The hotel room

z used hotel rent boy

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

used-school-longs-chair-2

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.

zused school cane pantz down (10)

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

Mr Hennessey’s Boys 3. Ethan’s story

Previously in Mr Hennessey’s Boys

Episode 1, Howard’s story

Episode 2, Noah’s story

 

Mr Hennessey has a stable of young men who for a price are willing to offer their backsides to corporal punishment enthusiasts. Here, Ethan encounters a sweet gentleman

 

Mr Wilkins was probably the weirdest of my gentlemen, but also one of the nicest. He treated me like a son, almost literally.

I would visit him at his house, always at the same time: 3.45pm; just as the schools turned out. His thing was for me to come home from school and behave like his little boy. He liked me to dress in a scarlet school blazer and would have me dress in really short, short trousers.

Then I would have to play with my toys for a while and then he would find an excuse to pick up a slipper and spank me.

I have done a few “domestic” scenes for my gentlemen; but mostly they aren’t father-and-son stories. People seem to prefer to play as “uncle and nephew”. Strange that: I don’t know why, it might be having me play their “son” is a bit too close for comfort, especially if they have real-life sons of their own.

Mr Wilkins treated me like his son. I never asked him if he had any real sons, I thought that was too dangerous. But, he had lots of toys for me to play with, so where did they come from?

Usually, as soon as I got home from school I would get the toy box out and find something to play with, just like an ordinary boy might. One afternoon he fed me fish fingers and chips before play-time. That really freaked me out.

He made me a bit nervous another time I visited. I was crawling round on the floor playing with miniature “Matchbox” toy cars. He had quite a collection from about fifteen years ago, with some models of cars that you never see on the roads today. I was on the carpet, going VROOOM! VROOOM! pretending to rev up a car’s engine when Mr Wilkins got on the floor with me, took one of the cars, and whooshed it across the carpet.

“Come on let’s have a race.” He wanted to play together just like we were eight-year-olds. So, we did.

I didn’t want to think what the heck was going through his mind. Despite the number of hours we spent together me and Mr Wilkins never had much of a conversation, so I couldn’t tell if he was a bit simple.

We played like that for twenty minutes or so before he stopped suddenly, lifted his head theatrically, and said, “Oh, is that the telephone?”

It wasn’t of course. It was pretend. But it was a pretence that would bring us both back to the real purpose of my visit.

He left the room for about five minutes, before returning with a stern look on his face.

“Well, Peter,” he said. Who was Peter? That’s not my name, but he always called me Peter.

“Well Peter that was Mr Knight on the phone.”

I took my cue and gave him a suitably alarmed look.

“Do you know what he wanted?”

No, actually, but I was sure Mr Wilkins would soon get around to telling me.

“Well, Peter?”

I gave him my best abashed eight-year-old child’s look as if to say, “I’ve been a very naughty little boy” and let him get on with the story.

“You’ve been firing your catapult at his cat, again. What have I told you about that?”

So we went through the story. I was a bad boy who had been warned more than once about annoying the neighbours. What had I to say for myself? (Not much) And so on.

Mr Wilkins strung it out for quite some time. He always seemed to enjoy this part of the evening even more than what was to follow.

Eventually, he said, “Peter, go fetch my slipper.”

I picked up his bedroom slipper from next to the fireplace where it had been left to warm and handed it to him.

“You have been a very naughty boy, haven’t you, Peter?”

I agreed that I had.

“I am going to spank your bottom with my slipper, Peter.”

I tried to look suitably alarmed.

“Go and stand by the arm of the settee.”

I did as I was told, while he smacked the slipper into the palm of his hand.

“Peter, this is going to hurt me more than it does you.”

Oh, per-lease…

“Take down your shorts and bend over the arm of the settee.

They were down in a jiffy and I was in position.

Mr Wilkins came and moved my blazer away so that my white underpants were fully exposed.

Then, he spanked me. Six whacks with the slipper. I hardly felt a thing. I never did when Mr Wilkins did it.

He made me lay across the settee for about twenty seconds, before he said, “I’m sorry to have to do that Peter, but you are a very naughty boy. You can stand up now.”

My face was red (from being over the arm of the settee) but I knew if I inspected it later my bottom would be unblemished.

“Sorry,” I sniffed, although I was nowhere close to wanting to sob.

“Get dressed. It’s over now.”

And, it was. Mr Wilkins looked genuinely upset that he had been forced to spank me. He ruffled my hair a little and with a weak smile, said, “Go to your room now.”

I changed my clothes in the hallway and picked up the bag of Liquorice Allsorts he had left for me on the telephone stand. I didn’t need to check, I knew there would be five used bank notes hidden among the sweets.

I opened the front door and closed it gently behind me.

Yes, Mr Wilkins was very nice to me the few times I saw him. It was a pleasure to be his son Peter, if only for an hour at a time

 

Mr Hennessey’s Boys episode 4, Timothy’s story is here

 

 

Other stories you might like

 

The housebreaker

Where’s the paddle, hon?

When Dad got home

 

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Mr Hennessey’s Boys 2. Noah’s story

Mr Hennessey has a stable of young men who for a price are willing to offer up their backsides to corporal punishment enthusiasts. Here, Noah dresses up for Col Sanders.

Mr Hennessey’s Boys Episode 1, Howard’s story is here

 

My handler, Mr Hennessey said he would pick me up at my place at 2pm to take me on an adventure and he arrived on the dot.

He brought with me a full Boy Scout uniform; complete with khaki shorts and a wide-brimmed hat.

“Put these on before we leave. There won’t be a chance to do it later,” he handed me a paper package.

No way! I couldn’t risk people seeing me dressed like this. I was very anxious. From the first time he suggested this job, I had my doubts. Now this. Parading around my own manor dressed like a nineteen-thirties Boy Scout. No way. I might just as well walk around with a placard round my neck: ‘Boy for Sale.’

Mr Hennessey understood. He was always great like that. He was a businessman, but he never forced any of his boys to do something they didn’t want to.

“Ok, ok,” he shrugged his shoulders, “We’ll find a layby on the way. You can change there.”

Minutes later we were in his Ford Escort and on the road travelling out of town.

When Mr Hennessey first suggested this trip I said, “No. Emphatically, no.”

“Look”, he had told me. “There’s this client I have. Calls himself Col Sanders. I know! I know! I don’t think he’s even a real colonel. If he is he must be retired. He’s old enough. Lovely, man. You’ll love him.”

It was the Hennessey soft sell. His job as an agent was to match up the client and the boy. One wanted to do the spanking and the other was willing to oblige: for a fee.

This job was no different to any of the dozens of others Mr Hennessey had arranged for me in the past. Except that it was.

“He wants to watch while I spank you,” Mr Hennessey said it as if it were the most natural request in the world.

I’m not sure what my objection was. But, I didn’t want to do it.

“It’s just like those videos you do,” he flashed me a grin and flung his arms wide, “Except there are no cameras.” He laughed at the absurdity of his own argument. “A bit like the theatre, then. A live performance.”

Looking back, I think it was Mr Hennessey who was the problem. He was my business manager, not a client. I didn’t think he was interested in taking part in a spanking session. Like most of his boys he was in this for the money. It was purely business. But I loved being punished by older men. If I let him spank my arse, the ‘relationship,’ if that’s the right word for what we had, would change.

I thought he wasn’t into spanking, but I had heard reports that there was one lad that he saw to regularly. He was a well-known television actor with a big part in a soap opera. I’ve no idea if he was gay but there were rumours. Why is it that only cute good-looking boys are ‘accused’ of being gay? People never talk about the possibility that a pug-ugly fat blob is gay.

So, maybe Mr Hennessey had hidden depths himself.

No, I said, sorry, this was one gig I was turning down.

Then he told me the fee.

“How much?” My jaw probably literally dropped. Greed is a terrible emotion and it can get you into a lot of trouble. That’s how a week or so later I was sitting in the car with Mr Hennessey with a Boy Scout uniform on the back seat on my way to meet Col Sanders.

Traffic was light and we made good progress through the afternoon traffic. Then, without warning, Mr Hennessey pulled into a parade of shops. He disappeared into a green-grocer’s and emerged with a brown paper bag of fruit.

“Here,” he handed me four apples. “We’ll need these later.”

Out of town we found a secluded spot and I hid behind a hedge. In the blink of an eye I was transformed into a nineteen-thirties’ Boy Scout. The khaki shorts fell three inches high of the knee, ideally emphasising my great legs and cute bum. The greenish shirt was made of heavy cotton and when I rolled up the sleeves to my biceps it clung to my muscular gym-honed torso. There were merit badges sewn on to the shirt. They looked authentic to me, but what would I know. But the thing I adored most was the black-and-red striped neckerchief that when swirled up and tied around my neck dangled down my chest. I would love to wear this all the time. It would turn the boys’ heads in the bars.

Mr Hennessey gave me a cheeky wink and a thumbs-up when I returned to the car. “Oh yes! You never fail to deliver. You are going to make a happy man very old today.”

I cheered up considerably in my scouts’ uniform. You had to hand it to Mr Hennessey; he always knew how to dress his boys. I felt very proud to be part of his team. We delivered the best.

We drove on for a few more miles in companionable silence. Then Mr Hennessey piped up.

“This is the deal. You are the naughty boy in the village and I am your father. I have caught you scrumping, you know stealing the colonel’s apples, and I take you to him. That’s it really. Then we play it by ear. Or do I mean by ‘rear?’” He laughed at this. Mr Hennessey was a great businessman, but he had no future in stand-up comedy.

So, it was an improvised sketch. My part was to be a small kid and as in real life I had no say in what was going to happen. If my ‘father’ decided I was going to get a dose of his leather belt across the bare arse, then so be it.

“What’s with the scout uniform?” I asked lovingly fondling the neckerchief.

“I think we are re-enacting something real from his past. I’m not sure. I find it better not to ask too many questions.”

Soon, Mr Hennessey pulled up in front of a large detached house. Col Sanders certainly seemed to have a lot of money; why shouldn’t he spend some of it on me?

We got out of the car and I was approaching the front door when Mr Hennessey pulled me back.

“Wait,” he stooped down and took a small handful of dirt from a flower bed.

“Authenticity,” he said, as he smeared my knees with the dirt. For good measure he dipped his finger in the soil and put the merest trace on my left cheek. The man was a pro. Now, I really looked like that naughty boy who had been climbing trees and stealing apples.

Mr Hennessey led the way to the door and rang the bell. Showtime had begun.

Col Sanders opened the door himself. Somehow, I had expected a butler or a housekeeper. I was a little disappointed. The colonel was a slight figure, with stooped shoulders. He had once been tall, strong and erect but age had taken its toll. Liver spots spread across the flesh that was visible and extended to the top of his head which was completely bald.

His once sparkling, but now dull, hazel eyes looked at me hungrily. There was definitely something very sexy about that neckerchief. His gaze lingered on the garment and I followed his eyes as they moved from my throat down my chest and came to rest at the buttons of my short trousers. Absurdly, for a moment I thought he had seen my flies were undone. He might have wished that was the case, because, even at his age, he was lusting after the contents of my pants.

“Col Sanders. Good afternoon,” Mr Hennessey broke the silence. “I don’t know if you remember me, my names Noah. I’m from the village,” the little playlet had begun.

I stood head bowed, looking suitably abashed as my ‘father’ recounted my misdeeds. Naughty Noah had climbed the wall to the colonel’s orchard and stolen apples. He was very sorry, but here are four that were saved. Bad, bad Noah had eaten the others.

Soon we were inside the house and standing in a room that might have been a living room, or maybe a study, or even a library. I had little experience of large houses having been raised in a tiny council flat. The low-ceilinged room contained a number of leather armchairs positioned around a handsome, but now never used, fireplace, a table and a couple of straight back chairs. There were two windows that looked out into an expansive garden. It was immaculately kept: the colonel must have employed a gardener full time.

Like all children I knew I must only speak when spoken to, so I stood patiently drinking in the splendour of the room while the ‘adults’ discussed my future.

“He needs a darn good spanking. That’s what he needs.” It was the colonel who brought up the idea.

“Indeed he does. Indeed he does.” I tried not to smile. Mr Hennessey sounded like an actor in a television adaptation of a Charles Dickens novel. I half expected to hear him to say, “I’m ever so ’umble Col sanders; ever so ’umble.”

Then the spotlight turned on me.

“What have you got to say for yourself Noah?”

Startled, I stumbled on my line. I really had no answer for the colonel and found myself mumbling, “Nuffink.”

“Nuffink? Nuffink?” Where did that come from? I was usually the posh upper-class schoolboy in these scenarios. That, and the blue-and-gold school blazer, was my brand so to speak. Why had I suddenly assumed the position of a working-class urchin? It must have been that bloody Charles Dickens again.

“Pah!” the colonel was not amused. “You are nothing but a thief. A despicable thief!” The colonel’s dull eyes suddenly flared as he verbally laid into me. There was real passion there. What event from his past was he recalling?

He turned to my ‘father.’ “He needs a damned good thrashing, that’s what he needs. What do you say Noah?”

Unsurprisingly, Noah agreed. It was only now that I realised we had not discussed this part of the play. A “thrashing” the colonel had said, not a spanking. What did the old man have in mind?

Suddenly, I found my eyes darting around the room, searching out a clue to his intentions. There was no obvious instrument of my punishment on display. I could see no birch rods or whippy canes. Maybe they were under wraps somewhere, but again I could see no apparent hiding places.

“Might I suggest colonel,” my ‘father’ said, “that you take the boy across your knee and give him his just desserts.”

I shuddered under the gaze of the colonel. Once, he must have been a powerful man whose stare struck terror into strong men. Now, he was a wizened old man, stripped of his physical power. But in that stare I could see lust. He didn’t want to thrash or spank me: he wanted to have me, to rip down my shorts and pants and haul me over the back of the chair and have his way with me.

Mr Hennessey saw my shudder. I was in terror of this old man. I knew he did not have the strength to fulfil his lustful desires. If he made a move for me I could sock him on the jaw and walk out the house. I knew that, but still I was rooted to the spot stunned. What if he and Mr Hennessey had arranged this specially? I could take on the old man definitely; but I might not be able to defeat the two of them together. What if they over-powered me and tied me down across the large oak table. Each of them could quench their thirst on me.

Mr Hennessey and I exchanged glances. It took only a nanosecond. Now, I understood.

“No, you are his father, Noah. You should punish him.” The colonel still appeared to be following the script.

“As you please, colonel.”

I realised Mr Hennessey had been in this house before when without instruction he left the room and returned almost immediately. In his right hand he held a small rectangle of polished wood, with a smooth, well-worn handle which he methodically slapped against his large open left hand.

I was back on familiar territory. Mr Hennessey moved to sit on an upright wooden chair and pointed to his thighs. With my best sullen expression fixed on my face, I stood and allowed my short trousers and underpants to be dropped, before lowering myself to the expected position.

It was going to be plain sailing from here, I thought. How wrong I was.

I felt the firm, cold, smooth paddle move slowly and silently across my bare curves. It was heavier than I imagined. I felt it move away as if it had identified its target and then like a bolt of lightning it returned with a smack that tore the breath from my body. So sudden and so startling was the impact that I surprised myself by letting a yell of protest burst out from the back of my throat. My whole body arched and stiffened in alarm, and my fingers clawed at the carpet pile.

Instinctively for self-preservation my buttocks clung to each other. Then I heard the colonel’s authoritative voice order me to unclench.

Slowly, I relaxed my stinging cheeks, only to be propelled once more into defence mode as the smooth polished wooden paddle landed with tremendous accuracy and force on the very same spot and delivered another slab of pain which sank deep into my backside.

My cheeks tightened into hard muscle. The air escaping through my closed teeth made a high-pitched whine and my feet rose up from the carpeted floor.

Then nothing happened. Mr Hennessey was waiting.  Very slowly and painfully, my buttocks regained their softened form. Then for the third time the sound of the wooden paddle bouncing into my soft flesh resounded around the room. This was where I lost it.

My throaty cries merged with my tears. Snot poured from my nose. My body heaved across Mr Hennessey’s lap. My arms flailed, my legs kicked. Every part of my body attempted escape, but Mr Hennessey possessed a strength I had never before knew he had. He held me forcibly face down across his lap. I was going nowhere; not until the colonel had been given his money’s worth.

I don’t remember how many times that paddle was flogged into my arse but my previously creamy-white buttocks were transformed into two twitching, flaming red mounds of flesh.

It was over. The colonel’s eyes were almost as moist as mine. He watched intently as I performed the dance of the spanked naughty boy, hopping from foot to foot to try to make the pain go away. It didn’t work.

His bony hand caressed my stinging buttock cheeks. Only then did I notice how paper thin his skin was. The agony in my arse was turning into a glowing pain and soon that would become a hot glow. Every square inch of my buttocks and some of my thighs was blistered and the outline of the paddle was clearly visible in many places. The whole area was the colour of deep burgundy and blood vessels had broken in one or two places. When I got home I would have to use a wet sponge to soak off my underpants where the blood had dried and stuck them to my body.

“Stand and face the wall. Hands on your head.” It was an unexpected command from the colonel. I thought we were done, but evidently not. I was fully dressed now and ready to leave, but what did I know, perhaps this was part of the show.

The two adults left me in the room for at least ten minutes. I had plenty of time to reflect on the day. I had taken one hell of a spanking and I was very proud of myself. I had not known that Mr Hennessey could pack such a punch; clearly he did have more experience at this than I had credited him with.

Mr Hennessey returned to the room alone and we left the house. We drove home in silence, but it was not companionable.

That night, I masturbated furiously as I wriggled my sore bottom against the bed sheets and recounted how Mr Hennessey had torn my arse to shreds. The red and black neckerchief hung on the back of a chair and an envelope stuffed with banknotes was tucked away safely in a drawer.

It had been a successful day, but I vowed I would never see the creepy colonel again. And I didn’t. Two days later Mr Hennessey told me the colonel’s body had been found by his daily cleaning woman. He had died moments after we left. I consoled myself that he had died a very happy man.

Mr Hennessey’s Boys episode 3, Ethan’s story is here.

 

Other stories you might like

Winker Wilson’s visit

The Private Tutor: 1

In the farmhouse

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Mr Hennessey’s Boys 1. Howard’s story

Howard Hannah studied the reflection of his bum in the bathroom mirror.  It surprised him how much damage a hairbrush could do. The pain had gone hours ago and his cheeks were no longer swollen, but some marks remained. Gingerly, he touched a purple bruise in the centre of his left buttock. He winced. It was tender to touch and it would be like that for some time to come.

He had to get into the shower quickly or he would be late for school. It was geography first period. The A-level exams started in less than three weeks, and then school would be over for good.

And then what? He had planned on going away to university, but now he wasn’t so sure. He was on to a good thing here. He would lose it if he moved away. Maybe, he could find a course closer to home.

He towelled off and climbed into his school uniform. The blue-and-yellow blazer was getting a bit tight. That was a shame, some people said they adored to see him wearing it.

He padded down stairs. His younger brother Mike and his mum were arguing; again.

“Howard, there’s some cornflakes,” his mum called from the kitchen.

“Don’t want any.”

“You must have something, how about some …”

“Bye mum,” Howard closed the front door behind him.

It was a ten minute walk to King Edgar School. He wouldn’t be late.

His phone vibrated. It was Mr Hennessey. Howard smiled. Mr Hennessey always had good news.

“Hi Howard, how did last night go?”

Howard laughed. Last night. What a hoot.

“Great. He had me dress like a Boy Scout. From about a million years ago. Y’know, khaki short trousers, long socks, neckerchief. The works.”

He drifted into silence and let Mr Hennessey do the talking.

“Can you do a call out on Friday?

“Dunno, Mr H. That’s the day after tomorrow, I don’t know if the bruises will be gone by then.”

“He asked for you specifically. You’re getting a good reputation.”

Howard blushed, he was glad Mr Hennessey wasn’t there to see him.

“If it goes on like this we can charge a premium for you. You’ll make a fortune.”

Howard was nearing school; there were too many people around for him to continue this conversation.

“Sorry, Mr H. Give me a call later.”

It had started just before Christmas, shortly after Howard’s eighteenth birthday. A group of them were drinking at The Lilliput, a pub were they weren’t too particular about a customer’s age. Timothy, a lad who had left King Edgar’s a year or so back, was on a recruiting drive.

What impressed Howard most was how matter-of-fact about it Timothy was. As if it was the most natural thing in the world to charge men a lot of money to spank your arse. Timothy explained there was a man called “Mr Hennessey” who arranged spanking parties. He had one lined up where lads would dress up as schoolboys.

When he started the school role-play meetings Hennessey hired sex workers to be the naughty schoolboys. It was a disaster. The rent boys were all tweaked and dependent on drugs and could hardly speak. They were rubbish at role-play and could not do much more than simply offer up their arses.

Undeterred, Hennessey started looking for ordinary lads who would be up for it. It surprised him how many were: almost all were straight youngsters happy to earn extra cash. Soon word spread and friends of the lads came forward and asked to sign up.

Timothy was one of Mr Hennessey’s regulars and said even though it was as kinky as hell, the money was fantastic and Hennessey made sure they came to no harm. Nobody had to do anything they did not want.

It suited Hennessey as well. He did not plan it but he had formed a small community of young men willing and able to satisfy the desires of his clients.

Perhaps too much beer had been drunk that night, but Howard and two other lads put their names down. Howard said he was not into corporal punishment; he was not even gay. He would do it entirely for the money.

Howard could laugh about it now but when he started he could not stand the pain. They had abolished caning in schools thirty years previously and dads did not spank their sons (even when they thoroughly deserved it) so teenagers had no personal experience of corporal punishment.

When Hennessey gave him a try-out – two whacks of a traditional crook-handled whippy rattan school cane moderately delivered across the seat of his trousers – Howard jumped up from the back of the armchair rubbing his buttocks in agony. Now, he could take the full monte: twelve, twelve and twelve. That is a dozen on the trousers, then another twelve on the pants with the final ones on the bare. He could take it quietly, teeth clenched tightly shut, or he could holler the house down, or he could go anywhere in between: whatever the client preferred.

The school party had been a great success. Howard wore his King Edgar blazer. The school’s a well-known posh independent school and the clients immediately recognised it. When Hennessey let it drop that Howard was the Real McCoy and was actually a pupil there the old queens blew a fuse.

What surprised Howard was that most of the men didn’t want to give him the traditional “six-of-the-best” with the cane. They preferred him to bend over their knee so they could pat and preen and knead his bum before they spanked him with the palm of the hand. He didn’t even have to take down his trousers.

That was when he discovered it. It came like a bolt from the blue. He was turned on by being spanked. It had never occurred to him before; he had never fantasied about it. He wasn’t gay; he was sure about that. He didn’t have a girlfriend, but he was no virgin. Girls came on to him; he was very good looking in a dreamy dark brown eyes kind of way.

The party was a revelation. He couldn’t keep his cock under control. Perhaps this was an occupational hazard, Howard wasn’t sure, but he found it could be a tad embarrassing sometimes.

Now, Howard was a regular with Mr Hennessey and often did solo gigs; just he and the client. Hennessey had arranged for him to see “Mr Reddington” in his study that Friday.

He stood hand firmly on top of his green-and-black school cap, nose almost touching the wall. He could feel the beautifully tailored mid-grey short trousers hugging the contours of his buttocks. He caught a whiff of dry-cleaning fluid on the crisp green-and-black striped school blazer. He reckoned he looked every inch a prep school boy in his grey shirt, green-and-black striped tie, a grey V-neck jumper with green-and-black trimming and long grey socks with a green hoops around the tops.

The blazer had a special badge on the breast pocket. Hennessey said it was the uniform of a real adult school. Adults would dress up as boys and girls and go to this place in the country where they had built a real school. Then for days on end they would do lessons and behave like schoolkids. Of course, there were lots of spankings, strappings and canings for the naughty boys and girls. It was mainly women on men, apparently.

He waited patiently. He had already been standing hands on head for twenty minutes and his arms were aching like mad. But, he knew the pain would be as nothing compared to the agony he would have in his backside by the end of the evening.

What was Mr Reddington doing? Psyching himself up he supposed, getting into the part, relishing the prospect of whacking Howard’s arse with a cane. Jerking himself off?

Eventually: “Butler! Come in!”

Who the hell was Butler? Howard wondered. Nonetheless, he knocked on the heavy wooden door marked “Headmaster” and entered the study.

It was a huge room dominated by an ancient heavy wooden desk. Two comfortable wing-backed armchairs were placed at either side and smaller armless straight-backed chairs were against the oak-paneled walls. Cupboards and bookshelves ran along three walls and the fourth was dominated by a large picture window. To the left of the desk was an umbrella stand and dangling from it were at least a dozen curve-handled school canes of various lengths and thicknesses.

“You are late, boy,” was his opening gambit. Howard wasn’t, but like any schoolboy up before his headmaster he thought it wise not to argue the point.

“Stand there boy,” he indicated a spot on a faded brown rug in front of his desk. Howard shuffled to the spot and stood with his hands in the pockets of his short trousers.

“How dare you!” Mr Reddington’s roar was so unexpected it took Howard by surprise and he rocked backwards.

“How dare you stand in front of me with your hands in your pockets! Stand up straight.”

Every time he spoke it was as if he were barking out a command to a parade ground full of soldiers.

Howard removed his hands, but this wasn’t good enough for Little Hitler.

“Straight, I said boy! Stand to attention!” Howard did, but it was more difficult to stand like this than he imagined.

“Back straight, thumbs in line with the seam of your trousers, you nasty little boy!”

Then he told Howard why he had been summoned to his study. It was the three detentions scenario. Put simply, three detention slips equals six stinging red welts (or however many) on the bum.

Howard “yes-sirred” and “no-sirred” as he went through the list of the crimes that had resulted in his detentions. Smoking (an old chestnut that one), being out of bounds (ditto) and being caught masturbating in the charging room after gym class (a new one on Howard).

“I am going to give you six strokes for each detention, Butler. That is eighteen strokes in total!” he barked. Thank you, Howard thought, but I can do the arithmetic myself.

“This time you will receive all strokes on your clothed bottom. If I ever have to deal with you again for similar offences, you will not be so lucky!”

“Yes Sir,” Howard felt he had to say something but in these situations it can be hard to come up with anything original.

“Fetch me that cane, Butler!” He pointed behind Howard to the armchair. Howard stepped back three or four paces and reached for the cane. It was about three-feet long and quite thin. With his growing experience of such matters, he knew that a rattan cane did not have to be thick and heavy to be effective; in the right hands this thin specimen could make a boy howl in agony leaving his bottom severely marked. He was relieved that he wasn’t going to get thrashed on the bare bum with this one.

Howard handed the cane to Reddington who then instructed him to return to the chair and turn it around so its back was facing toward them.

While Howard was doing this, Reddington stood up from behind his desk and came to stand beside him.

He swished the cane once or twice to get its measure, although as the teenager was about to discover, he was no stranger to this rod. He was an expert with the cane.

“Right Butler. Take off you blazer and hang it on the door!” Howard did so and it was only then that he noticed hanging on the door there were two more crook-handled canes, one thicker and one thinner, than the one he had handled.

“Stand up close to the chair, Butler!” Howard did so.

“Now bend over, reach out and grip the front of the cushion! Spread your legs wide! Head right down and raise your bottom as high as it will go!”

Howard was a very supple young man, but it was still a struggle to comply with his orders and he had to go on tip-toe before Mr Reddington was satisfied.

Howard felt him tug his crisp white shirt away from the waistband of his short trousers, exposing bare flesh at the base of the spine. His heart began to race faster. Any moment now he would feel the lash of Reddington’s cane on his taut young arse and his buttocks would swell up to feel as if they were twice their normal size. Fortunately, since he was fully clothed the inevitable swelling in the front of his trousers wouldn’t be so readily noticed.

Mr Reddington took his time before he lashed down cut number one. He was admiring the sight of Howard’s tight, gym-honed torso, stretched across that chair. In this elevated position the buttocks and legs were positioned to perfection.

Swish! Howard heard the sound of the rattan before he felt it. It landed and there was a delay of a second or two before the searing pain spread from the initial point of impact on his bottom and travelled all the way down both legs.

He let out a genuine yelp. Sometimes, with other gentlemen, he might play up a bit and give them a bit of show for their money, but he couldn’t do that with Reddington. After he had swished three or four cuts into Howard’s bum he was in genuine agony.

Reddington swished the rod against the teenager’s buttocks twice more and then halted. Howard had so far received six of the very best cuts. Each of the strokes had fallen a centimetre below the other, getting lower and lower with number six landing right on the crease where the buttock meets the thigh.

His backside was on fire and it felt like he had sat on a barbecue. He knew deep welts had formed and they were almost certainly already seeping blood. There was a bulge in the front of his trousers which was pressing into the back of the chair, giving him a very pleasant sensation. He was worried that Reddington might have changed his mind and decided to give him strokes with his trousers down. How would he react to seeing his huge erection?

But he didn’t need to worry. Reddington was only taking a breather. He laid the cane across Howard’s buttocks, rubbed it back and forth to get his aim and then thwacked stroke number seven into the bum. They were off again.

Howard jumped and only just managed to hold his position as the next stroke landed in the lower part of the buttocks.

Then he started again at the top of the buttocks and worked his way down until the twelfth stroke landed right on the crease of the bottom and thighs. By now Howard was bucking and kicking. He held onto the chair cushion for dear life. He had never been thrashed so hard before in his whole life.

Howard’s buttocks told him he wanted it to stop. The pain was so intense it was searing through his whole body. But, his cock told him to keep going. It was throbbing hard against the chair and he knew that he was close to orgasm. And, that’s what he wanted to happen, despite the humiliation he knew he would suffer if Reddington discovered he had ejaculated in his underpants.

It didn’t matter what Howard wanted, Reddington was in complete control.

Once again, he sliced the cane methodically across every part of the proffered buttocks from the top to the thighs. Each lash was carefully aimed, precisely timed and delivered with devastating force. They had Howard twisting and turning. He was out of control and his feet danced a jig in a fruitless effort to curb the torment.

He was racked with pain and his fingernails dug into the chair cushion. His knuckles were white as shafts of pain chewed up his buttocks. His torso humped the back of the chair and the inevitable happened: he shot a load, just as the eighteenth stroke landed diagonally across both cheeks, igniting further agony as the cane cut across a dozen or so welts.

It was over. Howard lay across the chair, exhausted and sobbing. He didn’t know if the tears were of agony or of ecstasy.

“Stand up, Butler!” It was an order, once again barked. Howard regained a semblance of composure and rose from the chair. His arse felt like Reddington had assaulted it with eighteen cuts of a red-hot poker, not a thin, swishy, rattan cane. The front of his trousers was full of spunk and he knew that the agony in his arse and the cold cum in his pants would make it extremely difficult to walk properly.

He was ashamed for Reddington to see him like this. He didn’t mind that he saw he had reduced him to a trembling wreck with a thrashing: that’s what he’d paid for, but Howard didn’t want him to know how much he had enjoyed it.

He stood up, holding his hands held in front of his crouch, hoping that Reddington would not see his stained trousers. He need not have worried. He looked across at Reddington just as he wrapped his academic gown tightly across his body: he too had a secret he didn’t want to share.

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Mr Hennessey’s Boys, episode 2, Noah’s story is here

 

Other stories you might like

Never too old

First day of term

Warren’s awakening

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com