Brian peeked behind the curtain watching with some concern the postman make his way up the driveway. The letterbox rattled and several envelopes plopped onto the doormat. Brian could destroy the evidence if he moved quickly. Reg wouldn’t find out. Not, for now at least. But was there any point? It would only put off the inevitable. Brian must be found out. It was only a matter of time.
Nervously, Brian picked up the mail. The credit card statement was top of the pile. Suddenly, Reg emerged from the kitchen, hurrying towards the stairs. He was late for work. “Anything interesting?” he called cheerfully as he passed his boyfriend. He was too busy to notice Brian’s pale face and the perspiration forming over his top lip. “No, nothing. Not really,” Brian croaked. His heart did not stop racing until Reg had disappeared into the bedroom. Even then, he couldn’t quite catch his breath.
Reg hurried down the stairs, now dressed in his suit. He stooped to pick up his briefcase from under the hallstand. He took his car keys from a hook by the full-length mirror and paused to admire his reflection. He might be pushing thirty-five, he told himself, but he still had the figure and build of a man ten years younger.
Brian edged toward the front room, hoping Reg might forget about the mail. “Hey,” Reg called amiably as he opened the door, “Give me the credit card bill, I’ll sort it out later.” Brian tried hard to disguise the misery he felt as he handed it over. “Thanks lover,” Reg smiled and pecked Brian on the lips. “See you at six. Have a nice day!” Brian watched from the doorway as Reg manoeuvred the car down the drive and into The Avenue.
Have a nice day! Some chance, Brian moped. Not once Reg had read that credit card bill. Not once he saw that Brian had spent way over the monthly limit Reg had set for him. Brian had lived with Reg for only four months and in that short time he lived a life of luxury. He adored Reg. He was strong and considerate and loving. And rich. Brian knew a good thing when he had it laid in his lap. He feared he had screwed up. Reg had given him a generous allowance to spend on the credit card, but Brian let greed rule him.
He spent the day in idleness. He worked part-time filling shelves at a supermarket, but mostly (he knew, and accepted) he was Reg’s houseboy. He cooked and cleaned and performed tricks for his boyfriend. It wasn’t a bad life. And one he hoped would not come to a premature end.
At six o’clock precisely, Reg’s car drew up outside the house. Brian watched pensively from the doorway as his boyfriend unloaded his case. Reg strode towards him. “You. Front room. Now.” That put an end to any hope Brian had that he wasn’t in trouble. Deep trouble.
Reg ran a company with fifty people working under him. He was a man of action. He knew how to make a decision and he had decided how to deal with Brian. “I’m not going to argue with you. I give you a generous allowance and still you spend over the limit. You spend my money like it was water.”
Brian bit down on his lower lip. There was no point telling Reg he was made of money and could afford to increase his allowance a hundred times over. He decided silence was the better part of valour.
“Doh!” Reg almost exploded. “Go fetch the cane. Let’s not waste time. You know where it is.” He did know where the cane was kept; in the wardrobe in the spare bedroom. Reg had showed it to him before Brian moved in. Reg told Brian he would feel it across his backside if he misbehaved. Of course, he hadn’t believed him. Men of twenty-five didn’t get caned. It was only a joke.
Brian knew Reg was a “bottom man” and he loved playing around with guys’ arses. Reg made no secret of that the first time he saw Brian at The Three Fishers. Reg was all over him; patting and preening his rock-hard buttocks. Not, that Brian objected. He fancied the pants off Reg. He went for the older man. Especially one as strong and as handsome as Reg. The fact that Reg dripped in money added to the attraction. He was happy to latch on to a rich man. Next time they met Brian wore his most flattering trousers; the ones that showed off the delightful roundness of his bottom without being so tightly-fitting they made him look like a hustler.
Reg had cupped his two cheeks in his hands and stroked and caressed them. Then, he smacked Brian’s bottom. Gently at first and when Brian didn’t object, harder. Brian sashayed his hips and jutted his bottom out, encouraging Reg. Then the slaps became full-blown whacks. Brian hadn’t realised but if they hadn’t been in the middle of a crowded bar, Reg would have upended him before throwing him across his knee for proper old-fashioned spanking.
Reg growled, “I said, fetch the cane. Do it now. Or else.” Brian’s head spun. Or else. Or else what? Or else, pack your bags and go? The cane. It must be a joke. Reg couldn’t be serious. Men of twenty-five didn’t get caned. In a trance Brian trudged up the stairs. There were five bedrooms in the massive house, but he knew which one contained the wardrobe that held the cane. It was at the back, overlooking the long, narrow garden. His heart raced and his head throbbed as he opened the cupboard door. There was nothing inside except a long, thin, yellow rattan cane hanging from the rail by its curved handle. With an unsteady hand Brian took it down. It was a little more than three feet long and as thick as a pencil. It weighed no more than a feather. He couldn’t resist holding it between his hands and flexing it. It easily made an arc. Saliva rained from his mouth. They still used canes at school, but not often and he had never seen one close up. He swished it through the air. It was an awesome weapon.
Slowly, he returned downstairs. Reg was waiting impatiently. “Hand it to me,” he barked. His eyes shone and his cheeks were ruddy. He took hold of the rattan and just as Brian had a moment earlier he swished it through the air. Reg was about six-feet-four with broad shoulders and a muscular chest. Brian was probably no more than five-eight in his socks and weighed about ten stones when sopping wet. Reg flexed the cane so that it formed an arc between his hands. Brian stared, transfixed.
Reg stopped bending the cane. He gripped it close to its curved handle and tapped the other end gently against the dining table. A broad grimace split his face. Brian’s heart skipped a beat. “Bend over the table,” Reg ordered, his voice betraying an edge of steel. “Grip the far end tightly.”
It is just a joke, Brian told himself. He wants to admire my gorgeous bum. He isn’t really going to beat my backside with a cane. His journey across the room was wobbly. He held onto to the table to steady himself before stretching out across it. He reached forward in the way that Reg had demanded but wasn’t sure where to put his head. He tried propping his chin against the cold wood but he couldn’t get comfortable. He settled on resting his left cheek on the table and staring at a Lowry print in a frame on the wall.
Reg’s hand stroked Brian’s tight buttocks. He couldn’t see but Brian knew his tight trousers had ridden up his crack, separating each cheek. His stomach rested on the edge of the table meaning his legs were parted and his bum was presented to Reg at an enticing angle.
He felt Reg caress his bottom and legs, apparently in appreciation. That cane is just a joke, he told himself. Suddenly, Reg picked it up and swiped it through the air. It made a sinister swish as it flew. He’s not gong to use it … he’s just playing around, Brian tried to convince himself. Then there was another almighty swipe which ended with a tremendous crack! as the cane thwacked into Brian’s tight backside. Brian yelped with pain. He let go of the table and jumped to his feet.
“Get back over. Do as you are told,” Reg growled. “It’s six-of-the-best for you young man. Bend over. I don’t want to hear any more of that noise. Any more trouble from you and I’ll make it a dozen.”
Brian felt the room spin around him. He closed his eyes tight but that didn’t make it stop. He didn’t understand. It was as if he was on some kind of drug.
“Bend over,” Reg pushed Brian towards the table and the young man obediently fell forward. Once more he gripped the far edge. The cane cut him again. No this was no joke. These were not love-taps. Reg swiped the cane into the upturned bottom. A spray of dust rose from the tightly-stretched trousers as if he were beating a carpet.
The pain was fantastic. It was like Reg had pressed a red hot wire across Brian’s pert buttocks. Once more he tried to get up, but this time Reg pressed his hand into the small of Brian’s back.
“I told you. Stop that noise. Any more and you will regret it. This is your last warning. Do you understand?”
Brian didn’t… couldn’t, reply. Reg slapped his bottom with his open hand.
“Well, do you understand?”
Meekly he wheezed, “Yes, Sir.”
He had no idea why he had called Reg “Sir,” somehow it seemed the right thing to do. The cane bit hard into his rock-hard bottom again. Through a super human effort Brian swallowed down the yells of pain he so desperately wanted to make. Only muffled grunts could be heard.
Reg admired the clear mark that had formed along the seat of the tight cotton trousers, extending across both cheeks in a thin line. The stroke had landed a quarter of an inch below the first. Reg had an expert aim. The third and fourth cut bit into Brian’s backside in rapid succession. By now he was losing control. The gasps became yelps.
Reg paused before stroke five, knowing that the pain would be searing across Brian’s backside and through his legs. Brian’s breathing was uneven, tears welled in his eyes. Swish! Whack! Number five flogged home. Brian made a move to rise himself from the table, but Reg’s earlier threat rang in his ears: he didn’t want extra strokes.
Brian knew he had welts forming under his pants where five parallel strokes had hit home. No, they had done more than hit home, they had been struck with such force they had gone through the flesh into the meat of his buttocks.
Number six was the worst of all. Reg paused, counted to ten in his head, took three steps backward, raised the cane in the air and rushed forward and struck.
The sixth stroke was laid diagonally across the previous five, creating a five-bar gate, cutting each welt and creating searing pain. Brian was gone, tears came in huge gulps, he wanted the pain to end, to curl up in the foetal position and die.
Reg watched him writhing across the table, satisfied with his own handiwork.
“Stand up,” the instruction was gentle, no longer an order. Brian staggered to his feet, unsure what to do first. To wipe his tears and the snot that was coming from his nose, or to clench his burning buttocks with both hands in an attempt to rub away the agony.
But he didn’t have time. “Turn and stand in front of me,” Reg commanded. “Look at me when I’m talking to you boy.” He raised his eyes. “Will I need to do this again?” Brian hardly had the wind in him to utter, “No, Sir.”
“Good. Because if I do we shall see how you like it with your trousers and pants down. Doh! Stop your snivelling. Go upstairs don’t come down again until you’ve calmed down.”
He watched his younger companion hobble from the room. Then, he tossed the cane that was still into his sweaty hand onto to the sofa. He walked across the room to the cocktail cabinet and poured himself three inches of whisky. He took his glass and sat in an armchair by the window. He sipped the drink slowly. “One hundred pounds over his spending limit,” he laughed to himself, “and worth every penny of it.”
Picture credit: Unknown
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
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