The doorbell rang. Babs was flustered, she looked at the clock in the hallway. “Damn,” she said aloud although nobody was there to hear her, “She’s on time.” Babs wasn’t ready. Something had cropped up. Something unexpected. This really wasn’t a good time to have a neighbour call. She hurried down the hall and quietly closed the door to the front room. If she was careful she could steer her friend into the kitchen. She need never know.
Babs wiped her hands on her dress, slowly counted to five and opened the door. Mags from across the road smiled weakly, “I thought you were never going to answer. Brrrr, it’s perishing. I didn’t put on my heavy coat.” She didn’t need an invitation, she brushed past Babs into the inviting warmth of the house and headed towards the front room.
“No! Not there,” Babs realised her voice was too shrill but it was too late to moderate it, “Let’s go into the kitchen.” Mags looked startled. They always used the front room. What was up? Babs read her mind, “Oh it’s such a mess in there. You know Christmas,” she gave a frown and exaggerated shrug of the shoulders. “Come in here. It’ll be warmer,” she led the way to the kitchen. Mags hesitated. Couldn’t she hear voices – raised voices – coming from the front room?
They sat in uncomfortable silence waiting for the kettle to boil. Something was wrong, Mags sensed it. She had known her friend for many years. She had never seen her so … so what? Nervous? Worried? Edgy? Agitated? She smiled softly, hoping Babs might spill the beans.
“Won’t be long. Won’t be long,” Babs glanced at her watch and then at the cold kettle.
Her husband George was in the front room with the couple’s nineteen-year-old son, Harry. He was staying for the holidays. Things were not going well. He had lived away from his parents for more than two years. Life in the big city was so different from his small hometown of Brocklehurst. Harry was a different person now. He played by his own rules. He had a job, he shared a house with three other guys. He was, he insisted, an adult.
Parents struggle when their children grow and fly the nest. To Mum and Dad Harry would always be about ten years old. The small boy. In need of love and guidance: firm rules, backed up when necessary by a firm hand. The past few days had been difficult. Harry arrived on Christmas Eve and it was now December 28th. Harry had become restless confined to the house, making small talk with his parents and visiting neighbours. He needed some Life.
So, the previous night he had sneaked out to The Three Fishers, the most notorious pub in sleepy Brocklehurst. It had been packed and by chance he met up with lads from school. One thing led to another. And another. He rolled back home at three in the morning, woke everybody in the house (and possibly the neighbours too) because he no longer had a door key. Dad was none too pleased to be dragged out of a warm bed in the freezing cold. His irritation was multiplied when Harry emptied the contents of his stomach over the carpet as he fell up the stairs.
Dad was old-fashioned. He had standards. He believed an Englishman’s home was his castle. He made the rules. Harry knew that. Puking up on the carpet was most certainly against the rules.
Harry sobered up quickly; nineteen year olds have remarkable powers of recovery. So it was that next morning a confrontation took place. Harry’s mother told him quietly he ought to get himself downstairs and into the front room.
His heart had lain heavily in his stomach as he awaited his father. Then it seemed to rise into his throat. Dad stood frowning in the doorway. Harry watched forlornly as his father crossed the room and seated himself on the sofa.
“Come here, Harry,” he said. The teenager rose and with leaden legs shuffled across the room. “Closer please. Stand exactly there.” His father indicated a spot on the carpet. “ Now, Harry, what have you to say for yourself? ”
“I don’t know, Dad.”
“You don’t know. You know what I’m talking about don’t you?”
“Yes, Dad,” Harry sucked on his bottom lip.
“Drunk,” his father sighed. “Look, son, you’re nineteen. You’ve been moody and disrespectful the whole holiday. Mum and me shouldn’t be troubled with your constant misbehaviour. You should have learned how to behave by now. You’ve spoiled your mum’s Christmas, you know that.”
Harry bowed his head in embarrassment, but not shame. He had enjoyed himself greatly at The Three Fishers, a pub frequented by available girls and given the chance he would visit again before he went back to the city.
His dad sighed again. He shook his head sorrowfully, “I wonder Harry if anything I am saying is getting through to you. I could tell you off until my face turns blue. You must get a grip of yourself. The time for childish behaviour is over. You’re growing up. You have got to act responsibly. Coming home drunk through the streets for all the neighbours to see.
“This is a small town, Harry. Your reputation goes with you everywhere. You used to be admired by some round here as a charming child and you are a good example some times. Now you must learn to discipline yourself and be well behaved all the time, not only when you feel like it.
“If you can’t discipline yourself, well,” he shook his head, “you know what must happen don’t you?”
Harry stared vacantly at the floor beneath his feet. He knew this moment would come, but he dreaded it nonetheless. “Yes Dad,” he whispered.
“Good,” his father said sternly. “You know what to do. Let’s have those jeans down.” He nodded at the boy’s Levis as if there was any doubt what he meant. Harry’s face coloured, he took a deep breath. He knew he ought to argue. To say, “I’m nineteen, I’m too old for this.” And it was true: he was nineteen, but his behaviour had been bad. He had let Mum and Dad down. Heck, he knew, he had let himself down. Instead of arguing, he took hold of his belt and began to unbuckle.
“All the way down,” his father encouraged. Then, “Good. Come, bend over my knee.”
Harry obeyed, lying himself across his father’s lap, his upper body resting on the vacant seat of the sofa.
“Put your hands under me,” coaxed his father. It was his practice when administering a severe spanking to sit on Harry’s hands, this made it impossible for the boy to struggle.
Harry manoeuvred his hands under his father’s heavy thighs. Harry had a slim build with slender hips and a small, hard bottom. His underpants had snugged against his cheeks and into his crack, lifting and separating his buttocks.
He was pinned firmly and he felt his father’s hand gently caressing his left cheek. The old man was smoothing out the last remaining wrinkles from Harry’s cotton pants. The teenager gasped slightly as the hard palm of his father’s hands explored the circuit of his two buttocks and into the undercurves and across the back of his naked thighs.
He knew how he was to be disciplined. He had seen the hairbrush waiting on the seat, and watched his Dad pick it up before he positioned himself across his knee. In truth, it was not actually a hairbrush, although that is what it was always called. It was a round-headed bath-brush, long, heavy and with a back flat enough for its purpose. There were numerous of these brushes in the shops, glistening in their light-brown glossy timber. There was a severity about these implements, so ideal for their purpose as spanking tools and versatile enough to use in the shower as well.
Harry tensed himself involuntarily as he felt a motion in his father’s body: the first stroke was coming. The flat, heavy, stinging shock exploded across his skin, penetrating the cotton pants as if they had not been there at all. Such delicate protection was powerless against the heavy thwack of the brush.
His legs stiffened, his body reared a little, though his hands were pressed immobile by warm, masculine thighs.
“I hope you are not going to resist,” his father grunted. “I have all day if you do. Relax, please. Submit yourself. You deserve this spanking and you know you do.”
Harry forced his body to go limp, letting himself go to the will of his father. The brush smacked home again, tingling-sore upon the surface of his bottom, yet deeply hurting too. These were not “love taps”, they were heavy strokes. A third, a fourth, a fifth and a sixth thwacked with force against his bucking backside. Harry yelped, tensed, tried to untense and tensed again.
He had endured spankings from his father better than this in the past, but punishment is a curious thing. In the right mood he could absorb so much, submitting himself. But today was different, Harry could hardly bear to be touched. The ringing, flood waves of pain were almost intolerable.
Often his father scolded him all through a spanking. Today he seemed to have said all he had to say. Harry knew what was expected. If he tensed and arched himself, the punishment would go on. If he submitted it would come in the end.
Unable to help himself and although he was pinned by the hands, Harry twisted his legs to avoid the pain, opening his thighs in an ungainly manner. His father deftly brought down the hard brush in agonising reproof across Harry’s exposed inner thighs.
The teenager squealed like a wounded animal and closed his legs as his only way of protecting the sensitive flesh. For the rest of the spanking his legs remained neatly side by side, despite the mounting pain in his bottom and thighs. The burning soreness would make sitting a delicate task for the rest of the day.
His father had found his rhythm now. Hard, swinging slaps fell with easy force upon the cotton-covered bottom and thighs. The flesh was becoming hot. Even father’s own thighs were hot and moist against Harry’s clenching, powerless hands.
Harry was blubbing now. He was resigned to the long, hard spanking. Harry’s fingertips were digging deep into his father’s thighs. The ordeal was far greater than he had expected. His involuntary squeals of acute distress as hard wood bit his flesh flowed through the house.
Back in the kitchen Harry’s mother Babs listened to the rhythmic strokes, each one accompanied by a high, soulful moan. Her embarrassment level was off the scale. Beside her drinking tea demurely sat her neighbour, Mags. Babs smiled coyly. “Another cup of tea? We have some mince pies left over.”
Mags nodded politely although she wanted neither tea nor cakes. Her thoughts were back across The Avenue at her house where her son Malcolm was still tucked up in bed. He hadn’t raised a finger to help all holidays. He was sour and surly when spoken to. He drank most of his father’s whisky yesterday.
The sound of hard wood against taut bottom still pounded from the nearby room. She accepted the offered teacup gracefully but was lost in her thoughts. How she envied her friend Babs with her husband unafraid to instil a little discipline where it was needed. She took a nibble of the mince pie, her heart sinking at the thought of what awaited her when she returned home.
@@@@@ 2 @@@@@
Days later Babs and Mags were in the front room sipping tea.
“George will be down in a minute, he’s just sorting something out with Harry,” Babs said and blew on her tea to cool it.
“Yes I thought your boy was still here on his holidays,” Mags said. They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Babs hoped her husband wouldn’t be too long.
“Did you do anything last night, for the new year?” Mags asked for want of something better to say.
“Nothing much, we don’t really bother.”
More silence. More sipping of tea.
“Did you hear all that racket in the street about one o’clock this morning?” Mags piped up.
“Rather,” Babs blushed, she looked at the ceiling as if she could see into the rooms above.
“Bunch of louts,” Mags warmed to her theme, “Waking the whole street. Disgraceful. You don’t expect behaviour like that in The Avenue, do you?”
“No,” Babs sighed, “No, you do not.”
“I know what I’d like to do to them if I got my hands on them,” Mags slurped on her tea so some dribbled down her chin.
“Yes, I quite agree,” Babs whispered.
Upstairs, her husband was “sorting something out” with nineteen-year-old Harry. “An absolute disgrace. All of you. Drunken louts,” he seethed. “Waking all the neighbours. What do you think they will say if they find out you were one of them? Your mother won’t be able to hold her head up at the shops. An utter disgrace,” he fumed.
Harry’s hands sweated. His head still ached from last night and his throat was as dry as a camel’s whatsit. He nodded along with his father’s reprimands, he had no strength to argue. “I am utterly ashamed of you. I spanked you the other day for coming home drunk, now look at you.” He paused and literally looked over Harry from the top of his gelled head to his feet.arryHarry
“I hope you’re ashamed too,” he paused for an answer. None came. For Harry the room was spinning, his head ached, he just wanted this over with so he could go back to bed.
The silence angered his father. “Dumb insolence. Right, that’s it,” he roared. “You are going to get the thrashing of your life.” He started to unbuckle his belt. Harry’s eyes glazed. “Right,” his father hissed, “Get those jeans down. Underpants too. Lay face down on the bed.” He pulled the wide leather belt from the loops of his trousers and folded it in two.
Harry had not moved. “Be quick about it,” his father snapped. “Or do you want me to do it for you?” That moved the teenager to slow action. Through moist eyes he unbuckled his own belt and unclipped and unzipped the jeans. He turned away from his father, hoping the old man wouldn’t see his naked cock and balls. He inserted his thumbs into the waistband and inch by inch lowered his jeans and pants together. He just about uncovered his buttocks. Gingerly, so not to reveal himself to his father, he crawled onto the bed and lay on his stomach.
His father held the belt loosely as he waited for his son to submit himself. “Pah!” he groaned. “Not like that,” he did not hide his irritation. “Pull them right down.” He took two paces towards the bed, leaned forward and ripped the jeans and pants down until they uncovered his thighs and bunched at his knees.
“That’s better,” his father sneered, “Let the dog see the rabbit.”
Harry gripped a pillow and buried his aching head in it. “Right lad,” his father hissed, “a sound leathering that’s what you need and that’s what you’re going to get. You can only blame yourself. You never learn.” He gripped the belt tightly and towered over his prone son. The bed was made for a child so was narrow and low. His father flapped the belt and let it rest over Harry’s naked buttocks. He was finding his aim. He stood straight, then lifted the belt to shoulder height so that the leather tapped his own back. Then in one swift continuous movement he whipped it high, then forward and landed it with a resounding crack across Harry’s bottom. A thick deep pink stripe immediately appeared. Harry winced and pushed his face deeper into the pillow.
It had been some years since his father had used a belt in this way and he was quietly satisfied that he hadn’t lost his touch. The belt had landed exactly where intended. Now, he aimed a little higher. Harry’s bum was meaty, but hard. There was a lot to aim at. Up went the belt and down it came with astonishing speed. Bingo! A second sunset band glowed across the naked bottom. Harry’s legs shook on the impact.
“Feeling that, aren’t you. Good,” his father grizzled. “It’s what you deserve. It’s what you need.” He whipped another two cuts in quick succession. Most of Harry’s bum blazed red hot. “I thought after last time, I wouldn’t have to do this again. How wrong I was.” He scolded and slashed. “Look at you, nineteen years old and getting your bare backside belted by your father. What would those other louts say if they could see you.”
Harry had no idea what his friends would say. What he did know for certain was that none of them would be submitting themselves as he was to their dads for a spanking.
“And don’t be thinking that you’re too old for this,” his father said, reading his son’s mind. “You are never too old. Not in my house.” He whipped another three hard slashes across the under cheeks. “Good shots,” he told himself, “he’ll feel those every time he sits down for some time to come.”
Whack-whack-whack. His father had forgotten to keep count, but he was sure he had landed at least twenty-four. “Right lad,” he said, “That’s the belting over.” Harry sprang to his feet and started to tug his pants up. “
“Not so fast mister,” his father chided, “I’ve not finished yet. This is only half time.” Harry’s mouth opened and closed but he could find no words of protest. “Now for the cane,” his father crossed the room to the open door and reached out into the landing. When he turned back he held a length of bamboo he had taken from the garden shed earlier. It was about two feet long and rigid. He brandished it at Harry. “Leave those jeans and pants down. Kneel on the bed. Keep your head low and your bottom high.”
“Oh, c’mon Dad,” Harry had found his voice. “I’ve had enough.”
“Enough,” his father coughed, “I spanked you last time for drinking. Well, it didn’t seem to work did it? This time I’m going to do the job properly. Now get a move on.”
Defeated, Harry climbed on the bed. “Head low,” his father encouraged. Soon Harry’s forehead and nose were squashed into the mattress. “Bottom high, spread those legs.” His father watched intently as his son manoeuvred himself. He had a perfect view into the teenager’s crack and of his dangling ball sack.
He held the cane in both hands. It was too rigid to bend. His father frowned with disappointment. What he really wanted was an old-fashioned whippy school cane, made of rattan and with a curved handle. One he could swish around before landing it across his son’s bare bottom. He promised himself he would search the Internet later to see what he could find.
For now he lined the stiff rod across the highest point of Harry’s mounds. Tap-tap-tap, then lift and return. The cane didn’t swish through the air and it landed with a dull thud but it left a deep mark across Harry’s bare cheeks. “Not bad,” his father mused to himself, “Not bad, but not as good as a proper cane would be.”
He said aloud, “Six of the best, for you, m’lad.” He imagined himself as an ancient schoolmaster. He landed the next stroke higher. The third went lower. That one snagged across the back of Harry’s thighs. He howled.
The noise travelled downstairs to the kitchen. Babs and Mags sat silently. Both aware of what was going on upstairs in the bedroom but neither feeling it was polite to discuss it. Another loud “Yowll!” rent the air.
Mags stared at her empty teacup and wondered quietly where her own son Malcolm had been at one o’clock that morning.
Picture credits: Both unknown
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Also writing school stories as Scholastic here
Charles Hamilton the Second