Landlord is sick of the lodger

z used new story 2

I lay flat on my back in bed, staring at the ceiling, the ache in my pulsating cock driving me crazy. The strain against my already tight underpants was intense. It was Sarah, the girl with the big tits who serves in the Three Fishers. I couldn’t get her out of my mind. My face, those bazoomas. I turned to my side and reached over to the cabinet and grabbed a handful of Kleenex. I rolled onto my back and urgently ripped down my pants. I gobbed spit onto the palm of my right hand and set to work.

My head still spun. It had been one hell of a night. It always is at The Three Fishers. Lots of girls, of course. I didn’t get anywhere. They prefer the students. What have they got that I haven’t. God alone knows what time I returned to my lodgings. I was three sheets to the wind. How the hell I got back, I’ll never know. I was steaming. Had I been sick? I had a vague idea I might have been.

I slowly massaged my swollen cock, stroking along the full length from base to head, then letting go and returning to the base again. I closed my eyes, imagining Sarah’s breasts and my tongue, licking, then slurping. Nipples erect. Me sucking, she groaning with ecstasy.

A groan of pure pleasure. This time real. My own. My fingers continuing to massage the warm, sticky, foreskin covered head. My other hand played with my own nipples, pinching one then the other tightly between finger and thumb, the sharp pain adding to the intensely erotic mixture of sensations my body was experiencing. I was building up towards orgasm. I writhed on the bed as it seemed to go on and on. Suddenly the cock in my hand started to pulse and throb and white fluid splashed across my stomach.

I cleaned myself down and screwed up the soiled tissues. I left them to flush down the toilet later. I turned over, snuggled under the duvet, hugged a pillow to my chest and tried to get back to sleep.

I wasn’t to know that downstairs, my landlord Mr Dickens sat at his kitchen table in despair, peering down at the pool of cold, congealed sick in the middle of the floor. He eased himself from the chair and shuffled across the room, picked up a kettle and filled it from the cold water tap. While he waited for it to boil he stared closer at the putrid mass on the floor. This wasn’t the first time. If he didn’t do something about it, it would be the last either.

The kettle switched itself off. Mr Dickens put a level teaspoon of instant coffee into the bottom of a mug and carefully poured the boiling water. He opened the fridge door. There was no milk. He cursed under his breath. That brat of a lodger has drunk it. He returned to his chair and blew across the top of the mug in a futile attempt to cool the coffee. It was then he formulated his plan.

The coffee was soon okay to drink. He sipped it thoughtfully.

….

I dozed, not quite awake, but not quite asleep either. If I had been more alert I might have been able to do something about it. I might have heard Mr Dickens stomping up the stairs. I never saw it coming.  The bedroom door flew open. A huge man framed the doorway. Tall and broad and muscled. A sour expression on his face. Mr Dickens, my landlord with a huge heavy wooden brush in his hand.

“You brat. It’s time you were taught a lesson.” That’s all he said. There was no need for explanation. I knew immediately what he meant. I tried to sit up but before I cold Mr Dickens rushed forward and tugged the duvet onto the floor. I was naked. He grabbed me by the arm. His physical strength startled me. I had never noticed before. He was just the old geezer who was my landlord.

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It took two tugs for him to haul me to my feet. I whimpered a protest. It was something like, “But… you can’t.” But, he could and he did. I was clear of the bed standing dumbfounded. He plonked his backside down on the mattress and bounced as his weight sank. He still had my arm. He pulled me to his left and within a blink of an eye I was spread-eagled, face-down over his knees. Me, total naked. Absurdly, I remember my balls were trapped under the weight of my body and were pressing into the coarse denim jeans he wore. The tip of my cock dribbled spunk. Mr Dickens didn’t seem to mind his jeans being soiled (perhaps, he didn’t realise.)

He said nothing. His intention was clear. He gripped his left hand around my waist. Of course, I struggled. I twisted this way and that. I kicked out my legs. My shoulders heaved. I lifted my head and shouted. I called him all the names under the sun. Truth be told, I couldn’t escape. He was naked, face down across my landlord’s knees. Totally at the mercy of Mr Dickens and that heavy brush.

My protests just spurred him on to action. I heard the thwack of the heavy wooden brush connect with my naked buttock cheek a nanosecond before I felt the intense sting. It was like he had pressed a boiling hot wet cloth into my flesh. I gasped and wriggled and he sent a second and then a third whack across my upturn rear.

I hadn’t given it much consideration before, but my bum is actually quite small. Like the rest of me, I suppose. The huge head of the brush covered about half a cheek, so by the time he had walloped me six or seven times, not one square centimetre of my bum was un-toasted. The pain was intense. I don’t know about you, but I had never been spanked before in my life. I don’t suppose there are many eighteen year olds these days who have been. I didn’t know what a spanking was supposed to be like. It had to hurt (obviously) otherwise what was the point of it? But, somehow, instinctively, I reckoned Mr Dickens wasn’t just giving me a common or garden type of spanking. This was something special.

My bum was on fire. He whacked that goddam brush everywhere. He went for that fleshy part that’s like the crest of the hills, then he pummelled into the top of the mounds. Then (oh God, this hurt so much!) he slapped the undercurves, just where the buttocks meet the backs of the thighs. When he did that I thought I would never feel anything that hurt so much. How wrong I was! He raised that brush so high and brought it down with maximum force right across the back of the thighs themselves. I hollered.  I howled. I cannot deny it. I couldn’t breathe. I thought I would pass out. My heart was thumping so much I though it would burst through my chest.

“Nooooo! Please!!!!” I yowled. My humiliation was total. Me, eighteen years old, a trainee solicitor in a prestigious firm in town, stark naked across the knee of an older, powerful man, getting my little bottom blistered with a heavy wooden brush. Just like I was an eight year old kid.

Mr Dickens ignored my pleas. He was a man on a mission. He was possessed. Whap! Bang! Splat! On and on and on, he spanked me.

Sweat poured off Mr Dickens. His armpits were drenched. Be he was not deterred. He had the strength of an ox. At last he stopped. He still gripped my waist. I was still face down. Still naked. Still totally humiliated.

“Right, you brat!” Mr Dicken released me, I jumped to my feet. I jumped from one foot to the other (the spanking dance). My cock and balls flopped up and down. My hands shot to my backside. The skin felt like tough leather. It was intensely hot. Suddenly, Mr Dickens grabbed a hunk of my hair, he dragged me across the room. My bare feet could not get a grip and slid as he pulled me over the carpet. My elbow banged on the doorway as he bundled me through. My arms flailed. I tried to punch at him, but he was wise to me. Within seconds he had me bouncing down the stairs. We came to an unsteady halt on the lower landing. He released his grip on my hair and took my wrist instead. I was powerless to stop him.

He pushed me into the kitchen. “Now,” he growled as he forced me down on my knees. “Clear up that mess.”

The doorbell rang. He left me and went to answer the door. I heard him call “Get on with it,” as he opened the door. Moments later his daughter and her two young sons stood and watched opened mouthed as naked and on hands and knees I wiped up my vomit.

Picture credit: straight lads spanked dot com

Other stories you might like

A Robust Response

Keynes College Caning Case

A memory in the attic

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

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