Will life imitate art?

new story 2

z used twosome older younger shower josman (2a) (2)

Mr and Mrs Pettit thought they had found the perfect solution to their problem. It was so simple really. What could possibly go wrong? They thanked their lucky stars. Now, they just had to convince their son Ant.

The thing was Mr Pettit had been promoted by his company to become a regional director. He and his wife were over the moon. It meant more prestige, more money, an even bigger home, a flashier car. The whole nine yards. The problem was this: the region he was going to “direct” was three hundred miles away at the other end of the country. They would have to move away.

Ant was in his final year at school with just six months to go until he took his examinations. He couldn’t change schools now. That was where Gordon Conway came in. He was a friend and neighbour. He had a spare room. He said Ant could move in with him until his exams were over and then Ant would be able to join his parents in the summer. What could be simpler?

Ant told his pal Will about it when they were sinking a couple of pints at the Three Fishers. “Oh yes, that’s a really good idea,” Will said, dripping irony.

“What’s wrong?” Ant was genuinely perplexed.

“A middle-aged man living on his own,” Will slurped beer down his throat. “Takes in a cute, blond eighteen-year-old boy as a lodger.” Will laughed and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “He’s a queen. Just make sure you keep the bathroom door locked, that’s all I can say.”

“He is not a queen,” Ant wasn’t sure if his pal was just joshing him. “He was married. She left him for another bloke.”

Will’s eyes shone. He laughed, “I rest my case, m’lud. A poofter. It’s backs to the wall boys!” They drank on into the evening.

Later that night in bed Ant gently stroked his erect cock. Was Mr Conway gay? What if he were. He thought about the many stories he had read online as he worked his fist up and down his shaft.  They usually went something like this: for some reason a teenager has to move out of his parents’ home and move in with an uncle, or grandparents, or maybe even a neighbour. Suddenly, his whole life changes. His new “guardians” won’t put up with his disrespectful and slovenly ways. There are rules. He is told: “It’s my way or the highway.”  A night time curfew is imposed. Alcohol is banned. No drugs. Do this, don’t do that. Be polite to your aunt / grandmother. And if he disobeys …..

Ant had never given Mr Conway a second thought before. He was just someone from further down The Avenue that his parents knew. Now, he couldn’t get the man out of his mind.

They are standing in lounge room. Mr Conway rests his buttocks against the edge of the dining table. In his hand he holds a single sheet of paper. He reads from it, slowly at dictation speed. “Curfew is ten-thirty on school nights and eleven-forty-five on other days. You will have homework completed and ready for my inspection at nine o’clock. You will not be allowed to use the back room or to enter the room upstairs that I call my study.”

Ant nods his assent as each new rule is read to him. Mr Conway drones through his list. “And finally,” he says, with no inflection in his voice, “You will be subjected to corporal punishment at my complete discretion should you break any of the rules. Please sign your name at the place indicated.” He hands the sheet of paper and a ballpoint pen to Ant. The eighteen-year-old takes it and signs.

Mr Conway takes back the sheet of paper and carefully folds it in two. “Right,” he says, “Let’s test you out.” He walks across the room, opens a drawer to a sideboard and slips the newly-signed contract in. Then he closes it and opens a second drawer. This time he reaches in. Ant watches him. His own heart is thumping. His head feels like church bells are clanging inside it. His eyes moisten when he sees Mr Conway take out a well-worn white plimsoll. He grips it in his right fist and turns to face Ant.

“Right,” he says. He sits himself down on a straight-backed, armless chair. When he speaks again he is quiet and unemotional. He delivers instructions clearly and concisely. He might be ordering a takeaway meal on the telephone. “Stand there.” He points to a spot a metre from his thigh. “Take down your jeans. Bend over my knee. Place your hands flat on the floor. Keep your head low. Raise your bottom as high as you can. Keep perfectly still. Keep as quiet as you can. We do not need to disturb the neighbours. Do not try to resist me. If you do I shall start the punishment all over again. Do you understand?”

Ant croaks, “Yes sir.” He is now on some sort of automatic pilot. He fumbles a bit with his belt and the jeans have buttons and they refuse at first to be undone. At last he slips the jeans down his thighs and over his knees. Gravity takes them the rest of the way to his feet. He is still a short distance from Mr Conway, so when Ant moves towards him he waddles like a penguin.

Mr Conway is not a large man, in fact he is shorter than Ant. Ant notices for the first time that Mr Conway is very muscular. He is strong for a man of his age, which Ant supposes might be forty-five or more. Mr Conway is also wearing jeans and he parts his legs to create a platform for Ant to submit his body across. For a second, Ant glances at Mr Conway’s privates which bulge against tight denim cloth.

Ant has not done this before, so he takes some deep breaths while he works out what to do exactly. He decides to rest the palms of his hands on Mr Conway’s right knee and then lower his body down so that his belly rests across the plateau made by Mr Conway’s thighs. Then, as previously instructed, Ant stretches his arms forward and presses the palms of his hands into the deep-pile carpet. He wriggles a little as he tries to get his bottom into the required position. Ant cannot see behind him so cannot be sure if his bum is pointing up at the correct angle. He supposes Mr Conway will tell him soon enough if he has got it wrong.

Prostrate like this, his knees bend and his toes hover just above the ground. Ant cannot be sure whether he ought to close his eyes tight until the spanking is over or should he stare down at the carpet. If he lifts his head a centimetre or two he can look across the room. In his eyeline there is a large painting of a bowl of fruit. Ant thinks he could concentrate on that to take his mind off the whacking that is about to come.

He decides to close his eyes tight and tries to imagine what he must look like. Here he is an eighteen-year-old schoolboy draped across the knees of his middle-aged neighbour who is grasping an old worn gym shoe that he is about to whack into Ant’s pert bottom.

Ant’s imaginings are interpupted.  He feels Mr Conway take hold of the end of his shirt and roughly he pushes it halfway up his back so it is away from the target area. Ant is sure the inside of his head is about to explode when Mr Conway takes a firm hold of the elasticated waistband of Ant’s underpants. It takes only two fierce tugs to have the small briefs up and over Ant’s neat bottom and resting at his knees. Ant is now naked from the shoulders to his knees. Totally at the mercy of his neighbour’s hard, rubber-soled slipper.

Back in the real world, in his bed Ant’s right wrist is pumping like a steam piston. He scrunches his eyes tight trying both to visualise his bared buttocks as the plimsoll hammers into his naked flesh and at the same time he tries not to ejaculate too soon.

Downstairs Mr and Mrs Pettit share a bottle of red wine and congratulate themselves on finding the perfect solution to their problem. They think how lucky they are to have such an understanding son.

 

Picture credit: Josman

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The interview

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The New Coach

new story 2

z used plimsoll sports

“What in the name of glory just happened!!”

Eleven young men carried on stripping off their kits. The post-match banter flew around the changing room.

“I’m talking to you boys!” Louder. Angrier. Voices quietened. Silence at last.

“So answer me? Who wants to tell me what just happened?”

The boys shuffled nervously. Embarrassed.

“Gillingwater!” The coach’s face was now puce as he faced a stocky lad with his shorts half way to his knees.

“Seven-nil! Seven-nil! Unbelievable. Do you lot even now how to play football! A team of Girl Guides could do better than that.”

Gillingwater flushed. His teammates stared at the ground embarrassed.  “How long have you played together?”

The boys of the St Vincent’s Youth Club said nothing. They knew their new coach had a reputation as a hard man. Mr Townsend, their coach until the beginning of the season, had been quite the opposite, a gentle kindly man.

“Do any of you bunch of losers ever expect to play football again? After today’s disaster I am quite happy to tell the parish to throw in the towel.”

Now every eye was on the coach, teenaged faces etched with dismay.

“You ought to be ashamed! Every one of you! Ashamed!”

The changing room again went silent. A ghastly, frozen silence. Despite being a team of eighteen and nineteen year old men, many were close to blubbing.

“Do you want to be a team that this parish can be proud of? Do you actually want to play like men and not like a bunch of woofters?” Silence. “Well, do you?”

“Yes Sir,” they muttered, eyes still downcast.

The coach scowled, not trying to disguise his distain. “I said DO YOU WANT TO PLAY LIKE MEN!”

“YES SIR!”

Somewhere in the reaches of his mind he conjured up the image of a drill sergeant. In the US Marines perhaps. Someone out of a movie about Vietnam. These wimps had to be toughened up. For their own good, of course. It could save their lives.

The coach stiffened his back. “Right! From now, everything changes. From this very second. Is that understood?”

“YES SIR!” barked like Marine recruits.

“Any boy who thinks he can get away with what I saw today can get out, in fact he can get out now.” He pointed to the door, scowling, his eye ranging round the changing room, daring just one of them to move.

“Spreadbury. You’re the Captain of this shower. As Captain you are responsible for the performance and conduct of the team. Do you want to remain as captain?”

“Yes Sir”

“Do you take responsibility for today’s result?”

Spreadbury hesitated. He was not such a bright boy but even he knew the answer he gave might have grave consequences. “Y-yes. Yes, I take responsibility Sir.”

The coach turned, marched through the door of the changing room and returned brandishing a heavy white plimsoll.

“From now on failure has consequences. From now on when the team takes a beating on the pitch it also takes a beating in the changing room!”

There was a collective in-take of breath. Was he going to slipper the whole team?

“Spreadbury. For your failure to lead the team today you will get a whacking. NOW. SHORTS AND PANTS DOWN. BEND OVER.”

Spreadbury’s eyes widened, his usually pale face blushed crimson. A spanking. With a slipper. On the bare. In front of everyone. Most of the boys had attended St. Francis Independent Grammar School, they were no strangers to corporal punishment, but on the bare and in public! Even St. FIGS would draw the line at that.

“B..b..b.. but Sir,” he faltered, aware of ten pair of eyes transfixed upon him. “But, we’re not at school anymore.” He trailed off conscious of his lack of conviction.

“Pah!” The coach spat. “This is the only thing you boys understand!” He gripped the plimsoll in his right fist and waved it in the faces of the dumbfounded teenagers. It was a size fourteen. The coach had never known a person to have feet that big. It might be unsuitable as footwear but it made a terrific spanking tool. The sole was large enough to cover an entire buttock cheek. One whack delivered with vim would leave the flesh scorching.

“Well,” he smacked the slipper into his left hand. “It’s my way or the highway!” Eyes circled. The new coach was deadly serious. Things would never be the same again.

“What’s it to be?”

Spreadbury stood legs slightly apart, hands behind his back. Involuntarily his thumbs traced the contours of his buttocks. A slippering. He had touched his toes in the housemaster’s study many times for a swishing with a flexible rattan cane. That hurt like billy-oh, but he had taken his thrashings stoically. He had never been slippered. Surely, it couldn’t be as bad as the cane? These thoughts flashed through his mind at the speed of light. He would have to go through with it, what would his pals say if he chickened out.

“Come on lad,” the coach growled with impatience. “Shorts, pants down. Bend over,” he beat the plimsoll into his palm at every syllable. Sweat began to soak Spreadbury’s brow, there was a line of moisture above his top lip. “But, bare Sir …” he hated himself for pleading.

“It’s the only way,” the coach snarled. “It’s not a proper spanking unless it’s on the bare.”

Ten young footballers watched on with a mixture of anxiety and excitement. None had seen a public spanking before. Spreadbury sucked down a lungful of air, preparing himself for the ordeal. His shorts hardly covered his buttocks, he stuck his thumbs in the elasticated waistband and with a mere turn of the wrist sent them hurtling south to rest at his feet. The coach watched intently, Spreadbury had an athletic figure, his legs muscular and hairless. The outline of his cock was clearly visible under the tight white cotton of his briefs. The teenager hesitated, psyching himself up for his next action.

“Pants down, lad. C’mon, we haven’t got all day,” the coach could not hide his eagerness to get on with the job. Again, Spreadbury stuck his thumbs under an elasticated waistband, but this time without bravado. He inched the briefs down, conscious of his fellow teammates staring intently. Of course, they had all seen his naked arse and cock and balls before; they showered together after every match, but never before had he felt such the centre of attention.

At last his buttocks were exposed, but rather than letting them slip down his thighs and legs to rest above his shorts, he kept the briefs bunched up. Quickly, fearful they would fall further, he leaned forward. At St FIGS “Bend over” meant “Bend over and touch your toes” and “toes” meant “toes”, not knees or shins. Spreadbury’s fingertips brushed the canvas tops of his own plimsolls. His back was arched and his legs were taut which made the muscles in his buttocks stretch tight. There was no spare meat back there; he was as tight as a drum.

“Bah!” the exasperated coach saw Spreadbury’s little game. “Let’s get these out of the way,” he snarled as he gripped the teenager’s underpants and tugged them away from the buttocks until they bunched at his shins. “Let the dog see the rabbit.” From somewhere a cold breeze drifted against Spreadbury’s naked bottom. He stared down at the dirty splintered tiles on the changing room floor, intensely aware that his crack and hole was on full display to his pals.

The coach gripped the plimsoll tightly, the muscles in his forearm tensed. He took up position about a foot to Spreadbury’s left. He could smell the fresh sweat on the boy’s body. He rested the plimsoll on the left cheek, running from north to south so that it covered the entire buttock. He tapped gently, taking his aim, then Whack! he brought it crashing down. The teenager stumbled forward under the mighty force of the blow but immediately steadied himself. An imprint of the plimsoll’s sole immediately appeared in dark pink across the once-creamy-white flesh.

A second later the right cheek was just as pink and equally as sore. “Ah!” Spreadbury sucked in air.  After just two more weighty blows from the large slipper his bottom was aflame with a smarting soreness that hurt and stung. With only two or three seconds between each smack, the spanking quickly developed into a slow steady rhythmic rising and falling of the plimsoll. Each time it contacted forcefully with his once pale creamy white bottom, he grimaced and screwed his face in pain.

The coach’s enormous large slipper thumped heavily down on his bottom over and over again. A caning was never like this. That was bend over, six swipes stand up, go. This slippering was going on forever. Spreadbury’s bum was really very sore now. One whack hit him squarely in the middle of the left bum cheek. The next on the right. Spreadbury squirmed and gasped as some wallops hit right on a spot where others had landed. Coach quickened the pace. Slap here, whack there, wallop again.

He stopped after about three minutes and took a pace backwards the better to admire his handiwork. He saw an eighteen-year-old footballer bent submissively touching his toes. His hair was drenched with sweat; his face was as scarlet as his backside. No square inch of the teenager’s buttocks and the backs of his thighs had escaped the slipper. Spreadbury blazed. The pain would by now be dissolving into a throb that would stay for some time until it turned to a warm glow. “Yes,” the new coach congratulated himself silently, “A job well done.” He studied the plimsoll in his hand as if seeing it for the first time, then glared around the changing room at the rest of his charges. Each boy stood bemused, unsure what they should make of the spectacle they had witnessed. One lad, shorter and fairer than his teammate, looked the most uncomfortable. He clasped his hands in front of his shorts.

“OK, lads,” the coach spoke quietly, “I think we understand each other now, get changed and showered.” He watched intently as still in silence they stripped themselves naked. He moved slowly to the room next door and replaced the plimsoll in his locker, conscious at how much his hand trembled.

Picture credit: Jonathon

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Don’t bully our mum

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com