Only Three Thieving Days to Christmas

used drawing cane hold (13)

“So here it is Merry Christmas, everybody’s having fun / Look to the future now, it’s only just begun.”

Ben McKenzie hated that song. You heard it everywhere in the run-up to Christmas. It was a tradition. They played it all the time at the supermarket where he worked. He couldn’t get the damn tune out of his head. It had been released more than forty years previously. Long before he was born. Before his mum and dad had been born too, probably.

Ben was pushing twenty years old. He was what he dad called “bone idle.” He meant he was lazy. It was true. Ben hadn’t had a proper job since he dropped out of school four years previously. There was work out there, even for unqualified kids. Ben preferred to spend his time playing games on his computer or staying in bed masturbating.

Then a couple of his pals told him about the supermarket where they had started working. It was a “cushy” job, especially in the goods-received department. The money wasn’t bad, and it was easy to skive off and hide from the bosses. There were lots of girls working at the supermarket and they weren’t too particular about who they went out with.

And, Toby his best friend told him there was one other big perk. Thieving.

It seemed too good to be true.

But Toby didn’t tell him about Mr Wolf. Ben had to find out for himself.

The supermarket wasn’t too choosy about who it employed. Workers came and went. Many were sixth-form school pupils or students. Others took jobs while they waited for something better to come along.

It turned out his pals were right. The work was easy; and so were the girls. Ben was a good-looking guy, in a pretty-boy kind of way. He was “cute”, rather than “hot”. In his first week, Tracey, gave him a hand job. They sneaked away and used a disused office at the back of the store. All the kids did it, but it was Ben’s first sexual encounter that involved another person in nearly a year.

It was the week before Christmas. A very expensive time of the year. Presents had to be bought and parties attended. It all cost money. Ben was on wages, but they didn’t go far. Not after his mum took her share for his keep at home.

No problem, Toby told him. Steal the presents from the supermarket. Everybody did it. It was a perk of the job. The bosses didn’t mind within reason. They called it “breakages.” They put an extra penny on the shoppers’ bills to pay for it.

When they first started in the 1950s supermarkets were a place where you went to buy fruit and vegetables and a packet of tea. But by 2015 they had become a one-stop shop for everything you might ever need. They were a thief’s paradise.

“Keep it simple,” Toby advised. “Take things you can hide in your pocket or under your coat.”

That was the first time that Ben noticed a lot of the lads at supermarket came to work in old-fashioned parka coats or beat-up Barbours. They had lots of hidden pockets.

At home one night Ben wrote his Christmas present list. Keep it simple, Toby had said. So he did. A bottle of tequila or some other expensive booze would do for each of his friends. He didn’t know at first what to get his dad, so he settled on cigars. His mum would get posh perfume.

There were only three shopping days left until Christmas. Or three thieving days in Ben’s case. The guys at the supermarket had it down to a fine art. (But, you’ll have to go somewhere else to find the details, this is a moral story you are reading.) Mum and dad’s presents were sorted first. It’s not too difficult to stuff a small bottle of Chanel into your pocket. Especially when your fellow workers pretended not to see you do it.

“Hello, Ben,” the teenager was startled. He hadn’t heard Mr Wolf his boss creep up on him. Mr Wolf wasn’t his proper name. His real name started with “Wolf,” but was long and had a “C” and a “Z” and a “H” in it somewhere. He was Polish or possibly Lithuanian, Ben wasn’t too sure. He wouldn’t know the difference. It was somewhere in eastern Europe, he did know that.

Mr Wolf spoke with a bit of an accent. So did Ben, of course. But they were different accents. English wasn’t Mr Wolf’s first language, but he made himself clear.

“This is your last chance. Don’t do it again.”

And, with that he was gone.

“Don’t worry,” Toby advised him later. “He’s the supervisor, he has to say that. It’s his job”

“So, I can still get the booze? I wanted to take it today when I go home.”

“Yes, you’ll be fine,” Toby smiled reassuringly. But, he knew from his own painful experience that he might be lying.

Mr Wolf thought he was a kind man. Live and let live was his motto. But, when he was at the supermarket, he had his job to do. He was a proud man. He had left his family behind and travelled half way across Europe to find work. He was honest too. He would never steal. God was his witness.

But England was not like home. The young people here were lazy and selfish. They wanted everything handed to them on a plate. They thought they were owed a living. They didn’t expect to work for it.

Mr Wolf didn’t know much about Ben. He was just another typical English teenager. He was one among the hundreds, possibly thousands, who had worked at the supermarket in the two years since he arrived. If the boy stole again, he would treat him exactly the same way he did the others.

It was nearly eight in the evening and Ben’s shift was coming to an end. That bloody song was oozing out of the loudspeakers. “Look to the future now, it’s only just begun.” For two pins Ben would have drowned the whole lot of the Slade pop group at birth, starting with Noddy Holder, the lead singer.

Glancing to left and right to make sure the bosses weren’t around, he skipped into the alcohol hold, grabbed a bottle of tequila and tucked it under his coat. He didn’t break sweat. Nobody cared.

He swiped his ID card at the exit. Home and free.

Not quite.

“Ben,” it was Mr Wolf, “Come into the office.”

He was an angry man. He had given the teenager fair warning. The brat had taken no notice. He had insulted him. Tried to make him look a fool. He showed no respect.

Ben stood impassively in the office as Mr Wolf told him all these things.

“Yeah, yeah, blah, blah.” He didn’t say it out loud.

But he did say, “Who cares? It’s just company property. Everyone does it.”

“Not on my watch,” it was an American idiom, Mr Wolf had learned from the movies. It meant he had standards.

A frown spread across Ben’s bright open pretty-boy face. He didn’t understand what Mr Wolf was saying.

So, his boss spelled it out. He had been warned not to thieve, but he had ignored it. Not only was he a thief, he deliberately disobeyed an order. He had tied to make a fool of him.

“But… “ Ben blustered, not sure what to say.

Mr Wolf cut him short. “I am going to call Security and they will inform the police. You will spend Christmas in jail.”

The teenager felt tears welling up in his eyes. Police. Jail. This wasn’t how Toby said it would be.

“But…” Ben tried again, but still he couldn’t form a coherent sentence.

Mr Wolf glared at the boy, his face like thunder. He had no intention of involving the police. He hated the police. They had been so cruel in his homeland.

Mr Wolf had a plan. He had used it before on young thieves. He would use it again. Back home if a boy stole, his father would thrash him. Even young men in their twenties could expect a sound caning. Of course, such action was seldom necessary. The thought of a whipping was enough to deter them from crime.

Mr Wolf leaned over to a table and opened a drawer that ran along its length. Ben’s eyes followed him as he put his hand inside the drawer and rummaged around. Seconds later he withdrew a straight yellow stick.

Ben had never seen such a thing before. It was a dark yellow and more than three feet long. Black tape had been wound around one end to form a simple handle. It was not quite straight. Constant use had warped it slightly.

The teenager’s jaw fell slightly when Mr Wolf flexed the stick between his hands. It was as thick as a man’s little finger, but it easily curved into a bow. Mr Wolf swished the cane though the air, missing Ben’s face by inches. The boy felt a breeze against his cheek as it whistled by.

“Ha, so you have never seen a cane before.” Mr Wolf was not surprised. None of the young men he had dealt with previously at the supermarket had either. That explained a lot, Mr Wolf thought. They were totally lacking in discipline. The schools had abandoned corporal punishment decades ago. Look what good that had done.

He swished the cane once more, delighted at how much it intimidated the young thief.

“The choice is yours,” Mr Wolf tapped the cane against his own right leg. “The police … or this.”

“But …” Ben had not regained his power of speech. He choked back tears.

“You cannot go unpunished,” Mr Wolf growled. He swiped the cane through the air, terrifying the teenager.

“It’s my way or the highway.” That was another phrase he had learned from the television. It meant he was in charge.

“You should take off your coat.” Mr Wolf spoke gently. He knew that young men about to be thrashed for the first time needed to be guided through the process. He would take it one step at a time.

In the days that followed Ben tried without success to remember exactly what happened in that office. Somehow, unconsciously he had erased it from his memory. What he did know for certain was that his backside had been cut to ribbons. The welts from the cane were so deep and thick it would take more than a week for them to clear. Even then, when he was in the shower and he let hot water pour across his buttocks, thin cane marks reappeared.

Obediently, Ben slipped off his coat and placed it on an old wooden chair.

“Stand by the table.” It was a cheap, topped with Formica and hardly three feet wide.

Mr Wolf studied the boy before him. He was nearly six-feet tall and lanky. His arms fell awkwardly at his side.  The teenager’s eyes shone, glistened by the tears trying to force their way through. He had a blank far-away look.

“Trousers down.” Ben was wearing dirty cream-coloured cotton chinos, held at the waist by a wide leather belt. He made no attempt to move.

“Trousers down.” It was a sterner command this time. Still Ben did not move. It was as if he had not heard.

“Pah!” Mr Wolf exhaled air through his half-clenched teeth. He stepped forward and grabbed the boy at the waist. Ben did not resist. In seconds Mr Wolf had the belt buckle loose and the chinos were at Ben’s knees.

“Bend over the table.” This time Ben did hear. As if in a trance, he gently lowered himself forward. He made no protest.

Ben was so tall and the table so narrow that his body easily fitted across the Formica top. Instinctively, for Mr Wolf gave no further instruction, the teenager reached forward and grabbed the two table legs ahead of him. One in each hand.

Mr Wolf had thrashed many of the boys at the supermarket. They came in all shapes and sizes. Some were short and squat, others tall and gangly. Many had too much body fat. The flab on their stomachs spread out beneath their body. Their buttocks were so plump they would wobble like jelly each time the cane made contact with the mounds of flesh.

Ben was leaner. He took no exercise, but was naturally thin. His bodily metabolism dealt with the hamburgers and copious amounts of beer he consumed most days.

Mr Wolf took hold of the tail of Ben’s shirt and tugged it up the small of his back. Just far enough to leave the target area clear. He was wearing loose-fitting boxer shorts, so Mr Wolf spent a moment smoothing them out. He wanted all the creases removed. It hurt a boy much more if the underwear fitted snuggly against the buttocks. It should be like a second skin.

By now, Ben had closed his eyes tightly shut. It seemed to Mr Wolf that the boy was determined to take his just punishment without a fuss. He hoped so.

He was distressed when a young man couldn’t take his beating passively. Sometimes one would refuse to bend over and there would be an unseemly fight with Mr Wolf, The boss was somewhere in his forties, but he had worked hard all his life. Youngsters were astounded when he was able to force them face-down over the table. He kept some small pieces of rope in the drawer. They could be used to tie the wrists of the boy to the table legs.

Ben’s breathing was shallow. He had remained almost entirely silent from the moment the two men had entered the office.

Mr Wolf tapped the cane across Ben’s buttocks, just to get his aim. The bum cheeks responded by tightening, as if preparing themselves to ward off an almighty battering.

Thwip! It was a wicked slash. Mr Wolf might have been beating a carpet. The cane broke through the surface of the boy’s cheeks and through the sheer force of the slash continued onwards into the meat of Ben’s bum. A thick white line appeared across the centre of Ben’s boxers where the cotton had been disturbed. Mr Wolf knew from experience that a thick red line would already have formed in the flesh.

Ben’s yelp confirmed that the cut had bitten deep. It was agony. The teenager kicked his legs back as the pain seared through his backside. He stamped his feet up and down and gripped the table legs as if his very life depended on it.

Mr Wolf was not a cruel man. He delivered punishments, not torture. But, a beating had to hurt otherwise what was the point of it all?

Ben received the second cut surprisingly well, Mr Wolf thought. It was slightly harder than the first and landed a half inch or so lower. Ben repeated his military dance and his hips wriggled from left to right. His yelp was more intense and his shallow breathing was heavier now.

Mr Wolf heard footsteps approach from outside the office. Then they stopped. The door was closed, but not locked. The visitor had hesitated. Mr Wolf’s reputation was well-known among his fellow supervisors. Rather like the shop-floor workers, they preferred to turn a blind eye.

Slashes number three and four cut the lower part of Ben’s buttocks to shreds. The yellow-coloured boxer shorts had turned orange in places. Blood was seeping from the wounds inflicted by the mightily-effective cane.

Ben bounced his forehead up and down on the table top. It was a natural reaction to the intense suffering he felt. Tears flowed freely and his throat was full of bile. He choked the vomit back down, provoking a fitting cough.

Yes, the boy was taking his thrashing rather well, Mr Wolf thought. When he had dealt with Ben’s friend Toby last month the boy howled the office down after only two strokes.

Mr Wolf gave Ben a few moments to settle. His throat was now clear and he was ready for number five.

Although the thief prostrated before him was a tall young man, his buttocks were quite small and tight. Unlike with the fat, almost obese, youngsters Mr Wolf often caned there was not much to aim at. It was inevitable that at least one cut would land on a weal, extending the already deep cut and intensifying the agony.

Mr Wolf had not meant to do it. It was a hazard of the job. Ben positively screamed. Instinctively he jumped to his feet jumping up and down on the spot while rubbing away furiously at his behind. It did nothing to relive the pain. Instead by pressing down on open wounds it intensified the soreness.

Then, Mr Wolf watched in astonishment as Ben did something that no other youngster had ever done before. Unbidden, the nineteen-year-old thief lifted his shirt clear of his underwear, before leaning forward across the desk and submissively offering himself for the sixth and final stroke.

Mr Wolf had not intended to land the fifth stoke across an existing welt. Not so the sixth.  This was what Mr Wolf thought of as his “trademark.” He repositioned his cane so that it aimed from the lower half of the left buttock across to the top half of the right. Then he let fly. The swipe landed diagonally across all previous five cuts.

Ben was on his feet again. Howling and howling. He ran on the spot, doubled up like a pocket-knife and then ran again. Nothing could extinguish the intense agony in his bankside.

There was no reason for him to compose himself and go back over the Formica top. It was over. He had taken his punishment. It was, Mr Wolf believed, what the English used to call “six-of-the-best.” That was in the days when schools still believed in discipline.

Kindly, Mr Wolf handed the punished boy a fistful of paper handkerchiefs. Ben was composing himself. The tears had eased to sobs and would quickly dry altogether. The agony in his buttocks had turned to an intense throb. He did not yet realise how scarred his buttocks were. He would find out soon enough when he returned to his home.

Mr Wolf gave Ben a few minutes to recover and sent him on his way, clearly understanding the consequences of any future thieving.

Ben had barely left the office before Mr Wolf picked up the telephone and called Ben’s dad to tell him what he had done to his son. Mr McKenzie listened impassively, thanked his caller and waited for his son to arrive home.

Ben hobbled through the goods-received section towards the exit. That flaming Christmas song was still coming through the loudspeakers.

“Look to the future now, it’s only just begun.

“Merry Christmas everybody!”

 

First published Christmas 2015

Picture credit: Unknown

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

BOOK. The Junior Salesman

used drawing cane hold (4)

The Junior Salesman and other workplace whackings

THE TWENTY-YEAR-old junior salesman slowly unclasped his belt and unbuttoned his trousers. He pushed them over his hips and let go. From there they slithered slowly down his legs.

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

Tyler looked over at his boss; in his hands was a wicked-looking school cane, around three feet in length and with a curved handle.  Mr. Davenport’s huge grin exposed his decaying teeth as he tapped a point
on the floor in front of him with the cane, “Please bend over and touch your toes.”

 The Junior Salesman and other workplace whackings is another collection of my stories published in book form. It runs for more than 19,000 words and has many illustrations. You should be able to read it on your lap top or e-book reader.

Click on the link below to download it free-of-charge.

the-junior-salesman-by-charles-hamilton-ii

Picture credit: Unknown

For more free-to-download books click here

The autumn of 49

z used autumn of 49 harvester

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get up. George, your turn.”

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

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

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

Picture credit: Boy’s Own Paper

 Other stories you might like

Breath-taking

Put back into short trousers, aged 18

The pub visit

 

 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The movie mogul

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

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

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

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

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

“HW wants you to send him upstairs.”

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

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

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

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

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

 

@

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bend over my knee.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

used drawing belt hold otk (7)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture credit: Endart

 

Other stories you might like

Commander Reynolds’ rooming house

An encounter

The paying guest

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Quarterly performance review

z used drawing paddle hold (20)

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

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

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

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

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

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

@

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

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

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

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

Mr Ferguson waited. There was no need to hurry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

@

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Other stories you might like

The boy in the kitchen

Skipping school to watch football

Caught in their underpants

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Changed Times 9. The truck

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

z used bum bent over truck (1)

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But, Mr. Whittaker …” I wailed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Trousers and pants down. Come on.”

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

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

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

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

“Over.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Other stories you might like

 

The paper boy and Candy

Remembering Professor Price

The drunken neighbour

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The new office boy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture credit:Adam’s Gay Readers

 

Other stories you might like

I feel like I’ve sat on a barbecue

A teenager’s tale

Max of the ‘Champion’ 1. The policeman

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com