You get home from work late. Dog tired. Another double shift at the warehouse. Christmas is coming and everyone’s busy. You look forward to something to eat and some sleep. But your wife is upset. She’s had a hell of a day. It’s that brat of a son of yours. Treats the house like a hotel. Comes and goes as he likes. Missed tea again today. Food wasted. Does he think money grows on trees.
It’s nothing new. You’ve heard it all before. He’s at that age. Eighteen years old and thinks he’s all grown up now he’s left school and got a job himself. You know eighteen isn’t grown up and you’ve told him often enough. He’s still got a lot of learning to do. You tell him there are rules. They have to be kept. That’s life. There are consequences if you don’t stick to them. You’ve taught him that since he was a little kid. He knows that for a fact.
This time it’s different. You eat your tea (or whatever you call your six o’clock meal when it’s eaten at half-past-ten), slurp from a bottle of beer and listen to your wife. Your temper is short at the best of times. As she tells you her story you are ready to explode. “He called you what?” You say you cannot believe it but you can. This is not the first time. You had it out with him before. Where is his respect? Where is yours? You know you cannot let this matter rest.
“Where is he?” you splutter as you clean your plate with a slice of bread and stuff it into your mouth. Your wife bristles. “Upstairs. In his room.” That’s all you need to know. You have to deal with this now. You can’t let it wait until the morning. You know exactly what you are going to do. There is no doubt about that. You are the boss in this house and you have a right to rule the roost. Also, he has disrespected his mother and it is your duty as a father to get retribution.
You finish your beer and rest the bottle on the table. You take a deep breath and haul yourself to your feet. “Let’s do this right now,” you say. Your wife picks up your plate and takes it to the sink and runs the hot water. You know she doesn’t want to be involved. Not in this kind of thing. She says it’s a dad-and-son thing. You don’t argue. There is no point. You know she wants you to do this, she just doesn’t want to see you do it. He’s still her precious boy, you suppose.
You go to the foot of the stairs and stand and listen. There is no sound coming from his bedroom. You know that means nothing. He could be asleep. Could be listening to music on his Smartphone. Might be watching porn and having a wank. You call his name. You get no answer. You call again, louder. Still, no response. Is he taking the piss? You can’t be sure he’s not just ignoring you. Your anger is rising. You stomp up the stairs. There is a light under the door so you know he’s not asleep. You grip the handle ready to storm the room. It is in your hand but you hesitate. What if he is polishing one off? You thump on the door and call his name. You count to ten in your head then throw the door open.
He is laying on the bed, not under the duvet. He is wired for sound (as you know young people no longer say). You can hear a faint rhythmic noise coming from his ear buds. You’ve startled him, his body shakes when he realises it is you. You are in no mood for small talk. “What did you call your mum?” you roar and before he has a chance to respond you repeat, ”What did you say?” His face goes white. He knows exactly what you’re talking about. You see his mouth open and close like a goldfish but he can’t think of anything to say.
“You little …” you just about stop yourself from calling him a dirty name. You know you can’t punish him for using filthy language if you use it yourself. So instead you say, “What have I told you about your mum?” The question makes no sense but he understands what you are trying to say anyway. “Sorry Dad,” he wriggles so that he is now sitting up and not laying down. You stare at your son. His face is still pale, his eyes are damp. He needs a shave.
“Bah,” you say. Sorry, you think. Yes, my lad you’ll soon be sorry. Then you say, “Get down stairs now. Right away. The living room.” You don’t need to say more. He knows exactly what you mean. “Oh Dad!” he wails. “No, Dad!” You move towards the bed ready to grab him by the hair if need be to haul him to his feet. He knows you’ll do it. “No, Dad,” he says again and jumps to his feet. You are blocking his pathway to the door so you stand aside. You fetch him a clip around the head as he passes. “Get downstairs. Now!” you bark.
You hear his soft footsteps on the stairs. You know he will do as you tell him from here on in. This isn’t the first time this sort of thing has happened. You had hoped you wouldn’t need to do it again. You take a deep breath and look around the room. It looks like a bomb’s hit it. The floor is covered with dirty clothes. There is a musty aroma about the place. You can’t place it. It might be dried spunk. There’s probably wodges of soiled toilet paper under the duvet. Or is it the smell of dope? You make a mental note to have a word with him about this. But not tonight.
You make your way downstairs. You can hear music coming from the kitchen. Your wife has the radio on. A little too loud. Sounds like Radio 2 is playing. You ignore this and turn towards the living room. The door is open and you see your son waiting nervously. You pause to look. He is wearing pyjamas. You know he’s always worn pyjamas but you still think it odd for a boy of his age. He’s eighteen, not eight. You think the pyjamas make him look younger, more childlike. You snap out of it. C’mon, it’s not as if the pyjamas have drawings of racing cars all over them. They’re just a cheap pair with checks from Primark.
You walk into the room. Your son’s body stiffens. He doesn’t know where to look. His eyes flicker everywhere, taking in the whole room, but he can’t meet your eye. It is a tiny room and you can’t help but stand close to him. You smell tobacco on his breath. Not for the first time you notice your son is a couple of inches taller than you. He’s stronger too. This doesn’t worry you. It will not stop you doing your duty. You are in charge. You know this. He knows this.
You tell him what your wife told you. He doesn’t deny it. “Why?” you ask, genuinely at a loss to understand. He doesn’t answer. He can’t answer. He doesn’t know. “Well,” you say. “You know what happens now.”
“Oh, Dad,” he wails. He doesn’t say, “But, I’m too old for this.” He knows your thinking on this. Your house. Your rules. Your way or the highway. You have taught him that you believe in discipline. What dad doesn’t tell his son that? You think the trouble with the world today is that dads say they believe in discipline, but they don’t do anything when rules are broken. You believe in discipline, but you also believe in punishment. You think that’s what makes you different. Special, even.
You know there is no more to be said. You unbuckle your belt and draw it through the loops on your jeans. They feel a bit loose and you hope they won’t slip down your hips. The belt is a standard leather thing, available to purchase at all good chain stores. You fold the belt in two and hold it by the buckle. Like this it makes a perfect spanking tool. You know this for a fact. It has (if you like) been road tested many times.
Your son looks mournfully at the belt, now dangling from your right fist. He starts to plead for forgiveness. “Sorry Dad, I won’t do it again. Promise.” What boy doesn’t say these things if he thinks it will get him off a spanking? You take no notice. You slap the belt against your thigh. You nod towards the couch standing against the wall. It is a small two-seater fabric affair. Bought cheaply from Argos one Black Friday.
“Bend over,” you say grimly. You want it to sound like you carry the weight of the whole world on your shoulders. “You know you must be spanked,” you say. He mouths, “Oh, Dad,” one more time, but he does not resist. He never does. He walks to the couch and stands at one side. The couch is against the wall so he cannot go across the back. Instead, he stretches forward and bends over the arm. He is tall and the couch is low so most of his body rests over the seat cushions. He props himself up on his elbows and this raises his bottom at an angle. He keeps his legs straight and his toes just touch the ground. He waits for you. You are pleased he is so submissive.
You stand to his side. He is at a perfect height for you to lash the belt across his backside. You are almost ready to go, but not quite. There is still one thing more to do. You lean over your son and grip the elasticated waist of his pyjama trousers. You tug them over his round buttock cheeks until they are completely bared. You pull them down as far as his knees. You know if you leave them there (rather than taking them all the way to the feet) it will restrict his movement if he decides to kick about a bit during the spanking.
He shows no emotion. You know he expected to have his bottom bared. It is your way. You could demand that he lowers the pyjamas himself before bending over the couch but you know if he did this his meat-and-two-veg would flap about. You don’t want that thank you very much.
You are now ready. Your son’s bum is well padded and can take a sound spanking without damage. You rest the belt across the centre of his cheeks to get an aim, you lift it up and down to test the distance. Then you let fly. A sunset stripe immediately appears. You see you son bury his head in his hands, but otherwise he makes no reaction. You repeat the lash with frequency and intensity. The whole bum quickly goes dark-pink. You know you are warming him up. Your son sucks on his wrist. It is his way of absorbing the pain. He scrunches his face as he successfully stifles “ouches”.
Once the buttocks are glowing red you turn the belt onto the back of his thighs. This is always painful. He wriggles his waist and buckles his knees. You are pleased you left the pyjama trousers there otherwise he might kick out at you. His face is as red as his bum and a coating of sweat glistens on his neck. He headbutts the soft foam seat cushion.
You don’t expect tears and you don’t get them. You are not a brute. You don’t want to flog him into pulp. You are a kind, loving dad and you are making your point. You are punishing his bad behaviour and encouraging your son to strive to do better in future.
You are a dad doing his duty.
Picture credit: Mancspank Productions
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
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