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.
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
More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second