The autumn of 49

z used autumn of 49 harvester

George Nettles grasped the fading photograph with trembling hands. He could barely hold anything steady these days. The warders gave him his tea in a plastic cup. With a lid screwed on. He had to sip it through a hole cut in the top. He called them the “warders”, but they preferred to be called “care assistants”. Bugger that, he thought. Their main job was to stop the residents doing anything.

His granddaughter had brought him the photograph. A young man – a boy really – eighteen years old. In a corn field. On a harvester. In shorts and an open shirt. Waving. Who at? George couldn’t remember. It was so long ago – 1949. He peered intently at the smiling boy. Had he really been so carefree? Nearly seventy years ago.

Carefree? Was that really the right word? He remembered it as if it were yesterday, which was strange because he couldn’t truly recall what he did yesterday. He would struggle to remember what he had eaten for breakfast that morning.

1949: Tomkinson’s Farm. East Anglia. Tomkinson, George’s face cracked into a broad smile. He hadn’t thought about the brute in six decades or more. It was the Church that had sent him to the farm. The Second World War was over, but the peace had still to be won. That’s how people talked in those days. Everyone had to chip in. Do their bit; play a part. Volunteers descended  on the farms to bring in the harvest.

He went with a chap called Roger. Damn it, George screwed his eyes tightly. What was the fellow’s second name? No, it would come to him later. Small for his age. Jet black curly hair. Lots of spots. My did they get into a lot of trouble. Townies in the country. Away from parental control for the first time in their lives. George winced. It was as if Tomkinson’s thick, heavy belt had once more slashed across his naked buttocks.

The kids today wouldn’t believe you if you tried to tell them. Things were so different then. Eighteen was nothing. You didn’t become an adult until you were twenty-one. They all knew their place. The Church was really big, the priest was God himself.

The trouble started over booze. George’s eyes glistened at the memory. No different to today’s kids really. They wanted to drink alcohol, to be grown up. There wasn’t the money around and even if there were there were the pubs would never serve under-age kids. So they made their own. Cider. There were plenty of apples around. It didn’t take much.

George shuffled in his chair, his legs had been giving him pain for some days. He could hardly walk. Cider. Moonshine more like. They made it in buckets. My, he smiled at the memory, a group of the lads from all the farms around got rip-roaring drunk. He was sick as a dog. He’d never had a hangover like it since; and he had been in some gin joints when he was in the Army.

Of course, Tomkinson found out. Took it as a personal affront. As if George and Roger had done it to spite him. George didn’t have to close his eyes to conjure up the farmhouse kitchen. A large, draughty room, dominated by a rickety wooden table and a Welsh dresser for cups and saucers. And lots of heavy straight-backed wooden chairs.

George sighed, pulled himself from his own chair. He really ought to call a warder for help. Damn them, he thought. He didn’t need help every time he wanted to sit on his bed. Summoning strength from somewhere, he hauled himself to his feet. The bed was only three steps away. Come on George, he berated himself, you can do it. His knees ached like mad. His balance was shot to pieces. C’mon, lad! One foot dragged across the harsh industrial-strength carpet. Then another. Aaaah! George toppled forward, landing with a thump on his thin mattress.

“See,” he said to nobody in particular, “Who needs help?” He rolled on his back and wheezing gazed up at the ceiling. The room span. He closed his eyes.

“You’re a disgrace, the pair of you,” it was Mr. Tomkinson speaking. George and Roger stood, heads bowed, hands behind their backs, knees bent slightly, feet shuffling. “What do you think St. Francis will say when I tell them?” He meant the church in Stepney that had sent them to work in the fields. “And your dads. I know what they’d say,” he growled and sneered ominously, “and what they’d do.”

Mr. Tomkinson was a large, strong man with a ruddy complexion, as befitting a farmer who worked the fields from dawn to dusk. He was god-fearing and observed the world around him in black and white terms. Illegal drinking, hangovers that kept them from working in the fields. The harvest delayed. Flour mills waiting for supplies. Bread not baked. Families going hungry. All because two stupid boys guzzled themselves sick on homemade cider.

Too much harm had been caused, Mr. Tomkinson told himself, for the boys to remain unpunished.

“You need a leathering …” he left the sentence unfinished. George glanced across at Roger, but the boy’s intense stare never left the floor. Mr. Tomkinson already was unbuckling his belt. He whisked it through the loops of his trousers. George watched intently as the farmer folded it once, then twice so it was about eighteen inches long.

“And, that’s just what I’m going to give you,” Mr. Tomkinson said, completing his sentence.

He was a man of few words. He grabbed hold of a chair and moved it away from underneath the wooden table. He swished his belt through the air and then addressing Roger, he growled, “Stand there, by the table.”

On his back on the bed nearly seventy tears after the event, George had a perfect view of what happened next. As indeed he had in the farmhouse kitchen that autumnal morning. Roger opened and closed his mouth as if in protest, but no words came. Doubtless, he wanted to say the farmer had no right to belt him, only his father could do that. But what would be the point? Mr. Tomkinson was in charge, he had the weight of public opinion on his side. Given the chance, the priest would thrash him and so would his dad. Probably, both of them. Spanked twice for the same offence. If he had the intelligence to rationalise his situation, Roger would have submitted to the farmer’s will.

He did not have the wit of a barrack-room lawyer, so there was no argument from Roger. Instead, he took the three paces it needed to take up position by the table. George watched as his pal stood submissively, waiting for the inevitable next instruction. He was a smallish boy of eighteen. People were smaller in those days and he probably didn’t reach five-feet-six. Despite the work in the fields, he retained the stature of a scrawny townie. His short trousers hung loosely from his hips, kept up by an elasticated “snake” belt. His blue cotton shirt was untucked and three open buttons revealed his hairless but tanned chest.

Mr. Tomkinson grasped the belt in his right hand. It was wide and thick and trebled up as it was it promised to inflict a severe beating. “Shorts down. Pants too.” It was a clear order, not barked, but Mr. Tomkinson expected to be obeyed. And he was. But, Roger stumbled as he tried to find the clasp of his belt. Its snake’s head refused to allow itself to be released, but after several tries and a loud grunt from the farmer Roger had it free. His black short trousers needed no help to slip over his hips and slither down to his knees. Unbidden, Roger spread his legs a little and they continued their journey to the ground.

George had seen Roger without his trousers – and much less besides – many times and was not surprised to see his pal’s off-white underpants were shapeless and baggy – and also appeared to be several times too big for him. They quickly joined his short trousers at his feet.

“Bend over.” The order was hardly unexpected but still it took Roger’s breath away. He was expected to submit his bared bottom to the attention of Mr. Tomkinson, his employer, and a man he hardly knew. It would be difficult enough to do this for his father, a man who was very well acquainted with Roger’s bottom – clothed and bared.

When Roger finally leaned forward, resting his stomach on the worn pine table, George noticed just how thin his pal was. There wasn’t enough spare fat on his entire body to sizzle a sausage. Roger wriggled this way and that, unsure where to put his arms and hands. He tried stretching them ahead of himself to grip the far edge of the table, but it was too long and he too short for that to work. So he tried for the side edges so he was positioned rather as if for a crucifixion, but that was no good. Finally, he settled on folding his arms and resting his face in them. That way, he was ready to receive his lashing from Farmer Tomkinson.

George watched transfixed. He was no stranger to corporal punishment; which boy of his era was not, but he had never before witnessed a boy take a beating. What he saw was an eighteen-year-old presenting himself stoically; that is there were no histrionics, no pleadings for mercy, no complaints. Roger merely lay, his breathing a little shallow, for his master to do his business. His legs twitched when Mr. Tomkinson lay the belt gently across the middle of boy buttocks. He was taking his aim. He stood a little to Roger’s left – a belt length’s away – and when he had found his spot, he raised the leather to above shoulder height and twisting his body as he did so, he lashed down a stroke. A couple of sunset stripes immediately glowed across the tiny target area; Roger sucked in air and slowly released it through clenched teeth. That hurt. That hurt a lot.

As if in sympathy for his pal, George’s hands fumbled to his own buttocks and he patted them ruefully. Thwack! the sound of leather bouncing back from stretched flesh resounded around the large farm kitchen. Roger snorted through his nose and screwed his eyes. Even from his distance George could make out the clear welts forming across the teenager’s bum

And so it went on, leather rising and pounding into naked buttocks, again and again and again. Roger’s bum turned from white, to pink, and then through a strange amalgam of yellows and oranges to a deep crimson. Roger sucked on his wrists, gulped in air, shut his teeth and once in a while wriggled his hips and legs as the pain intensified. But not once did he utter a sound of distress. Perspiration drenched Mr. Tomkinson’s ruddy face, but he was strong as an ox, he could go on all night if he need arose. But it did not. The farmer believed in chastisement, he believed in the lash, he had no doubt he was performing God’s work. But enough is sufficient. At last he rested the belt on the wooden table.

“Get up. George, your turn.”

Roger leapt to his feet and not waiting to rub away at his scorched backside he pulled his underpants and short trousers up together. Now, it was George’s turn.

From  his bed, George watches his younger self slip his short trousers down to his feet, then hitch his thumbs beneath the waistband of his underpants. In a trice his buttocks are bared. Having studied Roger, he knows precisely how to position himself across the farm kitchen table. He sees the farmer swish the belt, taking practice swipes, although of course he would never have been able to see this back in 1949. The belt rises …

The body on the bed stirs slightly. It shows no outward sign of the shock. Its heart clenches and stops. Later, a twenty-year-old care giver will wonder just for a moment who was the boy on the harvester?

Picture credit: Boy’s Own Paper

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Breath-taking

Put back into short trousers, aged 18

The pub visit

 

 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The movie mogul

Ned, the mailroom manager, looked up from his paperwork. Henderson, the boss’s minion strode across the floor: a man on a mission. “Here comes trouble,” Ned sighed.

“Henderson!” his smile was painted. “What can I do for you today – and so early on a Monday morning.”

Henderson towered over Ned, fingering a foolscap manila folder. Only he knew it contained blank sheets of paper. He had to carry something. It gave him gravitas.

“You’ve got a new intern,” he pretended to consult his notes, “Robert Mitchum.” He grinned, suddenly realising. “That his real name?”

“He calls himself Robbie,” Ned shrugged his shoulders, What can you do?

“HW wants you to send him upstairs.”

Ned’s face flushed. “How did HW know about the new intern?” He didn’t say the words aloud, but his expression said enough.

“HW sees all the files. He selects the interns.”

“Yeah, I bet he does,” again best not said aloud. Ned was not naïve. HW was President of Global Pictures Inc. The top banana. The big cheese. Numero Uno. He could (and did) make a career with the stroke of a pen (and God only knew what else).

“The kid’s a film school grad. Wants a break in pictures …” he let his words trail off. This wasn’t Henderson’s first such mission; it wouldn’t be the last.

“Send him up at ten. Don’t be late. He’s on a tight schedule this morning.” Henderson turned on his heels. There was some Latino boy in the canteen he still had to track down.

 

@

 

Five to ten. Robbie didn’t want to be late. You didn’t keep Herb Winklestein waiting. Well maybe only once. You never got a second chance. He stood nervously in front of the personal assistant’s desk. Why was it surprised it was a guy. Weren’t PAs always women? Wasn’t that a thing? Secretary equals women’s work. Well, Robbie supposed, this was nineteen-seventy-six; the film business was blazing a trail for equality.

The young PA seemed nervous. “He’s got someone with him, do you want to sit and wait,” he nodded towards a row of seats. “He’ll see you when he’s …” he stopped himself in time and blushed. Robbie shuffled to the seating area, sat and looked back across at the PA. Did everyone in the movie business have film-star good looks, he wondered. The guy was maybe in his early twenties, with tanned flawless skin. Clearly, he worked out. His sober grey suit hugged his developed muscles. A wild shock of brown curly hair was expensively cut, emphasising his grey sparkling eyes. A phone rang, the PA reached out, picked it up and spoke. Robbie was mesmerised by the guy’s thick red lips and gleaming white teeth.

A door opened and a small, very thin Latino boy shuffled out. He seemed in some distress. His dark eyes glistened. Neither looking to left nor right he hurried past Robbie, the PA guy and another young man who was coming towards HW’s office. He passed the elevator, pushed upon the doors to the emergency exit with his shoulder and taking the stairs two at a time disappeared from view.

“Mr. Winklestein will see you now,” the PA guy called over to Robbie. “Just knock and go in,” he instructed, then paused. “Good luck,” he added in the softest of voices.

It was a large office, about the size of a football field probably. A gargantuan desk strewn with telephones was at the far end, but Mr. Winklestein was at the opposite side of the room slouched on a couch surrounded by three armless ‘easy’ chairs.

“Come,” Winklestein waved a hand, “Robbie, isn’t it? Come stand here. In front of me.”

Robbie had seen him in photographs and on the television of course, but Winklestein looked larger in real life. He was in his early forties (according to the official records at least) but looked a lot older in person. He was going to flab, a roll of fat drooped over his belt (fastened a little too tightly) and his smartly trimmed beard could not fully disguise the man’s jowls. Round, rimless slightly-tinted spectacles disguised the colour of his eyes.

Robbie moved forward, his mouth suddenly drained of saliva and his heart thumping. Awkwardly, he stood in front of the “world’s greatest movie mogul” (hadn’t Variety called him that last fall?).

“I’ve heard a lot about you, young man,” Winklestein spluttered. The tip of his tongue brushed over his top lip. He shifted his buttocks on the grey leather couch and crossed and uncrossed his legs. Robbie sucked in breath. This was unreal. The second week of his internship and here he was in front of the great man himself.

“I hear you come highly recommended. Top of your class in film school. A star in the making.” Winklestein disregarded Robbie’s puzzled frown. None of what the producer said was true. Yes, Robbie was a film school graduate, but from an unknown community college – and his GPA was nothing to write home about.

“So,” Winklestein continued. He had a prepared script. “I want you to work here in my office. Do your internship here.” His tongue did the licking thing again, this time taking in both top and bottom lips.

Robbie bit down on his own bottom lip. He was trying not to leer.

“What do you say?” Winklestein shuffled his buttocks and started to rise to his feet, appeared to think twice about it, and settled back against the hard leather.

Robbie’s mouth opened and closed. Like a goldfish. What could he say? There could be only one response. What’s the catch?

Winklestein shuffled again. This time he managed it all the way to his feet. He stood inches from Robbie; so close the twenty-two-year-old intern could smell the tobacco on his breath. “You really are a delightful thing,” Winklestein’s voice cracked a little. His left hand gently touched Robbie on the small of his back. The intern closed his eyes and suppressed a flinch. The film producer’s hand stroked his hip and then gently caressed Robbie’s left buttock. The smell of the tobacco increased with Winklestein’s wheezing.

“What you need young man,” Winklestein spoke clearly. “Is a darn good spanking.” He slapped the palm of his hand across Robbie’s left buttock. “And,” then he slapped the right cheek, “I think you know it.”

Robbie had taken an acting class or two at community college. That helped him in what happened next. “Yes, Sir,” he said with contrition. “I need to be punished.”

He suppressed his giggles. So the rumours about the old goat were true. Robbie had wondered why he had gotten an internship at the world’s top film company. He was glad he let his pal Arlo take those “artistic”  photographs to put in his portfolio.

“I’ve been a bad, bad boy,” Robbie prepared to launch into a soliloquy, listing his (supposed) misdeeds, but Winklestein cut him short.

“Darn right you have mister!” He walked a away across the office, wheezing, “and now you’ve got to pay for it.” Robbie watched as the film producer grabbed a straight-backed office chair and settled it clear of other furniture. Then, with hands shaking he undid his wide thick leather belt and tugged it free of his trousers. His belly flopped an inch downwards grateful to be released. Winklestein eased his flabby buttocks down on the hard seat. He looked across at Robbie, snapped his fingers and pointed to a spot close to his feet. “Stand there.”

Robbie moved slowly. Darn, he thought, if only he had been able to sneak Arlo into the office. His photographs would be dynamite.

“Take down your jeans.” It was a calm, clear instruction. Winklestein was in charge – and didn’t he know it. Just as calmly, Robbie dealt with the buckle of his belt and popped the button at his waistband. He felt Winklestein’s eyes burn into him as he tugged the metal zipper and let the jeans slip down his thighs to his knees.

A cheap novelist would at this point write that Winklestein’s eyes stood out on stalks. But that’s the only way to describe it. Robbie’s tight, ice-blue briefs clung to the contours of his body, hardly covering the young man’s dick and ball sack. Robbie couldn’t breathe. Blood rushed to his ears and his eyes welled. He was about to cry. No! That must not happen.

“Bend over my knee.”

Robbie knew he had to do this. His life was flipping burgers and crap rooming houses.  But that could be the past. Here was the future. Bending across Winklestein’s knee. Taking a spanking.

Robbie moved forward and rested his hands on Winklestein’s left leg, before slowly easing himself forward and placing both palms flat on the floor ahead of him. His legs were straight behind him with his pert butt bursting against tight cotton resting snugly over Winklestein’s right leg.

Robbie stared at the plush deep-pile carpet as Winklestein prepared. He used the young man’s back as a shelf and rested the belt, then with slow deliberate care he held the waist of the ice-blue briefs and pulled gently. First one cheek popped free, then the other. What delicious buttocks. Then Winklestein tugged the briefs down to the thighs. His heart skipped, the butt was as tanned as the rest of Robbie’s sexy body. Winklestein smacked his hand into the left cheek. “You been running around naked!” He slapped him some more; hard. Real stingers. Robbie gasped. The spanking was getting to him already and it hadn’t really begun.

Robbie couldn’t find his breath. His mouth was drying. Saliva collecting at his throat made him gag a little.

The intern was submissive. He knew Winklestein was in charge. This might be Robbie’s only chance in life. He raised his butt higher, making an easier target. It was as if he were saying, “I am a bad, bad boy and I deserve to have my bottom spanked. And you are the one to do it.”

Winklestein picked up the belt from off Robbie’s back. It was long; too long to whip Robbie at short distance, so he folded it into two pieces. He grasped it in his right hand and tapped it gently over the centre of the twenty-two-year-old’s buttocks; finding his spot, testing his aim.

Robbie sucked in air. His buttocks trembled, his hole winked and his crack opened and closed. It was a physical reflex, there was nothing he could do to control it. Winklestein licked his middle finger of his left hand and ran it down the hairless crack. He stopped at the hole. It was wide open and he inserted his finger gently. Robbie winced. Winklestein needed to cut his fingernails.

Winklestein raised his arm as high as it could go. Ready to lash the leather into the bared flesh. As hard as he possibly could. The buttocks clenched (another natural reflex) as Robbie had no control over them.

used drawing belt hold otk (7)

Whap. Crack! The sound of a thick leather belt connecting with bare flesh bounced around the huge office. Robbie’s eyes glared. Pain. It was not too bad. He kept still, butt still raised high. Waiting for number two.

It was not long coming. Winklestein usually spanked to a rhythm. He lashed the leather down, one whack every ten seconds. Again and again and again. In no time every part of Robbie’s sun-tanned buttocks were sunset red.

Then, Winklestein stopped. Robbie wheezed, gasping hard, he couldn’t suck air into his lungs. The pain grew in intensity. The bruises would be around for some time. No more hanging out at the beach.

But, Winklestein hadn’t done. He was only pausing; he gripped Robbie tightly at the waist, preparing an onslaught. Making sure the naughty little intern was going nowhere.

Swipe! The leather belt landed with maximum force with the power of a man possessed.

The belt rose and fell quickly. Robbie’s legs buckled at the knees. He kicked out. His body squirmed and his arms flailed. His ice-blue briefs were at his feet and they stopped him thrashing about too much, but then he kicked them clear and they landed yards away.

The relentless pounding continued. Robbie wanted to be brave, to be stoic and not cry out. That’s how a guy should take his spanking. Wasn’t it? Darn, but what if Winklestein preferred his victims to holler and scream. What if Robbie wasn’t doing it right. To go through all this and get it wrong. To miss out on the prize at the end. Robbie yelped; quietly at first and then a bit louder until he sounded like a little whipped puppy.

With no let up on the downward strokes, Winklestein grabbed Robbie’s right arm and roughly shoved it up his back, so his hand was pinned at the shoulder blades. He was going nowhere until Winklestein said so. Winklestein could do what he wanted. Robbie was at his total mercy. He had no choice, he must lay there face down, bare butt high and take a severe spanking.

The belt went up and up and down. Up and down, at terrific speed. Robbie gasped in air, but couldn’t fill his lungs. He wheezed out breath and tried to counter the intense pain running from his ass and tingling every nerve in his body.

Tears flowed. Snot ran from his nose. Please God in heaven make sure I’m doing this right, he prayed.

Robbie felt a movement in Winklestein ’s body. The film mogul rested the belt on the small of the intern’s back. Winklestein had his own problems breathing. He was exhausted himself.

Robbie was still across his knees, but Winklestein had let go his grip. Robbie could stand up and flee if he wanted to. He didn’t. His breathing was easier now, he was calming down. He would stay in position until Winklestein said he could get up.

It was taking a long time. Robbie hoped he was not just resting and finding energy for another attack on his scorched buttocks. He had had enough; he couldn’t take any more.

Then Winklestein spoke. “Get up. Slowly.” Robbie put both hands on the floor ahead of him. Lifted his body from Winklestein’s knees and tried to stand, but stumbled forward, hitting the floor where he stayed a while, his whole body shaking.

Robbie lifted himself off the floor onto his knees. His forehead bounced against the carpet as he gasped and wheezed, trying to get the energy to stand. Winklestein sat in his chair, his feet inches from Robbie’s face. The intern leaned forward and puckered his lips, kissing Winklestein’s left foot and then his right.

Two minutes later, Robbie closed the office door behind him. Not many words had been spoken. Winklestein dismissed him curtly and sent him back to the mailroom. As Robbie slouched towards the elevator he heard the PA Guy speak to a young man in a business suit. “Mickey, Mr. Winklestein will see you now.”

Picture credit: Endart

 

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Commander Reynolds’ rooming house

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Quarterly performance review

z used drawing paddle hold (20)

Tyler rose from the desk in the workstation, lifted his jacket from the back of the chair and climbed into it. Nervously, he ran his tongue across his cracked bottom lip. He buttoned up and headed for the office door, pausing in front of a window to check himself out. Usually, he liked what he saw; a twenty-three-year-old man, lean and fit (in at least two senses of the word). He straightened his tie and ran his fingers through his hair. He checked his watch, he mustn’t dawdle, he daren’t be late. Not for his quarterly performance review.

Mr. Ferguson was an elderly man, at least in his fifties, Tyler reckoned. His hair was thinning and he tried (with woeful lack of success) to disguise this evident fact by combing what few strands he had left over his bald pate. His shaggy grey moustache and large rimless spectacles aged him further. But, more than that, what made Mr. Ferguson appear like a relic from a by-gone age was his tight-fitting light grey suit and amber waistcoat.

Tyler stood respectfully in Mr. Ferguson’s office, feet slightly part, hands behind his back, head bowed. He accepted Mr. Ferguson was in charge. He was the boss. Nobody thought to deny that. Mr. Ferguson’s desk was huge and for the most part empty. It was the colour of a light wood and had a grain pattern running through it, but it was made from some artificial material. As was all the furniture. The boss might look as if he belonged fifty years in the past, but it was an illusion. Behind him was a computer and printer and it was through these that Mr. Ferguson was receiving a copy of Tyler’s work performance.

While the printer whirled, Tyler stared apprehensively at the two straight-backed, armless chairs that stood between himself and the desk. Each of them was the perfect height for a young man to bend across to offer up his backside for punishment. The huge desk was both wide and deep, but it was also a little higher than average. Tyler could see himself spread-eagled across it.

Mr. Ferguson perused the sheaf of printed notes now in his hands. Tyler could not bear to look at him, he would find out soon enough what his boss thought of his work. Instead, he concentrated on the three-drawer metal filing cabinet in the far corner of the room and the stout wooden paddle he supposed was nestling somewhere inside.

Mr. Ferguson placed his notes on the desk and addressed Tyler. The young insurance claims adjuster’s eyes blinked uncontrollably. His heart raced, his palms sweated. The voice seemed to be coming from a long distance, as if from a mountain top. What was it his boss was saying?

@

Tyler slowly unclasped his belt and unbuttoned his trousers. He pushed them over his hips and let go. From there they slithered slowly down his legs.

A breeze from the nearby open window brushed against his naked legs as he awaited the next command.

Tyler looked over at his boss; in his hands was a wicked-looking school paddle, around two feet in length. It looked mighty heavy and had about a dozen holes drilled along its length. Mr Ferguson’s manic grin exposed decaying teeth as he pointed to a spot on the floor in front of him, “Please
bend
over and touch your toes.”

Submissively, Tyler did as he was told.  He rubbed his hands together, flexed the muscles in his arms, arched his back and stooped forward to present his buttocks for a thrashing. With his feet planted a yard apart and his legs straight, he was in the perfect position. His bottom was thrust up with only the thin material of his underpants between him and the wood. He felt like his arse was on offer, raised provocatively to his master.

Mr Ferguson waited. There was no need to hurry.

“You’ve been late for work too many times, lad. You take long lunches and, my God! your closure rates this quarter are appalling.” Mr. Ferguson swished the paddle through the air as he catalogued Tyler’s faults.

Bent double, with his fingertips touching his toes, Tyler was in no position to argue. It didn’t matter what he had to say in mitigation (in truth he had nothing, he was guilty as charged on all counts), his boss had already decided on his course of action. The twenty-three-year-old had no real choice but to obey: for him it was swats from the paddle or the unemployment line.

His bottom was thrust out backwards invitingly as he touched his toes, stretching the cotton underpants tight. Tyler’s hair tumbled forward and his buttocks trembled nervously, making ripples in the fabric that betrayed his growing apprehension as he waited for the swats to begin.

Mr. Ferguson believed there was no point spanking a boy unless it hurt, so he always paddled on the bare buttocks. He set the wood down on his desk and approached Tyler from behind. In one swift movement he grasped the young man’s underpants at each hip and gently lowered them down his thighs until they rested precariously at his knees. One sharp move from Tyler would see them tumble down his shins to a final resting place at his feet.

Tyler’s buttocks were creamy white and hairless. It was obvious he had recently shaved: back and front. The young man felt incredibly foolish, his bottom bared, offered for chastisement to this older man. He twitched in anticipation as his boss moved behind him. Surely, he was ready now? Why did he always play these games; making him wait, and wait, before cracking the first agonising swipe across his bum?

His boss’s cold hands rested on his tender mounds as he slowly pushed the tail of his jacket well clear of his target. Nearly ready, the tip of Mr. Ferguson’s tongue licked his lips, as he gripped the paddle and began tapping it gently on Tyler’s bare bum. Slowly, he removed the wood and then lashed it down viciously into his naked haunches. Tyler gasped as the pain kicked in. That first searing swat reminded him just why the paddle was to be feared.

After a long pause, stroke two slashed down, slicing into his sore cheeks with real force. His arse throbbed and ached. CRACK!  Mr. Ferguson whipped a third swat down on the bare buttocks. The cheeks gave way as the paddle sank into the fleshy buttock cheeks.

Another stroke followed and landed just below the first. This time the young man gasped and felt tears coming into his eyes as the intense sting burned deep into his bum, The following swats landed lower down before he could catch his breath another lashed right into his sit-spot where the cheeks met the thighs.

As he struggled for breath, Tyler felt the gentle (reassuring almost) touch of his boss’s hand on his back, just between his shoulder blades, this was before a further three swats lashed across his bottom leaving him yelling and crying bitterly as Mr. Ferguson raised bruise after bruise across his sorry burning backside.

Mr. Ferguson was enjoying this. He adjusted his own trousers and raised the paddle once more before whipping it down viciously. The blast of this thwack! resounded all around the small office.

Then there was an eerie silence, broken only by Tyler’s gulps and gasps for breath and his sobbing. Mr. Ferguson stepped back and looked at the boy still bent over, his buttocks quivering.

“It’s over”, he said. “You can get up now.”

Tyler managed to raise himself up, the change of position made his arse hurt even more; how he wanted to rub it, but he knew his master never allowed that till you left the office. In severe pain he bent and pulled first his underpants and then his trousers up over his blistered cheeks. The touch of cloth on burning flesh reignited the agony in his buttocks.

“I think you have learned your lesson, haven’t you?” his boss asked rhetorically, but Tyler tried to gulp a reply. He knew this was his cue to leave.

@

“Tyler, Tyler, are you even listening to me?”

The young man blushed to his hair. Mr. Ferguson laughed. This really was a delicious boy. His wide, open face always seemed to smile. The acne scars around his chin and throat emphasised, not diminished, his beauty. His hair was expensively cut, like the feathers of a bird. Oh, how he wished he could run his fingers through it.

Tyler shuffled his feet in embarrassment. He had not heard a single word his boss had spoken.

“I said, Tyler,” Mr. Ferguson said, waving the report at the young man, “this is an excellent set of results, you are doing very well.”

Somewhat confused, Tyler mumbled, “Thank you,” and then added rather contritely, “Sir.”

Mr. Ferguson grinned, the boy was scrumptious when embarrassed. “You’d better get back to work. Keep it up.”

Mr. Ferguson watched Tyler turn on his heels and make for the door. He looked delightful in his dark-blue striped business suit. He licked his lips as Tyler fumbled with the door handle. His eyes transfixed on Tyler’s round, firm buttocks filling out his snug-fitting trousers. “He has a bum that’s crying out to be spanked,” he told himself ruefully.

Other stories you might like

The boy in the kitchen

Skipping school to watch football

Caught in their underpants

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Changed Times 9. The truck

A glimpse into the near future. Other Changed Times stories are here.

z used bum bent over truck (1)

 

I thought Mr. Whittaker was kidding me when he said if I arrived late one more time he would make me take down my trousers and pants and bend over the back of the truck for a belt whipping.

Well, really. I’m twenty years old not some baby.

I hadn’t reckoned on the new law that allows employers to spank their younger workers. Nobody my age is safe now.

I’m not good in the morning. I always wake up with a raging hard-on and it takes me half an hour to deal with that (you don’t want to hurry these things) and then if the bus is delayed or full I’m late for work.

Mr. Whittaker is older than my dad; bigger and stronger too. It’s all the outdoor work we do. He keeps his corduroy trousers up with a thick, wide, leather belt. I tried to pretend I wasn’t late. I’d just been to the toilet for a slash, but he was having none of it.

I swear he grinned when he said, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Go stand by the truck.”

“But, Mr. Whittaker …” I wailed.

“Don’t ‘Mr. Whittaker’ me,” he sneered, reaching for the buckle of his belt. “We do this or you can go back to the dole queue.”

He had me there and he knew it. There are no jobs out there, especially not for young people. If you’re out of work for more than three months they send you to a workcamp. What happens there is a bit of a secret, but if the rumours are true I for one don’t want to go there.

Mr. Whittaker read my thoughts. “You’ve only got yourself to blame. Get outside.”

My legs felt like they were made of lead as I trudged out of the portable office and into the yard. The moment I was outside everything stopped and my workmates gathered around to see the fun. Some of the older ones had huge grins; they were going to enjoy the sport – me, bare-arsed across the truck. Sandy and Jake, two lads about my age, were deathly pale. They knew that it could be one of them next.

It was a late spring morning and quite warm, but I couldn’t stop shivering. I’d never been spanked before. That was bad enough, but I had to take down my jeans and boxers and let Mr. Whittaker see my cock and balls. And, Jesus H. Christ, my crack and hole when I bent over. And, now the whole firm was standing around as well.

Mr. Whittaker pulled his belt through the trouser loops with a flourish, like a magician pulling a cloth away during a trick. He’s got some beer gut and it turns out he doesn’t really need the belt to keep his trousers up. He wears it just for show, or maybe to have something at hand to whip his workers.

He folded the belt in two; it must have been a couple of feet long. He waved it around, just to make sure I knew what it looked like. It seemed very heavy, in the right hands it could take my arse off.

“Trousers and pants down. Come on.”

I resolved not to make a fool of myself by pleading for mercy or making a fuss, but I could not get my fingers to move.

“Do you want me to do it for you?” Mr. Whittaker snarled. I swear I heard a snigger somewhere in the audience. At last I had my own belt undone. I wear my jeans loose; we used to wear them half way down our arses, but they started arresting kids for indecency, so that fashion soon stopped. I undid the button on my jeans and they slipped down my legs. I was wearing blue boxers with white dots. My mum bought them for me, I don’t think I’ve ever bought my own pants in my life.

“Those too,” Mr. Whittaker nodded and swished his belt about again. I turned my back to the crowd, screwed my eyes tight and slowly lowered my boxers. More than one of the guys wolf-whistled. I only hope one of them wasn’t that poofter Barclay.

They could see my bare bum but not my tackle. I’m not usually this shy. I do a lot of football and we’re always together in the showers waving our willies around. No lady would be disappointed with me, if you get my drift.

“Over.”

There was no way out of this. I had to let this old man whip my bare arse with his belt. Mr. Whittaker had already lowered the truck’s tailgate, so I leant forward. It was just like bending across a table. I kept my knees together so they couldn’t see my crack, folded my arms and buried my head in them. I felt a warm breeze cross my naked bum. Then, Mr. Whittaker rested the heavy leather belt across the centre of my cheeks. He was taking aim.

He let fly. Crack, he got me right on the sit-spot, the soft underside of the buttocks. It hurt, but not as much as I expected. He whipped me again and again. There was a deathly hush, all you could hear was the leather cracking against my bum. I’ve got a bit of meat back there, so the belt sank deep. The belt was snaking around my buttocks and connecting with the side of my cheeks. Later when I had a look there were ugly purple welts.

I didn’t count the strokes, but later Sandy told me it had been fifty lashes. My bum was sore, but I wasn’t really in agony. My cheeks were a mess though, they were so criss-crossed with lines it looked like a map of Clapham Junction. The skin on my bum felt like leather.

The pain quickly eased, except for a couple of lashes that had hit on the back of my thighs. They throbbed a bit, especially when I sat down.

Mr. Whittaker seemed a little disappointed when it was over. He grunted to me to get dressed and hurried off to the toilet. My workmates carried on with their business.

Mr. Whittaker said no more about my spanking. Next day, I arrived on time find he had brought a thick, whippy, curve-handled cane and hung it on a nail on the office wall that he had hammered in specially.

 

Other stories you might like

 

The paper boy and Candy

Remembering Professor Price

The drunken neighbour

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

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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I feel like I’ve sat on a barbecue

A teenager’s tale

Max of the ‘Champion’ 1. The policeman

 

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

 

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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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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