The public bar of The Three Fishers was not too busy. Frank and his neighbour Andy liked it that way. When it was crowded you couldn’t hear yourself talk. They didn’t usually drink on a Wednesday night but their wives were out on a “hen night” with the girls, and well, while the cats’ are away.
The Three Fishers was not the classiest pub in Brocklehurst, some might even say it was a bit sleazy. But, the beer was cheap and you never got troubled by the Salvation Army selling War Cry. “Look,” Andy said, for something to say, “How old do you thing those kids are?” He nodded to a group of youngsters playing the machines and sipping lager slowly so it would last them all night. “About fifteen, I’d reckon.”
Frank gulped some beer. “You know what they say; you know you’re getting old when policemen and kids in bars look young.” It wasn’t a very clever thing to say, but conversation between them had slowed for a time. There’s only so much you could say about Liverpool’s chances of winning the Premier League.
Each of them stared into space for a while, enjoying the company, but also the quiet. Suddenly, Frank gagged on his beer as a mouthful went down the wrong hole. In between coughing and spluttering, he nodded towards the bar, “Look that’s my Harry and your Marcus.” Andy turned to see, his face reddened. “What the ….?” He was genuinely angry. Harry and Marcus were Frank and Andy’s sons.
Andy looked at his watch, “What’s the time. Not even nine. They’re supposed to be at night school. It doesn’t finish until ten.”
Frank had recovered his composure, “What are we paying for if they’re skiving off?” The boys were apprentice plumbers. It had cost both men a pretty packet to get them signed up by a big firm. The pair would be made for life once they qualified. More so now all the Polish plumbers were being sent packing back home by the government.
So far the boys had not noticed their dads. Frank stared aggressively across the pub. He noticed the way they were chatting casually with the barman. “Damn it!” he fumed, “See that! Looks like they’re regulars in here. Do they do this every week?” Andy shook his head: how could he possibly know?
Frank drained his glass. “What are we going to do?”
“I’ll have another pint, thanks,” Andy waved his glass in the air.
“No.” Frank’s face had turned puce. “About them. What are we going to do about the boys?”
Andy smiled wryly, “Well, I think we both know the answer to that.”
Frank headed for the bar, empty glasses in hand, “I’m going to have a word.”
Harry didn’t see his dad until it was too late. Suddenly, he was standing over him. “Good evening lads,” Frank sneered. “Fancy seeing you here. Night class cancelled was it?”
It was hard to tell which of the two eighteen-year-olds blanched the paler. Marcus almost dropped his glass. He glanced across at the exit and for a second contemplated making a run for it. “You dad’s over there,” Frank pointed back at Andy who was watching the proceedings with half a smile across his face. Andy waved mockingly.
“But Dad …” Harry tried to form a sentence. He was tongue-tied. It wasn’t the drink affecting him; he’d only taken two sips from his lager. It was the confusion. His dad never came to The Three Fishers; that’s why he and Marcus used it. They’d been coming for weeks.
Frank didn’t want to make a public scene. He had no cause to. He leaned in to the two boys and menacingly said, “You are going to put down those glasses and go to my house. Wait their until we get there. Do you understand?”
It wasn’t a question, it was an instruction. Frank expected it to be obeyed, and it was. Without hesitation, Harry and Marcus pushed their way to the bar, deposited their glasses among the slops there, and sorrowfully trudged to the door. Only once they were standing outside in the cold street did either utter a word. “We’re for it now,” Marcus spoke for both of them, but that didn’t stop Harry from agreeing, “Too right.”
Frank took the full glasses back to Andy and told him what he had done. “Good. Well, I know what I’m going to do. What about you?” Andy attacked the foam on his beer leaving himself with a white moustache. “I think we are in perfect agreement,” he said looking at his watch. “We shouldn’t leave it too late. Best to get it done before the girls get back.” They both sipped their beer thoughtfully.
Harry and Marcus walked the streets slowly, even though it was a cold night and the wind was bitter. “What will your dad do?” Marcus whispered.
“Same as yours, probably,” Harry replied, although he knew there was no “probably” about it.
“Bugger,” Marcus moaned. “What a life.”
The house was cool and in darkness when they arrived. The boys’ spirits were so low they made no effort to get the central heating going. They sat in the gloom. “How long do you think they’ll be?” Marcus sighed.
“Don’t be in such a hurry,” Harry snapped.
“Yeah, well …” Marcus paced the room. During the coming hour neither boy settled. The television stayed off and they made no effort to lighten their despair with music or other entertainment. Shortly before ten-thirty the sound of a key scraping in the lock of the front door announced the arrival of their fathers.
“Bloody hell, it’s like an icebox in here,” Frank shivered theatrically and headed upstairs to use the bathroom and switch on the heating. The boys stood, not daring to catch each other’s eye.
“That’s better,” Frank said, when he returned, rubbing the palms of his hands together to get his blood circulation going. “In here, you two,” he gestured to a sizeable open-plan room and led the way. Two sorrowful eighteen-year-olds followed with Andy bringing up the rear.
Frank stood, his feet apart and his hands behind his back. The two lads stared down at the expensive wooden flooring. “I’m not even going to dignify this with a lecture,” Frank spoke forcefully. He had appointed himself spokesman for the two fathers. The two boys looked sheepish. “We’ve spent a fortune on your apprenticeships and look how you repay us.”
Marcus’s eyes glazed. Frank’s words sounded like a lecture to him. “And, it’s not the first time is it?” Frank’s question went unanswered. “Is it!” he thundered. He was rewarded with muffled “Noes” from the wretched pair. “No, it’s not,” Frank confirmed. “Well, we’re not putting up with it, are we Mr Hutchins?”
Andy had not expected to be addressed by this name and missed his cue. “Are we?” Frank repeated. Andy’s response was to shake his head vigorously and intone, “No!” That proved to be his only contribution to the reprimand.
Frank was ready for action. “Pull up a stool,” he nodded at a set of low wooden seats and took hold of one himself. Andy followed his lead. Frank sat down on one. Andy did the same on his. “Right,” Frank gestured to his son Harry, “Stand by me.” Harry glanced at his pal Marcus but the boy did not see him, his eyes were transfixed at the floor.
“You too,” Andy snapped his fingers. That got Marcus’s attention. Soon both boys were in position. They made no objection. What objection could they make? They were in the wrong. Their fathers had right on their side. Matters had to take their course. That’s what made the world go round.
Frank spoke quietly but with authority, “Take down your jeans.” Harry’s eyes pleaded with his father. It was bad enough to be spanked by his dad, and worse to have it done in front of his friend, but jeans down was going too far. Embarrassment was one thing; humiliation was something else. Harry said none of this. Meekly, he fumbled with the belt of his jeans. They were baggy and the moment he un-popped the button at the waist they started to slide down his thighs, even with the zipper still fastened. They snagged at Harry’s knees which he bent slightly and this was enough to send them travelling down to his feet.
Harry stood by his dad’s side, looking down at the old man. “Bend over my knee.” Frank had a beer gut and this drooped over his lap, offering very little room for his son to present himself for a spanking. Harry eased himself down. Like father, like son, Harry was well padded himself and struggled to keep his balance. He pressed the palms of his hands into the floor and his toes rested comfortably on the ground behind him. His big bum was angled over his dad’s knee but he could feel himself slipping. Frank gripped him around the waist and this kept Harry steady.
Marcus was an altogether trimmer boy. His chino trousers clung to his slim body and once he unfastened the belt and zipper he was obliged to roll them down over his hips and thighs. He left them bundled at his knees. His dad Andy had some “middle-aged spread” but there was sufficient room for Marcus to offer his body comfortably across the lap.
The two dads faced each other. Frank gave a signal and they began spanking in unison. Synchronised spanking is not yet an Olympic sport but were it to become one the two dads might be in the running for Gold. They quickly got their rhythm. The stereophonic sound of two hands slapping two bums resounded around the room.
Although the two dads had eye contact, the boys did not. That saved them much embarrassment. But, Marcus realised that by looking to his right he had a perfect view of his friend’s fat bum, pointing in the air, the palm of Frank’s hand sinking into the flesh with each slap.
An over-the-knee hand spanking on the underpants for eighteen-year-old boys is not much of a punishment. No matter how hard, or how rapid the slaps, after a short while it becomes apparent that Dad’s hand hurts far more than Junior’s bottom.
“Bah!” Frank wheezed. He stopped spanking. Andy did the same with Marcus. Was this the end? Andy hesitated, waiting to take his cue from Frank. He saw the tip of Frank’s tongue dart out of his mouth and wriggle around his lips. With that task completed Frank gripped the elasticated waistband of Harry’s pants. “These really don’t serve much purpose at a time like this,” he grinned as he tugged the pants over the fleshy mounds. Harry wriggled his bum in protest, “Nooooo,” he mouthed but not loud enough that his dad would hear.
Across the way Marcus saw Harry’s bottom was covered with dark-pink blotches. He could see right into his crack. But, his attention was diverted; his own father was pulling down Marcus’s pants. A cold breeze from somewhere wafted across his naked flesh.
The two dads resumed their synchronised spanking. Frank was delighted to see the imprint of his fingers reproduced time and again across Harry’s trembling buttocks. It encouraged him to wallop the boy harder and faster. Soon he was ahead of Andy. It was like a race where the horses keep together in a bunch until the final two furlongs when one of them makes a dash to the finishing line. Andy increased his speed and chased after Frank, ignoring Marcus’s gasps and yaps. He spanked with renewed vigour. He had found his second wind. He could spank all night, if need be.
So, they went on. Two sets of buttocks glowed. Smack, smack, smack. The noise from the slaps and the associated yaps and yelps filled the room. They didn’t hear the front door open. They didn’t hear footsteps in the hallway.
But, they did hear a woman’s voice, “Frank, I brought some of the girls back for a night cap.” They heard that and then the banshee-like screeches of a half-a-dozen women.
Picture credit: Magic Spanking Factory
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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