That time of Year

 

Original Fiction – for adult eyes only

 

It’s that time of year again: the end of term. This is when youngsters across the land get found out: school reports are sent to parents and exams are about to be sat.

This is when we discover who has been studying hard and who has been wasting their time on idle pursuits like drinking beer and chasing girls.

In the present day, parents would likely pay for their ‘failures’ to attend special holiday clubs so they could cram their studies in preparation for exam resits in the autumn. Or, maybe, they’re sent off for counselling so a ‘doctor’ can delve into their inner thinkings to discover what makes them idle sods.

Back in the day things were handled differently. If boys brought home poor school reports, or failed their exams, they could expect to face their father’s wrath. And in many cases it didn’t matter that the lad in question was eighteen-years-old and captain of the school’s rugby team.

The details might differ from home to home but a father who really loved his son wouldn’t allow them to journey into adulthood without the wherewithal to steer their way through choppy waters. Some might say they were cruel to be kind. Others, simply believed they were carrying out a father’s duty.

It would go something like this. Timothy Cartwright, a bright lad who aced his examinations aged 16, has lost his way. Now, aged 18, he has spent too long in the picture house and the pub (many are willing to serve the under-aged) and laying in his bed thinking of what he would like to do with Cynthia, the girl with big breasts who lived across the street.

Dad knows it is Timothy’s fault that he failed. So, the teenager must get a wake-up call, before it is too late. Timothy, is no fool; he knows he has screwed up. He is rudderless and he needs a captain to steer him back on course. He is not alone, and Timothy’s dad is not alone either. The scene to be acted out in Timothy’s bedroom will be replicated in homes across the land.

Timothy’s dad consults with Timothy’s mother. There is no disagreement, they are on the same page. They agree a course of action. Timothy’s mother retires to the bedroom to retrieve her hairbrush – the heavy one with the flower painted on the head that has been a family heirloom for generations. It has a very effective secondary purpose.

She hands the brush to her husband and retreats downstairs to the kitchen where she will boil a kettle of water and make tea.

Her husband feels the heaviness of the brush in his hand and the weight of regret in his heart. He doesn’t want to do this. He would much rather Timothy learnt self-discipline and responsibility without resorting to these measures. But, that wasn’t to be, so Mr Cartwright must do what a father must do. He takes a deep breath, strides down the passageway and throws open the door to his son’s bedroom. He does not knock since he considers this to be his house and he will walk where he chooses.

Timothy knows his father has read the school report and he is expecting this visit. He knows what will happen next and he knows his father has his best interests at heart. He knows this but it doesn’t make him fear the consequences of his actions any less. Nor, does his knowledge that Peter, his best friend at school, will also be enduring a similar encounter with his own dad around about this time. They will compare their experiences next morning.

There is very little to say; father had his ‘little word’ with his son months ago where he detailed the consequence if Timothy did not ‘pull his socks up’ and knuckle down to some serious studying.

Mr Cartwright was most specific about the consequences: Timothy knows he has nobody to blame but himself.

Father takes the wooden stool that sits under the dressing table, he moves it to the centre of the room, all the while conscious of Timothy’s bright blue eyes watching intently. He sits on the stool and holds the brush in the air. Timothy is still on the bed. His heart races and he feels his face flushing bright pink.

His father is not angry; this is not a time for ire, it is a time to be calm and collected. He has a duty to perform and he is going to perform it. ‘Come over here,’ he says, almost sweetly. ‘Oh, Dad, please,’ Timothy begins to whine, but his father has charted a course and he will be steadfast in following it. ‘Come here,’ he says a little stronger this time and Timothy eases himself to his feet. Soon he is towering over his seated father. The 18-year-old is a couple of inches taller and athletically built. If he wished to he could resist and his father would not have the strength to force him.

But that is not how these scenes are meant to play out. Timothy deserves to be punished and he knows that he does. He will not resist; like many other lads up and down the nation, he will submit to his father’s will. He will not like what happens next but it is to be hoped (expected in most cases) that the experience will successfully alter the young man’s life.

‘Take down those trousers,’ Timothy expected this instruction but that doesn’t stop his face shining brightly as he fumbles with the belt, the button on his waist and the zipper of his chinos. The weight of the belt and the keys in his pocket sends them hurtling to his feet.

‘Bend over,’ his father indicates his lap as if there was a doubt to his meaning. Timothy, despite the deep humiliation he feels, leans forward, puts the palms of his hands on his father’s thighs, and lowers himself forward. He stretches out his arms and rests his palms on the carpet. His bottom is large and muscular and covered by white cotton underpants.

‘We don’t need these,’ his father sighs and gripping the elasticated waistband of the pants he tugs them over the hard, round cheeks. Timothy raises his body a little off his father’s lap so it is easier for this to be done. The pants are deposited at Timothy’s knees and now Mr Cartwright is ready for action.

The bottom is large and by comparison the brush quite small so it takes many whacks to cover the entire area of Timothy’s buttocks. Dad let’s fly with a will and the resounding thwack of wood against bare backside bounces off the wall. He is a serious man and he believes if he is going to spank his wayward son he is going to do it properly. Rat-a-tat-tat; it sounds like machinegun fire in the room. The pain mounts and despite his silent resolution that he would take the spanking without fuss, Timothy can’t help himself hollering.

Far from encouraging his father to slow down it does the opposite and soon Timothy’s rear-end glows red hot. His father aims the brush high, then low, then on the right cheek, then the left. Satisfied that every square inch of flesh is toasted he turns his attention to the sit-spot where cheeks and thighs meet and then to the thighs themselves. This is the most sensitive part of a young man’s body in spanking circumstances and the pain has Timothy howling again.

On and on Mr Cartwright spanks and downstairs in the kitchen the kettle boils.

So, that’s how it was done back in the day. There must be many young men today grateful that our world has changed. But can we be certain it has changed for everyone? Perhaps, somewhere in our green and pleasant land a father is guiding his under-achieving son across his knee for an encounter with a hairbrush.

Picture credit: Ken Beverley

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