Stepson submits

new 5

zused paddle otk pants down domestic bbfc

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Picture Credit: British Boys Fetish Club

 

Other stories you might like

The military camp

Trouble at the mall

Memories of Dad’s slipper

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Lodging with Uncle Ralph

new 5

“Come up here Robert, I want you to see this. You need to learn something.” It was Uncle Ralph calling from the bedroom. I knew something not nice was happening, I had felt an extreme tension in the house the moment I returned from college.

With some reluctance I trudged up the stairs. The bedroom door was open. My cousin John stood miserably, his usually pale face, now a deathly shade of white. Towering over him was his father, my Uncle Ralph. Uncle’s whiskers bristled; he turned to me and growled, “I want you to see this. The same will happen to you if you ever break my rules.”

I glanced at John; now his face was deep scarlet. I had no idea what was happening. I had moved in with Uncle Ralph and his family a few days previously after I joined Brocklehurst University. Uncle Ralph was a weird fellow. He was ex-military and had in his time been a colonel. He spent much of his life outside of England. It might be 2019, but somewhere in his head it was still about 1935. One of the first things he did on my arrival was to give me a long list of rules of the house. It went on for pages of closely printed script. I didn’t read it all. That was to be my downfall.

I was still standing on the landing. Uncle Ralph glared at me from the bedroom. “Stand there, in the doorway. Watch and learn,” he spoke in a clipped style; I suppose this was how he spoke to his men in the army. I paused, a little embarrassed. What was going on here? Why was he so agitated? I looked over at John hoping I might get a signal from him, but he was too engrossed staring down at his own feet.

“Right lad!” Uncle Ralph barked. “This is what you are going to do.” He paused and wiped spittle from his beard with the back of his hand. “Take down those trousers.” I’m sure my jaw must have dropped, I was gaping. John’s face contorted, I knew he wanted to say something, to perhaps make a protest, but he seemed to bite back his thoughts. His forehead shone with sweat although the room was quite cool.

“Get them down. Now, lad,” Uncle Ralph glared. “Or do you want me to do it for you?” “No Father, no,” the threat spurred John into action. He wore cheap track pants and all he had to do was pinch the sides of the elasticated waistband and guide them down over his thighs. They snagged at the knees. “All the way. Step out of them,” Uncle Ralph ordered.

I am no expert on these things, but it looked like John was in a trance. He kept his eyes trained on the floor as he leaned forward and took hold of the sweats and wriggled his feet free of them. He straightened up and now stared blankly at the wall. I followed his gaze; there was nothing in his sightline, only plain white wallpaper. He stood, shoulders straight, hands clasped behind his back. His plain blue t-shirt hung long enough to cover most of his tight, yellow-and-maroon-striped briefs. I noticed John’s legs were virtually hairless.

My own throat dried as I it began to dawn on me what Uncle Ralph intended to do. I don’t have the words to describe my thoughts, but I was baffled. John was clearly in Uncle Ralph’s power. He would obey any command of the old man. That became clear when Uncle Ralph intoned. “Take down the pants. Step out of them.” My heart beat fast; I can only imagine what was going on inside John’s chest. The perspiration had now spread from his forehead and his top lip was moist. Still in a trance, he slipped his thumbs under his pants and pushed them south. He stood unsteadily on one leg and then on the other so he was able to step out of them without toppling to the floor.

John was now naked from the waist down. He straightened up. His shirt covered some of his privates but I had a clear view of his hairy ball sack. John was on some kind of autopilot. He stood waiting for Uncle Ralph’s next instruction. Almost without thinking he cupped his hands together and rested them so they obscured my view of his cock.

All this couldn’t have taken more than a few seconds but for me time was standing still. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion making it seem like minutes had passed. Uncle Ralph was in no hurry. He stood impassively, looking down his long curved nose at his son. His beady eyes were glazed. Through his beard I saw the tip of his tongue dart out of his mouth and slowly run across his top lip. He shot John a withering look and without a word he walked across the bedroom. I watched transfixed as he stopped at an old battered dressing table, opened a drawer and reached inside. I heard a clumping sound before his hand emerged holding a block of wood. Uncle Ralph used his hip to close the drawer before turning to face me. The block of wood was about the size of a DVD cover. He held it by a small handle. He waved it through the air and said, “In this house you follow the rules. Or else.”

He said no more and then slowly he walked the three or four steps necessary to take him to the bed. He sat down on the edge, rather like it was a sofa so that his feet were firmly planted on the floor. He looked across at John. “Bend over my knee.” It was a clipped command. Uncle Ralph was used to being obeyed. There was not the slightest doubt in his mind that John would submit to his will. And so he did.

I realised at that moment that this scene that was so strange and unusual to me had probably been played out many times before. Or ones very similar to it. John definitely knew the part he had to play in this drama and he did not fluff his lines. He looked across at Uncle Ralph, now sitting legs apart, took a deep breath and in one continuous movement took two paces forward and lowered himself across Uncle Ralph’s knees. He wriggled for a moment until his chest and arms were stretched out along the mattress. From where I was at the bedroom door I had a perfect view of John’s backside which he raised high over Uncle Ralph’s lap.

There was a second or two while Uncle Ralph ran his eyes over John’s prone body, I could tell that he felt something wasn’t quite right. Then he took hold of the end of John’s shirt and pushed it further up his back. Now, John’s buttocks were completely bare.  I hadn’t noticed before (why should I?) that John’s bum was broad and meaty, it was as hairless as his legs and the skin was quite pale.

I was rooted to the ground. My eyes must have been out on stalks. My heart pounded and I was now as sweaty as John. I had never witnessed anything like this before. It didn’t seem real. I couldn’t wait for Uncle Ralph to whack that wood across John’s naked, meaty bum. But Uncle wasn’t quite ready; he looked across at me and said, “I will not hesitate to give you the same treatment if your behaviour warrants it.” I croaked back, “Yes, sir.”

Uncle Ralph turned his attention back to the job in hand. He used John’s back as a shelf to rest the wood and with his left hand he gripped John around the waist. He cupped the other hand and with his palm he gently traced the contours of John’s left cheek, around the circumference and into the undercurve where the bum and thigh meet. He slapped the bum gently at the highest point of the mounds. I clearly saw the flesh wobble. Once he had gone round the circuit of the left cheek, Uncle Ralph did the same with the right. I might have imagined this but John’s entire body appeared to relax while this took place.

John might have been relaxed, but I was not. My temples were now throbbing and I knew very soon I would have a raging headache – the tension was so great. Uncle Ralph retrieved the wood from John’s back and gripped the handle tightly. The muscles in his arms tensed. He raised the wood high and rocked back on the mattress; then he pounded it across the meatiest part of John’s right cheek. I heard a long, low whistling sound. John rose to his elbows and this just encouraged Uncle Ralph to press his hand into the small of John’s back. He was pinned down and was going nowhere. Uncle Ralph was in total control. The wood rose and fell and swatted into the left cheek.

I suppose the whole scene was surreal; dreamlike. Can you imagine in this day and age an eighteen-year-old boy submissively offering up his bared bottom to his father so the old man can spank it severely with a block of wood? Well, it happened. I am witness to that.

It didn’t take more than four or five swats of the small block to cover all of John’s fat bottom. His skin was pale and reddened very easily. In no time at all his bottom was aflame. If would have glowed in the dark if we turned off the lights. Even from a distance I saw the skin beginning to break. John was stoical, I suppose. He kept his bum raised high as best he could, but the spanking clearly hurt him. He dug his elbows into the mattress and raised his head, shaking it from side to side as each successive swat added to the heat in his rear end. His hair was wet with sweat and from what I cold see of it, his face was as scarlet as his bum. He wriggled his hips and his knees buckled, but he didn’t try to break free. I suppose all that writhing around was his body’s natural reaction to the pain.

z used otk bare bed sting

Uncle Ralph kept up a rhythmic pounding. First one cheek, then the next. Higher, then lower. Under the crease. On the crest of the mounds. Into the back of the thighs.  Even I , with my lack of experience, could see this was a thorough, well-planned and well-executed spanking. All done with military precision.

When he was ready, and only then, did Uncle Ralph lay the wood down on the mattress beside him. He paused a few seconds while John’s body recovered a little. Then, he intoned, “Punishment over. Stand up.” He released John’s waist and my cousin scurried off his knees and stood unsteadily. His eyes searched the room for his briefs and sweats. “Dismissed.” Uncle Ralph sounded like he was on parade. John found his clothes and without waiting to dress he bundled them under his arm and fled the room.

I moved to one side to let him pass. I stood unsure what I was supposed to do next. Uncle Ralph was breathless, his shirt stuck to his back, his beard glistened with sweat. He replaced the wood in the drawer. When he turned from the dresser the startled look in his eyes suggested he had forgotten I was there. He recovered instantly, “So now you know.” I nodded sagely, as if he were one of my professors explaining a complicated new theory.

“Good,” Uncle Ralph stepped ominously towards me, “Because now we have to deal with the little matter of your absence without leave from college yesterday afternoon.”

My knees buckled. In my mind I saw John’s toasted backside, the glowing, flesh, the small cuts to the flesh. The humiliation of presenting his bare bottom for chastisement. My mouth gaped open and shut, it was a good impression of a goldfish stranded out of water.

“Wait for me in the kitchen,” Uncle Ralph spoke clearly and with authority. “I have to change my shirt.” He glowered at me, “Off! Now!” I sprang into action, only now getting some inkling of the control this man possessed. No wonder John had been so submissive. It was almost addictive.

I waited in the kitchen for ten minutes or so. How had he known I had skipped Uni. yesterday afternoon? What else did he know? I paced the room. I had no doubt what Uncle Ralph intended to do. Would I let him? Could I let him? Would I have the same fortitude as John to submit to punishment. Me, eighteen years old, nineteen next September, spanked on the bare bottom! All kinds of absurd thoughts befuddled my brain. What if the guys at Uni. ever found out!

Uncle Ralph’s arrival in the kitchen brought me back to earth. He had obviously showered and a heady aroma of coal tar soap wafted from him. I hardly noticed this; all I saw was the heavy, wooden hairbrush he gripped in his fist.

“So, AWOL from college. Yes.” I suppose he might have meant it as a question, but it sounded like a very definitive statement to me so I stayed quiet. “Yes?” he spoke loudly, as if to a hundred men, “Yes! Guilty as charged?” I murmured agreement. “Right,” he picked up a straight-backed kitchen chair with one hand and manoeuvred it away from a table and into space. He set it down heavily. “You now understand the rules of engagement.” It was another question posed as a statement. My head was spinning. What was he talking about. Engagement?

“Doh!” he was losing what little patience he ever had. “You know what is expected of you?” I must have still looked blank. “You know what to do?” He sat on the chair and wriggled his buttocks until he was comfortable. He sat upright in the chair and leaned back. He parted his legs slightly. Even I, befuddled as I was, could see he had prepared a perfect platform for me to submit myself.

“Right lad,” he barked, Uncle Ralph was incapable of speaking in a normal tone of voice, “Stand there.” He clicked his fingers and pointed to a spot on the floor a metre or so from his right knee. Looking back, some of what happened is hazy in my memory, but other parts are as clear as a bell. I know it happened, I’ve got the bruises to prove it. It was like an out-of-body experience. I stood where instructed. Uncle Ralph waved a hand at me. “Get those jeans down.” I stared down at myself. Of course, I’ve taken jeans off thousands of times before but at this precise moment I was unclear how it was done. I was baffled by the complexity of my belt. How do I get the end out of the buckle. What do I do with that prong thing? It seemed to take me for ever to get the damn thing unbuckled and open. Then, there was the challenge of undoing the top button and getting the zipper to work. Somehow , don’t ask me how, I got the jeans to me knees. “All the way down,” Uncle Ralph’s voice, loud as it was, seemed to be coming from a very long distance. I bent from the trunk and with my hands pushed the jeans until they bundled on top of my feet.

“Bend over my knee,” the command was terse. How was this done exactly? I had seen John earlier go over Uncle Ralph’s lap, but that was on a bed and John rested his arms on the mattress; where I was I supposed to put mine? Despite these absurd thoughts, I slowly lowered myself over Uncle Ralph’s right leg. There is a certain amount of instinct involved in something like this, so with my stomach perched over his thigh I stretched my body so my chest lay on his left knee. This meant my arms naturally were ahead of me. I parted them by a metre or so and pressed my palms into the cold floor tiles. I couldn’t see because I was now staring directly down but behind me my own knees were slightly bent and my bottom was poking up at an angle.

I felt Uncle Ralph lay the wooden brush on my back, just as he had with John. I flinched as he took hold of the top of my pants. But, instead of ripping them down and exposing my bare bottom, he griped the waistband and tugged. They already fitted me snugly, but now they were so tight I could feel the cotton pulled up into my crack. Uncle Ralph took me lightly by the hip to hold me steady. That was when I felt his big hand rub across my buttocks. He was smoothing away any wrinkles in the pants – and (I suspect) having a good feel while he was at it.

He said nothing while doing all this so I had no warning when he started slapping his hand across my backside. Through the thin underpants I could tell his hand was hard and rough. I had no experience being spanked so I didn’t know how much it was supposed to hurt. He lay it on hard and rapidly. Smack-smack-smack. It was much quicker than the way he had spanked John. My bum was warming up. It didn’t hurt – well, not too much – it was like an intense tingle, if that makes any sense.

z used brush otk pants chair brush straightladsspankedotcom (1a)

I lay face down looking intently at the floor. A ball of dust floated by my face. I noticed a water stain where the tiles had not been dried properly after they were cleaned. I concentrated on this, as if it might take my mind off the humiliation I was suffering. I felt a movement in Uncle Ralph’s body. He picked up the brush and whacked me hard with it. I gasped at the shock of this sudden pain. It hurt so much more than the palm of his hand. I heard Uncle Ralph wheezing as he laid the brush across my stretched underpants. Oh my how it hurt!

I don’t know how many whacks he gave me. I do know I kicked my legs and waved my arms about. “Keep still. Keep still,” Uncle Ralph ordered. I had very little control over my body, I couldn’t have obeyed even if I wanted to. “Keep still, it’ll be all the worst for you,” he said. The warning was lost on me. I kept on struggling. Suddenly, the pounding stopped, I drew in great gulps of air. The pain was intense but as soon as he stopped hammering my bottom, it started to dissolve into something like a constant throbbing.

If I thought my spanking was over, Uncle Ralph had another idea. He lay the brush on my back again and with both hands he clutched the waist of my underpants. I might have made a yell of protest, I can’t be sure. Not that it did me any good. My bum was bare. Uncle Ralph took hold of the brush again and he took my tail off! He pressed his elbow into my back and that stopped me wriggling around too much. I may not have been willingly submitting myself to him, but he was my master. He could (and would) spank me for as long and as hard as he wished and I had to lay there face down, bared-bottom quivering until he was ready to stop.

This is where my recollection becomes hazy. I know my bum was on fire and my entire body ached, but also in some crazy way that I don’t have the words to explain, I was flying high. I’ve smoked some dope in my time and taken other drugs at parties, but nothing had ever made me fly like this. Go figure, I can’t.

At some point, Uncle Ralph set me free. I remember jumping up and down and rubbing away at my roasted bottom. Then, I was face down on my bed. Next morning, I had to sneak into the utility room very early and launder the bedsheets before my aunt saw them. Later, I spent time very carefully reading the printed list of rules Uncle Ralph gave me when I arrived. I made careful note of all the offences I could commit that would earn me a jolly good spanking.

 

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures / straight lads spanked dot com

Other stories you might like

 

Spanked by my uncle: who enjoyed it the most?

Visit to Uncle Roy

The smiling boy

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The rent collector

z used new story 2

z used solo defiant look pants by Bleuboyz (5)

The first thing you need to do is drop the attitude. You are in deep trouble, and you know it. You must have thought I was joking when I said I’d spank you if you didn’t come up with the rent. Well, you owe four weeks now, so you’d better start handing it over.

Haven’t got it? Well, why am I not surprised? Look at you. It’s nearly midday and you were still in bed when I called. Why don’t you get a job. There are plenty about, one’s that pay enough for the rent on this room. You’re just plain lazy and that’s the truth. Young people today think they’re owed a living. You are about to learn a painful lesson in life.

Do you see this? It’s a paddle. I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen one close up before. Never felt one across your ass, that’s for sure. See that blade. Those holes cut in it, they’re to make it fly quicker through the air. They leave blisters on your butt. By the time I’m through with you that creamy-white ass of yours will be covered in big red sores. You ain’t gonna be sitting down for some time buddy.

So? Do you have the money? No? How come, you must be getting it from somewhere. Look at all the empty beer cans here. I bet you’re on drugs too. All kids your age are. How old are you anyhow: twenty, twenty-one? You really ought to be earning your living by now. Out in the world, paying your way.

So, no rent gets you a spanking. Don’t look so smug. You’re getting a tanning. Ah! Who’s that at the door? Come in Mr Pritchard, thank you for joining us. Have you met Mr Pritchard? You might have seen him working the doors on one of the landlord’s many business enterprises in town. He’s here to assist me in my work. See, I reckon you ain’t about to meekly give me your little hiney to spank, so Mr Pritchard here is going to make sure I don’t go away disappointed. Isn’t that right Mr Pritchard?

So, are you going to come quietly? No, I didn’t think so. Mr Pritchard  grab him and hold him down across the table please.

Don’t fight him. You can’t win. Do you want two broken arms as well as a blistered butt? No, I didn’t think so. Stop struggling.

Thank you Mr Pritchard. Hold him face down. That’s right. Sit on his shoulders if you have to. Good. Right sonny, let me get your underwear down. Don’t fight me. You don’t want me to rip them, they look mighty expensive. Is that why you can’t pay the rent, you’re spending all your money on designer shorts? Or do you have a boyfriend buys them for you. I bet that’s it, a pretty boy like you. Does he pay for the beer and the drugs? You ought to get him to set you up in an apartment someplace.

Stop shouting. D’you want to disturb the neighbours? Look, if you don’t keep quite I’m going to put a sock in your mouth. Do you want that? No, I didn’t think so.

Right. My, what a magnificent butt. I bet you like to show that around The Village. Do you sell it? What a great piece of ass. I bet it fetches a premium. Okay, Mr Pritchard, hold him steady please. Let’s take the skin off his hiney. How may swats do you think? How about one swat for every dollar rent he owes. Does that sound fair?

One …

Two …

Three …

Hold him steady Mr Pritchard ….

Picture credit: Bleuboyz

Other stories you might like

My First Time

The bully

Over the schoolmaster’s knee

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Where’s the paddle, hon?

“Where’s the paddle, hon?”

“Sorry?”

“The spanking paddle. Where is it? I can’t find it.”

“Did you try under the stairs?”

“Yes, and in the garage.”

Hank Betterman had looked everywhere. And he would look in some more places too. But, he would never find it. It was on the city dump site, where it was taken after his nineteen-year-old son Dylan sneaked it into the trash.

“Dylan missed curfew again. And he’d been drinking too,” Hank told his wife Julia. “When I find that paddle I’ll toast his buns with it.”

Hank and Julia were new to spanking. It was less than a year since they first put a paddle across the seat of Dylan’s pants. They had read about it on the Internet. On a site about disciplining older teens. They learnt that a lot of parents spanked their eighteen and nineteen year olds. And older kids too. Especially in Good Christian Households.

“Well I can’t think where it’s gotten too,” Julia thought hard. When had she last seen it?

“It’s no good,” her husband was beginning to realise he might never find it.

“Don’t worry, hon. We’ve got that new utility brush. That’ll pack a punch.”

Yes, Hank smiled, of course. It was a heavy wooden beast. They had bought it to scrub the rust off the bottom of the car. It would make a terrific spanking tool.

“I’ll go fetch it,” Julia started towards the garage, “You call Dylan. Let’s get on with this.”

“Oh, dad, I’m too old to be spanked,” Dylan wailed moments later when confronted by his dad.

“I’ll say when you’re too old,” he gripped the brush tightly in his hand. It was about eighteen inches long, including the handle. The manufacturers had put on a rubber grip so it wouldn’t fly out of the hand when it was used.

“Get in there,” he nodded towards the living room.

“Oh dad,” Dylan pouted, but obeyed his dad.

“Missed curfew. And you’d been drinking.” Hank Betterman summarised his son’s faults. Dylan tried to mouth a protest but was cut short.

“Don’t deny it. I saw you. It was gone midnight and you couldn’t get your key in the door.”

Dylan blushed. His dad was right on all accounts. There was no way he could deny it.

“So, young man,” his dad sat down in the middle of the couch. “I’m going to spank you. Get over here.”

“But dad!” Dylan tried again. “I’m nineteen dad. I’m at college.” Then rather pitifully, he added, “Please dad.”

Hank Betterman was stony faced. His son could moan all he wanted to. Not only had he disobeyed his father on the curfew, he had also been drinking alcohol. And that was illegal for a kid of his age. Hank Betterman had no doubt, none at all, that it was his Christian duty to whip his son’s backside.

“Take down those sweats and get across my knee.”

“Oh dad,” Dylan was not quite ready to give up.

“Don’t make me have to do it for you,” Hank reached forward and took his son by the arm pulling the teen toward him. Then, he dragged the boy face down across his lap.

He cracked an almighty whack with the brush across the boy’s left buttock.

“Keep still.”

Then he gripped the elasticated waist of the sweats and tugged them down across his son’s cheeks until they were bunched at his thighs.

Smack! Another blow landed, this time on the right cheek.

z used otk pants chair bbfc (6b)

“Right, now give me your arm.”

He took Dylan’s right wrist and pulled his arm up his back in a half nelson wrestling manoeuvre.

“Right you’re not going anywhere.”

Hank Betterman looked at his son horizontal across his lap. He was a tall boy, easily two or three inches taller than his dad. The couch was a four-seater so there was plenty of room for Dylan to stretch his whole body along its length. His head rested on a cushion at one end and his legs stretched out behind him at the other. His buttocks were raised at a gentle angle across his dad’s lap.

With his son in this position, Hank Betterman had the best possible aim. The teenager was pinned down; he wouldn’t be able to get up until he said so. He was at his dad’s mercy; not that he intended to show any.

Dylan’s buttocks were full and round and filled out his Jockey shorts. There was plenty for Hank Betterman to aim at.

His dad took a deep breath to prepare himself, just as an athlete or a swimmer might. Then he raised the brush, no higher than a foot away from the boy’s flesh, and hammered it down with all his might. Again and again and again.

At first Dylan opened and closed his mouth uttering silent “owws” and “ouches,” but the pain grew quickly and within seconds his yelps and cries were audible. Then, they became full-throated yells.

Dylan might live to regret throwing the paddle in the trash. The wooden brush was heavier and packed one heck of a punch. It felt like blisters had formed on his under-curves after only six or seven swats.

Dylan wriggled and squirmed, but it was useless activity. Dad had the advantage.

“Enough dad, enough,” he cried.

“I’ll say when you’ve had enough,” Hank Betterman carried on relentlessly. Every square inch of the buttocks and a good deal of the thighs had colored dark pink.

Then Hank Betterman stopped. A relieved Dylan made to lift himself off his dad’s lap.

“Not so fast buster,” Hank Betterman took hold of the top of the Jockeys. “That was for breaking curfew. This is for the drinking.” He pulled the shorts down and left them with the sweats. He was surprised at how bruised Dylan’s cheeks were.

Undeterred he whacked on. He had his duty to perform.

A dozen swats on the left and then a dozen on the right. Dylan’s hollering was so loud, Hank Betterman didn’t hear the front doorbell.

His wife Julia opened the door. It was Delores from across the street. She always came over at this time for coffee. Her ears pricked up at the sound of Dylan’s piteous cries.

“Just a little domestic issue,” Julia said as she busied herself making the coffee.

“Missed curfew. Drinking beer,” Julia filled her friend in on the details.

Still the faint sound of wooden brush connecting with bare flesh and the considerably louder wails of Dylan in distress wafted in from the sitting room.

Then, Delores remembered. Her son Mason, a great buddy of Dylan’s, missed his curfew last night. She needed to get to the bottom of that.

“Where did we put the paddle?” she wondered to herself.

Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club

This story was first uploaded in January 2016.

 

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The coach and the schoolmaster

The mailman delivers

Yellow Pages spanking

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The Private Tutor — part 1

used paddle board of education

“I told your father that I would employ traditional teaching methods,” he said reaching into his canvas bag and withdrawing a wooden paddle.

“And, that means corporal punishment.”

He rolled the words “corporal punishment” around his mouth with some relish, enjoying every syllable.

He held the paddle by the handle and waved it close to my face. I could see some joker had printed the words “Board of Education” across one of the flat sides. I bet that gave someone a lot of laughs.

He was my private tutor and this was our first meeting. Dad hired him after I failed my A-level mock exams. It looks like if I don’t buck my ideas up a lot I’m going to fail the proper exams, and then God alone knows where I’ll be.

I’m not a stupid kid; I wouldn’t be in the Sixth Form at school if I was. But in the past few months I’ve let my studying slip a lot. I’m in a band and that takes up a lot of my time and then there are the girls of course. And, since I turned eighteen a few months back I’ve been able to get into bars and clubs legally and I’ve taken full advantage of that.

“So”, he said, walking to the couch and sitting down in the middle of it. He told me I had let myself and my family down by not working and it would cost my father a lot of money to hire him to tutor me over the coming months. I stood and watched him slapping the paddle into the palm of his hand to emphasise some of the words.

I had better think again if I thought I was going to get away with my behaviour, he told me sternly. I was to work hard from here on in and if I didn’t it was a spanking for me.

I didn’t say a word. I wasn’t sure if I was expected to say anything, so I didn’t. I wanted to tell him to “piss off”, but I knew that wasn’t going to be to my advantage.

He went on telling me about what he expected from me and how I was going to behave from now on. I was listening, but not really, if you know what I mean.

Then he dropped the bombshell. “And, I’m going to spank you now as punishment for all the laziness you have shown over the past months.”

I heard that alright. I still didn’t say anything, but the look on my face must have told him I wasn’t going to go along with his little plan.

“Come here,” he gestured at me to approach him. I didn’t.

“I said COME HERE!” He raised his voice considerably, it was a stern command, but he didn’t shout.

I hesitated. I thought about running from the room, but before I could move my feet, he reached across and grabbed me by the arm, pulling me towards him and the couch.

Before, I could protest he had me across his lap. Then he took hold of my legs and lifted them so they were resting on the couch.

We must have made an odd picture. I was lying face down stretched across the couch with my backside raised over the middle of his lap. I was quite proud of my bum and had bought my jeans especially because they showed off my prized asset to the best. But the jeans were to please the girls, not some pervert private tutor.

He sat upright with his arm curled around my waist, to make sure I was pinned tight over his lap. He was on the chubby side and I could feel his stomach against my leg. He wore an old fashioned suit; it was made of tweed or some thick itchy material like that. He was probably in his forties, but he looked a lot older than that.

I felt him pull my T-shirt up and expose my lower back. He grabbed the waist of my jeans and pulled them butt tight.

Bang! The first whack hurt a lot more than I expected. But then again I’d never been spanked before, so what would I really know about it.

Bang! The second wallop hit me on the other check. I tried to wriggle, but he had me pinned down tightly across his lap

He gave me another three spanks in quick succession. I wanted to yell, or at least go “ouch!” it hurt so much, but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.

He whacked me some more and then stopped. The pain was intense. I’d never felt anything remotely like it before in my life. I lay face down in the cushion of the couch breathing heavily. It seemed like he had stopped. Was it all over?

Bang! Clearly not. He must have been pausing to catch his breath. He hit me much lower now, below the buttock, just where the cheek meets the leg. I tried to lift myself off his lap, but he moved his arm from my waist to my shoulders making sure I was going nowhere.

He must have hit me another three or four times, I can’t be sure, I was in too much pain to remember.

Then he stopped. This time it really was over.

He still held me firmly across his lap. “Please be aware that if you do not obey me and work extremely hard in the coming months you will get more of this. Do you understand?”

I didn’t say a thing.

“I asked, Do you understand?” he whacked me again, very hard across the right buttock.

“Yes,” I murmured, barely able to speak.

“Yes, what?” He whacked me again, this time on the left cheek.

“Yes, I understand,” I whimpered.

“Yes, what?” Another hard whack right in the middle of my bum.

Oh, I got it. “Yes sir!”

“That’s better. And believe me if I have to I will spank you each time we meet. Is that understood?”

“Yes sir!” I was getting the hang of this now.

“Good, that is understood.” He let me get up.

I wanted to run to my room to howl and to inspect the damage, but I knew he wouldn’t let me go until he dismissed me.

My bum felt like twice its normal size and I desperately wanted to try to rub the pain away.

“Now, here’s your homework,” he said. “I want it completed by Saturday when we shall meet again.”

Saturday.  Jesus are we going to have to go through this all again in only three days’ time?

“Now, take this paddle and hang it on the hook on your bedroom door. I want it to be a constant reminder to you about what will happen if you don’t pull your socks up.”

It was Saturday and I had expected to get a spanking from my private tutor, but not two in the space of twenty minutes.

I was still in bed when he arrived at our house at 11am. Mum called me from the bottom of the stairs to say he was here. Then she was off to the shops, leaving us alone in the house.

“Come down here this instance.” This time it was the tutor calling. He might be a chubby forty-something man, but he certainly had presence. I pulled back the duvet and still in my pyjama bottoms and white vest I padded down the stairs.

“Were you still in bed?”

“No.” It was a bare-faced lie and it was going to get me a bare-arsed spanking.

“Don’t lie to me. In future you will be up and ready to start work the moment I arrive,” the tutor barked.

“Now come here.” He grabbed me by the arm and led me into the living room. As we went through the door he released his grip on me.

He sat on a yellow armchair. “Here. Now.” He pointed to a spot a couple of feet to his left.

I had hardly reached the spot before he took my left arm and guided me across his knee. It all happened so quickly I didn’t have time to resist.

My head was touching the carpet and my bottom was high over his lap. My toes were an inch or two off the ground. He tugged at the elasticated waistband of my pyjamas and pulled them down to my thighs, exposing my bare bottom.

It was still bruised from the paddle spanking he had given me on Wednesday, but that didn’t bother him. He slapped me with his open palm so hard I could have sworn he still had the wooden paddle in his hand.

And he kept on slapping. He didn’t stop between spanks and rained down a couple of dozen, and possibly more. Rapid and hard. On and on he went with each one as hard as the one before. I was gasping, but refused to let him know the pain was killing me.

“Up.” He stopped and I scrambled off his lap and quickly pulled up my pyjamas. My bum was raw. It felt like I’d been stung by a thousand wasps. I wanted to rub like mad, but wasn’t going to show it.

“Stand there.”

He delved into to his canvas bag.

“Here, I want you to put these on.” He handed me a pair of grey Terylene school short trousers, some knee socks and a striped tie.

“I’m eighteen years old, not eight, you pervert.” I didn’t say it of course; I just meekly took them from him.

He told me that he wanted me to look the part when he was teaching me. He said I was to wear a white shirt, with the clothes he had given me and then he sent me upstairs to change.

I inspected my bum in the bedroom mirror. It was salmon pink and there were finger marks where the spanks had connected with the flesh.

I pulled on the short trousers, they fitted me perfectly. They were shorter than the shorts we normally wore in summer. These were about three inches above the knee.

I admired myself in the mirror. I had to admit I looked pretty good in the grey school shorts. I’ve got a great bum – the girls are always telling me so – and these showed that to great effect. My legs are pretty good too, I thought as I pulled on the knee socks.

By the time I’d put on a white shirt, my own dark-blue school jumper (the one with the yellow braiding around the neck and cuffs) and the red and black striped tie, I have to say I looked pretty damn good.

I went down stairs to face my tutor. He was waiting patiently in the living room for my return. He had spread some books on the dining room table and was ready to start teaching.

“Show me the homework, I set you,” he said.

I didn’t reply, but the look on my face must have told its own story.

“You haven’t done it.” It was a statement, not a question.

Of course I hadn’t done it. There was band practice to do and last night we went clubbing and there was this girl and …anyway, you’re not interested in that. But you can see there was a reason why I was still in bed at eleven o’clock.

He didn’t seem to be angry, or at least he didn’t show it. Maybe he expected something like this. After all, the reason why I had to do extra tuition with him for my A-level exams was because I hadn’t been working properly up to now.

He lectured me a bit. He said the kind of things you’d expect him to say in circumstances such as these.

Then he got to the point.

“What did I say would happen if you didn’t work hard?”

It seemed like it might be a rhetorical question, but I answered nonetheless.

“A spanking.”

That was enough said. We both knew what was going to happen now.

“Go to your room and fetch the paddle from the back of your door.”

I went upstairs. I hadn’t hung up the paddle as instructed. There was no way I was going to be looking at that thing all night. Besides, how would I explain it to my friends when they saw it?

I retrieved the Board of Education from the drawer where I had hidden it and took it downstairs.

By the time I returned to the living room the tutor had placed a dining room chair with its back hard against the table. The books had been removed.

He reached out his hand and I gave him the paddle. He pointed to the chair.

“Kneel on the chair and stretch yourself right across the table.”

I did as I was told. To my surprise my bare knees hurt quite badly against the seat of the chair. But I needn’t have worried; a different part of my body would shortly be hurting much, much more.

I stretched out across the table resting my stomach and chest on the shiny surface. I folded my arms in front of me and buried my head in them.

Although I couldn’t see this myself, I made a pretty picture. The grey short trousers were tight against my lovely little bum, which was presented at a perfect height for my tutor to swing the paddle.

The shorts stretching across my buttocks reminded me just how sore my bum already was.

My tutor stood close up against me, put his hand into my lower back to make sure I couldn’t move, and whacked the first lick into my shorts.

Yes, it hurt like anything, but I was getting a bit used to this. Until last Wednesday I’d never been spanked in my life and now I was getting my third spanking in as many days. And, I knew for sure with this tutor in control it was unlikely to be my last, until I passed those damned A-levels.

My tutor wasn’t taking huge swings with the paddle: he was able to inflict great pain by taking short swats. It was almost as if he was jabbing the paddle into me.

After the first five licks I lost my resolve not to show he was hurting me. I’d buried my head in my arms and was moaning, at first softly, almost to myself only, and then much louder. The moans soon became “ouches” and by lick six they were loud yelps.

My tutor was stronger than you might expect from a little chubby man. With his left hand he held me against the table so hard that I couldn’t make any resistance and with his right hand he paddled the arse off me.

He stopped after ten licks. I was sobbing by now and very, very sore.

He let me up.

“Go to the bathroom and tidy yourself up. Then return here and get on with your geography homework.”

Looking back, I probably should have hated that chubby forty-something tutor in his tweedy suit, but I couldn’t bring myself to do so. Somewhere inside me I knew this man and his corporal punishment was going to save me. If I ever passed my exams, got to university and ended up with a brilliant career, it would be because of days like this.

The paddling my tutor dished out did me the world of good. Trying to avoid another spanking was just the incentive I needed to work for my school examinations.

I’m not an evil person and I’m not even much of a rebellious teen. I’m actually quite bright and can do well in my school work, but I can be lazy and lose focus and that’s what happened here.

My private tutor knew the remedy for this, and he wasn’t afraid to use it: a very sound spanking.

Fear of another trip across the dining room table for licks from the wooden paddle on the seat of my grey school short trousers was enough to put me on the road to recovery. I made sure that I paid attention in the classes my tutor ran and I even did my homework. Hell, I’d even missed some nights when I was supposed to be rehearsing with the band.

My tutor was a very good teacher and I was learning a lot from him – and not only how to get a sore arse.

Tonight he had arranged a special session. He said I needed to do some project work and I needed a partner to do this. That was fine by me; we were always doing projects at school. He had arranged for Harry, one of the other boys he tutored, to visit me at home so we could work together.

Right on time at six o’clock the doorbell rang. I was the only one at home so opened the front door myself to find Harry. He was my age and maybe an inch or two shorter. He had a huge shock of black curly hair that looked like it had never seen a comb in his life.

There was something about his aura that told me we were going to be friends right from the start. I could see when he smiled, which he did often, he had the most beautiful teeth I had ever seen. They were like a Hollywood movie star’s.  He was quite stunningly pretty: the girl’s would have called him “cute,” but I reckoned even this early in our friendship that he probably didn’t like girls that much.

But the biggest impact he made was his clothes: he was dressed just like me, in school short trousers, a white shirt and school tie. Surely, he hadn’t walked the streets like that? Had he come by bus? What did people say when they saw him?

I didn’t have time to ask any of these questions because my tutor arrived just at that moment.

We all went into the living room where the tutor introduced us and without any further preliminaries he set us to work. He said he had something to do and would be back later and left us to it.

The two of us were in no mood to start work. Harry threw himself onto the couch and tucked his legs under himself and sat on them, taking the part of a young kid. I took the yellow armchair, the very same one that my tutor sat on to deliver me a bare bottomed spanking on our second meeting. I sat leaning back in the cushion with my bare legs spread wide.

We tried not to catch each other’s eye. Harry flashed one of his toothy smiles and we giggled. We had hardly said a word since the tutor left, but that was alright.

I looked at him sideways, trying to pretend that I wasn’t doing it and cracked up with laughter. I think the absurdity of the situation got to us both. We were two eighteen-year-old lads, dressed as eight year olds. So it wasn’t too hard for us behave like it.

I leaned across in my chair and rubbed the top of his head, mussing his hair. Then I took a handful and pulled it, before quickly moving my hands away and hugging myself with glee.

Harry yelped, gave me another of his smiles before reaching over the chair to give me one hell of a smack! on my bare thigh. That was it. I was out of the chair and on top of him. We rolled off the couch onto the carpet, wrestling each other.

It wasn’t a real fight; it’s what eight-year-olds call “pretend.” I sat on his belly; he pushed me over to my back. I tweaked his nipple. My shirt came untucked from my short trousers. His tie was around his ear. I slapped him gently on the face; he kneed me in the side.

Then the living room door opened and standing there aghast was the tutor.

“What on Earth is going on here? Stand up the both of you.”

We did.

“Dress yourself properly.” We did that too.

He demanded to know what was going on. Harry got the giggles a bit, I think, and adopting the voice of a naughty little boy said, “Nuffink, Sir.”

The tutor was having none of this and gave a speech about how we had only just met and we should behave and be friends and so on.

We took our ticking off, me mostly staring at the carpet, Harry twisting his fingers through his curls.

Then came the killer, “I’ll deal with you at the end of the class.”

He ordered us to get on with our project. In fact, we worked well on it. I said I thought we were going to be friends and we were.

About ninety minutes later we were finished. But if we thought we were going to be allowed home without very sore bottoms, we had to think again.

We sat together on the couch waiting for the tutor to deal with us.

The door opened again and in he walked, carrying a thick rattan cane with a crooked handle. Where the heck did he get that from?

“Stand up, both of you.” We did. Even though I knew what was going to happen, it still felt like I was in a bit of a dream. The two of us were dressed as schoolboys and we were about to get a naughty boy’s caning.

“Look at me.” He really believed that we were having a proper fight and gave us a lecture about how he wouldn’t tolerate it and so on and he was going to punish us severely. He rolled his tongue around those last three words so we could be certain he was going to be true to his words.

I may have been dressed as an eight-year-old, but I did see the irony of him thrashing us because he had been behaving violently, but I thought the tutor didn’t want a discussion on philosophy quite now.

He swished his cane and pointing with it, but without speaking, he signalled Harry to move further back.

I knew he would need some space to get a decent swing with the cane so wasn’t surprised when he beckoned me to stand and face the far wall.

Swish! “Bend over and touch your toes.”

I bent over grasping my shins. “OUCH!” He flicked the cane against my fingers: the sting was unbearable.

“I said toes. Now do as you are told.” I spread my legs a bit further and got into the required position. I’m very athletic, it was no problem. I could see Harry move slightly to get a better view.

“Six shorts up and then six shorts down,” he pronounced my sentence.

I waited for the first cut but it seemed an age coming. Bent over I could see him through my parted legs. The tutor was taking his time sizing up the situation. What he saw was a young man in short trousers presenting a lovely bum for a whacking with the cane.

I had time to notice that one of my grey knee socks, with the yellow edgings, had fallen down my shin. For one absurd moment I contemplated standing and pulling my socks up.

That was the moment the cane bit into the cloth stretched tightly across my buttocks. I winced. You bet I winced. The pain was so much sharper than the thud I had felt from the paddle the last time the tutor dealt with me.

I could feel a line of pain run across both buttocks, from left to right.

The second cut fell just a tiny bit below the first. I was determined not to cry out, not only because I didn’t want to give my tutor the satisfaction, but I didn’t want to show myself up in front of Harry.

The third and fourth lashes took my breath away. I struggled to keep the tips of my fingers connected with the toes of my socks, but just about managed.

The pain was searing and I could feel welts forming beneath my underpants. This was some thrashing and it wasn’t nearly half over. Soon I was going to get six shorts down.

Somehow, the final two cuts didn’t seem to hurt as badly as the others. Was I becoming immune to the pain or could my tutor see I was having difficulty coping with his beating and easing off a bit?

“Stand up boy.” I did so gladly. Without thinking I put both hands around my backside and rubbed like mad, especially at the point where the buttocks meet the top of the legs.

“Leave it alone. Look at me boy.”

I faced him. I knew I was holding back tears and I probably wouldn’t be able to take my six on the pants without dissolving.

The tutor held his cane behind his back between his two hands. “Take down your shorts, boy.”

My school shorts fitted so well I didn’t need a belt. I undid the buttons around my waist and then the top two buttons in my fly and the force of gravity helped them fall to my ankles.

“What the dickens are these?” My tutor had seen by underpants, a very fashionable, skin tight pair in a lurid light mauve colour.

I could see Harry’s teeth shining.

“With school uniform we wear white cotton briefs. Do you have a pair you can change into?”

Of course not, which teenager do you know wears white Y-fronts?

He didn’t wait for an answer. “You will buy the correct underwear before we next meet. I will undertake an underwear inspection before our next class.”

I swear I heard Harry snort.

“Get back over.” He swished the cane to emphasise the words. Bending made my pants stretch across the six welts on my backside, making it throb like never before.

From my position I was able to get a close inspection of my crouch. I don’t think I’d ever looked at it so closely before. I’d felt it many times of course, but that’s another story.

The tutor must have realised the time of day; class had finished a long time back and I don’t think he was paid overtime for performing duties such as this. He swished the stick into my rear six times in quick succession without ceremony.

I howled. There really was no other way to describe it. A banshee would have been proud of the noise I made. Tears and snot covered my face and I gulped for air. On the sixth cut I shot up and danced first from my left foot and then to the right and back again, clutching my burning bottom.

I bent double. I was about to roll on the floor in some kind of foetal position when my tutor took me by the shoulder and led me to a corner of the room.

“Stay there.”

I did, sobbing and banging my head against the wall with the disgrace.

Then, turning, he looked across at Harry.

“Come here young man.”

Did Harry step forward a little eagerly? In one athletic movement he was at the other side of the room, bent over from the waist, finger tips touching the toecaps of his shoes. Watching on I could see, not for the first time, what a very pretty boy he was.

This was the first time I’d ever seen a boy bending over, touching toes for a whacking. I hadn’t realised how little there was of the boy’s bum for the punisher to aim at.

By stretching over to reach the floor, Harry only had a small part of his backside visible to the tutor. And, Harry’s was pert and tight, leaving even less for the cane to target. If he’d been draped over the back of the armchair or over the dining room table the tutor would have seen much more buttock on display to aim at.

Maybe that’s why a touching-toes caning could be so much more excruciating painful for the naughty boy, with so little room to connect the cane would strike again and again in the same small area, intensifying the pain as the rod hit home, sometimes striking the same spot time and time again.

But, the tutor was an expert: he knew what he was doing. He approached cane in hand. What he saw was a very lithe boy, his curls cascading down towards the floor. Harry’s back was arched and his smooth round buttocks were raised submissively ready for the tutor to do his work with the cane. Harry’s grey short trousers were so taut across his bottom the outline of his underpants were clearly visible.

The tutor stood to Harry’s left, a full cane’s length from the boy’s body. He bent his own legs slightly and tapped the edge of the cane against Harry’s left buttock. Tap, tap, tap: taking aim. I saw Harry’s body stiffen slightly in anticipation of the first stroke.

The tutor pulled his cane back way over shoulder height and swished it down with great force into Harry’s trousers. The six strokes landed in quick succession.

‘Get up. Trousers down”

Harry was up in a jiffy. Eager to get on with it, he unbuckled his shorts and they fell to the ground. He hitched up his underpants making sure they were pulled tightly across both cheeks. Then pulling his own shirt up to fully expose his buttocks he bent over again, in position, craving the next six.

Unlike me, Harry was wearing regulation white underpants. Actually, they were so white they sparkled. Just like Harry’s teeth.

Both me and the tutor took in the sight. The underpants fitted Harry’s bum like a second skin. I couldn’t see the front of his pants but I wouldn’t be surprised to find a fine bulge pushing out against the cotton.

Harry’s legs were almost as white as his pants: completely hairless from where I was standing. Did he shave his legs?

Six more stingers cut into Harry. Whack! Whack! It was all over in about ten seconds.

“Up. Get dressed.”

Now, Harry’s face was as white as the pants. He pulled up his shorts. He was in pain, I could see that, the tutor could see that too, but Harry wasn’t letting it get to him. Our eyes met and then I knew: he craved the lash of the tutor. He would have gladly taken six more: and another six after that probably.

Without saying much more, the tutor packed his books and cane away. His work was over for today. He gave brief instructions about what we needed to do for homework and I followed him out the living room to the front door to see him safely on his way.

When I returned Harry had his shorts and pants around his ankles and he was twisting his body to try to get a close look at the damage. I could see a dozen red lines criss-crossing both cheeks. The tutor was an expert master and had laid the cane on with some force. Harry’s cock was standing to attention. I could see he definitely shaved himself down there.

“Show me yours”.

Not feeling the least bit self-conscious in front of Harry, I pulled down my shorts and pants. The searing pain in my backside had subsided a little into a glowing ache. Harry reached forward and ever so gently felt the welts on my backside. I couldn’t help it, but my own cock stirred, perhaps not as proudly as Harry’s own member, but it was on the march.

“Come on, let’s go to your bedroom,” Harry flashed me those goddam teeth. I didn’t need asking twice.

 

This story was first uploaded in January 2016.

Picture credit: Unknown

Episode 2 of The Private Tutor is here

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Just a little weed

new story 2

Mr Tripper pulled the car gently through the gates and slowly headed to the house. The afternoon was hot, just a bit too hot. Even with the air conditioning at full blast, his scalp itched with sweat. It did nothing for his mood.

He came to a halt and switched off the purring engine. He sat, his rear end a little sticky against the leather seats. He held onto the steering wheel and peered through the windscreen, noticing for the first time the dead bugs squashed against the glass.

He drummed his fingers; his irritation was getting the better of him. He did not like skipping work early. And he hated lying to his secretary about an urgent dental appointment. He wiped his wet brow with the back of his hand and opened the car door. He stood on the gravel pathway and stared towards the house. Sean would be in the bedroom at the far left on the top floor. Failing that he’d be laid out on the couch in the front lounge. Either way, Mr Tripper did not want the young man to hear his approach.

That might be easier said than done. Mr Tripper was a heavy set man and even a lightweight would fail to make crunching footsteps in the gravel. He felt absurd as he tip-toed the five or six paces from his car to the front door. He found his keys in his trouser pocket and quietly opened the door. He stood, ears pricked, seeking sound. He didn’t need bat-like radar, music (well, Sean would call the cacophony music) swelled from behind a door at the far end of the hallway. Mr Tripper congratulated himself on his prediction; the brat was in the front lounge.

He closed the door silently. The back of his shirt was drenched with perspiration, the airless hallway was no help. He was suddenly aware that his heartrate was speeding. His temples throbbed. Soon, his mouth would dry. Mr Tripper recognised the symptoms. He had them every time he confronted Sean. He made no attempt at stealth as he approached the closed door. There was no way the brat would hear him coming over all that noise.

He reached his destination and paused with his hand hovering over the door handle. Jeez, he groaned silently. He recognised the sweet, cloying aroma that drifted from under the door. Not again! After what I said last time. The bastard. And, in my house too.

He pushed against the door and it opened with a flourish. Mr Tripper stood framed in the doorway. The smell was overpowering. He cleared his throat. Sean lay on a couch at the far end of the room. Mr Tripper’s eyes narrowed, his anger was rising. Sean shuffled to something like a sitting position. He peered back at Mr Tripper through large black shades. His long, well-designed hair flopped over his forehead. He nodded a slight welcome gesture and took a long suck on the cigarette he held unsteadily between two fingers.

“What the …?” Mr Tripper barked.

“Huh?” Sean grunted.

“That!” Mr Tripper nodded in Sean’s general direction.

Sean looked at the cigarette in his hand as if seeing it for the first time. “It’s just a little weed,” he slurred.

“It is not just a little weed,” Mr Tripper took a deep breath. He was trying to control his temper, but instead he sucked down the cannabis secondary-smoke. He coughed. “It is not just a little weed. It is drugs.” He flailed his arms, pointing first at the twenty-four-year-old spaced out on the couch and then at the large window that took up most of one wall. “Anyone can see you.”

Sean furrowed his brow and beneath his dark glasses scrunched up his eyes. “It’s the garden,” he wheezed before taking another drag.

‘It is pot. It. Is. Illegal.” Mr Tripper’s arms continued to thrash about. “In my house. I cannot believe it!” But, he could. It wasn’t the first time. Sean was that kind of guy; never too far away from a smoke. You only had to look at him: long hair, posy sunglasses, very short cut-down denims and a sleeveless black vest with an anti-nuclear symbol emblazoned on the front. Clearly, Sean was not the nine-to-five type.

z used solo short shorts smoking by john kohlburn

Mr Tripper moved forward so he towered over Sean’s prone body. “For goodness sake, put it out can’t you!” He waved his hand in front of his face in a fruitless attempt to stop himself inhaling the smoke.

“Wor …?” Sean dragged on the cigarette twice in quick succession and hiccupped. It was almost finished. He took a third hit and belched loudly, sending a cold shiver through Mr Tripper. Then very slowly Sean licked the tops of his thumb and forefinger and snuffed the tip of the lighted cigarette. Now, it was his turn to flail his arms as he tried to find an ashtray to set it down.

“Bugger!” Mr Tripper ejaculated. His sudden movement startled Sean and his shades slid down his nose. “I told you! I told you!” Mr Tripper repeated his statement for emphasis. “No drugs in my house. I told you.” He turned his back on the young man and strode across the room. He stopped, turned around and faced Sean once more. “Don’t say, I didn’t tell you. I won’t have it. I just won’t have it.”

Sean sat upright on the couch. His head was buzzing but he had enough sense left to see he was in trouble.

“What did I say? What did I say would happen, if I caught you with drugs again?” Mr Tripper’s already sweaty face was now puce with rage. “What …?”

Suddenly, Sean realised he was supposed to give an answer. Now, what was it the old man had said? He knew, he was sure he knew. But, just at this moment he couldn’t quite recall. He watched Mr Tripper try to open a drawer in a mahogany sideboard. It seemed to be stuck. The clattering noise he made as he tugged away clanged like cathedral bells in Sean’s’ head.

At last it was open. Through bleary eyes Sean saw Mr Tripper reach in the drawer. He thought he knew what he was searching for … if only he could remember. Then Mr Tripper waved a large, heavy wooden paddle in his fist. “I told you. I warned you. I did.” Mr Tripper seemed to be trying to convince himself.

Sean staggered to his feet, leaving the sunglasses dangling from one ear. He snatched at them and they fell to the floor. He left them where they were; he had other concerns right now. Mr Tripper clutched the paddle in his right fist and waved it, only inches from Sean’s glazed eyes. “A spanking I said. A darned good spanking. And, I meant it too. Get over here.”

He didn’t wait for Sean to move, instead he gripped the young man by the elbow and pulled him away from the couch and across the room. Sean did not resist. Mr Tripper left him swaying in front of a large table. The table itself had no real purpose, they ate their meals in a designated dining room. This one was for show, it just filled space in one of the dozen rooms in Mr Tripper’s house. He carefully removed an empty vase that decorated the centre of the table and laid it on the sideboard. Sean watched the older man as he made his preparations. His head buzzed. It was like he was on the ceiling looking down on scene. These two men were strangers. He might be watching a play at a theatre. They were acting out a scene.

With the vase safely out of the way, Mr Tripper turned his attention once more to Sean. “Take down those shorts. Underpants too. Bend across the table.” He tapped the table with the edge of his paddle so Sean could be in no doubt about the instruction he had been given. The young man stood rooted. He made no sound, nor gesture. He stared blankly at a painting on the wall beyond the table. It consisted of green and red slashes and there were blue squiggles in there too. The whole thing swirled before Sean’s eyes.

“Bah!” Mr Tripper explosion of exasperation made him sound like a very old man; some ancient headmaster in a boys’ comic from the nineteen-thirties. “Well, if you won’t, I shall.” He dropped the paddle onto the couch and without a further word he stood directly in front of the young man. He stooped his shoulders and clutched at Sean’s belt buckle. It was soon open. He undid the metal fastening on the waistband and the tight, short cut-offs flapped open. Sean was motionless, still trying to make sense of the swirling picture.

Mr Tripper’s hand trembled and it made him fumble with the zipper of Sean’s denims. Once he had it halfway open, the weight of the leather belt had the shorts slipping down his thighs and over his knees until they fell in a puddle at his feet. His underpants were the briefest known to man. They had to be since his cur-offs were no bigger than boxer shorts. Mr Tripper could hardly not notice Sean’s cock and balls pressing against the snug cotton. This was no mere boy standing before him.

“Well …?” Mr Tripper might as well have been talking to himself. Sean remained still when Mr Tripper put both his thumbs behind the elastic waistband of the pants and with two simple tugs he had them over Sean’s tight buttocks and resting on top of the shorts. His long, thick cock flapped in the breeze. From where Mr Tripper stood and gazed it seemed to be on the march.

“Bend over the table,” Mr Tripper ordered as he retrieved the paddle. It was immediately clear Sean had no intention to move so Mr Tripper simply took hold of his neck and pressed him forward. He didn’t have to force the young man, Sean had no resistance in him. Instead, he rested his stomach on the wooden table top and stretched his arms to his sides and gripped the edges of the table. He pressed his left cheek against the table. He was sorry he could no longer see the swirling picture.

Mr Tripper studied the paddle in his hand. It was not so big, maybe about eight inches long, and about four inches wide. It was made of oak, a hardwood, and it had a few holes in the middle, this was to let the air underneath it to escape, insuring it would burn like hell each time it made contact with skin.

He turned his attention to Sean’s buttocks. They were as manly as his cock. Although Mr Tripper knew Sean to be a lazy so-and-so, the young man retained a muscular body. His legs were covered with dark hair, but the buttocks were not. The tiniest nick of a blade was visible inside his crack.

Mr Tripper breathed deeply. The afternoon had turned sweltering. The room was airless. He wondered for  moment if he dared open a window. Sean had been right, it did open onto the garden. The Avenue was some distance away, no passer-by would hear him. But there was nosy Mr Flynn at Number 52. Mr Tripper wouldn’t put it past him to be spying behind the fence.

He let it be. Sean was breathing evenly. His buttocks twitched slightly, as if inviting him to get on with the business. To do his worst. Mr Tripper took his time. Pat, pat on the left cheek. Then, the same on the right. Taking his aim. Then, Swat! It was a hard blow and the paddle blade was outlined in red across the cheek. He counted to fifteen in his head before landing the second blow.

He started in the very centre of the backside, across the highest and fleshiest part of the cheeks. The second swipe was lower; the third higher. That way Sean’s whole bum was ablaze and glowing red-hot after only three swats. Then, he went for the top of the mounds near the spine, over the crest of flesh and into the underside where buttocks meet the thighs.

Sean’s once smooth bottom was ridged with red welts. The surface of his buttocks soon took on the consistency of leather.

Sean made no sound. His bum absorbed the power of the paddle. Once or twice he twitched, it was his body’s natural reaction to the assault being made upon it.

In the right hands a paddle is a mightily effective spanking tool. It leaves the rear end blistered and bruised. A young man will find it painful to sit on a hard surface for a considerable time after. Unlike a cane or  switch, or even a riding crop, a paddle doesn’t cut. It is unlikely to leave the buttocks bloodied. A paddle does the job, but it isn’t torture. It is the preferred instrument of the loving father or educator.

Mr Tripper wasn’t keeping count but he must have laid three dozen swats across Sean’s backside before he reckoned there wasn’t one square inch of flesh left untenderized. All he saw was throbbing, scarlet  flesh. Sean’s haunches were on fire, surely he was in considerable pain. He struck one low, against the naked thigh. It left a deep imprint, but Sean barely reacted. Mr Tripper smiled to himself: he’s stoned – can’t feel a thing.

His arm ached and his heartrate was off the scale. The intense stuffiness of the room was getting to him. If he didn’t take care, he might fall to the floor in a dead faint. It was time to call a halt. He whacked another three swats against Sean’s thighs for good measure and then reeling a little, he swayed away from the table. Gasping like a fish out of its bowl he threw the paddle onto the couch. From a distance he observed Sean. He was still face down across the desk, arms spread-eagled, face staring off to the side. His backside was red and raw. In places the cheeks resembled uncooked hamburger meat. The young man was breathing heavily but otherwise he seemed unmoved by his ordeal.

“Stand up,” Mr Tripper called from across the room and when Sean gave no sign that he intended to move, he walked over and tapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, it’s over,” he said gently. Sean’s eyes watered. Mr Tripper could not tell if this was because of tears or the heavy smoking he had done. He took hold of Sean’s upper arm and helped him upright.

Now standing, Sean shook his head from side to side violently, rather like a horse does when neighing. The vigorous movement seemed to wake him up. His lips curled with a weak smile. He said nothing. Gently he pushed Mr Tripper back a little so they were both in space in the middle of the room. He sank to his knees in front of the old man. His fingers were surprisingly nimble as he undid the front of Mr Tripper’s trousers. Sean released the old man’s cock from its mooring.

It was long and narrow, curving slightly up the right. He was uncircumcised, the tip just protruding from the foreskin. Something on the tip glimmered. Sean placed his palm on the side of it, toward the base, and slowly wrapped his fingers around like he was griping a bat. Mr Tripper squirmed with appreciation. Sean took the pressure off his grip and ran his hand gently upward over nearly eight inches of cock.

Mr Tripper grabbed a hunk of Sean’s hair and forced the young man’s face towards his own throbbing penis. “’No, no. Take me. Suck me. Now. Now,” he gasped. “That’s what I paid you for.”

Picture credit: John Kohlburn

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Suddenly one summer

new story 2

otk jeans armchair youngsters (14)

The house was deserted and so it seemed was the entire street. The middle of the day in the middle of the week in the middle of summer in the middle of suburbia. Not a soul stirred. I was bored out of my skull.

I had finished school and was waiting for my exam results. I would be going to university in October and was treading water. The economy had tanked and there were no jobs for proper people so what chance did a nearly-university student have? These were the days long before 24-hour supermarkets and bicycle delivery services.

My friend Martin was in the same boat. We spent a lot of time together that summer. Being bored. Martin said we should take a trip up to town, maybe go swimming. Or at least hang around the town and try to meet girls.

It sounded like a great idea,  except for one problem. I was grounded. I’m not even sure we called it ‘grounded’ in those days. We adopted that horrible Americanism some years later. Anyhow, Dad had said I couldn’t go out for a week. It had to do with not helping around the house and giving Mum more than a bit of lip.

I suppose I was lucky only to be grounded. When I was younger I would have found myself across Dad’s knee, jeans at the ankles and quite possibly pants at the knees while he took my backside off with a paddle. You get the idea. Dad believed in spanking.  But now I was eighteen I was beyond all that.

Which was a pity because although a spanking hurts like crazy (otherwise what’s the point of it?) it is over quickly. Bad deed done, spanking delivered, apologies made and then we all move on with our lives. It’s got to be better than being forced to stay at home for a whole week – in the middle of summer.

I told Martin as much. His eyes widened. “Paddle?” he said, screwing up his eyes to empathise he had no idea what I was talking about. “What’s a paddle?” Another Americanism, I suppose. I had no idea if Martin’s dad ever spanked him and if he did what he used. I supposed the preferred instrument of persuasion would be the slipper. Or a hairbrush. Or that heavy, leather razor strop he inherited from Granddad. Maybe, even a thin, swishy, curve-handled rattan school-type cane.

“Look,” I said as I led him to the cupboard under the stairs. Martin did the widening of his eyes thing again when he saw hanging from a hook was a huge wooden board, probably eighteen inches long and five wide. It looked homemade. If Dad made it with his own hands it would have been about the only thing he had ever made in his life. He couldn’t even mend a fuse when the lights went out.

Martin bent his back and poked his head inside the small cupboard. “Is that a paddle?” he asked. I was about to give him a sarcastic response about his lack of observation, when he said, “I thought like a canoe or a row boat.”

I let it go. Martin peered closely at it. Then, he raised his right hand and very gently touched it. It was a delicate movement, made as if he feared he might break it. “He used to spank you with this?” He spoke softly, almost reverentially.

“Sure,” the level of pride in my voice surprised me. “Twelve swats. More sometimes.” I had no idea why I lied like that. Yes, I did get taken across Dad’s knee and I was spanked with that very paddle. Often on the underpants and sometimes on the bare. But he never gave me more than six swats. Six-of-the-best: the English way.

Martin shook his head in amazement. “Well I never,” he said softly, as if to himself. I watched as gently he took the paddle from the hook and caressed it in his hands, admiring the smooth surface. “It’s heavy,” he said backing out of the cupboard and standing erect in the hallway. He gripped the handle tightly and swished it trough the air. “Careful,” I cried. The hallway was narrow and he very nearly knocked a china ornament to the floor.

Martin’s eyes were wide and glowing when he looked at me. “What does it feel like?” He tapped the paddle’s blade it into the palm of his hand. He winced. “Blimey. It feels like it would really hurt.”

“You might well believe that, but I couldn’t possibly comment,” I laughed. Martin joined in. We both recognised it as a line from a popular political thriller on television. “Does it hurt?” Martin held the paddle gently, like it was a precious artefact.

“Well, what do you think?” I sounded more cross than I actually felt.

“Quite a bit, I suppose,” he conceded. His usually sparkling blue eyes seemed a bit vacant, as if he was not in the hallway with me. He sucked down on his bottom lip. He was thinking. I hadn’t known Martin for long, his family had only moved to The Avenue last year, but I knew him to be a quiet, thoughtful person.

“Why don’t we try it?” he suddenly blurted.

I must have gaped open-mouthed. It made the poor boy blush to his roots. “W-what do you mean?” I asked, although his question had been clear enough.

He ran his tongue around his lips. “Try it. To see what it’s like.”

I sucked down a laugh. “I already know what it feels like, thank you very much,” I tried to make light of it, but there was definitely tension in the air.

“Why not?” I thought I detected a pleading look in his eyes.

I don’t suppose I was much of a man of the world in those days (not like now of course) and I knew nothing of men’s desires. As kids we had often exchanged experiences of our spankings. At school it was the done thing after a caning to go down to the bogs to whip down your trousers and pants and show off your marks.

I asked Martin, “Have you ever been spanked?” It was a daft question. He wouldn’t want to try it out to see how it felt if he had.

Maybe it was my boredom. Perhaps it was a genuine attempt to help a fellow man gain experience in life. Whatever the reason, I said, “Okay then. Why not?”

“Where shall we do it?” Martin almost danced with excitement.

“In the lounge. There’s more room.”

Martin’s eyes blazed with gratitude. He took the paddle in both hands and handed it to me, as if it were a religious relic.

I led the way into the lounge. It was a typical living room, I suppose. There was a sofa and a couple of armchairs and cupboards. We had a separate dining room where we ate our meals. I stood in the middle of the room trying to plan my next move. When Dad spanked me he usually sat in one of the straight backed dining chairs that had no arms. These were in the other room. I was about to tell Martin we needed to go next door when he blurted out, “There! The armchair. You sit in it and I’ll bend over your knee.” He was almost licking his lips. I didn’t have the heart to argue. I could already see that the chair would be too cramped for me to get a decent swing of the paddle at his bum.

I sat in the chair and perched my own buttocks on the edge of the seat cushion. In his eagerness to be spanked, Martin didn’t give me a chance to spread my legs to create a decent platform for him to bend across. For an eighteen-year-old who had never been spanked before he knew the drill. I had hardly sat down before he stood to my right side and lowered himself across my knee. Inside a second he had his hands pressed into the carpet. His knees were straight and the toes of his trainers brushed the floor. His bum was at an angle over my thigh.

The arms of the chair boxed me in and I couldn’t get a decent swing with the paddle. This relived me a little. When I agreed to spank Martin I hadn’t given any thought to how he would react. Done properly a paddling is very painful. I know, Dad was an expert. God knows he had plenty of practice with me and my two brothers. Would Martin howl the house down?

I gripped the paddle in my right fist. Martin was about the same height as me and a bit podgy. His thighs and backside were well padded. The jeans he wore were not well fitting and his bottom was not well defined. The denim material was thick and would give him some protection from the paddle. That suited me. I didn’t want to hurt Martin. He wriggled his bottom as if to encourage me to get on with it. I took the hint and raised the paddle blade about six inches above his bum and smacked it into his left cheek. Martin didn’t react. I waited maybe ten seconds then hit the right buttock.

Martin’s sigh of disappointment could probably be heard across the street. He turned his head so he could see me as best he could. “C’mon. Not like that, do it properly.” He was right in his criticism. I had delivered love taps. The youngest, weakest kid wouldn’t feel a thing. Martin stared down at the floor again. I saw his buttocks tense in anticipation. I gripped the paddle hard. I raised it high. Then I stopped. “Bugger this for a game of soldiers,” I exhaled. “Get up. Go on, stand up.”

Martin stayed across my knee and began a protest from his prone position.

I smacked the palm of my hand into the seat of his jeans and then rubbed his left buttock. “This is no good. These jeans are too thick. You won’t feel a thing. Stand up. Take them down. Then get back over my knee.”

With eagerness, Martin sprang to his feet. He stood before me. His face was flushed and his bright blue eyes watered. “Take them down?” Martin sought confirmation. There was no hint of apprehension in his voice. He was not anxious. He couldn’t wait to get back over my knee.

“Yes,” I confirmed. “Jeans down to your ankles. Then back over.” I felt ridiculous. I had never spanked a friend before. Why should I? Who would. I remembered the stories we used to read about boarding schools where the older prefects would cane the younger boys. Perhaps it wasn’t such a strange idea after all. But Martin had done nothing to deserve a spanking.

My train of thought was interrupted. Martin had unbuckled his belt, pulled the zipper and pushed his jeans to his shins. I tried not to notice the significant bulge in the front of his bright-red Y-fronts as once more he lowered himself across my knee. The cotton underpants fitted his bum much better than the jeans. They lifted and separated each cheek and dug into his crack. I was no expert but I would say his bum was perfectly presented for the spanking I was about to give him.

“I’m going to do this hard,” I threatened, as I tapped the paddle across the fleshiest part of his left cheek. “Hard as you can,” he answered, gritting his teeth for the blow. His whole body tensed in anticipation. I saw this as a dare. I had promised full-force, now I would have to deliver. I tapped some more, marvelling at the impression the paddle made against the snug cotton pants. I also enjoyed how Martin’s buttock cheeks clenched and then hardened like a rubber ball. Tap-tap-tap. Swat! I let fly. Even in my confined space It was a whopper! The paddle struck the surface of his bum, then sank into the flesh before raising out again. Martin gasped. His hips wriggled and his head bounced up and down. There was no doubt: he felt that.

There was a long pause. It probably wasn’t for more than few seconds, but it felt like forever. I could see Martin’s buttocks twitching, almost impatiently, waiting for the next stinging blow. He must have been thinking about this for years, imagining how it would feel to be bent submissively across someone’s knee and spanked on his naughty little bottom.

I took aim again and landed the paddle across the other cheek. A sonic boom echoed around the room. It was so enormous. I couldn’t remember my own spanking sounding like that. For one absurd moment I feared the neighbours would hear. Luckily, the houses in The Avenue were detached from one another with sizeable gardens between them.

Martin did the wriggling thing again so I gripped him tightly around the waist. He wasn’t going anywhere; not until I said so. He had made his bed, he must lie in it. He wanted a spanking and a spanking was what he was getting. I knew by now, even after only two swats, his bum would be slowly burning. As I delivered each new swat that would morph into a sharp biting feeling. The pain would grow until it felt like I had rubbed his bare bum with a Mum’s red hot iron.

I looked down at Martin. His head was neighing from side to side. Those beautiful blue eyes were huge, nearly bulging out of his head. “Are you all right?” I asked. He gasped. “Yeah, I’m fine. Holy cow that hurt! I can’t believe it.” Tears welled in his eyes.

“Good,” I growled, “It’s supposed to hurt,” and I pounded the third swat into his tender bum.

I lifted the paddle again. It was some weight and harder to manoeuvre with one hand than I had expected. Martin was wriggling a bit, but – brave boy that he was – he kept his bottom aligned across my thigh. He was probably in agony, but Martin was determined to see this through to the bitter end. His pants had ridden up further into his crack and the lower half of his buttocks was bare. I thought about ripping down his pants so his bum was completely naked. I was wise to control my urge. I don’t think Martin could have endured that: not on his first spanking.

I grinned, remembering how much Dad’s spankings had hurt me. I felt a strange power, being in control over Martin. I realised I liked it a very great deal. I walloped him again twice in quick succession rat-a-tat, cutting across the bare part of his buttocks. I felt the firmer. meatier, deeper part of his bum as it resisted the paddle, causing the board to bounce off his bottom.

Martin’s deep-throated howl scared me. I released my grip on his waist and he rolled off my lap, he rested a second face-down on the carpet, gasping for air like a beached dolphin. Before I could stand myself he was up on his feet, his hands grasping his battered bottom. Tears flowed easily and he hopped up and down. I had never done that after a spanking. I had assumed only characters in the comics did such a thing.

I knew from my own experience the burning agony Martin was suffering would very quickly die down to become a constant throbbing. Within minutes it would be a dull ache. It would be uncomfortable for him to sit on a hard surface for an hour or two and there would be bruises for some days. Apart from that he would live.

Martin soon calmed down and stood rubbing his bum while trying to peer over his shoulder to get a good look at it. He soon realised that with his pants still up he couldn’t see a thing.

“I have to go now,” he gasped as he tugged his jeans up and buckled his belt. Before I could say a word he was at the front door and away. I stood at the window and watched as he ran down the drive towards his home. I imagined in a few moments time he would be in his bedroom with his jeans and pants down, pointing his bottom at the mirror. It didn’t occur to me at the time that he would probably also have one of the most satisfactory wanks of his young life.

Martin never asked me to spank him again. That was a pity because I had really enjoyed it. I had unexpectedly discovered an important side of my personality. When Martin came over to my house we sometimes looked wistfully at the door to the cupboard under the stairs. We didn’t need words to express what we shared.

I went to the local university and Martin went to one up North. I don’t think he got on with his parents because he never returned to Brocklehurst. We never saw each other again after that summer. I don’t know what became of Martin, but hey pal if you’re reading this, please get in touch – for old time’s sake.

Picture credit: Man’s Hand Films

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com