Donald knows his place. Oftentimes, it’s across my knees stark naked with his nose close to the linoleum, his legs splayed and his bared buttocks resting against my thigh, with me hammering into his cheeks with my small wooden paddle.
Donald is a lout. My church sent him to stay with me. It is my civic duty to keep him straight and I use any means necessary. The magistrates gave him an ASBO. I’d never heard of it, but it means ‘Anti-Social Behaviour Order’. He and a gang of other louts had been hanging around bus stops, drinking, taking drugs and terrorising the general public. In the past they would have been fined or even sent to youth detention. The Church said in the good old days louts like Donald would have been lashed on their bared buttocks with birch rods. But, not today, more’s the pity. Now, they just get a slap on the wrist. Well, maybe not all of them, as Donald is finding out.
I live on my own so there’s plenty of room for Donald. I was a bit uneasy taking him at first, but lots of the congregants have been doing this for years. There’s a healthy support network. I realised Donald was going to be tricky from Day One. The Church had found him a job at a big supermarket, one of those ungodly ones that stays open all day and only closes for a few hours on Sundays. Donald was on the early shift. I knew he was going to be late if he didn’t get a move on, so I went to his bedroom. I knocked first, of course, just in case he was … well, you know what. But he wasn’t: he wouldn’t dare. Not in my house.
He was stretched out under the duvet. “Get up Donald, you don’t want to be late for work on your first day,” I said encouragingly. He had the perpetual sneer of the young. Sometimes I just want to slap his face. Hard.
“F… off, Mr. H.,” he snarled, “It’s too f……. early.” (You probably know he didn’t say “F”, he used the full words, but I cannot bring myself to write such filth.)
Donald didn’t know what hit him. I did. I didn’t even think about it. I ripped the duvet from the bed, grabbed his arm and pulled him over so he was face down in the pillow. I tore his underpants down and walloped the palm of my hand into his bare bottom. Hard and quick. The cheeks quickly turned a delightful shade of pink and I could see the outline of my hand printed time and time all over his buttocks.
I don’t suppose it gave him much pain, he is twenty years old after all. But, it had an effect. The moment I released him, he shot from the room and into the bathroom. He was showered and dressed in minutes. He didn’t even wait to eat the breakfast I had made.
I told the Church about him. Nobody was surprised. “It is to be expected,” Mr. Sayers, who lives in the next street from me, said. “I’ve had the same treatment. Don’t forget they are louts. They don’t know how to behave,” he told me, then added almost under his breath, “Yet.”
He gave me a small wooden paddle. I had never seen such a thing before. It is about the size of a DVD cover; the same thickness too. It has a handle with sticky tape wrapped around it so you can get a good grip. “It works a treat,” he said and Mr. Sayers should know. He has hosted many young men in the past. His great success was Alex. Alex was a drunk and a drug taker when he was sent by the Church. Now, Alex is a qualified plumber and doing very well for himself, apparently. But, he didn’t get there without a loving guiding hand. And, countless sessions across Mr. Sayers’ knee with the paddle.
“There are rules and guidelines,” Mr. Sayers told me, offering me a well-thumbed paperback book. “Read that,” he nodded at the scruffy pages, “Treat it like your Bible. Trust its every word.”
It was all quite straightforward. Rules were to be applied. There was to be no alcohol or drugs. No dirty pictures. A curfew of ten o’clock on worknights and eleven at other times. He was to do all the household chores; vacuuming, the laundry and whatnot. He must do this all with good grace. The penalty for failure: corporal correction. “Corporal correction,” that’s what Mr. Sayers’ book called it. I was on chapter three before I realised it meant “spanking”. Why on earth couldn’t the writer call a spade a spade?
At the insistence of the church, Donald signed a piece of paper saying he agreed to the rules and the sanctions. It makes it legal, apparently. Perhaps, he genuinely believed he could abide by the new regime. He couldn’t of course. The first weekend at my house he missed the Friday curfew by nearly three hours and as soon as he lurched through the door, I could see he was drunk. A double-whammy, I think they call it: missed curfew and drinking alcohol.
I let him go to his bed. Any punishment I chose to deliver would be more effective on a clear head. The next day I prepared myself. I reread the chapter on delivering corporal correction. It had to be on the bare flesh. Mr. Sayers had told me that he makes his present lout Jonathon work around the house in the nude. It is not sinful to be naked, he assured me. God’s work should be treasured, not hidden.
I thought I would have my work cut out getting Donald to bare his bottom without demanding he do the Full Monty as well. I walked around my kitchen and my sitting room wondering how best a spanking could be delivered. The back of the armchair is quite high and a boy of Donald’s shortness might not be able easily to bend across it. He would be too tall to go over the arm. One of the wooden dining chairs would be an ideal height as would the dining table itself. I considered going to his room and taking him by surprise as I had done the other day, but the book was clear on this: the boy must present himself submissively for chastisement. There were to be no unseemly wrestling matches.
Donald was not surprised when I told him he was to be spanked. Such punishments were detailed in the rulebook and besides he had been talking to fellow louts who had been farmed out to good decent Christians like myself. I have to admit I was somewhat surprised that he followed my instructions without a murmur of dissent. He stood contrite staring down at the floor tiles beneath his feet while I catalogued his misdeeds. Satisfied, that he clearly knew why he was being punished, I got on with it.
I turned a kitchen chair around so the back was level with the table. “Take down your jeans, kneel on the chair and stretch across.” I waved my paddle at the laminated top of the table so there could be no misunderstanding of my intent. He unbuckled the belt of his tight pale-blue jeans and tugged the zipper. They fitted so snugly that he had to roll them down his thighs and past his knees until they bunched at his shins.
Then, he climbed onto the chair. What he did next astonished me. With no instruction from me, he rolled down his blue-and-white checkered briefs until his bottom was bared. He didn’t seem the least bit bothered that his private parts were hanging down or that his naked buttocks were displayed for my attention. Once prepared, he leaned forward resting his torso on the tabletop. He wriggled this way and that trying to find a comfortable place to put his head. Eventually, he decided to rest his right cheek on the cool Formica. This meant he had a prefect view of myself as I administered his spanking.
There was no practical need to do this, but I took hold of the end of his tee-shirt and pulled it halfway up his back. I might have blushed when I realized I now had a terrific view into the crack between his cheeks. My hand trembled as I gripped the small paddle. I stood close to Donald and pressed my left hand into the small of his back, pinning him against the table. I rose my right hand so that it was about three feet away from his fleshy bottom and whacked it into him with some force. A dark pink square formed immediately. Donald’s body shook, but I had him overpowered. He was going nowhere.
Slowly, at ten or fifteen second intervals, I covered the whole of his bottom; from the top where it meets the spine, across his wobbly mounds and into the under cheeks where the buttocks meet the thighs. Donald twisted and turned. I think this was a natural reflex action. My paddle was burning the boy. I am sure had he chosen to he could have forced himself free. I have no doubt that if it ever came to such a thing, he would be able to knock me flat on my back with a single punch.
I gave him twenty-four swats. The guidebook had emphasised that a spanking should be harsh. Love taps were not the order of the day. My small paddle proved to be a mighty effective punishment tool. Donald’s once smooth bottom was ridged with red welts. The surface of his buttocks had taken on the consistency of leather. I congratulated myself on a job well done.
He whipped his briefs and jeans up at breakneck speed when I released him. His face was as scarlet as his bottom. His tee-shirt was soaked in sweat. I dismissed him and he raced up the stairs two at a time. I heard the bathroom door open and slam shut.
That was the first time I spanked Donald, but it wasn’t to be the last. I took advice from Mr. Sayers and now I make Donald work in the kitchen naked, except for an apron. It preserves his modesty at the front and the opening gives me easy access to his bare buttocks should I feel the need to deliver a summary spanking with a wooden spoon when his conduct fails to meet my expectations. Which, I have to report, is very often indeed.
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second