I came home from work one evening to find my lodger dressed only in his underpants sprawled out on the sofa face down. Nearby, was an empty can of Tesco lager. I know it looks like a cliché: a fat slob couch potato, but Tommy is far from that.
He is always dressed only in underpants, except for the times when he pads around the house completely stark bollock naked. He is, I think, what they call an “exhibitionist.” One day when we were smoking weed he told me of the time at his parents’ house when he cycled naked up and down the street in broad daylight to the horror of his neighbours. “They thought a lunatic had escaped,” he giggled uncontrollably. I don’t know if this was a true story, but the more I saw of Tommy, the more likely it seemed.
Not that I object to his nudity. I am not gay. No, really, I’m not in denial. I’m not gay, I have had girlfriends, I just don’t have one at the moment. I’m not gay, but I know a fit looking guy when I see one. Tommy is cute in a boy-next-door kind of way. He stands about five-feet-seven and has a lean body. He is hairless on his chest, back and arse. I’m pretty certain he shaves himself, because his legs are hairy. He doesn’t have tattoos, which, I think, adds to his boyish charms.
Tommy’s not gay either. I know that because one morning I came down to breakfast and found he was with Pam, a girl from the office. They had that glow about them that people have after they’ve had sex. Later, I saw him pushing his bedsheets into the washing machine and that confirmed it.
My name is Reg and I’m thirty-three years old. I’m Purchasing Manager at Tillotson’s on the Industrial Estate. Tommy came to work in the Sales Department as an “administrator” doing routine clerical work three months ago. He needed somewhere to live and to be honest I needed someone to help me pay the mortgage. The Avenue is in a select suburb and I was fighting above my weight when I took on the loan, but with Tommy’s rent I’m okay now.
Tommy and I sleep together sometimes. The first time we did it I knew it was perfectly natural. It was just a guy thing. Lots of straight men do it. We hugged and cuddled a little and then Tommy jerked me off. Like all men I masturbate a lot, so it made a nice change to have someone else do it for me. I have quite a collection of photographs of women dressed up as provocative schoolgirls, being spanked by elderly uncles or cane-wielding headmasters that I use to get me going.
One day, Tommy said his twenty-first birthday was coming up and could he have a party at the house? I was surprised; I hadn’t realised how young he was. What is it about twenty-first birthdays? Eighteen has been the legal age of adulthood for at least two generations, but people celebrate their twenty-first as if it still had some special meaning.
I was reluctant to hold a party at the house. The Avenue is very upscale and middle class and the people here are very dull and straight-laced. But, what the hay, you’re only twenty-one once. There was a good turnout. I only recognised a few people from work. I assumed the others were old school pals of Tommy’s. I was in the lounge room talking to a guy I didn’t know about Jose Mourinho and his chances at Manchester United when there was a huge cheer and everyone around me started to chant, “Tom-my! Tom-my! Tom-my!”
I spun on my heels and there he was framed in the doorway. I think my mouth might have literally gaped open. Certainly, I was astonished. I couldn’t believe what I saw. The flashes of camera phones blinded me for a few seconds, but there was no mistaking it. Tommy sashayed into the room. He was dressed as a provocative schoolgirl. The grey school skirt he wore was authentic, but cut so short it barely came beyond his arse, which was wrapped in white tight frilly lace panties. Black sheer stockings were held up by fluffy garters. His white blouse was unbuttoned to the navel revealing a pair of fake breasts that Gazza would have been proud to wear. On his (or by now, should I be saying, her?) head was a very realistic wig of long blonde hair. His cheeks were rouged so badly, he looked like a pantomime dame.
Tommy circled the room, sashaying his bum, wriggling his hips and flouncing his breasts all the while mouthing “come and get me boys”. Even for Tommy, this was some exhibition. After a few moments of wild cheering and whooping, someone picked up a dining room chair and set it down in the middle of the room. Tommy wiggled up to me; his eyes were blazing. I’d seen him high on chemicals in the past, but this was something altogether different. This was a natural high; no drugs necessary.
He ran his hands through my hair, wriggled his bum and said loudly enough for the whole room to hear, “Time for my birthday spanking!” This set up a whole new round of cheering and chanting.
“Sit down Reg,” someone whose name I did not know said, as he pushed me down on the chair. Tommy waited until I had settled and then stood to my right. He lifted what little skirt there was high so that his white lace panties were uncovered. Then, he leant forward across my lap. The flashlights blinded me, but once they had cleared I had the perfect view of birthday-boy’s pert young bum.
Out of nowhere, a party reveller leaned across me and gripped Tommy’s panties by the waist. The cheers were deafening as he ripped them down over his buttocks. I have seen many photographs of women’s bare arses being spanked. This was like none of them. It was no shapely, prominent, firm bottom. I had caressed Tommy’s buttocks a number of times, but I had never seen them from this angle. They were small and tight. I gently rubbed his left cheek. The whole buttock fitted comfortably in the palm of my hand.
“Come on, get on with it!” someone in the crowd called and was greeted by wild cheers. “One!” they yelled. I had never witnessed a “birthday spanking” but I knew the concept. I was to deliver one spank for each of Tommy’s twenty-one years and one to grow on. My heart raced as I raised my hand and slapped it gently into his left cheek.
Tommy who was face down across my lap with his hands spread ahead of him, turned his head towards me and hissed, “No, do it properly. A real spanking.”
“Two!” The audience was becoming impatient. My mouth dried as I slapped his right cheek with all the power I could muster. A dark pink mark appeared immediately. Tommy made no movement nor sound. Had that not been hard enough?
I am no expert in spanking. Corporal punishment has all but disappeared in England. It would never have occurred to my dad to take me across his knee, no matter how much I irritated him. And, despite my spanking fetish, I’ve never plucked up the courage to try to spank a girlfriend, or to get her to punish me. I was a spanking virgin, but I couldn’t be certain the same was true of Tommy.
The crowd called out the number and I smacked Tommy’s bum. By number twelve my hand was probably hurting as much, if not more, than his bottom. Surely, a hand spanking no matter how furiously delivered couldn’t make much impact on a twenty-one-year-old’s bum.
My hand was sore, and so was my cock. If my underpants hadn’t been so tight, there would have been a tent pole in the front of my trousers. Tommy must have felt my bulge against his stomach because he deliberately rubbed against it with his body every time I smacked my palm into his bared bottom. His own crotch was uncovered and it was obvious his penis was fully erect. Maybe his body movements were to stimulate himself and not me.
We were fast approaching the climax of the spanking. By number eighteen, the whole of his buttock area was a deep pink. The outline of my fingers was tattooed across the outer edges of his cheeks.
“And one to grow on!” I whacked him for the twenty-second time. The cheers were ear-splitting. I shouldn’t be surprised if the people in the house next door came knocking on the door to complain. I sat gasping for breath. Tommy’s cock was as hard as steel. Mine was hardly softer. In his undressed state people would immediately see he had a boner. How could we hide it? The humiliation of discovery would be too great.
How naïve could a fellow be? Tommy jumped off my knee and hopped from foot to foot while simultaneously rubbing away at his backside, as if the spanking had really hurt. His stiff cock pointed to the ceiling. I was surprised the noise of the cheering didn’t raise the roof.
I rose from the chair. The ache in my pants was unbearable. I needed to sneak to the bathroom and rub one off. I started to push my way through the crowd, when I felt hands on my shoulder, preventing my movement. I turned. It was Tommy. The blaze in his eyes was even more intense. I could see a dark blue vein running the length of his pulsating shaft.
He said nothing. Instead, he gripped the buckle of my belt and expertly unfastened it. Next, my flies were down and the front of my trousers were wide open. When he pulled down my pants my dick was as stiff and throbbing as Tommy’s. I had no time to object or to consent. Tommy was on his knees and his tongue was hungrily licking first my balls and then the lower end of my shaft. I could have protested. I didn’t. I couldn’t. I was too busy moaning in ecstasy.
Tommy’s tongue reached the tip of my sword. My eyes were closed. I was in a frenzy. I was excited by the cheering of the party-goers. Tommy’s mouth must have been sore from holding it so wide open but he found a little rhythm that seemed to please him. He didn’t move his mouth from my cock; even when I shot my load down the back of his throat.
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second