Mr. Baker unscrewed the cap of a new vodka bottle and relished the glug-glug-glug sound the liquid made as it splashed against the bottom of the heavy glass tumbler. Unsteadily, he shuffled across the room and carefully manoeuvred himself into the plush leather armchair. He clicked the button on the remote, washed his tongue in alcohol and settled to watch his latest download.
He sighed in disappointment. Why did he still buy these things? A “model” who was easily six-feet-two and as wide as a shed stood in a gymnasium dressed in grey short trousers and white shirt. His headmaster flexed and swished a cane. The boy, who was easily twenty-five, bends and touches his toes. Most of his bare legs are covered in tattoos and there’s another on his neck.
“Pah!” Mr. Baker exhaled aloud, even though there was nobody there to hear him. “Not very realistic, is it?” he asked his glass tumbler. After a couple of dozen whacks on his shorts, the boy would be made to take them down for further treatment on his underpants and then on the bare. Mr. Baker knew the script off by heart (they were all the same). Next, the “boy” would be taken across the knee of the headmaster for a hand-spanking. In all probability, he would get a dose of the birch for good measure.
“Not very authentic,” he sneered. “If a real headmaster behaved like that he’d soon be doing five years in clink.”
Why, he wondered, did they make such pathetic videos? And – more to the point – why did he still buy them?
He had a vast collection. The heyday of spanking video-making must have been ten years ago, at least, he reckoned. The models actually looked like boys. One of his favourites was a senior schoolboy who misbehaves and when he gets home his dad makes him change into pyjamas and then he takes him over his knee and spanks his bare bottom. Beautiful bum. Realistic spanking. And, not a tattoo in sight.
He drained his glass and hauled himself to his feet and putting one foot carefully in front of the other guided himself out the room to the cupboard under the stairs. He had quite a collection of toys, but his favourite was the authentic swishy crook-handled rattan school cane. He had bought it at a fetish bazaar in Birmingham. He caressed it, testing both its suppleness and its strength. It was a little over three feet in length and as thick as a pencil.
Back in the sitting room, he stood behind the empty armchair. It had been a couple of years since the cane had seen action, but in his mind’s eye Mr. Baker saw Bateman-Jones once again stretched across its back, pale-grey trousers so tightly stretched across his buttocks, Mr. Baker could see the outline of his Y-fronts.
Whack-whack-whack! The cane bounced off the young man’s meaty arse. Phew! Mr. Baker managed a smile. Those were the days. What a pity Bateman-Jones left Brocklehurst for a new job when they were both “down-sized” by the bank.
The clock in the hallway pinged the half-hour. Mr. Baker’s ears pricked. That was his cue. He slithered to the window overlooking the street. The Avenue was in an upscale suburb and directly opposite was a large detached house. Right on time, two boys on bicycles peddled into view. School was over for the day. Mr. Baker knew the taller of the boys well. Robert Connor had been a neighbour for years. Mr. Baker had seen him grow up from a kid in play shorts to the strapping sixth-former he was today. In a few months’ time he would leave school and almost certainly be off to a university.
He looked so smart in the posh green-and-gold blazer. Mr. Baker knew Robert would have taken off his hooped school cap and stuffed it in his pocket the second he was out of sight of St. Francis Independent Grammar School and its masters.
Mr. Baker watched intently as Robert dismounted his bicycle. The eighteen-year-old’s buttocks were of the highest quality: round and firm. Mr. Baker thoughtfully flexed his school cane between his hands. Often he had fantasised that Robert was across the back of his armchair, submissively offering himself up to the attention of his cane.
His dreams would have been more satisfying if Robert were a troublesome teenager. Abusive. Drunk. Like so many youngsters were these days. They thought they owned the world and stuff any old geezer who got in their way. Not Robert. He was a good boy; kind and considerate.
Only the previous weekend, Robert had knocked on Mr. Baker’s door. It was the afternoon, so the man was a little tired and emotional. The school was collecting for the poor in some place in Africa Mr. Baker had never heard of. Would he care to donate?
Rarely, did Mr. Baker get the chance to enjoy Robert at close quarters. He was a dish. His brown eyes sparkled and his face creased when he smiled. His black, straight fair hair was cut short (you could thank the school rules for that) and his skin was remarkably clean and shiny. Mr. Baker knew nothing of the “product” certain young men bought for their ablutions. Gone were the days of Lifebuoy and a facecloth. Mr. Baker made a large donation.
Now, he watched Robert find his key and open the door. Mr. Baker did not know his friend so well. The teenagers had been returning together from school for the past week or so. Doing their homework together, he supposed. Exams were looming. There wasn’t a minute to be lost. He was a little shorter than Robert, fairer and quite remarkably thin. Skinny, really.
The door closed and the two boys dumped their bags in the hallway.
“I’ve got some whisky,” Robert grinned. “I nicked it from work,” his nose wrinkled and his eyes shone.
“Naughty boy,” his friend Barry frowned, following Robert’s buttocks as they sashayed up the stairs to his bedroom.
“It’s all right; everyone does it. The perks of working in the warehouse,” Robert reached to the top of the wardrobe and took down a box. Inside was a bottle of Bells and plastic glasses. He poured generous helpings.
Barry sipped cautiously. The amber liquid burned his throat and he spluttered. Robert grinned, “You don’t have to drink it if you don’t want to.”
Barry put the glass down, took off his blazer and dragged the tie from his neck. Robert slipped off his blazer and carefully placed it on a hanger. Barry sat on the bed and watched his pal intently. Muscles rippled on Robert’s back as he stretched forward to put his jacket in the cupboard. The seat of his trousers bulged. So did the front of Barry’s.
Robert turned and let himself be pulled forward until he tumbled on top of Barry, their tongues met briefly. They rolled on their backs, bodies close together on the narrow bed. Sex would come later; there was something that needed to do first. There were only eighteen years old but they knew what they wanted. Within seconds they were naked.
“Quick, put a towel down, I don’t want spunk all over the bed,” Robert took charge. With a bath sheet strategically placed he lay face down, knees bent, arse high. It was a lovely smooth, hairless bum and Barry couldn’t get enough of it. Every night for two weeks they had played this little game. He took Robert’s Boy Scout belt from the wardrobe. He loved the weight of it in his hands. It was heavy; the buckle made certain of that, but so did the metal ring that at one point along its length connected two halves of the belt.
He doubled it up in his hand and without warning smacked it across the centre of Robert’s meaty bum. His pal buried his head in his arms and waited for the next. Smack. A pink blotch spread over Robert’s left cheek.
“Harder!” he gasped. “Harder.”
Barry was happy to oblige. It was a lovely bum, made for spanking. The cheeks were round and fleshy. Robert was in no way fat, but his buttocks had a degree of padding that absorbed the weight of the leather. Smack-smack-smack. He walloped the belt across his mate’s arse. If truth be told Barry wasn’t especially into spanking. He had fancied Robert for years but they had only just admitted to one another they were gay. He was more than happy for them to roll around naked on the bed and then fuck each other’s brains out. But, he knew Robert would go like a steam train if he had his arse warmed up first.
The belt rose and fell. It wasn’t a flogging. It was just hard enough to redden Robert’s bum. The marks such as they were would soon disappear. Round one was over. They lay on the bed naked, entwined.
“I wish we had a cane,” Robert sighed. “You can buy them on e-Bay.”
Barry’s face cracked with a grin. “Good luck getting that past your dad when the postman delivers.”
Robert’s eyes flashed. “I wouldn’t mind.”
“What!” Barry shrieked. “You want to be caned by your dad!”
Robert giggled, “Well, not dad, maybe. But, an older man.” He paused and met his friend’s incredulous stare. “No offence, but don’t you ever want to be spanked by someone older?”
Barry sucked on his bottom lip. He did that when he was thinking. It had never occurred to him before.
“Imagine at school. In the headmaster’s study. Bend over. Touch your toes. Trousers down maybe. Pants even,” Robert’s cock swelled at the thought.
“They used to at St. FIGS,” he carried on hurriedly, “It was known as ‘The Caning School’, back in the 1960s.”
Barry didn’t try to suppress his giggling. Robert put his arm around his lover in a headlock. “Ouch, ouch, ouch,” he shrieked in mock agony. They lay entwined. Nearly ready for the climax of the evening.
“There’s a man across the street,” but Robert wasn’t quite ready to stop talking about caning. Barry stroked Robert’s cock. It was at full attention now. “I’d love him to cane my arse.”
Barry tutted. Seemed like his chance of a fuck was on hold for a while. “Why?” he felt he’d better humour Robert, “Is he some kind of Adonis?”
“Ha!” it was a genuine laugh. “No, nothing like that. He’s old and running to fat.” He saw Barry’s mouth open incredulously, so he hurried on, “There’s just something about him that makes me want to be dominated. I was over his house on Saturday, y’know collecting for Swaziland. God. I nearly came in my pants. He has this incredible leather armchair,” he wheezed, “He could take me over that any time.”
“Take you? You mean ….?”
“God no. Cane me. Six-of-the-best. Trousers up. Trousers down. Any way he likes.”
Barry beamed. “Jesus Christ, you’ve got it bad. Come on,” he rolled onto his stomach, then lifted himself on his knees. “Fuck me.”
Across the road, Mr. Baker’s mouth drawled as his head hit his chest. He would lay in a drunken stupor for some hours.
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second