The Skinhead

new story 2

z used solo skinhead smoking Dimitri Bitjukov

The first time I saw the boy I said to myself, “I’m having his arse before the summer is over.” He was standing by a brick wall at the block of council flats near where I lived. He wore big boots and jeans rolled so far up his legs they might’ve been shorts. His hair was cropped with a strip running down the middle. A tipped cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. His arms were folded and he affected a pout he thought spellt “menace”, but I knew said “take me I’m yours.”

He looked like a skinhead, but couldn’t be. I thought skinheads were on the scrapheap; like VHS tapes.

I knew he would fit very well over the back of the armchair in my lounge. I had a new paddle I had bought at the fetish fair in Birmingham. It was not much bigger than a paperback book. He was thin and bony. Not much meat on his arse. Yes, he would do very nicely. He was a good size to go over the dining room table. Over my knee too.

I also had a selection of thin whippy school canes from eBay ten years back. My leather two-tailed taws was more recent. My clothes brush I had since I was in short trousers (for real, as a kid).

I had a young pal named Tobias. I caned his backside raw every week. Then he moved away. He escaped the dead end of the council flats. Now, I wanted a replacement.

He told me his name was Damon which surprised me. I’ve never known anyone called Damon. Is it even a name? I looked it up online. It’s American. Now, I knew he was lying. He was not from there. His accent was rural. Somerset. Devon. Some place where they shagged sheep. Wayne was more likely his name.

I would wait my chance. I wanted to get this right. I knew what I wanted; I imagined it every day. I liked my subs to be ‘real men’. Not for me the weedy individuals who would submit themselves across your knee for a hand spanking. Love taps! What was the use of that? Even a slipper or a hairbrush couldn’t make much inroad on a proper man’s arse. No, give me a paddle, or a cane, or a birch. Of course, not many birch trees grow in the inner cities so I had to rule that last one out straight away.

No, it would be the paddle. Damon, over the couch, those heavy jeans in a heap on the floor and his underwear at his ankles. Boxers rather than briefs, I imagined. In my mind I had it all worked out. His cheeks are smooth and so is his torso. His ballsack dangles and I see it too is hairless. His flesh tautens as he stretches over the settee. His head is low and his legs apart.

The sight of the young man’s naked buttocks has me hard. I lick my dry lips, take up position a little to his left and gently tap-tap-tap the wood against his flesh. His cheeks clench a little. I raise my arm away and bring the paddle down with a resounding crack! A dark pink imprint of the blade immediately appears across Damon’s arse. It looks sore, but he makes no fuss, his face buried in a cushion. I make another mark, this time on his other buttock. The flesh wobbles.

I put the next two swats in the underside of his cheeks. His knees buckle and he hangs onto the couch as the pain mounts. By the time I pound home swat number five, some of the pink blotches are turning mauve. The imprint of the blade has been reproduced several times. No flesh remains untouched.

I love the look of Damon’s buttocks as increasingly they are battered. I delight in the fact that I am hurting him. He squirms with each successive blow and clenches his fists and shuts his teeth. Despite his best efforts he yaps like a dog when I hammer home numbers nine and ten.

I had planned to give him ten swats but I am loving this so much I whack home an extra half dozen.

“Stand up,” I croak, as my mouth is as dry as a desert. I realise the back of my shirt is soaked. My hands are shaking.

Damon bounds up, his buttocks are sore and so is his cock. It points to the ceiling as he hops from foot to foot and kneads the raw flesh. I find myself staring at his dick then I catch his eyes. I think I can read his thoughts. I am on my knees sucking his hairless balls. He spreads his legs and takes hold of the back of my head, urging me on.

“Take it all!” he screams. My mouth devours first one and then the other testicles. I lick the balls like they are an ice cream cone.

Damon moans as I take a mouthful of hot cock and he shuffles his knees further apart so that I can get to more of his hard dick. He grips my ears and pulls my face onto his raging cock. My face wobbles back and forth as I make my way up and down the shaft. As cocks goes it isn’t particularly long, but it was one of the fattest I have ever gorged.

“I’m cumming,” he squeals warning me, but knowing he has left it too late. I ignore him, and my head rhythmically slides up and down. Spurt after spurt of hot sticky cum pumps up the shaft and is swallowed by my hungry mouth. Damon writhes on the floor as his orgasm goes on and on.

I have it all planned. What could possibly go wrong?

I am writing this on a laptop from my hospital bed. My doctor says my ribs are only fractured and I should be able to walk again in a few days’ time. Unfortunately, my jaw will need to be wired for at least another week. Well, I should look on the bright side; I need to shed a few pounds.

 

Picture credit: Dimitri Bitjukov

Other stories you might like

 

Secret in the loft

Be careful what you wish for

Horny as hell

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Trouble at the Mall

z used drawing paddle hold (6)

“Come here young man, I’m going to give you a spanking.”

Bernie always called Jeff “young man” even though he was two years his junior.

Jeff had been anticipating this since he acted up in the mall.  The shopping trip had not been a success. Bernie had wanted to buy a new suit and couldn’t find one he liked. Jeff, who hated shopping, became more and more irritated at each store, until eventually he stormed off.

“You can find me at the coffee shop when you’re ready.”

Bernie exploded with anger and to the embarrassment of some on-lookers called after Jeff’s disappearing body, “You wait till I get you home, young man!”

Back home Jeff was immediately ordered to his room to change his clothes. Sulkily, he removed his sweater, shirt and pants and dropped them onto the bed. He opened up his closet and took out a freshly-laundered gray shirt; a striped necktie was hanging nearby. He took his time putting them on making sure the tie was knotted perfectly.

He pushed aside a row of slacks on the closet rail and found what he was looking for: gray short pants. He sighed as he stepped into them, first the left leg, then the right. He pulled them on and buttoned up. He took a pair of socks from a drawer, sat on the bed and pulled them on; they were so long they came way above the knee, so he turned down the tops an inch or so.

From the back of the drawer, he fished out an English-style schoolboy’s cap and put it on top of his head. He was ready to return downstairs to face Bernie and whatever it was he had in store for him today.

Bernie always said if Jeff was determined to behave like an eight-year-old boy, he would be treated like one and that meant dressing like one and getting plenty of spankings.

Jeff had put on one of Bernie’s favourite outfits: the English school uniform. Bernie had gotten the idea from a photograph of Princess Diana and her two sons, the Princes William and Harry. The kids were about six or seven and on their way to their up-scale preparatory school. They were dressed entirely in gray: short trousers, knee socks; jacket and best of all an English school cap.

Bernie loved that school uniform and after some searching on the Internet, he found a place in England where they sold identical clothes in Jeff’s size.

Bernie often forced Jeff into children’s clothes; sometimes for days on end. The deal would be as soon as he got home from work he changed and stayed like that until it was time to go back to work next day. If he wanted to leave the house, he would have to go out in his school uniform.

One weekend, Bernie threatened to make Jeff wear his school uniform to the mall if he didn’t stop acting up. Although he didn’t let on to Bernie, Jeff quite liked the idea of parading around in public dressed as an eight-year-old English schoolboy. He had read on the Internet of some middle-aged guy in England who travelled on the London Underground all day dressed in short trousers, school blazer and cap and no passenger batted an eyelid.

“Stand in the corner, hands on head,” Jeff was told when he entered the lounge room. Bernie was seated on a couch, flicking over the pages of the newspaper. He was in no hurry; Bernie knew Jeff hated waiting for spankings: sometimes Jeff thought waiting was the worst part. Good, thought Bernie, he would let Jeff stew for a while.

After about five minutes, Bernie said, “Turn around young man and face me.” Jeff, still with his hands on his heads, obeyed immediately.

“You behaved like a brat at the mall, what have you got to say for yourself young man?”

Jeff stared at his feet in embarrassment, but said nothing.

“Speak up young man. You embarrassed me in public this afternoon. What have you got to say for yourself?”

“Sorry,” mumbled at the carpet.

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you, young man. What did you say?”

Jeff looked up but couldn’t meet Bernie’s eye. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? You will be young man. Is that all you’ve got to say for yourself?”

Jeff shrugged his shoulders, but said nothing.

“Doh! Stand back in the corner and wait till I return.”

Jeff knew Bernie was off to find a paddle to spank him with. Bernie had quite a collection, which one would he use this time? One paddle he had recently bought was made of clear plastic and had holes drilled in it: that one hurt like hell, especially if it were applied with his pants down.

Moments later Bernie returned, not with a paddle, but with a sheaf of writing paper and a pencil.

“Turn round, young man.”

Jeff was puzzled when he saw Bernie did not have a paddle. What was happening? Was he only going to get a hand spanking?

Bernie placed the writing paper and pencil on a table.

“I want you to write out fifty times, ‘I must not misbehave when I am taken to the mall.’ Make sure it is in your neatest handwriting, young man, or else.”

Bernie did not need to spell out what “or else” meant Jeff could imagine the pain he was going to be in by the end of the afternoon. It was a cruel trick, Bernie knew Jeff’s handwriting was almost illegible, even when he tried his hardest and wrote very slowly indeed, it was nearly always impossible to read what he had written.

“Sit down and get started. I’ll be back in half an hour to see how you are getting on. Remember, neatest handwriting, young man. Or else.”

Jeff did try, he really tried, to write his lines neatly. He held the pencil tightly in his hand and slowly began to write, “I must not misbehave when I am taken to the mall.” After he had written the sentence five times, his hand ached terribly. He wasn’t used to writing by hand. His keyboard skills were magnificent, his fingers flew across the letters and he could input forty words a minute. But, he was hopeless with a pen or pencil and that was just a fact and here was nothing he could do about it.

Resigned to the bottom blistering that would inevitably follow, Jeff scrawled “I must not misbehave when I am taken to the mall,” forty-five more times.

“Completely illegible. I can’t decipher a word. If I didn’t already know what this said, I would never be able to understand it. Well, young man, you know what’s coming.”

Yes, Jeff knew what was coming and he wished Bernie would just get on with it.

“Back in the corner, young man. Hands on head.”

Jeff obliged and Bernie left the room. This time when he returned he was carrying a paddle and to Jeff’s dismay it was the heavy plastic Lexan.

“Turn and face me. Keep those hands on the head. Look at me when I’m speaking to you, young man.”

Bernie recapped all Jeff’s failings that day, especially the misbehaviour at the mall and the storming off in a temper. He added the poorly-written lines for good measure.

He picked up a chair that was tucked neatly under the dining room table, turned it round, and sat down. Bernie kept his back straight and planted his legs apart to create a platform that would soon receive Jeff’s body.

“Come here young man, I’m going to give you a spanking.”

Jeff kept his hands on his head and stepped forward so he stood immediately in front of Bernie.

“Don’t think you’re keeping these on, young man,” he said, as he unbuttoned the short pants and let them fall to the ground.

“Bend over my knee.”

Jeff hesitated.

“Doh! Come here,” Bernie took Jeff’s arm and with an expertise borne from practice, he pulled him face down across his knee.

“This is going to hurt me just as much as it hurts you, young man,” Bernie said that every time he spanked Jeff, but Jeff knew for sure it wasn’t true.

Bernie raised the paddle and brought it smacking down into the seat of Jeff’s tight underpants.

The first spanks were always mild; Bernie was just warming Jeff up for the real onslaught that was to follow.

Jeff gasped a little as the paddle landed on his left cheek, then the right, then across the middle of both at once, but he made no other sound. He knew from experience that the real spanking began the moment Bernie gripped the elasticated waist of his underwear and tugged them down over his thighs. An intense bare-bottomed blistering would always follow.

Neither of them was keeping time, but it must have been at least five minutes before Bernie bared Jeff’s buttocks. They were a deep red by this time and Bernie reckoned they must be pretty sore by now.

Undeterred, he raised his arm high and brought the paddle down hard into the naked flesh. Jeff felt that one, most definitely. He felt the next dozen as well, each one spanking into his fleshy ass with force. Jeff wanted to be a brave boy and not cry out – at least try not to cry out too soon.

His resolve broke after about twenty-five swats. The pain was intense and Jeff knew his buttocks would be turning from scarlet to mauve about now. The bruising would be intense and last for days, or even a week.

Bernie spanked on … and on. He hadn’t made up his mind how many whacks to deliver. It had to be a lot, there were two crimes here that that to be paid for: the bad behaviour at the mall and the crapily-written lines.

Jeff was sobbing by now, crying genuine tears.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please stop. You’re hurting me.”

“That’s the point young man. That’s the point,” and Bernie kept raising the paddle and crashing it down into Jeff’s naked cheeks.

“Please, I will be a good boy, I will behave. I’m sorry,” it sounded like genuine repentance, but Bernie had heard it all before. This wasn’t the first time they had problems at the mall, but, he reckoned, if he did his job well today, it should be the last.

Bernie spanked on oblivious to Jeff’s pleadings.

Suddenly, the sound of plastic on bare flesh and a man’s cries was broken by the distinctive ring-tone of a cell phone. Bernie stopped spanking.

“It’s the Bat Phone,” Bernie said, using the joke name they had for the emergency cell phone.

He let Jeff up from his lap and, he crossed the room, trying to rub the soreness out of his buttocks. He picked up the phone and said his name. The person at the other end had a curt message and Jeff turned off the phone.

Turning to Bernie, he said, “That was the hospital there’s been an incident and I have to give emergency surgery. I have to go.”

Not waiting to pick up his short pants from the floor where they had fallen, he rushed upstairs, changed into his outdoor clothes and was in the car on his way to the hospital inside two minutes. Sitting was extremely painful and he was grateful that he would be performing surgery standing up.

Through the window Bernie watched him go and then cleaned up. He didn’t put the paddle back with the others, instead he left it on the dining room table, thinking, “We’ll continue with this when you return, young man.”

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

 

Other stories you might like

The fire-raiser

My father’s legacy

The freshman class

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

My First Spanking – Aged 18!

z used drawing paddle hold (18)

I had just turned eighteen when my granddad took me across his knee to give me my first-ever spanking. He said I needed to be taken down a peg or two.

I had been living with him and gran for a few months by then and I had driven the pair of them to distraction.

I left school when I was sixteen and worked in a record shop. It was a great job which paid well (for a teenager anyway) and I had lots of money to spend on clothes and other things for myself. I lived at home and gave my mum some money for my keep and lived a selfish life.

Then my dad lost his job when the company he worked for went bust and he had to move to a town 100 miles away. Naturally, the family went with him, but I didn’t want to give up the record shop. I didn’t want to give up the home comforts, either. On my wages I would be able to rent a room somewhere, but I wouldn’t be able to afford all the new clothes and luxuries as well.

Gran and granddad didn’t want me to live with them and who could blame them. Their own kids had grown up, left home and started families. Now, it was time for gran and granddad to have a little peace and quiet: they definitely didn’t need an unruly teenager living with them.

Anyway, they took me in (the emotional blackmail that families are famous for probably had a hand in it).

I was happy; I just carried on as I had done at home. I came and went as I wanted to; I was surly and uncommunicative to my hosts and sometimes just downright rude. I made a habit of coming home in the early hours of the morning and staying in bed late. I didn’t lift a finger to help around the house and didn’t think it wrong for gran to wait on me hand and foot.

Granddad tried to get me to see sense more than once, but he was up against one of the rudest self-absorbed and selfish people he had ever met. He tried to talk to me about coming home late drunk and spending all the next day in bed, but I was not to be reasoned with.

I had always been rude to both of them, but the straw that broke granddad’s back was when I gave gran a lot of back-chat. I forget what the row was about, but gran had recently started using a hearing aid, so when in the middle of an argument, I shouted, “Are you daft as well as deaf?” she ran from the room in tears.

Granddad had no choice. Of course, he couldn’t let me get away with treating his wife like that. If I had been granddad I’d have taken me across my knee and spanked my backside good and hard as well.

So, that’s how I ended up in the sitting room, standing in front of my granddad getting a verbal roasting, prior to getting my buttocks toasted.

Looking back after all these years, I can now see gran and granddad loved me. Why else would they have let me live with them in the first place. They also wanted me to grow up to be a good person, hardworking, kind and considerate. I was none of these things: I liked to think I was a full-grown adult, but my grandparents knew I wasn’t quite there yet. Sometimes, and recently far too often, I had behaved like a spoilt little child and I needed to be taught a lesson.

Granddad could have thrown me out on my ear. He even told me I was eighteen years old now and it was high time I stood on my own two feet. But, he said, he was prepared to give me one last chance.

I hadn’t been expecting it when he leaned over to the sideboard, opened a drawer and pulled out a small shiny wooden object. He gripped it in his right hand and waved it in my direction. It was light brown and oblong (maybe eight inches by thee and half and three-quarters of an inch thick). It had a small shaped handle to hold it by. As he threatened me with it, I could see it was a purpose-built spanking paddle.

I probably blanched at the point, because he looked me in the eye and said, “You need to be taken down a peg or two.”

I’d never heard the phrase before, but I immediately knew what he meant. He was going to use that paddle on my backside.

I don’t remember exactly what I said, but it was along the lines of, “You can’t do that, I’m too old to be spanked.” What I didn’t say (and should have done) was “I’m sorry. I’ll be a better person in the future.”

Granddad was not impressed. “Too old! You are not too old to move out and live on your own. You can pack your bags and go.”

He meant it too. He had tried his level best with me over the months and I had thrown all his kindness and hospitality back in his face. And, to top it all, I had been rude and incredibly cruel to gran. Who would blame them for throwing me out?

“Or,” he said, and this is where I now realise how much he loved me, “I will take this to your backside and see if I can beat some manners into you.” He waved the paddle at me in case I hadn’t followed his drift.

I stood dumbfounded. I was eighteen years old, an adult, I had been working for nearly two years and here was my granddad telling me he was going to spank me like I was an eight-year-old kid. And, to top it all, I had no choice but to let him do it.

He pulled a chair away from the dining table and set it down in the middle of the carpet. There was a three piece suite, a sideboard, the table and four chairs and a TV set crammed into the small room.

He sat down on the chair, keeping his own back straight and planting his feet three feet apart. Just because he was my granddad don’t go away with the idea that he was a shrivelled old man. He would have still been in his fifties at the time and was big and strong. He had been a manual worker all his life and after a spell in the Army, he continued to make regular visits to the gym.

I looked at him as I contemplated my fate. He was a thick-set muscular man. He was clean shaven, but much of his body was covered in hair. For the first time in my life I noticed his biceps were well-developed and his hands were the size of shovels. He would pack one hell of a wallop when the time came.

The legs over which I would soon find myself draped were powerful and from where I was standing looked to be as thick as tree trunks.

My breathing became irregular as my heart raced and my blood pressure went sky high. I could feel my temples pounding as I began to realise just what damage granddad could do to my rear end with his paddle.

“Stand there.” He pointed to a spot right in front of him. As if in a trance, I obeyed. “Hands on head.” I obeyed that command too.

He reached over to the waistband of my trousers. In those days we wore trousers with ridiculously high waistbands. They were those ones that had about twenty-four inch flares to the legs and we wore them with platform-soled shoes that added an extra three inches to your height.

Despite all the material, they were cut tight across the buttocks area and if, like me, you had a flat stomach they showed off your bum to perfection. I was presenting to my granddad a bottom that was crying out to be spanked.

I knew I had a great bum, one of the girls I knew was always telling me so. I didn’t fancy her at all, she was chubby and reminded me a bit of a younger version of the district nurse character who appeared in one of the TV comedy shows of the time.

I was very inexperienced and naïve at the time and I didn’t understand what the girl was offering me. It was a wasted opportunity: it’s true that I didn’t lust after her, but she would have been something for me to practice on.

Granddad had trouble undoing all five buttons on my waistband, but eventually the job was done. It was easier for him to pull at the zipper at my fly and open up the front of my trousers to reveal my tight multi-coloured mini briefs.

He slipped the trousers over my bony hips and down my slim thighs until they fell in a heap on the floor at my feet.

Granddad paused. He seemed to be debating with himself about what to do next. The decision reached, he took hold of the elastic waist of my garish mini-briefs and gently pulled them down over my trim buttocks until they settled at my knees. I still had my hands on my head so the old man had every opportunity to observe that I was indeed a fully grown man and not a small boy.

I was kept standing with my trousers and pants down and my penis flopping for what seemed like hours, but I don’t suppose it was more than a minute. During that time I thought I heard voices coming from the flat next door. Absurdly, I realised the family next door would be able to hear me being spanked and that embarrassed me much more than my present predicament; standing naked from the waist down in front of my granddad.

“Come here and bend across my knee.” It was a quiet instruction, not a barked order. Once again, granddad was showing me that he loved me.

I hesitated for a split second. I had never been across someone’s knee before and I wasn’t quite sure how it was done. I took my hands from my head and turned to face granddad from the side. Looking down I could see the massive expanse of grey flannel trousers encasing his legs. Slowly, I lowered my body, first reaching out my hands so they held onto his left knee so I could then cautiously let my stomach rest across his huge thighs. Then, it was a simple matter to stretch my arms out in front of me so the palms of my hands sank into the pile of the carpet.

In this position, my legs were straight behind me, bent a little at the knees and my toes just about touched the carpet. My bared bottom lay across the centre of my granddad’s laps.

I was completely humiliated, bent across granddad’s knee offering him my naked buttocks. I knew he could see right into my crack. But, I wasn’t positioned to granddad’s satisfaction. His strength surprised me as he was able to place his arm round my middle and lift me to manoeuvre my body an inch this way and another inch that way until he had my bum just where he wanted it to receive the spanks from his paddle.

But, he wasn’t quite ready to start. As I stared into the fading pattern of the carpet: it was a dirty grey now, but had once, I think, been green, I could feel him grab the tail of my shirt and pull it up my back until it rested just below the shoulders.

There I was an eighteen-year-old man submissively bent across his granddad’s knee, trousers and underpants at his feet, shirt at the shoulders and naked between the two points. My bared backside was resting over his right thigh, pointing up at a forty-five degree angle and twitching a little in anticipation of the onslaught to come. Granddad was gripping the square black spanking paddle so tightly that his knuckles were beginning to turn white.

I remember feeling the cool wood of the paddle rest on my right buttock cheek and then without warning granddad whacked it down with maximum force; again and again and again. First on one cheek, then on the other, then right in the middle across both buttocks at once.

Then he went high, then low, high, high, low, low. Then on the crease where the bum meets the thigh, then right in the middle of my globes. On and on and on.

I howled from the very first smack and didn’t stop yelling and screaming until what seemed like half an hour (but I later discovered was closer to five minutes) he finally laid down the paddle and released me. I struggled this way and that, pounding my feet and kicking my legs about. I was astonished by my granddad’s strength: he wrapped his left arm around my middle, pinning my body to his lap while with his right hand he continued to assault my bared backside with the paddle.

I tried to reach my arm back to protect my bum from the searing slashes of the wood, but granddad had me so effectively pinned facedown that I could do nothing except flail my arms and legs about, as if I were trying to swim doggy-paddle style.

Granddad kept whacking into me. He beat at a rhythm: I was in too much agony to keep count, but it must have been about forty swats to the minute. Later I would see that dark blue bruises covered the whole of my buttock area and my inner and outer thighs. I had so little meat on my bum there was not enough padding to absorb the shockwaves from the wooden paddle.

There was no sound in the small room apart from the whack! whack! whack! of the paddle hitting my bum and my howls of agony. Not a word was exchanged between granddad and me. He gave me no sermons on changing my behaviour and I in turn made no pleas for mercy.

I wailed so much I was choking and breathing became difficult. My heartbeat was racing and I thought at any moment I would pass out. But on and one, granddad spanked me: calmly and methodically: he knew his duty was to reform me and this was how he would do it.

Satisfied that he had made a sufficient impression on me and my bum, granddad stopped the spanking. I was exhausted: the pain had started at my roasted buttocks and travelled at high speed across my whole body: my chest ached and my head throbbed almost as much as my bum.

“Get up son.” I think this was the first time granddad had ever called me son: could that be true, or am I after all these years being sentimental?

He released me and I was able to pull myself off his legs. Just as I had done so when presenting myself for the spanking, I rested my hands on his knee, but this time rather than lowering myself into a face-down position, I hauled myself up to my feet.

I couldn’t help it, but I found myself jumping up and down on the spot performing some crazy spanking dance. These days commentators in football matches on TV often say that a player who has been injured can “run off” the pain. Believe me it certainly didn’t work for me after granddad’s spanking.

Nor, did rubbing away at my toasted buttocks with my hands. Actually, contact with the by now raw nerves in my pert bottom only increased the pain.

I bent double, gasping for breath, trying to regain some composure. Tears and snot poured down my face and chin. I rubbed myself clean with the sleeve of my shirt only to find more tears and snot falling.

I actually howled in agony again when I tried to pull up my tight mini briefs. They were designed to fit snuggly against my bottom and they had the same effect on my pain level as my hands had earlier. Quickly I pulled them down and off and stood semi-naked not sure what to do next.

“Pick up your trousers and pants and go to your room.” It was the obvious solution. So, I rushed from the living room and dashed up the stairs two at a time with my naked blistered buttocks on full display. Thankfully my gran was not around to witness this.

I didn’t know at the time that she had been in the kitchen during my spanking, fully aware or what granddad was doing to me (and fully supportive that he should do so). She could have witnessed my spanking herself, but she loved me too much to make me endure that additional humiliation.

Once in my bedroom, I was able to inspect the full horror of the damage caused to my buttocks. The bruises were deep and as I twisted my body this way and that in order to get a good view in the mirror I detected what looked like dozens of squares branded into the flesh. It would take a couple of weeks before the bruises finally cleared.

The pain mostly cleared in a matter of hours, but some parts of my lower bottom and thighs remained tender for days; so that when I sat on the shop assistant’s high stool at the cash desk in the record shop I was reminded of the humiliation granddad had put me through.

I’d like to be able to report that my behaviour changed after that spanking and I became a model citizen. But “attitude adjustment” doesn’t work like that. Behaviour modification is incremental; it changes one step at a time and so although this was the first spanking I had ever received, it did not turn out to be the last.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

 

Other stories you might like

Untidy bathroom

The troublesome lodger

New experiences

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Craig Misses Curfew

new story 2

Craig slowly opened the front door, trying desperately not to make a sound. He was in trouble; he knew that. Big trouble. Maybe he could delay the inevitable for a little while yet.

“Is that you Craig, come into my study, this instance!” It was Reverend Crick, his landlord, calling. “Drat!” Craig breathed silently. He closed the door, dropped his bag of books onto the ground and reluctantly shuffled through the passageway to a dark oak door. He paused and wondered for a second if he should knock. Why? The vicar had clearly summoned him. With a sweaty palm, he gripped the door handle and pushed.

His jaw actually dropped at the sight. Gary the barman from the village pub was tucking his shirt into his trousers before buckling his belt. Rev. Crick stood thoughtfully bending a whippy, crook-handled school punishment cane between his hands. Gary stared at Craig with astonishment, his wide open face now as red as his bottom at the arrival of the witness.

“What time did you get back last night?” the vicar growled. It wasn’t really a question Crick knew very well it was close on one a.m. “Well boy!” Crick flexed the cane some more. Gary made a hasty exit through the half-open door.

“Eh, well,” Craig blustered. He had no idea what time he arrived back at the vicarage, but it was way past his curfew, of that there was no doubt. He had met with friends from the university and missed the last bus from Brocklehurst to the little village of Aston Budleigh. He would have been later still if a car hadn’t stopped to give him a ride.

“Out drinking, no doubt.” The vicar’s eyes blazed. He had an angular face, with a jutting jaw line. What hair he still retained was thin and straw coloured. He had on the shabby sports jacket that he habitually wore and dark brown corduroy trousers that were a bit thin at the knees. His round glasses were perched on his nose in the centre of a florid face.

Craig stood transfixed. He had been in the vicar’s study many times since his mother had found him these lodgings, but still it took his breath away a little. His eyes could not leave the two canes hanging from hooks on the far wall. They were both something more than three feet in length; one was considerably thicker than the other and both were a little warped.

He knew the wall on the left side was lined with floor to ceiling with shelving. Some were stacked with books, but in the centre was a tall thin cupboard, with a smoked-glass front.

Also in the room were a huge Chesterfield couch and two armchairs to one side and the vicar’s desk. It was February but the sky was brilliant blue. It was cold in the room but Rev Crick had not set a fire in his study and the nineteen-year-old could not stop from shivering. He could not be sure if that was because of the cold or the fear he felt.

“It is not the first time, you have broken curfew,” Rev. Crick tucked the cane under his armpit and paced the room. He rather fancied he looked the part of a headmaster at an important public school. One day he promised himself he would treat himself and buy an academic gown and mortar-board cap.

Craig tore his attention away from the canes on the wall. In the few months he had been one of the vicar’s lodgers he had become very aware that Crick had a fine assortment of whippy rattan canes and many other punishment tools. The vicar stood, his feet apart and he slipped the cane into his hand. Craig had no doubt what his intentions were. His parents, his mother especially, were convinced Christians. They believed in the Bible, especially that bit about not sparing the rod. They had chosen Rev Crick to be their son’s landlord and mentor while he was at university for a purpose. They knew his reputation for dealing with young men.

Craig was no stranger to corporal punishment at home and school but he had hoped that now he was at university he had left behind that sort of thing.

Swish! The cane flew through open air. Rev. Crick was ready for action. “I think,” he said as if speaking as one reasonable man to another, “that you should remove your coat and set it down on my desk.” He watched, eyes darting and the tip of his tongue poking in and out of his mouth lizard-like as Craig slipped off his dark green parka coat.

“Stand there!” he pointed the cane at middle of the room. Craig shuffled into position and stood, arms behind back, head slightly bowed. Rev. Crick frowned, stared intently at the cane in his hand as if seeing it for the first time, and hacked out a cough. Slowly, he moved across the study towards the tall thin cupboard. Deftly he opened its door and slipped the cane inside. Craig watched him move towards his desk and lean down to a drawer. Crick cleared his throat and reached inside. Seconds later he removed a heavy wooden American-style paddle. He tested its weight in his hand and seemingly satisfied it was up to the job he turned to face the teenager.

“Assume the position,” Rev. Crick let a smile crack his face, pleased with his phoney American accent. That’s what they said on the other side of the pond, “Assume the position.” The kids seemed to know what they had to do then. Craig’s puzzled look spoke volumes. What did the reverend want him to do? Bend over the Chesterfield? One of the armchairs? It couldn’t be the desk his coat was there.

“Bend over and grab your ankles,” Crick said exasperatedly in his own English accent. Craig sucked in breath. “Here we go again,” he thought. It was at times like this he began to hate his mother. Fancy sending him to live with this oddball. He was nineteen years old and about to offer up his backside for this vicar to whack it with a heavy plank of wood. He could refuse, Crick couldn’t make him do it. He was a weedy runt of a man really who smoked and drank too much. Craig knew he could take him in a fight.

He also knew he was going to do exactly what the vicar told him to. His mother had all the power. She held the purse strings. If he didn’t do as he was told she wouldn’t hesitate to stop paying his university fees. Then what? He would have to leave and get a job. A job! Not if he could help it, he wanted a degree and a life in a top profession,not a job serving in a shop all his life.

“What are you waiting for?” Crick smacked the paddle into his left palm.  It was about five inches wide by a foot long. It was nearly an inch thick. It was a mightily impressive punishment tool. Craig frowned, took a deep breath and reached down to his ankles. He took the vicar at his word, ordinarily, if he was in the housemaster’s study back at school say, the command would be, “Touch your toes,” and toes meant toes, not shins or knees. Keeping in the touch-toes position was more difficult than it sounded, it put a terrible strain on the calves. Grabbing ankles was an altogether more comfortable position, although Craig was perfectly aware that what was about to happen next would be far from comfortable.

He looked down at the threadbare carpet and felt a movement to his left as the vicar approached. He could smell the man’s sour sweat and old tobacco smoke. The vicar pressed his left hand into the small of Craig’s back, keeping him steady. The paddle was small enough that Crick could stand right by the boys proffered bottom and whack the wood home from a short distance. It would be a very painful jab.

z used paddle jeans touch toes domestic (1)

Craig felt the paddle tap against his stretched jeans. They were a little tight and hugged his cheeks. He knew the vicar would have a delightful target. The wood moved away and a second later returned crashing into his meaty, hard bottom. He bit down on his bottom lip. That hurt. A burning sensation radiated from the point of impact and warmed his whole backside. Slam! The wood returned with great force, landing a little higher. Now his entire bum was alight. He gripped his ankles and shut his eyes tightly.

Paddle pain is quite different from the cane. The whippy rod strikes a line of fire across the cheeks and very quickly a welt forms. It throbs like mad for ages. The paddle delivers something more like a slap than a cut, the pain spreads over a wider area and leaves a pain like sitting in a too-hot bath.

Wallop! Smack! Crash! The sound of the paddle echoed around the cold study. The vicar hacked another long cough. “Stand up, drop those jeans,” he spluttered. Craig rose slowly, his bottom was toasted. His heavy denim jeans had been no protection.

“Quickly,” Crick gasped, “I haven’t got all day.”

Craig’s jeans fit snugly, he didn’t need a belt. He popped the button at the top of his Wranglers and pulled the zipper. The jeans were so snug they wouldn’t fall to the floor of their own accord so he pushed them down, first to the knees and then to the ankles. “Over!” the reverend barked. Craig morosely resumed the position.

Rev. Crick had a little ritual when he spanked on the underwear. He liked to make sure there were no creases in the cotton and that the pants fitted like a second skin. He gripped the waistband of Craig’s briefs and tugged hard. The cotton rode up into Craig’s crack and lifted and separated each cheek perfectly. Crick had no willpower and didn’t try not to rub the palm of his right hand across Craig’s rock hard buttocks. They quivered as his rubbed.

Ready once more he lifted the heavy paddle and whacked it down five more times without pause. Rat-a-tat-tat, it sounded like machinegun fire. Craig screwed up his face, the pain was immense, his heart raced, blood pounded his ears, his arse was on fire. Pain travelled up and down his legs and then to all parts of his body.

Rev. Crick waddled to his desk and slipped the paddle back into the still-open drawer. He turned and admired the sight of the teenager who was still holding his ankles. He was a very fit lad, he thought. Very fit indeed. Oh how he would enjoy working with the boy over the next three years.

“You may stand.” Gingerly, Craig stood and then bent again so he could pull his jeans up tot their rightful place. His face burned but nowhere near as much as his bum. He desperately wanted to give himself a good rub, but that would have to wait. He wouldn’t give the vicar the satisfaction knowing he had hurt him.

“You may go now,” the vicar almost whispered. Craig did not need telling twice, he sped from the study leaving his coat on the vicar’s desk. Crick tutted to himself, reached into his jacket pocket and found cigarettes and matches. Within seconds he took a deep drag of tobacco. He waddled over to an armchair and fell into it. Puffing heavily on the cigarette he recalled in his mind the past few minutes. A caning and a paddling, what a perfect afternoon, he thought as he blew smoke at the ceiling.

Picture credit: Unknown

Mores stories featuring the spanking vicar of Aston Budleigh are here

Other stories you might like

By order of the court

New boy at Albion

My house. My rules

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Decorator

new story 2

z used otk pants painter and decorator sting

Times were hard for youngsters back then. People just assumed that we were lazy dossers. There were no jobs but that was apparently our fault. They slashed the benefits as an ‘incentive’ to get back to work. There was no minimum wage either – we were paid a pittance.

But it was that or nothing. Take a job; any job. My dad knew a feller who knew a feller and I ended up as a painter and decorator’s labourer – about as unskilled as it got. It didn’t matter that I had stayed on at school and got my qualifications. I could’ve gone to university, but after Brexit and the UK left the EU the country went broke and half of them closed down.

So they stuck a paintbrush in my hand and told me to get on with it. Actually, don’t breathe a word of this t the painters and decorators federation but it doesn’t take much nous to paint a wall. I did a few other thoings as well – fetching and carrying, making the tea, you know the kind of thing.

I didn’t realise it at first but Mr Brewster (my boss, or do I mean slave owner?) loved to order people about. “Do this! Do that! Come here! Go there!” he barked commands all day long. There was no need for it really, most of the time there were only the two of us there. A little bit of civility on his part wouldn’t have come amiss.

I had been working with him for a couple of months when it happened. We had a job in a suburb of Brocklehurst, the town where I lived at the time. In a house in a place called The Avenue, they were right posh places; mansions most of them. We had a job to redecorate before the new owner moved in. It was quite a trek out from the flat I shared with six other kids. I had a rickety old bicycle (the public transport fares were sky high and the buses hardly ever ran) and I set off in the cold drizzle. I would’ve arrived on time (honest, guv!) but halfway down the Goldstone Road I got a puncture.

Back at the house Mr Brewster and the houseowner must have had a high old time winding each other up. “Kids today! Totally unreliable. You tell them to turn up at half-eight and look at the time now, twenty-to-nine.”

“In my day we were never late. Took pride in our work.” Etcetera, etcetera.

“What he needs is a jolly good spanking!”

I wasn’t there to overhear the conversation, of course. I was still pushing my bike in the rain, but I can accurately surmise that’s what they said, because by the time I rocked up half an hour later they were ready for action.

After all these years I can still remember the name of the guy at The Avenue, but I’ll just call him Mr Smith. So, Mr Smith and my guvnor are waiting for me, faces like thunder. “Vince,” Mr Brewster starts off, “What time do you call this!” It wasn’t really a question, so I kept my mouth shut. There was no point being a smartarse and carefully checking my watch and saying back to him “Quarter past nine, Mr Brewster.”

Mr Smith, an elderly man well into his sixties I would estimate, paced the empty room muttering to himself, while my boss went on and on about what a lazy unreliable waste of space I was. Mr Smith joined in by nodding his head vigorously. There was no doubt the pair of them were on the same page when it came to the extent of my crime.

“Not good enough Vince, not good enough …..” Mr Brewster trailed off, he had run out of insults to hurl at me.

There was an uncomfortable silence. I stared down at my crocs, every inch the naughty little boy being scolded by teacher. The silence was burst by Mr Smith, “Well get on with it Brewster!” The old man shrieked. My boss was not an imposing man even though he liked to order me about. I don’t suppose he was more than forty and he was no taller than me. He was a bit heavier and had a paunch here his waist ought to be.

He cleared his throat. “You will have to be spanked, Vince.” I don’t remember saying anything but the look of astonishment on my face must have told him what I was thinking, because he hurriedly added, “Mr Smith insists on it.”

The owner had left the room and wasn’t present to confirm my boss’s assertion. I was silent but my brain was working overtime. I could have punched Brewster in the nose and legged it, of course, but it wasn’t much of an option. I would have lost my job and in all probability ended up in court.

I said at the start that youngsters back then had it bad. That might have been an understatement. After years without it they had reintroduced corporal punishment into schools and even extended it to colleges and universities. If that wasn’t bad enough the courts could cane anyone under the age of thirty.  Hardly a week went by that you didn’t see a story in the local paper about someone or another up before the beak on some minor matter getting a fine and “six lashes on the bare buttocks”. Those words “lashes on the bare buttocks” tripped off the tongues of magistrates up and down the country, with a little too much relish if you ask me.

My thoughts were interrupted by Mr Smith’s return. I heard him wheezing before I actually saw him. He ignored me completely and addressed Mr Brewster, “Here you should use this.” In his hand he had what looked to me (in my naiveite) like a small chopping block. It was a small rectangle of wood not much bigger than a paperback book (remember those?) with a handle at one end. He handed it to Mr Brewster who proceeded to pat it against his left palm, testing its wright.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the thing. It had once been coated in varnish but that had worn off along one side of what I suppose you call the blade.

“Get on with it man!” Mr Smith was showing his impatience. No more was said between the two men and it was evident to me then that they had discussed this in advance because at that moment I noticed that in the centre of the otherwise empty room a couple of boxes had been piled together and covered over with a tarpaulin. My boss handed the wood back to Mr Smith and sat himself down. He spread his legs and looked across at me. Without quite catching my eye, he spoke quietly. “We want you to take down your trousers and bend over my knee.”

So there I was, eighteen years old, nearly nineteen come to think of it, being ordered to lower his trousers and to submit himself across the knee of an older man for a spanking while another bloke watched. Can you imagine such a thing?

Despite the new corporal punishment regime in the country I had never been spanked, nor caned or slippered. I was if you like a spanking virgin. Even so, like all virgins I had a good general idea of how this was done. It happened many years ago but I think I remember correctly that quite quickly I resigned myself to my fate. I simply had no choice.

I could feel Mr Smith’s hot breath on the back of my neck; he was wheezing harder than ever. “Quickly,” he coughed, “we haven’t got all day. You have work to do.”

Mr Brewster nodded his agreement. I closed my eyes took a deep breath and unclipped the front of my overalls. I don’t suppose decorator’s overalls have changed in a hundred years. Mine were made of heavy cotton and because I sweated a lot when I wore then I didn’t have trousers on underneath. I got them loosened and the weight sent them crashing to my feet (rather like clown’s trousers do). I stood in front of Mr Brewster; he spread his legs wide, offering me his right thigh to bend across. He wore cheap jeans that were just a bit too tight for him and they emphasised his bony legs.

My heart thumped, I couldn’t see it but I was pretty certain my face glowed bright pink. I was very conscious that I was standing with my trousers at my ankles, now wearing only my underpants and t-shirt. Mr Brewster tapped his right thigh. It was his signal to me, “Bend over,” it said. I took a deep breath. How was this done exactly? I let my instinct take over. I leaned forward putting my two arms out ahead of me and lowered myself. I rested my stomach on his thigh and placed both my palms squarely on the floor. Even after all this time I remember my face was only centimetres from the paint-splashed floor.

I waited for Mr Brewster’s next move. It seemed like an eternity. Perspiration was running down my back, my boss took hold of the end of my t-shirt and pushed it away from the target area. I could feel my tight cotton briefs clinging to my buttocks. I felt incredibly vulnerable. Well, what a stupid thing for me to say. Of course I was vulnerable, that was the whole point. I was being forced to offer up my backside to Mr Brewster so he could whack it with his wooden paddle, and all the time Mr Smith was standing by to get a close-up view of the action.

I heard Mr Smith shuffle across the bare floor. “Take down his pants, they really aren’t much use at a time like this.” Mr Brewster gipped the elasticated waist of my briefs. I wriggled my hips in protest. He slapped the palm of his hand across my right buttock. “Keep still.” I raised my head to protest and saw Mr Smith advancing. He was ready to grab by shoulders and pin me down. “Sod it!” I said to myself. I settled down, I got the picture. Come what may I was getting my arse whipped. I had no choice. I had to take it. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of wailing and howling.

Mr Brewster took hold of my pants and slowly slipped them down over my cheeks. I raised my crotch off his knee so he could slide them all the way to my ankles. It was my way of saying, “Go on! Do your worst.” I lay there bare-arsed. I had quite a good bum in those days; at least that’s what the guys at the rugby club told me in the showers after matches.

I saw Mr Smith hand over the paddle and seconds later I felt it tap-tap-tapping into my right buttock. Then, it was gone only to return at tremendous force. The whack! echoed around the empty room and so did the sound of air escaping my clenched lips. OMG! That hurt. That hurt a lot. I kicked my legs and felt my feet entangled in my overalls. Mr Brewster pushed his left hand into the small of my back; it felt clammy. He raised the paddle and brought it down with equal force on my left cheek. Now, I had two dark pink blotches across my bum. Without waiting for the pain to sink in, he set about assaulting my bum, whack-whack-whack. My head rose and fell, my hips swivelled my arms flailed. I was out of control; all reflex actions, my body’s way of trying to protect itself from the intense pain I was feeling.

My bum was on fire, the heat intensifying with every wallop that landed. My body gyrated and humped up and down on Mr Brewster’s knee. The pounding went on and on, I didn’t need to rub my fingers across it to know that it had the consistency of leather. This was one hell of a spanking.

My temples throbbed almost as much as my backside, blood was rushing though my arteries, any moment now I feared I would have a stroke. I couldn’t catch my breath. I was going to die. I couldn’t see him but I could hear Mr Smith was sounded just as bad. His wheezing had become a full out dry hacking cough.

Mr Brewster had the strength of an ox. He just kept on pounding his wooden paddle. No square centimetre of flesh was left un-roasted from the top of the curves near my spine, over the mounds themselves and into the very tender undersides where the bum meets the thighs. The heat of this bare-arsed paddling spread to my loins. My dick was raging. My body humped up and down, up and down over my boss’s knee. “No, no, no!” I shrieked. But, there was no stopping it. I shot my load. It must have taken ten seconds (It felt like a lot longer) before I lay breathless and panting across Mr Brewster’s soaked leg.

He stopped his spanking, let out a shriek and pushed me off his lap onto the floor, where I lay for some time panting, gasping for air and whimpering like a beached dolphin. Mr Brewster rushed from the room, “Look what he’s done!” Mr Smith was nowhere to be seen.

I worked for Mr Brewster for five more weeks until I found a job flipping burgers. We didn’t see each other after that. But I made sure that I saw Mr Smith every Saturday.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

Other stories you might like

Late at the office

I remember like it was yesterday

Vigilantes

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Mailman Delivers

z used paddle jeans otk

Herb Schneider had been a postal worker for nearly twenty years and he thought he had seen it all until one day he stopped to deliver a parcel at the MacDonald residence. Even as he walked up the path he knew something was wrong; he could hear the yells of a young man coming from inside the house.

By the time he reached the front door it was obvious to him: the cries were coming from the living room. Without thinking, he peered through the window and his suspicion was confirmed.

Mr MacDonald was sat on the couch and face down, stretched across his legs, was his son. The boy was easily as tall as his father, but not as heavy and Herb could tell, not as strong. The boy lay flat on the couch; his legs bent a little at the knees behind him: in front he clutched a scatter cushion to his chest. His bottom was raised over his father’s lap, in the perfect position to receive swats from a shiny wooden paddle.

The wood crashed into the seat of the boy’s jeans. He wore a wide brown leather belt which his father had gripped to tug the denim tightly across the bottom. Even at this distance Herb could see the outline of the boy’s underwear. The boy’s t-shirt had ridden up his back a little where his father held his own strong arm across the boy’s middle to hold him firmly in place.

As each swat connected with his buttocks, the boy screwed up his eyes, puffed wind through his mouth and wailed.

Did fathers still spank their sons, Herb wondered. Was it even legal? Should he be calling the police or social services?

MacDonald released his son who shot up to his feet, his face as beetroot as his backside probably was. He performed the spanking dance, hopping from one foot to the other while rubbing at his buttocks. His father said something, Herb couldn’t hear and the boy raced from the room.

“I hate you!” Herb could hear that as the boy stomped up the stairs to his room.

The postal worker was embarrassed, should he say something? Was it any of his business? He rang the bell and within seconds MacDonald answered.

“Sorry about that,” Herb might have been embarrassed, but MacDonald was not. “You shouldn’t have had to witness that.”

Herb handed over the parcel. He should say something. But what?

“I didn’t think people beat their children anymore.” He regretted it immediately; it was a confrontational thing to say and probably none of his business.

MacDonald flushed. “I do not ‘beat’ my sons, I spank them. It is not the same,” he said indignantly.

Herb’s silence encouraged him to say more. “I do not flail the living daylights out of them. When it is necessary, I give them a short sharp wake-up call.”

Herb had never before engaged in a philosophical debate with a customer and he wished he had kept his mouth shut this time.

There was no stopping MacDonald, “Boys, especially teenagers, need guidance; they need to have rules explained to them. They need to know where the boundaries are.”

“But, I thought we were supposed to let our children grow and develop as they want to, so they became happy individuals,” Herb said, trying to remember where he had heard that.

“Nonsense, if you do that they spend all their time seeking pleasure. They could end up as drunks or drug takers. It is our responsibility, our duty even, to teach them how to behave.”

Herb wondered if MacDonald had a point. He wasn’t sure, but he thought his own son Ryan might be taking drugs. Would a spanking cure him of that?

“We should not try to be our sons’ friend,” MacDonald was on a roll, “We are their parents and we have to act like that. And, when necessary that must mean we have to discipline them.”

“But, spanking?” Herb was not convinced that he would have the nerve to punish Ryan like that.

MacDonald was certain in his conviction. “Not only spanking. We have to show them that we love them. We give rewards when they behave well and we discipline them when they do not. It isn’t necessary to spank them often. I’ve spanked Baz a few times but only when he knows he has overstepped the boundaries and he has been warned about the consequences.”

Herb was still not convinced. He assumed Baz was the youth he had just seen paddled. How old was he anyway? Eighteen? Nineteen? “Isn’t Baz too old to be spanked?” he asked.

“No, not if he continues to misbehave. Kids are kids and from time to time they are going to push you to see how far they can go. When Baz does that, he goes over my knee.”

MacDonald was warming to his theme. “He still needs that maintenance spanking now and again, but it wouldn’t be right to smack him on his bare bottom. I got the paddle on the Internet, it works wonders. It’s heavy enough to do the job without my having to take down his pants.”

Herb could testify to that, it certainly looked like the teenager had been in some pain after his paddling.

MacDonald lapsed into silence as if expecting the mailman to respond, but anxious to be gone Herb simply collected a signature and hurried back to his cart.

Herb couldn’t get the incident out of his mind. He wasn’t too concerned about the teenager. MacDonald had been right he hadn’t flailed the boy; it was a good old-fashioned spanking, of the kind he would have gotten from his own father if he acted up back in the day.

Herb was more concerned about MacDonald’s certainty that not only was spanking the right thing to do; it was a father’s duty to lay down boundaries for their children and to punish them, with a spanking when necessary, when they defiantly overstepped them.

It niggled at the back of his mind; his own son Ryan, who he supposed was about the same age as the MacDonald boy, was off the rails. He was hardly ever at home and he skipped school. And he was probably dabbling in drugs. Herb loved the boy and he knew he needed to help Ryan, but he had no idea how.

He had never spanked the boy ever; not even a little slap. It had never occurred to him to do such a thing. Even though his own father wasn’t shy at whacking Herb’s butt and he knew most of his friends had suffered the same punishment, but now as a father himself he didn’t know any other parents who used corporal punishment.

Driving home, he tuned into Talk Radio and was astonished that the topic of the hour was ‘Should we spank our kids?’

An eighteen-year-old kid calling himself Andy was on the air. “I have broken the school rules and will probably be suspended but when my parents find out I know they won’t punish me in the proper way,” he was saying. “I really deserve to be given a paddling instead of just a grounding which mum won’t stick to. In a day or so she will let me off and it will all be forgotten. I think my dad should deal with me the old fashioned way. A proper spanking is what I need.”

Was this kid for real? Did he really want his dad to whack his ass with a wooden paddle to make him behave?

Herb never got to find out; he turned the corner and parked outside his home, silencing the radio as he switched off the engine.

But that wasn’t the last he heard on the subject. That evening ‘spanking’ was all over the news programs. It seemed the local board of education was debating bringing back the paddle in school. If the TV news was to be believed eighty percent of parents who answered a poll wanted it. A judge who was soon coming up for election jumped on the bandwagon making a speech calling for juvenile delinquents to be “spanked”. He made it sound like hardened thugs would be taken across a warder’s knee for a slapped butt.

Later, when Herb went to the bar for a beer he found friends and co-workers looking at the story in the local newspaper and comparing experiences. If they were telling the truth they had all spanked their kids at one time or other and some still did.

Herb had been quite wrong, corporal punishment was much more widely used than he had realised. MacDonald wasn’t the only customer on the mail route who blistered the backside of his sons. Well, who would have thought it? You never knew what went on behind the drapes in respectable houses.

The discussion on spanking was short-lived. All his drinking buddies agreed; bring back the paddle. Now, what about the chances of those Patriots in the Pennant?

There was bad news waiting for Herb the following day when he returned home from work. Ryan had been suspended from school for fourteen days. He had not been attending school, so they decided to make him stay at home as a punishment. Herb never considered himself to be an intellectual, but even he could see that didn’t make sense. Maybe if they did bring back the paddle the school principal could swat the boy’s butt and that might bring him to his senses, Herb hoped.

Herb’s wife Mary was not a happy woman. She had despaired of her son’s behaviour for years and was at her wits end figuring out what to do. She had even asked the advice of the family’s pastor. Given the chance the pastor would have taken the boy to the woodshed himself and whipped a razor strop across his bare ass, but he couldn’t tell her that. In his experience mothers were always reluctant for their sons to be spanked, regardless that the Good Book said, “Spare the rod and spoil the child.” Was it any wonder the children grew up to be thugs, when mothers spoilt them like that?

Mary’s shame at her son’s behaviour and his suspension was real. What, she thought, would the neighbours say? Herb was embarrassed too, but this was mostly because he had no idea what he should do with Ryan.

“We should ground him for a month,” his wife said, “longer even.”

Those words pulled Herb up sharply. “Ground him.” That was what that kid said on Talk Radio. He had said his mother would ground him but she wouldn’t stick to it. “I think my dad should deal with me the old fashioned way. A proper spanking is what I need,” he had said.

Things could not go on like this. Ryan was wasting his life. He was lazy, disrespectful, and now he had brought disgrace to the family.  Something had to be done. But what?

“You must speak to the boy,” his wife told him.

“Yes, alright,” he replied with great irritation. Why was he the one who had to do this? “But what am I supposed to say to him?”

Herb was expected to have a man-to-man talk with his eighteen-year-old son. He must tell him he had behaved badly and needed to be punished. Should he treat him like an adult and ask Ryan what punishment he thought he deserved?

What if he agreed with that kid on the radio? Herb blushed scarlet at the thought of it. He was too embarrassed to have that kind of conversation with his son.

The ringing of the telephone interrupted his thoughts. It was Matt McMillan calling to ask a very personal question.

Matt was the father of Dwight McMillan, Ryan’s best buddy. It was news to Herb, but Dwight had also been suspended from school with Ryan. Matt told him the two boys had been skipping school and the rare times they were in classes they were a disruptive influence.

“What are you going to do to Ryan?” Matt asked. Herb understood the question, but pretended not to.

“I think Dwight needs a warm whipping, but what do you think? Is he too old? I don’t know what to do,” Matt asked, genuinely wanting help.

Herb’s mumbling was no reply at all, so Matt continued, “I’ve whopped his ass in the past. I think it worked most times. But, I’m not sure now. He’s way out of line. Maybe he needs another trip over my knee. What do you think?”

Herb did not know what he thought and he wished Matt wasn’t asking him these questions. He hardly knew the man. They met sometimes at a bar or occasionally in church, that’s all.

Matt rang off the phone, still unsure what to do.

Herb’s wife poured him a cup of coffee and went into the next room to watch her program on TV.

As he sipped the hot coffee, Herb recounted in his mind the past day or so. It had never once occurred to him to spank his son, but he was not sure why. He had supposed that nobody did that kind of thing these days and everyone thought it was unacceptable to punish children that way. He had learned a lot recently. Rather than be the norm, he now realised he was the one out of step. They all spanked their kids and they all thought it was not only acceptable, but it was their duty to make sure they grew up to become respectable adults and good citizens.

He was coming round to the idea that maybe just this once he ought to spank Ryan. He would do it too, he told himself without much conviction. But Ryan was getting to be a big boy; would he submit himself to his father’s will? If he would not and it came to a fist fight there could be only one winner: Ryan.

An hour later the telephone rang: it was Matt McMillan back again. He seemed a bit breathless as if he had been on a long run. Herb imagined sweat was pouring off the man’s body.

“I gave him a switching,” he said, still trying to regularize his breathing.

Why are you telling me this? Herb kept his thoughts to himself, but he really did not want to hear this.

Mr McMillan had cut a switch from the back yard and confronted Dwight with it. Dwight knew that what was to happen next was inevitable and he gave no resistance. That was how he came to be dressed in his pajamas, in the bedroom, kneeling on the bed with his chin on the mattress and his butt pointing to the sky.

His father would have liked to have whipped Dwight’s bare ass, but his son was clearly a man now and a degree of modesty had to be observed.

Matt McMillan’s own father had no such scruples. He knew that a bare-assed switching was a very effective punishment even for the older teen. So like father, like son. Matt had himself once been an out-of-control jock always trying to impress his friends and the girls. One night he stole his dad’s car – he didn’t even have a drivers’ license – and raced it around the town at high speed, executing handbrake turns at every corner. The inevitable happened, he was doing eighty and lost control and smashed into a tree.

He came away unscratched, but he didn’t stay that way for long. When his dad found out he cut a long switch and with the eighteen year old sprawled across the kitchen table he lashed into the boy’s naked buttocks. “You could have been killed! You could have been killed!” his father wailed as he cut into the boy’s flesh.

Matt thrashed his own son with less emotion, but he hoped the beating would be equally effective.

It took Herb another day to pluck up the courage to talk to Ryan. The boy had been away from the house for hours and had just returned from who-knew-where. They sat at the kitchen table sipping juice.

“Did you know Dwight’s father gave him a switching last night?” Herb did not know how he had plucked up enough courage to ask such a question. If the boy answered where might this conversation end?

Ryan grunted and sipped at his drink some more.

“Dwight was suspended from school with you. You were both in trouble for the same thing,” Herb looked intently at his son, hoping for some reaction from him so that he did not have to finish his sentence.

Ryan was in no mood to help out his father.

Herb’s heart was racing; he was entering unchartered territory. “If that’s how Dwight was punished. How do you think you should be punished?”

Ryan had spent much of the day with Dwight and had inspected the thin welts on his bottom. There were a dozen clear cuts; it would take weeks before the lines cleared. Ryan’s mum had only grounded him for a month: he knew he had gotten off lightly.

Ryan thought the world of Dwight. They were best buddies in the way that only teenaged boys could be. Dwight had chewed him off all day about that grounding. It was not a proper punishment and he said Ryan was scared to take a whipping.

They wrestled a bit over that, but it was only pretend fighting. It was not his fault, Ryan said, that his father never spanked him. It had always been like that. The worst Ryan got from his parents was a scolding before being sent to bed early. Ryan would like to prove himself to his buddy, but it was not his fault he father did not believe in spanking.

“So how should I punish you?” Herb asked again, trying to keep this one-sided conversation going.

He would wish that he had kept quiet.

Ryan spoke for the first time, very quietly. “I really deserve to be given a paddling instead of just grounding. A proper spanking is what I need.”

Herb spluttered into his juice. That was exactly what that kid had said on the radio. Could it be? No, Herb tried to reassure himself; Ryan never listened to anything except music radio.

“I don’t have a paddle,” Herb’s voice was a soft as his son’s.

“I could cut you a switch.”

Herb could not meet this son’s eye. Some strange reversal of roles had taken place. He should have been the one talking about switches.

“Alright then, son.”

Ryan scrapped back his stool and still not daring to look at is father, he slowly walked the length of the kitchen. He had made his decision hours ago; nothing now should make him change his mind. He opened the door and went into the back yard.

A couple of minutes later he returned with a freshly-cut switch in his hand. Herb could see it was about three feet long and quite thin. His heart rate quickened and his mouth was drying.

Ryan walked through the kitchen and out into the living room next door. Herb took this as his cue to follow.

Still without speaking Ryan handed his father the switch. Herb’s hand shook slightly as he took hold of it, immediately noticing both its suppleness and whippiness.

Ryan face was flushed. If Herb had been a more astute man he would read his son’s inner turmoil. Ryan knew he had to do this for the sake of his friendship with Wayne, but he was not sure, now at the last minute, that he could go through with it. He too had noticed the springiness of the switch. As he was cutting and shaving it, he got the measure of the little beast. It might not look much, he thought as he had swished it through the air, testing its suitability, but it would leave an impressive cut. Wayne’s sliced buttocks had been testimony to that.

Ryan took a deep breath. “You should give me twelve,” said as he unbuckled his belt, before unfastening his jeans and dropping them to his knees. Then, turning his back on his father, Ryan bent across the back of the couch presenting his ass to his father for his first-ever spanking.

If Ryan had passed his point of no return, Herb had not. There was still time to call this off. He ran his fingers across the length of the switch at the same time observing how his son’s tight briefs highlighted the round curves of his buttocks.

Herb was not sure what was happening here. His son on his own initiative was offering up his backside for severe punishment. He wanted, no probably needed, to make penitence for his misbehaviour. Did Herb have any right to deny him this?

Ryan’s buttocks twitched nervously, waiting for the first cut. He had never been beaten before, but he expected the pain to be awesome. Years of fingering Wayne’s wounds had taught him that.

Herb was not sure he could go through with this. Perhaps, he should call Matt McMillan and ask his advice.

But ask his advice on what exactly?

Damn it Herb, be a man, he told himself. Get on with it.

He had never whipped a boy with a switch before, but how difficult could it be? He stood to Ryan’s left and tapped the rod across Ryan’s two buttocks. Instinctively he knew that if he was going to beat the boy, he needed to do it with some force. He raised the switch and slashed it down right across the centre of Ryan’s bottom. The teenager let out a gasp and stamped his legs. Yes, Herb recorded, that one had stung.

He lashed down again and again until twelve thin stripes ranged across Ryan’s globes. Mercifully, for both of them, Ryan managed to stay reasonably calm and steady throughout, so no strokes missed the target by too much. A slash across the back of the boy’s naked thighs could have put him in hospital.

As soon as number twelve landed, Ryan removed himself from the back of the couch. Herb could see he was breathing heavily and he must be in considerable pain. His eyes were moist, but no tears were flowing.

He pulled up his jeans and tightened the belt, clearly in much discomfort. Ryan clenched and unclenched his fists in an attempt to manage the pain that was coursing through his body. He desperately wanted to rub his buttocks, but not in front of his father. It was obvious to him that welts had formed and he suspected some of them might be bleeding.

Neither man knew what they were supposed to say now. “Thank you,” Ryan whispered, it seemed the right thing to say.

Herb mumbled something that could have been, “OK.”

Ryan took that as a cue to go to his room. Once upstairs, he inspected he damage. There were twelve clear lines criss-crossing the buttocks. Herb’s aim had not been so good after all. Some were turning from cherry red to blue. There were spots of blood where cuts intersected, but a damp facecloth dealt with those. The agony had receded, but they were very painful to the touch. Soon the throbbing would turn to a warm glow, but the marks would stay for many days to come. Ha! Ryan exclaimed, now he would have something to show off to his buddy Wayne.

Downstairs, Herb stood alone in the living room, still holding the switch, unsure what to do next. Five minutes must have passed before he went and threw it in the trash can.

The motion to reintroduce paddling in school was passed by a huge majority: public opinion had won. The next time Ryan and Wayne acted up at school, the principal could whop them himself and for that Herb was extremely grateful.

 

Picture credit: Spank This / Helix

 

This story was first uploaded in December 2015.

Other stories you might like

The freshman class

It’s the waiting …

Caught in their underpants

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Letter of Gratitude

new story 2

z used caption graduate

Dear Uncle Algernon

Today I leave to travel to Newcastle to start my new job and new career. I will be living 200 miles away from you and I know our lives will never quite be the same again. How can I express my gratitude for all you have done for me and the love you show me?

I am shamed when I look back at how much I resented it when you took me in to your home and gave me a roof over my head when I was eighteen. I now shudder when I think how different things might have been. I would probably today be sleeping in a shop doorway or at best I’d be in some homeless men’s hostel maybe with a job sweeping floors somewhere. Now the world is my oyster. I owe it all to you.

When you persuaded me (Ha! Ha! Persuaded, let’s be honest forced me kicking and screaming) to take up that college course I resented the hell out of you. Going back to school at nineteen. I didn’t know then how much you wanted the best for me and you were prepared to make sacrifices. You were the first – and probably still the only – person ever to do such a thing. I didn’t know at the time just how much you loved me. You said you would do what it takes to get me on track: on the straight and narrow.

I didn’t believe you. I do now. I remember the first time you took your belt to me and leathered my backside. Do you remember the fight? You grabbing me by the scruff of the neck, forcing me face down over the back of the sofa and setting my rear end on fire. Nobody but you would ever have done such a thing. Such a kindness. My own parents all but abandoned me. Was it any surprise I dropped out of school and wandered through life aimlessly. I know it’s a cliché but you were my guiding light in a storm.

I spent much on the next few months appreciating the pattern on the carpet in your lounge. Me across your knee; you pounding a paddle across the seat of my underpants. Ha! Ha! I can laugh about it now; but then, not so. It took a while for me to appreciate you had my best interest at heart. That ‘contract of objectives’ we drew up was a masterstroke. I set my goals in life, we worked out how to measure my achievements and if (indeed often it was when) I fell short you were there to catch me; with that goddamn  paddle, or that heavy leather taws. Where did you get that?

I owe it to you and your efforts and yes your love that I passed my examinations and won a place at the university. Me, at university! No one in our family – not even you dear uncle – had ever achieved such a distinction.

We thought I was ready for the challenge. We thought I was mature enough to set sail on my own, so I signed up at a university away from home. From your home, from the place that I call home and with your permission would like to think of my home always. I was now absent from your day-to-day influence but I carried in my heart the lessons you had taught me.

Uncle, you know what happened next. I was nearly twenty-one years old, but I regressed to being sixteen again. My studies started well, but the cheap beer in the student guild bar and the women – oh there were so many women available. How was I to know I was such a handsome chap (Ha! Ha!). Uncle, the women came to me. Of course, the inevitable happened. By the second semester I was in danger of failing my courses. Disaster. But once more you rode to my rescue.

Who but my loving Uncle would take the time and the effort to take me in hand. You explained that women were all right in their place. A young man has needs. But there has to be a balance in life. We drew up one of those contracts. Time for study, time for women. Once the assignments were written, I could allow myself a treat.

Your insistence on what you called “reinforcement” was a master stroke (or strokes, Ha! Ha!). I appreciate greatly your sensitivity. You knew I lived in the student halls of residence where the walls of the rooms were paper thin. I needed to be “dealt with” but this was a relationship best kept between us two. The rest of the student population need not know of our arrangement. The Motel With a View, on the A-287 trunk road was perfectly discreet. It was the first (but by no means the last) time I felt that intense sting that can be delivered only by a stout but whippy rattan cane used in such a determined manner. I remember you piled three pillows on the bed. I removed my shoes, socks, trousers and underwear to lie face down on the bed. I chewed the fourth pillow. My what strength you have. I have never been forced to sit on an electric fire but if I were ever made to do so it could not possible hurt less than one of your canings. That time it was twelve stripes. Ouch! Each searing into my flesh. As you know (you’ve seen it at close quarters often enough, Ha! Ha!) my bottom is really quite small. There is no meat back there to speak of so your lashes sank deep and left behind terrific welts. My bum felt like corrugated cardboard at the end. Oh how I needed that pillow.

Yes, Uncle I owe everything to you. Without you I should never have graduated university. And, now look at me, a young professional man with a future ahead of me. I don’t know however I shall be able to repay you. Thank you, thank you, thank you! But dear Uncle I have a request. Please don’t abandon me now. Newcastle is so far away and the temptations in my new life will be so great. You have taught me well, but I fear for the future, please reassure me that you will be there for me, ready to whip me in to shape when the occasion demands.

Affectionately Yours,

Gideon.

Picture credit: Laurence Fellows

Other stories you might like

The vicar and the gay boys

No Smoking!

Letter of Regret

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com