Tyrone knew what he was required to do. He walked across the living room and picked up the slipper from the shelf under the television set. He turned and handed it to his dad.
Dad had taken one of the chairs tucked under the dining table and plonked it in the very centre of the room. Now, with the carpet slipper clutched in his right hand, he settled his flabby backside on the wooden seat. He parted his legs and wriggled his buttocks until he was comfortable.
“Come here,” dad snapped his fingers and pointed to a spot to his right side. Tyrone blushed deeply. “I’m nineteen years old, but dad insists on treating me as if I was nine,” he thought to himself. He knew better not to argue the point with dad. The only time he had, he got an extra-hard spanking, bare-arsed. He didn’t want to go through that again.
Tyrone took up position and waited, heart pounding, for the next part of the instruction. No matter how many times in the past he had done this, he always found this totally humiliating. Dad snapped his fingers again. “Take ’em down,” he ordered.
Tyrone’s sweatpants had elastic at the waist. All he had to do was to take hold of their top, pull the waistband away from his hips and let them slide down his thighs. They snagged a bit at the knees, so Tyrone bent his back and with his thumbs pushed them until they bunched at his shins.
A cool breeze from an open window brushed against his bare legs, making him conscious of the tiny, snug briefs he wore. Anyone who chose to look would see the bulge of his cock and balls. At the back, the underwear hardly covered his buttock cheeks. When, as soon he would be, he was across his dad’s knees, the lower curves would be bare.
Another snap of the fingers from dad. Tyrone mouthed a silent, “Oh, man,” sucked in a lung full of air and learned forward. He was a tall teenager and his hands could rest on the dusty carpet ahead of him and his toes touch the floor behind. His dad’s fat thighs provided a platform for the nineteen-year-old to rest his body. Tyrone’s barely-covered bottom rested at an angle against his dad’s right leg.
Tyrone knew what would happen next. It was always the same routine. His dad took the end of Tyrone’s tee-shirt and tugged it up his son’s back as far as he could take it. There was no practical reason to do this as the shirt was already nowhere close to the target area. But, it added to the drama of the occasion. Dad was not the kind of father to punish a son by wildly lashing out, perhaps with a belt, and striking the teenager all over the body; the back, the shoulders and the legs. Dad thought the point of the spanking was for Tyrone to exhibit self-control and submit to the authority of his parents. That more than any pain involved was the point of the exercise. Tyrone might be nineteen, but nineteen year olds were not yet adults. They still had a long way to go on that journey. So, Tyrone would have to obey his parents, abide by their rules, and if he could not – or would not – do so he would be punished.
Tyrone knew the curfew was eleven o’clock and when he rolled home last night (or more accurately, this morning) at gone midnight, he could be in no doubt about the consequences. At least, Tyrone was relieved to know dad hadn’t discovered his son had shared a bottle of beer with his friend. That would have led to two spankings. One today for the curfew and another tomorrow for the illicit alcohol.
Now satisfied that his son was properly positioned for punishment, Dad wrapped his left arm around Tyrone’s waist. Another of the routines. Tyrone was no virgin to a spanking. He would not become hysterical and wriggle and writhe; nor shout and scream. He would remain as stoical as it was possible to be in such circumstances and take his punishment, but he would never let his dad know how foolish and humiliated he felt.
As his dad made his final preparations, Tyrone pressed the palms of his hands into the harsh carpet. During the first few times that he had been spanked, Tyron couldn’t work out where he was supposed to put his head. He could try to rest it on the ground, or he could look straight ahead to the far wall. One time, he wrapped his arms around his head. Now, he preferred to let his head hang at an angle so that he could look underneath the chair his dad sat on and see his own legs. It was a weird sensation to stare at the sweatpants at his own ankles and then to watch to see if his feet kicked about as the slipper came whacking down across his bum. It was as if the legs belonged to some other teenager being spanked by his dad; a kind of “out-of-body” experience.
When dad gripped him around the waist, Tyrone knew the action was about to start. Involuntarily, for it was a reflex action, his buttocks tensed. His bum was pretty hard anyway, but in this state they tightened up to resemble a hard rubber ball. It was none of Tyrone’s doing, it was his body’s natural way of protecting itself from the onslaught.
Dad had a rhythm when he spanked. The first whack would slam into the centre of Tyrone’s left cheek and then after a pause of maybe ten seconds, it whacked into the right one. Dad would put six into each buttock and then take breath. A spanking should be a spanking, otherwise what was the point of it all. So, although dad believed his son must submit himself to his authority, he also wanted the spanking to hurt.
The first dozen whacks with the slipper warmed him up nicely. Then dad upped the ante. He increased the pace and walloped home a couple of dozen without let up. Bang-bang-bang. It was as rapid as machinegun fire. At about this time, Tyrone would see his knees bend and his feet kick about. His buttocks were sore and Tyrone knew from past experience that most of his bottom would already be a deep pink colour. Before dad was over, it would be cherry red.
After another pause, dad went for the bare spot under the curves. He was immediately rewarded with an imprint of the slipper’s flexible sole emblazoned across his son’s naked flesh. Tyrone sucked in gulps of air. That hurt. That really hurt. His legs kicked again. Tyrone had been spanked many times in the past and he was nineteen years old after all, so he had a high pain threshold. Even so, the whacks on the undercurve and bare thigh had him squirming. He scrunched up his face, clenched his teeth and shut his eyes; determined not to let a yelp escape his lips.
Nobody was keeping count, but dad probably put a dozen or fourteen slaps across that most tender part of Tyrone’s body. The teenager would find it very uncomfortable to sit on a hard surface for many hours to come.
It was nearly over. Only one more part of the ritual still to come and it would be the most humiliating for Tyrone. Dad rested the slipper on the small of his son’s back and with both hands free he rolled Tyrone’s tight briefs over the mounds of his now-toasted buttocks until they snagged on his thighs. The bum was now completely bared. Tyrone hated this; his dad could see right into his crack and up his hole. If dad had been more of a “man-of-the-world”, he might wonder about the size of the circumference of the hole. He might also make the connection between it and his son’s missed curfew.
But, dad had no interest in cracks and holes; buttocks were his concern. No square inch of Tyrone’s bum had missed the attention of the slipper. Unblemished, it was hairless and creamy-white. After the attentions of dad’s slipper, it had a rosy sheen. He picked up the slipper, gripped it tightly, took a deep breath and hammered twelve almighty whacks into the naked buttocks. Those feet and legs waved about again; Tyrone did the scrunching thing with his face, but by the time dad had finished and said, “That’s it. Stand up,” Tyrone had remained silent.
The nineteen-year-old eased himself up and using dad’s legs as support he got to his feet. He hopped from one foot to another, rather like footballers do when they try to “run off” an injury. Conscious that his dick and balls were bouncing up and down in front of his dad’s face, Tyrone reached down and slipped up his briefs. Then, he bent down and pulled up his sweats.
His buttocks throbbed, but even now most of the pain was going. In moments, it would turn to a warm glow before disappearing altogether. He would be tender for a while; if Tyrone touched the lower half of his cheeks he would reignite some of the pain. Sitting down would be awkward for a while. His bum was red and bruises would quickly form. If past experience taught him anything, they would hang around for days turning from purple through shades of yellow until finally disappearing. There could be no rolling on the bed with Wayne for a while.
Dad’s curt dismissal sent Tyrone to his bedroom where he whipped down his sweats and briefs and pointed his bare arse at the mirror. It looked awesome. Definitely one for the record books, he thought, so he picked up his phone from the bedside table and snapped a selfie.
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second