The phone kept ringing and Mr Burchall knew it would not stop until he dragged himself away from the television and answered it. He recognised the voice immediately; it was Tyler, one of his closest friends.
“Sorry, Fletch, I’ve got some bad news. It’s two of your lads. I just caught them stealing beer from my storeroom.” Tyler owned a chain of supermarkets and Harry and Anthony worked weekends. “It’s the first time I’ve caught them but I honestly can’t be sure if they haven’t been stealing before. They deny it, of course, but it looks like they’ve intended to take the cans and drink them over at Widdicombe Wood.”
An exaggerated sigh whistled through Mr Burchall’s lips “Kids today, what can you do with them?” His heart beat faster; he cleared his throat before asking, “What do you want to do about this?”
Tyler spoke fluently; he had obviously thought the thing through. “I don’t want the law involved. But it is theft. I can’t just let it go. I thought maybe you would deal with it.” Mr Burchall had no need to ask Tyler to explain what he meant; the two men knew each other well. “Do you want to be here to witness it?” he asked.
“No, not this time thanks Fletch, I have other plans,” his voice squeaked into a giggle, “I know you’ll do the right thing?” They exchanged a few more words about kids today before Mr Burchall signed off saying, “Send them to me, I’ll take care of it.”
Twenty minutes later two thieves stood in the lounge room; literally on the carpet: two twenty-year-old students, both on the cusp of their adult lives. Good careers were ahead for them. And what did they do, they got caught stealing. Mr Burchall lectured. Sheer stupidity. Wasted lives. Lucky the police weren’t called in. Expelled from university, the landlord couldn’t speak in full sentences but the boys knew exactly what he meant. They also knew exactly what would happen before the evening was over.
“Do you have anything to say for yourselves?”
It wasn’t a rhetorical question and Mr Burchall demanded answers. Mumbles and murmurs were all he got.
“Doh! Pah! Bah!” the landlord did some spluttering of his own. “Thieves. Common thieves. People from my house. I’ve a good right to throw you out on to the streets.” The two boys, heads bowed struggled to avoid each other’s eyes. To do so would leave both in a fit of giggles. Like Mr Burchall would ever chuck them out.
The landlord Bah’d and Pah’d some more. And, then to make it look as if he had given the matter some thought he lapsed into silence for some seconds before saying, “No. I am a fair man. Nobody can deny that. Everyone deserves a second chance.” Harry and Anthony stiffened, ready for the punchline. “But you must be punished, surely you can understand that?”
It was another question demanding an answer. Harry, who was a very forward young man, replied with a clear voice, “Yes sir. I do sir. Thank you sir.” Anthony was less forthcoming; he was still at the mumbling and murmuring stage. Mr Burchall let that pass.
“Good. A jolly good hiding. That’s what you need,” the landlord let that hang in the air for a while. He expected no argument from the two thieves and he got none. Something close to a smile curled his lips. “Good. I’m glad that’s understood. Now, take off your trousers and underpants and put them on that armchair.”
Harry and Anthony exchanged glances this time. No words were spoken but they knew what the other was thinking: “It’s another Saturday night at The House on the Hill”. While they undid belts, released flies and tugged trousers down their legs, Mr Burchall crossed the room. There was an-old fashioned walnut table with drawers along each side. He tugged one open and reached inside. When he turned to face the boys he clutched in his hand a sturdy leather riding crop. It was about 50 cms long and no thicker than a pencil. It had a handle at one end and a small thong at the other. Mr Burchall was not a horse rider; he would be hard pressed to recall the last time he had been close to a horse. He had no interest in horses (not even of the racing variety.) He owned a riding crop for one reason and one reason only.
He held it between both hands and flexed it thoughtfully. It wasn’t as springy as the half-dozen rattan school canes he had in a wardrobe upstairs. It didn’t fly through the air making a terrific swooshing sound as it went. If you wanted drama, Mr Burchall knew, then you should use a school cane. But, as he also knew from his extensive practice, if you wanted an awesome experience – one that might take a young lad’s arse off – then there was nothing finer than the leather riding crop. It was, after all, designed to be used on horses and just think how thick their hides were.
He took the crop in his right fist and gently tapped it rhythmically against his own trouser leg all the time watching the two boys intently. Neither appeared to register emotion. Mr Burchall had known both for a number of months and he had dealt with them on numerous occasions, but he still could not read their minds.
Harry and Anthony were not about to change. It was to be a beating with a riding crop. It might have been a cane or a belt or a slipper or a hair brush or any number of other implements that Mr Burchall might choose. Today it was the riding crop. And that was how it was going to be. They waited for the inevitable command. It was not long coming.
“Bend over the back of the settee. Anthony you on the right. Harry, you go next to him.”
Obediently, the two boys stepped forward. The settee had a low back and their bodies sank into the spongy cushions as they tried to take up position. It was difficult to know what you do with their legs. Anthony kept his knees straight and thrust his legs out, raising his bared bottom at the same time. Harry tucked his knees into the back of the couch so that bottom firmed and rested on the peak of the couch. Mr Burchall studied the scene before him, silently weighing up his options. What would be the best way to get maximum impact with the crop so that the boys felt the agony of every stroke as it cut into his bared bottom?
“Anthony, he commanded, “tuck your legs in. Both of you; heads low, bottoms high.” There was a certain amount of wriggling of hips and buttocks as the pair obeyed their landlord. The boys were almost hip to hip over the back of the settee. Anthony smelt the sour tobacco breath of his pal; it wasn’t a pleasant experience.
Mr Burchall silently surveyed the tableau before him. He had been doing this for a long time and he had long since discovered that no two backsides were entirely alike. There were, of course, some obvious differences: some were hairy, some were not. Some round and plump, others tight and pert. The pair offered before him that evening was perhaps more similar than different. Anthony had a bit more meat but he was a long way off being fat. Harry was firmer, tighter, but they certainly were not buns of steel.
Mr Burchall swiped the crop through the air, it made a dull sound but it was intimidating enough to make Harry’s buttocks twitch in anticipation. “Okay lads,” the landlord said aloud, “Let’s get on with this.” A shiver shook Andrew’s body, from where Mr Burchall was standing it looked like an involuntary movement. The 20-year-old’s body was preparing itself for the onslaught to come. It wouldn’t have to wait long.
Mr Burchall took up position. Whipping to sets of buttocks simultaneously was a complicated business but he relished challenges. If he had ordered each boy to bend across the back of the settee individually – one after the other – he would have ben able to take up position to the lad’s left, h could stand maybe a metre away (an arm’s length) and then take aim. He would be sure to strike both cheeks with the required force, either together or singly. The challenge with two boys presented side by side was how to be sure to reach the furthest bottom and make sure the crop struck it with force and accuracy so that both cheeks received punishment with equal measure. An amateur might strike only the left buttock – the one nearest and leave the other almost unscathed.
But Mr Burchall was far from a novice. He had perfected a stance that put him to the left of the pair but also a little behind; that meant he was able to reach across the first body to strike the second with both power and accuracy. Mr Burchall could write a manual on how to deliver efficient and effective beatings.
He flexed the leather crop in hands noting not for the first time that this punishment tool was a cross between a rattan cane and a leather paddle that would deliver marks across naked flesh that were not quite welts. He took a deep breath, laid the crop across the centre of Harry’s bum so that he could then tap it gently as he took his aim. The boy’s body tensed. The landlord lifted the crop and with a firm stroke and flick of the wrist he brought it down firmly. A pink stripe immediately glowed across the flesh but the stroke was not harsh enough to raise a wheal. Air hissed through Harry’s clenched teeth. Mr Burchall stepped back slightly, placed the crop across Andrew’s bottom and repeated the stroke.
It wasn’t a flogging. Flesh and blood didn’t fly across the sitting room, but it was a beating. On a scale of one to ten with one being a love tap and ten a Singapore-style caning it probably registered around about six. Andrew’s bum always coloured red when it was spanked. Even a simple across the knee bare bottomed spanking with the palm of the hand could look like a severe beating. Mr Burchall was no medic, he knew little about the working of the human inner body and he assumed a flushed bottom was no different than a blushing face; some people just coloured up more than others.
He didn’t spend much time thinking about this and he did not let the glowering cheeks deter him from laying on the rod as hard as the pair of thieves deserved. He was rewarded with “ooohs” and “ahhhs” and one or two more honest “ouchs”. After the first dozen the yaps and yelps were genuine enough. Mr Burchall’s boys always put on a show.
After twenty-four cuts Mr Burchall paused, he admired his handiwork. Yes, two well striped bottoms with the outline of the crop tattooed across the flesh. He threw the crop onto the nearby chair and began to slap each cheek in turn; one-two-three-four with the palm of his hand. The flesh was hot and his hand sweaty. Slap, slap, slap. He knew this did not add to the pain his two tenants had endured but this finale always gave Mr Burchall deep satisfaction.
“Stand up!” He was finished now. The two thieves hauled themselves to standing positions, unselfconsciously they kneaded their scorched flesh. Mr Burchall encouraged this from the lads he had spanked, it supplied evidence of a job well done. “Get dressed. Go to your rooms. Stay there until the morning. I don’t want to hear any noise or I’ll be up there with my slipper.”
Not waiting to dress they left the room. Mr Burchall wiped the sweat from his palms before slumping onto the settee where he spent some considerable time caressing his crop.
For more ‘The House on the Hill’ click here
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