Bill Robinson lay flat on his back in bed, staring at the ceiling. His Morning Glory was straining against the front of his tight yellow briefs. It was a girl he had met last night. He never got anywhere with her, but he could dream. He turned on his side, reached into the bedside cabinet and pulled out a fistful of Kleenex. Then, after rolling onto his back he eased down his pants and set to work on his todger.
It had been one hell of a night. He and the lads had hit the bars, met some girls, got nowhere. Came home. He was steaming drunk. He couldn’t remember too much about it. Had he been sick?
Downstairs, his landlord Mr Thomas was in despair. What could he do about the lout. He sat at his kitchen table and peered at the pool of cold sick in the middle of the floor. It wasn’t the first time. It probably wouldn’t be the last time unless he did something about it.
Mr Thomas was unhappy. Things had not been going well lately. He had been made redundant from the council and at his time of life he wasn’t going to get another job. He lived on social security. It wasn’t much so he took in a lodger. It helped make ends meet.
At first Bill seemed like a nice lad. Nineteen years old and some kind of trainee at the bank. He was in town on secondment. It meant he would be here for about six months, then move onto another branch. The personnel department at the bank had fixed it. One of Mr Thomas’s neighbours had helped out.
The problem was Bill was nineteen. Mr Thomas had forgotten what nineteen year old’s were like. They thought the world revolved around them. They were moody and selfish. You couldn’t tell them anything. They were disrespectful of their elders. They came and went as they pleased and they thought nothing of coming back in the early hours and puking up all over the floor.
The doorbell interrupted Mr Thomas’s thoughts. He pulled himself out of his chair. It would be his son Ken, just checking that everything was all right.
Well, everything was not all right.
Ken stared at the mess on the floor. “Is he in bed? You should get him down here to clear it up.”
“I don’t like to,” his dad whimpered, as he opened a cupboard door and pulled out a mop and bucket.
“Jesus dad. No. Make the little brat do it.”
Mr Thomas ran the hot water tap. The truth was he was a little scared of Bill. He was a fine strapping lad, easily five-ten tall. He towered over Mr Thomas. No, the old man had decided, he shouldn’t make a fuss.
Ken watched incredulously as his dad soaked the floor with suds. “You’re going to let him get away with it.”
His dad shrugged his shoulders, grimaced, and got to work with the mop.
Ken filled the kettle and searched the cupboards for the tea things. “Jesus Dad, you’ve got a short memory.”
Mr Thomas frowned. What did his son mean?
“Don’t you remember what you did that time I came home pissed and puked up in the bathroom?”
Mr Thomas looked none the wiser.
“Have you really forgotten Dad? I haven’t.”
Ken had been a little over eighteen. Not long after his birthday he and his pals had got wrecked. There was no particular reason, they were just kids out on the town. But Ken had been giving his dad grief for a long time. Eighteen meant he was legally an adult and, he decided, his dad would have to start treating him like one.
Some hope. The puking incident had been the final straw.
“Don’t you remember. You took the skin off my arse. Do you still have that clothes brush?”
Upstairs, Bill cleaned himself down and screwed up the soiled tissues. He would flush them down the toilet later. He turned over, snuggled under the duvet, hugged a pillow to his chest and tried to get back to sleep.
Ken poured boiling water into the teapot. It had happened half his lifetime ago but he remembered that spanking as if it were yesterday. It hurt like crazy. Made him feel like a complete idiot as well. But, it taught him a lesson too. He stopped putting his weight about. It made him respect his dad a lot more too.
Ken and his dad sat at the table sipping their tea. “Maybe you should go upstairs right now. Take your clothes brush, put the brat across your knee and spank the living daylights out of him.”
Mr Thomas smiled. What a splendid idea, he thought. But, a fantasy of course. There was no way he had the strength to force a nineteen-year-old lad across his knee and no way was the kid going to submissively bend over and offer up his backside.
No, Ken agreed. Dad was too old and weak, but he wasn’t.
They finished their tea in silence.
Ken collected up the dirty cups and took them to the sink. “Do you want me to?” He didn’t have to explain; his dad knew what he meant.
Wouldn’t it be grand if Bill learned how to behave himself, Mr Thomas thought, his own life would be so much happier.
“Yes,” he whispered. “Go on.”
The clothes brush had been in the family for generations. It had been eighteen years since it had bruised Ken’s backside. It still resided in a cupboard in the sideboard. Ken held it in his hand. It was made of some dark wood and heavier than the brushes you saw today. The oval head was about five inches at its longest point, and maybe three inches at its widest. He held it in his right hand and smacked it gently into the palm of his left. His heart raced as he relived that day eighteen years ago. He could have sworn his backside was tingling at the memory.
“Well; no time like the present,” he muttered. Then; louder, he said, “You stay here dad.”
Upstairs, Bill dozed; not quite awake, but not quite asleep either. Unaware that his landlord’s son was stomping up the stairs, clothes brush in hand.
Ken had surprise on his side. Bill never saw it coming. The bedroom door flew open. Bill started. A huge man framed the doorway. Tall and broad and muscled. A sour expression on his face. A huge heavy wooden brush in his hand.
“You brat. It’s time you were taught a lesson.”
Ken rushed forward, tugged the duvet onto the floor. Bill lay naked, except for a pair of tight yellow briefs. Ken grabbed the boy’s arm, forced him over. Face down. The way to do this was to keep Bill pinned to the mattress. Ken had two choices. Kneel in the teenager’s back or sit astride his shoulders.
He chose to sit. Ken’s weight pushing down on his shoulders and back knocked the wind out of Bill. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. He was face down at the mercy of the landlord’s son and his heavy brush.
Ken wasn’t quite ready yet. Satisfied that his victim was going nowhere, he reached forward, grabbed the waistband of the briefs and tugged them down the buttocks and left them hanging at Bill’s thighs. The nineteen-year-old could not protest. He had no breath.
Ken raised the brush high and with as much force as he could muster brought it crashing down into Bill’s left cheek. Another fell on the right Then another. And another. Rat-a-tat-tat. It was faster than machinegun fire. Deep red oval-shaped marks covered every square inch of the buttocks. Then, Ken started on the back of the thighs.
Bill kicked his legs up and down. Ken didn’t mind; the teenager was going nowhere. Bill’s mouth opened and closed. He wanted to yell. He had no breath. He looked like a goldfish out of water gasping for life.
Whack! Whack! On and on Ken bashed the wood into Bill’s tight bottom.
“That’s for puking on the kitchen floor!” Whack! Whack! Whack!
“That’s for disrespecting my dad,” Ken listed all Bill’s faults while simultaneously beating his backside and thighs black and blue.
Bill’s mouth was so close to the mattress he could taste the bedsheet. Saliva dribbled out of his mouth, creating a little pool. He was choking. Choking with the exertion of breathing. Choking at the intense pain that started at his battered bum and was extending to every nerve end in his body.
Sweat poured off Ken’s back. His armpits were drenched. He was not a very fit man; the effort he was putting into toasting Bill’s arse was taking its toll. He would have to stop soon.
Bill banged his head up and down, his forehead crashing into the mattress. Tears ran down his cheeks. His chin was covered in snot. He was spent. He was a truly beaten boy.
Ken slid off the boy’s shoulders. Steadied himself and stood. Bill wriggled and writhed, desperately trying to breathe. He reminded Ken of a beached dolphin.
Right, the landlord’s son thought. We haven’t finished yet. He grabbed a handful of Bill’s hair and tugged him to his feet. The boy still had his pants at his knees as Ken pulled him through the bedroom doorway and down the stairs.
“You are going to apologise to my dad, you little brat.”
Mr Thomas had heard the commotion. You could probably have heard it half way down the street. He was not a vindictive man; he liked a quiet life. Live and let live, that was his philosophy. But, he was mightily pleased that Bill Robinson was being taught some manners.
Bill’s face was as scarlet as his bottom when Ken dragged him into the kitchen. The boy’s pants had been left behind, somewhere on the stairs. Mr Thomas couldn’t help himself. He admired Bill’s long, thin, uncut cock.
“Say Sorry, Mr Thomas,” Ken pulled the teenager’s hair fiercely. If he were not careful, he would end up with clumps of it in his hand.
“Sorry, Mr Thomas,” the boy gulped. Tears still coursing down his cheeks.
“Right any more trouble from you matey and you know what will happen.” Ken didn’t wait for a response, he released his grip and Bill fled the room and scampered up the stairs.
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second