The Lost Son

Mr Smith was surprised when the doorbell rang at his home one evening and standing on the step was his nineteen-year-old son, Gavin. He hadn’t seen the lad for a couple of months since the he moved out after an acrimonious series of rows.

“I don’t need this,” Gavin had declared and being a young man of some resolve, he arranged to pack his bag and move in to a small room on the other side of town.

Now, he had returned sheepishly. “Dad, there’s something I need you to do,” he murmured, unsure how to broach the subject with his dad.

Mr Smith loved his son dearly; like many men he was never able to express his feelings and the depth of his affection went unnoticed. He invited the teenager into the house and into the kitchen and waited awkwardly as Gavin composed himself. He needed to psyche himself up. He had an important request. He wanted his dad to take him seriously. It was a matter of utmost importance to the boy. It was a pity therefore that he could only gabble, “Dad. I want you to spank me,” and then drowning in embarrassment, he quickly added, “please …”

Mr Smith was embarrassed too. Had he heard correctly? “Whar …?” he mumbled seeking clarification, “You want me to …”

“Yes, Dad,” Gavin was getting his voice now. “I deserve it,” and after a few more seconds of embarrassed silence he added, “I want it.”

There was no doubt in Mr Smith’s mind that from time to time his son had deserved a damned good spanking and Mr Smith being of the old school and brought up by a strict but caring father himself, had obliged on a number of occasions. A wide, thick heavy belt still hung from a hook at the back of his wardrobe. It had been some time since it had been used for its original purpose (Mr Smith had put on a lot of weight) but it proved mightily effective as a punishment tool. His wife’s wooden-backed hairbrush had also been brought into action in its time. In truth at the height of the rows earlier in the year Mr Smith had considered taking the brat across his knee but the kid was by then eighteen and, frankly, if not exactly too old for a spanking he was too big and strong to be hauled across Mr Smith’s knee. Any attempt to force him to take a spanking could end in an unseemly fight. Mr Smith didn’t relish the idea of rolling around on the carpet with Gavin only to be eventually overpowered by his son and humiliated. It was better to do nothing. He had been a little relieved when Gavin of his own accord had packed his bags.

Now, he was back and positively asking to have his backside blistered. What on earth was going on? Still tongue tied the only word he could get out was “Spanking?” and he repeated this several times before Gavin relaxed enough to fill him in on the story.

“Dad. I’ve screwed up. Nothing is going right.” Mr Smith’s heart warmed. His darling son looked so unhappy, but Mr Smith instinctively felt that the problem wasn’t anything as bad as his son supposed. Then in a moment of horror, it occurred to him. “A girl…?” he gasped. “You’ve got a girl into trouble?” The consequences of that were too much to contemplate. Even though this being the 1980s there were ways to make that problem go away.

“No Dad,” Gavin laughed weakly. As if, he thought. Girls were always coming on to him at work and in the pub and he had started to wonder why he didn’t think as much about them as they did about him. “No, not a girl,” Gavin smiled weakly, “Just about everything else though.” Then he told his dad. He had found it hard to live alone. His tiny ‘bedsit’ was intolerable after being brought up in a large hose in The Avenue. He had no self-discipline (now, he understood why Dad kept that belt hanging in the wardrobe) and couldn’t get up for work in the morning. It was just an assistant’s job at the supermarket, but it gave him and the other workers ample opportunity to pilfer bottles of booze and suchlike. They never thought of themselves as ‘thieves’, but deep-down Gavin knew that was what he was.

His guilt had started to nibble away at him. He had left school with good qualifications (again, Dad’s continuous ‘encouragement’ to keep on studying even when Gavin didn’t want to.) Gavin should be at the university, working on a degree and preparing for a successful career in the professions. Instead, he was in a dead-end job with no prospects. Now, he was hanging round bus tops with the wrong crowd, drinking cheap cider and smoking dope. He was out of control. It was some slippery slope. Gavin had the sense to recognize this, but he had no way of getting back on the straight and narrow. At least, not without Dad’s help.

Gavin couldn’t explain, not even to himself, why it was that Dad’s punishments had stimulated him to work hard and to strive to be a better person. He had been over Dad’s lap many times, often with his jeans at his ankles and more often than not his underpants at the knees. It was pretty embarrassing to get a spanking on the bared bottom. It hurt terrifically too. But the pain quickly dissolved and Gavin always understood that the punishment was for his own good and he always tried to behave better.

It worked – well, some of the time – but he was a boisterous lad and sometimes couldn’t resist taking risks and getting into trouble. Dad knew that too. Gavin wasn’t a wicked child. In fact, in some ways he was a quite ordinary boy. He didn’t need the law courts; he didn’t need doctors or analysts. What good would any of these do? No, Dad knew – and now it was clear that Gavin knew it too – what he needed from time to time was a jolly good belting. Think of it as maintenance. Things worked well for a time and then began to go wrong. Just like a car or the central heating boiler. When things went wrong you called in a man and he put things right again. So, it was with Mr Smith’s belt. Gavin (and his two elder brothers had been the same) was good for a time then things went wrong. Out came the belt, down came the jeans, over the knee went Gavin and the maintenance work began. Gavin behaved himself and life went on … until the next time.

So, Dad was pleased to see, Gavin understood what his father had been trying to teach him all those years. “Please Dad, spank me,” Gavin stood in the middle of the kitchen imploring his father. “Just like in the old days.” Mr Smith managed to stifle a laugh. The ‘old days?’ it had been less than two years since the last time he had leathered Gavin’s backside, it was hardly ancient history. He let that go and with as serious a voice as he could muster, he replied, “Yes, son. I understand.” Then, realizing that the power dynamics of their relationship had changed – it was as if Gavin, not his father, was in charge, he added, “What do you want me to do?”

“Spank me,” Gavin repeated. He had thought a lot about this and being both intelligent and more sensitive than some people gave him credit for, he added, “Properly. Like you mean it.” He struggled to find the right words to express what he felt, “I deserve it. I really do. I want to be better.”

His dad couldn’t agree more. After all, wasn’t that the purpose of a spanking; to correct misbehaviour and then improve that behaviour? Well, clearly, Dad thought, his son might be nineteen and in many people’s beliefs not a child any more but a ‘young adult’, but he was still immature and had a lot to learn. It was Dad’s duty to guide him into manhood and if from time to time (as now) that required a dose of the belt then so be it.

“We should do it now,” Dad said, wondering if he sounded a little too eager, for deep down within himself he did see the oddity of spanking a nineteen-year-old. That was why he was keen to get the deed done before his wife returned from visiting her sick friend. He and Gavin had the house to themselves, giving them a necessary privacy for the unusual event that was to unfold.

“Yes, Dad,” Gavin replied meekly. His heartbeat was starting to quicken and his palms sweated. He needed this, he deserved this, he told himself repeatedly, but perhaps there was a tiny bit of doubt creeping into his mind. “Go into the dining room, I’ll get the strap,” his Dad told him.

The belt was where it had been left after the last time. Had it been more than two years? Mr Smith hardly credited it; it seemed like only yesterday. He entered the spare bedroom and opened the wardrobe where he and his wife left clothes that they had given up wearing. Being rather wealthy they had plenty of newer clothes in other drawers and cupboards. He pushed aside three suits hanging on a rail and found it. The belt was looped over the rail with the end of the leather tucked inside the buckle. He quickly freed it and within seconds had the brown leather strap doubled up in his hand. Absent-mindedly, he swished it through the air feeling once again the weight of the thing in his hands. It was wide, thick and heavy and could – in the right hands – deliver a terrific blow to a backside offered to him submissively.

Mr Smith wasn’t a cruel man, he believed in discipline and he believed in punishment. Were he a person who talked in clichés he might also say he believed the punishment should fit the crime. Gavin his son was a thief, he took illegal drugs and his life was in danger of spiralling out of control. There was no doubt the teenager deserved – no, not only deserved, he needed – a damn good leathering. But punishment must be punishment and not torture and Mr Smith was very clear in his own mind where the limits were. Gavin’s backside would glow in the dark by the time Mr Smith had finished with him. He wouldn’t sit comfortable for some considerable time. The belt marks and bruises would stay with the lad for days to come. But soon it would be over. The pain would go but the experience of submissively offering up his bared bottom to his father for just punishment would stay with Gavin for a very long time. He might not realise it now but these personal moments with his father would be remembered with gratitude for the rest of his life.

Mr Smith entered the dining room. Gavin was standing waiting with trepidation. He wanted this to happen but at the same time in a way that he couldn’t articulate he didn’t want it to happen. It was too late now. He couldn’t back down. He had confessed all – well, most – of his wrongdoings and asked to be punished. There was no going back. Perhaps, Dad saw in his son’s eyes the start of doubt. Mr Smith didn’t want a discussion. They had reached the point of no return. Matters had to take their course.

“You know what to do?” Mr Smith spoke quietly. There was no need for histrionics or amateur dramatics. The boy needed to prepare himself. Gavin hesitated. “Bare?” he croaked. He knew the answer to the question but had felt compelled to ask. He wasn’t sure how he would feel letting Dad see his cock and balls. In the past he hadn’t been so well developed and besides Dad often pulled Gavin’s pants down once the lad was securely across Dad’s knee.

“Over the table,” Dad had realised that Gavin was too tall and a bit broad to comfortably go across his knee. “Over here,” he added helpfully and he waved the loose belt at the table. Gavin took a deep breath. He had asked for this, he had no one to blame but himself if it turned out to be an experience too far.

“Come on son, let’s get this over with,” Dad’s kindness was evident. Gavin closed his eyes and popped the button of his jeans, then placing both thumbs inside the waistband he slowly tugged his denims and pants together down to his knees. He took a deep gasp of air and before Dad had a chance (not that he wanted) to look at his privates Gavin leaned forward resting his elbows on the tabletop. A cotton cloth covered the table and Gavin concentrated closely at the pattern. “Legs apart a little more please. Head lower. Bottom out a bit more, please.” Dad watched as his son made the necessary adjustments. A settee stood beside the table and Dad had to manoeuvre himself close to his son. It was cramped for space but Dad had enough room to swing the belt effectively and that was all he cared about.

Gavin had put on weight since his last spanking. He was far from fat but his buttock cheeks were full. Dad didn’t know this but certain people referred to such buttocks as a bubble-butt, where the bottom was round and padded and perfect to absorb a spanking whether it was with a belt or a brush, a slipper or even the traditional palm of the hand.

Dad could find no words to say so he said nothing. He doubled up the belt so there was about ten or twelve inches in the business end and gently rubbed it across Gavin’s bottom. He was taking his aim, tapping it along the crease just under the lower buttock curve. This was the sensitive sit-spot. If he got his aim correct the line that resulted would connect painfully with the chair every time Gavin tried to sit down. Tap, tap, and then Dad lifted the belt to the height of his own shoulder and then with a slight twist of his body he whipped the leather down across the bared buttocks. Bingo! It landed right where he had intended. A pink blotch immediately appeared.

It was a harsh swipe and it connected well and Gavin felt the whap! And the sting of pain. It wasn’t too bad. The pain would get worst before Dad was finished but so far, so good. The next one struck higher right into the fleshiest part of the mounds. The heat in Gavin’s bum was raising and rose another fifty degrees or more as Dad lashed down a half a dozen swipes quickly one after another. Gavin covered his head with his hands. His knees buckled. The heat in his bottom was travelling up and down his legs. He couldn’t stop his hips wriggling from side to side, but he remained bent across the dining room table submissively waiting for Dad to continue with the punishment. “I deserve this; I need this,” he kept saying in his head. “Spank me. Spank me.”

Dad waited for the nineteen-year-old to settle before blasting another six. By now both cheeks glowed. The belt was so wide that very quickly it was impossible to see where a single lash had landed and the entire bottom – both cheeks – was covered by a deep shade of pink. Before Dad let his son get up that redness would deepen in places to purple and mauve. The bruises would stay for days.

How long should a spanking go on for? There is no definitive answer to that question. As long as it takes, probably. But how many stroke would that be. Dad didn’t believe in torture so he had no desire to see his son wailing and begging for mercy. He wanted no blood to be seeping from wounds. He wanted Gavin to feel it. To know that he had been spanked; to give him something to think about, an incentive not to misbehave again. So, that he didn’t want to be across the dining room table again, jeans and pants at his knees getting his bared backside blistered.

Fifty whacks were enough. Dad counted them in his head. And as the last one sank into the fleshy backside and bounced out again, he said softly. “Have you learned your lesson, son?” He was already rolling the belt up, ready to take it back upstairs when he was stopped in his tracks. Gavin, still face down across the table was gently caressing his raw bottom with his fingertips. “No Dad,” he whispered, “I don’t think so. Carry on, please.”

Mr Smith stepped back and stared at his son in astonishment. At that moment he heard the front door open. His wife had returned.

Picture credit: Unknown.

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Charles Hamilton the Second

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