More questions, not meant for answers but making it quite clear to me that I was in deep trouble. I tried to speak up for myself, but my mother told me to shut my mouth, then looking at my father, she said, "Well, I think it is now time to stop talking and start whipping WITH HIS PANTS PULLED DOWN!"
My father stood up, grabbed my arm and roughly pulled my crying quivering body over to the chair where he had been sitting. "Pull Down Your Pants!" For the second time that day, I loosened my belt and button, the lowered the zipper and let the pants fall to the floor. Then, without having to be told, I pulled my underpants off of my bottom--exposing the still recently brutilized cheeks--secretly hoping that the sight would cause my parents to give me a reprieve.
My heart sank when the opposite happened. "My, he did a good job--but there is still some space for the belt to be laid. Bend Over."
I dropped to my knees next to the chair, and stuck my bottom back and laid my hands with my head on top of them right on the seat of the chair. I was crying hard--knowing that with their anger and the furious indictments made against me that this was not to be an ordinary whipping.
I looked over my shoulder through tear blurred eyes to see my father taking his belt off and doubling it over.
"Look straight ahead, and don't you dare try to put your hands in the way of the belt." He swung the first lash--landing squarely on the spot where the first lash of my earlier misfortune had struck. I shrieked as loudly as I could--there would be no attempts to hold back the crying now--I reached back while I straightened on my knees. A lash came down across my bare thighs--causing me to scream again.
"Take your hands off of your bottom, Young Man!" How could my mother expect me to calmly take this? But I did as I was told, because I knew what was good for me if I didn't.
While the Dean of Discipline had been methodical in the laying of cowhide on my hide, my father was more furious--making sure that every square inch of my cheeks felt his belt at least two or three times. I tightly held my hands together--holding my bottom in position to meet the strap--screaming and pleading and coughing and choking as the tears ran down my face into my mouth--my pleas and cries seeming to give more energy to that snake like strap as it bit my butt. Not only though was my butt thoroughly beaten (spanked and even whipped are too moderate of words) but my thighs were also severely striped down to my knees. It was as if the time had finally come for me to properly pay for every indiscretion of my fourteen years--It was so hard to just keep from rolling around on the floor--something that I was determined not to do at fourteen.
Finally, It ended. I don't know how many times that belt hit my bottom--but it was enough for me. My whole body aching, I stood up crying and was given another talking to about how my behavior had better improve and how my father hoped that he would never have to beat me again--something that sadly for me he would have to do just a couple of months later (see The Worst Month Of My Life), but on that day, I resolved to get my act together so that I would never have to bend over again.