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.

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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 casting couch

An acting student wants a break into the movies but must be prepared to do anything to get it

 

I know that to succeed as a television actor I have to make one or two sacrifices, but I don’t expect them to be at the expense of my dignity and my ass.

An international production company is casting for parts in a new teen drama. The characters will be set in a college and in the storyline they will be seventeen years old. The company wants actors who are over eighteen with a little bit of knowledge of the business, so have been asking drama colleges to send over suitably-qualified youngsters.

I am eighteen, a bit shorter than average height, with a fresh face. I can easily pass as seventeen and with my clear skin maybe even fifteen. I am slender, but I don’t work out at the gym because I don’t have to. There’s not enough spare fat on me to fry a sausage.

The cast of the new show which does not have a name yet, at least not one that has been announced, will be an ensemble. That means no one will be the star, all will have equal status. This could be a massive break for me, the show will run for an initial twenty-six episodes on a free-to-air network and the production company has an international reputation for successes in this type of show. It will almost certainly be sold overseas. It is an enormous opportunity for me as it represents fame, wealth and a big boost at the start of my career.

I go across town for an interview and an audition. Obviously, they are seeing a lot of people and I have to wait my turn. I am waiting in the hallway close to the room where the interviews are taking place when the door opens and a young man exits. He is ashen faced and it appears he may have been crying. Looks like he didn’t get the gig, I think.

I am called into the interview room. There are three people waiting for me and I immediately recognised Allen Mikelstein, from his picture in the trade papers. Mikelstein is a big hitter in this town; too big to bother introducing himself or the other people in the room. A woman with a clipboard checks my name and contact details. My credentials established, they ask what experience I have. They aren’t expecting much so I am honest and tell them I’m at drama school and I’ve been in a few stage plays and student films. Mikelstein is sweating buckets. I don’t understand why because the room is pretty cold, I think.

Am I imagining it, or can’t he keep his eyes off my legs. He speaks and asks me to stand up and turn around once or twice. Is he checking me out? I think he might be. I am only eighteen but I’ve been in this city all my life and I am not naïve.

Thank you, Mikelstein says, and hands me a piece of paper. On it is a scene that he wants me to act out with him. I mumble an apology that I haven’t had a chance to read it and I might not be very good. He flashes me a smirk and says, “Don’t worry.”

The truth is that these shows don’t necessarily want people with good acting ability, they want people who look right for the part and who they can rely on professionally. They will be churning out twenty-six episodes, one a week, so there is no room for primemadonnas. The actors will have to be obedient and do as they are told, without fuss. I’m their man, I think: clean cut and handsome, the boy next door, and I will do whatever they ask of me for a piece of this action.

We run through the script. It is a scene where the boy (me) is up before the college’s Dean of Discipline (Mikelstein).

I am startled; this cannot be a real scene from an episode of the show, the networks would never let this go to air.

Mikelstein starts off in character. He is berating me for cutting classes to head to the mall, why do I do it? I tell him the classes are boring and the teachers are hopeless.

He gets angry, says I must apologise. I tell him where to get off.

At this point he turns away from me and heads for a shelf in the corner of the room and picks up a paddle. It’s an ordinary board, the kind you would find in any school in the South.

He smacks the wood into the palm of his hand for emphasis as he scolds me some more. I can’t keep my eyes off the paddle. Is this really happening? What exactly is happening?

“Bend over grab your ankles,” Mikelstein tells me. I hesitate, my breathing is coming faster and my heart rate is quickening. I look at Mikelstein and he replies with his eyes, “Yes, you must go through with it.”

I understand what is going on now. I have to do this.

I stoop down from my waist and rest my hands on my knees.

“Grab your ankles boy!” Mikelstein seems to have come out of character. I part my legs a little and tightly grab hold of my jeans around my calves.

I feel Mikelstein move behind me, admiring the scene. I am only wearing ‘no name’ jeans but I know I look Hot! Hot! Hot! I can wear anything.

A don’t hear the paddle coming but feel an agonising pain as it connects across both buttocks, stinging each cheek equally. My eyes pop and I let out a gasp. Instinctively, I bolt upright to rub my flaming ass, but Mikelstein stops me mid-way and with a forceful shove in the shoulders, he pushes me back down, so once again I am staring at the stained floor tiles.

Whack number two hits, harder than the first, on almost the same spot. I tug at the legs of my jeans determined not to disgrace myself and try to stand up again. It hurts so much I have no words to describe it. I have never been in so much pain in my life.

Number three crashes down across the bottom of my ass, where the cheeks meet the thighs and I let out a scream, so loud, I am sure the people waiting outside the audition room must be able to hear it. Involuntary tears are forming behind my eyes and my whole body seems to be shaking. I am spent. Please, Mr Mikelstein, no more.

I didn’t say this out loud, but Mikelstein got the picture. I heard him replace the paddle on the shelf and he told me to stand.

I rise, my face bright red, from the exertions of the spanking and, probably, because my head has been upside down staring at the floor.

Mikelstein sits on a couch watching me as I furiously rub away at my tight throbbing buns. It is no use; the pain is going to be with me for a long time yet.

Mikelstein gestures that I should sit on the couch next to him. I can see he is sweating even more than before and his face is flushed. Still breathing heavily I gingerly put my butt on the couch, testing it for size to see if my raw ass can stand the pressure.

I wince as my backside takes the weight of my body on the couch. Mikelstein gives a creepy laugh. “Can someone get the boy a cushion?” Nobody moves, his two colleagues know he meant it as a joke.

Mikelstein sits up very close to me and our legs are touching. I am still in some distress and he puts an arm around me, drawing my head into his chest. I can smell his expensive aftershave. What will happen next? Am I going to have to let him come on to me?

The woman pipes up and says, thank you, you have passed the first part of the audition. Mikelstein lets go of me and the meeting becomes formal again.

There is a part two of the audition where I have to meet other possible cast members and TV execs and so on. She tells me they have to see if I will fit in. It seems that I have the looks and enough talent, but do I have the temperament? She writes down an address of a house in the Valley where there will be a party on Friday for everyone involved in the show. I am invited.

Friday is a sweltering hot day. I have no car so I hitch a lift to the house. I dress in a way I hope will delight Mikelstein: in short, short cut-offs. If this audition turns out to be a battle of the buns between competing wannabe cast members, I am going to give myself a head start.

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I arrive on time at a huge mansion. It has large gardens and a swimming pool. Towards the far end of the garden is something that looks like a lake.

I am astounded when a waiter with a tray of drinks approaches me. He is stunning looking, in his late teens or early twenties, and he is almost entirely naked. He wears a bow tie and a jock strap that hardly covers his assets and that is that. I realise all the other waiters are similarly dressed. As I take my drink (non-alcoholic, I need to keep a clear head, for whatever happens next) I hear the slap of a hand on flesh from behind me and swing round to find Mikelstein had slapped a waiter full on his pert buttocks.

The waiter flashes Mikelstein a smile to say that was the most wonderful experience he has ever enjoyed and, hey, if he wants to do it some more, just go ahead. The boy is a marvellous actor, better than I will ever be.

Lots of people come up to say hello, they are here auditioning like me. None of us quite knows what is expected of us so we are friendly to everyone just in case they turn out to be important.

An assistant to Mikelstein tells me it is my turn to see the great man and leads me into the house and up a spiral staircase to the first floor, where he leaves me in a room on my own. Mikelstein comes in, dressed casually in dark slacks, bulging at the waist, and a white patterned formal shirt. I feel very under-dressed in my cut offs, but he cannot keep his eyes off me: a result.

He offers me a drink (alcohol this time) and I risk accepting it. I want to seem friendly, but I don’t want him to think I might be a drunkard. He calls me by my name and says how much he enjoyed our last meeting. He grins as he says this. Yes, I remember our last meeting; there are still bruises on my ass.

He talks about the show and how he has a great part for me in it and what a great success it will be and what a great career I have ahead of me. He likes the word “great”.

Then he says for it to work I have to show that I can fit in. What did I think about that? I tell him I think it is “great”.

“I’ll do anything you want of me Mr Mikelstein,” I am not subtle. I want the lot: the fame, the money and the lifestyle that goes with it and I want it now.

“Anything?” he leers at me again. I drain the whiskey from my glass.

“Do you want another?” I do, to try to settle my nerves, but I say, “No thanks.”

He sits down on a couch. “Come closer,” he grabs my arm and pulls me closer to him. “Are you a good boy?” He smirks at me. I don’t know how I am supposed to answer this, so I don’t.

“Or are you naughty?” Yet more leering. Suddenly, I know exactly where this is going.

“Naughty boys have to get their bottoms spanked.” With that he simply pulls me forward and down over his lap.

I could fight him, punch him in the face and high-tail it out of there. But, I don’t and I’m not ashamed of that. This is my ticket to stardom. And the journey starts here.

He pulls at the waist of my cut offs so the denim is even tighter across my buttocks and smacks down on my cheeks. I can’t feel I thing, but I don’t suppose I am meant to. They are more like ‘love pats’ than spanks. Mikelstein is enjoying feeling-up my pert bottom. He stops smacking for a while and gently rubs his hand around my two globes, measuring them up.

“Stand up.” He helps me up and I stand in front of him.

“Hands on head.” This is unexpected, but I do as instructed. He undoes the button of my cut-offs and they fall to my knees. Then he pulls me on top of him, so that I am stretched out across the couch with my upper body and arms resting to his left and my legs stretched out to his right. My bottom is high over his abundant thighs.

He spanks me harder this time. The first slaps connects into the centre of my left cheek and then the centre of the right and then he covers the whole circuit, from the top of the globes near the base of the spine, to the curves at the thighs. The thin cotton of my tight, white, briefs is no protection. Mikelstein is getting into his stride as he lands short, rapid spanks all over my buttocks and thighs.

My butt is warming up and as each successive swat falls across the tight cotton briefs, the pain increases. I am not in agony, the pain is nothing like the paddling he had given me, but gradually the soreness in my ass increases.

I am losing track of time, but he must have whacked on and on at my buttocks for five minutes or more, never letting up. Although I am feeling sore now and gasping a little, I don’t make a sound and nor does Mikelstein.

Suddenly, I realise I have no idea what I am supposed to do. I am an actor after all, am I meant to be playing a role here? Does he want me to holler and howl, like he is killing me? Should I plead for him to stop? “I will be a good boy Daddy, I promise.”

I am probably too late to change tack now: I am stuck with naturalism; my reactions are genuine, based on the real discomfort he is causing me. We had learnt about ‘naturalism’ in class, but I never expected this would be the first role where I would put it into practice.

Gently he pulls down my briefs to my knees, exposing my, by now very pink bottom. “What a lovely shade of pink,” Mikelstein pants. He caresses my buttocks, “and, so very hot. Ha! Ha! Ha!” He has made a joke.

He slaps on and on. Although I am now bare butt, the pain doesn’t get any worse. I am no expert, but I wonder if there is some limit to a hand spanking: the pain reaches a limit, but doesn’t go beyond it. The spanker’s hand is pretty sore too, so at this point he reaches for the hairbrush and takes the boy’s butt off with that.

Luckily for me, that isn’t Mikelstein’s plan: at least not for today, so he hand-spanks me for another few minutes until he is spent. He is breathing so heavily, I think he might be having a seizure. He holds tightly onto me, so I can’t get up. I don’t know what is happening; it may be that he is just taking a break before another onslaught.

But no, we are finished. He releases his grip and I stand before him. My buns are very tender. Remembering I am here to please Mikelstein, I perform a little dance, hopping from one foot to the other with my hands furiously rubbing my bum and my pepper bouncing up and down in front of his face.

The look on his face is a treat. He wants me. He wants me so bad.

I turn my back to him, so he gets a great view of my glory hole as I bend to my toes to retrieve my briefs. Slowly, I pull them up over my bright red buttocks, wriggling exaggeratedly as the soft cotton brushes them. Then, back to my feet again for the cut-offs.

I turn around to face Mikelstein so he can see me tucking my dick into my shorts.

His eyes pop.

“Please Mr Mikelstein, have I got the part?” I pucker.

“Oh yes boy. Yes.”

 

Picture credit: Tom Jones

This story was first uploaded in February 2016.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

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charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The apprentices

z used otk bare chair office Sting (3)

Anders Schmidt’s heart raced, he re-entered the figures on the spreadsheet, double clicked the mouse and waited for it to update.

Sweat was moistening his brow and it was not only because the air-conditioning in the room was not working.

In a second the computer screen flickered. Schmidt did not have to look; he already knew the answer. He had missed his target again – for the second month running. He was in big trouble. Very big trouble.

He had a couple of hours maximum before his boss checked the files and found out what Schmidt, the apprentice salesman, had done; or more accurately, what he had failed to do.

Schmidt had been with MegaCorp for five months. He was taken on after he left school, along with dozens of other teenagers, for a five-year apprenticeship. He had been overjoyed to land it: unemployment in the country was high, and in the stratosphere for young people. Welfare had been slashed and for Anders, no job would have meant destitution.

Merkel sipped on his too-hot coffee and waited patiently as the printer coughed out the sales figures. Business had been slow since Christmas and he did not expect this month to be much better. He put down his mug, picked up a highlighter pen, and shuffled through the printed sheets. He almost smiled: sales were higher than he expected. By the time he had finished only two of his salesmen’s names were marked. Schmidt and another apprentice Vidic had missed their targets; Schmidt by a little and Vidic by a mile.

Oh well, Merkel, thought, he could have a little sport now.

Anders stared impassively out of the window. The sun was blazing, it had not rained in months and the grass had turned brown and died. The shortage meant it was now illegal to water plants and gardens across the country had perished.

Anders had never been in this situation before, but he knew something unpleasant and painful was going to happen. Since the Unity Government came to power a lot had changed. Its first task to tackle mass unemployment had been to strip workers of all their rights and set up work schemes. The apprenticeships had been welcomed by youngsters and parents alike. Boys, girls were not included, were signed up for five years and given training and a wage. In return, the boys were compelled to stay with the company until the end of their contract. The company, however, if it saw fit, could terminate the apprentice at any time.

To lose an apprenticeship would be a disaster. No former apprentice could by law be re-hired at another business.

Anders would not lose his job; not this time, he knew that. But, he would have to undergo a humiliation the like of which he had never suffered before.

MegaCorp called it their “second-chance” policy. In fact, for some apprentices it was a third, or even a fourth-chance policy. Ander’s bosses were not cruel people, they understood how vital it was for a young man to have work; many of the apprentices in the company were the only earners in their family. Heck, MegaCorp knew it had a social responsibility.

Merkel looked at the clock: it was twenty after noon. He would take lunch soon and deal with the apprentices later in the afternoon. It would give him something to look forward to.

At three-thirty prompt, Anders stood in Helmut’s office. Helmut was Merkel’s personal assistant. They used to call his post a “secretary”, but they changed the title when they sacked all the women and gave their jobs to men. No self-respecting man would want to be called a secretary.

Helmut was in his twenties and like everyone else in the country, he feared for his job, so he kept his head down, his mouth buttoned and his thoughts to himself. He knew how Merkel treated the apprentices and, even with the pace of changes being made to the law, he was darned sure what he did was illegal. But, he said nothing: fearing for his job and also for the skin on his backside.

A screen on Helmut’s desk flickered. “You can go in now,” and despite his timidity, he added, “Good luck.”

Anders knocked on the door, waited for a response and then entered.

It was a large modern open-plan office. It was so big if you took the furniture out there would be enough space to play five-a-side football. One end of the office was dominated by a vast steel and glass desk and the other end had been decked out like a fashionable lounge room with comfortable chairs and a coffee table.

Anders took his place in front of the desk. He could not look Merkel in the eye and instead stared over his left shoulder at the framed portrait of the nation’s new leader. He was in a commanding pose. Anders and his friends had once thought the man absurd, he even looked a little like the clown Chico who had been famous in silent movies more than a century previously.

But, now Chico had been in power for more than five years with no sight of a general election to come, they knew he was no clown.

Merkel eyed Anders up and down. He saw a slight boy in a pin-striped suit that was just a little too big for him. All the apprentices wore blue pin-stripes; it was like an unofficial uniform. If Merkel had his way the young men would have a proper uniform: he imagined them in pale blue shirts and black shorts. They would be proper shorts too, the ones that showed the boys’ legs and were not much longer than their underwear.

Merkel had never met Anders before, but he recognised him from the office. He knew all his apprentices by sight and expected that with the second-chance rule he would get to know each one intimately eventually.

Anders listened impassively as his boss went through the apprentice’s sales figures. They were poor. They were worse than those of the other boys. Anders nodded agreement from time to time; what more could he do? Nothing he said could change the course of action.

Satisfied that his case had been made, Merkel put down the printed sheets.

“We have a policy at MegaCorp. It is called the ‘second-chance’ policy; do you know what that means?”

Anders, his mouth now as dry as the grass outside the building, nodded.

“Well?” Merkel raised his voice.

“Yes, Sir,” Anders coughed and said no more.

“Yes, Sir, what?”

“Yes, I understand the policy.”

“Good. Then let us not waste any more of my time.” With that Merkel rose from his chair and walked the length of the office. Anders looked on mournfully. Any moment now, something would happen, but he was unsure what.

He had heard all kinds of stories. Tomas, a second-year apprentice had heard from a friend who heard from a friend that it was just like at the police station. What he meant was that teenagers and young men found hanging around the streets (even before curfew time) were routinely rounded up and taken to police stations. There was one such station less than a mile from Anders’ home.

At the station, one by one, each boy was led (or sometimes dragged) into a specially prepared room. It was bare except for a purpose-built frame. Some boys were brave and prepared themselves, but most were not and had their trousers and pants ripped down by one, or if the boy put up a titanic struggle, two officers. Then he was hauled across the frame and his wrists secured by straps.

The police had previously used a smaller room at the back of the building, away from the main street, but the ceiling was too low for an officer to properly raise and flog birch rods into a boy’s naked buttocks.

The replacement room was much better: there was ample space to swing a birch. The downside was that the pitiful screams of the whipped boy could be easily heard in the street. The punishments were so frequent and the wails so loud that people in offices nearby had asked that the police confine their activities until night time; the noise was disturbing their work.

“Pathetic liberals,” the police commander sneered when he received the complaint. Nonetheless, he ordered the room to be sound-proofed.

Merkel took up a straight-backed chair and put it down in the middle of the room. There would be no birching for Anders, he would get something much less severe; but much more pleasurable for the boss.

“Come here boy.” Anders had not moved from the desk.

Merkel sat down and moved his buttocks around and spread his legs a little until he was comfortable and ready to take the boy.

“Take off your jacket and put it on the chair there.”

Merkel enjoyed watching the boy unbutton the jacket and slip it from his shoulders. He was much more muscular than he had first realised. The too-large jacket did not flatter him.

“Stand in front of me here,” Merkel waved his hand unnecessarily, as Anders by now understood what was going to happen.

Anders stood a little under six-feet tall and was perfectly proportioned. His skin was clear and his unkempt brown hair flopped over his forehead. His sky blue eyes positively sparkled, even when he was in such a predicament as this.

He was so much better than Vidic, who had stood in the same spot thirty minutes previously. That boy was small, squat, with curly dark hair and eyes as brown as mud. And, Merkel still shuddered at the thought of it; his body was covered in rough black hair.

No matter, Merkel thought, Vidic and his kind would not be around for much longer. The Unity Government had plans for people like Vidic.

Anders was rooted to the spot, too humiliated to move, when his boss reached forward and began to unbuckle the teenager’s belt. He wanted to push him away and run from the room. In a fair world he would be able to punch the old man in the mouth before calling Security.

But this was not a fair world; Anders must let Merkel do as he wished.

The belt loosened, Merkel turned to the zipper. It took a second for it to fall and the trousers to open to reveal Anders was wearing bright blue briefs that were so tight Merkel could immediately see this was no boy standing before him.

Merkel pulled the pin-stripe trousers down Anders’ hips, over his buttocks and down to the teenager’s knees. He was ready now.

Anders could feel his face flush; it was as red now as his buttocks would surely be in only a few moments.

“Relax,” Merkel whispered as he took Anders left arm and gently guided him across his knees.

Anders was too tall to comfortably fit across anyone’s knees. Instinctively, he placed the palms of both hands squarely on the floor in front of him. Behind him his legs were so long, he had to curve them at the knees so his toes rested on the carpet.

“Spread your legs a little, it will be easier.” Merkel’s gave the instruction calmly, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for a boss to have his nineteen-year-old apprentice bent across his knee preparing to have his bottom smacked.

Anders did as instructed and was now comfortably over the man’s knee, hands pressed into the carpet at one end and toes resting comfortably on the ground at the other; his bottom perfectly resting on the old man’s right thigh.

This was a novel experience for Anders, but not for Merkel. Over the past few months he had developed a routine that he liked to follow. He loved to take his time, especially with boys as beautiful as Anders.

He took hold of the tail of the boy’s crisp white shirt and carefully pushed it up until an inch or two of bare flesh was exposed. Then, with his left hand he pulled at the elasticated waist of the briefs. They were tight already and it took no effort to smooth out creases so the cotton fitted smoothly like a second skin.

All the time, Anders lay submissively in position. He had never been spanked in his life and had no idea how much this was going to hurt. He wished Merkel would stop toying with him and get on with it.

But his boss was not ready yet. With his right hand he caressed the boy’s buttocks, feeling the firmness of the cheeks and the smoothness of the thighs. The beautiful blond boy seemed almost hairless; but Merkel palm was tickled as he ran it down the back of Anders’ legs. The hair was so blond it was almost invisible against his skin.

His breathing was becoming a little heavy and very soon he feared he might show just how attractive he felt the boy was. It was time to get on with it.

He raised his hand to about three inches from the boy’s left buttock and brought it down with a resounding smack! The flesh gave way and he felt his hand sink into the boy’s buttock. Perhaps, he was not as firm as he looked.

Merkel smacked away across both cheeks: high, low and then in the centre.

Anders lay impassively across the man’s lap. He felt the slaps hit into his proffered cheeks, but there was hardly any pain. There was a tingling sensation at first that after a dozen or so slaps became a warm glow. He was new to the experience of hand spanking and would not know that no matter how hard or how rapidly a man smacked the palm of his hand into the buttocks of a nineteen-year-old he would not make much of an impression. Indeed, there was a real possibility that after a short time the man’s hand would hurt a lot more than the teenager’s bottom.

Merkel knew what he was doing. After a few dozen slaps, he paused, and without saying a word, he tugged Ander’s underpants down.

He rubbed his hand over the now-naked cheeks. “What a lovely shade of pink,” he said and rubbed some more. “And, so very warm.”

Anders gasped and closed his eyes tight. “Please God, don’t let him put his fingers in my crack,” he prayed silently.

Merkel raised his hand and slapped it down into the buttocks: again and again and again.

It still did not hurt Anders much, but despite the novelty of the experience he reckoned it was supposed to cause him pain. Otherwise, he thought somewhat naively, what was the point of the spanking?

He let out an “Oww”, followed by an “Ahhh” and hoped he sounded convincing.

Merkel smiled. He was not fooled. He smacked on and on into the yielding naked flesh, landing a few blows on the sensitive sit-spot where the cheeks meet the thighs. A genuine gasp escaped Anders’ lips.

The boss was impressed by his own handiwork; literally, for his handprint was clearly visible at the top of each cheek.

He smacked the boy’s bare bottom for fully five minutes and would have carried on for at least another five, but he was interrupted by Helmut.

“Sorry, Sir. There’s an urgent phone call from head office in Dusseldorf. It’s important.”

“It had better be.”

He released his hold on Anders and the boy sprang to his feet and quickly whipped up his pants and trousers. His bottom was a little sore, but even in the few moments it took to get dressed the pain had turned to a warm glow. Within minutes it would be gone altogether.

“Take your jacket and go.” Merkel picked up the telephone and called out to Anders as he was disappearing through the door. “And I want to see better sales figures from you next month.”

But he did not mean it.

This story was first uploaded in March 2016.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Missing petty cash

new story 2

z used otk jeans chair office sting

Mrs Douglas was in a terrible state. She had checked the cashbox twice. She had gone through all the receipts. She had doublechecked the register. She had added everything up twice. She even got Julie from the typing pool to check her sums. There was no doubt about it – money was missing. It could only mean one thing: there was a thief in the office.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” she fretted. Mr Robbins her boss would be furious. She didn’t know what he would do. She hoped the police wouldn’t be called. “Oh dear, oh dear,” she said again, working herself into a bit of a state.

Raleigh Robbins sat at his desk, his stomach was rumbling it had been at least an hour since he had enjoyed his mid-morning tea and sticky bun. He checked his watch, it was too early to slip away for lunch; even if he was the boss. He checked through a file of figures on his desk. God, he thought, this is tedious: monthly sales reports. But, he had nothing to complain about. Business was good; excellent, even. His agents would make him a fine bonus this month. He studied the data closely; well, maybe not all of them. Some new fellow called Axford wasn’t pulling his weight. He made a mental note to get Mrs Douglas to call him in for a meeting.

Just then there was a knock on the door, it was Mrs Douglas herself. She held the cashbox and the register. “Oh dear, oh dear,” she flustered. Raleigh Robbins suppressed a sigh. Poor Mrs Douglas, she was forever in a dither. What was it this time? Before, he could ask her what was wrong she burst out, “Cashbox – money – register – missing.” Raleigh Robbins rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair. Mrs Douglas was a stalwart of the firm. She had been there since Noah was a boy. Everyone loved Mrs Douglas. Even Raleigh Robbins in his way, but how he wished she would get to the point.

“I’m afraid there is petty cash missing. Three pounds and ten shillings. Whatever shall we do?” Raleigh Robbins knew better than to ask, “Are you certain?” If Mrs Douglas said it was missing, then missing it most undoubtedly was.

Instead, he asked, “Do you know who might have taken it?” Mrs Douglas blushed to the roots of her Twink perm. Raleigh Robbins felt himself flushing too. Dear Mrs Douglas, he thought, she does know who took it. She doesn’t want to get anyone into trouble.

Raleigh Robbins gave a gentle laugh, “Come on Mrs D. Out with it. Who’s the culprit?”

“Well, of course, I can’t be absolutely certain …” And, then she rambled on. Raleigh Robbins knew without a scintilla of doubt Mrs Douglas would cough up a name; but in her own good time. He let her go on, and on and on. At last she reached a verdict, “I think it is that boy from the post room. The one who started last month, I forget his name.”

“Peter,” Raleigh Robbins interjected a little too quickly and then bit his bottom lip at Mrs Douglas puzzled stare.

“Peter?” she said, “He has been hanging around out office a lot. And not always when he’s working. I thought he might be a bit sweet on Julie, but now I think he was looking around for something to steal.”

Raleigh Robbins stood from his chair and walked around the front of his desk. He was a man of action. He didn’t get where he was today without making quick decisions. “Well, Mrs D. why don’t you send this Peter chappie to my office and I’ll grill him a bit. Get to the bottom of it, so to speak.” His warm smile reassured Mrs Douglas that all would be well. “Yes, yes,” she trilled, “I’ll do that right away.”

Raleigh Robbins returned to his chair, leaned back and gazed at the ceiling. The morning had just got a whole lot more interesting. His stomach roared but an hour later his departure for lunch was interrupted by the sound of a timid knock on the door. Startled, Raleigh Robbins called, “Come in.” The door slowly opened revealing a nervous young man. He stood, hopped from foot to foot, looked down at the floor and then across at Raleigh Robbins. He coughed to clear his throat and spoke timidly, “You wanted to see me, Sir.”

Raleigh Robbins took a moment to size up the figure before him. Peter Clarke, aged eighteen, newly arrived at the firm. Needed a haircut. Somewhere under that fringe were grey eyes. They offset his suntanned features. He was casually dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt.

“Come in, close the door behind you.” Raleigh Robbins waited for the boy to enter the room. “Stand there,” he snapped his fingers and pointed to a spot in front of his desk. Raleigh Robbins congratulated himself: he sounded just like his former housemaster at St. Tom’s. He would stand no nonsense.

“Do you know why I sent for you?” Raleigh Robbins studied the teenager and was pleased to note Peter Clarke’s contrition. “No, Sir,” the post boy mumbled.

“If I were to say ‘missing money from petty cash’ how would you respond?”

“Dunno, Mr Robbins, Sir,” Peter had found a stain on the carpet beneath his feet and concentrated his attention on it.

“Ha!” Raleigh Robbins exclaimed, “Let me just say you are in very serious trouble. It is in your best interest to tell the truth.” The silence was oppressive.

“Did you steal from the petty cash?” More silence. “Be truthful,” Raleigh Robbins spoke gently. “Do you want the police involved?”

“Oh, no Sir.” Peter blushed and halted, unable to say more.

“So, you admit you stole the money.”

Raleigh Robbins spread his fingers on the desk before him as he heard the confession. Peter Clarke was no hardened criminal. He was a stupid boy. “Why did you steal it?”

Peter shrugged his shoulders. “I just did. I wanted to go to the pub with my mates. I needed money.”

Raleigh Robbins sucked on his lower lip. Well, he thought, at least he’s honest about that.

“So now Peter, you are a thief,” Raleigh Robbins shook his head sadly. “Whatever would your mother think. Wouldn’t she die from shame?”

“Oh my God. No please Mr Robbins Sir, don’t tell my mother!” The boy’s eyes watered. “No please. I’ll pay it back. Honest.”

“Do you still have the money?”

Peter’s face blushed scarlet. “At the end of the month. I’ll pay it back …” he trailed off. Raleigh Robbins’ frown told him this was not a solution.

“You don’t get off so easily,” Raleigh Robbins shook his head to emphasise his decision. “No, Peter, you must be punished.”

“P-p-punished?” Peter’s eyes blinked uncontrollably, sweat moistened his top lip.

“I should call the police.”

“No!” he shouted, alarmed. “No, please; no police.”

Raleigh Robbins covered his face with his hand but couldn’t entirely hide a smile. He knew what was coming next.

“Please,” Peter wailed, “No police. I’ll do anything …”

“D’you know what Peter?” Raleigh Robbins glared at the boy standing embarrassed in front of him. “If it were my son who stole money, do you know what I would do?”

Peter’s temples throbbed; he stared back at the stain. He was not an educated boy but he knew a rhetorical question when he heard one. He didn’t answer.

Raleigh Robbins continued, “A damned good spanking. That’s what. What do you say to that?”

Peter gulped hard, his eyes wouldn’t stop blinking.

“Yes,” Raleigh Robbins had decided. He stood from his chair, “That’s what we’ll do. A jolly good spanking. Across my knee.” Raleigh Robbins was a man of action, he grabbed a straight-backed chair that was tucked under a table and plonked it down in the middle of the office. He sat in it. “Come here lad,” he reached out and took Peter by the left wrist. The post boy did not resist. Two seconds later he was face-down over his boss’s knee with his palms pressed into the scratchy carpet. His head was low and his bottom high. Raleigh Robbins raised his right hand and brought it down with a resounding smack in the centre of Peter’s left buttock.

The boy did not resist. He lay quietly submissive as Raleigh Robbins spanked his bottom – just as if Peter was eight years old. Raleigh Robbins was no fool and pretty soon he realised his hand was hurting much more than Peter’s bum. With his jean and underpants on the post boy wouldn’t feel a thing.

Raleigh Robbins stopped, “This is no good,” he intoned. “Stand up.” Gratefully, Peter got to his feet. “Don’t think it’s over, young man,” Raleigh Robbins growled as he undid the top button and zip of Peter’s jeans. With two tugs he had the jeans and his pants at the boy’s knees. Raleigh Robbins hurled Peter back over his knee. Still, Peter gave no resistance.

Raleigh Robbins surveyed the bottom in front of him. His left arm went firmly around Peter’s waist and his right hand took firm hold of a soft warm bottom cheek. He squeezed and fondled it with circular motions, assessing its ability to absorb the spanking he was about to administer.

Peter felt his boss press his elbow down against the centre of his back. He was pinned down, he couldn’t escape even if he had wanted to. If he tried to wiggle off Raleigh Robbins’s lap, he would simply drag him back into place. If he tried to rear upwards, his boss’s elbow would press down and prevent it.

Then, Raleigh Robbins’s hand started rising and falling with sharp, jolting smacks to Peter’s soft and tender bare bottom. Crisply landing on the warm and tender flesh and each sharp smack making the soft buttocks hotter. Smacks to the right cheek and to the left; to the full undercurve and to the higher flanks. Slaps to the thighs. His hand fell hard and fast and bounced off Peter’s pliable flesh. The pain was growing but just as bad was the embarrassment of being bared like this and summarily dealt with at his age.

Then as if it was a reflex action (his body trying to protect itself from pain) Peter threw his hand back to try to protect his toasting buttocks from the torrent of spanks. In a second Raleigh Robbins had the teenager’s arm in a strong half-nelson and he pushed the boy’s bum higher with his right knee, bringing him off balance.

“Keep still or I’ll fetch a paddle and give you a world class hiding,” he growled and continued to spank Peter’s fiery red bottom with a thoroughness that left the eighteen-year-old bouncing across his lap. It looked like he was trying to swim off Raleigh Robbins’s knees.

It felt like hours to the teenager, but it was all over in a couple of minutes. Peter hopped from foot-to-foot while simultaneously rubbing at his sore bum. He didn’t notice his cock bouncing up and down just inches from Raleigh Robbins’ face.

Peter stooped to retrieve his jeans and pants. “Not so fast buster, keep them down.” Raleigh Robbins replaced the chair under the table. “Stand in the that corner,” he nodded, “hands on head. You can stay like that until I get back from lunch.”

Glum-faced, Peter shuffled like a penguin across the room. Raleigh Robbins picked a pad from his desk and scribbled a note. On his way out he left it on Mrs Douglas’ desk. She would act upon his instruction later.

“Call Axford. Tell him to report to my office at six tonight.”

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The rising star wanes

new story 2

z used adult cane longs down white pants touch toes

Stephen Spreadbury was twenty-five years old and a rising star at Ponsonby-Meredith. His clean-cut affable demeanour ready smile and his ability to flatter when necessary were a big success with the stockbrokers’ women clients (and it has to be said, quite a few of the men). He made the partnership a lot of money. He would go far.

Then things started to go wrong. The smile was less fixed, the soft-soap had less lather, accounts were not closed on time, the money was not coming in as it once had; percentages were pared. Spreadbury had lost his touch. In the language of the cricket pitch; it was considered he had taken his eye off the ball. He had let things slip. He no longer brought in the money. Some days he didn’t make it into the office until lunchtime.

Mr Algernon Ponsonby, the senior partner, had seen it all before. He had been in his chair for close to thirty years. His men had made him a pile of money in that time. He expected that to continue. Spreadbury had been a golden goose. But not so much lately. The young man needed to concentrate on his work; Mr Ponsonby wanted his percentages, he had his winter home in the Bahamas to consider.

He summoned Spreadbury to his office. Mr Ponsonby had luncheoned well. He leaned back in his overlarge leather chair and caressed his stomach. Often at this hour of the day, it gave him trouble. The pain was tolerable, this afternoon. His florid face was testimony to the bottle of vintage claret he had drunk at the club. He shook his head, sipped water from a pewter goblet and hoped his aching gut would not get worse.

His secretary, a woman even older than Mr Ponsonby himself, announced Spreadbury’s arrival. She was a tiny, bird-like spinster who often gave the appearance of being half-starved. Her shoulders hunched and her spindly legs looked incapable of holding up her body. “The boy is here,” she cackled, her long nose pointed to the door behind her, “Shall I send him in?” Her cold grey eyes sneered through spectacles.

“Yes please, Miss Alsop,” Mr Ponsonby had known the woman when man and boy but had never once been at comfort in her presence. What passed for a smile troubled her face and she turned slowly, almost painfully, to retrace her steps to the door. Back in her own room she examined the young man standing there at ease. He was tall, a little thick-set; with a shock of hair over a wide-open face. He had the look of a contented man, he oozed “entitlement”; he was destined to get whatever he wanted. Oh, how she despised him.

“Mr Ponsonby will see you now,” she said haughtily. “Go in straight away.” She did not try to hide her distain. “What did they all see in him?” she wondered as she watched him stride confidently out of her room, “They’re all the same. Just overgrown schoolboys.” She saw him knock on the office door, wait for the command “Come!” and then enter. She shuffled to the door of her own room and opened it wide so she would hear everything.

Spreadbury closed the door and stood uncertainly. He had no idea why he had been called. He might be considered by many to be “on his way up” in the hierarchy of the firm, but he was still a relatively junior member of staff. He was a little surprised that Mr Ponsonby even knew who he was. His eyes travelled around the room. It was huge, as befitting the senior partner of a moneyed firm. It was dominated by a walnut desk the size of a tennis court. A pair of luxurious padded armchairs around a heavy glass table were at the far end. A Chesterfield couch was close by. Along one wall were shelves filled with leather-bound tomes; none of which appeared ever to have been opened. An ornate cupboard (a drinks cabinet, Spreadbury guessed) was towards one side of an open, but unlit, fireplace. A chest of drawers completed the furniture as far as he could see. It was a magnificent office, all set off by the deep-pile carpet underneath his feet.

Spreadbury waited hoping his impatience would not show. The bars were open and he had a regular appointment at Harry’s. At last his boss spoke. “Spreadbury,” he intoned. “I have received reports …” he then went on to list the young man’s successes. Spreadbury’s chest puffed out. He loved to be praised.  Maybe this visit would not be a waste of his time after all.

Mr Ponsonby paused and peered closely at the young man standing, hands respectfully behind his back, “But,” he rasped and after taking a sip from his goblet, he listed the junior’s many inadequacies. Spreadbury bit down on his bottom lip, he felt his face flush. His pride was hurt. Such unkind things were said.

Mr Ponsonby was not a man to waste his time. “You are slacking. It will not do Spreadbury,” he grimaced as his stomach rumbled. “Not at all. This must stop. Action must be taken.” He paused and wriggled in his chair. Spreadbury’s mouth opened to argue but just in time good sense prevailed. Mr Ponsonby had spoken the truth.

“You are an Old St. Tom’s man,” he said. Spreadbury was startled by the sudden change of topic. Was this a question or a statement? His face betrayed puzzlement. “You were schooled at St. Tom’s,” Mr Ponsonby repeated, “So you know what to expect.” Spreadbury did not. He did know both he and Mr Ponsonby had attended St. Tom’s, an elite public boarding school for the sons of gentlemen – albeit several generations apart. That was why he had been hired at the firm – the “old school tie”. He watched Mr Ponsonby struggle to his feet. He said nothing as he wobbled across the room and reached the chest of drawers. He reached down and opened the first one. He looked inside, rummaged around and within moments found what he was seeking. He turned and faced his junior employee.

Spreadbury gasped and then a broad smile crossed his face. Mr Ponsonby was holding a long, thin school cane. It even had the traditional crook handle at one end. Spreadbury laughed heartily at Mr Ponsonby’s joke. “Oh my hat! Jimmy Edwards. Whacko!” He smiled as he watched his boss swish the rattan cane through the air, it made a terrific whooshing sound as it flew. Then he saw the expression on the old man’s face. Spreadbury’s smile evaporated.

“What are you blathering about boy?” He flexed the cane between his hands as if testing its strength.

Spreadbury coughed, embarrassed, confused. “Jimmy Edwards, Whacko! From the television. Chiselbury School.” It felt like he was digging himself a hole in the deep-pile carpet. He wished it would swallow him. “He swishes a cane all the time and threatens the boys with six-of-the-best,” he trailed off, his humiliation complete.

Whereas Spreadbury was by nature affable, genial and pleasant, with a ready wit and quick to smile, his boss had none of these attributes. He was dour, haughty, conceited and self-important. He did not watch comical programmes on the television.

“Pah! Such nonsense,” Mr Ponsonby’s once florid face was now puce. “You need to pull yourself together. Stop slacking. Knuckle down to your work,” he growled, all the time flexing the cane between his hands. “I daresay your housemaster must have beaten you many times.”

Now, Spreadbury understood the St. Tom’s connection.

Mr Ponsonby considered himself a fair man. Spreadbury was a fine worker and he would one day be a credit to the firm (and  a considerable money-earner). But, like so many young men these days, he thought, he had lost his way a little. He would benefit from a guiding hand. He needed his comeuppance; to be set back on the straight and narrow. A sound beating should do the trick.

“Stand there,” he pointed with his cane to a clear space in the middle of the office. “Lower your trousers. Bend over. Touch your toes.” Mr Ponsonby was a wealthy, powerful man. It did not occur to him for one moment that Spreadbury would disobey his instruction. He was correct. St. Tom’s had trained them both well. There were rules and they had to be obeyed. Otherwise, anarchy would prevail. There were people who were in control and those who were controlled. The powerful, and the powerless. At this point in his life, Spreadbury knew his place. In time that would change. Who knew one day in the future it might be Spreadbury flexing the cane and a different junior (a St. Tom’s boy, naturally) submitting his backside.

But for now …

He looked around the room. Should he remove the jacket of his suit. Back in the day, a boy would hang his blazer on the housemaster’s hat-stand before preparing himself for a beating. It was part of the ritual. Mr Ponsonby had given no such instruction. Spreadbury would not press the point. He moved to the spot, turned his back to his boss and loosened his belt. He undid the buttons on his fly and let the trousers slip over his knees and down his shins to rest untidily over his shoes. Then, he leaned forward. It had been eight years since he left school and his once supple body had thickened since. At school “touch your toes” meant just that: “toes”. Now twenty-five years old, Spreadbury was unable to accomplish that feat. He reached down stretching his fingertips towards his toecaps, but the effort put a terrible strain on his back and his knees. He settled for a more comfortable pose with his hands firmly clutching his shins. Like that his buttocks were still raised at a convenient angle for Mr Ponsonby to do his duty.

Spreadbury felt no embarrassment, bent submissively to allow an older man to lash a thick, whippy rattan cane across his backside. St. Tom’s was what was called “a caning school”; corporal punishment was the norm. Mr Ponsonby had been correct earlier when he said Spreadbury’s housemaster would have beaten him many times. “There is one consolation,” the young man thought as he waited patiently for the punishment to begin, “at least my underpants are not at my ankles.”

He clasped his shins tightly. He looked hard at the carpet beneath his feet. It was a modern Axminister or some such, he reckoned. He tried to make out the patterns in the red, green and blue colours. He would concentrate on it; it would take his mind off his awful ordeal.

Mr Ponsonby felt no hostility to his employee. A quick dozen applied with beef across the seat of the underpants would buck his ideas up. The lesson would be learnt. Tomorrow would be another day. They would both get on with their work. The money would keep rolling in. He knew this for a fact: he had thirty years of experience to prove it.

His stomach was grumbling, his temperature was rising, the room felt unduly hot. Despite these hindrances, Mr Ponsonby set about his task with vim. He tapped the tip of the cane just below the centre of Spreadbury’s bottom. “Spread your legs, Spreadbury,” he intoned. The young man complied. The cane rose. It fell with a tremendous whoosh and crack. Spreadbury sucked in his breath and shut his eyes tight. That hurt. It had been more than eight years (not counting that little fooling around at the Varsity) since he last felt the sting of the rattan. A second and then a third stroke fell. Mr Ponsonby used all his strength; he might have been beating a carpet.

Already, Spreadbury’s bottom had three deep stripes along the underside of his bum. It hurt terrifically: had Mr Ponsonby taken a red hot poker from the fire and pressed it into his flesh? He went higher with the next set. Now, the backside glowed from the top of the mounds, and over the crowns. Spreadbury’s head ached and his temples throbbed every bit as much as his rear end. Had his housemaster’s beatings (even those on the bare) hurt so much?

Six strokes had been administered. Six-of-the-very-best. Surely, it was over. He waited, breathlessly for the command to stand. The cane whipped him again; the hardest stroke yet. Right in the underside of the cheek. He would feel that one later in the evening as he perched on the barstool at Harry’s.

“Jeez …” Spreadbury clenched his teeth. It wasn’t over. How much more of this could he take? Mr Ponsonby was not a cruel man; nor was he fit. The strain delivering the beating had sapped his energy. He was huffing and puffing more loudly than the young man under his lash. He needed to conclude this punishment. He sucked in a lung-full of air, aimed the cane, raised it and then in a flurry of action bounced the cane off the stretched backside. Whack! Whack! Whack! To Miss Alsop next door it sounded like a machinegun had been fired in Mr Ponsonby’s office. Spreadbury growled, he yelped, and some might say he even yapped as the pain increased into agony.

Mr Ponsonby stopped. This time it really was at an end. The punishment was over. Twelve strokes of the cane had been delivered (and received). He admired his handiwork. Thin lines were embossed across the white, cotton seat of Spreadbury’s underpants. He knew there would be glowing weals, each one painful to the touch. The pain would soon subside to a glowing throb, but the marks would last a few days as a reminder to work harder.

“Stand,” Mr Ponsonby commanded and he turned his back on his thrashed employee and made to return the cane to its drawer. It gave Spreadbury a moment gingerly to rub the tops of his fingers across his blazing bum. It was corrugated and felt like leather. He bent forward to retrieve the trousers at his feet, stretching the flesh across his bottom. It seemed like he had sat in a bathtub of boiling water.

Mr Ponsonby turned in time to see his junior buttoning his fly. The young man’s face was scarlet and his neck was drenched in perspiration.

“Good evening, Mr Spreadbury,” he said and collapsed into the large Chesterfield couch wheezing like a beached whale. Spreadbury stood, uncertain. It took some seconds to understand he had been dismissed. “Thank you sir,”’ he said boldly (as was the etiquette at St. Tom’s) and stiffly he left the office.

Miss Alsop was in the doorway of her room making sure he knew she had heard it all. Spreadbury smiled, tipped an imaginary hat and said, “Have a pleasant evening Miss Alsop,” omitting to add his thought, “you sad old cow!”

 

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

Dad’s revenge

Fr. Pat’s paddle

New boy at school

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

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 pointon 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

 

Other books to download

 

The Dean of Dormitory Discipline and other university tales

Charles’ Picture Album

The Private Tutor

All in the Family. Tales of Domestic discipline

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The sixpenny bazaar

new story 2

I was heading for the 10.14 train up to town when I turned into the High Street and was passing the Sixpenny Bazaar at Tomkinson’s when I remembered I needed a packet of razor blades. When I got to the soap counter the manager, or whatever you call him, was cursing the boy in charge there. Generally there aren’t many people in the Sixpenny at that hour of the morning. Sometimes if you go int here just after opening time you see all the boys lined up in a row and given their daily curse, just to keep them in order.

They say these big chain stores have chaps with special powers who are sent from branch to branch to ginger the boys up. The manager was squat with an oblong-shaped face, set in a permanent frown. His eyes were deep set and dark. A neatly clipped moustache, the style so beloved of English Fascists, failed to conceal a mean mouth.

He had just pounced on the boy about something, some mistake, and ordered him into a little back office. It was one of those rooms that have the wall divided down the middle. The bottom half is some cheap board material and the top is clear glass. I could see – and hear – everything that was going on.

“No, of course you didn’t count it,” he berated the boy. Apparently, some stock had been misplaced. The boy, who was probably about eighteen or more, was a callow youth. His pasty face was almost entirely hidden by big, bulbous spots. He was maybe about five-three tall and really quite thin. The product of a lifetime of poor diet, no doubt. The boy shuffled from foot to foot and stared down at the cheap linoleum floor.

I turned quickly, fearing he might catch me watching and pretended to be interested in some stuff at the next counter. But, the manager’s voice was both loud and shrill and you could hear it half way across the shop.

“Course, you didn’t count it,” he wasn’t about to let the boy off the hook. This went on for what felt like several minutes, but probably wasn’t that long. I edged away a little and sneaked another look. The boy had turned quite pink now and I could see his eyelids were flickering madly and his brow was covered with sweat. The boys and girls at the other counters were pretending not to hear.

Finally, the manager decided he had said enough and strutted out of the office, leaving the boy standing there. I watched astonished as the manager strode with great purpose across the shop floor. He halted at the far end where I saw him delve into a large vase-like ornament. It was one of those fake-Chinese pots that you see in the reception areas of the larger picture houses. They are usually full of sand and are there for customers to stub out cigarettes. This vase had a different purpose. It was full of whippy, curve-handled school canes.

You can buy such canes in any High Street and I wouldn’t be surprised if most of the fathers in Brocklehurst didn’t have at least one of the specimens tucked away in their homes. They were, naturally, in constant use in schools up and down the land.

The manager rattled the rattan canes around in the earthenware container for a while before withdrawing one. It was not much longer than two feet and quite thin. He shoved it back in and had another go. It was like he was trying the lucky dip in the bran tub at a travelling fair. This time he selected a longer, thicker rod. He tested it between his hands and I could see it was dense but terrifically whippy. The manager did not disguise his intention, he swiped it a couple of times through the air and satisfied that it was up to the job, he turned on his heels and retraced his steps to the office.

The boy had gone quite pale by now. He stood, hands behind his back, eyes still downward. He seemed from a distance to be perfectly still, but I suspect his hands were shaking as he clasped them tightly together behind his back, rather in the way that King George does.

The manager swished his cane. He had no academic gown on his back or mortar board on his head but he looked every inch like an irate schoolmaster. An involuntary shudder ran up my back. I was transported back several decades to St. Francis Independent Grammar School, my own alma mater. I was a frequent visitor to the housemaster’s study (weren’t we all, it was that type of school). I would have been about the same age as the boy when I was last summoned. It would have been weeks before the final examinations. “Slacking,” the housemaster intoned. “Not working hard enough. Letting the school down.”

My thumbs rubbed against the seat of my trousers; after so many years I can still remember the pain. The ridges remained imprinted across my backside for about a week.

I watched the boy turn his back on the manager and then in one simple movement, he leaned forward until he was spread-eagled across a small desk. He lay with his stomach flat on the wooden top, his arms reaching to the sides and his head facing north. He spread his legs and wriggled so that his bottom was raised over the edge. Clearly, he had been in this position before, submissively offering himself up to his master.

Why did he do it? Pure fear of course. Put one foot wrong, disobey an order and you get the sack. It’s the same everywhere. There’s always some lump of a lad – young men really – who all but tug their forelocks at customers. “Yes, sir, how may I help you madam?” The customer is always right. The boy lives in mortal dread that you might report him to his boss for impertinence and lose him his job.

used drawing cane hold (40)

I had a perfect view and so did many of the other shop workers. As far as I remember I was the only customer present. The boy shut his eyes tight, his bottom quivered in anticipation of the ordeal about to start. The manager took his time. I wonder how many times in a week he went through this routine. Was there a boy (or indeed a girl) in the shop who had not been similarly positioned at some time? Have you noticed how many petty managers are really Little Hitlers. Drunk with power. They act abominably because they know they can get away with it.

Or maybe, they live in fear of their own bosses. Later would the manager have to account for the missing stock. How would his boss own react to the news? Was the manager due a whipping himself?

He took up position to the side of the boy and rubbed his cane across the centre of his buttocks. The boy’s trousers had ridden up and dug into his cheeks so that each buttock was lifted and separated. That made a terrific target. The cane was whippy and the manager made it bounce off the boy’s hard bottom as he tap, tap, tapped it to get his aim. Then in a swift movement he lifted the cane away so that it made a perfect arc; he took it to shoulder height before returning it with considerable force so that it crashed into the boy’s hard meat.

The Crack! of cane across trouser seat echoed around the shop. The boy’s fellow workers pretended to be busy at their counters, tidying stock and folding items. I watched fascinated. The boy’s head rose from the desk and he expelled air through clenched teeth. It sounded in all the world like a steam engine settling down. His bum rose and fell. It must have been a reflex action because the boy quickly steadied himself, ready for stroke number two.

The manager was in no hurry to deliver it. He made a tour of his office, the cane tucked under his arm, in the way of a sergeant-major. This gave him time to admire his handiwork. A line had appeared across the very centre of the boy’s rear end. It had been a perfect hit, across the fleshiest part of the bum.

When he was ready, the manager took his aim once more. This time, he went a little lower, into the undercurves. He laid it on with tremendous vim. It swiped down about a half inch below the first. The boy’s head banged up and down on the desk top. His hips wriggled, but this time he made no sound (that I could hear). The manager went for another walk before settling down for the third stroke, which he slashed down just above the first. The boy now had three blazing stripes running in parallel across his cheeks, making a band of pain about two inches wide. The manager was clearly an expert with the cane. I suppose he had practiced a lot.

The manager was sweating by now. The effort for a man of his size must have been considerable and I imagine that the office was warm and airless. He rested the cane on the desk, leaving it where the boy could enjoy a close up view of it, and then took a large white handkerchief from his pocket and mopped the sweat that soaked his face and neck. Then, he folded it in half and then in quarters before fastidiously returning it to his pocket. He picked up the cane, swished it through the air a couple of times and was ready to resume his duty.

The final three strokes were laid on as if he were beating a carpet. He put tremendous beef into each one. Apart from a little wriggling and head shaking the boy took it well, although he must have been in considerable agony. I remember from my schooldays that a severe caning left me feeling that the housemaster had forced me to sit on the embers of the open fire in his study.

The manager commanded that the boy stand up and I watched him rise while trying to muster as much dignity as the circumstances allowed. His face was scarlet and covered in perspiration. He looked at his tormentor and in so doing glanced me watching from a distance. With extreme embarrassment, I bought three penny razor blades and made to leave.

The boy was looking at me as I went out the door. He’d have murdered me if he could. How he hated me because of what I’d seen. Much more than he hated the manager.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

CHARLES’ NOTE: A quick nod of gratitude to George Orwell’s ‘Coming Up For Air’ for the inspiration.

Other stories you might like

The glorious summer

The helpful Neighbour 3

My First Time

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com