University bully

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Hundreds of academics have been accused of bullying colleagues in the past five years, prompting concerns that a culture of harassment and intimidation is thriving in Britain’s leading universities. – Genuine news story

z used cane holding office Sting

“Bend over.”

You stare dumbfounded, “Excuse me?”

“I said bend over.”

“I don’t understand.”

“What part of ‘bend over’ don’t you understand? I’m going to cane you.”

“Cane me?”

“Yes, cane you. Bend over the desk.”

“You can’t … I mean,” you stammer, your confusion growing.

“I can. I am your head of department. I can do as I please. Bend over.”

You watch confused, as he flexes an old-fashioned, school cane between his hands. “But …” you still can’t quite grasp what is happening to you. “No, you can’t. I’m not a student.”

“I am well aware who you are. That is why I am going to cane you. Bend over.”

Your head spins. Is this really happening? Is it perhaps a surreal dream. “But …” you try to speak, but he interrupts you. “No buts. Bend over that desk.” He swishes the cane through the air and points to a small desk at the other side of the room.

“How can you?” you feel your voice crack, you are starting to plead. “I have my rights.”

He bends the cane between his hands once more. It is a little under a metre long and as thick as a pencil. Your eyes focus on the notches that run along the length of the yellow rod. You notice the muscles flexing in his arms. He sneers, “Rights! Don’t give me rights. You have no rights. I have your annual assessment.” He nods towards a filing cabinet in the corner of the room. “What have you published this year?” he growls and then answers his own question, “Nothing!”

You start to protest that you have a huge teaching load. Eight classes, each semester, but before you can form any words, he continues, “And, hardly anything the year before. What do you do all day?”

You can feel your lips moving and some words are forming but you are too terrified to speak clearly. You babble and that only encourages him in his own pursuit. “Your contract is coming to an end at Christmas. Do you really expect me to renew it? Clearly, he thinks this is a rhetorical question because he doesn’t give you time to answer. “Bend over,” he snarls and bends the rattan cane into an arc. You cannot take your eyes off it.

You can’t stop your eyelids from blinking fast. Your heartrate speeds. Suddenly your mouth is arid like a desert. The palms of your hands sweat. You can’t catch your breath. You are starting to panic. What can you do?  Call for help. Isn’t his secretary in the next room? No, you tell yourself, you saw her leaving as you came in. You are on your own. Should you make a run for it? Your mind is a whirl. Where can you run to? You know you can run but you cannot hide. He will get you eventually. Then what? Bend over, get the cane. Or lose your jobs. You know it will be hard to get another. This is your first post. You don’t have much experience, and as he says you have hardly published any research.

He walks over to the small desk and stands besides it. He looks at you menacingly. He wobbles the cane at you and a hideous grin cracks his fleshy face. You see how much he is enjoying this. He taps the tip of the cane against the desk. “Bend over the desk,” and then he adds cruelly, “young man.” You feel like a small child. You are nobody; he is all. He has the power, he can do as he wants with you. “Well?” he draws out the word investing it with sinister connotations. You gulp.

“I shan’t ask you again,” he mocks and then does precisely that, “Bend over the desk.”

Your head pounds so much you fear it will explode. Your throat feels like you are gargling with razor blades. Oh my God! You have no choice. There is nothing you can do. Absolutely nothing. “P…” you start to plead, but stop yourself. He is all commanding. You concede defeat. You feel like you are in a trance. This isn’t really happening to you. It is somebody else in that room. Is this what an out of body experience feels like? Independently of your will, your body moves slowly towards the desk. You stand close to it, the room seems to be spinning. He taps the frayed tip of the cane against the desk once more, “Bend over,” he intones.

The desk is small and low. You are tall. You look down on it as if from a great height. Bend over. How is it done exactly. Do you lean your elbows on the desk top and jut out your bottom? Should you lie down flat on your stomach? And then what, where do your arms go? Time is standing still. It is taking forever for you to work it out. From a great distance away you hear a voice, it is hazy, but you understand enough of what it is saying, “Bend over. Right down. Lie flat.” Your body obeys.

Your chest rests along the top of the desk which is not very big. Your stomach digs into one side. You still don’t know what to do with your arms. You stretch them to your sides spread-eagle fashion. You realise right away this is very uncomfortable and will not work. You change position and reach ahead of you. That is better. “Legs further apart,” you feel a slight tingle across your backside. He has slapped his hand across your bum to encourage you along. You do as you are told. “Good boy,” he says.

You have never felt so humiliated. Nothing before in your life comes anywhere close to this. You are offering up your bottom to an older man. You are going to submit to him; to let him beat you with a long, whippy cane. What if someone finds out. The students. You’d die of shame. You hear floorboards creak as he walks around behind you. Your chin is resting on the desk. If you keep your eyes open you can look across the room to the far wall. There is a day-planner calendar for 2019 with some dates inked in. You think if you concentrate on that it will take your mind off the ordeal to come. You sense he is now standing to your left. You hear his heavy breathing and there is a faint smell of what you suppose is deodorant.

He taps the cane across the centre of your bum. He stops. You sense him move closer to you. Violently, he grips the waistband of your chino trousers and tugs hard. The material digs up between your cheeks, it’s like he’s given you a wedgie. Now he is running the palm of his hand across your buttocks, smoothing out any creases that are left defacing the cotton. You feel very vulnerable. You are presenting him with the perfect target. He moves back, picks up the cane and once more taps it across the crest of your mounds. You feel it move from left to right in a sawing motion. Your cheeks clench. They decided to do this of their own accord. It is a reflex action. You feel the cane being lifted away from your bum, you shut your eyes tight and suck in your lips.

You hear an almighty swishing noise and crack! as the cane connects across the centre of your backside. There is a pause, it feels like a long time before the agony hits you. You gasp with shock, it feels like he has pressed a hot wire into your flesh. Your head automatically rises and falls and you headbutt the top of the desk. The burning intensifies and then cools of a little. Just as the pain subsides a second swish rents the air. The crack is as loud as before. The pain is a little harsher. He lands it below the first, under the cheek in the sensitive spot where the bum and the thighs meet. You do the headbutting thing again and this time your knees also buckle. The flesh is scorched. You have what feels like a strip of pain two or three centimetres long running across your bum.

You suck in air, trying to calm yourself. Your heartrate is off the scale. Your blood pressure must be sky high. Your bottom throbs. The third stroke whistles and cuts into the flesh just above the first. You now have three strokes running parallel to each other. He has an expert aim. The pain radiates from your bum and travels up and down your legs. You wrap your left foot over your right ankle in an almost successful attempt to stop yourself from kicking out. Your hips wriggle and you grip the edge of the desk so hard that your knuckles start to go white.

He lands the next one so that it cuts into one of the three welts pulsating across your bottom. You yelp, you just can’t help it. You just have to. The pain intensifies. It feels like your underpants have stuck to your skin. You panic. You’re bleeding. Before you have time to think more about this another swipe bounces off your bum. Again it lands across the others. You have never felt so much agony in your life; not even that time when you fell off your bike and broke a collarbone. You bite hard into your lip and think you can taste blood.

“Keep still, boy,” his voice echoes as if it is coming from a faraway valley. You are not aware that your hips have risen from the desk and you are stomping your feet up and down like a demented soldier on sentry duty. You feel the strength of his hand pushing you in the back until once again you are face down with your bottom high. He releases his grip and stands back, takes his aim and lets fly. He puts that one right into the area below the bum. It is almost right across the backs of the thighs. You stomp again, but some instinct stops you jumping up to rub the pain away from your backside. You groan, your eyes start to water. You fight back tears. The pain is intolerable. Is this how it would feel if someone had rubbed a steam iron across your bum? The back of your legs pulsate. You don’t know it yet but the welt that is forming now will reignite every time you sit down for days to come.

Has time stood still? It seems forever before the next stroke whips into you. Your eyes are closed tight so you cannot see him. You sense he is close behind you. He seems to be moving his position. You hear his irregular breathing. “Last one,” he says. The cane rises, swoops and cuts hard across your buttocks. This time you do scream. Your legs flail. Your head butts the desk top. You think your head is going to explode. He has landed the cane so that it runs in a diagonal line from the bottom left to the top right across your buttocks, biting into each of the five cuts previously delivered. Can there be so much agony in the world? How can such a thin, light whippy cane deliver so much hurt.

You are wheezing, struggling to catch your breath. Tears flood your face and drip onto the desk. Your bum is on fire. Again, you lose any sense of time. You daren’t move. Is it over? Are you allowed to stand up? He is in control. He is your master. You cannot do anything without his permission. At last the words, “Stand up,” drift through the air. You move your feet and they slip on the hard carpet and you topple forward. You grip the desk to stop tumbling to the ground. Even as you await your next instruction you feel the intense agony in your bottom is easing to a pulsating throb. Very soon it will become an intense ache. Over the coming minutes it will turn to a warm glow. The marks will stay with you for days and you will be reminded of this humiliation every time you sit down over the coming hours and days.

You grab hold of your own buttocks and rub furiously, it does very little to ease the pain. Through moist eyelids you see him open a cupboard and hide the cane from view. He turns to you. How you hate him. How you would like to grab a knife (or any sharp object) and gouge out his eyes. Perhaps, he senses this as he stays at the other end of the room. You see the armpits of his shirt are drenched. He too is waiting for his body to recover from the ordeal. After a few moments he looks across at you, you note the look of utter contempt in his eyes.

“That’s it,” he sneers. “Get out. Go.”

You hobble from the room, your humiliation complete. You know you can’t tell a living soul about this. Never. Who would believe you if you did? You hurry along the corridor towards the stairs. You see Jenkins, a young colleague from your department. Ashamed, you put your head down and rush past him. As you reach the stairwell you look back. Jenkins is at his door and about to knock.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

A brush with Uncle Herbert

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“Right lad, this is what’s going to happen,” it was Uncle Herbert speaking to me, “You are going to come and stand there,” he snapped his fingers and pointed to a spot just to the right of where he sat, “You are going to take down your trousers and bend across my knee.”

My incomprehension must have been obvious because he went on by way of explanation, “I’m going to spank you.” And to emphasise his point he brandished a heavy, wooden utility brush with metal bristles.

I was too confused to say anything. He glowered at me and said, “You have been asking for this from the moment you arrived.”

I stood rooted to the spot, totally confused. Uncle Herbert wanted to spank me. Me, a nineteen-year-old warehouseman.

“I told you from the start I would treat you like the rest of my young employees. No exceptions.” He waved the brush at me as he spoke. I shook my head violently as if to clear it. Was I hearing this correctly? He wanted to spank me like the rest of my young employees. I stared across the room. His eyes burned into me. He was entirely serious. No, I told myself silently, this was not happening. I’ll wake up in a minute and it would have just been a weird dream.

I had been working at Uncle’s import-export business for about a month. I’d left school the year before without any qualifications to speak of and had been in and out of dead-end jobs; shelf filling, burger flipping, delivering leaflets door-to-door, that sort of thing. My mum made Uncle Herbert take me on. I suppose blood is thicker than water and he felt obliged.

I loathed my job; it was mostly loading and unloading vans or stacking shelves. Once they discovered I was the boss’s nephew, the other guys hated me. They would stop talking among themselves when I came near. They knew lots of different ways to avoid work, and I think some of them might have been stealing from the warehouse: they were afraid if I found out I’d grass on them.

I started skiving off on my own. I sometimes went around the back of the building to look at porn on my phone. I didn’t realise there was CCTV all over the place; Uncle Herbert soon found out about me. He hit the roof and threatened all sorts of things. But he didn’t say anything about spanking me! Mostly, it was, I’ll tell your mum!”

“I said, come here and bend over my knee!” Uncle Herbert growled, still waving the huge brush about. I should have told him to shove it where the sun don’t shine. And, he could do the same with his stinking job. I could have done that but Mum would’ve gone mental. She got annoyed when I lost my other jobs; what the Hell would she do if I walked out on Uncle Herbert. I couldn’t do it. He was family. Mum might have thrown me out the house and told me to go live in a cardboard box for all she cared. I know Dad couldn’t wait to see the back of me. My younger brother Nathan wouldn’t mind either; he’d get the bedroom we shared all to himself.

“Now, Lad!” Uncle Herbert snarled, “Or do I have to come over there and get you?” He half raised from the chair. I could see he meant business. “C’mon Uncle,” I whined, “You cannot be serious?” I sounded like that brat tennis player what’s his name? The one with the frizzy hair and attitude. “I’m nineteen years old, not nine,” I told him. The moment the words came out I knew I had made a big mistake.

He leapt from the chair and was across the room in a flash. He grabbed a hunk of my hair and tugged me back to the chair. I howled as my feet slipped across the shiny floor. “Eff off!” I yelled, only I used the proper F-word. That was another bad move. He let go of my hair and swiped the back of his hand across my chops. I very nearly fell to the ground with the shock. Tears prickled the backs of my eyes.

“Now, are you going to do as you’re told?” He gripped my wrist and sat himself back down on the chair. “Get those trousers down, or I’ll do it myself,” his face contorted and the end of his large, pointed nose immediately turned purple.

“I.. I…” I spluttered. The sting on my face still tingled. He reached across and grabbed the waistband of my trousers and pulled me closer to him.

“No. No,” I wailed, slapped his hand away and pulled myself back. “I’ll do it. I’ll do it.” I couldn’t believe it when I heard myself. I would take down my trousers so Uncle Herbert could spank me with his brush. All I can think now is I must have thought it was preferable to having an older man strip me.

I stood uneasily in front of him. To be honest with you, Uncle Herbert is quite a weedy feller; he’s so thin he could easily fall down a drain cover. He sat in an old wooden chair and spread his legs; they looked like two pipe cleaners. I must be a head taller than him and I’m not fat (well not obese, anyway) but I am beefy. I did some boxing at school and I’ve got muscles. You know, if he tried something on with me in a dark alleyway one night I could knock the bejesus out of him.

I stood meekly in front of him. My hands hardly shook as I found the buckle of my belt and did the business. I had the front of my trousers open before it really hit me. I was going to take down my trousers for him. I mean how gay is that? Can you imagine it, a strapping nineteen-year-old willingly taking down his trousers and then bending over the knee of a much older man so that man could spank him on the seat of his underpants with a brush. You couldn’t make it up.

But that’s exactly what I was doing. I held on to my open trousers. I suppose this was my last chance to leg it. I could zip up and run and Uncle Herbert wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it. But my life flashed before my eyes. At least the foreseeable future did. Would Mum really throw me out of the house? Yes. No. Maybe. I couldn’t take the risk. I couldn’t look at Uncle. I closed my eyes and let the trousers slip over my thighs and they snagged at my knees.

“All the way. Down to your feet,” Uncle Herbert said grimly.

My eyes were still closed, I parted my feet and the trousers slipped down my shins and made a puddle over my trainers. I stood stock still like an idiot. I really did not want to do this. Let my Uncle spank my behind with a brush. “Bend over my knee, lad,” Uncle Herbert was stern.

I opened my eyes and looked down at his puny knees. For one moment I absurdly wondered if he could take my weight across his lap. I think Uncle Herbert misunderstood my hesitation. He thought I had chickened out. “Doh!” he cried and he grabbed my left wrist and pulled me forward. I lost my balance as I toppled forward over his lap. I went too fast and my shoulder hurt as my hands hit the floor, wrenching my arms out of their sockets. Well, I exaggerate there. But I did hurtle face-down over Uncle’s knees. I had to spread my arms wide and dig my palms down into the ground to hold myself steady.

I couldn’t see myself (I was staring at the wooden floor) but I could tell my big bum was high over Uncle’s right thigh and my knees were slightly bent and the tips of my toes brushed the ground. I wore tight boxer shorts and Uncle shocked me by gripping the waistband and tugging so hard that he gave me a ‘wedgie’: they rode right up into the crack of my arse.

He paused for a long minute. I’ve no idea what he was up to. I felt a slight tapping on the fleshiest part of my left bum cheek. Then there was an almighty whack! noise. I felt the sting maybe a second later. The noise bounced around the room and it felt like he had pressed the iron Mum uses at home into my bum. It took my breath away. My mouth opened and my lips formed a perfect ‘O’ as I just about managed to stop myself yapping.

z used otk pants chair cp4men

Before I got my breath back Uncle had hammered that heavy utility brush into my other cheek. Then he pounded it across both cheeks, high, low and across the peaks without mercy. Now, I was yelping, like a little whipped puppy. My hips rose and fell, my arms flailed about and my legs kicked. It was like I was trying to swim away off his lap. He seized me tightly around the waist and held onto me for grim life. I wasn’t going anywhere while he blistered each and every square centimetre of meat (and my bum had quite a lot of acreage). When he had done toasting that he went for the backs of my thighs. My shorts were just that short, so he was walloping me on the bare. I wailed like some demented banshee.

I did the swimming thing again and my head went up and down. If I’d been closer to the ground I would’ve headbutted it. I was in so much pain and my heart was racing so fast I could not breathe. I thought for a moment I’d pass out. Still Uncle Herbert battered my bum. When would he let up? It seemed the answer was Never. On and on and on he spanked me. I’m quite a big, strong guy as I’ve told you, but even I wondered how much longer I could take it.

My bum had been battered and bruised so much I swear it had gone numb. I could hear the thwack as each new whack hit me, but I couldn’t feel a thing? Does that make sense? It shouldn’t, but I tell you it’s the truth. Uncle Herbert must have got wind of this because he laid a few more over my red-raw thighs.

I lost all sense of time. I might have been across his knees for half an hour for all I know. The spanking just went on and on. At last (thank the Lord!) he stopped. Bam-Bam-Bam. “Okay. Get up!” He let go of my waist and I lay still face down for a long moment catching my breath. It was only when Uncle Herbert started to push me off his lap that I came to. I tumbled to the floor and stayed there on my hands and knees. From that position I saw Uncle get off his chair and walk over to a hook on the far wall and hang up the brush. I climbed to my feet and nearly fell back to the floor as I stumbled pulling my trousers up.

“Get back to work, you’ve wasted enough of my time,” Uncle Herbert grumbled. I didn’t need telling twice. I stumbled through the door. Outside I saw Harry, one of my fellow workers. He had a huge grin across his face. He gave me an exaggerated wink. “Nice one, son,” he chortled. He had heard it all. My humiliation would soon be the talk of the warehouse. Without a word, I staggered down the hall. I needed to get away. I needed to calm down. I needed a smoke. I cursed myself that I wasn’t carrying any weed.

Things improved a lot after that. I didn’t work any harder and Uncle Herbert had me across his knee again before too long, but Harry and the guys now knew I wasn’t the boss’s pet and they treated me like one of the gang from there on in.

 

 

Picture credit: CP 4 Men

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

How other people live

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z used otk painter sting (2)

Mr Bonner put a message on his neighbourhood Internet group to see if anyone knew of a decent decorator who could paint his kitchen and front room. He was delighted when a fellow in the next street emailed to say he’d used a painter called Mr Wodza. He explained Mr Wodza wasn’t his correct name but he was from eastern Europe somewhere – Lithuania, Poland, Estonia, Czech Republic, he wasn’t really sure – and his name was a foot long and had a couple of Zs and a W or two and no Englishman could ever hope to pronounce it, let alone spell it. Mr Wodza worked with his teenaged son and was very good. Reliable and not too expensive.

So a week or so later Mr Wodza and Wodza Junior turned up at his house. They worked very well and at the end of the day Mr Bonner was delighted at how much they had done. The next day, however, Mr Wodza was on his own and there was no sign of Junior. Mr Bonner could tell that Mr Wodza was very glum about this. He was like a bear with a sore head for most of the morning. Then, close to midday Junior arrived.

Mr Bonner didn’t speak Lithuanian or whatever it was but he knew without a shadow of doubt that Mr Wodza was very angry with his son. The air was blue with foreign words and Mr Bonner was embarrassed at what he was witnessing. He was about to sneak away upstairs and leave them to it when, Junior shrieked, “No!!!!!! papa.” Or he said words that sounded something just like that. The boy’s face turned a deathly white and he shrinked away from his father.

But, Mr Wodza stood between Junior and the door. There was no escape. The boy pleaded with his father but he would not relent. Mr Bonner stood transfixed. He had no idea what was being said but he began to understand the story as it unfolded before him. He didn’t need dialogue, it was like watching a foreign-language film. He could make out the plot, even without subtitles.

Mr Wodza gesticulated wildly. His arms waved like a windmill. He spoke at moderate volume but his words were harsh. Junior cowered. His pale face was reddening and soon blazed scarlet. His eyes moistened. He seemed to be pleading with his father again. The pleas fell on deaf ears. Mr Wodza grabbed a wooden, straight-backed chair and almost threw it onto the ground in the middle of the room. It shuddered as it fell. He turned to Junior and spoke harshly. Mr Bonner didn’t understand a word, but he could tell Mr Wodza was giving instructions.

That was confirmed quickly. Mr Bonner stared disbelievingly as the scene unfolded before him. He had never seen anything remotely like this in all of his life. He would never have dreamt such a thing would happen in his own kitchen. His jaw literally dropped as he watched a snivelling Junior kick off his shoes. He pleaded some more. Mr Wodza sat on the chair stone-faced. He said something more and waved his hand so that it rose and fell. Even Mr Bonner understood that instruction. He understood it, but he didn’t believe it.

Junior could not look at his father. He turned his head towards Mr Bonner. He said something that Mr Bonner did not understand, but the look of terror in his eyes spoke volumes. Mr Bonner was still non-plussed. He was pretty certain now what Mr Wodza had ordered Junior to do, but he still couldn’t comprehend it. Mr Bonner felt a heel, he couldn’t intervene. He didn’t know how.

Mr Wodza barked an order. Junior looked away from Mr Bonner. The boy’s hands trembled. His knees shook. He reached for the elasticated waistband of his trousers and he rolled them down his thighs, over his knees and onwards to his feet. He stopped and stood erect. Mr Wodza sneered. Junior pouted, but spoke no words. He didn’t need to, the phrase “if looks could kill” said it all. He kicked the trousers until they were free of his feet. Now, he stood in only his white t-shirt and multi-coloured shorts.

Mr Bonner’s mouth opened and closed. He gave a good impersonation of a goldfish. He knew he should intervene. It was his house. He could stop this. His heart thumped and he was sure his own face was scarlet with embarrassment. He was an Englishman after all and not good at confrontation. He tried to form some words but his mouth was unexpectedly dry. Mr Wodza gave another clear order. Junior’s face crumpled in anguish. His suffering was clear. He looked at his father and directed his attention to Mr Bonner standing close by. “Bah!” Mr Wodza ejaculated. He said some more that probably meant “Get on with it!”

Junior tucked his thumbs into the waist of his shorts and with no more than a mere flick of the wrists he sent them travelling south. They puddled at his feet. He didn’t wait for a further instruction, he stepped out of them and was now naked from the waist down, except for his short, white socks. Mr Bonner coughed to clear his arid throat. He had regained his voice. “Surely,” he croaked without much conviction, “is this really necessary?” He struggled to overcome his reserve. “I mean, well …”

Mr Wodza wriggled his buttocks on the hard chair and spoke in clear English. “It is what we do back home. This boy was out all night. He came home drunk and could not get up for work this morning. He does this a lot. He treats me and my wife with disrespect. He thinks the world owes him a living.”

Mr Bonner listened intently. Junior stood sheepishly and Mr Bonner looked him up and down. Suddenly, he saw, not an immigrant labourer standing in his kitchen but his own son Ryan. He too was disrespectful and often idle. He treated the house like a hotel and drove his mother to distraction by missing meals she had cooked for him and leaving the living room looking like a pigsty. He was no different from Wodza Junior.

Mr Wodza was still speaking. “We would not put up with it at home and we will not do so here. I will discipline him; like a father should. It is my duty.” Mr Bonner blinked hard; he could not argue with that. “But,” he spluttered, “Isn’t he a bit old …” and then he trailed off browbeaten into silence by Mr Wodza’s icy stare. “He is only nineteen, he is not yet an adult. He is an adult when he learns to behave like that. Until then ..” He didn’t finish the sentence, instead he slapped his thigh hard.

That was an instruction. Junior understood it. It was then Mr Bonner understood that the drama playing out in his kitchen might be rare to him but for Mr Wodza and his son it was not at all unusual. It was how they lived. Mr Bonner saw Junior hesitate but it was clear this did not mean refusal. The teenager shuffled forward and stood close to his father’s side. Mr Wodza slapped his own thigh one more time. Junior seemed to be debating with himself inside his own head. Mr Bonner wondered if he was going to obey.

Mr Bonner soon found out. Junior took a deep breath, rubbed both hands together and in one smooth movement he leaned forward. Inside a second his head was butting the ground and his bottom was raised high over his father’s knee. His legs spread out behind him with his toes brushing the floor tiles. Mr Bonner had a bird’s-eye view of Junior’s round, hairless bottom. For a moment, he imagined it was himself and Ryan. Would his son meekly remove his trousers and underpants and submit himself across his knee?  Ha! Why was he even bothering to ask the question.

He watched absorbed as Mr Wodza took hold of Junior’s t-shirt and moved it away from the target area. The boy’s fleshy bum quivered in anticipation of what was to come. It didn’t have to wait long. Mr Wodza raised his right arm high and brought it down hard so that a resounding thwack echoed around the empty kitchen. A dark-pink imprint of the hand glowered across the centre of Junior’s left buttock. A similar one soon glowed in the middle of the right cheek.

Mr Bonner had never spanked a boy and he had never seen it done, not even in a movie, so he had no template to work with. That said, he was more than certain that Mr Wodza knew his business. Within a minute both cheeks were rosy. He spanked rapidly and hard. From where he stood the buttocks looked mightily raw. Junior winced and screwed up his nose as smack after smack connected with his hot bottom, but otherwise he showed no emotion. He neither gasped or groaned. No yaps or yelped were uttered, not even when Mr Wodza turned his attention away from the buttocks and assaulted the backs of Junior’s legs. Although his knees did buckle a little and he covered one foot over the other to stop him kicking his legs about.

Time stood still for Mr Bonner. He had no idea for how long Mr Wodza spanked his son. It was, he concluded to himself, probably what was known as a “sound spanking”. Junior’s bottom was raw and the imprint of his father’s palm and fingers was reproduced time and again across his bare backside and thighs.

At last Mr Wodza stopped. He said nothing and simply released his grip on his son. Junior scrambled to his feet and without waiting for permission he retrieved his shorts and climbed in. He was breathing heavily when he stepped into his trousers and pulled them up. His face was scarlet and his eyes moist. He dared not look at his father; his shame was so great. Mr Wodza remained seated. He looked across at Mr Bonner as if expecting him to say something.

Mr Bonner coughed politely, “A-hm, I’ll let you get back to work then, shall I?” He hurried from the room. He settled in the lounge and even though it was hardly mid-day he poured himself a whisky. As he sat and sipped it he recalled the previous minutes in his mind. He remembered how Mr Wodza had catalogued Junior’s faults. How they mirrored those of his own boy Ryan. He heard Mr Wodza say how it was a father’s duty to discipline their sons. They only became adults when they learned how to behave.

It was good to see how other people lived, but he knew he did not have the courage to learn a lesson from them. He gulped his whisky, a trifle ashamed.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

Other stories you might like

A spanking before bedtime

Just a little weed

A memory in the attic

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The boy from the Accounts department

new 5

Scenes we’d like to see: or wishful thinking

 

Ted filled his mouth with a forkful of meat pie, then leaned across the table at his workmate. He chewed vigorously and taking great care not to spit bits of food at his companion he waved his hand and pointed across the canteen.

“Look at that,” he grumbled. His mate Harry had his back to the action, “Wor?” he spluttered tea down his chin as he spoke.

“There,” Ted nodded vigorously. His evident unhappiness prompted Harry to swivel in his seat to try to see what all the fuss was about. “There,” Harry repeated, “It’s that boy from Accounts, just look at him.” Ted’s face was slowly turning scarlet, he was an angry old man.

The boy from Accounts was giving the woman behind the counter a hard time. She was trying to serve the boy his dinner, but he found much to complain about. And, he didn’t mind venting his anger on the small, cowering woman in front of him.

“What a bully,” Ted raged with disgust. “Why doesn’t he pick on someone his own size?”

Harry straightened up in his chair and returned to eating his suet pudding and custard. “I know him,” he stated, meaning the boy from Accounts. “His an arrogant sod. Goes round like he owns the place,” he forced a spoonful of dough into his mouth and chewed energetically.

Ted grabbed a slice of bread, folded it in two and mopped gravy from his plate. Before he stuffed it into his mouth, he said, “He’s upset a lot of people. Too full of himself. He’s only been here five minutes.” He chewed on his bread and washed it down with a gulp of tea. “University graduate,” he sneered. “They’re all the same. Think they’re better than the rest of us.”

“Pah!” Harry accidentally spat pudding onto the Formica-topped table. “He needs taking down a peg or two.” He wiped pudding from his chin with the back of his hand, “I know what I’d like to do and no mistake!”

“What’s that?” Ted asked, genuinely puzzled. Harry grinned, showing Harry the contents of his mouth. It was not a pretty sight. “You know, damn well, what I’d do. If he were one of my own. I wouldn’t stand for it. He needs to know his place. Learn to respect his elders. That’s what I think.”

“Ha!” Ted laughed. “What like you did with your boy, d’ya mean? When he gave your Gloria all that grief.”

“Too right,” Harry laughed too. “He didn’t try it on with his mother again after that. I damn good spanking, and I didn’t care that he was nineteen years old.”

“Ha!” Ted’s shoulders heaved. “If only!” He paused, thinking hard, “I don’t suppose his dad cares, he’s probably just as arrogant. Probably where he gets it from.”

“No, suppose not,” Harry had become reflective. “But give me half a chance and I’d march over there right now and take him across my knee.”

Ted nodded his agreement. “If only. Back in the day a young whippersnapper like him wouldn’t have dared cheek his boss. Not today. They get away with murder.”

Harry shook his head sadly. “The world’s going to hell in a handcart. No respect young people. They know no discipline. Who is there to correct them.?”

They each sipped their tea sharing a moment of reflection. Then Harry saw a figure, an older man in a crumpled suit, enter the canteen. “Here,” he smiled, “Now there’s a man I bet who wouldn’t mind doing his duty. Mr Gregory, the office manager. He looks the type.”

Mr Gregory smiled and nodded to the lady behind the counter and was politeness itself as she shovelled peas onto his plate. He peered across the room, noticed an empty table and shuffled across the room toward it, unaware of two pairs of eyes watching him go. As he sat and settled himself he became aware of three youngsters at a table nearby. One, the boy from Accounts, was criticising his fellows over something Mr Gregory could not hear. He sighed and attacked his breaded cod with his knife. That kid Richardson, he mused, he’s been nothing but trouble since he arrived. He wouldn’t mind but he wasn’t even an especially talented worker. Always making mistakes.

Damn, Mr Gregory, winced. If only things were different. His mind wandered as he tucked into his fish and chips. He is back in his office, it is that afternoon. He shifts through a document, shaking his head sorrowfully. So many mistakes. It will have to be redone. He summons Richardson from Accounts. The boy stands in front of him, hands meekly held behind his back, his head slightly bowed. Mr Gregory leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers. He peers at the boy. “Not good enough,” he growls, “Not good at all.”

Richardson blushes. He knows his boss is correct. Mr Gregory shifts his buttocks on his hard chair and leans forward over his desk, “It’s not the first time, is it?” It sounds like a question but is really a statement. Mr Gregory gives no time for a response. “What did I say last time? What did I say would happen?” He pauses this time for an answer but the boy can only blush. “A spanking!” Mr Gregory answers his own question. “Oh, but Sir …” Richard wails. “Please.”

Mr Gregory hauls himself from his chair. “Not good enough. Not good enough.” He is lost for words. What more is there he can say? “You know the rules, Richardson.” The boy’s mouth opens and closes but no sound comes. He mouths the words, “Oh Sir,” seeking pity.

“Right lad,” Mr Gregory is in no mood for mercy. “Stand over here,” he takes three paces across the office towards the table where the printer is. He sweeps it aside with his arm to give him the space he needs. Sorrowfully, Richardson follows. His face is scarlet and his eyes begin to moisten. “Right lad, take those trousers down.” Richardson’s mouth gapes, his face contorts, he wants to protest. He wants to exclaim, “I’m twenty-two years old!” He wants to run from the office. He does none of these things. The world is not like that. Mr Gregory is the boss. Mr Gregory is an old man. Mr Gregory is in charge. He, Richardson, must submit. He must obey. He has no choice, it is the order of things.

Richardson pouts. His mind is befuddled. He is not thinking clearly. What he does know is that he does not want to show his boss his underpants. It is bad enough being spanked by an older man, but trousers down! Even so, he makes no protest. He takes hold of the buckle of his belt and struggles to get it open. His neat, pin-striped business trousers fit snugly. He often admires the reflection of his own bottom in mirrors. It is his best asset. He undoes the clasp at the waistband and pulls the zipper. The weight of keys and a wallet in his pocket sends the trousers hurtling to his feet. He pauses. His temples throb, this cannot be happening.

“Bend over the table,” Mr Gregory walks across the office back to his desk. There, he finds a heavy ruler. He picks it up and weighs it in his hand. It is 30-cemtimetres long and made of stout plastic and will make an excellent spanking paddle.

“I said bend over, we haven’t got all afternoon. There’s work to be done,” Mr Gregory slaps the ruler into the palm of his left hand, enjoying the Smack! noise it creates. Richardson closes his eyes tightly and then opens them, as if he is hoping this is all a dream and if he blinks enough it will all go away. Of course, nothing happens.

“Bend over,” Mr Gregory orders once more. Richardson takes a deep breath and turns to face the table. He is a tall boy and the table is low. It was not designed for spanking. Unsure how to do this, Richardson leans forward and places his elbows on the table, he arches his back and parts his legs a little. Like this his bottom sticks out behind him. Mr Gregory is still at the other side of the office watching. The boy’s position isn’t how he imagined it would be. He had in mind the lad bent across the back of a huge leather armchair, his head low and his bottom raised high. But they are not in some old-fashioned headmaster’s study, this is a modern office. He must adapt to the furniture that is available.

Mr Gregory approaches the table. Now that he is standing right behind Richardson he realises that he is in a perfect position to be spanked. The bottom is presented at a good height, the buttocks are taut. He has very little meat back there. His blue cotton underpants cover the buttocks almost like a second skin. There are some wrinkles in the material so Mr Gregory tugs at the elasticated waistband so the pants ride up into Richardson’s crack at the same time lifting and separating each cheek.

The boy breaths heavily. The buttocks tighten. Richardson is wearing a formal shirt and the tail is long, so Mr Gregory takes hold of it and with great ceremony he lifts and folds it up the boy’s back until it rests at the shoulders. He sees the back is smooth and hairless.

Mr Gregory takes up position to Richardson’s left hand side. He can hear his heavy breathing. The aroma of deodorant, or possibly hair product, wafts into Mr Gregory’s nostrils. It makes him a little giddy. He hasn’t planned to do this, but anyway he cups his right hand and with it he gently caresses first Richardson’s right cheek and then the left. The buttocks tense. Mr Gregory enjoys the feel of the hard flesh and is reminded of two rubber balls. He slaps each cheek in turn then transfers the ruler into his right hand and lightly taps it across the highest point on the left cheek. Richardson’s shoulders tense, he sucks down on his bottom lip. As he does this Mr Gregory raises the ruler high and rather like a golfer he swings it back with speed so that it connects with Richardson’s bum making a resounding whack!

Mr Gregory is relieved that the ruler hasn’t broken. He swipes it again with just as much energy. Richardson closes his eyes tight. He is hurting but he doesn’t want his boss to see. Mr Gregory stands closer and pushes his left hand into the small of Richardson’s back, pinning him into position. He lets fly with a dozen or more rapid whacks; rat-a-tat-tat. The pain quickly accumulates and the heat in the boy’s backside rises. He wriggles but the boss has his gripped tightly. The slaps rain down.

z used ruler pants table office magic spanking factory

Richardson’s buttocks are small and pert and Mr Gregory quickly covers every square centimetre of them. He concentrates on the crests of the mounds where there is most flesh. He gets an urge to grip the waistband and tug the pants to the boy’s knee to continue the spanking on the bare bum. Some sense of propriety stops him. It wouldn’t be right to have an employee naked in his office.

That doesn’t stop him from slapping the ruler into the back of Richardson’s naked thighs. Very quickly the flesh turns rosy pink and then a darker red. The boy’s knees buckle and he lets out a series of gasps that quickly grow to groans. That hurt. That really hurt. Good, Mr Gregory thinks, he’s feeling it now. Perhaps, he will work harder and stop being such a pain in the arse to his colleagues in future. He smiles at the phrase pain in the arse.

“Are you learning your lesson Richardson,” he asks as the ruler flies. His arm is aching, soon he will be forced to stop. “Yes, Sir,” the boy gasps. “Yes, Sir. Yes, Sir. Yes, Sir.” Mr Gregory is not so sure so he lands another dozen whacks into the underside of the left cheek and another twelve on the right. He gets the sensitive “sit-spot” and he knows the pain Richardson feels right now will reignite every time he sits down for hours to come.

Unexpectedly, Mr Gregory hears a voice from a distance. His name is being called. It must be his secretary. Somebody probably wants to speak to him. He takes that as his cue to finish. “Stand up Richardson,” he wheezes. The boy jumps to his feet, bends down and tugs up his trousers. Only after they are safely zipped up and the belt is fastened does he gently rub his buttocks.

Mr Gregory has no more to say. He picks up the document he was previously reading and thrusts it at Richardson. “Do it again and bring it to me at five o’clock and woe betide you if there are any errors.”

“Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir,” Richardson whines as he takes it and hurries from the office.

Suddenly, Mr Gregory is brought to by a voice, “Mr Gregory, Mr Gregory.” It is the lady from the counter, “I said have you finished? Can I take your plate.” The office manager looks sheepish, “Yes thanks, Laura. I’ve finished.”

Picture Credit: Magic Spanking Factory

 

Other stories you might like

The office manager

Late at the office

The Gaffer of the Academy: 1. Beginnings

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Garden boy

new 5

z used after naked mowing lawn outdoors

I must make a confession right away. There’s not much to this story. Not by way of plot anyway, but I hope you’ll find it interesting nonetheless. It happened to me a few summers ago. That year when it was really hot for about the whole of June and July and then went a long way downhill after that until August could easily have been mistaken for November.

I was in a lot of trouble at home. I had left school when I was sixteen without a qualification to my name and (who would have thought?) I couldn’t get much of a job. I got into petty thieving; from shops and market stalls. I smoked a little weed. I stayed around at home until Mum got so fed up with me she threatened to throttle me if I didn’t move in with her brother Nigel.

Uncle Nigel had his own little business doing people’s gardens. He mowed their lawns and dug their weeds. He would prune your trees if you paid him enough. He worked the suburbs of Brocklehurst which is a small town too far from where I lived. Uncle Nigel offered to make me his assistant and put me up at his house, so all of a sudden in the wink of an eye I had a new job and a new home: a whole new life.

It started well, business was booming. We would share the work, maybe I would mow the front lawn while Uncle Nigel did the back. After not too long there was so much work, Uncle Nigel said we should split up. He would do some houses on his own and I’d do others. He told me he thought I was a good worker and he trusted me not to let him down. I was walking on air. Nobody had ever said anything like that to me before.

We had a number of customers in a posh street called The Avenue. The houses were mostly hidden behind high walls and some of them had lawns the size of football pitches (well, maybe five-a-side ones). Uncle Nigel said The Avenue would be my responsibility. I was well “made-up”. My own patch to work.

The people in The Avenue were rich. I had never been close to such large houses. And the garages! Some could take three cars, and no exaggeration. All went well with my work, but fool that I am I could never leave things alone. One afternoon I was working on one of the houses. I forget which number and I never knew the name of the owner so I’ll just call him The Man. I was in the back garden getting the mower ready when I noticed the door to the kitchen was open slightly. I couldn’t resist having a peak inside. The kitchen was enormous. Mum would have loved a place like this. There was every appliance and gadget she would ever want. I stood at the open door gaping. A counter ran through the middle of the room, it was as big as the lunch counter at Robinson’s the department store back home. Well maybe not that long, but you could have sat half a dozen people at it. I was just about to get back to work when I spotted a leather wallet on a small table. Even from a distance I could tell it was bulging. A lump came to my throat, my heart pounded. I swear my eyes watered. Maybe the palms of my hands also itched. I was out of control. Without a second’s thought I was inside the kitchen, the wallet was in my hands and I had a five pound note between my sticky fingers.

I couldn’t have timed it more badly. The kitchen door glided open and there The Man stood, open mouthed. He sized up the situation, his face darkened, his jowls wobbled. I stared at him and then looked down sheepishly at the fiver in my hands.

If I found someone in my kitchen stealing from my wallet I am pretty sure I would have leapt across the room and smashed his face in. The Man just shook his head slowly from side to side. “Stand there!” he pointed to a corner of the kitchen away from the door. “While I phone for the police.” My knees buckled. I should have legged it. The Man was too old and too fat to chase after me. I could be gone in a flash. I didn’t. I stood rooted. My mouth opened and closed but I couldn’t get the words out. I wanted to say something like: don’t do it, Uncle Nigel would kill me. Mum would never let me go home again. I’d lose my job. I’d be homeless. I said none of this. I stood meekly, my bright blue eyes pleading.

The Man pursed his lips. He stepped further into the kitchen. He leaned forward as if to get a closer look at me. He had no fear of me. I did the goldfish out of water impression again, still unable to speak.

“No,” The Man towered over me. I caught a faint aroma of coal tar soap on his body. “No,” he repeated, “not the police.” I mouthed a silent, “Thank you.” He peered closely at me. His grey eyes seemed to burn into me, as if he could read right into my soul. “No,” he said calmly, “No police, I can deal with this myself.” The way he said the word deal sent a shiver through me.

“Did you know,” he said as his eyes sized me up from the top of my head to my feet, “I was once a schoolmaster.” He stopped speaking there and his eyes narrowed. The silence was overpowering: was I supposed to say something here? I might have said, “Oh,” but I can’t remember. When it was clear I had no more to say, he continued. “I have a great deal of experience dealing with boys like you,” his lips curled into a sneer. I blinked hard, fearing where he was going with this.

If the look in his eyes was a clue, he seemed to be debating with himself in his head. “It is a great pity that I no longer possess a rattan cane,” he said aloud and lapsed into silence again. Then he said wistfully, “A sound swishing would sort this matter out.” I had never heard the term a sound swishing before, but I instinctively knew what he meant. He wanted to cane my backside like I was one of his naughty schoolboys from back in the day.

The Man’s eyes glazed. A frown covered his face. He was deep in thought again. “Ah, but maybe.” I had no idea what he was talking about, but he seemed to have made up his mind about something. He waddled from the room. This was my second chance to leg it. For the second time I stood rooted. He returned to the kitchen moments later. “Here,” he beamed, his face alight with a wide smile. In his right fist he held a large wooden brush. It was like the one Mum had at home hanging in the passageway. She used it for brushing clothes. He waved it in my face, “This will be perfect.” It was about a foot long, including the handle. The oval-shaped head was probably five inches by three. My eyes followed it as The Man waved it provocatively in my face.

“Right, boy,” he said. His tone of voice had changed. He was speaking to me like I was about thirteen years old. Once a schoolmaster, always a schoolmaster, I suppose. He was in charge. He would order me what to do and I would obey. Without question. “Stand there,” he pointed towards the centre of the room, “By the counter,” he added, in case there was any doubt what he meant. I stared at him, my mouth gaping. He wanted to spank me with that clothes brush. And to do so he needed me to meekly subject myself to his will.

In any other circumstance I could have (would have!) punched him in the face and left him kneeling in a pool of blood before calmly walking away. There was no way he could bodily force me to be spanked. Of course not; but he had no need to do that. He held all the cards; he knew who I was, he could call the police or tell Uncle Nigel. Whatever he did, I was toast. You might not believe this but my best option was to do as The Man ordered. I shuffled the few paces it needed for me to cross the kitchen to the counter.

“Drop those shorts. Underpants too.” It was a hot summer afternoon and I wore no shirt, if I did as he ordered I’d be stark naked. I didn’t speak a word, but the look on my face must have betrayed my inner thoughts. The Man tapped the brush into the palm of his left hand, “It’s not a proper spanking unless it’s on the bare,” he growled, as if delivering a perfectly rational explanation. Like it was normal for him to instruct a nineteen-year-old to strip naked before him in his kitchen.

“Shorts, underpants down,” he repeated, adding, “Bend over the counter.” My heart thumped and although I couldn’t see it I knew my face was burning scarlet. I had never been spanked in my life and the cane had been banned at school years before. Now, here I was being told to strip naked by a complete stranger. “Do you want me to do it for you?” The Man leered. He started to approach me, his hand outstretched. I froze. I guess it was like an out-of-body experience. It was as if I was looking down on us both from a high point. The Man put his fingers into the waist of my cut-off jeans and tugged me forward. The shorts fitted me snugly and had no belt. Still holding the brush in his left hand, with his right he skilfully undid the fastener at the top of my shorts and slowly unzipped me. The weight of a bunch of keys I had in a pocket sent the shorts hurtling to my feet. Seconds later he had my lemon-coloured briefs resting on top of them.

I hadn’t moved an inch. He took my left wrist in his fist and swivelled me around so I faced the counter, then he pushed me hard in the shoulder blades and I allowed myself to fall forward. Even on a hot afternoon the counter top felt cold against my naked stomach and chest. The Man pressed his hand into the small of my back. I had hardly recognised the perilous position I was in before there was a tremendous whack! and the heavy, wooden brush connected with great energy against my left buttock. Two breaths later, it pounded into my right cheek. That knocked the wind out of me, but was nothing as compared to the next eight or nine whacks he pounded at speed into my naked bottom.

My bum was ablaze. Of course, I stomped my legs up and down and I wriggled my hips and I tried to launch myself to my feet, but The Man was stronger than he looked and he had me pinned face down over the counter. I gritted my teeth determined not to cry out. Even at my age and never been spanked before I knew instinctively the code of the naughty boy through the ages: never let your master know he has hurt you.

The pain was intense and each successive spank added to it until the agony was such it felt like I had been forced to sit in a bath of boiling water. But, I don’t know, after the first fifty or so whacks I must have reached a threshold of pain, because after that no matter how many more times he pounded that brush into my bare bum I didn’t feel it, even though my backside throbbed like crazy. I lost count of how long I was face down over that cold counter but at last The Man released his grip on my shoulder.

I jumped up, hopping from foot to foot while at the same time rubbing away at my raw bum. The skin was hard and felt like leather. While I did the spanking dance I kicked my shorts and pants away. The Man ducked down, picked them up and immediately left the kitchen with them. He returned seconds later emptyhanded. He let me calm down and when he was satisfied I was okay, he said quietly, “You have still to mow the lawn. Get on with it. You’ve wasted enough time this afternoon.”

He gently pushed me towards the garden. I was completely naked, except for my shoes. “B…” I began a protest, but the steely look in his eyes spoke volumes and I shut up. He was my master. Decades of schoolmastering could do this to a person. He was in control. I could do nothing but obey. Not daring to look at The Man I took hold of the lawn mower and pushed it across the grass. The pain in my backside has eased a lot by now but my head was spinning but not enough that I didn’t hear the clicking of the camera shutter as The Man photographed my predicament for posterity.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

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The dope smoker

Coffee shop memory

Nothing ventured, nothing gained

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The performance review

Lucas Hodges stood rooted. He wanted to get his legs to move, but they would not obey the command from his brain. He knew he must submit to his boss; not to do so would be unthinkable. The wretched man had complete control over him. Lucas was powerless. He must do what Mr Riley wanted; however perverted it might be.

There was sweat beneath Lucas’s crisp white shirt; but the room was cold. Snow continued to fall and settle on the pavement five storeys below the spacious office where Mr Riley and he stood. Lucas breathed deeply: in, out. In, out. He must regain the use of his legs. With tremendous effort he got the right foot to move; then with a willpower he never knew he possessed, the left foot followed it.

Like a penguin, Lucas shuffled a few paces across the office. Slowly, he reached the spot indicated by Mr Riley and he stood, knees slightly bent. He could not stomach to see his tormentor, the ugly, pot-bellied vile creature, so he cast his eyes down and studied the plush new deep-pile carpet beneath his feet.

The sweat was oozing. The back of his neck was damp and his closely cut ginger hair was soaking, like he had just stepped out of the shower. A moustache of moisture smeared his upper lip.

Mr Riley said nothing; but he was not silent. Air escaped between his lips. That was the old man’s default position. He always wheezed; even at times like this when he was rested in a deeply-padded leather couch. Later, when he put Lucas through his paces, Mr Riley’s breathing and blood pressure would take off into orbit. But that was for the future.

Lucas could not stop his hands from trembling. He bunched his palms into fists and held then rigidly beside the side of his body. Then he clenched the two hands together, interlocking his fingers and gripped them tightly behind his back. But, however he held them, the quaking would not stop.

Mr Riley ogled the twenty-two-year-old purchasing assistant. Lucas Hodges had never been summoned before him in this way before. According to the boy’s personnel record he had been with Asperton’s for four years; ever since he left school and just before the new government-inspired apprenticeship scheme came into force. Technically, Mr Riley was not permitted to treat him as an apprentice. Technically, schmechnically, Mr Riley did not give a hoot. The boy was in no position to complain. He would submit to Mr Lucas’s authority; or he could take his chances with the millions of unemployed slowly starving to death in dark corners of the nation.

Mr Riley did not know Lucas, but he had seen him in the office canteen at lunchtimes and had admired the boy’s lithe figure when he stretched across the pool table to reach a difficult shot. The boy’s tailored suit trousers would hug the contours of his firm round buttocks, affording Mr Riley a perfect view of his adorable arse. An arse, Mr Riley fervently hoped, he would have the pleasure of enjoying at closer quarters one day in the privacy of his office.

Mr Riley shuffled through a file on his lap: Lucas Hodge’s monthly performance review. Tasks had not been completed, deadlines had been missed and invoices had been left unprocessed for days.

In the modern day, at Asperton’s such behaviour would be dealt with in only one way. No excuses; no mitigation. Events had to take their course.

It was a large padded leather armchair. As Lucas swivelled it round so that its back pointed towards him, he saw the clear indentation in the chair’s crown. In the past few years, since the new employment laws had been in force, countless young men had contributed to its making; their heavy bodies pressing down into the soft leather. The channel was so well established that each new boy instinctively rested himself into the groove. The office workers required to submit their rear ends to Mr Riley found it was surprisingly comfortable, but of course what happened once they were ready was far from that.

The chair now in place, Lucas stepped back, his quaking hands once again grasped behind his back as he awaited further instructions.

Mr Riley was not ready yet. He hauled his clammy bulk from the couch, leaving behind a patch of moisture where his flabby buttocks had seeped sweat into the seat cushion. Wheezing, he staggered across the huge office, and rested beside an enormous desk, which appeared to be made of metal and glass. Drawing great gulps of air into his lungs, Mr Riley pulled at a wide drawer running the length of the desk.

Lucas had never been in this office before, but instinctively he knew what was contained within the drawer. Mr Riley delved his hand inside and a rattling sound from within confirmed the young man’s direst suspicions. Within seconds Mr Riley had seized and withdrawn a long, thin, whippy cane. The old man’s face glowered puce as he held the instrument of punishment between his two hands and flexed it thoughtfully.

Lucas had never seen a cane before and could not tell whether the specimen before him was an especially mild or a vicious example. When his boss, still gasping for breath, swished it three or four times through the empty air, however, Lucas knew it was a mightily effective rod that would take his arse off.

For a moment, it seemed to Lucas, Mr Riley was about to have a seizure. The ugly man’s heavy puce face was suffused with blood. The veins stood out on his forehead and temples like purple roots. His noisy breathing calmed to almost nothing so that Lucas could not be sure that he was breathing at all. Spittle dribbled through his unkempt bushy beard.

z used cane hold kernled (26)

Then, as if suddenly awakening from a deep sleep, Mr Riley spun on his heels to face Lucas. Then from half way across the office, he wobbled the cane at the petrified boy, and whispered, “Stand behind the chair.”

All the while he had been in the office with Mr Riley Lucas had tried to devise a plan. He had two choices. One was to tell the pervert to shove his cane where the sun doesn’t shine and to walk out of the office. That was no choice. Before the hour was over, Lucas would be dismissed from the company. Destitution would follow; for himself and his parents and younger sisters who were forced to survive on his salary.

The second choice: the only choice really, was to submit to whatever Mr Riley demanded. If Lucas could close off his brain in some way, to block out what the revolting man was doing to him, he could get through it. He faced a dreadful ordeal, but it would not kill him.

So, Lucas shuffled back to the chair.

Mr Riley spoke in a whisper, as if each word had to be clutched from his throat. His mouth was full of saliva, “Take down your trousers and undergarments and bend over the chair.”

Lucas tried to unbuckle his belt, but his fingers at first refused to comply with the instructions of his brain. After much fumbling, it was loose. It was easier to unfasten his smart city-style suit trousers and pull the zipper. The trousers slipped down his pale legs and settled at his shins.

Lucas was not a shy man; he played a lot of sports and was very comfortable undressing in the company of men. But this time, he felt a wave of embarrassment sweep through him. It was Mr Riley’s google-eyed stare that did it. His piggy hazel eyes popped out on stalks at the sight of Lucas in his tight fitting boxer briefs. The cotton clung to the boy’s buttocks and thighs and even from a distance it was evident that Lucas’s cock and balls were an exceptional size.

“Wheeze, wheeze …. Undergarments down, wheeze, wheeze …”

Looking back on this experience, Lucas supposed he had never despised anybody in his entire life as he did Mr Riley at that moment. Would any right-minded person blame him if he took a paperknife from the desk and stabbed the revolting man through the throat? Alas, for Lucas, the law courts did not comprise reasonable people and he would soon find himself on death-row if he did.

So, Lucas sent his boxer briefs to meet his trousers. Mr Riley would have liked to see more of Lucas’s uncut penis and his dangling ball sack, but the young man took a deep breath, rubbed the palms of his hands together to steady his nerves and like dozens (possibly hundreds) of his fellow workers before him, he settled himself into the channel over the back of the chair.

The armchair was the perfect height for young men to prostrate themselves across to offer up their arses. He fitted rather well with his stomach comfortably resting in the groove and his arms stretched out ahead of him clutching onto the seat cushion. In this position his face rested close to his own chest and he breathed in the heavy scent of Brut 33 splash-on lotion. Behind him his legs were parted and his knees held straight, offering a wonderful target to Mr Riley and his whippy cane.

Mr Riley took hold of the tail of Lucas’s shirt and pushed it up his back, revealing an area of pale white skin. From this vantage the boss could see right into the boy’s crack. There was not a hair to be seen, it was as if Lucas’s entire body was hairless, virginal.

Lucas’s bottom was slightly raised and nothing would impede the cane, shiny and whippy in Mr Riley’s right hand. He tapped it, impatiently, against his own left hand and then placed it gently across the centre of the boy’s buttock cheeks. Lucas squirmed and instinctively turned his head. His bottom involuntarily twitched and Mr Riley, his face now a deep purple, tapped the cheeks again as if to say, keep still and let my cane do its work.

Then, the cane thwipped down across the centre of Lucas’s pale backside. It was not a vicious stroke: Mr Riley liked to see a boy’s buttocks bounce under the impact of his cane leaving a vivid red line to slowly emerge across the surface of his skin. It hurt the boy, he sucked in his breath and closed his teeth tightly. He gripped the seat cushion firmly and waited for swipe number two.

When it came, impacting the lower part of the cheeks close to where they meet with the thigh, Lucas gasped and lifted his left leg slightly as if to ease the pain but, other than that, there was no movement and there was no sound. Lucas had never been caned in his life and had no real idea how much it should hurt, but instinct told him that Mr Riley was not delivering him a whipping.

The stroke had been clean and true, but not too hard, and as it echoed around the office another clear red line painted itself across the centre of the upturned cheeks. The pulsating soreness spread across Lucas’s shapely bottom.

“Uh!” Another sharp cut, lower this time, thwacked across Lucas’s round buttocks making his entire body shudder. Lucas felt his eyes begin to moisten as another stroke cut into his bottom, higher than the others.

From his place face down over the chair, Lucas could not see Mr Riley reach into his own trouser pocket and take a large blue-and-white-spotted kerchief which he used to mop up copious amounts of perspiration from his face and neck.

The delay set Lucas’s mind racing as he wondered was happening back there. Was Mr Riley wavering; was his limited strength giving out on him?

The cloth was sopping wet when Mr Riley returned it to his pocket and took up his station to thwip another stroke across Lucas’s, by now, red and sore buttocks.

“Eekk!” that one cut into the centre of Lucas’s tightly clad rear. He began to move a hand back towards his sore bottom then because he knew some unwritten law would not allow this he withdrew it and tucked the hand under his face.

“Eeekk!!” Again, the slender rattan cane bounced into Lucas’s by-now very tender bottom sending a dose of pain shooting across his backside and down the backs of his legs. He clung to the chair for all he was worth.  Mr Riley stared on, mesmerised by the luscious buttocks, which twitched, clenched and unclenched.

The cane met Lucas’s bare backside with a thump that swiftly transformed into a singing bite. A thin line of pain zipped across the apex of his buttocks, and the cane moved its attention to the lower section just above the top of the thighs. Another thwack hit with lightning speed. It was an even deeper, more painful bite, and its momentum pushed Lucas’s groin against the edge of the chair. The surface of the lush leather cushion clouded over with the hot breath propelled from the boy’s lungs.

Lucas fought back cries and when, eventually, gasping, groaning, heaving and writhing, he began to realise that the caning was over, that twelve strokes had been cut on his bare flesh, and that Mr Riley was admiring his work of art, he flopped over the chair and let the tears run down his face.

Mr Riley lowered his cane and rested it on his desk. The beating was over. Lucas Hodges slumped across the chair back, still gripping the rests, trying to maintain his composure. His buttocks were streaked with livid red weals. There were not twelve distinct lines because the whole of his rear end was covered with marks the colour of deep burgundy.

“You may get up.” Lucas almost missed the order Mr Riley’s voice was so shallow. The boy dragged himself up from the chair. His buttocks were aflame, but already, less than a minute after the end of his caning the pain was subsiding. Some parts of his once-creamy white buttocks would be tender to the touch for some hours to come, but mostly the worst was now over. The pain was quickly turning to a throbbing and would very soon become a warm glow.

Without waiting for permission, Lucas tugged first his boxer briefs and then his trousers over his savaged bottom. He was tightening and buckling his belt when with deep shock he realised his ordeal was not yet over. The worst was yet to come.

Mr Riley was unbuttoning his own trousers revealing baggy canary yellow-coloured boxer shorts. A vast belly hung over the waistband and even from some yards away Lucas could see a red indentation around Mr Riley’s middle where his waist should have been, caused by his tight underwear.

No words were spoken as the boss hitched his fingers into his boxers and pulled them down to his shins. The physical effort this entailed set off the abhorrent old man’s wheezing. Still without speaking, Mr Riley gestured to Lucas to step forward and take his semi-erect cock in his mouth.

Twenty minutes later Lucas was in the office lavatory. He could not be sure how much water he had forced down inside of him. Gallons and gallons, probably. But still he could not get rid of the taste of the filthy old man. In desperation he put two fingers down his throat and retched and retched.

Picture credit: Kernled

This story was first uploaded in January 2016.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The boy at the photocopier

I saw him only once at the photocopier and I could never get him out of my mind again.

I was working on some report or other and casually looked up from my desk. He was at the other end of the open-plan office copying documents.

I only saw him from the back. It was the hottest summer on record and he wore the shortest of shorts, so short they were not much bigger than the briefs he had on underneath. Straps from the back passed over his shoulders and fastened at the front, tugging the denim so tight they fitted like a second skin and highlighted the contours of his buttocks.

His hips were slender and his back straight. I remember his striped T-shirt was tucked into his shorts.

I probably stared open mouthed. I hope not, I wouldn’t want my work colleagues to know my secret.

He took a minute or so to finish his work and walked away. I never saw him again.

z used short shorts (7a)

 

That night, I dreamed of him. He was naked and bent submissively across my knee. With my left hand I ruffled his hair, to let him know I loved him. My fingertips caressed his back as I followed his spine from his neck to the hairless crack in his buttocks. My right palm hovered above each cheek, and then with a circling motion, massaged them gently.

His was breathing easily; he was ready for what I was about to give him. I raised my right hand to shoulder height and brought it down with a hearty SMACK! into his right buttock. He felt it, it smarted, and his bottom started to glow. I smacked him twelve times, slowly, so that his creamy white bottom turned to bright, bright red.

I have visualized him in school uniform, bending over, touching toes, as I smack a gym shoe into the seat of his stretched grey Terylene trousers. I’ve had him across my knee as a soccer player as I spank him on the shorts (in the days when they still were ‘shorts’). A favourite is him dressed only in swimming trunks, he has been in the sea beyond the ‘danger line’ and I whack him (for his own good, of course) on his soaking wet bare arse.

But my favourite is the boy in those tight denim shorts bent submissively across the photocopier for me to thrash him with a traditional whippy crook-handle rattan school cane.

It was thirty-five years ago and I don’t think a single month has gone by since that I haven’t thought about him.

Young man, I don’t know your name and I never even saw your face, but may I thank you from the bottom of my heart for all the innocent pleasure you have given me for the best part of my life.

Picture credit: Unknown

 

This story was first uploaded in March 2016.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com