When Grandpa said if I continued to lay in bed in the morning and be late for work, he would come up to my room and toast my buns with a slipper, I didn’t believe him. Well, would you?
The thing is I have this problem and I know I’m not alone. I always wake up with a massive hard on in my pants. I can never remember what I’ve been dreaming about but I know the only way I can get rid of the thing is to give my cock a good tug. That’s not something you want to hurry, so I’m always downstairs late for grandma’s breakfast.
Yesterday, I’d just come in a handful of tissues when the door bursts open and there’s grandpa. True to his word he’s got one of those old-fashioned plimsoll / gym shoes stuck in his fist. Man, is he angry. “Your gran’s had breakfast on the table for hours,” he shouts all the while waving the plimsol about.
Just because he’s my grandpa don’t go thinking he’s a wizened old man. I’m twenty myself and grandpa had my dad when he was about my age, so what does that make grandpa; forty-something? He works out every week and runs most days. He would put people half his age to shame.
So he comes into my room growling, “I told you. I warned you,” and grabs hold of the duvet and rips it off the bed. I open my mouth to protest, but he tugs a fistful of my hair and somehow – I don’t know how – he has me face down on the mattress and I’m biting on the pillow. I’m “effing and blinding” but he doesn’t stop. Actually, thinking about it later I think my swearing just encourages him in his efforts.
He kneels on my back, knocking the stuffing out of me. I wriggle like a fish but I can’t get free. He weighs a ton. Then, Jesus H. you’ll never believe this, he grips the waistband of my pants and he pulls them down and leaves them at my knees. I am bare-arsed to the wind. I don’t have time to be frightened because just as I realise what his game is, he hammers the slipper into my bum. I turn my head to swear some more, so with his strong left arm he make me suck on the pillow.
With that and his knee in my back I am pinned down. I am going nowhere. I’m totally at his mercy; and he isn’t about to show any of that. I guess my arse is quite small and the plimsol is quite big so it only takes a few whacks before every inch of my bum is glowering red-hot. I can’t see it (not yet anyway) but my cheeks are quickly turning a deep pink and then a scorching red. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been spanked with a slipper, but believe me when I say this; it smarts.
“This’ll teach you,” grandpa says and starts to whack me on the back of the thighs. Oh, my god! If my bum was smarting, this was agony. I’ve stopped swearing and now I’m yelling. Blue murder. If the neighbours are at home they’ll be phoning the police by now to report a murder taking place next door.
On and on he whacks me. It feels like hours, but I suppose it’s only a couple of minutes. Then he stops, and gets off my back. I cough my guts up trying to breathe properly. I’m gasping in air like a goldfish out of water. Grandpa growls at me from the open bedroom door. “Downstairs. Breakfast. Now!”
I check out my arse in the mirror. I’ve always liked my bum, it’s nice and round. There’s a bit of meat there, but no fat. Solid. It’s dark red, the colour of a good claret wine. I can see the outline of the slipper embossed all over my buttocks.
So, that was yesterday. The pain went away quite quickly and by bedtime even the marks had gone. I spent a lot of the night playing it all over again in my head. Me, completely helpless. Grandpa spanking the living daylights out of me. The pain. The humiliation.
I’ve got a stiffy now just thinking about it. I’m late for work again. Is that grandpa I hear coming up the stairs? I sure hope so.
Picture credit: Craig Esposito
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second