I thought I was pretty smart, till I tried to pull a fast one on my Uncle Fred. I had a major-league sweet tooth as a kid, and at age 14, it wasn't getting much better. When I came to stay with my Uncle for two weeks on his farm, there was a clear understanding of how much candy I would be allowed to have. But I was clever. I went on a mission of snooping, and found a couple of boxes of candy bars in an old refrigerator in the barn. They were clear at the back of the shelf, and I figured Uncle had forgotten them, so I helped myself to four candy bars. Boy, was that a mistake! I hid the candy in my room that day, and at bedtime went up early to enjoy my ill-gotten gains along with a huge glass of sweetened tea. Then, just as I had taken the first delicious bite, it happened...what I had dreaded most of all.
I heard my Uncle coming up the stairs. I quickly hid the candy under my pillow and tore open a book, just as the door of my room opened. Fred stood over me, a massive giant in the red plaid boxers that hugged the bulging muscles of his hair-covered thighs tightly. Stroking his square jaw with an enormous forefinger, he asked me if I knew about the chocolate bars. I pretended complete ignorance; told him I didn't know he had any, and suggested that perhaps the farmhand had taken the candy.
A frown deepened over his ice-blue eyes. He didn't say a word, just strode over to my bed and jerked the pillow away. My heart began to pound. I knew I was caught; I had lied about the candy, and now Uncle Fred had found me out. He had always said the one thing he wouldn't tolerate was a lying kid, and I knew I was in deep trouble.
He grabbed me by the lapel of my cotton pajamas and lifted me up to his eye level, six feet-plus above the floor. Through closed teeth, he reminded me of his "zero tolerance" approach to lying, and informed me that I was going to be very, very sorry. My stomach turned cold and watery and my knees were wobbling as he stood me down on the floor. He ordered me to follow him down to the kitchen; I was afraid to disobey him. All the way down the stairs (it seemed like hundreds of them) I kept saying I was sorry and promising never to lie to him again.
It didn't do any good. Uncle Fred grabbed a stout kitchen chair and placed it in the center of the room. Reaching into the tool drawer by the stove, he pulled out a stout plywood paddle, that had had a rubber ball on a rubber string many years ago. It was made before plywood got expensive, and it was about 3 8" thick, with a picture of a cowboy on a horse, printed in red ink. I put my hands over my bottom and backed away, tears springing into my eyes, wishing with all my heart that I had worn underwear beneath my pajama bottoms, wishing, as my bladder contracted suddenly, that I hadn't had so much tea. I begged him desperately not to paddle me, that I would never, never do it again.
His only reply was to sit down on that chair and grab my shoulder with his massive paw. He pulled me over his hairy, muscular thighs without effort, and quickly corralled my frantic hands and pinned them above the small of my back with three fingers. His index finger and thumb deftly grasped my thin cotton pajama shorts and pulled them sharply up until I could feel the seams pressing against my anus. The more I wriggled and writhed, the more I begged and pleaded, the tighter he held my hands and the snugger my shorts became. I felt the cool, smooth stroke of the paddle's surface as he traced a pattern on my fleshy bottom. Before he gave the first swat, he said again that after the paddling I was going to get, I would think twice before I ever (a) stole candy, (b) lied about it, and (c) falsely accused an innocent person!
My whole body was quivering with fear, and I could feel every hair follicle in my butt and legs twitch with tantalizing anticipation. Then he raised his powerful arm and brought the paddle down squarely across my butt. I had never known such sudden, excruciating, firey pain, and I let out something between a hoarse, adolescent yell and a child's scream.
"Take it like a man!" barked my Uncle, and brought the paddle down, hard, again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again...
With every swat, my ass got hotter; my bladder was so full I thought I was going to wet my pants. Still the paddle rose and fell with heart-stopping force. It felt like my bottom was actually blistering from the heat. Every lick felt like a red-hot iron touching my skin.
I did NOT take it like a man. I squirmed and struggled desperately, my legs kicking and flailing, broken sobs and cracking swats like rifle fire filling the kitchen and disturbing the country silence around the house. My sobbing, screaming, begging, and promises were of no avail; Uncle had a punishment to administer, and he wasn't just about to let up. I don't know how many swats I took that night, but when they finally ended, I lay across my uncle's lap, exhausted, sobbing my heart out. He stood me to the floor, put the chair back under the table, put the paddle back in the drawer, and said, "Let this be a lesson you won't forget!"
I was totally humbled, not only from the paddling, but from how bad I felt that I had stolen from (and lied to) my favorite uncle who was always so kind and generous to me. Needless to say, my ass was firecracker red for half the next day, and I sat down very carefully when I sat at all...and from that day to this, I get a sudden, anticipatory tingle in my rear end whenever I taste a chocolate bar with almonds...