The porn mag

z used slipper caught wanking Jonathan 03-10a

Craig had warned his younger brother Jason he would spank his bare bottom black and blue if he ever brought a porn magazine into the house again. Craig’s girlfriend hated them, and anyhow they were demeaning to women, he had said.

Jason tried. He tried very hard, but he was an eighteen-year-old boy with needs and there was only one way to satisfy them. He was a good-looking blond guy with a lean, well-proportioned body and a cute bum. He should have no trouble getting a girl. But poor Jason was a social misfit. He’d just spent seven years at St. Tom’s, a boys-only boarding school and he didn’t have the first idea of how to talk to a girl, never mind getting into her knickers.

Jason thought he was alone in the house and the coast was clear. Craig and Janice were at the shopping mall. She was looking for a new dress; they’d be hours. Jason pulled a copy of Big and Bouncy from under the mattress in his room. It was a hot afternoon, so he took off his shirt and stepped out of his jeans. His cock was already swelling at the thought of the delights to come. He threw his underpants on the bed and dived into the bedside table for a box of tissues.

“Huff-huff-huff,” he tugged away at his cock. He had never seen a girl naked (not in the flesh, as it were), but he’d seen many boys and he knew that as todgers went, his was quite special. When he compared it with the boys in the dorm, his was by far the longest and the thickest. Even Niblet couldn’t get it into his mouth properly and it was reputed he had tasted every cock in the sixth-form.

Jason settled down into a rhythm. He had no body lotion so he gobbed spit on his palm and used that to work his fist up and down the shaft. “Huff-huff-huff,” his heart sped and his eyes were popping. Any moment now. Whoosh! Half a pint or more of cum splashed over his fist and belly.

“Jason, are you in?” Craig’s shout echoed up the stairs. “Jason, come and see Janice’s new dress.” Jason panicked. Desperately, he wiped the sticky goo from his hands. He shot to his feet ready to grab his clothes. There were only seconds until he was discovered.

Too late, the door burst open and Craig stood, mouth gaping. “You little ….” He began and stopped himself using a dirty word. Jason stood holding the offending magazine so that it covered his disgrace. His face blushed cherry red. Caught in the act.

Craig scowled. “What did I tell you would happen?” his eyes darted around the room. Jason stood silently. Was he supposed to answer? Was it a rhetorical question?

“Well …” Craig started a sentence and paused. Under the bed he saw a carpet slipper. He stooped and picked it up and holding it in his right hand he tapped it gently into the left. “A spanking,” he grinned. “Black and blue.”

“No man. C’mon,” Jason protested. His elder brother couldn’t be serious. A spanking?

But he was. Craig didn’t really care one way or the other about porno mags but Janice did and he wanted to keep the peace with her. Craig was also a bully. He would love to take his kid brother across his knee and spank his bare bum with a slipper. Not necessarily because he deserved it, but because he could. He had all the power and Jason had none.

Jason was staying with Craig during the summer until it was time to go up to university. There was nowhere else for him to go. Mum and dad lived in the States now and had left the boys to their own devises. If Craig chucked Jason out the house, the teenager would have nowhere to go. He would be homeless. It was a spanking or a cardboard box; the choice was Jason’s.

Some choice.

“C’mon, let’s get this done.” Craig picked up Jason’s clothes from the bed and threw them on the floor. “Euwww” he groaned at the sight of a wodge of sticky tissue. “You disgusting little boy.” He sat down on the edge of the bed and brandished the slipper. “C’mon little boy, bend over my knee.”

Jason stood transfixed. “Please …” he wailed. “No …” Craig leaned forward and ripped the magazine from his brother’s grasp and threw it to the ground. The teenager was now totally naked. Craig hoped Jason didn’t notice him staring at his brother’s huge cock.

“Get here,” he growled and took Jason’s right arm and pulled him towards him. Jason fell face down across Craig’s lap.

Craig wore tight cycling shorts and was only too aware that the outline of his own, much smaller cock, was visible through the Lycra.

Jason’s face pressed into the duvet. “This cannot be happening. It’s all a nightmare,” he told himself. “Any moment now I’ll wake up.”

But, it was no dream. Craig took his brother’s arm and held it up the teenager’s back. Jason wriggled his hips, trying desperately to escape. He was pinned down. He was going nowhere. Not until Craig had toasted his bared buttocks.

Craig tapped the springy-soled slipper against Jason’s right cheek, enjoying the way the flesh wobbled. Tap-tap, he took his aim and then whacked a stinger in the centre of his brother’s left cheek. A deep pink imprint of the slipper was immediately embossed on the pale skin.

“Ow.” It was more of a gasp then a yell, but Jason hated himself for making a sound. At that moment he hated his brother with a passion. He didn’t want the brute to know he had hurt him.

Craig was no expert at spanking; but there had been a girl before Janice who liked him to warm her up a little. So, he knew it was possible to work up a kind of brightly polished surface on a bottom if you put the effort into it. It took about fifty whacks to get Jason’s bum to glow with a red sheen. His brother was biting into the pillow and the contortions of his body told Craig he was in some pain. Good. Craig stopped hammering with the slipper and gave himself the pleasure of letting his hand caress the heated flesh stretched across his lap. He felt his cock stir.

He gripped the slipper once more and went round the circuit of Jason’s buttocks a few more times: across the top, over the crest of the mounds and into the soft, tender undercurve at the sit-spot.

Craig!” Janice was calling. “Where are you?” She paused at the open door. In a single sweep of the room she appraised the porn mag, the spanked teenager and her sweating boyfriend. She had never seen such a rosy arse.

Embarrassed by the presence of his girlfriend, Craig let go of his brother’s arm. Jason shot to his feet and jumped up and down, his cock and balls swinging freely. Janice’s eyes stalked. Jason covered himself with his hands and then with a face now much redder than his bum, he uncovered them again while he danced from foot to foot trying to get into his underpants.

Janice tore her gaze away from Jason to her boyfriend still sitting on the bed. Craig couldn’t read the gleam in her eyes. “Come Craig,” she reached out her hand to help him from the bed. “Let’s go.” She held him by the hand like a mother with a small child.

“Come,” she said sternly and pulled him toward the door. Then abruptly she stopped and released her hold on her boyfriend. “Craig, you’d better bring the slipper with you,” she said as she headed for their own bedroom.

 

Picture credit: Jonathan

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Where’s the paddle, hon?

Fr. Pat’s paddle

The chamber pot incident

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Over the schoolmaster’s knee

z used drawing athlete

“It is really quite straightforward Albertson, either you take down your shorts, come here and bend across my knee or we can visit the headmaster. What’s it to be?”

I can remember it as if it were yesterday: 1985. I was eighteen years old. A senior sixth-former at St. Jack’s Grammar. A prefect, no less. He was Mr. Braithwaite, head of the History Department. A lay priest as well. And, Head of Discipline for the entire school.

I don’t suppose we thought much of it at the time. School was school. Nobody was supposed to enjoy it. You went to classes, kept your mouth closed (unless you were asked a direct question by a master and then woe betide you if you didn’t know the answer.) You did as you were told. And if you didn’t you got a sore arse. That just about sums up my schooldays.

Even in the sixth form. Even if you were a prefect.

Braithwaite had a collection of torture instruments. I don’t know how many whippy crook-handled canes he had. Long ones; short ones. Thick ones; thin ones. A rattan cane for every occasion. Every occasion, except for when he decided to use the leather taws. Two-tailed. Three-tailed, he had plenty of those too. Nearly two feet of heavy leather; delivered with vigour across the palm of the hands. Scorching! He always asked which hand you wrote with. Then he’d whip the other one until it was red raw.

A gym slipper – the old-fashioned plimsoll with springy rubber soles, not the trainers we have today. Sized eleven. Big. Hard. It covered the whole of one buttock cheek. Whap! Ouch! The pain was intense. Even across trousers and pants. Think how bad it was with only thin cotton gym shorts to protect you.

“Bend over. Touch your toes.” I wonder how many times Mr. Braithwaite said that in all the years he was at the school. Mister Braithwaite. Even after so long, I still can’t help thinking of him as Mister Braithwaite.

He had a special room that he used for punishment sessions. Each lunchtime and often at four-fifteen after school had ended for the day there would be two or three boys lined up outside. Trembling. Waiting for the call, “Enter.” It didn’t matter how many visits a boy made to Mr. Braithwaite, he could never get used to it. The fear. What would Mr. Braithwaite do to you today? What implement would he use? How many strokes? Dear God! Trousers up or trousers down?

Or, as with me: in your PE kit. This one time. It wasn’t the first time Mr. Braithwaite had dealt with me, and even though there were only six weeks to go before I left school forever, it wasn’t the last. But never before like this.

I hated Wednesday afternoons. Compulsory sports. Even for the sixth-formers. I was bookish, a nerd if you like, I would have been very happy to spend the afternoons in the library. Reading. Swotting up for my forthcoming English Literature exam. Doing something useful.

Instead, Trubshaw the PE master, sent us on a road run. The lazy good-for-nothing couldn’t even be bothered to organise some actual games. So, a couple of dozen eighteen year olds set off on a three-mile run around town. Trebilcock and Howerstone were the only ones to take it seriously. The rest of us ran for a while, jogged for a bit more and walked the rest. Who cared?

“Don’t care was made to care.” There’s some nursery saying like that isn’t there? I’ll Google it later to find out. Nobody had told us we were being timed. “Be back at school by three-fifty-five or you’ll cop it.” That’s what bone-idle Trubshaw should have told us. He should have; but he couldn’t be bothered.

I don’t have long to tell this story, so I’ll cut to the chase. Eight of us. Eight! One in three of the group ended up in a line outside the punishment room. With me at its head. When the punishment queue is in alphabetical order it doesn’t pay to have a name like Albertson.

Braithwaite was a rangy, thin-haired man with a buzzard’s-beak nose. He must have been still quite young at the time. Even today, after so many years, I remember those steely-blue eyes. Cold as ice. His nostrils seemed to flare when he prepared to deliver a beating.

Me? I was eighteen years old and despite my distain for physical activity, I was in pretty good shape. The beer belly and the jowls arrived during my thirties. I had a twenty-seven-inch waist and a thirty-three-inch chest. Why do I remember that?

I expected a caning. Six very hard slashes across the seat of my PE shorts. They were thin cotton and because I was growing out of them, they were a bit tight across the buttocks. We weren’t allowed to wear pants under our shorts, so six-of-the-best would take my arse off. I knew that and resolved to take my caning with fortitude. I suppose by this time in my school career I had developed a very high pain threshold.

I stood there waiting. In my white shorts and white sleeveless singlet. It was late spring or early summer, but I still shivered. The punishment room was dark and dank. There was only one small opaque window. It didn’t let much light in.

Mr. Braithwaite admonished me. His tone was imperious. You would have thought I had been caught robbing the school safe, not dawdling on a town run. He didn’t say much. He assumed, as he always did, that he was in the right. The mournful schoolboy before him was never allowed to speak in mitigation.

Then, it happened. It was so unexpected it left me speechless. Rooted to the spot.

Mr. Braithwaite opened a cupboard door and took out his size-eleven plimsoll. It was dirty white. Us boys would never have gotten away wearing these for gym class. Three whacks, touching toes, crash, crash, crash. That was the penalty for wearing unclean PE kit. Mr. Braithwaite flexed the plimsoll between both hands. I could see it was a mighty springy shoe. The sole was worn to a sheen. It had seen a lot of action and probably not all of it on the running track.

I stood transfixed as Mr. Braithwaite gripped the back of an upright wooden chair and placed it in the very centre of the room. He sat down and spread his legs wide. Then he growled at me. “Albertson, take down your shorts and bend over my knee.”

My jaw probably quite literally dropped. Had I heard him correctly? Shorts down? Bend over his knee?

I blabbered. “B… b… b…”  I wanted to say but I was wearing no pants. If I took my shorts down I would be bare arsed. Hadn’t he realized that? Surely, once he knew that he would change his mind and give me a whacking with the plimsoll on my shorts.

“It is really quite straightforward Albertson, either you take down your shorts, come here and bend across my knee, or we can visit the headmaster. What’s it to be?”

The headmaster. That was no option. I’d probably get a heck of a caning from the Beak. Then, because I refused to accept punishment, he would suspend me from school. With exams coming up I couldn’t afford to miss classes. I had ambitions. I needed those A-levels.

I stared down at Mr. Braithwaite’s legs. He had parted them so far, I had a perfect view of his crotch, encased in the cotton of his trousers. I didn’t look at his cock, I concentrated on his thighs that presented an ideal platform for me to bend over and present my bottom for punishment.

But, first I had to remove my shorts. Despite my lack of sexual experience, I had been naked in public many times before. We boys were not shy in the showers after games. Even now, I can recall the size of Thompson’s donger.

But, I had never before offered up my bared buttocks for inspection at such close quarters. Bending over to accept a caning was an act of submission; every schoolboy and schoolmaster knew that. But, the cane was delivered at arm’s length and across a clothed bottom. There was distance between the punisher and the punished. There was no intimacy involved. And none was intended. It was a business process. Something that had to be got through. Then everybody could move on with their lives.

A bare-bottomed over-the-knee spanking was something altogether different. It was something that a father might administer to a deserving son. It was intimate. It was meant to be. The father was saying, “I am doing this because I love you.”

I just knew I had to let him do it to me. I had no choice. He was the master. I was the schoolboy. Eighteen years old, maybe, but a schoolboy nonetheless.

“Quickly,” Mr. Braithwaite was anxious to get going. After all, I was only the first in a long line of sixth-formers he wanted to spank bare-bottomed that afternoon.

What happened next is as clear as a bell in my memory. I pulled down my shorts and placed myself over his knees. It was memorable as it was the first and last time I was spanked in this way. I remember I fitted quite snugly. My arms were stretched ahead of me and the palms of my hands rested comfortably against the vinyl floor covering. My head was so low I could see under the chair behind me. My white cotton shorts were bunched at my feet. My toes hardly brushed the floor.

My own cock was pressed deeply into Mr. Braithwaite’s body. I suppose I must have been quite a weight against him. Even so he pressed his left hand down hard across my shoulders, pinning me against his crotch. My buttocks must have been high above his right thigh. This would have given him a terrific view of my crack and hole.

My bum cheeks twitched in anticipation. How much would the plimsoll hurt against my bare flesh? I had been spanked previously with a similar slipper across the shorts and that had hurt like hell.

I would have to wait before I found out. Mr. Braithwaite wasn’t quite ready. I felt his hand – and it was surprisingly soft – caress my cheeks. With circular motions, he gently followed the contours of my right globe from the top near the spine, across the mound and into the under-curves. Then he travelled further south down my thigh and almost to my knee. Then he did it all over again on my left side.

Then, he spanked me. With his hand. Whack-whack-whack. He kept up quite a rhythm. First my right cheek, then my left. I gasped. It didn’t hurt, but I was taken by surprise. I had expected the searing pain as the springy rubber-soled plimsoll struck home. Instead, he was giving me love-taps.

This went on for some time. I lay face down, staring at the vinyl floor. How absurd that I still remember that a ball of fluff breezed past my nose. Mr. Braithwaite stopped his spanking. I couldn’t see for myself, but by this time my bottom would have been a rosy-pink colour.

I felt a movement in his body. He gripped hold of the slipper and brought it crashing down across the very centre of my left cheek, then the right. A dozen slaps fell rapidly, like machinegun fire. Bang. Bang. Bang.

That hurt all right. My legs kicked out behind me and my body twisted and turned across Mr. Braithwaite’s lap. More spanks rained down. The pain intensified. I had been on the receiving end of corporal punishment many times before. Mr. Braithwaite was that kind of man. It was that kind of school. But, always I had been able to control my body movements. But, not this time.

In the past I had always had something to hold on to. My shins, a chair, a desk. But, while draped over the lap of Mr. Braithwaite I just dangled: in midair. I tried to wriggle my arms to clutch hold of the chair leg, but it was out of my grasp. I swivelled my body a little and reached back behind me, intent on preventing further blows. Mr. Braithwaite was wise to this. He gripped my wrist tightly and pushed my arm up my back as far as my shoulders. I wasn’t going anywhere; Mr. Braithwaite made certain of that.

I carried on kicking and squirming as wave after wave of slipper spanks toasted my backside. Sweat soaked my white PE vest. My breath came in short bursts. My heartrate must have been off the scale.

I gritted my teeth so hard I almost bit into my tongue. On and on he went. My buttocks throbbed. I could feel bumps forming on my bum where the slipper repeatedly connected. I writhed and wriggled, like I was trying to swim away off his lap.

Then, he stopped. I shot off his lap and pulled my shorts up. I was breathless, but Mr. Braithwaite also seemed unable to draw air into his lungs. I hopped from foot to foot, desperate to rub away at my raw buttocks; but I wouldn’t give him the pleasure of knowing he had really hurt me.

“Go,” he croaked. “Send in the next boy.”

I didn’t need telling twice. I flung open the door and rushed out. “You’re next,” I nodded at Collins, the next boy in the alphabet. I didn’t hang around to wait for the others. I went to the changing rooms and inspected the damage. My bum was dark pink all over and there were small patches of purple in the very centre of the cheeks. On the outer edges were several imprints of the size-eleven slipper.

I got dressed and walked the mile or so to my home. I needed to get some fresh air in my lungs. I needed to walk off the pain. The throbbing had gone by the time I reached my house, but there were tender spots that reignited when I put pressure on them. The backs of my thighs were raw and it was pretty difficult to sit at the tea table in comfort.

Why am I telling you all this after more than thirty-five years? This morning as I travelled on the Tube from my home in Leytonstone to my work at Liverpool Street, I noticed a newspaper that had been discarded by a passenger. It was open and I saw the headline, “Sex pervert schoolmaster jailed.” One George Albert Higginbottom had been sent to prison for six years after being found guilty of “the inappropriate use of corporal punishment”. The newspaper said he had assaulted dozens of pupils that police knew of over a twenty-year period.

I read the story slowly, taking in every detail. Then, the train thundered into the station. I threw the newspaper to the ground and pushed my way through the crowds to the exit. Well, I thought to myself, I was glad I hadn’t been to that school.

 

 

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Peeping Tom

The hotel room

Yank at English school gets ‘six of the best’

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Late up in the morning

late up in the morning

When Grandpa said if I continued to lay in bed in the morning and be late for work, he would come up to my room and toast my buns with a slipper, I didn’t believe him. Well, would you?

The thing is I have this problem and I know I’m not alone. I always wake up with a massive hard on in my pants. I can never remember what I’ve been dreaming about but I know the only way I can get rid of the thing is to give my cock a good tug. That’s not something you want to hurry, so I’m always downstairs late for grandma’s breakfast.

Yesterday, I’d just come in a handful of tissues when the door bursts open and there’s grandpa. True to his word he’s got one of those old-fashioned plimsoll / gym shoes stuck in his fist. Man, is he angry. “Your gran’s had breakfast on the table for hours,” he shouts all the while waving the plimsol about.

Just because he’s my grandpa don’t go thinking he’s a wizened old man. I’m twenty myself and grandpa had my dad when he was about my age, so what does that make grandpa; forty-something? He works out every week and runs most days. He would put people half his age to shame.

So he comes into my room growling, “I told you.  I warned you,” and grabs hold of the duvet and rips it off the bed. I open my mouth to protest, but he tugs a fistful of my hair and somehow – I don’t know how – he has me face down on the mattress and I’m biting on the pillow. I’m “effing and blinding” but he doesn’t stop. Actually, thinking about it later I think my swearing just encourages him in his efforts.

He kneels on my back, knocking the stuffing out of me. I wriggle like a fish but I can’t get free. He weighs a ton. Then, Jesus H. you’ll never believe this, he grips the waistband of my pants and he pulls them down and leaves them at my knees. I am bare-arsed to the wind. I don’t have time to be frightened because just as I realise what his game is, he hammers the slipper into my bum. I turn my head to swear some more, so with his strong left arm he make me suck on the pillow.

With that and his knee in my back I am pinned down. I am going nowhere. I’m totally at his mercy; and he isn’t about to show any of that. I guess my arse is quite small and the plimsol is quite big so it only takes a few whacks before every inch of my bum is glowering red-hot. I can’t see it (not yet anyway) but my cheeks are quickly turning a deep pink and then a scorching red. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been spanked with a slipper, but believe me when I say this; it smarts.

“This’ll teach you,” grandpa says and starts to whack me on the back of the thighs. Oh, my god! If my bum was smarting, this was agony. I’ve stopped swearing and now I’m yelling. Blue murder. If the neighbours are at home they’ll be phoning the police by now to report a murder taking place next door.

On and on he whacks me. It feels like hours, but I suppose it’s only a couple of minutes. Then he stops, and gets off my back. I cough my guts up trying to breathe properly. I’m gasping in air like a goldfish out of water. Grandpa growls at me from the open bedroom door. “Downstairs. Breakfast. Now!”

I check out my arse in the mirror. I’ve always liked my bum, it’s nice and round. There’s a bit of meat there, but no fat. Solid. It’s dark red, the colour of a good claret wine. I can see the outline of the slipper embossed all over my buttocks.

So, that was yesterday. The pain went away quite quickly and by bedtime even the marks had gone. I spent a lot of the night playing it all over again in my head. Me, completely helpless. Grandpa spanking the living daylights out of me. The pain. The humiliation.

I’ve got a stiffy now just thinking about it. I’m late for work again. Is that grandpa I hear coming up the stairs? I sure hope so.

 

Picture credit: Craig Esposito

 

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The padded armchair

Don’t bully our mum

What a jolly jape

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Father does his duty

z used adult schoolboy in corner (1)

I am doing as my father instructed, standing with my nose pressed against the wall, hands on head; waiting. Waiting until father is ready to deal with me. I am wearing my school uniform. Or most of it. When I get home each evening he makes me change out of my long grey trousers and put on shorts. They’re not leisure shorts, the kind we wear during warm weather; they are real properly-tailored short trousers. I’m eighteen years old, God only knows where he manged to buy a pair that fitted me.

It’s father’s idea of keeping me under control. He says I spend too much time mucking around with my mates. He seems to think I hang out at bus stops drinking cheap cider and smoking dope when I should be at home hitting the school books. It’s not true, he doesn’t know the half of it.

He reckons if he confiscates all my jeans and whatnot and puts me in short trousers I won’t want to go out at night dressed like an overgrown eight-year-old. He’s right there.

Instead of going out I spend hours online playing games and looking at porn. Father thought his little wheeze would make me study harder. Well, today he’s found out the truth. We’ve just had the results of our project work for A-levels. It looks like I’m heading for a big fat fail in the exams.

I can hear him bustling around in the sitting room. He hasn’t told me what he’s up to but when he said he would “deal with me,” I was pretty sure. It’s not looking good.

I hear him call. “Come here, Selwyn!” I know better than to keep him waiting. I go across the hall to the sitting room. I can see the preparations he has made. The dining room table is pushed against one wall. This gives more space in the small room. He has set one of the dining room chairs opposite with its back pressed up against the wall. He is standing, feet apart, like a soldier at ease.

Father is probably in his forties, but he looks much older. He is medium height and lean with a short-back-and-sides haircut that went out of fashion in about 1952. It is slicked back with the greasy hair oil Brylcreem. He has a short, well-groomed moustache, but it’s not as dark as his hair. It hides the top lip of his pasty-white face. He is wearing the same beige cardigan that he always wears when not in his work suit. The buttons are done up from bottom to top, over a white shirt pulled down to the wrists and a tightly knotted neck tie. His trousers are old and dark – part of a suit relegated from workday use to become his antiquated version of “leisure wear.” Grey socks and bedroom slippers complete his outfit.

One of the slippers remains on his left foot; the other he grips in his right hand. He gestures with it that I should stand close to him. I shuffle forward a pace or two into position.

“Take down your trousers, please,” he says. There is no emotion. I can detect no anger in his voice. Perhaps there is a trace of world-weariness. Once more he is compelled to spank his son’s bottom. When will Selwyn ever learn?

I do not plead for clemency, for experience tells me that nothing I can say will deter my father from his mission. I know he loves me and he wants the best for me. It is his duty to discipline me. Only by doing so can I hope to grow into a responsible adult. I have heard him tell me this all my life. There is nothing unique about today.

My hands tremble more than I think they should as I grasp the metal fastener. The short trousers have an elasticated waist, so I need no belt.  Once the front is open they tumble down my thighs and rest at my shins. I am wearing dark-blue underpants. I am a growing boy and they are getting a little too small for me. They fit tightly across my cock and balls and snugly so that at the back they lift and separate my buttock cheeks.

Father adjusts himself on his chair. He moves his bottom a bit, making sure his spine is firmly resting against the back of the chair. He separates his legs by a foot or so to provide a platform where my stomach and chest will soon rest.

“Bend over my knee, please.” Again, his instruction is softly spoken. There is no need for anger. He knows I will obey his instruction without question.

I am across him in one movement. I stretch my hands in front of me and keep my knees straight, leaving my toes resting an inch above the floor. I wait patiently. I have a close-up view of the dark- and-light-blue patterned carpet. I feel father grip the lower half of my school blazer and push it up my back. Then he takes the tail of my shirt and pulls that away from my buttocks.  He smooths my pants out: first across one buttock and then across the other, eliminating all wrinkles.

I take a deep breath.

Suddenly, there’s a loud crack echoing round the room as my bum gets a mighty whack that stings me across both my pert round buttocks.

“Ah!” I suck in air.  After just two more weighty blows from the large slipper I can feel my bottom aflame with a smarting soreness that hurts and stings. With just two or three seconds between each smack, the spanking quickly develops into a slow steady rhythmic rising and falling of the slipper. Each time it contacts forcefully with my once pale creamy white bottom, I grimace and screw my face up in some pain.

Father’s large slipper thumps heavily down on my bottom time and time again. My bum is really very sore now. One whack hits me squarely in the middle of the left bum cheek. The next on the right. Father isn’t a sadist, when he gives spankings he intends for me to get the message and mend my ways, but he doesn’t want to brutalise me

I gasp a little as some wallops hit right on a spot where others have landed. He quickens the pace. Slap here, whack there, wallop again.

He stops after about two minutes. My bum hurts and I am sore, but I am not about to burst into sobs or anything.

Father has finished spanking, but he continues to hold me down over his knees. He still has things to do.

“Have you learned you lesson?”

“Yes father.”

“And what lesson is that?”

“I should study harder.”

“Good boy.”

“Will I have to do this again?”

“No father.”

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

“Yes father.”

“Good, get up son.”

I struggle to my feet, pull up my short trousers and do them up.

“Go stand by the wall again. Hands on head. Think about how naughty you have been and what you must do to mend your ways,” he says.

I return to the wall. Minutes later the telephone rings. I hear my mother answer it. I hear her side of the conversation. She is being given news that shocks her. Oh dear. I bet it’s Mr. Grainger from Number 42 telling her he saw me and Christopher Elliot tossing each other off on the recreation ground at lunchtime.

 

Other stories you might like

The Dean of Dorm Discipline

When Dad got home

Donald knows his place

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Uncle gets a shock

z used white pants Jonathan

It came as a total shock when I discovered my nephew Anthony was turned on by being spanked. At least that explained why any number of trips across my knee for the slipper, hairbrush or palm of my hand had not improved his behaviour. Once, I even gave him a thrashing with an old-fashioned whippy school cane. Nothing. He still broke every rule I every laid down for him.

Anthony is nineteen now – going on twenty – and has been living with me for eighteen months since his dad changed jobs and moved down south. The boy has a job of his own at a record shop and didn’t want to go with his parents. Rather, than eek out an existence in a sweaty room in a boarding house, he took up my offer to lodge with me.

Now, I think about it, he agreed with alacrity to my demands that if he came to live with me, he must abide by the rules – or suffer the consequences. I left him in no doubt what that meant: a very sore backside indeed.

He was trouble from the very start. I know something about teenagers; they like to test authority. It’s in their DNA to push boundaries and see how far they can go. The first time I ordered him across my knee was when he repeatedly broke his curfew. Home by eleven, I told him. I could not have been clearer. When he rolled in at eleven-fifteen one evening, I lectured him hard. “Next time, you will feel my slipper across your backside, young man,” I told him. I could not have been clearer.

So, when the following Saturday he arrived home so late it was Sunday morning, I was as good as my word. “Go to the sitting room. Wait for me,” I ordered. Meekly, he shuffled across the hallway and stood head slightly bowed and hands firmly behind his back. He waited like this while I dragged a heavy dining-room chair and plonked it down in the very centre of the room. I sat myself down and manoeuvred a slipper from my right foot.  I wriggled around a bit to get comfortable and when I was ready I squeezed the slipper tightly in my fist. It was a typical bedroom slipper, with the checked cloth upper and the springy sole. A slipper is a perfect spanking tool, which is why it is so popular with fathers and uncles tasked with instilling discipline into the young.

I grunted something to attract Anthony’s attention and he looked up. His eyes widened at the sight of me, a forty-five-year-old man of some physical stature, willing and able to inflict severe pain to his bottom.

Anthony stands at about five-feet-seven, I suppose. He is quite sporty and although I don’t think he goes to the gym, he has a very well-proportioned body. As I would soon discover he hardly had enough spare fat on his body to sizzle a sausage.

He was wearing jeans and a woollen jumper. That was no good to me. He wouldn’t feel a thing through heavy denims. “Take them down,” I instructed and then as if he hadn’t already understood my order, I added, “The jeans. Right down. To the ankles.”

Anthony is fair haired, almost blond, and his skin is very pale. This time, though, his face was so red it reminded me of beetroot. His eyes shone. I suspected he was so embarrassed, he might start to cry. I was prepared to ignore any pleading he might make to be let off. Boys about to be spanked will promise absolutely anything about their future good behaviour if only they could be spared a whacking.

In fact, he made no pleas. With slightly shaking hands, he undid the buckle of his belt and undid the top button on his ice-blue jeans. Once the zipper had been lowered the denims slid down his thighs and snagged at the knees. He spread his legs a little and they slithered down his shins and rested on top of his trainer shoes.

He wore very tight cotton briefs in a multitude of colours. Even in a standing position they hung tightly to the contours of his body. I could see his cock had been circumcised. “Come, bend over my knee,” I slapped my thigh as an encouragement.

He sucked down a lung-full of air and leaned forward, putting his hands on my right thigh and lowering himself down. It took a second or two for him to work out where his hands needed to be and how to present his bottom in the perfect position for my slipper. When he had settled, the palms of his hands were pressed down into the deep-pile carpet and his knees were slightly bent so that his toes hovered an inch or so from the ground. His bum was angled across my right leg, giving me unrestricted access to his buttocks.

The tight cotton briefs clung to his cheeks so tightly it looked like they had been sprayed on him. At this point I had a choice. Should I take hold of the elasticated waistband of the briefs and tug them over his firm bottom until the buttocks were bared, or should I allow them to stay in place and let him have the last vestiges of dignity? Since this was his first spanking – or at least the first I had administered – I left the pants up. In any case, I figured, if there needed to be a repeat performance of this sometime in the future I should have some way to up the ante as it were. That is to increase the severity of the punishment next time.

I wrapped by left arm around Anthony’s middle to hold him in place and began my assault on his dignity. My slipper crashed into the centre of his very tight bottom over and over again.  The sound of rubber against cotton echoed around the room. Anthony opened and closed his mouth, rather like a goldfish, but he uttered no sound. His head bounced up and down once or twice and his bum rose and fell across my knee, but all that was, I suspect, simply a natural reaction from his body. He was, in fact, taking his slippering remarkably well.

I’m not sure how many whacks I gave him, but I made sure that every square inch of his buttocks was toasted. I even lay one or two across the back of his thighs, below the hem of his pants. That hurt him, I could see that, but apart from some heavy breathing, he remained silent. I was delighted to see a dark-pink imprint of the sole of my slipper embossed in his pale flesh.

Satisfied that I had spanked him enough for now, I released him. Anthony shot to his feet, turned his back to me and bent down to retrieve his jeans. He had them zipped and buckled before he faced me, his hands held contritely in front of him. His cheeks were scarlet and I knew his buttocks would be too. His hair was drenched with sweat and I could see by the gleam in his eye that he desperately wanted me to dismiss him so he could rush to his room. I imagined that in a moment or two he would be face down on his bed sobbing his guts up into a pillow.

I lectured him a little and reminded him that I had an array of spanking instruments in the cupboard under the stairs that I would not hesitate to use and sent him on his way.

Well, over the coming months each and every one of those tawses, paddles and straps connected with Anthony’s backside. I went so far as to buy a couple of “authentic” school canes off eBay. I had the nineteen-year-old across my knee, bending over the back of the armchair and spread-eagled across the dining table. He was an incorrigible rule-breaker. No amount of punishment could make him obey.

Now I know why.

This evening I received a phone call from the owner of the record shop where Anthony works. He hadn’t been in today, was everything all right? I confronted my nephew and he told me he had skived off work with some mates and queued all day to get tickets for the forthcoming FA Cup quarter final. Now, I like football as much as the next man, but I know I have responsibilities to my employer and I can’t just not turn in. I also have responsibilities to Anthony to make sure he understands such things.

He was not surprised when he arrived in the kitchen after I had called him from his room that I was brandishing a heavy wooden hairbrush. He had felt its power across his naked buttocks more than once before. I sighed so hard to demonstrate to him how much of the world’s burdens I was asked to shoulder and ordered him to lower his cargo shorts and bend over my knee. He did so without question.

Once in position I dragged his gleaming white briefs down to his thighs and assaulted his bare buttocks with the brush. It is a mightily effective punishment tool and soon the centre of each cheek was glowing crimson. Anthony shook his head from side to side, rather like a horse does when it neighs, and his legs kicked out. The spanking was hurting, that’s for sure. I whacked on and on over the same spots on his bum until the flesh turned dark red and then purple. If I spanked any harder or for any longer blood would seep from the wounds. I did not want that. I believe in punishment and not in torture.

When I released him, he tugged his pants and shorts up and fled from the kitchen, not waiting for me to lecture him. I let the brush fall on to the kitchen table and switched on the kettle. I desperately needed a cup of tea.

I also needed to use the bathroom. As I climbed the stairs I noticed the door to Anthony’s room was slightly open. Suddenly, I had an overwhelming urge to know whether he was sobbing into his pillow. In all the times I had spanked him he never shed a tear in my presence. Rather absurdly, I tiptoed along the landing and stood outside his door with my ear pressed against it. I could not hear anything. Thinking that maybe the weight of the door was obstructing the sound, I pushed against it gently.

Nothing would ever be the same again.

Anthony was standing in front of the dressing table mirror. His rather large and extremely hard cock was in his hand and he was pumping away. His eyes were closed and he was stifling moans of ecstasy. I turned to leave. Too late. He heard a creak on the floorboard, opened his eyes and in the reflection in the mirror saw me. His face glowed with embarrassment, he pulled up his pants and turned to face me.

I don’t know what happened next, I skedaddled and locked myself in the bathroom.

That was a little over an hour ago. I have drunk three cups of tea and have calmed down considerably. A young man who likes to be spanked, who would ever have thought such a thing. Still, it certainly explained a thing or two to me about his bad behaviour.

I started to giggle; I think it was the tannin in all that tea. Now, I had a plan. I shall confront Anthony and tell him this. In future, he will obey his curfew, he will do all the chores about the house that I give him. He will respect my wishes at all times and follow all my instructions. If he does these things to my total satisfaction I will spank him. Very hard indeed. I think they call that ‘psychology’. It is in any case a win-win situation for both of us.

 

Picture credit: Jonathan / colour by Buckcub

 

Other stories you might like

Late home from a date

The headmaster’s guests

My first spanking — aged 18!

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The Tyrant Headmaster 7: The field trip

z used drawing pyjamas Hot (6)

For previous episodes of The Tyrant Headmaster, click here

Mr. Tyler, the geography master, did not like it. Not one little bit. He was nearing retirement age, he didn’t want change. What couldn’t things be left alone. He was too old to learn new tricks.

“What’s up old man,” Jessop of History handed Tyler a cup of tea. “Why so glum?”

Tyler took the cup and sipped. “Urghhh.” It was lukewarm and stewed. With an unsteady hand, he put it down on the table.

“Field trip,” he wailed, and as if that was sufficient explanation he turned the pages of the Daily Express in search of the gossip column.

“And …?” Jessop was always amused when old Tyler had a bee in his bonnet and he wasn’t about to let the chance of some fun escape.

“There was a time when geography was all about capital cities and Norwegian timber exports,” Tyler groaned. “Now, it’s rivers and mountains,” his face contorted into a sneer, “and glaciers.”

Jessop grinned. “Ah, the new examination curriculum. So, what is it a fieldtrip?”

“The bloody Lake District,” Tyler spat out the words. A trip with the Upper Sixth Geography set. What in the world, he wondered, could be worse than that?

“Never mind old chap,” Jessop chortled, “think of it as a holiday.”

Tyler’s already ruddy face turned puce. “Holiday!” he roared. “It’s the Lake District, it’ll be cold, grey,” and he shuddered, “very wet.”

The boys took the news more cheerfully. They would be at an educational field centre; a schoolroom in the mountains. Any distraction from their dreary, mundane lives would be mightily welcomed.

“Do you think there will be girls there?” Jay Collins feigned indifference. His lack of access to the fairer sex was getting him down. Did masturbation really make you go blind? He hoped not, otherwise he would soon be walking with a white stick.

“One track mind, Collins” Bob Lender grinned. “I’m sure the Windermere Field Centre is really a hot bed of vice. Mountain treks by day, orgies by night. Cherries will undoubtedly be popped.”

Collins blushed. He hated it when the boys teased him. Was he really the only virgin in the Sixth-Form?

If there were girls at the field centre the boys never found them. Proprieties of the day ensured that boys-only schools visited one week and the girls another.

“Hard luck Collins,” Lender chuckled when the awful truth was revealed. “It’s back to the four-fingered shuffle for you.”

“Hey guys, guys!” Bertie Price rushed into the dormitory, breathless. He had news to impart. He loved it when he knew things that the others didn’t. “Guess what?”

Six eighteen-year-old boys groaned. It was going to be like a number of the Twenty Questions wireless programme.

“Animal, vegetable or mineral?” one squeaked.

“Animate or inanimate object,” another groaned.

“Well, if you don’t want to know?” Price sniffed, “Then I shan’t tell you.”

“Get on with it Pricey, you know you’re dying to tell us,” Lender genuinely did not care to hear but he wanted the pest to shut up.

“St. Tom’s,” Price was breathless. “They’re here.”

There was no need for further explanation.  He meant that a group of sixth-formers from St. Tom’s, a school housed in the locality of St. Septimius, were also resident at the camp.

The rivalry between the boys of the two schools was intense. St. Tom’s was an elite “public” school for the sons of the higher classes. St. Septimius, as an “Independent Grammar” was considered to be one rung below in the pecking order. Such social class distinctions were important in England. The boys of St. Septimius thought themselves the equals of their rivals in every way, but the chaps at St. Tom’s begged to differ.

“Well boys,” Lender stretched, “We need to devise a plan.”

The field centre was not so large that the chaps from St. Tom’s did not discover the existence of their rivals. They set about drawing their own campaign of action. It would have to happen at night. When everyone was in bed, they would have the centre to themselves. St. Tom’s was a boarding school; the chaps were well versed in japing after lights-out. A dormitory raid! They would climb in through the window, take the oiks from St. Septimius by surprise, rough them up a little, and steal their pillows for souvenirs. That would show them who was the boss.

Mr. Tyler was settling down for the night when he heard the first mysterious sound. It was excited voices. Somebody was out of bed. He glanced at his alarm clock; it was nearly ten o’clock, fifteen minutes after lights-out. Could it be burglars? Surely not; the education centre was remote and the nearest village was five miles away. It wasn’t his business, he thought, the centre had its own manager and caretaker, let them sort it out. He wrapped his dressing gown around his body; the dreadful room they had given him was draughty and he hadn’t been properly warm from the moment he had arrived.

The chaps from St. Tom’s didn’t get it all their own way. Their plan had leaked (there’s always one sneak at school) and when they clambered through the window they were greeted by a welcoming party. It is an old prison trick to take a towel and tie it in knots to make an effective weapon. This is especially so when it is whirled around the head at speed before connecting with the body of its target.

Biff! Bang! Bosh!

“Ouch! Gerroff! Yaroo!” the cries from the chaps at St. Tom’s were pitiful.

“Get that one with the specs!” Bob Lender was having the time of his life. “Give him what for!”

A knotted towel sent the spectacles flying, an ugly red mark instantly spread across the young man’s face.

“Oooofff” Another chap got a whack right in the belly. He sank to his knees, gasping for air.

Mr. Tyler heard none of this; his boys’ dormitory was some distance away. His peace was disturbed by a furious hammering on his bedroom door.

“Mr. Tyler, Mr. Tyler, please open up.”

The geography master recognised the irritated voice of Mr. Boston, the manager.

“Coming man, coming. Stop that infernal knocking,” Mr. Tyler was equally irritated.

He opened the door to be confronted by a red-faced, portly man. He wore a long mackintosh over his pyjamas.

“There’s been a riot,” he spat the words. “Your boys ….” He waved his arms about frantically. “I’ve never seen anything like it in all the years I’ve been here.” He added hysterically, “It’s a disgrace.”

It took some time before Mr. Boston calmed sufficiently to tell the story. Mr. Tyler listened, at first impassively, and then with mounting anger. When he was told about the smashed spectacles and bruised bodies, he became furious.

“Damn and blast!” he bellowed. He had known this trip would be a disaster. Why had he agreed to come? He took a huge deep breath, but it did nothing to control his anger. Boston was correct; his boys were a disgrace. They had let themselves and the school down. More importantly, they had humiliated himself. There could be only one recourse to action.

“Do you possess a cane by any chance?”

Mr. Boston looked blank, as if he hadn’t understood the question.”

“A cane, man,” Mr. Tyler had lost none of his fury. His arm rose and fell, imitating a cane as it swished through the air.

“Oh, sorry. No,” Mr. Jessop flushed at the image of eighteen-year-old schoolboys touching toes and being caned on the seat of their pyjamas. It’s what the blighters deserved, he thought. Out loud he said, “We rather leave that sort of thing to the schools.”

“Mmmm pity,” Mr. Tyler’s brows knitted. Corporal punishment must be administered, of that he was in no doubt. He sat on the edge of his bed and slipped his bedroom slippers on his feet. “Please take me to them, Mr. Boston.”

He found a subdued group of sixth-formers, sitting on beds, silently contemplating their fate. They stood as Mr. Tyler entered the dormitory. He glared around the room and then stared intently at each miscreant. Many of the teenagers could not meet his eye.

The schoolmaster’s fury had not dissipated. “Stand by your beds, all of you.” Soundlessly, they shuffled into position.

“Thank you, Mr. Boston, I think I can take it from here,” he nodded at the door. The centre manager’s glum look did not mask his disappointment.

Mr. Tyler turned his attention once more to the sixth-formers standing miserably before him. What possessed them to behave like small children. Each one of them was clearly a young adult. Several in the room would need to shave their beards before breakfast time. The baggy pyjama bottoms they wore did little to disguise the presence of genitalia.

He jawed and jawed them. “A disgrace to the school.” “Your parents would be ashamed.” “What would the headmaster say when he found out?” The sixth-formers took it with mounting embarrassment. This episode could end in only one way.

“Well, if you insist on behaving like small boys, you cannot complain if I treat you like small boys.” He picked up an old wooden straight-backed chair and set it down in the middle of the room. A dozen pairs of eyes burned into him as he sat, stooped down to remove a slipper from his right foot and spread his legs a little.

No boy dared look him in the eyes; had they done so they would have detected an unreadable gleam. The schoolmaster squeezed the bedroom slipper in his right hand before waving it in the general direction of the boys. “Lender, you first. Come here and bend over my knee.

“Oh, no, Sir.”

“Please, you can’t, Sir.”

“We’re sixth-form, Sir.”

The protests were predicable. Mr. Tyler cut them short.

“Would you rather I reported you to Dr. Fortescue? I am sure he will take a dim view that you have disgraced the school so publicly. I have no doubt he would convene a special school assembly to deal with you.”

He would do. Every boy in the room had no doubt at all about that. A public thrashing. Maybe even followed by suspension. No, matters had to take their course; this night, in the dormitory.

“Step forward, Lender.”

The eighteen-year-old’s face reddened. He had no choice. He must take a slippering. But, over the knee? That was just too humiliating

“Can’t I just bend over the end of the bed, Sir?” he implored.

“Pah! Don’t be absurd boy. If you want to behave like you are in a nursery, you must face the consequences.”

Lender shuffled forward. Bend over his knee? How was this done, exactly? Mr. Tyler was a shortish man and Lender was probably eight or nine inches taller. He stood to the schoolmaster’s left and looked down at his knees; they seemed a very long distance away.

“Come on boy, we don’t want to be here all night.”

Landers bent his own knees and leaned forward. He put his hands on the schoolmaster’s legs and eased his body down until his stomach rested on his bony legs. His own legs stretched behind him so his toes rested on the ground. He reached forward and placed the flat of his hands on the worn floorboards. He couldn’t see it, but his bottom rested at a forty-five-degree-angle ready to receive a spanking from the schoolmaster’s slipper.

But, Mr. Tyler was not yet ready. He had promised a “nursery” spanking and that was what he was going to deliver. An audible gasp echoed around the room when he gripped the waistband of Lender’s pyjama bottoms and tugged them, once, twice and three times until the teenager’s bottom was completely bared. Lender wriggled in protest, but the old man pressed his arm into the boy’s back. He was going nowhere. The movement sent the pyjamas slithering down his thighs until they came to rest at his knees. He was naked from his knee hollows to the small of his back.

Every boy in the room had a perfect view of his hairless bottom. Mr. Tyler, should he chose to, could see right into his crack. Nothing in Lender’s past life had been so humiliating. Not even the time he was caned bare-arsed in the headmaster’s study. Poor Lender soon found the slipper had a bite of its own, a stabbing ache rather than the vicious agony of the cane. The pain was slower to build up, but it did so nevertheless. The big supple slipper stung like crazy. Mr. Tyler spanked Lander’s bottom from side-to-side and up-and-down. His bottom was turning scarlet and his teeth were clenched and his eyes squeezed shut but his backside had not moved one inch.

“Up.” The spanking was over. For Lender, but not for Mr. Tyler. “Price. You next.” Over the next thirty minutes the old man put every sixth-former in the room through their paces. It was a very tired schoolmaster who retired to bed later that night. But, he slept the sleep of the Just.

Across the education centre grounds, six eighteen-year-olds took turns to lower their pyjama bottoms and bend over a bedstead for a searing six lashes of a Malacca cane administered on the naked haunches by an irate master. He had come on the fieldtrip prepared: St. Tom’s was after all a school for the sons of gentlemen.

 

Picture credit: The Hotspur

 

 

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Expelled from school

Warren’s awakening

By order of the court

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Tyrone misses curfew

z used after (7)

Tyrone knew what he was required to do. He walked across the living room and picked up the slipper from the shelf under the television set. He turned and handed it to his dad.

Dad had taken one of the chairs tucked under the dining table and plonked it in the very centre of the room. Now, with the carpet slipper clutched in his right hand, he settled his flabby backside on the wooden seat. He parted his legs and wriggled his buttocks until he was comfortable.

“Come here,” dad snapped his fingers and pointed to a spot to his right side. Tyrone blushed deeply. “I’m nineteen years old, but dad insists on treating me as if I was nine,” he thought to himself. He knew better not to argue the point with dad. The only time he had, he got an extra-hard spanking, bare-arsed. He didn’t want to go through that again.

Tyrone took up position and waited, heart pounding, for the next part of the instruction. No matter how many times in the past he had done this, he always found this totally humiliating. Dad snapped his fingers again. “Take ’em down,” he ordered.

Tyrone’s sweatpants had elastic at the waist. All he had to do was to take hold of their top, pull the waistband away from his hips and let them slide down his thighs. They snagged a bit at the knees, so Tyrone bent his back and with his thumbs pushed them until they bunched at his shins.

A cool breeze from an open window brushed against his bare legs, making him conscious of the tiny, snug briefs he wore. Anyone who chose to look would see the bulge of his cock and balls. At the back, the underwear hardly covered his buttock cheeks. When, as soon he would be, he was across his dad’s knees, the lower curves would be bare.

Another snap of the fingers from dad. Tyrone mouthed a silent, “Oh, man,” sucked in a lung full of air and learned forward. He was a tall teenager and his hands could rest on the dusty carpet ahead of him and his toes touch the floor behind. His dad’s fat thighs provided a platform for the nineteen-year-old to rest his body. Tyrone’s barely-covered bottom rested at an angle against his dad’s right leg.

Tyrone knew what would happen next. It was always the same routine. His dad took the end of Tyrone’s tee-shirt and tugged it up his son’s back as far as he could take it. There was no practical reason to do this as the shirt was already nowhere close to the target area. But, it added to the drama of the occasion. Dad was not the kind of father to punish a son by wildly lashing out, perhaps with a belt, and striking the teenager all over the body; the back, the shoulders and the legs. Dad thought the point of the spanking was for Tyrone to exhibit self-control and submit to the authority of his parents. That more than any pain involved was the point of the exercise. Tyrone might be nineteen, but nineteen year olds were not yet adults. They still had a long way to go on that journey. So, Tyrone would have to obey his parents, abide by their rules, and if he could not – or would not – do so he would be punished.

Tyrone knew the curfew was eleven o’clock and when he rolled home last night (or more accurately, this morning) at gone midnight, he could be in no doubt about the consequences. At least, Tyrone was relieved to know dad hadn’t discovered his son had shared a bottle of beer with his friend. That would have led to two spankings. One today for the curfew and another tomorrow for the illicit alcohol.

Now satisfied that his son was properly positioned for punishment, Dad wrapped his left arm around Tyrone’s waist. Another of the routines. Tyrone was no virgin to a spanking. He would not become hysterical and wriggle and writhe; nor shout and scream. He would remain as stoical as it was possible to be in such circumstances and take his punishment, but he would never let his dad know how foolish and humiliated he felt.

As his dad made his final preparations, Tyrone pressed the palms of his hands into the harsh carpet. During the first few times that he had been spanked, Tyron couldn’t work out where he was supposed to put his head. He could try to rest it on the ground, or he could look straight ahead to the far wall. One time, he wrapped his arms around his head. Now, he preferred to let his head hang at an angle so that he could look underneath the chair his dad sat on and see his own legs. It was a weird sensation to stare at the sweatpants at his own ankles and then to watch to see if his feet kicked about as the slipper came whacking down across his 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 him around the waist, Tyrone knew the action was about to start. Involuntarily, for it was a reflex action, his buttocks tensed. His bum was pretty hard anyway, but in this state they tightened up to resemble a hard rubber ball. It was none of Tyrone’s doing, it was his 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 Tyrone’s 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 breath. A spanking should be a spanking, otherwise what was the point of it all. So, although dad believed his son must submit himself to his authority, he also wanted the spanking to hurt.

The first dozen whacks with the slipper warmed him up nicely. Then dad upped the ante. He increased the pace and walloped home a couple of dozen without let up. Bang-bang-bang. It was as rapid as machinegun fire. At about this time, Tyrone would see his knees bend and his feet kick about. His buttocks were sore and Tyrone knew from past experience that most of his 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. He was immediately rewarded with an imprint of the slipper’s flexible sole emblazoned across his son’s naked flesh. Tyrone sucked in gulps of air. That hurt. That really hurt. His legs kicked again. Tyrone had been spanked many times in the past and he was nineteen years old after all, so he had a high pain threshold. Even so, the whacks on the undercurve and bare thigh had him squirming. He scrunched up his face, clenched his teeth and shut his eyes; determined not to let a yelp escape his lips.

Nobody was keeping count, but dad probably put a dozen or fourteen slaps across that most tender part of Tyrone’s body. The teenager would find it very uncomfortable to sit on a hard surface for many hours to come.

It was nearly over. Only one more part of the ritual still to come and it would be the most humiliating for Tyrone. Dad rested the slipper on the small of his son’s back and with both hands free he rolled Tyrone’s tight briefs over the mounds of his now-toasted buttocks until they snagged on his thighs. The bum was now completely bared. Tyrone hated this; his dad could see right into his crack and up his hole. If dad had been more of a “man-of-the-world”, he might wonder about the size of the circumference of the hole. He might also make the connection between it and his son’s missed curfew.

But, dad had no interest in cracks and holes; buttocks were his concern. No square inch of Tyrone’s 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; Tyrone did the scrunching thing with his face, but by the time dad had finished and said, “That’s it. Stand up,” Tyrone had remained silent.

The nineteen-year-old eased himself up and using dad’s legs as support he got to his feet. He hopped from one foot to another, rather like footballers do when they try to “run off” an injury. Conscious that his dick and balls were bouncing up and down in front of his dad’s face, Tyrone reached down and slipped up his briefs. Then, he bent down and pulled up his sweats.

His buttocks throbbed, but even now most of the pain was going. In moments, it would turn to a warm glow before disappearing altogether. He would be tender for a while; if Tyrone touched the lower half of his cheeks he would reignite some of the pain. Sitting down would be awkward for a while. His bum was red and bruises would quickly form. If past experience taught him anything, they would hang around for days turning from purple through shades of yellow until finally disappearing. There could be no rolling on the bed with Wayne for a while.

Dad’s curt dismissal sent Tyrone to his bedroom where he whipped down his sweats and briefs and pointed his bare arse at the mirror. It looked awesome. Definitely one for the record books, he thought, so he picked up his phone from the bedside table and snapped a selfie.

 

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