After I missed curfew

new story 2

used drawing slipper hold otk (2)

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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Get to bed! I’ll be up to see you later

new story 2

z used bed waiting pyjamas (12)

Get to bed. There’s no supper for you tonight. I’ll be up to see you later.

How many times did I hear those words growing up? Way too many, that’s how many. I must have had a hole in my head. I never learned. I was about twenty the last time Dad made one of those visits to my room.

That was the time just before at last I left home. I had outgrown it years before. I left school at fifteen and went to work in a wine gum factory. Really, I kid you not. My first job was standing alongside the conveyor belt as all the sweets came along and picking out the deformed ones. I was allowed to eat as many as I liked. I soon got sick of that job.

I suppose I thought I was all grown up and not a kid anymore. Dad had other ideas, of course. His house; his rules. I don’t think I was any different from my friends and neighbours. It was just the way things were. Know your place. Do as you’re told. Behave yourself. Or else!

The Or Else in Dad’s case was a heavy two-tailed leather taws. God alone knows where he got that from. It was kept in a special drawer all on its own in the sideboard in the living room. It was old and worn. It could’ve been a hundred years old for all I knew. It must have been a family heirloom.

It saw some action in its time. I was the youngest of three boys and from time to time Dad felt it necessary to remind us of the fact – we were boys, not men.

Today, if a Dad took a leather strap to his son’s backside the social workers would swarm all over him. I’d bet a penny to a pound he’d end up in magistrates’ court. Back in the day, of course, it was all perfectly natural. Expected. Just the way things were.

As an adult now and again I’d meet men who resented being punished as a kid. Whether with a cane at school or the belt (or whatnot) at home. They took a grudge with them wherever they went all their lives. Not me. I have no complaint. I know Dad was doing what he thought best. Trying to bring up his sons right. So we would become fine, responsible adults.

I guess he succeeded. After the wine gum factory I had a load of jobs. In those days we didn’t have burger bars or fast food places, but I did all kinds of unskilled jobs. I worked on a building site for a while. Not as boring as wine gums, but bloody back-breaking.

I raised a family – three girls so I never had to tan their backsides – and now have grandchildren, with the first great-grandchild on the way. If I’m honest I owe it to Dad. He taught me to know my place, behave myself. Obey orders. It served me well.

I don’t suppose I thought much of this at the time. Dad wasn’t a tyrant, he didn’t flog the living daylights out of us. He just wanted us to get the message. I should have known better by the time I was eighteen or nineteen but I had outgrown home. I wanted to be my own man, to come and go when I wanted to and to hell with Mum’s routine. She said I treated the place like a hotel; coming and going when I wanted to.

She’d moan at me about it and I’d give her a bit of lip back. Wrong thing to do. We call it ‘disrespecting’ these days. Then it was just called ‘bloody rude.’ I don’t think she ever uttered those immortal words, ‘Wait until your father gets home!’. There was no need. The moment the words tumbled from my mouth I knew what the future held. Nineteen or not.

Dad drove a lorry for the local council, he and a gang went round emptying bins. As the driver he never got his hands dirty and that gave him status among the team. He was somebody. At home he was the king of his castle. It was a dank, dark hole. A terraced house like millions across the country.  It was draughty in winter and airless in summer. Beetles everywhere. Home sweet home.

I waited irritably in the living room pretending to read the Daily Herald. Reading wasn’t my thing, so mostly I looked at the pictures and tried to work out why the comic strips were supposed to be funny. Dad would be home by seven. I paced the room. The smell of boiled cabbage drifted from the kitchen. All our houses smelt of cabbage; morning, noon and night, come summer or winter. My stomach churned. I hadn’t eaten since dinner time, but I knew there’d be none for me this night. Not when Dad got home.

It was getting gloomy, but Mum wouldn’t let us switch the light on until it got properly dark. She didn’t have the pennies for the metre. I looked half-heartedly out of the window. It was beginning to rain heavily, the cobbled streets were wet, puddles formed in dips in the road. Any minute now I would see my Dad turn the corner of the street. My stomach knotted, not with hunger this time.

It was the waiting that was the worst. Don’t ask me why, I knew full well what was going to happen when Dad got home. I had been through this before. Many times. And in my stupidity it would surely happen again.

At last I saw him wobbling down the road. He had a rocking gait. He was rotund to say the least. Fat. Today we would probably call him obese. He wore old faded denims; this was long before jeans became the fashion status of the young. Back in the day they were just cheap, sturdy clothes worn by working men. He had a black donkey jacket, made of serge with a big leather patch on the shoulders and half way down the back.

I heard the door open and dad call to mum. It was a nightly ritual. Dad telling us all that the master was home. Best behaviour everyone! I couldn’t see him but I knew he would be hanging up his jacket in the passageway. Then he would saunter toward he kitchen. He wouldn’t go in, that was Mum’s domain. He would lean on the doorframe, point his nose in the air like one of the Bisto Kids and say, “Eh love, that smells grand!’ Same thing every day for nigh on fifty years.

On this night I heard voices. They were making conversation. They weren’t the types to talk to one another much. Broody or companionable silences were the order of the day in my house. I knew what they were talking about. I sucked in a couple of deep breaths, getting myself ready.

Suddenly Bang! the door to the sitting room flew open and dad filled the doorframe. His three chins wobbled as he shook his head. He peered at me through pig-like eyes. I always suspected he might need glasses. He frowned and then scowled. “Get to bed. There’s no supper for you tonight. I’ll be up to see you later.”

He rolled backwards to give me space to squeeze past him, the stench of his stale sweat cloyed in my throat. It was Thursday and bath night was Sunday. Wordlessly – for there was no point in arguing with the man – I shuffled up the stairs to my bedroom.

We had a ritual Dad and me. We both had roles to play when it came to spanking. They didn’t need to be spelled out. Get to bed, meant exactly that. It might only be just gone seven, but I was expected to be in my pyjamas and in bed by the time Dad arrived to deal with me. Nineteen years old and sent to bed for a spanking at seven o’clock. What would my grandsons say if I told them that?

My bedroom was small and sparse. There was one small worn rug over decaying wooden floorboards. The bed was tired and rickety, springs stuck out through the mattress. An old Tall Boy stood in the corner alongside a chest three drawers (one of them empty). We didn’t have much in the way of clothes and stuff in those days. The only other furniture was a small armchair with wooden back and arms and soft cushions. It was old and cheap but it did offer some comfort, although that night the use Dad would put it to would be far from comfortable.

I washed myself, brushed my teeth and jumped into bed. There was a chill in the air but the room had no heating. I pulled my blanket up over my body and waited. It would be some time before Dad visited. I could smell supper, Dad would have his feed before he came upstairs. He might even roll himself a cigarette and have a look at the Herald before coming up to do his duty.

I wished he would get it over with. We were a simple family. We didn’t hold grudges. I misbehaved, Dad spanked me, we carried on. The world did not end. He had made his point.

At last the door flew open, Dad was incapable of opening a door quietly. He stood a little unsteady and stared at me. I looked away. I didn’t need to see. I knew in his right hand he was holding the heavy leather taws. He mumbled something about me and my Mum. I didn’t take it in. I didn’t need to. He was right and I was wrong. Matters had to take their course.

“Get out of bed,” he was quiet and orderly. There was no need for drama. He knew I would obey. Without question. It was just the way of the world. He nodded toward the armchair. I pushed my blanket away from my body and swung my legs over the side of the bed. I was young and athletic and was on my feet in a trice.

Dad took hold of the handle of the taws. The business end was about twelve or fifteen inches long. Each tail was probably an inch wide and half inch thick. It could pack a hefty punch. I never knew where Dad got that leather strap. I’ve since discovered that the taws was mostly used in Scottish schools. We lived in London, and I don’t think anyone in my family had ever travelled north of the border. Why would we? Who would want to?

He held the taws in his right fist and tapped the tails into the palm of his left hand. He was biding his time, waiting for me to prepare myself. I shivered – more with cold than fear, I was an old hand at this and knew what to expect. I faced the back of the chair. I towered over it. There was a time when I would have struggled to reach high enough to rest my stomach on the apex of the chair. That’s how often over the years I was made to present my backside to Dad’s strap.

z used pyjamas down chair (16a)

I made sure my back was facing Dad before I untied the drawstring and loosened my pyjama bottoms. Dad might have considered me to be still a child but my cock and balls told a different story. I helped the pyjamas slip over my buttocks and held them at my thighs while I leaned forward over the back of the chair. I think I succeeded in hiding the sight of my privates from Dad. Once safely in position, I let go of the pyjama bottoms and they duly slithered down my legs and rested in a puddle at my feet.

Dad took hold of the tail end of the pyjama jacket and moved it further up my back so I was naked from the shoulders to my feet. A cold breeze wafted across my bare flesh; goose bumps formed in a vain attempt to warm my body.

I felt Dad tap the heavy strap across the very centre of my bum cheeks. He was taking aim. I don’t know if you’ve ever been spanked on the arse with a taws, in fact it isn’t really suited for the task. In Scotland they whack kids across the palm of the hand, not the bum. The taws is heavy and quite solid, it doesn’t whip like a belt does. It is easier to aim a taws up and down on outstretched hands, rather than whack it in at an angle across buttocks quivering over the back of an armchair. It would have been far more effective if Dad had made me lay face down on the bed and stood next to me to tan my backside that way. Of course, I wasn’t going to tell this to him.

I wriggled over the back of the chair, trying to get comfortable. I know that sounds crazy, but it really helps if you are properly positioned. Head low, bottom high. Feet a little apart firmly planted on the ground (that’s more difficult than it sounds if you have bare feet on wooden floorboards, you can’t help slipping). I gripped the soft seat cushion and waited. I was ready to take anything Dad had to throw at me.

The leather taws moved away from my bum, there was a pause, just a beat or two, then a whistle as the strap flew through the air. Then, SPLAT! It connected with great force across my naked cheeks. I couldn’t see (of course) but I felt a deep red mark form across the once creamy-white flesh. It burned like Hell. Don’t let anyone tell you that a spanking doesn’t always hurt; that it’s something you can get used to. It doesn’t matter how many times I was tawsed by Dad he always sent shockwaves of pain coursing through my arse and up and down my legs. The only difference was that as I got more experienced in receiving whackings I was able to control my reaction.

I gripped the cushion, closed my eyes, shut my teeth tightly and let Dad get on with it. Number two landed lower than the first. The third went higher. Now, I had a burning strip across my bum about four or five inches wide. And it was burning. I don’t know about you but I know from painful experience that a whippy rattan cane like they used at my school would cut deep into the flesh (even when wearing trousers and underpants) and leave an intense biting sting that throbs for ages. Long after the headmaster has sent you on your way.

The leather taws is an altogether different type of pain. It doesn’t cut into you, it slaps, covering a wider area than the cane with a single stroke. It burns like billy-o and the soreness stays for a while but it doesn’t have the powerful after-sting of the cane. You can get the strap on the bare bum delivered by an athlete with super muscles in his arm and it still won’t come close to the agony of the cane. Well, that’s my experience anyway.

I heard Dad wheezing hard, trying to get his breath as he landed another three strokes across my backside. Just as I had become an expert at receiving a spanking, so he was well-practiced in delivering one. I was, after all, the youngest of three boys. My bum was well alight by now. I knew that when I inspected the damage later I would see the outlines of the tails embossed in my flesh. Each line would be scarlet and by the time Dad had finished his work the edges of some of them would be turning blue.

I sucked in a lungful of air and waited for the next three. As I said there was a ritual to this. Dad whacked three strokes at a time, then took a rest. He was no brute, he laid on each one with full strength, but he was never a monster. It wasn’t his intention to batter me and leave me beaten and blooded. He just wanted to make his point.

The next three landed well low; across the back of the thighs. That had me dancing; stomping my feet up and down on the cold hard wooden floor. My knees buckled and my back arched but I held on tightly to the cushion. My eyes blazed almost as much as my bum and there were getting a bit watery. I wasn’t about to cry, but this is the sort of thing your body does when it’s in pain. The eyes water, the heart pounds, blood rushes through your arteries. You want to cry out. I couldn’t control my heartbeat (who can?) but I did stop myself crying out. It had been many years since I hollered or cried during one of Dad’s spankings.

There was another longer pause. I turned my head slightly to see what was going on. Dad was dabbing his flabby face with a dirty grey handkerchief. His whole body was drenched in sweat, he was in a bad way. I stared down once more, waiting for the next three. They would be the last. A round dozen, twelve strokes, that was always Dad’s way. Like I said, it wasn’t a battering.

He let fly. I think the sweat must have got into his eyes because they landed all over the place. One even went north to south along the length of one cheek. Everyone knows that’s a waste, the most efficient stroke always goes from left to right, preferably on the fleshiest part of the buttocks that connects to the chair when the naughty boy attempts to sit down.

“All right,” Dad coughed a little. “Don’t make me have to do that again.” With that he wobbled from my room leaving me to rub away the hurt. Each whack was intensely painful as it landed but the agony quickly turned to a dull pain and by the time Dad was back in the sitting room listening to the wireless it had gone completely. If I touched my bum in the places where one or more strokes had overlapped I could reignite the pain but by now it was no more than a dull throb.

I had no mirror in the room so I lay face down on the bed and by twisting my body I got a close up look at the damage. Some bruises discoloured my bottom but I knew by morning they would probably have gone. By the time I went down for breakfast there would be no trace. Mum and Dad would never talk about it again (they never did after a spanking) and life would carry on as before.

I never really learned not to treat the house as a hotel or to back-chat Mum. It was just as well for me that shortly after my twentieth birthday I got called up for National Service and after that I never lived at home again.


Picture credits: Unknown


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 Charles Hamilton the Second