A family firm

new story 2

z used otk white pants down chair office sting

Parker’s is a family business. Always has been and if I have any say in the matter it always will be. I inherited it from my father, and I’ve built it up a lot since then. There must be a hundred-and-fifty-people employed here now. Family. Every last one of them.

We have a lot of youngsters here. Mostly young men, just out of school a lot of them. We have girls too, but not so many. They tend to get married and, of course, they leave to take care of their husbands. Just as a wife should. That’s what family means.

At Parker’s we are just one big happy family and I’m at the head. I’m in loco parentis or is it pater familias? The one that says the firm is a family and as its head I can treat everyone here as if they were my children. And I do. I love and nurture them all. That is my duty. I am, if you will, a loving father.

Being a father has its responsibilities. It is especially my job to make sure the youngsters in my care grow up into fine, responsible, obedient adults. Many of the boys and girls here have yet to attain the age of twenty-one and so legally they remain children. That is the way of the world and children need a firm hand to guide them along the rocky path to adulthood. At Parker’s I am that hand. It is a tough job but somebody has to do it.

Every successful business must set targets. These may be many and varied. There are production deadlines and sales targets. Our salesmen are given incentives to do their best. The diligent and hardworking succeed and are richly rewarded with bulging pay packets. The indolent, the idle do not succeed, but they too are rewarded in a manner of speaking.

A father knows that his lazy son requires inducements for him to succeed. The encouragement may take many forms. In a truly loving home father gives carrots to spur the boy on. If that fails there is always the stick to fall back on. So it is at Parker’s. The carrot I have already spoken about. Currency notes make fine carrots. But what about the stick?

I am not a bully. I believe in rules and I believe they must be obeyed. Disobedience results in punishment. So, to make an example, each of my salesman is given his own monthly target to meet. This will vary depending upon a number of factors that I won’t bore you with. But you must know that the target is fair and it is achievable. If it is not met, the salesman has some explaining to do.

So at the end of each month I am inevitably called upon to do my familial duty. Is it a task I enjoy? Certainly not. But like all employers I understand my responsibility. If a worker does not learn at a tender age what is required of him, he never will. And then where should we all be?  Parker’s can say “goodbye” to its profits and a hundred-and-fifty people will join the millions starving in hovels across the nation.

Yes, it is an unpleasant task, but as I say it is my duty. It is a duty I shall not shirk. This very afternoon I was required to take Robinson to task. Robinson has been with me for nearly three years and after a successful spell as an office clerk he was promoted to salesman. He was highly delighted (as indeed was his mother who relies almost entirely on his salary to feed her growing family) and set about fulfilling his new obligations with great enthusiasm. Alas, this did not last. His sales returns slipped and his targets were missed.

Like a good father I have put my finger on the problem. I have analysed the personality of the boy and I have made my conclusion. He lacks self-discipline. When he worked in the office he was constantly under the eye of his supervisor. His work was monitored. He had no opportunity to deviate from a set path.

But now he is “on the road” so to speak that supervision is no more. He has to motivate himself to perform and to work hard. This he is failing to do. It is a great shame. I genuinely believe Robinson has great talent. He will make Parker’s a lot of money. But before he can do that he needs a guiding hand.

So the carrot has not entirely worked, so now it had to be the stick. I use the word stick figuratively. I am not an ogre, nor am I a bully. I am a loving father. I did not wish to see young Robinson flayed until the skin on his buttocks bled. That is cruel and unnecessary. But he had to be punished and I was not adverse to that being of the physical variety. No loving father would take a whip to his son and I would not do that to Robinson.

A father expresses love for his son in many and varied ways. I would be doing Robinson no kindness if I did not punish him severely. He had to learn his lesson. Be in no doubt about that. And, I firmly believe, this should be learned through his backside. But oh no not a whipping. A spanking. When a father takes his son across his knee for correction he is saying, “I love you. I love you so much that I have to discipline this way. Our bodies entwine as if in a loving caress.” I did not use these words to Robinson. He is intelligent enough to understand how I feel. Parker’s is a family firm. I am the father, he is the son.

He arrived at my office at the appointed time. My secretary made the arrangements and I do not know if she spelled out exactly why he had been summoned. Robinson has been at the firm long enough, he surely knew his fate. My office is really rather cosy considering I am the head of an important company. I take business meetings in the board room and leave my office for more day-to-day administration. That is why the desk is rather small and most of the space is taken up with armchairs and such like. Some of my employees likened the experience of visiting my office to that of a summons to the headmaster’s study. Nothing could be further from the truth. There are no solid bookcases, no hat stand with crook-handled canes dangling from it. No cap and gown hanging on hooks.

Even so, when Robinson appeared before me it was difficult not to see him as some kind of naughty schoolboy. He is only eighteen years old and so (I suppose) had he enjoyed the privilege of an upper-class upbringing he might conceivably still be attending some minor public school somewhere. Certainly, in his white shirt and pale-grey trousers he had the air of a sixth-former about him. He shuffled his feet on the rug in front of my desk and bowed his head in shame (or possibly embarrassment).

I don’t see myself as a headmaster, but nonetheless I had to explain to him in forthright terms why he was before me. Of course, he knew that already. I reminded him of his obligations and the consequences of not meeting them. He was mostly silent throughout offering up half-whispered “Yes sirs” and “No sirs” at appropriate moments. I had no wish to prolong the interview so I hurried to the conclusion. “You will have to be spanked. You understand that don’t you?” His response was the merest nod of the head.

I pulled myself to my feet and stepped into the middle of the office. Robinson’s eyes rose from the floor and followed my every move. He had never been spanked (at least not by me) and he must have been uncertain of the procedure. I lifted a straight-backed wooden chair from against a wall and set it down where I would have enough room to perform my task. I sat and wriggled about a bit to get comfortable. I indicated to Robinson that he should stand in front of me.

As a loving father I see it as my task to prepare the boys. A headmaster would bark something like, “Bend over that chair!” or “Lower your trousers,” and so on. That would mean the punishment was at some remove. The headmaster or borstal governor or whosoever was administering the punishment would give clear commands and the boy would obey and prepare himself accordingly. Where is the love in that? That is a contest, the boy sets himself against the master. It can only lead to resentment, not redemption.

No, that was not my way. With Robinson now in front of me I asked him in a very civil tone to place his hands on his head. He understood immediately my instruction, it is the kind of thing a lady nursery school teacher might require of her naughty pupil. With his hands out of the way I proceeded to unbuckle and then loosen Robinson’s belt. His body tensed and I noticed he deliberately moved his head so that he stared past my shoulder at a photograph on the far wall. It did not distract me. I soon had his trousers open. It took the merest movement for me to have them at his feet. He had on white cotton briefs which were somewhat worn and baggy.

I looked at his face which by now was scarlet. I smiled inwardly. Soon, I intended to ensure that his buttocks were of a similar hue. “Give me your arm,” I said, still coolly. I took hold of his left wrist and guided him over and down across my knees. He offered no resistance. As Robinson fell into position he instinctively reached his hands forward and placed them into the rug. He was small enough that his legs hovered above the floor with his toes barely brushing it. His bottom was perfectly position over my right thigh.

When I spank one of my family of employees I prefer not to keep up a running commentary. The boy knows why he is there and what is to happen. It is best to just get on with it. So, I took hold of the tail of his shirt and pushed it a little away from the target area. I gripped him by the waist at the same time pushing my elbow into his lower back. He was pinned down and I was ready to go.

An over-the-knee spanking must be the most “nursery” style of corporal punishment and should be the form most often used in the home. That is why I prefer it. What could be more appropriate than a spanking from Father’s own hand, stiffened into a flexible punishing surface, and applied again and again to a naughty little bottom? I set about Robinson with sound and fury. The noise as my hand cracked against his stretched flesh resounded around the small office. Robinson gasped and he gulped as his rear-end began to glow but he gave no fight. It is true his bottom heaved up and down as my palm made its way around the circuit of his buttocks. I have seen many boys do this, it is a natural physical reaction to the assault on his body. It does not necessarily mean he is trying to evade just punishment.

I made sure I had connected with every part of the target moving my way down from below the spine and across the fine hills that constitute the bulk of his buttocks. I gave extra attention to the crease where the bum and the thighs connect for this is the most tender part of the bottom. It is also the part that connects with a chair when a boy sits down and will remind him for some time to come of the penalties to be paid for missing targets.

I satisfied myself that no inch of his posterior had been left unspanked before I moved on to phase two. This is the most unbearable moment for my boys for it is delicately humiliating. I ceased my assault on his bottom and for a moment I rested my hand against his right cheek and removed my elbow from his back. I felt a movement in his body; he was trying to lift himself off my lap. The poor boy thought his spanking was at an end. Ha! What a novice Robinson was. I took both my hands and pinched the cotton at the waistband of his underpants. He gasped. He wriggled. Now, he understood my intention. He lifted his arms from the floor and cradled his head in them. He stopped wriggling and waited submissively.

Slowly and deliberately I pinched the elasticated waist of his underpants and with both hands I tugged them down enough to expose his very pink buttocks. “Oh,” I said, “You weren’t expecting that! A bare bottom! I hope you are learning your lesson.” I didn’t expect an answer and received none. I resumed my spanking, possibly a little faster and harder than before. With the buttocks no longer encased in baggy cotton I got a clearer view of Robinson’s shape. He bum was a little rounder and meatier than I had previously realised. It made a kind of squelching noise as my hand connected over and over with his naked flesh.

As loving fathers know a hand spanking is a very effective punishment but after a time your hand begins to hurt just as much (if not more) than the boy’s buttocks. That is to be expected. A loving father must expect such. He is after all performing a painful duty.

I slapped Robinson’s rear end and the back of his thighs until all was a rosy-pink glow. By now he was breathing heavily and I was certain his rear end was aflame. As I said I am not a brute, it was time to complete the punishment. I went round the circuit two more times at high speed and sent two dozen slaps into the backs of his thighs for good measure. That was it. It was over. Duty done.

I released my grip but this time Robinson lay motionless, face down, perhaps unable to believe I really had finished. “Stand up,” I said quietly and I helped him off my knee. He nearly tripped over the trousers at his feet and pants at the knees, but kept his balance. Without waiting for my permission, he dressed himself.

I am a loving father. I saw he was in some distress. His face was scarlet and his breath came in gulps. His bottom was sore, but he would not be in agony. He shuffled from foot to foot, eyes once more studying the pattern in the rug. I spoke warmly. I reminded him that he was fine young man who had simply lost his way. I wished to guide him on to success. He whispered a “Thank you, sir.” I reached forward, gently pulled him towards me and kissed him on the cheek.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

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The boys in room 3b

The helpful Neighbour 3

The Young Conservative

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

First thing in the morning

new story 2

z used bed pants (1)

I woke this morning with a bit of a thick head. I’d had too much beer last night watching football on the telly. Manchester United, as if that’s relevant. Champions League. At home. They lost. Ha! Ha! When I’ve had a skin-full I get this dream and I wake up with a raging hard on. Of course, I have to toss one off, but it doesn’t do much good. I just get another stiffy and before I know it an hour’s gone by.

There’s a man in our street, I see him in the morning pass by our house. He’s on his way to the station. I call him Mr Black, because he’s always dressed in a dark suit. He carries a furled umbrella, come rain or shine. I sometimes imagine him in a bowler hat, although people don’t wear them anymore. I think he’s something in the City. A manager somewhere.

He’s old. Not real old; about as old as my dad I suppose. But that’s old enough. I like to imagine that I work at the same place as Mr Black and he’s my boss. Not in the office, I’m not clever enough to work in an office. We’re somewhere else, the stores or warehouse maybe. Mr Black is the big boss, not just the stores’ manager.

He’s come down from his office to find me. And he’s not happy. I’ve been bad. Not real bad, I haven’t been in a fight or stolen something. I’ve been late back from dinner hour, again. Or, I’ve been late into work in the morning too many times. Or, maybe I’ve been caught having a crafty fag in the bogs during the afternoon.

He calls me out. Everyone can see what’s happening. He’s in the middle of the shop floor (or whatever) and he’s standing there with his finger crooked and he signals for me to come towards him. I get all nervous, because I know I’ve been a naughty boy.

He has a moan about my lateness and I go “Yes sir. No sir. Sorry sir,” like you do, but I don’t really mean it. Then he says, “Right, let’s get on with it.” He finds a chair and he puts in down in the middle of the floor. Of course, everyone’s stopped working by now. They want to see the fun. And Mr Black sits down. He’s quite a size is Mr Black. He’s way taller than me and really broad at the shoulders. He’s not fat, but he does have a bit of a belly on him. But, too me at least, he looks really powerful.

He makes me stand right in front of him. “Hands on head,” he commands. I put my fingers together and do as I am told. I’m like a naughty boy at primary school. He doesn’t say anything, he just takes hold of the belt keeping up my jeans and he struggles a bit to get the buckle undone. He can’t quite work out how it fastens. I could give him a hand, but I like it more when someone else does it. At last he gets the belt undone. In my dream I’m getting turned on by this, especially when he takes that button on the waistband and opens it. Slowly, he is never in a rush, he slips down the zipper of my fly.

The front of my jeans are open and I feel a little breeze. Somewhere close by there must be a window open. The jeans are loose and begin to trickle down over my bum. I don’t have anything in the pockets so they aren’t heavy enough to slip down my legs. So, Mr Black grips each side of the waist and roughly pulls them down and they end up bunched over my trainers.

I am wearing snug-fitting glowing white Y-front underpants. I don’t have any in real life, but they are always in my dreams. Don’t ask me why. No one my age would ever buy them (although often I quite fancy them when I’m in Marks & Spencer’s with Mum).

“Bend over my knee,” Mr Black says. He is very quiet. He just says it, he’s not like some sergeant-major on a parade ground. He doesn’t bark out orders. With the jeans at my ankles I have to shuffle about like a penguin until I am standing just to the right of Mr Black. He’s thighs are strong and he is sitting with his back straight as a ramrod. He parts his knees just a little so he makes a platform for me to go across.

I never make a fuss. I have broken the rules and I must be punished. If Mr Black says I deserve a right good spanking I am not going to argue with him. I feel my heart beating hard under my blue t-shirt. It fits a bit too well and I wouldn’t be surprised if Mr Black sees my chest going in and out. I swipe the back of my hand across my nose. I don’t know why I do this, I am not about to sneeze or (God help us!) cry, so it must just be nerves or something.

I look down at Mr Black’s lap and I lean forward slowly. I rest my hands on his left thigh and ease myself down so that my stomach rests across him. Then, I stretch my arms out in front of me. The chair is quite tall but I can rest the palms of my hands on the floor. I have a close-up view of the old, dirty scratched tiles. I move my head a bit so I can see under the chair. There are my legs, dangling so that my toes hover just off the ground. My jeans cover my shoes and I can read words on the label: 30W 30L.

I wait. I am meek and submissive. Every pair of eyes in the storeroom are on me and I am loving it. I feel Mr Black take hold of my t-shirt and pull it up my back. He takes it as far as possible so it is almost at my neck. I shudder and it’s not because of the draught. In my dream I have a bird’s eye view. I can see myself draped over Mr Black’s knees. My head is low and my body is at an angle so my bum rests over his right thigh. My cock and balls are squashed against his leg. I have quite a nice bum (in real life, as well) and my waist is firm. The cheeks are round and tight. They’re small enough for Mr Black to cover a whole one with his hand. He is testing this out now. He caresses first the left and then the right buttock, smoothing down the cotton of my underpants as he goes. For good measure, he then rubs the back of my bare thighs. I squeal with pleasure.

He is ready now. He lifts his hand away from my bum a metre or so and then cracks his palm into the middle of my right cheek. The smack! as it connects is loud and sends an echo across the storeroom. I feel it, but to be honest it doesn’t hurt much. He spanks me on the other cheek. He always starts slowly. I suppose he is warming himself up (and of course warming me up). He keeps up a slow tempo and I stare down at the ground, occasionally I will look under the chair at my feet. They are still dangling. I am not wriggling or writhing or anything like that; there is no need to. I’m not one of those who thinks he has to put on a bit of a show while he’s being spanked. I don’t go in for the “ooh, ahhhs” that some people do. If it genuinely hurts, I’ll soon let you know.

Mr Black ups the rhythm and now he is hammering his hand all over my buttocks at great pace. That does hurt and I find myself twisting and turning over his knee. He presses his left hand into my shoulder blades to keep me a bit steady. I love being pinned down. He whacks me like this for a minute or so. I lose sense of time when I’m spanked. I suppose it doesn’t go on for too long. Just until I soil the bedsheet.

Mr Black takes a rest. Maybe his hand is hurting more than my bum. He hasn’t finished though. I wait with great anticipation. I know what’s coming next (it’ll soon be me!). He takes hold of the waistband of my pants and starts to pull. He gets them over my mounds but can’t tug them right down because they are stuck at the front. Without being told, I lift my body off his lap just enough to let him yank them down. He leaves them bunched up at my knees. I hear murmurs of approval from my audience. They have seen just how red my cheeks are. They might not hurt much but they do show the signs of a sound spanking.

I am now naked from my neck to my knees. I continue to stare down at the floor. Mr Black puts his left arm around my waist and gathers my body closer to him. Then he wallops my arse. He puts all his strength into it and his palm crashes in and out of my flesh so quickly the echoes around the room sound like machinegun fire. This does hurt. I am truly and genuinely in pain. It is good that Mr Black has a firm grip on me because at this point I could try to roll off his knees onto the floor and escape.

I wouldn’t want to do that; I am enjoying this too much. Mr Black only ever spanks me with the palm of his hand. I never get him to use a belt or a brush or slipper. I don’t go in for the cane either. I have no desire to be sent to the headmaster’s study for six-of-the-best. For me it is as much the humiliation of being spanked in front of my fellow workers on my bare little bottom by an older, powerful man while held down firmly across his knee, that turns me on.

So he keeps whacking me on my bare bum and he’s covered all there is of it, from the top of the curves, over the mounds themselves and into the underside. I am well and truly toasted, so then he starts on the back of my thighs. That’s agony. I don’t know why being spanked on the thighs hurts more than the bum; is it something about nerve ends, or maybe there’s not so much padding there. I suppose I should Google it.

Now, my knees are buckling and my legs are kicking about. I almost lose my jeans but they are caught up in my trainers so they aren’t going anywhere. “Ouch, ouch, ouch!”

It’s about this time that I wake up with a boner so stiff it looks like there’s a tentpole in my duvet. Remember how that used to feel? Oh to be nineteen again, eh? Well I think that’s more or less where you came in. Me tossing myself off. Telling you this story has set me off again, so I’m going to lay back here and have another one. I know it will make me late for work again – hey, ho, what a pity Mr Black isn’t pacing up an down his office waiting for me.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

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The hotel room

The Post Office Thief

The Dean of Dorm Discipline

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Mr Gregory and the work experience boy

new story 2

z used school office longs cane touch toes sting

Mr Gregory sighed deeply, his eyelids drooped. The office was hot and stuffy. The new central heating was always turned up too high. His throat was parched, his head ached a little (but that was almost certainly last night’s whisky). He let the document in his hand slip through his fingers and flutter to the desk. If he wasn’t careful, he’d be asleep any moment.

The office was large, too big really, he didn’t need much space. He was a boss and, of course, bosses don’t do much work. If you ask a boss what he does, he’ll likely say, “I’m responsible for …” a response to make the questioner retort irritably, “Yes, but what do you actually do?”

Mr Gregory was Administration Manager. He was responsible for all the staff in Administration at Mega Fastenings. That was just about everybody who wasn’t in sales or in purchasing; from the most junior to the senior. One of the juniors was troubling him at the moment.

Ian Norman wasn’t strictly-speaking a junior, he was a student attached for a year to the company for work experience. Mr Gregory didn’t much like young people; he didn’t understand them for one thing. Their daft haircuts, the clothes they wore, the music they played. His had been a mundane life; people his age had never been young. He was born in Bethnal Green, which despite its promising name was not a rural paradise. It was a poor area of London near the docks and heavily bombed by the German Luftwaffe. He left school aged fourteen and drifted aimlessly from job to job. Kids did in those days, there was plenty of work and nobody had much care for the future.

Mr Gregory had lived in Tylesbury for more than twenty years. It was what was still called a ‘new town.’. It had been built in the 1950s to house people cleared from the slums of London. Tylesbury was full of bright little homes for people to live in and factories and offices for them to work at. It was a socialist vision for the future.

He did his National Service in the Royal Air Force. It was in the Pay Corps so there was not much glamour in that. For the first time in his life, Mr Gregory found he was good at something. Mr Gregory was well-organised and meticulous. When he was demobbed he fetched up at Mega Fastenings on the Herbert Morrison Estate in Tylesbury and he had been there ever since; making his way from general clerk to the exalted rank of Administration Manager.

He would never say it out loud, but he resented the hell out of the university students who did work experience. Take Ian Norman, he was close to twenty-one years old and was already made for life. Mr Gregory had checked the lad’s personnel file: posh fee-paying public school; top university. His father was probably some top dog somewhere. In a proper big company, not some backwater like Mega Fastenings.

He resented Ian even more because he was lazy and arrogant. Of course Ian never said anything out loud, but Mr Gregory could smell the scent of superiority on him. He was better than Mega Fastenings, he was here because it was a requirement for his BSc in Management Science (whatever that was, Mr Gregory certainly didn’t know). He’d go through the motions, get his degree and probably daddy would set him up somewhere. Bah!

Well, Mr Gregory’s head nodded over his desk. He would see about that. He had a way to deal with lazy juniors. A tried and tested method. All very informal, of course; nothing written down. It would do Mr Ian Norman a power of good. Take him down a peg. Put him in his place.

The air in the office was muggy, he really ought to open a window. Mr Gregory’s throat was dry. How he could kill for a glass of whisky. A half empty bottle of Bells was in his bottom drawer.

He leaned into the intercom on his desk, pushed down the middle button and sent a message to his secretary. “Get Ian Norman, the work experience boy, to come to my office at five-thirty.” His face cracked. Both his nose and chin were pointed, when he cackled he looked like a witch. “There’s no need for you to be here, Miss Prentice,” he cleared his throat. Outside Miss Prentice glowered. “Indeed not,” she said to herself, “I go home at five.”

He must have dozed off. Before he knew it there was a confident knock on the office door. Mr Gregory started and stared across the room. He found it hard to concentrate. There was a lot of noise from traffic on the estate as people hurried to escape from work. His temples were throbbing a little.

Tap, tap, the knock came again. “Come in!” Mr Gregory’s voice was crisp and clear; it oozed authority. The door was opened confidently. A youth walked in, closing the door. His eyes searched around the room, at first ignoring Mr Gregory. He was looking for a chair, but there was none. He frowned and stood in front of Mr Gregory’s desk, feet slightly apart, hands clasped behind his back. Mr Gregory drank in the sight. Ian Norman was a little under six feet tall and a little on the stocky side. His hair was short, a crew cut growing out. He wore a white shirt, striped tie and pale grey trousers. If he were a couple of years younger, Mr Gregory thought, he could have passed for one of the senior sixth-formers at Tylesbury School.

Ian shuffled his feet; it was uncomfortable standing like this. In front of the desk; suddenly he had a flashback to one afternoon years ago in his housemaster’s study; it was not a pleasant memory.

Mr Gregory leaned forward; he stretched his arms wide and pressed the palms of his hands into the desk. This way his gnarled, lined face eased closer to the boy. Ian flushed, the stink of Mr Gregory’s breath repelled him. Mr Gregory had a speech prepared. He had memorised the student’s many faults. “You often arrive at work late,” he began, “You disappear for hours on end and nobody knows where you are,” he lied. “Your work is of a very poor standard,” he concluded.

Ian Norman stared in disbelief. He had no respect for his ‘boss’. What a loser. An old man stuck at some godforsaken outpost like Mega Fastenings. He resented being at the company. What could these people teach him. He just wanted the year out of the way, to get the credits on his academic record and move on.

“Not good enough, Mr Norman. Not good enough,” Mr Gregory leaned in closer. “It won’t do. Won’t do at all.” Ian blanched, the foul breath and the stare from the old man’s beady eyes unnerved him. “I intend to write to your supervisor at the university to tell him to remove you.” He sucked on his lower lip, savouring the moment. He had the brat just where he wanted him.

“But …” Ian began a protest. The accusations had shocked him. There was a grain of truth in them but he could not argue. Investigation once started might unearth other things more serious than being late for work.  His cynical indifference to the company and the little racket he had selling stolen company products might come to light.

“Indeed,” Mr Gregory grimaced. “If you return to the university in disgrace it will have a detrimental effect on your studies. I suppose you won’t be able to graduate?” He spoke as if it were a question, but it was a statement of fact.

Ian Norman stood silently. He was in deep water and he knew it. For the first time since his schooldays he was at someone else’s mercy.

Mr Gregory looked the youth up and down. He was a little podgy, and would soon run to fat. A few sessions in the gym or time on the football pitch would do him some good. “I am a fair man,” he intoned, as if he carried all the worries of the world on his shoulders, “I would not like to see a young man’s life ruined over something like this.” He was enjoying this: justice tempered with mercy. How could Ian refuse his offer. “I have my own way of dealing with wayward junior staff …”

He stood from his chair, and ambled across the room, delighting to see Ian’s eyes follow him. “Do you know what that is?” he halted at a wooden cupboard alongside a bookcase filled with lever arch files. He paused, actually expecting a response and when none came he wheezed, “Pah!” he leaned forward, opened the cupboard door and reached in. Ian Norman’s eyebrows arched. He thought he recognised the faint rattling sound.

Seconds later his suspicion was confirmed. Mr Gregory held a thin, whippy school cane. It was just like the one his housemaster used on him. Mr Gregory flexed it thoughtfully between his hands. It was about thirty inches long and as thick as a pencil; it had the traditional curved handle at one end. Mr Gregory swished it through the air.

“I think you know what happens now,” he growled. Usually at this point a junior clerk or whatnot might try a plea for mercy. “It’s the cane or the sack, it’s up to you. Choose now!” Mr Gregory would retort. Ian Norman stared at him sullenly. This was absurd. A twenty-year-old man forced to submit his backside for a caning from his boss. Whoever would imagine such a thing?

Mr Gregory felt the power of his position. “If you would stand on the rug there,” he pointed his cane to a spot in front of his desk. “And bend over and touch your toes please. All the way. Toes, not knees.” It excited him that Ian Norman stood silently. He flexed his cane and studied the young man’s face. He could read his mind. The game was up, the student had no choice. If he wanted his degree and the life he and his family had mapped out for him, he must go through with it.

Ian’s face paled, he turned his back on his tormentor, paused, psyching himself up, knowing matters had to take their course. He took a deep breath and bent forward. Despite his bulk he reached his toes with ease, his fingertips brushed against his shoes, his knees were straight, legs slightly apart. Mr Gregory watched with deep satisfaction. The boy’s bottom was round and beefy. The material of his trousers stretched across his buttocks so tightly Mr Gregory could see the outline of his underpants. He positioned himself to Ian’s side and swiped the cane through empty air one more time before tapping its tip against the centre of the boy’s right bum cheek. Tap, tap, tap. He enjoyed seeing Ian close his eyes and grit his teeth. He pulled the cane away, rose it high and brought it down with tremendous force across Ian’s buttocks. The boy flinched as the pain hit him, his face reddened, his mouth opened and a gust of wind escaped through his lips. A thin white line was embossed along the boy’s tight trousers.

Ian had a close-up view of his striped tie dangling in front of his face. He concentrated on a small stain near the tip. Mr Gregory flexed his cane once more. He looked across at Ian, bent submissively, offering up his backside for punishment.

Ian felt the cane tap against his stretched trousers once more. The first slash had burnt a welt across the centre of his bum; trousers and underpants weren’t much protection. Mr Gregory really laid it on. Any moment now. Ian knew it would hurt. A great deal. Swish! The cane swiped through the air and landed with even greater power, an inch lower than the first. Ian hissed, his head nodded back and forth. He couldn’t help it. It was a reflex action. There was nothing he could do about it.

Another landed. Ian’s buttocks were blazing. Mr Gregory was an expert with the cane.

Swipe number four connected with the top of his thigh. “Jeeeez!” He wriggled his hips left and right. Fingers left the toecaps of his shoes. He nearly jumped to his feet. That was low. Too low, he would have a deep purple mark there. The pain seared. He had never had a stroke of the cane hurt him so much.

Mr Gregory paused, allowing Ian to settle down. He took a careful aim, he hadn’t intended to whip the boy across the thighs. That was jolly bad form. He struck the next high, on the top of the curves and was pleased to be rewarded with a clear yelp. Good, the young pup needs it. That’ll knock some of the arrogance out of him.

Ian breathed hard. Welts had risen under his tightly-stretched underpants in neat parallel lines leaving a strip about two inches wide blazing across his buttocks. It felt like Mr Gregory had pressed a red hot poker into his bum.

Mr Gregory adjusted his position, placed the cane at a diagonal across both cheeks, so it went bottom left to top right. Tap, tap, tap. Ian tensed his whole body. His shoulders heaved. Whop! The cane flew at the speed of sound, crashing down into the boy’s bum. It connected with the welts already weeping under the boy’s pants, setting each one of them on fire again. Ian gripped his shins. He wanted to jump up and stamp his feet about, or march up and down like a sentry guard. But he managed to stay down. It was over. His bum felt like he had sat on a barbecue, but he had survived.

Mr Gregory slowly paced his office. Opened the door to his cupboard and returned the cane. He turned and looked across at Ian Norman, still bent double, touching his toes. Submissively.

There was a sudden rapping sound on the door. It opened and a small, fat woman entered pushing a trolley loaded with cleaning materials. “Sorry Mr Gregory,” she chirped cheerfully, pretending not to notice the man slumped, head down on his desk. “I thought you had gone home. Can I do you now sir?”

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

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charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Executive Assistant

new story 2

z used cane longs desk office or school sting adult (71)

Kingsley Brocas-Burrows stared down glumly at the desk. His buttocks ached on the hard chair. He spent most of his working day at a desk such as this. It was empty at the moment. The sun was rapidly disappearing and soon the office would be so gloomy he would need to switch the lights on. He sat, almost motionless. He didn’t care. Let it go dark.

Kinglsey was not a young man who spent much time in reflection; and certainly not self-reflection. But on this day he might make an exception. Why did he do this? Why was he wasting his life at this job?

He sighed inwardly, shuffled his buttocks some more before standing. The office was empty, everyone had left. The working day was over. People had gone home – to their real lives. He stretched his arms, wriggled his shoulders, snaked his hips. Slowly – simply to kill some time – he ambled to the window. He was on the second floor, there was not much of a view. The High Street below; Robinson’s Department Store opposite. He let out a long weary sigh. How had it come to this?

Executive Assistant at a marketing company. What was marketing anyhow? Damned if he knew. Executive Assistant: general dogsbody more like. Office boy really. His housemaster had warned him this would happen. “Slacking again Brocas-Burrows,” the old coot would intone as Kingsley submitted himself patiently; stretched across an ancient cracked leather armchair in the study. His trousers at the ankles, underwear at the knees. Head low, bottom high, while old Mr Plumptre lashed six stripes across his naked buttocks.

Plum had warned him he would fail his examinations. Kingsley duly did. In spectacular fashion. If there were prizes for failure he would have taken all the silver cups that year. “If you fail your examinations, you cannot go up to the university,” Plum had berated him. “Then where will you be?” Where indeed?

The eccentric “crammer” college his father then arranged for him to attend so Kingsley might resit his exams was useless. He and a further ten bone-idle duffers spent four months cooped up at some backwater called Brocklehurst. The college principal made them dress in school uniform with neat grey short trousers and knee socks. Eighteen-year-old men dressed as preparatory school boys. Kingsley idleness never abated. Mr Burlington, the principal, would often order Kingsley across his knee. The size twelve gym plimsoll he crashed into the seat of the teenager’s short trousers made no impact on his studies.

So now. Kingsley peered through the dirty window pane at people in the street below. Rain was spitting. Umbrellas were raised, shop girls wrapped their coats around themselves and dashed toward bus stops. How he wished he could join them. He glanced at his wrist watch. Almost time for his appointment with Mr Wilson-Smith.

Wilson-Smith was a contemporary of his father. Like Kingsley they were all old boys of St. Tom’s. The old school tie. It was that informal network that had landed him the job. All boys together. Wilson-Smith had “found him a position” at his company. It was the least a chap could do for a fellow from St. Tom’s. Anyhow, Wilson-Smith needed a skivvy, and it might as well be somebody with a bit of breeding. God forbid he should take a lout from a council estate.

The seconds hand on Kingsley’s watch moved too quickly. Any moment now he must face Mr Wilson-Smith. “Damn and blast it!” Kingsley’s inner voice cried. “When will this ever end?” Nineteen years old, getting on for twenty and still going through this.

Across the office a door opened. Miss Winchester, a lady of at least fifty years and two hundred and fifty pounds, waddled through, clutching her handbag tightly to her bosom. “Mr. Wilson-Smith will see you now,” she said to no one in particular as she headed for the stairs and her own real life. Kingsley looked once more at his watch, willing it to allow him one more minute before the appointment. No such luck.

He stretched his arms and back once more, as if limbering up for a track event. His one success at school had been in sports. He still retained his athleticism. He sighed (yet again) and slowly moved toward Mr Wilson-Smith’s office. He paused outside. Momentarily, he had a vision of Mr Plumptre’s worn study door. He shook his head with bewilderment, balled his fingers into a fist and rapped his knuckles against a pine panel.

“Come!” Mr Wilson-Smith even sounded like Plum. Haughty, pompous; in charge. Kingsley fumbled with the door handle, it stuck in his grip. At first it would not turn. He tried once more. Still it would not budge . With his hand shaking he gripped harder, put his shoulder to the door and stumbled into the office.

Mr Wilson-Smith gaped then a frown crossed his florid, flabby face. “Stupid boy,” he muttered, almost to himself. Kingsley straightened himself, conscious of the heat in his own face. Without waiting for instruction, he turned and without difficulty closed the door.

Mr Wilson-Smith was seated behind his desk, his jacket behind him on the chair. His shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbow; the top button was undone, his necktie was loosened. He looked every inch the “marketing” man that he was.

Kingsley stood some distance away. The office had not changed since his last visit. It was furnished in the modern style. Whereas his housemaster’s study had been constructed of dark wood panels and oak furniture, Mr Wilson-Smith’s room consisted of light-coloured walls and pine. His message to the world, “I am the future.”

Kingsley waited. He knew the part he had to play in this little drama. Mr Wilson-Smith was in charge. He would commence when he was good and ready. Wilson-Smith picked a folder from his desk, opened it and leafed through the sheaf of papers inside. He pretended to read the top two and then threw the folder down. In his “real life” he very much enjoyed amateur theatricals.

He breathed a sigh that said, “Why must I take the burdens of all the world on my shoulders?” He glanced down at the folder and then peered across the room at Kingsley. “Well, Brocas-Burrows,” he said. A very pregnant pause followed. Kingsley blanched, his redden face draining. The silence deafened him. Was he supposed to say something? Had his boss asked him a question? He sucked on his bottom lip, playing for time.

If it had been a contest, then Mr Wilson-Smith blinked first. “Your quarterly report,” he growled, again nodding at the folder. You know what it says?” Again, Kingsley was dumbfounded. Was it a rhetorical question? Was he expected to answer? Should he say truthfully, “Actually no sir I haven’t read it myself, but I have a jolly good idea what it contains.”

Would that reply be a bit too bumptious; cocky even? Indeed, the nineteen-year-old had not seen the report but he knew darn well it was not good news. “Poor timekeeping, bad attitude to authority, generally an idle sort,” would be the gist of it.

He closed his ears while Mr Wilson-Smith berated him. Kingsley had been spot on about the report, but he had left out the bit about his uselessness at adding up a column of figures. After some length Kingsley heard the words, “I gave you a position at this company because of your father. You have let him down; you have let me down and most of all you have let yourself down.” The resemblance to one of Plum’s sermons in the housemaster’s study was uncanny. Kingsley found himself murmuring, “Yes sir, sorry sir.”

Mr Wilson-Smith had not finished. “In other circumstances you should be dismissed. I have spoken to your father on the telephone and I must tell you he is not best pleased.” Kingsley confined his response to, “Oh.” There would be a price to pay the next time he returned to the family pile for the weekend.

“He and I are in complete agreement,” Mr Wilson-Smith had not finished. “On the action that I should take.” Kingsley’s eyes sparkled. He bit his lip once more. With no further word, Mr Wilson-Smith hauled himself to his feet and wheezing slightly he trundled across the office. Kingsley stood, hands clasped behind his back. He did not turn to watch as Mr Wilson-Smith disappeared from his sight. He heard his boss open a drawer (it stuck at first just as the door had done). Kingsley heard his wheezing increase in volume and then there was a distinct rattle from within the drawer. The teenager’s heart thumped. He knew that sound; he whirled around in time to see Mr Wilson-Smith straighten himself. His boss stared malevolently across the office; he stood aggressively and took the whippy rattan school cane between his hands and flexed it so that it made a perfect bow.

Kingsley’s eyes widened. It was just like the weapons the masters at St. Tom’s had used. It was a little under three feet long with a notch every four inches or so along its length. It was as thick as a pencil and had the authentic crook handle at one end.

Mr Wilson-Smith swiped the whippy cane through the air. The swoosh! as it flew was terrific. Then, Mr Wilson-Smith let it dangle in his hand before gently tap-tap-tapping it against his right leg. “I was head boy in my time at St. Tom’s,” he said, as if this was a perfect explanation.

It was good enough for Kingsley. Prefects at the school were permitted to beat other pupils. Mr Wilson-Smith’s present intention was obvious.

“I beat many slackers,” Mr Wilson-Smith said, almost wistfully. “There was no more serious crime. Chaps who would not play the game.” He leaned forward, craning his neck like a toad. “I good thrashing …..” he let the sentence tail off. His meaning was clear.

Kingsley sniffed. It was a reflect action; he meant nothing by it; Mr Wilson-Smith thought otherwise. “How dare you!” he bellowed, furious at the teenager’s insolence, “Get yourself across that desk.” He waved the cane towards his own desk as if there was any doubt about his instruction, “NOW!”

“B .. .” Kingsley cut short his protest. His boss’s eyes burned into him. The older man swished the cane aggressively. “Get on with it. I don’t have all night.” He tapped the cane across the edge of the desk.

Kingsley hesitated. He would comply, he would do as he was ordered. His upbringing had taught him enough to know one thing: he had no choice. None at all. But how to do it? At school the housemaster always made a chap go over an armchair. It was the right size. Little ones spread themselves across one of the padded arms; the older boys reached across the back. In either case they made the perfect fit.

But the desk? Even from a step or two’s distance Kingsley could see it was low. Should he lay with his stomach flat across the top and hang on to the far edge for dear life? Was he supposed to simply lean forward and grip the desk’s side? Where exactly did Mr Wilson-Smith want his bum to be?

“Pah!” Mr Wilson-Smith was a man on a short fuse. He swiped the cane hard against the pine desk’s top. “Stand there, feet apart, bend forward. Stick your bottom out.” The instruction was clear. Careful not to make another visible sigh that would annoy his master, Kingsley took two steps forward and in one athletic movement he positioned himself to Mr Wilson-Smith’s satisfaction. He gazed down at the pine desk, his necktie dangled in front of his face. He concentrated hard on its intricate pattern. He had never before really noticed it.

Kingsley heard his boss wheezing as he shuffled himself into position. The old man paused momentarily, admiring the full buttocks submitted before him. They were firm and meaty and stretched the material of Kingsley’s suit trousers. Each cheek was lifted and separated. They made a terrific target.

He stood about three feet to the teenager’s left – a cane’s length – and slowly took aim. Caning a boy’s backside was a bit like riding a bike, he thought. Once one had learned the technique, it was never forgotten. He laid the tip of the cane so that it reached to the furthest cheek, aiming for the crest of Kingsley’s mounds. Satisfied that he had his eye, he brought the cane away in a perfect arc until it was about his shoulder’s height. Then he returned the cane with tremendous force so that it whacked into the meat sending a resounding sound echoing off the walls of the office. A thin white line immediately appeared across the stretched grey trousers.

Kingsley gasped, his head rose slightly and his hips swayed. He held on to the edge of the desk with all his might. A sharp pain scorched across his bum. Already a hard line was forming where the cane bit deep.

Mr Wilson-Smith paused, admiring his own prowess with the cane. The stroke had landed precisely where he intended. He awarded himself ten marks out of ten. He aimed the cane lower next time, into that part where Kingsley’s beautifully round bottom nearly met the back of his thighs. Swipe! Crack! Another perfect shot. Kingsley’s knees buckled, but he stopped his feet from marching up and down on the spot. His heart pounded and blood crashed through his arteries; his temples throbbed.

Mr Wilson-Smith’s own heart was in overdrive. He was not a fit man and his doctor had warned him he needed to take more exercise. Well, what better way than this? He tapped the cane across the top of Kingsley’s buttocks, so that he could deliver a downward swipe just below the boy’s spine. It was a difficult stroke to get right. If his aim was out he might even miss the backside entirely. Swish! Swipe! Crack! Bullseye.

Kingsley just about stifled the yelp his body demanded he make. It would be a natural reaction to the searing agony he was feeling. His bum felt like Mr Wilson-Smith had taken a white-hot poker and pressed it into his flesh. There was a strip of burning fire about four inches wide running from left to right across his bum.

Now, Mr Wilson-Smith set himself another challenge. The next stroke should connect in the space between the line at the top and the one across the mound. If he got it wrong, if he was just a fraction of an inch out in his aim, the heavy, whippy cane might land right on top of one of the three welts already throbbing across Kingsley’s rear end. Mr Wilson-Smith was not a man to duck a challenge; and heck if he got it wrong, it was no skin off his backside.

Crack!. Bingo! Mr Wilson-Smith was on fire! And so too was Kingsley’s lazy arse. The stroke whipped in right on target. Sweat poured through the nineteen-year-old’s hair. It ran from his neck in a rivulet down his spine. His body was fighting back against the pain. Kingsley shut his teeth hard, he had long ago ceased studying the pattern on his necktie; now his eyes were tightly shut.

Mr Wilson-Smith aimed low; there was still the gap between the cuts on the mounds and the thighs to find. “Hold still boy,” he said by way of encouragement, as with a little difficultly for his heart was so loud and his blood pressure so high he feared he might have a different type of stroke before the evening was out, he took his measure.

Of course, it was a perfect hit. When later, Kingsley inspected the damage in the mirror of the bathroom at his rooming house he would see five parallel lines perfectly placed. By that time the agony would have dissolved through a mere pain and then an irritating throbbing. It would then have disappeared altogether, except for when he sat on a hard surface. The cut on the under cheek was perfectly placed and could be reignited for days to come.

In the mirror Kingsley would see five stripes, but that was not all. Mr Wilson-Smith had a special finale. In some schools a “headmaster’s caning” was deemed especially awesome; a boy would be summoned to the beak for only the most serious offence (or perhaps the constant repeating of more minor infractions) and the visit to his study had to be momentous.

Mr Wilson-Smith had himself been on the receiving end of such a beating. Now, for the first time in his (extensive) history as a caner he would administer a headmaster’s caning. He bent his legs slightly so as to get proper aim. He tapped the tip of the cane at the top of Kingsley’s right buttock, then he laid it so that the other end reached the bottom of the left. It was a perfect diagonal. Kingsley froze. Oh no! he realised at once Mr Wilson-Smith’s little game. His entire body tensed, his shoulders braced, his knees locked, the knuckles on his hands turned white so hard was his grip on the desk.

Thwip! It wasn’t an especially savage cut. It didn’t need to be. Mr Wilson-Smith whipped the cane hard so that it thudded across Kingsley’s bum. He leapt to his feet, both hands clutching his savaged buttocks. The cane had bitten into each of the previous five cuts, making all blaze with such a ferocity that it felt that Kingsley had been forced to sit in a bath of boiling hot water.

He yelled fit to wake the dead. For the first time that evening Mr Wilson-Smith realised how fortuitous it was that all the staff had gone home. Kingsley howled as he danced; tears flooding down his face. It made not a jot of difference to that pain. He bent double, huffing and puffing as he did so. He gasped for air, somewhere in the back of his throat vomit was forming; desperately he swallowed the bile back.

Mr Wilson-Smith stepped back, perching his ample buttocks on the desk that had moments earlier been Kingsley’s punishment block. He watched intently as the boy rubbed the seat of his trousers so hard the boss wondered if he might leave a permanent shine on his behind.

At last Kingsley regained a semblance of control. The tears had not completely stopped, his eyes were drenched, his face flooded. He could not bring himself to look at his tormentor. Not so Mr Wilson-Smith; his self-satisfaction was undisguised. Later he would telephone his school pal “Bronco” Brocas-Burrows and share with him his triumph. But, now he must dismiss the distressed teenager.

“Go,” he growled, “That was for your own good,” he mouthed a platitude spoken by generations of schoolmasters. “Don’t make me have to do that again. If you do we’ll see how you like it with your trousers at your ankles.”

Kingsley ran from the room, glad that the door had opened first time. He flew through the outer office and down the stairs, not stopping until he was at street level. The rain was heavy and he was glad that nobody would see his tears as he hurried to his digs back to his real life.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Mr Gregory, the Office Manager

z used cane longs adult office suit

Adrian chewed on his bottom lip and kept his eyes downcast on the carpet. He was not quite sure where to put his hands, so he let them hang loosely at his sides, then he clasped them behind his back the way a member of the royal family does. Lastly, he held his hands in front of his cock like a footballer defending a free kick. Then he started the routine all over again.

He could not get his eyelids to stop flickering; he was wracked with anxiety.

“You know why you are here young man.”

Adrian was not sure: was this a question, or a statement of fact? He decided a non-committal grunt would be enough of a response.

“Your work is sloppy. You make countless mistakes; you do not pay attention when you are working.”

It was quite a litany of complaints.

And there was more. “You are often late into work and back from lunch. You are often away from your desk for no good reason.”

Adrian listened as best he could. His heart was pounding so hard he thought it would burst through his chest. His breathing was becoming shallower and those damn eyelids would not slow down.

“I warned you before about your conduct, young man.”

Yes, Adrian silently agreed. Mr Gregory had warned him. More than once actually. There was nothing Adrian could say in mitigation. Everything his boss said was true. He was probably the worst accounts clerk in history. He had no aptitude for the job; no head for figures. Hey, he could not even add up properly.

It was a wonder to him how he ever got this job in the first place, but really he had no choice but to stick at it. Jobs were hard to come by these days and you did not readily give one up.

Mr Gregory eyed the accounts clerk. The boy’s clear skin was flushed pink; with embarrassment and also anxiety. His sparkling grey eyes were a little moist and hidden by his long curled lashes that refused to keep still.

“What did I say would happen if your work did not improve?”

Adrian’s pinkish face turned pillar-box red. He could not catch his breath.

“T..t..t…” he tried to respond but no words would form. His mouth was now as dry as the Gobi Desert.

Mr Gregory enjoyed the boy’s discomfort and his grey deeply-lined face cracked into a broad grin as he leaned forward in his chair.

“I’m sure you haven’t forgotten,” he cackled, his beaklike nose gave him the appearance of an eagle about to sweep down on the poor boy.

Adrian’s breathing, once shallow, now almost stopped completely.

“Well then young man let’s get this over with shall we.” Mr Gregory hauled himself from his padded chair and took a few steps across the room.

Adrian eyes followed the middle-aged man and his eyelids still worked overtime.

Mr Gregory sighed audibly and stooped down to reach the bottom drawer in an old-fashioned wooden chest.

Adrian closed his eyes tight: knowing instinctively what his boss would withdraw from it.

“Here,” Mr Gregory straightened himself and turned towards Adrian. “I said if your work did not improve I would cane you.”

Adrian was transfixed. His cruel ugly boss held a long yellowish-brown stick between his hands.

Mr Gregory was very proud of his cane. He fondly imagined it was just like hundreds that were used every day by schoolmasters to whack the stretched backsides of naughty schoolboys.

He wobbled it in front of Adrian’s face, hoping to intimidate him. He succeeded.

The rod was a little over three feet in length, about the thickness of a pencil and with the traditional curved handle at one end.

Through half-closed eyes Adrian watched apprehensively as Mr Gregory slashed the springy rod through thin air.

This was not the first time Adrian had seen such a cane. He had been on the receiving end of one many times at school for general laziness and misbehaviour. Adrian had been raised to believe a thrashing with a cane was a just punishment for wrongdoing. He knew he had screwed up at work and he had been warned of the consequences if he did not improve. He really did not have anything to complain about, but it was a little strange to have to show his backside to his boss. Adrian had thought he had left all that behind at school.

Mr Gregory whipped the cane through the air one more time. Seemingly satisfied that he now had the measure of the rod, he pointed it at his desk.

“Take off your jacket and put in there,” he swished one more time for emphasis.

Mr Gregory watched intently as Adrian with fumbling fingers undid the button of the jacket of his dark grey suit and slid it over his shoulders, uncovering his gleaming white shirt. With his dark blue striped tie and dark grey trousers he could be mistaken for a senior pupil at any of the local schools.

Mr Gregory drank in the sight of Adrian’s muscular shoulders and slim flat stomach as the boy carefully folded the jacket and placed it on the desk. He was so unlike many of the other boys in the office, still in their teens but already running to fat with middle aged spreads around their waists.

Another swish of the cane told Adrian it was time to prepare himself.

“Take that chair and turn it round so that the back is facing you.”

Although Adrian was no virgin to the sting of the rattan cane, he still did not relish the ordeal he was about to face.

Sorrowfully, he gripped the large padded leather chair and in one movement swivelled it round into position.

Another swish of the cane, this time directed at a spot on the floor.

“Stand there young man.”

Adrian shuffled forward and stopped.

“Closer!” Mr Gregory was impatiently anxious to get started. Adrian, however, was quite keen for the action to be delayed.

“Bend over the chair!” It was a curt command devoid of emotion. Mr Gregory had to perform his duty.

Adrian hesitated, gripped by the absurdity of the situation. Here he was a nineteen-year-old man expected to bend over the back of an armchair to offer up his arse for his miserable boss to whack with his cane. But there was nothing he could do about it; Mr Gregory was in charge.

For the first time that afternoon Adrian caught Mr Gregory’s eye; was his boss just a little embarrassed too? He could not tell.

Swish! “I shan’t tell you again.”

Adrian hesitated no longer; if he wanted to keep this job he had no choice. He took a deep breath, rubbed his hands together, took a pace forward and swiftly fell face first over the back of the chair.

“Bottom higher, legs further apart.” They were unnecessary instructions for Adrian’s bottom was already perfectly positioned to receive punishment. And what a trim bottom it was, much admired by the girls in the company and, if only Mr Gregory knew, by a surprising number of men as well.

Mr Gregory took up position about three feet from Adrian’s left buttock, before carefully rubbing the springy cane across the very centre of the boy’s globes. Tap, tap, tap, it went. Mr Gregory heard Adrian hold his breath in anticipation of the first agonising cut that would soon slice into his bottom.

Slowly, Mr Gregory raised the cane about four or five feet above the boy’s taut bottom and then with an almighty swing he slashed it down across the very centre of the target area.

A gasp of air whistled through Adrian’s clenched teeth, as a burning stripe seared into his tight cheeks. Instinctively he gripped hold of the foam padded seat cushion and let the pain course from his rear end up and down his stretched legs.

“Owww!” he could not help himself. He had determined not to show Mr Gregory any emotion, but this first stroke was worse than anything he had ever been forced to endure at St Simeone’s School.

Mr Gregory admired his handiwork. Yes, he smirked to himself that one had really hit home.

He raised the cane once more and positioned it a half an inch below the first cut. Again he gave the swing all his strength. The cut hit Adrian’s pert buttocks at speed, sank a little into what flesh there was on the boy, and bounced back with vim.

Adrian screamed like a stuck pig. Still gripping the cushion his back arched and his feet stamped up and down. Never in his entire life had he felt such agony. To say it felt like a white hot poker had been pressed against his skin would be an understatement.

The boy’s face, usually so clear and a little pale, was now puce. His beautiful grey eyes were drowned in tears.

He wanted desperately to plead for mercy. He would do anything for Mr Gregory. Anything at all. He would concentrate on his work, go to night school to learn accounting; buy himself an adding machine. He would be the best-ever accounts clerk that ever lived, if only Mr Gregory would stop hurting him.

“Yowllll! Oh my God!” The third struck diagonally across the other two, setting both on fire again. The howl that surged from his throat was so deep; Adrian thought he would vomit at any moment.

Mr Gregory spluttered and coughed. His body convulsed one way and then another.

“Urgggh” he was woken by a cold damp patch across the front of his pyjamas.

Miserably, he wriggled the pyjama bottoms over his buttocks and down his legs, before throwing them from under the bedclothes onto the floor. Then he rolled across to the empty half of his bed and tried to resurrect Adrian and those trim buttocks that still had to endure three more strokes from Mr Gregory’s cane.

The next day was Saturday so there was no work. Mr Gregory got up at eight o’clock, bundled his soiled pyjamas together with the bedsheets and the rest of his laundry into the washing machine, picked up his keys and left the house.

He was a creature of habit and just like every day, he shuffled down the street to the newsagents. It was still early and the street of small semi-detached houses was almost deserted. Couples were still snuggled together in bed, enjoying what was euphemistically called a ‘lie-in.’

It was June and the day was already heating up. There had been a heatwave for days and the forecasters said there was much more to come. At the newsagent, as he did every morning, he nodded a cursory “good morning” to the silver-haired lady behind the counter. He had been to the shop every day for ten years and still did not know the lady’s name. Somehow she knew his. Almost.

“Good morning Mr Gregson,” she smiled the way that small shopkeepers, eager to ingratiate themselves with customers, always did. He handed over some coppers and took his copy of the Daily Express. On weekdays he would then proceed on the five minutes’ walk that took him to his office, but on Saturdays and Sundays, he went in the opposite direction and made his way to Joe’s Café.

Mr Gregory had lived in Tylesbury for more than twenty years. It was what was still called a ‘new town.’. It had been built in the 1950s to house people cleared from the slums of London. Tylesbury was full of bright little homes for people to live in and factories and offices for them to work at. It was a socialist vision for the future.

His was a mundane life. He was born in Bethnal Green, which despite its promising name was not a rural paradise. It was a poor area of London near the docks and heavily bombed by the German Luftwaffe. He left school aged fourteen and drifted aimlessly from job to job. Kids did in those days, there was plenty of work and nobody had much care for the future.

He did his National Service in the Royal Air Force. It was in the Pay Corps so there was not much glamour in that. For the first time in his life, Mr Gregory found he was good at something. Unlike the wretched Adrian of his fantasies, Mr Gregory was well-organised and meticulous. When he was demobbed he fetched up at Mega Fastenings on the Herbert Morrison Estate in Tylesbury and he had been there ever since; making his way from general clerk to the exalted rank of Administration Manager.

The café was not busy at this time of day. It did most of its trade during the week, servicing workshops and offices. Mr Gregory liked it that way. He sat at his usual table and ordered his usual meal (full English breakfast) and settled down with his paper.

Nobody took any notice of him and he took none of them. He scanned the paper with no real interest. It was the usual stuff; economic downturn, a murder in London’s gangland and politicians droning on about how bad members in opposition parties were. There was a General Election due and they could expect a lot more of that before polling day.

Then he turned a page and saw something that made his juices drool. He slammed shut the paper as the café owner came and set his meal down on the table. Mr Gregory hoped the man had not seen the story that had caught his eye. He would not want people to know he was interested in that sort of thing.

With the café owner safely back behind his counter, Mr Gregory surreptitiously opened the paper. He read the story through quickly, then took a mouthful of sausage from his plate and chewed contemplatively as he savoured every detail of the story once again.

There was a school in a town he had never heard of. A right posh school by the sound of it. What happened was that the boys had been complaining about the heatwave. They were sweltering in their traditional school uniform of woollen blazer and long trousers. The older boys, some were as old as eighteen, said they wanted to be allowed to wear short trousers. The younger boys were obliged by the school to wear shorts up to the age of fourteen whatever the weather.

When the older boys demanded the right to wear short trousers their headmaster told them flatly: No. But, they rebelled and a group of them turned up dressed in their smart grey flannel short trousers anyway.

The headmaster went ballistic. They had broken the rules and defied his authority. There was only one course of action. They were lined up outside the headmaster’s study and one by one they were ordered inside.

Mr Gregory read with mounting excitement, ‘One eighteen-year-old sixth-former, who did not want to give his name for fear of retribution, said: “When it was my turn to go in the headmaster instructed me to bend across his desk. He then administered six hard whacks with his cane to the seat of my trousers.

‘“It hurt like Henry.”’

‘Another boy said: “It’s not fair. We weren’t asking to wear beach shorts. We would be happy to wear the same type of grey flannel short trousers the younger boys wear all the time.”’

Oh, how Mr Gregory envied that headmaster. That was the job to have, he thought.

He gulped down more of his breakfast as he read more of the story. Later, the headmaster rounded up three of the ringleaders and he publicly thrashed them in front of the whole school, even though they had already been beaten in the privacy of his study.  And, oh glory! He gave it to them on the bare buttocks.

Mr Gregory’s heart sped. He read the story for a third time and then sipped gently on his tea. Tylesbury had its own posh school, called unimaginatively Tylesbury School. It was an independent grammar school, a kind of private school. The pupils were made to attend lessons on Saturday mornings and he often saw the older boys looking delicious in their bright blue striped blazers and long light grey trousers hanging around the shops in the afternoon after classes had finished. Some of those boys looked very dapper and eminently spankable.

The dreams he had about them would be enhanced greatly, now that he could picture them in their tailored short trousers each in turn knocking on the heavy oak door of Mr Gregory’s study, waiting for the gruff “Come!” from within as their instruction to enter.

Mr Gregory would be waiting in his oak panel-lined study, dressed in his swishing academic gown, a mortar-board cap, the one with the tassel hanging down, planted firmly on his head. To the consternation of the boys, he would be flexing his whippy cane between his hands.

There would be a curt command, “Bend over, touch your toes.” Mr Gregory would roll the boy’s blazer up his back clear of the target area and then thrash six almighty swipes into the flannel-covered buttocks. It would not matter how much the boy yelped, he would get the full six.

Then, “Stand up. Send in the next boy.” And one boy would be replaced by another as headmaster Dr Gregory did his duty and ensured the next generation of gentlemen understood the virtue of obedience.

Carefully, Mr Gregory tore the page from the newspaper. It would join his growing collection. In his spare bedroom at home, he had a tin box that he always kept locked. Inside was a sheaf of cuttings from newspapers and magazines. The box was inside a suitcase (also locked) on top of his wardrobe.

This would become one of his favourites, for sure. Others that he liked to take out and read again and again were about an approved school for juvenile offenders that was closed down the previous year after a government inquiry. They said there was inappropriate use of the cane. Inappropriate? At least no boy there got it across the bared buttocks.

Another favourite concerned two eighteen-year-old sixth formers. There were some young rabbits that were caged up ready to be used by the pupils in science lessons. The boys took the rabbits down to an open field and set them free. That cost them three strokes on the backside.

Mr Gregory wondered why that was considered newsworthy by the Daily Express, but he was grateful nonetheless to add it to his collection.

Breakfast over, Mr Gregory set off on the next part of his Saturday routine. Shopping at the new large self-service supermarket had become a pleasure in recent weeks after he discovered a young assistant called Phillip.

He knew he was called Phillip because all the staff wore name tags. He supposed it was to make customers feel they were getting personal service, as they had done before the large stores drove most of the small shops out of business.

You would not give Philip a second glance if you saw him coming towards you in the street. He was smaller than average, with a pock-marked face, developing jowls and an overbite. But if you saw him walking away you would be captivated by his exquisite buttocks. They were like two pimples inside his loosely fitting black trousers, inviting close inspection from connoisseurs of the male form.

Mr Gregory first saw him in the dry goods section of the supermarket. The old man turned from one aisle into another and quite literally stopped in his tracks. There at the end of the aisle was Philip, his back to Mr Gregory and bending down to put packaged goods on to the bottom-most shelf.

Mr Gregory’s tongue might have hung out, or his face might have blushed scarlet with desire; either way he was immensely conscious of a woman standing close by looking at him in a strange manner. He turned on his heels. He must get away and he must do it quickly.

But the temptation was too much for him. Only a few seconds had passed before he retraced his steps and stood once again at the end of the aisle admiring the vision in the black trousers before him.

Slowly, pretending to have great interest in the cornflakes and other breakfast cereal on the shelves, he inched his way down the aisle, fearful that at any moment the boy would straighten up and go away to another task.

Mr Gregory reached Philip and stood by the boy’s side. Unconscious of the stir he was causing, Philip continued to rearrange the packets on the bottom shelf. The boy’s knees were straight and his body bent. Mr Gregory was so close he could touch him. He had never been so close to a bending boy. It was as if he were submissively presenting his bottom to Mr Gregory and saying, “I’m sorry Sir, I have been a naughty boy, please spank me.”

He was so close he could put his hand in the small of Philip’s back, hold him steady and smack his palm down into the boy’s tiny, but perfectly formed buttocks. His ungainly hand was the size of a shovel and could almost fit across both buttocks at once.

The old man first approached the boy from behind, then covertly moved to the side to take in the full view of one of Philip’s curved cheeks. Mr Gregory raised his hand ready to strike.

Quickly, catching himself before he disgraced himself, he turned away ashamed and almost bolted to the other side of the store. Safe among the dairy cold counter he paused to catch his wind. The sight of Philip’s backside, seemingly offered submissively for a spanking, had literally taken his breath away.

His attempt to continue with his shopping as usual was frustrating. Did he need sugar, how many eggs did he have a home? None of this mattered any more. All he wanted to do was to return to dry goods and stand once again by the boy in the black trousers.

Trying not to be obvious he meandered around the aisles, seemingly haphazardly, but, like a marine on manoeuvres he was headed for one destination only. At last he was in the adjoining aisle. He was wheezing. Why? There had been no physical exertion. It was a sedate journey from one end of the store to the other.

But he did know why but could not admit it, not even to himself. He wanted that boy. He wanted him bent over before him touching his toes, asking, no demanding, that Mr Gregory beat his buttocks black and blue.

Then, but only when Mr Gregory gave the order, Philip would rise and very slowly and deliberately peel down his trousers, before in one fine athletic movement, once again bending forward knees straight, fingertips on his toes, offer up his bum again, this time wrapped in the soft white cotton of his underpants.

There would follow a bottom scorching whacking. Mr Gregory thought one of his old worn bedroom slippers would do the job very well. Two, no three dozen, whacks across those tight cheeks would do it.

The boy would take it bravely. There would be no howling like a hyena. Instead the punishment completed the boy would gaze into Mr Gregory’s eyes lovingly. “Thank you, Sir,” he would say, “I thoroughly deserved that.”

“Yes you did,” Mr Gregory would reply, “and if I have to deal with you again, make no mistake you will get it with your trousers and your pants at your ankles.” And then for emphasis, he would add, “On your bare bottom.”

His mouth dry and his tongue almost hanging out, Mr Gregory turned into the aisle to drink in the sight of the wonderful boy who had become his imaginary spank slave.

But, he was not there. In his place were two middle-aged ladies discussing the merits of instant porridge.

Oh no! Where could he be? In distress Mr Gregory darted from aisle to aisle, bumping into housewives going about their lawful shopping.

“Hey! Where’s the fire!”

“Will you watch where you’re going!”

No, he would not watch where he was going. All he cared about was finding Philip. He must be in another aisle, filling shelves. Somewhere on this supermarket floor, he was bent over straight knees, straight back. Showing off his perfect, spankable bum.

He searched in vain and then calming a little he completed his shopping. He must stop making a fool of himself, he admonished himself. You deserve a damn good spanking yourself, what disgraceful behaviour, and in public too.

Waiting his turn at the check-out he once again saw Reginald. Reginald was some kind of store supervisor and wore the cheap mid-blue suits the company made them wear to prove it. He could not be much more than twenty-one, twenty-two maybe, Mr Gregory had supposed.

He was tall, fair and rather chubby. Mr Gregory fell in hate with the young man the first time he had seen him, two weeks previously. It had been a small matter. A loose cap on a sauce bottle. It had not been noticed until the customer was ready to pay. Reginald intervened. A shop assistant was called, an elderly man, and directed to go fetch a replacement. You would have thought the man, who was old enough to be Reginald’s grandfather, was his personal slave.

“And be quick about it!” he ordered as the old man scuttled off.

Reginald was far too young to be a boss. He had no idea how to treat people properly. The way he spoke to the shop assistant was disgraceful; he was far too haughty. For nine pence Mr Gregory would throw the wretch face down across one of the counters and thrash his fat arse to pieces with a cane.

Right in front of ‘his’ staff; that would bring him down a peg or two.

Mr Gregory had a fitful sleep that night. Philip, oh Philip! He dreamt of him so often, He was naked and bent submissively across his knee. With his left hand Mr Gregory ruffled his hair, to let him know he was loved. His fingertips caressed his back as he followed the spine from the boy’s neck to the hairless crack in his buttocks. Mr Gregory’s right palm hovered above each cheek, and then with a circling motion, massaged them gently.

The boy breathed easily; he was submissive and ready for what he was about to receive. Mr Gregory raised his right hand to shoulder height and brought it down with a hearty SMACK! into his right buttock. He felt it, it smarted, and his bottom started to glow. He smacked him twelve times, slowly, so that his creamy white bottom turned to bright, bright red.

Then there was the time Philip was in school uniform, bending over, touching toes, as Mr Gregory smacked a gym shoe into the seat of his stretched grey Terylene trousers. Philip was across his knee as a soccer player for a spanking on the shorts (in the days when they still were ‘shorts’). Then dressed only in swimming trunks (he had been in the sea beyond the ‘danger line’) he was whacked (for his own good, of course) on his soaking wet bare arse.

Mr Gregory’s favourite was the boy in those lovely trousers bent submissively across the check-out counter for him to be thrashed with a traditional whippy crook-handle rattan school cane.

There was a timid knock on the office door. Mr Gregory’s looked up from his paperwork, expecting the door to open and his unexpected visitor to enter. But, nothing happened. The old man returned to his list of figures; perhaps he had imagined it. He was finding it hard to concentrate. There was a lot of noise from traffic on the estate that morning. And, his temples were throbbing a little.

Tap, tap. No, it was definitely a knock on the door.

“Come in,” Mr Gregory was surprised how hoarse his voice sounded. It was Monday morning and he had rather overdone it the night before, demolishing one bottle of whisky and starting on a second.

The door edged open slowly and it seemed like an age later when a young head with shaggy light brown hair poked around. Beneath the shock of hair was a cherubic face. Mr Gregory took in the vision: hazel green eyes, tanned, almost glistening skin, a firm chin and the cutest button of a nose the old man had seen in many a long year.

“Come in, come in,” Mr Gregory tried joviality, but his alcohol-fuelled headache turned his intended warm smile into a threatening grimace.

He could see the young man blanch; his eyes darting down to the floor.

Someone had to break the silence. Mr Gregory assumed as he was the boss it had better be he.

“Can I help you?” Again the attempt at warmth failed dismally.

The boy startled. “I’m the new work experience boy,” he blurted in confusion and even with the deep sun tan Mr Gregory could tell the boy was blushing.

“Oh, yes of course.” Now, it was Mr Gregory’s turn to sound confused. He knew the boy was coming. Mega Fastenings took two business students each year from the polytechnics. They stayed for a year, a sandwich course they called it. He had a file on the boy somewhere; what had he done with it?

“Craig. Craig Weston” the boy’s nervous smile was really rather scrumptious, Mr Gregory thought as furtively he ran his eye over the boy. Oh, yes, he thought, a definite improvement on Ian, the intern who had just left the company to return to his college. You will do very well.

Mr Gregory was practising his small talk with the office staff. He had been on a course. Say nothing of any consequence, nod repeatedly and smile a lot: that was the gist of it.

There were two easy chairs in the office but the boy did not have the confidence to sit uninvited. Instead, he stood in front of Mr Gregory’s desk, his hands clasped awkwardly behind his back.

“So this is your first morning?” Mr Gregory started on the small talk.

“Yes, Sir,” Craig replied, still not quite able to look Mr Gregory in the eye.

Sir! Yes, Mr Gregory liked that. He also very much liked the way the teenager was standing, awkwardly in front of him. He felt a fantasy coming on. It was a sweltering hot day, but Craig had dressed formally for his first day. He had left his jacket behind, but wore dark grey trousers, a plain shirt and a striped tie.

He supposed it was the kind of thing office workers wore. It was, but in Mr Gregory’s imagination it was a school uniform and Craig was a very naughty boy, sent to the headmaster’s study to be dealt with.

He could not see Craig from behind, but if what was on show in the front was a guide, he would look fabulous draped over the back of a low easy chair; or maybe even better, stood in the centre of the office, feet apart by a yard or so, bent over, knees straight, fingers stretching into the toes of his shoes.

Mr Gregory asked more inane questions but did not listen to the answers until, “So I have nowhere to live at the moment.”

Mr Gregory came back to earth. “Oh, so where did you stay last night?”

Craig gave the name of a local ‘hotel.’ Mr Gregory was not sure if the called itself a hotel, but if it did the new Trade Description Act would soon put a stop to that. It was a place for down-and-out tramps. It was entirely unsuitable for such a good-looking boy.

“But, I am looking for something else,” Craig trailed off.

It was an hour or so later that a germ of an idea lodged in Mr Gregory’s mind. It might work, he thought. Why not? He should take more initiative.

He had a spare room at his house. Craig could stay there. Why not? There might be gossip; he did not want the neighbours to get the wrong idea. Maybe, just temporarily then, to get him out of the doss house; until he found somewhere more suitable.

The heat, his self-inflicted headache and this wonderful new idea he had, was too much. He needed fresh air.

He fleshed out the plan as he slowly walked the length and breadth of the industrial estate. There would have to be rules of course; a curfew, keep the house tidy; set times for watching TV and so on.

He could see it now. It is a sweltering hot afternoon: will this damn heatwave never end? Craig is sprawled on the sofa in the living room glistening, dressed only in skimpy satin running shorts and a singlet. Mr Gregory enters.

“What are my rules about smoking in the house?”

Craig is startled; he did not know Mr Gregory was at home.

“What are my rules?”

“Eh …” Craig knows the rules and that he has broken them, but he will not give in without a fight.

“But, it was only in my room,” he says a little too defiantly.

“What are my rules?”

Craig flushes. He is in big trouble and he knows it. Mournfully, he replies, “No smoking.”

“Yes, no smoking. I’ve spoken to you about this before.”

Sorrowfully, Craig nods assent. Yes, he has been told. There is no excuse.

“And you have been told the sanctions.”

Craig gulps. No, surely not. He had not meant it, had he?

Mr Gregory strides further into the room. “You know my methods. Stand up.”

Craig flinches, trying to sink further into the padded cushion of the settee.

“Come here,” Mr Gregory reaches forward and grabs the boy by the left arm. He gives little resistance; he is scared but instinctively he knows he cannot get out of this. Matters have to take their course.

Releasing his grip on Craig’s arm, Mr Gregory snatches a clump of his unruly hair and pushes him face down over the back of the armchair. The boy’s singlet rides up his back revealing an expanse of golden tanned flesh.

Mr Gregory grabs at the elastic waist of the provocative shorts and they are soon at the boy’s knees: followed by his underpants.

Craig seems resigned to his fate. He whimpers a little, his now bared bottom twitches as he hears Mr Gregory unbuckle his belt and remove it through the loops of his trousers. Then he doubles up the wide, thick, heavy leather belt and brings it crashing down across the centre of Craig’s bottom.

In a frenzy Mr Gregory puts six sunset stripes across the boy’s cheeks.

“Ow, ow, ow,” he wails. “I’m sorry Mr Gregory. I won’t smoke again. Ow! Ow! Ow! Please let me off!”

But, Mr Gregory carries on lashing.

“Nooo! Please,” the wailings and pleading continues.

“Be quiet. You deserve this. You’ve had this coming for a very long time.” Sweat is pouring from Mr Gregory as he raises the belt again and again, swiping it down into the upturned buttocks.

“You miss curfew, your room is a disgrace, you smoke in my house.”

“Please! I’m sorry! Please,” the pleading continues, but so also does the bare-arsed leathering.

Maybe, Mr Gregory reflected that evening, as he poured himself more whisky, it was for the better that Craig had found a room with the Rev Crick at Aston Budleigh where Ian used to lodge.

Back at the office Mr Gregory was on tour. He did this every day; he had been taught to do it on a management course. Be seen by the staff, stop and chat for a minute, let them know you are there. Mr Gregory was not a natural ‘talker,’ but he practiced a lot.

He loved walking through the offices of Mega Fastenings; it gave him the excuse to ogle the boys’ backsides. The office was pretty typical of its type there were upwards of 250 employees; many women with families; one or two older men; but mostly younger boys and girls in their teens and twenties.

Most days Mr Gregory would find Adrian working busily at his desk. Adrian was not an accounts clerk in real life; he was a general administrator in the order office. Mr Gregory had no idea if Adrian was good or bad at his work. He rather suspected he was good, he always seemed to be hard at it when Mr Gregory passed by.

Once, Mr Gregory had tried to talk to Adrian; to chat, just as the management course had instructed. Which of them had been the most shy? Mr Gregory reflected sullenly that evening. The boy blushed scarlet as if he had been caught in some naughtiness when his boss stumbled over an inane question.

It was not a meeting of great minds, but that night as he lay in bed his head spinning, Mr Gregory as he always did, went through the activities of his day, trying to focus on a moment that he could turn into a fantasy. He tried to conjure up Adrian, but instead got Robert and Pat.

Pat was a forty-something mother with the figure of a woman who had delivered four children. Advertisers had started saying such people had the ‘fuller figure.’ Mr Gregory arrived at the section of the open-plan office given over to purchasing in time to catch the tail end of a conversation.

Pat was cheerfully berating Robert, a twenty-something clerk.

“I should take you cross my knee, but you’d probably enjoy it!”

“Ha!” Robert replied backing off and returning to his work station, “You should be so lucky.”

What did it mean? Mr Gregory flushed and walked on pretending not to have heard.

Would she spank Robert. Across her knee? He was a burly lad, a rugby player type. She would have her work cut out forcing him face down.

But, what if he submitted himself to her.

“I’m sorry Pat. You’re right. I do deserve a spanking.” And then he prostrates himself across her lap. His chubby bum in the air and his sweaty face staring down at the hard nylon floor covering.

What would she do? Would she smack the palm of her hand into his tight bulging trousers?

No, Mr Gregory supposed, she would have a hairbrush in her drawer, that would be a perfect weapon. She could whack that with great vigour into his fat arse. Even with his trousers and pants on he would feel it.

Why had she threatened to spank Robert? Back in his office, breathing heavily, Mr Gregory cannot get the image of Robert out of his mind. What had he done? He should be told, he is the boss. It is his job to enforce discipline, not Pat’s. He should call the boy into the office right now and deal with him.

Mr Gregory sat behind his desk and stared intently at the space between it and the door. Mr Gregory is sat on a wooden straight backed chair. Robert stands in front of him, crestfallen. The boy’s hands are trembling. He knows he has done wrong. His boss has found out and now he must face the inevitable discipline.

Mr Gregory grips a stout wooden ruler. It is only twelve inches long by an inch wide, but it is half and inch thick and made of solid wood. It packs one heck of a punch when lashed down with force across a boy’s bared bottom.

Mr Gregory’s instructions are calm. “Take off your jacket and place it on my desk. Then please lower your trousers and underpants.”

Robert hesitates, but not for long. There is nothing he can do. He has broken the rules and he must be punished.

Not daring to look at Mr Gregory, sitting, legs splayed, back straight, sweat patches forming under his armpits, Robert unbuckles his belt, pops the button on his trousers and unfastens the zip. The weight of the bunch of keys in his pocket makes them hurtle to his ankles. Then he puts his thumb in the waistband of his pants and with the merest flick of the wrists he sends them to his knees.

His shirt is long and covers most of his manhood and buttocks. Mr Gregory affects a lack of interest that he does not feel.

“Lift up your shirt and bend over my knee.”

This is the first time that Robert looks at his boss. Has he noticed before how old and ugly the man is? His skin is pale grey, even in the height of the heatwave, the deep lines cut across his face; the beak of his nose reminds Robert of a witch in a fairy tale.

With his shirt lifted and buttocks and genitals duly exposed, Robert flops forward, his considerable weight taking Mr Gregory by surprise. Robert is not as lithe as Adrian and his buttocks are huge and flabby.

Mr Gregory is fascinated at the way the narrow heavy ruler sinks deep into the fleshy globes, before emerging, leaving behind deep pink stripes against the whiteness of his flesh.

Mr Gregory works methodically; no inch of the vast buttocks is left unscathed. Robert remains impassive, enduring the increasing pain. His bottom starts to tingle and this turns to real pain. His bottom is getting hotter and hotter. Ouch! This is real, not like when Pat spanks him.

The phone rings. Robert dissolves.

Adrian lumbers up the stairs towards his bedroom, the scolding words of Uncle Gregory still ringing in his ears. Already tears are welling up in his sparkling grey eyes and uncle has not even started yet.

“Hurry up, be quick about it!” Uncle Gregory is standing outside the living room. Adrian quickens his pace. Inside the bedroom, sorrowfully, Adrian looks at himself in the mirror. “You’re for it now, me lad!”

His face is wringing with sweat: the damned heatwave mingled with the boy’s fear. His deeply tanned face anxiously stares back at him. “Oh well, I’d better get on with it.”

In one movement he pulls his loose fitting shirt over his head, revealing a nut-brown chest. Then down come his shorts.

His tight bright green micro briefs hug tightly, bulging at the front. Some hair is poking out over the top. Adrian is no longer a little boy.

Should he keep his pants on? Would Uncle Gregory notice?

“Who am I kidding?” Adrian talks to himself in his head. He knows what Uncle Gregory has in store for him; underpants will not be playing a part in the action. He whips them down, releasing his cock and balls.

His pyjamas are tucked neatly under his pillow. He loves these pyjamas; he hunted in shops all over town for them. He steps into the grey-and-white striped bottoms, and pulls the long white drawstring tight before tying a perfect bow. The pyjama jacket is just a little bit too big; the sleeves reaching halfway down the palms of his hand.

Dressed, he turns once again to the mirror and sees the image of a small boy reflecting back at him. Ready, he leaves the room and trudges down the stairs to face Uncle Gregory.

Uncle Gregory has prepared a dining room chair which now dominates the centre of the room.

Adrian shuffles in and stands facing his uncle. He knows the drill; he has been through this many nights before.

Uncle Gregory loosens and then removes his tie, before taking hold of the cuff of his right shirtsleeve and slowly rolls it up to his biceps, all the while rebuking Adrian.

“I told you if I got any more complaints from school I would give you a damn good spanking.”

It was true. Many times, his uncle had made the promise, and now he would deliver.

Adrian’s eyes flicker wildly as his gaze follows his uncle across the room. He stoops and retrieves a bedroom slipper from a shelf under the television set. Fully armed, he walks over to the chair and plonks himself down.

“Come here.” Uncle reaches forward and takes Adrian by the left arm and pulls him forward. He does not need much force, Adrian is not resisting. The boy has been raised well. He knows rules are rules and if he breaks them he gets punished. And, in Uncle Gregory’s house that means a spanking.

Adrian cannot stop his eyelids fluttering. His breathing becomes laboured and he can feel the blood rushing to his face as the moment draws nearer.

Uncle places the slipper on his lap and with two free hands he sets about untying the perfect bow. Once done, the pyjama trousers fall of their own accord down to the boy’s knees.

“Bend over.”

Adrian closes his eyes tight, takes a deep breath and gently eases himself into position, wriggling a little until he is comfortable. Both his palms rest flat in the deep pile carpet, his knees are straight and his toes hover an inch or so above the ground.

Silently, Uncle Gregory prepares the boy. Adrian feels him take hold of the tail of the over-large pyjama jacket and drag it half way up his back. Now, naked from the shoulders to his toes, Adrian feels a very slight breeze cooling his bare flesh.

He cannot help himself as he instinctively clenches his buttocks in protection against the expected onslaught.

“Relax boy, relax.”

Adrian tries, but fails to release the tightness in his cheeks. He tenses more when Uncle Gregory caresses his huge bony hand across the boy’s soft tender cheeks. His heartbeat races and for a moment Adrian is certain he will faint.

Adrian feels a movement in Uncle Gregory’s body as his right arm is raised and he prepares to bring the slipper crashing down into the pert naked buttocks offered up to him.

Adrian twists and turns as sweat pours from his body soaking the bedsheet beneath him, his raging hard-on ready to explode. Something is disturbing him.

An ambulance rushes by the window, siren blaring, on a mercy mission.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

Other stories you might like

Their new house

The missed curfew

The glorious summer

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Belted by the Boss

z used belt holding longs touch toes office

Shane waited outside his employer’s office, he knew that he was likely to be sacked and the police would be called: he would do anything to stop that happening.

He had stolen seven pounds from the petty-cash tin and been caught, it was as simple as that. There were no mitigating circumstances; he had wanted the money so he could go down the pub, it wasn’t as if he took it to feed his starving children or widowed mother.

Shane was eighteen years old and had worked at Ferguson’s since he left school two years previously. It’s true that he did have a widowed mother, but when his dad died a few years ago, he left behind a very good insurance policy and the family had lived very comfortably since.

No, Shane had stolen the money because he wanted it.

Mr Ferguson’s secretary opened the door, “He’ll see you now, Shane.” She flashed him a smile, she knew what was going on, but it was impossible not to like Shane, he was a charmer, many women, especially those old enough to be his mother, often thought.

Shane entered the office and stood in front of Mr Ferguson’s desk; he couldn’t help comparing it to his old headmaster’s study. He had visited that a few times, he recalled. But, this was not the headmaster, this was his boss: he wasn’t going to get the cane; he was getting the sack and a criminal record.

Mr Ferguson liked Shane too, but not in the way the women did. Even if he was only eighteen, Shane had the kind of ducking-and-diving spirit that was a good quality in a salesman. He had recently been promoted from general office assistant to a junior salesman; it might be the first rung on the ladder, but it was certainly on the ladder: Shane could climb very high with his talents.

But, now this had happened, Mr Ferguson thought: petty theft. He didn’t know it but Shane felt no remorse; sure he was sorry about being caught but not about the theft itself. He thought they were all hypocrites, the salesmen fiddled their expenses all the time and what was seven quid to a company like this?

Mr Ferguson wasn’t sure what to do. Shane was a thief, but let’s be honest, he thought, it wasn’t armed robbery and the boy’s not a thug. Actually, he’s just like a lot of kids his age, a bit selfish with no real scruples and he wanted everything on a plate, now. He just needs to learn to grow up; a short sharp lesson would be enough, he doesn’t need a criminal record.

When he first heard of Shane’s theft, Mr Ferguson thought how uncannily similar it was to his own experience thirty-odd years ago. He was eighteen years old when he and some pals stole a few bottles of beer from the local tennis club where his father worked as a steward. They took them into the fields and drank them. It was theft, of course, but also youthful high jinks. They got caught, but the police weren’t involved; he was thankful for that because a criminal record would have scuppered his successful career before it started.

Instead, his dad was informed and he dealt with it. And, how he dealt with it, Mr Ferguson could smile in retrospect, but at the time it was humiliating and painful. His dad marched him home and lectured him about how much he had embarrassed the family. And, here’s the rub, then he made him take down his trousers and underpants, bend over the arm of the settee, and he thrashed the living daylights out of him with his razor strop. He howled the house down with the agony and the indignity of it, but it taught him a lesson and he never stole again.

A bit of him wished that he could deal with Shane in the same way; a bloody good hiding would bring him to his senses and then we could all move on, but, he knew, if he told the boy’s mother he was a thief, she would die of shame and how would that help? Certainly, she wouldn’t be able to give him the punishment he so richly deserved.

Sometimes in the past, Mr Ferguson had hoped Shane might see him as a bit of a father figure, a role model if you like, but there was nothing to show he actually did. Perhaps, if Shane had done so, Mr Ferguson might be the one to give him a sound spanking now.

Shane expected the worse outcome from his meeting with Mr Ferguson; he had no excuses, he had stolen the money and he knew there had to be consequences for being found out.

If he realised what Mr Ferguson was thinking he would have jumped at the chance; he was no stranger to corporal punishment. He had been caned often at school for various misdemeanours such as smoking in the toilets and skiving off school at playtime: he was a naughty boy, but not a thug.

The idea that he might have to sack Shane and involve the police, upset Mr Ferguson and he really wished they could come to another arrangement. Then he had a brainwave; why not be honest with the boy, but he knew it would sound very odd if he just came out and said, “Let me spank you as a punishment.” How would that sound at an industrial tribunal?

Instead, he simply told Shane the story of the tennis club, the beer and the razor strop. When he finished there was an awkward silence between the two. Mr Ferguson could see Shane was debating with himself: should he or shouldn’t he? And, then he did.

“Could you spank me like your father did to you? he looked down at the carpet to hide his blushes.

“Well, I don’t know, Shane.” In fact, he did know, he knew very well that a leathering was the ideal solution.

“You must be quite sure Shane; it is a very unusual solution to the problem.”

Shane said he was sure, please don’t sack him, please don’t call the police.

“Well if it’s what you want, Shane.”

“If it’s what you want?” As soon as he heard the words, Shane was convinced it was exactly what he wanted.  It was the perfect answer, the schoolboy’s solution if you like. You commit the crime, you get found out, you are punished and then we move on.

Yes, Shane was certain: a spanking would be the ideal resolution.

Alright, Mr Ferguson thought, the boy had consented to his belt whipping, so we should get on with it.

“Shane, take off your jacket and leave it on my desk.” With no obvious embarrassment, the boy did as he was told. “Now, take down your trousers and pants and bend over that chair.”

In a swift movement the smart city-style trousers were down, quickly followed by his crisp new briefs. He knew matters had to take their course, so took a deep breath, rubbed his hands together and lent forward to offer his bare cheeks to Mr Ferguson’s belt.

His employer had no experience of spanking backsides, but instinctively knew the objective was to cause the punished boy considerable pain; otherwise what was the point? He doubled over the belt rested it across Shane’s buttocks to get his aim and lashed it down.

It had been two years since Shane was last caned, but he still had the schoolboy’s attitude that he should take it like a man. As the first six strokes landed across his bum he made no outward sign that he was in considerable pain. This was a tactical error, because, with his inexperience, Mr Ferguson assumed this meant his punishment was not working. So, he increased the tempo and brought the belt whacking into Shane’s bum harder and faster.

He covered both buttocks, from the top of the fleshy globes to the bottom. Shane’s resolve not to show pain did not last. His gasps turned to groans and then to whimpers. Despite himself he couldn’t stop shaking his legs as the pain built up in his bum to become agony.

Mr Ferguson remembered how his own father had thrashed him thirty years ago, it had been a rigorous beating, hard and fast, but it was not a flogging. His dad had wanted to get the point across, he had hurt his son badly, but not to the point that the boy resented his punishment or the man who punished him.

Mr Ferguson knew his father had spanked him out of love; he wanted his son to grow into a fine man (and he hoped he had fulfilled his father’s ambition). Likewise, Mr Ferguson loved Shane in a way and did not want to destroy any relationship they might have, but he did want him to learn and to mend his ways.

He whacked six more strokes across the centre of Shane’s bum and then told him to stand up.

Shane’s face was ashen and there were tears forming: how could such a thrashing not bring tears to the eyes? He rubbed gently at his bottom and then without waiting for his boss’s permission, he gingerly bent down to pull up his trousers and pants. His buttocks were tender and he felt the pain increase as his tight briefs hugged his burning bottom.

“Go home Shane: it’s over. If you mend your ways, we will not speak of this again.”

Shane picked up his jacket and limped from the office. He was relieved that Mr Ferguson’s secretary was nowhere to be seen and he left the building unobserved.

The pain turned to a glow quite quickly and it took a day or two for the bruising to go, but Shane did not feel he had been unjustly beaten. He had committed a small crime and had been properly punished for it and Mr Ferguson was right, there was no need to ever mention it again.

So long as Shane behaved in future.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first published in September 2015

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The Junior Salesman

z used cane holding (4)

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

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

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

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

Mr Davenport waited. There was no need to hurry. The longer this took the more he would enjoy it.

“You’ve been late for work too many times, lad. You take long lunches and, my God! your sales results this month are appalling,” Mr Davenport swished the cane through the air as he catalogued Tyler’s faults.

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

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

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

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

His boss’s cold hands rested on his tender mounds as he slowly pushed the tail of his jacket well clear of his target. He was a big man, physically fit. Tyler had been beaten by him before so knew how much it was going to hurt.

Nearly ready, the tip of Mr Davenport’s tongue licked his lips, as he flexed the cane and began tapping it gently on Tyler’s naked arse. Slowly he removed the cane and then lashed it down viciously into his naked haunches. Tyler gasped as the pain kicked in. That first searing stroke reminded him just why the cane was to be feared.

After a long pause, stroke two slashed down, slicing into his sore cheeks with real force. His arse throbbed and ached.

Swish-Crack!  Mr Davenport whipped a third stroke down on the bare buttocks. The cheeks gave way as the cane sliced like a hot knife through butter.

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

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

Mr Davenport was enjoying this. He adjusted his own trousers and raised the cane once more before whipping it down viciously. The noise of this stroke was incredible and resounded all around the small office.

Then there was an eerie silence, broken only by Tyler’s gulps and gasps for breath and his sobbing. Mr Davenport stepped back and looked at the boy still bent over, his buttocks quivering. “It’s over,” he said. “You can get up now.”

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

“I think you have learned your lesson, haven’t you?”  his boss asked rhetorically, but Tyler tried to gulp a reply. He knew this was his cue to leave. Brushing away tears from his eyes he thanked his punisher, turned and left the office. Once outside he gave his arse a much needed rub then hobbled off to the lockers to collect his belongings and go home; safe in the knowledge that he would get a pay cheque for at least one more month.

Mr Davenport pulled open his desk drawer and withdrew a box of tissues before ripping down the front of his trousers. He was stiff and aching and he came almost immediately.

Relaxing minutes later with a mug of fresh coffee, he recalled the first time he saw Tyler, four months ago at Whacko! a club for corporal punishment enthusiasts. Tyler and another lad just turned up out of the blue. They were dressed like schoolboys, in long grey trousers; white shirt, striped tie: they were obviously on the make. If they weren’t quite rent boys, they weren’t far off. Mr Davenport enjoyed Whacko! – you could do all kinds of things in the playrooms: canings, slipperings, beltings; but nothing too heavy. The only drawback was so many of the men were middle aged; you never had the chance to take a youngster across your knee for a bare-bottomed spanking or order them to, “Bend over and touch your toes.”

That night the club members drank their fill, including Mr Davenport. Tyler was most obliging. Mr Davenport could feel his penis rising at the memory of it: Tyler bent over his knees; head down, legs straightened behind him; his muscular buttocks perfectly positioned to feel the stinging slaps from the palm of his hand.

“You have the most magnificent arse,” Mr Davenport was breathless in his admiration. Tyler smiled inwardly: he had hooked another one.

He didn’t spank him hard; the arse was so glorious, it was enough for him to pat and preen it; to rub his palm over the smooth cotton of the boy’s tight white underpants and then down his thighs. Then over his strong back to the shoulders. But, yes eventually he did spank the arse, but not in anger; he loved the feeling as his hand connected with Tyler’s firm cheeks; they were meaty, but bouncy to the touch. Tyler was a fit lad, there wasn’t enough spare fat on him to fry a sausage; he was a spanker’s delight.

Mr Davenport’s appetite could not be satisfied; he wanted more. Tyler gave him his phone number, muttering something about “a private session,”, before heading off home with a very sore bum, but pockets bulging with cash.

Mr Davenport couldn’t get Tyler out of his mind, he dreamt of having him in every spanking position imaginable. He must see him again. It was easy to arrange; and Tyler was just as obliging in Mr Davenport’s apartment as at Whacko! Mr Davenport wasn’t really an over-the-knee man; the swishy school cane was his fantasy of choice and he had a fine collection hidden behind the wardrobe in his spare bedroom. Tyler played the stroppy teenager and when Mr Davenport made him pay with his arse Tyler made Mr Davenport pay from this wallet.

Mr Davenport was hooked, he wanted more and more; but with a divorced wife and two children he couldn’t afford it; that’s when he hatched a plan. He had once read a fantasy story in a magazine; why couldn’t he do it in real life?

They say that in life timing is everything: it certainly was for Mr Davenport. He struck lucky. Tyler had been jobless for ages, and now he had no home either. Relationships are complicated and Tyler had just found himself dumped for a younger model. But, one man’s meat is another man’s poison, and Mr Davenport was ready to pick up the option.

It was a fiendishly simple plan. Tyler was to work at the sales company Mr Davenport owned. He would be a junior salesman on the staff with a proper salary and when he screwed up; it would be sore-arse time. A fantasy made reality.

In truth, Mr Davenport thought it was a ludicrous idea and was astonished that Tyler signed up. But, it worked perfectly; Tyler had no discipline, could never get to work on time, often drifted home early, stayed out on long lunches and to cap it all, he was a truly abysmal salesman.

And from that day forward Mr Davenport owned Tyler’s arse.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com