Gareth learns his place

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Gareth Williams, aged twenty-four, junior sales executive, gazed vaguely across the office. It was full of young men just like himself; clean shaven, closely-controlled hair, dark suits, sober shirts. It looked like they had been manufactured in packs of twelve. The office was hot and it was mid-afternoon, he was bored to distraction and there were still two hours before he could escape. The buzzing phone on his desk jolted him back to consciousness. He picked it up. He nodded in response to the terse message he received and replaced the receiver.

Jason Bragg who sat at the desk opposite smiled wearily. Gareth answered the unasked question, “Quarterly performance review?”

Jason nodded, his bright open face registered concern,  “First one?”

“Yeah,” Gareth replied nonchalantly.

“Good luck,” Marcus, the only non-white man in the office, drawled.

Gareth rose from his chair. Jason whispered something to Marcus that Gareth could not hear. The pair exchanged knowing looks. Jason mouthed the word, “Ouch.”

Gareth left the office confidently. A performance review, what possibly could go wrong. He had been at Tilotson’s for a little over two months. He wasn’t the best sales executive they had but he thought he couldn’t be the worst. He had a strong opinion of himself. He had been quite a star back at university, they tipped him for great things in the future. But jobs just now were hard to come by and a young man had to start where he could. He wouldn’t be at Tilotson’s for long, he fervently hoped.

It was a short walk to the office of Mr Wilkinson, the sales director. He passed a man about his age and dressed almost identically to him shuffling down the corridor in the opposite direction. His face was flushed and he seemed to be in some discomfort. As he drew closer Gareth saw he was close to tears. They didn’t exchange words as the young man bowed his head and quickened his pace towards the stairwell.

Miss Begg, the sales director’s secretary, was expecting him. Although she was not much older than Gareth, her severely-cut suit, the hair pulled into a bun and the grey spectacles that perched on the end of her nose made her look like a young grandmother. She didn’t greet him beyond smirking, “He is waiting for you. Knock and go straight in.”

Gareth saw no reason not to do so and he breezed to the door, rapped twice confidently and swung open the door. Mr Wilkinson was seated to attention behind a moderately-sized desk. When standing he was a tall man of about forty-five, broad and sunburned, his fair-to-blond hair was clipped close to his large but not ugly head. His steely blue eyes glazed. People meeting him for the first time often assumed he was something in the Royal Navy.

As Gareth entered Mr Wilkinson leafed through a folder of papers on his desk pretending to read although what he said later showed he had already absorbed them. Gareth looked around the office searching without success for a chair to sit on. His boss read his mind, “Stand there,” he nodded to a spot in front of the desk. Gareth edged up and stood awkwardly, he wasn’t sure where to put his arms. Should he stand like a soldier at attention, or lounge casually with them dangling by his sides? He settled for holding them behind his back while standing easy. Mr Wilkinson glared at him as Gareth made up his mind.

There was an uneasy silence. Gareth had enough sense to keep his mouth shut. Mr Wilkinson had called him to the office it was up to him to start the conversation.

Mr Wilkinson once again looked through the report, his face darkening as he went. For the first time that afternoon Gareth sensed an unease. Something – he didn’t know quite what – was wrong.

At last Mr Wilkinson put the report down. He glowered at the sales executive and said, “Your record since you started employment with us has been poor. You have failed to meet targets and your timekeeping record is very patchy indeed.” He paused expecting Gareth to deny his accusation but the young man remained silent. There was very little he could usefully say since Mr Wilkinson was correct in every particular. Gareth’s record was poor indeed.

Gareth was surprised at his boss’s attitude. It reminded him of something that might happen at a school. An idle pupil summoned to the headmaster for a wigging. A telling-off.

Unperturbed by Gareth’s silence, the sales director continued, “It is not the record that we expect at Tilotson’s. We expect our employees to work. That is why we pay them. We have very clear rules here,” he leaned forward across the desk for emphasis, “very strict rules. We expect you to obey them. If you don’t you must face the consequences.”

Mr Wilkinson spoke as if making a speech and in a way he was. Gareth was not the first wayward employee he had dealt with and he wouldn’t be the last. He finished and again waited expecting Gareth to respond. When still he didn’t the boss suspected he was displaying dumb insolence.

“So what?” he told himself silently. “He will change his tune before I’ve finished with him.”

He shook his head and sighed as if some huge weight of responsibility rested on his shoulders. His face was grave, “So I intend to cane you.”

Gareth snorted, unable to contain his incredulity. “What?” he snapped.

Mr Wilkinson’s face clouded, “You heard me well enough Williams. I am going to beat you.”

Gareth struggled not to burst out laughing. Only the stern expression of the boss behind his desk stopped him. He gathered himself, he was a strong-willed young man and he showed it now. “You seem to be under the misapprehension that this is a school,” he stated boldly. “I am twenty-four years old and this is an office.”

Mr Wilkinson shook his head sadly. “I heard that you had spent much of the past few years living abroad. Studying mostly I believe?”

Gareth nodded eagerly. He had attended one of the most prestigious universities in the United States. If asked, he would frankly say that he was far too good to be working at a place like Tilotson’s. But needs must, jobs were hard to come by these days.

Mr Wilkinson had not finished talking. “What you fail to appreciate,” he said, “Is that laws have been passed while you were away that specifically allow me to take the course of action I intend. That is to cane you.”

Gareth’s mouth gaped. Could this be true? Before he could ask his question, Mr Wilkinson filled in the details. After Britain left the European Union the country had a new government. The New Democrats were elected on a landslide. High on their ticket was law and order. Especially where it related to young people. “Believe me young man, you are not the only one to come under this law. Schoolboys, students, apprentices and young people more generally can be subjected to corporal punishment for any number of reasons,” Mr Wilkinson lectured.

He paused to allow the full impact of his words to sink in. He saw Gareth’s face blanch. Yes, the twenty-four-year-old now had the full picture.

Since Gareth remained silent, Mr Wilkinson continued, “Your background prior to joining us here at Tilotson’s suggests you could become a very useful asset to the company. I have the authority to dismiss you right now, but I am going to give you a second chance. A short, sharp shock is what you need,” Mr Wilkinson’s eyes narrowed and he looked down his long, thin nose at Gareth, “A short, sharp and very painful lesson is what you need, young man.”

Gareth stood shellshocked. He was dumbfounded. Was this really happening? Could it possibly be an elaborate joke? Were there hidden cameras around him? Were they filming one of those ‘gotcha’ programmes for cable television?

“So there you have it,” Mr Wilkinson rose from his chair and walked around his desk and stood alongside Gareth. “A sound caning should do the trick.” He crossed the room and halted at a tall, narrow cupboard. Gareth watched in shock as his boss put his hand in his trouser pocket and after rummaging around for a moment withdrew a ring containing several keys. He seemed to know immediately which one he needed and he thrust it into the lock on the cupboard. The door fell open.

Gareth’s heart raced. He craned his neck to see what the cupboard contained but Mr Wilkinson’s body obstructed his view. He didn’t have long to find out. Mr Wilkinson reached inside the cupboard creating a dim rattling sound of wood against metal. The boss withdrew his hand and when he turned and faced Gareth he was brandishing a thin, whippy school-type cane.

Gareth’s eyes popped. He had never seen anything like it before. Mr Wilkinson took it in both hands and showed it to the young man, flexing it menacingly. It was about a metre long and as thick as a biro pen. It was dark yellow in colour and Gareth saw it had a number of notches along its length. One end was curved into a handle. Mr Wilkinson let go of the other end and keeping a firm grip under the handle he swiped the cane through the empty air. It made a terrific swooshing sound as it flew. Gareth’s heart skipped a beat.

Mr Wilkinson took three steps across the office and stood close to Gareth. “It’s bit stronger and whippier than the canes they use these days in the schools. It’s designed for the older boy, or young adult. I believe they use canes like this in the new youth detention centres – or whatever it is they call them these days.”

Mr Wilkinson swished the cane once more and looked sternly at the young man standing before him. “Twelve strokes, I think,” he said calmly and with authority. “That should buck your ideas up no end.”

Gareth’s mouth opened and closed like a goldfish but no words came out. What could he say? He was guilty as charged, he couldn’t deny that. Did he have any choice but to obey? Mr Wilkinson quietly reminded him of the realities. “If you do not accept your deserved punishment, you will be sacked. Think carefully about that. You will not be entitled to welfare benefits and you will find it nigh on impossible to get further employment. You will quickly become destitute. Then you will be taken into one of those youth work camps. I wouldn’t wish that on anybody.”

Gareth’s legs wobbled. He steadied himself before he fainted to the floor. A beating. Twelve strokes? That wasn’t a beating, that was a flogging. How could he possibly withstand that?

Mr Wilkinson was a man of experience. Gareth was not the first young man he had encountered in such a situation. There had been many and all of them – every single one – had capitulated to his power. They had no choice. He glared at Gareth as if he was trying to burn into the young man’s soul. “Stand by there,” he pointed his cane at a small desk at the far end of the office. Gareth’s legs were jelly, he couldn’t get them to move.

Mr Wilkinson sighed noisily, “It would be better if you followed my instructions. Let us get this done and dusted with the minimum of fuss.” It took a superhuman effort for him to get his legs to obey his brain but at last Gareth stood where instructed.

“Good,” Mr Wilkinson tucked the cane under his arm, rather like a sergeant-major on parade duty. “Now I want you to take down your trousers.”

“But. No, but,” Gareth couldn’t help himself. He had to complain. He couldn’t do this. Not trousers down.

“Young man,” Mr Wilkinson made no attempt to supress his sneer. “Up and down the country people such as yourself are being ordered to drop their trousers and their underpants,” he paused to let that sink in. Then, he continued as if demonstrating his benevolence, “I do not require my lads to bare their backsides. I believe that is a little too immodest. I’m sure you would agree.”

Gareth hated his boss’s oiliness. The bastard had complete control. There was not one thing he could do to stop him. He had total power. He was the master. Gareth was the subordinate. No, more than that: Gareth was the slave.

“Take down your trousers please, Williams,” Mr Wilkinson slipped the cane into his hand and swished it through the air. “I would be so much obliged.”

Gareth’s trousers were snug fitting and needed no belt. All he needed to do was to pop the catch at the waistband and tug the zipper and they would hurtle to his feet. His hand shook beyond his control. He couldn’t get a grip.

“Would you prefer that I undid your trousers for you?” Mr Wilkinson said and before Gareth who was now in deep shock could furnish an answer, his boss had taken hold of the young man’s waist and unbuttoned him. The zip fell swiftly and the trousers slithered down Gareth’s thighs and bunched at his knees. He stood humiliated, his head buzzed and he was certain his face was on fire.

“Bend over the desk,” Mr Wilkinson spoke with great authority. He was the boss; he was in charge. He expected to be obeyed. He knew from experience he would be obeyed. No young worker in the past had dared to disobey.

Gareth stood unsteadily, the room seemed to be spinning. The floor was where the walls should be and the walls pulsated. He shook his head vigorously to try to regain some sense. Mr Wilkinson flexed the cane thoughtfully, studying the young man before him. He repeated his order, “Bend over the desk. This instance.”

Gareth looked down at the desk. It was tiny and might have been made from a kit from Ikea. It was low and he was quite a tall young man. Bend over. How was that done exactly? Should he lay flat across the top with his legs dangling over the ends? Was he supposed to rest his stomach on the edge and stretch his arms to grab the far end of the desk?

Mr Wilkinson had seen it all before. Young men called to his office for their first thrashing rarely knew the protocol; the correct procedure for presenting their bottoms submissively for the attention of his whippy cane.

“Place your elbows on the desk, arch your back and stick your bottom out. Open your knees but don’t stretch your legs too far,” Mr Wilkinson gave precise instructions and Gareth, now on some form of auto-pilot obeyed. “It helps if you grip the sides of the desk,” Mr Wilkinson said kindly, “when the beating starts,” he added softly.

Gareth was in position. Mr Wilkinson tucked the cane under his arm and walked to the far end of the office. By doing this he was able to get a full view of the young man. Gareth was thickset and had until recently been something of a soccer player. Mr Wilkinson noticed the muscles rippling beneath Gareth’s shirt. His buttocks were beefy and bent over as he was they filled out his cotton shorts. His legs were hairy and, Mr Wilkinson supposed, his buttocks were much the same.

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Gareth’s breathing was uneasy. He closed his eyes tightly in a useless attempt to pretend he was anywhere but bent submissively across the desk in his boss’s office waiting to receive his first-ever caning. He sucked down on his bottom lip. Perspiration seeped from his scalp and within moments the back of his neck was drenched.

Mr Wilkinson let the cane drop back into his hand and slowly approached Gareth, all the time watching the young man’s beefy bum twitching in anticipation of the ordeal ahead. He stood for a moment to Gareth’s left side. He could smell the young man’s fear. Gareth wore a smart dress shirt and its tail was long and hung over his bottom. Carefully, as if handling a priceless relic, Mr Wilkinson took hold of it between finger and thumb and gently raised it away from the seat of the young man’s shorts. He folded it back exposing a few centimetres of bare, hairy flesh.

Mr Wilkinson was almost ready. He took a stand a metre or so to Gareth’s left and carefully placed the cane across both buttocks, aiming at the fleshiest part of the bum. He tap-tap-tapped it softly and was delighted when Gareth’s whole body tensed. “Twelve strokes,” he announced as he lifted the cane away from the meaty cheeks. He held it at about shoulder height and let it wobble for a moment. Then, with a twist of his body – rather like a golfer taking a swing – he unleashed it at great speed and power and slashed it across Gareth’s backside. A thin line where the cane struck immediately showed across the tight underwear.

Gareth heard the crack of cane on cotton-covered flesh a mini-second before he felt the pain. “Arrrrggg,” the response to agony escaped through his teeth. It felt like his boss had laid a red hot wire across his bum. His hips wriggled and his head shot up and shook about wildly. He gripped the edges of the desk as if his life depended on it. It had been a good tip from Mr Wilkinson. Only by holding on tight did Gareth stop himself jumping to his feet and hopping around clutching his burning bottom.

“Steady.” Mr Wilkinson tapped the cane once more. This time a little lower than he first strike. It landed in the undercurve of the bottom; on the sensitive sit-spot. Gareth howled. His knees buckled and he collapsed across the desktop, whimpering like a little whipped puppy.

Mr Wilkinson stood back to admire his own handiwork. “You felt that,” he said pompously, “Good. That is the point young man. I wish to ensure that this is the first and the last time I have to do this sort of thing. I don’t expect to see you back here again. Now, lift that bottom of yours.”

Gareth forced himself back into position. Mr Wilkinson tapped the cane, took aim and let fly with slash number three. This one went high and it seemed to Gareth that the whole of his backside was ablaze. Was this what it felt like to be forced to sit in a vat of boiling water? Tears flowed uncontrollably. His throat was raw. His head ached terribly. The room continued to spin.

Pain is a strange thing. With three stokes delivered and nine still to come, Gareth, if he had any capacity for thought at that moment, might have expected the pain to increase exponentially (as the mathematicians would say) with each new lash so that it got worse and worse until the agony was beyond endurance and he fell into a dead faint.

But no. The pain seemed to reach a plateau. It was bad, terribly bad, but it got no worse. Was this what was meant by a ‘pain barrier’? Each successive stroke was landed with energy and vim. Mr Wilkinson never let up. He was a man with a mission. Gareth thought his bum had swollen to twice or three times its natural size. It ached like crazy, but after about the fifth stoke it also had gone unaccountably numb. It throbbed. The buttocks pulsated. They burnt. Thick welts weeped beneath his cotton shorts. The surface of his bum now had the consistency of leather. But, the pain did not increase.

Twelve strokes of the cane across the underpants is a severe punishment, even for a twenty-four-year-old and Gareth was a virgin to corporal punishment. He cried quietly, tears rolling down his face. He tried to suppress it but was unable to stop the sobbing.  And he couldn’t stop the sniffing nor the noise in the back of his throat as he strained to gulp in the air his lungs needed. He tried to keep as quiet as possible but his whimpering seemed to echo around the large office.

Mr Wilkinson stood impassively observing Gareth gasping for breath like a beached whale. He allowed himself a sardonic smile. A job well done, he congratulated himself silently. This young man would work harder in future. He would observe the rules. Mr Wilkinson assured himself Gareth would become a model worker. After all was said and done, the young man had very little choice.

“Stand. Get dressed. Go. And I don’t want to see you back here again.” Mr Wilkinson was sharp. He had no qualms thrashing the backsides of errant employees, but he always found the final scene of the little drama awkward. He preferred his victims to get out of the office without undue delay.

Gareth gripped the sides of the desk and using his elbows as levers he struggled to get his body into an upright position. His knees wobbled and he fell backwards landing on his savaged backside. He yelped with pain and rolled onto his side. He scrambled to his knees and then hanging onto the desk for support he climbed to his feet. He bent double his head between his knees as he swallowed down lung-fulls of air. His heartrate slowly recovered, but his head was still light. The room didn’t spin so much now. With trembling hands he found his trousers and hoisted them up. The cloth aggravated the welts across his bottom when he pulled the waistband tight and buttoned up.

Mr Wilkinson was at the other side of the office, back at the cupboard, replacing the cane. Back in its home, until the next time. Gareth wiped a gob of snot from under his nose and with great difficulty waddled towards the door. The cuts on his lower bottom chafed as he groped towards the exit.

He made it through the door. Outside in the corridor he stumbled and held onto the wall. The coast was clear, nobody was about. He could not be seen. His hands gently massaged the terrible burn in his backside. He knew that sitting down would be out of the question for most of the day. He did not yet know it but by the next morning he would still be sore but the worst would be gone. The stripes would go from red to black and then yellow during the next few days but it would be almost two weeks before the marks disappeared completely.

He composed himself as best he could and slowly, agonizingly shuffled back towards his office. As he stumbled along he saw another young man almost identical to himself come from the stairwell and pass him on his way to the sales director’s office.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

Other stories you might like

The office manager

Warren’s awakening

Caning for England


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second


Seasonal spankings – compilation

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Picture credit: Joe Phillips

Tis the season of goodwill to all men, but not necessarily all boys. Santa has his list of who’s been naughty and who’s been nice. Expect a few sore bottoms before the holiday is over. Here are a selection of my stories from Christmases past for you to enjoy for the first time or rediscover. Click on the links.

Enjoy the festive season, play safe and I’ll see you all in the New Year

Shopping for toys

Herbert goes shopping for Christmas toys at the local department store and has an unexpected encounter with Santa

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Picture credit: CP4Men dot net


Better believe in Santa Claus

Lucas Lomas is a stroppy teenager and the magic of Christmas means nothing to him. There is no such person as Santa Claus he tells his kid brother — but is he right?

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Picture credit: Alan Paul


Approved-School Santas

Inmates at a school for young offenders are forced to show Christmas spirit to a group of orphans, but greed gets the better of them.

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Picture credit: The Hotspur


The Morning After the Night Before

Tony’s bad behaviour spoiled everyone’s Christmas Day. His friend Tony knows how to deal with that …

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Picture credit: C of Sweden


Only Three Thieving Days to Christmas

Ben McKenzie works at a supermarket where he decides to steal bottles of booze to give as Christmas presents, but then his boss finds out …

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Picture credit: Unknown


When Santa Claus was caned

Three old men play Santa at a school’s Christmas party. All is well until silver trophies go missing.

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Picture credit: The Hotspur

The School Dance

The Christmas school dance always gets out of hand. More so when two horny virgin boys are enticed by the girls from St. Winnie’s.

z used school cane pants chair (19)

Picture credit: Sting Pictures


The Night Before Christmas

It was the night before Christmas and little Joe was ever so excited. This was the time Santa came to deliver all his presents – and Joe had a very long list indeed. But had Joe been a good boy? What do you think? And we all know what Santa does to naughty boys.

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Picture credit: Unknown


Fake News at Christmas

Santa Claus Irked at Unexpected Productivity Hike … Santa Claus is reportedly mad at a new directive forcing him to extend his naughty boys’ list to include guys up to the age of 21.

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Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club



When the headmaster bans all snowball fights at the school it gives George Baker, a Sixth-former and prefect a bright idea. But will he get away with his curious plan?

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Picture credit: The Magnet


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

The banker and the three wretches

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Charlie’s jaw dropped slack with astonishment as the whirlwind flew through the door. He watched the colossus stride through the banking hall, his walking cane held at his shoulder like an infantryman’s rifle. All around, cashiers and customers alike, stopped work to stare as the man – all six feet six inches of him – hurtled towards the elevators. His immaculate checked suit appeared to glow in the electric light. The clop-clop-clop his handmade leather shoes made as he marched onwards echoed around the silent hall.

Charlie gaped across at Miss Allison, who momentarily had deserted her typewriter. “Who is that?” he whispered watching the back of the figure as it departed through the concertina barrier into the lift.

“That,” Miss Allision trilled with admiration, “That is not the bank manager. That is not even the bank director,” her voice rose to a crescendo. “That is Mr Manwaring-Robertson the owner of our bank,” she swooned back to her seat and set a fresh sheet of paper in her typewriter.

“He seems to be on a mighty important mission,” Charlie nodded at the space where Mr Manwaring-Robertson had so recently been. “Someone upstairs is in for a mighty shock.” He resumed his sentry duty at the door to the bank, shaking his head vaguely.

Upstairs three young men sat together at a marble-topped table. Their cups of coffee stood untasted before them. Reddy flicked nervously at the ash of his cigarette and looked across the table at the other two, first Morris with his scowling brow and hair horrid with grease and then Oldroyd, with his face wrinkled with confusion.

“He knows about it all right then,” Morris wheezed bitterly.

“Certain of it,” said Reddy.

“It means the sack,” said Oldroyd. “It does that.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” said Morris, his voice cracking. “He’s most likely already here in the building. We’ll get called up to his office any minute now.” Morris cleared his throat, phlegm filled his mouth and it made him feel sick. He swallowed hard and took a final pull at the cigarette before slamming the end into his saucer.

“We’ll be looking for a new job, I know what it’s like. I’ve been out before,” said Oldroyd.

“Know what it’s like! Do you think I don’t know too,” sneered Morris. “What kind of testimonial is M.R. going to give us. Sacked for taking bribes for loans. We’ll be starving on the streets in weeks.” He glowered around at the other two, accusingly.  Why had they been so stupid? So greedy. Morris had a wife and two children, they’d all be thrown out onto the streets once he could no longer pay the rent.

“What damned fools we’ve been,” Oldroyd’s voice broke. He was close to tears. Reddy nodded, his head fell into his hands. There was a deathly hush as all three silently contemplated their fate. The workhouse beckoned.

They were so occupied with their own grief they failed to hear Miss Stewart approach. She stood, silently appraising the three wretched bank employees. Her lips pursed as if she had sucked on a particularly bitter lemon. She clicked her tongue, then announced her presence. Oldroyd was the first to react, his body froze in fear.  This was Manwaring-Robertson’s secretary, come to summon them forward to meet their fate. A life of penury. Oh, he silently reproached himself, why had he been so stupid.

“You are to come with me,” Miss Stewart pronounced. She had the air of the prison wardress about her. Now in her late middle-age, Miss Stewart had to find her little pleasures wherever she could. She would make the most of her present opportunity.

The three culprits sat rigid as statues. They had every wish to delay the inevitable ignominy. The sack. The bullet. Fired. Or, the infinitely more polite, ‘let go.’ It mattered little what word was used, the result would be the same. Themselves and their families starving on the streets.

“Now!” Miss Stewart barked. She hoped her tone and attitude appeared stern, she had no wish to display the inner delight she felt at that moment. She derived immense pleasure from other people’s misfortune.

Slowly, reluctantly and with some distress each man hauled himself to his feet. They slouched forwards as if already they had balls and chains around their ankles. Debtors’ prison was but a short journey away.

“Come this way,” Miss Stewart intoned. She led the way down a dark passageway. Each of the men had worked at the bank for several years but none had seen this part of the building before. It was forbidden territory to them, the lowly worker-ants of the bank. Miss Stewart rumbled ahead, leading them slowly towards their downfall.

They reached a huge oak door, the brass nameplate shone brightly, despite the gloom in the passageway. This was indeed the office of a mightily important man. A mightily rich man. Miss Stewart abandoned them while she knocked on the door before entering.

Morris looked at Reddy and Reddy looked at Oldroyd, but none could catch the eye. None dared to speak. The sound of fearful breathing broke the silence. It seemed to the men an eternity, but it was but thirty seconds later that the secretary reappeared.

“You’re to go in,” her voice betrayed a certain disappointment. She clicked her tongue and scurried back down the passageway, leaving the door to the office ajar. The three men stood petrified. Each waiting for another to take a lead and enter the lion’s den.

“Well!” a boom sounded within the office, “What are you waiting for!”

The ferocity of the voice woke Morris, Reddy and Oldroyd and like a scene form the Keystone Cops they bundled into one another in their eagerness to be first through the door.

It was an opulent office, as might be expected of a man who owned a bank. Mr Manwaring-Robertson sat behind a huge mahogany desk, the size of a municipal swimming pool. He glared. His snow-white moustache emphasised the deep suntanned face. It bristled as he spoke, “Stand there,” he pointed to a spot in front of his desk. “There, there,” he repeated irritably, as if his three workers might be too stupid to understand his instruction. They shuffled forward; their humiliation far from hidden. Morris felt his knees buckle, he was close to fainting to the floor. Oldroyd and Reddy steadied themselves by firmly grasping their hands behind their backs. They looked to all the world like naughty schoolboys summoned before the headmaster.

Mr Manwaring-Robertson steepled his fingers and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Well, what have you got to say for yourselves?” He was a man of few words. Action was his watchword. Don’t put off until tomorrow what you can do today.

Morris fell to his knees, it was not a plan. He had not written a script. He acted out of sheer terror. “Please, sir, please sir. Don’t fire us. I have a wife. Children. They will starve. Please. I am sorry. Sorry,” he wailed, “In the name of God Almighty have mercy on us all.”

Mr Manwaring-Robertson sat unmoved. His fierce hazel eyes shone, but otherwise they betrayed none of his thoughts.

Oldroyd stood aghast. How could Morris humiliate himself so? Begging for mercy. He had no more time for further thoughts. Reddy was falling to his knees, clasping his hands together as if in prayer. “Please master in the name of all that is holy. I repent.  I repent. Never again, shall I dishonour you. Please as a good Christian gentleman have mercy.” Tears flowed down his cheeks.

Mr Manwaring-Robertson shuffled his buttocks in his large padded chair. He looked from Morris to Reddy, from one to the other and then from the other to the one. His face remained impassive, seemingly unmoved by the spectacle. His cold eyes turned towards Oldroyd, the only employee still standing. His gaze pierced Oldroyd. The proud young man, with bitterness festering in his heart, slowly bent one knee, as if he were discussing inside his own head whether he should humiliate himself so. What good would it do. This flint-hearted bank owner cared nothing for Oldroyd and his young colleagues. It would give the old man immense satisfaction to see them beg for mercy, beg for their wives, their children. Beg to be saved from the workhouse.

Oldroyd surprised himself. He was down on two knees reciting his sorrow. His promises to become a good, honest, slaving worker. If only the good, kind, charitable Mr Manwaring-Robertson would bestow mercy upon his unfortunate children.

The speeches were over. Three men knelt before him, heads bowed in supplication. Mr Manwaring-Robertson sat in smug, satisfied silence, pierced only by the heavy ticking of a clock. He watched impassively as the minute hand dragged itself across the clockface from five to ten. Two of the men before him were dissolved in tears. The third was ghostly white as if he might expire unto death at any second.

At last Mr Manwaring-Robertson spoke, “Thank you gentlemen,” he said smugly. “I have heard your speeches. I have witnessed you tell me that you are contrite. I have heard your pleas for clemency.” He paused, as a pompous judge might before donning his black cap and pronouncing a sentence of death. “I have to say that all three of you have behaved in the most wretched manner. To steal from your employer is despicable,” he shook his head as if he were carrying all the troubles of the world on his shoulders. “Despicable.”

He paused and delved into a pocket of his waistcoat. He found a handkerchief and slowly and deliberately mopped perspiration from his brow. “Look at me,” he growled and three heads immediately twitched in his direction. “I am indeed a Christian gentleman and I do believe in mercy and redemption.” He paused while he mopped the back of his neck. “It might surprise you to hear me say that, but it is true.” He slowly folded the handkerchief and replaced it in his pocket. “Indeed, indeed. But, my God is a vengeful God. I believe in retribution.”

He waited as the import of his words hung in the air and while the significance of their meaning sank into the heads of the three men kneeling supplicated before him. He cleared his throat, “I have made arrangements,” he intoned. “You are to be whipped.” He paused, he always did at this point in such speeches. It gave him the chance to savour the horrified reaction of his victims.

“Were you to appear before the magistrates bench on charges of stealing, you would be sentenced to the birch and prison with hard labour,” he peered at Morris who appeared to be murmuring to himself, and then continued, “I do not propose hard labour. You will pay to me the money you took from clients.” He paused lest anyone should think of him as a profiteer, “I shall ensure that it is passed on to a good cause.”

He shook his head sorrowfully, “Stand up you three. I have arranged for Mr Burgess to deal with you. He is waiting in an adjoining room. You are dismissed. Go. Miss Stewart is waiting for you in the passageway.”

So it was that three worthless men were escorted along the passageway, each quiet, alone with his own thoughts. Reprieved. Saved from penury and the workhouse. Oh, Mr Manwaring-Robertson was a fine Christian gentlemen. If their thoughts were of joy and relief, they were surely dashed when Miss Stewart halted them outside a dark, sombre door. It connected a room at the furthest end of the passageway, in a wing of the building as far away from the street and the bank’s main business area as it could possibly be.

Miss Stewart paused, perhaps enjoying the drama of the moment. Certainly her heart beat fast. Like her employer she considered herself to be of good Christian stock. She prayed each night and attended church twice on Sunday. What a merciful soul she was. She rapped her knuckles on the door. No sound of footsteps within the room could be heard but suddenly the heavy mahogany door inched open.

“Go in. All of you,” Miss Stewart’s voice broke. She hacked a cough to clear her throat and added ominously, Mr Burgess is expecting you. She stepped back and looked contemptuously as each man halted, trying to encourage an other to be first across the threshold.

“Come in,” a voice from within rasped. “Do not keep me waiting. I am not a man renowned for his patience. It will be the worst for you to keep me waiting.”

Morris took the initiative. He led the way inside. It was a large simple room. The only light came from a small casement window at the far end. The floorboards were bare. They creaked whenever a person moved.

Miss Stewart hesitated in the doorway. “You may leave us now, Miss Stewart,” the voice still rasped. The secretary did not hide her disappointment. Excluded once again. Unable to witness God’s wrath.  She puckered her lips. She backed out of the room, slowly closing the door behind her. She stood alone in the passageway. She peered down the gloomy passageway. No other person was there, nor was one likely to appear at this hour of the day. She leaned forward and pressed her ear against the door.

Morris, Oldroyd and Reddy knew none of this. If they had they would have cared little. Their eyes were now a little more accustomed to the gloom. The room had no furniture save for one piece. It could not truthfully be described as furniture. It had no function associated with comfort. It was not a chair where one could sit. It was not a table where one could eat a meal. It was not a cupboard that one could store the little luxuries of life.

Morris stared bleakly at the one piece. He had never seen such a thing before. He was a man of little imagination but even he could detect its purpose. His heart fell to his boots.

Reddy had seen such a thing before. At the courthouse in the small town where he had been born. There was nothing unusual about this thing. There were replicas of it across the land. Many were still used, possibly even daily. But, Reddy had never expected to see such a thing in a room hidden along a dark passageway on the upper floor of the town’s most successful commercial bank.

To the ignorant it looked like a large step. One might have such a thing in a library to help the reader choose a book from a top shelf. On closer inspection, it was a little too cumbersome, two large, too heavy for such a task.

No, in all reality this thing, this wooden lump could serve only one purpose. It could only have one use. If there was any doubt in any mind that was dispelled by the only other objects in the room. Reddy could not tear his eyes away from them. There were five. Lined one beside another by the far wall. What colour that he had drained from his face, no bedsheet from the most luxurious of homes could have been whiter. Five enormous enamel pails. Each chocked full of what looked like the branches from a bush, or small tree.

Burgess stood quietly. He was a small, undistinguished man. He would walk the streets day or night unnoticed. He had no baring to speak off. He was neither particularly tall, nor particularly small. He had no distinguishing facial marks. His beard was conventional, cut neat and tidy. His clothes were those of a businessman. When he walked through the banking hall to his room people would think him to be just another clerk.

All the above was true. But here, in this room. He was more than the sum of his parts. He was man with authority. No, more than that, he was a man of power. His was total control. He had no reason to demonstrate that, beyond the obvious. He had a duty to perform. He would carry out that duty to his master’s word. The three wretches standing awkwardly before him would acquiesce to him. They might do so with some honour, presenting themselves submissively. They might not. Such had happened in the past. It trouble Burgess not at all. He had assistants that he could summon. They waited but two doors away.

Burgess was a philosopher. He was an expert. His craft had been perfected over many years in the bank’s employ. Oh how he could whisk a birch rod about so that the trembling victim could hear it hissing through the air.

He had once confirmed to Mr Manwaring-Robertson, who showed great interest in the matter, “The real art of birching consists in inflicting the greatest amount of humiliation and suffering, but without in reality doing serious damage.”


The bank owner had nodded sagely. That was wise, he had thought. If too much injury was inflicted might not the intervention of a doctor become necessary. That might leave to any number of complications. No, Mr Manwaring-Robertson, concluded, it was best not to proceed in such a way that the Authorities might become involved.


Burgess had continued, “We have to consider how so to apply the rod as to effect some radical

moral good in the disposition and mind of the culprit ; how to make them feel the very dregs as it were of humiliation, degradation, and every kind of mortification.” He might have wetted his lips as he spoke, such was his commitment to the task.


He shared his past experience with his employer, speaking as with the authority of a learned professor on the subject of birching, “It is a curious fact,” Burgess had said, “that it sends the blood

of a sensitive modest man in impulsive rushes (especially to the face and neck) in the form of scarlet blushes, which pass over those parts in continuous waves, corresponding to each stroke of the rod ; this is a curious psychological fact, which is puzzling even to anatomists.”

Mr Manwaring-Robertson continued to nod his head, as he fought to keep from betraying his lack of understanding.

“You should proceed as you see fit,” he intoned. There the matter rested. The master had given his instruction, it was for the servant to carry it out in the most efficient way possible.

The problem with the birch, Burgess knew, and he could write a book on the matter, was that it had a very short useful life. They had originally been crafted from the twigs of the birch tree, hence its name. But experience had taught that these proved to be too fragile. Hazel twigs were then used before a variety of twiggy shoots from other species were tried. When available, Burgess would constructed his birch rods from springy young maple shoots which would be bound together at one end into handle. The birches he had prepared for the three wretches were of such construction, each consisting of between eighteen and twenty shoots.

Burgess spoke quietly. “Twelve strokes of the birch for each of you, Kindly brace yourselves and keep perfectly still and take your punishment. This is going to be the most painful experience of your lives to date.” He made no attempt to gauge the feelings of the three bank clerks. He would not look them in the eye. Each in their turn preferred to stare down at the bare floorboards beneath their feet. In time, Burgess closed his eyes completely and appeared, to all the world to be silently praying.

Burgess continued, “I have to tell you that whole purpose of the exercise is to teach you through pain to be better men. It has been my experience to note that a well beaten bottom does wonders to improve the to improve a man’s character.

“You will each now, remove your lower garments.”

It must have been the thought of a future life of penury in the workhouse that encouraged the three wretches to comply. They were utterly defeated. Not one uttered a complaint. Morris was instructed to go first. It is remarkably cumbersome for a man to strip his lower half naked. It took several moments to get the shoes unfastened and off his feet. The trousers were hoisted aloft by braces and required the removal of jacket and waistcoat.

At last – and to the man about to be flogged it must have felt like half a lifetime – he was ready.

“Kneel down with your upper body over the top,” Burgess indicated the birching block. It was a simply-designed apparatus. As described earlier it was like two steps. A man faced forward, knelt on the lower step and leaned forward so that his stomach and upper body was across the top step. Morris, determined not to display weakness in front of his partners-in-crime, steadied himself. He was soon in position. Once over, he was able to see the two leather wrist straps bolted onto the reverse side of the block. Their design was clear – to tie a man in position should he not have the fortitude to present himself humbly.

Morris determined that he would not disgrace himself so. He would, as the saying goes, take it like a man.

Burgess watched with what seemed a disinterested eye as Morris made his preparations. The block had been well designed. Morris’s naked haunches were lifted high at a very good angle to receive the lashing from the birch rod. The buttocks so presented were pale and boney. There was very little meat for the birch rods to flail.

Burgess choose his first rod. All birch rods whatever their construction are almost as delicate as flowers in a vase. They fade quickly. Pieces of broken twig would gather around Burgess’s feet. He might need two or possibly three birch rods to deal with each man. He had prepared for that possibility.

Without ceremony or fanfare, he took a rod from the first bucket. He shook it vigorously. It had been soaking in water and vinegar. It was supposed that the vinegar would make the cut of the rods sting the more. Burgess had heard this to be the true case but he could not swear to its voracity. Even so, he saw no reason not to soak them in such a way. The water, he knew for certain, made the twigs supple and helped in no small way to stop them from breaking too soon.

He gripped the handle firmly and as was his wont he swished it with great ferocity through the air. It had his desired effect. Morris’s buttocks quavered in anticipation. Burgess was not afraid to allow a smile to cross his own lips. Humiliation and suffering.

Now it was time to get on with the job in hand. He stood to the left side of Morris. He allowed the birch to rest gently across the centre of both cheeks. It was of such a size that its head spread and covered almost the entire area of the wretched man’s rump.

Burgess raised the birch into the air, let it rest there and with a twist of his body he let fly. The birch rods separated into a broad fan as they connected with the pale skin. The crack of birch against naked flesh echoed around the empty room. Reddy thought he might faint.

Morris, despite his resolve to be brave in front of his fellows let out a almighty gasp. He could not help it, his body demanded such a response to the intense pain he now felt.

Burgess intended to humiliate his victims. He waited about thirty seconds for the pain to ease and Morris’s anticipation to increase before delivering the second cut. In this way he systematically and methodically covered the whole of Morris’s buttocks.

Morris gripped the leather wrist straps as if his very life depended on not letting go. His gasps grew to yaps and those yaps to yelps. At stroke six Burgess paused, the rod in his hand reduced to strands. He tossed it to the floor and slowly and dramatically crossed the empty room to the enamel pails. He gripped a substitute rod and with equal drama resumed his position to Morris’s left. The wretch was whimpering, but still valiantly gripping the wrist straps. Burgess quietly admired the man’s tenacity. Many another victim before him had broken down and was then tied firmly down to receive the residue of the whipping.

Morris did not know how he had refrained himself from begging for mercy. His protests were unspoken as stroke followed cut. He sobbed quietly.

Then it was over. Twelve slashes of the birch.

“Stand. When you are able to get dressed. Do not leave the room until I instruct you,” Burgess spoke quietly but with immense authority.

With no great dexterity, Morris found his feet. He stumbled but stopped himself falling in a faint to the floor. His companion Reddy choked back the bile in the back of his throat. He observed his colleague hobble away from the block. The poor man’s backside was a glowing expanse of small welts. Many oozed minute amounts of blood. The skin had broken as each strand of the birch had cut into his naked flesh.

Burgess selected a fresh birch, swiped it through the air and intoned, “Reddy. You should take his place.”

That was the last word Reddy heard as the lights around him dimmed and he fell with a crash to the floor.

At about that moment Mr Manwaring-Robertson retraced his journey through the banking hall. He acknowledged the many genuflections of his staff as he strode on his way. Charlie opened the front door and the bank owner was on his way. Miss Allison swooned behind her typewriter. Customers made their deposits or cashed their cheques. Life continued as usual.


Picture credit: Laurence Fellows

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

It happened to me too …

new 5

pants desk office sting

This photograph’s not what it looks like. A fellow, trousers down, over the desk, about to get a caning. It’s not real. It’s not from a documentary,  it’s from a video. A spanking video. A fetish video. There are lots of them all over the Internet. I know it’s from a made-up story, but the moment I saw it for the first time, I thought, “Wow!” It was so evocative. Each time I look at it I get memories of me fifty years ago. Something that really happened.

I was twenty-four at the time and in my first-ever proper job. I’d had lots of temporary ones after I left university. I did all the usual things, like working in a factory (we still had factories back then) or serving in a shop. I was a postman at Christmas. You know the kind of thing.

What I really wanted was a job in journalism. Working on a newspaper. I had this vision of me in a trench coat and one of those trilbies on my head with a ticket reading “PRESS” in the hatband. The sort of character Humphry Bogart might play in a movie.

Jobs in journalism were as rare as hens’ teeth, so when after dozens and dozens of applications all over the country I final got taken on I knew just how fortunate I was. I knew that, which makes what I did later all the more difficult to comprehend.

Back in those days not many people of my parents’ generation and before had university degrees. They left school and went straight into work. So, I was one of the few at the newspaper – the Bugle –with a degree. As far as I knew none of my supervisors, right up to the mighty editor, had been to the varsity.

In those days we were more deferential than today. We knew our place. The rich man in his castle, the poor man at his gate, you know the kind of thing. We even respected the clergy. Ha! how times change. Of more relevance to my story, we respected our work supervisors and bosses. Maybe respected isn’t quite the right word here. I really just mean we did as we were told without question. We worker ants would mutter among ourselves out of the earshot of the foreman, but those of us with forelocks tugged them unceasingly.

That makes what I did all the more astonishing.

As I said, I was one of the few people at the Bugle with a university education. I was quite proud of this. I had worked hard (well, hard enough anyway) to get a degree and I swaggered a bit knowing that I was one of the elite. Bumptious, some people might call it. Prideful would suffice. So would self-satisfied. Today, we might say I was full of myself. Arrogant is another word that works.  Superior. Oh, I could go on.

Let me just say I wasn’t the most popular person at the Bugle. I was what we then called a “junior reporter”, I think the Americans say “cub reporter”. I’m thinking here of Superman’s Pal Jimmy Olsen at the Daily Planet. The Bugle wasn’t as glamourous as the Planet. My work consisted mostly of taking names of people attending funerals (there were many deaths, we had an aged population) or prize-winners at flower shows. It depended a bit on the season of the year. No flower shows in winter, but a surprisingly large number of funerals.

I’d been at the Bugle for about six months and was still on “probation” (that meant I had to keep my nose clean for a year before I was taken on staff permanently) when the chief reporter, a rather limp-wristed fellow we called Fairy although his name was actually Farleigh, sent me off to collect some documents from the mayor’s office. The mayor in England is nothing like a mayor in an American city. He is just a honorary figurehead who wears a gold chain round his neck and goes round opening garden fetes. Like all minor functionaries he expected to be treated as if he were King of England.

Mayors were also part-time appointments. Mayor Moncrieff’s day job was as a schoolmaster. He taught at a place called St Francis Independent Grammar School. Even for those days St FIGS (as it was affectionately known) was pretty traditional: traditional curriculum, traditional sports, traditional uniform, and as you’ve probably guessed, traditional discipline.

I arranged to go to the mayor’s office at two in the afternoon. That would give me time to slope off to lunch at the Three Fishers, the pub where all the young layabouts in town went. It was benefits day – the day when the workshy got their unemployment pay outs – so it was pretty busy. That’s how I managed to be knocked in a crush of people and get beer spilled down my jacket. It wasn’t too bad but I had to get Big Mary, the landlady, to sponge it down as best she could.

So, I was late getting to the mayor’s office and (I didn’t realise it) I smelled somewhat of beer. The mayor’s secretary, an officious old cow of very advanced years was none too pleased when I waltzed in late. She looked down her nose at me and haughtily exclaimed, “We do not have all day to wait on Her Majesty’s Press.” She was being sarcastic. The Bugle was not the Times of London, or the Washington Post. It definitely wasn’t the Daily Planet. She meant the Bugle was just some insignificant local rag.

In the great scheme of things, she was right of course. But, as I said, I was pretty full of myself in those days, so I said, “I’ll remind you of that next time the mayor wants his picture in the paper, schmoozing with the Lord Lieutenant.”

Her face crinkled, her long nose and her pointed chin almost met. She sniffed the air. Her eyes shone, “You’ve been drinking,” she cackled.

That was when Mayor Moncrieff stepped through the door of his office. He had heard it all. His face, a ruddy complexion at the best of times, deepened towards puce. “Pah!” he blasted, “How dare you.” Like I said he was a schoolmaster by trade. What a combination. The pomposity of a small-town mayor is enough to have to cope with, but a man who was both a mayor and a schoolmaster is insufferable. He berated me. I tuned my ears out. I couldn’t stand the man and I was quite capable of giving as good as I got in the verbal stakes, so I had to be careful. Finally he said, “Drunk in my office. Your editor, will hear about this.”

I kept my mouth buttoned but my body language said, “Go on. See if I care.” I snatched the documents I had come for and exited stage left.

By the time I retuned to the Bugle Mayor Moncrieff had been on the blower to my editor. Like I said, we all knew our place and the editor, a man named G A B Larcombe, knew where he was in the pecking order. Quite high, actually in a town like Brocklehurst, but a long way below the mayor.

I didn’t hear the phone call and I don’t know how GAB reacted to the mayor’s command. Did he put up much of a fight? I’d like to think he did, but I wouldn’t bet on it. As I said I was always a bit above myself; GAB probably thought I needed to be taken down a peg.

I was back at the Bugle office an hour or so when the summons comes from GAB’s secretary. I must attend at GAB’s office. This was a big deal. I had only been there once. That was the day I was appointed. The editor was seen as a bit of a God and wouldn’t condescend to talk to the likes of me and I had hardly seen hide nor hair of him since that day. I was surprised he remembered who I was.

I straightened my tie and began to climb into my jacket but the strong smell of beer deterred me. I left it on the back of my chair and made towards the door of the reporter’s room. Charlie, our fifty-something sports reporter, cheerfully rubbed his buttocks with the palms of his hands. His message was clear. I grinned at him. Yes, I got he joke. Going to the editor’s office was just like being summoned to the headmaster’s study.

“Good luck,” Charlie whispered as I left the room. I thought nothing of his remark and made the short journey to DAB’s office. The secretary, who almost as ugly as the mayor’s, (is it a requirement of the job of secretary?) nodded to the old mahogany door and sneered, “Knock and enter. He’s expecting you.” I rubbed the sweat from the palms of my hands, made a fist and rapped three times.

The office was large and furnished in a modern style. Pine was all the rage at the time. GAB sat behind a desk the size of a billiard table. He was an elderly, wizened man in I imagine his late fifties. He was thin, almost to the point of being sickly, and was dressed immaculately in a dark suit with a crisp white shirt.

“You know Mayor Moncrieff,’ he said firmly and nodded to the corner of the room. Only then did I see the mayor lounging in a small easy chair, his belly hanging over his waist and his legs splayed. He gave me the evil eye. I mumbled a half-hearted greeting.

GAB spoke slowly, as if giving dictation, “I understand there was an altercation this afternoon.” He rolled the word altercation around on his tongue, relishing the sound it made. He stopped. It took a moment before I realised I was supposed to say something. Taken off guard, I babbled, “Well, no not altercation exactly.”

GAB cut me short. “You had been drinking.” It was a statement, not a question. I gathered some confidence and told him about The Three Fishers.

“Three Fishers!” his voice cracked. He obviously knew the reputation that pub had all over town. “To make contacts, I go to make contacts,” I said truthfully, although that was not the only reason I went. It was easy to pick up girls of “easy virtue” as we used to say back then. I told him of my accident. He seemed to accept my explanation because he said no more about it.

He honed in on my exchange of words with the mayor’s secretary. He gave an accurate account. I knew I had been rude. I had a short temper sometimes. I shouldn’t have said what I said. GAB narrowed his eyes and leaned across his desk, “The mayor is very upset.” He glanced across at the sprawling mayor as if seeking his approval for the words he had just spoken. Then GAB said, “I am very upset. I do not expect a member of the Bugle to behave in such a way.”

My face almost cracked. The pompous buffoon really did believe he was editor of the Times of London. Bumptious though I was I had enough sense to keep my mouth buttoned tight. GAB and the mayor were my social superiors. I had to listen to what they had to tell me. My task was to listen and to suck it up. In the back of my mind I knew that I was still a probationer at the Bugle and jobs in journalism did not grow on trees. Time for me to be humble.

“Sorry Mr Mayor,” I said, hoping that I didn’t betray the sarcasm I felt. “I most humbly apologise.”

Mayor Moncrieff’s face went that puce colour again. His eyebrows shot heavenwards. “Bwwaa, bwwaa,” he seemed unable to articulate his thoughts. For a brief moment I thought he was going to cough up his false teeth.

“That will do, Hamilton,” GAB clasped his hands together as if in prayer and glared at me. He leaned back in his chair. He seemed to be trying to make up his mind about something. Once again he looked to the mayor for support. I saw Mayor Moncrieff give what looked to me like a judicial nod. He had made a decision. GAB’s eyes sparkled. Suddenly his face even with all those wrinkles looked twenty years younger.

“This will not do, Hamilton,” GAB intoned. “I cannot have a junior member of my staff,” he began and then quickly corrected himself, “I cannot have any member of my staff disrespect the mayor in such a way.” His eyes narrowed and he stared intently at my shirt front. “You are, of course, still on probation …” He let the words hang in the air. There was no need to say more, I got the point. Keep my mouth shut or face dismissal.

“So,” GAB rose from behind his desk. I watched as with some difficulty he managed to unbutton his jacket and slip it from his shoulders. He walked slowly across the office and with great careful deliberation he hung it on a coat stand. I was transfixed. I watched as he glided across to a set of drawers. He fumbled in his pocket and found a small keyring. He searched for the key he needed and once more, slowly and carefully, he inserted it into a lock and turned it. I was spellbound. The tension in the room was electric. He pulled the drawer open by a foot or so. His shoulders hunched as he reached inside. Even Mayor Moncrieff was mesmerised.

I heard a rattling sound like a stick rubbing against wood. GAB’s shoulders shook, he straightened up and turned to face me. I believe my jaw literally dropped, such was my surprised. GAB held in his hand a long, thin crook-handled school cane. He narrowed his eyes to stare across the room at me. He took the cane in both hands and flexed it to make an arc. He said nothing. The only sound in the room was my breathing. My mouth opened and closed but no words came.

GAB’s intention was clear. My head was befuddled. I had just seen my boss, the editor, go to a drawer in his office and retrieve from it a school punishment cane. He did this like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to do. A lump came to my throat and I gulped it away. My boss kept a cane in his office. All the time. It hadn’t been brought in specifically for me.

GAB must have seen my confusion. “It’s a cane,” he said rather unnecessarily. “And, I think we all know what it’s for.”

I heard a loud retort behind me, Mayor Moncrieff had snorted. Indeed, as a schoolmaster he was very aware of its purpose.

“This is what we are going to do,” GAB spoke carefully, without emotion. He pointed the cane to a small table at the furthest end of the office. “You, Hamilton, are to stand there.” My eyes moved to the table, but my body remained rooted. He was going to cane me. My heart raced. I wanted to protest. I should have protested. How could this be possible? My boss was going to cane me. I was twenty-four years old, not fourteen. Besides, what right did he have? I said none of these things. I didn’t even think these things until much later, when it was all over and I was back at my digs examining the cuts.

“Please do as I say,” GAB tapped the cane against his right leg as he spoke: tap-tap-tap. “Stand by the table.”

My feet were leaden but I dragged them across the room. I stood where instructed. Suddenly, in my mind I was transported back ten years or so. In my housemaster’s study, about to prostrate myself across the desk. Yes, I was no stranger to the sting of the cane. What boy of my era and social class was?

I faced the table. I was a tall, lanky fellow and the table was low. I heard the mayor rise from his seat and cross the room to another chair. He was moving to get a better view. Only then did I realise the miserable bastard intended to enjoy himself. Not only would I face the humiliation of a beating from my boss, the wretched man was going to drool over it.

GAB approached me and stood by my side. He flexed the cane between his hands once more. It was heavier and thicker than the one my housemaster used to thrash me back in the day. I could see GAB’s eyes flashing. “Bend over the table,” he said loudly and clearly. I hesitated, surely I was too tall to lay down on my stomach. Where would my legs go? I hadn’t solved this conundrum before the mayor rasped an irritating couch.

A startled GAB turned towards the man. GAB’s face brightened. “Oh, of course,” he said softly, as if to himself. Then, turning to me he said with great deliberation, “Hamilton. Take down your trousers and bend over the desk.”

Now, it was the turn of my eyes to sparkle. Tears of shame welled. I just about held them back. Just as I held my temper. The bastards. They knew I had no choice. I had to obey they commands. They were my masters. I was the submissive. Take down your trousers bend over the table, take a caning. Show what a small, insignificant creature I was. It was enough to turn a chap to Communism.

It took a super-human effort not to tell them to go to hell. What right did they have? What right? Well, they had no right, or course. But they had the power. If I wanted to keep my job and career, I had no choice.

I sucked down several deep breaths, bit down on my bottom lip and with unsteady hands I took hold of my belt buckle. I could feel GAB’s hot breath against my neck as I loosened the belt, unfasted the clasp at the top of my trousers and pulled the zip fly. I stared straight ahead, trying to clear my mind. I was not there in the editor’s office, about to lower my trousers and bend over the table so the old man could beat my backside with a school cane.

The trousers slid down my thighs and snagged at my knees. I parted my legs a little and they continued down to make a puddle over my shoes. Without thinking I leaned forward and rested my elbows on the desk. That way, my bum jutted out behind me. I spread my feet and arched my back. I couldn’t see it myself (of course) but I knew my bottom was at the perfect angle to receive my punishment.

I could smell GAB’s aftershave as he leaned across me and took hold of the tail of my shirt. My body shivered (and not with cold) as he pulled the shirt up my back, exposing my underpants fully. I nearly shrieked with anguish when he gripped hold of the elasticated waistband of my underpants. Oh my God! he’s pulling them down. He’s going to show my bare arse to the mayor!

He didn’t. He pulled the pants tightly and I felt them ride up into my crack. Each buttock cheek was lifted and separated. The cotton clung to my bum. I presented the perfect target.

GAB smacked my right buttock, almost playfully. Then, he did the same with the left. My body quivered when he rubbed the cane across the centre of my arse. He sawed it once or twice as he found his aim. Then, he lifted the cane away, held it in mid air for a second or so before bringing it crashing down across my cheeks. A line of hot pain glowed and it felt like a welt had immediately risen. I gasped. That hurt. That really hurt.

Before I had time to fully absorb the pain a second swipe landed with terrific vigour and hit me an inch or so lower than the first. “Yowll,” I yelled, or some such. “Ouch!” I don’t know how I sounded. What I do know is that it hurt like crazy. My legs buckled and I balled my hands into fists to try to absorb the agony.

The third swipe landed above the first. I now had three parallel lines perfectly placed across my quavering backside. It was a strip of suffering about three inches wide. GAB was an expert. A master. Proof, if proof were needed, that I was not the first person he had caned in his life.

My hips wriggled, my legs kicked, my head shook from side to side when the fourth cut landed in a diagonal across the first two. Could they hear my yell of anguish back in the reporters’ room? I don’t know. I wouldn’t be surprised if passers-by in the street heard. My head throbbed almost as much as my backside and rivulets of tears flowed down my face. How I kept my back arched and my bum sticking out, I’ll never know. Every instinct in my body cried for me to stand up and flee from the room.

GAB put the next stroke high, right on the apex of my mounds. That one didn’t hurt so much. Maybe I had gone through some pain barrier. Maybe there’s more muscle or meat or padding there, I don’t know.

I had counted five. How many was I getting? GAB hadn’t said. It would be six, wouldn’t it? I fervently told myself. It’s always six. Six-of-the-best. Every schoolboy of my generation knew that. I tensed my body. Please, I prayed silently, let this be the final one. GAB seemed to be taking his time. Maybe he had finished already. It was over. No such luck!

I felt the cane touch the back of my thighs, just along the hem of the underpants. He was going low. On the sensitive sit-spot. I held my breath. This would be agony. The worst of them all. The cane rose. It hovered in the air. It fell. I shrieked like a banshee. Every fibre of my body rebelled. GAB had missed his aim. The cane struck me across the back of my thighs. My bare flesh. My naked flesh. I leapt to my feet and clutched my burning arse with my legs stomping up and down like a demented soldier on sentry duty. My body doubled, I yelled some more. I rubbed and I rubbed but the contact of the palms of my hands against the thick red, throbbing welt glowering across the backs of my thighs made the pain worse.

GAB rested his cane on the table, “I think that is enough,” he said quietly. A grunt from Mayor Moncrieff announced that he begged to differ. On this occasion, GAB overruled him. “Get dressed,” GAB told me gently. I tugged my trousers up over my roaring buttocks. My hands shivered as I buttoned up. I couldn’t work the belt buckle so left it undone.

GAB couldn’t wait to get rid of me. I rushed from the room, eyes blazing, backside on fire. I sped down the passageway, bouncing from wall to wall and then through the doors and into the street. I didn’t stop running until I reached my lodgings.

That caning didn’t teach me to know my place, but it did make me keep my mouth closed in future; which as we all know isn’t the same thing.



Picture credit: Sting pictures

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Charles Hamilton the Second


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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Charles Hamilton the Second

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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Charles Hamilton the Second

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