My Belligerent Nephew

after white pantz down (2)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture credit: Unknown

 

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Uncle Jack

z used after jeans endart

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come on, I haven’t got all day.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture credit: Endart

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Only a glass of wine

z used pants wine glass Endymion Hill

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

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

B…

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

B…

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

No, but.

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

But Uncle, I’m nineteen.

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

No, Uncle, no.

Then you must accept discipline.

Oh, but Uncle.

Here, look at this. Have you seen it?

What’s that?

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

You’re gonna spank me with a bread board?

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

No, Uncle, no.

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

No Uncle, not my jeans.

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

No, Uncle, please.

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

Oh, Uncle.

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

No, sorry Uncle. Here.

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

Huh?

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

Oh, Uncle.

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

Ouch! Owww!

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

Oww! Oww! Oww!

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

Owwwwwww!

Stop that! Keep your hands out of the way.

No, Uncle. OOOHHHHHHH!

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

Oh Uncle.

So much fuss. And you such a big boy.

Owwww!

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

No Uncle, No!

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

Owww! Sniff, sniff

Are you crying?

No, Uncle. Owwwwwwww!

 

Picture Credit: Endymion Hill

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Meter Reader

z used paddle jeans chair domestic

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

A passing phase

What would his girlfriend say?

A national sensation

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

If you dress like a little boy …

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

Other stories you might like

The run

Max of the ‘Champion’ 1. The policeman

Missed Opportunities

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Book. Troublesome Teens

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Troublesome Teens

They might think they are adults, but older teens are not. They are still children and they need to act like it. They should respect their parents and obey adults. Without question. And if they don’t? These stories will remind them of the consequences of bad behaviour. A very sore backside indeed.

 

The pain was intense, but there was no escaping it. He struggled to the left and right but the grip on his neck was too powerful. He was at the mercy of his father: but the irate man was not showing any. In one last desperate attempt to free himself, Aaron kicked out his left leg and caught his father a blow on the shin. Rather than dissuading the older man from his mission to toast his son’s buttocks it spurred him on.

– Extract from Put Back in Short Trousers

 

The book runs for more than 16,000 words and can be downloaded by clicking the link below. The PDF file can be read on computers, laptops and a variety of e-book readers.

troublesome-teens-by-charles-hamilton-ii

Picture credit: Unknown

For more free-to-download books click here

Book. The Swish of the Rattan

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The swish of the rattan

 

I see from the statistics that WordPress churn out all the time that the most popular search term from visitors to this site is “Cane”. The second is “Bare” (you naughty boys!).

So, I thought as a special treat for lovers of the swish of the whippy rattan rod I would put together fifteen of my favourite caning stories into a free-to-download book. Backsides are blistered in the home, the office and at university. Dads, uncles, professors, housemates, bosses all show their prowess with the cane.

I hope you enjoy the tales which run to about 35,000 words, but please know there are no traditional school stories in this collection.

Lovers of those can find two other collections of stories. Click on the titles below for more details. All characters are aged eighteen or over.

Tales from the study 1: St. Francis Independent Grammar School

Tales from the study 2: Six of the best school stories

 

ALEXANDER ALDRIDGE WAS dumbfounded. His mouth literally gaped open. Before him stood a figure menacingly flexing a school cane between his huge hairy hands.

“Y… you want to cane me?” It was question as much as a statement.

The sun was quickly setting and the drawing room was gloomy. Soon they would need to turn on the electric light.

“Yes. And I hope it will bring you to your senses.”

William Beaver swished the cane through the air with some force. Alexander blanched. His housemate seemed to be entirely serious.

William gently tapped the cane against his right leg. “You must pay the rent. You cannot expect to get away with it.”

At that moment, their other housemate George Templeton entered the room. “Don’t start without me,” he chortled.

Extract from Housemate pays the rent

Download The Swish of the Rattan below

The swish of the rattan by Charles Hamilton II

Picture credit: Keith and Bratski

For more free-to-download books click here