Tyler rose from the desk in the workstation, lifted his jacket from the back of the chair and climbed into it. Nervously, he ran his tongue across his cracked bottom lip. He buttoned up and headed for the office door, pausing in front of a window to check himself out. Usually, he liked what he saw; a twenty-three-year-old man, lean and fit (in at least two senses of the word). He straightened his tie and ran his fingers through his hair. He checked his watch, he mustn’t dawdle, he daren’t be late. Not for his quarterly performance review.
Mr. Ferguson was an elderly man, at least in his fifties, Tyler reckoned. His hair was thinning and he tried (with woeful lack of success) to disguise this evident fact by combing what few strands he had left over his bald pate. His shaggy grey moustache and large rimless spectacles aged him further. But, more than that, what made Mr. Ferguson appear like a relic from a by-gone age was his tight-fitting light grey suit and amber waistcoat.
Tyler stood respectfully in Mr. Ferguson’s office, feet slightly part, hands behind his back, head bowed. He accepted Mr. Ferguson was in charge. He was the boss. Nobody thought to deny that. Mr. Ferguson’s desk was huge and for the most part empty. It was the colour of a light wood and had a grain pattern running through it, but it was made from some artificial material. As was all the furniture. The boss might look as if he belonged fifty years in the past, but it was an illusion. Behind him was a computer and printer and it was through these that Mr. Ferguson was receiving a copy of Tyler’s work performance.
While the printer whirled, Tyler stared apprehensively at the two straight-backed, armless chairs that stood between himself and the desk. Each of them was the perfect height for a young man to bend across to offer up his backside for punishment. The huge desk was both wide and deep, but it was also a little higher than average. Tyler could see himself spread-eagled across it.
Mr. Ferguson perused the sheaf of printed notes now in his hands. Tyler could not bear to look at him, he would find out soon enough what his boss thought of his work. Instead, he concentrated on the three-drawer metal filing cabinet in the far corner of the room and the stout wooden paddle he supposed was nestling somewhere inside.
Mr. Ferguson placed his notes on the desk and addressed Tyler. The young insurance claims adjuster’s eyes blinked uncontrollably. His heart raced, his palms sweated. The voice seemed to be coming from a long distance, as if from a mountain top. What was it his boss was saying?
Tyler slowly unclasped his belt and unbuttoned his trousers. He pushed them over his hips and let go. From there they slithered slowly down his legs.
A breeze from the nearby open window brushed against his naked legs as he awaited the next command.
Tyler looked over at his boss; in his hands was a wicked-looking school paddle, around two feet in length. It looked mighty heavy and had about a dozen holes drilled along its length. Mr Ferguson’s manic grin exposed decaying teeth as he pointed to a spot on the floor in front of him, “Please bend over and touch your toes.”
Submissively, Tyler did as he was told. He rubbed his hands together, flexed the muscles in his arms, arched his back and stooped forward to present his buttocks for a thrashing. With his feet planted a yard apart and his legs straight, he was in the perfect position. His bottom was thrust up with only the thin material of his underpants between him and the wood. He felt like his arse was on offer, raised provocatively to his master.
Mr Ferguson waited. There was no need to hurry.
“You’ve been late for work too many times, lad. You take long lunches and, my God! your closure rates this quarter are appalling.” Mr. Ferguson swished the paddle through the air as he catalogued Tyler’s faults.
Bent double, with his fingertips touching his toes, Tyler was in no position to argue. It didn’t matter what he had to say in mitigation (in truth he had nothing, he was guilty as charged on all counts), his boss had already decided on his course of action. The twenty-three-year-old had no real choice but to obey: for him it was swats from the paddle or the unemployment line.
His bottom was thrust out backwards invitingly as he touched his toes, stretching the cotton underpants tight. Tyler’s hair tumbled forward and his buttocks trembled nervously, making ripples in the fabric that betrayed his growing apprehension as he waited for the swats to begin.
Mr. Ferguson believed there was no point spanking a boy unless it hurt, so he always paddled on the bare buttocks. He set the wood down on his desk and approached Tyler from behind. In one swift movement he grasped the young man’s underpants at each hip and gently lowered them down his thighs until they rested precariously at his knees. One sharp move from Tyler would see them tumble down his shins to a final resting place at his feet.
Tyler’s buttocks were creamy white and hairless. It was obvious he had recently shaved: back and front. The young man felt incredibly foolish, his bottom bared, offered for chastisement to this older man. He twitched in anticipation as his boss moved behind him. Surely, he was ready now? Why did he always play these games; making him wait, and wait, before cracking the first agonising swipe across his bum?
His boss’s cold hands rested on his tender mounds as he slowly pushed the tail of his jacket well clear of his target. Nearly ready, the tip of Mr. Ferguson’s tongue licked his lips, as he gripped the paddle and began tapping it gently on Tyler’s bare bum. Slowly, he removed the wood and then lashed it down viciously into his naked haunches. Tyler gasped as the pain kicked in. That first searing swat reminded him just why the paddle was to be feared.
After a long pause, stroke two slashed down, slicing into his sore cheeks with real force. His arse throbbed and ached. CRACK! Mr. Ferguson whipped a third swat down on the bare buttocks. The cheeks gave way as the paddle sank into the fleshy buttock cheeks.
Another stroke followed and landed just below the first. This time the young man gasped and felt tears coming into his eyes as the intense sting burned deep into his bum, The following swats landed lower down before he could catch his breath another lashed right into his sit-spot where the cheeks met the thighs.
As he struggled for breath, Tyler felt the gentle (reassuring almost) touch of his boss’s hand on his back, just between his shoulder blades, this was before a further three swats lashed across his bottom leaving him yelling and crying bitterly as Mr. Ferguson raised bruise after bruise across his sorry burning backside.
Mr. Ferguson was enjoying this. He adjusted his own trousers and raised the paddle once more before whipping it down viciously. The blast of this thwack! resounded all around the small office.
Then there was an eerie silence, broken only by Tyler’s gulps and gasps for breath and his sobbing. Mr. Ferguson stepped back and looked at the boy still bent over, his buttocks quivering.
“It’s over”, he said. “You can get up now.”
Tyler managed to raise himself up, the change of position made his arse hurt even more; how he wanted to rub it, but he knew his master never allowed that till you left the office. In severe pain he bent and pulled first his underpants and then his trousers up over his blistered cheeks. The touch of cloth on burning flesh reignited the agony in his buttocks.
“I think you have learned your lesson, haven’t you?” his boss asked rhetorically, but Tyler tried to gulp a reply. He knew this was his cue to leave.
“Tyler, Tyler, are you even listening to me?”
The young man blushed to his hair. Mr. Ferguson laughed. This really was a delicious boy. His wide, open face always seemed to smile. The acne scars around his chin and throat emphasised, not diminished, his beauty. His hair was expensively cut, like the feathers of a bird. Oh, how he wished he could run his fingers through it.
Tyler shuffled his feet in embarrassment. He had not heard a single word his boss had spoken.
“I said, Tyler,” Mr. Ferguson said, waving the report at the young man, “this is an excellent set of results, you are doing very well.”
Somewhat confused, Tyler mumbled, “Thank you,” and then added rather contritely, “Sir.”
Mr. Ferguson grinned, the boy was scrumptious when embarrassed. “You’d better get back to work. Keep it up.”
Mr. Ferguson watched Tyler turn on his heels and make for the door. He looked delightful in his dark-blue striped business suit. He licked his lips as Tyler fumbled with the door handle. His eyes transfixed on Tyler’s round, firm buttocks filling out his snug-fitting trousers. “He has a bum that’s crying out to be spanked,” he told himself ruefully.
Other stories you might like
More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second