Timothy Allerton sauntered down the corridor, he was in no hurry. It was true he was late back from lunch but Timothy had a very cavalier attitude to office rules. This would be the third time he was late that week, but, then who was counting?
Shiela, a clerk old enough to be Timothy’s mum, looked up from her screen as he walked past her. ‘Mr Bartholomew’s been asking about you. He says you’re to see him as soon as you get back.’
‘Yeah,’ Timothy headed to the drinks machine. ‘Maybe. Sometime.’ Shiela sighed and returned to her work.
It was about half hour later, after Shiela had reminded him, that Timothy headed to see Mr. Batholomew. He was a big noise in the human resources department and Timothy could only remember having met him one time, the first day he joined the company six months earlier.
Timothy couldn’t find the office at first and after he asked one of the secretaries, he found it hidden away at the end of a corridor. He wanted to peer into the office to see if anyone was at home but the door had an opaque glass panel that blocked his view. The door was old and in need of a lick of paint. Unsure what was the right thing to do, Timothy knocked gingerly on the door and pressed his ear closer to try to hear a voice.
‘Come in,’ the voice he heard was that of an elderly man. Timothy detected a rather old-fashioned upper-class accent. He gripped the handle and pushed at the door, it creaked open.
He had only met Mr. Batholomew once and was unsure of his role in the company. Why did he want to see him?
He found Mr. Bartholomew, a man of considerable age with thinning grey hair and a face marked by years of authority, sitting behind a desk. He peered at Timothy over his spectacles, a habit his old school headmaster also had.
Timothy stood silently, unsure what he was supposed to say. Mr. Batholomew spoke first, ‘Yes, lad, what do you want?’
‘You sent for me,’ Timothy began and before he realized it, he added, ‘Sir.’
‘Who are you?’ Mr. Batholomew could not hide his irritation.
‘Timothy Allerton,’ Timothy replied and again called him ‘Sir.’
‘Ahhh, Mr. Allerton,’ Mr. Bartholomew nodded, ‘I’ve heard many things about you.’
Timothy was beginning to get nervous. What had he heard? Why was he calling him Mister Allerton? Why did it feel like he was in front of the headmaster?
Timothy, a lanky lad of eighteen, stood before the imposing boss with a heavy heart. His eyes darted nervously around the room. It was a large office. Mr. Batholomew sat behind a computer screen in a large swivel chair. On the other side of the room was a smaller table and around the walls were filing cabinets and shelves stacked with files.
Mr. Bartholomew picked up a piece of paper from his desk and readjusting his spectacles, he read the words on it very slowly. Timothy knew he was in trouble, but he didn’t yet know what he had done.
After thirty seconds, which seemed to Timothy more like many minutes, Mr. Bartholomew spoke rather formally, ‘Mr. Allerton, you have found yourself in a most regrettable predicament. Three tardies in one week is not to be taken lightly.’ The blank look on Timothy’s face irritated Mr. Bartholomew who snapped. ‘Tardies lad. Lateness. You have been late three times this week. And I’m told you have been late several times previously but nobody was keeping notes so we don’t know how many.’
Now, Timothy knew he was in trouble; but he hadn’t expected it to come to this; a face-to-face encounter with a boss. His mind raced, thinking of ways to plead his case, but the stern look on Mr. Bartholomew’s face told him that words alone wouldn’t save him this time.
‘What do you have to say for yourself, lad?’ Mr. Batholomew peered over his glasses once more. Timothy stood dumbfounded. He had nothing to say, he had no excuses, he was just late because he couldn’t be bothered to go to work. He spent a lot of his lunchtime at the shopping mall just idling around. He couldn’t tell Mr. Bartholmew that.
With a heavy sigh, Mr. Bartholomew continued, ‘Apart from lateness I have some good reports from your line manager. You are bright and intelligent and you could go far in the company, but, I’m told, you are a bit lazy and apt to be dismissive of the people in the office, especially supervisors. What do you say to that?’
Mr. Batholomew was correct, Timothy did have a thing about authority. He had never learnt that in life there is a pecking order and as a junior office administrator he was the lowest of the low.
‘Nothing to say for yourself lad?’ Mr. Batholomew gave another heavy sigh. ‘I want to help you lad. I always believe in the second chance. I could dismiss you, but times are hard out there. Jobs are scarce, especially for younger people. How old are you? Eighteen? Yes, there is still hope for you.’
Timothy nodded eagerly, but he unsure where this was going.
‘Are you aware,’ Mr. Bartholomew exclaimed, ‘of the recent change in the law?’ Again, he was met with a blank stare. ‘Bah!’ he almost spat, ‘Young people never read the news, not even on those gadgets you’re always staring into. You will remember that when the New Democrats were elected one of the first things they did – to great public acclaim, I might add – was to reintroduce corporal punishment into schools.’
He let the words corporal punishment roll around his mouth. Now, he had Timothy’s full attention. ‘Very quickly, that was extended to colleges and universities and then to apprentices.’ Mr. Batholomew stopped speaking to allow the implication of his little speech to sink in, and then he continued, ‘And now any employee under the age of thirty may be subjected to corporal punishment [he let the words roll around again] in the workplace.’
He paused and peered at Timothy. ‘Am I making myself clear?’
‘B.. b… but…’ Timothy blustered.
‘It is for your own good lad. A good spanking. It will buck your ideas up. A short, sharp, shock. A lesson,’ Mr. Barthlomew knew he was babbling so he added, ‘Wipe the slate clean,’ and then he shut up.
Timothy’s pale face reddened and his heart raced. What was he to do? Was he being given a choice, a spanking or something else, some other punishment? Before he could ask Mr. Batholomew rose from his chair and moved towards a tall wooden cabinet. His hand reached inside, and he withdrew an ominous-looking cane. It was about a metre long and as thick as a pencil with a curved handle at one end., its polished surface gleamed menacingly in the dim light. The mere sight of it sent shivers down Timothy’s spine.
Mr. Bartholomew flexed the cane, causing it to bend and creak ominously. Timothy’s mouth dried as his boss pointed the cane. ‘Bend over the desk, Mr. Allerton.’
Timothy’s face flushed with embarrassment, and he hesitated for a moment. But deep down he knew he had no choice. He had broken the rules, he was guilty as charged. Perhaps, he did need a wakeup call. He hadn’t known before that he was highly thought of by his supervisors. This might be a chance as Mr. Bartholomew had said to wipe the slate clean, to start again. Besides, if he lost this job and didn’t get another one quickly he might end up at one of the youth workcamps the government had recently opened.
That was the gravity of the situation he was in. With a heavy heart, he moved towards the desk. It was cluttered with a computer and a phone and many files. ‘Rest your elbows on the desk and stick your bottom out,’ Mr. Batholomew told him helpfully.
Timothy arched his back and leaned forward. The jacket of his suit tightened around his body and for a moment he thought he might stand up and take it off. But before he could move, his boss had taken hold of the end of the jacket and pushed it up his back to give him an unobstructed sight of his backside. It was a cheap grey suit and the trousers were a little loose, but bent over with his bum poking out the fabric clung to his buttocks. Although he didn’t know this he was now offering his boss a perfect target to whack.
He heard Mr. Bartholomew’s footsteps on the plastic floor tiles as he approached Timothy. The air in the room seemed to grow heavier with anticipation. Then, without warning, the cane swished through the air and struck Timothy’s backside with a resounding thwack.
Pain shot through the eighteen-year-old’s body, and he clenched his teeth to stifle a cry. He knew that he had to endure this punishment; there was no other way out.
‘Good lad,’ Mr. Batholomew purred by way of encouragement. ‘Six of the best, so there’s five more to come.’ He rubbed the cane in a sawing motion across the seat of Timothy’s trousers. He was only the third office junior Mr. Batholomew had ever caned and Timothy had by far the firmest bottom of the lot. He wondered if the boy did much sport, he had the legs and backside of a swimmer, he thought.
He found his aim, lifted the cane, and whacked it down for the second stroke. It was harder than the first and Timothy blinked away the tears that were trying to form behind his eyes. He sucked on his lower lip, determined to stay silent.
The third struck lower and despite his best efforts, Timothy wriggled his hips and his knees bent. His backside stung like crazy. Again, again and again, the cane rose and fell, the pain mounting to agony with each strike. Timothy’s eyes watered, but he remained quiet, determined to bear the pain with dignity.
After what felt like an eternity, Mr. Bartholomew finally set the cane aside. He placed a firm hand on Timothy’s trembling shoulder and spoke in a softer tone, ‘Remember, Timothy,’ he said, using the boy’s Christian name for the first time, ‘discipline is the cornerstone of a well-rounded life. Tardiness will not be tolerated in this company.’
Timothy nodded, his face still staring at the desk. He knew that he had learned a valuable lesson, one he would carry with him throughout his life. As he left Mr. Bartholomew’s office that day, he knew he’d never be late back to work again. The memory of the caning would serve as a constant reminder of the consequences of his actions.
Picture credit: Unknown
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Male on male spanking stories 