After the hairbrush spanking administered by Miss Mary’s mother, Mrs Fletcher in the front room of their house, it finally dawned on me there was simply no way out of my predicament. I felt so ashamed of myself that I was quite unable to even approach, much less peek over the wall of guilt and disappointment which I had built up and that now surrounded me. I was truly trapped within the confines of this self-made rampart.
That night as I had lain in my bed, a sad and sorry boy, the tears trickled onto my pillow. I had tried to do my best, but clearly my best was just not good enough for Miss Mary. She had shown her trust in my progress by allowing me to demonstrate to her mother how much I had learnt under her tutelage, but I had let her down. I realised my clumsy behaviour would have consequences, but I never for one moment considered the prospect of my being spanked with a hairbrush, bare-bottomed over Mrs Fletcher’s lap.
I had become conditioned to receiving sharp smacks from Miss Mary to my bare thighs for my multitudinous failings and so fully expected to feel my legs being warmed up yet again. In the few brief moments before Mrs Fletcher spoke to my mother on the telephone it had passed through my mind how humiliating it would be for my bare legs to be smacked by Miss Mary in front of her mother. With this in mind you might imagine how I felt when my naughty shorts, as Miss Mary had christened them, were pulled down by Mrs Fletcher prior to my being taken over her lap to have my bottom spanked with a hairbrush. Shocked isn’t the word. All I was wearing underneath my shorts was a boy’s support thong, the thin strap of which pressed deep between my buttocks, leaving the cheeks of my bottom quite bare. The only saving grace was that wearing the thong meant that at least I was spared the further indignity and humiliation of revealing my private parts to them both as I was made ready for my spanking.
It’s hard for me to explain why I so readily came to accept Miss Mary’s authority, but if I was ever asked to define my philosophy I would say that it was to do anything for a quiet life. Was that so wrong of me?
Take the continuing enforced wearing of short trousers. If I tried to draw my parents attention to the fact that most, if not all of my contemporaries were to be seen in long trousers; or heaven forbid that I should complain or moan that I was still dressed in short trousers, this would be seen as proof positive that I was still too immature to be allowed longs, since in their eyes a strong, fit boy would take these clothing restrictions in his stride. In other words a mature boy would just get on with it; he wouldn’t whinge or complain as I was doing.
I think I must have first put forward my argument for long trousers sometime around my thirteenth birthday, perhaps in the delusional hope that I would receive a pair of longs on the day, or at least soon after I became a teenager. At this stage my request was politely ignored and I was left to ponder on life’s inequalities as I sat bare-legged in a class full of long-trousered boys, made constantly aware of this fact by the feeling of the hard wooden seat against my bare thighs.
Within a few months, there being no sign of a change in my mode of dress, I pressed my case for long trousers once more only for it to be brushed aside and to be told that I didn’t need them. No other explanation was forthcoming and again I was left to stew in my own juices. At school I became something of a laughing stock, especially among long trouser wearing younger boys who thought it great fun to mock me, calling me names and even vying with each other to get close enough to my bare legs to deploy the age-old fiendish schoolboy weapon of the elastic band, stretching and snapping it against the flesh of my exposed legs. The boys would cheer when one of their number scored a direct hit, which not only stung as if I’d been attacked by an angry wasp, but left visible a sore red mark for everyone to see.
My parents must have noticed the results of these schoolboy pranks but thought nothing of it. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to be told they had assumed it was some sort of silly game played by young boys like me. So of course their view with regard to my clothing remained unaltered; I was still not yet old enough to be promoted to long trousers.
So to me the reason I remained in short trousers appeared to be simply that of my age, but as my fourteenth and fifteenth birthdays came and went, it became apparent the stance of my parents had changed subtly. From then on I sensed the continued presence of short trousers as part of my daily apparel was because of my perceived immaturity. Whenever I tried to raise the subject; that I was now surely old enough to be allowed long trousers, one or both of my parents would, as I have said, interpret my requests as continuing proof that I was still far from mature enough to live up to the responsibility as the wearing of long trousers would, in their view, entail. It seems obvious to me now that it was the belief of my parents that boys, once promoted to long trousers, would be expected to discard the attributes of boyhood. From their perspective it was therefore no doubt seen as a kindness for them to keep me in short trousers.
And so this in many ways explains my acceptance of Miss Mary’s authority over me. You see I had reached the conclusion that the only way I could hope to convince my parents of my maturity was to accept my status; that being what can best be described as a junior boy. I resolved that no longer would I begrudge their strictures. I would, as far as I was able, consent to my strict clothing restrictions no matter how humiliating it was for me to be seen bare-legged in public.
The continued wearing of short trousers meant that I was also subject to various restrictions in keeping with my status about which I have written previously. Rules such as early bedtimes along with the need to be constantly supervised and kept busy to prevent mischievous behaviour were part and parcel of my teenage years. These measures of course accounted for the banishment to my bedroom during those evenings when mother and father entertained their guests in our house.
Needless to say my attempts to appear as a mature teenage boy ready to be granted the privilege of wearing long trousers came to the most ignominious end. As a result of Miss Mary finding me out of bed, prostrate on the landing at the top of the stairs trying to eavesdrop on the party given by my parents downstairs, I became beholden to her when she agreed not to say anything to my parents about what I had done. The rest you know: how, after all my hard work for which I received good grades in my exams, I was finally rewarded with my first, and as it turned out last, pair of longs. With pride I wore my newly sanctioned long trousers only to be told, not more than two weeks later, to beg my parents to be kept in short trousers. This was to be Miss Mary’s reward for supervising me during numerous study sessions held at her house.
It is little wonder that mother was upset by my rejection of their decision to allow me to wear long trousers. Although hardly unexpected, her reaction hurt. Not only had I been forced to reject their concession, my longed for desire for a pair of proper boy’s long trousers, but in the process I had brought upon mother the indignity of her having proudly explained to family friends that I was at last a boy mature enough to be allowed long trousers, only to find out that she was wrong. In her view I had behaved like a spoilt little boy who throws his toys out of the pram.
Now that I had rejected the opportunity to at last wear long trousers, I was faced a future of indeterminate length constantly dressed in thigh-baring short trousers. I really didn’t think matters could get any worse, but of course they did. Somehow Miss Mary had arranged for me to work throughout the long summer holidays in a café run by the mother of one of her friends.
There I was, under the impression I would at last have some time to myself, blissfully ignorant of what was in store for me. Gone then was the opportunity to hide hide myself away so that as few people as possible could see me wearing the short trousers I found so humiliating. Then all of a sudden it was revealed to me that I was to work in a well frequented café. In such a place there would be no escape; everyone would be able to see that I still wore short trousers.
It seems as if I was the last person to find out what I’d been signed up for and that only happened when Mrs Fletcher let the cat out of the bag after I’d dropped a cup and saucer at her feet. It was my reaction to this unexpected news that resulted in my hairbrush spanking in front of Miss Mary.
Miss Mary claimed it was to be a ‘surprise’ for me. Well, it certainly was a surprise, although not in the way I suspect Miss Mary had intended it to be. Did she really think I’d be thrilled to have my summer holidays ruined? Or perhaps she knew what my reaction would be and relished the opportunity to be involved in humiliating me further? But I realise it would be foolish of me to try and understand her motives. No doubt she thought she was doing it for the best and in that respect I am sure she had the full support of my parents.
Shortly after my unexpected appearance over Mrs Fletcher’s lap for a spanking I was introduced to Miss Mary’s friend Rebecca. It had been decided that Rebecca would interview me on behalf of her mother who ran the café. I think I’ve made it plain enough already that I didn’t want this summer job in the first place and of course it had crossed my mind for me to be as uncooperative as I dared. But in the end it didn’t really matter how I presented myself to Rebecca. I think all she wanted was to see what I looked like and maybe to confirm that, yes, I was still kept in short trousers.
It was mother who ‘suggested’ I wear my short trouser suit for the interview. This was, and still is, a bespoke suit made for my fifteenth birthday with shorts, while not quite as short as my grey pull-up naughty shorts, were nevertheless still somewhat shorter than my school shorts. The shorts of this suit were held up by trouser braces which, when adjusted properly by mother, meant that my shorts were pulled up nice and tight at all times. Of course that was when I was fifteen and I’d since grown some more, so you can imagine how extremely short they looked on me at the age of seventeen. The suit came with a ‘bum-freezer’ jacket, the style of short jacket that barely reaches the waist of the wearer. Bum-freezers are very close in style to the jackets of ‘continental’ suits so popular for boys a few years back. The colloquial name given to the jacket is because the seat of the trousers is fully displayed, leaving boys such as me wearing short trousers feeling more exposed than ever. The jackets seemed to simply draw attention to the ridiculous brevity of the wearer’s trousers.
Of course in accordance with mother’s wishes I wore my all too brief short trouser suit for my introduction to Rebecca.
I was soon to learn how to properly address her. In fact that was the first thing that Miss Mary made known to me as she invited me to, “Say ‘hello’ to Miss Rebecca.” I couldn’t help but notice conspiratorial glances pass between them.
“Well I’m pleased to see you so smartly dressed, Georgie.” My heart sank when I heard Miss Rebecca address me using the form of my name that so far only Miss Mary had used. My subservient rôle was thus quickly established. “You’ll be given a uniform to wear,” she added.
“What do you say, Georgie?” Miss Mary prompted.
I looked from one to the other and back again. I was pretty sure what Miss Mary wanted me to say. I felt a fool saying it, but I said it anyway.
“Thank you, Miss Rebecca.”
Of course now I was left wondering what this uniform would be like. I tried to put a positive spin on matters by telling myself that at least I would be wearing long trousers, as I couldn’t imagine Miss Rebecca’s mother would for one moment countenance a boy working in her café dressed in short trousers. I didn’t dare ask if this would be the case.
Miss Rebecca then started to look me up and down. She walked around me making no attempt to disguise the fact she was examining me closely, paying particular attention to my short trousers. It was most unnerving. Miss Mary kept a steady eye on me and urged me to stand up straight, something I thought I was already doing.
It was inevitable that worse was to come and that another of my hopes would be dashed.
Miss Mary spoke: “Tell Miss Rebecca what you told your parents, Georgie.”
Miss Rebecca looked quizzically at Miss Mary, clearly keen to hear what this was about. She might not have known, but I did. I was loathe to reply and reveal what I had said to my parents.
I ummed and ahhed until Miss Mary spoke again:” Come on, Georgie, we haven’t got all day. Tell Miss Rebecca what you said to your parents.”
There was nothing for it. I was forced to tell Miss Rebecca that I had told mother and father that I did not want to wear longs, that wished to remain in short trousers.
Miss Rebecca let this news sink in for a second or two before speaking: “Oh, so that’s why you’re wearing a short trouser suit! I had wondered why a boy your age was still wearing shorts.”
This interview was turning out to be even more shaming than I imagined.
Miss Mary added more fuel, stoking the flames of my embarrassment: “Yes, Georgie much prefers to wear short trousers, don’t you Georgie? His mother even bought him a pair of longs, but he didn’t want to wear them, did you, Georgie? She was most upset and very annoyed with him,” she explained to Miss Rebecca.
Even though it was not true that I preferred to wear short trousers, I was still forced to agree with Miss Mary for reasons that I’m sure you are by now fully aware.
Miss Rebecca thought for a moment. Ignoring me she spoke to Miss Mary: “Well, I’ll have to speak to mum about this. Personally I can’t see there will be a problem for Georgie to wear short trousers at the café… I mean there shouldn’t be any health and safety issues if Georgie insists he has to wear short trousers…”
I wasn’t sure about health and safety regulations or how they could affect the way I was dressed, but from my experience with mother I knew what a handy target my bare legs would be if my work at the café wasn’t of a sufficient standard.
I ventured to offer a compromise: “I - I don’t mind wearing long trousers at the café… honestly… I mean I don’t want to cause a problem…”
Miss Mary scotched that idea straight away: “Don’t be silly, Georgie. What would your mother think if you suddenly started to wear long trousers after you told her you didn’t like wearing them? I think she’d be even more upset with you than ever.”
Miss Mary was perfectly correct. The thought of how mother would react if she saw me dressed in longs didn’t bear thinking about. I kept quiet about long trousers and the subject was not mentioned again.
Miss Rebecca decided to take me along to the café to meet her mother in order to obtain her approval for my employment. Two things crossed my mind. The first in which I had wishfully thought Miss Rebecca’s mother, Mrs Cable, would decide that I was not suitable was quickly followed by the thought that, well, at least I would be earning something for my work. As I warmed to this thought, the idea occurred to me that I might even be able to save enough to buy myself a pair of long trousers, even though I would undoubtedly have to wear them in secret. At this last thought I brightened up a little. Maybe working at the café wouldn’t be so bad after all.
I was wrong on all counts.
Mrs Cable was perfectly happy to have me work at the café during the busy summer months. However, she then went on to explain that I would be receiving something she called ‘work-place experience’ and for some unfathomable reason which I did not understand, I would receive no remuneration since this was not classified as paid employment.
She continued, “... but you may receive tips from those customers who wish to reward you for your service. These are put in a pool and shared out with the girls at the end of the day.” The 'girls' being the waitresses Janet and Judy.
My hopes that I might be able to buy myself some longs having been scotched by the news that I would not be paid, rose again only to be dashed moments later by Mrs Cable’s next words: “Your share of the tips will be put towards the cost of your uniform… and since you insist on wearing short trousers I have been told by the catering suppliers these will be a one-off and therefore more expensive than a regular outfit.”
I almost had to bite my tongue when I heard this. I so wanted to tell Mrs Cable how I would gladly wear a regular uniform, but Miss Mary’s warning of what my mother’s reaction would be prevented me from saying anything.
I didn’t realise it at the time, but this arrangement by which the tips given to the staff were shared did not go down at all well with Janet and Judy. They were quite happy with the current arrangement for dividing the tips between the two of them. Now they would only be getting a third of the pooled tips instead for half each, so you can imagine how my arrival on the scene went down with them. They resented my presence from day one..
My work at the café was closely watched by Miss Rebecca. I was given a name-tag on my first day. My heart sank as I saw the name ‘Georgie’ printed on the plastic card. Now more people would be calling me by a name so closely associated with my status, a status that I could only think of as that of a ‘junior boy’. There didn’t seem to be an end to my humiliations. I reflected on the events of the past few months and tried to work out how my life had taken a turn down this awful path. Sure, my parents had always been very protective and this manifested itself in my being kept in short trousers far beyond the age at which teenage boys would normally be seen wearing them. My introduction to Miss Mary had certainly been a major event and before I knew what was happening, she had skilfully ensured that I, who I have to remind you is two years older than her, became subservient to her wishes. There didn’t seem to be any way out of my plight, but what sealed off any exit from the mess I was in was my own stupidity, being caught by Miss Mary doing something I was foolish enough to think would not be discovered.
It was simply one thing after another and now I was to be a short-trousered waiter at the café run by the mother of Miss Mary’s friend, a girl, Miss Rebecca, who was about the same age as me. The badge was yet another reminder of my junior status. The uniform itself made me even more self-conscious than ever. Sure, I was given an apron, but it was so small as to be hardly worth the effort of putting it on. The apron barely reached the tops of my thighs and wasn’t large enough to cover my bottom at all. Because the little shorts they provided for me to wear were so short, the effect was make it seem, when viewed from the front, that I wasn’t wearing any trousers at all. This just encouraged customers to poke fun at me before insisting I turn round so they could see if I was indeed wearing anything. This gave them a splendid opportunity comment upon my bottom which was encased in the snuggest little shorts Miss Rebecca’s mother could find courtesy of the catering clothing suppliers.
It will come as no surprise I’m sure when I tell you that my mother became a regular habitué of the café. And it wasn’t long before my bare legs felt the sharp sting of one of her well-placed hand smacks. I have forgotten the reason, but this public admonishment by mother gave the green light to other customers who were dissatisfied with my service to use the same method as her to show their disapproval. It wasn’t long before I was leaving the café each evening with my thighs glowing red.
