The Boy From Across The Street

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The boy from across the street had been staying with me for nearly six weeks and he was becoming a right pain in the neck. I say “Boy” but he had just graduated from university so he must’ve been twenty-one or twenty-two.

His widowed mother had remarried and Garry wasn’t welcome at the house. They didn’t throw him out onto the streets but you know how it is. I’d known him and his mum for more than ten years so it seemed right to offer him a room at mine. I live alone and have four bedrooms so there’s no problem with space.

I had no idea how difficult young men could be. He was bone idle and laid in bed all morning. When he was up he was surly and uncommunicative. He came and went as he pleased and sometimes came home in the early hours drunk. Well, I say “drunk” but my pal told me young people today don’t drink, they take drugs so for all I knew he might’ve been high. In my house. Breaking the law.

Something had to change. I went on the Internet to see if I could find advice. You’d be surprised how much there is out there about guiding teenagers into adult life. I hoped I hadn’t left it too late with Garry.

The main advice was about setting clear boundaries. Make sure he knows what the rules are. And, this is the difficult part, apply sanctions when they are broken. Coming up with rules would be easy enough but what about sanctions? What could I do to get him to obey me?

One website in America reckons it has the answer. Corporal correction. I had to do a double take when I first saw it. What the heck’s “Corporal correction”? It turns out they mean corporal punishment or good old spanking. They are very keen on it.  The site is run by a bunch of Christians and they believe that a good paddling works wonders. There are even husbands who spank their wives when occasion demands. And all for Jesus.

Well who am I to argue with Jesus? I shared my problem with my pal and he shook his head sadly. “Pie in the sky. It’ll never work. The lad’s hardly going to meekly bend over your knee to let you whack him with a belt or whatnot.”

He had a point. The best I could hope for would be to wildly slash my belt across his shoulders and back while having some kind of stand-up fight. It wouldn’t work. The whole point was for Garry to admit he has broken the rules and to submit himself to punishment. Then when I am satisfied he has been spanked enough, he apologies for his behaviour and promises to do better. And, if he does not, he’s back over my knee, or the armchair for another dose. Harder, this time.

I let the matter rest hoping against hope the problem would just solve itself. But a few mornings later I came out of my bedroom to go to the toilet and stepped on a sticky damp patch on the carpet. In my bare feet. The sod had sicked-up and left it there. I calmed down a little while I streamed piss into the lavatory, but not by much.

Determined to confront him, I burst open his bedroom door ready to shout the house down. My jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe what I saw. To say I was astonished wouldn’t cover it. Garry was in his bed with his arm cradled around another young man. They were both stark naked and judging by the pungent odour in the air the bedsheet was awash with cum. Embarrassed, I turned on my heels. Moments later as I waited for the kettle to boil, I devised a plan. I phoned my pal and he roared with laughter, but agreed to help. Together we could make it work.

I would need to get rid of the boy first. I didn’t have much choice, I just let nature take its course. Eventually, they woke up. The boy couldn’t get out of the house fast enough. That left me alone with Garry. He gave me the merest shrug of the shoulder when I berated him about the vomit. I had already cleaned up the mess, I couldn’t stand the smell on the landing. He just couldn’t care less.

Well don’t care was made to care, as my old Mum used to say when she reached for her hairbrush. I phoned my pal; he could be at my house within minutes. That gave me time to lecture Garry. I went through the list of his misdeeds; laziness, never lifting a finger around the house, the drinking, the drug-taking. I didn’t mention the boy in the bed, I didn’t want to sound like a homophobe.

He listened quietly, nodding his head from time to time as if agreeing. “Well, what have you got to say for yourself?” I asked breathlessly. He thought for a moment, head bowed, and then whispered, “Don’t know.”

“Bah! You need to be punished, you know that don’t you?”

He looked up at me, his dark-brown eyes glistening. “How do you think you should be punished?” I asked, calmly, as if it was the most reasonable question to ask a twenty-two-year old. He stared blankly.

“It says on the Internet,” I told him, “That a spanking is the best punishment.”

He looked startled, his mouth gaped before he spoke, “You want to spank me?” he asked incredulously.

“I don’t want to spank you,” I said trying to stress how much I didn’t want this to happen. “But you must be punished.”

His nose crinkled, I could see his brain was ticking over. He seemed to be debating in his head. I watched him for some moments. He looked so much younger than his twenty-two years. Perhaps that was his problem; arrested development. He should have been having this conversation when he was sixteen, not today.

The doorbell rang and I shuffled off to let my pal in. We had a whispered conversation in the kitchen. “How exactly do you want to do this?” he asked. “Shall I hold him down while you wallop him? What will you use, your belt?”

I hadn’t quite thought through the details. For sure Garry would have to be restrained. Perhaps my pal could hold him bent across the dining room table while I whacked his arse. My belt was thin and wouldn’t make a suitable weapon. What else did I have? I don’t wear carpet slippers. My hairbrush was a cheap plastic thing. Naturally I didn’t have a school cane or a paddle about the house (who did these days?).

“Here use this,” my pal picked a large wooden spoon from the draining board, he tested its weight by smacking it into the palm of his hand. “It packs quite a punch,” he said with deep satisfaction. “C’mon, let’s get on with this.”

I returned to the living room with my pal in tow. Garry caught sight of the wooden spoon in my hand, his eyes blinked furiously and his face flushed. “Well,” I started a sentence but trailed off. I wasn’t quite sure how to proceed. Garry took away what little wind I had in my sails.

“OK,” he gulped, struggling to look at me. Silence engulfed the room. I gave a quizzical look. “OK,” he repeated, “You should spank me.” Now it was my turn to look incredulous. “I have behaved badly, I deserve to be punished,” he spoke as if reading from a memorized script. “I deserve it.”

I heard my pal snort, but I ignored him. “Are you sure, Garry?” I asked. I was completely unprepared for this turn of events. He nodded shyly. He stood up and started to leave the room. He looked over his shoulder at my pal. “We should do this privately,” he said with some confidence, “in my room.” I followed him gripping the wooden spoon in my hand.

The bedroom smelt musty, Garry had removed the soiled sheet but the room needed airing. It was a small room, dominated by the bed. There was a small chair, but it was obviously not up to the task. Garry would not be able to bend over it and still leave room for me to get a swing at his backside. It would have to be an over-the-knee spanking.

I had never spanked anyone before. How exactly was this done? Of course, you relied a lot on instinct. Since Garry was submissive there would be no fisticuffs. I sat on the edge of the bed and wriggled my bum about until I felt secure. I spread my legs. This way Garry would be able to bend across one thigh and stretch out across the mattress, That should give me ample room to spank his backside.

Garry watched silently as I made my preparations. He was a shortish lad, maybe a couple of centimetres smaller than me. He had a firm waist (unlike so many of his contemporaries these days) and muscular thighs. He was wearing heavy blue jeans. Even with my lack of experience I knew these would give Garry a lot of protection against the wooden spoon. He must have read my mind. Without waiting for my command, he unbuttoned at the waist, slipped the zipper and pushed the jeans as far as his knees. He took a deep breath and leaned forward placing himself across my right thigh. Then he did something truly astonishing. He raised his bottom high, it was as if he were saying, “Yes, I have been a naughty boy, you must spank me. Good and hard.”

In this position his bottom was very firm. His black underpants clung to his cheeks, separating them. It was a terrific target. I took a deep breath and raised the spoon, his buttocks clenched in anticipation of my next move. I whacked the spoon down in the centre of Garry’s right cheek. He gasped slightly. I whacked the left cheek. I didn’t know how much a spanking would hurt a twenty-two-year-old but I made it my business to lay it on as hard as circumstances allowed. I walloped the wood up and down his left cheek leaving no spot untouched. Then I did the same with the right buttock.

Garry wriggled his bum. It was hotting up nicely, I thought. I smacked hard into the underside of his bum, where the cheeks meet the thighs. That hurt, I could tell. Garry’s legs kicked out instinctively. It was a reflex action against the pain that was travelling through his bum. At one point he raised his face off the mattress to yelp, but thought better of it and instead shielded his head with his hands. Sweat was soaking his shirt. He smelt sour, I don’t think he had showered that day.

I suppose I whacked him for about three or four minutes, I had rather lost track of time. How long should a spanking go on for? Obviously, in Garry’s case he needed (no, deserved) more than six-of-the-best. I stopped whacking him and took hold of the elasticated waist of his underpants. I was rewarded with a wailed, “No!!!” Garry thought I was pulling them down to continue his spanking on the bare buttocks. I wasn’t. I wanted to see the results of my efforts. I saw both cheeks were a rather delicious rosy red. The imprint of the bowl of the spoon had been reproduced over and over again on his flesh. Yes, I congratulated myself, a job well done.

I gave him another dozen on each cheek for good measure and released my grip on him. Garry lay across my thigh breathing heavily but making no effort to move. “Get up,” I said pushing him away. He stumbled to his feet and turned his back on me before bending down to pull up his jeans. He rubbed his bottom ruefully and stood still awaiting further instructions.

I suppose I should have lectured him about his future conduct and the dire consequences if he broke my rules again. Instead, rather tamely I stood up. This was his room after all, so it was for me to make an exit. I did so and returned to the kitchen where my pal had brewed tea. He asked me for details and I gave a blow-by-blow account.

Upstairs, Garry was admiring my handiwork in the bedroom mirror, his cock rigid. I think I must have spanked him three or four more times over the following weeks before the truth dawned on me.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

Letter of Regret

The choice is yours

The exam results are out

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

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