THE DRIVER'S TALE

Author: John Crouch sixbest675@aol.com

Another arresting tale from the pen of John Crouch

Paul Peterson had hardly started for the agency when one of his temping jobs as a driver led to an offer of full time work. Pretty good wages, sensible hours and a uniform that without the cap at least just looked like a suit. The prestigious glass and steel office block was in Victoria. Both the personal chauffeurs and the back up and pool chauffeurs had a comfortable day room with a drinks machine and a shower and changing room with personal lockers. Both early and late shifts overlapped at lunch times, so that one shift brought people in from home or from the airport, both ferried people about to meetings during the day and especially across the lunch hours and the other shift moved people home or back to the airport at the close of the day and often late into the night. The duty supervisor would hand out the job tickets showing the name of the executive, the pick up point and the destination together with timings and instructions like "drop only" , "remain and bring back" , "wait and onward to…".

Over the first few weeks Paul began to recognise quite a few of the mainly grey haired, Savile Row suited Directors and senior managers of the corporation. At other times he would wait patiently at the terminals of Heathrow with a smartly printed display card headed up with the corporation logo and with the name of his passenger inserted on it, against the arrival of visiting businessmen.

He liked the job despite it being way below what had been expected from him by the parents who had lavished so much upon his education. He liked driving, greeting people, chatting with them if they wanted to, or simply thinking his own thoughts whilst his natural driver’s auto-pilot carried him through the traffic. Best of all he liked the lack of nine to five and the fact that he had no problems, work or worry to take home with him when his day was finished.

Then, one Wednesday, early, he checked a docket and saw that he was to pick up a "Mr. Patrick Hannon" Chelsea address, forward to Heathrow, terminal and flight time…

He smiled at the name. He had been at school with a "Patrick Hannon". He had had punishing times with a Patrick Hannon. He almost flinched at the sharpness of the memory flooding back. The tight school trousers, the unfortunate and embarrassing pleading and whimpering and the awful tears. The endless cycle of repetition that they had seemed to get trapped into. He snapped back to the present and thought it probably just coincidence.

He drew up in front of the beautiful Chelsea house exactly five minutes ahead of the appointed time. Took his cap from the front passenger seat and flipped down the vanity mirror behind the sun visor to set it at exactly the smart and jaunty angle he had perfected. He pushed the escaping lock of fair hair back out of sight. By reflex he checked his watch once more. Then strode across the pavement, checking to right and left for Parking wardens, he rang the bell. He stepped back a little from the door.

"You better wait with the car-Mr Hannon will be right out". She was tall and as elegant as anyone could be at this early hour. She was also about five years younger than Paul.

Paul stepped back to the car and opened the boot anticipating that it would be needed for luggage. The house door swung open and a tall slim figure emerged. One glance and Paul realised that the name was no coincidence. The bag was thrust into his hands, nearly throwing him off balance. Even as he recovered and guided the bag into the boot, his passenger had opened the rear door of the car and slid in. He hadn’t even looked at Paul let alone recognised him.

"Terminal one Sir?"

Patrick Hannon glanced up from his Financial Times and addressed the cool blue eyes beneath the peaked cap, which was all that he could see of the driver’s face in the rear view mirror.

"Those were your instructions….?". The sarcastic tone was not wasted on Paul and the journey continued out along the north side embankment without further conversation.

At the airport Paul opened the door for his passenger, recovered his luggage, handed it to him and with a half salute slid back behind the wheel and drove off. He did not look back as Hannon dodged between vehicles and disappeared into the busy terminal.

Then, just two days later, the docket that Paul had feared was on his clip. "Hannon, Patrick, Heathrow, Chelsea, flight and time…" Better not be late he thought and immediately an echo seemed to fill his memory "Come on boy, bend over more-that’s better-I’ll teach you to keep me waiting! Then the swish and crack of that deadly cane and the yelp that followed……"

The graveyard shift. White faced passengers sleep walking through Arrivals. Most head down pushing their luggage carts. A few scanning the many and varied hand held signs of the waiting drivers. Paul raised his notice a little higher as he saw Hannon the second he cleared the final doors and strode forward. He spotted the sign, thrust his bags at Paul and prepared to follow the driver toward the Short Stay Car park. Once at the car Paul stood the bags down by the boot and unlocked the car and opened the rear passenger door. Hannon didn’t get in but said;

"Got to stretch a bit-long flight-you carry on". Peterson opened the boot and slid in the bags. Nervous at this further encounter with his past, he caught the side of his head against the boot lid as he straightened up. It was a brushing collision not a bruising one but his cap flew off and fell to the ground. Hannon had been idly stretching and flexing his cramped muscles whilst at the same time secretly admiring the firm muscled backside of the driver as he wrested the cases into the boot. He snapped back to attention as the cap came to rest just by his foot. He picked it up and brushed it down with his palm. Perhaps relaxed now at the journey’s near end, at business well done at the forthcoming comfortable ride home he found himself smilingly offering the hat back to the chauffeur. With shock he also found himself smiling at an all too familiar face from the past. Unable quite to take this in, he slid quickly into the car.

Paul was grateful for the usual turmoil of traffic out of the terminal itself and into the tunnel which took all of his concentration and meant that the flash of mutual recognition that had just occurred could be put out of his mind. The unusually quiet road into town, that followed, offered no such excuse. It was Hannon who started hesitantly:-

"By choice, this job….?" Paul did his best to explain. By the Cromwell Road they were talking freely and more like old friends although each acutely aware of how doubly inappropriate that seemed.

The Mercedes drew up smoothly before the Chelsea house. With the luggage standing before the door and Hannon fumbling for his keys, Paul could barely endure the wait to drive away. Hannon looked at him.

"Lock the car. Come in with me." It was not an offer or an invitation, it was a simple order.

In the hallway Paul stood down the bags once again. The house was in darkness and silent.

"There’s a cloakroom there. You must have been waiting around a while. When you’re done my study is on the first floor, come on up."

A sickly sweet excitement flowed over Paul. He checked his appearance in the huge guilt framed mirror in the hall and hurried up to the first floor corridor. A door stood ajar, light shining out onto the dimly lit landing. Still unsure about his excitement and nervous he knocked rather than push straight in.

"Come". The familiar response dispelled any last doubt that he may have had. He had travelled back in time and in place.

Hannon was seated behind a large and imposing desk. The room was a perfect gentleman’s study.

Unprompted he found himself standing before the desk his hand behind his back, his head up so that his gaze was toward the wall over Hannon’s head. The roles needed no rehearsal. Paul listened to the familiar words.

"Insolent and stupid. The worst and most feeble player in the house team. A man who will get nowhere and who will achieve nothing. In short, a waste of time and space and trouble….." Hannon trailed off, a tremor had entered his voice. He coughed and recovered and continued:-

"…and the price of all this is….?"

"That you will beat me. Beat me till I improve my ways." Paul hadn’t forgotten the lines either.

"Well don’t keep me waiting then!" No tremor now. A barked command. Paul moved liked a sleep walker, appalled and confused at this, this what? Time warp? He stretched out over the desk. Reached for the far side of it for purchase. With this far bigger desk it was as far to reach as it ever had been. Then the words he dreaded.

"You are intent on wasting my time!" And no further explanation was needed. It was unfolding like a well rehearsed play. The lines, the moves, the outcome, all set in stone. Paul stood up. Cheeks burning with shame, he took off his shoes, then he pulled down and stepped clear off, first his trousers and then his pants. Then he resumed his position across the broad leather topped desk, his legs spread just the required amount.

Hannon gazed down and realised that his idle thoughts at the airport had not been wrong. The small hollow at the base of the spine, the tapered waist, the muscled thighs and the crowning glory, those perfect rounded globes just lightly downed with golden hair. He had to force himself to stop gazing and move on. From the very back of a glazed cupboard he took out a splendid heavy cane. Savouring the moment he ran one hand down its irregular length imagining the kiss of it’s deadly smoothness as it flew into the athletic arse now naked and submissive before him. He could positively smell the tension in the air. The room was cool but he was not surprised to see the tiniest trickle of sweat at Paul’s inner thigh.

He tapped firmly at the buttocks, swept back and paused. Tapped again. Satisfied now at the aim and the swing ready but not rushed, racking up the tension for both of them. Paul was in turmoil. Afraid and yet locked into this, not quite, game.

The cane rose, paused and then with withering speed descended, whistling through the air and then CRACKKKKK. A perfect first shot. Paul bucked but stayed firm. His head dropped forward and downward. Hannon felt an adrenalin like rush . His pulse was hammering through him. He watched fascinated and part appalled as the angry red line on the otherwise perfect globes grew slightly darker and oh, so gently, formed a welt. He tapped again. The cane rose high into the air and if anything flew faster and harder toward it’s target…CRRAAAKKKKKKK…..AAAAAHHHHHHHH

Just below but perfectly parallel to the first. Again the bright red line, fading slowly and swelling but this time animated by the furious and involuntary contractions as Paul struggled to absorb the fiendish pain. Hannon wanted to laugh but resisted. Smiling broadly released the tension and the nervous impulse passed.

Paul had forced his face round at that moment to see his tormentor and now found himself looking fully at that grinning face. At that moment he was afraid but helpless.

The cane rose remorselessly and this time Hannon willed it to pass right through his victim, negating any mercy, any tendency to slow up at the point of impact. CRACCCCCCKKKKKKKKKK.

AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH, SSSSSSIIIIIIIIRRRRRRRRRR!

Midway, three done, the tension and resolve in Hannon still rising-not the slightest sympathy at that awful wail.

But Hannon was not going to rush through this. He stepped back a little. Admired his handy-work;. watched dispassionately as Paul struggled to regain some composure. Watched the muscles tense and relax as he laid full down on the desk and as his feet and lower legs raised and lowered from the floor. When he was sure that Paul could feel everything again and fully appreciate his efforts and only then, did he raise the cane again.

Again it was as hard as he could make it without risk to his accuracy –CCCCRRRRAAAKKKKKKKK.

AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH. This time, to Hannon’s delight, the cry was followed by a dreadful and softer groaning and he knew that at four he had achieved his objective. Again he paused, allowing some recovery time. Let it soak in he thought. Let it fill him and overwhelm him. Let him take the time for that and the time for coming round to the realisation that he had two more to come-a whole third of the total! Hannon couldn’t believe his ears. Perhaps exactly that realisation had occurred since there could be no doubt of it. Paul was sobbing between long despairing intakes of breath. That proud slim figure was now hunched down upon the desk. His trunk supported him, his legs almost dangled now.

Hannon felt a childish surge of pleasure. He examined his work once again and calculated a more diagonal line which, if successfully executed would cut across three of those angry wheals. Paul flinched and groaned again as the cane tapped away lining up the target and even those taps across the target sent sharp splinters of pain shooting to his brain.

The cane rose, Paul started his AAAAAHHHHHHHH even in anticipation of it’s arrival so aware was he of its purpose. Hannon saw this and sharpened up, even anticipating and adjusting for the reflexive wriggle that Paul managed and which might have deflected the stroke a bit.

CCCCCCRRRRRAAAAAAKKKKKKK. OOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!

Another surge of pleasure for Hannon as he realised that the cut had been placed exactly as intended. The lines now acquired neat purple roundels where they intersected.

With a sinking feeling Hannon realised that this would be his last shot. But it was timely. The weight of overwhelming emotion was receding. But it had to be done.

No less hard and completing a perfect six the cane rose again. Cut through the air and CCCCCRRRRRRAAAAAKKKKKK.

No yell this time. He put the cane back into the cupboard. He found the small bottle of Evening Primrose Oil there and some cotton wool too. As he gently applied the ointment to the angry ridges and whelts he physically felt as well as saw the effective punishment that he had meted out.

Paul sat bare arsed upon the cool leather sofa. After what he had endured he was oblivious to any embarrassment that sitting there half naked opposite Hannon might have caused him. He wasn’t even aware that the punishment, or the coolness of the squab had partly excited him. He clinked the ice in the chunky tumbler and then sipped the welcome Scotch. After this companionable silence it was Hannon who spoke.

"I’m glad you agree that that was fair. You made my life a misery at school, Peterson. I can’t remember any time when my backside was not marked. I couldn’t help being hopeless at sport or anything else much for which you punished me. I have even dreamt of turning the tables on you, but I obviously never thought that it could actually happen." Paul took a pull of whisky, then said:-

"I think you forget that I was once a junior too. I had some hard times too. I used to understand exactly how it was for you too you know. But yes, I knew instantly when you ordered me in that you would and should have your revenge and I let you. I took it once, then gave it….now the wheel turns full circle!"

"It’s agreed then, you’ll come to my parties? My wife’s away in Brussels a lot but I think even if she knew it would only confirm her awful views on boarding schools and boys games!"

Paul was amazed to find so many enthusiasts willing and eager to relive their past. He wondered how many of them had stood in for him in the past, beneath Hannon’s cane, before Paul himself had finally taken his rightful place. And Paul also discovered that along with his new found freedom from responsibility and his new role in life, he was happy and contented to be dealt with. To somehow pay off, one by one, the hefty beatings that he had meted out in his years as a school prefect. To line up in that corridor at the Chelsea house and enjoy the tension among those about him, as they waited for the sharp, barked command that would summon them, one by one, into the study and the beating itself. To listen at the door, heart thumping, at the crack of the cane and the groans and yelps of the recipients. Knowing of course, that sooner or later, one would be hurrying in to ones own summons!