When Aunt Sharon told Marcus to get up and go down to the sitting room because Uncle Phil wanted “a little word” he grunted, turned over and pulled the duvet over his head. It had been a late night (early morning actually) and his stomach hurt. Kababs on top of all that beer did that to you.
Aunt Sharon returned five minutes later and hammered on his bedroom door. “Now!” she yelled. “Don’t make me have to tell you again.”
But, Marcus was not convinced. Why all the hurry? It was Saturday. He had all day.
“Do you want me to come in there and drag you out of bed?” Aunt Sharon refused to be fobbed off.
“Wor.. awlrite,” Marcus groaned, “I’m getting up.”
“You better be.”
“Hold your horses, I’m coming. What’s the fuss?” Marcus slipped the duvet off his bed and was a little surprised to see he still wore his shirt, underpants and socks. “Just how drunk were you last night?” a voice inside his head asked.
“Come on. Chop chop,” Aunt Sharon chivvied him. “We haven’t got all day.”
“Why not,” Marcus called rudely, not realising of how much trouble he was in.
At last, five minutes later he sauntered into the sitting room, his stomach still rumbling and his head fuzzy. The back of his throat was raw from too many cigarettes and shouting to be heard in a crowded bar.
“Morning Uncle Phil,” he croaked, failing to notice the older man’s face was like thunder.
“Afternoon, more like,” his uncle retorted. “What time did you get in last night?”
Marcus shrugged, not only because of insolence, but he genuinely had no idea.
Uncle Phil frowned, “What are we going to do with you Marcus?”
The nineteen-year-old frowned himself. He didn’t understand the question. The silence in the room was intense. Uncle Phil stared sadly at his nephew. Marcus, now embarrassed by his confusion looked down at his feet. What was he supposed to say?
“We were happy to take you in Marcus. When you won a place at the university. We were so proud do you. Your mum and dad. Me. Aunt Sharon.” Uncle Phil sighed. His own throat was drying. “But look at you son …” he wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “It’s all going wrong.”
Marcus still looked at his feet. His head was aching hard now. He wished he had swallowed a couple of aspirin before coming down.
“Do you have nothing to say for yourself Marcus?” Uncle Phil got up from the couch and paced the room, finally stopping so he and Marcus were eye to eye. “Nothing?” Uncle Phil sighed again. “Really? You’ve been nothing but trouble since you arrived. You stay in your room all day and go out – goodness knows where – all night. You’ve been skipping college and don’t try to deny it. Your results are going to be woeful. You’ll probably fail.”
He paused to let that sink in. Then he went on, “You come home drunk. I’ve told you about it before. You know I have. I told you you were grounded. Not to go out last night. But look. You went out anyway.”
Marcus sucked on his bottom lip. His pale face coloured red. He felt like a small boy being told off. Uncle Phil hadn’t finished. “So not only did you come back drunk, you disobeyed me. My direct order. What are we going to do with you Marcus?”
Silence fell again. Uncle Phil’s own face reddened. He had expected an answer from his nephew, not this dumb insolence.
“Well,” Uncle Phil, retorted. “If you don’t know. I do,” he growled ominously. I’ve spoken to your dad about this. He agrees.”
Marcus grimaced. He still could not follow what was being said. “Wor…?” he said, confused.
Uncle Phil paced the room, he found it hard to catch his breath. His heart raced. He shook his head rapidly from side to side. “We’ve tried everything with you Marcus. Everything. Nothing works. You are getting worse. You’re on a slippery slope, son. If we don’t do something about it now, where will it end?” Now he shook his head wearily.
Silence fell yet again. Marcus stood feet apart, hands behind his back, feet splayed. He just wanted this to end. His head was killing him.
Uncle Phil paced some more. Marcus’s eyes followed him as he went. “You leave me no choice, Marcus. None at all. It is entirely your fault.” Uncle Phil stopped by the dining table. For the first time since entering the room Marcus saw the large, oval headed hairbrush resting there. His eyes blinked furiously. Uncle Phil picked it up and gripping it in his right hand he brandished it at Marcus.
“No choice,” Uncle Phil said miserably, “You leave me no choice son. I don’t want to do this. It’s for your own good.”
Marcus coughed with surprise. “Wor…?” he tried to form a sentence of protest, but the words would not come.
“A spanking. A jolly good spanking, that’s what you need. What you deserve,” Uncle Phil waved the brush once more. Marcus’s face reddened. He coughed again. Now he had found his voice. “A spanking,” he snapped incredulously. “You can’t,” he added with little confidence. “You can’t. I’m too old for a spanking.”
Uncle Phil looked closely at the heavy wooden brush in his hand and then turned his attention to his nephew, now standing very embarrassed before him. “Ordinarily, I’d agree,” he said reasonably, “But we’ve tried everything else with you and nothing has worked. You leave us no option. I don’t want to do this. But maybe it’s just what you need. A short, sharp shock to bring you to your senses. To get you back on the straight and narrow.”
Marcus’s jaw dropped. He left his mouth gaping. He couldn’t think of an answer, except to beg, “Please Uncle, don’t spank me, I will be a good boy. I promise,” like he was eight years old. He wouldn’t do that. He had too much pride. But, a spanking. How humiliating. Nineteen years old and getting his bottom blistered with Aunt Sharon’s hairbrush.
“Come on then Marcus,” Uncle Phil picked up a heavy plastic chair and moved it into the middle of the room. He sat down, wriggled his bottom to get comfortable and leaned against the back of the chair. Then, he spread his legs. He gripped the brush and as his eyes moistened, he said, “We love you to bits Marcus. Like our own son. I don’t want to do this. But you’ve left me no alternative. A damn good spanking might just work. Perhaps, next time you want to skip college or go get drunk, you’ll remember this and think again.”
Marcus shook his head, like a horse trying to get rid of a troublesome fly. He could not believe it. Uncle Phil wanted to spank him. He stared disbelievingly at his uncle. He was strong, fit man but Marcus knew that in a fair fight he, Marcus, the younger man by far would win. He could push Uncle Phil off his chair and storm from the room. He could tell him, “Shove your spanking!” He could, but what then?
Marcus had no time to think it over, but an obvious conclusion would be Aunt Sharon and Uncle Phil would kick him out the house. Mum and Dad would go mental. Marcus would never hear the end of it. Where would he live? Would Mum and Dad stop sending him money so he could continue at college?
Marcus could not take his eyes off the brush in Uncle Phil’s grip. Uncle Phil’s stare burned into him. We love you to bits Marcus. Like our own son. I don’t want to do this. But you’ve left me no alternative. Uncle Phil was not a tyrant. He and Aunt Sharon had always been kind to Marcus. Now, look how he had repaid them. Marcus chewed on his bottom lip thoughtfully.
“Come Marcus,” Uncle Phil spoke softly. “I think you should take down your jeans. They’re thick. I don’t think you’d feel much of this,” he slapped the brush into the palm of his own hand, “with them up.”
When later that day Marcus looked back on this moment, he couldn’t remember a thing. He must have been on autopilot. His face shone bright red as he fumbled with the buckle of his belt. At last it was open. He popped the button on the waistband and tugged at the zipper fly. The baggy jeans tumbled down his thighs and snagged at the knees. Marcus pushed them down until the bunched at his feet.
“Good boy,” Uncle Phil spoke gently, “Now come, bend across my knee. There’s a good boy.” He tapped his right thigh gently with the brush in case Marcus did not understand the instruction. Marcus sucked his lip again. He looked carefully at Uncle Phil’s lap. As if weighing up the best option for getting his body into the required position. He leaned forward, rested his palms on Uncle Phil’s right leg and gently eased himself down. He had never been across an older man’s knee before, and nor had he seen anyone else do it, but instinctively he knew what to do. He stretched his arms ahead of him and rested his palms into the floorboards. Behind him he bent his knees slightly so that the tips of his socks hovered above the ground. Positioned like this, his bottom rested across Uncle Phil’s knee. Marcus did not know, but he had presented his bottom submissively at a perfect angle for the spanking he so richly deserved.
Uncle Phil looked down at the boy. He was mightily relived Marcus had not put up a fight. He was a good boy. He would grow to become a fine man. He just needed guidance. He would get that now. Uncle Phil did not relish the task he had to perform. It was unpleasant. But necessary. He owed it to Marcus to discipline him. He would not let him off lightly. He needed to be spanked. And it had to be a proper spanking. One he would never forget. They would both be wasting their time if he did not lay it on thick.
“You deserve this spanking Marcus and you know you do,” he said as he smoothed the cotton shorts so that they fitted the nineteen-year-old’s bottom snugly. The cheeks had some meat in them, but Marcus was nowhere near a fat boy.
“This is for your own good, Marcus,” Uncle Phil wheezed as he crashed the heavy, wooden hairbrush into the very centre of the left cheek. He didn’t give Marcus time to react before hammering it across the right buttock. Marcus sucked in air. His stomach and head already ached, now his bottom did too.
Marcus shut his eyes tightly. This cannot be happening, he told himself. I cannot be across Uncle Phil’s knee having my backside blistered with a brush. The increasing pain in his bum told him otherwise. Uncle Phil put all his energy into it. He was a man on a mission. He was no zealot. He was doing this for his nephew. One day, Uncle Phil hoped, once he had safely graduated from university, Marcus would thank him for it.
For now, he had a task to perform. He whacked the brush across the peaks of Marcus’s mounds. He spanked the undercurves (the part that connected with the chair whenever Marcus sat down) and he went high into the flesh just under the boy’s back. Then he went around the circuit again. And again.
Marcus wriggled his hips and kicked his legs. He couldn’t help it. He was out of control. It was his body’s natural reaction to all that pain. But stoically, he stayed in position; head low bottom high and allowed Uncle Phil to spank the living daylights out of him.
His bum was hot, then it burned. Marcus had never sat in a bathtub of boiling water, but he reckoned that wouldn’t hurt as much as this spanking.
“I hope you’re learning your lesson, young man,” Uncle Phil preached as he aimed the brush across the backs of Marcus’s thighs. A series of grunts was the only response he got.
Uncle Phil didn’t keep count, but he probably landed close to two hundred swats across his nephew’s rear end. That was enough. Besides, his own heartrate was off the scale and the back of his shirt was soaked with the sweat of his exertion. It was time to stop.
Marcus lay across his Uncle’s lap, gasping for breath. His bum was on fire. He had never felt such pain before. He wheezed. He felt sick. His stomach had been bad enough, but after being turned upside down over Uncle’s knee he was close to vomiting. He struggled to his feet, nearly tripping over his jeans. He pulled them up to their correct place and zipped up. The burn in his bottom was easing. The intense agony had calmed into an intense throbbing. Soon that would become a dull ache.
Uncle Phil stared at the brush in his hand as if seeing it for the first time. “Will I have to do that again, Marcus?” he asked, almost kindly. “No, Uncle,” Marcus gasped. His stomach rumbled. He needed to get to the bathroom fast.
“Good boy. Now let that be an end to it. You had better go to your room. And remember Marcus: We love you.”
“Thank you uncle,” Marcus gulped as, with his hand clutched to his mouth, he sped through the door.
Aunt Sharon entered the room. “Well done, Phil. You did the right thing.”
“I know,” he replied, handing her the brush. “Now, what about a cup of tea?”
Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club
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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