MacTaggart’s House for Naughty Boys

z used taws on kitchen table CS (2)

I saw a remarkable programme on cable television last week. It was a short film made in the nineteen-forties about the leather industry in Scotland. Did it bring back memories! Me, aged eighteen, prone across Mr MacTaggart’s kitchen table, my trousers and pants at my knees. He leathering my naked buttocks with a three-tailed strap.

Where do I begin this story?

In Scotland the preferred method of scholastic punishment was the leather strap, known locally as a tawse. It was often about eighteen inches long and cut at one end into two or three tails. The tawses made in the small town of Lochgelly were world famous. I was no stranger to corporal punishment. I had attended a very traditional independent grammar school called St Francis at the time when Dr Henderson-Smith, a notorious flogger, was headmaster. Many years after I had left he was forced into retirement after a scandal involving a public thrashing.

We learned from a very early age to obey the rules and not to make waves. We turned up to lessons on time, spoke only when the schoolmaster instructed, worked hard and handed in our homework on time. We knew the consequences if we didn’t conform. It’s a pity schools aren’t like that today. A whippy rattan cane was kept handy to encourage the slackers. Do-gooders can say what they like but it got me through my examinations and secured me a place at a prestigious university in Scotland that proved to be even more traditional than St. Francis.

The problems started almost immediately I arrived. University was not like school. We were expected to study a lot without supervision. We might be sent off to the library with an essay title and told to turn in six pages the following week. I soon discovered I had no self-discipline. I was eighteen years old and away from parental supervision for the first time and I took full advantage. In those days you didn’t legally become an adult until you were twenty-one. The professors at university were our guardians. It would be going too far to say they were surrogate fathers, but some did perhaps see themselves as stern uncles.

I was a flop. I failed my end-of-year examinations and quite rightly should have been “sent down”, expelled back to Brocklehurst. But someone (I never found out who) saw some promise in me. If I agreed to reside with Mr and Mrs MacTaggart I would get a second chance. It was made abundantly clear to me there would be no third.

The MacTaggart’s had a small rooming house and at any one time there might be six boys from the university staying. We were all slackers of one sort or another, sent by the university to be knocked into shape. We jokingly called ourselves inmates at the MacTaggart Home for Naughty Boys. I think Mr and Mrs MacTaggart had military backgrounds; they certainly believed in rules, discipline and punishment.

I arrived on a Monday morning to be greeted at the door by Mrs MacTaggart. “You are to go right away to see Mr MacTaggart.” She nodded her head across the gloomy hallway to a dark brown door. “Leave your bag here.” She strode off to the kitchen, leaving me dumbfounded. Not much of a friendly welcome, I thought. It would not get better. I stood outside the door, it was made of heavy wood and had clearly seen better days; how on earth had it become so scratched?

I had an out-of-body experience. It was as if I were hovering at the ceiling looking down on myself, except I am no longer in Scotland. I am standing outside the headmaster’s study at St Francis and that could mean only one thing. Tentatively, I knocked on the door. “Enter!” Mr MacTaggart’s voice boomed from within. In my months at the house I never heard him speak below foghorn volume. I pushed the door and entered.

Mr MacTaggart was a tall, thick set man. Although he was in his fifties and broadening at the waist he still had the remains of strong hard muscles. His slicked back greying hair emphasised his stern gaze. His dark eyes were a little too close together and his mouth was stuck in a permanent frown. “So, you’re Hamilton,” he growled, his stare burning into my soul. I shuddered, “Yes, Sir,” in reply. I had only just met the man and already I was terrified of him.

He stood from a leather chair that was as scratched as the door. If I had expected a friendly welcoming handshake I was to be sorely disappointed. “You know why you have been sent here.” It sounded like a statement, not a question, so I remained silent. “Pah!” he exploded. “I’ll have no dumb insolence in my house, laddie.”

I probably blushed to my roots, unable (too scared) to form a coherent sentence. “Pah!” he said again, expelling air through nearly closed teeth. He then listed all my faults at university. They were many. “It stops now,” he glowered. “There are rules. You will find a copy in your room. Learn them. Don’t break them. Or else.” The threat in his voice was not implied; it was real.

“And, now,” he clasped his hands together as if we were about to start praying,  “We must start as we mean to go on.” I stood rooted as he made his way across the room. It was sizeable and crammed with old furniture in dark woods. Heavy curtains covered the windows and the whole effect was of gloom. He paused when he reached the far wall. I gasped and swallowed hard. Only now had I noticed the long heavy brown leather tawse hanging from a nail. Mr MacTaggart reached up and in one athletic movement fetched it down and spread it between his two hands. He showed it to me as if he were making a religious offering. It was cut into two ten-inch tails and had a handle of about six inches at the other.

“You must atone for your misbehaviour last year. Then we start with a clean slate,” he barked. I did not know at the time that in Scottish schools the taws was traditionally administered across the palms of the hands. “Put up your left hand,” Mr MacTaggart ordered. My puzzled expression angered him. “Pah!” he set the tawse down on a chair and raised his own hands as a demonstration. I was to hold my hands out in front of my body laying one (palm upward) on top of the other. In this way the lower hand supported the upper and kept it in place once the strap impacted into the flesh. I was to discover soon that this did not work in practice.

At school we were always caned on the backside. Being punished this way has distinct advantages. A chap is bent across a chair or a desk, or is perhaps touching toes of gripping ankles. In any case he has something to hold on to absorb the force of the stroke. There is the added advantage of not being able to see the master as he prepares the punishment. A chap just closes his eyes and waits for the pain to begin.

Not so with the hands. I raised my hands as instructed and watched half-fascinated, half-terrified, as Mr MacTaggart rested the tails of the tawse across my palm. My heart missed a beat when I felt the weight of the leather. Mr MacTaggart adjusted his position by shuffling backwards an inch or two. He raised the strap over his own shoulder so that it rested against the small of his back. His eyes blazed. Then whoosh! The strap arced forward at tremendous speed and crashed down into the palm of my hand. The crack of leather on flesh echoed around the room. At first I didn’t feel a thing and then, POW! I yelped. The blow was awesome; the pain shot through my hand and the force of the blow made me drop both hands to my side, blow on them, rub them together and wiggle them about as if I were dementedly waving to a crowd.

Mr MacTaggart was unimpressed. “Pah. Up laddie – get those hands up,” he growled. I come from a long line of schoolboys steeped in tradition. We took our punishment like men. I was a little flustered that I had not been able to take just one stroke of the strap. With determination I resumed the position; hands held up. I closed my eyes tight, took a deep breath and steeled myself. Another two blows came swiftly – on each one I repeated the hand waving and palm blowing, this time accompanied by a little dance from one foot to the other. I was not taking this well.

Mr MacTaggart did not hide his impatience. He ordered me to swap hands. Slowly and painfully I did so, noticing my right palm was crimson from the belting so far and my hand was numb.

Mr MacTaggart gave me three strokes on the left hand in rapid succession. It was excruciatingly painful, and my body was shivering as I doubled up with my hands under my armpits. This was my first tawsing on the hand. I was soon to discover that with a strapping the immediate effect was one of numbness; it would take a few minutes yet for the pain to fully kick in. Later in my room, I poured cold water into a basin and soaked my hands. It didn’t help. The palms of both hands were blistered and I had considerable difficulty holding anything in them for the rest of the day. MacDonald, another inmate at the house for naughty boys, and himself a Scot, told me that at school a master would ask a boy which hand he used to write with and then strap him on the other one, making sure he could continue writing.

The rules of the house were not exceptional. There were mealtimes that could not be missed, a curfew at night, no smoking or alcohol. It was, I imagine, not so different from being at a boarding school. I knuckled down and got on with studying. I knew I had screwed up the previous year and was determined not to do so again. I was quite a pious young man and felt that I had let people down.

I kept my nose clean until one night I missed curfew. It was a girl of course. I thought we were getting on very well and I might get a kiss before the night was over. We were very innocent in those days. I succeeded and walked on air all the way back to the house. The last bus had gone so I was about an hour late. I was not surprised to find Mr MacTaggart fuming. I knew what was coming. There were rules, I had broken them, the consequence was clear. I would have to be punished.

I let Mr MacTaggart berate me for my lateness. I told him I had missed the bus. That was true, but I didn’t want him to know the reason why. “Pah! Laddie, you know what must happen.” I did, my palms would be blistered. “Damn!” I thought, an essay was due in the next day and I had not finished it. There was no way it would get written if I couldn’t hold a pen.

“Please, Mr. MacTaggart, I know I have done wrong and I deserve punishment,” I can hardly believe I spoke like that. I explained my predicament with the essay. “Please could you beat me on my backside.” Crazy. What eighteen-year-old today would say that? “Pah!” Mr MacTaggart snarled. “Come into the kitchen.” He led the way across the passageway and we entered a small room. Without speaking he opened a drawer to a dresser and delved inside. Seconds later he withdrew a leather strap. It was longer and heavier than the one he had used on me before. This one had three tails. As a novice I thought this thing could cause extreme damage.

Mr MacTaggart glared at me, he did not try to hide his distain. He looked around the room as if trying to decide his next move. His eyes settled on a small table. “There, that’ll do.” I immediately understood his intention. He would expect me to bend across the table to receive the strap across my backside. It was a relief. I was on familiar territory. A whacking from that strap would hurt like billy-o but I knew I could survive it.

Perhaps he sensed my indifference. “Pah!” He snarled. “Take down your trousers. Underwear too.” Any nonchalance I might have had evaporated. Pants down. On the bare. Even the despicable Henderson-Smith at school never caned me like this. “And bend over the table,” Mr MacTaggart completed his instruction.

This was uncharted territory. That three-tailed strap would take the skin off my backside, I had no doubt about that. “Pah! Hurry along laddie. It’s late we both need our beds.” I sucked on my bottom lip gearing myself for the ordeal ahead. I don’t think I was especially concerned about taking my trousers and pants down in front of the old man. My generation was used to undressing in public. I shared a bedroom with my older brother for years. At school the boys often ran around naked in the showers and no one even noticed.

“Pah!” Mr MacTaggart’s impatience was showing again. I resolved to get on with it. With steady hands I unbuckled my belt and opened the front of my trousers. The weight of the belt made them slip over my thighs and sag at the knees. I left them there and quickly pushed my underpants in the same direction. I shuffled closer to the table, took a deep breath, and lent forward. At school we were expected to lay flat on the desk top with our bottoms raised over the edge, so I took up that position. The kitchen table was considerably smaller than my housemaster’s desk and my arms dangled over the far side.

From the corner of my eye I saw Mr MacTaggart approach the desk, he leaned in so close I could smell the stink of his breath. He took hold of my shirt and tugged the tail so that it rode up my back. I was now naked from my shoulders to my knees. I folded my arms and buried my face in them. I was as ready as I ever would be. I felt the heavy weight of the tawse resting against my bare flesh. Mr MacTaggart took aim, raised the leather and walloped it with terrific force into my left buttock. It hurt. A lot. My bum, although not fat, was very meaty and the leather sank into my mound and I felt a burning sensation. He flogged another three cuts into my bum so both buttocks were scorched.

The shock made me raise my head from my arms. I didn’t yell out, I think my movement was probably just a reflex action. I had never been strapped on the bottom before (bared or otherwise) but I had taken my share of canings. If I had to make a judgement I would say the cane is much worst. A thin whippy rattan rod if swiped into the backside will cut into the flesh and leave a welt that potentially can throb for several hours. The strap (even delivered across naked flesh) does not cut, rather it slaps or slashes. The leather tails cover a greater surface than the cane but the pain is altogether less sharp. It is akin to a dull ache.

Mr MacTaggart gave me twelve stokes. Upon his command I rose from the table and although I was in pain I felt far from battered. I rubbed my buttocks contritely (I thought Mr MacTaggart would expect some such show) before replacing my pants and trousers in their proper places. Later in bed I recalled that kiss. The spanking I got was well worth it. It didn’t deter me seeing the girl again and in the fullness of time we married; however I must confess each time we met I made certain we finished our courting before the last bus left.

Picture Credit: C of Sweden

Other stories you might like

Thank you, Uncle Walter

Bend over. Touch your toes

The Gaffer of the Academy: 1. Beginnings

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

When Dad Got Home

z used after corner pants domestic (1)

Can this really be happening? I’m standing facing the wall in our front room in my t-shirt and underpants with my hands on my head like some naughty little boy. Behind me my Mum and the biddy from across the road are slurping coffee and talking about me.

MUM. He’s just too much. He went too far this time. He can stay like that until his father gets here. Then he’ll deal with him.

BIDDY. What did he do?

MUM. It’s these long holidays they get from university. He’s been under my feet all week. He never lifts a finger, he sulks. He’s surly. Rude. He never cleans his room. It smells like a pigsty.

BIDDY. Mine is just the same. Treats the house like a hotel. I’ve wasted so many meals when he hasn’t turned up.

MUM. It was all right until Christmas Eve. He had a job with the post office but of course that finished. I’ll be glad when he goes back to college.

BIDDY. Mine is so mouthy. You can’t tell him anything.

MUM. Then last night he comes home at God knows what time. Drunk, and is sick all over the kitchen floor. Leaves it for muggins here to clean up. When I told him off he just shrugged his shoulders. He couldn’t care. Well he’ll care when his father gets here.

BIDDY. What will he do?

MUM. We still keep a leather taws in the sideboard drawer. He’ll tan his hide good and proper.

 

He will too and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it. What choice do I have? I could tell him to go to Hell and then we’d wrestle on the floor while he tries to whip me with the taws. I could rush off to my room and barricade myself in. But I’d have to come out eventually.

Dad will win. I know. A year or so back my brother Ken refused to be spanked. Dad threw him out the house. I promise you. He said he can stay out until he accepts this is Dad’s house. His house; his rules. His punishments. Ken was at university and Dad stopped sending him money and paying bills. Ken held out for about six months. Then he came home, tail between his legs. Dad belted him twice as hard and twice as long.

Lesson learned? When Dad gets home I’ll just have to offer him my backside. Like I said; no choice.

I can hear a car in the driveway. It has to be Dad. The front door is opening.

 

MUM. Henry, you have to do something about that boy.

My Mother greets Dad in the Hallway. I can’t hear all they are saying but they are talking about me. Dad makes a sort of grunting noise. He is far from pleased. Any moment now ….

DAD. Right young man. It’s about time you learned how to behave. Your mother has had enough of this … and quite frankly so have I.

 

I hear a sideboard drawer opening and closing. I don’t need to look, I know Dad has gone for the taws. It is a long, narrow leather strap cut into two tails. It old and worn. My brother once told me it had belonged to Dad’s dad and probably to Granddad’s dad too. What an heirloom to have in the family.

 

DAD. Right, turn around. Go stand by that chair.

I turn and move towards an upholstered armchair. It has a low back and I know from painful experience that my body will be able to clear the top by a comfortable distance when Dad orders me to bend over. From the corner of my eye I see the biddy from across the road move. I wait for her to leave the room, but she doesn’t. Instead, she stands a little o the side of the chair. Jesus Christ! She’s staying to watch.

Dad holds the taws in one hand and gently taps it into the palm of his left hand. The expression on his face is grim. He is a tall man, who towers some inches over me (I take after Mum’s side of the family). He plays a lot of golf and can put a lot of punch into a swing. Slowly, he rolls up the sleeve of his shirt. Is this really necessary? I suppose he thinks it adds to the drama of the occasion. I wish he would just get on with it.

DAD. Place yourself over the back of the chair.

 

Well, here we go. This isn’t my first spanking. I know this is going to hurt real bad. I learnt a long time ago it is best not to make a fuss. My job is to present my bum for Dad. His job is to whack that leather strap across my arse. I should take my punishment as meekly as I can. It’ll be over in a couple of minutes.

I ease myself over the chair and stare down at an indentation in the cushion. Moments earlier the biddy had been sitting here. I can smell her horrible cheap scent. A Christmas present from somebody who couldn’t be bothered, no doubt. I try to grip the edge of the cushion, but the material is smooth and I can’t get much of a grip. My feet are about a metre apart and since I am wearing neither shoes nor socks they slide on the dep pile carpet.

In this position my back is arched and my underpants pull snugly across my buttocks. I feel Dad take the end of my t-shirt and push it up my back: another pointless manoeuvre since the shirt is nowhere near the target area. I hear a movement behind me. Dad clears his throat and then rests the leather taws across the very centre of my buttocks. He is taking aim. I can’t help it but my buttocks clench. It is some reflex action, my bum is trying to protect itself from the onslaught. It doesn’t work. The leather moves away from my arse and returns a second later at great speed and force. It cracks across the underside of my bum. I screw my eyes tight. That hurt. A lot.

My feet slip on the carpet and Dad gives me time to steady myself before he lands number two on the higher part of my buttocks. I now have two lines of scorching pain. I chew on my bottom lip. It hurts so much. Swipes three and four land in quick succession. Dad is putting all his strength into this. All that golf is paying off.

I wriggle my hips and bend my knees as blow after blow connects with my tight bottom. The pain is rushing through my body and my temples throb almost as much as my bum. I can’t get a good grip on the seat cushion so I spread my palms and press them deep into the foam. Sweat soaks my scalp and I can smell perspiration under my armpits, even though the room is quite cold.

Dad clears his throat again but otherwise is silent as he goes about his business. My arse is on fire but thank God he didn’t make me take down my pants. I hear the biddy next door move. Then I see her out of the corner of my eye. She is looking to get a better view of my upturned arse.

 

DAD. That’s enough. Stand up.

 

I haul myself to my feet. I stare at the carpet too embarrassed to meet the eyes of the old biddy or my Mum. My bum is scorching but already the agony is dissolving. I press the palms of my hands into the seat of my underpants, holding in the pain. It doesn’t make much difference.

 

DAD. Go to your room.

 

I don’t need telling twice and I take the stairs two at a time and crash through he door into my bedroom. Gingerly I pull down my pants and poke my bum at the mirror. Dad has done a very job. To be fair he is not a brute. He hasn’t flogged me to within an inch of my life. He has given me a sound leathering. He has made his point and I have taken it. Not one square centimetre of my buttocks and the tops of my legs is untouched. The imprint of the taws has been reproduced time and again across what was once pale skin. There are some deep purple bruises across the mounds of my buttocks and lesser more yellowy ones elsewhere. It will take days for them to clear.

I hear the front door open and close and through the window I see the biddy returning to her house. I bet she can’t wait to get back tell everyone that I’ve been spanked. Soon the news will be all over the street. I won’t be able to hold my head up in the Three Fishers tonight.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

 

Other stories you might like

The cricketer

Quarterly performance review

Reliving old times

 

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Book. Paul and his Landlord

used drawing cane hold (27)

Paul and His Landlord – and other troublesome tenants

Young men who are away from the parental home, often for the first time, are apt to stray from the straight and narrow. How lucky that responsible adults in the shape of landlords are on hand to show them the error of their ways, even if it means delivering sound spankings and other corporal punishment.

It might even be a life-changing experience for them – it certainly was for Paul.

Paul and his landlord and other troublesome tenants is another in a series of collections of my stories being published in book form. It runs for more than 21,000 words and has many illustrations. You should be able to read it on your lap top or e-book reader.

Click on the link below to download it free-of-charge.

paul-and-his-landlord-by-charles-hamilton-ii

 

Picture credit: Unknown

 

For more free-to-download books click here

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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charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

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

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

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.

 

 

Other stories you might like

The drunken neighbour

The casting couch

Commander Reynolds’ rooming house

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com