I got in from work just after 6 p.m. and the house seemed deserted. I knew my wife was at her evening class, but I expected my eighteen-year-old son Alex to be around somewhere.
I entered the lounge and there he was sprawled out on his back on the sofa, plugged into his Tablet. He was wearing only a blue baseball cap and a pair of tiny green sport shorts. The drawstring at the waist was loosened and his right hand was slipped inside stroking his todger. I could just catch a glimpse of a naked man on the screen, but I couldn’t make out who he was with or what he was doing.
I smiled to myself. Tossing off again. We were all eighteen once; we all did it, but I wished Alex would have the decency to whack off in the privacy his own bedroom, not on full view in the living room, where I had to watch him at it.
I coughed loudly. Alex’s usually pale skinned face blushed scarlet and he removed his hand so quickly I feared he might do himself an injury. He slammed shut the Tablet case and tried to act as if nothing had happened. But his cherry red face gave his game away.
Alex looks a lot younger than his years: mostly because he’s a bit on the short side and he has a round open face. He wears these massively over-sized glasses with thick black rims. He needs them for reading and looking at his pornography on the Tablet. Maybe it’s true, masturbation does make you go blind. His fair hair was heavily gelled with what the kids today call “product” and we used to call Brylcreem.
He was a very pretty boy with flawless pale skin and red lips. His chest and back was completely hairless, but there was some bum-fluff on his legs and arms.
I wasn’t going to have a go about the wanking. There were more important matters at hand. “Have you done your homework?” I asked. He didn’t answer. I think he preferred to pretend I wasn’t there.
I asked my question again. “Have you done your homework?”
“Haven’t got any,” he replied sulkily.
It was a lie. Exams were coming up and there was lots of work to do. They got homework every day.
“That’s not true,” I said.
“I’ve finished it.”
“Show it to me.”
That exposed his lie.
“Oh, I’ll do it later,” he said picking up the Tablet and straightening up on the sofa.
Not good enough. Homework was a bit problem with Alex. He was quite bright academically, but he could be very lazy. It was always a struggle to get him to do it.
“Alexander, what did we say about homework?”
I only called him “Alexander” when I was annoyed with him and my son knew that he was now in big trouble.
“Don’t ‘Oh, dad’ me. We said you do homework as soon as you get in from school, didn’t we?”
He pouted, but didn’t answer.
We had also talked about the penalty for not doing homework, so Alexander knew what was coming next. I pulled a straight-backed wooden chair away from the dining room table and plonked it down in the middle of the room. Then turning to the sofa, I reached down and gripped Alexander’s left arm. He gave little resistance as I hauled him to his feet and dragged him a yard or two to the chair.
“Oh, dad, I’m too old for this,” he wailed. No, I thought, eighteen is not too old to be spanked. Many eighteen-year-old boys would benefit from a sore backside, delivered by a loving caring father: and you my lad are one of them.
I sat down on the chair and parted my legs by a yard or so. Alexander’s eyes popped as he realised I really intended to do it: to spank him on his firm bum just like he was eight years old. He tried to break away, but my grip was too tight. I pulled him forward and using my free hand I pushed him in the small of the back until he toppled over my knees.
I am a heavy man and I have some strength, but I would not fancy my chances in a fair fight with Alexander. To win this little dual I needed the element of surprise. Before he could fight his way off my lap, I pinned my leg across his. He wriggled over my knees, but no matter how much effort he put into it he wasn’t going anywhere.
I pushed his upper body down so that he was jack-knifed over my knee with his hands touching the floor and almost his entire weight was across my lap. His hipbones rested on my left knee. His shorts covered very little and he was almost naked across my knees.
I didn’t wait for him to struggle and I brought my hand crashing down on the green target that was his bottom. The distinct sound of a slap landing on a tight bottom rang out loudly through the room. My hand continued to wallop relentlessly. It was a real struggle to keep the writhing boy in position.
His already scarlet complexion turned puce and Alexander wriggled and writhed across my lap, as on and on my palm slapped into his rounded cheeks. “Stop it dad, stop it,” he wailed, but there was nothing he could do. I was in complete control.
Although Alexander was hollering and yelling, I could see he wasn’t in any real pain. In fact, with his shorts and underpants he probably couldn’t feel a thing. My hand was almost certainly sorer than his bum.
“Doh!” I said aloud, “This is no good.” I spotted a clothes brush my wife had left on the coffee table and without relaxing my hold on my writhing son, I reached across for it.
Alexander spotted me through the corner of his eye, and redoubled his efforts to break free. I whacked the brush into the tight seat of his cotton sport shorts. He felt that alright. But, I wasn’t yet satisfied. Without a word of warning, I took hold of the elasticated waist of Alexander’s shorts and slowly inched them down, first over his hips and then across his tight round buttock cheeks. I was rewarded by the sight of the eighteen-year-old’s mauve briefs clinging so tightly to the contours of his buttocks they disappeared up his crack forming a kind of wedgie.
But, this was not going to be good enough. Alexander struggled violently when 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.” Alexander sounded like he was scared to death.
But slowly, ever so slowly, the underpants came down, exposing his bare buttocks. His buttocks were as hairless as the rest of his body.
“What the hell!” I felt a spasm move through Alexander’s body and he put his face even closer to the carpet.
Across his buttocks were six red stripes, freshly made and beginning to turn blue. I used my index finger to trace the outline of each and every cut. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t felt it with my own finger.
What SLAP! the SLAP! hell SLAP! are SLAP! these SLAP!
I whacked the brush into his bare buttocks to emphasis each word. The pain must have been intense as Alexander’s body writhed each time I whacked his naked flesh.
Alexander mumbled something into the carpet.
Speak SLAP! up SLAP! Alexander SLAP! explain SLAP! this 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 to the carpet.
“I got caned at school.”
I SLAP! can SLAP! see SLAP! that. SLAP! What SLAP! for? SLAP!
He cried out in real pain as my slaps pounded into his fresh cane welts. 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.
I could hear tears in Alexander’s voice.
“I got caught skipping school.”
I wanted to whack him again, but didn’t. I decided to get the full explanation first.
“What for? Where did you go?”
“To the pictures.”
The cinema? I was incredulous. There were exams coming up and this was no time to be skiving off to the flicks. I told him so, but he had no coherent response for me.
“Not only have you behaved badly, you have disgraced your family by getting into trouble at school. I’m going to whack you like you’ve never been spanked before.”
From my vantage point I could see his eyes were watering, but tears were not yet flowing. He looked away so I couldn’t see.
I curved my hand and ran the palm across both of Alexander’s buttocks. The six cuts were expertly spread from the top to the bottom and both cheeks were equally lashed.
They looked raw and had clearly been laid on with some force. Had the headmaster beat Alexander on his bare bottom? Surely not? Whatever the case, the caning had been delivered by a man with some experience.
Then I took hold of his right arm and twisted it up to his shoulders. There was no way Alexander was going to escape the onslaught from my clothes brush.
I smacked his backside over and over with the heavy brush – the cheeks, the thighs, inner, outer, and sit-spots. Methodically covering every square inch of that bottom I spanked as hard as I could. Each time my brush came down, the boy’s round buttocks bounced and reverberated under the impact.
The flesh was so supple that the smacks compressed the buttock to a nearly flat surface and automatically bounced back, leaving an exact red copy of the brush into the singed flesh.
Tears flowed freely down Alexander’s face. He squirmed and howled for many long minutes as the brush stung his bare bottom over and over, but I was relentless. By not doing his homework and truanting from school, my son was on a slipperly slope. If I did not take strong action now and thrash his backside and get him back to the straight and narrow path, I would be failing in my duty as a father.
I’m not sure how many licks I gave him with that brush, a hundred or more probably. The six once distinctive cane marks were completely obliterated by fresh cuts from the brush. The entire area of both buttocks and the backs of his legs were covered in dark red marks. Some were already turning blue and would soon go purple.
Alexander’s quite yelps soon became cries and then full-throated yells. Tears wetted his face and snot driveled from his nose and down his chin. He was quite literally a beaten boy. His shoulders heaved as he gasped for breath and he sobbed uncontrollably.
Satisfied on a job well done, I released his arm and freed his pinned down legs. He tried to lift himself off my knees but seemed not to have the strength, so instead he slid sideways and landed face down on the carpet, where he stayed for some time thrashing around on the Axminster like a goldfish deprived of water.
I stood and replaced the chair under the dining table, all the time watching my son as he choked up tears.
“Come on Alex,” I was calling him Alex once again. “You should get up,” I said gently, although my own heart was racing and my breathing was heavy with the exertion of whipping my son good and proper. “Go to your room, now, son.”
He hauled himself up to his knees and then to his feet. The strain of bending over to reach his briefs and shorts was too much. It stretched the skin across his savaged backside reigniting the agony. From where I stood his bum looked like raw hamburger meat.
He left his clothes at his feet and waddling like a penguin he made his way from the room and stumbled towards the stairs.
While his father made himself a cup of tea, Alex retreated to his room. The moment the bedroom door was closed he rushed to the mirror to inspect the damage. Not one centimetre 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. Brush marks were clearly visible right across both buttocks, covering up the six lines from the cane.
Alex threw himself face down on the bed and buried his face in the pillow, trying to massage the terrible burning in his bum.
How long would it take before his dad remembered they didn’t use the cane anymore, he wondered? Corporal punishment had been abolished in schools about thirty years ago.
Alex reached out to take a brown envelope he had earlier left on the chair by his bed. Inside were fifty pounds in used ten pound notes. Gingerly, he stood and waddled across the room to a chest of drawers, opened one and hid the envelope in between his socks and pants.
How the hell was he going to explain away Mr Hennessey to his dad?
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second