Author's Note: Here, now, is the final installment of the story. Young Thomas Murray has remembered two previous "doses" of his step-father's strap. Now, returning to the present, he heads down to the cellar to see what Cliff (his step-brother) is doing. This story is based loosely on bits and pieces of several friends' childhood memories, as well as some recent adult consensual role-play. It is intended for the entertainment of the reader and not as guidance on child-rearing.
Standing at the top of the cellar stairs, looking at the strap, the memories of my two lickings had rushed through my mind. Pulling myself back into the present, I pushed away those memories, and began to make my way down the cellar steps, hoping none of them would squeak and give me away. I wondered what Cliff had gone down in the basement to do. Was he doing what I'd watched him do in bed one night when he'd thought I was asleep? I'd wanted to ask him about that, and figured that catching him in the act would give me the perfect opportunity. As I got low enough to see the back of his head above the pile of boxes behind which he was sitting, I caught the unmistakable smell of cigarette smoke, and then saw a cloud of it billow out as Cliff exhaled. My big step-brother was smoking! This was almost as good as the other thing!
I eased myself down into a sitting position and slowly and cautiously slid down each remaining step on my rear. I sat on the bottom step. Then, brightly, I said, "Hi, Cliff! Watcha doing?"
Cliff jumped up startled, dropping his cigarette and spinning around. "Sh*t, Tom! You shouldn't f*cking sneak up on people!"
I smiled at him. "You were smoking!"
"Yeah! So what?"
"Dad told us not to!"
"Yeah? And now I s'posse you're gonna rat on me? Right?"
"No. I won't rat. But le'me have one, eh?"
"No!"
"Okay. Then I guess I will have to tell Dad!"
Cliff frowned. "Okay. Okay. You can have one, rat! Y'know, I oughta just slug you one!" Then Cliff smiled. He'd evidently realized that having me join him in the crime would guarantee my silence.
I joined him on the blanket he'd set behind the boxes. It smelled oily, but I didn't consider—nor, it seemed did Cliff—that an oily-smelling blanket spread by the boxes where Dad kept his painting supplies was not a good place to smoke a cigarette. Cliff gave me a cigarette and showed me how to puff on it while he held up the match. Then he instructed me on proper smoking technique. I looked up to my step-brother. I liked having a big brother. Cliff seemed to enjoy having a younger brother. Cliff teased and bullied me just enough to make me aware of my place, and then he was kind and generous to me. He protected me from bullies, explained things to me the way only a 15-year-old big brother can, and let me tag around with him. Sitting there in the cellar on that sunny autumn Saturday it seemed he'd decided he also liked having me as a smoking partner. I coughed and sputtered and started to feel ill, but I wanted to be like Cliff, who looked cool and sophisticated taking long, slow drags on his cigarette, which he held between his thumb and index finger.
"Smooth!" he almost purred. "These are the kind John Wayne smokes!"
Just then, we heard the distinctive sound of a car pulling up on our gravel driveway.
"Oh, sh*t! It's Mom! She's not s'possed to be home now!" Cliff exclaimed. shoving his lit cigarette under the blanket.
I followed suit. We were sitting facing the little cellar window that looked out on the drive, and we could see that it was our family car that had pulled in. Cliff jumped up and started waving away the smoke that lingered in the air. I did the same. We then started across the cellar. But Mom was already in the house, coming into the side door that led to the kitchen.
"Clifford! Thomas!" she called. "I need your help boys! Are you two here?"
Cliff hustled me to the cellar stairs and we started up.
"Down here, Mom!" Cliff called. In his guilty panic he didn't consider options for escape.
Mom opened the cellar door and looked down at us. I'm certain we both did look "as guilty as sin"—which is what Mom said about us as soon as she saw us.
"What were you boys doing down there?" she asked.
"Just looking at some of Dad's stuff?" Cliff lied.
Mom sniffed the air. I thought at first that she'd caught scent of the cigarette smoke. But then I smelled what Mom smelled, and it wasn't cigarette smoke. Cliff and I turned our heads at the same time and saw smoke rising from the blanket.
"Oh, sh*t!" Cliff exclaimed, forgetting Mom's presence at the top of the stairs.
At that moment there was a small flash and a glow behind the boxes. Cliff dashed over, as Mom hurried down the stairs. He pulled the burning blanket towards himself, rolled it up, and stamped on it. Then, rather foolishly, he picked it up—it could have re-ignited in his arms—carried it over to the laundry tub, dropped it in and ran water over it until it was thoroughly soaked.
Mom stood at the foot of the steps, her mouth agape, watching this drama unfold. "What in heaven's name is happening here? Who started that fire? What were you boys doing?"
Cliff stood before here and confessed everything. He was nearly in tears. "Please, Mom! Please, don't tell Dad! He'll skin me alive!"
"You were smoking! You nearly set the house on fire! You expect me not to tell your father? I most certainly am going to tell your father! And I hope he skins the both of you alive!" Mom shouted at us. "Get up to your room and don't either of you dare come out! You hear me?"
"Yes, Ma'am!" Cliff answered.
"Yes, Ma'am!" I repeated.
I headed up the stairs first, followed closely by Cliff who had the misfortune of having Mom right behind him. She clearly had decided to anticipate Dad's response to our crime, and she slapped Cliff's backside all the way up the cellar stairs, down the little hall between the kitchen and living room, through the living room, and half way up the stairs to our bedroom.
"Ow, Mom! Ow!" Cliff protested.
"You think that hurts? You wait till your father gets hold of you, Clifford Pierre Bouchard!" Mom shouted after us.
Once we were in our room, safely away from my raging mother, we threw ourselves down on our beds in despair.
Cliff lay on his back and said, "D*mn! That was so stupid! I nearly set the bloody house on fire!"
I didn't know what to say, so I said, stupidly, "Dad's gonna be real mad!"
"You'd better believe it, Tom! You've never seen him mad like he's gonna be when he finds out about this! He's gonna lay that strap on us hard! We won't be sitting for a month!"
I started to cry. I buried my face in my pillow, but that only made it more obvious that I was crying. I was afraid.
"Hey, Tom! Don't cry, now. Come on, Tom! I didn't really mean it, you know, about how bad it'll be! I'll tell Dad it was all my doing too! I'll say you werent smoking! I'll say you were just there watching!"
I lifted my head. "You'd do that? How come?" I asked, almost surprised, but not quite. I knew Cliff cared about me. I simply hadn't known he cared that much.
"Because I like you, and stuff," Cliff answered, obviously thinking the word "love" but unable to say it. "I don't want you to get a licking if you don't have to!"
"But I made you let me smoke!" I was sounding younger by the minute.
"No you didn't, goof! If I'd really not wanted to give you a cig, I'd of send you running! You didn't scare me with that sh*t about ratting me out to Dad!"
"I, I, well, I. No, Cliff, you can't lie that way!" I knew he couldn't, because I knew there was no way I could have gone along with the lie. I knew I couldn't lie to Dad.
Cliff fell silent. We both remained silent for what seemed like a very long time, although neither of us was wearing a watch, and neither of us moved to look at the alarm clocks ticking persistently on our night tables.
"Cliff," I said, finally, breaking the silence, "we should tell the truth. But, thanks just the same for saying you'd take the rap for me. You're a good brother."
"Sure, Tom. And you're not such a bad brother yourself."
We said nothing else. Cliff finally got up and tried to read his history book for school. I tried to study spelling words. We waited. When I finally did look at my clock it indicated a quarter to four. Dad had indicated he'd be home by four o'clock. Unless unexpectedly delayed by something, I knew he'd be home punctually.
"Dad'll be home soon," I said unhappily.
At five minutes before four, Dad pulled his truck into the drive. When I heard it, I got up on my bed and looked out the window, remembering the last time I'd been here waiting for Dad to return home, waiting for him to come up and strap me.
"Does he look like he's in a good mood?" Cliff asked.
"I couldn't see."
"I hope he's in a good mood," Cliff said.
I wasn't sure I agreed. If Dad was in a good mood, Mom's news about our misdeed would ruin it, and he'd blame us for that as well as for what we'd done.
"Margaret! I'm home!" we heard him call as he stepped into the house. He was evidently in a good mood.
I got down sitting on my bed, hugging my knees. Cliff sat on his bed with his feet on the floor, seeming to be closely examining his sock-covered toes. I imagined Mom going to meet Dad at the door, giving him a kiss and receiving one back. Then she'd tell him what had happened. Dad would question her, trying to understand clearly what she was saying. Then, he'd go down to the cellar to examine the evidence of our crime: the matches, the half-smoked cigarettes, the package Cliff had dropped on the floor, and the wet blanket in the laundry tub with the hole burned in it.
I felt my spine snap taut when Dad started up the stairs. I looked over at Cliff, who'd also snapped up straight in his place. His feet fell heavily on the steps. He made his way to our room. He said nothing before opening the door. He was holding the strap. He looked first at Cliff and then at me. Then he stepped into the room and laid the strap down on Cliff's bed. He turned, walked out of the room, and closed the door. We heard him go down to his and Mom's room. A few minutes later he proceeded to the bathroom and started the shower running. After showering, Dad returned to his bedroom. Then we heard Mom come upstairs. She went into their room and closed the door. A few minutes later she exited and headed downstairs. Then Dad came out and walked forcefully down the hall to our room. Again, he opened the door and stepped in. This time, he closed the door behind him, and both Cliff and I knew that he was ready to begin our punishment.
"You two did some fine work today," Dad began. "Fine work! Nearly burning down our house!" Dad was clearly angry, and he spoke loudly. He turned and looked at Cliff. "What got into you, boy? I told you I didn't want you smoking! I told you it wasn't good for you! And you deliberately disobeyed me! Not only that, but you did the fool thing of smoking behind a box full of paint and thinner and varnish, sitting on that old oily blanket! I've worked on wood cabinets with more sense than you have! You're not going to deny it now, are you?"
"No, Sir," Cliff answered, keeping his eyes on his feet.
"And you got your brother in on the act!"
"Yes, Sir."
Dad turned to me. "Thomas Charles Murray! Didn't I tell you I wouldn't tolerate smoking?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Then why didn't you just refuse that cigarette when Clifford offered it?"
"I, I, Cliff didn't offer it! I asked for it!" I confessed. I was very much worried about my own skin, but I was not about to allow Cliff to be blamed more severely than he deserved.
"You asked him for it?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Clifford?"
"Yes, Sir. He asked me for one. He came down and found me, and asked if he could have one."
"And you just gave it to him? You knew what I'd said, and you not only disobeyed me yourself, but you helped Tom here to do it too? Is that right?"
"Yes, Sir."
Dad sighed heavily. "Well this just takes the prize, boys! You're both aware that you really could have burned down this house, aren't you? I'm not making that up! If you hadn't caught it when you did, those paints and things would have gone up! Do you understand that, boys?"
"Yes, Sir," we both answered at virtually the same time.
"Would you have liked to send our house up in flames?"
"No, Sir," we answered together.
"Can either of you think of a single good reason why I shouldn't whale the tar out of both of you?"
We didnt answer. We had no good reason, but neither of us felt able to admit it out loud.
"I'll take it from that, that you can't." Dad sighed again. "Alright, the both of you, bare your backsides!"
Cliff stood and immediately started to strip down. I was a little more hesitant.
"Now, Thomas!" Dad snapped.
I jumped up and fumbled with the button on my jeans. By the time, I had my jeans off and was trying to summon the ability to shed my briefs, Cliff had finished stripping down. I had glanced at him many times while he was undressing. Cliff was in the full bloom of adolescence and had a thick patch of dark brown pubic hair above what I thought of as an incredibly large penis and set of balls. Cliff had become my model for what I could expect for myself. And although I remained desperately shy about undressing in front of Cliff, I took every opportunity to steal a look at my brother's body. Even in this situation, I couldn't help but look. I got my briefs off and modestly shielded my genitals with my hands.
Dad put my pillows in place. Then he ordered me to lie down with my head at the foot of the bed, looking towards Cliff's bed, which was located perpendicular to mine.
"I want each of you to be able to see the other one getting his licking, so you'll know what you've got yourselves into," Dad said.
I watched as Dad made his way to Cliff's bed and arranged his pillows. Dad simply nodded at Cliff, and my brother got into position. I looked at his round, muscular rear. Cliff was an athlete and it showed. His summer tan had started to fade, but the white ghost of his swimsuit still marked off his buttocks from his torso and legs. Even in this situation, when I was aware of the impending licking, I found myself hoping that I would look like Cliff when I was fifteen-going-on-sixteen.
Dad took up the strap. "Clifford Pierre, you're by now old enough to know better that to do the stupid, thoughtless, disobedient things you did this afternoon. And although Tom isn't guiltless, you bear more of the responsibility than he does, because you're older. Do you under me, young man?"
"Yes, Sir. Dad, I'm sorry!"
"I certainly hope so, and not just because you're about to get the licking of your young life! Clifford, I can see no reason on earth to go easy on you! I'm going to make sure you remember this one! And I hope it's the last one I have to dish out to you!"
I watched Dad begin Cliff's licking the way I watched gory horror movies, both afraid and fascinated. Dad raised the strap straight over his shoulder and let it hang back down his back. He looked down at Cliff's behind, which I could see quiver in anticipation, took careful aim, and swung the strap down.
CRACK! I looked at Cliff's face. He had his eyes pressed shut, was gritting his teeth, and grimaced visibly when the strap made contact. There was no doubt in my mind that the lick had hurt. I was impressed that Cliff had taken it without making a sound.
Dad took aim again and laid on a second lick. CRACK! Again, Cliff grimaced, but didn't make a sound. CRACK! As he'd done to me, Dad had worked his way down from the upper curve of Cliff's behind to the "sit-spot." When the third lick connected, I saw Cliff squirm just a little, and grimace more vigorously. With his white T-shirt stretched over them, I could see the muscles in his shoulders balled up in tense knots. CRACK! Dad laid the fourth lick across the backs of Cliffs legs, just below the curve of his buttocks. Cliff bucked slightly, and lifted his feet from the bed. His back muscles rippled. CRACK! Dad had returned to the beginning of his downward course. The fifth lick fell where the first had. Cliff squirmed again, and I could see his arms shaking.
Dad took a step back, obviously putting more swing into the next lick. He brought the strap down. CRACK! Cliff let out a soft gasp, before clamping his mouth shut. I could see that he was trembling. Dad again took a step and swung the strap. I felt like I did just before a roller coaster plunged down a steep incline as I anticipated the lick connecting where it would hurt the most. CRACK! Cliff gasped more loudly, and there was a kind of moistness in that gasp that told me my brother was close to tears.
By this point, my own eyes were misted over, both out of sympathy for my brother and in frightened anticipation of what I was going to get.
Dad swung the strap again and lashed the backs of my brother's legs. CRACK! Cliff lifted both shins off of the bed and kicked a little. I heard a sob escape from his mouth and a wet sniffle. Cliff slid his hands up and put them over his face. I knew he had started to cry.
My brother's smooth white buttocks had turned an angry crimson. I knew, from my own experience, that the licking had been painful. The strap was a fearsome implement of punishment, and Dad was able to wield it with great force. His work as a carpenter and wood-worker had given him strongly-muscled shoulders, powerful arms, and hands with a steady grip. Both Cliff and I loved tossing a baseball with Dad because he threw the ball hard and fast, giving us a solid challenge. We also loved and welcomed his firm hugs and pats on the back, which he gave freely. But on the receiving end of a strapping we both wished our father wasn't quite so strong.
Dad returned to the top of Cliff's buttocks and began the series again. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! When Dad hit the lower curve of my brother's buttocks, Cliff let out a loud, wet sob. CRACK! Cliff sobbed again when the strap ripped across the backs of his legs.
I had been keeping mental count. Twelve! Dad had given my brother twelve hard licks. Cliff had been reduced to tears, although he hadn't yet given out the howls I had both times I'd been strapped.
Dad swung the strap. He brought it down. CRACK! Then, very quickly, he swung again, and lashed the same spot, the fullest round curve of Cliff's rear. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! Over and over, Dad lashed the same spot. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
Dad took aim again. He swung the strap and made it connect with Cliffs "sit-spot". CRACK!
Twenty! Dad had given my brother twenty searing licks. I could hear Cliff gasping and sobbing, his hands hiding his face. He was breathing heavily, his shoulders rising and falling. His legs were trembling.
Then, he spoke for the first time since the ordeal had begun. It was a pitiful whine. "Please, Dad! No more! Please, Papa! You're killing me!"
"You just think you're dying, son, and probably wish you could," Dad responded, almost-matter-of-fact. But there was an undertone of pain. He didn't want to hurt his son, but he believed what he was doing was necessary. "I told you I wasn't going to go easy on you, and I'm not going to."
Dad swung the strap again and laid on three more fast, hard licks, working down from the full curve to the sit-spot, demonstrating to Cliff that he wouldn't yield to pleas for mercy. He had a hard task to perform and he was clearly determined to perform it.
With each of those strokes, Cliff, who had clearly broken down, let out an anguished yelp. I put my head down and closed my eyes. I could bear to watch no more. I listened as Dad gave Cliff two more licks and Cliff sobbed loudly in reaction to each one. Twenty-five!
"I'm going to deal with your brother, now, Clifford, and then we'll decide if you need another dose," Dad said. He was panting just a little. He had obviously exerted himself.
But this was a man who could saw wood, raise beams, and hammer nails for hours at a stretch. I knew that he had enough strength left to give me a licking Id never forget.
He did.
Dad stood over me. I heard him take a deep breath. He held it for a moment, then let out slowly. I had my head down and my eyes closed. Giving into fear, I pleaded, "Please, Dad! Oh, please don't do it! I won't ever smoke again! I promise!"
Dad's only response was to swing the strap. CRACK! He'd decided to start with the backs of my legs, and the lick caught me by surprise. I kicked and squirmed and let out a yelp. CRACK! Dad laid on the next lick. It connected with my sit-spot. I bucked and squirmed and sobbed.
"Please, Dad! No!"
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! Dad laid on the next three licks, one upon the other, across the round summit of my behind.
I knew, then, that I was in for a licking more severe than either of the previous two. I was terrified, both of the pain, and of my response to it. I didn't know if I could stay in place and take it. I imagined myself throwing my hands back or rolling away, and only making the ordeal worse. I told myself I could take it. I could yell and howl all I wanted, but I had to stay in place.
Dad applied two licks below the previous three. Then he gave me two across my sit-spot, eliciting my characteristic half-scream, half-sob with each. Then he lashed the backs of my legs twice.
Ten! Oh, God! Oh, Jesus! I hope he stops now! Please let him stop now! I've had enough! I'll be good! I'll be so good!
CRACK! CRACK! Dad laid on two more, again across my fullest curve of my burning rump.
"Owwwwwwwwwwwwwww! ..... Owwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!"
CRACK! Dad laid the next one onto the sit-spot.
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
CRACK! The next landed again across the sit-spot.
"AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!"
CRACK! Number fifteen burned across the backs of my legs.
Please! Please! No more! Oh, God! Please, no more!
"That'll be enough for now," Dad said.
I sank down in sobbing relief. But then my mind got hold of what Dad had said: "for now"! Was I due for another dose? Would he give Cliff further licks and then come back at me?
Dad crossed the room to where Cliff had waited in what I imagined was terrified silence. I kept my head down, not wanting to see anymore.
"Clifford, you know you deserved those licks I gave you, don't you, son?"
"Yes, Sir," Cliff sniffled.
"You know why, son?"
"Yes, Sir. I did what you told me not to do, and I got Tom involved in it when I knew better, and I almost set our house on fire. Dad, I'm so sorry I did that! I like our house! I wouldn't want to burn it down, Dad! I'm so sorry for what I did! It was stupid and bad!"
"You think you deserve another dose of the strap?"
"I, I, I don't know, Dad. I wish you wouldn't. I don't want anymore! But, Dad, if you think I deserve it, I, Dad, you gotta do what you think is right, Dad." Cliffs voice trembled, and I knew that he was dreading further licks. But somehow he found the ability to affirm Dad's authority and to indicate that he'd yield to it.
"It sounds to me, son, like I've gotten through to you. There won't be anymore." I felt Dad turn to face me. He stayed by Cliff while he spoke. "Tom, if I ever find that you've been smoking again, you'll get a licking that will make this one seem like a picnic in the park. Is that clear, son?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Youre very fortunate indeed that that fire didn't get out of control."
"Yes, Sir."
"Alright, boys, you'll go without supper tonight, and stay here in your room, except for using the bathroom, until tomorrow morning. That'll be the end of your punishment. Understood?"
"Yes, Sir." ..... "Yes, Sir."
Dad left the room, taking the terrible strap with him.
Cliff and I lay there on our beds, sniffling and groaning, but not speaking. I could smell the roast chicken and the apple pie Mom had baked, and this made me feel even more miserable.
Cliff got up first, pulling off his sweat-damp T-shirt and using it to wipe his face and brow. He sucked back hard on his running nose, limped in obvious discomfort to the chair where he'd left his briefs and jeans, and got dressed. He'd just opened the chest of drawers for a fresh shirt, when we heard Dad coming back up the stairs.
This time, Dad knocked at the door. When he spoke, his voice had changed, grown gentle, concerned. "May I come in, boys?"
"Uh-huh. Yes, Sir," Cliff answered.
I rolled off of the pillows, and used one of them to cover myself as I lay on my side on my bed.
Dad stepped into the room, his hands buried deep in his pockets, an almost shy look on his face. "Boys, your mother and I have talked it over, and we agree that it was too severe to take away your supper. The licking was enough punishment. Wash up and come down when we call you." He then turned, about to leave the room.
"Dad," Cliff said, "Um, we're both really sorry about what we did. We know it was wrong. Um, thanks for, thanks for letting us have supper." Then he held out his hand to Dad, wordlessly saying "no hard feelings."
Dad gave a pained smile. It was obvious that his anger had passed, and now he wanted only to be reconciled with his sons—his flesh-and-blood, and the one he'd made his own. He took Cliff's hand, squeezed it firmly, and then pulled him towards him and hugged him, rubbing his back. Then he stretched the hand out towards me. I tossed aside my pillow, climbed off the bed, stepped up, and let Dad pull me up next to him and Cliff. We shared a lingering three-way hug that felt better than anything I'd ever experienced—even with my rear-end still throbbing and burning.
Then, as Dad rubbed the back of my neck, I heard him chuckle. "Thomas, boy, I think you need to get some pants on!"
"Yes, Sir," I said, feeling myself blush.
That was Cliff's last licking. He never did anything to earn another. I, on the other hand..... But that is another story!