The House on the Hill Part 2

The day before I moved into the house on the hill my landlord gave me a list of rules. A long list. There were rules covering every hour of the day. When to get up. Breakfast time. Get off to uni. on time. Don’t be late for dinner without permission. A night time curfew. On and on it went. No alcohol. No smoking (tobacco, he meant) and definitely no drugs. There were some rooms we weren’t allowed into. And then there were the household chores that had to be done. Rules; so many rules. And the penalty for breaking them? A damned good spanking. That last bit wasn’t written down, but Mr Burchall was perfectly clear about it.

I knew he would be true to his word and it was proved to me on my first morning. I had been a good boy and got up on time, was early for breakfast and was hurrying down the stairs on my way to the bus (I had a nine o’clock class) when I heard voices from the kitchen. The landlord was in a grumpy mood. “Is it too much to ask that you do the dishes without an argument? Every time. I don’t know what you take me for …”

Mr Burchall made no pretence at privacy; the door was half open and from the bottom of the stairs I had a perfect view. Ralph, one of my housemates stood, head bowed, sucking it up. “I’ve had enough of you, young man,” my landlord sighed. “You know what has to happen.” It clearly wasn’t a question. Ralph obviously did know. Mr Burchall turned to face a table and muttering under his breath he cleared it of plates and saucers. Ralph watched silently.

The task completed the landlord faced my twenty-year-old pal; he must have been five or six centimetres taller than the lodger. The tip of his tongue licked his top lip. His nose wrinkled as if he were about to sneeze. He coughed to clear his throat. Then he spoke in a voice of clear authority, “Take down those jeans and bend over the table.”

Over the months that I lodged with Mr Burchall I would become accustomed to such scenes; many of them starring myself. But on this day, my first day and the first time I witnessed such a thing close up, I think my jaw might have literally dropped. Certainly, I gaped; in disbelief and astonishment. Without a word, and without apparent concern, Ralph looked down at his belt and carefully with steady hands he unbuckled. He popped the stud on the waistband and the zipper whizzed. The front of his jeans flapped open. Without help they slowly began to slip down his hips before snagging over his buttocks.

“All the way down,” his landlord growled, “down to the feet. You don’t need to take them off.” Obediently, Ralph ushered the denims over his bum, before guiding them down his thighs and knees to puddle over his Nikes. He stood as if awaiting further instructions. They were not long in coming. “Bend over the table,” Mr Burchall pointed at the table as if there could be any doubt what he meant. I should have known that this was not Ralph’s first spanking, but the calmness with which he turned to face it shocked me. He shuffled a couple of pigeon steps towards it and lowered himself. The table was small (it seated six at a crush) and was not really suitable for a boy to ‘spread-eagle’ across. Ralph rested his stomach on the near edge and folded his elbows to his sides and clasped his hands together. He waited patiently.

I had not noticed before (why would I?) that Ralph’s bottom was firm and round. I had a perfect view of his buttocks stretched inside blue cotton briefs. Absurdly, I realised that I had a pair just like them; cheap ones from Primark. Mr Burchall took a moment to take in the sight before him. It was a cool morning and Ralph wore a grey pullover over a long-sleeved shirt both of which rested at the roof of his buttocks. They offered no protection but even so Mr Burchall gently took hold and moved them up the boy’s back and clear of the target area. The cheeks quivered. With the shirt and jumper out of the way the curves of Ralph’s bum were emphasised against the white table. I was no expert, but even I could see it was a very spankable bottom.

Happy with the clothing adjustment, his landlord took up position along the left side of the table; he leaned forward slightly and pressed his left hand into the small of Ralph’s back. Satisfied that he was pinned down, Mr Burchall raised his right hand and smacked it across the centre of Ralph’s left cheek, and then he did the same with the right. The sound a palm makes when striking stretched flesh is a dull one. I suppose it’s like a single person clapping, it doesn’t make much of an impact. I didn’t think that the spanking made much of an impact on Ralph either. He lay there submissively as his landlord got a steady rhythm going. Slap-slap-slap. One cheek; then the other. Centre of the bum, then the top of the mounds, then the under-cheeks. Slap-slap-slap.

Time plays funny tricks. I have no idea how long he kept it up. It might have been several minutes. All this time Ralph simply lay face down, arms akimbo, bottom poised on the edge of the kitchen table and allowed his landlord to spank his bottom like a … like what exactly? I was about to say “like a naughty boy”, but which naughty boys get spanked these days? The cane was banned in schools years before I was born and dads just don’t take their sons across their knees for a dose of the slipper; no matter how much they might deserve it.

Suddenly, Mr Burchall stopped spanking. He straightened himself up and took a step away from the table. I supposed he had finished; little did I know. I knew nothing about ritual (I had a lot to learn). He took a deep breath, heaved an almighty sigh and then with great delicacy he took hold of the waistband of Ralph’s underpants and pulled. His intention was clear, but Ralph was bent across the edge of the table, which thwarted his landlord’s task. Obligingly and without instruction, he raised his body minutely with gave Mr Burchall the space to pull the pants down. He left them bunched below the buttocks which had the effect of emphasising the beautiful roundness of Ralph’s bum and its rosy glow.

His landlord resumed his position and the spanking recommenced and I hurried off to catch my bus.

I was late home that evening. I had got talking to classmates and missed a bus. Then, as fate would have it the next one was cancelled. I had collywobbles in my stomach as I trudged up the pathway to the house. My landlord acknowledged my lateness with a grunt. “Have your tea and come find me in the living room directly after.”

I suppose I could say something cute here about a condemned man having a last hearty meal, but my appetite had all but disappeared. I knew what was going to happen and I couldn’t work out what I thought about it. “Good luck,” Ralph grinned as he left the dinner table. He knew I had witnessed his earlier spanking and I wondered if he would stick around to see me get done.

A minute or so later, I abandoned any pretence of eating and prepared to meet my doom. Mr Burchall was sitting in a comfortable armchair reading the Bugle. He peered over the top of the newspaper as I entered the room. He offered me a half smile and carefully folded the paper and set it down on a table. He stood and approached me with his hand outstretched. For an absurd moment I thought he was going to shake my hand. He didn’t of course. He rested his hand on my shoulder. We were about the same height and stood eye to eye. “You did read the rules I gave you.” I couldn’t be sure if this was a question or a statement. My throat was too dry for me to reply coherently, but I had indeed read the rules. “And you know the consequences for breaking them.” It was definitely a statement of fact this time. I nodded.

He slid his hand off my shoulder and without a further word he put it around my left wrist and led me across the room to where he had strategically placed an armless wooden chair. It was so sudden I didn’t have time to resist, I might have dug my heels into the carpet or some such. As he sat down, he tugged me by the wrist pulling the rest of my body with it and a second later, I was turned over his knee.

His lap was hard. My thighs pressed against one of his and my chest was across the other. Blood rushed to my head as it was hanging centimetres from the carpet. My toes hardly touched the floor on the other side. He wrapped one arm around my middle and secured me closer to him. My cock rubbed against his cock and began to stir; I was excited. And terrified. Part of me wanted to jump off his lap and run from the room. Another part rather wished he’d taken my trousers down.

“Oh my God!” I said in my head. I couldn’t have spoken aloud even if I wanted. It might have been being upside down or the way his body crushed up into me or just the embarrassment that made me not want to open my mouth and accept what was happening. I was nineteen years old and bent across my landlord’s lap waiting to have my backside spanked. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like I was a little kid and Mr Burchall was a grown-up.

And he was a grown-up and he spanked boys when they misbehaved. I had broken his rules and I was glad of it. Now, more than anything, I wanted to be spanked. I needed to be punished. I closed my eyes and waited for his hand to fall.

I can’t explain the disappointment I felt. His hand whacked across my backside. The sound of his palm connecting with my bum was muffled. It didn’t hurt. It didn’t sting. It didn’t anything. The noise of his hand smacking across my backside sounded like a spanking. As he got up a rhythm the slaps got harder and harder and then I realised this was for real. This spanking was going to hurt. Mr Burchall was strong and experienced and he wasn’t going to go easy on me.

I wriggled my hips trying to avoid the slaps. I kicked my legs behind me. But I have to tell you I can’t pretend I hated it. My cock was on the march. I had no idea why the heat spreading across my buttocks felt so good and why squirming and struggling made my heart pound and my mouth dry. I can’t explain it, it was like being high on drugs. I liked it that Mr Burchall was so firm. I liked the way he gripped me to hold me in position and the I liked the sound of his hand as it connected with the seat of my trousers. I liked the humiliation. I loved the breathlessness from being over his knee, backside pointing upwards with my face in the carpet.

Then, suddenly he stopped. “I know why you’re here and exactly what you need,” he said quietly.

“I want you to know, lad, breaking rules is not something I take lightly, and it’s not a joke. Has this felt like a joke to you? I hope this is making an impression on you.” I opened my mouth but no sound came out.

With a rough jerk, he pulled me tight against his stomach and brought his hand down across my backside again. It was hard, really hard, and I thought maybe he had been going easy on me before. He must have felt my swollen cock pressing into his thigh. I wanted him to tell me that I was going to get spanked every day, no matter what.

“Stand up,” he spoke firmly, “Take down these jeans.” “B-b-b…” I mumbled, conscious that my cock was pressing against the front of my underpants.

“Ha!” Mr Burchall spat and he eyed my bulging zipper, “Don’t think I haven’t seen it all before.”

I had no doubt he was speaking the truth and with trembling hands I started to unbuckle my belt.

Picture credit: Magic Spanking Factory.

For more ‘The House on the Hill’ click here

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Charles Hamilton the Second

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