Mr Tripper pulled the car gently through the gates and slowly headed to the house. The afternoon was hot, just a bit too hot. Even with the air conditioning at full blast, his scalp itched with sweat. It did nothing for his mood.
He came to a halt and switched off the purring engine. He sat, his rear end a little sticky against the leather seats. He held onto the steering wheel and peered through the windscreen, noticing for the first time the dead bugs squashed against the glass.
He drummed his fingers; his irritation was getting the better of him. He did not like skipping work early. And he hated lying to his secretary about an urgent dental appointment. He wiped his wet brow with the back of his hand and opened the car door. He stood on the gravel pathway and stared towards the house. Sean would be in the bedroom at the far left on the top floor. Failing that he’d be laid out on the couch in the front lounge. Either way, Mr Tripper did not want the young man to hear his approach.
That might be easier said than done. Mr Tripper was a heavy set man and even a lightweight would fail to make crunching footsteps in the gravel. He felt absurd as he tip-toed the five or six paces from his car to the front door. He found his keys in his trouser pocket and quietly opened the door. He stood, ears pricked, seeking sound. He didn’t need bat-like radar, music (well, Sean would call the cacophony music) swelled from behind a door at the far end of the hallway. Mr Tripper congratulated himself on his prediction; the brat was in the front lounge.
He closed the door silently. The back of his shirt was drenched with perspiration, the airless hallway was no help. He was suddenly aware that his heartrate was speeding. His temples throbbed. Soon, his mouth would dry. Mr Tripper recognised the symptoms. He had them every time he confronted Sean. He made no attempt at stealth as he approached the closed door. There was no way the brat would hear him coming over all that noise.
He reached his destination and paused with his hand hovering over the door handle. Jeez, he groaned silently. He recognised the sweet, cloying aroma that drifted from under the door. Not again! After what I said last time. The bastard. And, in my house too.
He pushed against the door and it opened with a flourish. Mr Tripper stood framed in the doorway. The smell was overpowering. He cleared his throat. Sean lay on a couch at the far end of the room. Mr Tripper’s eyes narrowed, his anger was rising. Sean shuffled to something like a sitting position. He peered back at Mr Tripper through large black shades. His long, well-designed hair flopped over his forehead. He nodded a slight welcome gesture and took a long suck on the cigarette he held unsteadily between two fingers.
“What the …?” Mr Tripper barked.
“Huh?” Sean grunted.
“That!” Mr Tripper nodded in Sean’s general direction.
Sean looked at the cigarette in his hand as if seeing it for the first time. “It’s just a little weed,” he slurred.
“It is not just a little weed,” Mr Tripper took a deep breath. He was trying to control his temper, but instead he sucked down the cannabis secondary-smoke. He coughed. “It is not just a little weed. It is drugs.” He flailed his arms, pointing first at the twenty-four-year-old spaced out on the couch and then at the large window that took up most of one wall. “Anyone can see you.”
Sean furrowed his brow and beneath his dark glasses scrunched up his eyes. “It’s the garden,” he wheezed before taking another drag.
‘It is pot. It. Is. Illegal.” Mr Tripper’s arms continued to thrash about. “In my house. I cannot believe it!” But, he could. It wasn’t the first time. Sean was that kind of guy; never too far away from a smoke. You only had to look at him: long hair, posy sunglasses, very short cut-down denims and a sleeveless black vest with an anti-nuclear symbol emblazoned on the front. Clearly, Sean was not the nine-to-five type.
Mr Tripper moved forward so he towered over Sean’s prone body. “For goodness sake, put it out can’t you!” He waved his hand in front of his face in a fruitless attempt to stop himself inhaling the smoke.
“Wor …?” Sean dragged on the cigarette twice in quick succession and hiccupped. It was almost finished. He took a third hit and belched loudly, sending a cold shiver through Mr Tripper. Then very slowly Sean licked the tops of his thumb and forefinger and snuffed the tip of the lighted cigarette. Now, it was his turn to flail his arms as he tried to find an ashtray to set it down.
“Bugger!” Mr Tripper ejaculated. His sudden movement startled Sean and his shades slid down his nose. “I told you! I told you!” Mr Tripper repeated his statement for emphasis. “No drugs in my house. I told you.” He turned his back on the young man and strode across the room. He stopped, turned around and faced Sean once more. “Don’t say, I didn’t tell you. I won’t have it. I just won’t have it.”
Sean sat upright on the couch. His head was buzzing but he had enough sense left to see he was in trouble.
“What did I say? What did I say would happen, if I caught you with drugs again?” Mr Tripper’s already sweaty face was now puce with rage. “What …?”
Suddenly, Sean realised he was supposed to give an answer. Now, what was it the old man had said? He knew, he was sure he knew. But, just at this moment he couldn’t quite recall. He watched Mr Tripper try to open a drawer in a mahogany sideboard. It seemed to be stuck. The clattering noise he made as he tugged away clanged like cathedral bells in Sean’s’ head.
At last it was open. Through bleary eyes Sean saw Mr Tripper reach in the drawer. He thought he knew what he was searching for … if only he could remember. Then Mr Tripper waved a large, heavy wooden paddle in his fist. “I told you. I warned you. I did.” Mr Tripper seemed to be trying to convince himself.
Sean staggered to his feet, leaving the sunglasses dangling from one ear. He snatched at them and they fell to the floor. He left them where they were; he had other concerns right now. Mr Tripper clutched the paddle in his right fist and waved it, only inches from Sean’s glazed eyes. “A spanking I said. A darned good spanking. And, I meant it too. Get over here.”
He didn’t wait for Sean to move, instead he gripped the young man by the elbow and pulled him away from the couch and across the room. Sean did not resist. Mr Tripper left him swaying in front of a large table. The table itself had no real purpose, they ate their meals in a designated dining room. This one was for show, it just filled space in one of the dozen rooms in Mr Tripper’s house. He carefully removed an empty vase that decorated the centre of the table and laid it on the sideboard. Sean watched the older man as he made his preparations. His head buzzed. It was like he was on the ceiling looking down on scene. These two men were strangers. He might be watching a play at a theatre. They were acting out a scene.
With the vase safely out of the way, Mr Tripper turned his attention once more to Sean. “Take down those shorts. Underpants too. Bend across the table.” He tapped the table with the edge of his paddle so Sean could be in no doubt about the instruction he had been given. The young man stood rooted. He made no sound, nor gesture. He stared blankly at a painting on the wall beyond the table. It consisted of green and red slashes and there were blue squiggles in there too. The whole thing swirled before Sean’s eyes.
“Bah!” Mr Tripper explosion of exasperation made him sound like a very old man; some ancient headmaster in a boys’ comic from the nineteen-thirties. “Well, if you won’t, I shall.” He dropped the paddle onto the couch and without a further word he stood directly in front of the young man. He stooped his shoulders and clutched at Sean’s belt buckle. It was soon open. He undid the metal fastening on the waistband and the tight, short cut-offs flapped open. Sean was motionless, still trying to make sense of the swirling picture.
Mr Tripper’s hand trembled and it made him fumble with the zipper of Sean’s denims. Once he had it halfway open, the weight of the leather belt had the shorts slipping down his thighs and over his knees until they fell in a puddle at his feet. His underpants were the briefest known to man. They had to be since his cur-offs were no bigger than boxer shorts. Mr Tripper could hardly not notice Sean’s cock and balls pressing against the snug cotton. This was no mere boy standing before him.
“Well …?” Mr Tripper might as well have been talking to himself. Sean remained still when Mr Tripper put both his thumbs behind the elastic waistband of the pants and with two simple tugs he had them over Sean’s tight buttocks and resting on top of the shorts. His long, thick cock flapped in the breeze. From where Mr Tripper stood and gazed it seemed to be on the march.
“Bend over the table,” Mr Tripper ordered as he retrieved the paddle. It was immediately clear Sean had no intention to move so Mr Tripper simply took hold of his neck and pressed him forward. He didn’t have to force the young man, Sean had no resistance in him. Instead, he rested his stomach on the wooden table top and stretched his arms to his sides and gripped the edges of the table. He pressed his left cheek against the table. He was sorry he could no longer see the swirling picture.
Mr Tripper studied the paddle in his hand. It was not so big, maybe about eight inches long, and about four inches wide. It was made of oak, a hardwood, and it had a few holes in the middle, this was to let the air underneath it to escape, insuring it would burn like hell each time it made contact with skin.
He turned his attention to Sean’s buttocks. They were as manly as his cock. Although Mr Tripper knew Sean to be a lazy so-and-so, the young man retained a muscular body. His legs were covered with dark hair, but the buttocks were not. The tiniest nick of a blade was visible inside his crack.
Mr Tripper breathed deeply. The afternoon had turned sweltering. The room was airless. He wondered for moment if he dared open a window. Sean had been right, it did open onto the garden. The Avenue was some distance away, no passer-by would hear him. But there was nosy Mr Flynn at Number 52. Mr Tripper wouldn’t put it past him to be spying behind the fence.
He let it be. Sean was breathing evenly. His buttocks twitched slightly, as if inviting him to get on with the business. To do his worst. Mr Tripper took his time. Pat, pat on the left cheek. Then, the same on the right. Taking his aim. Then, Swat! It was a hard blow and the paddle blade was outlined in red across the cheek. He counted to fifteen in his head before landing the second blow.
He started in the very centre of the backside, across the highest and fleshiest part of the cheeks. The second swipe was lower; the third higher. That way Sean’s whole bum was ablaze and glowing red-hot after only three swats. Then, he went for the top of the mounds near the spine, over the crest of flesh and into the underside where buttocks meet the thighs.
Sean’s once smooth bottom was ridged with red welts. The surface of his buttocks soon took on the consistency of leather.
Sean made no sound. His bum absorbed the power of the paddle. Once or twice he twitched, it was his body’s natural reaction to the assault being made upon it.
In the right hands a paddle is a mightily effective spanking tool. It leaves the rear end blistered and bruised. A young man will find it painful to sit on a hard surface for a considerable time after. Unlike a cane or switch, or even a riding crop, a paddle doesn’t cut. It is unlikely to leave the buttocks bloodied. A paddle does the job, but it isn’t torture. It is the preferred instrument of the loving father or educator.
Mr Tripper wasn’t keeping count but he must have laid three dozen swats across Sean’s backside before he reckoned there wasn’t one square inch of flesh left untenderized. All he saw was throbbing, scarlet flesh. Sean’s haunches were on fire, surely he was in considerable pain. He struck one low, against the naked thigh. It left a deep imprint, but Sean barely reacted. Mr Tripper smiled to himself: he’s stoned – can’t feel a thing.
His arm ached and his heartrate was off the scale. The intense stuffiness of the room was getting to him. If he didn’t take care, he might fall to the floor in a dead faint. It was time to call a halt. He whacked another three swats against Sean’s thighs for good measure and then reeling a little, he swayed away from the table. Gasping like a fish out of its bowl he threw the paddle onto the couch. From a distance he observed Sean. He was still face down across the desk, arms spread-eagled, face staring off to the side. His backside was red and raw. In places the cheeks resembled uncooked hamburger meat. The young man was breathing heavily but otherwise he seemed unmoved by his ordeal.
“Stand up,” Mr Tripper called from across the room and when Sean gave no sign that he intended to move, he walked over and tapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, it’s over,” he said gently. Sean’s eyes watered. Mr Tripper could not tell if this was because of tears or the heavy smoking he had done. He took hold of Sean’s upper arm and helped him upright.
Now standing, Sean shook his head from side to side violently, rather like a horse does when neighing. The vigorous movement seemed to wake him up. His lips curled with a weak smile. He said nothing. Gently he pushed Mr Tripper back a little so they were both in space in the middle of the room. He sank to his knees in front of the old man. His fingers were surprisingly nimble as he undid the front of Mr Tripper’s trousers. Sean released the old man’s cock from its mooring.
It was long and narrow, curving slightly up the right. He was uncircumcised, the tip just protruding from the foreskin. Something on the tip glimmered. Sean placed his palm on the side of it, toward the base, and slowly wrapped his fingers around like he was griping a bat. Mr Tripper squirmed with appreciation. Sean took the pressure off his grip and ran his hand gently upward over nearly eight inches of cock.
Mr Tripper grabbed a hunk of Sean’s hair and forced the young man’s face towards his own throbbing penis. “’No, no. Take me. Suck me. Now. Now,” he gasped. “That’s what I paid you for.”
Picture credit: John Kohlburn
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
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