Hotel’s strict no-noise policy

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z used after on bed naked (1)

The hotel has a strict no-noise after 11 p.m. policy. You know that, there are signs up all over the place. Many of our guests have children or are older people and they don’t appreciate being kept awake at nights by louts like you.

I usually have a little speech ready.  It hardly ever changes. It doesn’t have to; they’re all the same these lads. They come over here for the sun, drugs, and sex. We’d rather they stayed at another hotel but business is business and I’m afraid these days you can’t turn customers away.

I’m one of the assistant managers and it’s my job to see the no-noise policy is enforced. It’s a tough job but someone has to do it! I’m usually called on one or two times a night. The louts mainly come over from England. They really are an ill-mannered lot. Don’t their parents teach them discipline? I heard they banned corporal punishment in schools a while back; that explains a lot.

We have a party of apprentice plumbers in at the moment. Ten of them, squeezed into three rooms. I can’t begin to describe the mess they’ve made. I suppose they expect the maid to clean up all their filth. Their mothers probably wait on them hand-and foot at home.

I went to patrol the main block of our complex. I heard the racket coming from their room the second the elevator door opened on the fifth floor;  it was vibrating. I took a deep breath, exhaled a long, low sigh and strode down the corridor. I hammered with my fist and when they wouldn’t open the door I let myself in with my passkey.  I gagged on the stench: sweat, semen and the unmistakable aroma of cannabis.

Two lads were sprawled out on a bed built for one;  both totally naked. One, a fair-haired boy with a small, turned-up nose and a rash of ache running down one cheek tried to focus on me. “Turn that noise down!” I shouted. I meant the big boom-box that pulsated on the floor. Perhaps he couldn’t hear me (I wouldn’t be surprised) because he didn’t move. I stormed across the room and did it myself. By the time I turned around both boys were sitting up. The other one, who was tall, lank, and had untidy curling hair cascading down to his shoulders, grabbed a pillow and covered his privates. He was a little too late: I saw his throbbing stalk.

I gave them the speech. A strict no-noise after 11 p.m. policy. That means you too, I said. Why did they think the rule didn’t apply to them? Selfish. Inconsiderate. I let them have the works. They sat impassively; no reaction. Arrogant, snotty-nosed, little …. I didn’t say any of this last part out loud, it was enough that I thought it.

Well, I said, that’s it. Pack your bags. Get out. We don’t want you here. I strode across the small room and loomed over the pair of them. Hurry. Chop-chop. Let’s see some action! That got their attention. The long-haired one started babbling something incoherent. I think the gist of it was that I couldn’t do that. I could, but there was no point quoting the hotel’s contract chapter and verse to him, he was too far gone to understand.

The fair-haired one was less confused. He got the seriousness of his situation. Sorry, he said, meekly. He ran his fingers though his hair and muscles in his chest rippled. The corners of his mouth rose and he showed me his brilliantly white, even teeth. He wrinkled his nose and his bright-blue eyes shone. I suppressed a giggle; I know boys like him, many hang out at a bar near the hotel where they scrounge drinks from holidaymakers.

I played along. Well, I said, maybe you don’t have to pack and leave. He wrinkled his nose and his smile broadened. Thank you, he simpered, oozing sexuality. I wondered where he had learned that little trick. Do they just pick it up or do the boys teach one another?

Don’t be so grateful, I told him and returned the smirk. Mine was not cute and sexy. If a piranha could smile it would smile like me. His grin was still stuck to his face. I put my hand into my jacket pocket. His eyes stared, transfixed. His smile fell to be replaced by a grimace. I held in my hand a small wooden paddle, its blade no bigger than a paperback book. His lips formed the word Oh! but he made no sound.

So, I said, returning to the set speech I usually make at times like this. You can pack your bags or …. I smacked the paddle into the palm of my hand. There was no need to say more, my intention was clear. At this point any of a number of things might usually happen. The boy or boys might get angry; scream and shout and threaten violence. They might plead for forgiveness. A surprising number burst into tears like they were eight years old. Most (and believe me when I tell you this because it’s true) after chatting back and forth with me for a while concede quietly that they really have no choice in the matter unless they want to spend the next few days sleeping on the beach until their flight home.

While the chatting went on, I slipped off my jacket and put it on the hook by the door. I was going nowhere, not until I had done my duty by all my rule-abiding guests. I sat on the other bed in the room. I had done this countless times before (it was the second time that night) so I knew how not to waste my time. The fair-haired lad was frowning now; he exchanged glances with his friend. Both seemed resigned to the fact that matters had to take their course.

Theatrically, I beckoned him towards me with a crooked finger. He clambered from his bed and stood shakily. He stretched his arms out like a child playing at aeroplanes and steadied himself. Still playing the ham, I clicked my fingers at him and waved my hand indicating that he should approach my bed. Without protest he stood close to me, the aroma of marijuana was strong. Up close, I saw his blue eyes were more glazed than sparkling.

Bend across my knee. It is the sort of thing you might say to a naughty child, not to a lad like this who I think must have been at least twenty. He looked over his shoulder at his pal who simply stared back, his eyes popped on stalks. The fair-haired one pushed his fingers through his hair once more and submissively fell forward. The bed was narrow but there was enough room for him to place the top half of his body across the mattress. From experience I knew to trap his ankles with my leg and to take his left arm and hold it against his back. Like this he was pinned down and completely exposed to me.

Although he was by no means fat, his body felt heavy against my knees. That usually means a lad spends a lot of time in the gym. His legs were muscular and his backside firm and beefy. It was obvious to me that he shaved his body as he was completely hairless, even up into his crack. I didn’t resist the temptation to pat his mounds and stroke them gently with the palm of my hand. He had a delightful bottom that simply asked to be spanked. And, so I did.

My paddle might be small but it is made of hard wood and is probably a couple of centimetres thick. It is perfect for delivering an over-the-knee spanking. In this lad’s case the blade covered roughly a third of one cheek, so by the time I’d pounded home a dozen swats the whole target area glowed bright pink. He rewarded my endeavours with a series of gentle wheezes that quickly progressed to yaps. He wriggled his beefy bum and he headbutted the mattress but I had him pinned securely and there was nothing he could do to get away.

Big strapping lads can take quite a lot of punishment, even if they are “spanking virgins”. This might be his first time but that didn’t mean I was going to go soft on him. I owed it to my other guests and I wanted to make darned sure I got no trouble from him for the rest of his stay. Also, when the other apprentice plumbers got to hear what happened it would deter them from breaking the rule.

The smooth, muscular hairless cheeks bounced provokingly each time my paddle crashed into his taut bottom. Like Oscar Wilde I can resist anything but temptation and so was encouraged to crack my wood harder and harder across this naughty boy’s bottom. The yaps quickly graduated to yelps and became full-throated yells. His creamy-white flesh was now flamed with a rosy hue. I whacked down another dozen and stopped. I am not a sadist, I believe in discipline and punishment, but not in torture.

I released my grip and the lad lay across my knees gasping for breath. His naked back glistened with sweat. I moistened my own dry, cracked lips. Still he had not moved. Once again, I caressed his bottom. It was tougher than before, feeling a bit like leather. Eventually I said stand-up. He did so and danced up and down in front of me, his cock bouncing close to my face. He turned away and rubbing his burning buttocks as he went, returned to his bed.

I had forgotten about his pal. Now, it was the turn of the slim, long-hair lout. I waved towards him and clicked my fingers. It was his signal to approach me and take his punishment. His face was pale, despite the tan he had from sitting in the sun. He made no attempt to move so I clicked again more belligerently. This caught his attention.

Sorrowfully, he wriggled his bottom along the mattress. He still had the pillow clutched to his front. He stood, hesitated, thought for a moment or two and them shuffled forward. I supposed he was psyching himself up for the ordeal to come. Now, he was standing by my side, still grasping the pillow. The fair-haired lad had not shown such modesty. Impatiently, I made a grab for the pillow, he resisted, but I was too quick for him. I had it in my hand. The smell rising from it was unmistakable, and so was its stickiness. I looked at the lad and his cock was steel-hard and pointing at the ceiling.

With some discomfort to both of us, I eventually got him flat across my lap.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

 

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Hotel Duty Manager

I remember like it was yesterday

His new job

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Neighbourhood Watch Vigilantes

new story 2

z used belt bare twosome over car (1)

The houses in The Avenue were big, many were sedate Edwardian monstrosities with attics occupied by teenagers or au pairs. Limed oak or pastel-sponged kitchens extended into pretty conservatories, and garages had been converted into home offices or games rooms. Front gardens were well tended, with not an ugly spotted laurel or dull privet to be seen. The houses didn’t lack in burglar proofing, large metal alarm bells hung warningly over the ornate front doors and powerful lights flickered on and off all night.

The Avenue bordered Widdicombe Woods giving the inhabitants a feeling of almost rural isolation. But across the main road at one end the council estate loomed high and huge. It was the mysterious hinterland from which the residents assumed all crime and chaos originated. Righteous people in The Avenue lived in fear of being mugged, threatened or harassed by ruffians from the estate. On dark evenings, mindful of terrifying newspaper reports of no-go areas and escalating violence, they made sure to only carry small amounts of change as they shuffled off to the local liquor store. At night they carefully took their in-car radios into their homes with them.

A couple of miles away at the Brocklehurst South police station Sgt Astley peered over the top of his glasses at the young police cadet standing before him. “Bloody kids,” he wanted to say, “They never know when to leave well alone.” Instead his jowls wobbled as he shook his head in disbelief and listened to the tale.

Cadet Noble was flustered. “You’ll never believe it Serge, they had the two boys, well young men really, bent over the car. And they had no clothes on. Well, they had shirts but their jeans and pants were pulled down,” he gabbled.

“Steady on, calm down, son,” Sgt Astley could indeed believe it. There were stranger things going on in Brocklehurst every day of the year.

Cadet Noble gushed on, “And they were whacking their bottoms … their bare bottoms with leather belts.”

Ah, a broad smile split Sgt Astley’s chubby face. Now he understood. “Was it the Neighbourhood Watch?” he grinned.

“Well, I don’t know,” the cadet replied uneasily, suddenly realising that he should have more details. He should have interviewed people and taken notes, like a proper copper. He frowned, vaguely aware that his face was colouring. “It was down at The Avenue.”

The tubby sergeant spread his arms wide. “I should have known,” he wiped a hand across his brow. “Were they lads from the council estate?”

Cadet Noble shrugged his shoulders confirming his inadequacy.

“They’re right posh at The Avenue, they don’t take kindly to riff-raff hanging around stamping on their dahlias.”

“But, Serge they were taking the law into their own hands, that’s not right,” Cadet Noble was flustered. That wasn’t why he joined the police force.

Sgt Astley frowned, “A bloody good hiding never did any harm,” he didn’t say it out loud. There was one young lad standing in front of him who would benefit from a belt across the backside; it might knock some sense into him.

What he did say was, “We don’t have the officers to deal with these type of cases. It’s best all round if we just leave it to the residents.”

“Oh Serge,” Cadet Noble’s face flushed red with indignation. “It’s not fair,” he pouted.

Tucker was on the prowl. He had risen from his pit of a bed just after midday. The afternoon was the best time to do his business. The houses were empty. People had jobs to go to. Suckers! It was mid-summer. Blisteringly hot. He showered, pulled on his jeans, picked up shirts from a pile on the floor, sniffed each of them to find the cleanest and tugged it over his head. He tipped cornflakes from a packet into a not-quite clean bowl and soaked them with milk. He was ready for his day.

His council flat was on the edge of the town centre, conveniently situated between the necessary amenities of life (burger bars, pubs, the social security office) and the rich, leafy suburbs. It wasn’t his day to ‘sign-on’ and his pockets were empty, so he would give the centre a miss today. Time to get to work.

The suburbs of Brocklehurst were green and flourishing and no street more so than The Avenue. Big, opulent houses with large gardens owned by rich folk. He’d pick his pal Higgins up on his way.

Eric Sloop and his two chums were on their second glass of gin. They spread themselves out comfortably in the spacious lounge room, in companionable silence. The sun was shining, the gin was splendid. They dozed a little.

Tucker and Higgins had seen the large detached house on a previous visit. It looked unoccupied; and rich for the pickings. Making sure they weren’t seen by anyone they hurried across the road and dodged behind the wall. Tucker was pretty certain that large as the house was there was only one man who lived there, and he was probably a wealthy old git, by the looks of the place. Tucker hoped they’d be able to break in and steal something valuable; he didn’t want much, cash would be preferable, just enough to pay for some booze and drugs. If there was no cash, he’d steal an ornament (these kinds of people always had ornaments) and he’d sell it.

The pair darted round the back of the house. He tried the door. Ha-ha!, it was unlocked. Why were people so stupid? And, thank the Lord that they were.

“Keep a look out,” he mouthed instructions to Higgins, a dull half-wit of a youth. Cautiously, he eased open the door. It led directly into a kitchen. It was a bright, modern room. Quickly his eyes scanned around; where’s the tea-caddy; old people always hid their money in the tea-caddy. He searched through the cupboards, trying not to leave too many traces, but found no caddy, only a box of tag-less tea bags.

He opened and closed all the drawers, no money and nothing of value. Adrenalin pumped through Tucker’s arteries. He was out in the hallway. There was a jacket hanging on a hook. He searched the pockets but found nothing.

There were four doors leading onto the hallway. The house was airless, the heat and the excitement was making him sweat. One of them must lead to a living room, he supposed. Which one? Did it matter? The house was empty, he had all the time in the world. He reached for a door handle, twisted it. It opened easily.

“What the …..!” Eric Sloop shouted, “Who the fuck are you?” He and his two pals lurched to their feet. Tucker stood frozen, trying to survey the scene. At last, too late, his addled brain told him it was time to flee.

“Grab him,” there was no need for Eric to give instruction, his friend Paul already had hold of the youth’s arm. Toby, the third man in the room gripped him by the neck.

“Wor’s going on?” the dim-witted Higgins stood in the hallway, trying to comprehend the situation.

“There’s another one, quick get him.” Inside seconds two intruders had been captured by three less-than-sober residents.

“Housebreakers.”

“Thieves.”

“I bet they’re from the estate.”

They all spoke at once, as they began to understand what was going on.

“Fuck off, leggo!” Tucker had his arms pinned behind his back. Higgins was in a head lock. They were going nowhere.

“Call the police,” Toby said.

“Yeah, right!” Eric sneered. “Fat lot of good that’ll do.” He twisted Tucker’s arm and then pulled his long, greasy hair. He put his mouth close to the lout’s ear. “Do you know if we were in America and you broke into my house, I’d be allowed to shoot you.”

“Yeah,” Paul added his two-penny worth. “Dead, you bastard.”

Tucker struggled, but the strength of his captor was too much.

“The police won’t do anything,” Eric was taking command. “Not even a slap on the wrist,” he mocked. “Total waste of time.”

Paul smiled sardonically, “We know what to do with these two, don’t we Eric.” He slapped Higgins on the back of the head. “Same as we did with the other two.”

“Wor? Wor did you do?” Higgins feared the worst.

“It’s a pity word hasn’t got round your estate. You don’t come and mess with the folks of The Avenue,” Eric sneered, “We know how to deal with hoodlums like you.” He looked across at his companions. “Let’s take them out the front. Make sure the neighbours can see.”

Eric and Paul took an arm each and pulled Tucker across the floor, the lout’s feet skidded across the plush carpet. Tucker’s fear gave him strength, but he tumbled and the two men dragged him into the hallway and towards the door. Toby grabbed Higgin by the arm, unlike his partner-in-crime he gave no resistance, too dumbfounded to fight.

They were soon outside in The Avenue, the street was deserted, Eric toyed with the idea of running from door to door to scrape up an audience. The residents were fed up with living in constant fear of the council estate thugs; they would delight in the spectacle. Before he moved the door of the house at number twenty-seven opened and Ernie Flynn appeared.

“Thieves,” Eric said by way of explanation. “We’re going to whip their arses,” he said calmly as if what he intended to do was the most natural thing in the world. Ernie took the initiative and started working his way from house to house.

“Get them over the car,” Eric had taken control; his friends happy to follow his lead. “No!!!” Tucker wailed and struggled fiercely, but the two men held him forcibly down. He was going nowhere until they said so. Eric gripped Higgins by the arm; the lout came quietly and within seconds was alongside his pal.

“Geroff!!” Tucker was off again. Toby grabbed the lout’s sweatpants and underwear and in one smooth movement pulled both down until they rested at Tucker’s shins. The young man kicked out in fury but missed his intended target.

A crowd was beginning to gather. They saw two men, each aged about twenty, bent side by side over the front of a car, trousers and pants at their shins, bottomed bared. “If I let you go,” Paul told Higgins, I want you to stay there and take it. If you struggle, we’ll tie you to a tree and flog you until you bleed.”

He couldn’t believe he had just said that. Where had those words come from? Paul felt sheepish as he released his grip and was mightily relived when the lout stayed still, submissively offering up his naked buttocks.

Eric unbuckled his own belt and with one continuous movement had it free of his trousers and doubled up in his hand. It was wide and thick and he knew from experience it could do some damage to a naked behind. Paul followed suit.

Eric was the first to go: after all it had been his idea. The belt was about twelve or thirteen inches long, he took up position behind Tucker and found his aim. The lout liked his beer and this was obvious from his flabby waist and loose buttocks. His legs were hairy but his bottom was creamy-pale. That was until the first three lashes of the leather belt struck home. While Eric thrashed Tucker’s rear end, Paul made his own preparations.

He approached Higgins from the right hand side. It was a difficult angle for Paul would have preferred to be on the left. He gripped the belt in his right fist and moved behind the thief to get a better aim. It was more difficult than he realised.

The first lash missed Higgins’ bum completely and landed on the top of his thighs. The lout let out a piercing yelp, his legs buckled and his hips swayed, but he stayed in position.  Not discouraged Paul repositioned. This time the belt landed right across the very centre of both cheeks: a result. The belt lashed again and again into the increasingly reddening cheeks.

Meanwhile, Tucker felt the belt lift away from his bottom. A split second later it returned at speed and force and caught him on the underside of both cheeks. Air hissed through his clenched lips. His mouth opened wide and a faint groan escaped. Before he could regain composure a second, then a third and a fourth cut lashed across his bottom.

The crack of leather on two sets of stretched buttocks disturbed the still afternoon. The small crowd of onlookers stared in silence; it had been a long time since many of them had had so much fun.

Tucker shut his teeth. His bum hurt. Then there was a short respite as Toby took off his own belt. Splat! The leather exploded once more across the thief’s  buttock cheeks delivering a searing sting that took his breath away. Before he could regain his wind he felt another stinging band and he bucked frantically and his legs danced. Toby made certain the strap toasted every square of the target which was by now blazing.

Paul twisted his flabby body and sent the leather scorching into the underside of Higgins’ buttocks. With the upturned bottom in front of him, Paul could choose his target with great accuracy. Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! It was a long, thorough whipping.

From a safe distance and unobserved Police Cadet Nobel recorded the proceedings, shielding the screen of his tablet from the sunshine.

 

Other stories you might like

Vigilantes

A visit to Uncle Roy’s

Approved School Santas

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com