“Go to the dining room young man and wait for me there, maybe what you need is an old fashioned spanking worthy of a lad half your age.”
Feeling very ashamed Roland went downstairs, fully expecting that even at the age of eighteen he would be caned by his father.
Father had made his views entirely, unarguably clear. “You might be a prefect. That does not give you the right to behave with such arrogance towards your mother, never mind to me.”
His attitude during the half-term holiday had been totally unacceptable. He had finally gone too far.
And he knew it, too. That was what made it worse. And, his father only knew the half of it.
Roland waited in the dining room. It was a huge room that belied its name. Although the family did sometimes dine in the room, it was mainly used as a drawing room. Bookshelves covered three of the walls, and here were more books in this room than could be found in a public library in a small provincial town.
Roland stood in the middle of the room, he didn’t expect to have to wait too long before his father entered brandishing a cane. He looked over at a magnificent Chesterfield couch; if today went according to past form, he would soon be bent double across its back, presenting his backside to his father.
In his mind Roland reviewed the events of the past few days. His father had been right: the boy had behaved inexcusably. He had been rude to his mother and surly to his father. He resented the way they ordered him about from the moment he had arrived from Thistledown Academy, his expensive private boarding school, for the half term holiday.
At school he had recently been elevated to the position of prefect and this gave him enormous powers of authority over the younger boys at the school. He gave the orders and they obeyed: he hadn’t been quite ready to have the roles reversed on his return to Monerley Manor, his family home.
Only that morning he had taken out his resentment at his treatment by his mother and father on John, the family’s nineteen-year-old undergardener. Do this, do that, Roland had ordered the boy about unreasonably. It wasn’t Roland’s position to instruct any of the household servants and had his father discovered he was doing so he would have been very angry indeed. It was just as well, Roland knew, that father did not discover what happened next.
Having bullied John for more than an hour demanding the undergardener perform impossible tasks, Roland went through with the final part of his plan.
And that was how John found himself with his thick corduroy trousers at his ankles bent over, palms of his hands on his shins, while his young master lashed an ashplant he had cut earlier that day especially for the job into the seat of his grubby underpants.
John knew this was not right; he supposed that only Mr Downing, Roland’s father as head of the house, had the authority to beat him. Of course, he could not argue the point: to do so he feared would have led to his instant dismissal from employment, along with his father and mother, who both had positions on the household staff. To refuse Roland would have meant certain penury for his whole family.
As the eighteen-year-old waited in anticipation of his caning, Roland’s father was upstairs in the master bedroom, searching. At last he found what he was looking for: his wife’s large oval-shaped ebony hairbrush. He felt its weight in his right hand as he smacked what was to become the business end down into his left. There was a reason that a hairbrush had a flat end, he thought with some satisfaction.
Roland was careful not to express his surprise when seconds later his father entered the room: he was not carrying one of his many canes. Roland’s eyes flicked from his father and quickly surveyed his surroundings; had he not noticed a cane already in the room, previously planted in anticipation of this thrashing?
No cane was on show, but Roland knew there were many cupboards and drawers where such an implement could be secreted. His father had quite a collection of canes: he believed in corporal punishment and was not afraid to lash any one of his sons when the occasion arose.
Roland and every one of his older brothers had felt the sting of father’s canes. No, “sting” wasn’t the correct word. Father was both an expert and enthusiastic wielder of the cane: he had many years’ experience dating back to his own schooldays when from a young age he had himself received many thrashings and later when as a senior boy he saw it as his duty to inflict beatings on fellow pupils.
It was true; Roland knew from past experience, a caning from father was an awesome experience.
“Stand up straight,” Mr Downing barked at his son. Roland had not been slouching but nonetheless, moved his legs and shoulders to demonstrate total obedience to his father.
Mr Downing studied his son carefully. He suddenly realised he rarely actually looked at the boy, not closely. Roland was growing quickly, he was probably an inch or so taller than his father, but his body was much slighter: thin and wiry. He would soon be a fully-grown man: an adult. But he was not yet an adult; he was still a boy and sometimes, like on this day, he needed to be reminded of the fact. That was why Mr Downing had devised his plan.
The boy needed to be punished and corporal punishment was the order of the day, Mr Downing had decided, his son needed to be brought down a peg or two. A caning would certainly do that: it would hurt the boy like hell. He could lay it on heavy and inflict marks that could last days, weeks even. But, no matter how much agony Roland suffered, Mr Downing knew, he could take it.
No, the boy needed a special punishment: one that would demonstrate without question that he was still a child and that Mr Downing was his father and he must never forget that fact.
Roland’s eyes widened with genuine surprise when he saw his father rummage in his jacket pocket and withdraw the large ebony-backed hairbrush. Without saying a word he placed it on the dining room table to allow him to remove his jacket before laying it carefully also on the table.
Then, he undid and removed his tie and started to roll up his shirt sleeves, he had very large arms and hands: as befitting a man who played rugby for his county when he was younger. His face was covered with a brown beard and the rest of his body was covered in thick hair and he still looked very fit.
Instantly, Roland was panicked and nervous, fully realizing what he intended to do, and what was about to happen. It looked very much like his father was not going to cane him after all. He was to be spanked with the hairbrush. His father had never spanked him before: never. How undignified. Spankings were something ones mother administered.
Roland watched horrified as his father pulled a wooden chair from the corner of the room, picked up the hairbrush and sat down.
Roland stood several feet away unsure what he was expected to do. His father was equally uncertain. He knew if he had ordered his son to bend over the Chesterfield to have his backside thrashed with the cane he would have obeyed without question. He looked over at his tousle-haired son, dressed in summer clothes: lightweight shirt and cotton short trousers. In those days the fashion was for short trousers to be properly short and Roland’s were hardly longer than his underpants. His legs were bare and he wore no shoes.
To inflict the required humiliation, Mr Downing knew the spanking had to be on the bare bottom, but would the boy consent to taking down his own shorts and underpants before upon instruction draping himself across his father’s lap to receive the full force of the heavy wooden hairbrush?
And if he didn’t comply? Would there be an unseemly fight while father forcibly dragged down the boy’s clothes and hauled him across his lap? If that happened, who would be the more humiliated; the father or the son?
Similar thoughts raced through Roland’s head, but resisting was out of the question: he was an English schoolboy of a certain social class and he knew the honour code. A chap would always take the punishment, even when it was unjustly meted out by those in authority.
But, Roland knew, the punishment was not unjust. He deserved a beating and he was prepared to accept the consequences of his bad behaviour. But, the punishment should itself be honourable, and a hairbrush across the bottom was not: that was meant for little boys.
“I’ll take a beating with the cane father, if you would rather,” he spluttered.
He didn’t know why he had said something so absurd. Of course, if his father had wanted to give him six-of-the-best, or even twelve, he would already be face down over the Chesterfield.
This was confirmed immediately as without answering his father reached across to him, took hold of his right arm and upper back, and firmly pulled him forward (the boy’s feet scooting and scuffing along) before hauling him over, and depositing him stretched out, hanging across his knees with his face pushed into the rug.
Mr Downing was a bit surprised about how much weight was suddenly pressing down on his legs but was relieved that Roland did not resist. Then, swiftly without warning, he set up a snapping, cracking rhythm of the hairbrush as he peppered Roland’s rear-end with a series of bites.
Mr Downing was pleased his eighteen-year-old son had not resisted. But, Roland could afford to be impassive, with the cotton of his short trousers combined with the material of his underpants he hardly felt a thing as his father fell into a tempo that covered all of his buttocks. This wasn’t so bad at all and it was infinitely preferably to the whip of a rattan cane.
His father must have thought the same and Roland soon found his father’s fingers fumbling with the elasticated waistband of his short trousers, before jerking them down over the teenager’s bony hips and small, flat, but thin and muscled bottom. In a panic Roland thrashed his legs about, but rather than preventing the lowering of his shorts, the movements encouraged them to drop to his bare feet at the floor, leaving only his tight white briefs covering his mounds.
His father held the boy firmly around the waist and rained his hairbrush down with maximum force, covering every square inch of the cheeks, the upper thighs, and the curved area where they meet. The relatively small area of shiny polished wood which was attacking his tender buttocks delivered a level of pain well beyond its assumed potential. This was proving to be so much worse than a caning.
The boy’s body lay flopped across his father’s lap as he pounded away. If Roland had felt no pain before, now the agony in his backside was intense. Later when recalling this spanking, Roland reckoned this was the most humiliating part. He gave up and gave in completely, hanging and dangling over his father’s knees, his shrieking squalling taking over, as he gasped, choked, sobbed, and shook. He felt the fiery blistering on his bottom driving him to still deeper wailing and weeping.
He would have been even more humiliated if he knew that his wails could be heard outside of the dining room and John, the nineteen-year-old undergardener, attracted by the commotion was now witnessing Roland’s hard hairbrush spanking through a large bay window, while himself secreted behind a hedge.
John arrived just in time to see the final shame. Not satisfied that an over-the-knee spanking on tight white underpants was enough indignity for the boy, Mr Downing grabbed the waistband of the briefs and sent them the same way as Roland’s short trousers.
The action encouraged renewed vigour in the boy who shook his body from left to right in a fruitless attempt to break free. His legs thrashed about so much he kicked his short trousers way across the dining room and the struggle continued so greatly that long before his father had finished the bare-bottomed spanking the white briefs had flown the same way. Roland’s right hand involuntarily left the floor to defend his blistered bottom, only to be seized firmly, pulled up behind his back.
Roland wrestled to escape the relentless torrent of increasing pain which was setting his buttocks ablaze. He fought to escape from the very firm grip of his father’s left arm around his waist. He pleaded, begged, promised, apologised endlessly between his gulps and his gasping for breath. But to no avail. The punishment pursued its unswerving path and the pattern on the rug became an indistinguishable blur.
Mr Downing hadn’t known he possessed such strength: not only was he able to pin his rowdy teenaged son in place across his knees, face down, bared bottom high, he continued to batter his buttocks with the hairbrush. He pounded away at the boy for almost another five minutes, while he struggled and pleaded but his father continued in his duty.
Finally at long last he stopped the spanking and put the brush down on the table. The boy’s buttocks were scarlet. This certainly would teach him to behave in the future. Mr Downing remained silent. There need be no brooding post-mortems. The deed was done and the price was paid. The problem no longer existed.
The defeated teenager was sobbing and heaving convulsively across his father’s knees as the cool air of the room contrasted starkly with the hot, red, blistered flesh of his buttocks and thighs. No past caning had ever left him in such agony: the surface of his bottom felt like someone had poured boiling liquid onto it.
Slowly ever so slowly he got up; the change of the contours of his bum cheeks seemed to make the pain worse across his rear end.
Without seeking permission, he picked up his underpants and gingerly slipped into them. He gasped in fresh pain as the elastic in the waistband rubbed against his scorched cheeks. Then, he bent down once more to retrieve his short trousers. As he did so the cotton of his tight briefs kissed his pert mounds; the agony was nearly too much and for a second he thought about ripping down his pants to leave his bottom exposed.
But, the schoolboy honour code once more struck in: he knew it was not the “done” thing to let the schoolmaster (or your father in this case) know you had been hurt by your punishment. So, Roland gritted his teeth and stepped into his short trousers before pulling them up tight to his belly.
It was over. Roland Downing aged eighteen, thanked his father before leaving the dining room, closing the door quietly behind him. He had spent the last ten minutes or so draped across his father’s lap with his short trousers around his ankles and his underpants around his knees.
About an hour later Roland was still lying face-down on his bed, trying to come to terms with the bare-bottomed hairbrush spanking his father had given him. The livid marks on his bum were clearly going to bruise and last for some time.
As his bottom continued to throb, Roland’s brain was saying: never again will I disrespect mother and father.
Other stories you might like
More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second