Enhanced community training

new story 2

zused paddle jeans table (1)

Jack made his way through the student union bar, careful not to spill a drop from the two pint of beers he carried; the carpet beneath his feet was sticky enough. He made it unscathed to the table occupied by his best pal Al. He sat, gulped down a throatful of lager, and delved into his jacket pocket, pulling out a letter he had recently received.

“It’s from the Registrars’ Office,”  he unfolded three pages and glanced through the top one as if to remind himself what he it said. “I’ve been put on E.C.T.”

Al grinned and swigged his own beer. “Enhanced Community Training! Who’s been a naughty boy then?”

“You know about this stuff then?” Jack was still reading the letter.

Al wrinkled his nose, suppressing further laughter. E.C.T was serious. Life was about to get very unpleasant indeed for his friend. An uneasy silence fell between them. Al was bursting to hear more, but he knew he would have to be patient. Jack would tell his story in his own time.

The glasses were nearly empty when Jack started. “I was on the Dean’s list three times. Mostly poor grades, but then there was that time when we all got high and ran round the halls naked.” He spoke clearly, without emotion, as if he were reading the nine o’clock news on television. “Now, they caught me ducking lectures.” He peered at the letter in his hand. “Enhanced Community Training; what’s that all about then?”

Al reached across the table, being careful not to catch his sleeve in the beer spills, and took the letter. “It’s that new scheme, where they team you up with some granddad type who is supposed to keep you on the straight and narrow.” He saw Jack’s puzzled expression. “Dan was put in it last semester. His arse is still sore,” suddenly he felt his face redden and he quickly swallowed more beer.

“What are you talking about?” Jack couldn’t hide his irritation. His arse is still sore.

“Yeah,” Al composed himself. “You have to go to granddad and show you can behave yourself and if you don’t,” his face blushed scarlet. “Well, you know …” he gulped beer to hide his embarrassment, “you get spanked.”

“Spanked! Yeah, Ha! Ha! Ha!,” Jack retorted cynically, “As if.”

Al handed him back the letter, “Read these terms and conditions, mate,” he showed him the densely-typed pages. “It’s all in there.”

Jack snatched them and held them close to his face. One heading “Corporal Punishment” suddenly shone out like a beacon. Colour drained from his face. “Is this even legal?” he gasped.

“You have to do it. You don’t and the uni. Will kick you out on your ear. Times they are a’changing, my friend,” Al sighed as he collected Jack’s glass and made his way to the bar.

….

Major T. E. V. Manwaring-Robertson (Ret.) sipped thoughtfully at his whisky, a sheaf of computer-generated reports lay scattered on the table. The label on the buff manila folder read JOHN (JACK) HILL. Maj Manwaring-Robertson had read every page three times already, he believed in doing his homework thoroughly. The boy was twenty years old and really should know better, he thought. He suppressed a grin, “Running naked through the halls of residences,” he said aloud, although there was nobody there to hear him. “That’s a new one on me.” He leaned across to the whisky bottle and splashed a generous measure into his glass, “Must be some sort of guy-thing.” The rest of the report was more standard fare: poor grades, failed examinations, truanting from lectures, assignment deadlines missed. He had been reprimanded often; but was a serial reoffender. He was unresponsive to university discipline.

The Major leaned back in his horsehair armchair and stared towards the ceiling. Jack was not a wicked lad, he mused, he could be saved. There was still time for him to turn his life around. Apart from the nude athletics, he was no different from the others he had helped. That was the trouble with the young these days, they lacked guidance. They had no boundaries, they had never been taught right from wrong. He blamed the parents. And the schools. The Church had a lot to answer for as well. A good dose of Military Service might sort them out. Well, things were changing (thank the Lord!) and until all young men were put in uniform they would have to make do with Enhanced Community Training.

The Major closed his eyes. He had been set a difficult task, but he was up to it. It was his duty to respond to the needs of society. Hill needed disciplining and the Major was just the man to administer it. He knew this for a fact; he had a proven track record. He fancied that he might be one of the stars of Brocklehurst University’s Enhanced Community Training scheme.

Less than three months ago there had been that youngster Dan; what a bumptious individual he had been. Like all teenagers really, the Major supposed, smug, self-centred, thought the world revolved around him. He was soon taught a lesson.

It started one cold, wet November evening. It wasn’t quite Bonfire Night but the noise from a distant firework party invaded the house. It was a large, detached home, far too big for the Major to live in alone. The Avenue was full of homes shielded from prying eyes by tall hedges or walls. Major Manwaring-Robertson (Ret.) had all the solitude he could desire. It was so well hidden that Dan had difficulty finding it on his first visit and had arrived considerably late.

“Not an auspicious start,” the Major snarled as Dan stood dumbfounded, unsure of the meaning of the word. The Major was a tall, thick set man, broadening at the waist but he still had the remains of strong hard muscles. His military presence had not diminished since his army days. His slicked back hair emphasised his stern gaze. His dark eyes were a little too close together and his mouth was stuck in a permanent frown. “So, you’re Hill,” he growled, his stare burning into the student’s soul. The miserable boy shuddered, “Yes, sir,” in reply. He had only just met the man and was already terrified.

The Major was a man of few words and those he did speak were usually commands. “You know why you have been sent here,” he thundered. Dan’s terror had not abated, fearful and confused he remained silent.

“Pah!” the Major exploded. “I’ll have no dumb insolence in my house, boy!”

Dan blushed to his roots, hopping from foot to foot in his confusion. What was he supposed to say? “Pah!” the Major  blasted again, air whistling through half-closed teeth. He then listed all Dan’s faults at university. They were many. “It stops now,” he glowered. “There are rules. You will find a copy in your room. Learn them. Don’t break them. Or else.” The threat in his voice was not implied; it was real.

“And, now,” the Major clasped his hands together as if we were about to start praying,  “We must start as we mean to go on.”

Dan’s jaw dropped and his face blanched as he watched the aging military gentleman stride across the room. It was sizeable, but had little furniture. Army life had taught the Major to live without luxuries. There was a small table, a couple of old, dusty horsehair armchairs and a cracked leather Chesterfield couch. Heavy curtains covered the windows and the whole effect was of gloom.

The Major paused when he reached the far wall. Dan swallowed hard. Only now had he noticed what was hanging from a hook. It was a block of wood. Dan was puzzled, it looked like something his mother used in her kitchen to chop vegetables. The Major reached up and in one smooth movement fetched it down and gripped it tightly. Close up it looked like a miniature cricket bat. The Major pointed it at Dan, showing it as if it were a religious offering.

“We must deal with your misbehaviour over this past year. Then we start with a clean slate,” he boomed.

The Major glared at Dan not trying to hide his distain. He looked around the room as if trying to decide his next move. His eyes settled on the table. “There, that’ll do.” In the early days of E.C.T. the Major had expected resistance. Young men were unused to discipline and the concept of punishment was totally alien. But without exception they had been submissive. Perhaps, it was the Major’s military baring, or maybe, he thought, deep down inside them they just knew they needed this. They could not travel into adulthood without a roadmap. Please, they seemed to be saying, tell me what is expected, how I should behave. What is the difference between right and wrong? And, when I get it wrong, help me.

The Major was no intellectual, he never delved into the consciousness of the students he was asked to train. There were rules, they were broken, there were set punishments, they were administered. Life could be as simple as that.

So, he knew Dan would submit to his command. The nineteen-year-old knew why he had been sent to him. Actions had consequences.

Major Manwaring-Robertson (Ret.) nodded his flushed face towards the table. “There,” he barked. The Major was incapable of speaking quietly. Dan, already pale, turned a ghostly white as the enormity of situation dawned. Never in his whole life had he been close to something like this. Who among his family or at his school would have even thought to spank his backside hard; no matter how serious his misbehaviour. This was indeed uncharted territory.

“Go to the table and bend over,” the Major waved his wooden paddle menacingly. Dan, on automatic pilot, shuffled forward. The table was low and he quite tall so he towered above it. “How exactly should this be done?” an inner voice asked him. The Major had seen this all before. Of course, a teenager sent to live under his authority had no idea how to present himself for a spanking. The basics were simple enough: jut out your backside and let an older man whack it with a paddle, slipper, belt, cane or what-not.

“You should bend forward, rest your elbows on the table. Spread your legs, arch your back and lift your bottom high.” All done with military precision. In this way Dan would present his bottom at the perfect angle to receive the Major’s paddle.

In silence, but with heart thudding, Dan shuffled forward. His instructions had been clear. Later in bed nursing his battered buttocks the teenager would puzzle over his own composure. What in the world had compelled him to obey? He could have turned on his heels, rushed out the house and been in time to catch the last bus back to the university. He did none of these things. Meekly, he took a deep breath and assumed the position, forearms on the table, head low, bottom high, feet apart. His already tight denim jeans stretched further across his buttocks and dug into the crack between his parted cheeks.

The Major tapped the paddle into the open palm of his left hand and watched passively as his victim prepared himself. Dan was a lean boy, his firm and muscular chest clearly outlined by his white t-shirt (why was it, the Major pondered that youngsters always wore t-shirts no matter how cold the weather?) The teenager’s hair was short and dark and already he had a high forehead; the first signs of premature balding. But it wasn’t Dan’s head that concerned the Major. He turned his attention to the other end. He stood close to the boy’s right side and gently caressed his wooden paddle across the fleshiest part of the rather pert buttocks. The Major knew Dan’s jeans, which were nearly new, would offer considerable protection against the paddle. He knew a bare-bottomed beating would be more severe, but the Major was a military tactician; he must not start with a thrashing across naked haunches. That might come at a later date, it was a threat to hold over the boy if he failed to improve his behaviour.

Dan felt the heavy weight of the paddle rest against his left buttock, the Major raised the wood some distance in the air, before pausing (for dramatic effect) and walloping it down against stretched denim with terrific force.  It hurt. A lot. Dan, unused to being spanked shuddered, his feet slipped on the carpet and it took a tremendous effort to stay steady. The Major noted with satisfaction how the imprint of the paddle blade was embedded in the soft stretched denim.

Encouraged, he flogged another three swats into Dan’s bum so both buttocks were toasted.

Dan raised his head in shock, his eyes popped and he swayed from the neck, his head neighing from side to side. He didn’t call out, the burning sensation under his jeans was intensifying, but he was not in agony. Whack, whack, whack. Three cracks like machinegun fire, all landing across the undercurves, made him gasp. His temples throbbed as madly as his bum, he bit down on his lower lip.

The paddle pounded the buttocks rat-a-tat-tat. Rapidly. Dan wriggled. He writhed. He bucked. He even kicked. The Major held him down forcibly across the shoulders and continued to toast the teenager’s rear end. The Major lost count after twenty swats. They came so quickly it was impossible to keep a tally. On and on the spanking continued.

Then as quickly as it had begun, it stopped. The Major rested the paddle on the table beside the distressed student. Dan wheezed. He had no experience of these things, but instinctively he knew this had been an exemplary spanking. Dan was still, getting his breath back; regaining his composure.  He didn’t notice the Major caress his stretched buttocks. Small, circular motions. Lovingly. He raised his hand high and slapped his palm into the blistered bottom just as hard as he had with the wooden paddle.

Dan whinnied like a horse. He had never before experienced such light-headedness. None of the drugs he had ever taken did this to him. He stood, unsteady on his feet, and on command and as if floating on air, he ascended the stairs to his room.

Picture credit: TPLF Productions

 

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The broken window

At the girls’ showers

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Pub talk

new story 2

z used bare bum holding whisky bottle

“I don’t know what to do, I’m at my wit’s end really I am,” Tony stared down into his half full glass of lager. “It’s that bloody kid of mine.”

“What Shane?” his pal munched on a potato crisp.

“No the older one, Dwayne,” Tony sipped his tepid drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, clearly distressed.

“What’s up. Not in trouble with the law?”

“Soon will be the way things are going. I don’t know what to do,” Tony drank heavily.

“What did he do this time?”

“Everything,” Tony drained his lager and stared down at the foam in his glass. “He hasn’t done a day’s work since he left school last summer. Nothing. It’s not like there ain’t jobs out there.” He peered across the gloomy bar to his pal who nodded agreement. Encouraged, he carried on, “I wouldn’t mind if it was just a burger bar, or filling shelves at Tesco. It wouldn’t have to pay much.”

His pal interjected, “Just to bring some money in. They can learn stuff on the job, then get a better one later.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony was relived to have a sympathetic ear, he had become quite depressed in recent weeks over the antics of Dwayne. “It might give him some self-respect.” He swirled the dregs of beer in his glass, silently recollecting. “He stays in bed to all hours of the day and then goes out until God knows what time. Treats the house like a hotel and gives his mother lip all day long.”

“I know the feeling mate,” his pal stood up and headed for the bar. “Let’s have another drink and you can tell me all about it.”

Fortified by alcohol, Tony recounted the tribulations. “He’s driving Sharon up the wall, even said she wouldn’t mind chucking him out.”

“Onto the street?”

“She don’t mean it of course, she’s just at her wit’s end. Me too.”

His pal broke into a broad smile, irritating the hell out of Tony. “I don’t see there’s anything to laugh about,” he fumed. “It ain’t no joking matter.”

“Nah mate, nah,” his pal waved his hand through the air to calm Tony. “I just mean I know what you’re going through; we had exactly the same trouble with Wayne.”

Tony leaned forward across the table to hear more, trailing his shirtsleeve in spilt lager. When his pal stayed silent, Tony prompted him, “Well what happened? What did you do?”

His pal’s face flushed and it wasn’t the beer. It was the memory of his solution. “I don’t think I can say,” he blustered. “It was all a bit weird.”

“What d’you mean? Tell me.” Tony couldn’t hide his irritation.

“No, well, I dunno. I might get into trouble.” He blinked hard, debating with himself whether to continue, “You know with the social workers, or police, or somethink.”

“What the bloody hell you talking about? You can’t get me going and then not tell me what happened,” Tony grinned.

“Well,” his pal took a long draught of beer and settled back to tell his tale. “Wayne was exactly like your Dwayne. Lazy, no job, never did a stroke around the house. A real pain in the arse.” He broke off and laughed. “Yeah, that’s about it, a real pain in the arse. I was going mad, didn’t know what to do. I spoke to my brother about it and he tells me that he had exactly the same problem with his kid. No job, sloppy, rude, the whole nine yards. So know what he did?”

Tony shook his head and his pal continued. “He only gave him a right good spanking.”

Tony frowned; had he heard correctly? “A spanking? What you mean like …” he struggled to find the right word, so gave up, “… a spanking?”

“Yeah,” his friend leaned in closer in case the girls at the nearby table overheard. “Yeah, as in whacking, walloping, y’know.”

“But Wayne’s eighteen.”

“So what. His lad was nineteen if he was a day.”

“But ….” Tony trailed off speechless.

“Yeah,” his pal spoke in a whisper, “That’s what I thought. Besides, even if I reckoned it was a good idea, how could I do it? Wayne’s built like a brick outhouse and look at me.” There was no need for Tony to look, he knew his pal was running to fat. Too many nights supping lager in the pub. He wouldn’t stand a chance in a stand-up fight with his son.

The subsequent silence went on for too long, so Tony thought he’d better say something, “So nothing happened then?”

“Nah, I didn’t say that. I couldn’t get it out of my mind. Ken, that’s my brother, he swore it was the best thing he ever done. His boy’s now at college, he’s gonna be a plumber. So you can see I was tempted.” He took a swig of beer, looked Tony squarely in the eye, and carried on. “Then one night, my Louise is at bingo and I get home about seven and you’ll never credit it.” He paused for effect and when Tony stayed dumb he filled in the details.

“I gets into the kitchen and what do you think I see, it’s only Wayne. And he’s as pissed as a fart and he’s only half naked. No trousers, no pants. Nothing down below. And he’s only got a bottle of my booze in his hand. Stolen it out of the kitchen cupboard. So I says something like ‘What you doing?’ and he turns round and tells me to fuck off. Yes! Really.”

Tony’s mouth gaped open; he tried not to laugh. Even his Dwayne had never sworn at him like that. “What did you do?”

His pal shook his head as if he couldn’t believe himself what he did next. “Well, I just flipped. I went apeshit. I never planned it, I swear.” He waited to get a nod of consent from Tony and carried on. “There was this board on the kitchen counter. Y’know the thing you use to chop vegetables and the like. So I just grabbed hold of it. It was no bigger than a DVD cover and I just hurled myself at the brat. He never saw me coming.”

Tony gaped, he had guessed what happened next. “You never did.”

“I did. I grabbed him by the neck and before he knew it I had him bent over, face down over the table. He was really effing and jeffing now. But I didn’t care. I just whacked that board across his arse. He was stark naked of course and his bum was as red as a pillar box after I walloped him two or three times.”

He refreshed his mouth with lager, “But I didn’t stop at that. I was whacking every inch of his bum. Really hard. And I was telling him about all the bad things he had done and how he needed to get a job and make something of himself.”

“Didn’t he fight with you?”

“I think it was the drink … and the surprise. I don’t really know. I had him pinned down by the shoulders and he wasn’t going nowhere. Anyway at last I let him go and he ran back to his room hollering.”

Tony shook his head in disbelief. He could see why his pal didn’t want the Social or the police to know. It seemed like his pal had finished his story, but Tony thought there must be more to it. “What happened next? Didn’t he just carry on like before?”

His could see his pal’s eyes twinkle. “You know what,” he said, “I’m no head doctor, you know a trick cyclist like, but I think I touched a nerve.” He grinned at his own joke, “I mean not just the nerves in his arse. It was the first time I’d really showed him that I cared. The next day we had a good talk about it and I told him that there were rules in life. You have to put something in to get something out.”

“Did he understand? Did he change?”

“Well, no. Not straight away.  But I told him that if he didn’t buck up his ideas, I’d do it again. The spanking like. And, I’d keep on doing it until he grew up and learned how to behave proper.”

“I bet that went down a storm,” Tony remarked sarcastically. His pal drew on his beer and peered at Tony over the rim of his glass. “You know what, it did. I really think he tried. He even went out looking for a job (or at least he said he did).”

“Good for him.”

“I really thought things were going to get better. Then, suddenly, it was like nothing had happened. He stayed in bed all day, was surly around the house, y’know.”

“So what happened?”

His pal blushed and his eyes misted. “Well, we had a right heart-to-heart. Y’know, proper like. Father and son. And, I said I loved him.” Tony could feel his own face warming. He could never talk to his own son that way. His pal continued, “And, I said I promised him that if he didn’t buck his ideas up, I’d give him another spanking.” He was nodding his head vigorously now.

“You didn’t.”

“I did.”

“What did he do, punch you in the kisser?”

“No. I told you I had hit some nerve or something. I told him I was going to give him a good hiding with my belt. ‘Right, I said. Go and get a chair from the kitchen and bring it here. He did that.” He paused, enjoying having Tony’s rapt attention. “Then I said, ‘Take down those jeans and bend over the back of the chair’. You should’ve seen his face. What a picture.”

Tony gulped down a mouthful of lager too quickly, he choked it back up, covering his mouth with his hand to stop it spewing over the table. His pal continued his tale. “And, he only went and did it. No argument. He just undid his belt, pulled down his jeans and leaned over the back of the chair, pointing his arse at me. Meekly. No questions.”

“And …?”

“Well, I gave him a right leathering. On his underpants. He ooohed and argghed, the way you would and just stayed there, head down, bottom up and let me get on with it. Whack. Whack. Whack.” Tony stared in fascination as his pal drained his glass.

His pal smacked his lips. “D’you know what. By the next week he had a job, he started paying us rent. He was a changed lad. Because we showed him the way. Set boundaries. Self-respect, you see. Now he’s doing City and Guilds or some-such in electrics and soon he’ll be a skilled man and,” he winked jovially, “rolling in money. Loadsamoney!”

Tony collected their glasses and headed for the bar wondering whether he could ever find the courage to do the same.

z used white pants chair (1a)

Picture credits: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Using the Paddle

new story 2

z used paddle holding 2 wikihow

I spank with a heavy oak paddle that is about twenty inches long, four wide and maybe threequarters of an inch thick. It doesn’t take many swats for this wood to turn a backside deep cherry.

I spank on the bare bottom and I don’t believe in light paddywhackings and if they are sitting down too quickly after a spanking something is wrong, as my nephew Philip discovered. A good session with the paddle did wonders for his attentiveness to his studies.

The nineteen-year-old brat actually sneered at me when I told him if he didn’t buck up his ideas and hit the books I’d paddle his rear end until it glowed in the dark. Well, more fool him.

When the kid came to live with me I promised his mother and father that I’d look after him and take charge of his welfare. I meant his moral welfare every bit as much as his physical wellbeing. Of course, I put a roof over his head and my wife makes sure he gets three squares a day. If he played his cards right he could be very well pampered. All he needs to do is go to college and study hard. What could be more simple?

Do I need to spell it out? Kids today! No sense of responsibility. Philip is fine allowing his parents to pay his school fees and shell out cash to me for his board and lodgings, but he is not so willing to fulfil his side of the bargain.

It started well. He left us about eight-thirty every morning and returned at six. As far as we knew he was attending classes and hanging out in the library. Perhaps, he was. But, soon he staying out late and we had to practically drag him out of his bed for breakfast. In no time at all he was missing the first class. Then it just went from bad to worst.

We set a curfew. If he went out at night he had to be home by eleven on a school night. We extended that to midnight at weekends. That was plenty of time to socialise. But we soon discovered he had no sense of responsibility. He rocked home in the early hours and often it was obvious he had been drinking – or even worse. It was after the night when he emptied his stomach in our front hedge that I told him about the paddle.

“I will whack you so long and so hard until you backside glows in the dark,” I said. Philip is a small lad with a rather wiry body; I don’t suppose he weighs more than a hundred and forty pounds. He has boyish features, with a snub nose and grey eyes that sparkle. He flashed me a grin, muttered something that sounded a bit like, “Yeah, right,” and flounced from the room. I watched his tight buttocks sashay and my palms itched to grab hold of my paddle.

Before I could make a move I heard the front door slam shut; Philip had made his escape.

I repeated my warning at breakfast the next morning. I am, I hope people who know me would agree, a very fair man. I set out my rules. They were very simple. They hadn’t changed since the day Philip had arrived. Go to college, study hard, pass your tests. To that I added the times of the curfew. I couldn’t have been clearer.

Philip was sullen. He didn’t make much of a coherent response. What could he say? The whole point of his being at my house was so he could attend college. Otherwise he could just as easily stay with his parents. Or get a job somewhere and strike out on his own.

He grabbed his bag and set off for college. I thought (I hoped?) he had taken my little lecture to heart and that would be the last of it. Although I fervently believe in the efficacy of spanking (it works in in my personal experience it has proven on many occasions to work) I do not go out of my way to find excuses to wield the paddle. But if I have to I shall. It is, if you like, my duty to keep young men like Philip on the straight and narrow. They might think they are already grown up but they are not. They still need a guiding hand on the rocky road to adulthood.

Perhaps, I should have shown Philip my paddle. If I had let him handle it and to feel its weight. If he had tested its power by perhaps smacking it down into the palm of his hand, or even whacked his own backside, he might have modified his behaviour to avoid a proper spanking with it.

But that never happened. I have to report to you that Philip ignored my instructions. It is true that he did attend the college, but as the results of his midterms would soon testify, he was not studying hard. We were not yet to know this. What was more immediately obvious was that he disobeyed me over the curfew. Two nights after my breakfast time lecture he rolled home at past midnight. “Rolled home” is an apt description since he was obviously drunk (or perhaps high, I know nothing about the effects of drugs).

Corporal punishment was necessary. I had promised him an awesome spanking and now I would have to deliver on that promise. It would have less of an effect in his inebriated state so I sent him to bed with the clear understanding of what lay in store for him next day.

The young have great powers of recovery and by breakfast time he was sober and without a hangover. He was ripe for spanking. I heard the shower running and decided to let him perform his morning ablutions before calling him down to our living room. It was a squeaky clean Philip who later presented himself before me.

“Do you remember what I said when you rolled home after curfew?” I asked him in a reasonable tone. I don’t believe in barking or hectoring a boy hen he is in the wrong. I let my paddle do the talking. Philip at least had the good grace to bow his head in what I hoped was shame.

“I told you it would be a spanking …” His look of incongruity startled me and I hesitated. Had he really not thought I was serious? Did he think I said such things for the benefit of my health.

“Yes,” I said, regaining my speech. “A spanking.” I walked across the room to an old sideboard and bet down to open a drawer. I could feel Philip’s eyes boring into the back of my neck. I reached into the drawer and picked up the paddle. The boy’s eyes popped when he saw it. I wonder if he had ever seen a paddle before. I suspect his own father had never smacked Philip’s backside in anger (more’s the pity; otherwise we might not be where we were).

Colour drained from the nineteen-year-old’s face. Now he believed me! He rocked on his heels. I’m no mind reader but I truly believe he might have contemplated flight at that moment. He could have legged it from the room. Maybe he considered it. What would be the point? He would have to return at some time and he must have known that his punishment would be even more severe.

I gripped the paddle and tapped it into the palm of my left hand. My actions spoke, “Let’s get on with this.” I actually spoke, “Take down your trousers and underpants and bend across the table.” There was a round dining table dominating the room. It was an ideal height for him to prostrate himself across and submit his bared buttocks to me.

Philip’s face blushed scarlet, his eyes watered. He stood his ground, terrified. Literally, he could not move. “Bah!” I snarled. I had half-expected something like this. I had already calculated that some unseemly struggle might be necessary. Where Philip is small and wiry I am tall and well built. Despite my obvious advanced age, I still have a great deal of body strength. I also had the element of surprise. I moved forward, grabbed the boy by the hair and before he could utter a single word of protest I had him face down over the table, his mouth tasting the Formica top .

He wriggled and writhed a bit but, he was going nowhere. I had already noted he was wearing sweatpants with an elasticated waistband. I rested my paddle on his shoulders and gripped hold of his trousers. In one swift, almighty tug I had both his sweats and his briefs at his knees. His creamy-white buttocks were fully exposed. I still had surprise on my side. Before Philip could fully comprehend his plight, I seized the paddle, rubbed it across the very centre of the target area and crashed it down with terrific force.

A dark red rectangular mark immediately appeared. Then another, and yet another. I walloped five heavy swats across his rather small hindquarters. Now, both buttocks glowed red. The boy squealed like a stuck pig. In all my years administering spankings I had never heard wailing quite like it. Air rushed from his midriff, through his throat and out of his mouth. His head first swished from left to right, then he banged his forehead up and down as he headbutted the table top.

I paused to both admire the job done so far and also to determine what area of flesh was as yet untouched. I aimed at the underside of the cheeks, that spot where the bum meets the thighs. It is an especially sensitive area. Soon, my paddle had left ridges. Philip would feel pain every time he sat down for many hours to come. To my puzzlement he stopped struggling. He gasped rather like a beached dolphin, his chest heaved up and down.

I had promised him a severe spanking and that was what I delivered. I said earlier I believed in spanking hard. I never picked up a paddle unless I intended to deliver at least 15 swats. I soon reached that tally. His bottom was a fine cherry red. I had said I would make it glow in the dark. That of course is just a saying. It is not possible to literally beat a boy so hard his bottom could light up a dark room. Nonetheless I could (and I would) whack him until his rear end was bright red.

Philp’s bum was one of those that reddened easily. It was scarlet after my first onslaught. Very quickly the colour deepened and bruises formed after fifteen wallops. In no time it was a rather delicious mauve.

My nephew’s gasps quickly became sobs. He cried openly, unable to hide his intense distress. I feared he would flood the table top. I had expected pleas for me to stop, for mercy, with promises to reform. I got none of these. Philp was quite simply unable to talk, such was his distress. It was obvious to me that I had won; at least round one. I went once more round the circuit, putting extra effort across the curves and then I stopped. I released my grip on his shoulders. Only then did I realise how hard I was sweating.

I moved to the sideboard and replaced the paddle. Philip took his chance to stumble to his feet, grab his sweats and briefs and while still pulling them up, flee from the room. I heard him take the stirs two at a time and his bedroom door open and close. At that moment my wife appeared at the door to announce she had just poured me a nice cup of tea. We drank in companionable silence, neither of us wishing to dwell on the past few minutes.

Picture credit: Wikihow

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A Preacher Teaches Humility

z used otk pantz down chair sting (44)

“Hi hon, is the preacher at home?” Cheryl breezed into the church reception area ignoring the two middle-aged men who were waiting apprehensively and flashed her toothy smile at Karen, the receptionist-cum-secretary.

Karen raised her eyes from the Bible she was reading to acknowledge her fellow church-attendee.

“Not immediately, no,” she whispered, nodding in the direction of the visitors. Then soundlessly she mouthed the words, “It’s that time of the month.”

Oh, Cheryl got it. That time of the month. Of course, she had forgotten. It had nothing to do with the biological clock; it was the twenty-sixth; the day each month when Preacher Pasternauch got intimate with God.

“Oh, I forgot. Never mind I’ll come back tomorrow,” then turning to the two men, she called cheerily, “Good luck,” and departed just as breezily as she had arrived. Karen returned to studying the Bible.

On the other side of the wall, Preacher Pasternauch was listening to Luke.

“I have been lusting with my eyes, Preacher.” Luke, twenty-five and married with two lovely daughters (blessings from God), was distressed.

“Tell me all about it,” the preacher sat back in his lush padded leather armchair and closed his eyes; the better to concentrate on Luke’s tale of wickedness.

“Lusting with the eyes,” it was a common fault among male members of the preacher’s congregation. Luke had been punished by God for this offence before.

It was the young lady at the drugstore. Her big breasts bounced, seemingly uncontrolled, under her loose woollen sweater. He struggled to keep his eyes off them whenever he visited the store.

“Women are wicked, Luke,” the preacher adopted the tone of voice that he had convinced himself demonstrated that he was a caring father. Caring and loving. A father whose duty was to help his sons (whatever their ages) to grow in the image of God. He should praise them fulsomely when they did well, and punish them severely when they erred.

“What else have you been doing? Have you been touching yourself?” the preacher would need to hear all the details before he could ask God to pronounce the sentence that he should carry out.

Luke blushed, “Oh, no preacher, nothing like that.”

“Are you sure, Luke?” the preacher tried to hide his disappointment. Luke had visited the preacher three months previously to report similar stirrings. That time it had been a teenaged girl in the gas station.

“Tell me everything, boy. Don’t spare me the details.”

Preacher Pasternauch was the emissary from God. He acted for God on Earth. God was kind, but he was also stern. God directed the preacher to punish the wrong-doers in his congregation. They must learn to fight their wickedness and when they found they were failing Preacher Pasternauch would offer them encouragement.

Luke’s tale was short. He was guilty only of “lusting with the eyes,” but not masturbation or adultery.

“I think you know what must happen now, don’t you Luke,” the preacher said as he rose from his cosy chair and walked five paces across the room to the far wall, where hanging on hooks were three wooden paddles of differing lengths and thicknesses.

Luke was the preacher’s third visitor that morning and there were at least two more awaiting their turn outside. His first visitor had been Matthew the retiree. The preacher was uncertain, but thought the man was at least seventy years old. His wickedness was alcohol. On three separate days this past month he had drunk more than three beers. His drunkenness was a curse. He tried to fight it, but he was weak.

Matthew tried to fight his booze habit; but he believed himself to be a feeble man. He could not do it on his own. He visited the preacher on the twenty-sixth day of each month and had been doing so for as long as the preacher had held these sessions. The old man had left the preacher with his rear blazing and hobbled back to his dark, lonely, room.

Preacher Pasternauch was not a philosopher; he did not ask why the regular spankings could not make Matthew kick the booze habit. Even, as he replaced the heavy wood on its hook it did not enter his head why Matthew would be back in his office for a repeat performance in thirty days’ time.

The second visitor was a newcomer. He was not new to the church, he had been attending for many years; but this was his first visit to Preacher Pasternauch’s monthly “confessionals”. The preacher held open house; any one of his male congregants (aged eighteen or over) could turn up, no appointment necessary, to confess his wickedness. They would pray together and the preacher would administer a stern dose of corporal punishment. God, through the right arm of the preacher, would pardon them of their wickedness. Now, they were fit to return to their community and once again live for the glory of God.

John ran a small accounting firm, just off Main Street. It was doing very well and he made a comfortable living. Just lately his work had begun to bore him; there was no excitement in his life. His life was empty.

No, he rushed to assure the preacher, not empty of Jesus Christ, but just empty: uneventful, devoid of excitement.

So, John, for the first time in his forty-two years on this planet had taken to gambling. He knew it was wicked, but the lure of the state lottery ticket had proved too enticing. He had spent, lost, and therefore wasted, ten whole dollars each month for the past six months. Now, despite the financial losses (he was an accountant after all, so he knew the danger of losses) he found he could not give up the thrill of the chase.

He had toyed with the idea of visiting the preacher for some weeks before, but he was afraid. But, while praying hard to God he received a message; he must confess to the preacher. It was no secret that the preacher held monthly spanking sessions, so John knew what was in store for him when eventually he visited. That was the problem.

John had a great deal of experience receiving corporal punishment. His father had been a keen spanker. Well into his early twenties (the age he finally could afford to move out of the family house) John had been subjected to his dad’s discipline.

Sometimes, more than twenty years after his last thrashing, John could still feel the welts. His father had broken three switches, cut especially for the purpose from the backyard, across his bare buttocks. That would teach him to cut classes at the accountancy college.

The preacher listened sympathetically, gave a short homily on the wickedness of gambling, conducted a much longer prayer for forgiveness and then took the skin off John’s rear end. The poor man was howling by the time he was instructed to pull up his pants and leave.

It hurt like crazy. He knew it could not possibly be as painful as the switching from his father, but back in those days his backside had grown used to the lash. In the intervening twenty or so years, his buttocks had grown flabby and he felt intense agony as each whack of the wood connected.

Now it was the turn of Luke. “So Luke, let us pray.” Both men knelt on the floor of the office. The hard nylon-based carpeting cut into Luke’s knees. It was painful, but he ignored it; you were not supposed to be comfortable while praying to God.

The prayer took five minutes to conclude. God was told of all the young man’s lustful thoughts and of his history of wickedness. Then both men were silent while Preacher Pasternauch received his instructions from God.

“Yes, Lord.” The preacher rose from his kneeling position, convinced that he was about to perform the will of God.

“Pain and humility,” that was how Preacher Pasternauch would explain it later to the county judge. Not only would he spank the men hard, he would ensure that they demonstrated the right degree of humility. Not to himself, of course, but to God.

The preacher sat in a large, heavy, straight-backed wooden chair. Luke had been here before; he knew what was expected. He was twenty-five years old. It was the lunch hour and he had motored from his office downtown to the church. He had left his jacket in the car so was dressed in a crisp white dress shirt with a sober tie. His trousers, part of a matching suit, were dark grey, with a hint of a blue stripe running through them. They fitted snugly; Luke was not fat; and certainly not obese like many of his fellow church attendees.

His face was bright and open and his skin clear. He had been well into his twenties before he had developed enough beard that it needed shaving daily. His hair was cut short and neat. Luke was the conventional young man any of us might see in the street and never actually notice.

The preacher sat himself down and Luke, without instruction, moved to stand a couple of feet away from the older man’s right leg. No words were spoken, but the preacher simply pointed with his index finger at the young man’s waist and with a downward movement mimed that the pants should be lowered.

Luke could feel his face flush. The last time this had been the worst part; preparing himself, taking down his pants and exposing his underwear. The preacher had kindly informed him this was about “humility.” He was showing that he was humble before the preacher and therefore before God.

It certainly was embarrassing, even this second time. But, Luke knew that this was God’s will. He would submit himself to the preacher in any way that he was instructed. Finally, he had his pants resting on his shoes.

“Lift up your shirt so that it is away from your buttocks and then please bend over my legs.” It was a kind, friendly request. The preacher knew that his congregants accepted they had behaved wickedly and were ready to pay the necessary price for redemption.

Luke lowered himself across the preacher’s lap and with his arms stretched out in front he placed his hands firmly palms down into the nylon flooring. Once again, he sensed its hardness and it felt scratchy against his skin. But, something was not quite right; his necktie had caught under his body and was pulling at this throat, if he was not careful he might choke. He lifted himself an inch or so above the preacher’s lap and with his right hand pulled the tie clear and left it dangling in front of his face. He rested once again on the preacher’s lap. He was now in a comfortable position and Luke was pleased about that, but he knew what was to happen next would be far from comfortable.

The preacher was not quite ready to start. He smoothed Luke’s maroon-colored briefs, removing any wrinkles from the cotton. Satisfied that they now hugged the contours of the young man’s globes, the preacher prepared for the onslaught.

He had chosen his middle-sized paddle. It was maybe twelve inches long and three wide and about a half-inch thick. It was the perfect size and weight to deliver a sound over-the-knee spanking. He had wrapped Scotch tape around the handle to give him an extra grip; he didn’t want the paddle to slip from his fist while he was in full flow.

Luke’s breathing was heavy, and involuntarily he clenched his buttocks tight, ready to absorb the full impact of the first swat.

“Relax, Luke,” again the preacher sounded kind and caring. “Don’t scrunch up your bottom.”

Luke tried, he wanted to satisfy God and present himself submissively, but for some reason he did not understand he did not have control of his body.

Whack! the wood crashed right across the center of both buttocks. “Please God, save me from my wickedness. Help make me a good man,” Luke did not say the words out loud but he repeated them over and over in his mind as the preacher tore his buttocks to shreds. He knew this agony and humiliation was God’s will. He knew it because the preacher had told him it was so.

It had to be a pants down, over-the-knee spanking. God wanted him to show humility and this was how it had to be done. The preacher had explained everything the first time he made the twenty-five-year-old father-of-two submit his bottom to the paddle.

Whack! Whack! Luke’s crack opened and closed each time the paddle connected with his bottom. The pain was increasing and he found his legs were kicking out. He did not mean to do it; he so wanted to show God he would submit to his will. His mind said this, but his body had other ideas; it was a natural reflex action.

The paddle was not the largest in the preacher’s collection but it was big enough to cover the area of Luke’s cheek. Vigorously the heavy wood slapped the two reddening cheeks in rapid succession, until, still unwillingly, Luke began to writhe and twist his body, bending his legs up, and ultimately swinging his right hand away from the carpet to shield his toasting buns from the stinging impact of the preacher’s frenzied attack.

Preacher Pasternauch was on a mission from God. His strong right arm increased the speed and force with which it pummeled the paddle from one cheek to the other, making Luke gasp and groan. The crashing sound of wood connecting with cotton-encased flesh echoed round the room like machinegun fire.

In the waiting room two middle aged men paid extra attention to their newspapers and pretended they could not hear the whacks and the increasing yelps coming from the preacher’s office.

The preacher was as breathless as the young man he was punishing. A dozen, then two dozen, then three dozen whacks struck Luke’s cheeks, sank into the flesh and bounced off, leaving behind deep red marks, that rapidly turned to blue.

The preacher held the young man tightly at his midriff, ensuring the poor suffering creature could not escape. On and one went the beating, and even as the pain increased to agony, Luke continued talking to God in his head. “Please help me defeat my wicked sexual thoughts!”

Luke did not know how long the spanking went on, but when the preacher stopped he lay on the floor holding his destroyed bottom and crying like a baby for at least ten minutes. The preacher returned to his plush leather armchair, closed his eyes and pressed the fingers of his two hands together as if in prayer. He could wait all afternoon if that was what it took for Luke to recover.

In time Luke pulled his pants up and withdrew a handkerchief from a pocket and wiped his tear-stained face. Then, with no further word, he hobbled from the office in search of his car.

The preacher remained seated awaiting his own recovery. Once his heart rate had returned to normal, he poured a glass of water and buzzed Karen to send in the next one.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

This story was first uploaded in December 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

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charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

That Connor Kid

z used solo defiant connor kid (2)

“War..warr’s going on?” Lars Alexanderson woke from his sleep with a start.

“What time is it?”

From the street outside his bedroom music was blaring rock-stadium loud.

“What is it?” His wife Ingrid was awake now.

“It’s that goddam Connor kid. What time is it?”

Ingrid switched on the bedside lamp.

“Nearly two o’clock. This is the third time this week.”

In at least three other houses in the street middle-aged couples were having similar conversations.

That Connor kid was out of control, they all said. Something had to be done.

Rip Connor, switched off the engine of his Chevy, silencing the music system in the car. Unsteadily, he opened the car door and staggered to his house. After a minute or two fumbling, he found his house key and after a bit more effort, he located the lock, opened the door and lurched inside.

Peace once again reigned in the street.

Rip Connor was a menace. He was way out of control. All the neighbours agreed. But what could they do?

Rip was nineteen years old, going on twenty. His father had left home for another dame years ago and his mother, a career woman, was now working in corporate finance in Hong Kong, leaving Rip alone in the family house.

And the teen loved every minute of it. In theory he was attending a business college, but in reality he was partying his life away. Most nights he hit the bars and clubs and when he wasn’t doing that he had “friends” over to the house.

The neighbours thought they lived in a quiet, respectable, street. They had experienced nothing like it before.

“Something must be done. We can’t go on living like this,” Mr Alexanderson told his next door neighbour, Mr Handsson, later that morning.

“Yes, it should,” the neighbour agreed.

“But what?” Alexanderson seemed genuinely at a loss and he trudged away to complain to more of his neighbors.

Handsson knew exactly what the boy needed. If any of his sons dared stay out late, got drunk and then woke up the neighbours; he would blister their butts. And, he had the perfect tool to do it with.

Just ask his son Soren. The boy was eighteen years old the last time his father dealt with him. It was his “attitude,” of course. Soren had forgotten his father was head of the household, not himself. Soren disobeyed the rules; did not complete his chores and then (fatally) missed his 10.30 pm curfew.

That was enough. Handsson’s house did not have an actual woodshed, but Soren was at least figuratively-speaking taken to the woodshed.

It was in fact a small storage area in the basement; just off the utility room. The Handsson’s didn’t use it for much else, except as a punishment room. An old worn razor strop (it had been in the family for generations) hung from a specially inserted hook on the wall, alongside an authentic school paddle.

Handsson had constructed a platform from wooden crates piled on top of each other and covered with canvas sheeting. It made an ideal spanking horse; its height could be adjusted with more or fewer crates to accommodate the size any one of his four sons.

Soren was a tall boy, but still growing: his poppa had to pile up four crates to create a spanking horse to fit him.

Corporal punishment was used frequently in the Handsson household. All his boys had suffered it and as far as Poppa Handsson was concerned they would all be subjected to it until the day they left his home: no matter what their age.

Soren knew he had screwed up. He didn’t know why he constantly argued with his parents. Somehow, in a way he didn’t understand, he just couldn’t help himself. The missed curfew was another matter. He did mean that. He had met this girl and he thought he was in with a chance of something. Of course, he was wrong. Dejected, he trudged home, sexually frustrated, to face his poppa’s wrath and the razor strop.

There was a ritual when Poppa Handsson spanked his boys. He would lecture them a little and they would apologise profusely and promise that they would never do it again.

Then he humiliated them. It was simple really. They had to humbly ask him to remove their pants and underwear from them and “thrash me to make me a better person.”

Soren hated that part. It was so creepy. He knew his friends were also spanked at home, but none of them had a special “punishment room” in the basement, and as far as he knew they weren’t made to beg for a thrashing. For them, it was pretty straight-forward. Their mad dad unceremoniously took them across his knee (or couch, or table) and whacked their ass with (usually) a paddle. End of story.

Soren was a very experienced receiver of corporal punishment and by the age of eighteen had a very high threshold of pain. That didn’t mean the whippings didn’t hurt: they did. But, he had developed a coping mechanism and most times he father lashed him with the leather strop he managed to stay reasonably quiet and absorb the pain.

This time he thought of Helen, the girl who had made him miss curfew. He conjured up the sight of her in his mind: her beautiful blonde hair; her clear skin and her pert breasts. He hoped by concentrating on something pleasant the agony of the lash would not be so bad.

Obediently, he bent across the punishment horse. His head and arms dangled on one side and his legs stretched on tip-toes on the other. His naked buttocks, covered by downy, almost invisible, blond hair rested submissively across the top of the chests.

He thought of Helen and what he would like her to do to him. To his horror his penis stood to attention. His face blushed scarlet and he prayed his poppa would not notice. God forbid that he should think this whipping turned him on.

Handsson stroked the heavy worn leather strap in his two hands; getting the measure of the weapon that would in a moment take his son’s butt off. He stepped back a little and rested the razor strop on the curves of the boy’s cheeks; in the centre where there was most flesh. The boy was no athlete, but he was trim, with little unnecessary body fat.

Satisfied with his aim, Handsson pulled the strop up and rested it across his own shoulder. Then the thick broad heavy leather strap curled itself viciously over the exposed buttocks.

Soren sucked in breath. It had hurt like crazy and any boy with less experience receiving corporal punishment would have yelled the basement down, leapt from the punishment horse and fled the room.

Soren’s breathing was heavy but he made no sound, even though his fingers gripped at the rough canvas covering the chests.

Stepping back his poppa struck again. Still Soren absorbed the pain. He wanted to bawl loudly but he would not give poppa the satisfaction of seeing his hurt.

Handsson was no fool. He had lost count of the number of times he had beaten his sons over the years. He was no stranger to the lash himself; his own father and grandfather were enthusiastic spankers. Handsson knew young Soren was in agony; but was too brave to show it. He rather admired his son for that.

He lashed the next stroke as hard as he could, thinking of all the wicked things his son had done. This gave Handsson the strength to apply the leather with as much strength as he could.

Soren took twelve lashes without an outward murmur. It was over. Another whipping delivered and received.

Gingerly, he lifted himself from the punishment horse; his dick was aching as much as his buttocks. Hurriedly, he turned his back away from his poppa and pulled up his pants and underwear. His buttock cheeks felt like they were made of leather. He could not be certain, but he thought he could feel blood seeping from wounds.

Later, in the privacy of his bedroom, Soren inspected the damage. His butt was fifty shades of red from just below the top of the crack to where it met the thighs. He could clearly see some of the individual strap marks.

Soren lay on his bed, face down. The thought of Helen’s hair and face and breasts haunted him. His penis refused to fall. In agony he reached into his bedside cabinet and extracted a handkerchief.

Handsson knew without a doubt that Rip Connor needed some butt pain. The boy was running wild; his father had left a long time ago and his mother seemed not to care. But, Handsson wanted to believe, because he had always liked Mrs Connor, perhaps she did not know about her son’s bad behavior.

Even if she did; there was nothing she could do about it; how would she be able to force a nineteen-year-old youth over her knee for the darned good spanking he so richly deserved?

Handsson was contemplating this when there was a knock on his door. It was three of his neighbours.

“Can we come in?” Lars Alexanderson asked, and entered without waiting for a reply.

“We’ve come about the Connor kid. We’ve all had enough.”

It seemed Lars was the spokesperson for the group. They had been talking about the boy and his bad behavior. The night-time disturbances were too much. He was selfish and destructive. Something must be done about it.

“OK,” Handsson replied, “What exactly do you think we should do?”

He rather hoped they had come to the same conclusion as he: blister the boy’s butt. But they hadn’t. Not yet at least.

“We should go over to his house together and tell him this behaviour must stop,” Lars told him.

Reluctantly, Handsson agreed to join them on a visit to the boy.

Five minutes later they were knocking at the door. It was another five minutes before Rip, bleary-eyed and unwashed, inched open the door.

What he saw was four of his neighbours, middle-aged, balding, thickening around the waist.

“Warr..?” His head ached from too much booze and partying.

The conversation was over in seconds. Lars Alexanderson tried to be polite.

“It’s about your behavior,” he stumbled, unsure how to put it. ”You are coming home too late …”

Rip Connor’s pale face pinkened slightly. What! Who were they to tell him what to do? Who did they think they were? He hated these sanctimonious Swedes, with their perfect kids, always getting high grades at school.

He said none of this out loud. Instead, he simply said, “Fuck off!” and slammed the door in their faces.

The neighbors regrouped at Handsson’s house. Over tea and much muttering about how disgraceful the lout was they hatched a plan.

It was Handsson’s idea mainly. But they all agreed. Yes, if Connor were any of their sons (or daughters even) they would do the same thing.

Rip Connor never knew a thing.

Minutes later the neighbors were back hammering on his front door. The teenager poked his head from behind the curtains of his bedroom window and recognising his tormentors he pulled on a t-shirt and a pair of sweat pants and rushed downstairs.

He flew open the door ready to give some verbal abuse to the old-timers in his front yard.

But before he had even opened his mouth Lars put a meal sack over his head. Blinded and disorientated Rip could do nothing except allow himself to be dragged twenty yards across the street and into Handsson’s house.

The sack was removed from his head when they were safely in the basement punishment room.

Rip Connor gave them a stream of abuse. He called his neighbors every name under the sun and then some.

They let him get on with it. Let him shout and scream all he wanted. Handsson knew the basement was sound proof: nobody would hear a thing.

Eventually, he paused. Spent. He had no more breath to curse them with. Then, wearily he surveyed the room. The canvas-covered crates, the paddle and strop hanging from the wall: what was this place?

His heart raced as the truth sank in. Paddle. Strap. It could mean only one thing.

It had been Handsson’s idea originally, but Lars Alexanderson was now in control.

Calmly, he tore into Rip Connor. Every last misdeed was recounted: the late nights, the noise the partying. All of these were bad enough, Alexanderson said. But all that misbehaviour had been topped by his foul language to them early that morning.

“So, now you little brat,” he turned to Rip face on, “We are going to teach you a lesson.”

Rip’s worst fear was confirmed. He pushed past Alexanderson, but could not make it to the door. Four of his heavily-built neighbors had him trapped. Even in his hung-over state, Rip could have taken on one, even two, of them, but not all four together.

“But…” he blustered, not sure what he wanted to say. “You can’t …”

But they could. And they did.

Handsson and Alexanderson took an arm each and pulled Rip across the crates. It was a Titanic struggle at first. Rip’s fear gave him the strength of many men. But he stumbled as he was tugged by his neighbors and once he was face down across the canvas-topped punishment horse, he could go nowhere.

The two other neighbors held the boy down firmly while Handsson and Alexanderson released their grip. They had other roles to play in the drama that was unfolding.

Handsson crossed the room, reached up to the wall and removed the heavy paddle from its moorings.

As he did this Alexanderson approached Rip from behind, grabbed at the elasticated waist of his pants and tugged them tight, so they formed a wedgie, leaving no space between the cotton pants and his butt.

“No!!!” Rip wailed and struggled fiercely, but the two men held him forcibly down. He was going nowhere until they said so.

“Pah!”  Handsson snorted at Alexanderson. “What are you doing?”

Then, without a further word, Handsson grabbed the sweatpants and underwear and in one smooth movement pulled both down until they rested at Rip Connor’s shins. The boy kicked out in fury and caught Handsson squarely on the chest.

Alright he thought if that’s how you want it. Handsson rushed into the next-door utility room and returned seconds later with a length of rope. It took thirty seconds to securely tie Connors knees together. The lout would do no more kicking this morning.

Rip was terrified. These men now had him secured and tied, face down over the crates. His pants and underwear were at his feet and his ass was high, bare and exposed for anything they might want to do.

It was like a scene from a horror movie he had once seen. The cute young boy had been strip naked, held down and raped by four members of a rival gang.

Did his four portly neighbours have similar intent? The teenager screamed for help.

“Tut, tut,” Alexanderson said, as he calmly removed from his pocket a handkerchief which he stuffed into Connor’s mouth.

“Now shut up!”

Rip Connor could only gurgle his protest.

Handsson was first to go: after all it had been his idea. The paddle was about twenty inches long, four inches wide and three-quarters of an inch thick. Handsson knew it didn’t take many whacks with this wood to give a good spanking.

He took up position behind Connor who was still struggling, but he was pinned down so effectively he had no choice but to take his whipping.

The boy had a small waist, which emphasized the perfectly-shaped hemispheres of his bubble butt. Their unblemished creamy pale skin contrasted beautifully with his suntanned legs.

The first three swats with the paddle changed all this. Handsson gripped the handle with both hands, as if it were a baseball bat, arced it back over his right shoulder and brought it down with maximum force Bang! Bang! Bang!

Rip Connor’s whole body shook and he lifted an inch or two from the crates. But the strength of his two neighbors was too much and they forced his chest back into the canvas, squeezing all his breath from his lungs.

Three more swats crashed into Rip’s buttocks: two on the left cheek and one on the right. The six swats had covered every square inch of the boy’s beefy bottom and already purplish bruises were forming.

Handsson admired the six clearly defined marks on the lout’s ass: the outline of the paddle was clearly visible embossed into the once creamy-white buttocks.

He ignored the teenager’s muffled screams. He could not see from his vantage point at the rear, Rip’s scarlet face and blazing eyes.

Whack, whack whack! Another three.

Then another three.

A dozen mighty fierce swats were whipping the boys butt to shreds. And, it had only taken thirty seconds maximum.

Sweating profusely (there was little natural air in the punishment room and the physical exertion was taking its toll) Handsson bent double and rested his hands on his knees.

Tears flooded down Rip Connor’s face and salvia dribbled from his mouth. Every nerve in his body ached. His blood pressure was through the roof and his ears popped. He sucked in air desperately. Any moment, he feared he would have a heart attack.

“Here, let me.” Lars Alexanderson reached to his waist and in a smooth movement he had his belt unbuckled, through the loops of his pants, and doubled up in his right hand ready for action.

It was a heavy strap, not too thick and not so wide; but he knew from years of experience this little beauty could pack a punch. His own sons would testify for that.

When he spanked his own kids he demanded that they lay face down on the bed; pillows heaped up under their middle with their bared asses raised high. He stood more or less on top of the boy and only had to whip the belt down to inflict maximum pain.

Rip Connor was a different proposition. Alexanderson had to approach him from the side and get the belt to crash into his mounds from below. This was more difficult than he realised.

The first lash missed the teen’s butt completely and landed on the top of his thighs. Even with his mouth gagged, Rip let out a piercing scream.

Undeterred, Alexanderson repositioned. This time the belt landed right across the very center of both cheeks: a result.

Rip’s attempted shrieks were now low moans. How he hated these men. Never in his life had he been subjected to the total control of another person. He was completely at the mercy of his angry neighbors: not that they planned to show him any.

The belt lashed again and again into the increasingly bloodied cheeks.

Loud knocking on the front door distracted them. Someone had their finger pushed into the door-bell. Who was so anxious to get in?

“Better stop,”Handsson told his neighbour. “For now. Let me see who’s at the door.”

He found two young police officers.

“Good morning officers.” Handsson hoped the guilt he felt didn’t show on his face. He wasn’t feeling guilt about thrashing Connor, but he knew he and the neighbors had taken the law into their own hands.

“We have a report of a young man being kidnapped and brought into this house.”

Handsson was an honest man and without fuss took the two cops to the punishment room.

There they saw two men holding Connor face down across a punishment horse. A third man had a belt in his hand doubled up and ready for action.

Connor was gasping for breath. His buttocks were red raw and so bloodied they looked like raw hamburger meat. The backs of his thighs were marked with sunset stipes where the belt had lashed into them.

It was obvious what had happened.

One of the cops strode into the room, ready to break up the scene and arrest the men. Then he saw who it was showing his naked ass.

“Hey! It’s Rip Connor.”

He turned to his fellow cop. “Well, well. Rip Connor.”

Rip was well known to the two officers. They had lost count of the times they had moved him and his loutish friends on from street corners. Or picked them up drunk. Rip and his friends were always abusive.

“Oink, oink!” they would laugh making exaggerated pig noises. They knew there was very little the law could do about them. They were small beer. The brass at One Police Plaza and the judges didn’t want to be bothered with the likes of them. There were much bigger criminal fish to fry.

So, Rip got away with it all.

The two officers looked at one another. No word needed to be exchanged.

Office Brady smiled, “I don’t see anything happening here; do you Joe?”

“No,” his fellow officer agreed. “I don’t see nothing.”

Officer Brady had always wanted to beat the brat Connor on the bare ass; just as his own daddy would have done if he behaved like he did.

The two cops turned. As he made his way up the stairs, Officer Brady turned to Handsson. “Give him some for us.”

So, Handsson and the neighbors who always believed in obeying the police did exactly that.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in December 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Late Home From School

z used uniform short shorts (46)

I walk the streets slowly. It is nearly six o’clock and I am late home from school. Dad told me if that happened again he would take me over his knee with my trousers at my ankles and my underpants at my knees. I believe him.

It was detention. A few of us were mucking about in class. It was nothing really: but it was enough. After detention some of us hung out and smoked cigarettes. Now, I wish I hadn’t. If dad smells it on me I’ll get extra for sure.

Sometimes when I walk these streets people look at me hard. Who can blame them? I have a really distinctive school uniform. A bright blue blazer with yellow and white verticals stripes running through it. Dad says they don’t make blazers like that any longer. I have light grey short trousers; very smart with creases down the front and back so sharp you could cut your finger on them. My long grey socks with red toppings come up to my knees, but the short trousers are properly short and there are inches of bare leg on show. This is November and almost winter so it’s not really the weather to be out at night in short trousers. My legs could turn blue if I’m not careful. My bright scarlet school cap sits tightly on my head: at least that’s warm.

I turn the corner into The Avenue. The lights are on at Number sixteen. Dad is at home: waiting.

Dad has never spanked me on the bare. I wonder what it will be like. It was bad enough last time, just on the underpants. Dad has this leather paddle that he uses. It’s not much bigger than a hairbrush really and it’s really bendy. To look at it you wouldn’t think it could do much damage; but Wow! it ripped my buttocks to shreds, I can tell you.

It could be worse. My pal Wayne has a dad who uses a thick whippy cane on him. Bare arsed. Last time he got it he showed me the damage. Thick dark red cuts right across both cheeks. It took a week for them to clear and even longer for the bruises to go.

The Avenue is deserted. It’s too cold for people to be on the streets and it’s probably tea time for the kids in most of the houses. The Mickey Mouse watch on my wrist bleeps six o’clock as I raise my hand to the doorbell. I catch a glimpse of the old biddy across the road in number forty-two peering behind lace curtains, minding everybody’s business but her own.

Within seconds the door opens. “Where have you been, do you know what time it is,” dad says and clips me around the back of the head. “Get in here,” he walks into the front room and since I know how this is going to play out, I follow him.

When dad deals with me there is a set routine. He spends ever such a long time berating me for my misdeeds. I am “irresponsible,” “undependable,” “foolish,” “thoughtless” and much else besides. He tells me he warned me before what would happen if I am late home again.

Everything he tells me is true. This is not the first time I have been late and it will not be the first time he has spanked me because of it. I tell him about the detention and he goes ballistic. I decide not to fess up to the smoking as well.

“Stand there,” he points to a corner of the room. “Put your hands on your head and think about how naughty you have been.”

I shuffle across the room and stand a couple of feet away from the wall.

“Closer,” dad barks, “Get your nose right into the corner.”

It is not easy to stand right in the corner with your nose against it and at the same time have your hands on your head; there’s nowhere for your elbows to go.

“Alright,” dad concedes, “Put your nose in the corner and your hands behind your back.”

Comfortable, at last, I stand with my nose pressed against the wallpaper. I do not think about how naughty I have been as dad instructed. I can’t help thinking about how sore I am going to be when dad spanks me bare-arsed for the first time.

I cannot see him, but I am pretty sure dad is sitting in his favourite armchair, just staring at me. I suppose it is his way of making me stew. When you are a naughty boy standing in the corner waiting to be spanked you lose track of time. I don’t know if I was there for thirty seconds or ten minutes.

Eventually, I hear a movement. It is dad getting ready. He picks up a dining room chair and I hear him put it in the centre of the carpet.

“Turn round and face me,” it is a curt command. I obey instantly. “Put your hands on your head.”

I face him and watch as he makes further preparations. In his hand he already has the leather paddle he intends to use on my bare bottom. Carefully, he sits himself on the chair and spreads his knees by two feet or so. He is not a pretty sight. He is running to fat and because of this he sweats a lot, even in the cold weather. He would be almost completely bald, except he grows what little hair he has in long strands so that he can comb it over. His face is ruddy and in need of a decent shave. I suppose he has been at work all day because he really needs a shower.

Without a further word, he reaches forward and with his right hand takes hold of the waistband of my short trousers and pulls me forward. I am off balance and stumble until I am standing close by his right leg. Then with both hands he undoes my top button and the other four that make up the flies of my short trousers. I still have my hands on my head and submissively I let him do this.

With the top of my trousers open it is easy for him to guide them over my thighs and past my knees so they make a puddle at my feet. I feel myself blushing. I know the next stage will be the removal of my white Y-front underpants. Suddenly, I panic; I do not want dad to see my private parts. But I have no choice. Unless, I am going to grab my short trousers, pull them up and flee from the room I have no choice but to let him have his way.

Slowly, ever so slowly (he appears to be enjoying himself very much), he puts his hands either side of my pants, pinches the cloth and gently guides them down over my hips until they rest at my knees. I see he pretends not to notice my privates, but he is having a good look.

I stand there still in my school blazer, but now naked from my waist to my knees. My hands remain on my head. Dad is wheezing a little and for the first time tonight I pick up the faint odour of beer on his breath.

“Right!” he slaps his right thigh, “Bend over my knee.”

The first ever time he ordered me to do this I didn’t know how to do it. It might seem simple enough, but there are many different ways to achieve this position. You can dive across both knees and land on the far side without actually touching your dad. Or, you can rest your hands on his knees and lower yourself over and then once you are staring at the carpet you adjust your bum so that it where it needs to be. Or, there are many ways between these two options.

I find it easier to stretch across dad’s knees and then lower myself down. That’s what I do now. Within seconds, I am over his lap with both of my palms pressed into the carpet, my knees bent a little and my toes an inch or so off the ground. My bum is high over his right thigh and although I have never been able to actually see what I look like in this position I do know that it gives dad all the room he needs to bring his leather paddle crashing down into my arse.

Dad doesn’t like me to make a fuss. He wants me to lie over his knee and take what he thinks I deserve. Of course, it’s not always possible to take a spanking quietly.  I have been known to gasp and yelp a little and last time, when I got it on the pants, my eyes were moist and my nose was running by the time he finished toasting me.

He tugs at my blazer and pushes it up my back by a few inches while I wait patiently for my first-ever bare-bottomed spanking from dad to begin. I can feel his rough hand tracing the contours of my globes. He rests it for a while on the undercurve of my right cheek, just where it meets with the back of the leg. Then I feel him lift his hand away and immediately bring it crashing down at some force across the centre of my buttock. Then he slaps the left cheek, then the right. He is spanking me with the palm of his hand, rapidly and with some force. It hurts much more than I expected. There is no let-up, smack, smack, smack: on and on he goes, all over both buttocks and across the back of my legs.

It hurts; in fact it hurts a great deal, but it is not agony. I have had worse. I stare down at the orange-and-yellow-patterned carpet and wonder how much longer this will go on for. Outside the window I hear a car draw up. It is the next door neighbour coming home from work. For the first time since going over dad’s knee I feel acute embarrassment: what if the neighbour can hear me being spanked.

If dad had heard the neighbour he didn’t let it deter him from his mission. The hand spanks rain down harder and faster.

Suddenly they stop. I feel a movement in his body and the pain starts again. This time it is more intense. He is whacking his leather paddle into my buttocks: over and over again on the same spot, right in the middle of the left cheek. I can’t count them all, they are coming too fast, but there must be dozens of them. Then he pauses before repeating it again, this time in the centre of my right cheek.

I am wriggling. I can’t help it. The pain is too much and my body is instinctively trying to get away from it. I thrash my legs about and turn my body from left to right as if I am trying to swim away off his lap. Dad grips me tightly around the waist with his left arm and pounds away, with even harder whacks. Will he ever tire of this?

I am gulping and although I know I am not supposed to I let out a series of “ouchs” and yelps. My lungs gulp in air and my breathing is harsh. Soon I am coughing my guts up.

On and on dad spanks me. He has not said a word since he took me over his knee and began pounding away. His breathing seems a little laboured now; perhaps we are getting near the end.

Or perhaps not. He pauses to regain his composure and then raises the leather paddle high and whacks my arse harder than he has done so far. My legs kick out behind me and without warning he smacks the paddle across the back of each leg. I scream. A real blood-curdling scream. If dad thought these slaps would stop me kicking about he was wrong. I have no control, I couldn’t stop kicking even if I wanted to.

My watch beeps six-thirty and as if on cue, dad stops spanking me. He releases his grip and I roll off his lap onto the carpet.

“Stand in the corner.” This time I don’t have to put my nose right in it. I stand panting for breath with my hands on my head and my back to dad.

I can hear him wheezing behind me. My buttocks are hot. I want to give them a rub, but I dare not do it; I don’t want to give dad the excuse to start all over again.

I wait as patiently as I can in the circumstances. Now the spanking is over I want to be out of there and quick.

Dad’s wheezing intensifies. I don’t know what he was doing behind me and instinctively reckon I don’t want to know either.

After maybe a minute the wheezing climaxes and I hear the door open and dad leave the room.

Gingerly I rub my bottom, there is no mirror in the room, but by twisting my body I get some view of my heavily bruised bottom. Both cheeks have a hard leathery coating. The back of my legs are red raw. I pull up my underpants and button up my short trousers. To my great distress I see the shorts do not cover all my injuries and everyone will see my legs have been spanked.

I hear dad run up the stairs, presumably to the bathroom. I wait a few moments before I go into the passageway and pick up the envelope he has left for me near the telephone. After checking its contents, I let myself out the front door.

It is freezing and about to rain. I must hurry back to my bedsitting room, change out of this school uniform and put on something warmer.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

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

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com