The shoplifter

“Are you alright Fred?”

It was my pal Charlie, sitting opposite me at the canteen table, a mug of steaming hot tea in his fist.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

No, I was not alright, but I wasn’t about to admit that to Charlie.

It was tea break at the factory and I was reading the Brocklehurst Bugle, our local newspaper. Nothing ever happens in Brocklehurst and we all like it that way. This week was no different. The Mayor had opened this; local councillors were complaining about that; St Francis Grammar School had held its sports day. It was the same old, same old.

Then I saw it. Some kid was in court for stealing a phone from a shop. He pleaded guilty. Fined £150; with costs. It made a big splash in the paper; we don’t have much crime in Brocklehurst.

The kid’s name: Timothy John Mallinson. Aged 19. Address: 17 Albertson Street. My address. My son.

People often say when they’ve had a shock, “I thought I was having a heart attack.” Well, I truly thought I was. I think that’s what Charlie saw.

What the hell did Timothy think he was doing? I thought he was a good kid. He has a job in an office; he has wages coming in every week, why does he need to go round shoplifting?

After, the initial shock wore off, the anger kicked in. It’s all over the paper; everyone I know reads the Bugle. And those folk who don’t will soon hear about it from those who do. Tim had bought shame and disgrace to the family.

Why hadn’t he told me? Did he think I wouldn’t find out?

My anger grew to fury. I’ll give that kid what for when I get home tonight.

I got in from work just after 7 pm and the house seemed deserted. I knew my wife was at her bingo, but I expected Tim, the only one of my children living at home at present, to be around somewhere.

I entered the lounge and there he was sprawled out on his back on the sofa, plugged into his MP3 player, seemingly oblivious to the world.

Tim looks a lot younger than his years: mostly because he’s a bit on the short side and he has a cherubic face. He was wearing white sports socks and baggy beige trousers that fitted snugly at the waist and a short white t-shirt advertising some band I’d never heard of. It showed off his sun tan perfectly.

He had on a huge pair of headphones over his neatly cropped strawberry blond hair. He had one of those fringes at the front that spiked up. I reckoned it made him look a bit like the cartoon character Tin-Tin, but when I pointed it out to him once and said we should call him Tim-Tim from now on, he hadn’t a clue what I was talking about.

He was a very pretty boy (like Tin-Tin again) with flawless pale skin and red lips. I suppose he had already kissed a lot of girls, or maybe even boys: I did have my doubts about my son.

“I want a word with you!” I barked. He didn’t answer. The music he was listening to seemed to have transfixed him. He’d either not heard me or was pretending not to.

I gestured for him to take off his headphones. When he did so I could hear the music blaring from them.

I said it again. “I want to talk to you”

“What about?” he replied sulkily.

His attitude did nothing to calm my temper.

“This!” I yelled poking the newspaper in his chest.

That got his attention. His face turned a deathly white.

“Timothy, what the hell’s going on?”

I only called him “Timothy” when I was annoyed with him and my son knew that he was now in big trouble.

“Oh Dad!”

“Thieving from a shop.” It was a question as much as it was a statement.

He pouted, but didn’t answer. Timothy knew what was coming next.

I took a dining room chair from under the table and placed it in the middle of the room. Then, I reached out and took Timothy by the left arm and pulled him off the couch to his feet. I saw he had six or seven of those wrist bands that kids wear these days: what’s all that about?

“Over here.”

Very reluctantly, Timothy took a small step toward me getting just close enough so I could grab the waist of his trousers and pull him down and over my knees. Then I held his middle region and moved him about so that he was in a perfect position over my lap with his pelvis raised and his legs and crotch settled down right over my lap and spread out a bit. Timothy’s hands reached down to the floor, and I was ready to spank his pert little bottom.

“Dad, let me go, come on dad, I’m nineteen,” he protested as he struggled to break free from my hold, but the more he struggled the more embarrassing it must have been for him because he realised that I was in complete control.

“No, come on dad, this is humiliating, will you quit it dad.”

I slapped into his buttocks and immediately realised my mistake. His buttocks were as hard as steel and as I rained down hefty spanks into his backside I could tell he was not feeling a thing.

“This is useless,” I admitted my mistake, “get up,” and I helped him onto his feet. If Timothy thought his humiliation was over, he was wrong, it had only just begun.

Without a word, I reached for the waist of his trousers, popped the button and pulled down his zipper. In a second the trousers were at his feet and I hauled him back over my knees.

I had a lot more success this time as he only had thin cotton yellow-checked underpants for protection. Timothy bounced and shifted over my knees, as I rapidly spanked into the whole of his buttock area, from the tops near his spine across the fleshy globes into the under cheeks where the bum meets the thighs. His gasps and breathless aaaghhhs suggested that even if his bum were made of steel, my son was feeling this spanking.

I stopped whacking him and he gave out a deep sigh of relief. He must have thought his punishment was over but I still held him in position. This punishment needed to be severe. Timothy had turned into a thief and unless I sorted him out now he could ruin his whole life.

He struggled violently as he realised my hand was pulling at the top of his underpants, but I had him forcefully at my mercy and there was nothing he could do.

He pleaded with me, “No, dad, please dad, no!” Timothy sounded like he was scared to death.

Inch by inch, the underpants came down, exposing his bare buttocks. I felt a spasm move through Timothy’s body and he put his face even closer to the carpet.

What SLAP! the SLAP! hell SLAP! did SLAP! you SLAP! think SLAP! you SLAP! were SLAP! doing? SLAP!

I whacked into his bare buttocks to emphasis each word. The pain must have been intense as Timothy’s body writhed each time my hand hit his flesh.

Timothy mumbled something into the carpet.

Speak SLAP! up SLAP! Timothy SLAP! tell SLAP! me SLAP!

He turned his head slightly to try to look at me, but I still held him tightly across my lap, so he directed his explanation such as it was to the carpet. I could hear sobs in Timothy’s voice.

He cried out in real pain as my slaps pounded into his bare arse. The usually pale flesh on his buttocks was bright red and obviously raw. I felt his bum with my hand and it genuinely felt red hot.

“Not only are you a thief, you have disgraced your family. I’m going to whack you like you’ve never been spanked before. Get up.”

I let him up to his feet and looked him full in the face His eyes were watering, but tears were not yet flowing. He looked away so I couldn’t see.

I gestured with my hand to the other end of the room.

“Fetch me one of those slippers.” They were on a shelf under the television set.

Timothy still had his trousers around his feet and his pants at the knees, but he managed to waddle penguin-like across the room. When he bent down to pick up a slipper I had the perfect view of his bottom. It was bright red and the outline of the palm of my hand was clearly visible against his once snow-white skin.

Timothy winced as he stretched his body to pick up the slipper. In seconds he was back standing in front of me.

I spread my legs and ordered him to bend over my left knee and with my right leg I pinned both his legs so he couldn’t move. Then I took hold of his right arm and twisted it up to his shoulders. There was no way Timothy was going to escape the onslaught from my rubber-soled slipper.

I smacked his backside ferociously over and over with the heavy slipper – the cheeks, the thighs, inner, outer, and sit-spots. Timothy howled from the first loud swat on his bare flesh. He immediately broke down and the tears spilled down his cheeks. He tried to kick as hard as he could but I had him pinned into the position I wanted him: he was going nowhere until I said so.

I continued to spank his naked bottom, now much faster than before. Timothy’s buttocks bounced and quivered under the rain of blows and he gulped with each, successive, fiery slap. Each biting smack toasted another part of his upended, bare rump. He grunted and groaned, trying to move his bottom from the line of fire, but of course, could not.

As the spanking continued, Timothy realized with shock that his bottom was on fire. It burned with a pain that bewildered him. Every fresh smack of the slipper tore a gasp from him, and he realized with surprise that he was weeping; in fact, he’d been crying for some time.

I could see Timothy was spent; he was quite literally a beaten boy. When I heard him gasping for air, seriously unable to breathe, I decided he had had enough.

I released his body and still gasping for air he rolled off my knees onto the floor where he lay sobbing into the carpet. In time he got up, shaking like a leaf and in agony pulled up his underpants and then his trousers. Then fully dressed he stood dazed and disorientated, not daring to look at me.

At that moment I had no compassion for him. He deserved everything he got.

Not one inch of his backside was untouched from the crown to the top of the thighs. His bum was scalded and throbbed like it was three times its normal size. Slipper marks were clearly visible right across both buttocks.

“Now, go to your room and stay there.”

I watched as Timothy slowly and in agony made his way from the room. Not only would he have trouble sitting down for a very long time, standing was going to be a problem for him as well.

Timothy dived face down on to his bed and rubbed at his throbbing buttocks through the cotton cloth of his beige trousers. Tears continued to trickle down his cheeks and he brushed them away with the back of his hand. Gradually he regained some composure.

Bloody hell. His dad had given him one hell of a whacking.

He reached out into his bedside cabinet and withdrew the brand new Tablet from within. Thank God, they didn’t catch me stealing this, he thought, as he powered it up.

 

Other father and son spanking stories you might like. Click on the title

Illicit drinking

Two brothers

When Dad got home

 

 

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

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