Too Big For Your Britches (# 2)

by tbfyb <tbfyb@hotmail.com>

Major Events:

Prior to the age of nine or ten, I had always been spanked over my father's knee, sometimes with his hand but usually with a paddle. Often, before each spanking began, my father would struggle with me to get my pants off.

One evening, shortly after supper (Guam again, about eight months after the barbecue incident and three months or so before my "ship visit"; still age 9, but almost 10), I was sent to my room for talking back to my mother.

Now, being sent to my room did not necessarily mean that a spanking was in the offing. And, in this particular case I might have gotten off with a warning. Sadly however, I let my temper get the best of me. Instead of quietly going to my room, as I had been told, I stomped out of the living room; slamming the hall door as I left.

That was a mistake, but it was not the last mistake that I would make during the next ten to fifteen minutes.

Whether or not I would have received a spanking on that occasion became, with the slamming of that door, a moot point. My father immediately jumped up, followed me to my room and marched me back to the living room.

There, I was asked to apologize to my mother for being disrespectful, and specifically told to apologize for losing my temper and slamming the door. After rendering a half-hearted apology, another mistake (strike two); I was told that I was now free to return to my room. But, just as I was about to turn and leave, my father spoke once again.

"Bobby, your Mother and I have had enough of your nonsense, enough of your theatrics, and more than enough of your sass. I'll be down to your room in about ten minutes young man. . ."

The use of that particular descriptive was always a bad sign.

"When I get to your room, I'm going to give you a spanking. Now, I want you to understand something. I'm not going to struggle or fight with you to get your pants off any longer; you're too big for that. From now on, when I send you to your room for a spanking, I'll expect you to get undressed before I get there. When I get to your room, I want to find you sitting on the edge of your bed, buck-naked, and ready for a good thrashing. Do you understand me?"

I heard what he said. But did I understand what he said? Perhaps I was hoping that I had heard wrong. In any case, I didn't take what he said seriously; another error in judgment that I would soon regret. When my father came to my room and found that I was still dressed (strike three), he didn't say a word. Instead, he left, but returned a minute or two later carrying "the chair" (more about that later) in one hand, and the Board of Education in the other.

He sat the chair down in the middle of my room, closed the door, and soon made it quite clear that I was in a lot of trouble.

"Since you seem to have trouble following instructions, I'm going to make this very simple for you. I want you to get your clothes off right now and lean over this chair. When you've 'assumed the position', I'm going to warm your backside. I promise you one thing son, before you and I are finished here tonight, I'm going to have your full and undivided attention, and you're going to learn how to follow instructions. Do you understand me!"

"Yes Sir!"

This looked and sounded serious; and it was! It was obviously too late to salvage much, but I wasn't about to dig the hole any deeper than I had already. An apology, now, was useless. I know. I tried. I said I was sorry (and I was). Sorry for talking back to my mother, and sorry for slamming the door and losing my temper. I pleaded and begged. I promised to be good from now on, forever. But, at the same time, I also continued to get undressed. It didn't help knowing, with near certainty, that this whole episode could easily have been avoided if I had just controlled my temper. If I hadn't stomped out of the living room and slammed that _d_a_m_n_ door I would most likely have been let off with a warning. Too late now. As I took off my underpants, another thought entered my mind; just how was this chair thing going to work?

During the next half hour I found out more than I ever wanted to know about that chair, and my education, relative to the subject of spankings, was improved. At the conclusion of that spanking I was escorted back to the living room and given a second opportunity to apologize to my mother. This time, I assure you, the apology rendered was anything but half-hearted.

I cannot say, with honesty, that this experience taught me how to be a "good boy", or how to control my tongue, or temper; it did not. But, I did acquire a greater appreciation of the importance my father attached to following his instructions.

* * *

In 1961-62 we were living in Monterey, California. When I was thirteen I was caught shoplifting. The manager of the store called my father and he had to come down to the store to pick me up. Once there, the store manager lectured my father on such issues as "How much money the store lost each year as a result of shoplifting." He explained how store policy was normally to notify the police, but how he preferred to give parents a chance to "deal" with the problem. He further explained how, when he was a boy, his father would have "taken him out to the woodshed for a good tanning if he'd pulled a crazy stunt like this"; and remarked that "If more parents would give their kids a good hiding now and then, there would be far less crime."

As the lecture went on (and on) it became obvious that the store manager would have liked nothing better than to have my father spank me right there in his office. Indeed, he even went so far as to make that suggestion. I suspect the manager was a bit ~~~~~ but, in retrospect, I almost wish my father had taken the manager up on his offer. No spanking, in the manager's office, could have equaled the one waiting for me when I got home. My father politely (but clearly incensed) refused the offer. He thanked the manager for not calling the police and assured him that, once we were home, he had every intention of giving me a most thorough spanking.

The store manager need not have worried, I caught hell when we got home.

The drive home was one of complete silence. My father stopped the car in front of our house and looked at me for a long, long time. He shook his head and said that he was very disappointed, and very angry.

"I'm too angry to spank you right now."

After a brief pause, he looked at his watch and remarked that it was nearly 2:30. "Get to your room. I'll see you at 5:00 o'clock. In the meantime, young man, I want you to think about what you've done."

Left unsaid, though clearly understood and intended, was the fact that I was also being given two and one-half hours to ponder over the spanking that I had clearly earned, and so richly deserved.

I sat at the foot of my bed for an hour or so before I started to get undressed. The wait was excruciating. My stomach churned and burned. It felt like I was melting inside. I knew I was "in-for-it." The anticipation would at one moment give me a hard-on, and the next leave me totally impotent. True to his word, my father opened the door to my room promptly at 5:00 o'clock and told me to follow him to the living room.

I knew that a spanking was unavoidable, but I had fully expected that it would be given in the privacy of my room. I was already crying. I started to plead, "Father, Please, I love you, Please, I'm sorry!, can't we do this in my room?" But, at the same time, I knew better than to even think about not obeying (I had, after all, already learned the importance of following his instructions). I followed my father out of my room, down the hall, and into the living room.

There, my mother was sitting on the couch. It was clear that she and my father had already discussed the shoplifting incident and had decided that this was a serious transgression that required the active participation of both parents.

My father told me to go to the dining room and bring back "the chair". I did as I was told. I quickly returned with the chair and placed it in an area of the living room that had clearly been reserved for the spanking that was to follow.

The chair wasn't big, but it was strong. It was made of solid wood. The back was curved, forming arms on the left and right. It had double cross supports located about four inches below the seat, and additional side supports connecting the left, right, front and rear legs. These side supports were situated about four to six inches above the floor.

The chair routinely sat in a corner of the dining room and had, for as long as I could remember, been used for only two purposes; sitting in the corner (as a form of punishment when I was very young) and, the purpose for which it was about to be employed during the next half hour.

My father addressed me first. He said that he was still very angry. He had been horribly embarrassed by the store manager but, more importantly, he wanted me to know that both he and my mother were very disappointed by my behavior. I was clearly old enough to know better. Stealing was a serious offense and I should expect to be punished most severely.

From experience, I knew that I would be told to "assume the position" By age thirteen, this was nothing new; I had had lots of practice. On average, I managed to "earn" a serious spanking about three or four times a year.

For the uninitiated, this meant that I was to stand just to the rear of the chair and bend over. The back of the chair was made of solid wood but, when used for this purpose, a cushion was positioned between my stomach and the top of the chair. To assume the position, I bent (climbed really) over the cushion and, depending on my age (size) at the time, I either grasped the left and right arms, the seat, or (at about age fourteen) I reached (stretched) down to grab the left and right side supports. Then I hung on tight!

When situated correctly, my ass would arch high over the cushion, and my feet would dangle a good two feet or more above the surface of the floor. Then, as my mind fought off the natural urge to let go, my arms struggled to keep the rest of my body from either falling forward into the seat of the chair, or sliding back towards the floor.

I had to hold this position throughout the spanking and until such time as I was given permission to stand. Further, the spanking was almost always accompanied, punctuated really, with a pointless lecture. I say pointless because, undivided attention or not, it is difficult to focus on anything being said when you are stretched out "buck-naked" over a chair. At a time like that, it doesn't take a genius, or a lecture, to figure out that one had pretty much screwed up.

This form of punishment, reserved for serious offenses, started, as I said, when I was nine, and continued, with various degrees of frequency, until I was age fifteen, or thereabouts.

My mother spoke next. She too, was very disappointed. My behavior, not just today but over most of the summer, had been increasingly poor. She and my father expected an improvement and hoped that this spanking would encourage me to "be a better boy". She then told me to bring her the paddle.

My mother had never participated in any of my spankings. When I was little, she had often encouraged my father to "take charge of your son", whenever she felt that her "go stand in the corner" type punishments were not having the desired effect. She had witnessed, with approval, any number of the "too big for your britches" spankings, but this was a new twist. Having her lecture me, at age thirteen, as I stood there in my "birthday suit" was embarrassing. Was she actually going to spank me when I handed her the paddle?

When I returned with the paddle and handed it to her, she told me to "bend over". My father reached for a cushion, held it atop the back of the chair, and chimed in that I was to "assume the position."

I started to cry and plead, "I'm sorry, it won't ever happen again, PLEASE!!" But, even as I pleaded, I quickly climbed into position.

As I did so, my father replied simply, "I don't want to hear it. The only thing you're sorry about right now is that you got caught. . .but believe me son, you're going to be plenty sorry before we're finished."

After I was properly positioned, my father added that I was to "keep the count" and reminded me that I had better "hold the position" throughout the spanking, "or we'll start over."

"How many?" I asked.

We had always finalized this before a spanking began. The number of swats given during a serious spanking were seldom more than those that might be received during a "too big for your britches" spanking; ten usually, twenty tops. But, as those swats were administered while I was positioned over "the chair", each stroke felt much stronger.

"Until I'm satisfied that you have learned your lesson. Until I think you understand and appreciate just how serious an offense stealing is!"

With this final comment he nodded to my mother who, still grasping the paddle, was obviously going to be an active participant. My mother soon demonstrated that she knew what the paddle was for, and how to apply it effectively. Following each stroke, I took a deep breath and counted out the number. Thwack!! . . .ONE, Thwack!!. . .TWO, . . . . . . . . .Thwack!!. . . .TEN. My Father didn't say a word. . 11, 12, 13 14, 15 --- with that, my father held up his hand.

My mother handed him the paddle and stood back. With paddle in hand, my father spoke for the first time since the spanking began.

"Do you have any idea how serious an incident this is? Do you know that you could have gone to jail?"

These were obviously rhetorical questions that I was not expected to answer.

"I am very disappointed with you!"

Without another word my father picked up where my mother left off. WOW!!! - My hands involuntarily let go. I slipped back, fell off the cushion, and landed on my feet.

"GET YOUR SORRY ass BACK UP ON THAT CHAIR YOUNG MAN!!"

My father picked the cushion up from off the floor and held it atop the chair once again as I quickly scampered back into position; grabbing the seat more tightly than ever.

"Sixteen," I said breathlessly.

"You let go again and I'll hand the paddle back to your mother, do you understand me?"

"Yes Sir!" This was not a rhetorical question, this was serious business.

Thwack!! . . . 17 . . . Thwack!! . . . 20 . . . . 25 . . . . 30.

My knees were shaking, my ass was burning. I had just received 15 swats from my mother, and another 15 from my father. There had been a good ten to fifteen second pause between each stroke of the paddle, no doubt intended to allow me sufficient time to catch my breath, count out the number, and, at the same time, to more fully savor each and every swat and, of course, to anticipate the next. My father wasn't weakening any either. Each stroke was given with as much force as the first, and there was no sign that the spanking was about to conclude any time soon.

Thwack!! . . . 31 . . . 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, Thwack!! . . . 40.

The seconds dragged on . . . had he stopped, or was he just resting? Was the punishment finally over?

Yes, and no. After a minute or two I was allowed to stand up and was told to put the chair back in the dining room and the paddle back on its hook. When I returned my father said he hoped I would think twice before doing anything as stupid as this ever again. It was nearly 5:30. Almost a half-hour had passed since my father opened my bedroom door; it seemed much longer.

I stood in the center of the living room, on the spot where the chair had been, naked as the day I was born, waiting for permission to leave. My backside felt like it was on fire. My rump was as red as the face of a screaming new born. When I touched my butt, I could feel the heat and welts left by the paddle.

After a few minutes, my father told me to go take a shower and put on my PJs. He and my mother set the table and, when I returned, we all sat down (Yes, I could still sit!) to supper. I was grounded for the rest of the month (the last two weeks of August). The grounding ended just before the start of the new school year.


More stories by tbfyb