Mr Hennessey’s Boys: The hotel suite

new 5

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.

z used otk black sting

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 Dean of Dormitory Discipline and other university tales — update

Some readers may have had a problem downloading the free e-book Dean of Dormitory Discipline.

This link should work.

the-dean-of-dorm-discipline-by-charles-hamilton-ii

Here are also new links to the other three recently uploaded books

The Private Tutor by Charles Hamilton II

all-in-the-family-by-charles-hamilton-ii

picture-album-by-charles-hamilton-ii

He knew the boy would be trouble

z-used-rent-boy-at-motel-1

Todd Driver knew the boy would be trouble the moment he saw him, that’s why he pulled the car over and offered him a ride.

“Where you going?” he leaned through the car window to get a closer look at the hitchhiker. He looked like he hadn’t slept for days. Probably hadn’t changed his shirt in a week.

“Anywhere,” he replied, the fatigue evident in his voice. “As long as it ain’t here.”

Todd reached across to the passenger door. A stale odour followed the boy. Todd put the car in gear and eased down the highway. Todd Driver, aged forty-five, but not yet looking it. He took care of himself, visited the gym, fought against the aging process. Still had a thirty-two-inch waist.

“I’m a salesman,” he said to try to make conversation. The boy’s head nodded against his own chest, fighting sleep. “I can take you as far as Tonisville. My people have booked me a motel room there.” But Todd was speaking to himself.

It was an hour’s drive. Simple. Highway all the way. No traffic to talk of. From the corner of his eye he watched the boy sleeping. His hair was greasy, his neck unwashed. His clothes stained. But Todd had known the second he saw him; the boy was sex on a stick. Let him shit, shower and shave and he would buff up lovely. Todd’s heart fluttered. Silently, he reproached himself. “Here you go again Todd Driver, will you never learn?”

The boy was still sleeping when Todd pulled the car up at the motel. Todd had to shake him hard before he came around. “This is the end of the line,” he paused, waiting for a response. The boy yawned, stretched, rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. Expecting Todd to ask his question.

“I’m checked in for one night,” he nodded at the motel office as if that explained everything. More silence. The boy waited. His bladder was full, aching. He needed to take a piss. He opened his bright hazel eyes wide, encouraging Todd to make the right decision.

“You could stay the night here, if you want to.” His lips parted into what he convinced himself was a winning smile. “We could share the room, if you know what I mean?”

The boy knew what he meant well enough. “It’ll cost you fifty,” he said.

“Okay,” Todd made to open the car door. The boy cursed silently. That was too easy, he should have asked for a hundred.

The night clerk gave Todd a key. He asked no questions. The bill was already taken care of. If he started asking too many questions about his guests and the people they brought to their rooms, the motel would soon go bust.

Todd had never stayed at this motel before, but he knew it well. The noisy wall heater, low watt electric bulbs, the dark patterned carpet. The bedspread was five shades of brown, ideal for concealing stains. There was nothing Todd hadn’t seen a million times before.

“I need to go,” the boy pushed his way past Todd and entered the bathroom. Todd marvelled at the noise of a strong stream of urine hitting water. Impressive, he mused. Like a stallion. He hoped the boy would be like a stallion in other ways as well.

“You need to shower,” Todd told the boy. “Do you have any clean clothes?” he already knew the answer, the boy only had what he stood up in. A dirty white shirt, blue jeans and a red jacket. “Maybe I’ve got a clean shirt you can borrow. We need to go find a diner, I need to eat.”

Todd hovered outside the bathroom door, listening to the shower splash over the boy. He imagined him naked under the cleansing water. He looked sexy as hell in those dirty clothes, he would probably be gorgeous naked, Todd reckoned.

He didn’t have to wait long to find out. The door opened and the boy stood towelling his privates and ass. Todd’s dick stiffened. The boy had a muscular chest, he probably did manual work, when he could get any, Todd supposed. His waist was flat and his cut dick was long and thin. He would be perfect for what Todd had in mind.

The boy turned his back on Todd and let the towel drop a little, giving Todd a perfect view of the goods he was paying for.

The saliva drained from Todd’s mouth, “Hey,” he croaked, “I’m Todd, what’s your name?” The boy missed a beat, before replying, “Joe. My name’s Joe.”

The hell it is, thought Todd, but who cared?

The diner was across the street. It was almost deserted. The supper customers had come and gone. Two guys in some kind of security company uniform drank coffee in one booth. A tired waitress, in her forties and showing it, lumbered up. She smiled, what she probably thought was her winning smile and greeted them like long-lost cousins. Todd smiled back. She was on minimum wage, he supposed, relied on the generosity of her customers’ tips to get by.

Joe scrutinised the pictures on the menus. “Two cheeseburgers, double fries,” he said. He grinned across the table at Todd, “And whatever he’s having.”

Todd ordered the diner’s “special” and coffee. The waitress wrote it down. “Does the boy drink coffee,” she asked sweetly. “Is he old enough?”

“Soda,” Joe snapped. “Coke. Ice. Lots of it.”

Todd watched the waitress sashay over to the counter, then turned to Joe. The boy’s hazel eyes sparkled. There was mischief there. “How old are you anyway?” he whispered.

“Don’t worry pal,” Joe was hungry and irritated. “I ain’t no jail bait.”

Joe ate hurriedly, gulping another mouthful before the first one had been properly swallowed. Todd reckoned he hadn’t seen food for a week. Todd watched, trying (and failing) not to gape. Joe was beautiful, absolutely stunning. His reddish hair suggested Irish heritage. His lips were full, most of his body was tanned by the sun. Now, it was clean Joe’s face shone. His eyes sparkled. Todd had already seen the boy’s naked body. The strong muscles, the tight butt. Todd needed to get the check paid and hightail it back to the room. Now.

It was late, the motel was mostly deserted. Todd had asked for and gotten a room as far away from other guests as was possible. The night clerk hadn’t blinked an eye. He’d seen it all before. Most motel clerks had a tale or two to tell. Hookers, husbands cheating on their wives with other dames; heck with other guys. Men dressed as women, you name it. A middle-aged guy checking in with a boy for rent didn’t turn a hair.

Todd pulled the drapes and switched on the lights, the cheap bulbs gave a dim, yellowy light. Todd had done this before. The boy knew it and Todd knew that the boy knew it. There was no need for soft talking. No wine was drunk, no “sweet nothings” whispered into ears. They could just get down to it. Once fifty in used bills had been counted out.

Todd unbuttoned his shirt. His torso was muscle-toned, but the skin was ruffled. He was advancing on middle age and there was nothing that could be done to hold back nature. Joe took his shirt off, his shiny tight skin testament to his youth. He was half Todd’s age and then some.

Todd undid the buckle of his belt, popped the button on the waist of his pants and pulled the zipper. They tumbled to his feet. He kicked off his black town shoes and stepped out the pants, all the time staring intently at the Adonis before him. Joe purposely avoided Todd’s eye as he stripped himself to his grubby shorts. Then, he stopped. Now, he had to acknowledge the man in the room. His eyes asked the question, “What do you want me to do?”

Todd bent down picked up his pants and withdrew the wide leather belt from the loops. He tossed the pants onto a cheap plastic chair, then tested the belt in his hands. It was heavy. He already knew that fact. He had purchased the belt especially for its thickness and weight. That had little to do with keeping his pants up.

Joe’s sparkling eyes shone brighter. He had a shrewd idea what Todd wanted. He really should have asked for a hundred, he thought. He watched silently as Todd doubled up the belt and swished it through the air. That little beauty could do some real damage, he supposed. Memories of a guy in Reno blurred his thoughts.

Todd was completely naked now. “This is what I want.” He gave clear instructions. Joe had thought he’d heard it all before. From the guys he did tricks for and from other hustlers. There were some right kinky bastards out there, but he’d seen no one like Todd.

Todd offered the belt to Joe. “Whip me as hard as you can. On the butt. Give it all your strength,” Todd smiled and gently caressed Joe’s biceps. “Make me suffer,” Todd said, lying face down on the bed. Joe stood stunned as his John adjusted his dick and balls with his hands so the weight of his body wasn’t squashing them and then reached his arms forward and gripped the bed headboard.

Todd closed his eyes tight and waited for the ecstasy to begin. He had never understood where his compulsion originated. The need to be beaten by other men. People might think it stemmed from childhood, but Todd had never been spanked as a kid. His parents were kind and loving, they would be devastated to discover his obsession. Late in adolescence, Todd had fooled around with a guy from school. His dad kept a wooden paddle in the den. Todd was transfixed the first time he saw it; the sparkling varnished wood, the smoothed down sides.

By the time he graduated Todd was what they called a “bottom” and would willingly offer up his butt for spanking. Someone introduced him to a private little club where the eighteen-year-old was made most welcome. That was the start of it. It was nearly thirty years ago. Now, what with the travelling and the need to keep his job (scandal is bad for business), he had to get his kicks with hookers.

Joe anxiously fingered the leather in his hands. The figure prostrated on the bed breathed heavily. His buttock cheeks twitched in delighted anticipation of the pain to come. Joe couldn’t do it. The humiliation was too great. He had done many things before for his Johns, but not this. The fucking faggot was demented.

“Come on boy, I’m waiting,” Todd thought he was being alluring. He wasn’t. Red mist descended. Sweat soaked Joe’s naked torso; his tanned flesh glistened in the poor light. His heart raced. He slapped the leather across the centre of Todd’s ass, a crimson line immediately appeared on the solid flesh. He slapped another and then another.

“Harder. Harder. Put all those wonderful muscles into it.”

Joe glared, lifted the belt high and turning his body into the swing he landed a dozen or more mighty swipes across Todd’s buttocks. The man wriggled and writhed. He struggled to control his arms, they flailed about, instinctively wanting to cover the target area and stop the belt crashing into his flesh.

“Keep still,” Joe growled. He supposed the flogger was supposed to say something like that. He whipped another flurry of strokes. It looked like Todd was trying to swim off the bed. His arms and body moved like he was doing the crawl.

“Stop,” he gasped. “In my bag there’s some rope. Tie my wrists to the bed.”

“Loser!” Joe snorted silently. He found the rope; two pieces, each about eighteen inches long. Joe had never been a Boy Scout and he knew nothing about knots. Todd did. He had plenty of experience. He guided the boy until he was securely tied; arms akimbo, head down, butt naked to the wind.

“As hard as you can. Take my ass off,” Todd could not, would not, contain his excitement. He didn’t see the boy, contempt stamped into his face. He hated this two-bit salesman for making him do this. He gripped the belt tightly in his hand, stepped closer to the bed so he stood almost over Todd’s body. From this position, he could whip the belt directly down into the man’s already-blistered flesh. He paused. Thinking. Taking his time. Todd had relinquished control. Maybe that’s what really turned him on. Being powerless. That and, of course, the pain.

Todd sensed something was wrong. This wasn’t what he was paying for. He wanted to feel the burn of the leather as it struck again and again across his submitted ass. He raised his head from the mattress and as best he could he looked over his shoulder at Joe. “Get on with it, will you?” he demanded.

Joe grinned. Loser. Fucking loser. He put the belt down on the plastic chair, found his jeans and climbed into them.

“What the … ?” Todd complained.

“Shut up, fucking loser.” Joe reached for one of Todd’s socks. There was nothing the man could do.

“Open wide,” Joe sounded like a dentist with a patient. Todd’s eyes blazed with fear. He clenched his teeth shut.

“Oh per-lease,” Todd cuffed an almighty smack of his hand across Todd’s face. His mouth opened to sound a protest and Joe stuffed the sock home. Todd gagged, it filled most of his mouth. He wasn’t sure he could breathe. He pulled his wrists, but he had taught Joe well. He was going nowhere until the boy decided to release him.

Joe finished dressing. He stood over Todd and ruffled the man’s hair. “Who’s a naughty boy then,” he teased, imitating the voice of a five-year-old. He smacked Todd’s bare butt playfully. Todd pleaded with his eyes, tears welled.

Joe picked up Todd’s bag, tipped it over and let the contents fall to the floor. Not much there. Just clothes. Joe smiled. He had thought of something. Quickly, he toured the motel room stuffing all Todd’s clothes in to the bag. He zipped it up. Then he took the man’s wallet from the night stand, pulled out the currency notes and stuffed them in his own pocket. Contemptuously, he threw the empty wallet at Todd.

Joe mocked Todd’s muffled cries. Then, making sure the man knew exactly what he was doing, he pocketed Todd’s watch.

“Bye, bye, baby,” he jeered as he rattled Todd’s car and house keys. He slipped Todd’s bag over his shoulder and walked out into the cold night air, leaving the man behind to deal as best he could with his raging hard-on.

 

Other stories you might like

Expelled from school

Warren’s awakening

By order of the court

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

What a jolly jape

z-used-cricketer-washes-in-horse-trough-champion-3

“He’s only gone and done it. I can’t believe it, Dougall’s only gone and done it.”

Geoff Arkwright’s face fell. Surely, not, he thought, he wouldn’t be so stupid.

“He said he would, and by jove he’s true to his word.” Terrence Aspel rushed through the cricket pavilion. His team mates stopped in their tracks.

“I never thought he would do it,” said one.

“I thought he was drunk when he said it,” offered another.

“He’s as daft as a brush,” chipped in a third.

Arkwright hunched his shoulders. He would get the blame, he just knew it. They would say it was his fault. He was captain of the Downshire County Cricket Club Colts, they would say he should maintain discipline.

Well, he thought, bitterly, it wasn’t like being House Captain at school. There wasn’t much he could do. He couldn’t very well order Dougall to touch his toes for six stingers from an ashplant.

“Come on lads, we’re missing all the fun,” Aspel called over his shoulder. He rushed from the pavilion, followed by seven of his team mates. Arkwright watched them go, before despondently following on. It would all end in tears he was certain of that.

Andy Dougall, the club’s opening batsman, had vowed he would strip off and wash himself in the horse trough if the county colts won the national championship. Well, the cup was safely in the trophy cabinet and now the twenty-year-old wunderkind was as good as his word. “Please God,” Arkwright prayed silently, “Don’t let him be totally naked.”

A small crowd had gathered, of course.  Children, businessmen, ladies with shopping. All had stopped to enjoy the fun. It wasn’t every day a fit naked man had a bath in a horse trough.

Arkwright watched glumly. Everyone seemed to take the jape in good spirits. Just wait until a maiden aunt sauntered by, he thought. She’d have the rozzers on Dougall, that was for certain.

It didn’t need a sweet, sheltered old lady. The police found Dougall for themselves. “What the blinking blimey?” Police Constable Percy Perkings exclaimed to his Sergeant. “What’s ’appening at the ’orse trough?” He peered through the summer’s haze. A crowd of people were staring into the trough. Sgt Truscott saw Dougall first. His jaw dropped. A naked man. In broad daylight. It was a scandal.

“Hey you!” he cried as he broke into a run. What d’you think yer doing?” PC Perkins puffed behind him, a startled look on his face.

“Break this up. Move along please,” Sgt Truscott gasped. “There’s nothing to see here,” he added, quite erroneously. The people of Downshire, were by and large a law-abiding lot. The small crowd dispersed giggling and muttering. They wouldn’t have minded if the show had continued a little longer.

“You,” Sgt Truscott’s face was puce, in part from the run he had made on a hot afternoon, and also by his genuine disgust. “Nudity. In public,” he thundered. “It’s disgusting,” Truscott gulped. “It’s against the law.”

Dougall smiled ingratiatingly. He had attended an English public school with delusions of grandeur, he knew how to deal with the servant class. “I am not in the nude,” he sneered, He was about to add, “my man,” when the sergeant took the wind from his sails.

“You look pretty nude to me,” he roared. “It’s disgusting,” he repeated.

“I am wearing a swimming costume.” Dougall flapped his hands around his midriff to draw attention to his trunks. “Not nude at all.”

PC Perkins watched from a distance. The sergeant had a wicked temper. The young boy would do well not to rile him; the constable knew that from bitter personal experience.

“You,” the Sergeant barked at Aspel, “Fetch a raincoat; he can’t stay like this.”

Meekly, Aspel trudged into the pavilion.

Dougall had dried off by the time he had been frogmarched the mile or so to the police station. The duty officer at the front desk didn’t try to conceal his merriment. A half-naked man: they would have a lot of fun with that.

“The charge is lewd behaviour,” Sgt Truscott boomed. “Put him in a cell, we’ll take him before the magistrate in the morning.” He paused, waiting for Dougall’s predictable reaction.

“Magistrate?” his face flushed. In a whirl his future flashed before him. He was one of the top up-and-coming opening batsmen in the country. There was every possibility he’d get his first England cap soon. But, not with a criminal record. Lewd behaviour in a horse trough. The story would probably get in the Sunday papers. He would be a laughing-stock. Downshire would probably sack him.

“But,” Dougall’s voice quivered in protest. “It was only a bit of fun,” he implored. “A jape. A boyish prank.”

Sgt Truscott sneered, “You’re a bit too old for boyish pranks, aren’t you?”

It was a straw and Dougall was so desperate he would clutch at anything. “I’m twenty; I’m not legally an adult,” he pleaded.

“Pah! Do you want me to telephone your father? Tell him you’re at the police station and ask him to come down?” he glared at Dougall. “Shall I ask him to fetch his slipper?”

God no! His father must never know. Dougall would never hear the end of it.

“No, I didn’t think so,” Sgt Truscott turned to the duty officer. “What do you think Fred? What shall we do with the toe rag?”

The duty officer smiled. He had heard his sergeant talk like this before. He had a shrewd idea what was on his guv’nor’s mind. “Is he too old for a good hiding, do you think Sarge?” he stared intently at Dougall, delighted to see the menace blush to his roots.

“Maybe not,” Sgt Truscott turned his back on Dougall ensuring the twenty-year-old would not see the twinkle in his eye. “Shall we call his father then?”

“No, please,” even as the words escaped his lips, Dougall knew he had given the game away. He would do anything to leave his father out.

“What about the cricket club?” Truscott winked at the duty officer, “Is there someone we could call there? A coach perhaps? Maybe six-of-the-best across the backside with a cricket stump would do the trick?”

Dougall’s temples throbbed. He was wretched. His silly prank had backfired terrifically. He needed to keep out of the magistrates’ court at all costs. But, a beating from the cricket coach was out of the question.

“Or,” Sgt Truscott turned on his heels to face Dougall, “What about the club captain. He’s ex-public school isn’t he? I bet he knows how to swing a cane. Eh, what d’you think?” The sergeant could barely suppress his delight as blood drained from Dougall’s face.

“No, please,” Dougall mumbled.

“We’ll who else can there be?” Sgt Truscott stretched his arms and waited. The boy was about to break.

Corporal punishment was the solution, Dougall knew that. He was ex-public school. St. Tom’s was a traditional school: traditional lessons, traditional games and traditional discipline. A stiff caning solved most problems. It hurt like billy-o. But it was soon over and everybody moved on with their lives. He would accept a beating for his foolishness, but not from his father. And, it would be too humiliating to have Arkwright or the club coach administer his caning.

“Well …?” Sgt Truscott asked the duty officer. “What are we to do?”

“Dunno Sarge, what does the young lad have to say?”

The stares from the police officers burned into Dougall. The young man’s heart raced. He felt so foolish. But, he had to speak up. He had to say what was on his mind. He might regret it for the rest of his life if he remained silent.

He gulped air into his lungs. “Could you do it?”

“Do what sonny?” Sgt Truscott’s face was immobile. The duty officer licked his lips.

Dougall stared intently at the worn lino beneath his feet. “You know, could you …?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The silence was intense. It was now or never.

“Would you beat me,” he whispered.

“Speak up sonny.”

Dougall had never before thought much about the police. He had no opinion about them one way or the other. Until now. Now, he hated them with a passion. He gulped in more air and curled his fingers into fists. “Would you beat me,” he enunciated clearly.

“Say, please.”

Dougall’s fingernails bit deeply into the palms of his hands. “Per-lease.”

“I think that could be arranged, don’t you officer?” Sgt Truscott strode towards the back of the police station. “Follow me, lad. Come this way.” Sorrowfully, Dougall skipped down the corridor after the quickly disappearing policeman.

The room was usually used for interviews. There wasn’t much furniture. There didn’t need to be. There was a small wooden table in the centre surrounded by four chairs; and not much else. Sgt Truscott silently moved the chairs to the edge of the room; they would be of no use for what he had in mind.

Slowly, he unbuttoned his jacket and slid it off his shoulders. Seconds later it was in a heap on one of the chairs.

“Take off your raincoat and put it over there,” Sgt Truscott nodded to his own jacket. Dougall thought he was calm, but he couldn’t get his fingers to obey him. At last the buttons were undone and the coat removed. Sgt Truscott drew in breath. He couldn’t remember the last time he stood so close to a nearly naked man. The swimming trunks fitted Dougall snugly and the outline of his cock and balls was visible. It took an effort, but Sgt Truscott didn’t stare.

Instead, his own hands shook as he unbuckled the belt that held up his baggy serge trousers. Dougal stared intently. It was a long, thick, wide strip of leather. It looked terrifically heavy as the sergeant folded it once and then again until he had a punishment strap about a foot long.

Truscott ran the tip of his tongue across his top lip. “Shall we get this over with then?”

Dougall answered with an almost imperceptible nod.

“Climb up onto the table. Lay flat out.” The sergeant watched intently as Dougall stretched himself across the worn wooden table top.

“It helps if you fold your arms and rest your face in them,” the sergeant spoke kindly. He saw Dougall’s muscles in his back ripple as he manoeuvred to get into place. The twenty-year-old was some athlete. There wasn’t an ounce of spare fat on his body; his legs were like tree trunks and his bottom was firm and round. Almost absent-mindedly, Sgt Truscott reached to the waist of the swimming trunks and tugged slightly. Now, they fitted like a second skin. The crack between Dougall’s cheeks was clearly defined. The young man made a terrific target.

The crack of leather on stretched cotton bounced off the walls of the tiny room echoing two or three times before petering out. Dougall shut his teeth. It hurt. More than he might have imagined, but he was no stranger to corporal punishment. He screwed up his eyes to absorb the pain and settled himself for whack number two. It wasn’t long in coming. The sergeant twisted his own body and sent the leather scorching into the underside of Dougall’s buttocks. With his prey lying flat in front of him, the punisher was able to choose his target with great accuracy. Had the boy been bent across the table or over the back of a chair, a great deal of his flesh would have been hidden away from the direct line of the lashing leather.

Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! It was a long, thorough whipping, deep and cleansing. It was slow but steady with each stroke precisely placed. Dougall silently counted them all and when Truscott reached thirty the sergeant stopped.

The young man’s eyes shone. His rear end throbbed. His heart raced, blood flew through his arteries. His ears felt like they would burst. His lungs were raw. His body was thoroughly beaten; but he had lived.

“Stand up. Get back into your raincoat. Get out.” Sgt Truscott could not get rid of the boy too quickly. Dougall had no desire to stay. It was over. There would be no appearance before the magistrate. No scandal in the Sunday newspapers. His chances of an England cap remained strong. Gingerly, he hobbled from the room and limped down the passageway to the front door.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was still sunny. Summer was not yet quite over. His bum felt raw. It was a scorching sensation very unlike the pain from six with the cane. It would take some time for the burning to fade.

He must at all costs resist the temptation to sit in the cool water of the horse trough to relieve his suffering, he smiled to himself as he set off back to the cricket club to collect his clothes.

 

Picture credit: The Champion

Other stories you might like

The Crammer

Toby’s father visits

A preacher teaches humility

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Changed Times 7. Pub landlord

A glimpse into the near future. The series starts here.

 The landlord Kevin saw me heaving my shoulder against the heavy saloon bar door. “You’re barred!” he shouted from across the empty room before I even stepped across the threshold. He meant it too.

I stood bemused. The bar was deserted apart from we two. “After the other night,” Kevin began to explain. “I don’t need the grief. Just go. Find some other pub to smash up.”

Then, I knew what he meant.

“Three chairs. Broken. Beyond repair.” Kevin was an elderly man, running to fat. Even across the dimly-lit bar I could see sweat was streaming down his face. He was not enjoying this. He hated confrontation.

The Royal pub was my favourite place to hang out. Me and a group of pals were well out of order a few nights earlier. You might have been there yourself. Or you’ve had your evening spoiled by people who were. I don’t remember much of the detail. Too much to drink. Certainly. Too loud. Beer splashed about. Was there a fight? Like I said, I really don’t remember.

Just then, Albert, his partner, or husband, or whatever you call it, appeared from a trap door behind the bar. He wiped his hands on an old rag and looked across the room at me. I felt his eyes burn into me with distain. “If I had my way …” he started and then trailed off. He threw the rag on the bar counter and busied himself stacking glasses.

“B … b …” I tried to speak, but I could not find the words. I wanted to say I was sorry, but I wasn’t too sure what it was that I was sorry about. We must have been well out of order. I approached the bar and sat on a stool.

“I said you’re barred,” Kevin tried to growl at me. He wasn’t very good at aggression.

“Piss off. We don’t want your sort here,” Albert was much better at it. He leaned across the bar and put his face close to mine. I could smell his toothpaste. “If I had my way ….” He said it again. His way? I thought he meant he would call the police or something. Perhaps he had wanted to, but Kevin had talked him out of it.

“I’m sorry. Really sorry.” I managed to get the words out this time. I was too. I wasn’t just saying this. I am not the kind of guy who goes around wrecking pubs. I’m twenty-two and a bank clerk for pity’s sake. I spend my days sedately counting other people’s money. I’ve got a girlfriend. I hope we’ll get married one day. Settle down. Have a family. I am Mr Normal. Not a pub fighter.

Kevin peered at me through owl-like glasses, as if seeing me for the very first time. “Whatever possessed you, Simon?” I blushed with shame. He sounded a bit like my mum. What on earth would mum say if she ever found out?

“Let me pay for the damage,” I stuttered.

“You should pay all right,” Albert sneered. “If I had my way …”

“No,” a smile forced its way across Kevin’s flabby face. “You didn’t do the damage.”

It was a relief to hear that. Perhaps, I wasn’t such a bad lad after all.

“But you did encourage them on. You are equally to blame,” Albert was not letting me off the hook so easily. I stared down at the drip cloth on the counter. It advertised Carlsberg. I could murder a pint, I thought.

“If I had my way …” Albert said again. He was beginning to annoy me.

“What would you do if you had your way?” I snapped. I always had a quick temper. It sometimes got me into trouble.

Albert’s face creased in anger. I saw him clench his right hand into a fist. He was trying to control his own temper. “I’d give you a damn good hiding,” he blurted.

What? I didn’t say anything but my face or my body language must have spoken for me. It said, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Spanking.” Albert unclenched his fist and pointed his index finger in my face. “A jolly good spanking.”

I sat and gaped. Spanking? He meant it too.

“That would teach you a lesson. You little shit.” Albert definitely had it in for me. “Now piss off. You’re barred.”

I sat as if glued to the stool. Spanking? What an idea. Was it a gay thing? Did he get off on spanking younger guys? I looked at my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. I had seen myself plenty of times before. I knew what I looked like. I was a little over five-eight, which made me average height. My hair was cut short; if I let it grow it would curl and make me look like a scarecrow. This was Sunday, so I needed a shave, but my stubble didn’t detract from my otherwise boyish looks. I was a bit on the thin side. I liked the pub, but I also ran the streets two or three times a week. That kept the beer belly at bay and contributed to my flat stomach. From what I had seen of it in the past, my bum was round and firm. I was sitting on it as I checked myself out in the mirror, but Albert would have had plenty of opportunities in the past to admire it.

“Go,” Albert snarled. I slipped my arse off the stool and headed for the door. Five minutes later I was gulping down a pint of lager at The Mitre, a horrible pub that was usually full of miserable old geezers who spent their whole time moaning about their wives. I had no choice. There were only two pubs in the village.

I was close to the bottom of the glass, when Tony breezed in. “You barred too?” he grinned. I smiled. I suppose we were all banned. We deserved it, too. Why the hell did we do it?

Tony put a fresh pint in front of me.

“Did Albert say anything to you?” Tony sipped on his best bitter. He looked quizzically at me, as if he was pondering something.

I gulped my lager. “About spanking us, you mean?”

Tony flushed and hurriedly looked around the bar, “Keep your voice down.”

I took another gulp.

“Well?” Tony seemed agitated.

“Well what?”

Tony leaned close to me. His breath stank of booze and cigarettes. He whispered, “The spanking.”

My puzzled look must have spurred him on.

“Are we going to let him?” Tony was earnest.

I spluttered my beer. It dribbled down my chin as I coughed up a lungful of air.

“War ….?” I mouthed the word. I wasn’t recovered enough to speak properly.

“We can’t be barred from the Royal. I’m in the snooker team. And the darts.”

I got my wind back. “You cannot be serious.” I sounded like John McEnroe on a bad day.

He shrugged. Just then Bill walked through the door. He beamed and rubbed the palms of his hands against his buttocks.

“Yeah, I know!” I said. He didn’t need to explain himself.

He sat down and sipped from a bottle of designer beer.

“We’ve got no choice, of course,” he said thoughtfully. I looked blank.

He sighed at my ignorance, “The new law.”

I was still uncomprehending.

“Don’t you ever follow the news? The new law. Juvenile delinquents. If Albert reports us to the police and we’re convicted of vandalism. Or affray, even. We’ll get the birch. No question.”

I saw the blood drain from Tony’s face. “Jesus!” he exclaimed. “I forgot about that.” He gulped at his beer, sweat soaking his temples.

“So,” Bill, sighed, “We either let Albert smack our little botties or some prison officer will rip our arses to shreds.” He drew on his bottle. “It’s a no-brainer.”

We lapsed into uncomfortable silence. Each of us alone with our fears. Pain. Humiliation. Disgrace. Would I lose my job at the bank?

Tony broke the silence. “You know Albert’s a bit …” He flapped his wrist and threw his head back.

“Ha!” Bill sneered. “He’s not at all limp-wristed.” He sipped his beer. “I wish he were.” He was thinking of the pain that was undoubtedly to come.

“Would he … you know …?” I daren’t say the words out loud.

My pals did know. None of us wanted to think about it.

“Bare, you mean?” Bill spoke at last. I nodded.

“But, won’t he enjoy it? You know? Being gay?” Tony blushed.

“Maybe,” Bill smiled, “But not as much as the prison officer who birches the skin off juvies.”

I nodded agreement. Why? What did I know about anything?

“I bet they cream their pants,” Bill sneered.

We fell back into silence. The bar was filling up. We needed to make a decision. Soon.

“So,” Bill was a natural leader. He had led us in the mayhem that caused the damage. He was about to lead us again. “We’re going to let him do it.” It was a statement, not a question.

I shrugged my shoulders. It meant, “Yes,” not, “I dunno.”

Tony gave a twisted smile. His face paled. It was his way of assenting.

Bill went to the bar. One more drink and then we would go face the music.

The Royal was busy when we got there half an hour later. Albert spotted us as soon as the big heavy saloon bar door edged its way back to a closed position. His jaw opened. He was about to tell us we were barred. He stopped short. One look at our hunched shoulders and embarrassed faces told him he had won.

He lifted the flap in the bar. “Come through lads,” he said pleasantly. It was as if we were old, valued friends and he was pleased we were visiting. He probably was delighted. I certainly was not.

“Go up the stairs, lads.” It irritated me that he called us “lads”, I don’t recall him ever doing that before. We did as we were told and were taken into Albert’s private quarters. It was a smallish sitting room. It was not much different from the one at my mum’s house. There was a small dining table, a double-sized couch, a television. The usual things.

We stood shuffling our feet, not sure what we were supposed to do. Or, say. There had been almost total embarrassed silence on the way over. None of us wanted to share our feelings. I’m not certain about the others, but I had never been spanked in my life. I had left school before the cane was brought back and as far as I knew the junior bank clerks and whatnot at the bank were immune from corporal punishment. Or, if not “immune” exactly, at least no one misbehaved enough to warrant a thrashing. I was entering unchartered territory.

Albert perched his buttocks on the edge of the table. His disdain for us was obvious. I clasped my hands behind my back and took an unusually keen interest in the pattern in the carpet beneath my feet. My heart was pounding and my ears popped as blood coursed at maximum speed through my arteries. I don’t remember a single word he said. And, he said an awful lot. At last, satisfied that he had lectured us enough, he pronounced sentence. I heard that alright.

“Stand there.” He pointed to the far wall. “Take off your clothes.”

The shock on Tony’s face scared me. I thought he was going to cry and faint, all at the same time.

“Now, come on,” Bill started a protest. Albert’s face flashed crimson anger. That stopped Bill.

“Or would you prefer I called the police?” Albert knew he had us over a barrel. Or wherever he intended us to bend over to receive our thrashing.

I remember my hands shook so much I couldn’t get my belt buckle to open. I had never been naked in front of a man before. I must have been fourteen the last time I had stripped off for PE lessons at school. I was as terrified of being seen naked – and lacking in the you-know-where department – in front of my pals.

Somehow, I managed to loosen my jeans and they fell to my knees and I left them there while I tugged my tee-shirt over my head. Tony and Bill were even slower undressing then me. At last we stood in our underwear and socks. Mortified.

But, not yet totally humiliated. “I said take off all your clothes.” Albert’s tongue darted through his lips, like a lizard. I could see he had a moustache of sweat.

Tears welled behind my eyes. I wanted to plead for mercy. Had I been on my own, I might have. Bill once more took the lead. He stood on his right foot and unsteadily pulled the sock off his left. Then he reversed the process. Now, he was in only his bright blue briefs. His tubby stomach hung over the waistband. He glared at Albert, a last gesture of defiance. He pinched the elasticated waist at his hips and with an exaggerated twist of his wrists he sent the pants down to his ankles. I couldn’t help but stare. I had never seen an uncut cock before.

Tony was not so flamboyant. He eased his boxer shorts over his hips and slowly – a snail would have been faster – he exposed his buttocks and his hairy dick and ball sack. I had known Tony for years, he had always been shy with women. I couldn’t see why; if they realised what he had to offer they would flock to him. He was long and thin. When erect, he could have competed with a stallion.

I took hold of my own waistband. I hesitated. Absurdly, I remembered I had not changed my pants for a couple of days. Would there be skid marks? I closed my eyes and stepped out of them.

We stood, our hands cupping our balls. I dared not look at Albert. What if he was checking me out? What if he fancied me? We had known for years that Kevin and Albert were gay. They were married for pity’s sake, but I had never thought of them as sexual beings. They were older than my mum and dad! What if he wanted to stick his dick up my bum?

“Stay there. I’ll be back in a second.” Albert left the room and true to his word, he returned almost immediately. He was holding a piece of wood. Do you call it a four by two? I’m not sure. I’m no carpenter. I didn’t even do woodwork at school. It was a piece of pale-brown wood about two feet in length and maybe two inches wide and a quarter-inch thick. He held it in his right hand and smacked it into the palm of his left. His eyes glazed and he winced.

He looked around the sitting room as if he were taking an inventory, his face impassive. Table. Dining chairs. Couch. Coffee table. He pondered each item of furniture in turn, weighing up its properties for the task in hand.

His eyes sparkled. A decision had been made.

“You, Simon,” he waved his wood at me. “Lay face down across the table.” He pointed at the coffee table. A shot of bile heaved from who-knew-where and stuck in the back of my throat. For an awful moment, I thought I would vomit on the carpet. My knees buckled. I steadied myself in time, just before I collapsed in a heap.

Albert waved the wood once more. I felt the gazes of my two pals burning into the back of my head as I waddled towards the table. This could not be happening. Any moment I would wake up. In bed, at my girlfriend’s home.

“C’mon, I haven’t got all day. I’ve got customers.” Albert took a pace backwards to give me space to approach the low coffee table. “Lay on it.”

I hesitated. I genuinely did not know what he meant. Was I to lay flat, my stomach and chest on the table and my legs waving behind me? Where did my arms go?

“Lay down. Put your bum on the edge. Bend your knees. Lean forward. Hold the far end. Keep your arse still.”

I manoeuvred into position. My cock dug into the hard table edge. I wriggled trying to find comfort. I stretched my arms ahead of me and looked down at the table top. I concentrated on the pattern of three rings that had been left by mugs. A draught wafted across my naked body. I shivered as much from fear as the cool air.

Albert wheezed. I heard him gulp in a lung-full of air. I tapped my head against the table top. My ears popped, I feared blood would pour through them any second now. I felt sick. Albert could see right into my crack. Up the hole probably. Was his dick throbbing against his zipper fly? Did he want to rip down his own trousers and pants and take me up the arse?

I never heard it coming. Albert gave no warning. There was no command, “Brace yourself.” There was just a dull thud as the wood whopped against the centre of my buttocks. Then four or five beats later an intense pain spread across my tight bum. It started in the very centre and travelled in waves across both cheeks and up and down my legs. Startled, a rush of air whistled through my teeth.

After the third whack, I was humping the table’s edge. I had no bodily control. Spasms of pain made my body rise and fall; rise and fall. My blistered bum was going up and down, it must have looked like I was screwing a girl.

Hot tears flowed down my cheeks, like a young river cascading through mountains. Snot dribbled from my nose. My head banged the table top.

I lost count of the times that piece of wood bounced across my backside. It could have been dozens. What I do know was that later, when we inspected the damage, none of us had a square inch of flesh on the buttocks or the back of the thighs that did not glow red. My bum was hot to touch. You could have fried an egg back there.

I clenched my teeth and waited for the onslaught to continue. Albert was into his stride. He pop-pop-popped the wood against my bum, finding virgin areas to inflame. He was some expert. I’m not about to share my shame with other customers, but I’d dearly love to know how many others Albert had spanked before me.

At last it was over. “Up!” It was a curt command. I lay gasping for breath. The cliché people use is gasping, “like a beached whale.” I don’t know about that, but I couldn’t breath and my head ached like made. The agony in my whole body was intense. I had never felt anything like it before. My arse was on fire. Had Albert just poured a kettle of boiling water over it?

“Come. Up.” Albert was anxious to move on to the next lad. I was calming a little. My ordeal was over. I supposed I had taken it as well as could be expected. I had not disgraced myself in front of my pals. I felt self-satisfied. Smug even.

I eased myself off the table and waited a second on my knees. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Bill moving toward me, ready to take my place. I flashed him what I thought was a comradely smile. “Go get it boy!” it was meant to say.

I’m not sure if his look back at me was terror or horror. He turned away. He could not bear to face me.

I hauled myself to my feet. Only then did I see my seven-inch cock standing proud, pointing at the ceiling. It kinked a little to the right. I had never seen it so stiff. It throbbed even as much as my arse. The top glistened with pre-cum. It pulsated, even without my hand to stimulate it. I covered it with my palms. Tony, ashen faced, looked away. I saw he too had his cock covered.

I heard the smack of wood against flabby flesh. I turned to see a red stripe a couple of inches wide spreading across Bill’s bum. My palms filled with sticky, hot cum.

threesome-after

Other stories you might like

First day of term

Trouble at the mall

Put back into short trousers

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Vigilantes

A group of them were talking in the pub. The beer was flowing. There was only one topic of conversation. Those bloody kids. The ones who congregated around the bus stop at night. Giving innocent folk grief.

“Have you seen the graffiti? The swear words?”

“They drink strong cider, then piss it up all over the bus shelter.”

Everyone spoke at once. They all had horror tales.

“They make racist comments to the Muslims.”

“Did you hear what they called young Garry?” Garry had cerebral palsy. He dribbled a lot. “It was so upsetting for his mum.”

“We should do something about those hooligans.”

“Yes, we should.”

“Whose round is it?”

More beer was drunk.

It had been the beer talking. When they first came up with the idea it was conceived in drink. But, later, in the cold light of sobriety, it still sounded a good idea.

So, they made a plan. It was pretty simple. It would work. If everybody played their part and didn’t bottle out at the last minute.

They chose Thursday night. They needed access to the community hall. It was used most evenings. But not Thursday. So, Thursday it was.

They needed tools. That was a bit more difficult. The thing they needed most wasn’t made anymore. It had gone out of fashion. Time was you’d find them in every school. In many homes too. But, not now.

Old Joe thought he could find a decent alternative, so he was set loose in the nearby woods to see what he could come up with.

The others scoured their homes to see what they could contribute.

It was Thursday night; nearly nine o’clock. It had threatened to rain, but it was clear now. Stars were out. The louts at the bus shelter were swigging cider; smoking dope. There were five of them. A gang of mates. All unemployed and living off the state. All over eighteen, all strong, all able to work. Just bone idle, that’s all.

They didn’t know what hit them. Five family cars pulled up together. Passenger doors opened. Podgy middle-aged men got out. Not the fighting kind. The louts would have made mincemeat of them in a fight. A half-fair fight. But this was no fair fight. They had surprise on their side.

In the blink of an eye plastic shopping bags were over heads and five louts were bundled into backseats. Plastic ties bound their wrists. Cars sped off. Round one had been a success.

Trestle tables had been put out at the community hall. One was covered in fresh switches. Old Joe had done a good job whittling. They really wanted good solid school canes. The whippy rattan kind. With curved handles. But the switches would make a good substitute.

There were also belts and brushes. Someone had found a pair of old-fashioned bedroom slippers. Ones with checked uppers and flexible leather soles. A heavy razor strop took pride of place. Did anyone still use cutthroat razors?

A dozen strong and some not-so-strong men awaited the arrival of the cars. They were psyched up. Waiting. Ready to give the louts the thrashings they thought they so richly deserved.

It was such a simple plan. Each car in turn pulled up outside the hall. Then, the unwilling passenger was hauled inside. A dozen men helped to tie each hooligan over the trestle tables. Face down, backsides high. The perfect position. Legs were tied together with rope. Nobody was going anywhere. Not until punishment had been effected.

They shouted, hollered and shrieked. And that was before a single lash had connected.

Gerry Aldermaston decided he was the residents’ leader. He made a speech. It wasn’t Churchillian; nobody would have followed Aldermaston into gunfire. But he spoke from the heart. The five young men with their jeans-covered arses on show had destroyed the peace of the community. They vandalised common property. Good, honest, decent, people were afraid to walk the streets.

“It has to stop and it must stop right now!” he roared.

Five young men muttered curses. None spoke out loud. The enormity of their plight was clear. They were at the mercy of Aldermaston and his cronies.

“Gentlemen,” Aldermaston spoke to his colleagues as if they were an army platoon. “Down with their jeans. Underwear too.”

That set the five hooligans off again. Whining and cursing and kicking their legs. It was to no avail. Five pairs of naked buttocks were soon on display.

“Come to order, please gentlemen,” Aldermaston was marshalling his troops.

Each resident picked his weapon of choice.

“What a pity we don’t have a proper school cane,” Mr Winstanley sighed aloud. “They don’t make them any longer,” he added. His colleagues muttered their sympathies, all ignorant of the existence of eBay.

Twenty-five residents formed an orderly line.

Aldermaston was enjoying his moment in the limelight. “Gentlemen,” he smiled, “Take your marks. Let punishment commence.”

Then each man stepped forward and slashed his instrument of punishment into the naked haunches of the erstwhile terrorists. One after another they whipped switches, belts, a razor strop, a slipper and assorted brushes across the bared cheeks of the hooligans. Then they resumed their original positions and went around the circuit again. And again. And again.

 

Other stories you might like

Lazy students home for the hols

The military camp

A maintenance spanking

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com