[Oak Grove, Ohio, 1932]
"Get the whippin' strap, boy and get out to the shed. I'll be along in a bit."
Jury, judge, and executioner had spoken and Jim knew there was no appellate court either. So he dutifully trudged to the upstairs bathroom, took the worn razor strop down from a hook on the back of the door, then slowly walked across the yard to the shed behind the garage. And he waited.
Fifteen minutes later Jim saw his father walking briskly toward the shed, the note from his principal in hand.
"You read this note, Jim?"
"No, sir," Jim answered honestly.
"Says here you got sent out of the room for playing the fool, then called Mrs. Dietz a 'bitch' on the way out. That true?"
"Yes, sir," Jim replied, his eyes now down on the dirt floor.
"Then you decided to jump from the fry pan into the fire when she sent you to the principal? He says here you called him a name I won't even repeat when he put you over his desk for a lickin'. That true, too, boy?"
"Uh-huh." This was going to be a long and hard one, he thought to himself.
"Did he give you a lickin'?"
"Yes, sir. Hard one. With a switch."
"Learned a lesson at the end of that switch, did you, Jim?"
"Yes, sir. That kind of thing won't happen again, I guarantee it."
"You bet it won't. Did you apologize to both Mr. Smithson and Mrs. Dietz?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, I can just imagine what they think of you–and me–about now. Where did you get such language?"
"Dunno, sir."
"Dunno??!! You don't know where you picked up that language? Sounds like you been hanging around down at the town pool hall, boy. That so?"
"Um, yes, sir."
"You pick up that attitude you been showing there, too, Jim?"
"Guess so."
"You guess so. You sure didn't get that smart aleck stuff and foul language around this house, boy. Do you remember what I told you would happen if you ever got a lickin' at school?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well?"
"You said I'd get another at home on top of the first."
"Jim, I have seen this coming now for the whole year. Seems somehow since you turned fourteen you think you can get away with just about anything. Kind of like a colt who gets loose of the corral. You're not on your own yet, boy, and this time you managed to buy yourself more trouble than you can handle."
"Yes, sir. I am sorry. And I did apologize and was punished hard for what I did."
"You were. Now you get your second dose just to be sure you get the message. Give me the strap and take your pants down."
Jim held the razor strop out for his father, then turned his back and let his overalls and underwear down. He pulled a tall stool out from the corner and bent full across it.
"Looks like Mr. Smithson gave you a pretty good thrashing, boy." Jim's father winced when he saw the dozen weals criss crossed on his son's backside.
"Sure did, dad. Couldn't this wait, please?"
"No. You knew exactly what I had said and put yourself in for this one anyway. You'll take your whipping right now."
Jim closed his eyes, grabbed hold of the bar near the bottom of the stool, and waited.
"As of today you are grounded for the next two weeks, boy!"
The strap cracked hard to underline the point.
"And as of today you are no longer allowed to go into that pool hall. Period."
Again the strap snapped across the welts left by Mr. Smithson's switch.
"You hear me, Jim?"
One more lick with the strap.
"YES, sir!" Jim tightened his grip and fought his instincts to raise up and howl.
"And when you get back to school, boy, you're gonna go to Mr. Smithson's office and tell him you got a second lickin' on top of his from me."
Craaaaaaaaaaaack.
Another half dozen licks echoed off the walls of the shed, each below the last till the strap finally snapped across the backs of Jim's thighs.
"Since you took a switchin' already today, that should be enough for you to remember. Is it Jim?"
"YES!" Jim fairly howled. He was shocked that his father had let him off so easily but also holding on to the bar for dear life from the heat screaming through his well strapped butt.
"You just stay over the stool, boy."
Jim's father laid the razor strop on the work bench, then opened a drawer and took out a jar with what looked like axle grease in it.
"This is bag balm, Jim. Grandpa uses it on the udders when a cow gets chafed and raw. Does wonders. Now just hold still."
Jim's dad put a couple of fingers into the jar and pulled out a wad of the goo about the size of a walnut. Then he gently spread it across Jim's scaled cheeks, his fingers carefully and gently taking the balm along the welts raised by Smithson's hickory switch. Jim wriggled at first, but then settled down and relaxed. It felt good, actually. When the first wad was used, Jim's father took a second and worked that into the blistered backside, working from the top down to a couple of dark strap marks on the backs of Jim's thighs.
"Feel better, Jim?"
"Yes, sir. Much. Thanks," Jim answered. And, in spite of himself, his legs began to spread apart and he felt himself getting hard.
"Well, we can put some more on tomorrow if need be," his father replied as he worked the last into the lower crack. Then he put the jar on the bench next to the razor strop.
"You can take care of yourself if you need any more. And see you put the strap back, too."
"Yes, sir," Jim answered, still naked from the waist and draped across the stool. He did not want to get up till his father had left–did not want him to see his erection.
His father left the shed, closing the door behind him. Jim waited a minute or two, then slowly rose up, took the jar from the bench, and, smiling, took a nice big wad out.