I should have known there was something odd about Mr Harris the first time I met him. It was the huge carpet slipper sitting on the coffee table.
I was in my second year at university and needed somewhere to live. The uni. sent me to Mr Harris. He had been taking in students for years. There was already a guy called Simon living there. He was a year or so older than me. He had been there for three semesters. I figured it must be a good place to live, if he kept coming back.
Mr Harris sat in a huge padded armchair. I was perched on a Chesterfield couch. The coffee table, empty except for the slipper, was between us. It looked brand new. The checked upper was sparkling clean. I couldn’t see its mate anywhere. It was solo. On its own. It was massive. I would soon enough discover it was a size twelve.
The house had four large bedrooms. Mr Harris had one and he let out two. He said a third had been converted into his ‘study’. I wasn’t sure what he meant by that. The room we sat in was magnificent. There was a huge flat-screen television. He told me he had all the sports channels. BT as well as Sky. There was high speed Internet, as well. I could use it for free.
He asked me some questions about myself. I’m gay and have known it for years. I don’t hide it, people at the university don’t care. I didn’t tell Mr Harris. There are laws against discrimination now, but you can’t always be sure. I’d let Mr Harris find out for himself later.
There were no rules to talk off. He said he didn’t want me taking drugs at home. He said I could have my own door key and he liked to go to bed early, so would I mind being quiet if I came home late. I liked the way he kept saying “home”. As if this would be my home as well as his.
The rent was cheap. Actually, that should have made me suspicious too. But, I didn’t think about it. I was about to move into a lovely house in The Avenue, an upscale part of town, for dirt-cheap rent. Bring it on.
I forgot about the slipper until a week or ten days later. A lecture had been cancelled so I arrived home earlier than usual. I let myself in and heard voices from one of the living rooms. It was Simon and Mr Harris. I didn’t think anything of it and I was making my way to the stairs when through an open door I saw Mr Harris seated on a heavy straight-backed wooden chair. In his right hand he clutched the carpet slipper. Standing close to him was Simon.
I don’t know if my jaw dropped but I stood rooted. Astonished at what I saw. Unselfconsciously, Simon undid the top button and zipper on his chinos and pushed them down to his knees. Then, without fuss he leaned forward and bent across Mr Harris’s lap. Simon’s face was inches from the plush deep pile carpet. His bottom was raised over Mr Harris’s thigh.
As if it were the most natural thing in the world to have a twenty-something young man across his knee, Mr Harris gripped the elastic waist of Simon’s multi-coloured underpants and tugged them over his buttocks and down his thighs until my roommate’s cheeks were bare.
It was a luscious sight. I had lusted after Simon’s arse from the moment I first set eyes on it. He was especially juicy in his Levis. Without saying a word, Mr Harris lifted the slipper and hammered it over and over again into Simon’s naked bum. The boy must have felt an almighty pain because he screwed up his eyes and shook his head about. Then suddenly he opened the eyes and saw me standing only feet in front of him. I don’t know what happened next. I fled up the stairs, embarrassed as hell.
Safely locked in my room, I whisked down my own trousers and pants. I had a boner to die for. It ached so much, even before I gobbed spit onto the palm of my right hand and polished one off.
It was a couple of hours before I saw Simon. He was nonchalant. I think my own face was still scarlet.
“I suppose you are wondering what that was all about,” he said. He didn’t have to explain what he meant by “that”. I gulped a reply. I still had the vision of his tremendous bare arse in my mind. I usually tossed one off last thing at night. It relaxed me. The vision of Simon across Mr Harris’s knee would help me to sleep for a long time.
Simon grinned. He had a wide open face. When he smiled, dimples appeared on his cheeks.
“I got an A,” he said. I suppose I must have looked puzzled. I certainly felt it. So, he explained it to me. “An A. In my essay.” He flashed that goddam smile again. My heart raced. “At the university. If I get more than a B-plus in an essay or a test, I get a spanking.” He roared with laughter. My face must have given away my feeling of incredulity.
“I suppose you could call it an incentive to study hard,” he smiled again. “Oh come on, you’re gay. You’re into spanking. Aren’t all gay guys?”
I shrugged. I didn’t want an argument. I didn’t think all gay guys were into spanking. Into arses, almost certainly. But not necessarily spanking. I gurned my face as if to say something like, “Who knows? Maybe.”
What did Simon know? He wasn’t gay, I was sure of that. There was this girl called Anna who was always around. Besides, my gaydar rarely let me down.
I asked my boyfriend Tom about it. I called him my “boyfriend,” I knew he saw other guys, but we were definitely friends who fucked. “Do you like being spanked?” I asked. He shrieked with alacrity, “Oh, yes per-lease!” Then he stopped dead. He must have noticed my look of alarm. “Oh, only if you really want to do it.”
Well, in for a penny. Seconds later, Tom was wriggling his jeans and shorts down to his shins. We were in his tiny room in the halls of residence. I sat on his narrow bed and he put himself across my knees, resting his upper body on the mattress. I had seen his naked arse many times, I had gone up it a good few. But, it looked different from this angle. My large palm covered the size of a single cheek. I cupped it and using circular motions I patted and preened his bum. There was quite a bit of meat and his buttocks wobbled as I made my way around the circuit.
I could feel his cock stiffen against my thigh. I raised my hand and slapped it down, first in the middle of the left cheek then the right. They were light taps. I had no idea how you were supposed to deliver a spanking. After eight or nine slaps, Tom wriggled his body and turned his head to look over his shoulder at me. “Do it properly. Like you mean it. Like I’ve done something really bad.”
I thought of all the other boys he had probably been screwing. I raised my hand again and with as much strength as I could find I spanked into his bare arse. Rapid, hard smacks. I was amazed to see how easily the imprint of my hand appeared as pink marks over and over again on his bared buttocks. Tom gasped and wriggled on my lap. He was humping my thigh. I spanked down another couple of dozen. Hump, hump, hump, he went.
Any moment my boyfriend would cum all over my trousers. I stopped slapping and pushed him off my leg. His stiff boner pointed at the ceiling. He said nothing. His eyes were wet, not with tears, but with desire. He gripped me by the shoulders, turned me around and pushed me face down on the bed. Then he gripped the elasticated waist of my trousers and pulled them and my pants to my knees. I didn’t resist. My own cock was on the march. A second later I felt the tip of his hot steel rod enter me.
It was my first spanking experience. It wasn’t to be my last. There were no real rules at the house, but both Mr Harris and Simon were exceptionally clean and tidy people. Everything had its place. The kitchen, the bathroom Simon and I shared, the living rooms; all had to be spotless. I was no slut, but I couldn’t compete with their standards. Perhaps, they had an obsession. Like a mild mental illness. I didn’t know. Simon and I rowed about it a lot. Toothpaste and shaving gel left on the edge of the washbasin, instead of in the cabinet. He hated me for it with a genuine passion.
“A spanking.” He said it quite forcefully one morning. My hairs in the plug hole of the shower had set him off. “The slipper. An incentive.” He didn’t speak in sentences, but his message was clear. If I continued to leave the bathroom “in a disgrace” he would take Mr Harris’s slipper to my backside. His dimples were especially cute when he told me that.
“Like with me and my exam marks,” he said. He didn’t need to explain. I got the picture. That was all well and good, but Simon liked being spanked. He probably craved for it. I was pretty sure that I didn’t.
Two days after that the inevitable happened. A misplaced toothbrush. I was in my room still in the old rugby shorts and t-shirt that I slept in when without warning the door burst open. Simon stood in the threshold, the massive carpet slipper gripped in his fist. “I warned you,” he growled. There was no smile and certainly no dimples.
He waved the slipper at me, his intensions clear.
“Piss off,” I told him and started to pull my t-shirt over my head. I needed to move or I would be late for university.
“A spanking.” Simon entered the room. Startled, I turned to face him.
“I said, piss off.” I shouted and pushed him back towards the door.
“What’s going on here?” It was Mr Harris. He had come from his study to see what the noise was.
“He won’t take a spanking,” Simon wailed. “He keeps messing up the bathroom.” He sounded like a spoiled child whining because he wasn’t getting his way.
Mr Harris stared at me. His face was cold. For the first time I noticed he was quite an old man. Why hadn’t I noticed that before?
“Well see about that,” Mr Harris snarled at me. “Quick. Grab him.” He might have been an elderly man, but he had some strength. He took my left arm and Simon my right and with me effing and blinding at the top of my voice they dragged me into the study. It was a large room, dominated by a small desk in the centre. Befitting a man of Mr Harris’s obsession, the desktop was clear.
“Here.” Mr Harris pulled me toward the desk. “Bend him across it.” I tried to dig my heels, but in my bare feet I could get no traction on the expensive carpet. I slid across the room, propelled by the two men. Mr Harris stood at the far side of the desk and pulled me across it. I was powerless to resist. The wooden surface felt cold against my bare chest and stomach.
I struggled to be free, but my tormentors had other ideas. Suddenly, Mr Harris lent across the desk, placing his own body on top of mine. His weight knocked the wind out of me. I couldn’t move with the fifteen-stone man across my back. I was pinned down with my shorts-covered arse across the edge of the desk pointing upwards.
All I could see was the far wall of the study. There was a photograph of a group of young men, formally posed, staring at the camera.
I felt Simon grip the waist of my rugby shorts. Shit! I thought, he’s going to rip them down and spank me on my bare arse. I tried to wriggle but the deadweight across my back was too much. I felt the shorts tighten against my bum. Simon was giving me a ‘wedgie’, pulling the cotton shorts tight into my crack. I stamped my legs up and down desperately trying to get away. Soon, the shorts fitted my arse like a second skin.
I felt Simon release my shorts. He must have stood back a pace. Suddenly, the slipper whacked into my bum. About a dozen spanks landed in quick succession. Rat-a-tat-tat. It was like machinegun fire. It was my first ever spanking. I didn’t know what it was supposed to feel like. It didn’t really hurt. Not badly. My bum quickly warmed up and was a bit sore, but I wasn’t in much pain. The weight of Mr Harris’s body pressed against my back, squeezing the breath out of me, hurt much more.
I don’t know how many times Simon slammed the slipper into my writhing arse, but minutes later, back in my bedroom, I saw both buttocks were deep pink. The imprint of the toe of the slipper was clearly visible on the back of my thighs where Simon had missed the hem of my shorts and hit bare flesh.
I stood in front of the mirror gingerly running the tips of my fingers across my firm bottom. What pain there had been was gone. My cock stood at a forty-five-degree angle. I picked up my phone from the bedside table, bent forward a little, pointed my bum at the mirror and popped a selfie picture. I sent it to Tom. I knew he would have a good wank looking at it. Later that day we would fuck each other’s brains out.
Picture credit: Sting Pictures
This story was first uploaded in November 2016
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