It was all very simple. There was never anything complicated about it. Everything was organised well. All we had to do was turn up at the right place at the appointed time and let him do it.
I did it four times, then I suppose he got bored with me and he got someone else. He probably had more than one of us on the go at any one time, anyway.
I have no regrets. I’m not telling you this story because I feel outraged or injured. I’m not. I wasn’t. Well, ha! ha! I supposed I was ‘injured’ a little. If you get my meaning. I mean it’s supposed to hurt, isn’t it? Isn’t that the point of it all?
I wasn’t the only one. By the end there was quite a gang of us from Brocklehurst Sixth Form College. If you don’t know, a sixth-form college is where kids go if they leave school at sixteen. You can do A-level exams or vocational courses. It’s a lot less formal than school. There are no uniforms and you call teachers lecturers. You are students, not pupils. In some colleges lecturers let you call them by their first names. Students’ ages range from sixteen up to nineteen.
The people involved in my story were all eighteen at least. You had to be. So it was legal. A man called Mr Hennessey arranged it all. It was mostly by word of mouth. It was only boys. No girls required. I think ‘Mr Hennessey’ was his real name. Nobody thought to question him. Why bother? He seemed pretty legit.
At first he got one or two boys working for him and then they kind of recommended others. It was done very quietly. When I was dropped, I suggested a couple of other lads. I got what they called a ‘finder’s fee’ for that.
We were well paid for our trouble. Very well paid. One evening’s work was worth about a month’s pay flipping burgers or filling supermarket shelves. When I say ‘evening’ I mostly mean a couple of hours.
We all said we did it for the money. That’s all. We said it’s a ‘gay thing’ isn’t it? None of us were gay. Not that there’s anything wrong with being gay etc etc. But I’m not gay and that’s just a fact. So, we said, we didn’t do it for pleasure. It was just the money. And, I think, the excitement. It felt dangerous. Something you wouldn’t want your mum and dad to find out about.
Mr Hennessey arranged everything. He was most particular about your age. Eighteen and above only. I had trouble convincing him. I look a little younger than I am. To be honest I was getting away with paying the under-sixteen fare on the buses. He didn’t believe me. I didn’t have a passport or driving licence. He said the birth certificate I showed him could have been for anybody. In the end I signed up for a provisional driving licence and away I went.
He was happy then. He said I would be very welcome. “Cheeky grin. Fabulous arse,” he said. Those were the requirements. If you didn’t have the grin, you might get away with just the fabulous arse. But I had both.
Mr Hennessey wanted me for a particular client. Mr Bradshaw. I don’t know anything about him. I don’t suppose he’s name’s really Mr Bradshaw. He looked like he was made of money. He used a suite at the Excelsior Hotel. Do you know it? It’s that new luxury hotel that stands where the library and civic centre used to be.
I had to sign some legal document. It said I was doing this of my own free will. Which I was. I was up for it alright. I did have my doubts at first, of course I did. My pal Ryan had been a few times and he was the one who passed my name on. He told me what happened. What you had to do. How you earned your money.
I’d never done anything like this before. Who had? I had concerns: would it hurt (much)? Did I have to take my clothes off? Did Mr Bradshaw do anything else, like … well you know? Ryan told me it all. It helped me. “Tell you what,” he said, “Why don’t we have a run-through, a kind of rehearsal?”
It seemed a good idea. So we met up at his house after college finished and before his folks got home from work. Have you ever been spanked? No, me neither. People don’t these days do they. I must say I felt a bit of a twit when Ryan took me into his living room. He sat himself down on a dining chair, spread his legs, patted his thigh and said, “Right lad, bend over.”
I gaped a bit. I know I coloured up (in a manner of speaking). I felt my face burn. I just stopped myself from laughing. “Come on,” Ryan said, kindly, “This is the whole point. It’s what you have to do. It’s what you get paid for.” He smiled broadly and added, “A lot of money.” I still looked dubious. “Come on,” Ryan encouraged, “Bend over my knee, like a good naughty boy.”
I’d never done this before and wasn’t sure how it was done. I looked down at Ryan’s knees. He was a slim guy and they were very bony. He parted his legs a little to make a platform for me to lean across. I went on autopilot and proceeded on instinct. I leaned down and rested the palms of my hand on his right leg, bent my legs and eased myself down. “Stretch your arms out and rest your hands on the carpet,” Ryan said helpfully.
I did this and my back arched. My legs dangled behind me and the toes of my shoes just about brushed the floor. My bum was raised at an angle over his thigh. “Purr-fect, just purr-fect,” he laughed. “What a lovely little botty-wotty you have.” He started to caress, first my right buttock and then my left. He was feeling me up.
“Oi!” I exclaimed. It was an instinctive cry, I wasn’t thinking.
Ryan was calm, “It’s what he’ll do,” he told me. “Give you a good rub.” He patted the fleshiest part of my bottom. “You’ve still got your jeans on. Just wait until you’re bare-arsed over his knee.” He could see my discomfort. He laughed, “Don’t worry, you soon get used to it.”
He slapped his hand into the seat of my jeans. He hit me hard, but with the denim and my underpants I hardly felt a thing. He spanked me like this for a minute or so and then stopped. I lay face-down, unsure what I was supposed to do. Was that it? Was there nothing more? Really? It was money for jam.
Except, of course, it wasn’t. “Stand up. Take down your jeans. Back over.” He pushed me in my midriff to encourage me to stand. Once upright my embarrassment returned. Jeans down! I hesitated a little too long. Ryan grimaced, “It’s the deal. Jeans. Pants. Bare-arsed. If you’re not up to it, you need to tell Mr Hennessey. You can’t chicken out on a client.”
My pride was hurt. I knew Ryan had been through this and one or two of my other mates at college. If they could do it, well so would I. Odd though it may seem to you, it was an honour thing. Like being in a gang, but without the drugs and knives. I steadied my nerves and reached for my belt buckle.
Ryan put me through my paces. He spanked me with his hand as hard as he could. It hurt, but not much. I was a fit eighteen-year-old with buns of steel. He was never going to do me much damage. The wooden clothes brush he then used on me was something else. It was heavy and had a large oval-shaped dead. Just a couple of whacks with that had me squirming across his knees. Ryan had to grip me hard around the waist to stop me falling to the floor. I squirmed and I hollered. “Good boy,” Ryan encouraged me, “That’s the way to do it. Make a show.” He thought I was play-acting. Believe me I was not.
When he let off and I was hopping from foot to foot and rubbing away at the sting in my backside I didn’t appreciate how grateful I would later be to Ryan. He taught me the ropes. Not that ropes were involved, there was none of that monkey business, just honest to goodness spanking (oh, and the whippy rattan cane, of course).
Despite my training I was very nervous the first time I visited Mr Bradshaw. Mr Hennessey had set it up and he told me exactly what was expected. What the limits were. I went in with my eyes wide open. No complaints. No regrets.
I was given the number of Mr Bradshaw’s suite and told to go straight there without stopping off at reception. Easier said than done. An eighteen-year-old black kid sticks out like a sore thumb in a posh hotel. The security man pounced. If he had been wearing a side arm, he would have drawn it and plugged me. But this was Brocklehurst, not Chicago. He just verbally assaulted me. I mentioned Mr Bradshaw by name. The security guard’s nose twisted like he was getting the stink of shit from off my shoe. He waved me on. It hurt him to do it, but Mr Bradshaw was a rich guest and hotels in Brocklehurst could not afford to be too choosy.
I studied my reflection in the mirror in the lift. My skin shone. Maybe I’d overdone the body lotion. Smooth skin, I had been told. That’s what Mr Bradshaw most desired. And no tattoos. I was sweating like a pig even though it was a cool evening. The lift pinged and I had reached the correct floor. The door opened. I stood rooted. I could not move. My nerve had gone. The door closed. The lift stood motionless. My heart was trying to escape through my chest. My head spun. I closed my eyes tight. I had come this far. I couldn’t back down now. I couldn’t chicken out. Ryan and the guys would never let me hear the end of it. With a hand shaking like I had a palsy, I stabbed the door-open button and hauled myself out of the lift.
Mr Bradshaw’s suite was opposite. I took two deep breaths, strode purposefully towards the door and with more strength than I intended I hammered on it. Mr Bradshaw might have thought I was the police about to raid the joint. He took some time before he opened up. Maybe he was hiding the incriminating evidence from view. Eventually the door inched open.
Mr Bradshaw was a man in his fifties. He had lost much of his hair and his face betrayed the easy life he had led. I was later to discover that his hands were as soft as a baby’s. He looked at me, failing to hide his surprise. Had Mr Hennessey not told him I was black? He recovered himself quickly and flew open the door. As I entered, Mr Bradshaw stepped into the corridor, before following me into the room.
I’d never been inside a hotel suite before, so I had nothing to compare it to. It seemed opulent. There were at least two rooms and a bathroom. The main living area seemed as big as the council flat I lived in. Mr Bradshaw stood and watched as I lay down my backpack. His tongue darted out of closed lips, “Have you brought everything?” he almost drooled. I had been given a list of requirements. Mr Hennessey was a very thorough man.
Mr Bradshaw proved to be a man of few words. In all the times I visited he never engaged in small talk. It was right down to business. “You can change in there.” He nodded towards the bedroom. I picked up my bag and hurried away. There was a full-length mirror in the corner of the room. I caught myself staring back at me. I couldn’t stop myself laughing. What a lark! I shook my head as if to say, “Who would believe this if I ever told them?”
I opened the backpack. I tugged out a pair of pyjamas. They were brand new, I never wore jim-jams in real life? Did anybody over the age of eight? I lay them on the bed. Then I took out the school blazer. I shook it to get rid of creases and held it up to the light. This was the real deal. Green-and-gold, just like the ones they wore at St Francis Academy. I took a hanger from the wardrobe and hung it up. Then I retrieved the grey-short trousers from the bag and the knee-length socks. I was nearly ready. But something was missing. I cursed myself. I had left it behind. A very important item. Damn and Blast! Mr Bradshaw would be annoyed. In my anger I took hold of the backpack and tipped it up and shook. To my relief the green-and-gold striped school tie slithered onto the bed.
I kicked off my shoes, pulled the t-shirt over my head and slipped down my jeans. I admired my physique in the mirror. I was quite a sight – a dish, even if I say so myself. Even though I was wearing old-fashioned white Y-front underpants. I slipped my thumbs into the waistband and with a flick of the wrists sent them to my feet. I stepped out of them and hesitated. Should I keep the socks on? I actually laughed out loud at myself. I sat on the bed and tugged them off. I was now as naked as the day I was born.
I stood and admired my taut, hairless, smooth – and shining – body. My soft, uncut cock hung between my thighs. “Come and get it girls,” I grinned. Time was passing and Mr Bradshaw was probably raring to go next door. I picked up the pyjama bottoms, stepped into them, pulled them up and tied the drawstring. I climbed into the jacket and rippled the muscles in my stomach before I buttoned up. I took another look in the mirror. Yes, I told myself, I’m good to go.
Mr Hennessey had given me instructions. There wasn’t much of what he called a “scenario”. I wasn’t expected to do much, except let Mr Bradshaw get on with it. I was expected to knock on the door and wait until told to enter. I took a final look in that mirror. God, I was tasty. I rubbed sweat from my palms, took a deep breath, counted slowly from one to five and knocked. My head buzzed, the room began to spin.
It seemed like an eternity. At last he called, “Come in!” I pushed open the door. Mr Bradshaw was sat on a straight-backed armless chair. He was formally dressed but had no jacket. He could have been your boss at work. “Come in Alexander,” he called. I had no idea who “Alexander” was, it’s certainly not my name. That wasn’t me. It made what happened next seem more surreal. “You know why you’re here,” he said. I didn’t, but it wasn’t my place to tell him.
I hesitated in the doorway. My head was light. I didn’t feel as if I was in the room. I was somewhere else. A long way off. Looking down on this scene. Like I was in a helicopter, or some such. Is this what they mean by an out-of-body experience?
Mr Bradshaw snapped his fingers. “Stand there, Alexander.” He pointed to a spot by the chair. I don’t know how I managed it, but I got my body to stand where commanded. My heart thumped so loud I was sure Mr Bradshaw could hear it. He slowly examined me with his eyes, travelling from the soles of my bare feet to the top of my shaved head. Then he lowered his eyes and lingered over the waistband of my pyjamas.
“Take down your pyjama bottoms, Alexander.”
The room was spinning. What was going on with me? I got hold of the drawstring and pulled. Rather than loosen my waistband I tightened it. My PJ’s were not coming down. Mr Bradshaw frowned; then he tut-tutted. He was loosing patience. I tugged and tugged. Did anyone have a knife? That would do it. Cut the drawstring. All kinds of absurd ideas swirled through my mind. Suddenly with a lurch, the drawstring gave. The front of my pyjama bottoms gaped open. They slid over my buttocks and held. Mr Bradshaw did that thing with his tongue poking through his mouth again as he ogled my long, thin soft cock.
I wriggled my hips and the pyjamas slithered down my thighs and bunched at my shins. Mr Bradshaw still gazed at my cock. I caught a faint aroma of some expensive aftershave or deodorant. He cleared his throat raucously, then said, “Bend over my knee, Alexander.”
Who the hell was Alexander! It worried me. Had he got the wrong boy? Was he expecting someone else? Had Mr Hennessey got his arrangements wrong? My head was in a whirl. I hesitated.
“Now, lad!” Mr Bradshaw barked. I came to. In one swift athletic move (I had practiced this with Ryan) I was across his knees. My head was low, my bottom high. My face was close to the carpet. Mr Bradshaw cupped the palm of his hand and with it gently traced the curve of my rock-hard left buttock. He was so gentle, it sent a shiver through my body. He did the same with the other cheek, making sure he traced the entire curves, across the peaks, up to the tops and into the undercurves. He lingered around my crack.
More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Also writing school stories as Scholastic here
Charles Hamilton the Second