Rhys Foster had just finished his cup of tea and was about to get up from the table when his father walked into the breakfast room and calmly said, “Rhys, go upstairs, fetch the bath brush and then wait for me in the sitting room.”
The short, stocky fair-haired twenty-one-year-old gasped, put his hand to his mouth, and glowed scarlet. “But, F-f-f-father why? What have I done?” Seeing his father’s stern eyes, the young man turned even redder.
“Rhys,” he said patiently, “Mrs Thompson from across the road has just telephoned to tell me of your exploits yesterday evening. Do you need me to say more?”
Rhys burned scarlet. What had she seen him do? He had been out with friends, just idling around the bus stop mainly. There had been a bit of skylarking, nothing more. Suddenly he remembered Ginger had brought that cheap cider. Had she seen him drinking that?
Rhys shook his head sorrowfully, he didn’t want to know the finer details. He was in trouble, that was all he needed to know. And, it was abundantly clear what his father intended to do. He trembled, his lips quivered and his sky-blue eyes began to moisten.
“Very well. I see that you realize your faults and understand why you have to be punished. Now go and do as you are told,” his father chided.
“Y-yes, F-father,” Rhys whispered and he hurried from the room.
Sorrowfully, he trudged up the stairs. Spanked. At his age. It was absurd. But, Rhys knew very well, this was his father’s way. It always had been and always would be. At least until the day Rhys packed his bags and left to make his own way in the world. Not that there was much chance of that, for he was an extremely lazy young man. His mother fetched and carried for him, cooked his meals, washed his laundry. He was never going to give that up. Not until he found a wife to do all those things.
He was in no hurry but eventually he reached his parents’ bathroom. He knew where to find the bath brush. This was not the first time he had been sent to fetch it. It was not one of the light plastic ones they sell today. This was at least twenty-five centimetres long and the head was a good fifteen. His heart skipped when he tested its weight in his hands. A recent memory prompted him to cautiously caress his own backside.
By the time Rhys reached the sitting room his father had prepared himself on the couch. His intentions were clear. Rhys’s hands were at his sides, his fists clenched in apprehension. Awkwardly he shifted from foot to foot.
Father looked up at the unhappy young man. “I’m sorry I have to do this but you just won’t learn after all the talks we’ve had about the company you keep and hanging around street corners. What do you think the neighbours say?
“I-I’m sorry, F-father,” Rhys stammered, his eyes cast down because he dared not look at him.
“Your mother tells me that she might have a job for you next week. Is that so?”
“Y-yes, F-father. She says a Mr. Haroldson would like to interview me next week.”
“Good! I think a job is just what you need, young man. But for the moment, you’re still behaving like a naughty, thoughtless child, and I still have to punish you. It will help you remember that you are supposed to be a grownup. Do you admit that you were drinking cider at the bus stop?”
“Y-Yes, F-father. But …..” he couldn’t find the words. There was no “but” he had done all the things his father said. He was guilty as charged.
His father commanded, “Hand me the bath brush, young man!” Meekly, Rhys extended his hand and his father took it.
“You may prepare!” his father ordered. Rhys was no stranger to his father’s spankings. He knew the rituals. He sucked on his bottom lip as if this would aid his concentration and he slowly unbuckled his belt. Gradually, he undid his trousers and tugged the zip fly. The front of the trousers flapped open. Rhys knew his face was burning brightly but there was nothing he could do. Events must take their course. He pushed the trousers down over his thighs and they tricked down his legs and bunched at his shins.
His father noticed that the brief white underpants pants hardly covered his son’s private parts. He reached forward. Rhys’s body stiffened.
“I hope this lesson will be effective,” his father said dryly as he reached for Rhys’s pants, inserted his fingers under the waistband and slowly began to work them down. Rhys’s penis flopped. His father left the pants at his son’s knees. Then suddenly with both his hands he grasped Rhys’s upper waist.
“Stretch out on the couch over my lap, now,” he admonished.
He had put the bath brush over to his right side and behind him and he saw that Rhys’s tear-blurred big blue eyes were anxiously fixed on the menacing weapon of chastisement.
Rhys at once pillowed his head in his arms and closed his eyes. He kept his long legs clenched tightly together. Calmly his father shoved Rhys’s shirt almost up to his armpits, then twisted the tight pants so that they would act as an effective restraint when Rhys began to kick, as he certainly was going to do very shortly, once the brush began its work.
Then, his left arm tucking Rhys’s waist, he reached for the brush with his right hand and began the spanking. As he usually did, he started with about twenty light taps, alternating on the cheeks from the tops of Rhys’s hips to the base of his upturned, creamy-white bottom.
Apart from a few groans and gasps, Rhys took this part of the spanking very well, not lifting his head. Only an occasional squirming and shivering reaction, and sometimes a stifled “Ohh!” escaped as the flat back of the brush made impact with the bouncy, resilient bare flesh.
Pausing now, his father readjusted his grip around the slim waist, and then resumed the spanking. Now the crisp “Smack!” and “Thwack!” became more audible, and so were Rhys’s gasps and sobs. His body began to jerk and stiffen each time the bath brush landed, decorating his squirming naked bottom with a brighter pink than before.
Now his father paused again, contemplating his handiwork. Once again he shifted his arm which curved round the culprit’s waist, and Rhys groaned, now looking back, his elbows pressed hard against the couch and his fists clenched and his wide eyes blurred.
“Oh please, F-father, I’ll be good, I promise I will, please don’t spank so hard!” he begged.
“You big crybaby, you know perfectly well I haven’t given you half your spanking yet. Now stay still and keep in position, young man.”
Then the bath brush came down with a hard “Thwack!” and at once both Rhys’s legs kicked up, though they were hampered by his twisted, clinging pants. His feet waved in the air, and now he glanced back almost every time as the brush fell, producing a wail of “Ahrrr, I’ll be good, oh don’t spank so hard, I’ll be good, please, Father”. But his father continued relentlessly.
After about twenty of these vigorously hard spanks, Rhys was twisting and struggling frantically. His bottom was a flaming red from the top of the mounds, over the peaks and into the undercurves. His father hadn’t touched the thighs yet.
Now pausing, pressing the flat back of the brush over the crease of those plump cheeks, his father demanded, “Are you going to be hanging round street corners drinking cider again?”
“Oh no Father. No. I won’t really. Truthfully.”
His father stopped spanking. “Very well, young man. That is the first part of your punishment. But just stay where you are, because I have something else to discuss with you. Now then, I want the truth!” His father raised the bath brush and brought it down with a quick little smack on the upper right thigh.
“Oww! That hurts! Oh please, no more, please no more!” Rhys wailed.
His father could see that the young man’s hands were just dying to reach back and protect his pink cheeks, but he also knew that Rhys, understood perfectly well that if he tried such a trick he would get a good deal of extras.
“Now pay attention and tell me the truth. Yesterday morning, when your mother made up your bed, she noticed that there was a wet spot. Also, you had a wad of tissues stuffed under your pillow. Now I want to know what’s going on?”
“Ohhh!” Rhys’s face was a furious scarlet. Then he buried his face in his hands and began to sob with humiliation.
“I want an explanation, young man, and quickly! Did you hear me? Did you — did you?” Each time, the bath brush punctuated the question with a stinging whack which made poor Rhys’s bottom bound and twist and squirm frantically. Now he couldn’t control himself and he plunged his hands back to cover up his burning bottom.
“The very idea!” his father scolded. “Take those hands away at once. Now I want the truth, or I’m going to start all over again, and I’ll use the bristled side if I have to!”
“Oh please, F-father, I’m so ashamed, please-please try to understand — I didn’t — oh Father, please!” Rhys blubbered.
Smack — Thwack — Crack — the bath brush fell three stinging, noisy times, right over the crease and pinching the inner edges of the buttocks.
Rhys screamed and kicked his legs, once again he tried to put his hands back, but this time, his father caught the struggling wrists in his left hand and pinned them at the small of the young man’s back.
“That’s no answer! Are you going to tell or do I have to use the bristles on your bottom, young man?” This time, reversing the brush, he gave a light little tap with the bristled side of the bath brush right down the sensitive buttock crease, and Rhys gave up.
“Owwahrrr!! Oh don’t, not there, not with the bristles, Father! Oh please, please, I’m so ashamed, I want to die! Please don’t sp-sp-spank anymore, I’ll tell, F-father!” Rhys wailed.
During this part of the spanking, he had wriggled and twisted herself so frantically over his father’s lap that his father had to pull his body back, abandoning Rhys’s wrists and, his left arm around the bare waist, forcing Rhys’s trembling body back closer to his. “Tell, then!” he warned as he added another light smack with the bristled side in the very same place.
“Owweeeyeoww!! I’ll tell, I’m going to tell, only please let up, Father, oh you’re killing me!” Rhys wailed.
“I-I was thinking about D-Doreen, and I guess I couldn’t help it, honest I couldn’t.”
“I’m glad you told me the truth. Then you did play with yourself, Rhys?”
In a dying voice, his shoulders heaving with sobs, the culprit faintly confessed his sin of masturbation.
“All right. I’m not going to blame you too much for that, young man, because I understand what your needs probably are. Only don’t you do it again from now on, do you understand? The next time I find any Kleenex or wet spots on the couch, you’ll get your entire spanking with the bristled side of this brush, is that clearly understood?”
“Y-yes, Father,” Rhys sobbed.
“You may get off now, and I’ll pull your pants up first. And don’t forget to thank me for the spanking!” his father said sarcastically as he began to tug up the twisted little white pants till they covered the flaming backside.
Slowly Rhys slipped down to the floor, and then at once plunged his hands back to his burning behind and rubbed, the tears streaming down his face.
“Th-thank- thank you for sp-sp-spanking m-me, F-father,” he blubbered, head hanging, his shoulders heaving with his sobs.
“Not at all,” his father replied, “After all, I am only a loving father who is doing his duty.”
Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club
Other stories you might like:
More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Also writing school stories as Scholastic here
Charles Hamilton the Second