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

 

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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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After the party

Saving souls

A kiss too far

 

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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Horny as hell

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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.

Illicit drinking

 

Lazy students home for the hols

 

The fire-raiser

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Jackson

new story 2

z used otk slipper pyjamas (8)

“Right lad. Let’s get you spanked and sent to bed.” Jackson looked at me from the vantage point of his chair. He was trying to grimace, to look grim. His moon face gave him away. He couldn’t hide the smirk, he was enjoying this too much. “Take down your pyjama bottoms and bend over my knee. And be quick about it.” Jackson gripped one of his own bedroom slippers in his right fist.

He knew I would obey his order. I had done so in the past and would do it again many times in the future. I took hold of the drawstring of my pyjamas and untied it. The bottoms slipped down to my thighs. I held on to them so they didn’t hurtle to my feet. I shuffled over to Jackson’s side. He spread his legs to offer me a platform. He was in his own pyjamas but wearing a dressing gown. He always did this. I suppose it stopped his tackle dangling out.

I reached forward so that my body fell across his lap. My bare bottom was perfectly placed. Moments later I felt the familiar sting and rush of adrenaline as the slipper connected for the first time with my right buttock cheek.

I had met Jackson at the beginning of my second year at university. Me and two pals rented a furnished flat in the High Street over a chiropodist’s office. A chiropodist is a foot doctor – did you know that? I didn’t. Jackson was that chiropodist and also our landlord. There was nowhere for the postman to leave letters at our flat so I would collect the mail from the receptionist at the chiropodist’s office every day. Sometimes Jackson was around and he would stop for a little chat. Inconsequential stuff; I can’t for the life of me remember anything that we talked about.

In the winter there was an emergency at the flat and the entire plumbing needed fixing. It meant we had to vacate. My two mates found people to put them up for the few days it would take before we could move back in. But, I was stuck. Jackson said he had a spare room at his house; so I went to stay.

Jackson was old enough to be my father and I don’t suppose we had too much in the way of common interests. I am gay and have never hidden it but to look at me you might not know. I look pretty ordinary and it’s not easy to tell. I don’t want to say I look “normal”, but I think you know where I’m coming from.

Jackson spotted I was gay straight away. It takes one to know one, I suppose. He didn’t make a pass at me or anything, but we did share a bottle of wine one evening while we chatted and got to know each other a little bit.

The first Friday I was staying with Jackson I went out and got bladdered. I was a student after all; it’s what students do. I got back to the house in the early hours three sheets to the wind. I was so drunk I couldn’t get my key into the front door. I guess I made quite a racket trying and failing to get into the house because Jackson had to come down and let me in. Even in my state I could see he was pretty pissed off with me, but he didn’t say anything.

Not until the next day. On Saturday afternoon, he called me into the room we laughingly called “the library”. It was just a standard living room really, but Jackson had put shelves around the walls and he kept all his books in there so they didn’t clutter up the rest of the house. There were a couple of low easy chairs and a table. I used the room myself for studying because I had no table in my bedroom.

Jackson gave me a good talking to. A right telling off. He told me he was angry about being dragged out of bed to let me in. I apologised. He had a right to be upset, I said. I’m sorry. “Good,” he said and he stared fiercely at me, “Because if it happens again, you’ll have to be spanked. Now, clear off. Don’t you have studying to do?”

I stumbled out of the library in a daze. “Spanking?” He was joking right? Of course he was, I assured myself. Spanking indeed. What did he take me for – a little kid? I didn’t think any more about Jackson’s threat until hours later when once again I was drunk as a skunk. I staggered down The Avenue, the upscale suburban street where Jackson lived (foot doctoring clearly pays well). I held on to the gatepost at the end of the drive that went up to the house. I searched my pockets to find my key. I gripped it tightly and taking small pigeon steps I scrunched up the gravel path. I reached the door and hesitated. I had to make a decision. I closed one eye and carefully lined up my key with the lock. After two unsuccessful attempts I got it in. I could enter the house quietly and go to bed. Or, I could make an almighty clatter and wake up Jackson. If it happens again, you’ll have to be spanked. I hesitated some more, trying to clear my head. I turned the key quietly, entered the house and tip-toed across the hallway. I thought I was doing pretty well until, I tripped over a wellington boot Jackson had carelessly left at the foot of the stairs. As I fell arse over tit I took the hat stand with me. The row it made would have woken the dead, let alone Jackson. But as it happens he was already awake. As I stumbled from my knees to my feet the door to the library opened and Jackson stood there, hands on hips. He pursed his lips so it looked like he had sucked on a lemon.

“Bed now. I’ll speak to you tomorrow,” he growled. Holding tightly to the banisters I crawled up the stairs. I crashed out on the bed and slept the sleep of the unjust for about nine hours. My head was pretty clear when I woke. I had the typical recovery powers of a nineteen-year-old. I only had a vague recollection of the previous night, but the words, “I’ll speak to you tomorrow” were clear in my mind.

As were If it happens again, you’ll have to be spanked. I did the three S’s – shit, shower and shave – and then went downstairs. I found Jackson in the kitchen surrounded by the Sunday Times. He peered over the top of the gardening section, his face stern. “Ah, good morning. Or should I say afternoon,” he dripped sarcasm. I nodded a perfunctory greeting and grabbed a bowl from the draining board and filled it with cornflakes. Jackson rose from his chair. “When you’ve eaten that come to the library. Don’t be long.”

I dragged it out as long as I could like it was a condemned man’s final meal. Spanking. Did he really intend to spank me? Absurd though it may sound to you, I thought he actually might. I had never been spanked in my life and I don’t remember that any of my friends growing up were either. They had the cane at school, but I never got it. You could say that I was a virgin to corporal punishment. No, I said to myself as I made my way to the library; all he’s going to do it give me a bollocking. Which, I would readily admit, I deserved.

Jackson was seated in one of the easy chairs. He peered at me as I entered the room as if I were a stranger and he was sizing me up for the first time. I stood, embarrassed. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to say. I hoped he would start talking soon. He did, but he had few words for me.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he said and then without further warning he leaned forwards and with his left hand he grabbed my right wrist. He pulled me towards him and then downwards so hard that I almost flew across his knees. I hollered a protest and kicked my legs about but it didn’t stop Jackson slapping his hand onto my backside. He went at a rush and struck me with some force. He put his whole effort into spanking my rear end. He gripped me tight at the waist and despite my kicking and flailing I was stuck face down, bottom up across Jackson’s knee. I stared down at the carpet incredulously: I was having my backside spanked. Me, nineteen years old, across the knees of a much older man getting whacked. Could you imagine such a thing?

I was pinned into position, I was going nowhere. I was at Jackson’s mercy. I couldn’t believe it. And, here’s something else I couldn’t believe: I was loving every moment of it. I think it must have been a submissive thing. Of course, with my jeans and pants on I didn’t feel a thing. Poor Jackson’s hand was hurting much more than my backside. He must have known that, but it didn’t stop him pounding my bum. He must have had a beautiful target. My buttocks were firm and pert in those days and my jeans were shrunk to fit. They left nothing to the imagination. Jackson spanked every square inch of my bum at least three times over and then he turned his attention to the back of my thighs.

I could have stayed there all day. Jackson on the other hand was running out of steam. At last, almost exhausted, he released his grip on my body and pushed me so that I rolled off his lap and onto the floor. My own heart was racing and my temples throbbed. The room was blurred (when it wasn’t spinning). I had taken all kinds of drugs in the past but none of them had done this to me.

I stumbled to my knees. I was only inches from Jackson’s crotch. He might have been an “old” man but his tackle seemed to be in good working order. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson,” Jackson’s voice seemed to be coming from a great distance. It echoed like we were in a canyon not a small room in a suburban house. I blinked to clear my head a little. He repeated himself, “I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”

I heard him more clearly the second time. I grinned. My eyebrows shot heavenwards. I said nothing. I didn’t have the words. Jackson’s moon face shone. He grinned, “Oh, It’s like that is it, young man.” He gripped my wrist once more and hauled me to my feet. In one swift expert movement he had my jeans at my ankles and my underpants at my knees. He threw me back across his knee and this time I felt every one of those vicious slaps as Jackson almost literally took my arse off.

At the end of the academic year me and my friends decided to give up the flat above the chiropodist’s. They went back to their families for the long vacation. I could have gone to mine, but I was twenty years old now and being with my Mum and Dad held no attractions. I mentioned it to Jackson when I went to give him notice to quit. “Come and stay with me,” he said quietly. “If you want to, of course,” he added with a wink. I moved in at the end of the month.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Henry Pottinger’s souvenirs

new story 2

Henry Pottinger let the suitcase fall onto the bed. It was lighter than he had remembered. The accumulated dust of years – no, decades – was undisturbed. It was small and battered and made of stiff carboard. They didn’t make suitcases like that anymore. Utility, they had called it. Cheap, no frills. Like so many things manufactured at the end of the war.

Henry turned the case on its side so he could get at the catches. They flicked open easily. The case had laid in the attic room since his youth. When he had first lived there; the family home. When his mother and father were still alive.

Henry’s heart beat faster. It had been fifty years at least since he had last rummaged through the contents of the case. Part of his life was there. He paused, but only barely, since the case held no fears. It contained no hidden secrets.

He opened the lid and without looking inside he lifted the suitcase and turned it over so that its contents fell with a satisfying plop onto the heavy mattress. Carefully, almost reverentially, he placed the case on the bedroom floor. He peered at the litter on the bed with some disappointment. He had remembered it differently. This pile represented his youth. He had expected so much more. He hoped this would not turn out to be a wasted effort.

He leaned forward and carefully smoothed the jumble. He hadn’t seen this junk in more than fifty years but immediately so much looked familiar. His souvenirs. Why had he collected them? He supposed it had been the arrogance of youth. Had he believed that one day he would be famous and revered; that these pathetic artefacts would be sought out by scholars and historians. A professor at an Oxbridge college would use them as source material for his third or maybe fourth book about the importance of Henry Pottinger.

Ha! To be young again. Henry, now fast approaching his seventy-fifth birthday, often spoke about the arrogance of youth. He knew the best way to deal with that. The old-fashioned ways were still the best.

Henry had achieved some degree of fame in his life, but no scholar had wanted to write about him. Ironically perhaps, his fame (and quite a small fortune) had been made as the author of a series of history textbooks. For more than thirty years he had been required reading for every schoolchild in Britain and the Commonwealth. That was a lot of books and a great deal of royalties. That income and a legacy from his parents meant Henry had never done a day’s proper work since the age of thirty.

Henry had used the time that money bought him industriously. Henry Pottinger had constructed for himself a second life. An alternative existence. Henry Pottinger was not in fact Henry Pottinger. Henry Pottinger was an assumed name; a cipher. Henry Pottinger would never have been allowed to write and publish a textbook for schoolboys. Henry Pottinger would never have allowed near a schoolboy. Not in a million years. So, the name that adorned the history textbooks was not Henry Pottinger.

Henry Pottinger enjoyed his life. And he intended to go on enjoying it for many more years to come. He had made a great number of friends and his home, tucked away in a leafy suburb of the non-descript town of Brocklehurst, was famous among men who shared Henry’s (non-history) interests. Indeed, it was on account of these friends that Henry Pottinger was now rummaging through his souvenirs.

A seventy-fifth birthday celebration was being planned for Henry Pottinger and, as is often the case at such milestone anniversaries, his chums thought it would be a cracking wheeze to surround him with memories of his life. That had sent Henry Pottinger climbing into the far recesses of the attic.

He surveyed his early adult life spread before him. Time plays tricks on a person and had it really been about fifty years since he had last seen all this? So much of it looked familiar. The edge of a small pink-coloured box peeked between a dozen envelopes. Ha! Henry Pottinger knew what that was. He gripped it eagerly in his hand. The box had a clear transparent plastic lid. Henry Pottinger did not have to open the box, its content was clearly visible. It was a plastic key, silver in colour, attached to the numerals two and one. A twenty-first birthday memento from his parents, deliberately chosen for its tackiness.

He tossed it back onto the bed and retrieved one of the envelopes. You didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to see it contained a birthday card. Eagerly, Henry Pottinger pulled back the flap and tugged out the card. “Happy 21st birthday,” he read. “Now we are legal. Love Uncle Ricky.” Henry Pottinger chewed down on is bottom lip, an affectation that indicated his intense pleasure. “Ha! Ha! God almighty!” he said aloud, even though there was no one in the house to hear him. Now we are legal. How much had changed since he had turned twenty-one. And “Uncle” Ricky – he was no blood relation. Gosh! Henry Pottinger giggled at how much Uncle Ricky had taught him.

Gently, he placed the card on the bedside table. It would raise a smile at his birthday party.  He returned to the bed; a formal brown envelope lay askew on top of a copy of Football Monthly. Henry Pottinger didn’t need to look at that – he knew already, it celebrated England’s victory in the World  Cup. He just as easily recognised the envelope. He couldn’t supress his excitement. With trembling hands he eased out the one sheet of flimsy paper it contained. “Ha!” He boomed and dissolved into chuckles. His final school report. He licked his lips and started to read. Even after so many decades he found he could recite the contents of the report by heart.

He is “headstrong,” his housemaster had written. “Will find it difficult to make his way in life if he continues to be unable to accept authority.” His chuckles rose to roars of laughter. “Oh, yes,” Henry Pottinger said, “I must frame this. It will take pride of place.”

Henry Pottinger (as he was not called while at school) had joined the sixth-form at St Francis Independent Grammar School when his father moved to Brocklehurst to take up a senior post at the local municipal council. Unable to accept authority. The eighteen-year-old Henry Pottinger had been a frequent visitor to Mr Durrant’s study. Henry Pottinger held the school report, his eyes misting. He saw himself lowering his body across the low back of the housemaster’s old leather armchair. His head low, bottom high. His pale-grey trousers pulling snugly into his stretched buttocks. The aroma of stale sweat that permeated the chair’s seat clogged his throat. Once again, Henry Pottinger felt the gentle tap-tap-tap of the thick, but whippy, rattan cane as it found its aim across the fleshiest part of his round buttock cheeks.

Henry Pottinger could never see this (of course, since his gaze was committed to the seat cushion) but he imagined Mr Durrant then flexing the cane between both hands before swishing it through the air. Henry Pottinger could feel the cane return to its target. Then the cane lifted away before returning with tremendous force to strike deep into his meaty bum before rebounding. The cane rose and fell six times. Six-of-the-best. St Francis was a traditional school after all.

Henry Pottinger read the words again: unable to accept authority. He had been beaten like that on three separate occasions in his final term. Three times! Aged eighteen. Had Durrant been a complete imbecile? Had he not realised what was going on? How Henry Pottinger had lusted for those sessions in the housemaster’s study. How he fantasied about one day being ordered by the cane-swishing Mr Durrant, “Lower your trousers. Bend over that chair.” Oh, how Henry Pottinger had wanted to take a full-six across the seat of his white cotton Y-fronts. Henry Pottinger laughed at the memory. It would not happen at his school but it did not take too long after he arrived at Oxford before he experienced that exquisite pleasure.

Oxford. University. Suddenly Henry Pottinger remembered. The photograph. Did he still have it? He delved into the pile on the eiderdown. Yes! Yes! He pulled at a yellowing envelope, hands trembling. “This is it! Oh My God!” he trilled. “I haven’t seen this since ….” His eyes misted. A young man (himself) in pyjamas standing in the corner of  room, hands on head in the traditional naughty boy pose. The pyjama bottoms are at his feet and bottom bare to the wind and red raw after a sound spanking. Henry Pottinger licked his lips. “Oh Lor!” he exclaimed. “I had almost forgotten.”

z used after corner pyjamas down study or domestic

That bonkers weekend at Brocklehurst he had spent with his pal, Gregor. That mad man (what the dickens was his name?) who turned half of his house into a replica public school, complete with classroom and headmaster’s study. The photograph showed Henry Pottinger in that study. His heart raced and his throat dried simultaneously as it all flooded back.

“You boy, stand there,” the headmaster glowered as he pointed to a place on the carpet in front of his desk. “Why have you been sent to me at this ungodly hour?” Henry Pottinger stands nervously, feeling a little conspicuous in his heavy striped pyjamas. They were made for a taller, stouter boy. Even with the drawstring tightly knotted he feared the pyjamas bottoms would slip down his thighs at any moment.

“Maitland, the head boy sent me. I was out of the dormitory after lights out.”

“Ha!” the headmaster ejaculated. “Up to no good, of course. No good comes from being out of the dormitory after lights out.”

Henry Pottinger nods his agreement. It is unsure what else he is expected to say. There is an uncomfortable silence. The headmaster breaks it with a bark, “Well, boy what have you got to say for yourself!” Henry Pottinger stares down at his bare feet. What is he supposed to say? His head is in a whirl. Frankly, he wishes the headmaster would stop all the jawing and move onto the action.

“Pah!” he headmaster rises from his chair. “So, you want to add dumb insolence to the charge list, eh?” Henry Pottinger shrugs, realising he is not very good at this. “Bah! Pah!” the headmaster is hamming it up  bit. “Well, m’lad,” he says, suddenly adopting a cod Scottish accent, “Och! w’ll see abah tat.” He opens the drawer to his desk and reaches in. Henry Pottinger’s eyes follow the headmaster’s movement closely. His heart is racing and he feels a slight clenching in his buttocks. The headmaster withdraws a leather strap. It has a handle at one end and the business end is split into three tails.

The headmaster holds the tawse high in both hands so that Henry Pottinger gets a good look. It is as if the headmaster is making a religious offering. “Och,” the headmaster says, “yer know what to expect.” Henry Pottinger honestly does not. He knows he is to receive corporal punishment as that is the whole point of the weekend. But, he had never been beaten with a leather tawse before. His bottom has been battered with canes, slippers and hairbrushes. On one memorable occasion he received six cuts of a heavy birch rod; but a leather tawse, no.

The headmaster is now on the move. He stands in front of his desk alongside Henry Pottinger. The headmaster swipes the heavy strap through the air. Sweat trickles down Henry Pottinger’s spine. At close quarters he can see the strap is awesome. It is about a foot or fourteen inches long and maybe a quarter to half inch thick. It will pack a wallop, Henry Pottinger has no doubt about that. Especially in the hands of the headmaster who has already demonstrated his expertise with a swishy rattan cane.

“Take down your pyjama trousers and bend across my desk,” the headmaster says swiftly. In his excitement he has forgotten to speak in the Scottish accent. Henry Pottinger fumbles with the drawstring of his pyjamas, he will be glad to let them down before they fall under their own steam. His buttocks and legs are now bare and for the first time Henry Pottinger feels how cold it is in the study. There is an open fire but it hasn’t been made up.

The headmaster moves away from the desk, he places his hands behind his back and strolls purposefully across the room. When he gets to the far wall, he turns and retraces his steps. Henry Pottinger thinks he looks a lot like Groucho Marx and stifles a giggle.

“Bend over boy!” the headmaster shouts the instruction. Henry Pottinger wonders if the neighbours will hear. Then he remembers the houses in this part of The Avenue are large and detached from one another. The headmaster could commit murder and no one would hear.

Henry Pottinger is a short distance from the desk so he shuffles like a penguin until he is close enough so he can bend across. The headmaster has cleared the desk top and all that is left is a large blotter. The lower button of Henry Pottinger’s pyjama jacket is undone and his bare flesh touches the cold walnut desk. Its coldness and the excitement of presenting his bared bottom for chastisement sends a shiver through his body.

The headmaster has stopped his pacing and from the other end of the study he admires the sight presented for him. He has become intimately acquainted with Henry Pottinger’s bottom over the past twenty-four hours. The fading lines from a swift six of the best delivered across the seat of the trousers earlier in the day bare testimony to this fact.

The headmaster stands behind Henry Pottinger and admires once more his fine round buttock cheeks. They firm up when he is stretched across the desk, but when standing they are a little more fleshy. The headmaster runs the tip of his tongue across his dry, almost chapped lips. He rests the tawse on the desk so as to free-up both hands. With those, he carefully takes hold of the end of Henry Pottinger’s pyjama jacket and ever so carefully he folds it once, then once again so that it is quite clear of his target area. He cracks a smile, cups his right palm and then gently he caresses Henry Pottinger’s left buttock. The headmaster is delighted that Henry Pottinger shivers when he does this. The headmaster pats the left buttock and rubs the back of Henry Pottinger’s thighs. Then he gives the boy a playful smack across the fleshiest part of his right cheek.

The headmaster stands back and gently lays the three tails of the worn leather tawse across the centre of Henry Pottinger’s bottom. He licks his lips one more time, grips the handle tightly, raises the strap so it rests on his shoulder and then with all the force he is able to muster he whips it down so that it sinks into the flesh. He is rewarded with the sight of a glowing red stripe. Henry Pottinger’s hips wriggle and he grips the far edge of the desk. A second stroke whistles through the air before connecting an inch below the first. Henry Pottinger turns his head, a long drawn out whistle escapes from his half-closed mouth.

Back in the bedroom Henry Pottinger the soon-to-be seventy-five-year-old carefully replaces the photograph in the yellowing envelope. What a day this is turning out to be, he tells himself as once again he burrows among the debris in search of more memories.

Picture credit, CP Services, London

Other stories you might like

It is what it is

The Clumsy Waiter

The Chamber pot incident

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Double trouble – his first time

new story 2

z used otk pyjamas twosome chair sting (24)

Richard watched from the window as the small police panda car chugged down the long drive towards the road. “We’re for it now, once my father finds out,” he told his cousin Adrian. His companion shrugged his shoulders with indifference. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Richard sighed as the police car disappeared from sight. “It’ll be a spanking for sure,” he looked at his watch and wondered how long he had until his father returned home.

“What?” Adrian snapped, not able to hide the irritation he often felt with his cousin.

“A spanking,” Richard replied and left it at that.

“Ha! Ha! You’re joking, of course,” Adrian smiled but he felt no joy.

“We’re lucky PC Plodder hasn’t charged us. We’d be in big trouble then.”

“What are you talking about?” Adrian bunched his hand into a fist to try to control his temper.

“He’s in the same Lodge as my father. That’s why he didn’t book us. He knows father will take care of it.”

Adrian turned to his cousin, his face now colouring. He was beginning to understand his predicament. “You mean the copper and your father are friends?”

“Not friends exactly. Masons, you know the secret Lodge. Members look after one another.”

“So what? The copper thinks your father’s going to spank us?” Adrian failed to keep the scornful tone out of his voice.

“That’s about the size of it.”

“But, I’m eighteen,” Adrian barked with incredulity.

“Well so am I,” his cousin responded evenly. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“You cannot be serious!” Adrian stormed across the room and exited in a fury. “You’ve taken leave of your senses.” Richard watched quietly as he went. “You’ve got a lot to learn,” he said but there was nobody in the room to hear.

Richard followed his cousin out of the house into the spacious grounds. “Come on,” he said cheerfully, “Let’s go to the tennis court for a while.” They started knocking a ball back and forth half-heartedly, not speaking. After an hour they saw Maisie, one of the housemaids, exit the house and purposefully approach them. She curtseyed and spoke respectfully to Richard. “The Master says you are both to change into your pyjamas and then go to his study.” She blushed, turned on her heels and scurried back to the house.

Adrian stared open mouthed at her arse. “Quite a tart that one,” he said with admiration in her hearing. “Great arse. Nice pair of tits too. Do you shag her?” Richard blushed a scarlet rage. “Come on!,” he snapped, “We mustn’t keep my father waiting.” He hurried off leaving his cousin in his wake.

Adrian caught Richard up in the bedroom. Already he was stripping out of his clothes. “So, you’re going through with this?”

Richard sighed, “Get changed quickly. We mustn’t keep him waiting. We’ll get extra.”

Adrian looked dumbfounded, “You’re going to let him spank you?”

Richard could not hide his irritation. “Don’t blame me. It’s your fault. I didn’t want to break into that orchard.  Told you we’d get caught. I don’t even like apples.”

Adrian struggled to retain his temper. This was too much. His cousin was such a wimp.

Richard pulled on his pyjama bottoms, “C’mon, it’s just a spanking, that’s all.” He caught the embarrassed eye of his cousin. “Oh no!” he shrieked and waved his arms theatrically. “I don’t believe it. You’ve never been spanked!”

“Well …” Adrian spoke, but his words trailed off.

“You haven’t!” Richard giggled. “You cause so much trouble, I should have thought your father was always tanning your hide.” Adrian gave a crooked half smile and shrugged his shoulders in embarrassment.

Richard continued, “Your father doesn’t spank?”

“No. Never.”

“Oh well are you in for a treat. Now hurry up and change.”

Adrian was rooted to the spot. Richard by now buttoning up his pyjama jacket tried to console his cousin, “Don’t worry it won’t hurt so much.” Still Adrian made no move to change his clothes. “There’s no getting out of it, you do know that. Don’t you?”

Adrian grimaced. A spanking. At his age. His first spanking and he was eighteen years old. Reluctantly, he began to unbutton his shirt. It might have been a labour of Hercules it took him so long to change. Richard kept looking at his watch, time was disappearing fast. His father would be in a fury when they eventually arrived.

At last Adrian was ready. His face was like flint. His resentment was not hidden. “C’mon,” Richard gave him a playful slap on the bum. Adrian was not amused. “Let’s go,” Richard smiled ruefully. Adrian moved sluggishly as if he was being forced to carry the weight of the whole world on his shoulders.

Richard led the way from the room. “C’mon,” he said with mock cheerfulness, “It won’t be that bad.”

“Huh! Sez you,” Adrian struggled to control his temper as he followed his cousin from the room.

Richard despised his cousin at that moment. Adrian was the cause of all the trouble, but he refused to accept punishment. What a jerk! “Oh,” he called spitefully over his shoulder as he led the way down the stairs towards his father’s study, “Did I tell you he spanks us on the bare?” Oh how he enjoyed the look on Adrian’s fuming face.

Mr Jennings was a very angry man. His youngest son Richard and his nephew Adrian had disgraced the family. Common thieves. Guttersnipes! He was lucky PC Plodder had been the one to find them, otherwise the news would be all over the town. He grinded his teeth as he paced the room and waited for the pair to present themselves, his patience long ago evaporated.

“About time too,” he growled when the two eighteen-year-old boys at last stood in the doorway to his study. “What kept you?” Richard glowered at his cousin. They would get extra whacks for sure. He mumbled something or nothing in reply, but his father wasn’t interested.

“A disgrace,” he fumed. “Thieving. I don’t believe it.” The pair had the good grace to stare down at their feet shamefaced. There was nothing they could say. They had been caught, apples in hand. Bang-to-rights, as they said in the cheaper detective novels.

“Pah!” Mr Jennings let rip. He tore into them. His words were harsh. At last, exhausted he finished his verbal tirade. There was silence. Richard looked up from his carpet slippers and caught a glimpse of his father’s florid face. He saw genuine anger. He was not hamming it up. Things did not look good.

“You,” he barked at Adrian. The boy did not react. “Look at me when I’m talking to you!” reluctantly, Adrian straightened up. Did I tell you he spanks us on the bare? He had been unable to get Richard’s words out of his confused brain. This could not be happening. If he told his friends back home about this (not that he would dare) they would never believe him.

Mr Jennings now had his nephew’s full attention. “When I allowed you to stay with us while your parents were in India I promised your father I would treat you like a son,” he said, a wry smile on his lips. “I’d rather you didn’t,” Adrian thought but could not say. It would never have occurred to his own father to spank his bare backside, no matter how heinous was his crime. “I assume Richard has informed you of my standards,” Mr Jennings continued. Adrian in misery bit his bottom lip.

“Speak up boy!” Mr Jennings leaned into Adrian. “What have you got to say?” Adrian, usually a very confident, not to say cocky youngster, could only shrug his shoulders. “Spanking!” Mr Jennings barked. “In this house thieves get a spanking.” Adrian could not see it but he knew his face was on fire. Indignity mixed with embarrassment and just a touch of fear.

“Bah! Let’s get on with this. You,” he waved towards the far wall, “stand over there.” With trepidation Adrian shuffled the few paces necessary to cross the room. “Face the wall.” Mr Jennings sounded like an irate schoolmaster but he fell short of also instructing, “Hands on head.”

“Right,” Mr Jennings busied himself moving furniture. It was small room that he like to call his study but in fact it was an office he used for his business. It was dominated by a large desk and in the space between that and the door stood two armless leather chairs and a small coffee table. He moved the table with his leg and lifted one of the chairs and swivelled it so it faced into the room. It gave him enough room for his purpose. “Hand me one of your slippers,” his instruction was terse. He expected to be obeyed (he always was). Richard hopped on one leg and trying not to fall flat on his face he dislodged the slipper from his left foot. He handed it to his father, trying hard not to catch the old man’s eyes.

Richard was no stranger to corporal punishment as he had made plain to Adrian. Even so, he liked it to be over and down with. His father had other ideas. Although he had never consciously thought about it Mr Jennings believed there ought to be ritual involved in a spanking. He was not a man to grab his victim by the scruff of the neck and haul him across a desk, a chair or indeed his knee. Mr Jennings was calm and collected, as he was in all aspects of his life.

Now that he had the instrument of punishment in his hand he sat himself down on the chair. He wriggled his bottom until he was comfortable and pressed his knees together. “Take down your pyjama bottoms and bend over my knee,” he commanded. At that point Adrian who had stood, his heart pounding and his nose inches from the dusty wall, spun his head round and stared with astonishment at the two. He had never been spanked in his life, nor had he seen anyone else so punished. His throat dried and his breathing quickened as he watched his cousin with steady hands untie the drawstring to his pyjamas. Then he let them tumble to his ankles. He stood naked from the waist down.  Adrian’s eyes popped. He had never seen a cock quite so long. He had given up physical education classes at school when he was sixteen and was not a sportsman so had never seen a fully-grown man naked.

His awaking was short lived since Richard stoically placed the palms of his hands on his father’s right thigh and slowly lowered himself until he lay across his knee. Mr Jennings was an expert disciplinarian; he knew the perfect position for his son. He had not spread his legs to create a platform for Richard to drape across. Instead, Mr Jennings’ knees were so close together they formed a pinnacle which meant Richard’s bottom was raised high. Like this his head was low and he could have kissed the hard wooden floor had he wished. Behind him his knees were bent so that his toes hardly brushed the ground.

Adrian had never seen a man’s cock before, nor had he seen a bare bottom. He stared with fascination. Richard’s buttocks were smooth and hairless. Adrian had never inspected his own bum but he was sure it was not as beautiful as his cousin’s. Richard’s buttocks were round and meaty, but Adrian could see there was not an ounce of spare fat.

Although it was not necessary for any practical purpose, Mr Jennings took hold of his son’s pyjama jacket and carefully rolled it up his back. It was part of the ritual of spanking. Adrian saw Richard’s back was as hairless as his bottom. Adrian saw his uncle grip the slipper in his left hand while with his right palm he carefully caressed Richard’s buttocks. It was as if he were trying to smooth away wrinkles. Richard stared blankly at the floorboards and pressed both palms down into the ground, he was preparing himself for the ordeal about to start.

His father was not quite ready. He traced his palm across Richard’s buttocks, stroking each cheek. He patted the undersides where they meet the thighs and gave him a couple of almost friendly slaps across the peak of the mounds.

What little spit that was in Adrian’s mouth dried as he watched Mr Jennings transfer the slipper from his left to his right hand. Without further ado he raised it high above his shoulder and brought it down with a resounding crack across Richard’s tight bottom. The noise it made echoed around the small room, startling Adrian. Richard blinked hard but otherwise gave no sigh that his left buttock was throbbing. Mr Jennings hammered the slipped across every available inch of creamy-white flesh. Within seconds the imprint of the sole of the slipper had been embossed over and over and over across Richard’s bottom.

Adrian watched in fascination. Richard’s bum was glowing. It looked very hot. It must be incredibly painful. “Face the wall. I shan’t tell you again.” Mr Jennings roared. Adrian pressed his nose against the wall. He could no longer see his cousin being spanked but the sound of slipper connecting with flesh rapidly and with force reminded Adrian that before too long he and Richard would be changing positions. He rubbed his palms across his own bottom in anticipation.

Richard was a veteran. He took his spanking well. That meant he gave little resistance. He kept his bottom high and his head low and submitted himself to punishment. His bum was sore and his heartrate quickened. Air hissed through his clenched lips. His eyes blinked ferociously. When his father pounded the slipper across Richard’s naked thighs the pain intensified. Richard’s legs flailed and his waist wriggled. There was nothing Richard could do about any of this, it was his body’s natural reflex action as it tried to deal with the pain. Mr Jennings tightened his grip around his son’s waist and carried on. He was a long way yet from the finishing line.

In the hall outside the study Maisie, the housemaid, tea things at the ready, waited patiently. The door was ajar so she peeked inside. She was pleased nobody was around so she was able to crack a broad smile and enjoy the spectacle when Adrian dropped his pyjamas and offered up his bare bottom to Mr Jennings’ slipper.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

Other stories you might like

The rising star wanes

Shopping for toys

The liquor store

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com