Suddenly awoken

new 5

z used bed waiting pyjamas champion (3)

Hal woke with a start. He found himself sitting up in bed, his bottom still tingling. What had roused him? His dick throbbed and he shuddered with shame. Not again? He reached his hand inside the fly of his pyjama bottoms. The top of his cock was wet but still rigid. Quickly, he explored himself with his palm, then he tested the sheets. No, he had not ejaculated; he had caught himself just in time.

“Oh gosh,” he exclaimed aloud. There was someone in the room. It was gloomy, his eyes had not adjusted. He couldn’t see, but he could hear; someone was wheezing hard.

“What the …” Hal cried.

“Shussh. It’s all right.” Hal recognised the voice. It was his elder brother Roger.

“Shussh,” Roger whispered again, placing his index finger across his own mouth. “I’ve missed curfew. By a mile. I saw your window open. I climbed in.”

Hal looked across the room, the curtain was flapping gently in the breeze of a warm night. His brother tip-toed across the room like a cat in a cartoon sneaking up on a canary. Before he reached the bedroom door, Hal spoke in a normal, clear voice. “There’s no point doing that. Dad knows you’re late. I think he’s waiting downstairs with the strap,” he chuckled. As in all families Hal was delighted to know his brother was in trouble. It made a change that it wasn’t himself, Hal might be eighteen years old but he was still no stranger to his father’s knee and a close-up view of the carpet. Without thinking, he pressed his buttocks into the hard mattress, reigniting the pain from earlier. He could testify that father was not in a good mood.

“I don’t believe you,” Roger scorned. “I didn’t see any lights in the house. Everyone’s in bed.”

“Please yourself,” Hal shrugged his shoulders as his brother exited the room. Hal turned on his side, pulled the blanket over him and gently massaged his buttocks. The surface still felt a little like leather.

The house was old and Roger knew every creaking floorboard in the place. He manoeuvred across the hallway. There was no light under the door of his parents’ bedroom. Gingerly, he took hold of the handle on the door of his own room. His heart sped. He was almost safe. The door squeaked. Roger’s heart stopped. Slowly, ever so slowly, he eased the door open a few inches; just enough to squeeze his slim body through. He closed the door.

He could relax now, but even so he didn’t put the light on. The moon was bright and he could see well enough to get out of his clothes and into his pyjamas. He slid beneath the blanket. Safe at last. He had a fitful night, his sleep disturbed by recurring visions. He and Mary together. Her breasts. Her thighs. Her buttocks. The tantalising glimpse of petticoat. The things she would not let him do to her.

He was late down to breakfast in the morning. The house was eerie. Where was everyone? He sat alone in the breakfast room, mournfully sucking a piece of dry toast. Still he could not keep the image of Mary from his mind. A voice brought him back to earth. It was Miranda, the live-in maid. “Good morning Mr Roger. Your father says he wants to see you in the drawing room.” She paused to note cheerfully the sudden draining of colour from his face. “At once,” she emphasised and she cleared used plates from the breakfast table. Miranda hoped Roger did not see the smile she was failing to suppress.

Father was waiting. He was a stern man and this morning he looked even more severe. He sat irritably in a chair. “You’re late. What kept you? I haven’t got all day. Stand there.” He barked as Roger entered the room. He pointed to a spot two yards in front of him. Roger, who was no stranger to his father’s temper meekly took up position. He bowed his head, not daring to catch his father’s eye.

“Missed curfew,” father almost shouted. “Again!” He let the final word hang in the air. This was not a first offence. “Bah!” father continued. “What was it this time? Playing cards with those cads again?”

Roger hit down onto his lower lip. His father meant the boys who frequented The Three Fishers, a public house of ill repute. He nodded his head sorrowfully. Better to let him think that than to know Roger had been trying to get his hand inside a girl’s underwear. Father was strict Chapel. Being unchaperoned  with a girl was far higher on the list of sins, even than playing cards.

“Bah!” his father coughed loudly. He had prepared a speech. He always had a homily or two to deliver at times such as this. Roger listened patiently. There was no doubt at all how this meeting would end. He was in no hurry for proceedings to move along. Wicked. Sinful. Were two of the words Roger caught, although he had stopped listening after the first two minutes.

“No son of mine …” Roger’s ears pricked up. He recognised this sentence. It usually meant his father was about to conclude his sermon. Roger paid attention.

“So …” his father had finished his lecture. He was preparing for action. “Fetch the strap.” Roger sucked in a bellyful of air. He did not need further instruction. He turned his back on his father and walked to the far end of the large room. He paused momentarily and looked at the heavy strap that hung from a hook in the wall. He reached up. Not for the first time, he measured its weight in his hand. He looked at it as if seeing it only for the first time. It was old and worn and about fourteen inches long and two wide. It had been specially made as a punishment strap and the name of the manufacturer from the Scottish town of Lochgelly was embossed along one side.

“Hurry up. Bring it here, we haven’t all day to  waste.” His father barked. Roger carried the strap in both hands like it was a religious relic of some kind. With reverence, he handed the strap to his father. “Prepare yourself,” he intoned.

Roger needed no further instruction. Prepare yourself meant lower the trousers and underwear. Father only ever spanked on the bare buttocks. He had once said it was not a proper spanking otherwise. Roger knew there was no point reminding father that he was twenty years old; twenty-one in a few weeks’ time. He was not yet legally an adult. Beside, father would probably continue spanking him for years to come. Father was without doubt the head of the household. The gardener’s boy knew that to his cost and he was thirty years old if he were a day.

With steady hands, Roger prepared himself. His trousers and underwear bunched at his shins. He was not embarrassed to stand half-naked in front of his father. It was hardly the first time. His father shifted his own buttocks on the chair and leaned back so he would not topple once Roger was in position. He closed his knees and splayed his feet making a platform for his son. “Bend over,” he said imperiously.

Roger would submit to his father. He always did. A ritual was playing out between them and they both knew the part they had to play. Roger looked down at his father’s lap, then he rested his hands on his left knee and gently lowered himself. He let his arms fall in front of him. The chair was high and this meant that behind him his feet could brush the floor without him bending his knees. His bared bottom rested at an angle against his father’s knee.

Father was a stoical man. He had said his piece already, there was nothing more to say. He rubbed the strap across the highest point of his son’s bottom and made a sawing motion. He was taking his aim. Satisfied that he had it, father gripped the strap tightly, raised it high into the air and hammered it down with great vim. A dark pink line immediately formed across Roger’s bottom. He winced. That hurt. He knew it would. The second and third swipes landed almost simultaneously, ensuring that both cheeks quickly glowed red-hot. Roger’s hips wriggled and his knees bent slightly. There wasn’t anything he could do about this. His body had a life of its own, the movements were a natural reaction against the pain.

Father set out to make sure every part of Roger’s bottom glowed. He whacked the strap across the highest point of the mounds, then over the crests and finally into the undersides where the cheeks and the thighs meet. Once every square inch of flesh scorched he turned his strap to the backs of the thighs. Roger knew he would do this but that knowledge did not stop him yelping at the pain. He would be reminded of this every time he sat on a hard surface for many hours to come.

Swipe. Swipe. Swipe. Father kept a steady rhythm. He knew spanking his sons could be an exhausting experience so he liked to pace himself. There was no need to hurry. Roger was going nowhere. He was submissively offering up his bared bottom to the lashes of the strap. Father could go on all day if he so chose.

Roger’s cheeks clenched and unclenched. His head swayed from side to side like a horse worried by a fly. He shut his teeth to keep back the yaps and yelps his body wanted him to make. His shirt was sticking to his back with perspiration. His temples throbbed almost as much as his backside.

Roger’s bottom had been many shades of pink and was now a bright scarlet. Father knew that if he spanked him for only a little longer it would become the colour of a fine Burgundy wine. Then would be the time to stop. He raised the strap again brought it down.

A ritual was being played out between father and son. It was the kind of intimate affair best shared in private. Neither father or son would have been pleased to know that the maid Miranda stood by the half-opened door enjoying every lash of Roger’s punishment.

 

 

Picture credit: The Champion

Other stories you might like

A summer to remember

Waiting my turn

You can never escape from Dad

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Changed Times – the compilation

z used Silhouette cane hold (14)

 

Readers in the United Kingdom don’t need me to tell them that arguments about leaving the European Union have been raging for more than three years and don’t seem to be resolved yet.

Many people who voted to leave the EU (it seemed to me) wanted to return to sometime in the past when in their eyes the world was a less complicated place. Maybe the 1930s where everybody knew their place in the world and discipline was much tighter than it is today.

That set me thinking. What if, after the exit from the EU, we did start to turn the clock back. In my imagination, corporal punishment was reintroduced into schools. This proved such a success with parents that it was soon extended to include other young people, such as university and college students and workplace apprentices. Before long any person under the age of thirty could be subjected to the cane or the birch (or any other CP implement of choice).

So, was born the series of stories that I called “Changed Times.” I have brought them all together here for those who may not have seen them before. I enjoyed writing them, but the stories and sentiments expressed are fiction and I am not asking you to join me in forming a new political party.

Click on the titles and I hope you enjoy reading them.

Charles

 

1: A glimpse into the near future

This story sets up the series and follows Kenny on his first day at college as an apprentice to Global Petroleum.

“Sterling fumbled with the three buttons on his company blazer. He visibly trembled as he slipped the jacket over his shoulders and pulled his arms through the sleeves. Then, without waiting for instructions, he dropped the blazer onto the top of the desk.

“Kenny and his fellow new recruits could see Sterling’s face. It was deathly pale and bathed in sweat. A moustache of moisture clung to the young man’s upper lip.

‘“Lower your trousers and underpants.”’

 

2: Neighbourhood watch

The new laws affect all aspects of society.

“Mr Scroggins was the “punishment officer” for the Neighbourhood Watch. It was a title he chose for himself. It wasn’t official; he wasn’t paid a salary. He didn’t want paying, he was glad to perform his civic duty.

“The Neighbourhood Watch had been formed in the words of its members, ‘to take back the streets.’ The Avenue was in a prosperous middle-class suburb.

“They had a ‘punishment room’ at the community hall. It was a plain functional room; windowless and lit by a single overhead light. It was quite small, but big enough for its purpose. It contained a small whipping horse which enabled the wrists, ankles and knees of the youth to be secured with straps. The horse itself had once been in the gymnasium of a local school. It had been lowered and modified so that when a young man was properly mounted and helpless the padded upper surface was quite comfortable.”

 

  1. The police station

Of course, the police play a large part in the new social control.

‘“Lift him up. On the table,” Reid dragged the prisoner by the arm and hauled him so that his whole body was forced onto the cold laminated top. Each arm and leg was gripped by a police officer.

‘“Good work, lads. Good work.” Sgt. Gould had returned. In his hand he held a heavy leather strap with a wooden handle at one end.

‘“A prison strap,” he waved it in the air. “They used them in Canada. Apparently.” He swiped it some more. The prisoner could not see it. He was held tightly face-down on the table. Reid’s left hand pressed his head into the hard surface.”

 

  1. Global Petroleum

We return to Global Petroleum.

“Mr Hodgson took his new role as Global Petroleum’s local Discipline Officer very seriously. He had attended, in his own time, a weekend course in ‘Applying Discipline in the Modern Age.’ He learnt all about the new punishment laws; about the duties of the employers and the responsibilities of the young apprentices.

“He learnt the theory; but also the practice. The workshop participants spent an afternoon acquiring caning techniques. Who would have thought it was difficult? Mr Hodgson had supposed the young man would submissively offer him his buttocks and Mr Hodgson would whack them with a cane.”

z used Silhouette paddle hold (1)

  1. At home

Emboldened by the new laws, fathers were reintroducing discipline into their own homes.

“Downstairs in the living room Mr Nightingale flexed a thick rattan cane thoughtfully in his hands. He had never held such a thing until the day he bought it in the local market. A stall specialised in all kinds of spanking instruments. It did a roaring trade in school canes and paddles. Mr Nightingale picked up a large scatter cushion and balanced it over the back of an armchair. Then, he positioned himself an arm’s length to its side. The cushion was more or less where George’s backside would be in about ten minutes’ time. Mr Nightingale rubbed the cane across the cushion, raised his arm high and brought the whippy rod crashing down. A line indented across the centre of the polyester-filled cushion.”

 

  1. Birched live on TV

The title of this story speaks for itself.

‘“Stand by everybody,” the television director whispered in his mouthpiece. ‘We’re live in twenty seconds.’ Sweat glistened on his top lip. His heartbeat raced. He couldn’t understand why. He had done countless live broadcasts in his time. But, none quite like this.

“The twenty-two-year-old prisoner heaved his body this way and that. It did no good. He was going nowhere. His wrists were secured by plastic ties. His legs were roped to the frame.

“The director breathed deeply. He knew his show would get record ratings. The first-ever broadcast of a youth flogging. The pubic had been clamouring for it. They wanted to see the thugs suffer. They demanded all of it. The screams. The blood. The works. And, live on TV. Beamed by satellite into their homes.”

  1. Pub landlord

Soon everyone was getting in on the act. A pub landlord takes control after a group of lads get rowdy and smash up chairs.

“I remember my hands shook so much I couldn’t get my belt buckle to open. I had never been naked in front of a man before. I must have been fourteen the last time I had stripped off for PE lessons at school. I was as terrified of being seen naked – and lacking in the you-know-where department – in front of my pals.

“Somehow, I managed to loosen my jeans and they fell to my knees and I left them there while I tugged my tee-shirt over my head. Tony and Bill were even slower undressing then me. At last we stood in our underwear and socks. Mortified.”

  1. Just another day

Just another day, in just another office. It could be anywhere across the UK. Three twenty-something workers face the consequences of not taking a training workshop seriously.

“Rowe stared at the cane in his boss’s hand. ‘But we already got dealt with by Mr. Richardson.’

‘“Be quite! I don’t care about Mr. Richardson.’

“Rowe blushed. It wasn’t fair. The workshop facilitator had already spanked them. Twenty-three years old and bent over Mr. Richardson’s knee, trousers at his ankles, underpants at his knees while the old man hammered a heavy wooden ruler into his bared buttocks. Could you imagine such a thing?

  1. The truck

Another workplace whacking. What happens if you consistently turn up late for work?

“My legs felt like they were made of lead as I trudged out of the portable office and into the yard. The moment I was outside everything stopped and my workmates gathered around to see the fun. Some of the older ones had huge grins; they were going to enjoy the sport – me, bare-arsed across the truck. Sandy and Jake, two lads about my age, were deathly pale. They knew that it could be one of them next.

“It was a late spring morning and quite warm, but I couldn’t stop shivering. I’d never been spanked before.”

 

Picture credits: Unknown

 

I have also written other “futuristic” stories along the lines of Changed Times. You can read some of them here

 

A right caning

The Dean’s list

We need to talk about Jake

Caned at college

University student late for class

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Henry Pottinger’s souvenirs

new story 2

Henry Pottinger let the suitcase fall onto the bed. It was lighter than he had remembered. The accumulated dust of years – no, decades – was undisturbed. It was small and battered and made of stiff carboard. They didn’t make suitcases like that anymore. Utility, they had called it. Cheap, no frills. Like so many things manufactured at the end of the war.

Henry turned the case on its side so he could get at the catches. They flicked open easily. The case had laid in the attic room since his youth. When he had first lived there; the family home. When his mother and father were still alive.

Henry’s heart beat faster. It had been fifty years at least since he had last rummaged through the contents of the case. Part of his life was there. He paused, but only barely, since the case held no fears. It contained no hidden secrets.

He opened the lid and without looking inside he lifted the suitcase and turned it over so that its contents fell with a satisfying plop onto the heavy mattress. Carefully, almost reverentially, he placed the case on the bedroom floor. He peered at the litter on the bed with some disappointment. He had remembered it differently. This pile represented his youth. He had expected so much more. He hoped this would not turn out to be a wasted effort.

He leaned forward and carefully smoothed the jumble. He hadn’t seen this junk in more than fifty years but immediately so much looked familiar. His souvenirs. Why had he collected them? He supposed it had been the arrogance of youth. Had he believed that one day he would be famous and revered; that these pathetic artefacts would be sought out by scholars and historians. A professor at an Oxbridge college would use them as source material for his third or maybe fourth book about the importance of Henry Pottinger.

Ha! To be young again. Henry, now fast approaching his seventy-fifth birthday, often spoke about the arrogance of youth. He knew the best way to deal with that. The old-fashioned ways were still the best.

Henry had achieved some degree of fame in his life, but no scholar had wanted to write about him. Ironically perhaps, his fame (and quite a small fortune) had been made as the author of a series of history textbooks. For more than thirty years he had been required reading for every schoolchild in Britain and the Commonwealth. That was a lot of books and a great deal of royalties. That income and a legacy from his parents meant Henry had never done a day’s proper work since the age of thirty.

Henry had used the time that money bought him industriously. Henry Pottinger had constructed for himself a second life. An alternative existence. Henry Pottinger was not in fact Henry Pottinger. Henry Pottinger was an assumed name; a cipher. Henry Pottinger would never have been allowed to write and publish a textbook for schoolboys. Henry Pottinger would never have allowed near a schoolboy. Not in a million years. So, the name that adorned the history textbooks was not Henry Pottinger.

Henry Pottinger enjoyed his life. And he intended to go on enjoying it for many more years to come. He had made a great number of friends and his home, tucked away in a leafy suburb of the non-descript town of Brocklehurst, was famous among men who shared Henry’s (non-history) interests. Indeed, it was on account of these friends that Henry Pottinger was now rummaging through his souvenirs.

A seventy-fifth birthday celebration was being planned for Henry Pottinger and, as is often the case at such milestone anniversaries, his chums thought it would be a cracking wheeze to surround him with memories of his life. That had sent Henry Pottinger climbing into the far recesses of the attic.

He surveyed his early adult life spread before him. Time plays tricks on a person and had it really been about fifty years since he had last seen all this? So much of it looked familiar. The edge of a small pink-coloured box peeked between a dozen envelopes. Ha! Henry Pottinger knew what that was. He gripped it eagerly in his hand. The box had a clear transparent plastic lid. Henry Pottinger did not have to open the box, its content was clearly visible. It was a plastic key, silver in colour, attached to the numerals two and one. A twenty-first birthday memento from his parents, deliberately chosen for its tackiness.

He tossed it back onto the bed and retrieved one of the envelopes. You didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to see it contained a birthday card. Eagerly, Henry Pottinger pulled back the flap and tugged out the card. “Happy 21st birthday,” he read. “Now we are legal. Love Uncle Ricky.” Henry Pottinger chewed down on is bottom lip, an affectation that indicated his intense pleasure. “Ha! Ha! God almighty!” he said aloud, even though there was no one in the house to hear him. Now we are legal. How much had changed since he had turned twenty-one. And “Uncle” Ricky – he was no blood relation. Gosh! Henry Pottinger giggled at how much Uncle Ricky had taught him.

Gently, he placed the card on the bedside table. It would raise a smile at his birthday party.  He returned to the bed; a formal brown envelope lay askew on top of a copy of Football Monthly. Henry Pottinger didn’t need to look at that – he knew already, it celebrated England’s victory in the World  Cup. He just as easily recognised the envelope. He couldn’t supress his excitement. With trembling hands he eased out the one sheet of flimsy paper it contained. “Ha!” He boomed and dissolved into chuckles. His final school report. He licked his lips and started to read. Even after so many decades he found he could recite the contents of the report by heart.

He is “headstrong,” his housemaster had written. “Will find it difficult to make his way in life if he continues to be unable to accept authority.” His chuckles rose to roars of laughter. “Oh, yes,” Henry Pottinger said, “I must frame this. It will take pride of place.”

Henry Pottinger (as he was not called while at school) had joined the sixth-form at St Francis Independent Grammar School when his father moved to Brocklehurst to take up a senior post at the local municipal council. Unable to accept authority. The eighteen-year-old Henry Pottinger had been a frequent visitor to Mr Durrant’s study. Henry Pottinger held the school report, his eyes misting. He saw himself lowering his body across the low back of the housemaster’s old leather armchair. His head low, bottom high. His pale-grey trousers pulling snugly into his stretched buttocks. The aroma of stale sweat that permeated the chair’s seat clogged his throat. Once again, Henry Pottinger felt the gentle tap-tap-tap of the thick, but whippy, rattan cane as it found its aim across the fleshiest part of his round buttock cheeks.

Henry Pottinger could never see this (of course, since his gaze was committed to the seat cushion) but he imagined Mr Durrant then flexing the cane between both hands before swishing it through the air. Henry Pottinger could feel the cane return to its target. Then the cane lifted away before returning with tremendous force to strike deep into his meaty bum before rebounding. The cane rose and fell six times. Six-of-the-best. St Francis was a traditional school after all.

Henry Pottinger read the words again: unable to accept authority. He had been beaten like that on three separate occasions in his final term. Three times! Aged eighteen. Had Durrant been a complete imbecile? Had he not realised what was going on? How Henry Pottinger had lusted for those sessions in the housemaster’s study. How he fantasied about one day being ordered by the cane-swishing Mr Durrant, “Lower your trousers. Bend over that chair.” Oh, how Henry Pottinger had wanted to take a full-six across the seat of his white cotton Y-fronts. Henry Pottinger laughed at the memory. It would not happen at his school but it did not take too long after he arrived at Oxford before he experienced that exquisite pleasure.

Oxford. University. Suddenly Henry Pottinger remembered. The photograph. Did he still have it? He delved into the pile on the eiderdown. Yes! Yes! He pulled at a yellowing envelope, hands trembling. “This is it! Oh My God!” he trilled. “I haven’t seen this since ….” His eyes misted. A young man (himself) in pyjamas standing in the corner of  room, hands on head in the traditional naughty boy pose. The pyjama bottoms are at his feet and bottom bare to the wind and red raw after a sound spanking. Henry Pottinger licked his lips. “Oh Lor!” he exclaimed. “I had almost forgotten.”

z used after corner pyjamas down study or domestic

That bonkers weekend at Brocklehurst he had spent with his pal, Gregor. That mad man (what the dickens was his name?) who turned half of his house into a replica public school, complete with classroom and headmaster’s study. The photograph showed Henry Pottinger in that study. His heart raced and his throat dried simultaneously as it all flooded back.

“You boy, stand there,” the headmaster glowered as he pointed to a place on the carpet in front of his desk. “Why have you been sent to me at this ungodly hour?” Henry Pottinger stands nervously, feeling a little conspicuous in his heavy striped pyjamas. They were made for a taller, stouter boy. Even with the drawstring tightly knotted he feared the pyjamas bottoms would slip down his thighs at any moment.

“Maitland, the head boy sent me. I was out of the dormitory after lights out.”

“Ha!” the headmaster ejaculated. “Up to no good, of course. No good comes from being out of the dormitory after lights out.”

Henry Pottinger nods his agreement. It is unsure what else he is expected to say. There is an uncomfortable silence. The headmaster breaks it with a bark, “Well, boy what have you got to say for yourself!” Henry Pottinger stares down at his bare feet. What is he supposed to say? His head is in a whirl. Frankly, he wishes the headmaster would stop all the jawing and move onto the action.

“Pah!” he headmaster rises from his chair. “So, you want to add dumb insolence to the charge list, eh?” Henry Pottinger shrugs, realising he is not very good at this. “Bah! Pah!” the headmaster is hamming it up  bit. “Well, m’lad,” he says, suddenly adopting a cod Scottish accent, “Och! w’ll see abah tat.” He opens the drawer to his desk and reaches in. Henry Pottinger’s eyes follow the headmaster’s movement closely. His heart is racing and he feels a slight clenching in his buttocks. The headmaster withdraws a leather strap. It has a handle at one end and the business end is split into three tails.

The headmaster holds the tawse high in both hands so that Henry Pottinger gets a good look. It is as if the headmaster is making a religious offering. “Och,” the headmaster says, “yer know what to expect.” Henry Pottinger honestly does not. He knows he is to receive corporal punishment as that is the whole point of the weekend. But, he had never been beaten with a leather tawse before. His bottom has been battered with canes, slippers and hairbrushes. On one memorable occasion he received six cuts of a heavy birch rod; but a leather tawse, no.

The headmaster is now on the move. He stands in front of his desk alongside Henry Pottinger. The headmaster swipes the heavy strap through the air. Sweat trickles down Henry Pottinger’s spine. At close quarters he can see the strap is awesome. It is about a foot or fourteen inches long and maybe a quarter to half inch thick. It will pack a wallop, Henry Pottinger has no doubt about that. Especially in the hands of the headmaster who has already demonstrated his expertise with a swishy rattan cane.

“Take down your pyjama trousers and bend across my desk,” the headmaster says swiftly. In his excitement he has forgotten to speak in the Scottish accent. Henry Pottinger fumbles with the drawstring of his pyjamas, he will be glad to let them down before they fall under their own steam. His buttocks and legs are now bare and for the first time Henry Pottinger feels how cold it is in the study. There is an open fire but it hasn’t been made up.

The headmaster moves away from the desk, he places his hands behind his back and strolls purposefully across the room. When he gets to the far wall, he turns and retraces his steps. Henry Pottinger thinks he looks a lot like Groucho Marx and stifles a giggle.

“Bend over boy!” the headmaster shouts the instruction. Henry Pottinger wonders if the neighbours will hear. Then he remembers the houses in this part of The Avenue are large and detached from one another. The headmaster could commit murder and no one would hear.

Henry Pottinger is a short distance from the desk so he shuffles like a penguin until he is close enough so he can bend across. The headmaster has cleared the desk top and all that is left is a large blotter. The lower button of Henry Pottinger’s pyjama jacket is undone and his bare flesh touches the cold walnut desk. Its coldness and the excitement of presenting his bared bottom for chastisement sends a shiver through his body.

The headmaster has stopped his pacing and from the other end of the study he admires the sight presented for him. He has become intimately acquainted with Henry Pottinger’s bottom over the past twenty-four hours. The fading lines from a swift six of the best delivered across the seat of the trousers earlier in the day bare testimony to this fact.

The headmaster stands behind Henry Pottinger and admires once more his fine round buttock cheeks. They firm up when he is stretched across the desk, but when standing they are a little more fleshy. The headmaster runs the tip of his tongue across his dry, almost chapped lips. He rests the tawse on the desk so as to free-up both hands. With those, he carefully takes hold of the end of Henry Pottinger’s pyjama jacket and ever so carefully he folds it once, then once again so that it is quite clear of his target area. He cracks a smile, cups his right palm and then gently he caresses Henry Pottinger’s left buttock. The headmaster is delighted that Henry Pottinger shivers when he does this. The headmaster pats the left buttock and rubs the back of Henry Pottinger’s thighs. Then he gives the boy a playful smack across the fleshiest part of his right cheek.

The headmaster stands back and gently lays the three tails of the worn leather tawse across the centre of Henry Pottinger’s bottom. He licks his lips one more time, grips the handle tightly, raises the strap so it rests on his shoulder and then with all the force he is able to muster he whips it down so that it sinks into the flesh. He is rewarded with the sight of a glowing red stripe. Henry Pottinger’s hips wriggle and he grips the far edge of the desk. A second stroke whistles through the air before connecting an inch below the first. Henry Pottinger turns his head, a long drawn out whistle escapes from his half-closed mouth.

Back in the bedroom Henry Pottinger the soon-to-be seventy-five-year-old carefully replaces the photograph in the yellowing envelope. What a day this is turning out to be, he tells himself as once again he burrows among the debris in search of more memories.

Picture credit, CP Services, London

Other stories you might like

It is what it is

The Clumsy Waiter

The Chamber pot incident

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Proud of my son

new story 2

z used after bed jeans down domestic (1)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

A memory in the attic

Uncle Jack

Changed Times 7. Pub landlord

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Fake News #8

joe phillips party

The Party’s Over for Rowdy University Students

EXCLUSIVE Brocklehurst Bugle

The party is over for rowdy students whose unruly behaviour disturbs neighbours. A new “Punishment Patrol” taskforce has been launched by Brocklehurst University.

For years residents have complained about students making noise late at night by partying, or simply playing loud music. But University authorities were powerless to act.

Until now.

A taskforce nicknamed the “Punishment Patrol” will be on hand 24/7 to respond to complaints.

Dr. Christine Thussu of the University’s Civic Service Unit, told the Brocklehurst Bugle in an interview, “The idea is to inflict instant punishment on troublemakers. New government legislation makes it possible for us to spank the backsides of students who step out of line.”

She said officers, specially-trained in the art of inflicting corporal punishment, are available to respond to complaints.

“They visit students and assess the severity of the offence. Then, they act immediately,” she said. “They are equipped with a variety of spanking implements including slippers, straps, brushes and canes.”

Dr. Thussu said in the recent past, students who range in ages from 18 to 23, had been “dealt with” by the Punishment Patrol. She added, “This could be a simple over-the-knee spanking on the seat of their trousers to a more severe whacking with a whippy rattan cane. They can also make the boy take down his trousers – and even his underpants – if they think fit.”

Mrs. Amelia Worthington, of The Avenue, Brocklehurst, who called in the Punishment Patrol to deal with a rowdy party last month, told the Brocklehurst Bugle, “There were about a dozen youngsters singing and dancing in the garden. It was well past nine o’clock, they should have been in bed.” She said she called the university and a vanload of men dressed like security guards pulled up outside the student house.

“They were carrying all sorts of things, but mostly canes.”

Mrs. Worthington added, “The guards soon got to work. My husband and I could hear the whackings from our bedroom. A lot of the students were hollering by the time they were done.”

Mr. Gerry Wiseman, President of the Brocklehurst University Students’ Union, said many students had complained about their treatment, citing violations of human rights.

However, he said, “Many students said they welcomed the new rules. It has made them spend less time partying and more studying in the library. They might even graduate with better degrees as a result.”

If you have a complaint against a student contact the Punishment Patrol at _____________

Picture credit: Joe Phillips

More Fake News stories here

 

Other stories you might like

That Connor boy!

Mr Hennessey’s Boys 4. Timothy’s story

Untidy bathroom

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Fake News #6

z used restrained twosome outdoors

Public spanking after

disgusting cafeteria prank

Special to Standard-Recorder

Students at Mason Creek Community College took revenge on two of their own with a public spanking after they had played a disgusting prank with a salad.

Marco  Berkovitz and Raphael Benitez, both aged nineteen, took a small bottle of salad dressing from the college dining hall into the restroom, took turns to ejaculate into the bottle, and returned it to the cafeteria to watch other students consume the dressing.

They got the idea from a stunt in the film “Jackass: Number Two”, it was reported.

The contaminated dressing was used during five lunch periods before it was routinely cleaned and refilled by cafeteria staff.

Rumours spread about the prank that school authorities called an “unusual and disgusting” incident. Eventually the two teens admitted involvement.

College authorities have called a meeting of the Disciplinary Committee for 3 June but students say the committee is powerless to impose the severe sanction that the action merits.

So, a group of students stripped Berkovitz and Benitez naked Thursday and tied them to a telegraph pole close to the entrance of the College. A notice reading, “Public punishment. Do your civic duty and take the whip to these delinquents” was placed above their heads.

One student who did not want to be named told the Standard-Recorder in an interview, “Just about every student who used the cafeteria stood in line. They cut switches and used them to whip their butts, but they were too reedy and easily broke.”

He said students then took off their leather belts to continue the punishment. “They were very effective. Soon their butts were red and raw.”

A witness to the incident said, “There were a dozen or more young people at any one time, lashing the two teens over and over. They yelped and groaned but not much more. I think they were trying to accept their discipline.”

Other students reportedly used a large wooden paddle that they borrowed for the occasion from Mason Creek High School which is situated a block away.

Police Chief Paddy Callaghan declined comment to the Standard-Recorder. He would only say, “We have not received an official report about the incident.”

 

Picture credit: Unknown

More Fake News stories here

 

Other stories you might like

The Private Tutor: 2

Winker Wilson’s visit

The Colonel and Tyler

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Watch out for her brothers!

z used drawing face blond Greenleaf Classic (3)

Gwyn Jones was twenty years old and there was one thing he knew for certain; girls gagged for sex just as much as boys. And, Gwyn was very happy to take as much as they would give. He even went with the plainer girls, happy to help out a damsel in distress.

Gwyn didn’t have to try too hard. He had fashionably cut blond hair and clear healthy skin. When it caught the sun, his nut-brown complexion highlighted his dazzling white straight teeth and sparkling blue eyes. He stood at about five-nine and everything was in proper proportion. He could wear any clothes. His arse looked great in cheap Tesco Bomber jeans from the supermarket or in the most expensive designer labels.

A few of the guys at the university’s Gay Soc said they’d have him any day. He might be a year younger than the local law allowed, but they’d take the risk, they said.

Pam Cobb was a girl in his year. They were in the same faculty, but they didn’t take classes together. He met her through Audrey Henley, a rather lanky girl who was a bit of a star in the varsity netball team. He could now report with great confidence to any of his pals who doubted it that netball players were not a bunch of lesbians. Audrey had spent her childhood at a posh independent ladies’ college and was making up for lost time with the boys.

She wasn’t looking for a husband (not yet), so was pleased to pass on her “Great Shag” to her friend, Pam. Pam was twenty-years old, going on forty-five. Polite people might say she was “homely”; she favoured fluffy pink jumpers and Levi jeans that emphasised her plump behind. Her permed hair reminded folks of her mother.

Of course, Gwyn would “give her one.” Those weren’t the exact words he used when Audrey told him Pam was willing, but nobody was under any illusion. Pam lived at home with her parents in a large detached place on The Avenue. “Very nice,” Gwyn gaped when Pam parked her Mini in front of the five-bedroomed (two with en-suite bathrooms) house, resplendent with two acres of garden and a gazebo. It was a step-up from the cramped room in the student residences he usually used.

Gwyn was ready for action the moment they set foot through the door. His cock was bursting; trying to climb over the waistband of his briefs. It was like that most of the time, he couldn’t control it. It was only a little after midday, but he’d tossed off twice already that day.

“Come,” Pam took his hand and led him through the hallway and up the stairs. “Let’s use the guest bedroom.”

It was tastefully furnished in greens and blues. Some expertise had been used in its design. All Gwyn saw was the huge bed. There was so much room, four people could sleep in it and never need to brush against one another.

Pam struggled out of her fluffy jumper and wriggled down her jeans. Her naked flesh wobbled like jam. Gwyn’s eyes stalked and his todger throbbed. If he didn’t get a shift on he would cum in his underpants. Pam’s eyes resembled saucers as she watched Gwyn’s cock soar towards her, a Cruise missile couldn’t fly so fast.

They didn’t make love. They had messy sex. It was over in no time. Gwyn lay silently on his back looking at the ornate carvings on the ceiling. It had been a shag, but nothing special. Pam needed to practice more, he reckoned. Moments later, his cock pulsated again. He looked across at Pam. Yes, she nodded, “I’m ready for round two.”

Stephen and Alistair, Pam’s brothers, were puzzled when they pulled up outside the house. What was Pam’s car doing there at that time of day. She should be at university. She never came home before five.

“Something must be wrong,” Stephen said anxiously, hurrying into the house, for he loved his kid sister dearly. “Is she sick, do you think?” Alistair followed on in his brother’s wake (as he so often did). “Pam! Pam! Are you there!” Stephen bounded up the stairs, heading for his sister’s bedroom. He knocked on the door. No reply. Gingerly, he worked the door handle, eased open the door and shyly peeked inside. Empty. She wasn’t there.

“Argggg!” A grunt from the adjoining room. It sounded like a sow on heat. “Ahhh! Ahhh!” Except it was clearly a man’s noise. Heart-thumping, Stephen rushed across the hallway and threw open the door.

Gwyn had shot his second load. It was better than the first, he had made it last longer. He was face-down in the bedsheet, catching his breath. Pam saw her brother first and swiftly pulled a sheet around her nakedness.

“Worrrrrr!” her brother exploded, summing up the situation immediately. Pam fled the room.

Gwyn sat on the bed, a sheepish grin betraying his self-satisfaction.

“You bastard!” Stephen’s anger was not feigned. Gwyn recoiled. In front of him was a tall, muscular thirtysomething man, his square face blazing fury.

“No, it’s not what you think,” Gwyn panicked. “She agreed.”

Just then another, younger man wheezed into the room. His facial features and the extra pounds of lard he carried on his body confirmed he was Pam’s brother.

“You’re not getting away with this,” Stephen clenched his fists, ready to fight. Gwyn slunk back against the bed’s headboard. He was no fighter. The angry man towering above him could knock six bells out of him. No trouble.

“We have ways of dealing with your sort.” Stephen stepped back from the bed, a plan already formulated in his head.

“Ali, help me,” he leant forward and gripped Gwyn by the arm. The boy struggled but Ali joined his brother and pinned him down on the bed.

“Turn him over,” Stephen ordered. Ali would never disobey his brother. He took Gwyn’s other arm. Resistance was futile. He was face down, nose in the soiled bedsheet.

“Hold him down. Sit on his head if you have to!”

Alistair flopped his considerable weight across Gwyn’s back, winding him. The boy’s arse and legs flailed. “Ger-off,” he squealed. “I didn’t do anything.”

Stephen’s eyes ran across the room, searching for a suitable weapon. Nothing. He opened and closed drawers, not sure what he expected to find. Still zilch.

Then, the ghost of an idea flickered. There was something Stephen hadn’t seen in years. Did they still have it? He wasn’t at all sure. But, if they did, it would be in the back of the linen cupboard.

“Ali, Keep him there. Don’t let him go,” he called over his shoulder as he rushed out the door. The linen cupboard was huge and packed with bedsheets and towels and goodness only knows what else. When they were kids they used to play in this cupboard, pretending they were in a spaceship bound for Mars.

Yes, it was there. He pulled out a heavy leather razor strop. Back in the day his grandfather had used it for shaving. It had a mightily effective alternative use as well, as Stephen himself could testify. This little beauty could take a boy’s arse off.

“Hold him still,” Stephen commanded. Gwyn was terror-struck. That damn girl. Had she set him up? Was she listening at the keyhole stroking her wet pussy? Loving every moment.

Stephen stood over the bed and assessed his target. Even from a close distance Gwyn’s body looked completely hairless. It wasn’t. His bum was bald but his legs were covered in a down of fine fair hair. What little Stephen could see of the boy’s back was lean but muscular and his waist was trim. There wasn’t enough spare fat anywhere on his body to sizzle a sausage.

Gwyn’s bum was firm and meaty. The flesh was milky white, the outline of skimpy swimming trunks contrasted with the rest of his deeply-tanned body.

The strop was nearly two feet long and several inches wide. Stephen tested the weight of it in his hand before resting it across the centre of Gwyn’s bum. It covered half of the target. He saw the bottom go hard, tensing into a solid, round ball. He couldn’t see it, but the boy’s nipples hardened on his tight chest.

Stephen removed the strop, raised it high towards the ceiling, held it there for two beats and brought it crashing down across Gwyn’s naked arse. A thick dark-pink stripe three inches wide immediately flamed across the naked flesh. The boy’s bottom shuddered and he kicked his legs against the agony travelling through his body.

A second whack hammered home, landing above the first. The whole of Gwyn’s bum was crimson. He shook his head from side to side and whined, rather like a horse whinnying. The weight of Ali on his back and the agony coursing through his body took his breath away. Sweat soaked his hairline and his temples throbbed almost as much as his backside.

Stephen paused. The whole of his prisoner’s bum was cherry red; not a square inch had been left uncovered. Where should he place the next swipe? There were two choices; either he should stop the punishment now, or land another cut over the existing wounds. He wasn’t about to let up yet, so he pulled the strop high, swung it a little in the air and brought it down low. Just where the bum meets the thighs. He was rewarded with a tremendous howl from his captive. Gwyn’s body shook violently and his head butted up and down against the mattress.

His yowls were pitiful, but his pious tormentor had little pity. He bounced the strap off Gwyn’s mounds three times in rapid fire. Bang-bang-bang. The boy’s flesh was raw, a purple strip of raised flesh ran across the very centre of both cheeks.

Gwyn was weeping openly. He had never experienced anything like this in his life.

Stephen had a sadistic streak, and he relished this opportunity to indulge it. A flicker of a grin creased his lips as he rested the heavy leather strop on the back of Gwyn’s thighs. “Nooooo!” The boy kicked out, terrified. The grin broadened, the strop rose and whacked down on the back of Gwyn’s legs. The shrieks that bounced off the walls of the opulent bedroom were deeply satisfying, so Stephen repeated the action two more times.

Gwyn’s body shuddered violently for ten or more seconds and went still. Ashen-faced Ali leapt from the bed.

“He’s dead! He’s dead!” he yelled.

He wasn’t. His breathing was shallow and he was weeping copiously into the mattress.

“Leave him!” Stephen growled at his brother. “Go see if Pam’s all right.”

Obediently, Ali left the room.

Stephen stood over Gwyn’s prostrate body. The boy’s arse twitched convulsively. The flesh from the base of his spine to an inch above the back of the knees was red-raw. In places it looked like uncooked hamburger meat. The boy’s breathing was gaining strength.

Stephen looked over his shoulder, noticed the door was still open. He would need to act quickly. He shoved it shut with his foot and turned to face the bed. Gwyn’s arse was glowing like dying ambers of coal.

“Get ready because here I come,” Stephen trilled merrily and unbuckled his belt. Puzzled, Gwyn looked over his own shoulder to see his tormentor ripping down his trousers and pants. Stephen’s cock crowed. Gwyn’s eyes blazed. He turned face-down on the bed once more, raised himself to his knees, spread his legs and bit on the pillow.

Picture Credit: Greenleaf Classics

 

Other stories you might like

Late home from a date

Milo, the grad student

His big brother is not amused

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com