My father was strict. He brought me up with a firm hand (not to mention a paddle and an old worn strap). I was the oldest of three boys; my mother died shortly after my youngest brother was born. My father raised all of us on his own. As you can imagine, having three boys relatively close together in age can be trying on any parent, let alone a single working father. And inevitably, whatever trouble we had gotten ourselves into during the day earned us a good long trip over my father's knee when he got home that evening. Most of the time, he spanked us over his knee -- he felt it strengthened the bond between a father and son. "Spankings are a time-honored ritual," he'd tell us, "private between a boy and his father." No nonsense, no bull_s_h_i_t_ -- that was my father's motto when it came to discipline. If you got it, you got it good. No drawn-out lectures, corner-time, or groundings. You got your ass beaten, and you seldom had to learn the same lesson twice.
But, boys will be boys, right? And you can't keep three boys from stirring up trouble for themselves from time to time. And we got into our share of trouble...
"Josh, get your ass downstairs right now!" my father bellowed into the early Saturday morning air.
My father was a strapping man (pun intended), and when he summoned you, you obeyed. Standing 6'2" and carrying 185 pounds of pure muscle, my father commanded respect from each of his sons. A former triathlete in his youth, my father's good looks allowed him to easily play the field (which coincidentally is how I wound up being born only seven months after my parents were married). With such a young father, you might imagine that he lacked the ability to be strict with his children...you'd be wrong.
I had just gotten out of the shower and was getting dressed when I heard him call. Pulling on a pair of jeans over my snug white briefs, I vacated my room without a shirt and thumped down the stairs as quickly as possible so as to not further enrage the giant. I followed the sound of my father's blood boiling into the living room, where he stood fuming. Face red, fists clenched -- he looked like he wanted to hit something...probably my ass.
"Get over my knee!" he growled.
I gulped and glanced down at the coffee table, where the family paddle now laid waiting. Worn, nicked, and toughened with age, it packed a mean punch -- something I experienced pretty regularly. It seemed the older I got, the more attitude I developed; in fact, I began receiving almost weekly punishments for my miscreant behavior. I was 18, a senior in high school, and had recently been testing my father's patience much more than I should.
"Sir?" I asked, hoping for an explanation to the punishment thrown upon me so early on a Saturday. I wasn't a stupid kid -- if I had a whipping coming, I took it as best I could, knowing full-well that I deserved it. My father was firm, but fair. However, this time, as I wracked my brain for any recent disobedience, I came up empty.
"After I'm done tanning your ass, son, I'd like an explanation as to why my car has a broken tail light."
I stood there with my mouth open and brow furrowed. I hadn't touched his car. I truly hadn't.
"It seems," he continued, "that between the time I parked my car in the garage last night and this morning, my left tail light became broken."
"I haven't taken your car anywhere, Sir."
"Oh?" he asked. "Then who did?"
Immediately, I thought of my younger brother, Paul, who recently turned 16. My father had refused to let him get a driver's license, deeming him too immature to handle a vehicle. My brother was pissed. At times, he was more mischievous than I -- it would be just like him to take dad's car, smash it, and pin the whole incident on me.
"Probably Paul, Sir."
My father scowled at me. "I guess you forgot your brother was staying at a friend's house this weekend. That leaves only two people -- you and Steven."
Steven, my youngest brother, was 15. Steven was a pretty good kid. It was hard to imagine that he'd take the car, but since I know it wasn't me or Paul, the blame had to lie with Steven. Besides, he pulled outlandish stunts like this a couple of times every year, earning himself a tanning more severe than Paul or I usually got.
"Then it was Steven, Sir."
My father grimaced at the suggestion. Though a strict man, my father did baby Steven more than he should've. This allowed Steven to get away with many more minor stunts than either I or Paul were allowed.
He fumed for a minute, then bellowed out a summons loud enough to be heard throughout the house.
"Steven, get in the living room!"
In a few moments later, a shirtless Steven appeared in the living room. Though all us boys inherited our father's athleticism, Steven seemed to be more naturally gifted than either Paul or I. He was a soccer player -- best on his team -- and physically had matured early for his age.
"Yeah, dad?" Steven stood at my side in a pair of work-out shorts, the waistband of his briefs just barely visible. He smelled of sweat. He must've been in the weight room my father had installed many years back.
"Did you sneak out last night and take my car?" my father asked in a voice more calm than the one he had previously used on me.
"No, Sir, why?"
My father turned from both of us to pace a little ways up the living room.
"It seems, Steven, my tail light is broken. Seeing as you and Josh both deny having taken the car, I guess it must've broken itself last night."
Steven stood poker-faced at my side, not saying a word.
My father turned back around to face us. "I'd like a confession, boys."
I turned to Steven, who looked at me accusingly.
"I didn't do it!" I exclaimed to him.
Innocently, Steven said, "Well neither did I."
Little brat. I wanted to punch him. He was going to try and pin this on me.
My father paused before responding. "Well, then," he said frankly, "I guess I'll have to punish both of you."
My mouth dropped open. "That's unfair!" I cried before my brain could stop my mouth.
My father raised a smoldering eyebrow. "You think I'm unfair?"
Now I'd done it. "No, Sir," I began calmly, "I just think...well, only one of us did it. So only punish the one who deserves it...Sir."
"Alright, Josh, I'll give the two of you ten seconds to confess. Whoever confesses will get what he has coming -- no more, no less. But if neither of you comes forward, I'll punish you both. And this time I won't be so easy on you two."
I gulped. Easy? My father thought his punishments were easy? My butt twitched slightly at the thought that they could be worse.
Glancing at his watch, my father started the count-down. "Ten...nine..."
I looked pleadingly at Steven, who returned a look of innocence laced with diluted guilt. Bastard, I thought. If dad had only been more strict with him. Maybe if he had, Steven wouldn't have turned out to be a liar.
"Three...two...one. Times up! Guess you're both getting a whipping this morning!" my father proclaimed.
My mouth gaped.
"Steven," my father said matter-of-factly, "go finish working-out. I'll start with some quality over-the-knee-time with Josh here."
Steven nodded, and left the room.
"Alright, son, let's get to it."
"But, Sir -- " I started, but my father cut me off there.
"Oh, can it, Josh. If youre guilty, then you're getting just what you deserve. If not, I can justify this spanking with several other offenses you THOUGHT you got away with."
I swallowed hard. My father was a shrewd man. More shrewd than I had anticipated.
He turned and walked to the room's far wall, along which stood a straight-back chair which was reserved solely for the use of punishment. Usually my father sat in it while we went over his knee for a dose of old fashioned discipline, but sometimes he'd require us to bend over the back of it to take our punishment. He retrieved the chair and brought it to the center of the room. Picking up the paddle, he sat down in the chair and stared at me.
"Well!? Over my knee!"
I could've fought it more, but the truth was, I had gotten away with several stunts lately -- stunts I thought my father was too blind or old to notice. While I still was angry with Steven for earning me this trip to the proverbial woodshed, I figured my father was right. The punishment could be justified with any number of offenses for which I hadn't been spanked.
Nodding to my father, I automatically unbuttoned my jeans and slid them down to my ankles, kicking off my pants as they fell to the floor. I picked them up, laid them on the couch, and walked back over to my father. I stood in front of him in just my briefs, feeling the muscles in my legs tense and relax for a bit. All of us were constantly roaming around the house in just our underwear, never giving it a second thought. However, when it came time for a spanking, standing in front of my father in just a pair of briefs made me feel very embarrassed. I could already feel the paddle burning into my butt. Though I played baseball every season while in high school and had sustained numerous injuries with stoic masculinity, I never managed to take a whipping from my father without crying. After a few more moments of delay, I lowered myself over his knee for my punishment. Pulling me closer to his body, he kept one arm around me while he raised the paddle with the other.
CRACK! The spanking began. I shut my eyes tightly in pain.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! The paddle pounded my brief-covered ass again and again. I curled my toes up in pain and clenched my fists.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! After the tenth swat, I began to gulp for air. My father could bring one of us boys down effortlessly. Again and again he took us from teenage tough guy to bawling little boy in under a minute -- a bit of an art really. Soon I'd be crying and bawling out of agony -- and rightly so. My father wouldn't have it any other way. That's how he got disciplined as a boy, and that's how he raised us. And we respected him for it.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! The board came down again. I felt the first tears start to form.
CRACK! CRACK! It had only been fifteen swats, and my father was just warming up. Methodically and severely, he delivered the spanking.
CRACK! I let out a gasp of pain, and a tear rolled down my cheek.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! I flexed the muscles in my arms as he paddled me soundly. After the twentieth swat, he stopped, set the paddle down, and laid a hand on my fiery ass. He rested it there for a few seconds before reaching up to grab the waistband of my briefs to yank them down to my ankles. I hated this part. It meant the punishment was getting serious.
For a while, my father proceeded with his hand only. Hand spankings, he felt, were a bit childish, but reminded the boy who was in charge. "A real man," he would tell us from time to time, "doesn't rely on tools to punish his son. He should be able to discipline the lad just as effectively with his own bare hands. Paddles, straps, hairbrushes, and the likes," he conceded, "just make it easier on the disciplinarian. After all, it's your ass that needs punishing -- not my hand."
SLAP! SLAP! SLAP! His heavy hand came blistering down on my crimson-red butt. I began letting out a series of pained "ahs" with each methodic slap. After another seven or eight more minutes of this treatment, I was crying pretty heavily. Satisfied with my current condition, my father stopped using his hand and returned to the paddle.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! He brought the swats down harder than before. I started bawling. I hated lying there with my ass exposed for a spanking like some kid. However, there was nothing I could do but lay there and take it. My father had two philosophies about taking a spanking. First, he insisted we accept our punishment like men: stoically submitting to what we had coming. After all, if you're getting a spanking, then you've done something to deserve it. Second, he insisted that he hadn't properly spanked one of us until we cried like a little boy. "You only get through to a boy when his ass is on fire and his eyes are filled with tears. Only then will he remember the lesson," hed say. And though I hated to admit it, he was right.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! I was breathing in gasps, tears flowing freely down my face. With ten final swats, my father stopped, and lifted me off his knee in one impressive movement. I stood shakily while trying to regain some composure. Suddenly, I noticed my father had turned the spanking chair around and was beginning to unbuckle his belt. I had thought perhaps the punishment was over. Obviously I was wrong.
"You know the routine. Bend over the back of the chair and grab the seat. Legs apart." He paused while I complied. "That's it."
Once he had me in position, he let loose with his doubled-up belt.
THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! "AH!!!" I cried out.
THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! I was sobbing uncontrollably.
THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! My father repeated the licks again and again, increasing the severity with each pass over my striped butt.
Putting down the belt suddenly, my father stopped. I sobbed for a minute or two, calming down a bit.
Suddenly he spoke, "Josh, I'm tired of punishing you. You're 18 and you should be shaping up into the man you're going to be for the rest of your life. So far, it's not looking good. Lately you've gotten _c_o_c_k_y, you have a bad attitude, you frequently talk back, and I'm tired of it. You're setting a bad example for your brothers. You're the oldest, and I hold you to a higher standard than the other two. It may be unfair, but that's the way it is. So it's time for you to shape up, do you understand me?"
Through my tears I choked out a, "Yes, Sir!"
"Good. Now it's time for your punishment to really start."
I started crying more heavily. If that wasn't punishment, I don't know what was.
Taking up the belt again, my father raised it high into the air and brought it down on my ass with a force I'd never felt before.
"AH!!!!!!!!!!" I screamed in pain.
THWACK!!!!! The second lick ignited my already flaming butt into an inferno of agony.
THWACK!!!!! My father grunted a little as he threw more of his body weight into the licking.
THWACK!!!!! "No son of mine is going to grow up to be a brat," he added after the lick.
THWACK!!!!! "You're going to set a better example for your brothers, do you understand, boy!?
I couldn't respond. I was in too much pain.
THWACK!!!!! "I said, do you understand!?"
I still couldnt respond.
THWACK!!!!!
At that lick, I managed to push through the pain and crying, and let out a meek, "Yes, Sir!"
THWACK!!!!! "Am I going to have to spank you like a little boy again?" he barked.
I had trouble pushing through the pain and tears again, and I failed to respond before the next lick fell.
THWACK!!!!! He repeated the question, "Am I going to have to spank you like a little boy again!?"
With a deep grunt, I managed to get out a healthy, "No, Sir!"
THWACK!!!!! "Are you going to shape up and start acting like a man!?" his deep voice asked.
I was about to mindlessly comply with a, yes, Sir, but suddenly I choked. I couldnt say it, and I didnt know why.
THWACK!!!!! He repeated the question. "Are you going to shape up and start acting like a man!?"
Though I gasped in pain, that last lick and question had suddenly struck at something deep inside me. It was like a powerful force inside me was released for the first time. Pushing past the pain and tears, I found I was able to answer my father in a calm and respectful voice.
"Yes, SIR!" I answered.
THWACK!!!!! Again he repeated the question, "Are you going to shape up and start acting like a man!?"
Pushing farther past the pain, I stopped crying, and absorbed the question. He was asking me if I was ready to stop acting like a little boy -- ready to stop getting spanked like one. He was forcing me to choose which path to take -- life as a perpetual, unchecked, _c_o_c_k_y adolescent or life as a man. I was at a crucial crossroads, and he knew it. For the first time in my life, I felt the urge to shape up. To act like a man.
Answering his question with determination, I called out, "Yes, SIR!!!"
THWACK!!!!! This lick was the harder than any previous.
"I'm going to ask you one last time, son, are you going to shape up and start acting like a MAN!?"
My nerves had calmed, my crying stopped, my breathing controlled -- for the first time in my life I not only accepted my punishment like a man, but had begun to take it like one, too.
"YES, SIR!!!!!" my voice deepening as I answered.
THWACK!!!!! Unimaginably, my father delivered one last lick which surpassed them all in severity. Harder than any lick he'd ever given me in my life. Any other day I wouldve crumbled under its weight, but not today. Instead I took it with fierce determination -- the last lick of my childhood. The last lick my father ever had to give me.
Breathing heavily, my father stood over me, and placed his free hand on my back.
"Good man," he said to me. "You took that well -- I'm proud of you. Now stand up and get dressed."
Calmly I stood and pulled up my briefs. They stretched over my sore ass, red and welted from the worst spanking I'd ever gotten from my father -- a spanking I was proud to have taken and glad to have gotten. I pulled on my jeans carefully, then turned to face my father. I looked him in the eye for a while.
"Thank you, Sir," I said. And I meant it.
He nodded. "Let's hope I never have to take a hand to your ass again, son."
I nodded back.
"Now go get your brother for me." He sighed, "It's about time I started giving the boy the spankings he really deserves."
And with that, I happily went to get my brother -- happy that we had a father smart enough to know when a good old fashioned spanking was in order.