Paul and his landlord. 1

The sight Paul saw through the bay window of the house pulled him up sharp.

There, laid stretched across the stout wooden dining room table with his chubby backside in the air was Charlie, the eighteen-year-old son of Paul’s landlord.

And, standing there waving a crooked-handled cane in the air was the landlord himself, Mr Jarvis.

Crack! The cane swished down into Charlie’s stretched grey Terylene. The boy jerked as the rattan hit home.

Paul stood in the courtyard transfixed. There was Charlie, dressed in his school uniform: dark blue jumper with yellow braiding around the edges, grey trousers and black shoes, laying stomach down over the table, gripping the far edge with both hands for all he was worth.

Crack! Mr Jarvis, Charlie’s father, was an elderly man, easily in his sixties, Paul reckoned, whacked the cane down again. This was no token tap, Mr Jarvis was trying his damndest to cause real pain and from what Paul could see, he was succeeding in his task.

Charlie stoically gripped the table for all he was worth. The cuts of the rattan were searing into his rump, but he wasn’t about to let his dad know this.

Swish! Crack!

Paul was a twenty-year-old second-year university student, interested in his studies and no real trouble to anyone. He had moved into the boarding house owned and run by Mrs Jarvis at the start of the academic year about five weeks ago. It was a small boarding house, in fact a large domestic house built in Edwardian times when families were larger and servants had to be accommodated. Today, it was the Jarvis family home, with three spare bedrooms let out to paying guests.

The “family” consisted of Mr Jarvis, his much younger wife, Suzanne, who was probably in her forties and the aforementioned Charlie. Paul didn’t know much about the family really. He spent his days at the university and often stayed late into the evening at the library. Apart from at breakfast he hardly ever saw any of them.

It was just before five o’clock now and Paul was rarely at the house at this time, so he couldn’t be sure if what he was witnessing was a regular occurrence or something special.

Swish! Whack! The cane cut into Charlie once more. Then it was all over. “Get up,” Mr Jarvis ordered. Charlie sprung to his feet. He didn’t need telling twice. “Get out of here.”

Paul entered the house just as Charlie sprung out of the room red-faced (and surely red-bottomed as well) before taking the stairs two at a time and bounded up to his bedroom.

Paul had to pass the open door of the lounge to make his way up the same stairs to his own room. It was then that Mr Jarvis spotted him. “Paul, come in here please, I want to speak to you about last night.”

Last night? Actually, more like early this morning. Paul immediately understood. He had come back to the house at some God-awful time, pretty drunk. He was so drunk he couldn’t quite remember how he had got back from the club and what time it was.

What he could remember was that he was locked out. Drunk as he was he was able to get his key in the lock, but it wouldn’t open the door. Someone had put the locks and chain on the door from the inside.

To cut a long story short, Paul had to hammer on the door and ring on the bell to get attention. He probably woke the whole house up for all he knew. Maybe he did, but it was Charlie who padded down the stairs and opened the door. He was befuddled when he saw Paul standing on the doorstep demanding admission. But in no time Charlie assessed the situation and poked a lot of fun at Paul, whom he considered to be too much of a “goody-goody,” an assessment he reached after only a day of two of Paul’s tenancy.

Mrs Jarvis, who saw to the security of the house at night, hadn’t deliberately locked Paul out. He was never out late at night; she just assumed he was tucked up in bed as he usually was. But this time, no. Paul had been to the library last evening and somehow got in with a group of other students, some of who were in his Eng. Lit. class. They went out for a “quick drink” and one thing led to another (Paul had no idea how).

Paul was never like this, but at university that day he met up with different students who had seen him and the others last night and they pulled his leg a lot about just how “out of order” he had been. Surprising himself, Paul realised he quite liked the idea that people might think he was a bit “naughty.”

“Come in here Paul,” Mr Jarvis said and without further ado, Paul obeyed. As he entered the lounge, Paul’s eye caught sight of the cane, lying on the table where it had been used to thrash Charlie only moments before.

Paul tried to avert his eyes from the cane, but they kept flickering back as Mr Jarvis started on a lecture about his bad behaviour the night before. Paul wasn’t paying that much attention. How did the old man find out? he wondered. Had he woken up the whole house or had Charlie split on him. It was beginning to finger Charlie for the deed, because Paul had seen Mr Jarvis briefly at breakfast and he hadn’t said anything about it then.

“Mrs Jarvis can’t be disturbed in her sleep; she has to be up early in the morning to deal with the guests.” Paul shook awake from his meandering thoughts. There was a pause and he realised he was supposed to say something in reply. “Sorry”, was all he could think of. And immediately realising this was probably inadequate, he added, “It won’t happen again, I promise.”

It was then Paul noticed his landlord was holding the cane. He wasn’t flexing it between his outstretched hands in the way drawings of headmasters did in old comics, or how Jimmy Edwards did as the eccentric headmaster in the TV show, Whacko! No, Mr Jarvis simply held the cane perpendicular to his body and was gently tapping it against his leg.

Paul was mesmerised. Mr Jarvis was an old man, not very tall. Charlie might even be taller than his dad, Paul reckoned. He was dressed in cavalry twill trousers an amber cardigan with a blue checked shirt.

Tap, tap, tap, went Mr Jarvis as he continued with his lecture and Paul could not keep his eyes off the cane, something his landlord noticed.

“Sorry Mr Jarvis, it won’t happen again, I promise,” Paul said.

“I certainly hope it won’t. Do you know what Paul I think we need to give you some incentive, something to think about the next time you feel the temptation to be so thoughtless.”

It was now Mr Jarvis’s turn to look at the cane. Then he caught Paul’s eye and immediately knew the action he was going to take. He tapped the cane against his leg rhythmically. “You know, I think you would benefit from a dose of what Charlie just had.”

Paul could feel his blood rushing and his face blushing. Clearly, Mr Jarvis was expecting him to reply, but he stayed silent. His heart was racing, but he didn’t quite understand: was this because he didn’t want a thrashing, or because he did?

He could not take his eyes off the cane as it flicked against Mr Jarvis’s legs.

Now was the time for decisive action. Mr Jarvis raised the cane and pointed with it to the far end of the room. “Go stand by that chair.” Later, recalling this moment, Paul couldn’t remember if he hesitated and thought about making a run for it. What he could remember was that meekly he did as instructed.

The armchair was standing with its back to the wall; it was quite a small affair, with a low back and with cushions and a padded back in an awful floral print pattern. Paul stood facing it, not quite sure what should happen next. Was he supposed to face the chair and clutch the cushions, or even bend over the arm? No, surely not, he was too big to fit across that.

He needn’t have worried, Mr Jarvis had it all worked out. “Turn the chair round so that the back is facing you.” That was that sorted. Paul was going over the back of the chair.

He was no expert in such things, but Paul could see that given the circumstances: a small armchair and a five-feet-eight-inches young man, this was the best modus operandi for a caning.

He did as he was told. “Stand there,” the landlord pointed with his cane to a spot behind the chair. Paul obliged. “Bend over.”

And that was that: the start of something big. Paul might not have been able to articulate clearly his thoughts at that moment but for the next two years, while he remained a student and a paying guest at the Jarvis home, he would be under the control of his landlord. And, if ever the time came to tell the truth, Paul would have to admit, he loved every swish of it.

Paul was over the chair. The cushion was soft in his hands. He could feel the back of the chair sticking into his stomach. His trousers were very tight. He was both frightened and excited.

Mr Jarvis took a couple of steps back to take in the scene. Paul was much different than Charlie. Whereas his own son was large and chubby, Paul was smaller and wiry, with not an ounce of fat on him anywhere.

Rather like the chair he was presently bent over, Paul was a bit “old-fashioned” himself. He was wearing blue trousers with a pinstripe (hardly the attire of the typical student), with a tank-top slipover jumper and a white shirt. His hair was cut in a crew cut that wouldn’t look out of place in the US Marines.

Paul was absolutely the right size for the chair. Mr Jarvis saw that the chair back rested comfortably in the groove of Paul’s stomach and his arms stretched out perfectly to grasp the front of the seat cushion.

Paul lay in position ready for the first whack. He felt intense embarrassment, but somehow it was exciting. He shut his eyes and gritted his teeth. This was going to hurt!

Paul was perplexed, he couldn’t be sure if he hated what was about to happen, or loved it.

He didn’t have time to reach a conclusion. He felt a light tapping of the cane against the trousers stretched across his left buttock. He turned his head back slightly to see his landlord, his master.

“Face the front. You’ll soon find out what’s going on back here.”

He could hear a cane being swished. “Here we go, we’re under starter’s orders,” Paul thought.

Swish! Crack! The first cut thudded into the seat of his trousers. Paul felt it, but it didn’t hurt so much.

Swish! Number two. Paul felt it, but with a sense of disappointment: it didn’t hurt enough.

Numbers three and four were harder. Was the landlord trying to find Paul’s level of tolerance?

Swish five! Gasp. Yes, that’s better. That one actually hurt.

Swish six! hit the spot on the crease just where the bottom reaches the top of the leg. That one definitely hurt. More like that please.

But, now the punishment was over. “Stand up boy.”

Paul could feel blood rushing to his face; his cheeks were scarlet with the effort of being face down over the chair. His buttocks tingled, but in no way could he claim to be in pain. The mild caning he had received was as nothing compared to Charlie’s thrashing. Oh, how he envied that boy.

Mr Jarvis eyed Paul thoughtfully. “Stand there.” He swished his cane at a spot in the centre of the room. “Will I need to ever do that again?”

Paul mumbled, “No, Sir.” He thought that was what was expected of him, but truly he wanted more.

Mr Jarvis misread the situation magnificently. “If I have to do this again, you will have your trousers and underpants at your ankles. Is that clear young man!”

Paul’s pulse raced: yes, it was very clear.

“Off to your room!” It was a curt command. Paul took the stairs two at a time in his haste to inspect the damage.

Back in his room, it took mere seconds to whip down his trousers and pants. Twisting his body in front of the mirror he was able to inspect his buttocks. What a disappointment, his usually white cheeks were a little pink, but he doubted that he would have any bruises to speak of.

He lay on the bed, his trousers and pants still at his ankles and relived in his mind the past twenty minutes. The landlord’s chubby son had his arse whipped with a thin rattan cane. The Paul, himself, a “goody-goody”, according to Charlie, had himself been across the chair, for his first-ever dose of corporal punishment.

As he conjured up the picture of Charlie writhing under the lash, Paul felt his cock stir. Leaning back into the pillows, he closed his eyes and imagined himself bent across the chair, tight trousers stretched across his buttocks.

His soldier stood to attention and Paul hawked a gob of spit into the palm of his hand and worked it up and down his shaft. The words of his landlord seemed to echo around the room, “If I have to do this again, you will have your trousers and underpants at your ankles.”

Paul gasped as his palm sped up and down; up and down.

He shot his load and gasping for breath he lay back, closed his eyes and began to devise a plan for the next time.

Paul and his landlord, episode 2 is here

 

Other landlord stories you might like.

 Foreign language student

The rooming house

Six of the best caning stories 4. The tenants

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

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