It took me a long time to walk the three blocks to our house; I knew that the neighborhood mothers' network was much faster than little boy feet and the knowledge of my afternoon's escapades would precede me. As I approached the house I noticed to my delight that my father's car wasn't there - I had some hope that my mother, having received the phone call from her friend, would be so indignant that she would administer punishment herself.
As I walked into the house, I decided to use a tact I had been considering for a while. The idea went like this: when she confronted me, not only would I admit what I'd done, but I'd act like a smart-assed brat to boot. This would so enrage her that she'd insist on spanking me herself and I would thereby avoid the potentially disastrous fate of awaiting my dad's arrival....sounds crazy, I know, but it seemed logical at the time.
When I walked into the living room from the side porch, I could smell dinner - fried chicken. The house was too warm, as it always was around supper time, and I could feel the sweat break out. Still peeling off my overclothes, I heard her calling to me, voice muffled from being at the back of the house.
"Bart? Is that you? Come straight to your room, young man." There was a steely edge to her voice, and my fears were thus confirmed. I wandered slowly through the house, intentionally taking my time, forcing her to wait for me. Through the kitchen door and into the back rooms, I saw her standing in the bathroom door, a cleaning cloth in her hand. The acrid smell of bleach overpowered the warm cooking smells from the kitchen.
"You're in big trouble, mister" she announced, fixing me with a particularly troubling stare. "I talked with Loretta and she told me about your disgraceful behavior. What do you have to say for yourself?"
I hesitated only for a moment, then put my plan into action. "Not a f@@@ing thing!" I replied.
My mother's eyes widened in shock and the color drained from her face. She tried to speak, but couldn't make the words come out. Finally, she started screaming, and though the words were difficult to make out, it was clear that I was to go to my room. Bingo! I thought. Come on in and do your worst, I thought - it'll be nothing compared to Dad. I slammed the door to my room in punctuation.
She was stomping around, making lots of "I'm mad" noise, when suddenly she burst through the door.
"You've made me angrier than I've ever been, Bart, and I'm not going to spank you right now." My heart skipped a beat. "I'm going to wait until your father gets home and let him handle you."
Now this was definitely not according to plan. Not only would he hear about the afternoon's mischief, but now he'd hear about my disgraceful treatment of my mom. This was definitely not good, not good at all. The last time he'd spanked me, the offense was not nearly so severe, and I still had nightmares sometimes.
The hour before he got home streched into what seemed like five. I sat on the bed for a while, cursing myself for my own stupidity, wondering what I was in for. I was sure it would be like last time - 20 licks with his hand on my jeans, kind of a "warmup", followed by 20 licks with his belt on my underwear while lying on the bed. The memory of that pain was still fresh, and the lump came back to my throat. I tried distracting myself with a book, then a game, but my mind kept returning to the memory of that awful, burning pain.
Soon enough, the crunch of gravel in the driveway announced his return. I sat on the bed, lump back in my throat, listening to the faint murmur of voices through the closed door. As the heavy footsteps approached, my heart began to beat faster, and I swallowed against the ever present lump. The door swung open, and he rushed in. He smelled of hard work and of the outdoors, the way he always did after work. I had little time for such observations as he strode purposefully across the room.
"Stand up." he commanded, and I did so, rather quickly. He stood for a few seconds, glaring, before going on.
"You know what you did, and you know there's no excuse. You're going to get the tanning of your life right now, mister, and I promise you - you'll never forget it as long as you live."
Wide-eyed and fearful, I could only stare in horror. He stared purposefully at me for a couple more seconds, then continued.
"I'm going to leave to get a couple of things. When I come back, we'll get started." He slammed the door as he left the room.
I stood quite still, afraid to move, while I strained to hear his progress and struggled to guess what he was doing. By the sounds of his movements, I knew that he had gone into his bedroom, and I heard the rumbling and sliding of the closet door. There was quiet for a few seconds, followed by the thumps and bangs of him moving things about in the closet. He was looking for something, and it was something that wasn't within easy reach. A second rumbling noise told me that the closet door was closing, and then I heard the footsteps again.
The lump rose all the way into my throat again as the step reached my door, but settled down again as the sounds receded. I closed my eyes and strained to hear, but the rest of the sounds were muffled through the closed door. At one point I thought I heard the back door open and close, but I couldn't be sure, and I couldn't imagine why.
Eventually, however, the steps approached again, and this time there was no reprieve. Swinging my bedroom door open, he strode into the room. Even now as I write this, I can close my eyes and clearly see the image of him that was forever burned into my memory. As he strode into the room, he carried the tools of his intent with him. In his left hand, two switches from the yard; I didn't notice right away, but I later figured out that they were a long willow switch, and a medium length hickory switch. To my mounting horror I also noticed the very large and ominous leather strap in his right hand.
As I reflect on how I felt at the time, I realize now that so much that was unprecendented was happening at once that my young mind couldn't absorb it all at once. I had been spanked before, even on my bare behind, but he had always used his bare hand or, on the worst of occasions, his belt. Never had I even seen these implements before.
He walked briskly to my bed and lightly tossed his tools onto the bed. My bed was tall, the bottom half of former bunk beds. He sat down on the bed and just looked at me for a few minutes, a curious half-smile playing about his lips. He beckoned for me to come over, then playfully tousled my hair and hugged my head strongly to his chest.
"I remember this, so clearly, from so long ago." he said. "My own father had to do this one time - believe me, it was only once, and I expect that I'll only have to do it this once."
He released me from his grasp and continued to look at me. "I remember when I was like you are now - you're growing up, you're getting bigger physically, and you feel like you're bound up by the rules that surround you. Well, as my father used to say, you've grown far too big for your britches, young man. So, since they don't fit you anymore, let's get out of them.
"I want you stripped naked, and I want it done NOW."
I was stunned, never having experienced anything like this. As I said, I'd been spanked on the bare before, but always after something of a "warmup", and in truth, I'd only gotten it on the bare a very few times. This was beyond anything I'd ever imagined. I must have been standing there staring dumbly, wide-eyed with my mouth hanging open. He waited patiently for a few minutes, then said, a little more forcefully,
"Bart? Did you not hear what I said? Get out of those clothes right now." When I was still frozen into immobility, he continued "Bart? If you don't start undressing right now, I'll take your clothes off myself."
To avoid that humiliation, I began to slowly undress. The entire time my mind was working furiously, considering one desperate scheme after another, rejecting the essential uselessness of each while holding onto overall hope. My shirt was a tight fitting knit T, and it took no time at all for it to slide over my head and off. I started to sit on the bed, thought better of it, the sat heavily down onto the floor. My mind still desperately racing, I untied first one shoe and removed it, then the other. Both socks came next, then with heavy heart I stood up. I looked pleadingly at him, saw absolutely no pity, then reached for the snap on my jeans.
The sound of the snap was loud and startled me somewhat, but I recovered and lowered the zipper. I grasped the waist of the jeans, started them down my thighs leaving my underwear intact.
"No." said my father, pointing in the direction of my underwear. "Take those, too." I pulled the jeans back up, then slid my fingers inside the tight white band of the underwear. I always wore jockey style shorts, and on more than one occasion I had admired the tightness of their fit around the twin orbs of my own rear. Tall for my age and a little thin, my hours upon hours of outdoor running had really built up my rear and my legs, and those at least were well developed for my age.
Now grasping both jeans and shorts, I started slowly lowering them. Goosebumps rose on my legs as the fabric glided effortlessly across them. Still in somewhat of a panic, I let go when I reached my knees and my pants and underwear puddled loosely around my ankles. In a cruel irony, my mind flashed back a couple of hours to the picture of my friend Howie with his pants around his ankles. The quick memory stirred my small member slightly, and I desperately tried to focus on the here and now. Stepping out with one foot and then the other, I was naked in front of my father, waiting for my fate. My heart was pounding so loud, and the first tears were beginning to well up in my eyes.
He was still sitting on the bed, about five feet away from where I stood. He slowly reached out his hand to me and I carefully reached out mine. He grasped my hand gently as if shaking hands, then began to pull me over to him. As he pulled me, I stepped the two steps until I was standing in front of his with my entire body between his legs. He scooted backwards on the bed, leaving his knees even with the edge. Putting both hands under my armpits, he lifted me off the floor like I was a child, twisting me to the right as he lifted. Putting most of my weight against his left arm, he used his right hand to hold my thighs up as he positioned me across his legs. My crotch came to rest against his legs, the smooth fabric of his uniform rubbing against my small member.
He turned me slightly, moving my head around toward his back so that most of my body weight was leaning on my elbows on the bed. I wasn't really bent over, merely well placed for what he had in mind. I felt the cold air playing about my buttocks and my heart began to beat somewhat faster. My backside wasn't really stretched, and I could still flex my buttocks. The were already flexing involuntarily.
I had assumed that he would begin with his hand, but I found out later that he started with the hickory switch. Just as I began to wonder what was going to happen, I heard the sound of the switch swishing through the air, followed by the pain of it slicing into my tender backside. The awful "WHICK" sound at first was actually worse than the initial pain, as anyone who has ever been switched or caned can testify. Just as I heard the second swishing sound, the pain from the first REALLY began to register. The second blow WHICK was almost stunning, coming as it did on the heels of the wave of pain from the first. My father settled into a steady rhythym of about three blows every second. He knew that this was going to be a long session, so he wasn't really swinging hard, but with a green switch on virginal buttocks the blows don't have to be that hard.
It's difficult to describe how I felt during this, the first of my "real" spankings. The pain was so intense, so far beyond anything I had ever imagined, that my mind wasn't working the way it usually did. My mind was panicked, and a hard ball of fear was churning in my stomach. WHICK WHICK WHICK. By the fifth stroke, I was crying aloud, the embarassing cries wrenched involuntarily from my throat. WHICK WHICK WHICK WHICK. Only three seconds had passed, but I was already struggling against my father's hold involuntarily. He had chosen well, however, when he positioned me as he did. His rhythym never slowed as he shifted his weight, pushing me forward and moving even more of my weight onto my elbows. As I struggled I realized that I had no leverage and was effectively powerless.
WHICK. WHICK. WHICK. WHICK. WHICK. WHICK. My cries were louder, my struggles more desperate now and my legs and feet began bucking and kicking against my captivity. He was so strong he never even broke rhythym. WHICK. WHICK. WHICK. WHICK. WHICK. My unstretched buttocks were locked into a clench which should have lessened the pain but somehow didn't. I was pleading now, crying out for pity. WHICK. WHICK. WHICK. WHICK. WHICK. My face was pressed into the bedclothes, and it was a little difficult to breathe, especially with me straining and gasping as I was. WHICK. WHICK. WHICK. WHICK.
My entire backside was aflame, my father carefully spreading his effort across the whole extent of the offered target. He kept up that relentless pace, and the assault continued for what seemed an eternity. WHICK. WHICK. WHICK. WHICK. My ineffectual struggles had abated somewhat, by my crying continued. WHICK. WHICK. WHICK. Suddenly there was a snapping sound, and my father released his grip on me. Gravity pulled at me, and I tumbled to the carpet. I had no idea how long I'd been whipped, but I later found out that my father had been counting licks and had gotten to 108 (on his way to 200) when the hickory switch mercifully snapped. The entire affair had thus taken only about 40 seconds from start to finish.
I staggered to my feet, dancing from foot to foot, unconsciously backing away from him, both hands rubbing my fiery backside. I was still crying and my heart was still pounding. The heat from my buttocks was amazing, and I stole a look at the full length mirror on the back of my closed door. I moved my hands and saw dark pink stripes against an even pink background.
"Look bad?" my father asked. I snapped my head back around, looking at him in fear and respect. "Turn around" he commanded and I turned my back to him. "Oh, that's not bad." He paused for just a second before continuing nastily. "Besides, we're just getting started."
He turned his head to the side and grasped the long willow switch in his right hand. It looked to be about 24" long and very thin, as willow is wont to be. As he stood from the bed, I backed away in horror.
"Clasp your hands together and hold out your hands." he said forcefully. I put my hands together as if in prayer, and held my hands out toward him. He wrapped one huge hand around both mine, then wrenched my hands upward. Lifting abruptly, he spun me around away from him while holding my hands and arms above my head. This action turned me toward the mirror and I could thus see his intent. Holding my hands up and holding me at arms length, he had absolute control over me. I was him carefully test the weight of the willow, then draw it back and bring it forward viciously.
WHICK. The pain from the willow was completely different from the hickory. The willow was long but very thin - this made each stroke more painful and intense, especially when administered as fast as my dad was doing. But the small size meant that little or no actual damage was done. The pain of this stroke on my already flaming buttocks surprised me anew. I yelled again as my dad resumed his former pace. WHICK. WHICK. WHICK. WHICK. I struggled and fought hard, but his strength was impenetrable. WHICK. WHICK. I was shrieking incoherently by the seventh blow, dancing from foot to foot and trying to turn my hips away from that searing pain. WHICK. WHICK. WHICK. WHICK.
I danced carelessly aside and the next blow cut into the tender flesh at the top of my legs, just below the buttocks. The incredible pain from this cut ripped an even louder shriek from my throat and, in a burst of energy, I pulled both hands away from his grip. I backed away from him, struggling to see through the tears in my eyes.
"Get back over here, young man." There was no anger or violence in his voice, only resignation to duty and the excitement of the moment.
"Dad! I can't. It hurts too much!" I blubbered. "Please...I won't do those things again...please, Dad..."
"Bart, get your butt back over here. We're a long way from finished. I know it's painful, but you've got to learn this lesson."
Fresh tears welled in my eyes as I started across the room in resignation. It was cold in the room, but even in my absolute nakedness I wasn't noticing. He took me by my hand and led me over to the bed, placing his hand gently on the back of my neck. As he pushed my head forward, I was bent over the bed, then my head laid down sideways on the soft sheet. My eyes were closed, and I smelled the wispy scent of the fabric softener that my mother favored. Then everything was wiped out again by the arrival of fresh pain.
WHICK. The willow assault began anew. WHICK. WHICK. WHICK. Bending over the bed had stretched the skin of my buttocks tighly, accentuating the pain of each blow. WHICK. WHICK. WHICK. Soon I was crying again, then yelling. WHICK. WHICK. WHICK. He was stroking very fast now, and the pain consumed me. WHICK. WHICK. WHICK. WHICK. My crying became very incoherent, and actually diminished somewhat as my voice became hoarse. WHICK. WHICK. WHICK. Over and over the angry switch bit into the flesh of my backside, and the assault seemed endless. I lost a little of my sense of time as the pain ruled my senses. And then, as suddenly as it began, the assault was over.
I learned later that my father, while holding me down on the bed, had kept up his relentless pace for five solid minutes, two strokes per second, for a total of about 600 strokes with that instrument of horror. This alone was about ten times more than I had ever received before - no small wonder that I was still somewhat stunned and bewildered by the whole affair.
I didn't try to stand up, not even to alleviate the embarassment of being bent over like that in front of my father. My breathing was still ragged, and I still sobbed uncontrollably. He sat down, rather heavily, on the bed beside me, and gently rubbed his hand across my shoulders while I slowly came to my senses and began to calm down.
"Alright, son, alright. You need to get control of yourself so we can finish this."
Fresh fear welled up. We weren't finished? My heart began to beat furiously again. I found the strength to push myself upward with my hands, then struggled to my feet. I stood looking at the floor, my legs trembling.
"Look at me." he commanded, and I did so rather quickly. "Let's get this over as quickly as we can, although that'll be more up to you that me this time."
As I looked into his eyes in confusion, he smiled gently, paused for a moment, then continued. "For you final switching," and my heart fell as I realized the ordeal was far from over, "I want you to go to the front yard and cut your own switch." He nodded in response to my silent incomprehension, slowly reaching into his pocket to pull out his knife. Handing the knife to me, he stood up and opened the bedroom door.
"Here's the deal." he continued. "I want you to choose the switch that I'm going to whip you with. My only requirement is that I want you to cut one from the peach tree in the front yard. You better get one that I like, because if you don't, I'll whip you with it anyway, then send you back again."
He held his watch up close to his face in mock drama and said "You've got two minutes."
This was all unfolding way too fast, and I stood there like a rock. When he said "You just wasted ten seconds" I realized that he wasn't kidding. I reached for my pants and he grabbed my hand. "Oh no. You'll go out just as you are."
Before I could think better, I shouted "If you think I'm going out there naked, you're nuts."
He surged away from the door, grabbing my hand and pushing me roughly toward the bed, picking up the willow switch at the same time. Grabbing the back of my neck again, he quickly pushed me down and bent me over the bed again. All the while I struggled a little and said "No..OK I'll go..." but to no avail. The willow again began biting into my flesh, again at that insane pace. WHICK. WHICK. WHICK. In one second I was crying and blubbering again. WHICK. WHICK. WHICK. Over and over the blistering attack continued, relenlessly, painfully. I tried to speak through the assault.
"Dad! Please stop...Ow....Aiiii...I'll go..I'll go" but he refused to stop. Thirty seconds, and about a hundred strokes later he stopped and released his grip on my neck. I sprang up from the bed and gripped my burning buttocks with both hands, struggling again to see through the tears.
"OK, mister, you've got two minutes." Knowing better than to protest, I started through the door and into the kitchen. My mother was nowhere in sight and, as I walked through the kitchen, I noticed how strange it felt to be walking while absolutely naked, the gentle air currents playing about my buttocks and my crotch. At that thought my small member began to rise and I immediately wrenched my thoughts toward the task at hand. I reached the front door, opened it slowly, looked about and, seeing no one, stepped outside.
I walked quickly across the yard, and the cold brisk October air swirled about my buttocks and crotch. The danger of excitement had vanished and I felt my formerly semi-excited member withdrawing to escape the cold. Reaching the peach tree I looked up at the lowest branches and realized that I might not be able to reach them. Panic began, and I considered the question of how a naked boy would climb a tree to get a switch. Thinking this through, I goaned aloud as I realized that I had left the knife in the bedroom.
Grabbing the tree trunk, I wrapped my legs around it and climbed up to the lowest of the branches. Holding on with my left hand, I grabbed the first branch within reach at the base and started trying to twist it off, left to right and left to right. The litheness and flexibility of the green wood was unbelievable and I succeeded only in bending the branch from its formerly upright position.
Abandoning this plan, I dropped quickly to the ground and sprinted back toward the door. My plan was to go back to the bedroom and retrieve the knife. I jerked the door open and dashed into the living room. As I sprinted across the kitchen floor, I heard my father's voice from my room:
"Time's up! Bart, get your butt in here."
Hanging my head, sighing with abandon, I shuffled through the house and into the room, closing the door behind me, grateful again that I hadn't seen my mother. He was sitting patiently on the bed. As I walked in, I started talking.
"Dad...that doesn't count. I forgot the knife and I couldn't break the switch...." I trailed off and looked at him, pleading for understanding. There was none.
"Bend over the bed, son, and this time I won't hold you down. Stay down until I stop, then you'll have two minutes again to do as I asked."
Tears sprang into my eyes again, but I eased across the room and laid myself gently down onto the bed. Reaching as far across the bed as I could, I grabbed two handsful of bedclothes.
"Count the licks, boy." he commanded. He started in again with the willow, but slowly and deliberately this time, as if wanting to give me time to savor each stroke. WHICK. "One." WHICK. "Two." This was yet a new experience, as he paused between stripes, somtimes following up in one second, sometimes pausing as long as ten, but always giving me time to count. WHICK. "Thirteen." My voice was strained and pitched highly as I struggled to maintain control over my voice. WHICK. "...Aiiii...twenty-two". WHICK. "Ohh!...twenty-three." As this phase of my punishment continued, it became more and more difficult to concentrate on the count. I began to cry involuntarily again, and this added to the difficulty.
WHICK. "Aiii....forty-nine." WHICK. "Aiii." At this point, I stopped breathing as the lick descended, closing my eyes tightly and grimacing with the pain. "Aiiiiii...fifty." This slow, methodical struggle continued, and the time between the stroke and my count steadily increased. WHICK. ".........seventy-five." And suddenly it was over.
"You've got two minutes." and he sat down on the bed again.
I leaped up this time and wasted no effort rubbing my fiery, flaming backside. Grabbing the knife from the floor where I'd dropped it, I nearly ran through the house to the front door. Out into the yard, not bothering to look for onlookers this time, straight across the lawn to the tree. I was up the tree in a second, standing on the lowest branches and surveying the switches within easy reach.
The small, thin, short one nearest my hand was most tempting, but I knew better. I'd never been switched with a peach switch before, but somehow I instinctively knew that there was danger here. As I would later come to know, there is in all the world nothing that combines density and weight with incredible flexibility quite like new growth on a peach tree. I settled on a medium sized switch, about 30 inches long, thick as my little finger at the base. Dad's sharp knife cut through the wood easily, and I tossed it lightly to the ground.
Holding on carefully, I turned head over heels and flipped over onto my feet on the ground. Scooping up the switch, I dashed back into the house. "Time's up!" I heard, just as I stepped through into the bed room. Sheepish, I handed over the switch without quite meeting his eyes. He tested its flexibility, then grunted his approval. "This'll do." was his only comment.
"Turn around and put your hands on your knees." he ordered, and I slowly complied. In this position, I wasn't really bent over and stretched tight, merely stretched just enough that clenching my buttocks was rather impractical.
Without ceremony or warning, the first blow descended. WHICK. After the prior switchings, I was certain that I knew the limits of pain, but as it turned out, I was dead wrong. The wave of pain following that first cut was unbelievable, its effect on my already battered backside only intensified. A ball of fear formed in my throat and I screamed aloud, leaping up out of my bent position, grabbing with both hands at my buttocks, and turning to face him.
"Get back into position." he said. "Here are the rules for this phase: I'm going to give you one hundred strokes with this switch and you're going to count them for me again. Here's the catch: the strokes must be uninterrupted - if you come up out of position, we start over!"
In my defense, I think I only heard half of what he said, the pain was so intense. I walked slowly back over, turned around, and put my hands on my knees.
WHICK. "One." WHICK......."Two". My voice was already strained, delayed, and highly pitched. WHICK....."Three." My father was delivering the blows slowly, about one every ten seconds, making me fully savor each one.....WHICK...."Ten."....WHICK!...
After a partcularly vicious lash, I found myself unconsciously standing up and turning away from that awful pain.
"OK. You know the rules...now we start over. Get back into position."
I reassumed the position, crying continuously now. WHICK...."One."...WHICK...."Two."....The assault renewed, and I gritted my teeth against the pain. My instincts were demanding that I stand up and get away from that pain, and I struggled to override that reflex....WHICK..."Twenty." Each stroke now wrenched a hoarse cry of pain, followed by a brief pause, then a strangled count....WHICK..."Thirty-three"....WHICK..."Thirty-four"...
When we passed Fifty, he commented "Doing good, Bart. You're halfway there." I think he meant it as encouragement, but it nearly made me pass out. WHICK..."Sixty"...There was no way I was going to be able to take this - with each stroke it steadily became more and more difficult to resist the desire to stand up and get away from that searing pain. WHICK..."Sixty-seven."
I must confess that I don't exactly remember counting the last twenty or so licks; I'm sure I did or he would have made me start anew. When I came to my self, I was lying on the bed on my stomach, and he was gently rubbing my shoulders and my back. The wrenching and wracking sobbing had abated somewhat, and my breathing was slowly returning to normal. As I started to think more clearly, I thought to myself that the ordeal was finally over - there was no way he would add anything additional on top of what I had already endured.
As my breathing subsided, he stood up and walked toward the door. Stopping just inside the room, he turned to me and said, "You rest, son. I'll be back in a few minutes." As he walked out he closed the door, and I was alone in the room.
I just laid there for a few minutes with my eyes closed, waiting for my buttocks to stop blazing. That much anticipated moment never arrived, however. This was a new thing - in all my previous "sessions" with my dad, the pain had seriously receded by this point; I began to appreciate the fact that this was a whole new level of spanking. I swore to myself that I'd never allow this to happen again.
Pushing myself up on my elbows, I opened my eyes and looked around the room. I knew without trying that it would be a mistake to try sitting on the bed. I absently noted that the switches, all three of them, were gone. Undoubtedly Dad had taken them as he left. I had just started to consider how long it would take before I would be able to sit down comfortably when my thoughts were interrupted by a piercing revelation:
The paddle was still on the bed.
My breathing quickened, my heart began to race, and that familiar ball of dread rose into my throat again. No, no, no, there's no way this isn't over...I kept repeating this mantra, struggling desperately to convince myself.
The latch clicked and the door swung open again, and my dad strode into the room with purpose.
He stopped near the bed, casually glanced at my upturned buttocks, and commented drily, "It's not as bad as you think or as bad as it feels." The "Wanna bet?" retort that flashed in my mind never got close to my throat.
"At least, not yet...." he continued.
I leaped up off the bed, whining immediately. "No way, dad! I can't take any more of this!" The sputtering and blubbering started.
He picked up the paddle and tested its heft.
"Son, you've been whipped for the disgraceful way you treated your mother, but there still remains the problem of how you behaved at Loretta's house. I think a sound paddling is in order."
Wild with panic, I started blubbering. "Dad, no! I swear I won't do it again...not for this...Aw dad, please, not again....
My voice trailed off as he reached out and took my hand. Leading me back to the bed, he released my hand then pushed the back of my head down onto the bed, bending me over. WHACK! With the first blow I was screaming again, "Aiii...Dad, please stop..." WHACK! "Ohhh...God no!" WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! The switches were awful, dancing their localized pain all over my buttocks, but the pain from the paddle was unbelievable. WHACK! Without thinking I tried to stand, but my feeble effort was no match for his strength.
"Be still!" he commanded. WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! The blows rained down mercilessly. WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!
Then it was over.
"Bart, please don't ever make me do this again." Without looking back, he walked out of the room and gently closed the door.
I lay on the bed, my energy completely spent, and marvelled at the persistent pain in my buttocks. Staring through my tears, I looked across the room toward the mirror, but couldn't make out any details. I stood up, walked over, and looked at the damage to my buttocks...both cheeks were completely covered in a bright red blaze of color, and here and there I could see marks where the switches had hit outside the range of the paddle. And criss-crossed across my buttocks were small welts, primarily the work of the peach switch.
I placed my hand on my left cheek, then drew back in a hurry as fresh pain registered. I would not be able to sit comfortably for days, I thought.
Never again.