Wayne and Sharon Grimethorpe were watching Newsnight on television in the front room of their terraced house in Brocklehurst. “Jake’s late again,” Sharon said to her husband. He didn’t hear her. He was too engrossed in an item about the birching of juvenile delinquents at the new Short, Sharp Shock detention centres. They were going to put them on YouTube to prove to taxpayers they were getting value for money.
Sharon sighed, “I said Jake’s late again. That’s the third time this month.”
“Fourth, actually,” Wayne was paying attention now. Newsnight had moved on to an item about budget cuts for regional theatres.
“Well, you know what you’ll have to do when he comes in. He knows what time curfew is.”
“Yes, I know,” Wayne hesitated and then said, “It’s not like it’s the first time.”
“No,” Sharon said with great irritation, “It’s not. You know you’ll have to spank him when he gets in don’t you.”
“Yes, I know. The paddle’s in the drawer.”
Jake was their twenty-year-old son.
They watched the television some more. Wayne had a question he wanted to ask his wife. A difficult question. Probably an embarrassing question. He didn’t know how to ask it. They didn’t talk much. Not to each other. They never had really. Wayne wriggled his buttocks on the sofa; movement hid his embarrassment.
“Yes,” he said. “He knows he has to be home by half-ten. That’s the curfew. If he’s late he gets spanked. That’s the rule.” Sharon stretched her legs. Why was her husband telling her things she already knew? “So?” she didn’t try to hide her annoyance.
Wayne cowered. “Well, it’s just …” He couldn’t find the words to finish his sentence. The silence was far from comfortable. Sharon glowered, “What is it! Tell me what you want to say.” Wayne knew he was blushing, deep to his roots. Inwardly, he cursed himself for bringing up the subject.
“This spanking lark,” he said. “Does it work?” He turned his head to avoid his wife’s glare. “I mean four times this month.”
“Maybe you’re not doing it properly,” she retorted. She thought Wayne was a wimp. He should wallop Jake properly, that’d put an end to it. Wayne’s mouth opened and closed but no words came. That’s unfair, he thought. He had watched several of the instructional videos online. They were very explicit. He had purchased a heavy, square wooden paddle. One of the authorised ones stamped with the approval of the Department of Juvenile Corrections.
“What does Mike from across the road do?” his wife did not intend to stay silent on the matter.
“He got one of those tawses,” Wayne felt more confident when talking about other people. “You know those leather things with the two tails. He’s hung it on a hook in the passage. It’s the first thing you see when you go in the house.”
“And does he use it?” his wife was determined to find fault in her husband. “Does he spank David four times a month?”
“No, he says he’s never had to use it. David’s as good as gold.”
“Well bully for him,” Sharon snorted. She envied her colleagues at work and the neighbours who had no discipline trouble with their kids, even the older ones. They knew how to control them, not like her poor excuse for a husband.
“Maybe you need to be more assertive. Whack Jake a bit harder or something,” she peered across the tiny room at her husband.
Wayne frowned. Why couldn’t he pluck up the courage to tell her what he was thinking? “I do everything I’m supposed to,” he said defensively. “Like they say in the videos. You’ve seen them,” he added trying to get his wife to share some of the blame for their failure. “I tell him what he’s done wrong. Then I send him upstairs to change into his pyjamas. When he comes down again I tell him to bend over my knee. Then, I whack him on the you-know-where with the paddle. Hard,” his eyes narrowed as if he were concentrating, “Very hard. Lots of times.” He sighed, “What more am I supposed to do?”
His wife picked up the remote control and flicked through channels: two-hundred-and-seventy-five and nothing worth watching. “Well,” she said, “It’s not doing much good is it?”
At that moment they heard the sound of a key in the front door. “He’s here at last,” Sharon threw the remote onto the settee and stood up. “I’ll leave you to it,” she said leaving the room. Wayne heard her voice in the passage, “Late again! Your father’s waiting for you.”
Wayne scratched his head and rose from his chair, “What time do you call this?” he growled as his son entered the room. The boy shrugged his shoulders, peered across the room at a clock and replied, “Eleven-fifteen.”
“Don’t get smart with me, you know what I mean.”
Jake, stood unconcerned. He was late. He’d missed curfew. There was no mystery about what would happen next. He had seen it all before.
“You missed curfew,” his father said, stating the obvious. Jake stood watching his father’s complexion gradually darken. Jake thought Dad was no great intellectual; he rarely had much of interest to say. Tonight would be no different. Or, so he supposed.
Wayne was flustered. How he wished he had asked his wife that burning question. He told his son something else he already knew, “That’s four times this month.” It didn’t occur to Wayne to ask where the boy had been. Who was he with? What were they doing?
“Sorry, Dad,” Jake told his father, but the tone of his voice suggested otherwise. He had been late that evening, he would be late again. Sorry had nothing to do with it.
Wayne was flustered, he stood hopping from one foot to another, gripped by indecision. What was he to do about Jake?
“Dad, shall I go upstairs and get changed into my pyjamas?”
Wayne’s jaw dropped. His heart missed a beat with fear. The nerve of the boy. Who did he think he was? What did he think he was doing? There were so many questions and Wayne had none of the answers.
“No!” Wayne said with more authority than he actually felt. “No. Not this time. Just stay where you are.”
Jake hid his puzzlement well. What was going on? Dad always had his routine. Get changed into pyjamas, come downstairs, bend over his knee. Get a sound paddling. It was always like that. He watched as his father moved to a sideboard and opened a drawer. Jake relaxed. He knew what was happening now. Dad was going for the paddle. They were back on track.
It was a small paddle, it had been especially designed and endorsed by the Department of Juvenile Corrections to be used at close quarters. It was no bigger than a table tennis bat and about three centimetres thick. It was constructed of hard wood with a small handle at one end. It was recommended for over-the-knee spankings. Jake could testified to its effectiveness.
Wayne gripped the paddle tightly and brandished it at his son. He had an idea. There would be change tonight. He would do things differently. He needed an answer to his question. Please God! he thought, let it be the right one.
Jake’s eyes followed the paddle. Sweat moistened his brow and his round, open face flushed. He always went like this when Dad was getting ready to spank him. Dad picked up a small chair and plonked it down in a space by the window. This confirmed to Jake that a spanking was imminent.
“No pyjamas this time,” Dad croaked. His mouth was dry so he poked his tongue out and ran the tip around his lips. It didn’t do much good. Jake had also gone dry. That usually happened, he wasn’t worried. Dad sat on the chair. It looked like Dad was ready for business. “Take down your trousers.”
Jake’s eyes glistened. Take down my trousers. His heart skipped a beat. This wasn’t how it usually went. What was Dad up to? “B-b-but,” he started a protest but Dad cut him short. “Just get on with it. It’s late we should both be in bed.”
Jake was surprised how much his hand shook as he undid his belt. He was entering unchartered territory. Dad was a creature of habit. This wasn’t how he spanked. What was different this time? Why had he changed?
With the belt loosened, Jake popped the button on the waist of his jeans, pulled the zipper and with his hands helped them fall to his knees. Then he placed the hands in front of his crutch. His boxers were tight and he was afraid Dad might see the outline of his cock and balls.
“Bend over my knee,” it was not a confident command. Wayne’s question had still to be answered. Jake shuffled a step and stood to his Dad’s right. He had been here before, he knew the drill. He was back on familiar territory. He gauged the distance between himself and Dad’s knees and slowly lowered himself down. He used Dad’s thighs as a ledge to hold on to as he manoeuvred himself into position. As was his custom he placed the palms of his hands flat against the floor and kept his knees straight behind him. Doing this left his bottom pointing up at an angle and his crotch pressing into Dad’s thigh.
Jake was about the same height as his Dad and suited the over-the-knee position. His bottom made a terrific target for Dad’s paddle. The bum itself was round and fleshy. Like so many boys of his age Jake could benefit from time in the gym. Jake felt his Dad’s arm take him around the waist and his body tensed. Soon he would feel the paddle caress the peaks of his mounds as Dad found his aim. Then the first whack would burn into his buttocks. Jake closed his eyes.
That’s how it always was. That’s how his Dad spanked him. Not this time. Dad rested the paddle on Jake’s back. Jake’s eyes opened. What was this? Dad had taken hold of the waistband of the pants. “Nooooo! Dad,” Jake wailed. It was an involuntary act. He hadn’t planned to protest. “Be quiet!” Dad scolded as he tugged the thin cotton shorts over Jake’s plump behind. “There: let the dog see the rabbit.” He left the underwear bunched at Jake’s thighs.
“No!!!” the twenty-year-old repeated the protest to no avail. The paddle pounded first his left cheek, then the right. Jake’s buttocks clenched tight as the burning began. The paddle flew across the naked bottom at great speed and Dad pulverised his son. In no time its outline was embossed as deep-pink rectangles across the whole target area.
Jake wailed. It was the surprise of it all as much as the pain. Dad always spanked with vitality; that’s what the instructional videos said to do. It’s punishment. Make it hurt, that’s the point. Deter them from future misbehaviour. The bare-bottomed paddling hurt – a lot! – but not much more than it did when applied across the thin cottoned seat of his pyjamas. Jake realised he was frightened (close to real terror) of being naked from the waist down in front of his Dad. Oh the humiliation!
This was a first for Dad as well. He had never seen at close hand the effects of the paddle. The scorched flesh and the vivid welts caused by its edge were intense. He admired the way the paddle sank into the flesh on Jake’s bottom. And the way it wobbled as he withdrew it to lift it high so he could crash it down again. The video instructor would be proud of him.
He whacked another half dozen swats. There wasn’t a square-centimetre that didn’t throb red hot. Jake (as he always did) lay across his knee, almost impassively. His eyes were closed tight, his mouth opened from time to time to allow air to hiss through his lips. The spanking hurt, Dad was certain of that but Jake seemed to have a high pain threshold.
But now the teenager was wriggling and writhing across his knee. His body was heaving up and down. Jake covered his face with his hands. Was he crying? If so, it would be the first time. “No. No.” Jake was moaning softly. “Noooooo.”
Dad stopped paddling with a jolt. A warm gooey liquid was spreading across his thigh. “What the ….!” He exclaimed and with great dread released the grip on his son’s waist. Jake took his chance. He scrambled off Dad’s knee, jerked his pants back to their rightful place and with jeans still at his ankles he stumbled from the room.
Wayne sat still. Exhausted. His heart beat so fast he felt blood rush to his ears. The liquid soaking his own jeans was starting to solidify. The stench was appalling. Then he realised. He jumped from the chair and skipped from foot to foot as if in some way that would clean his trousers. He felt sick. He bent double as vomit flew to the back of his throat. He needed the toilet. Too late, no time. Instead he bounced off the walls and into the kitchen. He leaned across the sink and retched up the contents of his stomach.
Minutes later after he had peeled off his jeans and stuffed them in the washing machine he opened the fridge and found a beer. He needed something stronger, but this would have to do. He downed half a bottle in one swig. He felt no better. What was he to do? What should he tell his wife? What did the future hold? There were so many more questions to ask now that he knew the answer to why spankings did not improve Jake’s behaviour.
Picture credit: spanking straight boys dot com
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