Here’s another batch of “fragments” – ideas that never quite developed into full stories. These all have a Christmas theme.
For some “full-length” Christmas stories click here.
For more “fragments” click here
It was always mayhem in Robinson’s department store at Christmas. Crowds of shoppers inevitably became irritable. There was never enough time to get things done. The lines at Santa’s Grotto seemed to stetch for miles. But the little kiddies were a delight, so full of wonder. Santa adored them. It was the older louts, the apprentices from Tilotson’s across the street, that annoyed him. Why did they want to spoil the little children’s fun with their jeering? “He’s not Santa, he’s an out of work dosser dressed up!”
Santa hadn’t planned to do anything about it. He was a mild old man but he was very much of the old school. He liked order. He liked people to show respect. Then, one lunchtime after an especially tiring day (two of the elves had phoned in sick) he snapped. The lout never knew what hit him. Well, it was a belt actually. A thick, wide leather belt. Down came his jeans and underpants and over Santa’s knee he went. Right outside the grotto for everyone to see. What a sight to behold. Now Santa hoped he wouldn’t get the sack. (Picture credit: Alan Paul)
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Mr Eagleton called him Robin, but that wasn’t his name. He didn’t know his real name, he only knew the lad for three hours. The guys from the Whacko! Club had (well) clubbed together to pay for Robin. Mr Eagleton was sixty-five on December 28 and Robin was a combined Christmas and welcome-to-the-old-aged-pension gift. Robin came complete with tools. A springy bedroom slipper, a heavy wide leather belt, a soft leather paddle and a harder wooden one. Mr Eagleton had his own hairbrush although he hadn’t needed it for its original purpose for many years. He also had a whippy school cane hanging upstairs in the wardrobe of his spare bedroom. Robin was barely eighteen and the most gorgeous creature Mr Eagleton had ever encountered. What fun he had. (Picture credit: Unknown)
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Henry Harris was a house breaker by trade and conviction (six months reduced to four for good behaviour) and he had the “perfect wheeze” to make a packet on Christmas Eve. Who would suspect Santa Claus? Wasn’t he the one to climb up and down drainpipes and onto rooves when he delivered his presents?
So, he waited until late at night when everyone would be at the pub and / or Midnight Mass and he set off with his sack.
Henry Harris wasn’t the brightest bulb on the tree and when he saw a side door slightly ajar in a house in The Avenue, one of the poshest streets in Brocklehurst, he immediately thought “rich pickings”.
The house seemed to be in darkness and soon he was through the door and into the drawing room where he hoped all the family’s presents would be waiting for him to put in his sack.
Imagine his surprise when suddenly there was a hollered cry of “Hey, who are you! What are you doing in my house! The owner of that voice was a strong man in his thirties and there was no point Henry Harris bluffing that he was the real Father Christmas.
The strong man immediately judged the situation. A broad smile split his face, “Do you want to know something Santa, I’ve always wanted to do this.” He slipped his heavy wide leather belt from the loops of his trousers and doubled it up. Henry Harris grimaced. It was supposed to be naughty boys who got spanked, not naughty Santas.
“I think those trousers are far too thick, get them down. And while you’re about it drop your underwear too.” The image of a small crowed prison cell flooded into Henry Harris’ head. What choice did he have.
“Come bend over my knee, you naughty Santa,” the strong man grinned. “Boy, wait til I tell the guys at the Whacko! Club about this,” he snorted as the belt rose and fell into Santa’s big fat behind. (Picture credit: Federico)
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Office Christmas parties ought to be banned. They always end in disaster; married men behave badly with their secretaries in stationery cupboards, younger staff drink too much free booze and start fights, tongues are loosened and pent up frustrations boil over.
Mr Gregory, the office manager, was having a terrible time. They had roped him in to play Father Christmas and he hated it. They didn’t even give him a proper Santa suit, his was like some silk dressing gown; the kind of thing a gay Santa would wear. He had to do all the Ho-ho-ho stuff and hand out presents. Of course, his colleagues wanted give know who had been naughty and who had been nice. Far too many asked, “Who’s getting their bottom spanked, Santa?”
Well, Mr Gregory knew one lad who had been naughty; the office junior Mike Ridley. What a typical eighteen-year-old. Self-centred, disrespectful to his elders, lazy (if he spent as much effort doing work as he did avoiding it, he could make a fine career). More than once Mr Gregory’s fingers itched to give the brat a good hiding. At night he had fantasised about taking Mike Ridley across his knee for a good dose of his bedroom slipper.
The office party was raucous. Mr Gregory’s head ached and the room spun a little; whisky always did that to him. Why were his colleagues still going on about “naughty or nice” and spanking? Mike Ridley seemed to be holding unsteadily onto the wall. Look at the state of him; dead drunk. Christ, how Mr Gregory’s fingers itched.
“I’ll tell you,” Mr Gregory slurred, “Who neeschds a schpanking,” he stood a little unsteady himself. “Him,” he pointed dramatically at Mike Ridley. Several colleagues hooted their agreement. Mike Ridley was not a popular young man. “Too right,” one middle-aged matron nodded, “Lazy sod,” an older messenger agreed. “Spank him Santa, spank him!” It sounded like a chorus.
Mike Ridley knew nothing about his predicament until Santa gripped him by the wrist and tugged him across the office. The cheers grew. The rest was a blur. The next morning phone video was shared. Mike Ridley wore elasticated trousers and Mr Gregory ripped them down. Underpants quickly followed. The cheers turned to applause. “Go Santa! Go!” Mike Ridley was upended over Santa’s knee. Who knew Mr Gregory had so much strength? How could a teenager’s buttocks get so red? It ended in tears.
Yes, office Christmas parties ought to be banned (Picture credit: CP4Men)
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Mr Fairclough was far from impressed when his sister gave him slippers for Christmas. But, he was able to put them to good use before the holiday was over. (Picture credit: Sting Pictures)
More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Also writing school stories as Scholastic here
Charles Hamilton the Second
Male on male spanking stories 