Mr Howard wasn’t prepared for what he saw through the lounge window of his friend and neighbour.
Nineteen-year-old Tristian Miller stood facing the corner of the room, his hands on his head in the classic ‘naughty boy’ position. His jeans were at his ankles and his multi-coloured briefs were bunched up just below his buttocks. His T-shirt had ridden up his back clearly exposing his bared cheeks. They were lowing red hot. Mr Howard could see even at some distance that Tristian had been on the receiving end of a severe bare-bottomed spanking.
Suddenly, the front door opened and Tristian’s father George greeted his dinner guests. The Howards and the Millers were old friends; they went back twenty years at least.
“Come in, come in,” George launched into the traditional pleasantries, but immediately he saw his guests were distracted.
“Oh, that!” he nodded in Tristian’s direction. “He’s just back from university. Come in, I’ll tell you all about it.”
The Howards knew Tristian very well; he was a close pal with their own son Wayne. They had grown up together, played in the same parks, gone to the same school, and now as teenagers they had gone off to the same university together. They even had rooms in the same university dorm.
Mr Miller mixed drinks and when everyone was settled he told his story.
“He got back from university today. It hasn’t been a great success, I’m afraid. I found out he has been wasting his time and my money,” he sighed.
“He spends too much time in the bar or on the sports field, I think. Failed some of his courses, as well. He has to do resits during the summer and if he doesn’t pass them, he won’t be allowed to return to the university.”
Mrs Howard made suitable noises in sympathy.
Mr Miller took a swig of his whisky and carried on, “So, I didn’t have much choice really did I? I’ve given him a damn good spanking. Hairbrush. Over my knee. Pants down.”
He took another swig. “So how did your Wayne get on?”
Neither Mr Howard nor his wife could answer that question. They realised they had no idea what grades their son had achieved in his exams. When they had questioned him about it, he simply mumbled, “Fine” and swiftly changed the subject.
Mr Howard knew how close his son and Tristian were and resolved to interrogate Wayne further on the subject as soon as possible.
“Isn’t Tristian a bit old to be spanked?” Mrs Howard asked. She was not opposed to corporal punishment and her husband at various times in the past had spanked Wayne, but had not for some years. The boy must have been fifteen, the last time he was hauled over his father’s knee for a taste of his bedroom slipper. Actually, now she thought about it, it was when Wayne and Tristian had been caught by a local farmer stealing apples from his orchard. Both lads got stinging backsides that day.
“No,” Mr Miller was certain about this. “He is not too old. The boy must learn self-discipline and if he cannot, and clearly he has demonstrated that he cannot, then I must impose that discipline upon him. It is for his own good.”
Mr Miller loved his son dearly and knew that the blistered backside he was at this moment nursing in the lounge would act as an incentive for him to work harder. Tristian would not want to go through a repeat performance during the Christmas holidays. Eventually, he would graduate from the university and enjoy a successful career. It would be days like this that would ensure his future would be as rosy as his backside currently was.
Twenty minutes later, Tristian, now fully dressed, put his head round the door to speak to his father. His bottom was still sore to touch but he showed no resentment about the humiliating spanking he had been subjected to. He knew he had done wrong and also that his father loved him dearly. It was his own fault; he had let himself and his parents down badly. He had already resolved to pass his resit exams and work harder next term.
“Can I please go out to visit Wayne?”
His father assented, “Yes, but don’t forget your curfew.”
With that the teenager departed and domestic harmony continued at the Miller’s home.
Tristian and Wayne were great friends and they told each other everything. So, only minutes later the nineteen-year-old whipped his jeans and pants down and bent over to show off the damage to his buttocks. Gingerly, his friend traced with his fingers the contours of the brush. The cheeks were a mass of bruises and an oval outline could be clearly seen imprinted in the flesh dozens of times. His entire bottom was swollen and starting to turn black.
“At least it’s not bleeding,” Wayne offered a crumb of comfort.
“Yeah, but it still stings like blazes. At first it felt like I was being whacked with my mother’s steam iron.”
They both laughed out loud. Poor Tristian: nineteen years old and spanked on his bare bottom by his father like he was nine. But Wayne knew Tristian was not alone. Soon his father would discover the truth about his own slacking and there could be only one consequence.
Tristan lay face down on the bed, waiting for his pal to locate the antiseptic cream in the bathroom cabinet. Soon Wayne’s fingers would gently massage the ointment into his firm buttocks.
When Mr Miller confronted him about his university studies, Wayne confessed. He wasn’t an especially virtuous teenager but he knew his father would demand to see the written transcript of his exam results and this would confirm his failure.
His father’s lecture was short and to the point. The nineteen year old’s failures were catalogued. His excuses (or lack of them) were heard in mitigation: but to no avail. Wayne knew, and accepted, there could be only one outcome. He had resolved to submit to his father’s will, however humiliating it would be.
His father pronounced sentence: the slipper, over the knee, bare bottom. He looked across at his son and for the first time the absurdity of the situation struck him. The boy was at least six-feet tall, broad shouldered and trim waisted. His white blond hair was longer than most would expect, lush, shiny, brushed back and flowing. Wayne wasn’t a little boy, he was clearly an adult.
Mr Miller pulled a straight-backed chair into the middle of the room and sat down, placing his feet about three feet apart. He would need a large platform for his lanky son to drape himself across to present his bottom to him for the spanking.
It had been one of the hottest days of the summer so far and Wayne wore only the shortest of bright green sports shorts and a garish yellow T-shirt that was a size too large.
“Come here,” his father spoke softly, “Take down your shorts and pants and bend over my knee.”
Despite his resolve to present himself submissively, Wayne hesitated. He stared down at the corduroy-covered thin legs of his father. Why did the spanking have to be over his knee? There was no way he could fit comfortably in that position. It would make more sense to bend over the back of the settee. That way he could point his bum at his father and he would have plenty of space to whack his slipper into his bared buttocks.
“Come on, I haven’t got all day.”
Wayne put his thumbs under the elasticated waistbands of his shorts and pants and with a single movement, pushed both of them down to his knees. Then, in one athletic move he dived across his father’s legs. He was so tall that both his hands at the front and his feet at the back touched the carpet. He had to bend his knees slightly so that his bared bottom was raised sufficiently high above his father’s right thigh to receive the stinging slaps from the slipper.
With Wayne’s shorts and pants at his knees, his father gripped the teenager’s shirt into a ball and yanked it over his back. He was now naked from the shoulders to the knees, revealing a pair of peachy white buttocks that were twitching as they contemplated their fate. Wayne was a swimmer, and his bottom was muscular, without being large. It was pert, and joined smoothly with strong, broad thighs and long legs. He had very sparse, fine blond leg hair, with none on his behind. As his father pushed the shirt up towards the broad shoulders, the tapered torso was revealed, lightly toasted from exposure to the sun.
Mr Miller took a deep breath, raised the slipper and brought it down hard in the centre of Wayne’s bum. The boy let out a yelp and tightened his bottom. His father whacked the slipper down again, this time on the lower part of the cheeks.
The slipper being quite large and the teenager’s bottom quite small in comparison, his father had already achieved good coverage of what he could see. Anxious to avoid spanking in the same place twice if he could, father tipped Wayne towards him and slippered the left side of his bottom and quickly moved him the other way and slippered the right side.
The spanking accelerated, the slipper slapped into the naked flesh harder and faster, somehow always catching Wayne by surprise, finding fresh flesh to sting. His bottom rose and fell and rolled like waves at sea and despite Wayne’s age and size he could feel the rubber-soled slipper toasting his backside. Big red imprints of the slipper covered the whole of his bottom.
Despite his resolve Wayne yelped and struggled but his father held him tight and continued with a steady pattern of spanks.
Wayne felt the downpour of smacks to his bare bottom; they were harder, hotter, faster, and more rapidly biting into his buttocks and thighs. He twisted his head and neck, and leaned back upwards trying to figure out what was branding his bottom. It was his dad’s slipper, slapping blistering smacks onto and into his bum cheeks and inner and outer thighs.
The teenager shrieked, higher and higher in volume and in pitch and his right hand involuntarily left the floor to defend his butt, only to be seized firmly and pulled up behind his back, and held between his shoulder blades for the rest of the onslaught.
Wayne’s eyes alternately squinted and widened with shock and pain. Worse still were his behind and his pride. He was nineteen years old, yet now found himself overturned, sprawled across his father’s lap. His face was pushed into the carpet, his right arm held up against his shoulders and his feet and legs thrashing and kicking into the air.
Mr Miller continued to pound the slipper across his son’s backside, and despite his protests and wriggling he held him down and continued. After about another three minutes of continuous swats he stopped and rested the slipper across his now frying buttocks.
Wayne was still lying there quivering, sobbing and shaking. His father reached under his chest and gently, but firmly, lifted him up to stand in front of him. The boy stumbled on trembling, wobbly legs, unable to stand still for shaking and shuddering, and jumping and bouncing up and down. He was doubled over and his hands flew to clasp and rub his fiery buttocks and upper legs. He was a grown man, crying like a five year old.
Upstairs in his bedroom, Wayne immediately inspected the damage. His buttocks and thighs were covered in dark blue bruises where every square inch of flesh had been assaulted by the slipper. After a short, fast shower he hobbled back to his room, where he gingerly slid onto the bed on his tummy to avoid any pressure on his tender bottom and rested his tear stained face on the pillow. He ran his hands over his stinging, burning bottom and to his astonishment his soldier saluted. Wayne reached under his stomach and took it in his right hand. With his left he reached over to the bedside table and took a handful of tissue.
Picture credit: Unknown
This story was first uploaded in September 2015.
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second