A family firm

new story 2

z used otk white pants down chair office sting

Parker’s is a family business. Always has been and if I have any say in the matter it always will be. I inherited it from my father, and I’ve built it up a lot since then. There must be a hundred-and-fifty-people employed here now. Family. Every last one of them.

We have a lot of youngsters here. Mostly young men, just out of school a lot of them. We have girls too, but not so many. They tend to get married and, of course, they leave to take care of their husbands. Just as a wife should. That’s what family means.

At Parker’s we are just one big happy family and I’m at the head. I’m in loco parentis or is it pater familias? The one that says the firm is a family and as its head I can treat everyone here as if they were my children. And I do. I love and nurture them all. That is my duty. I am, if you will, a loving father.

Being a father has its responsibilities. It is especially my job to make sure the youngsters in my care grow up into fine, responsible, obedient adults. Many of the boys and girls here have yet to attain the age of twenty-one and so legally they remain children. That is the way of the world and children need a firm hand to guide them along the rocky path to adulthood. At Parker’s I am that hand. It is a tough job but somebody has to do it.

Every successful business must set targets. These may be many and varied. There are production deadlines and sales targets. Our salesmen are given incentives to do their best. The diligent and hardworking succeed and are richly rewarded with bulging pay packets. The indolent, the idle do not succeed, but they too are rewarded in a manner of speaking.

A father knows that his lazy son requires inducements for him to succeed. The encouragement may take many forms. In a truly loving home father gives carrots to spur the boy on. If that fails there is always the stick to fall back on. So it is at Parker’s. The carrot I have already spoken about. Currency notes make fine carrots. But what about the stick?

I am not a bully. I believe in rules and I believe they must be obeyed. Disobedience results in punishment. So, to make an example, each of my salesman is given his own monthly target to meet. This will vary depending upon a number of factors that I won’t bore you with. But you must know that the target is fair and it is achievable. If it is not met, the salesman has some explaining to do.

So at the end of each month I am inevitably called upon to do my familial duty. Is it a task I enjoy? Certainly not. But like all employers I understand my responsibility. If a worker does not learn at a tender age what is required of him, he never will. And then where should we all be?  Parker’s can say “goodbye” to its profits and a hundred-and-fifty people will join the millions starving in hovels across the nation.

Yes, it is an unpleasant task, but as I say it is my duty. It is a duty I shall not shirk. This very afternoon I was required to take Robinson to task. Robinson has been with me for nearly three years and after a successful spell as an office clerk he was promoted to salesman. He was highly delighted (as indeed was his mother who relies almost entirely on his salary to feed her growing family) and set about fulfilling his new obligations with great enthusiasm. Alas, this did not last. His sales returns slipped and his targets were missed.

Like a good father I have put my finger on the problem. I have analysed the personality of the boy and I have made my conclusion. He lacks self-discipline. When he worked in the office he was constantly under the eye of his supervisor. His work was monitored. He had no opportunity to deviate from a set path.

But now he is “on the road” so to speak that supervision is no more. He has to motivate himself to perform and to work hard. This he is failing to do. It is a great shame. I genuinely believe Robinson has great talent. He will make Parker’s a lot of money. But before he can do that he needs a guiding hand.

So the carrot has not entirely worked, so now it had to be the stick. I use the word stick figuratively. I am not an ogre, nor am I a bully. I am a loving father. I did not wish to see young Robinson flayed until the skin on his buttocks bled. That is cruel and unnecessary. But he had to be punished and I was not adverse to that being of the physical variety. No loving father would take a whip to his son and I would not do that to Robinson.

A father expresses love for his son in many and varied ways. I would be doing Robinson no kindness if I did not punish him severely. He had to learn his lesson. Be in no doubt about that. And, I firmly believe, this should be learned through his backside. But oh no not a whipping. A spanking. When a father takes his son across his knee for correction he is saying, “I love you. I love you so much that I have to discipline this way. Our bodies entwine as if in a loving caress.” I did not use these words to Robinson. He is intelligent enough to understand how I feel. Parker’s is a family firm. I am the father, he is the son.

He arrived at my office at the appointed time. My secretary made the arrangements and I do not know if she spelled out exactly why he had been summoned. Robinson has been at the firm long enough, he surely knew his fate. My office is really rather cosy considering I am the head of an important company. I take business meetings in the board room and leave my office for more day-to-day administration. That is why the desk is rather small and most of the space is taken up with armchairs and such like. Some of my employees likened the experience of visiting my office to that of a summons to the headmaster’s study. Nothing could be further from the truth. There are no solid bookcases, no hat stand with crook-handled canes dangling from it. No cap and gown hanging on hooks.

Even so, when Robinson appeared before me it was difficult not to see him as some kind of naughty schoolboy. He is only eighteen years old and so (I suppose) had he enjoyed the privilege of an upper-class upbringing he might conceivably still be attending some minor public school somewhere. Certainly, in his white shirt and pale-grey trousers he had the air of a sixth-former about him. He shuffled his feet on the rug in front of my desk and bowed his head in shame (or possibly embarrassment).

I don’t see myself as a headmaster, but nonetheless I had to explain to him in forthright terms why he was before me. Of course, he knew that already. I reminded him of his obligations and the consequences of not meeting them. He was mostly silent throughout offering up half-whispered “Yes sirs” and “No sirs” at appropriate moments. I had no wish to prolong the interview so I hurried to the conclusion. “You will have to be spanked. You understand that don’t you?” His response was the merest nod of the head.

I pulled myself to my feet and stepped into the middle of the office. Robinson’s eyes rose from the floor and followed my every move. He had never been spanked (at least not by me) and he must have been uncertain of the procedure. I lifted a straight-backed wooden chair from against a wall and set it down where I would have enough room to perform my task. I sat and wriggled about a bit to get comfortable. I indicated to Robinson that he should stand in front of me.

As a loving father I see it as my task to prepare the boys. A headmaster would bark something like, “Bend over that chair!” or “Lower your trousers,” and so on. That would mean the punishment was at some remove. The headmaster or borstal governor or whosoever was administering the punishment would give clear commands and the boy would obey and prepare himself accordingly. Where is the love in that? That is a contest, the boy sets himself against the master. It can only lead to resentment, not redemption.

No, that was not my way. With Robinson now in front of me I asked him in a very civil tone to place his hands on his head. He understood immediately my instruction, it is the kind of thing a lady nursery school teacher might require of her naughty pupil. With his hands out of the way I proceeded to unbuckle and then loosen Robinson’s belt. His body tensed and I noticed he deliberately moved his head so that he stared past my shoulder at a photograph on the far wall. It did not distract me. I soon had his trousers open. It took the merest movement for me to have them at his feet. He had on white cotton briefs which were somewhat worn and baggy.

I looked at his face which by now was scarlet. I smiled inwardly. Soon, I intended to ensure that his buttocks were of a similar hue. “Give me your arm,” I said, still coolly. I took hold of his left wrist and guided him over and down across my knees. He offered no resistance. As Robinson fell into position he instinctively reached his hands forward and placed them into the rug. He was small enough that his legs hovered above the floor with his toes barely brushing it. His bottom was perfectly position over my right thigh.

When I spank one of my family of employees I prefer not to keep up a running commentary. The boy knows why he is there and what is to happen. It is best to just get on with it. So, I took hold of the tail of his shirt and pushed it a little away from the target area. I gripped him by the waist at the same time pushing my elbow into his lower back. He was pinned down and I was ready to go.

An over-the-knee spanking must be the most “nursery” style of corporal punishment and should be the form most often used in the home. That is why I prefer it. What could be more appropriate than a spanking from Father’s own hand, stiffened into a flexible punishing surface, and applied again and again to a naughty little bottom? I set about Robinson with sound and fury. The noise as my hand cracked against his stretched flesh resounded around the small office. Robinson gasped and he gulped as his rear-end began to glow but he gave no fight. It is true his bottom heaved up and down as my palm made its way around the circuit of his buttocks. I have seen many boys do this, it is a natural physical reaction to the assault on his body. It does not necessarily mean he is trying to evade just punishment.

I made sure I had connected with every part of the target moving my way down from below the spine and across the fine hills that constitute the bulk of his buttocks. I gave extra attention to the crease where the bum and the thighs connect for this is the most tender part of the bottom. It is also the part that connects with a chair when a boy sits down and will remind him for some time to come of the penalties to be paid for missing targets.

I satisfied myself that no inch of his posterior had been left unspanked before I moved on to phase two. This is the most unbearable moment for my boys for it is delicately humiliating. I ceased my assault on his bottom and for a moment I rested my hand against his right cheek and removed my elbow from his back. I felt a movement in his body; he was trying to lift himself off my lap. The poor boy thought his spanking was at an end. Ha! What a novice Robinson was. I took both my hands and pinched the cotton at the waistband of his underpants. He gasped. He wriggled. Now, he understood my intention. He lifted his arms from the floor and cradled his head in them. He stopped wriggling and waited submissively.

Slowly and deliberately I pinched the elasticated waist of his underpants and with both hands I tugged them down enough to expose his very pink buttocks. “Oh,” I said, “You weren’t expecting that! A bare bottom! I hope you are learning your lesson.” I didn’t expect an answer and received none. I resumed my spanking, possibly a little faster and harder than before. With the buttocks no longer encased in baggy cotton I got a clearer view of Robinson’s shape. He bum was a little rounder and meatier than I had previously realised. It made a kind of squelching noise as my hand connected over and over with his naked flesh.

As loving fathers know a hand spanking is a very effective punishment but after a time your hand begins to hurt just as much (if not more) than the boy’s buttocks. That is to be expected. A loving father must expect such. He is after all performing a painful duty.

I slapped Robinson’s rear end and the back of his thighs until all was a rosy-pink glow. By now he was breathing heavily and I was certain his rear end was aflame. As I said I am not a brute, it was time to complete the punishment. I went round the circuit two more times at high speed and sent two dozen slaps into the backs of his thighs for good measure. That was it. It was over. Duty done.

I released my grip but this time Robinson lay motionless, face down, perhaps unable to believe I really had finished. “Stand up,” I said quietly and I helped him off my knee. He nearly tripped over the trousers at his feet and pants at the knees, but kept his balance. Without waiting for my permission, he dressed himself.

I am a loving father. I saw he was in some distress. His face was scarlet and his breath came in gulps. His bottom was sore, but he would not be in agony. He shuffled from foot to foot, eyes once more studying the pattern in the rug. I spoke warmly. I reminded him that he was fine young man who had simply lost his way. I wished to guide him on to success. He whispered a “Thank you, sir.” I reached forward, gently pulled him towards me and kissed him on the cheek.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

Other stories you might like

The boys in room 3b

The helpful Neighbour 3

The Young Conservative

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

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