"Get in the study, NOW! ," Father ordered as soon as I walked through the front door. My stomach immediately tightened and my heart began to pound madly. I looked down at my feet and brushed a tuft of short, curly hair behind my ear and went quickly into the study, without saying a word. I knew I was in trouble- deep trouble. The tone of Father's voice said it all. My bottom began to tingle in anticipation.
I stood, facing the corner, waiting for him. My cheeks were already flushed as I stood at attention. "Richard, do you know why you're about to be punished?"
"Yes, sir," I said, my voice trembling as much as my knees. "Explain yourself, young man!" he said, sharply, raising his voice. My bottom clenched. Would he use the strap this time? Or the paddle? "I haven't been working hard enough at my studies, sir," I said, meekly. I offered no excuses for this; Father didn't accept excuses.
"Come here, Richard."
I turned to face him. I slowly walked over to the antique armchair with the high back. My whole body trembled as I approached him. He moved towards the edge of the seat and sat up straight. I nervously tugged at my small, white tee-shirt. Just by his gestures, he reduced me to a naughty four year old child. I obediently and shamefully stood next to him, waiting for orders.
"Lay over my knee," he ordered, and I groaned a little inside. I slowly lowered myself over his left knee, resting my abdomen fully on his left thigh. My head was close to the dark crimson carpet, and I grasped the front leg of the chair with both hands as I had been taught. My shorts were form fitting around my firm bottom, and I felt the stiff fabric of his suit against the bare backs of my thighs.
I felt his body jerk and his hand come down hard on the seat of my shorts. My body jolted, and I concentrated hard on keeping my hands on the leg of the chair. "This-," SPANK. "Will-," SPANK. "Teach-," SPANK. "You-," SPANK. "To be-," SPANK. "More-," SPANK. "Responsible-," SPANK. He continued to lecture me firmly as my body jerked slightly under his hand.
"Yes, sir," I said, in a weepy voice.
"Stand up and pull down your shorts to your ankles," he ordered, letting me up. My fingers trembled as I unbuttoned and then unzipped my shorts, slipping them down over my small hips and letting them fall to a heap at my ankles. I resumed my position over his left knee. My thin cotton underpants provided little protection from Father's stinging slaps. I felt the fabric of his slacks rub gently against my bare thighs and his fingers around my waist as his hand came down rhythmically on my bottom. He lectured me firmly on his expectations of my school performance, and I began to sob. My bottom was becoming hot and tender, and I knew that I wouldn't be getting by with just a hand spanking.
"I'm sorry, Father," I wept.
"Not as sorry as you will be when you feel the crop tanning your backside!"
"No, please!" I cried, involuntarily. I felt him yank my underpants down and deliver a sharp slap to the hot, tender skin. I knew better than to argue when I was being punished.
"Stand up and step out of your shorts! " he ordered, and I obeyed, the tears crawling down my face. "And bring me the crop."
I released a sob and stepped out of my shorts as I walked over to the closet. I opened the closet door and on the side where three nails off of which hung the three implements that Father used to discipline me. Depending on the severity of my crime, I'd have to submit to the paddle, the strap, or the crop. The crop was the worst. I took the crop down from the nail and brought it to him, sobbing quietly to myself.
He took the crop and stood up. Without having to be told, I lay over the arm of the chair. My face pressed against the seat cushion, and one arm dangled over the front of the chair while I draped the other arm over the other arm of the chair. I had to hold up my lower body slightly with my toes. My bottom, raised and vulnerable, clenched in anticipation.
I heard the crop whiz through the air before I felt the sharp sting on my bottom. I cried out. Father spanked me slowly and methodically, allowing each lash sink in before administering another. I raised up higher onto my toes with each lash, rubbing my abdomen slightly against the rough upholstery of the chair. "Pull down your underpants," he said. "I'm going to give you 20 lashes on the bare." I reached behind me, lifting my hips up and with trembling hands, pushed my underpants over my scorched bottom. I wiggled to get them down to my knees. "I expect you to count them," he added, firmly. "Yes, sir," I said, choking on my sobs. I knew not to argue. I felt the cool air on my redstudyed bottom and felt the rough upholstery against my bare abdomen. I clenched my bottom in anticipation.
WHIZ. CRACK. "Ow! One!"
The sharp sound of leather crossing my swollen bottom resonated in my ears. WHIZ. CRACK. "Ooo! Two!" CRACK. "Three!" CRACK. "Four!"
I obediently counted each lash, trying to control the tears that were running rampant down my face. I knew it would be over at the twentieth lash. "Eighteen."
"Nineteen."
"Twenty."
"Good boy." Father said. "Now in the corner with you until I tell you you're punishment's over."
"Yes, sir," I wept, going over to the corner with my underpants around my knees. I stood at attention, sobbing my heart out and wishing earnestly that I could rub my sore bottom.
"Richard, are you going to perform better in school?"
"Yes, sir."
"Are you going to bring up your grades?"
"Yes, sir."
"Alright, then. You can go to your room now."
I pulled up my underpants and put on my shorts. I raced to my room and took out my school books. I pored over them for the rest of the night, keeping a soft pillow under my bottom.