Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Strike while the iron is hot. Sow and you shall reap. There are similar maxims that I can’t immediately recall, but you get my drift. I have believed these for much of my adult life and they have served me well. My story started at the end of summer. I had just taken early retirement: good pension, money in the bank thank you, so I decided to spend some of it freshening up the house.
I got some local people in. You know the kind of set up. This was a father and son team. They could do a bit of everything; painting and decorating plumbing, electrics. One day the father went off to do a job somewhere else and left the son behind to get on painting the front room and putting in a fancy chandelier light.
His name was Nick and he took my breath away. He was in his early twenties and stood nearly six feet tall. His fair hair was nearly blond and expertly cut to look windswept all the time. He clearly went to the gym and was lean and muscular, unlike so many of the fat blobs you see nowadays wobbling down the street. He wore white overalls (with just underpants and no shirt beneath) and when he bent down to do something or other he showed an arse that was begging to be spanked. Even at my age my cock reacted.
On this day he called out to me, “Mate!” I cut him short. Mate indeed. “Mr Frobisher,” I told him firmly. I am not used to being spoken to with such familiarity by younger people. He blushed and said, “Sorry, Mr Frobisher.” I nodded my forgiveness and he went on. “Can you cut the electricity so I can connect the light.” I sighed heavily, “Were you never taught to say please?”
My eyes might have lit up more brightly than any fancy chandelier. A chance had presented itself to me. It was up to me if I took it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. “The fuse box is in the cupboard under the stairs,” I told him and watched the Adonis climb down from his stepladder and cross the room. I spied on him from a distance, keen to discover what his next reaction would be.
You see I keep my toys in the cupboard under the stairs. When he opened the door he would see hanging on nails hammered into the wall two crook-handled school canes, a shiny wooden paddle, a very worn two-tailed leather taws and an old-fashioned razor strop. He would be in no doubt what they were used for.
More people than you might imagine are “into” spanking. That is, spanking as a recreational activity, rather than as a genuine means of discipline and punishment. Some people (like me) are very open about it and take their fun whenever they can. Myself, I am an enthusiastic member of the Whacko! Club. Others, perhaps those who are shy, or who don’t know their way around rely on pornography and fantasy. Yet others don’t know yet that they are into spanking and just need a spark to catch them on fire.
I had no idea if Nick belonged to any of these groups, but I would soon find out. I stood in the doorway and marvelled at the sight of his tight buttocks stretching against his overalls as he knelt down to lean his head and shoulders into the cupboard. He did not fail to see my toys. What he did next would answer my question: is he into spanking? I have seen before that a person confronted by a cane, paddle, taws or what not cannot fail to react. If he picks up one of the toys, flexes a cane, tests a paddle on his palm, swipes the taws through the air, you know you have got him. There stands a spanko (whether he admits it or not).
My heart leapt. Nick paused his work, took a long look at the implements hanging on the wall and without checking to see if he could be seen, he rubbed two fingers along the tails of the taws. Then, he leaned forward and sniffed it. Oh joy! Things were about to get interesting. I went into the kitchen so he wouldn’t realise I had seen him. I made myself coffee, I needed to think. I had to concoct a plan.
I waited about five minutes and sauntered into the room where Nick was working. He was on his stepladder reaching up to the ceiling. He was a vision. His long legs tapered to meaty buttocks. His waist was slim, stomach firm and chest muscular. Any doubt I could have had (and truly there was none) died at that moment. I wanted Nick’s arse.
I knew that he had seen the spanking toys and was no fool and knew what they were for. I didn’t expect him to ask me about them. He was probably too embarrassed and certainly inexperienced in these things. I would have to make the first move. I read a story online recently about a painter and decorator who was taken over the knee by his boss and spanked because he arrived late for work. If only real life was as simple as fiction. In any case Nick was an exemplary worker and never came late; he would go far in his chosen trade.
Oftentimes, the most direct route is the best. Nothing ventured. “Did you see what was in the cupboard, Nick?” I asked as casually as my pounding heart and panting breath would allow. His sexy body shivered and his clear, open face flushed. “Yes,” he said cautiously, drawing out the word as if it had several syllables. “Good,” I said, adopting a stern “schoolmasterly” tone. “Just remember they are there should you chose to misbehave.” I immediately left the room to let him mull over my words.
It was now up to him. He said nothing to me for the rest of the day. He fitted the light and put a top coat of paint on the bedroom walls and then went home, without even saying “goodbye.” I couldn’t be sure if I had misread him. Maybe he wasn’t into spanking at all. Maybe, he was, but he wasn’t yet ready to have a go. I had a restless night. If he wouldn’t let me spank him in reality he couldn’t stop me in my dreams.
The next day he did not arrive at nine as usual. I was unsure how to interpret this. Could I expect trouble later from his father? What could he do? I was employing them and I hadn’t yet paid the bill. Might there be violence? I would soon find out. He turned up close to ten. “What time do you call this?” I scolded him. “Dunno mate,” he sniggered, “I ain’t got a watch.”
“You need to show more respect,” I countered. “You need to be taken down a peg or two, young man.” I was speaking to his back as by now he had trudged up the stairs to continue work in the bedroom. I retired to the kitchen, a smile playing around my lips. About fifteen minutes later as I took a mug of coffee into the lounge I detected a strong aroma from upstairs. Oh my! I giggled. Is that what I think it is? I stealthily climbed the stairs. If he was up to no good I wanted to catch him at it. The bedroom door was ajar and I could easily see inside. He wasn’t hiding. He sat cross-legged on the floor. Between his lips he had a burning cigarette, he had smoked it half way.
“What is this?” I affected outrage. “Smoking. In my house. How dare you!” He sprang to his feet, every inch the schoolboy caught in some misbehaviour. “It’s disgusting. I don’t allow cigarettes in my house.” By now he had stubbed it out on a rung of his ladder. He hopped from foot to foot and stared down at the floor. “How dare you!” I repeated. “I don’t believe it! Such behaviour!”
I waited to allow him to say something but he was (genuinely, I think) at a loss for words. When it was clear to me he wasn’t going to speak I filled in the gap. “What do you think your father will say when I tell him?” That prompted him to reply, “No, please mister. Please don’t tell him. I’ll do anything.” It was all I could do not to groan out loud. What a corny line! I’ll do anything. Was that the best he could do? Instead, I said, “Who do you think you’re calling ‘Mister’. I told you yesterday about your manners.” He looked sheepish, “Sorry, Mr Frobisher,” he said and to my delight, added, “Sir.”
“Well,” I said. I was working on an old script. “You should buck your ideas up young man.” That was his cue to say, “Sorry” again. To which I added, “Sorry is not good enough. What you need is a jolly good spanking.” The air was heavy. This was his chance to tell me to go to Hell, to threaten to punch my face in if I laid a finger on him, or simply to walk out of my house never to return. He did none of these things. Instead, he twisted his fingers together and swivelled on his feet a little and whined, “Sowry,” in a childish voice. Oh dear, I thought, he has a lot to learn about roleplay, but I found him rather endearing. “Sorry Sir,” I snapped. I wasn’t angry, of course. I was delighted. We were ready to go.
“Wait there,” I growled (I can play the ham actor too). I strode from the room and in my eagerness took the stairs two at a time. I had the cupboard door open in a second. I hesitated. Which of my toys to choose. My personal favourite is the whippy, rattan school cane. I would take great pleasure marking his backside with one of those. But, I had observed the day before that Nick had taken rather a fancy to the two-tailed taws. Since this was to be his special day, the day he would lose his virginity (so to speak), I would defer to his choice. I raced back to the bedroom with the leather strap in my hand.
Nick’s bright, open face paled. He had quite a tan from working in the open during the summer, but that could not disguise his blanch. His eyes sparkled. He gazed transfixed at the taws in my hand. I was in no doubt that this hunk of a lad wanted to be beaten. He desired it. He craved it. And, he wanted to be beaten by me. I remember the first time I was spanked. The mixed emotions. The anxiety mingling with anticipation. The tremendous high it gave me after (greater than any drug could ever do).
I waved the worn, leather taws in his face. It was so close his eyes crossed as he watched the tails almost brush his nose. His breathing was heavy. Already a film of sweat covered his forehead. I took a step back and surveyed him. As with yesterday he wore heavy overalls and it seemed not much else underneath. I swiped the taws through the air, delighted that his eyes carefully followed its flight. I was sure he was ready, I know damn well I was: my cock was bursting.
“These overalls are no good,” I said, expecting him to get my drift without too much explanation. “Take them off.” To my astonishment he did not hesitate. He was out of the heavy cotton clothing in seconds. They fell to his feet and he stepped away leaving them crumpled on the ground. I hope he didn’t see my jaw drop as I drank in his beauty. He was dressed in a cheap t-shirt and tight white shorts. He stood submissively, his face crimson. He looked as nervous as hell, but I was an old pro. I’d seen novices before. Outwardly they look terrified; inwardly they are craving to be dominated.
The room had no furniture. That didn’t matter. The ladder had only three steps. It was tall enough for him to stand on to reach the ceiling, it was also the right size for him to bend over to offer me his backside. I adopted a tone that I thought suitable for a disgruntled householder. “I have had enough of your rudeness. You need to learn a lesson young man,” I tapped the taws against my right leg as I spoke, keeping up a rhythm: one tap, one word. “I’m going to teach you some manners.” His eyes were glazing by now. “Bend over!” I pointed to the top rung of the stepladder so there was no doubt what I meant.
He hesitated for a second. Was he having second thoughts? Was he about to chicken out? Was he nothing but a prick-tease? My doubts were unjustified. Nick took a second to weigh up the consequences of his next action. Then I swear he took a deep lung-full of air, he wiped his sweaty palms against the seat of his shorts. Without a word, he swivelled on his feet turning away from me and towards the ladder. On a silent count of three he leaned forward. The ladder was slightly too tall for him and he had to stand on tiptoes to reach across. He did this without fuss and reached his arms down and grabbed the lowest rung that he could. He parted his feet and waited, breathing heavily, for me to begin.
His head was low and his bottom high, which was a perfect position for spanking. The tight shorts and meaty buttocks presented me with a terrific target; quite the best I had seen for some time (my fellows at the Whacko! Club tend to be older and flabbier). I licked my lips which by now were so dry they were in danger of cracking. I gripped the taws by its handle and laid the two tails across the highest part of his bum; on the top of the mounds. His back tensed and he gripped hold of the ladder a little more tightly. I flicked my wrist and allowed the leather to smack his bum gently. I was getting my aim. Then, without further ado I raised my arm to about shoulder length and smacked the taws across his backside. It was a moderate stroke. I should have liked to have lashed the leather with full force but Nick was a beginner. As far as I knew he had never been spanked before. I was certain his father had never taken him across his knee or applied a belt to his backside while he lay across the arm of a settee. I knew this for sure; fathers just didn’t do such things these days no matter how much their bratty sons might deserve it.
Nick gave no reaction. I was now faced with a choice. I find when spanking a boy for the first time I have to take very great care to get his measure. If I spank too hard it might take the lad beyond his limits of endurance to such an extent that he runs away howling and clutching his savaged buttocks never to return. Hit him too softly and he will wonder what all the fuss was about. He will have been cheated of the true exhilaration that comes with a spanking properly administered.
It seemed to me that Nick was far from impressed with the first stroke. I returned the taws to his rear end with more vim. The tails spread across the lower part of his buttocks, into the under-curves. Again, I detected little reaction. Undaunted I tried again. This one struck him squarely (if that is the correct word) across the highest point of his mounds. He gasped. “Ha!” I said to myself, “Now, we’re cooking.” I applied another two strokes, the second slightly harsher than the first. His bum wriggled and air hissed through his by-now clenched teeth.
Two more, harder still; one low, the other high, had him bending his knees. Two more and his head was bouncing up and down. The next swipe was greeted with a clear yelp. I halted, took a step back and admired my handiwork so far. The back of Nick’s neck was as scarlet as his face. I knew from experience his backside would also be crimson. The cotton shorts were thin and fitted snuggly and I was in no doubt that welts now criss-crossed his buttocks. He would be in some pain.
If it had been up to me I could have spanked him all morning, but conscious that he was a novice and by now convinced this would not be the last time Nick would submit himself to my will, I thought it best to wind up proceedings. “The last six,” I intoned gruffly. I positioned myself to the lad’s left and laid the taws across his bottom.
We were both so engrossed in the matter in hand neither of us heard the van draw upside the house. Nor did we hear the footsteps treading the bare floorboards as Nick’s father made his way upstairs towards the bedroom.
Picture credit: Unknown
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second