Enhanced community training

new story 2

zused paddle jeans table (1)

Jack made his way through the student union bar, careful not to spill a drop from the two pint of beers he carried; the carpet beneath his feet was sticky enough. He made it unscathed to the table occupied by his best pal Al. He sat, gulped down a throatful of lager, and delved into his jacket pocket, pulling out a letter he had recently received.

“It’s from the Registrars’ Office,”  he unfolded three pages and glanced through the top one as if to remind himself what he it said. “I’ve been put on E.C.T.”

Al grinned and swigged his own beer. “Enhanced Community Training! Who’s been a naughty boy then?”

“You know about this stuff then?” Jack was still reading the letter.

Al wrinkled his nose, suppressing further laughter. E.C.T was serious. Life was about to get very unpleasant indeed for his friend. An uneasy silence fell between them. Al was bursting to hear more, but he knew he would have to be patient. Jack would tell his story in his own time.

The glasses were nearly empty when Jack started. “I was on the Dean’s list three times. Mostly poor grades, but then there was that time when we all got high and ran round the halls naked.” He spoke clearly, without emotion, as if he were reading the nine o’clock news on television. “Now, they caught me ducking lectures.” He peered at the letter in his hand. “Enhanced Community Training; what’s that all about then?”

Al reached across the table, being careful not to catch his sleeve in the beer spills, and took the letter. “It’s that new scheme, where they team you up with some granddad type who is supposed to keep you on the straight and narrow.” He saw Jack’s puzzled expression. “Dan was put in it last semester. His arse is still sore,” suddenly he felt his face redden and he quickly swallowed more beer.

“What are you talking about?” Jack couldn’t hide his irritation. His arse is still sore.

“Yeah,” Al composed himself. “You have to go to granddad and show you can behave yourself and if you don’t,” his face blushed scarlet. “Well, you know …” he gulped beer to hide his embarrassment, “you get spanked.”

“Spanked! Yeah, Ha! Ha! Ha!,” Jack retorted cynically, “As if.”

Al handed him back the letter, “Read these terms and conditions, mate,” he showed him the densely-typed pages. “It’s all in there.”

Jack snatched them and held them close to his face. One heading “Corporal Punishment” suddenly shone out like a beacon. Colour drained from his face. “Is this even legal?” he gasped.

“You have to do it. You don’t and the uni. Will kick you out on your ear. Times they are a’changing, my friend,” Al sighed as he collected Jack’s glass and made his way to the bar.

….

Major T. E. V. Manwaring-Robertson (Ret.) sipped thoughtfully at his whisky, a sheaf of computer-generated reports lay scattered on the table. The label on the buff manila folder read JOHN (JACK) HILL. Maj Manwaring-Robertson had read every page three times already, he believed in doing his homework thoroughly. The boy was twenty years old and really should know better, he thought. He suppressed a grin, “Running naked through the halls of residences,” he said aloud, although there was nobody there to hear him. “That’s a new one on me.” He leaned across to the whisky bottle and splashed a generous measure into his glass, “Must be some sort of guy-thing.” The rest of the report was more standard fare: poor grades, failed examinations, truanting from lectures, assignment deadlines missed. He had been reprimanded often; but was a serial reoffender. He was unresponsive to university discipline.

The Major leaned back in his horsehair armchair and stared towards the ceiling. Jack was not a wicked lad, he mused, he could be saved. There was still time for him to turn his life around. Apart from the nude athletics, he was no different from the others he had helped. That was the trouble with the young these days, they lacked guidance. They had no boundaries, they had never been taught right from wrong. He blamed the parents. And the schools. The Church had a lot to answer for as well. A good dose of Military Service might sort them out. Well, things were changing (thank the Lord!) and until all young men were put in uniform they would have to make do with Enhanced Community Training.

The Major closed his eyes. He had been set a difficult task, but he was up to it. It was his duty to respond to the needs of society. Hill needed disciplining and the Major was just the man to administer it. He knew this for a fact; he had a proven track record. He fancied that he might be one of the stars of Brocklehurst University’s Enhanced Community Training scheme.

Less than three months ago there had been that youngster Dan; what a bumptious individual he had been. Like all teenagers really, the Major supposed, smug, self-centred, thought the world revolved around him. He was soon taught a lesson.

It started one cold, wet November evening. It wasn’t quite Bonfire Night but the noise from a distant firework party invaded the house. It was a large, detached home, far too big for the Major to live in alone. The Avenue was full of homes shielded from prying eyes by tall hedges or walls. Major Manwaring-Robertson (Ret.) had all the solitude he could desire. It was so well hidden that Dan had difficulty finding it on his first visit and had arrived considerably late.

“Not an auspicious start,” the Major snarled as Dan stood dumbfounded, unsure of the meaning of the word. The Major was a tall, thick set man, broadening at the waist but he still had the remains of strong hard muscles. His military presence had not diminished since his army days. His slicked back hair emphasised his stern gaze. His dark eyes were a little too close together and his mouth was stuck in a permanent frown. “So, you’re Hill,” he growled, his stare burning into the student’s soul. The miserable boy shuddered, “Yes, sir,” in reply. He had only just met the man and was already terrified.

The Major was a man of few words and those he did speak were usually commands. “You know why you have been sent here,” he thundered. Dan’s terror had not abated, fearful and confused he remained silent.

“Pah!” the Major exploded. “I’ll have no dumb insolence in my house, boy!”

Dan blushed to his roots, hopping from foot to foot in his confusion. What was he supposed to say? “Pah!” the Major  blasted again, air whistling through half-closed teeth. He then listed all Dan’s faults at university. They were many. “It stops now,” he glowered. “There are rules. You will find a copy in your room. Learn them. Don’t break them. Or else.” The threat in his voice was not implied; it was real.

“And, now,” the Major clasped his hands together as if we were about to start praying,  “We must start as we mean to go on.”

Dan’s jaw dropped and his face blanched as he watched the aging military gentleman stride across the room. It was sizeable, but had little furniture. Army life had taught the Major to live without luxuries. There was a small table, a couple of old, dusty horsehair armchairs and a cracked leather Chesterfield couch. Heavy curtains covered the windows and the whole effect was of gloom.

The Major paused when he reached the far wall. Dan swallowed hard. Only now had he noticed what was hanging from a hook. It was a block of wood. Dan was puzzled, it looked like something his mother used in her kitchen to chop vegetables. The Major reached up and in one smooth movement fetched it down and gripped it tightly. Close up it looked like a miniature cricket bat. The Major pointed it at Dan, showing it as if it were a religious offering.

“We must deal with your misbehaviour over this past year. Then we start with a clean slate,” he boomed.

The Major glared at Dan not trying to hide his distain. He looked around the room as if trying to decide his next move. His eyes settled on the table. “There, that’ll do.” In the early days of E.C.T. the Major had expected resistance. Young men were unused to discipline and the concept of punishment was totally alien. But without exception they had been submissive. Perhaps, it was the Major’s military baring, or maybe, he thought, deep down inside them they just knew they needed this. They could not travel into adulthood without a roadmap. Please, they seemed to be saying, tell me what is expected, how I should behave. What is the difference between right and wrong? And, when I get it wrong, help me.

The Major was no intellectual, he never delved into the consciousness of the students he was asked to train. There were rules, they were broken, there were set punishments, they were administered. Life could be as simple as that.

So, he knew Dan would submit to his command. The nineteen-year-old knew why he had been sent to him. Actions had consequences.

Major Manwaring-Robertson (Ret.) nodded his flushed face towards the table. “There,” he barked. The Major was incapable of speaking quietly. Dan, already pale, turned a ghostly white as the enormity of situation dawned. Never in his whole life had he been close to something like this. Who among his family or at his school would have even thought to spank his backside hard; no matter how serious his misbehaviour. This was indeed uncharted territory.

“Go to the table and bend over,” the Major waved his wooden paddle menacingly. Dan, on automatic pilot, shuffled forward. The table was low and he quite tall so he towered above it. “How exactly should this be done?” an inner voice asked him. The Major had seen this all before. Of course, a teenager sent to live under his authority had no idea how to present himself for a spanking. The basics were simple enough: jut out your backside and let an older man whack it with a paddle, slipper, belt, cane or what-not.

“You should bend forward, rest your elbows on the table. Spread your legs, arch your back and lift your bottom high.” All done with military precision. In this way Dan would present his bottom at the perfect angle to receive the Major’s paddle.

In silence, but with heart thudding, Dan shuffled forward. His instructions had been clear. Later in bed nursing his battered buttocks the teenager would puzzle over his own composure. What in the world had compelled him to obey? He could have turned on his heels, rushed out the house and been in time to catch the last bus back to the university. He did none of these things. Meekly, he took a deep breath and assumed the position, forearms on the table, head low, bottom high, feet apart. His already tight denim jeans stretched further across his buttocks and dug into the crack between his parted cheeks.

The Major tapped the paddle into the open palm of his left hand and watched passively as his victim prepared himself. Dan was a lean boy, his firm and muscular chest clearly outlined by his white t-shirt (why was it, the Major pondered that youngsters always wore t-shirts no matter how cold the weather?) The teenager’s hair was short and dark and already he had a high forehead; the first signs of premature balding. But it wasn’t Dan’s head that concerned the Major. He turned his attention to the other end. He stood close to the boy’s right side and gently caressed his wooden paddle across the fleshiest part of the rather pert buttocks. The Major knew Dan’s jeans, which were nearly new, would offer considerable protection against the paddle. He knew a bare-bottomed beating would be more severe, but the Major was a military tactician; he must not start with a thrashing across naked haunches. That might come at a later date, it was a threat to hold over the boy if he failed to improve his behaviour.

Dan felt the heavy weight of the paddle rest against his left buttock, the Major raised the wood some distance in the air, before pausing (for dramatic effect) and walloping it down against stretched denim with terrific force.  It hurt. A lot. Dan, unused to being spanked shuddered, his feet slipped on the carpet and it took a tremendous effort to stay steady. The Major noted with satisfaction how the imprint of the paddle blade was embedded in the soft stretched denim.

Encouraged, he flogged another three swats into Dan’s bum so both buttocks were toasted.

Dan raised his head in shock, his eyes popped and he swayed from the neck, his head neighing from side to side. He didn’t call out, the burning sensation under his jeans was intensifying, but he was not in agony. Whack, whack, whack. Three cracks like machinegun fire, all landing across the undercurves, made him gasp. His temples throbbed as madly as his bum, he bit down on his lower lip.

The paddle pounded the buttocks rat-a-tat-tat. Rapidly. Dan wriggled. He writhed. He bucked. He even kicked. The Major held him down forcibly across the shoulders and continued to toast the teenager’s rear end. The Major lost count after twenty swats. They came so quickly it was impossible to keep a tally. On and on the spanking continued.

Then as quickly as it had begun, it stopped. The Major rested the paddle on the table beside the distressed student. Dan wheezed. He had no experience of these things, but instinctively he knew this had been an exemplary spanking. Dan was still, getting his breath back; regaining his composure.  He didn’t notice the Major caress his stretched buttocks. Small, circular motions. Lovingly. He raised his hand high and slapped his palm into the blistered bottom just as hard as he had with the wooden paddle.

Dan whinnied like a horse. He had never before experienced such light-headedness. None of the drugs he had ever taken did this to him. He stood, unsteady on his feet, and on command and as if floating on air, he ascended the stairs to his room.

Picture credit: TPLF Productions

 

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The broken window

At the girls’ showers

Summer holiday camp

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Using the Paddle

new story 2

z used paddle holding 2 wikihow

I spank with a heavy oak paddle that is about twenty inches long, four wide and maybe threequarters of an inch thick. It doesn’t take many swats for this wood to turn a backside deep cherry.

I spank on the bare bottom and I don’t believe in light paddywhackings and if they are sitting down too quickly after a spanking something is wrong, as my nephew Philip discovered. A good session with the paddle did wonders for his attentiveness to his studies.

The nineteen-year-old brat actually sneered at me when I told him if he didn’t buck up his ideas and hit the books I’d paddle his rear end until it glowed in the dark. Well, more fool him.

When the kid came to live with me I promised his mother and father that I’d look after him and take charge of his welfare. I meant his moral welfare every bit as much as his physical wellbeing. Of course, I put a roof over his head and my wife makes sure he gets three squares a day. If he played his cards right he could be very well pampered. All he needs to do is go to college and study hard. What could be more simple?

Do I need to spell it out? Kids today! No sense of responsibility. Philip is fine allowing his parents to pay his school fees and shell out cash to me for his board and lodgings, but he is not so willing to fulfil his side of the bargain.

It started well. He left us about eight-thirty every morning and returned at six. As far as we knew he was attending classes and hanging out in the library. Perhaps, he was. But, soon he staying out late and we had to practically drag him out of his bed for breakfast. In no time at all he was missing the first class. Then it just went from bad to worst.

We set a curfew. If he went out at night he had to be home by eleven on a school night. We extended that to midnight at weekends. That was plenty of time to socialise. But we soon discovered he had no sense of responsibility. He rocked home in the early hours and often it was obvious he had been drinking – or even worse. It was after the night when he emptied his stomach in our front hedge that I told him about the paddle.

“I will whack you so long and so hard until you backside glows in the dark,” I said. Philip is a small lad with a rather wiry body; I don’t suppose he weighs more than a hundred and forty pounds. He has boyish features, with a snub nose and grey eyes that sparkle. He flashed me a grin, muttered something that sounded a bit like, “Yeah, right,” and flounced from the room. I watched his tight buttocks sashay and my palms itched to grab hold of my paddle.

Before I could make a move I heard the front door slam shut; Philip had made his escape.

I repeated my warning at breakfast the next morning. I am, I hope people who know me would agree, a very fair man. I set out my rules. They were very simple. They hadn’t changed since the day Philip had arrived. Go to college, study hard, pass your tests. To that I added the times of the curfew. I couldn’t have been clearer.

Philip was sullen. He didn’t make much of a coherent response. What could he say? The whole point of his being at my house was so he could attend college. Otherwise he could just as easily stay with his parents. Or get a job somewhere and strike out on his own.

He grabbed his bag and set off for college. I thought (I hoped?) he had taken my little lecture to heart and that would be the last of it. Although I fervently believe in the efficacy of spanking (it works in in my personal experience it has proven on many occasions to work) I do not go out of my way to find excuses to wield the paddle. But if I have to I shall. It is, if you like, my duty to keep young men like Philip on the straight and narrow. They might think they are already grown up but they are not. They still need a guiding hand on the rocky road to adulthood.

Perhaps, I should have shown Philip my paddle. If I had let him handle it and to feel its weight. If he had tested its power by perhaps smacking it down into the palm of his hand, or even whacked his own backside, he might have modified his behaviour to avoid a proper spanking with it.

But that never happened. I have to report to you that Philip ignored my instructions. It is true that he did attend the college, but as the results of his midterms would soon testify, he was not studying hard. We were not yet to know this. What was more immediately obvious was that he disobeyed me over the curfew. Two nights after my breakfast time lecture he rolled home at past midnight. “Rolled home” is an apt description since he was obviously drunk (or perhaps high, I know nothing about the effects of drugs).

Corporal punishment was necessary. I had promised him an awesome spanking and now I would have to deliver on that promise. It would have less of an effect in his inebriated state so I sent him to bed with the clear understanding of what lay in store for him next day.

The young have great powers of recovery and by breakfast time he was sober and without a hangover. He was ripe for spanking. I heard the shower running and decided to let him perform his morning ablutions before calling him down to our living room. It was a squeaky clean Philip who later presented himself before me.

“Do you remember what I said when you rolled home after curfew?” I asked him in a reasonable tone. I don’t believe in barking or hectoring a boy hen he is in the wrong. I let my paddle do the talking. Philip at least had the good grace to bow his head in what I hoped was shame.

“I told you it would be a spanking …” His look of incongruity startled me and I hesitated. Had he really not thought I was serious? Did he think I said such things for the benefit of my health.

“Yes,” I said, regaining my speech. “A spanking.” I walked across the room to an old sideboard and bet down to open a drawer. I could feel Philip’s eyes boring into the back of my neck. I reached into the drawer and picked up the paddle. The boy’s eyes popped when he saw it. I wonder if he had ever seen a paddle before. I suspect his own father had never smacked Philip’s backside in anger (more’s the pity; otherwise we might not be where we were).

Colour drained from the nineteen-year-old’s face. Now he believed me! He rocked on his heels. I’m no mind reader but I truly believe he might have contemplated flight at that moment. He could have legged it from the room. Maybe he considered it. What would be the point? He would have to return at some time and he must have known that his punishment would be even more severe.

I gripped the paddle and tapped it into the palm of my left hand. My actions spoke, “Let’s get on with this.” I actually spoke, “Take down your trousers and underpants and bend across the table.” There was a round dining table dominating the room. It was an ideal height for him to prostrate himself across and submit his bared buttocks to me.

Philip’s face blushed scarlet, his eyes watered. He stood his ground, terrified. Literally, he could not move. “Bah!” I snarled. I had half-expected something like this. I had already calculated that some unseemly struggle might be necessary. Where Philip is small and wiry I am tall and well built. Despite my obvious advanced age, I still have a great deal of body strength. I also had the element of surprise. I moved forward, grabbed the boy by the hair and before he could utter a single word of protest I had him face down over the table, his mouth tasting the Formica top .

He wriggled and writhed a bit but, he was going nowhere. I had already noted he was wearing sweatpants with an elasticated waistband. I rested my paddle on his shoulders and gripped hold of his trousers. In one swift, almighty tug I had both his sweats and his briefs at his knees. His creamy-white buttocks were fully exposed. I still had surprise on my side. Before Philip could fully comprehend his plight, I seized the paddle, rubbed it across the very centre of the target area and crashed it down with terrific force.

A dark red rectangular mark immediately appeared. Then another, and yet another. I walloped five heavy swats across his rather small hindquarters. Now, both buttocks glowed red. The boy squealed like a stuck pig. In all my years administering spankings I had never heard wailing quite like it. Air rushed from his midriff, through his throat and out of his mouth. His head first swished from left to right, then he banged his forehead up and down as he headbutted the table top.

I paused to both admire the job done so far and also to determine what area of flesh was as yet untouched. I aimed at the underside of the cheeks, that spot where the bum meets the thighs. It is an especially sensitive area. Soon, my paddle had left ridges. Philip would feel pain every time he sat down for many hours to come. To my puzzlement he stopped struggling. He gasped rather like a beached dolphin, his chest heaved up and down.

I had promised him a severe spanking and that was what I delivered. I said earlier I believed in spanking hard. I never picked up a paddle unless I intended to deliver at least 15 swats. I soon reached that tally. His bottom was a fine cherry red. I had said I would make it glow in the dark. That of course is just a saying. It is not possible to literally beat a boy so hard his bottom could light up a dark room. Nonetheless I could (and I would) whack him until his rear end was bright red.

Philp’s bum was one of those that reddened easily. It was scarlet after my first onslaught. Very quickly the colour deepened and bruises formed after fifteen wallops. In no time it was a rather delicious mauve.

My nephew’s gasps quickly became sobs. He cried openly, unable to hide his intense distress. I feared he would flood the table top. I had expected pleas for me to stop, for mercy, with promises to reform. I got none of these. Philp was quite simply unable to talk, such was his distress. It was obvious to me that I had won; at least round one. I went once more round the circuit, putting extra effort across the curves and then I stopped. I released my grip on his shoulders. Only then did I realise how hard I was sweating.

I moved to the sideboard and replaced the paddle. Philip took his chance to stumble to his feet, grab his sweats and briefs and while still pulling them up, flee from the room. I heard him take the stirs two at a time and his bedroom door open and close. At that moment my wife appeared at the door to announce she had just poured me a nice cup of tea. We drank in companionable silence, neither of us wishing to dwell on the past few minutes.

Picture credit: Wikihow

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A Sting In The Tail

Federico Hernandez shuffled slowly from the elevator, took a left turn, waited for the automatic doors to slide open and headed at a snail’s pace to the professor’s office.

It had seemed like a good idea at first. He had thought it through. It would be painful, for sure. Humiliating definitively. But, if the professor agreed, it would solve all the student’s problems. And, it would all be over in five minutes.

Professor Luckhurst was tired. It was late in the day and he wanted to get away. The semester was over, the papers had been graded. All he had to do before he could take off on vacation was to wait for the faculty to clear them.

Luckhurst could have retired years ago. He had a good pension, but he kept coming back to teach classes semester after semester. The university was the only life he had.

Luckhurst almost did not hear the faint knock at the door. Later, he would reflect bitterly, it would have been best if that had been the case.

“Come in,” the professor’s irritation was evident.

Slowly, the door inched open, but nobody appeared.

“Well, come in if you’re coming!” the professor’s patience was exhausted.

Hernandez took a deep breath and forced himself over the threshold.

“Come in boy! Close the door behind you,” Luckhurst tucked his empty lunchbox into his briefcase and fumbled with the lock. “What do you want!”

Fernandez lost his nerve. For two bits he would turn and flee. That would be the sensible thing to do, he reckoned. It was a crazy scheme. Why had he thought it might work?

The professor slumped into his chair and eyed the student in front of him. Federico Hernandez, one of his Eng. Lit. students. He failed the course, if he remembered correctly.

Hernandez had a little speech prepared. He had rehearsed it in front of the bedroom mirror; last night and again that morning. He was word perfect; that was until the time came for him to deliver it.

“Well, eh, professor,” he stumbled. Luckhurst’s lined face, permanently gray despite the almost ever-present sunshine, betrayed his annoyance. Hernandez took a deep breath and launched into it. The story was simple: the student had failed the professor’s course, it was the only one he failed, his grade point average was good enough for him to graduate, but that was impossible unless the professor passed him on the course.

“So, what do you expect me to do about it?” Luckhurst growled. He already knew the answer to that.

“Could you find a way to give me a passing grade,” he hesitated, before stammering the next words. “Perhaps, there’s something you’d like me to do…” he trailed off in confusion.

“Doh!” the professor snorted, confirming to Hernandez this was not going to be easy.

The student stared down at the heavy-duty carpet beneath his feet. He could not bring himself to look at the professor, but he must. If this plan was to work, he had to turn on his charm.

“Please, professor,” he forced a smile. Luckhurst too was suitably embarrassed.

Hernandez’s eyelids fluttered a little. He had researched the professor; he had no family, never been married. He was almost certainly a faggot, the boy deduced. Not that that was supposed to matter anymore. This was 2015; they had same-sex marriages and all that. But, if the professor did go for handsome young men that would play to Hernandez’s advantage.

“Please, professor,” he started again. “Is there anything you would like me to do?”

Luckhurst’s ire rose. Do? Like him to do? What was the boy saying? Yes, there was something he would like the boy to do for him. Get out of his office and let him go home.

The silence was overwhelming. It was the professor’s turn to speak, but he continued to fumble with the lock of his briefcase, pretending he had difficulty with it.

Hernandez had one last chance. He took a deep breath and spluttered it out. This was not how he had planned it, but unless he spoke now, his opportunity would be missed. He would be stuck with an F-grade and a ruined future. “I thought you could spank me as a punishment and then ….” But he couldn’t find the words to finish the sentence.

Prof Luckhurst’s deathly gray face for once blushed scarlet. He could feel sweat sticking to the collar of his shirt. “What the ….?” he began, but was genuinely lost for words.

Hernandez had regained some confidence. When he had said the words to himself in front of the bedroom mirror, they sounded convincing. Now, he had to put that to the test.

“Well professor, the truth is…” The student confessed his laziness to the professor; he told him that he had not worked hard; he had not respected the course; he thought it would be easy. It was entirely his own fault he had failed.

“So, you see professor. I think I should be spanked. But, please don’t fail me. I won’t be able to graduate.” Then, he added for good measure in what he imagined to be a pitiful voice, “Sir.”

Luckhurst’s blood pressure was on the rise. Spank the boy. He wants me to spank him. He snorted. There had been many students over the years who would have benefitted from a darn good spanking; that was for sure. And, he often thought about personally swatting a paddle across their asses. But, all that was the stuff of fantasy. This was the real world: well, California at least.

“Spank you?” Prof Luckhurst left the question hanging in the air.

Hernandez picked it up and ran with it. “Yes, Professor Luckhurst. It’s what I deserve.”

Luckhurst had never come across anything like it before. The boy said he deserved to be spanked. He was twenty-two years old at least. Who had heard of young adults being spanked? Was this a cultural thing?

He regained some composure. “Spanking. Is this a Spanish-American thing? Do fathers still spank their sons in your community?”

Spanish-American! What year did this man live in? But, Hernandez made no protest. The tide was turning his way.

“Oh yes Sir,” he lied. “If my father knew of my failure, he would beat me.”

“Then let him spank you. You can atone for your failure that way.”

“Yes, Sir,” Hernandez seized the advantage. “He would spank me and hard, but he couldn’t give me the grade. Only you can do that.” He looked the professor straight in the eye, his own confidence growing by the second. “You, do see that don’t you?”

The professor returned the gaze. Often, he had dreamt of spanking his students, especially the Spanish-Americans. They were so short and cute with their slim hips and tight asses.

He looked over at Hernandez, struck by his dark brown eyes, boyish face and short jet black hair gelled up. The open face: that did it for him every time.

Luckhurst leant back in his chair. He was tempted, sorely tempted. He had been puzzled by the student’s failure. He had taught him several classes in the past and he had passed with high grades. His overall GPA showed he was a very bright student; he would go far. But, something strange had happened in Eng. Lit. Without the professor’s grade Hernandez would not make it to graduate school. His entire career could be hurt. Perhaps, Hernandez was correct; he had let his own arrogance get the better of him and imagined he could ace the professor’s course without working. Perhaps a spanking would sort out the boy’s arrogance.

Hernandez watched on as the professor sat at his desk, obviously in deep thought. If he had known any thought-transference tricks, he would have willed Luckhurst to do it. Go on, professor, spank my tight ass. What have you got to lose?

“Please, professor,” Hernandez spoke gently, “Please professor, spank me. I deserve it.”

That was the moment everything changed.

Professor Luckhurst hauled himself from his chair and walked across the room. Reaching the door, he turned the catch. A loud click confirmed the two men were locked together inside the office.

He turned to face Hernandez. He towered over the young man, easily eight inches taller than the student.

“If I do this, you must promise never to tell anybody what happened.”

“Oh, no Sir; of course not Sir,” Hernandez’s heart raced.

“Promise?”

“Yes, I promise. I won’t tell a soul.”

Then, with more confidence than he actually possessed, the professor said, “Good boy. Come then, let’s do it.”

Luckhurst pulled a straight-backed chair from in front of his desk and placed it in the center of the office. Then, he sat down.

Hernandez stood his ground. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.

“Come, boy, take down those shorts. Get across my lap.”

“But…” Not for the first time that day Hernandez was lost for words. He had asked to be spanked, but he expected swats across his ass. Maybe he would be leaning over the desk, or bent over “assuming the position,” hands on his shins. No way had he expected to be over the professor’s knee, showing him his underwear.

Professor Luckhurst sat patiently. He had longed for such a moment his entire career. A cute naughty student submissively bent across his knee, offering up his butt for punishment. Sweat poured from his body and the underarms of his shirt was drenched. His breathing was heavy and his blood pressure was reaching record levels.

“Come on Hernandez, it is what you wanted.” Professor Luckhurst watched quietly as with trembling hands the boy undid his cloth belt and popped the button at the top of his bottle-green cargo shorts. The weight of the shorts took them slithering down his thighs, past his knees to rest at his shins. The boy’s legs were covered in thick black hair, to the professor’s evident disappointment. In his fantasies, the students had always been hairless: virginal.

Clearly distressed, Hernandez waddled a few steps so that he stood to the right of the professor. No, he couldn’t do this. He had changed his mind. Never mind the plan; forget how this little episode would insure the boy a bright trouble-free future. At the final moment he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

“Doh!” Professor Luckhurst was not about to miss his opportunity of a lifetime. He reached out and took the boy’s right arm and gently pulled him forward, so that he tumbled face down across the professor’s knees.

Hernandez screwed his eyes tight. The contact of his own body against the professor’s repulsed him. This was not how it was meant to be. Now, he had two choices; he could fight his way to his feet and flee the office. It would be easy, he was much smaller than his punisher, but he was forty-five years his junior; he had the superior strength.

He could do that, or he could stick with the original plan; albeit modified. He could take the spanking, graduate the university and get on with his new life.

Professor Luckhurst looked down at Federico, now across his lap. He might be twenty-two, but with his short trim body he could have passed for fifteen. Tight yellow briefs clung to his buttocks, so firmly they separated each one, so that the cotton dug deep into his crack creating a ravine. The boy’s red and white shirt had already risen away from the target area, but the professor helped it on its way by carefully folding it up once and then twice until the whole of his back beneath the shoulder blades was exposed.

Intrigued, the professor gently brushed his hand across the hairs on the boy’s back, feeling a slight tickle against his palm, but he took care not to connect with the flesh.

Federico’s anger was rising. What was the professor up to? The fury turned to rage when the professor moved his hand lower to caress the smooth cotton briefs. This time he let his palm explore the boy’s tight flesh. Each buttock was small enough to fit into the palm of the professor’s hand. Gently and very slowly the cupped hand explored the contours of the buttocks. The underpants were so tight and so small they left the lower half of each cheek exposed. The professor stroked his hand in a circular motion across the bared flesh, rather like he was polishing a window.

Federico stared straight ahead, trying to control his disgust. His arms were stretched out ahead of him and his own palms were pressed into the heavy material of the carpet, scratching them slightly. The crucifix he wore on a chain around his neck had slipped and dangled in front of his eyes. Behind him, he kept his knees straight and his toes floated an inch or so off the ground. His buttocks, now receiving so much loving attention from the professor, rested high over the old man’s right thigh.

On and on the professor caressed Federico’s buttocks in a circular motion; he was pimping and preening them. Never before had he held such a beautiful boy close to his own flesh. He was adorable; too wonderful to hurt. The professor would be entirely satisfied simply to hold and stroke the boy all night long. Was it too late to renegotiate with the boy? Let there be no spanking, instead give me a blow-job. No, better still; let me take you up the ass.

But it was too late. Better to make the most of the moment. The professor raised his hand two or three inches away from Federico’s left cheek and tapped it down. Then he did the same to the right cheek. Then again and again.

Federico had never been spanked in his life. He was no expert, but he knew one thing about it: it was supposed to hurt. That surely was the whole point. The professor wasn’t spanking him, he was coming on to him. This wasn’t a punishment, this was foreplay: a prelude to full-on sex.

On and on, the professor tapped and smacked his way across the boy’s glorious trim buttocks. No part of the cheeks escaped his attention. Smack, smack. smack.

Federico was losing his breath, not from the pain of his spanking since there wasn’t any, but from his increasing disgust. The professor was using him for his own sexual gratification. That wasn’t the idea. The plan was to get a spanking. It was meant to be four or five swats on the shorts and then, “Thank you Sir” and goodbye.

z used drawing hand otk (7)

Right that’s it. He wriggled his body and tried to force himself off the professor’s lap. Enough already. He was out of here.

The movement might have woken Luckhurst out of a trance. It was as if he suddenly realised why he was there and what he was supposed to be doing.

“No you don’t buster,” he pushed the boy forward so that his nose could smell the dusty carpet. Then he grabbed Federico’s right arm and twisted it up his back. The boy was going nowhere until the professor said so.

Then, in one swift continuous action, he grabbed the waistband of Federico’s tight yellow briefs and tugged them over his buttocks and left them at his thighs. The student wriggled and writhed, rather like he was swimming out of water, but the professor was his master; he was pinned down powerless to resist.

The professor once again caressed the buttocks. Unlike the boy’s back and legs, they were completely hairless, even the crack and butt hole. Did the boy shave himself, the professor wondered. Or did he have a special friend who did it for him?

But this was no time for speculation. In a frenzy the professor rained down spank after spank across the student’s pert naked butt. Federico felt that alright. The professor’s hand was as large and hard as Federico’s ass cheeks were small and soft. Sweat poured from the professor’s chest as the ache in the palm of his hand increased from a tingle to real pain. He had never spanked anyone in his whole sixty-seven years and was startled at how the boy’s tanned skin turned a deeper shade of brown as his own hand connected again and again with the flesh. The outline of the professor’s open palm was embedded time and time again on the boy’s rear end.

Federico kicked and thrashed his legs about, but he could not disturb the professor. The old man had an uninterrupted access to the buttocks. He realized he rather enjoyed swiping his hand hard into Federico’s naked cheeks and watching the instant reaction of the boy as he exhaled breath and wriggled across the older man’s lap. Yes, there was a direct connection between cause and effect in this spanking motion.

Federico gasped and gaped as each smack came down harder than the one before. He shook his head so violently in his attempt to escape what had become a severe bare-butt hand spanking that his crucifix slipped over his ears and fell on the ground. He stared down at it as his ass got hotter and hotter.

The professor was an old man. He didn’t have the strength he had twenty or thirty years past. He was spent. In his younger days he might have been able to spank the cute boy across his lap all night long. But not now. Not these days. He was choking for breath and blood rushed through his arteries at jet speed. If he didn’t slow down, he might have a stroke. No, worse than that: a heart attack.

“So young man,” he wheezed. “Do you regret not working hard in my class?”

Federico was astounded. He had long ago forgotten the reason he was bent over, naked butt raised high, receiving the attention of the pervert professor.

“Well?” the professor slapped his hand down the hardest yet.

“Yes,” the student gasped. His own breathing was as difficult as that of the professor. “Oh, yes,” he whimpered.

“Do you ask forgiveness?”

The student was puzzled. What was he supposed to say?

Slap! “Beg for forgiveness.”

Beg?

Slap! “Say it. I beg you for forgiveness.”

That was it. When, I get up from here, I’m going to smash your fucking head in. The boy didn’t say it, of course, but the intent was real.

Slap! “Say it!”

The boy could not have been more humiliated. He had no choice. He had to remember that once he was released, his future was safe.

He wheezed, “I beg you to forgive me. Please forgive me.” Then for good measure, he added, “Sir.”

The professor stopped spanking. Federico lay across the old man, still staring at the crucifix. His head was spinning; he desperately needed to be standing on his own feet. So much blood had rushed to his brain; he feared he might pass out at any moment.

“Up.” It was a cold command. Despite his ordeal, Federico was still an athletic young man and he was off the man’s lap in seconds. Without waiting for permission, he pulled his underwear and shorts up. He was distressed that his hands would not obey him fully as he tried to button up and then buckle his belt. His ass was hot, but the agony was already dissipating into pain and would soon be only a throbbing.

The professor rose from his chair more slowly and turned to face the boy. He hoped Federico would not notice the bulge in front of his own pants. For several seconds the professor and the student stood facing one another in silence. Neither knew what to do next. Federico’s earlier rage had calmed. He would not beat up the professor. There was no cause to do that.

Eventually, the professor regained some of his own composure. “Nobody will hear about this, will they?”

“No,” Federico’s response was sullen.

“Promise.”

“I promise,” Federico assured him as he bent down to retrieve the fallen crucifix. Then without another word between the two men he walked to the door, unlocked it and left. With a wry smile cracking his lips he ran through the automatic doors toward the elevator.

….

Six months later Federico sat in the bar of a luxury hotel in the Caribbean, a beautiful woman by his side. In his hand he held a copy of the International New York Times. He smiled with satisfaction as for the third time today he read the story headlined: University settles $1.5 million lawsuit in student spanking case. A smaller headline ran: Professor’s career in ruins.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Toby’s Father Visits

z used drawing belt hold (1)

Toby got out of bed early; there was no need to as his father wasn’t due for another two hours, but he had found it impossible to sleep.

He hadn’t seen father since he arrived back at university more than two months ago, but now he was making a special trip to visit his son to “talk about” the mid-term results.

Toby was in the second semester of his first year and things were not going well. He had scraped through the exams last semester and was heading for failure in this.

Toby knew he had screwed up at uni. He had been distracted by his new life of independence and had spent too much time in clubs and bars, making new friends. He had completely neglected his studies and even stopped going to church. Of all the sins he had committed since coming to the university, this was the one he most definitely didn’t want his father to discover.

Independence was something so alien to Toby that he had embraced it like a caged bird set free. He had even moved out of the safety and security of the university halls of residence to share a house in a dilapidated part of town with three guys on his course. His father had not approved and had forbidden Toby to move, but the teenager defied him.

Toby set about making breakfast, but once he had poured the milk on his cornflakes, he realised he had no appetite. He looked at the clock, one-and-a-half hours to go. The house was quiet, his housemates were, he assumed, fast asleep; that is if they were in their beds at all. Yesterday was Friday and the boys had gone clubbing. Usually, Toby would have been with them, but the gloom he felt over his father’s impending visit was inescapable so he gave it a miss.

Perhaps the guys had gotten “lucky” and stayed the night with a girl. He hoped so; he didn’t want them around when father visited. It would be humiliating enough without having them as witnesses.

Toby looked around at the mess in the kitchen. The sink was piled high with unwashed pots and crockery. Father had told him he would end up living in squalor if he moved into the house. Like, in most things, Toby conceded to himself, his father was right. It had been a struggle since moving in: none of the boys were interested in keeping the house tidy.

Toby set about cleaning the kitchen and the front room. He even made a valiant attempt to scrape the grime off the hand basin and shower. He didn’t want to give his father the satisfaction of saying, “I told you so.” It also helped to kill the time before father arrived.

With fifteen minutes to go before the dreaded time, Toby heard a key in the lock of the front door and Josh entered. He was unshaven and looked like he might have slept in a hedge last night.

“Yo! Toby!” The greeting was so effusive Toby knew immediately that Josh had “scored” last night.

“Hi! Man!” Toby tried to sound delighted to see his friend, but inside he was deflated: he had hoped he would have the house to himself.

“I’m going for a shower, then I’m having a kip.” Good, thought Toby, at least he’ll be out of the way.

Minutes later his other two housemates arrived home. Oh Christ! It’s a full house. Ravenous, they set about making breakfast, undoing all Toby’s efforts at tidiness.

Then there was a knock at the door. It has his father.

Toby had been too embarrassed about the visit to tell his housemates that his father was coming. Only now he realised that if he had confided in them they would have made themselves scarce for the duration. He wouldn’t have told them everything, of course. That would be too humiliating; he would just say that “dad” was coming and they would get the point. He never called his father “dad” but it would sound better with the guys. They didn’t talk much about their parents, but Toby supposed none of the other guys had one quite like his own.

To say his father maintained standards would be to under-state the situation. There were rules for everything; when you got up in the morning, when you went to bed at night, when you did your homework, no watching of television (not even at friends’ houses), no “pop” music. His father lived by the Bible and made sure his entire family did as well.

Toby was very well acquainted that bit about “spare the rod.” His father believed in complete obedience and the penalty for straying was always a beating. When he was very young he would find himself across his father’s knee, shorts and pants down, getting his bare bottom soundly spanked. Father soon graduated from hand spanks to the bedroom slipper. Toby learned quickly to obey father at all times.

But, as he got older, Toby found it more difficult to stick to his father’s harsh regime. Secretly, he developed a love of modern music, but he dared not bring it into his father’s house. He would sneak to friends’ houses to listen to it at full volume. He was in ecstasy. He was amazed at his friends’ parents for allowing this to happen, although sometimes they would roll their eyes and laugh, “Call this music. It doesn’t even have a tune.”

If his father had discovered Toby’s illicit pleasure, he would have thrashed the living daylights out of him.

Toby had only managed to pass his school exams and make it to university because father ordered him to do his homework each night. It had to be completed by 9pm and father would inspect to see that it was. He would also check Toby’s grades and there were beatings when they fell.

He opened the door and let his father into the house. Even before Toby could say “Hello” his father rebuked him about the house. “I told you not to move here. This place is a dump, the district is full of drug addicts and prostitutes. It is Sodom and Gomorrah!”

He made no attempt to be conciliatory with his, now adult, son. All he cared was that his own flesh and blood had disobeyed him and he wanted vengeance.

Quaking, Toby led his father into the front room. It was next to the kitchen and he knew his two friends would hear them.

For five minutes his father harangued him for his failings; the poor grades; the lifestyle; for letting his family and God down.

In truth, Toby knew this already. He was ashamed that he had let himself down since arriving at university. He knew that he had been weak-willed and spent too much time in self-indulgent pleasure-seeking when he should have been studying hard. Yes, he had disappointed his mother and father.

But, at the same time, he was also discovering himself, trying to work out who he was and what sort of person he could become. It was called growing up and he could not become an adult without making mistakes.

He knew also that father believed it was his duty to God to correct him.

His father had finished haranguing him and there was silence. Toby had hardly said a word: he knew his father did not want him to defend his actions; his part in this little drama was to accept unconditionally the word of his father.

Toby could hear the excited voices of his housemates in the kitchen; they seemed to be in exceptionally jolly moods.

“Can we please do this upstairs, father?” there was pleading in Toby’s voice. His father had also heard the voices and immediately understood his son’s predicament. He ignored the plea, said nothing, and slowly unbuckled his belt.

He looked around the small room, searching for a suitable spot. “Stand by that table.” By now he had withdrawn his thick, wide, leather belt and doubled it over.

“Take down your jeans and underwear and bend over the table.”

His father said a silent prayer as he watched the teenager disrobe and bend forward placing his elbows on the Formica-topped table.

“Right over! Flat on your stomach.” Toby shifted his position. “Now, take hold of the table legs.”

Toby obeyed.

His father took two previously prepared pieces of twine from his pocket and tied the boy’s hands to the table. Now, Toby was at his father’s mercy, but no clemency would be shown today.

“Legs further apart!” Toby wriggled a little until his father was satisfied.

Toby lay still, unable to prevent his father’s preparations. The man adjusted the boy’s shirt and pullover, rolling them up until he was naked from the shoulder blades to his ankles.

Satisfied, he raised the belt high and lashed it down with considerable force into Toby’s backside, immediately creating a sunset stripe across both cheeks.

Toby had a high tolerance of pain and remained motionless.

SNAP! Another lash fell, echoing around the small room. In the kitchen the two boys stopped laughing and stared at each other in puzzlement.

WHACK! Toby willed himself not to kick out. He stayed bent over, holding his bottom in place so that his father could lash his buttocks over and over.

WHOOSH! And his father did so, swinging the belt down hard across the top of the boy’s thighs. Involuntarily, Toby’s legs stomped the ground as the agony shot down his legs, but it didn’t relieve the pain and belt didn’t stop; it continued to strike his teenage bottom.

Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! His father was thrashing his son like never before.

Toby felt the force of the blows sending waves of pain flowing through his bottom, both cheeks shaking with the impact. His resolve to take the belt whipping stoically failed and he yelled.

Next door, Tom and Matt, startled, looked at each other. Without speaking they agreed they should not intervene.

In the front room his father was frenzied as the belt rose and fell, rose and fell and rose again. Toby was in pure agony as lash after lash bit deep into his fleshy globes. His knuckles had long ago turned white as he gripped the table legs for dear life.

Toby’s pain was more than anything he’d ever felt before: none of the past whippings compared. He wanted to push himself away from the table, turn around and grab his father’s arm and stop the pain, but the ties on his hands prevented this. Despite the intense agony that was pulsating through his body, he knew he had no option but to take whatever his father dished out.

Toby’s buttocks and thighs were a mass of welts, the belt had whipped into him so many times it was impossible to tell where one lash started and another finished. The boy was howling with the agony, but his father did not care, he whipped on and on: he was doing God’s work.

Toby was scarcely conscious; the throbbing in his buttocks had travelled down his legs, up his back and through his whole body. His sobbing choked him and he could hardly breathe; his heart was racing and any moment he feared it might give out.

His father raised and lowered the belt for a further onslaught on the boy’s buttocks when the door burst open and Tom and Matt rushed in. Tom made a grab for the belt and was rewarded with a slash across his face. He recoiled doubled over in pain. Toby’s father slashed the belt down across Tom’s back just as Matt, sizing up the situation, delivered a hard kick in between the man’s legs. Now, it was his turn to double up in agony.

At that moment Josh entered the room eager to see what all the commotion was. Horrified, he saw his dear friend Toby, tied across the table, half naked, with his flesh ripped to shreds.

Josh untied Toby and helped him rise from the table. Unable to stand, Toby fell into his arms.

Toby’s father was now cowering on the ground, trying to protect himself as Matt and Tom rained kicks all over his body. Distracted by Josh’s arrival, they stopped their assault allowing Toby’s father to run from the house.

The three friends helped Toby over to the couch and lay him face down. Matt winced at the sight before him. It looked like Toby had been assaulted all over his buttocks and thighs with a meat tenderiser.

Unbidden, Tom went to fetch a bowl of cold water and a flannel, then gently, affectionately, bathed the wounds.

Matt went to his room and found a tube of antiseptic cream, Un-self-consciously, he squeezed out a globule onto his fingers and massaged it gently into his friend’s throbbing arse.

Toby’s father sat in his car, his ribs ached terribly. He thought one might be broken. He realised he had left his belt at the house, but there was no way he was going to go back for it.

After a while, he felt well enough to drive away, not realising this would be the last time he would ever see Toby again.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Boy at the Service Station

new story 2

z used short shorts hustler outdoors

My heart skipped a beat, my jaw dropped, my tongue hung out. And, yes I got more than a tingle below. It was forty years ago that I saw the boy at the motorway service station and not a day has gone by since that I haven’t thought of him.

I sat at a picnic table in the sunshine munching a Wimpy and idly watching the world go by. Road service stations are not the most interesting places to be so my mind was somewhere else. Maybe I was thinking of the miserable time I was having criss-crossing the towns of southern England trying to sell industrial packaging to companies. Well, where do you think all those cardboard boxes come from?

I saw him moving from lorries to vans to ordinary cars. It was his arse I noticed first. He wore tight-fitting brown cotton shorts. These were the days when shorts really were shorts; they barely covered the underwear. They clung to his tight pert cheeks. I gasped.  Some bums cry out to be spanked. This one should have had the words “Spank this” written across it.

His brown hairless suntanned legs started at the feet and went all the way up. He leaned into the driver’s window of a van, I had the perfect sideway view. What I would give to grab him and hurl him across my knee! Thank you God for this gift to all Mankind! He moved away from the van onto the next vehicle, a mini car. He arched his back and leaned forward, he was close enough I could almost reach out and touch him. With his head low and his knees straight, his bum jutted out at the perfect angle. I imagined him across the back of the easy chair in the room I rented. I would be popping a paddle into his solid muscle; or maybe swishing a school cane (we still had them in those days) across his upturned rear.

His dark blue t-shirt had ridden up his back exposing bare, tanned flesh. I wanted to grip the elasticated waistband of those shorts and gently tug them down over his pert buttocks until they snagged at his knees. I leaned forward to get a closer look; I couldn’t detect the outline of underpants. My dick saluted.

I took him to be a hustler; a rent boy looking for a trick. You got lots of them at service stations (you still do) of both sexes and all persuasions. I cursed that I was skint. I was always broke in those days. I would have gladly whisked him over to the small motel at the far end of the parking lot. Obviously rebuffed by the mini car driver, he stood up; our eyes met, he had caught me red-handed ogling him. Red-faced would be a better description. I was the colour of cherry and the heat from my face would warm a small room. He flashed a smile. My mouth dried. He sashayed toward me, I took a deep gulp on my can of Tizer. He sat down on the opposite side of the picnic table. His grin was so wide I saw all his teeth; they were perfectly straight except for one on the right side (as I looked at his open, friendly face) that was buckled. I gazed at him, smitten. The summer sun had been kind to his skin, his tan was deep. Unlike so many people his age, myself included, he did not suffer the ravages of acne.

He spoke and my heart stopped. His was not the voice of a rent boy. Was it George Orwell who said it’s impossible for an Englishman to open his mouth without making some other Englishman hate him? I’ll look it up on Google later. The boy was not of the industrial working class. His father more likely owned the mine rather than hewed the coal. He told me his story. He was trying to get a ride back to lodgings in Brocklehurst where he was a student. He had been away at a music festival. I was not much older than him. I had graduated from university the previous year with a degree in geography and was working as a sales rep. until I found something better. I took the job because it came with a car and paid the rent, although the wages were lousy.

As he told his story my eyes moved from his perfect face (had he started shaving yet?), to his swanlike neck to his chest. His shirt hugged his muscular body so snugly his nipples showed through the cotton. My hard-on responded appropriately. My God I wanted that boy. There and then I would have grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and hauled him face down across the wooden table and pounded his backside with the palm of my hand. The leather belt that held up my trousers was wide and thick; it could make a lovely lattice pattern on his creamy-white bum.

Brocklehurst was a small nondescript town about twenty miles distance from the service station; it was nowhere in my direction. “I’ll take you there,” I heard myself saying; not for the first time in my life I let my dick do my thinking. A few minutes later we were in my Marina heading south. He said his name was David. A name too ordinary for a God. Virgil have been better. We chatted amiably, like we were old friends. We talked about university; he was reading business management (no problems finding a job with that). We had similar tastes in music and films. He read books (not all that usual with business types).

Evening was turning to night and the roads were clear and soon we were in the suburbs of Brocklehurst. He directed me to a wide tree-lined street with large expensive houses. “Number thirty-three,” he pointed to a detached mansion on the left. It confirmed my first impression that he wasn’t a son of the soil. “It’s not mine, I only lodge here,” he giggled. It tore my heart out.

I pulled into the driveway, there was room to park at least a dozen cars but it was empty. I could see the house was in darkness. We sat side by side, he not wanting to get out, me not willing to drive away. My cock had calmed a little, but it still controlled my reasoning. I could not get the image of his beautiful bum encased in tight cotton shorts from my mind. I switched on the interior light in the car, he turned to face me.

“My landlord is out, do you want to come in. For coffee,” his hazel eyes were shining, “or something …” he giggled like a little girl. He didn’t wait for my answer, he opened the car door, grabbed his bag from the back seat and headed to the house. I watched his buttocks like two peaches slide up and down as he glided into the distance. I hurried after him ever the obedient puppy. It was a huge house, the furniture in the hallway was not the kind you assembled yourself at home. I didn’t see much else; he took me into a living room. It had a large Chesterfield-type couch, two sumptuous armchairs and a couple of coffee tables. In one corner was a bar and behind it an array of bottles hung on the wall. A rack held a dozen or so bottles of wine. It was like a small pub. He leaned over the bar offering me another chance to admire his pert arse and pulled open the door of a small refrigerator. He pulled out two cans of Colt 45. “Drink.” It was a statement, not a question.

We sat together on the Chesterfield. It was wide enough to accommodate at least four people, but we contrived to be knee-to-knee. He flashed me a grin and giggled. He popped the ring-pull of the beer can and foam rushed over the top and spilled onto the couch. “Shit!” he groaned and leapt to his feet. Within seconds he was back from the bar with a cloth. He leaned across me to dab away at the small pool of beer. I could smell his body; it wasn’t a strong odour, just the aroma of an older teenager who had been at a music festival for the weekend.

Satisfied that the spill was cleaned, he tossed the cloth across the room; it fell someway short of the bar. I stared at it; I needed a distraction. Otherwise I would have to look at David; an impossible task. I was beyond merely admiring his body. I wanted it. David broke the silence. “I think that’s all cleared up,” he said, just for something to say.

“Yes,” I blurted, I didn’t know what I was saying, “Your landlord wouldn’t want this nice leather settee stained.” I looked towards David for a reaction, he grinned. That encouraged me in my idiocy. “Does he know you drink his beer when he’s not here?” David shrugged his shoulders, I saw a glint in those delightful eyes. “If I was him and I found out, I’d have to spank you.” I suppose my face coloured, redder than the expensive claret over on the wine rack. David flung his head back and let out a shrieking laugh; the noise rang around the room. “You could try!”

I remember the following moment as if it had lasted an hour. Would I, wouldn’t I? Should I, shouldn’t I? Yes, I would. David was standing in front of me, it was the easiest manoeuvre in the world for me to take hold of his left wrist and pull him forwards and downwards so that he was spread-eagled over my knee and across the couch. I raised my hand and smacked it into his left buttock. Then I did the same to the right.

“I was joking! I was joking!” he giggled, as he wriggled from left to right across my knee. I held him across his back with my left hand while I set up a steady rhythm with my right. They were love taps, I wasn’t doing him any harm. The palm of my hand fitted one of David’s buttocks perfectly; you could say like a glove. It was a combination of my largish hand and his smallish firm, pert bottom. He kicked his legs about, like he was swimming, calling out all the time, “I didn’t mean it, ouch! Ouch! Ouch!” He didn’t mean it alright! He was strong enough to escape free, but he had no intention of doing so.

His shorts were thin cotton and it was clear at this close distance that he wore no underpants. I spanked on and on before stopping to pat and preen his bottom. I wished I had a hairbrush to hand to bounce off his rock-hard bum, I would’ve loved to drum out a tune. David’s body was hard, his waist slim, his bum perfect and his long, hairless legs divine. I took hold of the waistband of his shorts and hesitated. I suppose I was seeking his permission for my next move. We didn’t speak (we hadn’t said a word since he stopped play-acting ouches) but when my intention became clear, David lifted his stomach off my knee to make it easier for me to tug the shorts over his buttock cheeks. I obliged and left them bunched at his shins.

David had clearly enjoyed his summer, he was tanned all over, except for his tiny bum. This was now turning pink. I spread my fingers wide and spanked him hard. No more love taps, this was the real thing! Well, as “real” as a hand spanking can be on a nineteen-year-old; even bare-arsed it is unlikely to make much impact. Nonetheless, I was delighted to see the imprint of my hand embossed on David’s buttocks as I whacked him over and over again on the same spots. Soon, I had covered the whole target. His skin was dark pink from the base of his spine, over the foothills of his buttocks and into the underside of his cheeks. Not one square inch of his bum was left unmarked.

Not wishing to stop quite yet, I turned my attention to the back of his thighs. He wriggled some more, genuinely (I think) hurt now. The thighs can be especially sensitive to spanking.

We were so engrossed that neither of us heard the car pull up in the drive or the front door open. The first we knew of the return of David’s landlord was when he bellowed from the hallway. He bounded into the room demanding to know “What the hell is going on!” He cut an imposing figure, easily fifty years old, and six feet and more tall. He had wild black hair and a bushy unkempt beard. He had once been a strong man, but his two chins and the cushion of fat around his stomach suggested those days were in the past.

David broke free from my grasp, got to his feet and was pulling up his shorts as he dashed by his landlord and bounded up the stairs to his bedroom. His erection was most impressive. I stumbled to my feet, conscious of the landlord’s wide-eyed glare. He moved further into the room, making towards me. I lowered my head and using it and my shoulders as a battering ram, I pushed him aside. Moments later I drove at speed through the gates and headed to the motorway. The tentpole in my pants made driving uncomfortable, I detoured to find a quiet, dark street and dealt with my predicament in the traditional manner.

That happened forty years ago and no day has gone by since that I haven’t thought of David. He is upstairs now as I write this changing out of his business suit and into his shorts. His hair is a little thinner and his waist a little thicker but to me he is still that gorgeous young man at the service station and I treasure the life we have shared for four decades.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Senior Tutor

z used jeans man taking down (1)

Nineteen-year-old Liam Thomas stood, hands clasped behind his back, feet shuffling slightly, in front of the desk.

Behind it sat the Senior Tutor, a stern man, imperious, dressed in a black academic gown.

The Senior Tutor, Professor Adams, was doing his best to ignore the student before him. The professor liked to let the boys stew. Leave them to wonder what might happen to them. What punishment they might expect.

The Senior Tutor had seen it all before, but this was a new experience for Liam. This was his first time in Prof Adams’ study. Liam had time to take in the splendour of the room. This was an ancient university, one of the best in the country, no the world. It had high expectations of its students and had centuries of tradition to uphold.

Liam was like a fish out of water at the university. Whereas most of his fellow students had parents in the professional classes and had attended expensive fee-paying schools, Liam’s father was a factory worker and his mother worked in a beauty parlour. He came from a very working class, poor area of South Wales.

“Well, Thomas.” The Senior Tutor had deigned to recognise Liam’s presence at last. “What is this all about?”

It was “all about” Liam being thrown off the philosophy course. He had been at the university for more than a year now. At first he worked hard, just as he had done to get into the university in the first place. But, things had gone downhill lately. Girls and beer were to blame mostly. So, Liam skipped a few tutorials, handed assignments in late and maybe worst of all, the last essay he had delivered was clearly plagiarised.

So, Dr Abramovich had thrown him off the course with the parting words, “Go see the Senior Tutor to discuss your options.”

Soon, Liam would discover that really he had no other option but to submit himself to Prof Adams, the Senior Tutor.

Prof Adams heard Liam’s story in silence. Liam was honest with the Senior Tutor. He admitted he had not worked at all this term and had let down himself and Dr Abramovich.

Prof Adams visibly mellowed as he heard this frank confession. It was always easier to deal with a boy who admitted he was at fault.

“And what should happen now?” the professor asked.

Liam stayed silent, shuffling his feet again, staring at the carpet. He wasn’t sure if this was a rhetorical question that he wasn’t really expected to answer. In any case, if it wasn’t rhetorical, he had no answer to give.

“Well boy?”

Liam mumbled something about being given another chance. He would work harder and so on. Even Liam wasn’t convinced by his answer.

“Not good enough, Thomas.” The professor was not going to let him off so lightly.

“Really, you should be sent down for the rest of the term and after your suspension is over we might discuss your future again.”

This was the last thing Liam wanted. His parents had scrimped and saved to help him to get to university. Whereas most kids in his valley left school at sixteen and went to work to bring money into the house, his own parents had worked overtime to pay for him to stay on to do A-levels and go to university. It would break their hearts if he were sent down.

“There might be an alternative, however,” the professor was speaking again.

Liam’s face brightened, encouraging the Senior Tutor to continue.

“You have worked hard to be at this university Thomas and I would not wish to see all that work wasted. But, you need to be punished and the punishment must be exemplary.”

Liam blushed, his face bright red, what was coming next?

“You need a short, sharp shock. Something to pull you up sharp. Something to help you to mend you ways.”

Liam’s heart was racing now.

“I could administer a sound thrashing.”

Liam’s jaw visibly dropped.

“You will take twelve strokes of the cane on your underpants, bent over that sofa,” he nodded to a leather couch that was just behind Liam.

Suspension or a beating: those were the options. Liam had never been caned in his life. Not even spanked. He couldn’t even remember being slapped as a very small child. What the hell would a “sound thrashing” with a cane on his pants be like?

But suspension from the university was out of the question. He really had no option.

“Well, what’s it to be Thomas?”

All the saliva had drained from Liam’s mouth and he could barely get the words out, “The caning please.”

“The caning please, SIR,” the professor snapped back.

“The caning please, Sir.”

The Senior Tutor rose from his chair and went to a second desk where he opened a long drawer. Liam couldn’t see exactly what the professor was doing, but he heard a rustle of canes as the professor chose the rod he would use to whip him.

The professor extracted a rattan with a curved handle. He swished it in the air two or three times to get its measure. Satisfied that it was the perfect implement to thrash Liam, the professor closed the drawer.

Liam was transfixed. Not only had he never been caned, he had never even seen a cane before. This was an impressive instrument, dark yellow in colour and maybe three feet in length. The Senior Tutor swished it once again, deliberately trying to intimidate Liam.

“Stand by the sofa.” It was a simple command made with authority.

Liam must have been in a trance. Later, when he tried to recall his encounter with the professor, there were large parts that he simply could not remember.

Professor Adams watched in silence as Liam walked to the couch and stood four feet from it.

“Closer boy.” Of course, Liam realised, he couldn’t stretch across the back of the couch from this distance. He shuffled forward a little.

The professor held the cane in his right hand, ready to do his duty. “Take down your trousers.”

Blood was rushing through his veins and his temples were throbbing, but Liam obeyed. He fumbled with the buckle of his wide leather belt and snapped open the clasp. Then he undid the button at the waist. The weight of the belt helped his corduroy trousers slip down revealing his bright red underpants. Liam undid the zip fly and the trousers fell to his knees.

“Bend over,” the professor touched the back of the couch with his cane.

Liam hesitated. Was he really going to let this man thrash him with a cane?

“Quickly!” The professor snapped the cane against the couch again.

Liam took a deep breath and lowered himself across the couch. It was the perfect size for a teenager to bend over. Liam stretched his arms in front of him, grasping the front edge of the couch tightly.

“Legs further apart boy.” Liam did as he was told.

Prof Adams stood cane in hand, observing the scene. He did not enjoy beating boys, he told himself.

He watched as Liam, breathing heavily, clenched his buttocks together in anticipation of the first lash.

The Senior Tutor believed it was his duty to deliver sound thrashings to his wayward students. It was for their benefit. A short, sharp shock would bring them to their senses. The alternative was to ruin their studies, their future careers and ultimately, perhaps, their entire lives.

Better by far to deal with the problem this way.

Prof Adams stood to Liam’s left, extended his cane and tap, tap, tapped it against the student’s right buttock. Then with a swift movement he swung the cane back, beyond shoulder height and lashed it into his underpants.

Liam shrieked as the cut hit home. It was involuntary; he hadn’t meant to do it. His body writhed in pain and he jumped up hopping from foot to foot, rubbing his backside vigorously.

“Get back over!” there was real anger in the professor’s voice. “If you stand up again, we shall start the punishment all over again. This time on your bare backside.”

Reluctantly, slowly, painfully, Liam positioned himself once again over the back of the couch.

Slash!!! The second cut bit deep into Liam. A white line appeared across the student’s tight red underpants and the professor knew that beneath the cotton a deep welt had formed.

Thwack!! Thwack!! Thwack!! Three cuts fell one after the other with no time for respite. Liam yelled each time the cane hit home. Tears were flowing down his cheeks. He did not know how to cope with this thrashing.

His knuckles were white as he clutched the couch for dear life.

Prof Adams saw Liam’s pain, but he felt no reason to let up. He had a duty to perform and he was going to do it. He had beaten many students over the years and he knew that once thrashed very few ever came back for more. This punishment, however harsh and unusual some people might see it, actually worked. He had the evidence.

He lashed down cut number six. Liam’s howling did not let up. It was so intense it could probably be heard all over town, if the professor hadn’t had the foresight many years ago to have his study sound-proofed.

The Senior Tutor paused as he reached half way in the punishment. He stepped forward and gently pulled at the elastic waistband of Liam’s underpants. For a split second the boy thought the professor was going to pull them down and deliver the final six on the bare. That wasn’t fair; he had kept his part of the bargain and had kept down across the back of the couch.

But, the professor was only inspecting the damage. He could see six thick, deep welts in Liam’s buttocks. His aim had been perfect, even though the boy had been writhing most of the time. Blood was beginning to seep from the wounds.

The professor snapped back the elastic and ran his hand across both buttocks, smoothing the cotton so it became a second skin. Liam winced in pain as the man’s hand connected with his wounds.

Stepping back, the professor raised the cane and continued with the thrashing. Blows seven, eight and nine fell in quick succession. Poor Liam gagged as tears and snot cascaded down his chin. His whole body was wracked in pain.

Whack! Whack! Whack! Then it was over. The professor quietly laid his cane on his desk. Liam was sobbing uncontrollably into the cushion of the couch, his whole body heaving as he gasped for air.

“Stand up Thomas.” It was a quiet instruction, devoid of anger. It was over. The boy had submitted to his punishment. Not well, but he had taken it.

Liam raised himself from the couch unsteadily. He almost fell as he tried to stand in front of the professor.

“Get dressed.”

Liam was distraught. He couldn’t stop the sobs. His backside was raw. The red pants camouflaged the blood that was oozing from his wounds. His backside throbbed with a pain the like he had never experienced. Liam tried to rub at his bottom, but realised that the merest touch increased the pain, it didn’t relieve it.

He bent down to retrieve his trousers from his ankles. Even that small effort stretched the skin across his buttocks and sent another shock wave of pain through him. With some difficulty Liam zipped and buckled himself up.

The professor went to his desk drawer and retrieved a box of paper handkerchiefs. He offered the box to the boy. Liam grabbed a handful of tissues and wiped away the mucus from his face. He was beginning to regain some measure of control.

“When you have composed yourself, please go to Dr Abramovich and with my compliments tell her you have received a thrashing and ask her if she will kindly consider reinstating you on her philosophy course.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Liam replied and turned to leave, his university career saved.

Picture credit: Endart

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Letter of Gratitude

new story 2

z used caption graduate

Dear Uncle Algernon

Today I leave to travel to Newcastle to start my new job and new career. I will be living 200 miles away from you and I know our lives will never quite be the same again. How can I express my gratitude for all you have done for me and the love you show me?

I am shamed when I look back at how much I resented it when you took me in to your home and gave me a roof over my head when I was eighteen. I now shudder when I think how different things might have been. I would probably today be sleeping in a shop doorway or at best I’d be in some homeless men’s hostel maybe with a job sweeping floors somewhere. Now the world is my oyster. I owe it all to you.

When you persuaded me (Ha! Ha! Persuaded, let’s be honest forced me kicking and screaming) to take up that college course I resented the hell out of you. Going back to school at nineteen. I didn’t know then how much you wanted the best for me and you were prepared to make sacrifices. You were the first – and probably still the only – person ever to do such a thing. I didn’t know at the time just how much you loved me. You said you would do what it takes to get me on track: on the straight and narrow.

I didn’t believe you. I do now. I remember the first time you took your belt to me and leathered my backside. Do you remember the fight? You grabbing me by the scruff of the neck, forcing me face down over the back of the sofa and setting my rear end on fire. Nobody but you would ever have done such a thing. Such a kindness. My own parents all but abandoned me. Was it any surprise I dropped out of school and wandered through life aimlessly. I know it’s a cliché but you were my guiding light in a storm.

I spent much on the next few months appreciating the pattern on the carpet in your lounge. Me across your knee; you pounding a paddle across the seat of my underpants. Ha! Ha! I can laugh about it now; but then, not so. It took a while for me to appreciate you had my best interest at heart. That ‘contract of objectives’ we drew up was a masterstroke. I set my goals in life, we worked out how to measure my achievements and if (indeed often it was when) I fell short you were there to catch me; with that goddamn  paddle, or that heavy leather taws. Where did you get that?

I owe it to you and your efforts and yes your love that I passed my examinations and won a place at the university. Me, at university! No one in our family – not even you dear uncle – had ever achieved such a distinction.

We thought I was ready for the challenge. We thought I was mature enough to set sail on my own, so I signed up at a university away from home. From your home, from the place that I call home and with your permission would like to think of my home always. I was now absent from your day-to-day influence but I carried in my heart the lessons you had taught me.

Uncle, you know what happened next. I was nearly twenty-one years old, but I regressed to being sixteen again. My studies started well, but the cheap beer in the student guild bar and the women – oh there were so many women available. How was I to know I was such a handsome chap (Ha! Ha!). Uncle, the women came to me. Of course, the inevitable happened. By the second semester I was in danger of failing my courses. Disaster. But once more you rode to my rescue.

Who but my loving Uncle would take the time and the effort to take me in hand. You explained that women were all right in their place. A young man has needs. But there has to be a balance in life. We drew up one of those contracts. Time for study, time for women. Once the assignments were written, I could allow myself a treat.

Your insistence on what you called “reinforcement” was a master stroke (or strokes, Ha! Ha!). I appreciate greatly your sensitivity. You knew I lived in the student halls of residence where the walls of the rooms were paper thin. I needed to be “dealt with” but this was a relationship best kept between us two. The rest of the student population need not know of our arrangement. The Motel With a View, on the A-287 trunk road was perfectly discreet. It was the first (but by no means the last) time I felt that intense sting that can be delivered only by a stout but whippy rattan cane used in such a determined manner. I remember you piled three pillows on the bed. I removed my shoes, socks, trousers and underwear to lie face down on the bed. I chewed the fourth pillow. My what strength you have. I have never been forced to sit on an electric fire but if I were ever made to do so it could not possible hurt less than one of your canings. That time it was twelve stripes. Ouch! Each searing into my flesh. As you know (you’ve seen it at close quarters often enough, Ha! Ha!) my bottom is really quite small. There is no meat back there to speak of so your lashes sank deep and left behind terrific welts. My bum felt like corrugated cardboard at the end. Oh how I needed that pillow.

Yes, Uncle I owe everything to you. Without you I should never have graduated university. And, now look at me, a young professional man with a future ahead of me. I don’t know however I shall be able to repay you. Thank you, thank you, thank you! But dear Uncle I have a request. Please don’t abandon me now. Newcastle is so far away and the temptations in my new life will be so great. You have taught me well, but I fear for the future, please reassure me that you will be there for me, ready to whip me in to shape when the occasion demands.

Affectionately Yours,

Gideon.

Picture credit: Laurence Fellows

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com