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The Tenant
Part 7

by Graham

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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: 13 Nov 2017

Driving along on his way route 57 to his family’s home in Martinsville, his landlord’s recent barragesof spanks to the young tenant’s bottom over the past 12 hours, coupled with the threat of more and worse,were a fresh, recurrent memory.

Each flashback was accompanied by an instantaneous hard on that protruded, bulging upward betweenhis legs, into the front of his jeans. It became too much for him to deal with on the emotionally tingeddrive home.

He pulled off highway 57, into a treed area just beyond Callands, parking sequestered in the secluded woods. Unzipping and opening his jeans, tugging them down along with his briefs under him, to his knees, he took his hungry, craving wanker in hand.

It could easily be a quick wank, but he stretched it out, savouring the purging emotions of the gathering orgasm. When he did climax, it felt like a pressure cooker exploding its steam from within him.

He leaned back, gasping heavily, feeling emotions of relief and of sadness nigh to crying. Cleaning up with some spare napkins in his care, he re-dressed to look as if nothing had happened.

Driving out of the woods, he resumed his forced trip home to Martinsville. He did not know why this troubling, nagging state had begun bothering him; but he did know he now felt much better.

The next day, Mark Wickham telephoned his landlord to let him know he’d be staying there for the next 6 days. Mr. Strauss was pleased his urging the young man to go home had ended up with him finding it worthwhile to spend some time with his family.

He did find a warm, welcoming place amongst his parents in their home, where he’d grown up. It was cheerful, accepting, and he felt a different kind of unwinding relaxation.

However, he did end up returning to his apartment in Chatham a day earlier than he had informed Mr. Strauss. Early Friday afternoon, while shoveling snow off the sidewalk to his parents’ house, he looked up, and down the street to see his former girlfriend getting out of a car to go into her family’s house.

She was accompanied by a young man maybe a year or two older than Mark. Taller than Mark, he was lean and lanky too, though not nearly as gaunt as the dutiful, workout teacher.

Mark was unaware he had stopped and was staring until she turned, spied him, and waved enthusiastically back at him. Instantly red-faced, he waved back, though more tentatively than hers.

That occurrence lodged in his consciousness, bedeviling him the rest of the night. Saturday morning, he awoke, showered and wanked twice, dressed, and loaded his car with his overnight bag and belated Christmas gifts. After breakfast, explaining he needed to get back to get ready for classes on Monday, he kissed and hugged his parents goodbye before leaving.

When the young teacher-tenant returned a day earlier than expected, Martin Strauss was secretly pleased, though wondering what had caused the change in plans. Mark said nothing that might shed light on the reason for his earlier return.

After the long Christmas break, Mr. Wickham returned to teaching his classes at Chatham High School. He continued his daily exercise regimen, only now he included Saturdays, as he had been supplied a key by Coach D to use after hours.

Everything continued along with rote regularity and normalcy, just as before the Christmas break. Mark continued his singular lifestyle, and did not return over weekends to his family home in Martinsville.

He remained busy, teaching, preparing, working out, dutifully carrying out the tasks (chores Mr. Strauss called them) assigned to him by his landlord. He was also assiduously careful about making sure his conduct conformed to the house rules.

As January approached February, Mark experienced an increasing, nagging, antsy restlessness. In addition to his workout regimen (which he intensified), he took up running. That consumed another hour every day, and scoured off more pounds; but it did not extinguish the restive anxiousness he felt.

If he’d been asked about it, he would have described the condition as feeling like he was constantly under assault, like being attacked and stung by emotional bees. He never got a chance to recover before more afflicted him.

The same, transient, cure for a rattled, horny, post-spanking condition was also the singular, temporary treatment for his keyed-up, edgy, high-strung nervousness. Wank therapy he thought of it.

He jacked up the number of jack off sessions he engaged in each day. To the superficial, outside eye, he seemed no different, maybe a bit more intense and focused, definitely thinner and more toned.

Mr. Strauss, however, detected subtle changes in the demeanour of his young tenant that raised concerns. Mark Wickham, who usually was easygoing and affable, smiled less, seemed even more taciturn, and more withdrawn.

He ate meals with his landlord less often; and apart from waving and calling quick, cursory greetings in passing, he was more removed, distant, less accessible.

Finally, Mr. Strauss felt he should intervene. Encountering the recurrently absent young teacher, he spoke to him. Mr. Wickham, come here for a second, please.

Mark looked startled, but then strode over at once to his calling landlord. Yes, sir? Is something wrong, sir? he asked, instantly feeling a vexing anxiousness.

Shouldn’t I be asking you that? Mr. Strauss returned. You’ve been very scarce for several months now. Are you all right, Mark? Is anything wrong?

Mr. Strauss’ voice was the slow, softened, deeper masculine voice of someone expressing a sincere concern. Mark gulped, standing taller and more erect, steeling himself as the older landlord’s kindly, concerned gaze bore into him.

Afraid he might slip, and let out even a hint of the frequent, haunting torment racking his mind and body, with unrelenting anguish and agony, he squeezed his eyes shut momentarily, repelling tears demanding release, gulping again, choking back his emotions.

Ah, it’s, ah, nothing, sir. Just kind of extra busy. This too, as they say, shall pass.

Yeah, that’s often true, but not always. Sometimes somebody else, somebody you trust, can help figure out how to shoulder, and deal with, what’s eating at you, Mr. Strauss made bold enough to intimate how he saw Mark Wickham.

A wave of almost-consuming emotion washed over the young man. He felt the inner conflict raging over keeping command of himself, and welcoming the caring closeness of another, someone who seemed genuinely concerned about him.

He knew, though, if he cracked the door even slightly, the wall of emotion would storm it widely ajar, and he would be unable to put it back. All self-control would vanish, and he would not be able to halt the flood of released feelings, sadness and desires.

Ah, I understand, Mr. Strauss.... and I appreciate it, sir. I’ll remember, too. I won’t forget what you said, Mark tried to mollify the difficult setting in which he suddenly found himself.

Good. You just be sure you do that, young man, Mr. Strauss joined what he perceived an Mark’s fumbling effort to extricate himself.

Yes, sir. I will. I mean it, I, ah, promise, sir, Mark found himself answering his landlord’s advice.

Turning, he strode down the short hall to his apartment, calling back, Thanks, Mr. Strauss. As always, I appreciate everything. Opening the door, he walked in, and was gone.

Friday, March 17, was St. Patrick’s Day. Martin Strauss, though Austrian, always joined the rest of the world in becoming Irish for a day on St. Patty’s Day.

He knew the downtown pubs, especially O’Malley’s, would be in high gear for the occasion, with corn beef and cabbage, bold and robust, green-coloured beer, and lots of Irish music and informal singing from the crowds. That, he thought, might be just what the doctor would prescribe to improve the dour, glum mood of his young tenant.

He looked up Irish greetings on the web, and worked up an invitation to some frivolity and fun for St. Patty’s Day evening. He put it in amongst the daily mail he set in a wooden holder on a shelf as one entered the hall to go to Mark Wickham’s apartment.

Sure and begorrah, lad! There’s a high time brewing, to be had by all who attend, at O’Malley’s pub and eatery on Friday evening, March 17. Your presence is expected, and if ye know what’s best for you, to avoid the curse of the banshee visiting and following you for longer than the sun raises up days upon you: be there  – or else!

In his apartment, Mark was taken aback at finding such an oddity as the St. Patrick’s Day invitation, amongst his regular mail. He smiled a slight smile, realizing Mr. Strauss had to be behind this invitation. He wrote a note on the invitation thanking Mr. Strauss and confirming he would go.

Riding along with his landlord to O’Malley’s, dressed in jeans and a green sweater, Mark thought how odd it was Mr. Strauss had invited and insisted he join the older man for an evening of relaxation celebrating St. Patrick’s Day. When they arrived, he was even more surprised to find the same group from Thanksgiving awaiting them at O’Malley’s.

Mr. Strauss’ personal friend, the barber, Boots Hill, and his young, fellow barber, Corey Crawford; and Coach D and assistant coach, Steve White. They found a large round table and sat around it. Mr. Strauss, Boots, and Coach D together, and Mark between Corey and Steve.

Corey was about Mark’s size, though not gaunt and thin like Mark, with dark (almost black) hair and very dark chocolate eyes. Steve was almost 4 inches taller, very fit and muscular, with light brown hair and blue eyes.

They were an interesting pair for Mark to spend the evening with. Corey was quiet, but humourous, easy to chat with.

Steve was a typical, type A sports personality. Though soft spoken, he was definitive and categorical in his speech, taking charge and passing the conversational ball around, and back and forth. Listening to him, anyone would bet he could be very forceful and demanding as needed.

Mark soon found both young men enjoyable companions to share an evening of fun relaxing with. Pitchers of green beer were unceasing, the younger men, especially, seemed to keep a replenished one on the table.

An Irish band and four singers kept a long and frequent series of Irish tunes charging the atmosphere with fun. The three, young men seemed to meld together well over the evening, as they sat drinking, eating their customary corn beef and cabbage, and laughing, even breaking out into fragments of song.

Mr. Strauss, Coach D and Boots also had a good time together. All three men noted with pleased approval the compatibility and harmony the three younger men exhibited.

Lonely bachelors too long, Boots commented. Mr. Strauss and Coach D nodded enthusiastically in agreement. All three, unattached, single, young men had similar backgrounds and stories of having been jilted by a girl friend or fiancee, unexpectedly finding it necessary to go forward in life alone.

Corey had been alone the longest, but seemed to have the most optimistic outlook. He had been accompanying Boots, as the older barber had invited him, to attend church regularly. It was a young, non-denominational church held in an old, downtown theatre.

There were lots of young people attending the 3 Sunday morning services. Corey had found some friends there, some of whom turned out to be customers; and he also noticed a lot of young, single girls attending.

Coach Steve had been alone and looking for over two years. In one sense, he had settled down into his life of coaching, massage therapy, and fitness. Unlike Corey, Steve White had not found any young friends, near his age, to do things with.

When Mark Wickham arrived at the school, Steve had noted the slim, young man, wondering if they might bond together as friends in an overall older school setting. So far, though, nothing had materialized, as the younger teacher seemed to disappear after his day of classes, returning to begin the next day each morning.

This unanticipated evening together, having fun and being single, slightly rowdy guys, surprised all three, young men. Both Corey and Coach Steve seemed to have a bit more self-control, while Mark imbibed far more beer than both of them as the night unfolded.

Finally, it was near midnight, and the crowd at O’MALLEY’S had diminished. Mr. Strauss spoke to Mark. I think it’s time for us to go home, Mark.

Having been engaged in enjoyable conversation with Boots and Coach D, Mr. Strauss had not noticed his young, tenant’s condition.

He was surprised to find the young, tenant-guest befuddled and foggy, glassy-eyed with a silly, inappropriate smile. Mark Wickham was quite inebriated from far-too-many bears consumed that evening.

Martin Strauss stood up, expecting young Mr. Wickham to do likewise. Instead, the young teacher was slouched in his chair, head resting in his hand, staring out at nothing, eyes closing heavily.

Walking over to where Mark was seated, Mr. Strauss reached down to take hold of the young tenant’s arm and pull him up onto his feet. It was like dead weight as Mark just sat there as if deep asleep.

Come on, Mark. It’s late. We need to go. I’ll help you to the car, son.

When there was no response, the landlord glanced around with concern about getting his young, invited, charge back home. Sizing up the situation, young Coach Steve White stood up, bent down placing his left arm under Mark’s knees, and his right arm behind Mark’s back.

Standing up, Steve White hoisted the thin, gaunt teacher up in his arms, effortlessly carrying him, hanging, to Mr. Strauss’ car, where he deposited on the passenger seat the sleeping, intoxicated, younger who never awoke. Astonished, Mr. Strauss thanked Coach Steve for his easy ability to help out in getting the drunken tenant back home to his apartment.

Steve grinned and told the landlord it was nothing. He turned to join Coach D in leaving as well. At that moment, Corey and Boots came up and thanked Mr. Strauss for arranging for the fun evening. With that, they all departed for their respective homes.

When they arrived back at the house, Mr. Strauss knew Mark could not safely be trusted, or allowed, to exit the car and walk on his own to the house, down the hall to his apartment. He also knew he could not lift the tenant who was out cold out of the car and carry him into the house and to his apartment. Despite how thin he was, young Mark Wickham would be dead weight.

The landlord slowly and carefully helped pull the intoxicated young man out of the car, bracing and providing support for him as they walked together to the house, and after opening the door, down the short corridor to Mark’s apartment door.

It appeared to Mr. Strauss that young Mr. Wickham had never awakened to realize what was happening. Unlocking the apartment door, Mr. Strauss carefully maneuvered his young tenant inside, and around to his bed, letting him drop on his face and chest.

As he had done on New Year’s Eve, Mr. Strauss quickly undressed the drunken, young tenant. He was alarmed as his eyes observed the rather emaciated condition of the gaunt, skeletally thin young man.

Quickly pulling the sheet and spread up over Mark, Mr. Strauss turned out the light, and made his way out of the apartment, locking the door behind him, and his tenant safely inside.

Saturday morning, early, Mark awoke, his bladder nearly bursting. Stumbling nude to the bathroom, he relieved himself and staggered back to his bed, collapsing back in it.

He slept until noon, awakened by a pounding headache and painful pangs of hunger. He hurried to the bathroom, stopping long enough to start up the coffee maker on the shelf near the outside door.

Taking a long shower to try to recover from the ordeal he’d brought upon himself by drinking too much, it dawned on him that, once again, his landlord had been obliged to take on the responsibility to care for the young tenant, to get him safely back home, and into bed.

Feeling sheepish over his behaviour, he strained through his aching brain to think of how to approach and thank Mr. Strauss for his kindly assistance. Drying and dressing quickly, he sat down to drink down a quick cup of coffee.

Having put some toast into a toaster, he sat eating them while downing another cup of coffee. Hungry, beyond the mere toast slices, he wondered whether he could go out into the house kitchen, find himself something to eat, and avoid encountering his landlord.

Quietly, he opened the apartment door and trod out to the kitchen silently in his socks. Walking into the kitchen, he was startled to find Mr. Strauss sitting at the table, drinking coffee and reading.

Mark Wickham immediately felt foolish and shamefaced.

Good morning, Mark, Mr. Strauss greeted him.

Ah, good morning, ah, sir, Mark returned the greeting.

Come over here and sit down, Mr. Strauss bade his tenant to join him. I’m about to make French Toast, and there’ll be plenty for you as well.

Red-faced and ashamed, he sat down at the table, watching his landlord get up and begin preparing the breakfast. The silence should have been comforting to Mark’s sore, beating head; instead it diffused an overwhelming sense of guilt and shame.

Ah, Mr. Strauss, sir. I, ah, want to thank you for inviting me along for, um, the St Patrick’s Day evening last night. I, ah, had a good time, fun, ah,... but, ah, I know I screwed up again, sir.

I had way too much to drink, made you have to assume responsibility for me, take care of me; and, ah, I’m ashamed of my behaviour, sir.

I know that’s wrong, it’s just another way of coming home intoxicated. I know I was wrong. I’m sorry, sir. You’ve told me, several times, I know, and besides. I know the rules, and, um, the consequences.

I know you’ve got, um, to discipline me. I deserve it, have it coming. It’s just that lately I seem to be getting things screwed up a lot, like I can’t concentrate or focus. I have a bloc of stress covering my thinking, and I can’t get past the pressure.

Mark surprised Mr. Strauss. The older landlord thought to himself how all at once, the young tenant-teacher was opening up, coming to grips with himself, and with the setting in which he was situated.

He also considered that his taking Mark with him to O’Malley’s, to meet up with Boots and Corey, and Coach D and Steve, created the circumstances for Mark coming home inebriated.

You know, Mark, I’m thinking maybe I should go easy on you, let you up, this time, since you went out with me, at my invitation, and met up with Coach D and Steve, and Boots and Corey, which provided the occasion for you to get intoxicated and come home in that condition.

Mark looked up, surprised and hopeful.

What do you think, young man? What do you think should happen to you? What do you think your behaviour deserves?

The cagey landlord put the question to his young tenant, already on the spot for his excessive imbibing and unconscious delivery home the night before.

Ah, well, you’re, um, right. I wouldn’t have been there to, ah, get drunk, and, pass out, if you hadn’t, um, taken me along there.

Mr. Strauss raised an eyebrow, wondering how contorted his young tenant might try to twist the facts to excuse his own behaviour, and avoid punishment for it. After all, the young man was an adult, college grad, a high school teacher, not some 16 year-old adolescent.

But, um, thah-at, ah, wouldn’t be, ah, honest. I knew better than to, um, drink so much, and, ah, be irresponsible for myself and my, um, own behaviour. I’m at fault, sir. I was wrong. I know, ah, I have to be, an, you have to, um, punish me, sir.

All right, then, young Mr. Wickham, you know what’s next, don’t you? Mr. Strauss spoke firmly, but kindly.

Indeed, the young teacher did, though he was awash with nervous, almost jittery feelings over his present plight. Inhaling deeply, he plunged forward, standing back up and walking slowly to his landlord, who had paused his cooking and sat back down on the chair in which he had been seated when the young tenant entered.

As he did so, he was struck with panicked fright. His young wanker was swelling, engorged and bulging, pushing outward and up against his jeans and underpants.

Why was this unthinkable, uncontrollable occurrence happening as he confronted the threatened prospect of being denuded and spanked?

Mark wore the new pair of slim-fit jeans he’d gotten for Christmas from Mr. Strauss, along with a long-sleeve, polo shirt with sleeves rolled up his lean forearms to his elbows. Mr. Strauss pulled the shirt up Mark’s thin, raised arms, and over his head, leaving him in just a white t-shirt. It was pulled off next, leaving the skinny, young teacher bare from his waist upward.

Mr. Strauss could not help be see, and feel instant concern over, the gaunt frame of the young teacher who had always been slim and thin. Now, though, the hips were bony, the waist very thin with concave abdomen, ribs visible through the emaciated chest and back.

Pausing a second or two, to note the haggardly lean physique, he turned next to removing the new, slim, snug jeans. They sagged slightly around the lean, smaller rump, peeling easily down his legs to the floor once the buckle and button were undone, and the zipper unzipped.

Years of experience with his own sons taught Mr. Strauss that getting spanked bare not only increased the intensity and severity of the pain, but also of the humbling submission to disciplinary authority.

Mr. Strauss noticed the young teacher, bare but for his tenting trunk briefs, quickly fall forward across the landlord’s lap, reaching out and down to grip the round, wooden legs of the chair, to brace himself for what he could anticipate was to come. He gasped aloud as the landlord yanked the briefs down the lean, lanky legs, off Mark’s socked feet.

That was the signal that the spanking was set to commence. Although Mark Wickham had become acquainted with Mr. Strauss’ plying of the hair brush to scorch the young man’s rearend, the painful, shaming shock was always the same.

He told himself he would like still, resigned to receiving this licking with stoical acceptance and determination. He also knew he never it made it past two minutes before he was writhing and bucking around under the fiery barrage, sounds of discomfort and disgrace emerging from his mouth.

Mr. Strauss made it a bit easier for the young tenant held securely across his lap. He placed his right legs over Mark’s legs, restricting their movements, holding more firmly the young miscreant in position for the spanking to achieve its purpose.

It always did. Mark began apologizing, promising to do better, to refrain from over consumption of beer and other alcoholic beverages, even to go tea total. In short time, he was pleading, begging, assuring, anything to end the inferno ignited on his rump and thighs, and the humiliating ignominy of having to be punished in this fashion again.

Finally, Mr. Strauss heard the uninhibited bawling, sobs convulsively erupting from the skinny, gaunt, young man upended before him. Delivering a final series of 25 smacks, he ended the spanking, with Mark Wickham hanging upside down, shaking, heaving, sobbing as if his heart were broken.

For a few minutes, the young man, beside himself with shame and agony, lay draped over his landlord’s lap, weeping inconsolably. Finally, his ordeal began subsiding, and his cries became gulping whimpers.

Mr. Strauss helped the young man crawl off the lap over which he had been categorically spanked. He pulled the weeping, shaking young man into him, hugging him long and hard.

Finally, he released Mark Wickham, advising, put your clothes back on and sit back down, Mark. I’ll finish breakfast.

With deeply reddened face and eyes, Mark did as instructed, retaking his seat at the table. The French Toast, with eggs and ham, made a great breakfast. A large glass of orange juice, and two more cups of coffee, had Mark’s headache on the run.

When they had finished, Mark stood up (glad to do so) and joined Mr. Strauss in cleaning up the kitchen. Maybe you should go on back to your apartment and rest this afternoon, Mark, the landlord suggested.

Mark nodded. Ye-es, sir, I think I will.

He walked out of the kitchen, down to his apartment, went inside, and locked the door. In his bedroom, he hurriedly removed the clothes he’d only shortly before re-dressed in.

Lying naked on his side, in his unmade bed, he immediately recalled the licking he had received not even an hour ago. Reliving the humiliation and pain across his landlord’s lap, he found his hungry wanker clamouring for attention and relief.

After the ephemeral respite of an assuaging wank, he rolled over onto his face and abdomen, and fell back asleep for the rest of the afternoon.

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