If you are a bit squeamish, or if
you have a bit of a liberal side to you and you consider corporeal punishment abhorrent,
you might want to skip this story.
I should probably also warn you
that some of the visuals are a bit disturbing too close to a meal; regardless
of your political persuasion.
Fair warning.
My father believed wholeheartedly
in the “spare the rod, spoil the child” school of child rearing. My brothers and I dug holes, stood on fence tops,
scrubbed pots, pulled weeds, and most every other unpleasant thing around for
punishment one time or another.
Although, I never recall him actually
using a rod if you get right down to it.
Nope, his chosen tool was a
leather belt.
I have always suspected there
were a number of reasons for that. First
and foremost among them was that he always had a leather belt with him; not so
often a rod. And while it shames me some
to admit it, my brothers and I were known to give him cause to spank us now and
then.
But mostly only on those days when
the sun came up.
The routine posture for this
activity was pants and shorts pulled down around the ankles, laying forward on
our belly and elbows, across the edge of a bed.
That allowed direct and solid connection with rather sensitive parts of
our anatomy; with the added bonus of providing Dad with a comfortable position
with which to shift his weight from foot to foot to allow for the best
follow-through.
I recall on one occasion taking
some minor solace over the fact that in order for him to spank us in that
manner, we got to moon him.
But that solace only lasted until
the first whack descended on my upturned rump.
And there was a while in there
where I took pride in not making any sound, not crying out, no sobs, not even a
whimper. But truth be told, I think that
just encouraged him to be a little more enthusiastic in his application;
believing either that he was getting weaker, or more likely, believing that I
had built up callouses that he had to work down through.
Dad wore out a number of belts
over the years. No matter how you cut it
cowhide while naturally resistant to burrs, brambles, mountain lion and wolf
teeth, is just not up to the level of abuse Dad’s belts took on a daily basis. Something had to give. And while common sense would have dictated
that the youthful flesh and mind would have been the first to give out, it just
wasn’t so in our cases.
That’s probably because common
sense and my brothers and I had only a nodding acquaintanceship with each
other.
And while our Dad regularly “tanned”
our hides, it wasn’t one of those pleasing mahogany toned shades you see on
your basic beach bum.
But, none of those sessions did
us any real harm. And to be truthful, I
can’t ever recall thinking; “Nope, that looks awful fun and all, but I’m likely
to get a spanking, so I’m not gonna do it”.
In fact, there was only one time
when I felt unjustly put upon by a spanking.
There I lay, sensitive white
parts being made to look a bit like a barber’s pole over something I hadn’t
done.
No, really.
I hadn’t done it.
Hard to believe I know, but that’s
that way it was.
And believe you me, I was sure
talking my fastest to convince Dad that he was striping the wrong rump.
I finally succeeded, or he got
tired of swinging the belt, I’ve never been sure which, when Dad stops and say:
“Huh, I guess you really didn’t do it”.
So there I lay, a little misty
eyed over the fact that he believed me.
Struggling to my feet I turned to
face him, figuring that the least I should do was to face him while he apologized. His apology sounded just like this: “Well
then, that was for something I don’t know about yet”.
And while common sense and I
weren’t constant companions, I knew enough not to remind him of that episode
the next time I was lying across a bed.
Just wouldn’t have been
smart.
No way.
No how.
Copyright © 2013 Marty
K Vandermolen
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