A man of honour

new story 2

Mr Crosby glowered at his nineteen-year-old son, he could hardly keep his temper. “You’ve stolen from me – AGAIN.” He waved his leather wallet in the teenager’s face. “There’s a twenty gone. You’ve taken it,” his face coloured, soon it would be as red as a fine claret wine.

“No I didn’t,” the boy cowered in fear of his father’s wrath.

Mr Crosby paced the large lounge room. “Don’t add lying to your list of crimes.” He reached a cupboard and fumbled to open a door. “This isn’t the first time.”

Hank watched his father carefully, the colour draining from his own face. “I didn’t,” he protested feebly. This was going to end badly.

Mr Crosby stooped forward and reached into the cupboard. “I tanned you last time but obviously it was not enough,” he growled as he withdrew a small, but stout paddle. He straightened his back, turned and faced his son. “Well, let’s see if this will make an impact.” He brandished the paddle in his right hand. “I will not have you stealing from me.”

Hank stared glumly at the paddle. It wasn’t the first time he had seen the wood. It wouldn’t be the first time he felt it. “Now …” Mr Crosby’s eyes scanned the room. It was a large, opulent living room, dominated by two plush leather armchairs and a huge Chesterfield couch. That wasn’t what he was looking for. He needed something more compact. Standing against one wall was a heavy wooden armless chair, the kind that matched a dining table. Perfect, he thought.

Without a further word he marched across the room, grabbed it in one hand and, because of its extreme weight, struggled to manoeuvre it to the centre of the room. He plonked it down unceremoniously. He was beginning to sweat; a combination of the exertion, the warm weather and an airless room.

“Right,” he glared at Hank, “You know what to do.” Mr Crosby sat himself down on the chair, wriggled his backside,  straightened his back and parted his legs. He was ready. “Stand there,” he snapped his fingers, sending a shudder through Hank. “Now!” he roared when his son showed no inclination to move.

Generally speaking nineteen-year-olds do not get their bottoms blistered by their fathers, no matter what crime they may have committed. Indeed, spanking in the home and corporal punishment in schools had increasingly fallen into disuse in recent years. Now, would be the time for Hank to protest, “Dad, I’m too old for this!”

Hank knew better. If there was one lesson he had learned growing up it was: Dad is in charge. And now Hank was an adult it was Dad’s way or the highway. Accept Dad’s rules or take a hike. His older brother Todd had discovered that the hard way. He now lived in a sweaty room in a rooming house and had no prospects of betterment. Hank had no desire to follow in Todd’s footsteps.

He wanted to repeat, “I didn’t take the money,” but what was the point? His father wouldn’t believe him. Hank only had himself to blame, he had stolen money before; in fact more times than Mr Crosby knew. As they say, once you betray trust it is difficult to get it back.

Hank shuffled into position so that he stood a step or two to his father’s right side. “Jeans and shorts down. Pronto!” Indignantly, Hank searched for his belt buckle, loosened it and within seconds he had his jeans at his knees. He hesitated. He always hated this part: showing Dad his dick and ball sack. Mr Crosby might treat Hank as if he was still a little boy, but here was proof positive that his son was a fully-fledged man. Hank sucked in his breath, pinched the sides of his Jockey shorts and in one complete deft movement of the wrists he had them resting on top of his jeans. Without awaiting further instructions he threw himself across his father’s lap.

Hank hated Dad to see his genitals, but it was worst that he could see his crack and hole. Could there be anything more humiliating than an over-the-knee spanking on the bare buttocks? Hank stretched his arms out in front of him and rested his palms into the deep, plush carpet. Behind him his legs dangled in mid-air and his toes hovered above the floor. Like this, his backside rested at an angle across Dad’s lap. Mr Crosby was a tall man in his fifties and like many men that age he was running to fat. His well-padded thighs made a comfortable platform for Hank to rest on, but he knew what would happen next would be far from cosy.

Mr Crosby gripped the paddle tightly in his hand. As paddles went it was on the small side, no bigger than a paperback book. It was made especially for close-up over-the-knee spankings. He had a collection of larger paddles which he kept in a closet upstairs alongside a very old, worn razor strop that had been in the family for generations. He tapped the paddle against Hank’s left cheek. The nineteen-year-old’s body flinched, he closed his eyes and gritted the teeth, waiting anxiously for the first explosion of pain.

“I’m going to take your ass off with this,” Mr Crosby thought silently. “By the time I’ve finished it’ll glow in the dark. You won’t be sitting down for a week. I’ll teach you to steal money from me.” With those thoughts in mind he raised the paddle and brought it cracking down at tremendous force across Hank’s rear end.

….

The next morning at the office Mr Crosby’s secretary handed him a fistful of notes and coins, “Here’s your change,” she said.

“Change?” Mr Crosby wrinkled his nose in confusion.

“From yesterday. You gave me twenty to buy cakes for the girls in the typing pool. It was Jane’s birthday.” She handed over the money, puzzled as to why her boss’s face had turned crimson.

The day passed as it always did with Mr Crosby; he never had a moment to himself. Only on the train journey back home that evening did he have time to think. Hank hadn’t stolen the money. His son had told him as much and he hadn’t believed him. And, of course, he had blistered every square inch of the young man’s ass. What should he do now?

He was grateful his wife was not at home when he got back, he needed to speak to Hank alone: this was man-to-man stuff. Mr Crosby believed in high standards of behaviour: he had reared his children to be honest, truthful and to accept the consequences of their actions. Even if that meant taking a painful and humiliating spanking from time to time. Mr Crosby was an honourable man; he would have to confess to his son.

He called Hank to the lounge room, the very same place he had whopped the kid’s hide the previous night. Mr Crosby owned a large company and had many workers under him, he was never afraid to take command of a situation. He gave orders and people carried them out. He was used to that. This time it was different. He had no idea what he should do. Yes, he would apologise to Hank but then what? He couldn’t take back a spanking. Hank had probably spent a very uncomfortable night trying to sleep on his side and no doubt he had been reminded of the bruising each time he sat on a hard surface during the day. There was no undoing that.

Uncharacteristically, Mr Crosby had no plan. Instead, he decided to ask Hank what he wanted to do. Mr Crosby called the boy in and told him straight, “I spent the money on cakes for the girls in the office and I forgot. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you and I’m sorry I spanked you.” He came right out with it. No beating about the bush. “And,” he continued, “I don’t know how to make amends to you. What do you want me to do?”

He was quiet after that. He had said his piece. It was up to Hank now. The boy’s eyes shone. It might have been indignation or anger, Mr Crosby could not tell. Hank’s face glowed pink. His father stood uncomfortably, he couldn’t read his son’s mind. What was he thinking? In fact, Hank had been knocked off his feet. Never in his entire life had his father apologised to him. Never had he made such an offer. For once the boy was in control. What did he want? Money? No, the family was rich, Hank never went without. What then? It didn’t take long for the penny to drop. Hank had made up his mind.

In the past he had wondered if he was the only one who thought this way. Did it make him peculiar? Was it something he would be doing for the rest of his life? Perhaps it was natural. Often he had fantasised about spanking his dad. Mostly, it came after Hank had suffered a dose of the paddle or the razor strop. Was it revenge fantasy? Maybe he could find a book about it in the library. After all those years, here was a chance for his dream to come true.

Hank took after his old man in at least one important respect: when a good opportunity presented itself he took it.

“Right,” he took a deep breath and looked his father in the eye, “You unjustly gave me a spanking. You can’t take that back, but you can do the next best thing.” He was delighted that his father was clearly confused. He had no idea what was coming next. “You have to let me spank you.”

He studied his father’s face carefully. The man was shocked. His lower lip quivered, he started to form words but held himself back. The silence between father and son was embarrassing. Hank shuffled his feet. He was bursting to say, “Take down your pants and underwear,” but his nerve failed. Mr Crosby was known at the office as a quick thinker. He was not afraid to take a decision. This was to be no exception.

He had not expected his son’s proposal. Spank his own father. It was unheard of; absurd even. And, yet it was the perfect retribution. It was an eye for an eye. He had spanked his son unjustly, why shouldn’t his son spank him back? Mr Crosby was an honourable man; it was a fair proposition.

“Yes, I agree,” he said. Mr Crosby could not be certain but he thought he saw his son’s knees wobble. The teenager coughed to hide his mounting excitement. Never in a million years did he expect this. He had to take control of the situation. His mind whirled; what should he do no next? It shouldn’t be too difficult, he had been on the receiving end many times in the past.

“I want you,” Hank croaked, his mouth had drained of saliva. He coughed and tried again, “I want you to go upstairs and fetch the razor strop from your closet,” he felt his chest tighten as he fought to get the words out, “Then, bring it back here,” he added unnecessarily. It felt like his ears would burst, so much blood was rushing towards them. He gaped as his father meekly left the room.

Hank’s heartrate was hardly back to normal by the time his father returned. In his hand he held the thick leather razor strop. Without saying a word, Mr Crosby handed it over and stood head bowed, his face flushed scarlet. Hank felt the weight of the strop. He had felt it only one time across his naked buttocks. Dad had told him it was a family heirloom; generations of Crosby boys had felt it across their backsides. He did not realise this would revive memories for his father of trips to the woodshed on the farm where he was raised.

Hank cleared his throat, “Pants and underwear down. Bend over the back of the couch.” It was a surreal moment. Dad, aged fifty if he was a day, meekly stood in position and with more confidence than Hank ever felt while in the same situation, he assumed the position. He had forgotten to remove his glasses and they slid down his face and fell onto the couch. He made to retrieve them, “Leave them be, you won’t need them until I’ve finished,” Hank was astonished by his own confidence.

Hank folded the leather in his hand and studied the scene. He saw his father bent across the Chesterfield, his grey-haired head low and his flabby buttocks high. He had to give the old man credit, he was offering up his bottom at a perfect angle to receive his lashes. It was a terrific target.

Hank touched the leather across his father’s cheeks. They were soft and he saw them flinch as he began to find his aim. Mr Crosby had closed his eyes shut and seemed to be gnashing his teeth. Hank wondered if all boys did this when they anxiously awaited the first stroke (he knew he certainly did). Perhaps it was the body’s reflex action; its way of protecting itself against hurt.

Hank had no time to ponder such questions. His heartrate was up again and his temples were throbbing. He needed to get on with this before he fell with a faint to the floor. He rubbed the leather across the highest point of Dad’s buttocks. He intended to make this hurt; he was not blowing smoke here. The strop rose and fell at tremendous speed. It cracked into the soft flesh exactly where Hank had intended. He congratulated himself on a job well done as he watched a wide red mark spread across the old man’s cheeks. A perfect outline of the strop was embedded.

Hank reckoned Dad took the first dozen rather well. The buttocks were expansive and even after twelve lashes not every square inch of flesh had been blistered. Hank landed the next set of strokes across the unblemished areas. Then, he put a couple across the naked thighs. He was delighted to hear Dad’s yelps as the leather cracked home. The thighs always hurt more than the backside; Dad knew that, he had walloped Hank there often enough in the past.

And so it went on. Hank tanned Dad’s backside until it was as red as a cherry; just as the old man had spanked him the night before. Then he added some more for good measure. He was enjoying himself a great deal. Hank might have gone on all night if he hadn’t heard his mother’s car in the driveway. It was time to stop. She couldn’t know about this – it was a guy thing.

Hank and Dad never discussed it again. Not, with each other. The next morning Mr Crosby stopped by at his analyst’s office. The doctor had thought he had seen it all before; and he had, until Hank’s dad showed him the bruises from the night before.

z used after older endart (1)

Picture credit: Endart

 

Other stories you might like

A family firm

The penny drops

The Executive Assistant

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

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