The bedroom door flies open and Mr. Walter bursts in with a face like thunder. “You’ve been smoking!”
Steph looks up from the magazine he is reading. “No I ain’t.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes you are. I saw you as I was driving in. You were leaning out of the window.”
“Oh.”
“You may well say ‘oh’. And I can smell it from here.”
There is silence for a moment.
“I told you before you moved in. Strictly no smoking. It’ll kill you.”
“No it won’t.”
“And I don’t want it killing me either. You know what happened to Roy Castle.”
“Who?”
“Died of cancer. Secondary smoking.”
“Oh.”
“What did I say I would do if I caught you smoking?”
“Eh?”
“A spanking. I said I’d give you a spanking.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t mean it.”
“Didn’t I buster. You’re about to find out.”
“C’mon, I’m at college, not kindergarten.”
“Then you should start acting like it. Be responsible. Get up, the other boys are waiting in the dining room.”
Mr. Walter reaches for Steph’s left wrist and pulls him off the bed.
“Wor …. Gerroff me.”
Steph’s face pales to a ghostly white. Now holding his arm, Mr. Walter tugs Steph across the room. Steph tries to resist but his feet slide across the floor and he cannot get a grip to resist.
Seconds later they enter the dining room where four college guys stand waiting. Steph sees them, his face now a rich shade of claret.
“Steph thinks the rules don’t apply to him. I am going to teach him otherwise. And let it be a lesson to you all too.”
Mr. Walter picks up the clothes brush he has left on the dining table, then sits down in a straight-backed wooden chair strategically placed close to a wall. He pulls Steph towards him by the waist of his jeans. The lodger does not resist. Mr. Walter unbuckles Steph’s wide leather belt and then pops the rivets on his dirty blue jeans. Soon they are at his shins.
“Bend over my knee.”
Meekly, Steph draws in a lungful of air, takes a half a step forward, steadies his nerve, places his palms on Mr. Walter’s right leg and eases himself down. He stretches his arms forward then spreads them a little and presses his palms into the scratchy carpet. He cannot see this but his bottom rests high over Mr. Walter’s lap. If he cares to look, Steph can see under the chair to his feet where his toes don’t quite touch the floor. Steph keeps his head low and stares at the carpet. He wants to pretend he does not have an audience of fellow lodgers, but their nervous breathing is louder than the bird calls from the garden beyond the open bay window.
Mr. Walter takes hold of the waistband of Steph’s underwear. He is wearing trunks. His bum is beefy and the underwear is designed to fit snugly. Mr. Walter tugs the elastic making sure there are no creases and the cotton fits the buttocks like a second skin. The young man’s crack is clearly defined. He can feel Steph’s heavy breathing. He is waiting anxiously for the spanking to begin.
Mr. Walter wants to get on with it. He has other things to do this afternoon besides spanking smokers. He takes hold of the brush, makes a fist around its handle, raises it a foot or so above the trembling bottom and smacks it down with some force. Over and over and over again. Steph gasps as each whack connects with meat. It hurts. It is not agony. Not yet. But as each successive stroke hits home, all overlapping, his bum heats up; the soreness increasing.
The four lads watch transfixed. Eyes glues on Steph’s bum which is now bouncing over Mr. Walter’s knees. Steph’s eyes clench shut, his mouth opens and closes like a goldfish; he emits quiet yelps. Nobody is counting the whacks, least of all Mr. Walter and (surprisingly perhaps) not Steph. Several dozen at least have scarred every square inch of Steph’s magnificent bum.
Mr. Walter stops his assault. Steph waits. It is over. At any moment his landlord will release him and Steph will pull up his jeans and run from the room, not stopping until he has hauled himself onto his bed to sob into his pillows.
But no. Mr. Walter has not finished. “These really aren’t of much use at a time like this,” he says as with two pulls he takes Steph’s trunks over his buttocks and leaves them bunched below his thighs. He admires his own handiwork for a moment. The boy’s bum is already blistered. He raises the hard wooden brush once more and rat-a-tat-tat like rapid machinegun fire batters the naked flesh.
Steph wriggles and writhes. His feet flail but the jeans at his ankles make it impossible for him to move quickly. Bang-bang-bang, the noise of wood against fat resounds around the room. A sparrow resting on the lawn outside takes flight in fear. Steph’s almost silent yelps intensify. He cannot control himself. His body has to react. Sweat already soaks the back of his shirt and soon his pullover will be wet also. He lifts his head from the floor and shakes it from side to side, rather like a neighing horse.
Satisfied that every area of Steph’s backside from the top of his mounds, over the globes themselves and the sensitive sit-spot is toasted, Mr. Walter turns the attention of his brush to the back of Steph’s thighs. That gets him howling. After only three wallops the flesh glows red hot. Tears form at the back of Steph’s eyes, but are not yet flowing.
The front gate opens and there is the sound of footsteps on gravel. Mr. Walter and Steph do not hear the letterbox of the front door open followed by the plop of mail hitting the doormat. The postman is retreating to the pavement when his attention is caught. He pauses. It is the unmistakable sound of a spanking coming from behind the bay window. He approaches, stops, and watches.
Mr. Walter does not consider himself to be a cruel man. He believes in punishment, not torture. Steph has broken a cardinal rule and he lied to Mr. Walter; he deserves to be punished. He hammers home a couple of dozen more all over the target area and with a final flourish, he stops.
“Get up.”
Wheezing, Steph rolls off Mr. Walter’s lap. He catches his breath and while still on the ground he tugs up his underwear conscious that his fellow students might see his cock and balls. With modesty restored, he gets first on his knees and then he stands, pulls up his jeans, fastens the fly and buckles the belt. Through the window he glimpses the postman closing the garden gate.
There is silence for a moment before Steph walks rather gingerly from the room.
Moments later he is in front of his bedroom mirror, jeans and underwear at his ankles once more. He admires Mr. Walter’s craftsmanship. The pain has already subsided, but his bum and thighs tingle. The pain reignites if he touches flesh and he knows it will be uncomfortable to sit on a hard surface for some time to come.
In the room next door, Ritchie reviews the video on his phone. Beautiful. He has the perfect view arse-on. He uploads it to Boyzblazingbuttz, then lowers his own jeans and underpants before stretching out on the bed where he tugs his rigid dick.
This story was first uploaded in December 2017
Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club
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