Put Back Into Short Trousers

z used uniform short shorts (56)


Joe crossed the road to his neighbour’s house, walked up the garden path and rang the doorbell.

As he waited for the door to be opened he idly looked through the bay window into the living room. There seated at the dining table he saw Aaron, the neighbour’s eighteen-year-old son. He appeared to be busy on his school homework. But something was not quite right.

The boy was dressed in his school uniform, nothing unusual in that. Joe’s own son Ant was in the same class as Aaron; Joe was familiar with the light blue blazer, white shirt and dark blue and light blue ties the boys wore. But something was different: Aaron was dressed in mid-grey short trousers and long knee socks. They were most certainly not the uniform of Midchester School.

The door opened and Alan immediately saw the puzzled expression on his friend’s face.

“Yes,” he said without waiting to be asked, “We’ve put him back into short trousers.”

The two men went into the kitchen. “Here have a beer, while I go and fetch your power drill.”

Two minutes later Alan was back and telling his story.

“He’s been like it since Christmas. He did really badly in his A-level mock examinations.”

Joe nodded thoughtfully. Ant’s results had been pretty dire too.

“Val and I reckoned he’d been spending too much time away from his books. He would spend hours each evening hanging around the bus stops with his mates.”

Yes, Joe thought, and Ant was almost certainly one of them.

“And we had no idea what he was doing most of the weekend. He was never at home. One thing we did know was that he wasn’t doing his schoolwork.” Alan took a slug of his beer and realising that Joe was not going to ask him a question, he carried on with his story.

“We needed to find a way to stop him going out all the time so we came up with this.”

“Making him wear short trousers?”

“Yes, it was such a simple idea. Val read about it somewhere on the Internet. We took all his clothes and we’ve locked them away. Now, he’s only allowed to wear his long trousers to school. He has to come home immediately school ends and change into his short trousers. We lock up the long trousers and don’t let him have them back until breakfast time next morning.”

Joe nodded encouragement, so Alan continued.

“Now if he wants to go out at night or at the weekend he must go wearing his short trousers and school uniform. So he stays at home. I don’t think he would want to let all his mates see him dressed like that. And they are proper short trousers; they are not the leisure shorts kids wear today. You would never mistake them for that, not even from a distance. They are trousers that are short. Properly tailored trousers. Actually, if you ask me I think he looks rather good in them.”

Joe had always been a practical man so he asked, “Where did you get them? They don’t make short trousers for eighteen year olds do they?”

“You’d be surprised. Ordinary school uniform suppliers often have them. We found them on the Internet. I think they make them large now because so many young kids are fat; obsess even. The ones we got for Aaron fit him at the waist but they are a bit short in the leg; but that’s okay, it just emphasises that he is still a child and not an adult.”

Joe was warming to the idea. “Does it work? Have his grades improved?”

“Yes,” Alan beamed, he really was pleased with himself. “So far, it’s been a total success; he stays at home and gets on with his work. We had to change the password for the wi-fi connection, so when he’s at home he can’t get on the Internet. He’s doing English Lit A-level so he should be reading books, not tossing himself off to internet porn.”

The two men sat in companionable silence taking sips of their beer.

Alan wasn’t sure he should tell Joe this; it might sound a bit odd, but he did. “Oh, and another thing; being dressed as a child reminds him that he isn’t yet an adult. That’s the trouble with teenagers today they think they are grown up when they are not. He needs to be reminded that we are his parents and it is his job to obey us. He should also obey his teachers and all other adults. All teenagers should remember that. If I had my way all boys would be kept in short trousers until they left school, even until they’re eighteen.”

They finished their beers and Joe picked up the drill and made to leave. Would this work for Ant, he wondered. “How did Aaron take it; when you told him he must wear short trousers?” Joe asked.

Alan smiled. He certainly wasn’t going to tell the whole truth. “He wailed the house down. You know the way teenagers do.”

Yes, Joe certainly did, his own son was just like that.

“But,” Alan continued, “He had no choice. We had his long trousers. It’s not like we’ve chained him to the banisters; he’s not a prisoner. He can still go out if he wants, but he has to wear the short trousers and school uniform when he does.”

Joe gave a weak smile, thanked Alan for the beer and returned home deep in thought. Ant was on the road to examination failure; that was certain. Should he put Ant back into short trousers? Would it work for him? Why not, it had worked for Aaron. Maybe he should ask Alan for the Internet address of the school uniform supplier.

Alan sat back down at the kitchen table and cracked open another can of beer. He was very pleased with himself. He and his wife had told nobody about this. They had discussed sending Aaron to school wearing his short trousers; but they knew they would have busy-body teachers (and even social workers) on their doorstep within hours. They would look odd to people in these days of political correctness.

And, they certainly did not, and would not, tell the other half of the story. Alan might tell Joe that it was the short trousers regime that had bucked up Aaron’s ideas; but he knew that wasn’t entirely true. It was the spankings that really did it.

The first time he put a clothes brush across Aaron’s bum, it had not been planned. Alan had told the truth that his son had wailed the house down. At first he flatly refused to wear the short trousers. He had no long trousers, so he lounged around the house in his underpants. Well, okay, Alan had thought, he still had to remain at home; he could not go out in his briefs.

But, Alan had been very taken by the Internet site’s insistence that teenaged boys be put in short trousers to remind them they were still children who must obey their parents. Aaron clearly had not accepted that. Alan endured hours of moaning and pouting from Aaron and then he snapped.

It had not been planned. Alan was sitting in the living room trying to read his newspaper; Alan was nearby pouting and screaming that he would not wear the short trousers. A clothes brush lay on the sideboard. In a flash, without thinking of the possible consequence, Alan grabbed the brush, took Aaron by the back of the head, gripped his hair (it was well overdue cutting) and forced the boy face down over the back of the couch. Then he pressed against the back of the wretched boy’s neck so that he was chewing on a scatter cushion.

Then he unleashed a frenzied attack on the seat of the boy’s underpants. Aaron’s attempted yells of protest were stifled by the cushion and his mouth was soon full of dust. His father’s grip was so strong the eighteen-year-old had no choice but to remain head low, bottom high, over the crown of the couch while his father whipped swat after swat into his tight buttocks.

The pain was intense, but there was no escaping it. He struggled to the left and right but the grip on his neck was too powerful. He was at the mercy of his father: but the irate man was not showing any. In one last desperate attempt to free himself, Aaron kicked out his left leg and caught his father a blow on the shin. Rather than dissuading the older man from his mission to toast his son’s buttocks it spurred him on.

With all the struggling the boy’s honeycomb-coloured pants had slid down his buttock so that the top of his curves were visible. Encouraged by the sight of bare flesh, Alan tugged at the briefs and pulled them further down until they rested bunched below the crease where the buttock meets the thigh. Then with an increasingly furious pace he pounded the clothes brush into the boy’s now naked backside.

His pain, humiliation and the dust from the cushion was taking its toll on Aaron. His breathing was fast and his blood pressure sky high. The pain in his bottom was intense; his father was raining down swat after swat without let up. He was whacking the brush into Aaron’s bum at the rate of eighty a minute.

Spit dribbled from the boy’s mouth and tears and snot cascaded down his face. His protests quickly turned to owwws, and then arghhhhs, through to yelps and finally on to full-throated yells. But, on and on Alan spanked the brush into his son’s bare bottom. Red patches quickly turned to blue and some were going purple. The imprint of the large oval head of the brush was imprinted dozens of times across the boy’s globes.

If he had the breath to do so, Aaron would have been pleading for mercy. He would wear the short trousers; he would obey his mum and dad; he would do anything they asked, so long as his father would stop hurting him.

Not one part of Aaron’s buttocks and the back of his thighs was left untouched before Alan released his grip on his son’s neck. Now free and without waiting for permission, Aaron shot up from the couch, pulled his briefs up and rushed from the room. He took the stairs two at a time, crashed into his bedroom, slammed the door behind him, threw himself face down on the bed and sobbed his guts up. He had been utterly defeated by his father.

The boy wore his short trousers after that and although he still hated his father he knew it was an opinion he had best keep to himself.

The second time Aaron was spanked was altogether different. An essay on Chaucer was graded C, with the comment from his teacher, “must make more effort”. That was enough for Alan; the boy was slipping back into old ways and needed a reminder; a maintenance spanking.

So a dining-room chair was placed in the middle of the room and the brush retrieved from the sideboard drawer. Aaron was summoned from his room. It was no surprise, he was expecting this. On command, he meekly lowered his short trousers and eighteen years old though he was, he bent across his father’s lap to receive his second buttock roasting. No matter how much he would hate this ordeal, he knew one thing was for certain: it was better to accept the inevitable than try to fight with his dad.


Picture credit: Unknown.

This story was first published in September 2015

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Charles Hamilton the Second


Found Out on Facebook

z used facebook blow job notice (1)

I know I shouldn’t have done it. It’s sneaky and shows a lack of trust. Sometimes it’s best not to know; to be in the dark about things. I know all of this. But I did it; and I’m glad I did.

My eighteen-year-old son Ricky had been away at university for three months: more than 150 miles away. Out of my sight, but not out of my mind.

Maybe he was a typical student; once he was away he forgot about home. Never phoned, emailed and naturally did not write.

So, I did what any loving parent would do: I created a false identity for myself and I got onto his Facebook page.

Ye Gods! Have you seen your own teenaged sons Facebook page? I don’t suppose it would be much different to Ricky’s.

Dozens and dozens of photographs of drunken parties (at last I hope it was not drugs) decorated his “wall.” Not all of them were of him.

I scrolled down the screen; there seemed to be large numbers of students involved. All of them were holding beer bottles or cans; many, including the girls, in various stages of undress.

I was livid. I was paying hundreds of pounds a month keeping my son at university and this was how he repaid me.

I kept scrolling hoping against hope that I’d find at least one photograph of him working: studying in the library; on a field trip; anything that would show that he wasn’t completely wasting his time at university.

Then I saw it. It had been posted about two months previously. A photo of Ricky. It had hundreds of comments attached and had been shared dozens of times.

Ricky was completely naked, except for a poster he held strategically in front of his you-know-whats. And on the poster was written: “If I give you a smile, will you give me a blowjob.”

He was flashing a cute smile, it must be said.

I was fuming. I read through the comments. Well, you don’t want to know what they said, but there were offers from lots of girls – and from more than a few boys too.

That’s it! I actually shouted this out loud, even though I was alone in the house. I’m going to the university on Saturday to sort this boy out.

I paced over to the sideboard and opened the bottom drawer. Yes, it was still there. I reached inside and pulled out a heavy two-tailed Lochgelly taws.

This thing had seen some action, I’d used in on Ricky a few times over the years. My father used it on me and granddad used it on him. I don’t know if granddad’s dad used it, but this strap was certainly a family heirloom.

I held it in my right hand and smacked it down into the palm of my left. Traditionally, these tawses were used to beat the palms of errant schoolboys. The Scots, in particular, used them this way. Not in my family. We used it across the backside. It could pack a punch, even if the naughty boy was wearing his trousers and pants. Not that he did in my family.

The strap had last seen action about eighteen months previously. Ricky’s grades were slipping and he needed a “wake-up” call ahead of the mock exams. A dozens whacks, bared arsed naturally, soon put him back on course. He put in a few more hours in the library after that.

I think it was only the threat of another trip over the back of the couch that made him knuckle down to pass his A-levels.

I thwacked the taws into my palm again. Yes, without this little incentive he would never have made it to university.

Now, for sure, he had demonstrated he had no self-discipline.   If he didn’t buck his ideas up and start studying hard, he’d fail his university course and be put on the scrapheap, aged nineteen.

So, if he doesn’t have self-discipline, clearly he will need to have discipline imposed upon him.

I didn’t warn Ricky I was coming and arrived at his student pod around about noon.

His student pod? They’re something new. Whole blocks have been built, not of flats, or even bed-sitting rooms: of pods. They are tiny self-contained units, with a single bed, a desk, a closet and a walk-in shower.

I thought the rooms in the halls of residence were small when I was at university, but they were palaces compared to a pod.

I went straight to his pod and hammered on the door.

“Wh… who is it?”

I was greeted by a muffled cry from within.

“It’s your father. Open up at once!”

It was fully thirty seconds before the door opened and my son’s bleary eyes poked around.

Even in his sleepy state he could express shock.

“What! Why?” he stumbled. “Is everything alright at home?”

He must have thought I had come to fetch him to take him home for a family emergency.

“Everything is fine at home, I could have said,” but didn’t “It’s what’s going on here that worries me.”

What I did say was, “Can I come in?”

A look of terror replaced the bleariness in his eyes.

“Well?” I rapped.

Reluctantly, he opened the door slightly and I squeezed myself into the pod.

“Hello, you must be Ricky’s dad.”

I stood, my mouth gaping a little, unsure how to react.

“Yes, eh… hello.”

The boy, well young man actually, he was about Ricky’s age, was sitting up in bed, naked from the waist up. I couldn’t see beneath the duvet, but it was a fair bet the rest of him was naked too.

Ricky’s usually fresh open face was scarlet. He looked as if he might vomit at any moment.

“Perhaps, I should leave,” the boy said. Then unselfconsciously he pulled the duvet to one side and stepped out. In seconds he had located his underpants, jeans and t-shirt and calling, “I’ll catch you later, hon,” to Ricky, he sashayed out the door.

“That was Tony. He missed his bus home.”

“Really,” I sneered. “Did the party go on late?”

Ricky’s bright blue eyes gazed at me under heavy eyelids. He seemed genuinely baffled.

“Don’t think I don’t know about the parties; the drinking and all the rest of it,” I blurted.

I had planned to talk calmly to my son about his wayward behaviour and try to disguise the fact I had been prying on his Facebook page. I failed. I was in shock. It was seeing the naked boy that set me off.

Instead, it all gushed out. The photographs of the parties; the drunkenness; the nudity and above all the blowjob picture.

Ricky was stunned into silence. However else he imagined his Saturday might pan out, he could not have expected his father to turn up unannounced, find him in bed with his male lover and then to castigate him over his irresponsible behaviour.

But, the worst was still to come.

I lectured the brat about how much money of mine he was wasting; how he needed to make something of himself and how no son of mine was going to get away with behaving like this.

I could see Ricky desperately wanted to argue with me: it was in his eyes. He was just about to open his mouth, when he realised I was carrying a plastic bag. Instinctively, he knew its contents.

Unceremoniously, I withdrew the taws. It was about two feet in length, with a long thin handle and the “business end” was fourteen inches. It was a fine specimen; craftsmen had melded together two strips of leather to create tails about a half inch thick.

I didn’t have to say anything. Ricky knew what this weapon could do.

“No, No,” Ricky wailed. “You can’t. No.” He was panicking. His father intended to leather his arse with the taws. He was a grown man now, living away from home. He had left all that childish stuff behind.

He thought all of those things, but only managed to whine, “But, I’m too old …” before tailing off.

“I am paying good money to send you here. While I do that, you had better believe you are under my jurisdiction.”

His face fell. I thought he would burst into tears.

“Your choice,” I told him. “You obey my instructions and I carry on paying the money. You choose to go your own way; the money stops.”

I don’t know if I really believed what I had just told him. Crucially, he did.

“You know what must happen,” I spoke gently now.

He nodded, despondently.

I held the taws in my right hand and looked around. There was almost literally no room to swing a cat. There was a small plastic chair that he could drape over, but I wouldn’t have space to swing back the leather and crash it into his bum.

There was only one answer.

“Straighten that duvet on the bed. Then put the pillows in the middle.”

He immediately got the picture. He was miserable as he tidied the bed and placed the pillows in position.

I was calm, and so was Ricky.

“Now, lower your jeans and underpants and lay across the pillows.”

He looked at me through pleading eyes, but we both knew the parts we had to play in this little drama.

He unbuckled his belt, popped the rivet on his jeans and placing his thumbs under the waist of his underpants, he pulled down his jeans and pants so they just reached below his buttocks. Then, he knelt onto the bed and placed his stomach across the pillows.

It took a little manoeuvring until his bared buttocks were placed to my satisfaction. His legs were covered with fair hair, but his buttocks were completely bald. Obviously, he had shaved (or somebody had done it for him). Last time I whipped that backside, it was covered with short soft hairs.

I tested the taws by holding it over my shoulder so that the tails tapped against the small of my back. Then I arced it up and forward, making sure it would not hit the ceiling when I tried to lash it down. It cleared with a couple of inches to spare.

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

All the while my eighteen-year-old son buried his face into the duvet. I could see he had strategically placed a crease in the cotton cover into his mouth. In this way he would try to chew away the agony of the thrashing.

I raised the leather strap across my shoulder and brought it crashing down into Ricky’s flesh. The crack! sounded like pistol fire in the small room. Ricky’s body buckled under the lash and he bit deep into the duvet. Trickles of salvia dripped from the corner of his mouth.

With the second lash the strap curled itself viciously over the exposed buttocks and unfurled into Ricky’s meaty backside. His whole body jolted and his fingers clawed at the duvet. His throat tightened to hold back a scream.

It only took three or four lashes of the two-tailed taws to cover the entire area of his now buckling buttocks.

Sunset stripes adorned his globes and already purplish bruises were forming.

Ricky bit deep into the duvet as unmercifully I snapped another six hard stingers across the very centre of his mounds. One after the other in quick succession.

His legs flapped and his back arched as he threw back his head and released a blood-curdling yell that must have been heard throughout the residential block.

I stopped and rested the leather on the very apex of the boy’s bare curves. It lingered long enough to give him some false respite. Then I curled it back over my shoulder. Ricky braced himself for a further onslaught of controlled and accurate lashes.

I found my rhythm as the lashes embedded themselves harder and harder into bare flesh.

He chewed the duvet and I could see rivulets of saliva dripping from his mouth. Despite his best efforts, he was wailing like an eight-year-old.

Stepping back I snapped the leather down again as hard as I could. I tried to clear from my mind the fact that I was whipping my son, whom I loved dearly.

I channeled my thoughts on all the bad things he had done since coming up to university. That picture of Ricky naked and that vile poster he held would haunt my dreams for years to come.

This gave me the strength to apply the leather with as much strength as I could muster. As the thrashing continued my darling son convulsed in agony.

Despite my resolution, I found myself welling with tears at his choked heartfelt pleas for mercy.

He was pleading for me to stop. I lashed the last stroke hard across the now red-raw welted bottom cheeks.

“That’s it,” I almost whispered             .

Breathless, I now realized I was drenched in sweat. My breathing was heavy, but it was nowhere as bad as Ricky’s. He wheezed and gulped in great mouthfuls of air as his body thrashed from left to right. Curiously, he reminded me of a goldfish out of water.

His face was almost as red as his backside as he struggled to retain control of himself. He buried his face into the duvet and sobbed and sobbed.

That was my signal to leave. I found the plastic bag and wrapped up the taws. Then, without a further word, I quietly made my exit.

Outside in the corridor I met the boy who had been in Ricky’s bed. He was deathly pale: he must have heard it all. We did not exchange words and I found my car and drove home.

Picture credit: Unknown, but genuinely found on Facebook, and it inspired this story

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

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Charles Hamilton the Second


The fireraiser

z used otk pantz down slipper chair (10a) (2)

My dad only ever spanked me once, and I was eighteen years old when he did it.

And, you bet I deserved it.

Looking back at it now, I’m shocked at my own behaviour.

We lived in a small council flat in inner London and I could easily have burnt the place down and the whole block with it.

I can’t explain why I did it, it was just so stupid.

As a teenager, I used to like to lock myself in the bathroom. No, I know we all did, but that’s not what I’m talking about. I used to take a stack of paper and a box of matches in and make a bonfire in the bath.

I would wait until I was the only one in the flat before I set the damn thing alight. All it needed was for a lick of flame to catch a curtain and the whole place would be on fire.

I was easily found out. The smell of burning paper would hang around for a long time and was still there hours after I put out my private blaze.

One day my dad asked me about it. I lied, of course, and dad let it go. He was a very weak man and I don’t suppose he was good at confrontation. So, I carried on burning. A few weeks passed and he quizzed me after he once again caught the tell-tale whiff of smoked paper.

I didn’t lie this time, but I made an excuse. I said I had been doing a chemistry experiment in the bathroom and paper caught fire by accident. I don’t know if he really believed me, but once again he didn’t argue with me.

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

Yes, I had another bonfire and again, even though I opened the windows to let out the smoke, I was caught out by the incriminating smell.

This time, dad had decided he would take action. 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. Looking back I realise I’d always despised him. He was a factory worker of the lowest grade possible and had been for twenty years and always would be. Even at the age of eighteen, when I was still studying for my A-levels, I knew I was going to leave him a long way behind. And, the sooner I did that, the better, as far as I was concerned.

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

My heart was thumping. I had no idea what was going on. Despite my arrogance towards my father, I was quite a shy, timid kid.

He pulled me into the next room. Our flat was tiny and there wasn’t much in the living room: a beat-up three piece suite, dining room table and chairs, a sideboard by the window and a TV set.

He pulled one of the dining room chairs into the middle of the carpet. Before, I could fathom what was going on; he reached towards the fireplace and picked up one of his slippers.

Then I knew. I suppose I could have just told him to stuff it and walk out the door, but, as I say, I was a bit timid. Like father, like son, I suppose. I was also a couple of inches taller than him and he was running to fat, even then, so he wouldn’t have been able to force me across his knee.

He sat down in the chair, holding his bedroom slipper in his right hand.

I stood looking at him. The pathetic man, I thought.

My heart hadn’t stopped racing since our confrontation in the kitchen, but I was also now finding it difficult to catch my breath. Something strange was going on inside of me: a part of me really wanted dad to spank me. God knows, I deserved it.

Without saying a word, he reached out and took me by my left arm and hauled me across his knees. To my utter surprise I didn’t struggle. I could easily have forced my way to my feet and left the room. Instead, I adjusted myself across his knees, until I was in position with my arms out in front of me, palms down on the carpet. My torso rested comfortably across his lap and I kept my knees straight so my legs were an inch or so off the floor at the back.

Dad took hold of me around the middle of my body to make sure I wasn’t going to fall off as he went about spanking my bottom.

I was 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 but the briefest of underpants, which 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.

I lay across dad’s knee, waiting for the first slap. There was quite a pause – was he having second thoughts? – before Whack!! Down it came. I gasped a little. Then came another slap and another.

My bum was warming up, but I wasn’t in any great pain. Nonetheless, I wriggled across his lap: was it just a reflex action against the assault on my bottom?

The next whacks were harder and I grimaced and screwed up my face up in quite some discomfort.

But, the pain, such as it was, was bearable.

I’m not sure how many smacks with the slipper he gave me: but it was probably no more than a dozen.

He let me up and I stood in front of him, not quite knowing what I was supposed to do next. My face was bright red from being upside down, but I doubt if my bum was more than a shade of pink.

My bottom was hot, but it wasn’t particularly sore and certainly not throbbing. I don’t think I even felt the need to rub it.

“Go upstairs,” dad said. And, that was it: my first and only spanking.

I went to my bedroom and in time-honoured fashion I stood in front of the mirror, took down my trousers and pants and inspected the damage. Truthfully, there was nothing much to show for it.

I lay on my bed for a while reliving the past ten minutes. I couldn’t believe that I had been taken across my dad’s knee and given a dose of the slipper. As I recalled each moment of the spanking, from being scolded in the kitchen, dragged into the living room, forced down over his knees and then walloped with the slipper, I felt an unfamiliar stirring within me.

I closed my eyes tight to try to visualise what I must have looked like draped over dad’s knee, the slipper rising and falling and smacking into the seat of my trousers.

The vision in my mind’s eye stirred my cock a little and I realised it was turning me on. My hand went down to touch it, but it wasn’t quite getting hard. I wasn’t aroused enough.

How typical of my dad – he couldn’t even spank me properly.

Tugging at my todger, I let my imagination take over and re-ran my spanking as it should have been.

We are in the living room. Dad has lectured me and I know I am to get the spanking of my life: and I deserve every whack of it.

Dad pulls the chair out from behind the table, puts it in the centre of the room and sits down. In his hand is a bedroom slipper. I am shaking my head and babbling on about “never doing it again.” But, like millions of naughty children before in the same situation, it does no good. I am going across dad’s knee.

Dad points to a spot to the right of where he is sitting. “Stand there,” he orders, and I do as I am told.

“Take down your trousers.”

Slowly and carefully, I undo the button, slide down the zip, and push the trousers down until they drop of their own accord to my ankles. My grey t-shirt covers all but the lowest inch of my honeycombed-coloured pants.

I blush, my face going cherry red, standing in front of dad with just my thin pants covering my bottom.

“Bend over my knee.”

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

I let him position me across his lap. My arm is taken and folded up my back, securing me and preventing any possible escape.

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

Then dad takes hold of the top of my pants. I panic. He’s going to bare my arse.

Then, I am lying across dad’s knee, bottom bare. I breathe in sharply. 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 cry.  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 of the slipper, the spanking quickly develops into a slow steady rhythmic rising and falling of the slipper. Each time the slipper contacts forcefully with my once pale creamy-white bottom, I grimace and screw my face up in some pain.

Dad’s large slipper thumps heavily down on my naked bottom time and time again. My bottom is really very sore now, and my arm hurts where I have been struggling and dad has restrained me.

I am howling and kicking like a child, begging dad to stop hurting me. Dad takes no notice: he is the master of me and he is giving me the sound spanking I so thoroughly deserve.

As the spanking continues, I realize with shock that my ass is on fire. It burns with a pain that bewilders me. Every fresh smack of the slipper tears a gasp from me, and I am crying; in fact, I’ve been crying for some time.

Yes, tears are flowing down my eighteen-year-old face, and nothing I can do will stop them flowing. My body lies flopped across dad’s lap and I just sob and sob as he pounds away.

Then it is over. With contempt dad rolls me off his lap and I fall to the floor, weeping buckets of tears. I stumble to my feet, disorientated. I am not sure where I am.

My face is red and hot. My hands go to try to sooth my burning bottom.

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

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

Now, dad is warning me that if I ever start another fire he will take a cane to my bare backside, young adult or not!

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

Yes, that’s the way to give a proper spanking.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first published in August 2015


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Charles Hamilton the Second


Rules of the House

z used otk pants down bed straightladsspankeddot com (2)

Joe Winterbottom was a middle-aged divorced man and he enjoyed a comfortable life in the suburbs; until his idle, disobedient, waste of space son, came to live with him.

Joe was happy to be divorced and even happier when his son Martin went to live with his mother. She could keep him, as far as Joe was concerned. The lazy good-for-nothing.

As Joe had predicted Martin left school as soon as legally possible when he was sixteen and was out of work more often than he was in. When he did work they were dead-end jobs; mostly labouring or factory jobs. Now, he was out of work again.

Joe could not care less. He did not like his son and the feeling was mutual. They rarely met these days, the boy was twenty years old and an adult, he could take care of himself, Joe thought.

Except that he couldn’t. Martin still lived with this mother, who did everything for him. It wasn’t that she doted on him, because she didn’t, but she had just got into a routine of cleaning, cooking and waiting on him hand and foot; the way mother’s did.

But, her life was about to change, she was going to remarry and move home; and Martin was decidedly not invited.

Joe said, “No way. Definitely not. Over my dead body,” when his wife suggested that Martin moved in with him.

But, the reality was different. For Martin it was either move in with his dad or sleep on the streets and against his better judgement, Joe agreed he could stay with him temporarily until he found another place to live.

It was a disaster from the start. Martin wasn’t going to change; he expected everything to be done for him; he rarely got out of bed before the afternoon and he messed up the house with unwashed cups and plates. And, if that wasn’t bad enough, he didn’t mind helping himself to Joe’s whiskey: the good stuff.

Joe reckoned he needed a plan to get his son on his feet and out of the house for good. First, he needed to find the boy a job where he could earn enough money to rent a room of his own; then he had to make Martin clear out.

The job was easier than he imagined. A colleague at work told him about a burger bar in town, they were always hiring; his own son worked there for a while. His boy had learned a lot of discipline at the bar, he reported rather enigmatically.

Joe wasn’t so sure, working at a burger bar was a dead-end, it wouldn’t lead anywhere; it was the place students worked for extra cash while they were studying, it wasn’t a real job.

But, another night of unwashed cups and Martin lazing around the house while he was still wearing yesterday’s shirt changed Joe’s mind.

Joe knew he would have to take the initiative and went to the burger bar himself. The manager said he would be happy to try the boy out and that was how Martin joined the world of the employed.

His first shift started at 9am on Tuesday, but no way was he going to make it. It was already 8.15 and he was still under the bed clothes stroking his penis.

Joe burst into the room. “Come on Martin. Up, you’ll be late for work!”

Martin didn’t care; he ignored his dad, rolled over and faced the wall, “Fuck off it’s too early.”

When he thought about it later, Joe could not understand what came over him. It wasn’t planned and it wasn’t something he had ever done before.

In a fury, he ripped the bedclothes off his son’s back, and grabbed the boy’s arm. Martin was too startled to realise what was happening, or to resist.

Before he knew it Martin was on his feet and his dad was sitting on the bed, then without a word, Joe pulled his son face down on top of him, ripped down the boy’s underpants, and spanked his bare bottom like he was eight years old.

Joe had the advantage of surprise and held his son firmly around the waist while he pummelled away at his buttocks. It was a furious barrage of slaps all over both of the boy’s cheeks. Martin cursed his dad and tried to struggle free, but Joe had him across his knees so high that his upper body was face down on the bed; he could wriggle left and right over his dad’s lap but he couldn’t lift himself free.

Joe put all his effort into the spanking; this was for all the slovenly behaviour, that’s for the laziness, the rudeness, stealing his malt whiskey and most of all for disrupting his quiet life.

Eventually, he released his grip and Martin sprang to his knees. Humiliated that his dad could see his genitals he stooped down to pick up his underpants and covered himself up. His bottom was bright red and stung like mad.

“Quickly, get washed and I’ll give you a lift into work,” Joe said, and meekly his son obeyed.

Martin avoided his father at home that evening; and that suited Joe very well. He hoped it meant the spanking had worked and his son would be better behaved in future. The next morning Martin was up in good time to take himself to work and Joe was very pleased, but the boy soon slipped back into his old ways.

Maybe I should give him another spanking, Joe thought. He probably couldn’t though; last time he had the element of surprise, if he tried again, Martin would be ready and put up a struggle. He was a fit lad and could do his dad some serious damage in a fair fight.

The only way it would work was if Martin was submissive and agreed to be spanked.

Martin went out clubbing on Friday and missed work completely on Saturday. That’s it, Joe decided, he will have to accept discipline, or go.

When Martin eventually got out of bed, Joe called him into the living room and put it to him simply. He had rehearsed it once or twice, until it didn’t sound so silly; he was asking a grown man of twenty to accept a spanking from him and to agree that unless his behaviour and attitude improved there would be more like that to come.

“So, that’s my decision, Martin,” he said. “I am going to spank you for staying out late and for missing work.”

“No, you’re not,” it was simple defiance. Joe had expected it and knew he couldn’t force the issue, but he tried one more time.

“Either, you take a spanking, or you can pack your bags and go.”

“Yeah, right,” and with that Martin stormed off to his room.

It was the easiest thing in the world to get a locksmith and when Martin arrived at the house from work on Monday he discovered he was homeless.

Joe let him scream and holler on the doorstep; who cared what the neighbours thought. He opened a new bottle of whiskey, turned up the volume on his music centre and waited. Eventually, Martin went away and Joe really didn’t care where to.

The phone rang and he knew it would be his ex-wife, so he didn’t answer. A little drunk – that’s what you get for drinking whiskey on an empty stomach – he went to bed.

He couldn’t ignore his wife’s calls forever. She wasn’t going to take Martin back, it was Joe’s turn to look after him.

No it wasn’t, he was twenty years old and he could look after himself. Their argument went nowhere and eventually Joe hung up on his wife.

Martin was stuck, his mother’s new husband was adamant the boy could not stay with them, and since it was his house and he paid the bills, his word was law.

Martin asked around at work but no one could help; they mostly still lived with their parents. The boss, Billy, said he had a spare room; he lived in a council flat on a run-down estate, but it wasn’t as bad as it sounded.

Martin was about to jump at the chance; but one of the lads took him to one side. Billy had a reputation. There was this story about the student who worked there one summer and messed up once too often. The boy was made to stay after the burger bar was closed. Billy thought everyone had gone home but he was wrong. That’s how people knew he made the eighteen-year-old take down his jeans and bend across his knee. By all accounts he gave him one heck of a spanking.

Martin blanched, “No, you’re kidding; you’re winding me up.” No way, he spanked that kid. No way. It was just one of those stories people made up about their boss.

But, Martin decided to pass on Billy’s offer.

Joe was still getting grief from his ex-wife. She was scared for Martin; was he sleeping in a shop doorway at night? To get her off his back, Joe agreed to go visit his son at the burger bar to see what was going on.

Martin was feeling desperate; he was scared witless for the future, he had no real friends, no money and now nowhere to live. He was very pleased when his dad turned up, but wasn’t about to let him know.

Joe felt forced by his wife into taking Martin back, but no way was he going to retreat. The boy had to accept his discipline.

Then there was an unexpected turn of events. They had shared a drink in a nearby pub and suddenly Joe mellowed to his son; but not by much.

He heard himself saying, “The offer is still open. You take a spanking.”

A man at the next table pretended not to hear, but listened intently.

“Dad!” Martin was embarrassed to be talking about this at all; but he didn’t want to discuss it in the middle of a crowded pub.

“Let me know your decision,” Joe drained his glass and went home.

Martin was very drunk by the time he rang the bell of his dad’s house. Joe let him in anyway.

The next day Joe stopped off at little shop he knew, tucked away off the town centre. He had bought magazines there in the past and noticed they also sold “adult toys.” The paddle he purchased seemed authentic enough. It was about eighteen inches long by three wide and about a quarter-inch thick. Some joker had painted “The Board of Education” on one side.

Joe thought he would be more embarrassed than he was, but the shop assistant knew how to wrap a toy discreetly.

Martin knew what was waiting for him when he got home, but he didn’t delay his return. He knew it would hurt, but he was no stranger to corporal punishment. He had been punished by the teachers at school many times. Yes, Martin hated his dad for it and he knew the spanking from him would hurt, but he had no choice, his father was in control. If Martin wanted to stay living under his dad’s roof, he had to obey his rules.

Joe couldn’t work out why exactly, but he seemed to be looking forward to this. If only he had given the boy a dose of the paddle years ago, they wouldn’t be in this mess now. He needed to make up for lost time and Martin’s bum would have to suffer – a lot.

It happened in the front room; there was a large couch, ideal for a boy of Martin’s size to bend over in comfort, but what would happen next would be far from comfortable, Joe would make damn sure of that. Apart from last week, when he did it in a blind fury, Joe had never spanked a person before. Surely there can’t be that much to it; the objective was to cause the maximum pain possible and to do that he would whack the paddle into the buttocks. Simple. So long as Martin was submissive and didn’t put up a fight and try to get out of it.

Joe needn’t have worried; Martin had made up his mind. To be twenty years old and spanked was humiliating enough, he wouldn’t make matters worse by yelling and screaming.

“Martin, stand there,” Mr Winterbottom pointed to the back of the couch and Martin took up position a couple of feet behind it. Joe had prepared a little speech, to make clear to his son why he was being beaten. He recounted all of Martin’s faults: it was a long list.

The boy remained silent, there wasn’t much to say. Everything his father said was true, but he didn’t feel remorse; he despised his dad and this beating would just make him loathe him more.

Joe picked up the paddle and tested it for weight. Let’s get on with it, he thought.

“Pants down.”

If looks could kill. Martin silently unbuckled his belt, unzipped, and his pants fell to his knees, revealing he was wearing a pair of baggy shorts.

“Underwear too.”

This was too much.

“Dad! No, not on the bare.”

Joe’s withering stare was enough of an answer and turning his back on his father so he wouldn’t see his cock and balls, Martin whipped down the shorts.

“Bend over.”

Martin swooped over the back of the couch, grabbed the seat cushions tightly, and presented his bare bum perfectly for the attention of his father and his paddle.

Joe hadn’t seen many men’s bums in his life, but he reckoned Martin’s baby smooth, creamy, buttocks must be exceptional.

Exceptional, they might be, but they didn’t remain smooth and creamy for long. Joe brought the paddle down with some force across the centre of both cheeks.

Martin’s eyes popped and he gripped the cushions even tighter. He had been beaten a few times in the past, but never on the bare bottom and nothing before had hurt so much.

Whack! number two landed higher and Whack! number three, lower so the whole of the buttocks was stinging red.

Martin gasped and then groaned as the pain mounted across his fleshy globes. He was determined not to let himself down, so clung desperately to the cushions.

His breathing was heavier as Whack! Whack! four and five bit home. He raised his head in agony and let out a silent cry.

The cry became a yell as six and seven did their worse. Martin’s legs danced up and down in a futile attempt to ease the fiery agony coursing through his buttocks and thighs.

Joe could clearly see the image of the paddle tattooed in red marks across his son’s backside. He knew Martin was in torment, but instead of causing him sorrow or regret, the sight of the raw buttocks spurred him on in his mission.

Whack! number eight crashed into the crease where the ass and the thighs meet. Martin raised himself ready to jump up and down, clutching his throbbing buttocks, but at the last second he regained control enough to remain in position. He would not give his dad the satisfaction of witnessing his defeat.

Whacks!! nine and ten walloped down across the centre of the bum, reigniting all the existing wounds. The swats were so hard Martin lost his control. His legs stomped up and down on the spot as he wailed like a little boy. Tears cascaded down his face and he choked for breath. Mr Winterbottom could see snot rolling down his son’s mouth. His whole body was heaving with convulsions.

Joe took a step back to admire his handiwork. Martin’s buttocks were red and raw; blood was beginning to seep from some of the bruises. It reminded him of the hamburger meat at the burger bar.

“Stand up,” Joe commanded. He felt an unaccustomed sense of authority. Things would never be the same again.

Slowly and in agony, Martin climbed off the back of the couch. He was too distressed even to worry that his father could see his manhood. Gingerly, he put his hands on his throbbing buttocks, but removed them instantly; the pain was like sitting on a hotplate.

“Go to your room.”

Without waiting to put on his trousers and shorts (an impossible task in his state of agony) he rushed from the room, took the stairs two at a time and crashed through his bedroom door and hurled himself onto his bed, burying his face deep into the pillow, sobbing his guts up.

Downstairs, Mr Winterbottom poured himself another whiskey, then took a pen and paper from his briefcase and began to write.

Rules of the house.

Number 1. Curfew …….

Picture credit: straightladsspankeddotcom

This story was first uploaded in August 2015.


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Charles Hamilton the Second


Rock n Roll Sinner

zused short shorts pop records (21)

Mr Harriet drove his car slowly up the drive of his house, switched off the engine and seethed. You could hear the heavy beat coming from his front room a mile away. It was a wonder the house itself wasn’t vibrating. Jungle music. Scandalous. Disgraceful. Ungodly. He hauled himself from his car and walking fast, but not quite running, he headed for the front door.

Inside his son Richard, eighteen years old and a high school graduate, gyrated to the music. From a disc a man was wailing. Mr Harriet couldn’t make out the words. “Cecile?” What was that all about? Richard was oblivious to his father’s presence. In ecstasy; hips gyrating, arms twirling, head waving, heart pounding. Mr Harriet stood aghast. Astonished. He rushed to the record player, swiped the arm from the disc, pulled it away and puce in the face smashed it once, twice, three times against the back of a wooden chair until it was shattered to pieces.

Richard stood eyes burning with distain and watched his father, sweat streaming from his contorted face, turn to a pile of discs and with his right forearm swipe them from the shelf. “Ungodly. Disgraceful. Jungle music!” he screamed.

Richard watched, his fists clenched. His father was drawing in gulps of air, struggling to regain equilibrium. He bent forward, hands on knees wheezing. A little calmer, he eyed his son with despair. The boy was dressed as if for the beach. A tee-shirt and shorts so short his thighs were visible. “Dear God,” Mr Harriet said aloud, “How has it come to this?”

Mr Harriet loved his children – all six of them. He had provided for them and his wife all his life.  He worked long hours; hard work, done without resentment. He had brought them up as good God-fearing church attendees. And now this. Where did he go wrong?

He stood face to face with his son. The boy was maybe an inch shorter than his father and a hundred pounds lighter. He didn’t flinch. He kept his father’s furious stare. “How many times have I told you about this music?” his father said, attempting, but not quite achieving, stillness. “It’s the Devil’s music. It is sinful. Full of lust. Ungodly. Music of the jungle.”

Richard was impassive. He had heard it many times before. He knew his father’s next sentence. “And don’t think I don’t know you sneak off to those n______  clubs at night. Dens of iniquity. Drugs. Whores.” Spittle dribbled down Mr Harriet’s chin.

“Well ….” Mr Harriet left the sentence unfinished. Richard didn’t bother to follow his father with his eyes as the old man strode across the room. He knew where he was going. Mr Harriet reached up to a hook on the wall. From it dangled a stout wooden paddle. He took it down and tested it in his hand, as if he had never held it before. It was about fourteen inches long and five wide, not including the handle. It had six holes drilled in the blade. It was made of maple and heavy.

Mr Harriet brandished the wood at Richard. The feel of the paddle had a calming effect. Mr Harriet placed his hand on his son’s shoulder. He loved him so much. God loved him so much. Didn’t the boy see that? Why did he forsake his father and God? He must be saved. How would he enter the kingdom of Heaven?

Richard flinched at his father’s touch, his fists still bunched. Mr Harriet removed his hand from his son’s shoulders and rubbed it along the length of the paddle’s blade, emphasising is length and strength. It was an unnecessary gesture; Richard had felt the power of that paddle many times in the past. It was awesome. In his father’s hands it would tear his backside to pieces.

“Son,” Mr Harriet almost whispered. “You know you have sinned. You know you must be punished,” his eyes were moist. “I love you.” He rubbed the paddle once more. “The Good Book says ‘spare the rod, spoil the child’,” he choked back tears, “But if you promise me that you will never play that music again, nor go to those clubs, if you promise me that son, then I won’t beat you.” He wiped his tears on the sleeve of his shirt.

When his eyes were dried Mr Harriet watched astonished as his son without hesitation unbuckled his shorts and pulled the zipper. They slithered down his thighs. Richard parted his knees and they continued south to his feet. Not looking at his father, he hitched his thumbs into his underpants and tugged them down to his knees. He turned on his heels, faced the back of the couch and in one simple athletic movement he bent forward. He wriggled into place; head low, naked bottom high, legs slightly apart. A perfect target.

Mr Harriet took a deep breath and eyes heavenward, he muttered words that Richard could not decipher. The eighteen-year-old stared down at the couch cushion and tried to stop his heart rushing. He felt the cold wooden blade against his cool naked buttocks. He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. The wood rose and fell with a terrific swipe into his pert bottom. A dark red image of the paddle seared into the flesh. Richard shook his head. That hurt. A lot. So did the next swipe. And the next. And the next.

His father had God and righteousness on his side. The paddle rose and fell. Again, and again and again. Richard’s buttocks were small and the paddle large in comparison. Not a single square inch of flesh was left untoasted. From the sensitive sit-spot where the buttocks meet the thighs, across the curves themselves and along the top close to the spine. The once creamy-white flesh turned quickly pink, then red, then mauve. Blisters formed wherever the edge of the paddle pounded flesh.




Two years later Mr Harriet knelt on his bedroom floor, forehead to the ground, tears streaming, his face awash with snot. He was incoherent. Inconsolable. “Oh God! Oh God!” he wailed. On the nightstand was a newspaper. Rickie Harriet and his band the Rebels had reached number one in the Billboard chart with their new disc “Rock n Roll is here to stay.”

Picture credit: unknown

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Charles Hamilton the Second


The Country Club

z used twosome coutry club

His name was Arthur, but I didn’t discover that until much later. It was a hot day in midsummer. Arthur wore the smallest and tightest shorts, pale yellow with dots; like ones you would wear to the beach. His smooth tanned body glistened with sweat. His blond, shaggy hair was drenched. I watched the muscles in his back, his arms, his legs twist as he pushed the mower across the grass. It looked like he had already cut acres, but he wasn’t even half way done.

It was at Brocklehurst Country Club. Arthur was a labourer and he had a young manual-worker’s body. Hard, with not enough fat to sizzle a sausage. I was the son of the Club’s President, hanging around for no good reason during my vacation from university. I sat on the porch of a summerhouse, staring, mesmerized by his tight arse pointing at me as he struggled to get the mower through overgrown grass. Even at a distance I could see he wore no underwear. Abruptly, he stopped his efforts. He turned his head and looked over his shoulder. Some instinct must have told him he had an admirer. He flashed me a smile. His ice-blue eyes glinted. I stared back. We had never met before.

The front of his shorts suddenly bulged. My pupils dilated. He smiled, his nose wrinkled. He ran the tip of his tongue across his lips. It was a grotesque parody of a tart. He was saying (but not actually speaking) “Come up and see me sugar.” I nodded my assent. He pointed to the summerhouse. I knew his intentions immediately. It took him two seconds to reach me and together we crashed through the door.

I lost a couple of buttons when Arthur ripped my shirt over my head. Then he popped the fastener on my jeans and pulled them down to my ankles, dragging my white underpants with them. I clutched at Arthur’s shorts. His rock-hard penis short skywards as they fell to his feet.

I didn’t immediately take his dick into my mouth. I poked out my tongue and licked up and down the rigid shaft, concentrating on the rim of the swollen head. Arthur gasped. He grabbed hold of my hair and pulled my head forward towards his cock. It was difficult for me to breathe, but I kept up the licking, spluttering saliva up the full length of his eight-inch member. I don’t think I had ever held a cock that was so hard. A thick vein ran the full length, the whole thing was purple and I was sure it was about to explode, but Arthur must have had tremendous will-power because I kept on licking for several minutes. Then I opened my mouth and Arthur slid the top half of his dick inside.

I was sure they would hear Arthur’s groan of pleasure all the way back at the clubhouse. “Take it all, take it all,” he huffed. We tumbled to the floor and I was able to get the entire shaft into my mouth. Arthur thrust his hips and the tip of his cock hit my throat. I pushed his body back a bit to stop me from choking to death.

“Argh, that is so good,” Arthur moaned, his fingers were trailing through my soft hair. Then they slid down on to the smooth, silky skin of my shoulders. Then he was all over me. My back, my arse. He slipped his finger in my crack but seemed to have second thoughts and immediately withdrew it. He went for my thighs and then the ball sack. My cock was throbbing hard. I couldn’t hold out much longer. I gave out a low groan. Arthur pinched my left nipple. I shot a load.

“I’m cumming,” Arthur screamed a warning. Too late. A gallon of spunk shot into my mouth.

We had sex often that summer. Arthur was uninhibited. We did it every which way you could imagine – and some ways you could not. We never became friends. We were the same age but he had left Gumshoe Lane Tech School at fifteen and had been in and out of mundane jobs since. I had attended St. Tom’s, a well-known public (that is elite private) school. I was at university and would soon enjoy a lucrative career in merchant banking. He was as thick as two short planks: what the boys at school called an oik. I took to calling Arthur, Arty. He loved it. I think it sounded glamourous to him: American perhaps. I meant it as R.T. – as in Rough Trade, but be that as it may.

One day it was hotter than ever and I spent a languid afternoon watching Arthur work. He really was the sexiest animal; all muscles and brawn. I think he liked to have me watching. I suppose he was proud of his body; let’s face it he had nothing else much going for him. He had finished cutting back bushes near the tennis courts and his shorts were drenched in sweat. I saw the tip of his – as yet still flaccid – cock through the transparent material. I was ready for more red-hot sex. Arthur had other ideas.

“I know where we can get some beer,” he flashed a smile. His lips were so red it looked as if he had been drinking raspberry cordial. “Without paying,” he added with a note of triumph. He was like a ten-year-old boy who thought he knew a secret nobody in the entire world but himself knew about. Bless him.

There was a store of crates full of beer by the clubhouse bar. Ours for the taking. The bar staff “nicked them” all the time, he told me. It would be easy. It was too. The clubhouse bar was closed during the afternoons (the ridiculous local licensing laws) and left unattended. The bar steward would not return until nearly six in the evening to reopen it.

We took four bottles – two each. They were for personal use, as a defence lawyer might tell a court. They were warm and we ran them under a water tap in an unsuccessful attempt to cool them down. Warm Double Diamond beer; it is one of the great memories of my youth. That and Watney’s Party Seven. But I digress. We took them back to the summerhouse, knocked them back in a trice and set about sucking each other’s cocks.

It was close to five when, nearly exhausted by sexual gymnastics, we ambled back to the clubhouse. If we returned the empties, Arthur assured me, they would never know the beer had been stolen. It might have worked too, if Sergeant Harry the bar steward hadn’t decided to use the afternoon to clean the beer taps. Long story short: we were caught. Bang to rights. Thieves.

Harry was another loser. He was in his forties, I guess, but seemed much older to me at the time. He was tall but his shoulders slumped, like he had been ground down. He had probably been a barman all his life. That or a waiter or some other step-and-fetch. He wore a fake uniform, with sergeant stripes on his sleeves. You saw that a lot; doormen, messengers, cinema commissionaires; men who had nothing to show for their lives except when they had been forced to go into the Military and were led by the nose by superior officers to become their batmen or valets. Typical Working Class. The members of the Country Club saw this. Harry loved it when they called him “Serge”, but he didn’t have the wit to see they were patronising the hell out of him.

Harry frowned and then slowly his face creased. I could almost hear the rusty cogs in his brain turning. He was trying to think. To come up with an idea. To make a decision. I stood impatiently, waiting for something to happen. Arthur was impassive. At last Harry spoke. “I’ll have to report you,” he said slowly, as if waiting for our confirmation that he had made the right decision. Harry leaned in toward me. I could smell cheap roll-up cigarettes on his clothing. “I’ll have to tell your father.” I swear he leered.

My father was the President of the Country Club, the top banana; the Field Marshall to Harry’s Sergeant. Of course Harry had to report me. I took the news calmly. I wasn’t about to go into a funk in front of the servants. Father would not be best pleased. I was a thief. If the thing became public, his own reputation would suffer. Good God if it went to the magistrate court and I was convicted (as I should be) my career would be in tatters before it had even started. Merchant banking and thieving do not go together.

By chance my father was at the club that evening attending some committee meeting or other. I waited in the bar while Harry delivered his news. Arthur and I remained silent. I knew precisely what would happen. There was not the slightest doubt. I was a public school man. We had rules about these things.

About thirty minutes later my father appeared in the bar. He was a large man. We used to call such people “stout” but today we would be more truthful. His double chin wobbled as he shook his head wildly. “Impossible”, “unbelievable”, “incredible”. He was at a loss for words. “Is it true?” he asked, although he knew the answer.

If there was one thing I learned at St. Tom’s it was never get caught. Obviously, I hadn’t learned that lesson well. The second lesson was if you were caught red-handed admit it and accept the consequences. Arthur stood beside me dumbstruck. He wasn’t much of a talker at the best of times. He stared rather shamefaced at his canvas shoes. I spoke for both of us; in monosyllables. Yes we had done it. There wasn’t much to say.

Father harrumphed. He shook his head. I watched the glistening fat of his jowls and chin quiver. “To the boardroom,” he growled. “The pair of you. Now.”  The room was a short distance down a passageway from the bar. Without a word to each other Arthur and I shambled away, leaving my father mumbling into his chest as he ambled towards the telephone.

The boardroom was oak-panelled and distinguished, as befitting a country club for gentleman. A long rectangular table with a highly-polished top dominated its centre. Glass-fronted bookcases ran along three sides. I had never been in the room before but I could tell the leather-bound volumes were rarely read. An open fire, of course unlit since it was the height of summer, stretched along the fourth wall. Large, heavy, solidly upholstered chairs ran along two sides of the table. We stood at one end and waited. It felt like I was back at the headmaster’s study at St. Tom’s.

After a minute or two I heard the sound of a vehicle’s engine outside the window. A door opened and closed. Two men whispered to each other. Moments later the door of the boardroom flew open. Father stood breathless. He made no attempt to disguise that he held a long thick punishment cane in his hand. I recognised it at once. He had seconded it from our home. He lay it on the table top. Arthur’s eyes shone at its sight. He had attended oik-school so I don’t suppose he had seen such a thing before. The rubber-soled gym plimsoll was the punishment instrument of choice there, I believe. At worst they would get a smack of a solid bamboo rod across the open palm of the hand. This would be unknown territory for him.

Not for me. The cane on the table was longer and denser than the ones they flogged our behinds with at St. Tom’s. It didn’t have the traditional curved handle either. This was a Malacca cane, the kind that they used on juvenile delinquents in Kenya where my father was stationed for many years. It was designed not only to hurt (naturally, or else what was the point?) but to leave deep welts that would last days or weeks. This was an awesome rod.

Father unbuttoned his jacket and with some difficulty slipped it from his shoulders. A roll of fat hung over the waist of his trousers. His shirt was soaked in sweat. He waddled across the room and hung the jacket on a hat stand in the corner. He had not spoken a word since entering the room. With his left hand he unbuttoned the cuff of his shirt and slowly rolled the right sleeve over and over. He stopped when it was above the elbow so that his forearm was bare. He flexed his arm to ensure it could move unimpeded. Satisfied, he reached forward and picked up the cane. My eyes followed Arthur’s stare as he followed my father’s movements. Father flexed the cane between his hands reminding me of its surprising flexibility. He showed its whippy-ness by swishing it through the empty air. Arthur’s blue eyes shone as he watched it fly.

It was at about this time I became aware that Sgt. Harry was standing on the other side of the window. He made no attempt to hide. He had an unobstructed view of the proceedings. He licked his lips in anticipation.

Father was ready. The first words he spoke since entering the room was to Arthur. Father tapped the cane against the edge of the table. “Stand there boy.” Arthur blanched; he appeared to be breathing heavily. He made no protest. He walked to the spot indicated. “Shorts and pants down.” Father’s face was awash with sweat. Arthur undid the shorts. They were the same poker-dot ones he wore the first day we met. As always he wore no underpants. More tapping of the cane. “Bend over.”

I was mightily impressed that Arthur submitted himself to my father’s will. I expected as much from a public-school man, but the oiks were well-known to be cowards. It went with their renowned idleness. Arthur leaned forward and rested the palms of his hands on the table top, evidently unsure how to present himself for a thrashing. “All the way, flat on the table,” my father barked. Arthur slid forward. He folded his arms and rested his face in them. Behind him he bent his knees and spread his legs a little. I had a perfect view of his bottom. My cock stirred. I had been in and out of his hole for most of the summer.

Father took hold of Arthur’s t-shirt and pushed it up his back. This was not strictly necessary since it did not impinge on the target area. Arthur shivered. He shook some more as my father sawed his cane across the centre of Arthur’s mounds. The cheeks twitched; his hole blinked. Father planted his feet firmly on the ground about a yard apart. He bent his knees and gripped the cane so tightly his knuckles began to blanch. I watched transfixed as he rose the cane to above shoulder height; then he twisted his body and brought the rod crashing through the air in an arc. The swoosh as it went reminded me it was weightier than the canes the headmaster used at St. Tom’s. It smacked into Arthur’s stretched haunches and sank deep into the flesh. A thick dark-pink line immediately spread across the cheeks. A perfect shot. There was a second of so of total silence before Arthur expelled a lung-full of air through his clenched teeth. His back buckled and his hips rose fully ten inches from the table. His knees caved. His head rose from his arms and then with a monumental example of self-control he forced it back into position. I saw him suck on his forearm, stifling the scream his agonised body so obviously wanted him to yell.

Father pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. It was a copious size. It needed to be to mop up the rivers of perspiration that soaked his face and neck. He dried himself off and let the handkerchief fall onto the table top. It would be needed many more times before my father completed his duties that afternoon.

He ran the cane along the underside of Arthur’s cheeks, at the sensitive “sit spot” where buttocks meet the thigh. He did the body twisting thing again but this time he landed the Malacca cane with an upward stoke. A bright red stripe lit up Arthur’s bottom in parallel to the first. I had forgotten what an expert my father was. Arthur’s body twisted and turned, his legs stomped up and down like a soldier on sentry duty. He bit deep into his arm. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Harry, his jaw dropped and eyes on stalks.

Arthur’s incredible gymnastics as the third stroke flogged the upper curves were awe-inspiring; an  absolute frenzy of jerking and twisting of his arms, legs and naked buttocks. A red soreness had spread across the teenager’s rear end, from the top of the globes near the spine, over the fleshy hills and into the smooth underside. This was a thoroughly-thrashed criminal.  But, father had not finished. He wiped himself dry once more, taking time to ensure his palms were free of sweat and his grip on the cane unimpaired. Father’s face already bright red was turning purple. Swipe! Arthur let escape a hiss so loud and so prolonged it reminded me of a steam train settling down at the railway station.

Grudgingly I admired Arthur’s stoicism. I had been beaten many times in the past. St. Tom’s was that kind of school. I had once been lashed by my father after my brother and I made a visit to the seaside without permission, but none compared to this. Father put every ounce of his considerable weight into the flogging. I admired Arthur’s bum for its beefiness. He had globes like peaches. When I caressed them in the palms of my hand their solidness sent waves of desire through my body. Now, they were being ripped to shreds. The cane rose again and swiped down into that flesh cutting deeply. His backside started to resemble a map of Clapham Junction.

At last it was over. Six-of-the-very-best, delivered with vim and vigour by an expert in his craft. Arthur lay face down wheezing like a beached whale. The back of his neck was as scarlet as his rear-end. Cold sweat soaked the back of his t-shirt. Father left him there. His own breathing was strained. The handkerchief did its work once more. After what seemed an eternity, he ordered Arthur to stand. He hauled himself to his feet and stumbled a little before clutching onto the table’s edge. His neck was red but his face was deathly pale. He couldn’t (or wouldn’t) look at me. Sure that he was steady on his feet, he leaned over to retrieve his shorts from his ankles affording me a delightful view of his brutalized buttocks. My eyes shot straight to his hole, so inviting.

Father flexed his cane, swished it in my direction and intoned, “Take his place.” Determined not to let myself down in front of a boy from the lower orders, I moved into position. I was ready to bare myself for deserved punishment. I reached for and undid the button on the waistband of my jeans. Suddenly, I stopped. I couldn’t do this. Not now. Not with my father, Andrew and Harry all watching.

“Don’t keep me waiting,” my father growled. His eyes glared fiercely. I caught a smirk on Arthur’s face. He thought I was a coward, chickening out. I couldn’t allow that. I had to go through with it. I had to lower my jeans, despite the intense humiliation I felt.

I pulled the zipper and let the jeans fall. I closed my eyes in embarrassment, hooked my thumbs into my underpants and tugged them down. My cock crowed. It was six inches and growing. I don’t think it had ever been so hard. It poked at the ceiling; already the tip was glistening. I cannot describe the look of horror on my father’s face as I shuffled forward and with great difficulty lay flat against the table top.


Picture credit: Unknown


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Fake News #12

slipper otk white pants bed straightladsspanked (4)

Dads’ Crusade: Bring Back the Slipper

EXCLUSIVE The Daily Globe


Dads across the nation are calling on the government to relax the ban on corporal punishment in the home with the rallying cry: “Bring back the slipper.”

It is their response to official figures showing the rise in juvenile-related crime. The say their sons need a “damn good hiding” to keep them out of trouble and on the straight-and-narrow. And, they think they are the right people to give it.

“We see eighteen, nineteen, twenty year olds totally out of control. They have never been taught how to behave. It is still not too late,” said Mr. Nosher Sykes, of the pro-spanking organisation Beat Their Backsides.

“I would gladly take any one of them across my knee for a good dose of the slipper. Of course they would have to take down their trousers – and probably their pants too – otherwise it wouldn’t hurt much.”

The campaign is gathering pace and local groups of Beat Their Backsides have been started across the country.

Mr. Ernie Flynn, 52, started one in Brocklehurst, Brockshire. He says it already has more than 100 supporters. He told the Daily Globe in an interview, “We are firm believers in corporal punishment for unruly young men. They are totally out of control now we can’t dish out a damn good hiding.”

He added, “The young don’t understand that actions have consequences. What they need is a jolly good over-the-knee spanking with a slipper. Preferably with their trousers down and maybe even their pants.”

A counter group calling itself “Hands to Yourself” seeking to keep the no-spanking law has been formed by older teenagers and young men.

A spokesperson for the Slipper Manufacturers Association anticipated an increase in sales should the law be relaxed. He said, “We can manufacture slippers in a variety of sizes and weights that would satisfy the needs of any disgruntled father.”

The Ministry of Justice which supported the ban on corporal punishment said there was no plan to change the law.


Picture credit: straightladsspankeddotcom

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