“Right lad. Let’s get you spanked and sent to bed.” Jackson looked at me from the vantage point of his chair. He was trying to grimace, to look grim. His moon face gave him away. He couldn’t hide the smirk, he was enjoying this too much. “Take down your pyjama bottoms and bend over my knee. And be quick about it.” Jackson gripped one of his own bedroom slippers in his right fist.
He knew I would obey his order. I had done so in the past and would do it again many times in the future. I took hold of the drawstring of my pyjamas and untied it. The bottoms slipped down to my thighs. I held on to them so they didn’t hurtle to my feet. I shuffled over to Jackson’s side. He spread his legs to offer me a platform. He was in his own pyjamas but wearing a dressing gown. He always did this. I suppose it stopped his tackle dangling out.
I reached forward so that my body fell across his lap. My bare bottom was perfectly placed. Moments later I felt the familiar sting and rush of adrenaline as the slipper connected for the first time with my right buttock cheek.
I had met Jackson at the beginning of my second year at university. Me and two pals rented a furnished flat in the High Street over a chiropodist’s office. A chiropodist is a foot doctor – did you know that? I didn’t. Jackson was that chiropodist and also our landlord. There was nowhere for the postman to leave letters at our flat so I would collect the mail from the receptionist at the chiropodist’s office every day. Sometimes Jackson was around and he would stop for a little chat. Inconsequential stuff; I can’t for the life of me remember anything that we talked about.
In the winter there was an emergency at the flat and the entire plumbing needed fixing. It meant we had to vacate. My two mates found people to put them up for the few days it would take before we could move back in. But, I was stuck. Jackson said he had a spare room at his house; so I went to stay.
Jackson was old enough to be my father and I don’t suppose we had too much in the way of common interests. I am gay and have never hidden it but to look at me you might not know. I look pretty ordinary and it’s not easy to tell. I don’t want to say I look “normal”, but I think you know where I’m coming from.
Jackson spotted I was gay straight away. It takes one to know one, I suppose. He didn’t make a pass at me or anything, but we did share a bottle of wine one evening while we chatted and got to know each other a little bit.
The first Friday I was staying with Jackson I went out and got bladdered. I was a student after all; it’s what students do. I got back to the house in the early hours three sheets to the wind. I was so drunk I couldn’t get my key into the front door. I guess I made quite a racket trying and failing to get into the house because Jackson had to come down and let me in. Even in my state I could see he was pretty pissed off with me, but he didn’t say anything.
Not until the next day. On Saturday afternoon, he called me into the room we laughingly called “the library”. It was just a standard living room really, but Jackson had put shelves around the walls and he kept all his books in there so they didn’t clutter up the rest of the house. There were a couple of low easy chairs and a table. I used the room myself for studying because I had no table in my bedroom.
Jackson gave me a good talking to. A right telling off. He told me he was angry about being dragged out of bed to let me in. I apologised. He had a right to be upset, I said. I’m sorry. “Good,” he said and he stared fiercely at me, “Because if it happens again, you’ll have to be spanked. Now, clear off. Don’t you have studying to do?”
I stumbled out of the library in a daze. “Spanking?” He was joking right? Of course he was, I assured myself. Spanking indeed. What did he take me for – a little kid? I didn’t think any more about Jackson’s threat until hours later when once again I was drunk as a skunk. I staggered down The Avenue, the upscale suburban street where Jackson lived (foot doctoring clearly pays well). I held on to the gatepost at the end of the drive that went up to the house. I searched my pockets to find my key. I gripped it tightly and taking small pigeon steps I scrunched up the gravel path. I reached the door and hesitated. I had to make a decision. I closed one eye and carefully lined up my key with the lock. After two unsuccessful attempts I got it in. I could enter the house quietly and go to bed. Or, I could make an almighty clatter and wake up Jackson. If it happens again, you’ll have to be spanked. I hesitated some more, trying to clear my head. I turned the key quietly, entered the house and tip-toed across the hallway. I thought I was doing pretty well until, I tripped over a wellington boot Jackson had carelessly left at the foot of the stairs. As I fell arse over tit I took the hat stand with me. The row it made would have woken the dead, let alone Jackson. But as it happens he was already awake. As I stumbled from my knees to my feet the door to the library opened and Jackson stood there, hands on hips. He pursed his lips so it looked like he had sucked on a lemon.
“Bed now. I’ll speak to you tomorrow,” he growled. Holding tightly to the banisters I crawled up the stairs. I crashed out on the bed and slept the sleep of the unjust for about nine hours. My head was pretty clear when I woke. I had the typical recovery powers of a nineteen-year-old. I only had a vague recollection of the previous night, but the words, “I’ll speak to you tomorrow” were clear in my mind.
As were If it happens again, you’ll have to be spanked. I did the three S’s – shit, shower and shave – and then went downstairs. I found Jackson in the kitchen surrounded by the Sunday Times. He peered over the top of the gardening section, his face stern. “Ah, good morning. Or should I say afternoon,” he dripped sarcasm. I nodded a perfunctory greeting and grabbed a bowl from the draining board and filled it with cornflakes. Jackson rose from his chair. “When you’ve eaten that come to the library. Don’t be long.”
I dragged it out as long as I could like it was a condemned man’s final meal. Spanking. Did he really intend to spank me? Absurd though it may sound to you, I thought he actually might. I had never been spanked in my life and I don’t remember that any of my friends growing up were either. They had the cane at school, but I never got it. You could say that I was a virgin to corporal punishment. No, I said to myself as I made my way to the library; all he’s going to do it give me a bollocking. Which, I would readily admit, I deserved.
Jackson was seated in one of the easy chairs. He peered at me as I entered the room as if I were a stranger and he was sizing me up for the first time. I stood, embarrassed. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to say. I hoped he would start talking soon. He did, but he had few words for me.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he said and then without further warning he leaned forwards and with his left hand he grabbed my right wrist. He pulled me towards him and then downwards so hard that I almost flew across his knees. I hollered a protest and kicked my legs about but it didn’t stop Jackson slapping his hand onto my backside. He went at a rush and struck me with some force. He put his whole effort into spanking my rear end. He gripped me tight at the waist and despite my kicking and flailing I was stuck face down, bottom up across Jackson’s knee. I stared down at the carpet incredulously: I was having my backside spanked. Me, nineteen years old, across the knees of a much older man getting whacked. Could you imagine such a thing?
I was pinned into position, I was going nowhere. I was at Jackson’s mercy. I couldn’t believe it. And, here’s something else I couldn’t believe: I was loving every moment of it. I think it must have been a submissive thing. Of course, with my jeans and pants on I didn’t feel a thing. Poor Jackson’s hand was hurting much more than my backside. He must have known that, but it didn’t stop him pounding my bum. He must have had a beautiful target. My buttocks were firm and pert in those days and my jeans were shrunk to fit. They left nothing to the imagination. Jackson spanked every square inch of my bum at least three times over and then he turned his attention to the back of my thighs.
I could have stayed there all day. Jackson on the other hand was running out of steam. At last, almost exhausted, he released his grip on my body and pushed me so that I rolled off his lap and onto the floor. My own heart was racing and my temples throbbed. The room was blurred (when it wasn’t spinning). I had taken all kinds of drugs in the past but none of them had done this to me.
I stumbled to my knees. I was only inches from Jackson’s crotch. He might have been an “old” man but his tackle seemed to be in good working order. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson,” Jackson’s voice seemed to be coming from a great distance. It echoed like we were in a canyon not a small room in a suburban house. I blinked to clear my head a little. He repeated himself, “I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”
I heard him more clearly the second time. I grinned. My eyebrows shot heavenwards. I said nothing. I didn’t have the words. Jackson’s moon face shone. He grinned, “Oh, It’s like that is it, young man.” He gripped my wrist once more and hauled me to my feet. In one swift expert movement he had my jeans at my ankles and my underpants at my knees. He threw me back across his knee and this time I felt every one of those vicious slaps as Jackson almost literally took my arse off.
At the end of the academic year me and my friends decided to give up the flat above the chiropodist’s. They went back to their families for the long vacation. I could have gone to mine, but I was twenty years old now and being with my Mum and Dad held no attractions. I mentioned it to Jackson when I went to give him notice to quit. “Come and stay with me,” he said quietly. “If you want to, of course,” he added with a wink. I moved in at the end of the month.
Picture credit: Unknown
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
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