The housemates

The car pulled up outside the row of shabby terraced houses in the middle of the day. The passenger coughed and spluttered; he felt like crap. Valerie, the driver, turned to him. “Will you be all right Vince?”

“I’m fine Val,” he croaked. “It’s probably just the flu. I’ll be back at work tomorrow probably.”

“Don’t hurry back. You get well first,” she smiled. She watched as Vince got out the car, approached his front door and fumbled in his pockets to find his key. “He’s sex on a stick,” she thought. She had lusted after his arse from the first time she saw it at the office. He didn’t seem to notice her but one day soon, she vowed to herself, she’d shag him under the duvet.

Vince opened the door. Something was not right. A too-loud radio was on in the sitting room; the door was wide open. He expected his housemate Kenny to be at work. Obviously he was not; he must have skived off again. Vince walked wearily to the sitting room. His head was pounding and his body ached all over; he did not want another argument with Kenny.

Vince stood dumbfounded at the threshold to the room. He could not believe what he saw. This could not be happening. His fever must be making him hallucinate. There sprawled on the settee was Kenny. A middle-aged man held him forcibly across his knees and Kenny’s jeans were at his feet and his ridiculous Union Jack boxer shorts were scrunched up at his thighs. The man was hammering what looked to Vince like the brush from their bathroom into his housemate’s naked buttocks. Judging by the anguished look on Kenny’s face and the redness of his buttocks, the spanking was hurting very much indeed.

Vince’s own face was soon as red as Kenny’s bum. Embarrassed that he might be caught peeping, Vince struggled up the stairs to the bathroom. He found some aspirin, turned on the water tap, cupped his hands together to collect water, and swallowed two capsules. As he had suspected, the bath brush was not on its hook.

In his room, he crawled onto the bed and lay shivering fully clothed trying to work out what was happening downstairs. Why was a middle-aged man spanking Kenny? They were obviously not “love taps,” it was a serious punishment. But why? And why was his own cock standing to attention as he recalled the sight of his flatmate’s sore naked arse?

Vince had shared the house with Kenny for three months. They hadn’t known each other before. He answered an advert and that was that. Vince was twenty-five years old. He got a good university degree and then did another year for an MBA. He had a great job with excellent prospects as a marketing executive at an up-and-coming company.

Kenny was a year younger. He never went to college and was in and out of jobs; mostly working in shops or pubs. Vince preferred to keep out of Kenny’s way. Like a lot of housemates, they didn’t have much in common. Kenny irritated him a lot. He was lazy and would leave unwashed dishes in the kitchen and half-empty take-away boxes in the sitting room. If Vince didn’t clear up the place it would resemble a pigsty within weeks.

They had argued about it yet again only the previous day. Kenny was not pleased. He didn’t own the house, but as with many house-shares because he had lived there longest he thought it gave him special rights and privileges. It was driving Vince to despair.

Vince heard the front door close. The stranger must be leaving. He hauled himself to the window and saw the man approach his car and open the driver’s door. For the first time Vince got a clear view of his face. Astonishing. But it made sense, he supposed. But it just compounded the puzzle. The man at the car was clearly an older version of Kenny himself. There could be no doubt: it was Kenny’s dad.

Things improved over the next few days. Vince got better and he went back to work. He didn’t see Kenny at all so he assumed he was working too. Then one evening Vince was at home alone when there was an unexpected ring at the bell. It was the landlord, chasing his rent. He told Vince it hadn’t been paid for two months and Kenny was avoiding him.

Vince bit his tongue. How naïve could he be? What an idiot he was. The deal had been that he paid Kenny his share of the rent and Kenny handed over both lots to the landlord. Obviously, Kenny had stolen Vince’s money.

“That’s not my problem.” The landlord was unsympathetic. He wanted his rent. The rest was between Vince and Kenny. There was no alternative; Vince wrote a cheque for his share of two months’ rent and the landlord left half-satisfied.

Vince was fuming: at Kenny for tricking him and also at himself for being so gullible. Now, he wondered, how was he going to get his money back from the little toe rag? He sat drinking whisky; incensed. Now, the spanking the other day made sense. Had Kenny’s father got wind of his son’s behaviour? Maybe the landlord knew his dad. Maybe his dad had signed as a guarantor to the lease, and the landlord was chasing him for the money.

Bastard! The alcohol did nothing to ease Vince’s temper. Maybe he should tell Kenny’s dad what had happened. Then he could come and whop his arse again. That wouldn’t work, Vince realised, he had no way of contacting the man.

“Well then, I’ll just have to do it myself.” It was the whisky talking. He would get his rent money back from Kenny, but not until he thrashed his arse good and proper and, his imagination ran wild, he would whip it every day until he was paid in full. Vince emptied the dregs of the whisky bottle down his throat.

Next morning, he struggled to remember everything that had happened. Kenny arrived home shortly before midnight. He hadn’t expected Vince to be waiting, angrily. Vince tore into his housemate. “You’re just a fucking thief, I should call the police.”

The look on Kenny’s face veered between a sneer and a pout. Vince wanted to punch the git’s lights out.

Kenny didn’t try to deny it. He had no explanation. Nor, did he show remorse. He just pouted.

“I saw what your dad did to you the other day,” Vince bellowed. Kenny coloured up. It hadn’t been the first time his dad had visited the house to toast his backside; how many other times had Vince witnessed?

“I should tell him about this; maybe he’d do it again, but twice as hard.”

Kenny stood and stared. He probably would do too, the stuck-up bastard. He hadn’t liked Vince from the day he moved in. With his good job and money in his pocket; he could probably afford the rent twice over.

The next bit was hazy in Vince’s memory, but he did say something like, “I should spank you myself. It was my money you stole.”

Then Kenny said, “There’s a cane hidden in the cupboard under the stairs. My dad left it there.”

There was too. A thick whippy cane, with a crooked handle; just like they used in school decades before. Vince had never seen a cane before, but he immediately knew what it was. It was more than three feet long and as thick as a pencil. Lovingly, he flexed it between his hands. It was supple and springy and he made it bend into an arc.

He took it into the sitting room. Kenny eyed the cane apprehensively. He knew how much it could sting. When his dad had last used it on him, it felt like a white hot wire had been pressed into his arse. But, the agony soon passed. It hurt like crazy, but he had lived. It would be worth taking a caning from Vince; it would keep the police at bay – at least for now, there was no way he would ever be able to repay his housemate the rent.

Vince swished the cane through the air; it made a terrific swoosh!! Kenny looked away; it brought back too many painful memories.

“Bend over the back of the armchair,” Vince pointed the rattan cane at a threadbare blue patterned chair and watched as slowly his twenty-four-year-old housemate approached it and gingerly bent across. His flabby bottom filled out the seat of his heavy denim jeans. Two patch pockets covered his buttocks.

used-jeans-armchair-41

“This is no good,” Vince exhaled, “You’ll never feel a thing in those jeans. Stand up. Take them down.” He surprised himself with his own boldness. Perhaps, more surprisingly, Kenny meekly stood, unbuckled his belt, popped the button at his waistband and let the jeans slide down his thighs. He scowled at Vince, but silently resumed his position over the back of the chair.

He was a tubby youth; not yet running to fat, but he soon would be. He pushed his face into the dusty seat cushion and wrapped his arms around his head. His legs were spread and his feet were raised so that he almost, but not quite, stood on tip-toes.

Vince examined the backside presented before him. Obviously, he had never caned a person before. Could it be that difficult, he thought? Aim for the fleshiest part of the bum – and with Kenny that gave him a large target – and whack the cane into it. The stroke had to be hard. It had to hurt, otherwise what as the point of it all?

When Vince had seen Kenny spanked by his dad his housemate had been wearing Union Jack shorts – or at least they had been bunched at his thighs. This time he had equally ludicrous underpants, this time with pictures of Superman flying through the sky. Man of Steel, but not buns of steel, Vince joked to himself. He tugged at the waistband of the pants so that they fitted the flabby globes a little tighter.

Then, he stood a cane’s length from Kenny’s left side, raised it and whacked down into the huge waiting backside. Vince had not realised how much he would enjoy it. There was a thwack! as the length of the rod sank into Kenny’s bum. It was followed by a “Hissss!” from the young man on the receiving end.

Vince had loved it so much he thwacked the cane down again. And again. And again. And again. Rapidly. There were now four distinct lines across the cotton seat of the underpants; one had caught Superman across his handsome face. Kenny wheezed and hissed. He sounded like an old-fashioned steam train settling down.

Vince whacked a couple high on the mounds and then put a couple down below, close to the thighs. He congratulated himself on his expertise. Lines of pain stretched across Kenny’s bum from the top of the buttocks, across the globes and into the underside. Judging from Kenny’s face which was as scarlet as Vince supposed his bum to be, they were hurting like crazy.

Kenny felt several welts throbbing under his pants. His housemate caned almost as hard as his dad. Luckily, he reckoned, it hadn’t occurred to Vince to flog him across the bared buttocks.

Vince was breathing heavily. The whisky was probably taking its toll. He put two extra hard stingers across the very centre of the beefy buttocks and was rewarded with clear “Ouches!” from the young man submissively offering him his arse.

He had lost count. How many strokes had he administered? Somewhere in his lost memory he “knew” you were meant to give six-of-the-best. How had he known that, he wondered? Where had he learnt it?

Bugger six. He whacked another couple down across Superman’s legs. Then another couple higher. Kenny’s legs kicked and his bum bucked and jumped over the crest of the chair. His feet marched up and down on the dingy beige carpet.

Two more. Excessively hard. Right across the under-curves. Kenny howled. They had caught him on bare flesh. The pain was excruciating. His dad had never done that before. Two dark red lines immediately appeared.

But for that, Vince might have carried on thrashing his thieving housemate all night long. The sight of the red marks, quickly turning purple, brought him to his senses.

“That’s it,” he groaned. “You can get up.” There was no time to say more. Kenny stood and without properly pulling up his jeans, he ran howling from the room.

It was now morning. Vince lay in bed with a thumping headache. His cock was throbbing too. He ran the details of Kenny’s caning through his head. “If only,” he thought. “If only it had really happened.”

It was nearly seven-thirty. He would be late for work. He got out of bed and padded down the stairs. What an incredible dream. He made coffee and poured a bowl of cornflakes. He took them into the sitting room and stopped in his tracks. Resting on the dining table was a thick crook-handled school cane.

 

Other stories you might like

Housemate pays the rent

Duncan and Uncle Henry

Illicit drinking

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com