Twenty-five-year-old Alistair McAndrew fumbled with the buckle of his belt before loosening it; then he released the two clasps at the top of his cream chino trousers. Once the zipper was down they fell to his knees. He lifted his shirt away from his buttocks and carefully lowered himself over the back of the couch. He steadied himself; waiting for the first lash from his father’s taws to connect.
Mr McAndrew’s philosophy was simple. His house, his rules. Break his rules, suffer his punishment.
Alistair had thought he had done all that was expected of him. He studied well at school and went to university. When he graduated there were no jobs so he went away to complete a master in business administration. When he returned home after that things were bleak. He worked in a burger bar and then in a supermarket filling shelves. It did his head in.
Then he gave up. He hadn’t worked in a year. Now, he hardly left the house and stayed in his room most of the time. He was surly and uncooperative. He drove his parents to distraction. The final straw was when he refused to vacuum clean the carpets. He told his mother where to get off.
Now, he was face down across the couch. It wasn’t Alistair’s first thrashing and it wouldn’t be his last.
Mr McAndrew gripped the old worn leather strap in his right hand. It had been in the family for generations. It was an authentic lochgelly taws, more than fifteen inches long, with the business end cut into two tails. It was two strips of leather forged together and heavy as hell. Similar tawses had been in constant use in Scottish schools until corporal punishment was abolished more than thirty years ago – before Alistair was even born.
It might have been banned in schools, but many fathers still kept a strap hanging on a nail in the garden shed or the cupboard under the stairs. Tanning boys’ backsides was still a fine Scottish tradition.
Mr McAndrew surveyed his son. His buttocks were a little flabbier than the last time he was dealt with. If he didn’t take more exercise and stop eating junk food – deep fried Mars bars were a particular favourite – he would soon balloon up.
The boy – and even aged twenty-five, Mr McAndrew still saw his son as a “boy” – stared intently at the green-and-yellow-patterned seat cushion. His stomach sank into the soft sponge-like vinyl covered couch. His legs twitched slightly. His breathing was even. He had been in this position many times before; he knew what was coming.
Mr McAndrew lined the taws across the centre of Alistair’s lime green underpants, then lifted it high. He was a keen golfer and he whipped the leather down with the same force he would use for a tee shot. The leather cracked into Alistair’s cotton-covered bum, a sound like a pistol shot echoed round the room, swiftly followed by the gasp that escaped through Alistair’s tight lips.
Swipes two and three followed in quick succession. Each a little harder than the first. Alistair screwed up his eyes and made his lips form a perfect “O” as he wheezed, trying the ease the considerable pain now building across his backside. It didn’t work. His cheeks blazed.
His dad laid it on. Each blow no longer stood out as a single stripe of fire; it was a hellish onslaught. The strokes of the strap burned deeply into his arse with a penetrating intensity. This thrashing felt much worse than any his dad had delivered before.
The whipping continued at a steady pace, his dad delivered the blows with extraordinary energy. Alistair gulped back the yelps his brain wanted him to cry. With each strike he wiggled his bottom frantically; he was burning, panting, praying that the agony would soon be over.
Then it stopped. The onslaught had ceased. Alistair stayed in position. Head low in the cushion, bottom high over the couch’s back, feet apart. Without saying a word, his father took the waistband of Alistair’s pants and tugged them down. It was no surprise to the boy; twelve up and twelve down was his father’s usual tariff.
The pants slipped slowly down the boy’s legs before resting on top of his chinos. Alistair closed his eyes tighter, pursed his lips, gripped the soft seat cushion and waited for the torment to start again.
Mr McAndrew admired his handiwork. There were distinct bright red stripes all across his son’s bum. Most lashes had landed as he had intended on the fleshiest part of the bottom. Now, he rested the taws on the under curves, raised it high and still in golfer mode he whacked it home. It hit the most sensitive part of any boy’s backside. Alistair raised his head from the cushion, wriggled his hips and stamped his feet up and down. Then he put his left leg over his right. It was a fruitless attempt to stop the pain. “Sweet Jesus,” he thought, “I can’t take more of this.”
I will not cry. I will not cry. The words flashed through his brain as another whack hit him low. This time landing across the top of his thighs. He let out an almighty yelp and repeated the writhing and marching.
“Be still,” his father barked, and Alistair felt a hand gently caress his thigh. He froze in fear and his body quivered with bewilderment. He sweated profusely though the room was cool. He felt naked and alone. It was horribly humiliating. He would rather be anywhere in the world than lying across a couch with trousers and underpants at his ankles with an evil strap pounding away at his proffered bare arse.
He sensed the hand being removed, then he heard the smack and once again his backside was on fire. His father got into his usual rhythm, left cheek, right cheek, left, right, again and again. His backside was burning as his dad continued to tan him. Alistair whined and moaned, kicked his legs and fidgeted.
He lost count of the whacks, but he knew it would be twelve on the pants and twelve on the bare. It always was. It always would be.
“Up you get,” his father said when he had delivered the final, twenty-fourth, hard lash. Alistair groaned and slowly raised himself. He twisted his body to inspect the piteous spectacle of his bottom. It was mostly coloured scarlet, but already purplish patches were forming. The outline of the leather tails was clearly visible over and over again across his buttocks and thighs.
His bum felt hot to the touch, but the agony was easing into a constant throb. Alistair knew from experience soon it would turn to a warm glow before disappearing altogether. Some parts, especially the thighs, would be tender for some time to come and sitting down on a hard surface would be uncomfortable.
Without waiting for permission, he pulled up his pants and then hauled his trousers into place. He took a moment to tuck in his shirt.
“Now, get the Hoover out and clean those carpets,” his father snarled. Then, not waiting for a response. he left the room. Alistair heard him opening the door to the cupboard under the stairs to put the taws in its resting place, ready for the next time.
He took the stairs two at a time and rushed into his bedroom. Within seconds his chinos and pants were back at his ankles. He pointed his bum at the mirror. It was an awesome sight. His dad really knew how to deliver a tanning.
Alistair shuffled over to his bedside table and picked up his phone. He took a few selfie pictures of his arse and a couple of full length ones in the mirror. Later, he would send them to his favourite Tumblr site, blazingboyzbuttz.
But, first he must get busy with the Hoover.
Other stories you might like
More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second