Oh my papa

Ian stretched his arms and legs and turned on his side to get a look at the bedside clock. Just gone eleven. He rolled onto his back and pulled the sheet up under his chin. He would leave it a little longer. The pubs didn’t open until twelve.

Suddenly, the door burst open and a huge figure blocked the frame. Mr. Hector was six-feet-four in his stockinged feet, broad at the shoulders and thick at the waist.

“C’mon, Ian. Get up. It’s time for your maintenance spanking.”

Ian pouted and pulled the bedsheet over his head. “Oh Papa, I don’t want to.”

Mr. Hector folded his arms across his chest and smiled. The naughty little boy was going to be difficult. Well, we shall see about that, he thought.

“C’mon son, you know how much I enjoy Sunday mornings.”

“Oh, Papa,” the nineteen-year-old sulked.

“Well, have it your own way,” Mr. Hector strode to the bed, took a handful of sheeting and wrenched it clean away from the teenager’s body. He licked his lips (an involuntary movement) at the sight of the gym-honed figure on the bed, wearing just blue-and-white-striped boxer briefs.

“Up you get young man,” Mr. Hector gripped Ian’s right wrist and pulled him to his feet. The boy was six inches shorter than Papa and several pounds lighter. He gave no resistance as Mr. Hector guided him from the room and down the stairs of the modern semi-detached house. The door to the sitting room was open. Mr. Hector had already made his preparations. A straight-backed, armless chair had pride of place in the centre of the room.

Mr. Hector guided Ian to the chair, then momentarily released his wrist while he sat in it, spread his legs a little and wriggled his bum until he was comfortable. Ian watched silently, noticing how Papa’s legs were thick and well-padded.

“Over you go,” Mr. Hector took Ian’s wrist and pulled him forward so that the teenager fell face downwards across his knees. Ian put his arms forward to break his fall and settled with the palms of his hands flat against the expensive Axminister carpet. Behind him his legs dangled in mid-air, his toes hovering an inch or so above the ground.

“These serve no useful purpose at a time like this,” Mr. Hector grinned as he took hold of the waist of the underwear and tugged them down the boy’s buttocks until they bunched up at his knees. Mr. Hector’s tongue ran around his lips.

Ian’s bum was well buffed. He shaved it himself every day. It was always completely hairless. His boyfriend Neville did Ian’s ball-sack once a week; on a Saturday, so Papa always got to see him at his very best.

Mr. Hector caressed the buttocks; first the right cheek, then the left. The teenager’s body seemed completely bald. It wasn’t; soft downy hair covered his legs. It was so fair in colour it was almost impossible to see. Papa rubbed the palm of his hand gently down the teenager’s legs, enjoying the slight tickling feel.

Then, with his left hand he caressed Ian’s naked back. He felt the blood surge into his own crotch. It was time to get started.

“You have the most beautiful bum,” he gasped. “Quite the best I’ve ever spanked.”

Ian’s face cracked into a smile, “I bet you say that to all the boys. Ouch!” Papa had landed a stinging smack across the centre of his right cheek. “That hurt.”

Papa watched a dark pink mark form on the boy’s bottom. “That’s the point, young man. That’s the point.”

He raised his right hand a foot or so away from the surface of the left buttock and brought it down with a mild slap. Then, he did the same to the right cheek. Then, he did it all over again. Slowly, every square inch of Ian’s buttocks turned a dark pink. Then, he started on the back of his thighs.

“Ow, ouch, oooh,” Ian wriggled his bum as smack after smack connected with his tight arse. It didn’t hurt so much, but he wanted to please Papa.

Mr. Hector increased the pace and the strength of the spanks. “Nearly finished,” he panted, “You know what to do.”

He smacked his hand across Ian’s bum. “One, Papa. Thank you, Papa.” He smacked again. “Two, Papa. Thank you, Papa.”

After a hundred spanks, Mr. Hector’s palm hurt more than Ian’s backside. His cock was pretty sore too. It was time to finish.

“Okay, up you get.” He leaned back to give the teenager space to lift himself to his feet. Ian stood in front of his punisher and hopped from foot to foot while rubbing his not very sore backside. His hairless cock and balls bounced in front of Papa’s face.

Mr. Hector sucked on his bottom lip. “You’d better go back to your room now.”

Ian bent down to pull up his underwear, making sure the old man got a good view of his glory hole.

“Thank you, Papa,” he grinned and headed for the stairs.

Twenty minutes later he was in the bar of the Three Fishers Hotel with his boyfriend Neville, slurping on a bottle of Mexican lager.

Neville snuggled up close. “Did you have to toss off Papa?”

Ian playfully poked his tongue out. “No, not this time. He had one hell of a boner, I could feel it.” He gulped his beer and looked Neville in the eye, “I guess he’s probably wanking himself, right now.”

Neville convulsed with giggles.

“Hi guys,” Toby, the barman, sauntered over.

All three nodded their welcomes.

“Did your Papa deal with you yet?” Ian glanced across the bar at the hotel manager.

“No, not yet. He’ll do it this afternoon, once the bar’s closed.”

Ian grinned. Toby was about his own age, but thin as a rake. His pale-grey trousers clung to his hips and when he stood up it looked like he had no buttocks at all. But, when he bent forward, he had the cutest little bum imaginable. All the customers would gape when Toby reached down to a bottom shelf to fetch a packet of crisps.

Neville knew that later, when the customers had all gone away for their Sunday lunches, Toby would drape himself across one of the high bar stools and clutch onto the wooden legs. He could visualise it now. Toby’s Papa, a short stocky man with a beer gut befitting someone who had worked in bars all his life, would flex and swish an authentic whippy school cane. There would be much tap-tap-taping and then whoosh, Papa would smack the cane across Toby’s stretched bum. Ouch! Yarroo!

Neville’s daydreams were interrupted by Jonathon, a pal who had just arrived. “Hi, Neville,” he waved a greeting, his dark curly hair flopping into his eyes. He came across and uninvited sat next to Ian.

“Hey, Neville,” he leaned across the table, “Do you have a Papa?”

Neville crinkled his nose, “Don’t need one,” he grinned at Ian and took hold of his hand, “Not with lover boy here. Why?”

“Hugh, asked me if I could find him someone.”

“Hugh?”

“Yeah, you know him. Big fat guy. Welsh.”

Neville nodded vigorously. Yes, he knew him. He had been across his knee. Once. Never again. He could still taste the stench of stale beer and body odour.

Ian interjected. “What about little Davy, wasn’t he looking for a Papa?” Little Davy was probably pushing twenty, but he was only five-feet-three and with his tiny body and fresh face, he could pass for fourteen. People said he still travelled half-fare on the buses.

Jonathon frowned. “No, he’s found someone. A schoolmaster.”

“Schoolmaster?” Neville didn’t know of any schoolmaster Papa.

“Well, retired schoolmaster, I think. Lives in those posh houses on The Avenue.”

The boys nodded sagely. They had heard all sorts of stories about the goings-on in The Avenue.

Jonathon sipped a pint of bitter. “He makes him wear short trousers all the time. A green jumper too. I think he’s got a blazer too. A proper one, like they wear at St. Francis.”

“Oh God, no!” Neville guffawed. He had hated wearing that uniform when he was a pupil at St. FIGS. St. Francis Independent Grammar School, with the emphasis on Independent. It was a traditional school: traditional curriculum, traditional sports and traditional discipline. That meant a swishy rattan cane.

Suddenly, a thought came to him. “The schoolmaster, what’s his name? Did he teach at St. FIGS?”

Jonathon shrugged his shoulders, “Dunno. Could be. They all liked to whack boys’ bums,” he spluttered on his beer as he failed to stifle a laugh.

“Davy’s coming over later, you can ask him.” Jonathon said, composing himself.

Neville giggled, “I hope he wears his short trousers and jumper; all the old queens here will blow a fuse.”

Just then the pub manager ambled over. “Good day lads,” he breezed. “Anyone up for an adventure?”

The three youngsters paused their conversation.

“That gentlemen at the bar,” he nodded over his shoulder at a dapper man in an expensive three-piece suit.

Neville grinned, “Not your average customer in here. Must be slumming. What’s he want?”

“To go upstairs,” the manager’s eyes shone, “With company,” he gave what he fondly believed to be a discreet cough.

“Nah, not today,” Neville sucked on his beer bottle.

The pub manager was undeterred. He leaned in so close to Neville he could smell the boy’s cologne and whispered in his ear.

“How much? He’ll pay that much,” Neville reeled. The man must be a millionaire. Or very desperate. “Does he want afters?”

“No, I don’t think so,” the pub manager straightened himself, confident he had made a sale. Money always talked in places like the Three Fishers. “But, you could always negotiate.”

Neville glanced across the table at Ian, his boyfriend. The merest blink conveyed his consent.

“Tell him I’ll be up in five minutes,” Neville said as he settled back to finish his beer. It never did to appear too keen.

@

 

The room was dingy, no concession had been made for comfort. People rarely actually slept in a bedroom at the Three Fishers. Neville sniffed the dust in the air, there was only one small skylight window in the roof and there was no way to reach to open it. Already sweat was starting to run down his back.

The man had not introduced himself. He was about forty, Neville reckoned. Up close he oozed wealth. His suit was hand-tailored of the finest cloth that the young man had ever seen. His shoes shone almost as much as the man’s complexion. That skin was the product of more than a healthy diet. Neville had knocked on the door respectfully. He had not been briefed on his role in this little play acting. Was he to be the naughty pupil sent to the headmaster for a traditional six-of-the-best? Perhaps, it was Uncle & Nephew and he was to feel the full force of a slipper across his bum. Or maybe it was Magistrate & Poacher and he would bear the brunt of a birch rod across naked haunches.

The man’s instruction to “Enter” was so softly spoken Neville almost had not heard it. He gingerly opened the door to see the man seated in a rickety straight-backed wooden chair. He gave an almost imperceptible nod of greeting. Neville shuffled into the room and stood, hands clasped behind his back unsure what was expected of him.

The man rose from the chair and took two or three steps across the room to the wrought-iron bed. On it, he had left a long narrow carpet bag. Without acknowledging Neville’s presence further, he unclasped the bag and reached inside. Neville watched intently. What instrument of punishment would the stranger withdraw from it? The shape of the bag probably had given the answer to that already.

Instead of withdrawing a long thin whippy cane, the man produced a tiny pair of leather shorts. “Please put these on,” he murmured softly. Neville took them in his hands. At once he felt their weight. If the stranger’s intention was to whip him in these he wouldn’t feel a thing.

Neville unbuttoned his trousers and sat down on the bed and then tugged them over his shoes. His yellow briefs fitted a little too snugly and one of his balls was exposed to the gaze of the stranger. He didn’t seem to notice. He was once more inside the carpet bag and this time he did withdraw a long, sturdy dragon cane. He flexed it thoughtfully between his hands while he waited for Neville to get ready.

The shorts were precisely that: short. They hardly covered the teenager’s briefs. He was relived he had not worn boxers, they would have probably poked out under the hem of the shorts. Neville wriggled into them. They fitted so well they might have been made especially for him. The man swished his cane through the air and Neville watched it fly. He was no stranger to the cane and from what he saw this was a breath-taking specimen. It was a little under four-feet in length, and about as thick as a pencil. It was dark yellow in colour and both dense and extremely whippy. This kind of rod could take any boy’s arse off.

The man’s tongue darted in and out of his not quite closed mouth, making him look a little like a lizard. He seemed about ready. “Please bend over the back of the chair,” he lightly tapped the cane against the wooden seat as if there might be some doubt what he meant.

Neville blinked. Was this all the stranger wanted? Wasn’t there to be some ritual dropping of the shorts to be followed by a baring of the bottom? The cane tapped again. “Please do as you are asked?” the man’s tone was reasonableness itself.

Neville took a deep breath; the room was hot and airless and he wished he could open the window. He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and leant forward. He was taller than average and the chair was quite low. He had been across this particular chair before, so unbidden he stretched himself right over and gripped the bottom of the legs. Ordinarily, a boy would place his hands on the seat and stick his bottom out in readiness for the swipe of the cane. Neville knew how to serve up his bum as a special treat. He stretched down and grasped the bottom of the legs. His muscular legs were straight and his buttocks were beautifully presented over the top of the chair’s back.

He closed his eyes and waited patiently. He heard, but could not see, the stranger pace across the bare floorboards. His fancy shoes creaked against the worn wood. Eventually, the stranger settled. He took up a position to Neville’s left and with his own legs slightly bent he took his aim. Whack!!! The sound of rattan against leather echoed round the small room as the man let fly with every ounce of strength that he possessed. A clear white mark where the cane connected immediately spread across the taut leather. Beneath the shorts, Neville felt nothing.

Within seconds another swipe struck with tremendous force a little lower this time. The sound reverberated across the room. and the leather cracked. The noise could be heard across the landing where two labourers were playing horses. Again, Neville felt nothing.

The stranger whipped the cane into Neville’s leather-covered arse over and over and over again. The boy felt the stick connect at force across his stretched buttocks. He knew from painful experience that if he were getting such strokes on his cloth trousers – or God forbid – on his underpants or the bare he would be hollering the house down by now. Blood would be running from the wounds.

Only then did Neville think of the money he was being paid. Now, he realised why it was so generous. Once the stranger had satisfied himself whipping into the leather shorts, he would want a repeat performance with them down at Neville’s ankles.

A beaten boy always thinks the ordeal went on longer than it did. But, this time it really did last for ten minutes. The stranger dripped perspiration. His silky skin was drenched. Large damp patches soaked his armpits. Even his own buttocks were damp. It was as if he has stepped in from a thunder storm.

His heart raced and his temples throbbed. Breath was hard to catch. He stopped. “Stand up boy,” he croaked. A terrified Neville hauled himself to his feet. Still the caning had not registered against his fleshy bum. He quite literally had not felt a thing. Now, he knew the ordeal was really about to start. His hands shook uncontrollably as he waited for the instruction, “Drop ’em.”

The man threw the cane on the bed, reached down to the flies of his own trousers and in a frenzy yanked them down to his knees. Already Neville could see the huge bulge pressing against the man’s underwear. Within seconds his penis was released. Neville gasped. He had never seen one so long, thick and stiff. Had the man stolen it from a stallion?

The stranger’s eyes glazed, tears were already streaming down his cheeks. Plaintively, he implored Neville, “Please take me.”

The teenager couldn’t believe his luck. With his own cock fighting against the front of the tight leather shorts, he dived forward mouth open, hoping that he could get it wide enough to gorge the stranger’s manhood.

 

Other stories you might like

The rooming house

The drunken neighbour

Their new house

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com