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Forty pages. The "booklet" was forty pages long. Clean, crisp, high-quality, homemade without any indication of such. It could have been made in an office, hell, in a courtroom! Harris flipped back and forth between pages in something close to a fugue state. Neat blocks of letters—12 point, 1-inch margin, san-sariff font—bullet points and asterisks flooded past his vision like flies zipping around his head. "Darren?" He asked with a tentative glance across the table, "what the hell is this?" Darren wasn't exactly the spitting image of his father, but he was damn close. A tiger, tall, with the same resting glare that made getting out of fights a fairly easy job throughout Harris's career as a deadbeat. When fights did happen a naturally large physique, accentuated by constant gym visits, ensured he could more than handle his own. It was surreal seeing this man, this mirror image twenty plus years out of date, instead of the cub he was(n't) familiar with. Vibrant orange fur stuck out of a white t-shirt. A tight white t-shirt. Darren’s chest was all muscle, toned and firm without any of hint of gray. His face was smooth too, fierce, without all the nicks and scars that came part and parcel with a rough life between bar stools. Harris, transfixed, almost missed his son’s answer. "The ground rules." "Ground rules?" Harris asked, large paw gripping at his mug hard enough to give it a handshake. "Ground rules,” Darren said, “expectations. Studies, citations on the back, that support my position." "Your position?" Darren frowned and turned away for a second, too many seconds. He looked guilty almost, like a kid about to admit some terrible wrongdoing to an aggrieved parent. It struck Harris suddenly that they’d never, as far as memory served at least, shared such a situation before. Parenting was kind of always his wife’s thing. He shook his head and with it the thought of his ex; one fucked relationship at a time. When Darren looked back, his gaze had solidified into something hard and cold. Jesus fucking Christ! Kid had his mom’s eyes! “You’re a deadbeat.” A flash of teeth, a growl that never came. Harris’s shoulders slumped. In that moment he was a spent lighter of a man: click, spark, and nothing. He wanted to argue, needed on some level. But what would that get him? Flat out on his ass probably. He had no options. No friends closer than a bar stool. Not anymore. Even if Darren was dead fucking wrong that wouldn’t change the fact Harris was here, hat in paw, begging for a place to stay. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. And honestly, was Darren wrong? Isn’t showing up on your kid’s doorstep after years of little contact to ask for help a little, well, textbook deadbeat? He said nothing, tapped a claw nervously over the varnished dinner table. When Harris failed to respond, his son continued. "Cliffnotes are I believe you need two things: structure and discipline. Missing out on both is why you're here, right? I mean, you certainly aren't the… visiting type." The coffee was cold; table warm; ceiling had that nice little bumpy texture that felt good on your paws. The fridge was a little loud and a little old, probably due for a replacement, something nice and modern. Metal fridge! Darren should get something metal; one of those sleek stainless steel things. Nice wooden floor. He liked wooden floors. ". . .despite our estrangement, I'd rather not see you living out of your car." Harris looked up, letting go of a breath he didn't realize he held. Suddenly the nice wooden floor and table and ceiling and old fridge weren’t of interest. "Y-you'll let me stay?" "Course, but I mean—" Darren let out a startled meow as his father barreled into him, lurching out of his seat and around the table faster than a tiger in his fifties had a right to. Massive arms pulled Darren into a tight, desperate hug. "Thank you! FUCK! Thank you! You're such an amazing son! I don't deserve you kitten!" Both men just stood there, out of their seats and into an embrace that felt terribly good and terribly awkward at the same time. Darren didn’t return the hug immediately, and Harris couldn’t help but wonder in the seconds after if his reaction was a little much. Regardless, they hugged. Family were supposed to do that right? Once both men were back in their seats, Darren flipped the booklet open and passed it over the table. Harris, a little elated, a little embarrassed eyed the first bullet point. "Is this a joke, son?" Darren shook his head. A single word rested on the tip of the middle-aged tiger's tongue, a word he didn't want to say because it felt simply too ridiculous. Ridiculous yet unavoidable. It came up no less than 5 times on the introductory page alone. Spanking It was a strange word. He knew what it meant of course, but it wasn’t really something you came into contact with past grade school. It felt silly, sounded silly. Nothing was quite like it. Harris didn’t have much experience with. . .that. Not like how many his age bragged at least. Yeah, bragged. People were proud of the strangest fucking things sometimes. Into the strangest things too. Harris looked at his son and, knowing Darren hadn’t grown up with something to be proud of in that sense, had to figure option two. “Darren?” "It's non-negotiable.” "This is—" "Non-negotiable." Face stone, eyes hard like his mother’s, with a countenance like his father. He took a deep breath and spoke in a voice that sounded almost rehearsed. "I believe in corporal punishment. I believe in improvement. You're reckless, negligent. You need a lot of help, Dad. Discipline. Discipline helps. Discipline starts over the knee." Harris blinked. "You want to spank your father?" "You'll understand once you—" "No!" Harris stood up, disgusted. What the fuck was this?! Some weird fetish thing?! He knew he failed as a father, but this badly!? "Darren that's really fucking weird okay? If you have some feelings towards me that's. . .we can talk about that. But don’t try to. . .what the fuck, son?!" Hurt passed across Darren’s face, a crack in his exterior. He set his jaw though, shook his head with all the gravitas of a disappointed parent. Doubt seeped into Harris mind, a trickle just a bit. But that too was quickly overrun by sheer disgust. The spent lighter of a man had some fuel left after all. He pushed up from the table and headed for the door. "That's fucking gross, son!” he spat, then all but fled for his truck. -- Finding a parking spot to pass the night had been an issue since eviction. There was always empty space, sure. There were also always cameras, cops, good citizens, and the odd fellow with a shotgun and a passionate need to protect derelict parking lots. Regardless, it meant moving on. Harris had moved on, through three states and enough gas money to finance a nice hotel room for a week. Now he was on a quarter tank with nothing to show for it but the revelation that his son probably had a thing for him. It was...a lot. Too much, actually. He drove for a while and thought of nothing, because thinking of anything in particular wasn't really possible when all of it was particularly bad. He was tired, sick, of all of it, everything. Life fucking sucked. It always sucked, but now it sucked on a level that begged for a glass-in-paw or bullet-in-chamber. Without either Harris just kept driving, passing desolate roadsides and empty lots that promised a break if nothing else. When he couldn't continue without risking sleep at the wheel, he pulled onto a dirt road just outside of town. He felt like a corpse in there. Cardboard walls hemmed the tiger in at either side, boxes stacked ceiling high in front of every window he could get away with. It wasn’t privacy, not really, but you took what little you could get for as long as you were able. Harris followed such a philosophy for a long time, and it had served him well in the past. An extra day on a friend’s couch, an extra dollar from a loan, a little bit more from what you could get, and a little something out of what you couldn’t. It wasn’t that he was selfish, it’s just how you had to manage sometimes. When times were good or good enough you gave a little back. Unfortunately, times hadn’t been good for as long as he could remember. Now they were even worse. Repossessions, loans he couldn’t pay back, tickets he couldn’t pay off, one thing lead to another until his entire world comprised a shitty little van and a phone full of old contacts. His phone! He slapped at his sides. Boxes shook, unsettled by constant twist and turn as Harris struggled against a cramped space and lack of lighting. More than once a finger slid into something too small to be a pocket and Harris felt fur. Fucking moths. He groped at air or himself until he, at last, found a pocket. He retrieved his wallet first, only realizing what it was after it was in his paws. The tiger scowled before tossing it aside, wasn’t like there was anything of value in there anyhow. Harris had his phone out moments later. Nothing. Whatever excitement might have been there bled like a fresh cut. Harris unlocked his phone anyway. A green field and blue sky greeted him, speckled with colorful icons. 11:30PM read in bold white text above a search bar he never used. The tiger pulled up his contacts after half a minute spent squinting at the screen. Dozens of contacts accrued over years—friends, co-workers, drinking buddies, and a little more than drinking buddies—yet no one offered him more than well wishes. Everyone had reasons of course. Good reasons, bad reasons, reasons that amounted to nothing than “fuck off,” in as polite a term as possible, but reasons nonetheless. Some rejections hurt, but most were shots in the dark, entreaties towards people he hadn’t spoken with in years. Harris couldn’t blame them. If someone he only knew over a bar stool suddenly begged him for a place to stay, would he jump to clear off the couch? That didn’t make it easier though. He was out of options, fucked. That was unless he agreed to Darren’s rules. He placed a paw over his face and sighed. Darren, his son, the only person that would agree to take him in, and his weird spanking thing. And it was his fault, wasn't it? Dad of the year, always out on a stool, always blowing money the family didn't have, always gone. If Darren was a weirdo who wanted to enact disciplinary fantasies on his dad, didn’t the dad who was never fucking there bear some responsibility? Fuck, he barely knew his own kitten! They never talked, even before his wife divorced him. God almighty Harris didn’t want to work out all the psychology there! But maybe this was some kind of revenge? An unconscious (God he hoped it was unconscious) need to punish the father who wasn’t there. Harris stared at the ceiling for a while, a long while, then activated his phone’s flashlight and wriggled up to his knees. With a grunt he squeezed himself partway through the gap between passenger and driver’s seat: Darren’s booklet lay wedged underneath the passenger side. -- Light fell in specs and spotlights, filtered through mulberry trees in desperate need of trimming. Vines tinted brown in or near death covered Darren's gutters like hair stretched over a slanted table. Still, nature's encroach was curtailed elsewhere. Lawn cut, driveway clear, hedges trimmed. Darren's House was in one glance picturesque and in another chaotic. Harris stretched his chin and sighed. The sun had risen earlier than it should have, which is to say well before noon, and Harris had to contend with “I’ll visit him in the morning” going from a distant enough promise to an intimidate reality. So, bleary-eyed, with a perpetual yawn and no amount of certainty, he drove to his son's place ...to find an empty driveway. Maybe he should have called, texted, but he didn't have the heart. Not yet. Besides this wasn't a conversation to be made without eye contact, without genuine connection. He had to be sure, to size his son up as a fellow man and confirm beyond a shadow of a doubt that whatever this spanking thing was, it wasn't a ploy to...do things. Darren had to be a true believer in whatever this was. So he waited, parked in front of Darren's House, stewed in anxiety. There wasn't much else to do. Phone was low enough on battery by that point not to be fucked with. Time passed. The sun edged higher and higher until morning was in its death throes. The tiger dozed, an early rise paired with a lack of mental stimulation took its toll. He slid back in his seat, shut his eyes, and— "Dad?" Darren stood, materialized out of thin air in front of the driver's side window with half a dozen bags hanging from muscular arms. His driveway was no longer empty. "F-h-hey, son!" Harris awoke with a start. His heart beat mad in his chest and he struggled to speak, even as he wheeled the window down. "Can we, uh, talk?" His son said nothing for a moment. A long moment. Harris’s chest tightened. Darren’s gaze wandered off, refocused just past him, then wandered off again. "Sure." He turned to go, then paused. "You should park in the driveway." They met in the kitchen. Already with half his groceries packed away, Darren bid his father to take a seat; the same he’d dramatically stormed out of yesterday. The two tigers stared each other down with coffee in their paws and an awkward look on their faces; an exact recreation of their precious meeting. "So I uh," Harris mumbled, "I read the thing, a lot of it at least." "Yeah?" Darren promoted, a slightly hopeful tilt to his voice. "Yeah. You really believe in this stuff, huh?" Darren nodded. "Yeah." "And you don't...you aren't...into me, right?" His shook his head, tail lashing behind him. "Jesus Christ you're my dad! No! How could you even—" "Okay! Okay, I just had to be sure. Okay?" The younger tiger set his jaw. "Okay." Relief flooded over Harris in a tidal wave. Thank fucking God! Thank God and the saints and Tom down at the fucking liquor store! If nothing else, no matter how weird things got, at least he knew that. Harris smiled, just a bit, then thought of his behavior the day before. "Uh sorry," He said, looking away from his son. "I didn't...I thought." His voice trailed off. Darren didn't say anything. He just stared, eyes fierce and tired all at once. "You read the ground rules?" "Huh? Yeah, uh, most of them." "You accept?" "What? Wait, I can still stay here?" Darren looked at his father like an idiot. "Never said you couldn't, just that you needed to agree to the rules." Harris took a deep breath. These rules were strict, in places insulting. Curfews, groundings, daily chores, punishments for everything from "obscene language" to not taking the trash out. Honestly, for a grown man let alone a middle-aged one, it was damn authoritarian. Still what choice did he have? It was either live under a roof with his son treating him like a troubled teenager or find a nice gutter to sleep in. And spanking? None of it sat right. But then again, could he blame Darren? Harris had never exactly proven himself reliable before. Besides this didn't need to be permanent. He just needed to get another job, maybe get a place with a roommate. If he was careful, he might never even end up over Darren's knee. "Yeah, son, I guess I do." In an instant Darren's gaze softened. His tail, which had been at it like a canine’s the past minute or so, twitched instead of lashed. That was progress, surely. Mad instead of pissed. He crossed his arms and a stone fucking wall of muscle formed, flexed, a bastion to the goddamn fortress that was this man. A new, strange sense of insecurity came over the older tiger then. Harris wasn’t bad for his age, still muscular. But over fifty, his own bulk was certainly on the downswing. Darren was all upswing; young, strong, imposing. He motioned for Harris to stand. The older tiger did so. Not without some trepidation. “Bend over Dad.” That hit like a goddamn sucker punch. “Huh?!” Darren motioned. Harris looked back and forth between him and the table, uncomprehending. Maybe he just didn’t want to comprehend. “I can’t let your behavior the other day slide. It’s not a way you talk to a man in his own house. Certainly not to family. You say you accept the rules? Great. Prove it. Bend over right now and accept them.” Shock gave way to anger, white hot and terrible. The older tiger’s whole body jolted with it. Harris’s tail lashed back and forth. Unbelievable! He agreed to the rules! Wasn’t that enough? Now his son had the nerve to demand he prove himself?! “Kitten!” Harris growled in that rising, furious tone only a parent could manage, even a bad one. Summoning up every scant bit of paternal authority he might have had left squirreled away in whatever dark recess it hid for the past twenty odd years. Unfortunately whatever natural authority Harris had as a father, Darren had more. He just sighed in that disappointed kind of way and, without a another word, seized his father by the arm. Harris jerked away, yelping in surprise. Darren’s grip was iron though. He pulled, pushed. Suddenly Harris stared face down at the dinner table Fuck. He rose, tried to at least. He only managed an inch before something pressed his muzzle right back down to the wood. Darren stood there, high and fucking mighty with a look that had to be contempt. Middle manger kind of contempt. The kind you saw from shitty bosses and co-workers and well-to-do assholes who couldn’t stomach a man with a little dirt under his boots. Harris saw all of them and more in that little downwards curve of his son’s lips; in that furrowed brow; but mostly in those eyes. Claws raked across the dinner table. Harris snarled, thrashed, fought with all his goddamn might. Coffee cups tipped, bounced, came down hard with a great crash. Black and beige liquid spilled out in all directions over the modest kitchen floor. Calmly, patiently, Darren collected his petulant father’s paws and held them behind his back. Harris struggled, swore up a storm so fierce that a sailor would be impressed, but it was no use. Darren grabbed hold of his father’s waistband. "L-let me up! Fucking hell! I take all that shit back! Fuck your rules! I don’t want anything to do with your goddamn fetish!" It all came down at once, in one big tug. Blue jeans and white briefs slid down bare, muscular legs. Pristine white fur ran the curve of Harris’s cheeks. Bordered by vibrant tiger orange and black, his ass stuck out like nature itself was marking Darren’s target. A slight hiss, both familiar and distant. Harris’s ears perked: that was a sound he hadn’t heard in a very long time. The belt wasn’t thick, not anymore than the average. It wasn’t that wide either, which only made matters more concerning. Harris was no grade A math student, but here was a basic equation he could put together easily: An awful sting, a horrible a sting, a sting that made brats howl. Even well-behaved kittens found themselves rubbing a sympathetic paw over their bottoms when they heard that tell-tale fussssh as Daddy’s belt slid free his pants. Or, well, ‘sonny’s’ belt in this case. Keeping his father pinned Darren stepped off to the side, folding his belt over one-handed in a motion clearly practiced. He pressed the doubled over strip of leather against his father’s bare rump, letting Harris get a feel for what was about to take his naughty ass straight to hell. Crack! Both cheeks compressed under the force of Darren's blow. Cold leather bit, hard, and when the belt drew back, a vibrant tinge of pink ran underneath white fur. Harris let out a high-pitched, agonized meow. "I'm going to tell you how this is going to go," Darren said, raising the belt high for another heavy lick. "First I'm going to explain the ground rules again so there's no misunderstanding between us." The belt came down again. A second pink line paralleled the first just a bit beneath the center of Harris bottom. Harris bit down another meow and clenched and unclenched his poor cheeks in a wasted effort to fight the sting. Two swats in, just two, and his ass burned like he'd taken a dozen. Harris found out in the worst way possible that his son was a dyed in the fucking wool disciplinarian. "If you interrupt, I will start over. If I start over, so does your spanking. Understand?" Darren waited for a response. When he didn't get one, he cracked the belt over his dad's tender center, eliciting another yowl. "Answer me young man!" Young man? He sounded almost mechanical. As though Darren suddenly morphed into a machine following standard operations. The belt came down hard with terrible efficiency. Swat by swat, son painted father’s ass bright red. Harris was allowed only seconds between each, enough to feel the full burn after but not enough to recover. The older tiger did just about everything in the spankee’s limited toolbox to avoid punishment. His cheeks clenched in vain attempts to ease the pain. He squirmed and bucked and shook, shaking his ass side-to-side to avoid a belt that would always come down. Finally he begged, tried to at least. Every attempt was cut short by his son’s ruthless spanking. “Fuck!” Harris grunted. “Fucking sto-AAAAAAGH!” An exploitative-ridden confirmation morphed into a full-on scream. Another lick, harder and heavier than all previous, sent Harris reeling with the pain. “Soooooooonnnnnnn!” he meowed, whined, almost like a kitten. Darren paused, hesitating for the first time throughout his father’s punishment. “Stooooop! Stoooooooooop pleeeeeease! I’ll...I’ll be… ” Harris paused. An overwhelming sense of humiliation came over him in that instant. What the fuck was he doing!? What the fuck was even happening!? This, all of it, was fucking insane! Disgusting! He began to say so, to remind Darren that spanking your own goddamn father was something that you just didn’t do! He began to, then he eyed the belt in his son’s paws. He looked away, face to the wood, as if not seeing it would make his punishment go away. “I’ll... be good!” The tiger jolted upwards with another meow. Something touched his ass! Not the belt. It was, uh, actually kinda nice. Soothing. Darren was stroking his father’s abused cheeks. “I know you will,” he said, gently. “But you gotta take your punishment now, okay?” There was no getting out of this one. Tears formed at the edges of the tiger’s eyes. Harris blinked them away, shuddering with it, all of it, everything. Darren retracted his paw moments later. Crack! “First rule, no foul language. Failure to curtail when warned will result in a spanking, understand?” Harris didn’t hesitate to answer this time. “Good. Second rule, backtalk, insults, or any other form of blatant disrespect will result in a spanking. Every. Time.” This pattern continued for a while. Darren recited a rule, Harris acknowledged, then the belt came down to make sure it stuck. There were lots of rules, too many for anyone to memorize off the cuff, at least when someone was in the process of flaying your ass. Throughout it all Harris managed, just barely, to hang on. Though it took just about everything he had. If Darren decided to demand anything more than a simple “yes” every blistering lick or so, he would surely have broken into sobs. Darren didn’t say anything when it was over. Not at first. Instead, he just took a step back from his father and looped the belt back around his pants. Harris stayed there, frozen, all but mewling, fighting against a flood of tears that threatened to come but never quite did. He was left there for a while, ass on fire, yet remained in position even after Darren left the room. Getting up without permission was in that moment unthinkable. That was one of the rules right? Something about corner time? Fuck if he knew. His ass hurt way too much! About five minutes later Darren returned. Allowing his father to get back up and—thank God—pull his pants up, he led Harris through the house to a small room. It was plain but clean, with little more than a made bed and old desk. “Dinner’s at four,” he said in a gentle, warm tone. “I’ll get you then. For now I don’t want you leaving this room young man. Clear?” Harris was nodding before he even noticed. “I love you, Dad.” They hugged. Well, it was really just Darren hugging him. Later that night in his new bedroom, down on his front with a blanket around his legs and bare ass open to a nice, cool breeze from a cracked window. Harris thought about how his own son spanked him. Spanked him almost to tears. His son. Not just that, Darren overpowered him, scolded him, gave him the worst fucking belting he’d maybe ever received. That night as he lay with a paw stroking his poor bottom, propped up on a pillow with his fully charged phone, Harris scrolled through his texts. Heyy man I really need a place to stay hey its me! Can I crash please??? dude im homeless help me the fuck out No one answered.