Lodging with Uncle Ralph

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“Come up here Robert, I want you to see this. You need to learn something.” It was Uncle Ralph calling from the bedroom. I knew something not nice was happening, I had felt an extreme tension in the house the moment I returned from college.

With some reluctance I trudged up the stairs. The bedroom door was open. My cousin John stood miserably, his usually pale face, now a deathly shade of white. Towering over him was his father, my Uncle Ralph. Uncle’s whiskers bristled; he turned to me and growled, “I want you to see this. The same will happen to you if you ever break my rules.”

I glanced at John; now his face was deep scarlet. I had no idea what was happening. I had moved in with Uncle Ralph and his family a few days previously after I joined Brocklehurst University. Uncle Ralph was a weird fellow. He was ex-military and had in his time been a colonel. He spent much of his life outside of England. It might be 2019, but somewhere in his head it was still about 1935. One of the first things he did on my arrival was to give me a long list of rules of the house. It went on for pages of closely printed script. I didn’t read it all. That was to be my downfall.

I was still standing on the landing. Uncle Ralph glared at me from the bedroom. “Stand there, in the doorway. Watch and learn,” he spoke in a clipped style; I suppose this was how he spoke to his men in the army. I paused, a little embarrassed. What was going on here? Why was he so agitated? I looked over at John hoping I might get a signal from him, but he was too engrossed staring down at his own feet.

“Right lad!” Uncle Ralph barked. “This is what you are going to do.” He paused and wiped spittle from his beard with the back of his hand. “Take down those trousers.” I’m sure my jaw must have dropped, I was gaping. John’s face contorted, I knew he wanted to say something, to perhaps make a protest, but he seemed to bite back his thoughts. His forehead shone with sweat although the room was quite cool.

“Get them down. Now, lad,” Uncle Ralph glared. “Or do you want me to do it for you?” “No Father, no,” the threat spurred John into action. He wore cheap track pants and all he had to do was pinch the sides of the elasticated waistband and guide them down over his thighs. They snagged at the knees. “All the way. Step out of them,” Uncle Ralph ordered.

I am no expert on these things, but it looked like John was in a trance. He kept his eyes trained on the floor as he leaned forward and took hold of the sweats and wriggled his feet free of them. He straightened up and now stared blankly at the wall. I followed his gaze; there was nothing in his sightline, only plain white wallpaper. He stood, shoulders straight, hands clasped behind his back. His plain blue t-shirt hung long enough to cover most of his tight, yellow-and-maroon-striped briefs. I noticed John’s legs were virtually hairless.

My own throat dried as I it began to dawn on me what Uncle Ralph intended to do. I don’t have the words to describe my thoughts, but I was baffled. John was clearly in Uncle Ralph’s power. He would obey any command of the old man. That became clear when Uncle Ralph intoned. “Take down the pants. Step out of them.” My heart beat fast; I can only imagine what was going on inside John’s chest. The perspiration had now spread from his forehead and his top lip was moist. Still in a trance, he slipped his thumbs under his pants and pushed them south. He stood unsteadily on one leg and then on the other so he was able to step out of them without toppling to the floor.

John was now naked from the waist down. He straightened up. His shirt covered some of his privates but I had a clear view of his hairy ball sack. John was on some kind of autopilot. He stood waiting for Uncle Ralph’s next instruction. Almost without thinking he cupped his hands together and rested them so they obscured my view of his cock.

All this couldn’t have taken more than a few seconds but for me time was standing still. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion making it seem like minutes had passed. Uncle Ralph was in no hurry. He stood impassively, looking down his long curved nose at his son. His beady eyes were glazed. Through his beard I saw the tip of his tongue dart out of his mouth and slowly run across his top lip. He shot John a withering look and without a word he walked across the bedroom. I watched transfixed as he stopped at an old battered dressing table, opened a drawer and reached inside. I heard a clumping sound before his hand emerged holding a block of wood. Uncle Ralph used his hip to close the drawer before turning to face me. The block of wood was about the size of a DVD cover. He held it by a small handle. He waved it through the air and said, “In this house you follow the rules. Or else.”

He said no more and then slowly he walked the three or four steps necessary to take him to the bed. He sat down on the edge, rather like it was a sofa so that his feet were firmly planted on the floor. He looked across at John. “Bend over my knee.” It was a clipped command. Uncle Ralph was used to being obeyed. There was not the slightest doubt in his mind that John would submit to his will. And so he did.

I realised at that moment that this scene that was so strange and unusual to me had probably been played out many times before. Or ones very similar to it. John definitely knew the part he had to play in this drama and he did not fluff his lines. He looked across at Uncle Ralph, now sitting legs apart, took a deep breath and in one continuous movement took two paces forward and lowered himself across Uncle Ralph’s knees. He wriggled for a moment until his chest and arms were stretched out along the mattress. From where I was at the bedroom door I had a perfect view of John’s backside which he raised high over Uncle Ralph’s lap.

There was a second or two while Uncle Ralph ran his eyes over John’s prone body, I could tell that he felt something wasn’t quite right. Then he took hold of the end of John’s shirt and pushed it further up his back. Now, John’s buttocks were completely bare.  I hadn’t noticed before (why should I?) that John’s bum was broad and meaty, it was as hairless as his legs and the skin was quite pale.

I was rooted to the ground. My eyes must have been out on stalks. My heart pounded and I was now as sweaty as John. I had never witnessed anything like this before. It didn’t seem real. I couldn’t wait for Uncle Ralph to whack that wood across John’s naked, meaty bum. But Uncle wasn’t quite ready; he looked across at me and said, “I will not hesitate to give you the same treatment if your behaviour warrants it.” I croaked back, “Yes, sir.”

Uncle Ralph turned his attention back to the job in hand. He used John’s back as a shelf to rest the wood and with his left hand he gripped John around the waist. He cupped the other hand and with his palm he gently traced the contours of John’s left cheek, around the circumference and into the undercurve where the bum and thigh meet. He slapped the bum gently at the highest point of the mounds. I clearly saw the flesh wobble. Once he had gone round the circuit of the left cheek, Uncle Ralph did the same with the right. I might have imagined this but John’s entire body appeared to relax while this took place.

John might have been relaxed, but I was not. My temples were now throbbing and I knew very soon I would have a raging headache – the tension was so great. Uncle Ralph retrieved the wood from John’s back and gripped the handle tightly. The muscles in his arms tensed. He raised the wood high and rocked back on the mattress; then he pounded it across the meatiest part of John’s right cheek. I heard a long, low whistling sound. John rose to his elbows and this just encouraged Uncle Ralph to press his hand into the small of John’s back. He was pinned down and was going nowhere. Uncle Ralph was in total control. The wood rose and fell and swatted into the left cheek.

I suppose the whole scene was surreal; dreamlike. Can you imagine in this day and age an eighteen-year-old boy submissively offering up his bared bottom to his father so the old man can spank it severely with a block of wood? Well, it happened. I am witness to that.

It didn’t take more than four or five swats of the small block to cover all of John’s fat bottom. His skin was pale and reddened very easily. In no time at all his bottom was aflame. If would have glowed in the dark if we turned off the lights. Even from a distance I saw the skin beginning to break. John was stoical, I suppose. He kept his bum raised high as best he could, but the spanking clearly hurt him. He dug his elbows into the mattress and raised his head, shaking it from side to side as each successive swat added to the heat in his rear end. His hair was wet with sweat and from what I cold see of it, his face was as scarlet as his bum. He wriggled his hips and his knees buckled, but he didn’t try to break free. I suppose all that writhing around was his body’s natural reaction to the pain.

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Uncle Ralph kept up a rhythmic pounding. First one cheek, then the next. Higher, then lower. Under the crease. On the crest of the mounds. Into the back of the thighs.  Even I , with my lack of experience, could see this was a thorough, well-planned and well-executed spanking. All done with military precision.

When he was ready, and only then, did Uncle Ralph lay the wood down on the mattress beside him. He paused a few seconds while John’s body recovered a little. Then, he intoned, “Punishment over. Stand up.” He released John’s waist and my cousin scurried off his knees and stood unsteadily. His eyes searched the room for his briefs and sweats. “Dismissed.” Uncle Ralph sounded like he was on parade. John found his clothes and without waiting to dress he bundled them under his arm and fled the room.

I moved to one side to let him pass. I stood unsure what I was supposed to do next. Uncle Ralph was breathless, his shirt stuck to his back, his beard glistened with sweat. He replaced the wood in the drawer. When he turned from the dresser the startled look in his eyes suggested he had forgotten I was there. He recovered instantly, “So now you know.” I nodded sagely, as if he were one of my professors explaining a complicated new theory.

“Good,” Uncle Ralph stepped ominously towards me, “Because now we have to deal with the little matter of your absence without leave from college yesterday afternoon.”

My knees buckled. In my mind I saw John’s toasted backside, the glowing, flesh, the small cuts to the flesh. The humiliation of presenting his bare bottom for chastisement. My mouth gaped open and shut, it was a good impression of a goldfish stranded out of water.

“Wait for me in the kitchen,” Uncle Ralph spoke clearly and with authority. “I have to change my shirt.” He glowered at me, “Off! Now!” I sprang into action, only now getting some inkling of the control this man possessed. No wonder John had been so submissive. It was almost addictive.

I waited in the kitchen for ten minutes or so. How had he known I had skipped Uni. yesterday afternoon? What else did he know? I paced the room. I had no doubt what Uncle Ralph intended to do. Would I let him? Could I let him? Would I have the same fortitude as John to submit to punishment. Me, eighteen years old, nineteen next September, spanked on the bare bottom! All kinds of absurd thoughts befuddled my brain. What if the guys at Uni. ever found out!

Uncle Ralph’s arrival in the kitchen brought me back to earth. He had obviously showered and a heady aroma of coal tar soap wafted from him. I hardly noticed this; all I saw was the heavy, wooden hairbrush he gripped in his fist.

“So, AWOL from college. Yes.” I suppose he might have meant it as a question, but it sounded like a very definitive statement to me so I stayed quiet. “Yes?” he spoke loudly, as if to a hundred men, “Yes! Guilty as charged?” I murmured agreement. “Right,” he picked up a straight-backed kitchen chair with one hand and manoeuvred it away from a table and into space. He set it down heavily. “You now understand the rules of engagement.” It was another question posed as a statement. My head was spinning. What was he talking about. Engagement?

“Doh!” he was losing what little patience he ever had. “You know what is expected of you?” I must have still looked blank. “You know what to do?” He sat on the chair and wriggled his buttocks until he was comfortable. He sat upright in the chair and leaned back. He parted his legs slightly. Even I, befuddled as I was, could see he had prepared a perfect platform for me to submit myself.

“Right lad,” he barked, Uncle Ralph was incapable of speaking in a normal tone of voice, “Stand there.” He clicked his fingers and pointed to a spot on the floor a metre or so from his right knee. Looking back, some of what happened is hazy in my memory, but other parts are as clear as a bell. I know it happened, I’ve got the bruises to prove it. It was like an out-of-body experience. I stood where instructed. Uncle Ralph waved a hand at me. “Get those jeans down.” I stared down at myself. Of course, I’ve taken jeans off thousands of times before but at this precise moment I was unclear how it was done. I was baffled by the complexity of my belt. How do I get the end out of the buckle. What do I do with that prong thing? It seemed to take me for ever to get the damn thing unbuckled and open. Then, there was the challenge of undoing the top button and getting the zipper to work. Somehow , don’t ask me how, I got the jeans to me knees. “All the way down,” Uncle Ralph’s voice, loud as it was, seemed to be coming from a very long distance. I bent from the trunk and with my hands pushed the jeans until they bundled on top of my feet.

“Bend over my knee,” the command was terse. How was this done exactly? I had seen John earlier go over Uncle Ralph’s lap, but that was on a bed and John rested his arms on the mattress; where I was I supposed to put mine? Despite these absurd thoughts, I slowly lowered myself over Uncle Ralph’s right leg. There is a certain amount of instinct involved in something like this, so with my stomach perched over his thigh I stretched my body so my chest lay on his left knee. This meant my arms naturally were ahead of me. I parted them by a metre or so and pressed my palms into the cold floor tiles. I couldn’t see because I was now staring directly down but behind me my own knees were slightly bent and my bottom was poking up at an angle.

I felt Uncle Ralph lay the wooden brush on my back, just as he had with John. I flinched as he took hold of the top of my pants. But, instead of ripping them down and exposing my bare bottom, he griped the waistband and tugged. They already fitted me snugly, but now they were so tight I could feel the cotton pulled up into my crack. Uncle Ralph took me lightly by the hip to hold me steady. That was when I felt his big hand rub across my buttocks. He was smoothing away any wrinkles in the pants – and (I suspect) having a good feel while he was at it.

He said nothing while doing all this so I had no warning when he started slapping his hand across my backside. Through the thin underpants I could tell his hand was hard and rough. I had no experience being spanked so I didn’t know how much it was supposed to hurt. He lay it on hard and rapidly. Smack-smack-smack. It was much quicker than the way he had spanked John. My bum was warming up. It didn’t hurt – well, not too much – it was like an intense tingle, if that makes any sense.

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I lay face down looking intently at the floor. A ball of dust floated by my face. I noticed a water stain where the tiles had not been dried properly after they were cleaned. I concentrated on this, as if it might take my mind off the humiliation I was suffering. I felt a movement in Uncle Ralph’s body. He picked up the brush and whacked me hard with it. I gasped at the shock of this sudden pain. It hurt so much more than the palm of his hand. I heard Uncle Ralph wheezing as he laid the brush across my stretched underpants. Oh my how it hurt!

I don’t know how many whacks he gave me. I do know I kicked my legs and waved my arms about. “Keep still. Keep still,” Uncle Ralph ordered. I had very little control over my body, I couldn’t have obeyed even if I wanted to. “Keep still, it’ll be all the worst for you,” he said. The warning was lost on me. I kept on struggling. Suddenly, the pounding stopped, I drew in great gulps of air. The pain was intense but as soon as he stopped hammering my bottom, it started to dissolve into something like a constant throbbing.

If I thought my spanking was over, Uncle Ralph had another idea. He lay the brush on my back again and with both hands he clutched the waist of my underpants. I might have made a yell of protest, I can’t be sure. Not that it did me any good. My bum was bare. Uncle Ralph took hold of the brush again and he took my tail off! He pressed his elbow into my back and that stopped me wriggling around too much. I may not have been willingly submitting myself to him, but he was my master. He could (and would) spank me for as long and as hard as he wished and I had to lay there face down, bared-bottom quivering until he was ready to stop.

This is where my recollection becomes hazy. I know my bum was on fire and my entire body ached, but also in some crazy way that I don’t have the words to explain, I was flying high. I’ve smoked some dope in my time and taken other drugs at parties, but nothing had ever made me fly like this. Go figure, I can’t.

At some point, Uncle Ralph set me free. I remember jumping up and down and rubbing away at my roasted bottom. Then, I was face down on my bed. Next morning, I had to sneak into the utility room very early and launder the bedsheets before my aunt saw them. Later, I spent time very carefully reading the printed list of rules Uncle Ralph gave me when I arrived. I made careful note of all the offences I could commit that would earn me a jolly good spanking.

 

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures / straight lads spanked dot com

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Two brothers

I should have guessed I was in for a spanking the moment we sat down for breakfast.

We were all sat at the table, tucking into the traditional fried English breakfast. “We” were my dad, mum, my twenty-year-old brother, Barry, and me, Michael, an eighteen-year-old schoolboy living in Brocklehurst, a modern “New Town” in England.

The kitchen was a reasonably sized room. Our family was not rich, but we weren’t poor either. We had all the “mod-cons” of the day: the fridge, the washing machine, you know the kind of things.

The room was dominated by a huge Welsh dresser stacked with fancy china plates that we never used and a large wooden kitchen table. Dad was at one end of the table sitting to attention, his back straight as a ram-rod. Mum was at the other end, hiding behind the morning newspaper, and me and Barry were next to each other along one side.

Breakfast was not usually taken in a hurry, but today I could sense an atmosphere in the room. Mum was agitated and hurriedly finished eating and left the room saying to no one in particular she had, “Things to do.”

Barry, who was usually the first one to finish was lingering. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry. I should have realised then that they knew something that I didn’t.

Dad started it off. “Michael you came in last night at two o’clock, and you were covered in mud.”

Oh, I get it. I’m for it.

Barry was going nowhere until dad said, “Barry, please leave us alone.” My brother had a huge smirk in his face as he reluctantly did as he was told.

“Now, Michael.” dad wasn’t one to mince his words. He told me my behaviour was unacceptable. As a schoolboy, I was too young to be out at that time. He reminded me that he’d told me about this before, but I was taking no notice.

And that was it. “Stand up please.” Dad scraped his chair back from the table so his knees were clear of it.

I did as I was told, pushed my own chair back and stood.

Dad was probably in his forties, but looked much older. He was medium height and lean with hair cut in the short-back-and-sides fashion he had worn it since his days twenty years before when he had done his National Service in the Army. The hair was slicked back with greasy hair oil known as Brylcreem.

He had a short, well-groomed moustache, but it was not as dark as his hair. It hid the top lip of his pasty-white face.

Whenever I think of him, he always looked the same. That’s because he always did look the same, come summer or winter. He wore a beige cardigan with the buttons done up from bottom to top, over a white shirt pulled down to the wrists and a tightly knotted neck tie. He wore old dark trousers – part of a suit relegated from work-day use to what we never called in those days “leisure wear.”

Grey socks and bedroom slippers completed his outfit.

Dad was aware of Barry smirking through the serving hatch that separated our kitchen from the dining room. Turning his body slightly to the left, dad spoke over his shoulder. “Barry, do you want to join him?”

“No dad.”

Barry darted away from the hatch.

Satisfied that he was alone with his son, dad reached down and removed the slipper from his right foot.

He gestured with it that I should stand close to his right hand side. I shuffled forward a pace or two into position.

“Take down your jeans, please.” Again, without complaint, I did as instructed. My hands trembled more than I thought they should as I unbuckled my belt, unfastened the two buttons at the waistband and the four on the fly and pushed my Levis to my knees, exposing my dark blue underpants.

Dad adjusted himself on his chair. He moved his bottom a bit, making sure his spine was firmly resting against the back of the chair. He separated his legs by a foot or so to provide a platform where my stomach and chest would rest.

I could see Barry had again taken up a position the other side of the serving hatch so he could witness my spanking. He was still smirking: he had a clear open face that was made for smiling: he did it all the time, but I wished he wouldn’t do it now.

Dad had forgotten all about Barry. If he had known he was spying, dad would have brought him into the kitchen and given him a darned-good spanking as well – twenty years old or not.

“Bend over my knee, please.”

I was across him in one movement. I stretched my hands in front of me and kept my knees straight, leaving my toes resting an inch above the floor.

I waited patiently. I had a close up view of the dark- and light-blue patterned lino floor covering and the scuff marks where for years chairs had scraped in and out under the kitchen table.

Dad grabbed hold of the tail of my shirt, a very fashionable (at the time) mauve floral print one, and pulled it way up my back, nearly to my shoulders. He smoothed my pants out: first across one buttock and then across the other, eliminating all wrinkles.

I took a deep breath.

The first whack hit me square in the middle of the left bum cheek. The second was on the right. Dad wasn’t a sadist, when he gave spankings he intended for us to get the message and mend our ways, but he didn’t want to brutalise us.

I gasped a little as the third and fourth wallops hit right on top of the previous two. Then he quickened the pace. Slap here, whack there, wallop again.

He stopped after a dozen whacks. It hurt alright. I was sore, but I wasn’t about to burst into sobs or anything.

Dad was finished spanking, but he continued to hold me down over his knees. He still had things to do.

“Have you learned you lesson?”

“Yes dad.”

“And what lesson is that?”

“Don’t come home late.”

“Good boy.”

“Will I have to do this again?”

“No dad.”

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

“Yes dad.”

“Good, get up son.”

I struggled to my feet, pulled up my jeans and did them up.

As I was leaving the kitchen to go to my room, dad swivelled to his left and caught sight of Barry’s smirking face.

“Barry, come in here please.”

That wiped the stupid grin off his face.

I waited for Barry to go into the kitchen and then took his place in the dining room.

This was going to be too good to miss.

Barry reluctantly entered the kitchen, just as dad cleared away the breakfast things from the table top.

Dad and Barry stood facing each other, eye to eye. I hadn’t really noticed it before but Barry was probably an inch or so taller than dad, and who knows, maybe if he wanted to Barry could beat dad in a fight. But there was to be no fight: not today.

Not too many words were exchanged between the two. Barry knew why he was here. Not only had he been spying on my spanking, he continued to do so even though dad had ordered him not to.

I think dad saw the disobedience as a more serious crime than the spying. Anyhow, it was a double whammy for Barry and he was going to get one heck of a hiding.

“Trousers and pants down.”

It was simple, calm instruction. Barry loosened his belt and pulled his shirt tail out from his trouser waistband. Then holding both his jeans and his underpants by the waist, in one movement he pulled them down. The weight of his belt took the Levis to his feet and the dangled around his knees.

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“Bend over the table.” Just as I had done, Barry did as he was told without question. He reached forward over the kitchen table with his stomach and chest resting on the table top. At first he seemed unsure where to place his arms, but settled for folding them in front of him so he could bury his face in his arms.

Barry moved his legs slightly so they were tucked in almost under the table, and his bare behind jutted out from the table, positively inviting the whacking he was about to receive.

Dad was in no hurry. I had a perfect view of proceedings, but dad never noticed me (or, maybe he did, but thought that since Barry had witnessed my spanking, I was entitled to witness his).

Dad moved over to the side drawer of the kitchen table, the drawer was stiff, but eventually it opened. Without looking dad put his hand inside and after a few moments fished out what he was searching for: his razor strop.

The strop was old-fashioned even then. It was a long strip of brown leather maybe an inch or two wide and at least a quarter-inch thick. I don’t know if dad ever used the strop for its rightful purpose – safety razors had been invented a long time ago – but this was the first time I ever knew him to use it for its secondary purpose. I suppose generations of naughty boys had felt one of these across their backsides, clothed or bare, but I wasn’t aware of anyone that I knew being on the deadly end of one. And, certainly no twenty year old.

As dad was going about his business, I saw Barry turn his head to the left to see what was going on.

“Face the front,” dad snapped. “You’ll find out soon enough what’s going on here.”

Barry had a very open face, fresh and boyish some people might say. I know a lot of girls found it very kissable. So did quite a few boys, we were to discover once Barry had gone off to work in Manchester.

Dad was ready now. He stood close to Barry on the right hand side, so he was almost touching him, and with no real swing he moved the strop back by about a foot and brought it crashing down into Barry’s naked flesh.

Barry winced visibly, but otherwise kept his composure.

CRACK! The second and then CRACK! the third lash cut into Barry’s bare buttocks. One on the left: one on the right.

Barry let out a kind of repressed whistle, showing that the leathering he was getting was effective indeed.

He buried his head deeper into his arms. I didn’t have a perfect few of his rear end, but I could tell Barry’s bottom was reddening quickly. Soon it would be cherry coloured and before the thrashing was over, purple.

CRACK! It must have been blow number ten when Barry raised his head from his arms and let out a piecing yell. It was as horrible as it was unexpected. Tears were gushing from Barry’s eyes and he was clearly in great distress.

Oddly, I felt no sympathy with Barry at that point. Instead I could only wonder if the neighbours could hear the noise, and guess that one or other of us was getting a damn good hiding from dad. The thought of them knowing disturbed me a little.

CRACK! I don’t know if Barry had the same thought because this time he raised his fist to his mouth to stifle his yell.

CRACK! Barry’s body jiggled from left to right as he tried to absorb the pain and desperately stop himself from jumping off the table to rub away the sting from his bum.

And, then it was over. As I’ve said dad was no sadist. Barry had taken a dozen lashes with the strop and judging from the tears flooding down his cheeks the belting had left its marks.

On dad’s instruction, Barry lifted himself off the table and bending down he gingerly pulled up his underpants. I could see him wince again as the pants brushed against his blistered bum as he pulled them to his waist. With both hands he rubbed his buttocks furiously through his cotton pants.

Then another grimace as he bent over once more to reach to his feet for his trousers. A second or so later they too were at his waist. I could see that Barry just wanted to rub and rub away at his throbbing backside, but instead he fastened his trousers and stood in front of dad, shuffling uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

A few words from dad and he was ordered to his room. I waited a few seconds and followed him up. We were two brothers who had both had a spanking from their dad and despite any other rivalries we might have in our lives there was nothing that could break that bonding.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

This story was first uploaded in January 2016.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Where’s the paddle, hon?

“Where’s the paddle, hon?”

“Sorry?”

“The spanking paddle. Where is it? I can’t find it.”

“Did you try under the stairs?”

“Yes, and in the garage.”

Hank Betterman had looked everywhere. And he would look in some more places too. But, he would never find it. It was on the city dump site, where it was taken after his nineteen-year-old son Dylan sneaked it into the trash.

“Dylan missed curfew again. And he’d been drinking too,” Hank told his wife Julia. “When I find that paddle I’ll toast his buns with it.”

Hank and Julia were new to spanking. It was less than a year since they first put a paddle across the seat of Dylan’s pants. They had read about it on the Internet. On a site about disciplining older teens. They learnt that a lot of parents spanked their eighteen and nineteen year olds. And older kids too. Especially in Good Christian Households.

“Well I can’t think where it’s gotten too,” Julia thought hard. When had she last seen it?

“It’s no good,” her husband was beginning to realise he might never find it.

“Don’t worry, hon. We’ve got that new utility brush. That’ll pack a punch.”

Yes, Hank smiled, of course. It was a heavy wooden beast. They had bought it to scrub the rust off the bottom of the car. It would make a terrific spanking tool.

“I’ll go fetch it,” Julia started towards the garage, “You call Dylan. Let’s get on with this.”

“Oh, dad, I’m too old to be spanked,” Dylan wailed moments later when confronted by his dad.

“I’ll say when you’re too old,” he gripped the brush tightly in his hand. It was about eighteen inches long, including the handle. The manufacturers had put on a rubber grip so it wouldn’t fly out of the hand when it was used.

“Get in there,” he nodded towards the living room.

“Oh dad,” Dylan pouted, but obeyed his dad.

“Missed curfew. And you’d been drinking.” Hank Betterman summarised his son’s faults. Dylan tried to mouth a protest but was cut short.

“Don’t deny it. I saw you. It was gone midnight and you couldn’t get your key in the door.”

Dylan blushed. His dad was right on all accounts. There was no way he could deny it.

“So, young man,” his dad sat down in the middle of the couch. “I’m going to spank you. Get over here.”

“But dad!” Dylan tried again. “I’m nineteen dad. I’m at college.” Then rather pitifully, he added, “Please dad.”

Hank Betterman was stony faced. His son could moan all he wanted to. Not only had he disobeyed his father on the curfew, he had also been drinking alcohol. And that was illegal for a kid of his age. Hank Betterman had no doubt, none at all, that it was his Christian duty to whip his son’s backside.

“Take down those sweats and get across my knee.”

“Oh dad,” Dylan was not quite ready to give up.

“Don’t make me have to do it for you,” Hank reached forward and took his son by the arm pulling the teen toward him. Then, he dragged the boy face down across his lap.

He cracked an almighty whack with the brush across the boy’s left buttock.

“Keep still.”

Then he gripped the elasticated waist of the sweats and tugged them down across his son’s cheeks until they were bunched at his thighs.

Smack! Another blow landed, this time on the right cheek.

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“Right, now give me your arm.”

He took Dylan’s right wrist and pulled his arm up his back in a half nelson wrestling manoeuvre.

“Right you’re not going anywhere.”

Hank Betterman looked at his son horizontal across his lap. He was a tall boy, easily two or three inches taller than his dad. The couch was a four-seater so there was plenty of room for Dylan to stretch his whole body along its length. His head rested on a cushion at one end and his legs stretched out behind him at the other. His buttocks were raised at a gentle angle across his dad’s lap.

With his son in this position, Hank Betterman had the best possible aim. The teenager was pinned down; he wouldn’t be able to get up until he said so. He was at his dad’s mercy; not that he intended to show any.

Dylan’s buttocks were full and round and filled out his Jockey shorts. There was plenty for Hank Betterman to aim at.

His dad took a deep breath to prepare himself, just as an athlete or a swimmer might. Then he raised the brush, no higher than a foot away from the boy’s flesh, and hammered it down with all his might. Again and again and again.

At first Dylan opened and closed his mouth uttering silent “owws” and “ouches,” but the pain grew quickly and within seconds his yelps and cries were audible. Then, they became full-throated yells.

Dylan might live to regret throwing the paddle in the trash. The wooden brush was heavier and packed one heck of a punch. It felt like blisters had formed on his under-curves after only six or seven swats.

Dylan wriggled and squirmed, but it was useless activity. Dad had the advantage.

“Enough dad, enough,” he cried.

“I’ll say when you’ve had enough,” Hank Betterman carried on relentlessly. Every square inch of the buttocks and a good deal of the thighs had colored dark pink.

Then Hank Betterman stopped. A relieved Dylan made to lift himself off his dad’s lap.

“Not so fast buster,” Hank Betterman took hold of the top of the Jockeys. “That was for breaking curfew. This is for the drinking.” He pulled the shorts down and left them with the sweats. He was surprised at how bruised Dylan’s cheeks were.

Undeterred he whacked on. He had his duty to perform.

A dozen swats on the left and then a dozen on the right. Dylan’s hollering was so loud, Hank Betterman didn’t hear the front doorbell.

His wife Julia opened the door. It was Delores from across the street. She always came over at this time for coffee. Her ears pricked up at the sound of Dylan’s piteous cries.

“Just a little domestic issue,” Julia said as she busied herself making the coffee.

“Missed curfew. Drinking beer,” Julia filled her friend in on the details.

Still the faint sound of wooden brush connecting with bare flesh and the considerably louder wails of Dylan in distress wafted in from the sitting room.

Then, Delores remembered. Her son Mason, a great buddy of Dylan’s, missed his curfew last night. She needed to get to the bottom of that.

“Where did we put the paddle?” she wondered to herself.

Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club

This story was first uploaded in January 2016.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

St Francis Independent Grammar School: Snowballs

Dr Henderson-Smith the headmaster was at his most self-important. Five hundred schoolboys sat in rapt attention.

The headmaster, dressed in a rather old-fashioned academic gown, berated his boys. He was a commanding figure, tall, grim, stiff as a ram-rod. His white moustache bristled and his knitted white brows frowned.

The headmaster had centre stage and the old ham actor was enjoying his moment. The topic of his sermon was snowballs; and the throwing thereof. The dangers of eyes poked out by shards of ice. Damp clothes and influenza.

He wrapped his academic gown around his body giving the appearance of a crow about to take flight. “I do not have to spell out the consequences to any boy found throwing snow.”

Undeniably he did not. St Francis Independent Grammar was a traditional school. It had traditional classes, traditional sports, traditional uniform and traditional discipline. An errant boy could expect a very sore backside indeed.

It was proving to be one of the worst winters on record. Brocklehurst had been carpeted with snow for most of December and January. It had stopped snowing for a while, but forecasters predicted more to come.

That evening George Baker, sixth-form pupil and prefect at St Francis, stared from his bedroom window. The snow was falling once more. He tucked a hot water bottle beneath his sheets and dived under the blankets. Shivering in bed, he went through a plan in his head. He had been thinking about it for months. Maybe, he thought, one day, he would put the plan into operation.

The next day Dr Henderson-Smith sat in his study. The school day was completed. The open fire roared, but there was still a chill in the air. He busied himself preparing a composition to inflict on his Upper VI Latin class. His concentration was disturbed by a dull thudding noise. He paused from his labours, uncertain what it was that he had heard.

Then, there it was again. Thud. Something had connected with the outside of the study window.

“What the Dickens?” the headmaster said aloud, even though he was alone in the room. When a third thud followed, he was certain he had solved the mystery.

A handful of snow was slithering down the outside of the window.

He rushed over and peered through the now-misty glass.

“What the …?” This time he failed to complete the sentence. Below his study window, in his clear view was a boy throwing snow. Dr Henderson-Smith watched dumbfounded as the boy crouched down, scooped snow into his hand, fashioned it into a ball, and then threw it, seemingly at random at passing pupils.

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The boy was clearing disobeying the headmaster’s instruction. No snowballs. Dr Henderson-Smith stared with radioactive eyes. Then he threw open the window and roared, “Baker, my study. This instance!”

The boy dropped the snow he was fashioning for another missile and turned to face the noise.

“Yes, Sir,” he said meekly and moved to enter the building.

The headmaster closed the window and sat at his desk, dumbfounded. He had caught George Baker throwing snowballs in clear violation of the headmaster’s expressed instructions.

George Baker? Sixth-former and prefect. The boy was in the headmaster’s Latin class. He was among the brightest boys in the school and was destined to go up to one of the country’s top universities.

There was a timid knock on the heavy oak door of the study. Baker had arrived.

“Enter!” Dr Henderson-Smith bellowed. Slowly, the door inched open and a head appeared. It was a small head topped with short curly black hair. The face was flushed; possibly caused by freezing cold air; or possibly because its owner, one George Baker, knew he was in serious trouble. Very serious trouble indeed.

“Don’t dawdle boy!” Dr Henderson-Smith was incapable of speaking at a normal volume. “Close the door, you are letting the warmth escape.”

Baker edged his way into the room, closed the door behind him and halted, unsure what to do next.

He eyed the headmaster resplendent in his academic gown, seated behind a huge oak desk. The boy had never been in this room before. There had been no reason for him to visit. Particularly not for the purpose that had brought him today. Baker found the dense oak panelling intimidating. The room was gloomy even during bright sunny days, but now, in the bleak mid-winter, it felt like the inside of a cave.

“Stand there boy!” the headmaster pointed very deliberately to a point on a worn rug in front of his desk. Generations of schoolboys had shuffled their feet on this spot. It was the first phase of a ritual played out over possibly hundreds of years at St Francis. This was where every sorrowful boy stopped and stood, head bowed, to await his fate.

The second phase was the “jawing.” The headmaster berated the woeful boy for his misbehaviours. Dr Henderson-Smith had perfected his own style: pomposity. He aimed his steely eyes at Baker like a weapon.

“Were you not in att-end-ance at morn-ing ass-emb-er-ley yes-ter-day morn-er-ing?” the headmaster strung out every syllable for dramatic effect. This way, he believed, he struck terror into his boys.

Baker listened confused. When Dr Henderson-Smith spoke this way it could be difficult to follow what he was saying.

“Well, Baker?”

The eighteen-year-old sixth-former took a stab at a reply.

“Yes, Sir.” It was not a detailed response, but the boy hoped it would do in the circumstances.

“Pah!” It was an explosion. Air rushed through the headmaster’s lips. His snowy white moustache bristled; his eyebrows knotted. The outrage he felt was intense.

“And, yet!” Dr Henderson-Smith was barely in control. “And yet, you saw fit to disobey my clear instructions on the throwing of snowballs!”  The headmaster was speaking more clearly now, but Baker was unsure if this was a rhetorical question. Was he supposed to answer?

He chose silence. He stared down at his feet and let his headmaster continue his denunciation.

“Never in my whole life as a headmaster,” he lied, “have I ever come across such wilful disobedience as this Baker. Never.”

Dr Henderson-Smith slapped the palm of his right hand on the desktop, startling young Baker who was intently studying the pattern on the rug.

“What do you have to say for yourself boy?”

Baker’s heart pounded. What could he say? He wished the headmaster would just get on with it.

“Well!” the headmaster screeched. He genuinely could not understand what Baker had been thinking.

“Sorry, Sir.” It was all he could think to say. He certainly couldn’t tell the truth.

“Pah!” It was another explosion of indignation. Sorry, the headmaster thought to himself. You soon will be.

“You leave me no choice, Baker.”

The boy raised his head. His grey-blue eyes shone as he watched the headmaster heave himself from his chair and pace the study. His destination was a corner cupboard. It was unlocked and within seconds the headmaster was rummaging round inside. His body blocked the teenager’s view, but he could hear a distinct rattling within.

Seconds later, Dr Henderson-Smith withdrew a curve-handled cane. Baker had seen many of these in the past; St Francis was that kind of school. But he had never before been on the receiving end of one. The headmaster looked attentively at the cane in his hands; as if seeing it for the first time. He murmured to himself and thoughtfully he flexed it between both hands. It was a little over three feet long and no thicker than a pencil.

Baker gawked from a distance. As school canes went it did not look especially vicious, he thought. He had seen longer and thicker ones. But, what this caning novice did not know was that in expert hands even a short thin cane could be made to deliver an excruciating sting. Dr Henderson-Smith was such an expert.

The headmaster turned to face the boy. He swished the cane through the air. If the swoosh! that it made was intended to intimidate the sixth-former it worked. For the first time that afternoon Baker wondered if disobedience had been such a good idea.

“Take you blazer off and hang it on the hook on the door.”

Baker wanted to comply with the order, but his fingers didn’t want to work. Was it the cold or his nerves, he wasn’t quite sure.

Eventually, the jacket was in place.

The headmaster swished the cane once more. “Stand in front of my desk.”

Baker had never been caned in his life, but he had heard enough tales from school friends to know that in a moment he would be bent across the desk, with his bum in the air to allow the headmaster to thwack six-of-the-best across the seat of his trousers. It would hurt like blazes. He expected that. That was after all the point of it all.

“Lower your trousers.”

Baker had not expected that and the pleading look in his eyes betrayed his feeling. He stood rooted.

“Lower your trousers boy!” the headmaster repeated, a little louder this time.

Still Baker could not move.

“If you do not submit yourself to corporal punishment, I shall contact your father and tell him you are suspended from school. Do you wish me to do that?” The headmaster spoke slowly and deliberately.

He hoped it would not come to that. What on Earth would Mr Baker make of the situation? His eighteen-year-old son in the headmaster’s study refusing to take a beating. His son who had never given a moment’s trouble before. He had never needed caning before; never been given detention; never been set lines. He had probably never been admonished for bad behaviour in his life.

“One last time Baker. Lower your trousers.”

Sweat from the boy’s palms transferred to the belt as with shaking hands he struggled to loosen it. He could feel blood racing through his body at great speed as he pulled the buttons of his trousers loose, exposing the white Y-front underpants beneath.

The mid-grey trousers slipped down to his knees. He waited for the next instruction. Dr Henderson-Smith had developed a cruel streak in his years as a headmaster. The youngster standing in front of him was terrified. Dear God, the boy would be thinking, please don’t make me take down my underpants. The headmaster waited a moment and then waited some more.

“Lift your pullover and shirt clear of your bottom and bend over the desk.” He tapped the cane gently across the hard oak desktop in case there was any doubt.

Even though blood coursed through his body, it drained from Baker’s face, making him look ghoulish.

The boy adjusted his clothing exposing a flat hairless stomach and stretched his arms out ahead of him, gripping the desk top with both hands and thrusting his bottom out.

“Not like that,” the headmaster was easily irritated when a boy did not present himself properly for a caning. “Right over. Flat on your stomach.”

Baker eased forward. It was a huge desk and it was a stretch for him to reach the far edge with his hands. Unsure what to do with his arms, he folded them and tried to bury his head.

“Put your hands on your head and keep them there,” the headmaster barked. “Do not move them and at no point try to protect yourself with your hands.”

Baker did as instructed. Hands on head worked. It was a surprisingly comfortable stance to take. Comfortable for now, but what happened next would be far from that.

Thinking about it later, Baker tried to imagine the scene. He was stretched across a huge oak desk; his trousers now at his ankles, revealing long, slim, slightly hairy legs. His shirt and pullover was pushed up and his midriff was bare. It was a cold room but he could feel the heat from the roaring open fire against his naked flesh. His white cotton underpants fitted snugly once the headmaster had tugged them tight against his buttocks.

His face was pressed down into the old oak desk. There was a faint aroma that he couldn’t identify; probably some kind of polish.

He waited, heart racing, teeth clenched, eyes tightly shut, while Mr Henderson Smith a powerful upright man and as strong as an ox adjusted his academic gown so he could get a better swing. Then Baker imagined, the headmaster preparing himself, flexing the cane.

He did not have to imagine his shudder of anticipation as the headmaster laid the cane across the centre of his buttocks and pressed it hard into the meat. He was getting his aim. The boy felt the cane move off his bum; then there was an almighty swish and it came crashing down, hitting his buttocks and sinking deep into the flesh.

Baker’s mouth opened and closed. “Hisssssssss.” It wasn’t a yell, it was almost silent. The sound of air being exhaled. The boy tightened his grip on his entwined fingers and pressed down on the top of his head.

Swipe number two was equally as hard and landed almost exactly on top of the first. That got Baker yelping. The pain shot from the centre of his bum and sped up and down his legs. He wriggled his hips and waggled his buttocks.

Two down. The pain was excruciating; so much more than Baker had expected. How could anyone take six strokes like this? Then, he panicked. Six? It was to be six wasn’t it? The headmaster hadn’t announced a tariff. Would it be more? Please God, no.

The third stroke interrupted his thoughts. It landed lower, across the crease. Each swipe had been laid on with vigour. Dr Henderson-Smith was giving it some beef. Each stroke had been an almighty swipe; he could have been beating a carpet. This one had the boy’s feet marching up and down on the spot. His bum felt swollen. He desperately wanted to jump up and rub away.

“Oh, no!” Baker thought it but did not say it aloud. Dr Henderson-Smith had taken hold of the elasticated waist of his underpants. “Please, no, don’t pull them down.”

He bit down into his bottom lip, stifling his desire to beg for mercy. But, he need not worry. The headmaster pulled the waistband of the Y-fronts away from the boy’s back to get a full view of his bare buttocks. He was inspecting the damage done so far.

What he saw were three deep red marks, across both cheeks, almost parallel to one another. A thick welt had formed where two of the strokes had landed nearly in the same place. If he struck that area again, it would surely bleed, he thought.

The headmaster was not a sadist. He believed in corporal punishment; not in torture. A caning should be well laid on, especially if the body on the receiving end was a senior boy, or a recidivist, a repeat offender. Intense pain should be inflicted and there should be marks that would stay for days, a reminder of the penalty for bad behaviour.

Dr Henderson-Smith did not wish to leave Baker’s buttocks bloodied, so for number four he took aim lower down, away from the danger area. It struck at the sensitive “sit spot,” where the cheeks met the thighs. That one had Baker hollering. Tears flowed. He head-butted the desk; he marched his feet up and down and twisted his hips and bottom; but none of it helped. The agony was intense and it was not going away any time soon.

Four strokes had been delivered in a carefully timed sequence. Sufficient time was allowed to elapse so the full force of a stroke could be felt before the next was sent crashing home. The final two were delivered in quick succession, and at intense speed. Whack-whack. The whippy rattan bounced off the tight cotton-covered buttocks. It sounded like two pistol shots echoing around the ancient study.

George Baker thought he might faint. His scorched bottom felt like the headmaster had forced him to sit in the open fire. When the headmaster delivered the final cut to the boy he rested the cane on the desktop and waited for the final throaty scream to recede. For what seemed an age neither the headmaster nor the thrashed boy spoke or moved.

The only noise in the room was the continued quiet sobbing of George Baker, still bent across the desk.

Dr Henderson-Smith brushed his hand across the boy’s shoulder. “You may get up now,” he said softly.

Unsteadily, Baker lifted himself off the desk. His backside felt twice its normal size. He rubbed gently and even through the cotton underpants he could feel at least two distinct deep weals. The surface of his bum felt hard, like leather.

Tears still trickled from his eyes, but he was in control of himself now. Gingerly, he pulled up his trousers and tucked in his shirt. He could not bear to look at the headmaster. He wanted to get out of the study without delay.

While Baker struggled into his blazer, Dr Henderson-Smith reached into the drawer of his desk, extracted the punishment book and entered the details.

“Sign,” he pushed the book and a ball-point pen across the desk. The headmaster wanted this to end swiftly too.

“You are dismissed.”

Dr Henderson-Smith stood at the study window perplexed and watched Baker walk through the quadrangle and out of the school gates.

Twenty minutes later at home in his cold bedroom George Baker inspected the damage. The pain had gone, but his bottom was tender to touch. It might be a bit uncomfortable sitting on a hard dining room chair at tea time.

So, he thought, that’s what it felt like to get the cane. It would have been a pity to have gone through his whole school career at St FIGS without knowing. He picked up the Football Monthly, eased himself down on the bed and flicked through its pages.

Picture credit: The Magnet

 

This story was first uploaded in March 2016.

 

Other St Francis Grammar School stories you might like

New boy at school

Kevin revisits his old school

A punch in the face

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Memories of Dad’s slipper

z used new story 2

z used slipper handing over sting (2)

He gestured that I should stand close to his right hand side. I shuffled forward a pace or two into position.

“Take down your jeans, please.” Without complaint, I did as instructed. My hands trembled more than I thought they should as I unbuckled my belt, unfastened the two buttons at the waistband and the four on the fly and pushed my Levis to my knees, exposing my dark blue underpants.

Dad adjusted himself on his chair. He moved his bottom a bit, making sure his spine was firmly resting against the back of the chair. He separated his legs by a foot or so to provide a platform where my stomach and chest would rest.

“Bend over my knee, please,” Dad said quietly.

I was across him in one movement. I stretched my hands in front of me and kept my knees straight, leaving my toes resting an inch above the floor.

I waited patiently. I had a close up view of the dark- and light-blue patterned lino floor covering and the scuff marks where for years chairs had scraped in and out under the kitchen table.

Dad grabbed hold of the tail of my shirt and pulled it way up my back, nearly to my shoulders. He smoothed my pants out: first across one buttock and then across the other, eliminating all wrinkles.

I took a deep breath.

The first whack hit me square in the middle of the left bum cheek. The second was on the right. Dad wasn’t a sadist, when he gave spankings he intended for us to get the message and mend our ways, but he didn’t want to brutalise us.

I gasped a little as the third and fourth wallops hit right on top of the previous two. Then he quickened the pace. Slap here, whack there, wallop again.

He stopped after a dozen whacks. It hurt alright. I was sore, but I wasn’t about to burst into sobs or anything.

Dad was finished spanking, but he continued to hold me down over his knees. He still had things to do.

“Have you learned you lesson?”

“Yes Dad.”

“And what lesson is that?”

“Don’t come home late.”

“Good boy.”

“Will I have to do this again?”

“No Dad.”

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

“Yes Dad.”

“Good, get up son.”

I struggled to my feet, pulled up my jeans and did them up.

It was about two weeks after that I ended up over his knee with a bedroom slipper slapping into my upturned bum.

I had started a fire in the garden. For no good reason, except to see the flames burn. It wasn’t the first time. Dad had warned me. I knew what was coming. He confronted me with the accusation I was a fire bug and I had no choice but to admit it.

I suppose he had made a plan of action in advance. He gave me a little lecture about the dangers of fire. I didn’t take much notice of him. I was eighteen, I had been round the block once or tice with Dad. I had a good idea what was coming.

We had been talking in the kitchen when he said we should go next door to the living room. I hesitated and he gripped my arm quite tightly and pushed me out the door.

My heart was thumping. He pulled me into the lounge. It was a small room with a three piece suite, dining room table and chairs, a sideboard by the window and a TV set.

I was a couple of inches taller than Dad and he was running to fat a bit and if push came to shove he wouldn’t have been able to force me across his knee. But I didn’t struggle. I was raised to this. It wasn’t going to be my first spanking; nor my last. I didn’t finally escape Dad’s slipper until I had moved away from home and married. Until then, I would always be his little boy.

He sat down in the chair, holding his bedroom slipper in his right hand. I stood looking at him.

My heart hadn’t stopped racing since our confrontation in the kitchen and I found it difficult to catch my breath. I remember I wearing two-toned Sta-Press trousers – very fashionable at the time – which had an adjustable waist so you needn’t wear a belt. There were no back pockets, so Dad had a fine view of my bum and would have seen I was wearing very brief underpants that left a lot of my buttock cheeks uncovered. Clearly, the trend setters of fashion at the time had no expectation that people wearing their clothes might need protection from their dad’s slipper.

Without saying another word Dad pulled the chair out from behind the table, put it in the centre of the room and sat down. He gripped the slipper in his fist. Dad pointed to a spot to the right of where he sat. “Stand there,” he ordered, and I did as I was told.

“Take down your trousers.”

Slowly and carefully, I undid the button, slid down the zip, and pushed the trousers until they dropped of their own accord to my ankles. My yellow shirt covered all but the lowest inch of my honeycombed coloured pants.

I was standing in front of dad with just my thin pants covering my bottom.

“Bend over my knee.”

Leaning down, momentarily I placed a hand on Dad’s thigh to steady myself, and then lowered myself across his lap, reaching down for the carpet beyond.

I let him position me across his lap. He took my arm and folded it up my back, securing me and preventing any possible escape.

My shirt was neatly folded up, exposing my lower back to the cool air of the room.

Then Dad took hold of the top of my pants. Then, I was lying across Dad’s knee with a bare bottom. I breathed in sharply. Suddenly, there was a loud crack echoing round the room as my bum got a mighty whack that stung me across both my pert round buttocks.

“Ah!” I gasped.  After just two more weighty blows from the large slipper, I felt my bottom starting to flame with a smarting soreness that hurt and stung.

With just two or three seconds between each smack of the slipper, the spanking quickly developed into a slow steady rhythmic rising and falling of the slipper. Each time it contacted forcefully with my once pale creamy white bottom, I grimaced and screwed my face up in some pain.

Dad’s large slipper thumped heavily down on my naked bottom time and time again. My bottom was really very sore now, and my arm hurt where I had been struggling and Dad had restrained me. He was the master of me and he gave me the sound spanking I so thoroughly deserved.

The spanking continued and my bum was burning. Every fresh smack of the slipper tore a gasp from me. Then it is over. Dad rolled me off his lap and I fell to the floor. I stumbled to my feet, my face red and hot. My hands tried to sooth my burning bottom.

I had spent the past ten minutes or so draped across Dad’s knee with my trousers around my ankles and underpants around my knees. Dad had given my bottom and the top of my legs a thorough spanking. Not one square millimetre of my rear end avoided his attention. My bum was aglow.

It had been a long, humiliating and very painful bare bottom spanking.

Then, Dad is warned me that if I ever started another fire he would take a cane to my bare backside, young adult or not!

“Get up to your room,” he ordered. I thanked him before leaving the living room, closing the door quietly behind me.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

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Not like at school

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Father deals with idle student

“I am going to spank you and that is an end to the matter. You can submit yourself and take it with some dignity, or I can call my assistant Rodgers in and he will hold you down. Either way you are getting a spanking.”

Simon had expected a call from his father; he knew he had met with his university tutor and words such as lazy, indolent, idle and workshy would have been used to describe the boy.

Simon was in his first year at university and things were not going well. He had failed his mid-terms and he awaited the results of his final exams with some anxiety.  It wasn’t that Simon was a stupid boy; that was far from the truth, but he did lack self-discipline.

You could blame his school for that. His father had paid a small fortune to send him to a very select boarding school and his outlay was repaid when his son had passed his A-level examinations with flying colours. His father had then laid out more money to send him to university.

That’s where the trouble started. What his father did not realise, and nor did Simon until recently, was that it was the discipline regime (or more truthfully, the punishment regime) at the school that had ensured his son’s success. Bucksbury Manor had its standards and if these were not met, the boys paid the price: with their backsides.

Simon learnt from an early age that the best way to avoid bruises on his buttocks was to work hard. He mostly succeeded in this, but there were tell-tale signs in the sixth-form when he was eighteen years old that his standards were beginning to slip and he was no longer an A-student.

His housemaster was an experienced teacher and he knew that boys of Simon’s age often became distracted from their work, especially if they discovered the delights of the nearby town, and particularly its girls.

Mr Bailey also knew the perfect remedy for this slacking. That was why Simon found himself unexpectedly summoned one afternoon to the housemaster’s study. Posner, one of the House junior boys – believe it or not they were called “fags” at the school – came to find him to deliver Mr Bailey’s instruction to report immediately.

“What’s it about?” Simon inquired innocently.

Posner claimed not to know; actually, he hadn’t been told the reason, but from experience he knew that a summons like this usually meant a boy was to get a thrashing.

Simon was ignorant of the fate that awaited him and untroubled he walked through the wood-panelled hall, past the honours boards, the school photographs, the noticeboards, the glass fronted cupboards with various trophies and the paintings of past headmasters to his housemaster’s study.

He was aware that the housemaster was very strict and any boy sent to him for breaking the rules would feel the full strength of his powerful right arm and leave the study with an aching backside.

But, he was in the sixth-form and senior boys were not caned. In any case he hadn’t done anything wrong.

He knocked on the study and waited for the command, “Enter!” It was a dark room with wood panels around three walls, in the middle of the room was a huge oak desk, to the side was a large leather armchair, a long window and behind the desk was a wicker basket containing several swishy canes, each of them capable of leaving a boy with a throbbing backside.

Simon could not take his eyes of the wicker basket; he did not expect to be on the receiving end of one of the canes, but they were still an intimidating sight.

Mr Bailey took off his horn rimmed glasses and toyed with them while he spoke, “You are producing sloppy work and your grades are slipping. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Simon was dumbfounded; it was true his grades were poor, but he hadn’t expected to be hauled in by his housemaster about it.

He had no excuses and he knew it. His housemaster punctured the silence. “You are slacking and that is inexcusable. You have the brains to do well in your examinations and I am going to make sure you use them.”

Simon, blushed to his roots, and stared at the carpet. Mr Bailey was right he had been slacking off, spending too much time in town or, to be perfectly honest, looking at magazines and playing with himself down at the copse.

His housemaster, having discarded his gown and jacket, was pacing the study swishing a senior cane.

“I am going to beat you and I shall beat you every time you are caught slacking from now until your examinations. Is that perfectly clear?”

Quaking, Simon agreed that it was indeed perfectly clear, thank you, Sir.

“Carter remove your blazer and hang it up, please.”

Hands trembling, Simon undid the buttons, slid the blazer off his back and placed it on a hook behind the door.

“Stand in front of the desk. Drop your trousers.”

Jesus! Simon hadn’t expected this and the look on his face told his housemaster so.

“This is to be an exemplary beating Carter. It is designed to ensure you stop slacking in your school work. But, if I have to deal with you again, you will be caned on the bare.”

Simon saw he had no choice. He was guilty as charged and was to receive a sound thrashing as punishment. Schoolboys have a code of honour and it says you take your beatings like a man.

Despite his intense embarrassment, Simon undid the buttons and pushed his trousers to his knees. His white shirt was long enough to cover his buttocks.

“Lift up your shirt and then bend over the desk.” Simon’s humiliation was complete; with his shirt held high the housemaster was able to get a full view of the boy in his tight white underpants; front and back.

Mr Bailey had no interest in ogling his pupils in their underwear; his only desire was to have the target for his cane unobstructed.

Simon lowered himself across the desk, stretched his arms across and gripped the far side, pointing his backside in the air ready to take a most humiliating caning.

The housemaster with determination set to work lashing the cane hard across the waiting buttocks. Simon’s head shot up as the bite of the first stroke got to him, once again the housemaster raised the cane before lashing number two across the boy’s backside. Simon yelled out with each stroke as the thin underwear offered no protection.

z used cane pants school London

By the time Mr Bailey lashed the cane the sixth time across the pants, Simon was in utter distress. When instructed he stood up and his hands furiously clutched his stinging buttocks.

From that day, until he joined the university, Simon had knuckled down to his studies.

But, without the incentive of the threat of his housemaster’s cane across his bare buttocks, Simon had let things slip, until it was so bad that his future at the university was in jeopardy. He was grateful that his father loved him enough that he made this special visit to the university to sort out the problem.

Now, he was in a hotel suite, facing his father’s anger.

“I have spoken to your university tutor and she assures me that there I still some hope for you and you might be able to re-sit your examinations. I have agreed that I will pay the extra fees this will involve. Now, I need to give you an incentive to work harder.

“I am going to spank you and that is an end to the matter. You can submit yourself and take it with some dignity, or I can call my assistant Rodgers in and he will hold you down. Either way you are getting a spanking.”

Although, Simon was no longer a pupil at Bucksbury Manor he still abided by the code: take it like a man. His father opened his briefcase and drew out a heavy wooden brush with a short handle. Then he seized an armless chair and quickly sat down.

Mr Carter was expecting more resistance from his son and with an iron grasp on the back of Simon’s neck he hauled the university student over his lap and moved him around until his bottom was directly over his knee. To stop his son trying to scramble off his lap, he encircled his waist with his strong left arm and slid him over and down, swinging his right leg over and around Simon’s legs, locking them.

He held him in place for a minute letting him settle down and get used to this new position and rested the brush across the centre of his backside. His father patted the boy’s bottom firmly and lectured him about how upset he was with him and how it hurt him having to do this; then he was ready to start the traditional father / son discipline dance.

Simon was enormously embarrassed at having to go over his father’s knee at his age for a spanking. Why couldn’t he just have caned him instead?

Suddenly, he felt his father gripping the waist band of his sweatpants, yanking them over his bum and down his thighs, past his knees, and down his shins to his ankles. Before he could protest his tight yellow briefs quickly followed.

Simon felt his right arm pulled back and twisted up against his upper back, as he lay trapped hanging over his father’s knees. His legs were stretched so that his tip toes hardly touched the carpet.

Then he began to spank away at his son’s buttocks; twenty, forty, sixty wallops. Simon’s backside was shining, he was yelling out in fear, but Mr Carter continued to pound away at the boy’s bottom.

Simon had thought nothing could be more torture than that housemaster’s caning on his underpants, but this bare-bottomed spanking was far worst. His face screwed up in agony and he fought to be brave, but as the brush smacked and smacked on and on into his fleshy globes he started to whimper and then squeal and soon he was really howling with his legs jerking about as he bounced up and down.

His father could tell Simon was in distress, but his kept laying into him, smack after smack after smack. Then the begging started, but it fell on deaf ears. Mr Carter went on spanking.

Simon’s backside and the top of his thighs were red raw, tears were streaming down his face as he bawled like a child of eight. He just dangled there, resigned, jolting around on his father’s lap as each blazing whack sent him bouncing, rocking and twisting in unbearable pain, humiliation and disgrace.

He knew he would rather be anywhere in the world than lying upside down across his father’s knee with trousers and briefs down and that evil brush pounding away at his bare buttocks, the pain and humiliation was just not worth it. Through his tears he promised his father he had learned his lesson, hoping and praying that this will be the end.

He would study hard, if only his father would stop hitting him.

After another twenty swats, his father did stop spanking him, he was crying steadily and his bottom was as red as a tomato. Drenched with pain and perspiration, young Simon staggered to his feet and stood mortified with embarrassment as his father lifted the tail of his shirt to inspect the blazing red blisters that covered his bum and upper thighs.

Pulling himself away, his hands hovered around his burning buttocks and he stared in abject remorse at his father, tears streaming down his face. He jumped on the spot trying to make the agony go away.

His father was not a tyrant, he could see his son was defeated and left the room with the brush in his hand leaving Simon hugging his burning backside and still crying both from pain and humiliation.

Simon eventually graduated with honours from the university and in the years to come he would look back on this day and others that followed with gratitude.

Picture credit: CP Services London

 

This story was first uploaded in March 2016.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Unfinished business

Mr Percival Audrey the headmaster sipped thoughtfully on his tea and nibbled at a Rich Tea biscuit. A small story in the local newspaper had caught his attention.

Anthony Hastings, aged 27, had joined a firm of solicitors in Brocklehurst. He was returning to his home town.

Hastings had been a pupil at St Francis. He had left nine years before and gone on to university.

Headmasters and elephants never forget. Audrey had some unfinished business with Hastings.

“Mrs Green,” he called out to his secretary in the next room. She bustled into the study, eager as always to please. He showed her the newspaper.

“Please make an appointment for Anthony Hastings to report to my study.”

Anthony Hastings had hardly given St Francis Independent Grammar School a second thought from the day he had left. Why should he? He had studied at a university at the other end of the country and started a new life. His parents had retired and moved to France and he had never expected to see Brocklehurst again. Now a qualified solicitor, he had been offered a tremendous job at Lloyd, Lloyd and Straightmeister, so here he was back in town.

He walked through the main gate. Across the quadrangle was the entrance to the building. The headmaster’s study was above that. From this vantage point the “beak” as he was known to generations of boys could survey his school.

People who knew Anthony at school would have called him a rather timid child. He studied hard and was a member of both the chess and the stamp collecting clubs. He behaved himself and was never in trouble.

This was the first time he had been summoned to the headmaster’s study. He was twenty-seven years old, a successful professional man, but the call from Audrey had not felt like an “invitation:” it was a “summons.”

“Please arrive at five o’clock,” Mrs Green had instructed. “The school will be finished for the day and Mr Audrey will be able to deal with you then.”

She had actually said, “Deal with you.” That puzzled Anthony. It was probably a slip of the tongue. She had meant to say, “Meet with you.”

He had been so flummoxed by the unexpected call he had forgotten to ask the purpose of the meeting.

He would soon find out.

Anthony was not surprised that he felt no emotion as he walked through the school quadrangle and into the building. He had been reasonably happy at the school, but he had moved on with his life. Unlike some of his fellow pupils a revisit to the school did not ignite painful memories of visits to the headmaster’s study. In fact, Anthony supposed he had never once had cause to visit the headmaster during his whole school career.

The school seemed deserted. Certainly, Mrs Green had departed for the day. So Anthony tapped lightly on the door marked “Headmaster” and waited for the call from within.

“Enter!”

Anthony opened the door. Mr Audrey was sat at his desk, framed by the mullioned window. He wore a flowing academic gown over a light grey business suit. On his head sat a mortar-board. The headmaster scowled at the sight of the young solicitor.

Anthony stood at the doorway, unsure how to proceed. Usually at the start of meetings the host would offer some form of greeting. Not so Mr Audrey. He sat steely-eyed.

Anthony took the initiative. He walked further into the room and sat down on the straight-backed chair in front of the desk that was clearly intended for guests.

“How dare you! You insolent boy!” Mr Audrey’ complexion turned purple as blood vessels across his face bulged.

“Stand up This instance!”

Anthony shot to his feet, his own face blushing bright red.

“Stand there boy!” Audrey pointed to a spot ahead of him. Like all headmasters he was suffused with self-importance.

Anthony shuffled his feet. His hands were trembling so he clasped them behind his back.

“You know why I have sent for you!” It was meant to be a question, but in the headmaster’s pomposity it sounded like a statement.

Anthony truly did not know why; but he was so intimidated by Audrey, he could not reply.

The headmaster mistook this as further insolence.

“The tuck shop. Embezzlement.” He roared. “You are nothing but a thief!”

The tuck shop. Anthony gaped. He had genuinely forgotten. He hadn’t thought about the school in years.

“You thought you had escaped detection!” Again a question was delivered as a statement.

Ten years ago Anthony had been considered such a responsible young man he had been put in charge of the school’s tuck shop. It was his job to collect the money and keep accounts.

“Two pounds, three shillings and six pence!” The headmaster roared. He seemed incapable of speaking in a normal tone.

“You stole it. All of it!” The headmaster’s fury knew know bounds.

It was true. Anthony had stolen the money. He took small amounts, now and again. It wasn’t a planned embezzlement.  It just happened. He did it once. He found he got away with it, so he did it again. And again.

He hadn’t counted but twelve pounds and change seemed about the right amount. He hadn’t needed the money. He came from a wealthy family. There wasn’t a starving widowed mother at home. He wanted the money, so he took it. He bought football magazines and other teenager things.

“Did you think we wouldn’t find out?” That time it was a clear question. It required an answer. But Anthony’s body was in turmoil. His heartbeat raced and his breathing was heavy. He couldn’t get his eyelids to stop blinking. Only by holding his hands together behind his back could he stop them from shaking.

Mr Audrey rose from behind his desk to confront the young solicitor head on. The headmaster was a tall angular man. His hair stuck out wildly from beneath his mortar-board cap. His lined face was partially obscured by a greying moustache and thick bushy side whiskers. Spectacles balanced precariously half way down his nose.

“And, now!” he roared, his face inches from Anthony’s. “You return to this town as a respectable solicitor.”

“My God!” Anthony thought as the dire consequences of his adolescent action sank home. He was a thief. If this knowledge became public his career would be over.

Mr Audrey paced the length of his study. “You realise boy that I could inform the police. Or your employers. Or the local newspaper, even …” He left the sentence half finished; silenced by the look of sheer horror on the face of the young man standing before him.

Anthony mouthed silently, “Please, don’t …”His vocal chords had deserted him.

“Pah!” Mr Audrey might be a pompous headmaster, but he was neither cruel nor vindictive. He had a solution.

“The crime was committed while you were a pupil at this school,” he intoned. “I can deal with it as if you were still a pupil.”

Anthony made no response, he was only half listening, his critical faculties dulled by the seriousness of his situation.

“Until this regrettable incident, you were an exemplary pupil. You deserve a second chance. But you must be punished.”

Anthony’s pitiful look spurred the headmaster on.

“Punished severely. Do you accept that?”

“Punished?” Anthony whispered. He had regained some control of his voice. “How?”

“Twelve strokes of the cane,” the headmaster responded briskly. “Trousers lowered.”

“Twelve …” Anthony mouthed the word silently. His head was whirling. His legal mind was working hard. Twelve strokes. Trousers down. Was that even legal? Weren’t there regulations?

“It is entirely up to you, Hastings,” the headmaster paced the room. “It is entirely your choice.”

Choice? What choice? Anthony had no choice. It had to be the beating. Much later that day at his rented flat as he rubbed antiseptic ointment into his wounds, the young solicitor realised for the first time what a generous offer the headmaster had made.

Anthony was guilty as charged. He was a recidivist; he had stolen many times during his final year at school. He deserved to be punished. Anthony always thought of himself as an honourable man: and an honest one. His thieving had been a youthful indiscretion. It was the lapse of judgement of an eighteen-year-old boy.

Undoubtedly, if he had been discovered at the time he would have been thrashed severely by the headmaster. He would have deserved it too. He would have been given the chance to atone for his sin. His bottom would have been blistered and his slate wiped clean.

Now, nine years after the event, the headmaster had offered him the same chance. Take a punishment, apologise and move on.

“Well, boy! Is it to be the cane?” It was getting late in the day and the headmaster wanted to go home.

Pitifully, Anthony nodded his head. He assented.

Mr Audrey was not one of those headmasters who had an array of canes of all lengths and thicknesses bundled together in a cupboard. He had only one rod. Headmaster’s canings were meant to be something special. Unlike his colleagues who punished backsides with standard rattans, Mr Audrey possessed a single “dragon” cane. It was lighter and denser than the rattan and it packed considerably more punch.

He took the cane from a cupboard and flexed it between his hands. “Please take off your jacket and hang it on the door.”

Anthony was dressed in a smart dark-grey business suit with a gleaming white shirt and striped tie. When he removed the jacket, he looked exactly like a schoolboy; albeit an older version of those who usually visited the headmaster’s study.

Audrey moved the straight-backed chair away from his desk.

z used drawing cane SFIGS (63a)

“Please lower your trousers and bend over my desk.”

Although Anthony had “consented” to the beating, his body still refused cooperation. His hands continued to tremble and his eyes to blink ferociously. After much fumbling his belt was undone and his fly zipper lowered. The trousers slid down his legs aided only by gravity.

It was a large desk. Anthony had never been required to prostrate himself like this before, nor had he seen anyone caned so he was unsure how to position himself.

“Flat on your stomach. You might find it useful to fold your arms and bury your face in them.” Anthony found the headmaster’s words comforting. No longer was he barking at him.

He did as instructed. As he lay his head down he felt a cool breeze pass over him. The study window was open. Suddenly, he heard voices. At least two small boys had stopped in the quadrangle below the study window. He could hear their conversation.

No! They would hear his beating. It was humiliating enough to be forced to lower his trousers, bend across the desk and offer up his bottom for a thrashing, but to also have strangers listening-in was too much.

The headmaster was making his preparations. Up came the young man’s shirt and it was moved away from his underpants. Then the creases were smoothed from the white cotton briefs.

“Try to keep as still as you can,” the headmaster’s words were well meant. He knew that if the young man flashed about the cane might miss its target. Twelve strokes across the buttocks was the tariff; not across the backs of the legs.

The headmaster found his spot. The buttocks were clenching and unclenching. They twitched uncontrollably. He raised the cane and thwacked it down, drawing a straight line across the cotton briefs.

As headmaster’s canings went, it was not a severe cut. Mr Audrey had delivered harder. Anthony did not know that. It felt like the head had placed a white hot wire across his flesh. He raised his head from his arms and yelped.

The conversation beneath the window stopped abruptly.

Anthony stamped his feet up and down in a futile attempt to ease the pain.

“Keep still, Hastings.” Thwip number two landed close to the first cut.

Twenty-seven years is an unusual age at which to receive a first caning. The recipient is a full-grown adult and presumably has quite a high pain threshold. The headmaster rather admired Anthony’s resilience. Mr Audrey administered what he considered an exemplary thrashing. His whippy dragon cane bounced up and down across Anthony’s buttocks. The young solicitor chewed down on his own arms and managed to stifle most of the yells he desperately wanted to make.

Headmaster Audrey thought this was Anthony’s stoicism, his determination to take his justified punishment. But, Anthony’s motivation lay outside the headmaster’s study, below the window in the quadrangle. The young man did not want to embarrass himself in front of the two strangers.

Nothing Anthony had ever experienced prepared him for the pain of a caning. It was agony, especially as each successive stroke landed on his already swollen bottom. He muffled screams by chomping hard into the cloth of his shirtsleeves. He kicked his legs as Audrey administered swipe after swipe. The fire in his buttocks defied description.

Nine strokes were delivered in carefully timed sequence. Anthony’s backside was blazing. Already, deep welts had formed under his briefs. He would discover later that several wept blood.

The headmaster adjusted his position. The final three strokes were going to be special. They were vicious strokes. He raised the cane high above shoulder height and with a swivel of his hips he brought it crashing down diagonally across both cheeks.

Then he did the same again; from the opposite diagonal. Anthony’s bum now had a perfect “X” branded deep into the flesh. The young man’s shirt sleeve was drenched in saliva, but still he curbed the shriek he truly wanted to let loose.

For the last swipe, Audrey positioned himself rather life a golfer about to tee-off. His whole body strength went into that shot. It landed across the centre of Anthony’s bum. It was the final stroke and it was the one that destroyed his resolve.

A banshee could not have wailed louder. Anthony’s whine echoed around the study, bouncing off the three walls and escaping through the partly opened window. Involuntary tears flowed down the twenty-seven-year-old’s face. He gulped great sobs as he lay across the desk. His long, slim, slightly hairy legs embraced each other.

Audrey did not consider himself to be a brute. He had administered a sound thrashing to a young man who thoroughly deserved it. Anthony would be in severe pain. That was the point of a headmaster’s caning. There would be marks across his buttocks for a considerable time to come. That too was the point. They would be a reminder of the consequences of thieving.

Anthony was regaining some composure. His breathing had eased and his heartrate was closer to normal.

“Get up and get dressed.” It was a stern command.

Anthony hauled himself to his feet. The agony in his backside was terrific. It set off shudders of more pain when he pulled up his trousers and fastened them up. He retrieved his jacket from the hook on the study door.

He stood in front of the headmaster waiting to be dismissed.

“I trust the lesson has been learned,” Audrey was back to being the aging, pompous headmaster. “We shall never speak of this again.”

He held out his hand and Anthony shook it.

“Thank you, Sir,” he gulped and left the study.

A few moments later he hobbled across the quadrangle, conscious of the stares of two incredulous eleven-year-old boys burning into the back of his neck.

This story was first uploaded in January 2016.

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com