Seth Miller and his cousin Zach stood facing the kitchen wall. Hands on heads, jeans and underwear at their feet; their asses glowing. Zach blinked back tears determined not to cry in front of his cousin.
Ernest Miller sat at the table sipping coffee, admiring his handiwork. The dark red marks had already started to turn purple and he could see clear shapes of his palm and fingers burnt into four buttock cheeks.
Minutes earlier one after another each of the eighteen-year-old thieves had laid face down, butt high, across his knees for one heck of a spanking. He did not blow smoke; he laid it on with energy.
They took their licking well. There was an honor-code among boys. When the order came “drop trou”, down come the pants: no arguments. You offered up your butt the best way you could. You might want to holler and yell, but you kept it quiet. You could grunt a little (it was hard not to) but no tears were allowed. If you cried, your buddies would never let you hear the end of it.
It had been the same for Mr Miller. As he waited for the coffee to cool a little, he remembered the last time he had gotten it from his pop. He broke into a smile (thank God the boys had their backs to him, they would think he had gone crazy).
He had been a school senior, eighteen years old; an adult for chrissake! That did not stop pop. There was a session of illegal beer drinking, followed by too much mouthing off.
“Go to the bathroom and get that brush out of the shower. I’m going to tan your hide until it’s like leather,” pop had said. Then, he was marched to the woodshed where pop spanked Ernest’s insolent young ass until it was raw.
The bath brush (it weighed a ton and a single whack would leave a deep bruise) had always been pop’s weapon of choice. Miller was an easy kid to spank. He would stand quietly in front of his pop who pulled his pants and underpants down, then without a struggle he laid across pop’s lap and waited for the spanking to begin.
He might have looked brave, but it was all show. Ernest giggled at the recollection. Pop got right down to the business of giving him a whipping that he would never forget, even now twenty-two years later. From the first lick, his brush did a number on Miller’s poor, defenseless bottom. Not only was each lick loud in the confines of the shed but it burned like fire. He laid that brush on with a force Ernest did not think possible. By the fourth lick, he was yelping and had already reached back to try and protect his butt. Pop easily grabbed his wrist and held it in place. By about the tenth, he was howling and begging him to stop and assuring him with all his might that he had learned his lesson. But, there was no letup in sight. The brush continued mercilessly to tan his butt. He kicked his feet, trying to slow down the whipping but pop just pulled him over his left knee and wrapped his right around his legs.
Just as Ernest thought he would break his promise to himself and dissolve into tears, it stopped. Pop pulled his pants back up and helped him back to his feet. Despite Ernest’s best efforts, a few tears had escaped and left a shiny trail down his cheek. He thought he would be too embarrassed to look at pop after such a spanking, but it seemed right to look at him as he wiped his eyes with one hand and reached back to rub his bottom with the other. Pop loved him, he knew that. This was done for Ernest’s own good.
The spanking worked: a little. He never mouthed off to pop again, but as for the beer drinking, well the only thing that had changed was now he was of legal age.
Ernest believed corporal punishment worked and that was why he did not hesitate for even one second to lay into Seth and Zack’s bare butts. They were thieves the pair of them: and not very competent ones at that. Twenty dollars had gone missing from his pocketbook. It was not difficult to spot; he only had forty. Confronted later that day, Seth admitted the crime.
“It wasn’t me,” whimpered his cousin, Zach, “I didn’t take it.”
That was true enough. “But, you helped spend it,” Miller had replied. There was no further discussion.
Both boys would have known the outcomes of their crime, if detected. They calculated the risk. They lost.
Seth’s butt could testify to Miller’s enthusiasm for spanking. A week previously, the boy had been caught truanting from school. The lure of the shopping mall beat a double class of math any time. A neighbour out grocery shopping saw Seth and told his father.
It was not the first time the boy had truanted, but he had not been caught before. He had escaped a deserved spanking then, but not this time.
First the duvet was folded in four in the middle of the bed. Seth was soon in the position. Bare bottom in the air, pajama top tugged out of the way. He buried his face in a pillow with his hands holding it in place. He felt the cold leather of the belt rubbing the bare cheeks of his buttocks.
Then there was a dull whoosh, followed by a deafening snap. Seth heard it, but had not taken it in when he felt a searing pain across his backside, lashing both cheeks at once. In spite of himself, he gasped. It hurt much more than he let on, as though flames were sinking into his skin. He gritted his teeth, waiting for the pain to fade, but just as it began to lessen, there was another sharp snap and the belt licked his backside again, doubling the pain in some areas and coating other parts of his butt with their first layer of hurt.
After the third he was crying, sobbing, and wishing it would stop. He did though manage to hold on, gripping the pillow as powerfully as he could. As the strap lashed his backside for the last time, he choked back a yell, and lay exhausted while the burning pain built, peaked and began to ease.
Zach’s own father was not averse to giving his bratty son a whipping, but only if he truly deserved it. About the same time Seth was having his butt belted, Zach was wishing he had completed his chores and kept his mouth shut.
He was not asked to do much: just sweep the back yard and take out the trash. Not much for a eighteen-year-old boy to do in return for full board and lodgings and his parents’ unconditional love.
His pop always thought long and hard about spanking his son. Was a whipping appropriate? Had Zack fully understood that what he was doing was wrong? Were there mitigating factors? Would he learn the lesson better by grounding or taking away privileges?
But, Zack was developing a mean streak. He felt everything his mom and pop asked of him was an imposition and he wasn’t about to sweep up that yard.
Pop, didn’t need to think too much. Saying “fuck you” to your father? Not much thought required there. The boy needed his tail busted. Good and hard.
“Where do we keep the punishment stick boy?” pop knew the answer, of course.
Zach’s eyes watered. There was no way back now.
“In the cupboard under the stairs.”
“You will go and fetch the stick; then you will go to the front room.”
His legs might have been made of lead, Zach could hardly move as he went about his mission.
When he reached the front room, his pop had picked up a chair and placed it in the middle of the room and then he took another one and put the two chairs back to back.
Zach knew what he had to do: he took the stick and passed it to his dad.
He sweated with anxiety, trembled visibly and gazed with forlorn eyes at the instrument of correction which was about to rip him to shreds.
With a sinking heart, he watched the whippy stick being flexed, swished and flexed again.
“Pants down,” it was a calm, but very firm, order.
Zach’s face was as beetroot coloured as his butt would soon be.
“B.. b.. but.” He wanted to say, “Can’t we talk about this,” but the time for talking had long gone. He could not cuss out his father. He knew that. He should learn to control his temper. He had nobody to blame but himself. He deserved everything that was coming to him.
Slowly, he unbuckled his belt and popped the buttons of his jeans, before pushing them to his knees.
He knew the routine and climbed onto the first chair and knelt across putting his hands flat on the second chair, arching his backside high in the air across the two chairs, stretching his briefs tight across his small buttocks.
His pop took the tail of Zach’s shirt delicately between the thumb and forefinger of each hand and folded it over the boy’s back. Then grasping the waistband of Zach’s briefs he tugged them firmly down until they were reunited with his jeans.
Pop swished the rod hard across Zach’s backside and the vocal response was immediate, he howled as the switch burned a thin line down his creamy-white buttocks.
Zach’s bottom felt like a furnace as he struggled to stay bent back over the chair, gripping its seat firmly like it was a lifebuoy keeping him afloat. Pop did not give him any respite from the caning and delivered another hard stroke slightly lower down his bottom, just above where the buttocks met the legs.
Zach jerked back in his position from the explosion of pain across his bottom but managed to muffle an aaaarrrrrgghhhhh.
A cacophony of yells, pleading, gasping and choking sobs filled the room, as a third stroke whipped hard into already red raw flesh. The boy’s legs flew up, tipping him almost over the top of the chair; his voice cracked with an agonized ejaculation of noise; his buttocks quivered unceasingly and his shirt slid fully over his shoulders baring his back to a sudden draught of cold air. His frozen mind desperately struggled to count the number of strokes so far. Was it three or was it four?
A high, piercing wail echoed around the room as the six rapid strokes ended. Zach’s scarred buttocks hovered in the air before slowly sinking back into their original position; the tightened fists slowly unfurled; the tensed muscles loosened, and only the woeful sound of his laboured breathing and gasping echoed around the room.
Mr Miller finished his coffee, put the cup in the sink and left the kitchen; but he retuned almost immediately.
“Turn around,” he ordered the young thieves. The two cousins slowly turned on their heels. Then, they saw it. More trouble lay ahead.
“Huh?” It was Zach who reacted first.
“You’re not done. We’re not finished,” Mr Miller said, smacking a stout wooden paddle into the palm of his hand.
“B.. b.. but,” Seth tried to protest.
“Move around the table,” Mr Miller pointed to the kitchen table with the paddle. Seth’s eyes never left the wood. He had felt the crash of paddle against his bare butt before; he knew this was going to be no picnic.
The two boys, still with jeans and briefs at their ankles shuffled across the room.
“You Seth, stand there,” Mr Miller pointed to the edge of the table. “Bend over.”
Seth hesitated. His buttocks still throbbed from the hand spanking, he did not think his buttocks could take a paddling on top of that hurt.
“Doh!” Mr Miller was not in the mood to be disobeyed. He grabbed the boy by the scruff of the neck and pushed him forward, until his stomach lay flat of the cold Formica table top. Seth was small for his age and he struggled to stretch his arms in front of him to grab the far edge of the table. He nearly had to go on tip-toes to reach, leaving his bared buttocks resting on the near side of the table.
Then, it was Zach’s turn. Mr Miller positioned him four feet further down the table. Now, he had four buttocks lined up in a row with plenty of space for him to swing the wood and inflict as much pain as he wanted into the vulnerable cheeks.
Both boys instinctively closed their eyes and gritted their teeth. Seth, who knew how much his father’s paddling would hurt, clenched his buttocks tight, trying to turn the soft flesh into an armored-plated defence.
Zach, meanwhile, lay quiet, breathing shallowly. He had never felt the wood before, but surely, he reckoned, it was as nothing compared to his pop’s whippy stick.
He soon found out.
Mr Miller gripped the ‘board of education’ tightly in his right hand and then moved along the line of buttocks whacking the wood down into naked flesh one after the other. When he reached the end of the row, he returned to base and started over again. Then he did it again. And, again, with breath-taking severity.
Mr Miller’s face set in determined concentration as he rained down blow after blow on the twin, quivering, cheeks by now flaming red with thick bluish bruises.
The boys’ yowls! could be heard in the next door apartment, but Mr Miller did not care. His neighbor was not about to call the police on him. He regularly took an old worn razor strop to the ass of his own miscreant son.
Eventually, it was over and the two cousins were holding their burning bottoms and dancing, trying to cool a fire that would not go out.
“Out!” Mr Miller put the paddle on the table and the boys, not waiting to pull up their clothes stumbled from the kitchen to Zach’s room.
Inside, they compared marks. What they saw were two sets of buttocks, now colored a deep purple, bruised from the top of the globes at the base of the spine to the under-curves where cheeks join thighs. They could still see distinct marks showing the outline of the paddle, but they were fading.
Seth looked a mess, facing the mirror he could see his face was red, eyes puffy and he looked ridiculous, dick hanging out, standing there clutching his poor bottom. He had not let go since the last lick had landed.
Zach was not much better. He could not believe the sight of his buttocks, they were covered in angry red, almost mauve welts, which criss-crossed each other all over his poor little bottom! It took several days before he would sit down with any comfort.
In some distress, the two cousins’ eyes met. Seth laughed loudly, “Jeeez! This has to be worth a lot more than twenty dollars!” The two boys fell on each other’s necks: comrades in arms.
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second