I have my own key so I can let myself into the house. I am late home from school. I’ve been in detention. I hope granddad doesn’t find out. He said the next time he took me across his knee I’d have my trousers at my ankles.
It’s five-thirty and he isn’t due back from work until six, so I have time to change out of my long trousers and start on my homework before he gets in. I am eighteen years old but he makes me wear short trousers.
I have to wear my school uniform all the time; even at weekends. When I moved in with him about two months ago he took away all my jeans and long trousers and said, “I am going to put you back in short trousers.”
He lets me wear long trousers to school, but the moment I get home I have to take them off and leave them in the sitting room. Then he locks them away so I can’t get at them. He brings them out again at breakfast time.
He said there were two reasons why I had to go back into short trousers. One, was that at eighteen I was not yet an adult and I had to remember that. I was too big for my britches; I needed to be taken down a peg or two. I should do as I was told, respect my elders, and behave myself at all times.
The second reason he put me in short trousers was to stop me going out the house. He said I spent too much time in the evenings hanging around the bus stops with my friends and at weekends nobody knew where I was. He reckoned I should be at home doing my homework, or reading or engaging in what he called “improving activities,” whatever they’re meant to be.
He said I wouldn’t be so keen to go out the house if I was wearing my school uniform with short trousers and long grey knee socks.
He was dead right. These are not leisure shorts; the kind you would wear in warm weather. These are proper trousers that are short and come to an inch above the knee. They are made of polyester and viscose, and are dark grey and have sharp creases in them. If you saw someone in the street wearing these there’s no way you would recognise them as anything but school uniform short trousers.
The label says they are the size for fifteen-year-old boys. But, they have an elasticated waist so they fit me perfectly.
I moved in with granddad when my dad’s work sent him to Pakistan. My mum went with him as well. They’re only away for three months so I’ll soon be out of this hell-hole. My granddad is not the cuddly old gramps they show you on kids’ TV. My grandad is a tyrant. He rules with an iron fist, or more truthfully as I discovered soon after I moved in, with a wooden paddle.
Don’t go away with the idea that because he’s a granddad he’s a wizened old man. No way. He’s still in his fifties and he’s been working out at the gym for the past thirty years. Even his muscles have muscles. He has real presence. If he’s in a room, everyone notices. If he tells you to jump; you don’t argue, you just say, “How high?”
He calls me “Charles.” Nobody calls me Charles. Mum and dad call me “Charlie” and the kids at school call me “H.” That’s H for Hamilton, which is my surname. My full name is Charles Hamilton the Second. Granddad is called Charles Hamilton and my dad is Charles Hamilton Junior. If I ever have a son they’ll expect me to call him Charles Hamilton the Third. It’s like Royalty; everyone’s got the same name.
There are lots of rules in granddad’s house. I have to do my homework as soon as I get in and have it finished no later than nine. He checks that I’ve done it and then later he checks the marks I got for it. He knows all my grades at school and I will get into deep trouble if they drop. I have to be in bed by nine-thirty and up and ready for school by seven-thirty. I’m not allowed to watch TV and there’s no Internet connection. I am cast adrift from all my friends.
And he spanks me.
Spanks me. Is that even legal? My dad has never raised a finger to me in all my life. Even when I am behaving really stroppy I don’t think it would even occur to him to put a belt across my backside.
Not so, granddad. The paddle came out on my second day here. I gave him a mouthful when he told me to get the vacuum cleaner out and attack the carpets. Big mistake.
Have you ever seen a paddle? I hadn’t. It’s just a piece of wood really – with a handle attached. Granddad’s paddle is not much bigger than a paperback book. It’s like a scaled-down version of the chopping board my mum has in her kitchen.
So there we were: granddad and me. He was sat in a chair holding the paddle and I was standing with my mouth gaping open.
“Bend over my knee.”
He said it like he actually expected me to do it. What person in their right mind offers themselves up so that they can be spanked with a paddle (or anything else for that matter)? Surely you would run a mile and your granddad would have to chase after you taking swipes while trying to hit your bum or the back of your legs.
“Bend over my knee,” he said. And I did. I said granddad had presence and if he said “jump”, you jumped. Or in this case, if he said, “Bend over,” then over you bent.
Have you ever been bent over somebody’s knee for a spanking? Grandad was about my height and you might have thought I was too big to go over his knee. Not so. He spread his legs apart by about a yard to give me the perfect platform to lie across. His legs were very muscular and surprisingly comfortable.
My face was a few inches above the carpet (he was right, it did need vacuuming) and my legs were stretched out behind me. My toes couldn’t quite reach the floor so I was left dangling a bit. Then granddad man-handled me over his lap until he had my bum just where he wanted it. I did not resist; I just let him get on with it.
I had no idea what a spanking was like, but I reckoned it couldn’t hurt much. I’m eighteen and a pretty fit boy; there couldn’t be much that the old man could do to me.
By the time he had finished moving me about my face was a little closer to the faded blue-and-gold-patterned carpet. My striped school tie was hanging down in front of my face. I could see under the chair and looked back at my own feet; my long knee socks needed pulling up. My short trousers had ridden up a little and were very tight across my buttocks and between my legs.
Granddad didn’t say a word, but I could feel him preparing himself by rolling up his shirt sleeve. At any moment he would start to spank me. I put the palm of my left hand into the carpet and placed the palm of my right hand across the back of my left hand. Whatever happened next, I reckoned, I would be able to hold myself in place.
I felt granddad grasp me around the waist. Now, he had me pinned down. He could do anything he wanted to me and all I could do was to lay there submissively with my face down and my bum high and take it.
I was wrong when I said it couldn’t hurt much. It could and it did.
Whack! Whack! Whack! three swats hit me across the middle of my bum; all more or less in the same place. I wanted to yelp, but I couldn’t. The shock knocked all the wind out of me and all I could do was wheeze. Huff-huff-huff.
Then three on the left cheek and three more on the right. I got my second wind and groaned aloud. I wasn’t yet ready to howl. That came later.
Three rapid swats: bang-bang-bang! Then another three. It sounded like machinegun fire. My legs wanted to flail around (they seemed to have a mind of their own; I was not in control). But, granddad had my calves firmly pinned. He had put me so far forward across his lap that I couldn’t reach my hands back to protect my poor bottom.
Another double dose of three swats. I could no longer keep my palms on the ground and I clenched both hands together, a bit like people do when they pray, and tried to ride out the pain.
It did not work.
I have no idea what a spanking should feel like, so I can’t say if granddad was laying into me, trying to take my arse off. Maybe he was; but maybe also this was a mild spanking with just enough hurt to let me know what could be in store if I ever misbehaved again.
He put six swats low down, just at the hem of my short trousers. At least two of them missed completely and smacked into my bare legs. That was when I howled and I howled. If the neighbours were at home next door they might have thought someone was being murdered here.
Then granddad stopped. He released his grip and I shot off his lap. I bent over double trying to get my breath back, while at the same time trying to rub the agony away from my throbbing backside. That rubbing thing doesn’t work, I can tell you.
My cheeks (the ones on my face, not my behind) were covered with tears and snot was dribbling from my nose, but slowly I was regaining some composure.
My poor bum felt like it had swollen to twice its proper size. I really wanted to rush to my bedroom and pull down my short trousers and pants to inspect the damage.
That would have to wait. Granddad still sat in his chair, the paddle in his hand. Who would have thought that such a small piece of wood could cause so much pain? He lectured me for what seemed like forever. I don’t remember a word of what he said.
But, I do remember how he finished. “Next time you go over my knee, you’ll have your trousers at your ankles.”
I got that. The pain of the paddle across my shorts and pants was intense. I never wanted to experience that ever again. To get it with only my cotton underpants to protect me would be unbearable.
Since that day I have done everything granddad has asked of me. I have yes-sirred and no-sirred him; even when I really wanted to tell him where to shove it. I have done my homework and gone to bed and got up on time. I do my chores around the house. I wear my short trousers; I do not go out the house: ever, except to go to school. I am granddad’s house slave.
And, I will do this for four more weeks until my mum and dad come back from Pakistan and rescue me. Please, granddad do not spank me with your paddle again.
As I was writing those words I realised something for the first time. That paddle must have been around for some time. I’m pretty certain granddad didn’t buy it specially to spank me. My own dad, Charles Hamilton Jr, must have had his bum blistered with it. And, knowing how strict granddad is; poor old dad probably got it more than once. Which means he got it on the pants; and what do you think, even on the bare?
Dad knows how brutal a paddling can be. Was that why he has never raised a finger to me? Was he sparing me the agony he had to endure as a boy? Weird thought, but if so, “Thank You Dad.”
I just heard the front door open. Granddad is home. I must stop this story here. I’m supposed to be doing my homework and if he finds out I’m not, my short trousers will soon enough be at my shoes.
Picture credit: Sting Pictures
This story was first uploaded in September 2016
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