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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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
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Charles Hamilton the Second