The dope smoker

As Mr Carter drove his car onto his driveway he had the shock of his life – a teenaged boy was breaking into his garden shed.

But, soon it would be the boy who was in shock: when Mr Carter revealed his little secret.

He got out of the car, intending to shout at the boy and chase him away when he recognised who it was. It was Adam, a kid who lived a couple of houses down the street. This was unexpected, this was a respectable district and one didn’t expect to have one’s shed broken into by neighbours.

By the time Mr Carter unlocked the gate, Adam was inside the shed. Mr Carter realised he could lock the door, trap the boy inside and then call the police. It was a simple plan to execute, but curiosity got the better of him and he decided to confront the boy. What on earth was he expecting to steal from his shed that was worth anything?

“Hey you boy! I know you’re in there, what do you want?” Mr Carter wasn’t scared, whatever happened next he was sure he wasn’t going to be assaulted by the neighbour’s kid.

There was no answer from within the shed, so he hammered on the door.

“Come out! I know you’re in there.” But, still no response.

Carefully, Mr Carter opened the door and peered inside. There inside was Adam, collapsed on the floor. Thinking he had passed out and might need urgent medical treatment, Mr Carter rushed to the teenager’s side. But, he needn’t have worried. One sniff of Adam’s body told him what was wrong: the boy was high as a kite on cannabis.

“Wake up! Wake up!” Mr Carter shook the boy, but couldn’t rouse him. Slap! Slap! Two hefty whacks across the boy’s face had him murmuring, “Whhhhhhhat’s up?” It took a few more shakes before Adam came round sufficiently to realise he was in a strange shed with his neighbour Mr Carter standing over him.

“Come on, you should go home, you can’t stay here.”

The boy looked at Mr Carter with real fear, bordering on terror. “No, no, please, not yet.”

“You can’t stay here, now move it, sonny,” Mr Carter was angry about being disturbed from his daily routine and doubly angry because it was some dope fiend who was causing that trouble.

“Please I can’t go home like this,” there was real pleading in the boy’s dark brown eyes and Mr Carter who had a soft spot for teenage boys fell for it.

“Come on, into the house, sober up before you go home.”

He helped Adam into the house and lay him down on his couch, where he promptly fell asleep. Mr Carter sat and watched the boy: he was dead to the world. He looked so beautiful and innocent, breathing rhythmically, his mouth slightly open.

Mr Carter sat, admiring his cute unexpected house guest and wondered what he should do now. The boy had got sky high on an illegal drug and broken into his shed. All right he probably didn’t intend to steal anything, but he had committed at least two serious crimes.

Then, there were his parents. Mr Carter knew them quite well. They had all lived in the street for at least ten years and Mr Carter had watched, from a respectable distance, Adam grow up. He knew that he had just left school and was presently working in a supermarket (filling shelves mostly) before going off to university. He seemed a good kid from a respectable family.

Should he say something to his mum and dad? Was it any of his business, anyway? For all he knew the kid was a dope fiend and was already on his way to a ruined life. Did his parents know of his drug habit?

What if this was a one-off, an experiment that had gone badly wrong. Should the boy get a criminal record and be made to suffer for the rest of his life for a youthful indiscretion?

Mr Carter had come to no useful conclusion by the time Adam came out of his stupor.

“So, Adam, do you want to tell me what’s been going on?”

Adam was intelligent and articulate and, it seemed to Mr Carter, truthful. Mr Carter had warmed to the boy. It turned out that Adam was a regular drug user, but only, for what he called “recreational purposes.” He had got high on some weed that was stronger than he thought and had gone on a bit of a “trip.” He had broken into the shed to sleep it off. He wouldn’t break into Mr Carter’s shed again, honest.

But, would he stop smoking cannabis? No, he couldn’t promise that, but he would be more careful in future.

That was the wrong answer. Mr Carter would have been prepared to forget the whole episode if Adam had promised to give up drugs. It would have meant he had learned a lesson and mended his ways.

“I’m not going to tell the police, but I am going to tell your parents. They need to know that you are taking drugs and that you are getting into trouble,” Mr Carter told Adam.

“No, please, don’t tell my parents,” the boy was so endearing when imploring.

“Please, Mr Carter, don’t do that, please, Mr Carter,” he was melting the man’s heart.

That was when Mr Carter had an idea. It was a strange plan he was concocting, but, if it worked, it would ensure that the boy was punished properly and it need not involve the police or Adam’s parents.

Upstairs in a cupboard in the spare bedroom were a half-dozen whippy rattan canes. He would thrash the boy with one of these and send him on his way.

What Adam didn’t know, and Mr Carter hoped nor did any of his other neighbours, was that Mr Carter was a very enthusiastic member of the corporal punishment scene. He regularly attended the Whacko! Club, where he and like-minded individuals punished one another with canes, slippers, straps and no end of everyday household implements.

Mr Carter himself was an expert wielder of the cane. Six-of-the-best delivered by him could leave a backside scarred and tender for a week – and that was if the trousers were up. Imagine what the buttocks would be like when he caned on the bare.

The Whacko! Club had one drawback, Mr Carter thought, nearly all its members were middle-aged or older men. They never had much chance to cane the bottoms of the younger generation, and, as Adam was a case in point, some of them could do with a damn good thrashing.

“Adam, you cannot go unpunished for this, you know that don’t you?” Mr Carter was working up to making the boy an offer he hoped he couldn’t refuse. Adam agreed this was the case and that gave Mr Carter the confidence to go through with his plan.

“Adam, we don’t need to involve the police or your parents in this.” Adam beamed and nearly fell on Mr Carter’s neck with gratitude.

“But there is a third option,” he took a deep breath, “I could cane you.”

Adam’s glorious eyes rolled. Had he heard correctly? Was he still tripping on the drug?

“Yes you heard correctly. It would be a short sharp shock that would help you to mend your ways. What do you say to that?”

In truth Adam was speechless, the proposition was preposterous: he was eighteen years old and had never been caned in his life, not even spanked.

Mr Carter moved on swiftly to fill the gap left by the teenager’s silence. “I intend to give you six-of-the-best; it will be intensely painful at first that is the point. The pain will go quite quickly but your bottom will be very tender for some hours after. But, it will not kill you.”

Mr Carter had decided not to tell Adam that his bottom would be striped with six red welts that might last several days, or even a week, depending on how sensitive his skin was.

“I hope you will learn a lesson from this and the next time you are tempted to take cannabis, you will remember this afternoon.”

Adam had recovered his speech by now, but not by much. “The c-c-c-cane?”

“It is entirely up to you,” Mr Carter said, desperately hoping the boy would allow him to thrash him. “Either we go to the police or to your parents or you take six-of-the-best. What’s it to be?”

And, that’s how Adam found himself alone in Mr Carter’s living room, waiting for him to return from upstairs with the cane that he was going to use to beat his backside raw.

Mr Carter sorted through his cane collection. He had a variety in different lengths and thicknesses. He was very familiar with the attributes of each cane, but nonetheless he picked up each one and swished it through the air to test its suppleness. He settled on a medium length cane with the thickness of a pencil. He knew it was a marvellously effective rod and would pack a punch. This would be Adam’s first-ever caning and, sadly, Mr Carter thought, probably his last, this cane would make it a memorable experience.

He took it downstairs half expecting to find Adam had done a runner. In fact, the boy had considered fleeing, but he reckoned there was no point. Mr Carter knew where he lived and if he didn’t allow him to cane him he would certainly call the police.

At the sight of the cane in Mr Carter’s hand, Adam’s face blanched, even with his summer sun tan.

He swished the cane menacingly. “So, Adam do you consent to being caned?” Mr Carter was beginning to feel a little guilty. Was he taking advantage of the boy? Was he still high on drugs and not able to make a rational choice? Was he breaking the law by beating the boy against his will?

“Well Adam?”

Mr Carter looked right into Adam’s puppy dog eyes. He could see the boy was thinking about it. How painful would it be? Surely, not very much, after all in his dad’s day (as he was always telling Adam) boys were caned at school all the time.

He took a deep breath, then, he nodded. He would take the caning.

“Bend over the back of the Chesterfield.”

But, despite having consented, Adam showed no intention of moving, so Mr Carter brought the cane down with a resounding Thwack!! across the leather back of the couch.

“I said bend over. Do it now, or I will give you extra strokes.”

Adam bent over for his first-ever caning.

“Head down, bottom high. Legs further apart boy.”

His jeans-covered arse made a terrific target, the outline of his tight briefs were clearly visible. Mr Carter liked the Chesterfield, it was just the right height and width to take any shape of “boy.”

Mr Carter was unsure how hard to make the first stroke. He had been caning men’s backsides for nearly twenty years, but mostly they were guys who were beaten once a month on average and they had tough hides. Adam was a caning virgin.

Oh well, Mr Carter thought, the point is to make him suffer, so he brought the cane down across the middle of Adam’s backside with some vigour. The teenager’s eyes widened and he puffed out a blast of air, but remained steady. Mr Carter could see a thin white line had appeared across the tight denim and he knew a red welt would have formed beneath Adam’s underpants.

Number two struck home a quarter of an inch below the first, Adam’s hips moved from side to side, but he kept down across the couch.

Number three hurt the most so far. Adam was in real agony and wanted to leap up and rub at his poor bottom to make the pain go away. But he didn’t. Some schoolboy instinct told him he must remain in position, he didn’t want extra strokes.

Number four landed across the welts made by the previous cuts and the boy screamed.

“Stay down boy,” Mr Carter instructed. He was enjoying beating the boy. Despite his lust, he genuinely wanted Adam to give up drugs. He hoped this thrashing would set him on the straight-and-narrow. He decided to make the final two strokes exemplary.

He lashed them down in quick succession, SWISH! SWISH! Adam did a little stomping dance on the spot, desperately hoping it would make the agony in his backside go away.

It was over, Adam lay across the Chesterfield, his arse felt like it had been hit by a red hot poker. It must have swollen to at least twice its normal size, he reckoned.

“Stand up, boy,” it was a curt command and Adam obeyed.

“Stand there.” Mr Carter pointed with his cane to a spot close to the dining room table.

Adam was desperately rubbing away at his bottom. Usually, Mr Carter would have ordered a punished boy to stop that immediately, but not this time: Adam looked so cute.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you boy.” Mr Carter could see Adam’s beautiful eyes were moist, he wasn’t crying, not yet at least, but Mr Carter knew that as soon as he was left alone in private, Adam would bawl his eyes out.

“If I hear you have been taking drugs again, you will be back over my Chesterfield again. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir.” Mr Carter very much liked the way the boy said, “Sir.”

“Only next time, I’ll give you six strokes on your bare bottom. Do you understand, that, Adam?”

Another wonderful, “Yes, Sir.”

“You are dismissed, go home.”

Mr Carter poured himself a glass of whiskey. Wow! How he had enjoyed that, but the guilt was returning. Had he taken advantage of the boy? Was Adam’s judgment impaired by the cannabis? Would Mr Carter live to regret this moment?

It was three weeks later when the doorbell rang and Adam was at the door, giggling. “Sir, I have to tell you something ….”

 

Other stories you might like.

The smiling boy

The sling-shot

The mailman delivers

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com