Dean lays on his bed staring at the erect cock stretching the front of his cotton underpants. It happens every morning. Regular as clockwork. As day follows night. He dreams of spanking. He has never been spanked. The cane was abolished at school years ago and dads generally don’t take the belt to their sons, no matter how unruly they behave.
He is not concerned why he fantasises about spanking, but he is sad that he is too shy to tell anyone about it. Sometimes he likes to think of bad things he has really done and imagines the punishment he should suffer. Like the other week when he got so drunk at the student union bar and staggered home so out of control he lurched over a garden fence and heaved up two stomach-fulls of vomit into the flowerbed. In his imagination, Dean was bent across the dining room table, jeans and pants at the knees, while the house owner lashed his naked buttocks with a switch he cut especially.
Dean drinks a lot. The other day he rode his moped while drunk. It was a stupid, irresponsible act. Somebody could have been killed. Any magistrate worth his salt would have sentenced him to a birching. Dean sees himself stripped naked from the waist down, tied to a wooden frame. His shirt is bunched up at his shoulders. One prison officer grips a bundle of twenty-four birch twigs bound together with tape. It has been soaking overnight in a metal bucket full of brine. Droplets fall from the birch as he swishes it through the air. You can cut the tension in the room with a knife. A second prison officer holds a clipboard, studies a sheet of paper stuck to it. He licks the end of a stub of pencil. He makes a tick. “Cut number one!” he calls in a clear, steady voice.
The first officer rests the birch against Dean’s buttocks. It is so big and Dean’s bum so relatively small it covers both cheeks. The officer lifts the birch high, swirls it around his head and twists his body before delivering an almighty lash into quivering flesh. Dean screams. The prison officer sweats. He raises the birch again.
After twelve cuts Deans bottom is a mass of cuts and grazes. It looks like raw hamburger meat. Deans screams subside into sobbing gulps as two officers drag him back to his cell.
Dean likes to dream about Paddy, a guy in his English Lit. class at university. Paddy could be the biggest student alive. He is built like a brick outhouse. Dean has this scene where he and other students share a house and Paddy is in a fit of temper. He is trying to finish an essay that should have been handed in yesterday but he can’t concentrate because of the loud music coming from Dean’s “ghetto blaster.” The whole house is shaking. Paddy shouts, “Turn that music down!” He hammers on Dean’s bedroom door. But to no avail.
“Right! That’s it! Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” Paddy bursts through the door and sees Dean flat out on his bed, still in his pyjamas although it’s nearly eleven in the morning. Paddy’s face is purple, Dean’s turns white. Dean is as small as Paddy is huge. It is no match. Paddy grips Dean by the arm, hauls him off the bed. His grip hurts Dean’s arm. But that is only the half of it. Paddy sits on the bed, his weight digs deep into the mattress. Deans struggles. It is a waste of time. Paddy pulls him across his knees. Dean is sucking the eiderdown, his legs dangle in mid-air. His bottom juts at an angle over Paddy’s right knee. Dean wriggles and writhes but Paddy’s supreme strength is too much.
Paddy says nothing. He concentrates on the task ahead. He grips the elasticated waist of the pyjama bottoms and pulls hard, almost tearing the material. Dean’s bum is exposed. He kicks his legs. Paddy adjusts his own body so he can put his right leg across the back of Dean’s calves. He takes Dean’s right arm and twists it up his back. He is pinned down. He is going nowhere. Paddy stretches the fingers of his right hand, cups them slightly and pounds away at Dean’s naked buttocks. Paddy’s forearm is like a leg of mutton, his hand as large and as heavy as a shovel. With only a few smacks Dean’s bum is as red as a London bus. The outline of Paddy’s hand appears in scarlet over and over again across Dean’s bum.
There’s a professor at the university who reminds Dean of the headmaster at his old school. He is about fifty and always sports a hostile look on his face. Dean knows the professor wouldn’t truck any nonsense from his students. It is late in the afternoon and Dean stands morosely in front of the desk. The study is cold and the night is drawing in. The room is in gloom. The professor holds a sheaf of paper in his hand. He reads with increasing incredulity.
“Balderdash! Poppycock!” he shakes his head. He looks as if he is forced to carry all the woes of the world on his shoulder. He waves the essay in Dean’s face. “You need to spend less time in the bar and more in the library.” His nostrils flare.
“Not good enough. Not good enough,” he mutters as he rises from his chair and walks a few steps to a table. Dean watches with mounting tension as the professor opens a drawer and extracts from it a long, whippy rattan cane. Dean stares at its crook handle. The professor flexes it between his hands. It curves easily. He swishes it through the air. A breeze travels across the room.
“Take off your jacket.” Dean does so.
“Stand by my desk.” Dean takes up position.
“Take down your trousers.” Dean is wearing Levi jeans. He fumbles with the metal buttons but soon they are at his knees. He is wearing his favourite mustard-coloured briefs. They are very snug.
“Bend over.” In his mind’s eye, Dean watches himself lean forward. He lays his stomach on the cold wooden desktop. He reaches forward with his arms and grips the edge of the desk. The professor takes his shirt and tugs it away from the target area. Dean’s buttocks twitch when the professor smooths down his pants so they fit like a second skin.
The professor taps the cane across the underside of Dean’s buttocks. Satisfied that he has his aim, he lets fly. It is to be six-of-the-very best.
There is a guy Dean saw in the student bar. He doesn’t know his name so christens him Michael. Michael has smooth skin and shiny light brown hair. Dean reckons his haircut must have cost a fortune. Michael is a trim lad and his Wrangler jeans hang over his buttocks invitingly. Michael is standing and Dean is behind him admiring his bum. Then, Michael leans forward to look at a picture in a magazine his friend wants him to see. Michael places his hands on his knees and arches his back. His feet are parted. It is the perfect “assume the position”. Dean is so close he could fondle Michael’s backside. Later Dean imagines he is holding an American-style wooden paddle. He rubs it backward and forward. “Brace yourself,” he intones as he lifts it high.
There’s a knock on his bedroom door. “Come on Dean! You’ll be late for breakfast.” It is Roger, a fellow lodger at Mr. Williams’ guesthouse. Dean hears Roger’s footfalls as he races down the stairs. Late for breakfast- again, Dean thinks. That would never do. In his imagination he sees Mr Williams take a thick leather belt from a hook on the kitchen wall. In the real world, Dean slides his hand down the front of his pants.
Picture credit: Cody Ferguson
Other stories you might like
More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second