At last Jake found the house. It was a modern structure hidden behind a high wall and electronic gate. Away from prying eyes. He touched the intercom button and a cheerful voice greeted him With a whir the gate moved sideways and Jake squeezed through. Paddy Price was waiting at the door, a bright welcoming smile split his face.

They chatted amiably. Did he find the house all right? All the while Jake’s heart pounded. He had been waiting for this hour. Once Finn had introduced him to the joys of spanking videos Jake could not get enough. He sweated waiting for his chance. Oh to go across the back of a chair, or over the knee for an arse-whopping. His temples ached already at the prospect.

Paddy Price led the way upstairs. “I have a special room,” he grinned opening a large wood-panelled door. “It’s sound-proofed,” he said enigmatically. It was a large room, dominated by a huge beaten-up wooden desk. Along one wall were glass-fronted bookshelves. A black leather Chesterfield couch rested against another. A wardrobe with double doors was along a third. Two padded leather armchairs made up the rest of the furniture. Paddy Price gestured to one of them, “Sit down, please.” He noticed Jake’s wide eyes drink in the contents of the room. “Sometimes I use it as a headmaster’s study,” he explained. “Some people like to do role-play, you known blazers, school caps, shirt trousers, the works.”

Jake nodded without enthusiasm. He had noticed in the videos how the “schoolboys” almost always wore short trousers. It did nothing for him personally. Paddy Price perched his ample buttocks on the edge of the desk. He smiled again. “Have you given any thought to tonight?” he asked. Jake gulped, he had thought of nothing else for days. It seemed for every waking moment (and some also while he was asleep).

Paddy Price pulled himself to his feet and ambled to the cupboard. He opened it with a flourish. Jake’s eyes popped. “Voila! My toys,” Paddy Price stepped to one side, giving his guest the full view. Dangling on hooks was an array of straps, paddles, canes and crops. “Something for everyone,” Paddy Price’s lips parted revealing yellowing teeth. “Oh and I have slippers and brushes too if you’d rather.”

The tip of Jake’s tongue poked out and he wetted his lips before clamping his top teeth over his bottom lip. He swallowed hard.

“Do you have a preference?” Paddy Price grinned, “Or would you prefer me to choose?” Jake sat and stared. Speechless. “Never mind,” Paddy Price resumed his spot on the desk, “We have plenty of time.”

They lapsed into amiable silence. Paddy Price was in no hurry. He adored breaking in “newbies”. H would go at Jake’s pace. “Of course,” he said mildly, “It is so much more fun if the discipline is a real punishment,” he noted Jake’s bafflement so continued, “Have you been naughty? Is there something you have done that is bad?” Paddy Price leaned forward hoping to entice his guest into confession.

Jake pondered. No, he thought, he hadn’t done anything that he could recall. Paddy Price flashed his smile once more, then laughed, “Oh, so we have a saint here, do we, ha, ha, ha.” Jake blushed but remained silent. “Have you taken any drugs? Smoked weed?” Paddy Price asked.

“Yes,” Jake replied unsteadily.

“Well, that’s bad. That’s against the law,” Paddy Price beamed. “You should be spanked for that.”

Jake blinked. Smoking weed, against the law? Of course, but he had honestly forgotten that. Everyone he knew smoked, all the time. The police never did anything about it.

“Right then lad,” Paddy Price’s smile had gone. He rose from the desk and paced across the room. “Stand up. Stand in front of my desk,” he barked as he sat himself down behind it. “Stand up straight. Stop slouching.”

Jake straightened his back and let his arms hang limply by his side.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” Paddy Price’s entire demeanour had changed. “I will not tolerate one of my boys using drugs. They are dangerous. They are against the law.” Jake nodded, uncertain how he should react. His heart was racing and he could feel blood rushing to his temples. Adrenalin was kicking in.

“What have you to say for yourself, boy?” Paddy Price had a script in his head. Jake mumbled, said nothing coherent, then clasping at straws he muttered, “Sorry,” and then after a moment’s further thought, he added the obligatory, “Sir.”

“Sorry!” Paddy Price’s voice rose an octave, “Sorry! You soon will be boy.” He rose from his chair and magisterially walked to the still-open cupboard. He paused, turned to Jake and barked, “Hang your jacket on the door.” He nodded to a hook. With damp palms, Jake slipped the jacket from his shoulders. He surprised himself at how much his hands shook.

He turned to face his master in tie to see Paddy Price pick out a cane from the cupboard and swish it through the air a couple of times. Then he held the two ends and flexed it gently testing it for whippiness. It curved easily. It was about a metre in length and as thick as a pencil. It looked just like the ones Jake had seen in the videos. It had notches along its length and the traditional curved handle. All saliva drained from Jake’s mouth.

“Boy when I cane I make sure it hurts. There is no point in giving you a beating if it doesn’t. I won’t lie to you, your backside will be on fire and you will be sore for a few days. The marks will last about two weeks but you will live. You will not return for another beating and will learn from this experience,” Paddy Price was enjoying himself. “Now, I want you to stand behind that armchair,” he swished the cane in the required direction so there could be no doubt what he meant. With legs of lead, Jake shuffled the three steps needed to comply with the order.

Paddy Price stood flexing his cane thoughtfully between his hands. “Lower your trousers,” he said sternly. Jake hesitated. His head was light, Paddy Price’s voice sounded as if it was travelling from a vast distance. Paddy Price tapped the end of the cane across the back of the padded armchair, making a series of dull thuds. As if in a trance, Jake fumbled to unbuckle his belt. His hands moved more freely as he slipped the fastener and unzipped his trousers. The weight of the belt and gravity made them slither down his thighs and rest at his knees. “All the way down,” Paddy Price growled. Jake stooped forward and pushed them to his ankles.

He straightened himself in time to hear Paddy Price intone, “Now, your underpants.” There was a thundering noise in Jake’s ears, his temples throbbed, his head ached. He looked down at his gleaming white Y-fronts; he had bought them specially for the occasion; all the boys in the videos wore them. He put his fingers in the waist band and peeled them down, exposing his cock and balls. He left them bunched just below his buttocks. Instinctively, he placed both hands at his from to hide his genitals. “Pah!” Paddy Price wheezed, unimpressed.

He swished the cane through empty air once more, it made a terrific whooshing noise as it flew. “Bend over the chair,” he touched the top of the armchair with the cane for emphasis. A feeling he had never felt before overwhelmed Jake; he could not be certain, was this fear? Or was it extreme excitement. He bent forward feeling his bottom tighten into a smooth curve. His bare buttocks were presented submissively over the back of the armchair.

“Head nice and low please boy.”

Jake’s thigh muscles and bottom tensed as he stretched his arms grasping the armchair’s cushion at the front. Paddy Price watched quietly as the teenager slithered into position. Then he gently took a grip of Jake’s underpants and tugged them so they fell to rest on top of his trousers. He was almost ready. Paddy Price heard Jake’s heavy wheezing and smiled. He lifted the nineteen-year-old’s shirt away from his backside, exposing me, so that his body was naked from the middle of his back to his ankles. Jake shivered; not with cold but fearful anticipation.

“Keep very still, boy and push your head right down into the cushion.”

Jake pushed himself further down into the chair, raising his bottom well up for the cane.

“Don’t forget, boy, don’t move around too much or you will get extra strokes.”

“Yes, Sir,” Jake’s reply was muffled as his head was buried in the chair cushion.

Seconds passed. Only now did Jake realise his master had a perfect view of his crack and hole. And Finn had said there was nothing gay about this. Jake’s hole winked, opened and closed, his buttocks quivered, then clenched. Never in his life had he felt so vulnerable. Suddenly there was an enormous noise. The thwack of the cane landing on Jake’s backside echoed round the room. Jake hardly had time to recover from the shock when there was another crack which this time was immediately followed by an intense burning pain. He held his breath as the next stroke landed causing the pain to increase in a sickening wave.

Number four stuck and Jake hissed a whine. Mr Price continued, determined. Three more strokes landed each one lower than the previous, yet all in a band about three centimetres wide on the lower half of Jake’s bum. As the next stroke cracked across his poor sore seat Jake let out a roar, any restraint he may have had was gone. He could no longer see the chair for the tears filling his eyes. Jake closed his eyes and gritted his teeth and hung on to the chair, aware of nothing except the pain burning like a furnace in his bottom.

Raising his arm high Paddy Price brought the cane down with a full swing, landing in the middle of Jake’s bottom. He cried out and tossed my head, humped the back of the chair and swayed for a few moments. The next three strokes seemed to merge together. Jake was concentrating on staying bent over, in so much pain, and trying without success to stop the tears that were by now flowing down his cheeks.

He desperately wanted to but he did not stand up. Instead he remained bent over the caning chair offering his bottom for the next stroke, completely at the mercy of Paddy Price, who could make each stroke as severe as he wished and all Jake could do was accept it and then wait for the next.

Paddy Price was in his element, he was an expert caner, a master master if you will. He swished in yet another stroke across the very centre of Jake’s bum. Although he still stayed over the chair, his feet beat a frenzied dance, his hips twisted and squirmed.

Jake thought his head might explode; blood coursed through his arteries. His bottom felt like he had been sitting on a barbecue. His arse felt corrugated; welts criss-crossed his once creamy-white buttocks. He was certain some might be weeping blood. How many strokes had it been? Jake had not thought to count. What was certain was it was more than a simple six-of-the-best. Finally, Paddy Price walked over to the cupboard to replace the cane. Jake felt a terrific sense of relief that it was over but remained across the chair, breathing heavily and in great distress.

Paddy Price stood watching the teenager gasping for breath, like some beached dolphin. He had taken it well. “It’s over. You can get up now. I think you have learned your lesson, haven’t you?”

Jake slowly pushed himself back on his elbows and rose unsteadily. His legs felt weak and he had to lean on the desk before he got his balance. Tentatively at first, he touched then carefully clasped his raw buttocks and began kneading them, as though he could somehow squeeze the pain out. Only then did he see his rigid cock staring at a forty-five degree angle to reach the ceiling. His head was the clearest it had ever been, like an out-of-body experience. No amount of weed would ever give him a buzz like this.

Slowly, painfully, he pulled up his underpants, staining to get the soft white cotton to cover his cock. Still he massaged his injured rump as vigorously as he could.

Paddy Price slipped his arm around Jake’s shoulder for an instant, before propelling him towards the door, and out into the hallway. His eyes were still wet and blurry, but he found his way to the bathroom where he stayed for the few moments it needed for his cock to explode into a wodge of toilet paper.

“Come down, for a drink,” Paddy Price called, “When you’re quite ready of course.”


Picture credit: Unknown

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Charles Hamilton the Second

Uncle Jack

z used after jeans endart

Uncle Jack fumbled with his key, his anger had not calmed. Never in his whole life had he felt to humiliated. All his friends, the neighbours too would be laughing behind his back.

At the third attempt his key entered the lock, he turned it and in a rage pushed against the door. It flew open. He paused to catch his breath. A coat hung on a hook in the hall, still wet. So, Tony was home. Uncle Jack gulped in a deep breath. He kicked the door closed and headed for the sitting room. Deserted. His brat of a nephew must be upstairs. Lying on his bed. Oblivious to what was in store for him.

Uncle Jack surveyed the room. It was quite large for a semi-detached house and sparsely furnished. A sofa and two easy chairs dominated. A hard straight-backed chair that belonged with the dining table in the next room was against a wall. A chest of drawers sat in a corner. Uncle Jack strode towards it and pulled the top drawer. It opened with a tremendous rattle. His temper had still not abated.

He looked inside. Good. He had found what he needed. He reached in a gripped a large, heavy wooden clothes brush. Ideal, he thought. He turned walked back across the room, his heart pounding. He took hold of the straight-backed chair and manhandled it into the middle of the room. He placed the chair on its seat. He was ready.

He walked to the bottom of the stairs, took a deep breath and bellowed, “Tony, get yourself down here. Now!” Uncle Jack stood a little over six feet tall in his stockinged feet. He was broad at the shoulders and flabby at the waist. His arms were strong befitting a man who had spent most of his working life on building sites.

“Tony!” he called once more. “Don’t make me have to come up there!” Uncle Jack’s voice boomed. Tony had been lodging with his uncle for a little over a week. If he had learned anything in that short time, it was not to ignore his uncle. He hurriedly slipped his cock back inside his pants, zipped up his jeans and shuffled to the bedroom door, “Wossup?” he queried.

Uncle Jack’s blood pressure was high, he was in no mood to be messed with. “Get down here and find out. Now!” Tony checked his flies and slowly descended the stairs.

“Get in there,” Uncle Jack swiped his hand across the back of Tony’s head and pushed him towards the sitting room. The nineteen-year-old ducked, raising his arm in defence. “Wossup?” he repeated, “What’ve I done?”

“I’ll tell you what you’ve down,” Uncle Jack’s face was purple. Tony blanched. Whatever it was, it spelt trouble. He stood uncertain, his bright blue eyes shining, his greased black hair sticking out his head at all angles.

“Pissing in the street,” Uncle Jack blurted the words and then stopped dead. Unable to continue. The humiliation was too much. Earlier that day the guys at work has ribbed him mercilessly. His nephew and a gang of louts in the High Street, tanked up with beer, causing mayhem and urinating in shop doorways.

“But Uncle Jack,” Tony blustered. He wanted to say it wasn’t his fault. The pubs were closed, he had a belly full of beer and there were no public toilets open. What was he supposed to do? He wanted to say this but his uncle had started a rant. Shame. Humiliation. Disgrace. On and on, he listed his embarrassment. “And everyone saw you. They knew you were my nephew. They knew you were living with me now. They knew you were my responsibility.” Uncle Jack gulped the words. This was no playacting. He wasn’t putting on the style to show his displeasure. This was genuine. Uncle Jack was mortified.

Tony hopped from one foot to the other. His bright open face flushed with embarrassment. And fear. Embarrassed by his uncle’s openly-expressed emotions; fearful of the old man’s reputation. This would not end well for Tony. Tony’s dad was a weak man, he let his sons get away with ill-discipline all their young lives. Not so Uncle Jack. He believed in discipline; in order. He taught his own sons how to behave. You wouldn’t find them pissing in the streets.

Suddenly, Tony noticed the chair in the middle of the room. It had been moved from its usual resting place. His heart leapt. The heavy, wooden clothes brush rested on the seat. He blinked hard, there was no doubting his uncle’s intention.

Uncle Jack read his nephew’s mind. “It’s entirely up to you. You can pack your bags and leave or you can have a second chance.” He emphasised second chance. It was code for damn good spanking. Tony blinked harder and faster, his brain whirled. He couldn’t move out. He had only just started his job, he had no money. Where could he go? He’d have to give up the job and move back with his mum an dad, fifty miles away. It had taken him nearly a year to find work, he couldn’t go back on the dole.

Uncle Jack believed a spanking should be delivered without any great ceremony. Putting a boy over his knee left him in no doubt about who’s in charge. He picked up the brush and sat down in a straight-backed wooden chair. “Come here,” he spoke softly, “Take down your jeans and pants and bend over my knee.”

Tony froze. He knew he had to go through with this. He must submit himself to his uncle’s will. He had to take his punishment. His brain told him all these things, but his body had other ideas. He stared down at his uncle’s legs and the rolls of fat at his belly. Tony had never been spanked before. How exactly was this done? His uncle seemed so small. Absurdly he found himself wondering, why did the spanking have to be over his knee? There was no way he could fit comfortably in that position. It would make more sense to bend over the back of the settee. That way he could point his bum at his uncle and he would have plenty of space to whack his brush into his bared buttocks.

“Come on, I haven’t got all day.”

Tony’s body woke up. His jeans were tight fitting and needed no belt, so he popped the button at the top of his jeans and pulled the zipper. The front flapped open showing his white underpants. He was surprised at his own calm. Here he was undressing in front of an older man. Baring his backside so Uncle Jack could assault it with a wooden brush. It was absurd.

The jeans trickled down his thighs, he spread his knees and they slithered to his shins. Tony took a deep breath and put his thumbs under the elasticated waistbands of his underpants and with a single movement, pushed both of them down to his knees. Then, in one athletic move he dived across his uncles’s legs. He was so tall that both his hands at the front and his feet at the back touched the carpet. He had to bend his knees slightly so that his bared bottom was raised sufficiently high above his uncle’s right thigh to receive the stinging slaps from the brush.

With Tony’s jeans and pants out of the way, Uncle Jack gripped the teenager’s vest into a ball and yanked it over his back. He was now naked from the shoulders to the knees, revealing a pair of peachy white buttocks that were twitching as they contemplated their fate.

Tony played a lot of football and his bottom was muscular, without being large. It was pert, and joined smoothly with strong, broad thighs and long legs. He had very sparse, fine blond leg hair, with none on his behind. As his uncle pushed the vest up towards the broad shoulders, the tapered torso was revealed, lightly tanned from exposure to the sun.

Uncle Jack sucked in a deep breath, raised the brush and brought it down hard in the centre of Tony’s bum. The boy let out a yelp and tightened his bottom. His uncle whacked the brush down again, this time on the lower part of the cheeks.

The brush being quite large and the teenager’s bottom quite small in comparison, his uncle had already achieved good coverage of what he could see. Anxious to avoid spanking in the same place twice if he could, Uncle Jack tipped Tony towards him and walloped the left side of his bottom and quickly moved him the other way and did the same on the right side.

The whacking quickened, the brush slapped into the naked flesh harder and faster, somehow always catching Tony by surprise, finding fresh flesh to sting. His bottom rose and fell and rolled like waves at sea and despite Tony’s age and size he could feel the heavy, wooden brush roasting his backside. Big red imprints of the oval-headed brush covered the whole of his bottom.

Despite his resolve to take his punishment Tony yelped and struggled but his uncle held him tight, continuing with a steady stream of spanks. Tony felt the downpour of smacks to his bare bottom; they were harder, hotter, faster, and more rapidly biting into his buttocks and thighs. He twisted his head and neck, and leaned back upwards trying to figure out what was branding his bottom. It was his uncles brush, slapping blistering smacks onto and into his bum cheeks and inner and outer thighs.

The teenager shrieked, higher and higher in volume and in pitch and his right hand involuntarily left the floor to defend his rear-end, only to be seized firmly and pulled up behind his back, and held between his shoulder blades for the rest of the onslaught.

Tony’s eyes alternately squinted and widened with shock and pain.  Worse still were his behind and his pride. He was nineteen years old, yet now found himself overturned, sprawled across his uncle’s lap. His face was pushed into the carpet, his right arm held up against his shoulders and his feet and legs thrashing and kicking into the air.

Uncle Jack continued to pound the slipper across his nephew’s backside, and despite his protests and wriggling he held him down and continued. After about another three minutes of continuous swats he stopped and rested the brush across the now frying buttocks.

Tony was still lying there quivering, sobbing and shaking. His uncle reached under his chest and gently, but firmly, lifted him up to stand in front of him. The boy stumbled on trembling, wobbly legs, unable to stand still for shaking and shuddering, and jumping and bouncing up and down. He was doubled over and his hands flew to clasp and rub his fiery buttocks and upper legs. He was a grown man, crying like a five year old.

“Get dressed,” Uncle Jack spoke softly. He watched Tony pull his pants and jeans back to their rightful place. His nephew was still in some distress, clutching the palms of both hands to his burning backside while gritting his teeth.

“You had better go to your room.” Uncle Jack hurled himself to his feet and started to move the chair. Tony didn’t need telling twice, he shot from the room and taking them two at a time, he bounded up the stairs to his room.

Downstairs, Uncle Jack quietly replaced the brush in the drawer. He ambled to the kitchen and switched on the kettle. As he waited for it to boil, he reflected silently: how long would it be before the boner in his pants went limp?

Picture credit: Endart

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Charles Hamilton the Second

The Clumsy Waiter

z used otk waiter mancspank chair (10f)

Conversation had stopped among the diners at The Three Fishers. Even those who had missed the spilling of the wine, and the outraged protest by Col. JEB Charleigh, the district’s chief magistrate, had finally been distracted by the unmistakeable sound of a spanking in progress.

It was only Jake Wiltshire’s second week as a waiter, but already his inattention and dereliction of duty had become a talking point. Headwaiter Mr. Alphonso’s patience was exhausted. Within moments the twenty-two-year-old found himself trousers at the ankles, underpants at the knees, face down across the head waiter’s knees.

Mr. Alphonso spanked hard and fast, without reference to his surroundings. Jake deserved all he was getting – and then some more. “This is just the beginning,” he stuttered breathlessly. “Your backside will be at least the colour of the vintage burgundy you managed to throw over the colonel’s suit. And, you’ll pay for the damage from your wages.” He slapped across Jake’s bottom and into the under-crease where the bum meets the thighs, “And, I’m not going to stop until Colonel Charleigh says so.”

Col. Charleigh eased his buttocks on the padded dining chair and stretched to get a better view. He had taken a special interest in Jake the first time he had been served by him. It wasn’t the boy’s clumsiness, that would be noticed later; it was his fresh open face and boyish smile, the way his hair was gelled, the broad shoulders and the slender hips.

Mr. Alphonso was as good as his word. Jake’s once creamy-white, hairless buttocks had already turned dark pink and as the headwaiter’s hard, calloused hand spanked continuously rat-a-tat-tat into the muscular buttocks dark patches were appearing.

The colonel smirked and crossed his legs, especially engaged by the soft “ahhhs” and “ouches” escaping the young waiter’s lips. He leaned across the table to his fidgeting companion. “This reminds me, Allen,” he said. “Did you clean up the study today as I asked? Or is another naughty boy going to be having his bare bottom smacked when we get back?”

Allen squirmed in his seat. He had been about to ask for the bill, but now he was in no hurry. He had little appetite for the dessert awaiting him at the manor.

Picture credit: Mancspank

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Charles Hamilton the Second

The Moped Gang

By Charles Hamilton II and Cayenne.

The headmaster leaned forward in his chair, rested his arms on his desk, clasped his hands together and stared intently at the five sixth-formers standing before him.  His unkempt moustache bristled as he sneered, “Well, well, well, Gentlemen, welcome! I seem to have convened an impromptu meeting of the Moped Gang!”

All five eighteen year olds stared blankly, trying with varying degrees of success to look unconcerned. It would be a lecture, of course. Mr Lynch would lambast them about their behaviour and send them on their way. Maybe with an essay to write, Why I should be a credit to the school, something like that.

The headmaster shook his head wearily. “The five lads from my school who have been terrorising the neighbourhood.” Juvenile delinquents, he told himself. They were mighty fortunate not to be up before the Magistrates’ Court. Out loud he said, “You have been inflicting your loutish behaviour all over the neighbourhood.”

He paused, waiting for a reaction. When none came, he carried on. “You have been riding those infernal mopeds disturbing all and sundry.” He suppressed a smile. Mopeds; bicycles with hairdryers for engines. Hardly the Hells Angels. Nonetheless the good name of the school was at stake. “You have been smoking and drinking and,” the headmaster shuddered at the thought, “urinating in most inappropriate places. The churchyard and the gardens of the Masonic Hall, I hear. And often you are foolish enough to do this in school uniform! You are a disgrace!”

Mr Lynch hauled himself to his feet. He was a stout man, some would say he was running to fat. At six feet, he was taller than any of the boys standing in his study. Five pairs of eyes watched him intently as he shuffled across the room towards a bookcase. It ran most of the length of one wall and had glass doors. The shelves were stacked with history text books. Mr Lynch liked to keep his hand in in the classroom. A tall thin cupboard divided the bookcase. He fumbled in his pocket for barely a moment before bringing out a key. His hand trembled as he inserted it in a lock and opened the cupboard. His body obscured the boys’ view but an unmistakable rattling sound revealed its contents.

Mr Lynch turned to face the delinquents. “It’s a shame that you are all eighteen and so too old for this cane of mine.  Isn’t that so, Smith?” The headmaster held the rod between his hands and flexed it.

“Err, yes, Sir,” Smith blustered.

The headmaster swiped the cane through thin air. “Too old for this cane, Passey?”

“Yes, Sir.” Passey stared intently at the cane. It was a little over three feet long with a curved handle.

Swish! The cane flew again. “Too old, Wilkinson?”

“Yes indeed, Sir,” the lad coughed nervously, sensing some kind of trap.

Mr Lynch took a step forward, leaning into a thin, lanky boy. “And how about you, Jenkin, just turned eighteen, I believe, so too old for this cane of mine?”

“Yes, Sir, Mr. Lynch, Sir.” Jenkin returned the headmaster’s gaze. He wished he would just get on with it. An essay. A detention even. He wanted to get away, the Moped Gang had a meet that evening.

Mr Lynch swivelled on his left heel. “And finally, we get to you, Davies.”

“Yes Sir?” a short, stocky boy narrowed his eyes. He didn’t understand the tone in the headmaster’s voice.

“You’re a little bit different from the others here, aren’t you?”

“I am, Sir?” He felt his cheeks flush, what was the Old Man talking about?

“Oh yes! You may be eighteen like the others here, but I understand that your father beats you regularly. With a cane just like this!” He swiped it twice through the air for emphasis. “He told me all about it when we were at the Model Railway Club. We are both members, you see.  He’s the life and soul of the club, old ‘Deltic’ Davies, you know. He often tells us he’s had to get his cane out.”

Jenkin suppressed a snort. The cane, from his dad, he thought. Wait until he told the other sixth-formers. Davies’ face reddened with embarrassment and shame.  He felt no shame being up before the headmaster, but for the Old Man to know he was caned at home; that was unbearable.  And now, the shame that his friends had just found out about it too.

But there was more. The shame that his father played trains! Diesel trains too. And Dad was friends with headmaster. That had to be the worst! No, wait! Did the headmaster know that Davies had his trousers at his ankles and his underpants at his knees as he bent across the dining room table for lashes from Dad’s cane across his bared bottom?

What if all of that became public? It would be the end for Davies. How could he remain leader of the Moped gang? Davies stared at his scuffed shoes. He couldn’t look the headmaster in the eye. Neither could he look at his mates. He knew inwardly they were smirking. He wouldn’t hear the end of it once the headmaster released them from his study.

Mr Lynch flexed his cane some more, he tapped it gently against his right leg, then he swished it through the air again. He knew he was an old ham. This was supposed to intimidate a boy. Usually it worked. But maybe not this time, he thought. Davies’ face was scarlet, but the other four seemed unconcerned.

“So we’re all agreed that you are all too old for this cane of mine?” Mr Lynch’s moustache quivered as he bared his yellow teeth in a smile. There was a murmur of agreement from the boys.  Davies sighed a little too loudly and the headmaster shot him a withering look.

“I have decided,” the headmaster continued, “that you are right. At eighteen, you are all much too old for this cane.  For this junior cane.” He swiped it through the air again. It made a terrific Whoosh! as it travelled. “No, what you lads need is the senior cane. Just right for your sturdy rumps! Jenkin! Go and ask Miss Glossop for the senior cane. Here, you can take this junior one back with you.”

Wilkinson had been right, the headmaster had been playing them for fools, and they were trapped in his game. Jenkin took hold of the cane. It was surprisingly light. He had never seen a cane up close before. Brocklehurst Grammar was a traditional school – traditional curriculum, uniform, sports, religion and above all traditional discipline. And, that meant the whippy, crook-handled rattan cane. Could there be any boy in the sixth-form who had not offered his stretched backside to a master for a stinging six-of-the-best at some time during his school career? Jenkin was an exception; he had only joined the school the previous year after his father moved to the town with his job. This would be Jenkin’s first caning; an experience he did not relish.

Miss Glossop, the headmaster’s secretary, sat in an anteroom perched over her typewriter. Her long, thin nose and shiny black hair made her look like a crow. Jenkin shuddered as he handed the cane over. “He didn’t use it then? I’m surprised!” she barked disdainfully. If she had her way all five boys would be in front of a school assembly bent across a long table while the headmaster flogged their naked buttocks. And, she, Miss Glossop, would be seated in the front row.

“He was very annoyed. Is he going to expel you?” she asked.

“No, no, nothing like that. At least I hope not. He told me to ask you for the senior cane.”

“Ah, of course!” Absent-mindedly, she ran the tip of her tongue across her bottom lip, leaving behind a trail of spittle. “That makes sense. He really is annoyed with you then. The senior one is reserved for the wickedest of the wicked. You bad lads!”

She rose from her swivel chair and sashayed to a tall metal locker at the far end of the room. Jenkin watched mesmerised as her bottom wiggled suggestively. She unlocked the locker and withdrew the cane. Just as the headmaster had done, she flexed the rod between her hands. Blood rushed to Jenkin’s cock. A sudden vision of himself bent across Miss Glossop’s desk, trousers and pants at the floor, made the cock stiffen. Hurriedly he clasped his hands together and held them in front of his balls.

“Here it is then. The senior model. Extra painful.” Miss Glossop narrowed her eyes and handed the stick over. “Be sure to tell the headmaster that there are a couple more in stock in case this one breaks.”

“Err, will do Miss Glossop,” he blustered. He took the cane, unsure how to handle it. It was a little longer and thicker than the junior cane. At first he took it be the curved handle and let it fall by his side. It was long enough to touch the ground and reminded him of a walking stick. That didn’t seem right, so then he gripped it half way down. It was a sturdy rod with notches every four inches or so along its length. It was awesome; it would pack one heck of a punch. For one absurd moment he thought of Charlie Chaplin and how the clown would twirl his cane in the silent movies.

“You’d better be getting back,” Miss Glossop said grumpily. Jenkin jerked back into life, tucked the cane under his arm rather like a sergeant-major did and returned to the headmaster’s study.

“You four,” the headmaster waved his arm, “stand and face the bookcase.” He watched as the teenagers shuffled into place, no longer unconcerned. “Jenkin,” he pointed with the cane to a worn armchair. “Bend over.” Manufacturers called these chairs “comfy” or “comfortable”  chairs but Mr Lynch was determined that Jenkin’ visit would be anything but comfortable. The chair was old and worn. The material on the apex of the back was shiny with age. How many boys had contributed to that, Jenkin wondered.

“Bend over, lad,” the headmaster had had his little joke with the boys, now he was anxious to get on with it; the sixth-formers less so. Jenkin stood a foot or so away from the back of the chair. How exactly was this done? He took a deep breath rubbed the palms of his hands together and reluctantly fell forward, rather like a diver going into an icy pond. Jenkin was so small and the chair so tall, that his stomach rested easily on the top of the chair’s back. He felt his pale-grey trousers ride up his buttocks. He couldn’t see himself, but he was sure the material had separated his cheeks.

“Legs further apart. Up higher.” It was a calm command and Jenkin obeyed without question and struggled to get into the requested position. “Head nice and low, please.” Now, his bottom was resting at a perfect angle to receive a thrashing from the headmaster. Jenkin gripped the seat cushion and closed his eyes. He had never been caned before and nor ever spoken to a boy who had been. His previous school had been quite liberal and corporal punishment was unheard of. His buttock cheeks clenched. He had not meant to do this, it was as if his body was trying to find a natural way to protect him from the pain ahead.

“Relax lad. Relax.” The headmaster “sawed” his cane across the underside of Jenkin’s now upturned bottom. He was finding his spot, taking his aim. Jenkin’s firm bottom stretched his now very tight grey trousers, a point the headmaster was careful to observe as he positioned himself behind him.

“Stick your bottom out more, lad, hollow your back. Mr Lynch knew this was Jenkin’s first caning and he intended it to be memorable. “Jenkin when I cane I make sure it hurts. There is no point in giving a boy a beating if it doesn’t. I won’t lie to you, your backside will be on fire and you will be sore for a few days. The marks will last about two weeks but you will live.”

It had the desired effect and tears started to dampen Jenkin’s eyes before the first stroke had cracked against his tight backside. He gripped the chair cushion so tightly his knuckles ached.

The headmaster grasped the cane and took two steps away. To calm down he took a few “air shots” before finally returning to stand to Jenkin’s left. Then, with his arm outstretched he lay the cane tip half way across the cheek of the teenager’s further buttock. Jenkin flinched slightly as the rattan touched the middle of his bum. The headmaster raised it slowly then brought it whistling down. It landed with a satisfying thwack right across the cheeks.

“Oww! Gosh, oww!” Jenkin yelped, trying to keep his scorching bottom still after his first ever stroke of the cane.

The study was again filled with the sound of the cane swishing through the air, followed by that awful crack that signalled another searing bout of pain across his already sore bottom. The headmaster drew the cane back for another stroke. Jenkin arched his back and screwed his face up as he experienced the smarting of yet another assault to his now red-raw bottom.

Despite the shocking pain, Jenkin resolved to take the caning bravely and silently; he didn’t want to show himself up in front of his mates. But when slash number three connected with the seat of his trousers he lost all control, his feet beat a frenzied tattoo, as his hips twisted and squirmed. He desperately wanted to jump up and run from the study clutching his buttocks in both hands, but some schoolboy instinct kept him down. He was grateful that he had the chair cushion to grip, even though his hands were now grasping it so tightly his fingernails dug deeply.

The next swipe was greeted with a howl and Jenkin was now audibly muttering: “No!” and “Please!” But there was to be no mercy in the study that afternoon. Mr Lynch stood back, took aim again and the cane flashed through the air with a whoosh and the resulting blow snapped into Jenkin’s waiting backside with venom.

A river of tears cascaded down Jenkin’s face as he waited, heart thumping madly, for the final crack which the headmaster put right across the middle of his buttocks, angled, so that it crossed about three of the other cuts.

It took some time after the last stroke for Jenkin to realise the ordeal was over. “Yes,” the headmaster sighed. “That concludes your punishment, Jenkin. I hope you have learned your lesson.”

Like so many thrashed schoolboys before him, Jenkin remained slumped across the back of the chair, just trying to absorb the line of fire across his bum. Nothing had prepared him for the pain or for the feeling that his bottom had being cut into slices and then set on fire.

“Up lad!” the headmaster commanded, “We haven’t got all day.” With great difficulty, Jenkin’s hands scrabbled for the arm of the chair and he pushed himself upright, panting and sobbing. He danced on the spot, clutching the seat of his trousers. Even through the material he could feel the six vivid and very painful stripes decorating his hindquarters.

“Stand and face the bookcase,” the headmaster intoned. “Wilkinson, take his place.”


Thirty minutes later Owen Davies steered his moped through the gate of a large detached house. Home. The intense pain from his caning had dissolved into a dull ache, but the hard seat of his Honda had set the welts on his bum throbbing. He kicked the stand on his bike and left it standing by the door of the house. The Moped Gang were meeting later.

He opened the front door to find his brother Dai standing, waiting for him in the hallway. A supercilious grin slit the twenty-year-old’s face. “Who’s been a naughty little boy then?” he chirped in the sing-song voice of a child as he swished an imaginary cane through the air. Owen grimaced. This was the last thing he needed.

“I got a phone call from your headmaster,” Dai’s grin broadened. “He wanted to speak to Dad, but I told him he was at that toy train convention until Saturday.”

Owen moved towards the stairs, intent on ignoring his annoying brother. He wanted to get to his bedroom for a close look at his bum.

“So,” Dai blocked his brother’s way, “he told me all about you and your Moped Gang. Six-of-the-best, eh?” He swiped the imaginary cane again. “You naughty, naughty little boy.”

“Piss off,” Owen sneered. He hated his brother. Always had done. Owen was the bright boy in the family. Dai wasn’t clever enough to go to grammar school. He left Gumshoe Lane Secondary Modern aged sixteen. How Owen despised him. Thick as two short planks. A waste of space.

“Of course,” Dai jeered, “When Dad finds out you’ll get another caning.” His arm flew through the air again. “And,” Dai was enjoying himself and he wanted his little brother to know it. “What was it Dad said last time?” He poked the underside of his chin with an index finger, pretending that he was thinking. “Oh yes, I remember.” Owen clenched his fists, for two pins he’d sock his brother on the jaw. He knew what Dad had said.

“He said if you got into any more trouble on that phut-phut he’d confiscate it and sell it. Then where would you be little brother?” Dai reached out and ruffled Owen’s hair. “You’ll be on the bus like the rest of the kids.”

Owen stood devastated. Dai was right. That was what Dad had said. He would do it too. A bare-arsed caning and no moped. That bike was his life. He was the leader of a gang. It made him feel really important. The other guys actually looked up to him. Now what would happen? He knew only too well; no bike, no gang, no life.

“Of course,” Dai spread his arms wide like a market trader offering a bargain to passers-by, “Dad need never know.” He grinned and stared intently at his little brother. Dai had a plan. One that he would really enjoy putting into action. “What’d’ya say little brother?”

Owen sucked in air. What the hell was Dai talking about? Why did he have to behave like an idiot all the time?

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he spat. He hated his brother. Owen couldn’t wait until the autumn when he could leave the house and go away to university. His imbecile brother would probably have to live at home the rest of his life.

Dai shrugged his shoulders and showed Owen the palms of his hands. “A little plan, dear brother,” he said in a mocking accent that made his brother’s skin crawl.

Owen hated himself for doing it, but he asked none-the-less, “What plan?”

“Ha,” Dai spoke in that mocking voice again. “Now, he wants to know. Now, he asks me ‘What is the plan’”?

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, I want to go out,” Owen pushed past his brother and started toward the stairs. Fearful, he might have missed his chance Dai said in a rush, “I won’t tell Dad your headmaster called. I’ll cane you instead.” Owen stopped in his tracks and turned. The surprised expression on his face asked “What?”

Dai took a deep breath, “You’ll get to keep your moped.”

The room span. Owen gripped the banister rail for support. His mouth opened, but before he could tell his brother once more to “fuck off” he shut it tight. He should not be too hasty. That bike was his life. There was only one way for him to keep it. His head spun. This could not be happening. If he let his brother cane him he got to keep the bike.

Thinking about it later, Owen could hardly believe he spoke the next words, “You promise you won’t tell Dad?” Dai’s cold blue eyes blazed, “Scout’s honour,” he said and waved two fingers in the air. “All right,” Owen whispered.

“Good-oh!” Dai smiled broadly. “We must do it now, my shift at the Wimpy starts at five-thirty.” Gingerly Owen rubbed his fingertips across the seat of his trousers. His bum still ached from the headmaster’s caning. Now, he had to let his obnoxious brother beat him on the bare bottom. He would rip it to shreds. He grimaced. You couldn’t make it up, he thought.

Owen watched Dai rush up the stairs and fling open the door to Dad’s bedroom and enter. Moments later he came out crestfallen. “The wardrobe’s locked.” He let the importance of his message hang in the air. Owen needed no explanation. Dad kept his canes in that wardrobe, if they couldn’t get it open there was nothing to beat him with. He would lose his moped after all.

Owen sighed, “Can we get a cane someplace else?”

Dai snapped his fingers to indicate a thought had come to him. “Of course, let’s go round the neighbours and ask if anyone can lend us a cane,” he said sarcastically.

Owen sneered. “All right, but there must be a way round this.”

Dai did the snapping of the fingers thing again. This time he was serious, “It doesn’t have to be a cane. I can spank you.” When Owen looked doubtful, he added, “You know, over the knee, like a little boy.”

Owen blanched. It would have been mortifying enough to go over the dining room table for a caning, but over-the-knee to have his bare bottom spanked; that was too much. Dai read his brother’s mind. He wasn’t about to let this chance to thoroughly humiliate his brother pass. “You’ll get to keep the moped,” he reminded him.

That was enough. It was the only way. With his heart pounding and temples throbbing, Owen nodded his assent.

“Good-oh,” Dai brightened up. “Go wait in the sitting room. I’ll fetch something.” Sorrowfully, Owen trudged across the hallway. Seconds later Dai bounded down the stairs brandishing a heavy wooden clothes brush. He bounced into the sitting room, noting with delight the gloomy expression on his kid brother’s face. He picked up a large armless chair that lay against a wall and plonked it down in the centre of the room. He sat down, spread his legs wide and, waving the brush wildly, called across to Owen. “Come here you naughty little boy.”

Owen grimaced. How he would like to smash his fist into Dai’s smug face. He stood and glared. Dai’s smirk was undisguised. “Come on, let’s get on with this.” He snapped his fingers and pointed to a spot on the carpet close to his right knee. “Stand there.” Owen refused to look at his brother as he shuffled the three paces it needed to take up the position.

Dai sucked in a lungful of air. His eyes sparkled. “Trousers down, little man. Trousers down.” Owen avoided his brother’s gaze and instead concentrated his attention on the far wall. He had never really noticed the painting that hung there before. Some modern art thing. All oranges and reds. It looked like the artist was having a fit when he painted it. Owen stared hard at the picture as he reached for his belt buckle. He was surprised how little his fingers fumbled as they loosened the belt, popped the button at the waistband and pulled the zipper. His pale-grey trousers slid down his thighs unaided and snagged at his knees.

“Ha!” Dai smirked, “White Y-fronts, I forgot your snob school made you wear those. Do they do a pants inspection every morning?” He laughed aloud. Owen sucked on his cheek, determined not to raise to his brother’s bait. “Pants down. All the way,” Dai pointed at Owen’s feet. The eighteen-year-old closed his eyes tight. Think about the moped, he said to himself. If you let him do this you keep the bike. He tucked his thumbs under the elasticated waistband of his pants and guided them south.

Dai tapped the brush against the palm of his left hand. “Bend over my knee, you naughty boy.” I’ll get you for this one day you bastard, Owen told himself as he guided himself across his brother’s lap. Owen was short and squat while Dai was tall and lanky and the boy fitted perfectly. He spread his arms wide and placed his palms flat into the deep-pile carpet. Behind him his toes merely brushed the ground. His bottom was raised against Dai’s right thigh, at a perfect angle for the brush. A cool breeze from the open window behind him caressed his naked legs.

Owen felt his brother pull the tail of his shirt up the small of his back until it bunched at his shoulders. “Woweee!” Dai exploded with glee. Implanted across his brother’s bared buttocks were six distinct welts. “Your headmaster has given you a good set of marks.” He put the index finger of his right hand into his mouth and soaked it in saliva. Then, carefully he traced along each cut with the fingertip. Owen shuddered as the pain in each welt reignited. Dai cupped his hand and roughly rubbed it first across the left buttock and then the right. “It feels like corrugated cardboard back here.” He didn’t try to hide the fun he was having.

Owen shut his eyes. He couldn’t see, but he guessed his brother had a perfect view of his crack and could even see up his hole. He could die from embarrassment. This will soon be over, he reassured himself. Then I can go out on my moped and lead a gang who respect me.

Dai tested the brush in his hand for weight. It was about a foot long with an oval-shaped head three inches wide. It’s primary purpose was to keep clothes clean but it also made a splendid spanking implement. Dai tapped the brush against the centre of Owen’s left buttock so that it fell across three of the cane marks. “This should set them on fire again,” he grinned as he smacked the wood down hard. There was a dull thud as the brush connected with Owen’s firm flesh, followed by an elongated hiss of air escaping through pursed lips; it sounded like a steam train settling down. Owen’s body shook; he raised himself an inch off his brother’s lap and his legs flailed. “No you don’t buster,” Dai gripped Owen around the waist. “You’re not going anywhere.” Satisfied his younger brother was firmly secured he hammered the brush across Owen’s bum. It was like machine gun fire. Rat-a-tat-tat; rat-a-tat-tat. Within seconds every square inch of Owen’s bottom was on fire, from the top of the curves, across the mounds themselves and into the ultra-sensitive underside, the part of the bum that connected with the chair when you sat down.

Even without the cane wounds this would have been a severe spanking. The relatively small area of shiny polished wood attacked his tender buttocks. Owen wriggled and writhed; he waved his arms around; he kicked his legs; his head flailed to left and right and then up and down (just like a horse does when he neighs) as his brother pounded away. The agony in his backside was intense. He gave up and gave in completely, hanging and dangling over his brother’s knees, his squalling taking over, as he gasped, choked, sobbed, and shook. He felt the fiery blistering on his bottom driving him to still deeper wailing and weeping.

This encouraged Dai to renewed vigour. Owen’s legs thrashed about so much he kicked his trousers across the room and the struggle continued so greatly that long before his brother had finished the bare-bottomed spanking the white briefs dangled from his left ankle.

Owen wrestled to escape the relentless torrent of increasing pain that had set his buttocks ablaze. He fought to escape from the very firm grip of his brother’s left arm around his waist. He pleaded, begged, promised and threatened endlessly between his gulps and his gasping for breath. But to no avail.

Dai hadn’t known he possessed such strength: not only was he able to pin his rowdy eighteen-year-old brother in place across his knees, face down, bared bottom high, he continued to batter his buttocks with the brush.  He pounded away at the boy for almost another five minutes, Owen struggled and pleaded but his brother continued; he was having too much fun to stop just yet.

He was so engrossed in his task and Owen so overcome with pain and indignity that neither heard the gentle burr outside in the drive. Four moped riders stared in astonishment through the open window.  They saw that their gang leader had just had his second humiliating beating of the day.

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Charles Hamilton the Second

Dreams of spanking

z used bed solo white pants erect cody furguson (1)

Dean lays on his bed staring at the erect cock stretching the front of his cotton underpants. It happens every morning. Regular as clockwork. As day follows night. He dreams of spanking. He has never been spanked. The cane was abolished at school years ago and dads generally don’t take the belt to their sons, no matter how unruly they behave.

He is not concerned why he fantasises about spanking, but he is sad that he is too shy to tell anyone about it. Sometimes he likes to think of bad things he has really done and imagines the punishment he should suffer. Like the other week when he got so drunk at the student union bar and staggered home so out of control he lurched over a garden fence and heaved up two stomach-fulls of vomit into the flowerbed. In his imagination, Dean was bent across the dining room table, jeans and pants at the knees, while the house owner lashed his naked buttocks with a switch he cut especially.

Dean drinks a lot. The other day he rode his moped while drunk. It was a stupid, irresponsible act. Somebody could have been killed. Any magistrate worth his salt would have sentenced him to a birching. Dean sees himself stripped naked from the waist down, tied to a wooden frame. His shirt is bunched up at his shoulders. One prison officer grips a bundle of twenty-four birch twigs bound together with tape. It has been soaking overnight in a metal bucket full of brine. Droplets fall from the birch as he swishes it through the air. You can cut the tension in the room with a knife. A second prison officer holds a clipboard, studies a sheet of paper stuck to it. He licks the end of a stub of pencil. He makes a tick. “Cut number one!” he calls in a clear, steady voice.

The first officer rests the birch against Dean’s buttocks. It is so big and Dean’s bum so relatively small it covers both cheeks. The officer lifts the birch high, swirls it around his head and twists his body before delivering an almighty lash into quivering flesh. Dean screams. The prison officer sweats. He raises the birch again.

After twelve cuts Deans bottom is a mass of cuts and grazes. It looks like raw hamburger meat. Deans screams subside into sobbing gulps as two officers drag him back to his cell.

Dean likes to dream about Paddy, a guy in his English Lit. class at university. Paddy could be the biggest student alive. He is built like a brick outhouse. Dean has this scene where he and other students share a house and Paddy is in a fit of temper. He is trying to finish an essay that should have been handed in yesterday but he can’t concentrate because of the loud music coming from Dean’s “ghetto blaster.” The whole house is shaking. Paddy shouts, “Turn that music down!” He hammers on Dean’s bedroom door. But to no avail.

“Right! That’s it! Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” Paddy bursts through the door and sees Dean flat out on his bed, still in his pyjamas although it’s nearly eleven in the morning. Paddy’s face is purple, Dean’s turns white. Dean is as small as Paddy is huge. It is no match. Paddy grips Dean by the arm, hauls him off the bed. His grip hurts Dean’s arm. But that is only the half of it. Paddy sits on the bed, his weight digs deep into the mattress. Deans struggles. It is a waste of time. Paddy pulls him across his knees. Dean is sucking the eiderdown, his legs dangle in mid-air. His bottom juts at an angle over Paddy’s right knee. Dean wriggles and writhes but Paddy’s supreme strength is too much.

Paddy says nothing. He concentrates on the task ahead. He grips the elasticated waist of the pyjama bottoms and pulls hard, almost tearing the material. Dean’s bum is exposed. He kicks his legs. Paddy adjusts his own body so he can put his right leg across the back of Dean’s calves. He takes Dean’s right arm and twists it up his back. He is pinned down. He is going nowhere. Paddy stretches the fingers of his right hand, cups them slightly and pounds away at Dean’s naked buttocks. Paddy’s forearm is like a leg of mutton, his hand as large and as heavy as a shovel. With only a few smacks Dean’s bum is as red as a London bus. The outline of Paddy’s hand appears in scarlet over and over again across Dean’s bum.

There’s a professor at the university who reminds Dean of the headmaster at his old school. He is about fifty and always sports a hostile look on his face. Dean knows the professor wouldn’t truck any nonsense from his students.  It is late in the afternoon and Dean stands morosely in front of the desk. The study is cold and the night is drawing in. The room is in gloom. The professor holds a sheaf of paper in his hand. He reads with increasing incredulity.

“Balderdash! Poppycock!” he shakes his head. He looks as if he is forced to carry all the woes of the world on his shoulder. He waves the essay in Dean’s face. “You need to spend less time in the bar and more in the library.” His nostrils flare.

“Not good enough. Not good enough,” he mutters as he rises from his chair and walks a few steps to a table. Dean watches with mounting tension as the professor opens a drawer and extracts from it a long, whippy rattan cane. Dean stares at its crook handle. The professor flexes it between his hands. It curves easily. He swishes it through the air. A breeze travels across the room.

“Take off your jacket.” Dean does so.

“Stand by my desk.” Dean takes up position.

“Take down your trousers.” Dean is wearing Levi jeans. He fumbles with the metal buttons but soon they are at his knees. He is wearing his favourite mustard-coloured briefs. They are very snug.

“Bend over.” In his mind’s eye, Dean watches himself lean forward. He lays his stomach on the cold wooden desktop. He reaches forward with his arms and grips the edge of the desk. The professor takes his shirt and tugs it away from the target area. Dean’s buttocks twitch when the professor smooths down his pants so they fit like a second skin.

The professor taps the cane across the underside of Dean’s buttocks. Satisfied that he has his aim, he lets fly. It is to be six-of-the-very best.

There is a guy Dean saw in the student bar. He doesn’t know his name so christens him Michael. Michael has smooth skin and shiny light brown hair. Dean reckons his haircut must have cost a fortune. Michael is a trim lad and his Wrangler jeans hang over his buttocks invitingly. Michael is standing and Dean is behind him admiring his bum. Then, Michael leans forward to look at a picture in a magazine his friend wants him to see. Michael places his hands on his knees and arches his back. His feet are parted. It is the perfect “assume the position”. Dean is so close he could fondle Michael’s backside. Later Dean imagines he is holding an American-style wooden paddle. He rubs it backward and forward. “Brace yourself,” he intones as he lifts it high.

There’s a knock on his bedroom door. “Come on Dean! You’ll be late for breakfast.” It is Roger, a fellow lodger at Mr. Williams’ guesthouse. Dean hears Roger’s footfalls as he races down the stairs. Late for breakfast- again, Dean thinks. That would never do. In his imagination he sees Mr Williams take a thick leather belt from a hook on the kitchen wall. In the real world, Dean slides his hand down the front of his pants.




Picture credit: Cody Ferguson

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Charles Hamilton the Second


An old English custom

z used belt taking hook (22)

He stared through the window at the garden below. Rain drops fell plip-plop against the sill. It seemed it had rained the whole summer. English weather. He must go downstairs for breakfast. Arriving late for meals had consequences. He had learned that quickly.

When he turned eighteen he was taken from his prestigious school and sent half way across the world to an English language college at Brocklehurst: a strange place; not quite country, not quite town. His orders were to learn the language like a native. Immerse himself in the culture. He obeyed. He always obeyed: his father, his school, his Party, his Leader. Obedience had brought him a long way, it would take him much further.

He quickly learnt a lot about English culture. He knew about cricket and tennis. And a strange game they called Crown Green Bowls. And, he knew about the culture of discipline and punishment.

He had been sent to board with the Smith’s. Smith; could there be a more English name? John Smith was a Party functionary, a bureaucrat, a safe pair of hands. He too knew about obedience. The Smiths had a large house in The Avenue, an upscale part of town. Both their sons, now grown into adulthood, were in military service somewhere behind enemy lines.

He had been told to obey Mr Smith; he did so without question. He wanted to know English customs; it was important for his nation. The Leader had plans where England was concerned. He learnt quickly. From the very first moment. He hadn’t noticed it to begin with. That is he saw it easily enough. But, he didn’t register its importance. It hung in the kitchen on a hook next to Mr Smith’s flat cap and scarf (two garments he still needed in the damp summer months). It was a long, thick, wide leather belt. He saw nothing unusual in that. He had two or three of his own. That’s how he kept his trousers from falling down.

Less than a fortnight after he arrived he discovered this particular belt had a specific purpose. Mr Smith imposed rules. He had expected that; the English loved rules. They delighted in bossing people about. Do this, don’t do that. Be here, go there. There’s a times to get up, a time to come home. Meal times, bath times.

It was the fault of a girl. She had large breasts and long flowing ginger hair. Her lips were full and her eyes blazed with mischief. He was a red-blooded young man. How could he resist? Mr Smith never found out about the girl. All Mr Smith knew was that he had missed curfew twice. There could be only one consequence: corporal punishment.

There was no long lecturer, just a statement of fact. They stood in the kitchen, Mr Smith reached towards the hook and took down the belt. He sat in a large, straight-backed wooden chair, spread his legs and planted his feet firmly on the ground. The English have many rituals for corporal punishment. There are any number of implements to choose from; a brush, slipper, cane. A boy might be positioned across a desk, a chair, a vaulting horse or simply touching toes. There would be many future opportunities for him to experience all of these, but for now, this first time, it would be, “Trousers down. Over my knee.”

His hands shook as he unbuckled the belt that held up his baggy serge trousers. He stared down at the puddle of clothing at his feet. It seemed to be a very long way away.

He stared intently at the belt in Mr Smith’s hand. It was a long, thick, wide strip of leather. It looked terrifically heavy as Mr Smith folded it once and then again until he had a punishment strap about a foot long.

Mr Smith ran the tip of his tongue across his top lip; he moved, making himself more comfortable on his hard chair. “Shall we get this over with then?  Come over here and bend across my knee.”

He blinked at Mr Smith; it was as if he had never seen the man before. His hard face was set in a scowl. In middle-age, he still had a fine head of black hair cut with military-style short back and sides. His tongue was darting in and out of his mouth. His shirt was stained under the armpits and open at the neck. Mr Smith wore brown thick corduroy trousers that had almost worn smooth at the knees.

He prepared himself. His glistening white Y-front underpants clung to his flat stomach; there was not a spare ounce of fat anywhere on his body. His heartbeat quickened and perspiration began to seep through the his shirt. His trousers at his ankles inhibited movement and he wobbled three or four steps to take up position.

He stood for a second on Mr Smith’s right side. The man’s legs were parted by about three feet to provide a platform for him to lay across. He gulped, drawing in air and the stink of sour tobacco. He leaned forward. The muscles in his back rippled as he wriggled to get into place. He was some athlete. His legs were like tree trunks and his bottom was firm and round. He stretched himself across Mr Smith’s legs.

He had never been spanked before, nor had he ever seen a boy go over the knee for punishment, but instinctively he knew what was expected of him. He spread his arms ahead of him and placed the palm of each hand four feet apart and firmly into the wooden floorboards. Behind him his trousers at his feet inhibited movement so his legs were hardly more than six or seven inches apart. He kept his knees straight so that his bottom, clad in smooth cotton, rested at an angle against Mr Smith’s right knee. He was perfectly positioned for punishment. He stared down at the floor and waited. He was quite comfortable considering what was soon to happen would be far from that, but he wriggled a little because a bunch of keys Mr Smith had in his trouser pocket dug into his side.

Mr Smith felt the weight of the belt in his hand as he tap-tap-tapped it against the left cheek. Gently, he took hold of the waistband of the underpants and pulled so that the smooth white cotton kissed the buttocks. Then, he moved the increasingly damp shirt a few inches up the back, exposing hairless and suntanned flesh.

Now, he was ready. Without further warning, Mr Smith raised the weighted strap to the fullest extent of his arm and brought it down with a resounding crack into the right cheek. A startled gasp hissed across the room. It hurt. He screwed up his eyes as a second and third thwap!!! landed. The echo of leather on tight cotton bounced around the room.

He was a spanking virgin and did not know what a spanking was supposed to feel like. The belt rose and fell as Mr Smith found his rhythm. A dull pain spread across both buttocks and he stared down at the backs of his hands.

Mr Smith lashed the leather belt again and again into the muscular bottom. The  cheeks were so tight there was no “give” in the flesh. Without warning, Mr Smith stopped walloping and unceremoniously pulled once more at the waistband of the pants. This time, instead of making them tighter he dragged them down across the hips and over the round bum.

Mr Smith wrapped his arm around the midriff to hold him firmly in place, raised the leather strap to maximum height and brought it down over and over again into the firm flesh. Gasps quickly turned to little yelps and then to larger cries. He wriggled his body across Mr Smith’s lap to the left and to the right. He was strong and in a fair fight he could have knocked Mr Smith for six; but this was no fair fight. He had to obey and allow himself to be held firmly across the knees of his punisher, bare bum high to receive lash after lash from the leather belt. He must hang on for dear life and take what was coming to him.

His bottom was covered in a rash of raw marks where the short heavy belt had scorched into him. Hardly any of the buttocks and the tops of his thighs were untouched by the strap. Tiny graze marks widened into deeper scratches.

Whop! whop! whop! Mr Smith went around the circuit one more time; from the top of the cheeks, across the mounds and into and beyond the crease where the bum meets the thighs. The dull pain had long since transformed into an almighty throb only to become an agonisingly searing pain across the whole of his bottom area. The whacking had knocked the breath out of him and he lost strength. He had no power to resist and lay face down staring at the floorboards. Involuntary tears washed the backs of his eyes and soon they trickled down his cheeks.

Every square inch of his bottom had been toasted. Dozens of imprints of the belt emblazoned the buttocks and the tops of his thighs. It was a job well done. He had been well and truly spanked. Mr Smith spread his feet out in front of him so that he could lift himself clumsily off his lap. Slowly, he knelt and then stood up. His hands disappeared behind him as he rubbed away gingerly. In silence, he tugged up the underwear and trousers from the top of his shoes. He tucked in his shirt.

In silence, Mr Smith replaced the belt on the hook. Already most of the pain had gone. His bottom was still warm and in places it was tender to touch, but soon even that would disappear. The red marks would turn to bruises and he would wear them for some days to come. They would be a reminder to him of one very particular English custom.

Picture credit: Unknown

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Fake News #12

slipper otk white pants bed straightladsspanked (4)

Dads’ Crusade: Bring Back the Slipper

EXCLUSIVE The Daily Globe


Dads across the nation are calling on the government to relax the ban on corporal punishment in the home with the rallying cry: “Bring back the slipper.”

It is their response to official figures showing the rise in juvenile-related crime. The say their sons need a “damn good hiding” to keep them out of trouble and on the straight-and-narrow. And, they think they are the right people to give it.

“We see eighteen, nineteen, twenty year olds totally out of control. They have never been taught how to behave. It is still not too late,” said Mr. Nosher Sykes, of the pro-spanking organisation Beat Their Backsides.

“I would gladly take any one of them across my knee for a good dose of the slipper. Of course they would have to take down their trousers – and probably their pants too – otherwise it wouldn’t hurt much.”

The campaign is gathering pace and local groups of Beat Their Backsides have been started across the country.

Mr. Ernie Flynn, 52, started one in Brocklehurst, Brockshire. He says it already has more than 100 supporters. He told the Daily Globe in an interview, “We are firm believers in corporal punishment for unruly young men. They are totally out of control now we can’t dish out a damn good hiding.”

He added, “The young don’t understand that actions have consequences. What they need is a jolly good over-the-knee spanking with a slipper. Preferably with their trousers down and maybe even their pants.”

A counter group calling itself “Hands to Yourself” seeking to keep the no-spanking law has been formed by older teenagers and young men.

A spokesperson for the Slipper Manufacturers Association anticipated an increase in sales should the law be relaxed. He said, “We can manufacture slippers in a variety of sizes and weights that would satisfy the needs of any disgruntled father.”

The Ministry of Justice which supported the ban on corporal punishment said there was no plan to change the law.


Picture credit: straightladsspankeddotcom

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