A spanking before bedtime

new 5

z used slipper pyjamas bare chair sting (2)

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

…….

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

Other stories you might like

The paying guest

 The Spanking Vicar Part 1  

Portrait of an artist

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

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.

 

Other stories you might like.

 

The vicar and the gay boys

The padded armchair

The fire-raiser

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Rory and Alistair Ep 2. The Junior Schoolmaster

Rory and Alistair could never conform to boarding school life. The eighteen year olds were oddities at Willadong Academy. They were required to dress like juniors and would remain in short trousers until the day they left school. They had one other characteristic that distinguished them: they were madly in lust with one another.

Alexander Macaulay the junior schoolmaster stalked the passageways of Willadong Academy, a cane tucked under his arm. He was determined it would see action before the afternoon was out.

It was Wednesday and at Willadong that was a time for compulsory sports. If Macaulay found a boy in the building that would be excuse enough. If no abstainer was to be found he could instigate a room search, seeking hidden contraband. Cigarettes and alcohol and much else besides were strictly banned at the school.

Alexander Macaulay was an unhappy young man. This was his second month at the school and things were not going well. He was twenty-four years old; and to many casual observers indistinguishable from the senior pupils. He stood no taller than five-feet-seven-inches and was lean and wiry. His smooth complexion was deeply suntanned but the thin straggly moustache he sported belied his age. He was a boy trying to be a man. He did not possess the “gravitas” required to be a schoolmaster and probably never would.

The tingling he still felt in his backside confirmed this. It had been the most humiliating moment of his life. Less than thirty minutes previously he had been in the study of Willadong’s senior master Mr. Henderson; bent across a stout desk, trousers at his ankles. Henderson swiped nine hard cuts across the junior schoolmaster’s swaying buttocks.

Henderson said it was “attitude.” Macaulay must “buck up his ideas.” He must show he was worthy of the title, junior master at Willadong Academy. Until such a time, Macaulay must expect to be treated as if he were a pupil. “Trousers down, bend over.”

Now, Alexander Macaulay was on the prowl. Somebody must pay for his humiliation.

Rory and Alistair lay naked, entwined in each other’s arms. They had had sex enthusiastically, but inexpertly. Alistair’s cock was stiff at a forty-five degree angle. It was ready for round two.

Fresh weals decorated the buttocks of the two eighteen year olds. They were the handiwork of Mr. Anderson, their housemaster. It had been six on the bare. They were repeat offenders.

The pain had gone now, but there was one deep cut across the very centre of Rory’s bum that was tender to touch. The cane had landed on the same spot twice. A slash that landed across the back of his thighs troubled Alistair. That should teach him not to wriggle about during a caning.

Some boys were not suited to boarding school life. Roy and Alistair were two of them. There were too many rules and restrictions. The two pals were not resentful. They had broken curfew – again. Rules were rules at Willadong and when they were broken a lad would expect to be showing his arse to a prefect or a master.

Rory freed himself from Alistair’s embrace and lay face down on the bed inviting his chum to inspect his wounds. The teenager licked his own index finger and gently used it to trace from one end to the other of the deep welt across Rory’s bum. It had once been a deep pink, but now was mauve. It would turn purple soon, and then over the next few days it would lighten to yellow and finally disappear.

Alistair created a spit ball in his mouth and washed his tongue with it. Then he licked Rory’s cut, sending a shiver through the teenager’s body and leaving a slime trial across the buttocks. Rory’s cock throbbed almost as much as his bottom had just after his thrashing.

In the distance the school clock struck three o’clock. The boys were missing compulsory cricket practice. Who cared? What was another spanking between friends?

Rory turned on his back and Alistair snuggled up beside him. They took hold of each other’s cocks and tugged.

….

It was Wednesday afternoon; sports and activities day at Willadong. Rory and Alistair were keen cricketers and part of the school XI team. They should have been with their fellows practising. It was a scorching hot day; like so many that summer. The cricketers were broiling so had left their whites behind in favour of the shortest cotton running shorts they could find. Some wore vests but most were bare-chested.

Cpt. Cameron their PT instructor and cricket coach was not a happy man. He had been absent from the school and had engaged a man called Villiars from the village to stand in. Cricket was a gentleman’s game but the sixth-formers at Willadong had been far from gentlemen to Villiars. Willadong boys considered themselves superior to the common man and were not about to be ordered about by a village oik like Villiars.

But now Cameron was back and he did not like what Villairs had told him. Not one little bit.

That was why six eighteen-year-old cricketers were lined up in the pavilion facing Cameron. The PT instructor held a dirty-white plimsoll tightly in his right hand. It was a large slipper and rather worn on the sole. It had seen much action on the running track and also across the bending backsides of errant schoolboys.

He devised a little ritual. The eighteen year olds stood in a line, backs to the wall. Then on command each one stepped forward three paces towards Cameron. They swivelled on their heels, lowered their white shorts (none were wearing underpants in that heat) and touched their toes; knees straight. Three of the six teenagers wore no shirt so were totally naked bent over obediently with their tight cotton shorts in a puddle at their feet. It was a typical schoolboy ritual; each one presenting himself submissively to his master.

Schoolboy cricketers come in many shapes and sizes. There is no requirement to have an “athletic” body; “big and meaty” could as easily fit the bill. Six sets of naked buttocks were displayed that afternoon: fat and squashy; large and firm; pert and pimply.

Cameron had the perfect view of each boy’s cock and balls and, of course, his crack. But the middle-aged ex-Army officer was not interested in any of that. Discipline and punishment were uppermost in his mind. He gripped the plimsoll tightly and whacked it down across flesh. Two spanks on the left cheek; followed by two on the right.

Then, the boy stood, pulled up his shorts and went back to the wall, to be replaced by the next boy.

And so it went on until all six teenagers had the dark pink outline of the slipper emblazoned across both buttocks.

It looked spectacular, but it didn’t really hurt. Not like four slashes from the headmaster’s special Malacca cane would have if he had learned of the boys’ discourtesy to Villiars.

….

Alexander Macaulay was despondent. Somebody must pay for his humiliation. He had searched the classrooms without success. No boy was to be found. Now, he made his way through the living quarters. Again, there was no sign of life.

He searched through the study rooms. The boys seemed to have very few personal possessions. For the sons of the wealthy they were very poor indeed, he concluded. The boys would have found the junior master’s naivety touching. They were wiser than that. No self-respecting boy would leave contraband in his room for prying eyes to find. It was secreted in cubbyholes and nooks and crannies across the school; places unknown to the likes of Alexander Macaulay.

He was close to the end of his tour. Only one passageway was left unexplored. The junior master let himself into an unlocked room. As with the others, there was not much there. He opened and closed cupboards and drawers. He was exasperated with himself: what had he expected to find?

Idly he pushed a textbook across a desk. The corner of a picture poked out from between its pages. He tugged it free. It was a page ripped from a magazine. A picture. A captivating photograph.

Two young men, in their twenties, standing side by side grinned at the camera. They had their arms around each other’s shoulders. They were sailors. At least they wore sailors’ hats on the backs of their heads, but little else besides. Only the shortest of denim shorts. The waistbands were unbuttoned and their zippers lowered, enticingly. Their chests were hairless and stomachs tight and flat.

z used Cover of Muscleboy, February-March 1964, by David of Cleveland (2)

The boy on the right was particularly enchanting. His dark curly hair fell across his forehead emphasising his dreamy brown eyes.

Carefully, Macaulay folded the picture and tucked it into his pocket. Then, fearing he might be caught, he tip-toed from the room.

There was now only one room left unvisited.

Voices. He could hear voices from behind the door. Success. Finally. His afternoon would not be wasted.

Had the junior master been less junior; he would have recognised the room, if not necessarily the voices of its occupants. And, he would have known better than to burst open the door without warning.

Rory and Alistair lay naked. Spent. Breathing hard. Their exertions had been great. Semen covered each boy’s stomach.

Alexander Macaulay stood in the doorway startled. Instinctively, his eyes focused on Alistair’s cock. The junior master had seen nothing like it before. It was flaccid and limp, but even relaxed it was an awesome specimen. And uncut. He had never before seen an uncut cock.

Macaulay blushed deeply. His mouth opened and closed, but he could not get words to form.

Rory raised himself to a sitting position. He stared at the intruder to his room. He only vaguely knew the identity of the stranger. The cane tucked under the junior master’s arm confirmed he was trouble.

“Wha.. wha…?” Macaulay tried again to speak, aware that he could not stop gaping at the two naked sixth-formers before him. One of them, not the one with the huge cock, reminded him of the boy in the picture.

Rory flashed a grin, his dark brown eyes sparkled, but he said nothing, silenced by the sight of the bulge now growing in the front of the visitor’s trousers.

Alistair had seen it too. The caller was quite attractive in a nerdy shy way, he thought.

The junior schoolmaster slipped the cane from his arm into his hand, as if ready for disciplinary action.

Rory roared with laughter.

Macaulay stood rooted, unsure what to do next. He watched as Alistair sat up and the two boys embraced; just like the two sailors. The throbbing in his pants was excruciating.

Alistair giggled, “Don’t stand there all day. Get your clothes off. You can squeeze between us.”

He stopped short, felled by the Macaulay’s face of thunder. The junior schoolmaster wanted revenge for his earlier humiliation. Now he was going to get it.

“No!” He had found his voice at last. He might have been a schoolmaster for only two months, but he understood and relished the power he had over the two teenagers. They must submit to his cane. The consequences of refusal would be dire: a flogging from the headmaster and possible expulsion from the school.

Macaulay swished the cane through the air. He stared Alistair in the eye and slowly and deliberately said, “Let’s have you on your feet and over that chair.” He wobbled the cane at a small straight-backed chair.

To his delight, the boys rose from the bed without question. Alistair clutched the chair and placed it in the centre of the room.

Macaulay’s heart raced. He had never felt such power before. The boys would submit to his will. He watched Alistair make the preparations and start to bend his body over the chair.

No, Macaulay thought. I’ll do the cute one first.

“You,” he pointed at Rory, realising that he didn’t know the names of either boy before him. “You first.”

Rory smiled. It nearly broke the schoolmaster’s young heart.

Rory didn’t fit in at Willadong Academy. It did not suit his personality, but he rarely resented the treatment he received at the school. He broke the rules, he got punished and life went on.

But, not this time. Rory was not a man of the world, but he understood enough. The throbbing cock beneath the schoolmaster’s trousers did not lie. Macaulay was about to beat him on the bared backside for his own sexual gratification. Later, the schoolmaster would pleasure himself while he relived this afternoon in his head.

Rory despised Macaulay for his hypocrisy. He would thrash him and his friend for fooling around. Yet, the schoolmaster so clearly wanted him.

Even before Rory gripped the hard wooden seat, he had devised a plan. Later, sometime soon, he would entice the schoolmaster to a dark secluded part of the school. He knew many such places. Macaulay wouldn’t be able to resist. It wouldn’t take long. A schoolmaster. Sex. A male pupil. There was no need to spell it out.

Rory closed his eyes, clamped his teeth shut and offered up his already corrugated buttocks to the lash of the cane.

Picture credit: Cover of Muscleboy, February-March 1964, by David of Cleveland

This story was first uploaded in February 2016.

Other stories about Rory and Alistair are here

Other stories you might like

 

The Boy at the Service Station

Saturday School

The Decorator

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Missed curfew

Mr Wilberforce sat in his favourite chair in the lounge reading the morning newspaper. He had left the door to the hallway open so he could catch Martin. His slipper was conveniently placed for the task he had to perform.

He heard Martin (“Marty”, if Mr Wilberforce was not displeased with him) quietly descend the stairs, as if on tip toe and intent to sneak out of the house unnoticed.

“Martin, come in here, please.”

Obediently, Martin entered the room. He knew he was for it. There was nothing he could do, except take what was coming to him.

“What time did you get in last night?”

No answer. Martin looked at the floor and twisted his hands behind his back.

“What have we said about curfew?” It wasn’t a rhetorical question, but Martin still did not answer. This was not the first time he had been on the carpet because of the curfew.

Mr Wilberforce sighed and tried again, “What did I say would happen if you missed curfew again?”

This time there was a whispered response, “A spanking.”

“Speak up, Martin.”

“A spanking,” said a little more clearly.

“Yes, a spanking. You can’t say you were not warned.”

It was true; this wasn’t the first time Martin had missed his curfew; but it was only the second time he had been caught. Yes, he had been warned of the consequences of his actions: Martin knew he only had himself to blame.

“But, I’m too old to be spanked.”

“Doh! I will decide when you are too old to be spanked.”

It was true, Martin was old enough legally go to bars and buy alcohol, but that wasn’t the point.

“We have rules in this house. They are very simple rules and you are required to obey them. You know that,” Mr Wilberforce berated Martin, who had no choice but to stand quietly and accept everything that was said to him. He couldn’t look Mr Wilberforce in the eye and continued to stare down at his own bare feet.

“And,” Mr Wilberforce went on speaking in an even tone, “you know the penalty when you disobey.”

Martin nodded, apparently sorrowfully, his face downcast. There could be no doubt now about what would happen next.

“You have wilfully disobeyed me. You were told you must obey your curfew and you deliberately ignored me. Isn’t that so?”

Martin nodded his agreement.

“Speak up lad. You wilfully disobeyed me.”

“Yes, Sir,” Martin’s voice was so soft, Mr Wilberforce could hardly hear.

“Well that’s it then. You give me no alternative,” Mr Wilberforce rose from his armchair, crossed the room and pulled a straight-backed dining chair into the middle of the carpet. Then, he reached down to the shelf beneath the television set and picked up one of his slippers.

“Come on, you know the drill.”

Martin did indeed know the drill. This was not the first time he had been spanked and even though he was a veteran he still felt a surge of anxiety as he watched Mr Wilberforce take up his bedroom slipper before sitting himself down in the chair and adjusting his body to create a platform over which Martin would present his bottom for punishment.

“Stand there boy. Shorts and pants down.”

Martin moved a few paces so he was standing directly in front of Mr Wilberforce, who by now was squeezing his slipper in his right hand, demonstrating how flexible and springy an instrument it was. Martin couldn’t take his eyes of it; he knew how stingy it would be when it connected with his bared bottom.

The shorts were snug fitting and didn’t need a belt to keep them up, so Martin just had to undo a button on the waistband and they slid unaided by him first down his hips and then his buttocks to rest at his knees. Martin spread his legs by an inch and the shorts fell to his feet.

Mr Wilberforce watched as Martin then put his thumbs inside the elastic waist of his underpants and with a sharp flick of the wrist sent them down to meet his shorts.

“Yes,” he thought as Martin’s stood before him, naked from the waist down, “you are too old for a spanking, but you only have yourself to blame for this.”

His bottom was now fully prepared, but Martin knew he had to wait for Mr Wilberforce to give the next instruction; it was part of the ritual of spanking.

“Come, bend over my knee.” He had heard that command many times in the past, so many he really couldn’t count, but each time it was spoken his heart would race a little quicker and he would start panting.

Martin lowered himself across Mr Wilberforce’s lap. He was much shorter and thinner than the man who was about to spank him; Mr Wilberforce was easily tall enough to play basketball. Martin placed the palms of his hands flat down and stared into the faded carpet, then he raised his bottom as high as he could, giving his punisher a perfect view of his crack. That wasn’t the purpose of the manoeuvre; it was to give Mr Wilberforce the best-possible target to aim at.

Martin felt the man’s arm almost encircle his midriff, pinning him down hard against Mr Wilberforce’s huge thighs. Martin accepted he had deliberately broken the curfew rule and he deserved this spanking and he was prepared to submit his bared bottom to punishment. He had no intention of trying to escape his just deserts. But, he knew that sometimes in the past the agony of the spanking had been too much that despite his best intentions to be submissive he had kicked and flailed about fighting to free himself. Martin felt no resentment that Mr Wilberforce didn’t trust him to take his bare-bottom slippering with dignity.

z used drawing slipper hold otk (4)

It was a standard spanking. Mr Wilberforce usually delivered forty-eight hard whacks with his slipper, landing it all the way across the target area. By the time he finished, both cheeks would be scorching hot and bruises would already be forming. The sit-spot where the buttocks met the thighs and the thighs themselves would be imprinted with the shape of the slipper’s sole.

He spanked hard (there was no point otherwise) and from the first slap the pain seared through Martin’s body, travelling from the buttock and up his back and down his legs. After only two or three whacks the agony reached his brain, releasing endorphins and taking him on a high he could never reach with cannabis or the other drugs he sometimes took.

Forty-eight whacks with the slipper might reduce a novice to tears, but Martin was no greenhorn when it came to spanking. It hurt alright, yes, it hurt a great deal, but he could take it and besides the “high” he was on far outweighed any pain he was also experiencing.

Then it was over. Job done. Two toasted buttocks.

Martin lay motionless across Mr Wilberforce’s knees, palms still dug into the carpet, bottom raised high. He knew the spanking protocol: don’t move from the subservient position until given permission to do so.

He could feel Mr Wilberforce’s cold hand massaging the heat in his own buttocks. It felt rather nice. It was his punisher’s way of saying “Despite having injured you, I love you,” or something, he supposed.

“You may get up now. Get dressed.”

Mr Wilberforce studied Martin as he stooped down to retrieve his pants and shorts. It was as if it were the first time he had seen the wrinkles on his face or the liver spots on the backs of his hands.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in February 2016.

 

Other stories you might like

A maintenance spanking

Untidy bathroom

The padded armchair

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Memories of Dad’s slipper

z used new story 2

z used slipper handing over sting (2)

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

“Take down your jeans, please.” 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.

“Bend over my knee, please,” Dad said quietly.

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 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.

It was about two weeks after that I ended up over his knee with a bedroom slipper slapping into my upturned bum.

I had started a fire in the garden. For no good reason, except to see the flames burn. It wasn’t the first time. Dad had warned me. I knew what was coming. He confronted me with the accusation I was a fire bug and I had no choice but to admit it.

I suppose he had made a plan of action in advance. He gave me a little lecture about the dangers of fire. I didn’t take much notice of him. I was eighteen, I had been round the block once or tice with Dad. I had a good idea what was coming.

We had been talking in the kitchen when he said we should go next door to the living room. I hesitated and he gripped my arm quite tightly and pushed me out the door.

My heart was thumping. He pulled me into the lounge. It was a small room with a three piece suite, dining room table and chairs, a sideboard by the window and a TV set.

I was a couple of inches taller than Dad and he was running to fat a bit and if push came to shove he wouldn’t have been able to force me across his knee. But I didn’t struggle. I was raised to this. It wasn’t going to be my first spanking; nor my last. I didn’t finally escape Dad’s slipper until I had moved away from home and married. Until then, I would always be his little boy.

He sat down in the chair, holding his bedroom slipper in his right hand. I stood looking at him.

My heart hadn’t stopped racing since our confrontation in the kitchen and I found it difficult to catch my breath. I remember I wearing two-toned Sta-Press trousers – very fashionable at the time – which had an adjustable waist so you needn’t wear a belt. There were no back pockets, so Dad had a fine view of my bum and would have seen I was wearing very brief underpants that left a lot of my buttock cheeks uncovered. Clearly, the trend setters of fashion at the time had no expectation that people wearing their clothes might need protection from their dad’s slipper.

Without saying another word Dad pulled the chair out from behind the table, put it in the centre of the room and sat down. He gripped the slipper in his fist. Dad pointed to a spot to the right of where he sat. “Stand there,” he ordered, and I did as I was told.

“Take down your trousers.”

Slowly and carefully, I undid the button, slid down the zip, and pushed the trousers until they dropped of their own accord to my ankles. My yellow shirt covered all but the lowest inch of my honeycombed coloured pants.

I was standing in front of dad with just my thin pants covering my bottom.

“Bend over my knee.”

Leaning down, momentarily I placed a hand on Dad’s thigh to steady myself, and then lowered myself across his lap, reaching down for the carpet beyond.

I let him position me across his lap. He took my arm and folded it up my back, securing me and preventing any possible escape.

My shirt was neatly folded up, exposing my lower back to the cool air of the room.

Then Dad took hold of the top of my pants. Then, I was lying across Dad’s knee with a bare bottom. I breathed in sharply. Suddenly, there was a loud crack echoing round the room as my bum got a mighty whack that stung me across both my pert round buttocks.

“Ah!” I gasped.  After just two more weighty blows from the large slipper, I felt my bottom starting to flame with a smarting soreness that hurt and stung.

With just two or three seconds between each smack of the slipper, the spanking quickly developed into a slow steady rhythmic rising and falling of the slipper. Each time it contacted forcefully with my once pale creamy white bottom, I grimaced and screwed my face up in some pain.

Dad’s large slipper thumped heavily down on my naked bottom time and time again. My bottom was really very sore now, and my arm hurt where I had been struggling and Dad had restrained me. He was the master of me and he gave me the sound spanking I so thoroughly deserved.

The spanking continued and my bum was burning. Every fresh smack of the slipper tore a gasp from me. Then it is over. Dad rolled me off his lap and I fell to the floor. I stumbled to my feet, my face red and hot. My hands tried to sooth my burning bottom.

I had spent the past ten minutes or so draped across Dad’s knee with my trousers around my ankles and underpants around my knees. Dad had given my bottom and the top of my legs a thorough spanking. Not one square millimetre of my rear end avoided his attention. My bum was aglow.

It had been a long, humiliating and very painful bare bottom spanking.

Then, Dad is warned me that if I ever started another fire he would take a cane to my bare backside, young adult or not!

“Get up to your room,” he ordered. I thanked him before leaving the living room, closing the door quietly behind me.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

Other stories you might like

Why me?

Not like at school

A memory in the attic

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The boy at the photocopier

I saw him only once at the photocopier and I could never get him out of my mind again.

I was working on some report or other and casually looked up from my desk. He was at the other end of the open-plan office copying documents.

I only saw him from the back. It was the hottest summer on record and he wore the shortest of shorts, so short they were not much bigger than the briefs he had on underneath. Straps from the back passed over his shoulders and fastened at the front, tugging the denim so tight they fitted like a second skin and highlighted the contours of his buttocks.

His hips were slender and his back straight. I remember his striped T-shirt was tucked into his shorts.

I probably stared open mouthed. I hope not, I wouldn’t want my work colleagues to know my secret.

He took a minute or so to finish his work and walked away. I never saw him again.

z used short shorts (7a)

 

That night, I dreamed of him. He was naked and bent submissively across my knee. With my left hand I ruffled his hair, to let him know I loved him. My fingertips caressed his back as I followed his spine from his neck to the hairless crack in his buttocks. My right palm hovered above each cheek, and then with a circling motion, massaged them gently.

His was breathing easily; he was ready for what I was about to give him. I raised my right hand to shoulder height and brought it down with a hearty SMACK! into his right buttock. He felt it, it smarted, and his bottom started to glow. I smacked him twelve times, slowly, so that his creamy white bottom turned to bright, bright red.

I have visualized him in school uniform, bending over, touching toes, as I smack a gym shoe into the seat of his stretched grey Terylene trousers. I’ve had him across my knee as a soccer player as I spank him on the shorts (in the days when they still were ‘shorts’). A favourite is him dressed only in swimming trunks, he has been in the sea beyond the ‘danger line’ and I whack him (for his own good, of course) on his soaking wet bare arse.

But my favourite is the boy in those tight denim shorts bent submissively across the photocopier for me to thrash him with a traditional whippy crook-handle rattan school cane.

It was thirty-five years ago and I don’t think a single month has gone by since that I haven’t thought about him.

Young man, I don’t know your name and I never even saw your face, but may I thank you from the bottom of my heart for all the innocent pleasure you have given me for the best part of my life.

Picture credit: Unknown

 

This story was first uploaded in March 2016.

 

Other stories you might like

Theft of petty cash

The boys in the mailroom

Over the boss’s knee

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

After I missed curfew

new story 2

used drawing slipper hold otk (2)

I knew what I was supposed to do. I was no stranger to this. You might even say that I was raised to it. Even so, my heart thumped so hard that I wouldn’t be surprised if the old crone who lived next door could hear it.

I took a deep breath and headed across the living room. There wasn’t much space once the settee and armchairs were there. Along the wall was one of the latest radiogram sets. It had a hidden door that when you opened it revealed an empty cocktail cabinet. In the far corner was a colour television set. It cost Dad an arm and a leg. The most modern technology available anywhere in the country. Colour television! I was the envy of all my friends. What a pity most of the programmes broadcast were in black-and-white.

The TV was propped up on a stand and underneath it there was a shelf. My eyes were focused on it. It wasn’t the shelf itself that mesmerised me. My attention was fixed on the somewhat worn pair of bedroom slippers that nestled there. I have no doubt that when Dad tucked his feet into these he was as comfortable as any man could be. Lucky old Dad! Nor so much me. The slippers had another purpose and let me tell you right away when Dad used them for that, comfort was far from his mind.

“Fetch a slipper,” Dad had said. I knew not to argue. Dad had made up his mind. I know from let-me-say “painful experience” that I should bite my tongue and just let matters take their course. I shuffled across the carpet and leaned forward to reach one of the slippers. There was more than a faint odour of stale, sweaty feet about them. I wrinkled my nose as I took hold of the one nearest to me. It was a typical bedroom slipper. It had a soft top made of some kind of checked material (it felt a little like carpet fabric, which might be why they were sometimes called “carpet slippers”). The sole was quite solid and (I think) made of rubber. Whatever, I know for certain that when Dad takes it between his hands it is very flexible and when he bends it the heel can almost touch the toe. In the right hands this is an extremely effective punishment tool. And Dad has the right hands.

When I straightened up and turned to hand it over to Dad, I could see he had already taken one of the wooden chairs from under the dining table and placed it carefully in the very centre of the room. He took the slipper from me, hardly even acknowledging that I was there. He gripped it by the heel in his right hand and then he backed his flabby backside onto the seat of the chair. It only took a second or two for him to part his legs and wriggle his buttocks until he was comfortable. He gripped the slipper tightly in his right fist and smacked it down hard into his left palm. The resulting Smack! seemed to echo around the room. It probably didn’t really do this, but my nerves were jangling and my senses were all over the place.

“Come here,” Dad snapped his fingers and pointed to a spot close to his right thigh. He was ready for action. I hopped from foot to foot embarrassed. I’m nineteen-years-old but Dad still treats me like I was nine. Surely, I’m too old to be spanked. I can’t believe any of the guys at university get spanked by their dads. Mind you, I don’t suppose they would go round telling people if they were. I’d die of shame if any of them knew I was about to go over Dad’s knee for a dose of the slipper.

I knew my face was colouring red as I waited for Dad’s next instruction. I knew what it would be. It was less than a month ago that I was standing in this very same spot. You might say I am a veteran at this. I knew Dad likes his little rituals. Who was I to argue? My heart sped even faster and suddenly all spit drained from my mouth. No matter how many times in the past I had done this, I always found it totally humiliating.

Dad snapped his fingers again. “Take ’em down,” he ordered.

My trousers had elastic at the waist. All I had to do was to take hold of their top, pull the waistband away from my hips and help them slide down my thighs. My fingers trembled as I did this and the  soft material snagged a bit at the knees. I had to bend forward and with my thumbs push them until they bunched at my shins.

A window was open and a cool draught brushed against my bare legs. I suddenly realised just how tiny my snug briefs were. I could see my cock and bulls bulging against the smooth cotton. They hardly covered my buttock cheeks at the rear. I imagined the lower half of my bum would be naked once I was in position. Another snap of Dad’s fingers startled me. Oh, man, I sucked in a lung full of air and waited for the final instruction. “Bend over my knee.”

I had no choice. Dad was in charge. When he told me or any of my brothers to “Bend over,” then over we bent. I just about stopped myself shrugging my shoulders as if to say “Whatever …” I took a half step forward so I was almost on top of my Dad. I’m quite tall and he is shorter than me. It can be a bit tricky to get across his knee and have my bum in the right position so he can get a good aim. I learned forward and stretched out my arms ahead of me so my hands rested on the dusty carpet. Like this my toes touched the floor behind. Dad’s thighs provided the platform for me to rest my body. I was at an angle; head low, bottom high, bent over his knee so I looked a bit like a hair grip that had been forced open.

I settled myself by staring directly at the floor. I knew what was going to happen next, believe me I was in no hurry. It was always the same routine. Dad took the end of my shirt and tugged it up my back as far as he could get it. He did this every time. His ritual. There was no good reason to do this; my shirt wasn’t even near my bum. It wasn’t like it was an extra layer of protection. I shuddered as I felt the draught from the window against my naked lower back. I couldn’t help it, it was my body’s natural reaction to the cool air. And, I admit, the tension I felt only seconds ahead of a sound spanking with the slipper.

Dad and I had been through this before. I accept my punishment. It is my job to stay as calm as I can (under the very difficult circumstances) and submit myself to Dad’s will. He does this because I deserve it. He gets no joy from spanking me. It is his duty as a father. Our Church teaches us this. Dad was not the kind of man to punish his son by wildly lashing out, perhaps with a belt, and whipping him all over the body; the back, the shoulders and the legs.

The point of the spanking is for me so show self-control and submit to the authority of my father. It is supposed to a lesson for me. The House of the Sacred Light teaches us to obey our parents (and of course, The Lord). It is more about obedience than any pain inflicted. I might be nineteen, but nineteen year olds are not yet adults. We still have a long way to go on that journey. I have to obey my Dad and abide by his rules, and if I cannot – or will not – I deserve to be punished.

I cannot blame Dad. I knew the curfew was eleven o’clock and when I rolled home last night (or more accurately, this morning) at gone midnight, I knew the consequences. I can only be grateful Dad hadn’t discovered I had shared a bottle of beer with a friend. That would mean two spankings: one today for the curfew and another tomorrow for the illicit alcohol.

I felt Dad  wrap his left arm around my waist. Another of the routines. I am no virgin to a spanking, I would not become hysterical and wriggle and writhe; nor shout and scream. I would remain as stoical as it was possible to be in such circumstances and take my punishment. Even so, Dad gripped me tightly; it was his way of saying, “You’re not going anywhere son. Not until I say so.”

I was an old hand at this but still I felt foolish and humiliated. As Dad made his final preparations I pressed the palms of my hands into the harsh carpet. The first few times I was spanked, I couldn’t work out where I was supposed to put my head. I am now tall enough that I could probably rest it on the floor, or I could look straight ahead to the far wall. There was one time when I wrapped my arms around my head.

Now, I realise it is more comfortable (is “comfortable” the correct word to use when describing a spanking?) to let my head hang at an angle so that I can look underneath the chair Dad is sitting on and see my own legs. It is a weird sensation to see the trousers at my own ankles and then to watch to see if my feet kicked about as the slipper came whacking down across my bum. It was as if the legs belonged to some other teenager being spanked by his Dad; a kind of “out-of-body” experience.

When Dad gripped me around the waist, I knew the action was about to start. Involuntarily, for it was another reflex action of my body, my buttocks tensed. My bum is pretty hard anyway, but in this state they tightened up to resemble a hard rubber ball. It was nothing to do with me; it was my body’s natural way of protecting itself from the onslaught.

Dad had a rhythm when he spanked. The first whack would slam into the centre of the left cheek and then after a pause of maybe ten seconds, it whacked into the right one. Dad would put six into each buttock and then take a breather. A spanking should be a spanking, otherwise what was the point of it all. So, although Dad believed I should submit himself to his authority, he also wanted the spanking to hurt.

The first dozen whacks with the slipper warmed up my buttocks. Then Dad upped the pace. He got into his stride and pounded home a couple of dozen without let up. Bang-bang-bang. It was as rapid as machinegun fire. At about this time I could see my knees bend and my feet kick about. My bum was sore and I knew from past experience that most of my bottom would already be a deep pink colour. Before Dad was over, it would be cherry red.

After another pause, Dad went for the bare spot under the curves, leaving an imprint of the slipper’s flexible sole emblazoned across the naked flesh. By now I was sucking in great gulps of air. It hurt. It really hurt. My legs kicked again. I had been spanked many times in the past and was nineteen years old after all, so I had a high pain threshold. Even so, the whacks on the undercurve and bare thigh had me squirming, scrunching up my face, clenching my teeth and shutting my eyes. At least so far I was still pretty quiet: sucking down all the yelps I really wanted to make.

I wasn’t keeping count (maybe Dad was) but he probably put a dozen or fourteen slaps of the slipper across that most tender part of my rear-end; just where the cheeks meet the back of the thighs. I found it very uncomfortable to sit on a hard surface for a very long time after that.

It was nearly over. Only one more part of the ritual still to come and it would be the most humiliating. Dad rested the slipper on the small of my back and with both hands free he rolled my tight briefs over the mounds of my now-flame-roasted buttocks until they snagged on my thighs. My bum was now completely bared. I hated this; Dad could see right into my crack and up the hole.

No square inch of my bum had missed the attention of the slipper. Unblemished, it was hairless and creamy-white. After the attentions of Dad’s slipper, it had a rosy sheen. He picked up the slipper, gripped it tightly, took a deep breath and hammered twelve almighty whacks into the naked buttocks. Those feet and legs waved about again; I did the scrunching thing with my face, but by the time Dad had finished and said, “That’s it. Stand up,” I had remained silent. It was a small victory for my dignity.

I eased myself up and using Dad’s legs as support I clambered off his knees and staggered to my feet. I hopped from one foot to another and then embarrassingly aware that my dick and balls were bouncing up and down in front of Dad’s face, I quickly reached down and slipped up my briefs. Then, I bent down and pulled up the trousers

Dad’s curt dismissal sent me to my bedroom where I whipped down my trousers and briefs and pointed my bare bottom at the mirror. My bum was scarlet and bruises were quickly forming. I knew they would probably hang around a day or two turning from purple through shades of yellow until finally disappearing. My buttocks throbbed, but even then most of the pain was going. In moments, it would turn to a warm glow before disappearing altogether. I would be tender for a while; and when I touched the lower half of my cheeks I would set some of the pain off again. Sitting down would be awkward for a while.

I took hold of the copy of Football Monthly from my bedside table and gingerly settled down on my bed. I turned on my side and flicked through the pages and tried to take my mind off things until Mum called me down for tea.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

 

Other stories you might like

The political intern

Home for the half term

Winker Wilson’s visit

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com