M/M spanking novel excerpt

[just_this_guy]

This is an excerpt from my new book, Buccaneer Island, by JP Beausejour, published by Bold Strokes Books.


I speak of Donald’s eyes, but to tell the truth, it was his buttocks that first drew my attention. Donald’s arse was at once muscular and plump, and moved under his rustic trousers with the satisfying grace of a fine charger’s rump. He was of an age with myself, about nineteen, a tall beautiful boy. I took a new interest in Triumph, my four-year-old gelding, after Donald came to work at the stables. I delighted in giving the handsome stable-boy orders, in hearing his humble peasant’s voice murmur, “Yes sir.” I would bring Triumph in from a hard ride and stand back to watch Donald scrub him down, and I would criticize every move. When he applied the metal-toothed curry comb I cried that he would tear the horse’s skin. If he then curried more gently I berated him for failing to clean him properly. I demanded he work ever faster and then chided him for rushing the job. I delighted in seeing him blush and grow flustered, and the more he worked the more I grew to enjoy the sight of his lovely bum flexing and relaxing as he bent and stretched. I wanted to reach out and touch it, to cup a plump buttock in my hand and feel the living warm weight of it. I wanted to kiss Donald, to breathe in his scent of sweat, both human and horse, of leather tack and hempen clothes, of hard, manly work.
It wasn’t fear of the consequences that made me hold back from kissing Donald. He was no more likely to report me and risk losing his position than were the many maids I’d kissed and fondled. But what if he didn’t want me? He may not dare to refuse, but afterward he might display his contempt, and I found this possibility unthinkable. In my bed at night I would picture Donald stripped, imagine the taste and the feel of his lips, pretend the cock in my hand was his, his the hand that caressed me as my passion rose. But always would flit across my imagination’s eye an unwanted, fleeting vision of Donald turning from my kiss with a sidelong, scornful glance. Night after night I tortured myself thus: my body lusting for Donald, my mind tormenting itself with the fear of rejection. Out of all reason, I grew angry with the object of my desire, as if by imagining his insolence I had made it so. In my madness I took it into my head that he must be punished for a sin of which my reasonable self knew him to be innocent. My desire to punish Donald and my lust for him became one and the same. When I lay alone at night in my room, I lay in a fever of desire not only to kiss and caress the handsome lad, but to take my riding whip to his back. Or better yet, to his backside.
These thoughts, formed at first in anger and confusion, grew daily more voluptuous. What began as a passing fancy quickly developed into a consuming desire: to strip that beautiful bottom bare, to admire what I felt sure would be its pristine whiteness, and then to mar that white beauty with a pattern of bright red welts. To watch Donald’s head roll back in a mix of pain and pleasure, to touch his throat and feel a gasp pass through it as the crop cut a sharp line across his haunches.
The day came when I found myself alone in the stable with Donald. The chief groom had traveled with my father to evaluate a new stallion, and the senior stable hand had gone with him to be educated in the business of judging horseflesh. Father was annoyed with me that I declined to come along, grumbling that I may have a stable of my own to look after some day, but he didn’t insist on the point. Father knows as well as I do that in this day and age third sons seldom end up with stables of their own. The rest of the grooms were with my mother, at the home of my Aunt Fay. Mother always insists on the coach and six with full retinue, even for a visit to her sister two counties away.
Knowing I would be alone with Donald that day, I was too excited to take Triumph out for his morning canter. After dallying away half the morning over my appearance, taking great pleasure in achieving just the right young-lordly look, I arrived at the stables dressed as though for a ride. When Donald brought the horse out, I pretended to find fault with his grooming, and insisted that he be thoroughly washed and brushed before I would leave. I stuck to my usual script, manufacturing grounds for complaint and demanding that Donald work ever faster, but in my nervous state I began to believe too strongly in my own game. I grew angry at Donald, as if the horse really had been neglected, although of course he’d been perfectly groomed from the start. I cursed and threatened and finally in a heat of anger succeeded in working up my courage to do what I had so often imagined; marching the three steps that separated me from Donald’s turned back, I raised my riding whip and struck him hard across the buttocks.
Donald spun around and, to my utter shock, grabbed the whip. The horse shied and then calmed, and for a moment, nothing moved. Close up, I realized the young stable hand was taller than I had thought, half a hand-span taller than myself, and when he wrenched the whip from my grasp I suddenly knew he had a powerful advantage in strength as well. With his free hand Donald held my wrist. He put his face in mine and in a hard, angry voice he said, “Oh would you, Master Edmund? Would you now?”
I was outraged. “How dare you,” I blustered. “You will lose your position for this.”
Donald was uncowed. His smile was half malicious when he said, “Oh will I now, Master Edmund? Go to your father will you?” And with that, he bent, and kissed me. His kiss was rough at first, his lips pushed into mine like a challenge, but when I offered no resistance, he softened. His kiss was still commanding, he kissed me as a man might kiss a lass, but it was tender too, and I succumbed to it, as I had so often imagined he would succumb to mine. He pulled back and looked in my eyes. “Tell his Lordship about this, will you young master? I don’t think so. Nigh on three month now you’ve been eyeing me up like a young colt around a mare, workin’ its way up to takin’ a sniff. Tell his Lordship that will you?” He kissed me again, and now besides my eager submission to his kiss I was struggling with another emotion, a delicious fear. In all of my life I had not heard anyone of Donald’s class speak in such a way to one of mine. It was unthinkable, punishable by heaven knew what terrible consequences, at the very least the loss of a good situation and a blackened name. But here I was at his mercy. Stronger than me, and utterly without respect for my station or fear for the future, Donald had in a matter of moments reversed the natural order, and I could only submit and see what transpired. Such a shocking turnabout in the fabric of my life left me even more giddy and breathless than Donald’s kiss.
Donald loosened his trousers and pulled out his cock. It was fully hard, blue veins pulsing through its silken skin. “Take it in your hand, young master,” he said, and in his voice was the simple assumption of command, the unqualified belief that at least for the moment, his word was law. I did, suddenly darkly pleased to be the one taking orders instead of giving them. How easy, how guiltless, not to be in charge, simply to do as one is told. He opened my trousers now, and reached inside. Though I was deeply aroused, my cock had only stood half-way until his calloused hands found it. In a matter of moments it had sprung up, as engorged and throbbing as his own. And then he bent again, and kissed my lips.
And oh, the forbidden pleasure of kissing Donald while our hands gently caressed each other’s cocks! Two fellows! My father would call it an abomination, and my mother would turn away with a purse of the lips suggesting disappointment and disgust. Oh it felt wonderful! Donald pushed my trousers down until my naked arse felt a cool breeze from the open door. As his hands found my buttocks, the tip of his tongue brushed my lips. I opened them, and it slipped in between. I met it with the tip of my own tongue, and as we lost ourselves in kisses sweeter and wilder than all the kisses of all the world’s maids, his hands caressed and squeezed my arse, working down and under till they were brushing the tender skin behind my balls. At this I could not resist a moan. Donald broke away, and leaned back to take in my whole face, and then smiling that knowing smile again, he bent to pick up the whip, where it had fallen to the plank floor.
“Going to beat me with this were you, young master?” he grinned. “Maybe it’s yourself needs a few stripes. By the damn, I believe you do.” And then he stuck out his knee, and with one swift motion, pushed me face down across it, and to my utter disbelief began to strike me sharply on my bare, upturned buttocks with the whip. “We’ll see who beats who, won’t we Master Edmund?” Donald said, his voice filled with gloating glee. He didn’t beat me nearly as hard as I had imagined myself beating him. It was more like being punished as a child than beaten as a man, a sensation that only added to the rich humiliation. Even so, each stroke stung, and the sting built up to a crescendo of fire on my upturned flesh. I was now in a state of profound confusion. All my upbringing, my breeding, my education cried out that I should put a stop to this, take control of this unruly servant, bring him to heel, and recover the dignity of my class, but something new in me loved the upset to the known order, knew the rightness of Donald’s dominance by no inheritance of rank but simply by the strength of his own arm and will and person. Above all I adored the sensation of the whip’s hot spanks, each stinging blow shooting straight through from my buttocks to my cock, causing it to pulse and throb and cry out for more. After at least two dozen stinging blows had fallen he lifted me again to his lips, this time forcing a bruising kiss on them, pushing his face into mine like an insult. He pulled away roughly and said, “get to your knees, young master.” Trembling I obeyed, and found myself face to face with the purple knob of his cock. “I’m sure you know what to do, Master Edmund,” he said, and then using his hand on my head, pushed me forward.
It tasted slightly sour, and salty, as though it had not been washed. I was mildly disgusted at its ripeness, but at the same time delighted by the sensation of it, at once hard and soft, and at the impatient way he began to move his hips, pushing his proud cock in and out of my mouth. “Lots of spit, Master Edmund,” he cooed, “It’s lots of spit that makes it slide nice and proper. That’s the way young master, very nice. Very nice that is.”
Of course I’d had my own cock sucked often enough to know how it’s done. It was something I insisted on with the maids. Some loved to do it, others resisted, but they all succumbed in the end to the powerful combination of rank, charm, and a persistent nature. I had even been at pains to explain on more than one occasion just how the act ought to be performed. So I believe I sucked Donald’s cock with a fair degree of skill for a first-timer. I wet it thoroughly with my spit, peeling back the hood and licking the proud pulsing head, and then, in an ecstasy of guilt and desire, I slipped my lips around it and used the power of suction to draw my mouth down the shaft, till I reached the point of gagging, and then and I drew it back up. I delighted in the sensation of it, the feel of his bulging cock on my tongue and pallet and lips, and I was lost in the sensuous joy of my first voluptuous submission, and in the soft crooning of Donald’s voice, and in the sensation of my mouth moving deliciously slowly up and down his naked shaft, that I didn’t hear the approaching footsteps. The first inclination I had that the morning’s expedition had ended sooner than expected was my father’s voice bellowing, “By damn sir, this time you’ve gone too far!”