Can this really be happening? I’m standing facing the wall in our front room in my t-shirt and underpants with my hands on my head like some naughty little boy. Behind me my Mum and the biddy from across the road are slurping coffee and talking about me.
MUM. He’s just too much. He went too far this time. He can stay like that until his father gets here. Then he’ll deal with him.
BIDDY. What did he do?
MUM. It’s these long holidays they get from university. He’s been under my feet all week. He never lifts a finger, he sulks. He’s surly. Rude. He never cleans his room. It smells like a pigsty.
BIDDY. Mine is just the same. Treats the house like a hotel. I’ve wasted so many meals when he hasn’t turned up.
MUM. It was all right until Christmas Eve. He had a job with the post office but of course that finished. I’ll be glad when he goes back to college.
BIDDY. Mine is so mouthy. You can’t tell him anything.
MUM. Then last night he comes home at God knows what time. Drunk, and is sick all over the kitchen floor. Leaves it for muggins here to clean up. When I told him off he just shrugged his shoulders. He couldn’t care. Well he’ll care when his father gets here.
BIDDY. What will he do?
MUM. We still keep a leather taws in the sideboard drawer. He’ll tan his hide good and proper.
He will too and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it. What choice do I have? I could tell him to go to Hell and then we’d wrestle on the floor while he tries to whip me with the taws. I could rush off to my room and barricade myself in. But I’d have to come out eventually.
Dad will win. I know. A year or so back my brother Ken refused to be spanked. Dad threw him out the house. I promise you. He said he can stay out until he accepts this is Dad’s house. His house; his rules. His punishments. Ken was at university and Dad stopped sending him money and paying bills. Ken held out for about six months. Then he came home, tail between his legs. Dad belted him twice as hard and twice as long.
Lesson learned? When Dad gets home I’ll just have to offer him my backside. Like I said; no choice.
I can hear a car in the driveway. It has to be Dad. The front door is opening.
MUM. Henry, you have to do something about that boy.
My Mother greets Dad in the Hallway. I can’t hear all they are saying but they are talking about me. Dad makes a sort of grunting noise. He is far from pleased. Any moment now ….
DAD. Right young man. It’s about time you learned how to behave. Your mother has had enough of this … and quite frankly so have I.
I hear a sideboard drawer opening and closing. I don’t need to look, I know Dad has gone for the taws. It is a long, narrow leather strap cut into two tails. It old and worn. My brother once told me it had belonged to Dad’s dad and probably to Granddad’s dad too. What an heirloom to have in the family.
DAD. Right, turn around. Go stand by that chair.
I turn and move towards an upholstered armchair. It has a low back and I know from painful experience that my body will be able to clear the top by a comfortable distance when Dad orders me to bend over. From the corner of my eye I see the biddy from across the road move. I wait for her to leave the room, but she doesn’t. Instead, she stands a little o the side of the chair. Jesus Christ! She’s staying to watch.
Dad holds the taws in one hand and gently taps it into the palm of his left hand. The expression on his face is grim. He is a tall man, who towers some inches over me (I take after Mum’s side of the family). He plays a lot of golf and can put a lot of punch into a swing. Slowly, he rolls up the sleeve of his shirt. Is this really necessary? I suppose he thinks it adds to the drama of the occasion. I wish he would just get on with it.
DAD. Place yourself over the back of the chair.
Well, here we go. This isn’t my first spanking. I know this is going to hurt real bad. I learnt a long time ago it is best not to make a fuss. My job is to present my bum for Dad. His job is to whack that leather strap across my arse. I should take my punishment as meekly as I can. It’ll be over in a couple of minutes.
I ease myself over the chair and stare down at an indentation in the cushion. Moments earlier the biddy had been sitting here. I can smell her horrible cheap scent. A Christmas present from somebody who couldn’t be bothered, no doubt. I try to grip the edge of the cushion, but the material is smooth and I can’t get much of a grip. My feet are about a metre apart and since I am wearing neither shoes nor socks they slide on the dep pile carpet.
In this position my back is arched and my underpants pull snugly across my buttocks. I feel Dad take the end of my t-shirt and push it up my back: another pointless manoeuvre since the shirt is nowhere near the target area. I hear a movement behind me. Dad clears his throat and then rests the leather taws across the very centre of my buttocks. He is taking aim. I can’t help it but my buttocks clench. It is some reflex action, my bum is trying to protect itself from the onslaught. It doesn’t work. The leather moves away from my arse and returns a second later at great speed and force. It cracks across the underside of my bum. I screw my eyes tight. That hurt. A lot.
My feet slip on the carpet and Dad gives me time to steady myself before he lands number two on the higher part of my buttocks. I now have two lines of scorching pain. I chew on my bottom lip. It hurts so much. Swipes three and four land in quick succession. Dad is putting all his strength into this. All that golf is paying off.
I wriggle my hips and bend my knees as blow after blow connects with my tight bottom. The pain is rushing through my body and my temples throb almost as much as my bum. I can’t get a good grip on the seat cushion so I spread my palms and press them deep into the foam. Sweat soaks my scalp and I can smell perspiration under my armpits, even though the room is quite cold.
Dad clears his throat again but otherwise is silent as he goes about his business. My arse is on fire but thank God he didn’t make me take down my pants. I hear the biddy next door move. Then I see her out of the corner of my eye. She is looking to get a better view of my upturned arse.
DAD. That’s enough. Stand up.
I haul myself to my feet. I stare at the carpet too embarrassed to meet the eyes of the old biddy or my Mum. My bum is scorching but already the agony is dissolving. I press the palms of my hands into the seat of my underpants, holding in the pain. It doesn’t make much difference.
DAD. Go to your room.
I don’t need telling twice and I take the stairs two at a time and crash through he door into my bedroom. Gingerly I pull down my pants and poke my bum at the mirror. Dad has done a very job. To be fair he is not a brute. He hasn’t flogged me to within an inch of my life. He has given me a sound leathering. He has made his point and I have taken it. Not one square centimetre of my buttocks and the tops of my legs is untouched. The imprint of the taws has been reproduced time and again across what was once pale skin. There are some deep purple bruises across the mounds of my buttocks and lesser more yellowy ones elsewhere. It will take days for them to clear.
I hear the front door open and close and through the window I see the biddy returning to her house. I bet she can’t wait to get back tell everyone that I’ve been spanked. Soon the news will be all over the street. I won’t be able to hold my head up in the Three Fishers tonight.
Picture credit: Unknown
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second