I saw him only once at the photocopier and I could never get him out of my mind again.
I was working on some report or other and casually looked up from my desk. He was at the other end of the open-plan office copying documents.
I only saw him from the back. It was the hottest summer on record and he wore the shortest of shorts, so short they were not much bigger than the briefs he had on underneath. Straps from the back passed over his shoulders and fastened at the front, tugging the denim so tight they fitted like a second skin and highlighted the contours of his buttocks.
His hips were slender and his back straight. I remember his pale blue T-shirt was tucked into his shorts.
I probably stared open mouthed. I hope not, I wouldn’t want my work colleagues to know my secret.
He took a minute or so to finish his work and walked away. I never saw him again.
That night, I dreamed of him. He was naked and bent submissively across my knee. With my left hand I ruffled his hair, to let him know I loved him. My fingertips caressed his back as I followed his spine from his neck to the hairless crack in his buttocks. My right palm hovered above each cheek, and then with a circling motion, massaged them gently.
His was breathing easily; he was ready for what I was about to give him. I raised my right hand to shoulder height and brought it down with a hearty SMACK! into his right buttock. He felt it, it smarted, and his bottom started to glow. I smacked him twelve times, slowly, so that his creamy white bottom turned to bright, bright red.
I have visualized him in school uniform, bending over, touching toes, as I smack a gym shoe into the seat of his stretched grey Terylene trousers. I’ve had him across my knee as a soccer player as I spank him on the shorts (in the days when they still were ‘shorts’). A favourite is him dressed only in swimming trunks, he has been in the sea beyond the ‘danger line’ and I whack him (for his own good, of course) on his soaking wet bare arse.
But my favourite is the boy in those tight denim shorts bent submissively across the photocopier for me to thrash him with a traditional whippy crook-handle rattan school cane.
It was thirty-five years ago and I don’t think a single month has gone by since that I haven’t thought about him.
Young man, I don’t know your name and I never even saw your face, but may I thank you from the bottom of my heart for all the innocent pleasure you have given me for the best part of my life.
Other workplace stories you might like
More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second