An unexpected lesson for Alfie

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I’ll be glad when the holidays are over and my nephew goes back to college. He’s been staying with me because his parents have taken themselves off for a New Year’s cruise down to the Caribbean. Lucky them.

It never occurred to me that Alfie would be so much trouble. He’s nineteen – twenty in February – and has been living away at university for a couple of years. I thought he was all grown up, but he keeps acting like a little kid.

The trouble is he treats my home like it’s a hotel. It’s driving my wife Carol to distraction. Nearly every morning we have the same problem: he just will not get out of bed. She cooks his breakfast and wakes him up but then what? Nothing. He never goes down to the kitchen to eat it.

Then, I have to run up and down the stairs all morning to see if he’s gotten out of bed.

 

Well, let me tell you something. I soon tired of that. Alfie’s a good kid, but sometimes he just needs to be pulled up a bit. He needs to be reminded that the world doesn’t revolve around him. I told him what would happen if he didn’t start playing by my rules.

My wife has this hairbrush she picked up at an antiques shop when we went on a visit to Brocklehurst. It’s a great heavy thing made of ebony wood. It’s nothing like those light plastic things they make today. It’s excellent for brushing her hair, but I quickly realised it could have a pretty good secondary use as well.

So last week Monday when I entered my nephew’s room that morning for the fourth time, I was carrying that hairbrush. I threw back his bed covers and delivered a sound smack that had him awake in a second. Before he was totally aware of what was going on I had pulled him to his feet. I sat myself down on the bed and hauled him over my knees. By this time he was awake well enough to be pleading for me to stop. “I will come down to breakfast,” he promised, “Please stop spanking me!” He was wailing like a little kid. Of course, they’ll promise you anything if only you’d stop spanking them.

I was having none of it. I had him where I wanted him and I might not get another chance. I pulled down his pants and started whacking his bare backside with the brush. He’s nineteen years old and entirely too big for this type of a spanking and I did more arguing and threatening than actual spanking while trying to keep him in position. He was flailing and kicking and hollering like crazy but I did succeed in getting in about twenty five whacks before I let him up.

He came down to breakfast on time after that.

I thought that would be the end of it. I had made my point that he ought to be a bit more thoughtful about others and I expected we wouldn’t have any more trouble with him. I could never have imagined what happened next.

It was getting close to midnight on the following Saturday and me and Carol were just getting ready to turn in when the phone rang. It startled us because no one calls us at that time of night. I said, “It won’t be for us, let it ring out,” but my wife said it might be urgent bad news and grabbed the handset. It was bad news all right. It was the local police station. They had Alfie and would someone please come and collect him. Carol melted with shame. He and some other louts had been hauled in for being drunk and incapable.

I had to get the car out and go fetch him. Naturally, I was angry with him but that was nothing to how I felt about the police. The sergeant at the station said Alfie and the others wouldn’t be prosecuted. It was only drunk and incapable, he told me. Not drunk and disorderly. It wasn’t worth the cost and effort taking him to court. He’d only get a ticking off, anyway.

So, Alfie was going to get off scot-free. He had disgraced himself and me and the wife. We wouldn’t be able to show our faces if the neighbours found out. I took him home. I said I’d have a word in the morning and left him to stagger off to bed.

Of course, when I said “a word” that was a code which meant his backside would be doing the listening while my heavy hairbrush did the talking.

I told my wife what had happened and what I intended to do. “The hairbrush,” she scoffed. “He needs a darn sight more than the hairbrush.” Maybe he did, but what did she expect me to do? That was when she reminded me of her Uncle Bill. Bill had been a housemaster at a very posh boarding school for many years. “He knows about this sort of thing,” she said as she rolled over and instantly fell asleep.

Uncle Bill hoped he had not shown too much enthusiasm when he was asked to help out his niece. He had retired as a schoolmaster many years before but he had kept a few souvenirs; among them his tattered academic gown and mortar-board cap along with three stout but whippy curve-handled rattan canes.

When he received the phone call he said he’d be happy to come out of retirement. If that’s what she really wanted. Carol was not a woman to mince words. “Yes, it is. Definitely. When can you get here?”

It was mid-afternoon and the winter sun was quickly setting when Uncle Bill arrived. He was a sprightly man in his seventies but many who met him for the first time thought him much younger. He still ran three miles every other day and was envied among his friends for his strength.

“Does he know that I am here?” Uncle Bill asked once he had taken off his coat and put the cane he had selected down on the dining room table. Carol nodded emphatically, “Oh yes, he knows what to expect.”

Alfie was no stranger to Uncle Bill. The old man had been much used by exasperated parents within the family across a number of generations. His expertise was much in demand and Uncle Bill shared his skill willingly. After all, what were families for?

“Call him down,” Uncle Bill stretched his arm and shoulder muscles, limbering himself up as he spoke, “You don’t need to be present if you’d rather not,” he added. He watched impassively as his niece headed for the stairs.

Shortly, Alfie appeared in the doorway. He wasn’t especially tall for his age, probably about five-feet-eight with a slim build. Uncle Bill was taken by the nineteen-year-old’s blond hair, dark at the roots (obviously dyed). It was parted down the centre and hung down over his eyes, partially obscuring a pale face that might have been thought cute if not for the attempted sneer that twisted the corners of his mouth.

“Come in,” Uncle Bill snapped, he had assumed his oft-repeated role of the disgruntled schoolmaster. “Take that look off your face.” He gestured to a far wall. Alfie hesitated, he could not fail to see the small, white straight-backed dining room chair that stood there, its back unnaturally facing into the room.

He glanced at the old man, but remained silent.

Uncle Bill sighed, “You know why you are here.” Alfie knew it was a statement, not a question and stayed silent. His heart thumped against his chest. “I manged to email your father, he is appalled by your behaviour. Do you want to know what he said?”

This time it was a question, but Alfie had no words. His mouth was parched, his temples were throbbing. The crook-handled cane lay on the table in plain sight. He didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to work out what was about to happen.

“He agreed I should cane you,” Uncle Bill answered his own question. “What do you say to that?” Another question.

If he were a member of any other family, Alfie might have said, “But I’m nearly twenty, I’m too old for this.” But his was no ordinary family. Uncle Bill’s standing was well-known. In the summer he had dealt with Arron and he was twenty-two and in trouble with the law. Rumour had it the young man could hardly walk, let alone sit down, for two days.

Uncle Bill picked up the cane. It was a typical old-fashioned school cane, made of rattan and a little over three feet long. It was as thick as a biro but was wonderfully whippy. Uncle Bill brandished it at Alfie and then menacingly flexed it between his hands. It made a perfect arc. Alfie’s eyes transfixed on the rod’s smoothness. What little saliva there was in his mouth drained. His throat hurt. The room began to move slowly.

“Six of the best,” Uncle Bill said, almost jauntily. “Stand there.” He brandished the cane and swished it towards the small chair.

Alfie didn’t understand: what was happening to him. His knees groaned, the light jumper he wore was beginning to soak with sweat. He desperately needed a drink.

He heard the cane swoosh once more through the air. “Yes, just there,” Uncle Bill tapped the back of the chair with the tip of the cane. “Turn round and bend over.” Alfie’s look of incomprehension would not deter Uncle Bill. “You need it to support you. It will hurt you more this way. That is the purpose of a caning you know.”

Bewildered, Alfie looked at the chair in front of him. He towered over it. What was he supposed to do? Bend over? What did that mean exactly?

Uncle Bill was used to dealing with boys who were about to receive their first caning. They had to be “talked through” the process. He tapped the cane on the seat of the chair. “Stand behind the chair. Place both hands on the seat. Arch your back enough so that your backside juts out. It helps if you spread your feet.”

Looking back, Alfie couldn’t believe what he did next. Instead of fleeing to the sanctuary of his room, he sidled up to the chair. The seat looked a long way down. He reached over and took hold of it and waited.

“No further than that,” Uncle Bill snapped. “Bend over as far as you can,” he pushed Alfie’s shoulders down. “Further!” Uncle Bill stepped back to get a better look. “Good, now hold on for dear life. Spread those legs. Yes, but keep the knees straight.”

As Alfie stood head lowered, bottom raised, the room span. Uncle Bill observed the teenager’s hard bottom straining against the seat of his jeans. The denim was pretty thick. Could he risk ordering the boy to take them down for a caning across the underpants? He mused for a moment and dismissed the idea. The brat deserved a severe caning. It would do him good. It would buck his ideas up a bit. But, Uncle Bill feared Carol might think it overstepped the boundaries of modesty. “Oh well,” he consoled himself, “maybe next time.”

Uncle Bill was lefthanded so he stood to Alfie’s right and tapped the whippy, heavy cane on the rounded backside. He was tempted to lay at least one dark weal across the boy’s muscular thighs swelling under the denim but he decided to slash each stroke squarely into the seat of the jeans.

Alfie felt the weight of the cane, stinging him lightly but unpleasantly even when applied with almost no force. He felt its heavy, threatening mass. He squeezed his eyes shut, holding on tightly to the chair.

“Well,” said Uncle Bill. “I had better cane you, hadn’t I?”

“Not now!” Alfie kept the thought to himself . “Not yet! I’m not ready for it!”

But when would he ever be ready for it? The cane descended with a low-toned whoosh. The impact was heavy and almost numbing. It knocked him forward, and as he went two of the legs of the chair rose from the ground almost making him lose his balance. For a split second it did not seem to have hurt him very greatly. Then the pain came welling up like a biting, stinging, bruising wave. He wanted to let go of the chair and stand up to rub the pain away, but he dared not. Some long dormant instinct told him this was not the way to behave. He must pretend that the thrashing had not hurt.

The second stroke came, and now the pain mounted to a terrible crescendo. Alfie’s head shook from left to right vigorously like an old horse troubled by a fly. Wind escaped his pursed lips which made it sound like he was neighing.

There was a pause. Uncle Bill knew his business. He waited for the pain of the two strokes to soak in for a quarter of a minute. Then he tapped the heavy cane again on the seat of the jeans. Alfie winced both at the pain it caused on his already sore bum and the anticipation of what was to follow.

Uncle Bill drew back the cane and sank another satisfyingly hard stroke into the blue surface. Three clear lines were now etched into the tight denim. Beneath the jeans welts were throbbing. Alfie felt the impact; his body hated the pain, but his brain sent him different signals. Alfie gasped. It was all he could do to keep holding the chair.

z used cane jeans touch toes domestic

“Your punishment is half-way through,” Uncle Bill intoned. “I trust you are enjoying it.” He bit into his lip. What a thing to say.

“Thank you, sir,” Alfie wheezed.

Uncle Bill’s eyebrows arched. Had he heard Alfie’s tone correctly?

Alfie’s heart raced and sweat ran down the back of his shirt. The same number of strokes still to go. He wondered how he could endure it.

Slowly and in measured fashion. Uncle Bill delivered three more strokes with all his force, squarely across the bucking backside. The heavy, whippy cane felt firm and powerful, the gasps and small cries of the nineteen-year-old submitting himself to him were intensely satisfying and he enjoyed the impact which seemed to rock Alfie forward each time. He knew he was putting him through a dreadful ordeal and he liked it.

The boy’s mother might have been horrified, but Uncle Bill had a certain matter-of-fact harshness that represented the attitude of countless schoolmasters through the ages.

He would never have committed any real cruelty, of course, but he knew how beneficial an authentic caning could be. Anything less would detract from the quality of the thing and leave the boy ultimately disappointed. Uncle Bill knew Alfie was not enjoying his ordeal, but there was nonetheless something in the way he had said, “Thank you, sir.”

On some level that Alfie could not yet imagine this caning was satisfying to him as well as to Uncle Bill.

The man was experienced enough to understand that deeper level and not to hold back or feel regret because of the superficial layer of pain he was inflicting, although to Alfie that was the only thing his mind and body understood at this moment.

Nothing but the thought of repeating the caning from the beginning, kept Alfie from gripping the chair through those desperate moments as Uncle Bill lashed those terrible last three strokes. Each one seemed to cut him in half and impel him with a force beyond resistance to leap up.

But reason held sway over nature and Alfie held the seat.

“Good lad,” Uncle Bill cooed approvingly, ten seconds after the sixth and final stroke had seared across the hard target. Alfie’s bottom was on fire. It felt like Uncle Bill had forced him to sit in an open coal fire.

“You may stand.”

Alfie rose to his feet, his face flushed almost to match his backside. His head swooned. Colours passed the back of his eyes. It was like being on drugs.

“ T…t…t…thank you, sir,” he stammered.

Uncle Bill flexed the sturdy cane. “ Now that, young man, was a caning,” he said, with the appreciation of a connoisseur. He had truly enjoyed it; not in a cruel or vindictive way, but with a genuine artistic pleasure.

“Yes, sir,” Alfie said as he furiously rubbed the seat of his jeans. The agony was already dimming to a throbbing ache. Somehow, in a way he could not yet articulate, he thought he understood Uncle Bill.

“You should go upstairs,” Uncle Bill tucked the cane under his arm in the fashion of a sergeant-major.

Alfie rushed to the bathroom and splashed his flushed face. He drank some cold water and slipped his hands down the back of his jeans and under his briefs. His burning, tender, welted backside felt like corrugated cardboard.

It was still painful to touch and he dared not look. He glanced at his face in the mirror, not recognising the ghostly-pale vision that stared back. His head had stopped spinning. He felt somehow purified and pleased with himself to have come through the ordeal. As he went back down the stairs he was filled with the most curious mixture of sensations. He felt at once tearful and tremulous, throbbing with lingering pain, slightly queasy, proud, peaceful and cleansed. He felt glad to have had the experience and was not absolutely determined to avoid having it again at any cost.

Picture credit: Unknown

 

Other stories you might like

A whopping for Warminster

Over Pop’s knee with Perce

Don’t borrow dad’s car

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

That time at Uncle Ron’s

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“I’ve had enough of your behaviour. I won’t stand for it, do you hear? It has got to stop.” It was my Uncle Ron speaking. “I’ve told you before. You need to buck your ideas up my lad. Start obeying the rules around here. Or else.”

It was 1974, I was eighteen and staying with Uncle Ron and Aunt June for the summer while I worked at the car plant and before going onto university.

“Now,” Uncle’s nostrils flared, “let me make it very clear. You behave yourself. You do as Aunt June and me tell you. I shan’t tell you again. Next time it’ll be a hiding. And don’t think I won’t. If you don’t believe me just ask Alan or John.”

Alan and John were my cousins, nineteen and seventeen. Ask them, Uncle Ron had said so next chance I had, I did. Alan filled me in on the details. He was very candid. As if there wasn’t anything unusual about it. “Cane,” he said nonchalantly.

“Cane?” I queried.

“Cane,” Alan wasn’t the brightest star in the sky and I had to squeeze it out of him. It would have been easier to extract hens’ teeth. Eventually, he told me, “He keeps two canes. In the cupboard under the stairs.”

“Canes?” I frowned, still puzzled.

“Yes, canes,” I had never exactly hit it off with Alan, now I was irritating the hell out of him, as if I was the dumb one in this conversation. “You know,” he shook his head, bedazzled by my denseness. “Canes. Like at school.”

“We don’t have the cane at our school,” I told him.

“Lucky you,” he responded ruefully and fell into silence.

I waited hoping he might take the hint and continue. When he didn’t, I was forced to say, “So … your dad has two canes. And he canes you?”

“Yes,” Alan confirmed.

“Like at school? How so?”

“Like at school,” Alan rolled his eyes as if to say, Who is this moron.

“We didn’t have it at school,” I said, remembering this time to use the past tense because I had left that summer, “What does he do? How….?”

“Usual way,” Alan looked a little wistful. “Y’know,” I could see his brain ticking over as he tried to find the words, “Over the back of the chair. Settee. Bend over. Whack-whack-whack.”

I remember my heart skipped. Bent over the back of the chair. I wanted to ask more details but a natural caution kicked in. Did it hurt? How much? Did you ever get it trousers down? I concealed so many questions I didn’t want to sound eager.

“He says, he’ll give me a ‘good hiding’,” I said. “Suppose that means the cane.” I Paused hoping Alan would take the hint and spill some more details. No such luck.

“Suppose, it does,” Alan said and he walked away leaving me with a slack jaw.

So, the canes were kept in the cupboard under the stairs. I had a burning ambition to see them. To feel them. I had never seen a punishment cane before. I’d seen plenty of drawings in comics, of course. Corporal punishment hadn’t been abolished in those days. Sometimes on television you saw a schoolmaster swishing a cane and threatening some boy with it. Come to think of it none of them ever carried out their threat. More’s the pity.

It wouldn’t be too difficult to sneak a look of the canes under the stairs. But I would have to bide my time. I could think of nothing else; all day long at my mind-numbingly boring job on the production line. I was going frantic.

I knew my uncle and aunt went to Bingo on Friday nights and I expected Alan and John to be out somewhere, but not, of course, together. I would have the place to myself. I could hardly swallow my tea, I was that excited. At about 7.30, I heard the front door slam shut. That was uncle and aunt out of the way. Alan and John were unlikely to call “goodbye” as they left the flat, so I had to sneak around a bit to find out if they were still at home. When I heard no sounds of record player or radio coming from either of their rooms, I knew the coast was clear. I checked the bathroom, just in case. Empty.

I was home alone. I could raid the cupboard under the stairs undetected. I felt my heart thumping in my chest as I crept down the stairs and into the passageway. I stood for a long moment, waiting. Fearful. But, fearful of what? I couldn’t explain it to myself. What was my interest in these canes? Why did I seem to obsess over them?

My hands shook as I inched open the cupboard door. I was so fearful I might have been tackling an unexploded bomb. A broom toppled onto me when I opened the door fully. I cussed silently and pushed it to one side. I peered in. The cupboard was chock-a-block with household crap. Mops, buckets, another broom, a brush and pan. A vacuum cleaner. A slight aroma of sweat, or it might have been decomposition, drifted from near the outside wall. A dead mouse perhaps? I had no intention of trying to find out. I was searching for something much more important.

The cupboard was dark, I pulled the cord for the light, I heard it click but nothing happened. In the gloom I saw there was no bulb. I cussed again. I had no torch or flashlight. I was thinking of running to my room to fetch a box of matches, when in the semi-darkness I saw something. My mouth dried instantly. That heart of mine speeded up again. I couldn’t be sure. I reached in the cupboard, through the muddle of mops and brooms. I grasped it in my hand. It felt like a long pencil. Definitely made of some kind of wood, I told myself. I tugged, but it was stuck behind a box of empty beer bottles. I fell to my knees and crawled into the cupboard, excitedly pushing detergent packets and buckets to one side. I felt as excited as any explorer in an Egyptian tomb.

Oh joy. I had not one, but two school canes in my hand. Carefully, I reversed from the cupboard and into the light. In the passageway I stood upright and surveyed my catch. I might never have seen a school cane before, but these beauties were exactly as advertised in those comics and TV programmes. I let one drop to the floor and caressed the other. It was a light brown / yellow colour and about three feet long. It had the tell-tale curved handle. I clutched it in both hands as I had seen the schoolmasters in the films do. It was as thick as a pencil but surprisingly bendy.

I flexed it thoughtfully. In my imagination I was that schoolmaster from TV and standing in front of me was … Who, exactly? I can’t be sure. Was it me, standing in front of myself, expecting to be caned? It puzzled me for a moment, who was I in this little scenario. Was I the beater, or the beaten?

I didn’t spend much time in deep reflection, I was having too much fun flexing and swishing the cane. I examined it closely. It had notches every few inches along its length and the tip was fraying. It was a little warped and I had no idea at the time that this indicated the cane had been frequently used.

I let it drop to the floor and picked up the second cane. This was thinner and lighter than its brother and made one hell of a swooshing noise as I swished it through the air. My heart raced and the front of my underpants tightened.

I flexed the cane some more, again conjuring up the scene of me as the headmaster. This time the naughty boy standing there was definitely me, summoned to the study for a good old-fashioned six-of-the-best. I swished the cane some more, but I was becoming disheartened. I needed to test this out. I wanted to know how it worked. How it felt. How much would it hurt? I held one end of the cane near the handle and bent forward and took a swipe at my own bottom. What a waste of time. I hit my right buttock, but didn’t feel a thing.  I tried again, swiping harder. With huge disappointment I straightened up. It was impossible. I couldn’t get enough of a swing.

It was then I had a bright idea. I hurried into the living room. This was where Uncle Ron caned Alan. Bent over the back of the armchair or settee. It was a small room and crammed with furniture. I imagined how Uncle Ron might do it. There was hardly room to swing a cat, let alone a cane. I took an armchair and swivelled it round so the back faced into the room. Yes. That was it. I was sweating, but the room wasn’t warm. I stared at the armchair. I walked slowly towards it and stood about a foot from the back. I was about the same height as Alan and realised at once that I would fit perfectly over the chair. Just as he did when he went over for his caning.

I hadn’t planned this. I was on autopilot. I could not resist. Carefully I placed the cane on the settee. Then, returning to the chair, I stood still and imagined my uncle’s voice, “Bend over that chair.” I rubbed my sweaty palms together, took a deep breath and dived over the back. It felt surprisingly comfortable. It was an old padded chair and my stomach sank into the cushion. I imagined how it would look in real life: me bent over bottom high, head low, submitting myself to Uncle Ron’s cane.

I can still remember the sensation. Me, head low, bottom high. I opened my legs, as if I was offering Uncle Ron my bottom, perfectly positioned for punishment. I was submissive. I was saying to him, “Yes, I have been a naughty boy. I deserve to be caned. Punish me.”

I rested my forehead on the worn, indented seat cushion; inhaling the sweat secreted by hundreds of bottoms over many years. I was lost in my imagination. I hauled myself to a standing position. My head throbbed with excitement. The room seemed to spin. I stared ahead at the dull, faded wallpaper. I fixated on the pattern of roses. As I imagined I might if Uncle Ron was in the room with me. I heard him giving me instructions. I remained silent. I did not argue. I was a naughty little boy. I deserved this.

Not looking I took hold of the buckle of my belt and released it. My hands shook but I got them to find the zip on my fly and I tugged. My jeans fell open. I took hold of the waist and slowly and deliberately guided them down to my shins.

I paused. Uncle was giving me another order. I turned and faced the chair. I was wearing a white t–shirt that had a tail that fell over my underpants. Gently I took hold of the thin cotton material and I lifted the shirt half way up my body. It cleared my flat stomach and my taut buttocks. I let go and gently eased myself back over the armchair.

This time I gripped the arms and kept my head high, looking straight ahead. I felt Uncle tap the end of his cane across the middle of my bum. He was finding his aim. I closed my eyes tight waiting – no, fearing – the first stroke. It soon came. I wriggled my hips. It hurt. I steadied myself. The next stroke was harder, it made me rise on my toes and my knees buckled. “Ouch!” I said aloud, but there was no one there to hear.

I took six strokes. I had no idea if these were ‘six-of-the-best.’ I had a vague idea that not all school canings were “six-of-the-best”. Some beatings were more ferocious than others. Perhaps, because this was my first time Uncle might have gone easy on me. He might warn me that if there was to be a next time I should expect a much harder caning.

I wasn’t finished. I was still bent over with my jeans at my ankles and my cotton-encased backside angled against the back of the chair. Uncle spoke to me again. I voiced a protest. It did no good. I was still over the chair but I imagined Uncle moving towards me, with only one intent. The next bit was tricky. I reached my right arm behind me and although I can’t see what I’m doing I managed to find the waistband of my underpants. I took a grip and simultaneously lifted my body up an inch and tugged at the briefs so that slowly they descended across my buttocks. I let them snag over my thighs. They didn’t need to fall further, my buttocks were now completely bared.

“Oh no Uncle. No, please,” I wailed. “I will be good.”

“Bah!” Uncle says back to me. He was a man of few words. He took up position again. He lifted the cane. It swished through the air and landed across my naked bottom.

“Yaroooh!” I cried. It is a word I have read in school stories. It’s what the boys shouted when they were caned, so I knew it was the what you were supposed to do.

Uncle took my backside off. This time it was undoubtedly “six-of-the-BEST”. I wriggled and writhed. “Stand up,” Uncle intoned.

I hauled myself to my feet and jumped up and down while at the same time rubbing away at my scorching buttocks. My cock is stiff and I had trouble pulling my underpants up. But, soon I am dressed again. My head was buzzing. Was this what it feels like to be on drugs?

It takes a long moment for me to get my breath back. I was enjoying this too much, I didn’t want it to end. I picked up the cane again and searching around the room with my eyes spot a scatter cushion. I had a plan. It seemed original to me. I balanced the cushion on the apex of the chair. It was not perfect, but it would do. I stood a little to the left of the chair and tapped the frayed end of my cane across the cushion. It was the stand-in for my own backside. I was now my own Uncle Ron. I tapped some more, then with mounting excitement I raised the cane high, let it hover for a moment and brought it crashing down across the cushion. The loudness of the noise alarmed me. Could the whole block of flats hear? The cushion slid from the back of the chair to the floor.

I waited to catch my breath. Then I bent down to retrieve the cushion. That was when I saw two muddy training shoes. My eyes travelled north – now there was a pair of legs. I sprung to a standing position. Alan stared at me, his eyes popping. He had a befuddled look, his mouth opened and closed. He did this twice but no sound came out. He was like a goldfish. I was just as dumbstruck. “Ba .. ba..  but …” I began, but Alan had already turned on his heels and fled from the flat. My face blazed. How much had he seen? Any of it? Oh my god, not all of it!

I swivelled the chair back to its original position and in some distress I replaced the canes in the cupboard. The shame. My secret revealed. I trudged up the stairs to my room. I fell face down on the bed and buried my face in a pillow.

after bed jeans domestic (2)

The scene of me across the chair and my uncle caning my bare backside overwhelmed me. I caressed my own backside as I might have done after a thrashing. My cock swelled until I felt like I was lying on top of a baseball bat.  I turned on my back and tugged my jeans over my buttocks. Quickly, my underpants went the same way. My dick saluted me. I slowly massaged the blood-engorged head, stroking along the full length from base to head, then letting go and returning to the base again.

My hips rose and fell. I was torn between wanting to go faster and wanting the aching sensation to last forever. I cupped my balls with my other hand. My arse cheeks clenched. I wriggled the jeans and pants until they were clear of my legs, still tugging away. Huff-huff-huff. I had to be careful, any moment now I would shoot my load.

I let go of my balls and took hold of my shirt. Still, I tugged away. My eyes watered. I shrugged the shirt from my body. I was now completely naked except for my socks.

My cock twitched and I could feel sperm dribbling out. My body was tingling all over as pleasure washed through me like some tidal wave. I moaned louder than I’d ever done in my life.  I closed my eyes tightly, imagining it was someone else touching me. I ran my hands over the hard tense muscles of my chest and stomach. My hard six-inch cock was lying flat on my stomach drooling pre-cum. I felt my nuts tightening and the intensity increasing as cum started to rise through the throbbing length of my cock until the juice splashed across my stomach and I was overtaken by an own intense orgasm.

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

The thieving nephew

His new job

Winker Wilson’s visit

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The boy in pink

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If the cat hadn’t jumped from the kitchen table and landed on the draining board by the sink disturbing the plates that were drying there, Mr Shankly would never have looked up from his newspaper.

“Oh, Suki,” he chortled, “daft cat, getouttaway.” Then he walked over to the sink. He meant to put the crockery from breakfast in a cupboard. Out of harm’s way. So the stupid cat wouldn’t break things. That was what he meant to do. But, he didn’t.

The window by the sink looked out into The Avenue. It was always quiet in the morning, after the crowd had hurried off to the railway station and gone away to their offices. After that exodus was over, Mr Shankly would be lucky if he saw a soul until they all returned on the 6.16 train in the evening. The boy he saw now only yards away was definitely – without a shadow of doubt – not an office worker. Mr Shankly leaned over the sink to get a better view. He was pretty sure he hadn’t seen the boy before. He would have remembered him for sure. No doubt about that.

“Hey Suki,” he often spoke out loud to the cat, “What do you think of this?” Suki, being a cat, slinked from the room, her tail high. Mr Shankly shook his head vigorously from side to side for no obvious reason other than perhaps to reassure himself he was not dreaming. The boy was certainly a vision. And, Mr Shankly, told himself ruefully, the boy knows it too.

So, he was about nineteen or twenty. Mr Shankly was a bit of a connoisseur of these things. He had to be. Get a kid’s age wrong and there’d be more than Hell to pay. For sure, this was no child. He must have been six feet tall (Mr Shankly was most definitely pre-metric) and no more than thirty-two round the waist. He had a shock of fairish, almost blond, hair, so unkempt it must have cost him a small fortune at the barbershop to get it that way.

“A dish,” he said aloud, although Suki had long departed and there was no human in the house to hear his assessment. Mr Shankly licked his lips. It was an unpleasant sight. He didn’t know he did it, but he did it a lot. It betrayed his thoughts. “A dish.”

The boy was alone in the street. Walking casually. Towards Widdicombe Wood. Mr Shankly bit down on his bottom lip. He broke into a smile. The boy could only have one intention. Widdicombe Wood. “He’s not very subtle,” Mr Shankly told his own reflection in the window, “Up to no good. Widdicombe Wood. That’s for sure. Look at him.” Mr Shankly strained to catch a final look as the boy disappeared from view. “Look at him.” The boy wore pale pink shorts and a darker pink top. No socks. Just those flip-flop shoes the youngsters wear these days. “Not very subtle. He might as well hang a for-sale sign round his neck,” Mr Shankly chuckled. “No belt. Probably no underpants.” Amused, he shook his head. “Great arse,” he told the breakfast plates as he slid them into the cupboard.

The boy, who was called Tom, had no idea he was being spied on. He had other matters on his mind. He took his phone from his pocket and checked the time. He was early for his appointment. He slowed his pace. He had no intention of arriving before the prearranged hour. No way. He dare not be late. He knew the consequence for bad timekeeping. That didn’t mean he would be early. No way. Just on time. Not early, not late. On time. On the dot.

Tom hated The Avenue. It only held bad memories for him. He lived across Brocklehurst with his mum. Just the two of them in the council flat. It had been like that for years. Since his miserable dad had run off with a younger woman. Just him and his mum. How he hated that. What he would do to get away. To get enough money to get a place of his own. Not a big detached house with double garage, like the ones he was passing in The Avenue. A room in a house-share, with people like himself. A bed-sitting room would do. Anything would be better than that stinking council flat with his mum.

Tom was no different from most kids his age. He thought the world revolved around him. No, he was the centre of the universe. He should have whatever he wanted. Here. Now. Everything, he wanted without the effort. Who cared if he didn’t have a job. He was too good to flip burgers or stack supermarket shelves. Let the burgers flip themselves. He had told his boss that. He said much the same to the manager at the supermarket. Two jobs lost inside a month. The rows at home got longer and louder. His mum was driven to distraction.

Tom checked his phone: 9.29. He took a deep breath, held it for a moment. He crossed the street and with more confidence than he really felt he pushed open the gate to number eighty-six. He let it swing. He ambled up the drive. Halted on the doorstep. The phone clicked to 9.30 and he rang the bell.

The door opened almost immediately. He had been expected. No words were exchanged as the man stood to one side to let Tom enter. Tom stood in the hallway, trying to control his racing heart. The man closed the door. Then, he stood and with his eyes, he examined Tom closely. He made a mental note of the pink shorts, the absence of a belt, the looseness of the cloth against Tom’s firm body. He was making plans.

“In there,” he nodded to a door at  the farthest end of the hallway. Tom led the way. He had visited before. The man watched him go. Once Tom was in the lounge room the man waddled up the stairs, headed for the bathroom. He needed to empty his bladder before he got down to business.

Five minutes later he was back. Tom stood sheepishly. He remembered his last visit. This would not end well. The man once again scanned his eye over Tom’s body, registering the teenager’s nervousness. The silence in the room was deafening.

The man broke it. “Well, Tom.” Tom’s open suntanned face flushed. More silence. The man tried again, “Well, Tom.”

Tom knew his eyelids were blinking uncontrollably. Blink-blink-blink. His mouth was so dry he could hardly croak, “Well, Uncle Ernest?” Yet more silence.

Uncle Ernest sucked in air, he was a man of short temper. His nephew was trying what little patience he had. “Well, what have you got to say for yourself!” he roared. Tom blushed a tomato red. His mind was blank. What was he supposed to say?

Uncle Ernest paced the room. “Your mother is beside herself. Sick with worry,” he growled as he reached the window. He stared into the garden beyond. He could not bear to face Tom with his accusation. “Those vile things you said to her. Your own mother. Disgusting. Disgraceful.” He paused, anger spreading through his body. “Well!” he turned on his heels and faced his nephew. “Well! What do you have to say!”

Tom blustered. “Well, Uncle, I.. that is …” Eventually, he trailed off. He had nothing to say. Uncle Ernest was right. Tom had driven his mother to distraction. But, and he knew better than to try to argue this with Uncle Ernest, she was partly to blame too. Always winding him up. Getting on his nerves. The things she said. Her very presence in the flat. She was driving him insane.

He said none of these things. What was the point? Uncle Ernest didn’t want to hear. He hadn’t summoned Tom to his house to have a discussion. This wasn’t a therapy session.  Uncle Ernest had only one thing on his mind. Retribution. This was a reckoning. Tom must pay for the way he had treated his mother – Uncle Ernest’s kid sister.

“You’re a brat. You need taking down a peg or two. You need to learn how adults behave. Get a job. Be responsible. You’re nineteen-years-old god-damn-it,” Uncle Ernest was slow and methodical in his condemnation. “Your mother loves you. Heck I love you. Like my own son. Do you think I like doing this?”

The pause took Tom by surprise. Was that a real question? Was he expected to answer? Did Uncle Ernest enjoy doing this to him? Tom shrugged his shoulders in bewilderment. Did he? Did he enjoy this?

“Bah!” Uncle Ernest’s temper popped. “You waste of space.” Tom watched him walk to the centre of the room and pick up a chair from under the dining table. Then he carried it across the room and set it down in an empty space. Tom’s head throbbed with tension. Uncle Ernest crossed the room again, stopped at a cupboard and opened it. Tom watched his uncle carefully, although he knew with certainty what would happen next. The same thing that had happened the last two times he visited. Sure enough, Uncle reached his arm inside it and quickly emerged with a large, heavy wooden clothes brush in his fist.

Uncle Ernest glared at Tom, his unspoken words said, “You know what’s going to happen now.” Tom knew his own blood pressure was off the scale. His breathing quickened while he watched Uncle Ernest take the brush to the chair. There, he sat down, wriggled his buttocks and straightened his back. He parted his legs, planting his feet firmly into the wooden floor.

“Come here,” he gestured with the brush, “Bend over my knee.”

Tom had expected this, since the moment he had received the phone call instructing him to present himself at Uncle Ernest’s house. It was never in any doubt A spanking. Over Uncle’s knee like a naughty little boy. And, he had told himself, they wanted him to act like an adult – when they treated him like a nine-year-old.

Tom looked across the room at his uncle. He was so much older than his mother. Uncle Ernest had been a company director, a man who gave orders and expected them to be obeyed. Invariably, they were. He had the power. It was the same in the family. He was the boss, the master. Tom was not exactly the slave, but certainly the underling. The minion. The subordinate. Tom could refuse. Then what? Would his mother throw him out the flat? In her distress, she had threatened this. If he didn’t obey Uncle Ernest, would he insist he left. With no job, no money, all he could look forward too was a life on the streets. No, it was clear Uncle Ernest had all the power.

Tom shuffled across the room. He stood by his uncle’s side, towering over the old man. Tom peered at Uncle Ernest’s fat thighs encased in chino trousers. Uncle’s gut flopped over his waist, straining against a pink-patterned shirt. Uncle parted his knees further, presenting Tom with a platform of flesh to prostrate himself across. He took a deep breath and slowly lowered himself. He had done this before, he knew how it was done. Within seconds he was face down, the palms of his hands pressed firmly into the ground. His bottom was high over Uncle’s lap and his feet dangled in mid-air. His flip-flops tumbled to the floor.

Tom closed his eyes shut. He felt his Uncle’s arm rest across his back and grip him around the waist. He was in the classic spanking position. Like how many naughty boys across the years?. He felt Uncle Ernest’s movement. Tom’s buttocks clenched, tightening the flesh. Uncle Ernest gripped the brush, raised his hand, paused, and brought it crashing down into the seat on Tom’s shorts. The whack! noise resounded across the room. Five seconds later the action was repeated. Tom now had two stinging marks, one on each cheek.

z used otk pink JM

Uncle kept up a steady rhythm. Whack-raise-hand-pause-whack-raise-hand-pause. Tom’s buttocks  were warming up. He lay, bottom high, head low and let his Uncle get on with it. Nineteen-year-old boys are resilient creatures. A spanking – even one with a heavy brush – across the seat of summer shorts and cotton underpants was easily endurable. Tom knew that. But, so too did Uncle Ernest.

He was only getting started.

“Stand up,” he commanded. Tom hauled himself to his feet and stood in front of his uncle. “Hands on head.” The teenager complied without fuss. Again, he closed his eyes. It did him no good, he couldn’t pretend he was anywhere other than in Uncle Ernest’s loungeroom getting his naughty bottom spanked. Tom felt Uncle Ernest grip the waistband of his shorts. It took the old man a moment to fumble with the button there. At last, he had it open. It was a moment’s work to locate the zipper and quickly pull it. The law of gravity took the shorts down Tom’s thighs and they snagged at his legs.

“Back over,” Uncle Ernest unceremoniously dripped Tom’s left elbow and guided him back over his knees. “Right,” Uncle Ernest spoke to himself as he smoothed the creases from Tom’s bright-blue underpants. They already fitted snugly, but by the time Uncle had caressed each buttock and pulled the elasticated waistband tight, they fitted like a second skin.

Tap-tap-tap. Uncle Ernest took his aim. Whack! “Owww,” Tom mouthed silently. That hurt. Unhindered by the summer shorts, the brush could do its work. It cracked against Tom’s hard bottom. The boy’s leg flailed. They were beyond his control. His hips heaved to the left and right. “Steady, steady boy,” Uncle Ernest said through clenched teeth. “Keep still now.” He pounded half a dozen whacks into the underside of the buttocks. Tom’s pants only covered half the flesh, red, oval-shaped marks scorched the naked flesh. “Owwww, owwwww,” Tom was yapping. The spanking was hurting now. Encouraged by this, Uncle Ernest slammed the brush around the circuit, paying especial attention to the meatiest parts of the mounds. But, not forgetting the tender sit-spots, nor the higher reaches of the buttocks. No square centimetre of Tom’s bum was left un-toasted.

He wriggled. He writhed. He hollered. But Uncle Ernest was no slouch in the spanking stakes. He gripped the boy tightly around the waist. The brat was going nowhere – not until Uncle Ernest was certain he had learned his lesson.

“Oww. Oww. Oww.” Tom’s cries covered up the sound of letters plopping onto the doormat. The postman stood puzzled by the front door. Did he recognise that noise? He wondered. He checked he could not be seen from the street before leaning forward and pressing his ear to the door.

“Whack-whack-whack. Ow, ow, ow,” The postman smiled broadly. Yes, he was right. Someone was getting what he deserved. If only more parents did the same. Why the kids of today, they got away with murder. He nearly skipped down the drive. The sun shone more brightly. There was still hope for the world.

Uncle Ernest was an old man, but he could always find reserves of energy when he needed them. Nobody was timing, but Tom’s phone registered 9.47 by the time Uncle Ernest set the brush down. “Up,” he commanded. Tom didn’t need telling twice. He was off Uncle’s lap and hopping up and down massaging his baked buttocks.

“Get dressed,” Uncle Ernest replaced the chair under the dining table. “And don’t you dare disrespect your mother again. Now, go home”

Unhappily, Tom gave his buttocks a rueful rub before heading to the door.

Mr Shankly was back at his kitchen sink, filling the electric kettle for tea when he saw the boy in pink again. This time he was hurrying down The Avenue. “I bet he’s had a lot of fun, don’t you Suki,” he said as he pushed the switch. “Lucky blighter.”

 

Picture credit: Just Magic (Magic Spanking Factory)

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 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

For your own good

new 5

When Aunt Sharon told Marcus to get up and go down to the sitting room because Uncle Phil wanted “a little word” he grunted, turned over and pulled the duvet over his head. It had been a late night (early morning actually) and his stomach hurt. Kababs on top of all that beer did that to you.

Aunt Sharon returned five minutes later and hammered on his bedroom door. “Now!” she yelled. “Don’t make me have to tell you again.”

But, Marcus was not convinced. Why all the hurry? It was Saturday. He had all day.

“Do you want me to come in there and drag you out of bed?” Aunt Sharon refused to be fobbed off.

“Wor.. awlrite,” Marcus groaned, “I’m getting up.”

“You better be.”

“Hold your horses, I’m coming. What’s the fuss?” Marcus slipped the duvet off his bed and was a little surprised to see he still wore his shirt, underpants and socks. “Just how drunk were you last night?” a voice inside his head asked.

“Come on. Chop chop,” Aunt Sharon chivvied him. “We haven’t got all day.”

“Why not,” Marcus called rudely, not realising of how much trouble he was in.

At last, five minutes later he sauntered into the sitting room, his stomach still rumbling and his head fuzzy. The back of his throat was raw from too many cigarettes and shouting to be heard in a crowded bar.

“Morning Uncle Phil,” he croaked, failing to notice the older man’s face was like thunder.

“Afternoon, more like,” his uncle retorted. “What time did you get in last night?”

Marcus shrugged, not only because of insolence, but he genuinely had no idea.

Uncle Phil frowned, “What are we going to do with you Marcus?”

The nineteen-year-old frowned himself. He didn’t understand the question. The silence in the room was intense. Uncle Phil stared sadly at his nephew. Marcus, now embarrassed by his confusion looked down at his feet. What was he supposed to say?

“We were happy to take you in Marcus. When you won a place at the university. We were so proud do you. Your mum and dad. Me. Aunt Sharon.” Uncle Phil sighed. His own throat was drying. “But look at you son …” he wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “It’s all going wrong.”

Marcus still looked at his feet. His head was aching hard now. He wished he had swallowed a couple of aspirin before coming down.

“Do you have nothing to say for yourself Marcus?” Uncle Phil got up from the couch and paced the room, finally stopping so he and Marcus were eye to eye. “Nothing?” Uncle Phil sighed again. “Really? You’ve been nothing but trouble since you arrived. You stay in your room all day and go out – goodness knows where – all night. You’ve been skipping college and don’t try to deny it. Your results are going to be woeful. You’ll probably fail.”

He paused to let that sink in. Then he went on, “You come home drunk. I’ve told you about it before. You know I have. I told you you were grounded. Not to go out last night. But look. You went out anyway.”

Marcus sucked on his bottom lip. His pale face coloured red. He felt like a small boy being told off. Uncle Phil hadn’t finished. “So not only did you come back drunk, you disobeyed me. My direct order. What are we going to do with you Marcus?”

Silence fell again. Uncle Phil’s own face reddened. He had expected an answer from his nephew, not this dumb insolence.

“Well,” Uncle Phil, retorted. “If you don’t know. I do,” he growled ominously. I’ve spoken to your dad about this. He agrees.”

Marcus grimaced. He still could not follow what was being said. “Wor…?” he said, confused.

Uncle Phil paced the room, he found it hard to catch his breath. His heart raced. He shook his head rapidly from side to side. “We’ve tried everything with you Marcus. Everything. Nothing works. You are getting worse. You’re on a slippery slope, son. If we don’t do something about it now, where will it end?” Now he shook his head wearily.

Silence fell yet again. Marcus stood feet apart, hands behind his back, feet splayed. He just wanted this to end. His head was killing him.

Uncle Phil paced some more. Marcus’s eyes followed him as he went. “You leave me no choice, Marcus. None at all. It is entirely your fault.” Uncle Phil stopped by the dining table. For the first time since entering the room Marcus saw the large, oval headed hairbrush resting there. His eyes blinked furiously. Uncle Phil picked it up and gripping it in his right hand he brandished it at Marcus.

“No choice,” Uncle Phil said miserably, “You leave me no choice son. I don’t want to do this. It’s for your own good.”

Marcus coughed with surprise. “Wor…?” he tried to form a sentence of protest, but the words would not come.

“A spanking. A jolly good spanking, that’s what you need. What you deserve,” Uncle Phil waved the brush once more. Marcus’s face reddened. He coughed again. Now he had found his voice. “A spanking,” he snapped incredulously. “You can’t,” he added with little confidence. “You can’t. I’m too old for a spanking.”

Uncle Phil looked closely at the heavy wooden brush in his hand and then turned his attention to his nephew, now standing very embarrassed before him. “Ordinarily, I’d agree,” he said reasonably, “But we’ve tried everything else with you and nothing has worked. You leave us no option. I don’t want to do this. But maybe it’s just what you need. A short, sharp shock to bring you to your senses. To get you back on the straight and narrow.”

Marcus’s jaw dropped. He left his mouth gaping. He couldn’t think of an answer, except to beg, “Please Uncle, don’t spank me, I will be a good boy. I promise,” like he was eight years old. He wouldn’t do that. He had too much pride. But, a spanking. How humiliating. Nineteen years old and getting his bottom blistered with Aunt Sharon’s hairbrush.

“Come on then Marcus,” Uncle Phil picked up a heavy plastic chair and moved it into the middle of the room. He sat down, wriggled his bottom to get comfortable and leaned against the back of the chair. Then, he spread his legs. He gripped the brush and as his eyes moistened, he said, “We love you to bits Marcus. Like our own son. I don’t want to do this. But you’ve left me no alternative. A damn good spanking might just work. Perhaps, next time you want to skip college or go get drunk, you’ll remember this and think again.”

Marcus shook his head, like a horse trying to get rid of a troublesome fly. He could not believe it. Uncle Phil wanted to spank him. He stared disbelievingly at his uncle. He was strong, fit man but Marcus knew that in a fair fight he, Marcus, the younger man by far would win. He could push Uncle Phil off his chair and storm from the room. He could tell him, “Shove your spanking!” He could, but what then?

Marcus had no time to think it over, but an obvious conclusion would be Aunt Sharon and Uncle Phil would kick him out the house. Mum and Dad would go mental. Marcus would never hear the end of it. Where would he live? Would Mum and Dad stop sending him money so he could continue at college?

Marcus could not take his eyes off the brush in Uncle Phil’s grip. Uncle Phil’s stare burned into him. We love you to bits Marcus. Like our own son. I don’t want to do this. But you’ve left me no alternative. Uncle Phil was not a tyrant. He and Aunt Sharon had always been kind to Marcus. Now, look how he had repaid them. Marcus chewed on his bottom lip thoughtfully.

“Come Marcus,” Uncle Phil spoke softly. “I think you should take down your jeans. They’re thick. I don’t think you’d feel much of this,” he slapped the brush into the palm of his own hand, “with them up.”

When later that day Marcus looked back on this moment, he couldn’t remember a thing. He must have been on autopilot. His face shone bright red as he fumbled with the buckle of his belt. At last it was open. He popped the button on the waistband and tugged at the zipper fly. The baggy jeans tumbled down his thighs and snagged at the knees. Marcus pushed them down until the bunched at his feet.

“Good boy,” Uncle Phil spoke gently, “Now come, bend across my knee. There’s a good boy.” He tapped his right thigh gently with the brush in case Marcus did not understand the instruction. Marcus sucked his lip again. He looked carefully at Uncle Phil’s lap. As if weighing up the best option for getting his body into the required position. He leaned forward, rested his palms on Uncle Phil’s right leg and gently eased himself down. He had never been across an older man’s knee before, and nor had he seen anyone else do it, but instinctively he knew what to do. He stretched his arms ahead of him and rested his palms into the floorboards. Behind him he bent his knees slightly so that the tips of his socks hovered above the ground. Positioned like this, his bottom rested across Uncle Phil’s knee. Marcus did not know, but he had presented his bottom submissively at a perfect angle for the spanking he so richly deserved.

Uncle Phil looked down at the boy. He was mightily relived Marcus had not put up a fight. He was a good boy. He would grow to become a fine man. He just needed guidance. He would get that now. Uncle Phil did not relish the task he had to perform. It was unpleasant. But necessary. He owed it to Marcus to discipline him. He would not let him off lightly. He needed to be spanked. And it had to be a proper spanking. One he would never forget. They would both be wasting their time if he did not lay it on thick.

“You deserve this spanking Marcus and you know you do,” he said as he smoothed the cotton shorts so that they fitted the nineteen-year-old’s bottom snugly. The cheeks had some meat in them, but Marcus was nowhere near a fat boy.

“This is for your own good, Marcus,” Uncle Phil wheezed as he crashed the heavy, wooden hairbrush into the very centre of the left cheek. He didn’t give Marcus time to react before hammering it across the right buttock. Marcus sucked in air. His stomach and head already ached, now his bottom did too.

z used otk pants bbfc (7)

Marcus shut his eyes tightly. This cannot be happening, he told himself. I cannot be across Uncle Phil’s knee having my backside blistered with a brush. The increasing pain in his bum told him otherwise. Uncle Phil put all his energy into it. He was a man on a mission. He was no zealot. He was doing this for his nephew. One day, Uncle Phil hoped, once he had safely graduated from university, Marcus would thank him for it.

For now, he had a task to perform. He whacked the brush across the peaks of Marcus’s mounds. He spanked the undercurves (the part that connected with the chair whenever Marcus sat down) and he went high into the flesh just under the boy’s back. Then he went around the circuit again. And again.

Marcus wriggled his hips and kicked his legs. He couldn’t help it. He was out of control. It was his body’s natural reaction to all that pain. But stoically, he stayed in position; head low bottom high and allowed Uncle Phil to spank the living daylights out of him.

His bum was hot, then it burned. Marcus had never sat in a bathtub of boiling water, but he reckoned that wouldn’t hurt as much as this spanking.

“I hope you’re learning your lesson, young man,” Uncle Phil preached as he aimed the brush across the backs of Marcus’s thighs. A series of grunts was the only response he got.

Uncle Phil didn’t keep count, but he probably landed close to two hundred swats across his nephew’s rear end. That was enough. Besides, his own heartrate was off the scale and the back of his shirt was soaked with the sweat of his exertion. It was time to stop.

Marcus lay across his Uncle’s lap, gasping for breath. His bum was on fire. He had never felt such pain before. He wheezed. He felt sick. His stomach had been bad enough, but after being turned upside down over Uncle’s knee he was close to vomiting. He struggled to his feet, nearly tripping over his jeans. He pulled them up to their correct place and zipped up. The burn in his bottom was easing. The intense agony had calmed into an intense throbbing. Soon that would become a dull ache.

Uncle Phil stared at the brush in his hand as if seeing it for the first time. “Will I have to do that again, Marcus?” he asked, almost kindly. “No, Uncle,” Marcus gasped. His stomach rumbled. He needed to get to the bathroom fast.

“Good boy. Now let that be an end to it. You had better go to your room. And remember Marcus: We love you.”

“Thank you uncle,” Marcus gulped as, with his hand clutched to his mouth, he sped through the door.

Aunt Sharon entered the room. “Well done, Phil. You did the right thing.”

“I know,” he replied, handing her the brush. “Now, what about a cup of tea?”

Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A drama in one scene

new 5

A theatre play

The drama takes place sometime in the late 1960s / early 1970s. It is the sitting room / lounge / front room / parlour with typical furniture of the time, which could a settee, arm chairs, dining table, sideboard and television set. It must include at least one straight-backed chair.

Characters

UNCLE who can be aged anywhere between 40 and 55. He is a working-class man and should dress appropriately, such as dark trousers and a plain shirt. He could be dressed with no shirt but a discoloured singlet. He might be in work clothes, such as jeans or overalls.

NEPHEW aged 18. Ideally he should be slim and shorter in height than UNCLE. He can be dressed in basic jeans and shirt but if the theatre resources allow let him wear more “fashionable” clothes of the time such as baggy trousers, floral-print shirt and striped “tank top” pullover.

 

SCENE

Curtain opens onto the sitting room. After about five seconds UNCLE enters the room. He is guiding (not dragging) NEPHEW by the wrist. UNCLE takes NEPHEW to the centre of the room. Both stand while the dialogue takes place.

UNCLE [Not angry] I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve spoken to you.

NEPHEW shakes his wrist free and stares shamefaced at the floor.

UNCLE. Ever since you came to stay with me and Aunt Jane you’ve been nothing but trouble. [Waves his arms about.] You treat this place like a hotel. You stay out til all hours. Last night you came home drunk.

NEPHEW looks at his Uncle opens his mouth as if to protest but thinks better of it.

UNCLE. I’ve spoken to you about this before. Haven’t I?

NEPHEW shrugs shoulder and looks down at the floor.

UNCLE. Doh! Is that all you can do? Shrug your shoulder. Don’t you have anything to say for yourself.

NEPHEW gives a half smile, showing indifference.

UNCLE. Nothing I seem to say gets through to you lad. Nothing. Well, you leave me no alternative. You’re getting a spanking. That’s all.

NEPHEW. [Gapes] A spanking? But …

UNCLE. No buts. You’ve been asking for this for a long time. I said you had to be home by ten-thirty every night but you ignored me. You’re always rude to Aunt Jane. I told you about that. You don’t do yourself any favours.

NEPHEW. But uncle, I’m too old for a spanking.

UNCLE. Ha! You are not too old. If you don’t know how to behave, I’ll have to teach you. A spanking will soon bring you to your senses.

UNCLE picks up a straight-backed chair and plonks it down in the middle of the room.  NEPHEW stares uncle wide-eyed.

NEPHEW. But uncle  . ..

UNCLE sits on the chair.

UNCLE. Stand there.

UNCLE snaps fingers and points to the floor by his side. NEPHEW stares at his uncle. Twists his fingers with embarrassment.

NEPHEW. But uncle ….

UNCLE. Don’t “But uncle” me. Do as you’re told. Right now!

NEPHEW shuffles to the spot.

UNCLE. Right. Take down your trousers.

NEPHEW. [Gaping. Panicking] No uncle! No. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.

UNCLE. I know you won’t do it again. Not after I’ve spanked you. You’ll remember it next time you want to be rude to your aunt or stay out late. Now get em down.

NEPHEW takes a step back, looks around him as if he is thinking about running away.

UNCLE. Are you going to take those trousers down or do you want me to do it for you?

UNCLE reaches forward and takes hold of the waist of NEPHEW’S trousers and pulls him forward. Tries to unbuckle his belt. NEPHEW tries to retreat but UNCLE has grip on his belt.

NEPHEW. No, no uncle. Please. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. Really.

UNCLE. I’ve given you lots of chances. You threw them all back in my face. This is what you deserve. I don’t want to spank you. You don’t give me any choice. You need to learn to behave. You’ll thank me for this one day.

NEPHEW. But uncle. I’m eighteen. I’m too old to be spanked like a little kid. I’m an adult.

UNCLE. You are not an adult until you’re twenty-one. That doesn’t make you an adult anyway. You have to act like an adult. Take responsibility. You don’t do that. I’ve tried with you. God alone I’ve tried. We even thought about telling you you had to leave. We couldn’t stand it anymore. Do you want that? Do you want to go live in some stinking bedsit somewhere?

NEPHEW. No uncle.

UNCLE. Right then. Take down them trousers.

UNCLE waves his hands up and down in front of NEPHEW

NEPHEW. Oh Uncle.

NEPHEW’s hands shake as he fumbles with the buckle of his belt. At last it is open. He pauses and looks at UNCLE seeking pity, hoping for a last-minute reprieve. UNCLE watches him impassively. NEPHEW unbuttons the waist of his trousers and then pulls the zip fly. He looks at UNCLE who is wriggling his bottom to get comfortable on the chair. NEPHEW lets the trousers fall down his legs to his feet.

UNCLE. Good lad. Now, come bend over my knee.

NEPHEW has a look of horror on his face. He stares at UNCLE who parts his legs to make a platform for NEPHEW to bend across.

NEPHEW. Oh Uncle … please.

UNCLE slaps his own thigh to encourage NEPHEW to bend over.

UNCLE. C’mon lad. Let’s get this over with.

NEPHEW hugely embarrassed, chews on his bottom lip. He moves forward, rests his hands on UNCLE’S thigh and gently lowers himself across.

NEPHEW must be over UNCLE’s knee with his arms stretched ahead of him and palms flat on the ground. His bottom must be at an angle over UNCLE’s thigh. NEPHEW legs will dangle in the air behind him. He must be positioned submissively. He has decided he must take his spanking.

UNCLE takes his time to observe NEPHEW’s position over his lap. UNCLE is impassive. Slowly he takes hold of the elasticated waist of NEPHEW’s underpants. NEPHEW tenses visibly. Slowly UNCLE starts to pull the underpants down over NEPHEW’S buttocks.

UNCLE. It’s not a proper spanking if it’s not on the bare.

NEPHEW. [Panicking] No, uncle, no!

NEPHEW tries to reach his hand back to protect his bottom. UNCLE slaps it. Then grabs the arm and pushes it back towards the floor.

UNCLE. None of that. Keep that away. Don’t be a coward. Take your spanking. You deserve it. You know you do.

UNCLE continues to pull the pants down until they are at NEPHEW’S knees. NEPHEW closes his eyes tight. Covers his face with his hands.

UNCLE pats NEPHEW on the fleshiest part of his bottom. He presses gently into the flesh judging how much meat there is in the boy’s buttocks. He wraps his left arm around NEPHEW’s middle to make sure he isn’t going anywhere. Then, he raises his hand to a height of a foot or two and slaps hard across the middle of the bum. He spanks hard and fast. Within seconds the bottom is pink.

NEPHEW gasps. He uncovers his face and slumps forward. As the spanking intensifies he presses his hands into the ground and his body goes up and down. It is like he is doing press-ups.

UNCLE spanks rapidly. About sixty whacks per minute. He makes sure he goes round the entire circuit. He starts in the fleshiest part of the buttocks and systematically goes higher and then lower. He sees the overline of his own hand imprinted time and again across the buttocks.

NEPHEW gasps. He shakes his head from side to side and up and down like a horse trying to get rid of a troublesome fly.

z used otk chair bare (41)

UNCLE. I hope you’re feeling this. I hope it’s doing you some good.

NEPHEW opens his mouth as if to reply but cannot get the words out because he is too busy gasping.

UNCLE slaps his hand hard into the back of the legs where it is more sensitive. NEPHEW yaps with the shock and the pain.

UNCLE. Are you learning a lesson from this?

NEPHEW. Gasping. Yes, uncle yes. Please stop.

UNCLE. I’m not so sure. [Spanks the back of the legs harder] Maybe I should call Aunt Jane to bring down her hairbrush.

NEPHEW. No uncle, please. No. I’m sorry. I will be good. I will. I promise.

UNCLE. [Still spanking] I know you’ll behave. Because if you don’t I’ll have you back over my knee and it will be the hairbrush. How do you feel about that.

NEPHEW. [Pleading] No uncle. Please no.

UNCLE. [Spanking harder] Are you going to be rude again to your aunt?

NEPHEW. No uncle. No.

UNCLE. Are you going to stay out late at night?

NEPHEW. No uncle.

UNCLE. Promise?

NEPHEW. Yes, uncle. Please stop spanking me. You’re hurting me.

UNCLE. That’s the point son. That’s the point. It’s the only way you’ll learn.

NEPHEW covers his head with his hand.

NEPHEW. Oh uncle.

UNCLE spanks for another minute or so. He is not a brutal tyrant he is a caring uncle. He wants NEPHEW to learn to behave. NEPHEW is sore. His bottom feels like he has been made to sit in a bathtub of very hot water. It hurts like hell now, but once uncle stops slapping his bare bottom the pain will soon become a throbbing ache and within no time at all it will be only a tingle.

UNCLE [Stops spanking] OK. Get up.

NEPHEW jumps up. His trousers are still at his feet and the underpants at his knees. He rubs away at his toasted buttocks vigorously and screws his face up to emphasise the pain he feels. UNCLE stays seated watching impassively.

UNCLE. Get dressed.

NEPHEW tugs up his underpants and winces as the soft cotton connects with his raw bum. Then, slowly, he bends down to retrieve his trousers and pull them up. He is breathless.

UNCLE stands close to NEPHEW.

UNCLE. Will I have to do that again.

NEPHEW pats the seat of his trousers

NEPHEW. No uncle.

UNCLE. I hope not. I hope you’ve learned your lesson.

NEPHEW. Yes, I have uncle. Sorry uncle.

UNCLE. Good lad. Get off to your room.

NEPHEW walks gingerly from the room. UNCLE goes to the television, switches it on and sits in the armchair.

Lights fade to dark.

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

Uncle Graham’s belt

Lodging with Uncle Ralph

The TV repairman

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Justin learns a valuable lesson

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z used pants contrite (1)

I cannot believe you. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve had to tell you. What is the matter with you? You are a disgrace. Your aunt is in floods of tears. I cannot believe what you have said to her.

You need to learn some manners lad. You’re not a schoolboy any more. You’re at university for God’s sake. You’ve been such a disappointment since you moved in here. What would your mum and dad say, eh? You used to be such a sweet little boy. Look at you now. Rude. Arrogant. Insolent. Disrespectful. Bad-mannered. I just don’t get it. What’s got into you Justin?

Look at me when I’m talking to you. Don’t look down at the floor. Aren’t you the least bit ashamed? You treat our house like it’s a hotel. We know you haven’t got much money; we don’t charge much rent. Only enough to cover your keep. We are doing you a favour. And your mum and dad. If your weren’t family we would’ve chucked you out long ago.

Now, you come home drunk. At least I hope it was drunk. Was it drugs? Are you taking drugs? Is that why you’ve gone off the rails. Are you high all the time? Are you an addict? Do you need help? No, I don’t think you’re an addict, but you do need help. You can’t go on like this. You’ve got a lot of growing up to do, young man.

You’re not evil Justin. You seem to be working hard. Your grades aren’t bad. So far anyway. Are you still going to classes? You’d better be. I don’t want to find out too late that you’ve been skiving off uni. When you fail your exams at the ned of the semester.

What have you got to say for yourself?

Don’t pout at me. You must have some explanation. Why did you call Aunt Rose such a vile name? I still cannot believe you were so rude. What is the matter with you lad? What. No answer. I despair. I really do. You have got to change. I’ve told you often enough. I told you not to take food into the good lounge. What did you do? The room stinks of hamburgers. And what’s that stain on the carpet on the stairs? Looks like beer to me. I didn’t do it. Aunt Rose didn’t do it. It was you. Don’t shake your head at me lad. Don’t deny it.

You haven’t left me a lot of choice. You only have yourself to blame. I have told you over and over. You just take no notice. I despair, I really do. You know what Justin I’ve spoken to your dad and he agrees with me. He’s two hundred miles away or else he’d do it himself. But he’s told me to go ahead and do it myself. What do you think of that?

Don’t argue with me Justin. You know what I’m talking about. A good hiding. You’ve been asking for it for weeks. Now you’re going to get it. I don’t want any fuss from you. I don’t want to spank you. Look at you, you’re eighteen, nearly nineteen years old. You should be too old for this. But you’re not. You leave me no choice. I hope to God I can knock some sense into you.

….

Uncle Buster takes a deep breath. He’s little harangue is over. Now is the time for action. Justin watches, a little stunned, as his uncle crosses the lounge over to the stand where the television is. On the lower shelf are his bedroom slippers. He reaches down and grabs one. He grips it in his right fist and turns to face his nephew. He is very calm. He has no anger against the boy. Justin needs a damn good spanking. That is what he is going to get. Uncle Buster hopes it will do the trick. He wants Justin to grow up into a decent, responsible adult. He used to be a good kid – didn’t he get really good marks in his school exams – but somehow he’s lost his way. He needs guiding back onto the straight-and-narrow. A sore bum will show him the way.

“Come over here Justin,” Uncle Buster walks over to the dining table. He picks up one of the chairs and turns it round so it faces into the room. “Hurry up lad,” he sighs. He really doesn’t want a fuss. He wants Justin to take his punishment; he doesn’t need some unseemly row. Heaven forbid his nephew should fight him.

Justin stays motionless. He seems to be weighing things up. Having a discussion with himself in his head. Foremost, he is embarrassed. His uncle wants to spank him. Eighteen years old and to be spanked by his uncle. He cannot be serious. It is true, Justin knows he is all the things Uncle Buster says he is. But Justin likes his aunt and uncle. It’s just … It’s just …. Justin cannot explain it, not even to himself. He has no idea why he behaves the way he does.

Uncle Buster brandishes his slipper. “Come here lad,” he says more sternly. He sits down on the chair. It is obvious what his intentions are. He waves the rubber-soled slipper again. “Quickly,” his voice cracks. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

Justin frowns. Does he have a choice? If so, what is it? This is uncle’s house. It is a fine, comfortable house. His aunt and uncle are kind to him. Justin has repaid their generosity by making their lives a misery. A little shamefaced, he sucks down on his bottom lip. If he refuses, he will certainly be told to pack his bags and go. Then what? His dad will hit the roof, so Justin will have Dad and Uncle Buster to contend with. Justin knows he cannot defeat the both of them.

Justin is not a religious boy (who of his age is these days?) but he does feel shame. He has let Aunt Rose and Uncle Buster down. He has let Mum and Dad down. Heck, he begins to see, he has let himself down. He is better than this.

Uncle Buster is getting irritated. “Stand there,” he snaps his fingers to a place on the carpet close to his right leg. The snapping seems to wake up Justin. He sucks his lip again. He is a little surprised to find his legs are taking him across the room. He stands by his uncle. Justin stares at the man sitting on the chair. He is a large man, mostly because of the roll of fat that hangs over the waistband of his trousers. He has two chins and what are sometimes referred to as “man boobs”.

Uncle Buster holds the slipper by the heel and scrunches it in his right fist. “Bend over my knee, son,” he says apologetically. He doesn’t want to do this, but that won’t stop him. It is for Justin’s sake. He deserves to have his backside soundly spanked. He needs correction. He has to learn how to behave. It will be for his own good. He won’t think that today, but sometime in the future he’ll understand. He might even thank Uncle Buster for caring enough to take him across his knee.

Justin draws down a lung-full of air. His head feels light. Is he really here? In the lounge room. Standing by his Uncle Buster. About to bend across his knee. To let him spank him on the bottom with his slipper. Justin cannot believe it. It’s like it’s happening to some other disrespectful teenager, not Justin.

Uncle Buster parts his legs. His fatty thighs make a sizeable platform for his nephew. Justin doesn’t know what to do. Where are his hands supposed to go? Is he meant to lean on Uncle Buster’s thighs and slowly lower himself down? He decides to flop forward, a bit like the way he does when he dives into a swimming pool. His body sinks into uncle’s thighs. Justin reaches his arms forward and lets his legs dangle in mid-air. He is surprised how comfortable he feels. Uncle Buster has a lot of padding.

Justin is dressed only in underpants. When he is standing they cling to the contours of his buttocks. Now, stretched across uncle’s knees, they are even tighter. The smooth cotton digs into his crack. It’s like someone is giving him a wedgy. It makes him wriggle.

“Keep still Justin,” his uncle’s voice is soft. He shows no anger. “Now, please don’t make a fuss,” he whispers. Then he takes a firm hold of the waistband of Justin’s pants and starts to tug them down. They are tight and the boy is lying firmly across his lap and it is not easy for Uncle Buster to get them over the buttocks. “No, Uncle, no,” Justin pleads as the reality of his situation becomes clear.

“Underpants are of little use at a time like this,” Uncle Buster says stoically. “It’s not a proper spanking unless it’s on the bare.” After much tugging he has the pants at Justin’s knees. He hopes they might prevent his nephew from kicking his legs about too much.

“Remember Justin,” Uncle Buster says as he gently taps the slipper against the fleshiest part of the teenager’s left cheek, “You have been asking for this for a very long time. You only have yourself to blame.” Then he whacks the slipper down hard. The cheek wobbles. A pink mark slowly appears. Justin opens his mouth, forming a perfect “O” with his lips. His eyes blink. A second slap hits him on the other cheek. The pain is mounting.

Uncle Buster sets about slippering Justin’s bottom. He pounds the slipper across the quivering bum cheeks with great force. These are not “love taps”, this is a proper spanking. It has to be a genuine punishment, otherwise Justin will not learn. It has to hurt. Justin must fear a repeat performance if he does not improve his behaviour.

Very soon the imprint of the slipper’s sole is embossed all across Justin’s bum. He wriggles and he kicks his legs (the pants do act as a restraint). He waves his arms about. He looks like he’s trying to swim off Uncle Buster’s lap. He can’t help it. He has no control, it is his body’s natural reaction, trying to protect itself against the heavy onslaught. The bottom glows red. The boy tries to protect his bum with his hand. He can’t do it. He can’t reach back that far. He is over uncle’s knee at an acute angle; his head is low and his bottom is high. Uncle grips him tightly around the waist. Justin can’t do a thing. He is trapped; he’s not going anywhere. Not until Uncle Buster thinks he has been spanked enough. Then – and only then – will he be released.

Not one square centimetre of Justin’s buttocks are spared. They go dark pink and then red. Purple bruises burst out where the edge of the slipper catches his bottom awkwardly. Justin shuts his eyes tightly. His bum throbs. Each new whack of the slipper makes the temperature of his bum go higher.

“Are you learning your lesson?” Uncle Buster asks softly. Justin concentrates on dealing with the growing pain and does not hear the question. Uncle smiles affectionately. His nephew’s grunt and groans tell him the answer is Yes. Justin’s temples throb almost as much as his backside. His head feels like it has expanded to twice its natural size. His heart races and he can’t quite catch his breath. Tears trickle from the corner of his eyes.

Uncle is nearly finished. Just one more task left. He slaps the slipper six times across the back of Justin’s naked left thigh. That has the lad yapping like a little whipped puppy. The six he pounds into the other thigh turns the yaps to full-throated yells.

That’s enough, Uncle Buster says to himself. He is soaked with sweat. It is not easy for a man of his size to expend so much energy. If he isn’t careful he might have a seizure. He stops slippering, but continues to hold Justin face down across his lap. The boy’s breathing is uneven and heavy. Is this how a beached dolphin sounds? Uncle Buster admires his handiwork. Both buttocks shine. If he turned off the light they would glow in the dark. It is a sound spanking. Just as it should be. He feels no hatred or anger for the disobedient boy. Justin has taken his punishment. He hardly struggled. Uncle Buster is very proud of him. We hopes it will be the only time he needs to punish the boy.

“Get up,” he says quietly. Justin rolls off his uncle’s lap and plops onto the floor. Instinctively, he reaches to his burning bottom and rubs vigorously. Still on the ground he tugs his underpants up to their rightful place. Uncle Buster stands, walks to the sideboard and digs into a box of Kleenex. He hands Justin a fistful of tissues and quietly the teenager wipes the residue of tears from his face.

“Will I have to do that again?” Uncle Buster asks gently. Justin has regained full control. “No uncle. Sorry uncle,” his voice catches. He means it. The pain in his backside is easing, but it stings like a thousands wasps have been at it.

“Go to your room and make sure you apologise to Aunt Rose later,” Uncle Buster is replacing the chair.

“Yes uncle,” Justin walks unsteadily back to his bedroom where in the mirror he examines his battered bottom in minute detail. He shakes his head in disbelief. Did this really happen? In this day and age? To a disrespectful eighteen-year old? He rubs his eyes as if that might wake him from his dream. It doesn’t work. Gingerly, he lays down on his bed and with the tips of his fingers he gently massages his bottom.

Picture credit: Unknown

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The fire-raiser

What a disappointment!

Dreams of spanking

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A brush with Uncle Herbert

new 5

“Right lad, this is what’s going to happen,” it was Uncle Herbert speaking to me, “You are going to come and stand there,” he snapped his fingers and pointed to a spot just to the right of where he sat, “You are going to take down your trousers and bend across my knee.”

My incomprehension must have been obvious because he went on by way of explanation, “I’m going to spank you.” And to emphasise his point he brandished a heavy, wooden utility brush with metal bristles.

I was too confused to say anything. He glowered at me and said, “You have been asking for this from the moment you arrived.”

I stood rooted to the spot, totally confused. Uncle Herbert wanted to spank me. Me, a nineteen-year-old warehouseman.

“I told you from the start I would treat you like the rest of my young employees. No exceptions.” He waved the brush at me as he spoke. I shook my head violently as if to clear it. Was I hearing this correctly? He wanted to spank me like the rest of my young employees. I stared across the room. His eyes burned into me. He was entirely serious. No, I told myself silently, this was not happening. I’ll wake up in a minute and it would have just been a weird dream.

I had been working at Uncle’s import-export business for about a month. I’d left school the year before without any qualifications to speak of and had been in and out of dead-end jobs; shelf filling, burger flipping, delivering leaflets door-to-door, that sort of thing. My mum made Uncle Herbert take me on. I suppose blood is thicker than water and he felt obliged.

I loathed my job; it was mostly loading and unloading vans or stacking shelves. Once they discovered I was the boss’s nephew, the other guys hated me. They would stop talking among themselves when I came near. They knew lots of different ways to avoid work, and I think some of them might have been stealing from the warehouse: they were afraid if I found out I’d grass on them.

I started skiving off on my own. I sometimes went around the back of the building to look at porn on my phone. I didn’t realise there was CCTV all over the place; Uncle Herbert soon found out about me. He hit the roof and threatened all sorts of things. But he didn’t say anything about spanking me! Mostly, it was, I’ll tell your mum!”

“I said, come here and bend over my knee!” Uncle Herbert growled, still waving the huge brush about. I should have told him to shove it where the sun don’t shine. And, he could do the same with his stinking job. I could have done that but Mum would’ve gone mental. She got annoyed when I lost my other jobs; what the Hell would she do if I walked out on Uncle Herbert. I couldn’t do it. He was family. Mum might have thrown me out the house and told me to go live in a cardboard box for all she cared. I know Dad couldn’t wait to see the back of me. My younger brother Nathan wouldn’t mind either; he’d get the bedroom we shared all to himself.

“Now, Lad!” Uncle Herbert snarled, “Or do I have to come over there and get you?” He half raised from the chair. I could see he meant business. “C’mon Uncle,” I whined, “You cannot be serious?” I sounded like that brat tennis player what’s his name? The one with the frizzy hair and attitude. “I’m nineteen years old, not nine,” I told him. The moment the words came out I knew I had made a big mistake.

He leapt from the chair and was across the room in a flash. He grabbed a hunk of my hair and tugged me back to the chair. I howled as my feet slipped across the shiny floor. “Eff off!” I yelled, only I used the proper F-word. That was another bad move. He let go of my hair and swiped the back of his hand across my chops. I very nearly fell to the ground with the shock. Tears prickled the backs of my eyes.

“Now, are you going to do as you’re told?” He gripped my wrist and sat himself back down on the chair. “Get those trousers down, or I’ll do it myself,” his face contorted and the end of his large, pointed nose immediately turned purple.

“I.. I…” I spluttered. The sting on my face still tingled. He reached across and grabbed the waistband of my trousers and pulled me closer to him.

“No. No,” I wailed, slapped his hand away and pulled myself back. “I’ll do it. I’ll do it.” I couldn’t believe it when I heard myself. I would take down my trousers so Uncle Herbert could spank me with his brush. All I can think now is I must have thought it was preferable to having an older man strip me.

I stood uneasily in front of him. To be honest with you, Uncle Herbert is quite a weedy feller; he’s so thin he could easily fall down a drain cover. He sat in an old wooden chair and spread his legs; they looked like two pipe cleaners. I must be a head taller than him and I’m not fat (well not obese, anyway) but I am beefy. I did some boxing at school and I’ve got muscles. You know, if he tried something on with me in a dark alleyway one night I could knock the bejesus out of him.

I stood meekly in front of him. My hands hardly shook as I found the buckle of my belt and did the business. I had the front of my trousers open before it really hit me. I was going to take down my trousers for him. I mean how gay is that? Can you imagine it, a strapping nineteen-year-old willingly taking down his trousers and then bending over the knee of a much older man so that man could spank him on the seat of his underpants with a brush. You couldn’t make it up.

But that’s exactly what I was doing. I held on to my open trousers. I suppose this was my last chance to leg it. I could zip up and run and Uncle Herbert wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it. But my life flashed before my eyes. At least the foreseeable future did. Would Mum really throw me out of the house? Yes. No. Maybe. I couldn’t take the risk. I couldn’t look at Uncle. I closed my eyes and let the trousers slip over my thighs and they snagged at my knees.

“All the way. Down to your feet,” Uncle Herbert said grimly.

My eyes were still closed, I parted my feet and the trousers slipped down my shins and made a puddle over my trainers. I stood stock still like an idiot. I really did not want to do this. Let my Uncle spank my behind with a brush. “Bend over my knee, lad,” Uncle Herbert was stern.

I opened my eyes and looked down at his puny knees. For one moment I absurdly wondered if he could take my weight across his lap. I think Uncle Herbert misunderstood my hesitation. He thought I had chickened out. “Doh!” he cried and he grabbed my left wrist and pulled me forward. I lost my balance as I toppled forward over his lap. I went too fast and my shoulder hurt as my hands hit the floor, wrenching my arms out of their sockets. Well, I exaggerate there. But I did hurtle face-down over Uncle’s knees. I had to spread my arms wide and dig my palms down into the ground to hold myself steady.

I couldn’t see myself (I was staring at the wooden floor) but I could tell my big bum was high over Uncle’s right thigh and my knees were slightly bent and the tips of my toes brushed the ground. I wore tight boxer shorts and Uncle shocked me by gripping the waistband and tugging so hard that he gave me a ‘wedgie’: they rode right up into the crack of my arse.

He paused for a long minute. I’ve no idea what he was up to. I felt a slight tapping on the fleshiest part of my left bum cheek. Then there was an almighty whack! noise. I felt the sting maybe a second later. The noise bounced around the room and it felt like he had pressed the iron Mum uses at home into my bum. It took my breath away. My mouth opened and my lips formed a perfect ‘O’ as I just about managed to stop myself yapping.

z used otk pants chair cp4men

Before I got my breath back Uncle had hammered that heavy utility brush into my other cheek. Then he pounded it across both cheeks, high, low and across the peaks without mercy. Now, I was yelping, like a little whipped puppy. My hips rose and fell, my arms flailed about and my legs kicked. It was like I was trying to swim away off his lap. He seized me tightly around the waist and held onto me for grim life. I wasn’t going anywhere while he blistered each and every square centimetre of meat (and my bum had quite a lot of acreage). When he had done toasting that he went for the backs of my thighs. My shorts were just that short, so he was walloping me on the bare. I wailed like some demented banshee.

I did the swimming thing again and my head went up and down. If I’d been closer to the ground I would’ve headbutted it. I was in so much pain and my heart was racing so fast I could not breathe. I thought for a moment I’d pass out. Still Uncle Herbert battered my bum. When would he let up? It seemed the answer was Never. On and on and on he spanked me. I’m quite a big, strong guy as I’ve told you, but even I wondered how much longer I could take it.

My bum had been battered and bruised so much I swear it had gone numb. I could hear the thwack as each new whack hit me, but I couldn’t feel a thing? Does that make sense? It shouldn’t, but I tell you it’s the truth. Uncle Herbert must have got wind of this because he laid a few more over my red-raw thighs.

I lost all sense of time. I might have been across his knees for half an hour for all I know. The spanking just went on and on. At last (thank the Lord!) he stopped. Bam-Bam-Bam. “Okay. Get up!” He let go of my waist and I lay still face down for a long moment catching my breath. It was only when Uncle Herbert started to push me off his lap that I came to. I tumbled to the floor and stayed there on my hands and knees. From that position I saw Uncle get off his chair and walk over to a hook on the far wall and hang up the brush. I climbed to my feet and nearly fell back to the floor as I stumbled pulling my trousers up.

“Get back to work, you’ve wasted enough of my time,” Uncle Herbert grumbled. I didn’t need telling twice. I stumbled through the door. Outside I saw Harry, one of my fellow workers. He had a huge grin across his face. He gave me an exaggerated wink. “Nice one, son,” he chortled. He had heard it all. My humiliation would soon be the talk of the warehouse. Without a word, I staggered down the hall. I needed to get away. I needed to calm down. I needed a smoke. I cursed myself that I wasn’t carrying any weed.

Things improved a lot after that. I didn’t work any harder and Uncle Herbert had me across his knee again before too long, but Harry and the guys now knew I wasn’t the boss’s pet and they treated me like one of the gang from there on in.

 

 

Picture credit: CP 4 Men

 

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The boys in the mailroom

Fr. Pat’s paddle

Wishful thinking

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com