The heat in the room was stifling. The windows couldn’t be opened because there was a danger insects would get in, although a daddy-long-legs was pummelling from wall to wall. John stared down at the battered leather strap lying across the equally beaten oak table. It had been in the family for generations hadn’t it? His father had used it on John often enough and he was damned sure grandfather had beaten father. Had grandfather’s father whipped him? Almost certainly, John thought. Flogging was a family tradition.
He was to be thrashed now. No doubt about it. His father paced the room; six steps one way, turnabout, six paces back. All the time he lectured. “Damn bad show. Shouldn’t be allowed.”
It was no such thing, but John couldn’t argue. It wasn’t his place. His place was to do what his father said. Without argument. And, John knew for certain that was exactly what he would do.
It was all Elinor’s father’s fault. He man was a monster. Well, not a monster perhaps, but at least unreasonable. Her skin had felt cool, John’s hands hot and heavy. When he lowered his mouth to hers it tasted of salt. She looked at him nervously. He shut his eyes. Her tongue threshed against his. Suddenly, he felt her neck muscles go rigid as she tried to push away.
“Whoaaaa!” Her father was suddenly on the scene His cry, a mixture of shock and rage, sent Elinor scurrying from the room. John thought Mr Rankling would flog him there and then. He was probably fortunate no horsewhip lay close to hand. Instead, John’s father was summoned and a tale told. To hear Elinor’s father tell it the eighteen-year-old was found writhing naked on his daughter; caught in the act of deflowering her. It was not like that at all; but if only, John wished.
Two adults kissing. What was the harm in that? Elinor was a year older than John; did she not have some say in how she behaved? Adults? Not in John’s father’s eyes. You attained the age of majority at twenty-one. That’s when you were legally an adult. But adulthood was not defined by age. Adulthood meant achieving maturity; only once that state was reached could a boy be called an adult. John’s father had no doubt – none at all – that his middle son was still very much a child.
Sweat soaked John’s shirt. The room was unbearable. His father’s constant pacing didn’t help. What was about to take place was routine, the teenager’s flesh would be scarred, but, oh how he wished father would just get on with it. At last the old man came to a halt and stood behind the table, leaning forward, palms of his hands pressing into the ancient wood. He was nearly six feet when standing; he had long ago ceased to be the powerful rugby scrum-half he had once been. His jowls wobbled, his waist (such as could be detected) hung over his trousers. His face, poorly shaven that morning, reddened with every word he spoke.
John was slightly shorter than his father, slim, high cheekbones, red lips, greased hair – what woman could resist such. His grey eyes dulled. He heard his father’s words, but he wasn’t listening. What was the point? His father would not allow a response. This was not a court of law. John had already been tried and convicted; all that was to be determined was the sentence.
At last it came. “Trousers, drawers down. Present yourself across the table.” His father snatched the leather strap from the table and resumed his pacing. He paused at the far end of the room and stood, feet apart, like a soldier at ease, and studied his son. The boy unfastened his trousers and allowed the weight of the silver cigarette case in the pocket to send them tumbling to his feet. The woollen drawers were of the fashionable type; designed for easy removal. One assumed the manufacturers had not envisaged the wearer would need a speedy exit to facilitate a spanking from father. John undid the buttons at the waist and pushed them down his thighs. They snagged at his knees.
Even from a distance, his father could see his son’s manhood was well developed. How fortunate it was that Elinor’s father had intervened in time to spare his daughter. Unselfconsciously, for John had been semi-naked in front of his father many times, he lifted the tail of his crisp white shirt half way up his back so that his buttocks were properly bared.
The crazed daddy-long-legs hammered into his head. John swatted it away with his right hand while clinging on to his shirt with the left. Then, he lowered himself down. In the intolerably hot room, the wood felt cool against his naked stomach. He reached ahead of him and held the table’s edge. He shuffled his feet a little and wriggled his hips until his stomach rested at a perfect angle for his bared buttocks to receive his father’s administrations. The cheeks were full, chubby even, unlike the rest of John’s lean body.
John’s father shuffled the length of the room and stood to his son’s left. The daddy-long-legs crashed into his face. With fury he lashed the strap through the air. For two pins he could hunt the bugger down and crush it into a pulp. But, there were more important things to concern him.
The strap was about eighteen inches long and four wide. It was a heavy beast and when he laid it across the centre of John’s naked haunches it easily covered half the area. There had been a time (had John’s father been in the mood for remembrances) that he would have recalled the days when the strap could cover both of his son’s cheeks with room to spare.
John’s buttocks clenched as the worn leather touched his vulnerable flesh. It always did this. It was a reflex action; John had no control of the matter. Was it his body’s natural reaction? A way to protect itself from the hurt that was about to be unleashed?
From his vantage point standing over the eighteen-year-old, his father had a clear view of the teenager’s crack. The hole seemed a little larger than the last time he had seen it. Some filthy things had taken place in the school dormitory, he supposed.
Determined not to be side-tracked by these thoughts, the old man lifted the strap high above his head, twirled it in a full circle and brought it whizzing down with great speed and tremendous force into the very centre of his son’s bum. He was rewarded by the sight of a dark-pink stripe immediately forming across the defenceless flesh and the sound of John’s gasp as he tried with considerable success to stifle the yell he most assuredly wanted to make.
John gripped the table edge and waited, heart thumping for the second crack to land. It came thirty seconds after the first. Exactly: for his father was counting the time in his head. This one landed a little above the first, on the top of the mounds, near the boy’s back. The agony was searing, pain travelled up and down his legs and he could not control himself; his legs stamped up and down like a soldier on sentry duty.
Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty. The third swipe caught him on the soft, sensitive sit-spot, at the point where the bum meets the thighs. That one hurt. John’s mouth opened and closed, he clamped his top lip over the lower and dug his teeth in. It stopped the yell, but at some cost; an acrid taste of blood. By the time his father was through with him, John would be in no state for kissing.
His father admired his handiwork. Not a single square inch of his son’s buttocks had escaped the strap. They glowed pink. He swiped the fourth so that it connected across two of the previous marks. Mauve bruises were already forming as he lifted the strap high once more and brought it down again. The skin broke and blood rose to the surface; soon John’s bottom would resemble raw minced-meat.
John’s forehead bounced up and down and he head-butted the solid oak table top. He was losing control. There was a haze before his eyes as he waited for the next blow. It’s never been as bad as this, he thought as the strap cut him once more. It’s that damn girl! At that moment he began to hate her. But, that thought would pass.
A dozen lashes ripped John’s buttocks to shreds. Then it was over. “Up. Get dressed. Go.” His father never had much to say once a thrashing was completed. He had done his duty. Offence committed. Punishment delivered. Time to move on. That was his principle.
John sucked in lung-fulls of air. His heart raced; his temples throbbed, even as much as his buttocks. He pushed himself up from the table and not able to look his punisher in the face, he turned his back on his father and bent down to retrieve his woollen drawers. It gave the old man a last chance to admire his own prowess with the strap. He glowed with self-satisfaction.
With his trousers now fastened, John faced his father and offered him his right hand. It was a family tradition after a whipping. Shake hands. Behave like English gentlemen. Formalities observed, John shuffled from the room.
He scarcely noticed Elinor hovering in the hallway. He trudged through the hallway to the wide staircase that led to the upper floors and his room. He took the stairs two at a time and crashed through the door. Within seconds his trousers and drawers were once more at his feet. He poked his bottom towards a full-length mirror. “God, what a mess,” he said out loud, although he was all alone in the room.
But not for long. Suddenly, the door burst open. John turned, startled to see Elinor standing there. Her eyes bulged and her lips poked in and out of her mouth like a lizard. John’s cock trembled. Elinor blushed. John turned his back, hiding his cock and balls but offering the girl a terrific view of his mashed backside.
“Let’s try some of this,” she said, and only then did John notice the white glass jar of cream she was holding. “Lie down,” she smiled sweetly. “On the bed,” she added unnecessarily. John licked his own lips and did as requested, slyly manoeuvring his body so that his did not put weight on his now raging erection. Elinor scooped out a handful of the smooth white cream and gently laid it on John’s right buttock. It felt like ice on a burning desert. Tenderly she spread it carefully around the delightful curved forms, bringing some comfort to the savaged flesh and hard ridges.
John lay passive, gladly accepting the gentle massaging palms and the fragrant sticky cream. Elinor gently patted the chubby curves of John’s bottom. Poor John, she thought and was about to lean down and plant a gentle kiss on the raw, tormented flesh when the door suddenly opened and her father stormed into the room.
Picture credit: J. C. Leyendecker
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second