PREFACE
This story is purely fiction. I have never shop-lifted in my life nor have I ever been strip-searched although I have often fantasised about being forcibly subjected to the latter prior to being given a spanking for questioning the authority of the person searching me, or whining as my orifices were roughly probed. I am grateful to the sadistic prefects at my former secondary (high) school who inspired me to write this story after seeing a cute-looking youth being arrested for attempting to steal a soccer shirt from a local sports store. (All references to football in this story refer to the English game of soccer and neither American Football, Australian Rules Football nor Rugby Football: much as though the skimpy shorts Australian Rules Footballers wear are infinitely more alluring than the hideously long shorts now worn by amateur and professional soccer players alike worldwide)!
This time last year, Simon (one of the shop assistants at my local Sports n Soccer shop) caught me stealing a Chelsea (Football Club) shirt. I had asked Paul (the only other assistant on-duty at the shop) if I could try the shirt on and he said "Okay". I took the shirt into the changing cubicle and took off the jacket and T-shirt I was wearing and put the Chelsea shirt over my singlet before putting my jacket back on and the T-shirt I had been wearing in the carrier bag I had with me before attempting to sneak out of the shop unnoticed. I thought I had removed all the labels and tags to the Chelsea shirt but I must have missed the security tag as an alarm sounded when I went to leave the store, prompting Simon to stop me.
"Excuse me one minute, could I have a look in your bag please" Simon asked me.
"Why" I asked, "I havent got anything on or with me that doesnt belong to me".
"Let me check .... the security alarm doesnt usually go off for nothing", he persisted. It was just as well there was no-one else other than Paul in the store, as I would have felt most humiliated being stopped if there were other customers around. I opened the carrier bag and Simon looked inside.
"Whats this" he asked, taking hold of my T-shirt.
"Nothing" I replied, "only an old T-shirt of mine. Im on my way home after staying overnight with friend".
"Let me have a closer look" Simon said, taking my T-shirt out of the bag so he could examine it more closely.
"That seems to be okay" he said folding it back up and putting it back inside my bag.
"Have you got anything on you that you havent paid for"?
"Ive already said No" I replied nervously.
"Are you sure"?
"Yes" I replied angrily loud enough for anyone else in the store to hear. "It must be your alarm system thats screwed up".
At this point Paul looked up from serving a customer I previously hadnt noticed was in the store and spotted Simon talking to me. I suddenly felt giddy with embarrassment. "Anything wrong Si", he called out.
"Nothing I cant handle thanks Paul" Simon replied, "the alarm has just gone off".
"Bloody thing" muttered Paul, "Ill have to get Mr Byrd to look at it when he gets back; it keeps going off for some reason best known to itself".
Simon was about to let me go assuming the alarm was faulty - when I foolishly looked round and Paul noticed I was wearing the Chelsea top.
"Hold on a minute Si; I dont think the kid has paid for that shirt. Ill just finish serving this lady here and then Ill give you a hand" Paul called out.
Simon looked at me suspiciously without saying a word. "Who do you think youre looking at" I asked angrily, "it is my top".
Paul finished serving the lady customer he was with and, after she had left the store, walked over to where Simon and I were standing.
I was now standing in-between both of them; Simon was a bit taller than me but bigger-built and appeared to be in his early twenties, Paul was about my height and build and appeared to be slightly older than Simon. Both were wearing their store uniform of navy rugby shirts with white collars, red-and-white striped sleeves and the company logo, navy jogging bottoms (again with the Sports n Soccer logo) and all-white Adidas training shoes.
Being a couch potato I was not a frequent visitor to the store but, with passing it most days on the way to and from school, I knew Simon was a relatively new member of staff, whereas Paul had been there for over a year; Simon was certainly the better-looking of the two of them and as I looked at them both I wondered if Simon was still there in the summer months he would wear a pair of navy rugby shorts as Paul had the previous summer to show-off his well-defined thighs: the outline of which I could see underneath his jogging bottoms as he turned his left leg sideways and lifted his left foot up at the back so his weight shifted to his toes and caused his jogging bottoms to become taut. I had often thought of applying for a Saturday job at the store myself as quite often one passed by and saw would-be customers emerging from the changing cubicles in shorts to seek approval (or otherwise) from their friends and or partners, parents and or guardians, and on a good day there was plenty of eye-candy to be consumed, but I was put off by knowing very little about sport I avoided games like the plague at school as, with having poor eye-foot eye-hand co-ordination I was never very good at it, and having poor upper-body strength I was equally useless at doing press-ups or swinging from parallel bars in the gym, whilst having come off my bike when I was little and dislocated my right knee I was always afraid of over-exerting myself in case my right knee dislocated again and not having the legs to wear shorts if, as I was led to believe by someone else who had worked in the store prior to me, one was expected to wear them during the summer months or whenever Mr Byrd (the Manager) told one to do so.
With my mind wandering and undressing Simon as fast it would let me, I didnt hear what Paul said to me until Simon flicked my earlobe with his finger. "Paul is speaking to you" he snapped.
"Sorry" I said, coming back to earth with a hard bump, "I was miles away".
"I could see that" said Paul, "I also thought you just asked if you could just try it on".
"Try what on" I asked confused.
"The Chelsea shirt youre wearing and which we suspect you have attempted to lift without paying" Paul replied.
"You must be getting me confused with the kid who left a few moments ago" I protested as I tugged at the shirt, "Ive had this shirt for weeks and wear it all the time .... you can ask anyone".
"Looks new to me kid" Simon said, "do you mind if I check the label at the back"?
"Feel free" I said, feeling confident I had removed all traces of it not belonging to me, although greatly embarrassed that at this point Mrs McPhie one of my next-door neighbours entered the store with her two sons Robert (aged ten) and Ian (aged eight) and that all three were looking at me, wondering what was going on.
Simon checked. Sure enough, in-between the looped label on the inside collar (giving the size of the shirt and the washing instructions) , a security tag was still attached.
"I think you had better come with me a minute", Paul said sternly.
"Why" I asked angrily, as if I didnt know, before glancing across at my neighbour, "what the _f_u_c_k_s going on" I exclaimed.
"I dont think I have to tell you, do I" asked Paul.
"There must be a mistake ...." I protested, loud enough for Mrs McPhie, Ian and Robert to hear, "Ive never stolen anything in my life".
"Now you are trying it on, if youll excuse the pun" Simon interrupted.
"Excuse me" Mrs McPhie said tapping Paul on his tap, "do you have any black nylon football shorts in a size twenty-six for Robert here".
"Certainly Madam .... if youll just bear with me a few moments, Ill be pleased to help you" Paul replied.
"Oh hello Calvin, I didnt see you here" she added dishonestly as she glanced in my direction, "I thought it was you; lovely day today isnt it", pretending she had neither noticed me nor overheard my conversation with Simon and Paul. In fact, she has very good hearing and equally good sight: she never misses a thing and is renowned for being something of a nosey-parker so, by now, I guess she has already told everyone in my street about this mornings episode and added her own little bits to it .... just to add to my embarrassment! [I will soon know if anyone in the street asks me what happened at Sports n Soccer this morning or my father asks to see me in his study for "a little chat"]!!!
"Ill deal with this Paul", Simon said.
"Thanks" replied Paul; the look on his face told me he had served Mrs McPhie before and knew what an awkward old cow she can be no wonder her husband left her for the local Mayoress (even though it caused a bit of a scandal when Mrs McPhie accused her ex-husband of having _s_e_x_ with the Mayoress in-front of his two boys, then aged just six and four respectively) I thought - and was relieved that Simon had offered to serve her .... or so he thought!
"No, I mean Ill deal with Mr Light-fingers here if you want to serve the lady", Simon said loud enough for her to hear. There was no hope of this mornings episode being kept secret now: she would be the first to tell my father the news if no-one else had beaten him to it as she would just as surely tell everyone else we both knew in the process, which would almost certainly mean that my father would spank me within an inch of my life!
"Okay Si" Paul answered reluctantly, "You know what to do with the kid"?
"Sure do" said Simon smiling, taking hold of my left arm just above my elbow and digging his fingernails into me.
"Do you mind" I snapped.
"Do you" Simon retorted, deepening his grip on me, "come with me little boy"!
With that, Simon led me away from the shop-floor and into the stockroom behind and closed the door after him as Robert, Ian and Mrs McPhie looked on. "Have fun guys" Paul called after us.
Inside the stockroom I turned to Simon "Im sorry I forgot; I have an identical top to this at home; I dont know what came over me, I must have thought I ...." I pleaded unsuccessfully.
"Shut it kid", Simon ordered.
"I said Im ....." I began.
"And I said shut it", Simon snapped angrily. He let go of my arm and pushed me forward, causing me to stumble. "Stop farting around boy" he ordered, "Mr Byrd, the manager, is away at a managers meeting this morning but he should be back before lunch; until then you either do what I tell you or Ill call the police and have you nicked for shop-lifting now: got it"?!
"Okay .... okay", I answered.
"Good" exclaimed Simon, "I think we have an understanding. Now then face the wall, spread your arms and legs apart like a St Andrews saltire and make sure your nose and toes touch the wall so I can search you".
I did as I was told. "Im sorry I ...." I again attempted to explain.
Simon pulled my head back by my hair before pushing it forward causing my forehead to hit the unplastered brick wall. I yelped with pain.
"I wont tell you again boy" he snapped, "speak when I tell you to and not before .... youll have plenty of time to explain yourself when Mr Byrd gets back, but Im going to enjoy playing with you first"!
"_f_u_c_k_ off", I retorted.
Simon pulled my head back by my hair before pushing it forward a second time, causing my forehead to hit the wall again, harder than before. It hurt like Hell and grazed my forehead, causing it to bleed slightly. "Mind your language little boy or I may have to teach you how to control your tongue", he warned me in a distinctly familiar voice. The way he said it reminded me of someone but I couldnt remember who it was or where I had heard those words before. My forehead was beginning to throb as he roughly frisked my arms and back over my jacket and down the inside and outside legs of my jeans before gently patting me on the seat of my jeans. "Whats your name boy" he asked.
"Calvin, Calvin Owens" I replied, keeping my face towards the wall
"I prefer Calvin Kleins myself .... preferably white cotton ones; theyre very _s_e_x_y on boys your age" Simon mocked, "how old are you Calvin"?
"Eighteen".
"Eighteen eh?! Old enough to be _f_u_c_k_ed and old enough to know better than to shop-lift then arent you"? I didnt answer. Without warning he punched me sharply me in the small of my back. "Answer me boy", he snapped.
"Yes" I retorted angrily. The force with which he punched me told me, without him expressly saying so, that he was stronger much stronger than me; it would be pointless me trying to retaliate.
"Turn around and interlock your hands behind your head" he ordered, "and keep your elbows back behind your shoulders and your legs spread apart". I did as he told me after wiping away a trickle of blood from my forehead. "You go to the Model Boys School dont you" he asked me.
"Yes" I answered.
Simon slapped me hard across my face, momentarily knocking me off balance. "Yes what", he snapped.
"Yes Sir" I replied without thinking.
"Thats better" he smirked. Then I realised who he was: Simon Hardcastle! He had been a prefect and in the sixth-form when I started at the Model Boys School five-and-a-half years earlier. Throughout my first year at the Model Boys and what was thankfully his last he religiously picked both on me (because of my accent) and also my best school friend Mike (as Mike was slightly overweight). Leaving aside my accent I was easily identified as a "new boy" as like all Lower School (First, Second and Third Year) boys I was made to wear shorts as part of my school uniform throughout the school year (including the winter months when there was ice and snow on the ground), and in my first few weeks soon got lost amidst trying to find my way from one building to another in-between lessons! Being sent on a wild goose-chase outdoors when wearing shorts on a wet and cold autumn day is no joke I can assure you, particularly when one arrives at ones destination late only to have the back of ones thighs struck with a a metre-long wooden blackboard ruler for arriving late after ones lesson had started.
Hardcastle and several of his chums had made a point of giving me the wrong directions several times or waiting near the corridor I was about to enter to get to the classroom where my Maths lesson was scheduled to take place and telling me that my lesson was now taking place elsewhere so off I rushed to get there in-time only to find that my lesson was taken place in its scheduled place to begin with, landing me in trouble with my Maths (Mr Walker) teacher several times for arriving late for his lessons. As Mr Walker was in a different House to me he took great delight in not only striking the back of my thighs with his blackboard ruler for arriving late, but also giving me one or sometimes two demerits at a time.
All merits and demerits given were recorded in each boys "Pupil Record Book" by the member of staff issuing them, and in which one also had to daily document the homework one had been set that day; at the end of each week one was expected to show ones parents guardians ones record book so they could sign to say that they had seen it and record any comments about ones classwork homework or, judging by the number of merits and demerits one had received, ones conduct at school throughout the past five days before one was required to present it to ones Form Master at the beginning of the following week for him to countersign the comments of ones parents guardians and note any action the school was proposing to take to meet the concerns of ones parents guardians. Any boy given anything up to ten demerits in one calendar month was guaranteed to be placed in after-school "House Detention" for the whole of the following month whilst boys who were given more than ten demerits in a calendar month were guaranteed both "House Detention" and a maximum of six strokes of the cane (either across the seat of their shorts or the back of their thighs below the hem of their shorts) if they were Lower School boys or up a maximum of twelve strokes (purportedly across their bare backsides) if they were in Upper School boys (i. e., Fourth, Fifth and Sixth-Formers). I lived in constant fear of being caned, knowing that if I was caned at school my father would also give me the belt at home!
As I began finding my way around the school without asking for directions, and dodged Hardcastles thumps as I learnt to ignore his advice that the venue of my Maths lesson had changed to ensure I got to my lesson at the correct venue on-time, in order to avoid being given further demerits by the hated Mr Walker, Hardcastles tactics changed and he began bullying me for my dinner money on my way to school: if I didnt give it to him he would snatch my Pupil Record Book from me to see what homework I was likely to have with me, ransack my satchel until he had found it and then tear it up my homework to land me in further trouble with the subject teacher concerned (usually Mr Walker) for having no homework to present to him her for marking. On one occasion I was waiting by the bus stop alone to take a bus to school when Hardcastle and his closest friend Gary Milson (another prefect) cycled past me and snatched my games bag. I ran after them but it was hopeless trying to catch up with them and I ended up missing the bus and arriving late for morning registration and without my games kit, which resulted in me being given an after-school detention from my Form Master for being late and a paddling across the seat of a spare pair of gym shorts from my Games Master Mr Sparks for not having my kit. Hardcastle and Milson only returned my games kit to me after I allowed them to finger my butt and give me a further paddling across my bare butt the following day.
On another occasion Hardcastle and Milson summoned me to the Sixth Form Common Room during my morning break when Milson told me that Hardcastle felt I looked under-nourished and needed feeding; I naively explained that I had already taken breakfast before leaving for school whereupon Milson replied "not with cereal you stupid boy but with sausages"!!! I was then forced to blow each of them dry and swallow their man-juice; it was the first time I had ever sucked a guys _c_o_c_k_ let alone tasted spunk and afterwards Hardcastle soundly strapped me for gagging on his tool as he thrust it down my throat. On yet another occasion Hardcastle and Milson made me watch as they paddled "Fat Soul" (i. e., Mike) before paddling me for protesting at being forced to handover my dinner money to them; halfway through paddling me over his knee Hardcastle stopped and lit up a cigarette which he shared with Milson before stumping the butt out on the back of my thigh. I screamed with pain before being told to shut-up or next time the cigarette butt would be stumped out on my balls]!
I mentally recalled these incidents for several minutes as Simon looked me up and down, smiling knowingly, before saying "I thought it was you! Its been a long time Owens; Ive missed you".
"Like a sore head" I mocked, attempting to make light of the situation.
Simon slapped me hard across the face a second time, harder than before. "Youre still an impertinent little _s_h_i_t_ arent you, or is it because now as when I first set my eyes on you you need a lesson or two in how to control your tongue"?
"_f_u_c_k_ off Hardcastle", I retorted, fast losing the vestiges of my sense of humour.
He smirked. "Mind your language little boy! When Uncle Simon is around youre never too old to be put over my knee .... just like old times; do you remember those days Owens? No wonder they say schooldays are the best days of ones life. I enjoyed my little games with you and your little friend, Fat Soul .... where is the fat git these days anyway, as I havent seen him for ages; still at school is he"?
"No, hes left" I replied, lowering my arms to my sides as they were starting to ache, "I think hes now working in the city somewhere. Ive lost touch with him to be honest".
"Put your hands back where they were and your elbows back behind your shoulders Owens" he told me. Without thinking I did as he told me. "Thats better" he smirked, "whos your latest bum-chum or havent you got one"?
"Im still looking for someone", I explained.
"Ah, poor boy .... poor little boy" Hardcastle mocked, "perhaps thats why you nicked the shirt was it .... in the hope that youd pull someone by implying youre man enough to like football; come off it Owens, you never could kick a ball could you? The only time you ever came near a football pitch was chasing over some other kid in shorts if not the ball, isnt that right"?!
"Takes one to know one Hardcastle" I replied, "what happened to Milson"?
"Dont mention him to me again" Simon snapped, clearly hurt that I had asked after the one guy everyone in the Lower School had suspected of being Hardcastles lover. Both Hardcastle and Milson flatly denied accusations they were gay let alone having an affair but suspicion abounded as they were inseparable from each other in and out of school, quite apart from the fact that neither had any interest at all in the opposite _s_e_x_, both were aroused by committing sado-masochistic acts with younger boys, and had been appointed as prefects by Mr Dunn (a recently-retired housemaster who was said to have shown overt homo_s_e_x_ual lust to younger boys in his care and release his frustration at being unable to screw any boy by soundly caning them for the slightest misdemeanour). "The _f_u_c_k_ing bitch left me and got married to some bloody dog a year after we left school and I havent seen or heard of him since! I didnt even get to meet her or an invitation to their wedding not that I would have gone anyway but that didnt stop her from divorcing him eighteen months later to the day after they were married, and then claiming that Milly was having an affair with me: the cheek of it"!
"Im sorry", I muttered apologetically.
"Yeah! Well! Enough said .... now get your elbows back behind your shoulders so I can finish searching you".
Hardcastle frisked my arms, chest and abdomen over my jacket, and the inside and outside legs of my jeans a second time, before gently giving my _c_o_c_k_-and-balls a quickc squeeze through my jeans and removing my wallet from the front left-hand pocket of my jacket: the self-same wallet from which he had regularly taken my dinner money almost six years earlier.
"My, my, this brings back memories" he smirked as he opened it up to look inside. "I think Ill have this for all the grief you have caused me today in bringing back memories of happier times with Milly" he said helping himself to the three ten pound notes and one five pound note inside it and putting it inside the pocket of his navy jogging bottoms.
"Take it" I said, "but cant you just let me go? I mean, it wouldnt do you any favours were I to report you for assaulting me this morning would it".?
"Are you blackmailing me, you little _s_h_i_t_" he asked acrimoniously.
"I wouldnt call it blackmail" I replied, "more like an old boys arrangement. You forget my attempt to nick the shirt, and Ill forget you ever assaulted me or took my money".
"Things arent that simple" Simon replied, "Paul knows you nicked the shirt".
"You could always say it was the bloody alarm playing-up again".
"But he told you, you could try the shirt on, and he spotted you wearing it after you failed to buy it or at least have the sense to take off the security tag".
"Its his word against ours .... come on Hardcastle, do me a favour, you can keep the _f_u_c_k_ing shirt and my thirty-five squid, just drop any charges youre going to lay against me".
"You mean its my word against yours! Now what do you want with a football shirt anyway; as I said earlier youre not the worlds keenest footballer"?
"Yeah .... well .... I just thought if I got it I could invite Lee Marriott round to stay the night one Saturday ....".
"Whos Lee Marriott and what the _f_u_c_k_ has he got to do with it"?
"Hes the new Captain of the Lower Sixth Soccer Team and an ardent Chelsea supporter. I thought if I had a Chelsea shirt I could claim it was an unwanted birthday present and he could have it providing it fits him ..... so I could get him to try it on".
"You mean you were prepared to nick a shirt so you could get some dumb kid to briefly show you his tits .... Jesus man, how desperate are you"?!
"You dont understand" I said, "Lee is ....".
"I understand perfectly" Hardcastle interrupted, "I bet youre concealing the rest of the Blues [Chelsea] strip underneath your jeans so you can claim the shorts and socks are unwanted birthday presents too! Go on, admit it .... or prove me wrong"!
"Im not" I replied, "Mores the pity as I would be the first to admit that Marriott looks great in a pair of shorts".
"Take your jeans off then".
"What for", I asked indignantly.
"To prove to me youre not trying to run-off with the rest of the Chelsea kit! Get a move on for Christs sake; Ive been stuck in this bloody shop for six months and Ive been waiting for a half-decent bit of eye-candy to look at".
"Your mate Paul next door is not bad .... but I guess he would look better if you could persuade your manager to make him wear shorts instead of those hideous jogging bottoms hes got on".
"Hes not my mate; hes just some thick _s_h_i_t_ I work with whose only interest in life is _f_u_c_k_ing Manchester United, going down the _f_u_c_k_ing pub and _f_u_c_k_ing his bird every night! Jesus, is she ugly: shes enough to turn the straightest man into a homo, apart from Paul himself of course but they say love is blind dont they?! .... Now, get your _f_u_c_k_ing jeans off" Simon ordered, picking-up my carrier bag. I untied my training shoes and kicked them off knowing it would be impossible to take my jeans off over my shoes before unfastening my jeans, pulling them down to my ankles and stepping out of them, and stood before Simon in just my fleece jacket with the stolen Chelsea shirt on and my white singlet and a pair of white mini-slip briefs hidden underneath, and white sport socks prominently on display. I eyed him up-and-down. Other than putting on some weight no doubt through taking a few courses of steroids and weight-lifting he hadnt changed much since leaving school five years earlier nor, I suspected, had he achieved much as he was never the brightest or most conscientious pupil, but got to be a prefect as Mr Dunn used him as a "recruiting sergeant" to identify suitable prey to satisfy Dunns own lust.
"Satisfied" I asked.
"You had better take the shirt off as well since you havent paid for it".
"I suppose I had better" I said reluctantly. I removed my fleece jacket and the Chelsea football shirt before passing the latter to him. "Can I have my T-shirt back to put on; its a bit nippy in here without it"?
"Not so fast" Simon said, "pass me your jeans".
"What do you want them for"?
"Just do it". I picked my jeans up off the floor and passed them to him. "Pity I dont possess Money-Bags skills, you could give me an extended loan of your debit cards", he chuckled, "Christ knows that the wages in here are _s_h_i_t_"!
"I dont know who you mean; Money-Bags, whos he or she when its at home"?
"Sorry I forgot, Money-Bags left or should I say was helped to leave with the aid of an expulsion order the year before you started at the Model Boys; he was what one could call a literary impersonator, or in laymans terms, a master fraudster, who made a nice little fortune for himself charging people a pound a time to make good bad school reports, when he was not writing and signing cheques for himself from the school welfare fund and anyone elses cheque book he could lay his hands on. He could forge anybodys signature .... lucky sod! God knows where he is now: either sharing some Victorian overcrowded slum like Wormwood Scrubs or living like a lord in a rolling country estate paid for from his, how can one put it, extra-curricular activities"!
Simon checked inside my pockets again and finding nothing other than my keys and checked my wallet again (leaving me with just forty-two pence change in the coin pocket, a couple of debit cards, my library membership cards and half a book of first-class stamps inside). "No piccie of Fat Soul for posterity" he asked.
"No .... we were never that close".
"Could have fooled me; you always seemed to be crawling up each others arses" Simon said, closing my wallet and putting it back inside one of the pockets to my jeans, before folding my jeans up and putting them back inside my carrier bag. "Take off your socks" he ordered.
"You what"?
"You heard me .... take off your socks". I did as I was told, either too afraid or too confused to ask why. "Give them to me together with your shoes and your fleece. You can have them back when Ive finished what I have to do".
"I dont know what youre planning Hardcastle but this has gone quite far enough", I replied assertively, fearful that he was planning to _f_u_c_k_ me.
"Just do it or Ill call the police; remember youre the one in the wrong here. It wasnt me who was caught shop-lifting".
I removed my socks and passed them to him, along with my fleece and training shoes. He looked up and down at me, put my clothes away in my bag, and smiled. "Mmmm, not bad, looks like youve grown a bit since I last saw you" he added, fixing his eyes on my crotch. My _c_o_c_k_, already hard with fear, twitched against the inside of my briefs. "Time for a closer look I think .... or should I say a more thorough search ..... There are times like this when I wished I had entered the Prison Service you know, just think what one could get up to in-there, helping to process and strip-search all those young studs on their arrival and daily when one succeeded in having the little bastards thrown into the punishment block for bad behaviour. By the way, do you like the Pet Shop Boys"?
"A bit; why" I asked.
"Have you seen their latest hit Young Offender? It has a nice video-clip with it showing a cute-looking kid having his head flushed down the bog just like I did to you once at school, remember? I think it was on your twelfth birthday shortly after you started at the Model Boys. Anyhow, this video-clip with Young Offender also has another nice scene showing the back of a kid stepping naked out of the shower stall with a very _f_u_c_k_able little arse".
"Cant say Ive seen it" I said, "Its probably Money-Bags"!
"Thats not funny; had he not been helped to move on, he, Milly and I would have made a nice little business when Mr Dunn made me a prefect; who knows, with the revenue Money-Bags was bringing in I may not have needed to ask you for a loan of your dinner money to keep me supplied with beer and cigarettes! Seriously, the kid on the Young Offender clip is hot; Id _f_u_c_k_ him for free if I was a screw in his joint"!
"Hardcastle" I exclaimed, "is that all you can think about"?!
"Really Owens, there are times when I wonder about you; have you had a mans _c_o_c_k_ up your arse yet or are you still hoping it will happen? One learns of all manner of pathetic little stories about little old ladies and so-called battered wives shop-lifting to get put into the slammer and get attention, but not gay teenagers unless my talk of what I would do if I was a screw has prompted you to plead guilty in the hope that you will be incarcerated in some boot-camp where you will be mercilessly _f_u_c_k_ed by your fellow inmates all day and by sadistic screws all night. Do me a favour pretty-boy, dont go pleading guilty until Ive got into the Prison Service so I can have first claim on your arse when you arrive"!!!
Before I could answer, the door opened and Mr Byrd the manager came in. I knew who it was as he had served me in the past, before Simon and Paul began working at the store. He looked more like an insurance broker than the manager of a sports shop dressed, as he was, in a blue short-sleeved dress shirt, auburn tie and grey slacks., rather than the navy tracksuit with white polo-shirt underneath I had only ever seen him in hitherto.
"Well hello there gentlemen, Paul said I would find you here Simon" he exclaimed, "What have we here, a gay _s_e_x_ orgy or can anybody join in"?
"Sorry Mr Byrd" Simon replied, "Paul and I caught Mr Light-fingers here trying to steal a Blues top, so Ive just asked him to strip down to his underwear to make sure he isnt concealing anything else under his top-clothes".
"And is he"?
"Not that I can see Mr Byrd, but I havent quite finished searching him yet" Simon asked.
"You have established that our friend here is eighteen or over, have you Simon? I dont want you giving us a reputation for searching a minor without a parent or chaperone present or, worse still, child abuse"?
"I have Mr Byrd .... in fact I know him from school as he was in the First Year in the Model Boys when I was in the Lower Sixth, and we were just discussing how I gave him the usual birthday hairwash on his twelfth birthday".
"Down the toilet you mean", asked Mr Byrd.
"Yeah, after my other half had providentially sprayed the pan with diarrhoea! Milly couldnt have timed it better, bless him"!
"Boys, Boys, Boys", Mr Byrd exclaimed ecstatically. "Now then Simon, before you get carried away having an old school reunion with our friend here, you also know that you should only intimately search a suspected shop-lifter over the age of eighteen in my presence or, in my absence or incapacity, a police officer to avoid any accusations of abuse"?!
"Yes Mr Byrd .... I wasnt preparing to proceed any further until your return but thought I would speed things up a bit by asking the kid to strip down to his underwear in preparation for your arrival".
"Thank you Simon .... you are taking to your job like a duck to water I see" Mr Byrd continued before turning to me, "now then young man, perhaps you would care to explain how and why I have come to find you in the position you are now".
I thought of telling Mr Byrd the whole story, including how Simon had assaulted me, but decided against it; he was obviously as gay as we were and clearly a top, so I simply confessed to attempting to steal the Chelsea football shirt when the alarm went off and Simon caught me.
"Youre a very silly boy" Mr Byrd said, "but I know just how football crazy boys your age can be, particularly with all those pretty boys running round the pitch in short shorts, so I am prepared to give you an option of one of three punishments: Number One, you go home and tell your parents what has happened and you return with either or both of them to apologise to me in-person and in-front of your folks for what you have done: that way I know they are aware of your misdemeanours and will hopefully keep a closer eye on you in future before you end up in more serious trouble than you are now. Number Two, I report your shop-lifting incident to the police and they will either caution you or press charges depending on what they think is most appropriate, though I should add that if they press charges you may end up going to court and either be given a fine or a community service order if this is your first offence or a spell in a Young Offenders Institution if you have already been in trouble with the law. Number Three, we can deal with this as my father would have dealt with me had I been in your position; in other words, you can drop your pants and position yourself over my knee for a hand-spanking across your bare butt to warm you up before you bend over my desk and spread your legs apart for as many licks with my belt as you are years old .... thats twenty you said didnt you"?
"Eighteen" I replied.
"Eighteen or twenty .... whats two extra strokes in place of a court appearance and all the adverse publicity that goes with it, particularly amongst friends. Lets make it twenty shall we; that we I can give you three sixes with the strap making a total of eighteen strokes and two additional strokes with the buckle end of the belt, to make sure todays events leave a marked impression on your butt for sometime to come! Well boy, which is it to be"?
I thought through the various options for a few moments. I entirely forgot, until leaving the store, that Mrs McPhie had seen me being arrested and that she would probably tell my father what had happened anyway, being the interfering old busybody that she is! Telling either or both of my parents what had happened myself and returning with either or both of them to apologise to Mr Byrd in person would almost certainly result in me being given an even more serious spanking from my father to that which Mr Byrd was proposing to give me; being reported to the police could mean me being named and shamed in the local press if I went to court, and possibly being given a criminal record which I could not afford to have hanging round my neck like a millstone when applying for higher education or jobs let alone any additional punishment from my father for bringing the family name into disrepute when the news of my court appearance finally hit the press so I reluctantly opted for the third.
"I thought you would say that" Mr Byrd said, "you know I dont know why we ever abolished corporal punishment in schools and why we dont restore it as an option to paying fines or serving custodial sentences for minor offences as its cheaper, far more effective and could be administered instantly either by the arresting officer or an appointed officer at the local police station to whom offenders could be made to report once or twice a week for X strokes of the strap at any one time, instead of dragging things out through the courts for negligible fines and meaningless hours of so-called community service, just to keep a few bent lawyers and corrupt judges or magistrates in business. Punishment should be about retribution not rehabilitation, and certainly not allowing lawyers to become fat-cats at everyone elses expense"!
Simon cleared his throat. "Did you say anything Simon", Mr Byrd asked?
"No Mr Byrd, just clearing my throat thats all .... although come to think of it, as in this case I was to all intents and purpose the arresting officer perhaps I could, or should ....", Simon replied.
"Simon, my dear, it is all very well for prefects to assist masters by spanking younger boys when they are at school, but older boys and men need an older man with experience to take them in hand. I appreciate your enthusiasm and well-meaning intention to punish evil but, for now, I would ask you please to contain yourself and watch as I punish the boy" Mr Byrd told him. Then turning to me he said, "Very well boy, drop your pants"!
"Please Sir .... not on my bare butt Sir", I protested.
"Oooh I do like being called Sir; it makes me sound all .... what can I say .... dominant" Mr Byrd mocked effeminately, before adding in his usual more masculine tone "That was the option you chose boy, apart from which your pants will still have to come down as I believe Young Simon has still to finish searching you for any further stolen property! Lucky bitch"!
"Hes hardly likely to find anything inside my pants" I protested.
"We shall see" Mr Byrd said whimsically, "Now do you want to pull them down yourself or shall either Simon or I pull them down for you"? I reluctantly pulled my briefs down to my knees. "Very well Simon, resume your search for prohibited contraband" Mr Byrd exclaimed.
"Mmmm, white underwear" Simon said smiling, "my favourite; pity theyre not Calvin Kleins for Calvin Owens" he mocked. "Take off your viest" he ordered. I did. Mr Byrd took it from me as I looked round for somewhere to put it. Simon then yanked my underpants down to my ankles. "Step out of them and put your hands back behind your head, with your elbows back behind your shoulders", he ordered. I did as I was told without saying a word.
Now stark naked, Simon examined my hair - short and cropped though it was - inside and behind my ears, inside my mouth and under my tongue, before gently caressing my face and neck and reminding me I needed a shave. He then examined my hands including my fingernails as he reminded me to cut my nails before continuing downwards from my neck so he could examine my chest, abdomen and under my armpits for anything else I may have concealed on my person, as Mr Byrd looked on approvingly. "And when you do get round to shaving your face get rid of that fluff on your tummy dear, its so unsightly" Mr Byrd snapped at me camply, "boys with hairy bellies are as unsightly as women with varicose veins"!!! Simon chuckled, clearly enjoying seeing me naked and humiliated, as he cupped my balls in his hand and examined them more like a doctor would when examining his patient for any unexplained lumps or swelling in his testes before rolling my foreskin to-and-fro whilst playing with my _c_o_c_k_ for three or four minutes as Mr Byrd watched for any signs of pre-cum oozing from my _c_o_c_k_. There were none. "Turn around, bend over and spread your legs and buttocks wide apart" Simon ordered.
"For _f_u_c_k_s sake" I retorted as I turned 180 degrees so my back was towards them and bent over before pulling my buttocks apart, "theres nothing up there".
"Play your cards right dear, and you may just end up being _f_u_c_k_ed there. I could do with another boy in the shop; Paul isnt really up to our standards if you know what I mean", Mr Byrd said. I pretended not to hear; I would not have objected to Simon _f_u_c_k_ing me but not Mr Byrd himself. Mr Byrd passed Simon a latex glove and a tube of lubricating jelly. "Are you sure youre okay doing this Si" he asked.
"Ive been doing it for as long as I can remember" Simon said, putting on the glove and squirting a little lube onto his finger before smearing it on my butthole and poking his finger deep inside my tight-hole., just as he had often done to me at school in-between spanking me. Now that I was older I was petrified and knew that we were both as gay as each other I was petrified he was going to _f_u_c_k_ me. One could just imagine him doing this to a herd of young prison sluts on their reception at a Young Offenders Institution.
After what seemed like an eternity but what was, in all probability, only about three or four minutes, Mr Byrd asked "Anything to report Si? We dont want our young friend enjoying the experience or hell be tempted to take up shop-lifting or should that be shirt-lifting regularly, if only to get a cheap thrill"?!
"Nothing Mr Byrd, Sir" Simon said, withdrawing his finger from my rectum, and removing and disposing of the latex glove he had worn whilst probing inside my guts, "other than his balls feel somewhat bereft of cum so I suspect hes probably been jacking-off or spilling his seed down some poor kids throat in the last twenty-four hours and that his butt hole is still quite tight so I detect that he is either still a virgin or yet to regularly experience the joys of what one man can share with another"!
"Im not talking about _s_e_x_ Hardcastle, Im talking about the stock from my shop .... have you found any more stolen goodies"?
"No Sir", Simon replied.
"Very well boy" Mr Byrd said to me. "I can see youre cold so you might as well put your vest and put your pants back on in case we are disturbed either by some untimely delivery of new stock or that incompetent little bitch Paul trying to find something for some awkward customer; you know that boy has been with me almost three years and he still cant find half of the things we keep".
"Thats hardly surprising is it" said Simon, "a guy who doesnt know to put his _c_o_c_k_ down a younger boys throat or up another mans arse is hardly likely to know where to find a shuttle_c_o_c_k_ in a sports shop is he?! Theres a lot to be said for fathers teaching their sons where to find things, and where and where not to utilise their tools to their possible advantage and thats certainly not poking them up some dogs fanny"!
Mr Byrd chuckled. "Pity you cant give Paul some tuition, young Simon! Hed may lose his acne if he was shagged regularly .... they say its caused by suppressed hormones or sweat clogging up the pores of ones skin that _s_e_x_ually-inactive or inept folk not remembering that they still need to shower even if their _s_e_x_ life is non-existent"!!! Mr Byrd passed me my singlet and briefs.
"Thank you" I said. I was indeed cold; I glanced across at the digital wall-clock and thermometer on the far wall which showed that the temperature in the store room was a mere 62.5 degrees Fahrenheit before putting on my vest.
I stepped into my briefs and was about to pull them back up when Mr Byrd said "Leave them down until after Ive spanked you .... now follow me". I shuffled into his adjoining office after him with my briefs hobbled round my ankles wondering what he was going to do next.
"Do you want me to join you or shall I join thick _s_h_i_t_ in the shop", Simon asked.
"I should join us if you like; he may do some work for a change if hes left on his own; in any event hell have to get off his arse to find something .... lazy little bastard", Mr Byrd replied. He obviously didnt like Paul. Simon followed me in and closed the door behind him. store room.
Mr Byrds office was much warmer than the cold store-room and fitted out more like a lounge in a private home than the office of a shop, with a reproduction antique desk, reproduction antique filing cabinet, two reproduction antique wall units one of which housed a glass display cabinet filled with assorted sports trophies and a few books and a drinks cabinet on one half of the room and what looked like a navy sofa-bed next to a small sideboard with a fancy table clock on top opposite a free-standing television and video-recorder on the other. "Lock the door and make yourself comfortable Si. We dont want Paul disturbing our fun and games", Mr Byrd ordered. Si bolted the office door and made himself comfortable in the antique reproduction executive chair behind the desk whilst he sat down in the middle of the sofa-bed and pulled me over his knee. With my head resting on the sofa-bed, Mr Byrd then pulled up my vest to give him a clear view of my bottom and positioned his left hand over the small of my back to hold me in place before hand-spanking me long and hard with his right hand.
"Once Ive warmed you up with my hand you can take your vest and pants completely off, and position yourself over my desk for twenty strokes of the belt! Believe me boy, you are going to have one very sore arse by the time Im through with spanking you", he told me. "I dont mind shirt-lifters in the conventional sense of the word, but I do not suffer shop-lifters lightly! Theres a simple rule in here: you take my stock and Ill take your pants down! You continue to screw my business and Ill screw your arse; understood"?!
"Y.... Y..... Yes Sir", I replied sheepishly.
With that, Mr Byrd began smacking me, alternating between my left and right cheeks and gradually building-up his ferocity to full strength with each smack for the first thirty smacks:
Left Buttock Right Buttock
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
"Jesus" I thought to myself, "I must be the only eighteen year-old to be spanked like an eight year-old"! Then he began giving me three sharp smacks in rapid succession on the same spot of one buttock before doing the same to the opposite cheek, for the next thirty smacks:
Left Buttock Right Buttock
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
Mr Byrd had a very firm hand much firmer than my fathers and I was soon in tears begging him to stop, but the more I cried the harder he seemed to spank me. After hand-smacking me sixty times, he then started to give me five sharp smacks in rapid succession on the same spot of one buttock with the odd smack across the back of either thigh to surprise me before doing the same to my opposite cheek leg , for the next forty smacks:
Left Buttock: SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! Right Buttock: SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! Left Buttock: SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! Right Buttock: SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! Left Buttock: SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! Right Buttock: SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! Left Buttock: SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! Right Buttock: SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
I cant remember who ejaculated first me as my _c_o_c_k_ (already hard with fear) rubbed against Mr Byrds trouser leg as he smacked me, or Mr Byrd from the excitement of punishing me; he was clearly enjoying himself even if I wasnt, as during the first round he kept chanting "Left, Right, Left, Right, Left .....", to ensure his hand struck the appropriate cheek whilst in the following two rounds he counted "Left: One, Two, Three; Right: One, Two, Three", and "Left: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, and Right: One, Two, Three, Four, Five" as he smacked me on either cheek to guide his movements. By the time he had smacked me my arse 100 times it felt as though it was on fire: it was so hot and must have appeared so red all-over that one could have fried an egg on my backside, but despite protestations from me for "no more" he still insisted that I bent over his desk and spread my legs wide apart.
Simon took great pleasure in tying my hands down to steel towel rails which were attached to either side of Mr Byrds desk which were concealed from view unless one was facing the side of his desk by a wooden plinth and, as Simon sat opposite me behind Mr Byrds desk, staring longingly into my eyes and at my chest, abdomen and, of course, my _c_o_c_k_-and-balls, Mr Byrd strapped me, roughly once every thirty to forty-five seconds to give the sting of the strap to spread throughout my body before striking me again.
I received twenty strokes in total almost identical in style to that which my father had given to me on a previous occasion given in three lots of six with the folded strap of Mr Byrds belt, i. e., two horizontal strokes across each buttock, one vertical stroke down the crack between my buttocks (ensuring that the tip of the strap struck my butt hole which was clearly visible from me having my legs so spread apart) and one horizontal stroke halfway down the back of either thigh (alternating between each leg and ensuring that the loop of the strap wrapped well inside my leg) only Mr Byrds belt was much heavier and hurt much more! After the eighteenth stroke however, rather than strap the thigh which had hitherto been struck only once again (to ensure both legs received equal treatment) and conclude with one final stroke with the buckle end of the belt, Mr Byrd gave me the final two strokes with the buckle: one across each buttock.
Throughout my strapping, I unconsciously found my eyes bleary as they were from crying like a baby - drawn to the ever-growing bulge in Simons crotch which, although hidden underneath his navy jogging bottoms, clearly showed that he was as aroused watching me being strapped as I suspected Mr Byrd was spanking me, and I certainly was being spanked. Shortly after my seventh or eighth stroke with the strap a large damp spot appeared on Simons jogging bottoms close to where one suspected the head of his _c_o_c_k_ to be lurking underneath; knowing that I knew what had happened he simply glanced at the leaking bulge in his trousers and then at me before smiling and projecting his lips as if to say "kiss me".
After untying my hands I was allowed to rub my butt for a few moments whilst Mr Byrd ordered Simon to fetch him a large orange juice to quench his thirst before instructing Simon to rejoin Paul on the sales floor of the shop. "Young Hardcastle is a very honest and hard-working young man" Mr Byrd told me, "you could learn a lot from him. If there were more boys like him in the world, the world would not be in the mess it is in today".
To conclude my punishment Mr Byrd made me stand outside his office in the ice-cold store room stark bullock naked, with my hands interlocked behind my head, elbows back behind my shoulders (to maximise the strain on my lower back), my legs spread apart and my nose and toes touching the wall for a further half-an-hour before he allowed me to get dressed and go home.