Corporal Punishment: A Last Resort

Disclaimer: This story is fiction and not written to encourage incest, corporal (physical) punishment, or nonconsensual sexual activity. This is not a representation of the BDSM community. Both characters in this story are over the age of 18.

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Emmett sat in the living room, staring at the analog clock on the wall and wondering what the fuck he was going to do with his out of control son. Damon had been such a sweet, loving boy up until he turned fifteen, then he'd morphed into some sort of demon. Allegedly, that’s what happened to all sweet boys. They morphed into something twisted, cruel, and frightening.

Teenagers.

Damon's behavior was jarring at first, and it had slowly escalated over the years. Now that his baby boy was eighteen, Emmett was terrified that his child was going to get into serious legal trouble if he kept his shit up.

“You know what mom and dad would have done,” his brother Dax said through his earbuds. “They would’ve beat the shit out of us and–”

“Yes, I know what mom and dad would have done,” Emmett said with a long suffering sigh. “But I’m not going to lay hands on my son.”

“I’m just saying!” his brother continued, suppressed laughter in his voice. “It fixed you right up during your rebellious phase.”

Yes, it had. Emmett had gone from barely passing classes and skipping school to smoke pot in the park across the street to getting straight As, being accepted to his first choice university…and smoking pot with his parents.

“It’s not appropriate,” said Emmett. He often wondered how different he may have been if his parents were less strict, and also less liberal. Their upbringing was such a fascinating dichotomy that a lifetime of therapy wouldn’t begin to crack the surface.

“What use is propriety?” Dax guffawed.

“Boundaries are important.”

“Boundaries are barriers!”

“I’m hanging up now,” warned Emmett.

“Love you, baby brother,” cooed Dax.

Emmett rolled his eyes, a smile fighting for real estate on his lips. “Love you, idiot.”

Dax was still snickering when Emmett hung up on him.

The timing was perfect, it seemed, because that was when he heard the lock on the door turning.

Damon stumbled into the house, not registering that all the lights were on, nor that his father sat in the armchair in the corner of the living room. In his defense, no one ever sat in that armchair. It was practically decorative, since everyone in the family and guests all preferred the loveseat and the couch. So when he heard a throat clearing behind him as he was toeing off his shoes, trying to balance with a hand on the wall, he yelped, his arm slipping, and he landed on the floor on his ass.

“Ow,” he grunted, wincing and leaning back, trying to get his weight off of his tender tailbone.

Emmett jumped to his feet, immediately regretting surprising his son. That was until his son said, “What the fuck are you doing lurking in the dark like some weirdo?” Well, that’s what he thought he said. The slur wasn’t terrible, but it was definitely present.

“The lights are on,” Emmett said, not at all impressed with his son’s attitude or disheveled state. “You’ve been drinking again.”

“Whatever,” grumbled Damon, kicking off his shoes and stumbling to his feet, losing balance again and falling into the wall. Emmett hovered near Damon, wanting to help him but knowing that the second he reached out, Damon would rage.

“Damon, I’m worried about you,” Emmett admitted, not for the first time. He wanted to try to sort things out the right way. He wanted his relationship with his son to be the way it once was. They’d been so close, spent time together, talked about everything. Sometimes, it felt like a loss, something visceral missing inside of himself like a piece of his soul was chipped away. “It scares me when you’re out all night and don’t answer your phone.”

Damon was strikingly handsome at times, though this wasn’t one of them. He had dark hair and eyes with pale skin that was a flattering contrast under normal circumstances, but right then he looked like a shell of the person he once was. If he wasn’t on a diet of junk food and beer, he might have wasted away entirely. 

The thunderous expression stealing over his features sent a chill down Emmett’s spine, not because he felt impending violence, but because he could tell he was truly losing his son. His baby.

And at that moment, Emmett had enough.

“Come here.”

Damon snorted, attempting to shoulder past his father. Emmett didn't budge, having two inches and fifty pounds of muscle on him.

Emmett steeled himself for what he had to do next.

Damon wasn’t expecting the sharp sting in his scalp as his father grabbed him by his hair, not understanding at first why he was no longer standing upright, thinking that perhaps he had fallen again, tipsy as he was. He tried to reach out and catch himself as the hardwood floor flew at him at an alarming pace, but before that could happen, his stomach slammed into something solid, and his arms were yanked behind him.

Damon gagged a bit, his stomach displeased at the sudden motion and the pressure of what he now realized were his father’s strong thighs. As soon as he caught on to what his dad was doing–binding his wrists behind his back–he began to flail, attempting to free himself from the older man’s grip. “What the fuck are you doing?” he yelled, trying to leverage himself off of his dad’s lap by digging his toes into the floor, but his sock covered toes kept slipping. “Dad!”

Emmett said nothing, securing his son’s wrists in his belt, tying them tight enough that he was sure he wouldn’t escape, not worried about injury since this wouldn’t take very long. The first time was always the hardest and the easiest.

Emmett reached under Damon, deftly unfastening his jeans and yanking them and his underwear down over his bubble butt and all the way to his ankles. His son was yelling obscenities, but Emmett ignored him, easily controlling the boy after decades of experience in similar scenarios.

“I want you to count,” Emmett said, but Damon wasn’t listening, too lost in his own unfocused rage to cooperate or understand the precarious position he was in.

Emmett slapped his son on his rear, not holding back an ounce of the fear and worry and fury that had been building up for the last three years. And like he’d been struck by a taser, Damon’s body jerked a few times then went completely still.

“Are you fucking spanking me?” his son asked incredulously.

“Do you think you don’t deserve it?” countered Emmett, feeling more calm and controlled than he had in far too long.

Damon spluttered a few times, like he was trying to deny it, but the words wouldn’t come out quite right. Did he deserve it? To be spanked by his own father? No, of course not. He didn’t believe in corporal punishment, nor did his parents. They were civilized, they talked things out, they…

Oh.

Damon’s face was red, not just from the humiliation of his ass being exposed or that he was being spanked like a misbehaving little kid, but because he could suddenly see, with perfect clarity, how he’d ended up where he was. And for some fucking reason, he was incapable of admitting it. Because if anything could make this experience even more embarrassing, it was admitting that he deserved everything he was getting.

“Fuck you!” he screamed and began to writhe with renewed vigor.

Dad spanked him a second time, even harder than the first, and Damon gasped a second later when the sting of the slap sank in. It was like a delay where he’d first hear the slap of hand to skin, then his body would register the blow.

“Count.”

Damon had never heard his dad sound so menacing, so controlled, so domineering and masculine. His dad wasn’t particularly feminine, nor was he weak–the man took good care of his body and he was confident without being cocky, too charming to be an alpha type but too steezy to be steamrolled. But this…this was not something that Damon was used to.

“T-two,” Damon croaked.

Emmett cracked his ass again. “Start over. And if you lose count, we start over again.”

Damon whined pathetically at the thought of having to endure yet more of this humiliation. The smacks hurt, but the blows to his ego were worse. “One!”

Emmett smacked his ass again.

“Two!”

Emmett set up a steady rhythm, alternating cheeks and creating a nice abstract piece on his son’s bouncy pale ass, enjoying watching his flesh ripple and pinken. He eased up around ten, then built up power as they neared twenty.

Damon wasn’t sure when he’d begun to cry, but he was. He was emotionally overwhelmed. Why was his dad hitting him? How could it hurt so much? Why did he feel like he was floating away, like his mind was detaching from his body? And as he squirmed in his dad’s lap, trying to alleviate some of the pain, to perhaps focus attention somewhere else, why was he so fucking hard?

Once Damon’s hardon rubbed against Emmett’s knee, he couldn’t help but feel a satisfied smile creep across his lips. Damon certainly was his father’s son. Since it was his first time, Emmett didn’t discourage him from grinding his cock into his thigh. And as much as Emmett wanted to ignore the part of him that rejoiced in the fact that his son–or at least his son’s body–was turned on by his punishment, he couldn’t, because his own cock was pressing into his fly, and it was taking all of his effort not to reach down and free it from the confines of his zipper and give it some relief.

“Twenty five!” sobbed Damon. The words were practically unintelligible. When his dad didn’t start up the spanking again, he was worried that he would start from one again, but instead, he felt his dad rubbing his ass soothingly.

“Twenty five,” his dad repeated. “Punishment’s over, sweetheart.”

Damon couldn’t explain why he didn’t move, just stayed where he was, suspended above the ground, hanging over his dad’s legs with his red, burning bare ass hanging out. His dad tugged his pants the rest of the way off, then he was coaxing him up and into his arms until Damon was sitting in his dad’s lap, arms slung around his shoulders and crying into his dad’s neck.

His dad was shushing him, rubbing his back soothingly and murmuring comfortingly to him. “There you are, sweetheart. Hey, it’s okay, it’s over now, and daddy’s going to take care of you. You’re safe. I love you, baby. I only spanked you because I love you, and I want you to be safe. Do you understand?”

Damon nodded into his dad’s shoulder, shirt damp with Damon’s tears, snot, and drool. His dad didn’t seem to mind, just started gently rubbing circles on his bare ass, alleviating some of the burning.

“My poor baby,” his dad murmured, and Damon didn’t realize the sobbing had subsided until that made him cry again.

Emmett was overjoyed to have his son back just for a moment, even if he was sobbing and clinging to him like a man to a buoy lost at sea because of acute trauma to his backside. He found that, as a parent, he would take what he could get.

Emmett helped Damon upstairs and into the shower, finding that the boy had drifted into something like subspace, so he supervised his shower and helped him into bed. He rubbed a soothing cream on his butt then crawled into bed beside him, petting his hair until he fell asleep, then snuck out and into his own bedroom where he furiously jerked off until he came all over his hand.

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If you finished this chapter and want to read something else while you're waiting for chapter two, pick up Charlie and the Himbos by Casper Prince on Amazon for $0.99, an erotic MM jock short story. Thanks for reading! Feedback is welcome.