Patrick didn’t know I was coming home early, otherwise he wouldn’t have been lounging on the armchair with his shirt off, a joint in one hand and examining a porn magazine with the front of his shorts wide open.
He should have been at work at the supermarket. Earning the money to pay off the rent arrears he owed me.
I don’t think he heard my car pull up in the drive, nor the front door open and close. He had no idea I was in the house. Even so, by the time I poked my head into the lounge room he had at least let go of his cock.
“Oh, eh, um ….” He was speechless, his face crimson. He tugged up the zipper of his shorts and looked sheepish. I stood in the doorway, my genuine disapproval writ large across my face. He jumped from the armchair and looked at the joint in his left hand the porn mag in his right as if he had no idea how on earth they had come to be there.
He was still shamefaced, but he had recovered the power of speech. “I, eh, didn’t expect you home so soon.”
I frowned. Patrick’s shaggy hair fell across his eyes hiding his dark-brown eyes. He knew he was in trouble with me. Big trouble. There could be only one course of action.
Patrick had been with me for nearly three months at that point. I had literally taken him from the gutter. I was walking home from the church hall one evening about nine o’clock. It was filthy weather; the rain fell in stair-rods and the wind howled a gale. I had just turned into The Avenue where my house is, when I almost fell over his body. Literally is a most overused word, but that is the appropriate word here. He was slumped on the pavement, face down. He wore only a light shirt and jeans. The rain had soaked him so he looked like he had been in a shower fully clothed. I noticed how the drenched jeans hugged the curves of his bottom.
At first I thought he might be dead. But, his clothes were soaked to the contours of his body and I could see he was breathing. So, he must have had a medical attack, I thought. I knew it wouldn’t have been street robbers. We simply do not have such people in The Avenue. It is far too up-scale. Besides, I have no doubt whatsoever that anyone caught doing such a thing would face vigilante justice. The robber would never, ever, again try such a thing. You have my personal guarantee on that.
I was ready to dash home to phone 999, but first I leant across his body to see if I could give immediate attention. I had no need of a phone. There would be no ambulance. The stink about his body was unmistakable. Patrick was not dead, but he was dead drunk.
I stood over him wondering what to do. Technically, he was committing a criminal offence. He was “drunk and incapable.” I could call the police, but I doubted they would want to be dragged out on a night like this to deal with a drunken teenager. I grabbed him by the collar and got him into a seated position. Now, I was as soaked as Patrick and my usually sunny disposition had clouded somewhat.
I didn’t recognise him. I was pretty certain he didn’t reside in The Avenue. There were a few youngsters his age living here; I had confronted one or two over the years. I had once been a schoolmaster at St. Francis Independent Grammar School until an unfortunate misunderstanding. You might say I still had a professional interest in the moral welfare of young people.
I knew I couldn’t leave him. If he wasn’t dead yet, he soon would be – of pneumonia. I was contemplating what I should do next, when he opened his eyes. He spoke words I could not hear. I was just about to lean closer to his face in the hope of hearing more clearly, when his body lurched and he let out an almighty cry. A stream of vomit hit the ground, much of it splashing against my trousers.
That did it. I couldn’t let the brat get away with that. Patrick wiped the hair from his eyes and the sick from his chin. He had “come around.”
“Right you.” I stood over him and from a considerable height I berated him for his disgusting behaviour. He blinked back at me uncomprehending through bleary eyes.
“Stand up boy,” I growled. He understood that all right. Unsteadily, he hauled himself to his feet. “Now get over to that house,” I pointed to number twenty-nine where I lived. “March!”
A schoolmaster never loses his touch. Patrick never thought to disobey. He staggered across the street and leaned against the wall while he waited for me to find my key.
That was when I began to oversee Patrick’s moral welfare. He was not sufficiently capable of undressing himself, so I made it my duty to ensure he was stripped naked and wiped down. He must not be allowed to go to bed damp. As I rubbed the rough towel over his soft skin, I was taken by how thin he was. Had I misjudged? Was he in fact a street urchin, like those youngsters one sees sleeping in cardboard boxes at night in town?
He slept as I undertook my nanny duties; getting the child ready for bed. I don’t know why I just called him a “child” for when it was necessary to dry off his undercarriage (so to speak) it became perfectly clear to me that he was no such thing. His long, thin cock twitched and became semi-erect as I worked the towel across it.
I fetched a clean pair of my pyjamas from the airing cupboard and poured him into them. They were a little too big for his willowy body, but I pulled the drawstring tight and they were serviceable. Thus attired I put him to bed.
Young people have the most remarkable powers of recovery from excessive drinking. By nine the following morning, Patrick was as right as rain (if you’ll pardon my little play on words). He sat in my kitchen while I fed him breakfast. The rain had stopped long ago, it was only an early summer storm and it was already becoming a fine June day. We waited for his clothes to complete a full cycle in the washing machine, then it would take an hour or so for them to dry off. There would be ample time for me to impress upon Patrick that his behaviour the previous night had been unacceptable and that I expected retribution. It would be the devil’s job to get the smell of sick out of my trousers.
I rather liked having the young man around me. He was articulate and as far as I could tell, honest. He had been visiting his friend from school David Spreadbury in a house further along The Avenue. They had drunk too much and had some minor disagreement over a girl and Patrick had been thrown out. I knew young Spreadbury and resolved to have a word with his father when he returned from the “second honeymoon” he had taken with his wife. I doubt that Mr. Spreadbury would approve of his son’s partying in his absence. I would, if necessary, offer my own expert services should Mr. Spreadbury wish to avail himself of them.
Patrick told me he was nineteen and until last year he had attended a rather select boarding school in Basingstoke, which was 100 miles or so from where we sat. He told his father he wished to become a writer and not surprisingly the old man, who had invested a significant amount of the family money in his son’s education, had objected. There ensued an argument. An ultimatum was delivered.
“Go be a writer, but do not expect any support from me,” was his father’s final word on the matter. So, Patrick wrapped his worldly belongings in a handkerchief and set off to make his fortune. So far, it had eluded him.
I poured him a second cup of tea and went out into my back garden. I had a task that I wanted to complete without delay. It took no more than ten minutes and when I returned to the kitchen, Patrick had helped himself to a second helping of cereal without asking permission. The boy’s manners left something to be desired.
I made a point of closing the back door nosily as I wanted to attract Patrick’s attention. It worked. His eyes widened and a frown darkened his usually open, fresh face. Of course, he had seen what I carried in my hand. For dramatic effect (another schoolmasterly trait, I’m afraid), I lay my produce on the kitchen table. There could be no doubt what they were. But, what, Patrick wondered, were they to be used for?
There were four straight, whippy switches, cut by my own hand from the bushes in my garden. Each was a little over two feet in length and about as thick as a pencil. They were not as stout, nor as robust as the rattan canes we used at school, but I could attest from experience they would make a mightily effective alternative.
The same thought appeared to cross Patrick’s mind. His face paled. His expressive eyes asked the unspoken question, “What are those for?”
I always followed a certain ritual in my study at St. Francis. First, I would confront the boy with his misdeeds, then I would hear his mitigation, then I would pronounce sentence before finally taking his backside off with a cane. I saw no reason why I should not afford Patrick the same courtesies.
His misdeeds were obvious. He admitted he had been drunk and incapable, but he did not remember being sick over me.
“I’m sorry,” he said, brushing his hair from his forehead and rolling his big brown cow eyes at me. If he thought he could wind me round his little finger that way, he had another think coming.
“Yes, you should be,” I remarked brusquely. That perplexed him. This was more serious than he had thought.
I had already heard his mitigation, so there was nothing more to do than to pass and then carry out sentence.
“What would your housemaster at school have done if you behaved in such a way?” It was by way of a rhetorical question, for no self-respecting schoolmaster could act in any other way.
He tried the eye rolling thing again. Had the technique worked at school? Had his housemaster been a little sweet on him?
“Pah!” I thundered. He trembled at the ferocity of my response. Was he reliving memories of his school days? “If he were any man at all, he would have thrashed you.” I leaned across the kitchen table, my face now inches from his. He blanched and fell backwards, so he almost toppled from his chair.
“Stand up!” I ordered. I knew he would submit. He had attended that kind of school. That was what his father had paid good money for. The boy might not obey his father, but he would never dare defy a schoolmaster.
“Up, I said. Stand up,” the fierceness of my tone did the trick. Patrick jumped up from his chair. In a panic, he gripped the waist of his pyjamas. The bottoms were far too lose, the cord was ineffective. If he let go they would hurtle to his feet like clown’s trousers.
I gathered up the four switches from the table and headed for the door. “Follow me into the lounge,” I instructed before setting off for the adjoining room. I didn’t need to look behind me, I knew he would follow unquestioningly.
The lounge was large, but minimally furnished. The pride of place was a three-piece suite, consisting of a padded sofa and two armchairs. I knew any one of the armchairs would be perfect for the task I intended. Patrick stood inside the door, his hand still clutching the waist of his pyjamas. His face was pale and sweat dripped from his temples, although it was not yet a hot day.
I rested three of the switches on the sofa seat and took the fourth in my right hand. I studied Patrick’s reaction as I swished it through the air, testing both its strength and its suppleness. It would make a mightily effective punishment cane. I could see Patrick had reached the same conclusion. He bowed his head and his shaggy-dog fringe covered his eyes, so I could not gauge his reaction when I tapped the apex of the back of one of the armchairs and intoned the words that have filled generations of schoolboys with dread, “Bend over that chair, boy.”
Patrick shuffled forward. It was a struggle to both walk and keep his PJ bottoms up. He reached the chair and stood about four feet away from its back. “Closer boy,” I swished the switch. “You can’t bend over it from there.”
Nor could he. He took two paces forward, pulled his jim-jam bottoms taut over his buttocks and fell forward into the padded armchair. This was not his first trip over a chair. He knew the drill. He stretched his arms forward and took hold of the far edge of the seat cushion with his hands. He parted his legs slightly, making sure his knees were straight and wriggled his bottom so it was at the highest point over the crown of the chair. He presented me with a perfect, submissive bottom. I have to say it was a terrific target.
Patrick shuddered when I took hold of the waistband of his pyjama bottoms. He had no cause. I believe in punishment, not torture. I am not a sadist, I am a traditional schoolmaster (albeit one who has been reluctantly retired). I had no intention of baring his backside. Instead, I tugged the oversized pyjamas until the bottoms fitted Patrick like a second skin. I heard him wheeze (was it a sigh of relief?)
I stood behind and a little to the left of the nineteen-year-old boy and tapped my rod against his stretched buttocks. He reeked of a mixture of sour sweat and rancid beer. As I had observed the previous evening, there was very little flesh on Patrick’s body. His bum was round and hard, rather like a rubber ball. I “sawed” the switch across the very centre of his cheeks, raised it to above shoulder height and let fly. I was rewarded by a loud hissing sound. It came from between Patrick’s clenched lips and reminded me a little of an old-fashioned steam train settling down.
I aimed a little higher and landed cut number two about an inch above the first. It didn’t seem to me to be any fiercer than the first stroke, but it had Patrick dancing over the back of the chair. His bum writhed from side to side and he wrapped his left foot over the right in a valiant attempt to ease the pain. It didn’t seem to work because Patrick simultaneously yelped a cry so piteous it might have made a less experienced master than myself show mercy.
I had decided on six strokes and six I intended to deliver. And, they would be six of my very best. I had already decided that Patrick needed saving. From himself, mostly. He needed to get his life back on track. His ambition to be a writer could come later. For now, it was my duty to bring him to his senses.
Cut three sliced just on the underside of his cheeks. The power of the stroke and the density of Patrick’s hard bottom combined to split the switch. No matter. I had cut four to meet such eventualities. I tossed the broken stick onto the sofa and selected another. It also gave me a chance to observe Patrick from the front. His eyes were still covered by his fringe (I resolved to send him to the barbershop at the first opportunity) so I could not tell if he was crying. His face and the back of his neck were as scarlet as I supposed his buttocks to be. Certainly, I had no fear that this was an extremely painful thrashing. We were not wasting our time here.
I bounced four and five in quick succession, so there was no time for the pain of one stroke to be absorbed before the next arrived. This technique had the effect of doubling the agony of a single stroke. It had the desired effect. Patrick wriggled and writhed and did the one foot over the other thing again. It didn’t stop the pain so he stomped his feet up and down into the deep-pile carpet.
I had arrived at the sixth and final stroke. Some schoolmasters (and I have done this myself often enough) like to make the last stroke something special: a diagonal cut from the bottom left to the top right of the target area slashes across the five cuts already throbbing there and reignites the pain in all of them. It leaves the scarred bum resembling a five-bar gate. It is excruciatingly agonising and should only be used in extreme cases; for recidivist repeat offenders, for example.
I considered Patrick to be a “first offender.” I had no doubt he had been dealt with many times at his former school, but this was his first time before me and I wanted to leave open opportunities to increase the severity of the punishment should I have cause to discipline him again.
So, I stood back, aimed my switch at the plumpest part of his buttocks and let fly. It landed more or less parallel to the previous cuts. Patrick buckled his knees waved his bum to left and right and wheezed all over again. But, it was over. He had survived his first caning from me. We could now get on with our lives.
I walked across the room and observed the nineteen-year-old from a distance. He was in some distress. I think tears might have been flowing now.
“Stand up,” I intoned. With some difficulty he hauled himself to his feet. He stumbled and his pyjama bottoms slipped down affording me the delightful sight of his marked buttocks. If I say so myself, I had delivered a wonderful set of cuts. I was proud of my continuing expertise with the rod.
Patrick’s face blushed scarlet as he struggled to keep his trousers up. He succeeded, but not until I saw his raging erection pointing toward the ceiling.
“You had better visit the bathroom,” I smiled. And to save his blushes, I added, “You are rather in need of a shower.”
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second