Barry had just ended the phone call. It was his mum. She was in great distress. She hadn’t stopped crying. It was because of his kid brother Don.
Barry paced the room, he could feel the anger rising inside of him. It was his responsibility. He was the man of the house, even though he had moved out of “home” years ago. He had to be the one to deal with this.
He switched the kettle on. He would make a cup of coffee while he figured out what to do.
Don was nineteen years old and the only one of the three Donovan boys still living at home. Dad had moved out years ago and there was only Don and his mum left. Don was way out of line. He couldn’t be bothered to get a job, he was spending all his welfare money on weed and he was giving his mum one hell of a time.
“I can’t control him,” she had wailed to Barry on the phone. “I don’t know what to do,” she gulped through sobs. She was at her wits’ end, she said. Barry had to help her.
Barry didn’t know what to do either. How could he tame his kid brother?
Then he had an idea.
Barry was twenty-two years old and a successful semi-pro boxer. He couldn’t have been more different to Don. Where Barry was big and strong; Don was thin and puny. The solution was simple, Barry thought. He would go see Don, tell him he had to mend his ways with mum and start doing what she said. He had to get a job – there were plenty of burger bars in town – and start acting responsibly.
If he didn’t, Barry would punch his face in. He could do it; easily. And, he would do, if that’s what it took.
That was how the next night Barry came to have Don by the throat. The younger boy’s eyes popped as he gasped for breath. He was choking. If Barry didn’t let go soon, Don would pass out on the floor.
Barry was no thug, he was a pugilist. A boxer. An athlete. He set his brother free and watched in quiet satisfaction as his kid brother sank to his knees, gulping in great draughts of air, his face scarlet.
Barry had already decided not to punch Don’s face in. He deserved it that was for certain. But, Barry realised his mum would be in great distress when she saw her little baby with a bloody nose and a black eye.
There was another way to rein in his brother. A few months ago a pal had told him about his friend John. John was the same age as Barry and he had an out-of-control kid brother too. The eighteen-year-old had been caught stealing at the newsagent where he worked. So John took a whippy school cane to the brat’s backside. That sorted him out.
Barry had no idea where to get hold of a school cane. If he had known this John guy personally he could have asked for a loan of his. But he didn’t. So he couldn’t cane Don’s backside, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t give him one hell of a spanking.
Don sat on the floor regaining his composure. Barry knew the look of fear in the teenager’s eyes. He had seen it many times before. The boy knew when he was whipped. His brother dominated him; he could punch his lights out anytime he wanted.
“Stand up!” Barry didn’t give his brother a chance to do it under his own steam. He gripped the boy’s shirt and hauled him to his feet. He held on tightly and pulled the boy forward so their faces were only inches apart. Tears welled behind Don’s eyes.
“Right. You want to act like a brat, I’m going to treat you like a brat.” Barry stared blank-eyed at his brother. It was a look he had perfected in boxing. It scared the shit out of opponents; they thought it was the look of a crazy man.
It worked on Don. His body shook uncontrollably.
“This is what you are going to do.” Barry pulled his brother even closer. He could smell his stinky breath. “You are going to take down your trousers and pants. Then you are going to bend over my knee. Then I am going to spank your arse black and blue.”
“No way.” It was a natural terrified reaction, not a statement made with confidence. Don couldn’t fight off his brother.
Barry released his grip and rushed around the room, hurriedly opening and closing cupboards and doors. He quickly found what he was looking for. A large light brown clothes brush. It was nearly a foot long if you included the handle and the bristle side was easily four inches wide. It was heavy enough to inflict real pain; especially if whacked down with great force across a bared backside.
Don was rooted. If he tried to run, his brother would catch him. Then what? His brother was built like a brick outhouse. He’d probably get a good kicking. And then the spanking …
The nineteen-year-old watched as his brother grabbed a dining room chair and set it in the middle of the room. Barry sat down and glared at Don.
“B ..b..” Don was already blubbing like a little kid. “I’m sorry, I won’t do it again. I promise.”
His brother sneered. His contempt for his wimp of a brother was total. “Too right you won’t. Not after I’ve finished with this.” He waved the brush in the air. “Now, get over here.”
Don was a bully to his mother. He had terrorised her for years. Like so many bullies, he was also a coward. He stood his ground. He was too chicken to submit himself for his deserved punishment.
“Ahhh!” Barry rose from the chair, reached forward and dragged his brother forward. Then resuming his sitting position, he unbuckled the boy’s belt. Don was too terrified to resist. The button and zip on his jeans were soon open and the denims slipped down his legs. His Calvin’s quickly followed.
Barry’s strength was so great Don practically flew over his lap when he gripped his arm and propelled him downwards.
Barry had never spanked anyone before, nor had he seen it done. But he reckoned it couldn’t be that difficult. Without ceremony, he raised the brush and brought it crashing down in the middle of Don’s left buttock. A dark pink mark, a perfect match of the oval head of the brush, immediately appeared.
Spankings come in many shapes and sizes. At their best the one lying with his face down in the carpet accepts his wrongdoing. He is a bad, bad boy. He deserves to have his buttocks toasted. He agrees to take his hiding with fortitude. He will make as little fuss as possible.
At their worst, the one on the receiving end resists. He fights. He struggles. He kicks and punches. He yells and screams. He threatens every kind of retribution to the guy pounding away at his buttocks. He makes as much fuss as possible.
Don did not take his spanking well. Barry with his vastly superior strength was more than capable of pinning his kid brother over his lap. The boy was going nowhere. That didn’t stop Don kicking his legs and wriggling his body and flailing his arms. He desperately tried everything to break away.
It was Barry’s first time as a spanker, but he was a quick learner. To do the job effectively he needed unencumbered access to the target area: the buttocks. The kicking and flapping around of arms was impeding his access.
Barry pulled Don further forward over his lap to give him the room to swing his own right leg across his brother’s calves. That dealt with the legs. Then he grabbed the boy’s right hand and forced his arm up his back. There would be no more flailing and flapping. Don’s bare buttocks were now at the mercy of his brother. But Barry was showing none of that.
Bang! Bang! Bang! the sound of wooden brush connecting with stretched buttocks resounded around the room. Up and down, up and down, the brushed bounced off the boy’s by-now red-raw bum.
It was unrelenting, relentless, vicious, brutal. Barry’s huge muscular arm bulged with the effort. Don’s squeals turned to yelps; then increased to yells and grew to shrieks and screams. The pain started as a slight discomfort, became a dull throb and quickly turned to agony.
The teenager bawled his eyes out. Tears and snot cascaded down his face. He could scarcely breathe. His heartrate was off the scale, blood rushed through his body at speed; he felt sure it would burst through his ears.
Barry had the strength of the semi-pro boxer that he was. He could keep this up all night. On and on he whacked. His kid brother’s bum had once been creamy white. It soon turned deep pink, then red followed by dark claret. Now, it was mauve and soon it would be dark blue. Not one square inch of the boy’s buttocks or thighs had been left unscathed by the severity of the spanking.
When fighting in the ring, Barry never knew when to stop. Even when he was being beaten. He would never give up. Someone would have to throw in the towel. Only then would it be over.
Barry would have gone on all night. He didn’t care. He was on a mission. His duty was to protect his mum from his bullying little brother.
“Barry! Barry!” It was his mum. He heard her voice as she rushed into the room even over the screams of his brother. “Enough!”
She had consented to the spanking. When Barry told her his plan, she thought it was a jolly good idea. Someone should have given Don a good hiding years ago. But this was too much. He had had enough.
Sheepishly, Barry released his grip. Like a dog out of a trap, Don sprang from his brother’s lap and without even taking up his jeans and pants he rushed from the room and headed up the stairs.
Barry and his mum were silent; neither of them knew what to say. Barry put the brush down on the dining room table and stood awkwardly.
What should happen next, he thought. How should this end?
“I’ll make a nice cup of tea,” his mum whispered and went to busy herself in the kitchen.
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second