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.
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second