Fake News #2

z used fake news otk sport chair (12)

Spanking for Fighting Soccer Star

EXCLUSIVE The Daily Globe

Sam Spencer, the nineteen-year-old Premier League footballer caught on CCTV brawling outside a nightclub, has been given “an old-fashioned” spanking, we can exclusively reveal.

Spencer whose fight went viral on social media was taken across the knee of Newton Rovers manager Ron Thwistlethorp yesterday for a bare-bottom tanning.

Thwistlethorp, the no-nonsense Yorkshireman, was reportedly “livid with anger” when told news of Spencer’s late night nightclub visit. Spencer was seen on closed-circuit TV allegedly brawling with two other young men. Spencer was seen yesterday morning at club training with bruising to his face.

Now an insider tells The Daily Globe Spencer has quite a few bruises on another part of his body.

“We have high standards at the club. We expect our players to behave themselves, there is no excuse for this kind of behaviour,” the insider said.

The insider revealed that Spencer, who has scored nine goals in the Premier League this season, was summoned to the manager’s office after training.

“Ron Thwistlethorp is a hard taskmaster. He won’t put up with this kind of behaviour. It doesn’t matter if you are an international star or the lowliest apprentice. They all get treated the same.”

And that meant Spencer, who was called up to the England squad for the vital World Cup qualifying match against the Isle of Man last month, found himself over his manager’s knee staring at a rug.

The insider said, “Thwistlethorp doesn’t do things in half measures. He made the teenager remove his football shorts and underwear. It has to be on the bare, otherwise it isn’t a proper spanking.”

Thwistlethorp used a heavy wooden-backed hairbrush, borrowed especially for the purpose from his secretary.

“It packed quite a punch. Sam Spencer was squirming and yelping long before Mr. Thwistlethorp finished.

“He really let him have it. It wasn’t just some little smacked botty,” the insider said.

One source said Spencer was locked in with Thwistlethorp for at least 10 minutes.

Spencer was reportedly spotted later in the club showers with cherry-red buttocks. “It looks like he sat on a barBQ,” teammate Freddie Fiske Tweeted.

Footage of the spanking recorded on a Smartphone was uploaded to the Internet. By midnight it had received more than two million views.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

It’s the waiting …

z used bed chest nick backes

It’s the waiting that gets me. It always does. I know it’s going to happen, there’s no doubt about that. But when? Why won’t he just get on with it.

I know I deserve it. I won’t argue with that. Rules are rules. Clear as a bell. No ambiguity. Don’t break curfew. Don’t drink alcohol. I did both. Caught bang-to-rights. No argument from me.

I thought I had got one over on Dad. Sometimes I do. I get away with it. This is what I do. About nine in the evening, I get all sleepy eyed. The family’s sat in front to the television. Usually it’s some dopey soap opera, or one of those series about midwives or doctors set in the nineteen-fifties. They’re boring enough to really send me to sleep.

Anyhow, I do the yawning and arm stretching thing. “Yawn, yawn. I’m tired. I think I’ll have an early night.” Then I make sure everyone knows I’m off to my bedroom. “Goodnight Mum. Goodnight Dad. Goodnight John Boy,” you get the idea. Then, as in the script, I go to my bedroom.

So far, so good. I turn the light off and wait about ten minutes. But I don’t go to bed. My bedroom is at the back of the house and everyone is glued to the telly so it’s easy to open up the window, climb out and leg it down to the pub.

I get away with it more often than not. I would have last night as well. But what do you know, just as I was rolling home at half past midnight, Dad had a call of nature. A what? you’re asking. All right; he got up for a piss. Just as I was quietly putting my key in the lock of the front door.

As I said, caught bang-to-rights. So there was Dad dressed in his old, baggy underwear bearing down on me. Not something one wants to see in a parent. “Where have you been?” he growls at me. “Out,” I say back, which of course, is the literal truth, but that’s not what he wants to hear. He says so and I tell him the details. Well, an edited version anyhow. “I’ve been out with my mates,” I tell him.

Still not convinced he isn’t getting only the edited highlights, he advances down the stairs. “You’ve been drinking?” He says it as if it’s a question, but really it’s a statement of fact. I smell of booze. He stands close to me so he can smell my breath. He grimaces (a bit theatrically, if you ask me). The aroma of his own stale sweat drifts between us.

He takes a deep breath and shaking his head (he would make a fine ham actor in one of those soap operas) he says his lines. To be honest with you he has said them all before. What had he told me about curfew? What had he said about drinking alcohol? What happened last time? What should he do this time?

Naturally, they were all rhetorical questions. That is he wasn’t expecting me to answer. The answers in case you’re interested would have been: curfew was eleven on a school night (even though I am eighteen and in my final year); no alcohol to be drunk, ever; last time I was caught he spanked me and what should he do this time? In my own estimation he should forget about it and go to bed.

He has other ideas. “Go to bed. I’ll deal with you in the morning.” With that he shuffles up the stairs giving me a perfect view of his shorts slipping down his hairy arse exposing the top half of his crack.

“I’ll deal with you.” I know what that means. Well I know in the abstract, as we say in our English Lit. classes at school. In the abstract I’m getting a spanking. Only the when and the how has to be revealed.

Last time – how can I forget it was less than three weeks ago – it was Dad’s bedroom slipper. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him wear slippers, but the ones he has (cloth uppers in a brown check pattern and very springy soles) are ancient and worn. I’m still in bed when he bursts into the room. It is his house and he doesn’t think he needs to knock on doors.

He towers over me, gripping the slipper in his right hand. It is a cold morning so I wear pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt with a design of Thailand on it that my mate Dean brought back from holiday. It wasn’t the only thing he brought back, but a shot or two at the clinic soon dealt with that.

Dad doesn’t make big speeches. “Out,” he says, waving the slipper at me. He means get out of bed and do it now. I don’t make a fuss. I know, I know. I’m eighteen years old. This is 2017. My Dad’s going to spank my bottom because I was at the pub and got home late. Can you imagine such a thing? I’m not a betting man but I’d wager the house (as they say) that none of my mates are going across their Dad’s knees at this moment.

I push back the sheet and wriggle my bum along the mattress until my legs dangle over the edge of the bed and I am able to pull myself to my feet. Dad scowls a little. “C’mon,” he says as he sits himself down on the bed and spreads his legs. He doesn’t have to say more. I have been here before, I know the drill.

I shuffle forward until I am standing beside Dad’s right leg. He sits at an angle, so I am expected to lower myself over his knees and stretch out the top half of my body across the mattress. This way, my bum rests perfectly across his lap and my arms are out of the target area. My legs hang over the edge of the bed and my knees bend slightly so that my toes hover a few centimetres above the carpet.

I do this and wait patiently. Dad holds me firmly at the waist. Have you ever been slippered? Well, to be honest it doesn’t hurt that much. There’s a stinging pain as the springy sole connects with the bum and it lasts a second or two, until the next swipe smacks home. But once the battering’s over the pain goes quickly although it tingles for a minute or so after. Dad likes to spank at a rapid rate, like a machinegun: rat-a-tat-tat. He puts his full effort into it.

This time (he doesn’t always do this), he grips the elasticated waistband of my pyjamas and tugs them over my bum until the buttocks are bared. I feel a slight cool breeze coming from the door that Dad has left slightly open. Rats. My brother Joe will be able to hear. Perhaps Dad has done this on purpose. It increases my embarrassment to know Joe might hear and it serves as a warning to my brother about the consequences of his own behaviour.

I don’t like being spanked on the bare. I don’t suppose it increases the pain much compared to the thin cotton pyjama bottoms, but I know Dad can see right into my crack and I haven’t had a shower yet. I try to remember when I last had a crap. Before I showered yesterday? Then I should be clean.

With no further ado, Dad grips the slipper tightly, hovers it over my left buttock and let’s fly. Bang-bang-bang. It hurts, a lot. But it is not agony. I’ve never discussed this with Dad, but I am pretty sure his intention is not to really hurt me. You know in the sense of whip me senseless. He’s trying to make a point. Spank-spank-spank. And he is using his slipper and my bare arse to do it.

I know he cares for me. It’s the booze thing mostly. Nobody talks about it in the family, but my Granddad (Dad’s dad) was an alcoholic and the drink killed him in the end. But not before he made his family’s life a total misery. Dad has never touched a drop in his life; afraid (I suppose) of like-father-like son.

Dad whacks me with great efficiency. My legs kick out, but this is a reflex action. I have no control, it is my body’s natural reaction to the assault being made upon it. No square centimetre of flesh is left unscathed. When I check myself in the mirror later I see the imprint of the slipper appears from the top of my buttocks, over the mounds and into the very sensitive under-curves where the bum meets the back of the thighs. Hats off to Dad, he is an expert spanker.

His job done, he releases his grip on me and taking my cue I climb off his lap. I turn my back on him (I don’t want him to see my cock and ball sack) and bend down to tug up my pyjama bottoms. He growls something that I don’t quite catch and then he says, ‘Don’t make me have to do this again.’

That was then and this is now. I wait as patiently as I can in the circumstances. I think back to last night. Was it worth it? My cock stiffens at the memory. Yes, it was. Definitely. I get a raging hardon. It was Shelley’s tits that did it. Do I have time? Can I risk it? My dick aches. Shit. I can’t stand this. I open my palm and hawk a couple of gobs of spit into it and start to work my sodden hand up and down my shaft.

The door swings open …

Picture credit: Nick Backes

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charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Fake News #1

z used paddle cop naked (2)

Juvenile Crime Stats. at Record Low

Special to Standard-Recorder

Police in Mason Creek have a unique way to cut down on juvenile crime. It is fourteen inches long by three inches wide and made of hard maple. The old fashioned paddle is making a comeback.

Police Chief Paddy Callaghan said the small community pop. 1,789 had waged war on punks. “We don’t want them here. We are sending a clear message,” he told the Standard-Recorder in an interview.

The blue-collar community was dismayed by the number of young people who visited the town from the City of Mason, fifteen miles away. “They came looking for trouble, driving fast and drinking beer. They were a huge burden on the police resources,” Chief Callaghan said. “It was costing thousands in taxpayer dollars to put these punks through the criminal justice system and that’s money better spent on local townspeople.”

Now, when juveniles get pulled over by the cops they can expect a hot time. “We don’t blow smoke. Off come their clothes and then it’s a bare-butt spanking.”

Mickey Costello (not his real name), aged 18, experienced the new regime at first hand. “Me and the guys were driving through Main Street and shot a red light. We got pulled over by the cops. We had been drinking and there were empty beer cans. A big cop went to the trunk of his car and next thing he’s waving this paddle in my face.”

Chief Callaghan explained juveniles were given a choice, they can spend the night in jail and then take their chances in front of the judge next day. That way they get a fine or some kind of community service, such as picking up litter around town. Or they can take swats.

“Most of the punks take the swats,” Callaghan said with a grin. “Word has gotten around that we take no nonsense in Mason Creek. They expect to be spanked if they break the laws.”

Costello said he was made to take off all his clothes and bend over his car. “I got six swats on the bare butt. Man, I was raw. I had to run around a while before I could sit back down in the car.”

Judge T. I. Oosthutzen III told the Standard-Recorder the townsfolk supported the police action. “We have never known the community to be so peaceful. More power to Police Chief Callaghan’s elbow,” he said.

 

Picture Credit: Man’s Hand Films

Fake News Story #2 is here

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A passing phase

z used sex on couch by sorachan and Hanatsuke

I came home unexpectedly early that afternoon. A pipe had burst and we had to evacuate the office to let the plumbers in. I’d expected the house to be empty. Colin, the only one of my kids still living at home, would have been at business college and my wife was at work. As I closed the front door I heard strange noises coming from the sitting room. They sounded human, but they weren’t exactly voices. I went to investigate.

I don’t know what I expected to see, but I’m absolutely convinced about what I didn’t expect. There on the couch naked as the day they were born was my son and a young man I did not know. They were kissing and cuddling. I think I let out a shriek, like some old maid. The other boy stared at me startled. He went pillar-box red, climbed off Colin, grabbed his clothes and dashed into the hallway.

There the boy – to this day I don’t know his name – hurriedly dressed before flying through the door, leaving me to confront my son. I was naturally dumbstruck. Literally struck dumb. Unable to speak. Colin took the opportunity of my silence to pick up his own clothes and still naked he took the stairs two at a time and I heard his bedroom door slam.

Only then did I think what to do. Father O’Kelly is our parish priest. He’d know what to do. I picked up the phone, dialled his number and put in place this train of events.

@

I’m not gay. Really, I’m not, but I am curious, I think. It was Jake who came on to me. I know him from college; he’s training to be an accountant. He came on to me, holding my hand, stroking my hair. Not that I objected. I want to make to clear that  I’m not claiming sexual harassment here, nor assault. Like I say I was curious, so I went along with it.

I’ve done it twice with Sandra, a girl at college, so I know I’m not gay. That was nothing like doing it with Jake. She was soft and cuddly; he was hard and muscular. And, of course, there’s the cock. Have you ever seen an erect dick? I mean really looked. I’ve jerked mine off many times, but I’ve never actually looked at it.

@

More young men than you might expect are homosexually inclined. They are attracted to their own genitals and to the bodies of other young men. I told this to Colin’s father when he called me. It is a sin, but it is usually only a passing phase; something that a boy must pass through. I have seen many young men through this passage of their lives. I was ready to help Colin. Together we could get him back on the straight and narrow path to God.

@

I wasn’t surprised when Dad said I must visit Fr. O’Kelly; he is a devout Catholic (Dad that is, I can’t be so sure about the priest). I go to Mass every week, but I think mainly that’s just to keep the peace at home. I do believe in God and all that and I like to think I’m a good person (most of the time).

Fr. O’Kelly asked me to see him at his home, which puzzled me. I thought we would meet at the church where the confessionals are. He has quite an ordinary home for a priest; it’s a detached house in a street called The Avenue, which is in an up-scale part of town. A very leafy suburb. I had to get two buses from our council flat.

Fr. O’Kelly was in his “civvie” clothes; black trousers and a grey roll-neck sweater. He is about fifty years old and stands a little over six feet; he has a spare tyre at his waist and his face is fleshy. His eyes always seem to me to be pink and watery. I think he had only just showered and shaved as there was a distinct whiff of Lifebuoy about him.

He directed me into a living room. I stood unsure what I was supposed to do. It’s a smallish room, with a two-seater couch, a leather armchair and a coffee table.  There’s a glass-fronted bookcase along one wall. I must have been shuffling from one foot to the other a bit impatiently waiting for the Father to join me in the room, before I saw it. I honestly had never seen anything like it before. Where had it come from? Why did a Roman Catholic priest have one?

Resting on the coffee table was what I can only describe as a school cane. These things had been banned about thirty years ago; long before I was even born. It was about a metre long and a light brown (almost yellow) colour. One end was bent to make a handle. I couldn’t resist picking it up. It was as thick as a pencil and had four notches along its length. When I held it between both hands I found it could easily bend and when I let I go it sprang back into shape.

“You should really put that back where you found it.” I’m sure I blushed as Fr. O’Kelly swept into the room. Hastily, I returned the cane to the coffee table. The priest perched himself on the edge of the couch, I stood embarrassed, unsure if I was permitted to sit. It was like being in the headmaster’s study (not that this had ever happened to me at school).

I clasped my hands behind my back and with head bowed I listened to his speech. It sounded prepared, like a sermon he might pull out of his pocket when it was necessary. He said that it was not unusual to have homosexual urges, but they were a sin. It was only a passing phase and they could be overcome. A young man’s life need not be ruined.

I was glad to hear this. Since my experiment with Jake I had worried tremendously. I didn’t want to be gay; I wanted to be normal. Like everybody else; like my Dad; like the people at church; like Fr. O’Kelly.

I don’t remember all that the priest said, but there was something about redemption. And, there was something about penitence. I missed most of this. Suddenly, there was silence. I blushed. Had he asked me a question, was I expected to answer?

“I said,” Fr. O’Kelly repeated himself, “It is necessary to beat this sin out of you.” I heard that all right. “It will cure you of your affliction and help you to live a normal, healthy life.” I watched spellbound as Fr. O’Kelly reached over to the coffee table and picked up the cane. He flexed it between his hands, rather as I had done earlier, then he swished it with terrific force through the air. It made an intimidating swoosh as it flew. My heart beat fast.

Fr. O’Kelly took two paces across the room and stood close to the leather armchair. “Come, stand with me,” he said. It was a gentle command, but a command nonetheless. The priest expected to be obeyed. I shuffled close to him; the scent of the soap tickled my nostrils and for one absurd moment I thought I was going to sneeze.

Fr. O’Kelly flexed the cane once more. “I want you to lower your trousers and underpants and bend over the chair.” He tapped the tip of the cane against the apex of the chair in case there was any doubt what he meant.

I suppose I stared in astonishment, I certainly did not move. “Trousers, pants down,” he said a little more sternly this time. Maybe my jaw dropped, I’m pretty sure my mouth opened and closed, but I couldn’t form words. He said it for the third time, “Trousers and pants down,” as if it were the most natural thing in the world for a nineteen-year-old boy to undress in front of a fifty-something priest to offer up his bare arse for a thrashing with a school cane. All to cure a homosexual trait.

I can’t fully explain what happened next. I’m not sure I will ever understand, but some power overcame me. I knew beyond any doubt whatsoever that Fr. O’Kelly was right. I had to undergo penitence; I needed to show remorse; be contrite. It would cure me of my urges and I would be able to lead a normal, happy life.

My hands trembled, but I got them to unbuckle my belt. My brown chinos hung loosely at my waist and they started slipping over my hips. I unbuttoned at the waist and they hurtled down my legs, passed my knees and flopped at my ankles. I was wearing micro-briefs and as I lifted up my shirt and pullover and looked down my flat hairless stomach, I saw they were so small and so tight they hardly encased my cock and balls. Tufts of pubic hair sprang out the sides. I put my two thumbs either side of the waistband and guided the briefs down my legs, abandoning them just below the knees.

I was once again aware that I was not alone. Fr. O’Kelly tapped his cane against the back of the chair and spoke, “Bend over.” I had never been caned; I had never been spanked. I don’t think I had ever even been slapped as a very small child. I was entering uncharted territory. I was determined to cooperate. This was for my own good. I would emerge from the experience a better person.

I lifted up my shirt and pullover so they were completely clear of my buttocks and leaned forward. The soft leather felt cold against my bare stomach. I rested my palms in the seat cushion and spread my fingers. The seat back was quite low and my torso sank into the soft leather. Instinctively I parted my legs, but I was restricted by the trousers at my ankles. Over the edge of the chair seat I could see a red-and-beige-patterned rug. I was facing a bay window and when I lifted my head I realised it was open. Had it not been for lace curtains I would have been able to see into the garden.

Fr. O’Kelly pressed the cane into my stretched bum. First he went to the top of the crown, then he “sawed” the stick across the fleshiest part of the buttocks, before turning his attention to the “sit-spot”, the underside of the curves. He seemed to be taking an inordinate time setting up his aim. I did not object to this; I would have been quite content if he delayed a lot longer.

At last he was ready. I felt the cane lifting away from my bum, there were a few moments silence followed by a tremendous whoosh and the rod bit deep into the very centre of both buttocks. I heard the thwack as rattan connected with meat a second or so before I felt the agony. It was as if Fr. O’Kelly had pressed a white-hot wire into my bum.

My knees buckled. The palms of my hands slid on the smooth leather seats. I wanted to grip hold of something tightly to help me absorb the pain but there was nothing, so I bunched my hands into fists and dug my nails deep into my palms. I shut my eyes tight and opened them almost immediately. My ears stung as blood flooded into them.

I had no time to recover from the shock before Fr. O’Kelly flogged the second cut into my under-curves. My top teeth bit deep into my bottom lip and I tasted blood. My head flailed left and right and up and down. I wanted to twist one foot over the other to stop the pain but my trousers prevented this.

The third and fourth strokes came in immediate succession. Bam! Bam! That was when I lost it. I coughed up bile and swallowed it down again. I howled. There really is no other way to describe it. A banshee would have been proud of the noise. I could no longer see the pattern on the rug, my vision was blurred by tears.

By now I had lost all sense of time and space, but I am pretty certain there was a delay before the fifth swipe was delivered. What I do know is that I felt the cane being once more “sawed” across my buttocks as the priest found his spot. This time the cane lay in a diagonal from the bottom of my left cheek to the top of the right. When Father O’Kelly let fly the whippy rattan flogged across the four previously delivered cuts, reigniting the agony in them all. I lifted my feet off the floor, wrapped my arms around my head, gasping, desperately sucking in air.

My heart very nearly gave out at that point. My blood pressure must have been off the scale. I was aware of arteries throbbing. My temples pounded. Any moment now I might have a stroke.

I wasn’t aware of such things at the time, but the “traditional” tariff for schoolboy beatings was “Six-of-the-best”. Fr O’Kelly was nothing if not a traditionalist. He took his aim for the sixth and last time. Now, he had the cane resting along the opposite diagonal. My bum was so toasted and my nerve ends so frayed that I could not feel this. I felt the resultant swipe right enough. When I inspected the damage later I saw he had imprinted a perfect “X” on my arse.

He had finished, but he left me heaving over the back of the leather armchair.  My nose was so close to the soft cushion I could smell the leather and the sweat of countless backsides. My bum felt like I had sat on a barbecue, the agony was intense. But even as I lay there waiting for permission to stand, the pain was already easing into an intense throb. Soon it would be merely sore and then just a tingle. I had problems sitting on a hard surface for some hours and it was days before the bruises disappeared.

Fr. O’Kelly let me stand and dress and he said a little prayer. I was on the path to salvation, he said. I was cured of my homosexual inclinations; of that I was certain. What puzzled me was why I had a raging hardon that night in bed when in my mind I recounted my bare-arsed flogging.

 

Picture credit: Sorachan

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The beach house

Randy breathed in the warm air, summer was on the way at last. It had been a cruel winter with record amounts of snow. But that was then. The top of the car was down, rock music blared from the radio. He was happy as a pig in shit.

He was almost there. Another fifteen minutes should do it. He should arrive by about five. That would give him plenty of time.

He passed the road sign. Belinda Beach Welcomes Carful Drivers. He always liked that joke. Carful. Car-full. A pun on careful. Belinda Beach was a holiday resort, it depended on cars full of visitors. He drove along the beach. The holiday season hadn’t quite begun but the beach was busy. Youngsters mostly. College kids. Drop-outs, those kind of people. The families and the rich folk wouldn’t be here until another week or two.

He pulled the car over. He was here now. The beach house. He switched the engine off and sat, admiring the house. How he wished he could afford such a place. Anyhow, he’d get some use of it over the next few days. He climbed out of the car. He had a job to do. He needed to get the house ready before his boss and his family moved in.

He found the key in his pocket and put it in the lock of the front door. No need. The door swung open with a slight nudge. Clearly, it had been forced. His heart jumped. Burglars. Could they still be inside? Were they armed? He peered inside. Nothing seemed to be disturbed. He decided to take the risk; cautiously he entered.

All seemed in order. There wasn’t much for a thief to take, unless they wanted the furniture. Slowly, Randy entered the living room. Nothing unusual. Same with the kitchen. Emboldened, he tried upstairs. He opened the door to the master bedroom. He peered inside. He didn’t need the skills of the homicide detectives he loved to watch on TV. The bed was unmade.  A bag lay nearby, a used shirt poked from its top. He tried the next room and the one beside that.  There was no doubt about it, he knew the story of The Three Bears. Somebody was staying in the house. Without permission.

Randy cursed to himself. This was a hassle he would rather not have. Who were these people? Beach bums, he answered his own question. Cursing some more he made his way downstairs. He needed to call the police. He didn’t even try the phone in the hall, he knew it wouldn’t be connected yet. He exited the house and made his way over to the beach in search of a payphone.

The police were courteous, but Randy reckoned they didn’t seem much interested. They’d send a patrol car over as soon as they could. Randy hopped from foot to foot with indignation, unsure what to do now. If he went back to the house, would the bums return? How would he deal with them? He didn’t want a fight. He found the packet of cigarettes in his pocket and lit one, inhaling deeply. It was a warm evening, he would wait on the beach until he saw a police car approach the house.

He didn’t wait long. Officers Brady and Colhoun were there within minutes. “We were close by,” the larger and older of the two replied when Randy expressed gratitude for a speedy turn out. They went inside and the officers quickly searched the premises. “Anything missing?” Officer Brady, who seemed to Randy to be in charge, asked.

“Not that I can see,” Randy felt a little foolish calling the police. “But,” he went on, “somebody, bodies, are clearly staying here. Isn’t that trespass or something?”

“Civil, not criminal, you need a lawyer. A court order,” Officer Brady stretched his arms. He had been sitting in the patrol car too long. “To be perfectly honest sir, we are a small town here, with a tiny police force, we couldn’t afford to call this in and put the perps. through the system.”

Randy exhaled, “You mean they should just get away with it?”

Officer Brady bristled. “I didn’t say that sir. We have quite a few of these cases at this time of year. Kids come to the beach with no place to stay and they break into houses that have been locked up for the winter. We have a way of dealing with them.”

Randy was intrigued and said so.

“Well,” Officer Brady warmed to his theme, “It’s all very unofficial, you understand.” Randy nodded eagerly, encouraging the cop to tell him more.

 

@

It was an hour later when Randy heard the beach house door open and voices. “Good evening gentlemen,” he smiled weakly at the two startled teens. “Shit,” one breathed almost inaudibly.

“Shit indeed,” Randy had decided he would enjoy this. He eyed them up and down. They were dressed in identical blue-and-white-hooped t-shirts and denims cut right down to the buttocks. “Fags,” Randy silently sneered. They were about nineteen years old, he reckoned, and judging by their suntans they had spent much of the last few weeks on the beach.

Both looked sheepish. Randy liked that. “So,” he had prepared a little speech, “the police say they have a plan for kids like you who break into houses.”

The phrase “their jaws dropped” is a cliché, but their jaws actually did dip as the teens realised their fate.

“Wait,” one of them said. Randy leaned forward so intimidatingly that the teen dried up and looked sulkily across at his companion.

“I am to call Officer Brady,” Randy rose to his feet. “I have to make a phone call,” he went towards the door. “Don’t bother to try to run away, the cops have taken your bags, they know who you are and where to find you. If you know what’s best for you …” he glared at them with contempt, then left the house.

@

Officer Brady knocked on the door and entered. “Well, well, well. Draper and Bartlett, we meet again.” Despite their tan both the teens blanched. “Hello Officer Brady,” the one who turned out to be Draper smiled weakly.

“So, I evict you from the Hollander’s place and you set up residence here.” Both boys stared at the wooden floor, unsure if they were expected to answer. Officer Brady snorted a laugh. “Well, you can’t say you don’t know what’s gonna happen now.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I guess you see it as an occupational hazard.”

“Oh man,” Bartlett’s eyes shone. Yes, he did know what was going to happen next and if it was half as bad as last time. He tried to get the thought out of his mind.

Randy looked on. He was in his late fifties and it was sometime since he had been a teenager. They didn’t hang out to beaches when he had been young. They left school and went to work. Got married. Raised families. The kids today …  He was roused from his thoughts. Officer Brady was saying something to him.

“I said do you want to deal with this or do you want me to do it?” Randy’s eyes flickered, it took a second for him to work out what the cop was asking. “You’d better do it. You know what to do. You’ve had the experience.”

Officer Brady grimaced. Yes, he knew what to do alright. “Right you two,” he barked like a sergeant-major, “stand over there!” He nodded to the corner of the room. Sorrowfully, Draper and Bartlett shuffled. No words were spoken. What was the point? The cops were in control.

Officer Brady waited until the boys were settled, then he dropped his bombshell. “Right, take your clothes off. All of them. Completely.” It provoked his desired reaction. Shock followed by humiliation. “But,” Draper was close to tears, “last time …”

Officer Brady cut him short. “Yes, last time it was an over-the-knee spanking. Well,” his voice was stern and authoritarian, “that didn’t teach you much of a lesson did it? Let’s do it properly this time shall we. Now strip off.”

The two nineteen year olds stood, rigid, unwilling or unable to move. They watched stone-faced as Officer Brady walked out the room and returned seconds later carrying a bar stool. This he placed in the centre of the room. He studied it for a moment and deciding it was not yet fit for purpose, he looked around the room, noticed a couch and took from it a dark blue cushion. This he placed on top of the stool. Perfect, he thought to himself, just the right height.

“I don’t see you undressing,” he barked. “Do you want me to …?” He left the sentence unfinished. Do what? He couldn’t forcibly strip them naked. Even if he had the strength to do so (which he doubted) how would it look if it became public? Police chiefs turned a blind eye to unofficial corporal punishment. Privately, they welcomed it because it made their own jobs much easier by reducing bureaucracy,  but forcibly stripping young men naked might be a bit too much.

Draper and Bartlett were too naïve to realise this. A moment’s contemplation would have been enough. People – even teens – have rights and wasn’t there something about “due process” in the Constitution.

Draper was first to move. He took the bottom hem of his t-shirt and pulled it over his head. Randy noticed the guy’s hairless torso was as tanned as his face and arms. Taking his lead, Bartlett took his shirt off too. Did Randy detect a slight rueful smile on Bartlett’s face as in synchrony the two teens popped the buttons on the top of their cut-offs and with a slight wriggle of the hips let them sail to their feet. Neither wore underwear. With a certain air of defiance they stepped out of their shorts and stood naked except for their socks.

Randy reckoned the teens were at too much at ease naked together. Definitely fags, he thought.

Officer Brady unbuckled his wide, heavy, black leather belt and with a flourish pulled it from his pants’ belt loops. He doubled it so the leather was now about eighteen inches long. He swished the belt through the air. “Bartlett, face the corner. Draper, bend over the stool.” He swiped the belt through the air in case there was any doubt what he meant.

z used belt stool naked sting

Draper had already decided he would take the whipping as stoically as he could. He wouldn’t give the bastard cop and this millionaire beach house owner the satisfaction of seeing him beg. He walked over to the stool, halted a foot or so from it, peered down at the dusty cushion, took a deep breath, rubbed his hands together and fell forward. The stool was low enough that his could rest his palms against the wooden floor. He legs were straight and his stockinged feet slipped on the wooden floor.

He waited. He could not see the cop but he felt the heavy officer’s movements through the floor as he took up position someway behind him and to his left. A faint aroma of perspiration drifted over him. Draper’s heart pounded and already blood was rushing through his body. He closed his eyes anticipating the first lash. His buttocks clenched involuntarily as if trying to protect him from the onslaught that lay ahead.

“Relax, relax,” Officer Brady tapped the leather belt across the centre of the nineteen-year-old’s naked buttocks. He licked his lips, raised the belt and with as much power as he could make, whipped it down. To his great satisfaction a sunset stripe immediately appeared where the belt landed. Draper inhaled, held it and slowly exhaled, trying in vain to ease the agony he felt in his rear end.

Randy’s eyes flickered. He had never before seen a man naked, let along one who submitted himself buttocks high across a stool for a leathering from a much older guy. Not realising he was doing so, Randy edged himself a little closer to the action so that he got a better view of Draper’s naked haunches.

Smack! Smack! Two lashes flogged across the under-curve of Draper’s buttocks. His body shook. He couldn’t stop it. His head banged up and down in empty air and he gripped the legs of the stool tightly. Smack! Smack! Two more, higher this time. The whole of Draper’s naked ass was alight. A yelp, like that of a whipped puppy, escaped his lips. Bartlett, who until then had his nose pressed against the wall, whirled around startled by the noise. He blanched at the sight, not only in sympathy for his pal, but in sorrow in the knowledge that it was his turn next.

Another half dozen cracked down. Sweat soaked Draper’s long hair, the back of his neck was as scarlet as his buttocks. Another half dozen fell and then six more. Tears ran down his face and snot dribbled from his nose.

Watching on, Randy experienced a novel sensation. He had never met these two teens before this evening, but oh how much he wanted to see them suffer. The heavy leather had raised welts on Draper’s flesh, now Randy wanted them to bleed. On and on Officer Brady lashed his leather belt. Draper was spent, his yelps had transformed into a constant sobbing. He might have been spent, but he would not beg for the cop to stop. He was already utterly humiliated, he needed to keep a semblance of pride.

Officer Brady was not a fit man. His shirt was soaked with sweat and his heartbeat was off the scale. If he didn’t let off soon he might have a stroke. He whipped another half dozen across Draper’s already disfigured cheeks and let off. “Alright,” he wheezed, “you can get up. Go stand in the corner. Bartlett, get yourself here.”

Draper hauled himself off the stool and stood unsteady on his feet. His ass was on fire, it looked and felt like he had sat on a griddle. He stumbled towards the corner and slouched against the wall, still sobbing gently.

Dazed, Bartlett shuffled forward and stood apprehensively at the stool. Officer Brady examined the leather belt in his hands and snapped it so a resounding crack bounced around the room. He looked across at Randy. “Here,” he handed the belt over, “you do this one.”

Randy’s hands shook. Too eagerly, he reached and grabbed the belt. “Get over the stool. Head down, legs apart. As far as you can get them,” Randy barked the order. Bartlett submissively complied. The teen’s hairless crack was open and his hole winked open and shut. Randy patted the teen’s buttocks with the belt, carefully taking his aim.

Smack! The leather landed. Randy paused to admire his handiwork. Yea! He lined up another one, not yet conscious of the bulge in his own underwear that would soon reveal to the room just how much fun he was having.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The honourable thing

“You cannot say that we haven’t discussed this in the past.” Uncle Simon stood, legs slightly apart, rolling on the balls of his feet. Daniel breathed deeply. This wasn’t going to end well.

Uncle Simon clasped his hands behind his back, it made him seem more imposing somehow. Not that he needed much help. At six-feet-four he towered over his nephew. His shoulders were broad, his arms muscular. He was the eldest of his family, easily ten years older than Daniel’s father. He had always been the dominant brother. Daniel suspected his father was a little in fear of the man.

Uncle Simon’s fleshy face contorted, as if a sudden pungent aroma had seeped into the drawing room. His crisp blue eyes watered. He let the tip of his tongue explore the outer edge of his bottom lip. He too sucked in breath. Then he continued, “I made it perfectly clear when I allowed you to stay that there would be rules. Did I not?”

Daniel shifted uneasily. Yes, there had been rules. It was worse than being back at St. Tom’s. Do this. Don’t do that. Curfews. No drinking alcohol. No visiting cinemas or other places of lurid entertainment. The parlour was out of bounds. Bed by eleven o’clock. Rules, rules and more rules.

Daniel’s head bobbed, nodding assent. His had no words. What was he expected to say?

“You were late home last Thursday,” Uncle Simon spoke evenly, as if reading from a written charge sheet. He paused for effect, as if losing his place on the page for a moment. “I spoke to you about it at the time.” He waited some more. Daniel would know what Uncle Simon had said. He let the import of his words sink in. “And now,” his voice rose slightly, “and now you have repeated the offence.”

Daniel felt his face redden. Suddenly he was hot, but the room itself was decidedly cool – rather like Uncle Simon’s demeanour. He stared down at the parquet floor, ashamed.

“You will be going up to the varsity next week,” Uncle Simon ran the fingers of his right hand through his hair, feeling the stickiness of Brylcreem on them. “You will need to be self-disciplined. Study hard. Perform well. What chance will you have?”

The silence was intense. The tick-tock, tick-tock of the ancient grandfather clock pounded Daniel’s temples.

“Eh boy?” Uncle Simon’s patience like his flecked grey hair was thinning.

Daniel’s top teeth bit into his lower lip. He gurned his face. What was he supposed to say? Did Uncle Simon expect a speech of repentance? Was the eighteen-year-old meant to confess his sins? To invite retribution?

“Pah!” Uncle Simon waved his arms through the air, as if conducting an imaginary orchestra. “This will not do. This will not do,” he intoned. Perspiration began to dribble from his brow. Without thinking, he wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. “Well,” he sighed, as if he had been called upon to carry the woes of the entire world on his shoulders, “let’s get on with it.”

Daniel blinked hard. This was not entirely unexpected. He had broken the rules. He had been warned of his consequences. He had been caught a second time. Punishment was inevitable. He watched his uncle move across the room. It was large and cluttered with furniture. Daniel’s eyes flickered from the heavy leather Chesterfield coach, over to the dark oak dining table, taking in two overstuffed horsehair armchairs on the way. Any moment now he expected the instruction to present himself for punishment draped across one or other of these.

Uncle Simon made his way to a sideboard, hesitated for a second as if trying to remember an important detail. Then, he tugged at a drawer. It stuck hard and Uncle Simon cursed under his breath as he struggled to open it. At last, with a resounding clutter, he did so. He reached inside and ran his hand through the contents. It was the easiest thing to find what he sought.

Daniel watched puzzled. He supposed it would be a swishing. With a stout but whippy rattan cane – just like the ones he had endured at St. Tom’s. But, the drawer was too small to accommodate such a thing. What was Uncle up to? Daniel soon found out. With a look of distinct satisfaction on his lips, Uncle Simon gripped a large ebony hairbrush. He thought better of trying to close the drawer, so  turning on his heels he brandished it at his nephew.

It was about a foot long and the business end about four inches wide. The head was made of dark ebony wood. Instinctively, the tips of Daniel’s fingers brushed the seat of his trousers. Memories of encounters in the nursery startled him. Nanny had been very proficient with one of these.

Uncle Simon glowered at Daniel through narrowed eyes, then turned his attention to his surroundings. He came upon a large dining chair with ornate carvings tucked under the table. “There,” he said vaguely, “that will do.” Then, more forcefully, he said to his nephew. “Take hold of that chair and place it in the middle of the room.” He nodded to an open space near the horsehair armchairs.

Daniel’s heart raced. Could this really be happening? He could tell at a glance that the back of the chair was too high for him to bend himself across. Surely his uncle did not intend ….

His thoughts were interrupted. “Now, if you please. I wish to conclude this before your aunt comes down.” Startled into action, Daniel shuffled the five or six paces necessary to reach the chair. He paused and a little surprised by how damp the palms of his hands were, he rubbed them along the sides of his legs. The rough texture of his trousers scratched them. He reached for the chair and gripping it by the back he lumbered it across the room and plonked it into position. He stood; embarrassed, unsure what was now expected of him.

Uncle Simon watched with interest. His nephew cut a scrawny figure. He was hardly five-feet-seven-inches in his stockinged feet. Clearly, he was a stranger to the rugby field. No part of his body appeared muscular. The boy’s deathly-white complexion attested to time spent in study halls and libraries. His too-long fair hair flopped over his forehead and ears. From a distance and in a certain light he might be mistaken for a girl, Uncle Simon thought unkindly.

Uncle Simon held the brush in his right fist and tapped it into the palm of his left hand. It was time to take action. He strode to the chair and sat down. He spread his long legs wide and shifted his buttocks until he had attained the posture he desired, all the time conscious that his nephew’s stare burned into him.

Satisfied that he was now ready, Uncle Simon snapped his fingers and spoke. “Stand there. Take down your trousers.”

Simon’s already pale visage blanched even more. His uncle intended he should go over his knee for a spanking. “Dash it all,” he thought but did not speak aloud, “that’s not cricket. That’s not how a chap should be punished.” Daniel was an honourable chap. Like generations of boys at St. Tom’s he had grown up knowing the code of conduct. If a chap got found out in some misdeed, he took his punishment, fair and square. That was the right thing to do. A chap took his punishment like a man. But this …..? To take his trousers down and bend over his uncle’s knee? It was not manly. It was the punishment of a child; of the nursery.

“I have already scolded you for dallying,” Uncle Simon scowled. “Lower those trousers.”

Daniel was determined to do the honourable thing. Uncle Simon was his master, he should be obeyed. He wore no jacket nor waistcoat so was able to quickly put his thumbs under the straps of his braces and manoeuvre them over his shoulders. Thus released his trousers, which hung somewhat loosely at his waist, began to slip over his hips. His fingers trembled as he unbuttoned and helped them on their way south to puddle at his shoeless feet. He waited hands held loosely at his side for the inevitable next instruction.

It wasn’t long in coming. “Remove your underwear.”

This was really too much. The humiliation was great. Over uncle’s knee for a bare-bottomed spanking with a hairbrush. Dammit, why didn’t he just invite the housemaid and the footman in to witness the spectacle? At that moment the door behind rattled; Daniel alarmed twisted his head. It was only a gust of wind. His disgrace would go unwitnessed by the servants. He turned his attention once more to the matter in hand. His woollen drawers were held up by buttons and again his darned fingers were reluctant to obey his brain. At last they met with his trousers.

Daniel clasped his hands together as if in prayer and used them to obscure the sight of his private parts from his uncle. The old man professed not to notice, but although he intended to treat him as such, he could see his nephew decidedly was not a little boy.

Daniel stood head bowed. His uncle’s legs were parted some distance and the folds of his tweed trousers cloaked his own manhood. “Come, bend over my knee,” Uncle Simon spoke the words so hoarsely, Daniel did not hear. Only an accompanying hand gesture confirmed to the eighteen-year-old what was expected of him.

This was too much, Daniel thought. What couldn’t Uncle Simon beat him with a cane. He could do it on the naked buttocks if he believed Daniel’s offence warranted such treatment. Daniel would submit. But being spanked on the bared bottom nursery style was beyond the pale. He sucked in breath. He had no choice. He was an honourable boy, he must go through with this. He leaned forward and at first resting his hands on Uncle Simon’s left knee he eased himself down until his body rested across the platform the old man had created. Uncle was so tall and Daniel so small that he easily fitted into position. His fingers stretched out ahead of him and barely brushed against the wooden floor. Behind him his feet dangled in mid-air. His waist rested at an angle against Uncle Simon’s right knee, thereby offering his naked buttocks at a perfect angle to his uncle.

Despite his earlier entreaty for Daniel to get a move on, Uncle Simon was in no hurry. Carefully, he took hold of the boy’s shirttail and rolled it away from the target area up towards his shoulders. He noted his nephew’s hairless back and skinny waist. There was hardly any fat on the boy’s buttocks either. His nerve ends were entirely unprotected. This would indeed be an exceedingly painful experience for the boy.

Uncle Simon lay the heavy ebony-backed hairbrush on the small of Daniel’s back. He wasn’t yet quite ready to start. Instead, he cupped the palm of his right hand and slowly explored the contours of Daniel’s small, pert, buttock cheeks. He stared at the top near the spine and with deft circular motions explored the crest of the mounds, before squeezing the undercurves. Then for the sake of completeness he pat-pat-patted Daniel’s thighs. He could not be certain, but had he detected the slightest purring sound from his nephew as he performed this final task?

Now ready, he picked up the brush once more and gently stroked it over the highest point of Daniel’s right buttock cheek. His nephew’s body stiffened in anticipation of the hurt to come. Smack! The heavy wooden brush slammed with force. It met little resistance and a pink shape, replicating the hairbrush’s head immediately appeared. Daniel gasped but had little time to do more before a second and then a third swipe landed in almost exactly the same spot. He wriggled. It was an involuntary movement, a natural reaction from his body to the pain it felt.

Just as quickly three whacks bounced off his left buttock. The boy’s bum glowed a deep pink. Without hesitation Uncle Simon delivered another six on each globe. Each one of them landing with extreme force. Daniel’s legs flailed and his hips wriggled this way and that. Uncle Simon gripped the boy’s waist with his left arm and leaned his elbow against Daniel’s back. The boy was going nowhere; not until Uncle Simon decided he had been punished enough.

When he thought about it later, Daniel concluded the hairbrush spanking had hurt terrifically. He was no stranger to corporal punishment; St. Tom’s was that kind of school. But the masters there always used a whippy rattan cane. Six-of-the-best was the standard tariff and delivered with the expertise of the experienced schoolmaster it always hurt like billy-o whether trousers were up or down. The cane was thin and whippy and cut deep into the flesh, always causing intense pain and often leaving deep welts that reignited even hours later whenever a punished boy tried to sit. The pain from the hairbrush was altogether different. Its effects were terrible at the point of correction, but the pain rapidly faded into a throb before becoming merely an intense glow.

Uncle Simon was not a cruel man. He believed in discipline and he believed in punishment. He did not believe in torture. It was his intention to blister every square inch of his nephew’s buttocks and thighs, but no more. The pink marks quickly turned deeper red and after a few dozen spanks with the heavy brush a colour not unlike that of a good claret wine had been achieved. Daniel, now more securely pinned by his uncle’s elbow was unable to resist. Not that he wished to. The kicking and writhing had been purely physical reactions of his body of which he had no control. He had been determined to accept his just punishment. Rules had been stated, rules had been broken, the consequence of further rule-breaking made clear, the warning ignored and punishment meted out. Daniel offered no cause for complaint.

At last, satisfied with his own handiwork, Uncle Simon made one final circuit with his hairbrush before landing six stingers across the backs of Daniel’s thighs. It was over. He released his grip on his nephew and watched in awe as the eighteen-year-old staggered to his feet and performed the traditional “spanking dance”, hopping first from one foot and then to the other all the time rubbing the palms of his hands across the scorched flesh of his buttocks. Daniel seemed not to notice his cock and balls bouncing up and down inches from Uncle Simon’s glistening face.

Uncle Simon gave no instruction, but once the pain in his bum started to ease, Daniel bent down and began to pull up his drawers, offering his uncle a perfect view of his battered buttocks and his crack and hole. The underwear was in place in a trice and the trousers soon followed.

Uncle Simon heaved himself from his chair, a little surprised by his own breathlessness. He shook his nephew’s hand when the boy offered it. The way gentlemen do in such circumstances. Daniel with as much dignity as he could muster for an eighteen-year-old boy who had been across the knees of an older man for a bare-bottomed spanking left the room.

Uncle Simon reached inside his trouser pocket and finding a handkerchief pulled it out to mop his soaking head. Sweat soaked the armpits of his shirt and he felt the cotton sticking also to his back. The front of his trousers were tight and he knew he ought to withdraw from the room quickly and return to his bedroom.

Upstairs, Daniel in his own room had lowered his trousers and underwear and was inspecting the results his uncle’s administrations. “Oh well,” he said out loud although he was entirely alone, “I jolly well deserved it. Nobody can say that Uncle Simon isn’t a just man.”

used drawing brush hold (9)

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The choice is yours

Jason and Chris stood awkwardly, hands behind backs, eyes downcast. The principal was mad – if not, he was a pretty good actor.

“Senior boys acting like juniors!” he raged. “Fighting in the corridors!”

Jason looked at his partner in crime through the corner of his eye. “Too true,” he thought. “And if that faggot looks at me that way again, I’ll cripple him.”

Principal Golightly rose from his chair. He was an elegant man in his fifties, with premature silver hair. He was lean and fit, which is more than could be said for most of the other teachers at Rosewood College. Golightly took care of himself.

He ambled across his office and stopped by the far wall where his eyes ran along the shelves as if he had never seen his books before. Jason hopped from one foot to the other. His legs were tiring. He wished Golightly would just get on with it. What would it be? Detention? An essay? Why it is wrong to settle our differences with violence – a title like that.

Golightly turned his attention away from his book collection and faced his two eighteen-year-old students. He paused, weighing his words carefully. “I shall give each of you a choice,” he said, his voice sonorous. He paused again as if for dramatic effect. He had both teens’ attention. “You may take swats or attend Saturday morning class.” He paused once more before reiterating, “The choice is yours.”

He delighted at their shocked expressions. Jason’s eyebrows arched. Principal Golightly could read the boy’s eyes. “What the fuck?” they said, but Jason himself remained silent. Chris was the first to speak. “It’s against the law.”

I am the law at Rosewood,” Golightly drawled. He delighted in the ensuing silence as Chris’s face blushed scarlet.

“Well Manor, what’s it to be?” the principal stared intently at Chris although he already knew the answer. What eighteen-year-old would submit himself to the principal’s paddle. Taking a spanking was beneath their dignity.

“Saturday detention,” Chris croaked, and then after a beat or two, he added the obligatory, “Sir.”

Principal Golightly’s nose wrinkled. He turned his attention to Jason. “And you Taylor?”

Jason mind whirled. Saturday morning detention. No way. He had discovered a neat little bar off Main Street where the university girls went. Jason was five-feet-ten, with broad shoulders and trim waist and the most beautiful ass. The girls loved him. He could have his pick. He would be screwing some girl on Friday night and be in no fit state for school on Saturday.

His choice was not as the principal put it. For him it was not detention or the paddle; it was sex or no sex. A no brainer. Jason took a deep breath and as confidently as he could, he said, “I’ll take the swats, Principal Golightly.”

The principal hoped he didn’t look as astonished as he felt. This hunky eighteen-year-old was prepared to offer up his ass to the wood. To let a much older man blister his buttocks. Well, well, well, he thought, and he had supposed that Chris Manor was the gay boy here.

Principal Golightly straightened his shoulders. “Very well,” he intoned imperiously. “Manor, you should leave us.” He needed no second telling and within seconds Chris was on the other side of the door. Realising he was quite alone in the corridor, he put his ear to the door.

Inside the office, Jason stared ahead, determined to go through his ordeal with some dignity. He had never been paddled before; nor to his best recollection had he been smacked. Not ever. Not even as a little kid.

Principal Golightly walked slowly across the office to a long, narrow table. He delved his hand into his pants pocket and found a key. Jason watched intently as the silver-haired man unlocked the drawer, opened it, reached in and withdrew a heavy wooden paddle. It was awesome; easily eighteen inches long and maybe four wide. And drilled into its blade were a dozen holes. Jason wouldn’t know this (not yet, at least) but the holes were there to combat wind resistance and make the paddle fly faster through the air. The holes would also add to the blisters that he would carry on his backside for some time to come.

Principal Golightly caressed the wood, rubbing the tips of his fingers along its entire length. It was as if he had never before seen it. Then, he tested its weight and seemingly satisfied, he held it in his right hand and smacked it firmly into the palm of his left. Jason watched transfixed. It needed little imagination to conclude this was a mightily effective punishment tool.

“Put that chair in the middle of the room,” Principal Golightly nodded to an ordinary office chair. The command startled Jason and at first he was unsure what had been said. “That chair. There.” The principal waved his paddle at an area of rug. Jason fully awake now took hold of a small straight-backed chair. It was very light and he had it in place in no time.

Principal Golightly caressed the paddle some more. Jason watched him closely. The old man seemed to be contemplating. Was he having a discussion inside his head? Perhaps he was, and very soon Jason discovered the outcome of the interior dialogue.

“Stand in front of the chair.” Jason did as he was told. Why was his heart thumping? The palms of his hands were sweating too. “Now take down your jeans and bend over.”

“What the …” Jason’s mouth formed the words but no sound passed his lips, but his astonished look spoke volumes.

“Take down your jeans,” Principal Golightly repeated, slowly. “They are far too thick,” he said. “Besides, you are a senior boy and you deserve a senior boy’s punishment,” he added, but immediately regretted it. He owed this boy no explanation. He was the principal of Rosewood College, one of the most prestigious educational establishments in the state. He answered to nobody.

Jason blinked hard. Jeans down. Stand there in his underwear. And he thought Chris was the faggot.

“I am waiting,” Principal Golightly, intoned. “Or do you wish to change your mind and take Saturday School,” he sneered. He knew Jason would not back down. His pride would be hurt.

The eighteen-year-old bit his bottom lip and with fingers that trembled more than he wished, he unbuckled his belt. He felt the principal’s glare burn into him as he fumbled with the metal buttons and allowed the front of his jeans to fall open. He paused, summoning the courage to go further.

“Take them down. Right down. To your feet,” Principal Golightly waved his paddle menacingly. Jason released his hold on his waistband and the jeans slithered over his thighs and down to his knees. The weight of his belt and the denim cloth took them further south where they puddled at his feet.

Principal Golightly’s eyes shone. The teen wore rather old-fashioned white cotton briefs that were tight enough to demonstrate to him that Jason was no boy. “Bend over. Take hold of the seat of the chair. Make sure you stick your bottom out.”

If looks could kill. A mixture of contempt and defiance clouded Jason’s usually bright, open face. He turned his back on his tormentor and in one swift, athletic movement he positioned himself to perfection to receive paddle swats.

Principal Golightly took the paddle in his right hand, stood close up to the boy and tap-tap-tapped it across the centre of Jason’s rear end. The term “buns of steel” might have been invented for the boy. His muscles stretched to present a solid target. There was no “give” anywhere. The principal lifted the heavy blade away from the cotton-covered ass and with all the strength he could muster – which was considerable – he returned it at speed pounding it into the proffered buttock cheeks. The crack!! echoed around the office. Its intensity startled Chris who stood on the other side of the door. He heard Jason’s startled yelp as the pain shot through his buttocks and raced up and down his legs. Chris touched his own backside with his fingertips in an involuntary act of solidarity. His dick stiffened.

Inside the office the paddle rose and fell once more. Now, every square inch of Jason’s buttocks seemed on fire. He wriggled his hips, stomped his legs and gripped the seat of the chair as if his very life depended upon it. Principal Golightly pressed his left palm firmly into the small of Jason’s back to steady the boy. He was going nowhere; not until the principal said so. Swat three landed lower and a red mark imitating the paddle blade instantly formed on the back of Jason’s thighs. His wailing was terrific. He did the wriggling and the stomping thing again and this time wrapped his left foot around his right ankle in a desperate bid to stop himself from jumping up to rub away at the terrifying agony. It felt like Principal Golightly had poured boiling water over him.

Tears flowed with the fourth swat. Jason despised himself, but the tears and the wailing were his body’s way of coping with the enormous battering it was getting. He gripped the chair’s seat and waved his head backward and forward, rather like horses do when they neigh. Snot dribbled from his nose, his heart raced and it felt like blood would burst through his ears.

“Last one,” Principal Golightly announced quietly. He pushed his left hand firmly into Jason’s back, steadying the teen. Then he raised the paddle high and with tremendous force landed it across the underside of the cheeks. Bam!! He let go his grip and Jason shot to his feet jumping up and down rubbing furiously at the seat of his briefs, tears soaked his cheeks. He hopped from foot to foot  in the traditional spanking dance. Principal Golightly pretended not to notice Jason’s dick has swollen and was staring against the front of his tight cotton underpants.

“Get dressed.”

Jason pulled his jeans up, wincing as the heavy denim rubbed against his scorched flesh. Soon he had the belt securely fastened.

“You should leave now,” Principal Golightly spoke softly, “And no more fighting.”

Jason hobbled to the door, opened it with shaking hands and exited. The corridor was empty, he did not know it but Chris was at that moment locked in a lavatory cubicle furiously jerking off. Jason ruefully rubbed at his rear end. The agony had gone, replaced by a dull ache. Within fifteen minutes or so that would become a tender throbbing. The pain would disappear quite quickly, but Jason did not yet know that it take until after the weekend for the bruises to disappear. Friday would be devoid of sex after all.

z used paddle white pants chair office

Picture Credit: Man’s Hand Films

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The Hardly Boys and the case of the blistered buttocks

The house across the street

The fire-raiser

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com