A national sensation

z used otk white pants chair sting (22)

The newsmen licked the ends of their pencils and hovered them over notebooks. The fun was about to start. A sensation. It would be the talking point of the nation. It might even make the overseas’ news agencies.

Dr. Crumble, the headmaster of Snivelton Grammar sat forlornly in the chair reserved for the defendant. It was a hard wooden, straight-backed affair. He had one just like it in his study. Or, his former study. It would be hard for him to get used to that.

The small magistrates’ court was packed. Standing room only. Snivelton was a pin-prick on the map, it had never seen anything like this. Nothing ever happened there. The court only met twice a month and then there was only the occasional drink-drive case to hear.

Mr. Crinkle, the most notable solicitor in town, huddled with his junior. “We got them to agree to a reduced charge,” he huffed. “Just assault.”

The junior had returned from holidays late the night before. He had missed all the excitement. “What was he charged with?”

“Sexual assault.”

The junior’s eyebrows shot heavenwards. “Wor…?”

Crinkle sniffed, “He made the boy take down his trousers and then bend across his knee. He spanked him on his underwear. Who could imagine such a thing?”

The junior blushed. “Oh, I see.” He shuffled a sheaf of notes in his hand, a distant look in his eye. “And that would be sexual assault would it?” he whispered uneasily.

It was Crinkle’s turn for the eyebrows to go north. “The boy’s eighteen years old. A sixth-former. Just about to leave school and go to the university.”

The junior sighed. Sweat glistened on his brow. The room was becoming unbearably hot.

Crinkle filled the silence. “It could have been worse, I suppose.”

“How so?”

“Oh come lad.” He let a smile spread across his face. “At least he kept his Y-fronts on.”

A door opened and closed. They looked up but it wasn’t the magistrate so they carried on whispering.

“What happened exactly?”

Crinkle grimaced. “Stuff and nonsense really. Some old biddy saw the boy having a kiss behind the bike sheds and ratted on him to the headmaster.”

The junior’s brow knotted. Puzzled, he said, “With another boy?”

“God no. A girl.”

The junior twisted his notes in his hands. His heart was pounding. “Did she get a spanking too? Like, on the knickers?”

“No there’s the rub. The biddy recognised the boy, but not the girl. He refused to give the headmaster her name,” Crinkle sniffed and reached into his jacket pocket for a handkerchief, “Well, you know the rest.”

The junior shuffled his buttocks, suddenly finding his hard chair uncomfortable. “Why didn’t he just cane him?”

Crinkle snorted so loudly some people turned to see what was happening. “Per-lease!”

The junior felt his ears glow with embarrassment. “Oh, I see,” he stumbled over the words, because actually he didn’t.

Crinkle sighed. “C’mon, it was hardly likely to have been the first time he had done something like this.”

“Spanking sixth-formers on their underwear?”

“Whatever.”

“Didn’t the police inquire?”

“Dear God!” Crinkle exhaled. “You know this place. Crumble’s on every committee in the town. He’s the headmaster of the local grammar school. A big cheese.”

The junior wriggled.

“The boy is new to town. His parents aren’t impressed by that sort of thing. I guess in the past others just let it go. Here,” he handed the junior a folder, “read his statement while we wait for things to start.”

With quivering fingers, the junior found his reading spectacles and peered through them.

“I was summoned to the headmaster’s study,” he read, “He told me my hair was too long and needed cutting, which had nothing to do with anything. He said I had been reported for kissing a girl. I didn’t know it was against the rules. I haven’t been at the school for long but already I knew there were rules against everything. He asked me the name of the girl and when I refused his face went purple.

“‘You refuse to obey a direct order from your headmaster!’ he shouted. I was really scared. I knew now I was in deep trouble. Dr. Crumble has a reputation. I thought it would be a caning.

“He jawed me a bit and told me I was a disgrace to the school. I didn’t say anything. What was there to say? At last he rose from his chair and walked around his desk. I expected him to go to the hat stand where he had three curved-handled canes hanging. But he didn’t. He picked up a chair and put it down in the middle of the study.’’

‘“Take off your blazer. Put it on my desk,” he said. I was scared stiff. Something was going to happen, but I didn’t know what. I took off my jacket as instructed. Then he sat in the chair and with his index finger he beckoned me to stand beside him.

“I don’t remember what happened next too clearly. My heart was thumping so much and the blood was rushing to my ears. I thought I would faint on the spot.

“I stood beside him. Then he said, ‘Take down your trousers and bend over my knee.’ I was speechless. I do remember thinking, ‘He’s going to spank me. I’ve never ben spanked. Not even as a very little kid.’

“He got angry because I hadn’t obeyed him. He said something like, ‘If you don’t bend over my knee this instance. I shall suspend you from school. You won’t be able to do your exams and you can say goodbye to university.’”

“I think I was on some kind of autopilot. I remember my hands shaking as I undid my trousers and let them slip. I held on to them so they wouldn’t fall to my ankles. They were just below my bum cheeks.

‘“Bend over.’  He was really gruff. I felt so ridiculous. I must be three or four inches taller than Dr. Crumble. He had spread his legs but they looked thin and bony. How was I supposed to fit over them? ‘Bend over,’ he said again. I wasn’t sure how this was done. How you were supposed to present yourself for a spanking. So I put my hands on his legs and eased myself down.

“I felt totally humiliated. My face was staring at the carpet and my backside was high in the air waiting to be spanked. My head ached like crazy. I could feel my temples throbbing like mad. I felt the headmaster pull my shirt away from my bottom and then he gripped the waist of my underpants. ‘God no,’ I remember thinking, ‘He’s going to pull them down. He’s going to smack me on my bare bottom.’

“But he wasn’t. Instead, he pulled my pants tight so they fitted snugly across my buttocks. Then I felt the palm of his hand rub against my bottom. He went in circles all over both cheeks and across my thighs. Then he started to pinch my bum with the palm of his hand as if he was trying to work out how much fat there was.

“I was terrified. I shut my eyes tight. Then, Smack! He hit me in the middle of one cheek and then he did the same to the other. I started to wriggle and he held me tightly around the waist and slapped me hard and fast. I couldn’t get my breath. It didn’t hurt much at first but as he kept pounding the palm of his hand into my bum at a very rapid pace I hotted up.

“I know my legs were kicking out. I couldn’t help it I was totally out of control. He held me so tightly I couldn’t escape. All I could do was lay there struggling while he spanked me on and on. My temples throbbed so much I thought I was going to pass out. I don’t remember him saying anything while he spanked me. I had to bite my tongue to stop myself pleading for him to stop. To let me go.

“He did stop and I thought it was all over. But no. I felt him grip my pants and he pulled them so tight that I just knew my buttock cheeks were exposed. Bare. Then he smacked my even harder and even quicker on the naked flesh. I think I was shouting and kicking by now. I can’t remember. I do remember the pain was intense. It was like I had sat in a bath of hot water.

“At last. After I don’t know how long. Maybe five minutes. He let me go. I staggered to my feet. I was like a drunk man. I couldn’t keep steady. My head was light. It was as if I wasn’t really there. This wasn’t really happening. I didn’t wait. I pulled up my trousers, grabbed my blazer and ran from the room.”

The junior was so engrossed in the statement he failed to hear the magistrate arrive. Mr. Crinkle nudged him hard and he stumbled to his feet, hoping the raging erection beneath his trousers would not be noticed by his boss.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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The expenses fiddle

Paul and his landlord

Boy at the photocopier

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Wait til your father gets home

z used pyjamas otk (4e)

Danny pulls up his pyjama bottoms and sits on the edge of his bed. Waiting. He doesn’t realise he is chewing his fingernails to the quick. “Go to your room, put your pyjamas on and wait til your father gets home,” his mother had told him, so that’s what he is doing.

Any minute now dad will walk through the door, hairbrush in hand. It won’t be the first time, it won’t be the last. Eighteen years old and still being spanked by his dad. Danny stands, crosses the small bedroom and closes the window. He doesn’t want the neighbours to hear. If his pal Kenneth next door ever found out, Danny would be a laughing stock.

He paces the room. Three steps one way and then he reaches the wall, turns round. Then six paces to the other wall. Why does dad do this to him, he wonders. Danny is an adult. He’s been working for two years. He’s too old to be spanked. He knows the answer. Dad’s house; dad’s rules. His way or the highway. Danny’s big mouth got him into trouble. Sassing his mother. Again. This time she has had enough of it. So, “Go to your room. Wait til your father gets home.”

The door bursts open. Dad stands in the threshold, brandishing mum’s hairbrush. There is no polite knocking at the door. This is his house, he’ll go where he pleases. Dad snarls. Mum has told him all about it. Danny steps back. His dad is huge, easily six-four. He towers over Danny. Poor lad s hardly five-six. He takes after his mother’s side of the family.

Danny opens and closes his mouth, wanting to plead mitigation. But, he has no excuses. He is guilty as charged. Rude. Offensive. Insolent. Dad bares his teeth. His face a picture of fury. His dark bushy eyebrows and thick moustache give him more than a hint of menace. Dad doesn’t say much. What is there to say? He waves the brush in Danny’s face, the teenager retreats. Fearful. He has his back to the wall . There is no escape.

“That chair. Here.” Dad nods towards a worn wooden chair. Danny knows what he is expected to do. He carries the heavy chair and plonks it down so that its back rests against the wall. There is just enough space in the room for dad to do his duty. Dad sits on the chair and peers at his son. The boy can’t meet his father’s gaze. He studies his bare feet, noticing his toenails need cutting.

Dad clutches the hairbrush tightly. Its large head is heavy, almost circular. It is as if it was made for spanking. Dad is nearly ready. It might be 2017 but dad lives by traditional values. It is the duty of fathers to guide their sons through the choppy seas of life to adulthood. Too many parents these days fail their children. They let them run wild. Give them no boundaries. And, look how they turn out. Not, Danny. Mr. Knight will not allow that.

“Bend over,” he slaps his thighs for emphasis. Danny looks from the ground and stares wide-eyed. His father is huge and he is small. The old man’s legs are as thick as tree trunks. He has parted them wide to give his son the perfect platform for submission. The muscles in dad’s arms are huge, they ripple as he holds the brush.

All saliva drains from Danny’s mouth. The room is hot now the window is closed. His knees tremble a little. Dad slaps his thigh once more. Impatiently. Danny draws in breath. It won’t do to keep dad waiting. He step forward and hurls himself across dad’s legs, like a diver going into an icy pool. His arms hardly stretch beyond dad’s left knee, his legs dangle in the air behind him. His bottom rests in the gap between dad’s knees.

Danny stares ahead of him, his shock of blond hair failing into his eyes. He concentrates on the poster of Manchester United that is stuck to his wall. He closes his eyes. Then opens them again. Then closes them. Contemplating the agony to come. He feels dad grip the elasticated waistband of his pyjama bottoms. He knows dad always does this this but still a shockwave travels his body. This is too humiliating, he thinks. But, the baring of the bottom is one of dad’s rituals. “There,” he seems to be saying, “Don’t you feel ashamed of yourself? Having your bare bottom spanked.”

Dad pulls the pyjamas down just enough that two buttocks are exposed. He is nearly ready, but not quite. Gently, he takes the end of Danny’s pyjama jacket and pushes it half way up the eighteen-year-old’s back. He is presented with an area of hairless flesh. Danny’s cheeks are round and fleshy, but firm. They were made to be spanked. They clench and unclench. They always do. Dad grips his son across the back with his left arm. Danny turns his head, trying to look over his shoulder at his dad, but the old man has him locked tightly.

Smack! The brush hammers into the centre of Danny’s left cheek. Then another strikes the right. Dad admires his handiwork. Two deep-pink circular marks are imprinted in his son’s bum. Danny’s fair skin reddens easily. Whack-whack-whack. The heavy hairbrush rises and falls. Danny’s legs kick. It is a reflex action, he can’t control himself. As more swipes rain down into his unprotected buttocks, Danny’s body weaves left and right. He holds on to his dad’s legs to stop himself tumbling to the floor.

Dad continues to snarl as he whacks the brush on and on. Deliberately he smacks Danny across the back of the bare thighs. Hard. That gets his son howling. Good! dad thinks; a spanking is supposed to hurt otherwise what’s the point? Danny is yelping with every whack that hammers into his bare bum, but he is not crying. He used to shed bucket loads when dad spanked him. Now, he has a higher level of self-control. It took a lot of practice. He will not let dad see him cry, not today, not ever.

Dad is strong, he can go on spanking all night long. Every square inch of Danny’s buttocks and thighs has been toasted. There is no virgin flesh for dad to attack. So he goes round the circuit again, slapping his brush into already tender flesh. The top of the buttocks, the crest of the mounds, the tender under-curves and the thighs; none of it is missed. Satisfied that he has whacked it all, dad goes round one more time.

Danny holds on to dad’s leg or dear life. He can’t breathe too well and his temples throb almost as much as his backside. Sweat is soaking his pyjama jacket. He can’t take much more of this.

Suddenly, the door opens. Mum is standing watching her husband tan the tail of her son. She thinks dad is doing a good job. That will teach the brat not to be sassy in future.

“Your programme is about to start,” she tells her husband. It is an ordinary conversation, you would not know Danny was lying face down across his dad’s knees having his bottom blistered.

“Alright, I’m coming,” dad says. He whacks the hairbrush at maximum force six more times across the very centres of both cheeks. Then he releases his grip on Danny, who stumbles from his dad’s knees and lies on the floor gasping for wind, like a beached dolphin. Dad steps over him and with his wife leaves the room.

Danny struggles to his knees and then is fully standing. He dives onto his bed, buries his face in the pillow and sobs his guts up.

 

Picture credit: Does anyone know this artist? I see his work all over the Internet, but have never discovered his name

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Remembering the spanking vicar

z used drawing hand otk vicar (7a)

It happened forty years ago. Forty years; I can scarcely believe it. Almost to the day too. It could never happen today. The world is an entirely different place. Even as I start to write this down I wonder if it really happened. Was it just a dream?

I wasn’t quite twenty-one years old and I was studying for a business degree. We had to spend an entire year working in industry and my college sent me to a small company in a town not far from London. I needed somewhere to live and digs were hard to come by, but a colleague called Simon said he knew of a place in a village nearby where they could give me a room.

Was there a glint of devilment in his eye when he told me this? I can’t be certain, but later I was damned sure he knew more than he was letting on.

We drove to a small village about four or five miles into the countryside. It was a typical English village of the time; a shop, two pubs and a church. The church came with a vicarage attached. It was a large rambling pile and far too big for the vicar to live there on his own. I’ll call him Rev. Jones, because, in fact, that was his name. He was well into his fifties at the time and I know he shuffled off to meet his maker some years ago (so I’m safe from the lawyers).

He was a large man, tall and despite advancing years he stood like a ram-rod. He had once captained his county at rugby union, apparently, and was still as strong as an ox. The afternoon Simon and I arrived, he was busy in the kitchen baking bread if the aroma that wafted throughout the house was any clue. He left us in a room he called his study while he went and turned the oven down or what not.

It was an imposing room; bookcases lined two walls and an open and unlit fire dominated another. The fourth wall was an impressive glass sliding door that opened out into a well-mown law and flower beds.

I perched on the edge of a large leather Chesterfield couch. I had never been in such a room. I had been brought up in a small council flat in London and had lived in a tiny room in the students’ halls of residence since going to the polytechnic. Simon, who I knew to be a former public school man, strode the room as if he owned it, peering at the books.

A broad smile split his face and he plucked a volume from a shelf. He was about to tell me about his find when the door flew open and Rev. Jones strode in. Sheepishly, like a small boy discovered with his fist in the cookie jar, Simon replaced the book.

“Well Richard,” Rev. Jones picked up his jacket from the back of a chair and struggled into it as he spoke, “You probably know that Andrew, another boy who worked at ______, lodged here,” I nodded agreement, although it was the first I had heard of this.

“Yes, a very good boy was Andrew,” Rev. Jones seemed wistful, “I rather miss him …” he trailed off.

He sat in a plush leather chair opposite me and stretched his legs wide. The armchair seemed dwarfed by his size. He told me about the house and the other two lads who were also his tenants. I hardly heard a word, I was mesmerised by the reverend’s deep blue eyes, peering at me over the top of his half-moon glasses. I could imagine him as a schoolmaster quelling twenty-five noisy boys with a single glare.

“Well, Richard,” he leaned forward and grasped my knee and held his hand there for what seemed an eternity. “Shall I give you the grand tour?” He climbed from the chair, flexed his shoulders and headed for the door, fully expecting me to trot along at his heels.

“Well, Richard, this is the kitchen …” He had the annoying habit of calling me by name at the start of nearly every sentence. “Richard this; Richard that.” I had told him when I telephoned for an appointment that my name was Ricky. I hated being called Richard. I thought Ricky made me sound more interesting. More American, perhaps.

We toured the house, the room that could be mine was huge. The rent was low. A match if I might venture to say so, made in Heaven. I agreed to move in the following day. Simon, I noticed, beamed brightly when I announced my decision.

My two housemates were at the door to greet me when I arrived. Ian was my own age and worked in a bank in town. Colm was a year or so younger and a labourer on a nearby farm.

“He’s alright when you get used to his ways,” Colm ventured an unsolicited opinion.

Ian blushed deeply.

“Just don’t break the rules, thas-sall,” Colm said as he disappeared up the stairs carrying one of my suitcases, leaving me standing in the hallway a little puzzled at his remark.

The very next day I got more than an inkling of what he meant.

We had breakfasted and I was heading back to my room when I heard a strange thud noise. I paused and sniffed the air. Thud. There is was again. It seemed to be coming from the study. Thud. This time followed by a slow hissing sound, rather like a snake.

Intrigued, I moved closer to the study. The door was slightly ajar. Thud. Thud. Thud. I could contain my curiosity no longer, so I inched it open. I can’t be sure if my mouth did literally gape wide open. If not literally, then at least figuratively. I had never seen anything remotely like it before in my life.

My new pal Ian was dressed in a white singlet and tight red football shorts. He was bent across the back of a straight-backed wooden chair. I had the perfect view of his muscular buttocks as Rev. Jones whacked what looked like a block of wood into them with some vigour. The teenager winced each time the punishment paddle connected with his bum. Air escaped his tightly closed mouth, but other than that he made no sound.

I counted a further three swipes before the vicar commanded, “You may stand,” and Ian shot to his feet. He turned and faced Rev. Jones. I saw his face was scarlet (I bet his bum was too) and his hair was wringing in sweat. I could tell he desperately wanted to rub away the sting from his buttocks but he was too proud to show he was hurt.

Suddenly, he looked over the vicar’s shoulder and saw me standing at the door. The vicar saw his look of humiliation and swivelled on his feet to see what had caused it.

“Richard!” he trilled. I didn’t wait to hear more. I turned on my heels and didn’t stop running until I was a hundred yards from the vicarage.

All day I couldn’t figure it out. What had I seen? Ian had allowed the vicar to spank his backside with a paddle – very hard indeed. Why? What had he done to deserve that? What right did the vicar have to whack him?

I couldn’t get the image of Ian submissively bent across the chair in very tight shorts and gleaming white singlet; his muscular buttocks absorbing the sting of the paddle.

Instinctively, I knew I had not heard the last of this. Rev. Jones was wild when he saw me snooping. I would have to answer to him when I returned to the vicarage that evening.

Simon came to my office, “How are you getting on with the vicar?” a Cheshire cat could not have grinned so widely. That was when I realised that he knew. Had he set me up? I never found out, since Simon left the company that week to return to his own studies and I never saw nor heard from him again.

Of course, Rev. Jones was ready to pounce the moment I walked through the door.

“My study. Now,” he snapped.

He made me stand on the carpet and he sat behind a rather grand desk. I felt every inch the naughty schoolboy up before the headmaster. His blue eyes stabbed me. All rational thought drained. I couldn’t hear the words he spoke, my heart thumped like it wanted to escape through my chest.

His voice wafted through the room as if they were part of a rather poor shortwave radio broadcast. I caught something about rules and there was a little about setting objectives. Rev. Jones stood and walked from behind his desk until he stood directly in front of me. I could smell stale tobacco on his breath.

Another voice spoke. I was astounded when I realised it was my own. “I was late back to work at lunchtime,” I was saying, “I stayed too long at the pub.” There was a hanging silence. I filled the void, “I do it quite often.”

His penetrating eyes narrowed perceptively. “I see Richard. This will not do at all.”

He moved across the room and picked up the chair I had seen Ian bent across that morning. While he did this, I tried to fathom why I had told him such a silly lie.

He put the chair down in the centre of the room. Then, without saying a word, he sat down and spread his legs wide. Instinctively, my eyes went to his crotch. I was no connoisseur of men’s cocks, but even hidden under a generous layer of cloth, his seemed larger than average.

He gestured that I should stand directly in front of him. I did.

“Richard, put your hands on your head.” I did that too.

He reached forward and expertly unbuckled the wide leather belt around my waist. We wore enormously-flared trousers with high waistbands in those days. He had to undo six buttons before the front of my trousers flapped open. This gave me more than enough time to punch him in the mouth and make my escape.

I did no such thing. I stared over his left shoulder at the bookcase behind him. I saw the book Simon had found the other day. My eyesight was good when I was twenty-one. I could read the title, “The history of corporal punishment.”

I felt a draught against my thighs when the vicar pulled my trousers to my knees. The weight of the belt and gravity took them to nestle in a puddle over my platform shoes. Still, I gazed at the bookcase. I had no courage to look my punisher in the face.

He spoke no words. What was there for him to say? I knew what he was intending to do. I knew also that I could prevent it at any moment. I was twenty-one and he was an old man. True, he was strong, but I needn’t look to beat him to a pulp. All I had to do was pull my trousers up and run from the house.

I gasped audibly when he took hold of my mustard-coloured briefs and gently pulled them down. My cock flipped over the elasticated waistband. I remember, even after forty years, that absurdly I wondered how much smaller my dick must be compared to Rev. Jones’.

“Richard,” the vicar spoke gently, “Bend over my knee.”

Of course, I hesitated.

“Richard, please do as you are told.” He spoke more sternly now. It was important to him that I show my subservience. I must in effect say, “Yes please Rev. Jones. Punish me. I have been a naughty boy. I deserve to be spanked by you.”

I said none of these things. Instead, I took up position a yard from the vicar’s right thigh and gently lowered myself across his lap. I had never been spanked before, nor had I seen it happen to anyone else, but I suppose some kind of instinct took over from me. Was it primeval? Do all young men by nature know how to be submissive to an older man?

I stretched my hands in front of me and placed my hands palms down into the thick pile carpet. My shoes had five-inch heels and a two-inch sole and felt remarkably heavy as my legs dangled in mid-air. My bare bottom was raised across Rev. Jones’ thigh. It was, I was soon to learn, in a perfect position to receive the punishment he intended to deliver.

He took the tail of my shirt and calmly folded it once, then twice, so that it was clear of his target area. I felt his palm caress my right cheek. My buttocks clenched. It was a reflex action. He smacked me gently.

“Richard, relax,” he purred.

I didn’t. I couldn’t. I was headed for unchartered territory. I had no notion what to expect. I was bent across an older man’s knee, bare-arsed. He could see right into my crack and up my hole, if the mood took him. Is it possible for a young man to be in a more humiliating position?

He cupped his palm and petted and patted both cheeks. When he was done doing that, he turned his attention to the backs of my bare thighs. It was surprisingly soothing.

What happened next was far from that. A searing storm of spanks thundered into my bum at great force and high speed. Within seconds not a square inch of flesh was left untenderized. He whizzed across the peaks of my mounds, into the most sensitive under-curves and across the top near the spine. Over and over and over again.

I twisted and turned this way and that. My legs kicked out behind me. It was like I was trying to swim away from his lap. He gripped my middle with his left arm and with his right hand he continued his assault.

At first my bum felt warm, rosy even. But, that glow quickly intensified into hot throbbing. I felt like I had sat in a bath of too-hot water. My flesh was scolding.

My hair was drenched with sweat, blood rushed through my body; my ears hurt so badly I was sure the drums would burst.

I have no idea how long the spanking continued. Looking back, I don’t suppose it was more than a minute or two: his hand must surely have been hurting as much as my bum. To me it felt like hours. At last he stopped. He released his grip on my body and I slithered from his knees onto the floor. I was winded, but in seconds I had scrambled to my feet and tugged my pants and trousers up. I daren’t look at the vicar and concentrated on getting all the buttons in place.

It took an age. While I did this, Rev. Jones lectured me.

“Richard, I hope you understand why I felt the need to punish you.”

I truly did not, but felt it wise not to argue the point.

“Richard,” he continued as I stared intently at my feet, “I am sure that I can help you to become a fine young man. But, you need to learn to obey the rules. If you are unable to do so. You must be punished.”

The pain in my bum had almost completely vanished by now. My head was clearing. I just wanted to get out of that study.

“Richard,” the vicar was about to finish. “I hope you feel able to accept my rules and I would very much like you to stay. But, if you cannot, then I’m afraid you must leave the vicarage.”

I nodded sagely and without a word, I returned to my room.

I sent much of the next year admiring at close quarters the carpet in the vicar’s study and sniffing the leather of his Chesterfield couch; I suppose you would have to conclude that I wasn’t very good at obeying the rules.

 

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The Spanking Vicar Part 1

The room at the top

One hot summer afternoon

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Drunk last night

used brush drunk last night

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Picture credit: End Art

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Waiting my turn

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

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

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

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

He is calling John over to him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, please, no,” John is sniffing.

Uncle looks very cross and goes on smacking John.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, I can hear him running up the stairs.

“James.”

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

zused hands on head shorts

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

University encounter

z used otk jeans bed (125)

I was eighteen, he was twenty-one. Maybe I was a little immature for my age. He told me if I insisted on behaving like that, he’d take me across his knee and spank my bottom. Hard.

I didn’t believe him. Okay, so I was naïve as well as immature.

I was a first-year student at Brocklehurst University, away from the restrictions of my parents for the first time. There was nobody to nag me, “Do this. Don’t do that.”

The university made first-years stay in their halls of residences and then got senior students to keep an eye on them. I think the idea was to be a big brother or big sister to us. I don’t know what kind of big brother Clive had, but mine never treated me like this.

He looked like any other student; he wore jeans and tee-shirts, but he was a member of the Brocklehurst Fellowship, a God-squad outfit that thought they were a cut above the rest of us and were on a mission to make sure we conformed to their standards.

I first encountered Clive one night after I returned to the halls after a session at the union bar. He was lurking outside my room. “Do you know what time it is?” he asked sternly. I was a little merry and didn’t like the tone of his voice, so I replied sarcastically, “You’ve got a watch, haven’t you?”

Wrong thing to say. “It’s nearly midnight. It’s too late for you to be out,” he told me.

Whoa! Hold your horses, pal. There was no curfew at the halls and so long as we came and went quietly we could roll up at any hour we chose. And, I told Clive this.

Wrong again.

“I’m keeping an eye on you, Pooley,” he snarled. “Now, get off to bed with you.” I watched with disdain as he stormed down the passageway, then I let myself into my room. I crawled into bed and forgot about him. I was full of thoughts of Angela Bailey, a girl I had met in the bar, and her big breasts. I tossed one off and fell asleep.

I made pals easily. We lived on beans on toast, went to lectures, studied in the library (but not too often), hung around bars and tried with varying degrees of success to get into girls’ knickers.

Early one evening there was a knock on my door. I cursed silently. I hadn’t expected visitors and I had my jeans and pants at my knees and was tugging away over a Page Three Girl in the Sun. I called out, “Who is it?” but got no reply. Instead, the knocking continued, a little more insistently.

I pulled up my jeans and pants. My cock was still hard, but I tucked it away as best I could and hoped the bulge behind my flies wasn’t too obvious.

I opened the door to find Clive shuffling from one foot to the other, clearly irritated. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you,” I said. I assumed he was annoyed that I took so long to open the door. He scowled and uninvited brushed by me and entered the room. His nose crinkled as he looked around. It was a small room and no untidier than any of my pals’. He took particular objection at a small pile of unwashed clothes beneath my small desk. His eyes flared when he saw the newspaper open on my bed. I can’t be certain but I think he surreptitiously checked out my flies. Luckily, I had gone soft by then.

“You should tidy this place up.”

Who did he think he was, my mother?

“Get those clothes washed,” he nodded at the pile under the desk. If he were Mum, he would have just scooped them up and put them in the washing machine, returning them next day clean and ironed. I didn’t argue the point with Clive.

“I have had a complaint,” he intoned. He drew himself up to his six-foot height and frowned. Maybe he thought that gave him an air of authority. It just irritated the hell out of me. Complaint? What was he on about?

In his own time, he continued. “Loud music, coming from this room at all hours.” I stared blankly. Even as we stood together, the sound of a music centre thumped from a room on the floor above. I didn’t press the point. I just wanted the irritating little tyke out of my room.

He berated me for my supposed misdemeanours. It mustn’t happen again. I should be considerate to my neighbours. Blah, blah, blah.  “If you insist on behaving immaturely, I shall take you across my knee and spank your bottom. Hard,” he ended, before closing the door behind him.

I sat back on the bed, loosened my jeans and returned to the Sun.

I asked my pals, did they get a visit from Clive? What did they think about him? All I got in response were blank stares. “Who’s Clive?” Nobody had seen or heard of him.

The weekend after my visit, we had a bit of a party in the halls. It was a kind of belated welcome to the university for all the new students. Now, I’m not especially proud of this, but I had had a skin-full. It’s not an excuse, I accept that, but it is an accurate description of what happened. It seemed like a good idea at the time. But, not for long after.

I set off the fire alarm.

In the great scheme of things this was not such a disaster. Nobody took any notice of it. Does anybody ever? False fire alarms go off all the time. The party-goers groaned, swigged their cheap wine, shared their joints and carried on snogging. I got a blow-job from a spotty, cross-eyed girl I’d never met before.

The following day I was back in my room flicking through a copy of Whitehouse, a porn mag that was being passed around by the boys. A couple of its pages were stuck together, but the close-up pictures of ladies’ thingies did nothing for me. I closed my eyes and tried to remember the girl and the blow-job, but all I saw were her spots.

There was a hammering on the door. It was Clive. Why was I not surprised? Of course, he knew about the fire alarm. “Juvenile.” “Childish.” “Infantile.” “Immature.” Clive must have swallowed a thesaurus. He berated me on and on. His sallow face was flushed with his indignation. His eyes blazed with righteousness.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he growled. A puzzled look was my only response. “Spanking.” He let the one word hang in the air, as if it was a perfect explanation. Still no comprehension from me.

“I said I would take you over my knee and spank you. Hard,” he said with an air of triumphalism, as if somehow he had won a prize.

Then, I remembered Clive’s passing shot to me when he had left my room. I had taken no notice. I had hardly heard him at all.

Clive sat on my bed, reached out and grabbed my arm. I hadn’t realised before but he was a strong man, not obviously muscular but beneath his black tee-shirt was a powerful body. He was about six-foot tall and towered four or five inches over me. He tugged me forward, I had no strength to resist. I was over his knee with my face in the duvet cover. He tucked an arm around my waist. To my horror, I was powerless. I kicked my legs and wriggled my hips a little. Then he moved his arm and pinned my shoulders with his elbow.

Then he spanked me. A grown man of eighteen. He spanked me, just like he said he would. I was across his knee and he pounded the palm of his hand into the seat of my jeans. I gasped, infuriated at my humiliation. He whacked me about a dozen times and I sprang to my feet. My face was hot with embarrassment. I couldn’t look my tormentor in the face. My shoulders slumped and I stared down at my feet.

Of course, with my jeans on I hardly felt a thing. When I checked later there was no sign on my bare bum that I had been assaulted at all. My fury and my humiliation was that he had been able to take me across his knee at will and do whatever he wanted. There was nothing I could do about it.

At last, I had the courage to look at him. His face was flushed scarlet. It was not because of the effort he made in spanking me; it was the porn mag open on the bed by his side. He looked like he might vomit at any moment. He stood from the bed and headed for the door. Before leaving, he called over his shoulder. “Next time, I’ll bring a hairbrush and we’ll see how you like that with your jeans and pants at your ankles.”

That night, I slept badly. A vision of myself across Clive’s knee with him hammering a brush into my bare arse wouldn’t leave me. We are in the kitchen at my parents’ home (go figure!). Clive is sitting on a metal armless chair. His legs are spread wide and at angles to one another. He has already manhandled me so that I am face down over the left knee.  He has wrapped his other leg around the back of my calves and I cannot move. My face stares down at the worn floor tiles. I can see they are overdue cleaning.

I am wearing blue-striped pyjamas (go figure again, I’ve not worn jim-jams since I was about eight years old and they had pictures of Fireball XL 5 all over them). Clive takes hold of the tail end of the pyjama jacket and lifts it high up my back so it bunches at the shoulders. Then, slowly and with relish he goes for the elasticated waistband of the PJ bottoms and grips them. He is taking his time. He wants me to feel the full force of this humiliating experience. He tugs the waistband slowly across the mounds that are my buttocks. He struggles a little since there is no space between my body and his knee to pull them properly down. He sighs and slaps a resounding smack across the cotton seat of the pyjamas. I take it as my instruction to raise my stomach a little so he has a gap he can ease the bottoms through. I lower myself back against his powerful knee. I feel a cool breeze from an open window gently caress my naked bottom and thighs.

Clive is not yet ready. He wants this to be a painful lesson for me. But, that does not only mean my backside must be blistered, I must also learn that he has complete control over me. He cups the palm of his right hand and gently traces the contours of my buttocks. First, he brushes the left cheek, pausing at the highest, plumpest point. There he presses two fingers into the flesh. He is testing how much “give” there is in my bum. I am trim, but I don’t quite have “buns of steel.” His hairbrush will sink into the meat and leave me battered and bruised.

He repeats the caressing and poking on the right cheek. Finally, and unexpectedly (to me), he leans forward towards my face. He raises the middle finger of his right hand and rests it against the closed lips of my mouth.

“Suck it,” he says softly. It is an order and one that I am expected to obey, but it is not barked. Obediently, I open my mouth and he gently inserts it. I work up some spit and soak his finger. He removes it from my mouth and moves it back to my buttocks. My spine shivers. He has washed my crack and inserted the fingertip into my hole.

My face is crimson. Soon my arse will be a similar colour. He is ready. He lifts the hairbrush to about a foot-and-a-half from the surface from my bum and in a frenzy he whacks the heavy wood across his target area. Whack-whack-whack. It sounds like machinegun echoing around the kitchen. Surely, my mother will hear and come running to see what is the commotion.

Clive hammers down at least three dozen whacks without let up. I don’t suppose thirty seconds has passed and my arse in on fire. I try to wriggle and writhe but the combination of his leg across mine and his strong arm against my shoulders means I am helpless. I am a perfect target. He can (and he will) continue to spank my backside black-and-blue for as long as he wishes.

Not one square inch of my buttocks and the backs of my thighs escapes the attention of his brush. The pain is awesome. Nothing I’ve experienced in the whole of my eighteen years comes close to this. Is this what it feels like to have accidentally sat down on a blazing barbecue?

On and on he spanks me. I can’t move to the left and right or forwards and backwards. The only way my body can respond to this intense onslaught is to jolt up and down. With each successive slap to my bum my body humps Clive’s knee. The heat of my bare-bottomed thrashing is travelling to my loins.

No, please God. Don’t let it end like this.

When in the early hours, I emerge from my fitful sleep the bedsheet is soaked in cum.

 

Picture credit: Spank This

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com