Wayne trudged across the glistening pavement. The rain had stopped at last, but not for long, he reckoned. His shoes leaked and he squelched along. He turned the corner and there it was looming ahead of him. Nelson Mandela Tower, damp, grey and ugly. He had thought he had left this all behind.
The street was deserted: even the junkies hated the rain. He opened the huge communal doorway and entered the building. A familiar stink of stale piss overwhelmed him. Gagging a little he sucked in breath and headed for the lifts. Dad lived on the twelfth floor, he hoped to God they were working.
They were. The only bit of fortune for Wayne that night. He stubbed a finger at the call button and waited. Why was he doing this, he wondered. Hadn’t he escaped all this?
A faint whirling of machinery grew louder and the lift door lumbered open. He stood aside to let out a girl, no older than himself, pushing a buggy. A nearly-new born baby slept fitfully. A toddler, hardly two years old, clutched his mother’s hand.
Wayne hesitated. He could just turn around and head back home. He could. He should. But if he did, he knew he could never return. Bridges would be burnt. There would be no turning back.
With heart thumping, he walked into the lift. A too familiar stench of human sweat greeted him. The temperature was rising. Perspiration wet his beard. He rubbed it away with the back of his hand. He pushed button twelve and the lift door closed. He stood feet slightly apart, knees a little bent, hands behind his back and waited. Without realising, he rubbed the crown of his buttocks with his thumbs.
Seconds later the lift shuddered to a halt and lumbering once more the door opened. Wayne stepped out. Paused. Waited for the door to close. There was no further sound. The lift was waiting. Teasing him. One last chance to escape.
Why wouldn’t his heart stop thumping?
He shuffled forward. Dad’s flat was across the landing. The front door gleaming red. Newly painted.
One, two, three. He counted in his head. Over the top.
He leaned on the doorbell. Somewhere deep inside the flat he heard a chime. A familiar cheesy tune. But what was it? He knew it. The name was on the tip of his tongue.
The door opened wide. Dad stood in the threshold. He was a bit on the short side, befitting a man of his generation and social class. He wore a shirt and tie. His trousers were pressed. He had dressed for the occasion. A visit from his eldest son.
“Come in,” he said curtly. “Close the door behind you.”
Wayne watched his father turn and shamble along the passageway. Wayne hesitated. There was still time. He could turn and run, be at the lift before Dad realised he was gone. If it was still waiting he could be gone in seconds.
“Don’t dawdle,” Dad barked.
Wayne kicked the door shut and resigned that matters must take their course, he followed his Dad.
The room was almost bare. A small sideboard rested against one wall and a dining table and two chairs against another.
“Well, lad ….” Dad spoke harshly and then became silent. Wayne had no idea what he was supposed to say. Well lad was it a question he had to answer? Or a statement of fact. Well lad you know why you are here.
Dad glared at Wayne, barely suppressing a sneer.
Christ. Let’s get this over with. Wayne dared not say it out loud, but it was how he felt. He had passed the point of no return. They had said it all in the phone call. There was nothing more to say. Accusations had been made. Excuses offered. There was no mitigation. Wayne had been sacked from his job. Again. That is to say not sacked again from the same job, just sacked from another. Bone idle, his Dad called it. Irresponsible. Can’t act like an adult. No self-discipline.
Well, Dad had a solution for that. If he couldn’t discipline himself, it was up to Dad to do it for him. That’s what dads were for. It was in the contract. The one between parent and child.
Dad walked the three paces it took to cross the room. Ignoring his son, he turned his back, leant forward slightly and picked up a dining chair. It wasn’t heavy. He needed only one hand to manoeuvre it away from the wall and set it down in the centre of the room. Wayne watched, licked his lips in anticipation of what was to come, and did the thumbs rubbing the backside thing again.
Satisfied the chair was in the perfect position, Dad sat down, wriggled his buttocks until he was comfortable and spread his legs by about eighteen inches. Wayne towered above his Dad. The old man’s legs looked thin and insubstantial, as if they would buckle once Wayne put himself in the traditional over-the-knee position.
Dad clicked his fingers. He always did that. It was his signal that he was ready for action. Wayne knew the sign. This wasn’t the first time he had presented himself before his dad. He hoped to hell it would be the last.
“Jeans down. Right down,” Dad snapped. Wayne hesitated. Not for the first time that day he contemplated the absurdity of the situation. A twenty-six year-old man going over Dad’s knee for a spanking.
Absurd or not, without protest he gripped the buckle of his wide leather belt and unfastened it. His Dad’s heavy breathing momentarily distracted him. Then he popped the rivet at the waistband and pulled the zipper. The weight of the heavy denim and the belt sent the jeans slithering down his thighs. They rested at his knees. Wayne gripped the waistband and folded them down to his shins.
Dad licked his lips and professed not to notice his adult son was wearing underpants with drawings of motorcars. Truly childish, he thought, impervious to any ironical intent from Wayne.
“Get over my knee.”
Wayne shuffled a step forward so he was directly to the right of Dad’s legs. He looked down, once again noting the spindly knees. Gently he lowered himself forward. His flabby stomach rested against Dad’s right knee and he stretched his torso forward. He rested his fingers on the cheap carpet to steady himself. He looked straight ahead taking note of the slightly open door. It was chipped and in need of painting.
Wayne felt Dad tug the end of his short-sleeved shirt away from the target area, he felt a breeze blowing from somewhere. Dad pressed his left hand into Wayne’s shoulder blades, intending to pin him should the young man resist.
Wayne felt dad’s right hand rub across the seat of his underpants. He was smoothing down creases. He would be ready for action any moment.
Slap-slap-slap. Three stingers rained down, but rather than aim them at Wayne’s ample buttocks his Dad spanked into his bare thigh. Over and over. It hurt. More than an inexperienced spankee might think. A rough palm on bare flesh, especially a part of the body with so many nerve endings, will cause pain. In no time the flesh was raw, glowing deep pink and then red.
Wayne shut his eyes and pressed his hands deeper into the thin carpet. Dad turned his attention to Wayne’s buttocks, hammering his palm into the fleshiest part of the mounds. Involuntarily, Wayne wriggled his hips. It was a reflex action He had no real control, it was his body’s natural way of dealing with the assault being made upon it.
On and on Dad spanked. It felt like hours to Wayne, but it was probably only three or four minutes. Wayne always marvelled at dad’s stamina. He could probably spank all night if the mood took him. Soon he stopped. Wayne lay still, unmoving. He knew it wasn’t the end. Dad had just paused. Now, they would go to the next level.
Dad slipped his fingers into the elasticated waistband of Wayne’s pants and after three tugs had them lowered so that his son’s buttocks were entirely bared. He admired his own handiwork. The bum was a deep pink from the top of the mounds where the buttocks meet the back, over the fleshy curves, into the underside and way down his thighs. This was one well-spanked boy, Dad thought, as he lifted his hand and whacked it down rapidly and a speed. Rat-tat-tat. It sounded like machine gun fire.
Wayne sucked in air, the bristles on his own beard tickled him. He shook his head from left to right, rather like a horse does when neighing. He pressed the palms of his hands flat into the scratchy carpet. The heat in his bum was rising, the pain was growing.
Dad hammered on, encouraged by the imprints of his own palm that were being embedded into his son’s backside.
Sweat soaked Dad’s shirt. His heart raced, his temples throbbed.
Suddenly the door chimes rang out. Dad stopped spanking. A gasp of relief escaped Wayne’s lips. It was over. Saved by the bell.
“Stand up,” Dad growled. “Don’t think this is over.”
Wayne hauled himself to his feet. His bum was hot. He wanted to rub it, but he wouldn’t give Dad the satisfaction.
The doorbell rang again.
“Face the wall. Hands on head. Leave your jeans down,” Dad snapped.
Wayne shuffled like a penguin, put his nose to the dusty wall, interlocked his fingers and placed them on top of his closely-cropped head.
“Ah vicar,” he heard his Dad say. “I didn’t think you were coming. I started without you. Did you bring your canes?”
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second