Busted
I am now 23 and live in a shared apartment with two friends. I've been here since leaving college and have been having a blast, or so I thought. A long with the great social life is a massive overdraft, credit card companies chasing me, a developing drink problem, few real friends and no partner. So it is that I'm considering moving back in with my parents. I left when I went off to college, although even then I went back during the holidays in the first year. After that I stayed away thinking I was too big for my parents rules and uncompromising discipline.
Don't get me wrong, Mum and Dad are very loving and warm people, but believers in discipline and corporal punishment. My sister always said that we, her my brother and I, had the most spanked bottoms in Christendom. She wasn't far wrong. I had no problem with it, it was part of the deal along with the hugs, cuddles and great encouragement to do sport and things. We all knew that if we crossed the line we'd get a good spanking, no arguments, and if we crossed the final line we were "busted", a special regime that could last up to a week. That was how it was. Up to age 18 I accepted and even approved of it. When I went college I thought I knew it all. I got a shock first holiday back home, when I got spanked for swearing. I squirmed and moaned for a year before staying away. Since then my life has gone downhill and I miss my Mum and Dad. So I'm thinking long and hard about going back. I'm meant to go today . The sticking point is a comment Mum made "your kit is still there under the stairs. You'll want to be ready for your Dad when he gets home, to clear the air. He's been talking of a month, but I've a feeling he'll bust you for just a week if you show willing". Let me explain about the kit and being busted.
As I said when we crossed the line we were spanked. For each of us this meant something slightly different. Sis was always spanked by Mum, across Mums knee with her knickers around her ankles. With Bobby and me. Mum stopped spanking our bums when we were about seven. After that we she would cane us across our hands with a garden cane, three or six strokes across each hand. Sometimes we would get the stick across the back of our legs as well. Dad never spanked Sis, but he had plenty of exercise with Booby and me. How we were spanked changed as we got older. For example when I was 17 Bobby was 12. He would get the traditional over the knee bare bottom spanking, with Dad's hand alternating between each cheek. I was too big to go across his knee so would be tucked under his arm or he would put his foot on a chair and I would bend over his leg. I also got spanked on my bare bum, but we added strokes to the back of my thighs. Sometimes Bobby would get slippered and I would get leathered with a short leather strap. That hurt a lot. As well as strapping my bum, Dad would strap the back and insides of my thighs. That was sure to make we cry and would leave long lasting marks. But the slipper and strap were usually reserved for when we were busted.
We were busted usually when we'd crossed the line once too often and when we'd done something very bad. As the eldest I'd get busted for giving a bad example if we were all playing up, even when Sis and Booby just got a spanking. We also were busted occasionally if Dad felt we needed a bot of extra attention. This was sort of a soft-bust, with more emphasis on the close supervision and loving spanks and cuddles rather than punishment.
How can I explain what being busted meant ? The best way is by giving you an example. This incident sticks in my mind because I hadn't done anything wrong to get busted, well not anything serious.
I was 17 and it was a Saturday. I'd been out on my bike over the neighbouring fields. The only thing I'd done wrong was that I'd gone into the kitchen without taking my boots off and had left muddy prints. The biggest mistake I'd made however was leaving my bike by the open kitchen door. Mum was outside gardening and seeing the door open slammed it shut. Unfortunately my bike was in the way and the handlebar went straight through the glass panel. Mum was not amused and loudly cursed me for leaving the bike there, but she knew it was her fault for slamming the door. She asked me to sweep up the glass whilst she went off to find something to board it up with. Whilst she trudged up to the shed muttering to herself, I swept up. That was when Dad arrived to find out what the noise was about.
He took it all in quickly and I confirmed that the glass was broken by my handlebar. I started to say it wasn't my fault, but stopped as Dad was giving me a dangerous look. "It wasn't me Dad" was a phrase guaranteed to wind him up. When my brother & I got into "it was him not me" type of arguments the only result was us both getting spanked, and often turned a spanking into a leathering.
I shut up, hoping Mum would return in time before Dad spanked my butt. "Finish that" he said pointing to the glass "then trousers and pant off." I swept up quickly so as not to wind him up more. I could hear Mum chatting with our neighbour, so the spanking seemed inevitable. I wasn't too put out as I'd probably have got a spanking for making the floor dirty anyway.
Dad turned away to open the cupboard under the stairs where the strap was kept. I puled my boot off quickly and put them outside before stripping off my trousers. When I turned around Dad had a bag in his hand which held my busted kit.
"Don't think I didn't see the wellies. That's the second time I've told you about that. But since you're so determined to wear your wellies indoors, your busted for a foprtnight."
Being busted meant three main things: strict discipline with every error resulting in a sore behind (even not doing something quick enough qualified), endless chores and dirty jobs like scrubbing the garage floor, and wearing special busted uniform. The bag contained the instruments of our punishment, in my case a leather strap with my name on it and an old fashioned school cane, an apron and rubber gloves for cleaning and out clothing. They were specially chosen to humble us. Sis had a frilly Gingham dress that only just covered her fanny which she wore with white socks and patent leather shoes. Being a bit of a tomboy she hated it. Bobby was made to wear one of Sis' old brownie uniforms complete with beret and blue leather sandals. If his hair was long enough Mum would put his hair in bunches as well. He wasn't allowed any underwear so Dad had free access to his backside. It originated from him being sent home from cub camp for sneaking into the girls shower block.
I had various uniforms, but from about the age of 15 I had the yellow kit. It started when I was briefly in love with a boy at school who was into sailing. I started going and made Mum by me some yellow rubber sailing boots like he had. The infatuation didn't last long, once he made it clear he wasn't interested, and my interest in sailing ended soon after, when the sailing instructor gave a whole new meaning to the phrase "giving it some welly" (but that's another story). The boots were then abandoned in the bottom of my wardrobe. Thee became part of my busted kit. Mum added a yellow netball tunic with the letters "NB" for naughty boy in it, and a yellow sou'wester and see-through plastic mackintosh for wearing outdoors. Dad added a thing with straps that went around the top of the highs, which left my backside free to a beating at all times without my willy showing. He couldn't find a yellow thong so I had white ones until my sixteenth birthday when he gave a yellow rubber thing he found in a fetish shop.
So I stripped off. I hung the plastic mac and wou'wester on a coat hook by the back door and pulled the tabard over my head. I then pulled the rybber pants on and slipped my feet into the yellow rubber boots. As I'd grown since I was 15, the wellies were a tight fit and hugged my calves tightly. They had draw strings at the top that were superfluous by then, except that Dad would sometimes tie them together if he caught me running indoors.
Once kitted out and stood side onto my Dad, legs apart with my hands on my head. He patted my backside.
"Good boy. Bend over"
I bent over and grabbed the drawstrings on my boots. Dad placed his left arm over my back and grabbed my waist. He brought the leather strap back and landed it squarely across the middle of my bum. He landed blows on the left and then right cheeks. I grimaced quietly.
"Open your legs"
I did as I was told. The strap came down hard on the inside of my thigh. I let out a cry. Another blow hit the other thigh. I let out a tiny fart. As a reward Dad let go a dozen blows to my backside in quick succession. I yelped and wriggled.
Mum came back with a board. "What's he done now?" Dad looked puzzled as the broken window seemed obvious. Mum explained it was her fault. Dad let me up. I stood there in my yellow kit with my heads on my head whilst they discussed it and laughed at Dad busting me for it. Mum sealed my fate.
"Well never mind. It's been a while, so it will do him good. Anyway he looks so sweet in his rubber undies and he won't get into those wellies for much longer."
"Alright" said Dad " I'll only bust you for a week, but you can then go on soft bust until your birthday."
That meant I'd be in my yellow kit for the next six weeks. But before that I'd have a week of hard work and a sore bum.
I'll tell you what happened next time.