The following story is fiction about a father disciplining a teenaged son and contains a scene of strapping. If this subject is offensive, uninteresting or if you are a minor (i.e., child) please leave now. This is the first of the Michael Mannix stories which maybe read in any order.
This work is copyright by the author and commercial use is prohibited without permission. Personal/private copies are permitted only if complete including the copyright notice.
The author would appreciate your comments – pro and con, including constructive criticism, and suggestions.
It is 12:30 A.M. Sunday morning and you close the front door very quietly and tiptoe toward the stairs. You hear a click. It is a familiar click. It is your father's den door latch being turned. You freeze even as the door opens. Silhouetted in the door, backlit by the light from the desk lamp, is your father. "Michael Mannix get in here immediately." he barks, angrily before turning and returning to his desk. He knows that you will comply.
You're busted. You know all to well that it is way past your curfew. Your dad looks very mad as you face him across the desk. You see the strap is already lying on the desk. You know that your father always uses it if he takes it out. You are immediately certain that you will be sleeping prone tonight.
Your father eyes you up and down. Now you're sorry that you loosened your tie hours ago but it was so hot holding Sam that you had to. You wanted to open your pants also to give more room to Mr. Willy but you restrained yourself.
Your father snarls – "You're a disgrace. Look at yourself." You close the den door and check yourself out in the mirror mounted on the inside. You are horrified. Your hair is a mess but it felt ever so good when Sam's fingers ran through it. Not only is your tie loose but one side of the button-down collar is undone and there is a chocolate stain on it (a side effect of a shared chocolate Kiss). Your blazer is a mess as if it had been rolled into a ball and used for a seat cushion not to mention the mud stains. Your trousers are almost as bad and you hope that dad does notice the evidence of your excitement still damp in your crotch. Of course, your socks match. Unfortunately, both are down at your ankles rather than just below your knees. Your shoes are muddy from your cutting through the park when you ran home. You don't notice the mud on your blazer. You gulp and quickly resume your place in front of the desk looking like a bum rather than the smartly dressed young man your father expects.
You wish that you could say something but there is not anything to say now – now that you look like a slob. What excuse or explanation can a fifteen-year-old have for mud on his shins and clothes coming home from a school dance. You well know that "I splashed myself running though the mud getting home, Father." won't help the situation one tiny bit.© YLeeCoyote
"I'm a mess, Father." you confess the obvious.
"Indeed, young man! A full and complete mess." your father agrees, far too hardily for your comfort. "And it is well past your curfew."
You wish that you had tightened up your tie but it is too late to do that now.
You know that strap on the desk is going to be kissing your butt and it won't be nearly as nice as when Sam kissed you. You decide to own up to everything since that won't make anything worse. It could hardly get worse now, anyway, and maybe Father will not think so badly of you. "I'm sorry Father. I'm a mess and I'm late. I should not be but, regrettably, I am. " You know better than to add a plea for mercy. "I know that I deserve to be strapped, Sir." you say. You hope that, perhaps, it will prevent a long lecture. You know that the strapping is a certainly.
You are wrong. Your Father gives you a long lecture about how terrible you look; how late you are and how you are not acting like an almost sixteen-year-old but a little ten-year-old boy. You have been lobbying for more privileges because you are getting more mature but you know that you have just proven otherwise. You know that one of the punishments will be that you will have to remain in shorts for the rest of the year even though you will be sixteen next month three months earlier. All your classmates have been in longs since the beginning of the year.
Get out of those disgraceful clothes immediately and bend over the chair. You know that your father is extremely furious. It seems silly to carefully fold your soiled and rumpled clothes but that is part of the protocol. Soon you are starkers and your clothes are piled neatly on the couch with your shoes underneath. You move the chair into position and stand in the proper place.
"I'm sorry I was naughty, Father. Please punish me as I truly deserve." you say and bend over the back of the chair. You grasp the chair tightly and pray that you will not yell like a baby but will take it silently a like a man.
Father gets up from his chair, picking up the strap as he walks to his position. Just like Kipling knew Gunga Din was fifty paces right flank rear with his mussick, you know your father is one step left flank rear with his strap – the genuine Lochgelly middle weight tawse that sears your bottom.
You brace yourself for the first cut. Father raises it and a second later it connects with your waiting bottom with a loud WHACK and with the searing pain that you know all too well. You clench your teeth and grip the chair so tightly that your knuckles turn white while your butt turns red.
The strap is raised and forcefully lowered four more times. You manage to keep quiet. You know that the sixth cut will be worse than the others.
You are not disappointed. You cannot keep silent and you yelp. Your father does not comment but you know you have disappointed him. You keep your grip on the chair as he has not said to get up.
"You're getting another three since there were so many transgressions tonight" he says.
You are afraid. Never before have you gotten nine at one time. You brace yourself and get cuts seven and eight. "Just one more." you think and it will be over. It is a killer cut and you scream. You are ashamed. "Sorry Father." you confess hoping to make things right, "I should not have yelled like that." You pause and then say what you hope is the right thing. "May I have that one again, Father."
Your Father kindly obliges and gives you the tenth cut. You manage not to yell and are glad when he tells to stand and return the chair to its usual place. You think there a slight smile of approval on your father's face that you behaved in such a manly fashion. Although you want to rub your hot red sore painful tail you don't for it is not manly. You pick up your clothes and go to your room as ordered.
You shower and get into bed. Your dreams, your wet dreams are of Sam and of the strap. You mess the bed but in the morning don't know which was the real cause. You clean and polish your shoes extra bright. You carefully dress in a clean shirt, properly buttoned with a tie done up tight fortunately you have another blazer and trousers, albeit short trousers, fresh from the cleaners for you know that your father will inspect you very carefully.
You double check that your socks are pulled up and perfectly even before you go downstairs. "Good morning, Father." you say confident that you will past muster now.
© Copyright A.I.L. March 11, 2009
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Last updated: September 15, 2023