Every Wednesday afternoon


“Take off all your clothes, fold them neatly and put them on my desk.”

The young man stared ahead blankly. His body was in the office, but his thoughts were somewhere else.

Mindlessly, he reached for his wine-coloured necktie and pulled it apart. He set it down on the desk.

The man behind the desk watched intently as the young man pulled the tail of his lilac shirt from the waistband of his trousers. Then slowly he undid each button. He slipped the shirt off his shoulders and folded it in half lengthways. Then he quartered it. He put the shirt on top of his tie.

The man studied the young man’s arms and torso. They were covered in tattoos. There was not a single square centimetre of arms untouched by patterns of all descriptions. They had some meaning, some personal significance, the man supposed. Otherwise why would a person go to the trouble, the expense and, almost certainly the pain, to have them done? Most young people were covered in tattoos these days. It was rare to see one without.

The young man bent down and unfastened the Velcro strips on his shoes. He kicked off first the left and then the right, revealing garish yellow-patterned socks. He bent again and hitched his fingers inside each and hooked them off.

Still not acknowledging the presence of the man behind the desk, the young man unbuckled his belt, popped the metal clip at the top of his dark-blue pin-striped trousers, pulled down the zipper and let them fall to his ankles. He hopped precariously on one leg and then the other to tug them over his feet. Then taking care that the creases down the legs were in place he folded them up and put them on the desk.

He only had the underwear to go. He flushed slightly. It was the only emotion he had shown so far. Without delay he put his fingers inside the elastic waist of the snug-fitting briefs and pulled them down and stepped out of them. The pants felt warm in his hands. He put them on top of the neat pile on the desk.

He stood and waited for the next instruction.

The man behind the desk stared without inhibition at the young man’s cock. It was long and thick, quite the largest he had seen in several weeks. He imagined it might look like a stallion’s when it was fully aroused and ready for action.

“Go stand and face that wall. Put your hands on your head.” The man behind the desk nodded at the wall behind the young man. It was a large office, but sparsely furnished. The desk was huge. It was constructed of some man-made grey material and weighed a tonne. Despite its size there was much empty space. Two heavy cushioned chairs were paced neatly at one end of the desk. A single filing cabinet with four drawers, three of them empty, stood against a wall. Behind him the man had a computer on a stand.

He watched idly as the young man positioned himself. He placed his hands on his head in the classic “naughty boy” pose and stood inches from the wall. The young man was somewhere in his twenties, the man behind the desk supposed. He was podgy. He was not yet fat but unless he started taking exercise or changed his diet he soon would be. The man behind the desk had himself been quite trim until well into his thirties. He went downhill after that. Once you put on weight it was devilishly difficult to lose it. Better not to get fat in the first place.

The telephone rang. The man behind the desk picked it up and listened. “I’ll come straight away,” he said. He rose from his desk and left the room. The young man remained in position. Hands on head. Waiting.

The young man shivered. The air-conditioning was set to icy and he was naked. Many minutes passed. Suddenly, the door to the adjoining office opened. A middle-aged woman entered. She stopped; puzzled. She had expected the man to be at his desk. She looked across at the young man facing the wall, thought for a moment, but decided not to ask her question. She returned to her own office.

At last the man returned. He held a buff-coloured envelope in his hand. He walked to the filing cabinet, took a ring of keys from his pocket and unlocked it. He opened the top drawer and without looking in he slipped the folder inside. He closed the drawer, locked it and put the keys back in his pocket.

He moved to the front of his desk and picked up one of the heavy chairs. It had a straight back and no arms. It was elegant, expensive office furniture. The back and seat was covered in light-grey patterned material. Satisfied that the chair was in a suitable position, the man returned to his desk. He did not sit down; instead he bent down and reached to the lowest of three drawers. He opened it and reached inside. It was empty except for one thing. He pulled out a small wooden paddle.

It was home-made, or more truthfully not factory made. A friend of the man was a DIY enthusiast. He had made the paddle in his garage / workshop. The blade was about twelve inches long and three wide. It had a handle attached. The man held it by this and smacked it into the palm of his left hand as if testing its suitability for the task in hand. This was not strictly necessary since he used the paddle regularly. He knew it was up to the job.

He sat in the chair, wriggled his bottom to get comfortable. Then he spread his legs by a couple of feet or so. He was ready.

“Turn around,” he called over to the young man at the wall. He did so. He was not surprised at the sight that greeted him. “Come here and bend across my knee.” The man slapped his thigh in case there was any doubt what he meant.

The young man’s glassy stare had not altered. He did not look the man in the eye. Instead, he concentrated on the man’s knees as he meekly lowered himself. The young man was quite a weight; much heavier than the others the man had dealt with in recent weeks.

The young man’s face was inches from the heavy industrial-strength carpet. He did not notice its dark blue and black pattern. He folded his arms. Behind him, his bare toes scrapped along the itchy carpet. His bottom was high over the man’s lap.

The man caressed the young man’s back. Carefully, he traced his fingertips over a large tattoo. He did it cautiously, as if he feared the ink might come off on his fingers. It was a tattoo written in a Chinese language. At least the man supposed this to be so. He did not know and in all probability the young man across his lap did not know either. He needed to trust that the tattoo artist knew what he was doing. It might even be a trick. The writing might translate as, “What an idiot I am for permanently disfiguring my body like this.”

The man gripped the paddle and tapped it against the naked buttocks presented before him. The cheeks were slightly stretched and therefore a little tighter than when the young man was standing, but they were still well upholstered.

Smack. The paddle sank into the left buttock, immediately leaving a dark pink mark behind. The man smacked the other cheek and was rewarded with a similar result. Then he whacked the paddle down again and again and again.

The young man across his knee sucked in air with each blow. Then he exhaled slowly. It seemed to the man that this was his way of controlling the pain. The young man crossed his arms more tightly.

Another six whacks were delivered across the lower part of the cheeks, where they start to meet the thighs. The young man crossed his left foot over his right and straightened his knees. More pain control, the man thought.

The hue of the buttocks quickly changed from deep pink to red. The young man was a naturally pale colour and his flesh was quick to register hurt. The red deepened to the colour of a good Burgundy wine.

The paddle travelled across the entire circuit that was the young man’s backside. It started at the top, just below the spine, crossed the fleshiest part of the globes, before biting into the under-curves. Satisfied that no square inch of bum was untouched, the man turned his attention to the thighs.

The thighs are more sensitive to pain than the buttock area. Or so the man assumed, since the reaction he got from the young man was the most animated so far. He crossed and uncrossed his legs and then kicked them wildly. It was instinctive. The young man had no intention of trying to escape or in any way avoid the spanking.

He unfolded his arms and wrapped them around his head.

The spanking continued for about three more minutes. The man rhythmically pounded the paddle into the fleshy mounds across his lap. The young man crossed and uncrossed his legs.

Then it was over.

“Stand up and return to the wall. Hands on head,” the man gave a clear instruction. He said no more. The young man placed his hands on the man’s right leg and hauled himself to his feet. He resumed his position at the wall.

The man returned the chair to its original position and then sat behind his desk. Idly he watched the young man. His bottom appeared to be twitching. It was almost certainly throbbing quite badly, but the pain would quickly turn into a warm glow and then disappear. There were bruises forming in the very centre of the young man’s bum. They would certainly last a day or so.

There was a confident knock at the door.

“Come in!”

Another young man, also in his twenties, entered. He was wearing a dark-grey suit and holding a buff-coloured folder.

“Here’s the report you asked for, Sir.”

He handed it over, noticing the neat pile of clothes on the desk. As he exited, he looked at the other young man’s still-reddened buttocks.

He was not surprised at what he saw. Last Wednesday it had been Knight. The week before it was Powell. Next Wednesday it would be someone else. He knew before too long it would be his turn.


Other stories you might like

The apprentices

Six of the best caning stories 5. The performance review

Caught in their underpants


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second


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