Gay Erotic Stories

I had seen Derek Kitson, the owner of the menswear shop where I worked, several times before. He had interviewed me for the job and he called in every few months or so to add to his wardrobe. On these occasions he was always attended to by Mark Saunders, the manager, who seemed on very good terms with him.

Mr. Kitson was a tall, well built man of around forty, smart but not flashy. I tried to weigh my chances of persuading him not to call in the police. Mr. Saunders had spotted me taking ten pounds out of the till when I thought no one was looking. It had been a stupid bit of devilment: I'd almost dared myself to do it. It's true I was short of cash, but not that short. I regretted my lapse immediately. Quite honestly, it came as something as a relief to know I'd been found out. I'd thrown myself at Mark Saunders’ mercy. It would be an awful blow to mum. I said, “She’ll never be able to hold her head up on our estate again.” But Mark said it wasn't up to him; he'd have to speak to Mr. Kitson. So he phoned through to Regents Park Mews and explained the situation. Luckily, Derek Kitson had been willing to see me to let me plead my case. As Mark said, that was something at least.

At twenty past three I rang the bell at 15A. After a pause Mr. Kitson opened the door.

"Yes?” He seemed not to recognize me.

"Mr. Saunders said I was to come, Sir.”

"Ah yes. Keith isn't it?”

"Yes, Sir.”

"You'd better come in." He stood back to let me pass. "Go up the stairs and straight ahead, that will bring you to the lounge.”

I followed his directions and found myself in a long room with a high ceiling and tall windows. At one end there was a leather three-piece suite set around a fire. I noticed the fire was switched on, even though the weather was warm and spring like.

Mr. Kitson entered, made his way to the couch and sat down.

"You had better stand here,” he said, pointing to a spot approximately two feet in front of one of the armchairs and a little to one side of where he was sitting.

I came and stood on the spot indicated. Now for a dressing down, I thought

"Mr. Saunders tells me you've admitted taking the money.”

"Yes, Sir. And I am very sorry, Sir. Honestly.”

"You've let Mr. Saunders down very badly, young man.” I could hear the disappointment in his voice. "He trusted you; we both did."

I hung my head, unable to speak for shame.

"For your mother’s sake, Mr. Saunders has urged me not to hand the matter over to the police. That's all very well,” and here he fixed me with his dark brown eyes. "But you have done wrong, Keith, and some form of justice must be exacted. Don't you agree?”

I swallowed painfully, trying to find my voice.

"I said don't you agree?” he repeated heavily.

"Y-yes, Sir.” I stammered.

Mr. Kitson leaned back.

"So you'll accept your punishment from me rather than be taken to court, is that right?”

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."

He got up and poured himself a whisky from the tantalus on the mahogany sideboard. I hoped I would get one too. I could certainly have done with it. But he returned to his place carrying only one glass and a small white jar.

"Now let's see. Mr. Saunders said you acted on impulse, unthinkingly, like an undisciplined child. Is that right?”

"Yes, yes,” I agreed readily. "It was an impulse. A bit of foolishness.”

"Well then, you'll need to be treated like a little child, and receive the punishment appropriate to a foolish young boy. Do you agree?”

I wasn't sure what he meant, but even before I could frame a question in my mind, let alone ask it, Mr. Kitson was saying sharply, "Or perhaps you would prefer the police after all?”

"No, no! Not the police, Sir,” I pleaded.

"Then you will consent to take the punishment of a wayward child.” It was hardly a question this time.

"Yes, Sir.” There didn't seem anything else to say.

"Good.” Mr. Kitson took a long and evidently satisfying sip from his glass of whisky. "First you will apologize in detail for the shameful betrayal of trust that Mark, Mr. Saunders, and I have suffered. Put your hands behind your back, stand up straight and begin.”

Taken off guard by his commanding tone, I had squared my shoulders and done an eyes front before realizing what was expected of me. I paused, lacking the vocabulary for the kind of abject apology Mr. Kitson evidently required.

"Well?” said Mr. Kitson in an impatient voice.

"I'm...very sorry, Sir.” I began

"VERY SORRY?” he repeated, as though I'd committed an unforgivable social faux pas.

"I mean, EXTREMELY sorry. I'm extremely sorry, Sir. For letting you and Mr. Saunders down..." Mr. Kitson looked less stern. “...for letting you down in such a miserable...” His face softened a little more. “...and despicable fashion.” Mr. Kitson nodded approvingly. "I most humbly beg your forgiveness, which I do not deserve, and place myself fully and willingly in your hands to administer any form of correction you deem necessary.”

This was the strangest punishment I had ever received. But Mr. Kitson appeared to be pleased with my speech, and that was all that mattered to me.

"Very well, Keith. I accept that you have been silly and that you are now chastened and contrite. After your punishment nothing else will be said of the incident. Ever.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Sir, very much indeed.”

Mr. Kitson placed his glass at his feet. The small white jar was beside him on the couch.

He said, "Now take off your things and put them on the armchair behind you. Then place yourself across my knee for a good old fashioned nursery spanking.”

"What!?”

"I think you heard me perfectly well the first time, Keith.”

I looked at Mr. Kitson's knee, incongruously registering as I did so that he was wearing a pair of beige Cavalry Twills retailing at twenty-nine pounds ninety five. I looked at the ox blood settee extending on either side of him.

"And nothing more will be said?” I enquired nervously.

"Nothing,” said Mr. Kitson. "If you take your due punishment.”

I didn't see I had much choice. I turned my back on him and slowly stripped. When I was naked, I walked over and knelt on the couch beside him. Then I stretched out the full length of the settee, my backside positioned over Mr. Kitson's lap.

Mr. Kitson put a hand on my bottom and said, "Move forward a couple of inches, boy; I want to get a good aim.”

He opened his legs and I felt my penis fall into the gap. I was already embarrassed by the whole transaction, but this seemingly trivial occurrence was somehow more shaming than everything that had gone before. I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me. I wished I'd never taken that tenner; I wished I'd had more self-control. Well, I was going to learn self-control now, and no mistake.

Mr. Kitson was right about it being a good old-fashioned nursery spanking, for there was nothing half-hearted or lackadaisical about it. The first few strokes weren't too bad; firm but not too stinging, one on each cheek, just to get my measure. After that he increased the pressure, making my buns burn more and more with each slap. I gritted my teeth and took as much as I could, but by the fifth stroke I was crying out with pain.

"Ow!…Oooww!!…OOOOWWWWWWWWWW!!!" My bum felt as though it was on fire, and a couple of times I put my hands down to protect my rear from Mr. Kitson's onslaught. He simply moved my arms out of the way saying, "Bad little boys have to learn to take their punishment, Keith," or something equally mortifying.

At one point I found myself sniveling. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Mr. Kitson, I won't do it again. I promise.”

"No,” he said. "You won't do it again. I'm going to make quite sure of that.” And the spanking began again with renewed vigor.

Two or three strokes later I was in tears, as much from the humiliation of the whole business as from the pain. He really was treating me like a disobedient five-year-old, so that I felt diminished in every way by the punishment I was receiving.

I held on to the arms of the couch and blubbered. I was trying to keep my hands out of the way so that Mr. Kitson could finish and the entire demeaning episode be put behind me. However, when he noticed my display of emotion, Mr. Kitson stopped the spanking and said I could have a breather. I didn't know whether to be grateful or annoyed.

"Let me just see how you're getting on,” he said solicitously. I found that very generous of him under the circumstances. "Though it's necessary you be punished, we don't want you to suffer any SERIOUS damage, do we?”

He stroked the fiery bum cheeks in such a way that a delicious smarting, hovering on the mysterious borderline between pleasure and pain, ran through my whole body. The sensation was strangely welcome. Involuntarily, I raised my bottom a couple of inches in the air, and then relaxed onto Mr. Kitson's lap again. Gently he parted the cheeks, and once more I made the involuntary movement with my hips.

Only at this point did it strike me that Mr. Kitson would be receiving a perfect, uninterrupted view of my anus. Waves of shame washed over me; I froze. I wanted desperately to cover my nakedness, my vulnerability. I wanted my punishment over and done with, a thing of the past, never to be referred to again, as he had promised. But there was more to come.

The involuntary bucking of my hips was becoming a regular and embarrassingly sexual motion now. Mr. Kitson was smoothing a cool cream over my buns, but especially between the bum cheeks and across the sphincter.

"N-nooooo…please, no,” I groaned.

"Then I shall have no alternative but to call the police.”

I closed my eyes and tried to pretend this wasn't happening, or at least not happening to me. Mr. Kitson drove forward with the middle finger of his right hand.

"You really must learn to accept the consequences of your actions, lad. You'll thank me for this one day.”

His finger now took up a leisurely piston like action, which I was forced to endure for three or four minutes. Then Mr. Kitson's medius was joined by his index finger. A stabbing pain shot up my fundament, and I howled. "Oh! Oh! OH!!" But the physical pain was nothing to my sense of degradation at being involved by this man who had me so completely in his power.

"Please...please..." I moaned.

"Naughty boys must learn to take their punishment, their FULL punishment, in silence,” Mr. Kitson admonished.

I bit my knuckles while he continued his studied attentions to my rear. Almost without my realizing it, I began to buck again, pushing back with my bum whenever Mr. Kitson pushed forward.

Mr. Kitson closed his legs, trapping my tool between his thighs. "Oh.no!” I thought. "I've got an erection!”

The rise and fall of my bottom only aggravated the physical sensations I was experiencing fore and aft. But I couldn't stop. Or, as it slowly dawned on me, I didn't want to stop; this was the best punishment I’d ever had. Giving way to an instinctive urge, I thrust back even harder onto Mr. Kitson's probing digits. (He may have been employing three fingers by now; I know that around this time the pain became more intense, but also more enjoyable). As I thrust back I murmured, "Oh, no, Sir, please no.”

Mr. Kitson seemed to understand that I had begun to relish the treatment I was getting. He didn't stop, but after a moment or two he said, "I think it's time to continue your spanking, lad.”

There followed a longish pause where nothing changed. Mr. Kitson continued to invade me and I continued to pump up and down, my penis held between his thighs. Time seemed to stand still, and I know I wouldn't have objected if it had. Then, sensing that I was becoming over excited, Mr. Kitson parted his legs and released my erection. Finally he removed his fingers, stroked downwards to delicately handle my seed sac, moving on in his own time to investigate the eagerly throbbing shaft. Mixed emotions exploded within me; vulnerability, sexual delight, fear, shock, pain, fulfillment, a sense of being violated and yet desperately needing to be violated.

"I think you're just about ready for the resumption of your spanking, Keith,” said Mr. Kitson. "Before I go on, is there anything you'd like to ask for? Any act of clemency you might want extended towards you?”

"Please. Mr. Kitson,” I said looking up at him over my shoulder. "I don't think I've got the stamina to take all the punishment I deserve in one day. If you please, Sir, would it be possible for me to return another time and collect some more punishment then?”

For the first time that afternoon Mr. Kitson smiled. "That is a very sensible suggestion of yours, lad,” he said. "And I’m glad you made it. But you will take some more of your spanking now, won't you?”

"Oh, yes, Sir. I want to take as much as I possibly can, please Sir.”

I was a convert. And Derek Kitson knew it.

He said, "Stand up a minute. There's something I want to get from the next room.”

I jumped to my feet and stood beside the fire, glad of its warmth, awakened suddenly to the idea that it was no accident the fire was on.

"Clasp your hands behind your head and wait for my return,” ordered Mr. Kitson.

He was only gone a few minutes. When he came back he had a red silk Yves St. Laurent dressing gown that must have cost a packet over his left arm. In his right hand was a leather strap about eighteen inches long and divided into two thongs. He threw the dressing gown into the empty armchair, the one that didn't contain my clothes, and resumed his place. I stared at the piece of red-brown leather in his hand.

"When you've had enough for one day, Keith, just say so,” Mr. Kitson instructed. "After all, we can always have you back next week for some more, can’t we?”

"Yes, Sir.” My responses had become quite mechanical by now.

He patted his knee. "Come on then lad, bend over and let me get on with it.”

I climbed onto the couch and re-took my position. I wondered what the strap would feel like, but I wasn't too concerned, as Mr. Kitson had said he did not want to do me any serious damage. Besides, he had agreed to stop when I had had enough.

He laid the strap across my buttocks, allowing its two fingers to caress my bum cheeks. It was a tantalizing gesture, and one which only inflamed further my desire to experience the leather in action.

"Why did you take that ten pounds, boy?” he asked. "Are you short of funds?”

"A bit,” I confessed. "I like nice clothes, records, and the cinema. Then there's the car. It all costs, Sir.”

"I think maybe we could see our way to letting you have a raise.” He lifted the strap from my body as he spoke. "I'll talk to Mr. Saunders about it.”

"A raise?” It was the last thing I had thought of.

The strap cracked across my rear. The pain was sharp, stinging and totally unexpected. I gasped and writhed.

"Yes; if you promise to be a good boy from now on,” said Mr. Kitson running the tip of his fingers over the place where the leather had landed.

"Oh, yes I do, Sir, I do!" There were tears in my eyes as well as gratitude in my voice as I spoke.

He raised the strap again, and I lowered my head and tilted my bottom upwards, hoping thus to present him with the best possible target for his strokes. I wanted to please Mr. Kitson. I wanted to take my punishment as well as I possibly could. I wanted to be deserving of his best efforts. And sure enough, the strapping I elicited from him that afternoon was both thorough and masterful. Mr. Kitson was expert at catching just the right spot and making every blow count. My buns were still hot from the previous spanking, and Mr. Kitson had soon made them very sore indeed. Stroke after stroke rained down and I had to hold on to the arm of the couch again for support. I even bit the leather cushion my face was resting on in an effort to prevent myself from crying out. Even though I was in tears, I continued to lift my bottom to each blow, totally absorbed in the erotic aspect of my punishment. Crack-k went the strap. CRACK-K. C-RACK-K-K! "Ouch!” I cried. "Ooooowwwwww! OOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!"

Once more Mr. Kitson had trapped my penis between his thighs, and after eight strokes of the tawse I could feel myself moving towards the point of no return. It was beautiful, the most sensual feeling I had ever experienced. And I knew that I would be encouraged to return to Mr. Kitson's mews flat as often as I wanted.

I was in Seventh Heaven, believing nothing could be more perfect than the demeaning session Mr. Kitson was putting me through at that moment. How could I have been so blind?

The doorbell rang cutting the idyll thought.

Mr. Kitson paused and looked at his watch. "Six-fifteen already,” he said. "That will be Mr. Saunders with the day's receipts. Slip into that dressing gown, Keith, then go down and let him in. Be very respectful,” Mr. Kitson admonished. "Remember, Mr. Saunders hasn't received your apology yet. Or had a hand in your chastisement.”