Caught in the act

new story 3

ADVISORY: This  tale is a little darker than the ones I usually tell – Charles

z used bed twosome (14a)

Mitch’s head pounded and his throat hurt but at least the room had stopped spinning. Who was the beautiful naked boy in bed beside him? He had a name. Tim? Jim? He couldn’t remember. He was sure it was something basic. The sun blazed through the window so it must be late. How was he going to get rid of this stranger?

Tim / Jim rolled on his back and gurgled. Mitch could hear his own stomach heaving. What had he taken last night. Suddenly the beautiful boy’s eyes opened. Mitch lay and stared. He really was a dish. Tim / Jim froze. Mitch smiled. He didn’t know Mitch’s name either.

“Mitch,” he introduced himself.

“Tom,” the no-longer stranger replied. Mitch nodded as if this was information he already had.

They lay in pleasant silence. Maybe, Mitch thought, there’s no need to kick Tom out of bed quite yet. He reached over and allowed Tom to roll into his arm. Two cocks crowed.

Time passed lazily. Mitch came too with a start, a car was pulling onto the drive. Shit. He sat bolt upright. “What’s up?” Tom drawled.

“Quick get up. Get dressed hurry,” Mitch panicked.

Tom grinned. “I can’t. My clothes are in the kitchen. Where you ripped them off me.”

Mitch groaned, “No really. You must go. Now. Before he finds you.”

They both heard the front door open and close. “It’s my uncle,” Mitch breathed.

“Uncle?” Tom asked.

“He’s not supposed to back until tomorrow. This is his house. The bastard’s tricked me. He’s come to check up on me.”

“Uncle?” Tom was puzzled.

“Not real uncle,” Mitch gushed, “Not flesh and blood,” he shrugged his shoulders, “You know, Uncle.”

Tom laughed a full fruity roar, “Oh Uncle. Like the guy who pays the rent, buys you clothes. Feeds you. Keeps you.”

Mitch flushed, annoyed, “I would put it quite like that. We have a very loving relationship.”

Tom sniped, “Yeah, of course. He loves you and you love his money.”

Just then a cry carried up the stairs, “Mitch, are you up there!”

Mitch pushed Tom from the bed, “You really have got to go.”

“I’ve got no clothes.”

The bedroom door flew open, “Mitch, you …” Uncle stood in the threshold stunned. “Who the fuck are you? What’s going on here? Mitch?” Tom hopped from foot to foot completely naked. Uncle roared at him, “Get the fuck out of my house!” Tom dodged through the door and hightailed it down the stairs.

“I’ll deal with you later,” Uncle turned and followed the naked boy through the house. Mitch closed his eyes tight and fell back against the pillow. Was he in for it now!

For the next minutes he listened to the angry raised voices from below. Then the front door opened and slammed shut. That would be the last he ever saw of Tom. “Mitch!” Uncle was climbing the stairs, Mitch gripped the duvet and pulled it over his head.

There was no escape. Uncle towered over him. He was tall and at forty-six he was still fit, and though he carried a little extra weight it was well-distributed. He wore straight-leg corduroy pants, lace-up shoes and a cardigan sweater with a plaid shirt. His big expressive flint-grey eyes showed his fury and at that moment his usually smooth, pale skin was turning ever redder.

“Some whore you picked up last night!” he screeched. “I’m gone two days and you’re picking up whores.”

Mitch knew better than to argue, but he couldn’t resist, “He’s not a whore. We met in the Three Fishers.”

Uncle’s face purpled, “The Three Fishers, only whores go there.”

Mitch’s mouth opened but he could find no words.

“And in my house!” Uncle’s voice rose a pitch. “In my bed!”

“Sorry,” Mitch mumbled. It was an entirely inadequate response but it was all he could think to say. It was like pouring petrol on a flame.

“Sorry!” Uncle screamed. “Sorry! Yes, you will be you little bastard. I’ll make you sorry. You wait and see.” He stormed from the room.

“Shit,” Mitch said aloud, even though he was now quite alone. He covered his head with the pillow.

Minutes later Uncle was back. Mitch stared in astonishment. His mouth gaped, his heart beat fast, gripped with fear. “No common Uncle. I’m sorry I won’t do it again. Please …”

Uncle sneered, “Too right you won’t do it again. Not after I’ve finished with you. You git.”

“But, please ….”

“I’m going to give you the hiding of your life. I’ll teach you.” He threw a heavy two-tailed leather strap and a heavy wooden paddle on the bed. “Stand up. Get that duvet off the bed. Pillows too. I want everything clear.”

Fear rooted Mitch to the bed. “Now!” Uncle barked as he grabbed the twenty-two-year-old by the wrist and began hauling him to his feet. “I’ll take the skin of your backside.”

“No please, Uncle, please ..” Mitch whimpered.

“I’m not kidding this time. Not a playful smack on the bare bum with my slipper. Or my hairbrush over your pyjama bottoms. No nawty-likkle boy needs his botty-wotty spanked. This is for real.” He stormed from the room leaving Mitch sweating profusely.

When Uncle returned Mitch nearly fell to the floor in a faint. He carried four lengths of strong rope. “On the bed, face down,” he snapped. Mitch eyed the door, could he make a dash for it? Then what. He was stark naked, where would he run? There was no place to hide. Uncle had no temper left. “I said, face down,” he grabbed a hunk of Mitch’s gelled hair and pulled, making him yell with pain and terror. He threw him onto the mattress and climbed on his back. Mitch was pinned, breathless.

From there Uncle easily took one hand and tied the wrist to the corner of the bed. Then the other. Then the feet. He had been a Boy Scout long ago; he knew his knots. Mitch was helpless. “Please, no uncle,” he blubbed.

z used bed by Paul Michael Davies restrained (1)

“You cheating, ungrateful bastard,” Uncle spoke rapidly. “Of all the things I’ve done for you. Given you.” His heart thumped and his hands shook, “I got you a job. I put a roof over your head. If it wasn’t for me you’d still be sleeping in a shop doorway. You bastard!”

He stood away from the bed to admire his handiwork. Mitch was totally naked, spread-eagled. His bouncy buttocks quivered. “I could fuck you senseless, you know that?” he scowled. “But you’d love it, wouldn’t you,” he raged. “No I’m not going to fuck your arse, I’m going to whip it. Flail the skin off it. Until there’s nothing left but raw meat. What do you think about that then?”

Mitch sobbed into the mattress, “Please, no Uncle. I’m sorry.”

Uncle fingered the leather strap. It was a specially-made two tailed taws. The business end was about thirty-five centimetres long and maybe fifty millimetres thick. He took hold of its handle and swished the strap through the air, grinning manically as he watched it fly. “Perfect,” he taunted. “Just perfect.”

Mitch wriggled and writhed. He could move his hips and buckle his knees but the ropes were tied tight. He was going nowhere. His arse would always be in Uncle’s firing line. “Right, let’s get started,” Uncle wheezed, already he was breathless. He measured the weight of the taws in his hand, then lay it across the highest peak of Mitch’s mounds. He rubbed gently, delighted with the effect it had on Mitch who tensed his back and buttock muscles. Uncle smiled as he raised the taws high. He let it hover in the air for a moment before flexing his arm muscles to bring the strap crashing down.

Mitch yelped, his body buckled, his arms pulled on the tight ropes. A dark pink strip glistened across his arse. Uncle’s nodding head signalled his satisfaction, he raised the strap once more, let it hover and brought it down just below the first. Now Mitch had a burning stripe about ten centimetres wide. He did the bucking and the pulling again, his terror mounting with the realisation that he was trapped. I’m going to whip your arse. Flail the skin off it. Until there’s nothing left but raw meat – had Uncle really meant that?

The next landed lower, into the under crease and across the most sensitive part of the arse. Mitch howled, a full-throated shriek. He gulped great sobs. His head bounced up and down on the mattress. Tears cascaded down his scarlet face. Restrained as he was, he could do nothing but bounce his bottom up and down as if he was having sex with the mattress beneath him.

Thwappp! Another lash, this time higher on the buttocks. Mitch yelled louder. “Pipe down, be quiet,” Uncle chided gently. “You’ll have the neighbours complaining.” Mitch convulsed with great gulps and sobbing. “There, there,” Uncle snarled. He walked to a dressing table, opened a drawer and reached in. He found a pair of balled-up socks which without warning he stuffed into Mitch’s mouth. “Put a sock in it,” Uncle mocked as he watched his young companion splutter and choke.

“Now, don’t disturb the neighbours,” Uncle taunted as he took aim and slashed down the heavy strap deliberately ensuring it landed on top of an already throbbing welt. “You’ll think twice before cheating on me again,” he hissed as Mitch’s body hovered off the mattress.

Yellow bile dribbled from the corner of Mitch’s mouth. Uncle raised and thrashed down the heavy strap. Up and down it went another six times. Mitch’s body contorted with agony, his face was a deep scarlet and his arse cheeks a dark bloodied red.

Three streets away Tom sat nonchalantly in a bus shelter. It was Sunday so he would have a long wait. His heartrate had returned to normal and he was no longer sweating. His stomach rumbled, he could murder a bacon sandwich. Already he was starting to forget Mitch.

Picture credits: Unknown and Paul Michael Davies

Other stories you might like

The sneak thief’s caning

The movie mogul

Toby’s Father Visits


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

The boom-box boy

new 5

z used short shorts outdoors 2

We had a lovely summer’s day last week and you don’t get many of those in Brocklehurst so I decided to make the most of it and lounge out in the garden, fortified by some gin-and-tonic and an ice bucket.

Imagine my annoyance when after about five minutes of catching the rays, I was assaulted by the sound of heavy rock music. No, not the sound, the noise, the racket, the din of rock music. It wasn’t that it was rock music that did my head in; I should’ve felt the same if it had been Beethoven’s Fifth or some other classical stuff. It was the intrusion into my peaceful afternoon that I objected to. Someone, somewhere close by, was playing loud music and couldn’t give a damn if he was disturbing the whole neighbourhood. I say he, without even seeing the culprit: I was certain no woman would ever be as thoughtless as this.

I could stand it no longer and went through the gate in my garden and into The Avenue. The paving stones were almost vibrating to the noise of the music and its source was immediately obvious. Just across the road, half way up a ladder painting the front of the house was a young workman. I say young; he might have been somewhere in his thirties but at my age that’s pretty young. Near the foot of the ladder was a contraption that was blaring out the music. I did a “double-take” when I saw what it was. I honestly don’t think I’ve seen such a thing in twenty years or more.

It was what we used to call a ghetto-blaster until the politically-correct folk told us we had to say “boom-box”. It was one of those combinations of a radio and cassette tape (I think CDs hadn’t been invented when they were fashionable.) I think they went on the scrapheap when the Sony Walkman came out and suddenly we were all “wired for sound” behind our own personal ear-phones.

I was about to cross the road and kick the ladder away so that the blighter fell from a height onto the accursed boom-box and (hopefully) flattened it to destruction when I had a sudden thought. Things like this often happen to me on days when the sun shines brightly. I suppose a psychiatrist might explain it better than me but I  had a flashback; that is to say I remembered something from a past summer that I hadn’t thought about in more than 40 years. It was the boom-box that did it.

I was still at college and living in the halls of residence and there was this fellow student who always – and I truly mean always – had his ghetto blaster going at full tilt. He carried it with him wherever he went. He had a room somewhere on the third floor but the cacophony he created could be heard all over the building, even where I stayed on the ground floor (just next to the entrance if you insist I pinpoint it.)

I remember him so clearly, even though this was 1974 I’m talking about. He called himself Ian C. Hirst. We thought he was a bit of a tit because of the “Ian C.” bit. Nobody used their middle initial in their name. We didn’t say, “Good morning, I’m Alan P. Taylor,” or what have you. Only Americans did that sort of thing. Perhaps, Ian C. Hirst wanted people to think he was American, although why anyone would want to do that is beyond me. [That’s meant to be a joke, please don’t write to me]. Ian C. thought a lot of himself. I remember it was a long, hot summer that year and he paraded around college wearing only a pair of white shorts and nothing else. Shorts were properly short in those days; I’ve seen underwear today longer than those shorts. He had a muscular, hairless torso and dreamy brown eyes. His hair was curled and fashionably long. He turned the heads of all the girls, and a quite a few of the boys secretly had a crush on him (I can testify to that).

So, Ian C., sexy or not, was a complete pain in the you-know-where. It was summer and exams were fast approaching but how could we expect to study with all that racket going on? Naturally, those who had rooms on the same landing asked him to turn it down. He did so and we all sighed with relief. But before too long the building was shaking once again. Back in those days people didn’t talk much about “rights” and there were no student residents’ committees and in short there was no one to complain too. Today, an Ian C. Hirst would be out on his ear, but in 1974 we were left on our own.

So what to do? I think it was my pal Edward Anthony who made the suggestion. It might plausibly have been me. Whoever it was, it was an idea conceived in drink, of that I can be certain. It seemed like a good idea at the time. And, as time would show, it was. We couldn’t do it on our own, there needed to be a gang of us. The more the merrier. There would be safety in numbers. When we discussed it again in the cold light of sobriety we began to have our doubts. It did seem to be an extreme measure. What if it didn’t work and Ian C. turned on us? He was bigger and fitter and although I’d have been happy to wrestle around with him, I didn’t fancy getting my face bashed in.

Don’t worry, Edward Anthony said, there would be plenty of the boys ready and willing to join with us. And, indeed that turned out to be the case. There were easily a dozen in all. Poor Ian C. Hirst, he never stood a chance.

It was late afternoon and lectures had finished and we students were back at the halls of residence. In about an hour people would start to prepare meals in the communal kitchens; so this was the perfect time to pounce. Naturally, with the music blaring from his room, he never heard us coming. It took some hammering on his door before he realised he had visitors. As he opened the door, he also appeared to be buttoning up his shorts. His hair was messy (he was famous at college for using half a can of hairspray every day to keep his locks in place) and I wondered if we had interrupted him with a girl (or please God, a boy!) but his room was tiny and it was immediately obvious that he was alone.

“Grab him!” One of our gang yelled and six pairs of hands grabbed out. “Worr…!!” Ian C. bellowed in reply but he didn’t get much chance to say any more because already he was being manhandled down the corridor towards the communal kitchen. As so often during that summer, he wore only his shorts and we had very little to grip hold to as we bundled him along. He was effing and jeffing, of course, and called us all the names under the sun, but we had so effectively overpowered him he had no choice but allow himself to be carried along.

We had the kitchen to ourselves. Somebody locked the door. We were not going to be disturbed and Ian C. had no escape. I remember someone, I’m pretty certain it was Simon Aldridge, had written a charge sheet so Ian C. knew exactly why he was there. Simon sounded a bit pompous when he read it out, but it must have been good practice for him because later in life he went on to become a well-known lawyer in London.

This wasn’t a court of law and it most certainly wasn’t a democracy, so we didn’t ask Ian C. to speak in his own defence. We went straight to carrying out the sentence. It doesn’t matter how fit and strong you are, or how good a fighter, when eight people simultaneously take hold of you then you are defeated. So it was with Ian C. We had it planned. It was simple and like many simple plans it was entirely effective.

The kitchen was a large room with six laminated tables pushed together in the centre so up to sixteen students could sit down to eat at the same time. It took only seconds for us to heave him up and spread-eagle him face down on the table. He yelled blue murder, but Alan Keefe had shown the presence of mind to bring the boom-box along with him. When he switched it on it drowned out all of Ian C.’s protests. He had a boy at each corner, his wrists and ankles holding him firmly down. Ian C. wriggled and writhed, but he was going nowhere. Even though that was entirely obvious he squirmed and struggled. Another couple of boys held his legs and that settled him. We were nearly ready.

There was still one important matter to deal with before we could start properly. I delegated myself to perform this task. It was, as I joked beforehand, a difficult job but somebody had to do it. Ian C. was reasonably sedate for now, but that changed immediately I reached out beneath his body and searched for the button at the top of his shorts. It indeed proved to be a difficult job because the full weight of Ian C.’s body was resting on his stomach and he wasn’t about to raise his torso to give me clearer access to his shorts.

Eventually, after much fumbling, I got the top of his shorts open. Then, it was a fairly simple mission to get the zipper down. The shorts, as I said previously, were very short and also extremely tight fitting. I had hoped to take hold of his shorts and with some ceremony lower them down over his buttocks and then down his thighs before abandoning them somewhere near his knees. I would then, with even greater ceremony deal with his smooth cotton briefs.

Alas, the combination of his weight, the tightness of his shorts and Ian C.’s continued attempts to wriggle free meant that I had no opportunity to debag him with great ritual. His shorts and underpants slithered down his bum together and I left them at his knees. Another of our gang by the name of Patel (I blush to recall that he was universally known by the nickname “Inky”) then lowered the garments further until they settled at his feet.

I had a perfect bird’s eye view of Ian C.’s naked bottom. It was as I had imagined: smooth and hairless; meaty but firm. His cheeks were creamy white in stark contrast to the rest of his body which was a deeply tanned. I did not resist the urge to rub his mounds with the palm of my hand. I knew for certain I was not the only fellow present who desired to do this.

Obviously, there had been no possibility of rehearsing or practising what we wanted to do, but we all knew what was intended. As I had been removing Ian C.’s shorts and pants, the rest of the gang had removed their own leather belts which by now they had doubled (or trebled, depending upon their length). One boy, James Banks, had with him an authentic leather taws. It was one with two tails at one end and he later told us he had purloined it from his school near Edinburgh when he had left two years previously.

So we were set. Ian C.’s feet and wrists were firmly held, he was face-down on the table top. His bottom was bare to the breeze. He was an easy target. And we all took advantage. There were eight boys armed with straps, they took up position four on each side and to put it simply; they let him have it.

I don’t know if you have ever been belted or maybe seen another boy belted, but a heavy strap quickly leaves its mark on naked flesh. Within half a minute Ian C’.s backside was criss-crossed with deep-pink lines. It resembled an aerial shot of a railway junction. After a couple of minutes the deep-pink had turned red and soon mauve and purple blotches appeared. Ian C. fought like a trooper and I was very pleased that we had so many people in our gang that we were able to hold him down. I wouldn’t fancy our chances otherwise.

At one point we all ceased our own battering to allow James a free-range with his taws. I have to report he was something of an expert. He positioned himself to the right of Ian C. and took aim by first laying the two-tailed strap which was probably fourteen inches long so that it rested across the highest point of both cheeks. Then he adjusted his own position so that he had enough room to raise the taws and rest it over his own shoulder so that it tapped the small of his back. Then he practised to make sure he could swing the taws in an arc up and over without touching the ceiling of the kitchen and then bring it down right on target. He took two practice swings and then let rip for real. My! The CRACK! of the leather on Ian C.’s hard, naked bum echoed around the room. I think we were all relived that Alan had brought the boom-box and that the music from it drowned Ian C.’s shriek. James let fly with a half-dozen swipes before making way for some of the others to resume with their own more modest belts.

So, that was it. Ian C.’s bum looked like raw hamburger meat. He never played his boom-box in the halls again, we all studied hard, sat our exams and went our separate ways. And that happened in 1974 and I hadn’t given it a thought in more than forty years. There was one other thing I remembered: after we had finished with Ian C. I went back alone to my own room and shot my load about two feet high. I was twenty-one then; I couldn’t do that today. I know because I’ve just tried.

And, as for the young man painting the house? I didn’t kick his ladder away. I didn’t get a gang of neighbours together and tan his backside. I pointed out to him that he was causing a disturbance. He blushed prettily, apologised profusely and turned his boom-box off. He was, I mused to myself, as I poured my second gin-and-tonic in my garden, really rather sweet.

Picture credit: Unknown


Other stories you might like

Professor Paddle

The scavenger hunt

The Gaffer of The Academy 3. Caned-off



More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

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

Other stories you might like

A teenager’s tale

The pub visit

Rules of the house



More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

Nothing ventured, nothing gained

new story 2

z used pants over steps ladder painter workplace

Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Strike while the iron is hot. Sow and you shall reap. There are similar maxims that I can’t immediately recall, but you get my drift. I have believed these for much of my adult life and they have served me well. My story started at the end of summer. I had just taken early retirement: good pension, money in the bank thank you, so I decided to spend some of it freshening up the house.

I got some local people in. You know the kind of set up. This was a father and son team. They could do a bit of everything; painting and decorating plumbing, electrics. One day the father went off to do a job somewhere else and left the son behind to get on painting the front room and putting in a fancy chandelier light.

His name was Nick and he took my breath away. He was in his early twenties and stood nearly six feet tall. His fair hair was nearly blond and expertly cut to look windswept all the time. He clearly went to the gym and was lean and muscular, unlike so many of the fat blobs you see nowadays wobbling down the street. He wore white overalls (with just underpants and no shirt beneath) and when he bent down to do something or other he showed an arse that was begging to be spanked. Even at my age my cock reacted.

On this day he called out to me, “Mate!” I cut him short. Mate indeed. “Mr Frobisher,” I told him firmly. I am not used to being spoken to with such familiarity by younger people. He blushed and said, “Sorry, Mr Frobisher.” I nodded my forgiveness and he went on. “Can you cut the electricity so I can connect the light.” I sighed heavily, “Were you never taught to say please?”

My eyes might have lit up more brightly than any fancy chandelier. A chance had presented itself to me. It was up to me if I took it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. “The fuse box is in the cupboard under the stairs,” I told him and watched the Adonis climb down from his stepladder and cross the room. I spied on him from a distance, keen to discover what his next reaction would be.

You see I keep my toys in the cupboard under the stairs. When he opened the door he would see hanging on nails hammered into the wall two crook-handled school canes, a shiny wooden paddle, a very worn two-tailed leather taws and an old-fashioned razor strop. He would be in no doubt what they were used for.

More people than you might imagine are “into” spanking. That is, spanking as a recreational activity, rather than as a genuine means of discipline and punishment. Some people (like me) are very open about it and take their fun whenever they can. Myself, I am an enthusiastic member of the Whacko! Club. Others, perhaps those who are shy, or who don’t know their way around rely on pornography and fantasy. Yet others don’t know yet that they are into spanking and just need a spark to catch them on fire.

I had no idea if Nick belonged to any of these groups, but I would soon find out. I stood in the doorway and marvelled at the sight of his tight buttocks stretching against his overalls as he knelt down to lean his head and shoulders into the cupboard. He did not fail to see my toys. What he did next would answer my question: is he into spanking? I have seen before that a person confronted  by a cane, paddle, taws or what not cannot fail to react. If he picks up one of the toys, flexes a cane, tests a paddle on his palm, swipes the taws through the air, you know you have got him. There stands a spanko (whether he admits it or not).

My heart leapt. Nick paused his work, took a long look at the implements hanging on the wall and without checking to see if he could be seen, he rubbed two fingers along the tails of the taws. Then, he leaned forward and sniffed it. Oh joy! Things were about to get interesting. I went into the kitchen so he wouldn’t realise I had seen him. I made myself coffee, I needed to think. I had to concoct a plan.

I waited about five minutes and sauntered into the room where Nick was working. He was on his stepladder reaching up to the ceiling. He was a vision. His long legs tapered to meaty buttocks. His waist was slim, stomach firm and chest muscular. Any doubt I could have had (and truly there was none) died at that moment. I wanted Nick’s arse.

I knew that he had seen the spanking toys and was no fool and knew what they were for. I didn’t expect him to ask me about them. He was probably too embarrassed and certainly inexperienced in these things. I would have to make the first move. I read a story online recently about a painter and decorator who was taken over the knee by his boss and spanked because he arrived late for work. If only real life was as simple as fiction. In any case Nick was an exemplary worker and never came late; he would go far in his chosen trade.

Oftentimes, the most direct route is the best. Nothing ventured. “Did you see what was in the cupboard, Nick?” I asked as casually as my pounding heart and panting breath would allow. His sexy body shivered and his clear, open face flushed. “Yes,” he said cautiously, drawing out the word as if it had several syllables. “Good,” I said, adopting a stern “schoolmasterly” tone. “Just remember they are there should you chose to misbehave.” I immediately left the room to let him mull over my words.

It was now up to him. He said nothing to me for the rest of the day. He fitted the light and put a top coat of paint on the bedroom walls and then went home, without even saying “goodbye.” I couldn’t be sure if I had misread him. Maybe he wasn’t into spanking at all. Maybe, he was, but he wasn’t yet ready to have a go. I had a restless night. If he wouldn’t let me spank him in reality he couldn’t stop me in my dreams.

The next day he did not arrive at nine as usual. I was unsure how to interpret this. Could I expect trouble later from his father? What could he do? I was employing them and I hadn’t yet paid the bill. Might there be violence? I would soon find out. He turned up close to ten. “What time do you call this?” I scolded him. “Dunno mate,” he sniggered, “I ain’t got a watch.”

“You need to show more respect,” I countered. “You need to be taken down a peg or two, young man.” I was speaking to his back as by now he had trudged up the stairs to continue work in the bedroom. I retired to the kitchen, a smile playing around my lips. About fifteen minutes later as I took a mug of coffee into the lounge I detected a strong aroma from upstairs. Oh my! I giggled. Is that what I think it is? I stealthily climbed the stairs. If he was up to no good I wanted to catch him at it. The bedroom door was ajar and I could easily see inside. He wasn’t hiding. He sat cross-legged on the floor. Between his lips he had a burning cigarette, he had smoked it half way.

“What is this?” I affected outrage. “Smoking. In my house. How dare you!” He sprang to his feet, every inch the schoolboy caught in some misbehaviour. “It’s disgusting. I don’t allow cigarettes in my house.” By now he had stubbed it out on a rung of his ladder. He hopped from foot to foot and stared down at the floor. “How dare you!” I repeated. “I don’t believe it! Such behaviour!”

I waited to allow him to say something but he was (genuinely, I think) at a loss for words. When it was clear to me he wasn’t going to speak I filled in the gap. “What do you think your father will say when I tell him?” That prompted him to reply, “No, please mister. Please don’t tell him. I’ll do anything.” It was all I could do not to groan out loud. What a corny line! I’ll do anything. Was that the best he could do? Instead, I said, “Who do you think you’re calling ‘Mister’. I told you yesterday about your manners.” He looked sheepish, “Sorry, Mr Frobisher,” he said and to my delight, added, “Sir.”

“Well,” I said. I was working on an old script. “You should buck your ideas up young man.” That was his cue to say, “Sorry” again. To which I added, “Sorry is not good enough. What you need is a jolly good spanking.” The air was heavy. This was his chance to tell me to go to Hell, to threaten to punch my face in if I laid a finger on him, or simply to walk out of my house never to return. He did none of these things. Instead, he twisted his fingers together and swivelled on his feet a little and whined, “Sowry,” in a childish voice. Oh dear, I thought, he has a lot to learn about roleplay, but I found him rather endearing. “Sorry Sir,” I snapped. I wasn’t angry, of course. I was delighted. We were ready to go.

“Wait there,” I growled (I can play the ham actor too). I strode from the room and in my eagerness took the stairs two at a time. I had the cupboard door open in a second. I hesitated. Which of my toys to choose. My personal favourite is the whippy, rattan school cane. I would take great pleasure marking his backside with one of those. But, I had observed the day before that Nick had taken rather a fancy to the two-tailed taws. Since this was to be his special day, the day he would lose his virginity (so to speak), I would defer to his choice. I raced back to the bedroom with the leather strap in my hand.

Nick’s bright, open face paled. He had quite a tan from working in the open during the summer, but that could not disguise his blanch. His eyes sparkled. He gazed transfixed at the taws in my hand. I was in no doubt that this hunk of a lad wanted to be beaten. He desired it. He craved it. And, he wanted to be beaten by me. I remember the first time I was spanked. The mixed emotions. The anxiety mingling with anticipation. The tremendous high it gave me after (greater than any drug could ever do).

I waved the worn, leather taws in his face. It was so close his eyes crossed as he watched the tails almost brush his nose. His breathing was heavy. Already a film of sweat covered his forehead. I took a step back and surveyed him. As with yesterday he wore heavy overalls and it seemed not much else underneath. I swiped the taws through the air, delighted that his eyes carefully followed its flight. I was sure he was ready, I know damn well I was: my cock was bursting.

“These overalls are no good,” I said, expecting him to get my drift without too much explanation. “Take them off.” To my astonishment he did not hesitate. He was out of the heavy cotton clothing in seconds. They fell to his feet and he stepped away leaving them crumpled on the ground. I hope he didn’t see my jaw drop as I drank in his beauty. He was dressed in a cheap t-shirt and tight white  shorts. He stood submissively, his face crimson. He looked as nervous as hell, but I was an old pro. I’d seen novices before. Outwardly they look terrified; inwardly they are craving to be dominated.

The room had no furniture. That didn’t matter. The ladder had only three steps. It was tall enough for him to stand on to reach the ceiling, it was also the right size for him to bend over to offer me his backside. I adopted a tone that I thought suitable for a disgruntled householder. “I have had enough of your rudeness. You need to learn a lesson young man,” I tapped the taws against my right leg as I spoke, keeping up a rhythm: one tap, one word. “I’m going to teach you some manners.” His eyes were glazing by now. “Bend over!” I pointed to the top rung of the stepladder so there was no doubt what I meant.

He hesitated for a second. Was he having second thoughts? Was he about to chicken out? Was he nothing but a prick-tease? My doubts were unjustified. Nick took a second to weigh up the consequences of his next action. Then I swear he took a deep lung-full of air, he wiped his sweaty palms against the seat of his shorts. Without a word, he swivelled on his feet turning away from me and towards the ladder. On a silent count of three he leaned forward. The ladder was slightly too tall for him and he had to stand on tiptoes to reach across. He did this without fuss and reached his arms down and  grabbed the lowest rung that he could. He parted his feet and waited, breathing heavily, for me to begin.

His head was low and his bottom high, which was a perfect position for spanking. The tight shorts and meaty buttocks presented me with a terrific target; quite the best I had seen for some time (my fellows at the Whacko! Club tend to be older and flabbier). I licked my lips which by now were so dry they were in danger of cracking. I gripped the taws by its handle and laid the two tails across the highest part of his bum; on the top of the mounds. His back tensed and he gripped hold of the ladder a little more tightly. I flicked my wrist and allowed the leather to smack his bum gently. I was getting my aim. Then, without further ado I raised my arm to about shoulder length and smacked the taws across his backside. It was a moderate stroke. I should have liked to have lashed the leather with full force but Nick was a beginner. As far as I knew he had never been spanked before. I was certain his father had never taken him across his knee or applied a belt to his backside while he lay across the arm of a settee. I knew this for sure; fathers just didn’t do such things these days no matter how much their bratty sons might deserve it.

Nick gave no reaction. I was now faced with a choice. I find when spanking a boy for the first time I have to take very great care to get his measure. If I spank too hard it might take the lad beyond his limits of endurance to such an extent that he runs away howling and clutching his savaged buttocks never to return. Hit him too softly and he will wonder what all the fuss was about. He will have been cheated of the true exhilaration that comes with a spanking properly administered.

It seemed to me that Nick was far from impressed with the first stroke. I returned the taws to his rear end with more vim. The tails spread across the lower part of his buttocks, into the under-curves. Again, I detected little reaction. Undaunted I tried again. This one struck him squarely (if that is the correct word) across the highest point of his mounds. He gasped. “Ha!” I said to myself, “Now, we’re cooking.” I applied another two strokes, the second slightly harsher than the first. His bum wriggled and air hissed through his by-now clenched teeth.

Two more, harder still; one low, the other high, had him bending his knees. Two more and his head was bouncing up and down. The next swipe was greeted with a clear yelp. I halted, took a step back and admired my handiwork so far. The back of Nick’s neck was as scarlet as his face. I knew from experience his backside would also be crimson. The cotton shorts were thin and fitted snuggly and I was in no doubt that welts now criss-crossed his buttocks. He would be in some pain.

If it had been up to me I could have spanked him all morning, but conscious that he was a novice and by now convinced this would not be the last time Nick would submit himself to my will, I thought it best to wind up proceedings. “The last six,” I intoned gruffly. I positioned myself to the lad’s left and laid the taws across his bottom.

We were both so engrossed in the matter in hand neither of us heard the van draw upside the house. Nor did we hear the footsteps treading the bare floorboards as Nick’s father made his way upstairs towards the bedroom.

Picture credit: Unknown

Other pictures you might like

Remembering Professor Price

Alexander’s little secret

The apprentices


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

The Private Tutor

school shorts touch toes (1)

I recently uploaded my 500th story to this website – thanks to everyone for your support.  I know it can sometimes be difficult to navigate your way around to find stories on the topics that interest you. To help you a little, back in 2016 I started to collect together stories on the same theme and upload them as free-of-charge e-books.

Here is one of the earliest: The Private Tutor

What can fathers do when their sons fail their school exams because they spend too much time out with girlfriends, clubbing and playing in a rock band?

 Call for The Private Tutor. Using traditional educational approaches, he will soon lick them into shape.

 The whippy rattan cane, the taws, the paddle and the gym slipper are some of methods he uses as he guides them towards their A-levels.

Click the link below for the book in a PDF file

 The Private Tutor by Charles Hamilton II


Picture credit: Unknown

A further episode involving The Private Tutor is here

The private tutor: 4


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

Get to bed! I’ll be up to see you later

new story 2

z used bed waiting pyjamas (12)

Get to bed. There’s no supper for you tonight. I’ll be up to see you later.

How many times did I hear those words growing up? Way too many, that’s how many. I must have had a hole in my head. I never learned. I was about twenty the last time Dad made one of those visits to my room.

That was the time just before at last I left home. I had outgrown it years before. I left school at fifteen and went to work in a wine gum factory. Really, I kid you not. My first job was standing alongside the conveyor belt as all the sweets came along and picking out the deformed ones. I was allowed to eat as many as I liked. I soon got sick of that job.

I suppose I thought I was all grown up and not a kid anymore. Dad had other ideas, of course. His house; his rules. I don’t think I was any different from my friends and neighbours. It was just the way things were. Know your place. Do as you’re told. Behave yourself. Or else!

The Or Else in Dad’s case was a heavy two-tailed leather taws. God alone knows where he got that from. It was kept in a special drawer all on its own in the sideboard in the living room. It was old and worn. It could’ve been a hundred years old for all I knew. It must have been a family heirloom.

It saw some action in its time. I was the youngest of three boys and from time to time Dad felt it necessary to remind us of the fact – we were boys, not men.

Today, if a Dad took a leather strap to his son’s backside the social workers would swarm all over him. I’d bet a penny to a pound he’d end up in magistrates’ court. Back in the day, of course, it was all perfectly natural. Expected. Just the way things were.

As an adult now and again I’d meet men who resented being punished as a kid. Whether with a cane at school or the belt (or whatnot) at home. They took a grudge with them wherever they went all their lives. Not me. I have no complaint. I know Dad was doing what he thought best. Trying to bring up his sons right. So we would become fine, responsible adults.

I guess he succeeded. After the wine gum factory I had a load of jobs. In those days we didn’t have burger bars or fast food places, but I did all kinds of unskilled jobs. I worked on a building site for a while. Not as boring as wine gums, but bloody back-breaking.

I raised a family – three girls so I never had to tan their backsides – and now have grandchildren, with the first great-grandchild on the way. If I’m honest I owe it to Dad. He taught me to know my place, behave myself. Obey orders. It served me well.

I don’t suppose I thought much of this at the time. Dad wasn’t a tyrant, he didn’t flog the living daylights out of us. He just wanted us to get the message. I should have known better by the time I was eighteen or nineteen but I had outgrown home. I wanted to be my own man, to come and go when I wanted to and to hell with Mum’s routine. She said I treated the place like a hotel; coming and going when I wanted to.

She’d moan at me about it and I’d give her a bit of lip back. Wrong thing to do. We call it ‘disrespecting’ these days. Then it was just called ‘bloody rude.’ I don’t think she ever uttered those immortal words, ‘Wait until your father gets home!’. There was no need. The moment the words tumbled from my mouth I knew what the future held. Nineteen or not.

Dad drove a lorry for the local council, he and a gang went round emptying bins. As the driver he never got his hands dirty and that gave him status among the team. He was somebody. At home he was the king of his castle. It was a dank, dark hole. A terraced house like millions across the country.  It was draughty in winter and airless in summer. Beetles everywhere. Home sweet home.

I waited irritably in the living room pretending to read the Daily Herald. Reading wasn’t my thing, so mostly I looked at the pictures and tried to work out why the comic strips were supposed to be funny. Dad would be home by seven. I paced the room. The smell of boiled cabbage drifted from the kitchen. All our houses smelt of cabbage; morning, noon and night, come summer or winter. My stomach churned. I hadn’t eaten since dinner time, but I knew there’d be none for me this night. Not when Dad got home.

It was getting gloomy, but Mum wouldn’t let us switch the light on until it got properly dark. She didn’t have the pennies for the metre. I looked half-heartedly out of the window. It was beginning to rain heavily, the cobbled streets were wet, puddles formed in dips in the road. Any minute now I would see my Dad turn the corner of the street. My stomach knotted, not with hunger this time.

It was the waiting that was the worst. Don’t ask me why, I knew full well what was going to happen when Dad got home. I had been through this before. Many times. And in my stupidity it would surely happen again.

At last I saw him wobbling down the road. He had a rocking gait. He was rotund to say the least. Fat. Today we would probably call him obese. He wore old faded denims; this was long before jeans became the fashion status of the young. Back in the day they were just cheap, sturdy clothes worn by working men. He had a black donkey jacket, made of serge with a big leather patch on the shoulders and half way down the back.

I heard the door open and dad call to mum. It was a nightly ritual. Dad telling us all that the master was home. Best behaviour everyone! I couldn’t see him but I knew he would be hanging up his jacket in the passageway. Then he would saunter toward he kitchen. He wouldn’t go in, that was Mum’s domain. He would lean on the doorframe, point his nose in the air like one of the Bisto Kids and say, “Eh love, that smells grand!’ Same thing every day for nigh on fifty years.

On this night I heard voices. They were making conversation. They weren’t the types to talk to one another much. Broody or companionable silences were the order of the day in my house. I knew what they were talking about. I sucked in a couple of deep breaths, getting myself ready.

Suddenly Bang! the door to the sitting room flew open and dad filled the doorframe. His three chins wobbled as he shook his head. He peered at me through pig-like eyes. I always suspected he might need glasses. He frowned and then scowled. “Get to bed. There’s no supper for you tonight. I’ll be up to see you later.”

He rolled backwards to give me space to squeeze past him, the stench of his stale sweat cloyed in my throat. It was Thursday and bath night was Sunday. Wordlessly – for there was no point in arguing with the man – I shuffled up the stairs to my bedroom.

We had a ritual Dad and me. We both had roles to play when it came to spanking. They didn’t need to be spelled out. Get to bed, meant exactly that. It might only be just gone seven, but I was expected to be in my pyjamas and in bed by the time Dad arrived to deal with me. Nineteen years old and sent to bed for a spanking at seven o’clock. What would my grandsons say if I told them that?

My bedroom was small and sparse. There was one small worn rug over decaying wooden floorboards. The bed was tired and rickety, springs stuck out through the mattress. An old Tall Boy stood in the corner alongside a chest three drawers (one of them empty). We didn’t have much in the way of clothes and stuff in those days. The only other furniture was a small armchair with wooden back and arms and soft cushions. It was old and cheap but it did offer some comfort, although that night the use Dad would put it to would be far from comfortable.

I washed myself, brushed my teeth and jumped into bed. There was a chill in the air but the room had no heating. I pulled my blanket up over my body and waited. It would be some time before Dad visited. I could smell supper, Dad would have his feed before he came upstairs. He might even roll himself a cigarette and have a look at the Herald before coming up to do his duty.

I wished he would get it over with. We were a simple family. We didn’t hold grudges. I misbehaved, Dad spanked me, we carried on. The world did not end. He had made his point.

At last the door flew open, Dad was incapable of opening a door quietly. He stood a little unsteady and stared at me. I looked away. I didn’t need to see. I knew in his right hand he was holding the heavy leather taws. He mumbled something about me and my Mum. I didn’t take it in. I didn’t need to. He was right and I was wrong. Matters had to take their course.

“Get out of bed,” he was quiet and orderly. There was no need for drama. He knew I would obey. Without question. It was just the way of the world. He nodded toward the armchair. I pushed my blanket away from my body and swung my legs over the side of the bed. I was young and athletic and was on my feet in a trice.

Dad took hold of the handle of the taws. The business end was about twelve or fifteen inches long. Each tail was probably an inch wide and half inch thick. It could pack a hefty punch. I never knew where Dad got that leather strap. I’ve since discovered that the taws was mostly used in Scottish schools. We lived in London, and I don’t think anyone in my family had ever travelled north of the border. Why would we? Who would want to?

He held the taws in his right fist and tapped the tails into the palm of his left hand. He was biding his time, waiting for me to prepare myself. I shivered – more with cold than fear, I was an old hand at this and knew what to expect. I faced the back of the chair. I towered over it. There was a time when I would have struggled to reach high enough to rest my stomach on the apex of the chair. That’s how often over the years I was made to present my backside to Dad’s strap.

z used pyjamas down chair (16a)

I made sure my back was facing Dad before I untied the drawstring and loosened my pyjama bottoms. Dad might have considered me to be still a child but my cock and balls told a different story. I helped the pyjamas slip over my buttocks and held them at my thighs while I leaned forward over the back of the chair. I think I succeeded in hiding the sight of my privates from Dad. Once safely in position, I let go of the pyjama bottoms and they duly slithered down my legs and rested in a puddle at my feet.

Dad took hold of the tail end of the pyjama jacket and moved it further up my back so I was naked from the shoulders to my feet. A cold breeze wafted across my bare flesh; goose bumps formed in a vain attempt to warm my body.

I felt Dad tap the heavy strap across the very centre of my bum cheeks. He was taking aim. I don’t know if you’ve ever been spanked on the arse with a taws, in fact it isn’t really suited for the task. In Scotland they whack kids across the palm of the hand, not the bum. The taws is heavy and quite solid, it doesn’t whip like a belt does. It is easier to aim a taws up and down on outstretched hands, rather than whack it in at an angle across buttocks quivering over the back of an armchair. It would have been far more effective if Dad had made me lay face down on the bed and stood next to me to tan my backside that way. Of course, I wasn’t going to tell this to him.

I wriggled over the back of the chair, trying to get comfortable. I know that sounds crazy, but it really helps if you are properly positioned. Head low, bottom high. Feet a little apart firmly planted on the ground (that’s more difficult than it sounds if you have bare feet on wooden floorboards, you can’t help slipping). I gripped the soft seat cushion and waited. I was ready to take anything Dad had to throw at me.

The leather taws moved away from my bum, there was a pause, just a beat or two, then a whistle as the strap flew through the air. Then, SPLAT! It connected with great force across my naked cheeks. I couldn’t see (of course) but I felt a deep red mark form across the once creamy-white flesh. It burned like Hell. Don’t let anyone tell you that a spanking doesn’t always hurt; that it’s something you can get used to. It doesn’t matter how many times I was tawsed by Dad he always sent shockwaves of pain coursing through my arse and up and down my legs. The only difference was that as I got more experienced in receiving whackings I was able to control my reaction.

I gripped the cushion, closed my eyes, shut my teeth tightly and let Dad get on with it. Number two landed lower than the first. The third went higher. Now, I had a burning strip across my bum about four or five inches wide. And it was burning. I don’t know about you but I know from painful experience that a whippy rattan cane like they used at my school would cut deep into the flesh (even when wearing trousers and underpants) and leave an intense biting sting that throbs for ages. Long after the headmaster has sent you on your way.

The leather taws is an altogether different type of pain. It doesn’t cut into you, it slaps, covering a wider area than the cane with a single stroke. It burns like billy-o and the soreness stays for a while but it doesn’t have the powerful after-sting of the cane. You can get the strap on the bare bum delivered by an athlete with super muscles in his arm and it still won’t come close to the agony of the cane. Well, that’s my experience anyway.

I heard Dad wheezing hard, trying to get his breath as he landed another three strokes across my backside. Just as I had become an expert at receiving a spanking, so he was well-practiced in delivering one. I was, after all, the youngest of three boys. My bum was well alight by now. I knew that when I inspected the damage later I would see the outlines of the tails embossed in my flesh. Each line would be scarlet and by the time Dad had finished his work the edges of some of them would be turning blue.

I sucked in a lungful of air and waited for the next three. As I said there was a ritual to this. Dad whacked three strokes at a time, then took a rest. He was no brute, he laid on each one with full strength, but he was never a monster. It wasn’t his intention to batter me and leave me beaten and blooded. He just wanted to make his point.

The next three landed well low; across the back of the thighs. That had me dancing; stomping my feet up and down on the cold hard wooden floor. My knees buckled and my back arched but I held on tightly to the cushion. My eyes blazed almost as much as my bum and there were getting a bit watery. I wasn’t about to cry, but this is the sort of thing your body does when it’s in pain. The eyes water, the heart pounds, blood rushes through your arteries. You want to cry out. I couldn’t control my heartbeat (who can?) but I did stop myself crying out. It had been many years since I hollered or cried during one of Dad’s spankings.

There was another longer pause. I turned my head slightly to see what was going on. Dad was dabbing his flabby face with a dirty grey handkerchief. His whole body was drenched in sweat, he was in a bad way. I stared down once more, waiting for the next three. They would be the last. A round dozen, twelve strokes, that was always Dad’s way. Like I said, it wasn’t a battering.

He let fly. I think the sweat must have got into his eyes because they landed all over the place. One even went north to south along the length of one cheek. Everyone knows that’s a waste, the most efficient stroke always goes from left to right, preferably on the fleshiest part of the buttocks that connects to the chair when the naughty boy attempts to sit down.

“All right,” Dad coughed a little. “Don’t make me have to do that again.” With that he wobbled from my room leaving me to rub away the hurt. Each whack was intensely painful as it landed but the agony quickly turned to a dull pain and by the time Dad was back in the sitting room listening to the wireless it had gone completely. If I touched my bum in the places where one or more strokes had overlapped I could reignite the pain but by now it was no more than a dull throb.

I had no mirror in the room so I lay face down on the bed and by twisting my body I got a close up look at the damage. Some bruises discoloured my bottom but I knew by morning they would probably have gone. By the time I went down for breakfast there would be no trace. Mum and Dad would never talk about it again (they never did after a spanking) and life would carry on as before.

I never really learned not to treat the house as a hotel or to back-chat Mum. It was just as well for me that shortly after my twentieth birthday I got called up for National Service and after that I never lived at home again.


Picture credits: Unknown


Other stories you might like


A maintenance spanking

Peeping Tom

The cheating student


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

The Rooming House

Roger stared at the ceiling. It was a freezing cold night but he was snug and warm under the blankets. Cautiously he ran his fingers across the welts that criss-crossed his buttocks. The pain had gone now, but one or two were still tender when he touched them.

Perce, his boyfriend, lay by Roger’s side, breathing heavily: he seemed to be dreaming. Earlier, when they had made love, Roger could see Perce’s once dark blue bruises were turning a lighter shade, almost turquoise. It would take several days, more than a week possibly, before the evidence cleared of the twelve severe strokes of the cane they had been forced to endure on their naked buttocks.

Upstairs, in the top flat, Higgins, their landlord, slept the sleep of the just; alone in his bed. Higgins had moved in after his wife left him for another man. His children were grown up and making their own ways in life. He was very content to live in the block of flats his late mother had bequeathed to him.

He had never met such people as his tenants. As well as the gay boys, there was Lucy who had a small baby, but no husband. Upstairs from her was Miss Alison, an aging spinster, who apparently was once a successful actress. Higgings thought she was probably very lonely. Mr Weston, who lived in the flat next to the boys, was from the West Indies. Mr Higgins had never met a West Indian before he moved in. Now, he knew many: Mr Weston was a gregarious man and had many friends.

Higgins wondered what his colleagues at school would make of it if they knew about his band of tenants. Gay boys, unmarried mothers and West Indians did not feature much at the grammar school. St Francis was a traditional school: traditional classes, traditional sports, traditional religion and traditional discipline.

Higgins believed in corporal punishment. He knew the cane applied with some force across the stretched bottom of an errant schoolboy was a great motivator for good behaviour. Even those boys who came back for more eventually discovered the errors of their ways.

Higgins had taken an awesome school cane back his flat when he was forced to deal with Sterling. The boy had the flat next to Miss Alison. The aging actress was all alone in life and vulnerable to the advances of the nineteen-year-old charmer. Sterling was not after sex, of course. He wanted the money he firmly believed she had hidden in her flat. It was easy to befriend a lonely person. In no time he was running her errands and sharing cups of tea. When her back was turned he removed her door key and later had a copy made.

One Thursday morning; it was pension day and the only time in the week Miss Alison would be certain to be out of her flat, Sterling made his move. It was a small flat and it only took minutes to search. He went under the mattress, in the tea caddy, behind the drawers in the kitchenette. There was nothing to find. Frustrated, he was half way through the circuit again in case he had missed something when the door eased open. There was nowhere to hide.

Higgins was no fool. He sized up the situation immediately. Despite his willingness to inflict severe pain on schoolboys, Higgins was a kind man. Miss Alison never discovered that Sterling’s friendship was a sham; a trick simply so that he could steal her money.

And, Sterling? Later that day he found himself in Higgins’s flat. It was a straight choice: the police or a thrashing. It was no choice at all, not with Sterling’s record. If the police got involved, he would do time, there was no doubt about that.

Sterling had been fifteen the last time he felt the cane across his backside. It had been four years ago, only weeks before he finished school forever and embarked on his life of dead-end jobs and petty crime. It had not been too bad. Bend over, whack! whack! whack! stand up. It was all over in seconds. He had a bit of a sore bum, but it was nothing to worry about.

Yes, Sterling agreed, rather too enthusiastically to Higgins’s liking, he would take the stick.

“Where do you want me?”

Higgins detected a smirk. Was the boy daring him?

The experienced schoolmaster knew how to wipe a stupid grin from a boy’s face.

Sterling stood nonchalantly, unconcerned about the events about to unfold.

With his anger rising, Higgins tugged open a drawer and pulled out the cane.

Swish! Higgins swiped the stick through the air. Then he smiled. Sterling had for the first time caught sight of the rod that was going to be used on him. It was nothing like the short rigid bamboo stick they had used at his council school.

Higgins grasped the cane which he had chosen to use to inflict the beating. It was not particularly long, thick or heavy, but what made it fearsome was the series of roughly-shaped and hardened knots which decorated every three or four inches of its length. These gave the cane its remarkable ability to bruise boys’ bottoms, leaving marks that might last for a month and making sitting down a delicate and painful business for the unlucky victim. A severe beating would usually split the skin of the suffering boy and bloody his arse as a further reminder of the penalty for misbehaviour.

Sterling’s cocky demeanour vanished instantly. His face paled and he could feel his hair dampen with sweat.

His mouth gaped open, but no words came as he realised there was nothing he could say, except beg for mercy and his pride was not about to let him do that.

Swish! the cane flew through empty air. Higgins pointed the wicked rod at a low armchair.

“Right. I want you take down your trousers and underpants and bend across the chair.”

This time, Sterling did speak. “Wha …?” was all he could say before an impatient Higgins cut him short.

“It is the police or the cane. You choose, but you must do it now.”

Tears were already forming behind the nineteen-year-old’s eyes as mournfully he unzipped his tight loon pants and helped them over his buttocks and left them to slide to his knees. His breathing was laboured as he tucked his thumbs into the waistband of his mauve underpants and sent them in the same direction to meet his loons.

Sterling’s pale face turned scarlet as he realised he was now standing half-naked in front of this old man; a man who in a moment was going to rip his arse to shreds.

“Bend over,” Higgins feigned impatience.

Sterling closed his eyes, took a deep breath and curved himself over the back of the armchair. He was too tall to fit comfortably over the chair and had to bend at the knees. In this position his creamy-white buttocks jutted out behind him, offering a wonderful target for the cane to lash into him.

Only then did it occur to Higgins: despite all his years as a schoolmaster and the countless canings he had delivered, he had never before thrashed a boy on his naked buttocks. And, rarely, had he beaten a boy as big as Sterling (although there had been a time when he had thrashed five of the first XV rugby team and they had all been exceptionally large schoolboys).

Even so, Higgins laid it on with vigour. Sterling’s arse convulsed and he lifted one foot off the floor as the pain flooded from his backside throughout his body. But, he submissively stayed in position, hands gripping the seat cushion with some strength but with his behind still offered bravely for the remainder of the beating that Higgins continued with enthusiasm.

Higgins gave his bruised and now very colourful bottom a further four cuts in rapid succession. The two after that were directed at the crease between thigh and buttock and were laid one on top of the other. Sterling was now bellowing with pain, clenching and unclenching his quivering deeply ridged backside, and working extremely hard to maintain the correct position bent over the chair.

In the nearby flat, Miss Alison turned up the volume of her wireless.

Higgins was a hard and accurate caner and he delivered twelve of his very best, leaving Sterling hugging the chair and holding on for a minute when the landlord put the cane away and sat down.

There was no lecture. There was no need for one. In his own time, Sterling rose from his submissive position. He made no attempt to hide the tears that choked him. Gingerly, he pulled up his underpants and buttoned up the loon pants and without a word he shuffled from the flat and staggered down the staircase to his own room.

Three days later Sterling moved out and Higgins never heard from him again.


I think the gay boys Roger and Peace are my favourite tenants. They are so full of vim and energy. I know that probably has a lot to do with the pep pills they take; I’m not naive.

I’d never met any homosexuals before (at least not that I knew of). The boys were not what I expected. I thought homosexuals were all swishy and feminine, as if they were men trapped inside women’s bodies. Roger and Perce are nothing like that; you wouldn’t know they were gay to look at them. Although they are very well groomed; so that might be a clue. They are members of the youth cult called ‘the Mods.’ They have very tidy short hair and wear sharp well-cut Italian suits. Or for ‘leisure’ they wear brightly-coloured pullovers. They also have green Parka coats and ride around on Italian motor scooters.

I don’t think the Mods are gay; but I might be wrong. But there are so many of them, it can’t be possible. The Mods have a rival cult called the ‘Rockers’ who have untidy greasy long hair and wear leather jackets and jeans and ride large motorbikes. The two groups are known to have big battles at seaside towns on holiday weekends.

I don’t think Roger and Perce go out fighting, I’d never seen them with cuts and bruises, until I laid a few of them on the pair myself.

The boys seem pretty respectable. The government decriminalised homosexual acts for men aged twenty-one and over last year so it is perfectly legal for Roger and Perce to be sleeping in the same bed together.

They are mostly good tenants, although they sometimes come home in the early hours and disturb us with their scooters; or they play their music a bit too loud. But, all young people do that; my own sons were the same.

I do have one big problem with them: they don’t pay the rent. Or more accurately, they are late payers, or sometimes they only pay part of what they owe. There is no excuse: they both have good jobs at the John Lewis department store: Roger’s in men’s out-fitting and Perce is in soft furnishings. Between them they earn more than enough to afford the rent I charge.

But, instead of paying rent, they prefer to spend their money on sharp clothes and their motor scooters. I genuinely have lost count of the number of times I have asked them to pay up and the number of broken promises they have made to me.

So, I lost patience with them. They might be twenty-one-year-old adults but they still needed to be taught a lesson in responsibility. All I was asking was that they paid the rent before they spent the rest of their money on their luxuries.

They needed a short sharp shock to pull them up a little, and I knew exactly how I was going to do that.

They are not evil like Sterling, so it would not be right to flog them with the knotted cane I used to rip his backside to shreds. Instead, I collected a stout senior rattan cane from my large collection at school. It was the same one that I used on the five eighteen-year-old rugby players who disgraced the school by getting drunk after a match one weekend. It packs a great punch, especially when I am the one wielding it.

Of course, at school I was only allowed to administer a maximum of six strokes per boy and then only on the seat of his trousers. But in my flats I make the rules, so Roger and Perce were to get twelve each on the bare buttocks.

I gave the boys one last chance to pay me what I was owed. All I got were promises in return; the same as the last time I asked and the time before.

They didn’t seem surprised when I announced I was going to cane them. Nobody in the flats had ever spoken to me about the thrashing Sterling received, but I think my tenants knew what had happened.

I launched into a prepared speech. They could get the cane or they could leave the flats; and whatever they chose to do they would still have to pay me the rent. Leaving the flat was not an option; the law on homosexual acts might have changed, but gays could still be sacked from their jobs or thrown out of their homes. If the boys left my flat they would find it almost impossible to find another place where they could be together.

But, I didn’t want that. I wanted my rent money and if putting a whippy rattan cane across their naked arse cheeks got me that, I would be satisfied.

Meekly, both boys accepted the inevitable. I sent Perce to the kitchen, while I dealt with Roger. I had no idea if either of them had been caned before and I didn’t care. I intended to lay on a sharp dozen cuts that would leave even the most experienced receiver in agony. I was not, as our American cousins are apt to say, blowing smoke here.

Roger could not take his eyes of the cane as I swished a few practice stokes through the air. His trepidation was clear. He was not looking forward to this impending thrashing one little bit. Nervously, he lowered his trousers and pants and bent over the armchair.

He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth as rat-a-tat-tat I swiped six hard stingers across the crown of his buttocks. Then after a pause of twenty seconds to allow him and me to catch our breath, I whipped in another six, this time all in the under curve where the cheeks meet the thighs.

When he rose his eyes were blazing, but he successfully held back the tears. His face was deathly pale, but his neck was as scarlet as his buttocks.

I allowed him to dress and then ordered Perce to change places with him. I had always thought of Perce as a cute little mouse; he was short with dark brown eyes and sticking-out ears. Usually, he had a perpetual smile on his face; but not now.

I don’t know what was going through his head, but unbidden by me, he lowered his trousers and pants and almost threw himself across the chair in his eagerness to offer me his bottom. I had known schoolboys adopt the same attitude; they were arrogant in their belief that nothing I and my whippy cane could do would hurt them. I always disabused them of that idea.

I am pretty sure Perce had never been across a chair before for a caning. I had to instruct him to keep his head low, his bottom high and his legs apart. It took him several attempts before his body was positioned to my satisfaction.

Once he was positioned correctly, I rolled his shirt clear of his bottom. Picking up the cane I swished it a couple of times then stood to his left and gently tapped his pale buttocks. I lifted my arm to shoulder height then let the cane swish hard onto the naked cheeks. Perce gasped as the first stroke landed and he wriggled his bottom.

Perce’s compact but nicely rounded bottom had plenty of give. His chunky buttocks were first compressed by the force of the first blow before springing back as the cane was withdrawn ready for the second strike.

I was still new to the experience of beating boys on their naked bottoms, but I was beginning to see its advantages over caning on the trousers. I could see the strokes as they landed, enabling me to see where they struck, and if I was hitting too hard, or too weakly, to adjust my power.

The punishment on the bare was more painful and of course there was the added humiliation for the boy of having to lower his trousers and present his bottom submissively for the beating.

Perce was unable to contain his distress and gave out a series of loud shouts, not for mercy but simply to release the tension of the mounting agony in his beleaguered backside.

The next swipe propelled a lung-full of breath out of Perce’s mouth, and left him gasping and grunting inarticulately. The cane rose again and landed once more on almost the exact same spot, emptying the lad’s lungs for a second time.

“Last one, boy!” Try to take this one quietly please,” I requested with little sincerity as I cracked a deliberately extra hard stroke down, causing Perce to yell and stand up clutching at his battered bottom. I simply stared as he danced around clutching and kneading the burning flesh of his buttocks.

I brought the two tenants together and lectured them about fiscal responsibility: they must pay my rent. I did not say, but it was implied, that if the money was not forthcoming they would be back over the chair for another thrashing.


Roger stared at the ceiling, reliving the events from earlier in the day. If he missed a payment on his motor scooter and delayed buying that Italian suit he so craved, he should be able to pay off his rent arrears. No way did he want to go back over that chair, he thought as he caressed the scars on his buttocks.

Perce beside him was stirring. In his dream, he was in what he imagined was Mr Higgins’s oak-paneled study at the grammar school. The schoolmaster was dressed in an academic gown and he wore a mortar-board on his head. In his hand he swished a cane. Perce, was unbuckling the snake belt of his short grey flannel trousers before lowering them and then his sparkling-white underpants to his ankles, prior to bending forward to touch his toes.


Higgins replaced the telephone receiver in its cradle and stared through the window into the darkness outside. It was an intriguing idea and it might just work. But, he did not even know the boy; it had nothing to do with him. It was probably best to leave him alone.

The call had been from Professor Ambrose from Brocklehurst University. Higgins had known Ambrose for thirty years or more, since as a boy the professor had been a pupil at St Francis and Higgins a junior master. Higgins could not be certain but he fancied Ambrose might have been the first boy he had ever caned: the first in a very long line of proffered buttocks that stretched across three decades. The very thought of it made Higgins feel old.

Ambrose was now among other things a senior tutor at the university with responsibility for the pastoral wellbeing of students. He had a problem, he had told Higgins in the phone call and it was a problem he felt certain Higgins could solve for him.

It was Baxter, a first-year student who was going off the rails and if drastic action was not taken immediately the eighteen-year-old boy would become a train wreck.

The story was simple; Baxter had arrived at university after a successful career at a very traditional school; Higgins would know the type, Ambrose assured him. He was, of course, referring to St Francis: traditional classes, traditional sports, traditional religion and above all, traditional discipline. But, at university Baxter had let things slip; seduced by the high-life of Brocklehurst he was neglecting his studies by spending too much time in coffee bars and chasing after girls.

Back home, in his small town in Scotland, Baxter’s widowed mother continued to scrimp and save and neglect herself to pay for her son’s university education.

Baxter had one last chance, Ambrose had said. He could re-sit his examinations in two months’ time, but to be able to pass, he would need to knuckle down to some hard work. Baxter needed an incentive; the knowledge of his poor widowed mother’s sufferings would not do the trick. Baxter would not work hard on his own; he lacked self-discipline. That was where Higgins came in. Would he take the boy under his wing and impose the discipline that Baxter lacked?

Universities faced a problem when disciplining students: there was not much they could do. Young people were not legally adults until they reached the age of twenty-one, so university staff acted in ‘loco parentis,’ that is the university stood in for their parents. But, that only went so far: a professor could not give a boy a damn good hiding when he needed it. Ambrose and some of his senior colleagues lamented that the university had no regulation that permitted them to use corporal punishment. If somebody had swished a cane across Baxter’s backside the first time he skipped a tutorial or failed to hand in an essay, he would not be in this mess.

Higgins sympathized with Ambrose. He had married late to a woman twenty years his junior and his youngest son Horatio was still at university. Higgins hoped the boy’s professors would show the same concern for him if he was not performing. Indeed, if Higgins found out Horatio was slacking, he would take the boy across his knee for a bared-bottomed encounter with the hairbrush: twenty years old or not.

Higgins continued to stare through the window, rain was softly falling and soon there would be a heavy downpour. The room had darkened, but he did not switch on a light. In his mind he weighed up the possibilities.

He had an empty room since Sterling had moved out suddenly; he could easily accommodate Baxter. If the boy accepted the new regime, it would not be too difficult to draw up a kind of contract concerning curfews, deadlines for completing homework and general behaviour about drinking and smoking. The penalty for breaking the contract would be corporal punishment. Higgins knew from a lifetime’s career in school-mastering that corporal punishment worked; he had no doubts about that and it would work with Baxter.

Higgins thought about the boy’s widowed mother and the sacrifices she had made for her son. Higgins owed it to her to save the boy. The boy had lacked a father figure growing up; perhaps now, he could be the father that the boy needed.

Yes, he decided, tomorrow he would call Ambrose and say he would take on the case.

Two days later Alexander Baxter, aged eighteen, first-year university student, stood impassively in the front room of Higgins’ flat. His new landlord had just helped him move his belongings from the university hostel. Higgins noted with dismay the boy had a portable gramophone and a number of records, but no books. To Higgins that summed up the boy’s problem.

Higgins eyed the boy, he was only a few months older than the sixth-formers at his school, but he looked as if he had visited from another planet. His expensively-styled hair flopped over his collar and he wore the tightest multi-coloured ‘tank top’ pullover imaginable. His trousers were equally as tight at the waist and across the buttocks, but the legs flared down into ‘bell bottoms’ that left folds of cloth covering his wet-look shoes.

Higgins had a lecture prepared, but the boy was not listening. Baxter had endured an embarrassing meeting with his professor and he already knew the score. He had not been too surprised when the subject of corporal punishment was raised: he was used to feeling the sting of leather across the palms of his hands. He had last received a beating only a few months previously, when in his final week at school he had let his guard down and had been caught smoking. He was a chronic smoker, but was rarely caught. The two-tailed taws was in everyday use at his old school, but he had thought he had left it behind when he moved to university.

He also knew that punishment by leather strap across the palms was almost unheard of in England. Here the preferred method of punishment was three feet of flexible rattan administered with some force across the seat of a boy’s trousers. Baxter did not like the idea of that one little bit.

However, the boy decided, it was all academic. He was not stupid; he knew he was in danger of expulsion. He was letting himself down and, yes, his mother also. He also had a strange feeling he might be letting Prof Ambrose down as well. He did not know why it was but his senior tutor appeared to be taking a strong interest in him. Baxter was not the only slacker student in his year, but he was the only one to be given this last chance.

Higgins completed his lecture.

“Well, Alexander?”

The boy started. He had not been listening. Had the old man asked him a question?

“Were you listening to me?”

Baxter’s blush confirmed he had not.

“Doh!” Higgins was losing patience with the boy. The sooner he spanked his backside black and blue the better.

Higgins had thought about it a lot over the previous two days. The boy needed a new discipline regime to make sure he behaved well and worked hard in future. But, he could not be allowed to get away with his past slacking. He would need to be spanked immediately, so that he understood why he was here and what his failings were.

Higgins had concluded it would be a spanking and not a caning. Higgins believed in the efficacy of corporal punishment and had no compunction in caning the boys at school, but he used a different method at home.

He had always spanked his sons on their bare bottoms while they lay (or in their younger days were held forcibly) across his knees. This was the appropriate way for a loving father to discipline his sons. At school a beating was more bureaucratic; the boys broke a rule and the regulation stated they should be beaten on the bottom with a cane (“on the seat as normally clothed”, as the instruction from the Department of Education had it). In that way the punishment of the boy by the schoolmaster was quite literally at arm’s length. But, a parental spanking was more intimate. It was almost an act of love with father and son in close proximity with the boy’s bared bottom bouncing across the man’s legs.

Higgins wanted to be a father to Baxter, or Alexander as he would call him, and he would treat him like a son from the very start. He had used a very heavy hairbrush on his own sons, but his wife had taken that when she left. Undeterred, he had visited the Co-operative Retail Store that morning and purchased a large oval-shaped clothes brush that would make a very fine substitute.

“I said Alexander that you will have to be spanked. You are to take down your trousers and your underpants and bend across my knee.”

Baxter’s impassive look cracked and Higgins could see the boy had not been prepared for this.

“I thought Professor Ambrose had explained …” Higgins let the sentence tail off.

“Yes, but …” Baxter was no better at completing his sentences.

“Perhaps you need time to think it over. I do not want to make you do anything that you do not agree to. If you want to stay here with me you will have to accept that I am going to spank you on your bare bottom for all your misbehaviour since you came to Brocklehurst. You must also understand that I will use corporal punishment on you in the future if you do not abide by our contract.

“If you do not want to do this, you may leave and return to the university hostel. But, you should know that in all probability you will fail your examinations and be sent down from the university.”

Baxter was perplexed. He understood corporal punishment and had received it many times at school, every boy did, it was that kind of school. Professor Ambrose had told him he would be subjected to it if he continued to break the rules, but he had not been expecting to be punished for his past actions. But, he understood it made sense that he should be.

Yes, he concluded he deserved to be punished, but not in this way. He expected the strap on his hands, or since this was England, the cane across his bum. But, this old man expected him to take down his trousers and pants and bend across his lap so he could spank his bare buttocks like he was eight years old.

Higgins was reasonableness itself. “I can give you until tomorrow morning to make up your mind. Then, you must either take your spanking or leave.”

I spent the most fretful night. I did not know what to do and I had no one to turn to. I couldn’t go back to my pals at the varsity and tell them what was happening: I’d be a laughing stock. I’m getting my bare little botty smacked. Wah! Wah! Wah!. I’d never hear the end of it.

I stayed in my room all night. It was a great room, much bigger than at the university hostel, with its own little cooker and wash basin. Higgins was going to charge me the same rent as at the university: it was a great bargain. I’d fallen on my feet, except for the very sore bum I had to suffer.

I unpacked my things. At the bottom of my bag were the pyjamas my mother had bought me on the eve of my departure from home. She said my others were a disgrace and I couldn’t be seen dead in them. I don’t know who she thought would see me in my pyjamas. They were a cheap pair, they were all she could afford, made of flannelette with blue-and-white stripes. They could have been worse; the last ones she bought for me had designs of football players all over them. I had never worn the new pyjamas. I considered myself ‘grown up’ now and preferred to sleep in only my underpants, even on very cold nights.

As I unpacked the pyjamas I realised how much I missed my mother. She loved me so much and made so many sacrifices for me. And, how had I repaid her? I went out on the town as often as I could and neglected my studies. Soon I would be sent down from the university and the shame of that would break her heart.

It was not that I was unintelligent, I was brighter than average. When I bothered to do any studying I found it quite easy and I scored good grades. The thing was I was lazy: Professor Ambrose had spotted that. I was my own worst enemy; I had no self-discipline.

I stripped off my fashionable clothes and pulled on the pyjama bottoms. The flannelette material was thick and soft. I didn’t think they still made flannelette pyjamas; surely, the fashion was for cool cotton.  Then I put on the jacket. It was a bit too big for me and when I glanced at myself in the mirror I looked like the small child I had until recently been. I couldn’t help it and I dissolved into tears.

After that, it was an easy decision to make. I had let my mother down and I had let myself down. I was the luckiest boy alive; I was being given a second chance. The next morning, despite the intense humiliation I would suffer, I would let the old man take me over his knee and spank my bare bum.

I think Higgins was surprised when the next morning I knocked on his door and he opened it to see a remorseful pyjama-clad teenager. The jim-jams symbolised to me that I was still not an adult and I needed to be reminded of that. I also thought somehow they represented my mother; they were the kind of clothes she would expect me to wear; not the fashionable cosmopolitan clothes I wore at university.

As I prepared to knock on the door one of the neighbours came by on the stairs; he was short and mouse-like, with shiny brown eyes and sticking-out ears. He beamed at me and I swear gave a wink as he hurried on his way. Something about him intrigued me and I hoped soon we would get to know each other better.

I did not have to say much to Mr Higgins. Once I told him I accepted his terms he was ready to get down to business. He walked to a sideboard, opened a cupboard and extracted a shiny light brown brush. The look on my face must have told him I had not expected this.

“You are too old for me to spank you with my hand, you wouldn’t feel a thing.” I swear he smiled when he said this. It wasn’t an unkind snarl; he was only stating a fact as he saw it. I had no way of knowing the truth of his statement, despite my beatings at school I had never been spanked on the bottom. My father had died when I was very young and my mother never laid a finger on me; not even when on the many occasions that I was spiteful and disrespectful to her. My Uncle Gordon, exasperated at my bad manners, had once threatened to take his belt to my backside if I did not stop giving my mother grief, but although I continued my shameful behaviour he never carried out his threat. I think my mother may have had a word with him.

Mr Higgins pulled a straight-backed armless dining room chair from beneath a table and placed it heavily in the centre of the room. Then, he sat down and spread his legs by maybe two or three feet. In doing so he had created a perfect platform for me to bend across his lap.

I had been awake half the night visualising this scene. I had determined that I would not make a fuss; I would ‘take it like a man.’ But, now the moment had arrived I was not so sure that I could be brave. The thought of taking down my trousers and exposing my private parts to a stranger (to anyone, really) filled me with horror. And, then to lie across his lap and show him my bare buttocks with the crack and everything was beyond any humiliation I had ever endured in my life.

I had not even started to think about the pain I would suffer. The strap whistling down across the palm of the hand had been agonising and I doubted that a beating on the bottom could be worse.

“Come here Alexander,” Mr Higgins’ tone was gentle and in a way that I couldn’t quite understand, this calmed me.

He reached his hand out and gently took the elbow of my right arm. Before I knew it he had guided me across his lap and I found myself face down staring at a dusty and slightly worn carpet. My feet were a little above the ground and my middle was resting on the plateau Mr Higgins had created with his open legs.

Instinctively, I tried to cover my buttocks with my hand, but found that Mr Higgins had positioned me so far forward that it was physically impossible for me to do this. I was soon to discover that Mr Higgins was an expert spanker and he knew how to place a naughty boy across his knees for maximum impact.

I was still wearing my pyjama bottoms, but any hope I retained that this would not by a spanking on the bare was dashed when he gripped the elasticated waist and slowly eased them down over my buttocks as far as my thighs. Then he raised my jacket away from the target area so that I was naked from my shoulders to almost my knees. I did not realise it at the time, but my new master had deliberately spared me the humiliation of taking down my trousers and exposing my genitals to him.

z used otk pyjamas chair sting (16)

I felt a movement in Mr Higgins’ body: he was making his final preparations. Then: I had never experienced such a concentration of pain in my life. The brush crashed down into the centre of my left buttock; I exhaled so quickly that it seemed that I had no more breath in my body. Before I could gulp fresh air into my lungs, the brush landed with equal ferocity on my right buttock. Then it hit the left cheek again; and then the right. Then the left. Over and over again, he whacked his brush into my fleshy globes. There was no let-up; he set up a steady rhythm, spanking each cheek on and on.

My legs kicked out involuntarily and I wriggled my body to the left and right. I must have looked as if I was trying to do the crawl stroke at swimming. But, I was going nowhere: Mr Higgins had me securely gripped around the waist and the angle of my upper body across his knee was so acute that I had no means of escape. I had no choice: I had to lie there face down, bared bottom high, and let Mr Higgins spank the living daylights out of me. When he was satisfied I had suffered enough, and only then, would he release me.

I don’t know how many times he whacked that heavy brush into my buttocks but when it was eventually over and, back in my room, I inspected the damage in the mirror, I could see every square inch of my buttocks from the top where the spine is, across the fleshy globes, into the under curves, where the cheeks meet the thighs and the tops of the thighs themselves, were a mass of dark blue and mauve bruises. At the edges of the cheeks I could clearly see the oval shape of the brush imprinted into my flesh.

From the first whack to a long time after the final wallop hit home I was gagging for breath. I think the fact that I was gasping for air stopped me yelling and screaming with the pain. I was crying copious tears. I had never cried when I got the strap: boys never did. We were allowed to yelp with the pain; that was something we could not control, but any boy who blubbed would have been treated badly. The boys would have called them ‘girls.’ or even something much worse.

Eventually, Mr Higgins released his grip and allowed me to stand. He averted his eyes, so as not to see my cock, as I tugged my pyjama bottoms up. The pain was intense, but even as I stood hopping from foot to foot in front of the man who had punished me, it was turning to a throb that very soon would become a warm glow. I had suffered one heck of a spanking, but Mr Higgins was not a brutal man.

He smiled as I rubbed away at my bum.

“Will I need to do that again?” It was a gentle question. He did not seem to be a demented, angry man.

“No, Sir,” I sniffed. I meant it too. The slate had been wiped clean. I had been punished for all my misdemeanours since I had arrived at Brocklehurst. It was now up to me. Once I had been given time to recover from my spanking Mr Higgins and I sat down (me, gingerly) to agree a contract of behaviour. If Mr Higgins had cause to assault my backside again, I would only have myself to blame.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

Other stories you might like

A maintenance spanking

Father Must Be Obeyed

The terrible twins



More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second