Jimbo stared out of the bedroom window as the grey cold drizzle ran down the pane. The twelve scolding lines of pain emblazoned across his rear end burned and throbbed.
He could hardly believe what he had done. He was in such big trouble. What an idiot he had been. The police could have been called. He might have ended up in prison.
He had not meant to hurt anyone. He just had not thought. He was so stupid. The girl was almost killed. If only he could turn back the clock.
Hidden in a drawer was the weapon he had used: an industrial strength sling-shot. He had been bored, that was the only explanation. So bored, he had gone to the back garden for target practice. He lined up a few tin cans and shot stones at them. He was not very good, to tell the truth.
So, he became even more bored, he tried shooting stones into the trees, aiming wildly at birds, but they were too quick for him. Then, he went to the garden shed. Why had he done it? He still did not know; he never would know.
He found a packet of steel ball-bearings. He had no idea how they got there or who they belonged to. Seconds later he was back in the garden, loading the heavy balls into the sling-shot. He did not aim at tin cans or at birds in the tree. He just pulled at the enormous sling and sent the balls high into the air.
Three streets away, Mr Harris was turning his car into his drive when a missile whizzed from the sky, crashed through his windscreen and missed his three-year-old niece’s head by a whisker.
Jimbo launched six of the balls into the stratosphere, before, once again becoming bored, he went back to his bedroom to flick through a pornographic magazine, oblivious to the drama he had created.
A neighbour, Mr West, out tending to his roses, witnessed some of it. Only later when word spread around the estate about Mr Harris, his car and his niece’s close escape, could he fill in the details.
It was the talk of the neighbourhood. That Anderson boy. The thug. The brat. He needs locking up.
“He needs a damn good thrashing, that’s what he needs.” This was Mr Featherstone at number twenty-four. A group of neighbours were standing in the street; talking. Gossiping. They had already fingered Jimbo for the crime.
“Someone call the police,” said Mrs Titterington, the lady who worked at the nearby newsagent. “It shouldn’t be allowed.”
“Let’s talk to his parents first. See what they have to say about it,” said Mr Rillington, the aged pensioner who did not like the police. Never had done. Not since he was a nipper.
That’s when Mr Featherstone chimed in. “He needs a bloody good hiding. A dose of the cane, that’s what he needs.” The others lapsed into an embarrassed silence.
Just the sort of thing the pervert would say, Mr Hindcroft, who was a motor engineer when he was actually in work, thought. He did not say it out loud, but he was not the only one thinking it. Hindcroft had his doubts about Featherstone. He was a bit too fancy, too lah-de-dah. Always immaculately turned out in smart suits and tightly-knotted neck ties. He was a bit of a you-know-what, if you wanted Mr Hindcroft’s opinion.
Jimbo’s dad Peter always got on with the neighbours. He sometimes worked behind the bar at the local social club; he knew all the men by name and they knew him. Many of them knew Jimbo, although they knew him as Jimmy, the name he was called since he was a toddler.
He had reinvented himself as ‘Jimbo’ at school. It made him more modern, he thought. And more like a tough lad. Jimmy was what you called a little kid; someone still in short trousers. Jimbo had left kid’s stuff and short trousers behind, a long time ago.
Peter could tell something was up when he turned his car off the main road into the suburban avenue where he lived. There were too many adults on the street and he knew that quite a few of them did not live there. He recognised ‘Harry’ Harris; he lived two or three streets away, what was he doing there?
Peter hardly had time to get out of the car and lock it before a gang of neighbours was on his doorstep.
Did he know? What was he going to do about it? The girl could have been killed. A flurry of voices all wanted to speak at once.
“What are you talking about?” Peter was irritated; he was hot and tired and he needed a cup of tea and a sit-down.
They all started talking at once.
“Stop! All of you! What’s up, what do you want?” Peter was losing his temper.
Mr Harris started. He talked about the steel ball crashing through the car’s windscreen. His daughter could have been killed.
Mr West provided the details about Jimbo. “Six balls, shot in the air. No consideration for anyone.”
Mr Featherstone stopped himself in time from saying, “He needs a good caning.”
Peter Anderson was dumb-struck. He did not believe a word of it. He did not want to believe a word of it, but the evidence was there and so was the witness.
“I’m sorry Harry,” he said to Mr Harris, “I’ll make sure he pays for the damage.”
“Is that all? He should pay a damn site more than that.” This time Mr Featherstone could not stop himself. “He needs to be …” he trailed off, fearing that he might be drawing attention to himself.
“Come inside Harry,” Peter unlocked the front door, “Let’s talk about this inside.”
He had meant just himself and Harry, but half the neighbourhood pushed their way into his house. Upstairs, oblivious to the commotion he had caused Jimbo unzipped his jeans and opened the front. His pants were soon over his thighs as he tugged away with his right hand imagining what he would do to the sexy young minx in the magazine he was holding in his left.
Calm now, the neighbours discussed what to do.
“Call the police, he needs locking up, he’s a lunatic,” Mrs Titterington had not changed her tune.
“No, not the police,” Harry Harris spoke softly.
“He needs to be punished,” somebody that Peter did not know, said.
Yes, Peter thought the boy needed to be punished and he knew just how. It was none of his neighbours’ business and he did not want to broadcast the fact, but Peter Anderson believed in corporal punishment and he was not shy of using it on his own boys.
“Do you want me to beat him?” it was a simple question, calmly asked.
Mr Harris pondered; was there an alternative?
“What do you propose to do?”
“You should cane him,” Mr Featherstone chirped. “And, I think I know where I can get you a cane to use.”
I bet you do you bloody shirt-lifter, Mr Hindcroft thought but did not say aloud.
“No, that won’t be necessary,” Peter replied absent-mindedly.
“Shall we, then?” he asked Mr Harris so matter-of-factly he might have been suggesting making a cup of tea.
“Well, if you think so,” Mr Harris was embarrassed. He did not want to be the one to decide.
“That’s settled, thank you everyone we’ll take it from here”, he said and began to usher people out of the room. Reluctantly, for they really wanted to stay to enjoy the show, they drifted onto the pavement outside.
“If you want me to …”
“Thank you Mr Featherstone, I can handle it,” Peter replied, irritated by the suave gentleman’s interest.
Moments later Peter and Harry were alone.
“Let’s get this over with shall we.”
He stood at the foot of the stairs and yelled, “Jimmy come down here now!”
Startled, Jimbo released his grip, but his soldier still stood to attention.
Jimbo knew his dad’s tone of voice. He was in trouble, that was for certain; but he did not quite know why. Which of his many misdemeanours committed in recent times had he discovered? He hoped it was not that misunderstanding he had with Mandy Malcolm. Had she told her dad? Had he complained to his own father?
He tucked his cock back in his pants as best he could and zipped himself up. It would soften of its own accord pretty quickly he reckoned.
No, it was not to do with Mandy Malcolm, he quickly discovered. It was much worse than that.
“Another half inch to the left and the ball would have killed her. What were you thinking?” Peter’s father was genuinely distressed.
His distress was nothing compared to his son Jimbo’s. The teenager was a fool sometimes, often lazy and neglected his schoolwork and the chores he was meant to do around the house. He had all these faults, but he was not a bad lad at heart.
“I.. I..” he began but he could not find the words to express his sorrow. And it was genuine sorrow; he had meant no harm. He just had not thought.
Jimbo missed most of his father’s lecture about responsibility; how he was eighteen years old now. He was an adult and he should start behaving like one. Jimbo’s mind was somewhere else. He had a vivid imagination and could see the little girl with her head smashed open, her brains oozing onto the car dashboard.
“You know you have to be punished for this, don’t you?” his dad spoke so softly that Jimbo missed what he had said.
“I said,” he almost shouted this time. Jimbo had no choice but to hear it.
Punished. Christ, he knew what that meant. The last time he could not sit down comfortably for a day and it took two weeks for the bruises to clear. He had to truant from school to avoid the PE classes; there was no way he was going to let his fellow pupils know he had been beaten black and blue with his dad’s cane.
“You are a big boy now, Jimmy. You are an adult. I cannot force you to take a caning; you must do it of your own free will.”
Jimmy blushed deeply. He did not want to take a thrashing, especially if Mr Harris, a stranger to him, was to be a witness. It would certainly be bare-arsed and the agony would be excruciating. But, he could not get the image of the smashed brains out of his head. He had screwed up royally and he needed to be punished. Perhaps, the beating would be an end to the matter; some kind of closure. He could put the girl out of his mind and move on with his life.
“OK dad, I’ll do it.”
There was no more to say.
Mr Harris looked on a little astonished at what was happening.
“Fetch the cane, you know where it is.”
Jimbo did indeed. It was always kept in the cupboard under the stairs. It felt light and innocuous as he handed it over to his father, but he knew from painful experiences that in the hands of his dad this thin, whippy curve-handled dragon cane could take his arse off.
“Err, should I?” Mr Harris indicated towards the door.
“No, Mr Harris please, you should stay. I might need you.”
It was not the answer Mr Harris had hoped for. He had instigated the teenager’s thrashing, but was now not so sure he wanted to witness it.
“Take down your trousers and pants and bend over the armchair.”
It sounded to Mr Harris as if such an order was regularly made in this house: and just as regularly obeyed.
Jimbo was relived his erection had died. It would be humiliating enough to be naked from the waist down in front of a stranger without the added embarrassment of displaying a raging hard-on.
A distraught Jimbo Anderson tugged his jeans and pants down in a single movement and he leaned forward over the back of the soft leather armchair. His nose touched the back of the chair and a faint smell of sweat invaded his nostrils.
The posture arched his teenage buttocks out to receive correction, buttocks that now quivered with the anticipation of feeling the harsh sting of the whippy cane.
“Take hold of his hands, please Mr Harris.”
How he wished he had not got involved. His daughter was fine, she had not been injured. The boy had not meant to do harm. Why had he not let it be? Now, not only was he being forced to witness this flogging, he was being made to take part.
“Please Mr Harris.”
With a very heavy heart, he walked to the front of the chair and gripped the boy’s wrists. He closed his eyes and turned his head away; he did not want to see this.
Jimbo’s father stood to the left of the waiting youth, cane in his hand. Jimbo’s bare buttocks were presented submissively over the back of the armchair. His trousers and underpants bunched around his ankles and his shirt rolled clear.
Peter drew his arm back. The cane whistled. Crack!
“Owww…dad!” A red stripe appeared across the cute teenage bottom. Again the cane struck. Crack! Another stripe matched the first.
“Yeoww…dad! Please!” He looked over his shoulder, pleading.
“You hold still and take your licking,” hissed his father.
Twelve times the stout cane whistled and cracked across Jimbo’s tender bottom. With each one, the teenager yelled in anguish and shifted from foot to foot. Mr Harris held on to the boy’s wrists like his life depended on it.
Outside on the pavement all the neighbours except Mr Featherstone had dispersed. He nodded to himself in quiet satisfaction as Jimbo’s yells echoed around the small sitting room and escaped outside through the window.
Slowly, ever so slowly, Jimbo got up, the change of the contours of his arse seem to make the pain worse as the biting strokes burned deep across his rear end, his hands went back and gently massaged the burning welts.
He stood up and hoisted his briefs and trousers back into place. The material rubbed against his injured flesh. All the same, it was a not unpleasant sensation. He felt cleansed. He smiled at Mr Harris and sighed, “I am so sorry, Sir. I deserved that, didn’t I?”
Mr Harris gasped. The teenager’s demeanour shocked him. His eyes were blazing and his face was as red as his backside. His breathing was shallow and clearly he was in considerable agony.
The thrashing was severe and Mr Harris had expected the skin to break and blood to fall, but Jimbo’s bottom remained intact, though the colour of the bruising became an ever-more spectacular display of black, purple and cobalt blue. This might have proved the old adage that a boy’s bottom gets tougher with regular punishment, and that you cannot beat a boy’s arse too often.
Mr Harris looked away from the boy across the room to his father. He was calm but breathing heavily. Sweat stained the underarms of his shirt. He had put all his energy and then some more into the strokes.
“I.. I ..” Mr Harris could not find the words to express the disgust he felt at the spectacle he had been forced to participate in, so he rushed from the room, and was through the front door before either Jimbo or his father realised he was gone.
Other stories you might like.
More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second