The new office boy

z used twosome office short shorts Adam's Gay Reader (5)

Dirk was too excited to notice the stir he was making as he passed through the accounts department. It was the first day at his new job. His first job ever. After two years unemployed. Jobs were hard to come by these days.

One man leaned across the workstation to a co-worker, “Meet the new office boy; same as the old office boy.”

“Yes, Mr. Anderson likes them pert,” his companion guffawed.

Dirk found his boss’s office, knocked on the door and entered when instructed. Mr. Anderson was in his forties, lean with fair hair. He had a warm smile of greeting. “Sit down, Dirk,” he pointed to the chair in front of his desk. Dirk sat, a little embarrassed. The bright yellow shorts he wore were just a little too snug, if he wasn’t careful his balls would hang out. He thought it odd when he was given his new uniform; people hadn’t worn these kind of shorts in decades.

Mr. Anderson hovered above Dirk, pacing the office, taking in the view of the teenager’s slim legs. He liked the boy’s shock of jet black hair and the cute look of innocence his open face portrayed.

“You’ll be a ‘gofer’,” he explained to Dirk and when he boy looked baffled, Mr. Anderson laughed brightly. “It’s our little joke. ‘Gofer’ – you know gofer this, gofer that! You’ll be a general assistant in the office.”

Mr. Anderson took a new office boy every few months. He soon tired of them. The young guys were probably relieved to get away. They always went outwards and upwards. There were plenty of opportunities at Global Petroleum. The world was literally theirs.

Mr. Anderson sent Dirk away to his workstation, watching the pert buttocks encased in tight yellow cotton sashay as he walked.

Global was a huge company and Dirk soon met lots of guys his own age. He didn’t understand why so many of them smirked when he said Mr. Anderson was his boss. “Don’t worry,” a petite blond boy whispered in his ear while they drank coffee, “I was moved on after three months.” Dirk returned to his duties, very puzzled indeed.

All became clear the following day. Dirk had been sent across town to deliver a package. It was a fine day and he thought he might make a detour into the mall. He would only be an hour, who would find out?

“Dirk, come into my office,” Mr. Anderson called across the accounts department.

“Here we go,” one worker smiled, “Rosy red cheeks.” He turned to his co-worker. “Look, what did I tell you,” he roared with laughter. Mr. Anderson was pulling down the blinds in his office.

Dirk stood casually in front of Mr. Anderson’s desk. “Stand up straight, don’t be a lout .” Mr. Anderson’s usual sunny disposition had evaporated. Startled, Dirk straightened his back and put his arms by his side.

“One hour late. Delivering the package. I have received a complaint.”

Dirk blanched. No one had told him it was urgent.

“What did you do, sneak off to the mall?” Dirk’s blushes confirmed it was so.

“There’s a lesson you need to learn young man,” Mr. Anderson frowned. “And I have just the thing here to give it.”

Dirk’s mouth gaped. Mr. Anderson had bent down, opened a drawer to his desk and taken out a large wooden paddle. The teenager’s eyes stood on stalks. It was awesome, easily two-feet long and five inches wide. The blade had large holes cut into it.

“What’s the matter boy?” Mr. Anderson sneered. “Surely you’ve seen one of these before,” he smacked it into his left palm. “Felt it a few times as well at school, I shouldn’t doubt.”

Dirk wasn’t sure he was supposed to answer. No, he hadn’t seen a paddle close up before. And as for feeling the sting of one at school? What decade was Mr. Anderson living in?

“Come,” Mr. Anderson had walked to the front of his desk. His stare burnt a hole in Dirk’s head. The boy shuddered. His boss was serious. He really wanted to spank him with that wood. “But …” he began to speak but was cut short.

“But, nothing. You truanted from work. You screwed up with an important client. Now you’re going to pay with your butt.” All the time Mr. Anderson spoke he waved the paddle menacingly. Dirk’s eyes followed it as it swung.

“I want you to bend across my desk,” Mr. Anderson spoke calmly. He was the boss, he expected to be obeyed. All colour drained from Dirk’s usually open face, his eyes blazed with fear. He could feel his legs buckling.

Mr. Anderson had seen office boys hesitate before. He had the perfect rejoinder. “Or, we can go to human resources and have you terminated.” He tapped the paddle once more into his palm. He waited for Dirk to submit. There was a reason why Mr. Anderson always chose boys who had been unemployed for years. They knew if they were dismissed by him they would probably never work again.

Dirk breathed heavily. He had no choice. He knew he had to go through with this. He would prostrate himself across the desk. He had decided to give in, but he couldn’t seem to convince his body to agree.

“Come on,” Mr. Anderson gripped him by the elbow and propelled him forward. Now, he stood against the very edge of the desk, unsteady on his feet. He felt a shove in the small of his back and he fell forward. The desk was small and so was Dirk, and he managed to stretch his arms ahead of him to reach the far side. His legs were spread and his bottom was raised at a perfect angle to receive Mr. Anderson’s paddle.

His boss was taking his time. Dirk closed his eyes. This could not be happening to him. It was crazy. Who would believe an eighteen-year-old teenager was submissively bending across his boss’s desk to have his backside spanked with a paddle?

Mr. Anderson’s tongue darted in and out of his mouth, like a lizard. Dirk was short and wiry. His white cotton shirt had ridden up exposing some inches of hairless back. The yellow shorts clung to his buttocks and the top of his green-coloured briefs poked over the top. Mr. Anderson would have dearly loved to rip the shorts down and paddle Dirk’s bared buttocks so hard and so often until they shone in the dark. That would have to wait for another time. He knew the importance of grooming – of breaking a boy in.

Dirk barely suppressed a squeal as he felt his boss take hold of the waistband of his shorts. “He’s going to pull them down. He wants me bare-arsed,” his panicked thoughts told him. But, Mr. Anderson only wanted to pull the shorts tighter until he could see the outline of the teenager’s underwear. Now, it looked like they had been sprayed on his bottom.

Mr. Anderson took up position a little to Dirk’s left. It was a smallish office, but there was enough room to get a full swing of the paddle. He “sawed” the wood across the centre of Dirk’s rear end. The paddle was so huge and Dirk’s buttocks so pert, that the paddle almost covered both.

Mr. Anderson smiled to himself. Dirk’s cheeks were twitching. Most boys did that, especially the first time they were paddled. Crack! he brought the paddle down with some force. Dust rose from the seat of the shorts. Dirk wriggled his hips from left to right. For a moment his stomach rose from the desk. He hissed air through his lips. That hurt. A lot. But, he had survived.

The second swat landed higher, on the top of his mounds. Dirk heard the paddle’s dull thud as it connected with his stretched flesh a second before he felt the pain. It burned like the fires of Hell. He repeated the wriggling and added some foot stomping.

Mr. Anderson liked the way the paddle had left an imprint in the tight shorts, he knew from experience there would be a similar dark-pink mark embossed in Dirk’s flesh. Encouraged by his success so far, he whacked the wood lower, in the sensitive sit spot. That got Dirk yelling. The teenager’s shorts were so skimpy half the paddle had landed on the bare flesh of his thighs. It felt like someone had poured scalding water over him.

He wasn’t technically crying, but Dirk’s eyes flooded. His heartbeat raced and he gulped in great draughts of air. He didn’t believe someone could inflict so much pain on another person. But Mr. Anderson could; and it wasn’t finished yet.

The fourth swat landed across two welts created by previous strokes. It reignited the pain. The whole of Dirk’s arse throbbed. He felt the pulsating ache start at the buttocks before travelling up and down his legs.

Bang! The fifth stroke landed fully across the crest of both buttocks. The terrific burning agony took his breath away. Tears flowed down his cheeks, snot dribbled from his nose. He swallowed down vomit that rose to his throat. He bounced his forehead up and down headbutting the desktop.

Then, he heard the clank as the paddle hit the desk. “That’s enough for now. Stand up.” He didn’t need telling twice. He jumped to his feet and hopped from foot to foot in the traditional spanking dance. He kneaded his cheeks, desperately trying to rub away the pain. It didn’t work.

Mr. Anderson waited for the teenager to calm. He knew the pain would be intense, but within moments it would ease to a throb and then a dull ache. Before long it would be gone completely, although the red mark on Dirk’s bare thigh would give him twinges when he sat down on a hard chair.

“Will I need to do that again?” Mr. Anderson intoned. Dirk shook his head, “No,” he said miserably and then quickly added, “Sir,” because he felt it was expected.

“Well, we’ll see about that. Wipe your face.” He offered a fistful of tissues.

Dirk limped from the office too engrossed with the pain and humiliation to see the curious stares from the accounts department. Jesus, he thought still rubbing the seat of his shorts, three more months of this. My arse won’t stand it.

Picture credit:Adam’s Gay Readers

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The boss’s son

z used art office otk ruler chair (8)

People round here think because I’m the boss’s son I’ve got it made. In a year or so I’ll be on the Board and raking in the profits from all their hard work. I wish it were true. If they only knew the half of it.

Dad is a self-made man. He worked from the age of fourteen on a barrow in the street market and hauled himself up by his bootstraps. Or, so he’s always telling me. But the past is a foreign country; you couldn’t do something like that today. The self-made men (and women) of today are all sitting at computer screens.

Dad does want me to be part of the business, but I have to work my way up from the bottom. And, funnily enough that’s literally what’s happening to me.

I confess, I am not the hardest worker in the world. It’s nothing to do with having a wealthy dad, I would be lazy if my old man worked at Tesco’s. Dad knows this and when he set me to work at one of the regional offices of his global empire, he gave the guy who was to be my local boss strict instructions.

I had to stand there in the office and listen when dad told Mr. Furlong, “If he’s any trouble. Any trouble at all. I want you to take him across your knee and spank his backside for him. Hard.” Mr. Furlong’s face lit up and he cracked a broad smile. “I’m not joking, man,” my dad barked. “I mean it. I’ll be checking. If he doesn’t buck his ideas up and make some improvements with himself, I’ll know who to blame.” His eyes darkened. He was a hard taskmaster. Mr. Furlong knew exactly what dad meant – his job was on the line.

I was set to work doing routine tasks in the purchasing department, chasing orders and such like. Tedious. I couldn’t concentrate and spent a lot of my time skiving out of the office. I’ve always been like this. Whenever I could I avoided work; even at school. I had to get a lot of help with my A-level coursework or else I’d never have passed the exams.

I worked at a large industrial plant set over several acres, and it was very easy to find places to skive away from work. One trick I devised was to lie to my supervisor that I had been asked to run a message for one of the bosses and then disappear for an hour or so. There were many places to hide. A favourite I and lazy juniors hung out at was a disused basement room. Nobody ever went near the place, so we were undisturbed smoking cigarettes and reading sports magazines.

It was a different kind of magazine that got me into trouble. I was at another of my hiding places; a piece of open ground behind the main administration centre. Well let’s just say I have no self-control and overcome by the pictures of naked bodies in the magazine, I soon had the front of my trousers open and worked away at my todger until I came.

Only later in the day, did I learn the horrible truth. Every gasp and grunt had been filmed on a closed-circuit television camera. It was George, the security guard, who told me. “So, laddie, do you want this uploaded to YouTube for everyone to see?”

I crumpled to the floor, gasping for breath. George, fearing I was having a fit rushed to the phone and called the medical emergency number. Minutes later I was in the sick bay; calm now. It was only a panic attack the nurse assured me. I would be all right now, she said. But she was wrong.

As I sat sipping hot sweet tea, Mr. Furlong strode down the corridor in a fury, clutching a thick heavy ruler in his fist. He barged into the medical room. I mistook the look of anger on his face for one of concern. “It’s all right Mr. Furlong. I’m fine. It was nothing,” I chirruped.

Mr. Furlong’s face glowered dark red. “It is not all right and it is not fine!” he blasted. George had told him everything. In detail and with great relish.

“What a tosser! Hah! Hah! Hah!” he had guffawed. “Trousers round his knees! Wanking away! Too stupid even to see the camera. Hah! Hah! Hah!”

“You come with me!” I was startled by Mr. Furlong’s ferocity. “Now!”

Alarmed and uncertain about what was happening, I remained seated.

“I said…” Mr. Furlong did not finish his sentence. He grabbed me by the arm and dragged me from the room. Then prodding me all the time in the back, he frog-marched me down the corridor.

Within seconds he pushed me through the door of an empty office. We stood facing one another, each breathing heavily.

“You … you …” Mr. Furlong could not quite find the words. Eventually, he regained his power of speech. I was a moron, he told me, masturbating at work, in front of the camera. Did I not realise how he had made a fool of myself? More than that: everyone knew he was the boss’s son; and I had made Mr. Furlong look a complete idiot.

As his temper grew and the pitch of his voice rose, he brandished the heavy ruler in my face.

“You know what your father instructed me to do.” He was sweating heavily, although the room was quite cold. “What do you think he will say when he hears about this?”

God no! He must never find out. Nor must my older brother Kevin; I’d never hear the end of it.

“You know what!” Mr. Furlong was becoming increasingly hysterical. “I’m going to give you the hiding of your life!”

I gaped. Had dad really been serious when he said Mr. Furlong should throw me across his knee and spank my bum?  “But … but… you can’t,” I started to protest, but words failed me.

Mr. Furlong looked around the room, eyes searching for something. Then he found it. A heavy office chair with no arms and a straight back. “This will do perfectly,” he seemed to be talking to himself. He walked the length of the office and picked up the chair. It was quite a weight but he manoeuvred it into an open space. He stared wild-eyed across the room at me. “Come here,” he brandished the ruler and when I stayed rooted to the spot, he barked, “Now!”

Mr. Furlong was probably in his forties. He was not yet middle aged, but he was on the slide. His hair was thinning and his waist thickening. He wore a conventional business suit and I could see his belly hung over his belt. He waved the ruler once more. “Get here, now.”

We stared at one another for ages. I was starting to panic. Could I make a break for the door and run for it? I seriously considered it; but I also knew the reality of my situation. Dad had given Mr. Furlong his instructions and had made darned sure that I knew my boss was in total charge of me. If Mr. Furlong said I must be spanked than spanked I assuredly would be.

Mr. Furlong smacked the ruler into his left hand. “Now, I think we should get started. I haven’t got all day. Some of us have got work to do.”

I could not take my eyes from the ruler that at any moment would smack into my buttocks. It was a solid piece of wood, twelve inches long and about an inch wide. It was maybe a quarter-inch thick. It could pack a wallop, but surely with my trousers and pants on, I’d hardly feel a thing. It was absurd that a twenty-year-old man was being ordered to take a spanking, but I resolved not to make a fuss. If I didn’t take my medicine now there would be hell to pay when dad found out.

I slouched across the room and stood by Mr. Furlong. He sat on the chair and spread his legs a little. His thighs were flabby and as I stared down at them I found myself thinking what a perfect platform they would make for my prostrated body. He tapped his left palm with the ruler. It seemed we were ready to go. I started to lean forward to bend over his knees.

“Not so fast, Buster,” Mr. Furlong pushed me so I was forced to resume a standing position. My quizzical look got an immediate answer. “Trousers down. Pants too.”

I am sure my face reddened; both with shock and embarrassment. Go over his knees for a bare-bottomed spanking. Me, a twenty-year-old man. Could you imagine such a thing? My mouth dried and my temples started to throb. I was aware of blood rushing through my whole body. It was getting a little difficult to breath properly.

Mr. Furlong sneered, “Come on, laddie. Trousers down.” The look of contempt on his face turned to something quite different. It took me a second or two to decipher. He was enjoying this.

I closed my eyes tight and tried to pretend this wasn’t happening. It was all a dream. I had to go through with this, that was for certain. Even though I despised the old man sitting in front of me clutching a wooden ruler in his fist, I had absolutely no choice but to submit myself to him. My hands trembled as I gripped the buckle of my belt and unfastened it. Soon fumbling fingers had loosened the trousers of my smartly-tailored suit. Once I opened them and let go they fell at speed to the floor. The tail of my shirt covered most of my boxer shorts.

“Those too,” Mr. Furlong nodded at my underwear. “And be quick about it,” he rasped.

I hitched my thumbs into the waistband of the shorts and pushed them towards my feet. I was thankful that the shirt hid most of my manhood.

“Lift up your shirt,” Mr. Furlong face contorted. I’m certain he smirked when he saw my expression of horror. “Away from the buttocks, c’mon now.”

With shaking hands, I lifted the rich cotton shirt an inch or two higher.

“Doh!” Mr. Furlong spat as he slapped my hands away and grabbed my shirt and lifted it to half way up my stomach. Then, with great strength he pushed me in the small of the back until I toppled forward. I had to quickly take evasive action with my arms to stop me crashing into the hard, wooden floor.

I was winded by the unexpected ferocity of Mr. Furlong’s action. As I caught my breath, he tucked my shirt further up my back, ensuring my bared buttocks were now fully exposed. I felt him “saw” the wooden ruler across the centre of my bum. He was getting his aim. Then the ruler flew through the air in a wide arc to land with a resounding crack across my bum. My buttocks wobbled with the impact and then clenched and spasmed. The ruler was a surprisingly fearsome weapon and I couldn’t help myself groaning as the stinging pain travelled from my rear down the back of my legs.

With each painful swipe, my legs jumped and my feet kicked. My buttocks rolled slowly from side to side, clenching and writhing as the heavy wood turned my white creamy round buttock cheeks into a mass of painful stripes.

Apart from a few noisy gasps, I did not cry out at first, but as swipe after swipe connected with my bottom, I could control myself no longer. Tears flowed down my face and my sharp yelps turned to full-throated yells as my bum become red and swollen. I clung to the leg of the chair for dear life. Some instinct told him I had to suffer this. I must take everything Mr. Furlong had in store for me. No matter what, I needed to get through this. Somewhere deep inside myself I knew I had screwed up royally and I deserved all that I was getting.

I wasn’t counting the strokes. Mr. Furlong whacked the heavy ruler into my bare buttocks over and over again until every square inch of the flesh was covered by thin welts. He went from the top of the cheeks where they meet the spine, across both fleshy globes and into the under curves, the sensitive sit-spot where the buttocks and the thighs met.

My tears flowed freely and snot covered my mouth and chin. I was sobbing uncontrollably, but still I hung on to the chair.

When there was no flesh unscathed by the ruler, Mr. Furlong stopped.

“Up!” It was a curt command. I was engulfed with pain. I jumped up and did a merry dance, hopping around and rubbing my bottom, very conscious that my cock was flopping up and down in front of Mr. Furlong’s face. He was unable to resist staring at it. I don’t blame him – it is a whopper.

I pulled my trousers and shorts up while Mr. Furlong waited patiently. I was in control of myself now. I had stopped crying and my breathing was easier.

Mr. Furlong looked at his watch like he needed to be somewhere important. Without saying a word, he left, leaving me to nurse my swollen buttocks. I couldn’t return to my work station. Not yet. I still had important work to do. I had to find George, the security guard, and get that CCTV recording.

He seemed to know – or to have guessed – that Mr. Furlong had given me a seeing too. He oozed smugness. He would let me have the recording on one condition.

“No,” I replied a little too haughtily. “I don’t do deals with security guards.”

“Hah,” he snorted dismissing me as if I were something he had found on the sole of his shoe. “Please yourself. Enjoy watching YouTube.”

He had a point. Okay, I had to concede. What was his condition?

“Simple,” he started to unbuckle his wide leather belt. “Trousers, pants down. Bend over the chair.”

 

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Paying the rent

Don’t bully our mum

Missed Opportunities

 

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.

 

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Pyjama bottoms down. Bend over (again)

My boy Dixon

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A fine young man

z used a fine young man

Luke was a fine young man, all the neighbours agreed. He was polite and respectful to his elders. He did as he was told without question. The wooden paddle his father kept hanging from a nail in the den saw to that.

He was a regular at church. He read the Bible each day and believed every word of it. He didn’t hang around the new shopping mall with other youth. He didn’t wear jeans and tee-shirts, nor grease his hair. He didn’t listen to rock’n’roll records. He never spoke with negroes.

He didn’t do too well at school, but he could write and count some and that was good enough for Mr. Kennedy. Mr. Kennedy and his wife had a “mom and pop” hardware store. It wasn’t big, but it did alright and they hired Luke as a store assistant. Kennedy admired Luke. His fair, almost blond hair. The eighteen-year-old’s sparkling grey eyes and clear skin. Luke’s snake hips and the way his grey pants clung to them. Yes, Mr. Kennedy agreed with his community; Luke was a fine young man indeed.

It got so Mr. Kennedy thought of Luke as the son he never had. Sure, he had daughters and they were the prettiest girls a father could wish for. But they weren’t sons. A man had to have a boy. Everyone at his church agreed with that.

It darn near broke Mr. Kennedy’s heart (or so he told Luke) the day he was forced to act as a father. Fathers had duties. To their children. Their community. And, to God above. Mr. Kennedy knew that and Luke had learned it also at his father’s knee. There were small things. Mr. Kennedy noticed how Luke was tardy when he arrived at work and took too long getting into his brown store coat. He didn’t pounce from his chair with sufficient vigour the very moment a customer walked through the shop door. Once, he gave someone the wrong change. It cost Mr. Kennedy a dollar. That was the final straw.

“It breaks my heart to do this son,” he told Luke dolefully, “But I am going to have to spank you.” Then he added hastily, “It is for your own good, you do understand that?”

Luke didn’t really understand. Grown-ups confused him. He always obeyed them, no matter what. His father had taught him that. But sometimes, he just didn’t get it. Only two weeks previously he was in trouble with Mr. Andrews, a neighbour. Luke had taken to counting the knotholes on the trees in the street. He had done seven when Mr. Andrews strode out angrily to confront him.

“What are you doing outside my house? Spying?” he berated the boy. Luke mumbled an apology, but he wasn’t sure what he had done wrong.

“Get in here you!” Mr. Andrews grabbed the teenager by the ear and frogmarched him into the garage. The old man sat on a stool, pulled the boy towards him and without a word, unbuttoned Luke’s slacks and pulled them to his knees. His underwear swiftly followed. Then, Luke was face down over the neighbour’s knees, while Mr. Andrews warmed up his naked buttocks with the palm of his hand. Nope, Luke couldn’t figure out grown-ups.

The shop was closed now. Mrs. Kennedy had gone to their home to make a start on supper. Kennedy would not be disturbed. His hardware shop sold many items, but among the biggest sellers were the wooden punishment paddles he displayed on the far wall. “Boards of Education” or “Attitude Adjusters”, came in various sizes. The smallest had blades no bigger than a paperback book. The largest was a monster, a feller would need both hands to swing it.

The back room was small and airless. It was used to store goods before they went in the shop, but it was empty now, except for a couple of wooden crates waiting to be sent back to a supplier. Kennedy had thought about it. One of them would be high enough for the teenager to bend across.

“Come along Luke,” he gripped a paddle in his fist. “Let’s have those pants down,” he motioned the blade up and down as if guiding the boy. The tan slacks fitted Luke well and he had no need for a belt. Calmly, for this was how his own father did the business, he unbuttoned the waistband and the fly. A wriggle of his snake hips sent the pants slithering down his thighs.

Luke hitched his thumbs under the elastic waist of his underwear and sent it south. His father always paddled him on the bare; he supposed it would be the same with Mr. Kennedy. He stood and waited. He couldn’t figure why Mr. Kennedy was sweating so much, while Luke himself was shivering.

Kennedy wiped the back of his hand across his face and ran his fingers through his hair, then wiped them on the leg of his pants. “Bend over the chest,” he croaked. Luke’s dick flopped up and down as he took three steps towards the crate. He paused as if sizing up how best to do this. Then, he leaned forward, resting the palms of his hand on the stone floor. His toes rested on the ground behind him. He had snagged the end of his necktie under his body and it choked him, so he lifted himself up an inch and pulled it clear.

All the while Kennedy stood gripping his paddle, watching. The skin on Luke’s buttocks and legs was as smooth as the teenager’s face. The blondness of his hair made him seem hairless. Only when Kennedy stood right up to the prone body could he see tiny hairs, standing erect.

Luke rested patiently. He had been in similar situations before. The wood would sting. Horribly, possibly. He could not be sure. He had the measure of his father’s spankings, but this was to be his first from Mr. Kennedy. He was entering unknown territory.

It served no practical purpose, but Mr. Kennedy took hold of the tail of Luke’s gleaming white shirt and folded it once and then twice until it rested against the eighteen-year-old’s shoulders. The teenager was now naked from there to his ankles.

Mr. Kennedy steadied his shaking hand and rested the foot-long blade across the centre of Luke’s buttocks, noticing for the first time a wisp of hair in the boy’s crack. Mr. Kennedy breathed deeply, raised the paddle and brought it down with an almighty Crack!. He was rewarded with a dark pink rectangle. Luke sucked on his bottom lip and shut his eyes tightly. That one wasn’t so bad.

Mr. Kennedy smelt the sweat under his own armpit when he raised the paddle a second time before whacking it just under the rectangle. Now, most of Luke’s rear end glowed. The boy screwed his face like a gargoyle. His heart raced so fast it made him cough.

Luke’s buttocks were solid. The room echoed with a “thuncking” sound as the paddle connected again and again with naked meat. Luke’s tight bottom turned from hot pulsating pink to a brilliant shade of scarlet that excited and terrified Mr. Kennedy in equal measure.

Luke’s legs shuddered and kicked. It was a reflex action; his body’s way of coping with the terrific attack being made on it. The buttocks throbbed and even though he was face-down with his eyes inches from the grey stone, Luke knew his raw bottom was covered in welts where the edge of the paddle connected again and again with his naked vulnerable flesh.

He had not been counting, but he knew Mr. Kennedy had far exceeded the dozen licks his father usually delivered. On and on the paddle smacked into Luke’s upturned rear, punishing the smooth flesh until it gleamed like a red-hot ember in a dying fire.

Mr. Kennedy’s gasps far exceeded anything that escaped the teenager’s lips. His heart pounded and his temples pulsated, possibly more than Luke’s backside throbbed. Suddenly, almost absurdly, Mr. Kennedy remembered the instructions of his doctor. “Take it easy. Don’t strain your heart.”

It was over. Mr. Kennedy bent double resting his hands on his knees, the paddle at his feet. He wheezed like a steam engine settling down. At last, he was able to speak. “Get up Luke. Get dressed.”

The teenager pulled himself off the chest. Instinctively, his hands shot to his buttocks. He twisted his body and saw his round cheeks were deep crimson, with the plumpest, lower part of each globe a dark purplish-red. The skin had grown hard and crusty; places were cracked and blistering.

He tugged up his underwear, wincing as the smooth cotton nuzzled against raw flesh. Soon, his slacks were in place. He tucked the tail of his shirt in. The agony in his rear end was easing into a hard throbbing. He knew, that soon it would be a warm glow. It would hurt to sit down. He hoped his father didn’t notice. If he heard Mr. Kennedy had had to spank him, he would get it again at home.

“You should go now,” Mr. Kennedy nodded at the door and watched intently as Luke’s buttocks sashayed out the room.

Slowly, Mr. Kennedy returned to the store and replaced the paddle on its hook with the others. Absent-mindedly, he picked up a larger, heavier “Attitude Adjuster” and tested it against the palm of his hand. This would do perfectly for next time, he told himself, before locking the store for the night.

 

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Memories of Uncle Edgar

The spanking I thoroughly deserved

Milo, the grad student

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A family business

z used office posh by Leyendecker (1)

Richard Bullivant loved his job; most of the time. This was not one of them. Mr. Greaves, the company’s owner, peered at him over the top of his spectacles. The boss was seated and in his hands he clutched a hand-written report. Bullivant stood to his front, meekly, hands behind his back, holding on to his hat.

“This will not do, boy,” Mr. Greaves sucked air through his teeth. Bullivant shuffled from foot to foot. “No, boy, certainly not.”

Bullivant resented being called ‘Boy.” He was thirty-five years old and deputy head of the accounts department. He deserved more respect than this.

Mr. Greaves waved the report provocatively in Bullivant’s face. The boss’s thinning grey hair swirled around his mostly-bald dome. Bullivant grimaced as specks of spittle flew towards him. Mr. Greaves was certainly angry.

He had good cause to be, Bullivant would be first to admit. There had been an error. Figures miscalculated, a profit reported as a loss. It could do the company damage. But, it hadn’t. It was spotted in time and corrected. But, not until word had reached the ears of Mr. Greaves. A junior man in the accounts department had made a mistake, but Bullivant would have to carry the can.

Greaves’s was a family firm. Mr. Greaves always said so. He had inherited most of it from his father and he had built on it. Now, in his seventies he expected his own son to soon take the reins. Mr. Greaves believed everyone who worked for him was one of the family. They were all his children. He was the Pater familias. He was responsible for them all; just like he was their father.

Bullivant knew all about Mr. Greaves’s attitude to his workers, that was why he couldn’t stop his heart thumping through his chest. His palms were sticky and his mouth dry as a desert. “We can’t have this, boy. You know we can’t have this,” Mr. Greaves seemed to be talking to himself. Bullivant stood waiting for his boss to get to the point, but the old man appeared to have dried up.

The silence startled him. Then his boss spluttered, “Well boy, well boy, what do you say for yourself?” Bullivant blanched. The moment he had dreaded since the mistake had come to light. It wasn’t Bullivant’s fault. Truly, it wasn’t, but that was not what Mr. Greaves expected to hear. The mistake was made by one of his underlings; Bullivant must take responsibility.

“Could have cost us dear,” Mr. Greaves coughed. “Very dear indeed, eh boy?”

But it hadn’t. Bullivant had spotted the mistake in time. He had been doing his job. A job he loved, and if he said so himself, a job he did very well indeed. It was no good telling Mr. Greaves that. He was old school and “school” was the appropriate metaphor here. He expected a man to take responsibility for those he managed. The buck, as their American cousins might say, stopped here.

Bullivant sucked in air and began the little speech he had prepared. It lasted less than a minute and ended with the words, “I take full responsibility, Sir.”

Mr. Greaves glowered. A smile split his face. “Indeed you should, boy. Indeed you should.”

Bullivant relaxed a little. Perhaps, this interview wasn’t going to be so bad after all. He forced a smile himself. It looked more like a scowl from where his boss was seated.  Mr. Greaves eyes narrowed. “All right Bullivant. It mustn’t happen again.”

“Oh no, Sir,” Bullivant had brightened already. He tried the smile again, without evident success. He wouldn’t be able to smile properly until he was safely dismissed from the office and back on the second floor with his minions. He waited for Mr. Greaves to let him go.

“Bullivant, we can’t leave it at this,” Mr. Greaves shifted his buttocks and started to rise from his armchair, “You do appreciate that, don’t you?”

Oh no! The thought flashed through Bullivant’s mind. This was not over yet. Unsure if the question had been rhetorical, he merely nodded sagely.

“Speak up, boy,” Mr. Greaves’s famed irritability showed.

Now, red in the face, Bullivant, mumbled, “Yes, Sir,” and hoped that would suffice as an answer.

“Good boy,” Mr. Greaves was now on his feet and walking across his capacious office. It had shelves and cupboards along two of its walls. Another had a large window and the fourth an unlit fire. A huge desk dominated the room. Towards one corner were four comfortable armchairs, encircling a glass-topped table. Mr. Greaves stopped when he reached a set of cupboards. One was narrow and tall. He delved into his pocket and found a key which he used to open its door. Bullivant had never noticed the cupboard before, but now instinctively he knew what it contained.

He wrung his hat in his hands and watched intently as his boss reached inside. There was a slight rattling sound before Mr. Greaves’s hand emerged clutching a long, thin, yellow-coloured cane. It had the traditional crooked handle. Bullivant had seen many of these before. Every schoolboy in the land knew what a rattan cane looked like and many of them could attest to the intense pain one could inflict.

Mr. Greaves turned and faced his employee. He held the cane in his hands and looked down at it as though he had never seen such a thing before. It was a little over three feet long and had notches every three or four inches along its length. It was as thick as a pencil and formed a perfect arc when Mr. Greaves tested its flexibility. He swished it through the air. Swoosh! It made a terrific noise as it went.

He pointed the cane at Bullivant. “Hang your hat and jacket over there,” he nodded at the coat-stand in the far corner of the office. Bullivant’s mouth opened and silently closed. Should he make a protest? What would be the point? Mr. Greaves was in control. Bullivant loved his job, he was very good at it and he was well paid for his efforts. The drama presently unfolding was surely a small price to pay. He convinced himself this was so, but his hands did not seem to agree since they shook almost uncontrollably as he placed his hat on the stand and set about trying to get his coat off his back. It took some considerable time. Mr. Greaves peered over his eye glasses and entertained himself by swiping the cane through the air.

At last Bullivant was ready. “Stand by the desk, boy,” Mr. Greaves pointed the cane, in case there was any doubt what he meant,

In a trance Bullivant made the short journey across the office. In his head it was twenty years previously and he was in the housemaster’s study at St. Tom’s. That was the only way he would be able to deal with the absurdity of the situation he now faced.

“Stand up straight,” Mr. Greaves barked.  Bullivant had not been slouching but nonetheless, moved his legs and shoulders to demonstrate total obedience to his master. Mr. Greaves stared at Bullivant. He was a little taller than himself and powerfully built. Perhaps, Mr. Greaves wondered, he partook in sports: boxing maybe. Bullivant’s white shirt looked starched and his detachable collar was held in place by a gold stud. His trousers were held aloft by red braces. He wore them a little tightly and they pulled the fabric of his trousers into his buttocks so each cheek was clearly separated from the other. They were round and plump.

Mr. Greaves stood close to his minion. He sucked on his bottom lip as he leaned forward to get a closer look at the man he was about to thrash. “No, no, this will never do,” he mused absent-mindedly. “Won’t do at all.” He tapped his cane across Bullivant’s buttocks. “They’re too thick. Take them down.”

Bullivant’s flushed face blanched. “Wor…?” he started to protest, but thankfully stopped himself in time. It never did to protest. A chap never did that. He was an Englishman of a certain social class and he knew the honour code. A chap would always take his punishment, even when it was unjustly meted out by those in authority.

He pulled the braces from his shoulders and let them dangle at his sides. His trousers were now loose and once he unfastened the button at the waist the weight of the keys in his pocket sent them hurtling to form a puddle on top of his shoes. Mr. Greaves’s eyes widened. Bullivant wore the new-fangled undershorts. The covered his buttocks and hung an inch or two down his legs. Mr. Greaves touched the desktop with his cane. “Bend over, boy.” It was a sharp command and one he expected to be obeyed without question. It was.

Bullivant had last been caned at school by his housemaster. It was the final week before he had left for good. It was unheard of for eighteen year olds to be thrashed, but he and a pal had made some tomfool pact together to climb the clocktower and deposit a pair of matron’s bloomers on the weathervane. They had done it too – in the dead of night. But what was the point of doing something so splendid if nobody knew who the culprit was? It was worth owning up. They were heroes and talked about with admiration by boys for years to follow. What bare-arsed beating could top that?

The memory of that caning was suddenly fresh in Bullivant’s mind. He stretched across Mr. Greaves’s desk just as he had done in the headmaster’s study nearly two decades previously. He held on to the far edge and rested his right cheek against the cool wood. He had a close-up view of the grain in the walnut. His legs were parted by about eighteen inches and his stomach rested at an angle so that his buttocks were correctly raised to receive the whipping from the cane. It was a bit like riding a bike. Once you had learned the right way to present your backside for a thrashing, you never forgot.

Mr. Greaves took a moment to admire the scene. He had caned many of his employees’ bottoms over forty or so years. Mostly, he beat them across the stretched fabric of trousers. Sometimes recalcitrant junior staff were required to lower their bags and he whipped them on the seat of their woollen “combinations”. Never before had been presented with a set of buttocks encased in snug shorts. Bullivant made a terrific target.

Mr. Greaves’s heart raced as he took up his position to Bullivant’s left. He “sawed” the cane across the plumpest part of his target, raised it to above shoulder height and swiped it down. He was greeted by a resounding “twack!” as the supple rattan sank into the soft flesh. Bullivant shut his eyes tight. It hurt. A lot. Memories of past canings flooded his mind. Yes, it stung tremendously, but he could take it.

Mr. Greaves landed the second low down, where the buttocks meet the thighs. That had Bullivant gasping. The thirty-five-year-old wriggled his bottom, this way and that. He couldn’t help it. He felt a little ashamed. Had he ever reacted like that at school? He steadied himself. Closed his eyes, shut his teeth and waited for the next.

Wow! It was some stinger. It landed across the top of the globes. A hot stripe seared into his bum. Now he had three parallel cuts across his cheeks. Bullivant had to admit it, his boss was an expert with the cane.

“Feeling that aren’t you boy?”

The voice sounded as if it were hundreds of miles away. There was no reasonable answer a boy undergoing punishment could give to such a question, so Bullivant stayed quiet. Mr. Greaves took silence for impertinence and sliced number four so hard it was as if he were beating a carpet. Despite his determination to take his beating “like an Englishman” Bullivant yelped at that one. He could not see the smile curl around Mr. Greaves’s lips.

The boss adjusted his stance. He was nearing the finishing line. He lay the cane so that it lay from the bottom left to the top right of his target and let fly. The stroke cut across all four that had previous landed, reigniting the pain of them all. Bullivant’s bum throbbed. He held on to the desk for dear life, his fingernails digging deep into the wood. He felt Mr. Greaves move behind him.

God no! He knew what the sadist planned. The cane tapped across the buttocks from bottom right to top left. Whack!

“Ohmygod” Bullivant yelled out loud as a perfect “X” was scorched into his bum. Blood oozed from the intersections of the cuts. The agony was awesome. It was as if someone had poured a pail of boiling water over his flesh. His heartrate sped and his temples throbbed, almost as much as his rear end.

He heard a rattle as Mr. Greaves replaced the cane in his cabinet. Then the words, “You may stand.” Bullivant did not need telling twice. He leapt to his feet and without waiting for permission he pulled his trousers up. It gave him the cover to surreptitiously rub his thumbs across his savaged backside. It didn’t ease the pain.

Mr. Greaves sniffed the air as if a sudden bad odour had permeated the office. “You should take your hat and coat and leave.” He watched his minion pick up the clothes and without waiting to put them on, rush from the room.

Outside, Bullivant paused. The office was full of people busy at their desks. Had they heard his thrashing? His head was light. He rather hoped they had. He had never experienced such a sense of euphoria. He was on top of the world. He walked through the office to the lift. But, instead of taking it to the second floor to return to his office, he went to down to the ground floor. He had something to do first.

He put his hat on his head and joined the throngs of people in the city centre. He was walking on air in search of the right shop. He wanted to purchase a whippy school cane. Brian Clark, the accounts department junior, was in for a shock.

 

Picture credit: J. C. Leyendecker

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The Boss’s Son

z used art office otk ruler chair (8)

I had to stand there in the office and listen when dad told Mr. Furlong, “If he’s any trouble. Any trouble at all. I want you to take him across your knee and spank his backside for him. Hard.” Mr. Furlong’s face lit up and he cracked a broad smile. “I’m not joking, man,” my dad barked. “I mean it. I’ll be checking. If he doesn’t buck his ideas up and make some improvements with himself, I’ll know who to blame.” His eyes darkened. He was a hard taskmaster. Mr. Furlong knew exactly what dad meant – his job was on the line.

Extract from The Boss’s Son, a new exclusive story from Charles Hamilton II uploaded to The Canery website. Click here to read it

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Lord Bowinem’s chauffeur

used drawing suit (25)

Simmonds carefully manoeuvred the Rolls-Royce motorcar into the garage, switched off the engine and climbed out. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and rubbed out a smear on the gleaming blue paintwork. He loved driving that car.

“Simmonds.” Lord Bowinem spoke firmly. “I wish to speak to you privately. Please go to your room, change into your pyjamas and then attend the library. Do not take longer than ten minutes.”

The twenty-four-year-old walked toward the servants’ entrance of the mansion. Life wasn’t so bad, he thought. He had a nice warm room and three square meals a day. The wages weren’t much, but there was a way to supplement them.

The mansion was huge and befitting a house that size, mostly cold and dank. Simmonds climbed the stairs and entered the back passage. His room was at the far end. There was no time to dawdle. He worked at six buttons on the jacket of his smart blue chauffer’s uniform and slipped it over the back of an old wooden chair. His trousers fitted snuggly. He unbuttoned them and since there was not much space in his room, he sat down on his bed and rolled them down his legs. It was always a struggle to get them off.

His off-white vest and knickers came off next. For a moment, he stood totally naked. He took in his view in the mirror. Not bad, he thought, and better than many who worked below stairs for his Lordship.

His pyjamas were under his pillow. He stepped into the blue-and-white-striped bottoms and pulled them up before tying the drawstring into a bow. He tested that they would not sink down to his knees as he walked and satisfied, he climbed into the jacket. He wiggled his feet into his carpet slippers and after glancing once more in the mirror, he left the room.

It was some distance from Simmonds’s room to the library and the passageways were devilishly cold. Even so, he knew his Lordship would not want him to wear a dressing gown. The chauffer knew from experience he would be warmed up after he entered the library.

There was a roaring fire in the library. It was another magnificently-sized room. Naturally, it was dominated by shelves of books and these ran from the floor to the high ceiling. A large table stood in the centre of the room overshadowing a shiny leather Chesterfield couch. Three other plush padded leather chairs stood nearby.

Simmonds had no need to take this in. He had attended the library on many previous occasions but never once to read a book.

Lord Bowinem stood and dug his hands firmly into his pockets. He wore a business suit with a waistcoat. He was one of England’s finest Peers of the Realm, but he often dressed as if he were a provincial bank manager. He had an unlit cigar clenched between his teeth. He removed it and vaguely scanned the room for an ashtray. When he couldn’t find one, distractedly, he put the cigar into the inside pocket of his jacket.

Simmonds watched his master intently. At last, the old man spoke. “Well Simmons, it just isn’t good enough. Is it?”

The chauffeur stood, his face impassive. What wasn’t good enough? He had no clear idea what his master was talking about. He stayed silent, hoping His Lordship would explain himself.

He did, “You were late for duty on Wednesday,” he said and then paused. Simmonds knew this to be true, but it had only been a minute or two. He knew better than to argue the case.

“Yes, Sir,” he replied in a strong voice.

“Mmm,” Lord Bowinem nodded his head fervently. “Then, you lost your route to Sir Humphrey’s.”

He said no more. There was no need, Simmonds knew what he meant. He had got lost in the narrow streets of Newcastle when driving His Lordship to meet an important industrialist.

There was silence. His Lordship seemed to have nothing more to say. Simmonds knew his place. It was not for him to say anything.

“It won’t do, Simmonds. It just won’t do.” Lord Bowinem’s face flushed. He looked as if he might have attacked the whisky. But, there had been no time for that.

“Well, you know what must happen.”

Simmonds’s eyes followed the back of his master as he shuffled the considerable length of the library before stopping in front of a tall cupboard. He fumbled in his pocket for some time before withdrawing a small ring containing keys. He found the one he needed and unlocked the door. Simmonds held his breath. His heart raced. Lord Bowinem opened the door and reached in. Even from a long distance, Simmonds could hear a distinctive rattle. He closed his eyes, he didn’t want to see. Not yet.

When he did open them again, he saw Lord Bowinem held a freshly-made birch rod in his hand. His Lordship said nothing, but tested the instrument for its weight. It was thirty or more rods, collected together at one end into a handle. Old Fletcher, His Lordship’s gardener, had tied it with twine. Lord Bowinem swished the rod around, making sure he could get a good grip on the thing. Satisfied, that he could he walked over to the far end of the huge table. Sweat soaked his bald pate, so he pulled a cloth from his pocket and wiped it dry. He returned it to his pocket, but made no attempt to remove his jacket, even though his armpits were sticky with perspiration.

“Please lower your trousers and bend across the table.” It was said with such reasonableness an onlooker might believe that Simmonds was being given a choice and that he might fairly reply, “Well thank you, Your Lordship, but I’d rather not on this occasion.”

Of course, it was not a request, it was an instruction.

The twenty-four-year-old looked down at the carpet beneath his feet and shuffled into position. His hands hardly shook as he untied the bow on the drawstring of his pyjamas. The bottoms slowly slipped down his legs and sagged at the knees. Simmonds parted them slightly and they continued their journey to his feet.

Without awaiting instruction, he lifted his jacket so that his flat stomach was uncovered and he eased himself forward. The table was far too long and far too wide for him to grip any of its edges, so he folded his arms in front of him and rested his head on them.

Lord Bowinem took a pace or two backward, the better to admire the view. The boy looked delightful, naked from the small of his back to his ankles. His Lordship had seen Simmond’s tight, naked rump many times before. It was very pale and round like a rubber ball. In His Lordship’s estimation, it was by far the best bottom that he could call upon among his servants.

He waited. His Lordship always liked to take his time. He supposed Simmonds, also, was in no hurry to get proceedings underway. He looked along the length of the birch rod in his hand. A smile flitted across his features. Then, he patted it across Simmonds’s firm bottom.

“Well, you can’t say you don’t deserve this.” He tapped the birch on the trembling rump. His eyes shone with delight. “Let it be six-of-the-best.”

Simmons screwed up his eyes and bit down into the sleeve of his pyjamas. He had long since been hardened to the ordeal of corporal punishment, but the application of a well-made birch rod wielded by an enthusiast such as Lord Bowinem would be a torment of great proportions.

With the refinement of a golfer, His Lordship swivelled his body, groaned, and then flogged the birch across Simmonds’s bottom with startling speed. Simmonds’s head rose from its place in his own arms and his mouth gaped and his face tightened, but he uttered no sound.

The birch struck again and the twenty-four-year-old swayed violently. His neck was as scarlet as his bottom now was. He shook his head from side to side, rather like a braying donkey. A third cut slashed open his once-pale buttocks. Simmonds sighed long and loudly. He wriggled and writhed, but he knew better than to try to stand. His heartrate doubled and the agony multiplied. He could not yet see that his buttocks were raw and that small scratches covered large parts of his pert backside.

His Lordship slashed two more into the pulsating cheeks. Whip-whip. An almighty shriek bounced around the nearly-empty library. A flock of birds resting on the lawn outside the room flew off in fright. Lord Bowinem pressed his nose to the savaged buttocks, intent on studying close-up the damage he had inflicted.

“I think you are learning your lesson, young man,” Lord Bowinem beamed.

“Yes, Sir,” Simmonds managed to croak with considerable effort.

The birch flew through the air with some vim for the last time connecting with the battered and bruised bottom. Simmonds quivered and convulsed. His legs marched up and down, his hips swayed from left to right. His bottom rose and fell so that he was humping the edge of the table. He wheezed heavily. Blood raced through is body at such speed he expected it to explode out of his ears. The pain was intense, but it was over. He had survived another six-of-the-best from His Lordship.

But it was not quite over. Lord Bowinem threw the birch to the floor and lurched forward. He cupped his right hand and caressed the bloodied buttocks. Simmonds winced, the weight of the hand against his open flesh, however gently applied, sent more shockwaves of pain through his body.

Then, a chortling Lord Bowinem wildly gripped one buttock and friskily squeezed it. Simmonds shot up from his position prostrate across the table. He took a step back from His Lordship and pulled his pyjama bottoms up.

They were almost done. Simmons straightened himself, looked his master straight in the eye and said, “Thank you sir, I deserved that. I hope I can improve my service to you in future.”

His Lordship drank down great gasps of air, before he replied, “You had better Simmonds or we shall repeat this.”

The twenty-four-year-old chauffeur hobbled through the cold passageway to his room, content that there would be an extra pound in his wage packet the following Friday.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com