Herbert made his way through the front entrance to Tomkinson’s department store. He paused; dismayed. There were frantic shoppers as far as his eye could see. Only four days to Christmas, he hoped he hadn’t left it too late. Nearby a store security guard, dressed like a marketing man’s idea of an American traffic cop, tried without success to hide his boredom. Herbert pushed his way through the elderly and infirm and nodded at the guard.
“Yes, mate?” the guard leaned his head forward, the hullabaloo of voices echoing around the vast emporium was deafening. Herbert whispered his question and got a blank stare for his trouble. The guard could not hear. Herbert repeated the question again, still with no understanding. “Speak up!” the guard’s voice was hoarse, he had been shouting all day.
“Can you direct me to the adult toy department, please,” Herbert yelled. He was heard that time. By the guard and by a hundred people standing nearby. “Third floor, mate.” The guard extended his arm to give directions, “It’s at the far end. Behind the green baize door.” Herbert thanked him and set off, head down, to do battle with the crowds.
The adult toys department was a relative oasis of calm. Herbert entered timidly and stood, hoping his mouth was not literally gaping open. They had nothing like this back home in Brocklehurst. Well, he thought, that’s the Emerald City for you. A display of traditional school-type canes was in his eyeline. To the left was a stand with a dozen paddles of all shapes and sizes. Leather tawes, some with two tails others with three, hung from a rack. He blushed to his roots. A smartly dressed man approached; his immaculate silver-grey hair appeared to be made of plastic. He was easily sixty years old, Herbert reckoned. His black suit was tailored to perfection (clearly, he hadn’t purchased it at Tomkinson’s). “May I be of assistance, sir,” the man purred.
Herbert gulped. Why was he so nervous, he wondered? The man observed Herbert’s obvious interest in the canes. “May I interest you in one of these, sir?” The man looked and sounded like he had escaped from the menswear department from the nineteen-forties. There was a faint aroma of coal tar soap and pipe tobacco about him. “These are among our most popular sellers,” he spoke quietly and confidentially as he took one from the rack. It was about three feet long and as thick as a ballpoint pen. The man flexed it between his hands in the traditional manner.
Herbert was no stranger to the cane. He had half a dozen of various lengths and thicknesses hanging in the wardrobe in the spare bedroom back home. No, a cane would not interest him: not today. “What else do you have?” Herbert had already drawn up a list of Christmas presents he wanted – it wasn’t the kind you sent to Santa Claus.
“Well,” the man smiled, “we have a selection of specially-made birches,” he waved a hand to a display in the corner of the room. “Very seasonal,” he added and when he realised Herbert had not caught his drift, he said, “Traditionally Santa gives toys to the nice boys and a dose of the birch to the naughty ones,” his mouth inched into the ghost of a smile
Herbert grinned back. He was relaxing now, the elderly salesman was not threatening. “Do you have anything,” Herbert hesitated, unsure how to frame his question. He was looking for something out of the ordinary as gifts for his companions back home. He settled on the word, “Unusual.”
“Well sir, we have a full range of implements. And, then, of course, there’s the furniture.” He gestured toward an antique-looking birching bench. The salesman noticed the tremor in Herbert’s body. “Or maybe,” he hurried on to save further embarrassment, “Sir was thinking more in the line of tools.”
At that moment a young man appeared through a door marked “Staff Only”. Herbert couldn’t stop himself leering. He was dressed in an spotless red school blazer trimmed in white. But, the thing that had Herbert ogling were the immaculately-pressed grey short trousers he wore. Knee-high socks emphasised the young man’s slender legs and firm hard body.
The salesman nodded, “That is our junior assistant Mark. As you can see we are dressing him in the holiday spirit. Today he is a peach of a schoolboy,” he leaned closer to Herbert as if to share a secret, “Tomorrow, I believe, he appears as Santa’s elf.”
Herbert involuntarily licked his lips. The lad, who must have been at least eighteen (he supposed) and in his schoolboy’s uniform might have passed for sixteen, acknowledged his presence with a cheeky grin. The salesman spoke, “Mark is available to assist customers in their choice of purchase. Should you a require a demonstration or to try out something yourself. One of our excellently whippy cane perhaps.” He added, the soul of discretion, “He is available for a small consideration.”
Herbert tensed with excitement. A lump choked his throat and a smaller swell troubled him lower down on his body. He watched crestfallen as Mark walked slowly across the shop floor to attend to an elderly, stout gentleman who looked remarkably like a vicar Herbert knew when a boy in Aston Budleigh. The pair disappeared together through a door marked “Private”.
The salesman continued on his verbal tour. Herbert heard none of it; he was imagining the luscious Mark, right now in the room marked Private. Submissively, he was lowering his beautiful short trousers before reaching down so that his fingertips merely brushed the toecaps of his highly-polished black leather shoes. His tiny pert buttocks like two acorns stretched his gleamingly-white Y-front underpants until the thin cotton fitted like a second skin.
Rev Crick (if it was indeed the vicar Herbert remembered from Aston) flexed the cane thoughtfully. He was in no hurry, he would take his time. He would extract maximum enjoyment. Mark, his knees straight, back arched, feet apart, head low, bottom high and teeth clenched waited nervously. His tight bottom quivered slightly beneath the underpants. Rev Crick stood to Mark’s left, tapped the whippy cane across the lower half of the lad’s magnificent curves. He took his aim, sucked in his breath, held the cane steady, then brought it up in a perfect arc until it was about shoulder high. Then in one continuous movement he cracked it down into the solid flesh. He was rewarded by a thin line embossed into the cotton; beneath it an angry, red welt was forming. To confirm this, about five seconds after the cane had fallen, the pain hit home. Mark’s clenched teeth could not stop a long, stream of air escaping; it sounded like a steam engine.
“Sir, I was saying we also have a full range of clothing.” Herbert was forced back to the here-and-now. The salesman led him across the shop floor. “School uniforms, of course. The short trousers are a favourite,” the salesman’s eyes twinkled, “As indeed are the girls’ gymslips. You see we have them sizes to suit all tastes.”
Herbert made a cursory inspection. He had no need of uniforms. He and his pals already had an excellent supplier who ran what was literally a cottage industry from his home. “We also have a wide range of leatherwear,” the salesman would not let up. He must have been on commission.
Herbert’s attention was distracted once more. He spotted another sign, this one at the far end of the shop. “Ha!” he couldn’t contain his delight. “Santa’s Grotto!” His grin was irrepressible. “What’s Santa doing here!” his eyes shone. He burst out laughing. “What kind of presents does he dish out to the boys and girls here?”
The salesman shared Herbert’s delight. His face cracked open into a wide smile. “Ha! Sir doesn’t quite understand.” Once more it was clear Herbert was out of his depth; he had no idea what the salesman meant. So, the elderly man explained, “Santa has two tasks to perform at Yuletide. First he must ensure that all the good boys get their presents, Then, there are …”
His explanation was cut short by a snort of laughter, “The naughty boys!” Herbert shrieked. “The naughty boys ….” He was so excited he was unable to finish his sentence.
“Indeed, sir,” the salesman returned to his story, “The naughty boys get spanked.”
“This I have got to see!” Not noticing if the salesman was following, he dashed across the store. The grotto looked like any other Santa’s grotto you might encounter in a shopping mall the world over so I won’t over elaborate its description. It is enough to say that once customers paid their fee they entered a wonderland that would not be recognisable at Macey’s.
The area was divided into three rooms and no one tried to hide the fact that three Santas were working at the same time. Heck, it didn’t matter, none of the customers was under any illusion here. Which room you entered depended upon how naughty you had been.
“How does this work exactly?” Herbert asked a cherubic young man who was dressed as an elf. If such a thing was humanly possibly he was even cuter than Mark. On a scale of one to ten, he registered twelve.
The elf, who was probably asked the same question several times an hour, had his answer honed. “It depends how naughty you have been. You might have to go over Santa’s knee for a spanking. Or you might be in need of a dose of the cane, paddle or strap. For the truly evil,” he giggled when he said those two words, “Well, there’s the birch for them!”
Herbert’s blank expression did not deter the elf. “People usually think of some naughtiness they’ve really done.” Then, helpfully, he added, “You’ll be surprised how many people there are out there who ride the tram without a ticket.”
A lightbulb glowed inside Herbert’s head. Golly! He did that all the time! “And,” blood was flowing to Herbert’s crotch, “What punishment do they get?” he croaked. “Oh,” the elf, who in real life was a theatre student at the local polytechnic, acted as if he was deep in thought. He even stroked his chin for effect, “If it’s the first time, he should go across Santa’s knee.” And when the elf noticed Herbert’s eyes shine, he added, with fake malice, “For a spanking on the bare bottom.”
“I’ll take it,” Herbert, his palms now sweating, reached inside his coat for his wallet.
Santa’s Grotto was intended as a communal experience. Herbert was led into a room and found himself one of four people there. A different elf, just slightly less cute than the first (he was a little taller that’s all), explained they would each witness one another’s punishments. “Much more fun,” he finished his explanation. “Who’s first?”
Within the blink of an eye a young man stepped forward. “Me Santa! Me!” He’s a little too keen, Herbert thought, wasn’t this supposed to be a punishment. Santa, it has to be mentioned did not look entirely the part of the traditional, fat jolly benefactor. For a start, he wasn’t very fat. He didn’t even have a pillow shoved up his jumper for disguise. His false beard was only par for the course, but it would do. The strangest part of the get-up was the Santa suit. Herbert was no expert on such matters but wasn’t it supposed to be made from wool or some soft cloth? The suit on this Santa sparkled under the fairy lights. It reminded him of the jackets compares wore at second-rate working men’s clubs. It was (frankly) as camp as arseholes.
None of this mattered, the moment Santa opened his mouth. This was no benevolent old uncle. “Ho! Ho! Ho!” he growled. “Naughty little boy. Come to Santa. What’s your name?” The young man said: Sebastian. It was an obvious lie, Herbert decided. Who on earth was ever called Sebastian?
“And what have you been up to Sebastian?”
The young man decided he was eight years old and gave all the “Oi’ve been a vewy nawty likkle boy,” shtick. Herbert hated it when his chums back in Brocklehurst did this. Santa must have heard this nonsense ten times a day, but he let it pass.
“What did you do, naughty little boy?” Santa spoke gruffly; he was playing to the audience. He didn’t bat an eyelid when Sebastian told him about riding the trams.
“Well, Sebastian,” Santa was ready to go, he probably had a timetable to keep to, “You know what Santa does to naughty boys.”
Herbert shuffled from one foot to another, it was quite tiring standing. He perked up quickly. “Come stand by Santa, Sebastian.” The young man couldn’t get there fast enough. “Take down your trousers and bend over my knee.”
Sebastian wasn’t dressed for winter. He only wore jeans and a red-and-black t-shirt. There was a collective holding of breath when Sebastian slipped his jeans down to his ankles. Sebastian, whom Herbert reckoned had to be somewhere in his twenties, wore tight-fitting white trunks. He made no attempt to disguise the bulge.
“Ho! Ho! Ho!” Santa who was beaming now, turned to his audience, “Sebastian is very happy to meet Santa.” That got a laugh and while the audience were enjoying the joke, Santa gripped Sebastian by the wrist of his left arm and demonstrating a great deal of strength, he pulled the young man across his knee.
Sebastian, of course, gave no resistance. He lay face down over Santa’s lap. Herbert moved slightly to his left to get a terrific view of the lad’s firm round bottom. It was quite the best he had seen in some considerable time. His chums in Brocklehurst tended to be older and subsequently carried a little more padding about their bodies.
Santa held Sebastian steady by placing his left arm across his back. The bottom was slightly raised across Santa’s knee. It was the classic spanking position. Santa wasted no time and began smacking his rough palm across the solid mounds. He beat a solid rhythm. Sebastian played to the gallery. He “ouched!” and he “arghhed!” as if he was in agony. Herbert knew Sebastian was in no great pain. A hand spanking across the underpants, no matter how hard it was delivered, would do little harm to a grown man.
The bum was truly gorgeous. It was worth the price of admission alone. But, Herbert’s value-for-money quotient was about the rise considerably. Without a word of warning, Santa gripped the waistband of the trunks. There was a mild cheer of encouragement from the audience as slowly the underwear was lowered. Sebastian’s hairless buttocks were coloured deep pink. This darkened to a red as Santa set about spanking every square inch of the young man’s flesh. He got the top of the hills, the mounds themselves and the undercurves where the cheeks meet the thighs. Then, he started on the thighs. This time Sebastian’s gasps and yelps were genuine. He kicked his legs and wriggled over Santa’s knee. It was like he was trying to swim away.
Then it was over. Sebastian’s time was up. He jumped from Santa’s lap and far from self-consciously he jumped up and down while rubbing away at his glowing buttocks. His stiff cock pointed to the ceiling. Santa made a great play at modestly covering his eyes. The audience laughed.
“And which of you naughty boys is next?” Santa was once again gruff and disapproving. A man of about the same age as Herbert stepped forward. He removed his anorak and handed it to an elf. He fumbled with the belt on his trousers . . .
Picture credits: Unknown / CP4Men dot net
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
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