The new neighbour


It was when the new next-door neighbour said he would pull down Sebastian’s swimming trunks and paddle his backside until it glowed in the dark that he knew there was something strange. Seb was nineteen years old.

Mr. Churchill objected to the teenager lounging by the pool in his in his back garden playing loud music. In fact, he had objected to lots of things in the two months since he had moved in. He didn’t like the way Seb revved up his motorbike just before he drove it away. He had complained to the boy’s father the morning after Seb came home late drunk. What, Seb wondered at the time had Churchill expected his dad to do about it? Perhaps he knew the answer to that now.

Mr. Churchill lived on his own. It was a huge four-bedroomed house. Two reception rooms. Two bathrooms. Why did he need all that space? He was about the same age as his own parents, Seb supposed. But, he wasn’t very good at judging people’s ages as an unfortunate misunderstanding with a fifteen-year-old girl’s father proved.

“And don’t think I won’t to it.” Churchill’s face flushed with sweat. He was wearing a pair of tartan shorts that came to just above his knees. It was a scorching hot day, but he still wore light-grey knee socks. Seb could see that his black shirt, although short-sleeved, was made of a heavy material. The man was hardly dressed for the weather. Perhaps that was his trouble, the teenager mused; he needed to cool down. Literally.

Seb had spent much of that summer in the sun and his skin was nut-brown, but his embarrassment still showed on his face. Muttering under his breath he switched off the radio, picked it up, gathered the beach towel he had been lying on and slouched off into the house. Churchill watched the boy disappear, noticing how the swimming trunks clung to his firm buttocks.

The telephone rang and seething he went into his own lounge room to answer it.

Things came to a head a week later. It was past midnight and the night was hot. Churchill could not sleep. He was staring out the window at nothing in particular when he heard the familiar roar of a motorbike’s engine. Seb pulled up in front of Churchill’s house. Churchill watched with growing anger as the boy dismounted unsteadily. Churchill fumed, the boy was obviously drunk or high on drugs. His temper did not improve as Seb lurched forward and puked a gut load of vomit into Churchill’s flower bed.

“You bastard,” Churchill spoke aloud, although there was nobody there to hear. “I’ll give you such a hiding in the morning.”

There was to be no spanking in the morning. Seb did not crawl out of bed until gone lunchtime. The weather had not cooled. At last by mid-afternoon Seb could stand it no longer. He slipped into a pair of tight bright yellow swimming trunks and went to retrieve his motorbike from the road where he had abandoned it.

Churchill was ready with an ambush. Seb blinked in the bright sunlight as his neighbour berated him about his behaviour. Drunk driving. You could have been killed. You could have killed someone. On and on, Churchill poured out his frustrations with the boy.

Seb was speechless, but his expression betrayed his feelings. It could be summed up in two words: piss off.

Churchill’s face was set with anger. “I’m going to give you a tanning you will never forget,” he barked.

“Go to Hell!” Seb shouted a defiance he didn’t truly feel.

“Young man, you asked for this.”

Churchill had festered all night and all morning. He had a plan. It was simple. His left hand had a firm grip on Seb’s right arm, and the teenager was speechless as Churchill dragged him into his house and toward the lounge for a rendezvous with painful justice. Churchill’s would show no mercy.

“You know what must happen young man.” It was a statement, not a question. The no-longer defiant teenager’s eyes misted.

The lounge was a large room. It had been prepared. An elegant armless dining chair was waiting in the middle of the room. Churchill sat, spread his legs wide and took Seb by his left hand before pulling him towards him.

Later, Seb would not be able to explain to himself why he did not resist. It was true Churchill was a tall and strong man. He had the ability to overpower the teenager. But, Seb could still run. Within seconds, he could be back in the safety of his own house.

Soon he was over firm legs. He felt the roughness of Churchill’s cotton shorts and also the warmth of the older man’s bare knees. As the upended cotton-covered bottom came into his view, Churchill swallowed hard at the beautiful sight.

“I’m not going to bother with these.” Churchill inserted his fingers in the trunks’ waistband and pulled. He almost chanted, “Down they come, down, down, down, down.” With three firm tugs Seb’s bottom was bare. Naked in front of Churchill’s face.

Seb was devastated. He had never been spanked before and certainly not on his bare bottom. It was truly overwhelming. He was completely naked. The swimming trunks, the only item of clothing he had been wearing, now dangled at his knees. A breeze of warm air brushed over his body. His bottom twitched in anticipation of the hurt that the stronger, older man would soon inflict. He was helpless, stuck in an unseemly position with blood rushing to his head and bare bottom facing the window for anybody to see if they passed by. He was in a place of complete submission, unfamiliar and frightening.

Churchill surveyed the bottom in front of him with a professional discipline. His left arm went firmly around Seb’s waist and his right hand took firm hold of a soft warm bottom cheek. He squeezed and fondled it with circular motions, assessing its ability to absorb the spanking he was about to administer.

Seb felt the man press his elbow down against the centre of his back. He could not escape. If he tried to wiggle off Churchill’s lap, he would simply drag him back into place. If he tried to rear upwards, the man’s elbow would press down and prevent it. He had nowhere to go and could not avoid the pain to come.

Then Churchill’s hand started rising and falling. Sharp jolting smacks to Seb’s soft and tender bare bottom. Crisply landing on the warm and tender flesh and each sharp smack making the soft buttocks hotter. Smacks to the right cheek and to the left; to the full under curve and to the higher flanks. Slaps to the thighs. His hand fell hard and fast and bounced off Seb’s pliable flesh. The growing pain was awful but worse was the humiliation of being bared like this and summarily dealt with at his age. He was desperately squirming, deeply ashamed of having his bottom spanked. And, too aware of a surge of blood filling his penis.

“Please no!”  Unwisely, Seb threw his hand back to try to protect his toasting buttocks from the torrent of spanks. Churchill was no amateur. In a second he had the teenager’s arm in a strong half-nelson and he pushed the boy’s bum higher with his right knee, bringing him off balance.

“Keep still or I’ll fetch the paddle and give you a world class hiding,” he growled and continued to spank Seb’s fiery red bottom with a thoroughness that left the nineteen-year-old thrashing across his lap. It looked like he was trying to swim off Churchill’s knees.

It felt like hours to the teenager, but it was all over in a couple of minutes.

Seb couldn’t say that he was sore after the spanking, but it really did sting. It must have been very red. He wondered if there were hand marks on his bottom.

The emotion he felt surprised him. It was no longer fear or unbearable anxiety. It was relief. A thought raced around Seb’s head. Was this what I needed all along?

As the throbbing in his rump faded, to be replaced by a warm glow, he realised how lucky he was to have an older man who cared about him deeply enough to punish him and set his feet back on the right path.

I hope he enjoyed that as much as I did, Churchill wheezed, as later he opened the door of his cocktail cabinet and reached for the gin.

More stories you might like


The dope smoker

The man across the hall

The drunken neighbour


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second

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