The duty manager stood at his office window scanning the hotel complex for trouble. It was three days since he had any action and he was getting very tense.
Then he saw them. Yes, this would do nicely.
Two teenaged boys, obviously English judging by their pale skins, were dancing on the balcony of their rooms, dressed only in their underpants. Drunk, of course, he thought. Unless they were high on drugs.
He couldn’t hear from a distance but he was pretty sure loud music would be coming from the room, disturbing other hotel guests.
What’s this? One of the boys wriggled his bottom provocatively at his friend. What the Hell? In what the boy supposed to be a seductive dance, he lowered his bright yellow briefs and thrust out his pert little, now bare, buttocks.
The duty manager went to his computer and after a few mouse clicks the information he wanted appeared on screen. Yes, the thought so: Peter Giles, aged eighteen, and Wayne Calderwood, aged nineteen. They were part of a package group from England: arrived yesterday for ten days.
Yes, they would be ideal, he told himself, as he picked up his keys and briefcase.
Five minutes later he was hammering on their hotel door.
“Duty manager here. Please open the door.”
A few seconds elapsed before the music was turned off and the door opened.
“Duty manager,” he showed his ID card and entered the room. The boys were still in their underpants and judging by the glazed look in their eyes, they had been drinking heavily. The empty beer bottles confirmed that.
Typical English louts, the duty manager thought, away from their parents for an orgy of sun, sand, booze and sex.
“I have had complaints about the noise from this room,” he rasped sternly. Drunk though they were, the boys remained silent and heard him out.
“And, I witnessed myself, your lewd behaviour on the balcony.”
Both boys blushed scarlet at the thought their little secret was out.
“Now, I have your names here; which one of you is Wayne?”
The boy in the yellow pants raised his hand.
“So, you must be Peter?” he told the other boy.
“Right, Peter, Wayne, I want you to pack your bags and leave the hotel.”
The boys had not expected this and they sobered up pretty quickly. There was nowhere they could go. They were on a tourist deal and their flight home didn’t leave for more than a week.
Peter piped up, “We are sorry, Sir. We promise not to do it again.”
“Sir”. The duty manager liked that. This was going to be easy.
Peter and Wayne slurred their explanations. They were on a package tour. There was no way they could fly back to England now. If they were thrown out of the hotel, they would be destitute. They would have to sleep on the beach.
What would their friends say?
God! What would their fathers say? No what would their fathers DO, when they found out.
Wayne knew what his father would do. It took weeks for the bruises and scars to completely heal after dad heard he had been driving the family car without permission and well over the drink-drive limit.
It had been the whipping of his lifetime. But, the teenager was certain the thrashing he would get when his dad heard about this would be ten times worse, especially if dad had to buy him an air ticket to rescue him from Lanzarote.
The duty hotel manager could read the hooligans like a book.
“No, you must leave. We cannot have this kind of behaviour. We are a respectable hotel.”
That wasn’t strictly true, many things happened at the hotel that were far from respectable. That’s why so many youngsters stayed there.
Peter could feel his eyes welling up. He was such a cry baby.
The duty manager let them suffer a while.
“How old are you boys?”
Peter, “Eighteen, Sir.”
Wayne, “Nineteen, nearly twenty.” And, then he added, “Sir.”
“Doh! If I were your fathers I’d give you each a damn good spanking.”
The boys were literally speechless. Who was this man? How did he know so much about their fathers?
The duty manager eyed each boy carefully, “Do you know in this country we have the law of pater familias?”
The boys looked at each other blankly; they didn’t quite shrug their shoulders to express ignorance; but the duty manager could tell they were clueless.
“Pater familias means the head of the household takes responsibility for all those who are aged less than twenty-one years. He acts in the place of their fathers. Do you understand?”
They didn’t, so he carried on.
“In law while you are staying at the hotel you are part of my household and I act in pater familias. I am your father.” And, then a little more sharply, “Do you understand that?”
Yes, they said, they understood that.
The duty manager had them where he wanted. They were so dumb. The products of a fine English education, he thought.
“If you solemnly promise that you will not disturb your neighbours and you will not behave in that disgusting fashion again, I am prepared to act in pater familias. Do you understand?”
Peter still did not, but a light bulb lit above Wayne’s head, “You’re going to spank us.”
The two boys exchanged glances but they said nothing.
“Yes, I am. If you swear you will behave. The alternative is for you both to leave.”
The boys could not look each other in the eyes. The duty manager took their silence as assent and went to his briefcase to extract a wooden paddle. As paddles went, it was not a vicious object; similar ones were still used in a few America schools to whack the backsides of misbehaving schoolchildren.
He held the paddle in one hand as if testing its weight. Then, pointing it towards the door of the room, he said, “Both of you stand there and put your hands on your head.”
Without question, they did as instructed. Raising their hands helped to define their bodies. The duty manager took a moment to admire the muscle tone of each boy; obviously they worked out at the gym a little, but they weren’t obsessive body builders. Each boy had very clear skin and had he taken the trouble to inspect the bathroom he would find an array of lotions that had made that possible.
The rooms in the hotel were small and the duty manager knew from experience the most effective way to swing a paddle was to have the boy over his knees. He sat on a bed and motioned Peter to step forward.
“Come here, Peter and bend over my knee.”
Silently, Peter walked forward. The duty manager could see tears forming already. If he’s like this now, what will be like once I’ve blistered his backside for him?
Peter stared vacantly at the legs of the duty manager. Was he really expected to bend over them to allow this commanding man to whip his arse?
“Come on Peter,” he held out his hand to take the teenager by the arm and gently glide him over his lap. The boy did not resist and allowed the masterful man to adjust him until his chest lay across the bed and his legs stretched out behind him so his toes just reached the carpet. His bottom, the highest part of his body, rested over the duty manager’s lap.
The duty manager rubbed his huge hand over Peter’s underpants to smooth any creases from the cotton. Peter’s breathing became irregular as he waited the first swat of the paddle.
Wallop! It hit into the left cheek. Peter gasped a little, but the pain was not too great. It tingled a little that was all.
The duty manager held the boy firmly around the waist. He could see Peter had taken too much sun today; the skin on his back would be burnt by tonight. The skin on his backside would also be sore by the time he was finished.
The spanking was sound, but not brutal. Peter was in tears by the fourth swat.
By the time the twelfth and last swat smacked home, Peter’s buttocks were raw, but the pain had already turned to stinging sensation and quickly it would become a warm, pleasant glow.
The spanking over, the duty manager sent Peter to stand by the door once more, hands on head. He faced the door, away from sight.
“Wayne, you know the procedure.”
Wayne was determined to be brave in front of Peter. In their relationship, he always was the leader; the strong one.
He put himself over the duty manager’s lap and wriggled around so his backside was in the prime spot to receive the paddle.
The duty manager was annoyed that Wayne did not seem especially anxious. Well, this should make him worry more. He took hold of the pants at the waist and pulled them down to his thighs.
“There, you seem to like showing off your bare bottom. Let’s all have a look.”
Wayne hadn’t expected this; but he knew he must try to take anything the duty manager could dish out; even bare butt.
And, he could. The duty manager whacked him twelve times with the paddle; Wayne writhed a little, but mostly stayed quiet. It hurt like hell and he was a little worried about the bruises. He wanted to show off his body on the beach, but his skimpy swimming trunks hardly covered a thing. What would the boys think when they saw he had been spanked?
His duty to his other guests completed, the duty manager packed up his paddle, and prepared to leave. Both boys were rubbing their hot buttocks to convince him it had been a job well done.
“I shall be keeping an eye on you to for the rest of the stay. I hope we don’t have to have a repeat of this afternoon,” he said, unconvincingly.
Back in his office with the blinds drawn and the door locked, the duty manager reached for the suntan lotion and unzipped his trousers.
The gullible English, he thought. There’s one born every minute.
Other stories you might like.
More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second