Riding the Fender

                      Author : Assburn

I was a teenager during the final years of World War II.  Gasoline was rationed and only people who needed their cars in order to earn a living were able to get coupons for extra gas.  Dad traveled in connection with his business and had a special coupon book, but this meant that he had to be very careful so that nobody would think that he was using the extra gasoline for pleasure.

Like all young boys, I couldn't wait until I was old enough to drive, and I constantly pestered Dad to let me drive the car when we went places together. He was reluctant to do this, however, because, although he was on business, somebody who knew him and saw him with his son driving the car might think that he was using his special coupons to buy gas in order to teach me to drive.  How I longed to drive a car!  I knew how to drive, of course, because he had given me some lessons, but opportunities were few and far between. And, above all, he had made it very clear that under no circumstances was I ever to drive any other person's car or start ours on my own.  He had warned me that if I did and he found out about it that he would give me a tuning (his word for a spanking) that I never would forget.  I knew that if I did break these rules it would be my ass, because when he promised punishment in connection with a broken rule the promise was kept.

One evening, the summer I turned fifteen, I was horsing around out in the yard with the two Bromwell boys who lived next door to us.  Skip was about a year younger than I.  Just how old his little brother was I do not remember, but probably about two to three years younger (I thought of him as a little kid). At any rate, the Bromwell boys were fourteen and eleven or twelve.  They had not lived next to us for more than a year, perhaps, because Skip was simply amazed when he learned that I still got spanked occasionally, and he was very curious about the whole matter.  How he found out I do not know.  I do remember that he had heard my Dad ask me several times when I was horsing around and on the verge of getting into trouble if I wanted a tuning.  I, of course, always straightened up immediately and got on my good behavior.  Skip had asked what Dad meant by a tuning, and I had told him that this was his term for an ass-burn (as most of us boys in our neighborhood called it).  He had seen how quickly I got on my best behavior after being warned by Dad and soon caught on that this was no idle threat.  He had asked me if my Dad really would spank me, and I had assured him that he would.  And, of course he had seen the paddle that hung in my closet and had inquired about it too.  What he did not know, however, was that I got spanked on my bare bottom (but he found out about that the night I caught hell in the garage).

While we were in the yard some family friends drove up and asked my parents to go someplace with them.  Suddenly I found myself at home alone, the car in the garage just waiting, and an opportunity to show off to a couple of younger boys.  The temptation proved too much to resist.  I went inside the house,took a spare set of car keys, asked the Bromwell kids if they would like to go for a ride, and off we went.  We didn't drive very far or very long, because I knew that there would be hell to pay if Dad got home before I did.  We returned home after twenty minutes or so.  I put the car back in the garage, returned the keys to their place, and went back into the yard to join the Bromwell kids, who I thought probably really looked up to me now.  What I didn't know was that their mother had been looking for them while we were out riding and had asked where they had been.  They, of course, told her.  Why she didn't get on my case about me having taken them in the car with me I do not know, but as soon as Mother and Dad returned home she called to report her displeasure.

The first I knew that I was in trouble was when Dad came up to me in the yard, informed me that he had just received a telephone call from Mrs. Bromwell, and told me to get the paddle and bring it to him in the garage.  Well, I was flabergasted. I was dismayed he had found out, but I simply couldn't believe my ears when he ordered me to bring the paddle to him in the garage.  He went on towards the garage, which was at the back of the house on the alley.  I just stood there, dumbfounded, until he turned around and told me to get a move on or it would be a whole lot worse for me.

As I started for the house, Skip Bromwell suddenly came to life and started asking lots of questions as he followed me.  Was my Dad going to spank me? Was he going to use the paddle?  Would he do it in the garage?  And on and on.  I finally told him to shut up and to go home, but when I emerged from the house carrying the paddle en route to the garage, there he and his brother were, with about three other boys from the neighborhood. They already had managed to spread the news that I was going to get an ass-burn out in the garage.  I was absolutely mortified to see an audience looking on with grinning faces. 

As soon as I entered the garage, Dad closed the door, but Bromwell's garage was right next to ours and the kids simply hurried home and climbed up to look from the window of their garage into the window of ours.  I didn't know it at the time, thank goodness, but I certainly was reminded of on many occasions after the spanking was over.

When I enter the garage and Dad had closed the door, he told me to give him the paddle.  He then proceeded to give me one hell of a tongue lashing, going over everything he had said many times before and ending up asking me if I remembered what he had told me would happen to me if I ever broke any of the rules concerning driving a car before I had a legal permit.  I stood there, head hung low, silent--this I remember--until he finally told me that I had better tell him before I was even sorrier than I was going to be.  So I had to confirm to him that I was fully aware that if I ever broke any of the rules I would get my bare bottom paddled.  He then asked me to tell him just what exact rules I had broken. I recited them:  driving the car alone without a permit, taking other kids with me, and using gasoline that was rationed when he needed it in order to earn a living.  He then ordered me to take my pants down and to bend over the front fender of the car for a tuning I never would forget.

I peeled my pants down to my ankles and my undershorts to my knees, as I had many times before, but now instead of lying over Dad's lap I had to bend over the fender.  There I was, spread over the fender, my bare ass well exposed, dreading the paddling that was soon to follow.  Then he started.  He put his left hand in the middle of my back, holding me down, and proceeded to lay that paddle full force across my naked butt.  God, how it hurt, because standing up he got lots more leverage to his swing than he ever had sitting down with me over his lap.  That paddle fell on my poor backside over and over.  Each swat felt like something had exploded on my bottom.  The pain was unbelievable. Before long I was hollering my head off, begging him to stop, telling him how sorry I was, and promising that it would never happen again.  Finally I broke into tears and sobbed away completely out of control.  But Dad just kept pounding away on my blazing ass.  I was in agony and blind with pain, and I kept blubbering, hollering, and pleading with him to stop.  When he finally did, my butt was the sorest it ever had been and I was a complete mess--sweating, tear-stained, hair disheveled.  Dad told me to pull my pants back up, to walk before him straight into the house and into my room, and to go to bed and stay there for the night.  Then he handed me the paddle to return to its hook in my closet.

What a sight I must have presented to the kids, who by now had run into Bromwell's backyard in order to witness my return to the house.  I could hear them snickering as I walked in frony of Dad, my eyes full of tears, carrying the paddle for all to see.  How ashamed I felt, because the kids were boys from Skip's age down to about eight--little kids as far as I was concerned--and they all knew that I, who wanted to be looked up to as being almost a man, had just had my bottom spanked like a naughty little boy. 

I still recall how my butt hurt and how long it took me to get to sleep that night.  First, I couldn't stand to have anything on my bottom, and small wonder, because when I examined myself in the mirror it was beet red and slightly bruised.  I finally ended up lying naked on my stomach.  Second, I kept thinking about all of those kids knowing that I had been spanked, of them having heard Dad tell me to bring the paddle to the garage, of realizing that they had been able to hear everything, of having to walk back into the house carrying the paddle that I had just been spanked with while they watched, of becoming increasingly aware that by morning the entire neighborhood would know about my spanking and, worse of all, that I, who would enter Senior High School in the fall, probably would have to put up with being teased not only by the guys near my age, like Skip, but also by even younger boys. The only positive thought in my head was that at least they hadn't seen me get it, especially on my bare bottom.

By morning I  felt better, although I was surprised at how sore my butt still was and how bruised and red it looked in the mirror.  I hated to have to face everybody, even my own family.  My parents, however, were the type who never mentioned a punishment after it was over (unless, of course, it had to be administered again for a similar offence) so nothing was said to me about the night before. The neighbor kids, however, had lots to say, and I quickly learned, to my absolute dismay, that they had observed my entire ordeal through the garage windows and knew all the details. They had watched me as I pulled my pants and undershorts down, spread myself over the fender of the car, and got paddled on my bare ass.

Skip's curiosity about my spankings and the paddle may finally have been satisfied, but his interest in the subject was keener than ever.  He constantly alluded to it in our conversations and frequently reported on the licking he had seen me get in the garage to other kids. About three days after my ass-burn riding the fender we went on a camp-out with some of the guys, and Skip, of course, spread the word.  A few of us went skinning dipping, and did those boys ever tease me about my still slightly-marked ass and the fact that my Dad had paddled me pants down just as if I were a naughty little boy. Once, however, when Skip told a couple of girls we knew about me having to take my pants down for a licking, I was so embarrassed I thought I would die.  It has been many years since I have seen Skip, but I often wonder where he is and if, as a grown man, he might share my fascination on the subject of spanking.

This was the last time that Dad ever spanked me.  I am sure that I toed the mark lots better for a time after that, but as the years have gone by and I have thought about it I think there may be another reason.  Dad had not spanked me for at least a year prior to that, and, meanwhile, a little hair had begun to appear on my buttocks.  Do you suppose that the sight of the hair caused him to think that I, indeed, might be getting too old to spank?