by Paulus the Woodgnome

When I moved in with the guys I never thought that I was going to end up spending my Friday nights like this. I mean: I figured we'd have a great laugh together, really. They're great blokes, Mike and Steve, we're all in the same year together at Uni, doing Biochem, and we all enjoy a beer or two, and watching the footy on telly and all that stuff. Mike's a real joker, comes from up North, always taking the piss out of us for poncey southerners, and Steve: he's a couple of years older than Mike and me, mature student, travelled the world and worked in Greece and then in the City for a bit before coming back to study. Really good blokes, both of them, laid-back, easy going, do anything for you. At least, that's what I thought. So when they said they were going to rent out a house and did I want to come in with them, of course I said yes, didn't I ?

Well, it was OK at first. And yeah, we did have some good laughs. Still do, don't get me wrong. But you know what they say: live with me and you'll know what I'm like. Steve's a tidiness nut. Well, OK, not really, really fanatic, but he was always moaning about papers and dirty clothes thrown all over the floor. And Mike turned out to have a thing about the washing up. He's an excellent cook - funny, you wouldn't think of a real lad type like him being good in the kitchen, but it turned out his mum left them years ago and Mike had ended up becoming chief cook for his dad and his brothers. So he did the cooking for us all a lot of the time, but he had this rule - if he cooked, someone else washed up. Of course Mr. Cleanliness Steve would have it all done before we'd even had a cup of tea afterwards, but if it was me - well sometimes I left it till next morning. So what ? OK, once or twice it piled up for a couple of days, but Mike used to nag so much that I always got it done eventually. Besides we only had three cups so I had to do the washing up if I wanted my morning cuppa.

I mean, I don't want you to get the idea I'm a total slob. I'm just more laid back about those things than they are. Besides, they used to get on my tits sometimes too: Steve used to drive Mike and me mad by flipping channels on the telly when we were trying to watch something, and Mike was nearly as guilty in the littering stakes as I was. But somehow I seemed to get the worst of it from both sides. It was like we were settling down into this weird parody of a family with Steve as the uptight dad, Mike as the nagging mum and me as the rebellious teenager.

Anyway, a couple of months ago it all came to a head. It was Friday night, near the end of term so Mike and I had sod-all money left to go out on, and there was nothing decent on the telly. And it was raining and I'd had lousy results in an all day practical, and Mike was sulking because I still hadn't done yesterday's washing up, and refusing to start dinner until I did. So there was this simmering mood of discontent round the place. Steve had had to go to some distant relative's funeral and had a really lousy journey back as it turned out, with two trains cancelled and a missed connection, so he didn't get back until about 7:30 that evening by which time Mike and I were both sulking in separate rooms and nothing had been done around the place at all.

So Steve just went ballistic, completely postal.

"Just look at this place, it's a fucking pigsty," he was yelling. "I've had just about enough of all this."

Of course that gave Mike and me a chance to start yelling and grousing, and before it had got much further it seemed to turn out that everything was my fault - the rain, the price of beer, the general unsatisfactoriness of life, and they're both on at me, with Steve standing right in front of me poking his finger into my chest and yelling and I thought: any minute now I'm going to pop him one right on the snout. So rather than get into all that I just said : "Fuck you", turned on my heel, and stormed out of the living room.

Well that was the plan.

Unfortunately there was this jumper I'd had on yesterday and I'd got hot after eating one of Mike's vindaloos and ripped it off and thrown it on the floor. I know, I know: hoist with my own petard. Whatever. Of course, the damn' thing wrapped itself round my feet like an octopus, didn't it ? And I, rather than making a dramatic exit, tripped and fell over the armchair. landing arse-up across it in a very undignified manner and hard enough to wind me for a moment.

Long enough anyway for Steve to get his bright idea.

Before I got a chance to get up he's over there, pinning me down into the seat of the chair.

"Now this," he said, "is too good an opportunity to miss. It's something you've been asking for for a long time." And he brought his hand down, hard, on my upturned backside. Smack ! And again, and again. Smack, smack ! He was a big guy, with a rugby player's physique, and he wasn't pulling any punches. Those whacks hurt.

"Ow, geroff you bastard," I yelled. "Mike, get him off me. Oww !"

"Not a chance," said Mike, my so-called mate. "He's right. You've been asking for this. I'm tempted to smack your arse for you myself."

"Be my guest !" laughed Steve. "In fact, why don't we do this properly: if I hold him, you can get his jeans down."

"What ? No way !" I protested.

"Way !" chorused those two comedians. Hollywood has a lot to answer for. Well I began to struggle seriously, and Steve might be bigger than me but he's not that much bigger. So the bastard started to tickle me. Now he knows I'm very ticklish - that was really unfair, taking advantage of me like that. I mean, I thought I was going to piss myself, which would have been really embarrassing. So of course, while I was writhing and thrashing about, Mike gets his hands in, unzips my jeans, and pulls them down to my knees.

"Oh, now look guys," I sputtered, when I could manage to catch my breath, "a joke's a joke, but this has gone far enough."

"Oh no," said Steve, his voice serious again. "It hasn't gone nearly far enough. Ever since you've been here, you seem to have gone out of your way to piss people off. You've been a real pain in the arse, you know that ? Slobbing around the place, leaving all the rooms like a tip . . ."

"Not doing the washing up," supplied Mike, Mr. Helpful.

"Not doing the washing up," agreed Steve. "And interrupting us when we're trying to study - not everyone is as bright as you, we can't all sail in top-of-the-class with minimal revision. Well, we've had enough of it. Because we're your mates, and we like you, we're going to help you clean up your act. From now on, a program of attitude adjustment is in force. Every time you mess the place up, or don't do your part of the chores or whatever, you get a punishment mark. And Friday night is payback time. For every punishment mark you've accumulated that week you get - oh, I dunno Mike, what do you reckon: say a stroke of the cane and twenty spanks ?"

"NO ! No, not the cane." Somehow that chilled my blood. The cane always scared the life out of me, ever since I got into trouble with a group of other lads at school and the headmaster gave the ringleader (no NOT me) twelve in front of the rest of us, leaving bloody weals that reduced him to tears.

My voice must have carried conviction, because from my upside down position I saw Mike shake his head at Steve.

"OK, OK: one stroke of the cane or three strokes of the belt. We'll let you choose at the time."

Well thanks a whole fucking bunch, guys. Like choosing if you want to be roasted or fried.

"But it's not fair," I whined. "You guys aren't exactly Miss Manners, either."

"What ? I don't do anything," said Steve, sounding surprised. "Well I don't," he added plaintively when we both made noises of disbelief. "I admit Mike's not always that tidy."

"That's rich," said Mike. "I call the television remote control in evidence."

"Oh all right," said Steve irritably. "We'll all get points. But the one with the least points that week gets off. Better yet, only the one with most points gets punished. How about that ?"

"Sounds good to me," agreed Mike.

"But that means you guys will . . ." I began, then shut up, conscious of the hole I was digging for myself.

"You were going to say, we'll get off and you'll be getting all the whacks ? So you admit that you're the worst offender ? Well, you'll just have to shape up, won't you ?"

I gritted my teeth and said nothing, determined that next week I was going to be so excellent that it was going to be that bastard Steve bending over to take his medicine.

"Won't you ?" he repeated, with a hard whack to my backside - my now-only-wearing-a-pair-of-white- (well, white-ish) -briefs backside.

"Ow ! Yeah, yeah, I will Steve, honest. Now are you going to let me up ?"

"Oh no, I don't think so," purred Steve. "We still have today's little performance to account for. Besides, it will help you to have some idea of what's in store for you unless you shape up. Mike ?"

"Oh yes, this is too cool," laughed Mike. "Prepare to meet your doom, Jon." SMACK ! A really hard whack right on my left sit spot. Fuck ! It really stung, but I gritted my teeth. If I had to go through this I was damned if I was going to give them any extra entertainment by yelling. SMACK ! The right cheek this time. A pair of thin cotton briefs isn't much protection, I can tell you, when the guy whacking you is young and fit. I mean the last time I got spanked was when I was - oh I dunno, about 12 maybe, apart from six of the best with a plimsoll when I was 15 for larking about in the school gym. But that didn't sting like this. I tell you: a thorough spanking hurts just as much at 19 as it did at 9. And Mike was nothing if not thorough. He'd got into a rhythm now, quite fast. Too fast for me to process the pain. I was wriggling and tensing my arse up, trying to find some way of taking it that hurt less, and there wasn't one, just this stinging, fiery pain as he concentrated first on one bit then on another with rapid flurries of whacks. In the end I couldn't help myself: "Ow-ow-ow please . . ."

"Yesss !" cried Mike, raising his fist in triumph, and high-fiving Steve. "A result. Well, don't" WHACK ! "leave" WHACK ! WHACK ! "the" WHACK ! "fucking washing up" WHACK ! WHACK !! WHACK ! WHACK ! "in the sink" WHACK ! "again," WHACK !!! "right ?"

"Arrgh, oww, yes, yes, I promise, Mike, I'll never leave it dirty again," I babbled. Fucking hell, my arse felt like it was on fire ! But it was over. It was over. Wasn't it ?

"Right, you're starting to get the message," said Steve from somewhere atop me: he weighed a ton, too, I was fucking flattened, though I admit that my attention had been distracted from that by the pain elsewhere in my anatomy.

"Yes, really Steve, I will improve."

"I just bet you will," he said, and I could tell from his tone that he was grinning all over his face - bastard ! "But just to help you remember, I'm going to reinforce the message."

It took a moment for this to sink in. He couldn't mean ? He wasn't going to ? He was ! He was going to spank me too !

"Oh come on, that's not fair !" I protested.

"Course it is," he said, "after all, we're both going to be dealing with you from now on, so you might as well get used to it. Anyway, I don't really care if it's fair or not: tonight, you get yours. And boy am I going to enjoy this." He grabbed the waistband of my briefs and pulled them up tight into the crack. Then his other hand came down. WHACK !

"Ahh, fuck !" WHACK ! "Oh Jesus," I moaned. It felt like getting hit by a truck. That guy has BIG hands, I tell you, and muscles like a bloody gorilla. WHACK ! WHACK ! WHACK ! WHACK ! "Jeesus fucking Christ pleeeeeease Steve ! I'll tidy the whole flat if you want !"

He paused, as if considering the offer.

"Do you know, Mike," he said in a conversational tone, "I think that might count as attempted bribery, don't you ?"

"Mmm, could well be," agreed Mike. Bastard ! I thought. That's the last time I lend you my Echobelly CD.

"Yes, I really think so," said Steve, all solemn. "And we know what that means, don't we ?"

"Oh you're not going to . . . are you ?" exclaimed Mike in horrified delight.

"Sure am," said Steve. What could he mean ? - oh no, not . . .

His hands pulled my underpants down to my thighs.

My face must have been nearly as red as my bum undoubtedly was. I mean, it's not like any of us is a prude, I've seen both the guys starkers in the changing rooms at the Sports Centre at one time or another, but this was different. This felt really - well - naked.

"Look guys," I yelled, "this has gone far enough. Let me up, you hear me !"

AIYEEE ! Steve's big hands beat a rapid tattoo on my bare cheeks, and if I thought that those briefs weren't much protection, I soon learned that they were a lot better than nothing. I was threshing about like someone dancing down the Union disco as I tried to get away from that relentless fire, but Steve just clamped his big rugger-bugger's thighs together and held me steady, and with his weight astride me and my legs flailing in the air I couldn't really get the purchase to throw him off me. SMACK, SMACK, SMACK, SMACK, SMACK !! Oh God it hurt !

Then, like a miracle, he stopped.

"Hey-up mate," said Mike. "Your bum looks like a sunset."

"Mike," said Steve calmly. "Do me a favour: go into my room and take the belt out of my jeans."

"Hey, you aren't going to belt him on top of that are you ?" asked Mike doubtfully.

"That's what we agreed: belt and spanking. Jon: you're going to get six of the best with the belt, so you know what it's like."

Bloody hell, I'm living with a fucking spanking psychopath, I thought. I'll never sit down again. I was scared, and at the same time there was a weird kind of thrill about it, lying there helpless, waiting for my punishment. I suppose it's a bit like skiing or parachuting: the rush you get from danger, from knowing that you're risking physical pain.

I heard Mike come back into the room and gave something to Steve. He reached down and held in front of my nose, close enough for me to smell the leather.

"This is what you are going to feel across your arse tonight," he said. "And you'll be getting it next Friday, and the Friday after that, and so on until you shape up and start pulling your weight around here." I stared in horrified fascination at the supple coil of scuffed brown leather, two inches wide, and prayed for it to be over.

He took the belt away and I could hear him doubling it, giving an experimental snap through the air as he worked out what was the right length. Then it came down across my poor scorched cheeks. I bit my lip but I still gasped. Again the horrid sound of it coming down, again that fiery stripe across my bum. The third was worse: I cried out, I couldn't stop myself. Somehow, the fourth and fifth didn't feel quite so hard, or maybe my rear end was getting numb. The final stroke showed me that I wasn't as numb as all that: he must have put all his strength into it because I howled !

There was a long pause. Then he got up, releasing me from the chair at last.

I clambered up awkwardly, my hands flying despite myself to my bum. It felt hard, like wood, swollen and very hot. I could feel raised welts where the belt had landed. I couldn't meet the other two's eyes.

I pulled my pants up, very gingerly and stalked silently past them to the door.

"Jon," came Steve's voice behind me. Aha, I thought, the big cunt is going to try and apologise. Well let him squirm. I turned my head.

"Yes ?" I said as coldly as I could manage.

"One punishment point for sulking," he said, with a smirk.

"What ? You cannot be serious."

"Never more so. So unless you want a repeat next Friday, better shape up."

And he laughed. He actually laughed, the heartless so-and-so.

Well what could I do ? I went to the bathroom and ran really cold water into the handbasin. Then I sat in it. Well, not actually sat. But I got as much cold water on my sore and burning bum as I could and oh boy, did it feel good. When the burning had eased to a sort of throbbing I tidied up the bathroom, very carefully - hey, I was taking no chances - and went to my room and pulled on the loosest pair of track pants I had. Then since I wasn't going to be sitting down any time soon I figured: what the hell, and went and did the washing up. And when that was done, since I could still hear the other two laughing and joking in the other room, and it was 8:30 (could that eternity of pain all have taken place in under an hour ?) and no sign of dinner, I made it. Hey, any fool can cook, you know, I'm just a bit out of practice. And the others seemed to enjoy it, once they'd got over their surprise and picked off the burnt bits. In fact, Mike even made some comment about spanking me every day rather than once a week if this was the result, which I didn't think was funny.

And after dinner, as Steve picked up the remote control and flipped channels Mike and I yelled in perfect unison: "Punishment point !" And Steve looked kind of thoughtful, as if wondering if this was such a great idea after all. And I, like a fool, decided it wasn't such a bad idea. Hell, I even volunteered to lend a spare exercise book I had as the point register. So Mike drew it up in three neat columns, and wrote in the column headed "Jon" the date and approximate time of my point for sulking, and in Steve's his point for channel surfing. And that was the end of that. Except that that night, lying on my stomach in bed, I got a raging hard on thinking about it for some reason and had to wank three times before I could finally drift off.

We've been running this little scheme for 6 weeks now, and somehow yours truly has ended up getting his bum thoroughly spanked for 5 of them. I admit I did enjoy giving Mike his the one week he screwed up and came above me in the punishment point league - his little bum could have heated a small city by the time we finished with it. But that's no consolation now because it's Friday evening again, and I've just looked at the book. I'm sure there must be a mistake somewhere: I can't possibly have earned 7 points this week. Can I ? And Mike's only got 4 and Steve has managed to get away with 3. And unless I can get the hoovering done before the others get in then I'm going to get another. I really meant to do it earlier, but you know how it is. Was that the door ?

Oh damn. Here we go again . . .

Copyright © 2001

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