Joe crossed the road to his neighbour’s house, walked up the garden path and rang the doorbell.
As he waited for the door to be opened he idly looked through the bay window into the living room. There seated at the dining table he saw Aaron, the neighbour’s eighteen-year-old son. He appeared to be busy on his school homework. But something was not quite right.
The boy was dressed in his school uniform, nothing unusual in that. Joe’s own son Ant was in the same class as Aaron; Joe was familiar with the light blue blazer, white shirt and dark blue and light blue ties the boys wore. But something was different: Aaron was dressed in mid-grey short trousers and long knee socks. They were most certainly not the uniform of Midchester School.
The door opened and Alan immediately saw the puzzled expression on his friend’s face.
“Yes,” he said without waiting to be asked, “We’ve put him back into short trousers.”
The two men went into the kitchen. “Here have a beer, while I go and fetch your power drill.”
Two minutes later Alan was back and telling his story.
“He’s been like it since Christmas. He did really badly in his A-level mock examinations.”
Joe nodded thoughtfully. Ant’s results had been pretty dire too.
“Val and I reckoned he’d been spending too much time away from his books. He would spend hours each evening hanging around the bus stops with his mates.”
Yes, Joe thought, and Ant was almost certainly one of them.
“And we had no idea what he was doing most of the weekend. He was never at home. One thing we did know was that he wasn’t doing his schoolwork.” Alan took a slug of his beer and realising that Joe was not going to ask him a question, he carried on with his story.
“We needed to find a way to stop him going out all the time so we came up with this.”
“Making him wear short trousers?”
“Yes, it was such a simple idea. Val read about it somewhere on the Internet. We took all his clothes and we’ve locked them away. Now, he’s only allowed to wear his long trousers to school. He has to come home immediately school ends and change into his short trousers. We lock up the long trousers and don’t let him have them back until breakfast time next morning.”
Joe nodded encouragement, so Alan continued.
“Now if he wants to go out at night or at the weekend he must go wearing his short trousers and school uniform. So he stays at home. I don’t think he would want to let all his mates see him dressed like that. And they are proper short trousers; they are not the leisure shorts kids wear today. You would never mistake them for that, not even from a distance. They are trousers that are short. Properly tailored trousers. Actually, if you ask me I think he looks rather good in them.”
Joe had always been a practical man so he asked, “Where did you get them? They don’t make short trousers for eighteen year olds do they?”
“You’d be surprised. Ordinary school uniform suppliers often have them. We found them on the Internet. I think they make them large now because so many young kids are fat; obsess even. The ones we got for Aaron fit him at the waist but they are a bit short in the leg; but that’s okay, it just emphasises that he is still a child and not an adult.”
Joe was warming to the idea. “Does it work? Have his grades improved?”
“Yes,” Alan beamed, he really was pleased with himself. “So far, it’s been a total success; he stays at home and gets on with his work. We had to change the password for the wi-fi connection, so when he’s at home he can’t get on the Internet. He’s doing English Lit A-level so he should be reading books, not tossing himself off to internet porn.”
The two men sat in companionable silence taking sips of their beer.
Alan wasn’t sure he should tell Joe this; it might sound a bit odd, but he did. “Oh, and another thing; being dressed as a child reminds him that he isn’t yet an adult. That’s the trouble with teenagers today they think they are grown up when they are not. He needs to be reminded that we are his parents and it is his job to obey us. He should also obey his teachers and all other adults. All teenagers should remember that. If I had my way all boys would be kept in short trousers until they left school, even until they’re eighteen.”
They finished their beers and Joe picked up the drill and made to leave. Would this work for Ant, he wondered. “How did Aaron take it; when you told him he must wear short trousers?” Joe asked.
Alan smiled. He certainly wasn’t going to tell the whole truth. “He wailed the house down. You know the way teenagers do.”
Yes, Joe certainly did, his own son was just like that.
“But,” Alan continued, “He had no choice. We had his long trousers. It’s not like we’ve chained him to the banisters; he’s not a prisoner. He can still go out if he wants, but he has to wear the short trousers and school uniform when he does.”
Joe gave a weak smile, thanked Alan for the beer and returned home deep in thought. Ant was on the road to examination failure; that was certain. Should he put Ant back into short trousers? Would it work for him? Why not, it had worked for Aaron. Maybe he should ask Alan for the Internet address of the school uniform supplier.
Alan sat back down at the kitchen table and cracked open another can of beer. He was very pleased with himself. He and his wife had told nobody about this. They had discussed sending Aaron to school wearing his short trousers; but they knew they would have busy-body teachers (and even social workers) on their doorstep within hours. They would look odd to people in these days of political correctness.
And, they certainly did not, and would not, tell the other half of the story. Alan might tell Joe that it was the short trousers regime that had bucked up Aaron’s ideas; but he knew that wasn’t entirely true. It was the spankings that really did it.
The first time he put a clothes brush across Aaron’s bum, it had not been planned. Alan had told the truth that his son had wailed the house down. At first he flatly refused to wear the short trousers. He had no long trousers, so he lounged around the house in his underpants. Well, okay, Alan had thought, he still had to remain at home; he could not go out in his briefs.
But, Alan had been very taken by the Internet site’s insistence that teenaged boys be put in short trousers to remind them they were still children who must obey their parents. Aaron clearly had not accepted that. Alan endured hours of moaning and pouting from Aaron and then he snapped.
It had not been planned. Alan was sitting in the living room trying to read his newspaper; Alan was nearby pouting and screaming that he would not wear the short trousers. A clothes brush lay on the sideboard. In a flash, without thinking of the possible consequence, Alan grabbed the brush, took Aaron by the back of the head, gripped his hair (it was well overdue cutting) and forced the boy face down over the back of the couch. Then he pressed against the back of the wretched boy’s neck so that he was chewing on a scatter cushion.
Then he unleashed a frenzied attack on the seat of the boy’s underpants. Aaron’s attempted yells of protest were stifled by the cushion and his mouth was soon full of dust. His father’s grip was so strong the eighteen-year-old had no choice but to remain head low, bottom high, over the crown of the couch while his father whipped swat after swat into his tight buttocks.
The pain was intense, but there was no escaping it. He struggled to the left and right but the grip on his neck was too powerful. He was at the mercy of his father: but the irate man was not showing any. In one last desperate attempt to free himself, Aaron kicked out his left leg and caught his father a blow on the shin. Rather than dissuading the older man from his mission to toast his son’s buttocks it spurred him on.
With all the struggling the boy’s honeycomb-coloured pants had slid down his buttock so that the top of his curves were visible. Encouraged by the sight of bare flesh, Alan tugged at the briefs and pulled them further down until they rested bunched below the crease where the buttock meets the thigh. Then with an increasingly furious pace he pounded the clothes brush into the boy’s now naked backside.
His pain, humiliation and the dust from the cushion was taking its toll on Aaron. His breathing was fast and his blood pressure sky high. The pain in his bottom was intense; his father was raining down swat after swat without let up. He was whacking the brush into Aaron’s bum at the rate of eighty a minute.
Spit dribbled from the boy’s mouth and tears and snot cascaded down his face. His protests quickly turned to owwws, and then arghhhhs, through to yelps and finally on to full-throated yells. But, on and on Alan spanked the brush into his son’s bare bottom. Red patches quickly turned to blue and some were going purple. The imprint of the large oval head of the brush was imprinted dozens of times across the boy’s globes.
If he had the breath to do so, Aaron would have been pleading for mercy. He would wear the short trousers; he would obey his mum and dad; he would do anything they asked, so long as his father would stop hurting him.
Not one part of Aaron’s buttocks and the back of his thighs was left untouched before Alan released his grip on his son’s neck. Now free and without waiting for permission, Aaron shot up from the couch, pulled his briefs up and rushed from the room. He took the stairs two at a time, crashed into his bedroom, slammed the door behind him, threw himself face down on the bed and sobbed his guts up. He had been utterly defeated by his father.
The boy wore his short trousers after that and although he still hated his father he knew it was an opinion he had best keep to himself.
The second time Aaron was spanked was altogether different. An essay on Chaucer was graded C, with the comment from his teacher, “must make more effort”. That was enough for Alan; the boy was slipping back into old ways and needed a reminder; a maintenance spanking.
So a dining-room chair was placed in the middle of the room and the brush retrieved from the sideboard drawer. Aaron was summoned from his room. It was no surprise, he was expecting this. On command, he meekly lowered his short trousers and eighteen years old though he was, he bent across his father’s lap to receive his second buttock roasting. No matter how much he would hate this ordeal, he knew one thing was for certain: it was better to accept the inevitable than try to fight with his dad.
Picture credit: Unknown.
This story was first published in September 2015
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
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