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(****, M/f, Intense, n/c strapping)
A young lady remembers her father's unusual punishment ritual. (Approximately 2,443 words. Originally published 1995-12.)
I've heard many people say that it is the ritual of a punishment that makes it so terrible, and I must agree. This story isn't really about a particular incident, but details how my father used to punish me growing up. This ritual started when I turned ten and continued on through high school and even once during my first year of college.
I grew up on a farm in Michigan. We were in a very rural area, quite a ways from the nearest large city. My father had a large spread and made a good living. The area and my father was very conservative and very independent. We never felt like we needed outsiders telling us what to do.
Discipline was strict and always handled at home. If any of us did something bad or got in trouble at school there was no question about us getting a spanking the moment we got home. Like most rural kids it didn't bother us much--it was simply how things were. All our friends were treated the same way at their homes and it never occurred to us that there were families who didn't practice corporal punishment.
About the time I was nine my older brother Jake got into swimming at school. He was on the swim team and pretty good. We had this pond on our property, a few hundred yards from the main house. All of us had been swimming in that pond since the time we were just tadpoles. Jake would spend his time practicing there. I think that's what gave Dad the idea.
I think it was early in the spring when it happened. It was still very cold and snowy, though the weather was clear. I remember hearing the bedroom door slam and saw father rushing past me a look of pure fury on his face. He was carrying his belt and knew someone was in for a licking. I jumped out of his way and when I saw him heading out the door toward the pond I knew it was Jake. I didn't know what he had done (and I can't even remember now) but apparently Daddy had just found out about it. I felt rather bad for Jake, but like most kids I couldn't resist observing the misfortunes of others.
So I snuck out and followed my father. What came next terrified me. I got to the pond and saw Jake doing laps in that freezing water. He was wearing a tiny bathing suit and when father shouted at him to get out he made Jake take it off.
Seeing my brother naked wasn't that new--there isn't much privacy on a farm--but seeing him get a furious bare ass licking was a first. My father had never tanned any of us bare before (at least to my knowledge), but he seemed to like it. He came back home just raving about it, saying how nice it was to be able to really see the strokes of the belt, and pleased at how humiliated Jake appeared to be. Over breakfast he announced that all future whippings would be in the buff and we should all take heed.
I don't remember who got it next. (I think it was David, or maybe Martha. They were very close together.) I got it bare for the first time shortly after I turned ten, early that summer. I'd gotten some horrible marks of my report card after promising I'd study harder and Daddy took me out to the pond and made me strip. He made me swim two laps in the pond and then while I stood there shivering and dripping in the early evening cool he took to tanning my naked bottom with that heavy leather belt of his.
I doubt that he gave me that many strokes, being I was so young and all, but boy do I remember that whippin' hurting! I was still crying when they put me to bed that night. I think I was mostly scared to death but it was a good long while before I got another, let me tell you!
Anyway, that became the ritual. Strip, a quick swim, and then the whipping. The swim came even during the winter when the water was almost literally freezing. Once I got it when the pond was frozen solid and Daddy had to chop a hole to dunk me in. I was in the water for less than a minute but I came out almost eager to receive that warming strap I was so cold. Daddy kept saying he'd warm me up good in a moment and he didn't let me down!
There was something incredibly cathartic about those whippings. I remember them so much better than spankings I got as a child. Those trips to the pond inspired a terror that was indescribable. Every step was filled with dread and it was good long walk, especially if it was cold. Because of the nature of the schedule of a farm most of our whippings took place in the early morning before we left for school. I can't remember the times I took that long walk, stars faint in the sky, my breath visible as I panted and huffed my way towards my doom. My father marched along side me, tall and silent and grim. I don't think he enjoyed punishing us--he truly loved us, but he felt it was his duty, and he took duty and responsibility _extremely_ seriously.
When we'd arrive at the pond, its waters dark and forbidding and cold, father would stand silently and wait. After it became habit I don't remember him ever telling me to strip--it was just something you knew you had to do. As I got older I remember this becoming more and more embarrassing, and I even attempted to talk to him about it, plead with him for mercy.
But he wouldn't even answer. He'd just stand there, waiting, and somehow I knew that the more time I wasted the worse the whipping, so I'd resolve myself and take off my clothes and get in that cold water and swim my laps. My whole body would be numb when I got out, trembling in fear and cold. There was no towel permitted. I'd turn away from my father and stand there, arms across my chest, shivering silently, waiting for that first terrible crack that would literally take my breath away with its horrible intensity.
That first one was always the worst. The one's after were more expected--you had something to compare them to. That first always seemed to hurt far more than you had imagined it would. That sharp leather on wet skin didn't help much either.
In some ways the bath and the cold would numb your skin which you'd think would be a blessing, but it wasn't. It only meant that father could really blister you good and it wasn't completely unbearable. But the marks really hurt. You'd go home so sore that sitting on the school bus was agony. All day long you'd feel those scraps and cuts from the belt and you wouldn't be able to believe you took such a whipping and survived. I remember one terrible licking I got when I was caught shoplifting--the marks didn't fade for over a week!
Looking back I remember those whipping as really hurting but I also remember my father picking me up and carrying me home afterwords, his strong arms holding me firmly without the slightly chance of dropping me. I would lie my head against his chest and cry myself out and he would whisper soothing things to me and tell me how proud he was of me and how much he loved me.
It was often during those times he'd bring up accomplishments I had no idea he'd even noticed, like the A I got for my speech on Kennedy. I guess Mom told him but he wasn't much for vocalizing his feelings so he would keep quiet until the right time. I'd be sobbing and clutching at him and he would smile and kiss my forehead and say, "I heard you and Sally Fergason got the only A's on Mrs. Thompson's English exam last week. That's really great, honey!"
And I'd sit up in astonishment. "How'd you know, Daddy?" His eyes would twinkle and he'd wink at me. "I have my ways, dear." Then he'd hug me close and I knew I was forgiven for whatever I had done and it would never be mentioned again. (That was one of the best things about my father. Take your punishment and the sin was gone, washed away, literally never to be mentioned again. My brother David even got a licking once for teasing Martha about getting caught sneaking cookies after she'd been punished. David kept bringing it up even after Father warned him that the matter was settled, so finally Daddy just took him out the pond for a whipping. That shut him up good.)
Well, that pretty much sums up my father's disciplinary methods. But since I did mention my first trip to the pond this wouldn't be complete without telling about the last.
It was my first year in college. I was home for the Christmas break. My very first day I was startled to be awoken at dawn by my father. He was rather quiet and mysterious but ordered me to throw something on and follow him. I had no idea what he wanted but when he led me outside and we started toward the pond I felt a twinge in my stomach. I knew that he couldn't be thinking of whipping me, after all I was an adult now, but it made me nervous just the same.
But as we walked Daddy suddenly took a sheaf of papers out of his pocket and handed them to me. Out of the corner of my eye I saw he was also holding his old leather belt and my heart froze. I recognized the documents immediately and my bubble popped. They were credit card receipts, and they were high. I'd been a little careless with my first credit card and in just a few months the card was already maxed out. Daddy had given me a stern lecture on the proper use of the card when he'd given it to me, explaining it was primarily for emergencies, in case I needed to fly home or something.
"Daddy? W-Where are we going?" I managed.
"Where do you think?" His face was grim.
"Oh, Daddy, please! I'm in college for God's sake! I'm an adult!"
He glanced at me quizzically out of the corner of one eye. "Is that adult behavior?" he said motioning to the invoices. "Two hundred and thirty-two dollars at _Macy's_? That doesn't sound like an emergency purchase to me, honey."
His point was well taken but I still tried to protest. He didn't even answer me. I wanted to stop walking, to run away, but something inexoribly drew me forward. I couldn't stop. I was terrified, irrationally terrified, but I couldn't help myself.
I was crying when we reached the lake. "Please, Daddy, please. Not this. I'm too old."
He stood and looked at me and glanced at the water and looked back at me. I knew what he was expecting and I shook my head and panicked. "I can't Daddy, I can't! You can't expect me to do this! I'm nineteen years old. I'm not a little girl any more." But he was just silent, waiting. I kept protesting until finally I stopped. It was useless. I found myself unbuttoning my coat and shivering in the cold. I was sobbing uncontrollably as I took off my clothes. It was unbelievably humiliating. I couldn't believe he was making me do this.
I slipped into the freezing water and swam across the pond and back, my heart pounding as I got out, tears frozen on my face. I stood shivering in front of my father and he motioned for me to turn around. I obeyed, trembling.
Like I said, the first one is always the worst. That strap lashed across my rump and sent a blazing fire through me that I thought would never end. I yelped and gurgled and tried not to scream. I could feel the heavy welt pulsing across my buttocks and I knew I wouldn't be sitting comfortably at Christmas dinner.
That was the last whipping I ever got from my father, but it certainly made a deep impression. It was long and fierce and I deserved every stinging stroke. I wept and cried but I knew it was what I needed though I didn't want it at all.
Contrary to many of the whippings I'd taken as a child, I was completely conscious during most of this one. My mind was alert and functioning, and I really felt every stroke and thought carefully about what it meant, how it made me feel, how much it hurt. I wept and shrieked and wiggled just like I always had as a child.
When it was over I collapsed into my father's arms, not even bothering to dress. I hugged him and he kissed my forehead and I burst into a new bout of tears. It was a wonderful, horrible moment of pain and relief and though I my buttocks and thighs throbbed with countless stings and welts my skin felt good and hot to me, like I felt I deserved. I was glad I'd gotten a good whipping. In fact, I remember thinking I wished my rump was even hotter, more poignant, that the pain and forgiveness would wash everything away and leave me clean and whole.
My father didn't carry me home that day. (I was getting too big for some things!) I knew I was becoming an adult. Somehow I think I knew that was going to be my last whipping. You'd think that would have relieved me, but it made me a little sad, like a piece of the past was gone forever. You might think too that it would make me more likely to misbehave, but somehow I still felt an overhanging threat--maybe I was wrong and there was another in store.
Well, I haven't been spanked since, but I've thought about it quite often. I don't think I really want it, but every now and then, when do something stupid or silly I kinda almost wish my husband would take me on a trip down to that pond...