I knew what I was supposed to do. I was no stranger to this. You might even say that I was raised to it. Even so, my heart thumped so hard that I wouldn’t be surprised if the old crone who lived next door could hear it.
I took a deep breath and headed across the living room. There wasn’t much space once the settee and armchairs were there. Along the wall was one of the latest radiogram sets. It had a hidden door that when you opened it revealed an empty cocktail cabinet. In the far corner was a colour television set. It cost Dad an arm and a leg. The most modern technology available anywhere in the country. Colour television! I was the envy of all my friends. What a pity most of the programmes broadcast were in black-and-white.
The TV was propped up on a stand and underneath it there was a shelf. My eyes were focused on it. It wasn’t the shelf itself that mesmerised me. My attention was fixed on the somewhat worn pair of bedroom slippers that nestled there. I have no doubt that when Dad tucked his feet into these he was as comfortable as any man could be. Lucky old Dad! Nor so much me. The slippers had another purpose and let me tell you right away when Dad used them for that, comfort was far from his mind.
“Fetch a slipper,” Dad had said. I knew not to argue. Dad had made up his mind. I know from let-me-say “painful experience” that I should bite my tongue and just let matters take their course. I shuffled across the carpet and leaned forward to reach one of the slippers. There was more than a faint odour of stale, sweaty feet about them. I wrinkled my nose as I took hold of the one nearest to me. It was a typical bedroom slipper. It had a soft top made of some kind of checked material (it felt a little like carpet fabric, which might be why they were sometimes called “carpet slippers”). The sole was quite solid and (I think) made of rubber. Whatever, I know for certain that when Dad takes it between his hands it is very flexible and when he bends it the heel can almost touch the toe. In the right hands this is an extremely effective punishment tool. And Dad has the right hands.
When I straightened up and turned to hand it over to Dad, I could see he had already taken one of the wooden chairs from under the dining table and placed it carefully in the very centre of the room. He took the slipper from me, hardly even acknowledging that I was there. He gripped it by the heel in his right hand and then he backed his flabby backside onto the seat of the chair. It only took a second or two for him to part his legs and wriggle his buttocks until he was comfortable. He gripped the slipper tightly in his right fist and smacked it down hard into his left palm. The resulting Smack! seemed to echo around the room. It probably didn’t really do this, but my nerves were jangling and my senses were all over the place.
“Come here,” Dad snapped his fingers and pointed to a spot close to his right thigh. He was ready for action. I hopped from foot to foot embarrassed. I’m nineteen-years-old but Dad still treats me like I was nine. Surely, I’m too old to be spanked. I can’t believe any of the guys at university get spanked by their dads. Mind you, I don’t suppose they would go round telling people if they were. I’d die of shame if any of them knew I was about to go over Dad’s knee for a dose of the slipper.
I knew my face was colouring red as I waited for Dad’s next instruction. I knew what it would be. It was less than a month ago that I was standing in this very same spot. You might say I am a veteran at this. I knew Dad likes his little rituals. Who was I to argue? My heart sped even faster and suddenly all spit drained from my mouth. No matter how many times in the past I had done this, I always found it totally humiliating.
Dad snapped his fingers again. “Take ’em down,” he ordered.
My trousers had elastic at the waist. All I had to do was to take hold of their top, pull the waistband away from my hips and help them slide down my thighs. My fingers trembled as I did this and the soft material snagged a bit at the knees. I had to bend forward and with my thumbs push them until they bunched at my shins.
A window was open and a cool draught brushed against my bare legs. I suddenly realised just how tiny my snug briefs were. I could see my cock and bulls bulging against the smooth cotton. They hardly covered my buttock cheeks at the rear. I imagined the lower half of my bum would be naked once I was in position. Another snap of Dad’s fingers startled me. Oh, man, I sucked in a lung full of air and waited for the final instruction. “Bend over my knee.”
I had no choice. Dad was in charge. When he told me or any of my brothers to “Bend over,” then over we bent. I just about stopped myself shrugging my shoulders as if to say “Whatever …” I took a half step forward so I was almost on top of my Dad. I’m quite tall and he is shorter than me. It can be a bit tricky to get across his knee and have my bum in the right position so he can get a good aim. I learned forward and stretched out my arms ahead of me so my hands rested on the dusty carpet. Like this my toes touched the floor behind. Dad’s thighs provided the platform for me to rest my body. I was at an angle; head low, bottom high, bent over his knee so I looked a bit like a hair grip that had been forced open.
I settled myself by staring directly at the floor. I knew what was going to happen next, believe me I was in no hurry. It was always the same routine. Dad took the end of my shirt and tugged it up my back as far as he could get it. He did this every time. His ritual. There was no good reason to do this; my shirt wasn’t even near my bum. It wasn’t like it was an extra layer of protection. I shuddered as I felt the draught from the window against my naked lower back. I couldn’t help it, it was my body’s natural reaction to the cool air. And, I admit, the tension I felt only seconds ahead of a sound spanking with the slipper.
Dad and I had been through this before. I accept my punishment. It is my job to stay as calm as I can (under the very difficult circumstances) and submit myself to Dad’s will. He does this because I deserve it. He gets no joy from spanking me. It is his duty as a father. Our Church teaches us this. Dad was not the kind of man to punish his son by wildly lashing out, perhaps with a belt, and whipping him all over the body; the back, the shoulders and the legs.
The point of the spanking is for me so show self-control and submit to the authority of my father. It is supposed to a lesson for me. The House of the Sacred Light teaches us to obey our parents (and of course, The Lord). It is more about obedience than any pain inflicted. I might be nineteen, but nineteen year olds are not yet adults. We still have a long way to go on that journey. I have to obey my Dad and abide by his rules, and if I cannot – or will not – I deserve to be punished.
I cannot blame Dad. I knew the curfew was eleven o’clock and when I rolled home last night (or more accurately, this morning) at gone midnight, I knew the consequences. I can only be grateful Dad hadn’t discovered I had shared a bottle of beer with a friend. That would mean two spankings: one today for the curfew and another tomorrow for the illicit alcohol.
I felt Dad wrap his left arm around my waist. Another of the routines. I am no virgin to a spanking, I would not become hysterical and wriggle and writhe; nor shout and scream. I would remain as stoical as it was possible to be in such circumstances and take my punishment. Even so, Dad gripped me tightly; it was his way of saying, “You’re not going anywhere son. Not until I say so.”
I was an old hand at this but still I felt foolish and humiliated. As Dad made his final preparations I pressed the palms of my hands into the harsh carpet. The first few times I was spanked, I couldn’t work out where I was supposed to put my head. I am now tall enough that I could probably rest it on the floor, or I could look straight ahead to the far wall. There was one time when I wrapped my arms around my head.
Now, I realise it is more comfortable (is “comfortable” the correct word to use when describing a spanking?) to let my head hang at an angle so that I can look underneath the chair Dad is sitting on and see my own legs. It is a weird sensation to see the trousers at my own ankles and then to watch to see if my feet kicked about as the slipper came whacking down across my bum. It was as if the legs belonged to some other teenager being spanked by his Dad; a kind of “out-of-body” experience.
When Dad gripped me around the waist, I knew the action was about to start. Involuntarily, for it was another reflex action of my body, my buttocks tensed. My bum is pretty hard anyway, but in this state they tightened up to resemble a hard rubber ball. It was nothing to do with me; it was my body’s natural way of protecting itself from the onslaught.
Dad had a rhythm when he spanked. The first whack would slam into the centre of the left cheek and then after a pause of maybe ten seconds, it whacked into the right one. Dad would put six into each buttock and then take a breather. A spanking should be a spanking, otherwise what was the point of it all. So, although Dad believed I should submit himself to his authority, he also wanted the spanking to hurt.
The first dozen whacks with the slipper warmed up my buttocks. Then Dad upped the pace. He got into his stride and pounded home a couple of dozen without let up. Bang-bang-bang. It was as rapid as machinegun fire. At about this time I could see my knees bend and my feet kick about. My bum was sore and I knew from past experience that most of my bottom would already be a deep pink colour. Before Dad was over, it would be cherry red.
After another pause, Dad went for the bare spot under the curves, leaving an imprint of the slipper’s flexible sole emblazoned across the naked flesh. By now I was sucking in great gulps of air. It hurt. It really hurt. My legs kicked again. I had been spanked many times in the past and was nineteen years old after all, so I had a high pain threshold. Even so, the whacks on the undercurve and bare thigh had me squirming, scrunching up my face, clenching my teeth and shutting my eyes. At least so far I was still pretty quiet: sucking down all the yelps I really wanted to make.
I wasn’t keeping count (maybe Dad was) but he probably put a dozen or fourteen slaps of the slipper across that most tender part of my rear-end; just where the cheeks meet the back of the thighs. I found it very uncomfortable to sit on a hard surface for a very long time after that.
It was nearly over. Only one more part of the ritual still to come and it would be the most humiliating. Dad rested the slipper on the small of my back and with both hands free he rolled my tight briefs over the mounds of my now-flame-roasted buttocks until they snagged on my thighs. My bum was now completely bared. I hated this; Dad could see right into my crack and up the hole.
No square inch of my bum had missed the attention of the slipper. Unblemished, it was hairless and creamy-white. After the attentions of Dad’s slipper, it had a rosy sheen. He picked up the slipper, gripped it tightly, took a deep breath and hammered twelve almighty whacks into the naked buttocks. Those feet and legs waved about again; I did the scrunching thing with my face, but by the time Dad had finished and said, “That’s it. Stand up,” I had remained silent. It was a small victory for my dignity.
I eased myself up and using Dad’s legs as support I clambered off his knees and staggered to my feet. I hopped from one foot to another and then embarrassingly aware that my dick and balls were bouncing up and down in front of Dad’s face, I quickly reached down and slipped up my briefs. Then, I bent down and pulled up the trousers
Dad’s curt dismissal sent me to my bedroom where I whipped down my trousers and briefs and pointed my bare bottom at the mirror. My bum was scarlet and bruises were quickly forming. I knew they would probably hang around a day or two turning from purple through shades of yellow until finally disappearing. My buttocks throbbed, but even then most of the pain was going. In moments, it would turn to a warm glow before disappearing altogether. I would be tender for a while; and when I touched the lower half of my cheeks I would set some of the pain off again. Sitting down would be awkward for a while.
I took hold of the copy of Football Monthly from my bedside table and gingerly settled down on my bed. I turned on my side and flicked through the pages and tried to take my mind off things until Mum called me down for tea.
Picture credit: Unknown
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second