Author's note: The following story is based on a r l event. Sadly, I was not the recipient, nor was I there to witness it. A friend of mine who is now a disciplinarian was privileged to have been on the receiving end some years back, and related the story to me. I have written the story as if I were the miscreant being punished, because I will hopefully one day be subjected to something very similar at his hands. At any rate, while I've taken the liberty to expand his rendition a bit to make it more conducive to this format, the basic facts regarding the session are accurate.
The Oregon 1000
My disciplinarian, Mike, and I were relaxing and talking after a very intense session one afternoon. "So, Eric," he said, "your business trip to Portland is coming up soon, isn't it?"
"Yes, Sir," I responded. "I'll be leaving in about five days, and won't be back for a couple of weeks. I'm really not looking forward to. It's not only going to be very stressful, but I'll be missing my next couple of weekly sessions with you, Sir."
"Well, Eric," Mike replied, "There's a gentleman I know up there named Hans. He has a farm about twenty minutes outside of Portland. Hans really likes to strap boy butt, and he enjoys an excellent reputation for being one of the best at it. Hell, he should be; he's got plenty of experience raising four boys of his own...and he's tanned many an adult bottom in his barn as well...mine included, back in the days when I was getting it. He WILL do regular disciplinary strappings, but I think you should contact him and let him know youre a very naughty boy, and need his "specialty" - something he calls the 'Oregon 1000.' I'm not going to go into the details, but suffice it to say that it will definitely be a strapping you'll remember the rest of your life. Here's his email address, and I've already contacted him to let him know you might be in touch. Just let me know how everything goes with him if you're able to arrange a session."
Taking the proffered slip of paper from Mike, I departed. During the course of the next couple of days, I mulled over Mike's recommendation. I finally decided he was probably right. I WOULD be in dire need of a tanning while I was away on my trip, and if this guy Hans was anything like Mike described, he was probably the ideal candidate for administering it. Thus decided, I wrote an email to Hans asking him if I could arrange a session to receive his famed "Oregon 1000," and nervously hit the "Send" button. The next day I received a response. Hans agreed to meet with me on the last day I was to be in Portland, early in the afternoon, and I was instructed to make sure that I arrived wearing a pair of blue jeans and white cotton briefs.
The business trip was a success, but was as stressful as I had imagined. After our final meeting wrapped at noon the last day, I went to the restroom and nervously changed into the required clothing. Palms sweating, I steered the car almost numbly toward Hans farmhouse. Arriving some thirty minutes later, I hesitated at the entrance to his driveway. With a big gulp, I willed my foot back onto the accelerator. Upon my arrival, Hans answered my knock at the door almost immediately. He was a barrel-chested man, about 5'9", and about 200 pounds. Dressed in overalls and a plaid shirt, he looked almost exactly as I had pictured him in my mind.
"Come on in, son," he said in a deep baritone voice. "Sit and relax for a few minutes before we get down to the business of your tanning. Enjoy it while you can, because you won't be sitting comfortably for a couple of weeks when I'm through with you."
For about the hundredth time that day, I pondered whether I might have bitten off more than I could chew, as I sipped a glass of water. After about five minutes, I excused myself to use the restroom in preparation for my ordeal. Upon my return, I addressed Hans in a low, almost quavering voice: "Sir, I guess I'm as ready as I'll ever be for my tanning. Please give me the thrashing I so richly deserve and need."
Hans stood abruptly, and roughly steered me toward the back door. "OK, boy," he said in a gruff voice. "You see the barn back there? I want you to go out there and wait for me. You'll see a blanket on the floor when you go in. Kneel in the center of the blanket, and put your head on the ground with your ass well up. I want your hands clasped behind your head, and you're not to move unless I tell you to."
I quickly hurried to the barn, and complied with Hans' instructions. About five agonizing minutes later, Hans strode in, still in overalls but minus the shirt. It is true what they say about the waiting being the hardest part...at least until the lickin' commences. Picking up a razor strop and a garrison belt from the nearby workbench, Hans held them in front of my eyes. "Take a good look, son. These are going to be the instruments of your undoing. You are going to become intimately acquainted with both of them this afternoon. And long before I finish you'll likely be begging me to stop." Hans replaced the two straps on the workbench, untucked my shirt, and folded it carefully up out of the way as he continued talking. "Pain is what a boy like you understands, and extreme pain is what your bottom is going to receive. I know you'll be yelling and you might even cry. You almost certainly won't be able to help moving a little, but try to stay still and take your punishment like a man. Well, enough of the idle chit-chat. This is going to take awhile, so get your butt up high where I can do my job right."
With that admonition, Hans picked up the razor strop and swung it through the air several times, reacquainting himself with its action. I closed my eyes as he positioned himself to my left, pursing his lips in a determined manner. Hans gave me a couple of light taps with the strop to gauge the proper distance, and I could hear him moving slightly to what he felt was the perfect position. There was a moment of silence, and I tensed my backside knowing my ordeal was about to begin. The first stroke echoed with a powerful CRAAACK!! throughout the barn, followed by my sharp intake of breath. It was an ideally placed stroke, catching me right on the crease between thighs and bottom. "One!" boomed Hans.
The next fifteen minutes or so continued in the same manner. Every ten seconds, like clockwork, the barn rang with the sound of leather meeting my jean-clad backside and Hans loudly announcing the stroke. "Forty seven!"
"Forty eight!", and so forth. Finally Hans called out the 100th stroke, and placed the razor strop back on the workbench. Rubbing my bottom, he observed, "I can feel some heat coming off those jeans, boy. But they really haven't done anything wrong, so I can't see punishing them any more. Up you get, and we'll have those off right now. And be quick about it. I want them neatly folded, placed on your shoes, and your brief-covered butt back up in position in less than one minute."
I complied, and all too soon found myself back on my knees, bottom raised for what promised to be a much more painful segment of my punishment. Intent on fulfilling his obligation, Hans immediately resumed my strapping. Again the sound of leather meeting bad boy bottom filled the barn, although this time it was accompanied by short yelps as I gave way to the inevitable. On and on it went, with Hans voice still strongly maintained the count: "183!"
"184!"
"185!". After what seemed like a lifetime, Hans called the 200th, and final, stroke for that set.
"Right, son. I think you're starting to get the message now. Your backside is in for the thrashing of a lifetime. I want you to get those briefs off and get back in position within one minute. NOW!" Pacing back and forth around the blanket on which I'd been kneeling, Hans swished the strop through the air with an authoritative air, continuing his monologue: "That's it for your 'warmup,' son. Now youre going to feel what it's REALLY like to get an old-fashioned woodshed strapping on your bare bottom. It's pretty red right now, but I haven't really even gotten started. It's going to be purple LONG before I'm done with you."
Even more nervous as a result of Hans' comments, I reluctantly got back into the prescribed position, my now-bare bottom raised high in the air, fully exposed to receive another painful dose of the razor strop. Picking up exactly where he'd left off, Hans began swinging that strop hard across my backside. Within twenty or thirty strokes, my yelps gave way to full-throated shouts. While I normally eschew the opportunity to remain clothed for a thrashing, I found myself desperately wishing that I had even the moderate protection my briefs offered. Still Hans kept up a steady cadence of leather on bare skin.
Only when Hans announced the 300th stroke of my strapping did relative silence return to the barn. Granted there was still the sound of me panting and whimpering, but compared to the previous fifteen minutes, the barn seemed almost ghostly quiet. After allowing a minute or two for me to regain my composure, Hans felt my burning bottom. "Yep...I do believe we're making a little progress here. OK...time for you to have a little break. Get up and stand in that corner over there, and keep your nose in it. Put your hands on your head, and I BETTER not see them come down to rub your bottom. You've got a half hour to recover a little, but I want you to be thinking about what's coming. When your corner time is done, I'll be applying the rest of the first half of your punishment: a non-stop 200-stroke strapping."
All too soon, the shortest thirty minutes of my life came to an end. All too soon, I found myself back kneeling on my blanket. And all too soon, the barn again began echoing with the sharp cracks of the strap, my loud shouts of pain and pleas for mercy, and Hans' unwavering announcement of each stroke's number. This portion of my strapping took a full thirty minutes to complete. By it's end, I was beginning to sniffle from a whipping for the first time in my life. At last it was over, and after a couple of minutes, Hans told me I could stand up.
"We're halfway there, boy, and you're actually taking it pretty well. I've had plenty of boys didn't make it this far. We can stop if you want, but I think we both know you need the second half, 'cause if you don't take it, you'll always wonder what it's like to get a real whipping. The next fifteen minutes are 'free time.' You can go to the house and get some water, use the bathroom, or whatever. Feel free to look at your backside while youre up there. It's pretty marked up now, but it's going to be a WHOLE lot worse before we're finished. When you get back here, I want your nose back in that corner for 45 minutes."
My fifteen minutes of free time elapsed very quickly, and I soon found myself back in the corner contemplating the next dose of hell my burning bottom was going to endure. Toward the end of my corner time, Hans again began talking to me. "The second half of your punishment is going to be given with the garrison belt. It's a whole lot thicker and heavier, and I'm pretty sure you'll find that it burns much deeper...especially now that your bottom has been thoroughly tenderized by the razor strop. You'll definitely be screaming soon, and I'm sure you'd be willing to do nearly anything to avoid the next lick, but I expect...no, I DEMAND that you keep your bottom in position for its punishment."
With that, the second half of my punishment began, just as the first half had ended. Hans had been true to his word: these licks hurt WAY worse than the ones with the razor strop. By the fourth lick garrison belt had revisited every inch of my bare bottom, re-igniting the raging fire back there that had never really gone out. I was screaming at the top of my lungs by the tenth stroke, but Hans kept up his regular rhythm. A SPLAAATTT!!!! followed by an inhuman shriek, and Hans calling the count: "542!", "543!". To this day I don't know how I managed to stay even slightly in position, but not once did Hans have to tell me to stop moving. Somewhere around the 150th stroke of this set, everything seemed to start to fall into place. I don't think it's that my bottom was becoming numb; I don't believe that would be physically possible, given the magnitude of the strapping I'd gotten so far. Rather, I think the pain began to blend into an all-consuming force. Each lick no longer represented a new blaze so much as it seemed to intensify the overall effect that had already been achieved.
With the 700th stroke delivered, Hans again place me in the corner for a half hour. As after the previous sets, the time flew by, and before I knew it Hans had called me back out of the corner. I started to kneel back on the blanket, but he stopped me before I could. "No, boy. This is the final set, and for it I want you bent over that saddle." He indicated a saddle mounted over a rail a few feet away. As I bent forward in position, Hans began securing my wrists, ankles, and a cinch strap over the small of my back. He continued telling me what to expect as he worked. "I noticed you finally started accepting your punishment toward the end of that last set, son. That is good. I believe you'll be able to finish your punishment, which is as it should be. But I want you fastened over this saddle with your cheeks nice and taught, and where you can't move around too much. I intend to lay this set on harder than any you've gotten so far. Judging by your bottom right now, you'd only be feeling it for a couple of weeks, but I'm going to make sure it lasts a bit longer. You should be sleeping on your stomach for quite awhile."
Hans stepped away and, taking careful aim, let fly with the first of the last 300 licks. It was indeed harder than any to that point, but any fight in me had long since evaporated. "731!"
"732!" For the first time in my life, I began to cry from a whipping...softly at first, but gradually turning into a full sob. Still it went on: "802!"
"803!"
"804!". The garrison belt continued biting hard into my flaming backside, as I cried harder and harder. My bottom felt as though it had swollen to twice its normal size, but each lick still seemed to cut through to the very base of my soul. "949!"
"950!" At that point, Hans paused in the delivery of my punishment. "OK, son, we're in the home stretch now. Brace yourself, because these last fifty are going to be very fast. It gets it over with quicker for you, but more importantly I'm going to get over any numbness and make sure your bottom's blazing at the end."
Hans laid on the last fifty with the garrison belt in about two minutes, and indeed my bottom felt as if he'd been holding a blowtorch on it. My sobbing and screaming rose about an octave, and twenty decibels, as the result of his efforts. At long last, the whipping was over. Hans undid my bonds, and rubbed my back to help bring me back under control. After a few minutes, he gently helped me up and gave me a big bear hug. "There, son. It's all over now. You took your whipping like a man, and I'm proud of you." Hans comforted me, stroking my hair, as he helped me recover. "Go ahead and cry, son. It's nothing to be ashamed of. You've earned that right. That's it...let it all out."
After a few minutes we went back into the house. I guzzled a couple of glasses of water while we conversed. Hans sat comfortably on the couch. I, of course, chose to remain standing. In a bit I took my leave, shaking Hans' hand and thanking him profusely for what truly had been the strapping of a lifetime. As I drove away, I called Mike, my disciplinarian back in Orlando. After relating the details of my session, Mike chuckled. "Well, boy," he said. "I know all about that whipping, having gotten one myself from Hans. You should be wearing the marks from that one for at least two or three weeks."
Just before I hung up the phone, Mike's last words sent a chill through me. "Don't forget, boy...we have our regular session next week. Should make my job a WHOLE lot easier, blistering your ass on top of Hans' handiwork!"