Rev. Harris does his duty

z used touch toes white pants

The Reverend Harris puffed his cheeks and wheezed. His bulky frame wasn’t suited to riding a bike but his parish was too stingy to buy him a car so he had no choice. He was nearly there now. The streets were empty as he struggled along the cobblestones.

Andrew Buckley sat uneasily on the edge of his bed. Waiting. His mother was at bingo and his sister at the youth club. Usually when he had the house to himself he would sneak out his postcards hidden away in a box at the back of the wardrobe and pleasure himself. But not this evening. Not with his visitor arriving at any minute.

Rev. Harris turned his bicycle into a street of run-down terraced houses. Number seventeen, his destination, was at the far end. Sweat soaked his brow as his huffed his way closer. Two women gossiping on a doorstep watched intently as he dismounted his bike. He allowed himself a moment to catch his breath, before leaning down and untying a long thin rattan cane from the crossbar.

He smiled a greeting to the housewives and tucked the curve-handled cane under his arm, rather like a sergeant-major might with a swagger stick. It was one of the Reverend’s heavier canes, taken from a collection he kept at the church youth club. It was a little over three feet in length and as thick as a pencil. It felt as light as a feather as he carried it to the front door, but he knew from years of experience it could pack a punch. In the right hands – and Rev. Harris possessed such – it could leave a young man scarred.

Andrew paced his bedroom unaware of the Rev’s imminent appearance. The eighteen-year-old glanced at himself in the mirror. He looked devilishly anxious. His usually bright blue eyes were hooded. His open, cheerful face was glum.

He had thought about running away and hiding. If the vicar found he was not at home he would have to return to the youth club. But it would do no good, Andrew knew. Rev. Harris would only return later and he would probably get it twice as hard.

He moved to the window, attracted by a scuffling noise from the street. His heart faded. Rev. Harris stood on the doorstep, cane under his arm, ready to knock on the door. Damn. Andrew saw his two neighbours staring intently. Soon the whole street would know. He hated to think what his pals would say.

Rat-a-tat-tat. It was an insistent knock. Rev. Harris did not like to be kept waiting. Andrew ran his tongue across his dry lips and padded down the stairs.

Rev. Harris brushed past Andrew and made for the parlour. “Follow me,” he called over his shoulder when he realised Andrew was rooted to the doormat. “You know why I am here.”

Indeed he did. His mother had asked the vicar to “do something” about Andrew. He was surly, curt, churlish. He had long ago stopped obeying his mother’s instructions. The vicar heard her pleas, dismayed. Rev. Harris had heard it all before. The war had left many of his parishioners widows and the poor women were driven to distraction by their teenaged sons. Rev. Harris was at hand to do his duty.

Andrew followed the portly man as instructed. He stood uneasily watching as Rev. Harris dropped the curve-handled cane onto the settee and laboriously unbuttoned his jacket and tugged it off his back. Then he let that drop beside the cane.

How Andrew hated this place. Soon he would leave school. If he could pass his exams he would escape this hovel of a house and the dingy small town. He could go to university, or if not, he would get a clerking job somewhere. In Manchester perhaps. Whatever became of him, it would be miles away from here; he promised himself.

Rev. Harris waddled across the room and picked up a heavy wooden chair, which he plonked down so that it rested against a wall with its straight back facing him. Andrew’s eyes followed him as he returned to the settee and retrieved the cane. No words were spoken. There was no need for them. Both Rev. Harris and Andrew knew how this must play out.

Rev. Harris flexed the cane between his hands. He always did this. It was part of the ritual of punishment. As was swishing the rod through the air. Andrew blanched. He couldn’t help it. At any moment that wicked cane would be slicing his backside to pieces. He stared at the worn carpet beneath his feet shamefully.

The vicar pointed at the chair. “Take down your trousers,” he intoned. “This time I shall not cane you on your bare butt-tocks,” he let the word swirl around his mouth, “But if ever I have to repeat this punishment, be assured it will be across your bare flesh.” He let the word “flesh” hang in the air.

Andrew had expected this. From the moment his mother had told him the vicar would call, he knew his bum would be toasted. But he couldn’t quite get his hands to move.

“Hurry along boy,” the vicar feigned impatience. He knew young men did not relish being caned. They would do anything to delay just discipline. But there was no way out. The power of the Church was immense in this town. The vicar was truly God’s representative on Earth. If he said, “Take down your trousers and pants and bend over,” that’s what you did.

At last Andrew’s fingers fumbled with his belt buckle. The button fly of his grey school trousers were open and they slithered down his thighs to his knees.

“Bend over.” It was softly spoken; hardly a command. There was no need for histrionics. Andrew sucked his bottom lip and moved forward. Not daring to look at the vicar, he leaned forward and gripped the wooden seat of the chair. He parted his feet and stuck his bum out, ready to receive the kiss of the cane. He closed his eyes and shuddered.

Rev. Harris was in no hurry. He had his own little ritual when caning. First, gently he tucked Andrew’s white school shirt up the teenager’s back. It was now clear of his target. Next, he gripped the waistband of the white Y-fronts and pulled so that the cotton fitted the contours of Andrews cheeks snugly.

He was almost ready. Now, he stood a little to the teenager’s left and slowly tap-tap-tapped the cane across the fleshiest part of the buttocks. He was getting his aim. Satisfied, Rev. Harris pulled the whippy rod back and with all the force he could muster he brought it crashing down so that it sank into Andrew’s tight flesh. He was rewarded by a long, low hiss from his victim. Andrew’s bum wriggled from side to side and then up and down as the pain seared through his body. He gripped the wooden seat as if his life depended upon it.

Rev. Harris rewarded himself a smirk. Then, slowly he paced across the room. It wasn’t a large room. It took three paces to get from one side to the other. Then, he turned on his heels and retraced his steps. Then he made another circuit. He liked to allow time for the agony of a stroke to register before delivering the next swipe.

He took up position and took aim once more. This time a little lower than before. Swish! Crack! It landed, perhaps a quarter-inch lower than the first. It felt like a hot iron had been pressed into the flesh. Andrew now had a red-raw strip running across both buttocks. He did the wriggling again and this time added some foot stomping. Rev. Harris went on his tour of the room.

Andrew settled himself, shut his teeth firmly and increased his grip on the chair. The third stroke cut into the underpart of the cheeks, just where they meet the thigh. Part of the cane stuck bare flesh. The two women in the street outside must have heard his anguished howl. He leapt bolt upright, danced from one foot to the other and rubbed the palms of his hands furiously into the soft cotton underpants. It did nothing to dull the torture.

Rev. Harris growled. “Bend down. If you stand again I will start the punishment from the beginning. Do you understand?”

Sorrowfully, Andrew returned to the chair and with great fortitude resumed the punishment position. Slowly, methodically, three more swipes ripped Andrew’s bum to shreds. Thick dark welts rose across his once pale flesh. Later, in the privacy of his bedroom, he would see blood had seeped and coloured part of his underpants pink. His heart raced and he felt his eardrums bursting. His temples throbbed almost as much as his raw bottom. His eyes were awash and tears trickled down the side of his nose. Drips of snot congregated on his top lip.

“Get dressed.” Rev. Harris dropped the cane on the dining room table and struggled back into his jacket. The back of his shirt was soaked in sweat. His own breathing was laboured. He had put his full energy into the thrashing. He congratulated himself on a job well down.

“Go upstairs, I shall see myself out.”

Andrew did not need telling twice. He shot from the room and took the stairs two at a time in his eagerness to escape the vicar.

Rev. Harris ambled to the kitchen, found a tea cup and filled it from a tap. Soon he would be ready for the exertion of a cycle ride back to the vicarage. As he made his way to his bicycle he saw the two housewives in animated conversation. As he tied the cane to the bike frame, one approached him.

“Rev. Harris,” she whispered hoarsely. “I wonder if I might trouble you. It’s about my Robert.” Rev. Harris straightened and smiled. He knew Robert of old. His cane would be put to more use before he returned to the youth club.

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

A national sensation

z used otk white pants chair sting (22)

The newsmen licked the ends of their pencils and hovered them over notebooks. The fun was about to start. A sensation. It would be the talking point of the nation. It might even make the overseas’ news agencies.

Dr. Crumble, the headmaster of Snivelton Grammar sat forlornly in the chair reserved for the defendant. It was a hard wooden, straight-backed affair. He had one just like it in his study. Or, his former study. It would be hard for him to get used to that.

The small magistrates’ court was packed. Standing room only. Snivelton was a pin-prick on the map, it had never seen anything like this. Nothing ever happened there. The court only met twice a month and then there was only the occasional drink-drive case to hear.

Mr. Crinkle, the most notable solicitor in town, huddled with his junior. “We got them to agree to a reduced charge,” he huffed. “Just assault.”

The junior had returned from holidays late the night before. He had missed all the excitement. “What was he charged with?”

“Sexual assault.”

The junior’s eyebrows shot heavenwards. “Wor…?”

Crinkle sniffed, “He made the boy take down his trousers and then bend across his knee. He spanked him on his underwear. Who could imagine such a thing?”

The junior blushed. “Oh, I see.” He shuffled a sheaf of notes in his hand, a distant look in his eye. “And that would be sexual assault would it?” he whispered uneasily.

It was Crinkle’s turn for the eyebrows to go north. “The boy’s eighteen years old. A sixth-former. Just about to leave school and go to the university.”

The junior sighed. Sweat glistened on his brow. The room was becoming unbearably hot.

Crinkle filled the silence. “It could have been worse, I suppose.”

“How so?”

“Oh come lad.” He let a smile spread across his face. “At least he kept his Y-fronts on.”

A door opened and closed. They looked up but it wasn’t the magistrate so they carried on whispering.

“What happened exactly?”

Crinkle grimaced. “Stuff and nonsense really. Some old biddy saw the boy having a kiss behind the bike sheds and ratted on him to the headmaster.”

The junior’s brow knotted. Puzzled, he said, “With another boy?”

“God no. A girl.”

The junior twisted his notes in his hands. His heart was pounding. “Did she get a spanking too? Like, on the knickers?”

“No there’s the rub. The biddy recognised the boy, but not the girl. He refused to give the headmaster her name,” Crinkle sniffed and reached into his jacket pocket for a handkerchief, “Well, you know the rest.”

The junior shuffled his buttocks, suddenly finding his hard chair uncomfortable. “Why didn’t he just cane him?”

Crinkle snorted so loudly some people turned to see what was happening. “Per-lease!”

The junior felt his ears glow with embarrassment. “Oh, I see,” he stumbled over the words, because actually he didn’t.

Crinkle sighed. “C’mon, it was hardly likely to have been the first time he had done something like this.”

“Spanking sixth-formers on their underwear?”

“Whatever.”

“Didn’t the police inquire?”

“Dear God!” Crinkle exhaled. “You know this place. Crumble’s on every committee in the town. He’s the headmaster of the local grammar school. A big cheese.”

The junior wriggled.

“The boy is new to town. His parents aren’t impressed by that sort of thing. I guess in the past others just let it go. Here,” he handed the junior a folder, “read his statement while we wait for things to start.”

With quivering fingers, the junior found his reading spectacles and peered through them.

“I was summoned to the headmaster’s study,” he read, “He told me my hair was too long and needed cutting, which had nothing to do with anything. He said I had been reported for kissing a girl. I didn’t know it was against the rules. I haven’t been at the school for long but already I knew there were rules against everything. He asked me the name of the girl and when I refused his face went purple.

“‘You refuse to obey a direct order from your headmaster!’ he shouted. I was really scared. I knew now I was in deep trouble. Dr. Crumble has a reputation. I thought it would be a caning.

“He jawed me a bit and told me I was a disgrace to the school. I didn’t say anything. What was there to say? At last he rose from his chair and walked around his desk. I expected him to go to the hat stand where he had three curved-handled canes hanging. But he didn’t. He picked up a chair and put it down in the middle of the study.’’

‘“Take off your blazer. Put it on my desk,” he said. I was scared stiff. Something was going to happen, but I didn’t know what. I took off my jacket as instructed. Then he sat in the chair and with his index finger he beckoned me to stand beside him.

“I don’t remember what happened next too clearly. My heart was thumping so much and the blood was rushing to my ears. I thought I would faint on the spot.

“I stood beside him. Then he said, ‘Take down your trousers and bend over my knee.’ I was speechless. I do remember thinking, ‘He’s going to spank me. I’ve never ben spanked. Not even as a very little kid.’

“He got angry because I hadn’t obeyed him. He said something like, ‘If you don’t bend over my knee this instance. I shall suspend you from school. You won’t be able to do your exams and you can say goodbye to university.’”

“I think I was on some kind of autopilot. I remember my hands shaking as I undid my trousers and let them slip. I held on to them so they wouldn’t fall to my ankles. They were just below my bum cheeks.

‘“Bend over.’  He was really gruff. I felt so ridiculous. I must be three or four inches taller than Dr. Crumble. He had spread his legs but they looked thin and bony. How was I supposed to fit over them? ‘Bend over,’ he said again. I wasn’t sure how this was done. How you were supposed to present yourself for a spanking. So I put my hands on his legs and eased myself down.

“I felt totally humiliated. My face was staring at the carpet and my backside was high in the air waiting to be spanked. My head ached like crazy. I could feel my temples throbbing like mad. I felt the headmaster pull my shirt away from my bottom and then he gripped the waist of my underpants. ‘God no,’ I remember thinking, ‘He’s going to pull them down. He’s going to smack me on my bare bottom.’

“But he wasn’t. Instead, he pulled my pants tight so they fitted snugly across my buttocks. Then I felt the palm of his hand rub against my bottom. He went in circles all over both cheeks and across my thighs. Then he started to pinch my bum with the palm of his hand as if he was trying to work out how much fat there was.

“I was terrified. I shut my eyes tight. Then, Smack! He hit me in the middle of one cheek and then he did the same to the other. I started to wriggle and he held me tightly around the waist and slapped me hard and fast. I couldn’t get my breath. It didn’t hurt much at first but as he kept pounding the palm of his hand into my bum at a very rapid pace I hotted up.

“I know my legs were kicking out. I couldn’t help it I was totally out of control. He held me so tightly I couldn’t escape. All I could do was lay there struggling while he spanked me on and on. My temples throbbed so much I thought I was going to pass out. I don’t remember him saying anything while he spanked me. I had to bite my tongue to stop myself pleading for him to stop. To let me go.

“He did stop and I thought it was all over. But no. I felt him grip my pants and he pulled them so tight that I just knew my buttock cheeks were exposed. Bare. Then he smacked my even harder and even quicker on the naked flesh. I think I was shouting and kicking by now. I can’t remember. I do remember the pain was intense. It was like I had sat in a bath of hot water.

“At last. After I don’t know how long. Maybe five minutes. He let me go. I staggered to my feet. I was like a drunk man. I couldn’t keep steady. My head was light. It was as if I wasn’t really there. This wasn’t really happening. I didn’t wait. I pulled up my trousers, grabbed my blazer and ran from the room.”

The junior was so engrossed in the statement he failed to hear the magistrate arrive. Mr. Crinkle nudged him hard and he stumbled to his feet, hoping the raging erection beneath his trousers would not be noticed by his boss.

 

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

Wait til your father gets home

z used pyjamas otk (4e)

Danny pulls up his pyjama bottoms and sits on the edge of his bed. Waiting. He doesn’t realise he is chewing his fingernails to the quick. “Go to your room, put your pyjamas on and wait til your father gets home,” his mother had told him, so that’s what he is doing.

Any minute now dad will walk through the door, hairbrush in hand. It won’t be the first time, it won’t be the last. Eighteen years old and still being spanked by his dad. Danny stands, crosses the small bedroom and closes the window. He doesn’t want the neighbours to hear. If his pal Kenneth next door ever found out, Danny would be a laughing stock.

He paces the room. Three steps one way and then he reaches the wall, turns round. Then six paces to the other wall. Why does dad do this to him, he wonders. Danny is an adult. He’s been working for two years. He’s too old to be spanked. He knows the answer. Dad’s house; dad’s rules. His way or the highway. Danny’s big mouth got him into trouble. Sassing his mother. Again. This time she has had enough of it. So, “Go to your room. Wait til your father gets home.”

The door bursts open. Dad stands in the threshold, brandishing mum’s hairbrush. There is no polite knocking at the door. This is his house, he’ll go where he pleases. Dad snarls. Mum has told him all about it. Danny steps back. His dad is huge, easily six-four. He towers over Danny. Poor lad s hardly five-six. He takes after his mother’s side of the family.

Danny opens and closes his mouth, wanting to plead mitigation. But, he has no excuses. He is guilty as charged. Rude. Offensive. Insolent. Dad bares his teeth. His face a picture of fury. His dark bushy eyebrows and thick moustache give him more than a hint of menace. Dad doesn’t say much. What is there to say? He waves the brush in Danny’s face, the teenager retreats. Fearful. He has his back to the wall . There is no escape.

“That chair. Here.” Dad nods towards a worn wooden chair. Danny knows what he is expected to do. He carries the heavy chair and plonks it down so that its back rests against the wall. There is just enough space in the room for dad to do his duty. Dad sits on the chair and peers at his son. The boy can’t meet his father’s gaze. He studies his bare feet, noticing his toenails need cutting.

Dad clutches the hairbrush tightly. Its large head is heavy, almost circular. It is as if it was made for spanking. Dad is nearly ready. It might be 2017 but dad lives by traditional values. It is the duty of fathers to guide their sons through the choppy seas of life to adulthood. Too many parents these days fail their children. They let them run wild. Give them no boundaries. And, look how they turn out. Not, Danny. Mr. Knight will not allow that.

“Bend over,” he slaps his thighs for emphasis. Danny looks from the ground and stares wide-eyed. His father is huge and he is small. The old man’s legs are as thick as tree trunks. He has parted them wide to give his son the perfect platform for submission. The muscles in dad’s arms are huge, they ripple as he holds the brush.

All saliva drains from Danny’s mouth. The room is hot now the window is closed. His knees tremble a little. Dad slaps his thigh once more. Impatiently. Danny draws in breath. It won’t do to keep dad waiting. He step forward and hurls himself across dad’s legs, like a diver going into an icy pool. His arms hardly stretch beyond dad’s left knee, his legs dangle in the air behind him. His bottom rests in the gap between dad’s knees.

Danny stares ahead of him, his shock of blond hair failing into his eyes. He concentrates on the poster of Manchester United that is stuck to his wall. He closes his eyes. Then opens them again. Then closes them. Contemplating the agony to come. He feels dad grip the elasticated waistband of his pyjama bottoms. He knows dad always does this this but still a shockwave travels his body. This is too humiliating, he thinks. But, the baring of the bottom is one of dad’s rituals. “There,” he seems to be saying, “Don’t you feel ashamed of yourself? Having your bare bottom spanked.”

Dad pulls the pyjamas down just enough that two buttocks are exposed. He is nearly ready, but not quite. Gently, he takes the end of Danny’s pyjama jacket and pushes it half way up the eighteen-year-old’s back. He is presented with an area of hairless flesh. Danny’s cheeks are round and fleshy, but firm. They were made to be spanked. They clench and unclench. They always do. Dad grips his son across the back with his left arm. Danny turns his head, trying to look over his shoulder at his dad, but the old man has him locked tightly.

Smack! The brush hammers into the centre of Danny’s left cheek. Then another strikes the right. Dad admires his handiwork. Two deep-pink circular marks are imprinted in his son’s bum. Danny’s fair skin reddens easily. Whack-whack-whack. The heavy hairbrush rises and falls. Danny’s legs kick. It is a reflex action, he can’t control himself. As more swipes rain down into his unprotected buttocks, Danny’s body weaves left and right. He holds on to his dad’s legs to stop himself tumbling to the floor.

Dad continues to snarl as he whacks the brush on and on. Deliberately he smacks Danny across the back of the bare thighs. Hard. That gets his son howling. Good! dad thinks; a spanking is supposed to hurt otherwise what’s the point? Danny is yelping with every whack that hammers into his bare bum, but he is not crying. He used to shed bucket loads when dad spanked him. Now, he has a higher level of self-control. It took a lot of practice. He will not let dad see him cry, not today, not ever.

Dad is strong, he can go on spanking all night long. Every square inch of Danny’s buttocks and thighs has been toasted. There is no virgin flesh for dad to attack. So he goes round the circuit again, slapping his brush into already tender flesh. The top of the buttocks, the crest of the mounds, the tender under-curves and the thighs; none of it is missed. Satisfied that he has whacked it all, dad goes round one more time.

Danny holds on to dad’s leg or dear life. He can’t breathe too well and his temples throb almost as much as his backside. Sweat is soaking his pyjama jacket. He can’t take much more of this.

Suddenly, the door opens. Mum is standing watching her husband tan the tail of her son. She thinks dad is doing a good job. That will teach the brat not to be sassy in future.

“Your programme is about to start,” she tells her husband. It is an ordinary conversation, you would not know Danny was lying face down across his dad’s knees having his bottom blistered.

“Alright, I’m coming,” dad says. He whacks the hairbrush at maximum force six more times across the very centres of both cheeks. Then he releases his grip on Danny, who stumbles from his dad’s knees and lies on the floor gasping for wind, like a beached dolphin. Dad steps over him and with his wife leaves the room.

Danny struggles to his knees and then is fully standing. He dives onto his bed, buries his face in the pillow and sobs his guts up.

 

Picture credit: Does anyone know this artist? I see his work all over the Internet, but have never discovered his name

 

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Remembering the spanking vicar

z used drawing hand otk vicar (7a)

It happened forty years ago. Forty years; I can scarcely believe it. Almost to the day too. It could never happen today. The world is an entirely different place. Even as I start to write this down I wonder if it really happened. Was it just a dream?

I wasn’t quite twenty-one years old and I was studying for a business degree. We had to spend an entire year working in industry and my college sent me to a small company in a town not far from London. I needed somewhere to live and digs were hard to come by, but a colleague called Simon said he knew of a place in a village nearby where they could give me a room.

Was there a glint of devilment in his eye when he told me this? I can’t be certain, but later I was damned sure he knew more than he was letting on.

We drove to a small village about four or five miles into the countryside. It was a typical English village of the time; a shop, two pubs and a church. The church came with a vicarage attached. It was a large rambling pile and far too big for the vicar to live there on his own. I’ll call him Rev. Jones, because, in fact, that was his name. He was well into his fifties at the time and I know he shuffled off to meet his maker some years ago (so I’m safe from the lawyers).

He was a large man, tall and despite advancing years he stood like a ram-rod. He had once captained his county at rugby union, apparently, and was still as strong as an ox. The afternoon Simon and I arrived, he was busy in the kitchen baking bread if the aroma that wafted throughout the house was any clue. He left us in a room he called his study while he went and turned the oven down or what not.

It was an imposing room; bookcases lined two walls and an open and unlit fire dominated another. The fourth wall was an impressive glass sliding door that opened out into a well-mown law and flower beds.

I perched on the edge of a large leather Chesterfield couch. I had never been in such a room. I had been brought up in a small council flat in London and had lived in a tiny room in the students’ halls of residence since going to the polytechnic. Simon, who I knew to be a former public school man, strode the room as if he owned it, peering at the books.

A broad smile split his face and he plucked a volume from a shelf. He was about to tell me about his find when the door flew open and Rev. Jones strode in. Sheepishly, like a small boy discovered with his fist in the cookie jar, Simon replaced the book.

“Well Richard,” Rev. Jones picked up his jacket from the back of a chair and struggled into it as he spoke, “You probably know that Andrew, another boy who worked at ______, lodged here,” I nodded agreement, although it was the first I had heard of this.

“Yes, a very good boy was Andrew,” Rev. Jones seemed wistful, “I rather miss him …” he trailed off.

He sat in a plush leather chair opposite me and stretched his legs wide. The armchair seemed dwarfed by his size. He told me about the house and the other two lads who were also his tenants. I hardly heard a word, I was mesmerised by the reverend’s deep blue eyes, peering at me over the top of his half-moon glasses. I could imagine him as a schoolmaster quelling twenty-five noisy boys with a single glare.

“Well, Richard,” he leaned forward and grasped my knee and held his hand there for what seemed an eternity. “Shall I give you the grand tour?” He climbed from the chair, flexed his shoulders and headed for the door, fully expecting me to trot along at his heels.

“Well, Richard, this is the kitchen …” He had the annoying habit of calling me by name at the start of nearly every sentence. “Richard this; Richard that.” I had told him when I telephoned for an appointment that my name was Ricky. I hated being called Richard. I thought Ricky made me sound more interesting. More American, perhaps.

We toured the house, the room that could be mine was huge. The rent was low. A match if I might venture to say so, made in Heaven. I agreed to move in the following day. Simon, I noticed, beamed brightly when I announced my decision.

My two housemates were at the door to greet me when I arrived. Ian was my own age and worked in a bank in town. Colm was a year or so younger and a labourer on a nearby farm.

“He’s alright when you get used to his ways,” Colm ventured an unsolicited opinion.

Ian blushed deeply.

“Just don’t break the rules, thas-sall,” Colm said as he disappeared up the stairs carrying one of my suitcases, leaving me standing in the hallway a little puzzled at his remark.

The very next day I got more than an inkling of what he meant.

We had breakfasted and I was heading back to my room when I heard a strange thud noise. I paused and sniffed the air. Thud. There is was again. It seemed to be coming from the study. Thud. This time followed by a slow hissing sound, rather like a snake.

Intrigued, I moved closer to the study. The door was slightly ajar. Thud. Thud. Thud. I could contain my curiosity no longer, so I inched it open. I can’t be sure if my mouth did literally gape wide open. If not literally, then at least figuratively. I had never seen anything remotely like it before in my life.

My new pal Ian was dressed in a white singlet and tight red football shorts. He was bent across the back of a straight-backed wooden chair. I had the perfect view of his muscular buttocks as Rev. Jones whacked what looked like a block of wood into them with some vigour. The teenager winced each time the punishment paddle connected with his bum. Air escaped his tightly closed mouth, but other than that he made no sound.

I counted a further three swipes before the vicar commanded, “You may stand,” and Ian shot to his feet. He turned and faced Rev. Jones. I saw his face was scarlet (I bet his bum was too) and his hair was wringing in sweat. I could tell he desperately wanted to rub away the sting from his buttocks but he was too proud to show he was hurt.

Suddenly, he looked over the vicar’s shoulder and saw me standing at the door. The vicar saw his look of humiliation and swivelled on his feet to see what had caused it.

“Richard!” he trilled. I didn’t wait to hear more. I turned on my heels and didn’t stop running until I was a hundred yards from the vicarage.

All day I couldn’t figure it out. What had I seen? Ian had allowed the vicar to spank his backside with a paddle – very hard indeed. Why? What had he done to deserve that? What right did the vicar have to whack him?

I couldn’t get the image of Ian submissively bent across the chair in very tight shorts and gleaming white singlet; his muscular buttocks absorbing the sting of the paddle.

Instinctively, I knew I had not heard the last of this. Rev. Jones was wild when he saw me snooping. I would have to answer to him when I returned to the vicarage that evening.

Simon came to my office, “How are you getting on with the vicar?” a Cheshire cat could not have grinned so widely. That was when I realised that he knew. Had he set me up? I never found out, since Simon left the company that week to return to his own studies and I never saw nor heard from him again.

Of course, Rev. Jones was ready to pounce the moment I walked through the door.

“My study. Now,” he snapped.

He made me stand on the carpet and he sat behind a rather grand desk. I felt every inch the naughty schoolboy up before the headmaster. His blue eyes stabbed me. All rational thought drained. I couldn’t hear the words he spoke, my heart thumped like it wanted to escape through my chest.

His voice wafted through the room as if they were part of a rather poor shortwave radio broadcast. I caught something about rules and there was a little about setting objectives. Rev. Jones stood and walked from behind his desk until he stood directly in front of me. I could smell stale tobacco on his breath.

Another voice spoke. I was astounded when I realised it was my own. “I was late back to work at lunchtime,” I was saying, “I stayed too long at the pub.” There was a hanging silence. I filled the void, “I do it quite often.”

His penetrating eyes narrowed perceptively. “I see Richard. This will not do at all.”

He moved across the room and picked up the chair I had seen Ian bent across that morning. While he did this, I tried to fathom why I had told him such a silly lie.

He put the chair down in the centre of the room. Then, without saying a word, he sat down and spread his legs wide. Instinctively, my eyes went to his crotch. I was no connoisseur of men’s cocks, but even hidden under a generous layer of cloth, his seemed larger than average.

He gestured that I should stand directly in front of him. I did.

“Richard, put your hands on your head.” I did that too.

He reached forward and expertly unbuckled the wide leather belt around my waist. We wore enormously-flared trousers with high waistbands in those days. He had to undo six buttons before the front of my trousers flapped open. This gave me more than enough time to punch him in the mouth and make my escape.

I did no such thing. I stared over his left shoulder at the bookcase behind him. I saw the book Simon had found the other day. My eyesight was good when I was twenty-one. I could read the title, “The history of corporal punishment.”

I felt a draught against my thighs when the vicar pulled my trousers to my knees. The weight of the belt and gravity took them to nestle in a puddle over my platform shoes. Still, I gazed at the bookcase. I had no courage to look my punisher in the face.

He spoke no words. What was there for him to say? I knew what he was intending to do. I knew also that I could prevent it at any moment. I was twenty-one and he was an old man. True, he was strong, but I needn’t look to beat him to a pulp. All I had to do was pull my trousers up and run from the house.

I gasped audibly when he took hold of my mustard-coloured briefs and gently pulled them down. My cock flipped over the elasticated waistband. I remember, even after forty years, that absurdly I wondered how much smaller my dick must be compared to Rev. Jones’.

“Richard,” the vicar spoke gently, “Bend over my knee.”

Of course, I hesitated.

“Richard, please do as you are told.” He spoke more sternly now. It was important to him that I show my subservience. I must in effect say, “Yes please Rev. Jones. Punish me. I have been a naughty boy. I deserve to be spanked by you.”

I said none of these things. Instead, I took up position a yard from the vicar’s right thigh and gently lowered myself across his lap. I had never been spanked before, nor had I seen it happen to anyone else, but I suppose some kind of instinct took over from me. Was it primeval? Do all young men by nature know how to be submissive to an older man?

I stretched my hands in front of me and placed my hands palms down into the thick pile carpet. My shoes had five-inch heels and a two-inch sole and felt remarkably heavy as my legs dangled in mid-air. My bare bottom was raised across Rev. Jones’ thigh. It was, I was soon to learn, in a perfect position to receive the punishment he intended to deliver.

He took the tail of my shirt and calmly folded it once, then twice, so that it was clear of his target area. I felt his palm caress my right cheek. My buttocks clenched. It was a reflex action. He smacked me gently.

“Richard, relax,” he purred.

I didn’t. I couldn’t. I was headed for unchartered territory. I had no notion what to expect. I was bent across an older man’s knee, bare-arsed. He could see right into my crack and up my hole, if the mood took him. Is it possible for a young man to be in a more humiliating position?

He cupped his palm and petted and patted both cheeks. When he was done doing that, he turned his attention to the backs of my bare thighs. It was surprisingly soothing.

What happened next was far from that. A searing storm of spanks thundered into my bum at great force and high speed. Within seconds not a square inch of flesh was left untenderized. He whizzed across the peaks of my mounds, into the most sensitive under-curves and across the top near the spine. Over and over and over again.

I twisted and turned this way and that. My legs kicked out behind me. It was like I was trying to swim away from his lap. He gripped my middle with his left arm and with his right hand he continued his assault.

At first my bum felt warm, rosy even. But, that glow quickly intensified into hot throbbing. I felt like I had sat in a bath of too-hot water. My flesh was scolding.

My hair was drenched with sweat, blood rushed through my body; my ears hurt so badly I was sure the drums would burst.

I have no idea how long the spanking continued. Looking back, I don’t suppose it was more than a minute or two: his hand must surely have been hurting as much as my bum. To me it felt like hours. At last he stopped. He released his grip on my body and I slithered from his knees onto the floor. I was winded, but in seconds I had scrambled to my feet and tugged my pants and trousers up. I daren’t look at the vicar and concentrated on getting all the buttons in place.

It took an age. While I did this, Rev. Jones lectured me.

“Richard, I hope you understand why I felt the need to punish you.”

I truly did not, but felt it wise not to argue the point.

“Richard,” he continued as I stared intently at my feet, “I am sure that I can help you to become a fine young man. But, you need to learn to obey the rules. If you are unable to do so. You must be punished.”

The pain in my bum had almost completely vanished by now. My head was clearing. I just wanted to get out of that study.

“Richard,” the vicar was about to finish. “I hope you feel able to accept my rules and I would very much like you to stay. But, if you cannot, then I’m afraid you must leave the vicarage.”

I nodded sagely and without a word, I returned to my room.

I sent much of the next year admiring at close quarters the carpet in the vicar’s study and sniffing the leather of his Chesterfield couch; I suppose you would have to conclude that I wasn’t very good at obeying the rules.

 

Other stories you might like

The Spanking Vicar Part 1

The room at the top

One hot summer afternoon

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Tyrant Headmaster 9. Hawkridge in the study

z used cane white pants tyrant head 9

 

Other stories from The Tyrant Headmaster are here

 

Hawkridge stands at attention in front of the headmaster’s desk. His blue-and-white woollen school blazer is immaculate, fastened by all three buttons. His thumbs are in line with the seams of his mid-grey trousers, their creases so sharp you could cut yourself. His school cap is squarely on his head, obscuring almost all of his hair. The regulation short-back-and-sides trimmed only the previous Saturday.

Dr. Fortescue sits behind his massive walnut desk; jawing. Hawkridge does not take much of it in. He has heard it all before. He gazes intently at the headmaster. He is of indeterminate age, he might even be younger than he looks. His face is oblong, his features angular. The hook nose somehow keeps his eye glasses from falling from his face. His skin is lined and there are bags beneath his wide-staring eyes. Hawkridge detects a hint of bloodshot in them. Specks of spittle sprout from Dr. Fortscue’s mouth as he castigates the schoolboy before him. He leans forward to berate the miscreant and Hawkridge flinches a little. The stench of sour tobacco is overwhelming. Somewhere there’s also a hint of the aroma of Murray Mints.

He is wearing a crumpled three-piece tweed suit and a white shirt, held together at the collar with a bow-tie. A tattered academic robe hangs from his shoulders and a mortar-board perches precariously on his head, the tassel dangling close to his left ear.

Hawkridge has been here before. He still has three months to go before he finally leaves the school, so he’ll almost certainly be here again. He shows no fear. He is certain he knows in the minutest detail what is about to happen. There is nothing he can do about it. He must let events take their course.

St. Septimius is nothing if not traditional. Traditional curriculum, traditional games, traditional uniform and traditional discipline. Yes, Hawkridge is certain he knows how this meeting of master and pupil will end.

Dr. Fortescue rocks backward and forward In his wooden armchair. Sometimes leaning back, steepling his fingers as he concentrates on admonishing the unfortunate creature before him. Then, leaning forward, arms resting on the huge desk, he glares at the boy. The desk is so big and so heavy it must have taken a dozen artisans to manhandle it into the study. A pile of, as yet uncorrected, Latin impos. are to the headmaster’s right hand side.

He glares at Hawkridge. The boy’s behaviour is “outrageous”, “shocking”, “contemptable”. In a fairer forum than this that might be debatable. As schoolboy crimes go, his is quite minor. Hawkridge did not attend school yesterday, preferring instead to queue alongside hundreds of other youngsters to obtain tickets to a forthcoming Eddie Cochran concert. The tickets are now safely tucked away in the sock drawer of his bedroom at home. But truancy is truancy and at St. SIGS, truancy is a beatable offence. Hawkridge is a sixth-former and that almost certainly means a caning on the bare.

Hawkridge knows this, but such is life. School is school. What’s a fellow to do?

The headmaster jaws on and on. The room is stifling. The coal fire is blazing, but the day outside is mild. Sweat soaks Hawkridge’s scalp and his shirt is damp. He wishes the Beak would stop talking and just get on with it.

At last, Dr. Fortescue stops his hectoring. He hauls himself to his feet, presses both palms into his desktop and scowls. “Take your cap and blazer off. Hang them there!” He nods across the study to a hat stand. It is empty save for two long, thin yellow rattan canes that hang by their crook handles. One is a little longer than the other and both are warped. Hawkridge is sure it was the shorter one Dr. Fortescue used to beat him on his last appearance in the study.

Hawkridge is calm. He unfastens the buttons on his blazer and slips the jacket from his shoulders. The armpits of his gleaming white shirt is wringing wet. He hangs the blazer on the hat stand and turns to face his tormentor. Suddenly, he remembers the cap on his head and quickly whips it off and stuffs it into the pocket of his blazer. Instinctively, he rubs the palms of his hands across his head, to smooth down his already tidy hair.

Dr. Fortescue is walking across his study. He takes pigeon steps, like an old man who is afraid of slipping on an icy pavement. Hawkridge watches his slow progress. The headmaster is heading towards the far wall which is dominated by heavy shelving and dark brown cabinets. He reaches a narrow, tall door and steadies himself before reaching into his trouser pocket. He fumbles around for some time before at last extracting a small silver-coloured key. His hand shakes a little as he tries to line up the key with the keyhole. He succeeds at the third attempt and draws the door open. He looks inside and because he knows precisely what he is looking for within a second he is clutching a punishment cane.

Even at a distance, Hawkridge can see this is heavier and denser than the two canes dangling on the hat stand. It is a dark brown colour and has distinct notches every four inches or so across its length. Dr. Fortescue holds it in his right hand, close to the curved handle and gives it an almighty swish through the air. He smiles in response to the swooshing sound it makes as it flies. Then, absent-mindedly he holds the cane between his hands and flexes it backwards and forwards. Despite its density it is a supple rod and makes a perfect arc. Dr. Fortescue’s eyes blaze.

He suddenly realises he has company and tucks the cane under his arm, rather like a sergeant-major. He glares across the study. “Go stand behind that chair,” he growls. There are several chairs in the capacious study and Hawkridge is unsure which he means. He glances uneasily around himself. The study is cluttered with furniture, most of it looks like it’s been there for at least fifty years. His baffled expression is met with a curt, “That one there, boy,” as Dr. Fortescue slips the cane into his hand and points to an ancient armchair.

Hawkridge takes the four paces necessary to reach the chair. He stands at its back and looks down at the seat cushion. In his many visits to the headmaster he has never before seen this particular chair at close quarters. Often, he is required to present himself across the large desk; sometimes it’s, “bend over and touch your toes.”

Dr. Fortescue approaches Hawkridge and stands a yard or to his right. Hawkridge sucks in air. He knows the Beak is about ready to go. Dr. Fortescue’s mouth is dry. He licks his lips and croaks, “Lower your trousers, boy.” Hawkridge expects this instruction and reaches for the buckle of his belt. It is easily undone, as are the button at the top of his spotless mid-grey trousers and the zipper. The front of his trousers falls open and his white Y-front underpants peak through. He lets go of the trousers and they slip slowly down his thighs, where they stop. Hawkridge knows from experience this will not satisfy the headmaster so he pushes them further down until they rest in a puddle on top of his shiny black shoes. The heat from the fire irritates the bare flesh on his legs.

The headmaster flexes the cane between his hands and swishes it once more. Then he taps it across the back of the armchair. “Bend over,” he croaks once more.

So it’s not to be bare-arsed. Hawkridge is relieved. He doesn’t believe getting caned on the bare is any more painful than across the seat of the underpants, but he has never enjoyed showing his crack to the headmaster. Underpants certainly maintain a certain modesty.

Hawkridge adjusts his feet so he is just the right distance from the chair and lowers himself forward. The back is not so high and his stomach rests easily against it. It is solid and his nose presses against the seat. The dust almost makes him sneeze. He grips tightly and can tell it is stuffed with horsehair.

The headmaster waits for Hawkridge to settle himself. The eighteen-year-old’s school shirt is long and its tail has flopped over his buttocks. That will not do. Dr. Fortescue tucks the cane once more under his arm and with his two free hands he takes hold of the cotton shirt and carefully folds it once, twice and then three times up Hawkridge’s back until it is clear of his target area. In so doing he exposes an area of hairless flesh. Hawkridge’s whole body is lean and at close quarters the headmaster notices the flatness of the boy’s stomach.

Hawkridge’s buttocks are solid. The white cotton underpants are a little tight and with his bottom stretched they ride up into his crack, thereby lifting and separating the cheeks. Dr. Fortescue has been presented with a terrific target. Although this is not strictly necessary, the headmaster takes hold of the elasticated waist of the underpants and pulls until all wrinkles in the cotton have been eliminated. The pants now fit like a second skin. To make sure all creases have gone, the headmaster rubs the palm of his hand across Hawkridge’s cheeks. Then, he smacks it down hard into the posterior – to encourage the boy.

Hawkridge takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, shuts his teeth and holds onto the chair for dear life. His bottom is twitching but there is nothing he can do about that. Dr. Fortescue stands a little to the left of the buttocks, taps his cane across the fleshiest part and then in one smooth continuous movement he lifts the cane to shoulder height and returns it with considerable force to thwack into Hawkridge’s waiting buttocks. The boy suppresses a hiss. Dr. Fortescue admires his own prowess. A clear line has appeared across the tight underpants and the headmaster is certain that a deep welt is already forming under the cotton.

The headmaster sucks on his tongue. All saliva has now drained from his mouth. He wheezes as he raises the cane and swipes it down a second time, this one is a little lower than the first. The agony in Hawkridge’s backside is intense. It feels like the headmaster has taken a coal from the fire and pressed it into his bum. He wriggles his hips and tries to steady himself for the further onslaught on his poor bottom.

“Keep still,” the headmaster rasps. “If you give me concern to I’ll add extra strokes.” That was unfair since Hawkridge had hardly moved. In fact, he is taking it very well indeed. Other boys – even sixth-formers – on the receiving end of two such stingers would be howling the walls of the study down. Hawkridge tries to keep as still as a statue. He knows the headmaster means it, the Beak would like nothing more. He is at heart a bully.

Number three whips in even lower down and connects in the soft undercurve at the “sit spot” where the buttocks and thighs meet. It will be uncomfortable sitting down for some considerable time. The headmaster tucks the cane back under his arm and searches in his trouser pocket for a handkerchief. The palms of his hands are soaking with sweat. He wipes them dry, all the time staring at the boy prostrate before him. He likes nothing better than to have a sixth-former bending submissively before him. This one in particular is especially delicious.

Dry once more, the headmaster grips the cane tightly. This time he “saws” it across the top of Hawkridge’s globes. Sweat is running into the headmaster’s eyes. He wipes it away with the edge of his gown. Then, he brings the cane crashing down; he swipes so hard it is as if he is beating a carpet. Hawkridge feels that all right. His mouth opens and closes like a goldfish, but valiantly, he does not let a sound pass his lips.

Dr. Fortescue looks on. He resents it when a boy does not holler. Well see about this, he thinks. He moves his position slightly and lays the cane diagonally across both buttocks. Hawkridge’s whole body tenses, he knows what is coming. Swipe! Jesus H. Christ. Hawkridge cannot control himself. The cane has landed atop of the four previous cuts and has reignited the pain in all of them. His bum is truly aglow. Hawkridge’s legs buckle, he stamps his feet up and down and then in a glorious attempt to stop himself from jumping up and rubbing away at his blazing buttocks, he pins his left leg down by twisting his right led across it.

Blood courses through his arteries. His heart races, his temples throb. The headmaster places his cane across Hawkridge’s buttocks; this time along the opposite diagonal. He lets fly. Hawkridge now has a perfect “X” embossed across his backside. The agony redoubles. He grips the chair, his head thrashes up and down and then to left and right, he looks like a horse neighing.

That’s number six. Please God, Hawkridge silently prays, let that be the last stroke. The headmaster had not announced a tariff before he flogged the first stroke home. But “six-of-the-best” was the traditional number in a headmaster’s caning. Hawkridge has taken six strokes and nobody should be in any doubt they were indeed the headmaster’s best.

Dr. Fortescue is wheezing and struggling to catch his own breath. It is difficult to see which of the two is in greater distress. Hawkridge waits, still face down. He does not know if he is allowed to stand. It is better not to risk it. He waits as the throbbing in his bum intensifies. He knows it will be sore for some time yet, but it will eventually die down and become a warm glow. He will feel some pain when he sits on a hard surface but by bedtime it will all be over. The marks will stay for some considerable time. They are probably deep claret at the moment. They will become bruises and over the next few days transmute from deep purple through mauve and yellow before they finally disappear altogether.

“You may stand.” The words sound as if they are from miles away. Hawkridge lifts himself from the chair. He watches as Dr. Fortescue stumbles across his study and with shaking hands returns the cane to the cupboard. He doesn’t bother to close nor lock the door. When he turns around his eyes are red as if he is suffering with hay fever. Hawkridge is still in his underpants, waiting for permission to dress. Dr. Fortescue’s eyes stalk. “Get dressed boy,” he barks as if Hawkridge was deliberately trying to provoke him. The boy bends down, grabs the top of his trousers and pulls them up. He winces as he zips up and tightens the belt, the cloth is pressing against his raw buttocks. For the first time he is aware that he is probably bleeding.

Silently, Dr. Fortescue shuffles across to his desk and slumps in the wooded armchair. He takes a moment to recover himself and then opens the second of three drawers in his desk. He removes the punishment book, places it on his desk and struggles to find the right page. Hawkridge is climbing back into his school blazer.

“Pen, boy. Pen.” Dr. Fortescue snaps his fingers irritably. Hawkridge puts his hand in his inside pocket and finds a Biro. The headmaster snatches it from him and starts to write in the book. He notices that this is the third name he has entered this day. He writes, “Hawkridge, U6, Cane, 6.” He omits to record that it was delivered across the seat of the underpants. The headmaster swirls the book around and passes the pen back. Hawkridge knows the drill. He signs his initials in the book.

There is only one thing still to do. A ritual among gentlemen. The headmaster offers his right hand and Hawkridge shakes it.

“You are dismissed,” the headmaster clears his throat and picks up an essay from the pile on his desk. He watches surreptitiously as Hawkridge replaces his cap on his head and leaves the study. Dr. Fortescue silently counts to ten, throws the essay on the desk and dives to his bottom drawer. Within seconds he is pouring himself a large glass of gin.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

Other stories you might like

Bug on the wall

The Post Office Thief

The glorious summer

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Drunk last night

used brush drunk last night

Jack raised his face to the shower head and let the warm water cascade across his forehead and down his nose. He spluttered as accidentally he swallowed a mouthful. He wetted his hair, then allowed the water to run down his spine. He bent forward and soaked his arse crack. He was coming back to life.

It had been a heavy night. They had had nine maybe ten pints, he couldn’t remember. Pissed as farts. “Bladdered” they called it. Some people even said, “We caned it.” Huh! Perhaps, not the best term to use in the circumstances, he reckoned.

His head was clear now. Nineteen year olds had remarkable constitutions. They could be legless at two in the morning and running to catch the bus for work at eight. There was no work today as it was Saturday. Usually, he would have a lie in. Snuggling under the duvet wanking himself raw. Not today though. He had an appointment and woe betide him if he were a second late.

He stepped from the shower, reached over for the towel and wiped himself down. It always took an age to dry. He laughed out loud when he saw the old films on telly, when Elvis Presley or some other has-been steps out of the swimming pool gets handed a towel and is ready to go in seconds. Some hope. It always took Jack hours just to get his cock and balls dry.

He wrapped the towel round his waist, opened the door slightly to see the coast was clear and satisfied that it was he dashed across the landing into his bedroom. Damn it, he silently cursed. His undercarriage was still damp. He set to work again.

At last he was ready to dress. It was the height of summer and already the day was hotting up. A tee-shirt and shorts should be enough. He scrutinised his naked body in the mirror. There were two hairs near his left nipple; he’d need to shave before the weekend was over. His cock and balls were tidy, he never shaved but he did give them a trim now and again. It was Sex in the City that put him on to it. One of the old dames in the TV show took scissors to a guy she was about to give a blow job. Jack could see her point, she could be gagging on hairs all night.

Was he good looking? He was never sure. His skin was smooth and he rubbed in body lotion every day. He was about average height and build. He never worked out. He didn’t see the point, he already had a well-defined chest and his hips and waist were narrow. If he went to the gym he’d turn into a Muscle Mary, then everyone would think he was gay and how would that get him laid?

He glanced at his watch, three minutes to nine. He needed to get his skates on, he mustn’t be late. He opened his closet door and reached in for a tee-shirt, then he stepped into a pair of briefs before tugging on his shorts. He paused a second, maybe it would be wiser to wear heavy jeans. In the circumstances. Ha! He snorted out loud. Who was he kidding?

He straightened his shirt so it hung over his shorts, drew in a deep breath and opened the bedroom door.

He knew Uncle Matt would be in the lounge room. Jack had been drunk as a skunk when he bounced off the walls at two that morning, but not so far gone he couldn’t feel the full wrath of his uncle. Curfew missed. Second time in a month. The lounge. Nine o’clock. Get to bed. That was the gist of it.

Uncle Matt was waiting, as Jack knew he would be, dressed as if for the office. Despite the sweltering day in prospect, he wore a jacket and a tie, tightly knotted at his throat. He sat on a hard, dining room chair and by his side on a table was a heavy wooden clothes brush.

Jack paused at the door, heart thumping. This was hardly unchartered territory for him. His uncle had made it clear from the first day Matt had arrived. “It’s my way or the highway.” He meant he had rules. They had to be obeyed. You broke them, you got your arse blistered. You didn’t like it, “Ship out Mister.”

“Well!” Uncle Matt sneered, “What are you waiting for?” He could be a man of few words. He knew why Jack was here. Jack knew too. What more was there to say?

Except. “Come here. Take down those shorts and pants. Bend over my knee.” Swift and to the point.

Jack chewed his lip. Paused. Then waited some more. He should argue his case. He was nineteen years old. None of his mates would be going over their dads’ knees this morning for a bare-arsed spanking. So, he had gotten drunk. They all did it. Where was the harm?

Jack formulated the word in his head. But, what was the point. “My way, or the highway.” It couldn’t be clearer.

Uncle Jack wriggled his buttocks on the wooden seat of the chair and spread his legs a little further. He snapped his fingers. “Get on with it,” he growled, “we haven’t got all day.”

Actually, Jack thought, he did have all day and he wouldn’t mind one little bit if they took all the time in the world.

“Now!” It was a bark so sharp it startled Matt. In seconds he was across the room and standing by Uncle Matt’s side. He was a foot or so from his uncle, looking down at the middle-aged man’s powerful legs. The creases in uncle’s grey worsted trousers were so sharp you could cut your finger on them.

“Doh!” Uncle Matt had lost what little patience he had. He gripped the elastic waistband of Matt’s yellow sports shorts and in one tug had them at the teenager’s knees. His underpants snagged and bunched at the undercurve of Matt’s buttocks. Uncle Matt paused, looking at his nephew’s cock and balls poking over the top of the mauve cotton briefs. He scowled and sent them south to meet the shorts.

Jack flushed deep pink. It didn’t matter how many times his buttocks were bared for his uncle’s administrations, nor how often his cock and balls were on display, Jack could never get used to the humiliation. A grown man, half-naked being prepared to go over uncle’s lap for a sound bare-bottomed spanking. Who would ever believe such a thing possible?

“Bend over.” Uncle Matt preferred Jack to present himself submissively for punishment. It was as if he were saying, “I know I have broken your rules and I know I should be punished. Please spank my naughty bottom. Thank you, uncle.”

In his dreams that was how Uncle Matt saw it. It was true the first time he had ordered his nephew to prepare himself for punishment, he had refused and there had been an unseemly fight. But, resistance was futile. Jack might have been a fit eighteen-year-old at the time with all the strength that entails, but Uncle Matt was an experienced operator. The lad was face down over the back of the couch with his right arm pressed into his shoulder blades before he could say Jack Robinson. His shorts and pants were at his knees in a trice and the clothes brush was already blistering his backside. Round One to Uncle Matt.

There was no Round Two. Jack’s buttocks and thighs were toasted. Three days later he was still wriggling around when he sat on a hard dining room chair. Lesson learned: submit to Uncle Matt’s will, it is less painful in the long run.

The lesson was well learned. That was why Jack now eased himself across his uncle’s lap. He was not a tall boy and he fitted rather well. Uncle had parted his own thighs by about two feet, offering his nephew a perfect platform to present himself. The teenager’s stomach rested against uncle’s left thigh and the lad’s legs stretched behind him; his legs slightly bent and his toes brushing the deep pile Axminister carpet.

His arms reached forward and Jack’s palms rested firmly in the carpet. In this position, he had a close view of its ugly yellow-and-brown pattern. If he chose to, he could look under the chair and see his own feet, now covered by his shorts and underpants.

Uncle Matt wasn’t quite ready to go. He gripped Jack’s tee-shirt and although there was no need to do so since it wasn’t anywhere near to the teenager’s bared buttocks, he pushed it up towards his shoulder blades. Jack was now naked from his shoulders to his feet.

Uncle Matt cupped his right hand and gently rubbed the palm over Jack’s smooth skin, tracing the lad’s tan-line. He was almost entirely nut-brown; only a small portion around his buttocks was still the original white. The boy had been spending a little too much time in the sun wearing only skimpy swimming trunks.

Jack shut his eyes tight. He hated it when Uncle Matt “felt him up”, he knew the old man could see right into his crack. That was why he had spent a little extra time in the shower making sure it was sparkling clean. Jack felt his uncle’s body move. He couldn’t see, but he knew he was reaching across to the table to take up the heavy, wooden clothes brush. Any moment now the onslaught would begin.

Uncle Matt fingered the brush. It was about ten inches long and maybe three at its widest. A pal had given it to him when they were at university together. It had seen some action in its time, but he would be hard pressed to remember when it had last been used for its intended purpose.

He gripped the handle tightly and patted Jack’s bare bum with it. The teenager’s bottom was taut and stretched across his uncle’s knee it was as hard as a rubber ball. There was certainly no “give.” The term “buns of steel” might have been made for Jack.

Whack. The first stroke connected in the dead centre of Jack’s left buttock. A deep pink oval mark immediately appeared. Jack’s bum always reddened easily, it only took a slap of Uncle Matt’s hand to make it glow.

The second whack landed in the centre of the right cheek. Jack sucked on his bottom lip. It hurt. Like crazy. There was something special about the heat that a wooden brush could cause. It was a different pain from a flexible bedroom slipper or a cane. Jack would know; he had felt them all at one time or another. A heavy wooden brush applied with some effort across a bared backside left a burning sensation, like someone had pressed a hot poultice into the flesh.

Uncle Matt had a spanking technique he had perfected since his early twenties. It was all in the wrist action. Some people would raise the brush as high above their shoulder as they could reach before bringing it crashing down into the bum. It looked pretty spectacular, but a lot of the downward force was lost as the brush travelled over a distance. It was much better to keep the brush only a few inches above the bum and using wrist action wallop it across the naughty boy’s hindquarters. A golfer would probably be able to explain the technique better.

Uncle Matt raised the brush and brought it down on his left buttock, then again on the right. He had learned that you should start a spanking softly and build up a momentum until the whacks were reigning down hard.

Jack held his position steady. His bum was resting high on his uncle’s right leg and his back and head were sloped at a near perfect forty-five-degree angle towards the floor. His buttocks were perfectly placed for his uncle’s aim and he had no difficultly slapping away with the brush. Six on the left, six on the right, then one in turn on each; two at the top and two at the bottom of each buttock.

Jack wasn’t a howler; he didn’t cry either. He would shut his mouth by biting on his bottom lip. It stopped him yelping, but sometimes he bit so hard and so deep the pain in his lip lasted much longer than the ache in his backside.

Uncle Matt wasn’t deterred by his nephew’s stoicism. He knew a bare-buttock spanking with a heavy wooden brush hurt like hell. Jack’s bum was always red and raw and so hot you could probably fry an egg on it by the time Uncle Matt was finished.

Jack’s bum was turning a darker red now and his breathing was harder. He was in some pain, but he wasn’t about to show it. From his vantage point way above his nephew, Uncle Matt looked down at his head. His hair was flopped over his eyes, a fringe falling towards the floor. He saw a silent grimace as the brush hit his buttocks time and again. Jack screwed his eyes a little in pain, but no sound came from his lips and no tear from his eye.

The heat of the bare-bottomed spanking travelled from the buttocks and up and down Jack’s legs. The pain was intense as each successive slap connected with his flesh. The pain disappeared almost immediately the brush moved off his bum only to be replaced by more pain as the next crack hit its target.

Then it was over. Suddenly, the spanking stopped. Uncle Matt released his grip on Jack’s body and the teenager rolled off his uncle’s lap and landed on the carpet. The teenager’s cock and balls were on full display. Uncle Matt professed not to notice. Jack pulled up his underpants and stood up so he could return his shorts to their rightful place.

Uncle Matt stood himself and put the brush back on the table. He looked immaculately dressed. A stranger could not tell that over the past five minutes or so he had delivered to Jack the spanking of his lifetime. Not one hair on his head was out of place. No perspiration dampened his body.

Jack rushed from the room, took the stairs two at a time, crashed through his bedroom door and threw himself face-down on his bed where he cried piteously into his pillow.

Uncle Matt left the room, slipped out of his jacket and hung it on a hook in the hallway. Then, more sedately than his nephew, he ascended the stairs and made his way to the bathroom. There, he ripped down his trousers and pants and set to work on his raging boner.

 

Picture credit: End Art

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The terrible twins

z used twosome on couch football shirt by M Pegasi (1a)

Last summer I had quite two of the naughtiest boys imaginable staying with me at my house.

Antonio and Pedro were foreign language students. The idea was they came over for some intensive English training and they stayed with “hosts” who helped them with “conversational English.” We were also asked to teach them something about our traditions and customs. Well, before their stay was over I taught the pair of them something about one English custom they wouldn’t forget in a hurry.

I called them The Terrible Twins, even though they weren’t twins. They weren’t even brothers, but they were both Spanish and did look alike. Well, a little anyway.

I take a couple of students each year. I don’t need the money. I’ve retired on a very good pension, but I like the company of young people and a friend owns the language school so I help out.

The Terrible Twins were eighteen years old, but you’d never believe it the way they behaved. I was continually scolding them for larking about around the house, having “pretend” wrestling matches and fighting on the sofa in the living room.

I began to wonder if they were a little retarded, but when I checked with my friend I found they had both done extremely well at school and were off to university in the autumn.

They were young people and spent a lot of time in the town at bars and clubs. I imagine they chased girls, although they never brought any home. They were both extremely handsome in the way young Spaniards can be, with hard bodies, snake hips, wavy black hair, clear olive skin, cheeky grins and dark brown eyes. I would have thought the girls of this town would have been queueing up. So many of the young men around here are pasty and already well on the way to obesity.

I don’t make many rules for my summer guests. The school expects me to give them breakfast but otherwise they come and go as they please. I do insist that they do not use the parlour at the back of the house; I do like a little privacy. It is also where I keep the liquor.

Despite my clear instructions, I twice found them in the room. What were they doing? There was nothing for them to see. Were they attracted there simply because it was out of bounds? They stood heads bowed while I gave them a stiff telling-off.

They bought catapults and stalked local cats, firing stones at them. A pane of glass in Mr. Axford’s greenhouse was smashed. They made friends with a boy down the street and spent evenings drinking cheap cider at bus shelters and abusing passers-by.

One Saturday afternoon I returned from the shops and was confronted by an irate next-door neighbour. Mr. Adams was livid. Did I know what my two brats had just done? Well, no I didn’t and that was clear because Mr. Adams had just seen me pull into my own driveway. I was open mouthed. The Terrible Twins had climbed onto the roof of the house and hurled water bombs (something they had made from folded paper) at Mr. Adams and his wife. What was I going to do about it?

I was aghast. What in God’s name possessed them to do such a thing.

“They need a good hiding. The pair of them,” Mr. Adams growled at me.

Indeed they did.

“Well, what are you going to do?” Mr. Adams’ anger would not abate for some considerable time.

Spanking? This was 2016. A lot of people think spanking had been confined to distant history. It is true the cane was abolished in schools in the nineteen-eighties, but things were different in the home. There were still many responsible men who saw it as their duty to help young people navigate the choppy waters of life into adulthood. Mr. Adams was one of them. And, there were plenty of others to my certain knowledge even here in The Avenue who were ready to blister backsides when the occasion demanded.

Yes, they needed a spanking right enough. I should have done it sooner.

I confronted the Terrible Twins about their behaviour. I was rewarded with fits of giggles. Sometimes eighteen year olds can be insufferable. “It was a lark. A wheeze,” Pedro grinned at me. I frowned, genuinely puzzled. Where had he picked up such old-fashioned idioms?

Well, if they thought this was a joke, I’d soon disillusion them. Deliberately, I unfastened the buckle of my wide, heavy leather belt and slowly pulled it through the loops of my trousers. Antonio’s eyes stalked. I saw real fear. Sweat glistened his already shiny black hair. Pedro whispered something in Spanish to him, but it didn’t seem to calm the boy. I stretched the belt between my hands and with great care I folded it in thirds, leaving myself with a leather strap about eighteen inches long.

Antonio wiped the palms of his hands against his shorts. Pedro, as far as I could see, was impassive; waiting for events to take their course.

“Stand by the back of the sofa,” I instructed. Pedro took the three paces necessary to obey my command. Antonio stood his ground, immobilised by fear. Antonio gestured with his hand that his amigo should join him and with obvious reluctance he shuffled and took up position next to his companion in dishonour. I wondered at that moment whether Pedro had been the leader among the pair and Antonio, the led. He did seem to be the dominant force at this time.

I pulled the belt between my hands creating a loud snap. Antonio jumped. Pedro stayed calm. I was nearly ready. “Take down your trousers,” I said calmly. Antonio’s eyes saucered, he glanced at his friend whose entire demeanour was subservient. He was ready to obey my every command. Pedro fumbled with the buckle of his belt, but then calmly popped the button at the waist and pulled the zipper of his jeans. They slithered down to his knees. He parted his legs a little and they continued their journey and rested on top of his trainers. He stood with his hands rather demurely clasped in front of his manhood

Antonio was rigid. It was as if he was cemented to the ground.

“Doh!” I exhaled and threw my belt on the couch. Pedro’s eyes glazed as I gripped the waist of his cargo shorts, and with an expertise I didn’t know I possessed, I had them at his feet within seconds. His face shone with embarrassment. I picked up the belt and re-folded it and made it ready for action. I looked at the two eighteen year olds. They wore identical canary-yellow briefs. Both teenagers’ legs were entirely hairless.

“Bend over the couch,” I tapped the belt across the padded back so there was no doubt of my instructions. Pedro gave a sideway glance to his friend before falling forward. The couch was quite low and Pedro’s body easily cleared its back. He gripped the front of the seat cushion and spread his feet. He had presented me with a terrific target.

Antonio, of course, did not move. By now, I had anticipated I would have to intervene every step of the way. Holding my belt in my right hand, I used my left to grip Antonio by the scruff of his neck and push him forward. It was like throwing a reluctant child into a swimming pool. Antonio threw his hands forward to break his fall. To his credit, he did not try to escape. His amigo                 took hold of his hand.

Antonio was breathing heavily, Pedro was calmness personified. I had one more task to perform. The twins’ bottoms were firm, not quite “buns of steel” but not far off. Their briefs, were exactly that, and hardly covered the buttocks. In Pedro’s case a strip of bare buttock was visible below the hem of the pants. I should have dearly loved to belt them bare-bottomed, but in this day and age one cannot be too careful. So, instead I smoothed down wrinkles in their cotton briefs so that they fitted so well they might have been sprayed on.

I took up position to Pedro’s right and lashed the belt into the centre of his right cheek. Then I walloped the left. Then Antonio’s right, then the left. Then I returned to the start of the line and belted them again. And, again. The crack of leather against tight backsides resounded around the walls. The room was at the front of the house and the window wide open. My front garden is large but any passer-by would still be able to hear. Indeed, they would also be able to see two teenaged boys bent submissively across the back of a sofa having their naughty backsides tanned with a leather belt. Just another day in an English suburb.

A belt employed with some vim can deliver serious pain. The Terrible Twins “ooo’d” and “ahhhh’d” as swipe after swipe connected with firm buttocks. But, neither boy cried out. Even Antonio, who I had feared might howl the house down, took his whipping stoically. Pedro winced and sucked in air, when (quite by accident, honestly) my belt struck the bare area below his pants. He gripped the seat cushion tightly at that point and held on gamely.

I belted them with such energy you might have thought I was beating a carpet. A spanking has to hurt otherwise what is the point? These two would learn a real lesson. Actions have consequences and sometimes those consequences can be very painful indeed.

I lost count of the times I went up and down the line, spanking buttock after buttock. I must have laid it on well because my own breathing was soon laboured and my heartrate was off the scale. It was time to stop.

“You may stand up,” I intoned. They climbed to their feet in perfect harmony, the Terrible Twins might have been synchronised swimmers. Each teenager instinctively rubbed the seat of his underpants with some vigour. Then, Antonio saw me looking at him and he whipped up his shorts with alacrity. A huge grin split Pedro’s face when he realised what his amigo had done. More sedately, he pulled up his own jeans and buckled up.

They hovered before me, unsure what to do next. Both had shiny faces and damp eyes, but beyond that they seemed unaffected by their ordeal. Pedro clasped his hands behind his back and surreptitiously caressed his buttocks with his thumbs. Antonio stood head bowed, his hands in front of his crotch, every inch the contrite naughty boy.

I saw no reason to lecture them further. They had been disobedient boys and they had been spanked. And, I have to say, they had taken it rather well. I dismissed them to their rooms.

@

Antonio lay on his back, the pain had gone a long time ago, but the marks would probably last for ages. His throbbing cock pointed at the ceiling. Pedro knelt over him, his own dick thick and stiff. They were so long and hard the boys could have had a sword fight. Pedro leant in; his tongue was received by Antonio’s open mouth. A half-empty tube of KY jelly lay waiting on the pillow.

 

Picture credit: M. Pegasi

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com