David’s bare bottom is going to feel the dreaded strap that hangs ominously in the cloak room. The strapping is administered by his father, overheard by his brother and sister while his mother holds the naked boy in place by his ankles.
My heart is pounding and it is drowning out the silence in my parent’s bedroom. Five minutes ago I heard my father’s car pull up in the drive, heard the screen door slam, and heard him greet my mother. Then things got quiet. I know they are talking about me; or rather, my mother is telling him about what I did to get into trouble. Soon I will hear his footsteps approaching the bedroom door. I am not thinking about the lecture I am sure to get; I am not even thinking much about the bare-bottom spanking I assume will follow. Through the bedroom’s screened window I can hear my friends playing and dogs barking, soon they will just as clearly hear my father’s hand collide with my butt and hear my lusty response; but I’m not thinking about that. No: I am sitting here on my parent’s bed thinking about the cloak closet and it is scaring the pee out of me.
An hour ago, when my mother confronted me with my crime, I begged her to spank me then and there. Instead, she sent me to her bedroom to wait for Daddy and to worry about the cloak closet. You see the cloak closet is where Daddy keeps grandpa’s old belt, right there where we can see it every day and be reminded. It hangs on a nail on the inside of the door. Dad keeps that old belt oiled and supple. It is the same belt that my grandfather used on my father when my father was a boy like me.
Moments later I hear a sound that quickens my heart and brings tears to my eyes. I hear the sound of aluminum ice cube trays being emptied into a bowl. I rightly suspect that ice is to be used to cool my bottom after an especially hard spanking, a procedure invented by my mother who was convinced it reduced swelling and bruising and generally sped our bottom’s recovery from a particularly hard spanking.
I jump as I hear the hallway-flooring squeak. I come to my feet sobbing as I see the doorknob turn. The door opens and in comes my father and mother wearing grim expressions; my mother is carrying the bowl of ice. They leave the door wide open. My father sits down on the bed, turns me around and says, “Start from the very beginning and tell us exactly why we are here.” I tearfully confess my crime. My explanation is not quite good enough, be bores deeper and deeper with questions until he has extracted the entire truth.
Then he starts with those age-old parental questions that kids hate so much, questions such as, “What should we do about this?” “Punish me?” I finally answer. “What is a fair punishment for a boy who lies to his parents? (We all knew the answer) “S- sp-sp-spank me? I answer tearfully. “What kind of spanking” (silence) “What Kind Of Spanking? “H-h-hard?” I finally manage. My father does not make me add the part about Grandpa’s belt; he likes to keep me guessing about THAT. “When should you get this spanking?” “Now sir?” I blubber. “Then you had better get ready,” my Dad says quietly. “I love you a lot; but right now I have a job to do, and for your sake, I intend to do it well”.
I need no further instruction. From sad experience, I know the drill. My bottom tingles in unhappy anticipation as I slowly reach down to my shoelaces. I kick off my shoes, set them aside, and reach for my waist. I undo my belt, unbutton, unzip and slide down my pants. One leg at a time, I step out of them, reach down and drop them on top of my shoes. Nervously and pointedly I look out the open door into the hall. “Don’t worry, your brother and sister will not peek unless they would like to come in and join you,” my father said. “The door is open because I want them to hear clearly what happens when a boy lies to his parents.” My mother gently asks me if I need to visit the bathroom before I take off my underpants. I quickly and gratefully oblige, visiting the bathroom across the hall and emptying my bladder.
Back in my parent’s bedroom, I remove my white underpants without further urging and drop them on top of my pile of recently removed clothing on the floor. The effect is rather like a tiny snow-topped mountain. I am not even thinking of my frontal exposure, the coming action on my bottom is of much more practical concern to this young boy. “Go apologize to your mother and ask her for a warm-up spanking” my father suggests. I go to her and tearfully tell her I am very sorry and would she please start my punishment. She mumbles forgiveness and gathers me in for a long hug. I squirm. Finally she lets me loose and pats her lap significantly. Seconds later I am bawling and squirming my way through a brisk ass-reddening that lasts perhaps two minutes. When it comes to being spanked, I make little pretense of bravery. Her job complete, Mom rubs my back for a few moments to calm me down and then tells me to get up and “go visit Dad”. Wrapped in a protective fog of dread, I shuffle over to my father’s side. He slides back some on the bed and commands me across his lap. I climb up on the bed and place my bare bottom square in the center of his lap. This position leaves me lying on my parent’s bed; my bare, newly-red bottom elevated by the bulk of my father’s legs.
When giving us one of these hard spankings, father wanted to be sure that we do not lose sight of the basic lesson he was trying to punctuate. It would be several minutes before my spanking would proceed. He makes me tell him again why I am being punished. He makes me blubber my way through the entire story and then makes me tell him exactly what was wrong with what I did. I desperately want him to just start spanking so it could be over. Finally he does.
My lusty response roars out the bedroom door greatly impressing my brother and sister. My vocalizations also have no problem escaping through the open, screened windows that leave the bedroom open to the balmy, quiet late-afternoon air. My playmates and their parents know immediately what was happening and who is “getting it”. They hear my father’s hand collide with firm, preteen bottom flesh and they especially hear my crying and begging response. After just a few hard swats on my right buttock I am putty in my father’s hands. The measured, relentless spanks move down my right side, reddening the back of my leg and my outer-right thigh almost down to my knee. From there, the poker-hot spanks move over to my left leg and start working their way up. When my father’s spanks finally reach back up to my left buttock, he pushes me away slightly so he can get a better swing, and delivers six scorchers directly on that cheek. I am totally incoherent.
Then comes a pause. I have been here before and we all know this is just the opening act. After a few moments rest, he commands me to “open up”. Loud enough so my brother and sister can easily hear he repeats; “Open UP!” Reluctantly, I spread my legs. Wider! I open them wider. Wider! Finally they are open enough to please him and he starts spanking the tender flesh of my inner thighs. I howl in response. My right hand shoots back, but my father deftly catches it and traps it in the small of my back, to remain for the rest of the spanking. My legs try to curl up, but I dimly realize that my Mother is gently holding my ankles.
Three times, my father repeats this entire sequence. Although he gives my legs and thighs the maximum spanking that he feels is safe, I am far too busy being spanked to notice that he is now spanking my buttocks only enough to barely keep them beet red. He is “saving” them for something else. He is saving them for Grandpa’s belt.
Dimly, dumbly, I realize that I am no longer being spanked but I am still crying as if I were. Slowly, I calm down. “Okay, rest for a minute,” he says, “but we still have business.” I sob all the harder, I know exactly what that “business” must be. Finally he tells me to stand. I reluctantly squirm off his lap and off the bed. “You know what is next?” he asks I nod dumbly. “Do you know why you must get the belt? I nod again and start blubbering “But my bottom really hurts, you already spanked me HARD!” My pleas fall on seemingly deaf ears. Mother wraps a towel around my waist to protect my modesty for the trip to the cloak closet. “Go fetch Grandpa’s belt,” my father commands.
Still blubbering and rubbing my bottom through the towel, I creep out the bedroom door, down the hall, through the living room, through the dining room, through the kitchen, until I reach the cloak closet near the back door of the house. I open the door hoping for a miracle. Nope! It is waiting patiently in its usual place, hanging on that special nail on the inside of the closet door. I lift it off the nail; it feels hot and heavy. I start the long trip back to my parent’s bedroom and the worst part of my punishment. Through the kitchen, through the dining room, through the living…I stop in my tracks when I see my younger brother and sister sitting together on the couch. Their eyes seem bigger than saucers as they see Grandpa’s belt. Their mouths form twin O’s. I realize that my parents have made them sit there so they can get the full audio effect of my lesson. Remembering what I must do, I wordlessly continue my reluctant trip to my parent’s bedroom. I find my parents both standing and I see that two pillows are now piled on the edge of the bed; from previous experience (this is my third such trip to the cloak closet), I know exactly what they are for. I shakily offer the belt to my father, he gravely accepts it; mother holds out her hand for the towel. I unwrap it and hand it to her. Father looks at me appraisingly and says, “That shirt hangs a little low, let’s get rid of it”. The shirt joins my clothing pile on the floor, covering my underpants from view. Now I am naked except for my socks.
“Before you get into position, tell us exactly why you are being punished,” my father says. I sob my way through the entire story yet again. “What is a fair number of swats?” my father asks. I cannot think of an answer, I stand mute. Answer me! Father says sharply. “Four?” I say hopefully. Then starts a strange sort of negotiation. Finally, I am sentenced to seven strokes, the highest number ever. “OK, you can get ready for the belt”. Slowly, I advance the three steps to the edge of the bed and bend over the piled pillows; they raise my bottom to properly present it to Grandpa’s belt. My feet barely touch the floor.
Although my brother and sister know better, the neighbors have assumed that my punishment is over. I can hear that their sounds of conversation and play have resumed, I desperately wish I were out there with them. I desperately wish I were anywhere but here bent over the edge of this bed waiting for grandpa’s belt to fall on my already red hot bottom.
I hear my father’s voice from behind, “To be sure you remember why you are being punished, you will request each stroke and you will count it out loud.” I was expecting this part; he usually makes us do that. “Strap me for lying,” he prompts helpfully. “Strap me for lying”, I mumble obediently. “Louder,” he says. “Strap Me For Lying,” I say more clearly. “Louder!” he says. “STRAP ME FOR LYING!” I croak at the top of my voice. The sounds outside suddenly stop again. Dad grunts, the belt whistles, and I hear it strike my bottom. Milliseconds later, my stunned bottom finally manages to urgently signal my brain, I roar in anguish and my torso comes up off of the bed nearly dumping me off of the pillows. “One” I am finally am able to sob. My father waits patiently; “STRAP ME FOR LYING!” I finally say again. Leather again sears with my young butt, with results similar to the first stroke. “TWO” I cry. After a somewhat longer pause, I request the third stroke…
Finally, after six strokes, my bottom has absorbed enough punishment to keep it sore for several days. I reluctantly call for the seventh and last stroke; there is a pregnant delay as my father considers his options for this final swat. Finally, the belt lands on the tender, already well-spanked, flesh just below the bottom crease of my buttocks. My siblings and neighbors could easily tell from my anguished response that this stroke was “special”. I found myself on the bed doubled up crying furiously. I am sure that I never counted that final stroke and my parents did not seem to mind. They were nearly as relieved as I that my punishment was over.
After allowing me to calm down for a couple minutes, my father lifted me up off the bed and I found myself in the middle of a three-way hug. We all three tearfully offered mutual forgiveness and I offered the improbable but sincere promise to be “good for the rest of my life”. Mother then placed the towel on the bed and indicated that I was to lie down on it. She then spent the next 20 minutes tenderly cooling my punished butt, thighs, and upper legs with the ice. This was not soothing; it hurts! But my bottom did seem to heal faster than my playmates when they occasionally received similar punishments. (Yes, us kids did compare our spanked bottoms)
Finally, mother tenderly dabbed dry my bottom and legs and slid my underpants back up my legs. I quickly reached back and lifted the elastic up over my tender rear as she deftly pulled them back into place as if I were again a toddler. With my punishment officially over, I was then allowed to dress myself, return Grandpa’s belt to its nail on the back of the cloak closet door and go out to play. I was a minor celebrity for a few minutes as my playmates crowded around to ask what I had done to be spanked so hard. Naturally, I pretended it was no big deal and it really did not hurt all that bad. The truth was, I was reminded of that spanking every time I sat down for the next several days.
Us kids needed very few of those sessions with grandpa’s belt over the course of our upbringing, I can still tell you exactly what each one of mine was for. Just as my father intended, I could not open that particular closet without having those hard-learned lessons renewed by the sight of that old belt. Our home was a happy place full of mutual love, but grandpa’s belt always stayed on guard to ensure that we followed the family rules.
Copyright (c) Guy Spencer 2004