Of course all I can think about is the fact that Dad said I would get another spanking in a week. I still had blisters on my behind from where he paddled me Saturday. Thursday morning I left the bathroom door open when I took my shower. While I was shaving afterward Dad came in to get some towels. My hope was that he would see how red my butt was and take pity on me.
"Pretty much healed up?" he asked.
"Yeah," I mumbled. He started back out the door.
"Wait, Dad," I said.
"What?"
"Am I really going to get it again Saturday?"
"I said you would, didn't I?"
"Dad, I'm 16!" was all I could think of to say.
"Meet me in the garage after you've mowed the lawn," he said. Then he walked out of the bathroom. I took the towel from around my shoulders and wrapped it around my waist. It was gonna be a long two days.
That night I went into the garage to do laundry. Mom had died when I was little so we guys did our own clothes. I looked at the washing machine and all I could think of was how I was going to be standing in front of it Saturday with my pants down while Dad paddled my white butt until it got good and red.
I was on my best behavior Friday. At dinner no one said anything about it, but I went to bed dreading the next day.
I couldn't sleep much so I got up at 6 and read the paper. Dad came in and made some coffee and we talked about the baseball playoffs and the Masters Tournament. He said he was going to his club to play a round of golf. I was hoping that meant he'd let me off the hook.
"I expect you'll be cutting the grass when I get back?"
"Yes sir," I answered uncertainly.
"I'll meet you in the garage afterward," he said. "It'll only take a few minutes and then it'll all be over."
_f_u_c_k_ _s_h_i_t_ _f_u_c_k_, I thought. After he left I went into the garage to start up the mower. He had moved the little rug from its place in front of the workbench over to the washing machine. Where I would be getting a bare-ass spanking in a couple hours.
I went out and mowed and edged. I was not a happy camper. I could almost feel the paddle hitting my behind. My butt had that kind of tingly feeling you have when you know you're going to get a whupping.
When I was done with the lawn I went in the garage and put the mower away. Then I got undressed and turned on the water in the stall shower at the end of the garage. While I was soaping up I heard Dad's car pull in.
"Wait here, Son," he said. I didn't answer. I watched the water swirling around my feet into the drain. The hot water felt pretty good. Comforting, almost. I toweled off and put on some clean clothes: 501's and a T-shirt. I skipped the shoes because I figured I would probably have to take my pants off to get paddled. I combed my hair and then sat down on the little bench next to the shower. I could hear water running through the pipes and knew that meant Dad was taking a shower, too. I hoped it would put him in a better mood. I sat and waited.
Eventually he came into the garage. He had the paddle in his hand.
"Close the garage door, Jeff."
I walked to the end of the room and let down the big door. Please, please, I thought. Let this be over soon. He shut the door into the kitchen.
"Dad, please," I said. Do we have to do this? I'm really sorry for--"
"Come here," he said. He was standing next to the washing machine and the little rug where he had spanked Jeremy and me the week before.
I went over and stood on it facing the washer.
"Pants down."
I unbuttoned my Levi's and let them fall to my ankles. Dad rolled up my T-shirt so as to expose the target.
"This is to punish you and to teach you a lesson," he said, picking up the paddle off the hood of his car. "I don't like having to do this."
I clasped my hands together and wished I had my watch on. My paddling the week before had lasted 12 minutes. At least this time I had my Jockeys to--
"Do you understand?"
"Yes sir." And then: "Dad?"
"What?"
"Can I ask you something? I know I deserve to be punished, but do you have to spank me with my pants down? Can't--"
Dad put the paddle on the washing machine and laid his hand on my shoulder. "Jeff," he said, "for the next few minutes this paddle is going to do all the talking and your behind is going to do the listening. Understand?"
"Yes sir."
Then in answer to my question he pulled my underpants down around my knees. My bottom was damp from showering and the air in the garage felt cool on it. The lower part was still pink from getting spanked the previous week. I thought to myself, there are really only a few circumstances where a guy has to take down his pants: going to the bathroom, mooning someone, _s_e_x_, jerking off, having a medical exam -- or getting a spanking.
"Put your legs closer together," Dad said. I guess he was counting on grandkids and didn't want to whack me in the balls. "Stand back a little more and bend over." He pressed the paddle on my stomach to direct me back a few inches. I bent over the washer at what I thought was the right angle.
Then he reached his left arm around my stomach to hold me in place and picked up the paddle with the other hand: The party was about to begin.
I took a deep breath and shut my eyes. I concentrated on the feeling of the little rug under my bare feet and, once I was getting spanked, on the sound of the paddle slamming my poor bare ass. Sort of a hollow "pock." With my head hanging down I opened my eyes. Everything was upside down. What I could see through my right elbow was the garage ceiling, Dad's left arm wrapped around my waist and, every few seconds, the paddle itself, just before it hit me.
Dad was spanking the lower part of my buttocks. Pock pock pock pock. After each stroke he would rest the paddle on my rear end for a fraction of a second. I wondered if this was for aim, or just to rest his arm. Now I realize it was, as he put it, "to let the lesson sink in."
I tried biting my tongue, crossing my ankles, counting the licks. If I tried to shift around too much, Dad would use his left arm to move me back into position. Anyway I didn't cry as much as I had the time before, but I think I was yelling fairly loudly toward the end. Kind of a cross between "oh" and "ow." When the pain got to be too much I would put my left foot on top of the right foot, and then vice versa. The two of us were in there for maybe 10 minutes, the father diligently spanking his 16-year old son's bare bottom as the latter stood pants-down in a rolled up Honda MotoSports T-shirt and Harley-Davidson baseball cap on the little rug in front of the Kenmore washing machine in the garage with the doors closed, shoes and socks in a neat pile nearby. Dad paddled me and paddled me some more and eventually he stopped paddling. My bum was sore for another week, and that was the last time he punished me like that.
But I haven't stopped thinking about it. It's probably why I enjoy the expression on a boy's face when I tell him behind closed doors that he's really going to get a spanking: My hand on your bare bottom until it turns good and red and you are crying and sorry for misbehaving. The boy's reaction as the pants come off and he is made to bend over. The embarrassment and shame and disbelief as the underpants come down. That frozen moment of dread, his sideways glance as I raise my hand. And then the actual spanking: repeated, steady blows striking the young man where it hurts most. The tears, the pain and humiliation that are all part of making his bum turn bright red. The whole scene is just really something else.