An unexpected recollection

new story 2

z used otk pants down chair office straightladsspanked

I don’t know how to begin. It happened to me more than 35 years ago and I haven’t thought about it since. So why suddenly have I remembered? I don’t know. It happened at Christmas time, so maybe that’s what’s sparked it.

I don’t know how to write a short story. How do you start? What comes next? How does it finish? I Googled “Writing Short Stories” and it said there’s an eight-point story arc. I’ve no idea what that means so let me just tell it as it comes to me and we’ll see where that takes us.

It was nineteen-eighty-two in Huddersfield. That’s a town in Yorkshire in the north of England. It was a rundown place. All the mills had long since closed and nothing much had replaced them. I worked at a funeral parlour (I think the Americans call them morticians). I was eighteen and had been there since I left school. It was a family business: Shadrack and Son. There weren’t many of us there. How many people do you need to bury the dead? Old Mr Shadrack was the father and Young Mr Shadrack the son.

I never had a job title, but I was the office boy, I suppose. I did paperwork, ran errands and generally looked mournful around the place when potential customers came in.

It happened close to Christmas. Because a new year was about to start Old Shadrack had hundreds of calendars printed up. They had photographs of local places and a sad motto for each month. Most of all though they had the funeral parlour’s name, address and such like on them. My job was to put them in envelopes write the name of local dignities and the rest on the front and take them to the post office. Don’t ask me why Old Shadrack thought the Mayor of Huddersfield or Alderman Higginbottom would want a calendar from a funeral parlour hanging on their wall; mine was not to reason why. Fancy being reminded of death every day of the week. Especially since the Alderman would never see seventy-five again.

So, I was given the money for stamps and sent to the post office. I forget how much a single stamp cost back in those days but whatever it was multiplied by about two hundred came to a tidy sum. More than a week’s wages for me.

Well, I figured, who would ever know? I was a kid and money was always short. There were records to buy and football matches to attend and new clothes to be worn. And, of course, Christmas was coming. Wasn’t I entitled to a Christmas bonus? My work was arse-achingly boring and sitting in that stuffy office day after day with the stench of embalming fluid always in my nostrils …

Sorry, I’ve strayed from the plot a bit. It didn’t take me long to decide what to do. I hid the calendars under my bed and in a manoeuvre that some would say had military precision over the next few days I transferred them twenty or so at a time to the local refuse dump. I kept the money.

To be honest with you I should make it clear that my story isn’t one of those “Northern” stories of abject poverty and destitution. I did not live on bread and scrape, nor did I go to work each day with the arse hanging out of my trousers. My boots (boots! Who am I kidding) were not falling from my feet. There was no weekly trip to the pawn shop to get a few coppers on the bed lining. Am I over doing this do you think?

What I’m trying to say is that I stole the money because I wanted to, not because I had to. I lived with my parents who were both in secure jobs (hurrah for the local council) and was well looked after. The money would be spent in the pubs and the clubs that were being to open around town (yes, even in Huddersfield) for the newly-wealthy young.

I suppose it was a month or so later when it happened, the thing I’m trying to tell you about. Certainly Christmas had come and gone and we had seen in the New Year. Old Shadrack was himself a member of all kinds of local clubs and organisations (Rotary, the Lions) and more churches than you could shake a stick at. Churches are full of old people and old people die and the families of the deceased like to do their funeral business with people they know. At one and the same time Old Shadrack must have been a Catholic, a protestant, an Anglican, a nonconformist and (no surprise here) a Jew (no offense meant).

Sorry, I’ve lost the plot. Old Shadrack was a man who knew the value of a shilling and was keen to make sure his glossy calendars were paying for their keep. I can imagine the conversations he must have had. “Calendar Shadrack? No, I don’t think I received one from you this year. Sent in the post you say.”

By the time he had heard this for the fourth or fifth time, he was on to me. Shall I describe Old Shadrack to you. He was a tall, wiry man of about sixty years, I guess. He was broad at the shoulders and not as wide at the waist as people like my dad. He had very little hair and what there was he brushed across his head from left to right. We used to call it a Bobby Charlton, like the famous footballer, although he had stopped playing ten years before. He was much taller than me (Old Shadrack, not Bobby Charlton). His face was gnarled and lined and he always looked as miserable as sin. I don’t know for sure if he was really like that as a person, but it was how he conducted himself at all times. After all, who wants to see a funeral director grinning from ear to ear?

So, one day he calls me into his office to have it out with me. He says he’s heard the calendars weren’t delivered and do I know anything about it. I says back that I know nothing; I says I posted them etc. etc. Old Shadrack just looks at me really mournfully. Like I was a customer just come into the shop to tell him his whole family has been wiped out in a car crash in the High Street.

“Nay, lad, think ont,” he says. He had a thick Yorkshire accent. I don’t know how to write Yorkshire, so I’ll just put it down in plain English. He says to me, No, lad. Think carefully about it. He speaks like he’s carrying the weight of the whole world on his shoulders. You’re in a hole, don’t dig yourself in any deeper. Then he asks me again whether I know about the calendars and I confess to it.

There are no tears, no hand-wringing. I am not hanging my head in shame. Why did you do it lad? He asks and I tell him, Because I wanted the money. That was it really. Like I said before this was nineteen-eighty-two, not nineteen-thirty-two. I didn’t have to beg for my job. If he sacked me I wouldn’t starve. I’d just go and get another one somewhere; equally as boring no doubt but there you are.

I didn’t intend to look or sound smug, but I reckon that’s how Old Shadrack heard my confession. He flares at me and says something like, This is theft lad. Real theft. A crime. I should call the police. They could put you away. What would your mother say?  She’d die of shame.

It was then I think I remembered something that had been in the news a lot at that time. There was a lot of problems with juvenile delinquents (so-called) and the Tory Government had introduced something they called “The Short, Sharp, Shock.” It was where they sent young people away to borstal-like institutions and they had to live on bread and water or some such. I might not have got the details quite right there, but it was like some kind of military boot camp.

They didn’t have corporal punishment. Not like in the olden days. Mind you there was quite a lot of people around, including members of parliament, who were shouting, “Bring back the birch!” There was a lot of football hooliganism around, where rival supporters would beat each other up and vandalise towns and such like. The football club in Leeds, which is just down the road from Huddersfield, had a particularly vicious set of hooligan followers. One of the stars of the team had said that football hooligans should be birched with their trousers down on the pitch at Elland Road in front of all the supporters. Imagine that on Match of the Day on Saturday night telly. Let Gary Lineker, or whoever presented it back then, make a silly pun about that. Come to think of it wasn’t it Jimmy Hill? Now, he looked the type who wouldn’t mind being the one holding the birch.

Sorry, I’ve strayed again haven’t I. So, Old Shadrack says I could be reported to the police and sent away. Even for a first offence. That, he says, as if he is very knowledgeable about such things, is the point of the Short, Sharp Shock. It’s to stop young people re-offending. So by now, as I remember it after 35 years, I am more than a bit concerned. I stole the money, I’ve been found out, I am guilty as hell. If the police are called they have me bang to rights and within no time I will be carted off to borstal (or whatever they called it in the nineteen-eighties).

I am no longer the cocky, confident boy who doesn’t care too much about losing his job. And Old Shadrack rubs it in some more by saying that once I have a criminal record, especially for thieving from my employer, I won’t ever be able to get a decent job again. He lets all that sink in. I am stewing now.

This is when Old Shadrack tells me it does not have to be like this. The police don’t have to be called. I don’t have to get carted off to choky. Anyway, he says, the publicity in the local newspaper would be bad for his business. People will think he’s a fool. He says all this and I am standing there in front of him every inch like a naughty boy called into the headmaster’s office. I felt like it too, even though I was eighteen at the time. He goes on and on at me about how bad and wicked I have been and I just stand there, staring down at my feet (like you do in this kind of situation) and I have no idea where Old Shadrack is going with his monologue.

Then he gets to the point. I will have the money I stole stopped from my wages and I must take a spanking. Spanking? I didn’t understand. Spanking? What did he mean exactly? This was the nineteen-eighties and corporal punishment was unheard of. Schools were giving up the cane and I didn’t know of anyone who had ever been walloped at home.

I didn’t express my ignorance out loud but maybe the dumb expression on my face encouraged Old Shadrack to put some flesh on the bones of his proposition. He says to me the idea is I take down my trousers and bend across his knees and he smacks me on my behind. He said it as “but-tocks” as if it was two words.

Now, don’t forget this was nineteen-eighty-two, not today. Today if an older man tells a younger lad to take down his trousers and bend across his knee we’d all go, “Woooah. He’s a woofter.” And we might even call the cops on him. It’s true corporal punishment wasn’t much in use back then, but I think we all still understood the concept of it. Remember all those MPs calling for the return of the birch. You break a rule, you misbehave, you steal from your employer, you get punished. I was (am) no philosopher, but I got that.

Well, he says this to me calmly and gets up from behind his desk. I say nothing back because I don’t know what to say. I haven’t decided what to do although anyone in my situation with an ounce of sense would be unbuckling his belt and pulling the fly on his trousers. While I’m dithering Old Shadrack is pulling a chair into the middle of the office. It’s just a cheap plastic office chair. I’m not sure why I remember that.

“Well,” he says again, and he sits down. He stares at me while he wriggles his bum to get comfortable. I stand there not knowing what to do. What would you do if it were you? Would you go across the knee of your boss? Let him spank your bum like you were what, nine years old? I don’t suppose I was a very bright lad. If I had been I would have realised straight away that I could never get away with stealing the stamps money. I wouldn’t be in this situation. Okay, so I wasn’t bright, but I wasn’t entirely dumb either. Old Shadrack was offering me a way out. Go over his knee get my but-tocks smacked and live another day. I didn’t have a great debate with myself. I had an instinct for self-preservation.

I was wearing dark grey trousers which were part of a suit, but I had left my jacket on the back of my chair. It was always there. It was an old trick, you could skive off for hours on a mission for yourself but if you left your jacket on your chair people assumed you had just popped out for a moment – to the bogs or somewhere.

Sorry, let me get back to the plot. I was wearing dark grey trousers and a white shirt. I could have passed for one of the sixth-formers at the local grammar school. Except for my hair was quite long and untidy in the style of the time. I knew I was going to go through with it. I was going to take my spanking. Maybe I even gave a heavy sigh at the inevitability of it. Anyhow, I unbuckled my belt and loosened the waist of my trousers. Have you ever done this? Stood in front of a guy sitting on a chair, his legs parted and waiting patiently for you to prepare yourself to be spanked? I surprised myself by how calm I was. I tugged on the zipper and the trousers slithered down my thighs. If I close my eyes now as I write this I can picture the scene perfectly.

The trousers snag at my knees so I reach down and push them so they end up bunched over my shoes. I am wearing fashionable underpants (light blue, if I recall correctly). Old Shadrack looks at me; he seems unconcerned. My own pulse rate is quickening. I have never before stood in my pants in front of another man – not even a doctor.

Old Shadrack wrinkles his nose like there’s maybe a bad smell somewhere and then he says, “Get on with it lad. Bend over my knee.” I hesitate. I don’t know what to do. I mean I don’t know how to do this. I have never been spanked and have never seen anyone else being spanked. I relied on instinct. I stood to Old Shadrack’s right hand side and put my hands on his thigh and then slowly lowered myself over. The rest was pretty straightforward. I reached my arms out in front of me and rested the palms of my hands against the hard wooden floorboards. Everything else took care of itself. My toes touched the ground behind me and my bum (the target area as it were) was angled over his right thigh. It was surprisingly comfortable, but what was to happen next was far from that.

Old Shadrack was in complete control. I felt a bit of a ninny bent over his knee submissively waiting for the spanking to begin. I had no idea how much this would hurt me. A lot, I supposed. Wasn’t that the point of it? A spanking should be painful otherwise why take all that trouble.

It was a first for me but clearly not for Old Shadrack. I felt him take hold of the tail of my white shirt and gently push it up my back; not far but enough to keep it clear of the target area. Old Shadrack patted my bottom and gently rubbed the palm of his right hand across my right buttock and then the left. He was making sure all the creases in my cotton underpants were smoothed out. I couldn’t see (obviously, as I was staring at the floorboards) but my pants must have now fitted like a second skin.

I felt his body move and he gripped me around my middle. This shocked me. Old Shadrack had me pinned down; my head low and bottom high. There was no escape. He tells me that although he is using his hand and it is on my underwear it is still going to sting and he expects me to stay in position. Next thing a sharp smack strikes me across the underside of my right cheek, followed by another on the right. Within seconds Old Shadrack had smacked me across both buttocks; he went round the circuit hitting the undersides, the top of the mounds and across the fleshiest parts. Each slap was not particularly painful but he hit hard and fast and the ache of the spanking quickly built up. I wriggled my body from left to right and my arms flailed. It was like I was trying to swim away off his lap.

Old Shadrack knew his business. He increased the strength of his grip. I wasn’t going anywhere. Not until he was ready. He didn’t say a word. The only sounds in the small office were the slaps of his palm against the tight flesh of my bum and my increasingly heavy breathing. It hurt, but to be honest I was not in much pain.  My buttocks must have been warm to the touch. My wriggling and writhing was a reflex action to the assault on my body, a more experienced boy could have taken that spanking without fuss.

Suddenly he stopped. I was staring down, catching my breath. It was over. I expected him to release his hold on me to let me to stand. Instead, I felt his body move once more. He had gripped the elasticated waistband of my pants. I voiced a protest. Old Shadrack said nothing. With three tugs he exposed enough of the bare flesh on my rear end for his purposes. The spanking resumed at what seemed to be double the speed and twice the strength. The skin on Old Shadrack’s palm was hard and gnarled. Without the protection of my cotton briefs the pain I experienced increased many fold. I had never felt such hurt before. He could have been using a hairbrush on me.

So there I was bare arse to the wind feeling very foolish indeed while Old Shadrack hammered his hand across my naked bottom. I had no idea what a strong man he was. The strength in his right hand seemed to grow not diminish. When would it end? It took all my self-control to stop crying out, “Stop! Stop!” My bum feels like it’s been set on fire. I try to reach back with my hand to protect myself, but so total is Old Shadrack’s domination he has me positioned across his knee at an angle so that’s physically impossible. I told you he had done this before. He gives me ten or a dozen really hard swats like he’s punishing me for trying to cover up. If I had any sense I’d just let him get on with spanking me, it would hurt less in the long run. As Old Shadrack beat into my rump I silently vowed never to steal again.

It was about then that there was a slight tap on the door. A voice outside spoke softly. Mr Shadrack, it says, Mrs Boycott is here to see you. The voice is Young Shadrack and Mrs Boycott is a bereaved widow. We have her husband downstairs waiting to be embalmed. Old Shadrack makes a kind of grunting sound and says he’ll be along in a moment. He seems disappointed to be interrupted. I had been over his knee for about five minutes. He releases his grip and I slide off his knees onto the floor. My bottom is very tender. There is no mirror in the office so I have to swivel my body a little to get a view of my bum. The sight astounds me. Not a square inch has been left unattended. Both cheeks and the back of my thighs are a deep pink. I am astonished to see the outline of Old Shadrack’s hand reproduced time and again across my flesh. Hurriedly, I pull up my trousers and pants and tuck in my shirt. My face is burning and must be as red as my bottom. Without a word Old Shadrack leaves the room.

Old Shadrack never spoke to me about the incident. I avoided him as much as humanly possible, which wasn’t easy in a small firm. Soon I forgot about it entirely. After a few months I had repaid the stolen money. I celebrated this by handing in my notice at Shadrack and Son. I moved to Manchester and took a job in the Co-op where I have worked ever since.

I still don’t know what it was that made me think about that spanking after all these years, but I’m glad I shared my tale with you. I wonder how many other people out there also went across Old Shadrack’s knee.

 

Picture credit: straight lads spanked dot com

Other stories you might like

Don’t Knock it Until You’ve Tried

Public Birching

Rock n Roll Sinner

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The liquor store

new story 2

z used otk sport shorts car outdoors northernspankingdotcom (1)

Hal hated his job at the liquor store in Snarlesville.  The hours were bad and the pay poor. The only consolation was he could take home a bottle or two under his coat from time to time – if he sneaked them from the room at the back away from the CCTV cameras.

He did the night shift which meant there was usually only himself and a junior clerk (on even a worst salary than he). The store was in an upscale strip mall and truth to tell at weekends he sold more merlot than Bud. During the summer trade was good right up to closing time at eleven. He liked it to be busy, it helped the time pass. He had a small television set behind the counter so he could watch his game shows when things got slow.

It could’ve been worst. He was in a suburb far from the inner city; there were no shootings in this territory. No one tried to hold-up the store. Drug dealing was unheard of. It was a peaceful community. The Church was big thereabouts and mainly the kids were good. They didn’t give him much trouble, except when they did.

There was a bunch of them who hung out at the strip mall. There wasn’t much else to do but it was better than being at home. Naturally, they saw the liquor store as a challenge. You had to be twenty-one to buy booze. Kids were the same all over; they just had to get their hands on it. Fake IDs were everywhere. Why did they bother, Hal thought. A cute twenty-one-year-old might pass himself off as eighteen, but not the other way round. It didn’t stop them trying. When they did, Hal sent them away with a curse in their ears.

The Church got worked up over it. Drink, the Devil and the rest of it. Pastors preached to their congregations about the evil of alcohol. It made Hal smile, but he wouldn’t let on what he knew; a liquor store was a little like a confessional sometimes. He didn’t have much schooling, he didn’t know the meaning of the word “hypocrisy”.

One day he was visited at the store by a group of women in hats. At least they’d left their tambourines at home. They had more sense than to try to get him to close down the liquor store, there wasn’t another one for miles. But, they wailed, “Save Our Children!” They meant, of course, don’t sell to their kids.

Hal was a man of God himself. He always trod the straight and narrow (except when he was in the back room of the store). It was no deal to him, the store did pretty well and it didn’t need the kids’ business. Besides, he was on a salary, so why should he care?

Not long after the small community was rocked by scandal. Well, “rocked” and “scandal” might be stretching it a bit, but it was a tiny town. One evening just after school closed for the summer a bunch of kids got hold of some booze and partied on down in the woods. There were some mighty sore behinds by the time the fathers put their paddles back in their woodsheds. Nobody blamed Hal; it wasn’t his fault, the booze hadn’t come from him. Turned out the kids snuck it out of the liquor cabinets in their homes. No wonder the dads were so mad.

After the spankings there were the groundings and the curfews. It became like a mini police state. Booze was definitely off limits. Another batch of womenfolk paid Hal a visit. They brought family photos of their kids. “If they turn up at the store, call us,” they demanded. They had a list of phone numbers a half-mile long to keep behind the counter.

“No,” he said, no way was he going to run around after these dames. “You want to catch them you be here any Friday evening about eight. That’s when they come.” He muttered under his breath and turned back to Family Fortunes on the small screen.

They spread the word! Armistead down at the Church got to hear about it. He had no kids of his own; he’d never married. How could he with what he earned? Not that he ever found a girl. That worried him sometimes, he thought people gossiped about him. Forty-five years old and not married. You know how folks talk.

Armistead wanted to help; it was the Lord’s work! On Friday the following week, he took his car to the mall and parked up. It wasn’t busy and he got close enough so he could see the entrance to the liquor store. He was on a mission. There were souls to save. No drop of liquor had ever passed his lips, Praise The Lord! He thought of the fathers and their paddles. Spare the rod, spoil the child! Halleluiah! He sat and waited.

Tommy was driving out on the freeway and did he need to take a leak, and how. If he didn’t take drastic action he would wet his snug sport shorts. He spotted a sign up ahead: Snarlesville  – his salvation! Minutes later he pulled his battered pick-up in a strip mall where there was gas station with a restroom. He made it just in time. When he finished he checked himself out in the mirror. He liked what he saw. His torso was a temple; it ought to be he spent hours in the gym. His tailored sport shorts and t-shirts emphasised the contours of his body. His fair hair and blue eyes were complemented by his unblemished skin. He ran his tongue over his dry lips, “Some girl is going to be very happy tonight,” he told himself.

He was walking across the parking lot when he spotted the liquor store. He checked the pocket in his shirt; he had his wallet. Might as well get a six-pack for later. He made toward the store. Tommy was nineteen, a city boy and no stranger to booze. Of course his ID was fake. He knew that and the store clerks back home knew that, but who cared?

About a hundred feet away Armistead was getting very excited. He saw Tommy from behind as he strolled towards the store. He couldn’t see the boy’s face, but that worried him none. No way was he twenty-one. He followed behind. Praise the Lord! There was work to be done.

Tommy took his beer to Hal. He didn’t recognise Tommy either, but he knew a forged ID when he saw one. “No way, this is a fake,” he handed it back. Tommy shrugged his shoulders: you win some, you lose some. He tried to turn to leave but his way was blocked.

“Not so fast, bud, come here.” A strong hand gripped him by the shoulder while another tugged at his hair. In a fair fight he would have pulverised his attacker, but he was caught off guard. And, off balance. Armistead dragged him from the shop and Tommy’s feet scootered across the hot asphalt. “What the fuck!” the teen yelled but the unexpected assault left him breathless. Within seconds Armistead had him at the car. He’d left the door open especially. He sat on the backseat and dragged Tommy so that he fell forward and across his lap. He pinned him down with his left arm and pounded the teen’s tight, round bottom with his right palm.

“Worr… gerroff! Help!” Tommy was stunned. He couldn’t move in the closed space of the car. His nose was pressed against some foul smelling leather. Smack, smack, smack. Armistead spanked Tommy’s rear end with enthusiasm. His palm tingled as it smacked into the teen’s rock hard rear. The kid hollered and wriggled, but he was stuck fast. He was going nowhere.

Yards away a small crowd had gathered. Bored teens snickered and cat-called. Two aged matrons shuffled to the side of the car to get a better view of Tommy’s beautiful buttocks. The more Armistead spanked, the harder his hand hurt: only now did he think to have gotten a paddle from one of those fathers.

Armistead realised he wasn’t having much effect. His hand was hurting more than the boy’s butt. Drastic action was needed. He grabbed at the elasticated waist of Tommy’s shorts, sending the teen in a paroxysm of spasms. He fought and cursed like a trooper. Armistead nearly had the tight cotton shorts over the boy’s buttocks, but he was a strong fighter. The older man would need to lift the boy off his lap and inch or so if he was to bare Tommy’s butt. He released his grip on his back for a second. That was enough, the teen wriggled free of Armistead’s lap, hauled himself to his feet and while tugging his shorts back up to their rightful position he ran to his pick-up with the sounds of jeering voices sending him on his way.

He leapt into the cab, started the engine and sped from the parking lot, vowing never to return to Snarlesville.

Breathlessly, Armistead watched him go. The crowd dispersed and Hal returned to watching Jeopardy.

 

Picture credit: northernspankingdotcom

Other stories you might like

The sleep over

The spanking I thoroughly deserved

Caught smoking

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

First thing in the morning

new story 2

z used bed pants (1)

I woke this morning with a bit of a thick head. I’d had too much beer last night watching football on the telly. Manchester United, as if that’s relevant. Champions League. At home. They lost. Ha! Ha! When I’ve had a skin-full I get this dream and I wake up with a raging hard on. Of course, I have to toss one off, but it doesn’t do much good. I just get another stiffy and before I know it an hour’s gone by.

There’s a man in our street, I see him in the morning pass by our house. He’s on his way to the station. I call him Mr Black, because he’s always dressed in a dark suit. He carries a furled umbrella, come rain or shine. I sometimes imagine him in a bowler hat, although people don’t wear them anymore. I think he’s something in the City. A manager somewhere.

He’s old. Not real old; about as old as my dad I suppose. But that’s old enough. I like to imagine that I work at the same place as Mr Black and he’s my boss. Not in the office, I’m not clever enough to work in an office. We’re somewhere else, the stores or warehouse maybe. Mr Black is the big boss, not just the stores’ manager.

He’s come down from his office to find me. And he’s not happy. I’ve been bad. Not real bad, I haven’t been in a fight or stolen something. I’ve been late back from dinner hour, again. Or, I’ve been late into work in the morning too many times. Or, maybe I’ve been caught having a crafty fag in the bogs during the afternoon.

He calls me out. Everyone can see what’s happening. He’s in the middle of the shop floor (or whatever) and he’s standing there with his finger crooked and he signals for me to come towards him. I get all nervous, because I know I’ve been a naughty boy.

He has a moan about my lateness and I go “Yes sir. No sir. Sorry sir,” like you do, but I don’t really mean it. Then he says, “Right, let’s get on with it.” He finds a chair and he puts in down in the middle of the floor. Of course, everyone’s stopped working by now. They want to see the fun. And Mr Black sits down. He’s quite a size is Mr Black. He’s way taller than me and really broad at the shoulders. He’s not fat, but he does have a bit of a belly on him. But, too me at least, he looks really powerful.

He makes me stand right in front of him. “Hands on head,” he commands. I put my fingers together and do as I am told. I’m like a naughty boy at primary school. He doesn’t say anything, he just takes hold of the belt keeping up my jeans and he struggles a bit to get the buckle undone. He can’t quite work out how it fastens. I could give him a hand, but I like it more when someone else does it. At last he gets the belt undone. In my dream I’m getting turned on by this, especially when he takes that button on the waistband and opens it. Slowly, he is never in a rush, he slips down the zipper of my fly.

The front of my jeans are open and I feel a little breeze. Somewhere close by there must be a window open. The jeans are loose and begin to trickle down over my bum. I don’t have anything in the pockets so they aren’t heavy enough to slip down my legs. So, Mr Black grips each side of the waist and roughly pulls them down and they end up bunched over my trainers.

I am wearing snug-fitting glowing white Y-front underpants. I don’t have any in real life, but they are always in my dreams. Don’t ask me why. No one my age would ever buy them (although often I quite fancy them when I’m in Marks & Spencer’s with Mum).

“Bend over my knee,” Mr Black says. He is very quiet. He just says it, he’s not like some sergeant-major on a parade ground. He doesn’t bark out orders. With the jeans at my ankles I have to shuffle about like a penguin until I am standing just to the right of Mr Black. He’s thighs are strong and he is sitting with his back straight as a ramrod. He parts his knees just a little so he makes a platform for me to go across.

I never make a fuss. I have broken the rules and I must be punished. If Mr Black says I deserve a right good spanking I am not going to argue with him. I feel my heart beating hard under my blue t-shirt. It fits a bit too well and I wouldn’t be surprised if Mr Black sees my chest going in and out. I swipe the back of my hand across my nose. I don’t know why I do this, I am not about to sneeze or (God help us!) cry, so it must just be nerves or something.

I look down at Mr Black’s lap and I lean forward slowly. I rest my hands on his left thigh and ease myself down so that my stomach rests across him. Then, I stretch my arms out in front of me. The chair is quite tall but I can rest the palms of my hands on the floor. I have a close-up view of the old, dirty scratched tiles. I move my head a bit so I can see under the chair. There are my legs, dangling so that my toes hover just off the ground. My jeans cover my shoes and I can read words on the label: 30W 30L.

I wait. I am meek and submissive. Every pair of eyes in the storeroom are on me and I am loving it. I feel Mr Black take hold of my t-shirt and pull it up my back. He takes it as far as possible so it is almost at my neck. I shudder and it’s not because of the draught. In my dream I have a bird’s eye view. I can see myself draped over Mr Black’s knees. My head is low and my body is at an angle so my bum rests over his right thigh. My cock and balls are squashed against his leg. I have quite a nice bum (in real life, as well) and my waist is firm. The cheeks are round and tight. They’re small enough for Mr Black to cover a whole one with his hand. He is testing this out now. He caresses first the left and then the right buttock, smoothing down the cotton of my underpants as he goes. For good measure, he then rubs the back of my bare thighs. I squeal with pleasure.

He is ready now. He lifts his hand away from my bum a metre or so and then cracks his palm into the middle of my right cheek. The smack! as it connects is loud and sends an echo across the storeroom. I feel it, but to be honest it doesn’t hurt much. He spanks me on the other cheek. He always starts slowly. I suppose he is warming himself up (and of course warming me up). He keeps up a slow tempo and I stare down at the ground, occasionally I will look under the chair at my feet. They are still dangling. I am not wriggling or writhing or anything like that; there is no need to. I’m not one of those who thinks he has to put on a bit of a show while he’s being spanked. I don’t go in for the “ooh, ahhhs” that some people do. If it genuinely hurts, I’ll soon let you know.

Mr Black ups the rhythm and now he is hammering his hand all over my buttocks at great pace. That does hurt and I find myself twisting and turning over his knee. He presses his left hand into my shoulder blades to keep me a bit steady. I love being pinned down. He whacks me like this for a minute or so. I lose sense of time when I’m spanked. I suppose it doesn’t go on for too long. Just until I soil the bedsheet.

Mr Black takes a rest. Maybe his hand is hurting more than my bum. He hasn’t finished though. I wait with great anticipation. I know what’s coming next (it’ll soon be me!). He takes hold of the waistband of my pants and starts to pull. He gets them over my mounds but can’t tug them right down because they are stuck at the front. Without being told, I lift my body off his lap just enough to let him yank them down. He leaves them bunched up at my knees. I hear murmurs of approval from my audience. They have seen just how red my cheeks are. They might not hurt much but they do show the signs of a sound spanking.

I am now naked from my neck to my knees. I continue to stare down at the floor. Mr Black puts his left arm around my waist and gathers my body closer to him. Then he wallops my arse. He puts all his strength into it and his palm crashes in and out of my flesh so quickly the echoes around the room sound like machinegun fire. This does hurt. I am truly and genuinely in pain. It is good that Mr Black has a firm grip on me because at this point I could try to roll off his knees onto the floor and escape.

I wouldn’t want to do that; I am enjoying this too much. Mr Black only ever spanks me with the palm of his hand. I never get him to use a belt or a brush or slipper. I don’t go in for the cane either. I have no desire to be sent to the headmaster’s study for six-of-the-best. For me it is as much the humiliation of being spanked in front of my fellow workers on my bare little bottom by an older, powerful man while held down firmly across his knee, that turns me on.

So he keeps whacking me on my bare bum and he’s covered all there is of it, from the top of the curves, over the mounds themselves and into the underside. I am well and truly toasted, so then he starts on the back of my thighs. That’s agony. I don’t know why being spanked on the thighs hurts more than the bum; is it something about nerve ends, or maybe there’s not so much padding there. I suppose I should Google it.

Now, my knees are buckling and my legs are kicking about. I almost lose my jeans but they are caught up in my trainers so they aren’t going anywhere. “Ouch, ouch, ouch!”

It’s about this time that I wake up with a boner so stiff it looks like there’s a tentpole in my duvet. Remember how that used to feel? Oh to be nineteen again, eh? Well I think that’s more or less where you came in. Me tossing myself off. Telling you this story has set me off again, so I’m going to lay back here and have another one. I know it will make me late for work again – hey, ho, what a pity Mr Black isn’t pacing up an down his office waiting for me.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

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The hotel room

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Mr Gregory and the work experience boy

new story 2

z used school office longs cane touch toes sting

Mr Gregory sighed deeply, his eyelids drooped. The office was hot and stuffy. The new central heating was always turned up too high. His throat was parched, his head ached a little (but that was almost certainly last night’s whisky). He let the document in his hand slip through his fingers and flutter to the desk. If he wasn’t careful, he’d be asleep any moment.

The office was large, too big really, he didn’t need much space. He was a boss and, of course, bosses don’t do much work. If you ask a boss what he does, he’ll likely say, “I’m responsible for …” a response to make the questioner retort irritably, “Yes, but what do you actually do?”

Mr Gregory was Administration Manager. He was responsible for all the staff in Administration at Mega Fastenings. That was just about everybody who wasn’t in sales or in purchasing; from the most junior to the senior. One of the juniors was troubling him at the moment.

Ian Norman wasn’t strictly-speaking a junior, he was a student attached for a year to the company for work experience. Mr Gregory didn’t much like young people; he didn’t understand them for one thing. Their daft haircuts, the clothes they wore, the music they played. His had been a mundane life; people his age had never been young. He was born in Bethnal Green, which despite its promising name was not a rural paradise. It was a poor area of London near the docks and heavily bombed by the German Luftwaffe. He left school aged fourteen and drifted aimlessly from job to job. Kids did in those days, there was plenty of work and nobody had much care for the future.

Mr Gregory had lived in Tylesbury for more than twenty years. It was what was still called a ‘new town.’. It had been built in the 1950s to house people cleared from the slums of London. Tylesbury was full of bright little homes for people to live in and factories and offices for them to work at. It was a socialist vision for the future.

He did his National Service in the Royal Air Force. It was in the Pay Corps so there was not much glamour in that. For the first time in his life, Mr Gregory found he was good at something. Mr Gregory was well-organised and meticulous. When he was demobbed he fetched up at Mega Fastenings on the Herbert Morrison Estate in Tylesbury and he had been there ever since; making his way from general clerk to the exalted rank of Administration Manager.

He would never say it out loud, but he resented the hell out of the university students who did work experience. Take Ian Norman, he was close to twenty-one years old and was already made for life. Mr Gregory had checked the lad’s personnel file: posh fee-paying public school; top university. His father was probably some top dog somewhere. In a proper big company, not some backwater like Mega Fastenings.

He resented Ian even more because he was lazy and arrogant. Of course Ian never said anything out loud, but Mr Gregory could smell the scent of superiority on him. He was better than Mega Fastenings, he was here because it was a requirement for his BSc in Management Science (whatever that was, Mr Gregory certainly didn’t know). He’d go through the motions, get his degree and probably daddy would set him up somewhere. Bah!

Well, Mr Gregory’s head nodded over his desk. He would see about that. He had a way to deal with lazy juniors. A tried and tested method. All very informal, of course; nothing written down. It would do Mr Ian Norman a power of good. Take him down a peg. Put him in his place.

The air in the office was muggy, he really ought to open a window. Mr Gregory’s throat was dry. How he could kill for a glass of whisky. A half empty bottle of Bells was in his bottom drawer.

He leaned into the intercom on his desk, pushed down the middle button and sent a message to his secretary. “Get Ian Norman, the work experience boy, to come to my office at five-thirty.” His face cracked. Both his nose and chin were pointed, when he cackled he looked like a witch. “There’s no need for you to be here, Miss Prentice,” he cleared his throat. Outside Miss Prentice glowered. “Indeed not,” she said to herself, “I go home at five.”

He must have dozed off. Before he knew it there was a confident knock on the office door. Mr Gregory started and stared across the room. He found it hard to concentrate. There was a lot of noise from traffic on the estate as people hurried to escape from work. His temples were throbbing a little.

Tap, tap, the knock came again. “Come in!” Mr Gregory’s voice was crisp and clear; it oozed authority. The door was opened confidently. A youth walked in, closing the door. His eyes searched around the room, at first ignoring Mr Gregory. He was looking for a chair, but there was none. He frowned and stood in front of Mr Gregory’s desk, feet slightly apart, hands clasped behind his back. Mr Gregory drank in the sight. Ian Norman was a little under six feet tall and a little on the stocky side. His hair was short, a crew cut growing out. He wore a white shirt, striped tie and pale grey trousers. If he were a couple of years younger, Mr Gregory thought, he could have passed for one of the senior sixth-formers at Tylesbury School.

Ian shuffled his feet; it was uncomfortable standing like this. In front of the desk; suddenly he had a flashback to one afternoon years ago in his housemaster’s study; it was not a pleasant memory.

Mr Gregory leaned forward; he stretched his arms wide and pressed the palms of his hands into the desk. This way his gnarled, lined face eased closer to the boy. Ian flushed, the stink of Mr Gregory’s breath repelled him. Mr Gregory had a speech prepared. He had memorised the student’s many faults. “You often arrive at work late,” he began, “You disappear for hours on end and nobody knows where you are,” he lied. “Your work is of a very poor standard,” he concluded.

Ian Norman stared in disbelief. He had no respect for his ‘boss’. What a loser. An old man stuck at some godforsaken outpost like Mega Fastenings. He resented being at the company. What could these people teach him. He just wanted the year out of the way, to get the credits on his academic record and move on.

“Not good enough, Mr Norman. Not good enough,” Mr Gregory leaned in closer. “It won’t do. Won’t do at all.” Ian blanched, the foul breath and the stare from the old man’s beady eyes unnerved him. “I intend to write to your supervisor at the university to tell him to remove you.” He sucked on his lower lip, savouring the moment. He had the brat just where he wanted him.

“But …” Ian began a protest. The accusations had shocked him. There was a grain of truth in them but he could not argue. Investigation once started might unearth other things more serious than being late for work.  His cynical indifference to the company and the little racket he had selling stolen company products might come to light.

“Indeed,” Mr Gregory grimaced. “If you return to the university in disgrace it will have a detrimental effect on your studies. I suppose you won’t be able to graduate?” He spoke as if it were a question, but it was a statement of fact.

Ian Norman stood silently. He was in deep water and he knew it. For the first time since his schooldays he was at someone else’s mercy.

Mr Gregory looked the youth up and down. He was a little podgy, and would soon run to fat. A few sessions in the gym or time on the football pitch would do him some good. “I am a fair man,” he intoned, as if he carried all the worries of the world on his shoulders, “I would not like to see a young man’s life ruined over something like this.” He was enjoying this: justice tempered with mercy. How could Ian refuse his offer. “I have my own way of dealing with wayward junior staff …”

He stood from his chair, and ambled across the room, delighting to see Ian’s eyes follow him. “Do you know what that is?” he halted at a wooden cupboard alongside a bookcase filled with lever arch files. He paused, actually expecting a response and when none came he wheezed, “Pah!” he leaned forward, opened the cupboard door and reached in. Ian Norman’s eyebrows arched. He thought he recognised the faint rattling sound.

Seconds later his suspicion was confirmed. Mr Gregory held a thin, whippy school cane. It was just like the one his housemaster used on him. Mr Gregory flexed it thoughtfully between his hands. It was about thirty inches long and as thick as a pencil; it had the traditional curved handle at one end. Mr Gregory swished it through the air.

“I think you know what happens now,” he growled. Usually at this point a junior clerk or whatnot might try a plea for mercy. “It’s the cane or the sack, it’s up to you. Choose now!” Mr Gregory would retort. Ian Norman stared at him sullenly. This was absurd. A twenty-year-old man forced to submit his backside for a caning from his boss. Whoever would imagine such a thing?

Mr Gregory felt the power of his position. “If you would stand on the rug there,” he pointed his cane to a spot in front of his desk. “And bend over and touch your toes please. All the way. Toes, not knees.” It excited him that Ian Norman stood silently. He flexed his cane and studied the young man’s face. He could read his mind. The game was up, the student had no choice. If he wanted his degree and the life he and his family had mapped out for him, he must go through with it.

Ian’s face paled, he turned his back on his tormentor, paused, psyching himself up, knowing matters had to take their course. He took a deep breath and bent forward. Despite his bulk he reached his toes with ease, his fingertips brushed against his shoes, his knees were straight, legs slightly apart. Mr Gregory watched with deep satisfaction. The boy’s bottom was round and beefy. The material of his trousers stretched across his buttocks so tightly Mr Gregory could see the outline of his underpants. He positioned himself to Ian’s side and swiped the cane through empty air one more time before tapping its tip against the centre of the boy’s right bum cheek. Tap, tap, tap. He enjoyed seeing Ian close his eyes and grit his teeth. He pulled the cane away, rose it high and brought it down with tremendous force across Ian’s buttocks. The boy flinched as the pain hit him, his face reddened, his mouth opened and a gust of wind escaped through his lips. A thin white line was embossed along the boy’s tight trousers.

Ian had a close-up view of his striped tie dangling in front of his face. He concentrated on a small stain near the tip. Mr Gregory flexed his cane once more. He looked across at Ian, bent submissively, offering up his backside for punishment.

Ian felt the cane tap against his stretched trousers once more. The first slash had burnt a welt across the centre of his bum; trousers and underpants weren’t much protection. Mr Gregory really laid it on. Any moment now. Ian knew it would hurt. A great deal. Swish! The cane swiped through the air and landed with even greater power, an inch lower than the first. Ian hissed, his head nodded back and forth. He couldn’t help it. It was a reflex action. There was nothing he could do about it.

Another landed. Ian’s buttocks were blazing. Mr Gregory was an expert with the cane.

Swipe number four connected with the top of his thigh. “Jeeeez!” He wriggled his hips left and right. Fingers left the toecaps of his shoes. He nearly jumped to his feet. That was low. Too low, he would have a deep purple mark there. The pain seared. He had never had a stroke of the cane hurt him so much.

Mr Gregory paused, allowing Ian to settle down. He took a careful aim, he hadn’t intended to whip the boy across the thighs. That was jolly bad form. He struck the next high, on the top of the curves and was pleased to be rewarded with a clear yelp. Good, the young pup needs it. That’ll knock some of the arrogance out of him.

Ian breathed hard. Welts had risen under his tightly-stretched underpants in neat parallel lines leaving a strip about two inches wide blazing across his buttocks. It felt like Mr Gregory had pressed a red hot poker into his bum.

Mr Gregory adjusted his position, placed the cane at a diagonal across both cheeks, so it went bottom left to top right. Tap, tap, tap. Ian tensed his whole body. His shoulders heaved. Whop! The cane flew at the speed of sound, crashing down into the boy’s bum. It connected with the welts already weeping under the boy’s pants, setting each one of them on fire again. Ian gripped his shins. He wanted to jump up and stamp his feet about, or march up and down like a sentry guard. But he managed to stay down. It was over. His bum felt like he had sat on a barbecue, but he had survived.

Mr Gregory slowly paced his office. Opened the door to his cupboard and returned the cane. He turned and looked across at Ian Norman, still bent double, touching his toes. Submissively.

There was a sudden rapping sound on the door. It opened and a small, fat woman entered pushing a trolley loaded with cleaning materials. “Sorry Mr Gregory,” she chirped cheerfully, pretending not to notice the man slumped, head down on his desk. “I thought you had gone home. Can I do you now sir?”

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Executive Assistant

new story 2

z used cane longs desk office or school sting adult (71)

Kingsley Brocas-Burrows stared down glumly at the desk. His buttocks ached on the hard chair. He spent most of his working day at a desk such as this. It was empty at the moment. The sun was rapidly disappearing and soon the office would be so gloomy he would need to switch the lights on. He sat, almost motionless. He didn’t care. Let it go dark.

Kinglsey was not a young man who spent much time in reflection; and certainly not self-reflection. But on this day he might make an exception. Why did he do this? Why was he wasting his life at this job?

He sighed inwardly, shuffled his buttocks some more before standing. The office was empty, everyone had left. The working day was over. People had gone home – to their real lives. He stretched his arms, wriggled his shoulders, snaked his hips. Slowly – simply to kill some time – he ambled to the window. He was on the second floor, there was not much of a view. The High Street below; Robinson’s Department Store opposite. He let out a long weary sigh. How had it come to this?

Executive Assistant at a marketing company. What was marketing anyhow? Damned if he knew. Executive Assistant: general dogsbody more like. Office boy really. His housemaster had warned him this would happen. “Slacking again Brocas-Burrows,” the old coot would intone as Kingsley submitted himself patiently; stretched across an ancient cracked leather armchair in the study. His trousers at the ankles, underwear at the knees. Head low, bottom high, while old Mr Plumptre lashed six stripes across his naked buttocks.

Plum had warned him he would fail his examinations. Kingsley duly did. In spectacular fashion. If there were prizes for failure he would have taken all the silver cups that year. “If you fail your examinations, you cannot go up to the university,” Plum had berated him. “Then where will you be?” Where indeed?

The eccentric “crammer” college his father then arranged for him to attend so Kingsley might resit his exams was useless. He and a further ten bone-idle duffers spent four months cooped up at some backwater called Brocklehurst. The college principal made them dress in school uniform with neat grey short trousers and knee socks. Eighteen-year-old men dressed as preparatory school boys. Kingsley idleness never abated. Mr Burlington, the principal, would often order Kingsley across his knee. The size twelve gym plimsoll he crashed into the seat of the teenager’s short trousers made no impact on his studies.

So now. Kingsley peered through the dirty window pane at people in the street below. Rain was spitting. Umbrellas were raised, shop girls wrapped their coats around themselves and dashed toward bus stops. How he wished he could join them. He glanced at his wrist watch. Almost time for his appointment with Mr Wilson-Smith.

Wilson-Smith was a contemporary of his father. Like Kingsley they were all old boys of St. Tom’s. The old school tie. It was that informal network that had landed him the job. All boys together. Wilson-Smith had “found him a position” at his company. It was the least a chap could do for a fellow from St. Tom’s. Anyhow, Wilson-Smith needed a skivvy, and it might as well be somebody with a bit of breeding. God forbid he should take a lout from a council estate.

The seconds hand on Kingsley’s watch moved too quickly. Any moment now he must face Mr Wilson-Smith. “Damn and blast it!” Kingsley’s inner voice cried. “When will this ever end?” Nineteen years old, getting on for twenty and still going through this.

Across the office a door opened. Miss Winchester, a lady of at least fifty years and two hundred and fifty pounds, waddled through, clutching her handbag tightly to her bosom. “Mr. Wilson-Smith will see you now,” she said to no one in particular as she headed for the stairs and her own real life. Kingsley looked once more at his watch, willing it to allow him one more minute before the appointment. No such luck.

He stretched his arms and back once more, as if limbering up for a track event. His one success at school had been in sports. He still retained his athleticism. He sighed (yet again) and slowly moved toward Mr Wilson-Smith’s office. He paused outside. Momentarily, he had a vision of Mr Plumptre’s worn study door. He shook his head with bewilderment, balled his fingers into a fist and rapped his knuckles against a pine panel.

“Come!” Mr Wilson-Smith even sounded like Plum. Haughty, pompous; in charge. Kingsley fumbled with the door handle, it stuck in his grip. At first it would not turn. He tried once more. Still it would not budge . With his hand shaking he gripped harder, put his shoulder to the door and stumbled into the office.

Mr Wilson-Smith gaped then a frown crossed his florid, flabby face. “Stupid boy,” he muttered, almost to himself. Kingsley straightened himself, conscious of the heat in his own face. Without waiting for instruction, he turned and without difficulty closed the door.

Mr Wilson-Smith was seated behind his desk, his jacket behind him on the chair. His shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbow; the top button was undone, his necktie was loosened. He looked every inch the “marketing” man that he was.

Kingsley stood some distance away. The office had not changed since his last visit. It was furnished in the modern style. Whereas his housemaster’s study had been constructed of dark wood panels and oak furniture, Mr Wilson-Smith’s room consisted of light-coloured walls and pine. His message to the world, “I am the future.”

Kingsley waited. He knew the part he had to play in this little drama. Mr Wilson-Smith was in charge. He would commence when he was good and ready. Wilson-Smith picked a folder from his desk, opened it and leafed through the sheaf of papers inside. He pretended to read the top two and then threw the folder down. In his “real life” he very much enjoyed amateur theatricals.

He breathed a sigh that said, “Why must I take the burdens of all the world on my shoulders?” He glanced down at the folder and then peered across the room at Kingsley. “Well, Brocas-Burrows,” he said. A very pregnant pause followed. Kingsley blanched, his redden face draining. The silence deafened him. Was he supposed to say something? Had his boss asked him a question? He sucked on his bottom lip, playing for time.

If it had been a contest, then Mr Wilson-Smith blinked first. “Your quarterly report,” he growled, again nodding at the folder. You know what it says?” Again, Kingsley was dumbfounded. Was it a rhetorical question? Was he expected to answer? Should he say truthfully, “Actually no sir I haven’t read it myself, but I have a jolly good idea what it contains.”

Would that reply be a bit too bumptious; cocky even? Indeed, the nineteen-year-old had not seen the report but he knew darn well it was not good news. “Poor timekeeping, bad attitude to authority, generally an idle sort,” would be the gist of it.

He closed his ears while Mr Wilson-Smith berated him. Kingsley had been spot on about the report, but he had left out the bit about his uselessness at adding up a column of figures. After some length Kingsley heard the words, “I gave you a position at this company because of your father. You have let him down; you have let me down and most of all you have let yourself down.” The resemblance to one of Plum’s sermons in the housemaster’s study was uncanny. Kingsley found himself murmuring, “Yes sir, sorry sir.”

Mr Wilson-Smith had not finished. “In other circumstances you should be dismissed. I have spoken to your father on the telephone and I must tell you he is not best pleased.” Kingsley confined his response to, “Oh.” There would be a price to pay the next time he returned to the family pile for the weekend.

“He and I are in complete agreement,” Mr Wilson-Smith had not finished. “On the action that I should take.” Kingsley’s eyes sparkled. He bit his lip once more. With no further word, Mr Wilson-Smith hauled himself to his feet and wheezing slightly he trundled across the office. Kingsley stood, hands clasped behind his back. He did not turn to watch as Mr Wilson-Smith disappeared from his sight. He heard his boss open a drawer (it stuck at first just as the door had done). Kingsley heard his wheezing increase in volume and then there was a distinct rattle from within the drawer. The teenager’s heart thumped. He knew that sound; he whirled around in time to see Mr Wilson-Smith straighten himself. His boss stared malevolently across the office; he stood aggressively and took the whippy rattan school cane between his hands and flexed it so that it made a perfect bow.

Kingsley’s eyes widened. It was just like the weapons the masters at St. Tom’s had used. It was a little under three feet long with a notch every four inches or so along its length. It was as thick as a pencil and had the authentic crook handle at one end.

Mr Wilson-Smith swiped the whippy cane through the air. The swoosh! as it flew was terrific. Then, Mr Wilson-Smith let it dangle in his hand before gently tap-tap-tapping it against his right leg. “I was head boy in my time at St. Tom’s,” he said, as if this was a perfect explanation.

It was good enough for Kingsley. Prefects at the school were permitted to beat other pupils. Mr Wilson-Smith’s present intention was obvious.

“I beat many slackers,” Mr Wilson-Smith said, almost wistfully. “There was no more serious crime. Chaps who would not play the game.” He leaned forward, craning his neck like a toad. “I good thrashing …..” he let the sentence tail off. His meaning was clear.

Kingsley sniffed. It was a reflect action; he meant nothing by it; Mr Wilson-Smith thought otherwise. “How dare you!” he bellowed, furious at the teenager’s insolence, “Get yourself across that desk.” He waved the cane towards his own desk as if there was any doubt about his instruction, “NOW!”

“B .. .” Kingsley cut short his protest. His boss’s eyes burned into him. The older man swished the cane aggressively. “Get on with it. I don’t have all night.” He tapped the cane across the edge of the desk.

Kingsley hesitated. He would comply, he would do as he was ordered. His upbringing had taught him enough to know one thing: he had no choice. None at all. But how to do it? At school the housemaster always made a chap go over an armchair. It was the right size. Little ones spread themselves across one of the padded arms; the older boys reached across the back. In either case they made the perfect fit.

But the desk? Even from a step or two’s distance Kingsley could see it was low. Should he lay with his stomach flat across the top and hang on to the far edge for dear life? Was he supposed to simply lean forward and grip the desk’s side? Where exactly did Mr Wilson-Smith want his bum to be?

“Pah!” Mr Wilson-Smith was a man on a short fuse. He swiped the cane hard against the pine desk’s top. “Stand there, feet apart, bend forward. Stick your bottom out.” The instruction was clear. Careful not to make another visible sigh that would annoy his master, Kingsley took two steps forward and in one athletic movement he positioned himself to Mr Wilson-Smith’s satisfaction. He gazed down at the pine desk, his necktie dangled in front of his face. He concentrated hard on its intricate pattern. He had never before really noticed it.

Kingsley heard his boss wheezing as he shuffled himself into position. The old man paused momentarily, admiring the full buttocks submitted before him. They were firm and meaty and stretched the material of Kingsley’s suit trousers. Each cheek was lifted and separated. They made a terrific target.

He stood about three feet to the teenager’s left – a cane’s length – and slowly took aim. Caning a boy’s backside was a bit like riding a bike, he thought. Once one had learned the technique, it was never forgotten. He laid the tip of the cane so that it reached to the furthest cheek, aiming for the crest of Kingsley’s mounds. Satisfied that he had his eye, he brought the cane away in a perfect arc until it was about his shoulder’s height. Then he returned the cane with tremendous force so that it whacked into the meat sending a resounding sound echoing off the walls of the office. A thin white line immediately appeared across the stretched grey trousers.

Kingsley gasped, his head rose slightly and his hips swayed. He held on to the edge of the desk with all his might. A sharp pain scorched across his bum. Already a hard line was forming where the cane bit deep.

Mr Wilson-Smith paused, admiring his own prowess with the cane. The stroke had landed precisely where he intended. He awarded himself ten marks out of ten. He aimed the cane lower next time, into that part where Kingsley’s beautifully round bottom nearly met the back of his thighs. Swipe! Crack! Another perfect shot. Kingsley’s knees buckled, but he stopped his feet from marching up and down on the spot. His heart pounded and blood crashed through his arteries; his temples throbbed.

Mr Wilson-Smith’s own heart was in overdrive. He was not a fit man and his doctor had warned him he needed to take more exercise. Well, what better way than this? He tapped the cane across the top of Kingsley’s buttocks, so that he could deliver a downward swipe just below the boy’s spine. It was a difficult stroke to get right. If his aim was out he might even miss the backside entirely. Swish! Swipe! Crack! Bullseye.

Kingsley just about stifled the yelp his body demanded he make. It would be a natural reaction to the searing agony he was feeling. His bum felt like Mr Wilson-Smith had taken a white-hot poker and pressed it into his flesh. There was a strip of burning fire about four inches wide running from left to right across his bum.

Now, Mr Wilson-Smith set himself another challenge. The next stroke should connect in the space between the line at the top and the one across the mound. If he got it wrong, if he was just a fraction of an inch out in his aim, the heavy, whippy cane might land right on top of one of the three welts already throbbing across Kingsley’s rear end. Mr Wilson-Smith was not a man to duck a challenge; and heck if he got it wrong, it was no skin off his backside.

Crack!. Bingo! Mr Wilson-Smith was on fire! And so too was Kingsley’s lazy arse. The stroke whipped in right on target. Sweat poured through the nineteen-year-old’s hair. It ran from his neck in a rivulet down his spine. His body was fighting back against the pain. Kingsley shut his teeth hard, he had long ago ceased studying the pattern on his necktie; now his eyes were tightly shut.

Mr Wilson-Smith aimed low; there was still the gap between the cuts on the mounds and the thighs to find. “Hold still boy,” he said by way of encouragement, as with a little difficultly for his heart was so loud and his blood pressure so high he feared he might have a different type of stroke before the evening was out, he took his measure.

Of course, it was a perfect hit. When later, Kingsley inspected the damage in the mirror of the bathroom at his rooming house he would see five parallel lines perfectly placed. By that time the agony would have dissolved through a mere pain and then an irritating throbbing. It would then have disappeared altogether, except for when he sat on a hard surface. The cut on the under cheek was perfectly placed and could be reignited for days to come.

In the mirror Kingsley would see five stripes, but that was not all. Mr Wilson-Smith had a special finale. In some schools a “headmaster’s caning” was deemed especially awesome; a boy would be summoned to the beak for only the most serious offence (or perhaps the constant repeating of more minor infractions) and the visit to his study had to be momentous.

Mr Wilson-Smith had himself been on the receiving end of such a beating. Now, for the first time in his (extensive) history as a caner he would administer a headmaster’s caning. He bent his legs slightly so as to get proper aim. He tapped the tip of the cane at the top of Kingsley’s right buttock, then he laid it so that the other end reached the bottom of the left. It was a perfect diagonal. Kingsley froze. Oh no! he realised at once Mr Wilson-Smith’s little game. His entire body tensed, his shoulders braced, his knees locked, the knuckles on his hands turned white so hard was his grip on the desk.

Thwip! It wasn’t an especially savage cut. It didn’t need to be. Mr Wilson-Smith whipped the cane hard so that it thudded across Kingsley’s bum. He leapt to his feet, both hands clutching his savaged buttocks. The cane had bitten into each of the previous five cuts, making all blaze with such a ferocity that it felt that Kingsley had been forced to sit in a bath of boiling hot water.

He yelled fit to wake the dead. For the first time that evening Mr Wilson-Smith realised how fortuitous it was that all the staff had gone home. Kingsley howled as he danced; tears flooding down his face. It made not a jot of difference to that pain. He bent double, huffing and puffing as he did so. He gasped for air, somewhere in the back of his throat vomit was forming; desperately he swallowed the bile back.

Mr Wilson-Smith stepped back, perching his ample buttocks on the desk that had moments earlier been Kingsley’s punishment block. He watched intently as the boy rubbed the seat of his trousers so hard the boss wondered if he might leave a permanent shine on his behind.

At last Kingsley regained a semblance of control. The tears had not completely stopped, his eyes were drenched, his face flooded. He could not bring himself to look at his tormentor. Not so Mr Wilson-Smith; his self-satisfaction was undisguised. Later he would telephone his school pal “Bronco” Brocas-Burrows and share with him his triumph. But, now he must dismiss the distressed teenager.

“Go,” he growled, “That was for your own good,” he mouthed a platitude spoken by generations of schoolmasters. “Don’t make me have to do that again. If you do we’ll see how you like it with your trousers at your ankles.”

Kingsley ran from the room, glad that the door had opened first time. He flew through the outer office and down the stairs, not stopping until he was at street level. The rain was heavy and he was glad that nobody would see his tears as he hurried to his digs back to his real life.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Expenses Fiddle

z used drawing cane hold (26)

Mr Harkaway shuffled the papers on his desk. Something did not look right. He walked over to the filing cabinet and found last month’s returns.

Stupid, stupid, stupid boy! He did not say it out loud as there was nobody in the office to say it to.

He had unearthed an expenses fraud. It was blatant; the work of an amateur. Tony Michaels, a trainee salesman, was writing his own petrol receipts. It was the oldest trick in the book and that was why it was so easy to spot.

Harkaway’s heart raced; he would have to report this; there would be trouble; the police would probably be called and there could be a court case. It would all end in tears.

Harkaway hated confrontation. It was bad for his health. Harkaway had joined Tilotson’s about two years previously. He had taught maths at a local secondary modern school for twenty years. They were tough kids who never understood the value of learning. Every day was a confrontation, but he and the other teachers had one weapon on their side: the cane. Even the toughest boys could be brought to order by a length of swishy rattan.

Then, a new ‘progressive’ headteacher arrived; with ‘ideals.’ Corporal punishment was abolished and the inmates took over the asylum. It was chaos from day one and order was never restored.

Harkaway suffered the inevitable breakdown. Now, he had a nice little job in the accounts department shuffling pieces of paper and balancing columns of figures. He did not have to meet many people in his job, especially not unruly teenagers, and he liked it just like that.

Harkaway had never heard of Tony Michaels, so he made the short journey down the corridor to see his colleague Mr MacDonald, himself another refugee from modern schooling. Within minutes, Harkaway was reading the trainee salesman’s file.

“Damn!” This time he did say it out loud.

“What’s the matter?” asked MacDonald, although he was not really interested.

“This salesman. He’s nineteen years old. Been here a year since he left St Francis Grammar School. He’s got really good reviews from his boss. Expected to go far,” Harkaway replied.

“So what?” MacDonald sensed his colleague’s distress.

Harkaway told him about the expenses fraud.

“It’s the end of his career. He could even get a criminal record. It’s such a waste.”

MacDonald had never met the teenager, but he felt sad for him. “What are you going to do?”

Harkaway was more distressed than he expected to be, “When I think of all the children at our school who never had a chance. Now, here’s this lad, with all the chances in the world and he’s throwing them away. It makes me so angry.”

Harkaway knew that he was expected to report him to his manager. Those were the rules. Let Michaels explain himself and leave it for others to make the decision.

“I’ll have to report him, of course,” Harkaway said wearily.

“Yes, of course,” MacDonald returned the file to the drawer. “What a pity there can’t be some other way to deal with it.”

Another way? Later, when Harkaway was eating his lunch the germ of an idea entered his head. It might just work, but he doubted Michaels would agree.

Back in his office, Harkaway found a ‘Girl Friday’ and instructed her to tell Michaels to report to his office at once. She was startled by the ferocity of his tone.

Harkaway had many years’ experience dealing with misbehaving schoolboys. He was used to hearing their denials and false excuses, but he would break them down in the end. He did it with facts; he presented the evidence.

Michaels was not like his secondary modern pupils. He was smart, well presented and articulate. No wonder he was doing so well as a trainee salesman. It made Harkaway furious. He thought of all those boys and girls at his former school who never had a chance. They were put on the scrapheap. Now, here was Michaels; he had every opportunity to make something of himself and he was throwing it away.

Yes, Michaels agreed under questioning; he had forged the petrol receipts. He had no choice but to confess, the evidence was undeniable. He could have kicked himself for being so obvious.

“Why did you do it Michaels?” The teenager recognised Harkaway’s tone; he had heard it many times from masters at his grammar school. He could tell he was in for a ticking off, but at school it would be followed by a caning.

He knew why he had done it but he was not about to tell Harkaway. He wanted the money. He wanted to buy things, like smokes, clothes, records and to go to discos. He wanted to take a girl out and give her a good time (and later have her give him a good time). All these things cost money: more than he earned.

Instead, in the way naughty schoolboys had done for generations, Michaels stared at his shoes and mumbled, “Don’t know, Sir.”

“Sir,” Harkaway liked that. Maybe there was some hope for this wretched boy after all.

“You don’t know!” Harkaway pretended to fume, “You took a lot of trouble to perpetrate this forgery, you must have needed the money pretty badly.”

Michaels remained silent. If this had been the United States he would have invoked the Fifth Amendment: say nothing, do not incriminate yourself.

“Doh!” Harkaway’s frustration was evident.

“You do know you will be dismissed for this. The police might be called and you could end up with a criminal record?” Harkaway barked.

Michaels blanched. He had not thought of that. He had been so stupid he did not think he would be caught. The consequences of his actions had never occurred to him.

“B… But,” he started miserably, but his famous salesman’s gift-of-the-gab eluded him. Somehow he must save his job and keep the police out of this.

Harkaway was unsure how to turn the conversation to reveal his plan.

Unsteadily, he began. “I see in your personnel file you attended St Francis Independent Grammar School.” He paused to see if there was a reaction from Michaels. There was not.

So he blundered on. “It is a school with a very fine tradition for … err … for discipline.”

Still Michaels remained silent.

“What would your headmaster think about how you have behaved? How you have let down the honour of the school.”

Michaels did not give a damn about what the school thought about his behaviour. He was very glad to be away from there. It would suit him very much indeed if he never saw the place again. Why was this lowly accounts clerk lecturing him about school and honour?

“I was myself a schoolteacher for many years. Not at such a fine school as St Francis, of course,” Harkaway was losing his thread. This was too embarrassing; why did he care about this boy? He was a thief; he deserved to be sacked and to be prosecuted. He should let events take their course.

He was about to dismiss the teenager from his office when Michaels piped up. Suddenly, he had realised what this was about: discipline … school … honour.

“I am sorry Sir. I have behaved badly,” he said. Then he took a deep breath. “I deserve to be punished severely, but could it be without losing my job. I will never do it again. I promise.”

It was a lie and Michaels knew it. He enjoyed the clothes, the clubs and the girls too much to give them up. He would lose the lot if he was sacked. But if he could stay with Tilotson’s, later when the heat had died down he would find another more successful way to steal from the company. But, for now he would have to take what was coming to him.

Harkaway flushed. Had he understood the boy correctly? “What would your headmaster have done if he found you stealing?”

It was now or never, Michaels realised. He took a deep breath. “He would have thrashed me,” and then for dramatic effect he added, “And I should have deserved it, too.” And, for good measure he added, “Sir!”

And, that was how four hours later, Tony Michaels, a nineteen-year-old trainee salesman, came to be standing in Harkaway’s living room at his home. He had had plenty of time to change his mind, but he knew he had no choice; he had to go through with it.

Harkaway flexed a long, yellow, rattan cane thoughtfully between his hands. He could not get the measure of young Michaels. He seemed impassive to his fate.

“Have you been caned before, Michaels?” Harkaway swished the rattan through the air to try to intimidate the boy.

“No, sir,” it was another lie. There was no reason to tell it, but Michaels seemed incapable of telling the truth. He had been caned. It hurt like crazy, but it did not kill him.

If he had thought being a caning novice would make Harkaway go easy on him, he was much mistaken.

“Then, young man this will be an awesome experience for you. I do not intend to be lenient at all. This will be a thrashing you will never forget.”

Michaels’ heart raced. Exactly what did this jumped-up accounts clerk have in mind?

Harkaway eyed the teenager. He wore a smartly-cut dark suit. His buttocks would make a perfect target in those trousers, he thought.

But, he would never find that out.

“Take off your jacket, Michaels,” he swished the cane, “and place it on the table there.”

Only now, did the magnitude of this sink in. This could turn out to be one hell of a thrashing. With trembling hands, Michaels undid the two buttons on his jacket and slipped it from his shoulders. Then he tidily folded the immaculate jacket and put it on the table.

“Now, stand behind that armchair,” the cane swished again for emphasis.

Colour was draining from Michaels’ face as he took two or three steps to cross the room.

He breathed deeply, waiting for the final instruction: bend over.

“Now lower your trousers, Michaels.”

The teenager’s mouth gaped open, but he just stopped himself voicing an objection. He had not expected this: Harkaway had not said it was to be on the pants; or God forbid on the bare.

Michaels looked pleading at Harkaway, but the ex-schoolteacher was not to be moved.

“Do it immediately, boy,” he intoned quietly, “or you will receive extra strokes.”

Michaels closed his eyes and cussed silently. Then he unbuckled his belt, and popped the buttons on his trousers before he guided them across his buttocks and down his thighs where they came to rest at his knees.

He could feel a cool breeze against his now bare legs. Please God, he prayed, please let me keep my pants on.

“Bend over the chair, Michaels.”

Oh thank you God! Michaels placed his hands together as if in prayer, rubbed the palms, took a deep breath and dived forward over the back of the ugly vinyl armchair.

His face came to rest on an old worn cushion. The odour of stale sweat filled his nostrils.

“Feet further apart boy.”

While the teenager manoeuvred himself into the required position, Harkaway approached him from behind, grabbed at the tail of his shirt and carefully rolled it up until it rested half way up his back.

Then he grabbed the waistband of the boy’s gleaming white underpants.

“Oh, no! God, you have deceived me!” Michaels would have words to say the next time he attended his church.

The pants were soon reunited with the trousers.

Harkaway did not announce the number of strokes he intended to deliver, so it came as an almighty shock to Michaels’ system when a dozen hard cuts lashed into his naked buttocks and each one laid on with the greatest force.

Harkaway had never caned a boy with such ferocity. Later, recalling the incident to his colleague Mr MacDonald, he would say he did not remember much of what happened. He did recall the anguished shrieks from the boy as lash after lash whipped into his buttocks. And, he remembered the squirming as the boy’s body thrashed from left and right and up and down as if it were being tossed about on a heavy sea.

After the boy had dressed and left the house, Harkaway found a tea towel soaked in his blood.

If Harkaway’s memory was blurred, Tony Michaels remembered every second of every minute.

My arse is tight and open, all my muscles in my legs and buttocks are tense, and I cannot flex my backside. I can also feel my cock touching the top of the chair.

I hear some swishing sounds which send tremors all through my body. Next I feel the cane touch my backside, right in the middle. It rests there, for a moment. There are a few taps, which sting.

Before I have time to think any more there is a zip sound, followed by absolute agony. I could not believe how much pain I was in. It was sharp, but then it built up like a burn going deeper and deeper into me. Just as it started to fade the next stroke landed.

I had been caned at school – many times, it was that kind of school – but I had never felt such pain in my whole life as I did under Harkaway’s cane.

I could feel burning lines across my bum, the first across the fleshiest part and each stroke that followed cut just below the last. I was screaming, sweating, gasping and gripping the chair with both hands desperately trying to stay in position. I so wanted to run away, but some schoolboy code of honour must have kicked in: I knew I must take my punishment like a man.

Mr Harkaway waited a little longer before delivering another stroke, which left me in intense agony. The bastard laid it diagonally across previous welts, raising the heat and burn in all of them again. I could feel blood oozing from the wounds which felt very deep.

Slash number eight was the same and so were the final four but they were diagonals laid on the other way round.

Throughout, I shrieked out in agony and shock, my legs kicking up automatically as a merciless shower of mighty whacks followed in unbelievably quick succession. My bum, hips, shoulders all wriggled frantically in a futile attempt to escape the flashing cane which scorched into my buttocks.

By the time he had finished, I was sobbing. My bum was burning like I had sat on a lit coal fire.

After what seemed like hours, Harkaway instructed that I should stand up. Gingerly, I did so, but this sent fresh waves of agony through my injured bottom. Harkaway was breathing heavily, gasping for breath. He seemed to be in as bad a state as I was.

As if in a trance he left the room. I was not sure what to do next, so I tried to get dressed, but the very action of pulling my pants across my flogged buttocks was enough to send shockwaves through my body. I pulled my pants down again and saw the rear was covered in large pink stains. That was when I realised my buttocks were bleeding; Harkaway had ripped me to shreds.

Still in much pain and with my pants and trousers now around my ankles, I waddled to the kitchen and found a tea towel which I soaked in water and eased the flow of blood. The cool water felt good against my throbbing arse and I let it soak for a minute or two.

Mr Harkaway was nowhere to be seen. I did not want another confrontation with him, so when the raging agony in my arse subsided a little and was reduced to a constant throbbing, I managed to pull up my pants and trousers. I collected my jacket and left.

On the way out, I glimpsed myself in the hallway mirror. I did not recognise the ghostly figure with the snot covered face and the wild staring eyes.

I walked the three miles back to my home; I could not risk taking the bus, I knew I would not be able to sit down for some considerable time to come.

At home I whipped down my trousers. The blood had dried against my underpants and I had to take a wet flannel to soak them off my skin.

My bottom was still incredibly painful. There were a dozen deep welts criss-crossed over the buttocks; they looked like Clapham Railway Junction. The cheeks were still swollen and covered in dark blue bruises.

The next day when I returned to work, my bottom was still tender to the touch and I wriggled a bit as I sat at my desk. Mr Harkaway never mentioned the forged petrol receipts and I kept my job.

That was more than four weeks ago. The wounds have healed and I lived. I submitted an honest expenses claim this month, but I am working on a new fiddle for the future. I hope I do not get caught, but if I do then please don’t let it be by Mr Harkaway.

Picture credit: Unknown

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This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Decorator

new story 2

z used otk pants painter and decorator sting

Times were hard for youngsters back then. People just assumed that we were lazy dossers. There were no jobs but that was apparently our fault. They slashed the benefits as an ‘incentive’ to get back to work. There was no minimum wage either – we were paid a pittance.

But it was that or nothing. Take a job; any job. My dad knew a feller who knew a feller and I ended up as a painter and decorator’s labourer – about as unskilled as it got. It didn’t matter that I had stayed on at school and got my qualifications. I could’ve gone to university, but after Brexit and the UK left the EU the country went broke and half of them closed down.

So they stuck a paintbrush in my hand and told me to get on with it. Actually, don’t breathe a word of this t the painters and decorators federation but it doesn’t take much nous to paint a wall. I did a few other thoings as well – fetching and carrying, making the tea, you know the kind of thing.

I didn’t realise it at first but Mr Brewster (my boss, or do I mean slave owner?) loved to order people about. “Do this! Do that! Come here! Go there!” he barked commands all day long. There was no need for it really, most of the time there were only the two of us there. A little bit of civility on his part wouldn’t have come amiss.

I had been working with him for a couple of months when it happened. We had a job in a suburb of Brocklehurst, the town where I lived at the time. In a house in a place called The Avenue, they were right posh places; mansions most of them. We had a job to redecorate before the new owner moved in. It was quite a trek out from the flat I shared with six other kids. I had a rickety old bicycle (the public transport fares were sky high and the buses hardly ever ran) and I set off in the cold drizzle. I would’ve arrived on time (honest, guv!) but halfway down the Goldstone Road I got a puncture.

Back at the house Mr Brewster and the houseowner must have had a high old time winding each other up. “Kids today! Totally unreliable. You tell them to turn up at half-eight and look at the time now, twenty-to-nine.”

“In my day we were never late. Took pride in our work.” Etcetera, etcetera.

“What he needs is a jolly good spanking!”

I wasn’t there to overhear the conversation, of course. I was still pushing my bike in the rain, but I can accurately surmise that’s what they said, because by the time I rocked up half an hour later they were ready for action.

After all these years I can still remember the name of the guy at The Avenue, but I’ll just call him Mr Smith. So, Mr Smith and my guvnor are waiting for me, faces like thunder. “Vince,” Mr Brewster starts off, “What time do you call this!” It wasn’t really a question, so I kept my mouth shut. There was no point being a smartarse and carefully checking my watch and saying back to him “Quarter past nine, Mr Brewster.”

Mr Smith, an elderly man well into his sixties I would estimate, paced the empty room muttering to himself, while my boss went on and on about what a lazy unreliable waste of space I was. Mr Smith joined in by nodding his head vigorously. There was no doubt the pair of them were on the same page when it came to the extent of my crime.

“Not good enough Vince, not good enough …..” Mr Brewster trailed off, he had run out of insults to hurl at me.

There was an uncomfortable silence. I stared down at my crocs, every inch the naughty little boy being scolded by teacher. The silence was burst by Mr Smith, “Well get on with it Brewster!” The old man shrieked. My boss was not an imposing man even though he liked to order me about. I don’t suppose he was more than forty and he was no taller than me. He was a bit heavier and had a paunch here his waist ought to be.

He cleared his throat. “You will have to be spanked, Vince.” I don’t remember saying anything but the look of astonishment on my face must have told him what I was thinking, because he hurriedly added, “Mr Smith insists on it.”

The owner had left the room and wasn’t present to confirm my boss’s assertion. I was silent but my brain was working overtime. I could have punched Brewster in the nose and legged it, of course, but it wasn’t much of an option. I would have lost my job and in all probability ended up in court.

I said at the start that youngsters back then had it bad. That might have been an understatement. After years without it they had reintroduced corporal punishment into schools and even extended it to colleges and universities. If that wasn’t bad enough the courts could cane anyone under the age of thirty.  Hardly a week went by that you didn’t see a story in the local paper about someone or another up before the beak on some minor matter getting a fine and “six lashes on the bare buttocks”. Those words “lashes on the bare buttocks” tripped off the tongues of magistrates up and down the country, with a little too much relish if you ask me.

My thoughts were interrupted by Mr Smith’s return. I heard him wheezing before I actually saw him. He ignored me completely and addressed Mr Brewster, “Here you should use this.” In his hand he had what looked to me (in my naiveite) like a small chopping block. It was a small rectangle of wood not much bigger than a paperback book (remember those?) with a handle at one end. He handed it to Mr Brewster who proceeded to pat it against his left palm, testing its wright.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the thing. It had once been coated in varnish but that had worn off along one side of what I suppose you call the blade.

“Get on with it man!” Mr Smith was showing his impatience. No more was said between the two men and it was evident to me then that they had discussed this in advance because at that moment I noticed that in the centre of the otherwise empty room a couple of boxes had been piled together and covered over with a tarpaulin. My boss handed the wood back to Mr Smith and sat himself down. He spread his legs and looked across at me. Without quite catching my eye, he spoke quietly. “We want you to take down your trousers and bend over my knee.”

So there I was, eighteen years old, nearly nineteen come to think of it, being ordered to lower his trousers and to submit himself across the knee of an older man for a spanking while another bloke watched. Can you imagine such a thing?

Despite the new corporal punishment regime in the country I had never been spanked, nor caned or slippered. I was if you like a spanking virgin. Even so, like all virgins I had a good general idea of how this was done. It happened many years ago but I think I remember correctly that quite quickly I resigned myself to my fate. I simply had no choice.

I could feel Mr Smith’s hot breath on the back of my neck; he was wheezing harder than ever. “Quickly,” he coughed, “we haven’t got all day. You have work to do.”

Mr Brewster nodded his agreement. I closed my eyes took a deep breath and unclipped the front of my overalls. I don’t suppose decorator’s overalls have changed in a hundred years. Mine were made of heavy cotton and because I sweated a lot when I wore then I didn’t have trousers on underneath. I got them loosened and the weight sent them crashing to my feet (rather like clown’s trousers do). I stood in front of Mr Brewster; he spread his legs wide, offering me his right thigh to bend across. He wore cheap jeans that were just a bit too tight for him and they emphasised his bony legs.

My heart thumped, I couldn’t see it but I was pretty certain my face glowed bright pink. I was very conscious that I was standing with my trousers at my ankles, now wearing only my underpants and t-shirt. Mr Brewster tapped his right thigh. It was his signal to me, “Bend over,” it said. I took a deep breath. How was this done exactly? I let my instinct take over. I leaned forward putting my two arms out ahead of me and lowered myself. I rested my stomach on his thigh and placed both my palms squarely on the floor. Even after all this time I remember my face was only centimetres from the paint-splashed floor.

I waited for Mr Brewster’s next move. It seemed like an eternity. Perspiration was running down my back, my boss took hold of the end of my t-shirt and pushed it away from the target area. I could feel my tight cotton briefs clinging to my buttocks. I felt incredibly vulnerable. Well, what a stupid thing for me to say. Of course I was vulnerable, that was the whole point. I was being forced to offer up my backside to Mr Brewster so he could whack it with his wooden paddle, and all the time Mr Smith was standing by to get a close-up view of the action.

I heard Mr Smith shuffle across the bare floor. “Take down his pants, they really aren’t much use at a time like this.” Mr Brewster gipped the elasticated waist of my briefs. I wriggled my hips in protest. He slapped the palm of his hand across my right buttock. “Keep still.” I raised my head to protest and saw Mr Smith advancing. He was ready to grab by shoulders and pin me down. “Sod it!” I said to myself. I settled down, I got the picture. Come what may I was getting my arse whipped. I had no choice. I had to take it. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of wailing and howling.

Mr Brewster took hold of my pants and slowly slipped them down over my cheeks. I raised my crotch off his knee so he could slide them all the way to my ankles. It was my way of saying, “Go on! Do your worst.” I lay there bare-arsed. I had quite a good bum in those days; at least that’s what the guys at the rugby club told me in the showers after matches.

I saw Mr Smith hand over the paddle and seconds later I felt it tap-tap-tapping into my right buttock. Then, it was gone only to return at tremendous force. The whack! echoed around the empty room and so did the sound of air escaping my clenched lips. OMG! That hurt. That hurt a lot. I kicked my legs and felt my feet entangled in my overalls. Mr Brewster pushed his left hand into the small of my back; it felt clammy. He raised the paddle and brought it down with equal force on my left cheek. Now, I had two dark pink blotches across my bum. Without waiting for the pain to sink in, he set about assaulting my bum, whack-whack-whack. My head rose and fell, my hips swivelled my arms flailed. I was out of control; all reflex actions, my body’s way of trying to protect itself from the intense pain I was feeling.

My bum was on fire, the heat intensifying with every wallop that landed. My body gyrated and humped up and down on Mr Brewster’s knee. The pounding went on and on, I didn’t need to rub my fingers across it to know that it had the consistency of leather. This was one hell of a spanking.

My temples throbbed almost as much as my backside, blood was rushing though my arteries, any moment now I feared I would have a stroke. I couldn’t catch my breath. I was going to die. I couldn’t see him but I could hear Mr Smith was sounded just as bad. His wheezing had become a full out dry hacking cough.

Mr Brewster had the strength of an ox. He just kept on pounding his wooden paddle. No square centimetre of flesh was left un-roasted from the top of the curves near my spine, over the mounds themselves and into the very tender undersides where the bum meets the thighs. The heat of this bare-arsed paddling spread to my loins. My dick was raging. My body humped up and down, up and down over my boss’s knee. “No, no, no!” I shrieked. But, there was no stopping it. I shot my load. It must have taken ten seconds (It felt like a lot longer) before I lay breathless and panting across Mr Brewster’s soaked leg.

He stopped his spanking, let out a shriek and pushed me off his lap onto the floor, where I lay for some time panting, gasping for air and whimpering like a beached dolphin. Mr Brewster rushed from the room, “Look what he’s done!” Mr Smith was nowhere to be seen.

I worked for Mr Brewster for five more weeks until I found a job flipping burgers. We didn’t see each other after that. But I made sure that I saw Mr Smith every Saturday.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com