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The Last of the Summer Wine

by Paul Lewis

Copyright on this story text belongs at all times to the original author only, whether stated explicitly in the text or not. The original date of posting to the MMSA was: 02 Apr 2010

The Last of the Summer Wine

The floor of my bedroom resembled a well picked-over clothing stall at the church jumble-sale, with various items of boys' summer attire scattered about indiscriminately. Tee-shirts, trainers, socks, tennis shorts and briefs lay tangled together in chaotic disarray, mute testimony to the urgent haste with which they had been discarded.

I lay face down, hips across a pair of strategically-positioned pillows at the side of the bed, toes touching the floor and my bare bottom well-elevated for easy spanking. Mark knelt astride my back, a knee to each side, his own naked balls and backside rubbing against me rhythmically, as he steadily smacked my arse with both hands. Originally inspired by the necessity of finding a way to spank Mark, without having to seat my already-sore bottom on a chair to take him across my knee, we euphemistically and laughingly, referred to this procedure, as “playing the bongos” and, over the last couple of years, it had become one of our favourite and most frequently used, spanking positions.

“Playing the bongos” was a particularly apt description of this practice, as smacking a pair of firm, naked buttocks rhythmically with both hands, employed an extremely similar technique to that used when playing that instrument. It also produced satisfyingly loud and resounding slaps and quickly turned the victim's backside from its normal snowy-white, to a warmly glowing scarlet!

We also, rather brazenly, sometimes used to mention this quite openly, in front of our parents, with such comments as; “Fancy playing the bongos later?” remarks accepted indulgently and without question, by our respective Mums and Dads, to refer to some innocent, boyish game we had invented... well, they were half-right, anyway!

It was mid-August and just over two years had passed, since that memorable Easter holiday when all this had first begun; I was now 13-½, and Mark four months past his twelfth birthday. Like all boys at our stage of life, we had developed considerably over the intervening period and, thanks to a strenuous regime of sport at school, coupled with boisterous and energetic outdoor pursuits whenever time and increasingly large amounts of homework permitted, we both were healthy, fit and strong and markedly taller then we had been two years previously.

The weather this summer holiday had been glorious and now, in our current state of undress, our sun-browned limbs and upper bodies, contrasted sharply with the smooth whiteness of our bottoms and upper thighs. Well, perhaps it would be more correct to say that, fifteen minutes ago, our bottoms had been white; Mark's was now a very bright red, where it brushed my back and mine was going rapidly the same way.

Mark was smacking my backside hard, with a regular, steady rhythm, two slaps to the right cheek, one to the left, two to the right and so on, before changing over. Every so often, he'd lift one hand to delve down between my legs and stroke my balls, still slapping with the other as he did so. After a few minutes of this, I was, not surprisingly, very horny indeed and I moaned with pleasure, thrusting my hips back and forth, grinding my stiff cock into the pillow, aware at the same time, that Mark was gyrating his hips, rubbing his balls against my back. His movements became more and more urgent and his breathing speeded up perceptibly. In company with me, he started to moan softly, as we lost ourselves in the joy of the moment.

Soon, the regular slaps faltered and our moans of “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh! Ohhhhhh-ohhhhhhh-ohhhhh! Mmmmmmmm! grew stronger and more insistent. I felt one of Mark's hands lift from my buttocks and I knew, from his panting and gasping, just what he was doing. Suddenly, his other hand gripped my left buttock, hard. I gave several more strong thrusts against the soft pillow and, suddenly, there were twin gasps of ecstasy as, more or less simultaneously, we both came to orgasm. I was aware of my own cock pumping out spurt after spurt and, at the same time, felt the warm drops of Mark's semen shower down, running down the curve of my buttocks.

For well over a year now, we had both been experiencing wet ejaculations; from being rather a shock at first and a development we were not altogether sure we liked we had, by now, become used to this change in our bodies, as our rampaging teenage hormones began, inevitably, to make themselves felt.

We now lay still, panting and weak from the intensity of our sexual release. I lay limp, draped over my pillows, while Mark slumped forward, his hair just tickling my bum. He was first to recover and he sat up and laughed quietly. That, of course, set me off and soon we were both laughing, tears running down our faces.

“Jeez, Paul, that was bloody unbelievable!” exclaimed Mark, as soon as he could speak. “Reckon that was the best yet; I thought for a minute back then, my head was going to blow off. I nearly fainted!”

“You and me both, Mate!” I replied with feeling. “That was just awesome!”

Stiffly, Mark climbed off my back and I rolled over and sat up. The state of the pillow that had been beneath me, sent us both off into fresh fits of giggles.

“Now how am I going to explain that to Mum?” I wondered, eyeing the spunk-soiled pillowcase. Inevitably of course, we had both, over the past few months, had a number of similar “little accidents”. However, this one seemed different, in terms both of quantity and viscosity and my previous policy, of simply letting the evidence dry to the point at which it was no longer obvious, no longer seemed appropriate.

Mark shook his head. “Don't worry about it, Paul. Just change the pillowcase, and drop some Ribena over this one. Then all you have to do, is say sorry to your Mum that we accidentally upset a drink over it. I've done that before!”

I grinned and tousled his hair affectionately. “Boy, you're worse than me! You'd never think I'm a year older!”

He shrugged. “Only passing on a handy tip! Mind you, you can't do it too often or she will begin to suspect. What you really need to do though, is wrap some bog-paper round it before you start, then there's no problem. However,” he paused with a slight frown, “that's OK when you're doing it on your own. I guess that when we're doing what we've just been doing, it's a bit hard to think that far in advance!”
I shook my head in despair, laughed and gave him a playful slap on the bottom. “Come on,” I continued, “let's get tidied up and outside before Mum gets home!” As I turned and made for the bathroom, a sharp smack connected with my own rear-end, closely followed by a number of others, all the way across the landing. Laughing and jostling, we fell into the bathroom and I grabbed Mark, bending him over the side of the bath, his well-rounded buttocks making an excellent target. I spanked him hard, about six or eight times until, still laughing, he cried out in surrender. “OK, Paul, mercy! I give up!”

I let him up “And let that be a lesson to you,” I said severely, my broad grin belying my words. The reason for our grins was rapidly becoming evident. With the amazing recovery power of youth, our cocks were already rising to the occasion and, after a few moments, were standing proudly at full attention once more.

We looked at each other wordlessly, then Mark's hand curled around my shaft and mine went around his. Gently but firmly we rubbed and stroked each other and, in a very short time, we were both panting and gasping as, with long moans of pleasure, we climaxed for the second time in about a quarter of an hour. We did not, however, anticipate what would come next.

Mark was the first; his smile faded and his face twisted, as he grabbed his balls. “Owww! Owww! Owww!” he yelped.

“”What the hell's wrong, Mate?“I queried, in concern. A few seconds later, I found out as I, too, ended up with my face contorted with pain, hands desperately trying to relieve the agonising ache in my bollocks.

This was our first experience of the painful effects of chronic “bollock-ache”, brought on by over-enthusiastic, multiple masturbation sessions too close together and which, in the future we did try to avoid, if not always successfully!

After a short while, the initial pain eased sufficiently for us to straighten up. “Ahh! What the hell happened there?” gasped Mark.

“I'm not sure,” I admitted. “But I think it might be something to do with doing it again too soon after the first time. After all, we've never done that before.”

He gave a rueful grin. “I guess that's what we get for being greedy, then!”

I just smiled and glanced at the clock. “Blimey! Come on, let's get going. Mum will be back in about twenty minutes!”

We each had a quick wash, to remove the last traces of our recent activities and hurried back to my room to dress and get the place looking something like normal. Then we shot downstairs and out into the warm, late afternoon sunshine, where a noisy and energetic game of “tag” was soon in progress.

About a quarter of an hour later, the kitchen window opened and Mum's face appeared. “Hello, boys,” she called. “Would you like to come in for tea?”

As usual, we didn't need to be asked twice. “Have you had a good afternoon?” she asked, as we settled at the kitchen table. “Oh, yes thanks!” came the enthusiastic replies. “It's been great!”

Mum looked at our glowing faces, happy and flushed with exertion. “Would you like to stay to supper, Mark?” she enquired.

He shook his head. “That's really kind of you, Mrs. Lewis, but Mum did say definitely, that I should be back in good time this evening. I think there's something that she and Dad want to talk to me about.” He flashed a sudden grin. “I don't know what it is, but I don't think it's anything I've done! At least, I hope not!”

“I'm sure it's nothing like that,” said my mother. “You two have been so good lately, that I can't imagine it's anything like that at all.”

“OK, then,” I added. “Shall I come round tomorrow after breakfast? We could go swimming.”

Mark nodded his agreement. “Brilliant! See you then,” he replied.


At about 9.15 the following morning, I walked up the garden path at Mark's house, swimming kit in hand and rang the bell. His mother answered the door, smiling as she saw me standing there. “Come in, Paul,” she said warmly and, as I stepped inside, she gave me a hug. That was not altogether unusual, but she didn't often do it first thing in the morning.

“Mark's in his room,” she continued. “Do go on up, I know he'll be glad to see you.” Now that was odd! Normally, my pal would have been bounding down the stairs, two at a time, when he heard the doorbell ring. I smiled and nodded. “Fine, thanks very much,” I said and made my way upstairs.

The door to Mark's bedroom was not closed, but it was fairly well to. I pushed it open and entered. “Hi, Mark!” I began. “How's it...” I was about to say, “How's it going?” but stopped short as I saw him. He was seated on his bed, head down, hands crossed in his lap and looking the picture of abject misery. He looked up as I came in and, to my astonishment, I saw quite clearly that he had been crying. His eyes were red-rimmed and his face streaked with tears.

I could not believe my eyes. In all the years we had known each other, I had hardly ever known Mark to cry. He was a brave lad and once, when we very small, he had fallen heavily during one of our games, badly skinning both knees, but had barely whimpered. A child of lesser backbone would have been bawling his eyes out, but not he!

I crossed the room and sat down next to him, putting an arm round his shoulders. “What's up, Mate, what's wrong?”

He turned towards me, his face anguished. “We... we're going away,” he began in a small voice. “It's Dad's job. They're shutting down the operation over here and moving the whole lot back to Canada; and we've got to go too... so we'll never be able to get together any more!” his voice broke, his self-control failed and he turned, buried his head in the angle of my neck and shoulder and began to sob uncontrollably.

I felt my own throat constrict and my eyes pricked with tears, as I took in what he had just told me. We had known each other since we were three and four years old and had been constant companions for as long as we both could remember. In a sense, we were the brothers that each of us had never had and, in many ways, were closer than brothers. This, obviously, was the news that Mark had been told last night and, without a doubt, this highly unwelcome development was going to knock a very big hole in both our lives.

Wordlessly and a little awkwardly, I rubbed his heaving shoulders and smoothed the golden-blond head, as my brother's grief ran its course. Gradually, his sobs subsided, his shoulders steadied and he swallowed hard, raising his head. His tearful, deep-blue eyes held mine. “I'm s-sorry, Paul,” he faltered, “I didn't mean to do that. I...”

I cut him off, putting both arms around him tightly and giving him a little shake. “Don't worry about it, Mate,” I said, also a little unsteadily. “I was very nearly doing the same. It's a real shit, isn't it? I guess there's nothing we can do, but it might feel a bit better when the shock's worn off a bit.”

“Shouldn't think so,” he mumbled.

In truth, I didn't think so either, but it was the best I could come up with at the time. At that moment, there came a discreet tap at the door and we heard his Mum's voice saying quietly, “May I come in, boys?”

Mark looked up. “Sure, Mum,” he answered, dully. The door opened and in came his mother, bearing a tray containing three glasses of squash and a plate of chocolate biscuits. “May I join you?” she continued and we nodded. She settled down beside us, kneeling on the floor and put her arms round us both.

“I'm truly sorry,” she said. “I can tell you honestly, that neither Mark's Dad, nor I, want to leave either, but we both know that it will be hardest on you two boys.” As we drank our squash and munched the biscuits, she explained to us in more detail, just what was happening and why.

Finally, she suggested that it would be best if we went ahead with our plan to go swimming, get out of the house and try to have a good day. To this, we acquiesced without argument, minds still numbed from the effects of having the bottom suddenly blown out of our world.


It is a commentary on the remarkable resilience of the boyish spirit that, despite the knock we had taken, by the end of that day, we were almost back to normal, our morning swimming expedition having been followed by an energetic afternoon of tennis and football in the local park. We were coming to terms with the idea that this would be the last summer we would have the joy of each other's companionship and we were determined to make the most of things, until Mark's family left for Canada the following March. It was not, however, until the very last week of the holidays, that we had another opportunity for indulgence in our more “illicit” activities!

On this occasion, we were together at Mark's house, the last Tuesday of the holidays, his mother being out for the day and trusting us to look after things, getting our own lunch and so on. Unsurprisingly, we had jumped at the idea promising, faithfully, to keep disorder to a minimum which, in view of what we had in mind, was not going to be too hard a promise to keep!

A few months earlier, we had come up with a wrestling game, designed to pit our rapidly developing muscles against each other in trials of strength. This involved standing face-to-face,