Caught drinking beer

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Mr Harding parked the car in the driveway of his house. His head throbbed. It must be the flu, he feared. Better to leave the office behind, take a few aspirins and get into bed. He unlocked the front door. As he headed for the stairs he saw the door to the kitchen was ajar. The house should be empty. What was going on? Stealthily, he approached wondering if he had burglars.  He needn’t have worried. It was his nineteen-year-old son Lucas. But, why wasn’t he at college?

Mr Harding’s temper was already frayed and he let fly, “What are you doing at home during the afternoon? What the hell have you got there! Drinking. I thought we agreed no more drinking during the day. Not after you were arrested for drink-driving. I just cannot believe you.”

Lucas shrugged his shoulders and drained the bottle in his hand.

“Don’t shrug your shoulders at me. How many of those have you had? Are you drunk?” Mr Harding fumed. “Look at you. You’re nineteen years old. You’re supposed to be at college and here you are skiving off classes. You can’t be trusted. I’ve tried to treat you like an adult. To give you responsibilities. But look at you. This is how you behave.”

Lucas could not hide his indifference. It was like a red rag to a bull. His father waved his arms hysterically,  “You don’t give me much choice do you? If you can’t behave like an adult, I’ll have to carry on treating you like a child won’t I?”

It wasn’t really a question but Mr Harding paused in the hope he might get some response from his surly son. When none came Mr Harding’s temperature rose another ten degrees. “Yes. You know what that means don’t you. You’ve only got yourself to blame. God knows I’ve tried with you and this is how you repay me.”

Suddenly Lucas’s ears pricked up. He had only been half listening. Now he was getting his father’s drift. His eyes widened and his jaw sagged. “But …” he wheezed, but his father was now on a roll.

“Spanking. I thought we were done with this, but clearly we are not.”

“I’m too old for this,” Lucas had found his voice.

“No, you are not too old for this. You’re too old for this when you demonstrate to me you can be trusted. Put that beer bottle down.”

Lucas stared at the label of the bottle in his hand as if only just realising it was there.

“Now! …. I shan’t tell you again.”

Hurriedly, the boy but the bottle on the table. He watched his father pick up a straight-backed wooden chair and set it down in the middle of the room.

“Right stand up. Come over here.”

“No!” Lucas protested. “What for?”

“You know what for. Now, come over here. Get across my knee.”

“No, you can’t. You can’t.”

“I can and I will.” Mr Harding gripped Lucas by his left wrist and pulled him forward. The nineteen-year-old struggled hard but his feet slipped on the shiny floor tiles as he resisted and he toppled forward. Soon he was face down over his father’s knees: head low, bottom high in the classic ‘naughty boy’ position.

“You have nobody to blame but yourself. Skipping college and drinking during the afternoon. You deserve all you get.”

Mr Harding held Lucas tightly around the waist. The teenager wriggled and writhed but he was going nowhere. His bum was wide and meaty and his buttocks filled out the seat of his denims. A perfect target Mr Harding told himself as he raised his hand high and brought it down hard across his son’s left cheek. Then he raised the hand again and motored. Slap after slap rained down across Lucas’s bum. It was like machinegun fire.

Lucas did not take it well. “Stop that noise,” his father fumed. “You deserve this. A damn good spanking. I should have done this before. When you got arrested for drink-driving. I know you got fined and banned but think of what might have happened. You could have killed somebody. A child. You stupid oaf. I should have taken my belt to your backside then.”

Mr Harding slapped his hand into Lucas’s hard bottom. His palm was hurting badly. He hoped he was having some effect on the boy’s backside. Just then, the front door opened and his wife appeared. She stood, mouth gaping in the doorway to the kitchen.

z used otk jeans kitchen sting 4

“I came home early and found him at home. Skiving off college and drinking beer. After all that trouble before,” Mr Harding told her.

His wife watched her husband’s hand as it pounded into the seat of Lucas’s jeans. “You’re wasting your time with that. You’re not getting through. You’re not hurting him one little bit.”

Mr Harding paused in his efforts. “What’s that? … Yes, I think you’re right.” He looked down at his son sprawled across his knee. “You’re not really feeling this are you?” He looked over at his wife. “Hey, love can you go fetch your hairbrush. You know that big black one. The heavy one that used to be your grandma’s. That’ll make an impression.”

Mr Harding continued spanking his son’s bum as his wife hurried from the room. His hand was definitely hurting now. Lucas’s hips bucked and his hips swayed. In a moment he was likely to topple off his father’s lap and land in a heap on the floor.  Just then his wife reappeared. In her hand she brandished the hairbrush. It was a monster – easily thirty centimetres long with the handle. The head was oval shaped and measured about ten centimetres across. She held on tightly to it and tapped the head into the palm of her hand demonstrating how heavy it was. It made a fantastic spanking implement.

Mr Lucas stopped spanking. “Right you. Get up.” Sourly, Lucas climbed to his feet. He saw the mighty brush in his mother’s hand and considered making a run for it.

His father had other ideas. “Stay where you are. I’m not finished yet. Not by a long way. You’ll regret skiving off college and drinking beer before I’m through with you young man. You need to learn a lesson and by God I’m going to teach it to you.”

Mr Harding took the brush from his wife and waved it close to his son’s face. The boy blanched. He had felt the power of this brush before. He had hoped never to encounter it again.

Mr Harding smacked the brush into the palm of his hand. “Right you. Let’s have those jeans down.”

Lucas said nothing but the look on his face spoke volumes. “Yes,” his father confirmed. “Right down.”

“No, but Dad, c’mon,” Lucas had found his voice.

“Don’t you dare argue with me. Take them down. NOW! Do you want me to get your mother to take them down for you?”

Lucas’s face was already scarlet. The force of the spanking and the acute embarrassment he felt did that. He fumbled with his jeans.

“No,” his father growled, “I didn’t think so. Get them down. All the way. To the ankles.”

The jeans puddled at the teenager’s feet.

“That’s right. Good. Be thankful you’re not taking your pants down as well. I’d happily give to a bare-bottomed spanking, but we need to spare your mother’s blushes. Right. Now bend across the kitchen table. Yes. The table. Stop whining please and just do it.”

Mr Harding watched dispassionately as his son waddled the three or four steps needed to get to the table. The jeans snagged around his ankles and nearly sent him toppling face-down to the floor. Lucas stood hesitantly at the table. He looked forlornly across at his mother, his eyes appealing to her to intervene, to stop his father spanking his bottom with the heavy hairbrush. He got no joy from her. Her face was grimly set. Lucas needed his backside blistered and she was glad her husband had the courage to do his duty.

Lucas looked at his father, now brandishing the hairbrush threateningly. He was raring to go. He tested the weight of the brush in his hand. Sadly, Lucas lowered himself forward. His stomach and chest rested on the cold wood. He hesitated a moment working out in his head where he should put his arms. He decided to reach forward and grip the far edge of the table top.

His father waited for his son to settle before approaching. Lucas had submitted himself to the deserved punishment. His bottom twitched in anticipation of the pain to come. Mr Harding was almost ready, but not quite. Lucas’s body tensed when his father gripped the elasticated waistband of his cotton underpants. He gasped, fearful that his father had changed his mind and he was going to bare Lucas’s buttocks.

He needn’t have worried. His father took the waistband and pulled hard. The cotton underpants now fitted snugly against the buttocks. The cheeks were lifted and separated and the crack between them was clearly visible under the cloth. Now satisfied, Mr Harding tapped the head of the brush against the fleshiest part of the left buttock. He took his aim, raised the brush high, paused for a second or two with it in the air and hammered it down with all the force he could muster. It sank into the left cheek. Lucas opened and closed his mouth but managed to stifle the yap his body insisted he make.

The second whack – this time on the right cheek hurt just as much. Mr Harding pounded the brush across Lucas’s backside all the while scolding his son.

“That’s hurting I see. Good. It’s supposed to, otherwise we’d both be wasting our time. I hope you feel ashamed. Look at you, bent across the kitchen  table with your jeans at your ankles. With your bottom in the air. Getting a spanking, like a silly little boy. Well, young man, let me tell you, if you do not buck up your ideas and start behaving around here, I’ll have you across this table again and again. And I’ll do it until you learn. Don’t think I enjoy doing this because I don’t. I do it because I love you. We love you. Your mother and me. We want you to grow to be a good man.”

Mr Harding increased the force and the speed of the spanks. Lucas kicked his legs. He wriggled his hips. His privates humped the side of the table. His hands gripped the far edge, his knuckles turned white. His head nodded up and down until he was headbutting the tabletop. He had no breath. The pain in his backside spread across his body. His head ached. His eyes watered. He bit down on his lower lip; anything to stop himself crying out. And still, his father walloped that brush at full pelt into his bucking bum. And still, he scolded his son.

“We want you to be a credit. To yourself and to us. And if that means I have to spank your backside until it’s black and blue, well that’s just what I’m going to do. Remember, this is for your own good. If you don’t want to go through this again, all you have to do is behave yourself. Do you think you can do that?”

The doorbell rang. Mr Harding broke off his lecture. He looked quizzically at his wife. She dashed to the window. “It’s my mother. What does she want?”

Her husband frowned. “Blast. Wait a second. She can’t see this. I’d die of shame if she knew we still had to spank Lucas at his age.” He pounded the brush across the boy’s bottom one last time. “Right lad. Get up and get dressed. You’ve been saved by the bell. Get dressed quickly. It’s over. Go to your room. Stay there until we call you down to meet your grandmother. Remember it’s over this time, but I won’t hesitate to have you back over that table again. Now skedaddle!”

He turned to his wife, “Go open the door love. Your mother will wonder what’s going on.”

Lucas rushed from the room and took the stairs two at a time. He crashed through the door of his bedroom and threw himself face down on the bed. He rubbed and rubbed at his aching arse. Later he would inspect the damage in the mirror. The oval head of the heavy hairbrush was imprinted all across his buttocks and the back of his thighs. The whole area was one continuous red blotch. Mauve marks were forming at the edges. It would take days for them to clear. The pain had already turned to a dull ache but it would reignite every time he sat down on a hard surface for the rest of the day.

He buried his head in his pillow and let the tears of shame and embarrassment soak it.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

Other stories you might like

The Gaffer of The Academy 3. Caned-off

Perils of drink-driving

Tompkins in the housemaster’s study

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

An unexpected lesson for Alfie

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I’ll be glad when the holidays are over and my nephew goes back to college. He’s been staying with me because his parents have taken themselves off for a New Year’s cruise down to the Caribbean. Lucky them.

It never occurred to me that Alfie would be so much trouble. He’s nineteen – twenty in February – and has been living away at university for a couple of years. I thought he was all grown up, but he keeps acting like a little kid.

The trouble is he treats my home like it’s a hotel. It’s driving my wife Carol to distraction. Nearly every morning we have the same problem: he just will not get out of bed. She cooks his breakfast and wakes him up but then what? Nothing. He never goes down to the kitchen to eat it.

Then, I have to run up and down the stairs all morning to see if he’s gotten out of bed.

 

Well, let me tell you something. I soon tired of that. Alfie’s a good kid, but sometimes he just needs to be pulled up a bit. He needs to be reminded that the world doesn’t revolve around him. I told him what would happen if he didn’t start playing by my rules.

My wife has this hairbrush she picked up at an antiques shop when we went on a visit to Brocklehurst. It’s a great heavy thing made of ebony wood. It’s nothing like those light plastic things they make today. It’s excellent for brushing her hair, but I quickly realised it could have a pretty good secondary use as well.

So last week Monday when I entered my nephew’s room that morning for the fourth time, I was carrying that hairbrush. I threw back his bed covers and delivered a sound smack that had him awake in a second. Before he was totally aware of what was going on I had pulled him to his feet. I sat myself down on the bed and hauled him over my knees. By this time he was awake well enough to be pleading for me to stop. “I will come down to breakfast,” he promised, “Please stop spanking me!” He was wailing like a little kid. Of course, they’ll promise you anything if only you’d stop spanking them.

I was having none of it. I had him where I wanted him and I might not get another chance. I pulled down his pants and started whacking his bare backside with the brush. He’s nineteen years old and entirely too big for this type of a spanking and I did more arguing and threatening than actual spanking while trying to keep him in position. He was flailing and kicking and hollering like crazy but I did succeed in getting in about twenty five whacks before I let him up.

He came down to breakfast on time after that.

I thought that would be the end of it. I had made my point that he ought to be a bit more thoughtful about others and I expected we wouldn’t have any more trouble with him. I could never have imagined what happened next.

It was getting close to midnight on the following Saturday and me and Carol were just getting ready to turn in when the phone rang. It startled us because no one calls us at that time of night. I said, “It won’t be for us, let it ring out,” but my wife said it might be urgent bad news and grabbed the handset. It was bad news all right. It was the local police station. They had Alfie and would someone please come and collect him. Carol melted with shame. He and some other louts had been hauled in for being drunk and incapable.

I had to get the car out and go fetch him. Naturally, I was angry with him but that was nothing to how I felt about the police. The sergeant at the station said Alfie and the others wouldn’t be prosecuted. It was only drunk and incapable, he told me. Not drunk and disorderly. It wasn’t worth the cost and effort taking him to court. He’d only get a ticking off, anyway.

So, Alfie was going to get off scot-free. He had disgraced himself and me and the wife. We wouldn’t be able to show our faces if the neighbours found out. I took him home. I said I’d have a word in the morning and left him to stagger off to bed.

Of course, when I said “a word” that was a code which meant his backside would be doing the listening while my heavy hairbrush did the talking.

I told my wife what had happened and what I intended to do. “The hairbrush,” she scoffed. “He needs a darn sight more than the hairbrush.” Maybe he did, but what did she expect me to do? That was when she reminded me of her Uncle Bill. Bill had been a housemaster at a very posh boarding school for many years. “He knows about this sort of thing,” she said as she rolled over and instantly fell asleep.

Uncle Bill hoped he had not shown too much enthusiasm when he was asked to help out his niece. He had retired as a schoolmaster many years before but he had kept a few souvenirs; among them his tattered academic gown and mortar-board cap along with three stout but whippy curve-handled rattan canes.

When he received the phone call he said he’d be happy to come out of retirement. If that’s what she really wanted. Carol was not a woman to mince words. “Yes, it is. Definitely. When can you get here?”

It was mid-afternoon and the winter sun was quickly setting when Uncle Bill arrived. He was a sprightly man in his seventies but many who met him for the first time thought him much younger. He still ran three miles every other day and was envied among his friends for his strength.

“Does he know that I am here?” Uncle Bill asked once he had taken off his coat and put the cane he had selected down on the dining room table. Carol nodded emphatically, “Oh yes, he knows what to expect.”

Alfie was no stranger to Uncle Bill. The old man had been much used by exasperated parents within the family across a number of generations. His expertise was much in demand and Uncle Bill shared his skill willingly. After all, what were families for?

“Call him down,” Uncle Bill stretched his arm and shoulder muscles, limbering himself up as he spoke, “You don’t need to be present if you’d rather not,” he added. He watched impassively as his niece headed for the stairs.

Shortly, Alfie appeared in the doorway. He wasn’t especially tall for his age, probably about five-feet-eight with a slim build. Uncle Bill was taken by the nineteen-year-old’s blond hair, dark at the roots (obviously dyed). It was parted down the centre and hung down over his eyes, partially obscuring a pale face that might have been thought cute if not for the attempted sneer that twisted the corners of his mouth.

“Come in,” Uncle Bill snapped, he had assumed his oft-repeated role of the disgruntled schoolmaster. “Take that look off your face.” He gestured to a far wall. Alfie hesitated, he could not fail to see the small, white straight-backed dining room chair that stood there, its back unnaturally facing into the room.

He glanced at the old man, but remained silent.

Uncle Bill sighed, “You know why you are here.” Alfie knew it was a statement, not a question and stayed silent. His heart thumped against his chest. “I manged to email your father, he is appalled by your behaviour. Do you want to know what he said?”

This time it was a question, but Alfie had no words. His mouth was parched, his temples were throbbing. The crook-handled cane lay on the table in plain sight. He didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to work out what was about to happen.

“He agreed I should cane you,” Uncle Bill answered his own question. “What do you say to that?” Another question.

If he were a member of any other family, Alfie might have said, “But I’m nearly twenty, I’m too old for this.” But his was no ordinary family. Uncle Bill’s standing was well-known. In the summer he had dealt with Arron and he was twenty-two and in trouble with the law. Rumour had it the young man could hardly walk, let alone sit down, for two days.

Uncle Bill picked up the cane. It was a typical old-fashioned school cane, made of rattan and a little over three feet long. It was as thick as a biro but was wonderfully whippy. Uncle Bill brandished it at Alfie and then menacingly flexed it between his hands. It made a perfect arc. Alfie’s eyes transfixed on the rod’s smoothness. What little saliva there was in his mouth drained. His throat hurt. The room began to move slowly.

“Six of the best,” Uncle Bill said, almost jauntily. “Stand there.” He brandished the cane and swished it towards the small chair.

Alfie didn’t understand: what was happening to him. His knees groaned, the light jumper he wore was beginning to soak with sweat. He desperately needed a drink.

He heard the cane swoosh once more through the air. “Yes, just there,” Uncle Bill tapped the back of the chair with the tip of the cane. “Turn round and bend over.” Alfie’s look of incomprehension would not deter Uncle Bill. “You need it to support you. It will hurt you more this way. That is the purpose of a caning you know.”

Bewildered, Alfie looked at the chair in front of him. He towered over it. What was he supposed to do? Bend over? What did that mean exactly?

Uncle Bill was used to dealing with boys who were about to receive their first caning. They had to be “talked through” the process. He tapped the cane on the seat of the chair. “Stand behind the chair. Place both hands on the seat. Arch your back enough so that your backside juts out. It helps if you spread your feet.”

Looking back, Alfie couldn’t believe what he did next. Instead of fleeing to the sanctuary of his room, he sidled up to the chair. The seat looked a long way down. He reached over and took hold of it and waited.

“No further than that,” Uncle Bill snapped. “Bend over as far as you can,” he pushed Alfie’s shoulders down. “Further!” Uncle Bill stepped back to get a better look. “Good, now hold on for dear life. Spread those legs. Yes, but keep the knees straight.”

As Alfie stood head lowered, bottom raised, the room span. Uncle Bill observed the teenager’s hard bottom straining against the seat of his jeans. The denim was pretty thick. Could he risk ordering the boy to take them down for a caning across the underpants? He mused for a moment and dismissed the idea. The brat deserved a severe caning. It would do him good. It would buck his ideas up a bit. But, Uncle Bill feared Carol might think it overstepped the boundaries of modesty. “Oh well,” he consoled himself, “maybe next time.”

Uncle Bill was lefthanded so he stood to Alfie’s right and tapped the whippy, heavy cane on the rounded backside. He was tempted to lay at least one dark weal across the boy’s muscular thighs swelling under the denim but he decided to slash each stroke squarely into the seat of the jeans.

Alfie felt the weight of the cane, stinging him lightly but unpleasantly even when applied with almost no force. He felt its heavy, threatening mass. He squeezed his eyes shut, holding on tightly to the chair.

“Well,” said Uncle Bill. “I had better cane you, hadn’t I?”

“Not now!” Alfie kept the thought to himself . “Not yet! I’m not ready for it!”

But when would he ever be ready for it? The cane descended with a low-toned whoosh. The impact was heavy and almost numbing. It knocked him forward, and as he went two of the legs of the chair rose from the ground almost making him lose his balance. For a split second it did not seem to have hurt him very greatly. Then the pain came welling up like a biting, stinging, bruising wave. He wanted to let go of the chair and stand up to rub the pain away, but he dared not. Some long dormant instinct told him this was not the way to behave. He must pretend that the thrashing had not hurt.

The second stroke came, and now the pain mounted to a terrible crescendo. Alfie’s head shook from left to right vigorously like an old horse troubled by a fly. Wind escaped his pursed lips which made it sound like he was neighing.

There was a pause. Uncle Bill knew his business. He waited for the pain of the two strokes to soak in for a quarter of a minute. Then he tapped the heavy cane again on the seat of the jeans. Alfie winced both at the pain it caused on his already sore bum and the anticipation of what was to follow.

Uncle Bill drew back the cane and sank another satisfyingly hard stroke into the blue surface. Three clear lines were now etched into the tight denim. Beneath the jeans welts were throbbing. Alfie felt the impact; his body hated the pain, but his brain sent him different signals. Alfie gasped. It was all he could do to keep holding the chair.

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“Your punishment is half-way through,” Uncle Bill intoned. “I trust you are enjoying it.” He bit into his lip. What a thing to say.

“Thank you, sir,” Alfie wheezed.

Uncle Bill’s eyebrows arched. Had he heard Alfie’s tone correctly?

Alfie’s heart raced and sweat ran down the back of his shirt. The same number of strokes still to go. He wondered how he could endure it.

Slowly and in measured fashion. Uncle Bill delivered three more strokes with all his force, squarely across the bucking backside. The heavy, whippy cane felt firm and powerful, the gasps and small cries of the nineteen-year-old submitting himself to him were intensely satisfying and he enjoyed the impact which seemed to rock Alfie forward each time. He knew he was putting him through a dreadful ordeal and he liked it.

The boy’s mother might have been horrified, but Uncle Bill had a certain matter-of-fact harshness that represented the attitude of countless schoolmasters through the ages.

He would never have committed any real cruelty, of course, but he knew how beneficial an authentic caning could be. Anything less would detract from the quality of the thing and leave the boy ultimately disappointed. Uncle Bill knew Alfie was not enjoying his ordeal, but there was nonetheless something in the way he had said, “Thank you, sir.”

On some level that Alfie could not yet imagine this caning was satisfying to him as well as to Uncle Bill.

The man was experienced enough to understand that deeper level and not to hold back or feel regret because of the superficial layer of pain he was inflicting, although to Alfie that was the only thing his mind and body understood at this moment.

Nothing but the thought of repeating the caning from the beginning, kept Alfie from gripping the chair through those desperate moments as Uncle Bill lashed those terrible last three strokes. Each one seemed to cut him in half and impel him with a force beyond resistance to leap up.

But reason held sway over nature and Alfie held the seat.

“Good lad,” Uncle Bill cooed approvingly, ten seconds after the sixth and final stroke had seared across the hard target. Alfie’s bottom was on fire. It felt like Uncle Bill had forced him to sit in an open coal fire.

“You may stand.”

Alfie rose to his feet, his face flushed almost to match his backside. His head swooned. Colours passed the back of his eyes. It was like being on drugs.

“ T…t…t…thank you, sir,” he stammered.

Uncle Bill flexed the sturdy cane. “ Now that, young man, was a caning,” he said, with the appreciation of a connoisseur. He had truly enjoyed it; not in a cruel or vindictive way, but with a genuine artistic pleasure.

“Yes, sir,” Alfie said as he furiously rubbed the seat of his jeans. The agony was already dimming to a throbbing ache. Somehow, in a way he could not yet articulate, he thought he understood Uncle Bill.

“You should go upstairs,” Uncle Bill tucked the cane under his arm in the fashion of a sergeant-major.

Alfie rushed to the bathroom and splashed his flushed face. He drank some cold water and slipped his hands down the back of his jeans and under his briefs. His burning, tender, welted backside felt like corrugated cardboard.

It was still painful to touch and he dared not look. He glanced at his face in the mirror, not recognising the ghostly-pale vision that stared back. His head had stopped spinning. He felt somehow purified and pleased with himself to have come through the ordeal. As he went back down the stairs he was filled with the most curious mixture of sensations. He felt at once tearful and tremulous, throbbing with lingering pain, slightly queasy, proud, peaceful and cleansed. He felt glad to have had the experience and was not absolutely determined to avoid having it again at any cost.

Picture credit: Unknown

 

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A whopping for Warminster

Over Pop’s knee with Perce

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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

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Harry discovers he’s not too old …

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The doorbell rang. Babs was flustered, she looked at the clock in the hallway. “Damn,” she said aloud although nobody was there to hear her, “She’s on time.” Babs wasn’t ready. Something had cropped up. Something unexpected. This really wasn’t a good time to have a neighbour call. She hurried down the hall and quietly closed the door to the front room. If she was careful she could steer her friend into the kitchen. She need never know.

Babs wiped her hands on her dress, slowly counted to five and opened the door. Mags from across the road smiled weakly, “I thought you were never going to answer. Brrrr, it’s perishing. I didn’t put on my heavy coat.” She didn’t need an invitation, she brushed past Babs into the inviting warmth of the house and headed towards the front room.

“No! Not there,” Babs realised her voice was too shrill but it was too late to moderate it, “Let’s go into the kitchen.” Mags looked startled. They always used the front room. What was up? Babs read her mind, “Oh it’s such a mess in there. You know Christmas,” she gave a frown and exaggerated shrug of the shoulders. “Come in here. It’ll be warmer,” she led the way to the kitchen. Mags hesitated. Couldn’t she hear voices – raised voices – coming from the front room?

They sat in uncomfortable silence waiting for the kettle to boil. Something was wrong, Mags sensed it. She had known her friend for many years. She had never seen her so … so what? Nervous?  Worried? Edgy? Agitated? She smiled softly, hoping Babs might spill the beans.

“Won’t be long. Won’t be long,” Babs glanced at her watch and then at the cold kettle.

Her husband George was in the front room with the couple’s nineteen-year-old son, Harry. He was staying for the holidays. Things were not going well. He had lived away from his parents for more than two years. Life in the big city was so different from his small hometown of Brocklehurst. Harry was a different person now. He played by his own rules. He had a job, he shared a house with three other guys. He was, he insisted, an adult.

Parents struggle when their children grow and fly the nest. To Mum and Dad Harry would always be about ten years old. The small boy. In need of love and guidance: firm rules, backed up when necessary by a firm hand. The past few days had been difficult. Harry arrived on Christmas Eve and it was now December 28th. Harry had become restless confined to the house, making small talk with his parents and visiting neighbours. He needed some Life.

So, the previous night he had sneaked out to The Three Fishers, the most notorious pub in sleepy Brocklehurst. It had been packed and by chance he met up with lads from school. One thing led to another. And another. He rolled back home at three in the morning, woke everybody in the house (and possibly the neighbours too) because he no longer had a door key. Dad was none too pleased to be dragged out of a warm bed in the freezing cold. His irritation was multiplied when Harry emptied the contents of his stomach over the carpet as he fell up the stairs.

Dad was old-fashioned. He had standards. He believed an Englishman’s home was his castle. He made the rules. Harry knew that. Puking up on the carpet was most certainly against the rules.

Harry sobered up quickly; nineteen year olds have remarkable powers of recovery. So it was that next morning a confrontation took place. Harry’s mother told him quietly he ought to get himself downstairs and into the front room.

His heart had lain heavily in his stomach as he awaited his father. Then it seemed to rise into his throat. Dad stood frowning in the doorway. Harry watched forlornly as his father crossed the room and seated himself on the sofa.

“Come here, Harry,” he said. The teenager rose and with leaden legs shuffled across the room. “Closer please. Stand exactly there.” His father indicated a spot on the carpet. “ Now, Harry, what have you to say for yourself? ”

“I don’t know, Dad.”

“You don’t know. You know what I’m talking about don’t you?”

“Yes, Dad,” Harry sucked on his bottom lip.

“Drunk,” his father sighed. “Look, son, you’re nineteen. You’ve been moody and disrespectful the whole holiday. Mum and me shouldn’t be troubled with your constant misbehaviour. You should have learned how to behave by now. You’ve spoiled your mum’s Christmas, you know that.”

Harry bowed his head in embarrassment, but not shame. He had enjoyed himself greatly at The Three Fishers, a pub frequented by available girls and given the chance he would visit again before he went back to the city.

His dad sighed again. He shook his head sorrowfully, “I wonder Harry if anything I am saying is getting through to you. I could tell you off until my face turns blue. You must get a grip of yourself. The time for childish behaviour is over. You’re growing up. You have got to act responsibly. Coming home drunk through the streets for all the neighbours to see.

“This is a small town, Harry. Your reputation goes with you everywhere. You used to be admired by some round here as a charming child and you are a good example some times. Now you must learn to discipline yourself and be well behaved all the time, not only when you feel like it.

“If you can’t discipline yourself, well,” he shook his head, “you know what must happen don’t you?”

Harry stared vacantly at the floor beneath his feet. He knew this moment would come, but he dreaded it nonetheless. “Yes Dad,” he whispered.

“Good,” his father said sternly. “You know what to do. Let’s have those jeans down.” He nodded at the boy’s Levis as if there was any doubt what he meant. Harry’s face coloured, he took a deep breath. He knew he ought to argue. To say, “I’m nineteen, I’m too old for this.” And it was true: he was nineteen, but his behaviour had been bad. He had let Mum and Dad down. Heck, he knew, he had let himself down. Instead of arguing, he took hold of his belt and began to unbuckle.

“All the way down,” his father encouraged. Then, “Good. Come, bend over my knee.”

Harry obeyed, lying himself across his father’s lap, his upper body resting on the vacant seat of the sofa.

“Put your hands under me,” coaxed his father. It was his practice when administering a severe spanking to sit on Harry’s hands, this made it impossible for the boy to struggle.

Harry manoeuvred his hands under his father’s heavy thighs. Harry had a slim build with slender hips and a small, hard bottom. His underpants had snugged against his cheeks and into his crack, lifting and separating his buttocks.

He was pinned firmly and he felt his father’s hand gently caressing his left cheek. The old man was smoothing out the last remaining wrinkles from Harry’s cotton pants. The teenager gasped slightly as the hard palm of his father’s hands explored the circuit of his two buttocks and into the undercurves and across the back of his naked thighs.

He knew how he was to be disciplined. He had seen the hairbrush waiting on the seat, and watched his Dad pick it up before he positioned himself across his knee. In truth, it was not actually a hairbrush, although that is what it was always called. It was a round-headed bath-brush, long, heavy and with a back flat enough for its purpose. There were numerous of these brushes in the shops, glistening in their light-brown glossy timber. There was a severity about these implements, so ideal for their purpose as spanking tools and versatile enough to use in the shower as well.

z used otk pants brush couch (5)

Harry tensed himself involuntarily as he felt a motion in his father’s body: the first stroke was coming. The flat, heavy, stinging shock exploded across his skin, penetrating the cotton pants as if they had not been there at all. Such delicate protection was powerless against the heavy thwack of the brush.

His legs stiffened, his body reared a little, though his hands were pressed immobile by warm, masculine thighs.

“I hope you are not going to resist,” his father grunted. “I have all day if you do. Relax, please. Submit yourself. You deserve this spanking and you know you do.”

Harry forced his body to go limp, letting himself go to the will of his father. The brush smacked home again, tingling-sore upon the surface of his bottom, yet deeply hurting too. These were not “love taps”, they were heavy strokes. A third, a fourth, a fifth and a sixth thwacked with force against his bucking backside. Harry yelped, tensed, tried to untense and tensed again.

He had endured spankings from his father better than this in the past, but punishment is a curious thing. In the right mood he could absorb so much, submitting himself. But today was different, Harry could hardly bear to be touched. The ringing, flood waves of pain were almost intolerable.

Often his father scolded him all through a spanking. Today he seemed to have said all he had to say. Harry knew what was expected. If he tensed and arched himself, the punishment would go on. If he submitted it would come in the end.

Unable to help himself and although he was pinned by the hands, Harry twisted his legs to avoid the pain, opening his thighs in an ungainly manner. His father deftly brought down the hard brush in agonising reproof across Harry’s exposed inner thighs.

The teenager squealed like a wounded animal and closed his legs as his only way of protecting the sensitive flesh. For the rest of the spanking his legs remained neatly side by side, despite the mounting pain in his bottom and thighs. The burning soreness would make sitting a delicate task for the rest of the day.

His father had found his rhythm now. Hard, swinging slaps fell with easy force upon the cotton-covered bottom and thighs. The flesh was becoming hot. Even father’s own thighs were hot and moist against Harry’s clenching, powerless hands.

Harry was blubbing now. He was resigned to the long, hard spanking. Harry’s fingertips were digging deep into his father’s thighs. The ordeal was far greater than he had expected. His involuntary squeals of acute distress as hard wood bit his flesh flowed through the house.

Back in the kitchen Harry’s mother Babs listened to the rhythmic strokes, each one accompanied by a high, soulful moan. Her embarrassment level was off the scale. Beside her drinking tea demurely sat her neighbour, Mags. Babs smiled coyly. “Another cup of tea? We have some mince pies left over.”

Mags nodded politely although she wanted neither tea nor cakes. Her thoughts were back across The Avenue at her house where her son Malcolm was still tucked up in bed. He hadn’t raised a finger to help all holidays. He was sour and surly when spoken to. He drank most of his father’s whisky yesterday.

The sound of hard wood against taut bottom still pounded from the nearby room. She accepted the offered teacup gracefully but was lost in her thoughts. How she envied her friend Babs with her husband unafraid to instil a little discipline where it was needed. She took a nibble of the mince pie, her heart sinking at the thought of what awaited her when she returned home.

 

@@@@@   2   @@@@@

Days later Babs and Mags were in the front room sipping tea.

“George will be down in a minute, he’s just sorting something out with Harry,” Babs said and blew on her tea to cool it.

“Yes I thought your boy was still here on his holidays,” Mags said. They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Babs hoped her husband wouldn’t be too long.

“Did you do anything last night, for the new year?” Mags asked for want of something better to say.

“Nothing much, we don’t really bother.”

More silence. More sipping of tea.

“Did you hear all that racket in the street about one o’clock this morning?” Mags piped up.

“Rather,” Babs blushed, she looked at the ceiling as if she could see into the rooms above.

“Bunch of louts,” Mags warmed to her theme, “Waking the whole street. Disgraceful. You don’t expect behaviour like that in The Avenue, do you?”

“No,” Babs sighed, “No, you do not.”

“I know what I’d like to do to them if I got my hands on them,” Mags slurped on her tea so some dribbled down her chin.

“Yes, I quite agree,” Babs whispered.

Upstairs, her husband was “sorting something out” with nineteen-year-old Harry. “An absolute disgrace. All of you. Drunken louts,” he seethed. “Waking all the neighbours. What do you think they will say if they find out you were one of them? Your mother won’t be able to hold her head up at the shops. An utter disgrace,” he fumed.

Harry’s hands sweated. His head still ached from last night and his throat was as dry as a camel’s whatsit. He nodded along with his father’s reprimands, he had no strength to argue. “I am utterly ashamed of you. I spanked you the other day for coming home drunk, now look at you.” He paused and literally looked over Harry from the top of his gelled head to his feet.arryHarry

“I hope you’re ashamed too,” he paused for an answer. None came. For Harry the room was spinning, his head ached, he just wanted this over with so he could go back to bed.

The silence angered his father. “Dumb insolence. Right, that’s it,” he roared. “You are going to get the thrashing of your life.” He started to unbuckle his belt. Harry’s eyes glazed. “Right,” his father hissed, “Get those jeans down. Underpants too. Lay face down on the bed.” He pulled the wide leather belt from the loops of his trousers and folded it in two.

Harry had not moved. “Be quick about it,” his father snapped. “Or do you want me to do it for you?” That moved the teenager to slow action. Through moist eyes he unbuckled his own belt and unclipped and unzipped the jeans. He turned away from his father, hoping the old man wouldn’t see his naked cock and balls. He inserted his thumbs into the waistband and inch by inch lowered his jeans and pants together. He just about uncovered his buttocks. Gingerly, so not to reveal himself to his father, he crawled onto the bed and lay on his stomach.

z used belt jeans down bed

His father held the belt loosely as he waited for his son to submit himself. “Pah!” he groaned. “Not like that,” he did not hide his irritation. “Pull them right down.” He took two paces towards the bed, leaned forward and ripped the jeans and pants down until they uncovered his thighs and bunched at his knees.

“That’s better,” his father sneered, “Let the dog see the rabbit.”

Harry gripped a pillow and buried his aching head in it. “Right lad,” his father hissed, “a sound leathering that’s what you need and that’s what you’re going to get. You can only blame yourself. You never learn.” He gripped the belt tightly and towered over his prone son. The bed was made for a child so was narrow and low. His father flapped the belt and let it rest over Harry’s naked buttocks. He was finding his aim. He stood straight, then lifted the belt to shoulder height so that the leather tapped his own back. Then in one swift continuous movement he whipped it high, then forward and landed it with a resounding crack across Harry’s bottom. A thick deep pink stripe immediately appeared. Harry winced and pushed his face deeper into the pillow.

It had been some years since his father had used a belt in this way and he was quietly satisfied that he hadn’t lost his touch. The belt had landed exactly where intended. Now, he aimed a little higher. Harry’s bum was meaty, but hard. There was a lot to aim at. Up went the belt and down it came with astonishing speed. Bingo! A second sunset band glowed across the naked bottom. Harry’s legs shook on the impact.

“Feeling that, aren’t you. Good,” his father grizzled. “It’s what you deserve. It’s what you need.” He whipped another two cuts in quick succession. Most of Harry’s bum blazed red hot. “I thought after last time, I wouldn’t have to do this again. How wrong I was.” He scolded and slashed. “Look at you, nineteen years old and getting your bare backside belted by your father. What would those other louts say if they could see you.”

Harry had no idea what his friends would say. What he did know for certain was that none of them would be submitting themselves as he was to their dads for a spanking.

“And don’t be thinking that you’re too old for this,” his father said, reading his son’s mind. “You are never too old. Not in my house.” He whipped another three hard slashes across the under cheeks. “Good shots,” he told himself, “he’ll feel those every time he sits down for some time to come.”

Whack-whack-whack. His father had forgotten to keep count, but he was sure he had landed at least twenty-four. “Right lad,” he said, “That’s the belting over.” Harry sprang to his feet and started to tug his pants up. “

“Not so fast mister,” his father chided, “I’ve not finished yet. This is only half time.” Harry’s mouth opened and closed but he could find no words of protest. “Now for the cane,” his father crossed the room to the open door and reached out into the landing. When he turned back he held a length of bamboo he had taken from the garden shed earlier. It was about two feet long and rigid. He brandished it at Harry. “Leave those jeans and pants down. Kneel on the bed. Keep your head low and your bottom high.”

“Oh, c’mon Dad,” Harry had found his voice. “I’ve had enough.”

“Enough,” his father coughed, “I spanked you last time for drinking. Well, it didn’t seem to work did it? This time I’m going to do the job properly. Now get a move on.”

Defeated, Harry climbed on the bed. “Head low,” his father encouraged. Soon Harry’s forehead and nose were squashed into the mattress. “Bottom high, spread those legs.” His father watched intently as his son manoeuvred himself. He had a perfect view into the teenager’s crack and of his dangling ball sack.

He held the cane in both hands. It was too rigid to bend. His father frowned with disappointment. What he really wanted was an old-fashioned whippy school cane, made of rattan and with a curved handle. One he could swish around before landing it across his son’s bare bottom. He promised himself he would search the Internet later to see what he could find.

For now he lined the stiff rod across the highest point of Harry’s mounds. Tap-tap-tap, then lift and return. The cane didn’t swish through the air and it landed with a dull thud but it left a deep mark across Harry’s bare cheeks. “Not bad,” his father mused to himself, “Not bad, but not as good as a proper cane would be.”

He said aloud, “Six of the best, for you, m’lad.” He imagined himself as an ancient schoolmaster. He landed the next stroke higher. The third went lower. That one snagged across the back of Harry’s thighs. He howled.

The noise travelled downstairs to the kitchen. Babs and Mags sat silently. Both aware of what was going on upstairs in the bedroom but neither feeling it was polite to discuss it. Another loud “Yowll!” rent the air.

Mags stared at her empty teacup and wondered quietly where her own son Malcolm had been at one o’clock that morning.

Picture credits: Both unknown

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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

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A very British spanking

new 5

“I don’t care if it is the holidays, Martha, I will not put up with it,” Charles Snapdragon paced the carpet. “Call me old fashioned, I don’t care.” He paused by the radiogram and thrust his hands into his pockets. “I have standards. Always have. Always will.”

His wife pursed her lips but remained silent. She knew better than to argue. Charles Snapdragon was a man of decision. He liked to think, even a man of destiny.

“Rules. We need rules,” Charles Snapdragon was waving his hands around. “Without rules where would we be?” he spoke as if addressing a street corner meeting. “Nowhere. Nowhere. That’s where.” He nodded vigorously, agreeing wholeheartedly with himself.

“Rules must be obeyed. That’s why we have them,” Chares Snapdragon raised his chin and stared into the middle distance. Which considering the smallness of his sitting room meant to the farthest wall. He focused his attention on the three plaster ducks flying across the rose-patterned wallpaper. “And,” Charles Snapdragon straightened his back and imagined himself to be dressed in the uniform of a high military commander, “And if they are not,” his voice rose to a crescendo, “there must be consequences.” He paused and then repeated for effect, “Consequences.”

His twenty-year-old son Henry lay upstairs on the bed in the room that had once been his. He stared hard at the Union Jack flag on the wall. Across the room a framed portrait of Queen Elizabeth II stared intently at him. He shivered. It was like being spied on. What on earth had possessed his father to decorate his old bedroom like that?

He smiled to himself, closed his eyes and brought to mind the girl from last night. Blond, bright blue eyes, big breasts. Firm. His cock twitched. Those wet luscious lips. High cheekbones. He unzipped his jeans and slipped his fingers inside taking hold of his growing member. Oh what he would have done with that girl given half the chance. His cock expanded with his imagination. He unbuckled his belt and wriggled his jeans over his hips and buttocks. His dick tented his underpants. With more wriggling they were soon bunched up over his thighs. He kicked his jeans to the floor, gobbed spit into the palm of his right hand and rubbed himself slowly.

Charles Snapdragon still paced the carpet. “He knows my rules,” he glared at the ducks. “I made it perfectly clear. If he came back to my house,” he made great emphasis on the words my house, “that  he would have to obey my rules. An Englishman’s house is his castle.”

His wife nodded. She knew that was expected of her. The wife always supported her husband: it was a known fact.

“So he rolls in here in the middle of the night. Way after curfew.” Charles Snapdragon spoke mechanically as if he were reading from a charge sheet. “Been drinking. Smoking. No consideration for us. The neighbours. Only himself.” he paused and rested both hands on the dining room table. “He knows the rules.” He stared hard at his wife and repeated, “He knows the rules.”

Martha spoke for the first time, “Yes, dear,” she said softly. She knew her husband’s mind was made up, there was no need for her to say more.

“Right then.” Charles Snapdragon tugged on the cuffs of his shirt, straightening the sleeves. “Let’s get on with it.”

Upstairs Henry eyes were still closed as he imagined the girl from last night. He made light stroking movements on his cock, each rub moving a tiny bit further upwards. A gasp hissed through his teeth as the tips of his fingers made fleeting contact with the top of his dick. He lightly rubbed along the length of his penis, making it stand to attention as it filled out, flopping onto his stomach. His fingers lightly enclosed the shaft down near the base and then slid slowly up the length of the twitching member. Reaching the top, Henry’s fingers gently tweaked the sensitive edges of his foreskin, making him gasp with pleasure.

His grip tightened and his hand made a couple of slow, firm strokes along the full length of the fully erect cock. His other hand cupped his balls, gently kneading them between his fingers. His eyes opened and he watched with rapt concentration the aroused organ he held in his fist.

His hand was slowly massaging his swollen cock, stroking along the full length from base to head, then letting go and returning to the base again. Henry shifted his hips, torn between wanting to go faster and wanting this feeling to last as long as possible.

A groan of pure pleasure escaped from Henry’s throat. “Fuck, take it all,” he gasped, and his wrist flew. “Huff-huff-huff,” Henry gasped. He writhed on the bed as his orgasm seemed to go on and on as white juice splashed across his stomach.

Breathless, he reached to the bedside table and grabbed a fistful of paper tissues. His breathing was returning to normal. He cleaned the goo from his belly, screwed the tissue into a ball and casually threw it across the room.

That was the moment the bedroom door flew open and his father stood stern-faced on the threshold. Henry tugged his underpants up to their rightful place. He knew his face was blazing scarlet. There was nothing he could do about that.

Charles Snapdragon was a man of few words. “Last night,” he said in staccato, “missed curfew. Drinking. Smoking. Won’t do. Against the rules. You know that.”

Henry wriggled his buttocks on the bed until he sat upright. He sucked on his bottom lip. There was nothing he could say. Everything his father had said was true. He hadn’t really meant to be late. It was that damned girl.

“It’s been a while,” his father spoke slowly and carefully without emotion, “since you were last here. I do not believe that you have forgotten my rules.” He paused and when Henry realised he expected an answer he replied, “No, sir.”

Charles Snapdragon nodded his approval. “Good,” he said and added enigmatically, “It’s been a while.” He fell into silence and looked hard at his twenty-year-old son. Was he getting taller? He had definitely thickened out a bit. He was no longer the scrawny kid he had been at school.

“You are not too old for this.” Charles Snapdragon walked into the room and stood over the bed. Henry looked at his father’s midriff.

“No, sir,” he agreed meekly.

“The last time I spanked you was just before you left home,” Charles Snapdragon frowned. “You couldn’t keep a job. No self-discipline. That’s why I had to impose discipline. My duty too.”

Henry pulled himself up further and leaned with his back against the wall. “They worked,” he said simply. “All those spankings,” he gave a rueful smile. “I’ve got a good job. I share a flat.”

“Things are looking good for you,” his father interrupted. “I’m glad.”

“Yes, sir.” Henry hesitated. Should he confide in his father?

Charles Snapdragon cut him short. “I knew it would in the end. Once you learned discipline.”

Henry couldn’t hold it in. He had to speak. He had to confess to his father. He blurted, “I’m not sure that I have.”

His father’s brow creased, “I don’t understand.”

Henry spoke in a rush, words tumbling without him thinking. “I’m not sure I have learned discipline. Sometimes I am late to work. I never help around the flat. I’m running up debts,” he broke off with a croak.

His father took a step forward so he now towered over his son.

Henry rediscovered his voice, “I need discipline. Your discipline. Just to keep me on track. Stop me going over the edge.”

His father sucked down a lung full of air, “I fully intend to spank you for last night.” He paused and when his son made no response, he continued, “So I should also punish you for other offences, also?”

“Yes sir,” Henry gasped, his heart thumping through his chest. “I deserve it. I deserve to be spanked. Hard. Really hard.”

A smile flickered across Charles Snapdragon’s face. Here was proof if any were needed that his method of child rearing had worked. “I see,” he spoke almost with a whisper. “But first things first,” he reached forward and took his son by the wrist and guided him to his feet. “First we must deal with last night. He released his hold on Henry and sat down on the edge of the narrow bed. “You know what you must do. Bend over my knee.”

Without hesitation the twenty-year-old moved to stand to the right of his father, then slowly he lowered himself forward so that his stomach was across his father’s knee. His arms rested ahead of him on the mattress. His bottom jutted out at an angle. The bed was low so Henry had to bend his own knees so they hovered above the ground.

“This is a spanking you so richly deserve,” his father intoned as he gripped the waistband of his son’s underpants and tugged them hard. He couldn’t get them down so Henry obliged by raising his body so his father could pull the pants over his buttocks and leave them bunched over his thighs. Then Henry lowered himself once more across his father’s lap not realising he was leaving a sticky patch on his father’s trousers.

z used otk pants down bed union jack sting

Charles Snapdragon took hold of Henry’s shirt and moved it a little up his back so it was away from the target area. He cupped the palm of his right hand and slowly caressed his son’s right buttock. Then he did the same with the left. Henry had a little more padding than the last time he was spanked, but he was far from fat. Charles Snapdragon raised his hand and brought it crashing down with a resounding SMACK!

It had been more than a year but he hadn’t lost the knack. He was an expert spanker and soon had both cheeks glowing bright pink. Henry gasped as tingles mingled together and became a dull throb. The palm of Charles Snapdragon’s hand was as hard as any hairbrush. Henry wondered if the Old Man soaked it in vinegar, the way kids did with conkers to make them tougher.

“You only have your self to blame for this,”’ his father scolded as slap after slap pounded into Henry’s fleshy bum. “Only yourself.”

The pain was building. Henry was no stranger to spanking. He had taken a few in his days. But it had been some time since his last one and he was finding the going rather hard. His heart raced and blood rushed to his head so that his temples throbbed almost as much as his bottom. He gasped and sucked back the yaps and yelps he so desperately wanted to make.

“You deserve this. You deserve this,” he told himself silently. “You are a very naughty boy. You need to have your bare bottom spanked. Hard. Very hard.”

He winced as his father’s hand slapped into the back of his naked thigh. That was when Henry yelped. He couldn’t help it. His hips wriggled and his knees buckled.

“Keep still,” his father admonished. “You deserve this. You know you do. So, take it like a man,” he growled and he slapped the thighs harder still.

Five minutes later Charles Snapdragon hammered six final slaps into the undercurves of Henry’s cheeks – right on the sensitive sit-spot. The bum glistened with sweat and glowed a rosy red. Charles Snapdragon’s hand hurt but not as much as Henry’s bottom.

“Stand up,” he ordered and his son, not needing to be told twice, jumped to his feet. He performed the traditional spanking dance hopping from foot to foot while at the same time rubbing away at his sore bum. He bent down and tugged his pants up and stood respectfully before his father.

“Good boy. I know you will try to behave better in future.”

“Yes, sir,” Henry replied humbly.

“I’m glad to hear it. Now get shaved, have a shower and then come downstairs. Mother has Christmas dinner prepared. After lunch you and I shall repair to the back room. I still have those two canes hanging in the cupboard under the stairs.

“Yes, sir. Thank you sir,” Henry gasped as he moved aside to allow his father to leave the room.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

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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

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Party time!

new 5

z used christmas drunk school college boy (1)

I don’t believe it. I just DO NOT believe it. The state you were in. I have never been so humiliated in all my life. I’ll never be able to face the neighbours. It’ll be all round the street. All over town. I’ll never live it down. You’ll never live it down. I Just CANNOT believe it.

I said go have fun. Why not? It’s Christmas. The end of term. It’s time to party. But I never for one moment expected this. Why should I? I haven’t – we haven’t, your mother and me – we haven’t brought you up like this. You have disgraced us both. I just DON’T believe it.

I’m just glad your mother didn’t see you in that state. That’s all I can say […] Be quiet! You speak when I say you can speak. You have no excuse. None at all. A school party. There shouldn’t have been any booze. Where did that come from then? Who snuck it in. You? Those crazy mates of yours in the rugby team. I know for sure none of the teachers had any idea. You’re seniors. Eighteen years old, they thought they could trust you. I thought I could trust you. Well I’ve learnt my lesson there.

You were absolutely out of your skull. Dressed up in girls’ shoes. What else? What else don’t I know? Drag? Were you dressed in women’s clothes? School skirt? Blouse? Navy blue knickers? Ha! That sounds like the rugby team to me.

I have no idea what your headmaster’s going to say when he finds out. God help us. Back in my day you’d be hauled into his study. “Bend over that desk.” Yes. A sound caning. Six-of-the-best. […] Don’t look at me like that. That’s exactly what you deserve. But he can’t. It’s against the law […] God help us, I hope he doesn’t expel you. What then? We’d never find another school to take you. So close to the exams. You’ll have to go to that shitty sixth-form college. Bang goes your career in the Foreign Office.

I’ll have to see the headmaster. Try to iron it over. Another humiliation. Begging him to keep you on. I just hope to God you weren’t the only one. Were you the leader? Did you take in the beer? It wasn’t just beer was it? The state you were in. What else. Whisky? Vodka? Isn’t vodka the trendy drink? I wouldn’t know of course […] Oh my God. It was booze wasn’t it? Don’t tell me it was drugs. Are you on drugs? My God if you’ve doing drugs […]

You deny it? Drugs. Well. I’ll tell you something. If anything like this happens again, I’m taking you down the doctors. Blood test. We’ll see what’s in your blood. Blood test, just like the athletes have […]

Don’t pout at me lad. I will not have it. I will not STAND for it […] Be quiet. You are in a lot of trouble, I’d keep quiet if I were you.

I have never been so humiliated. Called out at midnight to collect you. To take you home. Incapable of getting home alone. I don’t know what happened to your so-called friends. Abandoned you. Or were they so smashed they just disappeared.

Well lad, I will not put up with it. I will not stand for it. You’re sober now so get out of that bed […] NOW! I’m not wasting my entire morning on you. I will not put up with this. I will not tolerate your behaviour. Humiliating me like this.

Don’t look at me like that. Get out of bed NOW […] I know you haven’t got any clothes on. I put you to bed last night remember. No! Of course you don’t remember. I don’t suppose you remember chucking up all over the bathroom floor. Who cleared up that mess? Not you for sure. Now get out of bed. […] Do you want me to pull you out? […]

Right. Now, lad. I will not put up with this. I will not tolerate it. No you come here. Over my knee. The headmaster might not be able to do anything, but that doesn’t stop me […] Don’t you dare fight me. You come here. That’s better. Right over. You take it like a man […] Too old for this! Too old! I’ll be the one to judge when you’re too old for a spanking. You need to learn a lesson lad. And it’s my job to teach it […] Keep still […] Get those hands out the way. Right away […] Put them in front of you. Lay still […] Keep that bottom high.

z used otk naked bed sting

[…] It hurts! Of course it hurts. That’s the whole point young man. Your backside will be glowing red hot by the time I’ve finished. Keep still […] Do you want me to fetch your mother’s hairbrush? […] No, I didn’t think so. Take your punishment with some dignity […] I hope to God I’m not the only father doing this this morning. Discipline. You kids DO NOT get enough discipline these days. Well, not in this house brother. This drunken behaviour has got to stop. It WILL stop. I’ll make sure of that […]

Huh, you’re feeling that. Good. I hope you’re learning your lesson young man […] Will I have to do this again?  […] No? […] You’re sorry. I’ll give you sorry. You’ll be sorry by the time I’ve finished. You won’t be sitting down for the rest of the day. You can have your breakfast standing up […]

I told you to stop wriggling […] Don’t fight me […] DO NOT FIGHT ME. Keep still. Damn you. Well, don’t say I haven’t warned you. WENDY. CAN YOU FETCH YOUR HAIRBRUSH!! [……]

Thanks love. Now, can you hold his shoulders down while I tackle his rear end […]

 

Picture credits: Unknown / Sting Pictures

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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

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The exam results

new 5

A theatre play

Setting.

A suburban living room. It is the present. It is nearly Christmas so there could be a tree or decorations to show this. What furniture there is can be at the discretion of the theatre depending on what is available, but it must that it is the modern day the furniture etc (e.g. flat screen TV). There must at least be a couch and a set of drawers (possibly a sideboard). A Table / Smart phone and a wooden paddle are the only two essential props.

Characters.

NATE: A 19-year-old university student. Dressed in jeans and a top. He wears colourful underpants.

DAD: In his late forties / early fifties. He is dressed casually for a day spent at home.

MUM: Roughly same age as DAD and also dressed for a day at home

 

Curtain rises showing MUM and DAD in the living room. DAD is holding a Tablet. MUM stands close by watching him read from the screen

 

DAD (Peering into Tablet). I’m into Nate’s exam results here. (face drops) Jeez, look at this. Five subjects. One’s an F. That’s fail. Nothing higher than a D. They’re worse than the midterms.

MUM. (Looking over his shoulder). What are we paying all this money for to send him to university? What a waste.

DAD. (Anger showing in his face) We told him. Back in October. This is just not good enough.

MUM. It can’t go on like this. This is too bad. What’s he doing? Too much time in the bar, not enough in the library.

DAD. I know what he needs. (Pauses) I did warn him.

MUM. But he’s eighteen (let’s the sentence trail off)

DAD. That’s not too old.

MUM. Maybe.

DAD. It’s what got him through his A-levels. Remember? He failed his mocks. He soon bucked up his ideas after that. Did quite well in the end. Good enough to get to university.

MUM. Yes, that’s true. Will it work again?

DAD. I don’t see why not. He just needs a wake up call. It worked before. It’ll work again.

MUM. (Showing doubt) Well ….

DAD. Just a bit of maintenance. Put him back on the straight and narrow. To remind him that we’re keeping an eye on him.

MUM. (Frowning) I guess so. (Pause as she thinks about it some more). Yes …. OK … Right …

At that moment Nate enters. He is a bit dishevelled and it is clear he has only just got out of bed. He sees DAD with the Tablet but doesn’t realise its importance.

MUM. (Berating NATE) You just got up? Look at the time. It’s nearly eleven. Late night. (Pause) Again. You need to go out an get a job for the holidays. I don’t want you lying in bed all day.

NATE. (Showing insolence) OK Mum.

DAD. (Snapping) Don’t talk to your mother like that.

NATE. (Sulks) Ohhh.

MUM. Don’t expect me to make you breakfast.

NATE. (Snaps) Don’t want none.

DAD. What’s up with you. Got a hangover?

NATE. (Grimaces but says nothing)

DAD. (Holding up the Tablet) I’ve got your exam results.

NATE. (Taken aback) Worr…?

DAD. You heard. Exam results. What a disgrace

NATE turns away to leave the room – he does not want to have this conversation

DAD. Woah. Hold your horses. Wait a minute. You’re not going anywhere.

NATE. pauses, considers disobeying DAD, but stays waiting at the door.

DAD. One fail. Nothing higher than a D. (Pauses, expecting NATE to respond. When he doesn’t DAD’s anger shows) Well! (Pause). Well, what have you got to say.

NATE embarrassed, shrugs his shoulders but says nothing.

DAD. Well. (Pause. His anger rising) We talked about this at midterm. (He waves the Tablet to confirm what he is talking about).

NATE stands by the door contemplating whether he should make a run for it

DAD. Did you go to lectures? Do you even know where the library is? Did you do any work at all?

NATE embarrassed looks at his feet

DAD. Well? Answer me. (More silence) Bah! You know what you need don’t you.

NATE looks startled. He opens his mouth intending to respond but thinks better of it

DAD. (speaking rapidly as if he is himself embarrassed) A damn good spanking. That’s what. A good hiding. That’ll buck your ideas up. A sore backside.

NATE. (eyes wide with astonishment) Dad …. (he is lost for words) But …. I’m too old ….

DAD. (cutting NATE short) You’re not too old. I’ll tell you when you’re too old. When you start acting like a responsible adult, that’s when you’re too old.

NATE. (Struggling to find the words) But Dad. You can’t … I mean….

DAD. (Cutting NATE short) I can. (Pause for effect) And I will. (Pause) Now get back in here.

NATE. But Dad ..

DAD. Come here. (Points to the couch)

NATE. Oww Dad. C’mon Dad.

DAD. (Pointing to the couch) I won’t tell you again.

NATE (pouts). But Dad …

MUM walks across the room. NATE stops and his eyes follow MUM as she walks. NATE has a concerned look. MUM reaches a drawer and opens it. DAD and NATE watch her carefully as MUM reaches in the drawer. She searches with her hand for a moment. MUM’s expression is puzzled. It seems she cannot find what she is looking for. Then, MUM gives a half-smile. MUM turns to face DAD and NATE, she is holding a wooden punishment paddle.

NATE (Alarmed). Oh, c’mon Mum. (Pause) Dad? (Pause) No, come on. No, you can’t.

MUM (Hands the paddle to DAD. Looks at NATE). You have nobody to blame but yourself.

DAD takes paddle and weighs it in his hand, demonstrating that it is a substantial piece of wood and has some weight. NATE’s eyes pop as he watches DAD tap the blade of the paddle into the palm of his hand.

MUM. (To NATE) You were warned. You can’t say you weren’t.

NATE (Mouth opens and closes like a goldfish). But Mum.. (Looks at DAD who is now tapping thee paddle against his own thigh. Then in a plea)  Dad ….. No ….

DAD sits on the edge of the couch. Waves paddle at NATE.

DAD (To NATE). Let’s get this over with. (Pause) Come here, son.

NATE Doesn’t speak but body language says he is considering whether he should run from the room. He appears to be debating with himself in his head. He doesn’t realise the thumbs of both hands are gently caressing the seat of his jeans.

DAD (Losing patience). Don’t make me ask you twice.

NATE shows no signs of moving.

DAD (Speaks fiercely). NOW!

NATE jolts, then slowly moves towards DAD. NATE stands a metre or so away from DAD and looks sorrowfully at DAD

NATE (Pleading). Dad …

DAD (looking stern). Your fault…. Not mine. This is to make sure you work harder next semester.

NATE shuffles his feet with embarrassment, dreading DAD’s next words

DAD (Slowly looks NATE up and down, from head to feet and back again. DAD’s eyes rest on NATE’s waist). You better take those jeans down.

NATE looks astonished, silently mouths ‘But Dad’.

DAD (As if speaking to himself). They’re too thick. You won’t hardly feel a thing. Take them down.

NATE stands rooted to the spot, his face red with shame.

NATE (Pleading). C’mon Dad, please. Not jeans down. C’mon. Please.

DAD. Now. If I have to do it for you, I’ll take the pants down too.

NATE hurriedly finds the buckle of his belt and tugs it open. He looks pleadingly at DAD as if hoping DAD will relent at the last moment and let him keep the jeans up. DAD stares into the middle distance. NATE looks down at his jeans for a moment. Reluctantly NATE undoes the button on the waistband of his jeans. He pulls the zip fly. The jeans fall open showing the front of NATE’s colourful briefs. NATE closes his eyes as if to persuade himself that this is not really happening to him. Slowly he pushes the jeans down his thighs. They snag at his knees and he leaves them there. He glances pitifully at DAD.

DAD (Calmly but with authority). All the way.

NATE spreads his knees and the jeans slip further down until they rest in a puddle over his feet.

DAD grips the handle of the paddle and pushes it towards NATE. NATE recoils slightly, but stands his ground.

DAD spreads his legs to create a platform and taps his own right thigh

DAD. Bend  over my knee.

NATE looks down at DAD’s lap. NATE hesitates

DAD taps his own thigh again

DAD. Just like last time.

NATE shuffles forward and stands to the right of DAD, Slowly, NATE places the palms of his hands on DAD’s thighs and lowers himself down. Once his stomach is resting across DAD, NATE stretches his arms forward and presses the palms of his hands into the ground. NATE’s legs are left to dangle in mid-air (or his toes touch the carpet, depending upon the height of the actor playing the role). NATE’s bottom is raised over DAD’s thigh at a perfect angle to receive swats of the paddle.

DAD, slowly and with great deliberation takes hold of the elasticated waistband of NATE’s briefs. NATE’s face registers fear as he thinks DAD is about to pull down his underpants and bare his backside.

DAD does not do this. DAD tugs the waistband so that the cotton briefs fit snugly across NATE’s bottom. All creases are removed and the briefs are so tight that each buttock cheek is clearly defined, offering DAD a terrific target to spank. DAD takes hold of NATE’s shirt and pulls it up NATE’s back so that the audience now has an unrestricted view of the whole buttock area. DAD places his left hand around NATE’s waist to hold him in place. NATE and DAD are now both adopting the traditional spanking posture as demonstrated by fathers and sons across the ages.

NATE’s body is tense. NATE closes his eyes and shuts his mouth tight.

DAD gently taps the blade of the paddle against the underside of NATE’s left buttock cheek. NATE’s buttocks clench as if they are firming up to protect themselves from the painful spanking that is about to start.

DAD (Still tapping to find his aim, says almost inaudibly). Relax, son. Relax.

DAD raises the paddle to above shoulder height.

NATE’s whole body tenses

DAD pauses with the paddle raised high. He counts “one, two, three,” in his head then brings the paddle pounding down into NATE’s left buttock.

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NATE winces with pain. His legs kick.

DAD raises the paddle and repeats the previous manoeuvre, this time swatting the right buttock.

NATE’s head raises up and down. NATE’s mouth forms the perfect “O” shape, but he does not make a sound.

DAD slowly hammers another two swats across each cheek, making a total of six whacks.

NATE is feeling the pain. NATE’s head shakes from side to side, like a horse bothered by a fly.

DAD quickens the momentum of the spanking. Instead of counting “one, two, three” before each swat he spanks rapidly: bang-bang-bang, like machinegun fire.

NATE’s hips swivel, his shoulders shake. NATE acts as if he is trying to swim away off DAD’s lap. DAD grips NATE harder around the waist and continues spanking, making sure that the paddle whacks the fleshiest part of NATE’s bum, as well as the tender undersides, the sit-spot, where the bum meets the thighs. DAD also swipes the peaks of the mounds, so that no square-centimetre of bum is left untoasted.

DAD (While he is spanking). There. This is just what you deserve. Maybe you’ll work harder next semester. Why do you think your mother and I are paying for you to go to university. So you get a good degree. Have a decent career.

DAD (spanks the paddle with rhythm; one spank per word). This (spank) is (spank) how (spank) you (spank) repay (spank) us (spank).

NATE reaches his hand back to try to protect his backside from the onslaught. His body is tipped at such an angle he cannot quite manage this. DAD grips NATE’s wrist and together they struggle. DAD pushes NATE’s arm half way up his back.

(At this point the theatre director has a decision to make. In real life, because NATE was causing trouble and refusing to take his punishment stoically the DAD would pull down his underpants and continue the spanking across the bared buttocks. This might not be possible during the theatrical performance. Local districts have their own laws or regulations about nudity in public places and, of course, these must be respected. Even where laws permit bared buttocks to be shown, audiences might not appreciate the sight of a young man’s naked bottom writhing across lap of a much older man. It is a matter for the theatre director, producer and management to decide. For what it is worth, it is the preference of the play’s author, that NATE’s bottom is fully bared at this point so that his spanking might be exemplary. However, the script from this point on assumes that NATE’s underpants remain in place.)

DAD (Struggling with NATE). Oh, no you don’t.

NATE (Said as spanking continues). Oww, no, please, Dad. No more. I’m sorry. I will. I’ll work harder. Promise. Owww

DAD (breathless, still spanking hard). That’s what you said last time. (DAD spanks even faster and harder). It didn’t do much good.

NATE (squirming and writhing). I will. I will. I will. I promise. I’ll go to lectures.

DAD (Spanking hard, but now showing signs of fatigue). Library (huff). More time studying (huff)

NATE. Yes, ouch! Yes Dad, Yes Dad.

DAD (Spanking). Stop partying.

NATE. Yes, yes, yes Dad,. Please stop. Please I’ve had enough.

DAD stops paddling and looks across at MUM. He speaks no words but his look says “Has he had enough? Do you think he’ll behave now?” MUM nods “Yes”

DAD hammers a further six swats across the fleshiest part of the buttocks. Three on each cheek. They are the hardest swats so far. Then, he releases his hold on NATE.

NATE rolls from DAD’s lap and lays on the floor gasping for breath, like a beached dolphin.

DAD grips the paddle and tries to control his own heavy breathing.

MUM watches NATE closely as NATE struggles to his knees and then to his feet. NATE ruefully rubs the seat of his underpants. The backs of his thighs are bright red where the paddle blade struck. NATE pulls up his jeans, zips up and does up the button. He does not do up the belt. NATE stands shamefaced, looking at the floor unable to meet the eye of MUM or DAD.

MUM (Calmly). You should go to your room. Make sure it’s tidy.

NATE still not looking at MUM or DAD makes for the door.

MUM (calling after NATE). And, I want you to go out this afternoon and find a job. Lots of the shops at The Exchange are looking for staff.

NATE (Patting the seat of his jeans as he exits the room). Yes, Mum.

DAD watches NATE leave, then turns to MUM

DAD (Hands her the paddle). There, put that back. Somehow, I think we’ll need it again, next mid-term.

MUM smiles ruefully. Takes the paddle and replaces it in the drawer. Then, MUM and DAD look at one another from across the room.

DAD. Know what, I could kill for a cup of tea, love.

Curtain falls.

 

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

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

You, called home

new 5

You sit glumly, as the green fields become first factories, then houses, then offices and shops. The train rattles into the station. Nearly home. Only a short bus ride before you meet up with father. The carriage is nearly empty of passengers, Saturday is not a busy day on the railway at Brocklehurst. You try to listen to your music but you can’t concentrate. The sounds blur in your ears.

An unintelligible voice crackles through the speaker. You can’t understand a word, but you know the guard is announcing the train is approaching Brocklehurst: your home town. Like a good citizen you wait until the train comes to a complete standstill before you rise from your seat and reach to the overhead shelf and take down your bag. You feel the weight of your dirty laundry as you sling it over your shoulder. At least one good thing will come from this visit: mother will do your washing.

You alight from the train and with no enthusiasm make your way down the platform. You have your ticket ready to get through the automatic barrier. In no hurry, you walk through the station, your footsteps echoing against the hard floor tiles. Ghost town. You have been away only three months, but already you have forgotten how dull this place is.

The bright lights of Newcastle have seduced you. Your new home. New friends. New experiences. That’s what university is supposed to give you. And, that is the problem. That’s why father has called you home.

The buses stop right outside the station. They call this ‘Brocklehurst Parkway’, a transport hub for the 21st century. As if buses never stopped outside train stations in the past. But that’s modern life, the ordinary is branded as if it were something new.

The buses run every twenty minutes. The number 66 – your bus – pulls up at the stop the second you exit the station. You pause, consider letting it go. Waiting for the next one. Or the one after. You are in no hurry to get home. Father doesn’t know what time your train is due. You can string this out for a while yet.

A nagging voice in your head tells you, “Get on that bus. Do not deceive your father.” It is your conscience. Those nagging voices have been troubling you since the day you arrived at the university. You are eighteen years old and free from your parents for the first time in your life. Free from all kinds of authority. There are few rules at the university. At your first class you were told, “Failure is a process, not an event.” The lecturer meant it was up to you – and your fellow students – to work hard, attend lectures, do the reading, submit the assignments on time. Go the whole nine yards (or whatever). If you do, success would follow. If but you do not, you will fail. Nobody is going to stand over you with a big stick to make sure you work.

You step onto the bus, offer your credit card for the fare and take a seat near the back. A light rain begins to fall as the bus pulls away. Your mid-term exams didn’t go so well. That lecturer was right. Too much time spent at student social clubs, playing football, discovering bars. Alcohol. A drop had never passed your lips before Newcastle. You soon made up for lost time.

Your father never touched a drop. The devil’s brew. There is something about it in the Bible. You know there are a lots of things in the Bible. About how to behave and how not to behave. Nobody you know at home drinks. Everyone goes to church – the same church. That’s the House of the Sacred Light. It came as a shock when you discovered The Sacred Light doesn’t operate in Newcastle. You are a member of a select band of people. You all know the true way. The Light. You know this to be true: it’s what you are taught.

You still read your Bible; you haven’t changed that much in the time you’ve been away. It makes a lot of sense to you. It is your guiding light. You’ve just lost your way a little. You need help to get back on the straight and narrow path. You know that. That’s why father has called you home. To help you. To guide you. You shuffle your buttocks on the hard seat as the bus takes a roundabout a little too quickly.

Traffic is light and the bus soon arrives at Widdicombe Wood, which is where you get off. Your street, The Avenue, is opposite. The rain has stopped but it’s cloudy and dank, it will start again fairly soon. Saturday is usually busy in The Avenue. Cars are washed and gardens attended. Two teenagers lounge idly with their bicycles. One, a fat youth with a face scarlet with acne and pus, leers at you as you pass. Your heart misses a beat. Can he read your mind? Does he know? Do all the neighbours know? Know why you have been called home.

You pass several large detached house, each hidden in its own way from the scrutiny of neighbours. Your house is surrounded by high ivy-covered walls. The gate is closed but unlocked. You pause for a moment to allow your heartrate to slow. Then with your knee you push the gate open, but only so far that you can squeeze your body through. Once inside you back-kick the gate and it slowly creaks back to its original state.

There is a light on in the loungeroom, although it is only midday. Father is probably waiting there for you. Mother will be hidden away in her own private ‘den’ pretending to make a dress with her new state-of-the-art sewing machine. You walk up the drive – slowly. Any passing tortoise would beat you in a race. You silently curse that the drive is not longer. You arrive at the front door. You have your own key and you let yourself in.

There is an eerie silence. Usually chamber music plays from an old-fashioned record player. Not today. You close the door and plonk your bag in the hall. Mother will deal with that later. You take off your coat and hang it neatly on a coat stand. While you are doing this you make sure to move all the other coats. You are checking. You don’t know what to think. The two whippy school-type rattan punishment canes that usually dangle from their curved handles here are missing.

Just then, Mother bustles from the lounge. “I thought I heard you come in,” she says shyly. “Do you have laundry?” You point to the bag. She picks it up and hurries into the utility room where she will stay for the next several hours. You watch her go, holding back your resentment that she hasn’t even said, “Hello, how are you?”

You have no time for further thoughts on the matter as father now emerges from the lounge. He looks at you sternly. “Good. You’re here at last,” he says. Again, there s no welcome. You nod blindly as if agreeing that indeed you are here. “Come in here,” he says sternly and walks back into the lounge.

The room hasn’t changed in the past three months. It is a large room that is dominated by two couches and a set of armchairs. Small tables are dotted around the room. There is no television set. But something is out of place. Your eyes settle on a chair, it is armless and has a straight back. It belongs in the kitchen. It has been brought into the lounge for a reason. It has been placed close to a corner facing into the room. You know why it is there. A heavy wooden paddle left on a nearby table confirms your thought.

Your father gives a little cough. He is both clearing his throat and gaining your attention. You stand, hands behind your back and look at him, making clear to your father that he has your rapt attention. Father looks as he always does whatever the time of day or the day of the week. He is dressed in a sober dark suit with a white shirt and red tie. You cannot remember ever seeing him dressed otherwise.

He begins to speak and you know – almost word for word – what he is going to say. He knows you failed your midterms and he thinks he knows why. You meekly confirm his suspicions. You know you have not worked this semester. You know if you don’t buck your ideas up you will fail at Christmas. You know you have let your mother and father down. You tell father this. He nods sagely, it is what he wants to hear.

You promise him you will work harder. He is pleased to hear it, he says. You say sorry again. You know this is expected. It is a kind of ritual. You go through the motions, knowing already what comes next.

Father picks up a Bible from one of the tables and flicks through the pages, finding his place. He reads several passages at great length and solemnity. Honour your mother and father. Work hard. Spare the rod. You know this by heart, but you show you are paying attention as if hearing it all for the very first time.

Father finishes reading and replaces the Bible on the table. He closes his eyes and begins to pray aloud. He is seeking the strength of the Lord. You are obliged to join in with the Amen.

Father says no more. Now, he unbuttons his jacket and slips it from his back. Carefully, he folds it and places it on the seat of a couch. You watch him intently as he does this and then he sits in the kitchen chair. He beckons to you with a crooked finger. He wants you to stand close to him. Silently, you take the three or four paces necessary.

You are standing so close that you can smell the aroma of coal tar soap and hair oil that follows your father around. He licks his lips, gives that little cough again and says, “I think you know what to do.” You don’t need clarification. This is your cue to prepare myself. You are soberly dressed in a white shirt and black trousers. At home you are always required to dress like this. You look a bit like a senior schoolboy. Not that you ever attended school – not a proper school. Parents of The Sacred Light ‘home-schooled’ which meant they taught their children themselves. There were several of you and you had classes at the church. You wore a distinctive school uniform with a grey shirt and pale-grey short trousers – even when you were eighteen. It taught you humility; walking to and from the church dressed like that.

Today you are wearing the long grey socks from school and the unusual and unflattering grey underwear worn by all males of The Sacred Heart. You have several pairs of grey short trousers in your bedroom and you wouldn’t be surprised if father insists you go upstairs to change. But, he has not. So, you must prepare yourself now.

You take a deep breath as if preparing yourself for an ordeal. Then you take hold of the buckle of the belt keeping your trousers up and open it. There’s a button on the waistband of your trousers and your fingers shiver a little so you fumble getting it undone. From the corner of your eye you see father is silently in prayer. You tug the zip fly and the front of the trousers fall open. The material of the trousers is heavy and with the weight of the belt and some keys and coins in your pocket, the trousers tumble to your shins.

Father has stopped praying and watches you as you place each of your thumbs in the waistband of your underwear and with not much more than a flick of the wrists you sent the pants south to meet your trousers. A faint breeze wafts in from somewhere to cool your naked legs and buttocks. Father slaps his thigh with his right hand. He is becoming impatient. Which is a sin, so he stops slapping and says quietly, “Bend across my knee, son.”

As he says this he parts his knees slightly and you look down at his thighs. He has made a platform for you to present your body. Carefully, you rest the heels of your hands on his right leg and slowly ease yourself down and forward. Within seconds you are across his knee in the traditional to-be-spanked posture. You make fists with your hands and push these into the carpet. Your bottom is raised over father’s lap and your legs are stretched out behind you so that the tips of your shoes brush the ground.

You hear father’s breathing getting heavier. You wait patiently. Father takes the end of your shirt and pushes it gently up your back so that it is away from his target area. Not long now. Your buttocks clench in anticipation. Now father has cupped the palm of his right hand and he is caressing each buttock cheek. You close your eyes and shut your teeth tightly. Any moment now. Father leans his left arm across your back holding you in position.

Slap! You hear the noise of his palm spanking your left buttock a split-second before you feel the sting. It tingles, but it doesn’t really hurt. Then father slaps the right cheek. Quickly he gets into a rhythm, slapping down hard across your bum. He works enthusiastically and in no time the whole area is glowering pink. The pain is building, but you are eighteen-years-old and no matter how hard father slaps the palm of his hand into you backside – even your bare backside – it isn’t going to do you much harm.

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You know this and father knows this. The spanking is so far symbolic. Father is expressing his displeasure and you are submissively presenting yourself for punishment. You know your place. You are your father’s son. You father is doing his duty to God. All is well.

But, father knows there is a difference between mere discipline and punishment. You have to be punished. Without adequate punishment you will not mend your ways. You will not work harder. You will fail your exams, be excluded from university and your future will be ruined. This punishment is for your own good. Father stops slapping your bare bum. You feel a movement in his body as he reaches over to the nearby table. He grips the paddle. It is a little bigger than a paperback book or a DVD cover, but a great deal heavier. Without warning father lifts it high and whacks it down with maximum impact across the underside of your cheeks – the sensitive ‘sit-spot’.

The suddenness of the move and the pain is creates takes you by surprise and for the first time this afternoon a yelp escapes your tight lips. Father spanks with the paddle as hard and as quickly as he had with his hand. Your backside quickly roasts. You can’t help it, your hips sway and your legs kick. Father presses his arm down into your back. You are going nowhere. Not for a considerable time to come.

You lose all sense of time. It might be one minute, it might be twenty. Up and down, up and down. The paddle flies, biting into your fleshy backside. It burns. Your temples throb almost as much as your backside. Tears fill your eyes but do not fall. Your throat is tight, but that doesn’t stop a series of “Owwws” and “Ouches” escaping your mouth. You are burning.

Father has covered every square centimetre of your buttocks which are now shining bright red. So, he turns his attentions to the backs of your thighs. Whack! “Noooooo! Stop!!!!! Please!!!!” you yell for mercy, but none is forthcoming. Father is on a mission.

You kick and wriggle and squirm and yell. It does no good. It never does. Father will spank you for as long as it takes. Until he is satisfied you have learned a lesson. Your head is buzzing. You hear the sound of wood connecting with naked flesh, but you feel no more pain. You have reached a plateau. A literal pain barrier.

Perhaps father realises this, because he eases off. The paddle continues to pound into your bottom but the whacks are not so heavy and less frequent. Then – at last – they stop completely. You lay face down staring at the carpet, your heartbeat races, your blood pressure is off the scale. Your backside feels like you have sat in a bathtub of boiling water. You hear your father’s uneven breathing. The spanking has taking it out of him as well.

At last he croaks, “Get up.” You scramble to your feet and instinctively your hands go to your naked buttocks. Your flesh feels like leather. The pain is already easing but both cheeks throb like mad. You are unconcerned that you are standing half-naked in front of father exposing your privates. Father hauls himself from the chair and reaches for his jacket. You take this cue and get dressed yourself, gingerly puling your underwear over your scorching buttocks. You bend down and retrieve your trousers. Pain reignites when you pull them over your bum. You zip up but leave the belt undone.

Father reaches for the Bible. Your head spins. You feel high. It must be the adrenaline, or something. You know father is reading to you but you can’t make out the words. This goes on for a long minute before father intones, “Amen.” Hurriedly, you echo that.

“Go to your room,” father says quietly. You hobble away. As you walk towards the staircase you hear the sound of a washing machine and catch the smell of detergent. Mother is washing your clothes. You wonder how long you will have to wait before you can get the train back to university.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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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

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com