My house. My rules

z used bed wank (1)

Marcus lays flat on his back on his lumpy single mattress admiring his refection in the full-length mirror in the corner of the room. The air is cool, but it is not cold. He pulls the bottom of his white t-shirt up to his chest so he can fondle his flat, hairless stomach. He slips his left hand inside the waistband of his tight mini-shorts and clasps his dick. He is not yet hard but knows he soon will be. He screws his eyes tightly shut.

The door opens quietly. Mr. Shults his landlord stands by the bed, towering over him. He never knocks. It is his house, he can go where he wants, when he wants; that is understood. He is calm, he always is. To Marcus he seems incapable of ever showing anger. In a measured tone he says, “You know the rules of my house, I made them clear when you first moved in.”

He tells the truth. So many rules, but Marcus can remember Mr. Shults’s speech word for word.

“While you are a lodger in my home you will obey my rules. You will always be punctual to breakfast. You will obey your curfew. That means 10.30 p.m. No later.

“You will not bring friends back and you will not play loud music in your room. The front room is entirely out of bounds to you. You are permitted to use the back room, but you must never take food or drink in there.

“You will address me as ‘Mr. Shults’ and you will address my wife as ‘Mrs. Shults.’ You will be polite at all times and obey without question any instructions that either of us might give you.

“These are the rules of the house. It is my house and I make the rules. If you choose to brake one of my rules, you will be spanked. With your trousers down. I shall spank you on your underpants and if you dare to repeat your rule-breaking you will be spanked on your bared bottom.

“If you still have not come to your senses I have an exceedingly whippy rattan school cane that I keep in the cupboard under the stairs and I am not afraid to use it.

“Do I make myself entirely clear?”

Marcus removes his hand from inside his shorts and looks across at his landlord. He is not a very imposing figure. Marcus thinks he must be in his fifties, he has a balding dome with tufts of light grey hair wildly sticking up at the sides. Two beady bright blue eyes stare out of his fleshy face. He is probably no more than five-feet-ten-inches tall and he has more than a “spare tyre” around his belly. No one seeing him in the street would give a second glace.

Despite this Mr. Shults has an aura. He is a man of decision and when he says something will happen, it does so. Marcus knows he is some big boss at Altringham’s one of Brocklehurst’s biggest employers. He is used to giving orders, he expects them to be obeyed.

Marcus pulls himself off his back and sits propped against one pillow. He knows down to the very last detail what will play out next. He must wait for events to take their course.

So many rules, it is impossible not to have broken at least one of them.

Marcus watches as Mr. Shults balances on one leg and reaches to his foot to tug off a bedroom sipper. A little unsteady on his feet now, he turns and picks up a chair that stands against the wall. It is old, straight-backed and at one time it graced the kitchen. Mr. Shults puts it down in a space between the bed and a cupboard. Gripping the rubber-soled slipper in one hand he uses the other to take hold of Marcus by the wrist. The nineteen-year-old does not resist. He allows himself to be pulled to his feet. He shifts from one foot to the other watching as Mr. Shults sits himself down on the chair. Marcus notices (not for the first time) how well padded are Mr. Shults’s legs. His landlord spreads his feet a little and in so doing creates a platform with his knees and his lap.

It is not necessary to speak since Marcus knows from experience what he is expected to do now. Nonetheless, Mr. Shults says the time-honoured words that have put fear into many naughty boys down the ages. “Bend over my knee,” he says. And, to emphasise his intention, he once again grips Marcus by the wrist and this time he pulls him forward so that he flops across his knees and is left face-down staring at the beige rug that is now centimetres from his nose.

Mr. Shults places his left arm around Marcus’s midriff and presses down hard. This is to keep the teenager in place for the spanking that is about to be delivered. The effort this takes is not strictly necessary because Marcus is submissive. He has broken the rules; he knows this. The penalty for rule-breaking is a spanking. This fact he knows also. He likes to think of himself as an honourable young man. Let nature take its course.

The palms of Marcus’s hands dig into the shag pile of the rug. He spreads his fingers and feels many grit particles; the rug has not been cleaned for some considerable time. He feels the muscles stretch in his arms and his shoulders as he tries to hold his head high. He can see the reflection of himself and Mr. Shults in the mirror in the corner. He sees his round bottom encased in tight cotton and his hairless legs dangling in mid-air. His toes hover a few centimetres above the rug.

He sees Mr. Shults put the slipper down on Marcus’s bare back. He knows what will happen next. Mr. Shults is as good as his promise. Marcus is a repeat offender. Without ceremony, he grips the waistband of the teenager’s micro-shorts and with three heavy tugs he has them pulled over his buttocks and down the back of his thighs. Marcus’s eyes widen. He has a perfect view of his cheeks and crack in the mirror. He feels his landlord gently caress him. The palm of Mr. Shults’s hand pats and preens Marcus’s cheeks. It is as if he is trying to get the measure of the task ahead of him. How much flesh; how much muscle does the teenager have in his behind?.

A cliché-writer would say that Marcus has buns of steel. Perhaps a better description is that his cheeks are as hard as two rubber balls, the kind once known as “super balls” to generations of children. One small bounce could send them flying metres high.

Mr. Shults preens Marcus; the boy’s mounds are terrific, the skin on the back of his thighs unblemished. He moves his arm away from Marcus’s waist and now pins him at the shoulders. He picks up the slipper, squeezes it tightly, raises it to the height of his own shoulders and wallops it down at speed into the very centre of the nineteen-year-old’s left buttock. The delight Mr. Shults feels as the outline of the slipper’s sole appears in deep pink across the cheek does not register on his face.

Marcus takes a breath. That hurts, but it is not beyond his endurance. Another whack hits him on the right buttock and then again on the left. The pain is increasing now. Marcus feels his bottom warming up. He feels also Mr. Shults’s body move as he continues to swing the slipper across Marcus’s bum. The boy’s head swings from left to right, the pain now definitely registering. He’s head lowers closer to the rug and from this position he is able to see under the chair that Mr. Shults is sitting on and observe his own feet, still hovering above the floor. Mr. Shults is finding his rhythm. Marcus sees his feet waving about. This is not of his doing, the movements of his feet, his legs and his hips gyrate in protest at the hurt his body is enduring: it is a reflex action, Marcus has no control over his actions.

Mr. Shults is resolute in the task he has set himself: disciplining (no, punishing) his disobedient lodger. Having ensured that every square centimetre of the buttocks now glow red hot he turns his attention to the backs of Marcus’s thighs. As any young man who has suffered Marcus’s indignity knows, this is the cruellest action a spanker might take. The thighs are even more sensitive than the bottom. Marcus wriggles and squirms with renewed effort.

Marcus loses all sense of time. How long has he been draped over his landlord’s lap? How many times has that slipper connected with his bare flesh? He has no idea. His bum is sore and his body soaked in perspiration.

Suddenly, he is on his feet. Mr. Shults is leaving the room, still gripping his slipper. Marcus clutches both buttock cheeks with his hands. He rubs furiously. He hops from foot to foot performing the traditional spanking dance. He turns and pokes his naked bottom in the direction of the mirror. His admiration goes out to Mr. Shults, his punisher.

Marcus opens his eyes. His hand is down the front of his shorts and his dick is so rigid they cannot contain its girth. He wriggles the shorts over his hips and down his buttocks. He turns on his side and reaches into a drawer seeking the small bottle of purple gel he hides inside. He finds it, opens it and pours a generous blob into his palm.

As Marcus works away at his raging cock, his mother and father sit contentedly in the living room downstairs engrossed in EastEnders.

 

Picture credit: Akibu

Other stories you might like

The military kid

Secret in the loft

Not too old to be spanked by grandad

 

 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

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