I shouldn't have left my son and nephew alone at home when I went to the club to workout. If I'd have been smart, I would have insisted that they come along with me. But Sam was fourteen now, and old enough to take care of himself. He was also old enough to appreciate the facilities at the our health club, so usually we exercised together on Monday and Thursday evenings. But with his sixteen-year-old cousin visiting us for the week, Sam decided that it just "wasn't cool" to hang out with his old man. So I left him and Clay with money to order pizza, grabbed my towel, and headed to the club alone.
After working out with the weights and cardiac equipment for an hour and a half, my usual routine was to spend some time in the pool and steam room, then take the 7pm yoga class. Today, there had been a notice saying that yoga was cancelled, so I skipped the pool and went straight home to see if there was any pizza left.
Nope. Walking in through the front door of my house, the empty pizza box was the first thing that I saw. And scattered beside it on the coffee table were also a six-pack worth of empty beer cans . . .
I followed the sound of uproarious laughter down to our rec room, where I found Sam and Clay engaged in an energetic game of darts. I winced as Sammy ran up to collect his missiles while Clay was still busy throwing his, but didn't say anything, for fear of distracting my nephew and interfering with his aim. My self-restraint was pointless, however. Even without my interference, Clay's final dart flew wide of its target, and bounced off of the wall mere inches from my son's head.
"Sam! Clay! What is going on here?" I demanded.
"Um, nothing, Dad," Sam stammered, wheeling around and noticing my presence for the first time. "We were just playing a game of darts."
"Nothing unusual about tonight, huh?"
Sammy looked down at his feet. "Well . . . um . . . I guess that you know about the beer?"
"Of course, I know about the beer!" I blew up. "You didn't exactly make any effort to hide it!"
"You weren't supposed to be home for another two hours!" my son defended. "We were gonna clean it up . . . later."
"But now it's too late, isn't it?" I barked. "Sam, what happened the last time that I caught you sneaking beer? Well, speak up!"
With a nervous glance to his older cousin, Sam murmured, "You whipped my butt, Dad."
"I sure did. And what did I say would happen if I found you drinking again?" I continued.
"You said that you would beat me twice as hard," my son answered mournfully.
"Right. So that is exactly what I'm going to do. Now, tell me three things I can do that will make this spanking worse than the last one."
"What do you mean, Dad?" Poor Sammy was confused.
"I'll help you out. First, do you remember how I spanked you the last time, back when you were thirteen?"
"Sure," Sam replied hesitantly. "You put me over your knee and spanked me for about an hour."
"That's quite an exaggeration," I chuckled. "But I'm looking for details here, Sammy - the where, what, when, and hows."
"It was last year . . . in the living room . . . with your hand-"
"There, that's what I was looking for," I said. "So, I used my hand, right?"
"I get it, I get it," Sam grumbled. "You want me to say that this spanking will be worse if you use something else."
"Exactly," I confirmed. "And this ought to do nicely." I picked up a wooden paddle from our ping pong table top. "What else can I do to make your butt hurt more?"
"Hell, I don't know, Dad!" The kid was getting frustrated with this game, but I was short on sympathy at the moment.
"About how many times did I swat you before?"
"I dunno. Probably 100."
I laughed again. "I'm remembering a number closer to 25 or 30. But 100 sounds about right for this reminder session, I think."
"Dad!" Sam was horrified.
"OK, then why don't YOU choose a number between 30 and 100?"
I could see the gears in my sons mind turning. I'm sure he knew that if he dared to say "31", I was ready to veto his suggestion and set the number at 99!
"50?" he said finally.
"Sounds good. What else? Three things that will make it worse, remember?"
"C'mon, Dad, just whip me and let's get it over with," Sam pleaded.
But I wasn't going to let the kid off so easily. I turned to his cousin, who had been lurking silently in the background, hoping not to be noticed.
"Clay? Do you have any suggestions for me?"
Torn between loyalty to his partner in crime and the fear of pissing me off further, my nephew frowned and considered the question.
"Well . . ." he answered slowly, "did you spank Sam on the seat of his pants last time?"
"Yes, his jeans, I believe."
"You could pull them down this time. Just the pants," Clay added hurriedly, "not his underwear."
"Good idea," I congratulated my nephew. "But if you think that I'm going to leave his shorts up until the THIRD time he disobeys me, you're crazy. Nope, this one's going to be given totally bare butt."
Clay shrugged apologetically at Sam.
"As for you, Clay, sit YOUR butt down into that chair and wait. You're going to be next."
"But, Uncle Dave-"
"Save it," I snapped. "Right now, I'm dealing with Sammy."
"You heard what I said. Get 'em down!" I said to my cringing son.
The fourteen-year-old pouted as he unbuttoned and slid down his jeans. He looked to me for reprieve before lowering his boxers, but could tell by the expression on my face that I wasn't in a very generous mood. Soon, the kid was positioned over my knee as I sat on the couch. Deciding to save the "alcohol is bad" lecture for later, I raised the ping pong paddle and brought it crashing down upon Sammy's quivering bottom.
My son stiffened at the impact, then jerked and yelped when the second hard swat slammed against his bare buns.
"Please, Dad," Sam whimpered in a small, broken voice. I knew that he was thinking that 48 more of these whacks would be unbearable. Of course, I had no intention of brutally beating the poor boy. I had given him the first two licks at full strength just to warm him up and remind him what I was capable of. Now that each of Sam's bottom cheeks bore a deep red circle, I toned down the intensity of the swats and settled into a rhythm of short, sharp whacks that would sting my son's rear, but not bruise or brutalize him.
The next half a minute was very uncomfortable for my poor Sammy, but he survived it. I delivered his 50 spanks rapidly - so that the ordeal would be over quickly - but Sam still found the time to kick and squeal like he was being killed. When I let him up, he hurriedly pulled his pants on over his stinging butt. I pulled my boy back down onto my lap for a hug, which Sam didn't resist, but didn't exactly seem to appreciate either. I think he was trying to figure out what the worst part of the experience really was: having a spanked and burning bottom, crying in front of his older cousin, or being cuddled by his dad as if he were a little kid.
I released Sammy to retreat to the other end of the couch where he could sulk and lick his wounds in peace. The kindest thing that I could do for my son now, was elleviate his embarrassment by treating his "cool" cousin to the same thing that he'd just received.
"OK, Clay, you're up," I said, as I tapped the paddle against my palm.
"Wait a sec, Uncle Dave, this isn't fair!"
"Sure it is. You and Sam both screwed up, and you are both going to be punished. Should we call your dad and find out what he thinks about it?"
Clay was well aware that I already had the "permission to discipline" thing covered. The first time that he had stayed with us - when he was twelve and Sammy was ten - there had been an incident involving a can of spray paint and the neighbor's poodle. I had spanked my own son, then called my brother to ask what I should do about his.
"Don't even tell me what happened," Clay's dad had cut me off quickly. "If I know about it, I'll be obligated to get on his case after I pick him up next week. Just handle the situation however you think best, and save the kid from being punished twice."
So Clay knew that I COULD and WOULD paddle him right along with Sam - but that didn't mean that he liked the idea!
"No, there's no reason to call my dad," Clay assured me. "But, really, Uncle Dave, I don't need to be punished for this. Sam, I can understand. He's just a kid, and I TOLD him that he shouldn't be drinking beer. But I'm old enough to have one or two cans, if I want."
"You are? The law says that you're about five years shy of being 'old enough'. Besides, Clay, you are the oldest, so you are the one who should be looking out for things while I'm gone. How can you do that if your judgment is impaired by alcohol?"
"I'm not impaired; I'm just fine," Clay protested. "I'm not drunk, or anything."
"Sure," I scoffed. "That's why I see so many dart holes in the wall surrounding the board - because you aren't one bit drunk."
"Sam did that."
"Did not!" Sammy called from the couch. "I was winning."
"All right, Clay," I conceded. "I'll give you a chance to prove that you are in perfect mental health. You throw five darts at the board, and the score you earn will be the number of whacks you receive with my paddle. If you are as sober as you claim you are, it should be easy for you to hit low numbers and save your butt from grief."
It was a perfect solution, in my mind. By accepting my challenge, Clay would essentially be giving me permission to spank him. And I wasn't worried about his performance either - if the kid played well and got a low score, I would simply administer harder swats to his behind to make up the difference. If his score turned out to be astronomical, the spanks would be gentler. No matter what happened, I could adjust Clay's punishment so that it was equally as painful as Sammy's had been . . . or maybe a bit worse.
"OK, it's a deal," Clay said with a _c_o_c_k_y smirk. In true teenage fashion, he was not about to shy away from a risky proposition.
"Fine," I said, handing him his five darts. "I'll even make the bulls-eye worth negative five points as a bonus," I added generously.
Full of confidence, Clay stepped up to the duct tape marker that I had stuck on the rec room carpet, and aimed his first dart.
(Brief intermission while Author leaves to throw a few darts for authenticity.)
(Didn't work. Author is stone sober and got a total score of "11" - which doesn't make for much of a story. Longer pause, while Author gets hammered.)
(Much better. Clay will now proceed to get the same score that the Author earned in an "impaired" condition . . . except the Author has cheated and rearranged the order of the shots. Chalk it up to creative license.)
Zing!
Clay's first dart quivered as it stuck solidly into the number "4". The boy shot me a triumphant grin. Idiot. Didn't he realize how much four swats with a paddle could hurt if I wanted them to?
Zing!
The second dart went straight into the bulls-eye.
"Subtract five from four and you get negative one," Clay pointed out. "Does that mean I get to give YOU a whack, Uncle Dave?"
"Just keep throwing those darts, boy," I growled.
Zing!
This third shot caused the grin to abruptly disappear from my nephew's face. Number "18". In the space of a single second, Clay had managed to earn himself a pretty decent spanking.
"I think I'll aim for the 'one' instead of the bulls-eye," Clay muttered to himself. "The target area is much bigger." The teen's brow knitted in concentration as he lined up his next dart.
Zing!
Unfortunately, the number "18" was located directly to the right of the "1" on the dart board. Clay was only slightly off the mark, but off enough to bring his total score to "35".
Zing!
My nephew's last dart was thrown haphazardly, as if he'd decided that he had nothing left to lose. Clay was lucky that it stuck into the number "5" instead of something worse!
"_d_a_m_n_," Clay said. "This game really wasn't fair, 'cause I'm no good at darts even when I haven't been drinking."
"Should've thought of that sooner," I replied without sympathy. "Now get your butt over here."
"No fair!" It was Sam's turn to complain. "He's only going to get forty whacks - ten less than what I got!"
"You are a second time offender," I reminded my son. I didn't bother mentioning my intention to make Clay's forty way worse than Sam's fifty.
My nephew was a decent sport, so dropped his pants with only half-hearted protest. I spared the sixteen-year-old's dignity and allowed him to bend over the back of the couch rather than going over my knee. I could get a better swing that way, anyhow.
CRACK!
"Ouch!"
Clay understood from whack #1 that I did not intend to go easy on him. I was fairly certain that the beer binge had been his idea in the first place.
The ping pong paddle was about the right size to redden just one of Clay's butt cheeks with each smack, so I happily alternated from one side to the other for the first ten swats. For the second round of ten, I delivered five firm whacks to the exact same spot on his left cheek, then moved on to administer similar treatment to the right side. This calculated action left two paddle-sized maroon areas on each cheek, and caused Clay to yell, "Ow-ow-ow-ow-owwww!"
Swats twenty-one through thirty I gave more slowly, but really, really hard. I think that the tears began at number twenty-three, and the boy's knees buckled at number twenty-six. I had to wait for him to get himself back into position over the couch before continuing.
I ended Clay's spanking by concentrating the final ten blows to the lowest portion of his bottom, ensuring that the teen would not be sitting comfortably the next that he plopped himself down to watch TV and gorge himself on pizza.
By this point, Sam had pretty much recovered from his portion of the punishment, so was able to fully appreciate the fact that his older cousin had been reduced to childish tears. I allowed the boys to retreat upstairs to Sam's bedroom to commiserate with one another. Tomorrow, I would deliver a lecture on the dangers of drinking, but tonight I knew that the only "danger" that would be on the boy's minds was the risk that alcohol represented to their bared butts.
Tired out from both the health club and the additional exercise that I'd gotten at home, I collapsed in front of the television with a couple of microwaveable burritos. A cold beer would've gone really well with them, but it seemed that I was all out. *SIGH*
The End
PS: My website is back online