Archie Louden knew the boy was trouble from the start and it would end in tears.
It was all the fault of that infatuated vicar. He had a scheme to help “deprived youngsters” and against his will and his better judgement Archie agreed to let the boy into his home.
He could do your cleaning, laundry, vacuuming and so on, the vicar had assured him. It annoyed Archie that the vicar thought he was a vulnerable person in need of the church’s assistance.
“This is Dean,” the vicar gushed, clearly smitten by the twenty-year-old man with the sparkling hazel eyes and dazzling smile he brought to Archie’s house.
“Deprived?” Archie, thought, a “villain” more like. He could smell it on the boy from a mile away. The boy, an expert manipulator, had the vicar wrapped around his little finger. It was the eyes and the smile that did it. It was a warm smile that could melt the iciest of hearts, Dean knew this: he had practised it often enough in reform school. The smile could sell a lot of toothpaste.
Archie lived in a large house; he had been alone since his divorce twenty years previously. He children were now grown up with kids of their own and Archie lived the life of a lonely bachelor.
It was not that he wanted to be alone; in fact he only went to church because of the widow across the street attended. Archie was not the least interested in religion and he did not need the church’s help in cleaning his house. If he did, he would employ a cleaning lady.
Dean worked hard on his “bubbly personality.” Unlike so many youngsters his age, he was completely free of tattoos, and kept himself clean and tidy. He had a certain working-class character that Archie recognised; he was very like the cheeky chappies who used to work at his catering business before he sold it off; they always had some scheme going on.
Right from the start, Dean came on to Archie. A rich old bachelor, he thought, ripe for the taking. Archie was no fool; he could see that Dean made every excuse to point his backside at him while he did the vacuuming and cleaning. His jeans were not tight, not even snug, but they fitted him well, Archie smiled to himself, Dean was trying a little too hard.
Later one night after dining in an expensive restaurant with the widow, Archie thumbed through the banknotes in his wallet. Something was not quite right; some money appeared to be missing, but he could not be sure. He was not a poor man and the money left in his wallet was more than enough to pay for the meals. Had he spent the money? Was he getting forgetful in his old age? He had been to the grocery store, the fishmonger and the greengrocer earlier in the day; perhaps he had spent more than he remembered.
Archie thought no more it until the next visit from Dean. Money went missing again. He was almost certain of it. After Dean’s third visit, Archie called the vicar. He had set a trap for the boy. Archie had counted the money in his wallet before Dean arrived and marked each banknote with a small cross in pencil just below the Queen’s chin.
Archie was furious. He confronted the interfering vicar. How many times had Dean stolen from people before? Had he stolen from poor people who could not afford it? Were they going without meals or heating because of this lout?
“You must search the boy quickly before he spends the money,” Archie demanded.
An hour later the vicar phoned back to confirm what Archie already knew: Dean had the marked notes in his pocket.
“I’m calling the police,” Archie said and he meant it. He had no sympathy for the boy and this numbskull vicar.
“Oh no, please don’t do that,” the vicar was almost begging. If Archie had thought about it for a moment he would realise the vicar was more interested in his own reputation, than the smiling boy. What would people think of him allowing criminals into the homes of vulnerable people?
“If not the police, what do you intend to do about it?”
The vicar had no answer.
Then Archie had a germ of an idea. Years ago when he was about Dean’s age Archie had stolen money from his uncle’s wallet. Missing money was discovered, accusations made and after many initial denials a confession was obtained.
What happened next stayed with Archie for the rest of his life. His uncle had ordered him to strip naked and then to lay face down across the dining room table. Then he tied Archie’s wrists to the table legs.
Then a cane was produced and his uncle lashed his bare buttocks until they bled. This was not a caning; the sort schoolmasters might inflict on misbehaving pupils, this was a terrible flogging.
Archie shuddered at the recollection. Where did his bachelor uncle get that cane from?
He knew he would not be allowed to beat Dean the way his uncle had flogged him, but the boy deserved a good hiding at the very least.
When he put the idea to the vicar, Archie was very surprised that he did not argue the point.
“I’ll see what I can do,” the vicar said meekly, before putting down the telephone.
The next day Dean and the vicar stood nervously in the living room of Archie’s house. Dean still flashed his ingratiating smile, perhaps believing that even at this last minute he could still melt Archie’s ice cold heart.
But in his own heart Dean knew he had to take a spanking. He had a criminal record as long as his arm and if the police discovered the number of times he had recently stolen from pensioners in their homes he would certainly go to prison.
Archie had made preparations. He had a utility brush with sharp metal bristles that builders had left behind after they made repairs to the roof. It was heavy and large, the wooden back would be very effective indeed.
Archie had never spanked anyone before but he reckoned Dean was a big lad and the brush would not hurt him enough so he also must be humiliated. Just as his uncle had humiliated him more than forty years ago,
Dean was not smiling now.
“But surely Mr Louden could it not just be on the seat of his trousers?” the vicar tried to intervene.
Archie’s derisive snort put an end to any argument.
Resigned to his fate, Dean slipped his t-shirt over his head; loosened the belt of his jeans and let them fall to his feet. Then he kicked off his trainers and jeans. Now he stood in just his white socks and green and yellow striped briefs.
He hesitated and flashed that smile one more time. Archie could be an imposing figure when he chose to be and one look from him was enough. Dean pulled his socks off and then reluctantly put his thumbs in the waistband of his pants and tugged them down to his ankles and stepped out of them.
Archie waited impassively and the vicar hoped no one noticed him sneaking admiring glances.
Dean’s scarlet face spoke volumes.
“You have nothing I haven’t seen before,” Archie lied. When did he ever have the chance to see a young man naked?
The sitting room was huge and easily accommodated an expensive leather sofa. It could seat three people and Archie plonked himself in the centre. Then with a snap of his fingers he ordered Dean to lay face down across his lap.
The young man complied and within seconds he was stretched out on the sofa, his legs resting to one side of Archie and his torso and head to the other. His buttocks were raised above Archie’s lap. Instinctively, the older man parted his legs a little so Dean’s genitals slipped between them to be out of harm’s way during the blistering buttock roasting he was about to get.
Even though he was a novice Archie made an excellent job destroying Dean’s arse. The heavy brush made a fearsome weapon. Dean was a large boy with expansive buttocks. It was difficult for Archie to get a good aim at the cheek nearest to him, but it did not stop the effectiveness of the spanking.
After only a few whacks Dean was hollering so loud Archie feared his neighbours might call the police to report a murder in progress.
He stopped long enough to ask the vicar for a handkerchief – which he then stuffed in Dean’s mouth.
Archie pounded the brush into Dean’s arse. The young man struggled with all his might to break free and lifted his body off the sofa and flailed his legs about. It was like he was trying to swim away, even though Archie had him pinned down across the waist.
“Hold his shoulders down,” it was a curt command to the vicar. He took hold of Dean’s naked shoulders and held on tightly hoping that the boy would not see the bulge in the front of his trousers. Not that Dean had much chance to; his face was now buried deep into the seat cushion.
The thrashing went on and on. Every part of the buttocks and the tops of the thighs were covered in bruises, which soon seeped blood. Dean’s face was puce and with the handkerchief in his mouth and his face pressed into the cushion, he found it hard to catch his breath.
But still Archie spanked on. He was in complete control. This was not a frenzied attack, but coolly calculated, just as Dean’s thieving had been. His bawling and sobbing became emotionally unrestrained screaming and wailing – like a ten year old. The boy’s tears flowed and the sobs grew louder and louder, and higher-pitched as he trembled with each new swat.
Eventually it was over and with contempt Archie pushed the young thief off his lap and onto the floor where Dean laid, his naked body jerking like a goldfish out of water.
The vicar fearing he might be dying took the hanky out of his mouth and fondly wiped Dean’s tear-and-snot-stained face.
Archie looked on. The boy was a pitiful sight and for a second, but only a second, he felt remorse for him, but he quickly checked himself. Dean deserved all he got. The flogging Archie had received from his uncle ensured he never stole again. Perhaps someone should have done this to Dean a long time ago.
Dean was still face down on the carpet, unable to move. Unbidden, the vicar went into the kitchen where Archie could hear the sound of water running. The vicar returned with a bowl of warm water and a tea towel and tenderly washed Dean’s bloodied buttocks. The vicar’s groin was throbbing almost as much as the boy’s backside.
Eventually, Dean was able to haul himself to his feet and in intense agony with the help of the vicar he managed to dress.
No words were exchanged between Archie and the boy or the vicar. Once they had left, Archie, his hands trembling, poured a glass of whisky.
He never saw Dean or the vicar again.
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second