Max of ‘The Champion’ 5. The town boss

Max, a nineteen-year-old junior newspaper reporter, exposed a rural policeman who unlawfully spanked young men. (Read story here). Max did this by tricking the policeman into spanking him on the bare bottom with a hairbrush. But, the experience opened up a part of the teenager he never knew existed and later that day he found himself across the back of a chair for a dose of the taws from his boss, the newspaper’s deputy editor. (Read story here).

Other episodes of Max of ‘The Champion’

  1. The headmaster
  2. The clergyman



“While you are a lodger in my home you will obey my rules,” Mr Shults glared stonily at the nineteen-year-old boy standing before him. “You will always be punctual to breakfast. You will obey your curfew. That means 10.30 p.m. No later.”

Max, shuffled miserably from foot to foot, his eyes cast down at the ugly brown carpet beneath his feet.

“You will not bring friends back and you will not play loud music in your room. The front room is entirely out of bounds to you. You are permitted to use the back room, but you must never take food or drink in there.

“You will address me as ‘Mr Shults’ and you will address my wife as ‘Mrs Shults.’ You will be polite at all times and obey without question any instructions that either of us might give you.

“These are the rules of the house. It is my house and I make the rules. If you choose to brake one of my rules, you will be spanked. With your trousers down. I shall spank you on your underpants and if you dare to repeat your rule-breaking you will be spanked on your bared bottom.

“If you still have not come to your senses I have an exceedingly whippy rattan school cane that I keep in the cupboard under the stairs and I am not afraid to use it.

“Do I make myself entirely clear?”

Max lay on his back with his trousers at his ankles and his pants at the knee. Gently he stroked his semi-erect cock. Of course, his new landlord hadn’t spoken to him like that; Max just wished that he had.

The very sight of Mr Shults turned him on. He was somewhere in his fifties with thinning hair and thickening waist. He topped six feet, had broad shoulders and a ruddy complexion. He looked as if he worked outdoors, but actually his job was at the local council offices. Around the house he wore old brown corduroy trousers with shiny knees. His huge feet were encased in old-fashioned bedroom slippers, with the traditional check-patterned tops. Every time Max saw them, his cock twitched a little. They were the kind of slippers that generations of fathers had used to spank their delinquent sons.

Already he had devised two fantasies. In one he is in the front room; the one he isn’t ordinarily allowed to inhabit. He is held firmly across Mr Shults’s knee; but is kicking his legs so wildly that his trousers dangle at his feet. Mr Shults is hammering his bedroom slipper into the seat of Max’s blue-and-white-checked briefs. Max has an alternate version of this: he is in his bedroom and Mr Shults is spanking him on his red-and-white-striped pyjamas. Max doesn’t own any pyjamas in real life, but has seen some cheap ones in Woolworth’s he is considering buying. It will make his fantasy a little more real.

In the second dream he is in the back room. “Lower your trousers. Bend over Touch your toes. Stay there until I return,” Mr Shults commands before he leaves the room. He is going to fetch his thick, whippy rattan school cane. Max stares at the scuffed toes of his bumper boots. Waiting calmly. Soon his landlord returns and without ceremony he slashes six hard stingers across the middle of Max’s arse. It is six of Mr Shults’s very best.

Max the junior newspaper reporter had been sent to The Champion’s district office at Neverton. It would give him more experience; the editor had said. Max was missing his deputy editor Mr Arkwright.  Max had a raving fetish. He loved to be spanked by older men. Mr Arkwright was old enough to be Max’s granddad and he delighted in taking the teenager across his knee for bare-arsed slipperings and tawsings. It was a match made in heaven.

Neverton was a small town and like such places across the country, it was ruled by one man. Ellis Etheridge was that man. He was chief magistrate, a one-time mayor and now a county councillor. He owned farms and factories across the region. It seemed just about everyone in the town worked for him, or if they didn’t they had a family member who did.

Etheridge loved the power this gave him. He was conceited and cruel in equal measure and he was a bully as Max was soon to discover.

Max had made a new friend. Bobby was the same age as Max and a rookie policeman. It was an unfortunate name for a policeman, but he couldn’t help being called Bobby. He had lived in Neverton all his life and had always been known as Bobby. It was too late now to start calling himself Robert. Bobby had a crush on Max. At night in the lonely police lodgings Bobby would dream he was stroking Max’s fine hair and caressing his hard body. Sometimes he masturbated himself to sleep imagining Max was lying across the bed while Bobby smacked his hand down into his naked firm buttock cheeks.

It was Bobby who told Max about the theft at the rugby club. Vince and Cedric were two eighteen year olds. When they could they worked for Mr Etheridge at Big Farm. Mr Etheridge paid by the day. If there was work to do, they worked. Otherwise they lay idle. Mr Etheridge cared nothing about workers’ welfare. Recently they had been stone picking. It was back-breaking work. They and a gang of other youths walked across vast fields picking up stones. Only when they were cleared could the tractor come in and plough. It was slave work for slave wages.

It was Friday and the two lads were in the bar at the Neverton Rugby Club. They were stony broke and trying to make a Guinness last all night. It was Cedric’s idea, but Vince readily agreed. It was doomed to failure; anyone could see that, but they couldn’t blame it on the drink. It was one in the morning, the rugby club was locked up, the caretaker had long ago gone home. The building wasn’t very secure. It didn’t have to be; nobody would dare break into the Neverton Rugby Club. Ellis Etheridge was Club President. It would be a suicide mission.

A window at the back easily opened. They were in. Cedric had stolen a hammer from his dad. Whack! Whack! The padlock on the cigarette machine was smashed. It wasn’t much of a haul; a couple of handfuls of coins and two dozen packs of cigarettes. They escaped the way they had entered. The street was deserted; or so they thought.

Mr Higginbottom had struck lucky that evening. A lady had allowed him into her bed. He would boast to his pals that he had “got his end away.” And so he had. But the lady was in control. She thanked him kindly for his effort and then showed him the door. The buses had stopped running hours ago. He was walking home.

It was a small town. Everyone knew everyone else. Mr Higginbottom certainly knew Cedric Albiston. He knew all the family. He didn’t know the lad he was with, though. He’d never seen him before in his life. He would tell all this to the police later that day, as soon as word spread across town that someone had done over the ciggy machine at the rugby club.

Bobby and Sgt Albright went to pick Cedric up at his home. He denied everything, but they took him anyway. In the car Bobby realised something was wrong.

“Aren’t we taking him to the station?” he asked innocently.

“No,” the Sergeant whispered, “Our instructions are to take him to Mr Etheridge.”

Etheridge owned the police as well. Many family members of the Chief Inspector – the top cop in town – worked for Etheridge. He wasn’t about to rock the boat.

The journey took five minutes – Neverton was a small town. A security guy at Etheridge’s head office was waiting for them in the car park. He took the teenager. The police drove off; their job completed.


Cedric’s heart thumped so loud he was sure Mr Etheridge could hear it. He watched as the older man closed the door firmly and locked it. Then he walked to a chest of drawers at the far end of the room. He tugged open a drawer and delved around inside. Cedric could hear a distinct rattling noise. Shortly, Mr Etheridge took out a smooth cane with a dark-brown leather handgrip, the business end of which tapered away to a fine point. It looked like an army swagger-stick with knotted rings. He bent the cane between his hands and swished it a couple times through the air, and satisfied with its suitability, he tucked it under his arm.

Cedric stared with mounting anguish as the old man moved towards the low leather armchair at the furthest end of the room. Mr Etheridge leant forward and swivelled it round so that its back faced into the middle of the room.

Mr Etheridge turned to Cedric; his contempt for the teenager was profound. “Come here. Stand by the chair!” he barked. Cedric moved as if in a trance. The vile man was going to thrash him and there was nothing – absolutely nothing – the teenager could do to prevent it. He stood three feet from the chair. His palms were sweating and he couldn’t get his eyes to stop blinking fast.

“Closer boy!” it was another scornful bark from Mr Etheridge. “Trousers and underpants down.”

Cedric’s heart nearly burst. He thought he was going to collapse in a heap on the floor. Trousers and pants down. A caning on the bare arse. How the teenager hated that despicable man. He despised him and all his kind. Bosses. Bullies all of them. If he had a gun he would gladly have shot Etheridge in the head.

He might have entertained such thoughts, but they were fantasies. Etheridge was in control and always would be. Cedric had no choice. If his mother, father and the rest of his family were to keep their jobs, he had to give Etheridge his arse. His bare arse.

He started to unbutton his fly, flushing up to the roots of his hair. A shudder rattled down his spine and his stomach muscles clenched with such violence he thought he would vomit. Etheridge wagged his swagger stick up and down intending to intimidate the teenager standing before him. It worked. Etheridge bent the stick across his chest demonstrating its flexibility and the power it had to inflict severe damage to Cedric’s naked bum.

Cedric finished unbuttoning his fly and pushed both his trousers and pants down in a single movement. Etheridge smiled in a superior manner. His eyes shone brightly when he demanded, “Bend over.”

Cedric closed his eyes, took a huge deep breath and lowered himself over the back of the chair and rested his forearms along its arms.

Once he was in position, Etheridge moved closer and folded the tail of the eighteen-year-old’s shirt up his back. Then he pushed his left hand into the small of Cedric’s back, telling him that he wanted to see the boy’s buttocks pushed further up. Then he tapped his cane between Cedric’s thighs making sure the legs were parted.

Etheridge was almost ready. He took up position to Cedic’s left and he “sawed” the cane across a segment of his bottom and then withdrew it before delivering a hefty blow into taut flesh. Etheridge was an experienced and expert caner. He knew not to hit naked flesh with full force, that could draw blood. Hard, firm strokes were all that were needed to reduce a disobedient young man to tears. He aimed at the left buttock with the cane, knowing that the natural extension of is arm as he delivered the stroke would make it hit both cheeks. He whacked Cedric high on his mounds, then in the centre and then low. Then he did it all over again.

Cedric scrunched up his eyes and sucked his top lip over the bottom lip. In his mind he recited a chant. “I will not cry. I will not cry.” He would not give the bastard the satisfaction. The first swipe hit with great force and his eyes smarted. He blinked back the tears, angry for being weak.

Another sharp burning pain shot across his backside. He gripped the arm of the chair as hard as he could, determined not to let go. Another thwack, and then another crack fell and he yelped. The pain was indescribable; Cedric thought his bare bum was being slashed open. His backside gyrated of its own accord. It was a reflex action. The sting was terrific and kept getting worse as Etheridge worked his way down from the top to the under-curves of his buttocks. The sixth stroke was by far the hardest and landed right on the sit spot causing him to shout out and wriggle his sore burning bottom like crazy. Nothing existed in his world beyond the scalding band of pain across his backside.

That was six-of-the-best, but it wasn’t over. Etheridge returned his cane to the crown of Cedric’s bottom and started all over again, until twelve stingers had marked the teenager’s arse. His bottom was wriggling in pain and what had been a pure white bum was now stained with a dozen dark red lines. The last six had Cedric bouncing around, yowling with pain. Tears poured down his face. Through the haze of unbearable agony, he wondered what state his bottom was in; it must be cut to ribbons; it certainly felt like it. The caning had hurt more than he could have imagined. It was raw and painful and the fire was raging fiercely. He lay across the chair panting and squirming.

He whimpered like a little whipped puppy. Any pride or attempt to show toughness had fled; his bottom was in flames. He was spent; a truly beaten man.

Etheridge swished the cane fiercely through empty air. “That is your beating completed.” Cedric’s heart raced. At last it was over. He just wanted to run screaming from the room. Never again would he steal. Never.

Etheridge swiped the cane once more. “That was your punishment,” he growled, his face contorted with contempt. “Now, you must take a thrashing for your absent partner in crime.” He raised the cane and swiped the first of an extra dozen strokes across the middle of Cedric’s buttocks.

Max was at his desk in the newsroom office rewriting reports from the Women’s Institute when the message came. Attend at the editor’s office. Immediately. Max rarely saw the editor. He was a dour man who kept himself locked away in his office on the top floor. A summon to “attend” the old man was rare. The nineteen-year-old trudged up four flights of stairs. With every step he took he imagined himself a senior schoolboy on his way to visit the headmaster. His encounter with Mr Draper at his former school was vivid in his mind. His cock twitched against his tight underpants.

Mr Larcombe, the editor, was a man of few words. “You have been making inquiries about Mr Etheridge and the rugby club theft” It was a statement, not a question. “This is not to Mr Etheridge’s satisfaction.” Larcombe peered over the top of his half-moon spectacles at the teenager standing before him. Max’s mouth opened and closed. What had he done wrong? “You are to report to his office at four-thirty. Sharp.”

Larcombe reached across his desk and with shaking hands raised a tea cup to his lips. “Don’t dawdle boy. Go. You are dismissed.”

“B …” Max started a protest, but he was stopped short by Larcombe’s flailing arms. “No argument. Go.” The editor sipped his tea relieved that the newspaper’s largest advertising account had been saved.

Etheridge owned the town, and half the county around it. As far as he was concerned he also owned the people in it. Larcombe had not argued. The editor knew that if his paper lost Etheridge’s custom it could go out of business. At the very least many people would lose their jobs. Max, as the newest recruit to the office, would be the first to go. The boy couldn’t complain. He would have to bow to Etheridge’s demands. Or, almost certainly, he felt, bend to them.

It was a short walk to Etheridge’s office. It was late summer and Max could sniff thunder in the air. His trepidation was mixed with excitement. He dearly missed his spanking sessions back home with Mr Arkwright the deputy editor. Fantasying about his landlord was no substitute.

Etheridge’s office was surprisingly dingy. There was very little natural light and it was lit by neon. The boss’s desk was huge, as befitting a man with such a sizeable ego. It looked antique, or, Max supposed, it might be brand new but had been ‘distressed’ by a carpenter as was becoming the fashion with furniture. The teenager stood, head bowed, hands clasped behind his back, heart thumping. In his mind he was back at the headmaster’s study. He had received one heck of a whacking. Old Draper had been much displeased about the ‘alternative’ school magazine he had contributed to. The cane marks took days to fade.

Etheridge had very little to say. If Max had to summarise it for one of his news reports he would have written that the message was, “Mind your own business.” The junior reporter knew little of Etheridge’s financial hold over the paper, but he was not naïve. He knew where the power was. Etheridge was in charge and there was nothing Max could do about it.

There was nothing Max wanted to do about it. He imagined himself stretched across the mighty desk, his trousers at his ankles and pants at the knees. Humbled. Humiliated. The pain, he hoped, would be awesome. His daydream was interrupted. Etheridge had stopped speaking. He expected Max to answer.

The teenager’s blank stare infuriated Etheridge. “I said take off your jacket,” he barked. The town boss was already off his chair and moving towards the front of his desk. Max’s heart raced as he slid the suit jacket over his shoulders and down his arms.

“Put it there,” Etheridge nodded towards his desk as he busied himself manoeuvring a heavy straight-backed chair to the centre of the room. Max watched patiently, too aware that his cock was twitching. Soon, it would be standing at half-mast.

“There!” Etheridge clicked his fingers at a spot close to the chair. Max shuffled into position. Etheridge was still busy. He opened and closed cupboard doors. Searching. Then he pulled the drawers of his desk. Max’s eyes followed him as he went about the task. What was he looking for, the boy wondered?

A sigh of satisfaction escaped Etheridge’s lips. He held up a small square of wood. It had a blade no bigger than a paperback book and a handle. Max blinked. It looked a little like a chopping block his mother had in her kitchen. Only much smaller. Etheridge gripped the handle with his right hand and slapped the wooden blade gently into the palm of his left, as if testing the paddle’s suitability for the task he had for it.

Satisfied, he sat in the chair, spread his legs, and clicked his fingers once more. “Trousers down. Pants too.” It was a clear command. He expected to be obeyed. Max’s cock went from half to full mast. Etheridge misread the blush on the teenager’s face. “A spanking’s not a proper spanking unless it’s done on the bare,” he delivered his philosophy.

Max couldn’t have agreed more. With trembling hands, he unbuttoned his flies and let the trousers drop. The bulge in the front of his tight white Y-fronts could not be disguised. Etheridge pursed his lips. A band of moisture formed below his nose, forming a damp moustache.  “Pants too,” he gasped.

Max slipped his fingers in the waistband and pulled at the elastic. It was a stretch to get them around his erect cock. Max stared ahead. He didn’t want to see his penis pointing at the ceiling. Etheridge spread his knees further. He clicked his fingers. “Over.”

Max leaned forward. The old man shifted his own buttocks and legs so Max’s cock and balls dangled in the space between his legs. The nineteen-year-old’s face was close to the carpet, his legs, bent at the knees hovered an inch above the floor. His naked bottom rested at an angle against Etheridge’s thigh. He was perfectly positioned for a spanking.

Etheridge was not quite ready. He rested the paddle on the small of the teenager’s back and with his right palm he slowly caressed first the right buttock and then the left. They were gentle, circular motions. The firm flesh was cool to touch. It was the most hairless bottom Etheridge had ever encountered.

He felt the boy’s heavy breathing. Between Etheridge’s knees the boy’s cock was throbbing. Deep purple veins ran the length of the shaft.

Now ready, the boss gripped the paddle, raised it about three inches from the curved surface of Max’s bottom and crashed it down into the tight flesh with some vigour. Max gasped but had no time to react further as the paddle crashed down again and again into his naked bum. The boy’s head rose from the carpet and he screeched like a banshee. In the adjoining office Etheridge’s secretary stopped her typing, shuddered, and rose from her seat to distract herself by making tea.

Within seconds every square inch of Max’s once creamy-white buttocks was scarlet. The blade of the small paddle was imprinted across both cheeks. Max wriggled and squirmed. It was an involuntary reflex action. He was out of control. His howls and yells echoed around the room. Tears flooded his cheeks. Snot dribbled over his top lip.

Ten, twenty, thirty swats crashed down. It was a frenzied attack. On and on Etheridge spanked. He was a demon. Never before had he beaten a young man like this. Up and down; up and down, the paddle struck. Suddenly, as if shaken from a trance, he stopped. The telephone was ringing. Etheridge’s glazed eyes focused. First on his desk and then on the half-naked teenager across his knees.

“You’d better get off,” he whispered gently, pushing Max to the floor. Max lay curled in the foetal position, gasping for air like a beached dolphin. Etheridge stumbled to his telephone unaware of the spreading cum stain on his trousers.


Other stories you might like.

The casting couch

Hotel duty manager

The sneak thief



More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second



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