The Decorator

new story 2

z used otk pants painter and decorator sting

Times were hard for youngsters back then. People just assumed that we were lazy dossers. There were no jobs but that was apparently our fault. They slashed the benefits as an ‘incentive’ to get back to work. There was no minimum wage either – we were paid a pittance.

But it was that or nothing. Take a job; any job. My dad knew a feller who knew a feller and I ended up as a painter and decorator’s labourer – about as unskilled as it got. It didn’t matter that I had stayed on at school and got my qualifications. I could’ve gone to university, but after Brexit and the UK left the EU the country went broke and half of them closed down.

So they stuck a paintbrush in my hand and told me to get on with it. Actually, don’t breathe a word of this t the painters and decorators federation but it doesn’t take much nous to paint a wall. I did a few other thoings as well – fetching and carrying, making the tea, you know the kind of thing.

I didn’t realise it at first but Mr Brewster (my boss, or do I mean slave owner?) loved to order people about. “Do this! Do that! Come here! Go there!” he barked commands all day long. There was no need for it really, most of the time there were only the two of us there. A little bit of civility on his part wouldn’t have come amiss.

I had been working with him for a couple of months when it happened. We had a job in a suburb of Brocklehurst, the town where I lived at the time. In a house in a place called The Avenue, they were right posh places; mansions most of them. We had a job to redecorate before the new owner moved in. It was quite a trek out from the flat I shared with six other kids. I had a rickety old bicycle (the public transport fares were sky high and the buses hardly ever ran) and I set off in the cold drizzle. I would’ve arrived on time (honest, guv!) but halfway down the Goldstone Road I got a puncture.

Back at the house Mr Brewster and the houseowner must have had a high old time winding each other up. “Kids today! Totally unreliable. You tell them to turn up at half-eight and look at the time now, twenty-to-nine.”

“In my day we were never late. Took pride in our work.” Etcetera, etcetera.

“What he needs is a jolly good spanking!”

I wasn’t there to overhear the conversation, of course. I was still pushing my bike in the rain, but I can accurately surmise that’s what they said, because by the time I rocked up half an hour later they were ready for action.

After all these years I can still remember the name of the guy at The Avenue, but I’ll just call him Mr Smith. So, Mr Smith and my guvnor are waiting for me, faces like thunder. “Vince,” Mr Brewster starts off, “What time do you call this!” It wasn’t really a question, so I kept my mouth shut. There was no point being a smartarse and carefully checking my watch and saying back to him “Quarter past nine, Mr Brewster.”

Mr Smith, an elderly man well into his sixties I would estimate, paced the empty room muttering to himself, while my boss went on and on about what a lazy unreliable waste of space I was. Mr Smith joined in by nodding his head vigorously. There was no doubt the pair of them were on the same page when it came to the extent of my crime.

“Not good enough Vince, not good enough …..” Mr Brewster trailed off, he had run out of insults to hurl at me.

There was an uncomfortable silence. I stared down at my crocs, every inch the naughty little boy being scolded by teacher. The silence was burst by Mr Smith, “Well get on with it Brewster!” The old man shrieked. My boss was not an imposing man even though he liked to order me about. I don’t suppose he was more than forty and he was no taller than me. He was a bit heavier and had a paunch here his waist ought to be.

He cleared his throat. “You will have to be spanked, Vince.” I don’t remember saying anything but the look of astonishment on my face must have told him what I was thinking, because he hurriedly added, “Mr Smith insists on it.”

The owner had left the room and wasn’t present to confirm my boss’s assertion. I was silent but my brain was working overtime. I could have punched Brewster in the nose and legged it, of course, but it wasn’t much of an option. I would have lost my job and in all probability ended up in court.

I said at the start that youngsters back then had it bad. That might have been an understatement. After years without it they had reintroduced corporal punishment into schools and even extended it to colleges and universities. If that wasn’t bad enough the courts could cane anyone under the age of thirty.  Hardly a week went by that you didn’t see a story in the local paper about someone or another up before the beak on some minor matter getting a fine and “six lashes on the bare buttocks”. Those words “lashes on the bare buttocks” tripped off the tongues of magistrates up and down the country, with a little too much relish if you ask me.

My thoughts were interrupted by Mr Smith’s return. I heard him wheezing before I actually saw him. He ignored me completely and addressed Mr Brewster, “Here you should use this.” In his hand he had what looked to me (in my naiveite) like a small chopping block. It was a small rectangle of wood not much bigger than a paperback book (remember those?) with a handle at one end. He handed it to Mr Brewster who proceeded to pat it against his left palm, testing its wright.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the thing. It had once been coated in varnish but that had worn off along one side of what I suppose you call the blade.

“Get on with it man!” Mr Smith was showing his impatience. No more was said between the two men and it was evident to me then that they had discussed this in advance because at that moment I noticed that in the centre of the otherwise empty room a couple of boxes had been piled together and covered over with a tarpaulin. My boss handed the wood back to Mr Smith and sat himself down. He spread his legs and looked across at me. Without quite catching my eye, he spoke quietly. “We want you to take down your trousers and bend over my knee.”

So there I was, eighteen years old, nearly nineteen come to think of it, being ordered to lower his trousers and to submit himself across the knee of an older man for a spanking while another bloke watched. Can you imagine such a thing?

Despite the new corporal punishment regime in the country I had never been spanked, nor caned or slippered. I was if you like a spanking virgin. Even so, like all virgins I had a good general idea of how this was done. It happened many years ago but I think I remember correctly that quite quickly I resigned myself to my fate. I simply had no choice.

I could feel Mr Smith’s hot breath on the back of my neck; he was wheezing harder than ever. “Quickly,” he coughed, “we haven’t got all day. You have work to do.”

Mr Brewster nodded his agreement. I closed my eyes took a deep breath and unclipped the front of my overalls. I don’t suppose decorator’s overalls have changed in a hundred years. Mine were made of heavy cotton and because I sweated a lot when I wore then I didn’t have trousers on underneath. I got them loosened and the weight sent them crashing to my feet (rather like clown’s trousers do). I stood in front of Mr Brewster; he spread his legs wide, offering me his right thigh to bend across. He wore cheap jeans that were just a bit too tight for him and they emphasised his bony legs.

My heart thumped, I couldn’t see it but I was pretty certain my face glowed bright pink. I was very conscious that I was standing with my trousers at my ankles, now wearing only my underpants and t-shirt. Mr Brewster tapped his right thigh. It was his signal to me, “Bend over,” it said. I took a deep breath. How was this done exactly? I let my instinct take over. I leaned forward putting my two arms out ahead of me and lowered myself. I rested my stomach on his thigh and placed both my palms squarely on the floor. Even after all this time I remember my face was only centimetres from the paint-splashed floor.

I waited for Mr Brewster’s next move. It seemed like an eternity. Perspiration was running down my back, my boss took hold of the end of my t-shirt and pushed it away from the target area. I could feel my tight cotton briefs clinging to my buttocks. I felt incredibly vulnerable. Well, what a stupid thing for me to say. Of course I was vulnerable, that was the whole point. I was being forced to offer up my backside to Mr Brewster so he could whack it with his wooden paddle, and all the time Mr Smith was standing by to get a close-up view of the action.

I heard Mr Smith shuffle across the bare floor. “Take down his pants, they really aren’t much use at a time like this.” Mr Brewster gipped the elasticated waist of my briefs. I wriggled my hips in protest. He slapped the palm of his hand across my right buttock. “Keep still.” I raised my head to protest and saw Mr Smith advancing. He was ready to grab by shoulders and pin me down. “Sod it!” I said to myself. I settled down, I got the picture. Come what may I was getting my arse whipped. I had no choice. I had to take it. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of wailing and howling.

Mr Brewster took hold of my pants and slowly slipped them down over my cheeks. I raised my crotch off his knee so he could slide them all the way to my ankles. It was my way of saying, “Go on! Do your worst.” I lay there bare-arsed. I had quite a good bum in those days; at least that’s what the guys at the rugby club told me in the showers after matches.

I saw Mr Smith hand over the paddle and seconds later I felt it tap-tap-tapping into my right buttock. Then, it was gone only to return at tremendous force. The whack! echoed around the empty room and so did the sound of air escaping my clenched lips. OMG! That hurt. That hurt a lot. I kicked my legs and felt my feet entangled in my overalls. Mr Brewster pushed his left hand into the small of my back; it felt clammy. He raised the paddle and brought it down with equal force on my left cheek. Now, I had two dark pink blotches across my bum. Without waiting for the pain to sink in, he set about assaulting my bum, whack-whack-whack. My head rose and fell, my hips swivelled my arms flailed. I was out of control; all reflex actions, my body’s way of trying to protect itself from the intense pain I was feeling.

My bum was on fire, the heat intensifying with every wallop that landed. My body gyrated and humped up and down on Mr Brewster’s knee. The pounding went on and on, I didn’t need to rub my fingers across it to know that it had the consistency of leather. This was one hell of a spanking.

My temples throbbed almost as much as my backside, blood was rushing though my arteries, any moment now I feared I would have a stroke. I couldn’t catch my breath. I was going to die. I couldn’t see him but I could hear Mr Smith was sounded just as bad. His wheezing had become a full out dry hacking cough.

Mr Brewster had the strength of an ox. He just kept on pounding his wooden paddle. No square centimetre of flesh was left un-roasted from the top of the curves near my spine, over the mounds themselves and into the very tender undersides where the bum meets the thighs. The heat of this bare-arsed paddling spread to my loins. My dick was raging. My body humped up and down, up and down over my boss’s knee. “No, no, no!” I shrieked. But, there was no stopping it. I shot my load. It must have taken ten seconds (It felt like a lot longer) before I lay breathless and panting across Mr Brewster’s soaked leg.

He stopped his spanking, let out a shriek and pushed me off his lap onto the floor, where I lay for some time panting, gasping for air and whimpering like a beached dolphin. Mr Brewster rushed from the room, “Look what he’s done!” Mr Smith was nowhere to be seen.

I worked for Mr Brewster for five more weeks until I found a job flipping burgers. We didn’t see each other after that. But I made sure that I saw Mr Smith every Saturday.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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Late at the office

I remember like it was yesterday

Vigilantes

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

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