“Sorry, Mate,” the spotty-faced cashier handed back the Barclaycard, “It’s been declined.”
Mr Sullivan barked back, “It can’t be, try again.” He was hot, tired and irritable. It felt like he had been standing in line for hours.
“I’ve already tried twice,” the boy at the register snapped back. “Do you have another card?”
“Eh, yes.” Mr Sullivan flicked through the dozens of plastic rectangles in his wallet. A loyalty card for every occasion. At last he found his Mastercard.
“Try this.” Seconds later he was on his way to the carpark, going through in his mind his recent purchases. “I was close to being maxed out,” his inner voice told him, “But there should have been enough.”
He found his car, settled in the driver’s seat and took out his Smartphone. “Let’s work this out.” The signal in the shopping mall was good (for once) and he was soon into his account, working his thumbs down a list of recent purchases.
“What’s this?” that inner voice again. “Twelve pounds fifty at Tesco?” He thumbed some more. “Seven, forty-five Aldi.? These aren’t mine. I’ve not been in a supermarket in months.” He scrolled some more. Nope, there were no more unexplained entries. “I’ll have to get onto the bank, there’s obviously some mistake,” he thought. He inserted his key and was about to start the engine. “Wait a moment,” he took the Smartphone and went back into the account. The two purchases were within days of each other. “Look at the dates!”
The terrible truth dawned. They were since his bone-idle son had returned from university for the summer. Mr Sullivan sucked on his lower lip, his anger rising. “He’s been using my credit card!” Bloody hell. He gripped the steering wheel, trying to ease his temper. These new cards; you don’t need to have a PIN number, you just tap them on the reader. Anyone can use them. A thieves’ paradise. “Wait til I get my hands on him,” he shoved the key in and the engine roared into action.
At home Rory Sullivan lay on his bed, his sweatpants at his knees and his briefs pulled down just enough so he could get at his cock and balls. His greased palm worked its way up the shaft. His room was a tip (as always), dirty shirts and pants littered the floor. Empty beer bottles were stacked up in a corner. The porn on his tablet was diverting, but no more. He hadn’t been near a girl in the three weeks since he left uni. so it wouldn’t take much to make him splash.
He didn’t hear Dad’s car in the driveway. Nor, the front door open and the rapid, heavy footsteps on the stairs. His bedroom door flew open and his puce-faced middle-aged dad roared in. Startled and embarrassed, Rory grabbed his underpants and tugged them over his semi-erect cock, his face as red as Dad’s.
Mr Sullivan looked at the tablet with undisguised disgust. But, he would worry about that later. There were other crimes to deal with first. “You’ve been using my credit card!” he bellowed, clenching his fists and leaning into his son.
The nineteen-year-old cowered away, his buttocks slipped on the mattress until he could go no further; his back literally against the wall. His dad towered over him, Rory could smell the sweat in the armpits of his Dad’s shirt. “That’s thieving!” Mr Sullivan shouted. “What have I told you about that before?”
Rory’s mind was reeling. What was happening here? “It wasn’t me. I don’t know what you’re talking about?” he croaked.
“Don’t add lying to your list of crimes,” spittle flew from Mr Sullivan’s mouth. “You’ve been using my credit card.” Then, he saw the empty bottles. “You’ve been buying beer!” he waved his arms wildly. “With my money!” Rory’s complexion turned from red to white in the blink of an eye. “You should get a job. Earn some money. You bone-idle git!”
Mr Sullivan reached his hand forward and gripped his son by the wrist. “Don’t say I haven’t warned you.” He pulled hard and the boy slithered to his feet, mouthing protests “It wasn’t me. I didn’t do it!”
“Liar! Be quiet!” Mr Sullivan sat on the bed, bouncing on the soft mattress, he parted his legs and dragged his son towards him. In one movement he had the boy across one knee, with his face in the duvet. He pounded Rory’s backside with the palm of his hand. Bang-bang-bang; it sounded like machinegun fire.
“Ow!, C’mon Dad. Oww! Dad. C’mon.”
“You’re just a bloody thief.” Mr Sullivan’s hands were as big as shovels, and Rory’s bum cheeks were small and pert. The tight cotton underpants felt smooth against his heavy calloused palms. “Ow, Dad!” Rory wriggled and writhed, turning his body this way and that so it looked like he was trying to swim away across the bed. Dad held him tightly across the lower back. The brat was going nowhere, not until his backside glowed in the dark.
Smack-smack-smack. Dad’s hand was large and heavy and his son’s bottom small and soft, but Mr Sullivan knew from experience his own palm was hurting much more than Rory’s bottom.
“Doh! This is no good,” he groaned, inwardly wishing he had not been in such a hurry to spank his son. If he had prepared he could have brought his wife’s big, ebony hairbrush. That would take the brat’s backside off.
On the floor, partially hidden by a pair of dirty underpants, he saw one of Rory’s leather sandals. Perfect. He released his son, who leapt to his feet, rubbing the back of his underpants. He was in no real pain, but he didn’t want Dad to know that. He massaged his bottom as if it was scorched. His antics gave Mr Sullivan time to reach across, pick up the sandal, and resume his position. He hauled his son over his knee and without word or ceremony he took hold of the elasticated waist of the striped underpants and tugged them down over his buttocks.
“No!” it was a tremendous wail! “Dad, no!” people in the street would have heard Rory’s shriek. Dad noted with satisfaction that his son’s once creamy-white cheeks were now a deep pink. He took tight hold of the leather sandal and walloped it into the centre of the boy’s left cheek. The outline of the sandal’s soul was immediately embossed in the flesh. He did the same with the right.
Dad had never spanked Rory with a sandal before. The sole was leather and solid, unlike a bedroom slipper. It was not as thick and heavy as a paddle, but it still packed a punch. Rory would not stop hollering, “I didn’t do it! I didn’t do it!” The lie encouraged Mr Sullivan in his task. The sandal’s outline was reproduced right across the target area. He concentrated on the meatiest part on the peak of the globes and was rewarded with mauve bruises. He turned his attention to the back of Rory’s thighs. That had the boy squealing and squirming. This was the most sensitive part of the posterior. Rory would be reminded of this spanking every time he sat on a hard surface in the hours ahead.
“I’ll teach you, you thieving brat,” Mr Sullivan’s fury was genuine. Fifty, sixty, seventy times the leather sandal whipped into Rory’s scalding backside. Now he was crying, writhing, panting, and praying the agony would soon be over. None of the spankings he had experienced before had been like this.
“Another fifty and we’re done,” Mr Sullivan’s inner voice told him as he laid into Rory’s backside with increased vigour.
Downstairs, Mrs Sullivan put on her coat, before she left the house she found her husband’s wallet and extracted his Mastercard from it before setting off for the supermarket to buy that evening’s supper.
Picture credit: Unknown
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second