Illegal drinking

z used short shorts sport (2)

“Alright Charlie, this is the second time in two or three weeks that you have been caught drinking alcohol and you got a spanking the last time and obviously it was not enough.”

We were in the kitchen and dad was mad as hell. In his hand he held a wooden paddle.

“So, this time it’s time you got a GOOD spanking.”

It was a hot humid morning in summer and I had been hanging around the house since I got out of bed dressed in nothing except some skimpy running shorts.

I stood upright as dad went through his routine.

“I’m not going to put up with that. Come here.”

Dad sat down on a kitchen chair and I obediently walked to a spot about a foot from him.

While he continued to scold me, he placed the paddle on his lap and using his two hands he gently tugged at both sides of my shorts lowering them to the floor.

I was completely naked, but I didn’t feel embarrassment or shame. Dad always spanked on the bare so he had seen me in my glory many times before. Indeed, you might say that over the years he had an unusual way of monitoring my growth to manhood.

He continued recapping my misbehaviour. Some friends and I had managed to get hold of a few six packs of beer and we’d taken them to Johnny’s home. His parents were away for the day, so we knew the coast was clear. But, they returned home unexpectedly early and we got caught. In this state it’s illegal to drink alcohol until you’re twenty-one, so not only had we done something our parents disapproved of, at eighteen, we’d broken the law.

Johnny’s parents made a few telephone calls and I reckon in this part of town there are five other guys also having confrontations with their fathers. Butts will be blistered, for sure. We live in that sort of community.

“You’re too old for this kind of thing,” dad said, as he sat back in his chair and lifted the paddle from his lap and waved it at me.

It was a homemade paddle, about a foot or so long and a couple of inches wide. I don’t know if dad had made the paddle himself, it had been around the house for as long as I could remember. If he did make it, it was probably the only bit of carpentry he had ever done in his life.

“You should know better, and I think it’s time you and the Board of Education had a little discussion about this drinking business. Now, get across my knee.”

I did as I was instructed without question. I was totally naked. I’m probably about the same height as dad, but much leaner and lighter. I stretched my hands in front of me and placed my hands palm down on the floor. My bare bottom was raised above his left knee and my legs, were bent slightly so that my toes rested on the floor tiles behind me.

Dad put his right arm across my back the better to hold me in position across his knees.

“This is something you have deserved for a long time. It’s time you got your little bottom blistered.”

Six slaps hit me squarely in the middle of my ass, hitting both cheeks equally. They weren’t vicious swipes, but they hit home. I let out a quiet groan as each whack! struck the target.

I wanted to take my punishment without fuss, but with each blow I found myself wriggling across dad’s knee.

He carried on whacking me in the centre of my buttocks. He kept up a steady rhythm with the strikes.  After about ten or twelve hits I was beginning to lose a little control. I was writhing across his legs and my legs kicked out behind me.

Dad was undeterred. Whack! Whack! One every three seconds or so. Whack! Whack! Whack!

I wasn’t in tears but the pain was getting to me. I kept my palms flat on the floor, but my shoulders and back were writhing with the blows.

“Keep still.” Whack! Whack! Whack!

“You’re getting what you deserve.”

Dad was right. I did deserve my spanking. I had disobeyed him about drinking. I’d been caught before with beer and I’d got a sound hand spanking them. I’d promised never to drink alcohol again, but I’d gone back on my word.

Whack! Whack! Whack!

“I’m sorry.”

Dad was not impressed. He just carried on with the rhythmic blows. I was losing my breath as each successive blow winded me just a little bit more.

His next dozen or so whacks were a little harder than those that went before. The pain was growing in my ass, and travelling down my legs. I struggled harder to break free, but dad just held me tighter around my body closer to his knees to make sure I wasn’t going anywhere.

Whack! Whack!

“Ouch! Aaah!” I couldn’t help it. I just had to let out the cries of pain.

Whack! Whack!

“You’ve needed this for a long time.”

Whack! Whack!

“I’m sorry. Ouch! Owww!”

The blows came harder still and I was losing some control. “Owwwwwwwww! I”m sorry.”

But, dad had heard it all before. Last time he spanked me for drinking beer, I’d said exactly the same thing. I’d probably meant it too: at least at the time.

Another six whacks: some on the left cheek; some on the right.

“OK, OK, Please. Sorry.” I was still struggling to break free but dad was winning that little battle.

Whack! Whack!

“Have you learned something from this experience?”

“Yes, Sir!”

“Are you going to drink alcohol again?”

“No, Sir!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Sir!”

But, dad couldn’t have been convinced because he just kept on whacking my bare bottom with that goddam paddle.

“You’d – better – not,” he carried on talking while still whacking, one blow falling in time to  every word he spoke.

His blows were harder and my “ouchs!” were louder. I still tried to free myself. Later, looking back on my spanking I was a bit ashamed of this. I knew I deserved the spanking I was getting and I should have taken my licking like a man. But, I tried to console myself my bucking over dad’s knee was probably a reflex action by my body to the pain that was being inflicted on me.

“Alright. Stand up.” I didn’t need telling twice I was on my feet in a heartbeat. My ass was on fire. I knew it. Dad knew it. That’s what a spanking is supposed to do: make the naughty boy very sore, so that he learns his lesson and he will think twice if he feels like breaking the rules again.

I turned around to inspect the damage: my bottom was red raw.

“Get dressed.” I found my shorts which I had kicked off during the spanking and pulled them on. The nylon felt cool against my raw flesh.

“OK, go to your room. And no more beer.”

OK, dad, I thought, I won’t drink again. And I meant it, of course – until the next time.

Picture credit: Unknown

 

Other stories you might like

Where’s the paddle, hon?

Toby’s father visits

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This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Making the Grade

used drawing paddle hold (16)

 

“Look at these grades. I’ve failed psychology.” Randy Caulfield was despondent.

He pushed the printed transcript across the table to his friend Seth. The nineteen-year-old student studied the paper carefully, as if a careful examination might change the ‘F’ into a pass.

He took a long pull on his iced cola, “What are you going to do about it?”

“What can I do? I had a place lined up at school and now look at this.” Randy waved the transcript in the air dramatically.

“I’ve got A’s in just about everything else. But, this goddam fail means I can’t go,” Randy felt like weeping. His life was over. Ahead lay forty-five years of dead-end jobs.

“It was the only elective I could get. All the others were full. What good is psychology anyway?” Randy’s bitterness spilled over.

“But it’s only an elective course, does it count?” Seth was trying to be supportive, but he knew it did matter.

At John F. Kennedy Community College you had to pass all your courses, even when your overall grade point average was a pass.

“Do you know,” Randy said, “If I got a bare pass in the psychology, my GPA would still be good enough to take me to university.”

“Who teaches the course?” Seth had the germ of an idea.

“Drake, d’you know him?”

“Yes, I think so. Youngish man, only been here a couple of years,” Seth replied, trying not to let on that he knew more than he was saying.

“Yes, that’s him. A goddam awful teacher, no wonder I never learned anything,” Randy said, and then as an afterthought, “I wonder how many others failed.” He was wondering if he would win an appeal against the grading.

“You should talk to him, this Drake.  Tell him what’s happened. Ask him to pass you,” Seth knew he had to tread carefully.

“Would that work? Would he do it?” Randy doubted it.

“Make an appointment. Go see him. What is there to lose?” Seth drained his cola and stood up to leave.

If the rumours Seth had heard were true, Randy would get his pass; but he would have to pay a price for it.

….

Randy got his appointment to see Drake, but he had to wait until six in the evening. The semester was over and John F. Kennedy Community College was nearly deserted as he made his way to Drake’s office, hidden away at the end of a corridor on the eighth floor of the main building.

As he exited the elevator he saw Mark Cheyne, a fellow psychology student, hurrying down the corridor. He was ashen faced and his eyes shone like hot coals. Randy growled “Watch it!” as Mark pushed him out of the way before disappearing into the elevator.

It was late and the support staff had all gone home. There did not seem to be anyone around, so he walked down the corridor reading name plates until he found: T. E. Drake. Suddenly, overtaken by nerves, Randy hesitated. Something was not quite right, but he could not put his finger on it. Checking that nobody else was in the corridor, the teenager put his ear to the door. He had no clue why he did that, or what he expected to hear. In fact, he heard nothing; there was nothing to hear.

Shaking his head (what a fool he was), he tapped on the door and was greeted by a firm “Come in!”

It was an ordinary office and very modern. The furniture, such of it that there was, was made from light pine. A desk and computer table dominated the small room and there were two ‘bucket type’ chairs for guests. The walls were lined with shelving upon which Drake piled high books and journals. It was about as untidy as any other lecturer’s office Randy had ever visited.

Behind the desk, working at the computer was Drake. Seth had described him well; he was a young man, hardly out of university himself. His wide open face and floppy fair hair gave him the appearance of a much younger person.

He looked up, removed his glasses, and peered at Randy.

“And you are?” Drake feigned not to know the nineteen-year-old student he had failed to teach all semester, but he knew very well who he was. And, he knew why he was here.

“I’m Randy Caulfield,” he began, before adding ‘Sir,” as if he were back at Junior High.

Drake liked that. “Sir!” Yes, he thought, this boy had the correct attitude.

“And why are you here?”

Randy launched into a prepared speech about his grade, it being an elective course, how he was an A-student and how his future would be ruined if he could not take his place at the university.

Drake listened impassively. He had already made up his mind, but he wanted a little fun first.

“Why should I give students grades they do not deserve?”

Randy had no coherent answer to that, so just mumbled about his lost university place.

Drake stood up from his computer and walked around his desk so that he was next to Randy.

“It is important that I treat all my students in the same way, he intoned pompously, recalling in his mind Mark Cheyne’s visit to his office not ten minutes previously.

“Yes, sir … I know … but …” Randy tailed off.

There he went again: “Sir.”

Drake paced his office. “You are a lazy student Caulfield and you cannot be allowed to get away with it!” He was firm and determined to make the teenager suffer.

Randy did not think himself lazy, his A-grades in other course proved that. He was a chemist and one day would distinguish himself in the science. He was a good student, but he was just was not cut out for psychology.

He should tell Drake this, he thought, but he could not find the words. Disheartened by his wasted journey, he prepared to leave.

Startled that he might lose a golden opportunity, Drake said, “No, don’t go yet. There might be something I can do for you.”

Puzzled, Randy swung round to face the lecturer.

“You are lazy and you must be taught a lesson. But, I do not want to destroy what might prove to be a promising career. You can be punished in some other way.”

Drake’s words came easily. He had said the same, or something very similar, to many students already that day. He had rehearsed them well and in his own mind what he was about to propose was reasonableness itself.

“If you behaved like this in High School, you would be sent to the principal’s office, would you not.”

Randy was not so sure. “Maybe. I guess,” he shrugged his shoulders.

“There is no ‘maybe’ about it,” Drake’s certainty was not to be questioned.

Randy stood silent. What exactly was happening here?

“And the principal would more than likely give you swats with one of these,” and Drake opened a cupboard door, reached in and took out a spanking paddle.

Randy’s face glowed red with embarrassment. Drake wanted to paddle him.

“So what do you say? If you take a licking and atone for your laziness, I will raise your grade to a pass.” Drake smacked the paddle down into the palm of his hand and stared intently at the teenager as he waited for Randy to respond.

Randy could not take his eyes off the wood Drake wanted to use to beat his ass. It was a typical school paddle, about fifteen inches long and five wide. It was maybe a half an inch thick. Some joker had written ‘Board of Education’ on one side of the blade.

Randy was breathless. Was the man serious? Could he actually do this? Was it even legal?

The boy said none of this aloud, but Drake could read his thoughts.

“It is the solution. You know it is Randy.” This was the first time the man had ever called him by his first name.

“Come. Let’s get this over with,” Drake said as he moved one of the bucket chairs into the centre of the room.

Randy was in a trance. Later when he recounted his story to Seth (who knew all about Drake’s little game) there were many parts of the action he could not remember.

“Bend over the chair, Randy.”

He meekly did as he was told and bent down. It was a small chair with a low back. Drake had Randy move back a bit, using the paddle against his legs and inner thighs to guide him to spread his legs until they were about shoulder-width apart.  Then Drake tugged at Randy’s jeans until they stretched across his buttocks like a second skin.

Then, Swat! The first one landed in the center of his backside. Randy let out a loud yelp and hung on for dear life as he furiously stamped his feet trying to get the sting out of his poor butt.

Drake did not mind if Randy kicked about, as long as he stayed in position.

Randy was gasping for breath as if he would never end off gasping, then he clenched his teeth to try to stop yelling again as swat number two connected. The paddle stung like fire and he was surprised how loud a sound it made when it landed across his bent-over behind. All he could say was Ow, ow, ow!!! again and again.

After two dozen swats had connected it was over. Randy let go of the chair and jumped up and down, hollering in pain, his hands frantically trying to soothe the unquenchable heat burning every square inch of his poor butt. His eyes were welled up with tears but he did not care. He was way past the point of being embarrassed about tears or about the show he was putting on as he tried to stop the burn. After a minute or so of carrying on, he stopped dancing up and down and just stood still and rubbed.

Drake stood there paddle in hand just watching Randy with a look of satisfaction on his face that seemed to say: job well done.

And, it was a job well done. Drake had satisfied himself. He could with a clear conscience delete Randy’s failed grade and replace it with a pass.

Randy heard the news in silence. He had regained control of his breathing and the red heat in his throbbing buttocks was cooling.

Shoving his hands deep into his pockets he tramped out of the office; his place at the university saved.

At the end of the corridor the elevator opened and out stepped Phil King, another psychology student.

“Good luck!” Randy said to the puzzled classmate before pressing the button for the lobby.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

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Dad’s revenge

The sleep over

Taming Timothy

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The University Major

z used otk paddle older

Gerard Underwood was no ordinary first year Freshman at the university. For a start he was forty years old and second he had just been made redundant as a Major from the army.

Not that Underwood minded. He took a large pay off and set off to the university to explore a great love of his: English Literature.

Suitable housing had been in short supply so the university set him up in a room at one of the student halls of residence. That’s how he came to be living cheek-by-jowl with a group of eighteen- and nineteen-year-old students.

It hadn’t been easy. They were a boisterous lot who liked to make a lot of noise: for some reason the Major didn’t understand music always had to be played at the highest possible level. That irritated him a lot. But, he was even more put out by the constant mess the lads made in the communal areas such as the kitchen. That really offended his military sensibilities: everything should be tidily put away in its place.

He had complained several times but the boys didn’t take much notice. In fact, they considered him a bit of a joke.

What they needed, Major Underwood knew, was some discipline. A spell in the Military would soon sort them out. But, that was just a dream; it was never going to happen.

But, Underwood concluded, if they couldn’t be put in uniform, they could at least be put across his knee for some old-fashioned discipline, courtesy of his stout wooden paddle.

The Major believed in corporal punishment, he had used it on his own three boys. Not when they were in their late teens, of course. He had put them across his knee from an early age and they soon got the message.

Actually, that wasn’t quite true. He did have a run-in with Gerard Junior, his eldest boy, when he was eighteen. The boy was getting out of control, staying out late and drinking alcohol. It came to a head one night when Gerard had arrived home roaring drunk. The next day words were said and the boy soon found himself trousers down, over his father’s knee, a place he hadn’t been for the past six or seven years.

There followed a severe spanking and the sound of wood crashing into the soft yielding flesh could be heard all the way from the boy’s bedroom into the street. So too could Gerard Jr’s howls of outrage and pain.

His son soon mended his way. Yes, Major Underwood knew for certain: spanking worked. It worked on his own sons and it would work on his fellow lazy, thoughtless, students.

After a weekend back at his home, the Major returned to the university with his trusted paddle. It was about a foot in length and a quarter of an inch or more thick with large holes drilled into its face, the better to get a good swing at the target backside.

He had told some of the students they needed some discipline and if they didn’t mend their ways he might just be the person to administer it. They didn’t want to take him seriously.  Whoever heard of nineteen-year-old students getting their backsides blistered?

But, there were also some uncomfortable glances between the boys after the Major made his promise. Deep down inside some of the boys at least thought he might just be serious.

And he was, as Tommy was about to find out. Tommy was eighteen years old and the Major thought as slovenly as anyone could possibly be. He never washed up his things when he made a meal in the communal kitchen and he always played his music at deafening levels.

But, the Major decided this night he was about to get his comeuppance.

It was quite late one evening and there were only the two of them in the kitchen. Tommy had left his dirty dishes unwashed on the table. Did he expect someone to wash up for him? the Major thought to himself. Maybe at home his mother did.

It was all over in a matter of moments. The Major barked an order at Tommy as he was half way to the door and the boy stopped in his tracks.

A few short sentences from the Major were all it took to let Tommy know he was in real trouble. He had been warned previously and had chosen to ignore it and now he must face the consequences.

The Major ordered Tommy to stand still and wait. He obeyed without question.

Major Underwood strode to his locker and from it retrieved the paddle. The boy’s eyes were transfixed on the older, powerful, man.

“Come here, Tommy,” the Major gestured with the paddle for him to move forward. As the boy did so, the Major pulled a wooden bench clear of the table and sat down on it.

“Right boy bend over my knee.”

To the Major’s surprise, Tommy meekly did as he was told. In one continuous movement he approached the Major, took a deep breath and almost fell across the older man’s lap. He came to rest with his head low on the floor and his bottom raised high over the Major’s right leg, ready to receive the thwack of the paddle into the seat of his faded Levi jeans.

This is not a new experience for this boy, the Major thought. He must have been in this position before.

He put his hand into the small of Tommy’s back to hold him steady and swiftly brought the wood down with an almighty THWACK!!! into Tommy’s backside. The boy let out a gasp, but continued to keep his bottom raised high, seemingly welcoming his punishment.

THACK!!! number three had just hit home when the kitchen door opened and in walked Wayne. This boy was just as badly behaved as Tommy and the Major intended to make sure that before too long he too would be presenting his buttocks for the paddle.

Wayne stopped in his tracks, immediately sized up the situation and blanched. He was about to turn on his heels and exit swiftly when the Major called out.

“Not so fast Wayne. Wait right there. You’re next.”

Without hesitation, the boy turned and fled. No matter, he’s going nowhere: there’s nowhere for him to run, the Major reckoned.

Undeterred, he raised the paddle again, high into the air, and brought it crashing down again into the Levis.

He stopped after a dozen licks. Tommy had had enough. The major, too, was satisfied. He wasn’t a sadist, but he believed in the efficacy of corporal punishment and that meant when you whacked a boy you made sure you did it good and hard.

Tommy slowly rose to his feet. His face was crimson, as in all probability was his backside. He was in pain, and his eyes were watery, but he successfully stopped himself from crying.

His buttocks throbbed, the denim jeans had been no protection against the expertly handled wooden paddle. Tommy dearly wanted to rub his fleshy globes, but that would have to wait a few more moments until he was in the privacy of his bedroom.

“Will I have to do this again, Tommy?”

“No, sir.”

The Major noted the word “Sir” – the boy knew when he was beaten: both literally and figuratively.

“I hope not. Mend your ways quickly, or next time we’ll see how you like it with your jeans around your ankles and your underwear around your knees.”

Tommy shrank from the major at the thought of it.

“Yes, Sir. I will Sir.”

The Major believed he meant it. He would try to be better, that was for sure. Whether he would succeed was another matter.

…..

Twenty minutes later the Major was back in his own bedroom, reading Shakespeare’s Macbeth, when music started playing so thunderously that the walls of his room vibrated.

That bloody brat, Wayne.

Pausing only to pick up his paddle, the Major hurried from the room. He hammered on the boy’s bedroom door, but it took a while for it to open and for Wayne’s head to poke outside.

Without a word the Major pushed the boy backwards, entered the room and unplugged the music.

Wayne put up a protest. In the time since he had witnessed his friend’s humiliation across the Major’s knees he had vowed to himself that he was not going the same way.

But, the protestation was in vain. The Major told the boy in no uncertain terms that he had over-stepped the mark for the last time.

No way are you whacking me, Wayne thought, and pushed Major Underwood towards the door.

That was entirely the wrong thing to do. The boy might be more than twenty years younger than the ex-Military man, but in any trial of strength he would come off second best: as he was about to find out.

The Major made a grab for the boy’s hair, intending to bend him double so he could get swats at his backside, but Wayne was too quick for him. The room was too small to swing a paddle properly and the Major knew he would have to overpower the boy so he could get up close to deliver the licks.

Getting the boy across his knee was out of the question. Instead he made a grab for the boy’s throat and pushed him on the bed. He fell on his back, winded, and from there it was easy for the Major to get up close and turn Wayne over onto his stomach.

The Major knelt on the bed beside the boy and with a strength Wayne could not believe he could possess he pinned him down with his face in the pillow. The boy was his for the taking.

The Major really despised a boy who couldn’t take his punishment without a fuss. Tommy had been no trouble; he went down across his knees the moment he was instructed. He was a fine lad; you could make a man out of him.

But, Wayne was just a brat – and a cowardly brat at that. He should be taught a lesson.

With one hand holding him face down, the Major used the other to tug at the elasticated waist of Wayne’s sweat pants. In no time his buttocks were bared. He tried desperately to escape, but the Major was in complete control: the boy was going nowhere until he had been punished severely.

The Major released Wayne’s arm for just long enough for him to put his knee in the small of his back. This gave him the opportunity to swing the paddle from a great height and smack it at extreme force into the boy’s fleshy cheeks.

A dozen swats crashed down in quick succession. Bang! Bang! Bang! one after another. Wayne wailed and kicked his feet but his screams were muffled by the pillow his face was buried in, but the yells must still have been heard by all his neighbours: the walls of the students’ rooms were paper thin.

Tears and snot rolled down Wayne’s face and he gasped for air, partly because of the intense pain he was feeling, but also because of the mouthful of pillow he was swallowing.

Then it was over. Wayne’s buttocks were dark red and already turning to purple bruises. He would feel the effects of this bare-bottomed thrashing for a long time to come.

The Major stood looking down on the whipped boy. He had no compassion for him. He knew the brat deserved all he got but he wasn’t man enough to take it.

The Major left the room. Outside a small crowd of students had gathered, attracted by the noise and their curiosity excited by the certainty that one of their own was getting his bottom blistered.

They parted as the Major exited the room and watched in awe as he returned to his own room, swinging the paddle nonchalantly as he went.

The boys looked at each other in silence, each one thinking the same thing: which of them would be next?

While Wayne was getting his buttocks toasted, Tommy was back in his own room with his Levis and pants around his ankles stroking away at his todger. He panted hard as he relived the past five minutes and his soldier stood to attention.

Breathing heavily, Tommy stared at the ceiling: he had done it. At last, he had gotten the real spanking he had craved all his life.

Tommy had been interested in spanking for as long as he could remember. When he was ten-years-old he loved to take out the old books in the children’s library modern kids never wanted to read. His favourites were the stories from boarding school, where teenaged boys were always being ordered to bend over for a “swishing” from the form master, or even, oh glory!, a birching from the headmaster.

He would read and re-read these stories for hours, imagining that he was the boy summoned to the Beak’s study for six on the bags with an ashplant.

Growing up, he desperately wanted to be spanked, but he never got the chance. That’s not strictly true; he did remember once that his father got hold of a rigid bamboo cane, one of those that you would use in the garden, from somewhere. He had no idea where it came from: they lived on the seventh storey of a block of flats; they had no use for it. He could vaguely remember that once, he must have been quite young, his dad chased him with it around the flat, intending to give him a whacking, but he ran away bawling his eyes out. His dad (soft thing) gave up her chase, showed tremendous remorse, and the cane disappeared forever.

Many times since, Tommy played that scene in his dreams, only this time there was no chase: instead he pictured himself in the front room, bent over touching his toes, his jeans pulled down to his ankles and his father thwacking a proper whippy rattan cane with a curved handle across his stretched underpants. This time, he did the job properly.

So, Tommy had never received corporal punishment, but he did try many times to spank himself. When he was alone in the flat he would lock himself in the bathroom, take his trousers down, bend over the side of the bathtub and whack his bottom with a bath brush. He couldn’t get much of a swing so the results were unsatisfactory.

Tommy could not believe it when Major Underwood turned up at the university’s halls of residence and lambasted him and his fellow students about their noise and the mess they made in the kitchen. The students all thought he was a bit of a joke and a loser: who was still at university at the age of forty?

Tommy didn’t take much notice of the Major, until one evening Underwood declared that if the students did not shape up he would take a paddle to their backsides.

That night Tommy had a wet dream. In it he and the Major were in the kitchen, Tommy had been playing his music too loud and he had not washed up his dishes. Now, he was for it. Many times in the past, Tommy had dreamt about being put across a strong man’s knee: Tommy was always submissive. His favourite position was head way down, almost kissing the carpet, his bottom raised high over the thigh with his legs dangling in the air behind him.

Usually, he had his trousers at his ankles. Sometimes, but not always, he would be wearing tight briefs, so short they hardly covered his buttocks. Other times, his spanker would pull the briefs down to expose bare cheeks before whacking into him with the palm of his hand, or a hairbrush, or a slipper. In his dreams, Tommy had never been spanked with a paddle.

In real life Tommy didn’t play his music loud (he preferred listening through headphones, anyway) and he wasn’t especially untidy about the residences. Tommy wasn’t one of the students the Major should be worrying about. Underwood didn’t know that: as far as he was concerned all the students were as blameworthy as one another.

Even though he craved to be taken over the Major’s knee for a bottom-blistering spanking with the paddle, Tommy could not summon up the courage to contrive it. That evening he had lain on his bed, torturing himself with fantasies about himself and the Major. Tommy was going crazy; he had to do something about this.

He went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea and found the Major there alone, as usual the sink and draining board were full of unwashed dishes.

“Are these yours!” the Major barked at Tommy. There weren’t, but Tommy was too dumbfounded to reply.

The Major was in a strop, he tore a strip off Tommy and without waiting for a response strode to his locker and took out his paddle.

Tommy was breathless. He was going to get spanked. At last! He was so excited blood popped in his ears.

Within seconds, Tommy was across the Major’s lap and he wriggled himself into the position he had dreamt about many times: head far down, bottom far up.

Tommy’s breath came in short gasps; he hoped he would be able to take his first over-the-knee spanking well. However much it hurt, and he hoped it was much more painful than when he had spanked his own bum with the bath brush, he would try to take it without fuss.

SMACK!!!! the first lick of the paddle fell across his tight jeans. Tommy’s gasps turned to wheezes as the shock of the pain forced him to expel air from his lungs.

Marvellous! He had never experienced such pain before. WHACK! SMACK! the paddle rose and fell in the hands of a master. Tommy was in agony when he the kitchen door opened and the eighteen-year-old boy’s best friend Wayne came in.

The thought that Wayne was witnessing his spanking sent a wave of desire through Tommy’s body and he could feel a prominent erection under his pants.

The Major called out to Wayne, but as soon as the boy realised what was going on he scarpered, fearful he would be next over the strong knee of Major Underwood.

Alone together again, the Major continued with the licking.

When it was over, Tommy stood in front of the Major, his buttocks glowing and his cock throbbing, with his hands cupped in front of his crotch. To the Major it looked like an act of submission, but actually the boy was trying to hide the huge bulge behind his zipper.

Tommy’s shirt had stuck to his back with sweat, his breathing was irregular, his buttocks were roasted and he was in Heaven!

Back in his room, Tommy was in ecstasy! His soldier stood to attention once again as he relived it all in his mind: the command to “bend over my knee;” the agony as the paddle swiped into his globes; Wayne’s appearance and finally being scolded like a little boy by the Major.

And, the Major promised next time the spanking would be with his trousers at his ankles and his pants at his knees. Oh Joy!

As Tommy started rubbing himself he heard a commotion from the next room. Wayne was getting it too! The spunk shot a foot in the air, staining his blanket.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Hotel Duty Manager

do not disturb sign

The duty manager stood at his office window scanning the hotel complex for trouble. It was three days since he had any action and he was getting very tense.

Then he saw them. Yes, this would do nicely.

Two teenaged boys, obviously English judging by their pale skins, were dancing on the balcony of their rooms, dressed only in their underpants. Drunk, of course, he thought. Unless they were high on drugs.

He couldn’t hear from a distance but he was pretty sure loud music would be coming from the room, disturbing other hotel guests.

What’s this? One of the boys wriggled his bottom provocatively at his friend. What the Hell? In what the boy supposed to be a seductive dance, he lowered his bright yellow briefs and thrust out his pert little, now bare, buttocks.

The duty manager went to his computer and after a few mouse clicks the information he wanted appeared on screen. Yes, the thought so: Peter Giles, aged eighteen, and Wayne Calderwood, aged nineteen. They were part of a package group from England: arrived yesterday for ten days.

Yes, they would be ideal, he told himself, as he picked up his keys and briefcase.

Five minutes later he was hammering on their hotel door.

“Duty manager here. Please open the door.”

A few seconds elapsed before the music was turned off and the door opened.

“Duty manager,” he showed his ID card and entered the room. The boys were still in their underpants and judging by the glazed look in their eyes, they had been drinking heavily. The empty beer bottles confirmed that.

Typical English louts, the duty manager thought, away from their parents for an orgy of sun, sand, booze and sex.

“I have had complaints about the noise from this room,” he rasped sternly. Drunk though they were, the boys remained silent and heard him out.

“And, I witnessed myself, your lewd behaviour on the balcony.”

Both boys blushed scarlet at the thought their little secret was out.

“Now, I have your names here; which one of you is Wayne?”

The boy in the yellow pants raised his hand.

“So, you must be Peter?” he told the other boy.

“Right, Peter, Wayne, I want you to pack your bags and leave the hotel.”

The boys had not expected this and they sobered up pretty quickly. There was nowhere they could go. They were on a tourist deal and their flight home didn’t leave for more than a week.

Peter piped up, “We are sorry, Sir. We promise not to do it again.”

“Sir”. The duty manager liked that. This was going to be easy.

Peter and Wayne slurred their explanations. They were on a package tour. There was no way they could fly back to England now. If they were thrown out of the hotel, they would be destitute.  They would have to sleep on the beach.

What would their friends say?

God! What would their fathers say? No what would their fathers DO, when they found out.

Wayne knew what his father would do. It took weeks for the bruises and scars to completely heal after dad heard he had been driving the family car without permission and well over the drink-drive limit.

It had been the whipping of his lifetime. But, the teenager was certain the thrashing he would get when his dad heard about this would be ten times worse, especially if dad had to buy him an air ticket to rescue him from Lanzarote.

The duty hotel manager could read the hooligans like a book.

“No, you must leave. We cannot have this kind of behaviour. We are a respectable hotel.”

That wasn’t strictly true, many things happened at the hotel that were far from respectable. That’s why so many youngsters stayed there.

Peter could feel his eyes welling up. He was such a cry baby.

The duty manager let them suffer a while.

“How old are you boys?”

Peter, “Eighteen, Sir.”

Wayne, “Nineteen, nearly twenty.” And, then he added, “Sir.”

“Doh! If I were your fathers I’d give you each a damn good spanking.”

The boys were literally speechless. Who was this man? How did he know so much about their fathers?

The duty manager eyed each boy carefully, “Do you know in this country we have the law of pater familias?”

The boys looked at each other blankly; they didn’t quite shrug their shoulders to express ignorance; but the duty manager could tell they were clueless.

Pater familias means the head of the household takes responsibility for all those who are aged less than twenty-one years. He acts in the place of their fathers. Do you understand?”

They didn’t, so he carried on.

“In law while you are staying at the hotel you are part of my household and I act in pater familias. I am your father.” And, then a little more sharply, “Do you understand that?”

Yes, they said, they understood that.

The duty manager had them where he wanted. They were so dumb. The products of a fine English education, he thought.

“If you solemnly promise that you will not disturb your neighbours and you will not behave in that disgusting fashion again, I am prepared to act in pater familias. Do you understand?”

Peter still did not, but a light bulb lit above Wayne’s head, “You’re going to spank us.”

The two boys exchanged glances but they said nothing.

“Yes, I am. If you swear you will behave. The alternative is for you both to leave.”

The boys could not look each other in the eyes. The duty manager took their silence as assent and went to his briefcase to extract a wooden paddle. As paddles went, it was not a vicious object; similar ones were still used in a few America schools to whack the backsides of misbehaving schoolchildren.

He held the paddle in one hand as if testing its weight. Then, pointing it towards the door of the room, he said, “Both of you stand there and put your hands on your head.”

Without question, they did as instructed. Raising their hands helped to define their bodies. The duty manager took a moment to admire the muscle tone of each boy; obviously they worked out at the gym a little, but they weren’t obsessive body builders. Each boy had very clear skin and had he taken the trouble to inspect the bathroom he would find an array of lotions that had made that possible.

The rooms in the hotel were small and the duty manager knew from experience the most effective way to swing a paddle was to have the boy over his knees. He sat on a bed and motioned Peter to step forward.

“Come here, Peter and bend over my knee.”

Silently, Peter walked forward. The duty manager could see tears forming already. If he’s like this now, what will be like once I’ve blistered his backside for him?

Peter stared vacantly at the legs of the duty manager. Was he really expected to bend over them to allow this commanding man to whip his arse?

“Come on Peter,” he held out his hand to take the teenager by the arm and gently glide him over his lap. The boy did not resist and allowed the masterful man to adjust him until his chest lay across the bed and his legs stretched out behind him so his toes just reached the carpet. His bottom, the highest part of his body, rested over the duty manager’s lap.

The duty manager rubbed his huge hand over Peter’s underpants to smooth any creases from the cotton. Peter’s breathing became irregular as he waited the first swat of the paddle.

Wallop! It hit into the left cheek. Peter gasped a little, but the pain was not too great. It tingled a little that was all.

The duty manager held the boy firmly around the waist. He could see Peter had taken too much sun today; the skin on his back would be burnt by tonight. The skin on his backside would also be sore by the time he was finished.

The spanking was sound, but not brutal. Peter was in tears by the fourth swat.

By the time the twelfth and last swat smacked home, Peter’s buttocks were raw, but the pain had already turned to stinging sensation and quickly it would become a warm, pleasant glow.

The spanking over, the duty manager sent Peter to stand by the door once more, hands on head. He faced the door, away from sight.

“Wayne, you know the procedure.”

Wayne was determined to be brave in front of Peter. In their relationship, he always was the leader; the strong one.

He put himself over the duty manager’s lap and wriggled around so his backside was in the prime spot to receive the paddle.

The duty manager was annoyed that Wayne did not seem especially anxious. Well, this should make him worry more. He took hold of the pants at the waist and pulled them down to his thighs.

“There, you seem to like showing off your bare bottom. Let’s all have a look.”

Wayne hadn’t expected this; but he knew he must try to take anything the duty manager could dish out; even bare butt.

And, he could. The duty manager whacked him twelve times with the paddle; Wayne writhed a little, but mostly stayed quiet. It hurt like hell and he was a little worried about the bruises. He wanted to show off his body on the beach, but his skimpy swimming trunks hardly covered a thing. What would the boys think when they saw he had been spanked?

His duty to his other guests completed, the duty manager packed up his paddle, and prepared to leave. Both boys were rubbing their hot buttocks to convince him it had been a job well done.

“I shall be keeping an eye on you to for the rest of the stay. I hope we don’t have to have a repeat of this afternoon,” he said, unconvincingly.

Back in his office with the blinds drawn and the door locked, the duty manager reached for the suntan lotion and unzipped his trousers.

The gullible English, he thought. There’s one born every minute.

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

Professor Paddle

z used drawing paddle hold (11)

“It is indeed regrettable that the university failed to make proper provisions for regular corporal punishment as a normal part of academic tuition, but Armstrong and Kitso in your case I can assure you a sound spanking with a stout wooden paddle is very much in order.”

The two miserable twenty-year-old students shifted their feet and stared down at their shoes like the two naughty twelve-year-old schoolboys they closely resembled.

The professor detailed their misdeeds, but neither of the young men listened too carefully, since they had already learned their fate.

They had been caught cheating on an essay. It was blatant and inexpert; they were as the students at the university called it, “bang to rights.” They had no excuses really. They were just idle students who spent too much time in the bar or on the sports field, or, as often as they could, chatting up girls.

They listened to the lecture with downcast eyes. They knew they’d done wrong, and deserved to be punished for it.

The professor was not too surprised by their behaviour; he had seen it all before. They were not the only students who had been to visit his study this term, all for more or less the same offence: slacking. And each one had hobbled away from the study with a throbbing backside.

He was so keen on the wood, his students called him Professor Paddle. They knew what price they would pay if they broke the rules or didn’t put enough effort into their studies: they only had themselves to blame.

The professor believed in the efficacy of corporal punishment: he always spanked students who were up before him. Experience told him that if he whacked their butts for their first offence, they rarely committed a second.

Now, it was the turn of Armstrong and Kitso: two very ordinary students, as far as the professor could tell. Neither would become a star academic and distinguish the university, but if they knuckled down and worked hard, they would graduate with good enough degrees and enjoy decent careers.

The professor’s sermons never lasted long. He told the embarrassed pair they were cheats and might never be trusted again. He said their parents would be ashamed of them if they heard of their behaviour. It was standard stuff; he had given similar homilies many times before.

Each boy stared at the faded rug beneath his feet, each uncertain whether they were expected to respond, so they did what generations of naughty schoolboys had done before them, they kept silent.

The lecture now over Professor Paddle got straight to the point. “Both of you stand facing that wall.” Miserably, the youngsters did as instructed. It was quite a large study, two walls were dominated by bookcases and a third accommodated a large Chesterfield-type couch. The fourth consisted of fake mahogany panelling.

The study was full of furniture and the professor had many choices when he positioned his naughty students for their punishment. Over the years he had them draped across an armchair, the Chesterfield and his over-large desk. But, he thought, he preferred one of the simple plastic chairs he had swiped from a seminar room and that he used for visitors.

It was one of these lightweight chairs that he picked up and placed in the centre of the room. In this position there would be ample space for a boy to bend over the chair and for the professor to swing his paddle into the proffered buttocks with maximum force.

“Armstrong. You first.” He was looking at Kitso when he said this and was surprised when it was the other boy who moved forward.

“Stand in front of the chair, boy.” Armstrong felt he was in a dream, he had never been spanked in his life and he could not entirely believe that his first taste of butt pain would come when he was twenty years old.

“I want you to take down your jeans and assume the position, hands on the seat of the chair. Keep facing the wall boy.” This last was addressed to Kitso who astonished by the professor’s command had turned to see the reaction of his friend.

Armstrong had not expected this. Paddled on the shorts! The pain of a whacking on the jeans would be bad enough, but surely the paddle thwacked across the thin cotton of his underwear would be unbearable.

Armstrong moved slowly across the room and around to the other side of the chair, facing away from the professor. He deliberately avoided thinking about what he was doing as his fingers undid the button of his jeans, then the zipper, and then slid them down altogether. They hung around his knees for a moment, before the force of gravity took them down to rest at his feet. That wasn’t so hard. He still had his boxers on. There was no shame in the professor seeing him in his boxers, he lied to himself.

Meanwhile, the professor rummaged in a desk drawer.  A big wooden paddle with air holes in it was in his hands in no time.

“Armstrong, bend yourself over the chair, lift up your shirt tail out of the way and keep your hands away from your bottom. If your hands move from the chair, I will start over.”

With those words, he drew back the paddle and whacked Armstrong’s rear end with it – hard! He winced, and gave out an audible gasp. The crack of the paddle echoed through the study. Again, the professor drew back and walloped his rear end. The underwear he was wearing didn’t give him much protection.

Then the professor struck the boy’s right buttock with as much force as he could muster, almost causing him to topple forward. Unable to see clearly through the tears in his eyes, Armstrong fought to stay in position as the pain seared into his bottom, determined not to cry out. Worse almost than the pain itself was the awful humiliation of having to submit to a spanking at his age like a naughty child.

Holding his position, he waited for the next swat, his buttocks clenching convulsively in anticipation.

For a moment the professor eyed the boy’s cotton-clad backside and then, taking careful aim with the paddle in his right hand, struck the left buttock cheek a resounding blow that dented the thin material deep into the soft, yielding flesh.

Armstrong wailed and kicked his feet, but was smart enough to remain in position. Bang! Bang! Bang! went the paddle, Armstrong rising to his tiptoes and groaning with each powerful swat.

The paddle was like a hot iron, scalding him with every touch. He felt tears racing down his cheeks, so hot they seemed to sear their own path through his skin, leaving permanent canals.

Armstrong was howling, but took his licks as bravely as he could. He stood panting as the professor put down the paddle.

“Up. Stand by the wall. Kitso, your turn,” the command was curt and intended to be obeyed. Both boys jumped to attention.

Armstrong was in some distress as he faced the wood panelling. Tears were flowing freely down his face. His rear end felt as if he had sat on a hamburger griddle and surely the flesh on his buttocks was as raw as hamburger meat.

Kitso turned away from the wall, ready to take his own licking, and was astonished to see the professor seated on the plastic chair. He was gripping a smaller paddle, one not much bigger than a hairbrush.

“Come here boy, don’t dawdle. Trousers down. Bend over my knee.” Kitso blanched: it was humiliating enough to have to assume the position to let this older man whack his arse, but being made to bend across his knee like a five-year-old was going too far. Kitso stood his ground unable to move.

“Doh!” the professor exhaled, and with that he dragged Kitso’s head by the ear and held him in front of him while he unfastened and pulled down the student’s beige trousers to below his knees.

When he’d pulled down the trousers, he grabbed Kitso’s wrist so tightly it actually hurt. In the same motion, he yanked him over his lap with more force than he imagined he had, so the boy fell neatly into place across his widely placed knees. Kitso had to stop himself from crashing into the floor with his hands. He tried to get up but the professor grabbed the back of his neck, forced the head down and raised his knee by propping his heel against the chair leg so that the boy’s bottom was raised vulnerably. Kitso had to grab hold of the professor’s ankle with one hand and put his other on the floor to balance himself.

He laid one hand firmly on the boy’s lower back to hold him still but the cheating student’s body was trembling.

Like an explosion the paddle struck his bottom with enough force to make him feel like his eyes popped out of his head. There was no hesitation, the paddle bounced off his butt and slammed back into him. By that second blow tears began to roll down his face. By the third or fourth he was begging him to stop and screaming each time he hit him.

At some point during the spanking, Kitso reached back to try and protect his buttocks from any more pain. That turned out to be a huge mistake. With his free hand, the professor pinned both his wrists behind his back and began beating his poor cheeks with vengeance. He was crying wildly, screaming and whining and begging him to stop. His legs were kicking around and he tried with everything he was worth to wiggle off of his lap, but he never could. The professor was way too strong.

Kitso didn’t know how long it took for the professor to get his lesson across, but when he realized he had stopped, he was choking and weeping as he dangled, pinned across his knee. He was so humiliated, he could only double over and look at the floor, while both his hands rushed to clasp and rub his ignited bottom, trying to make the throbbing pain stop. He bounced and danced around, mostly in the same place, as he wailed and rubbed his behind.

Kitso looked sheepishly at the master who had delivered such a harsh spanking. Totally indifferent and non-responsive, the professor directed him to pull up his trousers and move to stand beside the leather arm chair from which he normally conducted his tutorials. Armstrong was instructed to join him.

The professor had earlier delivered his sermon and saw no reason to repeat any of it now. He warned the boys of the consequences of a repeat offence and dismissed them. Trying to walk as normally as possible, and desperately resisting the temptation to grip their bottoms, they walked slowly to the door and out.

Picture credit: Endart

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Dean of Dorm Discipline

z used jeans chair (2)

The sunshine beamed through the window awakening Mitch from his slumbers. Blearily he turned to look at his watch. He had better get a move on, he daren’t miss his appointment.

He stretched a little and yawned before pulling the sheet from his body. His mauve and yellow pants bulged and for a few moments he lay admiring himself. The pants were too tight so he pulled them down to his thighs liberating his Morning Glory. No time to handle that now, he thought as he kicked off the pants.

Seconds later he was on his knees down on the floor ready for his morning exercises. Mitch was a fit lad and had no problem executing twelve push-ups at some speed. Then he turned on his back for the twelve sit-ups that completed his daily routine.

He was sweating a little by now, but not because of the exercises; it was probably the belly full of beer he had drunk before falling into bed in the early hours.

He really should take a shower but there was no time so Midge picked up a flannel and soaked it under a tap. His soldier was still pointing to the sky and aching like crazy. It only took five or six strokes before the nineteen-year-old shot his load into the hand basin.

He cleaned himself down with the cloth and then rubbed it over the rest of his body. He needed a shave, but that would have to wait. He also noticed one or two hairs on his chest: he would deal with them sometime over the weekend.

He only had five minutes before he was due at his meeting, he had better hurry. He looked around the room; he had no clean clothes (that would be another task for the weekend he thought.)

He picked the pants off the bed, checked them for skid marks, and decided they would have to do. He grabbed a t-shirt that had only been worn twice since its last trip to the laundry and tugged that over his head, sniffing his armpits as he did so. A can of deodorant lay nearby and Mitch sprayed a liberal quantity all over his shirt.

He picked up some old sweats and pulled them over his pants. It didn’t matter which trousers he wore, they wouldn’t be staying on for very long.

Picking up his keys, the teenager left the room and hurried to the top floor of the dorm block to meet the Dean of Dormitory Discipline.

….

Frank looked down at the grubby brown carpet, his hands on his knees and his bottom jutting out slightly. He was sweating a little and his breathing was shallow. Despite his best efforts his buttocks remained clenched in anticipation.

The Dean of Dormitory Discipline looked on at the young student. The boy was wearing dark grey short trousers. It was a hot day, even at this early hour, and shorts were certainly the best clothes to wear. But, Frank wasn’t wearing summer shorts, his were short trousers like children wore as part of their school uniform. In his a grey short-sleeve shirt, he was perfectly dressed for a day in the classroom: if he were about eight years old.

What was going on in the student’s head, the Dean wondered as he selected a paddle; he was building quite a collection. This was Frank’s first appearance before him, so he selected a stout wooden specimen about fourteen inches long and four inches wide. Unlike some of his others, this paddle was solid without holes (manufacturers put holes in the heavier paddles so they could fly through the air towards their target with minimum wind resistance).

The Dean had devised a tariff for his punishments, he believed it was fairer to treat everyone equally, and the students knew exactly where they stood if they broke the rules. He gave first offenders twelve hard whacks on the seat of their trousers. For a second offence they got twelve on the underpants, swiftly followed by another twelve on the bare. In the six months since his job had been created, the Dean had never had to deal with a boy for a third time.

Frank was wondering why his punishment had not yet begun and craned his neck to look behind him at the Dean.

“Face the front boy, you’ll find out what’s going on back here soon enough.” It was a little joke the Dean liked to make every time a student made such a move.

He stepped forward and placed his hand into Frank’s shoulder blades pushing the teenager’s face a little closer to the carpet. Then he pulled the boy’s shirt out from the waistband of his short trousers exposing the skin of his lower back. Shirt tails are never long enough to cover a boy’s buttocks, so they don’t afford him extra protection. So, pulling the shirt clear is a wasted effort, but the Dean liked to do this as a ritual, believing it added something extra to the drama of the occasion.

He was now ready to deliver the swats. Although this was Frank’s first appearance in front of the Dean of Dormitory Discipline, it was not his first ever spanking. Like a lot of youngsters around his age, Frank had been caught out by the sudden change in the law, that not only reintroduced corporal punishment in schools, but permitted it to be also used on students up to the age of twenty-five and to young people more generally for certain criminal offences.

Frank was like most people of his age: he was self-centred, lacking much direction, a bit lazy and he rarely accepted the authority of his elders. In the six months since the law came into effect, Frank had been spanked twice; once to his great horror at the university for arriving at class late; and once at home by his father for what dad called his “insolence.”

Both spankings had been humiliating for Frank, but he soon discovered from his university friends that he wasn’t the only one getting his buttocks toasted. The Dean of Dormitory Discipline regularly beat misbehaving students and there was never a weekend when his paddle did not fly through the air. This gave them ample opportunity to swap stories about their spankings and their bruises became badges of honour when displayed in the communal showers.

Frank waited for the Dean to begin. He didn’t feel ashamed or humiliated, this was his third spanking in a few months and he was becoming used to them. Nor was he resentful. He had been caught smoking a cigarette in the university grounds. Smoking was now strictly forbidden and the punishment for transgression was widely advertised. Frank only had himself to blame for his situation. He promised himself he would take the spanking with whatever dignity he could and he wouldn’t cry or yell out.

The Dean loomed above him, the paddle gripped tightly in his hand. He was an expert: he swatted twelve stokes into his tight behind, making sure he wore out every inch of Frank’s backside. The teen grunted with each strike and had difficulty keeping in his ‘grab-the-knees’ position as the force of the paddle knocked him forward.

It hurt like Hell, much worse than the spanking his university lecturer had given him. That time it had been the palm of the hand on his bottom. Even his dad’s clothes brush didn’t have the impact of this paddle.

Frank grimaced and gasped a little as each swat connected with his dark grey short trousers. His buttocks quivered from side to side but the pain wasn’t too bad at first, but it grew as each successive blow fell on top of a previous strike, until he was roasting. He wanted to jump up and rub his burning bottom, but the fear of what the consequences of such behaviour might have been were too terrible to contemplate.

Frank’s shirt clung to his back with sweat and the teen’s underpants also seemed to be dripping wet. His eyes were damp, but he had successfully kept his promise and stopped himself from crying.

Frank knew there would be only twelve swats to endure, so after number ten landed low, almost on his bare thighs, he hoped the worst was over. But, the Dean had other ideas. He slashed down the final two at maximum force on the same spot right on the curves across the centre of both cheeks. The boy howled and stood upright, his hands clutching at his raw bottom; the agony was like nothing he had felt before, not even that time as a kid when he fell off his bike and broke his arm.

Realising his error in standing up he immediately resumed his position, fearful of what additional punishment he might receive.

But, the Dean was no sadist. He had promised twelve swats and he had delivered the twelve. The punishment was over. There would be no more today, but woe betide the boy if he were ever caught smoking again.

“Stand up. It’s over.”

Frank did as instructed. His eyes were moist, but he was not yet crying: that would wait for later once he had been dismissed by the Dean. His bottom felt like he had sat in a fire.

“If you are back here again, it will be twelve on the underwear followed by twelve on the bare. Do you understand?”

Frank nodded; he would not be making a return visit. The short trousers and underpants had not been much protection this time, the agony that twenty-four swats with twelve on the bare would cause him was beyond his comprehension. He made that promise that all recently spanked boys make: he would never do it again – and that’s a promise.

“Ok you can go.” And with his backside throbbing Frank left the Dean of Dormitory Discipline to deal with the other four students on his list that morning.

When Mitch arrived at the Dean’s room he wasn’t surprised to find three other students already waiting; it didn’t take long to discover all four were to be spanked for the same offence: breaking curfew.

Mitch had read in a newspaper somewhere that since the new regime had begun, breaking curfew was the most common reason why students were punished. He knew that even as he stood awaiting punishment there could be dozens, hundreds possibly, of students up and down the country also queuing to have their bottoms blistered.

Mitch was a pragmatist, like many students at his university. The rule was you had to be in the dorm by eleven at night. If you were caught breaking curfew you were paddled. All the students knew that: but you could only get paddled if you were caught.

It was like a cat and mouse game between the students and the university authorities. Mitch had broken curfew the previous two times he went out and wasn’t caught. Last night he wasn’t so lucky, but next time, who knew? For him the lure of the town’s nightlife and the girls was too good to miss (especially the girls) and if it meant getting a sore backside from time to time that was a price he was prepared to pay.

The students had a simple plan to avoid curfew. One of the lads who wasn’t going out would leave a window in the common room unlocked so it would be easy for a late arrival to climb in. But, you had to avoid the Dean. He wasn’t a fool and he would patrol after curfew, but he had a life too, so he wasn’t always on duty to catch the latecomers. And, the later the boy was in coming back, the better his chances of going undetected: the Dean needed his sleep just like anyone else.

Last night, the Dean had trouble sleeping so was still on patrol at three in the morning just in time to catch Mitch in the act of climbing through the window. He was caught red-handed, there was no excuse, he had broken the rules and now fully expected to be red-arsed by the time the Dean had finished with him.

All four boys had similar experiences and although none were great supporters of the new corporal punishment law, they all accepted the consequences if they were caught breaking the rules.

They waited outside the Dean’s door. On the other side it was obvious someone was getting his whacking. The knowledge that it would soon be his turn did little to settle his nerves. For Mitch, this was a second offence and he knew it would be twelve swats pants up and twelve down: an entirely new experience for him.

Soon, the door opened, and a youngster Mitch did not recognise hobbled out. He was close to tears and could not look at the four boys as he passed on his way back to his room where, no doubt, he would bawl his eyes out.

A moment later, the door opened again and the Dean of Dormitory Discipline beckoned Mitch to enter the room.

The Dean was in his mid-forties and had been a university lecturer for twenty years or more. He still was: his disciplinary role was an extra duty on top of his teaching. He had never expected to be the beater of boys’ backsides, but when the new law came in the university advertised the job and he was asked to apply. No one quite knew what experience a Dean of Dormitory Discipline could be expected to have. Corporal punishment had been banned for thirty years at least, so no one would have practical experience in administering it. The best the university could hope for was for a Dean who would take the job seriously.

In his twenty years on the job, the Dean had seen many youngsters waste their opportunity at the university; they were often lazy or distracted and ended up failing courses altogether or getting poorer degrees than necessary. He genuinely believed that with clear rules supported by corporal punishment when necessary the current crop of undergraduates would excel in their studies. He took his job very seriously indeed.

The Dean had a little sermon prepared. He used it often with the curfew breakers. It was about the need to obey rules for their own safety. The town was dangerous at night. They had to be punished for their own good. Mitch nodded at what he thought were appropriate points. He knew nothing he said would change the inevitable outcome.

Then the Dean got on to the second offence. The previous punishment obviously had not worked. Now, a more serious spanking was needed. Mitch still made no reply. He knew what was going to have to happen and he just wished the Dean would get on with it.

When he was ready, the Dean walked to the small cupboard attached to the wall and explored inside to retrieve a small wooden paddle, with the business end no bigger than a paperback book.

Mitch was confused. He had expected one of the largest and heaviest paddles would be used to take his backside off.

But, the Dean had a plan: he always had a plan.

Silently, he took hold of a small plastic armless chair and placed it in the centre of the room. Now, Mitch thought he knew what was going to happen.

His suspicion was confirmed when the Dean sat down in the chair and spread his legs. Mitch had not expected this and did not like it one little bit. The Dean expected him to bend himself across the old man’s knees as if he were a ten-year-old boy for a spanking. Worse than that, he would have to raise his bared bottom for the gaze of the Dean who would see into his crack and everything.

The Dean knew boys hated being spanked, that was the point of the exercise. He reckoned these big strapping students would hate it even more if they were reduced to little boys. Just think what thoughts race through the young man’s mind as he is ignominiously guided, bottom up, across the knee. He knows that he is being treated like a naughty child, no differently than when he was ten. He knows that his bottom will soon be bared and that he will be dissolving in tears like any naughty child when he is spanked.

The Dean sat in the upright chair, as Mitch stood, still hoping this was not going to happen. When the Dean was ready, he nodded at the student and almost in a trance he put his thumbs into the elasticated waist of his sweat pants and pulled them down off his hips, down, and down until they dropped of their own accord to his ankles. His white t-shirt, though, covered all but the lowest inch of his snug mauve and yellow pants.

Until recently, the Dean had very little experience spanking bottoms, but he was learning on the job. Experience had taught most spankers to favour the over-the-lap position in which the offending bottom can be elevated above the spanker’s right thigh or knee with both legs dangling down to the right. He had learnt that it was crucial that the bottom be as high and as far forward as possible, with maximum accessibility to the target area.

The paddle had already been placed close at hand, readily available for spanking without the Dean having to loosen his grip around Mitch’s waist.

So, the Dean gripped the teen by the arm and guided him over his knee. Once he was there he raised his shirt up his back then grabbed the waistband of his pants and pulled them tightly against his firm, flat, muscled backside.

The deafening splat with each paddle contact brought a gasp of pain from Mitch.

Mitch, now face down across the older man’s knees, grabbed the Dean’s ankle and held on tight, he gritted his teeth but he couldn’t stop himself from howling every now and then at a particularly hard and well placed swat. The Dean spanked into the taut cotton pants, spanking the bottom all the way from the lower back to below the crease on the upper thighs. The student struggled not to squirm or kick his legs, but the spanking went on and on and on.

Mitch lost count of the number of swats raining into his upturned bum, but the Dean had not. After twelve whacks he paused. Mitch was gasping and the pain was intense, but he still managed to keep his composure. Despite the agony, he thought he was taking this rather well.

The Dean paused only to slide the tight underpants down so they rested at the teenager’s thighs, then he renewed the onslaught, this time a little harder and into bare flesh.

Mitch howled and kicked like a child, begging the Dean to stop hurting him. The distressed boy was now writhing on his lap, vainly trying to protect his right buttock with a convulsively trembling hand.

Four more whacks followed with the Dean allowing a break between them for the sting of each to be fully appreciated. Mitch sobbed and yelped as each stroke landed on his bottom.

He accelerated and intensified the smacks from his paddle against the bare, upended behind. Mitch was bawling unashamedly, but the Dean seemed not to notice. A bawling boy was the expected result when it came to any bare-bottom spanking he administered.

Tears filled the student’s eyes and rolled down his cheeks as he squirmed and struggled to escape the relentless spanking being inflicted on him.

Then the Dean stopped and Mitch gulped for air like a goldfish out of water, thinking about how close to the edge of complete collapse he had come.

The Dean released his grip on the teen, who stumbled to his feet. His bottom was throbbing in protest at the indignities it had just received. His face was as red as the scorched flesh on his bottom. Quickly, Mitch tugged his underpants over his buttocks to hide his manhood from the man who had just roasted his naked backside.

Soon, the sweats were also in position and the Dean, who was a kindly man at heart, offered the boy a handful of tissues. When Mitch had regained some composure, he was dismissed with the words. “Send in the next boy.” The Dean’s work for the day was not yet over.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first published in September 2015

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

 

Rules of the House

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Joe Winterbottom was a middle-aged divorced man and he enjoyed a comfortable life in the suburbs; until his idle, disobedient, waste of space son, came to live with him.

Joe was happy to be divorced and even happier when his son Martin went to live with his mother. She could keep him, as far as Joe was concerned. The lazy good-for-nothing.

As Joe had predicted Martin left school as soon as legally possible when he was sixteen and was out of work more often than he was in. When he did work they were dead-end jobs; mostly labouring or factory jobs. Now, he was out of work again.

Joe could not care less. He did not like his son and the feeling was mutual. They rarely met these days, the boy was twenty years old and an adult, he could take care of himself, Joe thought.

Except that he couldn’t. Martin still lived with this mother, who did everything for him. It wasn’t that she doted on him, because she didn’t, but she had just got into a routine of cleaning, cooking and waiting on him hand and foot; the way mother’s did.

But, her life was about to change, she was going to remarry and move home; and Martin was decidedly not invited.

Joe said, “No way. Definitely not. Over my dead body,” when his wife suggested that Martin moved in with him.

But, the reality was different. For Martin it was either move in with his dad or sleep on the streets and against his better judgement, Joe agreed he could stay with him temporarily until he found another place to live.

It was a disaster from the start. Martin wasn’t going to change; he expected everything to be done for him; he rarely got out of bed before the afternoon and he messed up the house with unwashed cups and plates. And, if that wasn’t bad enough, he didn’t mind helping himself to Joe’s whiskey: the good stuff.

Joe reckoned he needed a plan to get his son on his feet and out of the house for good. First, he needed to find the boy a job where he could earn enough money to rent a room of his own; then he had to make Martin clear out.

The job was easier than he imagined. A colleague at work told him about a burger bar in town, they were always hiring; his own son worked there for a while. His boy had learned a lot of discipline at the bar, he reported rather enigmatically.

Joe wasn’t so sure, working at a burger bar was a dead-end, it wouldn’t lead anywhere; it was the place students worked for extra cash while they were studying, it wasn’t a real job.

But, another night of unwashed cups and Martin lazing around the house while he was still wearing yesterday’s shirt changed Joe’s mind.

Joe knew he would have to take the initiative and went to the burger bar himself. The manager said he would be happy to try the boy out and that was how Martin joined the world of the employed.

His first shift started at 9am on Tuesday, but no way was he going to make it. It was already 8.15 and he was still under the bed clothes stroking his penis.

Joe burst into the room. “Come on Martin. Up, you’ll be late for work!”

Martin didn’t care; he ignored his dad, rolled over and faced the wall, “Fuck off it’s too early.”

When he thought about it later, Joe could not understand what came over him. It wasn’t planned and it wasn’t something he had ever done before.

In a fury, he ripped the bedclothes off his son’s back, and grabbed the boy’s arm. Martin was too startled to realise what was happening, or to resist.

Before he knew it Martin was on his feet and his dad was sitting on the bed, then without a word, Joe pulled his son face down on top of him, ripped down the boy’s underpants, and spanked his bare bottom like he was eight years old.

Joe had the advantage of surprise and held his son firmly around the waist while he pummelled away at his buttocks. It was a furious barrage of slaps all over both of the boy’s cheeks. Martin cursed his dad and tried to struggle free, but Joe had him across his knees so high that his upper body was face down on the bed; he could wriggle left and right over his dad’s lap but he couldn’t lift himself free.

Joe put all his effort into the spanking; this was for all the slovenly behaviour, that’s for the laziness, the rudeness, stealing his malt whiskey and most of all for disrupting his quiet life.

Eventually, he released his grip and Martin sprang to his knees. Humiliated that his dad could see his genitals he stooped down to pick up his underpants and covered himself up. His bottom was bright red and stung like mad.

“Quickly, get washed and I’ll give you a lift into work,” Joe said, and meekly his son obeyed.

Martin avoided his father at home that evening; and that suited Joe very well. He hoped it meant the spanking had worked and his son would be better behaved in future. The next morning Martin was up in good time to take himself to work and Joe was very pleased, but the boy soon slipped back into his old ways.

Maybe I should give him another spanking, Joe thought. He probably couldn’t though; last time he had the element of surprise, if he tried again, Martin would be ready and put up a struggle. He was a fit lad and could do his dad some serious damage in a fair fight.

The only way it would work was if Martin was submissive and agreed to be spanked.

Martin went out clubbing on Friday and missed work completely on Saturday. That’s it, Joe decided, he will have to accept discipline, or go.

When Martin eventually got out of bed, Joe called him into the living room and put it to him simply. He had rehearsed it once or twice, until it didn’t sound so silly; he was asking a grown man of twenty to accept a spanking from him and to agree that unless his behaviour and attitude improved there would be more like that to come.

“So, that’s my decision, Martin,” he said. “I am going to spank you for staying out late and for missing work.”

“No, you’re not,” it was simple defiance. Joe had expected it and knew he couldn’t force the issue, but he tried one more time.

“Either, you take a spanking, or you can pack your bags and go.”

“Yeah, right,” and with that Martin stormed off to his room.

It was the easiest thing in the world to get a locksmith and when Martin arrived at the house from work on Monday he discovered he was homeless.

Joe let him scream and holler on the doorstep; who cared what the neighbours thought. He opened a new bottle of whiskey, turned up the volume on his music centre and waited. Eventually, Martin went away and Joe really didn’t care where to.

The phone rang and he knew it would be his ex-wife, so he didn’t answer. A little drunk – that’s what you get for drinking whiskey on an empty stomach – he went to bed.

He couldn’t ignore his wife’s calls forever. She wasn’t going to take Martin back, it was Joe’s turn to look after him.

No it wasn’t, he was twenty years old and he could look after himself. Their argument went nowhere and eventually Joe hung up on his wife.

Martin was stuck, his mother’s new husband was adamant the boy could not stay with them, and since it was his house and he paid the bills, his word was law.

Martin asked around at work but no one could help; they mostly still lived with their parents. The boss, Billy, said he had a spare room; he lived in a council flat on a run-down estate, but it wasn’t as bad as it sounded.

Martin was about to jump at the chance; but one of the lads took him to one side. Billy had a reputation. There was this story about the student who worked there one summer and messed up once too often. The boy was made to stay after the burger bar was closed. Billy thought everyone had gone home but he was wrong. That’s how people knew he made the eighteen-year-old take down his jeans and bend across his knee. By all accounts he gave him one heck of a spanking.

Martin blanched, “No, you’re kidding; you’re winding me up.” No way, he spanked that kid. No way. It was just one of those stories people made up about their boss.

But, Martin decided to pass on Billy’s offer.

Joe was still getting grief from his ex-wife. She was scared for Martin; was he sleeping in a shop doorway at night? To get her off his back, Joe agreed to go visit his son at the burger bar to see what was going on.

Martin was feeling desperate; he was scared witless for the future, he had no real friends, no money and now nowhere to live. He was very pleased when his dad turned up, but wasn’t about to let him know.

Joe felt forced by his wife into taking Martin back, but no way was he going to retreat. The boy had to accept his discipline.

Then there was an unexpected turn of events. They had shared a drink in a nearby pub and suddenly Joe mellowed to his son; but not by much.

He heard himself saying, “The offer is still open. You take a spanking.”

A man at the next table pretended not to hear, but listened intently.

“Dad!” Martin was embarrassed to be talking about this at all; but he didn’t want to discuss it in the middle of a crowded pub.

“Let me know your decision,” Joe drained his glass and went home.

Martin was very drunk by the time he rang the bell of his dad’s house. Joe let him in anyway.

The next day Joe stopped off at little shop he knew, tucked away off the town centre. He had bought magazines there in the past and noticed they also sold “adult toys.” The paddle he purchased seemed authentic enough. It was about eighteen inches long by three wide and about a quarter-inch thick. Some joker had painted “The Board of Education” on one side.

Joe thought he would be more embarrassed than he was, but the shop assistant knew how to wrap a toy discreetly.

Martin knew what was waiting for him when he got home, but he didn’t delay his return. He knew it would hurt, but he was no stranger to corporal punishment. He had been punished by the teachers at school many times. Yes, Martin hated his dad for it and he knew the spanking from him would hurt, but he had no choice, his father was in control. If Martin wanted to stay living under his dad’s roof, he had to obey his rules.

Joe couldn’t work out why exactly, but he seemed to be looking forward to this. If only he had given the boy a dose of the paddle years ago, they wouldn’t be in this mess now. He needed to make up for lost time and Martin’s bum would have to suffer – a lot.

It happened in the front room; there was a large couch, ideal for a boy of Martin’s size to bend over in comfort, but what would happen next would be far from comfortable, Joe would make damn sure of that. Apart from last week, when he did it in a blind fury, Joe had never spanked a person before. Surely there can’t be that much to it; the objective was to cause the maximum pain possible and to do that he would whack the paddle into the buttocks. Simple. So long as Martin was submissive and didn’t put up a fight and try to get out of it.

Joe needn’t have worried; Martin had made up his mind. To be twenty years old and spanked was humiliating enough, he wouldn’t make matters worse by yelling and screaming.

“Martin, stand there,” Mr Winterbottom pointed to the back of the couch and Martin took up position a couple of feet behind it. Joe had prepared a little speech, to make clear to his son why he was being beaten. He recounted all of Martin’s faults: it was a long list.

The boy remained silent, there wasn’t much to say. Everything his father said was true, but he didn’t feel remorse; he despised his dad and this beating would just make him loathe him more.

Joe picked up the paddle and tested it for weight. Let’s get on with it, he thought.

“Pants down.”

If looks could kill. Martin silently unbuckled his belt, unzipped, and his pants fell to his knees, revealing he was wearing a pair of baggy shorts.

“Underwear too.”

This was too much.

“Dad! No, not on the bare.”

Joe’s withering stare was enough of an answer and turning his back on his father so he wouldn’t see his cock and balls, Martin whipped down the shorts.

“Bend over.”

Martin swooped over the back of the couch, grabbed the seat cushions tightly, and presented his bare bum perfectly for the attention of his father and his paddle.

Joe hadn’t seen many men’s bums in his life, but he reckoned Martin’s baby smooth, creamy, buttocks must be exceptional.

Exceptional, they might be, but they didn’t remain smooth and creamy for long. Joe brought the paddle down with some force across the centre of both cheeks.

Martin’s eyes popped and he gripped the cushions even tighter. He had been beaten a few times in the past, but never on the bare bottom and nothing before had hurt so much.

Whack! number two landed higher and Whack! number three, lower so the whole of the buttocks was stinging red.

Martin gasped and then groaned as the pain mounted across his fleshy globes. He was determined not to let himself down, so clung desperately to the cushions.

His breathing was heavier as Whack! Whack! four and five bit home. He raised his head in agony and let out a silent cry.

The cry became a yell as six and seven did their worse. Martin’s legs danced up and down in a futile attempt to ease the fiery agony coursing through his buttocks and thighs.

Joe could clearly see the image of the paddle tattooed in red marks across his son’s backside. He knew Martin was in torment, but instead of causing him sorrow or regret, the sight of the raw buttocks spurred him on in his mission.

Whack! number eight crashed into the crease where the ass and the thighs meet. Martin raised himself ready to jump up and down, clutching his throbbing buttocks, but at the last second he regained control enough to remain in position. He would not give his dad the satisfaction of witnessing his defeat.

Whacks!! nine and ten walloped down across the centre of the bum, reigniting all the existing wounds. The swats were so hard Martin lost his control. His legs stomped up and down on the spot as he wailed like a little boy. Tears cascaded down his face and he choked for breath. Mr Winterbottom could see snot rolling down his son’s mouth. His whole body was heaving with convulsions.

Joe took a step back to admire his handiwork. Martin’s buttocks were red and raw; blood was beginning to seep from some of the bruises. It reminded him of the hamburger meat at the burger bar.

“Stand up,” Joe commanded. He felt an unaccustomed sense of authority. Things would never be the same again.

Slowly and in agony, Martin climbed off the back of the couch. He was too distressed even to worry that his father could see his manhood. Gingerly, he put his hands on his throbbing buttocks, but removed them instantly; the pain was like sitting on a hotplate.

“Go to your room.”

Without waiting to put on his trousers and shorts (an impossible task in his state of agony) he rushed from the room, took the stairs two at a time and crashed through his bedroom door and hurled himself onto his bed, burying his face deep into the pillow, sobbing his guts up.

Downstairs, Mr Winterbottom poured himself another whiskey, then took a pen and paper from his briefcase and began to write.

Rules of the house.

Number 1. Curfew …….

Picture credit: straightladsspankeddotcom

This story was first uploaded in August 2015.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com