A scene once seen every day

new 5

z used retro waiting to go over dad's knee 1950s

Scenes like the one I am about to describe to you took place all over the country, every day of the year. This story takes place in a small, rather nondescript town called Brocklehurst. I don’t need to spend time describing it to you because you will certainly know somewhere very much like it yourself. You might quite possibly live in such a place.

The time is just after six o’clock in the evening. The men are returning from work to be greeted by their loving wives who have been busying themselves all day cleaning the house, doing the laundry, looking after the younger children and preparing the evening meal. There is about thirty minutes before the family eats together during which the men relax with a reviving gin-and-tonic while they examine the pages of the evening newspaper.

Very often this ritual is disturbed. The man is required to fulfil a duty as a father. The man believes in duty; duty to the King; duty to the country; duty to the Church and duty to his family. Every man accepts this; and he never shirks it. Mr Ordinary-Fellow, the hero of my story, is one such man.

On this particular evening Mr Ordinary-Fellow has arrived home and as he slips into his carpet slippers and settles himself down with a glass in one hand and that newspaper in the other, his wife relates a most distressing tale. Mr Ordinary-Fellow listens to his wife kindly. He allows her to speak without interruption.  She tells her story well. It is full of detail and when she has finished Mr Ordinary-Fellow sees no inclination to seek further information for clarification. He has the complete picture. He sighs, empties what is left in his glass in one swig and gently puts down the newspaper. He shakes his head and frowns.

We need not be detained by the details of the story, suffice is to say it relates to Mr Ordinary-Fellow’s youngest son John. The boy – I shall refer to him as a ‘boy’ even though he is in fact nineteen years of age because a boy does not automatically become a man when he reaches a certain age. He becomes a man after developing a maturity of character and until he achieves that state (if indeed he ever does) he remains steadfastly a child.

John had demonstrated that day that he still had a long way to travel before he could be treated like a man. Mr Ordinary-Fellow sighs once more and speaks to his wife in a clear, steady voice, “Please inform John he is to report to me in the loungeroom.” Mrs Ordinary-Fellow scurries off and her footsteps are just audible to him as she pads her way upstairs to the boy’s bedroom.

Mr Ordinary-Fellow hauls himself from his chair. He walks across the room. It is not such a large room. It is dominated by an over-sized, heavy leather Chesterfield couch. There are two armchairs and a small table. Along one wall runs shelves. They are designed for books, but there are few of these in the home of Mr Ordinary-Fellow so these shelves house an assortment of plaster figures, some of a gaudy religious nature. Others are mementoes of past holidays enjoyed at seaside resorts. Below the shelves there is a dark wooden sideboard constructed of three drawers and a cupboard.

Mr Ordinary-Fellow sighs theatrically as he tugs open the top drawer. He behaves as if he is carrying the weight of all the world’s troubles on his shoulders. And, so he is. A father’s duty is burdensome. He has an unpleasant task to perform this evening. But perform it he will. It is his duty. Discipline must be maintained. His son must learn this. Mr Ordinary-Fellow reaches into the drawer. There is only one object inside. He grips it in his right hand and with his left he closes the drawer.

He looks closely at the object in his hand. He sighs once more. He takes up the leather strap in both hands. It is about a foot-and-a-half long and two or three inches wide. It is remarkably heavy. A big steel handle at one end makes it so. It is an ancient razor strop. It has been in the family for generations. It has not been used for its intended purpose for thirty or more years. Even so, it is not a redundant object. It has a secondary use. It makes a mightily effective punishment tool.

Sighing yet again, Mr Ordinary-Fellow returns to his chair. Just as his buttocks are sinking into the soft cushion, John appears at the open door to the room. He is a small fellow and usually he is of a sunny disposition. But not at this moment. He knows why he has been summoned by his father. He knows he must face consequences for his behaviour. The razor strop in his father’s hand confirms this to him.

Mr Ordinary-Fellow is a man of few words. With a signal of his hand he beckons the boy to come forward and stand before him. Mr Ordinary-Fellow has prepared a little speech. He pokes his finger at the boy to emphasise the main points. He grips John by the wrist. There is no reason for this. The boy will not attempt to escape. Where is there to escape to? He is a child of his times. He knows events must take their course. He might not like what is about to happen, but he will not object. His father has decreed that he should be punished and John will not protest. That is the way of the world.

His father finishes his reprimands. He releases his grip on the boy’s wrist. John stands submissively, his eyes following his father’s movements as he takes up the leather strop and doubles it. He grips it at the metal end. He stares earnestly at John.

The boy gulps down a long breath. “Trousers up or down?” he asks, with an even voice.

His father frowns, annoyed. The boy seems a little too relaxed. “Down,” he growls. And then in an attempt to reassert his undoubted superiority at this moment, he adds, “Underwear too!” John does not expect this, but his solemn face does not betray this fact. On the bare! A voice inside him urges that he plead with his father. The indignation. The humiliation. A nineteen-year-old boy forced to lower his trousers and underwear and so bare his bottom to receive punishment (however justly deserved).

John silences the voice in his head. Not daring to look at his father who is sitting only inches in front of him, he makes great play at releasing the buckle of his belt. He thanks the heavens that today his trousers are not held aloft by braces. The belt undone, he fumbles with the fly buttons, betraying his nervousness at the situation. The heavy woollen trousers hurtle down his legs and puddle at his feet. John wears ‘modern’ underwear. That is to say his drawers and his singlet are two separate garments. Were he wearing one piece ‘combinations’ he would have to strip off his clothes completely in order to comply with father’s instruction for a bared bottom.

As it is all he must do is unfasten the two buttons at the waist of the drawers and then roll them down his thighs. They snag at his knees. His father emits a long, drawn-out sigh. He sounds like a steam engine settling down. “Bend over my knee,” he intones. “You know what is required.”

Indeed, the boy does. He has lost count of how many times in his life he has taken up this position. His father spreads his own knees thus providing a platform for his son. The boy now simply has to lower himself forward. Before he can do this he must waddle a step or two so that he is positioned to the right side of his father. Then, still not looking at the Old Man, the boy falls gently. He rests the balls of his hands on his father’s knees and this steadies him so that within only a second or two he is lying face down, his stomach resting against father’s right knee and his torso prostrate over his lap. The boy plants the palms of his hands firmly into the hard wooden floorboards. He stares down noticing the gleaming shine, a tribute to the hard work of his mother.

He feels his father take hold of the tail of his shirt and roughly pushes it up his back. John cannot see this for he is still intent on admiring the floorboards but he knows that his body is now naked from his knees up to about his shoulder blades. He feels his buttocks clench. He has not asked them to do this, they do it on their own initiative. It is a natural reaction. John has little meat on his buttocks and clenched they are as hard as a rubber ball.

Father sighs. He rubs the palm of his right hand across the boy’s bare buttocks, gently caressing the curves. He lingers at the highest peaks of the mounds. He sighs once more. Perhaps he is reminiscing that in days gone by his palm could cover an entire buttock. How much the boy had grown. Enough of this! Mr Ordinary-Fellow tells himself silently. He takes up the razor strop once more, feels the weight in his hand, raises his arm high and with as much force as he can muster he whips the heavy leather down across the very centre of the submitted buttocks. He is rewarded by a wide stripe, glowering red hot. The buttocks clench and unclench, but otherwise the boy shows no reaction. Mr Ordinary-Fellow sighs gently, raises the leather again and hammers it down across the lower back of the buttocks. The boy’s legs kick out and his hips wriggle. That hurt and there is no disguising the fact.

Two more swipes pound across the naked flesh which by now is taking on the colour of a fine fresh salmon. The boy’s head rises and falls and he shakes it from side to side. His thick black hair is damp with sweat. The heat in his backside rises. His bottom stings and the pain begins to travel up and down his legs. He presses his palms firmer into the ground and shuts his eyes tight. This is gong to be a long ride.

Mr Ordinary-Fellow has a ritual for times such as this. It has been developed over many years with five sons. John is by no means the eldest, nor the youngest of these. He takes up a steady rhythm making sure the leather lands on every part of ‘the circuit’. So it lashes the fleshiest part of the mounds and also the very sensitive ‘sit-spot’ where cheeks meet with thighs. The top of the hills, just below the lower back are not neglected. Nor are the sides of the cheeks. In this way no square inch of the boy’s posterior is left untoasted. Everywhere glows bright pink. Darker bruises already form where the edge of the strop cuts into flesh. The entire effect is as if the boy has been forced to sit in a bath of scalding water.

As the bottom throbs like crazy, so does the boy’s temples. Blood rushes through his arteries and his heart races fit to burst. His eyes blaze, his throat dries. He emits the faintest yelps, but he has the fortitude to suck back the yelps and, yes, the screams, his body demands he makes.

Mr Ordinary-Fellow is no monster. He believes in duty. He is performing his. A thrashing should hurt, but it need do no lasting damage. He is, after all, a loving father. One hundred times the leather strop rises and falls and then, satisfied that his duty is down, Mr Ordinary-Fellow ceases. “You may stand,” he intones. “I trust the lesson has been learned,” he adds. He does not reflect that this is far from the first time he has punished his son in this fashion. What lesson precisely might have been learned?

John lifts himself from his father’s lap. His hands clutch at the raw flesh. He is astonished at how hot it feels. His once smooth bottom feels as hard as leather. He hops from one foot to the other and then ashamedly aware that his private parts are bouncing in front of his father’s face, he bends down and retrieves his clothing. He winches as the rough woollen drawers touch against his throbbing rear. He gulps down a lung-full of air and takes up his trousers. Quickly he fastens the belt but leaves the button fly undone. He cannot wait to leave the room.

Mr Ordinary-Fellow sighs heavily and nods his head towards the door. He speaks no words but the action is enough to communicate to his son that he should depart. Mrs Ordinary-Fellow enters the room immediately. She has been a witness from the passageway. She picks up the razor strop and places it carefully in the sideboard ready for the next time. With that task completed she opens a cupboard and withdraws the whisky bottle and a glass. She pours a generous measure and takes it to her husband.

He takes a sip, sighs deeply and leans back into his comfortable chair. Everything is once more in its place.


Picture credit: Unknown

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Charles Hamilton the Second



Two brothers

I should have guessed I was in for a spanking the moment we sat down for breakfast.

We were all sat at the table, tucking into the traditional fried English breakfast. “We” were my dad, mum, my twenty-year-old brother, Barry, and me, Michael, an eighteen-year-old schoolboy living in Brocklehurst, a modern “New Town” in England.

The kitchen was a reasonably sized room. Our family was not rich, but we weren’t poor either. We had all the “mod-cons” of the day: the fridge, the washing machine, you know the kind of things.

The room was dominated by a huge Welsh dresser stacked with fancy china plates that we never used and a large wooden kitchen table. Dad was at one end of the table sitting to attention, his back straight as a ram-rod. Mum was at the other end, hiding behind the morning newspaper, and me and Barry were next to each other along one side.

Breakfast was not usually taken in a hurry, but today I could sense an atmosphere in the room. Mum was agitated and hurriedly finished eating and left the room saying to no one in particular she had, “Things to do.”

Barry, who was usually the first one to finish was lingering. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry. I should have realised then that they knew something that I didn’t.

Dad started it off. “Michael you came in last night at two o’clock, and you were covered in mud.”

Oh, I get it. I’m for it.

Barry was going nowhere until dad said, “Barry, please leave us alone.” My brother had a huge smirk in his face as he reluctantly did as he was told.

“Now, Michael.” dad wasn’t one to mince his words. He told me my behaviour was unacceptable. As a schoolboy, I was too young to be out at that time. He reminded me that he’d told me about this before, but I was taking no notice.

And that was it. “Stand up please.” Dad scraped his chair back from the table so his knees were clear of it.

I did as I was told, pushed my own chair back and stood.

Dad was probably in his forties, but looked much older. He was medium height and lean with hair cut in the short-back-and-sides fashion he had worn it since his days twenty years before when he had done his National Service in the Army. The hair was slicked back with greasy hair oil known as Brylcreem.

He had a short, well-groomed moustache, but it was not as dark as his hair. It hid the top lip of his pasty-white face.

Whenever I think of him, he always looked the same. That’s because he always did look the same, come summer or winter. He wore a beige cardigan with the buttons done up from bottom to top, over a white shirt pulled down to the wrists and a tightly knotted neck tie. He wore old dark trousers – part of a suit relegated from work-day use to what we never called in those days “leisure wear.”

Grey socks and bedroom slippers completed his outfit.

Dad was aware of Barry smirking through the serving hatch that separated our kitchen from the dining room. Turning his body slightly to the left, dad spoke over his shoulder. “Barry, do you want to join him?”

“No dad.”

Barry darted away from the hatch.

Satisfied that he was alone with his son, dad reached down and removed the slipper from his right foot.

He gestured with it that I should stand close to his right hand side. I shuffled forward a pace or two into position.

“Take down your jeans, please.” Again, without complaint, I did as instructed. My hands trembled more than I thought they should as I unbuckled my belt, unfastened the two buttons at the waistband and the four on the fly and pushed my Levis to my knees, exposing my dark blue underpants.

Dad adjusted himself on his chair. He moved his bottom a bit, making sure his spine was firmly resting against the back of the chair. He separated his legs by a foot or so to provide a platform where my stomach and chest would rest.

I could see Barry had again taken up a position the other side of the serving hatch so he could witness my spanking. He was still smirking: he had a clear open face that was made for smiling: he did it all the time, but I wished he wouldn’t do it now.

Dad had forgotten all about Barry. If he had known he was spying, dad would have brought him into the kitchen and given him a darned-good spanking as well – twenty years old or not.

“Bend over my knee, please.”

I was across him in one movement. I stretched my hands in front of me and kept my knees straight, leaving my toes resting an inch above the floor.

I waited patiently. I had a close up view of the dark- and light-blue patterned lino floor covering and the scuff marks where for years chairs had scraped in and out under the kitchen table.

Dad grabbed hold of the tail of my shirt, a very fashionable (at the time) mauve floral print one, and pulled it way up my back, nearly to my shoulders. He smoothed my pants out: first across one buttock and then across the other, eliminating all wrinkles.

I took a deep breath.

The first whack hit me square in the middle of the left bum cheek. The second was on the right. Dad wasn’t a sadist, when he gave spankings he intended for us to get the message and mend our ways, but he didn’t want to brutalise us.

I gasped a little as the third and fourth wallops hit right on top of the previous two. Then he quickened the pace. Slap here, whack there, wallop again.

He stopped after a dozen whacks. It hurt alright. I was sore, but I wasn’t about to burst into sobs or anything.

Dad was finished spanking, but he continued to hold me down over his knees. He still had things to do.

“Have you learned you lesson?”

“Yes dad.”

“And what lesson is that?”

“Don’t come home late.”

“Good boy.”

“Will I have to do this again?”

“No dad.”

“Good, because if I do it will be a lot worse for you. Understand?”

“Yes dad.”

“Good, get up son.”

I struggled to my feet, pulled up my jeans and did them up.

As I was leaving the kitchen to go to my room, dad swivelled to his left and caught sight of Barry’s smirking face.

“Barry, come in here please.”

That wiped the stupid grin off his face.

I waited for Barry to go into the kitchen and then took his place in the dining room.

This was going to be too good to miss.

Barry reluctantly entered the kitchen, just as dad cleared away the breakfast things from the table top.

Dad and Barry stood facing each other, eye to eye. I hadn’t really noticed it before but Barry was probably an inch or so taller than dad, and who knows, maybe if he wanted to Barry could beat dad in a fight. But there was to be no fight: not today.

Not too many words were exchanged between the two. Barry knew why he was here. Not only had he been spying on my spanking, he continued to do so even though dad had ordered him not to.

I think dad saw the disobedience as a more serious crime than the spying. Anyhow, it was a double whammy for Barry and he was going to get one heck of a hiding.

“Trousers and pants down.”

It was simple, calm instruction. Barry loosened his belt and pulled his shirt tail out from his trouser waistband. Then holding both his jeans and his underpants by the waist, in one movement he pulled them down. The weight of his belt took the Levis to his feet and the dangled around his knees.

z used taking down jeans sting (2)

“Bend over the table.” Just as I had done, Barry did as he was told without question. He reached forward over the kitchen table with his stomach and chest resting on the table top. At first he seemed unsure where to place his arms, but settled for folding them in front of him so he could bury his face in his arms.

Barry moved his legs slightly so they were tucked in almost under the table, and his bare behind jutted out from the table, positively inviting the whacking he was about to receive.

Dad was in no hurry. I had a perfect view of proceedings, but dad never noticed me (or, maybe he did, but thought that since Barry had witnessed my spanking, I was entitled to witness his).

Dad moved over to the side drawer of the kitchen table, the drawer was stiff, but eventually it opened. Without looking dad put his hand inside and after a few moments fished out what he was searching for: his razor strop.

The strop was old-fashioned even then. It was a long strip of brown leather maybe an inch or two wide and at least a quarter-inch thick. I don’t know if dad ever used the strop for its rightful purpose – safety razors had been invented a long time ago – but this was the first time I ever knew him to use it for its secondary purpose. I suppose generations of naughty boys had felt one of these across their backsides, clothed or bare, but I wasn’t aware of anyone that I knew being on the deadly end of one. And, certainly no twenty year old.

As dad was going about his business, I saw Barry turn his head to the left to see what was going on.

“Face the front,” dad snapped. “You’ll find out soon enough what’s going on here.”

Barry had a very open face, fresh and boyish some people might say. I know a lot of girls found it very kissable. So did quite a few boys, we were to discover once Barry had gone off to work in Manchester.

Dad was ready now. He stood close to Barry on the right hand side, so he was almost touching him, and with no real swing he moved the strop back by about a foot and brought it crashing down into Barry’s naked flesh.

Barry winced visibly, but otherwise kept his composure.

CRACK! The second and then CRACK! the third lash cut into Barry’s bare buttocks. One on the left: one on the right.

Barry let out a kind of repressed whistle, showing that the leathering he was getting was effective indeed.

He buried his head deeper into his arms. I didn’t have a perfect few of his rear end, but I could tell Barry’s bottom was reddening quickly. Soon it would be cherry coloured and before the thrashing was over, purple.

CRACK! It must have been blow number ten when Barry raised his head from his arms and let out a piecing yell. It was as horrible as it was unexpected. Tears were gushing from Barry’s eyes and he was clearly in great distress.

Oddly, I felt no sympathy with Barry at that point. Instead I could only wonder if the neighbours could hear the noise, and guess that one or other of us was getting a damn good hiding from dad. The thought of them knowing disturbed me a little.

CRACK! I don’t know if Barry had the same thought because this time he raised his fist to his mouth to stifle his yell.

CRACK! Barry’s body jiggled from left to right as he tried to absorb the pain and desperately stop himself from jumping off the table to rub away the sting from his bum.

And, then it was over. As I’ve said dad was no sadist. Barry had taken a dozen lashes with the strop and judging from the tears flooding down his cheeks the belting had left its marks.

On dad’s instruction, Barry lifted himself off the table and bending down he gingerly pulled up his underpants. I could see him wince again as the pants brushed against his blistered bum as he pulled them to his waist. With both hands he rubbed his buttocks furiously through his cotton pants.

Then another grimace as he bent over once more to reach to his feet for his trousers. A second or so later they too were at his waist. I could see that Barry just wanted to rub and rub away at his throbbing backside, but instead he fastened his trousers and stood in front of dad, shuffling uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

A few words from dad and he was ordered to his room. I waited a few seconds and followed him up. We were two brothers who had both had a spanking from their dad and despite any other rivalries we might have in our lives there was nothing that could break that bonding.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

This story was first uploaded in January 2016.


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Charles Hamilton the Second


The vicar delivers

Darren’s mouth gaped open when the vicar strode to a cupboard and took from it a whippy school cane which he swished through the air a couple of times before intoning, “Bend over that chair.”

“B.. b.. but,”  he stammered.

“Do it now, I don’t have all day,” the vicar swished the cane once more.

Darren stood his ground, unsure what he should do.

Swish! Swish! the cane flew through the air. The vicar was a powerful man, as befitted someone who once played prop forward at rugby. His steel grey searching eyes fixed on Darren, his jaw locked in a scowl. People said of the vicar that he had ‘presence,’ and when he fixed you with his glare, you were powerless to resist.

The vicar was not about to take any nonsense from Darren. The vicar had complete authority and he would use it. At the moment his rattan crook-handled cane was the symbol of that authority. Darren would submit to it and to the vicar before he was set free.

They were in the study at the vicar’s home. It was a large room in a huge house. The Church spared no expense on the comforts of its vicars. Book-laden shelves ran along three walls. There were hundreds, possibly thousands, of books, enough to stock a small-town library. The scholastic atmosphere they generated might impress visitors, but most had lain unread for many years. The only time they felt a human hand was when Mrs Grey the cleaning woman wiped the dust from them.

Cupboards and a large picture window took up the fourth wall. Darren looked beyond the vicar into the sumptuous garden as he ran over the vicar’s demand in his mind.

The chair the vicar wanted him to lower himself across was made of expensive soft leather. It would be very comfortable to bend over, but once Darren had done this he knew what followed would be far from comfortable.

Swish! Swish! the vicar was growing impatient.

The vicar was no stranger to corporal punishment. He was from God-fearing folk and genuinely believed in the Bible: all of it. He lived by the adage, “spare the rod and spoil the child” and he had not spared his own son Adam from the lash.

His preferred method with his nineteen-year-old son was a heavy thick leather strap, applied with great vigour to Adam’s quivering naked buttocks. The vicar had a ritual. First he would list in the minutest detail the boy’s faults followed by admonishments. Then, on bended knees they would pray together for forgiveness. The prayers were always answered, but atonement had to come before forgiveness.

The lashings were brutal. They always took place in the vicar’s bedroom. Without awaiting instruction, Adam would pile pillows four deep in the centre of the bed. Then he stripped completely naked. While he disrobed, his father took the razor strop from its moorings, a hook on the inside door of the wardrobe.

The boy climbed on the pillows, his face buried in the eiderdown, his buttocks pointing at the ceiling. There was always a pause; it felt like hours to Adam, but it was only a minute. His father was praying to God again, this time to give him the extra strength to whip the boy good and hard.

Adam clenched his teeth shut. No matter how hard his father flogged him, he never cried out. Over the years his ability to resist pain had reached truly remarkable levels.

z used drawing strap hold (8)

The strap rose and fell twenty-four times; his father swiped so ferociously he might have thought he was beating a carpet. No dust was raised on Adam’s buttocks, only ugly red wheals as over and over the leather thundered into his cheeks.

Then it was over. Adam’s eyes shone as he crawled off the bed and shakily stood beside his father, who was still holding the razor strop. His backside was blistered and the agony would be shooting through his body. Quite often by the end of these punishment sessions Adam was utterly disoriented, unsure of his whereabouts, and his father had to guide him back to his own bedroom.

But before he was allowed to leave, there was one more prayer to be said: to thank God for his mercy.

Swish! “You are wasting my time and your own!”

Darren shuddered in terror. The vicar’s stare held him transfixed.

“B.. b.. b.. but can’t we talk about this? Do we …” Darren trailed off. The position he found himself in was so utterly unexpected. How could he reason with the vicar?

“I … I…,” but words would not come for Darren. His senses had deserted him. He wanted to say he was sorry, but his ‘crime’ did not merit a thrashing with a whippy cane. That is what he wanted to say, but he could not find the words.

The vicar stalked him, cane in hand, his piercing grey eyes burning holes in Darren’s brain.

“Over the chair!” he barked. Blood seemed to drain from Darren’s body and his face was ghostly pale.


That was when Darren lost his mind. Thinking about it later he realised he should have pushed his way past the vicar and fled from the house. Nobody would have blamed him. It would have been the sensible thing to do.

But, by now ‘sense’ had nothing to do with it.

Instead of running to freedom, Darren took a huge deep breath filling his lungs with air. Then, he stepped forward and like a swimmer diving into an icy pool, he hurled himself over the back of the chair.

The weight of his body sank into the plush padded chair. His face was so close to the seat cushion, the aroma of luxurious expensive leather made him gag.

Darren closed his eyes in anticipation of the whacking he was about to receive, so he did not see, but he could hear, the vicar in prayer. The huge man was muttering something about penitence and forgiveness.

Moments later he felt the vicar tug at the elasticated waist of his trousers, pulling them and his underpants to his knees in one complete movement. Darren’s naked buttocks made a perfect target for the vicar’s cane.

It was over in seconds. Swipe! Swipe! Swipe! The vicar flogged the cane into Darren’s cheeks. Never before had the vicar whipped a boy so hard. His entire heart and his soul went into the effort.

Then a further three swipes followed one after another, rapidly like pistol shots.

Darren howled as the first cut took his arse off and he did not stop screaming until long after the sixth and final whop! lashed into him.

The yells echoed round the study and throughout the house. It was convenient that the study was at the back of the house, so Darren’s cries did not reach the ears of pedestrians in the street outside, for surely one of them would have phoned the police, believing a murder was taking place.

Darren clung on to the soft seat cushion for his dear life and stamped his feet up and down, like a soldier on sentry duty. The six-of-the-best was delivered without pause and it was over before he could even think of hauling himself from the chair to run screaming from the room.

His once pale face had turned a deadly puce colour. Tears and snot cascaded down his face and he gulped in air in an effort to fill his lungs and stop himself collapsing.

Without waiting for permission he pulled himself to his feet. The agony in his buttocks was terrific and he could hardly stay upright. Gingerly he touched his cheeks with the tips of his fingers, thinking it might relieve some of the pain, but just the slightest contact with his throbbing flesh sent new shockwaves of agony coursing through his body.

The vicar sank to his knees to once again converse with God. Darren saw his chance and still wracked with pain, he pulled his trousers and pants up and staggered from the room. Then, bouncing once or twice off the walls in the hallway, he opened the front door and escaped.

He breathed in deeply, filling his lungs with fresh air and this helped to calm him, but his escape was not yet complete. Standing where he had left it, only five minutes previously, was his motor scooter. Wincing with each step he walked to it and grabbed the handlebars.

This was useless, he realised. There was no way he could ride it away. The ache in his arse was as bad as ever. He would find it difficult to walk for some considerable time to come, never mind sit down.

He looked behind him, expecting at any moment to see the vicar dashing from the house to chase after him. He must act quickly. Having no choice, he released the foot stand and with some difficulty started to push the bike towards the road.

He paused, unsure where he should go. He looked to the left and to the right. He really wanted to turn right, to go home, so he could explore and then treat his wounds.

But he really needed to keep his job. So, instead of going home he tuned left and headed back to Stafford’s Pizza House. His buttocks blazed with every step he took: a reminder of what can happen if you deliver a customer’s order twenty minutes late.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

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The Tyrant Headmaster 7: The field trip


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second


Proud of my son

new story 2

z used after bed jeans down domestic (1)

I would be the first to tell you how proud I am of my son Tyler. He’s at university now, and I am certain he has a fine future ahead of him. Of course, like all nineteen-year-olds he is far from perfect. Often he thinks the world resolves around him. He can be self-centred and downright selfish. He’s a bit lazy and sometimes needs an “incentive” to do his chores about the house. He has been known to stay out late and when he does come home, it is obvious to me that he has been drinking alcohol.

As I said, I am proud of Tyler, but I also acknowledge that it is my duty to help him along that rocky road from childhood to adulthood. And, “duty” is not too strong a word for it. Afterall, what are fathers for?

I had to step up to the plate today. I should have spotted that trouble was looming. I could have headed it off at the pass. I took my eye off the ball. I blame myself. But, when duty called, I was not found wanting.

What happened was the mid-terms. These are the examinations students do half way through the semester to see that they have been studying hard and are on track for success. Tyler took four mid-terms. He flunked three. Three abject failures. You don’t have to be a statistician to see the pattern there. Too much time spent on the Internet and not enough with his nose in a book. Not to mention the time spent in the bar. Of course, I assume the nights he came home swaying and giggling his head off, it was drink – and not drugs. Note to self: search Tyler’s room.

I am paying a fortune for Tyler to study at university. Nothing is cheap these days. That’s one of the reasons I insisted he study at the local university. It saves on paying rent. We are lucky that the University of Brocklehurst has a fine reputation. Tyler could do a lot worst and attend one of those jumped-up technical colleges masquerading as a university.

I will not sit by idly and see Tyler fail. It is my duty to save him from himself. This is not new territory for me. In fact, it is déjà vu all over again. There is a reason why my grandfather’s old razor strop hangs from a nail in the cupboard under the stairs. From the moment the results appeared online Tyler knew what I would do. A very similar thing happened in his final year at school. You don’t want to hear about that but let me just say that the whipping bucked up his ideas. He passed the exams well enough to get a place at university.

So, here we were again. Tyler had the grace to look abashed and a little ashamed when he handed to me the printout of his grades. I frowned and shook my head gravely from side to side. It is important to express disapproval. I let him know how much he had disappointed me. “It is your fault,” I frowned, “You have nobody to blame but yourself.” Tyler, his head bowed and his face scarlet, agreed.

“Well,” I make sure I am in prefect control of myself at times such as this. There is no need for histrionics, “Well,” I repeated, “You know what must happen now son.” I shook my head as if I carried the troubles of the whole world on my shoulder. “Fetch the strap and meet me in your bedroom.” It was a clear, calm order. I knew Tyler would obey me. I am very proud of my son.

He trudged off to the cupboard under the stairs and I took up position in the bedroom. It is a small room and once the bed is in place there’s not much room for two people to move around. Tyler took his time fetching the strap (I knew he would, he always does). I didn’t allow this delay to affect my temper. At last my son appeared in the doorway. His was still blushing bright-red. Tyler has a clear open face and because he is quite thin and not very tall he looks a bit younger than he is. I joke that if he put on his old school blazer and wore a pair of short trousers he would be able to get away with paying the children’s fare on the buses. He never laughs when I say this.

I held out my hand and he passed me the strap. I held it in my hand, testing its weight. I always do this. I don’t know why, this thing had seen some action, I’d used in on my kids a few times over the years. My father used it on me and grandpa used it on him. Perhaps grandpa’s dad also used it; the strap is certainly a family heirloom.

It was a length of leather more than eighteen inches long and three inches or so wide. Back in the day men used it to sharpen their cut-throat razors. In many homes it had a secondary use. How many backsides had been blistered with one of these over the years?

I thwacked the strap into my palm. Yes, without this little incentive Tyler would never have made it to university. Now, if he doesn’t buck his ideas up and start studying hard, he’ll fail his university course and be put on the scrapheap, aged nineteen.

Tyler’s dark brown blue eyes gazed at me while I lectured him about how much money of mine he was wasting. I told him I was proud of him. I said he needed to make something of himself. I told him it was my duty to help him succeed.

All the time Tyler gawked at me, his eyes shining. I paused. Now, it was his time to speak. He croaked an apology. I couldn’t quite make out what he said. I think it was, “Sorry.” He gave no explanation for his failure. There wasn’t much he could say. He’s a bright boy – genuinely so. If he put in the effort he could ace his exams. He had demonstrated that at school. He just needed a helping hand.

I slapped the strap into my left palm. It was my way of saying, “I’m ready to go.” Colour drained from Tyler’s face. His eyes moistened. I thought he was about to burst into tears. He didn’t. He doesn’t. He never has. Well, not in a very long time.

I tightened my grip on the strap and looked around. There was almost literally no room to swing a cat. There was a small plastic chair that he could drape over, but I wouldn’t have space to swing back the leather.

We both knew the solution to the problem; we had done this before.

“Straighten that duvet on the bed. Then lay face down.” Tyler made no protest. He pulled the duvet until all the creases had disappeared. He placed a pillow at the top of the bed. I was proud of his fortitude. And, I admired his foresight. I knew the pillow would have an important part to play as our little drama unfolded.

I was calm, and so was Tyler. “Now, lower your jeans and underpants and lay across the bed.”

With steady hands he unbuckled his belt, popped the rivet on his jeans and tugged at the zipper. Then he put his thumbs under the waist of his underpants and pulled down his jeans and pants together so they just reached below his buttocks. Then, he knelt onto the bed and stretched out

He wriggled a bit until his face was resting on the pillow. His buttocks and the backs of his thighs were hairless, which just emphasised how young he looked. I tested the strap by holding it over my shoulder so that it tapped against the small of my back. Then I arced it up and forward, making sure it would not hit the ceiling when I tried to lash it down. I knew from past experience it would just about clear.

Satisfied on my height, I then tested my distance. I stood three feet, then two feet from the edge of the bed. My intention was that the strap should lash Tyler in the very centre of his two mounds. It look a little practice, but I soon got my eye in.

By now my son was biting down on the pillow. His arms were stretched ahead of him. It looked all the world like he was posed to dive into a swimming pool.

I don’t believe in prolonging the agony. We were here for a purpose; it was best to get on with it. I raised the leather strap across my shoulder and brought it crashing down into Tyler’s bum. The crack! sounded like pistol fire in the small room. Tyler’s body buckled under the lash and he bit deep into the pillow. A tiny trickle of spit ran from the corner of his mouth.

With the second lash the strap curled itself viciously over the exposed buttocks and unfurled into Tyler’s backside. His body shuddered. Two scarlet stripes ran in parallel across his cheeks. He clasped his hands together, but he kept them well away from my target area. He was submitting himself to the punishment.

It took another three lashes of the razor strop to cover the entire area of his now raw buttocks. After another three purplish bruises started to form. Tyler bit deep into the pillow as I continued in my duty and snapped another six hard stingers – one after the other in quick succession – across his rock-hard bottom.

His legs flapped and his back arched and I knew this was a reflex action made by his body. It was nature’s way of dealing with the severe pain that scorched Tyler. The back of his head was soaked with perspiration and the pillow was damp with spittle.

I stopped and rested the leather on the very apex of the boy’s naked curves. It lingered long enough to give me a chance to get my breath. I am no slouch, but physical exercise like this takes it out of me. Tyler knew I had not finished my discipline. He tensed, bracing himself for a further onslaught.

I got into a rhythm and spanked him harder and harder, satisfied that the lashes left imprints into bare flesh. Stepping back I snapped the leather down again as hard as I could. I was clear in my mind that I was whipping my son, whom I loved dearly. I channeled my thoughts on how I was saving Tyler from himself. After this he would return to his studies with renewed enthusiasm. He would work hard and pass those examinations.

This gave me the energy to apply the leather with as much strength as I could muster. As the thrashing continued I realized I was drenched in sweat. My breathing was heavy, but it was nowhere as bad as Tyler’s. He wheezed and gulped in great mouthfuls of air as his body flailed from left to right. His face was almost as red as his backside as he struggled to retain control of himself. He buried his face into the pillow.

I dropped the strap onto the bed. “Put it back in the cupboard when you are finished,” I said softly. I quietly left the room. I don’t think I imagined it when I heard doleful sobbing from behind the door after I closed it. I went to the kitchen and made myself tea. I was in the living room reading the morning newspaper when maybe an hour later Tyler appeared. His face glowed. He had obviously been scrubbing it with a cloth. “Thanks, Dad,” he said quietly, and gave me a thumbs-up. I gulped back a sob. Before I could tell Tyler how proud I was of him, he had gone through the front door and was hurrying up the driveway.

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

A memory in the attic

Uncle Jack

Changed Times 7. Pub landlord


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second


A man of honour

new story 2

Mr Crosby glowered at his nineteen-year-old son, he could hardly keep his temper. “You’ve stolen from me – AGAIN.” He waved his leather wallet in the teenager’s face. “There’s a twenty gone. You’ve taken it,” his face coloured, soon it would be as red as a fine claret wine.

“No I didn’t,” the boy cowered in fear of his father’s wrath.

Mr Crosby paced the large lounge room. “Don’t add lying to your list of crimes.” He reached a cupboard and fumbled to open a door. “This isn’t the first time.”

Hank watched his father carefully, the colour draining from his own face. “I didn’t,” he protested feebly. This was going to end badly.

Mr Crosby stooped forward and reached into the cupboard. “I tanned you last time but obviously it was not enough,” he growled as he withdrew a small, but stout paddle. He straightened his back, turned and faced his son. “Well, let’s see if this will make an impact.” He brandished the paddle in his right hand. “I will not have you stealing from me.”

Hank stared glumly at the paddle. It wasn’t the first time he had seen the wood. It wouldn’t be the first time he felt it. “Now …” Mr Crosby’s eyes scanned the room. It was a large, opulent living room, dominated by two plush leather armchairs and a huge Chesterfield couch. That wasn’t what he was looking for. He needed something more compact. Standing against one wall was a heavy wooden armless chair, the kind that matched a dining table. Perfect, he thought.

Without a further word he marched across the room, grabbed it in one hand and, because of its extreme weight, struggled to manoeuvre it to the centre of the room. He plonked it down unceremoniously. He was beginning to sweat; a combination of the exertion, the warm weather and an airless room.

“Right,” he glared at Hank, “You know what to do.” Mr Crosby sat himself down on the chair, wriggled his backside,  straightened his back and parted his legs. He was ready. “Stand there,” he snapped his fingers, sending a shudder through Hank. “Now!” he roared when his son showed no inclination to move.

Generally speaking nineteen-year-olds do not get their bottoms blistered by their fathers, no matter what crime they may have committed. Indeed, spanking in the home and corporal punishment in schools had increasingly fallen into disuse in recent years. Now, would be the time for Hank to protest, “Dad, I’m too old for this!”

Hank knew better. If there was one lesson he had learned growing up it was: Dad is in charge. And now Hank was an adult it was Dad’s way or the highway. Accept Dad’s rules or take a hike. His older brother Todd had discovered that the hard way. He now lived in a sweaty room in a rooming house and had no prospects of betterment. Hank had no desire to follow in Todd’s footsteps.

He wanted to repeat, “I didn’t take the money,” but what was the point? His father wouldn’t believe him. Hank only had himself to blame, he had stolen money before; in fact more times than Mr Crosby knew. As they say, once you betray trust it is difficult to get it back.

Hank shuffled into position so that he stood a step or two to his father’s right side. “Jeans and shorts down. Pronto!” Indignantly, Hank searched for his belt buckle, loosened it and within seconds he had his jeans at his knees. He hesitated. He always hated this part: showing Dad his dick and ball sack. Mr Crosby might treat Hank as if he was still a little boy, but here was proof positive that his son was a fully-fledged man. Hank sucked in his breath, pinched the sides of his Jockey shorts and in one complete deft movement of the wrists he had them resting on top of his jeans. Without awaiting further instructions he threw himself across his father’s lap.

Hank hated Dad to see his genitals, but it was worst that he could see his crack and hole. Could there be anything more humiliating than an over-the-knee spanking on the bare buttocks? Hank stretched his arms out in front of him and rested his palms into the deep, plush carpet. Behind him his legs dangled in mid-air and his toes hovered above the floor. Like this, his backside rested at an angle across Dad’s lap. Mr Crosby was a tall man in his fifties and like many men that age he was running to fat. His well-padded thighs made a comfortable platform for Hank to rest on, but he knew what would happen next would be far from cosy.

Mr Crosby gripped the paddle tightly in his hand. As paddles went it was on the small side, no bigger than a paperback book. It was made especially for close-up over-the-knee spankings. He had a collection of larger paddles which he kept in a closet upstairs alongside a very old, worn razor strop that had been in the family for generations. He tapped the paddle against Hank’s left cheek. The nineteen-year-old’s body flinched, he closed his eyes and gritted the teeth, waiting anxiously for the first explosion of pain.

“I’m going to take your ass off with this,” Mr Crosby thought silently. “By the time I’ve finished it’ll glow in the dark. You won’t be sitting down for a week. I’ll teach you to steal money from me.” With those thoughts in mind he raised the paddle and brought it cracking down at tremendous force across Hank’s rear end.


The next morning at the office Mr Crosby’s secretary handed him a fistful of notes and coins, “Here’s your change,” she said.

“Change?” Mr Crosby wrinkled his nose in confusion.

“From yesterday. You gave me twenty to buy cakes for the girls in the typing pool. It was Jane’s birthday.” She handed over the money, puzzled as to why her boss’s face had turned crimson.

The day passed as it always did with Mr Crosby; he never had a moment to himself. Only on the train journey back home that evening did he have time to think. Hank hadn’t stolen the money. His son had told him as much and he hadn’t believed him. And, of course, he had blistered every square inch of the young man’s ass. What should he do now?

He was grateful his wife was not at home when he got back, he needed to speak to Hank alone: this was man-to-man stuff. Mr Crosby believed in high standards of behaviour: he had reared his children to be honest, truthful and to accept the consequences of their actions. Even if that meant taking a painful and humiliating spanking from time to time. Mr Crosby was an honourable man; he would have to confess to his son.

He called Hank to the lounge room, the very same place he had whopped the kid’s hide the previous night. Mr Crosby owned a large company and had many workers under him, he was never afraid to take command of a situation. He gave orders and people carried them out. He was used to that. This time it was different. He had no idea what he should do. Yes, he would apologise to Hank but then what? He couldn’t take back a spanking. Hank had probably spent a very uncomfortable night trying to sleep on his side and no doubt he had been reminded of the bruising each time he sat on a hard surface during the day. There was no undoing that.

Uncharacteristically, Mr Crosby had no plan. Instead, he decided to ask Hank what he wanted to do. Mr Crosby called the boy in and told him straight, “I spent the money on cakes for the girls in the office and I forgot. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you and I’m sorry I spanked you.” He came right out with it. No beating about the bush. “And,” he continued, “I don’t know how to make amends to you. What do you want me to do?”

He was quiet after that. He had said his piece. It was up to Hank now. The boy’s eyes shone. It might have been indignation or anger, Mr Crosby could not tell. Hank’s face glowed pink. His father stood uncomfortably, he couldn’t read his son’s mind. What was he thinking? In fact, Hank had been knocked off his feet. Never in his entire life had his father apologised to him. Never had he made such an offer. For once the boy was in control. What did he want? Money? No, the family was rich, Hank never went without. What then? It didn’t take long for the penny to drop. Hank had made up his mind.

In the past he had wondered if he was the only one who thought this way. Did it make him peculiar? Was it something he would be doing for the rest of his life? Perhaps it was natural. Often he had fantasised about spanking his dad. Mostly, it came after Hank had suffered a dose of the paddle or the razor strop. Was it revenge fantasy? Maybe he could find a book about it in the library. After all those years, here was a chance for his dream to come true.

Hank took after his old man in at least one important respect: when a good opportunity presented itself he took it.

“Right,” he took a deep breath and looked his father in the eye, “You unjustly gave me a spanking. You can’t take that back, but you can do the next best thing.” He was delighted that his father was clearly confused. He had no idea what was coming next. “You have to let me spank you.”

He studied his father’s face carefully. The man was shocked. His lower lip quivered, he started to form words but held himself back. The silence between father and son was embarrassing. Hank shuffled his feet. He was bursting to say, “Take down your pants and underwear,” but his nerve failed. Mr Crosby was known at the office as a quick thinker. He was not afraid to take a decision. This was to be no exception.

He had not expected his son’s proposal. Spank his own father. It was unheard of; absurd even. And, yet it was the perfect retribution. It was an eye for an eye. He had spanked his son unjustly, why shouldn’t his son spank him back? Mr Crosby was an honourable man; it was a fair proposition.

“Yes, I agree,” he said. Mr Crosby could not be certain but he thought he saw his son’s knees wobble. The teenager coughed to hide his mounting excitement. Never in a million years did he expect this. He had to take control of the situation. His mind whirled; what should he do no next? It shouldn’t be too difficult, he had been on the receiving end many times in the past.

“I want you,” Hank croaked, his mouth had drained of saliva. He coughed and tried again, “I want you to go upstairs and fetch the razor strop from your closet,” he felt his chest tighten as he fought to get the words out, “Then, bring it back here,” he added unnecessarily. It felt like his ears would burst, so much blood was rushing towards them. He gaped as his father meekly left the room.

Hank’s heartrate was hardly back to normal by the time his father returned. In his hand he held the thick leather razor strop. Without saying a word, Mr Crosby handed it over and stood head bowed, his face flushed scarlet. Hank felt the weight of the strop. He had felt it only one time across his naked buttocks. Dad had told him it was a family heirloom; generations of Crosby boys had felt it across their backsides. He did not realise this would revive memories for his father of trips to the woodshed on the farm where he was raised.

Hank cleared his throat, “Pants and underwear down. Bend over the back of the couch.” It was a surreal moment. Dad, aged fifty if he was a day, meekly stood in position and with more confidence than Hank ever felt while in the same situation, he assumed the position. He had forgotten to remove his glasses and they slid down his face and fell onto the couch. He made to retrieve them, “Leave them be, you won’t need them until I’ve finished,” Hank was astonished by his own confidence.

Hank folded the leather in his hand and studied the scene. He saw his father bent across the Chesterfield, his grey-haired head low and his flabby buttocks high. He had to give the old man credit, he was offering up his bottom at a perfect angle to receive his lashes. It was a terrific target.

Hank touched the leather across his father’s cheeks. They were soft and he saw them flinch as he began to find his aim. Mr Crosby had closed his eyes shut and seemed to be gnashing his teeth. Hank wondered if all boys did this when they anxiously awaited the first stroke (he knew he certainly did). Perhaps it was the body’s reflex action; its way of protecting itself against hurt.

Hank had no time to ponder such questions. His heartrate was up again and his temples were throbbing. He needed to get on with this before he fell with a faint to the floor. He rubbed the leather across the highest point of Dad’s buttocks. He intended to make this hurt; he was not blowing smoke here. The strop rose and fell at tremendous speed. It cracked into the soft flesh exactly where Hank had intended. He congratulated himself on a job well done as he watched a wide red mark spread across the old man’s cheeks. A perfect outline of the strop was embedded.

Hank reckoned Dad took the first dozen rather well. The buttocks were expansive and even after twelve lashes not every square inch of flesh had been blistered. Hank landed the next set of strokes across the unblemished areas. Then, he put a couple across the naked thighs. He was delighted to hear Dad’s yelps as the leather cracked home. The thighs always hurt more than the backside; Dad knew that, he had walloped Hank there often enough in the past.

And so it went on. Hank tanned Dad’s backside until it was as red as a cherry; just as the old man had spanked him the night before. Then he added some more for good measure. He was enjoying himself a great deal. Hank might have gone on all night if he hadn’t heard his mother’s car in the driveway. It was time to stop. She couldn’t know about this – it was a guy thing.

Hank and Dad never discussed it again. Not, with each other. The next morning Mr Crosby stopped by at his analyst’s office. The doctor had thought he had seen it all before; and he had, until Hank’s dad showed him the bruises from the night before.

z used after older endart (1)

Picture credit: Endart


Other stories you might like

A family firm

The penny drops

The Executive Assistant


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second



The Junior Salesman

used drawing cane hold (4)

The Junior Salesman and other workplace whackings

THE TWENTY-YEAR-old junior salesman slowly unclasped his belt and unbuttoned his trousers. He pushed them over his hips and let go. From there they slithered slowly down his legs.

A breeze from the nearby open window brushed against his naked legs as he awaited the next command.

Tyler looked over at his boss; in his hands was a wicked-looking school cane, around three feet in length and with a curved handle.  Mr. Davenport’s huge grin exposed his decaying teeth as he tapped a pointon the floor in front of him with the cane, “Please bend over and touch your toes.”

 The Junior Salesman and other workplace whackings is another collection of my stories published in book form. It runs for more than 19,000 words and has many illustrations. You should be able to read it on your lap top or e-book reader.

Click on the link below to download it free-of-charge.


Picture credit: Unknown


Other books to download


The Dean of Dormitory Discipline and other university tales

Charles’ Picture Album

The Private Tutor

All in the Family. Tales of Domestic discipline


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second


That Connor Kid

z used solo defiant connor kid (2)

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

“What time is it?”

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

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

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

Ingrid switched on the bedside lamp.

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

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

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

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

Peace once again reigned in the street.

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, it should,” the neighbour agreed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rip Connor never knew a thing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But they could. And they did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now shut up!”

Rip Connor could only gurgle his protest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whack, whack whack! Another three.

Then another three.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He found two young police officers.

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

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

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

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

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

It was obvious what had happened.

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

“Hey! It’s Rip Connor.”

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

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

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

So, Rip got away with it all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in December 2015.

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