A right caning

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I was on the bus the other day and there were two young men sitting behind me and one said a little loudly, “He gave him a right caning!” Naturally, my ears pricked up at this. Intrigued, I very casually turned my head to see who had spoken. They were two students. I could tell because they had ID cards hanging round their necks. They got off at the next stop leaving me bemused. He gave him a right caning: did that mean what I hoped it meant?

Of course it couldn’t, I told myself. Right caning, it must be some slang the kids use. Perhaps it means doing something to excess; like, “He gave the whiskey bottle a right caning.” But that didn’t seem to be the right answer. He gave him a right caning. That was definitely one person doing something to another.

It continued to puzzle me and later in the day when I saw my grandson Richie who is also a student I asked him what it might have meant. He gave me that look he always gives when I have demonstrated how out of touch I am with the modern world. “Where have you been these last years?” he asked good humouredly and when I continued to look blank he told me that they had introduced corporal punishment in colleges and universities two years ago. This was after they brought back the cane in schools. Apparently, that solved a lot of the discipline problems that had been plaguing teachers for decades.

It didn’t seem to be a big deal to Richie. He told me that he and two pals had themselves been caned last semester. They got back to the halls of residence late after they had been to some club. They had to report to the office of the Dean of Discipline next morning. There were a few other students standing in line waiting their turn. He told me all about it. He wasn’t the least embarrassed.

He said the room wasn’t really an office. There was a table pushed up against one wall and some empty shelves along another, but mainly there was just an ordinary armchair stuck in the middle. It was one of those with a low back and wooden arms that you sometimes see in reception areas of big offices. The whole thing was done with little ceremony. Apparently, the Dean of Discipline reads out from a charge sheet; a bit like in the Army I imagine. So, it went something like, “You missed curfew and returned back inebriated.” Richie had to agree this was so and then sign a paper saying he consented to be punished. He’s over eighteen, so legally an adult so he can do this.

The Dean of Discipline is permitted to give up to twelve strokes of the cane. It has to be on the seat of the trousers, but apparently they are thinking of changing this so in future you could get it on the underpants or even on the bare. Blimey! Imagine that.

Once the legal document was signed, they just got on with it. Richie said, “There was a tall vase thing in the corner of the room with about six or seven canes standing in it. He’s a bit of a sod because he takes his time deciding which one to use. He took one out, studied it carefully and he swished it about a bit. Then he decided that wasn’t good enough and he took another one and did the same with that. I don’t know why he bothered,” Richie laughed, “He had used them all often enough, they were all his old friends.”

I didn’t tell him that the Dean of Discipline was trying to intimidate him; to make him fearful of what was about to happen. I have to say judging by the way Richie was opening up to me about his caning he wasn’t the least worried. But who knows, at the time he might have been bricking it.

It seems this Dean of Discipline is an older man, gone to seed a little with his belly hanging over his belt and his suit jacket straining over his shoulders. He was very formal. “In the end he got the stick he wanted. It was less than a metre long and looked quite stout, but when he flexed it between his hands it was very whippy. He swished it a couple of times and then he said, ‘Bend over that chair.’ I’d never been done before but plenty of others had so I had a good idea of what was going to happen.”

z used cane holding kernled

Richie told me went to the back of the chair, counted to three and “threw myself over.” I was trying not make my interest too obvious but I asked him, why he did it? Why did he let himself be beaten by this older man? He gave me that “What planet are you on?” look again. “I broke the rules. I got caught. I took my punishment,” he told me snootily. Well, I thought, back in my day if they tried that on we would have told them to go to hell and the entire student union body would’ve been on strike before the day had ended. My, how times have changed.

“I got six. Six strokes that is. They call it six-of-the-best,” he said as if speaking to a slightly backward child.

“Did it hurt?” I asked, feigning innocence. He laughed loudly, “What do you think! Of course, it bloody hurt. That’s the whole point!” I must say he seemed enormously relaxed about the whole thing. He certainly didn’t think he was the victim of some terrible outrage. I nodded sagely to encourage him to continue.

“I knew it would,” he said. “What you have to do,” he continued as if he were a veteran in such matters, “is try not to think about it. Just hold on tightly to the chair. Some students stare straight ahead and concentrate on the wall at the other end of the room. Me, I looked down at the seat cushion and studied the dent somebody’s arse had made in it.”

I wriggled in my chair imagining the scene in the Dean of Discipline’s office. Richie bent across the back of the chair. His head is low and his bottom is high. I suppose his legs are set apart and his knees held straight. He didn’t say but I wonder if the Dean of Discipline took some time smoothing the seat of Richie’s trousers; so there were no creases. He would have wanted them to be as tight as a drum. Did he move the tail of Richie’s jacket away from the target area? Was he wearing a jacket? Perhaps he only had on a shirt. Would it ride up away from the waist of his trousers, exposing a patch of bare flesh on his lower back.

Richie continued talking, he was almost evangelical, “You have to stay there and take it. Let him get on with it. Close your eyes and grit your teeth. Try not to jump about. Keep quiet, don’t scream and holler.”

I nodded agreement, perhaps a little too vigorously and he might have thought I was mocking him. “Of course, you’ve never been caned,” he said scathingly. I raised my hand to my mouth and covered a sly smile. “Six,” he reiterated, “Six strokes. He was a master. He got them all to land right next to each other. In a strip. It was like he pressed a red hot poker into my bum,” his eyes watered at the memory. “I didn’t yell. It was touch and go I tell you.” He was clearly inordinately proud of his fortitude.

“Couldn’t sit down for a week, I suppose,” I laughed. He was relaxed and shared in the joke. “I had these big welts right across my arse. Stayed about a week. The guys have got pictures of it somewhere.” That was the end of his story. There wasn’t much more that could be said. With my heart racing and short of breath, I made a pot of coffee and we drank in companionable silence.

Picture credit: Kernled

Other stories you might like

Two naughty boys

The party’s over

Not too old to be spanked by grandad

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

 

Lodging with Uncle Ralph

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“Come up here Robert, I want you to see this. You need to learn something.” It was Uncle Ralph calling from the bedroom. I knew something not nice was happening, I had felt an extreme tension in the house the moment I returned from college.

With some reluctance I trudged up the stairs. The bedroom door was open. My cousin John stood miserably, his usually pale face, now a deathly shade of white. Towering over him was his father, my Uncle Ralph. Uncle’s whiskers bristled; he turned to me and growled, “I want you to see this. The same will happen to you if you ever break my rules.”

I glanced at John; now his face was deep scarlet. I had no idea what was happening. I had moved in with Uncle Ralph and his family a few days previously after I joined Brocklehurst University. Uncle Ralph was a weird fellow. He was ex-military and had in his time been a colonel. He spent much of his life outside of England. It might be 2019, but somewhere in his head it was still about 1935. One of the first things he did on my arrival was to give me a long list of rules of the house. It went on for pages of closely printed script. I didn’t read it all. That was to be my downfall.

I was still standing on the landing. Uncle Ralph glared at me from the bedroom. “Stand there, in the doorway. Watch and learn,” he spoke in a clipped style; I suppose this was how he spoke to his men in the army. I paused, a little embarrassed. What was going on here? Why was he so agitated? I looked over at John hoping I might get a signal from him, but he was too engrossed staring down at his own feet.

“Right lad!” Uncle Ralph barked. “This is what you are going to do.” He paused and wiped spittle from his beard with the back of his hand. “Take down those trousers.” I’m sure my jaw must have dropped, I was gaping. John’s face contorted, I knew he wanted to say something, to perhaps make a protest, but he seemed to bite back his thoughts. His forehead shone with sweat although the room was quite cool.

“Get them down. Now, lad,” Uncle Ralph glared. “Or do you want me to do it for you?” “No Father, no,” the threat spurred John into action. He wore cheap track pants and all he had to do was pinch the sides of the elasticated waistband and guide them down over his thighs. They snagged at the knees. “All the way. Step out of them,” Uncle Ralph ordered.

I am no expert on these things, but it looked like John was in a trance. He kept his eyes trained on the floor as he leaned forward and took hold of the sweats and wriggled his feet free of them. He straightened up and now stared blankly at the wall. I followed his gaze; there was nothing in his sightline, only plain white wallpaper. He stood, shoulders straight, hands clasped behind his back. His plain blue t-shirt hung long enough to cover most of his tight, yellow-and-maroon-striped briefs. I noticed John’s legs were virtually hairless.

My own throat dried as I it began to dawn on me what Uncle Ralph intended to do. I don’t have the words to describe my thoughts, but I was baffled. John was clearly in Uncle Ralph’s power. He would obey any command of the old man. That became clear when Uncle Ralph intoned. “Take down the pants. Step out of them.” My heart beat fast; I can only imagine what was going on inside John’s chest. The perspiration had now spread from his forehead and his top lip was moist. Still in a trance, he slipped his thumbs under his pants and pushed them south. He stood unsteadily on one leg and then on the other so he was able to step out of them without toppling to the floor.

John was now naked from the waist down. He straightened up. His shirt covered some of his privates but I had a clear view of his hairy ball sack. John was on some kind of autopilot. He stood waiting for Uncle Ralph’s next instruction. Almost without thinking he cupped his hands together and rested them so they obscured my view of his cock.

All this couldn’t have taken more than a few seconds but for me time was standing still. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion making it seem like minutes had passed. Uncle Ralph was in no hurry. He stood impassively, looking down his long curved nose at his son. His beady eyes were glazed. Through his beard I saw the tip of his tongue dart out of his mouth and slowly run across his top lip. He shot John a withering look and without a word he walked across the bedroom. I watched transfixed as he stopped at an old battered dressing table, opened a drawer and reached inside. I heard a clumping sound before his hand emerged holding a block of wood. Uncle Ralph used his hip to close the drawer before turning to face me. The block of wood was about the size of a DVD cover. He held it by a small handle. He waved it through the air and said, “In this house you follow the rules. Or else.”

He said no more and then slowly he walked the three or four steps necessary to take him to the bed. He sat down on the edge, rather like it was a sofa so that his feet were firmly planted on the floor. He looked across at John. “Bend over my knee.” It was a clipped command. Uncle Ralph was used to being obeyed. There was not the slightest doubt in his mind that John would submit to his will. And so he did.

I realised at that moment that this scene that was so strange and unusual to me had probably been played out many times before. Or ones very similar to it. John definitely knew the part he had to play in this drama and he did not fluff his lines. He looked across at Uncle Ralph, now sitting legs apart, took a deep breath and in one continuous movement took two paces forward and lowered himself across Uncle Ralph’s knees. He wriggled for a moment until his chest and arms were stretched out along the mattress. From where I was at the bedroom door I had a perfect view of John’s backside which he raised high over Uncle Ralph’s lap.

There was a second or two while Uncle Ralph ran his eyes over John’s prone body, I could tell that he felt something wasn’t quite right. Then he took hold of the end of John’s shirt and pushed it further up his back. Now, John’s buttocks were completely bare.  I hadn’t noticed before (why should I?) that John’s bum was broad and meaty, it was as hairless as his legs and the skin was quite pale.

I was rooted to the ground. My eyes must have been out on stalks. My heart pounded and I was now as sweaty as John. I had never witnessed anything like this before. It didn’t seem real. I couldn’t wait for Uncle Ralph to whack that wood across John’s naked, meaty bum. But Uncle wasn’t quite ready; he looked across at me and said, “I will not hesitate to give you the same treatment if your behaviour warrants it.” I croaked back, “Yes, sir.”

Uncle Ralph turned his attention back to the job in hand. He used John’s back as a shelf to rest the wood and with his left hand he gripped John around the waist. He cupped the other hand and with his palm he gently traced the contours of John’s left cheek, around the circumference and into the undercurve where the bum and thigh meet. He slapped the bum gently at the highest point of the mounds. I clearly saw the flesh wobble. Once he had gone round the circuit of the left cheek, Uncle Ralph did the same with the right. I might have imagined this but John’s entire body appeared to relax while this took place.

John might have been relaxed, but I was not. My temples were now throbbing and I knew very soon I would have a raging headache – the tension was so great. Uncle Ralph retrieved the wood from John’s back and gripped the handle tightly. The muscles in his arms tensed. He raised the wood high and rocked back on the mattress; then he pounded it across the meatiest part of John’s right cheek. I heard a long, low whistling sound. John rose to his elbows and this just encouraged Uncle Ralph to press his hand into the small of John’s back. He was pinned down and was going nowhere. Uncle Ralph was in total control. The wood rose and fell and swatted into the left cheek.

I suppose the whole scene was surreal; dreamlike. Can you imagine in this day and age an eighteen-year-old boy submissively offering up his bared bottom to his father so the old man can spank it severely with a block of wood? Well, it happened. I am witness to that.

It didn’t take more than four or five swats of the small block to cover all of John’s fat bottom. His skin was pale and reddened very easily. In no time at all his bottom was aflame. If would have glowed in the dark if we turned off the lights. Even from a distance I saw the skin beginning to break. John was stoical, I suppose. He kept his bum raised high as best he could, but the spanking clearly hurt him. He dug his elbows into the mattress and raised his head, shaking it from side to side as each successive swat added to the heat in his rear end. His hair was wet with sweat and from what I cold see of it, his face was as scarlet as his bum. He wriggled his hips and his knees buckled, but he didn’t try to break free. I suppose all that writhing around was his body’s natural reaction to the pain.

z used otk bare bed sting

Uncle Ralph kept up a rhythmic pounding. First one cheek, then the next. Higher, then lower. Under the crease. On the crest of the mounds. Into the back of the thighs.  Even I , with my lack of experience, could see this was a thorough, well-planned and well-executed spanking. All done with military precision.

When he was ready, and only then, did Uncle Ralph lay the wood down on the mattress beside him. He paused a few seconds while John’s body recovered a little. Then, he intoned, “Punishment over. Stand up.” He released John’s waist and my cousin scurried off his knees and stood unsteadily. His eyes searched the room for his briefs and sweats. “Dismissed.” Uncle Ralph sounded like he was on parade. John found his clothes and without waiting to dress he bundled them under his arm and fled the room.

I moved to one side to let him pass. I stood unsure what I was supposed to do next. Uncle Ralph was breathless, his shirt stuck to his back, his beard glistened with sweat. He replaced the wood in the drawer. When he turned from the dresser the startled look in his eyes suggested he had forgotten I was there. He recovered instantly, “So now you know.” I nodded sagely, as if he were one of my professors explaining a complicated new theory.

“Good,” Uncle Ralph stepped ominously towards me, “Because now we have to deal with the little matter of your absence without leave from college yesterday afternoon.”

My knees buckled. In my mind I saw John’s toasted backside, the glowing, flesh, the small cuts to the flesh. The humiliation of presenting his bare bottom for chastisement. My mouth gaped open and shut, it was a good impression of a goldfish stranded out of water.

“Wait for me in the kitchen,” Uncle Ralph spoke clearly and with authority. “I have to change my shirt.” He glowered at me, “Off! Now!” I sprang into action, only now getting some inkling of the control this man possessed. No wonder John had been so submissive. It was almost addictive.

I waited in the kitchen for ten minutes or so. How had he known I had skipped Uni. yesterday afternoon? What else did he know? I paced the room. I had no doubt what Uncle Ralph intended to do. Would I let him? Could I let him? Would I have the same fortitude as John to submit to punishment. Me, eighteen years old, nineteen next September, spanked on the bare bottom! All kinds of absurd thoughts befuddled my brain. What if the guys at Uni. ever found out!

Uncle Ralph’s arrival in the kitchen brought me back to earth. He had obviously showered and a heady aroma of coal tar soap wafted from him. I hardly noticed this; all I saw was the heavy, wooden hairbrush he gripped in his fist.

“So, AWOL from college. Yes.” I suppose he might have meant it as a question, but it sounded like a very definitive statement to me so I stayed quiet. “Yes?” he spoke loudly, as if to a hundred men, “Yes! Guilty as charged?” I murmured agreement. “Right,” he picked up a straight-backed kitchen chair with one hand and manoeuvred it away from a table and into space. He set it down heavily. “You now understand the rules of engagement.” It was another question posed as a statement. My head was spinning. What was he talking about. Engagement?

“Doh!” he was losing what little patience he ever had. “You know what is expected of you?” I must have still looked blank. “You know what to do?” He sat on the chair and wriggled his buttocks until he was comfortable. He sat upright in the chair and leaned back. He parted his legs slightly. Even I, befuddled as I was, could see he had prepared a perfect platform for me to submit myself.

“Right lad,” he barked, Uncle Ralph was incapable of speaking in a normal tone of voice, “Stand there.” He clicked his fingers and pointed to a spot on the floor a metre or so from his right knee. Looking back, some of what happened is hazy in my memory, but other parts are as clear as a bell. I know it happened, I’ve got the bruises to prove it. It was like an out-of-body experience. I stood where instructed. Uncle Ralph waved a hand at me. “Get those jeans down.” I stared down at myself. Of course, I’ve taken jeans off thousands of times before but at this precise moment I was unclear how it was done. I was baffled by the complexity of my belt. How do I get the end out of the buckle. What do I do with that prong thing? It seemed to take me for ever to get the damn thing unbuckled and open. Then, there was the challenge of undoing the top button and getting the zipper to work. Somehow , don’t ask me how, I got the jeans to me knees. “All the way down,” Uncle Ralph’s voice, loud as it was, seemed to be coming from a very long distance. I bent from the trunk and with my hands pushed the jeans until they bundled on top of my feet.

“Bend over my knee,” the command was terse. How was this done exactly? I had seen John earlier go over Uncle Ralph’s lap, but that was on a bed and John rested his arms on the mattress; where I was I supposed to put mine? Despite these absurd thoughts, I slowly lowered myself over Uncle Ralph’s right leg. There is a certain amount of instinct involved in something like this, so with my stomach perched over his thigh I stretched my body so my chest lay on his left knee. This meant my arms naturally were ahead of me. I parted them by a metre or so and pressed my palms into the cold floor tiles. I couldn’t see because I was now staring directly down but behind me my own knees were slightly bent and my bottom was poking up at an angle.

I felt Uncle Ralph lay the wooden brush on my back, just as he had with John. I flinched as he took hold of the top of my pants. But, instead of ripping them down and exposing my bare bottom, he griped the waistband and tugged. They already fitted me snugly, but now they were so tight I could feel the cotton pulled up into my crack. Uncle Ralph took me lightly by the hip to hold me steady. That was when I felt his big hand rub across my buttocks. He was smoothing away any wrinkles in the pants – and (I suspect) having a good feel while he was at it.

He said nothing while doing all this so I had no warning when he started slapping his hand across my backside. Through the thin underpants I could tell his hand was hard and rough. I had no experience being spanked so I didn’t know how much it was supposed to hurt. He lay it on hard and rapidly. Smack-smack-smack. It was much quicker than the way he had spanked John. My bum was warming up. It didn’t hurt – well, not too much – it was like an intense tingle, if that makes any sense.

z used brush otk pants chair brush straightladsspankedotcom (1a)

I lay face down looking intently at the floor. A ball of dust floated by my face. I noticed a water stain where the tiles had not been dried properly after they were cleaned. I concentrated on this, as if it might take my mind off the humiliation I was suffering. I felt a movement in Uncle Ralph’s body. He picked up the brush and whacked me hard with it. I gasped at the shock of this sudden pain. It hurt so much more than the palm of his hand. I heard Uncle Ralph wheezing as he laid the brush across my stretched underpants. Oh my how it hurt!

I don’t know how many whacks he gave me. I do know I kicked my legs and waved my arms about. “Keep still. Keep still,” Uncle Ralph ordered. I had very little control over my body, I couldn’t have obeyed even if I wanted to. “Keep still, it’ll be all the worst for you,” he said. The warning was lost on me. I kept on struggling. Suddenly, the pounding stopped, I drew in great gulps of air. The pain was intense but as soon as he stopped hammering my bottom, it started to dissolve into something like a constant throbbing.

If I thought my spanking was over, Uncle Ralph had another idea. He lay the brush on my back again and with both hands he clutched the waist of my underpants. I might have made a yell of protest, I can’t be sure. Not that it did me any good. My bum was bare. Uncle Ralph took hold of the brush again and he took my tail off! He pressed his elbow into my back and that stopped me wriggling around too much. I may not have been willingly submitting myself to him, but he was my master. He could (and would) spank me for as long and as hard as he wished and I had to lay there face down, bared-bottom quivering until he was ready to stop.

This is where my recollection becomes hazy. I know my bum was on fire and my entire body ached, but also in some crazy way that I don’t have the words to explain, I was flying high. I’ve smoked some dope in my time and taken other drugs at parties, but nothing had ever made me fly like this. Go figure, I can’t.

At some point, Uncle Ralph set me free. I remember jumping up and down and rubbing away at my roasted bottom. Then, I was face down on my bed. Next morning, I had to sneak into the utility room very early and launder the bedsheets before my aunt saw them. Later, I spent time very carefully reading the printed list of rules Uncle Ralph gave me when I arrived. I made careful note of all the offences I could commit that would earn me a jolly good spanking.

 

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures / straight lads spanked dot com

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Spanked by my uncle: who enjoyed it the most?

Visit to Uncle Roy

The smiling boy

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A little word

z used new story 2

`z used domestic defiant chest (10)

Come in Adam. Stand there. I want a little word. These exam results are atrocious. Terrible. Even worse than last time. Look here: F-s in three subjects. D-s in two others. What on earth is going on? You need to spend less time working out in the gym and more time in the library studying, m’lad.

Do you know how much it costs your mother and me to keep you at university? No, I bet you don’t. What’s the point of it, if you aren’t going to apply yourself?

What did I say last time would happen if your results didn’t improve?

Don’t pout. Take your hands out of your pockets. Stand up straight. What did I say? You know darn well what I said. A spanking. I said I’d give you a darn good spanking. And I meant it.

Look at these results. You need to buck up your ideas. You need a jolly good spanking and you know you do. Don’t even try to argue. It’s the only thing you understand. You only have yourself to blame. Get over here.

Stand there. Right there. Take down your trousers. Don’t argue with me lad. You need a darn good spanking. I should have done this a long time ago. Then we wouldn’t be here this morning. Take them down and don’t argue.

Do you want me to take them down for you?

Right. Now bend over my knee. Right over. Good. Now keep your hands well out of the way. Press your palms into the carpet. That’s right. Keep your head low. Let’s have your bottom higher. Right, let’s have these underpants down.

Keep still. Stop wriggling. Keep still, I tell you.

There you are. A bared bottom. How do you feel now? I hope you feel ashamed. Look at you. Nineteen years old and taken across Daddy’s knee for a bare-bottom spanking. Just like a little boy. Well, don’t say you don’t deserve it. You’ve been asking for this for a long time. And, now you’re going to get it.

Keep quiet. Let’s see if this hairbrush of your mother’s can knock some sense into you. I want to see a marked improvement next term. I hope I don’t have to do this again.

Let this spanking teach you a lesson …..

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

Father deals with idle student

“I am going to spank you and that is an end to the matter. You can submit yourself and take it with some dignity, or I can call my assistant Rodgers in and he will hold you down. Either way you are getting a spanking.”

Simon had expected a call from his father; he knew he had met with his university tutor and words such as lazy, indolent, idle and workshy would have been used to describe the boy.

Simon was in his first year at university and things were not going well. He had failed his mid-terms and he awaited the results of his final exams with some anxiety.  It wasn’t that Simon was a stupid boy; that was far from the truth, but he did lack self-discipline.

You could blame his school for that. His father had paid a small fortune to send him to a very select boarding school and his outlay was repaid when his son had passed his A-level examinations with flying colours. His father had then laid out more money to send him to university.

That’s where the trouble started. What his father did not realise, and nor did Simon until recently, was that it was the discipline regime (or more truthfully, the punishment regime) at the school that had ensured his son’s success. Bucksbury Manor had its standards and if these were not met, the boys paid the price: with their backsides.

Simon learnt from an early age that the best way to avoid bruises on his buttocks was to work hard. He mostly succeeded in this, but there were tell-tale signs in the sixth-form when he was eighteen years old that his standards were beginning to slip and he was no longer an A-student.

His housemaster was an experienced teacher and he knew that boys of Simon’s age often became distracted from their work, especially if they discovered the delights of the nearby town, and particularly its girls.

Mr Bailey also knew the perfect remedy for this slacking. That was why Simon found himself unexpectedly summoned one afternoon to the housemaster’s study. Posner, one of the House junior boys – believe it or not they were called “fags” at the school – came to find him to deliver Mr Bailey’s instruction to report immediately.

“What’s it about?” Simon inquired innocently.

Posner claimed not to know; actually, he hadn’t been told the reason, but from experience he knew that a summons like this usually meant a boy was to get a thrashing.

Simon was ignorant of the fate that awaited him and untroubled he walked through the wood-panelled hall, past the honours boards, the school photographs, the noticeboards, the glass fronted cupboards with various trophies and the paintings of past headmasters to his housemaster’s study.

He was aware that the housemaster was very strict and any boy sent to him for breaking the rules would feel the full strength of his powerful right arm and leave the study with an aching backside.

But, he was in the sixth-form and senior boys were not caned. In any case he hadn’t done anything wrong.

He knocked on the study and waited for the command, “Enter!” It was a dark room with wood panels around three walls, in the middle of the room was a huge oak desk, to the side was a large leather armchair, a long window and behind the desk was a wicker basket containing several swishy canes, each of them capable of leaving a boy with a throbbing backside.

Simon could not take his eyes of the wicker basket; he did not expect to be on the receiving end of one of the canes, but they were still an intimidating sight.

Mr Bailey took off his horn rimmed glasses and toyed with them while he spoke, “You are producing sloppy work and your grades are slipping. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Simon was dumbfounded; it was true his grades were poor, but he hadn’t expected to be hauled in by his housemaster about it.

He had no excuses and he knew it. His housemaster punctured the silence. “You are slacking and that is inexcusable. You have the brains to do well in your examinations and I am going to make sure you use them.”

Simon, blushed to his roots, and stared at the carpet. Mr Bailey was right he had been slacking off, spending too much time in town or, to be perfectly honest, looking at magazines and playing with himself down at the copse.

His housemaster, having discarded his gown and jacket, was pacing the study swishing a senior cane.

“I am going to beat you and I shall beat you every time you are caught slacking from now until your examinations. Is that perfectly clear?”

Quaking, Simon agreed that it was indeed perfectly clear, thank you, Sir.

“Carter remove your blazer and hang it up, please.”

Hands trembling, Simon undid the buttons, slid the blazer off his back and placed it on a hook behind the door.

“Stand in front of the desk. Drop your trousers.”

Jesus! Simon hadn’t expected this and the look on his face told his housemaster so.

“This is to be an exemplary beating Carter. It is designed to ensure you stop slacking in your school work. But, if I have to deal with you again, you will be caned on the bare.”

Simon saw he had no choice. He was guilty as charged and was to receive a sound thrashing as punishment. Schoolboys have a code of honour and it says you take your beatings like a man.

Despite his intense embarrassment, Simon undid the buttons and pushed his trousers to his knees. His white shirt was long enough to cover his buttocks.

“Lift up your shirt and then bend over the desk.” Simon’s humiliation was complete; with his shirt held high the housemaster was able to get a full view of the boy in his tight white underpants; front and back.

Mr Bailey had no interest in ogling his pupils in their underwear; his only desire was to have the target for his cane unobstructed.

Simon lowered himself across the desk, stretched his arms across and gripped the far side, pointing his backside in the air ready to take a most humiliating caning.

The housemaster with determination set to work lashing the cane hard across the waiting buttocks. Simon’s head shot up as the bite of the first stroke got to him, once again the housemaster raised the cane before lashing number two across the boy’s backside. Simon yelled out with each stroke as the thin underwear offered no protection.

z used cane pants school London

By the time Mr Bailey lashed the cane the sixth time across the pants, Simon was in utter distress. When instructed he stood up and his hands furiously clutched his stinging buttocks.

From that day, until he joined the university, Simon had knuckled down to his studies.

But, without the incentive of the threat of his housemaster’s cane across his bare buttocks, Simon had let things slip, until it was so bad that his future at the university was in jeopardy. He was grateful that his father loved him enough that he made this special visit to the university to sort out the problem.

Now, he was in a hotel suite, facing his father’s anger.

“I have spoken to your university tutor and she assures me that there I still some hope for you and you might be able to re-sit your examinations. I have agreed that I will pay the extra fees this will involve. Now, I need to give you an incentive to work harder.

“I am going to spank you and that is an end to the matter. You can submit yourself and take it with some dignity, or I can call my assistant Rodgers in and he will hold you down. Either way you are getting a spanking.”

Although, Simon was no longer a pupil at Bucksbury Manor he still abided by the code: take it like a man. His father opened his briefcase and drew out a heavy wooden brush with a short handle. Then he seized an armless chair and quickly sat down.

Mr Carter was expecting more resistance from his son and with an iron grasp on the back of Simon’s neck he hauled the university student over his lap and moved him around until his bottom was directly over his knee. To stop his son trying to scramble off his lap, he encircled his waist with his strong left arm and slid him over and down, swinging his right leg over and around Simon’s legs, locking them.

He held him in place for a minute letting him settle down and get used to this new position and rested the brush across the centre of his backside. His father patted the boy’s bottom firmly and lectured him about how upset he was with him and how it hurt him having to do this; then he was ready to start the traditional father / son discipline dance.

Simon was enormously embarrassed at having to go over his father’s knee at his age for a spanking. Why couldn’t he just have caned him instead?

Suddenly, he felt his father gripping the waist band of his sweatpants, yanking them over his bum and down his thighs, past his knees, and down his shins to his ankles. Before he could protest his tight yellow briefs quickly followed.

Simon felt his right arm pulled back and twisted up against his upper back, as he lay trapped hanging over his father’s knees. His legs were stretched so that his tip toes hardly touched the carpet.

Then he began to spank away at his son’s buttocks; twenty, forty, sixty wallops. Simon’s backside was shining, he was yelling out in fear, but Mr Carter continued to pound away at the boy’s bottom.

Simon had thought nothing could be more torture than that housemaster’s caning on his underpants, but this bare-bottomed spanking was far worst. His face screwed up in agony and he fought to be brave, but as the brush smacked and smacked on and on into his fleshy globes he started to whimper and then squeal and soon he was really howling with his legs jerking about as he bounced up and down.

His father could tell Simon was in distress, but his kept laying into him, smack after smack after smack. Then the begging started, but it fell on deaf ears. Mr Carter went on spanking.

Simon’s backside and the top of his thighs were red raw, tears were streaming down his face as he bawled like a child of eight. He just dangled there, resigned, jolting around on his father’s lap as each blazing whack sent him bouncing, rocking and twisting in unbearable pain, humiliation and disgrace.

He knew he would rather be anywhere in the world than lying upside down across his father’s knee with trousers and briefs down and that evil brush pounding away at his bare buttocks, the pain and humiliation was just not worth it. Through his tears he promised his father he had learned his lesson, hoping and praying that this will be the end.

He would study hard, if only his father would stop hitting him.

After another twenty swats, his father did stop spanking him, he was crying steadily and his bottom was as red as a tomato. Drenched with pain and perspiration, young Simon staggered to his feet and stood mortified with embarrassment as his father lifted the tail of his shirt to inspect the blazing red blisters that covered his bum and upper thighs.

Pulling himself away, his hands hovered around his burning buttocks and he stared in abject remorse at his father, tears streaming down his face. He jumped on the spot trying to make the agony go away.

His father was not a tyrant, he could see his son was defeated and left the room with the brush in his hand leaving Simon hugging his burning backside and still crying both from pain and humiliation.

Simon eventually graduated with honours from the university and in the years to come he would look back on this day and others that followed with gratitude.

Picture credit: CP Services London

 

This story was first uploaded in March 2016.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

In the farmhouse

Andy lay on his bed staring at the ceiling. Waiting anxiously. It was a scorching hot day and he was naked except for a pair of jeans cut down to skimpy shorts. Sweat soaked from his torso to the sheet beneath him. Cold sweat. The sweat of fear.

Any moment now his dad would return from the farm for his lunch. Then Andy would face the consequences.

He told himself he hadn’t meant to do it. Things just got out of hand. A row with his mother about college; words were exchanged. He cussed her out. If he could do it all again he would have played it better. But words once said could not be unsaid.

He closed his eyes tight and brushed away the mosquitoes. He heard the sound of the front door closing. His father was home. Soon his mother would recount the events of the morning, then all hell would let loose

Moments later came the call. “Andrew!” it was his dad. He knew it was bad, his dad only called him “Andrew” when he was mad. “Andrew, come in here now!”

Without hesitation, Andy climbed from his bed and headed out the door. He knew better than to keep his dad waiting.

It was no surprise to see his dad standing in the dining room, a wide, thick leather belt doubled up in his right hand. The belt was rarely used for its intended purpose; it spent most of its life in a dark cupboard, only seeing the light on days like this.

A dining room chair had been placed in the centre of the room, confirming to Andy the inevitable.

“Your mother has told me what you said to her,” his dad waved the belt threateningly at his son.

Andy stood motionless, expecting his father to say more. But, that was all. His father did not ask for explanation, nor mitigation. Nor, did he detail Andy’s crimes. The boy knew what he had done. There was no point in stringing this out. His dad wanted his lunch and to be back on the farm; he didn’t have time to waste on this.

“Get yourself over,” he pointed at the straight-backed wooden chair with his belt.

“But, dad,” Andy didn’t know what had come over him. You didn’t argue with dad. You just didn’t.

“But dad, I’m too old for this, I’m an adult.”

It was the wrong thing to say. His dad’s sunburned face turned a deep shade of puce.

“You are not an adult. You are an adult when you behave like an adult. You do not do your chores, you cuss your mother. And, now you’re telling us you’re quitting college. That is not the behaviour of an adult. That is the behaviour of a brattish kid. And, you are going to get a whopping a brat like you deserves. Bend over that chair.”

His dad was an imposing man. He had been a farmer all his life. Not only did he have strength, he had presence too. When he told his farm hands to “jump”, they merely asked, “how high?”

Meekly, Andy turned on his heels and walked to the chair. Without pausing he reached over the back and grabbed hold of its wooden seat; one hand on either side.

used belt holding (1)

His dad fiddled with the belt trebling it up so he had a leather strap about twelve inches long; the perfect length to crash into his son’s backside and cause maximum pain. Satisfied with his handiwork he stood close to Andy’s right side. The boy’s jeans were cut so short they barely covered his stretched buttocks; but they were still big enough to accommodate two large thick patch pockets.

“This is no good, stand up.” Genuinely puzzled, the boy lifted himself up and turned to face his dad.

“Those jeans are too thick. Take them down.”

Astonished, Andy mouthed a silent, “But..”

“Take the shorts down. Right now. This instance.”

Andy could not dare disobey such a command. Without looking, he undid the button on the waist of his shorts, unzipped, and let them sail to his feet. Only then did his dad realise his son was not wearing underpants.

Andy stood embarrassed in front of his dad, his nakedness confirming that indeed he was a young man and not a boy.

Unabashed, his dad ordered him back over the chair. Back in position, Andy was now naked from his neck to his ankles. It had been three or four years since he had last presented his bottom to his dad for punishment; but this was the first time it was with his shorts at his feet.

Dad had been a farmer all his life and was a strong man; he could, and he would, lay on a thrashing with incredible force. Andy’s buttocks involuntarily clenched in anticipation of the first lash.

“Keep still. Relax,” his dad ordered as he patted his cold strap across Andy’s already hot buttocks. Sweat was pouring from the boy: a combination of the scorching heat and the fear of the imminent thrashing.

SPLAT! The belt crashed across the centre of both buttocks, leaving a sunset stripe a couple of inches wide. By the time the third stroke hit home bruises were already forming at the edges of the strap marks.

In the kitchen, his mother stopped preparing lunch. Once she had reported the boy’s behaviour, she knew this would be the inevitable consequence. Good. Andrew deserved everything he was getting. And more. The brat.

Andy took twelve strokes as stoically as he could. The pain was awesome, it was the worst belt whipping he had ever had to endure from his dad and there had been a few of them over the years. He wanted to yell out each time the strap cut into his meaty bared backside, but he was determined not to give his old man the satisfaction of seeing how much he had hurt him.

As the ninth and tenth whacks cut him, drawing blood, he bit his tongue hard to stifle the wail that would have echoed around the room before travelling the distance to the barn where the farm hands were having lunch.

“Stand up.” Dad’s tone had not softened. He had thrashed Andrew; his son deserved it, but dad would not know if it had been effective until he was sure the boy’s behaviour would improve. No more cutting chores, no more disrespecting his mother. And, no more nonsense about leaving college.

Unsteadily, Andy rose from the chair; a spasm rippled the length of his body. Still completely naked he clenched his fingers into fists, stretched his arms down the side of his body and hopped from one foot to the other, all in a futile attempt to relieve the agony that had started in his fleshy globes and now moved down his thighs.

“Get dressed,” it was another curt command from his dad. Andy bent forward to retrieve his shorts. He winced as the hard denim brushed against his throbbing cheeks.

“Now, I want to see a definite improvement in your attitude, do you understand me?”

Andy blinked back the tears that were forming; he desperately did not want to let his dad see him cry. He nodded his assent.

“Good, because if I have to do this again, I’m going to get one of the farm hands to cut some birch twigs and we’ll see how much you like that.”

It wasn’t a question, but Andy felt he had to say something in reply. All he could think of was to mumble, “Sorry.”

“Yes, and so you should be sorry. Now, go to your room. There’s no lunch for you.”

Back in his bedroom, Andy ripped down his shorts to inspect the damage to his buttocks in the mirror. His dad had done a good job, God knows, Andy thought, he had had enough practice. The cheeks were raw from the top near his spine, across the globes, to the crease where they met the thighs. Dark blue bruises had already formed across most of his bum, and he knew from experience, they would get worse before they got better.

He pulled a tissue from a box near his bed and wiped away a few drops of blood that was seeping from the wounds.

Gingerly he sat on the bed. It didn’t increase the pain too much. When his dad left to go back to work he would go to the kitchen and get some antiseptic cream from the first-aid box.

Until then he lay on his stomach, reliving in his mind the events of the day, safe in the knowledge that he would do his chores, never cuss his mother again and he would be at college when classes resumed on Monday.

This story was first uploaded in March 2016.

 

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One hot summer afternoon

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The casting couch

An acting student wants a break into the movies but must be prepared to do anything to get it

 

I know that to succeed as a television actor I have to make one or two sacrifices, but I don’t expect them to be at the expense of my dignity and my ass.

An international production company is casting for parts in a new teen drama. The characters will be set in a college and in the storyline they will be seventeen years old. The company wants actors who are over eighteen with a little bit of knowledge of the business, so have been asking drama colleges to send over suitably-qualified youngsters.

I am eighteen, a bit shorter than average height, with a fresh face. I can easily pass as seventeen and with my clear skin maybe even fifteen. I am slender, but I don’t work out at the gym because I don’t have to. There’s not enough spare fat on me to fry a sausage.

The cast of the new show which does not have a name yet, at least not one that has been announced, will be an ensemble. That means no one will be the star, all will have equal status. This could be a massive break for me, the show will run for an initial twenty-six episodes on a free-to-air network and the production company has an international reputation for successes in this type of show. It will almost certainly be sold overseas. It is an enormous opportunity for me as it represents fame, wealth and a big boost at the start of my career.

I go across town for an interview and an audition. Obviously, they are seeing a lot of people and I have to wait my turn. I am waiting in the hallway close to the room where the interviews are taking place when the door opens and a young man exits. He is ashen faced and it appears he may have been crying. Looks like he didn’t get the gig, I think.

I am called into the interview room. There are three people waiting for me and I immediately recognised Allen Mikelstein, from his picture in the trade papers. Mikelstein is a big hitter in this town; too big to bother introducing himself or the other people in the room. A woman with a clipboard checks my name and contact details. My credentials established, they ask what experience I have. They aren’t expecting much so I am honest and tell them I’m at drama school and I’ve been in a few stage plays and student films. Mikelstein is sweating buckets. I don’t understand why because the room is pretty cold, I think.

Am I imagining it, or can’t he keep his eyes off my legs. He speaks and asks me to stand up and turn around once or twice. Is he checking me out? I think he might be. I am only eighteen but I’ve been in this city all my life and I am not naïve.

Thank you, Mikelstein says, and hands me a piece of paper. On it is a scene that he wants me to act out with him. I mumble an apology that I haven’t had a chance to read it and I might not be very good. He flashes me a smirk and says, “Don’t worry.”

The truth is that these shows don’t necessarily want people with good acting ability, they want people who look right for the part and who they can rely on professionally. They will be churning out twenty-six episodes, one a week, so there is no room for primemadonnas. The actors will have to be obedient and do as they are told, without fuss. I’m their man, I think: clean cut and handsome, the boy next door, and I will do whatever they ask of me for a piece of this action.

We run through the script. It is a scene where the boy (me) is up before the college’s Dean of Discipline (Mikelstein).

I am startled; this cannot be a real scene from an episode of the show, the networks would never let this go to air.

Mikelstein starts off in character. He is berating me for cutting classes to head to the mall, why do I do it? I tell him the classes are boring and the teachers are hopeless.

He gets angry, says I must apologise. I tell him where to get off.

At this point he turns away from me and heads for a shelf in the corner of the room and picks up a paddle. It’s an ordinary board, the kind you would find in any school in the South.

He smacks the wood into the palm of his hand for emphasis as he scolds me some more. I can’t keep my eyes off the paddle. Is this really happening? What exactly is happening?

“Bend over grab your ankles,” Mikelstein tells me. I hesitate, my breathing is coming faster and my heart rate is quickening. I look at Mikelstein and he replies with his eyes, “Yes, you must go through with it.”

I understand what is going on now. I have to do this.

I stoop down from my waist and rest my hands on my knees.

“Grab your ankles boy!” Mikelstein seems to have come out of character. I part my legs a little and tightly grab hold of my jeans around my calves.

I feel Mikelstein move behind me, admiring the scene. I am only wearing ‘no name’ jeans but I know I look Hot! Hot! Hot! I can wear anything.

A don’t hear the paddle coming but feel an agonising pain as it connects across both buttocks, stinging each cheek equally. My eyes pop and I let out a gasp. Instinctively, I bolt upright to rub my flaming ass, but Mikelstein stops me mid-way and with a forceful shove in the shoulders, he pushes me back down, so once again I am staring at the stained floor tiles.

Whack number two hits, harder than the first, on almost the same spot. I tug at the legs of my jeans determined not to disgrace myself and try to stand up again. It hurts so much I have no words to describe it. I have never been in so much pain in my life.

Number three crashes down across the bottom of my ass, where the cheeks meet the thighs and I let out a scream, so loud, I am sure the people waiting outside the audition room must be able to hear it. Involuntary tears are forming behind my eyes and my whole body seems to be shaking. I am spent. Please, Mr Mikelstein, no more.

I didn’t say this out loud, but Mikelstein got the picture. I heard him replace the paddle on the shelf and he told me to stand.

I rise, my face bright red, from the exertions of the spanking and, probably, because my head has been upside down staring at the floor.

Mikelstein sits on a couch watching me as I furiously rub away at my tight throbbing buns. It is no use; the pain is going to be with me for a long time yet.

Mikelstein gestures that I should sit on the couch next to him. I can see he is sweating even more than before and his face is flushed. Still breathing heavily I gingerly put my butt on the couch, testing it for size to see if my raw ass can stand the pressure.

I wince as my backside takes the weight of my body on the couch. Mikelstein gives a creepy laugh. “Can someone get the boy a cushion?” Nobody moves, his two colleagues know he meant it as a joke.

Mikelstein sits up very close to me and our legs are touching. I am still in some distress and he puts an arm around me, drawing my head into his chest. I can smell his expensive aftershave. What will happen next? Am I going to have to let him come on to me?

The woman pipes up and says, thank you, you have passed the first part of the audition. Mikelstein lets go of me and the meeting becomes formal again.

There is a part two of the audition where I have to meet other possible cast members and TV execs and so on. She tells me they have to see if I will fit in. It seems that I have the looks and enough talent, but do I have the temperament? She writes down an address of a house in the Valley where there will be a party on Friday for everyone involved in the show. I am invited.

Friday is a sweltering hot day. I have no car so I hitch a lift to the house. I dress in a way I hope will delight Mikelstein: in short, short cut-offs. If this audition turns out to be a battle of the buns between competing wannabe cast members, I am going to give myself a head start.

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I arrive on time at a huge mansion. It has large gardens and a swimming pool. Towards the far end of the garden is something that looks like a lake.

I am astounded when a waiter with a tray of drinks approaches me. He is stunning looking, in his late teens or early twenties, and he is almost entirely naked. He wears a bow tie and a jock strap that hardly covers his assets and that is that. I realise all the other waiters are similarly dressed. As I take my drink (non-alcoholic, I need to keep a clear head, for whatever happens next) I hear the slap of a hand on flesh from behind me and swing round to find Mikelstein had slapped a waiter full on his pert buttocks.

The waiter flashes Mikelstein a smile to say that was the most wonderful experience he has ever enjoyed and, hey, if he wants to do it some more, just go ahead. The boy is a marvellous actor, better than I will ever be.

Lots of people come up to say hello, they are here auditioning like me. None of us quite knows what is expected of us so we are friendly to everyone just in case they turn out to be important.

An assistant to Mikelstein tells me it is my turn to see the great man and leads me into the house and up a spiral staircase to the first floor, where he leaves me in a room on my own. Mikelstein comes in, dressed casually in dark slacks, bulging at the waist, and a white patterned formal shirt. I feel very under-dressed in my cut offs, but he cannot keep his eyes off me: a result.

He offers me a drink (alcohol this time) and I risk accepting it. I want to seem friendly, but I don’t want him to think I might be a drunkard. He calls me by my name and says how much he enjoyed our last meeting. He grins as he says this. Yes, I remember our last meeting; there are still bruises on my ass.

He talks about the show and how he has a great part for me in it and what a great success it will be and what a great career I have ahead of me. He likes the word “great”.

Then he says for it to work I have to show that I can fit in. What did I think about that? I tell him I think it is “great”.

“I’ll do anything you want of me Mr Mikelstein,” I am not subtle. I want the lot: the fame, the money and the lifestyle that goes with it and I want it now.

“Anything?” he leers at me again. I drain the whiskey from my glass.

“Do you want another?” I do, to try to settle my nerves, but I say, “No thanks.”

He sits down on a couch. “Come closer,” he grabs my arm and pulls me closer to him. “Are you a good boy?” He smirks at me. I don’t know how I am supposed to answer this, so I don’t.

“Or are you naughty?” Yet more leering. Suddenly, I know exactly where this is going.

“Naughty boys have to get their bottoms spanked.” With that he simply pulls me forward and down over his lap.

I could fight him, punch him in the face and high-tail it out of there. But, I don’t and I’m not ashamed of that. This is my ticket to stardom. And the journey starts here.

He pulls at the waist of my cut offs so the denim is even tighter across my buttocks and smacks down on my cheeks. I can’t feel I thing, but I don’t suppose I am meant to. They are more like ‘love pats’ than spanks. Mikelstein is enjoying feeling-up my pert bottom. He stops smacking for a while and gently rubs his hand around my two globes, measuring them up.

“Stand up.” He helps me up and I stand in front of him.

“Hands on head.” This is unexpected, but I do as instructed. He undoes the button of my cut-offs and they fall to my knees. Then he pulls me on top of him, so that I am stretched out across the couch with my upper body and arms resting to his left and my legs stretched out to his right. My bottom is high over his abundant thighs.

He spanks me harder this time. The first slaps connects into the centre of my left cheek and then the centre of the right and then he covers the whole circuit, from the top of the globes near the base of the spine, to the curves at the thighs. The thin cotton of my tight, white, briefs is no protection. Mikelstein is getting into his stride as he lands short, rapid spanks all over my buttocks and thighs.

My butt is warming up and as each successive swat falls across the tight cotton briefs, the pain increases. I am not in agony, the pain is nothing like the paddling he had given me, but gradually the soreness in my ass increases.

I am losing track of time, but he must have whacked on and on at my buttocks for five minutes or more, never letting up. Although I am feeling sore now and gasping a little, I don’t make a sound and nor does Mikelstein.

Suddenly, I realise I have no idea what I am supposed to do. I am an actor after all, am I meant to be playing a role here? Does he want me to holler and howl, like he is killing me? Should I plead for him to stop? “I will be a good boy Daddy, I promise.”

I am probably too late to change tack now: I am stuck with naturalism; my reactions are genuine, based on the real discomfort he is causing me. We had learnt about ‘naturalism’ in class, but I never expected this would be the first role where I would put it into practice.

Gently he pulls down my briefs to my knees, exposing my, by now very pink bottom. “What a lovely shade of pink,” Mikelstein pants. He caresses my buttocks, “and, so very hot. Ha! Ha! Ha!” He has made a joke.

He slaps on and on. Although I am now bare butt, the pain doesn’t get any worse. I am no expert, but I wonder if there is some limit to a hand spanking: the pain reaches a limit, but doesn’t go beyond it. The spanker’s hand is pretty sore too, so at this point he reaches for the hairbrush and takes the boy’s butt off with that.

Luckily for me, that isn’t Mikelstein’s plan: at least not for today, so he hand-spanks me for another few minutes until he is spent. He is breathing so heavily, I think he might be having a seizure. He holds tightly onto me, so I can’t get up. I don’t know what is happening; it may be that he is just taking a break before another onslaught.

But no, we are finished. He releases his grip and I stand before him. My buns are very tender. Remembering I am here to please Mikelstein, I perform a little dance, hopping from one foot to the other with my hands furiously rubbing my bum and my pepper bouncing up and down in front of his face.

The look on his face is a treat. He wants me. He wants me so bad.

I turn my back to him, so he gets a great view of my glory hole as I bend to my toes to retrieve my briefs. Slowly, I pull them up over my bright red buttocks, wriggling exaggeratedly as the soft cotton brushes them. Then, back to my feet again for the cut-offs.

I turn around to face Mikelstein so he can see me tucking my dick into my shorts.

His eyes pop.

“Please Mr Mikelstein, have I got the part?” I pucker.

“Oh yes boy. Yes.”

 

Picture credit: Tom Jones

This story was first uploaded in February 2016.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

One hot summer afternoon

Simon Harmer glanced out of the bedroom window. It was hot and humid. The weather was about to break; a thunderstorm was coming.

He was in deep trouble with his dad. The old man was downstairs preparing himself. Soon, within minutes probably, he would burst through the door. Intent on doing his duty. It would be a whipping, for sure.

Simon was a first-year university student; home for the holidays. He was only nineteen years old, but he had done a lot of living in the past year.

A bolt of lightning cracked the sky. He waited, counting the seconds in his head. Nine, ten, eleven. Then came the clap of thunder. The storm was still some way off.

Simon had passed all his exams. In many ways he was a model-A student. He studied hard and didn’t party too much. He went dinking with friends, but steered clear of weed. Cannabis smoking led to heroin injection, everybody knew that.

He had been home for a few weeks and landed a job at one of the new large supermarkets that were springing up everywhere. It wasn’t much of a job; filling shelves mostly and humping boxes around. But there were lots of youngsters just like Simon working there, so he was making lots of friends.

Like Tony. Tony was a special friend.

People hardly noticed Tony. There was nothing unusual about him. A person couldn’t be more “ordinary” or more “normal” than Tony. He had long straggly, curly brown hair down to his collar. He never combed it; there was no point. “Wild,” was a good word to describe Tony’s hair. It had a mind of its own. Don’t bother trying to put a parting in it.

Simon was growing his hair too. It was the longest it had ever been in his life; but he still had some distance to go to catch up on Tony.

Tony had acne scars around his chin. He was a little self-conscious about it. But Simon didn’t even notice it. His teeth were crooked too. They weren’t as bad as the tombstones Simon’s dad had. He had huge hazel eyes; like whirlpools. They shone green when he laughed – which was often. Simon could have eaten them with a spoon.

Tony was really very thin. Not sickness thin. Just thin. Simon noticed it the first item the pair went walking together around Widdicombe Wood. It was swelteringly hot, so they took their shirts off. You could see Tony’s ribs poking through the skin.

He had spindly legs too. Simon and Tony wore fashionable snug sport shorts. They hardly covered their pants. His legs were like two matchsticks hanging down. He had the snakiest hips and no buttocks to speak of: just two pimples, really.

Simon’s dad was in the lounge. Reading his Bible. He had read it many times before. He wanted to go through a particular passage before he went upstairs to deal with his son.

Simon had been brought up on the Good Book. He could recite whole chapters. That gave his dad a great deal of satisfaction. Simon never told dad this, but he no longer believed a lot of it. There was no “Road to Damascus.” He just found that as he went through school and then to university he became more educated. More questioning. The history of how the Bible was written was well documented. How could anybody believe it was the literal word of God?

Simon wanted to call Tony. To get him on the telephone and tell him what was happening to him. He couldn’t. The phone was in the hallway and his dad wouldn’t let him, even if he tried.

If he was a character in one of those silly “teen” movies they showed at the pictures, he would climb out the window and go visit Tony. Guys were always doing that; goofing off to see their girlfriends.

But this was not a movie: this was real life. The window in his bedroom only opened a couple of inches at the bottom. Not even Tony was thin enough to climb through that.

Another lightning fork lit up the night sky. The thunder clap was closer.

Miserably, he lay down on his bed. He caught the faint whiff of Tony’s “Denim” aftershave. He always used just a splash too much. He put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes.

It had happened hardly thirty minutes before. Dad was prowling the house. He did that a lot. Opening and closing doors. Spying. When Simon had challenged his dad once about this lack of privacy, he was told, “This is my house and I’ll go where I want.”

It was masturbation. Wanking. Jerking off. Tossing.  Spanking the monkey. One off the wrist. Dad fretted that his three sons were abusing themselves. No door in the house, not even the bathroom (especially not the bathroom) could be locked. Simon and his brothers could expect their bedroom door to burst open at any hour of the night and day. Dad would be standing there, eyes popping. Checking them out.

It hadn’t been masturbation that afternoon. It was something, in dad’s mind, far worse.

Simon and Tony were in the room. They weren’t doing anything much. Listening to the radio. Talking. Hanging out. The room was small. It was hot and sticky. So were the boys.

Nothing was planned. Off came their shirts. It didn’t help. The heat was unbearable. Sweat glistened on Simon’s defined torso. A pool of perspiration soaked the top of Tony’s snug blue sport shorts. Tony grabbed his own shirt and wiped down his friend’s body; making circular motions across the chest and stomach, like he was polishing a car.

Simon squawked. It was a giggle the like he had never shrieked before.

Tony laughed. His eyes shone green. He pushed his best pal onto the bed and leapt on top of him.

Small children call it “pretend fighting.” It’s when they wrestle around on the floor, but they’re not really trying to hurt one another.

The teenagers rolled on the narrow bed. Simon, accidentally hit his head on the wall. Tony banged his knee on the bedside table. They held each other tightly. In each other’s arms.

That was when the door burst open. Simon’s dad paled. His jaw dropped. And, then his eyes exploded. The sport shorts were tight. They were snug. Soldiers stood at full salute. There was nowhere to hide the bulges.

Bile flooded to Mr Harmer’s throat. He held his hand to his mouth like an embarrassed maiden in a Victorian melodrama.

“Out!” The roar could be heard all down The Avenue. A stranger passing by stopped in his tracks, puzzled. What was that scream? Mr Harmer’s eyes protruded, a vein throbbed on the side of his neck, blood vessels on his nose were about to burst.

Tony grabbed his shirt and shoes and barged through the door; knocking Simon’s dad to the floor in his haste. In the distance, Simon heard the front door open and close.

Speechless. His dad gasped. The fury he felt was left unspoken, but the expression on his terrified face was enough. Struggling for breath, he picked himself up and staggered down the stairs.

Now, Simon waited for the inevitable retribution. Vengeance would be the Lord’s, and also his dad’s.

He didn’t understand what had happened that afternoon. He wasn’t naïve. University students knew about these things. Men going with men. Was Simon “one of them?” He didn’t think so, but so what if he was. It was legal. Well, legal if you were aged twenty-one or over. But, try telling that to dad. To him it was an “abomination.” Plain and simple. No discussion allowed.

What happened between Simon and Tony had seemed perfectly natural. Two pals having a bit of fun. Where was the harm in that?

His self-philosophising was cut short. The door burst open once more. His dad had returned.

Dad knew most of the Bible by heart. That afternoon he had the passages about men laying down with men and parents sparing the rod uppermost in his mind.

The “rod” in the Harmer household did not mean a cane or a stick. The “rod” was a magnificent three-tailed leather taws. The leather was scuffed, worn down by use. It was so old Noah might have used it himself.

There was a spanking ritual at the Harmer’s

“Take off those ridiculous shorts,” dad spat. “Pants too!”

While his son readied himself, Mr Harmer plumped up two pillows and set them down in the dead centre of the narrow bed.

“You know what to do.”

Indeed, Simon did. He knelt on the bed and gently eased himself forward so that his stomach, his cock and his balls, pressed into the duck feathers. His bare bottom was raised at an angle to greet the strap.

A three-tailed taws is an awesome weapon. When it flew, the business end could be more than ten inches from tip to tip. Mr Harmer tapped the taws across the centre of Simon’s cheeks. His shorts had covered so little of his anatomy that only a narrow strip across the teenager’s buttocks remained creamy white. The rest of his body was nut-brown, tanned by the strong sun.

z used drawing taws hold (11)

Mr Harmer set himself a challenge. By the time he was finished no square inch of the flesh would remain white. His heavy leather strap would turn it first to pink, then claret, then yellow and blue, until finally the cheeks would be bruised a deep purple.

Satisfied that he had his aim, he pulled the taws by its stiff handle in an arc over his own shoulder until the tails rested in the small of his back. He bent his knees slightly to give him momentum and then slashed the leather at great speed into the submissive buttocks.

The crack of leather connecting with flesh echoed around the room. Three dark pink marks spread from the top of the cheeks into the under-curve where bum and thighs meet. Simon closed his eyes tight and waited patiently for swipe number two.

His father’s eyes glowed with righteousness. He was so intent on doing God’s work, he failed to hear the creaking of floorboards outside the bedroom. Luke, Simon’s twenty-two-year-old brother, peaked through the partly-open door. He had the perfect view of his father’s back and his brother’s raised naked bum.

Up and down fell the strap. Still, Simon remained silent. Up, down. Up, down. Soon six sets of marks scarred his buttocks. Not one gasp escaped the teenager’s lips. He had long ago developed a high pain threshold.

Six more. Then another six.

Luke’s mouth dried. He remembered the thrashing his father had administered to him. Only last February. The pain and humiliation he had felt was often on his mind. His heartbeat sped. Sweat poured from beneath his shirt collar. He appeared to be in a worse state than his brother who was stoically enduring the wrath and the lash of their father.

“Oh, please God! No, not again.” It was a silent prayer. Luke was having thoughts again. He gazed on as his father renewed his efforts. The thwack and the splat as leather bit deep into Simon’s bottom had an unwelcome effect on Luke. “Please, no!”

Too late. Nearly. He rushed into his own bedroom, pulling at his shorts as he went. He dived onto the bed and wriggled out of his underpants. A load shot over his belly after only two strokes.

Mr Hamer was nearly done. The once-creamy white backside was now fifty shades of spanked. He had succeeded in his task. The boy’s bum looked like raw hamburger meat.

Another half-dozen. Just to finish the boy off.

Then, it was over. Mr Harmer tucked the taws under his armpit, tuned on his heels and exited, making sure to leave the bedroom door wide open.

Simon lay face down. The agony in his arse was already subsiding, but he knew from experience the pain would stay for a considerable time.

All seemed still. The house was silent. Even his noisy brother Luke wasn’t playing his records.

Simon rolled off the pillows and hauled himself from the bed. Quickly he pulled on his pants and shorts. He didn’t want to inspect the damage in the dresser mirror. He had seen it all before. It did no good. There was no point dwelling on the intense damage his father caused him.

He picked by his shoes and padded down the carpeted stairs to the front door. He slipped into them and made his way down the garden path. He knew inside the house his father would be on his knees, praying to God for Simon’s salvation.

Simon would leave him to it. He needed to find Tony.

Overhead, a lightning bolt flashed. Thunder struck. The heavens opened.

This story was first uploaded in January 2016.

Picture credit: Unknown

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Rules of the house

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com