Found out on Facebook

I know I shouldn’t have done it. It’s sneaky and shows a lack of trust. Sometimes it’s best not to know; to be in the dark about things. I know all of this. But I did it; and I’m glad I did.

My eighteen-year-old son Ricky had been away at university for three months: more than 150 miles away. Out of my sight, but not out of my mind.

Maybe he was a typical student; once he was away he forgot about home. Never phoned, emailed and naturally did not write.

So, I did what any loving parent would do: I created a false identity for myself and I got onto his Facebook page.

Ye Gods! Have you seen your own teenaged sons Facebook page? I don’t suppose it would be much different to Ricky’s.

Dozens and dozens of photographs of drunken parties (at last I hope it was not drugs) decorated his “wall.” Not all of them were of him.

I scrolled down the screen; there seemed to be large numbers of students involved. All of them were holding beer bottles or cans; many, including the girls, in various stages of undress.

I was livid. I was paying hundreds of pounds a month keeping my son at university and this was how he repaid me.

I kept scrolling hoping against hope that I’d find at least one photograph of him working: studying in the library; on a field trip; anything that would show that he wasn’t completely wasting his time at university.

Then I saw it. It had been posted about two months previously. A photo of Ricky. It had hundreds of comments attached and had been shared dozens of times.

Ricky was completely naked, except for a poster he held strategically in front of his you-know-whats. And on the poster was written: “If I give you a smile, will you give me a blowjob.”

He was flashing a cute smile, it must be said.

I was fuming. I read through the comments. Well, you don’t want to know what they said, but there were offers from lots of girls – and from more than a few boys too.

That’s it! I actually shouted this out loud, even though I was alone in the house. I’m going to the university on Saturday to sort this boy out.

I paced over to the sideboard and opened the bottom drawer. Yes, it was still there. I reached inside and pulled out a heavy two-tailed Lochgelly taws.

This thing had seen some action, I’d used in on Ricky a few times over the years. My father used it on me and granddad used it on him. I don’t know if granddad’s dad used it, but this strap was certainly a family heirloom.

I held it in my right hand and smacked it down into the palm of my left. Traditionally, these tawses were used to beat the palms of errant schoolboys. The Scots, in particular, used them this way. Not in my family. We used it across the backside. It could pack a punch, even if the naughty boy was wearing his trousers and pants. Not that he did in my family.

The strap had last seen action about eighteen months previously. Ricky’s grades were slipping and he needed a “wake-up” call ahead of the mock exams. A dozens whacks, bared arsed naturally, soon put him back on course. He put in a few more hours in the library after that.

I think it was only the threat of another trip over the back of the couch that made him knuckle down to pass his A-levels.

I thwacked the taws into my palm again. Yes, without this little incentive he would never have made it to university.

Now, for sure, he had demonstrated he had no self-discipline.   If he didn’t buck his ideas up and start studying hard, he’d fail his university course and be put on the scrapheap, aged nineteen.

So, if he doesn’t have self-discipline, clearly he will need to have discipline imposed upon him.

I didn’t warn Ricky I was coming and arrived at his student pod around about noon.

His student pod? They’re something new. Whole blocks have been built, not of flats, or even bed-sitting rooms: of pods. They are tiny self-contained units, with a single bed, a desk, a closet and a walk-in shower.

I thought the rooms in the halls of residence were small when I was at university, but they were palaces compared to a pod.

I went straight to his pod and hammered on the door.

“Wh… who is it?”

I was greeted by a muffled cry from within.

“It’s your father. Open up at once!”

It was fully thirty seconds before the door opened and my son’s bleary eyes poked around.

Even in his sleepy state he could express shock.

“What! Why?” he stumbled. “Is everything alright at home?”

He must have thought I had come to fetch him to take him home for a family emergency.

“Everything is fine at home, I could have said,” but didn’t “It’s what’s going on here that worries me.”

What I did say was, “Can I come in?”

A look of terror replaced the bleariness in his eyes.

“Well?” I rapped.

Reluctantly, he opened the door slightly and I squeezed myself into the pod.

“Hello, you must be Ricky’s dad.”

I stood, my mouth gaping a little, unsure how to react.

“Yes, eh… hello.”

The boy, well young man actually, he was about Ricky’s age, was sitting up in bed, naked from the waist up. I couldn’t see beneath the duvet, but it was a fair bet the rest of him was naked too.

Ricky’s usually fresh open face was scarlet. He looked as if he might vomit at any moment.

“Perhaps, I should leave,” the boy said. Then unselfconsciously he pulled the duvet to one side and stepped out. In seconds he had located his underpants, jeans and t-shirt and calling, “I’ll catch you later, hon,” to Ricky, he sashayed out the door.

“That was Tony. He missed his bus home.”

“Really,” I sneered. “Did the party go on late?”

Ricky’s bright blue eyes gazed at me under heavy eyelids. He seemed genuinely baffled.

“Don’t think I don’t know about the parties; the drinking and all the rest of it,” I blurted.

I had planned to talk calmly to my son about his wayward behaviour and try to disguise the fact I had been prying on his Facebook page. I failed. I was in shock. It was seeing the naked boy that set me off.

Instead, it all gushed out. The photographs of the parties; the drunkenness; the nudity and above all the blowjob picture.

Ricky was stunned into silence. However else he imagined his Saturday might pan out, he could not have expected his father to turn up unannounced, find him in bed with his male lover and then to castigate him over his irresponsible behaviour.

But, the worst was still to come.

I lectured the brat about how much money of mine he was wasting; how he needed to make something of himself and how no son of mine was going to get away with behaving like this.

I could see Ricky desperately wanted to argue with me: it was in his eyes. He was just about to open his mouth, when he realised I was carrying a plastic bag. Instinctively, he knew its contents.

Unceremoniously, I withdrew the taws. It was about two feet in length, with a long thin handle and the “business end” was fourteen inches. It was a fine specimen; craftsmen had melded together two strips of leather to create tails about a half inch thick.

I didn’t have to say anything. Ricky knew what this weapon could do.

“No, No,” Ricky wailed. “You can’t. No.” He was panicking. His father intended to leather his arse with the taws. He was a grown man now, living away from home. He had left all that childish stuff behind.

He thought all of those things, but only managed to whine, “But, I’m too old …” before tailing off.

“I am paying good money to send you here. While I do that, you had better believe you are under my jurisdiction.”

His face fell. I thought he would burst into tears.

“Your choice,” I told him. “You obey my instructions and I carry on paying the money. You choose to go your own way; the money stops.”

I don’t know if I really believed what I had just told him. Crucially, he did.

“You know what must happen,” I spoke gently now.

He nodded, despondently.

I held the taws in my right hand and looked around. There was almost literally no room to swing a cat. There was a small plastic chair that he could drape over, but I wouldn’t have space to swing back the leather and crash it into his bum.

There was only one answer.

“Straighten that duvet on the bed. Then put the pillows in the middle.”

He immediately got the picture. He was miserable as he tidied the bed and placed the pillows in position.

I was calm, and so was Ricky.

“Now, lower your jeans and underpants and lay across the pillows.”

He looked at me through pleading eyes, but we both knew the parts we had to play in this little drama.

He unbuckled his belt, popped the rivet on his jeans and placing his thumbs under the waist of his underpants, he pulled down his jeans and pants so they just reached below his buttocks. Then, he knelt onto the bed and placed his stomach across the pillows.

It took a little manoeuvring until his bared buttocks were placed to my satisfaction. His legs were covered with fair hair, but his buttocks were completely bald. Obviously, he had shaved (or somebody had done it for him). Last time I whipped that backside, it was covered with short soft hairs.

I tested the taws by holding it over my shoulder so that the tails tapped against the small of my back. Then I arced it up and forward, making sure it would not hit the ceiling when I tried to lash it down. It cleared with a couple of inches to spare.

Satisfied on my height, I then tested my distance. I stood three feet, then two feet from the edge of the bed. My intention was that the taws should lash Ricky in the very centre of his two mounds. It look a little practice, but soon I had the aim correct.

All the while my eighteen-year-old son buried his face into the duvet. I could see he had strategically placed a crease in the cotton cover into his mouth. In this way he would try to chew away the agony of the thrashing.

I raised the leather strap across my shoulder and brought it crashing down into Ricky’s flesh. The crack! sounded like pistol fire in the small room. Ricky’s body buckled under the lash and he bit deep into the duvet. Trickles of salvia dripped from the corner of his mouth.

With the second lash the strap curled itself viciously over the exposed buttocks and unfurled into Ricky’s meaty backside. His whole body jolted and his fingers clawed at the duvet. His throat tightened to hold back a scream.

It only took three or four lashes of the two-tailed taws to cover the entire area of his now buckling buttocks.

Sunset stripes adorned his globes and already purplish bruises were forming.

Ricky bit deep into the duvet as unmercifully I snapped another six hard stingers across the very centre of his mounds. One after the other in quick succession.

His legs flapped and his back arched as he threw back his head and released a blood-curdling yell that must have been heard throughout the residential block.

I stopped and rested the leather on the very apex of the boy’s bare curves. It lingered long enough to give him some false respite. Then I curled it back over my shoulder. Ricky braced himself for a further onslaught of controlled and accurate lashes.

I found my rhythm as the lashes embedded themselves harder and harder into bare flesh.

He chewed the duvet and I could see rivulets of saliva dripping from his mouth. Despite his best efforts, he was wailing like an eight-year-old.

Stepping back I snapped the leather down again as hard as I could. I tried to clear from my mind the fact that I was whipping my son, whom I loved dearly.

I channeled my thoughts on all the bad things he had done since coming up to university. That picture of Ricky naked and that vile poster he held would haunt my dreams for years to come.

This gave me the strength to apply the leather with as much strength as I could muster. As the thrashing continued my darling son convulsed in agony.

Despite my resolution, I found myself welling with tears at his choked heartfelt pleas for mercy.

He was pleading for me to stop. I lashed the last stroke hard across the now red-raw welted bottom cheeks.

“That’s it,” I almost whispered             .

Breathless, I now realized I was drenched in sweat. My breathing was heavy, but it was nowhere as bad as Ricky’s. He wheezed and gulped in great mouthfuls of air as his body thrashed from left to right. Curiously, he reminded me of a goldfish out of water.

His face was almost as red as his backside as he struggled to retain control of himself. He buried his face into the duvet and sobbed and sobbed.

That was my signal to leave. I found the plastic bag and wrapped up the taws. Then, without a further word, I quietly made my exit.

Outside in the corridor I met the boy who had been in Ricky’s bed. He was deathly pale: he must have heard it all. We did not exchange words and I found my car and drove home.


Other father and son stories you might like.

One hot summer afternoon

You can never escape Dad


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

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