Brat taken down a peg or two

“Stand there. Take down your trousers. Underpants too. I’m going to spank you. You deserve it and you know you do.” It was Uncle John talking and he was probably right, I did need to go over his knee. Most reasonable people who knew what I’d done would certainly agree. A jolly good hiding was what I needed. Even if I was eighteen years old.

It wasn’t that I had done one, single terrible thing. I hadn’t burnt down the school or robbed a post office. Dad was killed in the war and mum had to bring me up on her own. As I got older, I just got more difficult for her to control. I came and went as I felt, I never helped with chores around the house even though Mum was at work in the factory all day long. And as I got older, I just disobeyed her all the more. Looking back, I suppose I was testing the boundaries. It was a battle between me and Mum and Mum was losing hands down. Uncle John decided I needed taking down a peg or two.

I didn’t see much of Uncle John although he lived quite close to us in Brocklehurst. He was my Dad’s brother and hadn’t been especially close to Mum but as they say family is family and when Mum’s sister told him how I was behaving he decided as the nearest thing to a ‘man about the house’ it was his job to take me in hand.

I got a summons: be at his house for 10 o’clock on Saturday morning. Ten! I bleated when told. I rarely got out of bed before midday at the weekends (another thing that upset Mum), but I instinctively knew better than to make a case about it. So, a little after nine I climbed out of bed whoofed down a bowl of Force breakfast cereal, washed my face and hands under the tap in the kitchen and set off to Uncle John’s.

He lived in the posh part of town in The Avenue, near Widdicombe Woods. There were some pretty expensive houses down there and Uncle’s had four bedrooms, a couple of living rooms and much else besides that I never got to see. At this time his own sons had flown the nest and so had his wife into the arms of a much younger fellow who according to family gossip was much more fun to be around than Uncle John ever was.

He lived alone and there was later some suggestion that if I didn’t buck up my ideas and behave better to Mum I would be made to move in with him so he could keep a very close eye on me. And, although it was never stated in so many words, batter my backside whenever he deemed it was warranted.

But I’m getting ahead of myself here. So, that Saturday – a fine day in early spring – I made my way through the suburbs. The Avenue is a strange street, most of the houses are hidden behind fences or hedges and it’s almost impossible to see your neighbours. It gave me an eerie feeling like anything might be happening behind closed doors and lace curtains. I didn’t have much imagination when I was a teenager so I wasn’t thinking of wife swopping parties or drug dens. Perhaps it was just as well the houses were so private it was bad enough to be spanked by Uncle John but so much more humiliating if the people in the neighbouring houses could hear everything that was going on.

I arrived just as the grandfather clock in the hall way struck ten. Uncle John opened the door and grunted a welcome and nodded that I should go straight into the front room. Dragging my feet, I did as instructed. It was a large room – so very different from the cramped terraced house I lived in. There was a huge leather Chesterfield sofa and some equally well-padded armchairs. A sideboard was against one wall and opposite was one of the new radiograms that were all the rage with those who could afford them. They were a combined radio and gramophone with a cupboard for alcoholic drinks attached. Posh people called it a cocktail cabinet.

Uncle John followed me into the room. I guess he must have been about sixty at the time; the was much older than Dad and had been too old to go on active service in the war. He had been some kind of businessman which might explain how he could afford such a big house. He was still a fit man and although his waist was expanding, he was far from out of shape. Judging by the muscles in his arms he must have exercised regularly although gyms weren’t quite so popular then as they are today. He was wearing cavalry twill trousers and a heavy cotton checked shirt which would probably been more fitting on a labouring man.

He glared at me and his nostrils flared, it was hard not to smile because I did think he was putting it on a bit; trying to look fiercer or angrier than he genuinely was. “Stand there,” he pointed to the middle of the room. I was uncertain how I was supposed to do that. Should I stand to attention, like a soldier? Where should my arms go: by my sides, behind my back? Undecided I just slouched and watched my uncle cross the room and pick up a wooden chair that was behind the door. It was part of a set of dining room chairs that belonged in another room. Uncle had brought it into the front room for a specific reason, as I was about to find out. He put it down in the middle of the room and then turned to the sideboard. He pulled open a drawer and without looking he put his hand inside and delved about, within moments the hand emerged clutching a large wooden brush. It was more than a foot long and half of that was the bristle end. From where I stood the bristles looked quite soft so I don’t suppose it was a hair brush, maybe it was for getting dust off clothes. In any event it wasn’t the bristles than I should have been paying attention to.

Uncle John turned to face me, now brandishing the brush in my direction. He still had that incongruous expression on his face. “I’m not going to give a lecture,” he began and then proceeded to do just that. He went through a long list of my misdeeds. As I said each individually probably didn’t mean much but together they amounted to more than a hill of beans. I have to admit my Mum had a point when she said I was out of control. As he spoke, Uncle John gently tapped the wooden part of the brush head against the palm of his hand, his eyes narrowing as he did so. In contrast, my eyes widened as they followed the movement of the brush. Although it probably hadn’t been designed with this in mind the brush would make a mightily effective punishment tool.

At last Uncle John had finished his non-lecturer, the air was heavy with silence before I realized I was supposed to speak. This was my time to plead forgiveness, to promise better behaviour in the future and to persuade Uncle John that he didn’t need to spank me, I had learned my lesson. It might also have been an opportunity to remind him that I was eighteen years old and too old to spank. I was eighteen, but in those days you weren’t legally an adult until you were twenty-one and besides I was still at grammar school and I knew full well that the headmaster wouldn’t stop at giving a sixth-former six of the best with his whippy rattan cane if the mood took him. So, eighteen years old or not I was ripe for a spanking.

In the event I didn’t plead forgiveness or promise better behaviour, I simply became tongue-tied and mumbled a few nonsense words. Uncle grunted once more with exasperation: I suspect he thought I was being insolent or some such by not speaking up. “Bah” he wheezed, or it could have been “Pah!” it was more an exhalation of air rather than a statement. He hitched up the knees of his trousers and sat down on the chair. He wriggled his bottom until he was comfortable and sat well back in his chair. I watched him spread his legs a little and then he waved the brush in my face. “Stand there. Take down your trousers. Underpants too. I’m going to spank you. You deserve it and you know you do.”

This might have been my cue to walk out. What could Uncle John do about that? True I was small for my age and was still able to get in the cinema for half price and Uncle John was bigger and probably stronger than me, but in a struggle I would be able to make it to the front door and escape into the relative safety of The Avenue. Would he pursue me down the street? Would the neighbours hear? What would they think? To be honest none of this went through my mind at the time, because although I hadn’t stopped to decide anything it was pretty clear that I was going to obey my uncle. I was that kind of boy and it was that kind of time. This was when we respected  schoolmasters, vicars, doctors, policemen and you name it. Not like today when young people have no respect or deference to anyone. So, when my uncle told me to prepare myself for a spanking that’s exactly what I did.

I was wearing cotton slacks (denim jeans hadn’t caught on yet) and I was growing out of them so had no belt. Looking back I think my hands were steady when I undid the buttons in the front and pushed them down my legs. My trousers were soon at my knees and I stood unsure. “Underpants too,” Uncle John said calmly. “It’s not a proper spanking unless it’s on the bare.”  I had never been spanked before – which probably explained my behaviour to Mum – so I had to take him at his word on this. I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my white cotton Y-fronts and guided them south. I was a keen football player at school and was used to being naked in front of others so felt no particular embarrassment standing with my privates exposed to the room. Uncle John took no notice of my nakedness and simply slapped his own thigh before commanding, “Get over my knee.”

Being a novice at this again I was uncertain what I was supposed to do. Did I rest my hands on Uncle’s legs and gently ease myself over, or was I supposed to dive across his lap as if I were at the swimming pool? Uncle John misunderstood my hesitation. He did the “Pah! Bah!” noise again and gripped me by the left wrist and in one movement tugged me forward so I fell face down over his knees. I had to put my hands in front of me to stop me hurtling into the carpet. “Right, let’s see,” Uncle seemed to be talking to himself. I had a close-up view of the deep pile carpet (I noticed there was much dust and wondered how often the room was used, it’s strange what one thinks about when in a predicament.)

Uncle continued muttering to himself as he took hold of the tail of my shirt and pulled it away from my buttocks and up my back. My bum was bare and I felt a gentle breeze coming from the open doorway. A window was also ajar and for the first time I heard a car’s engine. Perhaps, after all, the neighbours might be able to hear what was going on in the house.

Uncle wrapped his arm around my waist and I was pinned face down. I couldn’t see myself, of course, but we must have looked a sight. Me, a slightly undersized eighteen-year-old spreadeagled across the lap of a much older man. My trousers and pants were at my knees and my bottom was bared for the punishment that everybody – myself included if I’m brutally honest – believed I thoroughly deserved.  

Uncle stopped his muttering and I felt the cold wooden head of the brush tap gently across the middle of my right cheek. It made circular movements first across one cheek and then the other. Uncle was getting his aim. Suddenly, without warning, the brush left my cheek and a second later returned to connect with tremendous force with the fleshiest part of my right cheek. Moments later it did the same with the left one. Bang-bang-bang! Three whacks landed on the top half of the right cheek. A pause, then three on the bottom right. Another pause and three struck me on the top left. A pause and three on the bottom left. Then Uncle John stopped. By now both buttocks were toasting. The pain was intense and I was flailing my legs in some pointless exercise to stop the hurt spreading through my body. I was breathless.

After a few seconds Uncle John started on his circuit again. This was my first spanking (you might not be surprised to hear it proved not to be my last) but even I could see Uncle John was an expert. He had a method and he kept up a rhythm until not one square inch of both buttocks was unblemished. The heat was mounting from a warm glow and soon became a raging forest fire. I kicked my legs; I waved my arms. I wriggled this way and I writhed that way, but Uncle John had a firm grip of my middle and I wasn’t going anywhere. Soon my head was aching every bit as much as my bum and my heartbeat would have been off the scale. I was not taking my first spanking well. I yapped, and then I yelled, I fought it but I couldn’t stop the tears at first welling in my eyes and then cascading down my cheeks. “No, no, no!” I wailed. “Stop, please stop!” Uncle John took no notice. He was a man on a mission. He was the man of the house and he had a duty to perform and was going to make sure he did it.

I couldn’t see my own bum but I could feel that the surface was beginning to thicken. Later when I tried to rub away the pain my bottom felt like leather. But the rubbing would come later, much later. For now, I had to endure my uncle’s wrath.

I don’t know how long I was pinned face down across Uncle’s knees. It felt like hours; it wasn’t hours but it could possibly have been minutes. Bam-bam-bam! Three swipes here, pause. Three swipes there, pause. On and on and on it went.

Eventually, Uncle John was as breathless as I was. He stopped spanking, released his grip on my middle and wheezed, “Stand up.” I slithered off his lap and for a few moments all I could do was kneel on the carpet as frantically I tried to catch my breath and waited for my heartrate to calm. Uncle John just sat watching me and eventually told me to stand. I hopped from one foot to the other rubbing away at my bum in the traditional spanking dance. I didn’t care that my cock and balls were bouncing up and down in front of Uncle. He didn’t seem to care either. He picked up the chair and replaced it behind the door.

Eventually, I managed to get my underpants over my savaged bottom. My trousers were tight and pressed against my scorched cheeks when at last I had them up and buttoned. Uncle John watched me through hawk eyes, unimpressed with my antics. I don’t suppose either of his sons ever made such a fuss on the numerous times he had spanked them.

“Go upstairs to the bathroom and settle yourself down,” he said, not unkindly. I rushed past him and took the stairs two at a time. I still remember the shock I got when I pulled down my trousers and pants and pointed my bum at the bathroom mirror. Both cheeks were a deep red and I could make out the imprint of the brush’s head over and over again. Much of the pain had dissolved by now but I found I could reignite it by gently pressing my fingers into my flesh. It gave me a weird exciting feeling when I did this.

A few moments later Uncle knocked on the door. “Go home, your mother will be expecting you. Apologise to her and be sure to tell her exactly what happened to you this morning.” Later, I did both of these things, but being a headstrong teenager, I found it difficult to mend my ways and I had nobody to blame but myself when later that spring I was introduced to Uncle John’s whippy school cane.

Picture credit: Paul Michael Davies

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Charles Hamilton the Second

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