The mist clung to the earth like a ghost that refused to leave. The morning air was cool, thick with the scent of damp soil and cattle, as a boy walked beside his father. His bare feet pressed into the dirt path, stirring dust that clung to his ankles. The grass was still wet with dew, sticking to his soles as if trying to remind him of the land he belonged to.
The boy was tall, lean with muscle, toned from work. He had a masculine thin face with brown messy hair. His wide brown eyes look at the ground at his feet as he walked. His name was Nicolas and he was in trouble. He was wearing only a pair of jeans because earlier that morning his father came into his bedroom and pulled in his ear. He was literally yanked out of bed by the ear. Nicolas slept naked and his father orders him to get his jeans on. He put them on without underwear because that was the rule when he was to receive punishment.
The cool mist had his very toned chest glistening in the twilight. His hair damp, his feet damp with dirt and grass, this cool mist had him alert now. His hangover from the night before gone now, he had been drinking with his friends and ended up fucking a girl in the house without permission completely disrespecting his father’s rules.
His father walked next to him watching his son like a hawk, walking in steady, measured strides, the soft tap of his canvas shoes called alpargatas were barely making a sound against the ground. He was a man of few words, but when he spoke, his voice carried weight.
“You know what’s coming, boy.”
The boy lowered his head, his unruly brown curls falling over his face. He kept his hands stuffed in the pockets of his worn jeans, shoulders tense. His father’s words were always direct—quick, firm, unquestionable.
The boy’s bare feet walked beside his father’s shoes. The fact that he is barefoot next to his dad’s shoes made him feel like a kid again when he was herding sheep in his bare feet. It made him feel like a boy, while his dad was the man, wearing the shoes.
The barn loomed ahead, its wooden frame casting long shadows in the weak morning light. The old planks creaked as the door swung open, revealing the dark interior. Dust floated in the air, disturbed by their presence. The boy hesitated at the threshold, shifting his weight on the rough wooden floor.
His father stepped inside first, his back straight despite years of toil that had carved deep lines into his face. He turned, his sharp eyes studying the boy—his adopted son, the orphan he had taken in years ago, not out of kindness but necessity. A farm needed hands, and the boy needed a home.
“Come here, boy.”
The boy swallowed hard and obeyed, his bare feet padding against the floor.
“Stand straight.” His father tapped his shoe against the wood, pointing at him. “You think you’re a man, boy?”
Silence. The boy clenched his jaw, his muscles tightening.
His father moved past him, toward the wall where an array of tools hung—whips, straps, paddles. Each had its purpose, each had left its mark before. The boy had known punishment before, had felt the weight of his father’s discipline. This time would be no different.
“You know why this is happening, boy.” His father turned back, a leather strap in his calloused hands. “You’ll take it like a man.”
The barn fell into silence save for the creaking of wood, the shifting of dust, and the steady, measured breathing of the man who had raised him. The boy straightened, exhaling slowly. He would not cry. He never did. He was a farmer’s boy.
And the land was hard, so its sons had to be harder.
The barn smelled of wood, dust, and livestock. A single ray of light cut through the misty morning, highlighting the floating dust particles in the air. The boy stood still, his bare feet flexing against the worn wooden planks, his muscles tense. His father paced slowly, his navy alpargatas tapping lightly against the floor with every step.
“You listen when I talk, boy.” His father’s voice was steady, calm, but firm.
The boy kept his head low, jaw clenched. He knew better than to speak without permission.
His father stopped in front of him, so close that the boy’s large toes brushed against the tips of his shoes. The smell of maté and cigars lingered in his breath. The boy had grown used to that scent over the years, the scent of early mornings and long workdays.
“You think you can do as you please, boy?” His father tilted his head slightly, studying him. The salt-and-pepper curls beneath his beret barely moved, the lines on his face deep with age and experience. “A man don’t get to act on every thought in his head, boy.”
The boy swallowed but didn’t speak. He had made a mistake, he knew that. His father wasn’t unfair, but he was strict.
“I took you in when you had nothing, boy. No family, no home, just a pair of eyes that looked too wild for your own good.” The older man’s voice softened slightly, but his expression remained firm. “And I raised you to be strong. To work. To respect. Not to act a fool, boy.”
The boy flexed his toes against the wood again. His father noticed. He always noticed.
“You nervous, boy?” His father smirked slightly, shaking his head. “I can see it in your feet.”
The boy hesitated, then nodded.
His father sighed, stepping back. He walked over to the wooden workbench, running his rough fingers over the worn surface. “I don’t do this because I like it, boy. But you need to understand.” He turned back, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “A man takes responsibility for his actions. You don’t just take the work when it’s easy, boy. You take it when it’s hard too.”
The boy finally lifted his head, meeting his father’s eyes. They weren’t cruel. They never were. Just unwavering, just expectant—expecting him to grow, to learn, to be better.
The barn was silent for a long moment, the only sound the distant bleating of sheep and the shifting of the wooden planks beneath them.
“You got something to say, boy?”
The boy took a breath, steadying himself. He nodded. “Yes, sir.”
His father watched him for a moment longer, then nodded. “Good. Then say it, boy.”
The boy knew what was expected of him. Knew that this was how lessons were taught, how a man was made. And though he still felt the weight of what was coming, he squared his shoulders, stood a little taller, and spoke.
“I’m ready.”
His father nodded once, slow and approving.
“Good, boy.”
The boy stood before his father, his breath steady but shallow. He had been through this before, but that never made it easier. His father, shorter but strong, sat on a wooden chair, his legs set firmly apart. The worn alpargatas on his feet barely made a sound as he adjusted his posture, tapping the wood lightly.
“Remember why we’re here, boy,” his father said, his voice even. He didn’t sound angry—he never raised his voice unless he had to. “A man don’t get to do what he pleases without consequence. And a boy—” he pointed at him with a calloused hand, “—a boy must learn that before he becomes one.”
The boy swallowed hard and nodded. His toes curled slightly against the wooden floor, a nervous habit his father always noticed.
“Come here, boy.”
The boy obeyed, stepping closer until he was standing right in front of his father, their toes nearly touching.
His father patted his knee. “Over.”
Without a word, the boy leaned forward, lowering himself across his father’s lap. His broad chest pressed against one of his father’s thighs while his own legs dangled off the other side. His toes barely touched the wooden floor, lifting slightly with each breath. His hands reached down instinctively, gripping his father’s ankles, his fingertips brushing against the canvas of the old, worn alpargatas.
His father adjusted him slightly, then pulled his jeans tight around his backside. The boy knew why. The sting would be sharper this way.
“This ain’t easy for me, boy,” his father said, resting a heavy hand on his lower back. His tone was firm but quieter now, more personal. “Hurts me more than it hurts you. But it’s my job to make sure you remember this lesson. You understand, boy?”
“Yes, sir,” the boy said, his voice barely above a whisper.
His father exhaled through his nose. A long, patient breath. Then he lifted the strap.
“Ready, boy?”
“Yes, sir.”
The first slap landed solidly across the boy’s backside, the sharp sound of leather against denim echoing through the barn. The boy barely moved, but his fingers gripped his father’s ankles tighter, his eyes fixed on the scuffed toes of those alpargatas.
“Count, boy.”
“One, sir.”
The next strike came, and then the next. The boy counted each one, his voice steady, though his toes curled against the wood with every impact. His father kept the pace slow, deliberate—not out of cruelty, but because every lesson needed to be learned properly.
By the time they reached ten, the boy’s breath was coming a little heavier. His father rested a hand on his back for a moment before speaking.
The boy slowly let go of his father’s ankles, pushing himself up carefully. His legs felt unsteady for a moment, his feet finding the solid ground again. His father sat back, watching him with the same unwavering gaze as always.
“You take this and remember it, boy,” he said. “A man don’t turn away from his mistakes—he faces them, takes his licks, and moves on.”
The boy nodded, his hands rubbing at his thighs, but he said nothing. He didn’t have to. His father knew he understood.
After a long moment, the older man leaned back, stretching out his legs. He glanced down at his worn alpargatas and smirked slightly.
“You were staring at my shoes the whole time, weren’t you, boy?”
”yes sir” Nicolas said
he thought it was over and began to walk but his father grabbed his ear
”Ah ah ahh! We’re not done yet boy.” He said
”… there’s more for you boy.” He said and grabbed a leather belt
“Yes sir” said Nicolas
”Now turn around!!.” His father said
he slowly stepped up to his son and raised his right hand and delivered a swing with a cracking sound. The sound echoed in the air. Nicolas’ whimpered echoed but nobody for 69 miles will hear him, he was at the mercy of the man who raised him.
crack and crack as the leather belt landed on his jeans. His father ordered him to unbuckle them, and in one swift motion his father brings them down hard.
He tries to maintain his composure because he knows what is coming. His father rubs his ass and gets it ready for a different weapon, it was a wooden stick. Them same wooden stick Nicolas would use to herd the sheep and smack them every now and then. But now Nicolas is going to feel the sting. His father pays it first and his right arm lifts and swoops down delivering that agonizing sting. Nicolas grits his teeth and counts
“one sir”
Each sting worse than the last, by the time he reaches twelve, Nicolas starts moaning when it crack down.
“I can’t hear the count, I wanna hear numbers boy, not your crying. “ his father said
His father then wants to speak his legs apart, he steps down on the boy’s jeans on the ground to hold them and tell him to step out of them. The old man’s shoe lightly kicks each of Nicolas’ ankles to spread his legs apart. His dad sees all the red lines he left on his son and shakes his head.
Next is a shoe, he slips one of his shoes off and prepares for it by lightly tapping his ass. Despite his father’s shoe being a lightweight canvas espadrille used for farm work, it packed a sting especially with how he used it. His dad brings it down and it leaves bigger red marks now. The size 9 shoe was small but stung like hell. Nicolas shed a tear by this point and started his count
”three sir” Swat! “ four sir” Swat! “Fuh.. hiii…hi..ve sir!”
by twenty the boy was crying,
“that’s enough for now boy.”
He left the barn and told him to come back with him named for the walk of shame. He would need ice for his ass.
“I hope you don’t misbehave again boy!”
