Whimpering, I took hold of the bench--meaning that my bottom was jutting back, presented for punishment. As my father then doubled his belt, and stepped into position to deliver the lashing, I began to cry some more.
Luckily that towel covered the bench, because my legs scraped across that terry cloth a lot during the next three minutes--I danced as best I could as the belt came down repeatedly on my deeper reddening buttocks--screaming out in pain with each new laying on of the leather. The whipping was being broadcast to the rest of the family through the furnace pipes and vents. That three minutes of the belt meeting every square inch of my bottom seemed an eternity, though I knew I had it coming so I didn't plead for it to stop--I just kept yelping, "OOOWWWW!!!!" and blubbering and choking on the salty tears that ran down my face and into my mouth. The belt not only welted my bottom but also the backs of my legs--giving me a well deserved tanning.
Finally, It was over--and I was allowed to straighten back up and rub those throbbing cheeks--feeling the raised, hot skin. I slowly put my underpants and pants back on and walked up the stairs and past the family, proving that I had survived yet another butt burning and determined to improve my grades so that deficiencies would be a thing of the past--thinking with dread about how the Dean of Discipline still had not had his turn at stinging my rear--and knowing that his turn would be very soon. I slept that night on my stomach.
The next morning, I got up for school and winced as I pulled clean underpants up over my still throbbing bottom--reminding me of what had happened the night before--and worse, what would be happening today. I dressed and got my books together and went down to breakfast.
The signed red slip was waiting for me, and I put it in my pocket as I ate a piece of toast. Then, telling my parents that I was off, I went out to my arriving car pool--and off to school. I knew the procedure--turned in my red slip and went to class--knowing that sooner or later, I would be called to the Dean's office. I nervously made it through my first three classes, then, at the beginning of the fourth, the office assistant came and got me--and I fearfully marched to the waiting strap.
When I arrived at the Discipline office, I took a deep breath and reluctantly knocked on the door.
"Enter." As always, he was there when I hoped he wouldn't be.
I walked in, "Sir, I am reporting for punishment." It was hard to get it all out, because I was ready to start crying.
"Good. Take off your jacket and bare your buttocks." He rose and took that ugly strap from his desk drawer.
As I was complying by slowly pulling my jacket off, I made one last attempt. "Sir, My father gave me a good whipping last night--do I really have to get another one?"
"Stop your whining. Most every time that a boy brings a red slip back, I know that I will be finishing something that was started at home--now drop those pants!"
Nervously, I lowered my pants and underpants and grabbed my ankles as he positioned himself behind me with that strap.
The Dean laid the strap across my already sore bare bottom deliberately and thoroughly while I pleaded for mercy that was not coming--the strap cutting the air and landing with a "SNAP" on my bare bottom--I couldn't help but to cry and twitch my body as the wave of pain ran out from the point of contact to my head and my feet--running like a wave. The tears burned my face the same as the strap burned my buttocks--"OH PLEASE--NO MORE!" I wished that I could show more dignity--wished I could laugh each time the leather cracked my hide--but instead, I shrieked like a little kid--hating the pain of new welts being raised upon day old welts--I shrieked and cried--and the Dean of Discipline whipped.
Finally, my sentence, that had seemed to last a lifetime, but had been completed in about three minutes was over. I was allowed to stand up and pull my pants back up over the damaged cheeks.
"Jonathan, Now--Have you learned anything from this?"
Sobbing, "Yyyhheeyes, Ssir. EEEeeennn eeennn, I bbbeettter llearnn to ooooo to be have my self."
"All right. You can go."
I walked out, redfaced to the bathroom where I spent a few minutes regaining my composure before returning to class. Of course, in PE, my classmates wanted to see what had been done to me, and I shyly admitted that my swollen bottom was the result of two meetings with leather. For the rest of the day, I had problems keeping my concentration level up--twitching on those hard wooden school desk seats (why do the schools have such things when the kids sitting there will sometimes be sitting on raw, swollen bottoms?)
The good news was that I was able to improve my grades in the final three weeks of the grading period enough to make the honor roll. The bad news is that I did not really "learn to behave myself." After all I was 14.