"Ma, Pa, guess what!" Young 16 year old Clark burst into the big farm house kitchen.
Martha Kent turned around from the sink, and Jonathon Kent looked up. Both were startled to see their young son excited about the news that he was bringing home. "Heavens, Clark, what is all this about? And why are you so late? Pa did most of your chores for you." Martha replied.
"I'm sorry, Ma! Thanks, Pa. You won't believe it. Coach Thomas wants me to come out for the football team!"
"What? How does that explain you're being over 3 hours late, son?" his mother questioned.
"Ma, I was just standing on the sidelines of the football field while the team was practicing, and a ball was kicked out of bounds down by me. I picked it up to throw it to the quarterback, Luke Bradford, and it was the weirdest thing. I just tossed the ball easily, and it went over Luke's head and all the way down to the other end of the field. I didn't even try to throw it very hard. It was so strange!"
"But, anyway, the coach saw that, and asked me to throw the ball again. So, I did – eight or nine times. Each time it went the whole length of the field, with my just giving it a good toss – but never as hard as I can throw. I can't believe it! I can throw the football a lot farther than Brad can, and he has a really good arm! I can't believe it!
"Oh, so that's it. Well, yes what you say is true, son, but . . ." began Jonathon Kent.
"Then Coach Thomas had me come on the field – without even any equipment – and receive some hikes from the center, and throw the ball again, and also run with it. Ma, Pa, I always could get the ball to the longest, open runner! And when I ran with it, nobody could catch me! I can't believe it!"
"I understand, son, but . . ." Again Clark interrupted his father.
"Anyway, Coach Thomas kept me around after practice, and talked with me. Then he gave me these papers for you both to fill out, for me to be a part of the team! Wow! I just can't believe it! Can I do it, Ma? Pa?" Clark gushed with elation about the prospect of being chosen to be a part of the team. It was the first time he had ever ventured into any kind of team sports, and the exhilaration of being wanted – sought after, even – was electrifying his young emotions.
"Listen, son," Jonathon interrupted his son. "There's more at stake here than just the football team. There are considerations that can't let you do this."
"What? What considerations? This is my first chance to play on a team, and they want me, and I'm good!"
"I understand all that, Clark, but there's more. Remember back in July, when that drunk driver lost control and his car swerved and hit you, knocking you into Lake Alford and going into the lake itself? Remember how you weren't even hurt, and you broke open the car to rescue the driver, even before you surfaced from the water?"
"Yes, sir. That was really lucky, wasn't it?"
"Not really, Clark. Remember when we were driving you to school in town last month, and we had the flat tire? And you had to walk on to school. But you ran, and got there faster and earlier than if we had driven you?"
"Yes, sir, Pa. That was really weird, too."
"Yes, son. And there is a lot more too. Remember when Coach Thomas had to discipline you and some other boys in swimming class last year, for fooling around in the pool?"
"Well, . . . ah . . . yes, sir."
"And he put all of you boys over his knees, and took that big wooden paddle to each one of you boys, and swatted each one of you 10 times? And each of the boys before you was jumping around, and crying and shouting, after being paddled and let up."
Clark was plainly and visibly uncomfortable remembering these details.
"But when you were across Coach Thomas' lap, and he wound up and fired the first whack against your behind, Clark, what happened?"
"Um, . . . er, ah, the paddle broke, Pa."
"And you didn't even feel it, did you?"
"You know I didn't, Pa."
"That's right, son, because the principal, Mr. Wilson, called your mother and me and told us that Coach Thomas was not able to punish you, like everybody else involved, because the paddle broke over your butt. And he and Coach Thomas were concerned about that not being fair to everyone who had been involved in the horseplay. And they were also a bit puzzled that a big, thick, wooden paddled would break, and you appeared not even to know that it had lambasted your backside."
"Yes, Pa, I know. Yes, sir."
"And I had to promise Mr. Wilson and Coach Thomas that I would punish you, just like those other boys had been punished, since Coach Thomas didn't have his paddle any longer. Right? And you had your session with me, and with the paddle out in the barn? Remember?"
Clark blushed and gulped, "Y-yes, sir, Pa. . . . ah . . . but, . . . ah . . . what does that have to do with me playing football on the team? Coach Thomas likes me now. He isn't mad at me anymore."
"Just, this, Clark. Some strange things are happening to you and to your body, and you are trying to figure out what they are, and why, and how to handle them. You still have no idea what is happening to you, and what you are going to become."
"What d'you mean, Pa?"
"Just this, son. You aren't like other boys. You never will be. And over the next 5 to 6 years, you are going to become more and more different than the rest. You are developing into powers and abilities that don't even compare to other people. You said it yourself, you can merely toss the ball farther than the team's star quarterback can fire it off! When you run with the ball, no one can catch you, and anybody who tries will bounce off trying to tackle you. So, for you to go out and pretend to compete with other boys, who have no idea of what you are like and what you are becoming, and who have no comparable abilities, is unfair and unsafe. Your mother and I can't allow it."
"But, Pa!" Clark erupted his protest. "That's not fair to me. Does that mean I can't play any sports? I mean, Pa, I can slam dunk the basketball higher and faster than any of the kids who are going to go out for basketball!"
"That's exactly the point, son. The unfairness and the danger is to the rest of the boys who don't suspect, and can't compete with, the abilities you are beginning to realize. We just can't allow you to do that, Clark."
"Awww, great! So I have to be a nerd, never can be a part of a team, can't play sports with the rest of the guys! That's not fair, Pa! I'm not going to do that! No way! It's not fair!"
"Now, you just settle down, son. These are the realities, and neither you, nor Ma and I, can change them. So, we have to act, and set limitations, in light of them."
"But, Pa, . . . I can hold back. I won't run at full speed. I'll just flip the ball. I won't even try to slam dunk, I promise. No one will know. It'll be OK."
"I'm sorry, son, but that wont' work. It still deceives all the other boys, and the other teams, and fans, about your abilities, and it risks others being injured because they have no idea what they are encountering when you play."
"NO! THAT'S NOT RIGHT! IT'S NOT FAIR! I REALLY WANT TO PLAY, PA! I REALLY DO – AND THIS IS NOT FAIR!" Clark rarely shouted, but he was bellowing at that moment.
"Now, look, son. You just settle down and accept what your mother and I have decided. Or, do we need to take a trip out to the barn and the k-paddle?"
Clark was furious, but also afraid. "N-no, sir. But Pa, this is WRONG! IT ISN'T FAIR!"
"Now, listen, Clark. I know how you feel, but there's nothing else that is right and can be done. So, it's settled. Just accept it, and go get washed for supper."
Clark knew better than to raise any more opposition to his father's decision. At the same time, he was crushed, heartbroken, that he was being denied the first chance to prove himself to the other boys, and be a part of them.
"I'm not hungry. I think I'll just go up to my room," he replied.
"Clark, your mother has fixed a great meal, and you're not sick, just upset. So, go get washed, and get yourself to the table for supper. 'Ya hear, young man!"
"Yes, sir." he replied and walked out quickly towards the bathroom. A few minutes later, he was back in the kitchen, seated at the table. Throughout supper, he was unusually quiet, responding only to questions and directive sent his way.
"After supper, Clark, the cows that I milked for you still need fresh hay for the night. Take care of that, and then you can tend to any homework you have."
"Alright! . . . uh, I mean, yes, sir, Pa."
When supper was finished, the young man took his dishes to the sink, and then headed out to the barn. Raking dirty hay out of the stalls, and tossing fresh hay in, Clark was thinking over and over again about how he could get to play with the team anyway, despite his parents' objections. Finally, he decided on a plan.
When he headed back to the farmhouse, he went upstairs to his bedroom, took out his algebra II book, and began working on the problem sets that were due the next day. After a while, he stopped, went out to the bathroom, stripped off his sweaty, dirty clothes, and took a quick shower, getting ready for bed. When he had dried himself off, he wrapped the towel around his waist, picked up his dirty clothes, and walked back down the hall to his bedroom.
As he was pulling on his pajamas, Jonathon Kent walked quietly into the bedroom. "Clark, I just want to tell you that I can understand your disappointment, son. But I know over the long run you'll come to understand why Ma and I have to do this. Try to accept it, son, and the sooner you do, the easier it will be to go on with other things."
"What other things?!" Clark blurted out.
"Well, your school work, for one thing, not to mention all the chores you have on the farm, too."
"Oh, sure! Aaah, I mean, I guess you're right. I'm having a tough time with algebra, anyway. So, I guess I'll go to that tutor after school and get some help. I'll do my chores after I get home, Pa."
"Alright, son. Goodnight, Clark. Ma will be up to say goodnight shortly." Clark laid down on his back in the bed as Jonathon Kent pulled the sheet and blankets up on his son.
"G'night, Pa." Clark spoke softly as he looked up into the face of his father.
Forty minutes later, Martha Kent opened the door to her son's bedroom and peeked in to say goodnight as well. Clark was on his stomach, head buried in the pillow, sound asleep. "Goodnight, dear boy," she whispered. "I wish you could be normal for just a little while."
A few weeks passed, with Clark arriving home late every evening, Monday through Friday. Always, he told his parents that he was getting help from the math tutor at school, and it was helping him with his algebra. Although he always looked weary and wan when he got home, he trudged out to the field, brought the cows in, milked them, cleaned out their stalls, and give them fresh hay and water. Then, he lugged himself in, cleaned up for supper, which he ate after his parents had already eaten theirs at the dinner table. Still, his appetite was voracious, despite his fatigue, and his parents frequently commented that he was a growing boy, probably going into another growth spurt.
After supper, he would pull himself up the stairs to his bedroom, change from his dirty work clothes and take a short evening shower, and then return to dress for bed, and sit down to do his homework. Night after night, Martha or Jonathon Kent found their son slumped over his books and papers, asleep on his desk. They would wake him enough to put him into bed, and he was asleep before they turned out the light.
Finally, one Friday night, Clark did not return home from school – even past his usual late arrival. In the meanwhile, that same Friday afternoon, the mail had brought his report card from Smallville High School, with his mid-semester grades. On opening the envelope, both Martha and Jonathon were disturbed to find that all of their son's grades had declined, and his algebra grade had dropped to a "D."
"How can this be?" mused Jonathon aloud. "He's been staying after school every night for weeks now, getting help to improve his grade! And then look at those grades – and a D in algebra! That boy deserves to have his hide tanned with grades like that. Where is that boy, now, anyway?!" he asked sharply. "It's getting on past 8, and he's still not home?! And no chores done! Something's very suspicious about all of this, Martha."
"Well, you know, he's getting bigger and wanting to make his own choices, Jonathon," Martha offered. "Maybe he and some of the other boys stopped by the diner on his way home. Let's not jump to conclusions, Jonathon."
"I'll show him what his choices are, if he doesn't get is hide home here." Jonathon burst out. "In the meanwhile, I've got to take care of those poor cows, that have had to wait while a senseless boy dallies around, neglecting to take care of them." He strode out the door, and to the darkened field, from where he brought the cows into the barn, methodically milked them all, and cleaned and refreshed their stalls. It was after 10 p. m., when Jonathon returned to the house, and Clark was not home yet.
"I'm getting worried, Martha," Jonathon said. "Clark has never been missing for so long in all his 16 years!"
"Well, I called Sheriff Olson, but no one has seen or had any report about him." Martha reassured. "So, I guess that's good."
At nearly 10:55 that evening, the back door of the farmhouse opened, and in walked an incredibly late, but widely smiling, Clark.
"Clark, where have you been, son?!" demanded his parents. "We've been worried, and Pa had to do all of your chores late tonight, son," Martha remonstrated.
"Uh, ah, oh, I'm sorry, Pa. I completely forgot. After we left Miss Emma's, from tutoring, some of the guys asked me if I wanted to go out for pizza with them, so I did – but I completely forgot about my chores, Pa. I'm sorry. It won't happen again. I promise."
"Well, this is completely out of character for you, son, and it better not happen again, or you'll be having plenty of time, and sitting pretty uneasily, while you think on correcting your behavior. Understand, son?"
Clark winced at his father's hint of a spanking and then grounding. "Ok, Pa, . . . ah, sir. I'm sorry. It won't happen again."
Better get yourself up to bed, young man. We have a full day of work tomorrow, and you'll be up bright and early getting started.
"Ok, Pa. I will. Goodnight, Ma. Goodnight, Pa. He quickly climbed the stairs to his bedroom, hurried down the hall to take a quick shower, and then slid into bed on his stomach.
"Why is that boy taking a shower tonight?" Jonathon asked. "He sure didn't do any work to get himself sweaty or dirty." Later, he and Martha climbed the stairs together, pushed open their son's door, and looked in on him, where he was soundly sleeping, arms and legs hanging from all sides and corners of the bed.
The next morning, when Clark was not downstair by 6:15, Jonathon went up to his son's room and woke and got him up. Clark groaned only for a moment, then hopped out of bed and pulled on underwear and an old pair of work jeans and a faded blue t-shirt. He joined his father out in the barn, for the morning milking of the cows, and taking them out to a field to graze. Then, it was feed the chickens and geese, clean out their houses and pens, and hitch the wagon to the tractor to take out into the fields to pick ripening produce.
At 8:30, they stopped abruptly when they heard Martha ringing the dinner bell on the pole outside the kitchen door, calling them to breakfast. "Close up those stalls in the barn, and then come on in and wash for breakfast, Clark," Jonathon directed. Clark walked dutifully into the barn and began closing stall gates.
When Jonathon walked into the kitchen, Martha was waiting for him with the morning newspaper. Across the top of the front page was a small line, "Kent shines in win!" "What's this?" Jonathon questioned his wife.
"Look at the sports section, dear," she guided. He plied down to the third section of the paper, and pulled out the sports section. "KENT DECIMATES PIKESVILLE RATTLERS!" the headline screamed. Quickly scanning the article that followed, Jonathon read: "In the most shocking performance of a newcomer to high school football, rookie quarterback Clark Joseph Kent threw 13 touchdown passes, and ran for 4 more touchdowns, as Smallville sliced and shredded Pikesville 119 to 0. The defense, on which Kent also played, was impenetrable, as Pikesville was held scoreless. Meanwhile, on offense, Kent who threw passes from as deep as his own 8 yard line, hit open receivers in the end zone, time after time. When he chose to keep the ball and run, he raced, spun, and jumped away from, and over, would-be tackles, scampering untouched into the end zone. Pikesville's coach, Harold Innes, was speechless, 'though visibly shaken and shocked. Smallville starting quarterback, Luke Bradford, was forced to cheer for his team from the bench, as young Kent single-handedly took charge of the game. . . ."
Jonathon Kent stopped his reading. "What in the . . .? We told him that was exactly what would happen, and why he wasn't allowed to play! He has disobeyed and defied us, Martha! On top of that he's been lying to us! Wait 'till I get that boy out in the barn with the k-paddle. He'll wish he'd never heard of football, and regret every day he lied to us!"
"Now, wait, Jonathon. Let's not start the day out upset," Martha cautioned.
"You're right, dear, of course. But having our son flout our instructions, and then lie repeatedly to us, IS upsetting. You have to admit that. But we will wait. There's a time and place for everything. And young Clark will get his time and place in due time."
They sat down to an ample breakfast of eggs, grits, potatoes, sausage and gravy, and biscuit, along with milk and juice. Clark ate like a thrashing crew, and as they ate, his parents asked him about school. To each question, about classes, grades, friends, Clark's answers were vague, but positive: "Fine, ok, good." He felt a twinge of apprehension, when his father asked if he was having any problems at school; but he hurriedly replied, "No, Pa. Everything's fine." Talk and breakfast concluded, and father and son returned to the farm fields for a long morning of work.
At lunch time, Martha rang the bell again, and they all sat down together to a lighter, but still solid, lunch. It was much the same surface pleasantries, with a bit of teasing Clark about the girls at school, and which ones were interested in him, and was he interested in. He blushed, and said they were all nice, but none seemed his type right now.
In the afternoon, Jonathon and Clark Kent stored the produce they had picked from the fields and transported back on the trailer in the morning, so it would stay good and available for Martha to use for cooking and canning. Late in the afternoon, they brought the cows back from the field, milked them again, cleaned out and refreshed their stalls, and fed the chickens and geese for the night.
Dirty, sweaty, and tired, they both walked slowly back towards the house. "Ma will want us to shower and clean up before supper, Clark."
"I know, Pa. I'll hurry though."
"Good idea, son."
Hair wet, bare feet in shoes, with a clean pair of jeans and t-shirt, Clark walked into the kitchen to find Jonathon Kent already showered, dressed, and sitting at the table with his wife. They were waiting for Clark.
"Wow! Were you waiting long? I hurried, honest."
"No, Clark, we just sat down to wait for you, so you're really not late. Let's eat."
Clark piled his plate full and heavy with food. With an appetite that had grown form a long, hard day of work, he began devouring the delicious dinner that his mother had prepared.
"So, Clark, where were you again so late last night?" his father asked.
"Ah, I was with some of the guys for pizza. I, ah, completely forgot about the time."
"Clark, you just lied to us again. You did the same thing last night. You've been lying to us all along for all these weeks that you've been coming home late – pretending that you were getting help at a tutor. Look at this newspaper! It tells exactly where you were last night, and what you've been doing these past weeks. Look at these grades – deplorable!" His father held up the sports section of the newspaper, and the mid-semester grades. Clark stopped eating, seemingly holding his breath as his father confronted him with his misconduct.
"Your mother and I told you that you could not play football, Clark. We even told you what would happen – and that's exactly what did happen. But you disobeyed us, and then told lies and lies to cover it up. In fact, we not only told you that you could not play, but refused to sign the permission forms. So, how did you get to play anyway? You must have signed the forms – forged them – in order to be allowed on the team? Did you do that, Clark?"
He knew he could not lie further. "Y-yes, Pa. But I wanted to play sooooo much. I'm sorry."
"You're going to be a lot sorrier, young man. You defied our decision. Lied about the consent. Lied about going to a tutor. Brought home miserable grades. Lied to Ma and me last night. And then lied again tonight. I count at least 5 offenses, young man – and that's if we don't count every night that you pretended to be staying after school for a tutor as another lie; and without punishing the "D" that you got in algebra when you were supposed to be getting better at it. I think that one deserves special punishment itself."
"That will be a spanking for each infraction, son. You'll get your first one tonight, after supper. Another one tomorrow evening. Another one next Friday night. Still another one a week from tonight. Another one the Friday night after that, and the last one on the following Friday night. You can look forward to 3 weeks of spankings that you've earned by your misbehavior, young man. In the meanwhile, you will be coming straight home from school every day, doing your chores, and then sitting down -- as well as you can! -- to attend to your homework. If these grades are not brought up by end of the semester, you can look forward to a spanking session with the k-paddle for every grade below a 'B'."
"But Pa. . . I can explain. You don't understand." Clark tried to rationalize.
"What don't I understand, son? You can't possibly understand disobedience and dishonesty. Those things are two of the worst kinds of insubordination, Clark, and they deserve the strongest discipline. That's what you've earned, and that's what you're going to get. Now eat up your dinner, and after you've cleared your place, meet me in the barn."
Clark dared not say anything more. He poked at his food, and then finally his mother told him he could be excused. Taking his dishes to the sink, he exited the kitchen, walking slowly towards the barn.
Inside the barn, his eyes roved over to the wall where he knew the kryptonite paddle hung on a nail, covered by an old, lead-lined x-ray cover. He never could get to it, and remove it, because taking off the cover immediately exposed him to the devastating effects of the material out of which the paddle was made. Clark sat down on a milking stool, head hung down, gloomily dreading what lay ahead.
Almost an hour passed before Jonathon Kent entered the barn. Clark immediately stood up. His father walked over to the x-ray cover, removed it, and took the paddle down from the wall. Clark felt himself shivering from the cool night air, and fear. As his father walked towards him, paddle in hand, Clark suddenly felt very vulnerable and weak all over. He trembled slightly, as his father walked up to him.
Despite being almost as tall as his father at 6'1", he felt like a small boy who had been bad, standing looking down before his father. Jonathon Kent stared slightly downward at his son, lips set tightly, but shaking his head slightly nonetheless. Taking Clark's left arm with his right hand, Jonathon turned the boy around to face him as he sat down on the same stool on which Clark had been earlier contemplating his fate.
"Son, defiance and dishonesty are absolutely not tolerated, and carry their own price tag of punishment. You're going to pay the first one right now."
"Awwwwww, Pa . . ." Clark interjected. "This isn't necessary. You don't have to do this."
"Unfortunately, son, it is necessary. Your misconduct has made it necessary. And because of that, we do have to do this – now and over the next 3 weeks. Alright, we may as well get started. Over you go, boy." With that, Jonathon, shifting his grip on Clark's left arm to his left hand, hauled the lanky, tall 16 year old down and across his lap.
"Uummmmmmphaah!" Clark sighed a scarcely audible grumble, as he sprawled across his father's knees, having been dragged across faster than he expected. The tall, rangy young man was stretched over his father's lap, His toes were barely on the floor. While he was still off-balance, he felt himself bobbled and bounced up and down on his father's lap a few times, so that Clark's head and arms were over Jonathon's left leg, his arms and hands holding his head and face from nearly touching the floor. He felt his father's left arm and hand reach around the overturned young man, securing him with an iron grip around his waist. Then, his father's right hand grabbed the waistband of his jeans, pulling them up high and tight, almost lifting him Clark off the lap, as the young man's feet slipped, and his small, flat, tightly muscled bottom was aimed high.
THHWAAACK! Without warning or delay, Jonathon snapped the kryptonite paddle against Clark's poised behind. Clark's eyes widened and his brain reacted with the jolt of the fiery smack to his backside.
THHWAAACK! The second swat came rushing behind the first. Then a third.
THHWAAACK! Oh! Ah! Wow! Ah! WHEWAHH!! WHOAAAH!!! It had been a long while since he had felt this kind of agony. Even though he had been in this position before, it had been almost a year since he had last felt the bark of the paddle against his rearend. For some time now, Clark had nearly forgotten what this felt like, to have his behind tanned by his father's strong wielding of the k-paddle.
THHWAAACK! But now, it was happening – suddenly and swiftly – hot, heavy smacks against the seat of his jeans, and he was not prepared for it. He felt a sudden desperate wave of fear rush through him. He needed to get out of this – fast! The unrelenting succession of spanks was igniting a fiery inferno on his backside!
THHWAAACK! Each swat came without pause, jarring his brain into sharper realization of the pain, and his mouth opened as his eyes again widened.
THHWAAACK! "Uummmph!" whistled from Clark's open mouth, his eyes moistening, his brain reacting to the heat being stoked to his behind. Nothing hurt him – ever – except for Pa's kryptonite paddle. But, oh, how it smarted against his behind!
THHWAAACK! Each successive swat of the paddle jolted his backside and brain with the stinging pain and increasing heat.
THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK!
Jonathon launched a rapid series of swats with the paddle, cracking against different areas of his son's bottom. Clark began squirming and rocking on his father's lap, as the fiery paddled scorched his bottom again and again! His eyes widened and squinted, as they begin filling with tears.
"Auh-aaaah! Uhaa-ummph! Mmmaaaaah! Aaauumphaaa! Oaaaaaa-uh-mmpha!"
The gangly young man, now beginning to buck and kick, while twisting and wiggling over his father's knees, was breathing short, quick, gasps. His behind was being battered already, and the tears were flooding the gates of his eyes. He had to get his father to stop. He had to. He had to.
"Pa! Pa! I'm sorry! Please, Pa! Stop! Don't spank me! Pa, don't spank me! Please! Pa! Please! I'm really sorry! Honest!"
"You haven't" THHWAAACK! "been honest THHWAAACK! "for quite a while," THHWAAACK! "Clark!" THHWAAACK! "How" THHWAAACK! "can you expect" THHWAAACK! "us" THHWAAACK! "to believe" THHWAAACK! "you" THHWAAACK! "now?" THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK!
"Oh, Paaaa! I really am! Oooooaaaaaow! Pa! Pa! I MEAN it! Owww! I'm sorry! Ooooo-ah-oww! Ah-stop it! Please! Aayoww! Oooo-ah-oww! It hurts, Pa! Stopit! Stopit, please! Ah-ah-ah-owww! Pa! I said I'm sorry! Pa! Pa! Stopit! Stopit! It's hurting! Pleez!"
THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK!
Jonathon kept the paddle resounding against his extended son's butt. Clark was frantic from the fiery pain mounting and mounting, cracking and throbbing against his behind. He was desperate to get out from under this torrent of swats against his smoldering rearend. He began twisting and squirming, trying to get off his father's lap and away from the thunderous pounding of his behind. He could not break loose. He was helpless in his father's grip.
All at once, he couldn't hold back any longer. "Ggg-augh-gg-aaaeeeyow! Augh! uh-uh-un! Oweeyoweeeyowww!!" he shrieked as the doors of his widening-squinting eyes burst open, the tears came springing from his eyes. Sobs rushed forward from his throat. He collapsed into bawling and wailing, still bucking and kicking out as the paddle relentlessly torched the boy's rearend. He howled and hollered as Jonathon continued to deliver a long, thorough thrashing to Clark's battered backside. "Oooo-ah-yowowow! Nooooo-ah-owww! Pa! Pleeeez! Pa! Puh-LEEEEZ! OOO-ah-ya-OW! OW! OWWWEEE!! IT HURTS! OWEEE! OWEEE! YEEOWOWOWWW!"
His shoes flew off his bare feet as he bucked and kicked, bounced and twisted across his father's lap. Trying to balance himself with his left hand, his right arm flew up instinctively to try to protect his pommeled behind. Jonathon released his left arm encircling Clark's lean waist, and grasped his son's right hand and arm, jerking them up above the small of Clark's back. As he did, Clark slid forward further, forehead touching the barn floor, his feet now dangling off the floor.
THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK!
Clark was sobbing and pleading, begging his father to stop, all the while struggling furiously, but futilely, to escape the punishment pelting the seat of his jeans.
THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK!
He was also shouting and pleading with pain, calling out for his father to stop the fiery swats that were scorching the seat of his pants. His reddened face, gaping mouth, disheveled hair, and squinted, streaking eyes reflected the torment to his searing rearend.
THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK!
All at once, Jonathon did stop; but Clark was gasping and crying so hard that it did not register at first. Then, he felt his father lifting him up off the lap, standing the boy before him. Clark was heaving and weeping, his hands now wrapped around behind him to clasp his blazing backside, as he felt his father unbutton and unzip his jeans, pulling them down his thighs to fall to his feet. As he released his hands from his smoldering bottom, and reached to stop his jeans from falling, his father quickly yanked him back off his feet, back across his father's knees. As his eyes faced the dirty barn floor, his feet once again swung above he floor.
THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK!
"Yeeeoww! Owa! Owa! Ooooaa-yeeoww! Ooooaaeeyoweeyoweeyoww!!"
The kryptonite paddle burned and bit his bottom through the thin, cotton boxers that still covered his behind.
THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK!
"YeeeOWW! OWOWOWWW! OOOOO-aaa-YOW! It HURTS! Pa! PA! OOOO! OWEEEYOWEEEYOWW! PA! IT HURTS! PA! PA! IT HURRRRRTZ!! EEEYAAA-OO-EEEYOWOWOWEEEYOWWWW! IT HURTS! IT HURTS! IT HURRRTZ-AH-OOOOO!
Clark screamed, still crying.
Then Jonathon stopped again. Grabbing the waistband of his son's boxers, he pulled them down over the young man's now-reddened bottom, to gather into a tangle with the jeans at his ankles. With his left hand, he pulled Clark's t-shirt up his back over his neck and shoulders. Clark's head snapped around to the right, looking upwards, as he felt his father's powerful hand grasp jerk his boxers over his burning buttocks, thighs, past his knees to join his tangled jeans at his ankles.
"NOOOOOOO-AAAAAAA!! NOOOOOOOO!!" Clark shrieked, protesting in vain.
THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK!
Instantly, the paddle continued blistering the lean, but muscular, young man. He was truly beside himself. Now bare from his neck to his ankles, the excruciating bite of the k-paddle, resuming its punishment of his battered backside, stunned the struggling youth. The cool air on his buttocks, thighs, and legs shocked Clark into greater consciousness of what was happening to him.
Jonathon Kent made the paddle dance up and down, up and down – all over Clark's small, hard, flat, now-red-hot bottom, his thighs just below his buttocks, and especially his inner thighs. This ongoing pain – and the humiliation now added to it – was beyond belief! He tried to beg, plead, and promise through wailing cries and sobs, racked with choking gasps and coughing. He thrashed about, thrusting and bumping across his father's lap, but to no avail.
"OOOOAAYOWW! PA! P-PLEEZ! OOOO-AH-YOW! AAA-AUGH-OOOO-OWW! STOP! OW! STOPIT! OW! OW! OOOO! I-UH! OOOO-UH! N-NEVER! OOO-YOWEE! EEEYOWW! UH-UH! P-PLEEZ! OWEEYOWEEEYOWW! PA! PA! OOOOO-UH! PA! I'LL BE GOOD! YEOW! PA! I'LLBEGOOD! I'LLBEGOOD! OOOO-UH-NOOO-UH! PA! NOOOOaaaa-MOOOOR! OWEE! OWEE! YEOWWW! AUGH-UH-UH! PA! UH-OOO! STOP SPAAANKING! PA! OW! OW! OW! OW! NO MORE SPANKING! PA! PLEEEZ! OOOOEEEYOWOWOW! OOOO-UH-PA! UH-OOOO! I'LL N-NEV-UH-ER! N-NEVER! AGAIN! I'LLBEGOOD! AIEEYOWOWOW! UGH-UH-AUGH-AH! AH'LL UH-UH! BE GOOD! PA! PA! OHNO! OHNO! STAHP! UH-UH-YEOWW! OOOOAAA-NOOOOAAA-MOOOR! P-PLEEEZ! EEEEYOWW! I WON'T BE BAD AGAIN! AUGH-UH-UH! PA! PA! UGH-UH-AUGH-UH-UH-UH! OOOO-EAUGH-UH! I WOOON'T! OOOOAA-UH! PAAA!"
He shrieked and screamed, redoubling his writhing and jumping, but futile, struggle to get loose. His father only intensified the smacks to the boy's bare behind.
THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK!
But Clark was defeated – emotionally beaten. He could no longer plead and beg, much less protest. He wailed and screeched, amidst choking sobs, trying to end the inferno that was burning his behind. He had crumbled from a guilty, vulnerable young man being punished, to a broken, bad boy who could only shriek and cry with each new blistering smack that singed again and again his torched backside.
THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK!
Jonathon Kent had no intention of lessening this lesson – or any of the following ones – that this young man must learn from his delinquent behavior. If anything, since his son was otherwise virtually impervious to any other pain or punishment, he was determined that Clark would hurt and remember, to curb any future prospects of disobedience and deceit. So, he redoubled his strength and force, and accelerated the speed with which he delivered still more swats of the paddle.
THHWAAACKTHHWAAACKTHHWAAACK!! THHWAAACK!! THHWAAACK!! THHWAAACKTHHWAAACKTHHWAAACKTHHWAAACKTHHWAAACK!!! THWAAACKTHWAAACKTHHWAAACK!! THHWAAACKTHHWAAACKTHHWAAACK!! THWAAACKTHWAAACKTHHWAAACK!! THHWAAACKTHHWAAACKTHHWAAACK!! THWAAACKTHWAAACKTHHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAAACK! THHWAACK! THHWAAACKTHHWAAACKTHHWAAACKTHHWAAACKTHHWAAACK! THHWAAAACK! THHWAAAACK! THHWAAAACK! THHWAAAACK! THHWAAAAACK!
The paddle scalded the top, bottom, outer and inner of his buttocks, upper and inner thighs. With searing, hot, burning smacks, he jumped and wailed each time the k-paddle struck another stinging blow against his bottom. He could not muster any strength to try to fight or avoid the paddle, or to protest or plead against its further blazes.
Clark Joseph Kent had completely collapsed from any attempt to argue, plead, promise, beg, or even fight against the onslaught of spanks that his father was administering with the kryptonite paddle. As much as he could think – which was very little in the throes of overwhelming pain and shame – he knew that he was totally defenseless and powerless, in the control of his justifiably angry father, and he was paying – and would pay – the price for his insolence and deception. Yet, at the same time, throughout the nightmare of horrible punishment that he was experiencing, he sensed the security of a father's love, guidance, and resolve. For many reasons – starting with the agonizing inferno on his bottom – he did not ever want this to happen again.
Eventually, Jonathon stopped spanking his son. He let him lie draped across his knees, suspended over his lap, heaving and shaking, intermittently whimpering and weeping, choking and coughing, with gasping sobs. After a while, the boy's crying subdued considerably, and Jonathon reached under the arms of the young man hanging over his knees, lifting him up to stand on the ground. Clark's legs wobbled and betrayed him. He collapsed to the barn floor, still shaking and crying.
Jonathon stood up, again lifted his son to his feet, although the young man doubled over before his father in pain and chastened shame. This time, he took his son's face in his hands, and raised it, along with the torso, up to face him. The cool air on his exposed back, from his shoulders to his feet, and especially against his fiery bottom, made the young man shudder. Clark's eyes were wet and red, his face streaked with tears and from his running nose, his hair tousled and disheveled. He appeared to have been the trounced victim of a tough scuffle.
"You'll be fine in a few weeks, son – and a better boy for it. But for now, and the next several weeks, you'll be relearning and re-impressing an important lesson. Every time you sit, walk, or bend over, you'll remember over and over again that you were bad, and what has come from it. After a while, your bottom will recover, Clark; but I want you to remember this experience, and these lessons, for as long as you live. Understand, son?"
"Y-yes, uh-uh! Pa . . . uh! uh!" the lengthy, thin young man stood, jeans and boxers still wadded at his ankles, bare bottom branded by the paddle, and leaned into his father, throwing his arms around his neck. He cried and cried some more. Finally, Jonathon helped him stand up straight and directed him to redress himself.
"Pull your shorts and jeans back up now, son."
Clark winced and grimaced both when he bent over to reach for his boxers and then his jeans, and especially as the fabric of each rubbed against his bruised, inflamed bottom. He hobbled barefoot to where his shoes had flown off and stepped stiffly into them.
"You get yourself upstairs to bed right away now, young man. Ma will be in to say 'goodnight' to you shortly. "And, don't let me catch you not obeying, or we'll be back out here again before you can get to bed. Understand?"
"Oooo-ah, y-yes, sir, Pa." He spoke with certainty to reassure his father. Then he hobbled out of the barn, to the house, and up the stairs and into bed. Jonathon Kent replaced the kryptonite paddle on the barn-wall hook, and covered it with the leaden x-ray cover. Then, he too walked back to the house.
Twenty minutes later Martha Kent looked in on her son who was sound asleep, lying in his stomach with his head buried in his pillow.
The remaining 5 spankings with the kryptonite paddle, over the next 3 weeks, were just as much torment and shame as that one. But the boy who never knew pain or punishment otherwise, learned that, like any young man, he had to obey and tell the truth, or the consequences would be unbearable and unbelievable.