When I was in high school, my parents had to go out of town for a whole year on business and we all wanted me to stay in the same school so I wouldn't be away from my friends and activities. Since we had no relatives nearby, it was decided that I would stay with a friend of the family, Steve. He was not too many years older than me, in his early twenties, working part time and going to school. Since he and my dad were really good friends, my dad had a lot of confidence in him to look after me and he lived nearby so I could still get to school. So, in I moved.
It was really different being with him at first than at home. First, he liked to surf so a lot of days we would go to the beach, when we were'nt in class, and go surfing for the day. It seemed like Steve hardly had any rules at all, except for going to school and doing a few clean up chores around the house. It looked like it was going to be a fun year to me. A few weeks after I moved in, I went out one night with some buddies from school and we just sort of stayed out the whole night, getting back the next morning around 7:00 am. When I went up to the door of the house, it was locked. I hadn't taken my key because we usually kept the doors open when we were at home. So I rang the bell to get in. A minute or so later, the door opened a crack and there was Steve looking around the edge of the door, you could tell he had just waken up from a deep sleep. He stepped back, opened the door and let me in. He was standing there in just his paisley boxer shorts, which he usually slept in. He was still sort of sleepy. "Where have you been?" I told him I was just out with some friends and didn't know I had a curfew. This seemed to wake him up a bit. "Whether you have a curfew or not, I can't believe that you think you can not call in and tell me you're not coming home. I was really worried!" I told him I was sorry and didn't know I had to call in. Steve was getting angry. "You seem to think I have no authority. I think I'm going to have to make you learn what you did was wrong." I said I hadn't done anything wrong. Steve told me this was "cause for a whipping", my first introduction to a phrase I was to hear a lot over the next year. This time, I didn't really think he was seriously threatening to whip me so I continued to argue the point. Steve told me to follow him. We went into his bedroom, and Steve went to his closet and picked up his black pants that were there. He pulled his belt off of his pants. It was a normal black dress belt, sort of wide but not too thick. Steve doubled the belt up and told me to turn around and bend over. I tried to talk him out of what he was going to do but Steve just shook his head. "Turn around and bend over." I did what he said, and Steve proceeded to strap me with his belt, giving me six fast hard strokes. I started saying "Ow" and started to get up. Steve told me to bend back over and take my medicine like a man. If I jumped around or made any sound, he would start over but if I just took it, I would get no more than fifteen swats. I bent over and Steve gave me fifteen really hard swats. It really hurt. Fortunately, my jeans took part of the force and I was able to get through it without jumping up again or yelling. Steve then threaded his belt back on his pants and told me to go to bed.
That was my introduction to discipline at Steve's house. I quickly found out that it wasn't going to be a fun camp for the year. While Steve had very few rules, he did expect you to follow them and expected you to act maturely. If you didn't act maturely, he said that was cause for a whipping and a whipping was what you got. He also seemed to think that each whipping had to be more memorable than the last, so that you would be more afraid each time. The second time I got it was for playing the stereo loud and waking him up in the morning. He came out into the living room looking really grumpy. I guess one lesson I should have learned was not to do anything wrong in the morning because Steve was usually in a bad mood then. Anyway, I woke him up playing Bob Dylan music and he came into the living room, again just in his boxer shorts. "Didn't you think that would wake me up?" he asked, angrily. I didn't think of a good response. "That’s cause for a whipping. Go in my bedroom, get my belt, and bring it here" he ordered, as he went and sat on the couch. I went, this time without arguing, into Steve's room, found his pants, and pulled off the same belt he had whipped me with a few weeks before. I brought the belt into the living room and handed it to Steve. He looked at it and said that would not do it. "Take this back and get my brown belt from my cords." I carried the black belt back into his room and found his cords hanging on a hook in the closet. I pulled the brown belt off and brought it back into the living room. It was a lot heavier belt so I could see why he was planning to use it. In fact, it was perfect for whipping someones's butt. It was wide, heavy, and well worn so that it was flexible. I handed it to Steve and he stood up. "Okay, drop your pants." "What?" I said. "Drop your pants, you're getting this on your underwear." I stood up and lowered my pants, standing just there in my underwear. "Turn around and bend over. And remember the rules, if you make a sound or move, I am going to whip the tar out of you, otherwise, its fifteen strokes." I nodded and bent over. WHACK The first stroke landed and there was a big difference between getting whipped on my jeans and on my undershorts. There was also a big difference between his dress belt and his brown belt. I took at least twelve swats but then I cried out. Steve then just sort of went mad, whaling the tar out me, landing swats all over my butt, thights, and even lower back. Finally, he stopped and told me I could get up. In all, he must have given more more than thirty swats. I was even crying by the time he was done. Of course, I never woke him up by playing the stereo too loud after that.
There were other times when I ran into Steve’s justice, some minor, some more major, but certainly the most memorable one after that began when we were at the beach, to surf. Steve had let me drive to the beach and wanted to get something out of the car. He asked me where the keys were and I said in my pocket. I forgot I had a joint in my pocket. Unfortunately, Steve found it but he didn’t say anything at first. He just said, maybe we should go home because it was getting late. While we were driving home, Steve asked me if I smoked pot. I guess teenagers really are stupid because I said no. Then Steve asked me why the joint was in my pocket. I had no response that I could come up with. "You know what that is, don’t you." Steve asked. I knew what he meant so I answered, ‘Yes, its cause for a whipping." Steve said I was half right. I asked him what he meant. "That’s cause for two whippings. One for having the joint, one for lying about it. When we get home, you’ll get the first one and you’re going to get it good." After that, we were silent all the way home, not even the radio was on. I guess Steve was thinking about how he was going to whip me and I was thinking about how much it was going to hurt.
When we got home, I expected Steve to start whipping me right away. Instead, he told me to go into my room and think about it some more. It was terrible. All I could think of was the whipping and I wished he would just do it and get it over with it. Finally, after an hour, Steve came and opened my door and came into my room, with his brown belt in hand.. "Okay, this first one is for having the dope. I know you’re a kid and think its fun, but you shouldn’t have it and you know your parents wouldn’t approve. He told me to drop my pants and bend over, and I did it. He laid into me, giving me fifteen hard swats. I was able to keep from shouting out and jumping up, so that was it. "You took that well. Tomorrow, when I get home from work, I’ll give you the whipping for lying. It’s going to be worse, so prepare yourself.
The next day, when I got home from school, I waited for Steve to get home. I was really scare, and still sore from the day before. I did recognize that I had been wrong, and deserved both of the whippings. Finally, Steve got home. He was friendly and not angry and I thought that was good. He was still in his work clothes, a white shirt and dress pants, and for a moment I hoped he might just whip me with his black belt. Even though it hurt a lot, it was not as bad as the brown belt. Steve told me to follow him. We went into the garage and we pulled down a large box. He opened it up and there were some old clothes and things in there. Steve rummaged around and pulled out a thing that looked like a belt. "Do you know what this is?" I shook my head. "Its a razor strap" My father used to use this, both for sharpening his razor and strapping my young butt." It was not too long but it was probably three inches wide and really thick. Steve shut the box and brought the razor strap into the house. He told me to follow him into his bedroom. Without being told to, I took my pants off and bent over. To my surprise, Steve sat on the bed and told me this would be a little different. He asked me to come over by him. Then he told me to take my underpants off. I did it, without argument. Then, he took my arm and pulled me over his left thigh, putting his right leg over my legs, so I was pinned over his left thigh. Without saying anything else, Steve took the razor strap and brought it down hard on my bare butt. It hurt more than anything he had ever done to me. And that was just the first stroke. Steve proceeded to give me swat after swat, past ten, past fifteen. At this point, I was crying and trying to escape, but there was no where to go, he had me, and I had no choice but to take whatever strapping he was giving. Finally, after he had given me thirty strokes with the strap on my bare ass, he stopped and told me I could get up and put my underpants and jeans back on. I was still crying and shaking, but I got those pants on. Steve told me that if I ever lied to him again, I would get the razor strap again on my bare butt. While he did find a new more causes for whippings while I stayed with him, I never lied to him again so I never saw that razor strap again.