The story I wrote over a year ago called "Putting My Brawny Clothing to The Test" was actually about me. About 98% of that story is fully factual and was an exceptional learning experience for both me and what I thought was my well clothed back side. (see "Putting My Brawny Clothing To the Test" before reading on).
With that experience behind me, I could no longer expect to have an altercation with my dads spanking stick and survive the experience without tears. I still did believe, however, that heavy jeans and maybe a pair of heavier than normal underwear might help in reducing some of the penetrating sting that a swinging stick could generate. I was fully convinced however, that I should never expect to come out a winner on any future altercations with that stick, heavy street clothing or not.
My bottom avoided further confrontations with that stick for almost six months. I can attribute that to my brain that continued to work smarter than my mouth. It was only a matter of time though before my mouth won the "smart" competition and my backside registered another check mark in the loss column.
I can still remember the scenario of that evening as if it were just last week. A little after ten PM, I arrived home after bussing tables for six hours at a local restaurant. I was upbeat after bringing home more than the usual tips that I shared with the waiters and had decided I wanted to go back out and join some of the guys for a while.
Since I was still dressed in my table bussing duds, I went up to my room to change. Once in my room I took an admiring glimpse of myself in the full length door mirror. My boss required us to wear white shirts, black slacks, socks and leather shoes. Our slacks had to be worn at our normal waist line with our shirts neatly tucked in. My boss also suggested that we might usually expect better tips when our dress emphasized our athletic features. I was impressed how my clothing seemed to do just that. My shirt was full cut at the arms and tapered at the waist with just the right amount of fabric to enhance my chest.
My thin, fine weave slacks fit snugly in the waist, slightly full cut in the seat and snug enough in the crotch to emphasize the curves of my tight athletic backside. Helping to accentuate these features even further was my pocketless right ass cheek. The fuller cut upper legs and slightly tapered lower legs finished off what I considered pretty slick looking duds.
I opened the closet and reached for a pair of jeans, shiny fabric pull over shirt, socks and athletic shoes. Just as I was about to begin to unbutton my starched, fancy white shirt, my Dad appeared in the doorway of my room and reminded me that I had not completed some of my chores around the house and asked that they be done before going out.
I knew I didn't have time to do both my chores and go out and still be home when I was expected to be. At this point, it is probably best to say that my mouth got way ahead of my brain and caused my relationship with my dad that evening to go strictly south. It isn't worth spelling out everything that was said during the next few minutes but I am sure many guys can remember similar altercations at that age.
I went from upbeat to downbeat in seconds when my dad removed his trusty stick from my dresser drawer. My stomach bottom felt as if it had just fallen out. Almost instantly I felt the coolness of sweat oozing out of my armpits and the air hitting the new sweat just below my forehead hairline.
While trying to smooth things over with dad, thoughts raced through my mind. I sensed my thin woven boxers touching various parts of my bottom and upper legs. I wore them baggy enough to help fill out and accentuate the seat of my slacks yet snug enough so few wrinkles showed through the thin black fabric when bending over. I even made a point of wearing boxers that had a center seam so that no underwear seams would show from under the pocketless ass cheek. I knew patrons at the restaurant saw me over a table often when bussing. Hopefully I gave them a memorable view.
Just then the phone rang in my parent's bedroom across the hall. Dad went to answer it. As he conversed on the phone, my mind went to work thinking of ways to give my backside more protection. I could change into heavier pants. That would be noticeable though. Putting on an extra pair of underwear, definitely heavier than the pair I was wearing was a strong consideration. I was really afraid of being caught with my pants off though. I knew it would take time to get another pair of underwear out of the drawer, remove my pants, put the new pair of boxers on, pull my pants back on, tuck my shirt in and button and belt my pants. I certainly didn't like the thought of getting it on my thin cotton boxers.
I quickly decided and proceeded to un-belt and unbutton my pants, tuck my undershirt into my boxers and tuck my shirt tail deep into my pants. I was hoping my undershirt and shirt would give me a little extra protection. I put my hand onto my pocketed ass cheek and slid it down across the smooth thin fabric. I felt as though my heart fell into my stomach when I realized that my undershirt left off at the entrance area of my back pocket and my shirt tail ended halfway down my back pocket. My dad was sure to lay the stick on below those areas.
Before I had a chance to think any further, dad walked back into my bedroom. Before my brain could fully translate what was happening, dad grabbed me by the arm, twisted it behind me and threw me forward over the edge of the bed. I had not helped him in that maneuver, but had really not resisted much either thanks to his quick moves. I was face forward into the bed sheets over the edge of my bed in what my teenage mind could only value as a very scary and insulting position. Wearing a thin pair of boxers and slacks which now closely followed my bent ass gave me just that much more humiliation and downright fear to deal with.
My eyes focused forward as my chin pressed into the mattress. My sight was in line with the opened closet door with the mirror on it. From there, I could see a full view of my dad holding the stick and spewing out some final words as he prepared to tenderize my awaiting butt cheeks. The reflection of that 3 inch by 15 inch oak stick in the mirror made it look even more formable. All the edges had been rounded and the ends curved on that half inch thick piece of wood. How nice of my dad to make it less likely to cut or bruise, but I knew from experience its capability of generating a stripe of fire wherever it was to land.
This seventeen year old was really sweating it out. How did I ever let my mouth get so out of hand? I knew I had earned what was coming. Such an attitude that I had exhibited was unacceptable. I had basically ASKED to have my head or in this case ass handed to me. Yet it was one thing to know I deserved it, but a whole other thing to be pinned down and about to be crying my teenage eyes out.
Suddenly I felt a downward pressure on my back. In the mirror I saw the stick go in the air and then disappear out of sight. Almost instantly a loud crack was heard and the pressure of the stick coming down on its target was felt. The stick had landed diagonally along the outside of my right ass cheek. Yep, it was on the cheek with no back pocket. The sting escalated and I gritted my teeth tightly. The second swat landed and quickly I was handling as much sting as I could handle without yelling. The third landed on the same spot again and as expected, just below the end of the shirt tail. The sound of OOOOAAAHHHHHH came from my mouth, tears started coming from my eyes and I kicked my right leg up and down. Immediately upon the execution of the fourth shot, the flood gate of tears opened and outright crying began. The fifth through the tenth shots caused me to kick violently and passed by as stinging blurs.
After swinging the tenth shot, my dad let go of my arm, went over to my drawer, put the stick away and walked out of my room. I am surprised that I even noticed these last actions by my dad, as I was very busy crying, kicking around and mentally absorbing the excruciating sting of my right cheek.
After about five minutes I quieted down, my eyes began to dry up and my nose almost stopped running. My cotton boxers and thin dress pants had not let my dad down. My right ass cheek certainly felt as if they had given me no protection.
Now it was definitely too late to go out even if I were allowed and my smarting butt had plum worn me out. I just wanted to go to bed and get some sleep if only the furnace in my tail would subside. If that were not enough, my chores were still not done and would have to be done on my own precious time before I could do anything that I wanted to do the next day.
I went into the bathroom and glanced at my nicely rounded slack covered butt in the mirror. It surely looked the same, now there was just a lot of heat and a little numbness. I took off my shirts, unbuckled my belt, unbuttoned my pants and pushed them down below my tail. Hooking my thumbs in my boxers I pushed them down far enough to see the full red stripe on my right butt cheek. It was really red. I could not help but place my hand on the red area and feel the heat radiating from the skins surface.
After pulling my boxers back up and taking my pants the rest of the way off, I finished what I had to do in the bathroom and went to bed; face down with no sheets over me. I didn't need sheets. My body was still producing all the warmth that was needed.
The next morning in the bathroom, I again checked my inflicted area. To my surprise there was just a little redness and a speck of bruise at the very far bottom side of my right cheek.
I could not help but ponder the previous night's experience. Tremendous amounts of sting and heat, but very little pain if that was possible. Definitely not the pain I had felt when getting it wearing my Levi's, heavy long johns and briefs. I had to remember that then the stick was longer and heavier and the edges had not been rounded. The comparisons didn't make sense, but so much for any more thinking, I had school to go to and it would be smart of me to not be late.