Strip Room - A story by Merrill
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The summer of '93 was the summer of my Heartland Discipline Tour. Nine thousand miles of country roads from Oklahoma to Ohio, Minnesota to Nebraska. Yeah, it was wet. Yeah, the Mississippi was everywhere and bridgeless for a thousand miles. And, yeah, it was the Midwest: flat, humid, hot, corn-filled, and fire-flied. But there are barns in the Heartland. There are lots of sheds for wood and implements and animals. And there are daddies who were raised under the strap and who still believe its what's best for a boy. I'd been corresponding with many of these daddies, and the summer of '93 was the time for my comeuppance. One of my daddies farmed a beautiful spot in Indiana with his lover, Tim. Storms thundered in from the west over corn fields as far as you could see. To the north were woods just behind a small stream. The main house sat several hundred yards from the big barn. The drive was long, with sheds that blocked the view of the farmyard from the road. My Indiana daddy didn't waste any time or patience. The day after I drove in I began this account. It doesn't make any difference if I ask questions when Dad gives me a chore to do. He'll tell me why, but I have to do the work anyway. If I don't. I'll get my ass whipped. So why bother asking why Dad wants anything done? When he told me to clean out the old coal bin in the barn, I didn't ask questions. I got the wheelbarrow and dumped what little coal there was behind the equipment shed. It was only five or six loads. No big deal. Then I swept the floor and walls. What was left was a small room, about 10 feet long and five feet wide. Just inside the barn door, off to the right, it ran lengthwise along the front of the barn. It was all roughhewn lumber. Cracks between the boards and some knot holes let light through, but the walls were pretty solid. While feeding the hogs that evening. I heard Dad in the barn, hammering nails like he was trying to wear out his arm. Dad always has his little projects, so I didn't think much of it. Then he showed up at the barn door and called me over. Said he had something to show me. I followed him in. He stopped outside the door to the coal bin and motioned me to go ahead and go in. When I did, and when I saw what Dad had done, my gut felt empty and upset. Along the far side of the room there were a couple dozen nails sticking out of the wall at random places. On about half of them were most everything Dad's ever used to teach my ass a lesson. The Big Strop. The big leather paddle he'd been using recently, and the heavy wooden one he used over my jeans. Several belts and pieces of leather straps. Even the inch-wide lickin' stick that was the first thing he used on me other than his hand, I was just beginning to think I was too big for ass whippings. This didn't look good. After I'd had time for this to sink in, Dad told me to sit on the bench; that he wanted to talk to me. That's when I noticed he had built a bench across the other end of the room. About two feet off the elixir, it was a simple plank that ran from wall to wall. I sat down and leaned back on the wall behind the bench. I saw a wall of tools used to whip my butt and Dad standing in the doorway of what suddenly seemed to be a very small room. It was hot. but I was sweating more from nerves than from the heat and humidity. "Now, boy. This is what we call the Strip Room. Got that? Strip Room. You remember that, boy. 'Cause you're going to be told to get your ass out to the Strip Room one of these days, and you don't want to lose your way. I assure you of that. When you get told to go to the Strip Room, you'll be told what to take otf when you get here. You take off exactly what you're told, you hear me? Nothing more and nothing less. Sometimes you'll be in your underpants. Sometimes your shirt is all you'll take off. If you arc told to get buck-asscd naked, you better not even have your watch on when I get here. You hang your clothes on these hooks here." I Ic pointed to five hooks he'd screwed into the wall just opposite the door. "When you get told to go to the Strip Room, you'll also be told what you're going to get whipped for. And you'll be told how long it will be before I come out here to get your ass. It might be a few minutes or up to a half hour or more. You are to come out here, immediately strip as you've been told, and use whatever time you have to think about what you've done and what you're going to get for it. "You most likely will not be told what I'm going to use on your backside. I might show up with something other than what's out here. Like a switch. You will also most likely not be told where the beating is going to take place. loom. It probably won't be in the Strip Room. I take you somewhere in the barn, or to the garage or the tool shed or the woods or maybe even back to the house or out there in the middle of the yard. Do you understand what I'm sayin', boy?" I assured him I did. "You understand the rules, boy?" I whispered yes, Dad. "You know where the Strip Room is and what it's for, boy?" I nodded in the affirmative. Then he left me sitting there pondering this new addition to the farm. It wasn't long before I was ordered to the Strip Room. About three days later. Uncle Tim caught me horsing around the stream instead of weeding the garden like I was supposed to. Dad was off at a construction job in town, so Uncle Tim told me to get my butt up in the woods on the other side of the stream. From the way he pointed I knew he meant for me to go to the clearing about a hundred feet into the woods. An old birch tree had fallen in the clearing, and I'd had to strip and lay across that log many times before. Uncle Tim lectured me and told me to get my pants and underpants down to my ankles and pull my shin up under my armpits. He lectured me some more, making me answer his questions before he pulled of his belt and told me to turn around and get over the log. He told me to get my butt further up so he could aim at the bottom off my checks real good. Then he proceeded to land 10 good, hard ones right over the top of my legs, where my butt's most tender. Uncle Tim always lands 10. Sometimes hard, sometimes not. But always 10. Well, almost always. Whenever Uncle Tim has to whip my ass. he always tells Dad he had to take care of me. He tells me I am Dad's boy and Dad has a right to know. He'll tell Dad what I did and where I got it and how he gave it to me. Whenever I make Uncle Tim punish me. I know Dad is going to make sure I learned my lesson right. It was at the dinner table Uncle Tim told Dad about my horsing around. Uncle Tim and Dad often talked about my whippings or my need for one at the dinner table. Dad listened while Uncle Tim told about me squirming and begging him to quit, and how I tried to get him not to mention it to Dad. Dad listened. Then he told me that when we finished dinner I was to get my ass out to the Strip Room and take off everything except my underpants. He changed the subject and did not mention it again until Uncle Tim cleared the last plate. Then he told me it was "time". As I opened the kitchen door, he told me he'd be there in 10 minutes. That was a pretty uncomfortable 10 minutes. It was the first time I'd been alone, in my jockey shorts, waiting for a butt blistering. I didn't know what to do, and just kind of sat there, feeling the humid air and listening to the evening bugs. It seemed like forever before I heard Uncle and Dad's footsteps coming down the gravel drive from the house. Then it seemed like it had only been seconds. Dad walked into the room while Uncle watched from the door Dad had taken off his dinner shirt and was wearing his jeans and undershirt, the tank top kind he always wore on hot evenings. He told me I knew what was coming and why. He told me this wasn't going to be a strapping to teach me better in the future -- that I'd had lots of chances to learn not to horse around when there was work to do. He told me this was going to be a punishment whipping. That I knew better and deserved to be punished. Dad only gets after my ass three ways: lesson whippings, to get my attention so I'll learn better for next time; punishment beatings when I've done something I should have known I couldn't get away with; and switchings. I've only had two switchings, and I don't plan on getting any more. Dad went down to the far end of the room and got the Big Strop off the wall. It's three inches wide and 20 inches long, with a sturdy handle. A neighbor makes tack, and Dad had him make the Big Strop when I dented the car with a rock. It's only a single thickness of cowhide. But with that handle. Dad can land it real flat and with lots of power. "Your ass and legs are in trouble, boy. But your back is going to lead the way." My gut got that empty feeling and my butt kind of gave way. That feeling always reminds me of the times I get all backed up and Dad has to give me an enema. "Get out of the garage, boy. We're going to lay you out on the workbench." I'd taken it on the workbench before, and all the way to the garage, with nothing on but my underpants, I remembered it. I begged Dad not to whip me, that I'd remember, and that I'd just been playing in the stream for a second. That Uncle had already punished me. They both walked behind me, telling me how my ass hadn't learned anything yet and that if Uncle has to teach me a lesson, I can damn well know that Dad's going to he sure I learn it good. Uncle reminded Dad how much he'd had to tell me to hold my ass still and how I hadn't taken my pants down as soon as I'd been told. How I'd put my hands on my ass and acted like he didn't have the right to whip my butt when I needed it. Dad kept telling me my ass was in more trouble than I knew. By the time we got to the garage, I was sweating like a stuck pig. Sweat was running in streams down my sides from my armpits, and my bare legs were rubbing slick against each other. They closed the door behind us, and Dad told me to get my ass over to the workbench and to lay on my stomach in the middle of it. I laid my torso on it and swung my legs up one at a time, adjusting myself into the center of the planks. The bench was solid and oily, rubbed slick and uneven from years of fixing cars and equipment. I had a bit of time to settle in and grab the far end of the bench. All the while I begged Dad not to leather me. He didn't say anything, just took hold of both sides of my underpants and pulled them off my butt and down my legs and off my feet. I was bare-assed naked laying on the workbench. Uncle Tim was watching from where he sat on the hood of the car. Dad dropped my jockeys and flipped the strop between his hands. "I've been thinkin' you're about ready for a good punishment beating, boy," Dad said. "It's not just horsing around today. That's just the latest way you've proven it to me. It's your whole attitude this last couple of weeks. Now you're going to get it good, boy. Real good. As good as you ve ever had it. You need me to tie you down for it?" I told him I thought I could take it, to please not tie me down. I fixed my grip. I knew I didn't want to put my hands back there once the whipping started. "You hang on to the end of the bench there, boy. You know I'll take you out and switch you tomorrow if see have to stop and tie you down, don't you boy? I didn't have an answer. The first stroke landed square up my back. I held on to the end of the workbench and started begging Dad not to give me a punishment whipping. By the time the words were out, the strop had landed three times on my hack and I begged, "Dad—dad—please!" as the strop whipped my back again. Dad told me I was going to be punished good. I couldn't stand the pain any longer, but I didn't dare let go of the bench. The smell of the oil and the roughness of the bench top as I thrashed about on it were overwhelmed only by the stinging strop Dad dropped onto my back. "Now, boy, we're going to make sure your butt and the back of your legs know we mean business as well. You hold 'em still, boy. I better not have to go chasing them. You had your chance to be tied down." Dad paused a half a minute or so. "Now, tell me why you're being punished." "I was horsing around in die stream, Dad." "And what were you supposed to be doing?" "Weeding the garden. Dad." The first stroke caught me right where Uncle Tim had whipped me. It was the tender bottom part of my butt. After Uncle Tim's whipping that afternoon, it was more sensitive than ever. Dad gave the first stroke just enough time to sink in before he landed another in the same spot. Then he put one across the middle of my ass and another across the middle of my thighs. "Now, boy, between those spots on your ass checks and your legs, we're going to you've make been sure every inch of you knows you've been punished good." He took his time, pausing just long enough between strokes so I fully suffered the pain, but not long enough for me to catch my breath. I pleaded with him not to leather my ass any more, but he told me to keep my ass where it belonged or he'd make this seem like a picnic. The hard bench held me as I writhed, trying to keep from falling off. I knew I'd have to pay with the switch if I got off the bench. My sweat was a slick pool under me on the oily bench. My butt crack was slick with sweat as I tried to move my ass checks to deflect the strop. But it landed again and again, stinging my ass and burning my legs, and about every other stroke landed on the tender bottom part of my ass. All the while Dad told me I should remember my punishment whipping and see to it that I never earned another one. He stopped and gave me a full minute to catch my breath and quit writhing. "Now turn your butt around. boy. We're going to give you 10 to even up the other side of your ass." It was awkward turning around stark naked in front of Uncle and Dad, my dick and balls flopping around for them to see. My butt and back freshly-leathered. On the narrow workbench it was embarrassing, having to get on my knees and turn around and lay back down for more. Dad was true to his word. He evened the other side of my ass checks and legs real good. When it was over. Dad told me to get off the bench and put my underpants back on. He asked if I'd been punished for what I'd done or if I needed more. When I assured him I'd absolutely been punished, he told me to get back to the Strip Room. Once we got there he told me to sit on the bench. As I squirmed on the hard bench, he told me again that he was not going to take any more had behavior from me, and there was lots more where that came from. Finally, he and Uncle Tim left me alone to think about my leathering. About a half hour later I heard Dad call me from the house to get dressed and come back home. As usual, they treated me as if everything was fine, and we laughed and enjoyed one another until bedtime. They especially enjoyed teasing me about how I wasn't sitting very still during our game of pinochle. "What's that bid again, boy? You were moving so much there was a Doppler shift and I couldn't make it out." Very funny. I hated the Strip Room and vowed to never submit to another humiliating session of corporal punishment there. The first time I beat off in the Strip Room was the first time Dad sent me to it with orders to strip bare-assed naked. He found out I was late for my job. He said I needed to learn better so I wouldn't be late again and end up without work. He said He knew just how to get my attention so I'd be sure and learn, a line I'd heard many times before. Dad always got my attention by bending my bare butt over and landing a paddle or strap or belt on it 10 times, Often as not. he'd decide I needed five more to be sure I was paying attention to my lesson. So when he told me to get to the Strip Room and take off every bit of anything I had on. I knew my butt was going to be up in the air for a lesson whipping. He told me I had a half hour to think about it before he came to get me. The problem was, I'd been so fuckin' horny for about a week, my hard dick was about all I could think about. I'd been wearing my sheets out nibbing on my bed. There isn't much to do for a half hour, sitting in that little room naked. Even knowing my butt was going to get it, it wasn't long before I was thinking about my dick. It was hot in there, and it smelled of the barn and hay and coal. Before long, I was nibbing my sweaty body, and my hands just naturally found my balls and my dick. Fuck, man, I threw such a boner it felt like maybe there really was a bone in there. I knew I didn't want Dad to find me with a hard-on. I tried to keep my hands off my eager shaft and red, oozing knob. I grabbed onto the edge of the bench. But pretty soon I was rubbing my ass on the hard bench, and my hands were back, pulling on my balls and stroking my horn dog. Fuck, I was so horny! I even stood up and humped one of the planks in the wall, trying to force my stiff tool through a knothole that was way too small. I stopped myself and sat back on the bench, but the bad-dog heat got me again, and I found myself rubbing my dick and balls along the edge of the bench. I turned around and sat on the bench, knowing Dad would come and get me soon. That's when I saw the strop hanging on the far wall. The Big Strop I hated that evil fucking thing. But my dick and balls were so horny to rub against something, I couldn't stand it. I immediately thought how I could use that strop to ease my pain. After all the pain it had caused me, it seemed only fair. I walked over and took the Big Strop off the wall, then wedged my right foot about waist-high on the wall. This left my crotch spread wide open. I dangled the strop against my dick with my right hand. With my left hand I reached around, under my butt, and grabbed the far end of the strop, which I pulled up, under my dick and balls. Man, they were horny for a ride. I immediately surfed rubbing my balls on that strop, pulling rhythmically while my balls and dick thrust against the leather. My eyes were closed and my head was thrown back when I started slapping the strop, pulling it tight against my thrusting crotch and telling my dick it couldn't get enough, easing the strop back with both hands and slapping it back on my balls and dick. They couldn't get enough. I was blind stupid stuttering hard. I rode that bucking strop hard and felt it rough against my ass crack. I started to feel the swelling up in my balls and my gut. Oh, fuck, man Ride that fucker. Ride that fucker. I thrust. My legs came down from the wall and I was clinching the strop between my legs while pulling it through my crotch, hard against my balls. The swelling was taking me over and my breathing became one long, held breath. Then another. I pushed my crotch against the strop and opened my mouth to expel the last breath of lust and the first moan of orgasm. The swelling in my balls just had to he released. The pressure between my legs forced my eyes open. Dad was standing in the doorway looking at me. The breath stayed in my lungs. The swelling stayed in my balls. I didn't move. He said nothing. Just stood there looking at me. Then he put out his hand. I put the Big Strop in it. That was perhaps the most uncomfortable lesson whipping of my life. Not because of Dad. He leathered me like any other lesson whipping I'd ever had. He didn't even mention now he'd found me in the Strip Room. In fact, he didn't say anything, which was real strange. Usually he talked a lot about what my ass was going to get and where my ass was going to get it and why my ass deserved it. This time, his being so quiet left me off guard. With the hand holding the strop, he motioned me to get out of the Strip Room into the barn. Then he motioned toward the sheep mangers, one of his favorite places for stropping me. I went to the end one. I knew he liked the last stall because he could stand next to it, parallel to the rail I'd be bent over, so he could squarely land the strop. Without saying anything, I bent over the edge of the manger wall, with my legs a bit of the floor. It was very uncomfortable. A lot of times Dad didn't insist I put my hands on the floor, but I wasn't taking chances on pissing him off more. And I knew he liked the way it exposed the underside of my butt cheeks for the strop. I knew the second I was in position I had a problem with my balls. They were squeezed against the top of the manger wall But now I realized they were also blue with cum. And I mean blue like a cottage in Maine. Fucking blue like fucking King Tut's fucking turquoise necklace. I mean fucking blue balls, man. They hurt so bad I had to stand bowlegged to keep from touching them. And here they were smashed against the top of this board, my full weight hanging on them. Waiting for an ass strapping that was sure to make me dance around them. My nuts still ache when I think about that lesson whipping. Dad's strapping did get me dancing, too. He walked over and didn't say a word. Just landed that strop 10 hard ones, every one right at the top of my legs and the bottom of my butt. Fuck, that hurt, man. Fuck. I danced, man. Fuck, my balls ached. Dad finally said something. '"You learned about being late for work, boy?" I assured him I had, and he told me he thought I needed more attention to my lesson. I wasn't surprised when he delivered another five, and I wasn't even surprised when they were hard, more like the kind he gives me for punishment beatings. He laid the strop down next to me. "Tomorrow we'll talk about this other thing, boy. I send you to the Strip Room to think and learn, not to be playing with yourself. When I leave, get back in the Strip Room and sit your bare butt on that bench. Don't you move until I call you up to the house. Then you get dressed and get your ass to the house pronto." I was still hanging on my balls, sore butt in the air, as Dad left the barn. At the door, he told me I better keep my hands off myself while I was waiting for his call. It was hot in the Strip Room, and my butt felt every square inch of that hard bench under my ass. I didn't know your balls could hurt so much and still shoot a wad. But they can. I was pretty sure I'd be getting a licking for beating off in the Strip Room. Dad had caught me jacking off in my bed before. The first time, he came in to get me up and when I didn't respond, he yanked the covers back. There I was with my pajama bottoms pulled down to my knees and a hard-on bouncing around. He went to the wall and got the Ping-Pong paddle and came back to the bed. I had rolled onto my stomach to hide my dick, and he proceeded to paddle my butt bright red. That paddle stung like hell. Still does. He's left it in my room ever since, just in case we need it for another emergency. He told me that now he knew I was the kind of boy who plays with himself, he'd he checking on me. And every once in a while he catches me. That paddle was not brought to the Strip Room with the others. This time, I was not only whacking my meat, I was violating the purpose of the Strip Room and disobeying orders as well. I was pretty sure I had a licking coming. Several times during the day Uncle Tim mentioned my ass was in trouble when Dad got home from framing buildings. I was playing in the yard when Dad got home, and he told me to follow him to the house. He was dressed in one of the white tank top undershirts he likes, always a sire too small so they fit real tight. Dirt was on his tight jeans, and his steel-toed boots were covered with mud from the construction site. Sweat glistened on the hack of his big arms, tan and accented with black hair, as he walked in front of me. When we got to the porch he called Uncle Tim out, and we all sat on the chairs out there. Dad asked Uncle Tim what he thought about a boy who'd been sent to get stripped for a whipping and ended up using the strop to play with himself. Uncle Tim said he'd heard of boys who like getting leathered, that it turned them on. He said maybe I was one of those boys and maybe it would do me good to get whipped hard enough so I'd never want to think of getting whipped again. "We don't want him growing up to be a weirdo," he said. I assured Dad I didn't get turned on because he was going to leather me. "That's crazy, man. Who'd like that?" I assured him I wasjust homy. I needed something to rub against, and I just happened to think of the strop. I even told Dad I'd understand if he paddled me for playing with myself, but I didn't need to be taught about getting turned on by a leathering. "It hurts when you leather my back or my legs or my ass, Dad. I don't get turned on by that at all." Dad rocked for a bit, looking out at the drive. Then he stopped and took a deep breath and said he thought Uncle Tim was right. "Since you seem to like tiding the leather so much, we're going to give you a ride you won't forget. You need to get out to the Strip Room, boy. Since you won't leave yourself alone when you're buck naked, strip down to your jockey shorts. Put your shoes back on and sit there and wait for us. It won't be long. And you better not have a hard-on when I get there, boy. I'll be checking. In fact. I'll be checking your dick before every whipping. Now get your butt down there, boy." I knew better than to argue or even hesitate. I was stripped and sitting on the bench about five minutes when I heard Dad and Uncle Tim walking down the drive to the barn. Again Dad came into the Strip Room while Uncle Tim stood in the door. Dad immediately came over to me. pulled my underpants away from my body, and took a good look at my dick. It's always kind of big, but it wasn't hard. He flicked it once with his finger to make sure it wasn't hard, then let my jockeys snap back in place. Uncle Tim spoke from the doorway. "Your butt's in trouble, boy.' Dad walked past him to the far wall and got the handle strap. It's only 10 inches long and three inches wide. But it's made of real heavy leather. Real stiff. And it has a sturdy handle on it. Dad says he likes it because it gives him absolute control of where the strap's going to do its business when my ass needs some real good fine tuning." He told me I had my shoes on because we were going to take a walk in the woods, out to the fallen birch. I led the way. In nothing but my underpants and shoes, I walked past the garden, through the pasture, and over the stream. I felt real exposed to everything and was almost glad to get to the woods, like they offered some privacy. We walked to the fallen birch and I stood beside it. I didn't turn around, just stood there facing the dead tree and waiting for Dad's instruction. "First, boy, I'm going to leather you for playing with your dick. I thought the paddlings in your bed had taught you better. Now lay on your stomach across that log, boy. And put your hands on the ground on the other side" This left my back rounded down the far side of the log. My crotch was not even on the log and I had to bend my knees and put my feet on the ground to keep from having my ass in the air. I heard Dad's belt rattle as he undid the buckle. I heard the leather being pulled from the denim loops. He stood with his feet on either side of my ankles and held my feet together with his feet. Then he landed the belt. Because my back was bent down, the belt had a little extra time to pick up some momentum. It practically curled up my back, the far end snapping on my right shoulder like an exclamation point on a sentence. "So the paddle doesn't do it, huh?" The belt landed on my left shoulder. "My boy wants to play with his cock, huh?" The leather curled again. "Just too horny, huh?" The more Dad talked, the more he talked himself into a harder beating. The belt landed over and over, welting my back and welting the welts. He told me to leave my dick alone, and Uncle Tim reminded him I'd promised that before when I was under the paddle. I was beginning to wonder if the leathering was ever going to end. when he quit. He let me think about it for a bit before he released my feet from his grip. He stepped back and told me to get up. "Your ass seemed to like riding leather in the Strip Room, boy. Since it likes it so much, I figure your ass deserves to go for a real good ride on some leather." As I stood, stiff from the belting, I protested and begged a little, but not much. I faced Dad, and he told me to take off my underpants. I pulled them over my ass and let them drop to my feet. I stepped out of them and left them on the ground. Buck-assed naked, I faced him again. He told me to beat off "since you like to play with it so much. You're going to get to play with your dick while you go on a real fun leather ride." My cock wasn't hard at all, but I began stroking as hard and fast as I could. I sure didn't want my dad any more pissed off. It was hard to get it up. being welted like I was in front of Dad and Uncle Tim, and scared shitless. But I kept pulling at it while Dad told me to get tnat dick hard, that I seemed to like it and I was going to be learning some lessons about the kind of trouble my dick could get me into. Finally it did start to get that old feeling and swelled in my hand. I was beating my meat with my right hand, and Dad grabbed me by the left arm. He landed ms belt on my ass and told me my butt would know exactly why it was getting this belt. He landed the belt on my legs and told me my hard-on was exactly why my butt was getting belted, and my beating it off was more than enough reason to be whipped. He was landing the belt faster and faster, telling me I obviously liked to ride leather and that I was riding leather like I'd never ridden it. He seemed to know just when to land the belt and just when to let me beat off for a few seconds. He took me for a ride on that leather belt, and before I knew it I was shooting my load all over the birch log. He landed the strap a couple times as I came, and it felt like I'd come all over the entire woods. "Now, boy, you feel all emptied out? Did we take care of that horny problem you had, boy?" I said I felt like my whole insides were spewed out through my dick and that my sore back and ass were the only things left. "Good. Then the ride I'm going to give your crotch on the handle strap will be most effective. Get your butt over the log." I didn't know what he meant, but I was too empty and sore and tired to protest. I got on my knees, and again I felt bark under me. This time it was slick with my cum and sweat. Dad told me to spread my cheeks, and I protested. "Oh, man. Dad -- I've had enough -- please!" But my hands reached behind me and feebly pulled my checks apart. "Your crotch was enjoying a ride on leather in the Strip Room, wasn't it, boy?" "Yes, sir." "Well, it's riding again." He kicked my legs apart and told me to keep them spread wide. As he straddled the log, sitting beside me, he told me to reach farther down my butt, down to the bottom part, and to get a good hold. A real good hold. "Now spread that butt so far open you think you're going to rip it apart." He landed the handle strap on the tender skin beside my hole and told me to spread it more open and to get my legs spread apart where they belonged. "Your crotch wants to ride some leather, boy. Your crotch is going to get to ride some leather. You let go and your crotch will be riding a switch. You got that, boy?" I was drained the way you are when you've come. And the way you are when you've been whipped hard. Even so, I grabbed onto the bottom of my ass and spread it as hard as I could. Once the leathering started, it was all I could do. I immediately forgot how drained I was. All that skin in there was tender. Not to mention my butt hole or the underside of my crotch, between my legs. Dad never touched my balls with that little, stiff, nasty leather strap. But he sure took my crotch on a ride I'll never forget. Neither Dad nor Uncle Tim has ever caught me playing with myself in the Strip Room again. In fact, Uncle Tim has commented on how riding that leather seemed to help my disposition a great deal. He says they should have thought of it before. He's observed I am much more willing to help out. He even appreciates my taking the initiative about cleaning the barn. It's true. From the time my crotch rode that handle strap, I've made sure the gravel in front of the barn stays fresh and raked. And real crunchy. No matter how horny I am, I listen real good. I always have time to get the strop back on the wall and my pants up and a broom in my hand before they get to the barn door and find me cleaning up. Again.■ |
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