You stand in the front room of your home, it is a broiling hot day and sweat runs down your back. The room is airless, even though all the windows are as wide open as they can be. The weather is oppressive and it isn’t quite nine in the morning. You are wearing nothing but skimpy running shorts.
Your father paces the room. He is mad. He mutters under his breath words that you can’t quite catch. You know better than to ask him to repeat himself. He stops pacing and turns on his heel dramatically and heads for a small sideboard. Your heart misses a beat. You know what’s in that cupboard. You guessed all along how this meeting with Pop would pan out and his sudden movement confirms your worst fears.
You watch carefully as Pop leans forward and reaches into the sideboard, a large patch of perspiration soaks the back of his shirt. He is feeling the heat too. You wipe sweat from your brow with the back of your hand.
Pop straightens up and turns to face you. He is brandishing a heavy wooden paddle in his right hand. He speaks, “Alright Alan, this is the second time in two or three weeks that you have been caught drinking alcohol and you got a spanking the last time and obviously it was not enough.”
He grips the handle of the paddle and smacks the blade into his left palm, “So, this time it’s time you got a GOOD spanking.”
He emphasises the word “good.” You know what he means. Last time – and it wasn’t quite two weeks ago – he had you across his knee for a bare-bottomed spanking. He just used his hand that time. You remember it hurt. But you’re eighteen years old and a hand spanking is never going to make much of an impression. So, this time the stakes are being raised.
Pop made the paddle himself. He’s no handyman and it must be the only thing he has ever made with his own hands. It’s a typical spanking board. The business end is a rectangle of wood about ten inches by four and maybe a quarter inch thick. Pop drilled holes along the blade. The paddles at school are the same. Your science teacher once told the class it was to reduce wind resistance and it added to the efficiency of the swat. He then proceeded to demonstrate the principle across the seat of the tight jeans of two of your classmates.
Pop waves the paddle at you, “I’m not going to put up with that. Come here.”
You know better than to resist, Pop is in charge, It is his house. It is his way or the highway. You get it. You watch Pop as he grabs a straight-back wooden chair and places it carefully in the middle of the room.
Without a murmur of dissent you obediently walk to a spot about a foot away from him. He carries on scolding you, recapping your misbehaviour. You and some friends managed to get hold of a few six packs of beer and had taken them to Johnny’s home. His parents were away for the day, so you knew the coast was clear. But, they returned home unexpectedly early and you got caught. In this town it’s illegal to drink alcohol until you’re twenty-one, so not only had you all done something your parents disapproved of, you’d broken the law.
While Pop continues to scold you, he puts the paddle on his lap and using his two hands he gently tugs at both sides of your shorts lowering them to the floor.
You are completely naked, but you don’t feel embarrassment or shame. Pop always spanks on the bare so he has seen your glory many times before. Indeed, you might say that over the years he has had an unusual way of monitoring your growth to manhood.
Johnny’s parents made a few telephone calls and you reckon in this part of town there are five other guys also having confrontations with their fathers. Bottoms will be blistered, for sure. You live in that sort of community.
“You’re too old for this kind of thing,” Pop says, as he sits back in his chair and lifts the paddle from his lap and waves it at you.
“You should know better, and I think it’s time you and the Board had a little discussion about this drinking business. Now, get across my knee.”
You do as instructed without question. You are totally naked. You are probably about the same height as Pop, but much leaner and lighter. You stretch your arms in front and place your hands palm down on the floor. Your bare bottom is raised above Pop’s left knee and your legs are bent slightly so that your toes rest on the floor behind you.
Pop puts his right arm across your back. He wants to make sure you stay in position, face down staring at the floor.
“This is something you have deserved for a long time. It’s time you got your little bottom blistered.”
Six swats hit you squarely in the middle of your tough round bottom, hitting both cheeks equally. They aren’t vicious swipes, but they hit their target. You let out a quiet almost breathless yelp as each whack! strikes home.
You want to take your punishment without fuss. You know you have broken the law. You have been found out. You deserve to be punished. You are a big boy now, you should be able to submit stoically to a spanking. You want to be submissive but as each successive blow hots up your bare cheeks you find yourself involuntarily wriggling across Pop’s knee.
He carries on whacking you with the heavy wooden paddle across the centre of your buttocks. Pop keeps up a steady rhythm. You hear his wheezes; the stiflingly hot day and the effort Pop is making swinging the paddle is taking its toll on him. But he carries on gamely. He is a long way from the finishing line.
You are losing control and now you are writhing across Pop’s legs and you kick your legs behind you. You can’t help yourself, it seems to be your body’s natural reaction as it tries to defend itself from the awful pain.
Pop is undeterred. Whack! Whack! One every three seconds or so. Whack! Whack! Whack!
You aren’t crying (you never do) but your bottom is heating up fast and the pain is increasing. You keep your palms flat on the floor, but your shoulders and back are writhing with the blows. It looks like you are trying to swim off Pop’s knees and away to safety.
“Keep still.” Whack! Whack! Whack!
“You’re getting what you deserve,” Pop is breathless.
Pop is right. You deserve this spanking. You have disobeyed him about drinking. You’ve been caught before with beer and you got a sound hand spanking then. You’d promised never to drink alcohol again, but you’d gone back on your word. You are a liar and a cheat.
Whack! Whack! Whack!
“I’m sorry,” you whimper. You know all boys say this if they think it will stop them being spanked. Pop is not impressed. He just carries on with the rhythmic blows. You are losing breath as each successive blow winds you just a little bit more.
Pop’s next dozen or so whacks are a little harder than before. The pain grows in your bottom, and travels down your legs. You know the cheeks must be bright red by now. Soon they will start to turn yellow and then mauve as bruises break through.
Pop grips you around the waist more tightly as you struggle to break free. You are pinned down, you are going nowhere. Not until Pop says so.
“Ouch! Aaah!” You can’t help it. You have to let out the cries of pain.
“You’ve needed this for a long time.”
“I’m sorry. Ouch! Owww!”
The blows came harder still and you are losing more control. “Owwwwwwwww! I’m sorry,” you whimper.
But, Pop has heard it all before. Last time he spanked you for drinking beer, you’d said exactly the same thing. You probably meant it too: at least at the time.
Another six whacks: some on the left cheek; some on the right.
“OK, OK, Please. I’m sorry.” You still struggle to break free but Pop is winning that little battle.
“Have you learned something from this experience?”
“Are you going to drink alcohol again?”
“Are you sure?”
But, Pop isn’t convinced because he just keeps on whacking your bare bottom with that goddam paddle.
“You’d – better – not,” he carries on talking while still whacking, one blow falling in time to every word he speaks.
His blows are harder and your “ouchs!” are louder. You still try to free yourself. Later, looking back on your spanking you will be a bit ashamed of this. You know you deserve the spanking and ought to be taking your licking like a man.
“Alright. Stand up.” You don’t need telling twice. You are on your feet in a heartbeat. Your cheeks are on fire. You know it. Pop knows it. That’s what a spanking is supposed to do: make the naughty boy very sore, so that he learns his lesson and he will think twice about breaking the rules again.
You turn around to inspect the damage: your bottom is red raw. With your fingertips you gingerly caress your cheeks; they feel like leather.
“Get dressed.” You find your shorts and pull them on. The nylon feels cool against your raw flesh.
“OK, go to your room. And no more beer.”
OK, Pop, you think, you won’t drink again. And you mean it, of course – until the next time.
Picture credit: Unknown
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
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