Left to himself Mr Crosby would never have done it. His wife insisted and she went on about it all day long. But the idea was planted in his mind and he couldn’t get it out of his head. His wife was the brains in the family. She was right on this occasion, but there was nothing she could do to solve the problem without her husband’s help.
It was their son Jerry. He was nineteen, nearly twenty, and had been away at school the past year. His parents were so proud of him, the only one in their family ever to go to university. Mr Crosby still remembered the excitement on the day they drove him to the station to catch the train East. They were simple people; humble church-going folk. They were happy in their small town and had no desire ever to visit a city. Jerry was different. He was young. He was impressionable. He was book smart (when he applied himself). He never told his mom and dad but he couldn’t wait to get away. Not from them exactly, he loved them like kids were supposed to love their parents. He honoured them like it said in the Bible. He did all that, but boy, did he want to get away and live his own life.
At first he wrote home every weekend but soon the excitement of the city intruded into his life and he had less and less time for his parents. There were girls to meet, bars to visit, sports to be played. He had attended a small strict high school back home. There was nowhere to hide, a teacher would always be looking over his shoulder. Jerry didn’t know it at the time but that’s how he passed his exams. He needed constant supervision to keep him on the straight and narrow.
University was different. Students attended classes, were given assignments and the rest of it but then they were left to their own devices. They were, the college believed, adults. Lots of students thrived in this environment but many did not. Jerry liked the bars more than he liked the libraries. The headaches after late nights kept him in bed and out of the lecture halls. His assignments went in late. His grades slipped and then the inevitable happened.
The first his parents knew there was a problem was when Jerry failed his end of year exams. They were distraught. “He’s throwing his life away,” his mother wailed. His dad agreed. Jerry had a chance to make something of himself. To get a white-collar job, to have a career. He could have choices, unlike Mr Crosby, who would have to settle to be working-class all his life.
“You must do something about it,” Mr Cosby’s wife was determined. Her husband was silent, what the heck did she expect him to do? “The school says he can go back if he resits the exams. You’ve got to get him to do that.”
Mr Crosby loved his wife and son dearly. He wanted the best for both, but what could he do?
That’s when his wife told him, “Well for a start you can give him a darn good spanking. That’ll give him something to think about. Clear his mind a little.”
“B… b… but,” Mr Crosby stammered. He wanted to say that Jerry was too old for a spanking. Darn it he was too big for a spanking. The boy was nearly twenty years old and stood several inches taller than his dad. Mr Crosby had a weight advantage but Jerry had the strength. There was no way Mr Crosby could force the boy across his knee and if it came to a stand-up fight there could only be one winner.
“You’ve done it before, it worked then,” his wife said by way of encouragement.
Her husband nodded in agreement. They were a Church family and lived by the adage ‘Spare the rod and spoil the child.’ All their neighbours did as well. Many had wooden paddles hanging on a hook in the kitchen or the den, ready to be taken down and swatted across the rear ends of misbehaving youngsters. Jerry’s butt had been blistered at school and at home many times.
But, the last time Mr Crosby took his son across his knee Jerry had been fifteen. It had been a bit of a struggle and Mr Crosby silently realized then that there would be no more spankings.
But now he had a crisis. He had to save his son from himself. Mr Crosby had to take responsibility for his family.
That evening after a hard day working on roads maintenance for City Hall, Mr Crosby returned to his home. He had thought of little else all day. He had discussed it with fellows from the Church. They agreed with his wife. It was his duty; to his son, his family and to God.
Mr Crosby called his son to him. He had prepared in his head a little speech. He would point out his son’s failings, tell him he needed the help of the Lord. It might be difficult; Jerry might be his son but he was also undoubtedly a man.
Mr Crosby told Jerry his exam results were unacceptable.
“I screwed up dad. I’ve lost my way. I don’t know what to do.”
Mr Crosby was silent. He had not expected this.
“I need guidance. Nobody at school can take help. That’s not how it works. It’s up to me to sort myself out,” the words tumbled out. Jerry had given as much thought to his failings as his parents had.
“Do you remember how we used to do it back in the day?”
Jerry’s eyes brightened. “Yes dad, I do.”
“What was it we did?”
“You spanked me. Good and hard,” could Mr Crosby see a slight smile on his son’s mouth?
“Did it do any good?”
“Heck yes,” Jerry answered without hesitation. “You and Principal Tanner between you got me through the exams.”
“So without those whoppings you wouldn’t be at university?”
“That’s right dad and I reckon without a whooping or two I’m not going to get through the next two years.”
“So, you think I should spank you. Now.” Mr Crosby stared at his son, trying without success to understand the boy. He wanted to be spanked? That made no sense to him. A spanking was to be feared, it was something a kid should do anything to avoid. It was not a thing you volunteered for.
“I need motivation. I don’t have self-discipline, so I need someone to impose it. Someone I respect …” he tailed off. He too had prepared a little speech in his head but now he was saying the words out loud, he wasn’t sure he was making sense.
Mr Crosby was not a man of the world. He lived in a small community where as far as he knew everyone lived the same uncomplicated lives. You went to work, you provided for your family. You went to church. He doubted if any of his neighbours faced his problem. His nineteen-year-old son was asking him to spank him like a little kid because he had flunked his exams. There was no doubt that if back in the day Jerry had returned home at the end of school term with a poor report card, he would have expected – and gotten – a spanking.
So, maybe it didn’t matter that his son was now nineteen. He wasn’t yet an adult. Being an adult had nothing to do with your age, it was the way you behaved, the maturity you showed. You could be in your thirties and still behave like an adolescence. Heck, Mr Crosby reckoned, if a whopping would help Jerry towards maturity then that’s what he should get.
“Go find you mom and ask her to hand you her hairbrush.”
Without hesitation, Jerry went to the kitchen. He returned a minute later carrying a heavy wooden brush and he handed it over to his dad without a word.
“Just like old times,” Mr Crosby muttered under his breath. “Stand there,” he said louder, pointing to a spot in front of a worn green couch. Mr Crosby sat down and examined the young man waiting before him. Without doubt he was no longer a child. His muscular chest fitted out his checked cotton shirt, he didn’t really need the leather belt that wrapped around his flat waist and held his heavy denim jeans in place. Jerry’s sunburnt face did not disguise the fact he hadn’t shaved that morning and his untidy, fair hair reminded his dad of the guys who worked the road maintenance in town.
He looked closely at the jeans. “They’re going to have to come down, y’know,” he said, “you’ll not feel a thing otherwise.”
Without hesitation Jerry had the belt buckle unfastened and the front of his jeans open, they fell down his thighs and he helped them down a little further until they snagged at his knees. The bulge in his tight underwear was further evidence that Jerry was no longer a boy.
Mr Crosby shuffled up the couch until he sat close to one of the arms, leaving space for his son to present himself submissively. “Come. Across my lap,” he slapped his own thigh as encouragement and again without hesitation or further instruction Jerry stepped forward and lay over his dad’s lap. The couch was wide enough for him to rest his knees and legs on the couch cushion so he was fully stretched across it.
Then, to Mr Crosby’s astonishment, Jerry wriggled a little so that his backside was resting against his dad’s thigh and he lifted his buttocks at an angle that seemed to say, “Here’s a proper target. I deserve to be spanked. I know I do and I’m submitting myself to you.”
No word was spoken but Mr Crosby got the message loud and clear. He hadn’t planned to do what he did next but the way Jerry presented himself seemed to demand it. Mr Crosby took hold of the elasticated waist of Jerry’s underwear and with three quick hard tugs he had them across the buttocks and down the thighs and resting on top of the jeans. Jerry’s cheeks were presented in all their nakedness.
“There you are, a bare bottomed spanking,” Mr Crosby noticed how much Jerry had grown since the last time he was draped across his knees. The cheeks were large, round and meaty. They were there to be punished.
He tapped the hairbrush across the middle of the left cheek and in response Jerry lifted his midriff higher as if he were trying to get his bottom and the brush to meet halfway. It was a submissive position and it told his dad that he could whack his son as hard as he thought fit, Jerry wasn’t going to resist. He deserved this spanking. He needed this spanking. He wanted this spanking.
Mr Crosby tapped the brush across the centre of Jerry’s left cheek, took his aim, then lifted it high above his shoulder. He hesitated a moment while he steeled himself for the task ahead. With as much force as he could find he whacked the wooden brush into the buttock. Jerry gasped and he had no time to catch his breath again as the brush rained down good and hard across both cheeks. Whack-whack-whack. The noise echoed around the room; the spanks were so rapid they might have been machinegun fire. With each connection of wood against flesh Jerry wriggled his hips. Soon his legs were kicking. This bare-bottomed spanking hurt so much more than he had expected.
“Keep still,” his dad grimaced as he took a grip of his son’s waist to keep him in place. Soon twenty, then thirty, then forty whacks had crashed into the naked flesh. The once creamy cheeks now glowed red. Not a square inch was untouched. Encouraged by Jerry’s discomfort his dad aimed the brush at the back of his son’s thighs, at the most sensitive sit-spot. That made the nineteen-year-old howl. Genuine tears flowed down Jerry’s face. If he had at first welcomed the spanking, he now had doubts. His ass was on fire and his dad showed no signs that he was going to let up any time soon.
The cries were heard in the kitchen and his mother, at first reluctant to witness her son’s punishment could not resist the temptation to go see what was happening. Never in the history of her son’s many spankings had she heard anything like this.
She left the dishes unwashed in the sink, wiped her hands on a towel and hurried to the den. She stood at the door marvelling at her husband’s strength. The heavy wooden brush fair bounced off Jerry’s bare buttocks. Mr Crosby was a man processed. He worked road maintenance all day long and he wasn’t a weak man but this strength was coming from somewhere else.
It was the Lord’s work. Praise the Lord; she muttered an inaudible prayer as the brush rose and fell, rose and fell.
Jerry howled and howled.
Picture credit: Ken Beverley
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Charles Hamilton the Second
Male on male spanking stories 