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The Tenant
Part 27

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: 21 Jan 2018


Around 6 a.m., Steve woke up, with Mark ensconced in his arms and legs, pulled closely into his body, like a fly trapped in a web. Leaning forward, the coach kissed the sleeping, young teacher on his neck, releasing him and hopping up off the bed.

He raced to the bathroom, emptied his bladder, came back to grab Mark from behind, around his waist, pulling him backwards and upward by his hips. Abruptly awakened in such a sudden, rude fashion, the younger, smaller guy was scrambling to get away even while being pulled toward him, and off the bed.

Swatting his bare, badly bruised bottom, the coach shoved Mark along to the bathroom to empty his bladder. Grabbing the younger, smaller shoulders, he spun Mark around and steered him back to the bed. Steve sat down on the bedside, pulled Mark down and over his lap to start delivering a sudden, first-of-the-morning spanking.

Mark reacted, becoming rigid, that bucking and bouncing around on the bigger, older coach’s lap. Whuh-aht are you doing! Why’re you doing this now? he questioned.

Just this, little man. We’re going to do what puts you loose and unwound, and after that we’re going to get the boat to take us out to the Island we’ll be camping on all summer.

But before anything else takes place, you and I need to have a complete understanding that you are to do whatever you’re told, and obey without any problem. This little trip over my lap this morning will remind you of that.

It also should assure you that, if there’s any problem later on, I won’t hesitate to take down your shorts, put you over my knee, and spank your little hiney until you cooperate, just bad-acting youngster. You be a good little boy, and all will go well for you. Remember that.

With that the assistant coach picked up the brush he brought along and wielded it all over Mark’s seriously wounded bottom. The young teacher quickly began a short-lived struggle, twisting, wrenching, wriggling, straining to get off and away, then straining to try to evade the peppering smacks assaulting his behind.

It didn’t take a minute to quash that ephemeral revolt. Steve continued the spanking only long enough to bring his smaller, younger friend down to a squalling, bawling, sorry, feverishly promising boy.

When he concluded that brief, early morning spanking, the coach was confident he had a subdued and submissive boy who would comply and cooperate to avoid being humiliated, shamed, and hurt by being publicly taken in hand. He let the young teacher cry his boyish blubbering to a complete, whimpering capitulation.

Easily handling the skinny, lightweight, young teacher, Steve put him on his back, raised his legs high up onto the coach’s shoulders, and began the onset of the erotic engagement they both relished. Though whimpering no, no, not again, no moooore, Mark quickly relinquished any physical opposition, lifting his throbbing, sore bottom into position for the invasion he craved.

Steve’s large shaft popped in, sliding forward, exciting the young teacher lying there, being metamorphosized as it fully filled his anal vacuum. The missing piece to his passionate delight was in place, and young Mark Wickham was a captive to the irresistible pleasure of the internal orgasms triggered by the thick, hard, moving invader.

Coach Steve White was reminding his young subject that his superior strength and sexual action could launch the young teacher to heights of erotic delirium he loved. He also was moulding the younger man to both submissive and dependent reliance.

Enhancing that, the coach leaned forward, taking Mark’s erect member into is mouth and applying a suctioning stimulation that drove the young man dizzily wild, writhing, thrashing around under the domination of his mentor-masseur. At last, they both climaxed and gripped each other in intense orgasmic passions, holding on to each other as the hot arousal was satiated and began fading.

Steve lay over Mark, holding him squashed down onto the bed, until the coach knew the teacher needed to get up and join him in getting ready for the day. Inside the shower, Steve let Mark bathe himself.

The coach utilized and comb and scissors to cut the young teacher’s hair very short, before holding the younger man’s head very still and gently shaving away any hint of facial hair. The years fell away from the shaved, clipped young blonde as his body hair had done.

They dried, put on deodorant and brushed teeth, before going to get dressed. Do I have to wear the bike pants again? Mark asked.

I think you could wear them another day, while we’re being transported to the island, Steve replied. Mark’s face dropped, obviously displeased with wearing the pants.

Look, Mark, we are going to have a great summer, but you’ve got to accept some things, things that are a basic part of our relationship. I take care of you; you belong to me. I tell you what you are to do; you obey and do what you’re told. Now put them on.

The words were blunt but effective in shutting off any more dissent. Mark pulled the skin-tight pants on, up over his lean, narrow thighs and buttocks. He pulled on the same red-and-white, horizontal striped t-shirt, and stepped into his flip flops from the day before.

The pulled what they’d take from the car back to the car, before they got in. Mark gingerly eased his wounded, little backside down onto the seat. They drove to a diner for a solid breakfast of eggs, bacon, potatoes, and biscuits.

After that, Steve directed Mark to go with him to the bathroom where they both relieved themselves to be ready for the day’s activities. They drove a house not far from the boat ramp.

Steve had asked previously by telephone if there was somewhere he could leave his car locked and secure, and the boat owner told him he had a fenced property behind his house and Steve could drive in there and leave it. Once it was parked, both young men got out.

Together they removed all their gear and bags. Removing the license plate from the back of the car, Steve put it into the glove box, locked the car, and stuffed the key into his pocket.

They walked to the little office for the dock where the few boats were moored, waiting next to the dock. Steve went inside to find the owner. A tall, large-boned man with dark hair and dark eyes came out to meet the younger coach.

Mr. Weaver? Steve inquired. As the big man confirmed his identity, the two shook hands. That’s my kid brother over there, he announced, pointing at Mark. As I told you, we are spending the summer camping together.

He’s out of school for the summer, and I’m off work too. Unless there’s a problem, which I hope doesn’t happen, we won’t need a ride back until early September.

I parked the car in your secure lot you told me about, and here’s the key if you need to move it. I don’t want to risk losing the key in the woods while we’re gone. The owner turned, walked into the little office, and hung the key on a rack on the wall.

All right then. You boys can carry your things onto the boat and we’ll head out. It will take short of 3 hours to get there.

Stuh-eveeeee! Mark’s voice interrupted both men. Turning toward the younger, smaller man, the young coach called out, asking if something was wrong.

Mark shouted that he was getting cold standing there in the cool wind, in just a t-shirt, flip flops, and the skimpy, tight bicycle shorts. Steve responded by telling Mark to pick up the bags and they would begin carrying everything onto the boat.

Mark did as instructed, and the 3 men joined on the dock, next to the boat. The owner stepped into the boat and turned to Mark, telling him to hand in his begs.

The gaunt, skinny, young man, shaking and shivering, unsteadily handed one of the bags, but dropped it onto the boat before Mr. Weaver could grip it.

Be carefully, Mark, Steve responded. We don’t want to break anything we’ve packed for the trip.

Chilled and still shuddering, Mark shouted back, Shit, Steve! I’m freezing my ass, ah, butt off in these skimpy clothes, and you’re jumping me about dropping the bag! It was an accident, damn it!

Watch your mouth, Mark, Steve replied tersely and icily.

Yeah, kid. You sound like one of those spoiled brats today that thinks everybody should look out for them, and not expect them to help out too! Pick up the bags carefully, hand them to me, and then get your fanny onto the boat. You can go down below to get warm if you need to.

Mr. Weaver, the owner, plainly had no patience for what appeared to be youthful carelessness and impertinence.

Ah, okay, sure, buh-uht, ah, I’m, ah, still freezing! That response was unacceptable to the boat owner and to the coach.

Steve sat the camping gear down on the dock, stepped over it to reach Mark. Grasping his thin arm, Steve began swatting the tightly covered, narrow backside of the young teacher, moving him to step onto the boa

Stepping onto the boat, Mark was twisting and turning trying to break free of the coach’s grip, to which Steve responded by bending Mark forward slightly and delivering another volley of swats to his sensitive, uncomfortable bottom.

You go get your gear and bring it on, Mr. Weaver spoke to Steve. Leave this youngster to me. I’ll deal with him. He’s complaining about being cold. I’ll warm the boy us so he has something else to complain about.

Steve released Mark’s arm, and Mr. Weaver grabbed it at once. You come along with me, youngster, he barked at a startled, surprised Mark Wickham, who instinctively resisted, trying to pull away.

I told you to come with me, kid! Now move it! Mr. Weaver barked, frogmarching the bewildered, somewhat reluctant, young man down the steps to the quarters below.

Steve was back on the deck as that happened. When he brought the camping gear onto the boat, he heard Mark’s voice, distressed at first, then reduced to bawling, sobbing cries, coming from down below.

Mr. Weaver had quickly stripped the young man’s snug, tight bike pants off his buns and down his legs, before putting the boyish youth across his knee. Spanking away at the bare, very obviously well-spanked rump, he concentrated first on the mounds, then shifting the repetitive focus on the sensitive sit spots where buttocks meet thighs.

So, you are the brat I thought! the boat owner declared. Looks like you earn a lot of spankings on yourself, youngster! Well, this is one that’ll solve your problem of feeling cold, and leave you with both the handprints and a lesson to last for a while.

He persisted in blasting the small, lean posterior of Mark Wickham until the young teacher was beside himself with the hurting pain of fiery smacks, and the demoralizing shame and humiliation of getting spanked once more.

Mark was kicking and writhing on Mr. Weaver’s knee, but the large, older boat owner had dealt with resisting, young men who think they are too old for, and immune from a solid, unsparing spanking. That was exactly what the stunned young teacher received, however.

When the boat owner was finished, and the young teacher was released to stand up, he performed the traditional, post-spanking dance, hopping and stomping from foot to foot, hand feverishly clutching his seared bottom. His buttocks glowed red, raw, and were hot and sore to touch; yet his young manhood was jutting outward and erect.

Mr. Weaver ordered the sobbing, wailing young man to go lie on the padded bench. You stay put. Don’t let me catch you getting up until you’re told you can. You listen up, boy, or you’ll be landing with a repeat of what you just got.

Up above, Steve could hear Mark’s uninhibited crying, squalling as he customarily sounded after he’d been spanked. The coach shook his head, wondering how long it would take before the boy fully surrendered and participated in their joint life together.

 
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