The terrible twins

z used twosome on couch football shirt by M Pegasi (1a)

Last summer I had quite two of the naughtiest boys imaginable staying with me at my house.

Antonio and Pedro were foreign language students. The idea was they came over for some intensive English training and they stayed with “hosts” who helped them with “conversational English.” We were also asked to teach them something about our traditions and customs. Well, before their stay was over I taught the pair of them something about one English custom they wouldn’t forget in a hurry.

I called them The Terrible Twins, even though they weren’t twins. They weren’t even brothers, but they were both Spanish and did look alike. Well, a little anyway.

I take a couple of students each year. I don’t need the money. I’ve retired on a very good pension, but I like the company of young people and a friend owns the language school so I help out.

The Terrible Twins were eighteen years old, but you’d never believe it the way they behaved. I was continually scolding them for larking about around the house, having “pretend” wrestling matches and fighting on the sofa in the living room.

I began to wonder if they were a little retarded, but when I checked with my friend I found they had both done extremely well at school and were off to university in the autumn.

They were young people and spent a lot of time in the town at bars and clubs. I imagine they chased girls, although they never brought any home. They were both extremely handsome in the way young Spaniards can be, with hard bodies, snake hips, wavy black hair, clear olive skin, cheeky grins and dark brown eyes. I would have thought the girls of this town would have been queueing up. So many of the young men around here are pasty and already well on the way to obesity.

I don’t make many rules for my summer guests. The school expects me to give them breakfast but otherwise they come and go as they please. I do insist that they do not use the parlour at the back of the house; I do like a little privacy. It is also where I keep the liquor.

Despite my clear instructions, I twice found them in the room. What were they doing? There was nothing for them to see. Were they attracted there simply because it was out of bounds? They stood heads bowed while I gave them a stiff telling-off.

They bought catapults and stalked local cats, firing stones at them. A pane of glass in Mr. Axford’s greenhouse was smashed. They made friends with a boy down the street and spent evenings drinking cheap cider at bus shelters and abusing passers-by.

One Saturday afternoon I returned from the shops and was confronted by an irate next-door neighbour. Mr. Adams was livid. Did I know what my two brats had just done? Well, no I didn’t and that was clear because Mr. Adams had just seen me pull into my own driveway. I was open mouthed. The Terrible Twins had climbed onto the roof of the house and hurled water bombs (something they had made from folded paper) at Mr. Adams and his wife. What was I going to do about it?

I was aghast. What in God’s name possessed them to do such a thing.

“They need a good hiding. The pair of them,” Mr. Adams growled at me.

Indeed they did.

“Well, what are you going to do?” Mr. Adams’ anger would not abate for some considerable time.

Spanking? This was 2016. A lot of people think spanking had been confined to distant history. It is true the cane was abolished in schools in the nineteen-eighties, but things were different in the home. There were still many responsible men who saw it as their duty to help young people navigate the choppy waters of life into adulthood. Mr. Adams was one of them. And, there were plenty of others to my certain knowledge even here in The Avenue who were ready to blister backsides when the occasion demanded.

Yes, they needed a spanking right enough. I should have done it sooner.

I confronted the Terrible Twins about their behaviour. I was rewarded with fits of giggles. Sometimes eighteen year olds can be insufferable. “It was a lark. A wheeze,” Pedro grinned at me. I frowned, genuinely puzzled. Where had he picked up such old-fashioned idioms?

Well, if they thought this was a joke, I’d soon disillusion them. Deliberately, I unfastened the buckle of my wide, heavy leather belt and slowly pulled it through the loops of my trousers. Antonio’s eyes stalked. I saw real fear. Sweat glistened his already shiny black hair. Pedro whispered something in Spanish to him, but it didn’t seem to calm the boy. I stretched the belt between my hands and with great care I folded it in thirds, leaving myself with a leather strap about eighteen inches long.

Antonio wiped the palms of his hands against his shorts. Pedro, as far as I could see, was impassive; waiting for events to take their course.

“Stand by the back of the sofa,” I instructed. Pedro took the three paces necessary to obey my command. Antonio stood his ground, immobilised by fear. Antonio gestured with his hand that his amigo should join him and with obvious reluctance he shuffled and took up position next to his companion in dishonour. I wondered at that moment whether Pedro had been the leader among the pair and Antonio, the led. He did seem to be the dominant force at this time.

I pulled the belt between my hands creating a loud snap. Antonio jumped. Pedro stayed calm. I was nearly ready. “Take down your trousers,” I said calmly. Antonio’s eyes saucered, he glanced at his friend whose entire demeanour was subservient. He was ready to obey my every command. Pedro fumbled with the buckle of his belt, but then calmly popped the button at the waist and pulled the zipper of his jeans. They slithered down to his knees. He parted his legs a little and they continued their journey and rested on top of his trainers. He stood with his hands rather demurely clasped in front of his manhood

Antonio was rigid. It was as if he was cemented to the ground.

“Doh!” I exhaled and threw my belt on the couch. Pedro’s eyes glazed as I gripped the waist of his cargo shorts, and with an expertise I didn’t know I possessed, I had them at his feet within seconds. His face shone with embarrassment. I picked up the belt and re-folded it and made it ready for action. I looked at the two eighteen year olds. They wore identical canary-yellow briefs. Both teenagers’ legs were entirely hairless.

“Bend over the couch,” I tapped the belt across the padded back so there was no doubt of my instructions. Pedro gave a sideway glance to his friend before falling forward. The couch was quite low and Pedro’s body easily cleared its back. He gripped the front of the seat cushion and spread his feet. He had presented me with a terrific target.

Antonio, of course, did not move. By now, I had anticipated I would have to intervene every step of the way. Holding my belt in my right hand, I used my left to grip Antonio by the scruff of his neck and push him forward. It was like throwing a reluctant child into a swimming pool. Antonio threw his hands forward to break his fall. To his credit, he did not try to escape. His amigo                 took hold of his hand.

Antonio was breathing heavily, Pedro was calmness personified. I had one more task to perform. The twins’ bottoms were firm, not quite “buns of steel” but not far off. Their briefs, were exactly that, and hardly covered the buttocks. In Pedro’s case a strip of bare buttock was visible below the hem of the pants. I should have dearly loved to belt them bare-bottomed, but in this day and age one cannot be too careful. So, instead I smoothed down wrinkles in their cotton briefs so that they fitted so well they might have been sprayed on.

I took up position to Pedro’s right and lashed the belt into the centre of his right cheek. Then I walloped the left. Then Antonio’s right, then the left. Then I returned to the start of the line and belted them again. And, again. The crack of leather against tight backsides resounded around the walls. The room was at the front of the house and the window wide open. My front garden is large but any passer-by would still be able to hear. Indeed, they would also be able to see two teenaged boys bent submissively across the back of a sofa having their naughty backsides tanned with a leather belt. Just another day in an English suburb.

A belt employed with some vim can deliver serious pain. The Terrible Twins “ooo’d” and “ahhhh’d” as swipe after swipe connected with firm buttocks. But, neither boy cried out. Even Antonio, who I had feared might howl the house down, took his whipping stoically. Pedro winced and sucked in air, when (quite by accident, honestly) my belt struck the bare area below his pants. He gripped the seat cushion tightly at that point and held on gamely.

I belted them with such energy you might have thought I was beating a carpet. A spanking has to hurt otherwise what is the point? These two would learn a real lesson. Actions have consequences and sometimes those consequences can be very painful indeed.

I lost count of the times I went up and down the line, spanking buttock after buttock. I must have laid it on well because my own breathing was soon laboured and my heartrate was off the scale. It was time to stop.

“You may stand up,” I intoned. They climbed to their feet in perfect harmony, the Terrible Twins might have been synchronised swimmers. Each teenager instinctively rubbed the seat of his underpants with some vigour. Then, Antonio saw me looking at him and he whipped up his shorts with alacrity. A huge grin split Pedro’s face when he realised what his amigo had done. More sedately, he pulled up his own jeans and buckled up.

They hovered before me, unsure what to do next. Both had shiny faces and damp eyes, but beyond that they seemed unaffected by their ordeal. Pedro clasped his hands behind his back and surreptitiously caressed his buttocks with his thumbs. Antonio stood head bowed, his hands in front of his crotch, every inch the contrite naughty boy.

I saw no reason to lecture them further. They had been disobedient boys and they had been spanked. And, I have to say, they had taken it rather well. I dismissed them to their rooms.

@

Antonio lay on his back, the pain had gone a long time ago, but the marks would probably last for ages. His throbbing cock pointed at the ceiling. Pedro knelt over him, his own dick thick and stiff. They were so long and hard the boys could have had a sword fight. Pedro leant in; his tongue was received by Antonio’s open mouth. A half-empty tube of KY jelly lay waiting on the pillow.

 

Picture credit: M. Pegasi

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Waiting my turn

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

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

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

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

He is calling John over to him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, please, no,” John is sniffing.

Uncle looks very cross and goes on smacking John.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, I can hear him running up the stairs.

“James.”

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

zused hands on head shorts

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Not too old to be spanked by grandad

z used belt pants (2)

When would grandad stop treating him like a child? Matt wondered silently as he unbuckled his jeans and let them slip to his knees. Twenty-three years old and still getting the belt.

“C’mon grandad, is this really necessary?” he wailed, “I’m too old for this.”

Matt’s question only got a grunt from grandad as he continued to unbuckle and remove his brown leather belt.

“What do you expect? You come home drunk in the middle of the night waking the whole neighbourhood.”

“I didn’t wake the neighbours.”

“Don’t answer me back.”

Grandad had doubled up his heavy belt and was ready to inflict the whipping he knew his grandson deserved.

Matt was sweating a little; he had a humdinger of a hangover from the night before.

Grandad was not a patient man. “You live in my house, you obey my rules. It’s not unreasonable to ask you not to come home drunk,” he barked.

There was no answer to that. It was true he was plastered last night, he couldn’t even remember getting home. Had one of his mates dropped him off?

Grandad stood waiting. Determined. He might have grandchildren but he was no wizened old man. He stood more than six feet tall and weighed the same as he did when he was thirty. Years of manual work could do that to a man.

Matt knew from experience he should not try to argue with grandad. He was of the “old school”, he was the man of the house – the head of the household – and he expected to be obeyed: by his wife and by his children and the grandchildren.

Matt was defeated; he knew resistance was futile; he would have to submit to this spanking. He leaned forward across the low vaulting horse, feeling his briefs pull tightly across his buttocks.

Matt stared down at the ground as a chill draught blew across his naked legs. Blood rushed to his face, it always did when he was bent over in this position. If he stayed like this for too long he would get a head ache. Not that that concerned him now. It was the ache in his arse that worried him more.

He wriggled his waist a little to make himself more comfortable. It was a small vaulting horse. Wherever did that come from? None of the family were gymnasts. Grandad kept it in a large shed in his garden. Sometimes he joked it was his own little “woodshed”.

Matt stretched his arms ahead of him and placed his palms flat on the ground. He could hardly believe this was happening: his body was bent almost double across the horse while to the side of him he heard grandad preparing to lash his leather belt into his cotton-covered buttocks. He braced himself for a very intense session with the belt.

Grandad was in no hurry. He was satisfied that his grandson was now submissive, meekly offering up his bum for him to do with as he wished.

Now, Matt heard a soft clinking noise. He twisted his head around and saw that his grandfather was folding up his belt. He doubled it in half for control and precision, and stepped forward. Matt turned his head again – he didn’t want to look. Instead, he waited with his plump buttocks pointing up in the air while that long, agonizing moment of preparation passed. The buttocks clenched and unclenched.

He heard grandad suck in a lung-full of air before the belt splatted down across the seat of his pants. It hurt.

The first time Matt had been strapped it had been agony and he had been miserable for hours afterwards. Now, after so many strappings, it was different. He took a pride in being able “to take it” without a fuss. He reckoned could bear the pain of the fierce strap without flinching.

Matt willed himself not to move. He stayed bent over, holding his backside in place so that his grandad could lash his buttocks over and over. And he did so, swinging the belt down hard across the lower edge of the vulnerable bottom and lashing some strokes into the bare thighs.

Matt’s resistance nearly crumbled; the pain didn’t lessen and the belt didn’t stop. For a full ten minutes grandad methodically brought the strap lashing across his grandson’s underpants, sparing not a single inch of his buttocks.

“I hope you’ve learned your lesson.” Grandad finished his spanking with three extra-hard licks.

Later, in the privacy of his bedroom, Matt inspected the damage done to his bottom in the mirror. His cheeks were dark red and the welts from the strap were prominent, the heat coming from his bum would be enough to warm a small room. Slowly he walked back to his bed and lay face down. His mobile phone vibrated, he reached out to see the caller ID.

“Yello,” he answered and listened intently. “Sure, I’ll come right over,” he said. It was his pal Chris calling from the pub.

 

Picture credit: Eastbourne Daddy

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

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Changed Times 8. Just another day

z used cane pants down touch toes

 

Click here for all episodes of Changed Times

 

Mr. Burton heaved a heavy sigh and glared at the three young men standing in front of his desk. Won’t they ever learn? The law had been in place for three years, they knew the rules – and the penalty for breaking them.

Osbourne, Rowe and Tapler, three twenty-something trainee managers stood hands behind backs, head slightly bowed. Contrite. Waiting for the inevitable. Mr. Burton noticed how all the young men a Global Petroleum looked like peas in a pod. Dark, perfectly creased trousers, gleaming white shirt, tie knotted tightly at the throat. Neat, short hair. Clean shaven.

There wasn’t much to be said. They knew why they were there. Just returned from a company residential course. They had too much to drink one night and missed the start of the following day. That would not do. Not do at all. Action had to be taken.

“It was a serious training school, not a vacation,” Mr. Burton leaned forward in his chair, planting his forearms on the desk. He was a tall wiry man in his early fifties. He was known as one of the “old guard” – staff who had been at Global since before the changes. When Britain was still in the European Union and before the huge economic crash. Things had changed when the New Democrats came into power. Mr. Burton was a keen supporter, the country had been going to the dogs – especially the young people.

“Well, let’s get on with this shall we,” he lifted himself from his sumptuous leather chair and made his way across the office, conscious of three pairs of eyes craning to watch him go. His destination was a long table. It had a drawer running along its length. Mr. Burton tugged it open, creating a rattling sound. To the three young men it seemed to echo around the office, the sound bouncing off the walls. Osbourne’s hands started to shake. Rowe stared intently at his highly polished black leather shoes. Tapler absent-mindedly rubbed his thumbs across the seat of his trousers.

It took Mr. Burton only seconds to reach in the drawer and withdraw a long, thin whippy rattan school cane. They still called them “school” canes, but since the law was passed it was permissible to beat young people in all walks of life. It started when they brought back corporal punishment to schools and soon its use spread to colleges and universities. Then misbehaving apprentices found they could have their backsides blistered. Suddenly, young people learned how to behave. The public loved it. Next thing the law allowed anyone in authority over the young to beat them black and blue.

This cane was made of the traditional rattan and when Mr. Burton flexed it between his hands he effortlessly made an arc. He looked across at the three young men, each still facing his desk. Three backsides waiting to be beaten. He walked slowly back to his desk, gently swishing the cane as he went.

“I think twelve strokes should do it, don’t you?” It was so gently said Mr. Burton might have been asking a genuine question. As if the lads were able to negotiate. “You know what Mr. Burton, I rather think I deserve three dozen.”

Rowe stared at the cane in his boss’s hand. “But we already got dealt with by Mr. Richardson.”

“Be quite! I don’t care about Mr. Richardson.”

Rowe blushed. It wasn’t fair. The workshop facilitator had already spanked them. Twenty-three years old and bent over Mr. Richardson’s knee, trousers at his ankles, underpants at his knees while the old man hammered a heavy wooden ruler into his bared buttocks. Could you imagine such a thing?

Mr. Burton swiped the cane through the air. “Rowe, Osbourne, stand by the wall.” He nodded to his left and the two young men obediently shuffled. “Tapler. Stand there.” He tapped the tip of his cane in the middle of a red-patterned rug. Tapler breathed deeply. His palms were sweating. He rubbed them against his trouser legs and set off across the office.

“Take down your trousers. Bend over.”

The three young men expected this. They weren’t the first employees to be beaten by Mr. Burton. They wouldn’t be the last. Even so, Tapler’s open faced coloured. His palms dampened again. This was too embarrassing. He saw Mr. Burton tap the cane against his own leg impatiently.

“C’mon lad, I haven’t got all day.”

Tapler’s wet fingers unbuckled his narrow back leather belt. He popped the button on the waistband of the trousers and tugged the zipper. The weight of his keys in his pocket helped them slither down his legs. He felt a slight breeze as they went.

“Bend over, lad.” More tapping against his leg.

Mr. Burton used to order a lad to, “Touch your toes.” He wasn’t sure why. It was the traditional way, he supposed. What generations of schoolmasters had done. He quickly learned it was better to have the lad grab his shins. It kept the knees straight and the bum was beautifully rounded to receive the swish of the rattan.

That was how Tapler presented himself. His spotted boxer shorts fitted snugly against his stretched cheeks. The lad’s shirttail hung down and covered most of his buttocks. It was no effort for Mr. Burton to take the edge and push it up the lad’s back to his shoulders. Mr. Burton was surprised how hairy the twenty-two-year-old was. Quite the hairiest youngster he had ever dealt with.

Tapler stared at the rug. It had a pattern but he couldn’t work out what it was. Some modern art perhaps. From the corner of his eye, he saw Mr. Burton take up position. He felt the cane being “sawed” across the centre of his tight buttocks. Then it was lifted away. He heard the swoosh as the cane flew and the crack as it connected with the seat of his underwear. It was a second or so later that he felt the tremendous pain. A thick welt was already forming under his boxers. It throbbed like mad.

Tapler gripped his calves so tightly his fingernails scratched the flesh. The second and third swipes bounced off his bum; landing in almost the same spot. It knocked the wind out of him. He shut his teeth just in time to stifle the “yowelll!” he wanted to make.

Osborne and Rowe looked on apprehensively. Their pal seemed to be taking the thrashing well. Rowe had howled when Mr. Richardson spanked him, he couldn’t imagine taking a trousers-down caning stoically.

Tapler’s head ached and saliva drained from his mouth. His boss continued his task with determination. It was his duty to instil discipline in the young. One day, when they were managers and making a good career at Global they would thank him for days like this. All his employees would. Mr. Burton was convinced corporal punishment worked. A sore arse never did any harm. The youngster broke the rules, learnt a very painful lesson and the world moved on. God was in his Heaven.

Twelve swipes of the cane across the underwear is an awesome punishment. By the time Tapler was allowed to stand his bum was ripped to shreds. Even without rubbing his hands across his buttocks he knew there were high ridges rising on the flesh. It felt like his shorts were stuck to the skin. That was either sweat, or God forbid, blood.

“Osbourne.”

The trainee manager took Tapler’s place. Tapler’s ashen face and damp eyes made Osbourne’s skin crawl. Osbourne took up position, let his trousers fall and bent to stare at the rug. Mr. Burton grimaced. Osbourne wore the most garish briefs, in a kind of zebra pattern. He had noticed that although young men dressed outwardly alike, they favoured outlandish underwear.

“Brace yourself boy.” He lashed the first cut home.

He had landed number eight when the office door swung open. Mr. Harris the section head – Mr. Burton’s boss – stood in the threshold. He was younger and beefier than Mr. Burton. He smiled broadly. “I heard there was something going on in here.”

He stared across at the zebra-covered arse. “Don’t I know you,” he grunted. “Didn’t I have occasion to thrash you the other week?”

“Yes, Sir,” the reply was addressed to the rug.

“Give me that, Burton,” he grabbed the cane from his hand and marched up to Osbourne. Rowe and Tapler watched in horror as Mr. Harris gripped the waist of the twenty-three-year-old’s pants and ripped them to his knees, completely baring the buttocks.

“You’ve given him a good set of marks, Burton,” he said with genuine admiration. Eight thick parallel lines ran from the top of the globes, over the crest of the buttocks and into the soft sit-spot. Mr. Harris raised the cane high and thrashed six stingers into the bare flesh. Rat-tat-tat, like machinegun fire. Osbourne howled like a banshee. His body twisted this way and that. His knees buckled and straightened as he fought to stop himself jumping to his feet and rubbing away at the scolding flesh.

“Here, carry on,” Mr. Harris handed the cane back and perched his buttocks on the edge of the desk. He folded his hands demurely over his crotch and made himself comfortable to watch the rest of the show.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Mr. Bashford takes charge

z used after jeans down by endart

 

“I hope you’ve learnt your lesson young man,” Mr. Bashford growled as he sat back in his chair to admire his handiwork.  Robert stood before him, jeans and underpants at his shins, gently patting his glowing buttocks.

“Just you stand like that, until I say you may go. Think about your behaviour,” he watched carefully as the nineteen-year-old pouted his disapproval. The teenager’s eyes glistened. There was no cause for tears, Mr. Bashford reckoned. He had delivered a sound spanking, but it had been no beating. That might come in the future if the brat dared to do it again.

Mr. Bashford gripped his wife’s large oval ebony hairbrush tightly. He felt its weight in his right hand as he smacked the business end down into his left. There was a reason that a hairbrush had a flat end, he thought with some satisfaction. It didn’t look much, but it was a mighty effective spanking tool. Generations of naughty boys (and some girls too) could testify to that.

People might think it odd that a nineteen-year-old needed to have his bare bottom spanked, but young people must be taught that there are boundaries. Mr Bashford studied Robert carefully. He was probably an inch or so taller than himself, but his body was much slighter: thin and wiry.  He would soon be a fully-grown man: an adult. But he was not yet mature; he was still a boy and sometimes, like on this day, he needed to be reminded of the fact.

Robert’s eyes widened with genuine surprise when he saw Mr. Bashford rummage in his jacket pocket and withdraw the large ebony-backed hairbrush. Without saying a word he placed it on the table to allow him to remove his jacket before laying it carefully next to it.

Then, he undid and removed his tie and started to roll up his shirt sleeves. He had very large arms and hands: as befitting a man who played rugby for his county when he was younger. His face was covered with a brown beard and the rest of his body was covered in thick hair and he still looked very fit.

Instantly, Robert was panicked and nervous, fully realizing what he intended to do, and what was about to happen. It looked very much like he was to be spanked with the hairbrush. He had never been spanked before.  He watched horrified as the old man pulled a wooden chair from the corner of the room, picked up the hairbrush and sat down.

Robert stood several feet away unsure what he was expected to do. Mr. Bashford knew his role in this little drama. The spanking had to be over the knee, but would the boy consent to draping himself across his lap to receive the full force of the heavy wooden hairbrush?

And if he didn’t comply? Would there be an unseemly fight while Mr. Bashford forcibly heaved him over? Mr. Bashford  reached across to him, took hold of his right arm and upper back, and firmly pulled him forward (the boy’s feet scooting and scuffing along) before hauling him over, and depositing him stretched out, hanging across his knees with his face pushed into the rug.

Then, swiftly without warning, he set up a snapping, cracking rhythm of the hairbrush as he peppered Robert’s rear-end with a series of bites.

Mr Bashford was pleased the nineteen-year-old had not resisted, but, Robert could afford to be impassive, with the denim of his jeans combined with the cotton of his underpants he hardly felt a thing as the old man fell into a tempo that covered all of his buttocks.

But, Mr. Bashford had a plan and Robert soon found the old man’s fingers fumbling with the elasticated waistband of his jeans, before jerking them down over the teenager’s bony hips and small, flat, but thin and muscled bottom. In a panic Robert thrashed his legs about, but rather than preventing the lowering of his jeans, the movements encouraged them to drop to his bare feet at the floor, leaving only his tight white briefs covering his mounds.

Mr. Bashford held the boy firmly around the waist and rained his hairbrush down with maximum force, covering every square inch of the cheeks, the upper thighs, and the curved area where they meet. The relatively small area of shiny polished wood which was attacking his tender buttocks delivered a level of pain well beyond its assumed potential.

The boy’s body lay flopped across Mr. Bashford’s lap as he pounded away. If Robert had felt no pain before, now the agony in his backside was intense. He gave up and gave in completely, hanging and dangling over the knees, his squalling taking over as he gasped, choked and shook. The fiery blistering on his bottom driving him to still deeper despair.

Not satisfied that an over-the-knee spanking on tight white underpants was enough indignity for the boy, Mr Bashford grabbed the waistband of the briefs and sent them the same way as Robert’s jeans.

The action encouraged renewed vigour in the boy who shook his body from left to right in a fruitless attempt to break free. Robert’s right hand involuntarily left the floor to defend his blistered bottom, only to be seized firmly and pulled up behind his back.

Robert wrestled to escape the relentless torrent of increasing pain which was setting his buttocks ablaze. He fought to escape from the very firm grip of the left arm pressing into his back. He pleaded, begged, promised, apologised endlessly between his gulps and his gasping for breath. But to no avail. The punishment pursued its unswerving path and the pattern on the rug became an indistinguishable blur.

Mr Bashford hadn’t known he possessed such strength: not only was he able to pin the nineteen-year-old brat in place across his knees, face down, bared bottom high, he continued to batter his buttocks with the hairbrush.  He pounded away at the boy for almost another five minutes, while Robert struggled and pleaded but he continued in his duty.

Finally at long last he stopped the spanking and put the brush down on the table. The boy’s buttocks were scarlet. This certainly would teach him to behave in the future. The defeated teenager was breathing convulsively as the cool air of the room contrasted starkly with the hot, red, blistered flesh of his buttocks and thighs. The surface of his bottom felt like someone had poured boiling liquid onto it.

Slowly – ever so slowly – he got up; the change of the contours of his bum cheeks seemed to make the pain worse across his rear end.

“Stand there. I hope you’ve learnt your lesson young man,” Mr. Bashford growled, as red of face and crimson of bottom, Robert shuffled into position. “And, if I catch you stealing from my shop again, beware I have a very heavy whippy cane that I won’t hesitate to use on you.”

Robert gulped audibly and continued patting his sore bottom.

 

Picture credit: Endart

Other stories you might like

Alexander’s little secret

The guy in the library

Vigilantes

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Someone needs his bottom spanked

z used pants on bed (50)

Mr. Harris stared down into his mug, waiting for the tea to cool. His heart was uncharacteristically racing; he knew his blood pressure was sky high. It was the stress; if he wasn’t careful he could be seriously ill.

The cause of his stress was upstairs, still in bed at nearly ten in the morning. Something had to be done and today was the day to do it.

The problem was Bill. Bill had been lodging with Mr. Harris since late September. He was eighteen years old and a student. He was the son of a life-long pal and he had taken the idle sod in as a favour to his dad until he found somewhere more “suitable”. Mr. Harris assumed that meant where he could get drunk, take drugs and jerk-off all hours. Certainly, it had nothing to do with being closer to the college library for studying.

It was three months now and Bill showed no signs of moving out. He came and went when he liked, stayed out to the early hours of the morning, slept in bed all day long and played his music at top volume. He never seemed to do any work. Mr. Harris had had enough.

Bill’s dad was a close friend and he didn’t want to upset him by complaining about the teenager. But, oh how he wished the boy would clear off so he could get his life back to normal. In desperation he sent an email. The reply rocked him to the core. “Drat,” he said to himself, “Why didn’t I do this before.”

Bill’s dad wrote, “He’s always been a lazy You Know What. If he doesn’t shift his idle backside you have my permission to spank it. Very Hard Indeed. It’ll do him good. If he gives you any trouble tell him I’ll stop sending him money and he’ll have to go out and get a proper job.”

Mr. Harris sipped his tea thoughtfully. He was not a man to dawdle; something must be done – now. But how, exactly. He had never spanked anyone in his life, but it couldn’t be that difficult, he supposed. He’d need the element of surprise. He wouldn’t expect an eighteen-year-old to meekly offer up his backside for spanking. Even with his dad’s threats ringing in his ears. He would go to Bill’s bedroom, whip the duvet off his sleeping body and pound away at his bum.

Mr. Harris drained his cup. It must be now or never. But, what did he have to do the deed? It would be useless to spank Bill’s bum with the palm of his hand. The boy was meaty; he’d hardly feel a thing. It would hurt Mr. Harris’ hand a lot more than Bill’s bottom.

What did people usually use? A cane? – he didn’t have one. Slipper? – ditto. His belt was thin and narrow, it wouldn’t be much use. He was as bald as a coot and had no use for hairbrushes. Absent-mindedly he strolled to the sitting room and began opening and closing cupboards and drawers hoping inspiration might strike. Nothing.

He did the same in the kitchen. Bingo! At the back of a cupboard was a huge wooden spoon. How ironic, he thought, Bill’s dad had given it to him as a present when he returned from South Africa. He had never used it. It was fourteen inches long and four across at the bowl end. He had no idea what practical use a spoon that size could have. He lifted it up and tested it in his hand. It had been carved from a single piece of wood. It was surprisingly heavy.

Feeling a bit foolish, he gripped the handle, twisted his body a little and whacked the spoon with some force into the seat of his trousers. He winced. It hurt. A lot. Even with his trousers and pants as protection. It would make an excellent spanking paddle.

Mr. Harris trudged up the stairs to Bill’s room. For once music wasn’t blaring, the teenager must still be asleep. Without knocking – “It’s my house, I’ll go where I want,” he thought – he pushed open the door. The heat immediately hit him. The radiator had been left full on, it was hotter than a rain forest. A sweet, sickly smell, a combination of teen sweat and tissues soaked in cum, cloyed at his throat.

Bill lay face down on his bed, the duvet had tumbled to the floor. He was naked except for a pair of dark-blue trunks. They were so tight they looked like they had been sprayed on. The cotton dug into his crack, lifting and separating each buttock cheek. Bill had a bum crying out to be spanked.

The eighteen-year-old was sleeping. Mr. Harris watched his body move in rhythm to his breathing. His head was turned towards the wall.

“Time to get up!” Mr. Harris shouted. Bill immediately stirred, turned his head and opened his bleary eyes, astonished to see his landlord standing over him.

“It’s gone ten, you shouldn’t be in bed.”

Bill’s nostrils flared. “F@@c off, it’s Saturday.” He turned his head back to the wall.

Mr. Harris had a plan. It worked to perfection. With his left hand he pushed Bill’s shoulders with such force he was pinned to the mattress. With the other hand he pounded the heavy wooden spoon into Bill’s backside. The teenager had a narrow waist and slim legs, but his buttocks were round, full and firm. Mr. Harris saw the spoon sink into the teenager’s mounds with each whack.

Bill wriggled and writhed in shock, but his tormentor held him firmly. The boy’s face was in the pillow, he could barely breathe. “Wooaa, leggo,” he wheezed. The unexpectedness of the attack had disorientated him. Mr. Harris pounded on and on into the substantial cheeks. Bill buckled his knees, kicked his legs and wriggled his backside from left to right, but there was no escaping the onslaught.

The pain in his bum was rising. Mr. Harris covered every square inch of the target. Then, for good measure, he struck the back of Bill’s bare thighs. That had the teenager yelping. “F@@k off, let me go!” he shouted, but it only spurred his master on in his mission.

“Watch your language , young man,” he hissed. Nearly all his breath was gone, so fierce were his exertions.

“F@@K off, leave me alone!”

Mr. Harris dropped the spoon onto Bill’s hairless back.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he gripped the waist of Bill’s underwear and with two tugs he had bared the boy’s buttocks. Mr. Harris was astonished at how battered they looked. Blotches of dark-pink covered what was once creamy-white flesh. A bruise was coming out on the tender sit-spot, under the crease.

Mr. Harris hammered the heavy wooden spoon into the buttocks, delighting to see the dark-pink rapidly turning crimson. His shirt was soaked in sweat, the room was boiling, but so was Bill’s bum. Mr. Harris’ blood pressure was about to go through the roof. It felt like blood would soon flood out of his ears. If he didn’t stop now he would have a stroke.

He released his grip on the boy’s shoulders. Bill curled up in the foetal position, knees in at his chest. His hands rubbed his scorched backside. His eyes were wet, but tears were not flowing.

“Next time I tell you to get up, make sure you do,” Mr. Harris growled as he left the room. His breathing was easier now. Slowly he retraced his steps to the kitchen. He flicked the switch on the kettle and eased himself down at the table. He caressed the smooth wooden spoon lovingly and pondered how long it would be before Bill moved out.

 

Other stories you might like

The students next door

Visit to Uncle Roy

Their new house

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

Father does his duty

z used adult schoolboy in corner (1)

I am doing as my father instructed, standing with my nose pressed against the wall, hands on head; waiting. Waiting until father is ready to deal with me. I am wearing my school uniform. Or most of it. When I get home each evening he makes me change out of my long grey trousers and put on shorts. They’re not leisure shorts, the kind we wear during warm weather; they are real properly-tailored short trousers. I’m eighteen years old, God only knows where he manged to buy a pair that fitted me.

It’s father’s idea of keeping me under control. He says I spend too much time mucking around with my mates. He seems to think I hang out at bus stops drinking cheap cider and smoking dope when I should be at home hitting the school books. It’s not true, he doesn’t know the half of it.

He reckons if he confiscates all my jeans and whatnot and puts me in short trousers I won’t want to go out at night dressed like an overgrown eight-year-old. He’s right there.

Instead of going out I spend hours online playing games and looking at porn. Father thought his little wheeze would make me study harder. Well, today he’s found out the truth. We’ve just had the results of our project work for A-levels. It looks like I’m heading for a big fat fail in the exams.

I can hear him bustling around in the sitting room. He hasn’t told me what he’s up to but when he said he would “deal with me,” I was pretty sure. It’s not looking good.

I hear him call. “Come here, Selwyn!” I know better than to keep him waiting. I go across the hall to the sitting room. I can see the preparations he has made. The dining room table is pushed against one wall. This gives more space in the small room. He has set one of the dining room chairs opposite with its back pressed up against the wall. He is standing, feet apart, like a soldier at ease.

Father is probably in his forties, but he looks much older. He is medium height and lean with a short-back-and-sides haircut that went out of fashion in about 1952. It is slicked back with the greasy hair oil Brylcreem. He has a short, well-groomed moustache, but it’s not as dark as his hair. It hides the top lip of his pasty-white face. He is wearing the same beige cardigan that he always wears when not in his work suit. The buttons are done up from bottom to top, over a white shirt pulled down to the wrists and a tightly knotted neck tie. His trousers are old and dark – part of a suit relegated from workday use to become his antiquated version of “leisure wear.” Grey socks and bedroom slippers complete his outfit.

One of the slippers remains on his left foot; the other he grips in his right hand. He gestures with it that I should stand close to him. I shuffle forward a pace or two into position.

“Take down your trousers, please,” he says. There is no emotion. I can detect no anger in his voice. Perhaps there is a trace of world-weariness. Once more he is compelled to spank his son’s bottom. When will Selwyn ever learn?

I do not plead for clemency, for experience tells me that nothing I can say will deter my father from his mission. I know he loves me and he wants the best for me. It is his duty to discipline me. Only by doing so can I hope to grow into a responsible adult. I have heard him tell me this all my life. There is nothing unique about today.

My hands tremble more than I think they should as I grasp the metal fastener. The short trousers have an elasticated waist, so I need no belt.  Once the front is open they tumble down my thighs and rest at my shins. I am wearing dark-blue underpants. I am a growing boy and they are getting a little too small for me. They fit tightly across my cock and balls and snugly so that at the back they lift and separate my buttock cheeks.

Father adjusts himself on his chair. He moves his bottom a bit, making sure his spine is firmly resting against the back of the chair. He separates his legs by a foot or so to provide a platform where my stomach and chest will soon rest.

“Bend over my knee, please.” Again, his instruction is softly spoken. There is no need for anger. He knows I will obey his instruction without question.

I am across him in one movement. I stretch my hands in front of me and keep my knees straight, leaving my toes resting an inch above the floor. I wait patiently. I have a close-up view of the dark- and-light-blue patterned carpet. I feel father grip the lower half of my school blazer and push it up my back. Then he takes the tail of my shirt and pulls that away from my buttocks.  He smooths my pants out: first across one buttock and then across the other, eliminating all wrinkles.

I take a deep breath.

Suddenly, there’s a loud crack echoing round the room as my bum gets a mighty whack that stings me across both my pert round buttocks.

“Ah!” I suck in air.  After just two more weighty blows from the large slipper I can feel my bottom aflame with a smarting soreness that hurts and stings. With just two or three seconds between each smack, the spanking quickly develops into a slow steady rhythmic rising and falling of the slipper. Each time it contacts forcefully with my once pale creamy white bottom, I grimace and screw my face up in some pain.

Father’s large slipper thumps heavily down on my bottom time and time again. My bum is really very sore now. One whack hits me squarely in the middle of the left bum cheek. The next on the right. Father isn’t a sadist, when he gives spankings he intends for me to get the message and mend my ways, but he doesn’t want to brutalise me

I gasp a little as some wallops hit right on a spot where others have landed. He quickens the pace. Slap here, whack there, wallop again.

He stops after about two minutes. My bum hurts and I am sore, but I am not about to burst into sobs or anything.

Father has finished spanking, but he continues to hold me down over his knees. He still has things to do.

“Have you learned you lesson?”

“Yes father.”

“And what lesson is that?”

“I should study harder.”

“Good boy.”

“Will I have to do this again?”

“No father.”

“Good, because if I do it will be a lot worse for you. Understand?”

“Yes father.”

“Good, get up son.”

I struggle to my feet, pull up my short trousers and do them up.

“Go stand by the wall again. Hands on head. Think about how naughty you have been and what you must do to mend your ways,” he says.

I return to the wall. Minutes later the telephone rings. I hear my mother answer it. I hear her side of the conversation. She is being given news that shocks her. Oh dear. I bet it’s Mr. Grainger from Number 42 telling her he saw me and Christopher Elliot tossing each other off on the recreation ground at lunchtime.

 

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The Dean of Dorm Discipline

When Dad got home

Donald knows his place

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com