Changed Times 9. The truck

A glimpse into the near future. Other Changed Times stories are here.

z used bum bent over truck (1)

 

I thought Mr. Whittaker was kidding me when he said if I arrived late one more time he would make me take down my trousers and pants and bend over the back of the truck for a belt whipping.

Well, really. I’m twenty years old not some baby.

I hadn’t reckoned on the new law that allows employers to spank their younger workers. Nobody my age is safe now.

I’m not good in the morning. I always wake up with a raging hard-on and it takes me half an hour to deal with that (you don’t want to hurry these things) and then if the bus is delayed or full I’m late for work.

Mr. Whittaker is older than my dad; bigger and stronger too. It’s all the outdoor work we do. He keeps his corduroy trousers up with a thick, wide, leather belt. I tried to pretend I wasn’t late. I’d just been to the toilet for a slash, but he was having none of it.

I swear he grinned when he said, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Go stand by the truck.”

“But, Mr. Whittaker …” I wailed.

“Don’t ‘Mr. Whittaker’ me,” he sneered, reaching for the buckle of his belt. “We do this or you can go back to the dole queue.”

He had me there and he knew it. There are no jobs out there, especially not for young people. If you’re out of work for more than three months they send you to a workcamp. What happens there is a bit of a secret, but if the rumours are true I for one don’t want to go there.

Mr. Whittaker read my thoughts. “You’ve only got yourself to blame. Get outside.”

My legs felt like they were made of lead as I trudged out of the portable office and into the yard. The moment I was outside everything stopped and my workmates gathered around to see the fun. Some of the older ones had huge grins; they were going to enjoy the sport – me, bare-arsed across the truck. Sandy and Jake, two lads about my age, were deathly pale. They knew that it could be one of them next.

It was a late spring morning and quite warm, but I couldn’t stop shivering. I’d never been spanked before. That was bad enough, but I had to take down my jeans and boxers and let Mr. Whittaker see my cock and balls. And, Jesus H. Christ, my crack and hole when I bent over. And, now the whole firm was standing around as well.

Mr. Whittaker pulled his belt through the trouser loops with a flourish, like a magician pulling a cloth away during a trick. He’s got some beer gut and it turns out he doesn’t really need the belt to keep his trousers up. He wears it just for show, or maybe to have something at hand to whip his workers.

He folded the belt in two; it must have been a couple of feet long. He waved it around, just to make sure I knew what it looked like. It seemed very heavy, in the right hands it could take my arse off.

“Trousers and pants down. Come on.”

I resolved not to make a fool of myself by pleading for mercy or making a fuss, but I could not get my fingers to move.

“Do you want me to do it for you?” Mr. Whittaker snarled. I swear I heard a snigger somewhere in the audience. At last I had my own belt undone. I wear my jeans loose; we used to wear them half way down our arses, but they started arresting kids for indecency, so that fashion soon stopped. I undid the button on my jeans and they slipped down my legs. I was wearing blue boxers with white dots. My mum bought them for me, I don’t think I’ve ever bought my own pants in my life.

“Those too,” Mr. Whittaker nodded and swished his belt about again. I turned my back to the crowd, screwed my eyes tight and slowly lowered my boxers. More than one of the guys wolf-whistled. I only hope one of them wasn’t that poofter Barclay.

They could see my bare bum but not my tackle. I’m not usually this shy. I do a lot of football and we’re always together in the showers waving our willies around. No lady would be disappointed with me, if you get my drift.

“Over.”

There was no way out of this. I had to let this old man whip my bare arse with his belt. Mr. Whittaker had already lowered the truck’s tailgate, so I leant forward. It was just like bending across a table. I kept my knees together so they couldn’t see my crack, folded my arms and buried my head in them. I felt a warm breeze cross my naked bum. Then, Mr. Whittaker rested the heavy leather belt across the centre of my cheeks. He was taking aim.

He let fly. Crack, he got me right on the sit-spot, the soft underside of the buttocks. It hurt, but not as much as I expected. He whipped me again and again. There was a deathly hush, all you could hear was the leather cracking against my bum. I’ve got a bit of meat back there, so the belt sank deep. The belt was snaking around my buttocks and connecting with the side of my cheeks. Later when I had a look there were ugly purple welts.

I didn’t count the strokes, but later Sandy told me it had been fifty lashes. My bum was sore, but I wasn’t really in agony. My cheeks were a mess though, they were so criss-crossed with lines it looked like a map of Clapham Junction. The skin on my bum felt like leather.

The pain quickly eased, except for a couple of lashes that had hit on the back of my thighs. They throbbed a bit, especially when I sat down.

Mr. Whittaker seemed a little disappointed when it was over. He grunted to me to get dressed and hurried off to the toilet. My workmates carried on with their business.

Mr. Whittaker said no more about my spanking. Next day, I arrived on time find he had brought a thick, whippy, curve-handled cane and hung it on a nail on the office wall that he had hammered in specially.

 

Other stories you might like

 

The paper boy and Candy

Remembering Professor Price

The drunken neighbour

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Changed Times 8. Just another day

z used cane pants down touch toes

 

Click here for all episodes of Changed Times

 

Mr. Burton heaved a heavy sigh and glared at the three young men standing in front of his desk. Won’t they ever learn? The law had been in place for three years, they knew the rules – and the penalty for breaking them.

Osbourne, Rowe and Tapler, three twenty-something trainee managers stood hands behind backs, head slightly bowed. Contrite. Waiting for the inevitable. Mr. Burton noticed how all the young men a Global Petroleum looked like peas in a pod. Dark, perfectly creased trousers, gleaming white shirt, tie knotted tightly at the throat. Neat, short hair. Clean shaven.

There wasn’t much to be said. They knew why they were there. Just returned from a company residential course. They had too much to drink one night and missed the start of the following day. That would not do. Not do at all. Action had to be taken.

“It was a serious training school, not a vacation,” Mr. Burton leaned forward in his chair, planting his forearms on the desk. He was a tall wiry man in his early fifties. He was known as one of the “old guard” – staff who had been at Global since before the changes. When Britain was still in the European Union and before the huge economic crash. Things had changed when the New Democrats came into power. Mr. Burton was a keen supporter, the country had been going to the dogs – especially the young people.

“Well, let’s get on with this shall we,” he lifted himself from his sumptuous leather chair and made his way across the office, conscious of three pairs of eyes craning to watch him go. His destination was a long table. It had a drawer running along its length. Mr. Burton tugged it open, creating a rattling sound. To the three young men it seemed to echo around the office, the sound bouncing off the walls. Osbourne’s hands started to shake. Rowe stared intently at his highly polished black leather shoes. Tapler absent-mindedly rubbed his thumbs across the seat of his trousers.

It took Mr. Burton only seconds to reach in the drawer and withdraw a long, thin whippy rattan school cane. They still called them “school” canes, but since the law was passed it was permissible to beat young people in all walks of life. It started when they brought back corporal punishment to schools and soon its use spread to colleges and universities. Then misbehaving apprentices found they could have their backsides blistered. Suddenly, young people learned how to behave. The public loved it. Next thing the law allowed anyone in authority over the young to beat them black and blue.

This cane was made of the traditional rattan and when Mr. Burton flexed it between his hands he effortlessly made an arc. He looked across at the three young men, each still facing his desk. Three backsides waiting to be beaten. He walked slowly back to his desk, gently swishing the cane as he went.

“I think twelve strokes should do it, don’t you?” It was so gently said Mr. Burton might have been asking a genuine question. As if the lads were able to negotiate. “You know what Mr. Burton, I rather think I deserve three dozen.”

Rowe stared at the cane in his boss’s hand. “But we already got dealt with by Mr. Richardson.”

“Be quite! I don’t care about Mr. Richardson.”

Rowe blushed. It wasn’t fair. The workshop facilitator had already spanked them. Twenty-three years old and bent over Mr. Richardson’s knee, trousers at his ankles, underpants at his knees while the old man hammered a heavy wooden ruler into his bared buttocks. Could you imagine such a thing?

Mr. Burton swiped the cane through the air. “Rowe, Osbourne, stand by the wall.” He nodded to his left and the two young men obediently shuffled. “Tapler. Stand there.” He tapped the tip of his cane in the middle of a red-patterned rug. Tapler breathed deeply. His palms were sweating. He rubbed them against his trouser legs and set off across the office.

“Take down your trousers. Bend over.”

The three young men expected this. They weren’t the first employees to be beaten by Mr. Burton. They wouldn’t be the last. Even so, Tapler’s open faced coloured. His palms dampened again. This was too embarrassing. He saw Mr. Burton tap the cane against his own leg impatiently.

“C’mon lad, I haven’t got all day.”

Tapler’s wet fingers unbuckled his narrow back leather belt. He popped the button on the waistband of the trousers and tugged the zipper. The weight of his keys in his pocket helped them slither down his legs. He felt a slight breeze as they went.

“Bend over, lad.” More tapping against his leg.

Mr. Burton used to order a lad to, “Touch your toes.” He wasn’t sure why. It was the traditional way, he supposed. What generations of schoolmasters had done. He quickly learned it was better to have the lad grab his shins. It kept the knees straight and the bum was beautifully rounded to receive the swish of the rattan.

That was how Tapler presented himself. His spotted boxer shorts fitted snugly against his stretched cheeks. The lad’s shirttail hung down and covered most of his buttocks. It was no effort for Mr. Burton to take the edge and push it up the lad’s back to his shoulders. Mr. Burton was surprised how hairy the twenty-two-year-old was. Quite the hairiest youngster he had ever dealt with.

Tapler stared at the rug. It had a pattern but he couldn’t work out what it was. Some modern art perhaps. From the corner of his eye, he saw Mr. Burton take up position. He felt the cane being “sawed” across the centre of his tight buttocks. Then it was lifted away. He heard the swoosh as the cane flew and the crack as it connected with the seat of his underwear. It was a second or so later that he felt the tremendous pain. A thick welt was already forming under his boxers. It throbbed like mad.

Tapler gripped his calves so tightly his fingernails scratched the flesh. The second and third swipes bounced off his bum; landing in almost the same spot. It knocked the wind out of him. He shut his teeth just in time to stifle the “yowelll!” he wanted to make.

Osborne and Rowe looked on apprehensively. Their pal seemed to be taking the thrashing well. Rowe had howled when Mr. Richardson spanked him, he couldn’t imagine taking a trousers-down caning stoically.

Tapler’s head ached and saliva drained from his mouth. His boss continued his task with determination. It was his duty to instil discipline in the young. One day, when they were managers and making a good career at Global they would thank him for days like this. All his employees would. Mr. Burton was convinced corporal punishment worked. A sore arse never did any harm. The youngster broke the rules, learnt a very painful lesson and the world moved on. God was in his Heaven.

Twelve swipes of the cane across the underwear is an awesome punishment. By the time Tapler was allowed to stand his bum was ripped to shreds. Even without rubbing his hands across his buttocks he knew there were high ridges rising on the flesh. It felt like his shorts were stuck to the skin. That was either sweat, or God forbid, blood.

“Osbourne.”

The trainee manager took Tapler’s place. Tapler’s ashen face and damp eyes made Osbourne’s skin crawl. Osbourne took up position, let his trousers fall and bent to stare at the rug. Mr. Burton grimaced. Osbourne wore the most garish briefs, in a kind of zebra pattern. He had noticed that although young men dressed outwardly alike, they favoured outlandish underwear.

“Brace yourself boy.” He lashed the first cut home.

He had landed number eight when the office door swung open. Mr. Harris the section head – Mr. Burton’s boss – stood in the threshold. He was younger and beefier than Mr. Burton. He smiled broadly. “I heard there was something going on in here.”

He stared across at the zebra-covered arse. “Don’t I know you,” he grunted. “Didn’t I have occasion to thrash you the other week?”

“Yes, Sir,” the reply was addressed to the rug.

“Give me that, Burton,” he grabbed the cane from his hand and marched up to Osbourne. Rowe and Tapler watched in horror as Mr. Harris gripped the waist of the twenty-three-year-old’s pants and ripped them to his knees, completely baring the buttocks.

“You’ve given him a good set of marks, Burton,” he said with genuine admiration. Eight thick parallel lines ran from the top of the globes, over the crest of the buttocks and into the soft sit-spot. Mr. Harris raised the cane high and thrashed six stingers into the bare flesh. Rat-tat-tat, like machinegun fire. Osbourne howled like a banshee. His body twisted this way and that. His knees buckled and straightened as he fought to stop himself jumping to his feet and rubbing away at the scolding flesh.

“Here, carry on,” Mr. Harris handed the cane back and perched his buttocks on the edge of the desk. He folded his hands demurely over his crotch and made himself comfortable to watch the rest of the show.

 

Other stories you might like

Pyjama bottoms down. Bend over (again)

My boy Dixon

Fr. Christian

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Changed Times 7. Pub landlord

A glimpse into the near future. The series starts here.

 The landlord Kevin saw me heaving my shoulder against the heavy saloon bar door. “You’re barred!” he shouted from across the empty room before I even stepped across the threshold. He meant it too.

I stood bemused. The bar was deserted apart from we two. “After the other night,” Kevin began to explain. “I don’t need the grief. Just go. Find some other pub to smash up.”

Then, I knew what he meant.

“Three chairs. Broken. Beyond repair.” Kevin was an elderly man, running to fat. Even across the dimly-lit bar I could see sweat was streaming down his face. He was not enjoying this. He hated confrontation.

The Royal pub was my favourite place to hang out. Me and a group of pals were well out of order a few nights earlier. You might have been there yourself. Or you’ve had your evening spoiled by people who were. I don’t remember much of the detail. Too much to drink. Certainly. Too loud. Beer splashed about. Was there a fight? Like I said, I really don’t remember.

Just then, Albert, his partner, or husband, or whatever you call it, appeared from a trap door behind the bar. He wiped his hands on an old rag and looked across the room at me. I felt his eyes burn into me with distain. “If I had my way …” he started and then trailed off. He threw the rag on the bar counter and busied himself stacking glasses.

“B … b …” I tried to speak, but I could not find the words. I wanted to say I was sorry, but I wasn’t too sure what it was that I was sorry about. We must have been well out of order. I approached the bar and sat on a stool.

“I said you’re barred,” Kevin tried to growl at me. He wasn’t very good at aggression.

“Piss off. We don’t want your sort here,” Albert was much better at it. He leaned across the bar and put his face close to mine. I could smell his toothpaste. “If I had my way ….” He said it again. His way? I thought he meant he would call the police or something. Perhaps he had wanted to, but Kevin had talked him out of it.

“I’m sorry. Really sorry.” I managed to get the words out this time. I was too. I wasn’t just saying this. I am not the kind of guy who goes around wrecking pubs. I’m twenty-two and a bank clerk for pity’s sake. I spend my days sedately counting other people’s money. I’ve got a girlfriend. I hope we’ll get married one day. Settle down. Have a family. I am Mr Normal. Not a pub fighter.

Kevin peered at me through owl-like glasses, as if seeing me for the very first time. “Whatever possessed you, Simon?” I blushed with shame. He sounded a bit like my mum. What on earth would mum say if she ever found out?

“Let me pay for the damage,” I stuttered.

“You should pay all right,” Albert sneered. “If I had my way …”

“No,” a smile forced its way across Kevin’s flabby face. “You didn’t do the damage.”

It was a relief to hear that. Perhaps, I wasn’t such a bad lad after all.

“But you did encourage them on. You are equally to blame,” Albert was not letting me off the hook so easily. I stared down at the drip cloth on the counter. It advertised Carlsberg. I could murder a pint, I thought.

“If I had my way …” Albert said again. He was beginning to annoy me.

“What would you do if you had your way?” I snapped. I always had a quick temper. It sometimes got me into trouble.

Albert’s face creased in anger. I saw him clench his right hand into a fist. He was trying to control his own temper. “I’d give you a damn good hiding,” he blurted.

What? I didn’t say anything but my face or my body language must have spoken for me. It said, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Spanking.” Albert unclenched his fist and pointed his index finger in my face. “A jolly good spanking.”

I sat and gaped. Spanking? He meant it too.

“That would teach you a lesson. You little shit.” Albert definitely had it in for me. “Now piss off. You’re barred.”

I sat as if glued to the stool. Spanking? What an idea. Was it a gay thing? Did he get off on spanking younger guys? I looked at my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. I had seen myself plenty of times before. I knew what I looked like. I was a little over five-eight, which made me average height. My hair was cut short; if I let it grow it would curl and make me look like a scarecrow. This was Sunday, so I needed a shave, but my stubble didn’t detract from my otherwise boyish looks. I was a bit on the thin side. I liked the pub, but I also ran the streets two or three times a week. That kept the beer belly at bay and contributed to my flat stomach. From what I had seen of it in the past, my bum was round and firm. I was sitting on it as I checked myself out in the mirror, but Albert would have had plenty of opportunities in the past to admire it.

“Go,” Albert snarled. I slipped my arse off the stool and headed for the door. Five minutes later I was gulping down a pint of lager at The Mitre, a horrible pub that was usually full of miserable old geezers who spent their whole time moaning about their wives. I had no choice. There were only two pubs in the village.

I was close to the bottom of the glass, when Tony breezed in. “You barred too?” he grinned. I smiled. I suppose we were all banned. We deserved it, too. Why the hell did we do it?

Tony put a fresh pint in front of me.

“Did Albert say anything to you?” Tony sipped on his best bitter. He looked quizzically at me, as if he was pondering something.

I gulped my lager. “About spanking us, you mean?”

Tony flushed and hurriedly looked around the bar, “Keep your voice down.”

I took another gulp.

“Well?” Tony seemed agitated.

“Well what?”

Tony leaned close to me. His breath stank of booze and cigarettes. He whispered, “The spanking.”

My puzzled look must have spurred him on.

“Are we going to let him?” Tony was earnest.

I spluttered my beer. It dribbled down my chin as I coughed up a lungful of air.

“War ….?” I mouthed the word. I wasn’t recovered enough to speak properly.

“We can’t be barred from the Royal. I’m in the snooker team. And the darts.”

I got my wind back. “You cannot be serious.” I sounded like John McEnroe on a bad day.

He shrugged. Just then Bill walked through the door. He beamed and rubbed the palms of his hands against his buttocks.

“Yeah, I know!” I said. He didn’t need to explain himself.

He sat down and sipped from a bottle of designer beer.

“We’ve got no choice, of course,” he said thoughtfully. I looked blank.

He sighed at my ignorance, “The new law.”

I was still uncomprehending.

“Don’t you ever follow the news? The new law. Juvenile delinquents. If Albert reports us to the police and we’re convicted of vandalism. Or affray, even. We’ll get the birch. No question.”

I saw the blood drain from Tony’s face. “Jesus!” he exclaimed. “I forgot about that.” He gulped at his beer, sweat soaking his temples.

“So,” Bill, sighed, “We either let Albert smack our little botties or some prison officer will rip our arses to shreds.” He drew on his bottle. “It’s a no-brainer.”

We lapsed into uncomfortable silence. Each of us alone with our fears. Pain. Humiliation. Disgrace. Would I lose my job at the bank?

Tony broke the silence. “You know Albert’s a bit …” He flapped his wrist and threw his head back.

“Ha!” Bill sneered. “He’s not at all limp-wristed.” He sipped his beer. “I wish he were.” He was thinking of the pain that was undoubtedly to come.

“Would he … you know …?” I daren’t say the words out loud.

My pals did know. None of us wanted to think about it.

“Bare, you mean?” Bill spoke at last. I nodded.

“But, won’t he enjoy it? You know? Being gay?” Tony blushed.

“Maybe,” Bill smiled, “But not as much as the prison officer who birches the skin off juvies.”

I nodded agreement. Why? What did I know about anything?

“I bet they cream their pants,” Bill sneered.

We fell back into silence. The bar was filling up. We needed to make a decision. Soon.

“So,” Bill was a natural leader. He had led us in the mayhem that caused the damage. He was about to lead us again. “We’re going to let him do it.” It was a statement, not a question.

I shrugged my shoulders. It meant, “Yes,” not, “I dunno.”

Tony gave a twisted smile. His face paled. It was his way of assenting.

Bill went to the bar. One more drink and then we would go face the music.

The Royal was busy when we got there half an hour later. Albert spotted us as soon as the big heavy saloon bar door edged its way back to a closed position. His jaw opened. He was about to tell us we were barred. He stopped short. One look at our hunched shoulders and embarrassed faces told him he had won.

He lifted the flap in the bar. “Come through lads,” he said pleasantly. It was as if we were old, valued friends and he was pleased we were visiting. He probably was delighted. I certainly was not.

“Go up the stairs, lads.” It irritated me that he called us “lads”, I don’t recall him ever doing that before. We did as we were told and were taken into Albert’s private quarters. It was a smallish sitting room. It was not much different from the one at my mum’s house. There was a small dining table, a double-sized couch, a television. The usual things.

We stood shuffling our feet, not sure what we were supposed to do. Or, say. There had been almost total embarrassed silence on the way over. None of us wanted to share our feelings. I’m not certain about the others, but I had never been spanked in my life. I had left school before the cane was brought back and as far as I knew the junior bank clerks and whatnot at the bank were immune from corporal punishment. Or, if not “immune” exactly, at least no one misbehaved enough to warrant a thrashing. I was entering unchartered territory.

Albert perched his buttocks on the edge of the table. His disdain for us was obvious. I clasped my hands behind my back and took an unusually keen interest in the pattern in the carpet beneath my feet. My heart was pounding and my ears popped as blood coursed at maximum speed through my arteries. I don’t remember a single word he said. And, he said an awful lot. At last, satisfied that he had lectured us enough, he pronounced sentence. I heard that alright.

“Stand there.” He pointed to the far wall. “Take off your clothes.”

The shock on Tony’s face scared me. I thought he was going to cry and faint, all at the same time.

“Now, come on,” Bill started a protest. Albert’s face flashed crimson anger. That stopped Bill.

“Or would you prefer I called the police?” Albert knew he had us over a barrel. Or wherever he intended us to bend over to receive our thrashing.

I remember my hands shook so much I couldn’t get my belt buckle to open. I had never been naked in front of a man before. I must have been fourteen the last time I had stripped off for PE lessons at school. I was as terrified of being seen naked – and lacking in the you-know-where department – in front of my pals.

Somehow, I managed to loosen my jeans and they fell to my knees and I left them there while I tugged my tee-shirt over my head. Tony and Bill were even slower undressing then me. At last we stood in our underwear and socks. Mortified.

But, not yet totally humiliated. “I said take off all your clothes.” Albert’s tongue darted through his lips, like a lizard. I could see he had a moustache of sweat.

Tears welled behind my eyes. I wanted to plead for mercy. Had I been on my own, I might have. Bill once more took the lead. He stood on his right foot and unsteadily pulled the sock off his left. Then he reversed the process. Now, he was in only his bright blue briefs. His tubby stomach hung over the waistband. He glared at Albert, a last gesture of defiance. He pinched the elasticated waist at his hips and with an exaggerated twist of his wrists he sent the pants down to his ankles. I couldn’t help but stare. I had never seen an uncut cock before.

Tony was not so flamboyant. He eased his boxer shorts over his hips and slowly – a snail would have been faster – he exposed his buttocks and his hairy dick and ball sack. I had known Tony for years, he had always been shy with women. I couldn’t see why; if they realised what he had to offer they would flock to him. He was long and thin. When erect, he could have competed with a stallion.

I took hold of my own waistband. I hesitated. Absurdly, I remembered I had not changed my pants for a couple of days. Would there be skid marks? I closed my eyes and stepped out of them.

We stood, our hands cupping our balls. I dared not look at Albert. What if he was checking me out? What if he fancied me? We had known for years that Kevin and Albert were gay. They were married for pity’s sake, but I had never thought of them as sexual beings. They were older than my mum and dad! What if he wanted to stick his dick up my bum?

“Stay there. I’ll be back in a second.” Albert left the room and true to his word, he returned almost immediately. He was holding a piece of wood. Do you call it a four by two? I’m not sure. I’m no carpenter. I didn’t even do woodwork at school. It was a piece of pale-brown wood about two feet in length and maybe two inches wide and a quarter-inch thick. He held it in his right hand and smacked it into the palm of his left. His eyes glazed and he winced.

He looked around the sitting room as if he were taking an inventory, his face impassive. Table. Dining chairs. Couch. Coffee table. He pondered each item of furniture in turn, weighing up its properties for the task in hand.

His eyes sparkled. A decision had been made.

“You, Simon,” he waved his wood at me. “Lay face down across the table.” He pointed at the coffee table. A shot of bile heaved from who-knew-where and stuck in the back of my throat. For an awful moment, I thought I would vomit on the carpet. My knees buckled. I steadied myself in time, just before I collapsed in a heap.

Albert waved the wood once more. I felt the gazes of my two pals burning into the back of my head as I waddled towards the table. This could not be happening. Any moment I would wake up. In bed, at my girlfriend’s home.

“C’mon, I haven’t got all day. I’ve got customers.” Albert took a pace backwards to give me space to approach the low coffee table. “Lay on it.”

I hesitated. I genuinely did not know what he meant. Was I to lay flat, my stomach and chest on the table and my legs waving behind me? Where did my arms go?

“Lay down. Put your bum on the edge. Bend your knees. Lean forward. Hold the far end. Keep your arse still.”

I manoeuvred into position. My cock dug into the hard table edge. I wriggled trying to find comfort. I stretched my arms ahead of me and looked down at the table top. I concentrated on the pattern of three rings that had been left by mugs. A draught wafted across my naked body. I shivered as much from fear as the cool air.

Albert wheezed. I heard him gulp in a lung-full of air. I tapped my head against the table top. My ears popped, I feared blood would pour through them any second now. I felt sick. Albert could see right into my crack. Up the hole probably. Was his dick throbbing against his zipper fly? Did he want to rip down his own trousers and pants and take me up the arse?

I never heard it coming. Albert gave no warning. There was no command, “Brace yourself.” There was just a dull thud as the wood whopped against the centre of my buttocks. Then four or five beats later an intense pain spread across my tight bum. It started in the very centre and travelled in waves across both cheeks and up and down my legs. Startled, a rush of air whistled through my teeth.

After the third whack, I was humping the table’s edge. I had no bodily control. Spasms of pain made my body rise and fall; rise and fall. My blistered bum was going up and down, it must have looked like I was screwing a girl.

Hot tears flowed down my cheeks, like a young river cascading through mountains. Snot dribbled from my nose. My head banged the table top.

I lost count of the times that piece of wood bounced across my backside. It could have been dozens. What I do know was that later, when we inspected the damage, none of us had a square inch of flesh on the buttocks or the back of the thighs that did not glow red. My bum was hot to touch. You could have fried an egg back there.

I clenched my teeth and waited for the onslaught to continue. Albert was into his stride. He pop-pop-popped the wood against my bum, finding virgin areas to inflame. He was some expert. I’m not about to share my shame with other customers, but I’d dearly love to know how many others Albert had spanked before me.

At last it was over. “Up!” It was a curt command. I lay gasping for breath. The cliché people use is gasping, “like a beached whale.” I don’t know about that, but I couldn’t breath and my head ached like made. The agony in my whole body was intense. I had never felt anything like it before. My arse was on fire. Had Albert just poured a kettle of boiling water over it?

“Come. Up.” Albert was anxious to move on to the next lad. I was calming a little. My ordeal was over. I supposed I had taken it as well as could be expected. I had not disgraced myself in front of my pals. I felt self-satisfied. Smug even.

I eased myself off the table and waited a second on my knees. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Bill moving toward me, ready to take my place. I flashed him what I thought was a comradely smile. “Go get it boy!” it was meant to say.

I’m not sure if his look back at me was terror or horror. He turned away. He could not bear to face me.

I hauled myself to my feet. Only then did I see my seven-inch cock standing proud, pointing at the ceiling. It kinked a little to the right. I had never seen it so stiff. It throbbed even as much as my arse. The top glistened with pre-cum. It pulsated, even without my hand to stimulate it. I covered it with my palms. Tony, ashen faced, looked away. I saw he too had his cock covered.

I heard the smack of wood against flabby flesh. I turned to see a red stripe a couple of inches wide spreading across Bill’s bum. My palms filled with sticky, hot cum.

threesome-after

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Changed Times 6. Birched live on TV

A glimpse into the near future. The series starts here.

 

The officer stared at the quivering naked buttocks before him. The world was changing. The punishment frame gleamed with its newness.

He tried to ignore the camera shooting over his shoulder.

He gripped the birch rod tightly and waited for his cue.

“Stand by everybody,” the television director whispered in his mouthpiece. “We’re live in twenty seconds.” Sweat glistened on his top lip. His heartbeat raced. He couldn’t understand why. He had done countless live broadcasts in his time. But, none quite like this.

The twenty-two-year-old prisoner heaved his body this way and that. It did no good. He was going nowhere. His wrists were secured by plastic ties. His legs were roped to the frame.

The director breathed deeply. He knew his show would get record ratings. The first-ever broadcast of a youth flogging. The pubic had been clamouring for it. They wanted to see the thugs suffer. They demanded all of it. The screams. The blood. The works. And, live on TV. Beamed by satellite into their homes.

Much had changed in the past few years. After Britain left the European Union, there was a massive collapse in the economy. Political turmoil followed. A political party, the New Democrats, formed to save the nation. Now, there was order. The young suffered most. First, they brought back the cane to schools. Then, they extended corporal punishment to universities. Then, all young people under thirty could be beaten by their employers. Juvenile criminal offenders were flogged. The older public loved it. It made them feel safe.

“And, five and ….” A green light shone. It was the officer’s cue to deliver the first lash.

It was a heavy birch. Sixteen branches. Tapped together at the end. It looked like a bundle of wires. It had been soaking for a day in a bucket of brine. That made the birch rod supple. And far more painful. Conscious of his own moment in the limelight, the officer made great play at swishing the birch through the air. Droplets of brine spread across the bare floorboards around him.

It was a small room. They didn’t need much space. The punishment frame, newly designed, recently built, was propped close to a wall. Apart from an old enamel bucket there was nothing else. Automatic cameras, like you see at football matches, manoeuvred on wires. The room was probably no more than ten feet by eight.

It didn’t need to be large; but the ceiling had to be high. The birch was three feet long. The officer needed to be able to swing it high above his head. Then, bring it crushing down into the naked haunches of the prisoner.

Dramatically, enjoying every moment, the officer rolled up the shirt sleeve on his right arm. Muscles rippled. Gym-honed. He took his duties to the welfare of the public seriously indeed.

He took a step back, measuring his distance. His was an accustomed eye. His expertise had developed over time. Satisfied of his position, he griped the birch, scowled his face and swung the birch around his head. It missed the ceiling by three inches.

Then, he brought it down with a sensational upper-cut in the victim’s naked flesh.

The prisoner, taken by surprise, caught his breath with a gasp and strained desperately at the unreleasing bonds. His shoulders and arms quaked convulsively, in a desperate bid to free his limbs. The frame shook, such was the youth’s determination to break away. He threw back his head and screeched.

Camera one moved in. A great red blotch mark spread across the prisoner’s flesh where the lash connected into beefy buttocks. Across the nation millions of people leaned towards their screens, intent of enjoying a closer look.

The punishment had only just started. A second merciless cut broke the skin. Blood seeped. The prisoner, his face and neck as scarlet as his hind quarters, repeated his howling.

The officer paused. Bent down towards the enamel bucket. A camera closed in. He reached for a damp sponge. Slowly, allowing the camera to reposition, the officer wiped it across the prisoner’s arse. The water turned crimson with blood.

Again, and again the officer swung the birch rod around his head, bringing it down with merciless vigour. Then he paused. He ran his fingers through the clotted birch rods, flicking blood from them onto the floor.

“And we’re out,” the TV director mopped his brow with a handkerchief. A five-minute break for commercials. The satellite channel could have sold the space a dozen times over.

The prisoner sobbed rhythmically, numbed and stupefied by his pain, unaware there were another dozen lashes still to come.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Changed times 5. At home

A glimpse into the near future. Episode 1 is here.

George turned over and pulled the duvet closer to his body. It was eleven in the morning – far too early for the eighteen-year-old to get out of bed. Gently, he reached with his right hand and caressed his bare buttocks. The pain had gone hours ago, but the surface of his bum still felt hard, like leather.

Earlier, when he went to the bathroom for a pee, he saw the dark purple bruises. He had never been spanked before so he had no idea how long they would last. Once years previously he had been kicked on the thigh playing football. That bruise had turned all he colours of the rainbow and took nearly two weeks to disappear completely.

He reached down to his cock and tugged. It stood to attention. It didn’t take much to make it do that. Suddenly, the bedroom door flew open.

“Watch out, Dad’s after you!” It was George’s older brother, Mark. He entered the room, stood and peered at his brother. “You’ll go blind if you keep doing that.” His dark brown eyes shone.

“What’s Dad want?” George asked nervously because he knew the answer already.

“What do you think?” Mark was enjoying himself enormously. “What time did you get in last night? One o’clock?”

George groaned. He did not want to be reminded of last night.

Mark crossed the room and stood by a straight-backed chair. He removed George’s grey short trousers and school blazer from its seat, dropped them on the bed, and sat down. “You’re for it. Breaking curfew. It’ll be six-of-the-best for you, young man.” He swiped an imaginary cane through the air.

“Yeah, right,” George’s sarcasm was forced.

“Too right,” Mark beamed. “Why do you think he bought that school cane?” He let the question hang in the air for a while, before answering it himself. “So, he could keep us in order.”

Mark was right. Lots of fathers had acquired whippy rattan canes or specially-made wooden paddles to use on their sons. It was common for youngsters well into their twenties to be beaten by their dads. It had started when corporal punishment was brought back into schools. It was deemed such a success it spread like wildfire. Now, no young man or woman was immune from its threat.

Only that week two of George’s school pals had been across the headmaster’s huge pine desk. Eighteen years old. Short trousers at their ankles. White Y-front underpants at their knees. Six almighty swipes cut their arses to ribbons. It had been because of “slacking.” Not paying attention in lessons. Missed homework deadlines. That was all it took. “A short sharp shock,” the headmaster had called it. It was the kind of “wake-up call” the teenagers could expect right the way through their university careers as well if they didn’t buck up their ideas.

“So was it a girl?” Mark leaned forward in his chair as if to encourage his brother’s confidence. George groaned an assent.

Mark grinned, “Was it Julie?” His brother pulled the duvet over his head. “It was Julie! It was! Did she put out?”

George buried his head under a pillow. He didn’t want to think about last night. And, he sure as hell didn’t want to tell his brother about it.

Downstairs in the living room Mr Nightingale flexed a thick rattan cane thoughtfully in his hands. He had never held such a thing until the day he bought it in the local market. A stall specialised in all kinds of spanking instruments. It did a roaring trade in school canes and paddles. Mr Nightingale picked up a large scatter cushion and balanced it over the back of an armchair. Then, he positioned himself an arm’s length to its side. The cushion was more or less where George’s backside would be in about ten minutes’ time. Mr Nightingale rubbed the cane across the cushion, raised his arm high and brought the whippy rod crashing down. A line indented across the centre of the polyester-filled cushion.

It would be alright, Mr Nightingale told himself, as long as his son stayed still and willingly offered up his bum. The boy had to cooperate. A colleague at work had recently caned his own son for the first time. He was twenty years old and beefy and Mr Nightingale’s pal hadn’t expected the lad to take his punishment. Then he hit on a brilliant idea. He simply said if the boy didn’t take a caning he should pack his bags and leave home. That did the trick. The boy would be homeless and destitute. The state had special Youth Workcamps for people like that. If the rumours that abounded were only half true no one would ever want to be locked up in one of those. So, up and down the land young men were submissively showing their backsides for their fathers’ punishments.

Satisfied that he was ready, Mr Nightingale put the cane on the table and padded up the stairs to George’s bedroom. “Pah! Still in bed at this hour!” he berated his son the moment he opened the door. “Up. Now. Get downstairs. Two minutes. Wear those.” He pointed to the school short trousers on the bed, then turned on his heels and left.

George blushed to his roots. Perspiration began to form on his face and his heart rate beat a little faster. Mark stood up, and made for the door. At the threshold, he stopped, turned and after placing both hands against his buttocks he cried, “Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!” Then, grinning wildly he closed the door behind him.

George pulled the duvet to one side and naked lifted himself off the bed. He paused to inspect his damaged buttocks in the dressing table mirror. Not one square centimetre of cheek or the back of his thighs was clear of bruising. He could see the outline of Julie’s dad’s heavy leather strap over and over again. Her old man hadn’t been best pleased when he and his girlfriend rolled up at home at gone midnight. George might have gotten away unscathed if Julie’s father hadn’t spotted her lipstick smeared on George’s face and a clear red ‘love bite’ on his neck. The whipping he gave George was nothing compared to what he gave Julie later.

George retrieved the bright red briefs he had thrown on the floor before crawling into bed. Then he stepped into the short trousers, pulled them up and snapped the buckle. A yellow tee-shirt lay nearby. It wasn’t too clean, but it would do. He didn’t bother with socks. Jesus, he thought, he had never been spanked in his life and now two beatings in twelve hours. His arse couldn’t take it.

He drew in several gulps of air, checked his look in the mirror, and went to meet his destiny. He found his father pacing the living room, swishing the cane through empty air. To George it looked awesome. The swishing noise it made set his teeth on edge. It looked a mighty effective rod. The leather strap had hurt enough, but surely, he thought, it would be nothing compared to this little beauty.

 

used-drawing-cane-hold-19

 

His father stopped swishing the moment he noticed his son watching. He held the cane against his leg and gently tapped it against his trousers. Mr Nightingale was an unprepossessing man. He was running to fat and his hair was receding. He looked like a hundred other people you might pass in the street and not notice. He wore blue jeans and a cheap Primark pullover. George stood silently. He couldn’t meet his dad’s eye. He held his hands behind his back and unintentionally rubbed his thumbs against his firm buttocks.

Mr Nightingale had prepared a speech. George heard little of it. He stared intently at the cane as his dad wobbled it in front of the eighteen-year-old’s face. It was something about rules and breaking them. Curfews came up somewhere. As did the phrase “deliberately disobedient”. The sermon was soon over. Mr Nightingale was keen to get down to business.

Outside in the passageway Mark peered through the partly opened door. He watched as his dad swished the cane, touched it against the back of the armchair and ordered curtly, “Bend over.” Mark was impressed with his brother’s fortitude as he leant forward and presented his bum for chastisement. Mark was not sure he could be so stoic. He had been spanked at university by Professor Riddell. Trousers down, over the knee. He had done badly in a spot test. The spanking on the seat of his underpants had hardly hurt, but he blazed with humiliation even now thinking about it. The professor didn’t care that it didn’t hurt. He took students across his knee because he knew he had the power to do so. There was nothing they could do about it.

George stretched himself across the chair. The back was a little too high for him so he had to stand on tip-toe. This made his short trousers ride up his buttocks into his crack, defining each cheek. His nose rested on a scatter cushion. He could smell the dust.

Mark shuffled uncomfortably as he watched his father take up position to his brother’s left. George’s bare legs twitched as he felt the strong but whippy rod tap against his backside. He closed his eyes in anticipation of the tremendous pain he expected. The agony of last night’s bare-arsed thrashing was vivid in his senses. He had no real experience of corporal punishment but instinctively he knew a whippy school cane would hurt so much more than a strap.

Mr Nightingale was ready. Like the son he was about to beat he knew little about corporal punishment. He too was guided by instinct. A caning had to hurt, otherwise what was the point of it? And for it to hurt properly it had to be laid on with some vigour.

George heard the swoosh of the cane as it flew through the air; then he felt its impact as it crushed into the taut seat of his grey short trousers. It seemed like an eternity before the agony registered. A line of burning hurt ran across the centre of both cheeks. Searing pain radiated from the line up and down his whole arse. He stamped his legs up and down in a fruitless manoeuvre to stop the agony spreading. The swipe knocked the breath out of him and he thrashed his head and shoulders around while trying to suck air into his lungs.

Mr Nightingale waited for his son to settle. He was in no hurry. Hidden behind him, Mark realised his own heartrate was speeding. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and licked his lips in anticipation of the second lash.

Swoosh! It landed just below the first. Now George had a scarlet strip about an inch and a half wide across his burning backside. He repeated the head swinging and the feet stomping and accompanied all that with a hiss through clenched teeth that was so long and loud it sounded like an old-fashioned steam engine settling down. He hugged a scatter cushion to his chest, then as he waited for stroke number three to tear his buttocks apart, he chewed on its corner.

Mark stood awkwardly, disconcerted that his cock was twitching. It wasn’t on the march, but it was getting ready to salute.

George choked on the cushion when the cane struck him just below the buttock. His father’s inexpert aim had sent the cane into the soft under cheek. If it had been any lower, it would have cut into the bare flesh of George’s thighs. Spit soaked the cushion and the teenager convulsed in a coughing fit. His bottom blazed with fire.

Quietly, Mr Nightingale walked to the front of the chair to inspect his son’s condition. The boy’s usually pallid face was scarlet, as was his neck. His eyes blazed intently. Tears were welling. Mr Nightingale was not a cruel man, but he was on a mission. He had promised himself to deliver a traditional “six-of-the-best” and he wasn’t about to change his mind now just because his son was distressed by the thrashing.

He resumed his position, tapped his cane higher on George’s rump and let go with another terrific cut. The firmer whack of the rattan on the fleshier part of the boy’s bum was distinctive, sounding much meatier than the previous stroke. George’s rear wiggled from left to right, but he managed to control his impulse to march up and down on the spot.

Mark’s cock ached almost as much as his brother’s battered backside. If he didn’t deal with it immediately, his underpants would be soaked in cum. But, he couldn’t tear himself away. He was mesmerized by the sight of his younger brother submissively offering his tight backside to his father’s swishy rattan cane.

Swipe! The scatter cushion became sodden as George’s tears flowed unremittingly. He had never known his body could be in such agony. And there was still more awful torment to come. Mr Nightingale viewed with great satisfaction his son’s contorting bottom. Ever increasing waves of agony engulfed George’s body. His father tapped the cane once more against the quivering buttocks and let fly for the last time. George whooped with pain and swallowed deeply.

“That’s it. It’s over,” Mr Nightingale spoke softly. “You can stand up now.”

George pushed himself up from the chair to a standing position. Tears cascaded down his cheeks. Snot dribbled from his nose. Clutching at his burning buttocks the teenager fled the room, hardly noticing that his brother Mark was bent double in the passageway, seemingly in some distress himself.

George took the stairs two at a time, burst through the door of his room and threw himself face down on the bed, before sobbing uncontrollably into a pillow.

Downstairs, his father took an off-white handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped sweat from his brow. His shirt was also damp with perspiration. He walked from the room and opened the door to the cupboard under the stairs where he replaced the cane on a nail he had hammered into the wall especially for this purpose. It would stay there until later when he intended to have a “little talk” with Mark about spying at keyholes.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Changed Times 4. Global Petroleum

Life in the not-too-distant future

Previously in Changed Times

A glimpse into the near future

Neighbourhood watch

The police station

used-drawing-cane-hold-38

“If there is any repeat of this, I shall not hesitate to cane you severely,” he said adding with great emphasis, “on the bare bottom.”

The three twenty-year-old men standing in front of the desk stood hands clasped behind their back and stared passively at the ground; their faces colouring slightly.

“You know that I am permitted to do this; I am sure you follow the news like everybody else.”

Mr Hodgson bristled a little. Still the three apprentices at Global Petroleum would not meet his eye. “Look at me when I speak to you,” he growled.

Slowly and with great trepidation they raised their heads. Mr Hodgson surveyed them slowly. They were dressed in the company’s apprentice uniform; pale grey trousers, gleaming white shirts and striped ties. All three had abandoned their black company blazers in their own office. Their hair was cut neatly short. Ears and necks clearly visible. All three were free of tattoos. They wouldn’t have been employed otherwise.

“We take our responsibilities very seriously here at GP. That includes our responsibilities to you. If you cannot follow the rules and behave appropriately I shall ensure that you are taught an exemplary lesson,” Mr Hodgson said.

Following the decision in the referendum for the UK to leave the EU, there had been an upsurge of nationalism. The New Democrat Party had swept to power in the general election that followed. They were misnamed being neither New, since they harked back to some supposed golden age when people knew their places the young were deferential to their elders and the Church was respected. They were not Democratic as a wave of authoritarianism had swept the country. The young were the first to feel the brunt.

Corporal punishment was reintroduced to schools after an absence of thirty-five years. It was widely welcomed by teachers and parents, if not the pupils themselves. It then made perfect sense to extend corporal punishment to colleges and universities. Within a year birching was introduced as judicial punishment in the law courts for a wide range of offences. Now, apprentices in the workplace were also to be subjected to beatings. Nobody under the age of thirty would be spared.

Mr Hodgson was a leading light in the local New Democrat Party and held the position of internal affairs minister in the local council cabinet. He was a strong supporter of the new corporal punishment policy, believing that young people had lost their way; witness the way they scarred their bodies with tattoos.

Mr Hodgson believed it was the duty of older and wiser people to guide the young. He was a man who believed in duty. Duty to the Party, duty to the country and duty to the young.

He took his new role as Global Petroleum’s local Discipline Officer very seriously. He had attended, in his own time, a weekend course in “Applying Discipline in the Modern Age.” He learnt all about the new punishment laws; about the duties of the employers and the responsibilities of the young apprentices.

He learnt the theory; but also the practice. The workshop participants spent an afternoon acquiring caning techniques. Who would have thought it was difficult? Mr Hodgson had supposed the young man would submissively offer him his buttocks and Mr Hodgson would whack them with a cane.

Actually, Mr Hodgson discovered the actual punishment was indeed simple. You slashed a slender rattan cane at high speed across the bared buttocks of the delinquent. There were many sizes and thicknesses of cane to choose from, but the Government was trying to standardise things. Wherever possible the cane should be no longer than forty-inches and no thicker than a pencil.

They showed a short film. It looked pretty authentic, but none of the participants dared asked. It showed two men in their twenties. They were in an office environment; very similar to the one at GP. When instructed they lowered their trousers and pants and bent across a standard office desk. The film then demonstrated a number of caning techniques.

Mr Hodgson wriggled in his hard plastic chair as the voice-over said, “The slash of rattan against flesh causes an intense but temporary agony, and it leaves a swollen mark of a purplish colour across the buttocks. A cut stings intensely for a minute or two, then reduces to a constant throb for several hours. The buttocks are sore for a day or two, and the mark of the cane might be visible for as long as a week, though there is minimal pain after the initial application.”

After the film, they were given realistic mannequins to practice on. Some of Mr Hodgson’s fellow workshop participants thought it wasn’t enough simply to thrash plastic dummies. They took themselves off to a private room and caned one another. They felt it their duty to learn how painful a caning might be, since they were willingly inflicting it upon their younger charges. Mr Hodgson did not take part. He felt that was a learning experience too far.

The workshop told them that caning was meant as a deterrent. The idea was to stop bad behaviour. That meant repeated instances of mild misdemeanour was to be stamped on. “Nip it in the bud,” the workshop facilitator had said.

Mr Hodgson took that to heart. A deterrent. He wasn’t a cruel man, but he wanted obedience from his staff. The three young men standing sheepishly before him had been warned. Next time it would be a thrashing.

Ian Lucas was waiting outside the office. He had been warned previously. It had not made much effect.

“Send in Lucas,” Mr Hodgson growled, as he dismissed three mightily-relieved young men.

Moments later Lucas was standing in their place. He was dressed similar to them in every way except he also wore the black company blazer, with the GP logo on the breast pocket.

Lucas was aged twenty-one and very slim, almost thin. He stood about five-feet-eight. He had medium length dark brown hair, just long enough to start looking untidy, with a few curls around the ends. His face was cute, for a boy anyway, with long eyelashes. He had piercing brown eyes and full lips.

Mr Hodgson thought Lucas looked so young, he could easy pass for a sixth-former at one of the local schools. Except the schools now demanded pupils from the youngest to the most senior boys wore short trousers. Mr Hodgson thought it had something to do with the pupils being taught to remember that they were children and must obey their elders and betters. Mr Hodgson pictured Lucas in his GP uniform with grey short trousers. He would look very smart, he reckoned. Maybe before long apprentices would also be forced back into short trousers. Mr Hodgson, for one, would not object to that. Perhaps he would bring the subject up at the local council.

Lucas stood, his hands clasped behind his back. He knew why he had been called to the office. There could be only one outcome.

Mr Hodgson pulled a manila folder from his desk drawer, opened it and studied it carefully. There was no need for him to do so, he already knew its contents by heart. Lucas was not a bad lad, but he had been breaking small rules. Lucas was like a footballer about to be shown a yellow card for an accumulation of minor offences.

Except there was no yellow card; instead there would be a decidedly red bottom.

Mr Hodgson read from the document in a monotone voice. “You arrived late two mornings this month; you have been heard questioning your superiors’ authority to set you tasks; you were caught smoking in the toilet.”

Mr Hodgson finished reading and looked straight at Lucas. The boy avoided his boss’s eye and stared down at his feet.

“And, look at you,” Mr Hodgson had found a further complaint, “You need to get your hair cut.”

Lucas blushed.

“You have been warned before about the consequences of your behaviour, have you not?”

Lucas shrugged. Everything Mr Hodgson said was true. He had been a damned fool.

“Look at me young man. Have you been warned?”

Lucas’s dark brown eyes, usually so dreamy, betrayed his fear. Reluctantly, he raised his head and staring now at the desk in front of Mr Hodgson, he whispered, “Yes, Sir.”

“Yes, Sir,” Mr Hodgson spat back. “Then really you leave me with no alternative.” The workshop had taught Mr Hodgson that such behaviour needed to be nipped in the bud.

He rose from his desk and walked across his office. Alongside one wall there were shelves and cupboards. One cupboard was relatively new. It was tall and thin. Mr Hodgson slid open the door. Lucas continued studying his boss’s desk. It was a huge walnut rectangle, conspicuously devoid of any paperwork. Its top was bare, except for a telephone. Lucas did not need much imagination to work out why this might be so.

Behind him Lucas heard a strange hollow rattling sound. Mr Hodgson was rummaging in the cupboard. Lucas could not see but he could hear that there were several thin swishy rattan canes. Mr Hodgson was taking his time. Mr Hodgson believed in obeying rules. All the canes in his collection conformed to Government guidelines. That said, he had discovered that length and thickness were not to only attributes to a good punishment cane. There was also density. Two canes of similar length and thickness could deliver quite different punishments, depending on their density.

He pulled out a rattan that its manufactures marketed to schools as a “senior” cane. It was meant to be used across the backsides of senior schoolboys. It was the weapon of choice in sixth-form colleges and could make any eighteen-year-old’s backside very sore indeed.

When administered with some vigour across Lucas’s bared backside it would leave him in no doubt of the consequences of poor attitudes to work.

Mr Hodgson flexed the rod between his hands. It made a perfect arc. He swished it through empty air, delighting at the swoosh!! it made as it travelled. Lucas’s heart skipped a beat. Sweat began to form at his neck.

“Turn around and face me, Lucas,” Mr Hodgson swiped the cane through the air. Lucas’s bright brown eyes welled. Already, he could feel tears prickling.

Mr Hodgson had been Discipline Officer for more than four months. Lucas would not be the first young employee he had thrashed. At first, he was surprised at how submissively a youngster would present himself. He had expected there to be objection and protest. He soon realized that, of course, they had no choice. They either took their beatings or were dismissed from the company. Jobs were scarce and new laws had decreed that young unemployed people would not receive welfare benefits. Instead, they would be assigned to a camp where they would work under harsh conditions for wages that would just cover their accommodation and food.

A young man at Global Petroleum knew when he was onto a good thing.

“Take off your blazer and put it on that chair,” Mr Hodgson swished his cane and pointed to a low-backed easy chair. Despite trembling fingers, Lucas undid his jacket and slipped it off his shoulders.

“Now stand in front of my desk.”

Lucas obeyed without a murmur.

“Now lower your trousers and underpants and bend across the desk.” Another swish of the cane. “Right over.”

Lucas found his damned fingers were still reluctant to work. How difficult should it be to unbuckle a belt? Eventually it was loose. He popped the fastener at the top of his trousers and the front fell open. His fingers made a better job at pulling the zipper and gravity helped his pale-grey trousers slip down his thighs. They snagged at his knees, so he parted them a little and his trousers continued their slow journey to his ankles.

Mr Hodgson admired Lucas’s mauve-and-yellow tanga briefs. They were a snug fit and hardly kept the young man’s cock and balls in place. Mr Hodgson was becoming a bit of an expert on young men’s underwear fashion. He was a Boxer shorts man himself, but it seemed nobody under the age of twenty-five wore such things. Tightly fitting briefs seemed to be the order of the day.

It was irrelevant to the matter in hand. “Take down those briefs. Quickly. Please don’t dawdle.”

Lucas pinched the sides of his tangas and with the merest flick of the wrist he sent them south to meet his trousers. Instinctively, he cupped his hands to shield his groin from his boss’s gaze and shuffled uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Mr Hodgson smiled inwardly. All the boys did that. Without exception.

“Bend across my desk please,” once again he swished the cane. This was Lucas’s first time, so Mr Hodgson gave specific instructions. “Lay your stomach on the desk, reach your hands in front of you and grab the far edge of the desk. It helps to lay one cheek on the surface of the desk. Keep your legs apart. Try not to bend your knees.”

They were clear instructions and Lucas was soon in the required position. The desk was huge and the young man struggled to get much of a grip on its far edge.

Mr Hodgson watched as Lucas wriggled into position. His bottom was perfectly placed to receive lashings from the cane. As bottoms went it was balder than most Mr Hodgson had seen and there was only a very light dusting of hair on his legs. His backside jutted noticeably from the thighs offering a sizeable area for the cane to do its work.

Mr Hodgson gripped the cane tightly in his right hand. It was almost ready to start. But not quite. He had a homily to deliver first. “You’re an adult, Lucas. Yet you’re over my desk to receive a caning with your trousers and briefs at your feet. Why? It’s because you still haven’t learned discipline. You haven’t accepted that the rules apply to you. Well, they do. This is what happens when you break them. I hope for your sake that you learn the lesson this time. I will warn you right now that I take canings very seriously. A caning does no good unless it’s a stiff one, and I make mine the stiffest.”

With that, Mr Hodgson lifted the cane and rather as a golfer might when teeing off he swung from the hips and brought it down with terrific force across the very centre of Lucas’s buttocks. The agonizing slice cut in wickedly, making Lucas squeal and rock and writhe violently. His legs marched up and down. He tried to grip the edge of the desk but it was too far away. Instead, he hammered his fists into the desktop.

Mr Hodgson looked on with deep satisfaction as a thick, dark red ridge immediately formed across Lucas’s backside.

The second slashed across the buttocks landing about a half inch below the first. Lucas was in living hell. Searing pain overwhelmed his senses. It was agony, pure agony. Thousands of nerve ends across his sensitive bum, throbbed. Another weal grew, swelled and pulsed across his burning bottom.

Lucas’s buttocks tossed and heaved. He was out of control. His hips writhed. His legs marched up and down like a sentry on guard duty.

“Steady boy. Keep still.” Mr Hodgson waited patiently for the apprentice to settle. Then, Swipe!! The cane felt to Lucas like it had sliced him in two. It was eating, burning into him. He writhed and moaned, yelped and wriggled his backside. He clasped his hands together as if in prayer. His shoulders rose from the desk top. It was torture. Eventually, after what felt like a long minute or two, the sharpest intensity of pain subsided.

Then the fourth cut lashed down carving into the underside of his cheeks, down where they meet the thighs. The pain in his behind rose and flooded through him, intense and scorching. He thought he would die of the pain. His entire backside was on fire, all four stripes sent agonising messages of alarm to his brain. Tears spilled from his eyes and splashed across the polished wood.

The fifth stroke extended the pain. It was agonising. Lucas could not stop weeping. His lungs drained of air, he coughed and wheezed, gasping, desperately trying to take in oxygen.

Mr Hodgson had learnt his caning techniques well. For the sixth and final stroke, he moved his position slightly, aimed the cane diagonally across both of Lucas’s cheeks and swung it at full force so it landed across each of the previous five cuts. The apprentice’s buttocks were now tattooed with the image of a five-bar gate.

He howled and he howled. The slash had reignited the agony of all five cuts and added more of its own. Tiny droplets of blood trickled from points where the final cut intersected the others. Lucas marched his feet up and down. His bum felt like someone had rubbed his mother’s smoothing iron across it.

Mr Hodgson stood and watched the boy who was face down across his desk, gasping for his life. He was like a beached dolphin. Mr Hodgson was hugely satisfied with his work.

“I hope you have learned your lesson. Remember I shall not hesitate to repeat the medicine if you continue to infringe the rules,” Mr Hodgson intoned pompously. “You should get up now.”

Lucas hauled himself to his feet. The pain was easing slightly. His eyes blazed almost as much as his bottom. He wiped his tear-stained face. Then, not daring to look at his tormentor, the apprentice slowly, very slowly, bent down to retrieve his trousers and pants. Then with trembling hands he put on his blazer.

Mr Hodgson replaced the cane in its resting place.

“You are dismissed, Lucas.”

The apprentice shuffled to the door, opened it and left the office. He felt the eyes of his fellow workers burn into him as he made his way to his desk.

Mr Hodgson sat at his desk and opened a folder. It was time to resume his work.

Changed Times 5. At home is here

Other stories you might like.

University student late for class

The sneak thief

Late at the office

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Changed Times 3. The police station

A glimpse into the near future

Episode 1

Episode 2

Chief Inspector Brown slid open the inspection grill to the cell and looked in. He wrinkled his nose with disgust. The combined stench of beer, sweat, and he was certain a drop of urine, hit him. The repulsive young man was stretched out on a wooden shelf, snoring gently.

“Sergeant!” his call echoed down the bare grey corridor.

“Sir!” Sgt. Turner buttoned his tunic before he unlocked the heavy steel door and ambled towards his boss.

“What’s this?” Chief Inspector Brown twisted his head sideways, indicating the cell door.

“No quite sure, Sir. Vagrant, we think. Doesn’t speak English. Or pretends not. Romanian, we think.”

Brown scowled. “How many is that this month?”

“Not sure, Sir. Five at least. That I know of.”

“For God’s sake man. What’s he doing in a cell?”

“Drunk, Sir. Not much else we could do with him.”

Brown’s already ruddy complexion darkened. “You could have got rid of him man. What were you thinking?”

“Sorry, Sir, it was Gould, one of the new Neighbourhood Constables. He brought him in. Didn’t understand the procedure, I guess.”

“Well, it’s about time he learnt. I want him in my office at the end of the shift.”

Sgt. Turner flushed. That stupid git Gould. The last thing the Sergeant needed was another run-in with the Chief Inspector.

“Oh and Sergeant, get rid of this gyppo will you. You know what to do.”

Downstairs in a deserted police canteen, Neighbourhood Constable Gould was stretched out across two metal dining chairs. His back ached. This wasn’t the most comfortable way to try to catch forty winks. It was two in the morning and he had another four hours to fill before the shift ended.

Night shifts were usually dull. Once the pubs and clubs chucked out and all the drunks were safely home there wasn’t much to do. The economy had taken a nosedive after the UK left the European Union, so even the pubs and clubs were quiet.

Gould hated it when it was like this. He hadn’t joined the force to lie around in draughty canteens. He wanted action. The adverts had said Neighbourhood Constables would “protect the community.” That’s what he wanted to do. Protect the English against the foreigners.

“Harry!” Police Constable Clarke burst through the swing doors of the canteen. “Harry! What are you doing down here?”

“I’m on refs. I’ve just got in. I’ve brought in some gyppo.”

“Oh, you’re the one,” Clarke cracked a smile. “Chief Inspector’s not best pleased with you, bringing a stinking Romany into his nice clean station.”

Gould felt his face burn.

“Sgt. Turner wants you upstairs,” Clarke grinned.

“Am I in trouble?”

“Don’t think so. He wants me to round up a few of the lads. He has a special job for us.” He rolled the word “special” on his tongue. “Come on, let’s go.”

They hurried through the deserted corridors and took the stairs two at a time. Within seconds they were at the Sergeant’s Office. Two other Neighbourhood Constables eyed them wearily as they approached.

“What’s going on, Charlie?” Gould asked Charlie Reid. The two twenty-year-old pals had joined the force at the same time and trained together; both keen to “protect” their kinfolk.

“Don’t know,” Reid shrugged irritably. His feet hurt and the boredom of the shift was numbing him.

“Come on lads!” Sgt. Turner’s voice echoed through the corridor. “With me, down to the cell. All of you; quickly.”

Gould’s heart raced. Something was up. Something exciting. The four police officers ran.

The prisoner was still asleep when they arrived at the cell.

“In there. Grab him. Take him to interview room one.” Sgt. Turner commanded. Four fit young officers responded as a team. Two took an arm each and two a leg.

The prisoner’s ear-splitting scream bounced off the ceiling. He kicked and struggled and swore.

“What’s he saying?” Reid laughed.

“Don’t know,” Turner jerked the prisoner’s elbow and was rewarded with a screech of pain. “Something about his human rights probably.”

The prisoner stood no chance with a police officer at each corner. Within seconds they were in interview room one. It was a bleak room, dominated by an old worn table with a laminated top. It had been seconded from the canteen years ago. Three uncomfortable plastic chairs were stacked in a corner. There was a shelf where recording devices had once been stored, ready to record police interviews with suspects. It was empty. The day had long gone when suspects had rights.

“Right lads, you know what to do,” Sgt. Turner stood at the door. “You get him ready. I’ll be back in a sec.”

“Yeah, right,” Turner mumbled. confused.

“You haven’t done this before?” Reid beamed. “Take his trousers and pants down and hold him down across the table.”

The four police officers did not see the shine of terror in the prisoner’s eyes. He was face down in seconds, his pleadings ignored.

“Eeeekkk, poooo! What a stink!” Reid gurned like a gargoyle. A stench of stale urine wafted from the prisoner’s body when his trousers and underpants were ripped down.

“Lift him up. On the table,” Reid dragged the prisoner by the arm and hauled him so that his whole body was forced onto the cold laminated top. Each arm and leg was gripped by a police officer.

“Good work, lads. Good work.” Sgt. Gould had returned. In his hand he held a heavy leather strap with a wooden handle at one end.

used strop hold (15)

“A prison strap,” he waved it in the air. “They used them in Canada. Apparently.” He swiped it some more. The prisoner could not see it. He was held tightly face-down on the table. Reid’s left hand pressed his head into the hard surface.

“Right lads,” Sgt. Turner stood close to the table. “Pull his trousers and pants down more. I want to be able to get his arse and the back of his thighs.”

Reid did the deed.

“Okay lads. Let’s do this.” Sgt. Turner raised the leather strap high above his head, brushing it against the ceiling. Then he sucked on his teeth and brought it crashing down with extreme force into the prisoner’s bared buttocks. They shuddered. He screamed. Tried vainly to twist and turn his body to escape. A scarlet band three inches wide was scorched across his backside.

Bang! Another swipe landed a little lower. Only two strokes had fallen so far, but the entire arse was glowing bright red. The young man pinned across the table bellowed. Nobody understood a word he said. Crack! This one was directed at the thighs. The prisoner’s body rose from the table; he screamed, he struggled. It took all four police officers to keep him in place.

The leather cracked again and again. The howls turned to choking sobs. Tears and snot poured down the young man’s face.

Sweat soaked the sergeant’s shirt, but it did not deter him in his mission. At last twelve severe strokes whipped into the prisoner.

“Release him.”

The prisoner lay across the table gulping for breath like a beached whale. Droplets of blood trickled down his buttocks. Not one square inch of cheek or thigh was unmarked. The apex of the bum looked like raw bashed meat.

Four police officers stood silently. Clarke did not try to disguise the leer that slashed his face in two. Reid’s heavy breathing sounded like a racehorse winding down. Turner stared at the prisoner’s pulsating buttocks, his own cock pressed hard against the front of his underpants.

It seemed like an age, but it was less than a minute before Sgt. Turner spoke. “Get him dressed. Clarke and Reid, get a car. Drive him down the A12 to the police boundary and kick him out. He’s somebody else’s problem now.”

The four officers busied themselves.

“Not you Gould,” the sergeant spoke bluffly. “You wait here.” Soon they had the room to themselves. Gould watched uneasily as his boss closed the door.

“The Chief Inspector is not pleased with you. And when he is not pleased with a junior that means he is not pleased with me,” the Sergeant’s beady eye bore into the Neighbourhood Constable.

“Take down your trousers and pants. Bend over that table.”

 

Look out for more stories of Changed Times later in 2016

 

Other stories you might like

The military camp

Footballer’s judicial caning

The sneak thief

 

 

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com