Oliver Aldiss was eighteen years old and had jerked himself off for as long as he could remember. His sex activity was entirely limited to masturbation or mutual masturbation. The boys at his boarding school called this “Insurance” after the Mutual Insurance Company which had offices across the land. They would be at it every night in the dormitories. There was nothing “homosexual” about this. In fact, it was frowned upon to wank one’s friends. To be caught in solitary masturbation was considered a disgrace, also. Soon after lights-out the beds would creak and boys would move in with neighbours or near-neighbours.
After special occasions, a victory at a rugby or cricket match for example, the communal masturbation was intense. This was especially so in the senior years, when the boys, now aged eighteen and more were fully-fledged men, as the size and power of their genitals testified. A group would stand in a circle in the dorm, each catching hold of the cock of the man on his right and begin rubbing when a signal was given. The competition was to see who came first.
But school was over now. The long summer was here it would be another two months before Oliver would go up to the university. Opportunities for “Insurance” were zero. Having been raised at a boys’ boarding school, he was shy around girls. They were a mystery to Oliver. He did not know how to talk to them; how could he hope ever to get inside their bras and knickers?
And he so much wanted a girl. Now away from school he was left to his own devices but the shame of solitary masturbation had not left him. If he couldn’t get a girl and he couldn’t do it to himself, he needed to find some equally-desperate young men. He was climbing the walls with frustration. The summer was hot and humid which made sleeping difficult, and his raging cock would not be stilled. Only once did he succumb. The throbbing gristle shot a load fully a foot in the air after only two or three haphazard strokes. His shame was intense. Not shame in wanking; he never believed it was shameful or that he would go blind or grow hair on the palms of his hands. These were just stories demented clergymen or parents told. His shame was that he didn’t have someone else’s guiding hand.
As the summer holidays dragged into the second week and the heat intensified, Oliver thought his problems were over. He sat in a stifling parish church listening to the vicar droning on. Oliver’s chin nodded against his chest and he was in danger of tumbling from his pew to the stone floor when his ears perked. “Self-abuse.” Oliver startled. Had the Rev Crick really said those words? He shook his head awake and tried to comprehend. He remembered the days, not so long past; when in this very church he and other boys in the choir would play with themselves (and sometimes with each other) under their surplices without a single ripple being visible. He stared at the innocent faces of the present choir.
Around him male members of the congregation stirred. If the vicar was to be believed, there was an epidemic. How would Rev Crick know? If you went down to Widdicombe Woods today you’d be in for a big surprise. Lots of men tossing themselves off. Oliver’s face brightened.
The sermon seemed to go on for hours; his mother’s traditional Sunday lunch lasted for ever. Oliver crossed and uncrossed his legs at the dinner table. His stalk was trying to fight its way through the zip of his trousers. His eyes watered and his temples throbbed. He had to get away. Down to Widdicombe Woods. Finally, the last of the jelly and custard was scrapped off plates. He was free. Without a word to his parents, he sprang from the room and taking the stairs two at a time he landed in his bedroom. He ripped off his formal shirt and tie; he left his Sunday suit in a heap on the floor. He stepped into cooling shorts and not even pulling on a t-shirt he slipped his feet into sandals and headed back down the stairs. The whole operation completed in seventy seconds. He ran down the street, headed for the Woods.
Widdicombe Woods were huge. Would it be like looking for a needle in a haystack? There was a boating lake, paddling pool, a children’s play area. He avoided them. No one would be wanking there (or shouldn’t be!).
He made some way into the woods. The leaves became thick over his head like a curtain over the sun. The spongy bed of leaf mould beneath his feet gave off a dank, musty odour as his shuffling tread disturbed the top layer.
Disappointment engulfed him. Had the vicar been mistaken? Had he been lying? Oliver wasn’t naïve enough to believe every word a vicar might say. Now, frustrated, he stopped. His cock twitched with exasperated excitement. It burst against the smooth cotton of his shorts. In his haste he hadn’t bothered to put on underwear. He was no angel and never had been. Quickly he scanned the horizon. That was easy enough because he was enclosed in a wood, away from the paths. Nobody would accidentally pass by here. Quickly he lay on the ground amid wild flowers. They were surprisingly prickly against his bare back. Hastily he slipped his hand under the waistband of his shorts and slowly and methodically worked away at his engorged penis.
It doesn’t take much to set an eighteen-year-old off and within seconds Oliver knew he was about to explode. Just in time he swivelled his hips, wriggled his bum and got the shorts down to his knees. “Huff, huff, huff,” he wheezed as a load shot over his flat stomach. He lay eyes closed in extasy.
“What the hell … you dirty little boy!” It was a man’s voice and it was incredibly close. Oliver, startled opened his eyes wide. Now, standing over him, blocking the sunlight was a man. The sunlight dazzled Oliver and he could only make out the man’s basic shape. He was tall and broad. “Dirty bugger,” the man growled. Oliver struggled back into his shorts, ignoring the cum that dripped from his stomach onto them.
“Stand up.” The man spoke with authority. Oliver, confused, sat still. Who was this man? “I said stand up. And I don’t expect to have to tell a boy twice.” Oliver’s head spun. The man sounded exactly like one of the pompous bullying masters at school. “Up, I say.” Some schoolboy instinct must have kicked in because Oliver first knelt in the prickly flowers and then staggered to his feet. He stood; head bowed. “That’s better. You disgusting guttersnipe.”
With the sun no longer in his eyes Oliver was able to study the man. He was a good deal taller than the teenager with a head shaped almost like a rectangle. Much of his face was hidden by a shaggy ginger beard. The top of his head was cropped short like a convict. A worn flannel shirt stuck to his torso with sweat. His long shorts, knee-length socks and boots betrayed him as some kind of rambler. But it was the man’s muscles that Oliver mostly noticed.
The man’s grey eyes pierced Oliver. The boy shuddered as if an ice cube had been placed on his back. The stranger took a pace forward; he was so close Oliver could smell his sour breath. “Ungodly!” he shrieked. “Self-abuse.” Oliver’s heart raced: the man could have been reciting words from the vicar’s sermon.
“And we know what happens to boys who play with themselves!” The words came like a bolt.
Oliver stuttered, “They g-g-g-go blind.”
The man’s spluttering laugh was unsettling. “Ha, ha, ha. That might be so. No,” he leaned forward, towering over Oliver. “They get a nice warm whipping.” Did he leer? Oliver was unsure. The tip of the stranger’s tongue licked his own bottom lip. All spit drained from Oliver’s mouth. “B-b-b…” he babbled. Why was his heart beating so fast? Why was his cock stiffening?
“What would your mother say ….? The stranger’s eyes blazed. “The shame.”
“No, please don’t tell my mother …” even as the words escaped his mouth Oliver realised how absurd he sounded. Why was he pleading with this man?
“The wrath of God …” the man said, as if speaking to nobody in particular. “It’s a sin,” he rambled. “And sins must be punished.” The man stood, feet apart, hands on hips. He glared at Oliver who cowered under the gaze. “Don’t you agree?” The silence that followed lasted seconds but to Oliver it felt like hours.
“W-w-w-well, I don’t know.” Oliver mumbled. His head spun; he couldn’t catch his breath. What was going on inside his own head? “Well, I do,” the statement had more than a hint of menace. “I do,” the stranger looked around him as if searching for something. Oliver saw his lips pucker; he had found it.
“You disgusting little tyke,” the stranger lectured. “Abusing yourself. In public. Where children play.” Oliver hardly heard the words. He stared at the man’s huge arms, the tree-trunk legs, the hands the size of shovels. The thoughts inside his own head scared him.
“A damn good spanking.” It was a second or two before Oliver realised the man had stopped ranting. What had he just said? Exasperated, the stranger repeated himself, “I’m going to give you a damn good spanking.” He gripped Oliver’s left wrist and pulled him across the ground; the teenager’s feet skidded over the leaf mould. Still holding Oliver, the stranger sat on the trunk of a tree that must have fallen in the recent storm. Oliver gaped as the man spread his own legs. His intention was clear. Why, Oliver wondered, wasn’t he complaining. He should be yelling, fighting, running away. Instead, he stood meekly, submissively.
The stranger’s next move happened so quickly that Oliver didn’t realise it was happening until it was all over. He released his grip on Oliver’s wrist and in a smooth continuous movement he tugged the teenager’s shorts to his knees, then he took hold of Oliver’s arm before expertly guiding him across his lap so that the boy was face down, staring at fallen branches. His bare bottom was strategically placed over the older man’s lap, his buttocks angled over the stranger’s thigh. Oliver’s cock and balls pressed against the stranger’s firm body.
The man said nothing. Oliver shuddered as the man’s palm gently caressed his right buttock. The man’s arm gripped Oliver’s waist; the intention was to make sure the boy didn’t topple to the ground. Oliver waited, tension rising. Still the man uttered no word. Then, the hand lifted away from Oliver’s buttock, there was a pause then the sound of a resounding smack of hand across naked flesh echoed around the wood. A startled bird nearby took flight. A second, a third and a fourth slap immediately followed. Oliver could not see but he could feel that the man’s hand was large enough to cover one buttock cheek almost completely.
To his own astonishment Oliver lay face down, across the lap of the older, stronger man and submissively allowed him to spank his bare bottom. The heat in his bum increased. Oliver had never been spanked; he had no idea what he was supposed to feel. The heat became a tingling sensation. The tingle increased to real pain. Within seconds Oliver knew his bottom was on fire. The man’s palm was so large and hard it might easily have been made of wood. Something like his mother’s ebony hairbrush perhaps.
Slap-slap-slap! This was no game. The man was committed to the task. The task of spanking this godless sinner who exposed himself in public and played with himself until his seed spread. Oliver kicked. He wriggled his hips. His head shook from left to right and then up and down. His arms splayed. It was like he was trying to swim off the stranger’s lap. But the man’s grip on his body was so tight, so strong that had he been able to engage in a moment’s rational thought he would know he was going nowhere. He could go nowhere; not until the stranger said so. Not until the stranger decided Oliver had been punished enough.
By now, every square inch of Oliver’s buttocks flamed a rosy pink. They would glow in the dark. Satisfied with a job well done, the man now moved to the back of Oliver’s thighs. Oliver gasped and yapped, and then yelped. The thighs are more sensitive than the buttocks and the pain now rose to agony.
Oliver’s yaps and yelps were involuntary. They were just something his body demanded he do; a natural reaction to the pain he felt. Otherwise, he made no sound. He didn’t plead and beg. He didn’t ask for the spanking to stop. He didn’t promise never to masturbate again. He just lay face down, bottom up across his tormentor’s lap and … and what? He didn’t have the words to describe the sensation. Yes, he could say he was light-headed. He had never taken drugs, but maybe this was what people meant when they said they were “high.” Why did he seem to enjoy being pinned down by an older and stronger man? Did he like the pain? Was there a sensation to being both pinned down and having pain inflicted upon him?
Suddenly, the rain of blows across his backside stopped. Oliver felt a movement in the man’s body. The arm around his middle was no longer there. Only then did Oliver hear the voices. A man and a woman. Close by. Getting closer.
“Get dressed.” There was urgency in the man’s voice. “Quickly.” The man himself almost leapt from the tree trunk and before Oliver had manoeuvred his shorts over his throbbing cock and zipped up the man was gone, heading in the opposite direction of the voices.
A man and a woman, both in their twenties, holding hands appeared in the clearing. They were as unsettled to see Oliver as he was to see them. Without uttering a sound, the teenager brushed by them and headed further into the undergrowth.
Picture credit: Unknown
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Male on male spanking stories 