“They’re certainly a good-looking bunch of lads,” the concert promotor beamed. “They should go far. I love the short trousers; what’s all that about?”
The band’s manager relaxed in his padded chair and raised a half-full beer glass to his lips, drank deeply, and settled back to tell his story.
The Dudes were an up-and-coming five-piece Boy Band. None was younger than twenty, but they had been picked for their youthful good looks to appeal to teenaged girls. They came up with the gimmick themselves: grey short trousers. They weren’t leisure shorts, the kind people wore in hot weather, they were authentic short trousers like kids had with their school uniform.
But, nobody much over the age of eleven wore short trousers anymore and not wanting to be called paedos, The Dudes didn’t wear school uniforms. They went for brightly coloured shirts and sometimes sleeveless pullovers. They had a unique look and it was getting noticed.
“I thought it looked a bit ‘gay’”, the manager said, sipping on his lager, “But the girls go wild for it. They reckon short trousers look really sexy on a young guy.” He grinned and licked his lips, “But I suppose you have to have the figure for it,” he rubbed his huge beer belly and laughed loudly. “One day, if all goes well every teenager will be wearing short trousers. We’ll have our own line of clothing. We’ll make a fortune.”
The concert promotor finished his own drink. “Are they any good?”
The manager looked puzzled. He hadn’t understood the question, so the promotor rephrased it, “Can they sing?”
A huge grin split the manager’s flabby face. “Who cares? Music producers take care of that. As long as they look good on stage and TV, that’s all that matters. They’re a bloody Boy Band, not The Beatles.”
Within three months The Dudes were top of the music charts and appearing on every important (and not so important) music show on the seven hundred satellite television channels beamed into the country every day.
The short trousers had taken off. A heatwave and a crusty headmaster helped a lot. Two eighteen-year-old sixth-formers were caned after they defied an order not to wear short trousers to school. The story ran for days on twenty-four-hour-news and The Dudes’ gimmick was the centre of attention.
The manager rubbed his hands with glee. Ker-ching! The cash would surely roll in now.
But there was one hitch. Gaz Matthews.
Every boy band that ever was had a Gaz Matthews. The Dudes were manufactured. They never existed until their manager searched the country for good looking boys. He found his five band members surprisingly easily. There’s a formula with such things: get a drop-dead gorgeous one; an is-he-or-isn’t-he-gay one; a black (but not too dark) one; a slightly nerdy-looking bookish one; and a chippy one who the girls would love and their parents hate.
Gaz Matthews was the chippy one. And, he was becoming a pain in the arse.
Toby, the “gay”, and Alain, the black, Dudes’ members were losing patience. They weren’t stupid, they knew the band had a short shelf-life and they should make hay while the sun shone. As long as their management didn’t rip them off too much, they would be set up for life.
They sat in a hotel room waiting while Gaz was next door arguing with the manager about “artistic control”.
“Jeez,” Alain sneered, “When I behaved like that my dad gave me a good hiding.”
Toby was startled, he hadn’t really been listening to Alain. “Hiding? You mean spanking? But you’re twenty, twenty-one, aren’t you?”
Alain smiled ruefully, “Tell my dad that.”
Alain had been at home during a break in the endless round of TV appearances. When his mother asked him to run the vacuum cleaner around the lounge carpet, Alain played the “Big I Am.” He was too important to do household chores.
It was over in about a minute. His dad scooped up a clothes brush from the sideboard, grabbed his son by the scruff of the neck and heaved him face-down over the back of an armchair. The heavy brush connected at full force several dozen times across the seat of Alain’s trousers. A lesson was learned and a carpet was Hoovered.
“Does he often spank you?” Toby couldn’t imagine his own dad doing such a thing.
“No, first time. It’s these new laws where they can use the cane at school and universities and workplaces and the like. I think it’s encouraged a few fathers to whack their sons at home.”
Toby flushed. The cane in the workplace. He hadn’t thought about it before. “Can they cane us? What does our contract say?”
Alain shrugged his shoulders. “I never really looked. But, I hope they can. A damn good caning would do Gaz the world of good.”
Just then the door opened and Sid and Ant (who was known as Prof because he occasionally read a book) came in.
“Gaz and The Boss are having a right ding-dong,” Sid said.
“Oh, not again. There’ll be more trouble,” Alain sighed. He was remembering the day a few weeks back when Gaz had a petulant tantrum. They missed three important TV dates when Gaz had a strop and went MIA.
“We should sack him and get a replacement,” Sid said with great confidence. “We can, you know. I asked The Boss.”
“Damn good idea,” Alain had never liked Gaz. He was hired for his “chippiness”, but Alain knew lots of guys like him. If Gaz wasn’t in The Dudes, he’d probably be in gang terrorising blacks and gays.
“Sack him? No, that’s not fair. We should at least warn him. Give him a chance.” Toby didn’t much like Gaz either, but he was a fair-minded lad. One warning and then he’s out.
“I’ve got a better idea,” Prof chipped in. “It’s a bit unconventional, but it might work.”
Two days later, Prof ran the idea past The Boss. All the band members had agreed, but it was up to him really. He was the manager after all.
It was an uncomfortable meeting. The Boss and Gaz alone.
“You’re sacked. The other guys have agreed. Sorry Gaz.” The Boss wasn’t the least bit sorry. He wanted a stable band. Stable and happy. That was the only way to maximise profits.
“But, they will give you one last chance,” The Boss added quickly, before Gaz opened his mouth and went on another of his rants. “They have a plan. If you do what they say, you get another chance. If not, you pack your bags today and we move on without you.”
Gaz paled significantly, “You can’t …”
“But,” the Boss interrupted. He wasn’t in the mood for an argument from this truculent piece of garbage. “I can. Read you contract. And, I can do much more beside.”
He waved his arm dismissively. He could invoke the corporal punishment clause. He didn’t want to; he wanted Gaz gone. But, his bandmates insisted on one last chance. Only that stood between Gaz and the unemployment line.
It was an uncomfortable meeting that evening in the hotel room. Prof took the lead; it had been his idea after all.
Gaz stood before his four bandmates; his jaw literally dropped. He glared at each of them, but none could meet his eye. Were they serious?
“You want to spank me, Prof? I thought Toby was the faggot in this band!” he roared.
“Well that’s it then. You’re gone.”
“No Gaz,” Prof sucked in air in an attempt to control his temper. “I do not want to spank you. We all do. You get it from each of us.”
They had discussed it at some length. Gaz had to show each of them humility. He would have to let each one in turn whip his arse. Only when his great sense of superiority was tamed could he stay.
“No fucking way!” Gaz stormed from the room and down the hall to the elevator. He stabbed at the call button. Nothing happened. He seethed and smashed the palm of his hand against the elevator door.
“Come back Gaz. Let’s get this over with.” Prof lounged in the doorway of the hotel suite. “You know you have no choice.” He stretched out his hand and beckoned his bandmate back.
“Shit,” Gaz gasped. There really was no way out.
Sid rose from his chair, paced the room and picked up a cardboard-bound parcel. Four pairs of eyes stared intently as he unwrapped a medium-sized wooden paddle. It shone in the artificial light in the room. “I got it on eBay,” he replied to a question that actually hadn’t been voiced.
It was rectangular with rounded edges. With the handle, it was about twenty-four inches long and four wide. Sid held it tightly and swished it through the air. Gaz’s eyes followed it on its travels.
“C’mon then,” Alain could wait for the fun to start. “Bend over.”
“Yes, bend over,” Toby was raring to go too.
Gaz snarled. In that moment he hated them all. Each and every one. Everybody knew he was the star of the Dudes. Without him they would be nothing. But they had him over a barrel. He had no choice. It was an arse whipping or the sack. He couldn’t face unemployment. Not in the brave new world they inhabited. If a lad didn’t find a job (and there weren’t many around) he would be sent off to a work-camp. No Thank You. Gaz definitely did not want that.
He gave Alain the evil eye. Then slowly he twisted his body so his back was to his tormentor. Then, slowly, he bent from the waist, putting his hands on his knees. He looked over his shoulder in time to see Alain smack the heavy wooden paddle into the palm of his right hand.
“This is useless,” Prof snapped. He picked up a heavy armless chair and manoeuvred it into the centre of the room. “Bend over the chair,” he commanded. Gaz hesitated, unsure how this was done. The back of the chair was high and wide; he wouldn’t be able to get his body over that.
“Put your hands on the seat cushion. One either side. Stick your backside out.” Prof had it worked out.
Snarling, Gaz positioned himself. Instinctively, he closed his eyes tight, anticipating the pain to come. Whatever happened, no matter how much agony they inflicted, he would not let them see he was hurt, he promised himself.
Alain tapped the paddle against Gaz’s left cheek. Toby noticed how tight and round Gaz’s bum was. He had never noticed before. In this “naughty boy” position the boy’s bum simply cried out to be spanked. The grey short trousers hugged the contours of the cheeks. Toby’s cock twitched.
Whack! The paddle sank into Gaz’s buttock. He winced. It hurt, but not so much he couldn’t stand it.
“That’s no good,” Prof wailed. “Hit him on both cheeks. Down the middle.”
Alain gripped the paddle tightly. He didn’t like his bandmate’s criticism. Trust Prof to think he knew best. Crack! Alain put all his energy into it. It smacked with great force across the centre of Gaz’s bum. The twenty-one-year-old clutched the seat and sprang up on his toes. That one hurt. Definitely. A warm glow spread over his bum.
Alain put ten stingers across Gaz’s buttocks, from the top where they meet the spine, across the fleshiest part of the globes and into the under curves. Gaz’s bum throbbed like crazy.
“Stand up,” Prof was in control. Gingerly, Gaz rose. His pale blue eyes watered.
“Right. My turn.” Sid grinned. He picked a wooden clothes brush from the table. Gaz stared. It didn’t look like it could do him much damage. It was smaller and lighter than the paddle that had just taken his arse off.
He watched uncertain as Sid moved the chair a foot or two and then sat in it. “Take down those trousers.”
“No fucking way!” That’s what Gaz wanted to say. He wanted to tell Sid to go stuff himself. He wanted to punch them all on their stupid noses. He wanted to hi-tail it out of that hotel room. He wanted to abandon them all. He wanted a solo career. Let’s see how long they’d last without him.
He wanted all those things. But it was not to be. For now, at least. All he could do was obey. Their every command.
Gaz stared into the middle distance. There was a cheap, ugly picture of elephants on the far wall. He took in every detail of the water hole where they drank. His mind was in Africa while he unbuckled his belt, unclipped the fastener at the waistband of his short trousers and let them slip down his thighs.
“Bend over my knee,” Sid hoped his bandmates couldn’t tell how much he was enjoying this. He spread his legs wide, the hem of his own short trousers rose, revealing an expanse of bare flesh. Gaz took a deep breath and lowered himself.
Gaz was easily three inches taller than Sid, but it didn’t matter much. He stretched his hands in front of him and placed his palms into the deep-pile carpet. He had to bend his knees so that his toes could rest on the floor behind him. This position thrust his bum high over Sid’s thigh. The buttocks were must harder than they had been across the chair.
Sid had never spanked someone before. Never even seen it done. Not even in a porno video. Instinctively, he took hold of the waist of Gaz’s bright orange briefs and pulled. The cotton wedged into his crack. Each buttock was perfectly presented.
Sid pushed Gaz’s shoulder’s forward so that his nose was closer to the carpet. He gripped the polished brush and whapped him good and hard, adding more fire to the places that Alain had already set ablaze.
Gaz yelped. It was involuntary. It felt like Sid had pressed a lighted cigarette into his flesh. Before his shocked vocal cords could recover, the brush hit him again on the other cheek, setting an oval patch of skin ablaze. Two spanks later his voice recovered, but made only random sounds of surprise and dismay. Ten spanks later Sid stopped, and released him to sputter and grab his blazing behind with both hands, rubbing the smarting skin as his eyes filled with tears.
He bent double desperately trying to catch his breath. He couldn’t take any more of this. They had won. He had lost.
“Please,” he whimpered at the floor.
Gaz lifted his head to see Prof doubling up a heavy, thick studded leather belt.
“Pants down. Bend over the table.”
The Dudes hit the heights for a couple of years and then imploded. Gaz set off on a solo career. It flopped. Now, he is hustling to get a spot on a celebrity reality show. Toby married the concert promotor who gave them an early break. He was old enough to be his father. The tabloids were bitterly frustrated when the marriage failed to fail. Prof put his money into online male-on-male spanking porno. His proviso for support was that he got to audition the “models”. Young men still wear smart grey short trousers. It is true; the girls do love them.
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second