When Dad got home

I wait in my red-and-white-striped pyjamas for my father to come home from work. I have been bad-mouthing my mother all day long and now I must pay for it.

Eighteen years old or no, I am going to get one heck of a spanking.

I lay on my bed for seven o’clock to crawl around. Dad’s shift at the post office finishes at six-thirty and he is always home by then.

Without knocking first, dad opens the bedroom door. He is still dressed in his postman’s uniform: mid-grey trousers; light-blue shirt; post office tie knotted tightly at his throat. He has taken off his outdoor shoes and on his feet are his bedroom slippers.

There are no preliminaries; he goes straight to the action. I watch intently as dad picks up the chair and puts it in the centre of the room. He sits down; reaches his right hand to his left foot and removes a slipper. Then he spreads his legs wide.

“Come here Dexter,” it is a stern order, not a friendly request. “Bend over my knee.”

My heart is racing. I am a grown man for Heaven’s sake. I left school two years ago. I have a job at the supermarket. I bring home a wage. But, I know dad is in charge. We argued about this before. “It’s my way or the highway,” he said. If I don’t like his rules, then I must leave home. I don’t want to do that. I love my home comforts too much. I wouldn’t be able to afford half the things I can now.

So, I roll off the bed and onto my feet. I make no objection; there are no excuses or pleas of mitigation. It is true I have been rude and cruel to my mother. I can’t explain why, she just rubs me up the wrong way.

Dad is in his early forties and not yet middle aged; but there are some flecks of grey in his otherwise light brown hair. I stand to the right of my dad, looking down at the platform I am soon to place myself across. Dad is thick set and his legs are fleshy; he has the start of a beer belly. In a strange way he makes a comfortable platform for me to present himself. My positioning might be comfortable but what happens next will not be.

I take a deep breath; place both palms on dad’s fleshy right thigh and ease forward. I reach out my hands and place my palms flat on the carpet. Behind me my legs are short and dangle in mid-air, my toes an inch or so short of the floor. My groin presses into dad’s leg and my bottom rests at an angle.

Dad is not quite satisfied and moves me slightly to give himself a better aim at my bum. My legs are now further from the ground and my face closer to the carpet.

Dad has his little spanking rituals; he always has done. It is his job to prepare my bottom for punishment. He will be the one to take down my pyjama bottoms. Dad rests his slipper on the small of my back and with both of his hands free, gently he takes the elasticated waist of the pyjama bottoms and slowly, carefully, eases them down over my hips down across my meaty (and a little chubby) cheeks until they are clear of the buttocks and resting at my thigh.

I feel a slight breeze blowing across my exposed flesh from the open bedroom window. I am breathing a little heavily. I’ve felt the full force of dad’s slipper across my bare bottom before; I know this will hurt like mad. I hope I can take it without blubbing. Last time I was spanked I wailed the house down; I don’t want to repeat that humiliation.

Dad is taking his time. I can’t see him, but I feel movements in his body as slowly he unfastens the button on his right shirt sleeve and meticulously rolls it up so that his arm is bare from the wrist to above the elbow. Then, taking as much time as he cares, he repeats the manoeuvre with the left sleeve.

He is almost ready; but not quite. He moves the slipper from the small of my back and rests it higher up, near the shoulder. Then, just as carefully as he did with his shirt sleeves, he grasps the tail of my pyjama jacket and folds it once, then twice, until it rests neatly at my shoulders. I am now naked from the shoulders to the thighs.

Dad takes the slipper in his right hand and grips it tightly at the heel. The slipper has about eight inches of flexible sole; dad hovers it above my fleshy bottom; he could easy make one smack land across the centre of both cheeks at once. Or he could go lengthwise and wallop the whole of one cheek from the very top to the very bottom.

He takes the first option and brings the slipper crashing down three times across the centre of both mounds. I gasp at the shock of the impact and screw my fingers into a claw.

Dad whacks another three a little lower this time; just where the curves meet the thighs. I yelp and my legs kick out behind me. It is an involuntary action; a reflex to the pain that is starting in my bum and travelling down the back of my legs.

Dad then goes for option two: putting three whacks the length of the left cheek and three into the right. Dad’s technique is not to raise the slipper high into the air and bring it crashing down; instead he raises it perhaps only a foot or so away from the target area and then brings it down with a mighty force into the flesh. It is all in the forearm action and dad has perfected this method over many years of spanking me and my brothers.

My cheeks clench tighter and the slipper hangs threateningly overhead waiting for them to relax in response to the curt command snapped out by my irritated father. The buttocks reluctantly oblige and the slipper falls with fury to slam another dose of intense pain into my naked bottom.

Up and down; up and down goes the slipper. I am failing in my resolve not to cry. I groan or yelp as each whack of the slipper sinks into my meaty bum and remerges leaving behind another deep pink mark. Soon dozens and dozens of images of the slipper are emblazoned across both cheeks and the back of my legs.

I wriggle this way and that; to the left and to the right. It looks like I am trying to swim off dad’s lap. But dad is having none of it and holds me tightly at the waist; I am going nowhere.

My legs are flailing and first I kick the pyjama bottoms down from my thighs to my ankles and then after a dozen or so more wallops they are sent flying across the floor. Dad has not finished; he wants to make sure I understand the gravity of my misbehaviour; so he wraps his right leg across both of my calves and I am trapped. I cannot twist at the waist and cannot kick my legs. I am completely at dad’s mercy.

The spanking goes on and on.

I hear floorboards creak. Someone is on the landing outside my room. I hear the handle of the door twist and it opens. My mum walks in the room and stands about two feet away from my face. She has a perfect view. What she sees is her bratty son pinned across his dad’s knee, his bare bottom toasted bright red by the continual pounding of the slipper. I am totally, utterly humiliated.

I gasp to catch my breath. I cannot see her clearly for the tears flooding my eyes. Why is she here? Has she come to gloat?

“Leave it Den,” she says to my father. “Are you sure Lil,” he replies while increasing the ferocity of the slaps into my burning bum. “I should go on for another ten minutes at least.”

She speaks to me. “Dexter, have you leant your lesson?”

“Yes, yes,” I gasp. And with big gulps and tears, I wail, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Let him go.” Dad now knows she means it and the pounding stops. He keeps a tight hold of me and I wheeze and wheeze into the carpet. My pulse is racing and I cannot be sure I won’t have a heart attack.

Then dad releases me and I leap off his knee and hop about, with my cock flopping up and down. I retrieve my pyjama bottoms and tug them on to cover up my privates from my mum’s gaze, but she is not looking. Already she has turned on her heels and is leaving the room.

“No supper for you tonight,” she says over her shoulder and goes. She is anxious to get back to her television; Emmerdale is about to start.

My dad says nothing and follows her out.

When the coast is clear I whip down my pyjamas and poke my bum in the mirror. I am not too shocked by what I see; this is not the first time dad has put his slipper across my bare arse. Both buttocks are bright red and along the outer reaches of my globes there are clear imprints of the sole of the slipper. I touch the flesh gingerly. The pain has quickly subsided, but it is tender to touch. The very centre of my bum which absorbed most of the slippering is rough and leathery. I know from painful experience that quite soon dark blue bruises will show and they will be with me for some days to come as they turn a multitude of colours before eventually disappearing.

I wait a few moments and then go to see Tom my twenty-year-old brother in the next room. We compare my marks to the spanking he got from my dad last night.

 

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