The debut

z used shower after a spanking sport club ivory soap

Lars clutched his savaged buttocks. The warm water of the shower turned crimson as it washed over his throbbing arse. He knew the other guys were watching him to see how he would react. He hopped from one foot to the other, rubbing his bum. He gave them a show. They couldn’t see his smile. He was happy. He was now one of the team.

It had been a boyhood dream for the eighteen-year-old. A player for C­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­___________ Soccer Club. The biggest and best in the whole country. And, now it had become reality. His first senior match was over. A victory. Not that Lars had much to do with that. Truth be told, he had been overcome with nerves. His game was off. An undistinguished debut. Except for what followed.

The team sprinted off the field into the locker room. “Well, young Lars,” it was the Club Captain Sven speaking. A broad smile creased his face. Team members gathered around. Nobody wanted to miss out on the fun.

Lars stood, waiting. At eighteen, he was the youngest in the team. His captain was not much older – just enough to be an elder brother.

“Happy Debut Day.” The team had a special song. It was like Happy Birthday. Tradition. Lars grinned. He knew what was coming. They all went through it.

Indridi, the kit man, arrived just then. A raucous cheer echoed through the locker room. The tubby man gave an audacious bow. “Thank you gentlemen; thank you.”

“Get on with it Indridi!” someone in the back of the crowd shouted. The kit man smiled, enjoying his moment in the spotlight.

“Patience gentlemen. Patience. These things cannot be hurried,” he grinned. He set his bag on a bench and with a flourish, like a magician producing a rabbit, he ostentatiously unzipped it. He paused. He knew all eyes were on him. In his head, he counted to five. The drama was intense.

“Voila!” he reached into the bag. “And, Hey Presto!” To wild cheering, he drew out a birch rod. He held it in both palms lovingly. High. Sven stepped forward. Referentially, as if it were a religious offering, Indridi bent one knee, bowed his head, and allowed the Club Captain to take it.

Lars watched transfixed. The birch was maybe fourteen inches long. It was a tight bundle of twigs, held together at one end by gaffer tape. It looked pretty heavy from where he was standing. Sven clutched it in both hands and held it high above his head. Just as he had done last season with the national soccer championship trophy. His teammates cheered as loudly as they had done that day.

Satisfied that they were ready, Sven sat on a bench. Unbidden, the team formed a semi-circle around him. Everyone would have a front row view.

“Come young lad.” It was a pleasant command. Lars knew he was blushing. He desperately wanted to be part of the team. He would do anything to make that happen.

“Take off your shorts. This has to be on the bare.” Another, kindly instruction. Lars had been naked in front of team mates many times in the past. Stripping held no terror for him. He was rather proud of his muscular body – he was an athlete after all.

The rhythmic sound of clapping echoed around the locker room.  Lars hitched his thumbs into the waistband of his shorts. He stepped out of them. Then, his white briefs hit the floor. Thinking ahead of this day, Lars had imagined that he might take hold of the underwear and like one of the strippers in the “gentlemen’s club” across the street, he would provocatively twirl his pants around his head, before teasingly throwing them for a team mate to catch.

In the event, he stood motionless. Waiting for events to take their course.

“Bend over my knee.” The roof might have risen; the cheering was now so intense.

Lars stepped forward. He was a tall teenager, easily six feet and more. He paused for a moment, looking down at the bare knees of his Captain, wondering how this was done. Sven sat on a long bench; Lars supposed the best thing to do was to lower himself across the older man’s knees and lay his chest along the wooden slats. He could stretch his arms ahead of him. His legs would have to dangle in mid-air.

Before he could decide, Sven gripped him by his left wrist and propelled him forward and face-down across his lap. Lars could not see, but he was perfectly positioned, buttocks nicely angled, to receive the lashes of the birch rod.

His Club Captain gripped the birch rod in his right hand and gently rubbed the tips of the twigs across the lower half of the eighteen-year-old’s bottom, just where the under-curves met the thighs.

“One. Two. Three!” the teammates counted. Sven took his cue and brought the birch down with tremendous force. He was rewarded by wild cheering and clapping from the team and a low sorrowful hissing from the boy across his knees. Lars’ eyes widened. His mouth opened and closed like a goldfish. He wouldn’t allow a sound to pass his lips.

Swish! A second cut hit higher. Already, the whole of his smooth, white bum was criss-crossed with thin stripes. Lars heaved his bottom high, but Sven was an expert at this. He wrapped his left arm across the boy’s middle and pressed down hard. Lars was going nowhere.

The boy’s face was now as scarlet as his backside. He shut his eyes, silently vowing he could take this. He must take this. Not to do so meant shame and ignominy. Slices three and four tore into him. Never in his whole life had he felt such pain. He had been injured many times on the playing field, but nothing before had prepared him for this.

Six hard strokes ripped his arse to shreds and then it was over. Blood wept from dozens and dozens of small cuts. Lars’ buttocks resembled raw hamburger meat. The agony had numbed his bum. To frantic clapping and cheering, the boy hauled himself to his feet. Teammates crowded him, each extended a hand for him to shake. Many clapped him on the shoulders. One or two went in for a full hug.

His face glowed with pride. Teammates formed a guard of honour for him to walk through on his way to the shower.

“He took it well,” Sven beamed with pride. “I wonder if Stig will be so stoical when it’s his turn next week?”

 

Picture credit: Ivory Soap

 

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Skipping school to watch football

A punch in the face

Late at the office

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The coach and the schoolmaster

Coach Needham missed being able to spank the backsides of his rugby players: it had very nearly won them the league.

He hadn’t started it; there was already a tradition at Barnaby Rugby Football Club where the guys would whack the arses of newcomers with a heavy clothes brush. He supposed it was following some American frat house initiation, but it turned out it was something South African Springbok rugby players used to do: they might still be doing it for all he knew.

The coach wasn’t involved; it was one of those “secret” rituals that everyone knew about. Nobody complained, not even when some of the lads were over-eager and beat one new boy black and blue, leaving him in tears.

The lads at Barnaby were mostly in their late teens and early twenties; the club was professional, but in one of the minor leagues, a long way from the Springboks. The guys were well used to corporal punishment, the cane was widely used in schools and the Coach doubted if there was a backside in the team that hadn’t felt the sting of a schoolmaster’s rattan at least once or twice.

He didn’t know how it happened because it wasn’t planned, but the clothes brush soon became a regular motivator at training sessions or after matches. Say, a guy hadn’t been pulling his weight in a game, if his team mates complained later the lazy player would be made to bend over a vaulting horse and Coach Needham would set his buttocks on fire.

All the players seemed to accept it, it did wonders for team spirit, and the Coach firmly believed it did motivate the guys to do better in future; these were severe spankings, they weren’t blowing smoke here.

The team were having a great season and Needham was convinced his little motivation sessions had a lot to do with it; they might even win the league the way things were going. Then, it all collapsed. It wasn’t his fault, the Coach told anyone who would listen; it was that pillock Trump.

Trump was one of their wingers and he had a dreadful game, he fumbled the ball just about every time he got it and he was easily tackled when he tried to race down the pitch.

The whole team was moaning at the end of the match and some of the lads even reckoned he had been drinking before the game. If that were true, Coach Needham would have thrown him off the team, but there was no proof so he had to let it go.

What he couldn’t let go was his captain’s demand that they put Trump over the horse and warm up his backside. The Coach was up for it, but he didn’t know about Trump, he was a bit of a wimp and might not go through with it.

He was wrong, he hadn’t accounted for peer pressure: if Trump refused to take his punishment the other lads would have ostracised him and a player couldn’t survive at the club like that.

“Right, lads,” Coach Needham announced, “Let’s give Trump his spanking.” That was the cue for the whole team to gather round the horse to get a prime view of the boy’s bottom.

Everyone could see Trump was petrified; he did not want to be doing this. The lads weren’t bothered about that; three or four of the onlookers had themselves been over the horse this season, they had felt the agony of the brush but they had let their friends down and knew they had deserved what they got.

“Come on Trump, bend over.”

Very reluctantly the boy stepped up, leaned his stomach on the top of the horse and lowered himself across; he grabbed on to the handles and closed his eyes. He was as ready as he ever would be for his spanking.

There was no great ceremony; Coach Needham picked up the brush and approached the boy. All he could see was Trump’s backside, his head was blocked from view. His shorts were clinging tightly to his cheeks and everyone in the audience could see the outline of Trump’s jockstrap: there wasn’t much there to protect him.

The Coach pulled at the waistband to make the shorts even tighter, took a step back, raised his arm high and brought down six crackers into Trump’s arse, so quickly a sound like machinegun bullets echoed round the room.

Trump let out a squeal that started when the first whack ignited a fire on his left cheek and continued long after the last blow assaulted his right. It felt like his entire arse had been set alight; he couldn’t help himself from bawling his eyes.

His team mates, embarrassed by the spectacle, melted away to get changed, leaving Trump running up and down on the spot in a useless attempt to stop the agony.

Trump’s mother complained to the club two days later. Coach Needham was incredulous when the chairman called him in. “He’s twenty-two years old for Christ sake; don’t tell me he went running to his mummy and said, ‘Look what the nasty man’s done to my bot-bot.’”

But he had; and now she was going to sue the club; she was also talking about calling the police to charge Needham for assault.

The club wanted Needham to resign, go quickly and the club would smooth it over with Trump, maybe offer him some money as an out-of-court settlement.

Needham was furious; they were making him a scapegoat. Lots of people knew about the spanking games at the club, nobody had complained. They were all adults after all; he wasn’t like that coach who was in the news for spanking thirteen-year-olds in the back of his van.

He had no choice but to leave that day. He was out of work for a long time and had to move to the other side of the country before he could get his present job, coaching a bunch of lousy part-timers.

They were a badly motivated crew; some of them skipped training when they felt like it; others treated the team as a social club; just a place to meet their friends, they weren’t bothered about the rugby.

Coach Needham itched to put that clothes brush across one or two (no, more like eight or nine) backsides: he knew from experience at Barnaby’s it would work. It would literally lick them into shape.

One day after a particularly unproductive training session, he was alarmed to see a dapper middle-aged man waiting for him outside the changing room. The man looked so like a lawyer, he thought his past at Barnaby’s was about to catch up with him.

He tried to dodge the man, but there was nowhere to run.

“Excuse me, are you Coach Needham?” he even sounded like a lawyer. “My names Peterson; I’m Roy Peterson’s father.”

Roy was one of the team’s more promising players; one of those who took his training and the game seriously. Or more truthfully; he used to. Recently, he had become distracted and had even missed a training session last week with no excuse.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

They drove to a pub, wanting to avoid ones nearby where the players might be drinking.

Mr Peterson talked about his son. He believed he could have a future in rugby and play professionally and wanted advice on the best way to make this happen. The coach agreed this was a possibility, but he needed to buck his ideas up and knuckle down to training.

“He’s been missing training and he’s not putting the effort in.” He didn’t say that a damned good spanking would soon put him back on track, but it would.

Mr Peterson was angry, he had been subsidising his son for two years; allowing the boy to work part-time so he could concentrate on his rugby and he even lived with his parents rent free. And, this was how they were repaid. He would deal with his son later.

What Coach Needham didn’t know was that Mr Peterson was a schoolmaster at the local grammar school. He had seen the boys around town in their smart green blazers; the younger boys even wore grey short trousers. Needham had thought they went out of fashion years ago; but St Francis was a traditional school; traditional religion; traditional games; traditional teaching methods; and traditional discipline.

Peterson, as did Coach Needham, believed in the efficacy of corporal punishment: it really worked on the young and helped them to learn discipline. If a boy did not have self-discipline it could be imposed on him: with a whippy cane across the backside.

Peterson caned boys at St Francis and in the past he had also caned his son at home.

He believed in rules and obedience to them and he ran Roy’s life at home rather like a boarding school. There were set times to get up, to go to bed, to eat meals and there was a curfew for coming home at night. Roy knew the rules and he knew the punishment for breaking them.

The rules had been relaxed after Roy left school two years ago, but, after hearing about the boy’s absences from training, Peterson could see he would need to reimpose them.

Roy was not entirely surprised when his father announced he would cane him for missing training. He had been beaten often when he was much younger; St Francis was a “caning school” and the rattan was used very liberally, but he was about fifteen years old the last time he felt its sting on his bum.

Even at home his father caned his backside when he broke the rules; the last time was for defiance when he was eighteen. Roy had wanted to go to a concert with friends, but it would mean travelling out of town and missing his curfew deadline. His father refused to allow him home late, but Roy defied him and went anyway.

He knew the consequences would be a caning; he had received a few in the past, he knew how much it would hurt, you never get used to the pain of the cane, but he thought he could take it.

But, he wasn’t prepared for his father’s fury. It wasn’t the broken curfew that enraged him, it was the defiance of his clear instruction that he could not go to the concert. It had been a test of wills between the pair of them and there must only be one winner.

It was the first (and he hoped, the last) time Roy was caned on the bare buttocks; twelve lashes of the biggest and thickest cane his father could find at the school.

Now, he was facing his father once more. He had no excuses to offer for his behaviour; he was guilty of letting his mother and father down. He knew, but didn’t say out loud, he was struggling in the adult world. As a boy growing up there were rules and painful consequences for breaking them. He knew if he skipped school, or didn’t do his homework; he would be beaten; first at school, and then probably, again by his father at home.

In the adult world there were no consequences; if he skipped training nobody did anything about it and he wished they would. He wanted someone to take control of him; he was glad his father loved him enough to do so.

The caning was efficient, Mr Peterson was very experienced. First he placed a wooden chair in the middle of the dining room.

“Take down your trousers and underpants and bend over the chair, elbows flat on the seat in front.”

Roy blanched as he remembered how much agony he was left in after his last bare-bottomed caning. But, without a murmur, he did as instructed.

His father swished the cane through the air a couple of times and then tapped it on his son’s bottom to get his range, before slashing it hard onto the waiting target.

At about ten second intervals, he worked the cane down Roy’s quaking backside. The boy gasped as the first stroke flooded his brain with a sharp burning pain that had ignited his backside, then the second stroke lashed hard producing double the soreness, three, four and five went lower really stinging Roy’s bottom before number six lashed hard across the top of his thighs, making him scream in pain.

Mr Peterson had skilfully raised six angry weals across his buttocks. Roy would be unable to sit down in comfort for a day after.

The punishment over, Roy thanked his father. This was their customary ending to a caning; it was usually no more than a ritual, but, this time Roy really meant it; he hoped with his father’s encouragement he could improve as a rugby player and one day become a proper professional.

The next day at the club, Coach Needham noticed Roy wince as he sat on a hard wooden bench. He knew from the past what caused a boy to do this and was pleased; at least one of his rugby players would be playing to his full potential in future.

 

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The dope smoker

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Footballer’s judicial caning

“One hundred dollar fine; two hundred and fifty dollars to be paid in damages and four strokes of the cane on the bare buttocks. Take him away. Next case.”

The twenty-eight-year-old footballer bitterly resented being in this God-forsaken African country. Tony Jeffries was an important name in European soccer and starred in a top club, but he was still forced to tour the world to these backwaters, just because the club wanted to extend its brand across the globe.

Now, he was to get a different kind of brand across his own globes.

It had all happened so quickly. Last night he and some of the backroom boys at the club escaped their hotel to see a bit of night life. That was a big mistake, the town was a dump and there was nothing to do. They did find a rundown bar and had a few drinks, but nothing too much. Then some locals recognised who he was and muscled in. They would not leave him alone, words were exchanged, punches flew, tables got overturned, glasses were smashed, the police were called, and he ended up in the magistrates’ court.

The charges were violent conduct, criminal damage and causing a disturbance. And, for that, in this country you got your arse caned. Judicial corporal punishment was normal here, the law said men up to the age of forty could be lashed and courts routinely sentenced criminals to the cane.

Jeffries had to sit through two others cases before his own was heard. In the first a twenty-eight-year-old man got a fine and three lashes on the bare buttocks for stealing peanuts from a store. In the second, a man got five cuts for trying to snog a woman who did not welcome his advances.

Corporal punishment was a relic from colonial days when the ruling power used the cane liberally against the natives. They treated the locals as if they were children, no matter how old they really were, and believed that administering ‘spankings’ was the way to get them to do as they were told.

Today, people believed corporal punishment was a good method of controlling the population and a sentence of lashing was cheaper than sending people to prison.

So, that’s how Jeffries came to be waiting his turn for a visit to the flogging room at the court. He had spent the night in a police cell, but he couldn’t complain. He was given a chance to call his club who contacted a lawyer and his country’s embassy and got the same response: Jeffries was guilty (he admitted that) and he had to take a whipping. It was the law and that was all that could be said about it.

A doctor had examined Jeffries to ensure he was fit to be whipped. All he did was to put a stethoscope to his chest to test his heart and, of course, Jeffries was fit; he was a world-class athlete, after all.

At one time the beatings were held in the police station’s examination room, but they were later transferred to the present room when it was found that the police station ceiling was too low to permit a full swing of the cane.

In the flogging room there were five adults. Two policemen held Jeffries bent over a table, and his trousers were pulled down.

A third policeman flogged him on his naked buttocks.

So great was the pain caused by the chastisement that a handkerchief was stuffed into his mouth to prevent those present hearing his piteous cries. It might also stop him biting off his tongue.

The policeman threw himself into a striking attitude. This was to be no child’s play.

The chief officer called “One!” His colleague raised the cane and smashed it down on the bare buttocks of the prisoner.

The first stroke had been a sort of overhead and downward cut.

The policeman was in no hurry. The second hand of the chief officer’s watch crawled. The punishment must not be hurried. After five seconds that seem like an age, he called, “Two!”

This second one – whew! – swish! It came underhand and upwards, shattering the bruised flesh.

The doctor took note of Jeffries’s face. It was grey. But the doctor was not concerned. His function was not to stop the infliction of pain but to save the authorities the embarrassment of a man dying under punishment.

Jeffries’s entire consciousness was dominated by the thought of the next stroke – until his torture came to an end or the doctor called a halt.

“Three!” As the third stroke swished home, the footballer lost all sense of his surroundings. A symphony of pain engulfed his whole being. By now, he could no longer keep track of time.

“Four!” Whizz! — slosh! A straight forearm cut fair across the other three lines.

The men let his hands and feet go, he sprang erect with flushed face and suspiciously brilliant eyes. His arse burned as though he’d sat his bare bottom on a hot griddle.

A policeman ushered Jeffries from the room, to ready it for the next customer.

Jeffries could not sit down and was forced to lie on his stomach in the back of a people carrier for the journey back to his hotel. In the privacy of his room he gently eased down his trousers and underpants and examined the four distinct burning lines of pain that adorned his buttocks, it would be a full day before his backside became less painful to touch.

The following day he had to work hard not to fidget sitting in the plane as the team flew home and it took another two days before he could sit without being reminded of that God-forsaken country.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Footballer’s ‘hairbrush treatment’

The new Chief Coach knew what he would do if he could have his way. A so-called top class footballer smoking cigarettes. What was the boy thinking?

And, he still was a boy.

Chief Coach Herbertsen had only recently been appointed to lead one of the best-known football clubs in the world and he was expected to deliver great things: the championship title at least.

There were some problems at the club, and most of them had to do with the attitude of the players. The older men were trouble enough, but now he had to deal with one of the “rising stars.”

It was all over the news media and some commentators were saying it was a scandal. A professional footballer had been photographed smoking a cigarette. What a disgrace.

Chief Coach Herbertsen put down the newspaper in despair. The front page; the “story” had made the front page for chrissake. In a few moments time the young footballer in question was due to appear before him and he was expected to do something about it.

Let’s call him Bobby Dazzler, just in case any lawyers are reading this: we don’t need another scandal. You know who it is.

Dazzler had just turned eighteen and was a rising star at the club. He had just broken into the first team, but was spending most of his time on the bench. When he came off it, or when he started some of the minor matches, he’d shown himself to be a very enterprising goal scorer. But, he was just at the start of his career. He needed a lot of discipline if he were to make it in the word of football. Herbertsen had lost count of the number of talented but ill-disciplined teenagers who eventually came to nothing in their twenties.

Dazzler could go that way if he didn’t buck up his ideas.

He’d been out one night, in the street, just walking somewhere like an ordinary civilian, when he lit up a cigarette. A passing citizen on a cell phone captured him enjoying his Marlborough and this being the twenty-first century, immediately sold the image to a tabloid newspaper.

And, now it was a big deal, an athlete smoking tobacco. It had been a major item on twenty-four-hour television news all yesterday and they were still talking about it this morning. Social media had gone crazy and every sanctimonious so-and-so in cyberspace had a view. Dazzler was not coming out of this well.

Herbertsen would have laughed out loud if he hadn’t been so worried. What was he supposed to do about it? The club wanted Dazzler “disciplined” to appease all those critics and it was up to him to do it.

Herbertsen despaired. He often thought that football clubs treated their players like schoolchildren. It happened all the time; especially when they travelled to away matches or went away on tour. The players were told when to get up in the morning, what to eat, when to eat it, when to take a nap in the daytime and when to go to bed at night. Even when they were away from the club they were expected to observe a night-time curfew; to be home no later than eleven o’clock; even earlier if there was a match the next day.

It was even worse when the players were staying at a hotel; there were strict rules about behaviour; if they used their cell phones or tablets and the like they had them confiscated. It was worse than being at boarding school. No girls were allowed of course, not even wives. Coach Herbertsen or a member of his staff were expected to make what they called a “dormitory round” at night to make sure everyone was where they should be and there were no illegal visitors.

That was embarrassing for everyone concerned. Especially the one time Herbertsen stumbled across two of his players and very well-known ones at that (very well known: it would make your hair curl if you discovered their names) together pleasuring one another under the bed clothes. What could Herbertsen do? They were over the age of consent and it was legal. He just closed the door and none of them ever mentioned the matter again.

Yes, they were treated just like schoolboys. They even had their own “prefects.” The senior players ruled the roost. If you were a new member of the playing squad, especially if you had just been promoted from the junior ranks, you knew your place and you stuck to it. Only speak when spoken to; keep your opinions to yourself. The club captain was like God (or the Head Boy at least). You just did not get on his wrong side.

The cherry on the cake was the clothes the players were forced to wear. The red blazer with white braiding and grey trousers, white shirt, club tie: it really was indistinguishable from a school uniform. All it needed was the addition of grey short trousers and they would look like a bunch of little kids. As it was Dazzler was so young he was no older than a senior schoolboy; someone in the sixth-form, say. Coach Herbertsen saw real schoolboys every day in the street that looked older than some of his football squad.

Ha! Herbertsen thought we really do treat them like schoolkids. Smoking a cigarette. Well, back in the day, he knew how the school would have dealt with that. Off to the housemaster’s study; bend over; sore bum; don’t let me catch you smoking again. All over in a moment. No fuss.

Why couldn’t it be that simple, now? Herbertsen was the boss of the players, their headmaster if you want to continue the analogy, and one of his jobs was to impose discipline. There wasn’t much he could do when they broke the rules. If one of the lads missed training without an excuse or broke one of the more petty rules, he usually summoned him to his office.

There was no cane or paddle. He would give them a rollicking. The media called it “the hairdryer treatment.” Sometimes, he thought, it would do more good if he gave them the “hairbrush treatment.”

Herbertsen knew if the reports he received from the junior squad manager were true, Dazzler was in trouble for more than just smoking cigarettes. He liked a drink and his house situated just outside of town was the venue for lots of parties involving the club’s younger players, including many who were only apprentices. Dazzler should be setting them an example, not leading them astray.

Then there was the bullying: he had it on good authority that Dazzler was the leader of a gang who terrorised some of the younger players. Herbertsen could scarcely believe it but Dazzler and the others took one of the kids and put him in the clothes drier in the club’s laundry. The poor lad had some kind of fit.

Dazzler arrived for his meeting ten minutes late and was neither apologetic about his poor timekeeping nor contrite about his smoking. Herbertsen was not impressed. He tore into the boy, ranting about his bad behaviour and was rewarded with a shrug of the shoulders and a pout for his trouble.

He felt his anger rising and was about to punch the brat in the mouth when he regained control for just long enough to tell him to F-off out of his office and come back to see him after training.

Herbertsen had calmed down considerably by the time Dazzler reappeared later that day. He had consulted with the club’s chairman who confirmed that although Dazzler might yet prove to be a star, he wasn’t there yet, and if the Head Coach wanted to transfer him to another club, that was alright with him.

Good, thought Herbertsen, let’s deal with the brat once and for all. And, he hatched a plan on how to do exactly that.

Dazzler had also had time to think carefully about the newspaper reports. On the phone, his agent had warned him that he shouldn’t upset the club. It was a major world footballing power and if it let him go, the only way to go would be down. With his growing reputation as a smoker and a party-animal another top club was unlikely to move in with a contract. That would be the end of his career, the fame and the riches. And, Dazzler had already decided at the tender age of eighteen, he would do anything to achieve these.

It was imperative that he make his peace with the Head Coach.

Dazzler was on time for his second meeting of the day with Coach Herbertsen and ready to show him some remorse.

But, he didn’t get the chance. “I have discussed it with the chairman and your contract will be terminated forthwith.”

The shocking news took the wind out of Dazzler and he held on to a table to stop himself fainting to the ground.

“You have nobody to blame but yourself. You are constantly misbehaving and you show no remorse. It is best that you go.”

Remorse? Dazzler had prepared a little speech of apology, but now he had forgotten every word of it.

Tears welled in his eyes and all he could say was, “I’m sorry, boss, I’m sorry.”

Herbertsen looked at the teenager with satisfaction. That was more like it; he’s not so arrogant now.

Dazzler pleaded for one last chance. He would do better. He promised.

“You lack discipline. You behave like a spoilt child. There is nothing I can do with you,” the Head Coach said, but he knew there was something he could do and the solution was hidden in his desk drawer.

“Please,” Dazzler was begging now. “I’ll do anything, please give me a second chance.”

He had flown straight into the Head Coach’s web.

“Maybe there is something we can do. You act like a spoilt brat and you need to be taken down a peg or two.”

Dazzler looked on blankly, not comprehending his boss.

The Head Coach opened his drawer and pulled out a large oval shaped hairbrush, borrowed from one of the women office workers this afternoon for this particular purpose.

“You need a damn good spanking.”

Dazzler’s jaw almost dropped at the absurdity of the situation he now found himself in, but he had the good sense to stay silent.

“This can be your one last chance,” Herbertsen assured him as he waved the hairbrush in the footballer’s direction.

To say Dazzler couldn’t believe it was an understatement. Have you ever heard of anything so ridiculous? The coach spanking the football player: was it even legal?

Yet, in his present circumstances it was the only solution. He would submit to his boss and be able to pursue the fame and fortune of a career at one of the world’s top clubs. Otherwise his career was as good as over.

Herberston wasn’t prepared to discuss the matter.

“I want you to lower your trousers. You can keep your underpants on. Then bend across my desk. C’mon, do it now.”

Dazzler knew he had only seconds to make the biggest decision of his life. Bend over and show the Head Coach his arse, or walk out of the door, possibly to oblivion.

When he thought about it later he couldn’t remember much of what happened next. But he did know that he unbuckled his belt, let his trousers fall to his knees and then he lent face down across the boss’s huge desk.

Dazzler didn’t know how many times Herbertsen smacked the wooden hairbrush across the seat of his boxer briefs, but later, back at home, as he nursed his raw buttocks, he could see both cheeks and this thighs down almost to the backs of his knees were covered in mauve bruises and some were turning black.

The throbbing pain had died down, but the whole area was still tender to the touch and he had difficulty sitting comfortably. These bruises would last for days, probably weeks: how would he explain them away to the guys in the dressing room?

He couldn’t be certain but he thought he might have bawled his eyes out as he lay face down across the desk, the hairbrush raining down across his buttocks, while he gripped the edge of the desk for dear life.

By the time he reached home, his nerves were still shot to pieces. He needed something to calm himself down. In the room below he had a packet of cigarettes and there was booze in the fridge …

 

Other stories you might like.

 

Footballer’s judicial caning

The Tyrant Headmaster 3. The prefects’ reckoning

In the farmhouse

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com