Duncan and Uncle Henry

Duncan wheeled his bicycle up the pathway of No. 17 The Avenue. He let himself in and parked the bike in the hallway.

“Duncan!” It was his Uncle Henry and he sounded angry.

Duncan had expected this. He was twenty-two years old and in his final year at university. Things were not going well. His grades had plummeted and he had skipped a number of classes. If he didn’t buck up his ideas, he might fail his finals.

It was a woman of course. That was the distraction. She was a mere slip of a girl. Almost boyish. Most people probably wouldn’t have given her a second glance on the street or at a club. But Duncan was smitten.

“Duncan!” It was his uncle again. His anger had risen. “In here! Now.”

“Here” was the room Uncle Henry called his “study”. In fact, it was an ordinary living room, or “reception room” as the more snobbish neighbours called their version. Duncan took a deep breath, wiped the palms of his hands against the legs of his trousers and turned the handle of the door.

It was a small room, sparsely furnished. There was a small leather-topped desk in one corner, a sideboard, a single worn blue vinyl armchair and one dining-room chair. Incongruously, in another corner stood a wicker basket. And, inside were two yellow rattan school canes.

The only window in the room overlooked the back garden. A heavy green curtain was drawn across it blocking out most of the sun. A single bulb in the ceiling, partly obscured by a shade, provided the only light in the gloomy room.

Duncan had been in this study before: many times. He probably knew every inch of the room. He definitely knew how this encounter with Uncle Henry would play out.

Uncle Henry launched into a prepared sermon. He read out the young man’s latest grades. “You have a C+ for one,” he intoned. “Is that better or worse than the previous grade?”

He already knew the answer and Duncan knew that he knew. Duncan also knew this little charade would have to be endured before Uncle Henry was ready for the finale.

The university student shuffled his feet in embarrassment and stared down at the plain carpet. He had been through this routine many times previously with Uncle Henry, but he never got used to it. It was like being up before the headmaster at school. And the outcome would be the same too.

Uncle Henry also knew about the skipped lectures. Duncan had no choice. He admitted the lot, he was guilty as charged. There was no mitigation he could offer, except for his relationship with Sheila and Duncan was certain Uncle Henry did not want to know about her.

Uncle Henry wasn’t Duncan’s real uncle. He wasn’t a blood relation. Henry was a middle-aged man Duncan had met during his first year at university. There had been trouble then too. Like so many eighteen year olds let loose at university, he had no self-discipline. He got drunk, took drugs and partied. It would be a miracle if he survived the first year. Then along came Uncle Henry. He took care of what Henry called the boy’s “moral welfare” and turned around the young man’s life.

Uncle Henry rose from the seat behind the desk and strode a couple of steps to cross the room. Duncan stood motionless but his eyes followed the rather squat man as he gripped the vinyl armchair and swivelled it so that its back was now facing into the room.

No words were spoken between the older and the younger man. None needed to be. They both knew what was going to happen now. This wasn’t the first time this scene had been played and it wouldn’t be the last before Duncan finally graduated with his degree.

Satisfied that the chair was in a suitable position, Uncle Henry continued his journey across the study and rested at the wicker basket. There were two rattan canes waiting in front of him. To an inexperienced observer they looked identical. Both were a little over three feet in length (not counting the curved handle) and as thick as a pencil. But closer inspection revealed one was denser than the other; it would pack a considerable punch when whipped down at speed across the haunches of the young man standing before him. And more so on this occasion, since Uncle Henry intended to thrash Duncan on his naked bottom.

Uncle Henry flexed the rod between his two hands. Despite its thickness and density, it was a wickedly whippy cane. Duncan was still rooted in front of the desk, but he observed the older man swish the stick through empty air. The student had felt the sting of that cane across his backside many times in the past, but the swoosh it made as it flew through the air still intimidated him.

“Are you ready?” It was a strange question from Uncle Henry. It sounded as if the young man had a real choice and might reasonably reply, “No, I don’t think that I am. May we postpone this beating for a month or so?”

Duncan knew better than to smart-mouth Uncle Henry. He swallowed a “Yes, Uncle” and awaited further instructions.

They came immediately. “Stand by the chair. Up close.” Duncan took a deep gulp of air into his lungs and took up position.

“Trousers down please.”

He was wearing rather unfashionable cheap clothes. They used to call them “leisure trousers” or “sweat pants.” They were mostly polyester and had elastic at the waist. Duncan pinched the waistband at his hips and guided the trousers down over his buttocks and let them rest on his thighs.

Uncle Henry wheezed, exasperated. “All the way down. Down to your feet.”

Duncan blushed scarlet. Uncle had seen his bare bum and his cock and balls numerous times, but this part of the ritual caning always embarrassed the young man.

Soon the trousers were at his feet. Duncan’s snug-fitting canary yellow briefs did little to disguise the size of his private parts. His penis was still soft but it bulged against the tight cotton as if struggling to escape the confinement of his briefs. The briefs also emphasised the flatness of Duncan’s stomach. He was a very lean boy. He never worked out at the gym but he cycled everywhere. His muscular torso and slim legs were a testimony to that.

“Pants down,” Uncle Henry waited patiently. He tapped the cane against his own right leg and watched the young man before him slide the pants over his hips and then down his tight buttocks until they rested at his knees. His cock stirred as fresh air wafted against it. It was awake, but not yet ready to crow.

“Bend over.”

Obediently, Duncan leaned forward over the back of the vinyl chair and gripped the seat cushion. It was old and worn and had the faint aroma of body perspiration. It was impossible to sit on this chair if the room was hot without leaving a puddle of perspiration behind.

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Uncle Henry gripped the cane in his right hand and took up position. His preferred method of caning was to stand about three feet to the young man’s left (a cane’s length) and place the rod across the centre of the bottom, with its tip resting on the furthest cheek. Then he would withdraw the cane and arc it up before returning it at great force. That way Uncle Henry could ensure that the swipe would hit both buttocks equally. It was an effective technique and ensured the lad on the receiving end endured the most painful caning. It was method borne out of much experience.

Uncle Henry took his aim. There was the tiniest nick of a razor blade on Duncan’s crack where he had shaved that morning.

Swipe! The cane rose and fell and a pink line appeared immediately across the centre of Duncan’s buttocks. He mouthed a silent groan and screwed up his eyes. That hurt. A lot. But Duncan was no stranger to the lash of the cane. It would take much more than that to make him holler.

It was not an especially warm day, but perspiration already soaked the back of Uncle Henry’s shirt. His heartbeat raced and his breathing was heavy.

Swipe number two hit a fraction below the first. Duncan bunched up his fists as the pain registered first across his bum and then travelled up and down his legs. Huff, huff, huff, he wheezed.

Uncle Henry leaned over the young man. From his vantage point he could already see two deep welts had formed across the lad’s hairless cheeks. They were turning from a snowy-white to crimson. The back of Duncan’s neck was also scarlet, but when Uncle Henry leaned over further he saw the twenty-two-year-old’s face was deathly pale.

Uncle Henry stepped back and let fly with the third stroke. Duncan choked down a cry which triggered off a dry cough. Hack, hack, hack. He cleared his throat and clung on tightly to the chair’s seat and waited for the next cut to land.

Uncle Henry admired Duncan’s tolerance. He could take an almighty thrashing and show very little reaction. That didn’t mean it was not hurting the boy. It was. The agony was terrific. Sometimes it felt like the middle-aged man had pressed a hot wire into his cheeks.

Uncle Henry fondly remembered the first time he had ordered Duncan across the back of this same chair. It was six strokes for missing his curfew. It wasn’t even six-of-the-best; the strokes were lightly laid on, but Duncan roared when the first cut hit him and jumped up from the chair dancing up and down rubbing his backside furiously. What a palaver, Uncle Henry had thought. And Duncan still had his trousers and pants on.

Uncle Henry took aim again. Duncan felt the stick touch the underside of his cheeks, just where they met the thighs. “I’d better stay perfectly still,” he thought to himself. If he jumped about there was a real possibility the slash would miss his bum altogether and crash into the back of his legs. The agony would be unendurable if that happened.

Uncle Henry was an expert and he landed his stroke right on target. It was the “sit spot.” The weal that was forming across the bottom of the cheeks would be tender for some considerable time. Duncan would feel it each time he sat down, especially on a hard surface.

Number five was aimed right at the top of the cheeks, just at the base of the spine. Duncan sucked in great draughts of air. Despite his fortitude, his feet stamped up and down. That was the most painful cut yet. Sweat poured from his body. His black wavy hair was so damp it looked as if he had stepped from the shower.

“Steady boy. Keep still.” It was a kind instruction, not a barked order. Uncle Henry had a great affection for Duncan. He didn’t despise the young man. This was not a vengeance beating. The student needed the guiding hand of an older man, one more experienced in life. This caning would do Duncan the world of good. Uncle Henry knew without a shadow of doubt that was how Duncan felt too.

The sixth and final cut struck parallel to the previous five. Duncan repeated the military dance. His arse was on fire. He wanted to get up and rub away furiously at his rear end. But, he was well versed in the caning etiquette. He must first wait for permission to rise.

Uncle Henry was in no hurry. His own breathing was returning to normal and his heartrate was slowing. Quietly, he returned the cane to its place in the basket.

“All right Duncan. That’s over. Well done. You took that well. You may stand up.”

The student hauled himself to his feet. The agony was already easing, but he could not resist kneading his cheeks with some vigour. It didn’t help. But, within seconds the pain would turn to a powerful throbbing and very soon that would become a warm glow. Some of the welts were very tender and the pain would be reignited if he touched them. But, even now, only a minute or so since the beating stopped, the worst was over.

Unbidden, Duncan pulled up his briefs and trousers. He stood before Uncle Henry, his shining eyes cast down at the floor, awaiting the next move.

Uncle Henry could not look the boy in the face. He waved his hand in the general direction of the door and said, “Go to your room.”

Seconds later, Duncan stood in front of the bedroom mirror, poking his bum at the glass. There were six deep cuts, perfectly positioned parallel to one another running from the top of his buttocks to the bottom. Uncle Henry was a craftsman.

Gingerly, Duncan rubbed the palm of his right hand across the buttocks; they were still warm to the touch. His penis saluted and stood rock hard at forty-five degrees. Duncan stepped out of his trousers and briefs, kicked off his shoes, dealt with his socks and then tugged his shirt over his head. He stood completely naked.

Outside the door he heard floorboards creak. Then he knelt on the bed, spread his legs wide and buried his face in a pillow. He was ready to receive Uncle Henry.

This story was first uploaded in June 2016

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Caught in the act

new story 3

ADVISORY: This  tale is a little darker than the ones I usually tell – Charles

z used bed twosome (14a)

Mitch’s head pounded and his throat hurt but at least the room had stopped spinning. Who was the beautiful naked boy in bed beside him? He had a name. Tim? Jim? He couldn’t remember. He was sure it was something basic. The sun blazed through the window so it must be late. How was he going to get rid of this stranger?

Tim / Jim rolled on his back and gurgled. Mitch could hear his own stomach heaving. What had he taken last night. Suddenly the beautiful boy’s eyes opened. Mitch lay and stared. He really was a dish. Tim / Jim froze. Mitch smiled. He didn’t know Mitch’s name either.

“Mitch,” he introduced himself.

“Tom,” the no-longer stranger replied. Mitch nodded as if this was information he already had.

They lay in pleasant silence. Maybe, Mitch thought, there’s no need to kick Tom out of bed quite yet. He reached over and allowed Tom to roll into his arm. Two cocks crowed.

Time passed lazily. Mitch came too with a start, a car was pulling onto the drive. Shit. He sat bolt upright. “What’s up?” Tom drawled.

“Quick get up. Get dressed hurry,” Mitch panicked.

Tom grinned. “I can’t. My clothes are in the kitchen. Where you ripped them off me.”

Mitch groaned, “No really. You must go. Now. Before he finds you.”

They both heard the front door open and close. “It’s my uncle,” Mitch breathed.

“Uncle?” Tom asked.

“He’s not supposed to back until tomorrow. This is his house. The bastard’s tricked me. He’s come to check up on me.”

“Uncle?” Tom was puzzled.

“Not real uncle,” Mitch gushed, “Not flesh and blood,” he shrugged his shoulders, “You know, Uncle.”

Tom laughed a full fruity roar, “Oh Uncle. Like the guy who pays the rent, buys you clothes. Feeds you. Keeps you.”

Mitch flushed, annoyed, “I would put it quite like that. We have a very loving relationship.”

Tom sniped, “Yeah, of course. He loves you and you love his money.”

Just then a cry carried up the stairs, “Mitch, are you up there!”

Mitch pushed Tom from the bed, “You really have got to go.”

“I’ve got no clothes.”

The bedroom door flew open, “Mitch, you …” Uncle stood in the threshold stunned. “Who the fuck are you? What’s going on here? Mitch?” Tom hopped from foot to foot completely naked. Uncle roared at him, “Get the fuck out of my house!” Tom dodged through the door and hightailed it down the stairs.

“I’ll deal with you later,” Uncle turned and followed the naked boy through the house. Mitch closed his eyes tight and fell back against the pillow. Was he in for it now!

For the next minutes he listened to the angry raised voices from below. Then the front door opened and slammed shut. That would be the last he ever saw of Tom. “Mitch!” Uncle was climbing the stairs, Mitch gripped the duvet and pulled it over his head.

There was no escape. Uncle towered over him. He was tall and at forty-six he was still fit, and though he carried a little extra weight it was well-distributed. He wore straight-leg corduroy pants, lace-up shoes and a cardigan sweater with a plaid shirt. His big expressive flint-grey eyes showed his fury and at that moment his usually smooth, pale skin was turning ever redder.

“Some whore you picked up last night!” he screeched. “I’m gone two days and you’re picking up whores.”

Mitch knew better than to argue, but he couldn’t resist, “He’s not a whore. We met in the Three Fishers.”

Uncle’s face purpled, “The Three Fishers, only whores go there.”

Mitch’s mouth opened but he could find no words.

“And in my house!” Uncle’s voice rose a pitch. “In my bed!”

“Sorry,” Mitch mumbled. It was an entirely inadequate response but it was all he could think to say. It was like pouring petrol on a flame.

“Sorry!” Uncle screamed. “Sorry! Yes, you will be you little bastard. I’ll make you sorry. You wait and see.” He stormed from the room.

“Shit,” Mitch said aloud, even though he was now quite alone. He covered his head with the pillow.

Minutes later Uncle was back. Mitch stared in astonishment. His mouth gaped, his heart beat fast, gripped with fear. “No common Uncle. I’m sorry I won’t do it again. Please …”

Uncle sneered, “Too right you won’t do it again. Not after I’ve finished with you. You git.”

“But, please ….”

“I’m going to give you the hiding of your life. I’ll teach you.” He threw a heavy two-tailed leather strap and a heavy wooden paddle on the bed. “Stand up. Get that duvet off the bed. Pillows too. I want everything clear.”

Fear rooted Mitch to the bed. “Now!” Uncle barked as he grabbed the twenty-two-year-old by the wrist and began hauling him to his feet. “I’ll take the skin of your backside.”

“No please, Uncle, please ..” Mitch whimpered.

“I’m not kidding this time. Not a playful smack on the bare bum with my slipper. Or my hairbrush over your pyjama bottoms. No nawty-likkle boy needs his botty-wotty spanked. This is for real.” He stormed from the room leaving Mitch sweating profusely.

When Uncle returned Mitch nearly fell to the floor in a faint. He carried four lengths of strong rope. “On the bed, face down,” he snapped. Mitch eyed the door, could he make a dash for it? Then what. He was stark naked, where would he run? There was no place to hide. Uncle had no temper left. “I said, face down,” he grabbed a hunk of Mitch’s gelled hair and pulled, making him yell with pain and terror. He threw him onto the mattress and climbed on his back. Mitch was pinned, breathless.

From there Uncle easily took one hand and tied the wrist to the corner of the bed. Then the other. Then the feet. He had been a Boy Scout long ago; he knew his knots. Mitch was helpless. “Please, no uncle,” he blubbed.

z used bed by Paul Michael Davies restrained (1)

“You cheating, ungrateful bastard,” Uncle spoke rapidly. “Of all the things I’ve done for you. Given you.” His heart thumped and his hands shook, “I got you a job. I put a roof over your head. If it wasn’t for me you’d still be sleeping in a shop doorway. You bastard!”

He stood away from the bed to admire his handiwork. Mitch was totally naked, spread-eagled. His bouncy buttocks quivered. “I could fuck you senseless, you know that?” he scowled. “But you’d love it, wouldn’t you,” he raged. “No I’m not going to fuck your arse, I’m going to whip it. Flail the skin off it. Until there’s nothing left but raw meat. What do you think about that then?”

Mitch sobbed into the mattress, “Please, no Uncle. I’m sorry.”

Uncle fingered the leather strap. It was a specially-made two tailed taws. The business end was about thirty-five centimetres long and maybe fifty millimetres thick. He took hold of its handle and swished the strap through the air, grinning manically as he watched it fly. “Perfect,” he taunted. “Just perfect.”

Mitch wriggled and writhed. He could move his hips and buckle his knees but the ropes were tied tight. He was going nowhere. His arse would always be in Uncle’s firing line. “Right, let’s get started,” Uncle wheezed, already he was breathless. He measured the weight of the taws in his hand, then lay it across the highest peak of Mitch’s mounds. He rubbed gently, delighted with the effect it had on Mitch who tensed his back and buttock muscles. Uncle smiled as he raised the taws high. He let it hover in the air for a moment before flexing his arm muscles to bring the strap crashing down.

Mitch yelped, his body buckled, his arms pulled on the tight ropes. A dark pink strip glistened across his arse. Uncle’s nodding head signalled his satisfaction, he raised the strap once more, let it hover and brought it down just below the first. Now Mitch had a burning stripe about ten centimetres wide. He did the bucking and the pulling again, his terror mounting with the realisation that he was trapped. I’m going to whip your arse. Flail the skin off it. Until there’s nothing left but raw meat – had Uncle really meant that?

The next landed lower, into the under crease and across the most sensitive part of the arse. Mitch howled, a full-throated shriek. He gulped great sobs. His head bounced up and down on the mattress. Tears cascaded down his scarlet face. Restrained as he was, he could do nothing but bounce his bottom up and down as if he was having sex with the mattress beneath him.

Thwappp! Another lash, this time higher on the buttocks. Mitch yelled louder. “Pipe down, be quiet,” Uncle chided gently. “You’ll have the neighbours complaining.” Mitch convulsed with great gulps and sobbing. “There, there,” Uncle snarled. He walked to a dressing table, opened a drawer and reached in. He found a pair of balled-up socks which without warning he stuffed into Mitch’s mouth. “Put a sock in it,” Uncle mocked as he watched his young companion splutter and choke.

“Now, don’t disturb the neighbours,” Uncle taunted as he took aim and slashed down the heavy strap deliberately ensuring it landed on top of an already throbbing welt. “You’ll think twice before cheating on me again,” he hissed as Mitch’s body hovered off the mattress.

Yellow bile dribbled from the corner of Mitch’s mouth. Uncle raised and thrashed down the heavy strap. Up and down it went another six times. Mitch’s body contorted with agony, his face was a deep scarlet and his arse cheeks a dark bloodied red.

Three streets away Tom sat nonchalantly in a bus shelter. It was Sunday so he would have a long wait. His heartrate had returned to normal and he was no longer sweating. His stomach rumbled, he could murder a bacon sandwich. Already he was starting to forget Mitch.

Picture credits: Unknown and Paul Michael Davies

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Warren’s awakening

Warren Hunter looked out the bedroom window anxiously. Any moment now his uncle would call him down to the sitting room. It would be a spanking for sure. He couldn’t complain. He knew he deserved everything that was coming to him.

Warren was in turmoil. He was so ashamed. How had things come to this?

He had been sent to stay at Uncle Alfred’s by his mother. She said it would be temporary; a “cooling off” period. But, he knew his uncle’s reputation; his arse would get a “warming up” first.

The row and the tears had been the final straw. He had been giving his mum a hard time for years. He was nineteen years old, there was no way she could control him. He didn’t have the words to explain what was going on in his head. Warren knew there was something wrong with him; but he didn’t know what. He had a crappy job in a supermarket; at home he rowed with everyone; his mum, his two older brothers and even the neighbours. Dad had walked out years ago leaving mum to cope with the kids on her own.

“Warren! Get down here!” Uncle Alfred was at the foot of the stairs. The teenager hesitated. He knew what would happen now. What choice did he have? Take a spanking or not; those were his options. If he did he could stay at his uncle’s place and try to sort out his life. If he didn’t; he’d be sleeping on the streets.

Warren was no philosopher; he wasn’t a deep thinker. If someone told him he was a “pragmatist” he wouldn’t know what they meant. He just knew he had to go through with this. He’d never been spanked before. Hell, he thought, a spanking, how bad could it be?

Slowly he padded down the stairs to find Uncle Alfred in the front room.

A dining room chair had already been placed in the centre of the room. Taking the teenager by the arm, Uncle Alfred led him to the chair and sat down, leaving Warren to stand as his uncle pushed up the sleeves of his own shirt. Then Uncle Alfred leaned forward and removed the bedroom slipper from his right foot.

A shiver went through Warren. His resolve to accept the spanking was evaporating. He wanted suddenly to hang back, to plead for mercy, promise to do better, to do anything if Uncle Alfred would just not spank him.

His uncle was not a pretty sight. He was in his forties and had a large belly that in his present sitting position flopped across his lap. His legs were fat and when his uncle parted them slightly he provided an ample platform for his nephew to drape himself over.

This might be Warren’s first-ever spanking but his uncle was a veteran. He had developed a ritual over many years. Quietly, he spoke, “Take down your jeans.” And when his nephew stared back with alarm, he added reasonably, “You won’t feel a thing with them on.”

Uncle Alfred squeezed the bedroom slipper in his fist and watched the nineteen-year-old fumble with the waistband of his jeans. He didn’t seem able to get his fingers to work. Slowly the fly buttons were opened and the denims slithered down his thighs and rested at his knees.

“Please God,” he prayed silently, “Don’t make me take down my underpants too.”

Uncle Alfred shifted his vast buttocks on the hard chair and straightened his back. He was almost ready to get on with the job.

“OK, over here,” Uncle Alfred slapped his knee to indicate Warren should bend over. It was a simple command, but one his uncle expected to be obeyed. Warren stood his ground, unable to move. Then he took a half step back, as if he intended to run away.

“Doh!” his uncle wheezed. Then, he took hold of the teenager’s arm and forcibly pulled him down across his knees. To break his fall, Warren placed both hands on the carpet in front of him. His legs were left dangling behind him.

Uncle Alfred wrapped his arm around his nephew’s waist. “Keep your legs straight, raise your bottom higher.”

z used otk white pants chair (19)

Warren twisted and turned until he was positioned to his uncle’s satisfaction: head low, bottom high. He could see his uncle’s feet and the ugly carpet. Dust tickled the back of the teenager’s throat

“Spread your legs more.”

Warren gasped as he felt Uncle Alfred grip the elasticated waist of his pants. The thought, “Oh, no! He’s going to pull them down!” flashed through his mind. But instead his uncle smoothed out the cotton of the boy’s underpants, eliminating all creases. Soon, the tight gleaming-white pants fitted the buttocks like a second skin.

“Give me your hand,” it was a final instruction. Uncle Alfred took hold of his nephew’s wrist and turned the boy’s arm up his back. No matter how hard Uncle Alfred spanked him and how much it hurt, Warren was trapped across his uncle’s knee. He wasn’t about to go anywhere until Uncle Alfred said so.

“Right young man this is going to teach you a lesson.”

Then, Uncle Alfred gripped the slipper tightly and put it to work, smacking Warren’s bum soundly and briskly. The teenager winced the moment the first slap hit home. Uncle kept up a momentum. Slap! Slap! Slap! Three on the left cheek: Slap! Slap! Slap! three on the right. With great expertise, he concentrated on the very tender spot where the bottom joins the thighs, dealing out crisp smacks.

Warren screwed his eyes closed with pain each time the slipper crashed into his bum. He was a lean lad and didn’t have much padding in the buttocks area.

One smack followed another as Uncle Alfred put the slipper to use. The pain of the whacking took the teenager’s breath away, but he resolved to remain silent. Warren wriggled as the slipper connected time and again with his buttocks. Uncle Alfred spanked him thirty times or more; then paused to get a tighter grip on the slipper in his hand and then let fly again.

Uncle Alfred hadn’t said how many strokes of the slipper Warren was to get and after a dozen or so, the boy was finding it hard going to stick to his resolve and remain silent.

He let out silent yells as the next three slaps fell in rapid succession, all landing on the same sensitive “sit spot” on the right cheek.

Uncle Alfred set about his task with a will, but he too was silent. The only sound in the room was the thud, thud, thud of his slipper as it hit Warren’s bum.

And so it went on, slap after slap. He was making a good job covering all over the target area. Some spanks went high, some low. Now on the left cheek: now on the right. Warren could feel his bum heating up with the punishment. It would be red raw by the time Uncle Alfred had finished.

Then, without warning, he took hold of the top of Warren’s pants and pulled them down, not too far, but enough to expose both cheeks. The boy grunted. Uncle Alfred resumed the slippering, perhaps twice as hard as before.

Warren raised his head and flinched in pain with every blow. He could hardly catch his breath, it hurt so badly, but he bit his lip so did not make a sound.

On and on he went, spanking Warren’s bare arse. His body was making involuntary movements with pain, but his uncle still had the boy’s arm pinned.

Warren’s shoulders and head jerked high as each blow from the slipper struck his bum.

His eyes were watering, but he told himself, “I will not cry, I will not cry.” But, he knew he wasn’t going to be able to stand much more without breaking down.

The humiliation was intense. There he was a nineteen-year-old man draped helplessly across Uncle Alfred’s knee, trousers at his feet, bare bum in the air, getting spanked like a little kid. His face was as scarlet as his battered bottom.

To Warren it seemed like an eternity, but the slippering lasted less than three minutes.

“Now, boy, you can stand up.”

In considerable pain, he rose from his uncle’s knees. Instinctively, his hands shot to rub his blistered backside. But, connecting his hands with the raw flesh only increased, the pain, it did not relieve it.

Warren was breathing hard, he was sweating badly and his eyes were full of tears, but he was not crying. His resolve had won through.

He twisted his body to inspect the damage; his buttocks were a deep cherry colour.

Gingerly, he pulled up his underpants. Uncle Alfred remained silent. He had delivered his punishment and as far as he was concerned it was all over. Until the next time.

Warren bent to his ankles and recovered his jeans. His hands were shaking, but he managed to button up the fly and buckle his belt.

“Go to your room.”

Warren took the stairs two at a time and crashed through the door into his bedroom. Within seconds his jeans and pants were back at his ankles. He pointed his bum at the dressing table mirror and traced the contours of his buttocks with his fingertips. The pain had mostly gone, but he found it would return if he pressed into his bony globes. He did and it felt really good. Warren had never looked at his bum before; not closely. It was almost totally bald; there were some wisps of hair in his crack that he’d never noticed before.

It was quite small. He could cup a cheek in the palm of one hand. There wasn’t much “give” either. Unlike his fat uncle, Warren was lean and wiry.

The teenager leaned forward and thrust his buttocks at the mirror. Without warning his cock stood stiff. Whoops. It always did have a mind of its own. It had embarrassed Warren on numerous occasions.

He lay on the bed and stroked it, reliving in his mind the past ten minutes. He imagined what he must have looked like draped over his uncle’s lap; bum held high. The more he pictured the more his todger ached.

Somehow, he knew this wasn’t the end of it. There’d be more spankings before he could demonstrate he was mature enough to be allowed home. Or would there? Maybe next time it would a more severe punishment.

Warren closed his eyes and saw himself bent over the back of the old worn green settee in the living room. Uncle Alfred stands behind him swishing an old-fashioned school cane. Warren’s trousers are at his feet; his pants at his knees. His bared buttocks are raised high. The teenager’s head is low, he is almost chewing the cushion.

Uncle taps the cane gently across the centre of the cheeks. They vibrate gently in anticipation of the searing pain to come.

Uncle lifts the cane high and brings it crashing down.

Back in the bedroom Warren shot a load all over his tight flat stomach.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in May 2016

 

Other stories you might enjoy

It is what it is

One hot summer afternoon

Dad’s despair

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

An unexpected lesson for Alfie

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

He came down to breakfast on time after that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He glanced at the old man, but remained silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

z used cane jeans touch toes domestic

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

“Thank you, sir,” Alfie wheezed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You may stand.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture credit: Unknown

 

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A whopping for Warminster

Over Pop’s knee with Perce

Don’t borrow dad’s car

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

That time at Uncle Ron’s

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

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

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

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

“Cane?” I queried.

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

“Canes?” I frowned, still puzzled.

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” Alan confirmed.

“Like at school? How so?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

after bed jeans domestic (2)

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

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

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

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

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The boy in pink

new 5

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

z used otk pink JM

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

He was only getting started.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Picture credit: Just Magic (Magic Spanking Factory)

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 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

For your own good

new 5

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

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

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

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

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

“You better be.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

z used otk pants bbfc (7)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com