The house across the street

Ricky sat at the table by his bedroom window. He was supposed to be writing a college essay but his heart wasn’t in it. Instead, he gazed at the house across the street. Mr Raines had moved into The Avenue that week. He lived alone, in a three-bedroom house with two reception rooms. Why did a man on his own need so much space, the teenager wondered?

The Top Forty countdown was playing on the radio. Goddam it, Bohemian Rhapsody was still number one. It seemed like it had been top of the pops forever.

There was activity across the road. Ricky hid behind the curtain and watched. A schoolboy in a bright scarlet blazer cycled up to the front door. Who was this? No, Ricky realised as the boy dismounted. He wasn’t a boy; he looked to be at least forty. It couldn’t be a schoolboy. Besides, it was Sunday, no boy would willingly be out in his school uniform at the weekend. Perhaps, the blazer wasn’t from a school. More likely it was a sporting club. Rugby, maybe.

The door opened and Mr Raines ushered the man inside hastily. Then he looked up and down the street and satisfied that nobody was there he closed the door behind him.

Ricky was bored and restless. He delved under the mattress of his bed and pulled out a copy of Whitehouse. He lay down on the bed and began to undo the seven buttons on the high waist of his trousers. It was laborious work. The trousers might be the height of fashion, but they were not practical if you wanted to get out of them fast. Not that anyone did want to get his trousers down in a hurry. If they did, he wouldn’t need the porn mag.

He wriggled the trousers down to his knees and then pulled at the waist of his pants so they snagged just below his buttocks. Whitehouse was no good. He didn’t go for the close-up camera shots of ladies’ private parts. He closed his eyes and conjured up a scene in his head. He knew this one would work for him.

Things were not going well for Ricky at the polytechnic where he studied. He had failing grades and was put on what was called “the Dean’s List.” That meant he was summoned for an awkward interview with Mrs Martin. And, yes that did make her Dean Martin. Mrs Martin was an austere woman with black shiny hair, cut short. She favoured neat dark business suits and sheer stockings.

It really happened like this. Ricky stood in her office. She sat in a large leather chair. Ricky shuffled from foot to foot, while she rebuked him. If he didn’t pull his socks up, he would have to re-sit the whole year again. The nineteen-year-old felt as if he were back at school, answering to the headmaster.

At that point he felt his cock stiffen. Even as he stood there taking his bollocking, he invented a scene. He was spread-eagled across her big polished desk, his jeans at his ankles. Mrs Martin swished a thick rattan crook-handled school cane through the air and then whacked it with great force six times into the seat of his tight navy-blue underpants. He didn’t come in her office, but he had reimagined that scene many times since. Even now his cock was aching. All it needed was a half dozen tugs.

Ricky cleaned himself and resumed his watch at the window. He didn’t know it but he had missed two men who arrived together. One carried a large sports bag, the kind of thing that could carry bats and stumps. Perhaps, the boy in the blazer was part of a cricket club.

Ricky sat and watched. Soon another three men arrived. It looked to him that Mr Raines was having a party. It was probably a house warming. Why weren’t there any girls, he wanted to know.

While Ricky pondered this, Mr Raines and his guests were preparing their merrymaking.

The man in the blazer was in one of the bedrooms. Except that it wasn’t a bedroom. An old desk dominated the room and a beat up armchair stood in one corner. In another corner was a coat stand. From this dangled a schoolmaster’s academic gown. Below this, in a section reserved for umbrellas stood two rattan school canes.

Downstairs, one man who would never see his fiftieth birthday again was dressed in a Cub Scout uniform. He was so stout and his short trousers were so tight that fat rolled over the waistband. He was speaking with Mr Rainer. “It is a pity that we can’t get younger boys to attend these parties. There must be some who are interested?”

Mr Rainer sighed, “There is a cute boy who lives in the house across the road. I would love to have him across my knee.”

“Do you think he would do it?” the man wheezed. “We could pay him.”

“He’s a student; students are always in need of money,” Mr Raines laughed.

The man’s fleshy jowls wobbled, “Perhaps he has friends. Perhaps he could bring some of them with him.”

“Yes, perhaps,” Mr Raines said sadly, but he doubted it.

Mr Raines pulled a large bedroom slipper from a cupboard. “Now young man,” he clutched it in his right hand and waved it at the obese Cub Scout, “Get those shorts down and bend across my knee.”

Back in his room, Ricky had lost interest in the house across the street. For now; tomorrow, he would go and introduce himself to Mr Raines, it was the neighbourly thing to do.

He lay on his bed, closed his eyes and conjured up once more the image of Dean Martin and her thick swishy cane.

….

The next day was scorching hot. It really was turning out to be a delightful summer. Ricky stayed in bed until about midday. There wasn’t much to get up for. Certainly not a three-hour session on business economics at the poly. Dean Martin occupied much of his thoughts.

Eventually, he climbed out of bed, showered, and dressed. It was too hot for high-waisted trousers. Instead, he pulled out a pair of blue cotton shorts from his chest of drawers. He loved these shorts. They fitted snugly at the waist so he didn’t need a belt and they clung to his buttocks. They were fashionably short and reached only an inch or two down his thighs. They showed off his already deep-tanned legs perfectly.

He dragged a yellow-and-white tee-shirt over his head and stepped into his brown leather sandals. He was ready to greet the day.

He walked across the road to Mr Raines’s house and knocked on the door. He was a confident lad and made friends easily. He would say “hello and welcome to the street,” to Mr Raines and take it from there.

There was no answer. It was early Monday afternoon; the man was probably at work. He turned to retrace his steps home when he noticed the side gate was closed, but its padlock was unfastened. Mr Raines was probably in the back garden. He hadn’t heard the knock at the door.

Ricky opened the gate and walked by the side of the house into the back garden. There was no sign of Mr Raines. It was a sizable garden, dominated by a mature apple tree, groaning with ripe fruit.

The teenager didn’t think twice. He kicked off his sandals and shined up the tree. In seconds he had knocked a half dozen apples to the ground.

Upstairs in his bedroom, Mr Raines watched through the window with wonder. He had been in the shower and not heard the door. Now, the gorgeous kid from across the road, was in his garden, stealing his apples. He was a delightful sight. Loose limbed and athletic. The boy stretched across a branch, his back arched with his buttocks sticking out. The blue cotton shorts rode up into the boy’s bum cheeks. Mr Raines’s cock stiffened. How, he would like to put one of his swishy rattan canes across that tight backside.

He rushed downstairs. He must catch the boy before he escaped.

Ricky was back on the ground bending down to pick up the apples. Mr Raines got his first close-up sight of the teenager’s arse. His cock ached.

“What do you think you are doing?” Mr Raines spoke in the voice he used when he played at headmasters and schoolboys with his pals. It startled Ricky.

“Oh, I, Ah,” the teenager blustered. He blushed profusely. “I didn’t know you were at home.”

“Evidently,” Mr Raines perfected a schoolmaster’s glare. He studied the boy standing in front of him. The most striking thing about the lad was his hair. It was fair, almost blond, and flopped on to his sun-tanned open face. He had striking blue eyes and a gorgeous frown and Mr Raines could tell the boy would also have a smile that could light his whole face.

Looking further down, he saw a trim hard chest, wrapped in a tight yellow-and-white tee-shirt. He had already admired the boy’s tight cotton shorts from the rear. He looked equally wonderful from the front.

“What will your mother say when I tell her you have broken into my house and stolen from my garden?” Mr Raines was enjoying himself enormously. This was much better than the games they played inside the house. This was for real. The sexy teenager really had stolen from him.

“Perhaps,” Mr Raines intoned, “I should call the police. Breaking and entering, I think they call it.”

The look of sheer terror that spread across Ricky’s beautiful face, delighted him.

“B… b… b…” Ricky stammered. He wanted to say that he hadn’t really broken into the garden. The gate was unlocked. He had been looking for Mr Raines. He hadn’t intended to steal. He wanted to say all these things, but he could only bluster.

“You’re a student aren’t you? Do you really want a criminal record? Wouldn’t they expel you from the college?” Mr Raines was working on a plan.

“Please don’t …” Ricky’s beautiful blue eyes watered.

Nearly there, Mr Raines thought. Out loud, he said, “Well what do you think I should do with you?”

Ricky blushed, stared at his bare feet, and clutched his hands behind his back with embarrassment. “Do?” What did Mr Raines mean, “Do?”

“You must be punished in some way. Surely you understand that?”

Ricky’s heart jumped. Punished. Images of Dean Martin, her study, and her whippy rattan cane sped through his head.

His mouth opened and closed. He wanted to speak, to ask Mr Raines what he meant by “punished,” but words would not come.

Mr Raines stared thoughtfully at the teenager in front of him. He was forty-two years old and had been active on the corporal punishment scene for more than twenty years. He could read Ricky like a book. It was only a matter of time.

“If I were your father, I’d give you a damn good hiding. Breaking into a neighbour’s garden and stealing from him.” Mr Raines let the thought hang in the air. Ricky was sweating, but it wasn’t because of the hot summer’s afternoon.

Ricky raised his moist blue eyes and looked into Mr Raines face. No words were spoken. They didn’t have to be. A bond was forged.

“Come into the house,” Mr Raines spoke mildly now. He was no longer a stern schoolmaster. He was the kind, considerate, neighbour who was just about to give the young man the first spanking of his life.

He took Ricky gently by the elbow and led him into the sitting room.

A thief should receive a severe beating. In some countries in Africa, even today, courts order thieves to be beaten with canes on their bared buttocks. Mr Raines would have been entitled to whip one of his special whippy rattan canes across Ricky’s naked bum. But Mr Raines was playing the long game. If he thrashed the teenager like that he would never see him again. No, experience told him, he should start gently; get the boy used to being spanked. Later, in the future, Ricky would graduate to bare-bottomed canings.

Today, Ricky’s grooming would begin.

The teenager stood, heart thumping, cock throbbing, in the centre of the sitting room. He watched his new neighbour make his preparations. First, a dining room chair was placed in the centre of the room; then Mr Raines went to a cupboard and took out a huge wooden brush. He sat in the chair, spread his legs and with a crooked index finger, he beckoned the boy to approach him.

Ricky had never been spanked before and had never seen anyone spanked. But, instinctively he knew what to do.

“Bend over my knee,” Mr Raines’s tone was stern. It was an order, not a request. Ricky bent his knees slightly, rested his hands on Mr Raines’s right leg and gently lowered himself across the older man’s lap. Then, he reached out his arms in front of him, so that the palms of both hands were pressed firmly into the carpet. In this position his head was raised and he had a clear view through the window into the garden beyond and the apple tree that was the cause of his present predicament.

Behind him, his knees were buckled and the toes of his bare feet hovered an inch or so off the ground. His pert bottom rested at an angle over Mr Raines’s right knee, in a terrific position to receive whacks from the heavy wooden brush.

Mr Raines’s gulped hard at the sight before him. Already his cock was close to bursting. He put his arm around Ricky’s waist and moved him so that he wouldn’t feel the boner pressing into his body. Then, Mr Rainer tugged the waistband of the shorts tightly so they made a kind of wedgie in the boy’s crack. The shorts were so short that they no longer covered the lower part of the buttocks, affording Mr Raines a cracking view of the boy’s arse.

Ricky closed his eyes. In his dreams about Dean Martin’s office he never thought about the agony the cane caused; he got off on the vision of himself, jeans at his ankles and navy-blue pants tight against his buttocks. Now, for the first time he would experience the pain of a spanking. He hoped he could stand it.

drawing brush hold otk (13)

Mr Raines gripped the brush tightly and smacked it down into Ricky’s cotton-covered left buttock. Then he did the same to the right. They weren’t hard spanks, merely slaps. Ricky gasped as each whack connected. He felt the impact against his tight flesh, but there was no real pain.

Mr Raines increased the vigorousness of each succeeding spank. Ricky’s face contorted and he bit down on his beautiful ruby lips. The pain was increasing. He was definitely feeling those. Mr Raines tried a little harder and was rewarded by a clear, “Ouch,” from the young man across his lap.

Spank, spank, spank. Three hard swats landed in the fleshiest part of Ricky’s right cheek. He wriggled his body and kicked his legs. Mr Raines smiled. He was really warming the boy up now.

Let’s test him a little, Mr Raines thought, and slapped the heavy wooden brush into the bare flesh beneath the hem of the shorts. He was rewarded with “Ow, wow, ow!!” from Ricky, so, he slapped another and another. Clear red oval marks appeared on the boy’s thigh, mirroring the head of the brush.

More yelps. Ricky’s head bounced up and down and his body wriggled across Mr Raines’s lap.

“I hope you’re learning your lesson, young man,” Mr Raines said and without waiting for an answer he slapped six stingers right around the circuit of the boy’s bum, from the top where the cheeks meet the back, over the fleshy mounds and into the bare under-curves.

Mr Raines was close to ejaculation. He could not go on. To cum all over the beautiful boy writhing and wriggling over his lap would be too humiliating. He slapped two more on each cheek for good measure and released his grip on Ricky’s waist.

“Up boy. It’s over.”

Ricky rolled off Mr Raines’s lap onto the floor where he rested, catching his breath. His bottom was throbbing a little. It was definitely sore, but even with his lack of experience, Ricky knew Mr Raines had not gone hard on him. He felt a little disappointed; cheated even.

“Stand up.” Mr Raines was anxious for the boy to leave his house. He had urgent business to attend to.

“You should go home now, Ricky,” he said. Then he flashed the boy a smile, “I’ll be keeping an eye on you from now on.”

The teenager returned the grin. He wasn’t sure what had just happened, but he knew he would never be the same again. “Thank you,” he said and added wistfully, “Sir.”

He left the room and before he had reached the front door Mr Raines had his own trousers and pants at his ankles. He shot his load before the boy had crossed the road.

Later, in his own bedroom, Ricky inspected the damage. His buttocks were a little pink, but the pain, such as it had been, had gone completely. Next time, he should spank me on the bare, he thought, as he lay back and sent a stream of spunk eight inches into the air.

 

Other stories you might like.

The dope smoker

The man across the hall

First day of term

 

 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Mr Hennessey’s Boys 2. Noah’s story

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, maybe Mr Hennessey had hidden depths himself.

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

Then he told me the fee.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then the spotlight turned on me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“As you please, colonel.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Other stories you might like

Winker Wilson’s visit

The Private Tutor: 1

In the farmhouse

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

COMING SOON: Mr Hennessey’s boys

Mr Hennessey has a stable of young men who for a price are willing to offer up their backsides to corporal punishment enthusiasts. Meet Howard, Noah, Ethan and Timothy.

Starting on Friday 3 June and continuing for the next three Fridays, follow their adventures as they provide their unique service across town.

 

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

  • Extract from Howard’s story

 

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

  • Extract from Noah’s story

 

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

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

 I agreed that I had.

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

 I tried to look suitably alarmed.

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

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

 Extract from Ethan’s story

 

I climbed on one chair and bent over the combined backs and placed my hands palms down on the seat of the other. I’d never seen this position before, but it turned out it was all the fashion eighty or more years ago. It certainly placed my bum at the perfect angle for him to slash his cane into the seat of my trousers. Which he then proceeded to do.

 

  • Extract from Timothy’s story

 

Mr Hennessey’s Boys starts Friday 3 June 2016

 

Other series of stories you might like

The Gaffer of the Academy: 1. Beginnings

Max of the ‘Champion’ 1. The policeman

The Private Tutor, episode 1

The Tyrant Headmaster Episode 1

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The Spanking Vicar 9. The Scout leader

boy scout belt (2)

The Spanking Vicar of Aston Budleigh series of stories starts here

Rev Crick stared ferociously at the Boy Scout standing before him. He had a great shock of fair wavy hair and the ruddiest cheeks he had seen on a young man in a long time. His buttocks would be just as red by the time I’ve finished with him, he thought. Those short trousers would have to come down too: the material’s far too thick.

Leon Hawkes was a scout leader, of sorts. At nineteen years old, almost twenty, he was supposed to be a responsible young man. He was expected to set an example; to give guidance to the younger boys.

He shuffled from one foot to the other; embarrassed, but not ashamed, as Rev Crick berated him. He had been “irresponsible”, “reckless”, “careless”, “unconcerned,” “negligent” and “inconsiderate”. The vicar was throwing the book at him.

Leon was an exceptionally good-looking lad. Beneath his fair hair and ruddy complexion was a perfectly proportioned body. He stood a little under 5ft 8ins and his Boy Scout uniform clung to his muscular body. The bottle green shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his biceps and adorned with countless merit badges, was open at the neck. A grey-and-maroon neckerchief was tucked neatly inside. His buckskin short trousers fell to two inches above the knee and were turned up at the hem. He had rolled his long socks down so that they rested on the tops of his desert boots.

It was summer and Leon had spent much of it out in the sunshine. His naturally fair skin was nut brown and a pair of “aviator” sunglasses hung from a pocket of his shirt.

Leon’s family were good, honest, God-fearing people. Rev Crick had known them for years. They would be mortified if they heard what their eldest son had been up to. Leon realised that too, which was why he would do anything to stop them finding out.

An hour earlier, Rev Crick had dealt with Brian Bell, one of Leon’s partners-in-crime. Brian was a fat toad of a boy and not a church-goer. He had not been brought up to defer to men of the cloth and could not see why he should offer up his bum to the vicar for physical chastisement. And, he had said so, stridently.

“Doh!” Crick strode from his study and into the adjourning lounge where he found Tommy and Craig, two of his paying guests at the vicarage.

“Come. Now!” he barked. Painful experience told the young men they must obey the vicar at all times and apprehensively they followed him back to the study. They found a red-faced and sweaty belligerent eighteen-year-old Boy Scout. The lad’s green shirt was stained with sweat and his black short trousers, bursting at his waist clung to his sagging buttocks.

Crick grabbed the boy’s left arm and hauled him a yard or two towards his desk. “You two; hold him down.” With that he shoved the boy face down so that he was spread-eagled across the desk.

Craig was rooted to the spot uncertain what to do, but Tommy had more gumption and he held on to Bell’s right arm

“Pin him down. Now!” The order was barked and so fierce that Craig quickly regained his senses. When he tried to recall it later, Craig’s memory was blurred about what exactly happened next. On some kind of auto-pilot he moved behind the desk and pressed his hands into the boy’s shoulders.

Together, Tommy and Craig were so strong the fat boy had no chance of escape. His blubber-filled body was pressed down into the wooden surface of the desk. Brian might be pinned down, but that did not stop him hollering blue murder.

In ordinary circumstances, Rev Crick would have spanked a young man red-raw simply for using such language, but to direct the vile swear words at him personally was too much. This brat would pay heavily for his behaviour.

Avoiding Brian’s kicking legs, the reverend lent forward and undid the button on the boy’s tight short trousers. He tugged them down over the extensive mounds that were Bell’s buttocks. This encouraged the Boy Scout to scream and yell once more.

Stoically, Reverend Crick took hold of the waistband of the boy’s expansive underwear and took them down so that they bunched up over his thighs. Bell’s entire body was quaking; his backside was wobbling like mounds of jelly and was damp with perspiration.

Craig felt rolls of flesh in the back of the boy beneath him. From his vantage point he had a perfect bird’s-eye view of the Boy Scouts gigantic sweaty buttocks.

Craig’s eyes swivelled from the vicar to howling boy; from the hand holding the thin leather riding crop to the pink fleshy backside that was about to receive one heck of a thrashing. Then, he looked from the cold, emotionless eyes of the man of cloth to the horrified stare of the howling Scout.

He saw Crick tap his crop into the boy’s buttocks to take his aim. The thin whip sank deep into the fleshy expanse of buttock. Then, he watched as Crick withdrew the crop, swerved it high into the air so that it rested behind his own right shoulder and then with the powerful force of a golf swing he flogged the leather into the quaking buttocks with maximum force.

Bell shrieked as the rod sank deep across both buttocks; a thick red line immediately formed and the whale of a boy shook his body in a desperate but failed attempt to break free of his captives.

Bell kicked his legs up and down to try to inhibit the vicar as he aimed and whipped number two deep into the flesh.

Bell was no longer the brash loudmouthed defiant youth. He pleaded, no he begged, to be spared as he banged his head up and down against the desktop as a wave of agony shot from his flabby bum up and down his legs.

Tommy and Craig pressed down into the prone boy with all their strength. No matter how severely the vicar flogged the half-naked boy, they would not release him without permission. To do so would see them also across the desk, bottom bared for the vicar’s punishment. They knew you simply did not disobey Rev Crick.

Whoosh! Number three landed a little below the previous two. There was lots of acreage for the vicar to aim at. Never before had he been presented with such a sizeable target.

Rev Crick was impassive; his eyes cold and heartless as he assessed the impact of his handiwork so far. Bell’s legs were still stamping up and down on the spot. The vicar was irritated; the next stroke might be a little hard to deliver if the wretched boy did not keep still. He moved a step further to the vile youth’s left and found his spot. Whoosh! It landed right on target; across the back of the thighs, just below the crease at the base of the buttocks.

The youth’s yell resounded around the study and out into the grounds of the vicarage. Rev Crick didn’t mind who heard. This brat of a boy, this foul-mouthed terror, deserved all he was getting. How dare he talk to him, the vicar of this parish, using such profane words!

By the sixth stroke the vast backside was painted with rich and angry stripes across its centre area. The screaming, writhing and twisting continued with renewed vigour. Tommy leaned forward and laid his body across the boy’s head and shoulders to keep him pinned in place.

Slowly, coolly, methodically, and immune from the youth’s screaming, Rev Crick laid a further six lashes all around the circuit that was Bell’s enormous rear end.

The beating over, Brian Bell’s howls quickly turned to sobs and wails. Tears flowed from his eyes and vomit clogged up to his throat. Eventually his weeping quietened and an eerie stillness enveloped the room. Only the picture of a flogged youth, stretched across a study desk remained.

“Let him up,” Rev Crick’s own breathing was shallow. He looked at the riding crop in his hand, as if seeing it for the first time. A little unsure of what he should do next, he decided to walk to a wall cabinet, unlock a door, and deposit the crop alongside a number of school-type canes within.

Brian Bell, now released from the grip of the two young men, hobbled from the room, his short trousers and underpants still at his ankles.

The vicar reached for his cigarettes and smoked three Capstan Full Strength one after the other until he felt calm enough to leave in search of Leon Hawkes.

He found the so-called Scout leader at the scout hut. It was a multi-purpose hall with office attached. The boy was alone, minutes earlier he had seen off a group of younger boys who were being driven to a nearby road layby for charity car washing duties.

Leon was expecting this: it was only a matter of time before the reverend caught him. And when he did, Leon knew he would pay for the consequences of his actions with a very sore backside indeed.

Rev Crick loved his boys to be submissive. When given the order, they should unfasten their trousers and let them fall to their feet. Then, down would come the underwear and the young men would stand half-naked in front of him. The vicar would instruct them to bend over a chair, the desk, his knee, or whatnot. And they would do it; without question. They were saying to him: yes, I have done wrong, I deserve to be punished, and you should be my punisher. Please spank me now.

Leon Hawkes was such a young man. He had attended Rev Crick’s church all his life – indeed, he had been there longer than the reverend himself. He knew as an article of faith that it was his duty to obey the Church and its officers. Rev Crick was in charge. Leon knew that and he accepted it.

Rev Crick drank in the sight before him. Leon was of average height for his age and muscular; but it was his head and face that people noticed. His hair was thick and wavy, his complexion ruddy and his blue eyes shone as brightly as any cat’s.

It was a scorching summer’s day and the teenager’s green shirt was stuck to his torso by sweat, even with the sleeves rolled up and the neck unbuttoned. A maroon-and-grey neckerchief tucked inside his shirt drew attention to his firm chest.

But, it was the boy’s black buckskin short trousers that the vicar noticed now. They clung to his buttocks and thighs and fell to about two inches above his knees. The turn-ups at the hem directed the eye to his slim, muscular legs. And, hanging loosely around his middle, for it served no purpose in keeping his snug-fitting short trousers up, was a wide leather belt with the official Boy Scouts buckle.

Rev Crick involuntarily ran his tongue along his bottom lip. He had an idea. Yes, that would do very well indeed, he decided.

There was no more to say. It was time for action. The vicar pulled a favourite straight-backed chair into the centre of the room and sat down. Gesturing to the Boy Scout to come and stand in front of him, he said, “Leon, please take off that belt and hand it to me.”

Despite his already ruddy complexion, Leon coloured up at the order. He knew from the moment the vicar had started listing his many faults and misdemeanours that he would be in for a spanking. Yes, a spanking at nineteen years old and he a grown man and Scout leader. He knew that would happen and in his heart of hearts he accepted it. But, still the thought of bending himself across the vicar’s knee to allow the old man to spank his bottom with his own Scout belt embarrassed him deeply.

He hesitated momentarily; but he considered himself to be an honourable young man and despite his mature age and the humiliation, he knew the vicar was in charge.

He breathed in heavily and with fumbling hands he undid the belt and slid it through the loops of his shorts. It was a heavy belt; the buckle made certain of that, but also did the metal ring that at one point along its length connected two halves of the leather belt. It was ideal for the Scout to hang his essential Swiss Army Knife.

Rev Crick silently held out his hand and Leon sorrowfully handed the belt over.

Rev Crick’s tongue, lizard-like, poked in and out between his pursed lips. He needed a drink, and not just a cup of tea.

He hacked a dry cough and continued. “Lower your shorts please Leon.”

“B.. b… but …” the nineteen-year-old Boy Scout stammered, but an icy glare from Rev Crick shut him up quickly.

Leon closed his eyes tight. It would be all right if he could imagine that he was somewhere else. This really wasn’t happening to him. He must think of something pleasant.

The fly buttons undone, the weight of the buckskin sent the short trousers crashing down to join his rolled-up long socks resting on the tops of his desert boots. Leon stared down at the puddle of clothing at his feet. It seemed to be a very long way away. These were not his feet, they belonged to someone else. Some other Boy Scout was about to get his backside tanned, not he.

The vicar moved, making himself more comfortable on his hard chair. Leon blinked at him; it was as if he had never seen the man before. He really was a queer cove, his round rimless spectacles made him look like an owl. Once he had had a fine head of sandy hair, but now in middle-age it was wispy and his dome was mostly bald. His tongue was still darting in and out of his mouth.

His shirt was stained under the armpits and open at the neck; he had discarded his ‘dog collar’ in deference to the heat. Despite this he still wore his trade-mark brown thick corduroy trousers that had almost worn smooth at the knees.

For a second the two stared at each other; the hugely embarrassed but submissive youth and the much older man. Crick’s lips did another circuit of his top and bottom lip as he watched Leon prepare himself for his spanking.

The boy’s glistening white Y-front underpants clung to his flat stomach; there was not a spare ounce of fat anywhere on Leon’s body. Too late to be undetected, Crick averted his eyes from the Y-fly and the package it covered.

He cleared his throat once more. “Come Leon”, he croaked, “Put yourself across my lap.” Then for good measure he added, “You know this must be done.”

Leon’s heartbeat quickened and perspiration began to soak through the youth’s shirt. His short trousers at his ankles inhibited his movement and he had to wobble three or four yards to take up position.

“Leon Hawkes is at the crease,” he played an imaginary radio commentary in his head. “And England want fifteen more runs for victory in the Ashes series over Australia.”

He stood for a second to the vicar’s right side. The old man’s legs were parted by about three feet to provide a platform for the boy to lay himself across. Leon gulped, drawing in air and the stink of sour tobacco assaulted his nostrils, along with a fainter aroma of stale urine.

With his hand Rev Crick patted his left knee as an encouragement to Leon to present himself in a submissive manner.

“And Leon Hawkes sends that one crashing to the boundary. It’s four runs!”

Rev Crick steadied himself a little as Leon stretched himself across his legs. The young man was unexpectedly heavier than he looked.

Leon had never been spanked before, nor had he ever seen a boy go over the knee for punishment, but instinctively he knew what was expected of him. He spread his arms ahead of him and placed the palm of each hand four feet apart and firmly into the wooden floorboards. Behind him his buckskin trousers at his feet inhibited movement so his legs were hardly more than six or seven inches apart. Leon kept his knees straight so that his bottom, clad in smooth cotton, rested at an angle against the reverend’s right knee. He was perfectly positioned for punishment. He stared down at the floor and returned in his mind to the final Ashes Test at Lord’s.

He was quite comfortable considering what was soon to happen would be far from that, but he wriggled a little because the cigarettes and matches the vicar had in his trouser pocket dug into the boy’s side.

Rev Crick held the leather Scout belt loosely. He had belted many backsides in his time, but he had never seen a weapon quite like this. He had many belts at the vicarage; his favourite was wide and thick and at least four-feet-six-inches long. But the Scout belt was tiny by comparison. It was designed to fit around a Scout’s waist and clamp shut at the front. Leon’s belt was the same size as his waist; no more than twenty-eight inches, the vicar calculated. The thick brown leather belt had an adjuster so that in places the leather was doubled up. So, the vicar held in his hand a doubly-thick belt that was only twenty-eight inches long, with a metal ring that increased its weight.

It was an awesome spanking tool. Rev Crick felt the weight of the belt in his hand as he tap, tap, tapped it against Leon’s left cheek. But, he wasn’t quite ready. Gently, he took hold of the waistband of the underpants and pulled so that the smooth white cotton kissed the buttocks. Then, he moved the increasingly damp shirt a few inches up the boy’s back, exposing his hairless and suntanned flesh.

Now, he was ready. Without further warning, he raised the weighted strap to the fullest extent of his arm and brought it down with a resounding crack into Leon’s right cheek. A startled gasp escaped Leon’s mouth. That hurt. He screwed up his eyes as a second and third thwap!!! landed. The echo of leather on tight cotton bounced around the room.

Leon was a spanking virgin and had no idea what a spanking was supposed to feel like. It should hurt for sure, he supposed: otherwise what was the point? But how much? The belt rose and fell as the vicar found his rhythm. A dull pain spread across both buttocks and Leon stared down at the backs of his hands.

Rev Crick was impressed at the youth’s fortitude. He lashed the leather belt again and again into Leon’s muscular bottom. The boy’s cheeks were so tight there was no “give” in the flesh; was he even feeling this spanking?

There was only one thing to do. Without warning, he ceased the wallops and unceremoniously pulled once more at the waistband of the pants. This time, instead of making them tighter he dragged them down, across the boy’s hips and over his round bum.

“Keep still,” the vicar wheezed. Leon had wriggled his body in response to this unexpected development.

“What the Dickens,” the vicar did not say it aloud, but he was astonished at what he saw. The entire area of Leon’s buttocks was chestnut brown, the same colour as the rest of his body. The boy must have been running around naked – or at least sunbathing nude.

The vicar’s breathing increased at the thought of it. “Well,” again he thought but did not say, “Had I caught him at that little game I should have given his backside a tanning of an entirely different sort.

He wrapped his arm around Leon’s midriff to hold him firmly in place, raised the leather strap to maximum height and brought it down over and over again into the firm flesh. Leon felt that all right. His gasps quickly turned to little yelps and then to larger cries. He wriggled his body across the vicar’s lap to the left and to the right. He was a strong boy and in a fair fight he could have knocked Crick for six; but this was no fair fight. Leon was a naughty young man, held firmly across the knees of his punisher, bare bum held high to receive lash after lash from the leather belt. It was, he knew for certain, a fair punishment, one that he deserved. He must hang on for dear life and take what was coming to him.

Leon’s bottom was covered in a rash of raw marks where the short heavy belt had scorched into him. By now hardly any of the buttocks and the tops of his thighs was untouched by the strap. Tiny graze marks made by the metal ring of the belt widened into deeper scratches.

Whop! whop! whop! The vicar was going around the circuit one more time; from the top of the cheeks just below the spine, across the mounds and into and beyond the crease where the bum meets the thighs.

The dull pain had long since transformed into an almighty throb only to become an agonisingly searing pain across the whole of his bottom area. Pain travelled up and down his legs and then to the north, south, east and west of his entire body.

The whacking had knocked the breath out of the boy and he lost strength. He had no power left to resist and had no option but to lay face down staring at the floorboards while the reverend punished his naughty little bottom.

Involuntary tears washed the backs of his eyes and soon they trickled down his cheeks. The final Test Match had long ago been abandoned.

The reverend was not a cruel man; he believed in just punishment. Every square inch of Leon’s bottom had been toasted. Dozens of imprints of the Scout belt emblazoned the buttocks and the tops of his thighs. Scratches made by the metal ring gave the boy’s flesh the appearance of raw hamburger meat in places.

It was a job well done. Leon Hawkes had been well and truly spanked. He would not disgrace himself or the good name of the Boy Scout movement again, the vicar reckoned. And, if he did there was an assortment of springy rattan school-type canes waiting in the study at the vicarage for him.

Rev Crick spread his feet out in front of him so that the boy could lift himself clumsily off his lap. Slowly, he knelt and then stood up. His hands disappeared behind him as he rubbed away gingerly. In this position his cock flopped up and down. The vicar turned his back slightly, pretending not to look.

In silence, Leon tugged up the underwear and short trousers from the top of his boots. He tucked in his shirt and adjusted his neckerchief. He was once again a smartly-dressed Boy Scout and no one who saw him leave the room need ever guess what ordeal he had just been put through.

Rev Crick rushed from the office, pulling his cigarette and matches from his pocket as he went. Leon was recovering well. Already most of the pain had gone. His bottom was still warm and in places it was tender to touch, but soon even that would disappear. The red marks would turn to bruises and he would wear them for some days to come. They would be a reminder to him of the punishment.

Leon prepared to leave the office. Already he had resolved to be a better person: never again would he allow Boy Scouts under his command to sneak off to smoke cigarettes.

 

 

The Spanking Vicar of Aston Budleigh series of stories starts here

Episode 10, The Cricketer, is here

Other stories you might like

The vicar and the gay boys

The rooming house

The drunken neighbour

 

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com