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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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

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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One hot summer afternoon

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Bend over my knee for a birching

z used otk birch CS (17)

Johanne stood staring down at the floor. His knees were buckling, his pulse raced. The saliva in his mouth had already drained. He could feel the heat of embarrassment in his face. He had been here many times before, but he could never get used to it.

He heard his father preparing himself. A hard wooden chair with a straight back had already been placed in the middle of the room. Now, his father was at a cabinet, opening a low cupboard. He had to stoop down to get a closer view of its contents. He had placed something there earlier in the day, ready and waiting for this moment.

He reached inside. An aroma wafted to his nostrils. A fresh, country smell. Even after so many years, the scent perked him up every time he encountered it. It felt rough in his hand, scratchy. He pulled it clear of the darkened cupboard into the daylight. It wasn’t s heavy. He had made heavier ones in the past. But, not this time. It wasn’t necessary. Not for what he had in mind.

There were about thirty twigs bound together with twine at one end to form a handle. The ‘business end’ was about eighteen inches long. Perfect, Mr Anderson, thought, even if he did say so himself.

He held the birch rod in his hand and leaving the cupboard door ajar, he took the few paces necessary to reach the chair. He settled himself down, wriggling his buttocks until he felt comfortable. He looked across at his son Johanne. How many times had he done this before? He really had no idea, it was literally countless times.

Johanne stood head bowed and fidgeting. His fair complexion now quite scarlet with embarrassment; humiliation even. Mr Anderson studied the top of his son’s head. The thick wavy blond fair hair needed cutting. Why was it so long, he pondered? He hoped some teenaged rebellion wasn’t in the air.

“Look at me.” It was a calm command. Mr Anderson did not believe in histrionics. None of his compatriots at the business he owned and ran, nor his friends (such that there were), nor his family could remember the last time he had raised his voice.

Sheepishly, Johanne lifted his eyes. They were pale blue and already watery. He set his jaw firmly, fighting against his quivering chin. He would not let himself down, he told himself. Absolutely not. Not so early in the proceedings.

“We know why we are here,” his father sighed, as if he was obliged to carry all the troubles of the world on his shoulders. He paused. It was Johanne’s cue to speak. The boy twisted his fingers behind his back and returned his attention to the carpet.

“Look at me, Johanne, I shan’t tell you again,” Mr Anderson bared his teeth.

“Sorry father,” sweat beaded Johanne’s heavy fringe. He wiped it with the back of his hand, alarmed at how much it trembled as he did so.

“The report from your tutor is very discouraging,” Mr Anderson breathed quietly as he recapped his son’s end of term report. “You seem not to be attending to your lessons.” His glare cut through his son like a hot knife.

There was really no “seem” about it. The kindest thing one might say about the nineteen-year-old was that he was idle. Lazy. A slacker. He was undoubtedly all of these things when it came to his studies. But, were the truth to be told, one would also have to include “dull” to the litany. That would be “dull” as in “not very bright”, “unacademic” or just downright “unclever.”

“We have spoken about your attitude and behaviour before, have we not?” It was a rhetorical question and Mr Anderson did not pause, but continued to berate his son.

Satisfied that the case against Johanne had been made, Mr Anderson skipped the part of the trial where the defence gets to speak. Instead, he proceeded straight to sentence.

“Take down your trousers and underpants and bend over my knee.” It was a cold command and one that Mr Anderson expected to be obeyed. And, there was no doubt that it would be.

The room which had been on the cool side until then, suddenly seemed to warm. Johanne’s temperature was rising rapidly. Perspiration stuck his shirt to his back, his armpits felt soaked. He rather wished he hadn’t worn a woollen pullover.

Mr Anderson shuffled his buttocks on the hard wooden chair. He gazed intently at his son as he fumbled first with the buckle of his belt and then the three buttons of his fly. It took sometime before the front of the trousers gaped open and Mr Anderson glimpsed the white cotton underpants beneath. Johanne abhorred physical activity and was no athlete, but he had the slender body of a young man. It would be some years yet before the combination of his laziness and his fondness for food would show on his waistline. For now, his stomach was flat and hairless.

Johanne allowed his grey trousers to slither down his thighs to snag at the knees. Mr Anderson eyed his son’s sparkling tight white underpants. He pondered if they were a size or two too small for him. If that was not the case, the teenager appeared to be generously endowed in the manhood department.

Johanne’s face travelled from scarlet to the colour of a good claret wine. How could he be spared the humiliation of removing his underwear in front of his father? Silently, he pleaded with his father. Non-verbal communication was not one of Mr Anderson’s strong suits. He was a man who spoke his mind. Quietly, but robustly.

He cleared his throat. “Please take down your underpants, Johanne.” When the teenager recoiled at the command, his father snarled, “Unless you should like me to remove them for you.”

Johanne’s flinch was instinctive. He took a half step backwards, steadied his nerve, hooked his thumbs into the elasticated waistband, closed his eyes, and sent the soft white cotton south to meet his trousers. Befuddled, he covered his dick and balls with his hands.

Mr Anderson grimaced. What had his son to hide? He had a cruel streak that sometimes he didn’t try to conceal. “Johanne,” he said, still speaking softly, “Please put your hands on your head.”

His son’s response, “But father,” was a mere whimper. One never argued with father. Ever. Not about anything. If the old man were ever, say, to order Johanne to run naked around town, he would do it. Not gladly, but he would do it in the knowledge that the consequence of not doing it would be awesome indeed.

He closed his eyes once more, sucked in breath and linked his fingers before placing his hands firmly on the top of his head in the classic “naughty boy” stance. Mr Anderson shuffled his buttocks once more and pursed his lips. Johanne’s dick was long and thin and his ball sack hung down by some inches. Mr Anderson was no expert in young men’s genital, but his breast swelled a little with pride at his son’s manhood.

He gripped the birchrod in his right hand and gently tapped himself on the lap with it. “Come bend over my knee.” He was a little surprised with the apparent eagerness his son showed by removing his hands from his head, stepping forward and diving across his knee.

Johanne was no novice. He settled himself quickly. His father had spread his own knees thereby offering Johanne a sizeable platform to lean across. In that position, he was able to put his arms ahead of himself and place the palms of his hands firmly into the harsh carpet.

Behind him, with his knees bent his feet hovered an inch or so from the ground. Thus positioned, his bottom was perfectly placed over his father’s right thigh to receive the administrations of the birch.

Mr Anderson too was no novice in the spanking stakes. Years of administering chastisement had taught him that often “less means more”. He was not one of those fathers who take their errant sons across the knee and then proceed to slap their bottoms a hundred times or more. Often, such “punishment” hurt dad’s hand much more than junior’s backside.

No, a couple of minutes of hard whacks with thirty birch rods tied together would impress on any young miscreant the need to mend the error of his ways. It would deliver red, raw buttocks with no pain experienced by father.

Johanne’s bottom quivered, his hole winked open and shut. His buttocks clenched, as if trying to harden like a rubber ball. All this was instinctive. Johanne was not in control, it was his backside’s natural defence mechanism taking over.

He felt his father rub the birch twigs across the entire expanse of his bottom, the twigs scratched a little, but, he knew from painful (very painful) experience that this was but a prelude to the most excruciating agony.

The birch twigs moved away from his bare flesh, there was a pause, maybe two seconds, then an almighty whooshing sound. Johanne heard the birchrods smack into his bum. He never felt a thing. And, then the most incredible burning sensation spread across the whole of his backside. He wriggled across his father’s lap. Another instinctive reaction.

The sting of the birch is like no other pain caused in corporal punishment. There are at least two types of birch. The one used in the military and the law courts in days gone by was an instrument of torture. It was heavy and wielded with such viciousness the sole intent of the whipper was to cause serious and lasting damage.

The domestic birch, if we may call it that, is something much lighter, comprising thin supple rods. The intention is not to torture, but it is to punish severely. The birchrod has about thirty twigs and once it flies through the air its business end could have a spread wide enough to connect with every square inch of the bared buttocks. Again, and again and again. The burning sensation this creates is intense, even when the birch is delivered at close quarters such as while prostrate over Mr Anderson’s knee.

The worst part of a birching, Johanne would say, was that it lasted for hours. At least it felt like that. The blows would keep coming and coming and coming, on and on and on, until he wondered, if it would ever end.

Eventually, of course, the birching would end, but not until every square inch of bared flesh was scorched with scarlet welts. From the top of the buttocks where the curves meet the spine, across the fleshly mounds and into the under-curves where the bum meets the thighs. Sometimes, if Johanne was unable to control his wriggling and writhing and his father missed his aim, the birch rods might take some skin off the thighs themselves. When that happened, Johanne could be sure, he wouldn’t be able to sit down comfortably for many days to follow.

Even without the miss-hits, the buttocks would be alive and raw for at least twenty-four hours. The marks would last for several days, though some of the worst ones would be around for a week or more.

A birching was best avoided; but it made one wonder why Johanne never seemed to learn his lesson. You could bet your house that very soon he would once again be across his father’s knees, trousers and pants at the ankles, getting his bare buttocks roasted. What is it about that boy?

 

Picture credit: C of Sweden

 

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The spanking I thoroughly deserved

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The porn mag

z used slipper caught wanking Jonathan 03-10a

Craig had warned his younger brother Jason he would spank his bare bottom black and blue if he ever brought a porn magazine into the house again. Craig’s girlfriend hated them, and anyhow they were demeaning to women, he had said.

Jason tried. He tried very hard, but he was an eighteen-year-old boy with needs and there was only one way to satisfy them. He was a good-looking blond guy with a lean, well-proportioned body and a cute bum. He should have no trouble getting a girl. But poor Jason was a social misfit. He’d just spent seven years at St. Tom’s, a boys-only boarding school and he didn’t have the first idea of how to talk to a girl, never mind getting into her knickers.

Jason thought he was alone in the house and the coast was clear. Craig and Janice were at the shopping mall. She was looking for a new dress; they’d be hours. Jason pulled a copy of Big and Bouncy from under the mattress in his room. It was a hot afternoon, so he took off his shirt and stepped out of his jeans. His cock was already swelling at the thought of the delights to come. He threw his underpants on the bed and dived into the bedside table for a box of tissues.

“Huff-huff-huff,” he tugged away at his cock. He had never seen a girl naked (not in the flesh, as it were), but he’d seen many boys and he knew that as todgers went, his was quite special. When he compared it with the boys in the dorm, his was by far the longest and the thickest. Even Niblet couldn’t get it into his mouth properly and it was reputed he had tasted every cock in the sixth-form.

Jason settled down into a rhythm. He had no body lotion so he gobbed spit on his palm and used that to work his fist up and down the shaft. “Huff-huff-huff,” his heart sped and his eyes were popping. Any moment now. Whoosh! Half a pint or more of cum splashed over his fist and belly.

“Jason, are you in?” Craig’s shout echoed up the stairs. “Jason, come and see Janice’s new dress.” Jason panicked. Desperately, he wiped the sticky goo from his hands. He shot to his feet ready to grab his clothes. There were only seconds until he was discovered.

Too late, the door burst open and Craig stood, mouth gaping. “You little ….” He began and stopped himself using a dirty word. Jason stood holding the offending magazine so that it covered his disgrace. His face blushed cherry red. Caught in the act.

Craig scowled. “What did I tell you would happen?” his eyes darted around the room. Jason stood silently. Was he supposed to answer? Was it a rhetorical question?

“Well …” Craig started a sentence and paused. Under the bed he saw a carpet slipper. He stooped and picked it up and holding it in his right hand he tapped it gently into the left. “A spanking,” he grinned. “Black and blue.”

“No man. C’mon,” Jason protested. His elder brother couldn’t be serious. A spanking?

But he was. Craig didn’t really care one way or the other about porno mags but Janice did and he wanted to keep the peace with her. Craig was also a bully. He would love to take his kid brother across his knee and spank his bare bum with a slipper. Not necessarily because he deserved it, but because he could. He had all the power and Jason had none.

Jason was staying with Craig during the summer until it was time to go up to university. There was nowhere else for him to go. Mum and dad lived in the States now and had left the boys to their own devises. If Craig chucked Jason out the house, the teenager would have nowhere to go. He would be homeless. It was a spanking or a cardboard box; the choice was Jason’s.

Some choice.

“C’mon, let’s get this done.” Craig picked up Jason’s clothes from the bed and threw them on the floor. “Euwww” he groaned at the sight of a wodge of sticky tissue. “You disgusting little boy.” He sat down on the edge of the bed and brandished the slipper. “C’mon little boy, bend over my knee.”

Jason stood transfixed. “Please …” he wailed. “No …” Craig leaned forward and ripped the magazine from his brother’s grasp and threw it to the ground. The teenager was now totally naked. Craig hoped Jason didn’t notice him staring at his brother’s huge cock.

“Get here,” he growled and took Jason’s right arm and pulled him towards him. Jason fell face down across Craig’s lap.

Craig wore tight cycling shorts and was only too aware that the outline of his own, much smaller cock, was visible through the Lycra.

Jason’s face pressed into the duvet. “This cannot be happening. It’s all a nightmare,” he told himself. “Any moment now I’ll wake up.”

But, it was no dream. Craig took his brother’s arm and held it up the teenager’s back. Jason wriggled his hips, trying desperately to escape. He was pinned down. He was going nowhere. Not until Craig had toasted his bared buttocks.

Craig tapped the springy-soled slipper against Jason’s right cheek, enjoying the way the flesh wobbled. Tap-tap, he took his aim and then whacked a stinger in the centre of his brother’s left cheek. A deep pink imprint of the slipper was immediately embossed on the pale skin.

“Ow.” It was more of a gasp then a yell, but Jason hated himself for making a sound. At that moment he hated his brother with a passion. He didn’t want the brute to know he had hurt him.

Craig was no expert at spanking; but there had been a girl before Janice who liked him to warm her up a little. So, he knew it was possible to work up a kind of brightly polished surface on a bottom if you put the effort into it. It took about fifty whacks to get Jason’s bum to glow with a red sheen. His brother was biting into the pillow and the contortions of his body told Craig he was in some pain. Good. Craig stopped hammering with the slipper and gave himself the pleasure of letting his hand caress the heated flesh stretched across his lap. He felt his cock stir.

He gripped the slipper once more and went round the circuit of Jason’s buttocks a few more times: across the top, over the crest of the mounds and into the soft, tender undercurve at the sit-spot.

Craig!” Janice was calling. “Where are you?” She paused at the open door. In a single sweep of the room she appraised the porn mag, the spanked teenager and her sweating boyfriend. She had never seen such a rosy arse.

Embarrassed by the presence of his girlfriend, Craig let go of his brother’s arm. Jason shot to his feet and jumped up and down, his cock and balls swinging freely. Janice’s eyes stalked. Jason covered himself with his hands and then with a face now much redder than his bum, he uncovered them again while he danced from foot to foot trying to get into his underpants.

Janice tore her gaze away from Jason to her boyfriend still sitting on the bed. Craig couldn’t read the gleam in her eyes. “Come Craig,” she reached out her hand to help him from the bed. “Let’s go.” She held him by the hand like a mother with a small child.

“Come,” she said sternly and pulled him toward the door. Then abruptly she stopped and released her hold on her boyfriend. “Craig, you’d better bring the slipper with you,” she said as she headed for their own bedroom.

 

Picture credit: Jonathan

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Where’s the paddle, hon?

Fr. Pat’s paddle

The chamber pot incident

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The boss’s son

z used art office otk ruler chair (8)

People round here think because I’m the boss’s son I’ve got it made. In a year or so I’ll be on the Board and raking in the profits from all their hard work. I wish it were true. If they only knew the half of it.

Dad is a self-made man. He worked from the age of fourteen on a barrow in the street market and hauled himself up by his bootstraps. Or, so he’s always telling me. But the past is a foreign country; you couldn’t do something like that today. The self-made men (and women) of today are all sitting at computer screens.

Dad does want me to be part of the business, but I have to work my way up from the bottom. And, funnily enough that’s literally what’s happening to me.

I confess, I am not the hardest worker in the world. It’s nothing to do with having a wealthy dad, I would be lazy if my old man worked at Tesco’s. Dad knows this and when he set me to work at one of the regional offices of his global empire, he gave the guy who was to be my local boss strict instructions.

I had to stand there in the office and listen when dad told Mr. Furlong, “If he’s any trouble. Any trouble at all. I want you to take him across your knee and spank his backside for him. Hard.” Mr. Furlong’s face lit up and he cracked a broad smile. “I’m not joking, man,” my dad barked. “I mean it. I’ll be checking. If he doesn’t buck his ideas up and make some improvements with himself, I’ll know who to blame.” His eyes darkened. He was a hard taskmaster. Mr. Furlong knew exactly what dad meant – his job was on the line.

I was set to work doing routine tasks in the purchasing department, chasing orders and such like. Tedious. I couldn’t concentrate and spent a lot of my time skiving out of the office. I’ve always been like this. Whenever I could I avoided work; even at school. I had to get a lot of help with my A-level coursework or else I’d never have passed the exams.

I worked at a large industrial plant set over several acres, and it was very easy to find places to skive away from work. One trick I devised was to lie to my supervisor that I had been asked to run a message for one of the bosses and then disappear for an hour or so. There were many places to hide. A favourite I and lazy juniors hung out at was a disused basement room. Nobody ever went near the place, so we were undisturbed smoking cigarettes and reading sports magazines.

It was a different kind of magazine that got me into trouble. I was at another of my hiding places; a piece of open ground behind the main administration centre. Well let’s just say I have no self-control and overcome by the pictures of naked bodies in the magazine, I soon had the front of my trousers open and worked away at my todger until I came.

Only later in the day, did I learn the horrible truth. Every gasp and grunt had been filmed on a closed-circuit television camera. It was George, the security guard, who told me. “So, laddie, do you want this uploaded to YouTube for everyone to see?”

I crumpled to the floor, gasping for breath. George, fearing I was having a fit rushed to the phone and called the medical emergency number. Minutes later I was in the sick bay; calm now. It was only a panic attack the nurse assured me. I would be all right now, she said. But she was wrong.

As I sat sipping hot sweet tea, Mr. Furlong strode down the corridor in a fury, clutching a thick heavy ruler in his fist. He barged into the medical room. I mistook the look of anger on his face for one of concern. “It’s all right Mr. Furlong. I’m fine. It was nothing,” I chirruped.

Mr. Furlong’s face glowered dark red. “It is not all right and it is not fine!” he blasted. George had told him everything. In detail and with great relish.

“What a tosser! Hah! Hah! Hah!” he had guffawed. “Trousers round his knees! Wanking away! Too stupid even to see the camera. Hah! Hah! Hah!”

“You come with me!” I was startled by Mr. Furlong’s ferocity. “Now!”

Alarmed and uncertain about what was happening, I remained seated.

“I said…” Mr. Furlong did not finish his sentence. He grabbed me by the arm and dragged me from the room. Then prodding me all the time in the back, he frog-marched me down the corridor.

Within seconds he pushed me through the door of an empty office. We stood facing one another, each breathing heavily.

“You … you …” Mr. Furlong could not quite find the words. Eventually, he regained his power of speech. I was a moron, he told me, masturbating at work, in front of the camera. Did I not realise how he had made a fool of myself? More than that: everyone knew he was the boss’s son; and I had made Mr. Furlong look a complete idiot.

As his temper grew and the pitch of his voice rose, he brandished the heavy ruler in my face.

“You know what your father instructed me to do.” He was sweating heavily, although the room was quite cold. “What do you think he will say when he hears about this?”

God no! He must never find out. Nor must my older brother Kevin; I’d never hear the end of it.

“You know what!” Mr. Furlong was becoming increasingly hysterical. “I’m going to give you the hiding of your life!”

I gaped. Had dad really been serious when he said Mr. Furlong should throw me across his knee and spank my bum?  “But … but… you can’t,” I started to protest, but words failed me.

Mr. Furlong looked around the room, eyes searching for something. Then he found it. A heavy office chair with no arms and a straight back. “This will do perfectly,” he seemed to be talking to himself. He walked the length of the office and picked up the chair. It was quite a weight but he manoeuvred it into an open space. He stared wild-eyed across the room at me. “Come here,” he brandished the ruler and when I stayed rooted to the spot, he barked, “Now!”

Mr. Furlong was probably in his forties. He was not yet middle aged, but he was on the slide. His hair was thinning and his waist thickening. He wore a conventional business suit and I could see his belly hung over his belt. He waved the ruler once more. “Get here, now.”

We stared at one another for ages. I was starting to panic. Could I make a break for the door and run for it? I seriously considered it; but I also knew the reality of my situation. Dad had given Mr. Furlong his instructions and had made darned sure that I knew my boss was in total charge of me. If Mr. Furlong said I must be spanked than spanked I assuredly would be.

Mr. Furlong smacked the ruler into his left hand. “Now, I think we should get started. I haven’t got all day. Some of us have got work to do.”

I could not take my eyes from the ruler that at any moment would smack into my buttocks. It was a solid piece of wood, twelve inches long and about an inch wide. It was maybe a quarter-inch thick. It could pack a wallop, but surely with my trousers and pants on, I’d hardly feel a thing. It was absurd that a twenty-year-old man was being ordered to take a spanking, but I resolved not to make a fuss. If I didn’t take my medicine now there would be hell to pay when dad found out.

I slouched across the room and stood by Mr. Furlong. He sat on the chair and spread his legs a little. His thighs were flabby and as I stared down at them I found myself thinking what a perfect platform they would make for my prostrated body. He tapped his left palm with the ruler. It seemed we were ready to go. I started to lean forward to bend over his knees.

“Not so fast, Buster,” Mr. Furlong pushed me so I was forced to resume a standing position. My quizzical look got an immediate answer. “Trousers down. Pants too.”

I am sure my face reddened; both with shock and embarrassment. Go over his knees for a bare-bottomed spanking. Me, a twenty-year-old man. Could you imagine such a thing? My mouth dried and my temples started to throb. I was aware of blood rushing through my whole body. It was getting a little difficult to breath properly.

Mr. Furlong sneered, “Come on, laddie. Trousers down.” The look of contempt on his face turned to something quite different. It took me a second or two to decipher. He was enjoying this.

I closed my eyes tight and tried to pretend this wasn’t happening. It was all a dream. I had to go through with this, that was for certain. Even though I despised the old man sitting in front of me clutching a wooden ruler in his fist, I had absolutely no choice but to submit myself to him. My hands trembled as I gripped the buckle of my belt and unfastened it. Soon fumbling fingers had loosened the trousers of my smartly-tailored suit. Once I opened them and let go they fell at speed to the floor. The tail of my shirt covered most of my boxer shorts.

“Those too,” Mr. Furlong nodded at my underwear. “And be quick about it,” he rasped.

I hitched my thumbs into the waistband of the shorts and pushed them towards my feet. I was thankful that the shirt hid most of my manhood.

“Lift up your shirt,” Mr. Furlong face contorted. I’m certain he smirked when he saw my expression of horror. “Away from the buttocks, c’mon now.”

With shaking hands, I lifted the rich cotton shirt an inch or two higher.

“Doh!” Mr. Furlong spat as he slapped my hands away and grabbed my shirt and lifted it to half way up my stomach. Then, with great strength he pushed me in the small of the back until I toppled forward. I had to quickly take evasive action with my arms to stop me crashing into the hard, wooden floor.

I was winded by the unexpected ferocity of Mr. Furlong’s action. As I caught my breath, he tucked my shirt further up my back, ensuring my bared buttocks were now fully exposed. I felt him “saw” the wooden ruler across the centre of my bum. He was getting his aim. Then the ruler flew through the air in a wide arc to land with a resounding crack across my bum. My buttocks wobbled with the impact and then clenched and spasmed. The ruler was a surprisingly fearsome weapon and I couldn’t help myself groaning as the stinging pain travelled from my rear down the back of my legs.

With each painful swipe, my legs jumped and my feet kicked. My buttocks rolled slowly from side to side, clenching and writhing as the heavy wood turned my white creamy round buttock cheeks into a mass of painful stripes.

Apart from a few noisy gasps, I did not cry out at first, but as swipe after swipe connected with my bottom, I could control myself no longer. Tears flowed down my face and my sharp yelps turned to full-throated yells as my bum become red and swollen. I clung to the leg of the chair for dear life. Some instinct told him I had to suffer this. I must take everything Mr. Furlong had in store for me. No matter what, I needed to get through this. Somewhere deep inside myself I knew I had screwed up royally and I deserved all that I was getting.

I wasn’t counting the strokes. Mr. Furlong whacked the heavy ruler into my bare buttocks over and over again until every square inch of the flesh was covered by thin welts. He went from the top of the cheeks where they meet the spine, across both fleshy globes and into the under curves, the sensitive sit-spot where the buttocks and the thighs met.

My tears flowed freely and snot covered my mouth and chin. I was sobbing uncontrollably, but still I hung on to the chair.

When there was no flesh unscathed by the ruler, Mr. Furlong stopped.

“Up!” It was a curt command. I was engulfed with pain. I jumped up and did a merry dance, hopping around and rubbing my bottom, very conscious that my cock was flopping up and down in front of Mr. Furlong’s face. He was unable to resist staring at it. I don’t blame him – it is a whopper.

I pulled my trousers and shorts up while Mr. Furlong waited patiently. I was in control of myself now. I had stopped crying and my breathing was easier.

Mr. Furlong looked at his watch like he needed to be somewhere important. Without saying a word, he left, leaving me to nurse my swollen buttocks. I couldn’t return to my work station. Not yet. I still had important work to do. I had to find George, the security guard, and get that CCTV recording.

He seemed to know – or to have guessed – that Mr. Furlong had given me a seeing too. He oozed smugness. He would let me have the recording on one condition.

“No,” I replied a little too haughtily. “I don’t do deals with security guards.”

“Hah,” he snorted dismissing me as if I were something he had found on the sole of his shoe. “Please yourself. Enjoy watching YouTube.”

He had a point. Okay, I had to concede. What was his condition?

“Simple,” he started to unbuckle his wide leather belt. “Trousers, pants down. Bend over the chair.”

 

Other stories you might like

 

Paying the rent

Don’t bully our mum

Missed Opportunities

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Mr. Bashford takes charge

z used after jeans down by endart

 

“I hope you’ve learnt your lesson young man,” Mr. Bashford growled as he sat back in his chair to admire his handiwork.  Robert stood before him, jeans and underpants at his shins, gently patting his glowing buttocks.

“Just you stand like that, until I say you may go. Think about your behaviour,” he watched carefully as the nineteen-year-old pouted his disapproval. The teenager’s eyes glistened. There was no cause for tears, Mr. Bashford reckoned. He had delivered a sound spanking, but it had been no beating. That might come in the future if the brat dared to do it again.

Mr. Bashford gripped his wife’s large oval ebony hairbrush tightly. He felt its weight in his right hand as he smacked the business end down into his left. There was a reason that a hairbrush had a flat end, he thought with some satisfaction. It didn’t look much, but it was a mighty effective spanking tool. Generations of naughty boys (and some girls too) could testify to that.

People might think it odd that a nineteen-year-old needed to have his bare bottom spanked, but young people must be taught that there are boundaries. Mr Bashford studied Robert carefully. He was probably an inch or so taller than himself, but his body was much slighter: thin and wiry.  He would soon be a fully-grown man: an adult. But he was not yet mature; he was still a boy and sometimes, like on this day, he needed to be reminded of the fact.

Robert’s eyes widened with genuine surprise when he saw Mr. Bashford rummage in his jacket pocket and withdraw the large ebony-backed hairbrush. Without saying a word he placed it on the table to allow him to remove his jacket before laying it carefully next to it.

Then, he undid and removed his tie and started to roll up his shirt sleeves. He had very large arms and hands: as befitting a man who played rugby for his county when he was younger. His face was covered with a brown beard and the rest of his body was covered in thick hair and he still looked very fit.

Instantly, Robert was panicked and nervous, fully realizing what he intended to do, and what was about to happen. It looked very much like he was to be spanked with the hairbrush. He had never been spanked before.  He watched horrified as the old man pulled a wooden chair from the corner of the room, picked up the hairbrush and sat down.

Robert stood several feet away unsure what he was expected to do. Mr. Bashford knew his role in this little drama. The spanking had to be over the knee, but would the boy consent to draping himself across his lap to receive the full force of the heavy wooden hairbrush?

And if he didn’t comply? Would there be an unseemly fight while Mr. Bashford forcibly heaved him over? Mr. Bashford  reached across to him, took hold of his right arm and upper back, and firmly pulled him forward (the boy’s feet scooting and scuffing along) before hauling him over, and depositing him stretched out, hanging across his knees with his face pushed into the rug.

Then, swiftly without warning, he set up a snapping, cracking rhythm of the hairbrush as he peppered Robert’s rear-end with a series of bites.

Mr Bashford was pleased the nineteen-year-old had not resisted, but, Robert could afford to be impassive, with the denim of his jeans combined with the cotton of his underpants he hardly felt a thing as the old man fell into a tempo that covered all of his buttocks.

But, Mr. Bashford had a plan and Robert soon found the old man’s fingers fumbling with the elasticated waistband of his jeans, before jerking them down over the teenager’s bony hips and small, flat, but thin and muscled bottom. In a panic Robert thrashed his legs about, but rather than preventing the lowering of his jeans, the movements encouraged them to drop to his bare feet at the floor, leaving only his tight white briefs covering his mounds.

Mr. Bashford held the boy firmly around the waist and rained his hairbrush down with maximum force, covering every square inch of the cheeks, the upper thighs, and the curved area where they meet. The relatively small area of shiny polished wood which was attacking his tender buttocks delivered a level of pain well beyond its assumed potential.

The boy’s body lay flopped across Mr. Bashford’s lap as he pounded away. If Robert had felt no pain before, now the agony in his backside was intense. He gave up and gave in completely, hanging and dangling over the knees, his squalling taking over as he gasped, choked and shook. The fiery blistering on his bottom driving him to still deeper despair.

Not satisfied that an over-the-knee spanking on tight white underpants was enough indignity for the boy, Mr Bashford grabbed the waistband of the briefs and sent them the same way as Robert’s jeans.

The action encouraged renewed vigour in the boy who shook his body from left to right in a fruitless attempt to break free. Robert’s right hand involuntarily left the floor to defend his blistered bottom, only to be seized firmly and pulled up behind his back.

Robert wrestled to escape the relentless torrent of increasing pain which was setting his buttocks ablaze. He fought to escape from the very firm grip of the left arm pressing into his back. He pleaded, begged, promised, apologised endlessly between his gulps and his gasping for breath. But to no avail. The punishment pursued its unswerving path and the pattern on the rug became an indistinguishable blur.

Mr Bashford hadn’t known he possessed such strength: not only was he able to pin the nineteen-year-old brat in place across his knees, face down, bared bottom high, he continued to batter his buttocks with the hairbrush.  He pounded away at the boy for almost another five minutes, while Robert struggled and pleaded but he continued in his duty.

Finally at long last he stopped the spanking and put the brush down on the table. The boy’s buttocks were scarlet. This certainly would teach him to behave in the future. The defeated teenager was breathing convulsively as the cool air of the room contrasted starkly with the hot, red, blistered flesh of his buttocks and thighs. The surface of his bottom felt like someone had poured boiling liquid onto it.

Slowly – ever so slowly – he got up; the change of the contours of his bum cheeks seemed to make the pain worse across his rear end.

“Stand there. I hope you’ve learnt your lesson young man,” Mr. Bashford growled, as red of face and crimson of bottom, Robert shuffled into position. “And, if I catch you stealing from my shop again, beware I have a very heavy whippy cane that I won’t hesitate to use on you.”

Robert gulped audibly and continued patting his sore bottom.

 

Picture credit: Endart

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Alexander’s little secret

The guy in the library

Vigilantes

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The boy in the kitchen

z used domestic kitchen (1c)

Mr. Wagstaff tucked into his breakfast of egg, bacon, sausage, fried bread, tomatoes, baked beans and a huge mug of tea. He glanced up from his morning newspaper towards the boy at the stove. Totally naked, except for an apron protecting his privates from hot, spitting fat. He had a terrific arse. Mr. Wagstaff would never tire of admiring it. Or spanking it.

Mr. Wagstaff called him a boy, in fact he wasn’t sure of his age. He was in his twenties at least; thirties maybe. He had a dark hair, fashionably cut. His face was open and youthful. His cobalt-blue eyes and ruby red lips were to die for.

Later, when the washing-up was done, Mr. Wagstaff would take the boy into the lounge, pull a straight-backed chair into the middle of the room and take the boy’s naked body cross his knees. He’d give him a jolly good spanking with his hand. He had a hairbrush, a slipper a paddle and a belt. Perhaps he would use one of those instead. Hell, Mr. Wagstaff licked his lips in anticipation, maybe he’d use the whole darn lot.

Last week he had used an old-fashioned whippy school cane. One with the curved handle. It near sliced the boy’s buttocks open. He was hopping up and down, rubbing the agony away while his cock and balls bounced up and down. Mr. Wagstaff would remember that sight for a very long time to come.

The boy worked at his chores in silence. He never said much. The boy had been with Mr. Wagstaff for about six months. He wasn’t a waif or stray. Quite the contrary; he had a Ph.D degree and worked as a scientist at Global Petroleum. He had tried to explain his job to Mr. Wagstaff once, but it all went over the old man’s head. Who would believe it? Sex on a stick and a brain as well. You didn’t find many boys like that.

They sleep together, but Mr. Wagstaff is 75-years-old so sex is a thing of the past. But, they kiss and cuddle and the boy lets Mr. Wagstaff suck him off. Mr. Wagstaff likes that. A very great deal. Mr. Wagstaff knows the boy has lovers. Of course he has. They must queue up for him. But, the boy never brings them home and Mr. Wagstaff is grateful for that.

A cloud covers the sun, suddenly the room gets darker. The doorbell rings. Mr. Wagstaff glances at the clock on the wall. It will be the lady from Social Services. He shuffles from the room. The boy at the sink disappears. He will return after she has left.

 

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Summer holiday camp

Donald knows his place

Paying the rent

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com