Dad ran his hand over my buttocks. "You're doing well, son," he
said. I had just taken four strokes from a riding crop at station
Z. As we walked toward stationAA, Dad said,
"Remember I said you could handle ten from Mack?"
"The man with
the brown strap?"
"That's the one. He's next. But I want you to
bid just six."
"Okay," I replied. We had reached the next
station. Mack grinned at me as we approached. His brown strap lay
before him on a low, upholstered stool. He sat on a chair behind it,
leaning forward, stroking the strap as if it were a prize-winning
lap-dog.
"That other boy of yours is doing well," he said, looking
at Dad. "He took ten like a real trouper."
Dad said nothing, just
smiled back at him.
"You should have seen the one before him,
though! Hoooo-eeee! That new kid with the Grim Strappers - he took
twenty-five of my best with hardly a whimper."
"Sorry I missed
it," responded Dad.
The ref had taken my cloak and was
waiting for my bid. I gazed through the crowds at the next
station. Reg was hanging from two chains, and a man was drawing back a
quirt. I saw Reg stiffen then shudder as the quirt landed across his
ass. As the crowd beyond him shifted for a better view, I saw the Grim
Strappers' new boy. He was removing his blue cloak. Large muscles on
his back rippled above a beautiful, red, full bottom.
Mack was
saying, "I don't think there's anyone here who can even come close to
that one!"
I knew the spanker was playing games with me, trying to
intimidate me, but I couldn't ignore my pride as it swelled to
indignation. Turning to the ref, I said, "Twenty-six."
The
instant the words come from my mouth, I regretted them. The ref
clicked off my timer, and I walked toward Mack, feeling Dad's glare
pasted to my backside like a hot mustard plaster. Mack's good-humoured
grin was gone, replaced by a hard, vaguely malevolent smirk. His eyes
seemed to devour me as he asked, "Bound or free?"
"Free," I
reponded.
He motioned with the strap toward the stool. "Kneel down
and get that little ass of yours over the top."
The stool
was very low and curved like an arch. I knelt before it then eased
myself down until my chest touched the floor. A vague scent of hay and
cleanser mingled with the aroma of the freshly scrubbed wood
planking. Mack squatted by my head and slid a pillow under my face,
saying, "You'll need this to cry into." Turning my head to rest the
side of my face on the damp pillow, I saw Dad's shoes at the edge of
the crowd, his feet widespread in a stance I was all too familiar
with. I didn't have to look up to know that his arms were folded
across his chest, that his brow was creased. I turned my head
away.
"Raise your ass a bit," Mack said. He reached between my
legs and positioned my balls safely beyond the curve of the stool,
then pushed down on the small of my back. "Is that comfortable?" he
asked.
"Yes"
"Good. Now reach back, put your hands on the
inside of your knees, and spread your legs as wide as possible."
I
did as he demanded and felt the air, cool, between my spread cheeks.
He began to walk, circling me slowly, waving the strap like a fan over
my butt as he passed behind me. He stopped by my head and dangled the
strap before my face. "Turn your head back the other way," he
said. "We don't want the nice people to miss your tears, do we?"
I
did as I was told and stared at Dad's shoes as Mack circled three more
times.
On the fourth circuit, he suddenly whipped the strap onto my left cheek so that the tip landed squarely in my crack. I winced, but remained still. He continued circling, like a buzzard. Then my right cheek felt the sting, and the tip again seared my core. Dad had been right. It was not as bad as Reggie's punishment strap. I thought back to the sting of that strap, tried to imagine that that was what I was feeling, that Dad's hand now held it over me;that the sting on my anus was the pleasure he had forced into me, bending me over the verandah railing;that the burn which now seemed to enter me, creeping into my belly, washim stretching me, forcing himself deeper inside me. I moaned, stretching my legs apart to take more, wanting him to pound into me like a hurricane-driven surf.
After the tenth lick, Mack paused. He stood silently behind me. The crowd was hushed, and I could hear my own laboured breathing and the sounds of the other boys' lickings echoing high overhead in the rafters, resonant, melding, nourishing and hot like a discipline stew:sharp, ricochetting reports of wood and leather on taut ass-cheeks, cries of pain swallowed in sobs, the strict orders of spankers mellowed by gentle praisekeep that ass in the air boy good boy just a few more remove your hands or I'll double what you've got coming boy that's it just cry it out boy I'll give you something to cry about boy good boy.
Without warning, the strap landed hard on the inside of my left thigh. I stifled a cry in the pillow and the strap wrapped its searing sting around my right thigh. Dad's voice echoed in my mind like the cries in the rafters, "You should be able to take ten from him without any problem." Now I understood. After ten, he changed tactics, blistering the thighs with a sting that made the previous ass-thrashing seem like a bath in epsom salts. I tried again to imagine it was Dad. But I couldn't. It was as if, by disobeying him, I had pushed him away. The realization that he was outside me, distant, not connected to the pain of my strapping, hurt almost more than the racking agony in my legs. I cried into the pillow, sobbing the way I do whenhepunishes me. I gave in to it, accepting it the way I would always accepthis discipline:the just deserts of my defiance.
After
it was over, they let me sob for a while before pulling me to my
feet. The ref handed me a hanky, and I wiped my eyes and nose.
Another boy was waiting at the table to enter his bid.
"Well,
well, well," said Mack, helping me on with my cloak. "You're your
dad's son, all right."
He couldn't have said anything worse at
that moment. I watched the next boy remove his cloak, concentrating on
him to avoid thinking about Dad, distracting myself so that I wouldn't
start crying again. The boy returned my stare, then handed his cloak
to the ref and said, "One."
Then Dad's arms were around me. I breathed in the scent of his chest as he stroked my head. He said nothing for a while. He didn't need to say it. I knew I would be punished for disobeying him. He knew I was sorry. For several minutes, we said nothing.
Then, gently, he said, "Do you want to
continue?"
I shrugged. I didn't want to leave the confines of his
arms. I'd have been happy to quit, if only I could stay there, pressed
against his firm, warm body.
"Well," he said, "You've made an
impression on the sponsors. While you were over that stool getting
punished for disobeying me, Butch told me that the sponsors were
lining up six deep to sign your sheet. You've earned enough now that
you can quit anytime."
Slowly it sunk into my
consciousness.'You were punished for disobeying me.'I
looked up at him and said, "You mean you're not going to punish me for
saying twenty-six instead of six?"
He smiled, reaching down to
stroke my legs, "You've already been punished for that, I would
say."
I breathed deeply. As the rest of what he had said sank in,
I asked, "How many sponsors do I have now?"
"Last count was one
hundred and twenty-seven."
"I'd better hurry," I said, turning
from him, "before my timer goes off!"