Richard’s knees ache against the hard floor. He has made his peace with God, he rises and straightens his back. Now, he has to face his Dad. He knows he will be waiting for him in the front room, there is a certain ritual to these things. Everything is in its place, ready to be played out. He knows what is expected. Matters must take their course.
Dad sits patiently; waiting. Patience is a virtue, he has all the time in the world. He is doing God’s will, there’s no need to hurry. He has been to his special cupboard on the top floor landing where he keeps his tools. He has quite a collection it was years in the making. There’s something for every occasion; thick and thin whippy canes (big ones, small ones). Leather straps. Tawses; some with two tails, some with three. An old worn out gym plimsoll, its sole smooth and shiny. It has never seen a running track, that’s for sure. He selected a wooden paddle this time. Small and heavy with five big holes drilled in the business end. They help it fly through the air and cut down wind resistant. It packs a punch. Just what Dad needs to help do God’s work. It is also just what Richard needs.
Richard shuffles across the passageway, he is in no hurry he can wait a moment or two more. He touches the seat of his chino trousers. It is a reflex action preparing for the ordeal ahead. It is thick material. Who is he kidding? They will be no protection, no use at all, when they are flapping around his ankles. The door is open, he sees Dad sitting on a wooden stool the paddle in his hand. He is mumbling to himself. No, not himself, he is communing with God, explaining himself, taking guidance. Suddenly, his head lifts, his blue eyes shine, he sees his son. Dad grimaces, holds the paddle in his right hand and beckons Richard forward with a finger of his left. No word is spoken. There is no need, they have both been here before, they know the script by heart.
There is no more to be said, they have already had it out. Richard has been seen in the town with boys his own age smoking cigarettes. Not Richard; he doesn’t smoke but some of the others were. That is enough; keeping bad company. There’s no point saying they are all eighteen years old and not breaking the law. Whose law? Dad would retort. Not God’s law, smoking is a sin. There is no more to be said. Poor Richard. There are so many sins: smoking, drinking, lying, swearing. And, don’t get us started on S.E.X.
Dad raises his paddle. Richard halts his progress, stops in front of Dad, looks down at him. He is probably at least fifty but looks younger with bright blue eyes, clear skin, blond hair, trim waist, thick set muscles. Every ounce a Muscular Christian. His body a temple. He frowns slightly, “Trousers down, over my knee.”
A totally expected command, but Richard’s mouth still dries. His heart beats a little faster. His stomach turns. It is his body’s way of getting ready. Preparing itself for the ordeal; for the shame, for the pain. His fingers are steady as he finds the buckle of his belt. He doesn’t need to look down, he can remove his trousers blindfolded if he has to. He’s had enough practice. The belt loosens, he pops the button at the top of his fly, then lowers the zipper. The front of his chinos open showing his gleaming white underpants; evidence of his Mother’s good housekeeping. He wriggles his hips and the chinos sliver down his thighs and bunch at the knees. He spreads his legs and the trousers puddle at his feet.
He takes a deep breath, places both palms on Dad’s right thigh and eases forward. He reaches out his hands and puts his palms flat on the carpet. Behind him his legs are short and dangle in mid-air, toes an inch or so short off the floor. His groin presses into Dad’s leg; his bottom rests at an angle.
Dad is not quite satisfied and moves Richard slightly. It gives himself a better aim at his son’s bum. Richard’s legs are further from the ground and face closer to the carpet.
Dad has his little spanking rituals; always has done. It is his job to prepare the bottom for punishment. He will be the one to take down Richard’s underpants. Dad rests his paddle on the small of the teenager’s back and with both of his hands free gently takes the elasticated waist of the pants. Slowly, carefully he eases them down over hips and across meaty (and a little chubby) cheeks. Now they are clear of the buttocks and resting at the thigh.
Richard feels a slight breeze blowing across his exposed flesh from the open window. He is breathing a little heavily. Dad is taking his time. Richard can’t see him, but feels movements in his body as he retrieves the paddle from the small of the boy’s back and rests it higher up, near the shoulder. Then carefully he grasps the tail of Richard’s shirt and folds it once, then twice until it rests neatly at the shoulders. Richard is now naked from the shoulders to the thighs.
Dad takes the paddle in his right hand and grips it tightly at the handle. It is about six inches of hard wood. Dad hovers it above the fleshy bottom; he could easy make one smack land across the centre of both cheeks at once. Or he could go lengthwise and wallop the whole of one buttock from the very top to the very bottom.
He takes the first option and brings the wood crashing down three times across the centre of both mounds. Richard gasps at the shock and screws his fingers into a claw. Dad whacks another three lower, where the curves meet the thighs. Richard yelps and kicks his legs out. A reflex to the pain that is starting in the bum then travelling down the legs.
Dad then goes for option two. Puts three whacks the length of the left cheek and three into the right. Dad doesn’t use much energy. He raises the paddle a foot or so away from the target area and brings it down with a mighty force.
Richard’s cheeks clench tighter. The paddle hangs threateningly overhead waiting for them to relax again. Then the wood falls with fury, slamming another dose of intense pain into the naked bottom.
The paddle goes up and down; up and down. Richard is stoical. He never cries. No yelp escapes his lips, he has a high pain threshold. He couldn’t count the number of times he’s been spanked. The paddle sinks into his meaty bum and remerges leaving behind another deep pink mark. Soon dozens and dozens of images of the paddle blade are emblazoned across both cheeks. And, the back of his legs.
Dad is not finished. He wants to make sure he does God’s work properly. He has a calling. Richard understands that. He is completely at the mercy of Dad (and God). So, the spanking goes on and on.
Picture credit: Unknown
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second