Fiction: The Throwing-Knife Affair (MFF/M)

Inspiration from a video clip I ran across… a thorough and justly deserved paddling and whipping from Daddy in front of sister and mom, followed by some tender aftercare from Mommy…

The late afternoon sun slanted through the living room window, casting long shadows across the carpet. Seventeen-year-old Ethan sat on the sofa, a sleek throwing-knife balanced in his hand. He’d been practicing for weeks in the backyard, perfecting his grip, his stance, his aim. But today, restless and bored, he’d brought the knife inside. The TV blared some mindless game show, and Ethan smirked as he raised the blade, squinting one eye shut as he pretended to line up a shot at the presenter on the screen.

From the hallway, his mother, Karen, paused mid-step, her laundry basket tucked under one arm. She caught sight of Ethan holding the knife and frowned, her lips parting to scold him—but before she could, he initiated a pretend throw but his fingers slipped. The knife flew from his hand, a silver blur slicing through the air. A sharp crack split the room as the blade plunged into the center of the TV, shattering the screen into a spiderweb of jagged lines. The sound cut out, replaced by a faint, ominous buzz. Karen gasped, the basket slipping slightly in her grip as she stared at the wreckage.

Ethan froze, his heart slamming against his ribcage. “Oh no,” he whispered, oblivious to his mother’s wide-eyed shock. His younger sister, Lily, poked her head around the corner, her ponytail bouncing as she took in the scene. A grin tugged at her lips, barely suppressed—she’d always found Ethan’s antics secretly hilarious, even when they went wrong.

Heavy footsteps pounded down the hall, and their father, Tom, burst into the room, his broad frame filling the doorway. Karen and Lily trailed behind, Karen’s face paling while Lily’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “What in the hell—” Tom’s voice boomed, cutting off as he surveyed the broken TV, the knife, and Ethan standing there like a deer in headlights. His face darkened, a storm brewing in his eyes. “Ethan James, you stay right there,” he thundered, jabbing a finger at the floor.

Karen clutched the laundry basket tighter, her knuckles whitening. “Tom, what—” she started, but he was already storming out of the room. Lily leaned against the wall, biting her lip to stifle a giggle as Ethan shifted nervously, his fate hanging in the air.

Seconds later, Tom returned, clutching the solid wooden hairbrush from the bathroom. Ethan’s stomach dropped, but Karen’s breath hitched audibly—she knew that brush, its polished oak surface a relic of discipline from her own childhood. Lily’s grin widened; she’d heard stories of that brush but never seen it in action. This was about to get good.

“Dad, I didn’t mean—” Ethan stammered, but Tom’s glare silenced him. He marched to the couch, sat down heavily, and spread his legs wide. Karen’s brow furrowed, a mix of worry and resignation settling over her features, while Lily’s eyes darted between her brother and father, barely containing her excitement.

“Get over here,” Tom barked. Ethan shuffled forward, and Tom grabbed his arm, yanking him down over one thick thigh. Karen flinched at the suddenness, her maternal instinct warring with her trust in Tom’s judgment. Lily, meanwhile, clapped a hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

Tom’s large, calloused hand slid under Ethan’s waist, fingers deftly popping the button of his jeans. Karen’s eyes widened as he tugged the zipper down, then gripped the waistband and pulled, dragging the jeans right off Ethan’s legs in one forceful motion. The denim hit the floor with a soft thud, and Lily’s giggles broke free, sharp and gleeful. “Oh my God,” she whispered, earning a stern glance from Karen, who nonetheless couldn’t look away. Tom’s fingers hooked into Ethan’s underpants next, yanking them down and off with the same relentless efficiency.

The underwear crumpled beside the jeans, leaving Ethan bare and exposed.

Karen’s cheeks flushed, her hands tightening on the basket as she murmured, “Tom, maybe not in front of—” But Tom ignored her, pinning Ethan securely across his thigh, his large arm wrapping his waist.

Lily’s laughter faded into a fascinated stare, her teenage curiosity overriding any sympathy. Tom picked up the hairbrush and raised it above his son’s trembling buttocks.

The first crack of the hairbrush landed like a thunderclap, the wood striking Ethan’s bare backside with a force that jolted his body. Karen winced, her shoulders tensing, while Lily jumped slightly, her eyes widening at the sound. Ethan gasped, and Tom roared, “You think this is a game?” The second blow followed—thwack—and Karen’s lips pressed into a thin line, her discomfort growing. Lily, though, leaned forward, transfixed as a red mark bloomed on Ethan’s skin.

Ethan yelped at the third strike, and Karen shifted her weight, torn between stepping in and letting Tom handle it. “Throwing knives in the house?” Crack! Lily’s mouth dropped open, the sheer force of the blow making her flinch even as she stayed glued to the scene. “Breaking the damn TV?” Thwack! Ethan’s cries grew louder, and Karen’s resolve wavered—she set the basket down, hands hovering as if unsure whether to intervene.

The spanking stretched on, relentless. The fifth blow—smack—left Ethan kicking, and Lily whispered, “Wow,” under her breath, half-impressed, half-horrified. “Irresponsible!” Crack! Karen’s eyes softened with pity as Ethan’s tears started, but she stayed silent, trusting Tom’s old-school methods.

“Thoughtless!” Thwack! Lily’s amusement faded slightly, replaced by a flicker of unease as Ethan’s shrieks turned desperate.

By the tenth strike, Ethan was sobbing, his backside a throbbing, crimson mess.

Karen covered her mouth, her maternal heart aching, while Lily’s fascination morphed into a grimace—she hadn’t expected it to go this far. The brush kept coming—smack, smack, smack—each blow a vivid explosion of sound and pain. “You’re too old for this nonsense!” Tom bellowed, and Karen nodded faintly, agreeing despite her discomfort. Lily shifted uncomfortably, the reality of her brother’s punishment sinking in.

Ethan’s shrieks grew hoarse, his body limp across Tom’s thigh.

Karen’s hands twisted together, her eyes glistening, while Lily finally looked away, the brutality overshadowing her earlier glee. The final blows—slow, deliberate, and deafening—made Karen turn her head, unable to watch, and Lily mutter, “Okay, that’s enough,” under her breath.

Tom finally stopped and Ethan lay there, gasping, his rear end a blazing ruin. Tom’s chest heaved as he caught his breath, his stern gaze fixed on his son’s well-punished bottom.

With a grunt, he seized Ethan’s arm in a vice-like grip, hauling him up and off his knee in one swift, unceremonious motion. Ethan stumbled to his feet, his legs shaky beneath him, completely bare from the waist down—his jeans and boxers had been stripped off entirely before the spanking, left in a crumpled heap by the couch. Tom didn’t give him a chance to steady himself. Clamping his hand tighter around Ethan’s bicep, he frogmarched him toward the far wall, his strides long and purposeful.

As they moved, Tom’s free hand swung the hairbrush again, delivering a series of sharp, stinging smacks to Ethan’s already tender backside. Each step brought a fresh blow—crack, thwack, smack—the wood landing haphazardly across his swollen, crimson cheeks. Ethan yelped with every strike, his bare legs trembling, his genitals bouncing freely with each lurching step across the room. Karen flinched at the sight, her maternal instincts surging as she watched her son’s humiliating march, but she bit her lip and stayed rooted to the spot. Lily’s eyes widened, her face flushing a deep red as she turned her head away, caught between embarrassment and disbelief at the raw intensity unfolding before her.

Reaching the wall, Tom shoved Ethan forward, pressing his chest against the cool plaster with a firm hand between his shoulder blades. “Hands on your head,” Tom barked, his voice a low growl. Ethan, still sniffling, obeyed instantly, lifting his trembling arms to lace his fingers atop his head. “Nose to the wall,” Tom added, and Ethan leaned forward, pressing his tear-streaked face against the surface, the tip of his nose brushing the paint. “Don’t you move a muscle, boy, or you’ll get the same again—worse, even. You hear me?”

“Y-yes, sir,” Ethan stammered, his voice hoarse and small, barely audible over the lingering echo of his cries. His bare legs quivered beneath him, his exposed skin prickling in the open air, the sting in his backside pulsing with every heartbeat—a fiery testament to his father’s wrath.

Tom stepped back, brushing his hands together as if dusting off the ordeal. He shot a glance at Karen, who gave a faint, reluctant nod, her expression tight with unease as she avoided looking too long at her son’s vulnerable state. Lily, meanwhile, shifted her weight, her usual bravado replaced by an awkward silence, her cheeks still flushed from the uncomfortable spectacle.

“Stay there ‘til I tell you otherwise,” Tom said, his tone final, cutting through the heavy silence of the room. He turned and strode toward the couch, setting the hairbrush down with a deliberate thud that made the cushions tremble slightly. Karen exhaled shakily, her hands smoothing her apron as she murmured, “I’ll… start dinner,” before retreating to the kitchen, her footsteps quick and uneven as she cast one last worried glance at Ethan.

——

Lily lingered in the doorway, her usual confidence replaced by a strange mix of curiosity and discomfort. She couldn’t quite bring herself to leave—not yet.

From her vantage point near the edge of the room, Lily had a clear side view of her brother. Ethan stood rigid against the wall, his hands locked atop his head as ordered, fingers trembling slightly from the strain. His nose pressed firmly against the plaster, forcing his head forward and his back to arch just enough that his bare bottom jutted out prominently. The swollen, crimson cheeks—still blazing from the brutal hairbrush spanking—stuck out like a sore thumb, the skin mottled with angry red patches that seemed to glow in the dimming afternoon light. Lily’s stomach twisted a little; she’d seen Ethan get in trouble before, but never like this. The sheer intensity of it, the way his skin looked almost bruised, made her usual urge to tease him falter.

Her eyes drifted towards the front of him, almost unwillingly, and she stiffened. With his legs slightly back for balance and his clothes stripped away, Ethan’s dangling penis and testicles were fully visible from her side-angle. They swayed faintly with each shuddering breath he took, a stark and awkward reminder of just how exposed he was. Lily’s face flushed hot again, a rush of embarrassment flooding her cheeks. She wasn’t a little kid anymore—she was fourteen, old enough to know this was humiliating for him, old enough to feel weird about seeing it. But she couldn’t look away, not entirely. It was like a car crash—horrible, but magnetic.

Ethan sniffled, a quiet, broken sound that snapped Lily out of her daze. She shifted her weight, crossing her arms tightly over her chest as if to shield herself from the scene. His bare feet scuffed faintly against the carpet, toes curling in discomfort, and she noticed how his legs trembled, like they might give out if he stood there much longer. The way his bottom stuck out made every mark from the hairbrush painfully obvious—deep red welts crisscrossing the skin, some spots darker where the blows had overlapped. She winced inwardly; even she could tell it must hurt like hell.

Lily’s earlier amusement had evaporated completely now. She’d thought it’d be funny, watching Ethan get what was coming to him after breaking the TV in such a dumb way. But this—this was too much. The spanking had been one thing, loud and dramatic, but seeing him like this, stripped and stuck against the wall, his private parts on display and his pride in tatters, felt… wrong. She swallowed hard, her throat dry. For once, she didn’t have a snarky comment ready. She just felt a twinge of something—pity, maybe?—that she didn’t know what to do with.

Tom cleared his throat from the couch, flipping open a newspaper as if nothing unusual had happened, and Lily took that as her cue. She glanced at Ethan one last time, his jutting bottom and dangling vulnerability burning into her memory despite herself, then turned on her heel and slipped out of the room. Her footsteps were quieter than usual as she headed down the hall, the image of her brother’s punishment lingering like an unwelcome guest in her mind. She wasn’t sure she’d ever look at him the same way again.

——

Meanwhile, Ethan remained there, oblivious to Lily’s conflicted stare, his nose pressed to the wall, his body aching and exposed. The silence of the room pressed in around him, broken only by the faint rustle of his father’s newspaper and the distant clatter of pots from the kitchen.

He stood there for what felt like an eternity. The coolness of the wall had long since lost its contrast to the burning heat radiating from his punished rear, and his legs ached from the strain of standing still. His bare skin prickled in the open air, every muscle trembling with fatigue and the lingering sting of the hairbrush spanking. The house had grown quiet—only the faint rustle of his father’s newspaper and the distant clatter of pots from the kitchen broke the silence. Lily had slipped away, and Karen stayed busy, leaving Ethan alone with his shame.

The clock on the mantle ticked relentlessly, marking a full hour since Tom’s last command. Ethan’s arms had gone numb, his shoulders stiff, when he heard his father rise. He tensed, his breath catching as Tom’s broad shadow fell across the wall beside him.

“Step back,” Tom ordered, his voice gruff and unyielding. Ethan hesitated, then shuffled backward, his bare feet dragging on the carpet. “Spread your legs.” Ethan swallowed hard, widening his stance, his exposed vulnerability amplifying with every movement. “Bend over. Hands on the wall.” His heart pounded as he obeyed, leaning forward to press his palms against the plaster, his head dipping low. The position forced his still-crimson bottom to jut out again, his thighs parting to reveal the tender insides—already dreading what came next.

Tom unbuckled his belt with a slow, deliberate rasp, the leather sliding through the loops with a sound that made Ethan’s stomach lurch. The belt was thick, worn from years of use, its dark brown surface gleaming faintly in the dim light. Tom folded it in half, gripping it firmly, and stepped to Ethan’s side. “You’re gonna learn this lesson if it’s the last thing I do,” he growled, raising the belt high.

Ethan’s breath hitched, his eyes widening as he saw the shadow of the belt raise across the wall. Panic surged through him, and before the first stroke could even land, he twisted his head, his voice breaking as he pleaded, “Dad, no—please, don’t! I’m sorry, I swear I won’t do it again!” His words tumbled out in a desperate rush, his hands slipping slightly on the wall as he fought the urge to shield himself. His bare legs trembled harder, the vulnerability of his bent-over stance amplifying his terror.

Tom’s jaw tightened, his grip on the belt faltering for a split second as Ethan’s begging pierced the air. But instead of softening, his eyes narrowed, the plea stoking his anger hotter. “Sorry ain’t enough, boy,” he snapped, his voice a low rumble of fury. “You think whimperin’ now’s gonna fix that TV? Gonna teach you some damn respect?” His arm drew back further, the belt taut in his hand, his knuckles whitening as his frustration boiled over.

From the edge of the room, Karen stepped out of the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. She’d heard Ethan’s cries, the raw edge of his voice pulling her back despite her earlier retreat. Her eyes flicked between her son—bent over, exposed, trembling—and her husband, his face a mask of rigid determination. She sighed, a weary sound, and crossed her arms. “Ethan,” she said, her tone firm but tinged with exhaustion, “just take your medicine. You brought this on yourself.”

Ethan’s head jerked toward her, his tear-streaked face pleading for rescue, but her words landed like a stone in his gut. Betrayal stung as much as the fear, and he opened his mouth to protest—only for the air to explode with the first lash of the belt.

The leather cracked against Ethan’s already tender backside, a searing stripe igniting across the swollen, crimson skin. He yelped, his body jolting forward, hands scrabbling against the wall for balance. The sound was sharp and brutal, echoing through the room, and Karen flinched despite herself, her lips pressing into a thin line. Tom didn’t pause—thwack—the second blow landed just below the first, overlapping the hairbrush’s welts, and Ethan’s cry pitched higher, his knees buckling slightly. Tom didn’t pause—thwack, thwack, thwack—the belt rained down in a steady, merciless rhythm, each blow striping Ethan’s rear from the small of his back to the tops of his thighs.

By the tenth lash, Ethan’s cries grew louder, his legs trembling as the leather seared his skin. Tom shifted his aim, targeting the backs of Ethan’s thighs—crack—the belt snapping against the sensitive flesh just above the knees. Ethan’s knees buckled slightly, but he caught himself, his palms pressing harder against the wall. The fifteenth strike whipped across the tender insides of his thighs, and a desperate shriek tore from his throat—the pain there was sharper, more piercing, unprotected by the thicker muscle of his bum.

Karen, having returned to the kitchen, held a spoon hovering over a pot, her face tightening at the sound of the belt and Ethan’s escalating cries. Lily, upstairs in her room, flinched with each distant snap, pulling her pillow over her head to muffle the noise, her earlier fascination replaced by unease.

Tom kept going, methodical and unrelenting. The twentieth lash striped the center of Ethan’s bum, overlapping earlier marks and turning the red into a deep, angry purple. The twenty-fifth caught the crease where his thighs met his rear, and Ethan’s voice cracked into a sob. The belt didn’t spare the insides of his thighs—thwack—each strike there drawing a high-pitched wail as the leather bit into the soft, untouched skin. By the thirtieth, Ethan’s legs shook uncontrollably, his hands slipping slightly on the wall, sweat beading on his forehead.

Tom paused for a moment, his chest still rising and falling heavily as he assessed Ethan’s trembling form bent over against the wall. The belt hung loosely in his right hand, its dark leather gleaming faintly with sweat from his grip. Ethan’s backside was a vivid tapestry of red and purple welts, but Tom’s keen eye noticed an unevenness—the right cheek bore slightly deeper marks from the earlier forehand strikes, while the left seemed less uniformly punished. His jaw tightened with a flicker of resolve; if this lesson was to stick, it’d be thorough.

With a grunt, Tom shifted his stance, stepping to Ethan’s right side in a smooth, deliberate pivot. He adjusted his grip on the folded belt, holding it now with his palm facing upward, the leather cradled for a backhand swing. Ethan, sensing the movement through his tear-blurred haze, whimpered softly, his fingers twitching against the wall, but he didn’t dare look back. Tom’s arm drew back, the belt arcing in a reverse motion, and with a sharp flick of his wrist—crack—it lashed across Ethan’s left buttock.

The backhand strike landed with a biting snap, the leather wrapping slightly around the curve of Ethan’s left cheek, evening out the redness with a fresh, stinging welt. Ethan gasped, his left leg jerking as the pain flared anew, his body swaying slightly against the wall. Tom’s face remained stern, unyielding, as he pulled back again—thwack—the second backhand blow striking his right leg, the belt’s edge curling inward to kiss the tender flesh of Ethan’s inner right thigh. The unexpected wraparound jolted Ethan, a sharp yelp escaping as his thighs parted further, instinctively trying to escape the sting.

Tom’s rhythm steadied, his arm moving with practiced precision. Crack! The third backhand lashed across the left cheek again, the leather biting into the swollen skin and wrapping just enough to graze the outer left hip this time. Ethan’s knees buckled briefly, his hands slipping an inch down the wall before he caught himself, his sobs rising in pitch. The backhand strikes were different—sharper, with a twisting snap that seemed to spread the pain deeper—and Tom used them methodically, ensuring the left side matched the right in its fiery hue.

Tom’s eyes narrowed as he lined up his next target, then barked, “Hold your junk out of the way, boy—now.”

Ethan froze, his breath catching at the command. His hands hesitated on the wall, trembling as he processed the order. “W-what?” he stammered, voice small and broken, but Tom’s glare sharpened, cutting off any delay. “You heard me. Move it, or I’ll whip it too.” Flushing with humiliation, Ethan swallowed hard and slid his right hand down, fumbling awkwardly to cup his genitals and pull them forward, pressing them against his lower belly. His left hand stayed pressed to the wall for balance, his stance widening as he exposed the high inner thighs fully.

Tom didn’t wait. His arm drew back, the belt arcing in a reverse motion, and—crack—it lashed across Ethan’s high right inner thigh, just below the buttock. The leather snapped against the tender, untouched skin, a bright red stripe flaring instantly. Ethan yelped, his body jerking as the sting radiated upward, his right hand tightening instinctively around his privates to keep them clear. Tom pulled back again—thwack—the fifth backhand strike hit the same high right inner thigh, following the first, the belt’s edge curling just enough to overlap the earlier welt. Ethan’s legs spasmed, a sharp cry escaping as his knees wobbled.

After those five backhand strokes, Tom stepped back, rolling his shoulders as he surveyed the results. Ethan’s inner thighs glowed with fresh, angry stripes, the skin taut and swollen, while his buttocks remained a uniform crimson from the earlier work. Satisfied with the initial balance, Tom circled to Ethan’s left side with a heavy step, flipping the belt back to his forehand grip, the leather poised for a forward swing. “Keep holdin’ it,” he growled, his voice rough and unyielding. Ethan whimpered but obeyed, his right hand still clutching his genitals forward, his left braced against the wall.

Tom adjusted his stance, angling himself slightly to Ethan’s left front, his eyes fixed on the high inner left thigh—still tender and relatively unmarked compared to the rest. “You’re gonna feel this where it counts,” he muttered, raising the belt high. The forehand strike—crack—slashed downward, the leather whipping into the uppermost part of Ethan’s left inner thigh, dangerously close to where his hand held his privates. Ethan shrieked, his body lurching forward, his right hand trembling as he pressed harder to keep everything out of the belt’s path. The sting was excruciating, a white-hot line searing the sensitive skin.

Tom didn’t pause—thwack—the next forehand landed just below, overlapping the first, the belt snapping with a vicious bite that made Ethan’s leg kick out involuntarily. His cries turned raw, his left hand sliding an inch down the wall as he fought to stay upright. Crack! The third stroke to the same spot hit higher again, the leather curling slightly inward, grazing the edge of Ethan’s hand as it delivered a punishing blow to the same tender strip. “Dad, please!” Ethan sobbed, his voice breaking, but Tom’s face remained stone-cold, his arm coiling back for more.

“You don’t tell me when to stop, boy!” his father thundered. Thwack! A fourth strike lashed the high left inner thigh again, the repeated targeting turning the skin a deep, throbbing red, swollen and raw. Ethan’s legs shook violently, his right arm quivering with the effort of holding himself clear, tears streaming down his face. Crack! The fifth blow landed with surgical precision, the belt’s edge wrapping just enough to sting the crease where thigh met groin, and Ethan’s knees nearly gave out, his body sagging against the wall as he gasped out a hoarse scream.

“Both hands on the wall!” Tom bellowed and Ethan hastily obeyed.

Tom raised the belt high again, his arm coiling with intent—thwack—the next forehand strike slammed across both cheeks, a wide, punishing blow that reignited the fire across Ethan’s battered backside. He shrieked, his body lurching, his hands nearly slipping before he caught himself, pressing harder to stay up.

Tom didn’t pause—crack—the next stroke landed lower, catching the undercurve of both buttocks, the leather’s broad surface leaving a thick, blazing mark. Ethan’s legs shook violently, his cries turning hoarse as he fought to maintain his position. “You’ll remember this,” Tom said, his tone cold and resolute, before delivering the next two blow—thwack, crack—two brutal, full-force strikes spanning both cheeks. The belt cracked deafeningly against the skin, sending Ethan’s whole body convulsing, his knees buckling as he collapsed forward, still propped against the wall.

The forty-fourth lash landed low, just above the backs of his knees, and Ethan howled, the sound raw and guttural. Tom’s arm didn’t falter—snap, snap, snap, snap, snap—the five strikes crisscrossing his bum and thighs, painting a lattice of welts from just below his waist to the tender hollows behind his knees. The fiftieth blow was the hardest yet, a thunderous crack across the fullest part of his rear, and Ethan’s legs nearly gave out, his body sagging against the wall as he sobbed hysterically.

Tom lowered the belt, breathing heavily, the leather dangling from his hand. “Get to your room,” he barked, stepping back. “Now.”

Ethan straightened, his hands dropping from the wall as he turned, tears streaming down his face. His bum and thighs were a mess of fiery welts, the skin throbbing with every heartbeat, and he stumbled as he moved, his bare feet catching on the carpet. A loud, keening howl escaped him with each hurried step, the pain flaring as he ran toward the stairs. His genitals swung freely, unnoticed in his agony, as he disappeared from the living room, his cries echoing through the house.

Tom looped the belt back through his pants, his expression hard but satisfied, and sank onto the couch. Karen emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel, her eyes flickering toward the stairs with a sigh. Lily stayed in her room, the pillow still pressed over her ears, unwilling to face the aftermath of her brother’s punishment.

——

Karen lingered in the doorway, her fingers twisting the damp towel as Ethan’s muffled sobs faded up the stairs. The air in the living room felt thick, heavy with the residue of what had just unfolded. She glanced at Tom, sprawled on the couch, his broad chest still rising and falling from exertion, the belt now snug around his waist as if it hadn’t just been an instrument of discipline. The newspaper lay crumpled beside him, forgotten in the storm of his anger. Her gaze softened, not with approval, but with a quiet understanding born of years navigating his stern ways.

She stepped forward, her slippers whispering against the carpet, and stopped a few feet from the couch. “Tom,” she said, her voice low and careful, like someone testing thin ice. He didn’t look up, his jaw set as he stared at the blank, shattered TV screen, but she pressed on, her tone delicate yet firm. “Did you need to be so hard on the boy?”

Tom’s head snapped toward her, his eyes narrowing for a moment, a flicker of defensiveness flaring in them. He exhaled sharply through his nose, the sound rough and dismissive, and leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “Hard?” he repeated, his voice gruff, edged with incredulity. “Karen, he put a knife through the damn TV. In the house. You think a little scolding’s ‘gonna teach him anything?”

Karen’s lips parted, then closed again as she shifted her weight, the towel now a tight knot in her hands. “I’m not saying he didn’t deserve it,” she murmured, her eyes drifting toward the stairs where Ethan had fled. “He knows he messed up—Lord knows he does now. But…” She hesitated, searching for the right words, her brow creasing with worry. “That was a lot, Tom. The brush, the belt, all of it.”

Tom grunted, his fingers tapping restlessly against his arm. He shook his head, his gaze hardening as he gestured toward the broken TV. “You saw what he did. That’s not just a mistake—that’s reckless. Dangerous. What’s next? He throws it and hits Lily? Hits you?”

Karen’s shoulders tensed at the thought, her maternal instincts flaring, but she still pressed her lips together, unconvinced. “I get that,” she said softly, stepping closer, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. “I do. He scared me too when I saw that knife fly. But… he’s crying up there, Tom. Really crying. I haven’t heard him like that since he was small. Maybe it was too much?”

Tom’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, silence stretched between them, taut and unspoken. He looked away, his eyes settling on the wall where Ethan had stood, nose pressed to the plaster, trembling under the weight of his punishment. A flicker of something—doubt, maybe—crossed his face, but it vanished as quickly as it came. “He’s gotta learn, Karen,” he said finally, his voice quieter but no less firm. “I didn’t enjoy that. But if he don’t feel it now, he won’t think twice next time. And there’s always a next time with boys like him.”

Karen sighed, a long, weary sound that carried the weight of her torn feelings. She understood Tom’s logic—his father had been the same, all fire and leather when it came to lessons—but her heart ached for Ethan, his raw cries still echoing in her ears. She glanced at the hairbrush on the couch, its polished surface glinting innocently now, and then at the stairs again. “I just don’t want him to hate you,” she said, almost to herself. “Or think that’s all you are.”

Tom’s brow furrowed, her words landing harder than she’d intended. He shifted uncomfortably, uncrossing his arms to rest his hands on his knees. “He won’t hate me,” he muttered, though there was a trace of uncertainty in his tone. “He’ll get over it. Kids do. I did.” He paused, then added, gruffly, “And he knows I love him. That’s why I bother.”

Karen nodded faintly, though her eyes remained troubled. She didn’t push further—Tom’s mind was set, and she knew better than to chip away at it when he’d dug in. Instead, she smoothed her apron and turned back toward the kitchen. “The roast is on. It’ll be ready in an hour,” she said over her shoulder, her voice regaining its usual calm.

As Karen disappeared into the kitchen, the clatter of pots resuming, Tom leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and rubbed a hand over his face. The room felt emptier now, the tension dissipating into a quiet unease. He stared at the stairs, Ethan’s howls still audible through the walls, and for the first time since the belt came off, a shadow of doubt lingered in his mind. Not about the punishment itself—but about whether Karen was right, and if he’d gone too far to reach the boy he was trying to save.

——

Meanwhile, Ethan had stumbled into his bedroom, his legs barely holding him up as he collapsed face-down onto his bed. The worn mattress creaked under his weight, the faded blue comforter bunching beneath him as he buried his face in the pillow. His sobs came in heaving, broken waves, muffled but raw, his breath hitching with every shudder. Still bare from the waist down, his jeans and boxers left abandoned in the living room, he didn’t even think to cover himself—or to close the door. The pain radiating from his bum and thighs consumed him, a relentless fire that left no room for anything else. His arms curled around the pillow, clutching it tight as tears soaked the fabric, his body trembling with exhaustion and humiliation.

Down the hall, Lily sat on her own bed, the pillow she’d used to block out the sounds of the belt now tossed aside. The house had fallen quiet again, save for the loud, pitiful cries drifting from Ethan’s room. She chewed her lip, her usual teenage bravado warring with an unfamiliar tug of concern. He’d been a jerk sometimes, sure—breaking the TV was peak Ethan stupidity—but the whipping she’d overheard sounded brutal, even for Dad. She slid off her bed, her socks silent on the hardwood floor, and hesitated at her doorway. Maybe she should check on him. Just to see. She padded down the hall, her ponytail swaying, and stopped at Ethan’s open door.

Peering inside, Lily froze, her breath catching at the sight. Ethan lay sprawled across his bed, face buried in the pillow, his bare lower half fully exposed. His legs and bottom were a horrifying mess, a testament to their father’s unrelenting belt. The skin across his bum was a deep, angry red, streaked with darker purple welts where the leather had bitten deepest. The marks overlapped in a chaotic lattice, some raised and swollen, others flat but vivid, stretching from just below his waist to the tender creases where his thighs began. The backs of his thighs were no better—long, thin stripes of crimson ran at all angles, some curling slightly where the belt’s edge had caught him at an angle. The tender insides of his thighs, unprotected and soft, bore the worst of it: jagged, fiery welts crisscrossed the pale skin, some so dark they looked almost bruised, the redness bleeding outward in splotchy halos. Even the sides of his hips hadn’t been spared—faint, horizontal lines marked the thin skin there, each one a sharp, stinging reminder of the belt’s reach.

His legs were spread slightly, twitching faintly as his muscles spasmed from the ordeal, and between them, Lily’s eyes caught on his genitals. His penis and testicles lay flaccid against the bed, resting limply on the crumpled comforter. The soft, pale flesh contrasted starkly with the fiery red of his punished skin, sagging naturally in his prone position, unguarded and vulnerable. They shifted faintly with each shuddering sob, a detail that made Lily’s stomach twist tighter—she hadn’t expected to see him so completely laid bare, not like this. His bare feet hung off the edge of the bed, toes curled in lingering pain, and the slight sheen of sweat on his skin only highlighted the brutal aftermath.

She swallowed hard, her voice small as she stepped just inside the threshold. “Ethan? You… you okay?”

Ethan’s head jerked slightly, his sobs faltering for a moment as her voice broke through his haze. He didn’t lift his face from the pillow, but his muffled voice came out thick and ragged, laced with anger and shame. “Just go away, Lily!” he choked out, the words punctuated by a fresh wave of tears. His shoulders shook harder, his hands gripping the pillow like a lifeline. “Leave me alone!”

Lily flinched, her cheeks flushing again—not from amusement this time, but from the sting of his rejection. She opened her mouth to say something else, maybe an apology or a reassurance, but the sight of his battered bottom, the welts glowing against his skin, and his flaccid genitals lying exposed on the bed stopped her. She didn’t know what to do with this version of her brother—broken, stripped, and hurting in a way she couldn’t tease away. Her eyes lingered a moment longer on the mess of his lower half, the sheer brutality of it sinking in, then she backed away silently. As she retreated, she reached for the doorknob and gently pulled the door closed behind her, the soft click a small act of kindness to preserve what little modesty Ethan had left. She turned on her heel and slipped down the hall to her room, closing her own door with a quiet thud, leaving Ethan to his misery.

On the bed, Ethan’s sobs continued, his face pressed deep into the pillow as the pain throbbed unrelentingly. The now-closed door, his nakedness, Lily’s intrusion—none of it registered past the overwhelming ache and the weight of his humiliation. He stayed there, motionless except for the shaking of his shoulders, lost in the aftermath of his father’s lesson.

Ethan remained sprawled face-down on his bed, the door now gently closed by Lily, his sobs a steady, broken rhythm muffled by the pillow. The pain in his bum and thighs pulsed with every heartbeat, a relentless fire that refused to fade. His bare legs twitched faintly, the welts and stripes from the belt standing out in vivid, angry contrast against his pale skin.

——

Back downstairs, the kitchen smelled of simmering stew and fresh bread, a comforting contrast to the tension still lingering in the house. Karen stirred the pot absentmindedly, her thoughts drifting upstairs to Ethan. His cries had quieted somewhat, but still carried faintly through the floorboards. She set the spoon down, her brow creasing as she pictured him—alone, sore, and probably too proud to ask for comfort. Her hands moved before her mind fully caught up, reaching into a cabinet for a small, familiar jar of cold cream she kept for burns and scrapes. Its cool, soothing texture might ease the sting she knew he must be feeling.

Wiping her hands on her apron, she grabbed the jar and padded back into the living room. Tom still sat on the couch, his posture slouched now, the newspaper abandoned as he stared at the shattered TV screen. His fingers drummed lightly on his knee, a restless tic that betrayed the calm he tried to project. Karen approached him slowly, the jar cool against her palm, and stopped just within his peripheral vision.

“Tom,” she said softly, her voice cutting through the quiet like a gentle breeze. He glanced up, his eyes narrowing slightly as he registered the jar in her hand. She held it up, her expression tentative but resolute. “I was thinking… is it alright if I go up and tend to the boy? Just to put some of this on him. He’s got to be hurting something fierce.”

Tom’s jaw tightened, a flicker of resistance crossing his face as he processed her request. The image of Ethan’s welted, crimson backside flashed in his mind—vivid, raw, and undeniably his doing. A pang of guilt, sharp and unbidden, twisted in his gut, though he’d never admit it aloud. He shifted uncomfortably, his hands clasping together as he wrestled with the instinct to stand firm. But Karen’s eyes—soft, pleading, yet steady—bore into him, and that shadow of doubt he’d felt earlier crept back in.

He cleared his throat, the sound rough and forced, and looked away, fixing his gaze on the wall where Ethan had stood. “Yeah, alright,” he muttered, his voice gruff and low, like gravel underfoot. “Go on, then. Just… don’t baby him too much. He’s still gotta feel it.”

Karen’s lips curved into a faint, relieved smile, though she kept it small, knowing better than to push her luck. “I won’t,” she promised, her tone gentle but firm. “Just enough to take the edge off. Thank you, Tom.” She lingered for a moment, giving him space to change his mind, but when he only grunted and waved a hand dismissively, she turned and headed for the stairs.

The wooden steps creaked under her weight as she climbed, the jar clutched tightly in one hand. At the top, she paused outside Ethan’s door, listening. He was still sobbing from his ordeal.

She opened his door with a faint squeak, and stepped inside, her apron still tied around her waist from the kitchen. She carried her jar of cold cream in one hand, her expression softening as she took in the sight of her son—her “baby,” no matter how old he got—face down and still crying like he hadn’t since he was small. The room was dim, the late afternoon light filtering weakly through the curtains, but it was enough to illuminate the mess of his lower half. She paused in the doorway, her breath catching at the severity of the welts crisscrossing his bum and thighs, the deep reds and purples a stark reminder of Tom’s harsh hand. His legs were still spread slightly, his genitals resting flaccid on the bed, but Karen’s focus was on the damage, the pain she could see etched into every trembling muscle.

“Ethan, honey,” she said softly, her voice a gentle balm against the storm of his sobs. She closed the door behind her with a quiet click, stepping closer to the bed. Ethan flinched at the sound of her voice, his head lifting just enough to reveal his tear-streaked face, red and blotchy from crying. “Shh, it’s just me,” she murmured, setting the jar on the nightstand and sitting carefully on the edge of the mattress. The bed dipped under her weight, and Ethan’s sobs hitched, a mix of relief and embarrassment flooding through him.

“M-Mommy,” he managed, his voice thick and hoarse, barely audible as he pressed his face back into the pillow. “It hurts so bad.”

“I know, baby, I know,” Karen said, her tone tender but firm, the way it always was when she patched him up after a scrape or a fall. She unscrewed the lid of the cold cream, the faint scent of menthol and lavender wafting into the air. Scooping a generous dollop onto her fingers, she hesitated for just a moment, then reached out to touch his battered skin. “I’m gonna put some of this on, okay? It’ll help.”

Ethan nodded weakly into the pillow, too distraught to argue. Karen’s hand hovered over his bum, then gently made contact, her fingers cool and slick with the cream as she spread it across the worst of the welts. He hissed at the first touch, his body tensing, but the coldness quickly soothed the burning sting, drawing a shaky sigh from his lips. She worked carefully, her touch light but thorough, smoothing the cream over the swollen, purple-streaked cheeks. The welts glistened under the layer of white, the redness softening slightly as the cooling sensation sank in.

She moved lower, dabbing the cream along the backs of his thighs, where the belt had left long, thin stripes. Then, with a gentle but practical touch, she reached between his legs, her fingers brushing his flaccid genitals. Carefully, she lifted them to one side, holding them aside as she applied the cream to the tender, high inner thigh on the right.

“Mommy!” He wailed in embarrassment.

“Shhh. Sorry,” she murmured as she held his testicles away.

The skin at his high inner thigh was raw, crisscrossed with jagged welts, and Ethan whimpered softly as the cool cream met the fiery marks, his leg twitching under her touch. Karen’s movements were steady, maternal, unfazed by the intimacy—she’d changed his diapers, after all, and this was just another way to care for him. She smoothed the cream over the inner thigh until it was fully coated, then gently shifted his genitals to the other side, repeating the process on the left. The welts there were just as bad, dark and swollen, and Ethan’s breath hitched as she worked, the coldness a sharp relief against the sting.

“There you go,” she whispered, almost to herself, as she finished with the inner thighs and moved on to the backs of his legs, coating every inch from just below his waist to the faint lines above his knees. Her hands were gentle, a stark contrast to the brutality they were tending, and she wiped her fingers on a corner of her apron before scooping out more cream. “My poor boy.”

Ethan’s sobs slowed, though tears still leaked from his eyes, staining the pillowcase. The cream dulled the sharpest edges of the pain, leaving a numbing chill in its wake, and Karen’s presence—her soft voice, her careful hands—eased something deeper, too. He felt small again, like the little kid she’d comforted after a scraped knee, and for once, he didn’t fight it. “Thank you, Mommy,” he mumbled, his voice cracking as he turned his head slightly, just enough to peek at her through swollen eyes.

Karen smiled faintly, a sad, tired curve of her lips, and brushed a lock of sweaty hair from his forehead. “You rest now,” she said, screwing the lid back on the jar. “And maybe think twice about those knives, hmm?” She stood, smoothing her apron again, and picked up the cream. With one last glance at her crying baby—still bare, still hurting, but a little less broken—she slipped out of the room, closing the door softly behind her.

Ethan stayed where he was, the cold cream a thin shield against the lingering ache. His sobs faded to quiet sniffles, exhaustion pulling him under as he pressed his face deeper into the pillow, the faint scent of lavender clinging to his skin.