Trent and Alex were in the students’ union bar finishing their second pint of the evening. “I’m going to make this the last one,” Trent said. “Then I have to be off home.”
His friend wrinkled his nose, “But it’s early yet, it’s not even nine.”
“I know, but I’ve got to go,” he sipped his beer ruefully. Colour drained from his face.
His close pal noticed this at once. “What’s the matter? Tell me.”
Trent wriggled in his chair as if the memory discomforted him. “You’ll never believe me if I told you. I can’t even believe it myself.”
Alex laughed. “Oh come on. You can’t leave it like that. You’ve got to tell me now.”
Trent laughed too. “Okay, but promise you won’t tell anyone else.”
This is the story he told.
“You know I’ve just moved into digs with that weird fellow, the one with all the tattoos. Well, it turns out that he’s a born-again teetotaller. He used to be a wino, an alcoholic. Turns out he’s really against booze. The first day I got there he says I’m not to bring any alcohol into the house. He says I’m not to drink outside either.
“I didn’t take any notice of him. I was desperate for somewhere to stay after that trouble at my last place, so I just said ‘okay’ and left it at that. I think he must have been in a right state back in the day. Did I tell you he’s got tattoos all the way up his neck and over some of his face? I couldn’t take him seriously to be honest.
“Things were fine for a day or two. Turns out he’s quite an artist – and not only a piss artist either – he’s got an exhibition of paintings and ceramics coming up. I knew he had a bob or two in the bank, those houses in The Avenue don’t come cheap.
“Like I say, things were all right and then last Saturday I went to the gig with The Dudes – did you go? – and afterwards there was a party so I didn’t get back until gone two in the morning. I didn’t think much of it. I’ve got my own key obviously and I was going to just let myself in and go to bed. I was a bit drunk actually. I just about managed to get the key in the lock and I was on my way up the stairs when he came flying out of the living room.
“He was livid. He had stayed up until I came home. ‘What time do you call this this,’ he roared. He was really angry. I couldn’t work it out. I was drunk like I said and so I said back to him, ‘Two o’clock what’s it to you?’ He had never said anything about curfew, y’know like some landlords do.
“It just made things worse. He storms up to me and his face is like this; y’know we’re practically nose to nose. Then he smells the beer on my breath. He hits the effing roof. I can’t tell you. I’ve never seen anyone so angry before. His face goes scarlet and that made me scared. His face is pretty scary anyway. He’s jabbering away at me so fast that I can’t get what he’s saying. I’m pissed, of course, so that doesn’t help.
“Then he screams, ‘I told you! I told you!’ and I thought he was going to explode. Then you’ll never guess what happens. You promised you wouldn’t tell anyone else, remember. Then he grabs hold of me by the back of my jumper and he drags me across the floor. I’m still on my feet but they’re slipping on the polished floor of the hallway. He takes me into the sitting room. Of course, I’m hollering and calling him all the names under the sun, but he’s too far gone. He’s somewhere with the fairies.
“So we’re in the sitting room now and I see his eyes are blazing, they’re like something out of a cheap horror movie. I’ve never seen anyone with red eyes before. Red. Have you? Well, I’m thinking this guy is well out of control now and I wonder how I’m going to get away.
“He has enormous strength, like some wild animal. I can’t think of one now, a bear or something like that. He’s so strong that I can’t get away from him. He’s jabbering his gibberish again and I know he’s trying to tell me something, to explain maybe, but I haven’t a clue what he’s going on about. Then, it happened.
“I swear to God I’m not making this up. He’s still got me by the scruff of the neck and he pulls me across the sitting room. It’s quite a big room and there’s a large couch at one end. He’s still got hold of me and he sits himself down and then he pulls me down on top of him. He puts me across his knee. Honestly. He’s got me across his knee like I’m nine years old, not nineteen. I’m face down and he picks me up like I’m a rag doll and he pulls me about out so my chest and arms are flat on one side of him and my legs are stretched behind me on the couch on the other. And he’s got my bum high over his lap. He leans his arm across my body and nearly breaks my back as he pins me down. I cannot move!
“Of course, I’m yelling blue murder, but he don’t care. I still cannot move. He’s got me exactly where he wants me: face down, bum high. I feel him take hold of the waist of my jeans and he pulls them really hard. It’s like he’s giving me a wedgie. I can feel the jeans digging into my crack. I couldn’t believe it!
“Then, he spanks me. He slaps his horrible old tattooed hand all over my arse. Of course, I’m wriggling and kicking and trying to escape. It must have looked like I was trying to swim off his lap. It didn’t stop him. He’s jabbering on still, while his spanks me all over my bum. He even went on the back of my thighs. I was drunk, of course, and by now I’m feeling a bit sick and I’m thinking I’m going to throw up all over the couch any minute now. I don’t but because I was thinking that I wasn’t doing much else, so I just sort of lay there and let him spank me. Over and over again.
“Have you ever been spanked? No, of course you haven’t, who has? It’s supposed to hurt isn’t it? That’s the whole point of it surely. ‘Come her you naughty boy, get across my knee’, smack, smack, smack. Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! But I didn’t feel a thing. Nothing. I could feel his hand landing on the seat of my jeans but that’s all. Of course, the jeans are thick aren’t they. And, of course, I’m wearing pants. Boxers, actually. Never felt a thing.
“Anyway, eventually he stops spanking me and lets me go. I didn’t hang around. I stumbled up the stairs and bounced into my bedroom. I had a little look. Y’now at my bum like and it wasn’t even red. It was like nothing happened. It might have been a dream.
“So, that’s what happened. My landlord spanked me for being out drinking. It didn’t hurt a bit and – obviously, since we are in the bar – it hasn’t stopped me drinking. What was the point of it all?”
Trent had stopped speaking. There was silence before Alex realised his pal had asked him a genuine question. “What was the point of it?” he mused, “None at all. Unless, of course, we come to the inevitable conclusion that he got a great deal of pleasure spanking your gorgeous arse. Come on, have another drink, what’s the worst that could happen?”
Picture credits: Bad-lads dot com
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Also writing school stories as Scholastic here
Charles Hamilton the Second