Milo, the grad student

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Bend over my knee. I’m going to spank you. With your jeans and underpants on it probably won’t hurt you much, but it will give me a considerable amount of pleasure.”

I still can’t believe I said that out loud. I had smoked too much weed, of course. I’m fifty years old for pity’s sake, I should have more self-control.

He was Milo, a graduate student at the university where I teach. He was half my age and what a dish. Smooth olive skin. Deep dark brown eyes. Wavy black hair, cut short and gelled. The most kissable lips imaginable. He was only about five-six tall. His slender hips and small round bum made him look much younger.

His jeans hung loosely from his hips; they rather hid his buttocks. They were far too long for him and he rolled up the ends of the legs to stop himself tripping over. His pullover, old and worn, was also made for a larger man. He was dwarfed by his clothes. It made him look sexy as hell.

We were at a house party called by the Head of the Sociology Department. Staff, students, various local activists hung out there. There was plenty of pot, cheap wine and Mexican peasant food.

I probably blushed to my roots when I made my declaration of lust to Milo. He was high too, I think, but on something a bit more radical that cannabis. He flashed his gleaming white teeth; he had such an impish smile. His face beamed, dimples formed at his cheeks. My heart skipped a beat.

He said nothing. I hoped he might be considering my proposition. Then, he puckered up his lips, leant forward towards me and pecked me on my own lips. It wasn’t a kiss exactly. His lips and mine met, they were closed. No tongues were involved.

Then, without a word or a gesture, he turned on his heels and re-joined the girl he was with. The girl he would probably sleep with before the night ended.

I next saw Milo a few days later at the university. He was seated outside the office of Dr Collins, his Ph.D. supervisor.

“Hello Milo,” I said cheerfully as I could. I wondered if he remembered my inept approach at the party. He had been as stoned as I was, there was a good chance he didn’t. I hoped so.

“Here for a tutorial?” I was trying to make small talk. “How’s your thesis coming on?”

He smiled at me. Those damn teeth and dimples. My heart raced. There was silence between us. He seemed to be weighing up his words. Then he spoke. “Not too well actually. I don’t seem to be able to concentrate on my work.”

He looked genuinely unhappy.

“I’m sorry to hear that Milo,” I said. What was I supposed to say?

“I think I need some encouragement.” He peered down at the ring-bind folder in his hand as if it might help him find the right words.

Then he said something that knocked my socks off.

“I think I need that spanking you talked about at the party.”

I know I blushed. I do it all the time. The slightest embarrassment can set me off. A spanking? Like I had offered at the party? Was he joking?

He stared down at the floor. Maybe he was a little embarrassed too. In my head I tried to compose the words I needed. I had to get this right.

Too late. Dr Collins breezed around the corner.

“Hello Milo. Sorry I’m late. Do come in.”

Milo rose from the chair and without looking at me, he followed his supervisor into the office.

I went back to my own office and locked the door. I didn’t want to be disturbed. Milo had asked me to spank him. At least, I think that’s what he said.

I had often thought about spanking students. Not the grad students, they were highly motivated and a joy to work with. The undergraduates were the problem. So many of them were at university because their parents expected it. They came from families where the children automatically went to university. It was the thing to do. The kids didn’t think much of it. They simply signed up for a course and off they went.

It meant many – possibly most – weren’t interested in studying. They expected to graduate with minimum effort. They, or their parents, paid their tuition fees; they were entitled to graduate.

Only yesterday I had a run in with one of my second year students. He had written an essay that owed much to the Wikipedia website. When I tackled him about it he was surly and argumentative. For two pins I would have grabbed the twenty-year-old brat by his long untidy hair and hauled him across my knee. But as I had said to Milo, it probably wouldn’t have hurt him. I should buy a stout wooden paddle off e-Bay. That would do the job.

A couple of days later on a Saturday I was returning from the supermarket, when I saw Milo out running. I don’t think he saw me; he was about fifty metres away. He was dressed in the skimpiest white cotton shorts imaginable. Kids these days wear shorts down to their knees. Milo was a throwback to a bygone age. The shorts hardly covered his bum and showed off the muscles in his legs. He wore a loose sleeveless singlet that flapped as he ran, giving passers-by a good look at his tight body.

A group of young women shouted something encouraging to him as he passed. He acknowledged their praises with a smile and a wriggle of his bum as he pounded the pavement towards Meadow Park.

I couldn’t help it. I let myself in my house and before I even put the groceries away I rushed to my bedroom. In seconds I had my trousers and pants off and I lay on the bed. Dreaming. Dreaming of Milo in his tight running shorts, bent submissively across my knees. I smacked his bum with my hand. Good and hard. Before I grabbed the waistband of the shorts and tugged them to his knees so I could work on his bare buttocks, I shot a load.

Many people think that only adolescent boys masturbate. It’s not true. Men do it all the time. Even married men wank. I do most days. I probably will until the day I die. I can see me now, on my death bed, with my todger in my hand dreaming that I have some young man across my knee.

Later that same day I was back on my bed having another tug. This time it was that damn student I told you about before. We were in my office at the university. He was bent across a low-backed easy chair, his jeans at his feet and his bright orange Aussibum pants at his knees. I was slashing a thick but whippy rattan cane into his bare bum. Hard. His buttocks were scarred. He was howling. I didn’t care. He deserved everything he got. I was loving it.

I had more control this time. I was not yet ready to shoot. Then, I heard a commotion outside my house. It sounded like someone was knocking over dustbins. Someone was definitely shouting and hollering.

I tried to ignore it. It was about ten o’clock, it was probably drunks. They would move on soon. They were probably on a bar crawl.

The shouting didn’t stop. Then, I heard my name being called over and over again. My God! I recognised the voice. It was Milo. I found my Boxer shorts and trousers and doing them up as I descended the stairs, I made my way to my front door.

I opened it. It was Milo and he was as drunk as a skunk. I tried to sshhh! him but he was in no mood. I looked up and down the street, hoping my neighbours were not watching. What would they make of a cute young man hollering my name outside my house?

I had no choice. It was clear he wasn’t just passing through. I grabbed his arm and pulled him inside the house. I could smell the alcohol on him. He was bleary-eyed and unstable on his feet. I guided him into the living room and he flopped down on the couch.

I stood bemused, unsure what to do. There are many myths about drunks. They say that you can sober a person up by giving them strong black coffee or feeding them mashed potato. All nonsense. The only thing you can do to sober up a drunk is to let nature take its course. He would have to sleep it off.

I looked across at Milo. Even in this disastrous state, he was sex on a stick. I thought of taking him upstairs and putting him in my bed. We could sleep together. Side by side. I nearly convinced myself that this was in Milo’s best interest. I could monitor him during the night to make sure he didn’t vomit and choke himself to death.

Who was I kidding? I came to my senses. I did not need a scandal. It was true that at the university many lecturers slept with their students, but it was always consensual. At least, so I believed. I helped Milo to lay down on the couch. He fell asleep immediately. I removed the trainers from his feet. He looked so cute. He was wearing cheap polyester trousers. They were all the fashion. Many people also wore matching polyester jackets. They were called “shell suits.” They were much in favour among the lower working classes. University students wore them as some kind of “ironic” statement.

I thought about pulling Milo’s trousers off. There was no practical reason to do this, but it would have given me considerable pleasure. Again, I came to my senses. Instead I went to the kitchen and fetched the plastic washing-up bowl. I put it on the ground near Milo’s head. If he needed to chuck up during the night, I hoped he would vomit in the bowl and not on my carpet.

I am not proud of what happened next. Milo was so peaceful. He might have been dead drunk, but he looked like a sleeping beauty. His breathing was easy and from the appearance of his delightful face, he might have been dreaming. I hoped he was dreaming about me.

I lay down on the carpet and watched the sleeping Adonis. All my pent-up desires to have Milo across my knee rushed to my groin. I slipped my trousers and pants over my hips. The tips of my fingers lightly stroked along the length of my penis, making it twitch. I started to rub and my cock filled out. It ached like crazy. It moved up from between my legs, rubbing against my thigh and pointing at the ceiling. I don’t think I had been so hard for years. I made a few firm strokes. I slowly massaged my swollen cock, stroking along the full length from base to head, then letting go and returning to the base again. In no time my belly was covered in warm sticky cum.

When I padded downstairs the following morning, dressed only in Boxer shorts and a floppy t-shirt, I fully expected to find Milo had woken and gone home. Instead, he was in the kitchen making himself breakfast. I was annoyed and impressed in equal measures by the boy’s cheek. The fact that he was bare chested and I was able to admire up close the clear definition of his chest and stomach muscles lightened my mood. His leisure pants had slipped down his buttocks revealing the high waistband of his Calvin Klein underpants. His tight flat stomach emphasised to me my own beer-belly.

Milo was an extremely fit young man, in at least two meanings of the word. I don’t think his body was gym-honed, he didn’t have that over-muscled look that many gym-bunnies have.

Without speaking, he poured me a cup of coffee. He seemed to have completely recovered from his drunken state. Young people do have remarkable powers of recovery after abusing themselves with drink or drugs.

“I was sick down my shirt,” he said, explaining his bare chest. “And I was sick on your carpet.” He paused, perhaps expecting me to berate him. When I remained silent, he whispered, “Sorry.”

I sipped on my coffee. Milo had helped himself to cereal. When he finished, he left the bowl and the draining board, making no attempt to wash it up.

“Can I have a shower, please,” he asked and without waiting for my consent he made his way from the room. I was mesmerised by his buttocks sashaying left and right as he climbed the stairs.

I sat at the kitchen table and finished my coffee. I still didn’t know why he had come to see me in such a drunken state. He had been sick all over my carpet, had made himself breakfast without my permission and now he was upstairs in my bathroom. It seemed Milo was taking over.

About ten minutes later he returned to the kitchen. He had a bath towel around his waist but was otherwise naked. I caught the whiff of my expensive splash-on lotion. Something else he had done without my permission.

I had been running over speeches in my head. What was I going to say to Milo, how was I going to broach his appalling behaviour? I was still uncertain.

Milo spoke first. “I am out of control. I need help.”

I sat and listened as he told me about how his life was falling apart. He had stopped working on his thesis. Dr Collins had threatened to stop supervising him. He drank too much or was high on one drug or another. He no longer had self-discipline.

He lingered over the word “discipline”. He was testing me out. I remained silent. He would have to make the running here. He carried on about needing discipline. I looked into his beautiful deep brown eyes. Was he trying to scam me? Was this a trap?

He seemed entirely genuine. I have seen websites on the Internet about “domestic discipline”. This is where adult couples, often those who are married, agree to keep a disciplinary regime. If a partner fails to keep to a rule they are punished with a spanking. They say it is not a fetish, it is genuine discipline.

Milo probably needed genuine discipline. I certainly had a spanking fetish. We were made for each other.

He did not bat an eyelid when I pronounced, “Milo you need to have your bottom spanked good and hard. Your behaviour last night was disgraceful. Follow me into the living room.”

Milo meekly did as I instructed. I could feel his eyes burning into the back of my neck as I busied myself moving a dining room chair into the centre of the room. Then I ransacked the drawers of the sideboard until I found what I was looking for. A heavy wooden clothes brush.

I turned and waved it at Milo. His eyes sparkled. It was about a foot long and four inches wide. Its heavy oval head would pack quite a punch, especially across Milo’s bared buttocks.

I sat in the chair and spread my legs a little. My Boxer shorts rode up my buttocks and I had to wriggle about until I had made sure my cock and balls were not exposed.

Milo stood a little pensively. He had been hankering for a spanking and now he was going to get one. Was he having doubts at the last minute? If he wasn’t; I was. I wanted to be sure he was willingly submitting to this.

I waved the brush once more and said, “Milo, if you genuinely believe that you deserve to have your bare backside spanked with this brush then you should come here and bend over my knees.”

He hesitated for a nanosecond but then let the towel drop from his hips. He was completely naked. He took two steps towards me and then gently lowered himself across my lap. I am about six-feet-two inches tall and Milo is hardly five-six. He fitted over my knee perfectly. His hands rested in the deep pile carpet and his toes hovered an inch or so above the floor. His buttocks rested gently against my right thigh.

I remember being surprised that Milo had olive skin all over his body. Had I thought it was like a suntan and his bum would be creamy white? His back and bottom was almost completely hairless, but he had dark hair over his legs. I suspected he might shave his upper body and bum.

I reached forward and took hold of Milo’s right arm. He didn’t resist as I twisted it up his back and pinned his wrist against his shoulders. In this position he was powerless to resist me. He would have to lay over my lap with his bare bum at my mercy. I could and I would spank him as hard and as often as I wished. There was no escape for him.

I have no way of knowing if this was Milo’s first spanking. I do know that he took it with remarkable fortitude. He was twenty-four years old and quite an athlete; I shouldn’t have been surprised that he could withstand a high level of pain.

I started slowly, slapping down my heavy brush first into the left cheek and then the right. I kept up a steady rhythm of one smack about every ten seconds. I was delighted to see the pattern of the oval head printed over and over again on his bum.

Milo’s skin didn’t redden, it turned a darker shade of olive and then brown. He kept quiet for most of his spanking, but even from my vantage point above him I could see his mouth opening and closing with each slap as he emitted silent cries. He kept his eyes tightly shut throughout.

His body twitched and shuddered. I think these were involuntary reflexes as he made no attempt to break free of my grip.

I wasn’t counting the slaps but by the time I had reached about one hundred, Milo’s bottom and the backs of his thighs were a deepening brown. He must have been very sore indeed. The boy’s breathing was more restless. He was panting. I smacked on some more and realised Milo’s cock was stiff and pressing into my own bare leg. That set my own penis off. It rose to fill out the front of my shorts.

I threw down the brush and slapped Milo’s bum with my bare hand. Then I caressed his cheeks, making circular motions, starting with his fleshy mounds and then going across the tops of the globes and then into the underside of the bum. I did this for both cheeks and was delighted to be rewarded with quiet sighs from Milo. This was turning him on.

I turned my attention to his thighs and legs, touching them so lightly his hairs tickled my palms. His sighs increased to moans. He pressed his stiff cock into my leg, trying to increase the stimulation. It was time to stop spanking. I released him and gently pushed him from my lap onto the carpet. His penis was stiff and at a forty-five-degree angle from his body.

I got off the chair, pulled down my Boxer shorts and released my own throbbing dick. I lay down beside Milo on the carpet. I felt Milo’s hand making light stroking movements, each stroke moving along the length of my penis, making it ache and throb. His hand gently tweaked the sensitive edges of my foreskin. I gasped with pleasure.

I reached across and cupped Milo’s balls, kneading them between my fingers. He wheezed with desire but continued to work on my aroused organ in his fist.

My orgasm seemed to go on and on but I continued to work away at Milo’s shaft. Suddenly the cock in my hand started to pulse and throb and white juice splashed across Milo’s flat stomach as he was overtaken by his own intense orgasm.

We lay on the carpet. Spent. Together.

 

Other stories you might like.

Making the grade

Warren’s awakening

That Connor boy!

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

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