The four musicians finished their audition and stood around awkwardly waiting for the verdict. Across the room their manager and a concert promoter were in animated conversation.
It was 1961 and it seemed every kid was in a band. Most of them were talentless and their members would soon drift off into the real word to join the post office or work in a factory.
The Starbirds were different. They had worked together for a couple of years. They had ambition. They had a spark and they knew it. It wasn’t easy to put your finger on it. They were a tight band, and yes they could actually play their instruments. They had started to write their own songs, which was something unheard of at the time. But, it wasn’t that, there was something more to it.
Joe Goldberg, their manager, had spotted it. That spark; and it tore at his heartstrings. Goldberg had no experience in the world of pop music, but he was a businessman. He sensed what the Starbirds had and he wanted some of it for himself.
Joe was fat, ugly, thirty – and homosexual. Homosexuals were very common in pop business management at the time. It was no coincidence that nearly every male pop star was fresh faced, clear eyed and had very kissable lips.
Joe sat with Jack Rosenberg, one of the country’s top promotors. If Joe could get his boys on Jack’s upcoming national tour, The Starbirds would be made. They would even get the record deal that had eluded them so far.
“Very nice boys. Very nice,” Jack dribbled a martini cocktail down his chin.
Joe smiled. That was a good start.
“They have good stage presence,” Jack continued.
Joe smiled some more. “Stage presence,” the promotor had said. Joe understood the code. Jack was hooked; just as he himself had been.
“I like the way they dress,” Jack was having trouble controlling his martini glass. “Very neat and tidy. Nice fitting suits.”
Joe beamed brightly. The suits had been his idea. Much classier than leather jackets and tee-shirts. Didn’t people know that James Dean was long since dead?
Jack drained what was left in his glass. “Would they be amenable?” he asked, not even slightly shamefaced.
Joe tried to conceal a shudder, but didn’t quite manage it. “Amenable.” That was another code word. In his short time in the pop world, he had discovered it was a nasty business. Vile at times.
But, if the Starbirds were to reach their ambition to be “topermost of the popermost” and become stars they might have to put out. The casting couch was everywhere.
Joe plastered on his best poker-player’s face. “You mean sleep with you??’’
“No ….” Jack gurned his face. It was a grotesque sight, his thick lips and pointed chin twisted and turned.
“No ….” Accompanied by an elaborate shrug of the shoulders and spreading of the hands.
Joe feared he might have to recite an entire menu of possibilities. But Jack got to the point.
“Spanking?” Joe had not expected that. “How do you mean?”
“Oh nothing vicious,” Jack replied as if his request was the most natural in the world. “Just across my knee. Something like that.”
Joe’s jaw dropped. He was being asked to pimp his boys. There was an awkward silence. Jack filled it. “Harry. Is that his name? He’s the boy I want.”
Harry? Joe had expected the concert promotor to choose Adam. Adam was the prettiest of the bunch; the one the girls headed for first. Joe was mightily relived it wasn’t Lenny. Lenny was probably the least pretty of the boys, but he had attitude. He was probably that spark that made the band something special. He was also the one that Joe dreamt of. Night after night. Joe was in this business because of Lenny. At least (for now) Lenny would be unsullied by the pop world’s excesses.
“Harry, not Adam?” Joe tried to make it sound like an ordinary conversation, like they were discussing which lad made the better cup of tea.
“Yes,” Jack was drawling again, even though he had long ago disposed of the martini glass. “Very boyish hips. Lovely bum.”
Harry was also the youngest of the band members. He had just turned eighteen. He just about still maintained an air of innocence.
“So, if Harry pleases you,” shame gripped Joe even as the words formed in his mouth, that he was about to make the offer, “If Harry does as you ask, you will sign the band up for the concert tour?”
Jack did that gurning thing again; twisting and turning his mouth and jaw. The shoulders and hands went as well. He had thought he would give The Starbirds a place on the first concert, not the whole tour.
Joe read the hesitation well. “It’s the whole tour or nothing.”
More gurning from Jack. His cock was already on the march at the thought of that delicious boy in the tight suit trousers. Those hips. That bum. The cute innocent smile he wore. “My brother. It’s a deal.” Then the band manager and the concert promotor shook hands.
Ten minutes later Joe was with the band. Now, he had to sell the idea to them. He got right down to it. He had to. Jack Rosenberg was already waiting in his hotel suite, pacing up and down.
“Fooking fairy!” Lenny blurted, stabbing a dagger into Joe’s heart.
“You cannot be serious,” Adam shook his head in disbelief.
Harry’s face lit bright red, like a traffic light. His heart pounded. He couldn’t quite catch his breath. A spanking. Go over the old man’s knees for a smacked bottom. He couldn’t believe it either.
“No way. Tell him to fook off,” Lenny was in full stream and when he was in this mood nobody could get a word in.
The noise of Lenny’s ranting seemed far off to Harry. His own confused thoughts blocked out the words of his bandmate. A spanking. From an older man.
Harry had never told a living soul; he hardly wanted to acknowledge it himself. What would people think? What would they say? What would they do? They’d say he was a fairy.
Ever since he could remember Harry had dreamt of being spanked by older men. It wasn’t always over-the-knee. Only the previous day he had pleasured himself by imagining himself at the headmaster’s study, bent over an armchair while an old man wearing an academic gown and a mortar board slashed six-of-the-best cuts with a whippy curve-handled rattan cane into his stretched bottom.
But, never, ever, had he dared imagine that he could be – he would be – spanked for real. Even as his bandmates dismissed the idea out of hand, Harry’s cock stirred. Harry was not an educated lad, he had left school at fifteen, the earliest age possible. He was not good with words. Not like Lenny and Adam. He couldn’t explain the how or the why of it. He just knew. He wanted it. He wanted to be spanked by Jack Rosenberg.
“I’ll do it.” It came out louder and more determined than Harry had wanted. Four pairs of eyes bore into him. Even Lenny shut up. There was silence for five seconds then two bandmates spoke at once. In total agreement. No. Don’t do it.
“If it’s true we will get the whole tour, I’ll do it,’’ Harry could not look his friends in the eyes, too scared they would read his mind. Terrified they would find out he wanted to do this.
“It’s the only way we’ll get on the tour. We’d be made,” Harry said. “We’ve got to do it.”
“No,” Adam blurted. “No!”
“Shut up Adam, if he doesn’t mind doing it. Let him.” Lenny was the most ambitious of the group and the most hypocritical. Harry was right. The band would be made. Lenny didn’t mind what humiliation Harry would have to endure. Let him take one (or six, or whatever) for the team.
Lenny had spoken. That was the end of the discussion.
Twenty minutes Harry and his manager Joe were at Jack’s hotel suite. Jack and Joe exchanged glances. No words were spoken, but the message was clear. “I have delivered on my side of the bargain. You stick to yours.”
“Welcome my boy, welcome,” Jack drawled, taking Harry gently by the elbow and leading him into the lounge. Joe followed them in. Jack stopped, released the teenager, and swivelled on his fat legs. His look said it all.
“I’ll wait downstairs in the bar, shall I?” Joe didn’t wait for a reply.
Alone at last. Jack wasn’t one for foreplay. He liked to get down to action. Swift. Decisive. That’s how he had built one of Europe’s biggest entertainment companies.
“Stand there.” Jack pointed to a spot in the middle of the room. Harry’s heart raced; he could hear a pulse thumping in his ears. Unsteady on his feet, he shuffled into place.
“Tell me all the naughty things you have done. Tell me why I should spank you?”
Harry stood rooted. Startled. He hadn’t expected this. Naughty things? Like what? Jesus, he thought, he won’t spank me unless I’ve been naughty.
“Smoking. I’ve been smoking.” It was the first thing that came into his head.
Harry blushed. He was a boy from the provinces. Marijuana was unheard of in his neck of the woods.
“No,” he sounded too apologetic, “Cigarettes.”
The old man was not impressed. “What else. Tell me more.”
“Drinking. I got drunk last night.”
Better, Jack thought. But still not good enough. There was one confession he really wanted to hear. He wouldn’t believe the eighteen-year-old standing before him did not commit this sin.
Harry stood dumbfounded. Silent. Embarrassed. Inarticulate.
“Do you play with yourself, young man,” the old man would have to force it out of the boy.
Harry coughed, blushed a fiercer red, and whispered, “Yes, sir.”
At last. Jack Rosenberg was ready to go. “You know what happens to dirty little boys who play with themselves?” It was a rhetorical question, so Jack answered it himself, “They get taken across my knee and have their bottoms spanked.”
Jack looked at the delicious boy standing in front of him, humiliation written across his face.
“Take off your jacket. Put it on the table over there.”
Harry’s fingers fumbled with the two buttons on his designer-suit jacket. He wanted this to happen. So much. The compilation of all his dreams. His brain told him he wanted it, but he couldn’t get his body to agree. At last the buttons were undone. He slipped the jacket off his shoulders and dropped it on the table.
Jack Rosenberg sat in the middle of a large leather couch. His fat legs spread. Somewhere under folds of trouser material his cock stirred.
“Stand in front of me.”
Harry did so. Rosenberg had never seen anything quite like it. He had spanked countless young men in similar circumstances. It was a perk of the job. None quite matched Harry. He was five-eight tall and as thin as a rake. His pale grey trousers had been especially-tailored for him. They hung from his hips without the aid of a belt. His buttocks were flat; so many young men had bums that jutted out. The trousers barely touched the boy’s mounds, emphasising the curves. It was a terrifically spankable bum.
“Come. Bend across my knee.” Rosenberg intoned. But, rather than allowing Harry to take up his own position, Rosenberg gripped him by the arm and tugged him forward so that the eighteen-year-old fell with some force, face down across his lap. Harry pushed his arms forward to break his fall and rested his palms on the plush deep-pile carpet. His legs stretched behind him and bent slightly at the knee. In that way, his pointed toed shoes hovered an inch or so above the ground.
Harry’s bottom rested at an angle over Rosenberg’s right knee. The old man shuffled slightly; he didn’t want his stiff cock sticking into the boy’s body. Harry stared down at the beige carpet. This was a new experience in many ways. In his dreams he had always seen himself from a distance; bent over a chair or the knees of an old man. Then he witnessed the spanking as an interested observer. He had never imagined what it would look like from the spanker’s point of view; face down, witnessing nothing.
Nor, had he thought about how much a spanking would hurt.
He felt the palm of Rosenberg’s right hand gently caress his buttocks. He moved it in a circular motion, exploring the contours of Harry’s flat bum. Rosenberg enjoyed the smooth texture of the cool, thin material against his rough hand – the trousers were almost certainly mohair.
Rosenberg’s heart thumped against his chest. If he didn’t get a move on he might fall down dead with a stroke. He caressed the back of Harry’s thighs, then made another circuit of each cheek before raising his hand and smacking it down in the very centre of the boy’s right buttock. Then he struck the left. Soon he had a rhythm going that would make any of bongo player proud.
Of course, with his trousers and underpants on, Harry hardly felt a thing. He lay there submissively as the old man spanked on and on. The boy felt the hand connect time after time with his bony bum. What was he expected to do? Did Rosenberg want him to holler and scream as if he were being murdered? Was that part of the deal?
Abruptly, the spanking stopped. “Get up.” It was a curt command. Harry eased himself off the old man’s legs. Was that it? Was the spanking over? Suddenly, Harry felt cheated. This wasn’t how he imagined a spanking to be.
Rosenberg gripped the waistband of Harry’s trousers. In a move, perfected over many years, Rosenberg had the button undone and the zipper lowered. The trousers slid down Harry’s slender legs. Suddenly, he was back over the knee with his face in the thick carpet once more.
Rosenberg smoothed down the thin white cotton of Harry’s underpants so they fitted like a second skin. The cotton dug into the teenager’s crack, lifting and separating each cheek. It was a perfect target and Rosenberg lost no time smacking the palm of his hand across the tight arse.
This time it hurt. The old man found reserves of strength. Bang-bang-bang. His rough hand was as hard as any bedroom slipper might be. Harry gasped as the ache in his bum increased. Soon it increased to a warm glow. Up and down, up and down. Rosenberg’s hand spanked into the seat of the thin white cotton pants. Harry settled down, absorbing the new pain that each successive slap delivered. He loved the feeling of submission. He lay there head low bottom high, giving the older man full control of his smarting bottom.
Harry felt a movement in the old man’s body. He stopped spanking, turned slightly and took hold of the waist of the underpants. Without warning he tugged them down, over the curves of the boy’s bum until they bunched up at his thighs.
Rosenberg was rewarded with a wonderful sight. The whole of Harry’s bottom was a dark pink. From Rosenberg’s vantage point it looked very sore indeed. Maybe it was, but Rosenberg had not finished yet. He raised his hand and slapped it down a dozen times in rapid fire. He was delighted to see the imprint of his hand reproduced over and over across Harry’s naked bottom.
Harry opened and closed his mouth to absorb the pain. He let out silent “ouches” as once again the old man warmed up his backside.
Harder and harder came the blows. The throbbing in Harry’s bottom increased. He wriggled and turned; first to the left; then to the right. He kicked his legs. He tried to reach back with his right hand to intercept the blows. Nothing worked. He was pinned across the old man’s legs. There was no escaping. He would have to submit to this terrific bare-bottomed spanking. It would be over when Rosenberg said it was over.
Blood rushed though Harry’s body. His face was as scarlet as his bottom. His heart pounded. On and on Rosenberg spanked. The pain was intense. Harry wriggled against Rosenberg’s thighs. Then he felt the bulge under the old man’s trousers stick into his own body. Harry’s cock throbbed its own greeting. Still Rosenberg spanked on and on. As his hand rose and fell he thrust his rigid cock into the boy’s torso.
“Haaaaaaah!” It sounded like Rosenberg had been shot. It seemed like a tremendous cry of pain. The front of his trousers was soaked.
He let go of Harry who immediately jumped off the man’s lap. His own cock pointed at the sky. It was a massive, stiff erection; the kind only eighteen-year-old men can sport. Harry hopped from one foot to the other, his trousers and pants at his feet; his six-inch stiff cock swinging up and down.
Rosenberg’s eyes were as wide as saucers. Never before had he seen an uncut specimen. He shuffled off the couch; his knees sank into the plush carpet. He reached out; put his arms around Harry, gripped the teenager around the arse, and pulled him forward. Harry let him take the cock in his mouth. He gorged himself.
Rosenberg bobbed downwards until he had the teenager’s entire shaft in his mouth and throat, his lips squeezed tightly around the base of the cock. Harry groaned as the old man slowly moved up and down, his lips and tongue constantly working upon the whole length of the swollen organ.
Harry’s inexperience showed. Before ten seconds had passed, Harry’s cock throbbed and spurt after spurt of sticky cum pumped into Rosenberg’s hungry mouth.
Rosenberg lay on the carpet, gasping. Choking like a beached whale.
Three years later, The Starbirds’ plane landed in New York. Ten thousand screaming girls were there to greet them. The band already had a string of hit records in Britain. Now, they were about to conquer America. They became the biggest thing in pop music history. Now, more than fifty years after Harry and Rosenberg met at the hotel suite, the band are still touring the world filling arenas.
But, nobody ever talked about the night that it all began. Until now …
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second