The spanking adventures of a junior newspaper reporter. The series starts here
Max stood in the corner surveying the large room. Glittering chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Carpets from Persia adorned the walls. Delicate ornate tables were laden with food, the like he had never himself tasted. The room was filling up quickly. He reckoned Friday afternoon tea at the hotel attracted most of the upper class Nancy Boys in London. They had not come for the Earl Grey and fancy cakes. They had other appetites.
He shuffled uneasily. The ‘best’ suit he was wearing was not nearly good enough for the present company. All those around him wore Savile Row’s finest. His blue serge had been run up by a Jewish tailor in Leeds.
The room was crowding. He craned his neck, searching for others like him. It seemed he had the party to himself. He was by far the youngest. He was twenty-two years old, but with his lean fit body and fresh open looks and if he dressed up in school uniform he would easily pass for eighteen. Possibly even younger if he wore short trousers and knee socks.
He surveyed his cheap shoes to avoid the eyes of others. It was not yet time for that. He must let the chaps do their work first. It was surprisingly well organised, yet discreet. They all understood one another. It came from attending the same kind of schools. There was a code. One needed to understand it.
Of the thirty or so men in the room, about a third carried furled umbrellas. It was not raining. It hadn’t rained for days and would not do so for a week to come. That was not the point of the umbrella. It was a sign. It said the holder was the punisher. Max supposed the umbrella represented the school cane. Perhaps it was something to do with the curved handle. The rest of the party were to be the punished. All that was needed was for a naughty boy to team up with the headmaster. Rooms on the seventh floor had already been prepared for the fun and games.
A waiter, about Max’s age, passed carrying a silver tray with tea and cakes. Their eyes met. What contempt he showed. Max supressed a smile. The waiter was no rival. No fairy would look at him twice.
There were many regulars. Across the room stuffing his face with sweet cake was someone Max recognised. He had called himself ‘Mr Smith’ (didn’t they all!), but Max had seen the man’s photograph in the Sunday Pictorial. He was a middle-ranking aristocrat. Max trawled the newspapers and the Tatler searching for faces. He had identified quite a number. Mr Smith indeed, he scoffed.
They were beginning to pair off. An older man with another five years his junior sauntered by Max. Soapy Shenfield and his one-time fag Oscar headed for the lift. They had met at St Tom’s school twenty-five years previously when Soapy had been a prefect and Oscar his servant. The swish and thwack of the rattan cane still sent their heartbeats racing.
A face stared intently at Max. It was fleshy with an unkempt walrus moustache. The eyes were hollow and the balding dome lined. The man scowled. He looked distracted as if he were trying to make up his mind about something. Max waited, his breath sucked in. He must not react. That would spoil it all.
The man approached. Stood by Max’s side. He didn’t want to be seen talking to the boy. “Room seven-twelve. Five minutes. Don’t be late.” It was the voice of a man used to giving orders. Used to being obeyed. It took him five seconds to deliver the message. Then he was gone. A broad smile split Max’s face. A result. He waited for Lord M __________ to waddle from the room. Once the door of the lift was pulled closed, Max slowly followed.
It wasn’t a room; it was a suite as befitting a member of the House of Lords. Lord M. was waiting behind the door to open it at the first knock. Max glanced uneasily around the room. It was dominated by a heavy oak table and three comfortable easy chairs. Two doors led from the room. Max would only see the inside of one of them.
Lord M. delved his hand into the pocket of his jacket. Max averted his eyes. Commerce. He knew that despite what happened next and whatever perversions followed this would always be the most embarrassing part of the transaction for the client.
Lord M. pulled out a beaten leather wallet and extracted a five pound note. Silently he placed it on the table. Five pounds! Max hoped he wasn’t gaping. Five pounds. Ten shillings, or a pound from a particularly generous customer, was the standard tariff. Five pounds. What did the fat old Lord want in return for that?
Lord M. opened a small leather case and pulled out a pair of blue-and-white striped pyjamas. “Go in there,” he nodded at one of the doors. “Wash. Make sure you clean your bum hole. Then put on these.” He handed the silk pyjamas to Max. The young man hesitated. Fearful. What did the Lord expect him to do for his fiver?
“Hurry. We don’t have all day.” Lord M. slurred, his mouth suddenly awash with saliva.
The pyjamas were a poor fit. They were meant for somebody much taller. Max would trip over the ends of the legs if he didn’t roll up the hem several times. The sleeves of the jacket came down to his fingertips. There was nothing much he could do about that. He pulled the drawstring tight around his waist, relieved the pyjama bottoms were held in place. He didn’t want them hurtling to his feet like clowns’ trousers.
Lord M. had taken off his jacket and tie by the time Max returned to the main room, but his waistcoat clung tightly to his body. Rolls of fat threatened to pop the buttons. The old man’s eyes watered at the sight of the young man before him, dwarfed in his pyjamas. He really did look a delicious fellow, the Lord told himself. He gulped down a mouthful of spit.
“Stand there. By the table.” The commands were short. Instructions to the point. Lord M. had not come to the hotel for conversation. Max shuffled into position and stood, hands clenched behind his back. His heart raced and his own mouth dried. He watched intently as Lord M. reached for a tall thin canvas bag. His hands trembled as he tried to undo the string tie at its top. A knot had fastened too tightly. Sweat poured from the old man’s brow, although the room was quite chilly.
He wheezed. At last the string was loose. Max was transfixed. A sack that size probably contained one or more whippy rattan canes. That was to be expected. He thought of himself bent across the table, or one of the easy chairs, probably with his pyjama bottoms bunched at his feet, while Lord M. took his arse off with a crook-handled school cane. His cock twitched.
A twisted smile cracked across Lord M’s. ugly face as with loving care he pulled a short rhino hide whip from the bag. It was no longer than a school cane, but thicker. One end was heavy and served as a handle and the whip tapered off along its entire length until it was no thinner than a shoe lace.
Max’s face flushed. He could feel himself heating up. He had never seen such a weapon before. Five pounds. Now he understood. That little beauty could do him serious damage. Lord M. flexed the whip between his hands, just like schoolmasters for generations had with their canes. Max’s eyes watered. Was this what he had signed up for? Now, surely, was the time to make his excuses and leave.
Swipe! The whip even sounded a little like a rattan cane as it flew through the air. Lord M. sucked the saliva from his mouth. His breathing had become irregular.
He tapped the whip against the heavy oak table top. “Loosen the drawstring on your pyjama bottoms and lay face down.” He cracked the whip in case there was any doubt of his intentions. Max hesitated. He had been caned countless times, sometimes quite severely indeed. He knew what blooded buttocks felt like. Would this rhino whip be much worse?
Max was no philosopher. He didn’t know much about the world. He didn’t understand his own feelings. But he knew one thing. He wanted this. He wanted to submit to Lord M. He wanted the pain. The humiliation. He wanted it all.
With surprisingly steady fingers he unpicked the drawstring on his pyjamas and careful to make sure they didn’t fall he climbed onto the table. It was a solid construction and took his weight without fuss. It was hard and uncomfortable. Max had bent across desks many times to present his buttocks for beating, but always he had his feet planted firmly on the ground. Then he would stretch his arms ahead of him and grip the far edge for dear life. It was a rather comfortable position, although, of course, what happened to him next was far from comfortable.
But, lying face down was tricky. His bottom was not raised and he was unsure where his arms should go. “Give me these,” Lord M. barked, gripping the young man’s left wrist. Within seconds it was fastened by rope to the table leg. Lord M. was an expert. Soon Max was securely tied, hands and feet. He was going nowhere.
Max closed his eyes tight waiting for the first lash. He opened them almost immediately as he felt Lord M. take hold of the waistband of his pyjamas. “These serve no useful purpose,” he sighed and gently he pulled them over Max’s buttocks. The skin was smooth and the mounds perfectly presented. Lord M. did not try to resist the temptation to rub the palm of his hand across both cheeks and into the crevice between them. He was delighted at their firmness. They were not rock solid, there was some ‘give’ in them, but they were meaty rather than fat. Lord M. would get his five-pounds’ worth.
Lord M. stood a pace or two alongside Max so that he was directly over the body. He raised the whip and gently found his aim. There was a certain skill to using a rhino whip, he had to be certain the tip did not whip around Max’s body and cut into the flesh. If the young man tossed and turned, the whip might slice his balls.
Lord M. aimed at an imaginary spot about six inches below the surface of Max’s buttocks. Slash. The whip hit the meat and stayed in contact for some seconds. Max shrieked. A blood-curdling yell. He wriggled and writhed to no avail. Lord M. had learnt to tie effective knots when he was in the Cub Scouts. His akela could never have imagined how that skill would be used in later life.
A very ugly weal throbbed across the centre of Max’s bum. Lord M. raised the whip once more and sliced another cut three inches below the first. Max’s screech was easily heard in the adjoining hotel room. Lord M. did not care. Percy Ponsonbury of the Foreign Office was next door, enjoying his own boy.
The third and the fourth cut fell rhythmically. The agony was searing. Max had been beaten with canes, often on the bared buttocks, often. He had an unusually high pain threshold, but his whole arse felt like it had sat in boiling water. Jets of pain flew up and down his legs. His head ached almost as much as his backside.
Lord M. paused. In his mind he was back in Rhodesia. Oh, how he had loved those days. If only he could find a black boy in London in need of a five pound note. Suddenly, he gasped for breath, he couldn’t suck air into his lungs. He bent double. It was no mean feat for one as fat as he. Sweat soaked his back. Desperately, he clutched at the buttons of his waistcoat. The room spun. His head buzzed. His arms tingled. Pain shot across his chest. He sank to his knees. Thud. Then, he fell face down into the deep pile of the carpet.
Max saw none of this. His cock was rigid. It hurt so much. He wriggled this way and that masturbating the tip of his dick against the solid oak table top. He heard a dull thud as Lord M’s. knees hit the floor.
Three hours later a chambermaid who had come to turn down the beds found them. The body of Lord M. was quietly removed from the room and transported from the hotel via the laundry room. Max was untied and the hotel manager allowed him to make his escape. His backside was badly cut, the bruises would last weeks and for now his buttocks were tender. Gingerly, he walked the mile and a half to his new office at The News of the World, composing in his head the story he would write about the former Lord Chancellor’s demise.
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second