The room was cold and Ant could feel a breeze coming from somewhere. It was blowing against his naked legs. He couldn’t see where it came from because his nose was hovering only centimetres above the vinyl flooring. His trousers were at his ankles and pretty soon – if events went as they usually did – his crisp white Calvin Klein underpants would be snagged at his knees offering Mr Burchall his bare bottom for the spanking that was coming.
Ant was head and shoulders taller than Mr Burchall but make no mistake Mr Burchall was in charge. “Come here! Trousers down. All the way. Bend over my knee. Keep that head low. Bottom high.”
Ant did as he was told. He always did. You might think it strange for a nineteen-year-old to meekly submit himself to an older man for a bare-bottomed spanking. Then you know nothing of the House on the Hill. Five young men submitted to the landlord’s will in exchange for free rent and all the modern comforts you could ask for.
When Ant first moved in he assumed Mr Burchall was unique; there couldn’t be another house like his. Well, there could be and there were. A surprising number in fact, even in Brocklehurst alone. Then there was a fellow who called himself Uncle Alf. He frequented the Three Fishers a lot and had at least three nephews there who he took home from time to time to be dealt with. It was no secret. For all Ant knew there were other youngsters waiting in line for their turn for a trip over the back of Uncle’s settee. A great time was had by all and not a penny piece changes hand.
Ant was too tall to fit comfortably over Mr Burchall’s knee. He had to be bent like a woman’s hairgrip and Mr Burchall had to grasp him around the waist to stop him sliding to the floor. It would be more efficient to have him spread-eagled across a table so Mr Burchall could take a good swing at him. But there was something more intimate about an over-the-knee spanking; something that said “family”.
Ant was some weight and that added to the awkwardness of the situation. If he wriggled and writhed it would be impossible for Mr Burchall to keep him in position. But Ant wasn’t about to do that. Ant tried not to think about it. Why did he let the old man treat him like that; like he was a little kid? Why did he actually like having his bottom spanked?
Take down your trousers, go over Mr Burchall’s knee and let him get on with it. Ant would never refuse such an order.
So, Ant was bent over Mr Burchall’s knee. Blood rushed to his face and his head was starting to ache even before the first whack connected with his backside. Mr Burchall gripped a small wooden paddle. It was a specially-made spanking tool. It had a short handle and an oval head and was about the size and shape of a hairbrush. It didn’t look much but it was an extremely effective punishment instrument, especially when in the right hand. He had bought it at a fetish fair in Birmingham. Every time he visited it never ceased to amaze him just how many people were into this kind of thing.
“You can’t say you weren’t warned …” Mr Burchall begin to scold the submissive teenager bent across his knee. Indeed, Ant did not complain. There were enough rules in the house – all carefully written down and presented to him as soon as he moved in – that it was impossible not to break two or three of them each and every week, which was the point of them after all.
The white Calvin’s stretched snuggly across Ant’s buttocks. He wasn’t a muscular guy but his buttocks were firm and hard. The landlord cupped his right palm and gently explored the contours of the cheeks. The cotton was smooth and cool. He raised his hand and slapped it across the centre of the left buttock and then he did the same with the right. This wasn’t a “spanking”, it wasn’t intended to hurt the lad Mr Burchall was just warming himself up. The buttocks clenched in anticipation of the onslaught soon to come.
“Relax lad, relax,” Mr Burchall soothed. Ant breaths came in short puffs; he couldn’t help it. In his upside-down position blood rushed to his head and his temples were beginning to throb. He felt a movement in his landlord’s body. He had transferred the paddle to his right hand and without further warning … whack! … the paddle crashed into the underside of Ant’s right cheek. His body stiffened at the impact, Mr Burchall gripped him tighter around the waist and he let fly with another. “Uggg.” Ant’s tongue swelled inside his mouth and he released an unintelligible noise. Three more swats bounced off his right cheek, the first landing on the highest point of the mound and the third on the lowest. The whole buttock burned. Ant wriggled. Again, it was a natural reaction; he had no intention – he had no desire – to escape this spanking that he knew (hoped?) would be severe. A real bum burner the lads in the house called it.
Three whacks – delivered in the same style – heated up the other cheek. His bottom was on fire, and Mr Burchall hadn’t even got into his rhythm.
“Let’s get these down,” the landlord spoke to himself and took hold of the elasticated waist on the underpants, “They really serve no useful purpose at a time like this.” He tugged hard but because Ant’s body was pressed against his punisher’s legs the landlord couldn’t get the pants over the nineteen-year-old’s cheeks. Without being instructed Ant lifted himself a centimetre or so to allow the Calvin’s to slip through. Mr Burchall left them at Ant’s knees. This was far enough away from the target area and also served as a restraint should the lad feel the need to kick his legs about in reaction to the spanking.
Ant’s bum was a rosy shade of pink. The paddle wasn’t too heavy; Mr Burchall possessed several others that could do far more damage. He liked the glow of a boy’s spanked bottom. He rested the paddle on Ant’s back and gently caressed his bottom, luxuriating in the warmth it radiated. The boy’s heart beat faster. Whack! The sound a paddle makes on bare flesh is much sharper than that across even tight underpants. The dull thud of wood connecting with trousers or denim jeans is as nothing compared to this.
The swats came harder and faster; the buttock cheeks danced. Ant started to squirm. His hips wriggled and his legs indeed did kick. The pants made a very adequate restraint. Mr Burchall tightened his grip around Ant’s waist and leaned his arm over the boy’s back, effectively pinning him down. Ant would remain face down, head low, bottom high until his landlord decreed that he had taken sufficient punishment. The delicate pink glow deepened into red: a well spanked bottom.
A scraping of the front door announced that one of Ant’s housemates had arrived home. “Is that you Ralph,” Mr Burchall called. “In here, I want to talk to you!” Ralph stood in the doorway, a slight grin on his face as he saw Ant bare-arsed across his landlord’s knees. Judging by the glow of the teenager’s bottom he had been there for some time. “I got a call from the Three Fishers,” Mr Burchall scolded. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out.” Ralph blinked steadily as he fought to find a reply, but remained silent. “Causing a disturbance. Getting into rows again. I’m surprised they don’t ban you.” The landlord continued spanking the submissive bottom presented across his knee. “Go to the hall cupboard and fetch the cane and be quick about it.” The paddle rose and fell continually.
The cane was where it was always kept; hanging on a hook in the cupboard with brooms and mops. Mr Burchall said it was an “authentic” school cane but since corporal punishment had been banned ins schools nearly forty years previously its authenticity must be in some doubt. He lifted it from the hook, once again surprised at how light it was. How could something so weightless cause so much agony? Almost instinctively, he tested it between his hands, it bent easily and returned to its original shape when he released it. It was about a metre long and had a curved handle – perhaps it was this handle that gave it the school cane authenticity. He closed the door and paused to listen to the rhythmic whacking of paddle against bare bum. Ant had only been in the house a couple of weeks and already he could take a whacking like a trooper, Ralph thought. Slowly, he returned to the living room.
“Wait there,” Mr Burchall commanded. “A dozen more and then I’ll deal with you.” He took the small paddle for one more trip around the circuit that was Ant’s buttocks landing the wood across every square centimetre of available flesh and smacking the final two across the bare thighs. This had Ant squirming. “Okay,” the landlord huffed for he was quite breathless himself. “That’ll do for now. Stand up.” Ant didn’t need telling twice he bounded to his feet and in one tug dragged both his pants and trousers up. He wanted to run from the room but his path was accidently blocked by Ralph in the doorway. Instead, Ant rubbed his bottom ruefully and he found he could not take his eyes from the cane in his pal’s hand.
“Get in here,” the landlord snapped. “You know what’s coming. I won’t have my boys causing trouble in public. People know who you are. It gets me a bad name if people think I can’t keep you under control.” Ralph stood silent, still unable to find a coherent answer. He had drunk three bottles of lager and the weed he had smoked had gone to his head.
“Right then. Jeans down, and bend over that chair.” He nodded towards an ordinary wooden chair with a straight back. Meanwhile he loosened his own tie and removed it. The exertion of spanking Ant had been great, the back of his shirt and armpits were damp with sweat. Once he had done that he swished the cane experimentally through the air, watching all the time as Ralph slowly fiddled with his belt and undid the buttons to his fashionable denims. He was in no hurry. Ant stood at the doorway transfixed, the pain and humiliation of his own spanking quickly fading.
“Come on lad, I haven’t got all day,” Mr Burchall chided, but in reality he too was in no hurry. He liked the preparation to a whacking every bit as the actual caning itself. “Bend over,” he repeated with faked irritation.
The jeans now puddled at his feet; Ralph shuffled the couple of paces necessary to stand behind the chair. It was a standard dining room chair and he towered above it. The cane swished again and without acknowledging his punisher, Ralph leaned over the back. “Right over,” his landlord snapped. “You know how it’s done.” He meant that Ralph had been across the back of a few chairs in the house, not to mention the kitchen table and the edge of his bed and he should know how to present his bottom for punishment. “Head low, poke your backside out. Give me something to aim at,” Mr Burchall instructed. Ralph made the small adjustments and jutted his buttocks out. They snugly fitted into designer trunks that held his curves like lycra. Mr Burchall wetted his lips in anticipation. He tapped the cane across the centre of the cheeks delighting in their firmness. “Six on the pants,” he wheezed, “then those pants are coming down and its six more on the bare. Do you understand?”
It wasn’t really a question, but Ralph answered, “Yes, sir,” confidently nonetheless. “Good,” Mr Burchall muttered and he sawed the cane across the firmest part of Ralph’s bottom. Tap-tap-tap, then the cane lifted away and a split-second later returned with some force. The dull thud the cane made as it whacked into tight cotton belied the effectiveness of the stroke. Ralph lips parted to make a perfect “O” shape as air escaped his mouth and he struggled to control the yap his throat wanted to make. That hurt, he thought. It was meant to; that, after all, was the purpose of a caning.
His landlord took aim again. The cane rose again. It returned with force again. This time it landed a centimetre or so below the first and Ralph now had a scorching line of pain throbbing below his underpants. His hips swayed and his knees buckled. His face was now as red as his bum. Mr Burchall paused to let the twenty-year-old settle. A faint line across the seat of the underpants demonstrated that a swelling wheal had formed across Ralph’s bottom; he would find it extremely uncomfortable to sit for some considerable time to come and they were still only on stroke number two.
The third landed higher than the previous two. Mr Burchall was an expert with the cane; he should be he had enough practice. He knew how hard to strike a lad to ensure the beating was memorable but without it being brutal. Someone with less expertise might be tempted to whip the cane across the buttocks with tremendous force; this would be dangerous and could leave the cheeks slashed and blooded. No, Mr Burchall knew that a straight arm and a strong wrist was all that was needed to deliver a sound caning. Ralph would know he had been in a fight but the pain would subside quite quickly and although the marks might be tender to touch, they would soon clear up and all traces of the caning would be gone.
Mr Burchall repositioned himself and took aim again. Ant was transfixed at the doorway. He had never seen a cane before, not in real life. There had been one or two old movies on television where fossilised schoolmasters might swish a cane around. In one called Goodbye Mr Chips a there had even been six-of-the-best delivered. Ralph was taking his caning like an old pro. His body shuddered as the cane bit into his bum but that was his body’s natural reaction, otherwise the boy remained calmly in position waiting for the next stroke to come. As the sixth hit home Ralph’s hands came up to cover his face and he screwed his eyes. That was an especially painful blow.
“Right, now these are coming down,” Mr Burchall tucked the cane under his arm and Ant watched breathlessly as his landlord took hold of the waist of Ralph’s underpants and forcibly tugged them over the lad’s cheeks and down his thighs. It was an expert manoeuvre and Ralph gave no resistance.
“Jolly good,” Mr Burchall said as if to himself as he was greeted with six angry red lines, all running in parallel. Gently, with the tip of a finger, he traced one of the lines. Ralph winced and an involuntary groan escaped his lips. Ant’s eyes bulged and his cock stiffened. He had never seen anything like this; it was so much harsher than the spanking he had witnessed on his first day at the house.
“Steady,” the landlord intoned as he took up aim. With the bottom now fully exposed he was able to see exactly where he could land the cane without crossing the previous marks. He was no sadist; he knew that if he landed the cane on top of one of the throbbing welts the resulting pain would be excruciating. He aimed, he swished, he landed the cane on a strip of unblemished bottom.
The ache in Ant’s own bottom had by now transformed into a warm glow. He rubbed the seat of his trousers to try to reignite it but to no avail. He wondered how long it would take for the pain of a caning – a bare-bottomed caning – to subside. A caning would be awesome, he decided. Swish! Thud! Ahhhhh! He watched, excitement mounting as the caning continued.
Picture credits: British Boys Fetish Club
For more ‘The House on the Hill’ click here
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Charles Hamilton the Second
Male on male spanking stories 