His name was Arthur, but I didn’t discover that until much later. It was a hot day in midsummer. Arthur wore the smallest and tightest shorts, pale yellow with dots; like ones you would wear to the beach. His smooth tanned body glistened with sweat. His blond, shaggy hair was drenched. I watched the muscles in his back, his arms, his legs twist as he pushed the mower across the grass. It looked like he had already cut acres, but he wasn’t even half way done.
It was at Brocklehurst Country Club. Arthur was a labourer and he had a young manual-worker’s body. Hard, with not enough fat to sizzle a sausage. I was the son of the Club’s President, hanging around for no good reason during my vacation from university. I sat on the porch of a summerhouse, staring, mesmerized by his tight arse pointing at me as he struggled to get the mower through overgrown grass. Even at a distance I could see he wore no underwear. Abruptly, he stopped his efforts. He turned his head and looked over his shoulder. Some instinct must have told him he had an admirer. He flashed me a smile. His ice-blue eyes glinted. I stared back. We had never met before.
The front of his shorts suddenly bulged. My pupils dilated. He smiled, his nose wrinkled. He ran the tip of his tongue across his lips. It was a grotesque parody of a tart. He was saying (but not actually speaking) “Come up and see me sugar.” I nodded my assent. He pointed to the summerhouse. I knew his intentions immediately. It took him two seconds to reach me and together we crashed through the door.
I lost a couple of buttons when Arthur ripped my shirt over my head. Then he popped the fastener on my jeans and pulled them down to my ankles, dragging my white underpants with them. I clutched at Arthur’s shorts. His rock-hard penis short skywards as they fell to his feet.
I didn’t immediately take his dick into my mouth. I poked out my tongue and licked up and down the rigid shaft, concentrating on the rim of the swollen head. Arthur gasped. He grabbed hold of my hair and pulled my head forward towards his cock. It was difficult for me to breathe, but I kept up the licking, spluttering saliva up the full length of his eight-inch member. I don’t think I had ever held a cock that was so hard. A thick vein ran the full length, the whole thing was purple and I was sure it was about to explode, but Arthur must have had tremendous will-power because I kept on licking for several minutes. Then I opened my mouth and Arthur slid the top half of his dick inside.
I was sure they would hear Arthur’s groan of pleasure all the way back at the clubhouse. “Take it all, take it all,” he huffed. We tumbled to the floor and I was able to get the entire shaft into my mouth. Arthur thrust his hips and the tip of his cock hit my throat. I pushed his body back a bit to stop me from choking to death.
“Argh, that is so good,” Arthur moaned, his fingers were trailing through my soft hair. Then they slid down on to the smooth, silky skin of my shoulders. Then he was all over me. My back, my arse. He slipped his finger in my crack but seemed to have second thoughts and immediately withdrew it. He went for my thighs and then the ball sack. My cock was throbbing hard. I couldn’t hold out much longer. I gave out a low groan. Arthur pinched my left nipple. I shot a load.
“I’m cumming,” Arthur screamed a warning. Too late. A gallon of spunk shot into my mouth.
We had sex often that summer. Arthur was uninhibited. We did it every which way you could imagine – and some ways you could not. We never became friends. We were the same age but he had left Gumshoe Lane Tech School at fifteen and had been in and out of mundane jobs since. I had attended St. Tom’s, a well-known public (that is elite private) school. I was at university and would soon enjoy a lucrative career in merchant banking. He was as thick as two short planks: what the boys at school called an oik. I took to calling Arthur, Arty. He loved it. I think it sounded glamourous to him: American perhaps. I meant it as R.T. – as in Rough Trade, but be that as it may.
One day it was hotter than ever and I spent a languid afternoon watching Arthur work. He really was the sexiest animal; all muscles and brawn. I think he liked to have me watching. I suppose he was proud of his body; let’s face it he had nothing else much going for him. He had finished cutting back bushes near the tennis courts and his shorts were drenched in sweat. I saw the tip of his – as yet still flaccid – cock through the transparent material. I was ready for more red-hot sex. Arthur had other ideas.
“I know where we can get some beer,” he flashed a smile. His lips were so red it looked as if he had been drinking raspberry cordial. “Without paying,” he added with a note of triumph. He was like a ten-year-old boy who thought he knew a secret nobody in the entire world but himself knew about. Bless him.
There was a store of crates full of beer by the clubhouse bar. Ours for the taking. The bar staff “nicked them” all the time, he told me. It would be easy. It was too. The clubhouse bar was closed during the afternoons (the ridiculous local licensing laws) and left unattended. The bar steward would not return until nearly six in the evening to reopen it.
We took four bottles – two each. They were for personal use, as a defence lawyer might tell a court. They were warm and we ran them under a water tap in an unsuccessful attempt to cool them down. Warm Double Diamond beer; it is one of the great memories of my youth. That and Watney’s Party Seven. But I digress. We took them back to the summerhouse, knocked them back in a trice and set about sucking each other’s cocks.
It was close to five when, nearly exhausted by sexual gymnastics, we ambled back to the clubhouse. If we returned the empties, Arthur assured me, they would never know the beer had been stolen. It might have worked too, if Sergeant Harry the bar steward hadn’t decided to use the afternoon to clean the beer taps. Long story short: we were caught. Bang to rights. Thieves.
Harry was another loser. He was in his forties, I guess, but seemed much older to me at the time. He was tall but his shoulders slumped, like he had been ground down. He had probably been a barman all his life. That or a waiter or some other step-and-fetch. He wore a fake uniform, with sergeant stripes on his sleeves. You saw that a lot; doormen, messengers, cinema commissionaires; men who had nothing to show for their lives except when they had been forced to go into the Military and were led by the nose by superior officers to become their batmen or valets. Typical Working Class. The members of the Country Club saw this. Harry loved it when they called him “Serge”, but he didn’t have the wit to see they were patronising the hell out of him.
Harry frowned and then slowly his face creased. I could almost hear the rusty cogs in his brain turning. He was trying to think. To come up with an idea. To make a decision. I stood impatiently, waiting for something to happen. Arthur was impassive. At last Harry spoke. “I’ll have to report you,” he said slowly, as if waiting for our confirmation that he had made the right decision. Harry leaned in toward me. I could smell cheap roll-up cigarettes on his clothing. “I’ll have to tell your father.” I swear he leered.
My father was the President of the Country Club, the top banana; the Field Marshall to Harry’s Sergeant. Of course Harry had to report me. I took the news calmly. I wasn’t about to go into a funk in front of the servants. Father would not be best pleased. I was a thief. If the thing became public, his own reputation would suffer. Good God if it went to the magistrate court and I was convicted (as I should be) my career would be in tatters before it had even started. Merchant banking and thieving do not go together.
By chance my father was at the club that evening attending some committee meeting or other. I waited in the bar while Harry delivered his news. Arthur and I remained silent. I knew precisely what would happen. There was not the slightest doubt. I was a public school man. We had rules about these things.
About thirty minutes later my father appeared in the bar. He was a large man. We used to call such people “stout” but today we would be more truthful. His double chin wobbled as he shook his head wildly. “Impossible”, “unbelievable”, “incredible”. He was at a loss for words. “Is it true?” he asked, although he knew the answer.
If there was one thing I learned at St. Tom’s it was never get caught. Obviously, I hadn’t learned that lesson well. The second lesson was if you were caught red-handed admit it and accept the consequences. Arthur stood beside me dumbstruck. He wasn’t much of a talker at the best of times. He stared rather shamefaced at his canvas shoes. I spoke for both of us; in monosyllables. Yes we had done it. There wasn’t much to say.
Father harrumphed. He shook his head. I watched the glistening fat of his jowls and chin quiver. “To the boardroom,” he growled. “The pair of you. Now.” The room was a short distance down a passageway from the bar. Without a word to each other Arthur and I shambled away, leaving my father mumbling into his chest as he ambled towards the telephone.
The boardroom was oak-panelled and distinguished, as befitting a country club for gentleman. A long rectangular table with a highly-polished top dominated its centre. Glass-fronted bookcases ran along three sides. I had never been in the room before but I could tell the leather-bound volumes were rarely read. An open fire, of course unlit since it was the height of summer, stretched along the fourth wall. Large, heavy, solidly upholstered chairs ran along two sides of the table. We stood at one end and waited. It felt like I was back at the headmaster’s study at St. Tom’s.
After a minute or two I heard the sound of a vehicle’s engine outside the window. A door opened and closed. Two men whispered to each other. Moments later the door of the boardroom flew open. Father stood breathless. He made no attempt to disguise that he held a long thick punishment cane in his hand. I recognised it at once. He had seconded it from our home. He lay it on the table top. Arthur’s eyes shone at its sight. He had attended oik-school so I don’t suppose he had seen such a thing before. The rubber-soled gym plimsoll was the punishment instrument of choice there, I believe. At worst they would get a smack of a solid bamboo rod across the open palm of the hand. This would be unknown territory for him.
Not for me. The cane on the table was longer and denser than the ones they flogged our behinds with at St. Tom’s. It didn’t have the traditional curved handle either. This was a Malacca cane, the kind that they used on juvenile delinquents in Kenya where my father was stationed for many years. It was designed not only to hurt (naturally, or else what was the point?) but to leave deep welts that would last days or weeks. This was an awesome rod.
Father unbuttoned his jacket and with some difficulty slipped it from his shoulders. A roll of fat hung over the waist of his trousers. His shirt was soaked in sweat. He waddled across the room and hung the jacket on a hat stand in the corner. He had not spoken a word since entering the room. With his left hand he unbuttoned the cuff of his shirt and slowly rolled the right sleeve over and over. He stopped when it was above the elbow so that his forearm was bare. He flexed his arm to ensure it could move unimpeded. Satisfied, he reached forward and picked up the cane. My eyes followed Arthur’s stare as he followed my father’s movements. Father flexed the cane between his hands reminding me of its surprising flexibility. He showed its whippy-ness by swishing it through the empty air. Arthur’s blue eyes shone as he watched it fly.
It was at about this time I became aware that Sgt. Harry was standing on the other side of the window. He made no attempt to hide. He had an unobstructed view of the proceedings. He licked his lips in anticipation.
Father was ready. The first words he spoke since entering the room was to Arthur. Father tapped the cane against the edge of the table. “Stand there boy.” Arthur blanched; he appeared to be breathing heavily. He made no protest. He walked to the spot indicated. “Shorts and pants down.” Father’s face was awash with sweat. Arthur undid the shorts. They were the same poker-dot ones he wore the first day we met. As always he wore no underpants. More tapping of the cane. “Bend over.”
I was mightily impressed that Arthur submitted himself to my father’s will. I expected as much from a public-school man, but the oiks were well-known to be cowards. It went with their renowned idleness. Arthur leaned forward and rested the palms of his hands on the table top, evidently unsure how to present himself for a thrashing. “All the way, flat on the table,” my father barked. Arthur slid forward. He folded his arms and rested his face in them. Behind him he bent his knees and spread his legs a little. I had a perfect view of his bottom. My cock stirred. I had been in and out of his hole for most of the summer.
Father took hold of Arthur’s t-shirt and pushed it up his back. This was not strictly necessary since it did not impinge on the target area. Arthur shivered. He shook some more as my father sawed his cane across the centre of Arthur’s mounds. The cheeks twitched; his hole blinked. Father planted his feet firmly on the ground about a yard apart. He bent his knees and gripped the cane so tightly his knuckles began to blanch. I watched transfixed as he rose the cane to above shoulder height; then he twisted his body and brought the rod crashing through the air in an arc. The swoosh as it went reminded me it was weightier than the canes the headmaster used at St. Tom’s. It smacked into Arthur’s stretched haunches and sank deep into the flesh. A thick dark-pink line immediately spread across the cheeks. A perfect shot. There was a second of so of total silence before Arthur expelled a lung-full of air through his clenched teeth. His back buckled and his hips rose fully ten inches from the table. His knees caved. His head rose from his arms and then with a monumental example of self-control he forced it back into position. I saw him suck on his forearm, stifling the scream his agonised body so obviously wanted him to yell.
Father pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. It was a copious size. It needed to be to mop up the rivers of perspiration that soaked his face and neck. He dried himself off and let the handkerchief fall onto the table top. It would be needed many more times before my father completed his duties that afternoon.
He ran the cane along the underside of Arthur’s cheeks, at the sensitive “sit spot” where buttocks meet the thigh. He did the body twisting thing again but this time he landed the Malacca cane with an upward stoke. A bright red stripe lit up Arthur’s bottom in parallel to the first. I had forgotten what an expert my father was. Arthur’s body twisted and turned, his legs stomped up and down like a soldier on sentry duty. He bit deep into his arm. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Harry, his jaw dropped and eyes on stalks.
Arthur’s incredible gymnastics as the third stroke flogged the upper curves were awe-inspiring; an absolute frenzy of jerking and twisting of his arms, legs and naked buttocks. A red soreness had spread across the teenager’s rear end, from the top of the globes near the spine, over the fleshy hills and into the smooth underside. This was a thoroughly-thrashed criminal. But, father had not finished. He wiped himself dry once more, taking time to ensure his palms were free of sweat and his grip on the cane unimpaired. Father’s face already bright red was turning purple. Swipe! Arthur let escape a hiss so loud and so prolonged it reminded me of a steam train settling down at the railway station.
Grudgingly I admired Arthur’s stoicism. I had been beaten many times in the past. St. Tom’s was that kind of school. I had once been lashed by my father after my brother and I made a visit to the seaside without permission, but none compared to this. Father put every ounce of his considerable weight into the flogging. I admired Arthur’s bum for its beefiness. He had globes like peaches. When I caressed them in the palms of my hand their solidness sent waves of desire through my body. Now, they were being ripped to shreds. The cane rose again and swiped down into that flesh cutting deeply. His backside started to resemble a map of Clapham Junction.
At last it was over. Six-of-the-very-best, delivered with vim and vigour by an expert in his craft. Arthur lay face down wheezing like a beached whale. The back of his neck was as scarlet as his rear-end. Cold sweat soaked the back of his t-shirt. Father left him there. His own breathing was strained. The handkerchief did its work once more. After what seemed an eternity, he ordered Arthur to stand. He hauled himself to his feet and stumbled a little before clutching onto the table’s edge. His neck was red but his face was deathly pale. He couldn’t (or wouldn’t) look at me. Sure that he was steady on his feet, he leaned over to retrieve his shorts from his ankles affording me a delightful view of his brutalized buttocks. My eyes shot straight to his hole, so inviting.
Father flexed his cane, swished it in my direction and intoned, “Take his place.” Determined not to let myself down in front of a boy from the lower orders, I moved into position. I was ready to bare myself for deserved punishment. I reached for and undid the button on the waistband of my jeans. Suddenly, I stopped. I couldn’t do this. Not now. Not with my father, Andrew and Harry all watching.
“Don’t keep me waiting,” my father growled. His eyes glared fiercely. I caught a smirk on Arthur’s face. He thought I was a coward, chickening out. I couldn’t allow that. I had to go through with it. I had to lower my jeans, despite the intense humiliation I felt.
I pulled the zipper and let the jeans fall. I closed my eyes in embarrassment, hooked my thumbs into my underpants and tugged them down. My cock crowed. It was six inches and growing. I don’t think it had ever been so hard. It poked at the ceiling; already the tip was glistening. I cannot describe the look of horror on my father’s face as I shuffled forward and with great difficulty lay flat against the table top.
Picture credit: Unknown
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
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