Gwyn Jones was twenty years old and there was one thing he knew for certain; girls gagged for sex just as much as boys. And, Gwyn was very happy to take as much as they would give. He even went with the plainer girls, happy to help out a damsel in distress.
Gwyn didn’t have to try too hard. He had fashionably cut blond hair and clear healthy skin. When it caught the sun, his nut-brown complexion highlighted his dazzling white straight teeth and sparkling blue eyes. He stood at about five-nine and everything was in proper proportion. He could wear any clothes. His arse looked great in cheap Tesco Bomber jeans from the supermarket or in the most expensive designer labels.
A few of the guys at the university’s Gay Soc said they’d have him any day. He might be a year younger than the local law allowed, but they’d take the risk, they said.
Pam Cobb was a girl in his year. They were in the same faculty, but they didn’t take classes together. He met her through Audrey Henley, a rather lanky girl who was a bit of a star in the varsity netball team. He could now report with great confidence to any of his pals who doubted it that netball players were not a bunch of lesbians. Audrey had spent her childhood at a posh independent ladies’ college and was making up for lost time with the boys.
She wasn’t looking for a husband (not yet), so was pleased to pass on her “Great Shag” to her friend, Pam. Pam was twenty-years old, going on forty-five. Polite people might say she was “homely”; she favoured fluffy pink jumpers and Levi jeans that emphasised her plump behind. Her permed hair reminded folks of her mother.
Of course, Gwyn would “give her one.” Those weren’t the exact words he used when Audrey told him Pam was willing, but nobody was under any illusion. Pam lived at home with her parents in a large detached place on The Avenue. “Very nice,” Gwyn gaped when Pam parked her Mini in front of the five-bedroomed (two with en-suite bathrooms) house, resplendent with two acres of garden and a gazebo. It was a step-up from the cramped room in the student residences he usually used.
Gwyn was ready for action the moment they set foot through the door. His cock was bursting; trying to climb over the waistband of his briefs. It was like that most of the time, he couldn’t control it. It was only a little after midday, but he’d tossed off twice already that day.
“Come,” Pam took his hand and led him through the hallway and up the stairs. “Let’s use the guest bedroom.”
It was tastefully furnished in greens and blues. Some expertise had been used in its design. All Gwyn saw was the huge bed. There was so much room, four people could sleep in it and never need to brush against one another.
Pam struggled out of her fluffy jumper and wriggled down her jeans. Her naked flesh wobbled like jam. Gwyn’s eyes stalked and his todger throbbed. If he didn’t get a shift on he would cum in his underpants. Pam’s eyes resembled saucers as she watched Gwyn’s cock soar towards her, a Cruise missile couldn’t fly so fast.
They didn’t make love. They had messy sex. It was over in no time. Gwyn lay silently on his back looking at the ornate carvings on the ceiling. It had been a shag, but nothing special. Pam needed to practice more, he reckoned. Moments later, his cock pulsated again. He looked across at Pam. Yes, she nodded, “I’m ready for round two.”
Stephen and Alistair, Pam’s brothers, were puzzled when they pulled up outside the house. What was Pam’s car doing there at that time of day. She should be at university. She never came home before five.
“Something must be wrong,” Stephen said anxiously, hurrying into the house, for he loved his kid sister dearly. “Is she sick, do you think?” Alistair followed on in his brother’s wake (as he so often did). “Pam! Pam! Are you there!” Stephen bounded up the stairs, heading for his sister’s bedroom. He knocked on the door. No reply. Gingerly, he worked the door handle, eased open the door and shyly peeked inside. Empty. She wasn’t there.
“Argggg!” A grunt from the adjoining room. It sounded like a sow on heat. “Ahhh! Ahhh!” Except it was clearly a man’s noise. Heart-thumping, Stephen rushed across the hallway and threw open the door.
Gwyn had shot his second load. It was better than the first, he had made it last longer. He was face-down in the bedsheet, catching his breath. Pam saw her brother first and swiftly pulled a sheet around her nakedness.
“Worrrrrr!” her brother exploded, summing up the situation immediately. Pam fled the room.
Gwyn sat on the bed, a sheepish grin betraying his self-satisfaction.
“You bastard!” Stephen’s anger was not feigned. Gwyn recoiled. In front of him was a tall, muscular thirtysomething man, his square face blazing fury.
“No, it’s not what you think,” Gwyn panicked. “She agreed.”
Just then another, younger man wheezed into the room. His facial features and the extra pounds of lard he carried on his body confirmed he was Pam’s brother.
“You’re not getting away with this,” Stephen clenched his fists, ready to fight. Gwyn slunk back against the bed’s headboard. He was no fighter. The angry man towering above him could knock six bells out of him. No trouble.
“We have ways of dealing with your sort.” Stephen stepped back from the bed, a plan already formulated in his head.
“Ali, help me,” he leant forward and gripped Gwyn by the arm. The boy struggled but Ali joined his brother and pinned him down on the bed.
“Turn him over,” Stephen ordered. Ali would never disobey his brother. He took Gwyn’s other arm. Resistance was futile. He was face down, nose in the soiled bedsheet.
“Hold him down. Sit on his head if you have to!”
Alistair flopped his considerable weight across Gwyn’s back, winding him. The boy’s arse and legs flailed. “Ger-off,” he squealed. “I didn’t do anything.”
Stephen’s eyes ran across the room, searching for a suitable weapon. Nothing. He opened and closed drawers, not sure what he expected to find. Still zilch.
Then, the ghost of an idea flickered. There was something Stephen hadn’t seen in years. Did they still have it? He wasn’t at all sure. But, if they did, it would be in the back of the linen cupboard.
“Ali, Keep him there. Don’t let him go,” he called over his shoulder as he rushed out the door. The linen cupboard was huge and packed with bedsheets and towels and goodness only knows what else. When they were kids they used to play in this cupboard, pretending they were in a spaceship bound for Mars.
Yes, it was there. He pulled out a heavy leather razor strop. Back in the day his grandfather had used it for shaving. It had a mightily effective alternative use as well, as Stephen himself could testify. This little beauty could take a boy’s arse off.
“Hold him still,” Stephen commanded. Gwyn was terror-struck. That damn girl. Had she set him up? Was she listening at the keyhole stroking her wet pussy? Loving every moment.
Stephen stood over the bed and assessed his target. Even from a close distance Gwyn’s body looked completely hairless. It wasn’t. His bum was bald but his legs were covered in a down of fine fair hair. What little Stephen could see of the boy’s back was lean but muscular and his waist was trim. There wasn’t enough spare fat anywhere on his body to sizzle a sausage.
Gwyn’s bum was firm and meaty. The flesh was milky white, the outline of skimpy swimming trunks contrasted with the rest of his deeply-tanned body.
The strop was nearly two feet long and several inches wide. Stephen tested the weight of it in his hand before resting it across the centre of Gwyn’s bum. It covered half of the target. He saw the bottom go hard, tensing into a solid, round ball. He couldn’t see it, but the boy’s nipples hardened on his tight chest.
Stephen removed the strop, raised it high towards the ceiling, held it there for two beats and brought it crashing down across Gwyn’s naked arse. A thick dark-pink stripe three inches wide immediately flamed across the naked flesh. The boy’s bottom shuddered and he kicked his legs against the agony travelling through his body.
A second whack hammered home, landing above the first. The whole of Gwyn’s bum was crimson. He shook his head from side to side and whined, rather like a horse whinnying. The weight of Ali on his back and the agony coursing through his body took his breath away. Sweat soaked his hairline and his temples throbbed almost as much as his backside.
Stephen paused. The whole of his prisoner’s bum was cherry red; not a square inch had been left uncovered. Where should he place the next swipe? There were two choices; either he should stop the punishment now, or land another cut over the existing wounds. He wasn’t about to let up yet, so he pulled the strop high, swung it a little in the air and brought it down low. Just where the bum meets the thighs. He was rewarded with a tremendous howl from his captive. Gwyn’s body shook violently and his head butted up and down against the mattress.
His yowls were pitiful, but his pious tormentor had little pity. He bounced the strap off Gwyn’s mounds three times in rapid fire. Bang-bang-bang. The boy’s flesh was raw, a purple strip of raised flesh ran across the very centre of both cheeks.
Gwyn was weeping openly. He had never experienced anything like this in his life.
Stephen had a sadistic streak, and he relished this opportunity to indulge it. A flicker of a grin creased his lips as he rested the heavy leather strop on the back of Gwyn’s thighs. “Nooooo!” The boy kicked out, terrified. The grin broadened, the strop rose and whacked down on the back of Gwyn’s legs. The shrieks that bounced off the walls of the opulent bedroom were deeply satisfying, so Stephen repeated the action two more times.
Gwyn’s body shuddered violently for ten or more seconds and went still. Ashen-faced Ali leapt from the bed.
“He’s dead! He’s dead!” he yelled.
He wasn’t. His breathing was shallow and he was weeping copiously into the mattress.
“Leave him!” Stephen growled at his brother. “Go see if Pam’s all right.”
Obediently, Ali left the room.
Stephen stood over Gwyn’s prostrate body. The boy’s arse twitched convulsively. The flesh from the base of his spine to an inch above the back of the knees was red-raw. In places it looked like uncooked hamburger meat. The boy’s breathing was gaining strength.
Stephen looked over his shoulder, noticed the door was still open. He would need to act quickly. He shoved it shut with his foot and turned to face the bed. Gwyn’s arse was glowing like dying ambers of coal.
“Get ready because here I come,” Stephen trilled merrily and unbuckled his belt. Puzzled, Gwyn looked over his own shoulder to see his tormentor ripping down his trousers and pants. Stephen’s cock crowed. Gwyn’s eyes blazed. He turned face-down on the bed once more, raised himself to his knees, spread his legs and bit on the pillow.
Picture Credit: Greenleaf Classics
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
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