Wait til your father gets home

z used pyjamas otk (4e)

Danny pulls up his pyjama bottoms and sits on the edge of his bed. Waiting. He doesn’t realise he is chewing his fingernails to the quick. “Go to your room, put your pyjamas on and wait til your father gets home,” his mother had told him, so that’s what he is doing.

Any minute now dad will walk through the door, hairbrush in hand. It won’t be the first time, it won’t be the last. Eighteen years old and still being spanked by his dad. Danny stands, crosses the small bedroom and closes the window. He doesn’t want the neighbours to hear. If his pal Kenneth next door ever found out, Danny would be a laughing stock.

He paces the room. Three steps one way and then he reaches the wall, turns round. Then six paces to the other wall. Why does dad do this to him, he wonders. Danny is an adult. He’s been working for two years. He’s too old to be spanked. He knows the answer. Dad’s house; dad’s rules. His way or the highway. Danny’s big mouth got him into trouble. Sassing his mother. Again. This time she has had enough of it. So, “Go to your room. Wait til your father gets home.”

The door bursts open. Dad stands in the threshold, brandishing mum’s hairbrush. There is no polite knocking at the door. This is his house, he’ll go where he pleases. Dad snarls. Mum has told him all about it. Danny steps back. His dad is huge, easily six-four. He towers over Danny. Poor lad s hardly five-six. He takes after his mother’s side of the family.

Danny opens and closes his mouth, wanting to plead mitigation. But, he has no excuses. He is guilty as charged. Rude. Offensive. Insolent. Dad bares his teeth. His face a picture of fury. His dark bushy eyebrows and thick moustache give him more than a hint of menace. Dad doesn’t say much. What is there to say? He waves the brush in Danny’s face, the teenager retreats. Fearful. He has his back to the wall . There is no escape.

“That chair. Here.” Dad nods towards a worn wooden chair. Danny knows what he is expected to do. He carries the heavy chair and plonks it down so that its back rests against the wall. There is just enough space in the room for dad to do his duty. Dad sits on the chair and peers at his son. The boy can’t meet his father’s gaze. He studies his bare feet, noticing his toenails need cutting.

Dad clutches the hairbrush tightly. Its large head is heavy, almost circular. It is as if it was made for spanking. Dad is nearly ready. It might be 2017 but dad lives by traditional values. It is the duty of fathers to guide their sons through the choppy seas of life to adulthood. Too many parents these days fail their children. They let them run wild. Give them no boundaries. And, look how they turn out. Not, Danny. Mr. Knight will not allow that.

“Bend over,” he slaps his thighs for emphasis. Danny looks from the ground and stares wide-eyed. His father is huge and he is small. The old man’s legs are as thick as tree trunks. He has parted them wide to give his son the perfect platform for submission. The muscles in dad’s arms are huge, they ripple as he holds the brush.

All saliva drains from Danny’s mouth. The room is hot now the window is closed. His knees tremble a little. Dad slaps his thigh once more. Impatiently. Danny draws in breath. It won’t do to keep dad waiting. He step forward and hurls himself across dad’s legs, like a diver going into an icy pool. His arms hardly stretch beyond dad’s left knee, his legs dangle in the air behind him. His bottom rests in the gap between dad’s knees.

Danny stares ahead of him, his shock of blond hair failing into his eyes. He concentrates on the poster of Manchester United that is stuck to his wall. He closes his eyes. Then opens them again. Then closes them. Contemplating the agony to come. He feels dad grip the elasticated waistband of his pyjama bottoms. He knows dad always does this this but still a shockwave travels his body. This is too humiliating, he thinks. But, the baring of the bottom is one of dad’s rituals. “There,” he seems to be saying, “Don’t you feel ashamed of yourself? Having your bare bottom spanked.”

Dad pulls the pyjamas down just enough that two buttocks are exposed. He is nearly ready, but not quite. Gently, he takes the end of Danny’s pyjama jacket and pushes it half way up the eighteen-year-old’s back. He is presented with an area of hairless flesh. Danny’s cheeks are round and fleshy, but firm. They were made to be spanked. They clench and unclench. They always do. Dad grips his son across the back with his left arm. Danny turns his head, trying to look over his shoulder at his dad, but the old man has him locked tightly.

Smack! The brush hammers into the centre of Danny’s left cheek. Then another strikes the right. Dad admires his handiwork. Two deep-pink circular marks are imprinted in his son’s bum. Danny’s fair skin reddens easily. Whack-whack-whack. The heavy hairbrush rises and falls. Danny’s legs kick. It is a reflex action, he can’t control himself. As more swipes rain down into his unprotected buttocks, Danny’s body weaves left and right. He holds on to his dad’s legs to stop himself tumbling to the floor.

Dad continues to snarl as he whacks the brush on and on. Deliberately he smacks Danny across the back of the bare thighs. Hard. That gets his son howling. Good! dad thinks; a spanking is supposed to hurt otherwise what’s the point? Danny is yelping with every whack that hammers into his bare bum, but he is not crying. He used to shed bucket loads when dad spanked him. Now, he has a higher level of self-control. It took a lot of practice. He will not let dad see him cry, not today, not ever.

Dad is strong, he can go on spanking all night long. Every square inch of Danny’s buttocks and thighs has been toasted. There is no virgin flesh for dad to attack. So he goes round the circuit again, slapping his brush into already tender flesh. The top of the buttocks, the crest of the mounds, the tender under-curves and the thighs; none of it is missed. Satisfied that he has whacked it all, dad goes round one more time.

Danny holds on to dad’s leg or dear life. He can’t breathe too well and his temples throb almost as much as his backside. Sweat is soaking his pyjama jacket. He can’t take much more of this.

Suddenly, the door opens. Mum is standing watching her husband tan the tail of her son. She thinks dad is doing a good job. That will teach the brat not to be sassy in future.

“Your programme is about to start,” she tells her husband. It is an ordinary conversation, you would not know Danny was lying face down across his dad’s knees having his bottom blistered.

“Alright, I’m coming,” dad says. He whacks the hairbrush at maximum force six more times across the very centres of both cheeks. Then he releases his grip on Danny, who stumbles from his dad’s knees and lies on the floor gasping for wind, like a beached dolphin. Dad steps over him and with his wife leaves the room.

Danny struggles to his knees and then is fully standing. He dives onto his bed, buries his face in the pillow and sobs his guts up.

 

Picture credit: Does anyone know this artist? I see his work all over the Internet, but have never discovered his name

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Sam’s caning

z used cane white pants down table

Sam glanced at the long, thin yellow-coloured crook-handled cane lying on the table and shuddered nervously at the thought of the wretched thing curling itself around his buttocks. He hated the dreadful waiting. Not that he was eager to have his backside beaten; he knew matters had to take their course. There was no escaping the inevitable and how he wished his dad would just get on with it.

The ticking of the clock echoed around the room. Dad was doing it deliberately, he knew. As if the pain of the thrashing wasn’t enough, dad wanted to increase the punishment by making him anticipate it.

At last, the door to the sitting room edged open. Sam eyed his dad apprehensively as he entered, quietly closing the door behind him. He was a bulky man, well into middle-age. His face was set tight. Nothing would prevent him from doing his duty. The list of Sam’s misdeeds had already been intoned remorselessly by his dad while Sam stood eyes focussed on the Axminster carpet.

Dad clicked his fingers and pointed to a spot close to the dining room table. Sam blanched and shuffled into position. He waited, head bowed, for further instructions.

“You persist in playing the rebel. I think a dose of the cane will teach you some manners and it must be hard and plentiful. That’s the only way to get the message across.”

He picked up the cane. It rattled provokingly against the table top. Dad flexed the wickedly supple yard of rattan effortlessly into a half circle and then swished it through the air as if testing its weight. It was light and whippy, a novice might think it too ineffective as a punishment tool. Mr. Ramsden knew otherwise.

Without thinking, Sam put his hands behind his back and smoothed his fingers over his bottom.

“You know what to do,” Mr. Ramsden was sharp and business like. Unable to look his dad in the eye, Sam unzipped his tight pale-blue jeans and pushed them down to his ankles.

“Bend over the table.”

Pulling up his shirt, he leaned over the table, as he had done so many times in the past. The rule was you had to keep your legs together, with your feet on the ground, and your arms flat on the table. You could wiggle, writhe, and scream all you wanted, but you couldn’t get out of position. You had to stay there and suffer, accept the pain willingly and demonstrate your submission.

Sam reckoned there was pride in being able to take a caning properly. He was twenty years old, it would be shameful to make a fuss.

His underpants were snug and he felt the soft cotton dig into his crack as he stretched forward. “Oh,” he gasped when dad gripped the waistband and slowly, inch by inch, drew Sam’s Y-fronts inside out and down to his thighs. His bum was plump and round, the skin smooth and hairless.

Dad “sawed” the cane across the fleshiest part of his son’s naked buttocks. The cheeks clenched, as if this might protect Sam from the fearful thrashing that was about to start.

“Relax,” his dad, tapped the cane into the underside of Sam’s curves. Then he raised the rattan and took a fairly substantial swing back. Suddenly the tip of the cane vanished in a blur as it travelled at incredible speed with a whistling Swish! followed immediately by the satisfying (to dad) resounding Thwack! of rattan against sensitive flesh.

It landed squarely on the middle of the target area. For two or three seconds Sam felt nothing, then suddenly it seemed like a red-hot poker had been seared into his flesh. He grit his teeth and gripped the edge of the table.

Mr. Ramsden admired the imprint of the cane springing up instantly on the pale skin of his son’s bottom. He waited before delivering his next cut, he wanted the young backside to glow in agony before inflicting further punishment.

Mr. Ramsden believed that speed with which a cane strikes the buttocks was a key element in any caning, the faster the better; and Sam’s plump rump would need a lot of caning. Swishing the cane, he waited and then lashed the stick across the offered bottom. A red stripe flamed the hairless buttocks, it was angled diagonally, higher on the left buttock lower across the right.

Sam gasped; the strike of a hard cane stroke was like an electric shock. Mr. Ramsden swished the cane again and waited a few seconds, observing his buttocks carefully. The next stroke would be squarely across the ripest curve of the round cheeks. Mr. Ramsden caned often; he was an expert. He could place each blow where he wanted it.

Swish! There was a gurgling gasping yelp from Sam. The stricken bottom did a frantic dance. Sam had no control, it had a mind of its own. He settled, concentrating hard on keeping his bottom absolutely still. Despite the torrent of fire that seemed to have been poured over his arse, he managed it.

But, Sam’s bum wobbled as Mr. Ramsden’s stick struck again. Another red stripe blazed across the bottom. Sam gasped, he couldn’t get air into his lungs. He thrashed his head about, like a horse neighing. He clamped his eyes shut. His arms were rigidly extended and his fists tightly clenched.

Mr. Ramsden filled his own lungs, leaned back and thrashed an exceptionally severe stroke. Sam wheezed, another vivid bright stripe appeared across his pale skin. He grunted, gasped, wriggled. Mr. Ramsden whipped him again, and Sam yapped a high, piercing “owwww!”

His whole system leapt with the shock of the intense pain. Bolts of electricity surged through his bum and travelled up and down his legs. His body writhed and the searing pain followed his every movement. His shoulders shuddered and his hands clenched and unclenched on the table.

As if in a trance Sam waited. He was dizzy with the sensations of pain and heat, stabbing through his naked bottom in surging waves. But there was no respite and his dad administered the last four strokes in quick succession. Sam twisted and turned as if to escape the lashing pain, and the compelling pulse in his throbbing bottom. All his senses concentrated on this one aching area.

“It’s over. Stand up.”

Sam allowed himself a long relieved sigh, and he leapt upright, his flat, large palms each caressed a cheek. He rubbed them up and down vigorously, making little jumps as his long fingers kneaded his hot, rubbery buttocks.

The pain in Sam’s welted bottom quickly turned to a warm glow, it was almost quite pleasant. His heart still raced and his head seemed remarkably clear. None of the drugs he had ever taken did this to him. His soldier tingled. It wasn’t at attention yet, but it was on the march. He stood, jeans and pants still at his ankles, facing his dad. Dad’s face flushed as he realised the effect of the caning on his son.

He turned and rushed from the room, leaving Sam to stretch his pants and jeans over his flaming bottom. Still clutching the rattan cane, dad took the stairs two at a time and barged into the bathroom. He had desperate need of a damp face cloth.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Mr. Bashford takes charge

z used after jeans down by endart

 

“I hope you’ve learnt your lesson young man,” Mr. Bashford growled as he sat back in his chair to admire his handiwork.  Robert stood before him, jeans and underpants at his shins, gently patting his glowing buttocks.

“Just you stand like that, until I say you may go. Think about your behaviour,” he watched carefully as the nineteen-year-old pouted his disapproval. The teenager’s eyes glistened. There was no cause for tears, Mr. Bashford reckoned. He had delivered a sound spanking, but it had been no beating. That might come in the future if the brat dared to do it again.

Mr. Bashford gripped his wife’s large oval ebony hairbrush tightly. He felt its weight in his right hand as he smacked the business end down into his left. There was a reason that a hairbrush had a flat end, he thought with some satisfaction. It didn’t look much, but it was a mighty effective spanking tool. Generations of naughty boys (and some girls too) could testify to that.

People might think it odd that a nineteen-year-old needed to have his bare bottom spanked, but young people must be taught that there are boundaries. Mr Bashford studied Robert carefully. He was probably an inch or so taller than himself, but his body was much slighter: thin and wiry.  He would soon be a fully-grown man: an adult. But he was not yet mature; he was still a boy and sometimes, like on this day, he needed to be reminded of the fact.

Robert’s eyes widened with genuine surprise when he saw Mr. Bashford rummage in his jacket pocket and withdraw the large ebony-backed hairbrush. Without saying a word he placed it on the table to allow him to remove his jacket before laying it carefully next to it.

Then, he undid and removed his tie and started to roll up his shirt sleeves. He had very large arms and hands: as befitting a man who played rugby for his county when he was younger. His face was covered with a brown beard and the rest of his body was covered in thick hair and he still looked very fit.

Instantly, Robert was panicked and nervous, fully realizing what he intended to do, and what was about to happen. It looked very much like he was to be spanked with the hairbrush. He had never been spanked before.  He watched horrified as the old man pulled a wooden chair from the corner of the room, picked up the hairbrush and sat down.

Robert stood several feet away unsure what he was expected to do. Mr. Bashford knew his role in this little drama. The spanking had to be over the knee, but would the boy consent to draping himself across his lap to receive the full force of the heavy wooden hairbrush?

And if he didn’t comply? Would there be an unseemly fight while Mr. Bashford forcibly heaved him over? Mr. Bashford  reached across to him, took hold of his right arm and upper back, and firmly pulled him forward (the boy’s feet scooting and scuffing along) before hauling him over, and depositing him stretched out, hanging across his knees with his face pushed into the rug.

Then, swiftly without warning, he set up a snapping, cracking rhythm of the hairbrush as he peppered Robert’s rear-end with a series of bites.

Mr Bashford was pleased the nineteen-year-old had not resisted, but, Robert could afford to be impassive, with the denim of his jeans combined with the cotton of his underpants he hardly felt a thing as the old man fell into a tempo that covered all of his buttocks.

But, Mr. Bashford had a plan and Robert soon found the old man’s fingers fumbling with the elasticated waistband of his jeans, before jerking them down over the teenager’s bony hips and small, flat, but thin and muscled bottom. In a panic Robert thrashed his legs about, but rather than preventing the lowering of his jeans, the movements encouraged them to drop to his bare feet at the floor, leaving only his tight white briefs covering his mounds.

Mr. Bashford held the boy firmly around the waist and rained his hairbrush down with maximum force, covering every square inch of the cheeks, the upper thighs, and the curved area where they meet. The relatively small area of shiny polished wood which was attacking his tender buttocks delivered a level of pain well beyond its assumed potential.

The boy’s body lay flopped across Mr. Bashford’s lap as he pounded away. If Robert had felt no pain before, now the agony in his backside was intense. He gave up and gave in completely, hanging and dangling over the knees, his squalling taking over as he gasped, choked and shook. The fiery blistering on his bottom driving him to still deeper despair.

Not satisfied that an over-the-knee spanking on tight white underpants was enough indignity for the boy, Mr Bashford grabbed the waistband of the briefs and sent them the same way as Robert’s jeans.

The action encouraged renewed vigour in the boy who shook his body from left to right in a fruitless attempt to break free. Robert’s right hand involuntarily left the floor to defend his blistered bottom, only to be seized firmly and pulled up behind his back.

Robert wrestled to escape the relentless torrent of increasing pain which was setting his buttocks ablaze. He fought to escape from the very firm grip of the left arm pressing into his back. He pleaded, begged, promised, apologised endlessly between his gulps and his gasping for breath. But to no avail. The punishment pursued its unswerving path and the pattern on the rug became an indistinguishable blur.

Mr Bashford hadn’t known he possessed such strength: not only was he able to pin the nineteen-year-old brat in place across his knees, face down, bared bottom high, he continued to batter his buttocks with the hairbrush.  He pounded away at the boy for almost another five minutes, while Robert struggled and pleaded but he continued in his duty.

Finally at long last he stopped the spanking and put the brush down on the table. The boy’s buttocks were scarlet. This certainly would teach him to behave in the future. The defeated teenager was breathing convulsively as the cool air of the room contrasted starkly with the hot, red, blistered flesh of his buttocks and thighs. The surface of his bottom felt like someone had poured boiling liquid onto it.

Slowly – ever so slowly – he got up; the change of the contours of his bum cheeks seemed to make the pain worse across his rear end.

“Stand there. I hope you’ve learnt your lesson young man,” Mr. Bashford growled, as red of face and crimson of bottom, Robert shuffled into position. “And, if I catch you stealing from my shop again, beware I have a very heavy whippy cane that I won’t hesitate to use on you.”

Robert gulped audibly and continued patting his sore bottom.

 

Picture credit: Endart

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Breath-taking

z used hustler by Josman (1)

Danny only had a split-second to decide. Should he drive off to Maureen’s Peak with the sexy stranger and shag him senseless, or should he return the car to dad on time as he had promised.

It was a no-brainer. He opened the car door and let him in. He would face the consequences with dad later.

They didn’t shag; that is go all the way. Instead, Danny sucked the stranger’s eight-inch cock until he shot a load in his mouth. Then he had a second decision to make. The wine taster’s dilemma: should he spit or should he swallow? He swallowed. He couldn’t risk staining the seats in dad’s car. He knew from experience cum stains were impossible to wash off.

Dad was exasperated. He paced the sitting room, looking at his watch every ten seconds. Danny was fifteen minutes late. Then, he was thirty. Dad stood at the front gate peering down the quiet suburban street. No sign of his son. He looked at his watch again. He would never admit it, but he was scared. Had Danny been in a traffic accident? Was his shiny new car damaged? Had his son been hurt?

He’d damn well hurt him when he did get home. It wasn’t that dad wanted to go anywhere in the car; he didn’t. It was his irresponsible nineteen-year-old son that was the problem. Danny had disobeyed dad. Again. It wasn’t just the car, it was everything. He was surly around the house, he wouldn’t do his chores unless his mother nagged him. He came and went as he pleased, treating the house like a hotel. It had to stop and dad was quite sure how to make it.

At last, dad saw the car turn the corner of The Avenue. It looked intact. His son was safe. He hurried back into the house. He didn’t want Danny to know he had been anxious.

Danny parked the car and checked the time. Ninety minutes late. Dad would be mad. Oh well, he thought, it had been worth it. The memory of the stranger’s huge cock was fresh. He felt his own dick tingle. Danny’s usually cobalt blue eyes shone. He put his key in the front door lock and prepared to face the consequences.

“In here. Now.” The fury in his dad’s voice seemed genuine. Danny closed the door, put his cap on a coat hook and went to meet his fate.

Danny’s face was flushed and his eyes sparkling. “You’ve been drinking!” Dad’s own eyes widened. “I can see it from here.”

Danny bristled. He hadn’t been drinking, but he could hardly tell dad what he had been doing. “No, I’ve not,” he pouted instead.

“Come here. Now.” Dad snapped his fingers. Reluctantly, Danny moved further into the sitting room. “Breathe out, let me smell your breath.”

Danny’s face reddened.

“I thought so. Drinking. And driving!”

“No, no ..” Danny wasn’t sure what to say.

“Let me smell your breath.”

Danny sucked in air as if somehow that would take the stink away.

“Breathe in my face.”

“Huff..”

Dad’s nose wrinkled. What was that smell? He knew what it was, but  he couldn’t quite place it. The aroma was sweet and a little sickly.

“Again.” Dad leaned forward towards his son to get the full blast. Danny heaved into dad’s face.

No, dad still couldn’t quite name it. He didn’t know what it was, but it certainly wasn’t alcohol.

“OK,” he conceded reluctantly, “You haven’t been drinking. What was it, some girl?” Dad roared with genuine mirth when Danny’s face went the colour of beetroot.

“I might have known,” dad’s smile was fading. “But it doesn’t excuse your disobeying my instruction and coming home late. I’ve lost count the number of times you’ve disobeyed me or your mother. Well, it’s going to stop and it’s going to stop right now, understand.”

Dad was a master at the upscale St. Francis Independent Grammar School in town. He knew all about discipline – and everything about punishment. St. FIGS was a traditional school: traditional curriculum, traditional uniform, traditional sports and, most of all, traditional discipline. Dad knew the effectiveness of corporal punishment. At school his weapon of choice was the whippy, crook-handled rattan cane. It certainly made its point when whipped across stretched buttocks.

But, that was school and this was home. At school he was the master, at home he was a loving dad. Caning was an impersonal punishment; something delivered quite literally at arm’s length. There was a necessary distance between the punisher and the punished.

At home it was quite different. The father-son relationship was based on love. Dad loved his son and as part of that loving he knew he must punish him. The punishment should not be remote or distant, it should be close. That was why he intended to take Danny across his knee.

“I think you know what must happen now,” dad might be a loving father, but even at home he had the air of the schoolmaster. He would stand no nonsense from the teenager.

Danny stared at the carpet. Of course he knew what was coming. He had lived his whole life under dad’s domination. He had no choice: he must grin and bare it. One day when his studying was over and he had a job and could afford to move out he would begin an independent life. Until then it was dad’s house, dad’s rules.

Danny was transfixed by the grey-patterned Axminster so did not see his dad rummage through the sideboard drawer. He heard the rattle of dinner mats being moved, he knew what dad was searching for.

At last he found it.

“Come stand over here.” Dad was already seating himself in the centre of a long leather Chesterfield couch. Danny’s cobalt blue eyes blinked rapidly. They always did at times like this. His father clutched a large wooden clothes brush. He waved it through the air. “Trousers. Underpants down. Come lay across my lap.”

They were clear instructions. Dad knew they would be obeyed. And, they were. Danny’s cargo shorts had no belt, they hugged his waist beautifully. With the button unfastened and the zip lowered they hurtled to his feet. Danny stood in his gaily-patterned briefs. A sudden panic. They must be stained with his cum. With alacrity he hitched his thumbs in the waistband and with the merest flick of the wrists he sent them south the land on top of his shorts.

Dad tapped the brush against his thigh with impatience. Danny looked on curiously, his father was a tall man and as befitting someone his age he was running to fat.  His lap was large and offered a substantial platform for the teenager to present himself for a spanking. Dad’s arms were surprisingly well-developed; he built his strength through the constant gardening he did at weekends. Dad’s face was grey and lined and his hair thinning, but he insisted in having a combover to disguise his baldness.

Danny took a deep breath and lowered himself over his dad’s knees. He knew the drill. He raised his legs so they stretched out behind him and along the couch. He rested his elbows on the couch so that his head was raised and he could see ahead of him. “Bugger,” he thought. He could see through the open window into the street outside. A passer-by might easily see in.

His cock dug into dad’s thigh so he wriggled his body until he was comfortable; although, of course, what was to happen next would be far from comfortable.

Danny was shorter than average and slim so he fitted this spanking position perfectly. He noticed the curtain sway gently in the breeze. Then, he felt the excruciating pain of a heavy wooden brush crash into the centre of his left buttock. There was very little flesh to absorb the impact. He cupped his hands together and covered his mouth.

Bang-bang-bang. Dad kept up a steady rhythm. Danny blew hard into his hands, suddenly so overwhelmed by the stink of his own breath it made him gag a little.

Danny’s bum was small and dad’s brush so large that the whole of the target area was a mass of dark-pink marks within seconds. Dad always marvelled at how the shape of the oval head of the brush could be reproduced again and again across creamy-white buttocks.

Danny’s bum rose and fell against dad’s legs. The nineteen-year-old had no control of this, it was his body’s natural reaction to the pounding it was taking. Dad gripped him across the shoulders. He was going nowhere – not until dad said so. At first Danny’s bum stung with each successive blow but soon the whole of his arse throbbed. As dad whacked on and on the throbbing grew to an intense ache. His backside was on fire, it felt like he had sat in a bucket of boiling water.

Oh, no! Danny saw a figure he recognised standing in his front garden peering through the window. It was Alan, a pal from down the road. They often tossed each other off when Alan’s parents were at work. Alan grinned so wide his teeth might fall out. He pulled his phone from his pocket and held it high. He would wank himself dry later viewing and reviewing the video.

Dad was not a cruel man, he believed in chastisement not torture, but years of schoolmastering had taught him that for corporal punishment to be effective it had to hurt. Otherwise, what was the point of it?

Satisfied that he had scorched every square-inch of his son’s posterior dad tuned his attention to the back of Danny’s thighs. Whack-whack-whack. That had the teenager writhing and kicking. A dark-blue bruise appeared almost immediately.

Dad took one more circuit around the target area and then landed six more into the fleshiest part of Danny’s cheeks. Then he was done.

He released his hold on Danny’s shoulders and before he could give the instruction, “Stand up,” the teenager was on his feet hopping up and down rubbing away at his burnt flesh. His cock and balls waved around in front of his dad’s face.

“Get dressed. Quickly.” A look, something close to horror invaded dad’s face. Dad watched, his heart thumping as his son struggled into his tight pants and pulled up his cargo shorts.

“Go, go,” dad waved his arms frantically, “Go to your room.” Danny didn’t need telling twice, he took the stairs two at a time and hurtled into his bedroom. Dad gaped open mouthed into the middle distance; staring, but seeing nothing. A rush of vomit touched the back of his throat, but he swallowed it down.

Unsteady on his feet he rose from the couch and walked to the cocktail cabinet. With shaking hands he poured a large gin and drank half of it in a single gulp. It did nothing for his nerves. He took the glass and stood at the open window, looking disconsolately at his beloved garden.

“What is to become of us all,” he wailed. Life would never be the same again. Not now he had identified the smell on Danny’s breath.

 

Picture credit: Josman

 

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First day at St CIGS

The spanking I thoroughly deserved

A public service

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Hardly Boys and the case of the blistered buttocks

z used hardy boys (8)

 

Joe Hardly stretched his arms and looked across the den at his elder brother Frank. “I’m bored,” he faked a yawn, “We haven’t busted any crime in ages.”

Just as well, Frank thought, after the whopping their dad had given them last time. “You want another whipping?” he asked.

Frank rubbed the palm of his hand across the seat of his jeans. His dick stirred as he recalled the sight of his brother bent over dad’s knee in the parlour. His pants were at his feet and his shorts at his shins and his dad pounded the twenty-year-old’s naked buttocks with a brush. He could still hear the yelps Joe made as the monster wood cracked into taut bare flesh.

Dad also kept a paddle hanging on a nail in the woodshed. There was an old worn razor strop next to it in case dad wanted a little variety. And, he wasn’t afraid to use either of them.

“Well,” Joe grinned, “We can’t always be right.” He didn’t resent his dad’s beating. It was an occupational hazard. You win some you lose some. “That guy could have been a master criminal.” He meant a shady character the two boys had been tailing for a week, waiting for him to make his criminal move. “He wore a black hat and a black coat; why was he dressed like a gangster?”

“Because he worked in a funeral home!” his brother retorted, slamming down the magazine he was reading on the coffee table.

“C’mon Frank,” Joe was not deterred by one little failure, “Let’s go to the shore, there are bound to be smugglers,” he paced the room and stood at the door. “Or there will be some criminal on the run hiding out in a cave.” He turned on his heels and left.

“Blast my kid brother,” Frank said in his mind as he rushed to catch Joe at the front door.

 

Other stories you might like

My father’s legacy

Fr. Pat’s paddle

The freshman class

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A kiss too far

z used drawing face posh by Leyendecker (6)

The heat in the room was stifling. The windows couldn’t be opened because there was a danger insects would get in, although a daddy-long-legs was pummelling from wall to wall. John stared down at the battered leather strap lying across the equally beaten oak table. It had been in the family for generations hadn’t it? His father had used it on John often enough and he was damned sure grandfather had beaten father. Had grandfather’s father whipped him? Almost certainly, John thought. Flogging was a family tradition.

He was to be thrashed now. No doubt about it. His father paced the room; six steps one way, turnabout, six paces back. All the time he lectured. “Damn bad show. Shouldn’t be allowed.”

It was no such thing, but John couldn’t argue. It wasn’t his place. His place was to do what his father said. Without argument. And, John knew for certain that was exactly what he would do.

It was all Elinor’s father’s fault. He man was a monster. Well, not a monster perhaps, but at least unreasonable. Her skin had felt cool, John’s hands hot and heavy. When he lowered his mouth to hers it tasted of salt. She looked at him nervously. He shut his eyes. Her tongue threshed against his. Suddenly, he felt her neck muscles go rigid as she tried to push away.

“Whoaaaa!” Her father was suddenly on the scene His cry, a mixture of shock and rage, sent Elinor scurrying from the room. John thought Mr Rankling would flog him there and then. He was probably fortunate no horsewhip lay close to hand. Instead, John’s father was summoned and a tale told. To hear Elinor’s father tell it the eighteen-year-old was found writhing naked on his daughter; caught in the act of deflowering her. It was not like that at all; but if only, John wished.

Two adults kissing. What was the harm in that? Elinor was a year older than John; did she not have some say in how she behaved? Adults? Not in John’s father’s eyes. You attained the age of majority at twenty-one. That’s when you were legally an adult. But adulthood was not defined by age. Adulthood meant achieving maturity; only once that state was reached could a boy be called an adult. John’s father had no doubt – none at all – that his middle son was still very much a child.

Sweat soaked John’s shirt. The room was unbearable. His father’s constant pacing didn’t help. What was about to take place was routine, the teenager’s flesh would be scarred, but, oh how he wished father would just get on with it. At last the old man came to a halt and stood behind the table, leaning forward, palms of his hands pressing into the ancient wood. He was nearly six feet when standing; he had long ago ceased to be the powerful rugby scrum-half he had once been. His jowls wobbled, his waist (such as could be detected) hung over his trousers. His face, poorly shaven that morning, reddened with every word he spoke.

John was slightly shorter than his father, slim, high cheekbones, red lips,  greased hair – what woman could resist such. His grey eyes dulled. He heard his father’s words, but he wasn’t listening. What was the point? His father would not allow a response. This was not a court of law. John had already been tried and convicted; all that was to be determined was the sentence.

At last it came. “Trousers, drawers down. Present yourself across the table.” His father snatched the leather strap from the table and resumed his pacing. He paused at the far end of the room and stood, feet apart, like a soldier at ease, and studied his son. The boy unfastened his trousers and allowed the weight of the silver cigarette case in the pocket to send them tumbling to his feet. The woollen drawers were of the fashionable type; designed for easy removal. One assumed the manufacturers had not envisaged the wearer would need a speedy exit to facilitate a spanking from father. John undid the buttons at the waist and pushed them down his thighs. They snagged at his knees.

Even from a distance, his father could see his son’s manhood was well developed. How fortunate it was that Elinor’s father had intervened in time to spare his daughter. Unselfconsciously, for John had been semi-naked in front of his father many times, he lifted the tail of his crisp white shirt half way up his back so that his buttocks were properly bared.

The crazed daddy-long-legs hammered into his head. John swatted it away with his right hand while clinging on to his shirt with the left. Then, he lowered himself down. In the intolerably hot room, the wood felt cool against his naked stomach. He reached ahead of him and held the table’s edge. He shuffled his feet a little and wriggled his hips until his stomach rested at a perfect angle for his bared buttocks to receive his father’s administrations. The cheeks were full, chubby even, unlike the rest of John’s lean body.

John’s father shuffled the length of the room and stood to his son’s left. The daddy-long-legs crashed into his face. With fury he lashed the strap through the air. For two pins he could hunt the bugger down and crush it into a pulp. But, there were more important things to concern him.

The strap was about eighteen inches long and four wide. It was a heavy beast and when he laid it across the centre of John’s naked haunches it easily covered half the area. There had been a time (had John’s father been in the mood for remembrances) that he would have recalled the days when the strap could cover both of his son’s cheeks with room to spare.

John’s buttocks clenched as the worn leather touched his vulnerable flesh. It always did this. It was a reflex action; John had no control of the matter. Was it his body’s natural reaction? A way to protect itself from the hurt that was about to be unleashed?

From his vantage point standing over the eighteen-year-old, his father had a clear view of the teenager’s crack. The hole seemed a little larger than the last time he had seen it. Some filthy things had taken place in the school dormitory, he supposed.

Determined not to be side-tracked by these thoughts, the old man lifted the strap high above his head, twirled it in a full circle and brought it whizzing down with great speed and tremendous force into the very centre of his son’s bum. He was rewarded by the sight of a dark-pink stripe immediately forming across the defenceless flesh and the sound of John’s gasp as he tried with considerable success to stifle the yell he most assuredly wanted to make.

John gripped the table edge and waited, heart thumping for the second crack to land. It came thirty seconds after the first. Exactly: for his father was counting the time in his head. This one landed a little above the first, on the top of the mounds, near the boy’s back. The agony was searing, pain travelled up and down his legs and he could not control himself; his legs stamped up and down like a soldier on sentry duty.

Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty. The third swipe caught him on the soft, sensitive sit-spot, at the point where the bum meets the thighs. That one hurt. John’s mouth opened and closed, he clamped his top lip over the lower and dug his teeth in. It stopped the yell, but at some cost; an acrid taste of blood. By the time his father was through with him, John would be in no state for kissing.

His father admired his handiwork. Not a single square inch of his son’s buttocks had escaped the strap. They glowed pink. He swiped the fourth so that it connected across two of the previous marks. Mauve bruises were already forming as he lifted the strap high once more and brought it down again. The skin broke and blood rose to the surface; soon John’s bottom would resemble raw minced-meat.

John’s forehead bounced up and down and he head-butted the solid oak table top. He was losing control. There was a haze before his eyes as he waited for the next blow. It’s never been as bad as this, he thought as the strap cut him once more. It’s that damn girl! At that moment he began to hate her. But, that thought would pass.

A dozen lashes ripped John’s buttocks to shreds. Then it was over. “Up. Get dressed. Go.” His father never had much to say once a thrashing was completed. He had done his duty. Offence committed. Punishment delivered. Time to move on. That was his principle.

John sucked in lung-fulls of air. His heart raced; his temples throbbed, even as much as his buttocks. He pushed himself up from the table and not able to look his punisher in the face, he turned his back on his father and bent down to retrieve his woollen drawers. It gave the old man a last chance to admire his own prowess with the strap. He glowed with self-satisfaction.

With his trousers now fastened, John faced his father and offered him his right hand. It was a family tradition after a whipping. Shake hands. Behave like English gentlemen. Formalities observed, John shuffled from the room.

He scarcely noticed Elinor hovering in the hallway. He trudged through the hallway to the wide staircase that led to the upper floors and his room. He took the stairs two at a time and crashed through the door. Within seconds his trousers and drawers were once more at his feet. He poked his bottom towards a full-length mirror. “God, what a mess,” he said out loud, although he was all alone in the room.

But not for long. Suddenly, the door burst open. John turned, startled to see Elinor standing there. Her eyes bulged and her lips poked in and out of her mouth like a lizard. John’s cock trembled. Elinor blushed. John turned his back, hiding his cock and balls but offering the girl a terrific view of his mashed backside.

“Let’s try some of this,” she said, and only then did John notice the white glass jar of cream she was holding. “Lie down,” she smiled sweetly. “On the bed,” she added unnecessarily. John licked his own lips and did as requested, slyly manoeuvring his body so that his did not put weight on his now raging erection.  Elinor scooped out a handful of the smooth white cream and gently laid it on John’s right buttock. It felt like ice on a burning desert. Tenderly she spread it carefully around the delightful curved forms, bringing some comfort to the savaged flesh and hard ridges.

John lay passive, gladly accepting the gentle massaging palms and the fragrant sticky cream. Elinor gently patted the chubby curves of John’s bottom. Poor John, she thought and was about to lean down and plant a gentle kiss on the raw, tormented flesh when the door suddenly opened and her father stormed into the room.

 

Picture credit: J. C. Leyendecker

 

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The military camp

Bug on the wall

He knew the boy would be trouble

 

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.

 

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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