I used to hate getting spanked when I was growing up. If I disobeyed my parents or got caught in any kind of mischief, I could usually count on my dad taking me into my room, pulling down my pants, and letting me have it with a doubled-over belt. That was the way I got punished all the way until I graduated from high school. My brothers, too—it wasn't just me. We had good parents who raised us well and would do anything for us, but they definitely had an old-fashioned approach to discipline that my brothers and I did not like at all. Our dad used to say how he was "raised by the belt" himself, and how all the problems with kids in those days was caused by their parents not spanking them when they should have. One time when I came home past my curfew I asked my dad whether I couldn't just be grounded. He agreed—he grounded me AND gave me the belt.
Like I said, my dad used to take down our pants for our whipping, sometimes our pants and underwear both. I was always extremely embarrassed to have to bend over in just my underwear, and the embarrassment was 100 times worse if my dad pulled my underwear down too. That's not even talking about how bad it hurt to get whipped with that belt. Depending on how mad at me my dad was, he would hit me anywhere from 4 to a couple dozen times—usually until he felt I had "learned my lesson." I don't think there was ever a time I wasn't howling and crying by the end of it, until this one time when I was 15. After that, I tried to take it like a man the best I could.
I used to yell and bawl so much during a spanking that my dad would get even more pissed at me. Sometimes he'd threaten to keep spanking me until I shut up. Even my brothers called me a crybaby, but I didn't think I could help it—that belt really hurt! I never saw any red marks on their butts or the back of their thighs, but I know I got them, and sometimes they would last a week. One time I even accused my dad of strapping me harder than he strapped them, but that probably wasn't the case. They could just take it better, I guess.
Until that one time when I was 15. I had forgotten to mow the lawn for like the third day in a row after my dad had specifically reminded me, and he was royally mad. I got sent to my room, and my dad came in with the wide brown leather belt he would use to whip us. First I got yelled at for a couple minutes while trying to talk my way out of my punishment. Then, not buying any of my excuses, my dad told me to turn around and face my bed. He grabbed the button of my shorts from behind, unzipped the fly, and pulled my shorts down to my knees, leaving my butt exposed there in my white briefs. I then had to bend over and take whatever my dad had in store for me. Well, after the first four or five licks I was crying and carrying on so loudly that my dad stopped. Whew, I thought, he went easy on me that time. Wrong. My dad proceeded to lecture me on the way I was crying during my punishment. He said I was acting like a little boy, and that he was not going to tolerate the way I was yelling and screaming any longer. At the end of the lecture he said he was going to give me ten more swipes, and if I made so much as a whimper, he would stop and give me ten more.
I turned back around and bent over, trying my best to just get through my punishment without crying. But when my dad started back in again whipping me, I swear I never felt anything so painful in my life. My ass was just burning on fire. After about 5 or 6 strokes I couldn't help it and began to cry, softly at first. But then that belt landed again, and I let out a big yelp and started crying really loudly. My dad stopped swinging the belt, and I figured he thought I had "learned my lesson." But instead of letting me stand up, he told me to stay where I was and stop crying. When I stopped crying, he said, I was going to get ten more swipes with the belt, and that we would be there all night if necessary until I could take my whipping without crying. At that point I knew he was serious, and I just told myself no matter what, just get through ten more strokes without crying. I stopped blubbering and braced myself. I wanted to yell out badly all ten times that belt came across my butt, but I made it. My dad seemed satisfied, and told me I could stand up and pull my shorts back up. He certainly made his point. After that, I made sure I made no fuss when I got taken to my room for a belt-whipping.