Ollie was standing by the crime shelves at the local library when he first saw him. The Guy. He was over in the non-fiction section, standing on tip-toes, trying to reach the top shelf.
The Guy wasn’t short, the shelves were high. Ollie would never be able to describe in words what he saw. That was because what he saw was frankly quite ordinary. But, what he felt was extraordinary.
The Guy was maybe five-eight. The first thing Ollie noticed were his Levi jeans. They were new and as he stretched upwards, his whole body tensed. The jeans clung to The Guy’s buttocks, separating each cheek. There was nothing extraordinary about The Guy’s bum. It was neither too big, nor was it too small. Some people who made notes about such things might record that it was a bit on the flat side.
The Guy wore a beige V-neck jumper. Ollie supposed his mother must have bought it for him, for The Guy looked to be in his late teens or early twenties; he would never choose something like that for himself.
Ollie had yet to see The Guy’s face, but he was smitten. The Guy had fairish hair, it wasn’t blond, but nor was it light brown. It just about touched his collar. Ollie had no idea what to make of that. You couldn’t tell anything about a person by their hair. Not these days. But, later at home as he recalled this moment lying on his bed with his trousers and underpants at half-mast, he wondered if The Guy might be a bit of a mummy’s boy. Short hair and jumpers from Primark might be the give-away.
The Guy turned to move further down the shelving. He had a well-proportioned body. From where Ollie stood – some way across the large room – The Guy looked pretty every-day. There would be hundreds of young men in the streets outside the library who looked much the same. He wasn’t gym-honed, but he looked trim and healthy. Maybe, he ran.
The Guy found the book he was searching for and took it to a table. Ollie took a novel from the shelves and pretended to study its cover. Disguised that way, he peered at The Guy who opened his book, leafed through its pages and began to write notes in an A4 pad.
Was he a student? Ollie wondered. He had an urge to know more about The Guy. No, Ollie was tearing down his own theory. If he was a student at Brocklehurst University, why would he be in the public library? BU, as it was known, must have a better library of its own.
Ollie surveyed the room. It was early evening and the library was not busy. Ollie could have a choice of seats. He chose one behind The Guy and sat down. This way he could scrutinise The Guy’s qualities without danger of exposure. The Guy was engrossed in his book.
Ten, twenty, thirty minutes passed. Ollie watched The Guy’s muscles flex and unflex as he turned pages in his book and wrote down notes. The Guy’s shoulders were broad and his waist narrow. Oh, Ollie sighed silently, how he would love to rub his hand over that strong, muscular back.
Once, and only once, The Guy paused in his work and stretched his arms. He rose a little from his chair, bent forward and shook his hips from side to side. The cramped seating had given him back ache. Ollie shuffled a little in his own chair; The Guy’s buttocks encased in the brand-new denim jeans were a sight to behold.
The Guy turned a little so for the first time Ollie saw his face. If at some point the police had demanded Ollie gave a description of The Guy, he would falter. “He was,” Ollie would have to say, “ordinary.” He had clear skin (as far as he could tell from a distance), his hair flopped a little over his forehead and his nose was where it should be (and you couldn’t say that about everybody). He would be able to say The Guy’s lips met in the right place, so his teeth were probably quite good. Ollie had no idea about the colour of The Guy’s eyes but he did see his eyebrows didn’t meet in the middle, so he must be an honest sort of fellow.
The Guy closed his book, took his anorak from the back of the chair, climbed into it, picked up his pad and without looking to left or right, headed for the exit.
Ollie’s heart raced. The Guy had left. He was gone. Forever. A surge of panic, like he had never experienced before, gripped him. No. It couldn’t end like this. There must be more. Grabbing his own coat and not pausing to put it on, Ollie pelted to the door. The library itself was some distance from the main entrance to the building. Ollie scoured the main hall, looking for a boy in jeans and anorak. There were two young men in business suits, a security guard with three stripes on his sleeve and a middle-aged lady with her long grey hair tied in a severe bun and wearing spectacles that dared you to contradict her. The Guy was nowhere.
Ollie ran (something he couldn’t remember ever doing before) to the entrance, cursed the revolving door for being so slow and landed on the pavement. The city’s rush hour was in full swing. The street heaved with bodies.
Quick. Quick. Ollie stood, panic mounting. He must find The Guy. What should he do? Turn left along the pavement? Or, go right? Damn, he cursed himself; why could he never make a decision. He chose right. Which is to say, he chose wrong. He pushed his way through the crowds, he was swimming against the tide. They were all heading to the train station, Ollie was heading into the city. He had lost The Guy.
Ollie stood still, buffeted by angry pedestrians, all intent on getting out of there as quickly as they could. Their homes, and their real lives, waited for them someplace else. Dejected, Ollie trudged his way across the street and followed a short cut to the bus station. Why, he demanded of himself, why were tears welling behind his eyes?
Later, in his bed-sitting room, he lay on his ancient lumpy mattress and stared dejectedly at the nicotine stained ceiling. What was it about The Guy? In every respect that he could list, he was no different from hundreds of people in the town. He could go to the bus or the train stations and see countless young men of the same height and build and general standing. The Guy wore Levi jeans, a beige V-neck jumper and an anorak, but Jesus H. Christ, Ollie wailed to himself, he was the sexiest thing he had seen in his life. It was as if an aura radiated around his whole body, like those kids in the Ready brek television commercials.
That first night, Ollie invented a new life. For himself and for The Guy. He named him Bill, an ordinary name for a commonplace boy. Bill and Ollie were students, but not very good ones. They preferred to spend their mornings kissing and cuddling together in bed. Of course, they missed lectures and did badly in coursework and examinations. It could not go on like that and they soon found themselves in the Dean’s study.
Ollie could never remember when he had first obsessed about corporal punishment. He had never been spanked as a child, so he couldn’t blame his parents and the cane had been banned in schools years earlier. Ollie was not a man for self-examination, so he did not have the first clue about his true needs.
Ollie wriggled his trousers and pants to his knees, he reached over to his dressing table, tugged open the drawer and removed a heavy wooden clothes brush. It was nearly a foot long and the oval head maybe four inches at its widest. Ollie turned onto his side so that he was almost face down on the mattress, then he closed his eyes and whacked the brush with some force into his own bared backside. It hurt. A lot. He wished he had someone else there to do this for him; he usually gave up after four spanks because the pain was too much.
He let the brush drop to his side. His bum throbbed and he could see dark pink patches on it. He spat into the palm of his hand, closed his eyes again and returned in his imagination to the Dean’s study.
Dean Martin (for that is the name Ollie invented for him) cut an imperious figure. He was in his fifties and wore a traditional academic gown. He had no time for lazy undergraduate students who spent too much time in the union bar and not enough in the library. But with his office came duties. It was up to him to deal with the matter. So be it.
“You,” he pointed to Bill. “You shall go first.” The two students watched quietly as Dean Martin picked up a comfortable armless cushioned chair and placed it in the middle of his study. Then, without saying a further word, he walked over to his desk, stooped down and opened the bottom drawer. He reached in and withdrew a clothes brush, identical to the one Ollie owned. He returned to the chair, sat down, wriggled his buttocks until he was comfortable, adjusted his academic gown and when he was satisfied he was ready, he looked across at Bill.
Dean Martin snapped his fingers. “Stand there.” He pointed to a spot close to his right-hand side. Meekly, Bill positioned himself as ordered.
“Lower your jeans and bend over my knee,” Dean Martin flushed a little as he spoke the command. Bill’s already pale face blanched a little more.
Ollie moved his own position slightly to get a better view of his pal as he undid the fastener on his Levis. They fitted him well and he needed no belt. With the zipper lowered the jeans slid down his hips to his thighs. Of course, he wore old-fashioned white Y-front underpants. Ollie had learnt his lover had no interest in fashion.
Bill looked down at the well-padded thighs of the Dean and hesitated. How exactly, was this done?
“Bend over boy. Quickly. Don’t try my patience.” The Dean gripped the brush, menacingly.
Bill was still unsure. Was he expected to throw himself over the knees and put his hands directly on the ground. Or, did he first rest his hands on the Dean’s thighs and then lower himself over?
“Pah!” the Dean expelled air. Bill did not have to make a choice. Dean Martin grabbed him by the left wrist and manhandled him forward until he fell forward and landed over the old man’s knees. He was now face down, his arms stretched before him with his legs dangling in mid-air. This way, Bill’s bottom was raised at an angle over the Dean’s right leg.
Dean Martin was a man of action. The heavy wooden brush rose and fell rapidly and with great force pulverised Bill’s cotton-covered buttocks again and again. And again. The astounding pain shocked the student who wriggled and shook his body this way and that, but the Dean was an expert at this. He held Bill at the midriff; he was going nowhere until the Dean said so. He did that after he had pounded three dozen whacks across every square-inch of the boy’s bum. Then he stopped. Thirty-six on the pants was the tariff for a first offence. But woe betides any student who came back for more.
Bill hopped from foot to foot while rubbing furiously at the seat of his underpants in the traditional spanking dance. His once-pale face and his neck were as scarlet as later he would discover his bottom to be.
Another snap of the fingers and Ollie was in position. He prepared himself with more aplomb than his partner. Belt, button and zipper were efficiently dealt with and he was across Dean Martin’s knees within seconds. Ollie raised his midriff a little until he was sure he presented the perfect target for his master, then he pressed the palms of his hands into the carpet, stared ahead at the far wall and waited for the punishment to begin.
His three-dozen whacks were as forceful as Bill’s. His bum throbbed all the way from the top where the cheeks meet the back and over the globes themselves and into the crease near the thighs. His heart raced and his breathing was shallow, when he too danced in front of his tormentor.
At that point Ollie was cleaning his stomach with soft toilet tissue.
He suffered a restless night. Three more times he masturbated before finally he fell into a fitful sleep.
It was an obsession. He could not get Bill out of his mind. He imagined they went to the supermarket together and prepared an ate a meal, until the time Bill declared, “It’s time to get you spanked and in bed.” Ollie was given a dose of a carpet slipper across pyjama bottoms, although in real life he owned neither of these objects.
Ollie was in a trance. He had to see The Guy again. With no expectation of success, he returned to the library that evening. The Guy was at the same desk, working away at his book. He still wore the jeans and jumper, but he had changed his shirt. Ollie might have guessed, it was plain white, the sort schoolboys would wear.
Ollie snatched a book from a shelf and took up an observation position. After nearly an hour The Guy packed up his things and headed for the door. He did not expect to have a stalker.
That policeman who had asked Ollie to describe The Guy might also demand an explanation for Ollie’s behaviour, but Ollie would be the last one to know. He had an overwhelming urge to know more about The Guy. What was his name? Where did he live? Was he really a student?
The Guy reached the street, turned left and walked on. He was easy to follow, it was obvious he was headed for the train station. He walked easily, he was in no obvious hurry. Ollie followed at a constant distance captivated by The Guy’s buttocks as gently they swayed to the left and right inside his well-fitted jeans.
They reached the station, The Guy looked up at the destination board and headed for platform four. Ollie stopped. Cut down. Devastated. He had no money for train fares, he could not follow. Distraught, he followed The Guy to the ticket barrier and watch forlornly as he stepped on a train.
Where was The Guy going? Where did he live? Ollie scrutinised the destination board. The train was headed to London. That was at least fifty miles away, surely, he didn’t live there? Why had he been at Brocklehurst Library, if he lived in London? It didn’t make sense. Then, an overwhelming despair enveloped him: he might never see The Guy again.
The train was ready to leave. A muffled announcer read out six or seven stops for the train destined for London. There was hope yet.
That night, Ollie and Bill returned to the Dean’s study. A second offence earned a sound caning: twelve swipes, on the bare. Ollie’s cock was raw next morning.
The Guy was at the library the next evening and the next. Then it was the weekend, but he was there again on the Monday. So was Ollie, spying still. The fantasies continued. University Deans, uncles, irate fathers and elder brothers were all called upon to punish the naughty pair of students.
It couldn’t go on like this. Even Ollie knew that. He was socially inept, unable to strike up a conversation with strangers, let alone with those whom he fancied the pants off. He was in despair.
On the Monday, the library was fuller with clients. Most of the tables were occupied. Ollie could not hide; the only free chair was at The Guy’s table. He thought about leaving. The Guy would be back next day surely. Ollie would come earlier to get the best view.
That’s what he should have done, but obsessives are just that. They’re nuts. Ollie chose a book a random and sat. He buried his face in the book, the words on the pages blurred. He fought the urge to stare up at The Guy. He had never been so close to him. He saw the stubble on his chin. He smelt the horrible Old Spice deodorant he wore. Ollie’s cock was bursting against his pants.
He didn’t see The Guy was also distracted. He couldn’t take in what he was reading. He stopped taking notes.
“Hello,” The Guy said softly. Ollie raised his eyes to see the most warm, radiant smile beaming at him. His mouth drained of saliva, blood rushed to his ears. For the first time Ollie saw The Guy’s eyes were greeny-hazel. They sparkled.
“Hello, my name’s Keith,” The Guy said. Keith, an ordinary name for a commonplace man; a name not too far removed from Bill.
“What’s yours?” Ollie croaked an inadequate response. He felt like a thirteen-year-old girl.
Keith beamed that smile again. Beatific, some people would call it. “I’ve seen you looking at me for days,” the joyful smile did not falter. He reached forward and took Ollie’s hands in his. Ollie’s body shook with desire. His dreams, no his fantasises, were about to be fulfilled. His sad life would never be the same again.
Keith beamed, “I used to be homosexual too, but I’m cured now. There’s a church I go to. You should come too. I could take you if you like.”
Bile retched at the back of Ollie’s throat. His hand shot to his mouth; his insides twisted, he gave a low moan. Any second now a stream of vomit would flow across the table.
“I … B …” Ollie gabbled. Tears flowed down his cheeks. His temples pounded.
Keith’s beam intensified. “Trust in the Lord Jesus Christ. He saves us from all our sins.”
Ollie staggered to his feet, his chair toppled behind him and to the disapproving stares of others he bounced through the library and out the door. How could the man he loved treat him like this? It had been the happiest few days of his life.
Sucking down vomit and wiping his face with the back of his hand he rushed through the building. He had to escape, he didn’t want Keith to follow. His pain and humiliation was too much. Blinded by tears he found his way to the revolving door; he pushed too hard in his desperation to escape and was flung onto the pavement into the arms of an unsuspecting passer-by.
“Are you alright?” He was a young man, about Ollie’s age, but Ollie didn’t notice. “Can I help? Do you need help?” The young man held Ollie by the shoulders for a beat too long. “Can I take you somewhere?”
Ollie shrugged the young man off, yelled something unintelligible and rushed off into the crowd. The young man watched him go. Who was that Young Guy, the young man wondered? That beautiful black curly hair. Those doleful brown eyes. Those sweetly kissable lips. And, that magnificently spankable arse. He watched Ollie disappear towards the bus station. He had only moments to decide. He was rooted, fighting and eventually resisting the urge to run after him. A conclusion he would regret for the rest of his life.
Other stories you might like
More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second