One Saturday afternoon

It started one ordinary afternoon at Tiliotson’s. I’m working there during the summer until I go to university. I’m, a “general assistant”, what in the days before gender whatnot would have been called an office boy. I do all things, running messages, photocopying, making tea. It’s mostly women in the offices, middle-aged housewives. They take the rip out of me all the time. They say I have a baby face (which is true) and they take the piss out of my slender hips and pert bum. It’s all banter. I give as much as I get. We have a laugh.

I was in the purchase office, which is where the photocopier is kept and it was hot and with the heat everyone gets a bit lazy. No one wants to work, so the ladies are really enjoying having me there. The banter gets a bit saucy. Patricia – she must be fifty and she’s a big lady and right “mumsy” – she asks whether I’ve got a girlfriend. She’s laughing and so’s everyone else. I snap back, laughing, “Are you giving your old man any?” The ladies all go “Whooooh!” still laughing. They mean I’ve overstepped the mark. “Well,” Patricia goes all jokingly, like that camp comedian on TV my mum likes. “I should take you across my knee.” That got a right roar of approval. All jokingly. “Oh, yes please!” I’m as camp as she is and the laughter grows.

That’s when Mr Johnson chips in. There are only two men work in the office. He’s not a boss. He’s just like the rest of them. He’s smiling his face off and he says, “You wouldn’t enjoy it if I did it.” I turn to face him, I don’t think I’m smiling when I say back, “I’d like to see you try.” More laughs from the women.

Next thing I know, he’s leaned forward from his chair and he’s grabbed my wrist. Suddenly, I’m face down over his lap and he’s spanking my backside. Smack. Smack. Smack. I’m wearing chinos and I don’t feel a thing, except I can tell by the weight of the slaps that he’s doing this for real. It takes a second before I get it: he’s spanking me, for real. And I’m laying there submissively letting him. He whacks my bum for a few seconds, encouraged by the ladies’ cheers. They don’t really want me to suffer, they just think it’s fun to see the office boy with the baby face getting his cute bum spanked.

I’m over his knee for maybe thirty seconds. He lets me up and we stand facing each other, eyes locked. We’re communicating without speaking. His face is flushed. It’s hot in the office. He’s old like the rest of them and the energy he needed to spank me has taken it out of him. I feel my own face burn (much more than my bum is burning). I don’t say anything and slowly walk from the room, leaving behind an office full of chattering women.

I didn’t tell anyone about the spanking. Who could I tell? What would I say? They were having a laugh. That’s all. No harm done. No animals were harmed in the making of this film. The weather was hot and humid, I couldn’t sleep. I had a fitful dream. Me and Mr Johnson together, but I couldn’t make out what we were doing.

It was on the Friday that I bumped into Mr Johnson in the dinner hour. Just the two of us. There was an awkward moment. Mostly, it was me. The dream was worrying me. Mr Johnson grinned. It wasn’t a pretty sight. His body had long gone to seed and his three chins and lined face made him look like a gargoyle. Again, our eyes locked. But this time we did communicate. Mr Johnson spoke. “You should come to my house tomorrow afternoon. The wife and daughter will be out shopping. We can have the place to ourselves. Come at two-thirty.” Suddenly the tongue in my mouth grew to an enormous size, I couldn’t speak. I tried to get some words together but I could only make a gurgling noise. “See you then,” Mr Johnson winked. “Two-thirty, you know the address.” He actually winked, and then he carried on his way towards the Gents, leaving me standing, gasping for breath.

I can’t explain because I don’t understand it myself. He hadn’t explained himself but I knew what Mr Johnson meant. I knew what he intended to do. That was yesterday and that’s why I’m now sitting on the 82 bus travelling across town.

….

It’s nearly five now and I’m sat in the café at the bus station. It’s busy, it always is. Full of people gulping down tea before they set off back to their dreary homes. No one knows me here. I can’t go home yet. I need to think. I need to work out what’s just happened.

Mr Johnson was ready for me. I hadn’t agreed to go but he knew I would come. The house is an ordinary semi; like hundreds more in Brocklehurst and thousands (maybe tens of thousands) across the land. You wouldn’t give it a second look. Tarmac in the front for a carpark (no car there, his wife must be using it), a bay window looking into the front room. Three bedrooms, bathroom, reception room; you could write the estate agent’s description yourself. Mr Johnson is wearing grey cotton trousers and a white shirt; both straining to contain his expansive belly. “Come in Danny,” he flashes that sickly grin. Only people at Tilotson’s call me “Danny”, I’m Daniel to my family and Dan to my mates. The ladies called me Danny; I think it’s because it’s more of a little boy’s name. “Welcome to my home.” He opens the door wide to let me in. I see a short passageway and ahead is the kitchen. Mr Johnson nips behind me to close the door. “Second on the left,” he says meaning that’s the room we’re going to.

It’s a reasonable size. The room had been extended into the back garden at some point. It could be any room in any house. Armchairs, a table, a settee. No, television; I guess that’s in another room.  “Would you like a drink?” I know Mr Johnson isn’t offering tea or coffee. I’m so dry my mouth is glued up. I could kill for a beer. I croak something. Mr Johnson leaves the room and comes back seconds later holding two cans of cheap Tesco lager. I flip the lid and gurgle half of it in one go.

I don’t know what’s going to happen, but at the same time I do know. I’m standing embarrassed. I finish the beer and hold onto the can wondering what I should do with it. Mr Johnson takes it from me and puts it on the table. He hardly drinks from his own can but he puts that down as well. He turns to face me, grins and then suddenly sets his face into a grimace. “So, Danny,” he’s says putting on a voice I suppose is meant to be stern. “I’m told you have been a naughty boy, what have you been up to?”

That throws me. He’s been told? Told what? Who by? The silence sucks air from the room. “Disrespecting your mother,” it is not a question. Mr Johnson is telling me. My heart races. Who told him? How could he possibly know? Has he been speaking to my Mum? We don’t get on. We’re always arguing. She’s always on at me for something or other. I never listen to her. Sometimes I get angry and I let her know it. She’s the same age as the ladies at the office, but we never have any laughs.

“Drinking too much.” Mr Johnson continues talking. “Drugs too … maybe?” I get it now. He wants to know how I’ve been misbehaving. “Well,” I start hesitantly. “I did have a row with mum …” It takes me a while to get going but soon I’m confessing all kinds of “sins”. The arguments at home, pissing in the shop doorway after the pubs were closed. I’d been skiving off work during the day. It was quite a list.

Mr Johnson listened patiently. “Dear, dear, dear …” the tip of his tongue poked through closed lips, like a lizard. “Yes, you have been a naughty boy.” He put a lot of stress on naughty. “The way you treat your mother is disgraceful.” He shook his head in sorrow. “Disgraceful.” We stood facing each other. His piecing grey eyes unnerved me, I looked away, down at the floor. “You know what happens to naughty boys who disrespect their mothers don’t you?” My unspoken answer was the memory of me in the office across Mr Johnson’s knee. That and the weird dream I had. “This is something your father should have done a long time ago.”

Instinctively, I knew exactly Mr Johnson’s intentions as he moved across the room and sat down on a small coffee table. I could have easily turned away, walked from the room and left the house. But I didn’t. Why didn’t I? That’s why I was now sat in the café staring down at cold tea.

I’m not a tall boy but still I towered over him. If I wanted to, I could smack him on the jaw and leave. It didn’t occur to me to do such a thing. “These will have to go,” Mr Johnson seemed to be talking to himself. He reached forward and unbuckled the belt holding up the knee-length shorts I wore. I watched him do it. Somehow, it wasn’t me, it was someone else. It wasn’t my shorts that hurtled to my feet when he undid the clip at the top and tugged the zipper. It was another boy now standing there in tight mauve underpants and t-shirt. It was someone else who was guided across Mr Johnson’s lap. It wasn’t me who lay there submissively, hands pressed into the floor tiles, knees bent, bottom raised.

But it was me who felt the stinging slaps of Mr Johnson’s hand as he enthusiastically spanked me across the seat of my tight pants. This was nothing like the office. He held me tightly around the waist. It was to hold me in position, but it wasn’t necessary. I wasn’t going anywhere. I didn’t want to. I lay obediently across his knees. Don’t ask me why? Think of it, an eighteen-year-old boy willingly positioned over the knee of an older man so that he can spank his backside … as hard as he liked. Mr Johnson whacked me again and again. I soon realized that he could only spank me so hard, there was a limit to his strength. He knew that too, because instead of hitting me harder, he spanked me quicker. I couldn’t count but I’d bet he got up to sixty spanks a minute. Just as the pain of one slap registered across my pert bum so another and then another followed. The heat quickly rose and turned from a throb to pain and then real agony. 

My hips swerved and my legs kicked. I couldn’t stop myself. I was breathless. The room was hot and my head throbbed even more than my bum. Sweat trickled down my temples. My t-shirt stuck to my back.

Suddenly, Mr Johnson stopped. The sound of his heavy wheezing filled the room. Was it over? Is this all there is? A wave of disappointment crashed over me. But then, I felt a movement. It was Mr Johnson taking a grip of the waistband of my pants. “These really serve no useful purpose,” he puffed as he dragged my pants over my buttocks and tugged them over my thighs. My bum was bare to the wind. Slap!!! His heavy hand swiped across naked flesh. The sound it made seemed to bounce off the walls. He couldn’t have been spanking me harder (he didn’t have the strength) but it felt like he was. The pain was excruciating, having my bare bottom on display for an older man to spank was humiliating. I loved every moment.

I couldn’t see, but I could feel my bum burning. It glowed red hot. Mr Johnson covered every part of my bum, from the top of the mounds, over the hills themselves and into the crease where buttocks and thighs meet. Then, he started on the thighs themselves. That had me squirming, hissing, bleating. Who knew a hand spanking across the naked thighs could hurt so much? I did now.

The room spun. It was an out-of-body experience. It was better than the drugs they sell at the Three Fishers. I was … I was where exactly? In ecstasy. A frenzy. At some point he guided me off his lap. I vaguely remember stumbling to my knees. What did Mr Johnson do next? Did he do anything. Then, I’m on my feet, my shorts kicked off, the pants at my shins. I’m waddling across the room like a penguin. I’m staring at the wall. I have my hands on my head. Mr Johnson is speaking. His voice at first sounds like its echoing in a valley, then it clears. I can make out some words. He is speaking to me. He is saying that I’m a naughty little boy. Didn’t I deserve to be punished?  “Yes, sir, yes, sir,” I gasp. “Will you disrespect your mother again.” I know I’m supposed to say No, but I can’t. “Punish me. Punish me some more.” I’m sure I didn’t say that out loud, but Mr Johnson huffs and puffs and then he says, “Wait there, don’t move.” I have my nose pressed against the wall. I hear him leave the room. He returns a minute later. “Turn around,” he growls. He is gripping a heavy wooden hairbrush in his fist. “Come here,” he scowls, “Let’s deal with that drinking problem you have.” My knees buckle. “Bend over that table.”

I’m picturing myself spread-eagled across the dining room table when in the café I hear a voice. “Dan, Dan, are you alright,” I shake my head to clear it. It is Trent, a mate of mine. He is holding a mug of coffee. He sits at my table. “Ain’t seen you for a while,” he says cheerily, “What you been up to?”

Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club

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Called in for a Caning

Letter of Gratitude

Face the Music

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Charles Hamilton the Second

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