Fiction: Snow Clearing (M/M)

It’s very snowy in Toronto today! Hubby and I eschew hiring a service for snow clearing. We do it ourselves, with a few snowball fights along the way! Now my husband is a bit anal retentive. He likes it cleared right down to the pavement. Me? Myeh. A short disciplinary scenario sprang to mind celebrating the unique relationship between sons and fathers and wifeys…

James heard his mom’s voice just as he was dropping his backpack by the door.

“James, don’t forget to shovel the driveway before your father gets home.”

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll do it.”

She gave him a look. “No, not ‘yeah, yeah.’ It needs to be done. Your father won’t be happy if he can’t pull into the garage.”

“I said I’ll do it,” James muttered, already heading toward the living room. His game console was calling his name.

James plopped onto the couch, grabbed his controller, and within minutes was deep into a multiplayer battle. The snow could wait. It wasn’t even that much, right? He’d do it after just one more round. But one round turned into two, then five, then ten.

He barely noticed the headlights sweeping across the window until the sound of the garage door attempting—and failing—to open snapped him back to reality.

Oh, no.

The side door from the garage slammed open.

“JAMES!”

His father’s voice cut through the house like a gunshot.

James froze, controller still in hand, as heavy footsteps stormed into the house.

His father appeared in the doorway, his face a mask of fury. Snow clung to his boots, his pants soaked from wading through the unshoveled mess outside.

“What the hell, boy? Why isn’t the snow shovelled?”

James swallowed hard. “I—I was gonna—”

“Don’t even start,” his father barked. “Get upstairs. Now.”

James felt his stomach drop.

“Dad, wait, I—”

“I said NOW.”

James scrambled up, his legs feeling like lead as he trudged toward his bedroom, his father right behind. He knew what was coming. And he knew he deserved it.

By the time he was standing in his room, his father was already unbuckling his belt.

“Drop ‘em.”

“Dad, please, I just—”

The belt snapped through the air. Not on him yet, but a warning. James winced.

“I gave you one simple chore, James. And you ignored it. Now, drop those pants and bend over the bed.”

His hands trembled as he unfastened his jeans, pushing them down along with his boxers. He knew the drill. The cold air against his skin only heightened his sense of shame. He bent over, gripping the comforter, his heart pounding.

The first lash came without warning, a sharp stripe of fire across his backside.

WHAP!

James sucked in a breath, biting his lip to hold back a yelp.

WHAP!

“I work all day, I drive home through a damn snowstorm, and I can’t even pull into my own garage?”

WHAP!

James whimpered, gripping the sheets tighter.

WHAP!

“You had all afternoon to do it. But no, you were too busy playing games.”

WHAP!

The belt cracked again and again, each stroke leaving a burning line across his ass. Tears blurred his vision.

WHAP!

His legs trembled, his body jerking with every lash.

“Are you gonna ignore your chores again?”

“N-no, sir!” James choked out, tears spilling down his face.

WHAP!

“You sure about that?”

WHAP!

“I-I swear! I’ll do them right away from now on!”

WHAP!

The belt snapped down one last time, leaving James sobbing, his backside on fire.

His father exhaled sharply. “Good. Now, pull yourself together and get outside. I want that snow cleared in the next thirty minutes.”

James hurried to yank his pants back up, wincing as the denim scraped against his welted skin. His hands wiped at his tear-streaked face as he stumbled toward the door.

“And listen to me, boy,” his father added, “if I come out there and see so much as a dusting left, if everything’s not scraped clean down to the pavement, you’ll be back in here for round two.”

James swallowed hard. His backside already felt like it was on fire, and the thought of going through it again made his stomach twist. He nodded quickly. “Y-yes, sir.”

His father narrowed his eyes. “No half-assed jobs. You do it right, or I’ll give you something real to cry about. Got it?”

“Got it,” James choked out, rubbing his sleeve across his tear-streaked face.

“Then get moving.”

Minutes later, he was outside, shovel in hand, his breath hitching as he sniffled against the cold. His bottom throbbed, each movement sending fresh pain through him. He could only imagine how raw and red it must look beneath his jeans.

Snowflakes fell lightly around him, but he barely noticed. The only thing on his mind was finishing his chore—properly this time.

——

Inside the warm house, the fire crackled softly in the living room, casting a golden glow over the walls. James’s father leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs with a satisfied sigh. The storm had made for a miserable drive home, but now he was warm, dry, and exactly where he wanted to be.

His wife stood by the window, arms folded, watching their son through the glass. Outside, James was shoveling like his life depended on it, his breath coming in fast, visible puffs in the cold night air. His movements were frantic, his arms straining as he scooped and flung the heavy snow aside.

She smirked slightly. “Look at him go. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him move that fast.”

Her husband chuckled, his eyes flicking toward the window. “I’ve got him on a clock. Thirty minutes, down to the pavement, or else.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Or else?”

He leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head. “Or else he’s back upstairs, bent over that bed for another round.”

She exhaled, watching as James worked with renewed urgency, clearly determined not to find himself in that position again. “Well,” she murmured, shaking her head with the faintest smile, “I guess the walks and driveway will be spotless, then.”

Her husband smirked. “Damn right it will.”

——

James staggered through the front door, panting, his body dripping with sweat despite the freezing temperature outside. His jeans clung uncomfortably to his legs, his gloves soaked, and his arms felt like they were about to fall off. His backside still throbbed from his earlier punishment, but he hadn’t dared slow down—not with the threat of another round looming over him.

He stood there in the doorway, chest heaving, as he wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. His parents sat in the living room, the fire crackling warmly between them, as if they hadn’t just sent him out into the bitter cold.

James swallowed hard and forced the words out. “D-Daddy, it’s done.”

His father didn’t answer right away. Instead, he calmly glanced at his watch, tapping the glass with his finger. The pause felt like an eternity.

“Twenty-nine minutes,” his father finally said, setting his arm down. He turned his gaze to his son, expression unreadable. “You cut it close.”

James didn’t dare breathe too deeply. He was still standing in the entryway, still waiting for the verdict, heart hammering in his chest.

His father shifted in his chair, exhaling as if weighing his options. “I suppose I should go check your work.”

James’s stomach clenched. He knew he’d done his best—better than his best. He had shoveled furiously, down to the pavement just like his father had demanded. But what if there was a patch he had missed? A stray line of snow he hadn’t noticed?

He licked his dry lips. “I—I made sure, sir. I got it all.”

His father gave him a look. “We’ll see about that.” He pushed himself up from his chair, stretching his arms before grabbing his coat from the rack.

James’s stomach twisted into a tight knot as his father pulled on his coat and opened the front door. The icy air rushed in, sending a shiver down his already exhausted body.

“Come on,” his father said, nodding toward the outside.

James swallowed hard but didn’t dare hesitate. He grabbed his gloves, his fingers still stiff from gripping the shovel, and followed his father out into the cold night. His legs ached, his arms felt like lead, and every step sent a fresh jolt of soreness through his welted backside.

They started at the walkway leading up to the porch. His father’s boots crunched against the exposed pavement as he walked, inspecting every inch. James held his breath, nerves stretched tight as his father continued down the path, taking his time, scanning for even the slightest imperfection.

Not a word.

They reached the driveway, and his father walked the entire length of it, his pace slow and deliberate. James trailed behind him, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

Still, nothing.

His father finally stopped at the very edge of the cleared driveway, where the snow lined up in neat, heavy banks. He dug the heel of his boot against the pavement, testing for any loose snow. Nothing but solid ground.

He turned and looked at James, his breath misting in the cold air. “That’s more like it.”

James let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

His father crossed his arms. “I expect it like this every time. No half-assed jobs. No excuses. You understand me, boy?”

James nodded quickly. “Y-yes, sir.”

His father narrowed his eyes. “Say it.”

James swallowed hard, standing straighter despite the ache in his muscles. “I understand, sir. I’ll do it right the first time, on time, from now on.”

His father held his gaze for a long moment before nodding in satisfaction. “Good. Now get inside before you freeze.”

James didn’t need to be told twice. He turned and hurried toward the house, feeling his father’s watchful eyes on him the whole way. His backside still burned, his body was sore, and he was exhausted—but at least, for tonight, he wouldn’t be getting another round of the belt.

——

Back inside, the warmth of the house was a welcome relief, though it did little to soothe the sting still radiating across James’s backside. The scent of dinner filled the air as he made his way to the table, his body aching with every step. His mother was already setting out bowls of steaming hot soup, the kind that always hit just right after a cold day outside.

“Sit down and eat,” she said with a smile. “You must be starving after all that work.”

James hesitated for the briefest moment before carefully lowering himself onto the chair. The instant his weight settled, a sharp jolt of pain shot through him, and he let out a tiny, involuntary hiss.

His mother, ladling soup into his bowl, raised an eyebrow. “Something wrong, sweetheart?” she asked sarcastically.

James shook his head quickly, grabbing his spoon as if that would somehow end the conversation. But she wasn’t letting it go.

She stepped closer and pressed the back of her hand lightly to his forehead, her expression suddenly playful. “Hmm. You feel a little warm. Are you coming down with something?”

James stiffened. “No, ma’am.”

She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Are you sure? Maybe you’ve got a little sore backside fever?”

His cheeks burned hotter than the soup in front of him. He hunched his shoulders, staring at his bowl, hoping she’d move on.

His father, seated at the head of the table, exhaled sharply. “That’s enough,” he said, his voice tinged with annoyance. Then, with a pointed look at his wife, he added, “You’re not exactly immune to that fever yourself.”

His mother’s smirk vanished, her cheeks flushing pink as she quickly busied herself with her own spoon. James risked a glance up, catching the unmistakable hint of embarrassment in her expression.

Then, to his surprise, she flicked her eyes toward him, and for just a moment, they shared a tiny, knowing smile.

The moment passed as they turned to their food, the quiet clinking of spoons filling the room. James focused on his soup, letting the warmth spread through him, knowing one thing for certain—next time it snowed, he’d be outside shovelling before his father ever had to ask.

Lesson learned.