[Note: This is another story re-submitted to this archive in revised form. The rest will follow over the next few weeks, and some new ones will be added. I hope you like them; I am grateful to the readers who have written with comments.]
Dan Benson had just taken his second bite of corn flakes when there was a rough knocking at the door. "Who could be pounding like that at 7:30 on a Saturday," he thought. The knocking resumed, and this time someone seized the door knob, shaking it violently.
"Get your ass out here, Benson!" came the call. "This is Penance Day; you missed muster!"
"For heaven's sake get the door, Dan," said his mother, rushing to unlock the dead bolt. In the doorway stood Tom Blakely, their neighbor, with his 19 year old son Brad and the town sheriff Doug Workman.
"I'm sorry, Ma'am," said Workman, "Mr. Benson and Dan are going to have to come with us."
"What's all this about?" Chuck Benson asked, emerging from the hall with razor in hand, shave cream still covering one side of his jaw.
"Better get dressed quick, Chuck," said Tom, "and get young Dan by the ear; the press gangs don't take kindly to latecomers."
That rankled Dan. 24 year-olds don't need to be 'taken by the ear!' "What are they talking about, Dad?" he said irritably.
"But we just moved in as new residents," Mr. Benson said to the sheriff, ignoring his son. "Besides, we did our bit back in Belfort, just last month."
"When you signed the lease here you took on the responsibility to participate," Sheriff Workman stated. "Every man in Grantville has to be in it. Let's make it fast, you fellas are going to have to hoof it, to avoid penalties!"
Both men, the younger and the elder, scrambled to get their clothes and personal items together, then hurriedly left with the other three men. "I'm sorry, honey," Mr. Benson called back to his concerned wife in the doorway, "don't expect us back before tonight."
All the men of Grantville had assembled in front of the court house. The mayor brought out the Lottery Box, from which the 200 names were to be selected. The busses were already waiting to take them over to Winthrop. The long roll was read off to confirm that, except those verifiably ill, all males between the ages of 18 and 65 were present. Then came the selection as the names went into the box: sure enough, both Dan and his Dad--as well as both the Blakelys and the sheriff--got called up. It was time to face up to it, this day was not going to be fun. Then the "press gangs"--volunteers from Winthrop sent to facilitate compliance with the event--herded the unlucky conscripts onto the busses, while the passed over few watched in relief or slunk off home.
It was only 7 miles to Winthrop. The two towns had been partners in the Penance Program since it was founded, just 5 years ago. The program had been an amazing success. The factionalization and "balkanization" of America in the late nineties had reached such an extreme that the Program had been instituted and adopted on a voluntary basis state by state, as a gesture of restitution and reconciliation toward disadvantaged groups. Interred Japanese, former slaves, disinherited Indians, and minorities of all stripes--to all these a public amends was being made. Partner cities designated two annual dates, on each of which, reciprocally, one town would organize and administer a Penance Activity for the other. But there was genius in this plan: the idea was not to "get the white guys." All males of every color and creed in a particular community were obliged by law to take part. In this way, all learned together the experience of (relatively minor and chiefly symbolic) suffering; bridges were built between communities through the bonds of shared hardship.
The activities themselves were varied, and changed from year to year. They were determined according to the deliberations of each town's Penance Committee. One year, the men of Winthrop had been forced to work, digging and laying the foundations for a new town hall. Another year, a group of draftees from Grantville had gone to prison, to experience a day of hard labor. For this year's Penance Day in Winthrop last Fall, the help of the nearby Marine Base had been enlisted. The day's theme, "A Day in Boot Camp," had not been tough in name only. The drill instructors had taken their task seriously. They put the Winthrop men through their paces and really rode them hard. The day's training had included a special obstacle course that had been set up to challenge the participants, with a mudpit at the end. Just about the whole base had turned out to see this part. The long stretch of rope above the "Pansy Dunk" was greased. Just when a guy was about halfway over, strong drill-instructor arms would grab the rope at either end and shake it hard! No one made it across. The humiliation of this failure was stingingly impressed on the contestants at the end, when they were lined up by the instructors and paddled for it!
That little lesson had made quite an impression, and it may have served as inspiration for the Winthrop Penance Committee; for as the busses pulled up to a large warehouse outside of the hosting town, the men of Grantville were greeted with a large banner. They watched in dismay, as crowds of visitors streamed through the doors beneath the brightly painted announcement of today's theme: "A Taste of Corporal Punishment."
Once inside, the mighty doors were locked, and Dan saw the many aisles, as at a county fair, crowded with little platforms and booths on either side. No time was wasted; the press-gangs immediately went to work. Soon the guys from Grantville were divided into small groups and taken to various parts of the auditorium. The Bensons found themselves at the foot of a little stage, on which a police officer, a stool, and a wheel of chance waited. Across the backdrop hung a sign: "An Old-Fashioned, Bare Bottom Spanking!"
"Well gents," the sergeant said. "Someone's going to get his fanny warmed!"
"How about you, sir?" he said to Mr. Benson. "You've dished it out, I'll bet. How 'bout a turn for Dad?: Black--you're off the hook; Red-- over my knee!"
Dan's Dad chuckled. "No, thanks!" he said. "Well, isn't this going to be interesting," he thought to himself.
"What about you, young fella?" The officer turned to Brad Blakely. "Man enough to risk a little punishment? A little dose o' fanny discipline'll do you good!" He went on like this until he had shamed about six guys into lining up for the wheel, the Bensons and Blakelys included. The fellows looked a little nervous.
Brad went first...black! He was safe, and got to step out of line. Up stepped Mr. Benson. He gave the big disk a hard yank. Oops! Oh boy. There was no denying it, the Policeman's Wheel had landed him on Red.
"Oh good Lord!" Dan's dad realized the embarrassment he was in for. He couldn't back out now. "This is ridiculous," he said, stepping onto the platform foolishly. The little stage was attracting a crowd, now that someone was going to get it. The sergeant took a seat on the stool. He patted his thigh. "Let's get this over with!" he said sternly. Chuck Benson turned red and began taking down his pants.
First down came the britches, then down went the underwear. Dan Benson had never seen his dad's butt before. It was round and white, with dark wiry hairs at the crack. Now it was bottoms up, and over the big policeman's knee! Briefly spreading Mr. Benson's legs apart with his backside high, the sergeant planted a hefty palm in the middle of Chuck's broad back, to hold him.
With stern resolution now, the policeman raised his arm and brought his big, heavy hand down across Mr. Benson's backside with a loud and powerful smack. The sergeant spanked very, very hard. Dan watched in amazement as the punishment proceeded. After fifty spanks, his dad began to grunt. The sergeant's mustache widened to a broad grin, and he increased the intensity of the swats. Over and over he whammed with his mighty paw into the middle of Chuck's bare, exposed behind. Smack! Smack! Smack! It was now a bright cherry red, and looked like a beacon from across the aisle. After a hundred swats, Mr. Benson started to talk. "Ow! Ouch! Ow, that hurts! Ow! Sergeant, please! Ow, stop! Aaagh! Ouch! Oww, _s_h_i_t_! Oww!!" The protests were getting moister, and soon Mr. Benson's eyes were glistening with tears. That didn't stop the good sergeant, he punished on as if nothing mattered in the world except to spank the living daylights out of this big man's heinie! After one hundred and fifty licks, Benson was crying openly. Now the sergeant began to spank in earnest. Swat! Swat! Swat! The deep, hairy crimson of his dad's butt was now marked with dark prints of the Sergeant's enormous hand, and he was howling and yelping with the stinging whacks. Swat! Swat! Swat! Dan was crying now too to see his dad disciplined like this in front of everyone. Everyone was laughing at his ridiculous, but smartingly painful punishment. Wham! Wham! Wham! When he'd administered two hundred mighty spanks, the policeman patted Mr. Benson on the back, and told him he was done. He let him rest there for a moment, still sobbing with the deep smart and shame. Benson got up. After he bent and pulled up his shorts, he shook the sergeant's hand and silently left the stage, a hot tear splashing on the boards. "See there," said the Sergeant heartily, "a good spanking can be effective at any age!"
As it turned out, another group of candidates was being ushered up and the Bensons' group, apparently, had other business to attend to; so Dan was out of danger for the present. His dad had recovered, but was walking stiffly, and didn't want to talk.
All through the experience of the morning so far, Brad Blakely, five years younger than Dan, had been thinking about what he dreaded most: a paddling. Tom Blakely was a firm believer in corporal punishment and it had been a part of his son's upbringing. But Brad had been a well behaved kid, and his dad had never had to use the "Board of Education" he had made for Brad's fourteenth birthday. The threat had been enough, and it had hung as a useful, but dormant reminder on the wall of the garage for the past five years.
But for Brad, the Board was more than just a deterrant. He knew he wasn't as virtuous as his parents thought him, and he also knew from the stories of his friends and a few brief glimpses in the locker-room that a swat was about the worst and most humiliating thing that could happen to a boy. Again and again in his dreams he saw himself found out, and on his way to the garage to receive his punishment. He would wake up in a sweat, his heart pounding; and always with his penis erect. He had always known it would be coming; but when he saw the banner outside the warehouse, he was afraid that today would be the day for sure.
The Winthrop guys had really got them good this time! They found the warehouse had been transformed, more or less, into a sort of museum of corporal punishment--with certain unfortunate Grantville men as the exhibits. On the left, where a military strapping was underway, men yelled and cheered as in the "Sergeant's Office" three "recruits" were bent over a bench, and a thick, whistling strap was applied! Even more popular was a raised platform ahead to the right, where a professor from the local college was being clapped in the Stocks! A volunteer from crowd was allowed to wield the long, flexible Rod, which he was happily swishing back and forth as he prepared to administer the whipping. Locked in the device, the gentleman tearfully endured jeers and taunts as they lowered his pants; two officers bared his bottom for the strokes. Mr. Blakely froze as behind him the loud impact of the first lick was heard and answered by a roar of the spectators. This was a penalty suited for an adult man, he thought. Looking back he saw the hapless professor embarrassingly fixed between the boards of the pillory, gritting his teeth with fists clenched to endure the painful and humiliating punishment. It would be a few days before he would be able to sit down. A public whipping in the town square--not such a bad idea, perhaps
Everywhere they saw the same red and black "wheels of chance," with which the victims were selected. There was an element of excitement here, because in any one group of conscripts you had a pretty good chance of not getting picked for a particular ordeal. But there were so many "events" and "attractions" that in the end, only a very small percentage of penitents would get off scott-free. After a participant had been "attended to" at one of the stations, he received a sticker exempting him from further punishment. Thus, for those not yet initiated, the pool of escapees was getting smaller. It was only a matter of time! After all, it was now just ten o'clock, and the "Exhibition" would continue until four.
Throughout the journey, Brad had kept one ear open for the dreaded CRACK! he feared. Well, he was not to be disappointed. Soon their squad was hijacked--he and his Dad, the Bensons, Sheriff Workman and three other men--and "press-ganged" into an area he would never have expected to find in a warehouse.
It was a small amphitheatre style lecture hall, with rows of seating sweeping in gradual descent to the front of the classroom, with a chalkboard, desk and American flag. Brad's heart sank like a rock to the pit of his stomach. A large banner plainly displayed the subject of the exhibition they were about to witness:
"A Stinging Lesson with the Spencer Paddle!"
There stood a teacher, Mr. Spencer presumably, in a coat and tie, the fearsome instrument at hand. Ready for his grasp hung the rounded, oblong board, perforated with holes for bad boys. A large audience already seated for the paddling, somebody was in for an embarrassing classroom punishment! As he took his seat, Brad felt his penis elongating and widening in his underpants. His heart began to pound. He was afraid of what was about to happen next, and prepared to hear them call his name. But to Brad's surprise, he saw that they already had their man. An unfortunate fellow was already standing front with his nose to the blackboard, hands behind his back. Brad had seen this foolish position used to embarrass boys before in school, and he started to chuckle. "Maybe this won't be so bad," he thought, beginning to enjoy himself. He started to join his neighbors in laughing at the man as he stood there, leaning forward with his nose to the spot, as he wore the classroom dunce cap!
But the odd thing was, he couldn't figure out why the "bad boy" was dressed like a coach. Then he realized: the man wasn't dressed as a coach; he was a coach. Geez, that was Dick Bice, who taught English and coached football and wrestling at Grantville high! Like Mr. Benson and Dan, he must have forgotten about Penance Day and had to rush straight to the busses from his morning workout.
Coach Bice had been one of Brad's favorite teachers in high school, the only instructor he had really liked on the coaching staff. He had loved going to gym when they had Coach Bice for a sport, because he actually liked his students and would work out with them. He didn't seem all full of himself with a big chip on his shoulder like some of the coaches, or think he was God's gift to the ladies locker-room. He remembered how they would line up for calesthenics, and Mr. Bice would say, "Ready men, and-- Exercise!" and the stalwart man would start right into the jumping jacks along with them with a big gregarious grin. All the boys had looked up to that coach, and had wanted to work hard for him.
But now his hero was in an embarrassing predicament. Mr. Spencer got the Board of Education and told his husky charge to strip. There was nothing for it now; rules were rules, and Coach Bice was in for a paddling! He began to comply, and started to remove his sweatshirt and workout shorts. Dick Bice was staunch, stocky man, fit and muscular. The ruddy fellow with his merry blue eyes, his round head, square jaw and his bristly crew cut looked rather like a friendly bulldog. But because of the the wiry dark hair that covered his broad chest and trunk, his thick legs, but also somewhat on his shoulder blades and back, they called him "the Bear." As he'd been exercising in his jockstrap, we soon saw that this swath of body hair was by no means excluded from a round, manly seat!
Peeling down the jock now, hoots and catcalls resounded now as he turned and faced the blackboard. As he stood woolly in his glory there, Brad thought what a strange turn of events it was that a coach was going to be on the receiving end of a paddle!
"Forty swats!" announced the Teacher.
Placing his heels together, the hirsute man bent to face the humiliating ordeal. He gripped his ankles now, and prepared to take his licks.
The auditorium was hushed with anticipation as a first swift whack was administered. Mr. Spencer swung hard, and planted the paddle square across Coach Bice's bottom with a pop. Then came the second swat, with an angry red imprint across the hemispheres of the Coach's behind. It must have stung like hell; you could see the marks from the holes on his buns, and we heard him sharply draw in his breath as he steadied himself to stay in position.
"Board of Education!" said the Teacher, winding up for lick number three.
For the first ten swats, Mr. Bice remained stoic, grasping his ankles. It must have been the most embarrassing moment in the burly man's life, with his big banana dick up against his belly and low hanging testicles clamped between his thighs as that angry Teacher roasted his heinie with the paddle. It's the kind of punishment only men face, and Mr. Bice was facing it big time.
Whack!!
Soon the coach began to grunt, and the audience became agitated up as they saw his punishment was hitting home.
"Am I getting through to you, Mister?"
Whack!! Whack!! Whack!!
"Aaagh!" Coach Bice yelled. "Yes Sir!" Welts were begining to rise upon his brawny behind.
Swat! Swat! Swat!
"Am I making my point!?"
Now the tears had come. Bellowing like an ox, the big man began to holler with each punishing swat. Mr. Spencer smiled grimly. He had specially designed the paddle for this type of use: light and strong, not thick or heavy enough to bruise, but with a series of alternatingly larger and smaller holes for an effective, painful sting. The sturdy rounded handle offered a firm grip, making it enjoyable to grasp and use. He was deeply gratified that his "Spencer Paddle" was being increasingly copied and employed in classrooms around the country for student discipline. In addition to it's aerodynamic swat, a chief virtue was it's design for use on the bare bottom, combining acute embarrassment with the punishment.
Smmack!!
"AAAGGHH!" yelled the Coach, as the stinging, porous paddle was applied.
Swat!! The Teacher sternly and swiftly impressed his board across the bare hairy butt. "We'll get to the Seat of the problem!" he declared. When twenty hard licks had been administered, the Teacher lowered his weapon.
"Mr. Bice is only halfway done," he stated. As you can see, he is not going to be able to sit down for a week."
A ripple of hearty laughter echoed throughout the auditorium.
"At this point, I would like to offer a volunteer from the audience an opportunity to exercise some courage." He paused for a moment, to ensure he had everyone's attention.
"Mr. Bice still faces twenty licks. If a volunteer will agree to take half for him, he will get off with ten. Is there anyone here who is man enough to take a paddling?" he surveyed the auditorium. "Ten hard swats. And I promise, they're really going to hurt," he added.
"Well, gentlemen: speak up! Any takers!?"
That's when Brad's father played him a trick. He had been a good son, but Brad had gotten by entirely too long without a trip to the Hot Seat, as far as he was concerned.
"I've got a young man here who could do with a lesson," he said, standing up. Before Brad could protest, he found himself grabbed by two huge "assistants" and hoisted from his seat.
"Hey, wait a second--"
"No talking!" grinned the first goon; and he reached his big arm around Brad and gave him a hearty spank. Inspired by this, his partner spun Brad around. "Hold him now, Troy!" he said. Arms pinned behind him, the fellow unzipped Brad's fly; and whisk! quick as a switch, they pulled his pants down! Now he was a laughing stock as everyone pointed and laughed. Off they went; the two assistants taking turns giving him sharp, smart smacks on the seat of his BVD's as they hauled him up to the front of the class! How the spectators cheered as Brad had to stand in front with his pants down and wear a dunce cap, while the Teacher formally sentenced him to ten swats with the Board of Education!
He had to strip and stand in the nude. The Teacher stood angrily by with the paddle for his butt. Rising from his position, Coach Bice turned and stuck out his hand, a smile on his red and bleary face. "Hey Bradley," he said. Brad, a lump in his throat, grabbed the meaty paw.
Now shoulders were braced and ankles were gripped; the two men bent side by side, the younger by the older, and two cracks in the air as they assumed the position.
Whack!! Whack!! Whack!! Whack!!
Yyeeeeeoowww!!!! Oh, how the ole' paddle stings! Now he was on the Hot-Seat!!
Whack!! Whack!! Whack!!
Shii-iitt!!! The business end of the Board, Brad!! He grabbed on tight and struggled to hold his position.
Whack!! Whack!! Whack!! Whaack!!
Teeth were gritted and eyes were clenched, sweat running from their brows; the audience roared with laughter as the Teacher paddled their butts red-hot! He portioned out the licks, back and forth, swatting first one bottom, then the other. Brad got a lesson he would never forget that day. He decided to make sure that was his first and only bare-butt meeting with the paddle!
When the spanking was done and the two had straightened up to grab their hot fannies, Coach Bice stuck out his arm and pumped Brad's hand. The audience gave them a standing ovation.
"Thanks, Brad. That took some guts."
The Teacher stepped up to them to shake their hands. "Well," he chuckled, "I guess you two won't be talking in class after this!"
"No Sir!" Coach Bice said, rubbing his ass.
More happened throughout the course of the Penance Day than can be set down here, with so many people involved. By two o'clock, everyone in the party except Dan and Sheriff Workman had been spanked, paddled, switched or strapped in front of an appreciative audience, and the smart of public humiliation hurt worse than the seats of their pants! It was not long after Brad's paddling that his Dad had been taken to the Whipping Post. In a sort of square with many men looking on, he had been stripped to the waist, and had his arms fastened over his head to the top of the octagonal wooden pillar, standing on his toes. Never had Mr. Blakely expected to experience the disgrace of a public whipping. Though it was to be a mild one, nevertheless he was going to be whipped. The police officer had first shown the spectators the thin, flexible rod, about two and a half feet long. It was wrapped at one end for a handle and had a little ball at its slender tip. Then Brad's Dad duly received five smart, swift strokes across his back and shoulders. Then, his pants and boxers were lowered. Here he burst into tears, as he received the remaining five on the bare bottom, in front of all the spectators. Mr. Blakely would think about this whipping for some time to come.
The welts smarted beneath his clothes now, as the two men, their sons, and the Sheriff walked to the far end of the exhibition hall toward the exit, the trial nearly over. Dan Benson and Sheriff Workman hardly dared to believe it, but they were just about out of danger.
"Just about" is a dangerous modifier, the party learned: for between them and the exit, a raucous gathering had assembled: "For All Lads Under the Age of Twenty-Five," read the banner, "And All Men Not Yet Punished!" There, a line of thirty beefy police officers stood waiting in two columns, armed with broad round paddles, painted red. Some of the paddles were drilled with holes, and many bore ingenious slogans such as "Swat!" and "Ouch!" One officer stepped to the fore and spoke into a megaphone.
"The Winthrop Police Department is offering a free service for fathers today," he said. "Dads, have you got a boy who's gotten too big for his britches? Send him through the Paddle Line!"
Fathers standing within earshot gathered round chuckling, liking the sound of this.
"Got a young buck who needs a firm hand? Need him taken down a peg? Get him up here for the Swat Alley! We'll give him a paddling he won't forget!"
All around them now younger guys found themselves being taken by the ear. "We promise a good lesson," the officer said, "one that'd do any young man good!"
Now all the younger guys were now being ushered up to the front of the line. Those who already had in some way participated were exempt, but for those lads like Dan who till now had been lucky, it was pay-up time!
"Here's one for the School of Hard Licks!"
He was second in line, behind a big blond guy. As this boy stepped forward, two officers seized him. He was going to go through the "Hot Alley," they said. The big boy was about nineteen, and he looked scared. They yanked his pants and briefs down, taking his belt. Now the dude was forced to his knees, and the strap was used to bind his ankles, so he couldn't crawl too fast. Then they placed a peanut on the floor in front of him, and told him to push it as fast as he could with his nose to the end of the line. If he used his hands or raised his head for more than a couple of seconds, he would have to go back and start all over again! His big bottom an inviting target, the poor guy began his hilarious crawl through the line of eager policemen. The first paddler, a tall red haired officer with a moustache, raised his arm as if bowling and brought his board down in a graceful arc, square on the blond kid's butt. He howled and tried to scoot past, but not before the cop landed another hard lick, and his partner opposite got in two good swats! Then it was on to the next paddling station, as Dan found himself on all fours being prepared for the ordeal, pants and underwear at his ankles and his his feet securely cinched together. Off he went: POP! The sting of the swat was a wake up call, and he realized he was in for some old fashioned punishment. Smack, Whack, Pop! It was hard to keep his concentration on the tiny peanut amid the maddening swats of the gleeful officers, forcefully applied. "Come on, fella," they taunted, "Come and take your medicine!" The blond boy's bottom was now bright red, and behind him Dan heard grunts and expletives as gruff Sheriff Workman was being paddled! Oho, he was gettin' it good! The Winthrop police officers took special delight in hazing him, relishing the chance to get in a few whacks at the seat of their stern colleague. Soon Dan couldn't see his peanut through his tears, as the merry policemen spanked his butt with the paddles! Then all at once, he was done; the officers at the end congratulated him and helped him to stand, as he reached down to cover his fat, stiff erection.
_s_h_i_t_, his bare ass stung! Now at least he got to watch; rubbing his butt and wiping his tears, he tried to focus on the action... Uh oh, bad luck for Sheriff Workman: just before the finish he had lost control of his peanut and used his hands--it was back to the front of the line! Dan had a great view of the big tough Sheriff with his pants down, nose to the floor near tears as the angry policemen spanked him! Whack! Whack! Whack! In _d_a_m_n_ good time now the panting lawman had made it through; but now he met an unexpected welcome: a special delegation was waiting at the finish line with pies for the older men, as this was a punishment intended for boys! Splat!! Right in his red angry face!! His look of surprise was a pity to see, grabbing his stinging butt with his bouncing hard-on, tears of humiliation mixing with banana cream!
This last ordeal was the one people tended to remember in later years. Even into their forties and fifties, the men who had experienced it could be chastened by the joking threat that for dishonest officials or delinquent taxpayers, a public re-enactment of the "Great Peanut Race" was planned.
All in all, the Grantville conscripts took it philosophically as they rode the busses home. The Winthrop guys had really got them all right, but that, after all, was the idea. No one was any the worse for it, and everyone would sure have something to think about for the next couple of days. As they disembarked, many of the men were already bubbling with ideas for Winthrop's Penance Day, just eight months away. Sheriff Workman, able to laugh about his punishment now, suggested to his comrades the Blakelys and the Bensons that they go get some dinner together to talk about the plans. "Just no place that has pie please," he said.