Terry stood astride his bicycle at the end of The Avenue. He winced a little, the narrow hard leather seat pressed into a tender spot on his backside. Halfway down the street he saw his great pal Davey outside his house washing the family car. He cycled a few yards further and stopped again.
Davey hadn’t heard Terry’s approach. He splashed water and soap suds over the Cortina. It was a blistering hot day and he was dressed only in skimpy football shorts. Terry admired how the boy’s buttocks filled out the nylon when he stretched across the car and muscles in his suntanned back rippled.
“Hi,” he called. Davey looked up from his work and grinned. They had been best friends since they were seven; often they didn’t need words to communicate.
Eventually, Terry asked, “How did your dad take last night?”
“I have to wash the car and I’m grounded for a week.”
“A week! You’ll miss the match tomorrow and the gig on Friday.”
“I know,” Davey replied and carried on washing. He was making a mess of it and water soaked the front of his shorts making them transparent. Terry could see his friend wasn’t wearing underpants.
There was companionable silence for some moments before Davey asked, “What did your dad say?”
Terry grinned. “Dad still thinks it’s the nineteen-fifties.”
Davey knew where this was going. “No.” It was a statement rather than a question.
“Yes, he spanked me.” Involuntarily, he moved his bum away from the cycle saddle. Only an hour earlier he had been draped across his father’s knee with his jeans at his ankles while dad hammered a heavy wooden clothes brush into the seat of his underpants.
“But you’re nineteen!” Davey wasn’t really surprised at the news. But, nineteen, surely that was too old to spank a boy.
“Well its better than missing the footie and the concert.”
Davey wasn’t so sure. “But doesn’t it hurt?”
Terry recalled the sight of his buttocks when he had examined them in the mirror. They were bright red from the top of the globes, across the mounds and into the under curves. Bruises were forming and they would probably stay for sometimes. Some spots, especially where the cheeks met the thighs were tender to touch. It made riding his bike a bit painful.
“Yeah,” he grinned. He wasn’t embarrassed, he told his pal everything. (Well, perhaps not everything.) “But it’s not like he ripped my arse to shreds.”
Terry had lost count, but dad must have laid the brush across his backside at least a hundred times. He always spanked on the underpants, never on the bare. Terry was grateful for that, it would be too humiliating to have to lay face down across dad’s lap and let him see his crack and hole.
The teenagers lapsed into silence. Davey stood on tiptoes to stretch across the roof of the large car. His shorts rode up and Terry got a glimpse of his pal’s bare arse. Terry wriggled as his cock began to twitch.
“You should ask your dad to spank you.”
“Seriously, ask him to whop you instead of grounding. Then you don’t have to stay home all week.”
Davey stopped soaking the car and peered at his friend. “You’re serious.”
“But isn’t it a bit weird? How many boys ask their dads to spank them? Isn’t it usually the other way round?” Then he affected the voice of a wailing child, “Please daddy don’t spank me I will be good. Boo. Hoo.”
Both lads roared with laughter.
“Think about it,” Terry said, mounting his bicycle. “I’ve got to go; I’ll be late for lunch.” As he pedalled away, he turned and called over his shoulder. “You’ve got too many suds, you’ll never be able to clear them away, the car will be streaked all over.”
Then, painfully he cycled home.
Terry had been right – about the car; it was covered in ugly streaks. Davey’s dad was not best pleased so Terry hid in his room for a while to keep out of the way. The heat was becoming unbearable. He stripped off his shorts and lay naked on the bed. He stared at his limp cock. He hadn’t masturbated since before breakfast, so he closed his eyes and imagined Terry bent across his dad’s knee. Terry was about six feet tall and he thought his pal would probably have to bend his knees a bit so that his bum was properly positioned against his dad’s thigh to receive whacks from the brush.
Terry had a big bum. It was round and meaty and jutted out the back of his jeans. It was a backside that cried out to be spanked.
Davey’s cock stiffened. He reached into his bedside cabinet and found the Johnson’s Baby Lotion. He soaked his palm. It felt cold against his still soft cock. It twitched and the tips of Davey’s fingers lightly stroked along the length of his penis. The cock filled out as he imagined the hard wooden brush spanking into his pal’s backside as he lay submissively over his dad’s knee.
His fingers enclosed the hardening shaft near the base and he glided his palm slowly up the length of his twitching dick. At the top, he tweaked the sensitive edges of his foreskin, giving himself a gasp of pleasure. It was a difficult admission to have to make, but he knew that he fancied Terry’s arse something rotten.
His grip tightened and he tensed up. Then his hand made several slow, firm strokes along the full length of his now fully erect cock. His other hand cupped his balls, gently kneading them between his fingers.
Then, whoosh! His belly was soaked with cum. Davey’s heart raced and his eyes watered. He lay back breathing heavily, slightly disappointed. He always came too soon.
He stared down at the sticky goo on his stomach. It was too hot to go to the bathroom to clean up. He would let it harden.
What, he wondered, would it be like to be spanked? It would be painful, of course, but Terry had said it wasn’t too bad. Would it turn him on? What if his own dad took him across his knee and whacked him with a hairbrush, would he end up coming all over the old man’s leg?
He smiled at the absurdity of it all. But deep down he knew he wanted to be spanked. He might never forgive himself if he didn’t experience it at least once.
An hour later, once dressed now in football shorts and pants but no shirt, he padded into the lounge. Dad was pretending not to be watching wrestling on World of Sport.
Davey had rehearsed a script. “Sorry about the car,” he started and immediately stalled. His dad grunted.
“And, sorry about last night.” Another growl from dad. This wasn’t going quite to plan.
“Do you know what Terry’s dad did?”
His dad turned his gaze away from the television.
Davey gulped. It was now or never. “He spanked him.” He stopped, he could feel his cheeks flaming.
Dad knotted his brows and looked at his son quizzically. He knew that Mr. Tomlinson used corporal punishment on his sons. He had often discussed discipline with him. He didn’t use it himself – he was afraid Davey would resent it and hate him forever if he put a slipper across the boy’s backside.
“Look it’s the local derby tomorrow. City and United,” Davey spoke in a rush. “And, The Starbirds are playing on Friday. We’ve got tickets and I was thinking, wondering …” he trailed off. He had rehearsed this in his bedroom but now it was showtime he had forgotten his lines.
Dad folded his arms and sat back in his armchair and struggled to suppress a smile. He let his son babble on some more. Eventually the nineteen-year-old got to the point and blurted, “Would you let me off the grounding and spank me instead.” Then he added a final plea, “Please.”
Davey tried again, “I know I should be punished, but …” he had run out of words again.
This was typical of Davey, his father thought. He was a good boy most of the time. He had done well at school and gone on to university, but he did get into scrapes. He always took responsibility for his actions.
Mr. Tony Pilfold loved his son dearly. The boy had been a damn fool last night, drinking too much and allowing a drunk pal to drive him home. He could have been killed.
He looked at his son, trying to read his mind. He was a football fanatic and The Starbirds were probably the top group in the whole world; it couldn’t have been easy to get tickets. The boy looked forlorn. His wide open brown eyes, eyes that usually sparkled with mischief, were dull. His sadness tugged at his dad’s heartstrings.
Suddenly, he was transported back thirty years to his own youth. His father was a schoolmaster; he never once spanked him as a child. But there was one time when he was about Davey’s age when he and a friend took a car. They were caught of course. The police, who said they had better things to do than deal with two middle-class joyriders, handed them over to their parents.
Next morning his dad brought home a long thick swishy rattan cane from his school. It was awesome, Tony remembered. Even now he could picture it. It had the traditional crooked handle and was a dark yellow colour. It had notches every three or four inches along its length. When his dad flexed it between his hands and then swished it through the air, it sent a wave of terror through Tony’s body.
His dad was an old-fashioned stubborn schoolmaster. He expected to be obeyed. He made his son change into his pyjamas and report to the sitting room. It was quite a large room, dominated by an old worn leather couch. It was a cold evening and the teenager could not stop shivering. It might not have been only the cold. Tony trembled with fear, waiting for the inevitable bluff command.
It was not long coming. “Bend over the couch.”
It was a new experience and Tony made sure it was never repeated. It was literally the thrashing of a lifetime. Dad put twelve stingers across the seat of his pyjamas. Tony would like to think he took his beating stoically, but in truth the nineteen-year-old howled the house down. His face was washed in tears and snot. His backside felt like he had been forced to sit on a barbecue. His buttocks were covered with welts; some took weeks to clear.
It wasn’t a spanking; it was a savage whipping. Mr. Pilfold wriggled in his armchair at the recollection. It was as if the memories had reignited the pain in his buttocks.
He continued looking at his son. He couldn’t subject his lovely son to that. But, Davey was so sad that he would miss the football and concert. Maybe he should back down, rescind the grounding. No, Mr. Pilfold was determined. There had to be punishment.
He couldn’t believe that he asked the next question. “How did Mr. Tomlinson spank Terry?”
Davey was startled. “With a hairbrush, I think.” His face reddened.
A hairbrush? No that was no good. The only hairbrush in the house belonged to his wife. It was an expensive delicate thing. It would be smashed to pieces if he spanked Davey with that.
In his head he listed the possible implements that he might use instead. He didn’t have bedroom slippers, nor plimsolls. Obviously, there was no swishy rattan cane. What else did people use? Of course, a belt. He had several leather belts in all shapes and sizes. One in particular was thick and heavy, it would do the job admirably.
Heck, he pulled himself up. Why was he thinking like this? Did he really intend to whack his son’s backside? Then in a heartbeat he made a decision that would change his darling son’s life.
“If I do it, will you take your spanking without fuss?” Mr. Pilfold sounded calmer than he felt.
Davey’s pulse raced. At once his mouth dried. “Yes,” he croaked. His hands were shaking.
“Go to your room and wait for me.” It was a soft instruction. Mr. Pilfold had inherited none of his own father’s bluntness.
Davey rushed from the room.
Mr. Pilfold steadied himself. He needed to take deep breaths. What had he agreed to do? And why? It was a mystery to him, but instinctively he knew this was what his son wanted. No, it was what he needed. And he didn’t mean that in the way a father might say, “What you need young man is a jolly good spanking.”
Slowly, he ascended the stairs. His was grateful that his wife and daughters were shopping in town. He and Davey had the house to themselves. Together they would share an intimate father and son moment. He entered his own bedroom and rummaged through the wardrobe. It had been a long time since he had worn the belt. Wide, heavy belts were no longer fashionable.
He found it and felt its weight in his hand. Then, he doubled it up and tested its effectiveness by smacking it into his open palm. He flinched. Just a little smack hurt a lot. It would cause considerable pain if he whacked it hard across Davey’s backside.
He paused and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked old and grey, despite his suntan. His hair was thinning and his waist thickening. He thought of his slender son who was so full of youth and vitality. Had he been like that at the time his own dad had caned him? How quickly a body deteriorates with age.
He took several deep breaths and exited the room. The door of his son’s room was open so he walked straight in. Davey sat apprehensively on the bed. He so wanted this spanking to happen. He knew that for certain. Buy why did he want it? He couldn’t quite convince himself that it was only so he could attend the footie and a concert.
He eyed the heavy strap in his father’s hand. If his dad was serious and spanked him properly the belt could leave him severely battered.
“Stand up. Let’s get on with this.” Mr. Pilfold picked up two pillows and placed them in the centre of the bed.
Quietly, almost in a whisper, he instructed. “Lie face down across the pillows. Try to keep your bottom high.”
Davey hesitated. He stood rooted.
“Come on. You wanted this,” his father said softly, thinking his son was having a last-minute change of heart.
“No,” his son replied emphatically. “Terry gets it on the pants.” Then in one continuous movement the teenager hooked his fingers into the waistband of his football shorts and pushed them to his knees. They slipped down his shins and landed in a puddle at his feet. He stepped out of them and knelt on the bed, before lowering himself across the pillows. He wasn’t sure where to put his arms so he spread them out, one on either side of his head. His legs were parted and it made him look like he was sky-diving.
His dad had never seen his son like this before. He realised he had not looked closely at him for some time. He was a fit, athletic boy. There was hardly enough spare fat on his body to sizzle a sausage. His back was hairless, but there was a thin covering of down on his legs. His mustard-coloured briefs clung to taut buttocks. A tan line showed just below his bum.
Mr. Pilfold doubled up the leather belt. He was no expert, but he knew a spanking was supposed to hurt. He must lash the strap across his son’s bum with some vigour. Somehow, he knew his son would want that. It needed to be a spanking that he could compare to Terry’s.
He took a deep breath raised the strap high and slashed it into the seat of the briefs. Davey let a stream of air escape through his teeth. He scrunched up his face. It had hurt, but not too much. It was the shock of the sting that affected him most.
Another smack quickly followed and then another. His bum hotted up with each successive whack and the pain mounted. He clasped his arms around his head to help him absorb the pain. It helped a little.
Soon, his buttocks were bouncing up and down over the pillow. His hips swayed and his legs kicked. He wasn’t in control of his body. His twitchings and jerkings were reflex actions. They were his body’s way of coping with the onslaught.
Whack, whack whack. Neither dad nor Davey were counting, but his father must have delivered fifty or sixty strokes. Sweat poured off Mr. Pilfold’s shirt. Davey, despite his near-nakedness, was perspiring heavily too.
It was time to stop. Mr. Pilfold held the leather belt in his hand and allowed it to dangle down his leg. He looked intently at his son, still face down across the pillows. He was lost for words. How was a spanking supposed to end? Sheepishly, he left the room.
Davey stayed in position, reliving the past minutes in his head. He tried to imagine how he looked, stretched submissively across the bed with his bum raised for the kiss of the leather. He realised his head was perfectly clear. It was a euphoria he had not experienced before. No drug could compare with the high he had got from dad’s spanking.
Slowly, he eased himself from the bed. A raging erection tented the front of his briefs. He tugged them down and then off to give his cock room to breathe. He saw his reflection in the mirror. His buttocks were adorned with dozens of thick sunset-red stripes. The pain had almost disappeared leaving behind a warm glow. Carefully, he traced his fingertips across the marks that criss-crossed his cheeks. Some were tender and it felt good to reignite the pain.
Gingerly, he lay on the bed. He laid on his back and enjoyed the throbbing sensation as his buttocks sank into the hard mattress. He leaned over to the drawer for the baby lotion. He had experienced his first spanking and he knew without a shadow of a doubt that the next one could not come soon enough.
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second