I should have guessed I was in for a spanking the moment we sat down for breakfast.
We were all sat at the table, tucking into the traditional fried English breakfast. “We” were my dad, mum, my twenty-year-old brother, Barry, and me, Michael, an eighteen-year-old schoolboy living in Brocklehurst, a modern “New Town” in England.
The kitchen was a reasonably sized room. Our family was not rich, but we weren’t poor either. We had all the “mod-cons” of the day: the fridge, the washing machine, you know the kind of things.
The room was dominated by a huge Welsh dresser stacked with fancy china plates that we never used and a large wooden kitchen table. Dad was at one end of the table sitting to attention, his back straight as a ram-rod. Mum was at the other end, hiding behind the morning newspaper, and me and Barry were next to each other along one side.
Breakfast was not usually taken in a hurry, but today I could sense an atmosphere in the room. Mum was agitated and hurriedly finished eating and left the room saying to no one in particular she had, “Things to do.”
Barry, who was usually the first one to finish was lingering. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry. I should have realised then that they knew something that I didn’t.
Dad started it off. “Michael you came in last night at two o’clock, and you were covered in mud.”
Oh, I get it. I’m for it.
Barry was going nowhere until dad said, “Barry, please leave us alone.” My brother had a huge smirk in his face as he reluctantly did as he was told.
“Now, Michael.” dad wasn’t one to mince his words. He told me my behaviour was unacceptable. As a schoolboy, I was too young to be out at that time. He reminded me that he’d told me about this before, but I was taking no notice.
And that was it. “Stand up please.” Dad scraped his chair back from the table so his knees were clear of it.
I did as I was told, pushed my own chair back and stood.
Dad was probably in his forties, but looked much older. He was medium height and lean with hair cut in the short-back-and-sides fashion he had worn it since his days twenty years before when he had done his National Service in the Army. The hair was slicked back with greasy hair oil known as Brylcreem.
He had a short, well-groomed moustache, but it was not as dark as his hair. It hid the top lip of his pasty-white face.
Whenever I think of him, he always looked the same. That’s because he always did look the same, come summer or winter. He wore a beige cardigan with the buttons done up from bottom to top, over a white shirt pulled down to the wrists and a tightly knotted neck tie. He wore old dark trousers – part of a suit relegated from work-day use to what we never called in those days “leisure wear.”
Grey socks and bedroom slippers completed his outfit.
Dad was aware of Barry smirking through the serving hatch that separated our kitchen from the dining room. Turning his body slightly to the left, dad spoke over his shoulder. “Barry, do you want to join him?”
Barry darted away from the hatch.
Satisfied that he was alone with his son, dad reached down and removed the slipper from his right foot.
He gestured with it that I should stand close to his right hand side. I shuffled forward a pace or two into position.
“Take down your jeans, please.” Again, without complaint, I did as instructed. My hands trembled more than I thought they should as I unbuckled my belt, unfastened the two buttons at the waistband and the four on the fly and pushed my Levis to my knees, exposing my dark blue underpants.
Dad adjusted himself on his chair. He moved his bottom a bit, making sure his spine was firmly resting against the back of the chair. He separated his legs by a foot or so to provide a platform where my stomach and chest would rest.
I could see Barry had again taken up a position the other side of the serving hatch so he could witness my spanking. He was still smirking: he had a clear open face that was made for smiling: he did it all the time, but I wished he wouldn’t do it now.
Dad had forgotten all about Barry. If he had known he was spying, dad would have brought him into the kitchen and given him a darned-good spanking as well – twenty years old or not.
“Bend over my knee, please.”
I was across him in one movement. I stretched my hands in front of me and kept my knees straight, leaving my toes resting an inch above the floor.
I waited patiently. I had a close up view of the dark- and light-blue patterned lino floor covering and the scuff marks where for years chairs had scraped in and out under the kitchen table.
Dad grabbed hold of the tail of my shirt, a very fashionable (at the time) mauve floral print one, and pulled it way up my back, nearly to my shoulders. He smoothed my pants out: first across one buttock and then across the other, eliminating all wrinkles.
I took a deep breath.
The first whack hit me square in the middle of the left bum cheek. The second was on the right. Dad wasn’t a sadist, when he gave spankings he intended for us to get the message and mend our ways, but he didn’t want to brutalise us.
I gasped a little as the third and fourth wallops hit right on top of the previous two. Then he quickened the pace. Slap here, whack there, wallop again.
He stopped after a dozen whacks. It hurt alright. I was sore, but I wasn’t about to burst into sobs or anything.
Dad was finished spanking, but he continued to hold me down over his knees. He still had things to do.
“Have you learned you lesson?”
“And what lesson is that?”
“Don’t come home late.”
“Will I have to do this again?”
“Good, because if I do it will be a lot worse for you. Understand?”
“Good, get up son.”
I struggled to my feet, pulled up my jeans and did them up.
As I was leaving the kitchen to go to my room, dad swivelled to his left and caught sight of Barry’s smirking face.
“Barry, come in here please.”
That wiped the stupid grin off his face.
I waited for Barry to go into the kitchen and then took his place in the dining room.
This was going to be too good to miss.
Barry reluctantly entered the kitchen, just as dad cleared away the breakfast things from the table top.
Dad and Barry stood facing each other, eye to eye. I hadn’t really noticed it before but Barry was probably an inch or so taller than dad, and who knows, maybe if he wanted to Barry could beat dad in a fight. But there was to be no fight: not today.
Not too many words were exchanged between the two. Barry knew why he was here. Not only had he been spying on my spanking, he continued to do so even though dad had ordered him not to.
I think dad saw the disobedience as a more serious crime than the spying. Anyhow, it was a double whammy for Barry and he was going to get one heck of a hiding.
“Trousers and pants down.”
It was simple, calm instruction. Barry loosened his belt and pulled his shirt tail out from his trouser waistband. Then holding both his trousers and his underpants by the waist, in one movement he pulled them down. The weight of his belt took the trousers to his feet and the dark red pants dangled around his knees.
“Bend over the table.” Just as I had done, Barry did as he was told without question. He reached forward over the kitchen table with his stomach and chest resting on the table top. At first he seemed unsure where to place his arms, but settled for folding them in front of him so he could bury his face in his arms.
Barry moved his legs slightly so they were tucked in almost under the table, and his bare behind jutted out from the table, positively inviting the whacking he was about to receive.
Dad was in no hurry. I had a perfect view of proceedings, but dad never noticed me (or, maybe he did, but thought that since Barry had witnessed my spanking, I was entitled to witness his).
Dad moved over to the side drawer of the kitchen table, the drawer was stiff, but eventually it opened. Without looking dad put his hand inside and after a few moments fished out what he was searching for: his razor strop.
The strop was old-fashioned even then. It was a long strip of brown leather maybe an inch or two wide and at least a quarter-inch thick. I don’t know if dad ever used the strop for its rightful purpose – safety razors had been invented a long time ago – but this was the first time I ever knew him to use it for its secondary purpose. I suppose generations of naughty boys had felt one of these across their backsides, clothed or bare, but I wasn’t aware of anyone that I knew being on the deadly end of one. And, certainly no twenty year old.
As dad was going about his business, I saw Barry turn his head to the left to see what was going on.
“Face the front,” dad snapped. “You’ll find out soon enough what’s going on here.”
Barry had a very open face, fresh and boyish some people might say. I know a lot of girls found it very kissable. So did quite a few boys, we were to discover once Barry had gone off to work in Manchester.
Dad was ready now. He stood close to Barry on the right hand side, so he was almost touching him, and with no real swing he moved the strop back by about a foot and brought it crashing down into Barry’s naked flesh.
Barry winced visibly, but otherwise kept his composure.
CRACK! The second and then CRACK! the third lash cut into Barry’s bare buttocks. One on the left: one on the right.
Barry let out a kind of repressed whistle, showing that the leathering he was getting was effective indeed.
He buried his head deeper into his arms. I didn’t have a perfect few of his rear end, but I could tell Barry’s bottom was reddening quickly. Soon it would be cherry coloured and before the thrashing was over, purple.
CRACK! It must have been blow number ten when Barry raised his head from his arms and let out a piecing yell. It was as horrible as it was unexpected. Tears were gushing from Barry’s eyes and he was clearly in great distress.
Oddly, I felt no sympathy with Barry at that point. Instead I could only wonder if the neighbours could hear the noise, and guess that one or other of us was getting a damn good hiding from dad. The thought of them knowing disturbed me a little.
CRACK! I don’t know if Barry had the same thought because this time he raised his fist to his mouth to stifle his yell.
CRACK! Barry’s body jiggled from left to right as he tried to absorb the pain and desperately stop himself from jumping off the table to rub away the sting from his bum.
And, then it was over. As I’ve said dad was no sadist. Barry had taken a dozen lashes with the strop and judging from the tears flooding down his cheeks the belting had left its marks.
On dad’s instruction, Barry lifted himself off the table and bending down he gingerly pulled up his underpants. I could see him wince again as the pants brushed against his blistered bum as he pulled them to his waist. With both hands he rubbed his buttocks furiously through his cotton pants.
Then another grimace as he bent over once more to reach to his feet for his trousers. A second or so later they too were at his waist. I could see that Barry just wanted to rub and rub away at his throbbing backside, but instead he fastened his trousers and stood in front of dad, shuffling uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
A few words from dad and he was ordered to his room. I waited a few seconds and followed him up. We were two brothers who had both had a spanking from their dad and despite any other rivalries we might have in our lives there was nothing that could break that bonding.
Other stories featuring the slipper that you might like. Click on the title.
More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second