Hal woke with a start. He found himself sitting up in bed, his bottom still tingling. What had roused him? His dick throbbed and he shuddered with shame. Not again? He reached his hand inside the fly of his pyjama bottoms. The top of his cock was wet but still rigid. Quickly, he explored himself with his palm, then he tested the sheets. No, he had not ejaculated; he had caught himself just in time.
“Oh gosh,” he exclaimed aloud. There was someone in the room. It was gloomy, his eyes had not adjusted. He couldn’t see, but he could hear; someone was wheezing hard.
“What the …” Hal cried.
“Shussh. It’s all right.” Hal recognised the voice. It was his elder brother Roger.
“Shussh,” Roger whispered again, placing his index finger across his own mouth. “I’ve missed curfew. By a mile. I saw your window open. I climbed in.”
Hal looked across the room, the curtain was flapping gently in the breeze of a warm night. His brother tip-toed across the room like a cat in a cartoon sneaking up on a canary. Before he reached the bedroom door, Hal spoke in a normal, clear voice. “There’s no point doing that. Dad knows you’re late. I think he’s waiting downstairs with the strap,” he chuckled. As in all families Hal was delighted to know his brother was in trouble. It made a change that it wasn’t himself, Hal might be eighteen years old but he was still no stranger to his father’s knee and a close-up view of the carpet. Without thinking, he pressed his buttocks into the hard mattress, reigniting the pain from earlier. He could testify that father was not in a good mood.
“I don’t believe you,” Roger scorned. “I didn’t see any lights in the house. Everyone’s in bed.”
“Please yourself,” Hal shrugged his shoulders as his brother exited the room. Hal turned on his side, pulled the blanket over him and gently massaged his buttocks. The surface still felt a little like leather.
The house was old and Roger knew every creaking floorboard in the place. He manoeuvred across the hallway. There was no light under the door of his parents’ bedroom. Gingerly, he took hold of the handle on the door of his own room. His heart sped. He was almost safe. The door squeaked. Roger’s heart stopped. Slowly, ever so slowly, he eased the door open a few inches; just enough to squeeze his slim body through. He closed the door.
He could relax now, but even so he didn’t put the light on. The moon was bright and he could see well enough to get out of his clothes and into his pyjamas. He slid beneath the blanket. Safe at last. He had a fitful night, his sleep disturbed by recurring visions. He and Mary together. Her breasts. Her thighs. Her buttocks. The tantalising glimpse of petticoat. The things she would not let him do to her.
He was late down to breakfast in the morning. The house was eerie. Where was everyone? He sat alone in the breakfast room, mournfully sucking a piece of dry toast. Still he could not keep the image of Mary from his mind. A voice brought him back to earth. It was Miranda, the live-in maid. “Good morning Mr Roger. Your father says he wants to see you in the drawing room.” She paused to note cheerfully the sudden draining of colour from his face. “At once,” she emphasised and she cleared used plates from the breakfast table. Miranda hoped Roger did not see the smile she was failing to suppress.
Father was waiting. He was a stern man and this morning he looked even more severe. He sat irritably in a chair. “You’re late. What kept you? I haven’t got all day. Stand there.” He barked as Roger entered the room. He pointed to a spot two yards in front of him. Roger, who was no stranger to his father’s temper meekly took up position. He bowed his head, not daring to catch his father’s eye.
“Missed curfew,” father almost shouted. “Again!” He let the final word hang in the air. This was not a first offence. “Bah!” father continued. “What was it this time? Playing cards with those cads again?”
Roger hit down onto his lower lip. His father meant the boys who frequented The Three Fishers, a public house of ill repute. He nodded his head sorrowfully. Better to let him think that than to know Roger had been trying to get his hand inside a girl’s underwear. Father was strict Chapel. Being unchaperoned with a girl was far higher on the list of sins, even than playing cards.
“Bah!” his father coughed loudly. He had prepared a speech. He always had a homily or two to deliver at times such as this. Roger listened patiently. There was no doubt at all how this meeting would end. He was in no hurry for proceedings to move along. Wicked. Sinful. Were two of the words Roger caught, although he had stopped listening after the first two minutes.
“No son of mine …” Roger’s ears pricked up. He recognised this sentence. It usually meant his father was about to conclude his sermon. Roger paid attention.
“So …” his father had finished his lecture. He was preparing for action. “Fetch the strap.” Roger sucked in a bellyful of air. He did not need further instruction. He turned his back on his father and walked to the far end of the large room. He paused momentarily and looked at the heavy strap that hung from a hook in the wall. He reached up. Not for the first time, he measured its weight in his hand. He looked at it as if seeing it only for the first time. It was old and worn and about fourteen inches long and two wide. It had been specially made as a punishment strap and the name of the manufacturer from the Scottish town of Lochgelly was embossed along one side.
“Hurry up. Bring it here, we haven’t all day to waste.” His father barked. Roger carried the strap in both hands like it was a religious relic of some kind. With reverence, he handed the strap to his father. “Prepare yourself,” he intoned.
Roger needed no further instruction. Prepare yourself meant lower the trousers and underwear. Father only ever spanked on the bare buttocks. He had once said it was not a proper spanking otherwise. Roger knew there was no point reminding father that he was twenty years old; twenty-one in a few weeks’ time. He was not yet legally an adult. Beside, father would probably continue spanking him for years to come. Father was without doubt the head of the household. The gardener’s boy knew that to his cost and he was thirty years old if he were a day.
With steady hands, Roger prepared himself. His trousers and underwear bunched at his shins. He was not embarrassed to stand half-naked in front of his father. It was hardly the first time. His father shifted his own buttocks on the chair and leaned back so he would not topple once Roger was in position. He closed his knees and splayed his feet making a platform for his son. “Bend over,” he said imperiously.
Roger would submit to his father. He always did. A ritual was playing out between them and they both knew the part they had to play. Roger looked down at his father’s lap, then he rested his hands on his left knee and gently lowered himself. He let his arms fall in front of him. The chair was high and this meant that behind him his feet could brush the floor without him bending his knees. His bared bottom rested at an angle against his father’s knee.
Father was a stoical man. He had said his piece already, there was nothing more to say. He rubbed the strap across the highest point of his son’s bottom and made a sawing motion. He was taking his aim. Satisfied that he had it, father gripped the strap tightly, raised it high into the air and hammered it down with great vim. A dark pink line immediately formed across Roger’s bottom. He winced. That hurt. He knew it would. The second and third swipes landed almost simultaneously, ensuring that both cheeks quickly glowed red-hot. Roger’s hips wriggled and his knees bent slightly. There wasn’t anything he could do about this. His body had a life of its own, the movements were a natural reaction against the pain.
Father set out to make sure every part of Roger’s bottom glowed. He whacked the strap across the highest point of the mounds, then over the crests and finally into the undersides where the cheeks and the thighs meet. Once every square inch of flesh scorched he turned his strap to the backs of the thighs. Roger knew he would do this but that knowledge did not stop him yelping at the pain. He would be reminded of this every time he sat on a hard surface for many hours to come.
Swipe. Swipe. Swipe. Father kept a steady rhythm. He knew spanking his sons could be an exhausting experience so he liked to pace himself. There was no need to hurry. Roger was going nowhere. He was submissively offering up his bared bottom to the lashes of the strap. Father could go on all day if he so chose.
Roger’s cheeks clenched and unclenched. His head swayed from side to side like a horse worried by a fly. He shut his teeth to keep back the yaps and yelps his body wanted him to make. His shirt was sticking to his back with perspiration. His temples throbbed almost as much as his backside.
Roger’s bottom had been many shades of pink and was now a bright scarlet. Father knew that if he spanked him for only a little longer it would become the colour of a fine Burgundy wine. Then would be the time to stop. He raised the strap again brought it down.
A ritual was being played out between father and son. It was the kind of intimate affair best shared in private. Neither father or son would have been pleased to know that the maid Miranda stood by the half-opened door enjoying every lash of Roger’s punishment.
Picture credit: The Champion
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
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Charles Hamilton the Second