The Boy at the Service Station

new story 2

z used short shorts hustler outdoors

My heart skipped a beat, my jaw dropped, my tongue hung out. And, yes I got more than a tingle below. It was forty years ago that I saw the boy at the motorway service station and not a day has gone by since that I haven’t thought of him.

I sat at a picnic table in the sunshine munching a Wimpy and idly watching the world go by. Road service stations are not the most interesting places to be so my mind was somewhere else. Maybe I was thinking of the miserable time I was having criss-crossing the towns of southern England trying to sell industrial packaging to companies. Well, where do you think all those cardboard boxes come from?

I saw him moving from lorries to vans to ordinary cars. It was his arse I noticed first. He wore tight-fitting brown cotton shorts. These were the days when shorts really were shorts; they barely covered the underwear. They clung to his tight pert cheeks. I gasped.  Some bums cry out to be spanked. This one should have had the words “Spank this” written across it.

His brown hairless suntanned legs started at the feet and went all the way up. He leaned into the driver’s window of a van, I had the perfect sideway view. What I would give to grab him and hurl him across my knee! Thank you God for this gift to all Mankind! He moved away from the van onto the next vehicle, a mini car. He arched his back and leaned forward, he was close enough I could almost reach out and touch him. With his head low and his knees straight, his bum jutted out at the perfect angle. I imagined him across the back of the easy chair in the room I rented. I would be popping a paddle into his solid muscle; or maybe swishing a school cane (we still had them in those days) across his upturned rear.

His dark blue t-shirt had ridden up his back exposing bare, tanned flesh. I wanted to grip the elasticated waistband of those shorts and gently tug them down over his pert buttocks until they snagged at his knees. I leaned forward to get a closer look; I couldn’t detect the outline of underpants. My dick saluted.

I took him to be a hustler; a rent boy looking for a trick. You got lots of them at service stations (you still do) of both sexes and all persuasions. I cursed that I was skint. I was always broke in those days. I would have gladly whisked him over to the small motel at the far end of the parking lot. Obviously rebuffed by the mini car driver, he stood up; our eyes met, he had caught me red-handed ogling him. Red-faced would be a better description. I was the colour of cherry and the heat from my face would warm a small room. He flashed a smile. My mouth dried. He sashayed toward me, I took a deep gulp on my can of Tizer. He sat down on the opposite side of the picnic table. His grin was so wide I saw all his teeth; they were perfectly straight except for one on the right side (as I looked at his open, friendly face) that was buckled. I gazed at him, smitten. The summer sun had been kind to his skin, his tan was deep. Unlike so many people his age, myself included, he did not suffer the ravages of acne.

He spoke and my heart stopped. His was not the voice of a rent boy. Was it George Orwell who said it’s impossible for an Englishman to open his mouth without making some other Englishman hate him? I’ll look it up on Google later. The boy was not of the industrial working class. His father more likely owned the mine rather than hewed the coal. He told me his story. He was trying to get a ride back to lodgings in Brocklehurst where he was a student. He had been away at a music festival. I was not much older than him. I had graduated from university the previous year with a degree in geography and was working as a sales rep. until I found something better. I took the job because it came with a car and paid the rent, although the wages were lousy.

As he told his story my eyes moved from his perfect face (had he started shaving yet?), to his swanlike neck to his chest. His shirt hugged his muscular body so snugly his nipples showed through the cotton. My hard-on responded appropriately. My God I wanted that boy. There and then I would have grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and hauled him face down across the wooden table and pounded his backside with the palm of my hand. The leather belt that held up my trousers was wide and thick; it could make a lovely lattice pattern on his creamy-white bum.

Brocklehurst was a small nondescript town about twenty miles distance from the service station; it was nowhere in my direction. “I’ll take you there,” I heard myself saying; not for the first time in my life I let my dick do my thinking. A few minutes later we were in my Marina heading south. He said his name was David. A name too ordinary for a God. Virgil have been better. We chatted amiably, like we were old friends. We talked about university; he was reading business management (no problems finding a job with that). We had similar tastes in music and films. He read books (not all that usual with business types).

Evening was turning to night and the roads were clear and soon we were in the suburbs of Brocklehurst. He directed me to a wide tree-lined street with large expensive houses. “Number thirty-three,” he pointed to a detached mansion on the left. It confirmed my first impression that he wasn’t a son of the soil. “It’s not mine, I only lodge here,” he giggled. It tore my heart out.

I pulled into the driveway, there was room to park at least a dozen cars but it was empty. I could see the house was in darkness. We sat side by side, he not wanting to get out, me not willing to drive away. My cock had calmed a little, but it still controlled my reasoning. I could not get the image of his beautiful bum encased in tight cotton shorts from my mind. I switched on the interior light in the car, he turned to face me.

“My landlord is out, do you want to come in. For coffee,” his hazel eyes were shining, “or something …” he giggled like a little girl. He didn’t wait for my answer, he opened the car door, grabbed his bag from the back seat and headed to the house. I watched his buttocks like two peaches slide up and down as he glided into the distance. I hurried after him ever the obedient puppy. It was a huge house, the furniture in the hallway was not the kind you assembled yourself at home. I didn’t see much else; he took me into a living room. It had a large Chesterfield-type couch, two sumptuous armchairs and a couple of coffee tables. In one corner was a bar and behind it an array of bottles hung on the wall. A rack held a dozen or so bottles of wine. It was like a small pub. He leaned over the bar offering me another chance to admire his pert arse and pulled open the door of a small refrigerator. He pulled out two cans of Colt 45. “Drink.” It was a statement, not a question.

We sat together on the Chesterfield. It was wide enough to accommodate at least four people, but we contrived to be knee-to-knee. He flashed me a grin and giggled. He popped the ring-pull of the beer can and foam rushed over the top and spilled onto the couch. “Shit!” he groaned and leapt to his feet. Within seconds he was back from the bar with a cloth. He leaned across me to dab away at the small pool of beer. I could smell his body; it wasn’t a strong odour, just the aroma of an older teenager who had been at a music festival for the weekend.

Satisfied that the spill was cleaned, he tossed the cloth across the room; it fell someway short of the bar. I stared at it; I needed a distraction. Otherwise I would have to look at David; an impossible task. I was beyond merely admiring his body. I wanted it. David broke the silence. “I think that’s all cleared up,” he said, just for something to say.

“Yes,” I blurted, I didn’t know what I was saying, “Your landlord wouldn’t want this nice leather settee stained.” I looked towards David for a reaction, he grinned. That encouraged me in my idiocy. “Does he know you drink his beer when he’s not here?” David shrugged his shoulders, I saw a glint in those delightful eyes. “If I was him and I found out, I’d have to spank you.” I suppose my face coloured, redder than the expensive claret over on the wine rack. David flung his head back and let out a shrieking laugh; the noise rang around the room. “You could try!”

I remember the following moment as if it had lasted an hour. Would I, wouldn’t I? Should I, shouldn’t I? Yes, I would. David was standing in front of me, it was the easiest manoeuvre in the world for me to take hold of his left wrist and pull him forwards and downwards so that he was spread-eagled over my knee and across the couch. I raised my hand and smacked it into his left buttock. Then I did the same to the right.

“I was joking! I was joking!” he giggled, as he wriggled from left to right across my knee. I held him across his back with my left hand while I set up a steady rhythm with my right. They were love taps, I wasn’t doing him any harm. The palm of my hand fitted one of David’s buttocks perfectly; you could say like a glove. It was a combination of my largish hand and his smallish firm, pert bottom. He kicked his legs about, like he was swimming, calling out all the time, “I didn’t mean it, ouch! Ouch! Ouch!” He didn’t mean it alright! He was strong enough to escape free, but he had no intention of doing so.

His shorts were thin cotton and it was clear at this close distance that he wore no underpants. I spanked on and on before stopping to pat and preen his bottom. I wished I had a hairbrush to hand to bounce off his rock-hard bum, I would’ve loved to drum out a tune. David’s body was hard, his waist slim, his bum perfect and his long, hairless legs divine. I took hold of the waistband of his shorts and hesitated. I suppose I was seeking his permission for my next move. We didn’t speak (we hadn’t said a word since he stopped play-acting ouches) but when my intention became clear, David lifted his stomach off my knee to make it easier for me to tug the shorts over his buttock cheeks. I obliged and left them bunched at his shins.

David had clearly enjoyed his summer, he was tanned all over, except for his tiny bum. This was now turning pink. I spread my fingers wide and spanked him hard. No more love taps, this was the real thing! Well, as “real” as a hand spanking can be on a nineteen-year-old; even bare-arsed it is unlikely to make much impact. Nonetheless, I was delighted to see the imprint of my hand embossed on David’s buttocks as I whacked him over and over again on the same spots. Soon, I had covered the whole target. His skin was dark pink from the base of his spine, over the foothills of his buttocks and into the underside of his cheeks. Not one square inch of his bum was left unmarked.

Not wishing to stop quite yet, I turned my attention to the back of his thighs. He wriggled some more, genuinely (I think) hurt now. The thighs can be especially sensitive to spanking.

We were so engrossed that neither of us heard the car pull up in the drive or the front door open. The first we knew of the return of David’s landlord was when he bellowed from the hallway. He bounded into the room demanding to know “What the hell is going on!” He cut an imposing figure, easily fifty years old, and six feet and more tall. He had wild black hair and a bushy unkempt beard. He had once been a strong man, but his two chins and the cushion of fat around his stomach suggested those days were in the past.

David broke free from my grasp, got to his feet and was pulling up his shorts as he dashed by his landlord and bounded up the stairs to his bedroom. His erection was most impressive. I stumbled to my feet, conscious of the landlord’s wide-eyed glare. He moved further into the room, making towards me. I lowered my head and using it and my shoulders as a battering ram, I pushed him aside. Moments later I drove at speed through the gates and headed to the motorway. The tentpole in my pants made driving uncomfortable, I detoured to find a quiet, dark street and dealt with my predicament in the traditional manner.

That happened forty years ago and no day has gone by since that I haven’t thought of David. He is upstairs now as I write this changing out of his business suit and into his shorts. His hair is a little thinner and his waist a little thicker but to me he is still that gorgeous young man at the service station and I treasure the life we have shared for four decades.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

Max of the ‘Champion’ 2. The deputy editor

The casting couch

Bug on the wall

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

One thought on “The Boy at the Service Station

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s