My boy Dixon


I am more than three times as old as Dixon. I was thinking this the other night as we lay in bed. He had given me the most exquisite blow-job. It made my eyes pop. I had slippered his bare bottom so long and so hard it had the consistency of leather.

We meet up two or three times a month. I can’t take him on my arm to show him off to my friends. We can’t go to the finest restaurants or the best shows in town. We meet at a discrete apartment I keep, close to where I work at the Ministry of Stealth and Total Obscurity. I am aged sixty-one, Dixon is twenty. People would assume he’s a rent boy.

He isn’t. Not a penny has changed hand since we started this. Nor, has there been payment “in kind.” I have bought no fancy phones or leather jackets, or whatever it is that kids want these days. We do this because we want to. We enjoy it. We think it natural. Long may it continue.

We met up online. It seems everybody does it. Everybody under the age of about thirty that is. You should try it. Dixon wanted an older man to discipline him. I wanted young flesh. On our third “date” Dixon told me he had been looking for an uncle-type. Instead, he got a granddad. I have never given him cause to complain.

When we meet, he tells me all the naughty things he has been up to. He’s twenty, so that usually means taking drugs or getting wildly drunk. They call it getting “caned.” Well, you can imagine that once I hear about his misdeeds, he gets a more literal caning from me. I have several swishy curve-handled rattan rods tucked away in a wardrobe in the spare bedroom. They are exactly like the ones they used at St Tom’s. I like to be as authentic as possible.

I attended a mid-ranking public school until the early seventies. In England, a “public school” is in fact an upscale fee-paying private establishment. It was very traditional. Traditional Latin, traditional rugby, traditional religion, traditional discipline. I was eighteen-and-a-half the last time I was dealt with. Six-of-the-best across the seat of my tight pale-grey trousers. Not that I complained of course. My housemaster said I had been “slacking;” not paying attention to my studies. If he only knew. I went on to Cambridge University and took a double-first. Slacking indeed.

I don’t know which school Dixon attended. I suspect he left it as soon as he could. He takes no interest in the world. He has no idea of “Brexit” and I doubt he has even heard the name Donald Trump. I am a senior civil servant at a government ministry, Dixon works at a call centre, when he can be bothered to turn up. I have taken the skin off his backside more than once for that.

Dixon has a terrific arse. It is really rather squishy. Do you know what I mean? I love to press my fingers into his flesh and see his bum wobble. He’s not what you would call fat. When he bends over, perhaps to put his hands on his knees for a few swats of the paddle, his rear end tightens up and he presents a very solid target. I think maybe he has what our American cousins call a “bubble butt,” but I am not sure.

Dixon is due to visit this evening. I hope it is as much fun as last time. The boy had been especially naughty. Smoking weed (of course) and missing work. He had also been rude to his mother. Well, isn’t it a father’s duty (or, indeed a grandfather’s) to punish a boy who disrespects his mother? I soon had the little terror stripped to his bright-green underpants. They were a little too tight for him and the smooth cotton rode right up into the crack between his cheeks. His buttocks were perfectly parted for the spanking he so richly deserved.

I took him to the master bedroom (it would save time later) sat down and pulled him across my knee. Dixon is a natural submissive. He rested his bottom on my thigh and stretched his naked torso across the mattress. This gave me the opportunity to caress the palm of my hand across his smooth, hairless back. I have never enquired of him, but I am pretty certain he has his body professionally shaved. He is not entirely hairless, there are tufts around his cock and balls, but even that is trimmed back neatly.

I cupped my hands taking each buttock in turn. I pressed my fingers into the stretched cotton delighting in the “give” in his bottom. I took hold of the waistband and pulled the pants taut, emphasising the depth of his crack. He sighed contentedly.

I raised my hand and smacked it with some force across his left buttock. I spanked the same spot six or seven times and then moved to the left cheek, where I repeated my endeavours. I was rewarded with a deep sigh from naughty Dixon. His cock pressed against my thigh. I spanked him some more and his member expanded to its full length. It felt like an iron bar digging into me. I knew that before long I would have to pull down the boy’s pants and release his throbbing penis.

However, I was not yet finished with the preliminaries. I reached across Dixon’s prone body and seized the medium-sized wooden hairbrush I had strategically placed on the nightstand. It made a terrific crack as it thudded into the tightly-stretched cotton. I was rewarded with a series of breathless gasps and Dixon’s bottom rose and fell so that he was humping my leg. It could be any second before he shot a load into his pants.

I rolled him onto his back and with some difficulty, for his cock was huge and stiff and the pants were a little tight, I pulled them to his thighs. Dixon nearly ripped them in his efforts to get them down and off his feet. I rolled him back so he was face-down once more and with every ounce of my strength I hammered the hairbrush into his already dark-pink cheeks.

Oh dear, please excuse me, I hear my phone ringing. It’s my wife. Sorry, but I have to take this.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

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