bbd1

Marks Report Card

Mark walked in the house that afternoon and knew right away that something was wrong. Dad sat at the kitchen table. Arm muscles pumped and bulging, he'd evidently just finished a workout session with the weight set he kept in the basement. Wearing a tattered, sweat-soaked muscle shirt and a pair of faded, snug 501 jeans, he looked at a piece of mail with a frown on his face. Mark said a hasty, "Hello," grabbed an apple from the bowl in the middle of the table, and headed for the door, when his dad said, "Hold on there, just a minute, son." Mark stopped in his tracks. The steel in his dad's voice caused his stomach to perform flip-flops. "Your report card just arrived."

Mark thought to himself, "Oh, fuck me! Shit."

Dad held the card in his hand and looked at it, shaking his head. "I think there's a problem with this. Let's see. What does it say here? Math, C minus. History, D. English, D. Geography, incomplete. Science, another D. Phys. ed., C minus. C minus in phys. ed.?

"I have a question for you, son: How in the hell do you get a C minus in phys. ed? Shit, when I was a kid, if you showed up in a clean jockstrap and took a shower, you got an A."
Mark tried to stammer out an excuse, "Well, you know, Dad, the coach has it in for me sometimes. He doesn't like me--" but he was abruptly cut off by his father.

"Oh, I see. I see. The reason you have such a piss-poor report card is everyone has it in for you? Huh?"

When Mark didn't answer, his dad stood up and shouted, "When I ask you a question, you answer me! Do you hear me?"

"Yes, yes, sir," stammered Mark. "I guess I should have studied harder."

"Yes, sir, son, I guess you sure should have studied harder. You sure should have."

As if remembering another thought, his dad said, "Oh, yeah. Something else. There's a note from the principal here at the bottom. Want to hear what it says?"

He wanted to say, "No, Dad, I really don't give a fuck what it says," but he knew better. This was a time for him to keep his smart mouth shut. He said meekly, "Yes, sir."

"It says, 'Mark appears to be having some disciplinary and conduct problems. He is frequently insubordinate to his teachers and is often rude and disrespectful to authority figures.'

"What do you think about that?" And after a moment's silence: "Well, never mind what YOU think about that. Do you want to know what I think about that?"

"Yes-yes, sir," stammered Mark.

"I'll tell you what I think about that - I think you and I better head upstairs to my bedroom. We have a score to settle about this situation, and I think we better get to it right now."

"Please, sir. Please, sir. I promise to try harder. I'll study. I'll be better."

"I'm sure you will be better, son, because I'm going to do everything possible to make damned sure that you do better in the future. Now, let's just march upstairs." A beefy hand grabbed the back of Mark's neck, and Dad firmly steered him towards the staircase.

The trip to the bedroom was a silent one. Mark led the way, his dad following -- heavy footfalls on the stairs -- bringing up the rear. Mark had received punishment from his dad before - a swat or two on his behind with his dad's large hands, one time a spanking - bent over his dad's knees - with a bedroom slipper. One time his dad even pulled his pajama bottoms down and gave him five or six quick whacks with a wooden paddle.

Mark had a feeling he was in for a different type of punishment today. Briefly, he considered challenging his dad and refusing to follow orders. Since turning sixteen, he'd started filling out: gaining weight, growing taller; and the sessions in the gym at school had added bulk to his body. His chest had beefed up and he sported a nice-looking set of grapefruit-sized biceps. He'd seen the girls at school - and even some of his buddies - admiring his newly developed physique; but deep in his heart, he knew there was no way in hell he could take on his dad and win.

His dad played football and wrestled in high school and college. Despite a slight thickening of his body over the ensuing years, pumping iron, bike riding, and running kept his dad in splendid shape. Even his best friend, Carl - who was gay and made it with lots of guys -- used to comment on his dad by saying, "What a body, man!" on the not infrequent occasions his dad hung around the house in gym shorts or shirtless. His dad was taller, beefier, and stronger than Mark. And what's more, his dad knew it, and Mark knew it.

Ever since Mark's mother died three years earlier, he and his dad faced things on their own, getting by, each one pitching in to help. Mark realized that he'd got a pass on a lot of things that used to be a big deal to his dad: being home by curfew, doing chores, being mindful that his dad was boss and The Man of the House. Little things slid by, and Mark knew he'd taken advantage of the situation for a long while. Mark figured things were about to change - and not necessarily for the better for him.
Dad's bedroom was quiet and cool and smelled faintly of Old Spice after-shave. It was a neat room: a four-poster bed, tidily made, an easy chair. Comfortable. Everything put away precisely. It was the room of a man for whom discipline meant a great deal.

After entering the bedroom, Mark's dad shut the door firmly behind him. "Mark, I want you to take your shirt off and I want you to take your jeans off." Mark undressed, shucking first his shirt and then his blue jeans, shivering slightly in his underpants. His dad stripped off his sweaty shirt, revealing a thick muscular chest, covered with a thick mat of soft blond hair. Though scared and fearful, Mark still gazed admiringly at his dad's well-muscled torso, realizing the wisdom of obedience to earlier orders. Like he might be stupid enough to try to "take on" the old man. Hah!

Dad reached down to his waist and unbuckled his thick, black leather belt. He slowly snaked it through the loops of his jeans. Calmly and deliberately, he doubled the belt over and snapped it together several times, making a loud popping sound as leather slapped against leather. Each crack of the belt caused a bubble of fear to form at the pit of Mark's stomach.

"Son, you know I'm disappointed as hell in that report card you brought home. I realize for a while that you've been acting up and getting out of hand. Ever since your mother passed, I've tried to go easy on you, knowing how hard it was for both of us. I know it's not easy for a guy.
"But I didn't realize how out of control you were until I saw that report card; and now I guess you know what has to be done, don't you?"
Mark gulped, "Yes, Dad. "You have to give me a spanking?"

"Let's put it this way, son. I'm going to whip you. Spanking is for kids and little boys. You've become a man, Mark - and you deserve a man's whipping. Do you understand me, son?"
"Yes, sir." What else could he say?

"I'm going to turn you over my knee, and I'm going to whip your ass long and hard. When I get through, I'm going to ask you if you've learned anything. And I want an honest answer from you. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir."

Then Mark's dad positioned himself in the easy chair beside the bed. He took the belt and wrapped it tight around his fist several times, leaving a nice workable extension of leather - enough for the serious business at hand. "Come over here, son, and get yourself bent over my knee."
Mark did as he was told, bending across his dad's knee. Dad lifted one of his own legs and effectively and firmly pinned Mark's legs in position. "Now I want you to grab that bedpost." Mark did as he was instructed, holding on tightly.

By looking across the room, Mark could see everything in the floor-to-ceiling mirror on the opposite wall. Mark watched as his dad's powerful arm rose in the air, the tongue of leather belt held in position for a second, and then felt a slight whoosh in the air just before the belt hit his bottom, covered only by the thin fabric of white cotton jockey shorts. There was a solid smack of leather meeting cloth as a stripe of heat settled across the center of his tender rear end.

"OW!" yelled Mark.

"Quiet!" ordered his dad. "I want you to take this whipping like a man. Yell like that again and it'll cost you 10 extra strokes after I'm finished."

Mark held on to the bedpost for dear life and gritted his teeth as the belt ascended high in the air and again bit into his backside. "Whomp." The stroke landed just slightly below the first one, searing his butt with pain; but Mark kept his mouth shut, emitting only the slightest of grunts. The third stroke fell above the center of his ass, creating another area of soreness. Two additional strokes quickly followed, completely covering his ass with a glowing warmth.
The next five strokes proceeded in steady succession, and Mark began to feel pretty confident and cocky that he was going to come through this all right. Hell, yeah, sure he'd be sore. His butt would be red and raw for a few days; but he was handling this like the man his dad wanted him to be. "Shit," he thought to himself, "I'm tough as fucking nails. I am one hard, mean stud."

In some ways, he was beginning to enjoy the taste of the belt. He actually felt a slight stirring in his crotch. He pictured some of his buddies catching sight of his whipped ass as he imagined himself parading around the gym shower stalls, buck naked, bragging about the thrashing he'd taken from his old man the day before.
As he watched the progress of the whipping in the mirror, Dad's eyes took on an look of firm determination - a commitment to the task at hand. Dad's body glowed with rivulets of sweat trickling down his hirsute chest. Once again, Dad's mighty right arm rose high, the belt flying, and came crashing down with a firm loud "whomp." Mark couldn't believe it. He was getting turned on watching his dad whip his butt.

"Better watch it," he thought to himself, "Dad sure as hell won't like it if I throw a hard on while he's licking me."

After the tenth stroke, there was a pause while Dad caught his breath. Mark relaxed a little, almost regretful it was over so quick. Then without warning, Mark felt Dad's hands grasp the waistband of his underpants, tugging them down, exposing Mark's warm, bare ass. As the shorts were pulled lower, his dad released his legs from their vise-like grip, dragged the jockeys down Mark's legs, and stripped them completely from his body. Again, Dad pinned Mark's legs tightly, and in the mirror Mark saw Dad gaze at his son's exposed fiery ass.

All of a sudden, the belt rose and descended with a loud crack on bare flesh. A lightning bolt of flame bit Mark's ass. "OW!" he bellowed. Another crack, harder the previous stroke.

"OW!" he screamed, unable to suppress his shouts. Dad laid on harder than ever - and now his poor ass was naked.

"Quiet, son!" his dad ordered, grabbing him heavily by the neck with his free hand. "What did I tell you about yelling and making a fuss? Take it like a man - or else."
Mark held on for dear life, vowing not to shout; but when the belt fell violently yet again -- another crack of stiff leather on bared flesh -- he couldn't restrain himself, "Ow! Oh, God, please Dad! Please Dad! Please Dad! No more, please. I can't stand it." All of a sudden, he didn't feel so convinced of his ability to withstand his punishment.

His pleas fell on deaf ears. With almost a grin of satisfaction on his face, his dad said, "Son, you're gonna have to stand it. Just hold on tight and take it like a man." The fourth and fifth strokes on bare skin made Mark moan deeply. Mark began to cry. As five more strokes were delivered, Mark whimpered like a dog, realizing he was angering his father with his cries. After 10 licks, Mark was told to stand up, walk to the corner, and face the wall.

Dad lectured him then, while Mark's body shook in disgrace, tears coursing down his face, more with the shame of his deficiencies than the ache of the punishment. His butt ablaze, his spirit whipped, his dad sternly reprimanded him for his wrongdoing. "Son, you will never bring home another report card that looks like that. You will be in you room studying every night for the next month. Tomorrow morning, you will walk into the principal's office and apologize for your rudeness and your misbehavior. You will tell the principal that your father punished you and that you have learned your lesson.

"Do I make myself clear?"

After the lecture - which in some small manner hurt more than the whipping he'd endured - Dad said, "Now there's the matter of the bonus punishment for acting like a cowardly boy. You just stay there and face the wall."

Mark could hear his dad in the bathroom adjoining the bedroom. Dad took a leak. Mark heard the loud stream of piss in the toilet. The toilet flushed. Mark heard water running. When Dad returned to the bedroom, in his hand he held the old-fashioned razor strop that usually hung beside the bathroom sink. It was a twenty-four-inch strip of smooth, slick black leather. Mark felt it was going to be his "bonus." And he was right.

"Son," his dad said, "my dad used this on me, and I guess I deserved it most of the time. He and I made a lot of trips to the woodshed with this strop. Believe me when I tell you, I know exactly what it feels like on a bare ass. Some times your granddaddy whipped me so hard I couldn't sit for a week without thinking of the hiding he gave me.

"After you came along, he gave me the strap, telling me I might need it for you someday. I hoped never to have to use it, but you don't leave me much choice.
"Now I want you to step over to the bed, bend over the side, and point your ass in the air. I'm going to give you 10 strokes with this strop, and I want you to count every one as you get them. These are bonus strokes to remind you to take your next whipping like a man. Don't lose count, because if you do, I'll start over. Do you understand me, son?"

Mark managed to say, "Yes, sir," as he positioned himself across the edge of the bed, once more grabbing hold of a bedpost. "Hold on tight," said his dad, getting in place behind his upturned ass. Watching in the mirror, Mark viewed Dad raise the strop high in the air. As he stretched his right arm above his head, cords of muscle rippled like snakes. The strop fell with a force that emptied Mark's lungs of air and made him gasp in pain. "CRACK!" went the sound of the thick razor strop tearing into raw flesh. "Count them, son," Dad commanded.

"One," Mark said. His ass was inflamed; but, surprisingly, the bite of the strop almost had a chilling effect on the fire.
The next stroke added to the combustion, but now Mark experienced a sensual feel as the leather bit. "Two," counted Mark.
The third stroke cracked loudly, and Mark shouted, "Three," and added, respectfully, "sir."
"Good boy," said his father, pride in his voice, applying the strop a fourth time.
"Four, sir. Thank you, sir."
"That's it, son. Thank your dad for caring enough to beat your ass when you deserve it."

Mark noticed that Dad had a satisfied smile on his face as he whaled his son's tail end, knowing that the licking was being appreciated as richly-deserved discipline.
As the fifth stroke landed, Mark's backside raised slightly as though meeting the tongue of leather, welcoming its bite. "Five, sir. Thank you, sir, for whipping my ass."
"Good boy, Mark." Dad stepped back for a brief moment, admiring the stamina of his grateful son and the sight of his own well-developed body in the mirror as he punished Mark's needy ass.
Stroke number six: "Six, sir. Thank you, dad, for whipping me."
"You know you deserve it, don't you, boy?"
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I'm getting the whipping I asked for."
"Yes, you are, son. You are indeed."
Stroke number seven: "Seven, sir. Thank you, sir."
"Just keep counting, boy."
Then number eight: "Eight, sir. Thank you, sir."
"You're welcome, boy. Here's another."
Number nine: "Nine, sir. Thank you, sir, for my whipping."
"Good boy, son." There was a long pause. "And, son, here's the last."
Dad stepped back, glanced in the mirror, and noticed Mark was watching the entire beating. Dad's chest swelled in pride - at the licking he was dishing out, and the hiding his son was taking. "My son is a real man," he thought to himself.
His muscled right arm arced high in the air, holding high the mighty tongue of leather Mark was growing to love. Dad lowered the strop for the final stroke.
"CRACK!"

Mark felt his ass explode in pain and joy and fire and heat, an embrace of leather on naked inflamed flesh. His cock was fully erect, and he shouted a grateful, "Thank you, sir. I love you, Dad."

Then it was over. Dad was panting and sweating with exertion from the licking he'd just administered to Mark. He stood above him, inspecting his son's throbbing, sore ass.
"Go to your room, boy. Think about what happened to you today. See if you can't learn to be better. The razor stop will always be there for us to settle these things. If you misbehave, you and this razor strop will get to be real close friends. Remember, if you won't listen to me with your ears, I'll just beat the lesson in through your ass."
Later in his room, lying face down on his bed, feeling the fire in his butt glowing like an ember, Mark began to wonder. He thought about each step of the licking he'd received, the taste of every stroke - the belt whipping his underpants-covered rear end; then whipping of his exposed ass sticking up in the air for his dad to see. Finally, the razor strop, so masterfully wielded by his Dad's powerful arms. He thought about Dad, his thickly-muscled bare chest covered in a sheen of perspiration, the droplets of sweat trickling through the pelt of hair, whaling away on him. Then he thought about a time in the past, imagining his dad and his grandfather out in the woodshed, Dad taking a punishment similar to what Mark had endured this afternoon.

Mark wondered what his dad thought about as he whipped him - while his ass colored brighter with each vigorous stroke. He wondered if Dad might have been turned on at the power he held over Mark. Might he have thought about the licking he used to get with the strop? And as Mark thought about it, his balls tightened, and his cock grew. "Could it be perhaps Dad is somewhere - in his room maybe - thinking about the whipping he gave me, maybe with his own dick getting hard and thick?"
Mark slowly and carefully turned over on his back, relishing the pain in his buttocks, reaching for his long stiff cock.