It’s the waiting that gets me. It always does. I know it’s going to happen, there’s no doubt about that. But when? Why won’t he just get on with it.
I know I deserve it. I won’t argue with that. Rules are rules. Clear as a bell. No ambiguity. Don’t break curfew. Don’t drink alcohol. I did both. Caught bang-to-rights. No argument from me.
I thought I had got one over on Dad. Sometimes I do. I get away with it. This is what I do. About nine in the evening, I get all sleepy eyed. The family’s sat in front to the television. Usually it’s some dopey soap opera, or one of those series about midwives or doctors set in the nineteen-fifties. They’re boring enough to really send me to sleep.
Anyhow, I do the yawning and arm stretching thing. “Yawn, yawn. I’m tired. I think I’ll have an early night.” Then I make sure everyone knows I’m off to my bedroom. “Goodnight Mum. Goodnight Dad. Goodnight John Boy,” you get the idea. Then, as in the script, I go to my bedroom.
So far, so good. I turn the light off and wait about ten minutes. But I don’t go to bed. My bedroom is at the back of the house and everyone is glued to the telly so it’s easy to open up the window, climb out and leg it down to the pub.
I get away with it more often than not. I would have last night as well. But what do you know, just as I was rolling home at half past midnight, Dad had a call of nature. A what? you’re asking. All right; he got up for a piss. Just as I was quietly putting my key in the lock of the front door.
As I said, caught bang-to-rights. So there was Dad dressed in his old, baggy underwear bearing down on me. Not something one wants to see in a parent. “Where have you been?” he growls at me. “Out,” I say back, which of course, is the literal truth, but that’s not what he wants to hear. He says so and I tell him the details. Well, an edited version anyhow. “I’ve been out with my mates,” I tell him.
Still not convinced he isn’t getting only the edited highlights, he advances down the stairs. “You’ve been drinking?” He says it as if it’s a question, but really it’s a statement of fact. I smell of booze. He stands close to me so he can smell my breath. He grimaces (a bit theatrically, if you ask me). The aroma of his own stale sweat drifts between us.
He takes a deep breath and shaking his head (he would make a fine ham actor in one of those soap operas) he says his lines. To be honest with you he has said them all before. What had he told me about curfew? What had he said about drinking alcohol? What happened last time? What should he do this time?
Naturally, they were all rhetorical questions. That is he wasn’t expecting me to answer. The answers in case you’re interested would have been: curfew was eleven on a school night (even though I am eighteen and in my final year); no alcohol to be drunk, ever; last time I was caught he spanked me and what should he do this time? In my own estimation he should forget about it and go to bed.
He has other ideas. “Go to bed. I’ll deal with you in the morning.” With that he shuffles up the stairs giving me a perfect view of his shorts slipping down his hairy arse exposing the top half of his crack.
“I’ll deal with you.” I know what that means. Well I know in the abstract, as we say in our English Lit. classes at school. In the abstract I’m getting a spanking. Only the when and the how has to be revealed.
Last time – how can I forget it was less than three weeks ago – it was Dad’s bedroom slipper. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him wear slippers, but the ones he has (cloth uppers in a brown check pattern and very springy soles) are ancient and worn. I’m still in bed when he bursts into the room. It is his house and he doesn’t think he needs to knock on doors.
He towers over me, gripping the slipper in his right hand. It is a cold morning so I wear pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt with a design of Thailand on it that my mate Dean brought back from holiday. It wasn’t the only thing he brought back, but a shot or two at the clinic soon dealt with that.
Dad doesn’t make big speeches. “Out,” he says, waving the slipper at me. He means get out of bed and do it now. I don’t make a fuss. I know, I know. I’m eighteen years old. This is 2017. My Dad’s going to spank my bottom because I was at the pub and got home late. Can you imagine such a thing? I’m not a betting man but I’d wager the house (as they say) that none of my mates are going across their Dad’s knees at this moment.
I push back the sheet and wriggle my bum along the mattress until my legs dangle over the edge of the bed and I am able to pull myself to my feet. Dad scowls a little. “C’mon,” he says as he sits himself down on the bed and spreads his legs. He doesn’t have to say more. I have been here before, I know the drill.
I shuffle forward until I am standing beside Dad’s right leg. He sits at an angle, so I am expected to lower myself over his knees and stretch out the top half of my body across the mattress. This way, my bum rests perfectly across his lap and my arms are out of the target area. My legs hang over the edge of the bed and my knees bend slightly so that my toes hover a few centimetres above the carpet.
I do this and wait patiently. Dad holds me firmly at the waist. Have you ever been slippered? Well, to be honest it doesn’t hurt that much. There’s a stinging pain as the springy sole connects with the bum and it lasts a second or two, until the next swipe smacks home. But once the battering’s over the pain goes quickly although it tingles for a minute or so after. Dad likes to spank at a rapid rate, like a machinegun: rat-a-tat-tat. He puts his full effort into it.
This time (he doesn’t always do this), he grips the elasticated waistband of my pyjamas and tugs them over my bum until the buttocks are bared. I feel a slight cool breeze coming from the door that Dad has left slightly open. Rats. My brother Joe will be able to hear. Perhaps Dad has done this on purpose. It increases my embarrassment to know Joe might hear and it serves as a warning to my brother about the consequences of his own behaviour.
I don’t like being spanked on the bare. I don’t suppose it increases the pain much compared to the thin cotton pyjama bottoms, but I know Dad can see right into my crack and I haven’t had a shower yet. I try to remember when I last had a crap. Before I showered yesterday? Then I should be clean.
With no further ado, Dad grips the slipper tightly, hovers it over my left buttock and let’s fly. Bang-bang-bang. It hurts, a lot. But it is not agony. I’ve never discussed this with Dad, but I am pretty sure his intention is not to really hurt me. You know in the sense of whip me senseless. He’s trying to make a point. Spank-spank-spank. And he is using his slipper and my bare arse to do it.
I know he cares for me. It’s the booze thing mostly. Nobody talks about it in the family, but my Granddad (Dad’s dad) was an alcoholic and the drink killed him in the end. But not before he made his family’s life a total misery. Dad has never touched a drop in his life; afraid (I suppose) of like-father-like son.
Dad whacks me with great efficiency. My legs kick out, but this is a reflex action. I have no control, it is my body’s natural reaction to the assault being made upon it. No square centimetre of flesh is left unscathed. When I check myself in the mirror later I see the imprint of the slipper appears from the top of my buttocks, over the mounds and into the very sensitive under-curves where the bum meets the back of the thighs. Hats off to Dad, he is an expert spanker.
His job done, he releases his grip on me and taking my cue I climb off his lap. I turn my back on him (I don’t want him to see my cock and ball sack) and bend down to tug up my pyjama bottoms. He growls something that I don’t quite catch and then he says, ‘Don’t make me have to do this again.’
That was then and this is now. I wait as patiently as I can in the circumstances. I think back to last night. Was it worth it? My cock stiffens at the memory. Yes, it was. Definitely. I get a raging hardon. It was Shelley’s tits that did it. Do I have time? Can I risk it? My dick aches. Shit. I can’t stand this. I open my palm and hawk a couple of gobs of spit into it and start to work my sodden hand up and down my shaft.
The door swings open …
Picture credit: Nick Backes
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second