Mr Hennessey’s Boys: The hotel suite

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It was all very simple. There was never anything complicated about it. Everything was organised well. All we had to do was turn up at the right place at the appointed time and let him do it.

I did it four times, then I suppose he got bored with me and he got someone else. He probably had more than one of us on the go at any one time, anyway.

I have no regrets. I’m not telling you this story because I feel outraged or injured. I’m not. I wasn’t. Well, ha! ha! I supposed I was ‘injured’ a little. If you get my meaning. I mean it’s supposed to hurt, isn’t it? Isn’t that the point of it all?

I wasn’t the only one. By the end there was quite a gang of us from Brocklehurst Sixth Form College. If you don’t know, a sixth-form college is where kids go if they leave school at sixteen. You can do A-level exams or vocational courses. It’s a lot less formal than school. There are no uniforms and you call teachers lecturers. You are students, not pupils. In some colleges lecturers let you call them by their first names. Students’ ages range from sixteen up to nineteen.

The people involved in my story were all eighteen at least. You had to be. So it was legal. A man called Mr Hennessey arranged it all. It was mostly by word of mouth. It was only boys. No girls required. I think ‘Mr Hennessey’ was his real name. Nobody thought to question him. Why bother? He seemed pretty legit.

At first he got one or two boys working for him and then they kind of recommended others. It was done very quietly. When I was dropped, I suggested a couple of other lads. I got what they called a ‘finder’s fee’ for that.

We were well paid for our trouble. Very well paid. One evening’s work was worth about a month’s pay flipping burgers or filling supermarket shelves. When I say  ‘evening’ I mostly mean a couple of hours.

We all said we did it for the money. That’s all. We said it’s a ‘gay thing’ isn’t it? None of us were gay. Not that there’s anything wrong with being gay etc etc. But I’m not gay and that’s just a fact. So, we said, we didn’t do it for pleasure. It was just the money. And, I think, the excitement. It felt dangerous. Something you wouldn’t want your mum and dad to find out about.

Mr Hennessey arranged everything. He was most particular about your age. Eighteen and above only. I had trouble convincing him. I look a little younger than I am. To be honest I was getting away with paying the under-sixteen fare on the buses. He didn’t believe me. I didn’t have a passport or driving licence. He said the birth certificate I showed him could have been for anybody. In the end I signed up for a provisional driving licence and away I went.

He was happy then. He said I would be very welcome. “Cheeky grin. Fabulous arse,” he said. Those were the requirements. If you didn’t have the grin, you might get away with just the fabulous arse. But I had both.

Mr Hennessey wanted me for a particular client. Mr Bradshaw. I don’t know anything about him. I don’t suppose he’s name’s really Mr Bradshaw. He looked like he was made of money. He used a suite at the Excelsior Hotel. Do you know it? It’s that new luxury hotel that stands where the library and civic centre used to be.

I had to sign some legal document. It said I was doing this of my own free will. Which I was. I was up for it alright. I did have my doubts at first, of course I did. My pal Ryan had been a few times and he was the one who passed my name on. He told me what happened. What you had to do. How you earned your money.

I’d never done anything like this before. Who had? I had concerns: would it hurt (much)? Did I have to take my clothes off? Did Mr Bradshaw do anything else, like … well you know? Ryan told me it all. It helped me. “Tell you what,” he said, “Why don’t we have a run-through, a kind of rehearsal?”

It seemed a good idea. So we met up at his house after college finished and before his folks got home from work. Have you ever been spanked? No, me neither. People don’t these days do they. I must say I felt a bit of a twit when Ryan took me into his living room. He sat himself down on a dining chair, spread his legs, patted his thigh and said, “Right lad, bend over.”

I gaped a bit. I know I coloured up (in a manner of speaking). I felt my face burn. I just stopped myself from laughing. “Come on,” Ryan said, kindly, “This is the whole point. It’s what you have to do. It’s what you get paid for.” He smiled broadly and added, “A lot of money.” I still looked dubious. “Come on,” Ryan encouraged, “Bend over my knee, like a good naughty boy.”

I’d never done this before and wasn’t sure how it was done. I looked down at Ryan’s knees. He was a slim guy and they were very bony. He parted his legs a little to make a platform for me to lean across. I went on autopilot and proceeded on instinct. I leaned down and rested the palms of my hand on his right leg, bent my legs and eased myself down. “Stretch your arms out and rest your hands on the carpet,” Ryan said helpfully.

I did this and my back arched. My legs dangled behind me and the toes of my shoes just about brushed the floor. My bum was raised at an angle over his thigh. “Purr-fect, just purr-fect,” he laughed. “What a lovely little botty-wotty you have.” He started to caress, first my right buttock and then my left. He was feeling me up.

“Oi!” I exclaimed. It was an instinctive cry, I wasn’t thinking.

Ryan was calm, “It’s what he’ll do,” he told me. “Give you a good rub.” He patted the fleshiest part of my bottom. “You’ve still got your jeans on. Just wait until you’re bare-arsed over his knee.” He could see my discomfort. He laughed, “Don’t worry, you soon get used to it.”

He slapped his hand into the seat of my jeans. He hit me hard, but with the denim and my underpants I hardly felt a thing. He spanked me like this for a minute or so and then stopped. I lay face-down, unsure what I was supposed to do. Was that it? Was there nothing more? Really? It was money for jam.

Except, of course, it wasn’t. “Stand up. Take down your jeans. Back over.” He pushed me in my midriff to encourage me to stand. Once upright my embarrassment returned. Jeans down! I hesitated a little too long. Ryan grimaced, “It’s the deal. Jeans. Pants. Bare-arsed. If you’re not up to it, you need to tell Mr Hennessey. You can’t chicken out on a client.”

My pride was hurt. I knew Ryan had been through this and one or two of my other mates at college. If they could do it, well so would I. Odd though it may seem to you, it was an honour thing. Like being in a gang, but without the drugs and knives. I steadied my nerves and reached for my belt buckle.

Ryan put me through my paces. He spanked me with his hand as hard as he could. It hurt, but not much. I was a fit eighteen-year-old with buns of steel. He was never going to do me much damage. The wooden clothes brush he then used on me was something else. It was heavy and had a large oval-shaped dead. Just a couple of whacks with that had me squirming across his knees. Ryan had to grip me hard around the waist to stop me falling to the floor. I squirmed and I hollered. “Good boy,” Ryan encouraged me, “That’s the way to do it. Make a show.” He thought I was play-acting. Believe me I was not.

When he let off and I was hopping from foot to foot and rubbing away at the sting in my backside I didn’t appreciate how grateful I would later be to Ryan.  He taught me the ropes. Not that ropes were involved, there was none of that monkey business, just honest to goodness spanking (oh, and the whippy rattan cane, of course).

Despite my training I was very nervous the first time I visited Mr Bradshaw. Mr Hennessey had set it up and he told me exactly what was expected. What the limits were. I went in with my eyes wide open. No complaints. No regrets.

I was given the number of Mr Bradshaw’s suite and told to go straight there without stopping off at reception. Easier said than done. An eighteen-year-old black kid sticks out like a sore thumb in a posh hotel. The security man pounced. If he had been wearing a side arm, he would have drawn it and plugged me. But this was Brocklehurst, not Chicago. He just verbally assaulted me. I mentioned Mr Bradshaw by name. The security guard’s nose twisted like he was getting the stink of shit from off my shoe. He waved me on. It hurt him to do it, but Mr Bradshaw was a rich guest and hotels in Brocklehurst could not afford to be too choosy.

I studied my reflection in the mirror in the lift. My skin shone. Maybe I’d overdone the body lotion. Smooth skin, I had been told. That’s what Mr Bradshaw most desired. And no tattoos. I was sweating like a pig even though it was a cool evening. The lift pinged and I had reached the correct floor. The door opened. I stood rooted. I could not move. My nerve had gone. The door closed. The lift stood motionless. My heart was trying to escape through my chest. My head spun. I closed my eyes tight. I had come this far. I couldn’t back down now. I couldn’t chicken out. Ryan and the guys would never let me hear the end of it. With a hand shaking like I had a palsy, I stabbed the door-open button and hauled myself out of the lift.

Mr Bradshaw’s suite was opposite. I took two deep breaths, strode purposefully towards the door and with more strength than I intended I hammered on it. Mr Bradshaw might have thought I was the police about to raid the joint. He took some time before he opened up. Maybe he was hiding the incriminating evidence from view. Eventually the door inched open.

Mr Bradshaw was a man in his fifties. He had lost much of his hair and his face betrayed the easy life he had led. I was later to discover that his hands were as soft as a baby’s. He looked at me, failing to hide his surprise. Had Mr Hennessey not told him I was black? He recovered himself quickly and flew open the door. As I entered, Mr Bradshaw stepped into the corridor, before following me into the room.

I’d never been inside a hotel suite before, so I had nothing to compare it to. It seemed opulent. There were at least two rooms and a bathroom. The main living area seemed as big as the council flat I lived in. Mr Bradshaw stood and watched as I lay down my backpack. His tongue darted out of closed lips, “Have you brought everything?” he almost drooled. I had been given a list of requirements. Mr Hennessey was a very thorough man.

Mr Bradshaw proved to be a man of few words. In all the times I visited he never engaged in small talk. It was right down to business. “You can change in there.” He nodded towards the bedroom. I picked up my bag and hurried away. There was a full-length mirror in the corner of the room. I caught myself staring back at me. I couldn’t stop myself laughing. What a lark! I shook my head as if to say, “Who would believe this if I ever told them?”

I opened the backpack. I tugged out a pair of pyjamas. They were brand new, I never wore jim-jams in real life? Did anybody over the age of eight? I lay them on the bed. Then I took out the school blazer. I shook it to get rid of creases and held it up to the light. This was the real deal. Green-and-gold, just like the ones they wore at St Francis Academy. I took a hanger from the wardrobe and hung it up. Then I retrieved the grey-short trousers from the bag and the knee-length socks. I was nearly ready. But something was missing. I cursed myself. I had left it behind. A very important item. Damn and Blast! Mr Bradshaw would be annoyed. In my anger I took hold of the backpack and tipped it up and shook. To my relief the green-and-gold striped school tie slithered onto the bed.

I kicked off my shoes, pulled the t-shirt over my head and slipped down my jeans. I admired my physique in the mirror. I was quite a sight – a dish, even if I say so myself. Even though I was wearing old-fashioned white Y-front underpants. I slipped my thumbs into the waistband and with a flick of the wrists sent them to my feet. I stepped out of them and hesitated. Should I keep the socks on? I actually laughed out loud at myself. I sat on the bed and tugged them off. I was now as naked as the day I was born.

I stood and admired my taut, hairless, smooth – and shining – body. My soft, uncut cock hung between my thighs.  “Come and get it girls,” I grinned. Time was passing and Mr Bradshaw was probably raring to go next door. I picked up the pyjama bottoms, stepped into them, pulled them up and tied the drawstring. I climbed into the jacket and rippled the muscles in my stomach before I buttoned up. I took another look in the mirror. Yes, I told myself, I’m good to go.

Mr Hennessey had given me instructions. There wasn’t much of what he called a “scenario”. I wasn’t expected to do much, except let Mr Bradshaw get on with it. I was expected to knock on the door and wait until told to enter. I took a final look in that mirror. God, I was tasty. I rubbed sweat from my palms, took a deep breath, counted slowly from one to five and knocked. My head buzzed, the room began to spin.

It seemed like an eternity. At last he called, “Come in!” I pushed open the door. Mr Bradshaw was sat on a straight-backed armless chair. He was formally dressed but had no jacket. He could have been your boss at work. “Come in Alexander,” he called. I had no idea who “Alexander” was, it’s certainly not my name. That wasn’t me. It made what happened next seem more surreal. “You know why you’re here,” he said. I didn’t, but it wasn’t my place to tell him.

I hesitated in the doorway. My head was light. I didn’t feel as if I was in the room. I was somewhere else. A long way off. Looking down on this scene. Like I was in a helicopter, or some such. Is this what they mean by an out-of-body experience?

Mr Bradshaw snapped his fingers. “Stand there, Alexander.” He pointed to a spot by the chair. I don’t know how I managed it, but I got my body to stand where commanded. My heart thumped so loud I was sure Mr Bradshaw could hear it. He slowly examined me with his eyes, travelling from the soles of my bare feet to the top of my shaved head. Then he lowered his eyes and lingered over the waistband of my pyjamas.

“Take down your pyjama bottoms, Alexander.”

The room was spinning. What was going on with me? I got hold of the drawstring and pulled. Rather than loosen my waistband I tightened it. My PJ’s were not coming down. Mr Bradshaw frowned; then he tut-tutted. He was loosing patience. I tugged and tugged. Did anyone have a knife? That would do it. Cut the drawstring. All kinds of absurd ideas swirled through my mind. Suddenly with a lurch, the drawstring gave. The front of my pyjama bottoms gaped open. They slid over my buttocks and held. Mr Bradshaw did that thing with his tongue poking through his mouth again as he ogled my long, thin soft cock.

I wriggled my hips and the pyjamas slithered down my thighs and bunched at my shins. Mr Bradshaw still gazed at my cock. I caught a faint aroma of some expensive aftershave or deodorant. He cleared his throat raucously, then said, “Bend over my knee, Alexander.”

Who the hell was Alexander! It worried me. Had he got the wrong boy? Was he expecting someone else? Had Mr Hennessey got his arrangements wrong? My head was in a whirl. I hesitated.

“Now, lad!” Mr Bradshaw barked. I came to. In one swift athletic move (I had practiced this with Ryan) I was across his knees. My head was low, my bottom high. My face was close to the carpet. Mr Bradshaw cupped the palm of his hand and with it gently traced the curve of my rock-hard left buttock. He was so gentle, it sent a shiver through my body. He did the same with the other cheek, making sure he traced the entire curves, across the peaks, up to the tops and into the undercurves. He lingered around my crack.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Visitor

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Albert stood at the twelfth-storey window watching the city below him, sucking on a heavy glass tumbler and half listening to the news wafting from the radio in his lounge room. It’s all doom and gloom, he mused to himself. Why doesn’t anything happy ever happen? The doorbell rang; absent-mindedly he turned the radio down and glanced at the clock on the wall. Twenty past six.

He opened the door and stood puzzled. An agitated young man, not much more than a boy really, shuffled from one foot to the other. He was dressed in a schoolboy’s blazer and short trousers, a little too tight. Silence hung in the air.

The boy spoke. “Hullo Mr Cartwright, I’m Alan.” Albert furrowed his brow. The boy continued. “One of Mr Hennessey’s boys. Sorry, I’m late. Had trouble finding you.” Albert peered at the boy before him. Neatly-cut dark hair, slim but muscular, clear skin, total absence of tattoos on the body. His grey eyes shone.

“Can I come in?” Albert moved away from the door and the boy entered. Only then did Albert notice he was carrying a long, thin canvas bag. A cricket bag, he guessed. The boy put it on the carpet and straddling across it he bent down and unzipped it. Albert’s heart jumped. He had a terrific view of the boy’s perfectly round buttocks. The legs were thin and hairless.

“I’ve got all sorts of toys, Mr Cartwright,” the boy opened the bag further. Albert saw a pair of jeans and a yellow t-shirt on top. “I’ve got canes, a taws, paddle, slipper, an old-fashioned razor strop,” the boy spoke at breakneck pace. Clearly, he had learned a script. His words were enunciated clearly, but they came out in a rush.

“We can play it however you want. You can be the schoolmaster and I’ll be the pupil. Or you can be my dad or my uncle and I’ve come home from school with a note saying I’ve been a naughty little boy,” he paused for breath, “Or if you have a special scenario we can discuss that. I’ve a note saying you’ve paid upfront.”

Albert stood casually watching the boy’s performance. Nobody speaks that quickly, he thought. He must be tweaked. Not exactly high perhaps, but on his way.

The boy stopped and stared at Albert. He flashed a practiced smile. “Mr Cartwright?”

Albert started, only just realising he was expected to say something. He peered at the boy, aware that his own dick was swelling with blood. This boy was gorgeous. So clear skinned. So thin. How often did you see a boy who wasn’t rolling in fat and covered in tattoos? And so young? “How old are you son?”

The boy found the practiced smile once more. This wasn’t the first time he had been asked that question. “I’m nineteen,” the words sped out, “I look a bit younger because I’m not very tall. It runs in the family. You should see my granddad, he’s four-foot-ten. In this clobber,” he indicated he was wearing a school uniform, “I get half fares on the trams,” he giggled at his own joke and lapsed into silence.

The silence became embarrassing. The boy broke it “Where do you want us to go?” he nodded at a door that he assumed led to a living room of some sort.

“Oh yes, right,” Albert was regaining his wits, “come this way.” The lounge room was large enough to accommodate a couch, two armchairs a dining table, bookcases and a television and entertainment unit. The boy appraised the room with a single glance, the gleam in his eye suggested approval. There was money here.

The boy glanced at the clock; time was getting on, he had arrived late. “Have you chosen from the menu?” his hands shook slightly so he hid them behind his back.

Albert shook his head, not to indicate a negative reply but to regain his reason. He cleared his throat with a hacking cough. He was sure his neck and face had coloured up. “Can we do this naked?” he blurted, then hurriedly corrected himself. “That is you naked, not me. Not both of us.” He silently rebuked himself for his fear. His cock was raging, it wanted to get on with this.

The boy painted the smile across his chops. “Say more?” he nodded to show possible approval. Sweat was starting to soak through Albert’s back. “You naked, across my knee, me spanking you with a belt.” He threw his arms wide to show his own belt holding up his heavy twill trousers.

The boy shrugged his shoulders, “Sure why not?” Albert nearly choked. The boy looked around the room, “On the settee?” Albert, his head spinning wildly, could hardly nod his assent. His heart raced, his temples throbbed, adrenaline flooded through his body. He was a fit man in his forties but he feared any second now he might have a stroke. He leaned against the dining table for support.

The boy undressed un-self-consciously as if preparing for bed. He slipped the blazer from his shoulders and lay it carefully on an armchair. He tugged a striped tie from his neck, then unbuttoned his shirt. Albert’s eyes stalked as the boy’s hairless torso was revealed. Nobody could be that hairless. Albert had heard of beauty parlours in town that could pluck every hair from the body. Every one. Even on the you-know-where. Muscles on the boy’s back tensed as he removed the shirt. Albert stared intensely at the boy’s flat stomach as he popped the waistband of his grey short trouser. His top teeth bit into his bottom lip at the first glimpse of gleaming white cotton underpants. Like the trousers themselves they were a size or two too small. They snugged the boy’s penis; even at a distance Albert saw he was uncut. The boy stepped out of his trousers, put his thumbs in the waistband of the underpants and eased them down his thighs and past the knees. He let them drop the rest of the way to his feet. He kicked them away. He started on his socks.

“No, no,” Albert was bursting to go. “That’s all right,” he almost screeched as he fumbled with the buckle of his own belt. At last it was free. His hands trembled as the belt flew through the loops on his trousers. “Come here! Come here!” he staggered backwards and fell with a thump on the couch. “Come. Over my knee.”

The boy paused, expecting some little drama to be played out. Some naughtiness at school; a neighbour complaining about a football being kicked against the house, scrumping apples.

“Now!” Albert’s blood pressure was soaring. Any moment his heart might explode. The boy appraised the situation, approached Albert and without a word he eased himself forward. The couch was small so he settled himself across Albert’s left knee and stretched across it. A scatter cushion blocked his way so he took hold and buried his face in it. He felt Albert grip him around the waist. He dangled across Albert’s knee. It wasn’t the most comfortable position, and he knew it wouldn’t give Albert the best view of his arse, nor the best target for him to lash. He was about to suggest he reposition himself when the first swipe landed on his right cheek. Albert’s wheezing almost drowned out the sound of leather belt rising, falling and connecting with naked flesh. It was a frenzied attack; rat-a-tat-tat. Like machinegun fire. Nobody was counting, but there he must have been going at a rate of forty lashes a minute.

The boy bit deep on the cushion as his bottom warmed up. Albert whacked on and on, astounded at how quickly the boy’s creamy white bottom turned crimson. The outline of his belt was reproduced time and again across naked flesh, from the top of the cheeks, across the mounds themselves and into the tender sit-spot. The boy’s legs buckled. It was a natural reflex action, for in truth he was feeling very little pain; a little blue pill swallowed earlier had seen to that. Albert was no expert at administering corporal punishment, but the boy was a seasoned receiver. He grimaced and groaned, raised his head from the cushion and pleaded for forgiveness: all part of the service.

Albert lost sense of time and place: he might have gone on all night. But suddenly he heard a familiar tune coming from the radio. The Archers was about to start. Seven o’clock. Where had the time gone? He shook his head clear; his chest ached and so did his cock, any moment now one or other would explode. He released his grip on the boy who took his chance and rolled off Albert’s lap and lay on the floor.

The boy caught his breath, glanced at the time, as anyone who works by the clock does. He saw Albert’s scarlet face and dark hooded eyes. The bulge in his trousers was unmissable. The boy painted a smile. “Do you want a blow-job?” Albert’s eyes gave silent assent. The boy rose on his knees in front of his master and expertly opened the front of his trousers. The boy’s tongue poked out his mouth. It was broad and flat. Keeping eye contact with Albert he licked the entire length of the older man’s steel-hard cock. Then he took the tip inside his mouth; sucking, swirling,  flicking.

He wrapped one hand around the base of the shaft, moving it up and down in time with the movements of his tongue. His fingers delicately caressed Albert’s testicles. “Huff, huff, huff.” Albert gasped without control. His hips gyrated, his thighs swayed. The boy moved his mouth just in time to receive a load full in the face. The boy rolled away across the carpet and watched Albert’s gasping, retching body doubled up on the couch.

“Can I use your kitchen?” Without waiting for a reply the boy left the room. Seconds later he was wiping his face clean with damp paper towels. He twisted his body to inspect his backside. Yellow bruises were already coming through. He had taken worse, he knew. No real harm done. He returned to the living room, packed away his school uniform in the cricket bag and dressed in jeans and t-shirt. Albert did not move from the couch. His natural pasty white colouring was returning.

“Thank you, Mr Cartwright,” the boy hovered at the door, ready to leave. But not quite ready. He glared at the old, wheezing man on the couch. “I’ll be going now then, Mr Cartwright; back to Mr Hennessey’s.”

Albert nodded a farewell. The boy now exasperated snapped. “You have paid upfront, but it is customary to offer a tip.”

Albert in a daze stumbled to his feet, staggered to a drawer and withdrew a wallet. He looked inside chose a couple of banknotes and handed them over, croaking, “Thank you.”

The boy’s smile was genuine. “Thanks Mr Cartwright, I hope we meet again.” Without further ado he let himself out.

Albert was regaining his strength. He went to the kitchen, switched on the kettle and sat at the table. While he waited for it to boil he pondered silently, “Who the hell are Mr Cartwright and Mr Hennessey?”

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Picture credit: Unknown

For more stories involving Mr Hennessey’s Boys click here

 

Other stories you might like

Secret in the loft

Don’t bully our mum

The domestic service agreement

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Book. The Boy in the Scarlet Blazer

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The Boy in the Scarlet Blazer

Timothy Hutchins is a young man with a wicked spanking fetish. There is little he can do about it until Billy, the boss of the burger bar where he works, takes him under his wing. Or more truthfully across his knee

In this latest free-to-download book, Timothy enters the world of the boy for hire and soon becomes a spanking-movie star. Everybody wants a piece of his backside.

The book runs for more than 16,000 words and can be downloaded by clicking the link below. The PDF file can be read on computers, laptops and a variety of e-book readers.

the-boy-in-the-scarlet-blazer-by-charles-hamilton-ii

 

For more free-to-download books click here

 

The hotel room

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The room is stale, airless, but we don’t open the window. Mr. Brown doesn’t want people in the street below to hear us. He has something special planned.

He closes and then locks the door. His privacy is valuable to him. We are at The Three Fishers Hotel. It is easy to get the room. Nobody asks questions. We are regulars here. Once, twice a month usually. We first met at the park nearby where the boys hang out. It’s not much of a park, just open ground really. I knew from the moment I saw Mr. Brown I had scored a winner; it was the stench of desperation about him.

He pulls a small bottle of whiskey from his jacket pocket, unscrews the top and raises it to his lips. I see his Adam’s Apple rise and fall as he takes a great swig. He screws the top and puts the bottle back in his pocket. I wait patiently. I have all day. I’m on the clock.

He snaps his fingers. This is my cue. He is ready. I stand, hands behind my back, head bowed. It is stuffy in the room and sweat is seeping through my white shirt. My striped tie is knotted too tightly. My pale grey trousers cling to the contours of my body. Mr. Brown likes to see the shape of my buttocks. The outline of my underpants is visible.

I have to tell him all the bad things I have done since we last met. They’re not really bad bad, just naughty. I tell him I didn’t do my Latin prep and that I was caught smoking a cigarette behind the bike shed. He knows I am lying. I am nineteen years old and it’s five years since I set foot in a school. And, we never did Latin at Gumshoe Lane.

Mr. Brown tells lies too, I think. What are the chances that his name really is Mr. Brown? He says he works in some office in the City. He offered me a job, but I already have a job. This is my job.

Mr. Brown’s features are like granite. He isn’t impressed by my levels of naughtiness. So, I tell him I have stolen a Mars Bar from a corner shop near my home. His eyes shine. Bingo! Victory.

Mr. Brown pulls the only chair in the room away from the wall and rests it in a tiny space between the bed and the door. Then, carefully, he unbuttons his jacket and slips it off his shoulders. He folds it neatly in half down the spine and puts it on the bed. Then, he sits on the chair, spreads his legs and shuffles his buttocks until he is comfortable. He snaps his fingers once more.

I slouch forward and stand a little to his right. His legs are strong and he has created a good platform for me. I avoid looking at his crotch. I take hold of my belt buckle and loosen it. The trousers fit snugly and I don’t need a belt to keep them up, but this is part of the ritual of preparation. I unbutton my waistband and then each of the four fly buttons. Mr. Brown’s stare burns my skin. The trousers slip to my hips and rest there. I take hold of the belt loops and help them on the way to my knees. Gravity takes over and they plop in a puddle at my feet.

In my head, I slowly count to five. Then, I lower myself across Mr. Brown’s lap. I place my palms into the dirty lino. It had a pattern once, but after years of wear it is now dirty grey. Behind me, I bend my knees a little. The tips of my toes hover above the ground. My stomach presses against Mr. Brown’s solid cock and my bum is resting against his thigh at a forty-five-degree angle. I feel Mr. Brown grip the elastic in my pants and pull so that the cotton of my white Y-fronts digs into my crack. He cups the palm of his right hand and gently caresses first my left and then my right buttock. He is so gentle I hardly feel it.

Then, the hand lifts away from my cheeks and a second later it smacks with terrific force into the underside of my bum. A dozen spanks land in quick succession. I gasp a little. Then, my gasps grow to groans and little yelps. He is not really hurting me. A hand spanking can’t do too much damage to a nineteen-year-old and not to a pro like myself. An Italian once gave me a difficult time when he was spanking me. I was quite and took my punishment like the Englishman I am. “Make show! Make Show!” he demanded and ever since then I’ve made sure to give my gentlemen a show.

After some minutes of this, Mr. Brown pauses.  He grips the waist of my pants and starts to tug them over my buttocks. He can’t get them all the way down so I lift my body off his lap by an inch or so to let him pull the Y-fronts to my knees. Hs rigid penis sticks into me when I rest my body once more on his lap.

He pats and preens my now naked buttocks, slipping his fingers into my crack. I tense, but he leaves my hole clear. He whacks his palm into my bum at rapid speed. Not one square inch of flesh is untouched. He goes from the top of the globe near the spine, over the mounds themselves and into the sensitive sit-spots under the buttocks. Then he turns his attention to the backs of my thighs. Then he does it all over again.

After five minutes of this the palm of his hand must be as sore as my bum. He stops. “Stand up,” he commands. I slide off his knees and hop up and down rubbing my buttocks in the spanking dance. I make show. My soft cock bounces up and down. I give Mr. Brown a good look. What little colour he has in his face drains to pale.

“Strip off.” Mr. Brown is in no mood for conversation this afternoon. I sit on the bed and remove my shoes and socks. Then, my trousers and pants join them on the floor. In moments, the shirt and tie are off. Mr. Brown’s eyes are on stalks. He has seen me naked many times, but he always gapes like it’s the first time. My body is deeply suntanned except for a white area around my arse and privates; the result of touting my wares in the park.

Mr. Brown loosens and then removes his tie before slowing rolling up his right shit sleeve. He is preparing himself for round two. “Stealing from shops is a very serious crime. You could go to jail,” he tells me, almost absent-mindedly. He is trying to make an excuse for the thrashing he is about to deliver. I wonder what he has in store; it will certainly be more severe than the hand spanking.

He bends down to retrieve my trousers and grips my belt buckle. In one expertly-crafted move he has the belt through all the loops and doubled up in his hand. He swishes it at me to add to the drama and tells me to put two pillows in the middle of the narrow bed.

“Lay on the pillows. Bottom up.”

I do as I am told. My stomach is on the crest of the pillows and my bottom is as high as I can get it. I spread my legs, separating the buttocks, giving Mr. Brown a terrific view of my crack and hole. We lads call this the “money shot.” It comes extra on the bill.

In this position my nose is pressed into the blanket. I can taste the dust. Does anyone ever sleep at the Three Fishers, I wonder? I feel the cold, wide, thick leather belt kissing my buttocks. Mr. Brown is nearly ready. I interlock my fingers and place my hands on my head in classic naughty boy pose. My arse tenses into a hard leather ball. Crack! the sound of leather whipping into muscular buttocks echoes around the small room. I don’t feel a thing for a second or two and then Wham! A line of scorching pain spreads across the centre of my cheeks. It’s like he pressed a hot poker into my flesh. My yelp is genuine this time. As are the ones I reward Mr. Brown with as another three whip home in quick succession. My heart pounds and I can feel blood whooshing through my arteries from the seat of the pain, through my back and into my head. My temples are throbbing just as much as my bum.

Mr. Brown pauses. I hear a rustle of movement and turn my head slightly to see him reach into his jacket pocket. He drains the last of the whiskey. Fortified, his fist grips the belt once more. His knuckles are turning white as he raises the leather as high as it will go and swipes it into my hard arse. He is trying to cut me in half. The leather strikes the top of my bum, but with such force that it then continues into the flesh and the meat. Mr. Brown is trying to enter my body at the bum and exit through my front. I don’t like the strap. This one is big and heavy and every swipe leaves ugly welts across my skin. They’ll swell up, all puffy and tender.

My head bounces up and down into the grey blanket. For the first time, I see a number of stains. The mattress beneath is old and lumpy. This bed has seen some action in its time.

He gives me twenty-four slashes. My arse and my head ache in equal measure. Mr. Brown is bent double, hands on knees and wheezing. His face and neck are as scarlet as I suppose my own bum to be. He draws in great gasps of breath. Slowly, he regains his composure. We shall soon be finished.

But, there is still one last act of this drama to perform. I am still face down on the bed. Mr. Brown’s fingers tremble as he unbuttons his trousers and lets them slip to his knees. I close my eyes tight; I know what is coming. I feel the mattress shift as Mr. Brown climbs on the bed beside me. I open my eyes and turn on my side. His eyes are now tightly shut. They always are at this point.

His cock is small but stiff. A dark mauve vein throbs along its whole length. I spit into both of my hands. With one, I cup his stringy balls. The other works its way up the shaft. He sucks in breath and holds it there. After three strokes the tip of his cock glistens. With two more tugs, cum splodges down his shaft. We lay beside each other in silence. I have no idea what thoughts go through Mr. Brown’s head at these times. Me, I only want this to finish. People, don’t believe me when I say the worst part of my job isn’t the pain and humiliation, it’s the sadness you see in the gentlemen.

After a while, Mr. Brown shuffles over to the sink in the corner of the room and cleans himself down. He sits by the bed watching me. He is fully dressed by now. I’m still stark naked, wearing only a cheeky smile.

I know we have to be careful. If we get caught it will be big trouble for him. It will be the end of his life. Complete ruin.

“This has to be the last time,” he says with more confidence than he really feels. I might be half his age, but I can read him like a cheap novel. He’ll want more. It won’t be the last time. He stands to leave. He can’t bear to look at me. He takes a roll of banknotes from his pocket, peels off several and without looking at me he drops them on the mattress near my feet.

Without a word, he unlocks and opens the door. He hesitates. “Wait at least half an hour before you leave.” Quietly, he closes the door and is gone.

I roll onto my stomach and run my fingers across the red welts on my buttocks. The belt has ripped me. The pain has long gone, but the marks will stay for some time. Maybe even until we meet again. And meet again we will. He won’t be able to say no to me. I love having power over someone. It’s better than taking drugs.

 

Other stories you might like

The expenses fiddle

The housebreaker

The university major

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The boy in the scarlet blazer book

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Timothy Hutchins is a young man with a wicked spanking fetish. There is little he can do about it until Billy, the boss of the burger bar where he works, takes him under his wing. Or more truthfully across his knee

In this latest free-to-download book, Timothy enters the world of the boy for hire and soon becomes a spanking-movie star. Everybody wants a piece of his backside.

 

The book runs for more than 16,000 words and can be downloaded by clicking the link below. The PDF file can be read on computers, laptops and a variety of e-book readers.

the-boy-in-the-scarlet-blazer-by-charles-hamilton-ii

Another book available to download free-of-charge.

ALL IN THE FAMILY. TALES OF DOMESTIC DISCIPLINE

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The hotel room

Jonjo strode up the hotel steps clutching his carrier bag. He eased his pace a little to ensure the automatic door really did open. Then, head down and not looking to left or right, he crossed the lobby heading for the familiar elevators. One was ready and waiting. He got in and punched number fifteen.

While the cage lumbered heavenwards, he checked himself out in the mirror. He liked what he saw. He had just had a very close shave. With a proper razor, not an electric job. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully: yes, as smooth as a rent boy’s bottom.

He ran his fingers through his unfashionably short brown hair, deliberately dishevelling it. He practiced his broad grin. Great teeth. White and even. Not many of his friends could say the same about theirs. His hazel eyes conveyed just a hint of boyish shyness.

The elevator pinged and the door opened. Turn left at the elevator and follow the corridor around a couple of bends. Room 1517 was near the end. He had been given detailed instructions. He didn’t need them. He had lots of practice finding hotel rooms.

He knocked on the door and stood back a pace so that the occupant could get a good look at him through the spy-hole. “Who is it?” The question surprised Jonjo. He was expected.

“It’s Jonjo, Mr Smith,” he said in a normal speaking voice. He waited while the safety chain was removed and the lock turned. The door opened.

“Come in quickly,” Mr Smith stood away from the door to let his visitor enter. “Mr Smith.” In his fifties, running to fat a bit. A little sweaty. Some kind of middle to senior manager in a company most people had never heard of. And cared less about.

Mr Smith closed the door and reset the chain. They would not be disturbed.

Mr Smith had no inclination for small talk. “You can change in there.” He nodded toward the bathroom. Jonjo entered the bathroom. It only took a minute. There wasn’t much to do. Off came his jacket, chinos and tee-shirt. On went the grey short trousers, grey socks, white shirt and school tie. Jonjo, aged twenty-one, masquerading as a nine-year-old.

He ran the cold tap, cupped his hands and scooped up water and drank. He ruffled up his hair one more time. He was ready. He took a deep breath and exited the bathroom. Showtime.

Mr Smith was standing at the far end of the room. Jonjo stood by the bathroom door waiting; submissively, remorsefully. Nothing happened. Mr Smith stared, dazed. A little astonished. Jonjo clasped his fingers behind his back and shuffled from one foot to the other. His naughty boy pose.

Eventually, Mr Smith came to. He didn’t know what to say. He had no script. Jonjo helped things along. “I’ve been a nawty likkle boy,” he simpered, twisting his fingers.

“Yes, you have. Naughty boy.” Sweat began running down the man’s back. His heartbeat raced. What a delicious sight it was to behold.

“You know what happens to naughty boys don’t you?”

“Sorry, daddy.” More simpering. Jonjo wished Mr Smith would get on with it.

He didn’t have long to wait. Mr Smith sat on the bed, planted his feet firmly on the ground, and croaked, “Come here and bend over my knee. You naughty, naughty boy.”

Jonjo walked across the room and without missing a beat laid himself across Mr Smith’s podgy legs. The boy stretched his torso across the mattress and let his legs dangle in mid-air. His bottom was strategically placed over Mr Smith’s crotch. A faint whiff of bleach from the bed linen made him want to gag.

Slap. Slap. Two smacks landed, one on each cheek. “Ouch. Owww!” Jonjo was putting on the style. More slaps. More fake cries.

Slap, smack, spank. On and on Mr Smith hammered his hand into the seat of Jonjo’s short trousers.

“Pah! This is useless,” Mr Smith’s hand was hurting much more than Jonjo’s bum. “Stand up.”

Jonjo climbed off Mr Smith’s knees and stood. Ready for round two.

The man picked up a straight-backed chair and set it down in the middle of the room. He sat down and with the crooked index finger of his right hand he beckoned the boy to stand by his side. “These are coming down young man,” he whispered. It seemed to Jonjo that he had pretty much lost his voice. The man unfastened Jonjo’s short trousers and tugged them to the floor. His eyes popped at his first sight of Jonjo’s cock and balls, encased in tight white cotton underpants.

“These too.” His hands quivered as he took hold of the elasticated waist and pulled the pants down slowly, revealing the boy’s floppy penis. Even when limp it was impressive. And, oh joy, it was uncut. Mr Smith’s own cock stiffened.

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Jonjo gazed over Mr Smith’s shoulder. Not wanting to look him in the eye. “Bend over my knee,” it was a clear instruction, but Mr Smith gave Jonjo no time to comply. Instead, he gripped him by the right elbow and guided the boy across his knee. He was inept. Jonjo had to stretch out his arm to break his fall. It jerked his shoulder.

“Ow!” he cried out. It was the only real pain he had felt so far.

Jonjo settled himself and waited. They could hear voices in the corridor; right outside the room. Was somebody about to come in? If they had, they would have seen a forty-something man, sweating profusely. Across his knee was a twenty-one-year-old schoolboy. His short trousers and underpants at his feet and his bared bottom strategically placed ready to receive the damn good spanking that the naughty brat deserved.

The sound of a door opening and closing was followed by silence. They were not going to be discovered. Mr Smith took hold of the tail of Jonjo’s gleaming white shirt and slowly folded it up the boy’s back until it cleared the target area. The boy was naked from his feet to nearly his shoulders. Mr Smith didn’t notice that not only was Jonjo’s bum as bald as a baby’s, so were his legs. Jonjo took pride in his work.

The boy felt Mr Smith’s cock pressing into his own stomach. It stiffened further as the man cupped the palm of his right hand and using small circular motions caressed the soft flesh of Jonjo’s buttocks. They were not “buns of steel”, there was plenty of “give” in them. Just the way Mr Smith liked his boys.

Slap, slap, slap. This time without his short trousers and underpants for protection, Jonjo felt it. His bottom palpitated and trembled below the onslaught. Mr Smith spanked with vigor. Soon Jonjo’s bum was a deep pink colour, with the imprints of Mr Smith’s firm, fat fingers visible in many places. He panted and gritted his teeth together as Mr Smith’s hand wandered across his throbbing bottom, seeking out fresh, unblemished flesh to assault. Jonjo’s bare buttocks were soon as rosy and glowing as the setting sun.

He stammered out the lame line, “I’m sorry, daddy.” Then, howling like a ham actor, he twisted across his knees, as if trying to escape the barrage of smarting swats that rained down. His short trousers and pants snagged at his ankles, making it hard to move.

Mr Smith’s pulse hammered in his head as adrenaline pumped into his bloodstream. Mouth dry, he licked his lips, eyes wide and stared at the glowing bottom across his lap. For ten long minutes he struck Jonjo’s bottom with his flat hard hand again and again. At long last it stopped. He could not keep it up any longer. His cock was throbbing much more than the delicious boy’s bum.

“Get up.” Mr Smith released his grip from the boy’s waist and Jonjo rolled off the man’s lap. He knelt in front of his punisher. Ready, for round three.

The man was unsteady on his feet. Exhausted by the effort of spanking a young man’s arse. But, there was one more act to play out. He unbuckled his belt, released the button at his waist, lowered his zipper and tugged both his trousers and pants to his knees. His cock was pointing right in Jonjo’s face.

The boy gazed lovingly at Mr Smith. His beautiful hazel eyes kidded the man that Jonjo had never seen anything so wonderful before in his life. In truth it was smaller than most. He grinned and displayed those perfect white teeth, then stuck out his tongue and licked the man’s shaft.

Moments later Jonjo had Mr Smith’s penis inside his mouth; thrusting roughly. It wasn’t there for long. Nobody was keeping time but within seconds the man shot his load. Jonjo only just got the lump of gristle out of his mouth in time.

It was over and time to go. Jonjo returned to the bathroom, repeated the hand cupping and rinsed his mouth with water. Then, he took the mouthwash he always carried to jobs, gargled and spat. He repeated the performance three times until his throat burned. He undressed and put on his street clothes.

He left the bathroom and picked up a white envelope from the nightstand. It had the hotel’s name on it. He opened it and carefully counted the banknotes within. Satisfied that he had not been cheated, he left the room without a word to Mr Smith.

He retraced his steps to the elevator, descended to the ground floor, crossed the lobby and exited the hotel. It was a cold evening. He hurried through the streets anxious to catch his bus back to the university halls of residence. He still had an essay on entrepreneurship to finish by the morning.

Other stories you might like.

Mr Hennessey’s Boys. Howard’s story

The fire-raiser

The sneak thief

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Colonel and Tyler

WARNING: This  tale that is a little darker than the ones I usually tell – Charles

 

Tyler lay face down on the bed: stark naked. His bottom was raised by two pillows, pressed against his balls and he buried his face into the duvet and kept his arms, as instructed, stretched above his shoulders with his fingertips pointing at the headboard.

His body ached, not from a whipping, because that was yet to start. The pain was caused by the copious amounts of alcohol topped off with street drugs he had devoured the night before (or was it earlier that morning? He had no idea of the time and only the merest recollection of the place he was at). His tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth and he was certain sweat oozed from every pore.

He felt a slight tap of a swishy rod against his upturned buttocks: the Colonel was about to start.

The Colonel brushed the thin whippy cane across Tyler’s cheeks. The boy was very thin; unnaturally so. He had once been fit, both in the athletic sense and in the sexy way. Now, the Colonel supposed, the thinness was caused by under nourishment: drugs had a way of killing the appetite.

Nevertheless, the Colonel desired the hairless body before him. Tyler was naturally fair skinned had recently been shaved top to toe. The Colonel looked forward to creating distinctive mark on that flesh. But he was in no hurry: for now he owned Tyler.

The Colonel continued with his slow preparation. The cane in his hand was hardly two feet long. Some people would call it a nursery cane: if it had ever been used in the Real World, it would probably have been found swishing down into the outstretched hand of an eight-year-old miscreant. Or in days long gone, maybe a Nanny would use it to smack the bare bum of a particularly tiresome young gentleman as she held him face down across her lap.

The Colonel had a vast collection of canes. Today, he had two of his favourites laid out in readiness. His plan had been well thought out. No script had been written but he knew exactly how this was going to play out.

Tyler moaned softly when the Colonel brushed the cane once more across his cheeks, raised it no more than three inches and with the merest flick of the wrist smacked it into his bum.

This was what the Colonel liked to call “preparation”. He was delivering the entrée, before the main course began. Smack, smack, smack, the Colonel reddened Tyler’s buttocks; he was marking nicely, for this was indeed a rather wonderful cane.

The boy gasped as each successive swish travelled the length of his buttocks, but he kept perfectly still, allowing the Colonel to go through his paces. The rattan bounced into Tyler’s backside for the hundredth time before the Colonel paused for breath.

Tyler’s blood pressure was rising, but that was probably due the punishment he had inflicted on his own body earlier, rather than the caning he was undergoing now. Phlegm was rising in his throat and he worried he might sick up into the duvet.

The Colonel put down his cane on the bed beside Tyler. Without speaking, he walked across the room to the dressing table, opened a drawer and thrust his hand inside, extracting two neck ties. He turned and faced Tyler, admiring from this distance his own handiwork. The boy’s bum was raw with distinctive marks from his caning, and the Colonel knew from experience the lad would be in some pain. Some times by this point a boy would be sobbing gently into the mattress, but Tyler was made of sterner stuff, he was stoical and it took a lot before he would express his pain.

The Colonel was unperturbed. When round two was underway the boy would be hollering fit to wake the neighbours.

Tyler’s breathing was shallow and he really did not feel too well. He hardly noticed when the Colonel took first his right wrist and then his left and tied them securely to the bed post.

The Colonel’s own breathing was quickening a pace as he picked up his second cane: where the first had been benign, this was vicious: three feet six inches long and as thick as a man’s thumb, but with a suppleness to satisfy any disciplinarian. Whereas the first cane might be used with gentleness on a small child, this rod was meant to deliver a vicious thrashing to the most hardened juvenile delinquent or adult criminal.

In his feverish state Tyler would not see what was coming, but he would surely feel it. The Colonel repeated his brushing of the buttocks, gently rubbing the new cane over the boy’s mounds. Then without warning, it was raised high, flashed down, bit deep, lingered, and was removed, leaving a long, thick swelling welt.

There is a stunned moment of silence, followed by a long, loud, and anguished wail from Tyler. Restrained as he was, he could do little but bounce his bottom up and down as if he was having sex with the pillows beneath him. Once he had settled again, the Colonel lay on number two, which produced a deep throated roar, and then a third, which caused a piercing scream.

Bile was spilling from Tyler’s mouth, and pausing only for a second to make sure he was not actually choking to death, the Colonel raised and thrashed down the cane with his fullest force three more times. Tyler’s screams were subdued by a mouthful of vomit and he heaved hopelessly at the restraints on his wrists. Blood was seeping from six deep cuts across his buttocks.

Up and down came the cane another three times. Tyler’s whole body juddered with agony, his face was a deep scarlet and his bum cheeks a dark bloodied red.

From somewhere close by the Colonel could hear a door open; someone from a neighbouring bed sitting room must have heard the screams and was on the way to investigate.

Hurriedly the Colonel searched the room with his eyes; ah that would do nicely. Abandoned close by was a pair of his underpants, put aside for the weekly trip to the laundry. He scooped to the floor, grabbed them, balled them up and stuffed them into Tyler’s mouth. Then, believing he had only seconds before his pleasure would be interrupted by the neighbour, he thrashed down another six cuts into poor Tyler.

As predicted fists hammered against the door and a man’s angry voice could be heard. Too late; the Colonel was beyond control, sweat poured from his back as he let fly with another half dozen slices. Tyler cries turned to splutterings as in vain he tried to spit out the underpants. His mouth was full of vomit and he couldn’t breathe. The hammering at the door got louder and more frenzied.

The Colonel sent two more cuts crashing into Tyler; the pain seared through him; his body convulsed and he went limp.

“That’s it! I’m calling the police!” and the hammering stopped.

The Colonel stood cane in hand, staring at Tyler’s lifeless body.

 

Other stories you might like

Six of the best caning stories 3. The Colonel takes control

Winker Wilson’s visit

Expelled from school

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com