Joe Winterbottom was a middle-aged divorced man and he enjoyed a comfortable life in the suburbs; until his idle, disobedient, waste of space son, came to live with him.
Joe was happy to be divorced and even happier when his son Martin went to live with his mother. She could keep him, as far as Joe was concerned. The lazy good-for-nothing.
As Joe had predicted Martin left school as soon as legally possible when he was sixteen and was out of work more often than he was in. When he did work they were dead-end jobs; mostly labouring or factory jobs. Now, he was out of work again.
Joe could not care less. He did not like his son and the feeling was mutual. They rarely met these days, the boy was twenty years old and an adult, he could take care of himself, Joe thought.
Except that he couldn’t. Martin still lived with this mother, who did everything for him. It wasn’t that she doted on him, because she didn’t, but she had just got into a routine of cleaning, cooking and waiting on him hand and foot; the way mother’s did.
But, her life was about to change, she was going to remarry and move home; and Martin was decidedly not invited.
Joe said, “No way. Definitely not. Over my dead body,” when his wife suggested that Martin moved in with him.
But, the reality was different. For Martin it was either move in with his dad or sleep on the streets and against his better judgement, Joe agreed he could stay with him temporarily until he found another place to live.
It was a disaster from the start. Martin wasn’t going to change; he expected everything to be done for him; he rarely got out of bed before the afternoon and he messed up the house with unwashed cups and plates. And, if that wasn’t bad enough, he didn’t mind helping himself to Joe’s whiskey: the good stuff.
Joe reckoned he needed a plan to get his son on his feet and out of the house for good. First, he needed to find the boy a job where he could earn enough money to rent a room of his own; then he had to make Martin clear out.
The job was easier than he imagined. A colleague at work told him about a burger bar in town, they were always hiring; his own son worked there for a while. His boy had learned a lot of discipline at the bar, he reported rather enigmatically.
Joe wasn’t so sure, working at a burger bar was a dead-end, it wouldn’t lead anywhere; it was the place students worked for extra cash while they were studying, it wasn’t a real job.
But, another night of unwashed cups and Martin lazing around the house while he was still wearing yesterday’s shirt changed Joe’s mind.
Joe knew he would have to take the initiative and went to the burger bar himself. The manager said he would be happy to try the boy out and that was how Martin joined the world of the employed.
His first shift started at 9am on Tuesday, but no way was he going to make it. It was already 8.15 and he was still under the bed clothes stroking his penis.
Joe burst into the room. “Come on Martin. Up, you’ll be late for work!”
Martin didn’t care; he ignored his dad, rolled over and faced the wall, “Fuck off it’s too early.”
When he thought about it later, Joe could not understand what came over him. It wasn’t planned and it wasn’t something he had ever done before.
In a fury, he ripped the bedclothes off his son’s back, and grabbed the boy’s arm. Martin was too startled to realise what was happening, or to resist.
Before he knew it Martin was on his feet and his dad was sitting on the bed, then without a word, Joe pulled his son face down on top of him, ripped down the boy’s underpants, and spanked his bare bottom like he was eight years old.
Joe had the advantage of surprise and held his son firmly around the waist while he pummelled away at his buttocks. It was a furious barrage of slaps all over both of the boy’s cheeks. Martin cursed his dad and tried to struggle free, but Joe had him across his knees so high that his upper body was face down on the bed; he could wriggle left and right over his dad’s lap but he couldn’t lift himself free.
Joe put all his effort into the spanking; this was for all the slovenly behaviour, that’s for the laziness, the rudeness, stealing his malt whiskey and most of all for disrupting his quiet life.
Eventually, he released his grip and Martin sprang to his knees. Humiliated that his dad could see his genitals he stooped down to pick up his underpants and covered himself up. His bottom was bright red and stung like mad.
“Quickly, get washed and I’ll give you a lift into work,” Joe said, and meekly his son obeyed.
Martin avoided his father at home that evening; and that suited Joe very well. He hoped it meant the spanking had worked and his son would be better behaved in future. The next morning Martin was up in good time to take himself to work and Joe was very pleased, but the boy soon slipped back into his old ways.
Maybe I should give him another spanking, Joe thought. He probably couldn’t though; last time he had the element of surprise, if he tried again, Martin would be ready and put up a struggle. He was a fit lad and could do his dad some serious damage in a fair fight.
The only way it would work was if Martin was submissive and agreed to be spanked.
Martin went out clubbing on Friday and missed work completely on Saturday. That’s it, Joe decided, he will have to accept discipline, or go.
When Martin eventually got out of bed, Joe called him into the living room and put it to him simply. He had rehearsed it once or twice, until it didn’t sound so silly; he was asking a grown man of twenty to accept a spanking from him and to agree that unless his behaviour and attitude improved there would be more like that to come.
“So, that’s my decision, Martin,” he said. “I am going to spank you for staying out late and for missing work.”
“No, you’re not,” it was simple defiance. Joe had expected it and knew he couldn’t force the issue, but he tried one more time.
“Either, you take a spanking, or you can pack your bags and go.”
“Yeah, right,” and with that Martin stormed off to his room.
It was the easiest thing in the world to get a locksmith and when Martin arrived at the house from work on Monday he discovered he was homeless.
Joe let him scream and holler on the doorstep; who cared what the neighbours thought. He opened a new bottle of whiskey, turned up the volume on his music centre and waited. Eventually, Martin went away and Joe really didn’t care where to.
The phone rang and he knew it would be his ex-wife, so he didn’t answer. A little drunk – that’s what you get for drinking whiskey on an empty stomach – he went to bed.
He couldn’t ignore his wife’s calls forever. She wasn’t going to take Martin back, it was Joe’s turn to look after him.
No it wasn’t, he was twenty years old and he could look after himself. Their argument went nowhere and eventually Joe hung up on his wife.
Martin was stuck, his mother’s new husband was adamant the boy could not stay with them, and since it was his house and he paid the bills, his word was law.
Martin asked around at work but no one could help; they mostly still lived with their parents. The boss, Billy, said he had a spare room; he lived in a council flat on a run-down estate, but it wasn’t as bad as it sounded.
Martin was about to jump at the chance; but one of the lads took him to one side. Billy had a reputation. There was this story about the student who worked there one summer and messed up once too often. The boy was made to stay after the burger bar was closed. Billy thought everyone had gone home but he was wrong. That’s how people knew he made the eighteen-year-old take down his jeans and bend across his knee. By all accounts he gave him one heck of a spanking.
Martin blanched, “No, you’re kidding; you’re winding me up.” No way, he spanked that kid. No way. It was just one of those stories people made up about their boss.
But, Martin decided to pass on Billy’s offer.
Joe was still getting grief from his ex-wife. She was scared for Martin; was he sleeping in a shop doorway at night? To get her off his back, Joe agreed to go visit his son at the burger bar to see what was going on.
Martin was feeling desperate; he was scared witless for the future, he had no real friends, no money and now nowhere to live. He was very pleased when his dad turned up, but wasn’t about to let him know.
Joe felt forced by his wife into taking Martin back, but no way was he going to retreat. The boy had to accept his discipline.
Then there was an unexpected turn of events. They had shared a drink in a nearby pub and suddenly Joe mellowed to his son; but not by much.
He heard himself saying, “The offer is still open. You take a spanking.”
A man at the next table pretended not to hear, but listened intently.
“Dad!” Martin was embarrassed to be talking about this at all; but he didn’t want to discuss it in the middle of a crowded pub.
“Let me know your decision,” Joe drained his glass and went home.
Martin was very drunk by the time he rang the bell of his dad’s house. Joe let him in anyway.
The next day Joe stopped off at little shop he knew, tucked away off the town centre. He had bought magazines there in the past and noticed they also sold “adult toys.” The paddle he purchased seemed authentic enough. It was about eighteen inches long by three wide and about a quarter-inch thick. Some joker had painted “The Board of Education” on one side.
Joe thought he would be more embarrassed than he was, but the shop assistant knew how to wrap a toy discreetly.
Martin knew what was waiting for him when he got home, but he didn’t delay his return. He knew it would hurt, but he was no stranger to corporal punishment. He had been punished by the teachers at school many times. Yes, Martin hated his dad for it and he knew the spanking from him would hurt, but he had no choice, his father was in control. If Martin wanted to stay living under his dad’s roof, he had to obey his rules.
Joe couldn’t work out why exactly, but he seemed to be looking forward to this. If only he had given the boy a dose of the paddle years ago, they wouldn’t be in this mess now. He needed to make up for lost time and Martin’s bum would have to suffer – a lot.
It happened in the front room; there was a large couch, ideal for a boy of Martin’s size to bend over in comfort, but what would happen next would be far from comfortable, Joe would make damn sure of that. Apart from last week, when he did it in a blind fury, Joe had never spanked a person before. Surely there can’t be that much to it; the objective was to cause the maximum pain possible and to do that he would whack the paddle into the buttocks. Simple. So long as Martin was submissive and didn’t put up a fight and try to get out of it.
Joe needn’t have worried; Martin had made up his mind. To be twenty years old and spanked was humiliating enough, he wouldn’t make matters worse by yelling and screaming.
“Martin, stand there,” Mr Winterbottom pointed to the back of the couch and Martin took up position a couple of feet behind it. Joe had prepared a little speech, to make clear to his son why he was being beaten. He recounted all of Martin’s faults: it was a long list.
The boy remained silent, there wasn’t much to say. Everything his father said was true, but he didn’t feel remorse; he despised his dad and this beating would just make him loathe him more.
Joe picked up the paddle and tested it for weight. Let’s get on with it, he thought.
If looks could kill. Martin silently unbuckled his belt, unzipped, and his pants fell to his knees, revealing he was wearing a pair of baggy shorts.
This was too much.
“Dad! No, not on the bare.”
Joe’s withering stare was enough of an answer and turning his back on his father so he wouldn’t see his cock and balls, Martin whipped down the shorts.
Martin swooped over the back of the couch, grabbed the seat cushions tightly, and presented his bare bum perfectly for the attention of his father and his paddle.
Joe hadn’t seen many men’s bums in his life, but he reckoned Martin’s baby smooth, creamy, buttocks must be exceptional.
Exceptional, they might be, but they didn’t remain smooth and creamy for long. Joe brought the paddle down with some force across the centre of both cheeks.
Martin’s eyes popped and he gripped the cushions even tighter. He had been beaten a few times in the past, but never on the bare bottom and nothing before had hurt so much.
Whack! number two landed higher and Whack! number three, lower so the whole of the buttocks was stinging red.
Martin gasped and then groaned as the pain mounted across his fleshy globes. He was determined not to let himself down, so clung desperately to the cushions.
His breathing was heavier as Whack! Whack! four and five bit home. He raised his head in agony and let out a silent cry.
The cry became a yell as six and seven did their worse. Martin’s legs danced up and down in a futile attempt to ease the fiery agony coursing through his buttocks and thighs.
Joe could clearly see the image of the paddle tattooed in red marks across his son’s backside. He knew Martin was in torment, but instead of causing him sorrow or regret, the sight of the raw buttocks spurred him on in his mission.
Whack! number eight crashed into the crease where the ass and the thighs meet. Martin raised himself ready to jump up and down, clutching his throbbing buttocks, but at the last second he regained control enough to remain in position. He would not give his dad the satisfaction of witnessing his defeat.
Whacks!! nine and ten walloped down across the centre of the bum, reigniting all the existing wounds. The swats were so hard Martin lost his control. His legs stomped up and down on the spot as he wailed like a little boy. Tears cascaded down his face and he choked for breath. Mr Winterbottom could see snot rolling down his son’s mouth. His whole body was heaving with convulsions.
Joe took a step back to admire his handiwork. Martin’s buttocks were red and raw; blood was beginning to seep from some of the bruises. It reminded him of the hamburger meat at the burger bar.
“Stand up,” Joe commanded. He felt an unaccustomed sense of authority. Things would never be the same again.
Slowly and in agony, Martin climbed off the back of the couch. He was too distressed even to worry that his father could see his manhood. Gingerly, he put his hands on his throbbing buttocks, but removed them instantly; the pain was like sitting on a hotplate.
“Go to your room.”
Without waiting to put on his trousers and shorts (an impossible task in his state of agony) he rushed from the room, took the stairs two at a time and crashed through his bedroom door and hurled himself onto his bed, burying his face deep into the pillow, sobbing his guts up.
Downstairs, Mr Winterbottom poured himself another whiskey, then took a pen and paper from his briefcase and began to write.
Rules of the house.
Number 1. Curfew …….
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second