The rookie deputy sheriff

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Sheriff Connelly stared down his long nose at the snivelling rookie deputy quaking before him. “What a fool. A complete idiot. A waste of space,” he thought. His grey eyes blazed, “What kind of people is the City employing these days?”

Connelly held his temper. Deputy Bahr squirmed. Sweat soaked his forehead and his head beneath closely-cropped blond hair itched like crazy. The room was too darned hot. He could hardly breathe. The words of his boss seemed to be coming from a long way away. Bahr feared he might fall to the floor in a faint at any moment.

Connelly gripped a cardboard folder in his left fist. He waved it in Bahr’s face. “Not good. Not good at all.” This he said out loud. “Is there any one of your duties that you can do without screwing up?” It was meant as a rhetorical question but Bahr hadn’t done too well at school and he missed the subtleties of the sheriff’s lecture. He tried his hardest to answer. His mind was a whirl. He thought of all the different things he did during a day’s shift. He was quite good at helping children across the road when the traffic was busy. He was about to relay this information to the sheriff but Connelly had moved on.

They were at the front desk in the reception area. Things were quiet and no members of the public were around to see Bahr’s dressing down. Sheriff Connelly saw three other deputies standing near the main entrance, they were due out on patrol, but sensing there might be some fun to be had they were waiting around.

“You have screwed up your evaluation, Bahr. It is not good enough,” Connelly sensed the three deputies tense. He paused waiting until he had their full attention. “Yes, Bahr,” Connelly let out a deep sigh like wind searing across a dry desert. “Not good enough.” He tut-tutted and shook his head; every inch the older man concerned about the well-being of his young charge. Connelly was the father and Bahr, the son.

“You leave me no choice,” Connelly frowned. “You do know that, don’t you?” His question was rewarded with a blank stare. It was clear Bahr had no clue what was being said to him. Just in the corner of his eyeline Connolly saw Deputy Orlando nudge one of his companions. Orlando meant, Just wait and see what happens next.

“No choice at all.” Connelly left the words hanging in the air. “A belting. It has to be a belting.”

Bahr’s fair, open face flushed red. “Wor …?” He couldn’t find the words to express the disbelief – or, maybe, shock – he felt.

Connelly shook his head from left to right slowly. “You are, of course, fully aware of Regulation one-nine-seven-six, paragraph C, part little two,” he stared directly at the twenty-year-old rookie deputy. The stupid boy didn’t understand a word. Connolly heaved one of his deep sighs. “The code of discipline as it relates to new deputy sheriffs?” He asked it as a question, but he meant it as a statement.

Bahr couldn’t stop his eyes blinking, “Regulation one-nine …?” he faltered, unable to repeat back to the sheriff the full details of the code. Connelly sighed once more. Across the reception area three deputy sheriffs watched on intently. Deputy Orlando wiped perspiration from his brow with a large, not-so-clean kerchief.

Connelly took a deep breath and repeated the regulation, stumbling as he reached the part about paragraph C. “You do know it, Bahr?” he glowered. Bahr remembered there were a lot of rules and regulations to being a deputy sheriff. Pages and pages of them. He had tried to go through them all but they were written in complicated language and he wasn’t much of a reader.

“Yes,” he drawled unconvincingly.

“Good,” Sheriff Connelly perked up, “You know it says a sheriff may administer corporal punishment at his entire discretion in cases where rookie deputies fail to meet required standards.” He watched without passion as Bahr’s face glowed red hot, his eyes blinked continuously and the boy bit down into his bottom lip.

“We should not delay,” Connolly tucked his thumbs under the belt that was wrapped around his muscular waist. “Follow me.” Without looking at Bahr, Sheriff Connelly stepped from behind the reception counter and entered a small room nearby. Sorrowfully, Bahr shuffled behind as instructed. The room had a table and two cheap armless chairs. Usually it was used when members of the public wanted to speak to an officer in confidence. Today, Connolly had found an entirely different use for it.

He pulled a chair into the middle of the room. “Stand there!” he snapped his fingers and indicated a place a few feet from the chair. Miserably, Bahr shuffled into position. The room was even hotter than the reception area. He could scarcely breathe. It all seemed so unreal.

“Leave the door open, we need some air,” Sheriff Connolly spoke as he unbuckled his belt and swished it through the loops that held it onto his pants. Connolly sat down on the chair. Bahr stood and stared. This cannot be happening. This is some kind off nightmare.

“Did your Pappy ever spank you?” Connolly folded the leather belt in half as he spoke. Bahr’s throat was as dry as a camel’s, he could hardly make a rasp when he tried to answer. No, he had never been spanked. Not once. Not even as a very small kid. This was twenty-nineteen, people didn’t get spanked these days.

“OK,” Connolly spread his legs, I want you to bend over my knee.” Bahr’s temples throbbed, his eyes moistened. He looked down at the sheriff’s thick thighs, covered in uniform blues. His big leather boots shone brightly. Bahr hesitated, what if he refused, what would happen then?

Sheriff Connolly read the rookie’s mind, “Don’t forget of Regulation nine-one-three-two, paragraph E, part little two,” he gripped the belt tightly. “Let’s get this over with. We’ve both got duties to attend to. Bend over my knee. Now!” The harshness in the sheriff’s voice startled Bahr. Jesus H. he thought. I’ve got to do this. I’ve got to let Sheriff Connolly spank me. It’s in the regulations.

He shuffled forward until he stood inches from the sheriff’s right thigh. How did you do this exactly? He hesitated. “Bah!” Connolly ejaculated. He gripped Bahr by the left arm and in one continuous tug he guided the twenty-year-old across his knee. Bahr fell with a plop. Before he knew it he was face down with his nose close to the floor. He stretched out his left hand to break his fall and with his other he held tightly to the sheriff’s leg. Behind him his legs dangled in mid-air. He couldn’t see this but his bottom was angled perfectly across the sheriff’s thigh. His pants were so tight they lifted and separated his buttock cheeks. Connolly had a terrific target.

Bahr was facing into the room and did not see the three deputies move closer to the open door, giving themselves ringside seats for the belt-on-britches action that was to follow. Sheriff Connolly was in his mid-forties but he had always kept himself fit with regular trips to the gym. He was as strong as an average civilian half his age. And he demonstrated that when he whipped the leather belt at great speed into Bahr’s rear end. Whip! Whip! Whip! The pain got through, even with thick pants and underwear for protection. Connolly gripped Bahr’s waist with his left arm while his right thrashed the leather belt across the young man’s butt.

Bahr wriggled and writhed. He screwed up his face each time the belt crashed int his tight flesh. Very soon the seat of his pants were shining. Connelly knew the cheeks underneath would be warming up too. He nodded an acknowledgement at the three deputies, telling them through smiles and winks he thought he was doing a splendid job.

Bahr’s legs kicked and his arms flailed. The spanking hurt, but not that much. His reaction was of humiliation and disbelief. Here he was a young rookie deputy across the knee of a much older dominant man getting the first spanking of his life.

Nobody was counting but the sheriff must have hammered home fifty or more lashes before he let up. As soon as the whipping stopped, Bahr wriggled his hips, trying to break free and get back on his feet. Sheriff Connolly let him stand. Once upright, Bahr realised for the first time he had an audience. His sense of humiliation deepened. He stood uncertain what he was supposed to do next. Was he allowed to leave to go back on duty? He made a move toward the door.

“Not so fast buster,” Sheriff Connolly took hold of Bahr’s shirt, turning him so they faced each other. Then, in an expert move, he unbuckled the rookie’s belt and within seconds had his uniform blues in a heap over his boots. Before Bahr could utter his astonishment, his shorts went the same way and the rookie was once more toppled face-down over the sheriff’s knee.

Connolly took a moment to admire the sight before him. Bahr was a fit young man, with a muscular chest and flat stomach. Now that they were presented to him in their nakedness Connolly was able to see what magnificent buttocks Bahr had. It was a butt that cried out to be spanked. Connolly was happy to oblige. Their creamy white surfaces were already criss-crossed with reddish lines where the belt had performed its task. Now, Connolly set about performing his duty with a renewed will.

Bahr’s buttocks clenched. It was a natural reflex as the crack of the leather connecting with naked flesh resounded around the small, airless room. Each crack sounded like a pistol shot, there were no layers of clothing to muffle the noise.

Connolly got into his rhythm whipping at a rate of about one lash every ten seconds. Soon every square inch of bare flesh was coloured sunset red.

Connolly paused but he kept his tight grip on the rookie’s waist. The young man knew it wasn’t over yet. With his own uniform soaked in sweat, the sheriff prepared himself for an almighty onslaught.

Swipe! The leather belt now landed with maximum force. The belt rose and fell in quick succession. Bahr’s pants and shorts were at his ankles and restricted his legs from thrashing about too much. If he had not been wearing huge leather boots he would have kicked his clothes clear across the room.

Still the relentless pounding of his backside continued. He couldn’t help but yelp, just like a little whipped puppy. His arms flapped and his body struggled from side to side. He looked like he was trying to do the doggy paddle in a swimming pool.

Without letting up on the downward strokes, Sheriff Connolly grabbed Bahr’s right arm and roughly shoved it up his back pinning his hand against the shoulder blades. Bahr was going nowhere until the older man said so.

With Bahr restrained in this way the sheriff could do as he wished. Bahr was at his total mercy, not that the sheriff intended showing any of that. Bahr had no choice but to lay face down, bare bottom high to receive a severe spanking.

The belt went up and down; up and down; at considerable speed. The rookie gasped in air, but couldn’t fill his lungs. Every time he tried to suck in oxygen he had to wheeze out breath to counter the intense pain that was running from his buttocks and engaging every nerve in the body.

His tears flowed freely and snot ran from his nose. At that point Sheriff Connolly stopped, he rested the belt on the small of Bahr’s back. He had his own problems breathing. It was time to finish before he suffered a stroke. The sheriff released Bahr and without waiting to pull up his pants and shorts he ran howling from the room. Connolly watched him go and wondered silently how long it would take the idiot rookie to realise there was no such thing as Regulation one-seven-whatever. When would he notice that day’s date?: The First of April.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was uploaded in April 2019

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Gareth learns his place

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

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

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

“Yeah,” Gareth replied nonchalantly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Road Trip

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z used twosome hats car by Mayser Hute

Looking back on it Bradley realised that he ought to have smelt a rat right from the start. If he hadn’t been as vain as he was, he should have wondered what ever possessed his employer Mr MacDonald to take him on that business trip across Europe, when he had so many older and abler men at his disposal. Bradley’s driving was all right, but certainly no better than Smith’s or Davidson’s.

Conceit had something to do with it. Bradley thought he was the blue eyed boy. He might be only nineteen, but so many older, established men at the company had perished in the war. Others had returned with their brains so addled they could never work again.

Bradley and Mr MacDonald travelled to France, but their destination was Germany. The war had ended two years previously and millions of American dollars were flooding in now that continent of Europe had been carved up among the super-powers.  The future was West Germany and Bradley  had his sights on being the company’s top dog. The railways were still shot to pieces and the only way was to travel by car; just the two of them.

Bradley and his boss were St. Tom’s men. That was they had both attended St. Tom’s, an elite public boarding school. But not at the same time. Mr MacDonald was just about old enough to be Bradley’s father. That’s how he got the job in the first place – the old school tie. They all look after one another. The truth was that Bradley hadn’t done so well at school. He was inattentive and selfish. Despite the best efforts of the schoolmasters and their whippy canes, he never quite accepted that rules were to be obeyed by all, including Bradley. He was lucky to get his job he was helped by his father, also an old St Tom’s man.

Bradley and his boss had little in common so conversation during the hours of driving was limited. They were able to share experiences of school. As is the way when old school fellows such as these meet they reminisced about masters they knew. And, the liberal corporal punishment regime they both endured.

The journey was slow as the roads were bad. They were closing in on Munich and the rain fell in torrents. Bradley never saw the five-inch nail. He first knew he had a flat tyre when he lost control of the steering. Cursing his luck and the rain with considerable effort he changed the wheel. His boss stayed in the car which made the task that more difficult. Bradley did not complain. It wasn’t his place to do so and he did not want to get on the bad side of Mr MacDonald. If he played his cards right and impressed the old man he, Bradley, could advance quickly in the company. If he upset him, that could put an end to his future prospects.

At last the car was back on the road. The rain eased but didn’t stop. It was dark and there were no road lamps. This was Germany; electricity was unknown outside of the cities. The darkness was Bradley’s excuse for not seeing the broken glass. Another flat tyre, and the spare already used. Cursing his luck one more time, Bradley kicked the tyre aggressively.

“You need a garage,” Mr MacDonald said. That was true, but Bradley still thought it an unhelpful statement. Where in the middle of this Godforsaken land could he find a garage? “We passed a hotel, or guesthouse, or something back there,” Mr MacDonald waved his hand as if that would clarify his statement. “Go find it and see if they can send someone to help us. We can stay the night there.”

Bradley trudged off into the dark, cussing his boss and the whole world at large. His clothes were soaked and his shoes leaked by the time he found the hotel. It was run-down and creepy. A withered old woman peered at him as he trekked up a pathway, overgrown with weeds. She received him tersely. Bradley did not understand a word she said. She spoke in German and sounded hostile; but then all German sounded hostile to an Englishman. Bradley spoke in English, clearly enunciating each word as if speaking to an idiot. Then he tried speaking loudly. This did not improve matters. He could not get through to her.

Then, a young man, no older than Bradley himself, appeared from down the hall. “Can I be of assistance, Sir,” he spoke good English, but with a heavy German accent. Bradley explain his position and within minutes the boy, who Bradley now knew was called Gerhard, was hitching up a battered old pony to an equally dilapidated cart. “Take me to your master,” he called cheerfully to Bradley and together they set off to rescue Mr MacDonald.

They were the only guests at the hotel but their hosts were helpful and gracious. It took much effort but they ran hot baths and prepared the best meal that they could under their straightened circumstances. Bradley fought to hide his annoyance that his boss was taking a great deal of interest in Gerhard. Gerhard was blond (well, he was a German after all) and fit with muscles honed through manual work. He had a wide open face and surprisingly white teeth considering the state of the country. He liked to laugh and to Bradley’s further annoyance Mr MacDonald joined in. Bradley’s jealousy bit deep. How, he wondered, had Gerhard survived the war? Hadn’t all young men sacrificed themselves for Hitler?

Bradley affected not to notice when Mr MacDonald and Gerhard left the room together whispering as if in some conspiracy. His only consolation was they would be back on the road tomorrow never to return.

He waited for an hour, uncertain what he was supposed to do. Was he to wait for his employer to return? Would Mr MacDonald need his services again that evening? Was it safe for him to go off to his bed? He paced the residents’ lounge and had at last determined he would turn in for the night when Mr MacDonald and Gerhard made an unannounced entrance. The blond German boy grinned from ear-to-ear, adding to Gerhard’s suspicious jealousy. It was compounded when the German smiled even more broadly at Bradley as if he was holding a secret. The German turned to Mr MacDonald and in accented English wished him a very pleasant rest of the evening.

The young German breezed from the room. Bradley stood, somewhat irritated and waited for his employer’s instructions. Mr MacDonald spoke seriously, “I have been very disappointed with you today,” he said gravely. “Your incompetence with the motor car has caused me serious delays. My business may not recover as a result.”

Bradley’s jaw dropped. How unfair! It wasn’t his fault the roads in Germany were so bad. How could he be blamed for the tyre bursts? Had he put the nails and the broken glass on the road? No, of course not! He felt all of this but knew better than to say a word of protest. Mr MacDonald was his employer and held the key to Bradley’s future in his hands. Bradley had no choice but to accept his employer’s rebukes. “Sorry, sir,”’ he said meekly, “I’ll try to do better tomorrow.”

Mr MacDonald’s bright blue eyes flashed. “I sincerely expect so, young man,” he said gruffly. “You cannot continue in this way.” His eyes narrowed and he frowned, “You need to be brought to book.”

Bradley had no idea what his employer could mean. Again, he knew better than to answer back. Mr MacDonald continued uninterrupted, “Follow me, upstairs,” he said mysteriously, “we need to deal with this.”

Not allowing a reply, Mr MacDonald immediately led the way from the room. In deep confusion, Bradley trotted behind him. Outside in the dank passageway Mr MacDonald stopped by a large mahogany table. Bradley peered into the gloom. He blinked furiously. He couldn’t quite believe what he saw. Silently and without explanation Mr MacDonald took hold of a bunch of freshly cut switches. He lifted and carried them as if they were the most delicate flowers on earth. Bradley gasped in realisation: Mr MacDonald and Gerhard must have been out cutting switches from the nearby bushes. What did Mr MacDonald intend to do?

“Follow me this way,” the older man headed to the large, dilapidated staircase that would lead to his bedroom. Bradley, his head spinning, trudged behind.

The room was small and sparsely furnished. An ancient bed with a wrought-iron bedstead took up most of the space. Mr MacDonald carefully lay the switches on the mattress. Bradley stared at them as slowly his employer’s intention dawned on him. Mr MacDonald lost no time getting to the point. “A thrashing should bring you to your senses.” He let the words drift in the air. Bradley blinked back his disbelief. A beating? He might expect something like this at St Tom’s, but he wasn’t at school anymore. He was a grown man – well eighteen years old – and worked for his living.

Instinctively he knew he must not argue. Mr MacDonald was his employer, he held all the power. Bradley was but his servant. Mr MacDonald could be Bradley’s meal ticket, the teenager needed to keep the old man sweet. “Yes sir, sorry sir,” he whispered.

Mr MacDonald drew himself to his full height and pushed back his shoulders. His eyes were rheumy with reminiscence. “Back at the grand old school,” he spoke slowly and softly, “you know what would have happened at a time such as this?”

Bradley remained silent while in his mind he recalled his much loved housemaster Mr Coddington. Oh, the times they had spent in his master’s study. Mr MacDonald cut short his nostalgia, “Get those trousers off. Underwear too.” He picked up a heavy pillow and carefully placed it on the edge of the bedstead. It would provide much needed additional height for what he had in mind.

Bradley lightened. It was to be just like with Mr Coddington. He stooped down and tackled the laces on his shoes. He worked with mild enthusiasm on the braces that held his trousers aloft. It was a cumbersome business stripping off his clothes. Mr MacDonald watched patiently, toying with a switch in his hands. At last the teenager was prepared.

“Bend over the pillow, across the bed,” Mr MacDonald ordered curtly. Without a murmur of protest, Bradley stepped forward, judged his distance from the bedstead and slowly fell forward. His stomach sank into the pillow and he folded his arms and rested his face in them. The floor was polished wood and his feet slipped when he parted them to produce a more rounded bottom for his employer to thrash.

Mr MacDonald would take his time.  He preferred it that way. It added to the drama and the excitement. Bradley’s shirttail covered part of his naked haunches so his employer took hold of it and pushed it out of the way. Bradley’s buttocks trembled with anticipation.

The switch was about fourteen inches long and thinner than a pencil. It would leave a fine mark, but it was delicate. Mr MacDonald would have preferred a whippy rattan cane, but such things were the province of English schools (and perhaps some in the colonies) but were unobtainable in Germany. He would have to do the best he could. Gerhard had cut him many specimens so as one switch broke with use there were others to take its place.

Mr MacDonald positioned the switch across Bradley’s bare bottom. The touch of the stick sent shivers of sensuous pleasure up his spine. He began to shake all over. MacDonald patted his stick keenly across all segments of the eighteen-year-old’s rump, calculating where to place his first blow.

The first stroke roared over the buttocks, landing, more or less, over the fleshiest part of the boy’s meaty posterior. Surely Bradley’s gasp of amazement could be heard all over the building. He wondered if the blond-haired German boy Gerhard was listening behind the floor.

The heat and sting was tremendous. Bradley gritted his teeth. The switch returned; it tapped, it patted, and it explored all locations particularly the tender under curves of his bottom, tickling him suggestively in those sensitive areas.

The next stroke fizzed a burning stripe lower across his buttocks and made his head swim. He was dizzy, almost sick. His body went rigid with pain. Bradley let out something that was halfway between a gasp and a wail, but it ended in an undignified gurgle.

Mr MacDonald sighed. The switch had broken in his hand. He tossed the remnants to the floor and reached for a substitute. He tested it between his hands. It was a little longer, but thicker than its companion. He swished it through the air, enjoying the powerful swish! as it flew. Bradley was aroused by the terrific noise. He knew he would need to summon wonderful resources of doggedness to carry himself through the ordeal of this caning session without wailing.

There was a breathless silence in the room apart from the crisp sound of MacDonald’s switch tapping on his sore bottom. His employer whacked a third stroke and Bradley lost all control, unleashing a loud, hollow groan. The pain was very nearly unbearable. He gulped loudly and shuddered. Mr MacDonald remained utterly silent. Bradley wriggled his throbbing buttocks restlessly and clenched both cheeks, but MacDonald’s stick returned and worried itself against the hottest spots on his bottom. There was no escape from the switch; it lashed once more. Bradley’s head swam; he had been prostrate for too long. It seemed as if every drop of blood in his body was travelling through his veins at twice the normal speed.

“What an ugly looking row of welts.” Mr MacDonald’s voice was tinged with glee. “You should get up now,” he said softly. “Undress completely and get into my bed.”

And so, Bradley passed the first milestone on his road trip to becoming one of Mr MacDonald’s most trustworthy employees.

Picture credit: Mayser Hute

Other stories you might like

 

The boys in the mailroom

Professor and the fresher student

The boy in the kitchen

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Seasonal spankings – compilation

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Picture credit: Joe Phillips

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

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

Shopping for toys

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

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Picture credit: CP4Men dot net

 

Better believe in Santa Claus

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

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Picture credit: Alan Paul

 

Approved-School Santas

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

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Picture credit: The Hotspur

 

The Morning After the Night Before

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

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Picture credit: C of Sweden

 

Only Three Thieving Days to Christmas

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

used drawing cane hold (13)

Picture credit: Unknown

 

When Santa Claus was caned

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

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Picture credit: The Hotspur

The School Dance

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

z used school cane pants chair (19)

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

The Night Before Christmas

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

z used drawing santa brush hold (1)

Picture credit: Unknown

 

Fake News at Christmas

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

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Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club

 

Snowballs

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

z used drawing snowballs Mag (2)

Picture credit: The Magnet

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The banker and the three wretches

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z used suit walking stick office by L Fellows (36)

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Certain of it,” said Reddy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then it was over. Twelve slashes of the birch.

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

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

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

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

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

 

Picture credit: Laurence Fellows

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Coffee shop memory

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

It happened to me too …

new 5

pants desk office sting

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

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

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

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

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

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

That makes what I did all the more astonishing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

Picture credit: Sting pictures

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Late at the office

The fire-raiser

A Fragment of a Memory

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

University bully

new 5

 

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

z used cane holding office Sting

“Bend over.”

You stare dumbfounded, “Excuse me?”

“I said bend over.”

“I don’t understand.”

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

“Cane me?”

“Yes, cane you. Bend over the desk.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com