"Get up! NOW! You get dressed and get your ass out to the woodshed NOW!"
Dad was mad, and he had every right to be. I deserved what was coming to me. And, as sore and tender as my ass was from the night before, I prepared myself for the trip to the woodshed.
Dad disciplines me in many ways, but he relies heavily on corporal punishment. He uses many different methods to keep me in line, including frequent hand spankings and whippings with his belts and razor strop. These are all very painful to me, and therefore quite effective. These tearful sessions always occur outside the house. But when I really deserve a genuine hide-tanning, Dad sees to it that I get it, and that's when he orders me to the woodshed. Dad utilizes one other method of discipline, one that I dread the most and he knows it. The paddle. And he keeps his paddles in the woodshed.
Dad's hobby is making paddles, and he must have at least thirty or forty of them out there. Often I will hear his electric saw at work out there as I am doing my chores, fully knowing that he is busy at work making a new board to bust my ass with. Sometimes he'll call out to me and make me come into the woodshed and bend over so he can place a new paddle to my ass to see how it "fits." Once he ordered me to grab my ankles and bend over and made me hold that position for over an hour as he slowly and carefully selected various boards and scraps of old wood and held them to my ass to determine a good board to go to work on, never once swatting me. Then there are other times when I'll hear him call me in there so he can "test out" a new paddle or break one in. He gives me a hard swat with it, as hard as he can swing it, and sends me out the door to get back to work, my mind and my hands on my burning backside. If he likes the sound of the lick, he keeps the paddle. If not, it goes in the trash barrel. I have come to recognize the "POP!" of a good lick from a good paddle, and I also know the "THUD!" or "WHOMP!" of a loser. Not that the losers hurt any less, but Dad wants every paddle in his collection to be perfect.
In addition to dad's ability to make good paddles, he is also an artist when it comes to using them. As a youngster, I got paddled often in elementary school, where the threat of a paddling was much worse than a lick itself. Later, in high school, after puberty, I actually did things on purpose to earn a paddling, and there were some pretty mean swingers. One man in particular, a coach, gave what was commonly thought to be the hardest lick in the school. He caught me a time or two, and he gave a lick so hard it would bring tears to your eyes. But he was nothing next to Dad. Dad believes in hard licks. Fiery licks. The kind I need. The kind I deserve.
Yesterday morning, after hearing Dad's order to report to the woodshed, I slowly walked down to the kitchen, put on my jock strap, my jeans, and my belt. Dad likes for me to be "fully dressed" for a paddling. I put on my chaps (open in the butt, of course) and fastened my spurs on my boots. No shirt, of course.
My dick was getting hard again, in anticipation of Dad's discipline. I remember thinking how much those licks would hurt that day in particular, after getting the strop then night before. But I knew I deserved it. I went out the kitchen door and clanged my way in my spurs to the woodshed, out behind the house. I waited for Dad, my heart pounding.
A while later, I heard the screen door slam, and the sound of Dad's heavy boots coming towards the shed. I stood there, staring at the dirt floor, my hands clasped in front of me as he walked in, slamming the door open and nearly throwing it off its hinges. He was mad, very mad, as he always is when a trip to the woodshed becomes necessary.
I wasn't sure what position he wanted me in. He either orders me to grab my ankles, my knees, or bend over the long workbench he keeps cleared for this purpose, depending on the size, weight, and shape of the paddle he will use.
As I stood there, Dad walked over to the wall and rolled up his sleeves, staring at the row of paddles. His eyes stopped on a two and a half-foot long model, a good seven inches wide, at least 3/4 of an inch thick, with holes drilled in a grid across the face of it. He took it down off the wall.
I snapped to and did as I was told. I knew what that paddle felt like as I have felt it many times. It's one of his favorites. I spread my legs wide, as he has taught me to, and grabbed my ankles hard, underneath my chaps. I gripped the back of my spurs with both hands and held on tight as Dad moved behind me, in an area with plenty of room to swing the big board. The handle was extra long, allowing for both his hands. He gripped it hard, and its heavy length nearly reached the floor, as he took several practice swings through the air. Chills raced up and down my spine as I heard the sound of air whistling through the holes in the paddle as he swung it through the air. I knew that soon that board would crack across my butt and send fire racing deep into my ass. Dad started hollering at me, giving me the lecture I deserved and explaining why I was going to get my ass beat.
He placed the paddle to my ass and I felt the wood back there - the wood that was soon going to blister my butt. He planted his own boots firmly in the dirt and rubbed the paddle back and forth, hard, across my jeans. The sweat started to pour off my forehead as I took in Dad's words. He told me how disappointed he was in me for failing to serve him properly. How willful I was, how stupid I was, and how much I needed to be taught a good lesson. He was right and I knew it. I was stupid. I wanted to be taught a lesson. I needed him to teach me to behave and please him. I hated the fact that I had disappointed him. I wanted him to hit me. Hard. Harder than he had ever hit me in his life.
As he rubbed the board back and forth across the seat of my jeans, he shouted, "YOU'RE GONNA GET IT, SON! YOU'RE GONNA GET WHAT YOU DESERVE! YOU'RE GONNA GET THE BOARD ACROSS YOUR BUTT, AND YOU'RE GONNA GET IT HARD! THEN WE'LL SEE WHAT KIND OF TUNE YOU SING!"
He kept rubbing the paddle against me.
"YOU FEEL THIS BOARD, SON? YOU FEEL THAT? THAT'S THE BOARD THAT'S GONNA BUST YOUR ASS! BUST IT GOOD! 'CAUSE I'M GONNA TAKE THIS BOARD IN MY HANDS, AND I'M GONNA SWING IT AS HARD AS I CAN, AND THIS BOARD IS GONNA LAND SO HARD AND SOLID AGAINST YOUR BUTT THAT YOU'LL SWEAR YOU'RE SITTING BARE-ASSED ON A HOT GRIDDLE! THEN YOU KNOW WHAT I'M GONNA DO, SON? I'M GONNA TAKE IT AND I'M GONNA HIT YOU AGAIN. AND I'M GONNA FLATTEN YOUR ASS AGAIN. BUT FIRST YOU'RE GONNA THANK ME FOR THE FIRST ONE. YOU UNDERSTAND, SON?"
"Y-yes, Sir." I was already crying, just at the threat of getting a licking like that. But I had disappointed him and I deserved it. I remember thinking, "Please Dad, swat my ass. Swat it hard. As hard as you can. I deserve it. Make my butt burn. Burn. Like it's never burned before!"
"YOU UNDERSTAND, SON?"
"Yes, Sir."
"WHAT?"
"YES, SIR!"
"COUNT 'EM OUT!"
"YES, SIR!"
The rubbing stopped. Dad firmed his stance and gripped the paddle hard by its long handle. I clenched my teeth as I felt it lifted away. Then I heard the sound of the air whistling through the holes as he grunted and swung the paddle, throwing the full weight of his body into the lick.
"K-A--W-H-A-A-A-A-A-C-K!"
"One, Sir. Thank you, Sir!" (My ass exploded as the paddle hit home, sending a fire burning across my butt. I winced in pain and I felt my head fly backward as the impact of the heavy lick nearly lifted my boots off the floor.)
"K-A--W-H-A-A-A-A-A-C-K!"
"Two, Sir. Thank you, Sir!"
"K-A--W-H-A-A-A-A-A-C-K!"
"Three, Sir. Thank you, Sir!"
"K-A--W-H-A-A-A-A-A-C-K!"
"F-Four, Sir --"
"K-A--W-H-A-A-A-A-A-C-K!"
"F-Five, Sir. Tha---"
"K-A--W-H-A-A-A-A-A-C-K!"
It continued up to ten licks. The hardest he has ever given me. My crying was more like convulsions, my face blood red, as scarlet as my ass. I couldn't count them any more, and Dad realized that my punishment was complete. It was the worst paddling of my life.
As I stood there crying and flinching in pain, he gave the order to get up. As I did, my hands flew to my burning butt, and I frantically rubbed it as hard as I could.
But no amount of rubbing can put out a fire like that one. And once I stood up, I realized the full fiery impact of those ten licks. Even though Dad had stopped hitting me, the pain in my ass grew hotter and hotter after he quit. I placed my hands flat against the worn, faded seat of my jeans and felt the heat radiate off my ass. My ass was a ball of fire from just above the tops of my thighs to my belt line. And completely from side to side. I walked stiffly around the woodshed, crying loudly and rubbing the seat of my pants, my spurs clanging and stirring up dust behind me.