I grew up in a loving household where there was usually a lot of reasoning and little swatting. In my teenaged years though, I was pretty adept at forcing the envelope of what was acceptable and what was not. This caused even the most loving dad to find the need to set fire to his son's bottom from time to time. Such is the case in the stories that follow.
Up through age twelve, I was usually hand spanked on whatever I happened to be wearing at the time. My most confrontational time of the day was just before bedtime. Thus was the reason I found myself lying over the edge of a bed or over my dad's knee from time to time in only my briefs or pj's for a bottom burning. Neither piece of clothing gave me much protection from dads hard slaps and thus resulted in a temporally scorched bottom and a substantial flow of tears. One thing I was happy about, was that he had never seen fit to strip me of my clothing before the spanking.
On a couple of occasions when I was thirteen, I was slapped on my bottom several times while wearing briefs and pants. Both times, my bottom stung and I cried out, more though from fear and surprise. Thankfully I was wearing a pair of 505's on the first occasion and a pair of corduroy dress slacks the second time around. Later after each experience I rationalized that the swats did not devastate me and I therefore I should no longer fear a spanking. I figured that I was getting older and apparently could take it better. At least with pants and briefs on.
It wasn't long before my teenage attitude put the seat of my pants to the test again. This time I was sent to my room with the understanding that I was in for a spanking very shortly. As usual in such a situation, I felt that chill of fear coming over me. I looked down at the Khaki Dockers I was wearing and wished they were heavier. At least I had a pair of briefs and pants covering my fourteen year old bottom. The feeling was different than it had been in the past. I didn't feel like crying from fear. I figured as a ninth grader, I should be able to handle what was soon to be dished out. I didn't have long to wait until my dad came in he room.
Dad coaxed me over the edge of the bed as he had done in the past. As I bent over the bed I could feel my Dockers, that I had slightly outgrown, snug up to my ass cheeks and the crack of my ass. Tightening my butt cheeks and gritting my teeth, I prepared for my dad's hard hand spanks.
To my chagrin, I was not ready for what was next. I was told I was no longer a little kid and now was going to be treated like a teenager. My dad pulled from his back waistband his "new" paddle. The blade was small, about 4 inches wide and 6 inches long and about half an inch thick with a handle. I had heard from friend that sometimes the small ones really stung.
It wasn't long before the first shot landed on the middle of my left cheek on top of the pocket area. It took a second for my cheek to begin sting, but not as much as I had expected. The second swat landed a little lower on my left cheek. The fire was beginning, but thank goodness for the thick pockets my Dockers had. The third shot gave me about all I could handle without crying out. The fourth through sixth swats landed lower, below the bottom of the pocket and caused my cheek to began to sting vividly enough to cause tears. Shots seven through ten were the most effective by far.
With my dad holding my neck with his left hand and swinging the paddle with his right, the paddle landed really low on my left cheek. Actually the last inch and a half of the end of the paddle's blade landed below the elastic leg opening of my briefs. That paddle bit through my Dockers single layer of snug khaki and seared my tender upper thigh. The stinging fire was greater than I had ever experienced. The fact that the paddle's tip was traveling at the highest rate of speed before landing on my thigh I am sure had a lot to do with its effectiveness.
Later I lain in bed in my underwear and thought of how effective dads new paddle had been on me. I hardend up as I started to think. Things began coming to mind like all the IFS.
I wished that I had been wearing a pair of boxer briefs instead of the RED of all colors, tight fitting and ribbed designer briefs I had on. At least my thigh would have had a little more protection. How bad would it have been I thought if he had only hit me on the center of my left cheek where the pocket was? Briefs, khaki slacks and two layers of pocket definitely help me through the first few shots. Why couldn't he have used his hand again. I guessed that I should have cried out louder when being slapped on my jean covered and corduroy covered bottom the last two times I was hand spanked. Maybe he would not have felt the need for the paddle.
The more I thought about the experience, the more I realized that the paddle had caused quit a sting but hadn't hurt much. After about ten or fifteen minutes I push down my briefs and checked out the cheek damage. There was an overall redness and heat radiating from my cheek, but not black or blue. That paddle was no picnic, but it had not devastated me.
The effects of that paddle kept me respecting it for almost a year. At least my dad had not felt the need to use it during that period. At 15, a friend and I discussed the effectiveness of my Dads paddle while at my house. I told him how it was small and fairly light weight, but very effective in penetrating a pair of briefs and the middleweight fabric of my Dockers.
I was now into the Hip Hop scene. I was wearing an oversized pair of FTL boxer briefs, a pair of baggy flannel Joe Boxers over them, a pair of carpenter shorts over them and finally a pair of HIP HOP large pocket jeans.
I got out my dad's paddle and had my friend paddle me while I lay over my bed. I hardly felt a thing with all that protection. I unbelted and unbuttoned my jeans and pushed them down to my knees. I had my friend paddle me again. Although the paddle began to make my bottom sting, it was nothing I could not handle. I was smug at the thought of now being able to stand up to my dad and the paddle.
About a month passed and so did my 16th birthday and I was well into the 10th grade. It didn't take me long to do some severe testing of my Dad's patience. He sent me to my room. I knew that I had pissed him off in a big way, far bigger than I had intended. By this time I expected a "go around" with his paddle.
I quickly thought about what I was wearing. I was wearing a pair of regular Hanes briefs and a pair of short leg, broadcloth, Joe Boxers over them. Although I was not happy with my first thought, I broke a smile as I thought about the jean HIP HOP shorts and Hip HOP pants I was wearing over them. I had real confidence in those big pocketed pants that I was wearing. I was sure they would offer me sufficient protection no matter how hard Dad swung that paddle. I just had to remember to fake cry a bit.
My Dad headed for the hall closet where he kept the paddle. As he reached up to grab it I had all sorts of emotions churning. All of a sudden my eyes widened with disbelief. I didn't know whether to smile or frown. The paddle was missing. Now what was he going to do. No paddle might be a good thing.
My smugness was not to last. As had happened all too often, I had outwitted myself. When I had my friend test out the paddle on me, I had taken the paddle out of the hall closet where my Dad kept it and brought it to my bedroom. I had never returned it to the closet. Shortly my Dad found another implement that I had no experience with. He didn't waste anytime on educating me on the effectiveness of his new found device. It was a scrub brush. It was about the same size as the paddle, but made of oak and over three quarters of an inch thick and had over a foot long handle. It looked mean.
I found myself over the edge of the bed in no time. My Dads left hand was holding my neck and he was taking aim with the brush. Wack! Right on my left back pocket. A stinging pain erupted in the area with little delay. I didn't say what area did I. It was the back of my leg! My upper thigh! My low slung Hip Hop pants pocket was over my thigh and not my ass. As usual with Hip Hop jeans, the waist line was just above the center prominent area of my ass with about three or four inches of boxers showing above the waist band. How I wished that I had pulled my pants up before I was bent over the edge of the bed.
My Dad let go with two shots in a row on the same spot. Wack! Wack! What PAIN that brush produced. Plenty of sting came along with it as well. I kicked and bucked as I screamed and cried. Pleaeaeaessse! I yelled, of course to no avail. I couldn't imagine how things could be any worse.
Guess what all my kicking and bucking did for me. You guessed it. I bucked my ass right out of my loose fitting pants. My baggy jean shorts under my pants had no belt on them so they fell right down to my ankles with my pants. My Dad must have been in his glory looking at my bent, well endowed teenaged ass in that position covered only with a pair of thin boxers. I hoped he thought I had just my thin boxers on. I was all too aware though that Hanes briefs under my thin Joe Boxers were not going to offer much protection from that brush. I didn't have long to wait and learn just how far short my expectations of that brush's effectiveness was.
Wack! Wack! The Lower part of my left ass cheek burst into flames. Wack! Wack! Wack! Wack! Wack! Wack! The brush alternated repetitively from the left to right cheek. I was just beginning to feel the effects of the third and fourth shots as I received the 7th and 8th. My ass felt like it was in an inferno. I was surely exhaling the loudest cries I was capable of. The end and the fastest moving part of the brush landed below the elastic leg openings of my briefs and sometimes below my short boxers as well. That brush was biting through my scant protection with no problem. The part that landed on my bare thigh meat sent me a really special message of excruciating fire as well as pain.
It took me ten minutes to catch my breath and possibly another ten to stop blubbering. For the hour before I fell asleep, I mulled over in my mind how stupid I had been. I had caused the brush and had almost virtually asked to be paddled by my "expert testing" of my Dad. I then pulled my boxers and briefs down over my excited hardon. Looking in the mirror across the room I saw a very bruised set of ass cheeks. He had only swung that wood thing eight to ten times. I lost count. It had done some real art work on my ass.
That brush proved to me that there was no way but the straight way with my Dad. Now it was my job to remember to stay out of trouble and lay off the "testing".