Too Big For Your Britches II

From: [email protected] (tbfyb)

The spankings I received as a kid fell into two broad categories:

1) Too big for your britches spankings, i.e. spankings that were the consequence of protracted periods of relatively mild bad behavior, leading eventually to a "straw that broke the camel's back" incident. These spankings tended to be spontaneous events and as such would be administered on the spot, i.e., on location and without delay. In time they even seemed to take on a life of their own, and developed into a sort of ritual. When my father, either on his own or at my mothers urging, had finally had enough, he would announce that I was once again "Too big for my britches." Then, down or off they would go.


2) Major events, i.e. a spanking that followed a major transgression such as stealing, lying, or being disrespectful (talking back). This type of spanking was always put off until we were home and was, with one or two memorable exceptions, delivered in the privacy of my room.

Too Big For Your Britches:

Too big for your britches spankings started when I was five years old, peaked between the age of nine and eleven, and waned after I became a teenager. At first, spankings of this type were administered by hand. Later, at around age seven, my father experimented with belt spankings for a brief time, but apparently wasn't happy with the results, or found using his belt too inconvenient. Whatever the reason(s), the belt was soon retired and paddle spankings became the punishment of choice.

My father found and purchased two of those novelty "hot seat" and "board of education" type paddles. Except for the logo, both paddles were pretty much identical. The "board of education" paddle was made of a harder wood (oak, cherry, maple, perhaps hickory, I'm not sure). The "hot seat" paddle was made of plywood that my father laminated with a ping-pong paddle, pebbly red, vinyl facing. Neither paddle was particularly thick or heavy, but both sure stung like hell.

The "Board of Education" paddle was prominently hung on a hook, inside the house, and in such a fashion that it was clearly meant to be on display; both as a proud (no nonsense) symbol of parental authority, and as a constant visible reminder, to me, of what lay in store should I misbehave.

Displayed as it was, my friends knew all about the paddle and, even though they were friends, they would often tease me about it. At school some clown would tell a girl that I was a "Charter Member of the Board of Education," and then get her to ask me what he meant; or, we'd be playing outside and, because I had to get home earlier than most of my friends (I had chores, and was expected to set the dinner table each night), someone would yell "Hey Bobby, you better run home and set the table before your Mom nominates you for the 'Board of Education' (HaHa)." As embarrassing as I found all this teasing, I shudder to think about the teasing I would have encountered had the other paddle been hung up in the house.

The other paddle had a cartoon sketch of a "Katzenjammer" kid, with his pants pulled down, getting his butt smacked, and in large, red, lettering, it said 'Hot Seat' . This paddle was kept in the glove compartment of our car; and, like today's American Express card, we never left home without it!

I was always testing my parents, i.e., pushing the limits to see what I could get away with. And, at the same time, finding out just how far I could extend my independence without getting into too much trouble; not very far! Spankings were the price I paid for misjudging boundaries.

When I was very young my father would usually spank me on the spot. If I misbehaved at the supermarket (wandered off or threw a tantrum), I got spanked at the supermarket. As I grew older, or if the setting was inappropriate, my father would take me out to the car for a spanking.

I had my bottom spanked, or paddled, at ball games (Seal Park, in San Francisco; this was before the Giants), at the beach, at church, in and outside of various department stores, at restaurants, and at the zoo. Indeed, I remember very few outings that did not, at some point or other, include a trip (or the explicit threat of a trip; this was usually enough to make me straighten up) to the car for a good spanking.

"Well, young man, I see that you've gotten too big for your britches once again," my father would lament as he marched me through the parking lot towards our car. "When are you going to learn?"

When we reached the car my father would open the passenger door, extract the "Hot Seat" paddle from the glove compartment, position himself at the far right edge of the front seat, and simply say, "Okay, you know what we're here for." Then, without argument or hesitation, I was expected to pull my pants down and climb over his lap for a sound paddling.

This scenario, with minor variations of one type or another, was played out over and over again. Protests were useless. If I didn't pull my pants down in a timely fashion, they were pulled down for me. When that happened, the spanking given was that much worse or, as would sometimes happen, the paddling given then (bad enough), would be followed up by a second spanking (much worse) when we got home.

Between the age of five and twelve I must have had my pants pulled down several hundred times. During those seven plus years, I don't think I ever went as long as a month without getting a spanking of some sort. There were times, it seemed, when I got spanked almost every day.

In retrospect, I recall very few "too big for your britches" spankings that one would characterize as being overly excessive (at the time, of course, I thought they were all excessive); ten swats usually, sometimes less, more if I protested too much or was otherwise difficult. What I dreaded most about those spankings was the fact that they were always administered bare ass, i.e. with my pants and underwear hovering somewhere between my knees and ankles, or completely removed. Humiliation was as much a part of the punishment as the spanking itself.

From late 1956 to late 1958 our family lived on base housing at Anderson AFB, Guam. On weekends we often drove our car down to the Naval base at White Beach. When we arrived we usually stopped at the base club for lunch and then drove down to the beach area. We'd park our car as close to the changing area (changing room/showers/bathroom) as possible and then proceed down to the beach. I didn't learn to swim until I was nine and a half (half years were important back then) so, when we got to the beach, my mother and father would usually spend the first half-hour or so with me, exploring the beach that extended about a quarter mile in each direction.

The beach was wonderful. The sand was soft, and when the tide was out you could walk hundreds of yards (or so it seemed) out into the water and look for starfish and sand dollars. After devoting this first half-hour or so to me, my parents would identify an area along the beach at which I was to stay and play and then went about their own business. But, at the same time, they managed to keep a pretty close watch on my activities.

Close watch or not, I would wander off from time to time to explore the beach on my own. More often than not, I got away with these excursions, but sometimes I'd get caught. Even then, I usually managed to talk my way out of trouble, but not always. I remember two instances when the consequence of wandering off caused me considerable embarrassment, or should I say em-bare-ass-ment.

The first instance occurred a short time after I turned nine years old and was pretty straight forward. As outlined above, I wandered off to explore the beach on my own. When my father found me (thirty minutes later, headed back, but still a good eighth of a mile or so from where I was supposed to have been playing, he was angry.

He spotted me at a distance of about 20 yards or so and yelled out, "And just where have you been, young man? Your mother and I have been searching for you for the past half-hour. I've half a mind to yank your bathing suit off right here and spank you all the way to the car. How would you like that?"

This was a rhetorical question but it required an answer of some sort. I continued to walk towards my dad and cried out "No -- Please, I was coming right back."

"Get over here!"

Uncertain as to what might happen next, I slowed down and almost stopped.

"If you want to keep your suit on until we reach the car young man, you'd better start running."

I started moving again, but without any real enthusiasm.

When I got to my father he didn't take off my suit, but the damage was done. The words spoken. I wasn't the only child on the beach that afternoon, and children seem to have a sixth sense about spankings (at least when they involve others!) and I didn't help matters any. I kept crying, "Please, don't spank me. I'm sorry. I was just coming back." I somehow thought that my "heading back" was important and should take precedence to the fact that I had wandered off in the first place. My father didn't see it that way.

"Stow it son, you can tell me how sorry you are after you've been spanked!"

By the time we got to the car there must have been a parade of twenty kids (many of whom I knew - and would see at school the next day) following us, each one gleefully waiting to see what would happen next. They weren't disappointed. My father reached in the car, grabbed the "hot seat" paddle, and told me to get my suit off.

I stood there frozen. Take off my suit in front of all these kids? You've got to be kidding, I thought to myself.

I should have done something. Just standing there wasn't going to make anyone happy. I needed to say something, but experience had taught me that talk was usually counter productive.

Suddenly, my father grabbed me, yanked my suit off, and turned me over his knee.

I finally spoke up. "PLEASE, can't we do this when we get home?"

Then, something happened that had never happened before. My father looked around, saw the audience that had gathered about, and placed me back on my feet. He reached down, picked up my bathing suit and marched me (ever so slowly, or so it seemed to me) to the changing room, a distance of about 60 feet. There I was, like the king in the "Emperor's New Clothes", leading a procession. My faithful followers trailed a short distance behind (my behind).

We went inside the changing room, the parade of children queued up outside. My father led me to a bench that sat just outside the shower room. He sat down, and turned me over his knee once again and put the paddle to work (twelve strokes as I recall.) The shower room acted as an amplifier. Each swat of the paddle reverberated, as did the cries that followed. I'm sure most of the children outside enjoyed this "radio" presentation immensely. They certainly looked pleased when I was marched back to the car (crying, humbled, but at least wearing my bathing suit once again. I'm sure there were a few brave souls (those with video tastes) that ventured into the changing room as I was being spanked. At least that was the story that circulated around school for the next two weeks, i.e. until school let out for the summer. To this day, I can't help but wonder, what would have happened had I spoken up earlier. If I had, I might I have saved myself the embarrassment of that long march. I'll never know.

The second instance, a little more than a year later (July 4th, 1958), was far more serious. Again, we were visiting the naval port at White Beach. The base was celebrating the 4th and there were lots of activities going on, including a docking area that was used to shuttle sailors to and from various ships anchored in the harbor. I was allowed to roam about, but I was also expected to touch base frequently. I was not to wander off without telling my parents where I was going and then, only with their permission. During one of my little jaunts, I discovered that the Navy was hosting a 4th of July open house on one of their ships, a cruiser (the USS Toledo I think), that was anchored out in the harbor. There was a shuttle boat about to leave so I did what any red blooded American boy would do on the 4th of July, I jumped aboard. I'm sure there would have been another boat leaving in a half hour or so, but this one was leaving now. Why didn't I wait? Why didn't I ask my parents first? You know the answer. I was ten years old, that's why! I stayed out on that ship for hours. Then, one of our neighbors saw me and asked if my mother and father knew where I was, I shrugged my shoulders.

"You're in a lot of trouble boy! Your parents are looking all over for you. I wouldn't be surprised if they have search parties out looking for you by now." My stomach did a flip, I could feel my nuts being sucked into my groin. I needed to go to the bathroom.

He took me to the Quarter Deck and talked to the Officer of the Deck for a few minutes. The OOD saw to it that I was placed on the next boat headed to the beach. The ship must have gotten the word to the beach somehow, my parents were at the dock waiting for me when we berthed. They were frantic, i.e. until they had me in their possession. Then, all at once, they were both relieved and angry. My father and mother each grabbed a hand and walked me to the car.

My father didn't remind me that I was "too big for my britches." He didn't have time to say anything. My mother did all the talking, and she had only one thing to say (but she kept repeating it, in one variation or another, over and over again), "I want you to give that boy a spanking he'll never forget."

She got her wish. When we got to the car my father told me to pull my pants down. With my mother's words still echoing in my mind, I was in no hurry to comply. I procrastinated as long as I could. As my mother opened the car door and reached in the glove compartment for the "Hot Seat" paddle, I fumbled with my belt for a half minute or so and then began to fiddle with the snap at the top of my blue jeans. I popped the snap open, and started to reach for my zipper when my father lost his patience. He hoisted me up in the air and sat me down on the hood of our car. In a flash, he grabbed my pants and underwear. In one quick motion, pants, underwear, shoes (socks and all), were whisked off and tossed behind me (further up on the car's hood). My polo shirt followed suit a half-second later.

Maybe it was the heat radiating off the car's hood, maybe it was the certain knowledge that I was about to be spanked. Whatever the reason, I lost control of my bladder, just missing my father by an inch or two.

There was a bench (a bus stop of some sort) located about 10 to15 feet from where we had parked our car; no onlookers thank God. My father lifted me off the hood of our car, (from the side, I was still peeing) and stood me on the ground. When I finished urinating, he thrust me towards that bench. When we got there, my mother handed him the paddle and repeated (in case we were deaf) her previous exclamation "I want you to give that boy a good spanking. You hear me? Something he'll never forget."

Assured of my mother's stern approval, my father turned me over his knee (and every which way but loose) and launched a fiery barrage of swats, rapid at first, then gradually slowing down. He'd actually stopped for a brief moment but my mother quickly interjected, "Don't stop now!"

Following that comment, the spanking resumed with renewed vigor. I don't know how many swats I got altogether. I just remember that the pace of that paddling was much faster than any spanking I'd ever received before or since. Gone was the usual irregular (5 to 15 second) cadence of past and future spankings. Instead, I was issued stroke after stroke - a spanking that seemed to go on forever, but probably didn't last much more than a minute or so.

When he'd finished paddling my ass (#!#) I was again placed on my feet and made to stand tall (at attention), with my hands at my side, for several minutes. No body said anything during this interlude. Then my mother spoke.

"If you ever do anything like this again I'll see to it that you're spanked like this every day for a week, and that's a promise. Do you understand me!"

"Yes ma'am!"

We walked back to the car. I put my clothes back on, and we stayed until after that evening's fireworks demonstration. Nothing further was said.

Wandering off, or not letting my parents know where I was going, (whether at the beach or elsewhere) was probably the major contributory cause of most of my childhood spankings. But, I remember one event, at age nine, where the opposite was true.

One very hot summer's day, a perfect day for getting into trouble, my folks had a few friends (all adults) over to the house for an outdoor barbecue.

My parents encouraged me to go out and play with friends but, for some reason (stupidity perhaps), I decided to hang around the house and make a pest of myself. I should have known better. There were warnings, but I ignored them all. When my father had finally had his fill, he took me to my room.

If he had really walloped my ass I might of got the message. Instead, still harboring hopes that I might be encouraged to go out and play with friends, my father gave me a short talk.

Well, I would have none of that kindness. In no time at all we were back in my room for a short spanking (four swats) and a longer talk, and, about ten minutes after that, we were back yet again, but this time the talking was over.

By now, both my parents had had it.

"Get serious," mother chided my father. "I want you to put a stop to this nonsense right now!"

My father wasn't really angry, I'd say he was more dumbfounded than anything. Nonetheless, at my mother's urging, he had clearly reached the end of his rope and was about to employ a change of tactics.

This time I wasn't going to be short changed. On this third go-around, I was going to get the spanking I had been hankering for; the spanking I should have received at the start. On the way to my room, we stopped to pick up the "Board of Education"; he'd used his hand during the previous spanking.

Knowing that I had now gone too far, I resisted the inevitable as best I could. I dug in my heels, said I was sorry and promised to be good, promised to find somewhere else to play - but, it was now too late. My father had to drag and then carry me to my room. When we got there, I put up a good fight, and did all that I could to keep from having my trousers pulled down but without success.

After my father finally secured me over his knee, I was given a paddling that was delivered with lots of gusto and enthusiasm. As I twisted and squirmed, in an effort to fend off this now unwanted attention, my pants and shirt (I wasn't wearing shoes) found their way to the floor. When my father finished whaling my ass, he placed me back on my feet. I reached down to retrieve my clothes but, as I did so, my father placed his foot on them.

"Not so fast, young man. Since you want to hang around the house all day and behave like a savage, you can spend the rest of the day dressed like a savage!"

I was carted off from my room, and relegated to a corner of the house, just off our screened in porch. Well, corner is really a misnomer. Early on, my parents discovered that a true corner was not the best place to send me when I was being punished. A true corner provided too much privacy and too many diversions.

There are just too many ways to entertain one's self when standing in a corner, e.g., leaning against or trying to climb the wall, butting your head against the wall (not trying to hurt yourself, but just for the sound effects).

In short, when I was sent to a true corner, I often got in more trouble. Therefore, when my mother or father decided to punish me in this fashion (almost always, but not this time, with my clothes on), I was actually made to "stand tall" at some other designated location. That location was, more often than not, in the center of a room. Some focal point where my parents could easily keep an eye on me and monitor my behavior.

"You've had your opportunity to run around. Now, unless you want another spanking (I didn't), I suggest you stand tall, and keep quiet the rest of the afternoon."

At around 4 P.M. I was given some food and drink. I really wasn't hungry, and was in no mood for food, but I was tired of standing so I sat down on the floor to eat and must have fallen asleep. At around 6:30 P.M. my father woke me up and sent me to my room.

* * *

Major Events:

Prior to the age of nine or ten, I had always been spanked over my father's knee, sometimes with his hand but usually with a paddle. Often, before each spanking began, my father would struggle with me to get my pants off.

One evening, shortly after supper (Guam again, about eight months after the barbecue incident and three months or so before my "ship visit"; still age 9, but almost 10), I was sent to my room for talking back to my mother.

Now, being sent to my room did not necessarily mean that a spanking was in the offing. And, in this particular case I might have gotten off with a warning. Sadly however, I let my temper get the best of me. Instead of quietly going to my room, as I had been told, I stomped out of the living room; slamming the hall door as I left.

That was a mistake, but it was not the last mistake that I would make during the next ten to fifteen minutes.

Whether or not I would have received a spanking on that occasion became, with the slamming of that door, a moot point. My father immediately jumped up, followed me to my room and marched me back to the living room.

There, I was asked to apologize to my mother for being disrespectful, and specifically told to apologize for losing my temper and slamming the door. After rendering a half-hearted apology, another mistake (strike two); I was told that I was now free to return to my room. But, just as I was about to turn and leave, my father spoke once again.

"Bobby, your Mother and I have had enough of your nonsense, enough of your theatrics, and more than enough of your sass. I'll be down to your room in about ten minutes young man. . ."

The use of that particular descriptive was always a bad sign.

"When I get to your room, I'm going to give you a spanking. Now, I want you to understand something. I'm not going to struggle or fight with you to get your pants off any longer; you're too big for that. From now on, when I send you to your room for a spanking, I'll expect you to get undressed before I get there. When I get to your room, I want to find you sitting on the edge of your bed, buck-naked, and ready for a good thrashing. Do you understand me?"

I heard what he said. But did I understand what he said? Perhaps I was hoping that I had heard wrong. In any case, I didn't take what he said seriously; another error in judgment that I would soon regret. When my father came to my room and found that I was still dressed (strike three), he didn't say a word. Instead, he left, but returned a minute or two later carrying "the chair" (more about that later) in one hand, and the Board of Education in the other.

He sat the chair down in the middle of my room, closed the door, and soon made it quite clear that I was in a lot of trouble.

"Since you seem to have trouble following instructions, I'm going to make this very simple for you. I want you to get your clothes off right now and lean over this chair. When you've 'assumed the position', I'm going to warm your backside. I promise you one thing son, before you and I are finished here tonight, I'm going to have your full and undivided attention, and you're going to learn how to follow instructions. Do you understand me!"

"Yes Sir!"

This looked and sounded serious; and it was! It was obviously too late to salvage much, but I wasn't about to dig the hole any deeper than I had already. An apology, now, was useless. I know. I tried. I said I was sorry (and I was). Sorry for talking back to my mother, and sorry for slamming the door and losing my temper. I pleaded and begged. I promised to be good from now on, forever. But, at the same time, I also continued to get undressed. It didn't help knowing, with near certainty, that this whole episode could easily have been avoided if I had just controlled my temper. If I hadn't stomped out of the living room and slammed that damn door I would most likely have been let off with a warning. Too late now. As I took off my underpants, another thought entered my mind; just how was this chair thing going to work?

During the next half hour I found out more than I ever wanted to know about that chair, and my education, relative to the subject of spankings, was improved. At the conclusion of that spanking I was escorted back to the living room and given a second opportunity to apologize to my mother. This time, I assure you, the apology rendered was anything but half-hearted.

I cannot say, with honesty, that this experience taught me how to be a "good boy", or how to control my tongue, or temper; it did not. But, I did acquire a greater appreciation of the importance my father attached to following his instructions.

* * *
In 1961-62 we were living in Monterey, California. When I was thirteen I was caught shoplifting. The manager of the store called my father and he had to come down to the store to pick me up. Once there, the store manager lectured my father on such issues as "How much money the store lost each year as a result of shoplifting." He explained how store policy was normally to notify the police, but how he preferred to give parents a chance to "deal" with the problem. He further explained how, when he was a boy, his father would have "taken him out to the woodshed for a good tanning if he'd pulled a crazy stunt like this"; and remarked that "If more parents would give their kids a good hiding now and then, there would be far less crime."

As the lecture went on (and on) it became obvious that the store manager would have liked nothing better than to have my father spank me right there in his office. Indeed, he even went so far as to make that suggestion. I suspect the manager was a bit ~~~~~ but, in retrospect, I almost wish my father had taken the manager up on his offer. No spanking, in the manager's office, could have equaled the one waiting for me when I got home. My father politely (but clearly incensed) refused the offer. He thanked the manager for not calling the police and assured him that, once we were home, he had every intention of giving me a most thorough spanking.

The store manager need not have worried, I caught hell when we got home.

The drive home was one of complete silence. My father stopped the car in front of our house and looked at me for a long, long time. He shook his head and said that he was very disappointed, and very angry.

"I'm too angry to spank you right now."

After a brief pause, he looked at his watch and remarked that it was nearly 2:30. "Get to your room. I'll see you at 5:00 o'clock. In the meantime, young man, I want you to think about what you've done."

Left unsaid, though clearly understood and intended, was the fact that I was also being given two and one-half hours to ponder over the spanking that I had clearly earned, and so richly deserved.

I sat at the foot of my bed for an hour or so before I started to get undressed. The wait was excruciating. My stomach churned and burned. It felt like I was melting inside. I knew I was "in-for-it." The anticipation would at one moment give me a hard-on, and the next leave me totally impotent. True to his word, my father opened the door to my room promptly at 5:00 o'clock and told me to follow him to the living room.

I knew that a spanking was unavoidable, but I had fully expected that it would be given in the privacy of my room. I was already crying. I started to plead, "Father, Please, I love you, Please, I'm sorry!, can't we do this in my room?" But, at the same time, I knew better than to even think about not obeying (I had, after all, already learned the importance of following his instructions). I followed my father out of my room, down the hall, and into the living room.

There, my mother was sitting on the couch. It was clear that she and my father had already discussed the shoplifting incident and had decided that this was a serious transgression that required the active participation of both parents.

My father told me to go to the dining room and bring back "the chair". I did as I was told. I quickly returned with the chair and placed it in an area of the living room that had clearly been reserved for the spanking that was to follow.

The chair wasn't big, but it was strong. It was made of solid wood. The back was curved, forming arms on the left and right. It had double cross supports located about four inches below the seat, and additional side supports connecting the left, right, front and rear legs. These side supports were situated about four to six inches above the floor.

The chair routinely sat in a corner of the dining room and had, for as long as I could remember, been used for only two purposes; sitting in the corner (as a form of punishment when I was very young) and, the purpose for which it was about to be employed during the next half hour.

My father addressed me first. He said that he was still very angry. He had been horribly embarrassed by the store manager but, more importantly, he wanted me to know that both he and my mother were very disappointed by my behavior. I was clearly old enough to know better. Stealing was a serious offense and I should expect to be punished most severely.

From experience, I knew that I would be told to "assume the position" By age thirteen, this was nothing new; I had had lots of practice. On average, I managed to "earn" a serious spanking about three or four times a year.

For the uninitiated, this meant that I was to stand just to the rear of the chair and bend over. The back of the chair was made of solid wood but, when used for this purpose, a cushion was positioned between my stomach and the top of the chair. To assume the position, I bent (climbed really) over the cushion and, depending on my age (size) at the time, I either grasped the left and right arms, the seat, or (at about age fourteen) I reached (stretched) down to grab the left and right side supports. Then I hung on tight!

When situated correctly, my ass would arch high over the cushion, and my feet would dangle a good two feet or more above the surface of the floor. Then, as my mind fought off the natural urge to let go, my arms struggled to keep the rest of my body from either falling forward into the seat of the chair, or sliding back towards the floor.

I had to hold this position throughout the spanking and until such time as I was given permission to stand. Further, the spanking was almost always accompanied, punctuated really, with a pointless lecture. I say pointless because, undivided attention or not, it is difficult to focus on anything being said when you are stretched out "buck-naked" over a chair. At a time like that, it doesn't take a genius, or a lecture, to figure out that one had pretty much screwed up.

This form of punishment, reserved for serious offenses, started, as I said, when I was nine, and continued, with various degrees of frequency, until I was age fifteen, or thereabouts.

My mother spoke next. She too, was very disappointed. My behavior, not just today but over most of the summer, had been increasingly poor. She and my father expected an improvement and hoped that this spanking would encourage me to "be a better boy". She then told me to bring her the paddle.

My mother had never participated in any of my spankings. When I was little, she had often encouraged my father to "take charge of your son", whenever she felt that her "go stand in the corner" type punishments were not having the desired effect. She had witnessed, with approval, any number of the "too big for your britches" spankings, but this was a new twist. Having her lecture me, at age thirteen, as I stood there in my "birthday suit" was embarrassing. Was she actually going to spank me when I handed her the paddle?

When I returned with the paddle and handed it to her, she told me to "bend over". My father reached for a cushion, held it atop the back of the chair, and chimed in that I was to "assume the position."

I started to cry and plead, "I'm sorry, it won't ever happen again, PLEASE!!" But, even as I pleaded, I quickly climbed into position.

As I did so, my father replied simply, "I don't want to hear it. The only thing you're sorry about right now is that you got caught. . .but believe me son, you're going to be plenty sorry before we're finished."

After I was properly positioned, my father added that I was to "keep the count" and reminded me that I had better "hold the position" throughout the spanking, "or we'll start over."

"How many?" I asked.

We had always finalized this before a spanking began. The number of swats given during a serious spanking were seldom more than those that might be received during a "too big for your britches" spanking; ten usually, twenty tops. But, as those swats were administered while I was positioned over "the chair", each stroke felt much stronger.

"Until I'm satisfied that you have learned your lesson. Until I think you understand and appreciate just how serious an offense stealing is!"

With this final comment he nodded to my mother who, still grasping the paddle, was obviously going to be an active participant. My mother soon demonstrated that she knew what the paddle was for, and how to apply it effectively. Following each stroke, I took a deep breath and counted out the number. Thwack!! . . .ONE, Thwack!!. . .TWO, . . . . . . . . .Thwack!!. . . .TEN. My Father didn't say a word. . 11, 12, 13 14, 15 --- with that, my father held up his hand.

My mother handed him the paddle and stood back. With paddle in hand, my father spoke for the first time since the spanking began.

"Do you have any idea how serious an incident this is? Do you know that you could have gone to jail?"

These were obviously rhetorical questions that I was not expected to answer.

"I am very disappointed with you!"

Without another word my father picked up where my mother left off. WOW!!! - My hands involuntarily let go. I slipped back, fell off the cushion, and landed on my feet.


My father picked the cushion up from off the floor and held it atop the chair once again as I quickly scampered back into position; grabbing the seat more tightly than ever.

"Sixteen," I said breathlessly.

"You let go again and I'll hand the paddle back to your mother, do you understand me?"

"Yes Sir!" This was not a rhetorical question, this was serious business.

Thwack!! . . . 17 . . . Thwack!! . . . 20 . . . . 25 . . . . 30.

My knees were shaking, my ass was burning. I had just received 15 swats from my mother, and another 15 from my father. There had been a good ten to fifteen second pause between each stroke of the paddle, no doubt intended to allow me sufficient time to catch my breath, count out the number, and, at the same time, to more fully savor each and every swat and, of course, to anticipate the next. My father wasn't weakening any either. Each stroke was given with as much force as the first, and there was no sign that the spanking was about to conclude any time soon.

Thwack!! . . . 31 . . . 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, Thwack!! . . . 40.

The seconds dragged on . . . had he stopped, or was he just resting? Was the punishment finally over?

Yes, and no. After a minute or two I was allowed to stand up and was told to put the chair back in the dining room and the paddle back on its hook. When I returned my father said he hoped I would think twice before doing anything as stupid as this ever again. It was nearly 5:30. Almost a half-hour had passed since my father opened my bedroom door; it seemed much longer.

I stood in the center of the living room, on the spot where the chair had been, naked as the day I was born, waiting for permission to leave. My backside felt like it was on fire. My rump was as red as the face of a screaming new born. When I touched my butt, I could feel the heat and welts left by the paddle.

After a few minutes, my father told me to go take a shower and put on my PJs. He and my mother set the table and, when I returned, we all sat down (Yes, I could still sit!) to supper. I was grounded for the rest of the month (the last two weeks of August)

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