The Crack of the Paddle—Part I
CRACK!—
I hit the tetherball with all I had, sending it whirling around the pole in a high arch. Jimmy smacked it just as hard, sending it back around my side.
The sound of the rubber ball rang in my ears. It sounded like a wood paddle meeting bent-over grade school butt. I had heard that sound a lot in my 4 years at Kelly Elementary School; I dont think a week of the school year passed without that sound echoing down the school halls.
Alas, the butt in question had never been mine. I was always the good kid at school, well behaved, never did anything to get in trouble. I was one of the few kids to have not experience just how thouroughly an attitude could be adjusted when an expert swings the board full force and it impacts against the seat of boy in need of a serious lesson. Jimmy had not been as fortunate. His stories about getting swats were the stuff of legend.
He was always eager to share his experiences getting paddled, the nervous anticipation when the sentence was pronounced and you were called to the front of the room or told to go out in the hall, the rush of anxiety when the teacher grabbed the paddle out from the desk.
He always took great pains to describe the board Paddles came in an array of shapes and sizes; often they had been made by a fellow student in woodshop class, sometimes they were lacquered, sometimes they had holes, sometimes they bore the autograph of those on whom they had been used before, but in one way they were all the same—hard and thick –just one look left you with no doubt that you were about to get your ass well and truly busted.
Then the command would come
—Bend over and grab your ankles!
Youd nearly be shaking, almost overcome by the urge to run, to get away, to just say no to the absurdity of what you were about to, had to, do. But somehow, your body would comply, acting on its own, as you stood there bewildered and powerless to stop it.
And so you would find yourself in that ridiculous position, bent over, holding your ankles as tight as you could, steadying yourself, and bracing for the inevitable.
Then they would come
—CRACK!—
And youd let out an involuntary gasp, more of shock than of pain; the first one was always a surprise no matter how many times youd got swats before.
—CRACK!! —
This time you wince as you brain finally catches up and realizes that your boy butt is being beaten.
—CRACK!!!—
Number three, you let go of your ankles and nearly jut straight up, but the pressure of the teachers hand on your back presses you firmly back in place. You think youre dying. When you think about it later on it wont seem that bad, but right now your backside seems like the only thing in the universe, and it seems like youve never felt this much pain.
—CRACK!!!!—
You let out a groan. Your eyes well up with tears. Youre sure you cant take any more; your just as sure its not over yet
—CRACK!!!!!—
Number five, usually the last one, but your as sure hasnt realized its over yet. You are still holding on to your ankles for dear life.
Then, as the pain starts to subside, you start to comprehend that youve survived. You realize that youre sobbing; chocking back the tears, you hope you havent sobbed to loud, that you havent been crying openly: Many boys do.
Quickly the pain subsides and the searing agony you felt just moments ago gives way to a warm tingling as you wipe your eyes and make your way back to your desk. The ordeal seems almost forgotten until your warmed ass meets the cold wood of your chair and the pain comes alive once again. You know from experience that sitting through class on the hard wood will be uncomfortable, probably for a couple of days.
Youd wonder what your ass looked like now. Certainly very red, probably a white circle in the center of each cheek edged with a purplish hue; they will become bruises over the next couple of days. Next recess youll hurry to the restroom to take a look at the damage in the mirror. A couple of your friends might want to have a look too.
Jimmys tales of the woes of his tale fascinated me. For as long as I could remember, I had been fantasizing about getting spanked; I had elaborate fantasies I would rehearse in my mind every night as I went to sleep and would often be dreaming about it when I woke up. His stories now fueled these fantasies, adding a dimension of vividness and reality to my imaginings.
Jimmy seemed to come alive when he would talk about his paddlings. He said he hated them, did everything he could to try to avoid them, and talked about the possibility of his next encounter with the board with a certain anxiety bordering on dread. But there was also an excitement in his voice, almost an air of anticipation, as though he knew that while he didnt want to get swats, loathed them in fact, they were something he deeply needed. And despite the claim that he desperately tried to avoid them, he would regularly find a way to end up bent over, sobbing from that particular fiery anguish caused by a hard wooden board slamming into tender boy ass, and setting it ablaze.
I always tried not to seem too interested in his stories, but deep inside they harrowed me with fear and wonder, for I knew, had always know, that a serious and thourough ass blistering was something that I too deeply feared and needed. I envied the fact that he found the strength to get his need met regularly.
—CRACK!—
The tetherball wrapped high at the top, and spun around out of Jimmys reach. I had beaten him.
I had no way of knowing that soon I would be the one being beaten, that the next crack heard in the backyard that afternoon would be of a paddle colliding over and over with my butt, that Jimmy was done telling stories and was about to do some very real demonstrating, that we were just minutes away from him pinning me over his knee and taking a board to my little ass again and again for the better part of the rest of the afternoon, that I was about to have an experience that I had dreamed about since I was a little boy.
But Ill save that story for next time....