Sad that it’s over

I’m disappointed that it’s over to be honest. It was good while it lasted, which in my case was nearly a year. I could do without all the publicity. The newspapers were angry there wasn’t even more of a story. They would have liked “Students imprisoned in house of terror!” but it was nothing like that.

Friends from college don’t get it. I haven’t spoken to my parents yet. How can I explain it to them? I expect they will be as embarrassed as hell if any of their neighbours twig they are connected with me. What can they say?  I don’t altogether blame them. I don’t really get it myself. I mean, I never planned this. I didn’t set out with an ambition to get involved with Mr. Lennox. It even started as an accident.

By the time I found out about the house Mr Lennox already had two other lads. Tenants. They lodged at his house. Lenny and Benny. They weren’t their real names. When I moved in I became Kenny. Don’t ask. I don’t know. Maybe it was an elaborate joke that we weren’t let in on.

I was looking for a place to stay. I knew Lenny from uni. and he took me along. It was that simple. There was no big subterfuge. No “knock three times and ask for Agnes”. No mysterious phone calls setting up meetings in underground carparks. I just turned up, had a cup of tea and listened while he told me the deal.

Later the newspapers made a lot of the fact we lodged rent-free. Somehow they saw that as “sordid”. Of course the less imaginative ones called us “rent boys”. That was way off beam. There never was any of that sort of thing involved.

Lenny had already marked my card so nothing Mr Lennox said shocked me. Puzzled me, yes.  Confused even. Baffled maybe. I hadn’t come across anything like it before. It didn’t take long to learn Mr Lennox was not the only one with his little arrangement.

I should say somewhere that I’m not gay. No. I’m not in denial. There’s nothing wrong with it. I’m just not it. The newspapers said we were having a “gay orgy”. Not true. Not “gay”; and come to think of it not really an “orgy” either. Just people doing their own thing in their own home.

I admit it feels gay. That’s because it was man on man stuff. An older man and a younger guy. You can see how that could be the plot of a gay video.

Mr Lennox worked all over the world and was away from home a lot. That suited us just fine. We had the house to ourselves and being young students we took full advantage. The house is hidden behind hedges and trees in its own grounds but there are neighbours near enough to be disturbed by our loud music. Mr Lennox was pleased to deal with us appropriately when he was told of our misbehaviour.

I shook like the proverbial leaf, the first time I went across his knee for a bare-bottomed spanking. Within a week I was taking it like a trooper. There are always nerves the first time for anything. A little fear of the unknown. Embarrassment perhaps that you don’t know the ropes; the right way to go about things. I was twenty and never been spanked before. Who had? Be honest; have you? Corporal punishment in schools had been confined to the pages of history thirty years ago and dads no longer slippered the behinds of naughty boys.

I was the novice, but Mr. Lennox was the master. I wasn’t the first one he initiated. I might have been the last. We were in the kitchen. Just the two of us. “You understand what we do here,” he said kindly. No amateur dramatics.  No shouting and hollering. I said I did understand. But I didn’t. Not really. Not at first. Maybe I still don’t understand why we were doing this; not really.

One newspaper said we were “brainwashed”. Hogwash. I knew what I was doing. I just didn’t really know why. Free rent had a lot to do with it. Living in a magnificent house with massive televisions with all the sports and movie channels. Wi-fi to die for. I’d never lived so well before and probably won’t ever again.

It helped that Lenny and Benny were there. I was not alone. The Three Musketeers; all for one and one for all. We all got it. Not at the same time. Sometimes a whole week would go by before I went over Mr Lennox’s knee again. Meanwhile Benny would be angled across the back of an armchair taking six-of-the-best from a whippy rattan cane. Or Lenny would be spread-eagled over the dining-room table, jeans at his ankles, briefs at the knees while Mr. Lennox tap-tap-taped a leather paddle across Lenny’s wobbling cheeks.

“You understand why you’re here,” he said. I gulped. Gulp. That’s not a word you hear outside of comics like the Beano, but it describes perfectly what I did. My Adam’s apple went up and down. Then I croaked something like “Yessir”. I rubbed the palms of my hands together. They weren’t sweating. They were boiling hot. So was my face. I couldn’t catch my breath. I thought I was going to faint.

“Steady,” Mr. Lennox smiled. “Take deep breaths,” he instructed me. I did. It worked. The room stropped spinning and I could focus on Mr. Lennox, sitting legs slightly apart on a kitchen chair. There was nothing unusual about Mr Lennox. About his appearance I mean. You wouldn’t give him a second glance in the street or on the train. Just another fifty-something man, not yet gone to seed but on his way. A little too much fat at the waist; some hair missing on the crown of his head.

“Okay.” It could have been a question but I heard it as an instruction. More like, “Okay, let’s get this done. Prepare yourself.”

“You need to take down your trousers.” A simple matter of fact. Spankings don’t work with the trousers up. Not good old old-fashioned over-the-knee hand spankings. Too much protection. What would be the point of that? I didn’t know – not at first anyway – that there’s a certain ritual to spankings. Each player has a part to play. Me as the naughty boy (the spankee, if such a word actually exists) and Mr Lennox as the spanker. My job is to prepare by unbuttoning my trousers, unzipping and then pushing them to my ankles. The underpants might stay on. For now. Or they might go south to join the trousers. That was up to the spanker.

Then, on a command it’s time to go over the spanker’s lap. No fuss. Present bottom. Submissively. So over you go. Stretch the arms out in front. Rest palms flat on the ground. Bend knees slightly. Raise bottom. The last part is important. You are a naughty boy, you have to be spanked. You know you do. Here you are saying, “Go on give it your best shot. I deserve it.”

So much for the ritual. It didn’t quite work like that. Not the first time. I stood rooted. Nerves got the best of me. I couldn’t move. I stared open mouthed (do people in real life ever do that?) “Ha!” Mr Lennox spluttered. It wasn’t quite a laugh but air definitely expelled. “Come here,” he gripped the waistband of my trousers and tugged me forward. I let him.

His nimble fingers unbuckled my belt. The front of my trousers gaped open. The room turned upside down. I stared down at the vinyl flooring. I’ve been trying to remember how it felt. How it felt that first time. Not the pain. There wasn’t much of that; not if truth be told. But how it felt to be a twenty-year-old man – and I certainly was a man, not a boy as the newspapers insisted – face down across the knees of a much older man, submitting myself to him for a humiliating spanking.

There I’ve said it. “Humiliating.” Was I humiliated? Is that what all this was about? I went to live at Mr Lennox’s house because I wanted to be humiliated? I enjoyed being humiliated, was that it? Is it as simple as that? The truth is I was not held captive. I could have packed my bags and left any time I wanted to. I was not kidnapped (sorry tabloids, you got it wrong again!) I wanted to be there. I wanted to be treated like this. But why? Nothing that had happened to me in my life up until the day I entered the house prepared me for this. I had never been turned on by spanking. Never fantasied about being spanked (by man or woman); never dreamt of spanking anyone.

Why did I do it? Why did I let Mr Lennox spank me? Why did I go back over his knee, time and time again? What will become of me now that Mr Lennox isn’t here anymore?

So, I was over Mr Lennox’s knee. No time to reflect. No time to think about the absurdity of it. How ridiculous it was. What would the boys at uni. say? The neighbours. My mother. I wasn’t to know that would be revealed many months later.

Mr Lennox’s palm connected with some force across the middle of my left cheek. Then the middle of the right. Then the top. Then the bottom. Quick fire. Slaps in rapid succession. Bam! Bam! Bam! I felt it. His heavy hand crashing into my cheeks (my heaving buttocks, if truth be told.) I wriggled and writhed. I twisted and turned. I kicked out. Mr Lennox had me around the waist. He dug his elbow into my back, pinning me down. I was going nowhere.

“Steady. Keep still,” Mr Lennox scolded as his hand lit up my cheeks. Each slap heated up my bum just a little more. But, if truth be told, it was no raging fire. Have you been spanked? Not necessary as punishment, but, maybe as part of you-know-what? It doesn’t really hurt does it. A hand spanking. No matter how much effort Mr Lennox put into it he would never have enough strength to inflict much pain to a twenty-year-old.

I now know Mr Lennox wasn’t trying to hurt me. Not that first time. My first time. If he had brought out his special wooden brush, or the paddle, or the thick, wide leather belt he used to take my backside off on later occasions I would never have come back for more.

But he didn’t. And I did. Sometimes he spanked us for real misdemeanours. Not doing household chores; hoovering, laundry, that sort of thing. I got a right whacking the day after I arrived home three sheets to the wind after an especially heavy session at the student union bar. Sometimes he just whacked us for the hell of it. Because he could. It was his house and it was his way or the highway. We stayed.

I never objected. I still don’t. Even now we are the centre of national attention. I had no idea Mr Lennox was so famous. It turns out he’s a bestselling author of the kind of thrillers my dad reads, all macho fighting and three murders before the middle of the book. Of course, he never wrote under his real name.

You can’t plan for life. Or death. One day Mr Lennox is spanking my backside, the next he’s in a Brocklehurst wine bar finishing off the second bottle. The driver never saw him when he lurched in front of the car. Goodbye, Mr Lennox. And goodbye to the good life for Lenny, Benny and me.

Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club

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Charles Hamilton the Second

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