“What in the name of glory just happened!!”
Eleven young men carried on stripping off their kits. The post-match banter flew around the changing room.
“I’m talking to you boys!” Louder. Angrier. Voices quietened. Silence at last.
“So answer me? Who wants to tell me what just happened?”
The boys shuffled nervously. Embarrassed.
“Gillingwater!” The coach’s face was now puce as he faced a stocky lad with his shorts half way to his knees.
“Seven-nil! Seven-nil! Unbelievable. Do you lot even now how to play football! A team of Girl Guides could do better than that.”
Gillingwater flushed. His teammates stared at the ground embarrassed. “How long have you played together?”
The boys of the St Vincent’s Youth Club said nothing. They knew their new coach had a reputation as a hard man. Mr Townsend, their coach until the beginning of the season, had been quite the opposite, a gentle kindly man.
“Do any of you bunch of losers ever expect to play football again? After today’s disaster I am quite happy to tell the parish to throw in the towel.”
Now every eye was on the coach, teenaged faces etched with dismay.
“You ought to be ashamed! Every one of you! Ashamed!”
The changing room again went silent. A ghastly, frozen silence. Despite being a team of eighteen and nineteen year old men, many were close to blubbing.
“Do you want to be a team that this parish can be proud of? Do you actually want to play like men and not like a bunch of woofters?” Silence. “Well, do you?”
“Yes Sir,” they muttered, eyes still downcast.
The coach scowled, not trying to disguise his distain. “I said DO YOU WANT TO PLAY LIKE MEN!”
Somewhere in the reaches of his mind he conjured up the image of a drill sergeant. In the US Marines perhaps. Someone out of a movie about Vietnam. These wimps had to be toughened up. For their own good, of course. It could save their lives.
The coach stiffened his back. “Right! From now, everything changes. From this very second. Is that understood?”
“YES SIR!” barked like Marine recruits.
“Any boy who thinks he can get away with what I saw today can get out, in fact he can get out now.” He pointed to the door, scowling, his eye ranging round the changing room, daring just one of them to move.
“Spreadbury. You’re the Captain of this shower. As Captain you are responsible for the performance and conduct of the team. Do you want to remain as captain?”
“Do you take responsibility for today’s result?”
Spreadbury hesitated. He was not such a bright boy but even he knew the answer he gave might have grave consequences. “Y-yes. Yes, I take responsibility Sir.”
The coach turned, marched through the door of the changing room and returned brandishing a heavy white plimsoll.
“From now on failure has consequences. From now on when the team takes a beating on the pitch it also takes a beating in the changing room!”
There was a collective in-take of breath. Was he going to slipper the whole team?
“Spreadbury. For your failure to lead the team today you will get a whacking. NOW. SHORTS AND PANTS DOWN. BEND OVER.”
Spreadbury’s eyes widened, his usually pale face blushed crimson. A spanking. With a slipper. On the bare. In front of everyone. Most of the boys had attended St. Francis Independent Grammar School, they were no strangers to corporal punishment, but on the bare and in public! Even St. FIGS would draw the line at that.
“B..b..b.. but Sir,” he faltered, aware of ten pair of eyes transfixed upon him. “But, we’re not at school anymore.” He trailed off conscious of his lack of conviction.
“Pah!” The coach spat. “This is the only thing you boys understand!” He gripped the plimsoll in his right fist and waved it in the faces of the dumbfounded teenagers. It was a size fourteen. The coach had never known a person to have feet that big. It might be unsuitable as footwear but it made a terrific spanking tool. The sole was large enough to cover an entire buttock cheek. One whack delivered with vim would leave the flesh scorching.
“Well,” he smacked the slipper into his left hand. “It’s my way or the highway!” Eyes circled. The new coach was deadly serious. Things would never be the same again.
“What’s it to be?”
Spreadbury stood legs slightly apart, hands behind his back. Involuntarily his thumbs traced the contours of his buttocks. A slippering. He had touched his toes in the housemaster’s study many times for a swishing with a flexible rattan cane. That hurt like billy-oh, but he had taken his thrashings stoically. He had never been slippered. Surely, it couldn’t be as bad as the cane? These thoughts flashed through his mind at the speed of light. He would have to go through with it, what would his pals say if he chickened out.
“Come on lad,” the coach growled with impatience. “Shorts, pants down. Bend over,” he beat the plimsoll into his palm at every syllable. Sweat began to soak Spreadbury’s brow, there was a line of moisture above his top lip. “But, bare Sir …” he hated himself for pleading.
“It’s the only way,” the coach snarled. “It’s not a proper spanking unless it’s on the bare.”
Ten young footballers watched on with a mixture of anxiety and excitement. None had seen a public spanking before. Spreadbury sucked down a lungful of air, preparing himself for the ordeal. His shorts hardly covered his buttocks, he stuck his thumbs in the elasticated waistband and with a mere turn of the wrist sent them hurtling south to rest at his feet. The coach watched intently, Spreadbury had an athletic figure, his legs muscular and hairless. The outline of his cock was clearly visible under the tight white cotton of his briefs. The teenager hesitated, psyching himself up for his next action.
“Pants down, lad. C’mon, we haven’t got all day,” the coach could not hide his eagerness to get on with the job. Again, Spreadbury stuck his thumbs under an elasticated waistband, but this time without bravado. He inched the briefs down, conscious of his fellow teammates staring intently. Of course, they had all seen his naked arse and cock and balls before; they showered together after every match, but never before had he felt such the centre of attention.
At last his buttocks were exposed, but rather than letting them slip down his thighs and legs to rest above his shorts, he kept the briefs bunched up. Quickly, fearful they would fall further, he leaned forward. At St FIGS “Bend over” meant “Bend over and touch your toes” and “toes” meant “toes”, not knees or shins. Spreadbury’s fingertips brushed the canvas tops of his own plimsolls. His back was arched and his legs were taut which made the muscles in his buttocks stretch tight. There was no spare meat back there; he was as tight as a drum.
“Bah!” the exasperated coach saw Spreadbury’s little game. “Let’s get these out of the way,” he snarled as he gripped the teenager’s underpants and tugged them away from the buttocks until they bunched at his shins. “Let the dog see the rabbit.” From somewhere a cold breeze drifted against Spreadbury’s naked bottom. He stared down at the dirty splintered tiles on the changing room floor, intensely aware that his crack and hole was on full display to his pals.
The coach gripped the plimsoll tightly, the muscles in his forearm tensed. He took up position about a foot to Spreadbury’s left. He could smell the fresh sweat on the boy’s body. He rested the plimsoll on the left cheek, running from north to south so that it covered the entire buttock. He tapped gently, taking his aim, then Whack! he brought it crashing down. The teenager stumbled forward under the mighty force of the blow but immediately steadied himself. An imprint of the plimsoll’s sole immediately appeared in dark pink across the once-creamy-white flesh.
A second later the right cheek was just as pink and equally as sore. “Ah!” Spreadbury sucked in air. After just two more weighty blows from the large slipper his bottom was aflame with a smarting soreness that hurt and stung. With only two or three seconds between each smack, the spanking quickly developed into a slow steady rhythmic rising and falling of the plimsoll. Each time it contacted forcefully with his once pale creamy white bottom, he grimaced and screwed his face in pain.
The coach’s enormous large slipper thumped heavily down on his bottom over and over again. A caning was never like this. That was bend over, six swipes stand up, go. This slippering was going on forever. Spreadbury’s bum was really very sore now. One whack hit him squarely in the middle of the left bum cheek. The next on the right. Spreadbury squirmed and gasped as some wallops hit right on a spot where others had landed. Coach quickened the pace. Slap here, whack there, wallop again.
He stopped after about three minutes and took a pace backwards the better to admire his handiwork. He saw an eighteen-year-old footballer bent submissively touching his toes. His hair was drenched with sweat; his face was as scarlet as his backside. No square inch of the teenager’s buttocks and the backs of his thighs had escaped the slipper. Spreadbury blazed. The pain would by now be dissolving into a throb that would stay for some time until it turned to a warm glow. “Yes,” the new coach congratulated himself silently, “A job well done.” He studied the plimsoll in his hand as if seeing it for the first time, then glared around the changing room at the rest of his charges. Each boy stood bemused, unsure what they should make of the spectacle they had witnessed. One lad, shorter and fairer than his teammate, looked the most uncomfortable. He clasped his hands in front of his shorts.
“OK, lads,” the coach spoke quietly, “I think we understand each other now, get changed and showered.” He watched intently as still in silence they stripped themselves naked. He moved slowly to the room next door and replaced the plimsoll in his locker, conscious at how much his hand trembled.
Picture credit: Jonathon
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second