Mrs Johnson carefully placed the telephone in the cradle, her frown betrayed her puzzlement. “That was Harry,” she told her husband, “He wants to come round tonight to talk to you, he won’t say what about.”
Joey sighed. It would be trouble for sure. Harry, the couple’s 25-year-old son, was always in bother. What would it be this time?
His fears were realised some hours later. Harry had lost another job. Different job, same old reason; he was always late to work. Harry couldn’t get up in the morning. And that was no wonder, he stayed out at night in the pubs and the clubs. He wasted what little money he earned and he was always behind with the rent.
“I’ll help you with the rent,” his Dad said, “But you’ll have to come back home and live with your Mum and me.”
Harry blanched, “Oh come on Dad,” I’m a bit too old for that,” he mumbled.
“That’s how it’s got to be, son,” Dad was not about to give way. He knew if he stayed at home he or his wife could force him out of bed in the morning and try to keep a check on his wayward habits. Harry couldn’t be trusted to discipline himself, he needed a guiding hand.
“It’s up to you,” it was Dad’s last word on the matter, “You’ve no job and you’ll soon be evicted from your home. What choice do you have?”
Harry was desperate but, he thought, not that desperate. They say that you find out who your friends are when trouble comes to call. He hoped someone would give him a room or put him up on the couch – rent free, of course. Fat chance. A cardboard box in a shop doorway beckoned.
“Okay, Dad, I’ll come home but only …”
Dad interrupted, “No conditions son. If you come back you do it on my terms and you know what they are.”
“C’mon Dad, I’m too old for that,” Harry whined.
“Ha!” Dad scoffed, “You might be twenty-five but you have the maturity of a fifteen-year-old. And, son, if I have to treat you like a kid, then I shall. And, you know what that means.”
Harry did, but he wouldn’t yet believe his Dad was serious, “You gonna set me rules?”
Dad smiled, “You bet. I’ll make sure you’re never late for work again. There’ll be a curfew as well.”
“C’mon Dad,” his son sulked. “I’m too …”
“And you know what will happen if you break the rules,” Dad butted in.
Harry yelped, “No way Dad! You can’t. You don’t mean it.”
“You bet I mean it. It worked when you lived here before and it’ll work again.”
Harry twisted his fingers with embarrassment, his face flushed hotly. “No Dad, really, you can’t …”
“I still have that clothes brush. I won’t hesitate to use it.”
“Dad, I’m twenty-five …” Harry whined.
“You were well into your twenties, the last time I spanked you. It did you a lot of good then and it’ll do you no harm now.”
Harry pouted, he was lost for words. He understood now. Dad wasn’t joking. He really intended to spank his backside if he didn’t get a grip on his life.
“That’s my offer. We welcome you home, but on our terms,” Dad shrugged, “Take it or leave it son.”
What Dad meant was take a warm bed and regular meals cooked by Mum and all the comforts of home or leave it to spend freezing nights sleeping on the pavement. It was a no brainer, “Okay, Dad I’ll take it,” Harry said without enthusiasm.
Dad nodded sagely, “Wise choice son. You won’t regret it,” his eyes sparkled, “But before you move in there’s one thing we need to get settled.”
Harry did not like the tone of Dad’s voice. Something we need to get settled. He frowned, “I don’t get it …”
Dad grumbled, “Of course you do son. We can’t forget the lost job and the unpaid rent.”
Harry’s face fell, “No c’mon Dad, you can’t mean it …”
“It’s how it has to be son. We need to wipe the slate clean. You can turn over a new leaf.”
Harry’s chin wobbled, “A spanking?”
“Yes, just like the old days, son.” He peered at the young man standing before him. He was immature, he couldn’t run his own life successfully, he needed a guiding hand. What were fathers for?
“Don’t make a fuss. You know it upsets your mother. Go upstairs to the spare bedroom, take off your shoes and your trousers and wait for me.”
“No Dad, c’mon, please …” Harry shrieked.
“I said don’t make a fuss,” Dad snapped. “It’s your choice. You can stay but only if you take the spanking you’ve earned. You can’t say you don’t richly deserved it.”
Harry gulped, could this really be happening? He thought the days when Dad gave him a sore backside were far behind him. He could understand it if he was still a kid, or even a stroppy eighteen-year-old, but hang it all, not at twenty-five.
Dad sighed, “Well, have you made up your mind? It’s your choice.”
Harry’s face flushed. Choice. He had no choice. It was Dad’s way or the highway (literally). “Okay Dad,” he moaned, “You win.” He stomped up the stairs like the spoiled brat that he was.
Dad went into the living room and found the clothes brush in the sideboard drawer. His wife looked up from the television screen, “What do you want with that?” she inquired. “Don’t fret yourself love,” he replied reassuringly, “It’s nothing to worry about.” She tuned up the volume on the TV set the moment her husband left the room.
Dad slowly ascended the stairs. He did not relish his task. He loved his son and he wished that he hadn’t been forced into this. He knew from the past that spanking worked with Harry. It had kept him more or less on the straight-and-narrow all the years he lived at home, even though his son had occasional lapses. A sound spanking now would bring him to his senses. Harry might not agree now, but he would thank him some day.
He pushed open the bedroom door. Harry paced the room. His jeans were strewn over a chair and his trainers were where they had landed after he kicked them off. He stood sheepishly in white cotton Y-fronts and a grey t-shirt. Without a word Dad sat on the edge of the bed and spread his legs. “You know how this is done, come get across my lap.”
Harry’s eyes implored his Dad to reconsider. Dad snapped, “Let’s this over with can we. Bend over.” Harry groaned; there was no more that could be said. He shuffled the metre or so to the bed and climbed on the mattress and lowered himself so that most of his body lay across Dad’s lap. His arms dangled over the edge of the bed and his legs stretched behind him. His backside jutted upwards over Dad’s right thigh. He was in the perfect position to receive the sound spanking his Dad intended to deliver.
Dad grimaced as his son settled. The boy had put on a bit of weight since the last time he had been taken across his knee. The buttocks were more padded, but Harry was a long way from being fat. Harry stared down at the carpet. “Just one more thing,” Dad gripped the waistband of the pants and tugged them over his son’s buttocks. Harry closed his eyes and grimaced, he had expected this; Dad always spanked on the bare. “A bare bottom,” Dad chided, “I hope you feel ashamed.” Harry folded his arms into a platform and rested his head on it. His buttocks clenched in anticipation of the pain that was to come.
Dad pulled the pants to Harry’s knees and tucked the shirt away from the business area. Harry was naked from the back to the knees. The twenty-five-year old lay still, submissive. There was nothing he could do to stop Dad, he thought. He would just have to grin and bare it. It wasn’t the first time Dad had spanked him, but he hoped to God it would be the last.
Spalt! Splat! Splat! Air hissed through Harry’s lips and he puffed out his cheeks, he had forgotten how much Dad’s spanking hurt.
Smack! Pain like a shower of needles spurt deeply into Harry’s meaty left buttock.
Almost instantly Dad struck down again, slapping with stinging vigour on the same spots of his naked bottom. Pink, blotches stained the skin and the stamp of the brush was imprinted time and again across the young man’s rear end.
Dad set out a rhythm as he warmed to his task of heating up his son’s bum. The slaps landed with flame-hot intensity on the adjoining unmarked, curvaceous bottom-cheek. Harry gasped and groaned as the heat sank into his fleshy mounds. Sprawled across Dad’s thighs Harry started to squirm. His brain had determined to take his punishment but somehow his body would not agree. He shook his hips and kicked his legs. The movements only encouraged Dad to hold his son down firmly across the back and to redouble his efforts with the brush. The weltering pain blasted across Harry’s rippling buttocks.
The brush swung high and sped to its target. Splat! Harry’s hips heaved as the right bottom-cheek flattened and sprung back under the impact. Smack! Harry’s left buttock distorted at the next sizzling smack. Both cheeks resonated bright pink. Harry wraped his arms around his head, trying to absorb the pain of Dad’s severe bare-bottom spanking. Left, right, left, right… with almost military precision and blurring speed the brush cracked sharply down from one bouncy globe to the next, sometimes igniting both together: spank, spank, spank, spank, spank.
Harry’s hand clawed back in a failed attempt to protect his bruised bottom. He was spreadeagled across Dad’s lap and he was unable to reach. “Stop that,” Dad growled as he turned his target to the undercurves, where the bum and thighs meet. That set Harry wriggling and writhing at greater pace.
Harry had no idea how long the brush spanking continued. Then, suddenly when he thought his poor, tenderised bottom could not take any more walloping, Dad stopped.
For a moment or two he lay across Dad’s knees, his bottom throbbing. It felt like it had swollen to twice its natural size. His heart raced, his ears popped and his throat was raw. Then Dad released his grip on Harry’s back and the young man scurried to his feet and performed the traditional spanking dance, hopping from one leg to the other while rubbing the palms of his hands across the toasted flesh. He didn’t care that his cock and balls were bouncing up and down in front of Dad’s face.
Dad admired his handiwork. Harry’s bottom appeared to be one raw purple bruise with below it a mass of reddish bruises on top of each other. Not one centimetre of his cheeks and thighs had been missed. It was, he thought, a job well done. He hoped it would have some effect on Harry’s behaviour but only time would tell.
“Welcome home son,” he said over his shoulder as he exited the bedroom and went downstairs to rejoin his wife.
Picture credit: Unknown
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The Prodigal Son
You, called home
Diary of a boarding school boy, 1965
https://traditionalschooldiscipline.blogspot.com/
More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Also writing school stories as Scholastic here
Charles Hamilton the Second
Male on male spanking stories 
What a naughty boy!
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