When would grandad stop treating him like a child? Matt wondered silently as he unbuckled his jeans and let them slip to his knees. Twenty-three years old and still getting the belt.
“C’mon grandad, is this really necessary?” he wailed, “I’m too old for this.”
Matt’s question only got a grunt from grandad as he continued to unbuckle and remove his brown leather belt.
“What do you expect? You come home drunk in the middle of the night waking the whole neighbourhood.”
“I didn’t wake the neighbours.”
“Don’t answer me back.”
Grandad had doubled up his heavy belt and was ready to inflict the whipping he knew his grandson deserved.
Matt was sweating a little; he had a humdinger of a hangover from the night before.
Grandad was not a patient man. “You live in my house, you obey my rules. It’s not unreasonable to ask you not to come home drunk,” he barked.
There was no answer to that. It was true he was plastered last night, he couldn’t even remember getting home. Had one of his mates dropped him off?
Grandad stood waiting. Determined. He might have grandchildren but he was no wizened old man. He stood more than six feet tall and weighed the same as he did when he was thirty. Years of manual work could do that to a man.
Matt knew from experience he should not try to argue with grandad. He was of the “old school”, he was the man of the house – the head of the household – and he expected to be obeyed: by his wife and by his children and the grandchildren.
Matt was defeated; he knew resistance was futile; he would have to submit to this spanking. He leaned forward across the low vaulting horse, feeling his briefs pull tightly across his buttocks.
Matt stared down at the ground as a chill draught blew across his naked legs. Blood rushed to his face, it always did when he was bent over in this position. If he stayed like this for too long he would get a head ache. Not that that concerned him now. It was the ache in his arse that worried him more.
He wriggled his waist a little to make himself more comfortable. It was a small vaulting horse. Wherever did that come from? None of the family were gymnasts. Grandad kept it in a large shed in his garden. Sometimes he joked it was his own little “woodshed”.
Matt stretched his arms ahead of him and placed his palms flat on the ground. He could hardly believe this was happening: his body was bent almost double across the horse while to the side of him he heard grandad preparing to lash his leather belt into his cotton-covered buttocks. He braced himself for a very intense session with the belt.
Grandad was in no hurry. He was satisfied that his grandson was now submissive, meekly offering up his bum for him to do with as he wished.
Now, Matt heard a soft clinking noise. He twisted his head around and saw that his grandfather was folding up his belt. He doubled it in half for control and precision, and stepped forward. Matt turned his head again – he didn’t want to look. Instead, he waited with his plump buttocks pointing up in the air while that long, agonizing moment of preparation passed. The buttocks clenched and unclenched.
He heard grandad suck in a lung-full of air before the belt splatted down across the seat of his pants. It hurt.
The first time Matt had been strapped it had been agony and he had been miserable for hours afterwards. Now, after so many strappings, it was different. He took a pride in being able “to take it” without a fuss. He reckoned could bear the pain of the fierce strap without flinching.
Matt willed himself not to move. He stayed bent over, holding his backside in place so that his grandad could lash his buttocks over and over. And he did so, swinging the belt down hard across the lower edge of the vulnerable bottom and lashing some strokes into the bare thighs.
Matt’s resistance nearly crumbled; the pain didn’t lessen and the belt didn’t stop. For a full ten minutes grandad methodically brought the strap lashing across his grandson’s underpants, sparing not a single inch of his buttocks.
“I hope you’ve learned your lesson.” Grandad finished his spanking with three extra-hard licks.
Later, in the privacy of his bedroom, Matt inspected the damage done to his bottom in the mirror. His cheeks were dark red and the welts from the strap were prominent, the heat coming from his bum would be enough to warm a small room. Slowly he walked back to his bed and lay face down. His mobile phone vibrated, he reached out to see the caller ID.
“Yello,” he answered and listened intently. “Sure, I’ll come right over,” he said. It was his pal Chris calling from the pub.
Picture credit: Eastbourne Daddy
Other stories you might like
More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second