A snapshot from my Mind’s Eye

new story 3

otk pyjamas bed sting (72a)

This isn’t a real photograph, it’s a snapshot from my Mind’s Eye. A memory I can see in my head of something that really happened, quite a long time ago. The boy with his pyjama bottoms at his knees and his bare bum pointing at the ceiling is my cousin Mark. He’s over the knees of his father – my Uncle David – and, quite obviously, getting his backside spanked.

I’m not in the picture, but I am in the room. I suppose I must be standing where the camera is. I’m waiting my turn. It’s me next. Once he’s tanned Mark’s rear end until it’s the colour of a tomato, Uncle’s taking me over his knee.

Mark wears pyjamas. Even back then that was deeply unfashionable. I’m eighteen and Mark’s even older; no older teenage boy would be seen dead in jim-jams. Still, I suppose that’s Uncle David for you.

“Go upstairs and get changed for bed,” Uncle David barked before sending us up. So, Mark’s in pyjamas. Not me, I’m stripped down to my underpants. Very small briefs, if memory serves. Yellow – or possibly red – cut so tiny they hardly hold my cock and balls. My buttocks were small and soft back then, but I’d bet the lower cheeks were bare to the wind.

I was staying with Rich Uncle David for the end part of the summer. We called him “Rich” because, well he was rich. If not rich exactly, then certainly wealthy. He was my mum’s brother and he lived in a huge house in a suburb of Brocklehurst. He ran an import-export business. Correction: he owned an import-export business. Yes, he was seriously wealthy.

He was a man of action. What he said, happened. Not just in his successful business but at home as well. He had quite old-fashioned attitudes, even for the times. I vaguely knew that he was an advocate of corporal punishment and that he was not adverse to taking any one of his sons over his knee; even Kevin, the eldest who was knocking on twenty-three.

My dad was nothing like that. He was quite easy-going. I genuinely think it would never have occurred to him to have my pyjama bottoms down. Looking back, compared to Mark me and my brothers got away with murder. Dad was away at work a lot so Mum bore the brunt of our misbehaviour. We must have driven her to distraction.

When Uncle David came to pick me to take me to his home, Mum made a big production number telling him, “If he causes trouble, you have my permission to spank him.” He nodded sagely. Did I see them share a secret smile?

“Ha! Ha!” I laughed uneasily. “Spanked? Me, at my age. You’re joking of course. Nice one. Ha! Ha!” I didn’t say that last bit out loud. Deep down I wasn’t so sure.

When we arrived at The Avenue, his posh street in Brocklehurst, Uncle David was quick to tell me his rules. They weren’t so bad to be fair. I wasn’t allowed to go in the back room which was kept for ‘special’ and what he called his ‘study’ was out of bounds. I assumed this was some office that he used for his business.

There was other stuff about being on time for meals but since I had no intention of going hungry during my holiday I had no worries about this. Also on the list was something about no alcohol or smoking. Before then I hadn’t known he was zealous about these things.

It was a few days after I arrived – a Saturday – when me and Mark went on the town. Brocklehurst was far from Sin City but there were some pubs and at least one half-decent ‘disco.’ By chance we met a couple of Mark’s old school pals in the High Street and together we went of to some dive of a pub. I still remember its name: The Three Fishers. What a stupid name for a pub. What exactly are ‘Fishers’? Fishermen, I understand.

But I digress. We had a couple of pints of larger and checked out the local talent. This being The Three Fishers, the talent came at a price. We passed on that and slowly made our way home. Uncle David was waiting for us. It wasn’t late, but he was the only one still up in the house. We were nowhere near drunk but Uncle David could not be fooled. His nostrils flared. He could smell alcohol and tobacco at a hundred paces.

“Drinking. Smoking,” he announced. It wasn’t meant as a question and it wasn’t even an accusation, it was a matter of fact. I had completely forgotten Uncle David’s prohibition. It came back to me in a rush. “Shit!” I didn’t say that verbally, I’m not that stupid. Mark flushed bright pink and mumbled something I couldn’t make out.

Uncle David scowled, “I don’t believe it.” In my nervousness I stifled a giggle, he sounded exactly like Victor Meldrew, a grumpy fellow in a tv comedy who had that as his catchphrase. Uncle David chided, “Did I not make myself perfectly clear?” he leaned into me. I could smell his breath; definitely no illegal smells there. I was as incoherent as Mark. The correct answer, of course, was: Yes, you could not have been plainer.

“Bah!” Yes, he actually said, “Bah!” like he was some character in a children’s comic like the Beano. At least he didn’t wave his fist and go, “Grrrrr!” What he did do was to say, “Go upstairs and get ready for bed, I’ll be up in five minutes. Make sure you’re ready.”

In silence, we trudged upstairs. In the bedroom Mark quickly pulled his t-shirt over his head. Then he unbuckled his belt. He noticed that I was not undressing. “Hurry up,” he exclaimed, “We don’t have much time, he’ll be up soon.”

I stood my ground, bemused. What was happening? What was Uncle David going to do? I suspected I knew the answer to that but my brain would not compute.

“Quickly,” he snapped, “You don’t want to upset him.” He stepped out of his jeans as he spoke, “We’ll get extras, for sure.”

I gaped, “What exactly is he going to do?” Mark stared as if a moron had just spoken.

“A spanking,” he breathed, and in case I hadn’t understood, he repeated, “He’s going to spank us.”

“Don’t be so …” I started to tell him not to be an idiot before the expression on Mark’s face cut me short. We had been in the sun most of the day but the tan that was developing could not disguise the blanche. “Get undressed,” he hissed as he pulled on his pyjama bottoms and knotted the drawstring.

I wanted to argue, to tell Mark, “No way am I getting spanked. You have got to be kidding. I’m eighteen. You’re nearly twenty for Christ’s sake.” I didn’t say a thing. The look of complete resignation on my cousin’s face warned me to be silent. He knew what he was talking about. Uncle David had decided. Nothing we said, nothing we did could alter the course of events. I unbuttoned my shirt and slipped out of it.

I was folding my jeans to put them neatly on a chair when the door slowly opened and Uncle David stood in the threshold. He was dressed – as he nearly always was – in trousers that were part of a business suit, and a white shirt and tie. It could have been Monday morning at the office, not late on Saturday night. At first he didn’t come into the room, he glared at Mark, surveying him from the top of his unkempt dark hair down to the bare toes of his feet. Mark squirmed under the gaze. Then it was my turn for his fierce stare.

I was about the same height as Mark, but much fairer. Where his body was beefy and stocky, I was wiry and thin as a rake. When you saw us together you wouldn’t immediately take us for blood relations. My body shivered although it was a humid summer’s night. Instinctively I cupped my hands and held them in front of my privates. As I did this a corner of Uncle David’s mouth rose.

He came into the room and without a word, he took hold of my elbow and steered me across the floor. “Stand by that wall,” he grunted. I stood sullenly. “You,” he clicked his fingers at Mark, “Come here.”

Uncle David sat on the bed. It was even for those days an old-fashioned thing with metal springs and frame. He leaned back as far as he could, “Bend across my knee,” he ordered. I could see Mark was no novice to this. Immediately he loosened the drawstring of his pyjamas and let them slip. Then, in a single continuous movement, he placed one knee on the bed and spread himself across Uncle David’s lap so that his whole body was stretched on the mattress. He found the single pillow and buried his head in it.

I had a ringside seat and watched Uncle David carefully take hold of Mark’s pyjama bottoms and gently guide them further down my cousin’s legs. He left them around the knees. Then he brushed the pyjama jacket up Mark’s back so that it was well away from the target area. Mark was bare from the lower back to the knees. His bottom was raised at an angle over Uncle David’s lap so that it pointed towards the ceiling. Uncle David rested his left hand in Mark’s back to hold him steady: now he was good to go.

And away he went. I’d never seen a boy spanked before, I had no idea what should happen. Instinctively I could see Uncle David knew his business. The imprint of his palm was reproduced time and again across Mark’s bare bum. The red palm prints merged into one continuous dark-pink blotch. That quickly deepened to red. That bottom was on fire. If I leaned forward I could probably feel the heat lifting off the scorched flesh.

Each cheek of Mark’s bottom was a little bigger than Uncle David’s spread hand. The cheeks were well-defined with a nice overhang and there was nothing extreme about their curved shape. He was a normal, healthy, teenager: his bottom was as firm as only a teen’s could be yet had a degree of puppy fat.

Smack after hard smack kept coming for at least five minutes until suddenly Uncle David stopped. Mark lay breathing heavily. His bottom glowed. I thought he must be in great pain. My stomach turned. It looked like Uncle had finished with Mark. Now, it was my turn.

“Up,” Uncle David grunted. “Stand by the wall.” I watched Mark roll himself off his dad’s knees until he toppled onto the floor. He sprang to his feet, tugging his pyjama bottoms up as he steadied himself. “Leave them be,” Uncle David barked. “They can stay at your feet for a while. To remind you what a naughty boy you’ve been.”

Mark deliberately avoided my eye as sulkily he shuffled, penguin-like, across the room. As he passed me I saw his eyes blazed. “You’re next,” Uncle David gestured at me. “Come here. Take his place.”

Even now after so many years if I close my eyes I can see it like it’s happening right now. I hesitate, my heart is thumping and I imagine I can see a lump in my bare chest go in and out. Uncle David taps his right knee, he is encouraging me to bend over it. I remember how Mark climbed on top of Uncle David. He pulled down his own pyjamas. I am too, too what? Shy? Embarrassed? Ashamed? I don’t want Uncle David or Mark to see my cock and balls. I cannot pull down my pants. I just stretch myself across Uncle David with my face down in the scratchy Army-surplus blanket.

I cannot see, but I guess my bum is angled over Uncle David’s knee in the perfect position for his hand. My cotton briefs are so tight they dig into my crack. I feel a movement in Uncle David’s body and his right hand slowly caresses my right buttock. Gently. It feels as if he is smoothing any creases out of my pants.

Fool! Of course, he’s not doing this. He preens for a moment or two and then firmly grips the elasticated waist of the pants. I wriggle my hips in protest but he takes no notice. It takes maybe three tugs to have them over my buttocks and at my knees. I am now face down almost totally naked. I close my eyes tight. I cannot believe this is happening. I tell myself it isn’t. I’m just having one of my weird dreams.

Uncle David speaks, “Your mother tells me you have been needing this for quite some time.” He is caressing my now-bare bum. “You’ve had this coming.”

I think, but do not say, this is unfair. It was Mark’s friends who wanted to go to the pub. I only went because Mark wanted to. It’s not my fault. Don’t blame me. I keep quiet. It’s not my place to argue. Uncle David is in total control.  I feel muscles in his body tighten. My buttocks clench, trying to protect themselves.

He slaps his calloused hand cross my backside. Slowly at first. One slap on the left cheek, another on the right. It stings. Then he does it again – and again. Gradually he builds a head of steam. His hand whacks my behind with great force. Quickly. Hard. I gasp. My hips sway. My bum bucks. He grips me tightly at the waist. All the time the slaps rain down. No not rain, thunderstorm – they thunderstorm down. Or do I mean hail?

My bum hots up. I grab the pillow and chew on it. This is the first spanking I have received but obviously it is not the first Uncle David has administered. He is an expert. His hand pounds my mounds. The noise of palm across naked flesh echoes around the almost empty bedroom, like machinegun fire.

The heat in my bottom rises, from hot to something near boiling. My body is twisting and turning and my legs kick out, it’s like I’m trying to swim off Uncle David’s knees. He holds me tighter. “No, you don’t,” he growls. “You’re going nowhere. Not till I say so.”

I can’t see because I’ve still got my face in the pillow but I can feel every square inch of my buttocks has been toasted. All the way from the base of the spine, over the hillocks and into the undercurves. The ache is terrific. I can’t take much more of this. Then he starts on the back of my thighs. That hurts twice as much, no three times; no more. This is agony. I bite down into the pillow. Now, I can’t breathe. I raise my head and gasp for air. I’m starting to choke. Uncle David’s spanks harder still. I’m yapping like a little dog.

Uncle David scolds me, “I hope I’m getting through to you. This is how it’s going to be from now on in.” My eyes moisten. My head butts the pillow. Uncle David grips my waist even tighter and the pounding of my posterior continues.

You might wonder if this really happened. It could be a dream, a fantasy perhaps. A fetish fantasy. Naughty eighteen-year-old boy has his underpants taken down by Uncle before he is held across the old man’s knees for a bare-bottomed spanking. That might be some person’s fantasy, but not mine. This happened. This was for real. I think.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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Justin learns a valuable lesson

Uncle Graham’s belt

Put back into short trousers, aged 18

 

 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Mr Hennessey’s Boys: The hotel suite

new 5

It was all very simple. There was never anything complicated about it. Everything was organised well. All we had to do was turn up at the right place at the appointed time and let him do it.

I did it four times, then I suppose he got bored with me and he got someone else. He probably had more than one of us on the go at any one time, anyway.

I have no regrets. I’m not telling you this story because I feel outraged or injured. I’m not. I wasn’t. Well, ha! ha! I supposed I was ‘injured’ a little. If you get my meaning. I mean it’s supposed to hurt, isn’t it? Isn’t that the point of it all?

I wasn’t the only one. By the end there was quite a gang of us from Brocklehurst Sixth Form College. If you don’t know, a sixth-form college is where kids go if they leave school at sixteen. You can do A-level exams or vocational courses. It’s a lot less formal than school. There are no uniforms and you call teachers lecturers. You are students, not pupils. In some colleges lecturers let you call them by their first names. Students’ ages range from sixteen up to nineteen.

The people involved in my story were all eighteen at least. You had to be. So it was legal. A man called Mr Hennessey arranged it all. It was mostly by word of mouth. It was only boys. No girls required. I think ‘Mr Hennessey’ was his real name. Nobody thought to question him. Why bother? He seemed pretty legit.

At first he got one or two boys working for him and then they kind of recommended others. It was done very quietly. When I was dropped, I suggested a couple of other lads. I got what they called a ‘finder’s fee’ for that.

We were well paid for our trouble. Very well paid. One evening’s work was worth about a month’s pay flipping burgers or filling supermarket shelves. When I say  ‘evening’ I mostly mean a couple of hours.

We all said we did it for the money. That’s all. We said it’s a ‘gay thing’ isn’t it? None of us were gay. Not that there’s anything wrong with being gay etc etc. But I’m not gay and that’s just a fact. So, we said, we didn’t do it for pleasure. It was just the money. And, I think, the excitement. It felt dangerous. Something you wouldn’t want your mum and dad to find out about.

Mr Hennessey arranged everything. He was most particular about your age. Eighteen and above only. I had trouble convincing him. I look a little younger than I am. To be honest I was getting away with paying the under-sixteen fare on the buses. He didn’t believe me. I didn’t have a passport or driving licence. He said the birth certificate I showed him could have been for anybody. In the end I signed up for a provisional driving licence and away I went.

He was happy then. He said I would be very welcome. “Cheeky grin. Fabulous arse,” he said. Those were the requirements. If you didn’t have the grin, you might get away with just the fabulous arse. But I had both.

Mr Hennessey wanted me for a particular client. Mr Bradshaw. I don’t know anything about him. I don’t suppose he’s name’s really Mr Bradshaw. He looked like he was made of money. He used a suite at the Excelsior Hotel. Do you know it? It’s that new luxury hotel that stands where the library and civic centre used to be.

I had to sign some legal document. It said I was doing this of my own free will. Which I was. I was up for it alright. I did have my doubts at first, of course I did. My pal Ryan had been a few times and he was the one who passed my name on. He told me what happened. What you had to do. How you earned your money.

I’d never done anything like this before. Who had? I had concerns: would it hurt (much)? Did I have to take my clothes off? Did Mr Bradshaw do anything else, like … well you know? Ryan told me it all. It helped me. “Tell you what,” he said, “Why don’t we have a run-through, a kind of rehearsal?”

It seemed a good idea. So we met up at his house after college finished and before his folks got home from work. Have you ever been spanked? No, me neither. People don’t these days do they. I must say I felt a bit of a twit when Ryan took me into his living room. He sat himself down on a dining chair, spread his legs, patted his thigh and said, “Right lad, bend over.”

I gaped a bit. I know I coloured up (in a manner of speaking). I felt my face burn. I just stopped myself from laughing. “Come on,” Ryan said, kindly, “This is the whole point. It’s what you have to do. It’s what you get paid for.” He smiled broadly and added, “A lot of money.” I still looked dubious. “Come on,” Ryan encouraged, “Bend over my knee, like a good naughty boy.”

I’d never done this before and wasn’t sure how it was done. I looked down at Ryan’s knees. He was a slim guy and they were very bony. He parted his legs a little to make a platform for me to lean across. I went on autopilot and proceeded on instinct. I leaned down and rested the palms of my hand on his right leg, bent my legs and eased myself down. “Stretch your arms out and rest your hands on the carpet,” Ryan said helpfully.

I did this and my back arched. My legs dangled behind me and the toes of my shoes just about brushed the floor. My bum was raised at an angle over his thigh. “Purr-fect, just purr-fect,” he laughed. “What a lovely little botty-wotty you have.” He started to caress, first my right buttock and then my left. He was feeling me up.

“Oi!” I exclaimed. It was an instinctive cry, I wasn’t thinking.

Ryan was calm, “It’s what he’ll do,” he told me. “Give you a good rub.” He patted the fleshiest part of my bottom. “You’ve still got your jeans on. Just wait until you’re bare-arsed over his knee.” He could see my discomfort. He laughed, “Don’t worry, you soon get used to it.”

He slapped his hand into the seat of my jeans. He hit me hard, but with the denim and my underpants I hardly felt a thing. He spanked me like this for a minute or so and then stopped. I lay face-down, unsure what I was supposed to do. Was that it? Was there nothing more? Really? It was money for jam.

Except, of course, it wasn’t. “Stand up. Take down your jeans. Back over.” He pushed me in my midriff to encourage me to stand. Once upright my embarrassment returned. Jeans down! I hesitated a little too long. Ryan grimaced, “It’s the deal. Jeans. Pants. Bare-arsed. If you’re not up to it, you need to tell Mr Hennessey. You can’t chicken out on a client.”

My pride was hurt. I knew Ryan had been through this and one or two of my other mates at college. If they could do it, well so would I. Odd though it may seem to you, it was an honour thing. Like being in a gang, but without the drugs and knives. I steadied my nerves and reached for my belt buckle.

Ryan put me through my paces. He spanked me with his hand as hard as he could. It hurt, but not much. I was a fit eighteen-year-old with buns of steel. He was never going to do me much damage. The wooden clothes brush he then used on me was something else. It was heavy and had a large oval-shaped dead. Just a couple of whacks with that had me squirming across his knees. Ryan had to grip me hard around the waist to stop me falling to the floor. I squirmed and I hollered. “Good boy,” Ryan encouraged me, “That’s the way to do it. Make a show.” He thought I was play-acting. Believe me I was not.

When he let off and I was hopping from foot to foot and rubbing away at the sting in my backside I didn’t appreciate how grateful I would later be to Ryan.  He taught me the ropes. Not that ropes were involved, there was none of that monkey business, just honest to goodness spanking (oh, and the whippy rattan cane, of course).

Despite my training I was very nervous the first time I visited Mr Bradshaw. Mr Hennessey had set it up and he told me exactly what was expected. What the limits were. I went in with my eyes wide open. No complaints. No regrets.

I was given the number of Mr Bradshaw’s suite and told to go straight there without stopping off at reception. Easier said than done. An eighteen-year-old black kid sticks out like a sore thumb in a posh hotel. The security man pounced. If he had been wearing a side arm, he would have drawn it and plugged me. But this was Brocklehurst, not Chicago. He just verbally assaulted me. I mentioned Mr Bradshaw by name. The security guard’s nose twisted like he was getting the stink of shit from off my shoe. He waved me on. It hurt him to do it, but Mr Bradshaw was a rich guest and hotels in Brocklehurst could not afford to be too choosy.

I studied my reflection in the mirror in the lift. My skin shone. Maybe I’d overdone the body lotion. Smooth skin, I had been told. That’s what Mr Bradshaw most desired. And no tattoos. I was sweating like a pig even though it was a cool evening. The lift pinged and I had reached the correct floor. The door opened. I stood rooted. I could not move. My nerve had gone. The door closed. The lift stood motionless. My heart was trying to escape through my chest. My head spun. I closed my eyes tight. I had come this far. I couldn’t back down now. I couldn’t chicken out. Ryan and the guys would never let me hear the end of it. With a hand shaking like I had a palsy, I stabbed the door-open button and hauled myself out of the lift.

Mr Bradshaw’s suite was opposite. I took two deep breaths, strode purposefully towards the door and with more strength than I intended I hammered on it. Mr Bradshaw might have thought I was the police about to raid the joint. He took some time before he opened up. Maybe he was hiding the incriminating evidence from view. Eventually the door inched open.

Mr Bradshaw was a man in his fifties. He had lost much of his hair and his face betrayed the easy life he had led. I was later to discover that his hands were as soft as a baby’s. He looked at me, failing to hide his surprise. Had Mr Hennessey not told him I was black? He recovered himself quickly and flew open the door. As I entered, Mr Bradshaw stepped into the corridor, before following me into the room.

I’d never been inside a hotel suite before, so I had nothing to compare it to. It seemed opulent. There were at least two rooms and a bathroom. The main living area seemed as big as the council flat I lived in. Mr Bradshaw stood and watched as I lay down my backpack. His tongue darted out of closed lips, “Have you brought everything?” he almost drooled. I had been given a list of requirements. Mr Hennessey was a very thorough man.

Mr Bradshaw proved to be a man of few words. In all the times I visited he never engaged in small talk. It was right down to business. “You can change in there.” He nodded towards the bedroom. I picked up my bag and hurried away. There was a full-length mirror in the corner of the room. I caught myself staring back at me. I couldn’t stop myself laughing. What a lark! I shook my head as if to say, “Who would believe this if I ever told them?”

I opened the backpack. I tugged out a pair of pyjamas. They were brand new, I never wore jim-jams in real life? Did anybody over the age of eight? I lay them on the bed. Then I took out the school blazer. I shook it to get rid of creases and held it up to the light. This was the real deal. Green-and-gold, just like the ones they wore at St Francis Academy. I took a hanger from the wardrobe and hung it up. Then I retrieved the grey-short trousers from the bag and the knee-length socks. I was nearly ready. But something was missing. I cursed myself. I had left it behind. A very important item. Damn and Blast! Mr Bradshaw would be annoyed. In my anger I took hold of the backpack and tipped it up and shook. To my relief the green-and-gold striped school tie slithered onto the bed.

I kicked off my shoes, pulled the t-shirt over my head and slipped down my jeans. I admired my physique in the mirror. I was quite a sight – a dish, even if I say so myself. Even though I was wearing old-fashioned white Y-front underpants. I slipped my thumbs into the waistband and with a flick of the wrists sent them to my feet. I stepped out of them and hesitated. Should I keep the socks on? I actually laughed out loud at myself. I sat on the bed and tugged them off. I was now as naked as the day I was born.

I stood and admired my taut, hairless, smooth – and shining – body. My soft, uncut cock hung between my thighs.  “Come and get it girls,” I grinned. Time was passing and Mr Bradshaw was probably raring to go next door. I picked up the pyjama bottoms, stepped into them, pulled them up and tied the drawstring. I climbed into the jacket and rippled the muscles in my stomach before I buttoned up. I took another look in the mirror. Yes, I told myself, I’m good to go.

Mr Hennessey had given me instructions. There wasn’t much of what he called a “scenario”. I wasn’t expected to do much, except let Mr Bradshaw get on with it. I was expected to knock on the door and wait until told to enter. I took a final look in that mirror. God, I was tasty. I rubbed sweat from my palms, took a deep breath, counted slowly from one to five and knocked. My head buzzed, the room began to spin.

It seemed like an eternity. At last he called, “Come in!” I pushed open the door. Mr Bradshaw was sat on a straight-backed armless chair. He was formally dressed but had no jacket. He could have been your boss at work. “Come in Alexander,” he called. I had no idea who “Alexander” was, it’s certainly not my name. That wasn’t me. It made what happened next seem more surreal. “You know why you’re here,” he said. I didn’t, but it wasn’t my place to tell him.

I hesitated in the doorway. My head was light. I didn’t feel as if I was in the room. I was somewhere else. A long way off. Looking down on this scene. Like I was in a helicopter, or some such. Is this what they mean by an out-of-body experience?

Mr Bradshaw snapped his fingers. “Stand there, Alexander.” He pointed to a spot by the chair. I don’t know how I managed it, but I got my body to stand where commanded. My heart thumped so loud I was sure Mr Bradshaw could hear it. He slowly examined me with his eyes, travelling from the soles of my bare feet to the top of my shaved head. Then he lowered his eyes and lingered over the waistband of my pyjamas.

“Take down your pyjama bottoms, Alexander.”

The room was spinning. What was going on with me? I got hold of the drawstring and pulled. Rather than loosen my waistband I tightened it. My PJ’s were not coming down. Mr Bradshaw frowned; then he tut-tutted. He was loosing patience. I tugged and tugged. Did anyone have a knife? That would do it. Cut the drawstring. All kinds of absurd ideas swirled through my mind. Suddenly with a lurch, the drawstring gave. The front of my pyjama bottoms gaped open. They slid over my buttocks and held. Mr Bradshaw did that thing with his tongue poking through his mouth again as he ogled my long, thin soft cock.

I wriggled my hips and the pyjamas slithered down my thighs and bunched at my shins. Mr Bradshaw still gazed at my cock. I caught a faint aroma of some expensive aftershave or deodorant. He cleared his throat raucously, then said, “Bend over my knee, Alexander.”

Who the hell was Alexander! It worried me. Had he got the wrong boy? Was he expecting someone else? Had Mr Hennessey got his arrangements wrong? My head was in a whirl. I hesitated.

“Now, lad!” Mr Bradshaw barked. I came to. In one swift athletic move (I had practiced this with Ryan) I was across his knees. My head was low, my bottom high. My face was close to the carpet. Mr Bradshaw cupped the palm of his hand and with it gently traced the curve of my rock-hard left buttock. He was so gentle, it sent a shiver through my body. He did the same with the other cheek, making sure he traced the entire curves, across the peaks, up to the tops and into the undercurves. He lingered around my crack.

z used otk black sting

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A housemaster muses

new 5

Without doubt the most annoying thing about being housemaster at a boarding school is I am never off duty. There is not a moment of the day I can truly call my own. By the nature of my work I have responsibility for a house full of schoolboys. During the day I am one of a number of masters who teach them; by evening and night we live under the same roof and I must account for their safety and general welfare.

It can be very wearisome. My wife would prefer it if I went to teach at an adult college or preferably a university where we could have a home we could call our own. I think she also finds the company of adults more agreeable.

This evening has been a case in point. We had settled down after supper to enjoy a glass of whisky (one each that is not one between two) and listen to a concert on the BBC Third Programme on the wireless when we were interrupted by Blair, the school porter. He had a message he felt he must convey to me with the utmost urgency.

I cursed under my breath when he arrived on my doorstep, but propriety requires that I treat such visits with the utmost seriousness. I allowed him to enter into the hallway, but, keen to get rid of him at the earliest opportunity, I did not invite him further into the house. I had no wish to antagonise my wife further.

Blair told me in the breathless way he has that he had intercepted Wilson, a senior pupil in my house, as he climbed over the exterior wall of the school. He had been out of school illicitly. Blair did not have the sense to ignore this and allow the boy a safe passage to his dormitory. The dunderhead decided he had to come to inform me.

There are many rules at boarding schools; too many some would say. Boys break them all the time, but logic suggests that a rule can only be noticed to have been broken if the boy is caught. Put another way, if I did not know that Wilson had been breaking bounds then I need not do anything about it. Now, that I did know, I was required to act, thereby disturbing my cosy night at home with my wife.

Blair was without doubt exceedingly pleased that he had intercepted Wilson. I knew he would not allow me to turn a blind eye and he would expect me to fulfil my duty as a housemaster. Of course, I had to act. Now, that Wilson had been caught he would expect nothing less of me. If I failed to do so word would soon spread among the boys and my credibility would be ruined. I would become a “soft touch” and they need never heed my word again. No, my hands were tied. I had no choice.

I might have left this problem until the morning but since my evening had already been disturbed I reasoned I might as well get it over with now. Blair was inordinately pleased when I asked him to seek Wilson out in the dormitory and instruct him to visit me in my study. “He’ll be in his pyjamas,” he said, his mouth widening into a cruel snarl. “It is a warm evening,” I responded evenly, “Tell him not to get dressed.” The snarl became a broad grin and Blair darted off enthusiastically.

I popped my head around the drawing room door to appraise my wife of developments. She did not speak but her icy stare said enough. I went across the passageway and awaited Wilson’s arrival. I know enough about the senior boys here to know he had probably been visiting The Three Fishers which is a run-down hostelry a short distance from the school. It is a disreputable establishment where they think nothing of serving pints of mild beer to our boys. I also knew without doubt that Wilson would not have been alone. Blair would be disappointed to know that although he had snared Wilson there were others who had evaded his capture. I also decided that I would not make it my business to try to get Blair to give me the names of his companions. The schoolboy code of honour runs deep and I did not want to spend more time on this than I absolutely had.

No more than two minutes later there was a knock on the study door. I called for Wilson to enter. He waited hesitantly in the doorway. “Come in. Stand there.” I pointed to a spot in the middle of the room and Wilson went there, his feet apart, his hands clasped behind his back and head bowed. He knew what to expect; he had been a pupil at the school for long enough.

Indeed, he was eighteen years old and in less than a month would be leaving us for good. I walked to the corner of the study where several whippy, rattan canes dangled from a rail by their crook handles. I took down the thickest cane from my collection. Wilson continued to stare at his bare feet. I flexed the cane between my hands; this serves no practical purpose and I suspect I do this by habit.

“Look at me Wilson,” I intoned and he did so. I continued bending the cane. It was less than three feet long and dark-brown in colour.  It was denser than the other canes and most suitable for a senior boy. It had notches every six inches or so along its length and I knew from experience it would deliver a satisfactorily sound beating.

Boarding schools are unusual places; they are their own little world. I wonder how many people realise just what goes on here. I was about to cane an eighteen-year-old pupil for staying out late. Is there a father in the entire land who would do the same to his son of similar age? Would such a boy submit himself to punishment if called upon? I don’t need to answer those questions.

But at boarding school we have our rituals and one was about to play itself out here. I read Wilson the charge sheet. Did he know being out after lights out was against the rules? (An unnecessarily question, but one needs the miscreant to acknowledge same.) Did he have anything to say in mitigation? (Of course not, what could he say?). So, the verdict was guilty as charged. Let punishment commence.

I swished the cane through the empty air and pointed it at a somewhat worn armchair that I had already strategically placed. “Stand behind the chair,” I instructed. In my years as a housemaster I have never had a boy refuse my instructions. One or two of the younger ones, and therefore with less experience of corporal punishment, might plead for clemency. I have known them shed tears before the first stroke has landed. But, none, ever, has refused to comply.

Wilson positioned himself to my satisfaction. He placed his steady hands on the back of the chair and waited further instruction. “Take down your pyjama bottoms. Bend over.” A flicker of his grey eyes and a slight colouring of his cheeks revealed to me that he had not expected that order. His hands were less steady when he took hold of the drawstring on his pyjamas and undid it. Once the front of his pyjamas were open all he had to do was to let go and the bottoms hurled to his ankles.

He turned his body slightly to conceal his privates from my view then after taking a deep breath he slumped across the chair.

z used cane pyjamas armchair london CPS

Wilson was the prefect height to fit across it. His stomach rested easily on the back’s apex. He reached his arms forward and gripped the seat cushion tightly. He kept his head low and stared down at the rather soiled material. Without my requesting, he spread his feet and raised his bottom high. He presented me with a perfect target.

All I had to do was take hold of the tail of his pyjama jacket and pull it away from the buttocks. I could hear he was breathing heavily and saw a trail of moisture forming down the centre of his back. As if to remind me that this was a senior boy submitting his backside for discipline, his bottom and legs were covered with fine hair and two testicles hung below his cheeks and between his legs.

There are some people who object to the corporal punishment of schoolboys. I can only say they have probably never taught; and certainly not in boarding school. A caning is an effective discipline and unlike a detention or the imposition of lines or an essay it is takes up no time. It is over in minutes. The boy has committed a misdemeanour, he has been found out, he admits his guilt and he submits to a beating. Then he and the schoolmaster get back to work. I have no doubt whatsoever that if the school decided to abolish the cane in favour of some other punishment the boys themselves would lead the complaints.

So it was that Wilson submitted himself to my cane. He tried to be stoic but his bottom quivered the moment I sawed my cane across the centre of his cheeks. I took my aim, raised the cane high and twisting my torso slightly (as a golfer does when taking a swing) I slashed the whippy rattan down. It hit him exactly where I intended and a glowing red line immediately appeared. A hissing noise like a steam engine setting down whistled through his clenched lips, but otherwise he made no sound. He gripped the seat cushion harder and pursed his lips.

I know (because I was beaten often enough myself as a boy) that the agony as the cane impacts is intense. Almost immediately that pain dissipates and becomes a throbbing ache. For maximum effect the master should wait a few seconds before delivering the next stoke. I have my own ritual whereby I hold the cane behind my back and gently stroll the length of the study. It is not a big room but by the time I have circumnavigated it and returned to stand behind the boy sufficient time has elapsed for me to continue.

I put the second swipe an inch below the first. Wilson’s knees wobbled but he showed great fortitude and otherwise remained motionless. I went for my walk and then laid the third cut high. Now, he had three parallel lines and a band of throbbing, red flesh three inches wide to contend with. My method of caning is quite typical. When presented with a boy’s bottom there isn’t much more one can do. I believe that a good master should put six strokes one beside the others across the posterior and that is a sound enough caning. Some of my colleagues try to get a stroke to land on top of one previously delivered, thereby re-opening the cut and intensifying the pain. I am sure the boys agree with me that that this is not cricket. Let punishment be appropriate to the misdeed committed; there is no need to resort to torture.

That can be left to our headmaster; his preferred method is to deliver four parallel strokes and then place two diagonals across them so the boy has a perfect “X” embossed across his bottom. Now, that really is not cricket; but I, a humble housemaster, will keep further comment on this to myself.

So, I put six parallel strokes across Wilson’s bare bottom. He took them well. They hurt and I could see his buttocks were glowing. I had roasted his posterior well. I toured the study for the last time giving my beating time to fully sink in. Wilson’s pyjama jacket was soaked with perspiration and the back of his neck was almost (but not quite) as scarlet as his bottom. In contrast, his face was a deathly white. I instructed him to stand and quickly he pulled up the pyjama bottoms and tied himself up. I could see he desperately wanted to rub away at his buttocks, but in the etiquette of these things, that is not allowed. A boy must never let his master know he is in pain.

I let him out of his misery and dismissed him. I am sure the moment the study door had closed behind him he massaged  his rump vigorously. He certainly would have dashed to the lavatories to inspect my handiwork in the mirrors there before belatedly going to bed.

I replaced the cane with the others and went to re-join my wife. She poured us both whiskies and we settled down to enjoy the final movement of the concert on the wireless.

 

Picture credit: CP Services, London

Other stories you might like

 

Housemaster’s double caning

The rookie deputy sheriff

His eldest brother

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

A spanking before bedtime

new 5

z used slipper pyjamas bare chair sting (2)

Go to your room, get changed into you pyjamas and meet me in the lounge. You’re getting a spanking before bedtime.

…….

Come in, stand there. Don’t slouch. Look at me when I’m talking to you. When I took you out of that half-way house for young offenders and gave you a room in my own house, you made certain promises to me. You agreed to abide by my rules. They are not onerous, but a lad like yourself needs guidelines. You need boundaries. You cannot be relied upon to always know the difference between right and wrong. That’s why we have rules. You even signed a contract with me about your behaviour.

Yes, you might look sheepish. They weren’t that strict. Ordinary, decent people wouldn’t think twice about keeping them. I asked that you were polite and respectful at all times to myself and Mrs Burlington. My wife informs me that you are often abrupt and surly with her. You agreed to hold down a job and I am pleased that you have secured a position at Robinson’s store, but I have received reports that you are often late back from lunch and there is a cloud over you and two other employees regarding the disappearance of a bottle of whisky from the off-licence department.

I asked that you attend all meals on time and that you do not stay out later than ten-thirty in the evenings. Last Saturday, you may remember you did not return until close to midnight. My wife informs me that you appear to have been inebriated at the time. I gave you strict instructions that the front room of the house was Mrs Burlington’s private domain and it was out of bounds to you. Mary, our maid, tells me that she saw you sneaking out – her words – of the room one morning last week.

I don’t consider you a wicked or evil lad. I am aware that you had an unfortunate upbringing and at an early age you ceased to be under the control of your parents. You have paid the price for your crimes. They were in the great scheme of things relatively petty, but I don’t suppose the people you stole from think the same.

When I took you into my house I was sure you were a reformed character. I still have great faith in you. If I did not we would not be here this evening. You know that under the terms of the licence that brought you here you can be returned to the half-way house at my discretion. I do not want to do that. I believe in giving people a chance, especially those less fortunate than myself. I want to help you. I believe you can make something of yourself. I have great hopes for you.

That is why I am going to give you a dose of my slipper. I know you are nineteen, going on twenty, and you might think you are too old for such punishment. I don’t agree. You need to be pulled up sharp lad. A short-sharp-shock. Many might say a slippering is a very childish punishment and a lad as big and strong as you deserves something far more severe. They have a case. If your behaviour does not improve after this evening I might have to resort to administering a flogging. Certainly, I am in possession of a very stout, Malacca cane, the type, so I am told, that was once used on unruly boys at borstal institutions. Please don’t make me have to use it on you.

Let’s get on with it. Stand over there, in front of that chair. No, please don’t try to argue. My mind is made up. You deserve a jolly good spanking and that’s just what you are going to get. This is for your own good. You might not believe me now, but one day you will almost certainly thank me for nights like this. I have your best interests at heart.

Right, now take down your pyjama bottoms and bend over. Rest your hands on the seat of the chair. Yes! The slipper on your bare bottom. I hope you feel ashamed. I want you to think very carefully about your behaviour. I want to see a very marked improvement from you. Now, please do as I ask; don’t make me have to come over there and take them down for you.

Good. Now, keep those knees straight. Arch your back. Please stick out your bottom a little more. Let’s get this pyjama jacket out of the way. Hold still, don’t wriggle about. You must learn to take your spankings with some dignity.

Right, remember lad, I’m doing this for your own good ….

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

Other stories you might like

The paying guest

 The Spanking Vicar Part 1  

Portrait of an artist

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Uncle loses his patience

z used new story 2

z used pyjamas taking down domestic sting (2a)

Right Trent, this is what’s going to happen. You are going to take down those pyjama bottoms and bend over my knee. I’ve warned you often enough. Ever since we took you in you’ve been nothing but trouble. Now, you’ve left your aunt in tears with your rudeness. I will not stand for it. I won’t have it. Do you understand?

You’re well overdue a spanking. I don’t know how your father brought you up, but in this house we know how to behave. You stick to the rules. My rules. And Aunt Marie’s, of course. You don’t do that, you get a spanking. It really is as simple as that. And, if you don’t like it you can see if your new stepdad will take you in. I doubt it. Who would want an obnoxious brat like you living it them? If you weren’t Aunt Marie’s nephew, I’d’ve thrown you out a long time ago.

Take them down, I said. I’m not playing games here. Let’s see if a bare-bottomed belting will buck your ideas up.

Don’t wave your arms at me! You are not too old for a spanking. And, I’ll tell you something else, you might be nearly nineteen but for as long as you live in my house I’ll spank you every time I think you need it. You don’t want to be spanked, then learn to behave, it really I as simple as that. Now, take down those pyjamas, unless you want me to do it for you.

That’s better. Now, let them fall all the way. Don’t worry you’ve got nothing I haven’t seen before. Now, bend over my knee. No, keep your hands well out of the way. Stretch out in front of you. Touch the floor. Or hold on to the chair leg. Keep your head nice and low. Try to lift up your bottom a little.

That’s better. Now, let’s get this jacket out of the way. Let the dog see the rabbit. There we are. A nice bare bottom. I don’t suppose this has ever been spanked before. More’s the pity. If your dad had used his belt on you I wouldn’t need to be doing this.

Be quiet. You’re a big lad, you ought to be able to take a strapping without all this fuss. You deserve this and you know it. I’ll tan your hide until it’s good and red. You’ll be sleeping on your stomach tonight lad, if I have my way. I’d like to see you explain the marks away to your girlfriend tomorrow ….

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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The Private Tutor — part 1

used paddle board of education

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

“And, that means corporal punishment.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he stopped. This time it really was over.

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

I didn’t say a thing.

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

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

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

“Yes, I understand,” I whimpered.

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

Oh, I got it. “Yes sir!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Were you still in bed?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stand there.”

He delved into to his canvas bag.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he got to the point.

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

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

“A spanking.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He let me up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We did.

“Dress yourself properly.” We did that too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Swish! “Bend over and touch your toes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Leave it alone. Look at me boy.”

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

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

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

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

I could see Harry’s teeth shining.

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

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

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

I swear I heard Harry snort.

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

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

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

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

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

“Stay there.”

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

Then, turning, he looked across at Harry.

“Come here young man.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Get up. Trousers down”

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

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

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

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

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

“Up. Get dressed.”

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

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

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

“Show me yours”.

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

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

 

This story was first uploaded in January 2016.

Picture credit: Unknown

Episode 2 of The Private Tutor is here

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

When Dad got home

z used after pyjamas bed older Isma

I wait in my blue striped pyjamas for my father to come home from work. I have been bad-mouthing my mother all day long and now I must pay for it.

Eighteen years old or no, I am going to get one heck of a spanking.

I lay on my bed for seven o’clock to crawl around. Dad’s shift at the post office finishes at six-thirty and he is always home by then.

Without knocking first, dad opens the bedroom door. He is still dressed in his postman’s uniform: mid-grey trousers; light-blue shirt; post office tie knotted tightly at his throat. He has taken off his outdoor shoes and on his feet are his bedroom slippers.

There are no preliminaries; he goes straight to the action. I watch intently as dad picks up the chair and puts it in the centre of the room. He sits down; reaches his right hand to his left foot and removes a slipper. Then he spreads his legs wide.

“Come here Dexter,” it is a stern order, not a friendly request. “Bend over my knee.”

My heart is racing. I am a grown man for Heaven’s sake. I left school two years ago. I have a job at the supermarket. I bring home a wage. But, I know dad is in charge. We argued about this before. “It’s my way or the highway,” he said. If I don’t like his rules, then I must leave home. I don’t want to do that. I love my home comforts too much. I wouldn’t be able to afford half the things I can now.

So, I roll off the bed and onto my feet. I make no objection; there are no excuses or pleas of mitigation. It is true I have been rude and cruel to my mother. I can’t explain why, she just rubs me up the wrong way.

Dad is in his early forties and not yet middle aged; but there are some flecks of grey in his otherwise light brown hair. I stand to the right of my dad, looking down at the platform I am soon to place myself across. Dad is thick set and his legs are fleshy; he has the start of a beer belly. In a strange way he makes a comfortable platform for me to present himself. My positioning might be comfortable but what happens next will not be.

I take a deep breath; place both palms on dad’s fleshy right thigh and ease forward. I reach out my hands and place my palms flat on the carpet. Behind me my legs are short and dangle in mid-air, my toes an inch or so short off the floor. My groin presses into dad’s leg and my bottom rests at an angle.

Dad is not quite satisfied and moves me slightly to give himself a better aim at my bum. My legs are now further from the ground and my face closer to the carpet.

Dad has his little spanking rituals; he always has done. It is his job to prepare my bottom for punishment. He will be the one to take down my pyjama bottoms. Dad rests his slipper on the small of my back and with both of his hands free, gently he takes the elasticated waist of the pyjama bottoms and slowly, carefully, eases them down over my hips down across my meaty (and a little chubby) cheeks until they are clear of the buttocks and resting at my thigh.

I feel a slight breeze blowing across my exposed flesh from the open bedroom window. I am breathing a little heavily. I’ve felt the full force of dad’s slipper across my bare bottom before; I know this will hurt like mad. I hope I can take it without blubbing. Last time I was spanked I wailed the house down; I don’t want to repeat that humiliation.

Dad is taking his time. I can’t see him, but I feel movements in his body as slowly he unfastens the button on his right shirt sleeve and meticulously rolls it up so that his arm is bare from the wrist to above the elbow. Then, taking as much time as he cares, he repeats the manoeuvre with the left sleeve.

He is almost ready; but not quite. He moves the slipper from the small of my back and rests it higher up, near the shoulder. Then, just as carefully as he did with his shirt sleeves, he grasps the tail of my pyjama jacket and folds it once, then twice, until it rests neatly at my shoulders. I am now naked from the shoulders to the thighs.

Dad takes the slipper in his right hand and grips it tightly at the heel. The slipper has about eight inches of flexible sole; dad hovers it above my fleshy bottom; he could easy make one smack land across the centre of both cheeks at once. Or he could go lengthwise and wallop the whole of one cheek from the very top to the very bottom.

He takes the first option and brings the slipper crashing down three times across the centre of both mounds. I gasp at the shock of the impact and screw my fingers into a claw.

Dad whacks another three a little lower this time; just where the curves meet the thighs. I yelp and my legs kick out behind me. It is an involuntary action; a reflex to the pain that is starting in my bum and travelling down the back of my legs.

Dad then goes for option two: putting three whacks the length of the left cheek and three into the right. Dad’s technique is not to raise the slipper high into the air and bring it crashing down; instead he raises it perhaps only a foot or so away from the target area and then brings it down with a mighty force into the flesh. It is all in the forearm action and dad has perfected this method over many years of spanking me and my brothers.

My cheeks clench tighter and the slipper hangs threateningly overhead waiting for them to relax in response to the curt command snapped out by my irritated father. The buttocks reluctantly oblige and the slipper falls with fury to slam another dose of intense pain into my naked bottom.

Up and down; up and down goes the slipper. I am failing in my resolve not to cry. I groan or yelp as each whack of the slipper sinks into my meaty bum and remerges leaving behind another deep pink mark. Soon dozens and dozens of images of the slipper are emblazoned across both cheeks and the back of my legs.

I wriggle this way and that; to the left and to the right. It looks like I am trying to swim off dad’s lap. But dad is having none of it and holds me tightly at the waist; I am going nowhere.

My legs are flailing and first I kick the pyjama bottoms down from my thighs to my ankles and then after a dozen or so more wallops they are sent flying across the floor. Dad has not finished; he wants to make sure I understand the gravity of my misbehaviour; so he wraps his right leg across both of my calves and I am trapped. I cannot twist at the waist and cannot kick my legs. I am completely at dad’s mercy.

The spanking goes on and on.

I hear floorboards creak. Someone is on the landing outside my room. I hear the handle of the door twist and it opens. My mum walks in the room and stands about two feet away from my face. She has a perfect view. What she sees is her bratty son pinned across his dad’s knee, his bare bottom toasted bright red by the continual pounding of the slipper. I am totally, utterly humiliated.

I gasp to catch my breath. I cannot see her clearly for the tears flooding my eyes. Why is she here? Has she come to gloat?

“Leave it Den,” she says to my father. “Are you sure Lil,” he replies while increasing the ferocity of the slaps into my burning bum. “I should go on for another ten minutes at least.”

She speaks to me. “Dexter, have you leant your lesson?”

“Yes, yes,” I gasp. And with big gulps and tears, I wail, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Let him go.” Dad now knows she means it and the pounding stops. He keeps a tight hold of me and I wheeze and wheeze into the carpet. My pulse is racing and I cannot be sure I won’t have a heart attack.

Then dad releases me and I leap off his knee and hop about, with my cock flopping up and down. I retrieve my pyjama bottoms and tug them on to cover up my privates from my mum’s gaze, but she is not looking. Already she has turned on her heels and is leaving the room.

“No supper for you tonight,” she says over her shoulder and goes. She is anxious to get back to her television; Emmerdale is about to start.

My dad says nothing and follows her out.

When the coast is clear I whip down my pyjamas and poke my bum in the mirror. I am not too shocked by what I see; this is not the first time dad has put his slipper across my bare arse. Both buttocks are bright red and along the outer reaches of my globes there are clear imprints of the sole of the slipper. I touch the flesh gingerly. The pain has quickly subsided, but it is tender to touch. The very centre of my bum which absorbed most of the slippering is rough and leathery. I know from painful experience that quite soon dark blue bruises will show and they will be with me for some days to come as they turn a multitude of colours before eventually disappearing.

I lay on my bed feeling very sorry for myself. The door opens and in walks Tom my twenty-year-old brother. Gently, he caresses my sore bottom with the tips of his fingers. “Not bad, not bad,” he says with genuine admiration as we compare my marks to the spanking he got from dad last night.

Picture credit: Isma

 

 

This story was first uploaded in January 2016.

 

More  father and son stories that you might like. Click on the title.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com