I’m not particularly proud of what I did, but I’m not ashamed either. I never planned it. It just happened on the spur of the moment. If I’d thought about it beforehand I know I’d never have done it. I’m far too timid a man. I could try to blame the drink, but I’ll make no excuses.
It started with the late lunch. I arranged to meet with some pals at that new bistro in town. The one behind the library. It’s summer so we weren’t in any great hurry. The food was pretty good, if you like everything cooked in sauces (which I do) and the wine was better – and very cheap. I was drinking the house Muscadet. Very cold. Very dry. None of us were driving so we necked it. I must have polished off a bottle or more on my own.
So, after about three hours of good company, I caught the bus home. Looking back, the state I was in it might’ve been wiser to get a cab. Well, there’s no point in being wise after the event. By the time the bus got to my suburb, I think I might have sobered up a little. I got off the bus near Widdicombe Wood, crossed the road and turned into The Avenue where I live. It was a fine afternoon; not particularly hot, but warm enough to bring people out into their gardens.
I had hardly walked twenty yards when I heard loud music coming from somewhere. Most of the houses here are large and they stand behind walls or tall hedges. Although I couldn’t see anything I knew immediately that the racket was coming from number thirty-three. The couple who owned the place were away for the summer at their villa in the south of France. They had left their son Wilson behind. He’s about twenty – maybe even older – so I suppose they thought he was a responsible adult and he’d make sure the house didn’t burn down or get burgled. Also, I think there was a cat that needed feeding involved somewhere.
Unfortunately, Wilson (what a bloody stupid name that is, if you ask me) was not quite as mature as his parents supposed. It seemed to me there had been one long party from the moment the taxi came to take them to the airport and it showed every sign of continuing until it brought them home again. The Avenue is a very sedate kind of street. Very little happens here and it is fair to say that people like to keep themselves to themselves. We are also quite an elderly community, so you don’t need me to spell out how disruptive Wilson’s partying was. I know for a fact that Mrs Richards, the widow at number thirty-one, had complained about the noise. She was given short shrift, which is a polite way of saying she was told to go to blazes (which, come to think of it is also a polite way of saying what is was they actually told her to do). I shouldn’t be surprised if other neighbours got a similar response if they complained.
On this particularly afternoon, perhaps emboldened by drink or the heat of the day, I stopped at the gate to the front drive. Unusually for around here it was open so I hung around for a moment to see if I could spot any of the louts and tell them to button it. I saw the side gate was open and the loud voices I heard left me in no doubt a party was in progress. I entered the back garden. I could see seven people, mostly young men about Wilson’s age and two slightly older women. They took no notice of me. The garden was large and like so many in The Avenue it was made beautiful by professional help. At the far end there was a trestle table with stacks of what looked like empty beer cans. There was a very distinct aroma floating in the air; it was herbal but it had no connection to any plant growing in the garden. A sliding door to a loungeroom was wide open and inside there was a music system blaring out some noise that I suppose young people call “music”.
I was inside the garden and still I had no idea what I intended to do. The obvious thing would be to ask them to turn the volume down and be more considerate to neighbours. People who know me would never say that I have unique attributes so I did the obvious. “Can you turn the music down,” I almost shouted to Wilson, and then, because I am a polite, considerate, timid neighbour, I added, “please.”
Wilson either did not hear me, or he professed not to, and he shook his head in bewilderment. I got close enough to smell the beer on his breath and the cannabis smoke in his hair and repeated my question. He grimaced the way people from a certain social class do, shrugged his shoulders and turned away to speak to a friend nearby; dismissing me. I hate people who think they are entitled to have everything they want. Sorry, but that’s the way I am and if you think that makes me a socialist, well more fool you. The fact remains that Wilson was behaving like a spoilt brat.
I shouted after him but he ignored me again. Some of the young men close by turned to look down their noses at me. Then they brayed. That might have been the final straw. The one that broke the camel’s back. I still had no clear idea what to do, but I did know I wasn’t going to meekly turn around and sneak back to my house with my tail between my legs. “Wilson, please …” I began to try again, but I wasn’t allowed to finish my sentence. He swivelled to face me, turned his nose up in the air as if he had trod in a pile of pig shit, and drawled, “Oh little man, are you still here?”
Little man. Statistically speaking, I am bigger than he is: taller and heavier. My mouth gaped open. I had never been spoken like that before; not ever. By anyone. My face flushed with embarrassment and it felt like at least seven pairs of eyes were burning into me. I turned away from him, attempting to hide my humiliation. As I did this I spotted a few yards away a wooden folding garden chair. It was unoccupied. I have no rationale for what I did next, except to say I was bloody angry with that brat Wilson.
I swear I was furious but I was also calm and collected at the same time. I took the few steps necessary to reach the chair and I picked it up. It was light to carry back to where Wilson was giggling with his pals. I plonked the chair down on the lawn and then reached out and grabbed Wilson. He was wearing a cotton jacket so I had something to hang on to. Then, in one continuous movement I sat myself down on the chair, planted my feet firmly on the ground and I pulled Wilson forward. He uttered a cry of surprise as he fell facedown across my knee. He had to spread his arms wide ahead of himself to stop hurtling to the grass.
Wilson wore those elasticated cotton shorts that they all wear. I gripped the waist and tugged hard. Before I knew it I had both the shorts and his underpants up and over his buttocks. He was bare-arsed to the wind. I suppose Wilson was drunk, or high, or conceivably both, because he just lay across my knees and stared at the grass. His stomach was leaning against my thigh so I couldn’t take the shorts and pants down further, but even where they were I had plenty of his bum to aim at. Like so many of his generation, Wilson could do with losing a few pounds. His bottom was large and flabby, but made a terrific target. I raised my hand and spanked him, good and hard. I let fly, smacking the palm of my hand across his bum at the rate of at least sixty slaps a minute. The fleshy cheeks wobbled and by now Wilson realised what was happening. He was getting his bare bottom spanked just like the disrespectful brat deserved.
I quickly got into my stride and the imprint of my palm and fingers was reproduced in red all over his bum. I pulled his jacket away from the target area so I could get at the very tops. I kept tugging at his shorts and finally managed to get access to his undercurves and even to the back of his naked thighs. He yelped and hollered and called me all the names under the sun. When this didn’t deter me from my mission, he yelled to his friends, “Get him off me, get him off!”
It was a quite natural request to make I suppose but his so-called friends roared with laughter. Rather than help Wilson or shout at me to stop they yelled me on to greater efforts. “Hey! Mister, you’ve missed a bit!” shouted one of the guys who I noticed had approached to get a closer look.
I had never intended to take Wilson across my knee and spank his bare bottom, so it followed I had no plan on how (or when) to stop. He squirmed and wriggled about so much I gripped him around the waist. It was amazingly easy to hold him in place. Maybe it was because I had taken him by surprise; maybe he was too stoned to struggle free. Who knows?
His bottom was a deep pink and I suppose he might have been quite sore by now. The palm of my hand certainly was. It was quite possible that it was smarting much more than his bum. If I had planned my attack on Wilson I would certainly have gone armed with a weapon – a hairbrush or a slipper, say.
My arm was aching too by now, and here I must make another confession, my bladder was full and I was in desperate need of the toilet. That’s what comes of age and drinking a bottle and a bit of wine. I had no choice I had to end the spanking. I didn’t know how to do that, so I simply stopped slapping him and pushed him off my lap so that he rolled onto the grass. He squirmed around for a while and rubbed at his bottom.
“And turn that music down,” I roared as I strode to the gate, leaving a posse of startled youngsters behind. As I reached the main gate I was delighted to hear the noise silenced. It seemed I had won the day. I hurried home and reached the loo just in time before I lay on my bed and must have dozed off. I awoke in time to hear the start of “PM” on the radio. My throat was dry and my head ached and as I looked at the ceiling and tried to follow the news report I wondered if I had just had the most remarkable dream.
Picture credit: Unknown
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second