Mr Hennessey’s Boys 2. Noah’s story

Mr Hennessey has a stable of young men who for a price are willing to offer up their backsides to corporal punishment enthusiasts. Here, Noah dresses up for Col Sanders.

Mr Hennessey’s Boys Episode 1, Howard’s story is here

 

My handler, Mr Hennessey said he would pick me up at my place at 2pm to take me on an adventure and he arrived on the dot.

He brought with me a full Boy Scout uniform; complete with khaki shorts and a wide-brimmed hat.

“Put these on before we leave. There won’t be a chance to do it later,” he handed me a paper package.

No way! I couldn’t risk people seeing me dressed like this. I was very anxious. From the first time he suggested this job, I had my doubts. Now this. Parading around my own manor dressed like a nineteen-thirties Boy Scout. No way. I might just as well walk around with a placard round my neck: ‘Boy for Sale.’

Mr Hennessey understood. He was always great like that. He was a businessman, but he never forced any of his boys to do something they didn’t want to.

“Ok, ok,” he shrugged his shoulders, “We’ll find a layby on the way. You can change there.”

Minutes later we were in his Ford Escort and on the road travelling out of town.

When Mr Hennessey first suggested this trip I said, “No. Emphatically, no.”

“Look”, he had told me. “There’s this client I have. Calls himself Col Sanders. I know! I know! I don’t think he’s even a real colonel. If he is he must be retired. He’s old enough. Lovely, man. You’ll love him.”

It was the Hennessey soft sell. His job as an agent was to match up the client and the boy. One wanted to do the spanking and the other was willing to oblige: for a fee.

This job was no different to any of the dozens of others Mr Hennessey had arranged for me in the past. Except that it was.

“He wants to watch while I spank you,” Mr Hennessey said it as if it were the most natural request in the world.

I’m not sure what my objection was. But, I didn’t want to do it.

“It’s just like those videos you do,” he flashed me a grin and flung his arms wide, “Except there are no cameras.” He laughed at the absurdity of his own argument. “A bit like the theatre, then. A live performance.”

Looking back, I think it was Mr Hennessey who was the problem. He was my business manager, not a client. I didn’t think he was interested in taking part in a spanking session. Like most of his boys he was in this for the money. It was purely business. But I loved being punished by older men. If I let him spank my arse, the ‘relationship,’ if that’s the right word for what we had, would change.

I thought he wasn’t into spanking, but I had heard reports that there was one lad that he saw to regularly. He was a well-known television actor with a big part in a soap opera. I’ve no idea if he was gay but there were rumours. Why is it that only cute good-looking boys are ‘accused’ of being gay? People never talk about the possibility that a pug-ugly fat blob is gay.

So, maybe Mr Hennessey had hidden depths himself.

No, I said, sorry, this was one gig I was turning down.

Then he told me the fee.

“How much?” My jaw probably literally dropped. Greed is a terrible emotion and it can get you into a lot of trouble. That’s how a week or so later I was sitting in the car with Mr Hennessey with a Boy Scout uniform on the back seat on my way to meet Col Sanders.

Traffic was light and we made good progress through the afternoon traffic. Then, without warning, Mr Hennessey pulled into a parade of shops. He disappeared into a green-grocer’s and emerged with a brown paper bag of fruit.

“Here,” he handed me four apples. “We’ll need these later.”

Out of town we found a secluded spot and I hid behind a hedge. In the blink of an eye I was transformed into a nineteen-thirties’ Boy Scout. The khaki shorts fell three inches high of the knee, ideally emphasising my great legs and cute bum. The greenish shirt was made of heavy cotton and when I rolled up the sleeves to my biceps it clung to my muscular gym-honed torso. There were merit badges sewn on to the shirt. They looked authentic to me, but what would I know. But the thing I adored most was the black-and-red striped neckerchief that when swirled up and tied around my neck dangled down my chest. I would love to wear this all the time. It would turn the boys’ heads in the bars.

Mr Hennessey gave me a cheeky wink and a thumbs-up when I returned to the car. “Oh yes! You never fail to deliver. You are going to make a happy man very old today.”

I cheered up considerably in my scouts’ uniform. You had to hand it to Mr Hennessey; he always knew how to dress his boys. I felt very proud to be part of his team. We delivered the best.

We drove on for a few more miles in companionable silence. Then Mr Hennessey piped up.

“This is the deal. You are the naughty boy in the village and I am your father. I have caught you scrumping, you know stealing the colonel’s apples, and I take you to him. That’s it really. Then we play it by ear. Or do I mean by ‘rear?’” He laughed at this. Mr Hennessey was a great businessman, but he had no future in stand-up comedy.

So, it was an improvised sketch. My part was to be a small kid and as in real life I had no say in what was going to happen. If my ‘father’ decided I was going to get a dose of his leather belt across the bare arse, then so be it.

“What’s with the scout uniform?” I asked lovingly fondling the neckerchief.

“I think we are re-enacting something real from his past. I’m not sure. I find it better not to ask too many questions.”

Soon, Mr Hennessey pulled up in front of a large detached house. Col Sanders certainly seemed to have a lot of money; why shouldn’t he spend some of it on me?

We got out of the car and I was approaching the front door when Mr Hennessey pulled me back.

“Wait,” he stooped down and took a small handful of dirt from a flower bed.

“Authenticity,” he said, as he smeared my knees with the dirt. For good measure he dipped his finger in the soil and put the merest trace on my left cheek. The man was a pro. Now, I really looked like that naughty boy who had been climbing trees and stealing apples.

Mr Hennessey led the way to the door and rang the bell. Showtime had begun.

Col Sanders opened the door himself. Somehow, I had expected a butler or a housekeeper. I was a little disappointed. The colonel was a slight figure, with stooped shoulders. He had once been tall, strong and erect but age had taken its toll. Liver spots spread across the flesh that was visible and extended to the top of his head which was completely bald.

His once sparkling, but now dull, hazel eyes looked at me hungrily. There was definitely something very sexy about that neckerchief. His gaze lingered on the garment and I followed his eyes as they moved from my throat down my chest and came to rest at the buttons of my short trousers. Absurdly, for a moment I thought he had seen my flies were undone. He might have wished that was the case, because, even at his age, he was lusting after the contents of my pants.

“Col Sanders. Good afternoon,” Mr Hennessey broke the silence. “I don’t know if you remember me, my names Noah. I’m from the village,” the little playlet had begun.

I stood head bowed, looking suitably abashed as my ‘father’ recounted my misdeeds. Naughty Noah had climbed the wall to the colonel’s orchard and stolen apples. He was very sorry, but here are four that were saved. Bad, bad Noah had eaten the others.

Soon we were inside the house and standing in a room that might have been a living room, or maybe a study, or even a library. I had little experience of large houses having been raised in a tiny council flat. The low-ceilinged room contained a number of leather armchairs positioned around a handsome, but now never used, fireplace, a table and a couple of straight back chairs. There were two windows that looked out into an expansive garden. It was immaculately kept: the colonel must have employed a gardener full time.

Like all children I knew I must only speak when spoken to, so I stood patiently drinking in the splendour of the room while the ‘adults’ discussed my future.

“He needs a darn good spanking. That’s what he needs.” It was the colonel who brought up the idea.

“Indeed he does. Indeed he does.” I tried not to smile. Mr Hennessey sounded like an actor in a television adaptation of a Charles Dickens novel. I half expected to hear him to say, “I’m ever so ’umble Col sanders; ever so ’umble.”

Then the spotlight turned on me.

“What have you got to say for yourself Noah?”

Startled, I stumbled on my line. I really had no answer for the colonel and found myself mumbling, “Nuffink.”

“Nuffink? Nuffink?” Where did that come from? I was usually the posh upper-class schoolboy in these scenarios. That, and the blue-and-gold school blazer, was my brand so to speak. Why had I suddenly assumed the position of a working-class urchin? It must have been that bloody Charles Dickens again.

“Pah!” the colonel was not amused. “You are nothing but a thief. A despicable thief!” The colonel’s dull eyes suddenly flared as he verbally laid into me. There was real passion there. What event from his past was he recalling?

He turned to my ‘father.’ “He needs a damned good thrashing, that’s what he needs. What do you say Noah?”

Unsurprisingly, Noah agreed. It was only now that I realised we had not discussed this part of the play. A “thrashing” the colonel had said, not a spanking. What did the old man have in mind?

Suddenly, I found my eyes darting around the room, searching out a clue to his intentions. There was no obvious instrument of my punishment on display. I could see no birch rods or whippy canes. Maybe they were under wraps somewhere, but again I could see no apparent hiding places.

“Might I suggest colonel,” my ‘father’ said, “that you take the boy across your knee and give him his just desserts.”

I shuddered under the gaze of the colonel. Once, he must have been a powerful man whose stare struck terror into strong men. Now, he was a wizened old man, stripped of his physical power. But in that stare I could see lust. He didn’t want to thrash or spank me: he wanted to have me, to rip down my shorts and pants and haul me over the back of the chair and have his way with me.

Mr Hennessey saw my shudder. I was in terror of this old man. I knew he did not have the strength to fulfil his lustful desires. If he made a move for me I could sock him on the jaw and walk out the house. I knew that, but still I was rooted to the spot stunned. What if he and Mr Hennessey had arranged this specially? I could take on the old man definitely; but I might not be able to defeat the two of them together. What if they over-powered me and tied me down across the large oak table. Each of them could quench their thirst on me.

Mr Hennessey and I exchanged glances. It took only a nanosecond. Now, I understood.

“No, you are his father, Noah. You should punish him.” The colonel still appeared to be following the script.

“As you please, colonel.”

I realised Mr Hennessey had been in this house before when without instruction he left the room and returned almost immediately. In his right hand he held a small rectangle of polished wood, with a smooth, well-worn handle which he methodically slapped against his large open left hand.

I was back on familiar territory. Mr Hennessey moved to sit on an upright wooden chair and pointed to his thighs. With my best sullen expression fixed on my face, I stood and allowed my short trousers and underpants to be dropped, before lowering myself to the expected position.

It was going to be plain sailing from here, I thought. How wrong I was.

I felt the firm, cold, smooth paddle move slowly and silently across my bare curves. It was heavier than I imagined. I felt it move away as if it had identified its target and then like a bolt of lightning it returned with a smack that tore the breath from my body. So sudden and so startling was the impact that I surprised myself by letting a yell of protest burst out from the back of my throat. My whole body arched and stiffened in alarm, and my fingers clawed at the carpet pile.

Instinctively for self-preservation my buttocks clung to each other. Then I heard the colonel’s authoritative voice order me to unclench.

Slowly, I relaxed my stinging cheeks, only to be propelled once more into defence mode as the smooth polished wooden paddle landed with tremendous accuracy and force on the very same spot and delivered another slab of pain which sank deep into my backside.

My cheeks tightened into hard muscle. The air escaping through my closed teeth made a high-pitched whine and my feet rose up from the carpeted floor.

Then nothing happened. Mr Hennessey was waiting.  Very slowly and painfully, my buttocks regained their softened form. Then for the third time the sound of the wooden paddle bouncing into my soft flesh resounded around the room. This was where I lost it.

My throaty cries merged with my tears. Snot poured from my nose. My body heaved across Mr Hennessey’s lap. My arms flailed, my legs kicked. Every part of my body attempted escape, but Mr Hennessey possessed a strength I had never before knew he had. He held me forcibly face down across his lap. I was going nowhere; not until the colonel had been given his money’s worth.

I don’t remember how many times that paddle was flogged into my arse but my previously creamy-white buttocks were transformed into two twitching, flaming red mounds of flesh.

It was over. The colonel’s eyes were almost as moist as mine. He watched intently as I performed the dance of the spanked naughty boy, hopping from foot to foot to try to make the pain go away. It didn’t work.

His bony hand caressed my stinging buttock cheeks. Only then did I notice how paper thin his skin was. The agony in my arse was turning into a glowing pain and soon that would become a hot glow. Every square inch of my buttocks and some of my thighs was blistered and the outline of the paddle was clearly visible in many places. The whole area was the colour of deep burgundy and blood vessels had broken in one or two places. When I got home I would have to use a wet sponge to soak off my underpants where the blood had dried and stuck them to my body.

“Stand and face the wall. Hands on your head.” It was an unexpected command from the colonel. I thought we were done, but evidently not. I was fully dressed now and ready to leave, but what did I know, perhaps this was part of the show.

The two adults left me in the room for at least ten minutes. I had plenty of time to reflect on the day. I had taken one hell of a spanking and I was very proud of myself. I had not known that Mr Hennessey could pack such a punch; clearly he did have more experience at this than I had credited him with.

Mr Hennessey returned to the room alone and we left the house. We drove home in silence, but it was not companionable.

That night, I masturbated furiously as I wriggled my sore bottom against the bed sheets and recounted how Mr Hennessey had torn my arse to shreds. The red and black neckerchief hung on the back of a chair and an envelope stuffed with banknotes was tucked away safely in a drawer.

It had been a successful day, but I vowed I would never see the creepy colonel again. And I didn’t. Two days later Mr Hennessey told me the colonel’s body had been found by his daily cleaning woman. He had died moments after we left. I consoled myself that he had died a very happy man.

Mr Hennessey’s Boys episode 3, Ethan’s story is here.

 

Other stories you might like

Winker Wilson’s visit

The Private Tutor: 1

In the farmhouse

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

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