Mr Weatherspoon sauntered into the kitchen and sighed. He could not, would not, hide his irritation. “Where is he?” he demanded of his wife.
“He’s not here.”
“Well, I can see he’s not here,” Mr Weatherspoon snarled. “Is he still upstairs?”
“What do you think?” his wife’s sarcasm was not lost on Mr Weatherspoon.
“I’ve told him about this before,” Mr Weatherspoon pulled up a chair and sat at the table.
“Yes, you’ve told him before. You’ve told him lots of things before,” she banged a plate of bacon and eggs in front of him.
Mr Weatherspoon eyed his wife cautiously, “Come on Mary.”
“Don’t Come on Mary me, Jack,” what else did you tell him, eh? It’s me that cooks breakfast that gets ruined because he’s late down. I fetch and carry for him all the time. He’s got worse since he started work. He treats this place like a hotel and me like a skivvy.”
Jack stared down at his breakfast. Would she give him no peace?
No she wouldn’t because she went on, “What did you say you’d do if he was late down again? Well, what was it?”
Jack filled his mouth with a forkful of bacon. This was not a conversation he wished to have.
“You told him you’d give him a damn good hiding. Remember that Jack. You said he needed to buck up his ideas. You said that Jack.”
Jack chewed thoughtfully. He had said that. But, it was the heat of the moment. Surely she hadn’t taken him seriously. “He’s eighteen Mary. A bit old for spanking don’t you think?”
Mary stared scornfully, “He was eighteen when you said it, Jack. What’s changed? He certainly hasn’t!” She sat down in a huff and slashed at her own eggs and bacon. She seethed as she poured tea. “Go up now. Do it. Take my hairbrush. The ebony one, it’s on the dressing table.”
Jack slurped tea. How he wished he had a newspaper to hide behind. “Oh Mary,” he bleated and then trailed off, ashamed.
Mary had finished eating. She let her knife and fork fall with a clutter on her plate. “Do you want me to do it? Is that it? I will you know. If you won’t, I will. I swear I will.” She observed her husband from the corner of her eye. She had touched a sore spot with him and she knew it. “Let me just finish this tea,” she added slyly.
“Bah!” Jack rose from the table sharply, banging his knee as he stood. “No, don’t worry. I’ll do it,” he fumed, “If I must. If that’s what you want?”
“It’s not what I want, Jack,” she said scornfully, “It’s what you promised to do.” She allowed herself a wry smile as she watched her defeated husband slink from the room. “The heavy ebony one. On the dressing table,” she called after him.
Wayne was out of bed, but he was not quite fully awake. He stood by the window in his vest and underpants stretching. His head was a little befuddled from the six pints he sank at the Three Fishers the night before. His Dad had surprise on his side. The door burst open and there he stood brandishing in his right fist, a black, wooden hairbrush.
“I did warn you. You can’t say you weren’t warned,” Dad babbled as he strode through the door. Instinctively, Wayne backed away, but it was a small room and there was nowhere for him to run. Dad had no clear plan, he hadn’t thought anything through; he would have to work on instinct, fuelled by adrenaline.
He sat on the narrow bed, reached forward, grabbed Wayne by the left wrist and tugged him towards him. The teenager was off balance and toppled forward easily. Then he was face down across Dad’s legs with his chest and head bouncing on the mattress. Dad wriggled about and quickly put his right leg across his son’s ankles. He had him pinned down. Wayne twisted and turned, “Gerroff! Wodya doing? Stop! No!” He could struggle all he wanted to; he was going nowhere.
Dad had surprised himself. It had been easy. He had feared some kind of stand-up fight. Wayne was eighteen, he had youth – and strength – on his side; Dad could not expect to win. Instead, he had the brat face down across his knee. If not exactly submissive, he was nonetheless at his mercy. Wayne twisted and turned but when Dad lay his left arm across the boy’s back, that put an end to that.
Dad smiled. How he wished his wife was here to witness his victory. He looked down at his son’s buttocks. He had never examined them before. The boy was slender and thin and the cheeks were round and soft. Dad ran his hand over them slowly, feeling the “give” in them. They were some way off being “buns of steel”. He had never spanked Wayne before; never spanked anyone before (unless you count the “slap-and-tickle” games he and Mary played in their younger days). How was this done, exactly? He let instinct take over once more. He took hold of the top of Wayne’s pants. That set he boy wriggling and hollering again, “No! Dad, no!” He was mightily relieved when Dad didn’t tug the pants down to his thighs and expose his bare bottom. Instead, he pulled the pants tight so the smooth white cotton stretched across the buttocks as if they were a second skin. They also dug into the crack, in effect lifting and separating each cheek. Dad had made a perfect target.
He took hold of the brush, his palms were sweaty but that didn’t impair his grip. He raised it a couple of feet away from Wayne’s backside, the brush was heavy in his hands. He paused, took a deep breath and smacked it down exactly in the middle of the right cheek. Then, he raised it again and did the same with the left.
That set Wayne off. As Dad spanked the brush over and over again into the soft cheeks, his son let out a continuous barrage of protest and howls. “No, No Dad, Stop, Oww! Ouch! Eeek! Yowl! No. Stop. Please Dad. Oww! Yowlll! No. Pleeeasse!”
Dad was in no mood to stop. He was rather enjoying himself. He should have done this a long time ago, he told himself. The brat had been asking for it for a very long time. Whack-whack-whack. He increased the pace and equally Wayne’s howling and pleading intensified. “Come down to breakfast when you’re called.” Whack-whack. “Don’t give your Mum grief.” Whack-whack. “Don’t stay out till all hours.” Whack-whack. “Tidy up this room.” Whack-whack. And, on and on.
How long should a spanking last? Dad had no idea. Instinct told him it had to be until Wayne had learned his lesson. But how would Dad know? He decided to ask. “Have you learned your lesson?” Whack-whack. “Are you going to do as you’re told in future?” Whack-whack. “Will you behave?”
“Yes Dad, oww! Ouch! Yes Dad. Honestly. Ouch! Ouch! No more. Please.”
The boy was not in tears but he was in considerable distress. The spanking was getting through to him. Dad walloped another dozen all around the target. High near the back, over the crest of the mounds and down into the undercurve. Whack-whack. “Okay. That’s it. You can get up now.”
He cocked his leg and set his son free. Wayne jumped to his feet and hopped about and at the same time rubbed away at his toasted bottom. For his part, Dad was surprised how breathless he was. He hadn’t felt the least bit tired while he was taking Wayne’s backside apart. Now, he took a few deep breaths. He looked closely at the brush in his hand. Mary had been right, it was the perfect tool for spanking.
“Right. Get downstairs for breakfast,” he said sternly and when Wayne started searching for his jeans, he added, “No go like you are in your vest and pants. You’ve wasted enough of your Mum’s time as it is.” He watched with deep satisfaction as without a murmur of dissent Wayne left the room.
Moments later Wayne arrived in the kitchen. Mary Weatherspoon noticed at once his air of remorse. She saw also the deep pink marks on the backs of his thighs. As she set a plate before her son she felt the stirrings of respect for her husband.
Picture credit: Cody Ferguson
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second