The missed curfew

Mr Wilberforce sat in his favourite chair in the lounge reading the morning newspaper. He had left the door to the hallway open so he could catch Martin. His slipper was conveniently placed for the task he had to perform.

He heard Martin (“Marty”, if Mr Wilberforce was not displeased with him) quietly descend the stairs, as if on tip toe and intent to sneak out of the house unnoticed.

“Martin, come in here, please.”

Obediently, Martin entered the room. He knew he was for it. There was nothing he could do, except take what was coming to him.

“What time did you get in last night?”

No answer. Martin looked at the floor and twisted his hands behind his back.

“What have we said about curfew?” It wasn’t a rhetorical question, but Martin still did not answer. This was not the first time he had been on the carpet because of the curfew.

Mr Wilberforce sighed and tried again, “What did I say would happen if you missed curfew again?”

This time there was a whispered response, “A spanking.”

“Speak up, Martin.”

“A spanking,” said a little more clearly.

“Yes, a spanking. You can’t say you were not warned.”

It was true; this wasn’t the first time Martin had missed his curfew; but it was only the second time he had been caught. Yes, he had been warned of the consequences of his actions: Martin knew he only had himself to blame.

“But, I’m too old to be spanked.”

“Doh! I will decide when you are too old to be spanked.”

It was true, Martin was old enough legally go to bars and buy alcohol, but that wasn’t the point.

“We have rules in this house. They are very simple rules and you are required to obey them. You know that,” Mr Wilberforce berated Martin, who had no choice but to stand quietly and accept everything that was said to him. He couldn’t look Mr Wilberforce in the eye and continued to stare down at his own bare feet.

“And,” Mr Wilberforce went on speaking in an even tone, “you know the penalty when you disobey.”

Martin nodded, apparently sorrowfully, his face downcast. There could be no doubt now about what would happen next.

“You have wilfully disobeyed me. You were told you must obey your curfew and you deliberately ignored me. Isn’t that so?”

Martin nodded his agreement.

“Speak up lad. You wilfully disobeyed me.”

“Yes, Sir,” Martin’s voice was so soft, Mr Wilberforce could hardly hear.

“Well that’s it then. You give me no alternative,” Mr Wilberforce rose from his armchair, crossed the room and pulled a straight-backed dining chair into the middle of the carpet. Then, he reached down to the shelf beneath the television set and picked up one of his slippers.

“Come on, you know the drill.”

Martin did indeed know the drill. This was not the first time he had been spanked and even though he was a veteran he still felt a surge of anxiety as he watched Mr Wilberforce take up his bedroom slipper before sitting himself down in the chair and adjusting his body to create a platform over which Martin would present his bottom for punishment.

“Stand there boy. Shorts and pants down.”

Martin moved a few paces so he was standing directly in front of Mr Wilberforce, who by now was squeezing his slipper in his right hand, demonstrating how flexible and springy an instrument it was. Martin couldn’t take his eyes of it; he knew how stingy it would be when it connected with his bared bottom.

The shorts were snug fitting and didn’t need a belt to keep them up, so Martin just had to undo a button on the waistband and they slid unaided by him first down his hips and then his buttocks to rest at his knees. Martin spread his legs by an inch and the shorts fell to his feet.

Mr Wilberforce watched as Martin then put his thumbs inside the elastic waist of his underpants and with a sharp flick of the wrist sent them down to meet his shorts.

“Yes,” he thought as Martin’s stood before him, naked from the waist down, “you are too old for a spanking, but you only have yourself to blame for this.”

His bottom was now fully prepared, but Martin knew he had to wait for Mr Wilberforce to give the next instruction; it was part of the ritual of spanking.

“Come, bend over my knee.” He had heard that command many times in the past, so many he really couldn’t count, but each time it was spoken his heart would race a little quicker and he would start panting.

Martin lowered himself across Mr Wilberforce’s lap. He was much shorter and thinner than the man who was about to spank him; Mr Wilberforce was easily tall enough to play basketball. Martin placed the palms of his hands flat down and stared into the faded carpet, then he raised his bottom as high as he could, giving his punisher a perfect view of his crack. That wasn’t the purpose of the manoeuvre; it was to give Mr Wilberforce the best-possible target to aim at.

Martin felt the man’s arm almost encircle his midriff, pinning him down hard against Mr Wilberforce’s huge thighs. Martin accepted he had deliberately broken the curfew rule and he deserved this spanking and he was prepared to submit his bared bottom to punishment. He had no intention of trying to escape his just deserts. But, he knew that sometimes in the past the agony of the spanking had been too much that despite his best intentions to be submissive he had kicked and flailed about fighting to free himself. Martin felt no resentment that Mr Wilberforce didn’t trust him to take his bare-bottom slippering with dignity.

It was a standard spanking. Mr Wilberforce usually delivered forty-eight hard whacks with his slipper, landing it all the way across the target area. By the time he finished, both cheeks would be scorching hot and bruises would already be forming. The sit-spot where the buttocks met the thighs and the thighs themselves would be imprinted with the shape of the slipper’s sole.

He spanked hard (there was no point otherwise) and from the first slap the pain seared through Martin’s body, travelling from the buttock and up his back and down his legs. After only two or three whacks the agony reached his brain, releasing endorphins and taking him on a high he could never reach with cannabis or the other drugs he sometimes took.

Forty-eight whacks with the slipper might reduce a novice to tears, but Martin was no greenhorn when it came to spanking. It hurt alright, yes, it hurt a great deal, but he could take it and besides the “high” he was on far outweighed any pain he was also experiencing.

Then it was over. Job done. Two toasted buttocks.

Martin lay motionless across Mr Wilberforce’s knees, palms still dug into the carpet, bottom raised high. He knew the spanking protocol: don’t move from the subservient position until given permission to do so.

He could feel Mr Wilberforce’s cold hand massaging the heat in his own buttocks. It felt rather nice. It was his punisher’s way of saying “Despite having injured you, I love you,” or something, he supposed.

“You may get up now. Get dressed.”

Mr Wilberforce studied Martin as he stooped down to retrieve his pants and shorts. It was as if it were the first time he had seen the wrinkles on his face or the liver spots on the backs of his hands.

 

Other stories you might like.

 Late home from school

My first spanking — aged 18!

The old boys

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

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