Punishment

Dennis dennisth@erols.com

My dad was a strict disciplinarian and never hesitated to march me into my room when he felt I deserved it, bending me over his knees, pulling down my pants and underpants, and applying a sound spanking to my bare backside.

As I got older, dad gave up on his hand and began to use a bedroom slipper; and man, did that ever sting, having that slamming into my bare cheeks 10 or 15 times.

Dad insisted on me taking my punishment in silence, "Like a man," to quote him; and on the few occasions when I hollered or yelled while being spanked, I'd receive an extra 10 "bonus" strokes for making such a fuss.

Several times, as I got a bit older, I'd be instructed to bend over the edge of the bed.  Dad would take off his thick leather belt, double it over, and I'd get whipped with it. 

I grew up on a farm in Kansas, so I always had "chores" and jobs to do around the farm, including helping Dad with the milking every evening and morning.

One time when I was a sophomore in high school, I came home one afternoon to find Dad in a bad-assed mood.  My report card had arrived that day, and it wasn't very good.  I'd gotten several D's, and there was a note from the principal that he was having some problems with my conduct and that I was becoming a discipline problem for the teachers.

Dad was livid, and I knew there would be hell to pay.  I tried to make amends by apologizing, saying I'd try harder.  Dad was having none of it.  "We'll discuss this and settle it out in the barn tonight," was all he had to say to me.

After we were done milking that evening, Dad told me to go upstairs to the hayloft in the barn and to wait for him.  I had a good idea this was going to be a pretty rough session, and I sure wasn't looking forward to the punishment. 

Pretty soon, I heard Dad's footsteps heading up to meet me.  When he got upstairs, I noticed that he had a razor strop in his hands.  "Just strip to your underpants," was what I was told.  I began to get undressed; and while I was doing that, Dad pulled a sawhorse over into the middle of the room.

I was ordered to bend over the sawhorse and to grab on to the sides of it.  I felt Dad's hands reach inside the waistband of my jockeys and pull them down to my knees.

"Son," Dad said to me, "I've tried to reason with you and to talk to you.  And it just seems that this is the only thing you ever understand.  I want you to think about that report card while I'm whipping you, and when I'm done, I want you to promise me you'll never act like that again."

After a long, long time, I sensed Dad getting into position behind me. I glanced around behind me to see Dad's right arm raising that strop high in the air.  There was a "whoosh" of air, a loud crack as the leather hit my flesh, and a jolt of fire tore through my entire body with the first crack of that strop against my bare buns.

"That's one," Dad shouted.  "Nineteen more to go."

The second crack landed slightly above where the first one had hit.  The stroke of leather against flesh knocked the air out of my lungs, and Dad shouted, "Two."  I held on for dear life, as the third stroke got me just on that area right above where the ass cheeks start.

My entire ass was aflame by this point, but I held on tight and took the licking. 

When dad was finished, he pulled my shorts completely off, walked me over into a corner, and made me stand there while he lectured me about what he expected from me in the future.  Tears slowly streamed down my face as I listened in shame, my ass burning.

Dad hung the strop on a nail on a pole and as he left, he told me that it was going to be there for any times in the future when I needed a lesson taught to me.

And I'm sorry to say that there were quite a few more trips out to the hayloft.