Caught drinking beer

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Mr Harding parked the car in the driveway of his house. His head throbbed. It must be the flu, he feared. Better to leave the office behind, take a few aspirins and get into bed. He unlocked the front door. As he headed for the stairs he saw the door to the kitchen was ajar. The house should be empty. What was going on? Stealthily, he approached wondering if he had burglars.  He needn’t have worried. It was his nineteen-year-old son Lucas. But, why wasn’t he at college?

Mr Harding’s temper was already frayed and he let fly, “What are you doing at home during the afternoon? What the hell have you got there! Drinking. I thought we agreed no more drinking during the day. Not after you were arrested for drink-driving. I just cannot believe you.”

Lucas shrugged his shoulders and drained the bottle in his hand.

“Don’t shrug your shoulders at me. How many of those have you had? Are you drunk?” Mr Harding fumed. “Look at you. You’re nineteen years old. You’re supposed to be at college and here you are skiving off classes. You can’t be trusted. I’ve tried to treat you like an adult. To give you responsibilities. But look at you. This is how you behave.”

Lucas could not hide his indifference. It was like a red rag to a bull. His father waved his arms hysterically,  “You don’t give me much choice do you? If you can’t behave like an adult, I’ll have to carry on treating you like a child won’t I?”

It wasn’t really a question but Mr Harding paused in the hope he might get some response from his surly son. When none came Mr Harding’s temperature rose another ten degrees. “Yes. You know what that means don’t you. You’ve only got yourself to blame. God knows I’ve tried with you and this is how you repay me.”

Suddenly Lucas’s ears pricked up. He had only been half listening. Now he was getting his father’s drift. His eyes widened and his jaw sagged. “But …” he wheezed, but his father was now on a roll.

“Spanking. I thought we were done with this, but clearly we are not.”

“I’m too old for this,” Lucas had found his voice.

“No, you are not too old for this. You’re too old for this when you demonstrate to me you can be trusted. Put that beer bottle down.”

Lucas stared at the label of the bottle in his hand as if only just realising it was there.

“Now! …. I shan’t tell you again.”

Hurriedly, the boy but the bottle on the table. He watched his father pick up a straight-backed wooden chair and set it down in the middle of the room.

“Right stand up. Come over here.”

“No!” Lucas protested. “What for?”

“You know what for. Now, come over here. Get across my knee.”

“No, you can’t. You can’t.”

“I can and I will.” Mr Harding gripped Lucas by his left wrist and pulled him forward. The nineteen-year-old struggled hard but his feet slipped on the shiny floor tiles as he resisted and he toppled forward. Soon he was face down over his father’s knees: head low, bottom high in the classic ‘naughty boy’ position.

“You have nobody to blame but yourself. Skipping college and drinking during the afternoon. You deserve all you get.”

Mr Harding held Lucas tightly around the waist. The teenager wriggled and writhed but he was going nowhere. His bum was wide and meaty and his buttocks filled out the seat of his denims. A perfect target Mr Harding told himself as he raised his hand high and brought it down hard across his son’s left cheek. Then he raised the hand again and motored. Slap after slap rained down across Lucas’s bum. It was like machinegun fire.

Lucas did not take it well. “Stop that noise,” his father fumed. “You deserve this. A damn good spanking. I should have done this before. When you got arrested for drink-driving. I know you got fined and banned but think of what might have happened. You could have killed somebody. A child. You stupid oaf. I should have taken my belt to your backside then.”

Mr Harding slapped his hand into Lucas’s hard bottom. His palm was hurting badly. He hoped he was having some effect on the boy’s backside. Just then, the front door opened and his wife appeared. She stood, mouth gaping in the doorway to the kitchen.

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“I came home early and found him at home. Skiving off college and drinking beer. After all that trouble before,” Mr Harding told her.

His wife watched her husband’s hand as it pounded into the seat of Lucas’s jeans. “You’re wasting your time with that. You’re not getting through. You’re not hurting him one little bit.”

Mr Harding paused in his efforts. “What’s that? … Yes, I think you’re right.” He looked down at his son sprawled across his knee. “You’re not really feeling this are you?” He looked over at his wife. “Hey, love can you go fetch your hairbrush. You know that big black one. The heavy one that used to be your grandma’s. That’ll make an impression.”

Mr Harding continued spanking his son’s bum as his wife hurried from the room. His hand was definitely hurting now. Lucas’s hips bucked and his hips swayed. In a moment he was likely to topple off his father’s lap and land in a heap on the floor.  Just then his wife reappeared. In her hand she brandished the hairbrush. It was a monster – easily thirty centimetres long with the handle. The head was oval shaped and measured about ten centimetres across. She held on tightly to it and tapped the head into the palm of her hand demonstrating how heavy it was. It made a fantastic spanking implement.

Mr Lucas stopped spanking. “Right you. Get up.” Sourly, Lucas climbed to his feet. He saw the mighty brush in his mother’s hand and considered making a run for it.

His father had other ideas. “Stay where you are. I’m not finished yet. Not by a long way. You’ll regret skiving off college and drinking beer before I’m through with you young man. You need to learn a lesson and by God I’m going to teach it to you.”

Mr Harding took the brush from his wife and waved it close to his son’s face. The boy blanched. He had felt the power of this brush before. He had hoped never to encounter it again.

Mr Harding smacked the brush into the palm of his hand. “Right you. Let’s have those jeans down.”

Lucas said nothing but the look on his face spoke volumes. “Yes,” his father confirmed. “Right down.”

“No, but Dad, c’mon,” Lucas had found his voice.

“Don’t you dare argue with me. Take them down. NOW! Do you want me to get your mother to take them down for you?”

Lucas’s face was already scarlet. The force of the spanking and the acute embarrassment he felt did that. He fumbled with his jeans.

“No,” his father growled, “I didn’t think so. Get them down. All the way. To the ankles.”

The jeans puddled at the teenager’s feet.

“That’s right. Good. Be thankful you’re not taking your pants down as well. I’d happily give to a bare-bottomed spanking, but we need to spare your mother’s blushes. Right. Now bend across the kitchen table. Yes. The table. Stop whining please and just do it.”

Mr Harding watched dispassionately as his son waddled the three or four steps needed to get to the table. The jeans snagged around his ankles and nearly sent him toppling face-down to the floor. Lucas stood hesitantly at the table. He looked forlornly across at his mother, his eyes appealing to her to intervene, to stop his father spanking his bottom with the heavy hairbrush. He got no joy from her. Her face was grimly set. Lucas needed his backside blistered and she was glad her husband had the courage to do his duty.

Lucas looked at his father, now brandishing the hairbrush threateningly. He was raring to go. He tested the weight of the brush in his hand. Sadly, Lucas lowered himself forward. His stomach and chest rested on the cold wood. He hesitated a moment working out in his head where he should put his arms. He decided to reach forward and grip the far edge of the table top.

His father waited for his son to settle before approaching. Lucas had submitted himself to the deserved punishment. His bottom twitched in anticipation of the pain to come. Mr Harding was almost ready, but not quite. Lucas’s body tensed when his father gripped the elasticated waistband of his cotton underpants. He gasped, fearful that his father had changed his mind and he was going to bare Lucas’s buttocks.

He needn’t have worried. His father took the waistband and pulled hard. The cotton underpants now fitted snugly against the buttocks. The cheeks were lifted and separated and the crack between them was clearly visible under the cloth. Now satisfied, Mr Harding tapped the head of the brush against the fleshiest part of the left buttock. He took his aim, raised the brush high, paused for a second or two with it in the air and hammered it down with all the force he could muster. It sank into the left cheek. Lucas opened and closed his mouth but managed to stifle the yap his body insisted he make.

The second whack – this time on the right cheek hurt just as much. Mr Harding pounded the brush across Lucas’s backside all the while scolding his son.

“That’s hurting I see. Good. It’s supposed to, otherwise we’d both be wasting our time. I hope you feel ashamed. Look at you, bent across the kitchen  table with your jeans at your ankles. With your bottom in the air. Getting a spanking, like a silly little boy. Well, young man, let me tell you, if you do not buck up your ideas and start behaving around here, I’ll have you across this table again and again. And I’ll do it until you learn. Don’t think I enjoy doing this because I don’t. I do it because I love you. We love you. Your mother and me. We want you to grow to be a good man.”

Mr Harding increased the force and the speed of the spanks. Lucas kicked his legs. He wriggled his hips. His privates humped the side of the table. His hands gripped the far edge, his knuckles turned white. His head nodded up and down until he was headbutting the tabletop. He had no breath. The pain in his backside spread across his body. His head ached. His eyes watered. He bit down on his lower lip; anything to stop himself crying out. And still, his father walloped that brush at full pelt into his bucking bum. And still, he scolded his son.

“We want you to be a credit. To yourself and to us. And if that means I have to spank your backside until it’s black and blue, well that’s just what I’m going to do. Remember, this is for your own good. If you don’t want to go through this again, all you have to do is behave yourself. Do you think you can do that?”

The doorbell rang. Mr Harding broke off his lecture. He looked quizzically at his wife. She dashed to the window. “It’s my mother. What does she want?”

Her husband frowned. “Blast. Wait a second. She can’t see this. I’d die of shame if she knew we still had to spank Lucas at his age.” He pounded the brush across the boy’s bottom one last time. “Right lad. Get up and get dressed. You’ve been saved by the bell. Get dressed quickly. It’s over. Go to your room. Stay there until we call you down to meet your grandmother. Remember it’s over this time, but I won’t hesitate to have you back over that table again. Now skedaddle!”

He turned to his wife, “Go open the door love. Your mother will wonder what’s going on.”

Lucas rushed from the room and took the stairs two at a time. He crashed through the door of his bedroom and threw himself face down on the bed. He rubbed and rubbed at his aching arse. Later he would inspect the damage in the mirror. The oval head of the heavy hairbrush was imprinted all across his buttocks and the back of his thighs. The whole area was one continuous red blotch. Mauve marks were forming at the edges. It would take days for them to clear. The pain had already turned to a dull ache but it would reignite every time he sat down on a hard surface for the rest of the day.

He buried his head in his pillow and let the tears of shame and embarrassment soak it.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

Other stories you might like

The Gaffer of The Academy 3. Caned-off

Perils of drink-driving

Tompkins in the housemaster’s study

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

St Francis Grammar School – the compilation

As readers know one of my favourite subjects for stories is the old-fashioned English school. Masters prowl the passageways dressed in academic gowns and caps. They swipe whippy curve-handled rattan canes across stretched backsides. Sometimes the unfortunate victims have their trousers – or Glory Be! – their underpants at their ankles. My heart is racing just thinking about it.

Some of my earliest school stories were set in St Francis Independent Grammar School (affectionately known as St FIGS). St FIGS was a traditional school: traditional curriculum, traditional uniform, traditional sports and, of course, traditional discipline.

I have gathered some of those stories together here in one place. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them.

Charles

 

First Day At School

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Picture credit: Unknown

John Allison is on his first day at St FIGS. He is new in town and has a lot to learn. He encounters the housemaster Mr Durrant and his lunch-time line-up: the boys sent to him each day for caning. Boys like James Axford … Mr Durrant whipped six stingers into the boy’s submissive buttocks: rat-tat-tat- rat-tat- tat. The strokes were a little more vigorous than he had originally intended and the cracks of his rattan cane against the tightly-stretched grey Terylene trousers rang around the room like machinegun fire.

 

The Padded Armchair

Jack Wilks stood about two feet from the padded armchair. At any moment he would be bent across its back, face in the soft cushion with his bottom high for the schoolmaster to whack it with a heavy slipper. He deserved it, of course. He knew that: he had no argument. The rule was simple and all the boys understood it. If you got less than sixty percent in a class test you got the slipper.

 

A Punch in the Face

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Picture credit: Unknown

Christopher could feel a searing pain in his knuckle as he crushed it into the face of the opposing team’s centre-half. Blood poured from the schoolboy’s nose as in agony he sank to his knees. His piercing scream drowned the shrill blast of the referee’s whistle. His nose could quite possibly be broken, Christopher didn’t care. It served him right. He would, of course, have to suffer the consequences of his action.

 

Headmasters, Like Elephant’s, Never Forget

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Picture credit: The Magnet

Former pupil Kevin Smith is now a junior ‘cub reporter’ on the local newspaper. He returns to St Francis to collect details of the annual speech day and pick up the names of the pupils who won prizes only to find there is painful unfinished business with the headmaster.

 

Murph in the Headmaster’s Study

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Picture credit: The Magnet

Murph was bent over the desk, awaiting his fate. He had been told to grip the far edge of the desk, so he was stretched across it. His school blazer, shirt and white vest had ridden up his back. His grey school trousers and white Y-fronts were down at his ankles.

 

The Run

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Brother Sebastian sends the sixth-formers out on a cross-country run. All but two arrive back on time. But where are Allison and Howard? There will be hell to pay when they return. A heavy rubber plimsoll applied with great force across the backsides would be the solution.

Housemaster’s Double Caning

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Picture credit: Unknown

Da Silva recounts a visit to Mr Hill, his housemaster … I flinched as I felt him pull the end of my shirt out from under the waist-band of my trousers and all too soon the cane was tapping the middle of my buttocks. I kept telling myself that it was not going to be too bad, right up until I heard the crack then felt the fire sweep across my bum, Jesus he was going to rip my backside open.

 

Snowballs

It is winter and the throwing of snowballs is banned. George Baker, sixth-former and prefect knows the penalty for disobeying the headmaster’s ruling. The snow is falling fast and the temptation is great, what will he do?

 

A school-leaving present

It was now halfway through the last week of summer term and in just a couple of days another batch of what Mr Price, the deputy headmaster, regarded as his natural prey – the sixth-form boys – would be leaving forever and be beyond his gasp. Or more specifically beyond the reach of his cane. The thought made him grind his teeth.

 

All is well in the world

Harry Clifton is off to the headmaster’s study. It’ll be the cane for sure – it always is. But something most unexpected happens … Harry Clifton swallowed hard. The canes were of differing thicknesses, densities and lengths but he knew with absolute certainty that in the hands of the headmaster any one of these rods would “take his backside off” as the schoolboy slang then circulating had it. Alongside the canes hung the headmaster’s black academic gown and the flat mortar-board cap, the official uniform of schoolmasters across the land. The badge of office. The seal of power.

 

It was thirty years ago

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Picture credit: The Magnet

Corporal punishment was banned in schools thirty years ago but two present-day sixth-formers are keen to travel back in time … Robbie inspected the cane carefully. It was a little over a metre long and had four notches along its length. One end had been curved. It was very light brown, almost yellow, in colour and as thick as a pencil. He gripped it at the end near where it curved. It slipped in his sweaty hand. Then, holding it in front of his face he wobbled it. The rattan was highly flexible. He gripped the cane tightly and swished it through the air. It made a wonderful whoosh as it went. He bent it again in his hands. Yes, it was the real deal all right.

 

A memory

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Picture credit: The Magnet

A chance encounter at a bus stop takes George Harkness back to his schooldays in the housemaster’s study with Will Rigley …. George Harkness watched intently as Dr. Cuthbertson sawed the cane across the centre of Will Rigley’s bottom. He took careful aim, then lifted the cane away from the seat of the pale grey trousers, before whipping it back with terrific force. A tremendous crack as cane connected with backside echoed around the study. Air hissed through Will Rigley’s clenched teeth. His buttocks swayed under the sting, but he quickly settled himself for stroke number two. George Harkness watched in awe as a white line appeared across the seat of Will Rigley’s trousers. He imagined a thick red welt must be throbbing across Will Rigley’s buttocks.

 

Some of these stories were collected together as a free-to-download book in PDF format.

Click below to download.

Tales from the study 1. St Francis Grammar School by Charles Hamilton II

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Harry discovers he’s not too old …

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The doorbell rang. Babs was flustered, she looked at the clock in the hallway. “Damn,” she said aloud although nobody was there to hear her, “She’s on time.” Babs wasn’t ready. Something had cropped up. Something unexpected. This really wasn’t a good time to have a neighbour call. She hurried down the hall and quietly closed the door to the front room. If she was careful she could steer her friend into the kitchen. She need never know.

Babs wiped her hands on her dress, slowly counted to five and opened the door. Mags from across the road smiled weakly, “I thought you were never going to answer. Brrrr, it’s perishing. I didn’t put on my heavy coat.” She didn’t need an invitation, she brushed past Babs into the inviting warmth of the house and headed towards the front room.

“No! Not there,” Babs realised her voice was too shrill but it was too late to moderate it, “Let’s go into the kitchen.” Mags looked startled. They always used the front room. What was up? Babs read her mind, “Oh it’s such a mess in there. You know Christmas,” she gave a frown and exaggerated shrug of the shoulders. “Come in here. It’ll be warmer,” she led the way to the kitchen. Mags hesitated. Couldn’t she hear voices – raised voices – coming from the front room?

They sat in uncomfortable silence waiting for the kettle to boil. Something was wrong, Mags sensed it. She had known her friend for many years. She had never seen her so … so what? Nervous?  Worried? Edgy? Agitated? She smiled softly, hoping Babs might spill the beans.

“Won’t be long. Won’t be long,” Babs glanced at her watch and then at the cold kettle.

Her husband George was in the front room with the couple’s nineteen-year-old son, Harry. He was staying for the holidays. Things were not going well. He had lived away from his parents for more than two years. Life in the big city was so different from his small hometown of Brocklehurst. Harry was a different person now. He played by his own rules. He had a job, he shared a house with three other guys. He was, he insisted, an adult.

Parents struggle when their children grow and fly the nest. To Mum and Dad Harry would always be about ten years old. The small boy. In need of love and guidance: firm rules, backed up when necessary by a firm hand. The past few days had been difficult. Harry arrived on Christmas Eve and it was now December 28th. Harry had become restless confined to the house, making small talk with his parents and visiting neighbours. He needed some Life.

So, the previous night he had sneaked out to The Three Fishers, the most notorious pub in sleepy Brocklehurst. It had been packed and by chance he met up with lads from school. One thing led to another. And another. He rolled back home at three in the morning, woke everybody in the house (and possibly the neighbours too) because he no longer had a door key. Dad was none too pleased to be dragged out of a warm bed in the freezing cold. His irritation was multiplied when Harry emptied the contents of his stomach over the carpet as he fell up the stairs.

Dad was old-fashioned. He had standards. He believed an Englishman’s home was his castle. He made the rules. Harry knew that. Puking up on the carpet was most certainly against the rules.

Harry sobered up quickly; nineteen year olds have remarkable powers of recovery. So it was that next morning a confrontation took place. Harry’s mother told him quietly he ought to get himself downstairs and into the front room.

His heart had lain heavily in his stomach as he awaited his father. Then it seemed to rise into his throat. Dad stood frowning in the doorway. Harry watched forlornly as his father crossed the room and seated himself on the sofa.

“Come here, Harry,” he said. The teenager rose and with leaden legs shuffled across the room. “Closer please. Stand exactly there.” His father indicated a spot on the carpet. “ Now, Harry, what have you to say for yourself? ”

“I don’t know, Dad.”

“You don’t know. You know what I’m talking about don’t you?”

“Yes, Dad,” Harry sucked on his bottom lip.

“Drunk,” his father sighed. “Look, son, you’re nineteen. You’ve been moody and disrespectful the whole holiday. Mum and me shouldn’t be troubled with your constant misbehaviour. You should have learned how to behave by now. You’ve spoiled your mum’s Christmas, you know that.”

Harry bowed his head in embarrassment, but not shame. He had enjoyed himself greatly at The Three Fishers, a pub frequented by available girls and given the chance he would visit again before he went back to the city.

His dad sighed again. He shook his head sorrowfully, “I wonder Harry if anything I am saying is getting through to you. I could tell you off until my face turns blue. You must get a grip of yourself. The time for childish behaviour is over. You’re growing up. You have got to act responsibly. Coming home drunk through the streets for all the neighbours to see.

“This is a small town, Harry. Your reputation goes with you everywhere. You used to be admired by some round here as a charming child and you are a good example some times. Now you must learn to discipline yourself and be well behaved all the time, not only when you feel like it.

“If you can’t discipline yourself, well,” he shook his head, “you know what must happen don’t you?”

Harry stared vacantly at the floor beneath his feet. He knew this moment would come, but he dreaded it nonetheless. “Yes Dad,” he whispered.

“Good,” his father said sternly. “You know what to do. Let’s have those jeans down.” He nodded at the boy’s Levis as if there was any doubt what he meant. Harry’s face coloured, he took a deep breath. He knew he ought to argue. To say, “I’m nineteen, I’m too old for this.” And it was true: he was nineteen, but his behaviour had been bad. He had let Mum and Dad down. Heck, he knew, he had let himself down. Instead of arguing, he took hold of his belt and began to unbuckle.

“All the way down,” his father encouraged. Then, “Good. Come, bend over my knee.”

Harry obeyed, lying himself across his father’s lap, his upper body resting on the vacant seat of the sofa.

“Put your hands under me,” coaxed his father. It was his practice when administering a severe spanking to sit on Harry’s hands, this made it impossible for the boy to struggle.

Harry manoeuvred his hands under his father’s heavy thighs. Harry had a slim build with slender hips and a small, hard bottom. His underpants had snugged against his cheeks and into his crack, lifting and separating his buttocks.

He was pinned firmly and he felt his father’s hand gently caressing his left cheek. The old man was smoothing out the last remaining wrinkles from Harry’s cotton pants. The teenager gasped slightly as the hard palm of his father’s hands explored the circuit of his two buttocks and into the undercurves and across the back of his naked thighs.

He knew how he was to be disciplined. He had seen the hairbrush waiting on the seat, and watched his Dad pick it up before he positioned himself across his knee. In truth, it was not actually a hairbrush, although that is what it was always called. It was a round-headed bath-brush, long, heavy and with a back flat enough for its purpose. There were numerous of these brushes in the shops, glistening in their light-brown glossy timber. There was a severity about these implements, so ideal for their purpose as spanking tools and versatile enough to use in the shower as well.

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Harry tensed himself involuntarily as he felt a motion in his father’s body: the first stroke was coming. The flat, heavy, stinging shock exploded across his skin, penetrating the cotton pants as if they had not been there at all. Such delicate protection was powerless against the heavy thwack of the brush.

His legs stiffened, his body reared a little, though his hands were pressed immobile by warm, masculine thighs.

“I hope you are not going to resist,” his father grunted. “I have all day if you do. Relax, please. Submit yourself. You deserve this spanking and you know you do.”

Harry forced his body to go limp, letting himself go to the will of his father. The brush smacked home again, tingling-sore upon the surface of his bottom, yet deeply hurting too. These were not “love taps”, they were heavy strokes. A third, a fourth, a fifth and a sixth thwacked with force against his bucking backside. Harry yelped, tensed, tried to untense and tensed again.

He had endured spankings from his father better than this in the past, but punishment is a curious thing. In the right mood he could absorb so much, submitting himself. But today was different, Harry could hardly bear to be touched. The ringing, flood waves of pain were almost intolerable.

Often his father scolded him all through a spanking. Today he seemed to have said all he had to say. Harry knew what was expected. If he tensed and arched himself, the punishment would go on. If he submitted it would come in the end.

Unable to help himself and although he was pinned by the hands, Harry twisted his legs to avoid the pain, opening his thighs in an ungainly manner. His father deftly brought down the hard brush in agonising reproof across Harry’s exposed inner thighs.

The teenager squealed like a wounded animal and closed his legs as his only way of protecting the sensitive flesh. For the rest of the spanking his legs remained neatly side by side, despite the mounting pain in his bottom and thighs. The burning soreness would make sitting a delicate task for the rest of the day.

His father had found his rhythm now. Hard, swinging slaps fell with easy force upon the cotton-covered bottom and thighs. The flesh was becoming hot. Even father’s own thighs were hot and moist against Harry’s clenching, powerless hands.

Harry was blubbing now. He was resigned to the long, hard spanking. Harry’s fingertips were digging deep into his father’s thighs. The ordeal was far greater than he had expected. His involuntary squeals of acute distress as hard wood bit his flesh flowed through the house.

Back in the kitchen Harry’s mother Babs listened to the rhythmic strokes, each one accompanied by a high, soulful moan. Her embarrassment level was off the scale. Beside her drinking tea demurely sat her neighbour, Mags. Babs smiled coyly. “Another cup of tea? We have some mince pies left over.”

Mags nodded politely although she wanted neither tea nor cakes. Her thoughts were back across The Avenue at her house where her son Malcolm was still tucked up in bed. He hadn’t raised a finger to help all holidays. He was sour and surly when spoken to. He drank most of his father’s whisky yesterday.

The sound of hard wood against taut bottom still pounded from the nearby room. She accepted the offered teacup gracefully but was lost in her thoughts. How she envied her friend Babs with her husband unafraid to instil a little discipline where it was needed. She took a nibble of the mince pie, her heart sinking at the thought of what awaited her when she returned home.

 

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Days later Babs and Mags were in the front room sipping tea.

“George will be down in a minute, he’s just sorting something out with Harry,” Babs said and blew on her tea to cool it.

“Yes I thought your boy was still here on his holidays,” Mags said. They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Babs hoped her husband wouldn’t be too long.

“Did you do anything last night, for the new year?” Mags asked for want of something better to say.

“Nothing much, we don’t really bother.”

More silence. More sipping of tea.

“Did you hear all that racket in the street about one o’clock this morning?” Mags piped up.

“Rather,” Babs blushed, she looked at the ceiling as if she could see into the rooms above.

“Bunch of louts,” Mags warmed to her theme, “Waking the whole street. Disgraceful. You don’t expect behaviour like that in The Avenue, do you?”

“No,” Babs sighed, “No, you do not.”

“I know what I’d like to do to them if I got my hands on them,” Mags slurped on her tea so some dribbled down her chin.

“Yes, I quite agree,” Babs whispered.

Upstairs, her husband was “sorting something out” with nineteen-year-old Harry. “An absolute disgrace. All of you. Drunken louts,” he seethed. “Waking all the neighbours. What do you think they will say if they find out you were one of them? Your mother won’t be able to hold her head up at the shops. An utter disgrace,” he fumed.

Harry’s hands sweated. His head still ached from last night and his throat was as dry as a camel’s whatsit. He nodded along with his father’s reprimands, he had no strength to argue. “I am utterly ashamed of you. I spanked you the other day for coming home drunk, now look at you.” He paused and literally looked over Harry from the top of his gelled head to his feet.arryHarry

“I hope you’re ashamed too,” he paused for an answer. None came. For Harry the room was spinning, his head ached, he just wanted this over with so he could go back to bed.

The silence angered his father. “Dumb insolence. Right, that’s it,” he roared. “You are going to get the thrashing of your life.” He started to unbuckle his belt. Harry’s eyes glazed. “Right,” his father hissed, “Get those jeans down. Underpants too. Lay face down on the bed.” He pulled the wide leather belt from the loops of his trousers and folded it in two.

Harry had not moved. “Be quick about it,” his father snapped. “Or do you want me to do it for you?” That moved the teenager to slow action. Through moist eyes he unbuckled his own belt and unclipped and unzipped the jeans. He turned away from his father, hoping the old man wouldn’t see his naked cock and balls. He inserted his thumbs into the waistband and inch by inch lowered his jeans and pants together. He just about uncovered his buttocks. Gingerly, so not to reveal himself to his father, he crawled onto the bed and lay on his stomach.

z used belt jeans down bed

His father held the belt loosely as he waited for his son to submit himself. “Pah!” he groaned. “Not like that,” he did not hide his irritation. “Pull them right down.” He took two paces towards the bed, leaned forward and ripped the jeans and pants down until they uncovered his thighs and bunched at his knees.

“That’s better,” his father sneered, “Let the dog see the rabbit.”

Harry gripped a pillow and buried his aching head in it. “Right lad,” his father hissed, “a sound leathering that’s what you need and that’s what you’re going to get. You can only blame yourself. You never learn.” He gripped the belt tightly and towered over his prone son. The bed was made for a child so was narrow and low. His father flapped the belt and let it rest over Harry’s naked buttocks. He was finding his aim. He stood straight, then lifted the belt to shoulder height so that the leather tapped his own back. Then in one swift continuous movement he whipped it high, then forward and landed it with a resounding crack across Harry’s bottom. A thick deep pink stripe immediately appeared. Harry winced and pushed his face deeper into the pillow.

It had been some years since his father had used a belt in this way and he was quietly satisfied that he hadn’t lost his touch. The belt had landed exactly where intended. Now, he aimed a little higher. Harry’s bum was meaty, but hard. There was a lot to aim at. Up went the belt and down it came with astonishing speed. Bingo! A second sunset band glowed across the naked bottom. Harry’s legs shook on the impact.

“Feeling that, aren’t you. Good,” his father grizzled. “It’s what you deserve. It’s what you need.” He whipped another two cuts in quick succession. Most of Harry’s bum blazed red hot. “I thought after last time, I wouldn’t have to do this again. How wrong I was.” He scolded and slashed. “Look at you, nineteen years old and getting your bare backside belted by your father. What would those other louts say if they could see you.”

Harry had no idea what his friends would say. What he did know for certain was that none of them would be submitting themselves as he was to their dads for a spanking.

“And don’t be thinking that you’re too old for this,” his father said, reading his son’s mind. “You are never too old. Not in my house.” He whipped another three hard slashes across the under cheeks. “Good shots,” he told himself, “he’ll feel those every time he sits down for some time to come.”

Whack-whack-whack. His father had forgotten to keep count, but he was sure he had landed at least twenty-four. “Right lad,” he said, “That’s the belting over.” Harry sprang to his feet and started to tug his pants up. “

“Not so fast mister,” his father chided, “I’ve not finished yet. This is only half time.” Harry’s mouth opened and closed but he could find no words of protest. “Now for the cane,” his father crossed the room to the open door and reached out into the landing. When he turned back he held a length of bamboo he had taken from the garden shed earlier. It was about two feet long and rigid. He brandished it at Harry. “Leave those jeans and pants down. Kneel on the bed. Keep your head low and your bottom high.”

“Oh, c’mon Dad,” Harry had found his voice. “I’ve had enough.”

“Enough,” his father coughed, “I spanked you last time for drinking. Well, it didn’t seem to work did it? This time I’m going to do the job properly. Now get a move on.”

Defeated, Harry climbed on the bed. “Head low,” his father encouraged. Soon Harry’s forehead and nose were squashed into the mattress. “Bottom high, spread those legs.” His father watched intently as his son manoeuvred himself. He had a perfect view into the teenager’s crack and of his dangling ball sack.

He held the cane in both hands. It was too rigid to bend. His father frowned with disappointment. What he really wanted was an old-fashioned whippy school cane, made of rattan and with a curved handle. One he could swish around before landing it across his son’s bare bottom. He promised himself he would search the Internet later to see what he could find.

For now he lined the stiff rod across the highest point of Harry’s mounds. Tap-tap-tap, then lift and return. The cane didn’t swish through the air and it landed with a dull thud but it left a deep mark across Harry’s bare cheeks. “Not bad,” his father mused to himself, “Not bad, but not as good as a proper cane would be.”

He said aloud, “Six of the best, for you, m’lad.” He imagined himself as an ancient schoolmaster. He landed the next stroke higher. The third went lower. That one snagged across the back of Harry’s thighs. He howled.

The noise travelled downstairs to the kitchen. Babs and Mags sat silently. Both aware of what was going on upstairs in the bedroom but neither feeling it was polite to discuss it. Another loud “Yowll!” rent the air.

Mags stared at her empty teacup and wondered quietly where her own son Malcolm had been at one o’clock that morning.

Picture credits: Both unknown

 Other stories you might like

Henry Pottinger’s souvenirs

Memories of Dad’s slipper

Commander Reynolds’ rooming house

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

It happened to me too …

new 5

pants desk office sting

This photograph’s not what it looks like. A fellow, trousers down, over the desk, about to get a caning. It’s not real. It’s not from a documentary,  it’s from a video. A spanking video. A fetish video. There are lots of them all over the Internet. I know it’s from a made-up story, but the moment I saw it for the first time, I thought, “Wow!” It was so evocative. Each time I look at it I get memories of me fifty years ago. Something that really happened.

I was twenty-four at the time and in my first-ever proper job. I’d had lots of temporary ones after I left university. I did all the usual things, like working in a factory (we still had factories back then) or serving in a shop. I was a postman at Christmas. You know the kind of thing.

What I really wanted was a job in journalism. Working on a newspaper. I had this vision of me in a trench coat and one of those trilbies on my head with a ticket reading “PRESS” in the hatband. The sort of character Humphry Bogart might play in a movie.

Jobs in journalism were as rare as hens’ teeth, so when after dozens and dozens of applications all over the country I final got taken on I knew just how fortunate I was. I knew that, which makes what I did later all the more difficult to comprehend.

Back in those days not many people of my parents’ generation and before had university degrees. They left school and went straight into work. So, I was one of the few at the newspaper – the Bugle –with a degree. As far as I knew none of my supervisors, right up to the mighty editor, had been to the varsity.

In those days we were more deferential than today. We knew our place. The rich man in his castle, the poor man at his gate, you know the kind of thing. We even respected the clergy. Ha! how times change. Of more relevance to my story, we respected our work supervisors and bosses. Maybe respected isn’t quite the right word here. I really just mean we did as we were told without question. We worker ants would mutter among ourselves out of the earshot of the foreman, but those of us with forelocks tugged them unceasingly.

That makes what I did all the more astonishing.

As I said, I was one of the few people at the Bugle with a university education. I was quite proud of this. I had worked hard (well, hard enough anyway) to get a degree and I swaggered a bit knowing that I was one of the elite. Bumptious, some people might call it. Prideful would suffice. So would self-satisfied. Today, we might say I was full of myself. Arrogant is another word that works.  Superior. Oh, I could go on.

Let me just say I wasn’t the most popular person at the Bugle. I was what we then called a “junior reporter”, I think the Americans say “cub reporter”. I’m thinking here of Superman’s Pal Jimmy Olsen at the Daily Planet. The Bugle wasn’t as glamourous as the Planet. My work consisted mostly of taking names of people attending funerals (there were many deaths, we had an aged population) or prize-winners at flower shows. It depended a bit on the season of the year. No flower shows in winter, but a surprisingly large number of funerals.

I’d been at the Bugle for about six months and was still on “probation” (that meant I had to keep my nose clean for a year before I was taken on staff permanently) when the chief reporter, a rather limp-wristed fellow we called Fairy although his name was actually Farleigh, sent me off to collect some documents from the mayor’s office. The mayor in England is nothing like a mayor in an American city. He is just a honorary figurehead who wears a gold chain round his neck and goes round opening garden fetes. Like all minor functionaries he expected to be treated as if he were King of England.

Mayors were also part-time appointments. Mayor Moncrieff’s day job was as a schoolmaster. He taught at a place called St Francis Independent Grammar School. Even for those days St FIGS (as it was affectionately known) was pretty traditional: traditional curriculum, traditional sports, traditional uniform, and as you’ve probably guessed, traditional discipline.

I arranged to go to the mayor’s office at two in the afternoon. That would give me time to slope off to lunch at the Three Fishers, the pub where all the young layabouts in town went. It was benefits day – the day when the workshy got their unemployment pay outs – so it was pretty busy. That’s how I managed to be knocked in a crush of people and get beer spilled down my jacket. It wasn’t too bad but I had to get Big Mary, the landlady, to sponge it down as best she could.

So, I was late getting to the mayor’s office and (I didn’t realise it) I smelled somewhat of beer. The mayor’s secretary, an officious old cow of very advanced years was none too pleased when I waltzed in late. She looked down her nose at me and haughtily exclaimed, “We do not have all day to wait on Her Majesty’s Press.” She was being sarcastic. The Bugle was not the Times of London, or the Washington Post. It definitely wasn’t the Daily Planet. She meant the Bugle was just some insignificant local rag.

In the great scheme of things, she was right of course. But, as I said, I was pretty full of myself in those days, so I said, “I’ll remind you of that next time the mayor wants his picture in the paper, schmoozing with the Lord Lieutenant.”

Her face crinkled, her long nose and her pointed chin almost met. She sniffed the air. Her eyes shone, “You’ve been drinking,” she cackled.

That was when Mayor Moncrieff stepped through the door of his office. He had heard it all. His face, a ruddy complexion at the best of times, deepened towards puce. “Pah!” he blasted, “How dare you.” Like I said he was a schoolmaster by trade. What a combination. The pomposity of a small-town mayor is enough to have to cope with, but a man who was both a mayor and a schoolmaster is insufferable. He berated me. I tuned my ears out. I couldn’t stand the man and I was quite capable of giving as good as I got in the verbal stakes, so I had to be careful. Finally he said, “Drunk in my office. Your editor, will hear about this.”

I kept my mouth buttoned but my body language said, “Go on. See if I care.” I snatched the documents I had come for and exited stage left.

By the time I retuned to the Bugle Mayor Moncrieff had been on the blower to my editor. Like I said, we all knew our place and the editor, a man named G A B Larcombe, knew where he was in the pecking order. Quite high, actually in a town like Brocklehurst, but a long way below the mayor.

I didn’t hear the phone call and I don’t know how GAB reacted to the mayor’s command. Did he put up much of a fight? I’d like to think he did, but I wouldn’t bet on it. As I said I was always a bit above myself; GAB probably thought I needed to be taken down a peg.

I was back at the Bugle office an hour or so when the summons comes from GAB’s secretary. I must attend at GAB’s office. This was a big deal. I had only been there once. That was the day I was appointed. The editor was seen as a bit of a God and wouldn’t condescend to talk to the likes of me and I had hardly seen hide nor hair of him since that day. I was surprised he remembered who I was.

I straightened my tie and began to climb into my jacket but the strong smell of beer deterred me. I left it on the back of my chair and made towards the door of the reporter’s room. Charlie, our fifty-something sports reporter, cheerfully rubbed his buttocks with the palms of his hands. His message was clear. I grinned at him. Yes, I got he joke. Going to the editor’s office was just like being summoned to the headmaster’s study.

“Good luck,” Charlie whispered as I left the room. I thought nothing of his remark and made the short journey to DAB’s office. The secretary, who almost as ugly as the mayor’s, (is it a requirement of the job of secretary?) nodded to the old mahogany door and sneered, “Knock and enter. He’s expecting you.” I rubbed the sweat from the palms of my hands, made a fist and rapped three times.

The office was large and furnished in a modern style. Pine was all the rage at the time. GAB sat behind a desk the size of a billiard table. He was an elderly, wizened man in I imagine his late fifties. He was thin, almost to the point of being sickly, and was dressed immaculately in a dark suit with a crisp white shirt.

“You know Mayor Moncrieff,’ he said firmly and nodded to the corner of the room. Only then did I see the mayor lounging in a small easy chair, his belly hanging over his waist and his legs splayed. He gave me the evil eye. I mumbled a half-hearted greeting.

GAB spoke slowly, as if giving dictation, “I understand there was an altercation this afternoon.” He rolled the word altercation around on his tongue, relishing the sound it made. He stopped. It took a moment before I realised I was supposed to say something. Taken off guard, I babbled, “Well, no not altercation exactly.”

GAB cut me short. “You had been drinking.” It was a statement, not a question. I gathered some confidence and told him about The Three Fishers.

“Three Fishers!” his voice cracked. He obviously knew the reputation that pub had all over town. “To make contacts, I go to make contacts,” I said truthfully, although that was not the only reason I went. It was easy to pick up girls of “easy virtue” as we used to say back then. I told him of my accident. He seemed to accept my explanation because he said no more about it.

He honed in on my exchange of words with the mayor’s secretary. He gave an accurate account. I knew I had been rude. I had a short temper sometimes. I shouldn’t have said what I said. GAB narrowed his eyes and leaned across his desk, “The mayor is very upset.” He glanced across at the sprawling mayor as if seeking his approval for the words he had just spoken. Then GAB said, “I am very upset. I do not expect a member of the Bugle to behave in such a way.”

My face almost cracked. The pompous buffoon really did believe he was editor of the Times of London. Bumptious though I was I had enough sense to keep my mouth buttoned tight. GAB and the mayor were my social superiors. I had to listen to what they had to tell me. My task was to listen and to suck it up. In the back of my mind I knew that I was still a probationer at the Bugle and jobs in journalism did not grow on trees. Time for me to be humble.

“Sorry Mr Mayor,” I said, hoping that I didn’t betray the sarcasm I felt. “I most humbly apologise.”

Mayor Moncrieff’s face went that puce colour again. His eyebrows shot heavenwards. “Bwwaa, bwwaa,” he seemed unable to articulate his thoughts. For a brief moment I thought he was going to cough up his false teeth.

“That will do, Hamilton,” GAB clasped his hands together as if in prayer and glared at me. He leaned back in his chair. He seemed to be trying to make up his mind about something. Once again he looked to the mayor for support. I saw Mayor Moncrieff give what looked to me like a judicial nod. He had made a decision. GAB’s eyes sparkled. Suddenly his face even with all those wrinkles looked twenty years younger.

“This will not do, Hamilton,” GAB intoned. “I cannot have a junior member of my staff,” he began and then quickly corrected himself, “I cannot have any member of my staff disrespect the mayor in such a way.” His eyes narrowed and he stared intently at my shirt front. “You are, of course, still on probation …” He let the words hang in the air. There was no need to say more, I got the point. Keep my mouth shut or face dismissal.

“So,” GAB rose from behind his desk. I watched as with some difficulty he managed to unbutton his jacket and slip it from his shoulders. He walked slowly across the office and with great careful deliberation he hung it on a coat stand. I was transfixed. I watched as he glided across to a set of drawers. He fumbled in his pocket and found a small keyring. He searched for the key he needed and once more, slowly and carefully, he inserted it into a lock and turned it. I was spellbound. The tension in the room was electric. He pulled the drawer open by a foot or so. His shoulders hunched as he reached inside. Even Mayor Moncrieff was mesmerised.

I heard a rattling sound like a stick rubbing against wood. GAB’s shoulders shook, he straightened up and turned to face me. I believe my jaw literally dropped, such was my surprised. GAB held in his hand a long, thin crook-handled school cane. He narrowed his eyes to stare across the room at me. He took the cane in both hands and flexed it to make an arc. He said nothing. The only sound in the room was my breathing. My mouth opened and closed but no words came.

GAB’s intention was clear. My head was befuddled. I had just seen my boss, the editor, go to a drawer in his office and retrieve from it a school punishment cane. He did this like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to do. A lump came to my throat and I gulped it away. My boss kept a cane in his office. All the time. It hadn’t been brought in specifically for me.

GAB must have seen my confusion. “It’s a cane,” he said rather unnecessarily. “And, I think we all know what it’s for.”

I heard a loud retort behind me, Mayor Moncrieff had snorted. Indeed, as a schoolmaster he was very aware of its purpose.

“This is what we are going to do,” GAB spoke carefully, without emotion. He pointed the cane to a small table at the furthest end of the office. “You, Hamilton, are to stand there.” My eyes moved to the table, but my body remained rooted. He was going to cane me. My heart raced. I wanted to protest. I should have protested. How could this be possible? My boss was going to cane me. I was twenty-four years old, not fourteen. Besides, what right did he have? I said none of these things. I didn’t even think these things until much later, when it was all over and I was back at my digs examining the cuts.

“Please do as I say,” GAB tapped the cane against his right leg as he spoke: tap-tap-tap. “Stand by the table.”

My feet were leaden but I dragged them across the room. I stood where instructed. Suddenly, in my mind I was transported back ten years or so. In my housemaster’s study, about to prostrate myself across the desk. Yes, I was no stranger to the sting of the cane. What boy of my era and social class was?

I faced the table. I was a tall, lanky fellow and the table was low. I heard the mayor rise from his seat and cross the room to another chair. He was moving to get a better view. Only then did I realise the miserable bastard intended to enjoy himself. Not only would I face the humiliation of a beating from my boss, the wretched man was going to drool over it.

GAB approached me and stood by my side. He flexed the cane between his hands once more. It was heavier and thicker than the one my housemaster used to thrash me back in the day. I could see GAB’s eyes flashing. “Bend over the table,” he said loudly and clearly. I hesitated, surely I was too tall to lay down on my stomach. Where would my legs go? I hadn’t solved this conundrum before the mayor rasped an irritating couch.

A startled GAB turned towards the man. GAB’s face brightened. “Oh, of course,” he said softly, as if to himself. Then, turning to me he said with great deliberation, “Hamilton. Take down your trousers and bend over the desk.”

Now, it was the turn of my eyes to sparkle. Tears of shame welled. I just about held them back. Just as I held my temper. The bastards. They knew I had no choice. I had to obey they commands. They were my masters. I was the submissive. Take down your trousers bend over the table, take a caning. Show what a small, insignificant creature I was. It was enough to turn a chap to Communism.

It took a super-human effort not to tell them to go to hell. What right did they have? What right? Well, they had no right, or course. But they had the power. If I wanted to keep my job and career, I had no choice.

I sucked down several deep breaths, bit down on my bottom lip and with unsteady hands I took hold of my belt buckle. I could feel GAB’s hot breath against my neck as I loosened the belt, unfasted the clasp at the top of my trousers and pulled the zip fly. I stared straight ahead, trying to clear my mind. I was not there in the editor’s office, about to lower my trousers and bend over the table so the old man could beat my backside with a school cane.

The trousers slid down my thighs and snagged at my knees. I parted my legs a little and they continued down to make a puddle over my shoes. Without thinking I leaned forward and rested my elbows on the desk. That way, my bum jutted out behind me. I spread my feet and arched my back. I couldn’t see it myself (of course) but I knew my bottom was at the perfect angle to receive my punishment.

I could smell GAB’s aftershave as he leaned across me and took hold of the tail of my shirt. My body shivered (and not with cold) as he pulled the shirt up my back, exposing my underpants fully. I nearly shrieked with anguish when he gripped hold of the elasticated waistband of my underpants. Oh my God! he’s pulling them down. He’s going to show my bare arse to the mayor!

He didn’t. He pulled the pants tightly and I felt them ride up into my crack. Each buttock cheek was lifted and separated. The cotton clung to my bum. I presented the perfect target.

GAB smacked my right buttock, almost playfully. Then, he did the same with the left. My body quivered when he rubbed the cane across the centre of my arse. He sawed it once or twice as he found his aim. Then, he lifted the cane away, held it in mid air for a second or so before bringing it crashing down across my cheeks. A line of hot pain glowed and it felt like a welt had immediately risen. I gasped. That hurt. That really hurt.

Before I had time to fully absorb the pain a second swipe landed with terrific vigour and hit me an inch or so lower than the first. “Yowll,” I yelled, or some such. “Ouch!” I don’t know how I sounded. What I do know is that it hurt like crazy. My legs buckled and I balled my hands into fists to try to absorb the agony.

The third swipe landed above the first. I now had three parallel lines perfectly placed across my quavering backside. It was a strip of suffering about three inches wide. GAB was an expert. A master. Proof, if proof were needed, that I was not the first person he had caned in his life.

My hips wriggled, my legs kicked, my head shook from side to side when the fourth cut landed in a diagonal across the first two. Could they hear my yell of anguish back in the reporters’ room? I don’t know. I wouldn’t be surprised if passers-by in the street heard. My head throbbed almost as much as my backside and rivulets of tears flowed down my face. How I kept my back arched and my bum sticking out, I’ll never know. Every instinct in my body cried for me to stand up and flee from the room.

GAB put the next stroke high, right on the apex of my mounds. That one didn’t hurt so much. Maybe I had gone through some pain barrier. Maybe there’s more muscle or meat or padding there, I don’t know.

I had counted five. How many was I getting? GAB hadn’t said. It would be six, wouldn’t it? I fervently told myself. It’s always six. Six-of-the-best. Every schoolboy of my generation knew that. I tensed my body. Please, I prayed silently, let this be the final one. GAB seemed to be taking his time. Maybe he had finished already. It was over. No such luck!

I felt the cane touch the back of my thighs, just along the hem of the underpants. He was going low. On the sensitive sit-spot. I held my breath. This would be agony. The worst of them all. The cane rose. It hovered in the air. It fell. I shrieked like a banshee. Every fibre of my body rebelled. GAB had missed his aim. The cane struck me across the back of my thighs. My bare flesh. My naked flesh. I leapt to my feet and clutched my burning arse with my legs stomping up and down like a demented soldier on sentry duty. My body doubled, I yelled some more. I rubbed and I rubbed but the contact of the palms of my hands against the thick red, throbbing welt glowering across the backs of my thighs made the pain worse.

GAB rested his cane on the table, “I think that is enough,” he said quietly. A grunt from Mayor Moncrieff announced that he begged to differ. On this occasion, GAB overruled him. “Get dressed,” GAB told me gently. I tugged my trousers up over my roaring buttocks. My hands shivered as I buttoned up. I couldn’t work the belt buckle so left it undone.

GAB couldn’t wait to get rid of me. I rushed from the room, eyes blazing, backside on fire. I sped down the passageway, bouncing from wall to wall and then through the doors and into the street. I didn’t stop running until I reached my lodgings.

That caning didn’t teach me to know my place, but it did make me keep my mouth closed in future; which as we all know isn’t the same thing.

 

 

Picture credit: Sting pictures

Other stories you might like

Late at the office

The fire-raiser

A Fragment of a Memory

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The exam results

new 5

A theatre play

Setting.

A suburban living room. It is the present. It is nearly Christmas so there could be a tree or decorations to show this. What furniture there is can be at the discretion of the theatre depending on what is available, but it must that it is the modern day the furniture etc (e.g. flat screen TV). There must at least be a couch and a set of drawers (possibly a sideboard). A Table / Smart phone and a wooden paddle are the only two essential props.

Characters.

NATE: A 19-year-old university student. Dressed in jeans and a top. He wears colourful underpants.

DAD: In his late forties / early fifties. He is dressed casually for a day spent at home.

MUM: Roughly same age as DAD and also dressed for a day at home

 

Curtain rises showing MUM and DAD in the living room. DAD is holding a Tablet. MUM stands close by watching him read from the screen

 

DAD (Peering into Tablet). I’m into Nate’s exam results here. (face drops) Jeez, look at this. Five subjects. One’s an F. That’s fail. Nothing higher than a D. They’re worse than the midterms.

MUM. (Looking over his shoulder). What are we paying all this money for to send him to university? What a waste.

DAD. (Anger showing in his face) We told him. Back in October. This is just not good enough.

MUM. It can’t go on like this. This is too bad. What’s he doing? Too much time in the bar, not enough in the library.

DAD. I know what he needs. (Pauses) I did warn him.

MUM. But he’s eighteen (let’s the sentence trail off)

DAD. That’s not too old.

MUM. Maybe.

DAD. It’s what got him through his A-levels. Remember? He failed his mocks. He soon bucked up his ideas after that. Did quite well in the end. Good enough to get to university.

MUM. Yes, that’s true. Will it work again?

DAD. I don’t see why not. He just needs a wake up call. It worked before. It’ll work again.

MUM. (Showing doubt) Well ….

DAD. Just a bit of maintenance. Put him back on the straight and narrow. To remind him that we’re keeping an eye on him.

MUM. (Frowning) I guess so. (Pause as she thinks about it some more). Yes …. OK … Right …

At that moment Nate enters. He is a bit dishevelled and it is clear he has only just got out of bed. He sees DAD with the Tablet but doesn’t realise its importance.

MUM. (Berating NATE) You just got up? Look at the time. It’s nearly eleven. Late night. (Pause) Again. You need to go out an get a job for the holidays. I don’t want you lying in bed all day.

NATE. (Showing insolence) OK Mum.

DAD. (Snapping) Don’t talk to your mother like that.

NATE. (Sulks) Ohhh.

MUM. Don’t expect me to make you breakfast.

NATE. (Snaps) Don’t want none.

DAD. What’s up with you. Got a hangover?

NATE. (Grimaces but says nothing)

DAD. (Holding up the Tablet) I’ve got your exam results.

NATE. (Taken aback) Worr…?

DAD. You heard. Exam results. What a disgrace

NATE turns away to leave the room – he does not want to have this conversation

DAD. Woah. Hold your horses. Wait a minute. You’re not going anywhere.

NATE. pauses, considers disobeying DAD, but stays waiting at the door.

DAD. One fail. Nothing higher than a D. (Pauses, expecting NATE to respond. When he doesn’t DAD’s anger shows) Well! (Pause). Well, what have you got to say.

NATE embarrassed, shrugs his shoulders but says nothing.

DAD. Well. (Pause. His anger rising) We talked about this at midterm. (He waves the Tablet to confirm what he is talking about).

NATE stands by the door contemplating whether he should make a run for it

DAD. Did you go to lectures? Do you even know where the library is? Did you do any work at all?

NATE embarrassed looks at his feet

DAD. Well? Answer me. (More silence) Bah! You know what you need don’t you.

NATE looks startled. He opens his mouth intending to respond but thinks better of it

DAD. (speaking rapidly as if he is himself embarrassed) A damn good spanking. That’s what. A good hiding. That’ll buck your ideas up. A sore backside.

NATE. (eyes wide with astonishment) Dad …. (he is lost for words) But …. I’m too old ….

DAD. (cutting NATE short) You’re not too old. I’ll tell you when you’re too old. When you start acting like a responsible adult, that’s when you’re too old.

NATE. (Struggling to find the words) But Dad. You can’t … I mean….

DAD. (Cutting NATE short) I can. (Pause for effect) And I will. (Pause) Now get back in here.

NATE. But Dad ..

DAD. Come here. (Points to the couch)

NATE. Oww Dad. C’mon Dad.

DAD. (Pointing to the couch) I won’t tell you again.

NATE (pouts). But Dad …

MUM walks across the room. NATE stops and his eyes follow MUM as she walks. NATE has a concerned look. MUM reaches a drawer and opens it. DAD and NATE watch her carefully as MUM reaches in the drawer. She searches with her hand for a moment. MUM’s expression is puzzled. It seems she cannot find what she is looking for. Then, MUM gives a half-smile. MUM turns to face DAD and NATE, she is holding a wooden punishment paddle.

NATE (Alarmed). Oh, c’mon Mum. (Pause) Dad? (Pause) No, come on. No, you can’t.

MUM (Hands the paddle to DAD. Looks at NATE). You have nobody to blame but yourself.

DAD takes paddle and weighs it in his hand, demonstrating that it is a substantial piece of wood and has some weight. NATE’s eyes pop as he watches DAD tap the blade of the paddle into the palm of his hand.

MUM. (To NATE) You were warned. You can’t say you weren’t.

NATE (Mouth opens and closes like a goldfish). But Mum.. (Looks at DAD who is now tapping thee paddle against his own thigh. Then in a plea)  Dad ….. No ….

DAD sits on the edge of the couch. Waves paddle at NATE.

DAD (To NATE). Let’s get this over with. (Pause) Come here, son.

NATE Doesn’t speak but body language says he is considering whether he should run from the room. He appears to be debating with himself in his head. He doesn’t realise the thumbs of both hands are gently caressing the seat of his jeans.

DAD (Losing patience). Don’t make me ask you twice.

NATE shows no signs of moving.

DAD (Speaks fiercely). NOW!

NATE jolts, then slowly moves towards DAD. NATE stands a metre or so away from DAD and looks sorrowfully at DAD

NATE (Pleading). Dad …

DAD (looking stern). Your fault…. Not mine. This is to make sure you work harder next semester.

NATE shuffles his feet with embarrassment, dreading DAD’s next words

DAD (Slowly looks NATE up and down, from head to feet and back again. DAD’s eyes rest on NATE’s waist). You better take those jeans down.

NATE looks astonished, silently mouths ‘But Dad’.

DAD (As if speaking to himself). They’re too thick. You won’t hardly feel a thing. Take them down.

NATE stands rooted to the spot, his face red with shame.

NATE (Pleading). C’mon Dad, please. Not jeans down. C’mon. Please.

DAD. Now. If I have to do it for you, I’ll take the pants down too.

NATE hurriedly finds the buckle of his belt and tugs it open. He looks pleadingly at DAD as if hoping DAD will relent at the last moment and let him keep the jeans up. DAD stares into the middle distance. NATE looks down at his jeans for a moment. Reluctantly NATE undoes the button on the waistband of his jeans. He pulls the zip fly. The jeans fall open showing the front of NATE’s colourful briefs. NATE closes his eyes as if to persuade himself that this is not really happening to him. Slowly he pushes the jeans down his thighs. They snag at his knees and he leaves them there. He glances pitifully at DAD.

DAD (Calmly but with authority). All the way.

NATE spreads his knees and the jeans slip further down until they rest in a puddle over his feet.

DAD grips the handle of the paddle and pushes it towards NATE. NATE recoils slightly, but stands his ground.

DAD spreads his legs to create a platform and taps his own right thigh

DAD. Bend  over my knee.

NATE looks down at DAD’s lap. NATE hesitates

DAD taps his own thigh again

DAD. Just like last time.

NATE shuffles forward and stands to the right of DAD, Slowly, NATE places the palms of his hands on DAD’s thighs and lowers himself down. Once his stomach is resting across DAD, NATE stretches his arms forward and presses the palms of his hands into the ground. NATE’s legs are left to dangle in mid-air (or his toes touch the carpet, depending upon the height of the actor playing the role). NATE’s bottom is raised over DAD’s thigh at a perfect angle to receive swats of the paddle.

DAD, slowly and with great deliberation takes hold of the elasticated waistband of NATE’s briefs. NATE’s face registers fear as he thinks DAD is about to pull down his underpants and bare his backside.

DAD does not do this. DAD tugs the waistband so that the cotton briefs fit snugly across NATE’s bottom. All creases are removed and the briefs are so tight that each buttock cheek is clearly defined, offering DAD a terrific target to spank. DAD takes hold of NATE’s shirt and pulls it up NATE’s back so that the audience now has an unrestricted view of the whole buttock area. DAD places his left hand around NATE’s waist to hold him in place. NATE and DAD are now both adopting the traditional spanking posture as demonstrated by fathers and sons across the ages.

NATE’s body is tense. NATE closes his eyes and shuts his mouth tight.

DAD gently taps the blade of the paddle against the underside of NATE’s left buttock cheek. NATE’s buttocks clench as if they are firming up to protect themselves from the painful spanking that is about to start.

DAD (Still tapping to find his aim, says almost inaudibly). Relax, son. Relax.

DAD raises the paddle to above shoulder height.

NATE’s whole body tenses

DAD pauses with the paddle raised high. He counts “one, two, three,” in his head then brings the paddle pounding down into NATE’s left buttock.

z used paddle otk pants couch domestic bbfc

NATE winces with pain. His legs kick.

DAD raises the paddle and repeats the previous manoeuvre, this time swatting the right buttock.

NATE’s head raises up and down. NATE’s mouth forms the perfect “O” shape, but he does not make a sound.

DAD slowly hammers another two swats across each cheek, making a total of six whacks.

NATE is feeling the pain. NATE’s head shakes from side to side, like a horse bothered by a fly.

DAD quickens the momentum of the spanking. Instead of counting “one, two, three” before each swat he spanks rapidly: bang-bang-bang, like machinegun fire.

NATE’s hips swivel, his shoulders shake. NATE acts as if he is trying to swim away off DAD’s lap. DAD grips NATE harder around the waist and continues spanking, making sure that the paddle whacks the fleshiest part of NATE’s bum, as well as the tender undersides, the sit-spot, where the bum meets the thighs. DAD also swipes the peaks of the mounds, so that no square-centimetre of bum is left untoasted.

DAD (While he is spanking). There. This is just what you deserve. Maybe you’ll work harder next semester. Why do you think your mother and I are paying for you to go to university. So you get a good degree. Have a decent career.

DAD (spanks the paddle with rhythm; one spank per word). This (spank) is (spank) how (spank) you (spank) repay (spank) us (spank).

NATE reaches his hand back to try to protect his backside from the onslaught. His body is tipped at such an angle he cannot quite manage this. DAD grips NATE’s wrist and together they struggle. DAD pushes NATE’s arm half way up his back.

(At this point the theatre director has a decision to make. In real life, because NATE was causing trouble and refusing to take his punishment stoically the DAD would pull down his underpants and continue the spanking across the bared buttocks. This might not be possible during the theatrical performance. Local districts have their own laws or regulations about nudity in public places and, of course, these must be respected. Even where laws permit bared buttocks to be shown, audiences might not appreciate the sight of a young man’s naked bottom writhing across lap of a much older man. It is a matter for the theatre director, producer and management to decide. For what it is worth, it is the preference of the play’s author, that NATE’s bottom is fully bared at this point so that his spanking might be exemplary. However, the script from this point on assumes that NATE’s underpants remain in place.)

DAD (Struggling with NATE). Oh, no you don’t.

NATE (Said as spanking continues). Oww, no, please, Dad. No more. I’m sorry. I will. I’ll work harder. Promise. Owww

DAD (breathless, still spanking hard). That’s what you said last time. (DAD spanks even faster and harder). It didn’t do much good.

NATE (squirming and writhing). I will. I will. I will. I promise. I’ll go to lectures.

DAD (Spanking hard, but now showing signs of fatigue). Library (huff). More time studying (huff)

NATE. Yes, ouch! Yes Dad, Yes Dad.

DAD (Spanking). Stop partying.

NATE. Yes, yes, yes Dad,. Please stop. Please I’ve had enough.

DAD stops paddling and looks across at MUM. He speaks no words but his look says “Has he had enough? Do you think he’ll behave now?” MUM nods “Yes”

DAD hammers a further six swats across the fleshiest part of the buttocks. Three on each cheek. They are the hardest swats so far. Then, he releases his hold on NATE.

NATE rolls from DAD’s lap and lays on the floor gasping for breath, like a beached dolphin.

DAD grips the paddle and tries to control his own heavy breathing.

MUM watches NATE closely as NATE struggles to his knees and then to his feet. NATE ruefully rubs the seat of his underpants. The backs of his thighs are bright red where the paddle blade struck. NATE pulls up his jeans, zips up and does up the button. He does not do up the belt. NATE stands shamefaced, looking at the floor unable to meet the eye of MUM or DAD.

MUM (Calmly). You should go to your room. Make sure it’s tidy.

NATE still not looking at MUM or DAD makes for the door.

MUM (calling after NATE). And, I want you to go out this afternoon and find a job. Lots of the shops at The Exchange are looking for staff.

NATE (Patting the seat of his jeans as he exits the room). Yes, Mum.

DAD watches NATE leave, then turns to MUM

DAD (Hands her the paddle). There, put that back. Somehow, I think we’ll need it again, next mid-term.

MUM smiles ruefully. Takes the paddle and replaces it in the drawer. Then, MUM and DAD look at one another from across the room.

DAD. Know what, I could kill for a cup of tea, love.

Curtain falls.

 

Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club

 

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A drama in one scene

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The newly wed

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

That time at Uncle Ron’s

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

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

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

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

“Cane?” I queried.

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

“Canes?” I frowned, still puzzled.

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” Alan confirmed.

“Like at school? How so?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

after bed jeans domestic (2)

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

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

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

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

Picture credit: Unknown

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The thieving nephew

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The boy in pink

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

z used otk pink JM

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

He was only getting started.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Picture credit: Just Magic (Magic Spanking Factory)

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 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com