He gestured that I should stand close to his right hand side. I shuffled forward a pace or two into position.
“Take down your jeans, please.” Without complaint, I did as instructed. My hands trembled more than I thought they should as I unbuckled my belt, unfastened the two buttons at the waistband and the four on the fly and pushed my Levis to my knees, exposing my dark blue underpants.
Dad adjusted himself on his chair. He moved his bottom a bit, making sure his spine was firmly resting against the back of the chair. He separated his legs by a foot or so to provide a platform where my stomach and chest would rest.
“Bend over my knee, please,” Dad said quietly.
I was across him in one movement. I stretched my hands in front of me and kept my knees straight, leaving my toes resting an inch above the floor.
I waited patiently. I had a close up view of the dark- and light-blue patterned lino floor covering and the scuff marks where for years chairs had scraped in and out under the kitchen table.
Dad grabbed hold of the tail of my shirt and pulled it way up my back, nearly to my shoulders. He smoothed my pants out: first across one buttock and then across the other, eliminating all wrinkles.
I took a deep breath.
The first whack hit me square in the middle of the left bum cheek. The second was on the right. Dad wasn’t a sadist, when he gave spankings he intended for us to get the message and mend our ways, but he didn’t want to brutalise us.
I gasped a little as the third and fourth wallops hit right on top of the previous two. Then he quickened the pace. Slap here, whack there, wallop again.
He stopped after a dozen whacks. It hurt alright. I was sore, but I wasn’t about to burst into sobs or anything.
Dad was finished spanking, but he continued to hold me down over his knees. He still had things to do.
“Have you learned you lesson?”
“And what lesson is that?”
“Don’t come home late.”
“Will I have to do this again?”
“Good, because if I do it will be a lot worse for you. Understand?”
“Good, get up son.”
I struggled to my feet, pulled up my jeans and did them up.
It was about two weeks after that I ended up over his knee with a bedroom slipper slapping into my upturned bum.
I had started a fire in the garden. For no good reason, except to see the flames burn. It wasn’t the first time. Dad had warned me. I knew what was coming. He confronted me with the accusation I was a fire bug and I had no choice but to admit it.
I suppose he had made a plan of action in advance. He gave me a little lecture about the dangers of fire. I didn’t take much notice of him. I was eighteen, I had been round the block once or tice with Dad. I had a good idea what was coming.
We had been talking in the kitchen when he said we should go next door to the living room. I hesitated and he gripped my arm quite tightly and pushed me out the door.
My heart was thumping. He pulled me into the lounge. It was a small room with a three piece suite, dining room table and chairs, a sideboard by the window and a TV set.
I was a couple of inches taller than Dad and he was running to fat a bit and if push came to shove he wouldn’t have been able to force me across his knee. But I didn’t struggle. I was raised to this. It wasn’t going to be my first spanking; nor my last. I didn’t finally escape Dad’s slipper until I had moved away from home and married. Until then, I would always be his little boy.
He sat down in the chair, holding his bedroom slipper in his right hand. I stood looking at him.
My heart hadn’t stopped racing since our confrontation in the kitchen and I found it difficult to catch my breath. I remember I wearing two-toned Sta-Press trousers – very fashionable at the time – which had an adjustable waist so you needn’t wear a belt. There were no back pockets, so Dad had a fine view of my bum and would have seen I was wearing very brief underpants that left a lot of my buttock cheeks uncovered. Clearly, the trend setters of fashion at the time had no expectation that people wearing their clothes might need protection from their dad’s slipper.
Without saying another word Dad pulled the chair out from behind the table, put it in the centre of the room and sat down. He gripped the slipper in his fist. Dad pointed to a spot to the right of where he sat. “Stand there,” he ordered, and I did as I was told.
“Take down your trousers.”
Slowly and carefully, I undid the button, slid down the zip, and pushed the trousers until they dropped of their own accord to my ankles. My yellow shirt covered all but the lowest inch of my honeycombed coloured pants.
I was standing in front of dad with just my thin pants covering my bottom.
“Bend over my knee.”
Leaning down, momentarily I placed a hand on Dad’s thigh to steady myself, and then lowered myself across his lap, reaching down for the carpet beyond.
I let him position me across his lap. He took my arm and folded it up my back, securing me and preventing any possible escape.
My shirt was neatly folded up, exposing my lower back to the cool air of the room.
Then Dad took hold of the top of my pants. Then, I was lying across Dad’s knee with a bare bottom. I breathed in sharply. Suddenly, there was a loud crack echoing round the room as my bum got a mighty whack that stung me across both my pert round buttocks.
“Ah!” I gasped. After just two more weighty blows from the large slipper, I felt my bottom starting to flame with a smarting soreness that hurt and stung.
With just two or three seconds between each smack of the slipper, the spanking quickly developed into a slow steady rhythmic rising and falling of the slipper. Each time it contacted forcefully with my once pale creamy white bottom, I grimaced and screwed my face up in some pain.
Dad’s large slipper thumped heavily down on my naked bottom time and time again. My bottom was really very sore now, and my arm hurt where I had been struggling and Dad had restrained me. He was the master of me and he gave me the sound spanking I so thoroughly deserved.
The spanking continued and my bum was burning. Every fresh smack of the slipper tore a gasp from me. Then it is over. Dad rolled me off his lap and I fell to the floor. I stumbled to my feet, my face red and hot. My hands tried to sooth my burning bottom.
I had spent the past ten minutes or so draped across Dad’s knee with my trousers around my ankles and underpants around my knees. Dad had given my bottom and the top of my legs a thorough spanking. Not one square millimetre of my rear end avoided his attention. My bum was aglow.
It had been a long, humiliating and very painful bare bottom spanking.
Then, Dad is warned me that if I ever started another fire he would take a cane to my bare backside, young adult or not!
“Get up to your room,” he ordered. I thanked him before leaving the living room, closing the door quietly behind me.
Picture credit: Sting Pictures
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second