MR. BECKS BELT
It had been about three months since Mr. Beck whipped the hell out of John in the garage. Neither father nor son had mentioned the beating but neither had forgotten it either, especially John. The night of the ass scorching, John had slept on his side; and the next day, the soft, overstuffed black leather desk chair was of little comfort to his tender and itching bruised butt. It had taken a full three weeks for his backside to heal completely.
The whole thing seemed like a dream to John. He just couldnt believe that his dad had actually tanned his ass as if he were still a strapping seventeen-year-old. Here he was, a grown man who had just been beaten, bare-bottom with his granddads antique razor strop. Any sudden movement in the chair reassured him that this was no dream. He canceled racket ball with his friend Jim because he didnt want the guys to see his blistered butt in the shower. Christ, Jim would love to find out about it; Id never live it down. I can just hear him now - so Beck got himself a whippin - about time.
To be sure, Johns snappy Yes, sir attitude had returned. He was attentive, obedient, respectful and his dad began to wonder why he hadnt whipped him sooner. The strop still works like a charm... a dads best friend thought Mr. Beck. He was absolutely right. Nothing cleared the air between this father son duo quite like an old-fashioned strapping. Use of the strop was more than just effective discipline; it was honest, man-to-man, cut-through-the-bull_s_h_i_t_ communication. The strop itself was a powerful symbol of Dads power, authority and control. It commanded fear and respect, just like dad himself.
When John was a boy, Mr. Beck also used a favorite old brown rawhide belt to discipline him, usually for those less severe offences. Whenever John was careless - whenever he broke something inexpensive or forgot to turn off the lights, hed get a spanking. Like clockwork, John would hear that all too familiar sound of leather snapping out from his dads belt loops. Next John would be directed to bend over whatever suited Mr. Becks fancy at the moment - his knee, the arm of the recliner or couch, the bed. These were called spankings. Trips to the garage, strop in hand, were called beatings. And there was a world of difference between the two.
Spankings hurt, you bet they hurt, but they rarely made John cry. Eight to ten powerful strokes of the belt got Johns attention, but the sting wore off within half an hour. However, if John resisted or talked back, a spanking quickly turned into a beating. Johns color changed the instant he realized that he had gone too far; when he heard those dreaded words, go get the strop and well continue this father son discussion in the garage. If that werent enough to tie Johns stomach up in knots, Mr. Beck would sometimes add, Im sure glad its your ass thats gonna be bent over that workbench and not mine, son.
No doubt about it - Mr. Beck enjoyed spanking his son; like carving the turkey at Thanksgiving, it made him feel like a man, the boss, the one to be respected and obeyed. He also took it to heart that consistent, strict discipline was a major part of being a good dad. In other words, there was both pleasure and purpose in a properly executed ass whippin. Whenever he was in the mood to give young Johns butt a workout, he would watch and wait for some minor infraction. Usually he didnt have to wait very long.
Mr. Becks standards were high indeed, so spankings were common. Sometimes he would set the well worn working mans belt down in an obvious spot, on the kitchen table for example; then hed wait for Johns reaction. He also liked to threaten him, especially in front of others. John would redden with embarrassment whenever his dad announced matter-of-factly, I may just have to warm up that fanny of yours when we get home, son.. Hed say this with a slight grin, winking at whomever was in earshot. Then John would sweat out the long car ride home worrying whether he was going to get it or not. Eight times out of ten, Johns boyish butt was cherry red within five minutes of walking through the front door.
Mr. Beck got off on Johns genuine fear of corporal punishment. The ongoing threat of a lickin was the best way to keep a son in line, and to his way of thinking, nothing was more flattering than a holy respect for Dads belt. Infrequently, Mr. Beck would relent and change his mind about spanking him, but such examples of clemency were rare, arbitrary and there was no sure way for John to talk his way out of a tanning. He tried many, many times. Often a too persistent attempt backfired and John found his exposed ass over the workbench positioned for the strop. If only he had kept his mouth shut, Mr. Beck would have been satisfied with an over-the-knee spanking - Johns butt comparatively protected by underwear and pants. But Johns mouth was always getting him into trouble, a fact his old man continuously and rightfully pointed out before he whipped him.
Undoubtedly, there was a mean streak to Johns dad. He was hard on John because he believed that raising boys demanded a certain amount of rough manhandling - bullying, some might even go so far as to say. It made a boy tough if his old man pushed him around a bit. To Mr. Beck, control was an absolute, and most everything required his permission. Sometimes he would say no arbitrarily, if for no other reason than to show once again who was boss. Punishments included restrictions, push-ups, extra chores, standing at attention and withdrawal of privileges, in addition to the all too frequent spankings and beatings.
One afternoon, as Mr. Beck sat back in his oversized recliner, his dad-dick started to get hard. He was thinking about how much he enjoyed spanking Johns cute little derrière and how much he had missed doing it. True, that session in the garage a few months ago had been hot and heavy, and it had certainly adjusted Johns attitude. But he realized that he was itching to spank John just for the hell of it. The severe ass strapping in the garage had been for Johns benefit. After all, it got John to quit smoking, hadnt it? But what about him? What about Dad? It wouldnt hurt John to get an occasional fanny-tanning, and it would certainly do Mr. Beck a world of good. A little rawhide on the backside never hurt anybody, right?
So it was settled. Old-fashioned over-the-knee whippins would once again become the order of the day around the Beck household. Mr. Becks _c_o_c_k_ got as hard as a brick as he pondered Johns surprise and resistance to the return of The Belt into his life.
The next morning, a Saturday, John came down to breakfast.
Good morning, sir.
Mornin son.
Sleep well, Dad?
Not really son. The front porch light shined through my window until I finally got out of bed and turned it off. By then I was wide awake and I couldnt get back to sleep.
Gee, Dad, Im sorry. I must have left it on when I came home last night.
John was opening the fridge when he heard a rapid thwup, thwup, thwup, thwup, thwup. Sure as hell, when he turned around to face his dad, the belt dangled loosely from Dads hand, doubled over, ready for business. A mixture of surprise and agitation registered on Johns face, but before he had a chance to say a word, Mr. Beck spoke in an irritatingly parental tone, We can either do this the easy way or the hard way, son - youre choice.
Oh how John wanted to object, to stand up for himself, to tell his dad to knock it off. For Gods sake, hed only forgotten to turn off the porch light. Big _f_u_c_k_ing deal! But John checked himself. Sure as _s_h_i_t_, Dad would send him to the garage if he showed the slightest hint of rebellion; and the memory of that last trip to the woodshed weighed heavily on his mind, not to mention his backside.
Mr. Beck grabbed a chair from the kitchen table, turned it around and sat down. Over my knee, son ordered Mr. Beck, as he tapped his substantial left thigh. My favorite position - something very traditional and conservative about it ... the old father son lock and hold, he added with a great big grin.
Without hesitation John obeyed. He couldnt believe it, but there he was, bending over his Dads knee, just as he did when he was a boy. As he bent over he saw his Dads hard _c_o_c_k_ pressing up against his blue Dickies work pants, and he felt his own dick start to widen and expand as it brushed against his Dads outstretched pant leg. He couldnt believe it; he still fit comfortably over his dads knee - the palms of his hands anchored squarely on the well-worn kitchen floor, his head about a foot off the floor, his butt perfectly positioned for the belt, his legs dangling down and resting on the floor at the other end.
From this classic position, familiar to all properly disciplined sons, John realized that the world takes on a completely different perspective when a boy is over his Dads knee. Looking straight ahead he saw the solid legs of the sturdy kitchen table and the repeating design on the linoleum, both straight out of the early 60s. When he raised his eyes to the right he could see Dad, poised and ready to administer discipline. What a giant of a man, his dad! When he looked left and center he got a view from underneath the chair - a sea of blue, Dads sturdy legs and a partial shot of his Dads own backside, Man, oh man, thought John, my dad is one hot dude! In a seated position, the tight ripples and folds in the cloth of Dads blue Dickies accentuated his hefty crotch and muscular thighs.
Hotter still were the tight blue ripples and folds that accentuated the curvature of Dads beefy butt. Clearly visible through the opening in the back of the chair, it was a sight to behold! John thought about his dads handsome, butch butt - how it would remain undisturbed and comfortable as it settled nicely into the crackling upholstered seat while his own fanny would soon feel the sting of the belt. He looked up at the tiny white Dickies label, the signature tag sticking out from beneath the waistband, above his dads back left pocket. Must be an older pair, thought John, they stopped using those tags years ago.
Dickies just couldnt leave things well enough alone, thought John, they had to copy Dockers by sewing the label flush into the fabric of the pant. It occurred to John that this was a rather odd thing to think about, considering his precarious position. But thats how John always toughed out his dads belt; hed focus on something; anything, rather than on the pain, humiliation and anger of the present moment. Suddenly he felt his Dads grip tighten around his side and chest and he braced himself for the first blow.
Mr. Beck had an entirely different view. The sight of his sons upturned ass made the old man proud; clearly John had inherited his own perfectly proportioned backside. John was dressed for Saturday morning chores - a white, V-neck tee-shirt and a pair of khakis. Khakis, unlike tight jeans, kept Johns greatest asset somewhat under wraps, but as they stretched snugly over Johns perfectly positioned bottom, they revealed the beautiful round curves of his butt cheeks. The outline of his briefs was also clearly visible. Man, oh man, Dad said to himself, echoing his sons own thoughts, my boy has one spankable ass.
Dad actually began to salivate slightly as he prepared to punish the tight, firm butt directly beneath his aim. He wrapped his strong left arm around Johns side and chest preparing for the struggle to come. Dad loved it when John struggled. His helpless squirming did amazing things to Dads man-meter. He raised the belt with his right hand and landed it full force, striking both cheeks squarely in the center.
John jerked ... silence. The first sharp sting caused John to go limp but it had the opposite effect on his dads own mighty erection. Did you like that, son? asked Mr. Beck.
No sir! It stings, sir John replied.
Good. Its supposed to sting. But thats not the answer I want, boy. Lets try it again.
Johns dad raised the belt a second time. Once more, it landed skillfully, forcefully on the precise area as before. Was that more to your liking, John? asked Mr. Beck.
OUCH!!! Yes sir, it was sir, responded John, knowing full well that this was the only acceptable answer. If he had thought the first one hurt, he was mistaken. The second landing of the belt doubled the initial sting.
Well, what do you say, son? Dad asked. John looked up at his father plaintively. He was at a loss for words, or at least the magic words, the words that his disciplinarian dad required. As the belt went up into the air again, he remembered, but not in time.
WHAP!!! _d_a_m_n_ed if he didnt strike that exact same spot a third time. God, it hurt!
Thank you, sir, John cried out.
Thats right, son, thats right. Youre very welcome, son ... what else? As Mr. Beck raised the belt for the fourth time, John remembered the rest of the expected response.
May I have another?
You certainly may son, you certainly may. WHAP!!! This time Dad aimed at that very tender area, just south of the underwear line, where the back of the legs meet the lovely curving mounds of boy butt.
_s_h_i_t_, Dad, that one really hurt! yelped John. And hurt it did. Its amazing how sensitive that particular spot is, especially when it has one fewer layer of protection than the rest of the solid, shifting target.
How dare you speak to me like that while Im whipping you, son; you know better than to talk like that! What the hell were you thinking?
With renewed force, Mr. Beck held John in position. The next one was going to be a humdinger. John knew it, Dad knew it and John took a deep breath and grabbed the legs of the chair, holding on for dear life.
WHAP!!! That same tender spot, that single layer of protection got yet another taste of the belt. A loud, deep pitched grunt yell shot out from Johns chest and lungs. Both father and son knew that Dad had made his point. Suddenly, Mr. Beck realized that the spanking was turning into a beating. This was not his intention. If only his son hadnt talked back; if only he hadnt said _s_h_i_t_. But he had said it, and his fanny had to pay the price.
Dad raised the belt again. WHAP! This time Johns right ass cheek got a little individual attention. The thick black belt added a diagonal stripe beneath the seat of his pants. Sure it stung, but at least his dad was striking a different section of his ass, at last! Mr. Beck, once again in spanking mode, felt more in control of himself and his dick responded accordingly.
One thing about Johns Dad; he was methodical. WHAP! The next crack of the belt fell on Johns left cheek, leaving a matching diagonal stripe underneath the now steaming khakis. WHAP! To round things off, both cheeks felt a very sharp sting, this time slightly north of center. Then it stopped. Dads grip loosened and John sprung to his feet.
The expression on Johns face was priceless - part anger, part submission, red with embarrassment and disbelief. His chin stuck out ever so slightly and defiantly, but his hands said it all - they were rubbing his freshly spanked buttocks. He watched as Mr. Beck slowly threaded the belt back through the belt loops of those hot, blue collar work pants of his. Both men locked eyes as Dad fingered the belt buckle back into place. This was an important part of the ritual - watching Dad put everything back to rights until the next time. The ritual concluded with a firm handshake followed by a hug.
Dad?
Yes son.
What ever happened to the brown belt you used to use? You know, the well worn rawhide belt. The one with stitching that ran along the edges. The one with the brass buckle. The spanking belt.
It gave up the ghost years ago, son. Whats the matter, didnt this one hurt enough?
No sir. I mean, yes sir. You know what I mean, Dad. Believe me, that one did the job just fine sir, take my word for it. But then again, well, after all, its not the belt that matters is it? Its the dad behind the belt that counts.
Youre right about that, son, you are right about that. Now that the spanking is over, how about helping your old man hang some Christmas lights on the front of the house? I could use you to steady the ladder and to hand the strings of lights up to me. Dont worry young man, its a job you can do standing up. They both grinned.
Sure Dad, of course. It would be my pleasure, sir. Just give me a minute or two to rub out the sting from the seat of my pants.
And so the belt had bonded father and son once again. Id like to say that John and his Dad never had to take a trip to the garage again; that hot erotic spankings were all that John ever received from that day forward. Id like to say that John got his butt warmed but never severely beaten, that the father son spankings stopped short of the kind of butt blistering that John feared so dreadfully. Id like to say that, but I cant.
What I can say is this. A few days later, under the Christmas tree, there was a very special present for Johns dad. It was a brown rawhide belt, complete with stitching and a solid brass buckle. John himself had hand tooled a very special message on the inside, the rough side of the belt, the side that absorbed a mans sweat. The words read simply, Break me in, Dad - Christmas 2002.