"You think this is funny, José? Really?" Mr. Castillo's voice was calm, but the way he drummed his fingers on the desk made the clipboard underneath rattle. José shifted his weight, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched like he was trying to fold himself smaller.
The office smelled like stale coffee and lemon disinfectant. Outside, the warehouse hummed with forklifts and the occasional shout, but in here, the air was thick and still. José's gaze drifted to the safety posters on the wall—the one about proper lifting techniques had a corner peeling up. He'd been meaning to tape that back down for weeks.
Mr. Castillo leaned forward, his chair creaking under the shift. "You clocked in late three times last week. Left early twice without notice. And Rodriguez says you spent forty minutes yesterday 'checking inventory' in the break room." He tapped the clipboard. "That's not inventory. That's your ass in a chair watching TikTok."
José's throat tightened. He hadn't realized anyone had noticed. The break room had that ancient TV with the busted HDMI port—he'd just been killing time until his shift ended.
Mr. Castillo exhaled sharply through his nose, like a bull deciding whether to charge. He flipped the clipboard shut with a snap that made José flinch. "Here's how this is going to go. You can walk out that door right now—permanently. Or," he paused, rolling his chair back to reveal the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet, "you can take your medicine like a man." The drawer squeaked open. José caught a glimpse of something wooden, worn smooth at the handle.
José's mouth went dry. The warehouse suddenly felt ten degrees hotter. "You're joking." His voice cracked.
Mr. Castillo wasn't joking. The paddle—because that's what it was, sanded oak with drilled holes that whistled when swung—emerged from the drawer with a weight that made the wood groan. José's stomach dropped like he'd missed a step in the dark.
"Turn around," Mr. Castillo said, standing. He was shorter than José remembered, but broad in a way that made the polo shirt strain at his shoulders. José's knees locked. His fingers twitched toward his back pockets instinctively, then froze.
José turned slowly, his sneakers scuffing against the linoleum. The paddle tapped against Mr. Castillo's thigh in a rhythm that matched José's heartbeat—quick, uneven. The first swat landed before he was fully braced, a sharp crack that sent heat blooming across his backside. His hands flew to the edge of the desk, knuckles white. The second hit harder, and he bit down on a yelp.
By the fifth, tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. The paddle’s holes made a faint, hollow sound as it connected—like someone knocking on a door he desperately wished would stay shut. Mr. Castillo didn’t speak, didn’t scold. The only sounds were the paddle, José’s ragged breathing, and the distant beep of a forklift reversing somewhere in the warehouse.
The paddle clattered onto the desk as Mr. Castillo exhaled, rubbing his palm like he’d just finished stacking crates all morning. José stayed bent over, his fingers still clawed into the desk’s edge, the sting radiating down his thighs. He could feel the heat in his face, the wet trails down his cheeks that he hadn’t realized were there until now.
"Stand up straight," Mr. Castillo said, not unkindly, but with the firmness of a man who expected to be obeyed. José straightened slowly, his jeans rough against his skin, the fabric suddenly feeling like sandpaper. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, avoiding eye contact. The paddle lay between them like a signed confession.
Mr. Castillo leaned against the desk, crossing his arms as he studied José’s flushed face. “I’m calling your father,” he said matter-of-factly, like he was announcing a shift change. José’s stomach lurched. The paddle had been bad enough—but the thought of his dad’s reaction made his throat close up.
“Sir, I—” José started, but Mr. Castillo held up a hand.
José’s protest died in his throat as Mr. Castillo picked up the phone, the rotary dial clicking with deliberate turns. Each number felt like a nail being hammered into José’s coffin. He could already picture his father’s face—the tightness around his mouth, the way his eyebrows would knit together like storm clouds gathering. The paddle had been humiliating, but this? This was existential.
The call was brief. Mr. Castillo’s voice was low and measured, but José caught the words *“repeated negligence”* and *“disrespectful behavior”* before his stomach twisted into a knot. When the receiver clicked back into place, the silence in the office was thick enough to choke on. “He’s expecting you,” Mr. Castillo said simply, nodding toward the door. José’s legs moved before his brain caught up, carrying him out of the office like a condemned man walking the plank.
The drive home was a blur of stop signs and half-remembered turns, José’s fingers gripping the wheel tight enough to leave imprints in the vinyl. Every bump in the road sent a fresh wave of discomfort radiating from his backside, a relentless reminder of what awaited him. He kept glancing at his phone in the passenger seat, half-expecting it to ring with his father’s name flashing—some final warning before the storm hit. But the screen stayed dark, silent. Somehow, that was worse.
His childhood home loomed at the end of the block, the porch light already on despite the early afternoon sun. His father never left lights on unnecessarily—a fact that made José’s pulse skip. He killed the engine and sat for a long moment, forehead pressed against the steering wheel, breathing in the stale air of his car. The smell of old fast food wrappers and gym shoes did nothing to settle his nerves.
José's fingers trembled as he fumbled with the car door handle, the click of it unlatching sounding absurdly loud in the quiet street. He dragged his feet up the walkway, each step heavier than the last, the crunch of gravel under his sneakers punctuating the dread pooling in his gut. The screen door squeaked on its hinges when he pushed it open—a sound he'd heard a thousand times before, but today it felt like an alarm.
His father was waiting in the living room, seated stiffly on the edge of the armchair, hands clasped loosely between his knees. The TV was off. No newspaper in his lap. Just silence and that look—the one that made José feel twelve years old again. "Sit," his father said, nodding to the couch opposite him. Not an invitation. A command.
José lowered himself onto the couch with deliberate care, the worn fabric rough against his still-throbbing backside. He kept his hands flat on his thighs, fingers splayed like he was trying to press himself into the furniture through sheer willpower. His father’s eyes never left him—dark, unreadable, the kind of gaze that made José feel like an insect pinned to a board.
"You want to explain?" His father’s voice was deceptively calm, the way the ocean is calm right before a riptide drags you under. José swallowed, his throat clicking dryly. There was no good explanation, just excuses—the alarm didn’t go off, the traffic was bad, Rodriguez had it out for him—but they crumbled to dust before he could voice them. His father’s jaw tightened infinitesimally, a telltale sign José had learned to dread over the years.
José opened his mouth, but his father raised a single calloused palm—a gesture that cut him off more effectively than a shout. "Strip," his father said, the word clipped and final. José's breath hitched. He'd known this was coming, but hearing it aloud made his skin prickle with fresh humiliation. His fingers hovered at his belt buckle for a trembling second before he forced himself to move, the leather slipping free with a sound like a sigh.
The jeans pooled around his ankles, followed by his boxers. The air in the room was cool against his already-sensitive skin, raising goosebumps along his thighs. José kept his eyes fixed on the frayed edge of the rug beneath his feet, the same rug he'd spilled grape juice on when he was eight and gotten his first real hiding. Some things never changed.
José's father stood without a word, his work boots scuffing against the hardwood as he crossed to the antique oak dresser by the stairs. The top drawer slid open with a whisper of wood—José didn't need to look up to know what was inside. The same hairbrush his mother had used on him as a kid, its maple back worn smooth from years of use. His stomach knotted when he heard the familiar rasp of it being lifted, the weight of it in his father's hand practically audible.
"Over my knee," his father said, settling back into the armchair with the effortless authority of a man used to being obeyed. José's throat worked as he forced himself to move, each step feeling like wading through wet concrete. When he bent over, the position was awkward—too tall now at nineteen to fit across his father's lap the way he had as a child—but the brush found its mark all the same. The first smack landed with a crisp *thwack* that echoed off the walls, sharper than the paddle at work had been. José sucked in a breath through his teeth, his fingers digging into the armrest.
The second swing came before José could brace properly, the brush’s curved back biting into his sit-spots with surgical precision. His toes curled against the rug fibers, his hips jerking forward instinctively—only for his father’s arm to lock around his waist like an iron band, holding him in place. "None of that," his father murmured, the words almost gentle if not for the relentless *thwack-thwack-thwack* that followed in quick succession. José’s vision blurred as the heat built in overlapping layers, each smack reigniting the paddle’s earlier work until his entire backside felt like a live wire.
Somewhere around the fifteenth stroke, the rhythm changed—his father paused, the brush hovering just above skin that now glowed an angry pink. José’s breath came in ragged gulps, his forehead pressed against the musty upholstery of the armrest. "Why?" his father asked, simple and devastating. The question hung in the air between them, heavier than the brush. José squeezed his eyes shut. There were reasons—boredom, the mind-numbing monotony of stacking pallets, the way Rodriguez always took the easiest shifts—but they withered under the weight of his father’s silence. The brush descended again, this time in a volley that left José kicking involuntarily, his heel connecting with the coffee table leg with a hollow *thunk*.
The brush landed three more times—hard, deliberate strokes that made José's breath hitch—before his father sighed and set it aside on the end table with a soft *clack*. The sudden absence of pain was almost worse; it left space for the shame to rush in, hot and suffocating. José stayed bent over, his shoulders trembling, the rough fabric of his father’s work pants scratching against his bare stomach. A bead of sweat dripped from his temple onto the upholstery, darkening the faded floral pattern.
His father’s hand settled between his shoulder blades, warm and calloused, the weight of it both grounding and unbearable. "Up," he said quietly, nudging José until he stumbled to his feet. The room tilted for a second, his legs unsteady as he stood there, exposed and raw in every sense of the word. His jeans and boxers were still pooled around his ankles, the denim crumpled like a discarded skin. José couldn’t bring himself to bend down and pull them up yet—not with the way his backside throbbed, not with his father watching him like that.
José's father studied him for a long moment—not with anger now, but something heavier. Disappointment, maybe, or the tired resignation of a man who’d hoped his son would outgrow this. He reached down and picked up José’s boxers with two fingers, holding them out without a word. The gesture was so ordinary, so domestic, that it made José’s throat tighten. He took them gingerly, wincing as the motion pulled at tender skin.
The brush still lay on the end table, innocuous as a paperweight. José couldn’t stop staring at it—the way the afternoon light caught the grain of the wood, the faint sheen of sweat on the handle. His father followed his gaze and snorted, a dry sound that wasn’t quite humor. "It’s just a piece of wood, mijo," he said, reaching over to flip it handle-side down with a casual flick of his wrist. The gesture was oddly comforting, like turning a knife blade away from the table.
José pulled his boxers up with slow, careful movements, hissing through his teeth as the fabric dragged over the angry heat of his backside. His jeans followed, the denim stiff against his thighs—every seam suddenly a fresh torment. His father watched him dress with arms crossed, the set of his shoulders looser now but his expression still unreadable. The house was silent except for the creak of José’s belt buckle and the distant hum of the refrigerator.
José's father leaned back in the armchair, the leather creaking under his weight, and rubbed a hand over his stubble—a gesture José recognized as his way of choosing words carefully. "This is the last time, mijo," he said quietly, his voice rough like gravel under tires. "Next time, you won't just be answering to me." The implication hung between them—his father’s connections at the steel mill, the foreman who’d taken José on as a favor. José swallowed hard, his throat clicking dryly.
The refrigerator kicked on with a hum, filling the silence for a moment. José flexed his fingers against his thighs, the denim of his jeans rough against his still-tender skin. His father sighed, long and slow, then reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of Marlboros. He tapped one out, rolling it between his fingers before lighting it—a ritual José had watched a thousand times, but today the smell of burning tobacco made his stomach churn. His father took a drag, the ember flaring briefly, then exhaled a thin stream of smoke toward the ceiling. "You’re better than this," he said finally, the words soft but weighted.
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