This is a follow-up story to Paul and his landlord, which is here
Paul stood, his hands behind his back. Waiting. Breathing heavily. He looked down at the huge padded vinyl armchair. It was a very comfortable chair. But, this evening he would not be sitting down in comfort. Not in that chair or anywhere else.
His landlord tapped the thick crook-handled rattan cane against his right leg. Tap, tap, tap. Then, swoosh! it roared through the air as Mr Jarvis swiped it in front of the twenty-year-old’s face.
“I caned you once before for coming home late drunk and disturbing the whole household.” Mr Jarvis flexed the cane, making a perfect bow. “But evidently I didn’t cane you hard enough.”
Paul moved his attention from the chair to his elderly landlord. “No, you didn’t and I hope you make a better job of it this time.”
He didn’t say the words out loud, but it’s what he felt.
Mr Jarvis had beaten Paul two weeks previously. It had been six strokes on the seat of his blue pin-striped trousers. Paul remembered every single stroke. Every night in bed since he had masturbated at the memory.
It had been six strokes; but nobody would ever call them “six-of-the-best.”
It had been his first taste of corporal punishment. He had been both frightened and excited. Somewhere deep inside his soul, he craved to be beaten. The feeling had been hidden all his life; until Mr Jarvis came along.
It had been a mild caning and he had hardly felt a thing; except for deep disappointment. His buttocks had tingled, but in no way could he say he had been in pain. It had been an opportunity lost.
But there was hope. Mr Jarvis had 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!” were his parting words.
Yes, Paul thought, as clear as a bell.
Paul was not a typical student; for one thing, he actually studied hard. If you saw him on the street, you would never think he went to university; he looked more like a junior bank clerk. Often he wore blue pin-striped trousers and a white shirt. His only concession to youth culture was the multi-coloured tank-top slipover jumper he sometimes wore. His hair was cut in a crew cut that wouldn’t look out of place in the US Marines.
Mr Jarvis tapped the cane against his right leg. He always seemed to wear brown corduroy trousers topped off with a beige cardigan. Paul didn’t know the man’s age, he didn’t know that he would never see seventy again. He was married to a much younger woman; easily half his age and they had an eighteen-year-old son, Charlie. At least Paul assumed he was Mr Jarvis’s son; it wasn’t the sort of question you asked your landlord.
Paul’s eyes fixated on the tapping cane. Tap, tap, tap; it moved like a metronome; steady in its swing.
The silence in the room was overwhelming. Only the muffled tick, tick, from a carriage clock on the mantelpiece disturbed it.
Eventually, Mr Jarvis lifted the cane and flexed it thoughtfully between his hands. It was a typical crook-handled rattan cane; you could buy one in any town up and down the country. It was a little over three feet in length and a yellow-brown colour. This one was a little warped; Mr Jarvis had owned it for some time and it had seen a lot of action.
“I want you to lower your trousers and underpants and put yourself over the back of the chair.”
Involuntarily, Paul blushed, even though he had been hoping this would be the outcome of his late-night escapade.
He stood rooted to the spot; staring at Mr Jarvis with his craggy lined face and piercing grey eyes. He was no giant of a man, but he had presence. Perhaps at one time he had been in the military; or a policeman perhaps; who knew?
“Get on with it boy; I don’t have all night,” Mr Jarvis’s nostrils flared as he arced his cane tighter.
Paul could not stop his eyelids flickering. Blink, blink, blink. Suddenly his hands trembled uncontrollably. Blood raced through his body and his ears popped. He so wanted this thrashing.
But, his fingers would not obey his command. His belt remained unfastened.
“Doh!” Mr Jarvis exploded. He swivelled on his feet, threw the cane down on the dining room table and turned back to the lodger trembling before him. He slapped Paul’s hand away from his belt, grabbed it and pulled the astonished boy forward by the waistband of his trousers. Then showing a degree of expertise, he had the belt loosened, the waist button unfastened and the zip fly open in one continuous movement.
Gravity helped Paul’s trousers slip over his hips and down his thighs until they came to rest at his knees.
His honeycomb-coloured briefs barely covered Paul’s privates. Public hair extruded from the gusset.
Mr Jarvis had no interest in his tenant’s manhood; it was the other side of the boy that concerned him.
“Take down your underwear.” It was a clear command and since Paul had now regained some of his faculties, the young student quickly put his thumbs under the elasticated waist and sent the briefs down to meet his trousers.
Swish! Mr Jarvis cut the cane through the air. It was a terrific swipe and Paul felt the breeze as it whizzed close to his bare legs. “Bend over the chair.”
Paul had fantasied about this repeat caning. It would be an intimate moment: just he and the old man who would thrash him. He had it worked out in his head. He took a step forward, which released his trousers and pants from his knees, sending them slithering to his feet. Then he flopped over the back of the padded chair. He interlocked his fingers and placed his hands firmly on his head. His nose was pushed close up to the vinyl cushion. He could feel the sponge interior give way as the weight of his head pressed down.
This was exactly as he imagined it. Himself submitting his bared backside to the attention of the old man. Waiting, bottom high, head low for his landlord to whip him with the cane. This time, he enthusiastically hoped, the pain would be awesome.
But something was not quite right. Paul panicked. Oh, my God; there was something he hadn’t considered.
His face was in the cushion and his hands were on his head as he had planned. But, he had not calculated that his legs would be wide and his bottom held so high that Mr Jarvis could see right into his crease and hole. His crack winked open and shut with his nervousness.
He could think only one thought: how clean was he? He had not bathed that day; Sunday was bath night at the Jarvis household.
Paul closed his knees together, trying to close his crack.
Mr Jarvis swished the cane through the air once more. “Legs further apart boy.”
Miserably, the twenty-year-old parted his feet. Just then a cold breeze swept across his bare legs. The front door of the house had opened.
“Is that you Charlie!” Mr Jarvis called. It was his eighteen-year-old son, home late from school.
“Come in here, I want a word with you.”
Reluctantly, the schoolboy closed the door and trudged to the living room. He knew his dad wanted more than “a word.” The previous night he and two pals had been caught by police joy-riding in a stolen car. It was only a matter of time before his father found out.
His two friends were also facing awkward interviews with their dads, but Charlie knew he would be the only one going across the back of a couch.
Charlie entered the living room and his face lit up. Oh My God. Paul was draped across the chair, naked from the waist down about to get a caning from Charlie’s dad. Oh joy! He hated the stuck-up student and was beside himself with glee when Paul was caned last time.
“Wait there,” his father’s instruction was stern. “I’ll deal with you in a minute.”
Charlie took a few steps inside the room and took up a position all the better to witness Paul’s bare-bottomed beating.
This was not how it was supposed to be. Paul’s passion to be beaten was waning. This was supposed to be an intimate moment between his master and he.
Mr Jarvis stood about three feet to Paul’s right and placed the cane across the very centre of both buttocks, at the fleshiest point. He tapped a couple of times to get his aim, then raised the cane high, swung his hips and brought it crashing down with tremendous force.
Paul’s whole body jerked. His hands pressed harder into his head and his feet marched up and down on the spot. Charlie’s grin spread. He knew he would be next; but he was going to enjoy this spectacle for all it was worth.
A thick dark red mark appeared across Paul’s hairless cheeks.
Mr Jarvis was taking aim again, when once more the front door opened. It was Joe and Arthur, the two workmen who shared the room next to Paul. They had already seen some of the action through the large open window as they approached the house.
They poked their heads round the living room door.
“Hello,” Mr Jarvis greeted them as old friends, “I’m just teaching the young pup a lesson.”
Joe smiled approvingly. “Good job – waking us up the middle of the night.”
Mr Jarvis resumed his aim and let fly with swipe number two. It was greeted by a long elongated hissing sound as air escaped through Paul’s clenched teeth. He continued his military marching on the carpet.
“Nice one, Mr Jarvis,” Joe cooed as another dark welt formed on the boy’s backside.
Mr Jarvis looked over his shoulder at the workmen with irritation. Then he aimed and delivered number three. This landed low down on the underside of the cheeks. Paul’s hissing turned to yelps. That one had hurt. Yes, indeed. Never before had he experienced such pain. Not even that time when he was about eight and he broke his wrist when he fell of his bicycle. This was nothing like the first caning his landlord had delivered.
“Wow,” Joe pipped up again. “Look at that. You’re doing a great job Mr Jarvis.”
The old man snapped, “We don’t need a running commentary thank you Joe.” He was no longer able to contain his irritation.
“No Joe,” his friend Arthur pushed him playfully on the shoulder. “Be quiet, or Mr Jarvis will have you over the chair next.” Joe shot him a glare and the two men blushed deeply.
Paul shut his lips and waited. His intimate thrashing had turned into a household sideshow. Surely, he would never hear the last of this now.
Stroke number four swiped home higher on the mounds; near the base of the spine. Now he had four perfectly struck welts across his bum, running in parallel and covering about two inches from top to bottom.
Joe, scrunched his eyes shut in sympathy for the boy. He knew that last one would have hurt intensely.
Once more the front door opened. It was Mrs Jarvis, back from the shops.
“Oh,” she sighed, embarrassed to be confronted by a young man’s bare and scarred backside. “I thought you would have been finished by now.” She rushed through to her kitchen before she could be invited to join in the fun.
Paul’s embarrassment was complete. But the punishment was not. Just about the entire household had witnessed his humiliation and there were still two strokes to come.
The lodger’s backside was on fire. The burning sensation centred on the crown of his buttocks, but the pain was shooting up and down his legs. His heartrate was off the scale and he struggled to breathe evenly.
Mr Jarvis had not finished. The boy needed to learn a lesson. The previous caning had not had the desired effect; this one must be exemplary. He moved his position slightly and placed the cane diagonally from bottom left to top right across both cheeks. Then, with a swift flick of the wrist he bounced the whippy rattan rod off the tight bottom. It landed across all four of the previous stokes. The agony was terrific as the pain in each cut was reignited.
Paul’s body shot six inches off the apex of the chair, but with great fortitude he did not jump to his feet to rub away at his ripped bum. No way would he disgrace himself in front of the others; especially Charlie, whom he knew could take a severe caning from his dad with tremendous stoicism.
Paul tightened the grip of his fingers and waited for what he fervently hoped would be the final slash. It wasn’t long in coming. He felt his tormentor move his position again. Oh my God, Paul knew the old man’s plan. Mr Jarvis aimed his cane diagonally the other way across the bum and landed another cut.
Paul now had a perfect “X” mark across both cheeks running across the four other cuts. Joe wanted to applauded Mr Jarvis’s expertise. It was magnificent; he had never seen anything remotely as good before. He wanted to praise the old man to the hilt, but he did not. He had already embarrassed his pal Arthur and knew he would have to pay for that later. He didn’t want to make things worse.
Paul gasped into the soft vinyl seat cushion. The searing pain was easing, but both buttocks throbbed like crazy.
“You may get up now boy.” Mr Jarvis turned to his spectators, “Thank you gentlemen!” Joe and Arthur took their cue and in silence they shuffled up the stairs: they had thirty minutes before dinner would be served.
Charlie watched impassively as Paul with some difficulty pulled up first his tight briefs and then his city-style pin-striped trousers. The pain intensified as his whipped backside stretched as he bent down. The tight underwear pressed against the damaged flesh increasing the throbbing.
Paul’s eyes shone, but no tears formed. His face was as scarlet as his bottom and the back of his shirt was drenched with perspiration, although it was a cool evening.
Mr Jarvis said nothing; he nodded his head towards the door and Paul hobbled gingerly away.
“Now, Charlie.” Mr Jarvis turned his attention to his son. There was a little matter of joy-riding to be dealt with.
Moments later, Paul stood in the courtyard peering through the window transfixed. There was Charlie, dressed in his school uniform: dark blue jumper with yellow braiding around the edges, grey trousers and black shoes, listening, head bowed, to his father’s lecture.
Then, upon command, the schoolboy lowered his trousers and underpants and took up the position, recently vacated by Paul himself. The cane rose and so did Paul’s cock. The cane fell. But the twenty-year-old’s penis did not. By stroke number four the front of his pants was full.
Other landlord and tenant stories you might like
More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second