Waiting my turn

I am facing the door in my uncle’s living room and in a moment he is going to take me over his knee and spank me.

I am shaking like a leaf and I am trying not to cry, but my eyes are getting wet.

Me and my cousin John were naughty at school today and now we are for it.

I can hear Uncle Sal moving a wooden chair into the middle of the carpet. Now he has sat down he has his back to me so I can turn round for a peek.

He is calling John over to him.

“I’m fed up with you; it’s time you learnt how to behave. Take your trousers down; take them down.”

John unbuckles his elastic snake belt and it goes pop. Now, he is undoing his grey short trousers and they fall down.

His face is red but he is trying to be brave. I know he has been spanked before, but I never have. I am scared that it will hurt too much.

John is standing moving his feet a bit. The white shirt of his school uniform is very long at the back and it covers his pants; it looks like he is wearing a dress.

Uncle Sal is very angry, “Come on, bend over. I am going to spank that naughtiness right out of you.”

John moves a bit so he is standing in front of him, but he is a long way away. Uncle Sal is standing up, grabbing his left arm, and dragging John around to his right. He is sitting back down and pulling him down and across his knees.

Uncle has him on his huge left leg and knee, and he is moving John around so his back is bent and he is hanging down facing the floor. John’s bottom is sticking up for punishment.

Uncle is loosening his tie and rolling up his shirt sleeves. He is so big and John is so small. John’s feet don’t touch the ground at the back and his arms are waving about at the front.

Now, uncle is taking John’s shirt and pulling it up away from his bottom, right the way up his back to near his shoulders.

Uncle is tugging at John’s white pants so they are really tight, just like he is giving him a wedgie.

I can see John’s face and he is looking down at the carpet, he is sweating a bit.

Uncle has very strong arms and he is putting his hand over one of John’s cheeks; it is so big it covers all of it. He is raising it high and smacking it into John’s bum. John screws his eyes up and I can see it hurt him a lot.

Uncle is smacking away at John’s bottom, it looks like it really aches. My heart is beating faster; I am going to be spanked like this in a minute.

Uncle is smacking John’s bottom really slowly, he is hitting one cheek then the other. I can see John must be sore, he is wriggling on Uncle Sal’s lap but he can’t get away. John is kicking his legs, but they can’t reach the floor.

“Keep still.” Uncle is slapping the back of his legs. “If you don’t keep still I’ll take your pants down and see how you like that.”

I am turning back to the wall. I don’t want to see this. I hear the smacks hitting my cousin’s bum and I can hear John saying, “Ow, ow, ow,” as the slaps hit him.

Then it goes quiet. I turn around to see what is going on.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Uncle is pulling John’s pants down over his hips, cheeks, thighs, knees, to his feet,

“No, please, no,” John is sniffing.

Uncle looks very cross and goes on smacking John.

I can see John’s bottom is very red. It must be burning hot and there are pink marks where uncle’s fingers hit him.

John is still fighting hard, twisting around and his arms are trying to reach back to stop uncle spanking him. Uncle is picking him up and moving him forward and now John’s face is nearly on the carpet and he has to put his hands down to keep steady.

Uncle is holding him tightly around the waist and is hitting him harder and faster. Smack, smack, smack, smack. I can see tears on John’s face, but he isn’t saying anything.

How long is this going on for? I haven’t counted them all but I think uncle must have smacked him a hundred times, easily, and still he is going on.

John’s face is bright red and so is his bottom. He has given up trying to escape and he has his arms around uncle’s leg, just holding on, as he goes on spanking him. John is crying louder now and I can see he is choking. He is shaking his head from side to side and there are lots of tears.

This is getting me going and I am crying almost as much as John.

Uncle is still smacking him. He is hitting him on the top of his legs and John’s bottom is really red all over his cheeks and on his legs as well.

John is punching the floor; the spanking is hurting him that much and his bottom looks like it is on fire.

I can’t stand this, I’m so scared. Uncle will spank me like this and I won’t be able to stand it. John is a year older than me and tough. If he is like this, what will I be like? I think I’m going to run away.

John is breathing in big gasps of air and uncle is still slapping his bum. I can see uncle’s face is all screwed up as he raises his hand and hits John as hard as he can.

Uncle has stopped spanking John. He is still holding his son across his lap and he is bawling his eyes out.

Now, Uncle is letting him go and lifting up the back of John’s shirt to try to get a look at his bum, but he is jumping up and down, rubbing his poor bottom, it looks really, really sore.

Uncle is letting go of him. “Shorts and pants up.”

Ouch! I can see John is in agony. His hands are shaking and he is bending down to pull up his pants and he is screwing up his face because it hurts so much when they touch his bottom.

Now, he is picking up his grey short trousers; he kicked them across the room when Uncle spanked him. He is pulling them up and is having trouble getting the buttons to work. The snake belt has come out of the loops and he can’t get it to go back in. He is still crying like a baby and I can see a lot of snot around his nose.

“Go to your room and stay there until tea time.”

Now, I can hear him running up the stairs.

“James.”

Oh no, now it’s my turn … Eighteen years old and about to go over uncle’s knee for my first-ever bare-bottomed spanking. We truly are living in a parallel universe.

zused hands on head shorts

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Step-dad’s little trick

The vicar and the gay boys

The Tyrant Headmaster 1. The boy at the bar

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Two for the taws

z used sitting room by Leyendecker (59)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Legs further apart.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Picture credit: J. C. Leyendecker

 

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Two brothers

Visit to Uncle Roy

Changed Times 7. Pub landlord

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Uncle gets a shock

z used white pants Jonathan

It came as a total shock when I discovered my nephew Anthony was turned on by being spanked. At least that explained why any number of trips across my knee for the slipper, hairbrush or palm of my hand had not improved his behaviour. Once, I even gave him a thrashing with an old-fashioned whippy school cane. Nothing. He still broke every rule I every laid down for him.

Anthony is nineteen now – going on twenty – and has been living with me for eighteen months since his dad changed jobs and moved down south. The boy has a job of his own at a record shop and didn’t want to go with his parents. Rather, than eek out an existence in a sweaty room in a boarding house, he took up my offer to lodge with me.

Now, I think about it, he agreed with alacrity to my demands that if he came to live with me, he must abide by the rules – or suffer the consequences. I left him in no doubt what that meant: a very sore backside indeed.

He was trouble from the very start. I know something about teenagers; they like to test authority. It’s in their DNA to push boundaries and see how far they can go. The first time I ordered him across my knee was when he repeatedly broke his curfew. Home by eleven, I told him. I could not have been clearer. When he rolled in at eleven-fifteen one evening, I lectured him hard. “Next time, you will feel my slipper across your backside, young man,” I told him. I could not have been clearer.

So, when the following Saturday he arrived home so late it was Sunday morning, I was as good as my word. “Go to the sitting room. Wait for me,” I ordered. Meekly, he shuffled across the hallway and stood head slightly bowed and hands firmly behind his back. He waited like this while I dragged a heavy dining-room chair and plonked it down in the very centre of the room. I sat myself down and manoeuvred a slipper from my right foot.  I wriggled around a bit to get comfortable and when I was ready I squeezed the slipper tightly in my fist. It was a typical bedroom slipper, with the checked cloth upper and the springy sole. A slipper is a perfect spanking tool, which is why it is so popular with fathers and uncles tasked with instilling discipline into the young.

I grunted something to attract Anthony’s attention and he looked up. His eyes widened at the sight of me, a forty-five-year-old man of some physical stature, willing and able to inflict severe pain to his bottom.

Anthony stands at about five-feet-seven, I suppose. He is quite sporty and although I don’t think he goes to the gym, he has a very well-proportioned body. As I would soon discover he hardly had enough spare fat on his body to sizzle a sausage.

He was wearing jeans and a woollen jumper. That was no good to me. He wouldn’t feel a thing through heavy denims. “Take them down,” I instructed and then as if he hadn’t already understood my order, I added, “The jeans. Right down. To the ankles.”

Anthony is fair haired, almost blond, and his skin is very pale. This time, though, his face was so red it reminded me of beetroot. His eyes shone. I suspected he was so embarrassed, he might start to cry. I was prepared to ignore any pleading he might make to be let off. Boys about to be spanked will promise absolutely anything about their future good behaviour if only they could be spared a whacking.

In fact, he made no pleas. With slightly shaking hands, he undid the buckle of his belt and undid the top button on his ice-blue jeans. Once the zipper had been lowered the denims slid down his thighs and snagged at the knees. He spread his legs a little and they slithered down his shins and rested on top of his trainer shoes.

He wore very tight cotton briefs in a multitude of colours. Even in a standing position they hung tightly to the contours of his body. I could see his cock had been circumcised. “Come, bend over my knee,” I slapped my thigh as an encouragement.

He sucked down a lung-full of air and leaned forward, putting his hands on my right thigh and lowering himself down. It took a second or two for him to work out where his hands needed to be and how to present his bottom in the perfect position for my slipper. When he had settled, the palms of his hands were pressed down into the deep-pile carpet and his knees were slightly bent so that his toes hovered an inch or so from the ground. His bum was angled across my right leg, giving me unrestricted access to his buttocks.

The tight cotton briefs clung to his cheeks so tightly it looked like they had been sprayed on him. At this point I had a choice. Should I take hold of the elasticated waistband of the briefs and tug them over his firm bottom until the buttocks were bared, or should I allow them to stay in place and let him have the last vestiges of dignity? Since this was his first spanking – or at least the first I had administered – I left the pants up. In any case, I figured, if there needed to be a repeat performance of this sometime in the future I should have some way to up the ante as it were. That is to increase the severity of the punishment next time.

I wrapped by left arm around Anthony’s middle to hold him in place and began my assault on his dignity. My slipper crashed into the centre of his very tight bottom over and over again.  The sound of rubber against cotton echoed around the room. Anthony opened and closed his mouth, rather like a goldfish, but he uttered no sound. His head bounced up and down once or twice and his bum rose and fell across my knee, but all that was, I suspect, simply a natural reaction from his body. He was, in fact, taking his slippering remarkably well.

I’m not sure how many whacks I gave him, but I made sure that every square inch of his buttocks was toasted. I even lay one or two across the back of his thighs, below the hem of his pants. That hurt him, I could see that, but apart from some heavy breathing, he remained silent. I was delighted to see a dark-pink imprint of the sole of my slipper embossed in his pale flesh.

Satisfied that I had spanked him enough for now, I released him. Anthony shot to his feet, turned his back to me and bent down to retrieve his jeans. He had them zipped and buckled before he faced me, his hands held contritely in front of him. His cheeks were scarlet and I knew his buttocks would be too. His hair was drenched with sweat and I could see by the gleam in his eye that he desperately wanted me to dismiss him so he could rush to his room. I imagined that in a moment or two he would be face down on his bed sobbing his guts up into a pillow.

I lectured him a little and reminded him that I had an array of spanking instruments in the cupboard under the stairs that I would not hesitate to use and sent him on his way.

Well, over the coming months each and every one of those tawses, paddles and straps connected with Anthony’s backside. I went so far as to buy a couple of “authentic” school canes off eBay. I had the nineteen-year-old across my knee, bending over the back of the armchair and spread-eagled across the dining table. He was an incorrigible rule-breaker. No amount of punishment could make him obey.

Now I know why.

This evening I received a phone call from the owner of the record shop where Anthony works. He hadn’t been in today, was everything all right? I confronted my nephew and he told me he had skived off work with some mates and queued all day to get tickets for the forthcoming FA Cup quarter final. Now, I like football as much as the next man, but I know I have responsibilities to my employer and I can’t just not turn in. I also have responsibilities to Anthony to make sure he understands such things.

He was not surprised when he arrived in the kitchen after I had called him from his room that I was brandishing a heavy wooden hairbrush. He had felt its power across his naked buttocks more than once before. I sighed so hard to demonstrate to him how much of the world’s burdens I was asked to shoulder and ordered him to lower his cargo shorts and bend over my knee. He did so without question.

Once in position I dragged his gleaming white briefs down to his thighs and assaulted his bare buttocks with the brush. It is a mightily effective punishment tool and soon the centre of each cheek was glowing crimson. Anthony shook his head from side to side, rather like a horse does when it neighs, and his legs kicked out. The spanking was hurting, that’s for sure. I whacked on and on over the same spots on his bum until the flesh turned dark red and then purple. If I spanked any harder or for any longer blood would seep from the wounds. I did not want that. I believe in punishment and not in torture.

When I released him, he tugged his pants and shorts up and fled from the kitchen, not waiting for me to lecture him. I let the brush fall on to the kitchen table and switched on the kettle. I desperately needed a cup of tea.

I also needed to use the bathroom. As I climbed the stairs I noticed the door to Anthony’s room was slightly open. Suddenly, I had an overwhelming urge to know whether he was sobbing into his pillow. In all the times I had spanked him he never shed a tear in my presence. Rather absurdly, I tiptoed along the landing and stood outside his door with my ear pressed against it. I could not hear anything. Thinking that maybe the weight of the door was obstructing the sound, I pushed against it gently.

Nothing would ever be the same again.

Anthony was standing in front of the dressing table mirror. His rather large and extremely hard cock was in his hand and he was pumping away. His eyes were closed and he was stifling moans of ecstasy. I turned to leave. Too late. He heard a creak on the floorboard, opened his eyes and in the reflection in the mirror saw me. His face glowed with embarrassment, he pulled up his pants and turned to face me.

I don’t know what happened next, I skedaddled and locked myself in the bathroom.

That was a little over an hour ago. I have drunk three cups of tea and have calmed down considerably. A young man who likes to be spanked, who would ever have thought such a thing. Still, it certainly explained a thing or two to me about his bad behaviour.

I started to giggle; I think it was the tannin in all that tea. Now, I had a plan. I shall confront Anthony and tell him this. In future, he will obey his curfew, he will do all the chores about the house that I give him. He will respect my wishes at all times and follow all my instructions. If he does these things to my total satisfaction I will spank him. Very hard indeed. I think they call that ‘psychology’. It is in any case a win-win situation for both of us.

 

Picture credit: Jonathan / colour by Buckcub

 

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Late home from a date

The headmaster’s guests

My first spanking — aged 18!

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Dad’s revenge

used drawing strap hold (1)

Harry Taylor barged his way through the crowds towards his train. Evening rush hour did nothing to improve his temper. He had been seething all afternoon since he got the phone call from his wife. There would be hell to pay when he got home.

He couldn’t get a seat on the train (of course) and had to stand nose by armpit all the way. The summer heat was unbearable. Sweat soaked the back of his shirt and there was no room to turn around to remove his jacket.

At last the train pulled into Brocklehurst South. In ten minutes time he would be home. Then the drama would begin. He removed his jacket and carried it under one arm. In the other hand he carried his briefcase. It was light because it had nearly nothing in it. He had it to impress the neighbours. Let them think he was “something” in the City, he thought. Better that than they know the truth.

He crossed the road from the station, turned into Acacia Avenue and followed it until it dog-legged. Then he took a left into The Avenue. The air was clear in the tree-lined suburb. A fellow could breathe here; not like on the train, or in the City.

Everything was quiet, most residents of The Avenue kept themselves hidden from their neighbours. Some houses were large and detached from the rest of the world behind hedges or gates. The Taylor house was more modest; semi-detached with a garden, big enough for his family’s needs, but no different from hundreds of thousands such houses across suburbia.

The front door was ajar. His wife was waiting, anxiously, her ashen face betraying her torment. He gave her a perfunctory peck on the cheek; he thought she deserved as much. He left his briefcase in the hallway, hung his jacket on a hook and eased his necktie off.

His wife followed him into the kitchen and watched nervously as he took a coffee mug, half filled it with lukewarm water from the tap and gulped it down. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and spoke. “So, where is he?”

He noticed for the first time that his wife had been crying. The redness in her eyes deepened as she snapped a reply, “Skulking, in his bedroom.”

Harry puffed out his cheeks. There would have to be a confrontation. What if he called his son to come down from his room and face him and he refused to do so. What then? He exchanged silent glances with his wife. Harvey was twenty years old and a few inches taller than his dad; and a lot less heavy. In a fair fight Mr Taylor wouldn’t stand a chance.

“What are you going to do about it?” His wife’s tone was accusatory, as if it was her husband’s fault their son was a thief.

“He needs a damn good leathering,” Harry had been thinking about it all afternoon.

“He’s a bit old for that, isn’t he?” his wife was unconvinced.

“Well, what do you suggest?” Harry’s hands shook. His wife had no answer. She still couldn’t take it in. It was a nightmare. The police had called that afternoon in broad daylight. With a search warrant – for the whole house. It took an hour and twenty minutes. She had timed them and all the while nosey Mrs. Brackett in the house across the street stood at her front window twitching the lace curtains.

The police found what they were looking for. Stolen car parts. Car parts. Mrs. Taylor was astonished. Of all the things a person might want to steal, why the hell chose car parts?

At last she answered her husband’s question, “There’s nothing we can do really, is there?” she sniffed.

Harry puffed his cheeks. “No, we can’t just let it go. He deliberately planned to steal these things and hide them in our house. It was planned. Meticulous.” Harry felt absurd even as the words flowed from his mouth. It was as if he was describing a bank heist or a jewel theft. “It’s not as if he stole on the spur of the moment. Like taking a Mars bar from the newsagents.”

His wife had no answer to that. There would be a court case. Harvey would get a fine, or a community service order. Or possibly, both. “Oh”, she gasped at a sudden realisation, “It’ll be in The News, everyone will read about it.”

The stuck-up neighbours in The Avenue would have a field day. She remembered Tommy Burstow at number ninety-two. He had been convicted of taking and driving away cars. It was the main topic of gossip in the street for days and she had contributed more than her fair share of it.

Harry wanted revenge. Retribution. Vengeance, even. Harvey would have to pay. He would have to take a leathering or he could pack his bags and go. He was twenty years old, he had a job in an insurance office, he could find himself a room somewhere.

“I’m calling Frank. I’ll see if he can bring Paul, I can’t do this on my own.” He told his wife who wearily nodded her assent.

Harry’s brother Frank was appalled. “If it was my boy, I’d tan his arse and kick him out of the house.”

Frank and his brother Paul were in The Avenue within the hour. They listened appalled as Harry once more detailed his son’s crime. A black, wide, heavy leather belt lay on the dining room table. Harry tested is weight in his hands. He had never used it for anything other than its intended purpose, but he reckoned it would pack a punch, if only he could get close enough to Harvey to swing it.

Harry put the strap down and shuffled to the foot of the stairs. “Come down Harvey!” he called, “I want a word with you!”

The twenty-year-old curled up on his bed, clutching his pillow to his chest. “A word”, his dad wanted more than “a word”. He had seen Uncle Frank’s BMW pull up in front of the house. His cousin Terry had told him about Uncle Frank. This was not going to end pleasantly.

Harvey heard his father call once more. He put the pillow over his head, but he could still hear.

“C’mon” Frank nodded to Paul, “Let’s go and fetch him down.” Harry grunted.

Moments later Harvey was manhandled down the stairs. His shoeless feet slipping and sliding against the carpet as he failed to stop the two men dragging him into the living room.

“Fuck off! Leave me alone!” Harvey heaved his shoulders, but with two heavy men, one holding each arm, he was going nowhere.

“Watch your mouth,” Uncle Frank twisted the boy’s arm, cranking his shoulder. Harvey yelped with the pain.

Harry stood impassively watching. His son’s eyes were bloodshot; he had shed a bucketful of tears already. The boy was bulky, but not as weighty as his two assailants. Tattoos completely covered both arms.

“Here,” Frank had taken compete control. With Paul’s help and despite Harvey’s continual effing and blinding the boy was bent face down over the table. He wriggled, writhed and kicked his legs at his jailers, but he was overpowered.

In all the mayhem, Harvey’s denim jeans had risen up his buttocks and clung tightly to his cheeks. Frank could clearly see the outline of the boy’s crack.

“These jeans are too thick,” Frank looked across at Harvey’s dad, but did not wait for permission. “C’mon Paul,” he said as he jerked Harvey to his feet. “Harry,” he called to Harry, “undo his belt, take the jeans down.”

Without thinking, Harry stood behind his son and reached around the boy’s waist. He was rewarded with a kick in the shins. Undeterred, the belt was soon undone and buttons and zipper fly released. Harry had intended only to lower the jeans but Harvey twisted and turned so much, his boxer shorts slipped down over his buttocks. Harry helped them on their way. Now, bare-arsed, Frank and Paul toppled him back over the table top.

Harry stood emotionlessly. This was not his son spread-eagled across the table. It was a stranger. Harvey had not been raised to be a thief. Mr Taylor didn’t want an explanation. He had no desire for mitigation. He lifted the heavy leather strap and crashed it against his son’s quivering buttocks. A sunset strip seared across Harvey’s bum and the twenty-year-old yelped like a little whipped puppy. Frank and Paul pressed him further down into the wooden table top.

Another swipe landed a little lower. Harvey banged his head up and down and kicked his legs. All attempts to escape were futile. He was held face-down and bottom-high and he was staying there until his dad and his uncles said so.

Whack-whack-whack! Harry had no idea how to spank a boy. He had never been beaten as a child and, unlike Frank, had never felt it necessary to wallop any of his children. He worked on instinct. A spanking had to hurt, he reckoned, that was the point of it. So, he whipped the leather into his son’s spongy bum over and over again. It was crimson in no time. Stripes criss-crossed the buttock cheeks. Some went east-to-west; others north-to-south, forming ridges.

Harvey soon gave up swearing at his attackers. He had no breath, his lungs were empty. He huffed and puffed and coughed his guts up. Tears washed his face, vomit stuck in his throat.

Looking back later, Harry was surprised he was so calm. It was, he told his wife, like an “out-of-body” experience. He was looking down at the scene as someone else leathered the arse off his son.

Harry crashed another six, hard and at speed, into the fleshiest part of Harvey’s cheeks. The boy roared. Snot cascaded down nose. His face and neck were as scarlet as his bum, sweat soaked his hair. His temples pulsated.

“Let him go.” Frank released his grip and Paul followed. Harvey sprang to his feet like jack-in-the-box released. Not waiting to pull up his jeans and pants, he stumbled from the room. His dad heard him stumbled and fall as he struggled to mount the stairs.

Harry rested his belt on the settee and moved to the cocktail cabinet. He poured three stiff whiskeys.

Paul took a long sip and then looked at up at the ceiling. “He deserved all he got.” He took another sip, “Serves him right for getting caught.”

Frank nodded his agreement and downed his drink in one.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The sleep over

z used pillow fight (4b)

Simon sat in his favourite chair, a weak gin and tonic at his elbow, trying to read the evening newspaper. The noise from the bedroom above was disturbing him. Typical, every time the boys came around for a sleep-over, something like this happened. It sounded like they were having a pillow fight.

He got out of his chair and shuffled into the kitchen. The noise was louder in there. He delved into the freezer, scooped three ice cubes into a glass, and prepared another G&T. The shouts from the bedroom were worse. Simon stood at the foot of the stairs and called up, “Be quiet, you two or I’ll be up there to sort you out. You know I will!”

He returned to the lounge and picked up The News. He sipped at his drink and rifled through the pages of the newspaper in search of juicy court cases. He found none. Boring, he thought, nothing interesting ever happened in Brocklehurst.

The electric light above his head shook. Leo and Edward seemed to be on the floor, wrestling. A high-pitched giggle reverberated around the room. And then another. Simon crumpled the newspaper and threw it onto the couch. Enough, he fumed. Well, they can’t say they weren’t warned.

Slowly and with purpose, Simon plodded up the stairs. He reached the bedroom and without knocking, he gripped the handle and flung the door open. Leo and Edward, dressed only in underpants were on the floor. Edward was on his back and Leo straddled him. He appeared to be gently slapping the boy across his face.

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Simon wailed, “Get up, the pair of you. Why can’t you play nicely?”

Leo rolled off his friend, stood and then sat on the bed. Edward, red in the face, climbed to his feet and stood sheepishly.

“You’re at university now,” Simon berated them. “You should have grown out of these childish games.” He glowered first at Edward and then at Leo. “I’m not even going to ask who started it; you’re both as bad as each other.”

Leo’s mouth opened as if he was about to say something. He closed it again; he had thought better of it.

“We’ll what did I say last time would happen if you behaved like this?” Simon’s question was not directed at one boy in particular. The two nineteen-year-olds exchanged glances. They knew the answer to the question, but neither wanted to say the words out loud.

“Well, then?” Simon scowled, and when no response was still forthcoming, he looked at Leo, still sat on the bed. “Stand up.” Leo made no attempt to move. “Now!” Simon barked. He meant business.

Leo hauled himself to his feet, affecting an air of resentment.  Simon brushed by him and sat himself squarely in the middle of the bed, his feet hanging over the edge. “Come, here and put yourself across my legs.” He reached out to Leo, in case the teenager proved reluctant. But, Leo once more exchanged looks with Edward, before stepping forward and lowering himself over the bed.

The bed was wide and Leo relatively short, so his body lay flat across the mattress. His stomach rested over Simon’s legs, lifting his own bottom a little. He stretched his arms out ahead of him and his legs were pushed out behind him.

Simon gripped the elasticated waist of Leo’s underpants and tugged them until the teenager’s bottom was completely bare. Leo at first closed his eyes, then tuned his head sideways. When he opened them again, Edward was in his direct vision standing close to the bed with a perfect view of the proceedings.

Simon smacked his hand into Leo’s left cheek and then into the right. Leo swam a lot and the muscles on his body and backside reflected this. The teenager’s bum was round and hard. Simon rained more spanks into the naked bottom and was pleased to see dark pink handprints appear all over the curves and into the crease. He turned his attention to the top of the mounds. After a couple of minutes of spanking the whole of Leo’s bottom from the top where the cheeks met the spine, over the hills, and into the undercurves was rosy, but the youngster had made no sign that he was in pain.

“Stand up,” Simon spoke brusquely. Leo climbed from Simon’s knees and rolled off the bed. He pulled up his pants and stood close to the wardrobe.

“You next,” Simon nodded at Edward. The nineteen-year-old stood his ground. He was going nowhere.

“Doh!” Simon exhaled. He bounced his bottom along the mattress and sat on the edge of the bed. Before Edward realised what was happening, Simon had gripped him by the wrist and pulled him forward. He rested over the older man’s knees, his torso stretched across the mattress and his feet firmly on the ground. Simon soon had Edward’s orange briefs at the boy’s ankles. Bent over this way, Edward’s bum was stretched and as Simon whacked away at his bared bottom, it felt like it might be made of solid rubber.

Leo shuffled along the wall to get a better view as his friend’s arse was spanked from pink to rosy. Edward’s bum always coloured easily and after a couple of minutes it had turned scarlet.

Soon, it dawned on Simon that both boys had buns of steel. His own hand hurt a lot more than Leo’s and Edward’s backsides.

“Oh, this is pointless, Simon moaned. “Get up.” The teenager sprang to his feet and pulled up his pants.

“You didn’t feel a thing. I’m going to have to start all over again,” he said as he unbuckled his heavy leather belt and pulled it clear of his trousers.

“No, come on Uncle Simon, that’s not fair,” Edward spoke first, but Leo soon joined in. “You’ve spanked us once, you can’t do it again.”

Simon doubled the belt in his hand. “Oh, can’t I. We’ll soon see about that.” He pulled the leather belt between his two hands so it made a resounding, “Crack!”

“Kneel by the side of the bed,” Simon waved the belt so there could be no misunderstanding, “And, then bend across it.”

“B …” Leo started to protest, but stopped. Edward had already taken up the position, as ordered. He was submitting to Uncle Simon.  There was no way Leo could let his pal be belted and refuse to take it himself. With some trepidation, he knelt down beside Edward.

“We don’t need these,” Simon gripped both boys’ pants simultaneously until he was rewarded with two sets of naked buttocks.

Edward looked to his left; Leo to his right. The pals would have eye contact throughout the ordeal they would suffer together.

Smack! The belt thwacked across Leo’s backside, a dep red stripe instantly appeared. The teenager’s mouth was opening and closing, registering the pain, just as the strap bit into Edward’s bum. His eyes widened. That hurt. A lot.

Simon grinned. They would certainly feel this belting. With gusto, he laid a dozen stripes across each boy’s naked haunches. They wriggled and squirmed. Edward took it better than his pal. Tears streamed down Leo’s face after the first half dozen and he was yelping like a lost puppy by the time Simon had finished.

Edward was more stoical. His eyes blazed and his face was ashen by the time Simon permitted them to stand. He was in great pain, but mostly he kept it hidden from Leo and Simon.

Sweat poured from Simon’s body, although it was quite a cool evening. “Get to bed the pair of you and I don’t want to hear a peep from you until morning. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Uncle Simon,” only Edward spoke; Leo was still gently sobbing.

Simon replaced his belt and exited. Moments later, he lay on the bed in his own room. In a few minutes, he knew, he would be disturbed by the noise of Edward’s and Leo’s frantic lovemaking. Simon would have to make do with solitary masturbation.

 

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Spanked by my uncle: who enjoyed it the most?

When my uncle put me across his knee and spanked my bare bottom I don’t know which of us enjoyed it more, him or me.

I come from a strange family. Mum was one of ten children. Ten! Poor gran; she must have been exhausted the whole time. I bet granddad had a whale of a time though.

Uncle Neil was the youngest of the lot. I was eighteen and he was only twenty-eight. I was causing my mum a lot of problems. The main problem was that I was eighteen. Like so many people that age I was totally selfish, I thought the world should revolve around me. I was arrogant and you couldn’t tell me anything. I disrespected my mother at every turn.

I had left school at sixteen – the earliest possible age – and I hadn’t had anything that you could call a proper job since. I lazed about the flat all day and drove mum mad.

My dad had skedaddled after my younger brother was born and left mum on her own to raise two kids. How could she cope with me? At last mum and Uncle Neil said I needed a “time out.” They said I should go stay with him for a while, until I sorted myself out a bit.

Uncle Neil might only be twenty-five, but already he was a great success. He had an important job with an advertising agency. I’m not sure exactly what he did but it bought him a smashing apartment on the fourth floor of a block overlooking the marina. It had every conceivable gadget. He drove a flash Jeep and spent a lot of cash on his clothes and his looks.

The expensive facials, haircuts and nail jobs he paid for made him stand out in a crowd. He was gym-fit. He tried to encourage me to take exercise – he said I should go running or to go work out. He reckoned it would make me a much happier person. He said when you exercised hard chemicals in your brain changed and it made you feel really good – it was much better than taking drugs. I can’t remember what the chemical was called, but it was something like “dolphins.”

I didn’t do anything about it. I couldn’t be bothered.

He didn’t have a girlfriend. When I asked him about it he flushed scarlet and said he was too busy at work. I didn’t believe him; he would be a great catch for any girl. I reckoned there was some special lady he was trying to capture, but she was giving him a hard time. Who knew, perhaps she was already married; not that that seemed to bother people these days.

Uncle Neil wanted me to get a job. Any job, he said. I whined that there were no jobs, not for people like me who left school with no qualifications. He scoffed. He was having none of it. He said I should take any job going, even if it was only part-time. There was plenty going in burger bars and pubs. Supermarkets always wanted people to fill shelves and carry boxes.

Once I had a job, he lectured me, I could make your way up the company. Or, after a while I could get a better job somewhere else. If nothing else, I could get some “work discipline” and prove that I could get up in the morning and put in a shift – every day.

I ignored him on that too.

After a month with me lounging around the apartment in my underwear most of the time, Uncle Neil snapped. He gave me an ultimatum. It was, he said, my choice. I had to take some responsibility for myself. If I didn’t have a job by the end of the month, he would throw me out the apartment. He said my mum wouldn’t take me back, so I would be on my own.

I didn’t believe him. Yes, he would throw me out probably, but I wouldn’t be on my own. I had nine aunts and uncles – and that was just on my mother’s side. We were family; someone would take me in.

I pretended to Uncle Neil that I was looking for a job. I had to anyway to get my welfare payment each fortnight, but I wasn’t really. If I had been a more sensitive type I should have noticed that he was coming to the end of his tether.

That happened one night. I had just got my money and I went drinking with mates. I got back late and pretty high. Next day, Uncle Neil sat me down and gave me the lecture. I vaguely knew that at work he was a boss of something. From his tone, I knew he was used to being obeyed. He told you to jump; you asked how high? That was, I guess, the secret of his success. Decisive action.

“If you do anything like that again,” he said calmly, “I am going to take you across my knee and spank your bare bottom so hard it will glow in the dark.”

I stared at him. His gaze was steely. I hadn’t noticed before how piercing his blue eyes were. He meant it. He was deadly serious. If my mum had said something like that I would have laughed and told her where to go. I would have used the “F” word a lot. With Uncle Neil, I just gaped. My jaw probably quite literally dropped.

What could I say? I looked him up and down. He had the kind of body that had muscles on top of muscles. I was the opposite. I hadn’t taken any exercise since I was fifteen when we did PE classes at school. I was no match for Uncle Neil. If he wanted to haul me across his knee, he could.

I went to my room confused. I stood at the window and watched the yachts and small boats in the harbour below. Spanking? He’d give me a spanking? I had never been spanked in my life. The cane had been banned in schools long before I was born – before Uncle Neil was born too – and mum never hit us; Lord knows why not, I deserved it.

Uncle Neil was bluffing, I reckoned. He had already said he would throw me out of the apartment; surely he thought that was a bigger threat.

I obviously didn’t know Uncle Neil.

It was only two days later when he asked me to do some grocery shopping. He left a list and some cash. Even I wasn’t so lazy or so stupid as to ignore him. I got the bus to Tesco and wheeled my trolley around the store. Uncle Neil had been right about jobs. There was a notice near the entrance advertising part-time jobs. Apply within. I pretended not to see it.

After I left the checkout, I realised I had more than five pounds in change. He’d never notice. I didn’t think twice about it. It would be my tip for doing the shopping. I stopped at an off licence and spent the money on cheap beer.

I was pretty far gone by the time Uncle Neil got home. He asked about the change. I lied and told him there wasn’t any. He sighed, “Go to bed. I’ll deal with you in the morning.”

Deal with me? I staggered from the room. Deal with me? Was he really serious?

Next morning was Sunday; even Uncle Neil didn’t work Sunday. I laid in bed dealing with my Morning Glory. I had just shot my load into a fistful of Kleenex when he knocked on the door. Hurriedly, I tugged up my Boxer shorts. Just in time. He didn’t wait for permission, he barged in through the door.

I think his speech had been prepared. Certainly, he was fluent, short and to the point. He had warned me about me behaviour. True. He had told me what he would do. True again. So why did I do it? Good question. The answer was probably, “Because I could.” I had been getting away with things my whole life. Nobody had stopped me. It had become a habit. My life was all me, me, me.

“Come here,” he leant forward and grabbed a hunk of my hair. I yelped as he pulled me up and out of the bed. Then without a further word he dragged me from the room and hauled me into the lounge. Even in my distressed state, I could see the furniture had been rearranged. A soft-backed, armless chair had been turned away from the dining table, so it faced into the room.

Still holding a clump of my hair he sat down and stretched his legs wide. Then, he pulled me across his left knee and immediately draped his right leg over the back of my calves. I was pinned down. Uncle Neil and I are about the same height; I was too tall to go over his knee. My elbows rested on the carpet in front of me and my knees bent behind me and still my feet rested on the ground. I couldn’t see this, but my bum was raised at a forty-five-degree angle over his knee.

I was only wearing Boxer shorts and a tee-shirt that I used for sleeping. He pushed his left hand into my shoulder so hard he winded me. While I gasped for air, I felt him grip the waistband of my shorts and he yanked them down over my buttocks and down my thighs and he left them bunched at my knees.

He mumbled something that I couldn’t quite catch. It sounded like, “You deserve this and you know it.” Then he smacked the palm of his hand into my right buttock and then the left. I don’t know what a spanking is supposed to feel like; it should hurt, naturally, otherwise what’s the point. He hit me so hard and so rapidly that within seconds my bum began to heat up. He had strong arms, but very soft hands; even so I felt each and every one of the slaps as he made his way around my globes. He concentrated on the under-curves, just under the cheeks, where they meet the thighs.

I wriggled and squirmed, but with his legs across my calves and with his hand on my shoulders he had me trapped. I was going nowhere. My bum cheeks quivered and I felt my crack open and close involuntarily. Only then did I think he might have a perfect view in my crack and up my hole. I don’t think I have ever felt so humiliated. It was worse because I knew I hadn’t showered since the last time I’d taken a dump. It would be pretty rancid back there.

The pain was building into a constant throbbing across my whole backside. It hurt a lot, but I could take it. I didn’t know how many spanks he intended to deliver, but I was pretty confident he wouldn’t do much damage. Then he stopped.

I felt his body twist and he reached behind him. When I was dragged into the room I hadn’t noticed the heavy brush on the table. I hadn’t seen, it but soon I felt it. The first almighty whack across the centre of both cheeks took my breath away. By the time the sixth hit home, I was on fire. By the tenth I was yelping. By number twenty I was yelling.

My heart raced and I gasped for air. I couldn’t suck air into my lungs. Blood raced through my arteries so quickly I thought my ears would pop. Then I realised with horror my cock was stiff. My soldier wasn’t fully on the march, but it was standing to attention. I wriggled and writhed over Uncle Neil’s knee. It was involuntary, it was my body’s reflex action to the pounding it was getting at my rear end. Each time I moved my dick rubbed against my uncle’s leg. In no time it throbbed almost as madly as my bum.

I could hear Uncle Neil wheezing. The effort of spanking me was taking its toll, yet, on and on he hammered the bath brush into my naked arse. I didn’t know it yet but the whole of my buttocks from the top near my spine, over the mounds and into the crease was now toasted scarlet. My bum was so hot you could probably fry an egg back there.

The more he spanked, the more my body gyrated. The more my body spun, the more my prick pulsated. Any moment now I would shoot a load. What could I do? I knew when I masturbated that the way to control an orgasm was to stop tugging for a while and let it settle. I couldn’t do that here.

Even as I thought, “No! No! No!” my whole body shook, like a dog does when it comes out of water. I must have shot a pint of cum over Uncle Neil’s already cream chinos. He let out a mild screech, released my legs and shoulders and pushed me off his knee onto the carpet, where I lay face down, desperately failing to hide my humiliation.

“You dirty bugger,” Uncle Neil snarled. “Look what you’ve done to my trousers.” He tried to sound angry, but I knew he wasn’t really. I was certain, because from my position at his feet I looked up at my handsome muscular uncle towering above me and saw that he had a boner so big and so hard that it could have been a tent pole in the front of his pants.

I gazed in wonderment. My head was the clearest it had ever been. I was glowing. Never in my life had I felt so good. Uncle Neil peered down at me, our eyes met for a brief moment. We didn’t say a word to each other. What could we say? He was my uncle. But we both knew we felt the same way.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The thieving nephew

used-drawing-belt-hold-sitting-in-chair-1

Zachary’s uncle sat in a straight-backed chair, a belt hanging limply from his hand. His aunt stood by his side, arms folded across her bosom. The old man’s face was set firm. Determined. His intention was clear. He was going to spank Zachary’s backside. Zachary blinked, bewildered. He was twenty-two years old.

The young man’s faced glowed. He had never been spanked before. Never. Nobody he knew ever had been. This was 2016, that sort of thing ended in the fifties. Surely that was so, Zachary thought. He felt his aunt’s glare burning into him. Unnerved, he stared down at the beige carpet beneath his feet. This could not be happening. It just couldn’t. Nothing in his whole life’s experience had prepared him for this.

Through the corner of his eye he saw his uncle shift his buttocks on the chair. He spread his knees, preparing a platform for Zachary to bend across. Uncle’s impatience was showing. He wanted to get this over with. He would truck no nonsense from his nephew. He must submit himself to discipline. It was uncle’s house. His rules. His way or the highway.

Zachary didn’t need telling that. He had been staying with Uncle Frank and Aunt Marie for more than three months. He had no choice. He had graduated with a first-class honours degree in film production from one of the top schools in the country. Now, desperate to become a director, he was working as an unpaid intern at Global Pictures, a world leader. That was where the trouble with Uncle Frank started. Unpaid. No money.

It was typical of the business these days. Youngsters eager to make their way had to work without pay; for months. Years sometimes.

Zachary could afford no rent, so his uncle and aunt opened up their home to him. He thought it extraordinarily generous. How naïve. He didn’t know it; his mum and dad were paying for his keep. Zachary supposed he had no choice. Obey Uncle Frank’s demands or leave. Leave the home. The internship. Give up his dreams.

A young man cannot live on fresh air. He needed money. Without a way to earn an income, he took to pilfering. At first Aunt Marie didn’t notice the small amounts of cash missing from her purse. Zachary felt no remorse. Like so many of his generation he thought the world owed him a living. Damn it, he thought, he was working for nothing, wasn’t that enough. His aunt was no pauper. She owned a hair salon. She wasn’t short of a few bob.

The recriminations were long-drawn out. How could you? We brought you into our home. We trusted you. Blah, blah, blah. Zachary wasn’t impressed. That was then. This was now.

“Look at me, Zachary,” his uncle was firm. In charge. He knew what was required. This might be his nephew’s first spanking, but the old man was something of an expert. Just ask his own sons. Fine young men. Disciplined. Making their way in the world. At least Uncle Frank assumed so. He hadn’t seen or heard from either of them in years.

Reluctantly, Zachary drew his eyes away from the carpet. Aunt Marie pursed her lips, like she was sucking sherbet. Her clear hazel eyes shone, her contempt evident. Uncle Frank straightened his back, took the belt in two hands and carefully folded it into two. It was now a wide leather strap about a foot long. It would make a mighty effective weapon. Zachary stared at it.

“Take down those jeans. Underpants too.”

Zachary’s heart thumped. He couldn’t catch his breath. His temples throbbed. The back of his eyes dampened.

“B …” bewildered, he started a protest. Words would not form. What could he say? He was a thief. Caught red-handed. Convicted. And, now sentenced. Within moments the punishment would be delivered.

“Quickly.” Another firm order from Uncle Frank. “I don’t have all day.”

“But.” This time a word did escape his lips. Zachary nodded at Aunt Marie. His face blushed deeper. He wanted to plead. No. No please don’t spank me. Not in front of Aunt Marie.

Rooted. He couldn’t move. Tears wetted his eyes. In time they would be cascading down his cheeks.

“Doh!” Uncle Frank leaned across and pulled Zachary forward by the waistband. Within seconds he had his nephew’s belt unbuckled. A tug at the zip fly and the front of his jeans were open. It seemed to Zachary like an out of body experience. This was happening to somebody else. His denims and briefs were at his knees. His cock and balls dangled in front of Aunt Marie. A flicker of a smile creased her puckered lips.

Zachary had inherited his mother’s genes. Everyone noticed his piercing blue eyes and dark hair. His cheekbones were high and a boyish dimple formed when he smiled. His athletic build was natural. Aunt Marie had long admired his strong defined chest and narrow waist. His legs were strong, slender and hairy. His appendage was exactly as she had imagined.

Uncle Frank grabbed his twenty-two-year-old nephew by the arm and pulled him over his knees so that he was dangling, feet and head both off the ground. Zachary threw his hand behind him, desperately trying to cover his naked buttocks. He heard his uncle sigh as the old man gripped his wrist and held it tightly in the small of his back.

Zachary sensed his aunt move a pace. Oh, my God, she can see right into my crack. For a moment, his naked humiliation filled his thoughts. But not for long. He felt his uncle move, the belt hovered over Zachary’s bum. Seconds later he heard an explosion. After a moment, he felt the fire ignite across his bared bottom. There was another explosion, then another.

The first crack of leather on skin was deafening, but Zachary had no chance to appreciate it, since that it was immediately followed by another, and then another. His uncle was beating out a rhythm on his backside. Zachary made no sound at all. He stayed fairly still, except for reflex jerking from the force of impact of belt against buttock.

The young man wasn’t keeping time. It felt like an age. Staring down at the carpet; pinned across his uncle’s knee while a leather belt rose and crashed, then rose and crashed again into his firm naked flesh. For about two minutes there was no noise except for the continuous thwack, smack, of the leather. Then Zachary started to twitch. Then hiss, a low noise, through his teeth. He was trying to keep his breathing steady.

A minute later, he started to groan. Then, “Ow, ow, ow.” At five minutes it became more vocal. Louder. Low-pitched yelping. It took a full seven minutes for Zachary to start crying. From way down deep. The hand behind his back was still pinned up near his shoulders. With his other hand he gripped his uncle’s trouser leg. It did nothing to relieve the pain.

Zachary was bawling his eyes out, crying harder than he had ever done in his life. Crying not only because of the pain his uncle was inflicting with every lick but also crying for getting himself in this situation. He would never, ever steal again.

Then it was over. Zachary lay sobbing, trying to catch his breath. His uncle dropped the belt to the floor beside him and rubbed his nephew’s scorched cheeks. The once creamy-white buttocks were deep crimson. Dozens of stripes covered the bum and the backs of Zachary’s legs. The young man now able to lie without squirming, brought his face to touch his uncle’s legs and bawled like a whipped puppy.

Aunt Marie, her face as flushed as Zachary’s, quietly left the room. Moments later she was locked in the bathroom.

Other stories you might like

In the farmhouse

Don’t bully our mum

Two brothers

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com