The moment I got home from the police station Dad sprang into action. “Strip down to your underpants,” he growled. “I want to see you with your nose pressed into that corner when I come down.” He gestured to the far end of the living room, gave me another snarl and headed up the stairs.
I had expected this. Dad was an old-fashioned hard-ass. He talked all the time about “behaving properly.” I knew my run-in with the police would piss him off royally. It was just a normal Saturday night. Me and the lads in town on the ale. A few drinks here, some more there. Just guys having a laugh. It’s the same every week. If we read the newspapers or took any interest in life in Brocklehurst we would have known there was going to be a “police clampdown” on rowdy behaviour. Some old biddies on the town council or whatnot had been on the rag about “youths rampaging through the streets” at the weekends. I didn’t know about that; we were just having a laugh. Okay, so we did smash up a bus shelter and Matty pissed in a shop doorway. We were just having fun, letting off steam.
The Brocklehurst Old Bill didn’t see it that way and next thing we knew we were hauled into the police station along with a dozen or more “hooligans.” It wasn’t fair, we weren’t the only ones. They were just looking for anyone to arrest.
As I waited for Dad to return, I started to strip off my clothes. I knew there was no point trying to explain to him. He had already made up his mind. It was obvious, he had moved the dining table and couch to the far end of the room to make space. The coffee table was left on its own. I tried to steady my hands as I unbuttoned my shirt. I fumbled with my belt; I knew I had to get a move on, I needed to be fully prepared when Dad got back. He was mad enough already, I didn’t want to piss him off more.
I stripped to my boxer trunks. I knew the drill. I had been here before, I knew Dad’s rituals. I put my nose in the corner and stood with hands on head in the classic naughty little boy position. I wondered how long I would have to wait.
Dad was not a monster. He was a proud man and he would be heartbroken that a son of his had been in trouble with the law. The disgrace would shame him and Mum. If it got to court my name and address would be all over the Brocklehurst Bugle and that would give the bastard neighbours something to gossip about.
The floorboards creaked. I heard Dad’s heavy breathing. The room spun. I closed my eyes tight; suddenly the eight pints of beer I had sunk that night hit me. “I. Do. Not. Believe. It,” Dad grunted. “A. Son. Of. Mine.” I don’t remember exactly what he said; it was the usual stuff I suppose. I was a disgrace … shaming the good family name … police record for life.
I pressed my head into the wall, wishing this was all a dream. It turned out to be a nightmare. “Turn around,” Dad snarled. My legs didn’t want to move, I had to have a long talk with them. I explained that if I didn’t obey Dad’s orders to the letter, I was a dead man. The chances were I’d only be half alive anyway by the time he finished with me.
At last I faced the Old Man. What little colour I had in my face drained. Dad was a powerfully built man, he had what they call “presence,” people knew when he was in the room. A lump choked my throat, my eyes watered, my knees wobbled. Dad had a long, wide, thick leather strap wrapped around his right hand. He gripped the other end in his left hand. It was about three feet long. My jaw gaped. I wanted to say, “No Dad. Please Dad. No!” but my voice was paralysed.
Dad snapped the leather strap between his hands. The crack! almost knocked me off my feet. The room rolled some more. “I won’t have it. I won’t have it. Not in my house!” Dad almost shrieked. He cracked the leather strap one more time.
“Lay over that table,” he nodded towards the coffee table as if there was any doubt what he meant. My mouth opened and closed again; still my voice box was paralysed. “Well, what are you waiting for.” It was not really a question. What kind of answer could I give. “I’m waiting for you to change your mind and let me off so I can go to bed.” Hell would freeze over before that happened.
I shuffled the two or three paces needed to get to the table. I’m not a tall lad but I towered over it. For a second I couldn’t figure out what I was supposed to do; how did Dad want me to submit myself for a whipping.
Dad read my thoughts, “Lay on top of it … flat.” Now, I understood, but my body refused to move. That pissed Dad off. “Pah!” he snorted; then he grabbed me by the hair and forced me forward until my chest and stomach lay flat across the table. My arms dangled over the far end. I couldn’t work out where to put my chin so I turned my head away from Dad and rested my cheek on the table.
The floorboards squeaked. I shut my eyes tight so I couldn’t see what was going on. Was this really happening? I was a nineteen-year-old man, stripped down to his tight, white cotton trunks spreadeagled across a coffee table submissively offering up his backside so his Dad could whip it with a long, thick heavy leather strap.
I could feel Dad standing to my left, his heavy breathing gave him away. Then the strap caressed my arse, across the fleshiest part of the mounds. My buttocks clenched tight, they were small and firm at the best of times; now they were as hard as a rubber ball. Smack-smack, Dad was getting his aim. Suddenly the strap was lifted, Dad raised it high above his head and using all the muscles in his biceps he crashed it across my poor bum with terrific speed.
I got my voice back. I howled. I yowled. I went the whole nine yards with my hollering. I thought Dad had poured a kettle of boiling water over my backside. My hips swayed, my legs kicked, my arms flailed. If I hadn’t been flat on my chest and stomach I would have jumped up and down clasping my hands to my scorching arse. Instead, I clung on to the legs of the table like my life depended on it.
I hadn’t got my breath back before, Crack! – it sounded like pistol fire in the small room. My body buckled under the lash. Trickles of salvia dripped from the corner of my mouth. It was about now that I lost control. Lash after lash cut across my bum. My whole body jolted and my fingers clawed at the table legs. My pants fitted snugly and I could fell heavy welts throbbing beneath the cotton.
Dad was a man on a mission. Another six swipes slashed across the highest part of my buttocks. Satisfied that he had torn the flesh off that part of my bum, Dad went lower, right into the undercurves. I couldn’t sit comfortably for days after that.
My legs flapped, my back arched and I pulled my head back to let out a blood-curdling yell that should have had neighbours phoning the police to report a murder.
Suddenly Dad stopped. I thought it was over. I gasped for breath trying to get my throbbing body to calm. But, whack! Dad must have been resting, allowing his own body to regain some strength. He was not a young man. He found a rhythm and the lashes embedded themselves harder and harder into my flesh.
Then breathless, and possibly on the verge of having a stroke with all the exertion, Dad stopped for real. He wheezed and gulped in great mouthfuls of air. He was almost in as bad a state as me as my body thrashed from left to right. I struggled to regain control of myself as I buried my face in my arms and sobbed and sobbed.
For what it’s worth, the police never pressed charges and I didn’t go to court; it was all just a public relations stunt to them. My family’s reputation was not dragged through the local paper and the neighbours never got to find out (unless they heard my howling and guessed what was going on.) The bruises faded after a week or so. Things quickly got back to normal. I continued to meet the lads on Saturday nights, we still got bladdered and sometimes a bus shelter suffered as a result. The world turned.
Picture credits: British Boys Fetish Club and unknown
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Also writing school stories as Scholastic here
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