Milo had not noticed that the pub manager was definitely checking out his legs – and his arse. They were firm, strong legs befitting of a long-distance runner and the arse was wrapped in satin running shorts. It had been a scorching hot summer, and now even in September the temperatures refused to cool.
The job was his, never mind that he had never worked in a pub before and did not know the first thing about pulling a pint.
Milo started work the following Monday. He was a university student and it was to be a part-time job, collecting plates and glasses and humping crates around the cellar: nothing too complicated.
It was boring work, but Milo did not mind. There were lots of young people working at the pub, mostly college students themselves, or some still at school. He supposed the pub manager employed young people because they were cheap labour, but he soon realised there might be another motive as well.
He worked weekday evenings mostly, but sometimes also during the day on Saturdays. Getting up in the morning to be at work by eleven was a challenge for the nineteen-year-old. He didn’t enjoy the work and often arrived late or took overlong rest breaks. He skived off as much as possible once he discovered nobody paid much attention to him and he could make a job last much longer than it needed to, or he could slip out the back for a smoke.
It was a large city centre pub and much of its trade was in bar meals. The pub manager, whose name was Pearce, had a fleet of young waiters who he dressed up in black trousers and white shirts with bow ties. The trousers had very high waists that emphasised the boys’ buttocks and left nothing to the imagination in the front. The boys hated the uniforms but Pearce told them that the women customers loved them.
There was a big mix of customers; some were regulars and others just passed through. As the summer turned to autumn Milo noticed one group of youngsters had become regular Saturday afternoon visitors. The first time he saw them he thought they must be a convention of Mormons. They were teenagers and all had severe short-back-and-sides haircuts and wore matching white shirts with grey trousers.
Pat, one of the waiters, soon put him straight. They were schoolboys from Longton Academy, an extremely expensive private school situated a few miles away in a suburb.
“I think it’s some sort of dare,” Pat said. “The school is so strict, they would go loco if they found out they were boozing in town.”
It was only then Milo noticed the plastic carrier bags secreted under the bar room table. The boys had not been shopping, they were hiding their very distinctive school blazers which had broad yellow and blue stripes. They were like prison clothes; if they escaped from the school wearing those they would be spotted from miles away.
Milo had seen some of the boys around town. You could not easily miss them, the boys were forced to wear short trousers up until they entered the sixth form, aged sixteen. You didn’t see many of the boys on the streets; they were probably too ashamed to be seen in public.
“Think about it,” Pat gushed, in his usual rather camp voice, “Wearing short trousers in England in January. It’s freezing, your legs would turn blue!”
Longton Academy had been famous for about five minutes earlier that year. It was 1985 and corporal punishment had just been banned in state schools but it was still allowed in private independent schools and church schools. Then the government said it would not give scholarships and bursaries to children attending independent schools that still used the cane. Longton told the government to keep its money: it would carry on caning. That was the newspaper headline: Carry on Caning!
The government thought the school would go out of business without its money, but instead it gained more pupils as parents who wanted their sons disciplined transferred them there.
One Saturday as Milo was on his way to hide in the lavatory to avoid work, he passed the pub manager outside his private sitting room. With him was one of the ‘Mormon’ boys. He seemed a little younger than his fellow Longton school chums: he was fresh-faced and quite short, but Milo reckoned he was in long trousers so he must be a sixth-former. He seemed to be in a state of some distress, but Milo did not care and went on his way.
Inside the sitting room Pearce verbally laid into the boy. “You are trying to make a fool of me. What are you doing drinking in my pub!” It was more of an accusation than a question. “I let the others drink here because they are eighteen and not breaking the law. But you. Look at you how old are you?”
“But, I am eighteen, Sir,” a blush spread from the boy’s cheeks to his ears.
“Nonsense. I have a good mind to telephone your headmaster.”
The boy was scarlet with indignation. “But truly, I am eighteen, Sir.”
Pearce did not believe a word of it. The boy was only sixteen if he were a day. Look at that face, he had never had to shave in his life.
Pearce stared straight into his face as sweat poured from the intimidated boy. Pearce interpreted it as an admission of guilt.
“Right that’s it. I’m reporting you to your school.”
“No, please Sir! Don’t do that!” the boy was alarmed. If his headmaster found out he would be beaten, and probably the caning would be in front of the whole sixth form. Only that week the boys had been warned about breaking bounds and drinking alcohol. His action would be seen as an act of great defiance. Then his parents would be informed and the consequences of that would be unthinkable: his father still kept a paddle at home.
And, if the school found out about him they would find out about all the other boys too. It was so unfair.
“Would you rather I informed the police that you have broken the law?”
“But Sir!” the boy tried one more time, “I really, truly am eighteen. I swear to it.” If only, he had some proof of his age, but who ever took their birth certificate with them to the pub?
Peace affected outrage. “Quiet boy, don’t add lying to your already outrageous crime.”
The boy felt tears welling up in his eyes. This was so unfair. Why was this happening to him?
Pearce let the boy stew; he had him exactly where he wanted. His plan was working a treat.
“There is one way we can deal with this without involving your headmaster.”
The boy was so desperate he was ready to snatch any offer out of Pearce’s hand. “Yes Sir, what is that Sir?”
Pearce’s heart was thumping. “I could deal with you myself.”
The look of puzzlement on the boy’s face revealed his lack of understanding. He looked on dumbfounded as Peace walked over to a cupboard and opened a drawer.
The look turned to amazement as Pearce extracted a stout rattan cane and turning to face the boy swished it menacingly through the air.
“I assume you have seen one of these before,” he said.
The boy blanched, the whiteness of his skin underlining his youthful good looks, but he remained silent.
Pearce swished the cane a couple of more times. It was a typical school cane, a little more than three feet long with the traditional crook handle. He assumed the headmaster at Longton used something similar.
Swish! “Let’s say six-of-the-best shall we,” Pearce was relishing taking the role of headmaster. He had never before had the opportunity to cane a real schoolboy.
The boy was an intelligent lad, the school had taught him well. In a few seconds he weighed up his options in his mind and concluded he had no choice. No choice whatsoever.
Pearce loved to swish that cane and swished it some more in the direction of a large vinyl padded armchair. “Bend over that chair.”
The boy looked at Pearce and over at the chair and back to Pearce again.
“It’s either this or the headmaster. Make up your mind.”
So the boy did. He walked to the chair and bent across its back, the weight of his body sinking into the soft vinyl. He stretched out his arms and gripped the seat cushion, keeping his head so low that his legs were unable to bend at the knees, leaving his sturdy backside filling his grey trousers tightly, the angled lines of his briefs visible across the buttocks for Pearce to admire.
Ah, the pub manager thought, correctly, this is a bottom that has been caned before. He took aim and viciously lashed the cane into the offered buttocks. The boy screwed his eyes shut, suppressed a yell and bunched his fists tightly each time a cut lashed into his trousers.
Six strokes rose and fell in rapid succession and then it was over. “You are about done, I think,” Pearce said breathlessly. Ashen faced, the boy rose from the chair and (a Longton tradition, this) he offered his hand for Pearce to shake.
“Thank you, Sir.”
Pearce would remember this gesture forever. Delighted by this distraction from his work, he sent the boy packing.
One evening a few days later Milo took himself out the back of the pub for a crafty smoke. It was a mild night and he enjoyed the fresh air away from the stuffy cellar. There was a light on in the store room and without thinking he walked to the window and peered inside. He stepped back in panic, afraid that he might be seen by the two men inside. For there, sitting on a chair was Pearce and standing in front of him with his trousers at his ankles was Pat, the camp waiter, wearing very tight polka dot bikini briefs.
Pearce snapped his fingers and meekly Pat bent forward across the pub manager’s knees so that he was practically kissing the floor to submit his bottom for a hand spanking.
Pearce’s fingers reached for the bikini briefs but seemed to fumble at the elastic and pass on up to the buttock, smoothing down the creases of the skimpy knickers and moulding the enticing form of his rump.
Then Pearce smacked into the briefs, but they were so tiny many smacks connected with bare flesh. It felt like a dream. Was his friend Pat really draped over the boss’s knee being smacked on his underpants?
The answer clearly was Yes as smacks continued to rain down. Pat who had a small behind so most of the spanks landed on both cheeks at once took his spanking without fuss; a hand spanking on the briefs-clad bony bum of a twenty-two-year-old guy would not make much impression.
Milo looked on through the dirty window pane; what he was witnessing had a dream-like quality. Pat seemed to expect it when the pub manger took hold of the briefs and pulled them to his knees. Even from a distance Milo could see the firm bottom was a bright red and looked much sorer than he had expected.
The smacks came harder and more rapidly and Pat was feeling this increase in tempo much more than before. It was the accumulation of spanks that wore him down, every spank adding to the heat from the ones that preceded it until his rear end glowed. Pearce must have realised he was missing the lower part of the bottom, so he turned his attention there and Pat’s reactions increased. He pulled him slightly towards him and concentrated on the right side of his bottom before he evened matters up on the left. Then he returned to the part that had produced the most reaction and spanked his lower bottom with tremendous speed.
Involuntarily, Pat clenched and unclenched his cheeks and wriggled his bum to escape the blows of his tormentor as it moved up and down as if he were trying to hump Pearce’s leg.
“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself to have your bare bottom over my knee?” He did not expect an answer.
“You’ve needed this for a long time. You’re disrespectful, you ignore my rules, you’ve gotten too big for your britches. Well, this is what happens to boys who get too big for their britches.”
A succession of further well aimed firmly applied smacks began to cover all exposed areas as Pat moved from side to side in syncopated harmony. Milo had no experience of such things but even he could see this was no ordinary spanking, and Pearce was clearly very experienced in laying his hand across a lad’s arse.
The punishment continued with Pat squirming and wriggling around on Pearce’s lap, his bottom dancing and bucking around, his legs kicking a bit.
Then suddenly it was over. “Ok Pat, I think we are done, you can get up, I hope you have learned your lesson?” Pearce said and the young man slowly raised himself to a standing position so that he was facing the window.
Milo high-tailed it out of there. This was not a time to be caught by his boss skiving off work, he was sure of that.
But it was not too long before the inevitable happened and Milo was caught. Pearce had admired Milo’s rear end from the first time he saw it snug inside tight satin running shorts. During the scorching hot summer he suggested to Milo he should wear his shorts to work; carrying crates and collecting glasses was sweaty work. Milo did not take him up on the offer and after trying once or twice to change the teenager’s mind Pearce gave up – not wanting to seem too obvious.
Milo spent a lot of his time in the cellar – avoiding work. He had his own daily routine. He would arrive just on time, or a little late (he was never once early). Then he would take himself down to the cellar and read the newspaper. Or, if it were a Wednesday the latest copy of Shoot! football magazine. When Pearce or his supervisor ordered so, he would take crates of beer up to the bar and take down empty bottles. But, mostly he kept out of the way.
Pearce was no fool, he knew exactly what was going on. Milo was not his only lazy member of staff. Sometimes Pearce liked it like that. It gave him his excuse.
So, it was that Pearce confronted Milo in the cellar. There was a long list of offences: late to work, too long rest breaks, smoking around the back of the pub, skiving off duties. There was not much Milo could say against the accusations: everything the pub manager said was true.
Pearce had no problem locating a large wooden utility brush. It was where he had left it after the last time. He gripped the long handle and waved its head at Milo. “I know what you need to buck your ideas up, young man.”
Milo was transfixed by the sharp wire bristles. He had learned enough over the past weeks to know Pearce’s intention: but please God not the wire brush, it would rip his arse to shreds.
The sight of Pat across the boss’s knee was still fresh in Milo’s memory, so what came next was no surprise. “Bend over those beer crates.” Pearce waved the brush at a pile of crates stacked about three feet high; a most convenient height for a young man to bend across to offer his backside.
Milo stood speechless. Who was this man and what did he think he was doing? Could he do this? Was it legal?
He asked none of these questions out loud. He remembered Pat and for the first time realised why that schoolboy looked so distressed outside Pearce’s sitting room.
Pearce had not moved. He had a commanding presence; he was still only in his thirties and stood more than six feet tall. His tanned face was chiseled and handsome, occasionally creasing into a smirk. His sun-bleached hair was spiky. He wore a wide leather belt that tightly clinched his narrow waist. His muscular arms and torso were evidence to the rigorous workouts he regularly undertook at the gym.
Milo hesitated, but it was not outright refusal. Then, for reasons that he was never able to understand or explain he walked five or six paces across the cellar, threw himself across the crates and showed Pearce his bottom.
What Pearce saw was the same thrust of Milo’s buttocks that had drawn his eye when they first met. A pair of sumptuously muscular globes jutted provocatively inside snug-fitting chinos that hugged his bottom. He was tall, slim, with blond hair styled in a crew cut nice and short and blue eyed.
“Spread those legs.” Milo meekly obeyed. His breathing was heavy. Why was he letting this happen? He did not need the job that badly. What was it about this powerful, hunk of a man that had turned his head?
Then came a sharp pain in his right buttock and then another in the left. Peace whacked the wooden side of the brush into Milo’s chinos. The pain took the teenager’s breath away and he gasped for air trying to fill his lungs.
A quick succession of whacks thumped into Milo’s magnificent buttocks and he gripped the crates for dear life to try to control the agony travelling from his rear end up and down his legs. More whacks hit their target and he stamped his legs up and down, like a soldier on sentry duty.
“Keep still, boy. I shan’t tell you again.”
Milo’s breaths were coming in short pants and his blood pressure was going through the roof; any moment now he felt his head would explode. He was so breathless he could not even yell and scream although the agony was so great he wished he could do just that.
Pearce covered every inch of Milo’s buttocks and the back of his thighs with the brush. He loved every moment of it. But, he was an expert and knew how far he could go; if he wanted to repeat this pleasure again, he must stop now. The last thing he wanted was for Milo to quit his job and take his delectable arse somewhere else.
It was over. Pearce replaced the brush in its hiding place and left the cellar with Milo still gasping for air across the beer crates.
The pain had been intense, but the throbbing soon receded but the buttocks remained tender to the touch for several hours to come. Later Milo skived off work to spend time in the lavatory and inspected the damage, finding red botches and very clear outlines in the shape of the brush.
Milo stopped working at the pub when he went home to his family for the Christmas vacation. He had a number of jobs while at university: some in other pubs, in a supermarket and once in a hotel. He did not think about Pearce for another thirty years, until he saw his name in a newspaper. His name was in all the newspapers actually.
He had a hotel in Brighton on the south coast of England and employed a lot of young men from Lithuania. Most of them were barely eighteen years old. They were young, poor, a long way from home and often confused and scared. He had a punishment regime. The tabloid newspapers detailed all the kinkiness. There was one poor lad who endured many bare bottomed spankings over Pearce’s knee (he had an especially attractive bottom presumably). Others received canings often for very minor offences. They were terrified of being thrown out work with no money and no way to get back home, fearing a life of destitution awaited them if they did not submit to Pearce.
Pearce’s lawyer said in mitigation he was under stress, had money problems and his wife (what wife?) had left him. The newspapers said he might go to jail.
Milo felt a twinge in his backside and involuntarily gave it a little rub.
“I hope he does,” he thought.
Other stories you might like:
More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second