The day before my seventeenth birthday I was really on top of the world. It was getting close to the end of the school year and I was anticipating my high school graduation and senior prom to which I was taking my girl friend, Mary. That afternoon I had the family car out for a spin. Charlie, my best friend, was seated next to me. It was a sweltering day and so I was just wearing shorts and a tight, undersized T-shirt that had the crest of my school printed on it. The heat of the coming summer and humidity were causing me to sweat so much that the arm pits of my T-shirt were quite wet. Charlie was also wearing shorts. I remember looking down at his legs and noting with pride that mine were more muscular and my lower legs were covered with more hairs than his. It was proof that I was well on the way to becoming a man. Of course I still didn't have enough hair on my face to begin shaving, but that would probably come soon enough.
I didn't much like the fact that Charlie was drinking from the can of beer he had with him (after all, we were both under the drinking age) but I didn't want to make him mad by forcing him to get rid of it. I just kept telling him to be sure that no one saw him holding the can. As we passed some girls from our class standing on the sidewalk, I honked the horn. They waved back. I smiled because I must have looked like a regular man about town behind the wheel of that car.
Suddenly, near the corner of Spring Street, a black cat crossed the road in front of us. I swerved the car to avoid hitting it and ran up over the sidewalk into a concrete lamp post. The post was barely chipped, but the fender of the car was crumpled and the radiator drained liquid all over the sidewalk. When I tried to start the motor again, it made strange noises and wouldn't turn over. Charlie decided at this point that he had best to leave the scene before the police arrived. He took off running. I couldn't go with him because someone needed to stay with the family car.
It was not long before a police arrived. We live in a small town where everybody knows almost everybody else and so I immediately recognized the two officers who got out of the police car. I wasn't too worried about what they might say. After all, my family has lived in this town for several generations and my father, the town's leading attorney, always had good relations with the police. They greeted me in a friendly way and I told them how I had the accident trying to avoid the black cat. George, the taller of the two, took down my statement while Al, the chubby and bald one, examined the damage.
Everything seemed to be going alright until Al suddenly noticed Charlie's half empty beer can sticking out from beneath the seat he had so recently occupied. _d_a_m_n_ Charlie! That certainly changed their attitude. The two policemen made me climb into the back of their vehicle so they could take me home and talk to my parents. Neither one believed my story about the black cat anymore.
Dad came to the door when they rang the bell, and my mother soon joined him. The policemen told my parents how they had found the car up against a lamp post with a beer can on the floor, a can from which I had obviously been drinking. The more I tried to explain my side about how the black cat had caused the accident, the less my parents believed me. I didn't want to tell on Charlie and so I said I didn't know how the can got into the car, which made my story seem even less plausible.
The police told my father that they didn't really want to arrest me for drinking, although they thought I should be disciplined in some way. That is why they brought me home. Small town policemen can be quite accommodating when they know the family. My father assured them that I would get what I deserved.
As soon as they left, he turned to me and said, "Mark, you've certainly made a mess of things. You know you are not allowed to drink. I'm going to have to teach you a lesson you won't ever forget!" From the tone of his voice I could see that he was more upset by the beer can than by the damage to the car. Of course, he hadn't seen that yet.
"But I wasn't drinking," I pleaded. "I don't know how that can got into the car." My protest, of course, was futile. Somehow I knew he would never accept my side of the story.
"I won't have you lying to me, either," he replied. "Now get into my study. You're going to get punished, and right now!" Just at that point my little thirteen-year-old brother, Roger, returned home. I never really liked the twit and I was usually glad when my father gave him a spanking because of his misbehavior. In fact that had happened to him just a couple of weeks ago. But I hadn't been spanked in years. And now Roger was going know that dad was about to punish me.
Our father told Roger all about the accident and that I had been caught drinking. He also told him to acompany me into the study so that he could witness my spanking. He said he wanted Roger to see this so that he would know what might happen if Roger started to drink before he was old enough.
It was obvious that this was going to be a bad session. Not only would I be spanked for the beer can that Charlie left behind, but it would happen in front of my horrible little brother. And really I was, after all, too old for this sort of punishment. It was terribly embarrassing.
My brother and I stood in front of dad's desk while he fumbled through the drawers looking for some object with which to paddle me. In the past he had always used the palm of his hand, but apparently this time he had decided to use a more lethal instrument. He rejected a couple of rulers and started to remove his belt when suddenly he had another idea. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pen knife. Turning to Roger, he said, "Here, take this knife and go out to the back yard. Cut a branch from the willow tree. That should make a good enough whip to teach your brother a thing or two about drinking."
Roger, with a nasty but almost imperceptible grin on his face, took the knife and went out leaving my father and me alone in the study. My father then told me to pull the low-backed leather chair from the corner of the room out into spot about a foot in front of his desk. This was to be the object over which I was to be chastised and I, the victim, had to move it into a suitable position for that very purpose. I did as I was told, but I moved as slowly as I could. There was no reason to rush the inevitable.
As soon as I got the chair in place, dad told me to drop my pants and bend over the back of it. "Please don't, dad," I pleaded once more. But I could see that he was quite insistent and so I slowly undid my belt and let my trousers drop to my ankles. I realized that trying to argue with him would only make things worse. I wished that Charlie had not run off so he could be there to confirm my side of the story and perhaps to take some of the punishment that really should be his.
"Your underpants too," he said and reached over to help me pull them down. This was certainly terrible. Never before had I been spanked without at least some underwear to protect my bottom. But there's a first time for everything, I guess. Then, as I moved toward the chair, he reached down and held onto my trousers and underpants so that I had to step out of them in order to reach it.
"Bend over the back of the chair," he said. "I want to be sure your bottom is in the right position for the whipping I'm going to give you when Roger gets back. I can assure you that you're going to regret your misbehvior before this day is over!"
This was clearly no time for argument. I bent over the back of the chair so that my head was positioned upside down on the chair seat and I could see nothing but leather in front of my face. My upper arms and clenched fists also rested on the seat. I had to bend my knees a little because my legs were slightly longer than the height of the chair. The leather felt cold against the touch of my stomach and my too small T-shirt covered little of my back because the pull of gravity had clumped most of it around my upper back and neck. My posterior was higher than any other part of my body because it was held up by the chair back. My father, however, was not satisfied with my bent knees. He told me to spread my legs so that my knees would be straight. It was an awkward and uncomfortable position, one in which I had little possibility for movement, but one in which he would be able to effect the maximum punishment to my exposed bottom.
While the two of us waited for Roger to return, dad said, "Tomorrow's your birthday, but your mother and I have decided that you're not going to get any of your presents until you have paid for whatever damage you did to the car. Also you will be grounded for two weeks, and you will have to get a job as soon as school ends to pay for the damage to the car."
This all seemed much too much for just denting the fender of the family car. The grounding would mean that I couldn't go to the prom as planned. And I had been looking forward to a relaxing summer before I had to start college. What a bummer!
I tried to protest as best I could. "But dad," I said in a plaintive voice, "I'm scheduled to go to the prom with Mary."
"You should have thought of that before you opened the beer can."
"But it wasn't mine." I was almost in tears.
"Don't lie to me," he responded, "or I will increase your punishment."
I decided it was best to say no more. He then told me that the whipping I was about to receive was only for my drinking. He would decide later, after he had seen the damage to the car, what more punishment I might deserve.
Roger returned with the willow whip but, since I couldn't see anything except the seat of the chair, I had no idea how thick a branch he had cut for my father. I heard it swishing through the air as my father tested its suppleness. Then he hit the desk top with it. It made a terrible whack. The noise came as a shock because I knew it would soon be striking me. Drops of sweat began to roll down my arms from my armpits onto the chair seat, and not because of the humidity. I could even feel some sweat running down my legs. I began to shake from fear and hoped this was not obvious to Roger or my father.
Then my father told Roger that I was going to get eight hard ones and that he should watch carefully and count each stroke out loud. I yelped when the first blow landed. It was terribly painful and I began to wonder if I could take all eight stroke without fainting. Roger intoned, "One."
Before the whip landed for a second time I was groaning. I knew the first blow must have cut a deep red groove into my ass cheeks where it had landed. But the second stroke hurt even more than the first, and this time I yelled loudly and tears came to my eyes.
"Please, dad," I shouted into the leather seat. "I can't take anymore. Please stop!"
My brother said, "Two," and my father said something about how he was doing this for my own good as he landed the third stroke. But by now I wasn't listening anymore. It was taking all my energy to keep from crying like a baby, and the noises I made probably sounded more like ones that might come from a wounded animal than from a human being under the lash. Each stroke of the willow whip felt worse than the one before. By the time my brother said "six," I was sobbing uncontrollably. Strokes seven and eight felt like a knife cutting into me. I was sure I must be bleeding, but later that evening when I examined my backside in the mirror there were no cuts, only bruises.
Dad stopped after Roger pronounced the number "eight." The respite gave me time to calm down, though upended the way I was gave me no way to wipe away tears. My tears, in fact, formed quite a pool around my head on the chair seat. My father then said he was going out to look at the damage to the car and that I was to stay in position until he returned.
"Don't you dare move," he said. "Just stay there and think of what you have done. You may well deserve more of this whip when I return, so you can just hope that the car isn't in too bad a shape."
To add to my despair he told Roger to stay there and make sure that I didn't leave my position until he got back. It was as if my father couldn't trust me at all. I certainly didn't understand why he put such trust in my nit-wit little brother. It was quite demeaning to have Roger assigned to stand guard.
Roger said nothing to me at first after my father left. As far as I knew he was just standing there looking at the red stripes across my bottom. I had calmed down enough by that time to begin to wonder if Roger's prick was getting as stiff as mine sometimes did when I heard him getting spanked. Although I had only heard his cries behind the bedroom door and I had never seen him lying over my father's knee, I did have a vivid imagination of what he must have looked like. Now he had actually witnessed me getting it, and I knew he must have enjoyed the experience.
After about fifteen minutes, Roger began to taunt to me. "Boy your ass is red," he said, as if I wasn't quite aware of that fact. "I'll bet it gets a lot redder when dad comes back. You've really made him mad this time."
"Shut up," I told him.
But he continued. "I sure wish the kids at school could see your red ass sticking out like this. Tomorrow I'll have to tell them about it." Boy my little brother made me mad sometimes. I began to use my arms to raise myself up so I could look at him.
"You're supposed to stay where you are," he said in a rather authoritative voice. "If you don't, I'll tell dad when he gets back."
I immediately dropped my hands back into position to again stare at the leather seating. I knew Roger was a tattletale and I didn't want him to be telling dad anything that might somehow increase my punishment. Since my father didn't believe my story about the black cat, he certainly wouldn't believe anything I might say about Roger's tormenting me.
My brother was clearly intent on making me feel as miserable as possible. He again remarked about the color of my posterior and said that he bet it was pretty warm. To emphasize the point, he came over to the chair and placed one of his hands on my right buttock.
"Get out of there," I said with some emphasis. But Roger ignored me and moved his hand gently across both cheeks, remarking as he did so that my ass was indeed quite hot. I sure wanted to stand up and hit him in his miserable face, but I knew he would immediately go and tell my mother who was probably in the kitchen preparing supper.
Roger continued to taunt me, telling me how bad my bottom looked and warning me about the impending doom when dad returned. He even said that he hoped the whipping I got for the car would be worse than the whipping I got for the beer can. I mumbled something about the fact that it was not my beer can, but he just laughed.
He touched my ass cheeks again and then told me that they were beginning to cool down. Next he began to run his fingers along the length of the stripes on my backside. Even though he was actually touching me rather gently, I cried out at the pain he was causing. Then, in a moment of boldness, he reached between my legs and grabbed my penis, giving it a little jerk. "Hey," I yelled. "Stop that or I'll tell dad when he gets back."
I don't know whether it was my threat or a noise he heard in the hall that might have been my mother but he pulled his hand back and stepped away from the chair. He only taunted me a little after that, and eventually my father returned to tell both of us that the car would be in the repair shop for several days.
Somewhat to my relief dad told Roger to leave the room before he administered the next phase of my punishment. After he was gone, my father closely examined the damaged he had done to my rear with the willow whip and decided that he had better not use that impliment anymore. Instead, he told me to stand up and put the leather chair back in its place. As I was doing this, he placed his desk chair in the position where the leather one had been.
Then he sat down and ordered me to bend across his knees. I was in too much hot water to do otherwise and so I obeyed. It was obvious to me that he was now going to spank me with his bare hand. Well, that was a lot better than the willow whip. I was also glad I wouldn't have to look at that leather seat anymore, though now I would be staring at my father's shoes and the floor.
He began hitting me almost immediately and kept it up for some time. I have no idea how many times his palm landed on my buttocks, but whenever he struck a spot that was particularly bruised from the previous whipping it hurt like crazy and I let out a muffled yelp. Finally he stopped.
Then he decided that I had had enough and that I could stand up. "I hope you've learned your lesson," he said. "Now go into the kitchen and apologize to your mother for having damaged the car and embarressing her in front of the cops because of your drinking."
He handed me his handkerchief so that I could wipe away the remainder of my tears. I looked for my trousers so I could put them back on, but they were not there. Apparently Roger had "kindly" taken them to my room. Someday, I vowed, I would get him for this day.
I had to head for the kitchen still naked from the waist down. My T-shirt was too short to cover much below my belly button. I used both hands to hide my _s_e_x_ual organ as I entered the kitchen where my mother and Roger were already seated at the table waiting for dad to come to eat. On the sideboard was my birthday cake, untouched, but somehow I knew that they would be eating it for dessert that night, and I would probably never get any of it. But I didn't really care. I just wanted to get the whole thing over with as quickly as possible.
As I stood in front of my mother, my hands still covering my crotch, I could see that Roger was having a hard time trying to supress his snickering. I ignored him and carefully apologized to her in the best way I knew how. I even apologiced for the drunkenness of which I was not really guilty.
"You realize you're not going to get any supper, don't you?" she said. My apology apparently hadn't soothed her anger. I nodded, although this came as a surprise. "And I want to see you standing in the corner over there like the bad little boy you are while the rest of us eat!"
How long could this torment continue, I wondered. The tone of her voice made me realize that I had better get to the corner quickly. At least now I wouldn't have to cover my privates anymore because my back would be to the family.
During their supper my parents talked about nothing very important. It was as if they were trying to ignore me, although I knew that my red ass was in full view and that Roger probably was staring at me as he ate. The food smelled delicious, but I wasn't hungry, and my bottom was too sore to care much. I just wanted to get away from all of them and go to my room.
Then the doorbell rang. Roger went to answer it and came back with Mrs. Adams, our next door neighbor, with her eight-year-old son, Freddie, in tow. She had come to borrow a cup of sugar. Everyone, even my father, referred to Mrs. Adams as the neighborhood gossip because there was nothing that went on in town that she didn't tell her friends over the telephone.
As soon as she entered the kitchen and saw me standing in the corner without any pants on, she told her son to go outside and wait for her. But it was too late. Freddie had already gotten an eyeful of my bruised backside. Now I knew that if Roger didn't tell everyone in school, this eight-year-old undoubtedly would.
My mother explained to Mrs. Adams that I was being disciplined because I got drunk and smashed up the car, which made me wince because the description of the incident had by now become so distorted that no one would ever believe my side of it. Mrs. Adams, however, said she already knew about the accident. It's amazing how fast news travels in our town. She also said that I had probably gotten the treatment I deserved, and that "Kids seem to think they can get away with anything these days."
Mother measured out the sugar for Mrs. Adams and then, just as she was about to leave, suddenly said that she would like to give her some of the cake she had baked that day. Mother cut a big piece out of what was once meant to be my birthday cake. "Your son will probably like this," mother said. "Its made of chocolate."
Dinner over and Mrs. Adams gone, I was finally released from the chore of standing in the corner. As I turned to go upstairs to my room, my mother asked me, "Has your father explained to you that you are to be grounded for two weeks and therefore won't be able to go to the prom?"
"Yes," I said in a low voice, looking down at the floor.
"Then you had better call Mary and tell her. She's going to be quite disappointed. Her mother told me she's been really looking forward to that prom, and has already bought a new dress."
"I'll tell her at school tomorrow," I answered. I wanted to get out of there as fast as possible so that I could examine the damage done to my backside and to put on some kind of clothing. I didn't like standing there so exposed even though it was before my own family.
"No, you need to let her know right now," mother insisted, "so she can try to make other plans."
There was no way to get out of it. With my hands covering my crotch again, I walked over to where the phone hung on the wall and turned my back to the others. Although they would still be viewing my red ass as I stood there, at least my hands would be free to dial Mary's home.
Mary answered the phone and immediately let me know that she had already heard about the accident, just as everybody else had. I told her that I was calling because I would not be able to go with her to the prom. I told her how sorry I was to have to spoil her evening.
But Mary didn't seem to show the disappointment I expected. Instead, she said that it was no problem because she could now accept an invitation that another boy had extended to her. She had only told him no because she had really wanted to go with me. When I asked her who the other boy was, she told me it was my erstwhile friend Charlie, the one who should have been punished instead of me.
I went to my room feeling more miserable than I ever had before and more miserable than I ever have since. It would be many months before I spoke to either Mary or Charlie again.