Tony Addison stepped down from the bus clutching his cardboard suitcase. It was a typical English summer’s day: it would probably rain later.
He crossed the road and hesitated under the entrance sign: Hopkins Holiday Camp. He gulped down a lungful of air. Ozone from the sea tickled his nostrils; a gull hovered motionless above his head. Tony broke out into a broad smile. Brilliant. Freedom.
It was the eighteen-year-old’s first time away from home alone. School was over, exams written. Now, he waited for the results. In the autumn he would surely be off to university. Until then, he had this wonderful summer job. Hopkins Holiday Camp. What adventures he would have.
Moments later he stood outside the office of the camp manager. He balled his hand into a fist and raised it to rap on the door. A puzzling sound from within made him stop. There were people inside; but what were they doing?
The teenager stooped forward to place his ear closer to the door.
What he heard, but could not see, was Mr Wilkinson sat on a heavy wooden chair with his legs spread wide. A tall, lanky young man was spread-eagled across one thigh with his khaki short trousers at his ankles and his white underpants at his knees. He was too tall to be across a man’s knee. His elbows rested on the worn carpet and his own knees were bent; in this position the twenty-year-old’s bare bottom rested on his boss’s leg. To receive swats from a homemade paddle no bigger than a paperback book.
Slaps of wood on bare flesh echoed round the room. Tony hesitated. Perhaps he should leave; come back later when this was over.
As he reached for his suitcase, the door flew open and a pasty-faced man stood on the threshold of the office; startled. His shirt was half in and half out of his short trousers; he had not waited to get dressed properly.
He had not expected there to be a witness to his humiliation. He shot Tony a look of intense hatred, pushed past him and headed at speed down the corridor; leaving the newcomer startled.
“Come in boy, come in. I haven’t got all day,” Mr Wilkinson was impatient to get on.
It was a large office with very little furniture. A desk, a couple of hard chairs and two filing cabinets were not enough to fill the enormous space.
Mr Wilkinson sat behind the desk; he had not bothered to move the heavy wooden chair from the centre of the room. Tony stood, uncertain what to do. The wooden paddle lay in the centre of the desk, in clear view. His eyes darted first to the paddle and then to the chair.
Mr Wilkinson spoke slowly and clearly. He had the bearing of an ex-military man; there were many of them around on Civvie Street. The war had ended nearly fifteen years previously. Wilkinson had done his bit. He had gone in a private and emerged a sergeant-major. He had learnt how to boss people about. It came in handy at the holiday camp. Most of the staff were youngsters; they needed direction and discipline. And, he was just the man to give it to them.
Mr Wilkinson surveyed the teenager standing before him. He wore grey flannel trousers; almost certainly, they had been part of his school uniform, Mr Wilkinson thought. Clothes were hard to come by, a person needed to wear everything until it quite literally wore out. He had a white shirt, which added to his schoolboy appearance.
Mr Wilkinson took a file from his desk drawer, opened it, and read slowly to himself. Tony shuffled nervously from one foot to the other, he just could not take his eyes off that paddle. He had a vivid imagination; he was quite certain he knew what had been happening as he arrived.
“Says, here,” Mr Wilkinson cleared his throat, “Says here that you’re a grammar school boy.”
He paused. Tony felt he had to fill the silence, “Yes, Sir.”
“Good school was it?” Another pause. Tony had never really thought about it before. What could he say? “Good school?” he repeated, playing for time.
Mr Wilkinson stared at the boy. He was not good at disguising irritation. “Yes, boy. Discipline. Lots of discipline?”
Tony shuffled his feet, eyed the paddle and then stared at his feet. He would rather not think about his old school and discipline. It was a very traditional school. And, that meant traditional discipline.
He whispered, “Yes, Sir.”
“Good,” Mr Wilkinson forced a smile. “I believe in discipline. We are a very disciplined lot here at Hopkins. You should think of me as your headmaster.”
Tony’s look of bewilderment went unnoticed.
“If you behave yourself and stick to the rules everything will be hunky-dory,” Mr Wilkson’s smile remained rictus-like. “If, however, you misbehave and break the rules, I shall come down on you like a ton of bricks.” He nodded toward the paddle on his desk. “Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
Tony hoped he wasn’t blushing. What could he say? His new boss had threatened to paddle his backside if he broke the rules. Was this some kind of test? Did he have a choice? Pick up his suitcase and go back to his dull home or stay here at the exciting holiday camp. If he decided to stay it was as good as agreeing to accept Mr Wilkinson’s terms.
Tony took a deep breath. Anything would be better than spending summer at home with his parents. “Yes, Sir. Perfectly clear.”
“Good lad.” Mr Wilkinson seemed genuinely pleased. “You are dismissed. Go get your uniform and find the chalet where you are billeted.
An hour later, dressed in his new khaki short trousers and pink blazer, Tony was in the chalet he would share with two others for the summer. One was Eddie Phipps; the boy he had heard spanked by his boss earlier. The twenty-year-old’s resentment had passed. So had his humiliation.
“You met Wilko then?” he grinned. “Right Genghis Khan.”
“Yes,” Tony blushed, unsure what to say.
“Backs to the walls boys,” Drew Wake, the other occupant, piped up. “Loves to whack our arses.” He rubbed his hands against the seat of his short trousers in mock pain.
Tony was speechless. Could this be true? The boss spanked his young male employees and they didn’t seem to mind. They thought it was all a big joke.
Eddie and Drew were veterans at the holiday camp. They were both twenty years old and they had returned for their third summer as “pink coats.” There was one excellent reason to put up with Wilkinson. The girls. They were everywhere. Some came to the holiday camp with their parents, others came in groups, intent on picking up boys. The boys could have as many girls as they wanted. A different girl every night, sometimes. It was easier, Drew explained to Tony, to find a good one and stick with her the whole week of her stay.
The boys brought the girls back to the chalet. They had an arrangement. If a boy came back to the chalet and saw a small bunch of paper flowers in the window it meant his pal was inside getting his end away. That meant stay away.
Tony was agog. He was also sure he was blushing. Girls. He was too shy for girls. He went to an all-boys grammar school. He was a virgin. Wanking, he knew. Girls he did not.
After about a week, Drew and Eddie noticed Tony’s lack of “leg-over action,” as Drew put it.
“You’re not a fairy are you?” Drew asked.
“Of course, he’s not a fairy,” Eddie nodded at Tony. “He’s just shy. Aren’t you?” Eddie was a good sort. He had been a virgin himself when he first worked at the holiday camp, aged eighteen. He understood. It had all been a bit messy, when Eddie lost his virginity. But, he soon got the hang of it, and he’d been making up for lost time ever since.
“Don’t worry Tony,” Eddie beamed. He loved the way his new pal blushed to his roots. “I’ll set you up with Joan from the canteen. She’ll treat you gently.”
Tony spluttered, but could not speak.
“You’re just her type.”
“Her type?” Tony gasped.
“Yeah. You’ve got a dick and a heartbeat.” Eddie roared with laughter at his own joke.
Tony Addison looked down at the seat of the wooden chair, his back arched and his bottom stuck out behind him. He gripped it tightly, one fist on either side. The chair was very old, but solid. Someone had re-covered the worn seat with curtain material. Flowers. Was the pattern dandelions? It could be sunflowers. Tony was no expert.
His khaki short trousers were at his ankles. His white underpants snagged at his knees. Tony’s eyes blinked rapidly. He couldn’t get them to stop. Blink. Blink. Blink. A cold draught blew around his naked buttocks. He shivered. Was it the cold, or his fear?
Mr Wilkinson rubbed a long narrow paddle across his bum. It was about fourteen inches long and four wide. It was another homemade effort. It looked like a miniature cricket bat.
Tony’s crack opened and closed. His bum hole seemed to be winking at his boss. Tony sucked on his bottom lip. Waiting.
It had been an eventful first two weeks at Hopkins Holiday Camp. Tony had wanted new adventures and he got them. First, he had sex for the first time. Eddie was right, Joan had treated him gently. He had sex with her three nights in a row. Then, she dumped him for a new lad. That was her way. Her role on life was to make a boy into a man. Tony didn’t mind. Since Joan, he had been able to put the fake flowers in the chalet window twice.
Second, he was about to get his first-ever spanking. Another rite of passage. Eddie was learning an important lesson at Hopkins. He had been caught stealing beer from the bar storeroom. Mr Wilkinson was no fool; he knew most of the boys did it. They probably got away with it a lot. If they did; they did. There was nothing he could do. But, when they were caught, he could give them a severe bare-buttock blistering.
Tony moved his attention from the chair’s seat. His own naked cock and balls dangled in front of his face. He had never seen them from this angle before. He had looked at them plenty of times before, of course. He had played with them often enough. But he had never noticed how much his looked like a turkey’s head. It was too hairy, as well. If a girl put that in her mouth she would likely choke to death.
Mr Wilkinson was finding his aim. Goosebumps stood up on the boy’s buttocks. The wood felt heavy. It could pack some punch. Tony wished he could stop his eyes blinking.
He felt his boss move the paddle away from his naked flesh. Then. Crack! “Ssssssssss!!” It wasn’t a yelp, not even a groan. Tony expelled air between his lips. It sounded like a punctured car tyre.
It hurt. A lot. Tony’s back arched further and his knees buckled.
“Back in position.” Mr Wilkinson watched quietly as a dark pink mark formed across the very centre of both the boy’s buttocks. The boss was an expert at this; after all he had enough experience. He rested the paddle against the edge of Tony’s left buttock, moved it up by a few inches and then with a kind of forearm smash he brought it crashing down across both cheeks.
“Shiiiiiiiiiiiit!!” Tony wasn’t the kind of youth who put a swear word in every sentence. But this time he couldn’t help himself. He gripped the chair’s seat tighter. His eyes were closed shut so he couldn’t see that his knuckles had turned white.
The pink rectangle across his bottom was already turning purple.
The third and fourth swats followed in quick succession. Whack! Whack! Tony’s body twisted. First left. Then right. Sores opened in the very centre of each buttock. Already, after only four swats the middle of his bum resembled raw meat.
Mr Wilkinson gripped his paddle. He took aim once more and brought his “cricket bat” down once more, making sure it connected with the sores. Tony yelled, let go of his grip of the chair and shot bolt upright. Instinctively, his hands clamped to his stinging backside. The connection of palm on raw flesh sent further shockwaves across his backside and down his legs. He hopped from one foot to the other, in some crazy spanking dance.
Mr Wilkinson suppressed a smile. He liked it, no he loved it, when a boy did this.
“Back over, young man.” At times like this Mr Wilkinson imagined himself to be a headmaster at an important school. He had himself attended a state-run council school. How he wished his parents could have afforded to send him to a classy private school like he read about in storybooks. Yes, a headmaster, or even a form master; that would suit him well.
“If you stand up again, you will get extra strokes.”
Tony’s eyes blazed. They stung like mad, but not half as much as his backside. Tears welled, but so far he could fight them back.
He leaned forward again, curving his back, and spread his legs wide. He had long ago kicked off his short trousers and pants. His feet slipped slightly against the carpet as he struggled to maintain a position.
Mr Wilkinson took aim once more. Lower. At the under-curve, where the bum cheeks meet the thighs. The boss took a moment to admire the boy’s muscular hairy legs. He probably did a lot of cycling, he supposed.
Whack! Met by more writhing, wriggling, twisting and squirming. It took a super-human effort not to jump up again. Tony couldn’t breathe. He sucked in air, desperately trying to fill his lungs.
Whack! Mr Wilkinson didn’t care. As long as the boy didn’t actually die in his office, bent across an old wooden chair with his arse on fire.
Cough, cough, cough. The gasping turned to dry hacking. His face was a white as his knuckles. Ghostly.
It was over. Six-of-the-best with a homemade paddle. Bare-arsed. That would be a lesson to the new recruit. It satisfied Mr Wilkinson. He placed the wood on the top of his desk and then slowly paced the office, viewing the distressed boy from every angle. He really was rather delicious, Mr Wilkinson thought. In a cute boy-next-door way.
Tony was gently sobbing. Mr Wilkinson liked that in his workers. It showed who was boss.
“Get up. Get dressed. Get out.” Mr Wilkinson sat at his desk, steepled his fingers and watched carefully as Tony dragged himself to his feet. The boy knew better than to touch his wounded buttocks. He had never felt such pain before. It was as if someone had rubbed his mother’s hot smoothing iron across his flesh.
Gingerly, he stepped into his underpants, wincing when the thin cotton kissed his bum. Immediately, small pink stains spread across the seat of his pants. Cautiously, he retrieved his khaki short trousers and zipped them up.
He was ready to leave. Silently, not acknowledging the presence in the room of his tormentor, Tony shuffled to the door. His hand shook as he reached for the handle. Suddenly, his entire body quaked. He shuddered as a dog might shake itself after emerging from a pool.
Mr Wilkinson sat passively, hoping the wretched boy would quickly get out of his office so he could attend to the throbbing in his own underpants.
Other stories you might like
More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second