My Drunken Nephew

z used drawing brush hold otk (4)

 

“What that boy needs is a damn good spanking!”

That’s what the Police Constable said to me as he delivered my eighteen-year-old nephew drunk as a skunk to my doorstep the other week.

The police officer told me Denny had been out around the town with his mates and they all had a skin full of beer. That’s when the trouble started. They were running and shouting through the town centre, urinating in shop doorways and just making life as unpleasant as possible for everyone.

The police officer explained that kids like Denny were a right pain in the arse, so they should be given one in return. I got the feeling he used that line on a lot of the parents he delivered drunken kids to. He told me the problem was that there wasn’t much the law could do with louts like Denny. The youths who stole cars or beat people up could get arrested and go to court. They were proper villains. But the courts were too busy to deal with the likes of Denny and there wasn’t much they could do at the police station except give the lads a good telling off and that was no use at all. The only people who might do any good were the parents.

I wasn’t Denny’s father, but I was his guardian. Denny was the son of my brother Alan and his wife Sarah. They had moved with Alan’s work to some god-forsaken place in Africa that nobody had ever heard of, but because Denny was in his final year at school, they all thought it was better if he stayed behind.

It seemed to me like a good idea at the time, and my wife was thrilled. We have two kids of our own. Susan has left home and is working in London and my son Paul is in his second year at university. He’s staying at a small guest house run by a married couple. I met the landlord, Mr Jarvis, once when I dropped off Paul at the beginning of term. Jarvis told me Paul was a delightful tenant and he enjoyed having him at the house. Jarvis reckoned it was all down to discipline. I think he thought I must have tanned Paul’s bottom a few times as a kid.

I didn’t think much of what the policeman said to me about spanking Denny, until a couple of days ago, when I had to suffer a repeat performance. It was a different officer who brought him home this time after Denny and his pals had been up to their old tricks again. This time the officer just dumped him and left, without offering parenting advice.

Maybe they were right, maybe Denny did need a belting or something, but let’s be honest it was hardly likely to happen. Even if I wanted to teach him a lesson, he’s eighteen years old and hardly likely to let me put him across my knee.

Even so, I couldn’t get the idea out of my head. He definitely needed discipline. What could I do? I couldn’t stop his pocket money, I didn’t give him any. He had his own money from a Saturday job at the supermarket. And, I feared that if I tried to ‘ground’ him and stop him going out at night he would only defy me and where would we be then?

No, if there was to be discipline, it needed to be a spanking. But how could I do it?

I knew the basics of how to do it, of course. Who doesn’t? My dad spanked me when I was a kid, but not when I was eighteen. I loved my dad (I still do) and he loved me. I deserved the spanking and I genuinely believe it did me some good.

Just as I genuinely believe a spanking will do Denny some good. He deserved a spanking without doubt, but the problem was how could it be done?

I’ve never spanked anyone in my life. Both my children were well behaved and they were hardly ever naughty. Even as teenagers they didn’t give me and my wife a hard time. Paul was a scholarship boy at a posh grammar school, so maybe they taught him how to behave. His landlord Mr Jarvis was quite wrong to think I had too much to do with Paul’s discipline.

So, how would I go about spanking Denny? Most people know by instinct how to whack an eight-year-old, but how do you do it to a young adult?

I surfed the Internet to see if I could find an answer. You won’t believe this but there are lots of websites out there about spanking. It seems there are adults spanking each other all the time. Often they are about wives spanking their husbands for not doing the chores and such like. Some people do what they call ‘role play’ where one person dresses up as, say, a ‘headmaster’ and another is in short trousers and school uniform ready to get six-of-the-best. Who would believe it?

I didn’t get very far in my search for help with spanking Denny. The websites were for people who wanted to be spanked, not for out-of-control teenagers who definitely did not.

There was one site that gave advice on how to get someone across your knee who didn’t want to go. It seems you stun them by slapping them across the face and while they are figuring out what happened you pull them down over your knee. Alternatively, you pull them by the hair and drag them over the knee that way.

This wouldn’t work with Denny, it looks like it would be test of strength and I’m not betting man but I’m sure Denny would win that one hands down.

But, I could try I suppose. The only other thing would be to get someone strong to help me and we could drag him across a table and then beat his backside black and blue.

But supposing I do get him ‘in position,’ how would I spank him? Whacking him with my hand would be a waste of time and for it to have any chance of being effective the spanking would have to be administered on the bare.

So, I needed an implement. As I say I never used corporal punishment on my children, so I don’t have canes, tawses, paddles and so forth about the house. I would have to use something whose main purpose in life was not to put bruises on buttocks.

The belts I have to hold up my trousers are all thin and no use at all. Slippers are no good. Modern ones have plastic soles and won’t hurt a fly. These days you couldn’t even buy plimsolls, they’re all trainers or ‘sneakers’ as the Americans insist on calling them. They have thick soles and they are so big it’s impossible to get a grip on them so you can take a swing.

We had plimsolls at my school and we feared them. We were a secondary modern and teachers didn’t use the cane, but every one of the male teachers kept a plimsoll ready to whack your backside. You were likely to get it any time up until the end of your fourth year, but after that you got away with bad behaviour. Maybe the teachers were scared of trying to hit the older boys, in case they hit them back.

I think it was different in the physical education classes where the slipper was used right up until a boy left the school. I did hear tell that the sixth-form boys used to whack each other on the bare bum with the slipper as punishment if they played badly in a match: missed an open goal at football, that kind of thing, but that might just be a rumour.

So I needed to find something at home. After walking around each room of the house looking in cupboards and drawers, I found the perfect thing: a clothes brush. It’s about nine inches long, including the handle. It’s a kind of oval shape and two inches wide at its broadest point.   I picked it out of the drawer and was disappointed it didn’t feel very heavy. But, after making sure, my wife was nowhere near to see me, I tested it out by bending over and whacking my own backside with it a couple of times. Even wearing trousers and pants I could feel the thwack of the brush hit home and a warm glow appeared where it connected with my bum.

Good, it could hurt Denny a lot, even on his trousers, but only if I could get a good swing at him. I reckoned if he went across my knee I would have an excellent opportunity to give him some serious buttock-pain.

So, that was the plan, Denny across my knee for a spanking with the clothes brush.

It was only at this point I remembered Alan, my brother. He was Denny’s father, not me. Maybe, he should be the one to administer the spanking; it’s a father’s job (a duty some would say) after all. But that was physically impossible; he was on the other side of the world in Africa. Even so, it was only right that he should know what was going on with his son.

I emailed Alan and told him all about what Denny had been up to: the drunkenness, the urinating in shop doorways and the obnoxious behaviour. I told him what the policeman had said about Denny needing a damn good spanking. I stopped short of telling him I had resolved to do just that the next time there was a ring at the doorbell and it was the police with Denny in tow.

I didn’t hear from Alan for three days and then I received an email from him that astonished me.

Alan was appalled to hear my news; Denny had been in trouble like this before and had promised his dad it would never happen again. It was only because of this promise of better behaviour in the future that Denny had been allowed to stay in England and not accompany his mum and dad to Africa. This was news to me, I hadn’t realised that the family wanted Denny to go with them, but he had resisted, and was only allowed to stay with me on the strict understanding he would be a good boy.

But, it was what Alan wrote next that stopped me in my tracks. Yes, Denny most certainly needed a spanking. He, Alan, had spanked him in the past, and here’s what took my breath away, the most recent spanking was earlier this year after Denny had been drunk and obnoxious.

And, Alan, continued, would I mind awfully spanking Denny now for the past two offences. He knew I probably hated the idea and never spanked my own kids etc etc, but, obviously, Alan couldn’t do it himself.

I should, Alan, said, make Denny take down his trousers and underpants and bend across my knee. He then advised that I whack the bare backside until it was a dark shade of cherry. Don’t be worried, he advised, if Denny’s buttocks bruise, they did this quite easily, but the bruises went away after a day or two.

And, the implement I should use:  a bath brush. A bath brush? That idea hadn’t occurred to me, but I knew that the one we had was a flimsy plastic effort that would break in two the first time I whacked it across Denny’s hide.

Alan, finished his email by saying that if I consented, he would send an email to Denny instructing him to accept whatever punishment I chose without fuss, or he (Denny) would be on the next plane to Africa.

Emails flew across continents at the speed of thought and later that day Denny and I were in the lounge of my house. It’s a modern room, dominated by a picture window affording a view of a typical English garden: that is a lawn with flower beds. All very conventional, as was the room itself which had a suite made up of a Chesterfield couch and two gargantuan leather chairs, with footrests and rockers.

None of the chairs were particularly suitable for the job in hand so I brought one in from the kitchen. No arms, a straight back and just the right height for me to take Denny across my knee.

Denny stood in front of me, head bowed, choosing not to meet my eye. I hadn’t realised it until now, but I had never really looked at the boy before and it was as if I saw him for the first time. He was about five-eight or five nine, slim in build, probably a bit of an athlete since he didn’t appear to have enough spare fat on his body to fry a sausage.  With his head bowed, I had a perfect view of the top of his head. He had very dark hair, slightly waved and it looked a mess. It probably cost a small fortune at the barber to affect such a style.

Quietly I told him to look at me and I began to tell him all his misdeeds. He looked at me square in the face and told me he was sorry; he had been a bad boy; he would mend his ways. His open face was almost angelic. I wondered if the girls called him ‘cute’. Butter would not melt in this boy’s mouth. Who would not believe him? I nearly fell for it, but I knew he had probably said all of this before to his dad and the moment dad was out of the way Denny was back in the pub and causing mayhem. Either he was congenitally unable to keep a promise, or he told bare-faced lies. And as boys over the centuries have learned: bare-faced lies can lead to bare-bottomed spankings.

I let him say what he had to say, all the time looking at him standing, hands behind his back, every inch the contrite naughty schoolboy. But there was something a little odd about him. It was the way he was dressed. He wore short trousers about two inches above the knee, tight at the waist (he needed no belt to keep them up) in some kind of military green colour. He wore the shorts with long grey socks pulled up to an inch below the knee. The outfit was completed by a dark blue and light blue checked shirt, with long sleeves and unbuttoned at the neck.

It made him look younger and more boyish than he really was. It also looked like he had stepped out of the pages of history, maybe from the 1940s. He was in all probability dressed in the height of today’s fashion, what would I know?

And me? I’m not quite fifty, thickening up a bit at the waist, but not gone to seed. My hair is receding, but you couldn’t say I was bald. I was dressed as I always am when not at work in brown corduroy trousers with turn-ups; a white shirt with a military striped tie, topped off with a jacket from an old suit of mine where the trousers had long ago worn away and been discarded. Light blue socks and brown brogue shoes completed my ensemble. Come to think of it, sartorially Denny and I were probably made for each other.

The preliminaries were over. I sat in the kitchen chair back upright and feet planted firmly on the ground, just as illustrated in one of the websites I had visited.

“All right let’s get on with this,” I said calmly. I’d read you weren’t supposed to bark out orders like a sergeant-major. Denny looked up at me, with no real change of expression. He was still contrite and not seemingly in any way afraid.

“Please take down your trousers,” I said, maybe taking the website instructions a little too literally. Denny looked down at his midriff and found the clasp that was fastening the waistband of his short trousers and unhitched it. To my surprise the short trousers had a four buttoned fly rather than a zipper. The short trousers fell to his feet. He wasn’t wearing shoes and I could see that he wasn’t sure if he should step out of the short trousers altogether.

“You may leave them where they are,” I said. I noticed he was wearing white briefs, presumably part of the ‘1940s’ look. “Now come here please and bend over my knee.” Denny did as instructed without hesitation. He approached from my right took one step, put his hands forward and leaning against my left leg lowered himself over. I was surprised how heavy he was. Not that he was fat, but I suppose I had forgotten that no eighteen-year-old boy was going to be featherweight in this position.

Denny settled himself into position without instruction. He was clearly more experienced in this situation than me. He placed both palms about three feet apart on the parquet floor in front of him. He leaned forward making me lower my left leg to accommodate him. He wriggled slightly, not in an attempt to escape punishment, but in order to raise his bottom higher, with the groove below his stomach resting on my right leg. I noticed his white briefs fitted him like a second skin, there were no wrinkles. A combination of expensive designer pants and a pert and muscular bottom combined to make the perfect target for a spanking.

But we weren’t ready yet. The spanking was to be on the bare. I learned from the websites that the spanker should always be the one to bare the bottom (don’t ask the lad being punished to pull his own pants down). You had to ‘talk’ the underwear down. That is you grasp hold of the waistband and when the lad realises its bare bum time you say something like, “Oh you weren’t expecting this? Well. I hope you’re feeling ashamed,” Or, “But it’s not a proper spanking unless it’s on the bare.”

I went for the first option. It must have sounded daft to Denny who knew all along he was going to get it on the naked bum.

I took hold of the top of his pants, but with him prone on top of me it was harder to remove them than I expected. I tugged at them until it was clear that I could move the back of the pants down a bit, but if I was going to take them down to the knees, which was my intention, I would need to pull the front of the pants down too. I was beginning to wonder if I should order him to stand up and pull down his own pants after all, when Denny came to the rescue. He lifted his body up enough from my knees to allow me to slide the pants down. Mission accomplished.

And, now I had Denny bare-bottomed across my knee. I am far from an expert on men’s bare bottoms, but I did think something was wrong here. It was just too smooth. The skin was smooth and the bottom round and there wasn’t a hair to be seen. Without thinking I placed my right hand on his right buttock and caressed it. No, I was sure there was not a hair to be felt.

As my hand moved across his bottom I moved the flesh a little and there, hardly visible at first I saw something suspicious. With my curiosity aroused by this I rubbed a little bit harder on both buttocks and it was unmistakable: there were some very faint thin lines running the width of his buttocks. Surely, only one thing could have caused such marks: Denny had been given a caning some time recently and the welts had not quite cleared away. At first thought this was probably not unexpected given Denny’s record as a naughty boy, but caning was abolished in schools here about twenty-five years ago, long before Denny was even born.

I decided now was not the time to ask questions about previous punishments, I had my own task to perform. With my left hand I reached for the tail of the boy’s shirt and pushed it four or five inches further up his back. His pants were resting at his knees and he was naked from there to almost his shoulders, I had my target.

I raised the brush and brought it down on his left buttock, then again on the right. I had learned that you should start a spanking softly and build up a momentum until the whacks were reigning down hard. I couldn’t quite remember why now. I did know that Alan had told me to beat him until he was the colour of deep cherry. WHACK! WHACK! I set about my task.

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

Denny was taking it magnificently, I thought. His bum was turning a darker red now and his breathing was harder. He was in some pain, I assumed, but he wasn’t about to show it to me. I’d read that once you started the spanking you had to keep on going silently until you were ready to finish. By ‘silently’ I mean you didn’t keep scolding the naughty boy, he might want to be noisy, hollering for you to stop and so on and that was to be expected, encouraged even. But apart from the breathing Denny was taking it stoically.

From my vantage point way above him I looked down at his head. His hair was flopped over his eyes, a fringe falling towards the floor. I saw a silent grimace as my brush hit his buttocks time and again. He screwed his eyes a little in pain, but no sound came from his lips and no tear from his eye.

I remembered what I’d read on the websites: start gently and work your way up to a climax (so to speak). Now was the time to move up a couple of gears. I raised the brush as far above my head as I could and with all my strength brought it crashing down.

Yeowwwwww! Victory. I repeated the move. Again, and again and again. Bruises were forming on both of Denny’s buttocks. Bang! Bang! Bang! Now it was his thighs, then the tops of his buttocks, then the fleshy bit in the middle. Denny was yelping in genuine pain. His legs were kicking out and he was wriggling from side to side across my laps like he was trying to do the crawl swimming stroke.

At last I had him. I just kept on whacking. I thought at any moment he would break free and probably run from the room. But, I hadn’t realised how much he did not want to be sent off to Africa. I whacked him and whacked him. It hurt, he hated it, he was in agony now, but he stayed in position the best that he could.

The buttocks were cherry now – all over, apart that is from the bits that were deep blue with bruises.  Whack! Whack! on and on I went.

He was sobbing now, uncontrollably and it seemed at least without shame. We were on the home straight but not at the finishing line quite yet.

I broke the Internet rule and started scolding him. Whack! That’s for all the people you insulted when you were drunk. Whack! That’s for the people who had to clean up your filth after you urinated in their doorways. Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! That’s for all the police you swore at. Whack! Whack! Whack! That’s for bringing police to my front door and shaming us with the neighbours Whack! Whack! Whack! That’s for all the bad things you have done, that I never got to find out about.

Whack! Whack! Whack! That’s to remind you that I have permission from your father to spank you whenever I feel you need it and if you don’t obey me you’re on the next plane to Africa.

Whack! Whack! Whack!

He was gone. Sobbing into the parquet floor. Broken. I stopped, but I didn’t let him stand. I left him there across my lap, his once lily-white bottom scarred, bruised and blistered. He was still kicking his legs, I’m not sure why. I’d stopped hitting him some time ago.

I left him there a few more moments and let him up. His face was as red as his backside. Snot was running down his chin. Unsteadily on his feet he reached down and pulled up his pants and short trousers.

I sat in my chair the clothes brush still in my hand. How were you supposed to end a session? I couldn’t remember reading anything about that. My father would have walked silently from the room and next day told me he loved me.

I didn’t have to worry about this for long. As soon as he was dressed, Denny was straight out the room and I could hear him running up the stairs to his room.

I rose, picked up the chair and took it back to the kitchen where it belonged. I put the brush in the drawer of the kitchen table and put the kettle on. I needed a cup of tea.

Later, I would email Alan to tell him how it went.

But, I wasn’t sure if I’d mention the cane marks.

 

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

A Teen’s Tale

Was I a typical teenager? I think so. Certainly I was no different from my friends. We couldn’t stand adults; our parents, schoolmasters, the vicar at church. We didn’t think they had much to tell us.

We spent a lot of our time just hanging around in groups “having a laugh.” There was a particular bus stop just outside of town that was our meeting place. Buses didn’t run much after about seven o’clock so we weren’t usually disturbed. We’d buy (or sometimes steal) bottles of cheap cider and get rowdy drunk. If a passer-by complained, we’d soon chase them off: law-abiding citizens are easily cowed by drunken teenagers.

I had just turned eighteen and was close to leaving school. My dad had just been promoted at work and was now a factory manager, but it meant he had to move to a town about a hundred miles away. I didn’t want to go; I’d have to leave all my mates and I hated my parents so much I was pleased to see the back of them. But, I still had a few months left at school so I couldn’t get a job and find a place of my own to live.

My Uncle Alistair and Aunt Alice stepped in and said I could stay with them until I left school. I hated them us much as my mum and dad, but I had no choice. She was such a stuck up cow who always thought she was a cut above the rest of us. Her father worked in an office, while my family were mostly factory workers. Uncle Alistair was a jobbing builder, so I don’t know she had much to crow about. They only lived a couple of streets away, so I wouldn’t lose my friends and my life wouldn’t change much: worse thing.

I went to the local grammar school, so that suited her social pretensions. I didn’t like school much, but had a knack for passing examinations without doing much work and my parents made me stay on into the sixth form. Another reason I hated them. I didn’t like being bossed around, and if you don’t like being bossed around, you should not be at grammar school.

There are so many useless, pointless, rules. I loathed wearing school uniform; you could see us coming from a mile off in our pink blazers. We even had to wear short trousers until the end of the third form: fourteen-year-old boys in short trousers, no other school in town humiliated their pupils like that. And, don’t get me started on the stupid school caps they forced us to wear.

I hated the “masters” as we had to call them. Most of them had been at the school since Adam was a lad and had never done a proper day’s work in their lives. They wouldn’t last an hour at dad’s factory. They thought they were proper Christian gentlemen and decided the boys at the school should be too. Nobody ever asked me. I skipped chapel once; I was eighteen and decided I could make my own mind up about God and Jesus and all that. There was Hell to pay.

I was found out of course, I knew I would be. We were always answering to roll calls, having our names taken, masters checking that we hadn’t absconded. It was a caning offence, but I reckoned that sixth-formers were immune from the stick, even at that school.

My headmaster soon corrected me on that idea. I didn’t get thrashed that time, but he told me if I skipped chapel again he would whop me himself. I had to write a two thousand word essay on why Jesus was important in my life. Two thousand words! Believe me I would have preferred the cane to that any day: trousers down; pants down, six strokes, twelve: anything but that essay.

One thing I did like about being in the sixth-form was the power it gave me over the younger boys. They were terrified of me. It was only a few years earlier that the headmaster had taken away the prefect’s power to spank the younger boys. I would have loved to parade around the school, gym plimsoll in hand, able to whack the arse of any boy I fancied.

In my time the best we could do was to hand out ‘punishment slips’ which the boy took to his form master. When the boy collected three slips he was beaten. It wasn’t the same as the plimsoll, but the boys knew I scattered slips like confetti so it came pretty close.

You didn’t have to be in the sixth to be a bully. One thing I loved to do when I was about fifteen or sixteen was to beat up on the sissies; those boys who were a little bit different from the rest of us. They were easy targets, scared of their own shadows most of them. They would never defend themselves. There was one lad (I forget his name now: Kevin? Keith? Karl?) who I loved to push around. You only had to touch him and he would fall to the ground and curl up into a little ball. He was crying before I ever got the first kick in. I took his lunch money most days – it helped to pay for the cider and my smokes.

With my parents out of the way I tried it on a lot with my aunt and uncle. I skimped on my homework, lazed around in my bedroom most of the day; that was when I wasn’t out with my friends hanging round the bus stop and haranguing old folk going about their business.

The final straw for pious Aunt Alice was that I stopped going to church. It’s not that I refused to go: there was no argument, no discussion even, I just stopped going and that for me was the end of the matter. Not so for my aunt and uncle. Aunt Alice in particular berated me for non-attendance and was rewarded by my most hostile indifference.

Maybe that was the point at which they decided I needed a damned good hiding, but if it was, they put it off for another week or so.

I finally found myself with a red backside one Wednesday in June. It was a school night and as had become my habit, I would return from school, get out of that horrid uniform and wait in my bedroom playing records at full volume until it was time to eat. My aunt often implored me to turn down the noise, but the more she showed her dislike, the more determined I became to annoy her.

Meal times were always strenuous times. Looking back on it I wonder if my aunt and uncle weren’t going through a difficult patch in their lives: surely, I thought at the time they must have been bored to tears with their pathetic mundane lives. They definitely found it difficult to communicate with one another and impossible to do so with me. I made no concessions to them: any question they asked me would be returned with a one word answer, or just a grunt.

When tea was over I would almost immediately disappear out the door, never telling them where I was going, who I would be with and what time I would be back.

Eventually, Aunt Alice imposed a curfew: I should be home by nine-thirty at the latest on school nights and ten at the weekend.

Yeah right, I thought. I didn’t say it out loud, there was no need to. I had no intention of sticking to her stupid new rules. To Hell with the both of them, what right did they have to order me about!

The very same night I rolled home drunk at past eleven o’clock. Nobody was up. Emboldened by this, two days later I missed curfew again.

At breakfast the morning after I skipped curfew for the third time, Uncle Alastair simply informed me that he had been keeping watch and if I was late ever again there would be “dire consequences.”

So, naturally, I took this as a challenge and even though it was a quiet night at the bus stop and most of my mates returned to their homes early, that night I walked the streets alone for another hour to make sure I wouldn’t get back home before eleven.

I could see the lights were on in the living room as I approached the house. As I turned the key in the lock I heard Uncle Alastair call.

“In here. Now!”

Sullenly, I slouched into the room, with the most disrespectful expression on my face that I could assemble. My uncle was alone, he looked very tired indeed, of course it was way past his bedtime. I can’t be sure if he had prepared a little speech for me, but if he had he muffed his lines. He was incoherent with anger but “brazen”, “audacious” “insolent”, “disrespectful” and “rude” were some of the words that faltered from his mouth.

He was impatient for me to respond but I said nothing. Who cared what he thought, the miserable little man.

His lecture at an end, Uncle Alistair commanded, “Go upstairs, have a wash, clean your teeth, put on your pyjamas and then come back down here, and be quick about it.”

Corporal punishment was imminent: I knew the tell-tale signs; I’d been spanked often enough at home by my father. I trudged upstairs and as I spread the Pepsodent on my toothbrush I wondered what uncle would do to me. My dad’s preferred method of torture was the razor strop. He would make me take down my trousers to my ankles and I would have to lay face down on the bed with two pillows under my stomach so my bum was high to meet the lash of the leather. I kept my hands well clear of the target while he raised the strop back over his own shoulder, took aim and whipped it down into the seat of my underpants. The pain was immense, but I soon learned not to wriggle about. If he missed my bum and hit the bare flesh at the back of my thighs I wouldn’t be able to stand for a week, let alone sit down.

“Hurry up!” It was uncle, as impatient as ever.

I rubbed a wet cloth across my face and hurried into the bedroom, quickly stripped off my clothes and stepped into my pyjamas. I was still tying up the drawstring of the bottoms as I descended the stairs.

Uncle Alistair and Aunt Alice were waiting for me in the living room. I gave her my most disrespectful stare. So the snooty mare was going to witness my spanking was she?

I quickly glanced around the room but could see no obvious implement of punishment. Uncle was wearing no belt. Did my aunt have a hairbrush in her apron pocket? Was he going to smack me with his hand?

He gave me a short sermon about manners and disobedience and even managed to bring God into it. Then he hopped on one leg, bent down and removed one of his bedroom slippers.

It was all over in a flash. He grabbed me by the left arm, quickly untied the string on my pyjama trousers and they easily fell to my knees. Then, unceremoniously he took me by the scruff of the neck and pushed me over the back of the worn-out sofa. Then there was a frenzied attack with the slipper on my bare bottom.

I was indignant. The sod didn’t believe I would present myself for a spanking. Who did he think I was? Corporal punishment was common in those days and we boys had an unspoken code of conduct. We often misbehaved and sometimes we were very bad indeed. We got away with it a lot, but when we were caught we accepted it. So we would submissively sprawl across a knee, bend over a chair or sofa or spread ourselves across the dining room table. We would be on the painful receiving end of the slipper, belt, razor strop, hairbrush, hand or cane. And we would take it like troopers.

Next day we would report back to our mates; often displaying the cuts and bruises to our admiring friends. Then, like film critics, we would award ‘stars’ for the best performances. My father always got the top five stars for the deep welts on my poor bum.

Uncle Alistair loosened his grip on my neck and I struggled to my feet. My buttocks were a little sore, but it was nothing compared to my father’s beatings. I said nothing, but I hoped my look of utter contempt told its own story.

I didn’t wait to be dismissed; I pulled up my pyjamas and went to my room. My bum wasn’t very sore, but there was a tingle that soon disappeared. There would be no marks to show the next day, not that I would tell the others. We were eighteen years old now and I doubted if their dads were still spanking their bottoms at that age.

….

z used drawing cane master (18)

I was counting the days until I could leave school. The examinations were a little over a month away and then I would be free. I had all but given up on my studies. I still attended school (there were many opportunities to bully the younger boys), but took no interest and did as little homework as possible.

I was idling around the sixth-form common room one day, shortly after my run-in with Uncle Alistair, when the sixth-form form master approached.

“See me in my study immediately after school,” he was a man of few words and he swept away, the tail of his tattered schoolmaster’s gown flapping, before I could ask what it was all about.

It could have been about anything. If there was a rule to break, I was likely to break it. Even as I sat pondering, I knew I had in my pocket a packet of illicit cigarettes, paid for with money I had extorted from an eleven-year-old first-former who was desperate not to get his third punishment slip and the beating that would come with it.

I had more than an hour before I had to obey the summons. I cursed; I had no lessons at this time and was intending to bunk off early. Wearily, I picked up a football magazine that one of the other boys had left behind, sat down and flicked through the pages.

I didn’t want to delay this longer than was absolute necessary. Two minutes after the bell had stopped ringing for end of school my knock on the study door received a haughty response.

“Come!”

It wasn’t so much a schoolmaster’s study as a functioning office. There was a desk and a large padded chair behind, where the form master was seated. A couple of low back chairs were ranged in front of the desk for visitors and apart from that there was a sideboard affair consisting of some cupboards and bookshelves.

I stood facing the desk a foot or two back from the chairs. From this position I could see that they were the ideal height for a boy to bend across. Doubtless, they had been chosen with this purpose in mind.

I still did not know why I had been summoned by the form master. I didn’t have long to wait as he got straight to the point. “slacking”, he called it: a peculiarly old fashioned word for “lazy.” I had not been working hard enough in his classes. I had not submitted homework on time. My marks were falling. He didn’t ask me to respond, but if he had I could only agree with him. I despised my form master. He taught the sixth form poetry and he was lousy at it. I couldn’t understand the point of it (and to this day still can’t). He could not, as we say these days, “motivate” me.

He was a decaying old man and I scorned him for being so old. His liver spots spread from his neck to his face and it had been many years since he stood erect and his stooped shoulders reminded me of a bird. A shock of untidy white hair stuck out from beneath his mortar board and his moustache and beard were as white as his hair. He was the image of the schoolmaster in that film Goodbye, Mr Chips.

Old though he might be, my Mr Chips could still pack a punch with his right arm as I was about to find out.

Once he had read out my crime sheet, he moved straight to sentencing. I swear I heard his bones creak as he slowly raised himself from the chair and shuffled over to the sideboard. Only then did I notice that one of the cupboards was an unusual shape: tall and thin. He opened it and even though his body obscured my view, I could see inside were a number of crook-handled rattan canes. There must have been six or seven of them in varying thicknesses and lengths. I could hear the canes rattling around the cupboard as he searched for the implement he intended to use on me.

Within seconds he had extracted his preferred model and turned to face me. He flexed the cane between his left and his right hand as he gave a little lecture about the need for me to study hard. If I did not have the self-discipline to do this on my own, then he had the perfect remedy: he would impose discipline on me.

I couldn’t take my eyes of that cane. I still don’t know why I was so transfixed by it. I had seen canes before; indeed I had felt them across my backside a few times. This one was deep yellow in colour and was as thick as one of Mr Chips’ bony fingers. It must have been three feet (maybe more) long and flexed easily in the form-master’s hands.

He swished it through the air for effect, if he intended this to intimidate me, he failed. It just made me hate him all the more. This pathetic old man, who couldn’t teach for toffee, was going to beat me because I was not doing well in his class. I was eighteen years old and in a few weeks I would be away from that goddam school forever, but here I was expected to submit myself to Mr Chips so he could whop me with his cane.

I had a choice, of course. Even as I stood watching the cane swish through the air I knew I could refuse to take a beating. I could tell him to stuff it and swagger out of the study. I could do that, but it would be a direct defiance of his authority. The headmaster would be involved and I could rest assured that he wouldn’t be on my side. There would be no two-thousand-word essay (“Why the cane is not an effective punishment for slacking schoolboys”) as an alternative. All I could look forward to was expulsion from the school and the bastards probably wouldn’t let me take my exams.

I only had five more weeks left at this school and I didn’t want to throw away the past two years of misery now.

Mr Chips pointed with his cane to a spot in the middle of the room.

“Bend over and touch your toes.”

I hesitated and he must have read the contempt I had for him in my face because he almost bellowed, “Bend over and touch your toes, this instance!”

I moved to the spot, took a deep breath and placing the palms of my hands on my knees I offered Mr Chips my backside.

Swish!

“Ouch!” I yelled and stood bolt upright, squeezing my hand under my armpit. Mr Chips had lashed his cane across my knuckles.

“When I say touch your toes boy, I mean touch your toes. Now, bend right down.”

I blew on my knuckles, parted my legs a little, bent at the waist, and stretched my fingers so that the tips rested against the toe caps of my shoes. A thick stripe across the back of my left hand was turning blue.

I was quite a fit lad at the time and was able to keep in place without much effort, but there was pressure against the back of my knees.

Looking through my parted legs I saw Mr Chips approach me and then I could feel him take hold of my pink blazer and push it up my back away from the target area. Then he rolled up my jumper a little, giving him an unobscured view of the grey trousers, now stretched across my buttocks. Still not satisfied, he took hold of my shirt and pulled it so that the tail came away from the waistband, then he did the same thing with my vest. I felt a cool breeze blow across the inch or so of now bare flesh at the base of my back.

Finally, he grabbed the waistband of my trousers and tugged so that any wrinkles were smoothed from the cloth.

Then he took my arse off.

He had the strength of an ox. With no interval between cuts, he lashed down six stingers across the very centre of my buttocks each one landing very close to, and sometimes right on top of, others already delivered.

It took my breath away. Quite literally. I was gasping and stifling yells at the same time. It was all over in about twenty seconds, six whacks crashing down one after the other. I buckled a little, but just about managed to stay in position. No matter the agony I was suffering, I was not going to stand up and give him the pleasure of inflicting extra strokes.

It was over. I stayed looking at my scuffed shoes awaiting his permission to stand. My backside was throbbing. It must have been red raw and I could feel welts had formed across my bum. I had been caned before, but this beating was not like anything I had endured previously. I so much wanted to run away to the bogs, sit down on a lavatory pan and pull the flush so the cold water could soothe my aching buttocks.

Eventually he said, “Stand up, boy. Stand there.” I rose and moved to a spot in front of the form-master’s desk. I could not look him in the eyes. I had despised him when I entered the study and I hated him even more now, but my contempt was mixed with the intense pain in my arse. I did not want him to know he had hurt me.

He wrote some words in the punishment book and handed it to me to sign.

Then to add to my fury, he said, “If you fail to get at least an Alpha-minus in the essay I set the form today, you will be back here for another thrashing. Is that clear?”

It was, and I was. No number of beatings could make me good at poetry.

Picture Credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

My Belligerent Nephew

after white pantz down (2)

I dashed upstairs to the bedroom and, having decided on the appropriate instrument of punishment, fought through the clothes hanging on the rail to find the old, slim, lighter junior cane with its traditional crook handle which had lain unused for several years.

This would do the job very well, I knew and I flexed the rod between my hands. I have many canes, all of varying lengths and thicknesses. Some could inflict the severest damage to a naughty boy’s behind. This was not one of my fiercest: it would deliver a sting and would leave my nephew with a sore behind, which was my intention, but as this was to be his first-ever caning, it would not be right to rip his bum to shreds.

Satisfied with my choice, I slowly descended the stairs and returned to the sitting room where I had left Stanley, my belligerent eighteen-year-old nephew. I half expected that he would have run from the house while I was on my errand fetching the cane, but he had not. Perhaps, he had resigned himself to his fate.

Stanley was the son of my youngest brother Jack. Jack was working abroad for a year and had left him in my care. The boy only had a matter of months left at school before his examinations and he agreed it was sensible that he did not travel with his family.

I suspect that he might have regretted that choice. I am very different from Jack; where he is easy going with his children, I am not with mine. If you were to ask me I’d say his kids run wild, they are lazy, selfish and have no respect for others. My children are virtuous and kind, they respect authority and are hard working. In short, Jack’s children are ill disciplined and mine are not. And, the reason for that lay in my hands: the cane.

Stanley got off to a bad start with me: he had no concept of curfew, nor did he consider it his job to do chores around the house. So, he came home at all hours of the night as he chose and the vacuum cleaner never left its moorings in the cupboard under the stairs.

I tried to put a stop to this by imposing the exact rules that had worked so well with my own children. Homework completed by nine o’clock each night. He must be home no later than ten and all chores were to be done to a set timetable.

Stanley seemed pathologically incapable of sticking to rules. I did wonder if he got some excitement from defying me. I knew all about teenage rebellion. I had seen it with my own boys, but a few strokes with one of my stoutest canes soon put a stop to that.

I had ample evidence that caning boys worked. It had succeeded with my own children and it would work with Stanley. One night I sat him down and went through with him all the rules one more time. He knew them already, but I had devised a plan and I wanted to make certain he was in no doubt about what was expected from him.

“If you obey the rules, nothing will happen, but if you break any of them from now on I shall cane you on your bare bottom.” I wanted him to understand he had crossed an important line. The caning wasn’t only a means of delivering an especially severe spanking; it was a symbol of my anger and disappointment.

Stanley who had deceptively cherubic looks rolled his eyes in distain when I announced this and shook his head making his thick curly (and too long) black hair lash about; but mostly he stayed silent. I saw immediately from his body language that he was unwilling to accept this news, but he did not argue the point with me.

“Do you understand what I have just said,” I felt we were entering into a formal contract and I wanted to hear him at least acknowledge the fact.

“Do you?” I asked again and received a sneered “Yeah” for my troubles. He left the room almost immediately and I thought I heard him say “Fuck you” under his breath. I knew I had not heard the last of this.

I was not the least surprised when two days later – it was a Saturday evening – he failed to meet his 10 pm curfew.

He rolled in at close to midnight and ‘rolled’ in this case is an appropriate word. He had obviously been drinking and seemed to me to be the worst for it. I admonished him for missing his curfew and sent him to bed with the words, “As I said I should, tomorrow I shall cane you on your bare bottom,” ringing in his ears. He now knew he could expect a severe beating for his disgraceful behaviour and could spend the rest of the night anticipating his first encounter with the cane.

And that was how he came to be standing in the sitting room that morning with me brandishing a thin ‘junior’ rattan cane.

“Do you know what that is, young man?”

“It’s a, it’s… a cane,” Stanley finally whispered.

“What did I say would happen if you did not obey the rules?” It sounded like a rhetorical question, but it was not. I wanted the lout to acknowledge his wrong-doing.

After much hesitation, he replied, “You said you’d cane me.”

“I said I would cane you on your bare bottom and that is precisely what I shall do.”

For the first time Stanley’s arrogance and self-confidence crumpled. Ashen faced, he gazed plaintively at me, opened his mouth to protest, but was immediately silenced by my penetrating gaze of authority.

I spoke to him plainly and recounted the many times he deliberately, wilfully, disobeyed the rules. He listened to my lecture with downcast eyes. He knew he’d done wrong, and he knew he was going to be punished for it.

“I’ve always said there’s a direct link between a boy’s brain and his bottom and what won’t sink in through one end can be drummed through the other. I can see you father hasn’t been drumming you hard enough. I’m going to make up for that today.”

He stood in front of me as I explained why he was to get a caning. Then I told him to turn around and drop his trousers and pants. I think that’s a critical step, because then a boy is effectively participating in his own beating, silently presenting his backside for punishment.

I’m sure like most boys, especially older ones, he would hate the cane, not only because of its searing pain but also because it breaks through his defences, makes him forget he’s a tough teenager and causes him to revert to being a little boy, heaving under an adult’s hand, wailing in remorse, letting the flood of tears wash over him.

Stanley stood his ground. I had expected a fight, and was prepared if the need arose to force him over the dining room table and lash into his backside as best I could.

I repeated, “Take down your trousers and underpants. Do it immediately or I shall do it for you myself. If you make me do that, believe me I shall thrash you to within an inch of your life.”

He must have believed I could fulfil my threat as with fumbling hands he undid the belt to his jeans. Then he popped the rivet at his lean, bony waist, pulled his zipper and lowered them to his knees. Then, with what I thought was a defiant gesture, he placed this thumbs inside the waistband of his pants and with a swift flick sent them travelling across his slim hips towards his jeans. Modestly he placed his hands in front of him to shield his cock and balls from my sight.

“Bend over that table,” I flicked my cane to emphasis my order. I understand how difficult it is for a strong-willed boy to submit to a caning rather than fight it, but I couldn’t afford to leave him any option other than to submit. The table was ideal for young men to position themselves across for a caning. Its surface was hard and cold and it offered none of the comfort of the back of the settee. Stanley would be required to take a firm grip on its hard edges to retain the correct position for a severe caning, and the teenager’s legs would need to be kept very straight and well parted throughout the entire caning.

Stanley stared at the table, unable to look at me, for what seemed an age. I could see he was steeling himself for the ordeal that was to come. Eventually he found the fortitude to lean forward across the table, his bottom pointing upwards towards me. His height and the small table made the position uncomfortable. He put his right ear on the table, then after a moment turned and put the left one on it. A little later he rested his chin on the top and sighed, while no doubt looking about as best he could.

“Bend forward. Nose to the table.” He shuffled a little until his bottom was offered up sufficiently well for me to administer his thrashing.

A rounded and vulnerable bottom was on display and waiting to be caned. I intended to teach this naughty boy and his backside a lesson they would remember. He really had a big ‘bubble butt,’ one that seemed to beg for a caning.

As Stanley’s bum was exposed sufficiently, there was no need for me to step forward and fold back his shirt; but I did it anyway. His body was now naked from his shoulders to his ankles.

He was now submissive, in position to allow me to thrash him any way I wished. I could not resist adding to his humiliation. “I don’t go easy on first timers. You will learn what a proper caning is like so that you won’t be tempted to break the rules again. You may howl as much as you like but if you stand up or move out of position, you will get two extra strokes each time.”

I didn’t expect a reply and didn’t get one. I took up my position. I do not go in for flexing and swishing before a punishment, for that is unnecessary mental torture. I silently took aim, without touching or tapping the target, then lifted high, and swung rather like a golfer, with a lot of waist movement, bringing the cane down across the middle of Stanley’s bottom. The rod drew a vivid stripe across the bare cheeks. I hoped the pain was hideous.

Stanley cried out between gritted teeth. His back arched, his eyes closed and his face screwed up in agony as he felt the effect of that first blow.

I couldn’t help but give a sermon. “This is not, I’m sure I don’t have to remind you, supposed to be a pleasant experience. It is supposed to be horrible and unendurable, the kind of thing you would want to go out of your way to avoid in future.”

I was delighted with the first stroke: a good stripe is one that fully covers both of the boy’s cheeks, so causing maximum sting and I felt I had achieved this and I intending to repeat the success. I took up position again to the boy’s left, lined up the cane, lifted it back high over my shoulder and then I let loose. God that crack, how did he manage to hold position? The line was white at first then quickly turned red. Now, he had two red lines in parallel. He moved slightly, his chest was heaving and he wriggled his bottom.

I waited for perhaps thirty seconds to let the pain travel from my nephew’s buttocks through the entire length of his body. Then I tapped Stanley’s bottom this time just below the second stroke before methodically taking the cane right back and bringing it back down with great speed to strike exactly where I had wanted – half an inch below that second stripe. Stanley gasped as the third line of undiluted pain penetrated all the nerve ends in his trim bottom and his feet drummed against the floor.

Soon the eighteen-year-old lout had six very prominent welts, turning blue/black. The agony must have been spreading throughout his body, blinding him to all else.

I had not announced to Stanley how many strokes I had intended to deliver. It is, I suppose, traditional to inflict six-of-the-best in such circumstances. I could clearly see that the six strokes I had lashed down into his bared buttocks so far had a considerable effect on the boy. He was crying uncontrollably, sobbing, and shaking.

However, his offences had been many and some grave. I could not be sure that six strokes would be sufficient to drive home to him the enormity of his crimes, and more to the point, to ensure perfect behaviour from this day forward.

Since this was Stanley’s first-ever caning I supposed that he had never before in his life imagined such pain, but was this experience enough for him to resolve never to undergo it again?

I could not be certain, so I resolved to carry on for the full dozen. I drew back and three strokes thumped low down into his bum in rapid succession. I knew that these low strokes would be felt every time the boy sat down for days serving as a constant reminder not to disobey me.

I landed number ten higher up, before changing my stance and lashing number eleven across the full swell of his bottom, cutting across several earlier welts. Stanley roared and his bottom gyrated as he took this hardest stroke yet. Number twelve was delivered again in a diagonal stripe; this time from the opposite corner ensuring his buttocks resembled a hot cross bun pattern.

“That will do, I hope you have learned your lesson,” I said, meaning that the thrashing had concluded. Stanley did not move. He was in great distress and I supposed he had not heard me, or perhaps had not fully understood the importance of my words.

I tried again, “You can stand up when you are ready.”

Still he made no effort to get up. He must have been so sore that he didn’t want to (or couldn’t) move.

“Hurry up! I haven’t got all day. Do you want me to cane you some more?”

That last threat did the trick and Stanley, utterly defeated, hauled himself to his feet and began rubbing his glowing backside and the swelling of each weal.

Once more I scolded him about his disobedience and attitude. He promised to be very, very good the way that most freshly caned boys will promise just about anything. Without asking my permission (but I let that go this time) he bent down and in obvious agony pulled up first his cotton briefs and then his denim jeans over his toasted bottom. He was still shaking from the force of his thrashing and I thought it best to dismiss him instantly. He didn’t need telling twice and he dashed from the room and hurtled up the stairs to his bedroom to inspect his tenderised rump.

Thinking about it later, I thought the caning worked very well. My nephew had demonstrated self-control and submission to my authority by allowing me to thrash his naked bottom. I could see there was hope for him yet. He had promised to obey me in future, now we would see if he was able to keep that promise.

Picture credit: Unknown

 

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

 

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Uncle Jack

z used after jeans endart

Uncle Jack fumbled with his key, his anger had not calmed. Never in his whole life had he felt to humiliated. All his friends, the neighbours too would be laughing behind his back.

At the third attempt his key entered the lock, he turned it and in a rage pushed against the door. It flew open. He paused to catch his breath. A coat hung on a hook in the hall, still wet. So, Tony was home. Uncle Jack gulped in a deep breath. He kicked the door closed and headed for the sitting room. Deserted. His brat of a nephew must be upstairs. Lying on his bed. Oblivious to what was in store for him.

Uncle Jack surveyed the room. It was quite large for a semi-detached house and sparsely furnished. A sofa and two easy chairs dominated. A hard straight-backed chair that belonged with the dining table in the next room was against a wall. A chest of drawers sat in a corner. Uncle Jack strode towards it and pulled the top drawer. It opened with a tremendous rattle. His temper had still not abated.

He looked inside. Good. He had found what he needed. He reached in a gripped a large, heavy wooden clothes brush. Ideal, he thought. He turned walked back across the room, his heart pounding. He took hold of the straight-backed chair and manhandled it into the middle of the room. He placed the chair on its seat. He was ready.

He walked to the bottom of the stairs, took a deep breath and bellowed, “Tony, get yourself down here. Now!” Uncle Jack stood a little over six feet tall in his stockinged feet. He was broad at the shoulders and flabby at the waist. His arms were strong befitting a man who had spent most of his working life on building sites.

“Tony!” he called once more. “Don’t make me have to come up there!” Uncle Jack’s voice boomed. Tony had been lodging with his uncle for a little over a week. If he had learned anything in that short time, it was not to ignore his uncle. He hurriedly slipped his cock back inside his pants, zipped up his jeans and shuffled to the bedroom door, “Wossup?” he queried.

Uncle Jack’s blood pressure was high, he was in no mood to be messed with. “Get down here and find out. Now!” Tony checked his flies and slowly descended the stairs.

“Get in there,” Uncle Jack swiped his hand across the back of Tony’s head and pushed him towards the sitting room. The nineteen-year-old ducked, raising his arm in defence. “Wossup?” he repeated, “What’ve I done?”

“I’ll tell you what you’ve down,” Uncle Jack’s face was purple. Tony blanched. Whatever it was, it spelt trouble. He stood uncertain, his bright blue eyes shining, his greased black hair sticking out his head at all angles.

“Pissing in the street,” Uncle Jack blurted the words and then stopped dead. Unable to continue. The humiliation was too much. Earlier that day the guys at work has ribbed him mercilessly. His nephew and a gang of louts in the High Street, tanked up with beer, causing mayhem and urinating in shop doorways.

“But Uncle Jack,” Tony blustered. He wanted to say it wasn’t his fault. The pubs were closed, he had a belly full of beer and there were no public toilets open. What was he supposed to do? He wanted to say this but his uncle had started a rant. Shame. Humiliation. Disgrace. On and on, he listed his embarrassment. “And everyone saw you. They knew you were my nephew. They knew you were living with me now. They knew you were my responsibility.” Uncle Jack gulped the words. This was no playacting. He wasn’t putting on the style to show his displeasure. This was genuine. Uncle Jack was mortified.

Tony hopped from one foot to the other. His bright open face flushed with embarrassment. And fear. Embarrassed by his uncle’s openly-expressed emotions; fearful of the old man’s reputation. This would not end well for Tony. Tony’s dad was a weak man, he let his sons get away with ill-discipline all their young lives. Not so Uncle Jack. He believed in discipline; in order. He taught his own sons how to behave. You wouldn’t find them pissing in the streets.

Suddenly, Tony noticed the chair in the middle of the room. It had been moved from its usual resting place. His heart leapt. The heavy, wooden clothes brush rested on the seat. He blinked hard, there was no doubting his uncle’s intention.

Uncle Jack read his nephew’s mind. “It’s entirely up to you. You can pack your bags and leave or you can have a second chance.” He emphasised second chance. It was code for damn good spanking. Tony blinked harder and faster, his brain whirled. He couldn’t move out. He had only just started his job, he had no money. Where could he go? He’d have to give up the job and move back with his mum an dad, fifty miles away. It had taken him nearly a year to find work, he couldn’t go back on the dole.

Uncle Jack believed a spanking should be delivered without any great ceremony. Putting a boy over his knee left him in no doubt about who’s in charge. He picked up the brush and sat down in a straight-backed wooden chair. “Come here,” he spoke softly, “Take down your jeans and pants and bend over my knee.”

Tony froze. He knew he had to go through with this. He must submit himself to his uncle’s will. He had to take his punishment. His brain told him all these things, but his body had other ideas. He stared down at his uncle’s legs and the rolls of fat at his belly. Tony had never been spanked before. How exactly was this done? His uncle seemed so small. Absurdly he found himself wondering, why did the spanking have to be over his knee? There was no way he could fit comfortably in that position. It would make more sense to bend over the back of the settee. That way he could point his bum at his uncle and he would have plenty of space to whack his brush into his bared buttocks.

“Come on, I haven’t got all day.”

Tony’s body woke up. His jeans were tight fitting and needed no belt, so he popped the button at the top of his jeans and pulled the zipper. The front flapped open showing his white underpants. He was surprised at his own calm. Here he was undressing in front of an older man. Baring his backside so Uncle Jack could assault it with a wooden brush. It was absurd.

The jeans trickled down his thighs, he spread his knees and they slithered to his shins. Tony took a deep breath and put his thumbs under the elasticated waistbands of his underpants and with a single movement, pushed both of them down to his knees. Then, in one athletic move he dived across his uncles’s legs. He was so tall that both his hands at the front and his feet at the back touched the carpet. He had to bend his knees slightly so that his bared bottom was raised sufficiently high above his uncle’s right thigh to receive the stinging slaps from the brush.

With Tony’s jeans and pants out of the way, Uncle Jack gripped the teenager’s vest into a ball and yanked it over his back. He was now naked from the shoulders to the knees, revealing a pair of peachy white buttocks that were twitching as they contemplated their fate.

Tony played a lot of football and his bottom was muscular, without being large. It was pert, and joined smoothly with strong, broad thighs and long legs. He had very sparse, fine blond leg hair, with none on his behind. As his uncle pushed the vest up towards the broad shoulders, the tapered torso was revealed, lightly tanned from exposure to the sun.

Uncle Jack sucked in a deep breath, raised the brush and brought it down hard in the centre of Tony’s bum. The boy let out a yelp and tightened his bottom. His uncle whacked the brush down again, this time on the lower part of the cheeks.

The brush being quite large and the teenager’s bottom quite small in comparison, his uncle had already achieved good coverage of what he could see. Anxious to avoid spanking in the same place twice if he could, Uncle Jack tipped Tony towards him and walloped the left side of his bottom and quickly moved him the other way and did the same on the right side.

The whacking quickened, the brush slapped into the naked flesh harder and faster, somehow always catching Tony by surprise, finding fresh flesh to sting. His bottom rose and fell and rolled like waves at sea and despite Tony’s age and size he could feel the heavy, wooden brush roasting his backside. Big red imprints of the oval-headed brush covered the whole of his bottom.

Despite his resolve to take his punishment Tony yelped and struggled but his uncle held him tight, continuing with a steady stream of spanks. Tony felt the downpour of smacks to his bare bottom; they were harder, hotter, faster, and more rapidly biting into his buttocks and thighs. He twisted his head and neck, and leaned back upwards trying to figure out what was branding his bottom. It was his uncles brush, slapping blistering smacks onto and into his bum cheeks and inner and outer thighs.

The teenager shrieked, higher and higher in volume and in pitch and his right hand involuntarily left the floor to defend his rear-end, only to be seized firmly and pulled up behind his back, and held between his shoulder blades for the rest of the onslaught.

Tony’s eyes alternately squinted and widened with shock and pain.  Worse still were his behind and his pride. He was nineteen years old, yet now found himself overturned, sprawled across his uncle’s lap. His face was pushed into the carpet, his right arm held up against his shoulders and his feet and legs thrashing and kicking into the air.

Uncle Jack continued to pound the slipper across his nephew’s backside, and despite his protests and wriggling he held him down and continued. After about another three minutes of continuous swats he stopped and rested the brush across the now frying buttocks.

Tony was still lying there quivering, sobbing and shaking. His uncle reached under his chest and gently, but firmly, lifted him up to stand in front of him. The boy stumbled on trembling, wobbly legs, unable to stand still for shaking and shuddering, and jumping and bouncing up and down. He was doubled over and his hands flew to clasp and rub his fiery buttocks and upper legs. He was a grown man, crying like a five year old.

“Get dressed,” Uncle Jack spoke softly. He watched Tony pull his pants and jeans back to their rightful place. His nephew was still in some distress, clutching the palms of both hands to his burning backside while gritting his teeth.

“You had better go to your room.” Uncle Jack hurled himself to his feet and started to move the chair. Tony didn’t need telling twice, he shot from the room and taking them two at a time, he bounded up the stairs to his room.

Downstairs, Uncle Jack quietly replaced the brush in the drawer. He ambled to the kitchen and switched on the kettle. As he waited for it to boil, he reflected silently: how long would it be before the boner in his pants went limp?

Picture credit: Endart

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Only a glass of wine

z used pants wine glass Endymion Hill

C’mon Uncle Jack it was only a glass of wine

It wasn’t only a glass of wine, it was my wine. Wine I told you not to touch.

B…

And judging by the state of you when I came in last night you had drunk a lot more than one glass of wine.

B…

I told you when I took you in you had to obey my rules. I’m not a soft touch like your dad.

No, but.

But nothing. I’m gonna spank you, like I told you I would.

But Uncle, I’m nineteen.

Yeah, you are nineteen. That’s plenty old enough to be making your own way in the world. Maybe you should just pack your bags and go.

No, Uncle, no.

Then you must accept discipline.

Oh, but Uncle.

Here, look at this. Have you seen it?

What’s that?

I bought it at Aldi. They call it a serving board, but look at it, it’s exactly the same size and weight as a spanking paddle. Like the Americans use.

You’re gonna spank me with a bread board?

Thank your lucky stars I don’t use a cane on you. You can get authentic school canes on eBay. If you don’t learn to behave, I’m going online for next time.

No, Uncle, no.

Stand there, by the table. Quickly. Now take down your jeans.

No Uncle, not my jeans.

Too right. They’re so thick you’d hardly feel a thing. Now, get on with it.

No, Uncle, please.

Do you want me to come over there and do it?

Oh, Uncle.

OK have it your way. Go pack your bags, I want you out of here before ten o’clock.

No, sorry Uncle. Here.

That’s right. Get them right down to your ankles . . . Jeez those pants look lived in. When did you last change them?

Huh?

Disgusting. Now, lift up your shirt and bend over the table . . . Not like that. Lay flat on the table top. Stick your bum out.

Oh, Uncle.

Right. Now don’t say I didn’t warn you. You’ve nobody to blame but yourself.

Ouch! Owww!

Oh don’t be such a baby. I’ve hardly started.

Oww! Oww! Oww!

Keep still. Hold on to the edge of the table.

Owwwwwww!

Stop that! Keep your hands out of the way.

No, Uncle. OOOHHHHHHH!

Get back down. Now! I shan’t tell you again. Do you want extra swats?

Oh Uncle.

So much fuss. And you such a big boy.

Owwww!

Just be thankful I don’t take down your pants and give you a few on your bare buttocks.

No Uncle, No!

Well, behave yourself. Take your punishment like a man.

Owww! Sniff, sniff

Are you crying?

No, Uncle. Owwwwwwww!

 

Picture Credit: Endymion Hill

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Meter Reader

z used paddle jeans chair domestic

The first time I visited the house I failed to notice the large green-and-gold school blazer hanging on a hook in the hallway, but I couldn’t miss the wooden paddle in the cupboard under the stairs.

My heart skipped a beat and my face flushed. It took a super human effort not to pick it up and caress it. It was about two feet long and four inches wide with a handle at one end. It looked all the world like a cricket bat designed for an eight-year-old.

“Ahh, you’ve found my little toy, I see.” An elderly man stood behind me, blocking the light. I can’t remember what I said in reply, but I’m pretty sure I came across as a complete idiot. I shone my torch at the gas meter’s dial, recorded some numbers in my book and made a swift exit, face burning and (frankly) my dick twitching.

I stopped outside the front gate to regain my breath. My head was dizzy and my heart racing. I sucked in a lung full of air and hurried down The Avenue to the next house.

My Uncle Clive used to paddle my backside. Good and hard. I was a difficult kid. I never liked school because I couldn’t see the point. I looked around me and saw my Mum and Dad and the neighbours all had good, steady jobs. The men mostly worked in construction, the women in shops or beauty parlours. We rented a council flat, had a family car and took holidays abroad each year. And I don’t suppose any one of them had a qualification. School, who needed it?

Of course, with an attitude like that I was uncooperative and disruptive. The school couldn’t do much about it. Corporal punishment had been abolished years before and if a teacher put me in detention, I didn’t bother to go, Really, what could they do? They suspended me from school once. Yes please, I said. Don’t you get it? I don’t want to go to school. Losers.

Uncle Clive was the exception. Where everyone else had no qualifications, he had a shedload. He had at least two college degrees and some piece of paper that made him an accountant. He believed he had bettered himself. He said I should have more ambition. There won’t always be a construction industry, he said.

I made a vital mistake. I treated him like he was a schoolteacher. I told him where to get off. Leave me alone, I said, I know best.  So I left school as soon as I was legally allowed at sixteen. Big mistake. Banks went bust and the unemployment lines grew. I was out of work for two years. To cut a long story short I went off the rails: I drank, took drugs, got involved in a little thieving. Mum and Dad despaired. After the police turned up at our house to arrest me for the third time they said “Enough”, I would have to go.

I spent a month living on the streets. I was one of those bundles in a shop doorway people hurry by through fear or embarrassment. I was cold, hungry, alone and scared. I don’t know how Uncle Clive discovered where I was living rough. Late one night as I shivered outside Tesco, I looked up wearily to see a tall, strong man towering over me.

He gave me a choice. Stay living on the streets until I die of exposure or go live with him at his nice warm bungalow. A no-brainer really. “My house. My rules.” Uncle Clive was clear from the start. “No booze, no weed. Get a job. Make something of yourself.”

Now, the thing about Uncle Clive was that somewhere along the road he had found religion. Big time. There’s a bit somewhere in the Bible about spare the rod and spoil the child. Except in Uncle’s case the “rod” was a heavy wooden paddle, identical to the one in that cupboard under the stairs. I was eighteen at this time, but as far as Uncle Clive was concerned I was still a little kid. He sat me down and drew up what he called my “Objectives.” I had to get up by eight in the morning, I had a curfew at night, chores to do around the house and I had to go looking for work. Or else.

I had never been threatened with a spanking before. Corporal punishment had been confined to the dustbin of history years since. One day when I was on my own I took Uncle’s paddle from the sideboard drawer and studied it. It looked professionally made. The “blade” end was about two feet long. It must have been a quarter inch thick. I gripped it by the handle and swished it through the air, imagining there was a backside bent across the back of the armchair. It look my breath away. What would it feel like to have this monster crashing into my backside? I held the handle tightly, leaned forward a little and smacked the wood into the seat of my jeans. Ouch! It hurt. Quite a bit actually. I couldn’t get a decent swing into my own backside. I supposed it would hurt a lot more if Uncle Clive was doing it.

I didn’t have to wait long to find out. I had been mooching around the house for too long. I was getting nowhere finding a job. “Just work at a burger bar for now,” Uncle Clive berated me. “Get something to start you off. Don’t worry about the crap pay, you can stay here with me.” He really wanted to help me and I suppose my lack of energy must have frustrated the hell out of him.

So, Uncle Clive said one night the choice was simple. Back to the cardboard box or swats from the paddle. I couldn’t understand why my heart beat so quickly when he said this. You would think it would be through fear. Perhaps it was, but wasn’t there also something exciting about his?

Uncle Clive held the paddle and whacked it into the palm of his hand. I watched transfixed, remembering how much it hurt when I tried it on myself. “Let’s not have any fuss here,” Uncle Clive’s steely-blue eyes pierced through me. “I want you to go over to that chair,” he waved the wood at a straight-backed dining room chair, “And bend over.”

My mouth opened and closed like a goldfish but no words came out. Looking back what was it that I wanted to say? “No way?” Or quite possibly, “Yes, please.” I shuddered. Again, fear or excitement? I couldn’t look at Uncle Clive, I shuffled towards the chair and stopped halfway. Sweat soaked the palms of my hands and I wiped them on the leg of my jeans. My mouth was suddenly dry and I ran my tongue across my lips.

“Bend over,” Uncle Clive was calm, but he did want to get a move on. I stood closer to the chair. “Turn it around so the back faces you.” I did as instructed. I remember the chair was much heavier than I expected. “Bend over,” Uncle Clive said again as he gently tapped the paddle into his palm. I leaned forward and gripped hold of the seat of the chair. My stomach cleared the top of the chair by some distance. Without thinking I spread my legs and kept my knees straight. My jeans fitted tightly and I could feel them tug against my buttocks.

Uncle Clive rested the heavy wooden paddle across the lower part of my cheeks. I felt it move away and then return with an almighty Crack! The sound of wood connecting with my tight denim-clad arse echoed around the room. My knees buckled, my hips swayed and I gripped the chair seat tightly. Ouch! That hurt. If the time I whacked myself scored two out of ten, Uncle Clive’s first attempt was way off the top of the scale.

Uncle Clive swung hard, with all of his strength which was considerable as he was a big man. Every blow hit like the kick of a horse knocking me forward over the back of the chair. At first there was a fierce stinging all the way across my bum. Then the pain increased and it seemed like my entire body ached. Then the next swat landed and the next until Uncle Clive was beating a rhythm on my poor defenceless bottom.

When it was over I performed the traditional spanking dance hopping from foot to foot and clutching the seat of my jeans. My buttocks glowed red hot but very soon the pain turned to a warm glow. Uncle Clive sent me to my room where I lowered my jeans and pants and stared in astonishment at the reflection of my battered bum in the mirror. My cock was semi-erect and my head buzzed. I can’t quite describe that feeling after my first spanking, but it was better than any drug I was taking at the time.

That was about six years ago. Eventually I got a job with the Gas Board. Uncle Clive encouraged me to find a room of my own and gradually we stopped seeing each other. I hadn’t thought much about  that paddling until my visit to the house in The Avenue. Now, I couldn’t get it out of my mind. Why was that paddle in the cupboard? What did that old man do with it? I obsessed. I lay awake at night imagining I was at that house, bent across the back of a leather armchair, my jeans at my ankles while he took my backside off with the paddle.

This could not go on. I had to go back to The Avenue. But, I couldn’t just knock on his door and ask to be spanked. Even so I took a bus and walked up and down the street. It’s a long road with lots of upscale, expensive houses. I felt very conspicuous. How would I explain myself if someone called the police? I don’t know what I expected to happen. Maybe I would bump into the man as he left home to go to the shops.

Nothing happened, of course. Nor did it on the next three times I walked up and down The Avenue. Then it was Saturday. I passed by his house for the third time that morning when the front door opened. I blushed profusely at the sight of the man standing in his doorway. He was about sixty I suppose and showing his age. His waist had long ago disappeared as had most of his hair. His face was fleshy but he still managed to flash me the most beguiling smile.

“Are you spying on me?” he called cheerfully. Oh how I wished the pavement could swallow me up right there. He called me over to him. I could hardly dare to look as I shuffled up his garden path. “I’ve seen you several times, walking past my house,” he still smiled. “Did you want me for something?”

How could I tell him? What could I say? “Yes, please, I want you to spank me,” would sum up my thought succinctly, but I was too bashful to say it out loud. At that point he recognised me. “You’re the chap who came to read my meter,” he paused as if trying to compute. “The one who liked my toy so much!” At this he burst into cackling laughter.

The glint in my eye probably gave him his answer because I certainly did not confirm his supposition with words. “Do come in dear boy,” he moved away from the door to make room for me to enter. I stood uncertainly, shuffling from foot to foot. Then I noticed the green-and-gold blazer on the coat hook. Alongside it was a matching school cap and – oh glory – on the hook next door dangled two curve-handled whippy rattan school canes. My eyes darted away from them, fearful that the man would register my interest.

He had. “I have many toys. Come inside, I’ll show you some if you wish.” His smile was so warm I had no fear as he led me into a large living room. It was dominated by a leather Chesterfield couch and two enormous armchairs. At the far end covering almost an entire wall was a glass-fronted display case containing a collection of expensive-looking china ornaments. “You are a very naughty boy, spying on my house like that,” the man said. The smile had vanished, but his words held no fear for me. “And you know what happens to naughty boys, don’t you?”

My head ached. The room was hot and stuffy and I couldn’t breathe properly. I think I shrugged my shoulders in reply to his statement. “What’s up boy, the cat got your tongue?” The man spoke more sternly now. He paced the room in front of me. I stood, hands behind my back, eyes cast down at the expensive wooden flooring beneath my feet.

“I know what you need boy,” the man folded his arms across his chest. My soldier stirred but it was not yet on the march. The man grunted and we lapsed into an oppressive silence. I knew I needed to say something as he needed only the slightest encouragement. I couldn’t find the words. I shrugged my shoulders. “Pah!” The man expelled air through pursed lips. “Such insolence.” He rocked back on his heels and unfolded his arms. He glared at me down a long, angular nose. “Well boy, I know how to deal with that.”

He waved his hand in the general direction of the Chesterfield couch. “Stand there. Put your hands on your head.” My mouth drained of saliva and my hands trembled, but I did as he commanded. With my fingers interlocked I placed my hands on my head in the classic naughty-boy pose. My hair was soaked with sweat. From the corner of my eye I saw the man stride from the room. He returned seconds later. Under his right arm was a thick, whippy school cane. My eyes saucered. I had never seen a school cane before.

“Never seen a school cane before,” the man said. It was a statement, not a question. “Well boy, today will also be the first time you feel a school cane.” He placed great emphasis on the word “feel”. I felt my cock press into the front of my pants. The man walked to the front of me and slipped the cane from under his arm into his hand. He wobbled it in front of my face. My eyes followed it as it travelled through the air. My heart was already racing but sped more when the man flexed the cane between two hands so that effortlessly it made an arc. Then he swiped the cane across the back of the Chesterfield couch, leaving a thin indentation in the rich black leather.

“In a moment that will be your backside boy.” The man’s smile was now malevolent. I closed my eyes tight. “Now,” the man spoke calmly and evenly. “I want you to lower your trousers and bend over the couch.” The blood was rushing so quickly through my body and pounding my ears that I didn’t fully catch his words. I stood trembling but made no other movement.

“Pah!” The man exhaled. “Take down your trousers.” The command was sterner. This was a man who expected to be obeyed. I felt his eyes burn into my soul as I fumbled with the button of my chino trousers. It took an inordinate length of time. I wanted to do this very much but I could not persuade my fingers to obey me. At last the waistband was loose. I had less trouble with the zipper but was alarmed to see the bulge in the front of my green underpants. They fitted tightly in ordinary circumstances and my tentpole was straining the cotton. The man professed not to notice.

The chinos slid down my highs and bunched at my knees. I parted my legs a little and they continued their journey to my feet. I think I could feel pre-cum oozing from my cock but it might have been my imagination. I eased myself forward over the back of the couch. It was an expensive piece of furniture and judging by the aroma of rich leather that assaulted my nostrils it was almost brand new.

I was tall enough that my body cleared the apex of the couch. Just as well as I am sure the friction of my body on the back of the Chesterfield would have made me shoot my load. My eyes were closed so I could not see the man but I felt him take hold of my shirt and roughly move it further up my back. Very daintily, he smoothed the cotton underpants so they fitted my stretched buttocks so well that I felt them dig into my crack. My buttock cheeks must have been beautifully separated.

The man sawed the cane across the underside of my bum, taking his aim. A second later I heard a swoosh and there was a tremendous crack as the cane swiped deep into my flesh. It was another second before the pain registered. It was as if the man had pressed a white-hot wire into me. My legs stamped up and down and my hips swirled. I bit down deeply on my bottom lip to silence the wail my body desperately wanted me to make. I was certain my bum had been sliced open. Surely it was bleeding? A thin weal, puffy and swelling rose.

The speed at which the cane swished through the air both fascinated and terrified me. Swish-crack! It was all I could do not to scream. The line of fire bored into my bum and I wiggled frantically.

“Keep still!” the man scolded. I tried to stay calm. My eyes stung with tears but they had not yet started to flow down my face. Swish-crack! Swish-crack! Swish-crack! The agony was too much. I jumped to my feet and clutched my burning backside, hopping around the room. The tears flowed freely now. I had no control whatsoever of my body. My lungs were empty and desperately I tried to suck in air.

The man stood impassively, cane once more tucked under his arm as I humiliated myself before him. Once I had stopped my dancing, he ordered me back over the couch. I obeyed without question. The man was in charge. It was his duty to beat me. It was my role to offer up my bottom for discipline. Only when my master was satisfied I had been punished enough would the caning end.

He was not a cruel man. He knew I was a novice at this. He gave me six hard swipes. Six-of-the-best they used to call it back in the day. He left me there prostrate across the couch for a full minute while I regained my breathing. “Stand up,” the man’s tone was gentle. My bum was on fire, my cock throbbed like crazy but my head was as clear as a bell. It was the euphoria you can only get with a severe beating. Without waiting for permission, I tugged up my trousers and with great difficulty zipped them up over my pulsating penis. I wasn’t the least embarrassed that the man could see my predicament.

“Do you need the lavatory?” the man asked, his face once more cracked by a smile. Of course I did.

Picture credit: Unknown

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If you dress like a little boy …

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Uncle Vernon had gone doo-lally. Crazy. Off his trolley. Bonkers. He said to me if I insisted on dressing like a little kid, he would treat me like one. If I didn’t buck up my ideas he would take me over his knee and spank my backside. Very hard indeed.

It was the short trousers that set him off. We all wear them. Grey shorts. They’re not like the ones people wear in summer, these are proper tailored short trousers. Trousers that are short. Like the ones eight year olds wear to school. Except I’m nineteen and at college.

The band The Dudes wear them and that set the fashion. We don’t dress up in the full school uniform, with blazers and caps; that would be too kinky. We usually wear a coloured shirt or a patterned jumper. The short trousers look really smart. The girls love them, especially if the boy has great legs and a terrific arse (which in all modesty, I do).

I’d not been getting on too well with Uncle Vernon. I’ve been lodging with him and Aunt June for nearly a year since my family moved to London with Dad’s job. I’m doing my City & Guilds in plumbing at Brocklehurst Tech. and it was best for me to stay behind and lodge with my uncle and aunt.

Things hadn’t been going too well. Uncle Vernon reckoned I needed taking down a peg or two. “You treat this house like a hotel, you stay out late, you’re never on time for meals and you’ve been skiving off college. And,” he said with some menace in his tone, “you disrespect Aunt June.”

I hadn’t thought about it until he had his little rant, but I was guilty as charged. On all counts. I had been spending a lot of time out the house with people from college. I live in a small town but it’s easy to get weed – and I am a student after all – so I spend a lot of time high. It makes it easier to get my end away as well. The girls’ inhibitions (and mine) evaporate after a smoke.

When Uncle Vernon promised to spank my backside I think I just coloured up with embarrassment. I didn’t really believe him, but what was I expected to say? Later, I honestly did think about what he said about my misdeeds. I had caused a lot of tension in the house. There wasn’t much Uncle Vernon and Aunt June could do about me. I’m an adult. I suppose the only sanction they had was to throw me out. And, that would be a pretty drastic move. So, instead they just sulked at my behaviour and I sulked back. We were getting nowhere.

Was spanking be so bad? I mean I’d never been spanked before (who has in this day and age) but the glory of a smacked bottom was that it brought everything to a head. “You have been a naughty boy, come here, bend over my knee.” Smack. Smack. Smack. Then it’s all over and done with. Air cleared. We all move on with our life.

Not that I was saying Uncle Vernon should spank me. I was thinking more in the abstract. I mean, how humiliating it would to be to submit myself to Uncle.

Things came to a head last Wednesday. I had disappeared under a fog of smoke for most of the weekend and Uncle had heard that day from a friend of his that me and his son had been in trouble at college for bunking off.

I came home about seven. I’d missed my tea. To be honest I had lost track of time. We’d been smoking weed that afternoon. I wasn’t completely off my head, but I didn’t exactly have my feet on the ground.

“That’s it. Enough.” Uncle Vernon told me after he had listed all my recent sins and lectured me about throwing away my future by missing college. If I qualified as a plumber, he said, I would be made for life. Especially since all the Poles would be going home after Brexit.

“I told you I would spank your backside and that’s what I’m going to do,” he declared. I probably looked at him dumbstruck. I know I struggled not to giggle. He strode across the living room and gripped me by the wrist. It was a large room in a mammoth house. Uncle is not short of a few bob and his place is decked out like a palace. He dragged me across the shiny wooden floor, my feet slipping as we went, until he reached a heavy burgundy-coloured armless leather chair. He steadied himself and without releasing his grip he sat down. If I hadn’t been so high I probably would have resisted. Instead, next thing I knew was he had let go of me for a moment, but only long enough to push me over so that I fell face down across his knees.

I put my hands out in front of me to break my fall, my knees were bent behind me and I was very aware that my backside was pointing upwards at an angle over his right leg. My nose was centimetres from a brown-patterned rug.

Uncle Vernon didn’t say a word, he pounded the palm of his hand across my backside. His spanks were heavy and rapid. In no time he had slapped me across every part of my bum. From the top, across the fleshier mounds and into the under curves. Smack-smack-smack.

Of course, with my short trousers and underpants on I hardly felt a thing. Pretty soon he realised that the palm of his hand must have been hurting much more than my bum. That’s when he stopped.

“Doh! This is no good,” he sighed. “Get up.”

I scrambled off his lap, but if I thought Uncle Vernon had given up I had to think again. The short trousers fitted snugly and I had no need for a belt. Deftly he unbuttoned them at the waist and tugged at my zipper. The heavy cotton grey school short trousers hurtled to the floor. I couldn’t take a breath before he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of my microbriefs and tugged them down to my knees. He could see my dick flapping up and down.

It was then that he must have realised he was wearing bedroom slippers. He slipped one off his left foot and gripped it tightly in his fist. It was a typical slipper with some cloth type upper and a very springy sole. Are they made out of rubber? I’m not sure. He pulled me across his knee and once more I had a close-up view of the carpet.

I felt him take the end of my shirt and push it way up my back. I was now naked from my knees to my shoulders. I wriggled in embarrassment. He had my naked arse across his lap with a perfect view of my crack and hole. I  felt the hole winking and my buttocks clench in anticipation of the bare-arsed spanking I was about to get.

Uncle Vernon hammered the slipper home every bit as hard and rapidly as he had with his palm. This time it hurt. A lot. The springy-soled slipper warmed my backside in seconds. I felt the heat rising, especially around the very sensitive “sit-spot” at the lower end of my cheeks. I flapped my arms about and flailed my legs. It was as if I was trying to swim away off his lap. But Uncle Vernon was having none of it. He had me across his knee at such an acute angle I could not escape, no matter how much I wriggled and writhed. I waggled my bum left and right and up and down so it looked like I was humping him, but that just encouraged Uncle Vernon to wrap his left arm around my waist to pin me into position. I was going nowhere; not until Uncle Vernon said so. And, he was nowhere near ready.

I didn’t try to count the number of spanks he gave me. It seemed to go on forever. Whack-whack-whack, the slipper blistered my backside. It sounded like a machinegun going off.

At last he let off. Uncle Vernon kept me facedown over his knees. “Please God, let it be over,” I thought. I couldn’t be sure if he was finished or only taking a breather. My back was covered in sweat and my temples throbbed almost as much as my backside. I gulped in lung-fulls of air. The agony as the slipper rose and fell, rose and fell, had been intense, but already it was turning into a throbbing pain. Before long it would subside to a warm glow.

Uncle Vernon was breathing hard himself. Suddenly and without a word he released his grip on my middle. I took this as my cue to clamber off his knees on onto my feet. I hopped from foot to foot simultaneously rubbing my scorched buttocks until I noticed my cock and balls were bouncing in front of Uncle Vernon’s face. Hurriedly, I tugged up my briefs and returned the short trousers to their rightful place. I couldn’t look Uncle Vernon in the eye and to be honest I don’t think he wanted look at me, so sullenly – and still rubbing my bum ruefully – I legged it through the door and up to my bedroom.

When I ripped down my short trousers and briefs and poked my bum at the dressing table mirror  I saw my bum glowing dark pink. Not a single square centimetre was untouched. There was an imprint of the slipper embossed over and over again across both cheeks and on the backs of my thighs.

My phone vibrated. It was Cindy from college sending a photo of herself with her tits out. I eased myself gently onto the bed, reached out for a fistful of Kleenex and got to work on my todger.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com