Farm Hand - Part 1


by Paul Crewe <Short_pants@hotmail.com>

Peter usually enjoyed Saturday morning. It was summer-time, the sun was shining, and he was at work on the farm. Today, however, it was not so good. As he waited in the calf-pens, Peter thought about was he had done, and what was about to happen.

Peter was fifteen, a town kid, strong and tall. Every Saturday he rode his cycle into the countryside to his job on the farm. Peter liked his job. He had ridden around all the farms in the area, asking for work. Mr Percival, the farmer, had been impressed by the boy's initiative, and polite manners. He had employed the boy.

Peter started work at 9am, washing down the milking parlour, which had been used that morning. Mr Percival had been most impressed with the standard of Peter's work, not a speck of muck was to be seen. Peter had thoroughly enjoyed using the high-power hose, it could blast cow-pats from 50 feet. As Peter cleaned, he imagined himself as a soldier with a flame-thrower, driving the enemy from before him. Not one enemy escaped his purge, not one sniper was left hiding, no renegades managed to sneak past the all-conquering master.

In the six months that he had been working on the farm, Peter had shown he had a real talent for farm-work. Every job was done to perfection, after he had been taught how to do it. Mr Percival had taken a shine to the boy, and Peter loved using the tools. Especially the tractor. Peter was able to drive around the farm, and go into the fields. He could reverse a trailer, and use the scraper attachment. Life on a farm is full of fun for an imaginative teenager. Soon, school would be out, and he could come to work every day. That was going to be great. Not just the extra money, but the sun, the fun, the responsibility. Peter really enjoyed this life.

Washing down the milking parlour took an hour, then Peter moved on to the next chore. Chore! No he thought, next game. Most days Peter would go into the loft to shovel cattle-feed into hoppers. The cows were fed automatically by a computerised dispenser. As the cows entered the herring-bone parlour, the milkman typed their number into console. Food was then dropped into a trough. The sound of the dropping feed encouraged the cattle to hurry into their place, and the computer allocated the right amount for each animal. In the loft above the milking parlour was a series of hoppers, and cattle feed was blown in by a big truck. Occasionally the nuts would stick together, and the cows would not get fed. This interrupted the milking, the milkman had to go upstairs to sort it out, and the cows would kick. Peter had to shovel the nuts into the hoppers, to ensure that they were loose, and that enough nuts were available for the next two milking sessions. It was hard work, hot and dusty up there, and the boy soon worked up a sweat.

Meanwhile, down below the fresh milk was being cooled in two large stainless steel tanks. A massive paddle stirred the milk, and giant refrigeration plant quickly lowered the temperature. By 11am, when the tanker arrived, it would be almost frozen. Each morning the farmer's wife, Beryl, would come to the tanks, and ladle out 6 pints. Beryl was a fine young woman, aged thirty, she was radiant, a picture of healthy living. Bonny, but not fat. Her long blond hair flowed over her shoulders and waved in the slight breeze. And she was as strong as an ox. They had two young children, and milk is good for growing youngsters. Besides, Mr Percival enjoyed drinking his own milk. "My finest creation" he would say as he sipped the white nectar. Fresh cows milk is not at all like the pasteurised bottled stuff that supermarkets sell. It is creamy, sweet, just like Guinness as it progresses down the glass. A ring remained where the liquid waited until the next mouthful.

Peter thought about the milk as he shovelled in that sweat-box of a loft. He thought about the refreshing liquid, the chill that it brought to his throat, and the stern warning he had been given NOT to drink from the ladle. Mr Percival had explained that the milk would go sour if any saliva got into the tank. Nobody must drink from the ladle. Use the ladle to fill a cup, but don't put the ladle to your lips. Only trouble was, there were no cups. He had to ask at the farm-house door for a cup, and the Beryl was often busy. She took ages to answer when he knocked, and Peter felt embarrassed asking for a cup. The milking parlour was a long walk from the farm-house, and Peter had to take the cup straight back. Apparently the farmer had got annoyed one day when all his cups had been borrowed and then left in the parlour.

Today, all that had seemed too much trouble. Peter thought that if he went to the tank, had a drink, then washed the ladle in the sink no harm would be done. So Peter had crept down to the parlour, looked all round - making sure there was nobody about, then taken the ladle from it's hook. The lid to the shiny steel tank had a small inspection cover, and through this Peter dipped the ladle. Up came the creamy nectar, drips falling from the sides. Peter waited a moment until they stopped then raised the ladle to his lips.

"What are you doing"

"Arrgh" Gasped Peter, nearly dropping the ladle into the tank!

"You know that is not allowed" squealed Beryl.

"I'm Sorry" Peter almost cried "I was so hot, and ...."

"Silence" Beryl snapped "Save it for my Husband. He is sure to fire you for this"

"Oh No, please" Peter gasped "There's no need for that. I love working here"

"And we like having you, Peter. But this is serious. You could have destroyed a whole day's milk. Have you any idea how much that is worth?"

Peter was bright, and started to calculate the volume of the tank, multiplied by the price of a pint of milk. It took a few moments, the silence was assumed by Mrs Percival to be a negative. In the end it was probably best that he didn't speak up.

"It is worth more than your job" she said.

" I am very sorry" Peter muttered

"Sorry is not good enough" Beryl explained "We have to know that we can trust you. A farm is a dangerous place"

Peter nodded.

"If you are going to remain here, you will have to be punished, somehow"

Peter nodded.

"Do you think a smacked bottom is fair?"

Peter nodded.

"Alright then. You go down to the calf-pens, and I will join you after I have collected my milk. And when it is all over, no more will be said"

Peter nodded.

So Peter was waiting in the calf-pens, which were small brick buildings arranged in a line, connected by a corridor. Whilst the milking was in progress, one of the farm-hands would come into the corridor and feed the calves. Other than that nobody went in, except to remove animals on market day, or to muck out. There were five pens, each could hold about five calves. Today there were only three occupied, the other two had been cleaned out during the week, and the animals sold. This is a dairy farm. Bull calves are sold each week, and heifers kept to replace the milking cows. Even then, half the heifers would be sold, the herd was already at full capacity, and a working cow will have ten calves in her life-time.

Today, Peter was not interested in the finances of the farm, he was focused on Beryl's words. Peter was relieved that he was not to be sacked, but now there was a fear of punishment. Peter had been caned at his Grammar school, but only on the hands by the Headmaster. He had been slippered on the seat of his trousers, one smack, and that had hurt. Today he was waiting for a 'smacked bottom'. What did that mean? Mrs Percival had two young children, but the oldest was only five. She had been seen to drop the little boy's shorts and slap his bare bottom, one or two whacks with her hand. The other child was a toddler in nappies, and might have had a slap on her thigh but nothing severe.

Peter on the other hand was fifteen, almost a man he thought to himself. Would she make him take his trousers down? What if she did it herself, that would be so humiliating. And what will she use? A cane, perhaps, there are some bamboo ones in the farmer's garden. Maybe a switch, cut freshly from one of the many trees around here. Or will it be over her knee like a little boy, bare-bottom on show and smacked until he cried. The anticipation was killing him, at least when he was in trouble at school Peter knew the drill. Cane from the head, slipper from the rest of the staff, and never bare.

"Right, you" Peter almost wet himself as Beryl announced her arrival. Why had she come in through the calf-pen, and not via the corridor? Peter spun round to see Beryl had a length of hose-pipe in her hand. Not just any hose, but a section of that high powered hose which Peter enjoyed using so much. It was bright yellow and as thick as his wrist. Beryl held a three-foot length, which the farmer had been seen to use to prod the cows with. She must have picked it up from the milking parlour after she had collected her milk.

"Let down your trousers, and bend over that rail" Beryl ordered, in a crisp tone that told Peter this was not negotiable. Peter fidgeted with the button of his jeans. They opened and he pushed them down to mid-thigh. Peter leaned over the rail between the two empty calf-pens. In the far pens, the calves lined up to look at him. They were not used to having company, and watched with interest.

"And the pants" Beryl added. Peter reached back and lowered his white Y fronts at the rear, keeping them up at the front. Despite the situation, Peter felt a tingling in his loins, he assumed it was fear that had caused his scrotum to tighten.

"Now stay still until I tell you it's over" said Beryl.

Oh God, thought Peter. If I knew how many, I could stick it out, but she is going to whip me until I cry.

WHAP. Beryl slammed the hose into Peter's naked rear.

"Oww" Peter yelped. The hose stung, and whipped round onto his right hip.

The calves, in perfect time, stepped back, turned to their left, and ran round the pen.

WHAP. Beryl was not going to waste much time on this.

"Owwww" Peter was getting desperate. Christ that thing hurts.

WHAP.

"Arrgh" Peter stood up, clutching his buttocks, tears gushing from his face. "Oh please, it hurts, it... it hurts"

" I said STAY DOWN" Beryl almost screamed.

"I can't. It hurts so much"

"Then put you head in the feeding trap" advised Beryl

The feeding traps were special bars in the rails. Two adjacent bars was hinged at the base, and hooked at the top. When opened, the calf could poke it's head though the railings to reach a bucket. The bars could then be closed to trap the animal in position. The two bars were bent so that the gap in the middle was wider than at the ends. The traps were used to ensure that all the calves were fed equally. Peter put his head through, but realised that he could pull it out again even when the bars were clasped shut.

"Go right through" Beryl suggested "Let me close it on your waist"

Peter did as she said. He opened the bars, and got down onto his knees, then crawled though the rails. Beryl pulled the tops of the bars together, and the fit was perfect. Peter was well and truly trapped. He was pinned, kneeling, bare bottom presented for punishment. And there was no way he could move, certainly not forward or backwards, and up or down was completely out.

" Now, Lad, This will teach you to ruin our milk"

WHAP

"Ouch" Peter yelped. With the new posture, Beryl was higher up - relatively, she had to land the hose diagonally. The tip now slammed into Peter's thigh, causing an intense sting in virgin skin.

WHAP

"Ouch" Peter regretted the milk.

WHAP

"OW. Please, that's enough"

"I will be the judge of that" Beryl reminded him.

WHAP

WHAP

WHAP

"Oww. I'm Sorry, so sorry. I am sorry" Peter sobbed. His buttocks were bright red all over.

"You will be"

WHAP

WHAP

WHAP

WHAP

WHAP

WHAP

"Well, that seems to have done the trick" Beryl admired her handiwork "Now just wait there until it has cooled off" And with that Beryl walked out.

Peter stayed still for a while, crying very loudly, then softly, then calmed down. Everything went quiet. The calves could be heard breathing heavily in the nearby pens, and shuffling straw as they moved around.

Peter wondered how long he had been stuck here, he had lost all sense of time.

Peter wondered how long he would be left like this. Had Beryl expected him to release himself? What exactly had she said? Peter had been crying so much that he had not listened carefully. Was it "Wait until I come back" or "Wait until you feel better" or something else? If he stayed much longer the farmer would miss him. Suddenly Peter felt a wet object touch his behind. Twisting round, he saw the farmer's sheep-dog. It was licking his backside.

"Oh my God" muttered Peter "This is really too much"

Then his blood ran cold. That dog never left it's master's side.

"What the hell are you doing?" demanded Mr Percival.

"I'm sorry" Peter began " I was caught drinking milk and Mrs Percival smacked me"

"She did a good job of it" he observed "what did she use?"

"A piece of hose, and it hurts a lot"

"If I had caught you, I would have sent you packing"

"Please don't sack me. I did deserve a good beating, and sure got one. I'll never drink from the ladle again, I promise"

"Well, you had better get back to work" said Mr Percival as he opened the calf trap "and if I ever catch you doing anything silly, I will put you back in there myself"

Peter crawled backwards out of the rails, and gathered up his trousers.

"I am sorry" he repeated.

"Go to the house, and ask for a cup of milk" said Mr Percival "I think you need it" He landed a hearty pat to Peter's rump, just as one does with little boys.

"Ouch. Thank you, Sir" said Peter as he limped towards the house, both hands rubbing his rear.

"That's OK" smiled Mr Percival. Until now, Peter had called him Simon, just as the other farm-workers did. The farmer liked the sound of SIR, and would ask Peter to use it in future.

At the door of the house Mrs Percival smiled and handed Peter the cup.

"Have a good drink," she said "and bring the cup straight back"

"Yes Ma'am. Thank you for punishing me"

"Oh, don't mention it" she grinned.

True to her word, the incident was never mentioned again.

And true to his word, Mr Percival did put Peter into the calf-trap. But during that long hot summer it was often the farmer's wife who took their errant labourer to task. Out in the fields, or when busy around the farm Mr Percival would say to the naughty Peter, "Go up to the house, and ask for a seeing to"

And Peter did just that.

If you enjoyed this, please say so. If not, say why. Email the author, address at the top of the story.


More stories byPaul Crewe