The exam results

new 5

A theatre play

Setting.

A suburban living room. It is the present. It is nearly Christmas so there could be a tree or decorations to show this. What furniture there is can be at the discretion of the theatre depending on what is available, but it must that it is the modern day the furniture etc (e.g. flat screen TV). There must at least be a couch and a set of drawers (possibly a sideboard). A Table / Smart phone and a wooden paddle are the only two essential props.

Characters.

NATE: A 19-year-old university student. Dressed in jeans and a top. He wears colourful underpants.

DAD: In his late forties / early fifties. He is dressed casually for a day spent at home.

MUM: Roughly same age as DAD and also dressed for a day at home

 

Curtain rises showing MUM and DAD in the living room. DAD is holding a Tablet. MUM stands close by watching him read from the screen

 

DAD (Peering into Tablet). I’m into Nate’s exam results here. (face drops) Jeez, look at this. Five subjects. One’s an F. That’s fail. Nothing higher than a D. They’re worse than the midterms.

MUM. (Looking over his shoulder). What are we paying all this money for to send him to university? What a waste.

DAD. (Anger showing in his face) We told him. Back in October. This is just not good enough.

MUM. It can’t go on like this. This is too bad. What’s he doing? Too much time in the bar, not enough in the library.

DAD. I know what he needs. (Pauses) I did warn him.

MUM. But he’s eighteen (let’s the sentence trail off)

DAD. That’s not too old.

MUM. Maybe.

DAD. It’s what got him through his A-levels. Remember? He failed his mocks. He soon bucked up his ideas after that. Did quite well in the end. Good enough to get to university.

MUM. Yes, that’s true. Will it work again?

DAD. I don’t see why not. He just needs a wake up call. It worked before. It’ll work again.

MUM. (Showing doubt) Well ….

DAD. Just a bit of maintenance. Put him back on the straight and narrow. To remind him that we’re keeping an eye on him.

MUM. (Frowning) I guess so. (Pause as she thinks about it some more). Yes …. OK … Right …

At that moment Nate enters. He is a bit dishevelled and it is clear he has only just got out of bed. He sees DAD with the Tablet but doesn’t realise its importance.

MUM. (Berating NATE) You just got up? Look at the time. It’s nearly eleven. Late night. (Pause) Again. You need to go out an get a job for the holidays. I don’t want you lying in bed all day.

NATE. (Showing insolence) OK Mum.

DAD. (Snapping) Don’t talk to your mother like that.

NATE. (Sulks) Ohhh.

MUM. Don’t expect me to make you breakfast.

NATE. (Snaps) Don’t want none.

DAD. What’s up with you. Got a hangover?

NATE. (Grimaces but says nothing)

DAD. (Holding up the Tablet) I’ve got your exam results.

NATE. (Taken aback) Worr…?

DAD. You heard. Exam results. What a disgrace

NATE turns away to leave the room – he does not want to have this conversation

DAD. Woah. Hold your horses. Wait a minute. You’re not going anywhere.

NATE. pauses, considers disobeying DAD, but stays waiting at the door.

DAD. One fail. Nothing higher than a D. (Pauses, expecting NATE to respond. When he doesn’t DAD’s anger shows) Well! (Pause). Well, what have you got to say.

NATE embarrassed, shrugs his shoulders but says nothing.

DAD. Well. (Pause. His anger rising) We talked about this at midterm. (He waves the Tablet to confirm what he is talking about).

NATE stands by the door contemplating whether he should make a run for it

DAD. Did you go to lectures? Do you even know where the library is? Did you do any work at all?

NATE embarrassed looks at his feet

DAD. Well? Answer me. (More silence) Bah! You know what you need don’t you.

NATE looks startled. He opens his mouth intending to respond but thinks better of it

DAD. (speaking rapidly as if he is himself embarrassed) A damn good spanking. That’s what. A good hiding. That’ll buck your ideas up. A sore backside.

NATE. (eyes wide with astonishment) Dad …. (he is lost for words) But …. I’m too old ….

DAD. (cutting NATE short) You’re not too old. I’ll tell you when you’re too old. When you start acting like a responsible adult, that’s when you’re too old.

NATE. (Struggling to find the words) But Dad. You can’t … I mean….

DAD. (Cutting NATE short) I can. (Pause for effect) And I will. (Pause) Now get back in here.

NATE. But Dad ..

DAD. Come here. (Points to the couch)

NATE. Oww Dad. C’mon Dad.

DAD. (Pointing to the couch) I won’t tell you again.

NATE (pouts). But Dad …

MUM walks across the room. NATE stops and his eyes follow MUM as she walks. NATE has a concerned look. MUM reaches a drawer and opens it. DAD and NATE watch her carefully as MUM reaches in the drawer. She searches with her hand for a moment. MUM’s expression is puzzled. It seems she cannot find what she is looking for. Then, MUM gives a half-smile. MUM turns to face DAD and NATE, she is holding a wooden punishment paddle.

NATE (Alarmed). Oh, c’mon Mum. (Pause) Dad? (Pause) No, come on. No, you can’t.

MUM (Hands the paddle to DAD. Looks at NATE). You have nobody to blame but yourself.

DAD takes paddle and weighs it in his hand, demonstrating that it is a substantial piece of wood and has some weight. NATE’s eyes pop as he watches DAD tap the blade of the paddle into the palm of his hand.

MUM. (To NATE) You were warned. You can’t say you weren’t.

NATE (Mouth opens and closes like a goldfish). But Mum.. (Looks at DAD who is now tapping thee paddle against his own thigh. Then in a plea)  Dad ….. No ….

DAD sits on the edge of the couch. Waves paddle at NATE.

DAD (To NATE). Let’s get this over with. (Pause) Come here, son.

NATE Doesn’t speak but body language says he is considering whether he should run from the room. He appears to be debating with himself in his head. He doesn’t realise the thumbs of both hands are gently caressing the seat of his jeans.

DAD (Losing patience). Don’t make me ask you twice.

NATE shows no signs of moving.

DAD (Speaks fiercely). NOW!

NATE jolts, then slowly moves towards DAD. NATE stands a metre or so away from DAD and looks sorrowfully at DAD

NATE (Pleading). Dad …

DAD (looking stern). Your fault…. Not mine. This is to make sure you work harder next semester.

NATE shuffles his feet with embarrassment, dreading DAD’s next words

DAD (Slowly looks NATE up and down, from head to feet and back again. DAD’s eyes rest on NATE’s waist). You better take those jeans down.

NATE looks astonished, silently mouths ‘But Dad’.

DAD (As if speaking to himself). They’re too thick. You won’t hardly feel a thing. Take them down.

NATE stands rooted to the spot, his face red with shame.

NATE (Pleading). C’mon Dad, please. Not jeans down. C’mon. Please.

DAD. Now. If I have to do it for you, I’ll take the pants down too.

NATE hurriedly finds the buckle of his belt and tugs it open. He looks pleadingly at DAD as if hoping DAD will relent at the last moment and let him keep the jeans up. DAD stares into the middle distance. NATE looks down at his jeans for a moment. Reluctantly NATE undoes the button on the waistband of his jeans. He pulls the zip fly. The jeans fall open showing the front of NATE’s colourful briefs. NATE closes his eyes as if to persuade himself that this is not really happening to him. Slowly he pushes the jeans down his thighs. They snag at his knees and he leaves them there. He glances pitifully at DAD.

DAD (Calmly but with authority). All the way.

NATE spreads his knees and the jeans slip further down until they rest in a puddle over his feet.

DAD grips the handle of the paddle and pushes it towards NATE. NATE recoils slightly, but stands his ground.

DAD spreads his legs to create a platform and taps his own right thigh

DAD. Bend  over my knee.

NATE looks down at DAD’s lap. NATE hesitates

DAD taps his own thigh again

DAD. Just like last time.

NATE shuffles forward and stands to the right of DAD, Slowly, NATE places the palms of his hands on DAD’s thighs and lowers himself down. Once his stomach is resting across DAD, NATE stretches his arms forward and presses the palms of his hands into the ground. NATE’s legs are left to dangle in mid-air (or his toes touch the carpet, depending upon the height of the actor playing the role). NATE’s bottom is raised over DAD’s thigh at a perfect angle to receive swats of the paddle.

DAD, slowly and with great deliberation takes hold of the elasticated waistband of NATE’s briefs. NATE’s face registers fear as he thinks DAD is about to pull down his underpants and bare his backside.

DAD does not do this. DAD tugs the waistband so that the cotton briefs fit snugly across NATE’s bottom. All creases are removed and the briefs are so tight that each buttock cheek is clearly defined, offering DAD a terrific target to spank. DAD takes hold of NATE’s shirt and pulls it up NATE’s back so that the audience now has an unrestricted view of the whole buttock area. DAD places his left hand around NATE’s waist to hold him in place. NATE and DAD are now both adopting the traditional spanking posture as demonstrated by fathers and sons across the ages.

NATE’s body is tense. NATE closes his eyes and shuts his mouth tight.

DAD gently taps the blade of the paddle against the underside of NATE’s left buttock cheek. NATE’s buttocks clench as if they are firming up to protect themselves from the painful spanking that is about to start.

DAD (Still tapping to find his aim, says almost inaudibly). Relax, son. Relax.

DAD raises the paddle to above shoulder height.

NATE’s whole body tenses

DAD pauses with the paddle raised high. He counts “one, two, three,” in his head then brings the paddle pounding down into NATE’s left buttock.

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NATE winces with pain. His legs kick.

DAD raises the paddle and repeats the previous manoeuvre, this time swatting the right buttock.

NATE’s head raises up and down. NATE’s mouth forms the perfect “O” shape, but he does not make a sound.

DAD slowly hammers another two swats across each cheek, making a total of six whacks.

NATE is feeling the pain. NATE’s head shakes from side to side, like a horse bothered by a fly.

DAD quickens the momentum of the spanking. Instead of counting “one, two, three” before each swat he spanks rapidly: bang-bang-bang, like machinegun fire.

NATE’s hips swivel, his shoulders shake. NATE acts as if he is trying to swim away off DAD’s lap. DAD grips NATE harder around the waist and continues spanking, making sure that the paddle whacks the fleshiest part of NATE’s bum, as well as the tender undersides, the sit-spot, where the bum meets the thighs. DAD also swipes the peaks of the mounds, so that no square-centimetre of bum is left untoasted.

DAD (While he is spanking). There. This is just what you deserve. Maybe you’ll work harder next semester. Why do you think your mother and I are paying for you to go to university. So you get a good degree. Have a decent career.

DAD (spanks the paddle with rhythm; one spank per word). This (spank) is (spank) how (spank) you (spank) repay (spank) us (spank).

NATE reaches his hand back to try to protect his backside from the onslaught. His body is tipped at such an angle he cannot quite manage this. DAD grips NATE’s wrist and together they struggle. DAD pushes NATE’s arm half way up his back.

(At this point the theatre director has a decision to make. In real life, because NATE was causing trouble and refusing to take his punishment stoically the DAD would pull down his underpants and continue the spanking across the bared buttocks. This might not be possible during the theatrical performance. Local districts have their own laws or regulations about nudity in public places and, of course, these must be respected. Even where laws permit bared buttocks to be shown, audiences might not appreciate the sight of a young man’s naked bottom writhing across lap of a much older man. It is a matter for the theatre director, producer and management to decide. For what it is worth, it is the preference of the play’s author, that NATE’s bottom is fully bared at this point so that his spanking might be exemplary. However, the script from this point on assumes that NATE’s underpants remain in place.)

DAD (Struggling with NATE). Oh, no you don’t.

NATE (Said as spanking continues). Oww, no, please, Dad. No more. I’m sorry. I will. I’ll work harder. Promise. Owww

DAD (breathless, still spanking hard). That’s what you said last time. (DAD spanks even faster and harder). It didn’t do much good.

NATE (squirming and writhing). I will. I will. I will. I promise. I’ll go to lectures.

DAD (Spanking hard, but now showing signs of fatigue). Library (huff). More time studying (huff)

NATE. Yes, ouch! Yes Dad, Yes Dad.

DAD (Spanking). Stop partying.

NATE. Yes, yes, yes Dad,. Please stop. Please I’ve had enough.

DAD stops paddling and looks across at MUM. He speaks no words but his look says “Has he had enough? Do you think he’ll behave now?” MUM nods “Yes”

DAD hammers a further six swats across the fleshiest part of the buttocks. Three on each cheek. They are the hardest swats so far. Then, he releases his hold on NATE.

NATE rolls from DAD’s lap and lays on the floor gasping for breath, like a beached dolphin.

DAD grips the paddle and tries to control his own heavy breathing.

MUM watches NATE closely as NATE struggles to his knees and then to his feet. NATE ruefully rubs the seat of his underpants. The backs of his thighs are bright red where the paddle blade struck. NATE pulls up his jeans, zips up and does up the button. He does not do up the belt. NATE stands shamefaced, looking at the floor unable to meet the eye of MUM or DAD.

MUM (Calmly). You should go to your room. Make sure it’s tidy.

NATE still not looking at MUM or DAD makes for the door.

MUM (calling after NATE). And, I want you to go out this afternoon and find a job. Lots of the shops at The Exchange are looking for staff.

NATE (Patting the seat of his jeans as he exits the room). Yes, Mum.

DAD watches NATE leave, then turns to MUM

DAD (Hands her the paddle). There, put that back. Somehow, I think we’ll need it again, next mid-term.

MUM smiles ruefully. Takes the paddle and replaces it in the drawer. Then, MUM and DAD look at one another from across the room.

DAD. Know what, I could kill for a cup of tea, love.

Curtain falls.

 

Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club

 

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His big brother is not amused

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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

You, called home

new 5

You sit glumly, as the green fields become first factories, then houses, then offices and shops. The train rattles into the station. Nearly home. Only a short bus ride before you meet up with father. The carriage is nearly empty of passengers, Saturday is not a busy day on the railway at Brocklehurst. You try to listen to your music but you can’t concentrate. The sounds blur in your ears.

An unintelligible voice crackles through the speaker. You can’t understand a word, but you know the guard is announcing the train is approaching Brocklehurst: your home town. Like a good citizen you wait until the train comes to a complete standstill before you rise from your seat and reach to the overhead shelf and take down your bag. You feel the weight of your dirty laundry as you sling it over your shoulder. At least one good thing will come from this visit: mother will do your washing.

You alight from the train and with no enthusiasm make your way down the platform. You have your ticket ready to get through the automatic barrier. In no hurry, you walk through the station, your footsteps echoing against the hard floor tiles. Ghost town. You have been away only three months, but already you have forgotten how dull this place is.

The bright lights of Newcastle have seduced you. Your new home. New friends. New experiences. That’s what university is supposed to give you. And, that is the problem. That’s why father has called you home.

The buses stop right outside the station. They call this ‘Brocklehurst Parkway’, a transport hub for the 21st century. As if buses never stopped outside train stations in the past. But that’s modern life, the ordinary is branded as if it were something new.

The buses run every twenty minutes. The number 66 – your bus – pulls up at the stop the second you exit the station. You pause, consider letting it go. Waiting for the next one. Or the one after. You are in no hurry to get home. Father doesn’t know what time your train is due. You can string this out for a while yet.

A nagging voice in your head tells you, “Get on that bus. Do not deceive your father.” It is your conscience. Those nagging voices have been troubling you since the day you arrived at the university. You are eighteen years old and free from your parents for the first time in your life. Free from all kinds of authority. There are few rules at the university. At your first class you were told, “Failure is a process, not an event.” The lecturer meant it was up to you – and your fellow students – to work hard, attend lectures, do the reading, submit the assignments on time. Go the whole nine yards (or whatever). If you do, success would follow. If but you do not, you will fail. Nobody is going to stand over you with a big stick to make sure you work.

You step onto the bus, offer your credit card for the fare and take a seat near the back. A light rain begins to fall as the bus pulls away. Your mid-term exams didn’t go so well. That lecturer was right. Too much time spent at student social clubs, playing football, discovering bars. Alcohol. A drop had never passed your lips before Newcastle. You soon made up for lost time.

Your father never touched a drop. The devil’s brew. There is something about it in the Bible. You know there are a lots of things in the Bible. About how to behave and how not to behave. Nobody you know at home drinks. Everyone goes to church – the same church. That’s the House of the Sacred Light. It came as a shock when you discovered The Sacred Light doesn’t operate in Newcastle. You are a member of a select band of people. You all know the true way. The Light. You know this to be true: it’s what you are taught.

You still read your Bible; you haven’t changed that much in the time you’ve been away. It makes a lot of sense to you. It is your guiding light. You’ve just lost your way a little. You need help to get back on the straight and narrow path. You know that. That’s why father has called you home. To help you. To guide you. You shuffle your buttocks on the hard seat as the bus takes a roundabout a little too quickly.

Traffic is light and the bus soon arrives at Widdicombe Wood, which is where you get off. Your street, The Avenue, is opposite. The rain has stopped but it’s cloudy and dank, it will start again fairly soon. Saturday is usually busy in The Avenue. Cars are washed and gardens attended. Two teenagers lounge idly with their bicycles. One, a fat youth with a face scarlet with acne and pus, leers at you as you pass. Your heart misses a beat. Can he read your mind? Does he know? Do all the neighbours know? Know why you have been called home.

You pass several large detached house, each hidden in its own way from the scrutiny of neighbours. Your house is surrounded by high ivy-covered walls. The gate is closed but unlocked. You pause for a moment to allow your heartrate to slow. Then with your knee you push the gate open, but only so far that you can squeeze your body through. Once inside you back-kick the gate and it slowly creaks back to its original state.

There is a light on in the loungeroom, although it is only midday. Father is probably waiting there for you. Mother will be hidden away in her own private ‘den’ pretending to make a dress with her new state-of-the-art sewing machine. You walk up the drive – slowly. Any passing tortoise would beat you in a race. You silently curse that the drive is not longer. You arrive at the front door. You have your own key and you let yourself in.

There is an eerie silence. Usually chamber music plays from an old-fashioned record player. Not today. You close the door and plonk your bag in the hall. Mother will deal with that later. You take off your coat and hang it neatly on a coat stand. While you are doing this you make sure to move all the other coats. You are checking. You don’t know what to think. The two whippy school-type rattan punishment canes that usually dangle from their curved handles here are missing.

Just then, Mother bustles from the lounge. “I thought I heard you come in,” she says shyly. “Do you have laundry?” You point to the bag. She picks it up and hurries into the utility room where she will stay for the next several hours. You watch her go, holding back your resentment that she hasn’t even said, “Hello, how are you?”

You have no time for further thoughts on the matter as father now emerges from the lounge. He looks at you sternly. “Good. You’re here at last,” he says. Again, there s no welcome. You nod blindly as if agreeing that indeed you are here. “Come in here,” he says sternly and walks back into the lounge.

The room hasn’t changed in the past three months. It is a large room that is dominated by two couches and a set of armchairs. Small tables are dotted around the room. There is no television set. But something is out of place. Your eyes settle on a chair, it is armless and has a straight back. It belongs in the kitchen. It has been brought into the lounge for a reason. It has been placed close to a corner facing into the room. You know why it is there. A heavy wooden paddle left on a nearby table confirms your thought.

Your father gives a little cough. He is both clearing his throat and gaining your attention. You stand, hands behind your back and look at him, making clear to your father that he has your rapt attention. Father looks as he always does whatever the time of day or the day of the week. He is dressed in a sober dark suit with a white shirt and red tie. You cannot remember ever seeing him dressed otherwise.

He begins to speak and you know – almost word for word – what he is going to say. He knows you failed your midterms and he thinks he knows why. You meekly confirm his suspicions. You know you have not worked this semester. You know if you don’t buck your ideas up you will fail at Christmas. You know you have let your mother and father down. You tell father this. He nods sagely, it is what he wants to hear.

You promise him you will work harder. He is pleased to hear it, he says. You say sorry again. You know this is expected. It is a kind of ritual. You go through the motions, knowing already what comes next.

Father picks up a Bible from one of the tables and flicks through the pages, finding his place. He reads several passages at great length and solemnity. Honour your mother and father. Work hard. Spare the rod. You know this by heart, but you show you are paying attention as if hearing it all for the very first time.

Father finishes reading and replaces the Bible on the table. He closes his eyes and begins to pray aloud. He is seeking the strength of the Lord. You are obliged to join in with the Amen.

Father says no more. Now, he unbuttons his jacket and slips it from his back. Carefully, he folds it and places it on the seat of a couch. You watch him intently as he does this and then he sits in the kitchen chair. He beckons to you with a crooked finger. He wants you to stand close to him. Silently, you take the three or four paces necessary.

You are standing so close that you can smell the aroma of coal tar soap and hair oil that follows your father around. He licks his lips, gives that little cough again and says, “I think you know what to do.” You don’t need clarification. This is your cue to prepare myself. You are soberly dressed in a white shirt and black trousers. At home you are always required to dress like this. You look a bit like a senior schoolboy. Not that you ever attended school – not a proper school. Parents of The Sacred Light ‘home-schooled’ which meant they taught their children themselves. There were several of you and you had classes at the church. You wore a distinctive school uniform with a grey shirt and pale-grey short trousers – even when you were eighteen. It taught you humility; walking to and from the church dressed like that.

Today you are wearing the long grey socks from school and the unusual and unflattering grey underwear worn by all males of The Sacred Heart. You have several pairs of grey short trousers in your bedroom and you wouldn’t be surprised if father insists you go upstairs to change. But, he has not. So, you must prepare yourself now.

You take a deep breath as if preparing yourself for an ordeal. Then you take hold of the buckle of the belt keeping your trousers up and open it. There’s a button on the waistband of your trousers and your fingers shiver a little so you fumble getting it undone. From the corner of your eye you see father is silently in prayer. You tug the zip fly and the front of the trousers fall open. The material of the trousers is heavy and with the weight of the belt and some keys and coins in your pocket, the trousers tumble to your shins.

Father has stopped praying and watches you as you place each of your thumbs in the waistband of your underwear and with not much more than a flick of the wrists you sent the pants south to meet your trousers. A faint breeze wafts in from somewhere to cool your naked legs and buttocks. Father slaps his thigh with his right hand. He is becoming impatient. Which is a sin, so he stops slapping and says quietly, “Bend across my knee, son.”

As he says this he parts his knees slightly and you look down at his thighs. He has made a platform for you to present your body. Carefully, you rest the heels of your hands on his right leg and slowly ease yourself down and forward. Within seconds you are across his knee in the traditional to-be-spanked posture. You make fists with your hands and push these into the carpet. Your bottom is raised over father’s lap and your legs are stretched out behind you so that the tips of your shoes brush the ground.

You hear father’s breathing getting heavier. You wait patiently. Father takes the end of your shirt and pushes it gently up your back so that it is away from his target area. Not long now. Your buttocks clench in anticipation. Now father has cupped the palm of his right hand and he is caressing each buttock cheek. You close your eyes and shut your teeth tightly. Any moment now. Father leans his left arm across your back holding you in position.

Slap! You hear the noise of his palm spanking your left buttock a split-second before you feel the sting. It tingles, but it doesn’t really hurt. Then father slaps the right cheek. Quickly he gets into a rhythm, slapping down hard across your bum. He works enthusiastically and in no time the whole area is glowering pink. The pain is building, but you are eighteen-years-old and no matter how hard father slaps the palm of his hand into you backside – even your bare backside – it isn’t going to do you much harm.

z used otk pants down chair sting (6)

You know this and father knows this. The spanking is so far symbolic. Father is expressing his displeasure and you are submissively presenting yourself for punishment. You know your place. You are your father’s son. You father is doing his duty to God. All is well.

But, father knows there is a difference between mere discipline and punishment. You have to be punished. Without adequate punishment you will not mend your ways. You will not work harder. You will fail your exams, be excluded from university and your future will be ruined. This punishment is for your own good. Father stops slapping your bare bum. You feel a movement in his body as he reaches over to the nearby table. He grips the paddle. It is a little bigger than a paperback book or a DVD cover, but a great deal heavier. Without warning father lifts it high and whacks it down with maximum impact across the underside of your cheeks – the sensitive ‘sit-spot’.

The suddenness of the move and the pain is creates takes you by surprise and for the first time this afternoon a yelp escapes your tight lips. Father spanks with the paddle as hard and as quickly as he had with his hand. Your backside quickly roasts. You can’t help it, your hips sway and your legs kick. Father presses his arm down into your back. You are going nowhere. Not for a considerable time to come.

You lose all sense of time. It might be one minute, it might be twenty. Up and down, up and down. The paddle flies, biting into your fleshy backside. It burns. Your temples throb almost as much as your backside. Tears fill your eyes but do not fall. Your throat is tight, but that doesn’t stop a series of “Owwws” and “Ouches” escaping your mouth. You are burning.

Father has covered every square centimetre of your buttocks which are now shining bright red. So, he turns his attentions to the backs of your thighs. Whack! “Noooooo! Stop!!!!! Please!!!!” you yell for mercy, but none is forthcoming. Father is on a mission.

You kick and wriggle and squirm and yell. It does no good. It never does. Father will spank you for as long as it takes. Until he is satisfied you have learned a lesson. Your head is buzzing. You hear the sound of wood connecting with naked flesh, but you feel no more pain. You have reached a plateau. A literal pain barrier.

Perhaps father realises this, because he eases off. The paddle continues to pound into your bottom but the whacks are not so heavy and less frequent. Then – at last – they stop completely. You lay face down staring at the carpet, your heartbeat races, your blood pressure is off the scale. Your backside feels like you have sat in a bathtub of boiling water. You hear your father’s uneven breathing. The spanking has taking it out of him as well.

At last he croaks, “Get up.” You scramble to your feet and instinctively your hands go to your naked buttocks. Your flesh feels like leather. The pain is already easing but both cheeks throb like mad. You are unconcerned that you are standing half-naked in front of father exposing your privates. Father hauls himself from the chair and reaches for his jacket. You take this cue and get dressed yourself, gingerly puling your underwear over your scorching buttocks. You bend down and retrieve your trousers. Pain reignites when you pull them over your bum. You zip up but leave the belt undone.

Father reaches for the Bible. Your head spins. You feel high. It must be the adrenaline, or something. You know father is reading to you but you can’t make out the words. This goes on for a long minute before father intones, “Amen.” Hurriedly, you echo that.

“Go to your room,” father says quietly. You hobble away. As you walk towards the staircase you hear the sound of a washing machine and catch the smell of detergent. Mother is washing your clothes. You wonder how long you will have to wait before you can get the train back to university.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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More in sorrow …

 

 

 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

Strictly no alcohol

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Trent and Alex were in the students’ union bar finishing their second pint of the evening. “I’m going to make this the last one,” Trent said. “Then I have to be off home.”

His friend wrinkled his nose, “But it’s early yet, it’s not even nine.”

“I know, but I’ve got to go,” he sipped his beer ruefully. Colour drained from his face.

His close pal noticed this at once. “What’s the matter? Tell me.”

Trent wriggled in his chair as if the memory discomforted him. “You’ll never believe me if I told you. I can’t even believe it myself.”

Alex laughed. “Oh come on. You can’t leave it like that. You’ve got to tell me now.”

Trent laughed too. “Okay, but promise you won’t tell anyone else.”

“Scout’s honour.”

This is the story he told.

“You know I’ve just moved into digs with that weird fellow, the one with all the tattoos. Well, it turns out that he’s a born-again teetotaller. He used to be a wino, an alcoholic. Turns out he’s really against booze. The first day I got there he says I’m not to bring any alcohol into the house. He says I’m not to drink outside either.

“I didn’t take any notice of him. I was desperate for somewhere to stay after that trouble at my last place, so I just said ‘okay’ and left it at that. I think he must have been in a right state back in the day. Did I tell you he’s got tattoos all the way up his neck and over some of his face? I couldn’t take him seriously to be honest.

“Things were fine for a day or two. Turns out he’s quite an artist – and not only a piss artist either – he’s got an exhibition of paintings and ceramics coming up. I knew he had a bob or two in the bank, those houses in The Avenue don’t come cheap.

“Like I say, things were all right and then last Saturday I went to the gig with The Dudes – did you go? – and afterwards there was a party so I didn’t get back until gone two in the morning. I didn’t think much of it. I’ve got my own key obviously and I was going to just let myself in and go to bed. I was a bit drunk actually. I just about managed to get the key in the lock and I was on my way up the stairs when he came flying out of the living room.

“He was livid. He had stayed up until I came home. ‘What time do you call this this,’ he roared. He was really angry. I couldn’t work it out. I was drunk like I said and so I said back to him, ‘Two o’clock what’s it to you?’ He had never said anything about curfew, y’know like some landlords do.

“It just made things worse. He storms up to me and his face is like this; y’know we’re practically nose to nose. Then he smells the beer on my breath. He hits the effing roof. I can’t tell you. I’ve never seen anyone so angry before. His face goes scarlet and that made me scared. His face is pretty scary anyway. He’s jabbering away at me so fast that I can’t get what he’s saying. I’m pissed, of course, so that doesn’t help.

“Then he screams, ‘I told you! I told you!’ and I thought he was going to explode. Then you’ll never guess what happens. You promised you wouldn’t tell anyone else, remember. Then he grabs hold of me by the back of my jumper and he drags me across the floor. I’m still on my feet but they’re slipping on the polished floor of the hallway. He takes me into the sitting room. Of course, I’m hollering and calling him all the names under the sun, but he’s too far gone. He’s somewhere with the fairies.

“So we’re in the sitting room now and I see his eyes are blazing, they’re like something out of a cheap horror movie. I’ve never seen anyone with red eyes before. Red. Have you? Well, I’m thinking this guy is well out of control now and I wonder how I’m going to get away.

“He has enormous strength, like some wild animal. I can’t think of one now, a bear or something like that. He’s so strong that I can’t get away from him. He’s jabbering his gibberish again and I know he’s trying to tell me something, to explain maybe, but I haven’t a clue what he’s going on about. Then, it happened.

“I swear to God I’m not making this up. He’s still got me by the scruff of the neck and he pulls me across the sitting room. It’s quite a big room and there’s a large couch at one end. He’s still got hold of me and he sits himself down and then he pulls me down on top of him. He puts me across his knee. Honestly. He’s got me across his knee like I’m nine years old, not nineteen. I’m face down and he picks me up like I’m a rag doll and he pulls me about out so my chest and arms are flat on one side of him and my legs are stretched behind me on the couch on the other. And he’s got my bum high over his lap. He leans his arm across my body and nearly breaks my back as he pins me down. I cannot move!

“Of course, I’m yelling blue murder, but he don’t care. I still cannot move. He’s got me exactly where he wants me: face down, bum high. I feel him take hold of the waist of my jeans and he pulls them really hard. It’s like he’s giving me a wedgie. I can feel the jeans digging into my crack. I couldn’t believe it!

“Then, he spanks me. He slaps his horrible old tattooed hand all over my arse. Of course, I’m wriggling and kicking and trying to escape. It must have looked like I was trying to swim off his lap. It didn’t stop him. He’s jabbering on still, while his spanks me all over my bum. He even went on the back of my thighs. I was drunk, of course, and by now I’m feeling a bit sick and I’m thinking I’m going to throw up all over the couch any minute now. I don’t but because I was thinking that I wasn’t doing much else, so I just sort of lay there and let him spank me. Over and over again.

“Have you ever been spanked? No, of course you haven’t, who has? It’s supposed to hurt isn’t it? That’s the whole point of it surely. ‘Come her you naughty boy, get across my knee’, smack, smack, smack. Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! But I didn’t feel a thing. Nothing. I could feel his hand landing on the seat of my jeans but that’s all. Of course, the jeans are thick aren’t they. And, of course, I’m wearing pants. Boxers, actually. Never felt a thing.

“Anyway, eventually he stops spanking me and lets me go. I didn’t hang around. I stumbled up the stairs and bounced into my bedroom. I had a little look. Y’now at my bum like and it wasn’t even red. It was like nothing happened. It might have been a dream.

“So, that’s what happened. My landlord spanked me for being out drinking. It didn’t hurt a bit and – obviously, since we are in the bar – it hasn’t stopped me drinking. What was the point of it all?”

Trent had stopped speaking. There was silence before Alex realised his pal had asked him a genuine question. “What was the point of it?” he mused, “None at all. Unless, of course, we come to the inevitable conclusion that he got a great deal of pleasure spanking your gorgeous arse. Come on, have another drink, what’s the worst that could happen?”

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Picture credits: Bad-lads dot com

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The French student

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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

 

Unexpected demonstration of affection

new 5

Nigel Wallace, a long-since retired professor at Brocklehurst University, was at home doing nothing when the phone rang. He didn’t recognise the voice at the other end and was a little alarmed when the man said he was a lawyer and asked Wallace to confirm his identity. Was he being accused of something? Lawyers always spelled trouble.

The lawyer detected the uneasiness in the professor’s reply and sought to reassure him. “I am dealing with the estate of Mr Eric Stanhope.” That didn’t help. “I know no one of that name,” he replied, anxious to put the phone down and continue staring at the fading wallpaper in his front room.

“He was a student of yours in the early nineteen-seventies,” the lawyer continued, “I am sorry to say he has passed away. Lung cancer. I should like to invite you to a reading of the will.”

Prof Wallace wanted to retort, “Reading of the will. Is there really such a thing? I thought they only happened in crime novels. Agatha Christie. A group of strangers get called to the reading of a will at a creepy mansion and one by one they get bumped off.” He wasn’t given time to speak as the lawyer was anxious to conclude business. He gave a date, a time and a venue for the event.

“No thanks,” Prof Wallace was adamant. He had no wish to travel half way across the country on a fool’s errand. What interest was a former student of forty years ago to him? The lawyer did not press the case. He was used to such refusals. He could inform the professor of the details of his legacy at a later date. “But,” he added, “He has left a letter for you, may I forward it on to you?”

“Bah!” Prof Wallace croaked. Despite being a cantankerous old man (indeed, he had always been cantankerous) he did not add “What should I care?” The lawyer wished him good day and ended the conversation.

So it was that the next day a registered letter arrived at Prof Wallace’s home. He had to admit (to himself, since he was alone in the world) that he had become intrigued. Who was this Mr Eric Stanhope and why did he want to remember him after so many years? He pulled out a printed transcript from the envelope and settled back in his armchair. This is what he read.

“Dear Professor,

“You probably don’t remember me since so many young men have passed through your hands over the years but I have never forgotten you. There is no doubt in my mind that I owe my life to you. Please don’t think I am being over-dramatic. I don’t mean that you once dragged me from a burning building or conducted mouth-to-mouth resuscitation after I had been pulled from a river. I mean that it was the help and guidance you gave to me as a young student that made me the man I became.

“It was the sense of discipline that you instilled in me back at Brocklehurst that set me on the path to success. You almost certainly won’t know that I went on to build a great financial empire. This brought me great wealth and happiness. Believe me when I say without you I would not have a wonderful wife and three fantastic daughters.

“What I have just said probably puzzles you. You have never met my family and in all probability you think you don’t know me from Adam. Let me explain. When I arrived at Brocklehurst I was a bumptious eighteen-year-old. I was smug and conceited. I had come from humble origins. I had not studied hard at school but I had a knack for passing exams with minimal effort. I had no intention of working hard and expected to cruise through university. In the early weeks of my first term I hardly attended lectures, I spent my time in the bars of Brocklehurst and introduced myself to many young ladies of the town. I did not know it but I was heading for failure. It seemed that at Christmas time I would be put on the train to my home never to return. You saved me.

“I remember the first time you summoned me to your study as if it were only yesterday. You were not only a professor at the university, you held the post of head of department. I didn’t have the sense I was born with. I was self-satisfied and arrogant. What could you, an old man teach me? (Old man. Ha! Now I look back I see you were probably still in your thirties). Well, you soon showed me. As my memories flood back, my bottom tingles as I write this.

“Your speech was word perfect. You listed my faults and there were many. You were never a tall man, nor especially large. But you had a presence about you. Much to my surprise I found myself cowered. I clenched my hands behind my back. My feet wriggled with embarrassment. I showed an intense interest in the carpet beneath my feet. I had never experienced this before.

“What you did next was also a novelty for me. It was a shock. I had no expectation. I had never been called to your study before. I had heard no other student speak of their visits. I was completely unprepared. Your study wasn’t too big and along one wall were a series of shelves and cupboards. I forced my gaze away from my feet and my eyes followed you as you took the stately walk across the room. You stopped at a cupboard. Did you feel my eyes burning into your back as I stared? You fumbled in the pocket of your trousers and found a small key. This you used to unlock a cupboard door. You reached in.

“Your back obscured my view, but when you straightened up and turned back towards me I saw you were carrying what looked like a block of wood. No, not carrying; brandishing. You were flaunting it. It was a rectangle of wood with a handle and you were waving it at me. How naïve was I? I didn’t have the slightest idea what it was. It looked like a miniature cricket bat. I had never seen a spanking paddle. They weren’t so common in England. Schools might use a whippy rattan cane or a rubber-soled gym plimsoll, but not a paddle. I now know they were more favoured by our American cousins. I had never seen a cane close up, nor seen a plimsoll smacked across a boy’s stretched backside, my school did not use corporal punishment.

“I think you might have guessed I was a novice to this sort of thing. My behaviour might have given you a big clue that I was unpunished (as well as undisciplined) as a child. You approached me still brandishing the paddle and I had no doubt about your intention. You had me in your spell. I was rooted to the spot. My heart raced and my mouth dried. I am not much of a writer, but ‘like the Sahara Dessert’ springs to mind. Even today, I remember what you did.

“With one hand you picked up the straight-backed chair that usually stood in front of your desk and you plonked it down in the middle of the room. You gave me one of your steely glares. I blanched. I looked away. I could not compete with you in a staring contest. You nodded towards the chair. You spoke no words, but your message was clear. You tapped the paddle into the palm of your hand with menace. ‘Bend over the chair,’ was your unspoken command. I was bemused. You wanted to spank me. Could this be true? Was I dreaming? Me, an eighteen-year-old adult. I didn’t say any of this, of course. I daren’t. At that moment all my bluster and arrogance had melted. I was timid. You were my master. I would not say that I was your ‘slave’, but I was your subordinate. You were in charge. Your word was law. What could I do but obey?

“I wanted to obey. I intended to obey, but again my innocence let me down. I had never been spanked. I had never seen a boy spanked. Bend over. But, how exactly was this done? Bend over the back of the chair? Lay my stomach on the seat of the chair with my arms ahead of me and my legs dangling behind?

“You read my mind. ‘Stand to the front. Bend over, place your hands on the seat of the chair,’ you commanded. Of course. It was that simple. I did not stop to think that now was my last chance to flee the room, to run helter-skelter back to my digs and lock the door behind me. I did not contemplate what the consequences might be if I refused to obey. Refusal was not an option. I stepped up to the chair, then hesitated for a moment before leaning forward as you had instructed.

“It felt mighty strange, bent over a chair, offering up my backside to an older man to spank with a wooden paddle. I don’t suppose I had ever felt so vulnerable. I didn’t know it at the time, but realised later that you took account of my lack of experience in such matters. I wore heavy jeans. They fitted snugly and showed my buttocks. But, denim is a thick material and offers quite a protection against any spanking. You allowed me to keep my jeans on. I am thankful. I think on that first time a spanking on my underpants – or God forbid, on the bare! – would have been an embarrassment (no, a humiliation too far).

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“You delivered six, very hard swats across the lower part of my buttocks. I suppose that’s what was known as six-of-the-best back in those days. Each one landed on top of the previous swipe. My bum was on fire. You got me right on the ‘sit-spot’ and I couldn’t sit comfortably for the rest of the day. Only later, was I to realise what an expert spanker you were.

“My bottom wriggled and writhed as the paddle hammered across the seat of my jeans. Your strong left arm pushed into my shoulders and forced me to remain bent over. Otherwise, I would have been jumping up and down, rubbing my bum, hopping about like some demented Red Indian.

“I don’t think I cried, but my eyes would have been pretty moist by the time you finished. You let me stand and then you lectured me some more about my future behaviour and the consequences I faced should I be summoned back to your study.

“It took the better part of a week for the bruises to clear completely. Each time I went to the shower I was reminded of the penalty for bad behaviour. I resented you. I could go so far as to say I hated you. How dare you treat me like a little kid. I was eighteen, legally an adult. I fumed a lot, but I didn’t miss any of your lectures for the rest of the term. But, I was young and stupid and I liked my beer. And, the girls. Although I was afraid to upset you again I had less concerns about my other lecturers. That’s what got me in trouble again.

“Looking back, Mr Lowry had every right to report me when I failed to complete his essay, even after he had granted an extension on submission. I didn’t think so at the time. How I hated you when I received that second summons to your study. I knew what to expect. You had made it clear enough. Of course, I only had myself to blame. I was going to wear my football shorts and swimming trunks and a couple of pairs of underpants under my jeans. My jeans were always tight and when I tried it was a battle to get the zipper to close. When I looked in the mirror my bum was massive. Just as well I abandoned that ruse, considering what you made me do in your study.

“You gave me a right telling off, but – and I’ll never forget this – you said you thought I was bright and intelligent and could make something of myself. But I had to pull my finger out (my words, you were too eloquent to speak like that) and concentrate on my work. Nobody had ever said that to me before. No one at school, and certainly not my parents. It gave me something to think about.

“Naturally, you didn’t leave it there. You made a return visit to that cupboard. This time the paddle you choose was larger and heavier. It was some kind of dark wood and it was so highly polished it reflected the light from the ceiling. I can still see the way you held it in your hand, demonstrating its power. How many holes were drilled into it: six or eight? I can’t quite remember.

“Then, you had me take down my jeans and spread-eagle myself across your desk. Oh boy! Luckily, I was only wearing one pair of pants. We wore tiny briefs in those days and they hardly covered my buttocks. Most of the underside of the cheeks were bare to the wind. You exploited that. I don’t suppose you could have left me in any greater pain if you’d made me take my briefs down.

“Twelve swats with that paddle across the half-naked bum. Oh how I howled. I just about absorbed the first two, but by the third I was gripping the edge of the desk for dear life. My head butted the desktop. My legs kicked. My hips swivelled and swerved. I almost bit through my bottom lip in my failed attempts to stop myself yowling. They must have heard me down in the street below. I’m surprised someone didn’t burst into the study to see who was being murdered.

“By the time you let me climb back into my jeans my bum was throbbing raw. It felt like it had swollen to twice its natural size. I have never sat down on top of a blazing coal fire, but if I ever did it would not hurt as much as that paddling.

“You gave me time to calm down and before you sent me on my way you told me again how talented I was. That you had confidence in me. That you wanted me to achieve. That night as I lay on my side in my bed, trying not let my savaged buttocks brush against the mattress, I thought about what you had said. As I said nobody had shown such faith. I realised then that you were not a bully. You had power over me, but you didn’t exploit it. You spanked me for my own good.

“I worked hard that term and passed the exams and was doing well. It looked like the paddling had worked. Then, I fell off the wagon. It was a girl, of course. Or more truthfully, girls. I was a good looking lad back then with an easy charm and a sexual appetite. I spent too much time in bed (but not alone) and not enough in the library. I failed a couple of mock exams.

“I remember how you shook your head with disappointment. I can’t explain how that stabbed at my heart. You told me how proud you had been when I bucked up my ideas and passed my exams the previous term. You said you had hoped I had turned a corner. I was on the straight-and-narrow path to success. Alas, no! I had veered to the side of the road and broken down. I needed maintenance. A maintenance spanking!

“You were no longer my professor. Is it too fanciful to say you were a father figure? You certainly showed you cared more than my real dad. What you did next confirmed this. You were back at that goddam cupboard and this time you brandished a small block of wood that was no bigger than a paperback book. I blinked in disbelief. Compared to the whopping paddle you used to take my backside off last time, this was puny. I almost smiled with relief. This one wouldn’t do much damage. I had forgotten what an expert you were.

“You had finished lecturing me and without a further word you took that chair I had been ordered to bend across on my first visit and once more you placed it in the centre of the room. I was waiting for your command ‘Bend over’, but you had other ideas. You sat on the chair and made yourself comfortable before with an imperious click of the finger you instructed that I should come and stand beside you. I did so. You peered at my feet and then ran your eyes up my legs, stopping when you reached the fly of my jeans. ‘Take them down,’ you said. My heart skipped. Only then did your intention become clear to me.

“This was not to be a professor-student spanking, something delivered at arm’s length. At a distance. Dare I say this was to be more personal, more intimate? It was to be like a loving father with his erring son.  My hands shook so much I fumbled with the clasp at the top of my jeans and I couldn’t get a grip on the zipper. At last the front of my jeans were open. They fitted so tightly that they would not easily fall to my feet and I had to roll them down my legs. I was now standing by you wearing only a shirt and underpants. I did not feel shame, nor embarrassment and certainly not humiliation. I felt respect. My respect for you – and dare I say it, your respect for me? You had my best interest at heart. I deserved this spanking. It would pull me up sharp. As you had already told me, it would put me back on the straight-and-narrow path to success.

“I had never been across the knee of an older man. It is a more submissive position than being across a chair or spread across a desk. My body was close you yours. I could feel your breathing. My stomach dug into your thigh and my chest rested against your legs. I didn’t have a view of myself but I sensed that our bodies fitted together perfectly. I spread my arms ahead of me and rested my palms in the harsh carpet. My nose was inches from the ground. My bottom was raised at an angle of about forty-five degrees which allowed my legs to dangle behind me with my toes hovering above the floor. When I moved my head I could see under the chair and look at my own feet encased in denim.

“I felt your body move. You had taken hold of my shirt and gently pushed it up my back until it was scrunched at my shoulders. By now you must have had a perfect target. I braced myself for the heat of the paddle. But, you were not quite ready. You rested the paddle on the small of my back. With both hands you gripped the elasticated waist of my underpants. Ha! I’ve read in books where a character was said to have ‘gasped with surprise’. I had always thought that was a stupid expression. Not anymore. I gasped. I inhaled a great mouthful of air and I held it there. What were you doing? Of course, I knew full well what you were doing; that was what made me wheeze so!

“Slowly, with some ceremony, you peeled down my underpants. My stomach was resting on your thigh and you struggled to get them over my buttocks. I lifted myself slightly and soon they were on their way to rest at my knees. ‘Ha!’ you said, ‘You weren’t expecting that! I hope you realise how seriously I take this.’ I did not reply. I think my body tensed. Did my buttocks clench? Did they harden like two rubber balls? You picked up the paddle and I felt you tap it against the highest point of my bum cheeks. You took your aim and you let fly.

“You had to take a firm grip of my waist to keep me in place. It wasn’t that I didn’t understand why I was being spanked. I deserved it. I needed it. I was prepared to submit to you, but my body had other ideas. My head was low and my bottom high and you had positioned me so that I couldn’t get my hands behind me to protect my poor, exposed bottom. There was nothing I could do but wriggle and kick. It did me no good. Did my protests spur to on to greater deeds? Did you spank me harder and longer because of it?

“That was the last time you spanked me. There was no further need. You had transformed me. I worked hard for you. It wasn’t that I feared further paddlings. I certainly did not welcome them. But, the spankings were incidental. What drove me was that you had faith in me. You cared. You wanted me to do well. The spankings were supplementary.”

At this point Prof Wallace let the letter drop onto a nearby coffee table. He hauled himself from his chair and edged his way into the kitchen where he flipped a switch and waited for the kettle to boil. He busied himself finding tea bags and sugar. He opened the fridge and carefully tested the milk for freshness. Then, with his tea he returned to the front room and picked up the letter once more. He stared at it intently as if it could answer the question on his mind. Who was this Eric Stanhope? Which one had he been? The professor didn’t have the least recollection of these events.

Picture credit: Unknown

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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

A wicked theft

new 5

Trent, my grandson, visited me at home last week. He’s a grand lad and I love him to pieces. He’s the other way, if you catch my drift. But I don’t care. It’s all legal now isn’t it. They can even get married. He asked if he could bring a friend from university to visit me for Sunday lunch; they would do all the cooking, he assured me.

The moment I saw the pair of them together I knew that the word friend needed to be put in inverted commas. They were obviously more than just “friends”; lovers more like, but I’d rather not think too much about that.

They did me the traditional Sunday dinner: roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, the lot. It was very nice of them because you don’t see it done very often nowadays. After the meal we sat and watched the live football on the telly. I don’t mind having Sky now that horrible Murdoch man is no longer involved. When the game was over, Trent and Wayne left to go back to uni.

It was later that evening when I went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea that I noticed an old biscuit tin had been moved. I feared the worst even before I opened the lid. I keep money in the tin and I saw immediately that ten pounds was missing. I knew exactly how much I had because I had only filled the tin that morning. It had been stolen, no doubts about it.

I knew Trent hadn’t taken it. I just knew, don’t ask me to explain. That could only mean that his boyfriend Wayne had dipped his sticky fingers into my biscuit tin. He hadn’t taken all the money, he probably thought he was being clever. If he didn’t take it all, he figured, I would never notice. I was furious, I don’t mind admitting it. It wasn’t the money as such, I am not a poor man, ten pounds means nothing to me. It was the idea that a guest had come into my house and while I wasn’t around he stole from me. That was a great principle to me.

I also feared for my grandson. Did he know that his new boyfriend was a thief? Had he stolen from other people? Had he stolen from Trent? It was late by now so I waited until morning before I phoned Trent. I told him my suspicions. He took it calmly, I had wondered that he might fly off the handle and accuse me of all sorts of things. He might even have said I was getting old and forgetful and I spent the money. He offered to come round with Wayne after classes finished to discuss it with me.

That gave me several hours to brood. I hated the idea of being deceived. I wasn’t sure I could prove to the satisfaction of the law that Wayne had stolen the money. I could hear a defence lawyer saying anyone could have taken it – assuming it had actually been there in the first place. I have to admit that I probably didn’t want to get the law involved. Like all law-abiding people I have never had any dealings with the police, but from what I see on TV drama I reckoned they wouldn’t think that such a small crime was worth investigating.

After a while I calmed down a bit. By now I also thought the theft of ten pounds might not warrant the full force of the law. If I reported it to the university, would Wayne be expelled? I had no idea of such things. I’m certain that back in the day that would have been the case, but not today. It’s all “human rights” now. There’s probably nothing they could do.

I had to admit to myself that for the few hours I was in his company I got to rather like Wayne. He has a sunny disposition and it was abundantly clear that my grandson doted on him. Perhaps then I wouldn’t want to get Wayne in too much trouble.

I made myself a cup of tea and sat down to ponder what other options I might have. There was one that came to mind. It would certainly make the punishment fit the crime. It would also give me satisfaction knowing that Wayne had not got off scot free. I smiled to myself as I thought about this. It seemed a bit absurd, in this day and age. And anyway, Wayne would never consent to it and without his agreement I had no chance.

“Bugger it!” I exclaimed aloud, even though I was alone in the room, “I’ll do it!” I sauntered up the stairs and entered one of the spare bedrooms. There was an old chest of drawers. I noticed how dusty it was, I hadn’t been in here for years. I opened the top drawer and just as I expected there was a long, two-tailed leather taws. I reached in and gently lifted it and placed it in the dust on the top of the drawers. Then I removed the wooden paddle. This was a rectangle of wood about the size of a paperback book with a handle. I set this alongside the taws. I stared at both for a long minute. Either would be perfect for what I had in mind. I picked them both up and carried them downstairs.

I made another cup of tea and as I waited for it to cool I fondled the leather taws. It was more than a quarter-inch thick and heavy. The brown surface was tarnished and worn. It had been in the family for generations. I put it to one side and picked up the paddle. This was relatively new. I had made it myself back in the day when I was the father of three boisterous boys. I had used it several times on Trent’s dad. I smiled at the memory. The last time I had used it he was nineteen years old, no older than Trent was today. I’d better not let Trent know that little secret, his father would never forgive me.

Trent and Wayne arrived at a little after five. I was in no mood for small talk so I got straight down to business. I said ten pounds was missing. I asked Wayne – I did not accuse him – if he had taken it. His immediate confession took the wind out of my sails. I had expected a long drawn out series of denials.

“Why on earth …” I spluttered.

“Sorry,” he shrugged his shoulders, “I just wanted it.”

I was confused. I genuinely could not understand “Are you behind with your rent?” I ventured.

“No,” he replied but failed to elaborate. So there we were. Wayne was a typical teenager today. Take, take, take. He only thinks about himself. He wants instant gratification. What he cannot earn he simply takes. The palm of my hand itched. It wanted to grab the handle of that paddle.

“I cannot let this go, you understand that don’t you,” I was calm and spoke gently, every inch the caring grandpa. What I had to do was done more in sorrow than in anger. I had no choice. The boy deserved punishment. Heck, it was my duty to paddle his pert nineteen-year-old bottom. I said none of this to him, of course. Instead I pretended that I had a choice. The police, the law courts, the fine, the criminal record, the plight on his future career etcetera, etcetera.  Or we could deal with it ourselves. Here. Now.

I hope I didn’t show just how startled I felt when he replied with alacrity, “I want you to deal with it.” Then, as an afterthought he added, “Please.” And after a further pause, “Sir.” I shook my head wearily, looking as if I was carrying all the burdens of the world on my shoulder. Then he told me, “I deserve to be punished.”

There was no denying that. Until that moment I had kept the paddle out of sight. I retrieved it from its hiding place and grasped the handle firmly. I waved it through the air so that Wayne could get a very good look at it. His eyes followed it as it moved but the rest of his face remained impassive. His bright brown eyes shone.

“I intend to spank you, do you understand?” His face paled and the tip of his tongue darted out of his mouth and ran around his lips. He croaked a response, “Yes, Sir.” Rather haughtily, I dismissed Trent from the room. He went without fuss. I heard him go into the kitchen. “Right young man,” I said, turning my attention once more to Wayne. “Let’s get on with this shall we.” It was a statement, not a question. I left him standing while I took hold of an the office chair I use when I am at my computer. I wheeled it closer to the centre of the room and sat down. It was now or never, I supposed. Wayne still had time to change his mind. I did not have the strength to force him across my knee. I had no desire for an unseemly fight with the boy. He was nineteen-years-old and I was no match for him in a wrestling match. I needed him to be submissive.

I held the paddle in my right fist and rubbed the palm of my left hand across the blade. I studied it hard, as if I had never seen the blessed thing before in my life. I could not bear to look at him. His refusal to obey my instruction would mean total humiliation. My throat was suddenly dry and I had to cough before speaking. “Take down your jeans, then come bend over my knee,” I croaked. Wayne was gym-honed and needed no belt to keep his trousers up. He popped the fastener on the waistband and tugged the metal zipper then pulled the jeans down as far as his knees.

Now, I felt able to look at him. He wore blue underpants that fitted so snugly nothing was left to the imagination. I could see Wayne was no boy and his thick cock was uncut. He shuffled the two steps necessary so that he stood close to my body on my right side. He shook his head several times, I think he might have been psyching himself for what lay ahead. His black hair was cut fashionably short and was stuck in place with some sort of “product” so that not a hair seemed to move. He took a deep breath and then in one complete athletic movement he almost threw himself across my lap. Within a second he was face down with his arms stretched before him with his palms pressing into the deep-pile carpet. His back arched and his groin rested over my right thigh. In this way he presented his tight bottom at the perfect angle for the spanking he so richly deserved. He kept his knees straight and his legs stuck out at about forty-five degrees. He was breathing heavily. He clenched his buttocks. I noticed that they were as hard as a rubber ball. The phrase “buns of steel” was made for him.

z used paddle otk pants chair bbfc

Wayne was entirely submissive. With some naughty boys you have to grip their waist tightly to stop them moving about while trying to escape. This was not necessary with Wayne. I simply rested my spare hand on the small of his back. At this point I had the option of peeling down his tight underpants to bare his bottom. There can be no doubt that the crime of stealing deserves a bare-bottomed spanking. However, I was very aware that this was the boy’s first offence. I hoped that the spanking would cure him of his criminality but I could not be certain that it would. If I paddled him on his pants now should I be called upon to repeat this punishment when he stole again I would be able to up the ante as it were and spank him on the bare next time.

So, I gripped the handle tightly and gently tap-tap-tapped the blade across the highest point of his left cheek and I let fly. I may be an aging man but I still have enough strength to deliver a severe spanking and that was my intention that evening. The thud of wood connecting with hard flesh resounded around the room. Wayne sucked in air. I hardly gave him time to absorb the first swat before I laid the paddle across his right buttock. The next went left and high, then right and low. Then back to the left. Within about a minute I had peppered his backside so thoroughly no square inch was left untoasted. He wriggled his hips and kicked his legs and his head bounced up and down, but to his credit he kept his backside raised high after each swat, inviting the next and the next and the one after that.

I obliged. I hammered his bottom. The paddle pounded the peak of the mounds, the tops of the hills, the undercurve where the bum and the backs of the thighs meet. His pants were so tight they fitted like a second skin and I could see the outline of the paddle’s blaze embossed over and over again across his bottom. The backs of his thighs were bare and I did not hold back making sure the wood stung him there good and proper.

Hs body was shaking. The pain would have been intense. His bum was glowing red hot. His heartbeat must have been off the scale. Even through all the gel or whatever it was, I saw his hair was soaked with sweat. The back of his neck was as scarlet as his bottom, yet curiously his face was deathly pale. I couldn’t see his eyes so didn’t know if he was crying. Certainly the cheeks of his face were not moist.

I am not a sadist. I believe in punishment, not in torture. There comes a time when I must consider that a boy has had enough. The punishment has fitted the crime. I am a just man. That time hadn’t quite arrived. The palm of my hand was wet with perspiration. I let go of the paddle and rested it on Wayne’s back. Then, I rubbed my hand dry on his shirt. I gripped the paddle once more and returned to my task with renewed vigour. I laid another dozen swats – the hardest so far – right around the circuit. I reckon his bottom felt like I had forced him to sit on white-hot coals.

It was time to stop. I tapped the blade across the peak of his left cheek. “Finished,” I gasped. I hadn’t realised quite how out of breath I had become. “Stand up.” Wayne wriggled his torso and pressing the palms of his hands on my left thigh he unsteadily rose to his feet. He pressed both hands across the seat of his pants and rubbed vigorously while at the same time he hopped from foot to foot. His jeans were still snagged at his knees and it took no effort for him to get them back up in their rightful place. He zipped himself up.

I regained my breath while he did all this. His face was pale but his bright brown eyes shone like lanterns. I could not tell where his mind was at that moment but it did not seem to be in the front room of a large house in Brocklehurst.

I rose from my chair. I wanted him out of my house quickly. “I trust you have learned your lesson,” I said, knowing that I sounded like some maiden aunt. He nodded his assent. Trent re-entered the room at that moment. I took myself off to the kitchen. I needed a cup of tea. As I waited for the kettle to boil I could hear the two boys talking in the hallway. “See,” my grandson Trent said, “I told you he would do it.” They both dissolved into fits of high-pitched giggles.

I gaped. What the hell did they mean? But, of course, I knew. What a fool I’d been. I hurried from the kitchen to confront them, but was too late. The front door was closing in front of me.

Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club

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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

 

Economics failure

new 5

z used white pants paddle chair (3a)

Come in! Which one are you? Callaghan is it? I have a list. Yes, you’re on it here. You skipped my Economics 101 class and you haven’t handed in your coursework. Yes? Well, you are about to learn a very painful lesson. That’s the trouble with so many of you freshers. You don’t think you’re at school to study. It’s just fun and games for the likes of you. Well, believe me when I say it catches up with you in the end.

We have a very clear policy in the Economics Faculty. Some people would say we’re a little old fashioned. Well, I for one say I don’t mind being old-fashioned in air quotes if it delivers results. And, given time we get the results.

I don’t recognise you. Have you attended any of my classes? I suppose you sit at the back of the lecture hall, goofing around with your friends, disturbing everyone else. Why did you ever sign up for university? Your parents, I suppose. You and your kind have a sense of entitlement. You think you just have to register and we’ll give you a college degree. I don’t suppose you’ve done a hard day’s work in your life.

Well, Callaghan, I’ve got news for you. You do the work, or else! I could just flunk you and make you come back next year and do the course again. I could, but let me level with you. If I fail you that makes me look bad. Makes out I’m a bad instructor, do you see what I mean? But don’t let that make you think I’m just going to sign you off with a pass. That’s not going to happen.

What I am going to do Callaghan, is I’m going to give you a second chance. An opportunity to turn yourself around. It won’t be easy – well, not easy for you that is. You need self-discipline to succeed in life and if at your age you don’t have it in you, you need somebody older and a lot wiser to impose that discipline. Do you understand Callaghan?

Do you see what this is boy? Don’t look so blank. You’re pretty intelligent or you wouldn’t have made it here to begin with. What I’m going to do Callaghan is I’m going to paddle your rear end. Don’t pout at me. Read the university regulations. It’s clearly stated. You signed up to them when you came here.

Right. Pick up that chair and put it there by my desk.

Just do it, I don’t want any argument from you, Callaghan.

Right. Stand in front of the chair. I’m going to give you the spanking you so richly deserve. That’s six swats for cutting my class and six swats for not handing in coursework. To run consecutively. That means one after the other, Callaghan. Twelve swats in total.

Right. Take down your jeans and bend over the chair.

Yes, take down your jeans. You’re in Big School now. How old are you – eighteen, nineteen? You need more than a little boy’s spanking. If this paddling is going to turn around your life, it must be memorable. Afterwards, I want to see you hopping all the way down the corridor to the elevator. I want you to monitor the bruises on your butt over the coming week as they turn from deep purple then though all shades of mauves and yellows before they finally disappear. Do you have a girlfriend Callaghan? Better think up a few excuses not to see her. How would you explain them?

Right. Stop making a fuss and down with those jeans.

That’s better. You should learn to face the consequences of your actions like a man. You skip my classes, you don’t do coursework … this is the consequence.

Let those jeans fall all the way. Bend over the chair. Grip the seat. Legs apart. It’s best if you look straight ahead. Don’t try to see what I’m doing back here. Keep that back arched. Head low. Bottom out.

Right Callaghan, let’s see if we can rescue your university career. You might not think so right now, but one day you’ll thank me for this …

Picture credit: Man’s Hand Films

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The selfie

new 5

z used after selfie (1)

There! Take a look at that. Are you satisfied? It’s all your fault. I told you I didn’t want to skip Uni. You made me do it. I said if he found out, my Dad would tan my hide. You just laughed. You thought I was making a joke. Well,  just take a close look. I’m not laughing, am I?

Of course, Dad found out; he always does. One of the neighbours grassed me up. Dad was waiting for me the moment I got home. “Oh, how was university today?” he sneered at me. I knew straight away he knew. I lied of course. Jesus! Why did I do that? It only made things worse. He knew all about it. We were spotted in Widdicombe Wood. Thank God we still had our clothes on.

Well, you don’t know my Dad. I got the full lecture. It’s costing him a fortune to keep me at university. My grades aren’t good enough for me to be bunking off. He’s warned me before. It’s all true, actually.

So, he says, if I insist on acting irresponsibly, it’s a spanking for me. I bet you’re wetting yourself now. Do you know what he did? Can you even guess? Yes, he takes me by the arm and bundles me into the living room. He’s already got a chair plonked down in the middle of the room. On the table there’s Mum’s hairbrush.

He sits himself down and says to me, “Take down your trousers.” Just like that, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. I’m nearly twenty, I tell him. “It’s my house. My way or the highway,” he says. God knows where he got that from. Is it some American saying? It must be from one of those rotten sit-coms he watches on telly.

Of course, I just stand there like a fool. He leans forward and pulls me towards him. Next thing he’s got the front of my trousers open and they’re falling to my feet. I’m giving him some lip at this point, but he doesn’t care. Suddenly he pulls me forward and I topple over his knee. Face down. I really hurt my arm when it crashed against the floor as I tried to get some balance. Of course, I’m kicking and hollering, but Dad is pretty strong. It’s a lifetime working on building sites that does it. He’s got me around the waist and I’m going nowhere.

Then, God almighty I can’t believe I’m telling you this; then he takes hold of the waist of my underpants and he only pulls them down. Just like that. There’s nothing I can do about it. I’m lying there, face down, with my arse bare to the wind. Then, he reaches out, picks up Mum’s hairbrush and he wallops the living daylights out of me.

Have you ever been spanked with a hairbrush? On the bare bottom? No, I don’t suppose you have. Your dad’s far too refined to do such a thing. Well, I can tell you, it hurts like crazy. Whack-whack-whack, he goes, with no let up. Pounding away at my poor arse. I thought it was on fire. I have never felt so much pain. Not ever.

So he spanks that goddam hairbrush into every part of my bum and once there’s no square centimetre untouched, he starts all over again. I’m hollering fit to bust. Not only with the pain, which is intense, but just the sheer shock of it all. I’m being held down over an older man’s knee while he spanks my bare little bottom and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it. Spanking me on and on and on.

He’d still be spanking me now, if Mum hadn’t come into the room. “What’s all that hollering,” she says. “The noise is fit to wake the dead. You’ll have the neighbours complaining.” Well, if it’s that old biddy who grassed me up, he’d probably be delighted to know I got my backside blistered. I’ve seen the way he looks at me when I waltz down the street in those tight jeans I have.

So Dad stops spanking me then and I roll off his knee. I fell flat on my face (honestly, literally) when I tried to pull up my trousers and pants and run from the room at the same time.

I couldn’t resist going to the bathroom to have a look. Look at it yourself. Look how red my bum is. I cannot tell you how much it hurt. It’s died down a bit now. It was throbbing before, but it’s more of a dull ache now. I bet you I’ll have bruises in the morning.

So, don’t forget I hold you personally responsible for this. It was your idea to skip Uni. I didn’t want to do it. You made me, even though you knew what Dad would do if he found out. I get spanked; you get off scott free. Well, at least until tomorrow. Because I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to get hold of Mum’s hairbrush and I’m going to find you and I’m going to give you exactly what Dad gave me. And more besides. On your bare bottom.

Over my knee for a bare-arsed spanking from me. Think about that when you’re trying to get to sleep tonight. So, goodnight. Until tomorrow lover boy!

 

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com