Authors note: These events started four years ago. I received several spankings before this, but I do not like to talk about them and cannot remember them accurately, or chronologically. You should first start by reading the My True Stores....Part I-IV listed here at this site under Mouse. What you are about to read is another true account and some say is a little harsh. I am fine with it now, though I was not into it at the time. I only started liking spankings whippings shortly after turning 12 years old. Now, thinking about them is a turn on. Enjoy!
Fall of fifth grade was a great year in school, except for math. I suck at math big time. Not that I was not smart enough, as I had tested very high on two intelligent quotient exams, but because I simply hated math! This of course was reflected in my grades that fall. This is what started my weekly whippings from my father and friends.
I was not into boys then as much as girls, and that didnt change until 6th grade. I usually fell in love with one girl for the year, but because of my size I was looked upon as the cute little blonde kid. It was around then that I picked up the nickname Mouse because of my size. Though I am still not happy about being physically immature, I do kinda like the special nickname, so I kept it. I loved my homeroom teacher. She was very nice and pretty. My math teacher sucked the hair off bald cats! He was not my favorite person, nor I his. He had dandruff, bad breath and I am pretty sure he was also a little light in the loafers. The first F came at the sixth week mark. A copy of my progress report arrived to my Dad at work via e-mail that day in mid-October. Not a happy day for me or my bod.
My Dad did enjoy punishing me and did so at least 2 or 3 times a month before this point. His usual method was my bare bottom over the side of my bed with his leather belt doubled up. He started to develop a routine about a year before that where I must pull my own pants and underwear down below my knees and bend over the bed or stand with my legs spread and hands locked together on my head. Back then, the whippings were usually in my bedroom and lasted about 10 minutes with corner time for 30 minutes. His rules had been simple. Dont move! Dont scream! Or else!
I came home that day not knowing of course about the email arrangement the school had implemented this year. I had already done a fair job on faking his signature on the bus ride home and was not worried any further. When you are ten you dont think about what comes next.
After I changed into my play clothes, I went and played with my friend Dave at his house. All had been forgiven and pretty much forgotten since the pool whipping last summer with him. We never mentioned it at all and nope, no one else ever found out. I can only remember what we did that day because it first started with Dave doctoring his progress report and getting my opinion on his craftsmanship. I said it looked great (it really sucked) but hey what are best friends for? Then we did CDs for a while and looked at his Dads playboys. It was finally dinnertime and I went home with not a care in the world. I walked in the door past the fan that the _s_h_i_t_ just hit, hearing my dads voice calling me into the family room.
My mind raced--which one of twelve possibilities had he found out about? I tried to gage the tone of the scream to decide if it was really bad news. I was no angel and was always into something. I appeared in the family room and was puzzled.
My father was sitting in his chair, but over on the couch was a man I never saw before.
So I took a stab; "I swear Dad, I never meant to hit him!"
Both looked puzzled. I realized they had no idea what I was blabbering about. What made it worse was I had no clue either. Anyway this was nobodys father from the neighborhood so I was safe. Yeah right.
"I got this email from your school," he said as he handed it to me.
I swear to God I that felt both of my balls fall down my pant leg. He knew.
"I am sick of you not trying so we are going to do things different until you wake up!"
"You are going to get a whipping every week until your grades are Bs or higher."
"Dad, I cant do it, I am crap at math! This is not fair!"
The other man just sat there on our couch looking very stern at me. He was about my dads age, taller, thinner, with jet-black hair. Kind of looked like a gangster.
"Take off all your clothes!" My father ordered.
"Yes sir," I said from my cloud of confusion. I had to figure a way out of this. I turned and started for my room when my dad yelled again.
"Where do you think youre going?"
"To my room."
"No. I said strip, you are getting it right here and now."
I had just realized that my mother was not home. It was just me, Dad, and his gangster friend. I started undoing my jean buttons. I was not scared of being whipped, but more confused as to why I was getting it in front of his new friend. As I unzipped my jeans, they simply fell to the ground around my ankles and I stepped out of them.
"Stand in the middle of the floor facing Mr. Smith."
For all I could remember now, that could have been his name, but I do not remember as I only called him Sir from that point on.
"Continue undressing son," Mr. Smith commanded.
I looked over at my dad, still seated in his favorite chair, and he gave me that look like I better move it or lose it.
Looking back at Mr. Smith, "Yes sir."
I grabbed at my swim team sweatshirt and tugged it off over my head exposing my bare chest and armpits to Mr. Smith. I was standing in only my, briefs and socks. Mr. Smith was slowly unbuckling the belt on his pants. Both my Dad and Mr. Smith were still dressed in their suits from work. I started to ask what was going on, to protest, but thought better of it. I then knelt down and removed both socks, stood up and put my thumbs inside the waistband of my colored underwear and tugged them down and off, discarding them to the side with the rest of my clothes. I stood completely nude, only three feet from Mr. Smith on our couch. My Dad didnt budge. He was still seated in his easy chair to my right.
I was about to be whipped naked by a stranger in front of my father. Now--this would turn me on, then--it only confused the crap out of me. I didnt know what to do other than comply. Mr. Smith stood up and gave me orders....
"Back up and assume the position!"
I stared dumbstruck at him.
"Did you hear him?" my dad barked.
"Yes sir."
I quickly placed my hands on top of my head locking my fingers together and spread my legs as far as I could without sliding down in splits. This was the way my dad had taken to whipping me most times.
"Thats Better. Now lets go over some ground rules. Your father and I discussed your failing math grade at work today. We discussed how I handle my son Rob in situations like this. We agreed that I will handle your weekly punishments. They will be hard and painful, period! You do not move unless you have permission, you count off your lashes and you do not cry. You take it like a man or it will be twice as long."
My mouth must have been on the floor listening to all this. The only way I remember what he had said that evening was that it re-occurred every week thereafter until my Dad left home over a year ago.
"Do you understand me?" He barked.
"Yes sir." I replied holding back tears.
He walked behind me with his thick, black belt in his right hand. You always notice what hand the belt is in because you know it will be that side that will get most of the bite.
He did not hesitate. He did not give any warning. He hit and hit hard across the middle of my bareback.
Ca-rack!
I gasped, and quickly removed my hands from my head to try and rub the shockwave of pain flaring out in all directions. I was not ready, especially for my back to be hit. The only other time I was ever seriously whipped on my back had been once that past summer at the pool by the lifeguard and my friend Dave. It hurt just as bad, but I had been better prepared for that lash. This one came out of the cheap seats in left field. It burned like fire.
I was firmly grasped by Mr. Smith and turned back to position.
"That will cost you another 10 strokes to the same spot! Count off ten."
"Yes Sir" I replied in a squeaky voice, no pun intended.
I slowly replaced my hands back on my head and spread my legs. I tried to steel myself for the next lash. I didnt wait long.
Crack!
"One Sir!"
"Thats right, hurts doesnt it?"
Crack! Right in the same exact spot, dead center across the middle of my back.
"Two Sir!
The burning was intense. I was crying already, but silently. I felt like I was back at the pool last summer. Where did these guys get lessons in whipping? Why did I have to count off my own lashes? Why was he here? I hated him.
Crack!
"THREE SIR!!!"
"Dont you yell at me son! Count normal!"
"Yes sir, sorry sir, I didnt...."
Crack!
"Four sir."
Same spot. The room was spinning. This was the hardest I had ever been whipped. I looked over at my Dad who was sitting there watching with blank expression. He just leaned back with his legs crossed as though he was relaxing reading the newspaper.
Crack!
"Five sir," I carefully counted off so not to yell and rile his wrath on me again.
Crack!
"Six sir"
Crack!
"Seven sir."
He seemed to slow down and wait between lashes now. My knees started to shake.
Crack!
"Eight sir."
Crack!
"Nine sirrrrr." It was hurting bad. I didnt know how many more I could take.
Crack!
"Ten sir."
Too scared to get out of position I just stood and whimpered quietly.
"Now start over and count correctly."
I steeled for the next stroke of his heavy thick belt across my flaming back.
Crack!
"One sir." I grunted.
This again surprised me, as it was not on my back, but dead center across my bottom. I arched my back and loosened my grip and almost took my hands off my head completely. I quickly recovered.
Crack!
"Two sir" I cried out.
I couldnt help it the lash landed just below my butt across my right leg, snaking around and snapping on the front near my balls.
Crack!
"Three sir."
Agony is all I can describe what I felt at this point. The lash landed high on my shoulder blades.
Crack!
"Four sir."
The lower part of my white bottom lit up.
Crack!
"Five sir."
I raised the left foot onto the ball and buckling my leg to erase some of the searing pain that was felt on the upper left leg as the belt rebounded away from it.
This continued for a total of twenty minutes in the same pattern; back, butt, right then left leg. He moved these lashes around so none hit the same target again for some time. The pain was intense. I wanted to shoot my math teacher for that email to my Dads work. Mr. Smith would never had been there if my dad had not read and discussed this on the spot with him in the office.
I do not remember how many lashes I got that first whipping from Mr. Smith, I do know it was a lot more and harder than any lashing to that point in my life. When he finally finished, I was instructed to turn and face him. He was slowly putting his belt back on. I started to remove my hands from my head and he barked....
"What do you think you are doing?"
My hands raced each other back to position before I knew they had moved. I stood leering at him. He looked tired and sweaty, breathing very hard.
"That was just your first of many," he said as he walked back behind me to the couch.
I didnt dare move. I just stood there in spanking position no longer crying. Just pissed and plotting my revenge (in my mind of course).
My back, buns and legs were on fire. I looked down and could see where some of the red and purple stripes had snaked around onto my tits, stomach, hips and legs. Tears were streaming down my face, even though I was instructed not to cry.
Mr. Smith then reappeared in front of me with a paddle! I had never been hit with one but I knew from friends that I did not want to be. My neighbor and friend, Randy got his in the garage in his underwear with a canoe paddle. I had seen his butt hours after a 20-swat paddling and it was black and blue.
Mr. Smiths paddle was different. It was a lot shorter, made of a heavy wood and had 16 big holes in rows. I later learned that was to create less wind resistance, increase sting, and leave blisters in the shape of holes where your butt checks where sucked into them.
"Ok, stand here." He said pointing to the floor a few feet back from our pass-through kitchen counter.
"Now lean forward and place your hands on the counter and spread your legs a part."
"Yes sir." I replied as I got into position.
"Count off 40 good swats to your rear end."
"Are you ready?" Are you kidding! What kid is ever ready for a beating?
"Yes sir."
SMACK!
I had to look down to see if my balls were still attached and not splattered forward under the counter. That was the single most excruciating pain I had ever felt. There was no doubt he put all he had into the first swat.
"One sir...." I managed to squeak out.
SMACK!
This one was slightly lower catching the bottom cheeks and upper legs (mostly my right). I buckled and collapsed to my knees crying very hard, my hands stretching to maintain their grip up on the counter now above me.
He calmly placed the paddle on the counter. Placing his hands on my bare hips he lifted me back up and instructed me to spread my feet.
Picking back up the paddle he said; "Start over."
SMACK!
"One sir."
Lightening passed through my butt and out my mouth. Smack after smack registered on my tiny bottom. My head would toss back with each strike and I would call off the required count. The agony continued for a full 40 swats as hard as he could.
I did not move after swat 40. I didnt dare. He walked back and talked to my Dad who was sitting behind me. I could not here what was said but I knew I was not yet through. Finally Mr. Smith told me I could stand up but I could not touch my sore bottom.
I turned to see him still holding the paddle. Gulp. I just swallowed my pancreas.
"Over here on your hands and knees now." He said pointing at the middle of the floor.
I limped over and carefully kneeled down and got in horse position. He then straddled me facing my butt and took the paddle and lightly tapped the inside of my calves. I spread my legs in obedience to him.
"I want you to arch your back so I can see your butt hole"
"Yes sir." I complied.
"Now, count off another 40 swats in this position and make sure you keep your back arched lifting your butt up."
"Yes sir."
SMACK! Came the downward stroke of the paddle over the lower part of my spread crack. My butt hole made for a hasty retreat. However, I knew if I did not obey, I would get more, so I re-arched my back and raised my butt for the next swat giving a healthy,
"One Sir."
I took all 40 swats without incident. I could no longer feel the pain like I had the first 40 or the belt lashes. I was kind of numb. I stared at the carpeted floor until he unstraddled my skinny torso and the spanking was over.
I stood up slowly at his command. Since I was used to corner time, I was not at all surprised when I was ordered over into the corner. Only things were different. I usually did this in the privacy of my room and I could rub my butt. Mr. Smith told me to place my hands on my head and not to touch my butt. I am sure it gave a good view; a skinny blonde-haired boy sobbing with two aircraft lights for buns a few feet away in the corner of our den.
I finally was allowed to get dressed again. I gingerly pulled on my underpants. My bottom was super hot and swollen from the eighty-plus swats and over a hundred belt lashes.
While he was putting back on his suit coat, he looked at me and said; "See you on Sunday for your next lesson. I have a feeling my son Rob will be joining you, as his bottom will need some adjusting too.
Mr. Smith shook hands with my dad and walked out with paddle in hand. I was too tired to worry about the upcoming Sunday spanking with Rob, whom ever Rob was. The door shut and my Dad turned and gave me a hug, it felt good.
Watch for MTS Part 2 "Rob". Feel free to email comments to me at Mousetoomouse@yahoo. com.