Mr. Harris stared down into his mug, waiting for the tea to cool. His heart was uncharacteristically racing; he knew his blood pressure was sky high. It was the stress; if he wasn’t careful he could be seriously ill.
The cause of his stress was upstairs, still in bed at nearly ten in the morning. Something had to be done and today was the day to do it.
The problem was Bill. Bill had been lodging with Mr. Harris since late September. He was eighteen years old and a student. He was the son of a life-long pal and he had taken the idle sod in as a favour to his dad until he found somewhere more “suitable”. Mr. Harris assumed that meant where he could get drunk, take drugs and jerk-off all hours. Certainly, it had nothing to do with being closer to the college library for studying.
It was three months now and Bill showed no signs of moving out. He came and went when he liked, stayed out to the early hours of the morning, slept in bed all day long and played his music at top volume. He never seemed to do any work. Mr. Harris had had enough.
Bill’s dad was a close friend and he didn’t want to upset him by complaining about the teenager. But, oh how he wished the boy would clear off so he could get his life back to normal. In desperation he sent an email. The reply rocked him to the core. “Drat,” he said to himself, “Why didn’t I do this before.”
Bill’s dad wrote, “He’s always been a lazy You Know What. If he doesn’t shift his idle backside you have my permission to spank it. Very Hard Indeed. It’ll do him good. If he gives you any trouble tell him I’ll stop sending him money and he’ll have to go out and get a proper job.”
Mr. Harris sipped his tea thoughtfully. He was not a man to dawdle; something must be done – now. But how, exactly. He had never spanked anyone in his life, but it couldn’t be that difficult, he supposed. He’d need the element of surprise. He wouldn’t expect an eighteen-year-old to meekly offer up his backside for spanking. Even with his dad’s threats ringing in his ears. He would go to Bill’s bedroom, whip the duvet off his sleeping body and pound away at his bum.
Mr. Harris drained his cup. It must be now or never. But, what did he have to do the deed? It would be useless to spank Bill’s bum with the palm of his hand. The boy was meaty; he’d hardly feel a thing. It would hurt Mr. Harris’ hand a lot more than Bill’s bottom.
What did people usually use? A cane? – he didn’t have one. Slipper? – ditto. His belt was thin and narrow, it wouldn’t be much use. He was as bald as a coot and had no use for hairbrushes. Absent-mindedly he strolled to the sitting room and began opening and closing cupboards and drawers hoping inspiration might strike. Nothing.
He did the same in the kitchen. Bingo! At the back of a cupboard was a huge wooden spoon. How ironic, he thought, Bill’s dad had given it to him as a present when he returned from South Africa. He had never used it. It was fourteen inches long and four across at the bowl end. He had no idea what practical use a spoon that size could have. He lifted it up and tested it in his hand. It had been carved from a single piece of wood. It was surprisingly heavy.
Feeling a bit foolish, he gripped the handle, twisted his body a little and whacked the spoon with some force into the seat of his trousers. He winced. It hurt. A lot. Even with his trousers and pants as protection. It would make an excellent spanking paddle.
Mr. Harris trudged up the stairs to Bill’s room. For once music wasn’t blaring, the teenager must still be asleep. Without knocking – “It’s my house, I’ll go where I want,” he thought – he pushed open the door. The heat immediately hit him. The radiator had been left full on, it was hotter than a rain forest. A sweet, sickly smell, a combination of teen sweat and tissues soaked in cum, cloyed at his throat.
Bill lay face down on his bed, the duvet had tumbled to the floor. He was naked except for a pair of dark-blue trunks. They were so tight they looked like they had been sprayed on. The cotton dug into his crack, lifting and separating each buttock cheek. Bill had a bum crying out to be spanked.
The eighteen-year-old was sleeping. Mr. Harris watched his body move in rhythm to his breathing. His head was turned towards the wall.
“Time to get up!” Mr. Harris shouted. Bill immediately stirred, turned his head and opened his bleary eyes, astonished to see his landlord standing over him.
“It’s gone ten, you shouldn’t be in bed.”
Bill’s nostrils flared. “F@@c off, it’s Saturday.” He turned his head back to the wall.
Mr. Harris had a plan. It worked to perfection. With his left hand he pushed Bill’s shoulders with such force he was pinned to the mattress. With the other hand he pounded the heavy wooden spoon into Bill’s backside. The teenager had a narrow waist and slim legs, but his buttocks were round, full and firm. Mr. Harris saw the spoon sink into the teenager’s mounds with each whack.
Bill wriggled and writhed in shock, but his tormentor held him firmly. The boy’s face was in the pillow, he could barely breathe. “Wooaa, leggo,” he wheezed. The unexpectedness of the attack had disorientated him. Mr. Harris pounded on and on into the substantial cheeks. Bill buckled his knees, kicked his legs and wriggled his backside from left to right, but there was no escaping the onslaught.
The pain in his bum was rising. Mr. Harris covered every square inch of the target. Then, for good measure, he struck the back of Bill’s bare thighs. That had the teenager yelping. “F@@k off, let me go!” he shouted, but it only spurred his master on in his mission.
“Watch your language , young man,” he hissed. Nearly all his breath was gone, so fierce were his exertions.
“F@@K off, leave me alone!”
Mr. Harris dropped the spoon onto Bill’s hairless back.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he gripped the waist of Bill’s underwear and with two tugs he had bared the boy’s buttocks. Mr. Harris was astonished at how battered they looked. Blotches of dark-pink covered what was once creamy-white flesh. A bruise was coming out on the tender sit-spot, under the crease.
Mr. Harris hammered the heavy wooden spoon into the buttocks, delighting to see the dark-pink rapidly turning crimson. His shirt was soaked in sweat, the room was boiling, but so was Bill’s bum. Mr. Harris’ blood pressure was about to go through the roof. It felt like blood would soon flood out of his ears. If he didn’t stop now he would have a stroke.
He released his grip on the boy’s shoulders. Bill curled up in the foetal position, knees in at his chest. His hands rubbed his scorched backside. His eyes were wet, but tears were not flowing.
“Next time I tell you to get up, make sure you do,” Mr. Harris growled as he left the room. His breathing was easier now. Slowly he retraced his steps to the kitchen. He flicked the switch on the kettle and eased himself down at the table. He caressed the smooth wooden spoon lovingly and pondered how long it would be before Bill moved out.
Other stories you might like
More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second