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

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Hotel Duty Manager

do not disturb sign

The duty manager stood at his office window scanning the hotel complex for trouble. It was three days since he had any action and he was getting very tense.

Then he saw them. Yes, this would do nicely.

Two teenaged boys, obviously English judging by their pale skins, were dancing on the balcony of their rooms, dressed only in their underpants. Drunk, of course, he thought. Unless they were high on drugs.

He couldn’t hear from a distance but he was pretty sure loud music would be coming from the room, disturbing other hotel guests.

What’s this? One of the boys wriggled his bottom provocatively at his friend. What the Hell? In what the boy supposed to be a seductive dance, he lowered his bright yellow briefs and thrust out his pert little, now bare, buttocks.

The duty manager went to his computer and after a few mouse clicks the information he wanted appeared on screen. Yes, the thought so: Peter Giles, aged eighteen, and Wayne Calderwood, aged nineteen. They were part of a package group from England: arrived yesterday for ten days.

Yes, they would be ideal, he told himself, as he picked up his keys and briefcase.

Five minutes later he was hammering on their hotel door.

“Duty manager here. Please open the door.”

A few seconds elapsed before the music was turned off and the door opened.

“Duty manager,” he showed his ID card and entered the room. The boys were still in their underpants and judging by the glazed look in their eyes, they had been drinking heavily. The empty beer bottles confirmed that.

Typical English louts, the duty manager thought, away from their parents for an orgy of sun, sand, booze and sex.

“I have had complaints about the noise from this room,” he rasped sternly. Drunk though they were, the boys remained silent and heard him out.

“And, I witnessed myself, your lewd behaviour on the balcony.”

Both boys blushed scarlet at the thought their little secret was out.

“Now, I have your names here; which one of you is Wayne?”

The boy in the yellow pants raised his hand.

“So, you must be Peter?” he told the other boy.

“Right, Peter, Wayne, I want you to pack your bags and leave the hotel.”

The boys had not expected this and they sobered up pretty quickly. There was nowhere they could go. They were on a tourist deal and their flight home didn’t leave for more than a week.

Peter piped up, “We are sorry, Sir. We promise not to do it again.”

“Sir”. The duty manager liked that. This was going to be easy.

Peter and Wayne slurred their explanations. They were on a package tour. There was no way they could fly back to England now. If they were thrown out of the hotel, they would be destitute.  They would have to sleep on the beach.

What would their friends say?

God! What would their fathers say? No what would their fathers DO, when they found out.

Wayne knew what his father would do. It took weeks for the bruises and scars to completely heal after dad heard he had been driving the family car without permission and well over the drink-drive limit.

It had been the whipping of his lifetime. But, the teenager was certain the thrashing he would get when his dad heard about this would be ten times worse, especially if dad had to buy him an air ticket to rescue him from Lanzarote.

The duty hotel manager could read the hooligans like a book.

“No, you must leave. We cannot have this kind of behaviour. We are a respectable hotel.”

That wasn’t strictly true, many things happened at the hotel that were far from respectable. That’s why so many youngsters stayed there.

Peter could feel his eyes welling up. He was such a cry baby.

The duty manager let them suffer a while.

“How old are you boys?”

Peter, “Eighteen, Sir.”

Wayne, “Nineteen, nearly twenty.” And, then he added, “Sir.”

“Doh! If I were your fathers I’d give you each a damn good spanking.”

The boys were literally speechless. Who was this man? How did he know so much about their fathers?

The duty manager eyed each boy carefully, “Do you know in this country we have the law of pater familias?”

The boys looked at each other blankly; they didn’t quite shrug their shoulders to express ignorance; but the duty manager could tell they were clueless.

Pater familias means the head of the household takes responsibility for all those who are aged less than twenty-one years. He acts in the place of their fathers. Do you understand?”

They didn’t, so he carried on.

“In law while you are staying at the hotel you are part of my household and I act in pater familias. I am your father.” And, then a little more sharply, “Do you understand that?”

Yes, they said, they understood that.

The duty manager had them where he wanted. They were so dumb. The products of a fine English education, he thought.

“If you solemnly promise that you will not disturb your neighbours and you will not behave in that disgusting fashion again, I am prepared to act in pater familias. Do you understand?”

Peter still did not, but a light bulb lit above Wayne’s head, “You’re going to spank us.”

The two boys exchanged glances but they said nothing.

“Yes, I am. If you swear you will behave. The alternative is for you both to leave.”

The boys could not look each other in the eyes. The duty manager took their silence as assent and went to his briefcase to extract a wooden paddle. As paddles went, it was not a vicious object; similar ones were still used in a few America schools to whack the backsides of misbehaving schoolchildren.

He held the paddle in one hand as if testing its weight. Then, pointing it towards the door of the room, he said, “Both of you stand there and put your hands on your head.”

Without question, they did as instructed. Raising their hands helped to define their bodies. The duty manager took a moment to admire the muscle tone of each boy; obviously they worked out at the gym a little, but they weren’t obsessive body builders. Each boy had very clear skin and had he taken the trouble to inspect the bathroom he would find an array of lotions that had made that possible.

The rooms in the hotel were small and the duty manager knew from experience the most effective way to swing a paddle was to have the boy over his knees. He sat on a bed and motioned Peter to step forward.

“Come here, Peter and bend over my knee.”

Silently, Peter walked forward. The duty manager could see tears forming already. If he’s like this now, what will be like once I’ve blistered his backside for him?

Peter stared vacantly at the legs of the duty manager. Was he really expected to bend over them to allow this commanding man to whip his arse?

“Come on Peter,” he held out his hand to take the teenager by the arm and gently glide him over his lap. The boy did not resist and allowed the masterful man to adjust him until his chest lay across the bed and his legs stretched out behind him so his toes just reached the carpet. His bottom, the highest part of his body, rested over the duty manager’s lap.

The duty manager rubbed his huge hand over Peter’s underpants to smooth any creases from the cotton. Peter’s breathing became irregular as he waited the first swat of the paddle.

Wallop! It hit into the left cheek. Peter gasped a little, but the pain was not too great. It tingled a little that was all.

The duty manager held the boy firmly around the waist. He could see Peter had taken too much sun today; the skin on his back would be burnt by tonight. The skin on his backside would also be sore by the time he was finished.

The spanking was sound, but not brutal. Peter was in tears by the fourth swat.

By the time the twelfth and last swat smacked home, Peter’s buttocks were raw, but the pain had already turned to stinging sensation and quickly it would become a warm, pleasant glow.

The spanking over, the duty manager sent Peter to stand by the door once more, hands on head. He faced the door, away from sight.

“Wayne, you know the procedure.”

Wayne was determined to be brave in front of Peter. In their relationship, he always was the leader; the strong one.

He put himself over the duty manager’s lap and wriggled around so his backside was in the prime spot to receive the paddle.

The duty manager was annoyed that Wayne did not seem especially anxious. Well, this should make him worry more. He took hold of the pants at the waist and pulled them down to his thighs.

“There, you seem to like showing off your bare bottom. Let’s all have a look.”

Wayne hadn’t expected this; but he knew he must try to take anything the duty manager could dish out; even bare butt.

And, he could. The duty manager whacked him twelve times with the paddle; Wayne writhed a little, but mostly stayed quiet. It hurt like hell and he was a little worried about the bruises. He wanted to show off his body on the beach, but his skimpy swimming trunks hardly covered a thing. What would the boys think when they saw he had been spanked?

His duty to his other guests completed, the duty manager packed up his paddle, and prepared to leave. Both boys were rubbing their hot buttocks to convince him it had been a job well done.

“I shall be keeping an eye on you to for the rest of the stay. I hope we don’t have to have a repeat of this afternoon,” he said, unconvincingly.

Back in his office with the blinds drawn and the door locked, the duty manager reached for the suntan lotion and unzipped his trousers.

The gullible English, he thought. There’s one born every minute.

Picture Credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

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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.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com