Horny as hell

twosome metro Michael Mitchell

Jack’s arse throbbed madly. The hard metal seat on the subway train reignited the pain every time he moved. So he shifted from one buttock to the other; then back again. It felt rather pleasant.

Fifteen minutes earlier he had left Uncle Colin’s flat. Three dozen lashes with the two-tailed leather taws had battered his backside. His cock was still stiff, raging against the tightness of his underpants, craving to be set free. Demanding release.

Jack could still smell Uncle Colin’s kitchen. He lived in a small “housing association” flat on the seventeenth floor of a tower block. The lift always smelt of piss. The flat wasn’t much better. It wasn’t urine that stank the place out, it was old cooking fat. Uncle Colin made a packet of lard last a lifetime.

The kitchen was small. You could hardly swing a cat in there, but you could swipe a leather strap. It just about held a dilapidated gas cooker, a fridge that could never be silent, and a tiny Formica-topped table.

Uncle Colin was an older man, old enough to be Jack’s father. Perhaps here, I ought to explain that “Uncle” Colin wasn’t really Jack’s uncle; he was in no way related, by blood or otherwise. He was uncle in name only and then for only the few minutes they spent together in the flat, on most Sunday nights.

Jack wasn’t even certain the old man’s name was truly Colin. Uncle Colin was the name he used on boyzblazingbutts, the website where they had hooked up. Man seeks nephew for spanking sessions was the sum total of the personal ad. That and a vague location. It was a short journey on the underground from Jack’s bed-sitting room. What could be better?

Jack got off being spanked. He had just turned twenty and if there was one thing he knew without doubt it was that spanking was better than any drug he had ever taken. Ecstasy for jack wasn’t a small pill and a bottle of designer water, it was offering up his arse – preferably bare – to an older, dominant man.

The train rattled into a station, the platform was heaving with people, his carriage quickly filled. He let his eye wander, searching for the perfect cock. He was as horny as hell. He always was after Uncle Colin. In his mind’s eye he saw the old man, dressed as usual in cavalry twill trousers and a beige cardigan. He always wore a white cotton shirt (although it was clearly fraying at the collar) and a navy blue tie, tightly knotted. Jack had no idea if this was Uncle Colin dressed in his “Sunday best”. He had never seen him at any other time of the week.

Jack knocked on the front door and waited respectfully for Uncle to answer. He was getting on in years, but he was still an energetic man; he stood no more than five-eight, but his back was straight and despite the obvious paunch straining beneath the buttons of his cardigan, he cut an imposing figure.

“Go wait in the kitchen,” it was a firm instruction. Uncle was always in charge. Jack had no idea how the visit would pan out. Last time he had been whipped with a swishy rattan school cane. Two dozen bare. Bent across the back of the threadbare sofa in the sitting room. He still had faint marks.

Jack shuffled into the kitchen and waited contritely. Uncle Colin was taking his time. Jack heard him open a door to the bedroom, then creaking footsteps. Suddenly, the old man appeared in the doorway, hands hidden behind his back.

“Well, young Jack,” he intoned. “Misbehaving again.” It was a statement, not a question. “You naughty boy.” He let the word naughty roll around his mouth, stretching it out. Then, like a magician revealing a bunch of flowers, he brandished the leather taws.

Jack’s eyes widened. He had never seen such a thing before. It was about fourteen inches long and made of brown leather, worn down by use. Uncle Colin gripped the handle and let the business end dangle in mid-air. Then, once he was certain he had the young man’s full attention, he swished the two tails of leather through empty space. It was a terrific whoosh as it flew.

“So, Jack,” Uncle Colin stated grimly, “I hear you have been drinking alcohol to excess. Your mother tells me you were late up for work on Wednesday.”

Jack stood, head bowed, contrite, staring at the faded lino beneath his feet. It was all fiction. None of it was true. Uncle Colin wrote the script. Jack didn’t give a stuff, as long as he ended up with a raw bum.

“Sorry, Uncle,” he whispered, for want of any other response.

“Sorry,” the old man sneered. “You always say you’re sorry, naughty boy, but you never improve your behaviour.”

Jack held his hands behind his back and linked his fingers. He shuffled from one foot to another, still staring sheepishly at the floor. It was, he hoped, the perfect naughty boy pose.

“You leave me no choice,” Uncle Colin caressed the leather strap and then smacked it into the palm of his left hand. “I’m going to have to spank you.”

Oh good, Jack thought, he’s getting on with it. It wasn’t always the case, Uncle Colin would sometimes draw out the role play. Really, all Jack wanted was to get his trousers and pants down.

“Stand there,” Uncle Colin scowled, pointing to spot in front of the kitchen table with his taws. Heart pounding and not at all reluctantly. Jack took up position. “I want you to take down your shorts,” Uncle Colin spoke calmly. He ran his tongue across his lips as without warning they had dried.

He watched intently as the twenty-year-old hitched his thumbs into the waistband of his tight cotton sport shorts. Slowly, Jack lowered them over his crotch and buttocks until they snagged at his muscular thighs. He waited a moment before parting his legs a little to let them slither past his knees and shins to rest on his Nike shoes. Uncle Colin made some saliva in his mouth and washed his lips again.

Jack’s shorts were so short that he could only really wear briefs beneath them. They fitted snugly and revealed the young man’s penis was uncut. “Take them down,” Uncle Colin’s instruction came as a croak.

Slowly, Jack peeled the tight cotton down. His cock was hardening, but it was far from stiff. Uncle Colin had seen Jacks cock and arse before, but nonetheless he took time to admire the long penis. “Bend over.”

Jack lifted his t-shirt so his midriff was bare and leaned forward. It was a warm evening but the hard Formica felt cold against his bare skin. It was a tiny table and Jack had to wriggle around to find comfort. He much preferred going over the back of the sofa; his body fitted perfectly. Or, of course, his personal favourite, draped over Uncle Colin’s lap, face an inch or so above the ground, feet hovering in mid-air and his bare bum delightfully positioned.

The table was low and since he wanted to lay with his stomach and chest across its top he had to bend his knees a little. He folded his arms in front of himself and buried his face in them. He was now submissively in position, arse bared and waiting for Uncle’s administrations. He was at the old man’s mercy.

Jack couldn’t see Uncle Colin make his preparations. He tested the taws by holding it over his shoulder so that the tails tapped against the small of his back. Then I arced it up and forward, making sure it would not hit the ceiling when he tried to lash it down. It cleared with a couple of inches to spare.

Satisfied on his height, he then tested his distance, standing three feet, then two feet from the edge of the Jack’s bare arse. He intended that the taws should lash the naughty boy in the very centre of his two mounds. It look a little practice, but soon he had the aim correct.

He raised the leather strap across his shoulder and brought it crashing down into Jack’s firm globes. The crack! sounded like pistol fire in the small room. Jacks body absorbed the lash and he sucked on his bare arm making trickles of salvia drip from the corner of his mouth.

With the second lash the strap curled itself viciously over the exposed buttocks and unfurled into the meaty backside. Jack’s body jerked. His throat tightened.

It only took three or four lashes of the two-tailed taws to cover the entire area of his now reddening buttocks. Sunset stripes adorned his mounds and already purplish bruises were forming.

Jack gasped as without mercy Uncle Jack snapped another six hard stingers across the very centre of his buttocks. One after the other in quick succession. Rat-tat-tat, it sounded like machinegun fire. Uncle Jack stopped and rested the leather on the very apex of the boy’s bare curves. The sound of the strap against naked flesh was intense, the walls of the flat were so thin he feared his neighbour might hear. What the hell, he thought, he couldn’t stop now. Not yet.

He curled the strap over his shoulder. Jack braced himself for a further onslaught of controlled and accurate lashes. Uncle Colin found his rhythm as the lashes embedded themselves harder and harder into bare flesh.

Jack chewed his arm and rivulets of saliva dripped from his mouth. Despite Uncle’s best efforts, Jack was taking his whipping stoically. Stepping back Uncle Colin snapped the leather down again as hard as he could.

After three dozen exemplary lashes, Uncle Colin was exhausted, his face almost as red as Jack’s arse. Sweat drenched the back of his shirt and his temples ached. “It’s over. You can get up now,” Uncle Colin intoned. Jack lay still gulping in air, he knew it wasn’t yet the time to rise. Uncle Colin slowly exited the kitchen and when Jack heard the bathroom door open and close, he sprang to his feet rubbing his savaged arse furiously. His aching cock pointed at the ceiling. His head was remarkably clear. Twisting his body, Jack admired his burning buttock cheeks. Once again, Uncle Colin had done a fine job. He pressed his fingers into his flesh. The agony had gone and soon, he knew from experience, the pain would turn into a throbbing that he could reignite in the coming hours by applying pressure to his bum. He reached down and with difficulty got his tight cotton briefs over his raging cock. Then, he pulled up his shorts. They were so tight he could not disguise his erection.

He moved to the front door. It was time to go. He and Uncle never spoke after a spanking. Jack assumed he was locked in the bathroom tossing himself off. That was OK with Jack. He craved to be spanked by older men but the thought of having sex with them made his stomach churn. Sorry, but that’s how God made him.

He walked a little gingerly to the lift and made his way to the subway station.

Now, he sat in a crowded carriage, his erection still obvious through the tight cotton sport shorts. Directly in front of him stood a large muscular man, in a cut down vest and tight sweat pants. He was so close Jack couldn’t avoid looking at him, even if he wanted to. Which he didn’t because the bulge in the front of the man’s trousers was inviting.

Jack clenched his fist and sucked on it; he couldn’t stop staring. The ache inside his briefs was intense. Emboldened by the adrenaline rush from the spanking, he spread his legs wide and his cock rose like an Exocet missile. The man’s eyes glazed, he leaned towards Jack and whispered, “You got someplace where we can go?”

Picture credit: Michael Mitchell

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Two for the taws

z used sitting room by Leyendecker (59)

“Finlay! MacDonald!” Colonel MacIntosh leaned through the open window and bellowed at the two youngsters practising their golfing putts on the lawn. “Come to the sitting room at once!” His ruddy complexion betrayed his fury.

Finlay gripped his golf club tightly and exchanged a doleful glance with his cousin.  They had been expecting a summons; they had just hoped it wouldn’t come so soon.

“At once!” I say. Col. MacIntosh glared at his son and nephew and clenched his fist, his rage increasing with every moment.

“Coming father!” Finlay let the club fall to the immaculately-cut grass and without waiting for MacDonald he hurried towards the house. History had taught him never to keep the colonel waiting. He paused on the top stone step in front of the entrance and looked over his shoulder.

“C’mon Mac,” he whispered, “Let’s get this over with.”

MacDonald’s freckled face darkened. That blasted vicar, he left the words unspoken. Why couldn’t he mind his own business?

It wasn’t the vicar’s fault. The two eighteen year olds had nobody to blame but themselves. The Three Fishers Hotel was a notorious den of iniquity. The whole community knew that. That was why it was so popular with under-aged drinkers and good-time Charlies. Ladies (and some gentlemen too) of easy virtue were known to frequent its back bar.

Refreshed by a couple of lunchtime pints of beer, Finlay and MacDonald left the hostelry to return to MacIntosh Lodge, the family retreat. Only to, almost quite literally, bump into Rev. Macwhirter on his bicycle. They had been caught in the act. There was no mitigation to give. So, they legged it.

It was a small community, everyone knew each other’s business. They could be no escaping the consequences of the illicit pub visit. Nor, was there to be.

Col. MacIntosh paced the large drawing room. “Just wait until those scallywags get here,” he said aloud, although he was quite alone in the room. He bit deep into his bottom lip, a habit he had when angry.

Outside in the passageway, Finlay and MacDonald were faced with a closed door. What to do? Should they simply turn the handle, open the door and enter? This was their home, after all.

“Wait,” MacDonald commanded brusquely. The teenager was a frequent visitor to his headmaster’s study; he knew there was a certain etiquette with these things. “We should knock first.”

Finlay’s look of incredulity went unheeded. MacDonald balled his right hand into a fist and rapped it against the wood panelling. The silence was intense. Had his uncle not heard? He thought he had knocked pretty hard. He was debating with himself whether to knock again, when an imperious command resonated from within the room, “Enter!”

Suddenly aware that his hand was shaking, MacDonald turned the handle and pushed open the heavy door.

Col. MacIntosh was an imperious figure dressed for summer in a crumpled linen suit. He was a veteran of two Indian campaigns and his glare could fell a tiger at twenty paces. He stood straight as a ram-rod and gripped his hands behind his back.

“Stand there,” he nodded to a space close to an open window. It did not go unnoticed to the two miscreants that an armchair was conveniently placed nearby.

Finlay and MacDonald shuffled into place; eyes downcast. MacDonald could not persuade his hands to stop quivering. He gripped the legs of his trousers in a vain hope that would help. Finlay stood passively, sweat drenched his short ginger hair, it felt like someone had emptied a sponge full of water over his head. Freckles hid his beetroot face. His green eyes shone.

Col. MacIntosh was used to command. He was used to obedience and he never expected to explain himself. He spoke in short, sharp incomplete sentences. “Drinking. Three Fishers. Den of iniquity. Vicar. Warned before. Will not be tolerated.” The colonel shook his head furiously as he spat out the words.

This was not a court of law. Not even a court martial. The colonel had no wish to hear a defence. He proceeded straight to sentence.

“Finlay stand behind the chair. MacDonald face the wall.”

The colonel strode across the room towards a large wooden sideboard. Finlay stared intently; his heart pounding. Saliva drained from his mouth as he watched his uncle bend his knees so he could reach to a bottom drawer. He pulled it open and delved inside. Seconds later he was standing straight once more.

Finlay had no need to wait for his father to turn around to reveal what he had taken from the drawer. He knew well enough. It was a long thick leather strap, cut into three fingers at one end. It was a little over two-feet long and the business end was easily eighteen inches. He ran his dry tongue over cracked lips as his father tested the weight of the taws in his hand. This manoeuvre served little purpose, since the colonel was well aware of the capacities of the strap. He had had cause to use it often enough.

Col. MacIntosh sniffed the air, as if a sudden new pungent odour had entered the room. His eyes narrowed when he barked, “Trousers down. Underwear too!”

The command was not unexpected. His father always tanned on the bare, but Finlay could not stop his body reacting violently. Blood coursed through his body so that his ears hurt and his temples throbbed. His heartrate was off any scale a doctor might find acceptable. His eyes welled.

His belt was wide and heavy and at times like this difficult to loosen. Col. MacIntosh pah’d and bah’d as he waited impatiently for his son to obey his command. At last the trousers were open and the weight of the leather belt took the grey flannels to Finlay’s knee. He unbuttoned his woollen drawers and helped them down to meet his bags.

He stood naked from the waist down, conscious of a slight breeze from the open window cooling his cock and balls. The colonel swished the leather taws through the air; taking its measure. Finlay drew in breath; he wished the old man would just get on with it.

At last, the words he waited for were spoken, “Bend yourself over the chair.”

Finlay shuffled two or three steps to the chair. He paused and then in one athletic movement he dived over the back of the chair, his trousers and underwear slithered to his feet when he spread his legs. The eighteen-year-old gripped the seat. It was an ugly armchair. Finlay had always though so and he had seen it like this at close quarters many times. It was covered in the same material as the curtains. He doubted it had ever been cleaned. The material was worn and greying where so many pairs of buttocks had rested.

He felt his father take hold of his white cotton shirt and tug it forcefully up his back, ensuring that he was now naked from his shoulders to his ankles. The colonel stood back to admire his charge. Finlay was a short lad, no more than five-feet-seven. His build was athletic, he ran cross country for the school and was a keen golfer. Parts of his body were ruddy from the fierce Scottish winds that blew, even in summer.

“Legs further apart.”

Finlay shuffled his compliance. His crack widened and his hole was clearly visible. The colonel’s brow furrowed. It should not look like that. But, the colonel was a man of the world, he knew well enough what went on in school dormitories and army barracks.

He rested the three fingers of leather across his son’s buttocks. They were firm, pert cheeks. The taws covered most of them. He drew his arm back, twisted his body and crashed the taws across Finlay’s backside. He was rewarded by three livid pink stripes and a hissing sound that sounded like a steam engine settling down.

The colonel was a keen golfer and he knew how to put maximum force into a swing. The leather struck home again; this time a little lower. Already, after only two swipes, the whole of Finlay’s bum was glowing red hot.

MacDonald watched, his own heart thumping against his chest. The tanning looked severe, but his cousin seemed to be taking it well. He doubted he could be so stoical under the colonel’s lash. It was a cute bum, MacDonald had often admired it, especially now, naked and stretched over the back of an armchair.

A third and a fourth cut flogged across Finlay’s buttocks, welts started to appear where one stroke landed on top of a previous one. The teenager wriggled and stamped his feet up and down. His flesh was scalded, it felt like someone had poured the contents of a teapot over his bum.

Col. MacIntosh paused in his efforts. The room was close and muggy and sweat built up under the armpits of his linen jacket. In one athletic movement he had it off his shoulders and resting on a table. Thus, loosened up he prepared to continue with his duty. Twelve lashes fell in total. No part of Finlay’s buttocks was left unpunished. Vivid red stripes criss-crossed his cheeks and one burned into the back of his thigh. That would teach him to keep still for his whipping.

The teenager’s eyes blazed. This had been some whopping. His father had swiped his leather strap across his cheeks with so much force it was like he was beating a carpet. The wind had been knocked out of Finlay, he gasped air into his lungs and hacked a dry cough.

MacDonald stood transfixed. Finlay’s beautiful bum had been savaged by the beating. From where he was it seemed to glow like a lantern. He watched his cousin slowly rise from the chair. As Finlay bent to retrieve his drawers, his crack and hole widened. In seconds he was fully dressed and shuffling across the room to stand beside his pal.

“Your turn MacDonald,” Col. MacIntosh swished the leather through the air, pointing it in the general direction of the chair.

“B…” the teenager started to protest, but stopped himself short. There was nothing he could say. He must submit himself for punishment. He clenched his eyes shut tightly. This would be too mortifying. He was aware of Finlay behind him, still hopping from one foot to the other as the agony in his buttocks turned to a constant throbbing.

This was too humiliating. What would Col. MacIntosh think? Jesus what would Finlay think?

“Quickly, boy,” Col. MacIntosh’s glare stunned the teenager. He stepped forward uneasily and stood behind the garish armchair. Col. MacIntosh huffed his displeasure at being kept waiting. Scarlet of face, MacDonald unfastened his trousers.

At first Finlay gasped, then he cackled laughter. His cousin’s cock stood at fall salute. A deep-blue vein ran along the shaft from the balls to the tip and cum dribbled onto his underwear.


Picture credit: J. C. Leyendecker


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Charles Hamilton the Second



Taming Timothy

z used taming timothy (27)

Young men need order and discipline. They know they do. Indeed, they crave it.

That might sound unlikely if the only young men you know are the ones who get bladdered at weekends and spew their guts up on the pavements of our town and city centres. Or, the louts who hang around bus stops smoking weed and abusing innocent passers-by.

There are many – too many – young men like that around. But, they can’t help themselves. They have never been taught how to behave, to have self-respect and how to make something of themselves. I blame society – that’s you and me. It’s our fault for not guiding the young and disciplining, and let’s face it, punishing them when they needed it.

I hadn’t thought much about this until quite recently. Like you perhaps I thought it was all the fault of the young men themselves. Then, I discovered the Society for the Betterment of Offenders (SOBOFF). They soon put me straight and taught me that as a responsible citizen, I could make a difference in a young man’s life. If only, I would commit myself to the cause.

That’s where Timothy came in. He had just turned twenty when SOBOFF put me on to him. I was to learn that his was a typical tale. He attended some bog-standard comprehensive school where the teachers were probably on as many drugs as the kids. I don’t suppose any of them noticed that by the age of fourteen he had stopped attending classes. He would hang around the city centre in the amusement arcades or at the street market where he would steal anything his sticky fingers could grab.

By the time he was eighteen he had a list of ASBOs as long as your arm. An ASBO? It’s a legal slap on the wrist. Apparently, it costs too much to take people to court, so they give them this official ‘telling-off’. I now know that Timothy needed more than a slap on the wrist. A raging red-raw backside was what he needed. He didn’t know that then, but he does now. And SOBOFF can take credit for that.

To start with we work in groups of three or four men. Until, he learns the values of submission a young man will resist any kind of punishment. At first, there is no point in ordering him to take down his trousers, and possibly his underpants too, and bend over the back of a sofa while you lay into his bared buttocks with a cane. He simply won’t comply. He hasn’t yet discovered how much he needs to be punished and just what benefits a stingy backside, coupled with a proper disciplined lifestyle, could afford him.

I first came across Timothy through Mr Dyer, a regional organiser for SOBOFF. He was rounding up a posse to give the twenty-year-old his first taste of punishment. Timothy had been found stealing from a garden shed in The Avenue, a rather upscale street in our town. He was high on weed and looking to steal something to pay for his habit. He picked the wrong shed – or the right one, depending on your viewpoint. The householder was a friend of Mr Dyer. They immediately recognised a soul in need of saving.

I wasn’t present at the initial meeting, but I have attended many similar ones since. In it, Timothy, now sober, was required to explain his actions. Why did he smoke weed? How did he live? What were his ambitions for the future? His answers ran something like this: Because I like it. He lived in a squat. He had no ambitions. He was ripe for SOBOFF.

SOBOFF’s mission statement (as it were) is about discipline. Self-discipline. But, before a young man could reach that exalted state, he had first to understand the connection between discipline and punishment. Timothy was about to have his first lesson.

We met in the home of Mr Walker. Timothy had been lodging there for a week or so. Things were not going well. Despite, the young man’s assurances that he would give up drugs and find himself a job, nothing had transpired.

“He needs a little encouragement,” Mr Dyer announced. “And we are just the ones to give it to him.”

Timothy tried to struggle, but it was pointless. Mr Dyer made a little speech about how Timothy was being give chances that many desperate young men like himself would die for. Timothy did not know how lucky he was. He was doubly-lucky because SOBOFF would not abandon him.

“You might not believe me now,” he said sternly, “But, one day you will thank us for this.”

I was surprised that Timothy was silent. We are so used to young men “mouthing off” in the streets and being rude and aggressive. I later learnt that was how louts behaved in groups. If you got them on their own in certain circumstances they could be very contrite.

This was such a circumstance. Timothy was outnumbered four to one.

Mr Dyer carried a large Marks & Spencer plastic carrier bag. It seemed almost empty, but Mr Dyer withdrew a strange-looking leather strap. It was about eighteen inches in length and three wide. There was a handle and the other end was cut into two tails. I had never seen anything like it before.

“They used these in schools in Scotland, in the good old days” Mr Dyer informed us as he practiced slashing it through the air. I could see it was a specially-made instrument. It could have no other use than for punishment. Unlike, say, a belt that could keep your trousers from falling down or a slipper that kept the feet warm.

Timothy blanched. I could see he contemplated flight. We were not so stupid. His exit from the dining room was blocked by two of us and Mr Dyer and myself were on hand to take part in a pursuit, should the boy manage to force his way through.

“We can do this the hard or the easy way,” Mr Dyer had made similar speeches many times before. He said Timothy could prepare himself for the thrashing to come and take it with modicum of dignity. I could see Timothy did not understand the word “modicum”, but we let that pass.

If he chose the other way, we would strip off all his clothes and manhandle him naked face-down across the dining room table. Either way, Timothy’s bared buttocks were to be tawsed. Of that, the lad was left in no doubt.

I got to know Timothy very well over the coming months and years. He was a good boy who had lost his way. We – all of us – had deserted him and countless like him. That day with Mr Dyer was the start of his rebirth.

He didn’t submissively offer up his bared bum to the crack of the leather, but neither did he make much resistance. He wore a bright-green tee-shirt and those polyester leisure pants that have elasticated waists. It took nothing for us to take an arm each and force him over the dining room table. He struggled, but to me it seemed half-hearted. Token resistance. With the twenty-year-old prostrate and held firmly, it was no problem for me to grip the waist of his trousers and tug them down to his knees. His boxer shorts came part the way with them, snagging at the lower part of his buttocks.









I expected him to be hollering and yelling, but he remained calm. No neighbours would be disturbed that morning. Unheeded, I pulled the boxer shorts down until the buttocks, including the underside, were completely bare.

I stood back, my part in the proceedings were over. I had a terrific view of Timothy’s bare buttocks, his legs were parted just enough that I saw his ball sack dangling. His bottom was not bald, but the fine fair hairs covering it made it seem so. There was darker hair growing from the crack between the cheeks.

Timothy had a well-proportioned body, there was no spare fat on him anywhere. Perhaps, that was the consequence of drug-taking. We did not follow through on our threat to strip him naked. There was no practical reason to do that. His buttocks were perfectly presented and his thin tee-shirt had ridden half way up his back. I was surprised, and pleased, that he had no tattoos on his body. So many young people today cover themselves with garish images. I have a view that a person’s intelligence is inversely proportional to the amount of flesh covered with tattoos.

Timothy wiggled his bare bum in anticipation of the hurt to come. He had never been spanked before; more’s the pity since if he had been we would not have needed to thrash him that day.

Mr Dyer stood behind Timothy’s behind (so to speak) and raised the worn leather taws over his shoulder so that the two tails tapped against the small of his own back. Then, with an almighty swipe he brought it crashing down across Timothy’s left cheek. A deep pink line immediately formed in a north-to-south direction. The boy’s legs kicked out; he tried to break free but the grip of my two colleagues kept him firmly in place. I saw his head rise and shake, just as a horse does when it neighs.

While this was happening, Mr Dyer took up his position once more and delivered a penetrating swipe to the right cheek. Timothy now had parallel lines on his buttocks. From where I stood, they rather looked like railway tracks. He did the neighing thing again and gasped for air. His tousled, fairish hair was already soaked with sweat.

Even from my vantage point at the rear I could see the boy’s face was ghastly pale, yet the back of his neck was as scarlet as his hind quarters.

Mr Dyer was an expert. He brought the strap crashing down across the buttocks with such skill that each successive stroke landed a little to the side of the previous one. In that way, Timothy’s bottom soon glowed red-hot. Not a single square inch of flesh was left unscorched.

I am not sure how I expected a young man in such a situation to react. I suppose I anticipated tears at least, and probably screams and pleas for mercy. We got none of that from Timothy. When we released him, his eyes were awash, but no real tears flowed. He was deathly pale and by the way he was bent double, with his hands on his knees, I could tell he was desperately trying to suck in air. He was in terrible pain, but determined not to show it.

Two weeks after that first belting, Timothy moved in with me. I became his guardian and guiding hand. Although, “hand” had very little to do with the punishments I administered to him. Under my tutelage, he got a job filling shelves at a supermarket and he is studying part-time for a City & Guilds in plumbing. He is on the road for a successful life.

It is not all plain sailing. There are relapses. I am sure he is off the drugs now, but sometimes he skips college or misses a shift at work. We have a punishment ritual now. I send him to his room where he is required to strip down to his underwear. He waits submissively, head bowed and hands behind his back.

When I am ready, I take my heavy wooden clothes brush from the drawer in my sideboard. I make him detail his faults. He always finishes his little speech with the words, “I have let myself down and I deserve to be punished. Please spank me.”

I always reply, “Of course.”

Then, I sit on his bed. When I am comfortable, I nod at my knees. This is his cue. He puts his thumbs in the waistband of his underpants and sends them to a puddle at his feet. He steps out of them and now totally naked he places himself across my knee. His legs dangle at one end and his stomach and chest rest on the mattress. In this way, his smooth bared bottom rests at a perfect angle against my thigh.

I raise the heavy brush and whack it down with force into his backside. Twenty-four times. Never more. Never less.


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Charles Hamilton the Second



Their new house

z used hands (6)

Frankie and his boyfriend Hugo were in the sitting room surrounded by suitcases and cardboard boxes. Their first home together. What times they would have. Things would never be the same again.

They had been seeing each other for three years and now they were going to “the next level”, as Hugo put it. Frankie was fine with that. He wanted commitment; a wedding eventually. The whole nine yards.

Frankie was twenty-five and Hugo three years older. They loved each other; whatever “love” means. They were monogamous. Mostly. Frankie had once had a fling with a barman who worked in a straight pub near his parents’ house, but there was no need for Hugo to know that. Hugo didn’t stray too far; not for sex. He had other interests to consume him.

They had spent many nights together, weekends too, but they had never “lived together”. It would be a voyage of discovery.

They settled in quickly. It was a furnished house in an upscale part of town. Frankie was in advertising; Hugo, public relations. They did alright. But, The Avenue was anything but young and trendy. Their friends joked middle-age had consumed them.

But they both liked the house, even though the neighbours were a bit stand-offish. “They just lead staid, conformist lifestyles,” Frankie, who understood such advertising “demographics”, said with authority.

Hugo was preparing supper one evening when his boyfriend sauntered into the kitchen, a puzzled frown on his usually smiling face. “What’s this do you suppose, Hugo?” he asked. In his hand he held a worn strip of leather, cut into three pieces at one end.

“Oh, my word,” Hugo giggled. “Where did you find that?”

“In the cupboard under the stairs, it was hidden under some plastic sheets.”

Hugo reached forward and took the strap from his boyfriend. “You really don’t know what this is?” he enjoyed that for once he knew something more than Hugo.

“It’s a taws,” he said, and when the puzzlement on his pal’s face remained, he added, “Schoolmaster’s in Scottish schools used to use them.”

He couldn’t believe Frankie still did not understand.

“For beating,” he smiled. “Here, I’ll show you. Hold your hands out.”

“No way,” Frankie laughed nervously, he had begun to twig what Hugo meant.

Hugo saw his boyfriend’s face redden. “C’mon, I won’t really hurt you. Hold out your hand.”

“No,” Frankie pretended to pout. “Shan’t.” he shrugged his shoulders and turned his back on his partner.

“Do as you’re told boy,” Hugo’s rotten attempt at a Scottish accent made Hugo grin. “Come on, take it like a man.”

Uncertain, Frankie raised his right hand and held the palm up and to his side. Hugo grinned, “Not like that. Hold your hands out in front of you. Lay the right palm over the left,” he demonstrated. Still, unsure what would happen next, Frankie did as he was told.

Hugo fingered the worn leather strap. It was nearly two feet long and the “business end” was about three inches wide.

Hugo raised the strap and caressed Frankie’s palm with it. His boyfriend’s grey-blue eyes sparkled. “This is what happened. The schoolmaster would take the strap and whack it down across the boy’s palm.”

Frankie roared, “Owww!” as the leather hit home. “That hurt!” he roared and tucked his hand under his armpit. “Bloody hell, why did you do that!” He twisted his body as if in genuine pain.

“Don’t be a baby. I didn’t hit you that hard.”

Now, Frankie was licking the palm of his hand as if that would ease the pain. “Look,” he held up his hand to show Hugo the pale pink strip that decorated it.

“It’s not bad. The schoolmaster would have really thrashed it down. Then you’d have to change hands and by the time he was finished you would have had four, or even six strokes.” He watched his boyfriend distort his face comically. “On each hand,” Hugo laughed.

“Look at that,” Frankie grimaced and ran his index finger along the imprint the taws had left. “It hurts.”

Hugo pulled him forward, “You wimp,” he said, just before he slipped his tongue into his mouth.

Two days later, Frankie returned from work to an empty house. He went to the refrigerator for juice. As he put the carton away, he saw it from the corner of his eye. Unaccountably, his heart missed a beat. The taws hung on the wall from a plastic cup-hook.  He couldn’t resist. He leaned forward and released it. It was heavy and much of the leather was pitted and scarred. It had seen some action in its time. Whose was it, he wondered. Had a previous tenant been a Scottish schoolmaster? Surely not; they were hundreds of miles from the border, and corporal punishment had been outlawed before Frankie was born.

The weight of the taws intrigued him. If Hugo had been correct the strap would have been excruciatingly painful. He remembered the sting he felt when his boyfriend had tested it on him. He took hold of the handle, stretched out his left hand and gave himself a thwack across the palm. It hurt, but maybe not as much as when Hugo did it. He whacked it down again a little harder.

Hours later, supper eaten and glasses of wine consumed, the boys snuggled up on the couch. Frankie had been anxious to ask all evening, now would be a good time.

“The strap. On the wall. Why?” He didn’t need to speak in sentences, Hugo knew what his boyfriend meant.

“Well, young man,” Hugo cuddled Frankie more tightly. “I think we need to discuss your behaviour,” he said sweetly.

Frankie blushed. The wine and his passion for Hugo were playing havoc with his feelings. He said nothing, hoping Hugo would say more. He did. “I didn’t realise what a slut you were until we moved in together. You leave your clothes all over the place. You expect me to washup your dirty plates. What did your last slave die of?”

Hugo caressed Frankie’s cock. It rose and pressed against his tight briefs.

“So,” Hugo spoke quietly. He was serious. He needed his boyfriend to understand that. “If you don’t buck up your ideas a bit, young man, I think you know what the consequences will be.” He unzipped Frankie’s fly and inserted his fingers.

Next morning, Frankie rushed off to work, running late again. His breakfast bowl festered on the draining board; yesterday’s shirt and underpants lay on the floor by their bed. Hugo sighed and picked up his phone. His text message read: BOWL. CLOTHES. REMEMBER WHAT I SAID.

That evening, Frankie sat in the kitchen, sucking on a can of Coke, staring at the cereal bowl. His clothes remained untouched. Nervously, he paced the room. There was still thirty minutes before Hugo was due home. He sat, rubbed his palms and inspected them. All signs of his strapping had cleared. He went to the living room, slouched on the couch and surfed through satellite television.

Hugo walked into the room. They embraced. Hugo adored his boyfriend’s smell; always so fresh and boyish. He pulled away. He needed to check a thing or two. He left Frankie waiting. Frankie paced some more. Seconds passed, but it felt like hours to Frankie.

“Well don’t say you weren’t warned, young man.” Hugo let the worn leather taw dangle from his hand. He tap-tap-tapped it against his thigh as he spoke. He had been rehearsing his speech all day. The warning. Frankie’s disobedience. He only had himself to blame.

Frankie stood before his boyfriend, his eyes glistening, his heart thumping. His head was bowed. He held his hands behind his back. He couldn’t make himself look Hugo in the face.

“Do you remember how I told you to do this?” Hugo spoke reasonably, as if what was about to happen was the most natural thing in the world. Frankie’s face flushed to Hugo’s great delight. His boyfriend was adorable when embarrassed. It brought out the pigment in his skin and the colour of his eyes.

“Look at me.”

Reluctantly, Frankie raised his head.

“Hold out your hands in front of you. One palm on top of the other.”

A moustache of moisture soaked Frankie’s top lip. Then, the tip of his tongue darted in and out of his mouth, making him look like a lizard. His grey-blue eyes seemed distant to Hugo. He looked deep in thought.

Hugo held the leather strap between two hands, waiting. Perhaps, he thought, he should have ordered his boyfriend to bend over the coach and take it on the arse. That way Frankie wouldn’t face the added humiliation of looking him in the eye and showing his fear.

Then, Frankie held out his hand as instructed. He didn’t look at Hugo, instinctively his head turned away to the wall. He had stretched his arm and hand out in the required manner, directly in front of his body; one hand on top of the other. His shoulder ached from holding his arm so high.


He felt the strap stroke the centre of his palm. Suddenly, he panicked. What if Hugo’s aim was off and he slashed the taws into his fingers or his thumb. The pain would be excruciating and the damage would make it impossible for Frankie to use a computer or hold anything for days. How would he explain that to the people at work?

As the cold strap tapped his palm he screwed up his eyes and readied himself for the first stroke. The taws swooped down and cracked across his flesh. The burn was intense, it felt like he had accidentally leant against the glowing ring of a cooker. Some dormant schoolboy instinct stopped him withdrawing his hand and blowing air on it or wrapping it under his armpit to ease the pain.

He was inordinately proud of himself when he managed to hold the palm steady, while Hugo readied himself to deliver the second cut. It fell with a deafening Crack!  Fire burned into Frankie’s delicate flesh. He scrunched his face like an ugly gargoyle. Tears pricked the back of his eyes. His palms throbbed like crazy. Never before had he felt such pain.

“Other hand.” Hugo’s instruction sounded as if it had come from a hundred miles away, Frankie could barely hear for the blood rushing through his ears. He switched hands, groaning as the weight on his untouched hand pressed into the scorching flesh of the other.

He closed his eyes shut and waited. The next stroke whipped expertly into his palm and tears fell freely. Still, he held his hand firmly for the next lash. Absurdly, he felt tremendous pride that he had not (at least not yet) howled the house down.

“Last one,” Hugo intoned. “Raise your hands higher please.”

Although every nerve in his body seemed to tremble, Frankie stretched his arm further and raised it to the required height. He was rewarded by a cracking slash into the centre of his palm. All dignity was lost, he bent double, howling with agony. He blew on the palm to no effect, so he tried rubbing his hands together. That made it worst, so, he stuck them between his knees. Still there was no relief. His palms were crimson and throbbing. They seemed to be twice their natural size. He held them out for Hugo to see. His unspoken words were, “Look what you’ve done to me.”

Hugo threw the taws onto the couch and advanced on his boyfriend. Bulges in both their trousers betrayed their true feelings. Hugo unbuckled Frankie’s belt and ripped down his zipper. When it was clear Frankie’s hands were too tortured to do the same to Hugo, he did it himself. Two steel hard cocks pointed at the ceiling. Frankie’s was about to take off like an Exocet missile. Hugo sank to his knees and took the glistening top of Hugo’s cock in his mouth.

Later, spunked out, they lay on the carpet gasping with ecstasy. It had been some time, if ever, that they had made-out like this. Hugo held his lover’s head in his arms, delighted that Frankie had been so quick to find the taws he had planted in the cupboard under the stairs.



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The drunken neighbour

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Charles Hamilton the Second



His civic duty


The two boys had been coming to my house for some weeks to work in the garden and do odd jobs before I noticed money had been stolen.

Jake and Matthew are students at Brocklehurst University. They’re on some “civics” scheme. The kids get extra credit for doing work in the community. I was dubious at first when the university contacted me. It is true that I am old, but I am not infirm. I am not as sprightly as I once was, but I can look after myself, although I confess the garden is a bit much for me.

The young girl lecturer in charge of the project was very nice; she reminded me of my daughter at that age, so I signed up.

Jake and Matthew were assigned to me. They have to work in pairs; it’s something to do with “safety” or “security”. although I can’t for the life of me see what threat I could be to them. They are two fit young lads. Now, it turns out I needed protection from them.

They worked very well when they first arrived and they had the garden looking tidy in no time. I think it was on their third visit that they told me they were a “couple”. That’s right; a boy dating another boy. They didn’t seem the least embarrassed to tell me. It just slipped out when they were drinking tea with me and telling me about their weekend.

They’re both twenty years old. When I was their age it was illegal. People were put in prison for it. Now look at it; they can get married now. Hasn’t the world changed. I don’t begrudge them it. Why should I care.

I don’t think knowing they were gay changed my opinion of them. The seemed decent enough lads to me, but I did start to notice that Jake was a little bit, how can I say this? A bit “girly”. That’s probably not the right word, but with a “couple” isn’t one of them the man and the other the woman? I might have asked them about it, but not now. I have other things I need to talk to them about.

They came to the house a lot. After they finished the garden, I set them on clearing out the garage. I haven’t had a car since before my wife died. I just use it for storing junk and the like. I was sitting reading the Daily Mail one morning when the boys came in from the garage.

“What’s this Mr. Shearer?” Jake asked and he showed me something he held in his hand. I think I must have blushed bright red, because he flashed me one of his crooked smiles and his open face beamed.

“Surely, you know what it is?” I thought he was just teasing me.

“No, really.”

“It’s a taws.”

“What’s it for?”

I blushed some more. Was this what young people called, “a wind up?”

I replied, “In the old days, it was used for spanking naughty boys.”

Old days! Was it really so long ago? Corporal punishment has been banned in schools for decades and was now illegal in the home, but back in the day misbehaviour would get you a caning at school. Lots of fathers punished their sons with slippers, belts and what-not. In my house, it was a fourteen-inch-long leather strap, cut into two tails at one end.

Jake caressed the strap in his hand almost lovingly. It was light-brown in colour and very worn. It had been in my family for generations, I believe my great-grandfather was the first to use it. It had probably laid untouched in a cardboard box alongside other memorabilia in the garage for decades.

Jake seemed satisfied with my explanation and the subject was not mentioned again.

I first noticed money was missing about three weeks ago, I was sure that a five pound note had been taken from my wallet. I leave it in the pocket of my jacket, hanging in the hallway so the boys could have taken it at any time. I let the matter rest, because I wasn’t absolutely certain that I hadn’t spent it myself, but I hardly leave the house so I don’t get through much cash.

I counted what was left in my wallet and the next week ten pounds was missing. There could be no doubt. I am not a poor man and the money meant nothing to me. Had the boys asked me to pay them for their work I would gladly have done so. I don’t believe in forcing the young to work for nothing; university “civics” courses, or no. I was disappointed and perhaps a little angry. I had trusted them. Goddam it, I liked them and this was how they treated me.

I wasn’t sure how to tackle it. I supposed I should have reported them to the university and let them deal with it. It was theft after all. And, they had stolen from somebody they were helping on the civics scheme. They would probably get expelled and end up with a criminal record. It did seem a very harsh punishment for a relatively small crime.

But, I wasn’t about to let the matter drop. On their next scheduled visit, Matthew came alone. He told me Jake had the flu and was ill in bed. The lad’s a terrible liar, I think Jake was probably nursing a hangover, or whatever you call it when you’re coming down from drugs.

I confronted Matthew about the missing money. He was ashen-faced, and it wasn’t through guilt. He insisted he knew nothing about it and I believed him. I don’t think he could tell a lie to save his life.

Three days later, I received a phone call. Could the boys come over to see me? I am always at home, so it was no inconvenience. They had hardly set foot in the lounge before Matthew put his hand in his pocket and withdrew fifteen pounds. “I took it out of my savings account. I’m very sorry,” he said.

But, he had nothing to reproach himself about. Unbeknown to Matthew, his boyfriend had stolen the money. There were more apologies, but mostly from Matthew; Jake was rather silent. I questioned Jake about his motives. He had taken the money because he wanted it. Pure and simple. Like all people his age, he expected something for nothing. What he couldn’t earn, he simply took.

Now it was all in the open, I had a problem. If I informed the university, Jake would get a criminal record and “sent down” from university. I didn’t want that to happen. The stupid boy deserved a second chance. I had devised a plan of action, but it was unorthodox. In fact, it was downright strange. It would not be acceptable in 2017.

Nonetheless, I pressed on. I told Jake of his bleak future. Then, I said, “You have returned the money. I think you deserve a thorough hiding with that leather taws. Then, I don’t want to see you ever again.” My face flushed and my breathing was heavy. I was extremely worked up about this.

Jake’s effeminate face blanched.  I don’t think he had expected this turn of events. He turned to Matthew and they exchanged glances. Some kind of “non-verbal communication” took place. I couldn’t tell what they were saying, but they understood each other perfectly.

“No, Mr. Shearer.” It was Matthew, not Jake who spoke. My face must have betrayed my thoughts. I didn’t want so much trouble for Jake. In times gone by a sound thrashing on his bare backside would have put an end to the problem. He would have paid his price and everybody could move on with their lives.

I had misunderstood Matthew. “No, Mr. Shearer, you can’t do it. No offence, but you haven’t got the strength.” He flashed me a wan smile. “Let me do it. I can tan his arse good and proper.” Then, he added mysteriously, “But, you can come and watch.”

My eyes widened, but before I could respond, Matthew had left the room to go to the garage. He knew precisely where to find the taws and returned within seconds. Jake sat and stared at his expensive boots. No wonder he felt the need to steal money from me. Matthew held the strap in his right hand and let it dangle against his leg. He spoke quietly and Jake obeyed without question.

Jake removed his denim jacket and put it on the dining room table. He wore a tan roll-neck jumper underneath. It seemed to me that he expected the next order and had already decided to do as instructed without fuss. He unbuckled his belt and worked at the fastener and zipper of his designer jeans. They were tight against his leg and he had to roll them down his thighs to his knees. He was calm while he did this, as if this was an everyday occurrence for him.

He shuffled penguin-like over to the couch and on further instruction he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his underwear and with a sharp flick of the wrists, he sent them south to meet his jeans. I had a terrific view of his privates. He was uncut and his member was long and thin. What I noticed most was he was totally hairless.

He paused for a second before leaning forward over the back of the couch. He was a tallish boy and the couch was rather low so his body cleared its back by some distance. His thin, flat bottom was hairless too; even the inside of the crack. He wriggled a little as if to make himself comfortable. He gripped the front of the couch’s cushion at the front and parted his legs a little. His crack opened and his ball sack dangled between his legs. I did fear if he moved about a bit during the thrashing, Matthew might miss his aim and strike his boyfriend on the balls.

It felt unreal. I was standing in the middle of my own front room watching a twenty-year-old university student meekly offer up his naked buttocks to his boyfriend so he could thrash him severely with a heavy leather two-tailed taws.

Matthew gave me a weak smile, as if he were having much the same thoughts as me. Then, he moved closer to his pal, laid the leather across the very centre of his naked haunches, pulled it back to some height and sent it whipping into the flesh. A broad scarlet stripe about two inches wide scorched into the creamy-white flesh. Jake’s mouth opened and closed. He screwed his eyes tight, but otherwise made no outward sign that his arse felt like it was on fire.

Matthew stepped forward and with the tips of the fingers of his left hand he traced the outline of the stripe, as if he couldn’t quite believe he had just created it. Satisfied with his handiwork, he retook his position and smacked a second stinger a little lower than the first. From where I stood it looked like the whole of Jake’s bottom was now blazing crimson. It had been some decades since I had myself been spanked, had my own beatings been so severe? I rather think not.

Jake repeated the mouth and the eyes things, but once again remained still. He breathed deeply in and out and waited for lash number three. It was not slow in coming. It landed on top of a previous hit. That got Jake’s feet stomping up and down. His boots lost their grip on the deep-pile carpet and his feet slithered behind him, his knees buckling as they went. He wriggled his buttocks from left to right and then up and down before he gripped the seat cushion tightly.

Sweat soaked Matthew’s tee-shirt; his breathing was uneasy. His exertions were taking their toll. Apart from the obvious raw backside, his boyfriend was calmer. He waited, teeth firmly clenched, eyes tightly shut, for Matthew to continue his punishment.

Matthew’s eyes saucered. He whipped down three savage blows at speed. Bang-bang-bang. Jake’s bum was blistered. Welts rose across the lower half of his cheeks and blood oozed. Another three fell at speed. Now, Jake’s buttocks resembled hamburger meat.

“That’s enough!” I called and rose to my feet ready to pull Matthew away. It wasn’t necessary. He stared at me through glazed eyes as if seeing me for the first time. Jake took his chance and hauled himself to his feet. His cock and balls bounced as he hopped from foot to foot and lent forward and back in a futile attempt to ease the pain.

I looked toward the door and he took that as a cue to depart. He gripped the waist of his underwear and jeans but his backside was too roasted for him to pull them up over his buttocks. Instead, with them still in his hands, he half ran, half waddled, up the stairs. I heard a door upstairs open and close.

Matthew sat winded in a small armchair, his body bent double. Five minutes passed and then ten. Matthew’s condition had not improved and Jake had not returned.

“I’d better see how he’s doing?” Matthew jumped from his seat and took the stairs two at a time. I heard the same door open and close once more.

After thirty minutes, they had still not come downstairs but I thought it prudent not to go see what they were doing.


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Hotel duty manager

Making the grade

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second



Old Dud and the wrought iron gate


Mr Dudley glowered at the schoolroom full of sixth-form pupils. Somebody was whispering. He could hear but he could not see. The sound appeared to be coming from somewhere near the back.

He peered through rounded eye glasses; his side whiskers bristled. Important examinations were due, the boys should be studying hard, not engaging in tomfoolery.

“Buchan, what are you doing?” Mr Dudley’s voice rasped sharply, jarring the generally studious atmosphere in the small, airless schoolroom.

“What were you doing, Buchan?” repeated Mr Dudley sternly.

Ronald Alan Francis Buchan glanced up, somewhat startled and confused. Now, all eyes in the room had turned from text-books toward RAF Buchan.

“I was whispering, sir,” Ronald confessed.

“Oh, was that all?” Mr Dudley, commonly known by his pupils as “Old Dud,” demanded sarcastically.

“Yes, sir.”

“To whom were you whispering?”

“To Johnstone, Sir”

Old Dud stood from his uncomfortable wooden chair and pulled his worn black academic gown tightly around his body. He glared at Ronald. The other boys sat silently, ready to enjoy the sideshow that was unfolding before them.

“If I am intruding on no confidences, what were you whispering about?” Old Dud sneered.

“I …” began Ronald, and then his face turned scarlet under the curious gaze of his fellow sixth-formers. “I was telling Johnstone a funny story.”

“Do you think it was very funny?” inquired Old Dud.

Ronald felt his hands shake. He was not a boy who dealt well with confrontation. He wished he had kept his mouth shut. “The story? Yes, Sir.”

The broad grin that promptly spread over “Johnny” Johnstone’s face seemed to confirm Ronald’s claim. It had been a funny story.

Old Dud stared wildly. His eyes could resemble saucers when his ire was raised. Before him sat fifteen eighteen-year-old boys. Many would consider them young adults, but legally they did not become that until there reached the age of twenty-one. Even so, they should behave maturely, Old Dud considered. Instead RAF Buchan was behaving like the most junior boy in the school. Well, Old Dud decided, if that’s the way he wanted it.

“Buchan, you may rise in your seat and tell the story to the whole class, myself included. On this dull, rainy day I feel certain that we all need a good laugh.”

A smile that grew to a titter in some quarters of the room greeted Ronald as he struggled half-shamefacedly to his feet.

“Go on with the story,” encouraged Old Dud. “Or, rather, begin at the beginning. That’s the right way to serve up a story.”

“I… I’d rather not tell the story, Sir,” Ronald protested.

“Why not?” demanded the schoolmaster sharply.

“Well, because, Sir … I’d rather not. That’s all.”

Old Dud often employed a grilling way of questioning to make his young charges squirm before the class. Whispering, in itself, was not a criminal offence, yet it often had a bad effect on the discipline of a schoolroom, and of late Old Dud had been much annoyed by whisperers.

“So you won’t tell us all that choice story, eh, Buchan?” insisted the schoolmaster as a hint of a smile played at his lips.

“On account of its being such a very personal one I’d rather not, Sir,” Ronald stared at the bare wooden floorboard beneath his feet. He clasped his hands behind his back; he could not get them to stop shaking. “I might hurt someone’s feelings.”

“Too bad!” murmured Old Dud. “And just after we had all been enlivened by the hope of hearing something really funny! I know your rare quality of humour, Buchan, and I had promised myself a treat,” Old Dud dripped sarcasm. “My own disappointment in the matter may be cured, but what about the boys of this class? I know that they are all still eager to hear a really funny story.”

Old Dud paused, glancing impressively about the room. Ronald shifted first to one foot and then to the other. His cheeks, temples and forehead were aflame.

“Buchan,” the schoolmaster glowered, “the class shall not be deprived of its expected treat. I will tell a story, and I think you will find some of the elements of humour in it. Will you kindly step this way?”

Ronald went forward. He failed miserably to look defiant. He held his head up and threw out his chest as a titter ran around the room.

“Stand right here beside me,” coaxed Old Dud. He moved his chair so that it stood between his desk and his pupils. Then, he turned to the desk, leant forward and opened a drawer. The silence in the schoolroom was intense. Every boy present knew what was kept in that drawer. Old Dud withdrew a long, narrow leather strap. It was old and worn and had seen much action. He held it between his hands as if seeing it for the first time. It was about eighteen inches long and the “business” end was divided into two tails. It was extremely heavy and it stung his palm when experimentally he smacked it into his hand.

He sat on the straight-backed armless chair. Ronald stood crestfallen by his side. “Now, let me see if I can remember the story. Yes; I believe I can. It runs something like this.”

It was a very ordinary story that had to do with a boy’s disobedience of his father’s commands. “So,” continued Old Dud, “Mr Shepherd took his boy into the parlour. There, with a sigh as though his heart were breaking, the old man seated himself on the chair. He gathered his son across his knee – about like this.”

Here, Old Dud suddenly caught Ronald by the arm and directed the eighteen-year-old across his own knee. The expectant class now snickered loudly.

“I can’t tell this story unless I have quiet,” announced Old Dud, glancing up and around the room with a reproachful look. Then, after clearing his throat, the schoolmaster resumed, ‘“Ronny,’ said the old man huskily, ‘I know what my duty in the matter really is. I ought to give you a good spanking, like this (whack!). But I haven’t the heart to give you such a blow as you deserve. (Whack!) But the next time (whack!), I’m going to give you (whack!) just such a good one (whack! whack!) as you deserve. (Whack! whack!) So, remember, Ronny (whack!), and don’t let me catch you (whack!) disobeying me again. (Whack! whack!).”

Old Dud emphasised each “whack” by bringing down the heavy strap across Ronald’s meaty backside. There were a few flashing eyes in the young audience, and a few sympathetic glances from Ronald’s pals, but, for the most part, the class was now in a loud roar of laughter.

“That’s the story,” announced Old Dud, gently restoring Ronald to his feet. “I think you all see the point to it. Perhaps there’s a moral to it, also. I really don’t know.”

Pallor due to a sense of outraged dignity now struggled for a place in the red that covered Ronald Buchan’s face.

“You may go to your seat, Buchan.”

Ronald marched there, without a glance backward.

“Now, that we’ve had our little indulgence in humour,” announced Old Dud dryly, “we shall all return to our studies.”

There was silence again in the room, during which the rain outside began to come down in a flood.

“Old Dud’s getting rather too fresh these days,” growled Johnny Johnstone to his chum Ronald later that day. “We’ll get even with him tonight. Some of us will go around to his house and wreck his flower gardens.”

He stopped in his tracks. He had an even better idea. “I know, we’ll switch Old Dud’s new gate off and dump it in the river.”

So, it was that close to midnight, Ronald, Johnny and their chum Donald, were at Old Dud’s house. The gate was wrought iron. It was ornately decorated. It would have cost the schoolmaster a tidy sum. It was also unexpectedly heavy.

“This won’t do,” Donald gasped. They had hardly raised the gate a couple of inches off the hinges. They would need a block and tackle to do the job properly.

“Let’s just trample his flower beds,” Johnny said.

“Good idea. Let’s.”

But before the three teenagers could move, a light appeared on the porch. Old Dud stood there in his dressing-gown. “Who’s there! I know somebody is there.” The schoolmaster peered into the gloom. “Is that you, Buchan? Johnstone? McAllister?”

Old Dud was no fool. He knew the calibre of the boys he taught. He expected to be “ragged” by them following the public spanking he had given Ronald. The boys and masters were constantly at war. Now, he had caught them red-handed intent on causing damage to his gate. He had watched studiously from his bedroom window as the young fools tried to carry off his prized possession.

“My study. Morning break,” he barked. There was no need to say further. His instruction was understood. There would be an awesome price to pay for their escapade.

Next day three miserable sixth-former stood in the passageway outside Old Dud’s oak-panelled study door, waiting. Old Dud was not at home. They faced the wall, nose pressed close, hands clasped on the tops of their school caps. No one had ordered them to do this, but they knew from painful past experience, this was the way a boy presented himself while awaiting a master’s return.

Minutes that felt like hours passed. None of the boys spoke; they were alone with their thoughts. There was no doubting what would happen after Old Dud arrived. All that was in question was how many strokes.

At last, Old Dud trundled down the passageway, a cup and saucer in his hand. He affected a nonchalant air; he had no troubles to speak of. It was the three sixth-formers who had the worries. “Wait five minutes and then knock,” he growled at none of the boys in particular. He opened the study door, went in, closed the door and sat at his plush chair behind his enormous desk. Quietly, he sipped his tea. Let the boys stew, he thought.

The knock on the door duly came. “Enter!” he called imperiously. The heavy door inched open. Roland led the way, his face grim, his shoulders stooped. Johnny and Donald traipsed behind.

“There!” Old Dud pointed a long bony finger at a spot in front of his desk. The teenagers shuffled into position. The schoolmaster peered through his round eye glasses. Each boy seemed suitably discomforted. Neither could look at the aging schoolmaster. Each found his own spot on the faded rug to interrogate.

Old Dud sneered, “Which of you fine young specimens would care to explain your presence at my house at midnight?” He watched as each in turn coloured beetroot. None seemed willing to provide an explanation.

“Buchan!” Old Dud barked. “Explain yourself. At once.” Old Dud was a bit of a ham actor; he knew how to strike fear into the hearts of small boys. The three sixth-formers carpeted before him were far from small boys, but his terror tactics were working.

Still none dared answer.

“Let me fill in the details,” Old Dud leaned back in his chair, drew his academic gown around his body and fixed them with a steely gaze. “You thought you would play a trick on me. You wanted to get back at me for taking Buchan across my knee and spanking his naughty backside. You decided to steal my gate. Is that not the long and the short of it?”

Still silence.

“Well Buchan! Answer me!” he roared.

“Yes, Sir,” came the slightest whisper.

“I had deduced correctly. This will not do Buchan, Johnstone, McAllister,” he sighed, “This will not do at all.”

McAllister’s eyes were already watering. He nearly burst into tears when Old Dud proclaimed theatrically, but with no malice, “I am going to beat each of you and I am going to beat you most severely.”

The three boys blanched.

“First, take off your blazers and set them down on my desk.” Old Dud watched closely as with fumbling fingers the three eighteen-year-old sixth-formers struggled to comply with his demands. At last three blue-and-black-stripped blazers were off.

He rose from his desk and paced to the far side of the study. He could feel the heat of three pairs of eyes burning into his back as he drew a key from his trouser pocket and slowly unlocked the door to a tall thin cabinet. He reached inside. There was a large selection of punishment canes; some long, some short. Many were thin; others thicker. Some were ashplants; others were made of whippy rattan. He was searching for a special cane. One that he reserved for older pupils. One that would leave the three miscreants in severe pain.

It was a stout dense Malacca, more than three feet in length. Unlike his other canes this did not have a crooked handle. It was straight, although a little warped from use. Twine had been wrapped around one end to form a grip. It had notches every four or five inches along its length. It was these that would cause the most damage to the boys’ backsides.

He closed the cabinet door and turned to face the three boys. He swiped the Malacca through the air to demonstrate its effectiveness and was delighted to be rewarded by almost audible gasps from the three sixth-formers.

“Right all three of you stand in a line.” The boys eyed one another apprehensively, not only were they to be thrashed severely they were going to get it in front of their friends. Their pals would see how well (or not) they could take it.

“Buchan you stand there,” Old Dud steered the boy by this shoulders into place. “Johnstone, you here,” he manoeuvred the teenager a yard or two to the right and a pace forward of his companion. “McAllister, you here.”

The boys were lined up alongside each other, but arranged in steps so Old Dud could move freely between each of them to deliver his caning.

“‘It will be six for each of you.” It was the maximum school regulations allowed him to deliver, but he would have dearly loved to give Buchan more: he was developing into a rebel of the first order.

“Now lower your trousers. Bend over, touch your toes.” Old Dud paused for effect. He knew the boys expected to be caned, but not with their trousers down. He delighted in the look of abject horror that flashed across McAllister’s face. The other two were also suitably shocked.

“B. b. b.” Johnstone wanted to protest, but words literally failed him.

“Sir?” Buchan implored. But protestations were futile. The schoolmaster was in charge. He had made up his mind and as every schoolboy that ever suffered a caning knew, the master was always in control.

They had shown difficulty removing their blazers. Lowering the trousers was more so. At last all fly buttons were unfastened and grey flannel trousers slipped down thighs. Three boys stood; nervousness etched in their faces.

“Bend down and touch your toes.” It was a calm instruction, but one Old Dud expected to be obeyed. The three miserable teenagers reached for their toes.

“Keep those knees straight, McAllister. Legs further apart. Johnstone move further forward.”

Once the boys were in position to his satisfaction, Old Dud went over to each of them and raised the tail of their shirts up their backs, away from their stretched posteriors. Buchan felt a chill run across his naked flesh. He could not be certain if it was fear or a genuine coldness in the room.

All three boys were stoic at first. They had all been beaten before; it was that kind of school.

But, Johnstone had not been thrashed by Old Dud previously. He had heard from other boys that a tanning from him was awesome; the agony in the arse was like nothing else you could experience.

He was soon to find out the truth of the matter. Old Dud set about his task with vigour. He was not dealing with a seemingly trivial matter; this was personal. The teenagers bent before him and offering up their backsides for a schoolmaster’s caning had attacked his home. He would not stand for this and order must be restored.

One by one he lashed the boys with his fierce Malacca cane. First Buchan received a stoke; then McAllister; then Johnstone, and then back to Buchan again. Until all three boys felt six stingers across their buttocks.

They tried to be brave. In Old Dud’s experience all boys tried to be while they were being caned: they did not want to give their punisher the satisfaction of knowing they were in agony. The schoolmaster approved of that: it was about strong character, acknowledging you had done wrong and accepting the consequences without fuss.

This time the three punished boys also had to prove to their chums that they could take it. And, maybe they also wanted to show they could take it better than their fellows.

Even so, by the time the third stroke had bounced off Johnstone’s backside, all three were in tears. Somehow, despite the agonising heat under their underpants, all the boys managed to stay in position (but only just in the case of Johnstone).

The three were deathly pale when Old Dud at last allowed them to stand. Each wanted to desperately rub at the seat of his underpants to try to drive away the pain, but they dared not: none wanted to lose face in front of their friends.

And, that was it. Old Dud returned the cane to the cupboard and lectured them some more about the need for obedience. The boys were not listening; they desperately wanted to get out of there so they could cool their burning bum cheeks.

At last, three throbbing sets of buttocks were released into the autumnal sunshine.


Other stories you might like

A whopping for Warminster

Housemaster’s double caning

The office manager



More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second


Be careful what you wish for

“Your aunt said she’d spank you!”

“I know! I know!”

“Your aunt. The MILF. That aunt?”

“She said, ‘I should take you across my knee and smack your bottom. Hard.’”

“Was she serious?”

“Oh, I hope so!”

Ro and Jack sucked on their beer bottles. Ro was staying with his Aunt Elsie and Uncle Frank while he was doing his certificate in plumbing at college. He wasn’t an unusual eighteen-year-old. He thought the world revolved around him. He wanted everything for nothing. Nobody could tell him anything. He came and went as he felt. He missed meal times; never helped about the house. He lay in bed to all hours, even on college days. A typical teenager.

Aunt Elsie put up with a lot. That’s how it was for women. They worked at a job all day and then came home to start all over again. Even the most tolerant people could snap.

“Can’t you at least tidy up the living room, while I’m out,” she scolded.

“Why? That’s what I pay my rent for.”

“You need taking down a peg or two, my lad!” she roared.

He hadn’t the least idea what that meant and silently sneered.

That’s when she said it. Across her knee. A spanking. On the bottom. Hard.

That night in bed, Ro played the scene in his head. They are in the living room. Aunt is seated on a straight-backed wooden chair. She is wearing her corduroy trousers tucked into thigh-length leather boots. Her roll-neck woollen jumper is tight and he can clearly see the outline of her breasts.

He is wearing blue-and-white-striped pyjamas. Where had they come from? He hadn’t worn jim-jams since he was nine years old. The last pair he had were bright yellow and had drawings of racing cars all over them.

He meekly lowers himself across Aunt Elsie’s knee. He is a short, thick-set lad. He places the palms of his hands on the carpet. Behind him his toes dig into the deep pile. His cotton-covered bottom is across her lap, his crotch presses into the rough corduroy.

No word is spoken. Aunt Elsie grips the elasticated waist of the pyjama bottoms and in a series of small tugs she tries to force them down. She can’t get them clear of his buttocks, so he lifts his body off her lap and she takes them down as far as his knees.

He resumes his position, his cock growing. The first smack gets him in the centre of the left buttock. It tingles. So does the one that strikes him on the right cheek. Smack, smack, smack.

Ro has never been spanked before. He doesn’t know what it is supposed to feel like. His bum is warming up; so is his dick. He lifts his body and lets it fall again. In time to the rhythm of the spanking. His cock throbs much more than his bum.

He woke next morning with his pants full of cold cum. Later, at Primark when he bought pyjamas his cock was semi-erect. Oh, how he wanted to live that dream.

How could he push Aunt Elsie over the edge?

He lazed around the house. No response.

He stayed in bed all day, missing college. Nothing.

He came home late: drunk. Zilch. Perhaps his aunt hadn’t meant it after all.

This could not go on. His fantasies became more feverish. He is stark naked and dripping wet from the shower. She, angry that he has soiled the bedsheets with his cum, drags him by the damp hair into the bedroom. He is pushed face down across the mattress. Then – from God knows where – she picks up an old-fashioned whippy rattan cane and flogs it into his naked arse.

Then, one day he cracked it. He was rude to the vicar when he made his regular weekly visit. Ro didn’t believe in God and why should he listen to the old fake. He told him that to his face. Ro stormed upstairs in a huff.

He fumed in his bedroom. “Bloody vicars. They’re all nonces,” he told himself. He read the newspapers. He knew what was going on.

He heard the front door open and close. Moments later, a voice called. “Rowland!” It was Aunt Elise from the bottom of the stairs. “Come down here. I want a word.”

Ro’s heart pounded. A word? Word? That was a code, wasn’t it? It had to be. “I want a word,” meant, “I’m going to take you across my knee and smack your bottom. Hard.”

He had planned for this moment. He pulled open the second drawer of the dresser and pulled out the still-unworn pyjamas. With shaking hands, he lowered his trousers and pants and stepped out of them. He tugged his pullover and shirt over his head. He stood before the mirror, naked. He sat on the bed and pulled the pyjama bottoms on. He stood. They fitted perfectly. So did the jacket.

He glanced in the mirror, admiring his firm but stocky body. Suddenly, his cock poked out the fly of the pyjamas. It always did have a mind of its own. Damn! He couldn’t go down to Aunt Elsie in this state. It would be too humiliating. And, it would give the game away.

He grabbed a handful of tissues from the bedside table, gobbed spit into his palm and polished one off. Moments later, breathing heavily, he padded down the stairs to the front room and the over-the-knee spanking from Aunt Elsie he craved.

He paused outside the closed door, took three deep breaths, and pushed it open. Uncle Frank sat in the armchair. Alone.

“I … I … Aunt Elsie?” Ro gazed around the room, as if expecting to find his aunt hiding under the table. Then he saw it. Left in clear view on the polished sideboard. Uncle Frank lifted himself out of the chair, leant forward and picked it up. A worn brown taws. An eighteen-inch length of hard leather, cut into two tails.

“B …” Ro started with alarm. This could not be happening.

Uncle Frank scrutinised the strap in his hand as if he had never seen it before. “This is not a job for a woman,” he said, tapping the taws into the palm of his hand.

“No ….!” Ro’s heart raced.

Uncle Frank swished the taws through the air. He pointed it at the settee. “Bend over,” he growled. Then, in case he hadn’t been properly understood, he added, “Over the arm.”

Ro stood frozen. This wasn’t how it was meant to be. His sexy aunt was supposed to be pulling down his pyjamas. Not this fat, sweaty, old man.

“I won’t tell you again.” Uncle Frank moved toward his nephew. If the stupid brat wouldn’t put himself across the settee he would have to do it for him.

“No, no,” Ro did not move. Uncle Frank smelt the fear on him. He wasn’t a strong man, but he gripped his nephew by the hair and pushed him forward, face down, across the huge settee. To his surprise, the eighteen-year-old lay submissively. His bottom was high and his hands rested on the settee cushion. The boy turned his head toward his uncle, his face impassive.




What Ro saw was his overweight uncle lift the taws high over his shoulder. He let it rest against his back. He paused. He seemed to be counting in his head. Then, satisfied that enough time had elapsed, he brought the strap crashing down across the centre of Ro’s bum. The boy heard the whistle as the strap flew and a crack as it connected with the seat of his pyjamas. It felt like an age before the searing pain registered. It was as if Uncle Frank had put a hot wire across Ro’s buttocks.

The teenager gasped in shock. Then, a second and a third swipe hit him in quick succession. Ro’s legs buckled. His hips wriggled. He beat his fists into the cushion. He wanted to yelp, but all the air had been squeezed out of his body.

He sucked in a lungful. The strap whipped him again. “Yeowwww!” he shrieked in shock and pain. Uncle Frank rested the taws against his back, counted to six and brought it down with tremendous power again and again in mighty strokes. Ro’s bottom made frantic efforts to minimise the pain and discomfort.

“Keep still!” his uncle barked.

Ro twisted violently, bouncing his head into the cushion. His bottom blazed with fire.

Out of his eye line, Aunt Elsie stood in the doorway. Her face flushed. Her breathing as strained as Ro’s. She watched transfixed as the leather strap bit over and over again into her nephew’s deliciously stretched bum.

Later, in her bed, she regretted allowing Frank to persuade her at the last minute to allow him to beat young Ro. As she slipped her hand inside her panties she promised herself next time it would be different.


Other stories you might like

 Where’s the paddle, hon?

When Dad got home

Don’t bully our mum


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second