He stared through the window at the garden below. Rain drops fell plip-plop against the sill. It seemed it had rained the whole summer. English weather. He must go downstairs for breakfast. Arriving late for meals had consequences. He had learned that quickly.
When he turned eighteen he was taken from his prestigious school and sent half way across the world to an English language college at Brocklehurst: a strange place; not quite country, not quite town. His orders were to learn the language like a native. Immerse himself in the culture. He obeyed. He always obeyed: his father, his school, his Party, his Leader. Obedience had brought him a long way, it would take him much further.
He quickly learnt a lot about English culture. He knew about cricket and tennis. And a strange game they called Crown Green Bowls. And, he knew about the culture of discipline and punishment.
He had been sent to board with the Smith’s. Smith; could there be a more English name? John Smith was a Party functionary, a bureaucrat, a safe pair of hands. He too knew about obedience. The Smiths had a large house in The Avenue, an upscale part of town. Both their sons, now grown into adulthood, were in military service somewhere behind enemy lines.
He had been told to obey Mr Smith; he did so without question. He wanted to know English customs; it was important for his nation. The Leader had plans where England was concerned. He learnt quickly. From the very first moment. He hadn’t noticed it to begin with. That is he saw it easily enough. But, he didn’t register its importance. It hung in the kitchen on a hook next to Mr Smith’s flat cap and scarf (two garments he still needed in the damp summer months). It was a long, thick, wide leather belt. He saw nothing unusual in that. He had two or three of his own. That’s how he kept his trousers from falling down.
Less than a fortnight after he arrived he discovered this particular belt had a specific purpose. Mr Smith imposed rules. He had expected that; the English loved rules. They delighted in bossing people about. Do this, don’t do that. Be here, go there. There’s a times to get up, a time to come home. Meal times, bath times.
It was the fault of a girl. She had large breasts and long flowing ginger hair. Her lips were full and her eyes blazed with mischief. He was a red-blooded young man. How could he resist? Mr Smith never found out about the girl. All Mr Smith knew was that he had missed curfew twice. There could be only one consequence: corporal punishment.
There was no long lecturer, just a statement of fact. They stood in the kitchen, Mr Smith reached towards the hook and took down the belt. He sat in a large, straight-backed wooden chair, spread his legs and planted his feet firmly on the ground. The English have many rituals for corporal punishment. There are any number of implements to choose from; a brush, slipper, cane. A boy might be positioned across a desk, a chair, a vaulting horse or simply touching toes. There would be many future opportunities for him to experience all of these, but for now, this first time, it would be, “Trousers down. Over my knee.”
His hands shook as he unbuckled the belt that held up his baggy serge trousers. He stared down at the puddle of clothing at his feet. It seemed to be a very long way away.
He stared intently at the belt in Mr Smith’s hand. It was a long, thick, wide strip of leather. It looked terrifically heavy as Mr Smith folded it once and then again until he had a punishment strap about a foot long.
Mr Smith ran the tip of his tongue across his top lip; he moved, making himself more comfortable on his hard chair. “Shall we get this over with then? Come over here and bend across my knee.”
He blinked at Mr Smith; it was as if he had never seen the man before. His hard face was set in a scowl. In middle-age, he still had a fine head of black hair cut with military-style short back and sides. His tongue was darting in and out of his mouth. His shirt was stained under the armpits and open at the neck. Mr Smith wore brown thick corduroy trousers that had almost worn smooth at the knees.
He prepared himself. His glistening white Y-front underpants clung to his flat stomach; there was not a spare ounce of fat anywhere on his body. His heartbeat quickened and perspiration began to seep through the his shirt. His trousers at his ankles inhibited movement and he wobbled three or four steps to take up position.
He stood for a second on Mr Smith’s right side. The man’s legs were parted by about three feet to provide a platform for him to lay across. He gulped, drawing in air and the stink of sour tobacco. He leaned forward. The muscles in his back rippled as he wriggled to get into place. He was some athlete. His legs were like tree trunks and his bottom was firm and round. He stretched himself across Mr Smith’s legs.
He had never been spanked before, nor had he ever seen a boy go over the knee for punishment, but instinctively he knew what was expected of him. He spread his arms ahead of him and placed the palm of each hand four feet apart and firmly into the wooden floorboards. Behind him his trousers at his feet inhibited movement so his legs were hardly more than six or seven inches apart. He kept his knees straight so that his bottom, clad in smooth cotton, rested at an angle against Mr Smith’s right knee. He was perfectly positioned for punishment. He stared down at the floor and waited. He was quite comfortable considering what was soon to happen would be far from that, but he wriggled a little because a bunch of keys Mr Smith had in his trouser pocket dug into his side.
Mr Smith felt the weight of the belt in his hand as he tap-tap-tapped it against the left cheek. Gently, he took hold of the waistband of the underpants and pulled so that the smooth white cotton kissed the buttocks. Then, he moved the increasingly damp shirt a few inches up the back, exposing hairless and suntanned flesh.
Now, he was ready. Without further warning, Mr Smith raised the weighted strap to the fullest extent of his arm and brought it down with a resounding crack into the right cheek. A startled gasp hissed across the room. It hurt. He screwed up his eyes as a second and third thwap!!! landed. The echo of leather on tight cotton bounced around the room.
He was a spanking virgin and did not know what a spanking was supposed to feel like. The belt rose and fell as Mr Smith found his rhythm. A dull pain spread across both buttocks and he stared down at the backs of his hands.
Mr Smith lashed the leather belt again and again into the muscular bottom. The cheeks were so tight there was no “give” in the flesh. Without warning, Mr Smith stopped walloping and unceremoniously pulled once more at the waistband of the pants. This time, instead of making them tighter he dragged them down across the hips and over the round bum.
Mr Smith wrapped his arm around the midriff to hold him firmly in place, raised the leather strap to maximum height and brought it down over and over again into the firm flesh. Gasps quickly turned to little yelps and then to larger cries. He wriggled his body across Mr Smith’s lap to the left and to the right. He was strong and in a fair fight he could have knocked Mr Smith for six; but this was no fair fight. He had to obey and allow himself to be held firmly across the knees of his punisher, bare bum high to receive lash after lash from the leather belt. He must hang on for dear life and take what was coming to him.
His bottom was covered in a rash of raw marks where the short heavy belt had scorched into him. Hardly any of the buttocks and the tops of his thighs were untouched by the strap. Tiny graze marks widened into deeper scratches.
Whop! whop! whop! Mr Smith went around the circuit one more time; from the top of the cheeks, across the mounds and into and beyond the crease where the bum meets the thighs. The dull pain had long since transformed into an almighty throb only to become an agonisingly searing pain across the whole of his bottom area. The whacking had knocked the breath out of him and he lost strength. He had no power to resist and lay face down staring at the floorboards. Involuntary tears washed the backs of his eyes and soon they trickled down his cheeks.
Every square inch of his bottom had been toasted. Dozens of imprints of the belt emblazoned the buttocks and the tops of his thighs. It was a job well done. He had been well and truly spanked. Mr Smith spread his feet out in front of him so that he could lift himself clumsily off his lap. Slowly, he knelt and then stood up. His hands disappeared behind him as he rubbed away gingerly. In silence, he tugged up the underwear and trousers from the top of his shoes. He tucked in his shirt.
In silence, Mr Smith replaced the belt on the hook. Already most of the pain had gone. His bottom was still warm and in places it was tender to touch, but soon even that would disappear. The red marks would turn to bruises and he would wear them for some days to come. They would be a reminder to him of one very particular English custom.
Picture credit: Unknown
Other stories you might like
More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second