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In 1997-98, I posted a series of true-life stories that got a lot of very positive e-mail response from readers of this website. I never finished the series, until now. In reviewing these original submissions, I have edited these stories and now repost them with typo corrections, etc. These repostings will be done every couple of days, and the series completed with new stories. This series begins when I was 11, and ends a year ago, with the stories posted chronologically. Enjoy!
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Our large chicken farm was now subdivided. Almost two/thirds of the fields were now roads and houses. Unfortunately, we still had most of the chicken houses and the chores that went with the filthy stupid white _s_h_i_t_s. I had just turned 15, and was waiting for football preseason training to start the next week, just a couple of weeks after the athletic camp.
My Dad and grandfather made the most use of my free time between summer camp and football, with a lot of the maintenance chores around the remaining farm. My grandfather and grandmother lived in a separate house on the farm, right across the main drive from our house. However, gone were all the good things, the big barns, the cows & horses...now it was just white chickens, thousands of the feathery _s_h_i_t_s. One of the chores I hated most was grinding the field corn into chicken feed.
This was done with a metal hand cranked contraption that you can still see in antiques stores and auctions.(Today women love them as planters.) You put an ear of field corn in the top round cylinder, pushed down on the corn with one hand and with the other hand turned a handle. This handle turned a wheel with metal knubs on it. The turning action caused the ear of corn to turn and the metal knubs of the turning wheel picked off the hard kernels. (To those readers who haven't a clue about what field corn is, let me digress. Field corn is not the stuff you buy in the grocery store. This comes off the stalk hard. It's only purpose is to feed farm animals and some decorating touches.) The kernels fell into a bucket below and the cleaned corncob fell to the floor. Now this process may sound exciting to some of you, but to a 15-year-old boy, it was like watching paint dry....only worse. I would rather scoop chicken _s_h_i_t_ off of a roosting ledge than grind field corn.
At lunch one day, my Dad announced that I would spend the afternoon grinding the field corn, while he and my grandfather ran into town to order some chicken feed. So about 1 o'clock I went out to the feed shed, about 50 yards southwest of the main house and started to "work". I hated this chore so bad, I just screwed off, doing little or none of it. My best buddy Glenn was out of town, so he couldn't keep me company and urge me on. I was bored and not doing much. I didn't hear my Dad's car return, and was startled to see him and my grandfather appear in the door of the shed.
"Jason, what in the hell have you been doing, playing with yourself?", my Dad thundered. Before I had a chance to respond, he grabbed my arm and pulled me off the metal grinder and out the door.
"Look at this no nothing pile of feed corn and cobs", he pointed his finger at the results of the last two hours. I had to admit it was hardly anything to show for two hours of work.
"Jason, you are 15 years old. I haven't paddled you in six months, but by God, with your _s_h_i_t_ty attitude lately, and this little pile of corn, it is time you got paddled', he shouted in my face. My Dad rarely raised his voice, so I knew not to even blink, much less argue or even respond.
"Do you have anything to say for yourself?", he barked, glaring at me. At that time he was 6'1", and weighed close to 200 lbs. I was 5'8" and weighed 155 lbs. I was no match for him physically, nor did the thought cross my mind.
"No, sir", as I looked down at the ground, wondering what was coming next.
"Jason, strip to your underpants, everything else off. Then go to the house and bring me back the paddle. And don't stop to talk to your mother, sister or anyone else...do you hear me, " his voice now was in his command mode.
"Yes, sir," I said as I kneeled down to undo my sneakers. I quickly had everything off, but my white Jockey brand briefs and my white socks.
"Jason, didn't I tell you everything else off, but your briefs", he yelled and swatted my cotton covered butt with his hand. I pulled off my socks, and picked up my clothes. He motioned for me to put them in the shed, and after I did, he pointed to the house.
That walk was one of the worst I have ever taken, ranking even worse than the one Denny & I took to the rifle range. My grandmother had heard my Dad's verbal thunder and was standing on her front porch watching me. My mother was looking out at me from the kitchen window. My sister was sun tanning on the upstairs deck, off the master bedroom and she was looking at me.
Just as I started my walk, the feed store delivery truck pulled up, with my least favorite driver, Cal grinning at me. And my little brother pulled up next to the house on his bike with his best buddy. I saw him point at me and both he and his buddy started giggling. I really looked stupid in my size XL boy's white briefs, barely able to tip toe across the rough ground. By the time I made it to the house, my Dad shouted out for me to hurry up.
The walk back was even worse. Now, everyone knew what was going to happen, because I was carrying the punishment paddle. Cal flipped me off, as he drove off, his truck's dust choking me. By the time I hobbled back to the feed shed, my Dad had placed the five feed sacks into a pyramid, 3-2-1. I didn't like that sight at all, the top sack was a little over 3 ft off the ground. I gave my Dad the paddle, and he handed it to my grandfather.
"Jason, while you took your sweet time bringing me back the paddle, I had your grandfather perform a little test, to make sure I am not being too tough on you. I had him shuck and grind corn for five minutes. Would you care to guess how many ears of corn he ground in five minutes. Now before you answer, remember, he's almost 70 and you're an athletic 15. Care to guess?", he growled.
I knew no matter what, any numerical answer was going to bite me, so I just shook my head "No".
"Son, your grandfather ground off 11 ears of corn. He didn't even hurry, because we were discussing how to paddle you. So he probably could have gotten a lot more done." He was in his analytical mode now, I was _f_u_c_k_ed.
"If he could grind 11 ears in five minutes, how many ears could he grind in two hours Jason", he bored in me. I quickly multiplied it in my head. "264, sir," not liking that number at all. I had a bad feeling I knew where his math class was taking my 15-year-old bubble buns.
"Very good. See Herman, he has learned something in high school," he cooed, looking at my grandfather. Now, in addition to being analytical, his caustic faucet had been turned on. In the mean time, my little brother and his buddy had joined the scene.
"Bill, if your grandfather can do over 130 ears of corn an hour at almost 70 years old, how many do you think your football playing 15 year old brother should grind?", he glared at my little brother. Bill, was so dumbfounded by the question, he just shrugged his shoulders. The look he got from my Dad should have melted the rubber in his sneakers and underpants.
"Well, let's give Jason the benefit of the doubt, since he is only 15. Let's say he can only do 90 an hour, way less than your grandfather. Jason, how many would that be?', looking me dead in the eye.
"180, sir." I didn't like that number either, but it least it was less, not more.
"Would you care to guess how many you actually ground in two hours?", he asked. Now I was really screwed. I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head "No".
"Well, while your grandfather was conducting his test, I counted out how many you actually did," he nodded towards the small pile that was the results of my two hours worth of "effort".
"Since you don't know, you kneel down and count them for us, NOW", he yelled and pushed me at the same time. Down on all fours, my cotton covered butt on display, I counted out 51 ears. I stood up.
"51, sir.", I stated. A slight look of disappointment crossed his face as he answered.
"Well, I'll be _d_a_m_n_ed Herman, the boy can count too!"
"Now Jason, one more math test. If your grandfather can screw off and grind 180 ears of corn in two hours and you did just 51, what does that leave as a difference?', he asked practically nose to nose.
"129, sir"., now I knew I what was going to get. "God _d_a_m_n_, this is going to hurt", I though to myself, as my Dad picked up the paddle from my grandfather.
"Jason, get your 15 year old smart ass up and over these feed sacks, butt up in the air", he growled as he used the paddle as a pointer.
I walked over and mounted the stack, bending over the scratchy feed sacks. My hip bones rested on top, my torso on one side, butt on top and legs on the other, with my hands resting on the bottom sack I could just imagine the kind of target my buns were for the paddle in his hand.
"OK Jason, put your hands next to the waistband of your underpants. Your grandfather is going to help me in your paddling", he said much quieter now.
I did as he instructed. My grandfather straddled the sacks, his work boots within inches of my face. He grabbed my wrists with each hand, and pulled them off my back and tight against his coverall's bib. Now my body was just off the feed sack lumps and my head between his knees. My Dad tapped the seat of my briefs with the paddle . "Jason, since you agree that there is a shortage of at least 129 ears of corn in the shed, that is going to be your paddling. Do you understand?", he was even quieter now.
"Yes, sir", and wished like hell I had never seen a chicken in my whole life.
"Crack", the swat hit my briefs, just above the leg openings. "Christ, that hurt.", I was stunned at the pain. My Dad was obviously pissed, very pissed.
"Wham", this one landed higher up, right in the center of my butt. I couldn't help the groan I gasped out.
"Crack", this one landed half on my briefs, half on my bare thighs and I yelled out.
"Not there Dad, pplleeaasse."
His next swat landed totally on my bare upper thighs, "Crack", and I tried to get loose from my grandfather's grip, it hurt so bad. I had never been spanked on my bare thighs before.
Over the next few minutes he slowly gave me an intense, hard paddling. 129 times my butt and thighs felt the paddle blast away. I was kicking, screaming, crying and appealing to my Dad and grandfather to stop the pain. It didn't stop until my Dad was done. My grandfather let go of my wrists, and I started to rub the fire in my cotton-covered ass and bare legs, to no good.
My Dad handed the paddle to my grandfather, then went inside the shed and retrieved my clothes. When he came out, he ordered me to stand up. Furiously rubbing my butt & legs, I did. Then he ordered me to give him my underpants. I was stunned, but quickly pealed off the sweat soaked cotton from my fiery multi-colored ass. He then gave me directions for the rest of the afternoon.
"It is now 3:15. At 5:15 I will be back to review your progress. Your brother Bill will watch you for these two hours, and he will count each ear of ground corn. If you don't have 240 ears of corn done....including what you already have done, I will paddle your bare butt again, along with his.", he said to both of us.
Bill couldn't believe the price of admission to seeing my ass get ignited, was the possibility of him getting some of the same. But who said life was fair, and that little _s_h_i_t_ deserved a lot more than he ever got. Bill's buddy wanted no part of risking a paddling, and he fled on his bike...fast.
With that, he and my grandfather left the two of us to finish what I should have done in the first place. I was forced to do it, teen age naked, a hot butt on full display. When my Dad returned with my clothes at 5:15, there were 311 ground ears of corn on the ground.
That was the most embarrassing spanking I ever got from my Dad. He probably didn't spank me more that a 3-4 times a year if that. A lot more were deserved, I just didn't get caught with enough evidence to warrant a punishment. This spanking was his last. Though there were times when I started driving that he thought about it long and hard. My football coach made up for it though with one of my most memorable spankings, because the whole school knew about it.
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This story is true, just certain names have been modified. I travel in my own business, and have the freedom to safely satisfy the spanking needs of interested readers.
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