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Campground Discipline
Part 8

by Graham

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Copyright on this story text belongs at all times to the original author only, whether stated explicitly in the text or not. The original date of posting to the MMSA was: 12 Apr 2007


I had no option other than to settle into the restrictive routine that was my life for my last semester of college. Once I did, things became pretty routine, and I fell in step almost automatically. Up every morning at 5:30, and off with my Dad to work out; dropped off on campus where I spent the day in classes or studying; picked up at the library at 4:30 to ride home with Dad; study after dinner until 11, then lights out.

Mondays began each week with a new round of the routine. By Thursdays, however, I couldn’t keep thoughts of the next night’s impending spanking from invading my thinking; and all day Fridays I was filled with a dreading humiliation of being headed towards an imminent doom as I anticipated, being taken over my father’s knees, bare butt, and punished until I was shrieking with unimaginable pain and shame, and then sent to bed sobbing. Saturdays involved work around the house, as well as study; Sunday was church in the morning, study or family activities in the afternoon, and getting ready for the week in the evening.

On Friday evenings, I knew after dinner to get myself to my bedroom, get ready, and wait for my Dad. He usually appeared in my room about 8 p.m. – sometimes earlier –, took his place in the armless, desk chair in my room; and I had to position myself over his lap, in just my t-shirt and socks. He then wielded an old, wooden hair brush, administering the weekly whipping scheduled for me.

The first four weeks I tried to be stoic and endure the whippings. Always the pain from the thoroughly sound thrashing my Dad inflicted was more than I could withstand, however; and each time my resolve and reserve melted away sooner and quicker.

Despite my firmest intentions, I was quickly reduced to begging, pleading, promising, bargaining, confessing, and then just to convulsive, choking, nonsensical bawling and sobbing. Afterward, Dad would watch me bounce and stomp, wailing in humbled, contrite, painful agony.

He would wrap his strong, muscled arm around my skinny waist, hoist me upside down off my feet, and drop me onto my bed. I would then crawl across the bed to stretch out flat, lying on my face and stomach, with my bare, branded butt throbbing and radiating the week’s blistering.

As he pulled the sheet lightly and carefully up over my red, raw butt, and then turned out the light before walking out of my bedroom, Dad’s voice would soften, voicing words like this: I really hate this, Jared. But it’s the painful, necessary, consequence of your immense, bad judgment in December. It doesn’t mean we don’t love you, son; but it does mean that you are not – under any circumstances – ever going to get away with deliberate, bad behaviour and not have to pay the price. When you finally, really learn that, you will avoid this discipline – and, frankly, I’ll be glad of it.

Early every Friday night I was in bed for the night, sobbing myself to sleep. By Sunday, the residual pain on my rearend had lessened enough for me to force myself to sit quietly and still in church. By Monday morning, I had recovered enough to accompany my father to early-morning gym, and then begin the new week of classes and work.

All in all, my father was unrelentingly consistent, blistering my butt every Friday night for 19 weeks – including the Friday night before my graduation from college! The next morning, I was up early getting ready for graduation.

My statement of wanting to go out with friends to celebrate after the graduation was vetoed by my Dad, and I began protesting and pouting. When he warned me to stop throwing a temper tantrum, because I still was not going to be allowed to go out with my friends, I exploded with an outburst of how “unfair and childish” I was being treated.

Dad heard about 4 sentences of that impertinence, and grabbed hold me, dragging me to my bedroom. Telling me I would now find myself treated like a bratty child, he pulled down my dress pants and boxers, and spanked my already sore, marked bottom until it was red hot and I was bawling gulping sobs. Afterward, he told me to re-dress and stood watching me until I’d finished.

At noonday, at commencement, my whole family was present. I had hoped to be able to mark the occasion with my friends. Instead, I was present with a painfully marked butt from a spanking only hours earlier.

As a result, I was probably more solicitous and attentive to my family than any other graduate. I wanted them – especially my Dad – to be proud of me, and I knew better than to stray far from them in light of the repeated trouncing I’d gotten this morning and the night before.

Our family went out for a big evening meal together to celebrate my graduation, with was a momentous occasion. Nevertheless, I also understood unmistakeably I was being allowed to go out with my friends to celebrate.

Anyway, I got through it all, and in fact had concluded with another semester of stellar academic results. I had already decided I wanted to go to medical school, and back in January and February applied to several medical schools – including the one at the university where my Dad teaches. Not surprisingly, I was accepted there right away, but was also accepted to two state universities, one in Texas, an another in Alabama.

My Dad told me to confirm my acceptance at the medical school in our home-town university where I would be getting my undergraduate degree, as the savings would be enormous. My tuition would be free, and I’d save room and board expenses by living at home.

I had some misgivings about this, since I’d still be under my parents’ supervision and control, and wouldn’t experience any real change in living this way. Although I had been offered some scholarships based on my good grades, I didn’t have any choice. My parents provided everything for me, and I was still totally dependent on them.

So, I confirmed my entrance into the medical school, and knew I’d be back on the same campus – but in the medical school – come fall.

On the Tuesday after my graduation, we headed out again for the summer, traveling up through Pennsylvania, New York, headed over into New England, and up into the maritime provinces and Newfoundland. I didn’t really want to go with my family for the summer – another rerun of past summers – and so suggested being left at home.

My parents wouldn’t even consider it. I tried to insist that I stay at home, but my Dad reminded me of the disaster I’d gotten myself into when they allowed me to be off on my own in December.

Instead of accepting the decision, however, I became more and more vocal and strident in my complaints, about not being allowed to go out and celebrate my graduation with my friends, about being away from everybody for another entire summer, about being a college grad now and able to make my own decisions.

My father tolerated my bellyaching several times, while directing disapproving glances my way. Finally, he told me he was not impressed by my being a college graduate, and reminded me he expected me to comply and conform, and help out, or he’d give me an incentive to do so, if necessary.

Maybe it was 19 weeks of whippings and being tightly controlled that made me snap. This is crap! I shouted, standing up suddenly. I’m tired of being treated like a child – worse than the twins or Jonathon!

I noted the shocked looks of horror on their faces! I’m almost 22 years old! I just graduated from college! I’m going to medical school in the fall! And I still always have to be told what I can and can’t do! Well, I’m damn sick of it!

Dad sat up in his chair without getting up, stared directly at me, and said with an even softer than normal voice, Jared. Go out to the RV and wait for me.

Immediately, I knew what that meant, and I wasn’t caving in to it. No! I’m not! I’m not going! You’re not going to keep doing this to me, Dad! I’m 21 – almost 22 – a man! I’m not going to!

Defiantly, I turned and headed out of the kitchen towards my bedroom. Once inside, I closed the bedroom door and locked it. (I knew I needed to protect myself.)

Quietly, Dad got up, followed me to my bedroom and tried the locked door. Unlock the door, Jared, he ordered me softly.

No, Dad! I replied. You’re not gonna do this to me any more. I called back, determined to take a stand, assert myself, stop this right off, before it ever started, be a man, and stake my claim as a man that I’m too old to be spanked — and it’s not gonna happen — any more. The fact that I’d been blistered, upended bare over my Dad’s lap just two nights earlier seemed not to register with me at this moment of standoff.

I didn’t hear anything more, and quickly stripped off my t-shirt and shorts, sliding into my bed on my side, in just my boxers. I would sleep through this night’s storm, and then be just as firm and resolute tomorrow when they were packing up.

Next thing I knew, Dad unlocked and opened my bedroom door, and strode in over to my bed. Immediately, I slid over under the covers against the wall.

Where were you told to go, Jared? he asked icily.

I said I’m not doing that! I blurted out. Dad reached down, pulled the blanket and sheet off me, and grasped me with both of his powerful hands, lifting me right up off the bed.

Noooo, Daaaaad! I shouted. You caaaaan’t!..., but my protests were interrupted as he sat down on my bed and spread me out upside down across his legs. Without a pause, he reached over and yanked down my boxers, pulling them down my hips, thighs, legs, feet, and off onto the floor.

Uh-no-noooooooo-aaaaah-waaaaay-Daaaaaaad! Not thaaaaat-aaaaah-you-uh-caaaaaaan’t-uh-uh-Daaaaaaad! Youuuuuu-aaaaa-can’t-uh-dooooo-thisssssss! I bellowed.

Hanging topsy-turvy, held securely upside down, over my father’s knees, I began feeling a sense of hopeless outrage as I fully realized exactly what was happening. Despite my declared indpendence to the contrary – and maybe because of it – I was going to be spanked by my father, whom I was aware knew how to control and discipline me. Now totally naked in front of him, he was going to spanke me and there was nothing I could do about it.

It was hard to believe that after all the spankings I’d gotten over the past 19 weeks, I was going to get another one. But I now knew it was inevitable; and I was sickened at the thought of getting another whipping after the humiliating embarrassment of declaring my defiance against it.

My father began in earnest, unleashing a flurry of swats with the hard, wood hairbrush with machine-gun rapidity to my still battered, stinging behind. I was shocked and gasping both from the affront to my pride that I had dared to act upon, and from the mounting, painful fire on my behind, that was heating up real fast and hot!

While I felt incensed to have this being done to me, I honestly had to admit that it was neither unexpected, nor something I was ultimately able to do anything about it. I felt especially shamed and belittled by the obvious fact that my father had paid no attention to what I’d said.

Instinctively, I began to thrust and buck, struggling, trying in vain to free myself, to get away, fighting against the grip that held me locked there across my father’s lap. Each successive, stinging swat of the hairbrush jolted my backside and brain with the stinging pain and heightened the heat to my bare rearend, that radiated, searing into my desperate brain, and burning right into my soul.

I felt frantic, desperate to get this halted – right away! – to get out from under this torrent of swats against my smouldering rearend. I couldn’t believe it! I was being spanked, and bouncing around on my strong father’s lap, like a 10 year-old. My feet were in the air more than they hit the floor, and my bottom was completely burnkng and glowing as the machine-gun-like smacks of the hairbrush stoked the mounting inferno on my unprotected, bare butt.

Waaaa-augh-aaait, uh, uh, minute! Ooo-aah-oww! Agh-ah! Uhnaaa-umhaaa! Waaaa-uh-aaaaaait! Agh-uh-uh-waaaaaaaait! I gasped. Oooooww! Ooooo-uh-stop! Stopit! Please! Oh, wow! Please! Daaaaaad! Please! It hurts! Ow! Staaaahp-uh-ittt! This-augh-uh-really hurtzzzz! Oooooo-uh-ow-ow-it’s-huh-uh-hurrrrrrteeeng!

Of course. It’s supposed to... and you know that, Jared, my father shot back, and kept the hair brush resounding against my throbbing butt.

For years past, and for the past 19 weeks, that hairbrush has been my worst, terrorizing nightmare. Small and compact, with a thick, flat wooden back, it is swiftly effective, in an alarmingly brief time, to administer countless blistering smacks to a squirming bottom, producing a world of overwhelming pain and suffering on the bottom being so treated.

I was conscious of nothing else: nothing else was real for me at that moment, as I thrashed and squirmed around on my father’s lap, except the raging furnace in my burning butt. I lost all control and composure, sobbing like my heart would break, like I was 10 years old again.

I was besides myself with painful misery and indignity. Deep, profound sobs welled up from that intimate place where the small, naughty, punished little boy resides inside me.

Daddy! Daddy, please! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorr-haughuh-eeeeee-uh-I-uh-wooooon’t ever do it agaaaaain! Daddy! Daddy! Oooooo-uh-staaaahp-uh-Daaa-uh-deeee! I’ll be good! I’ll be good! I promissssss! I willlll! Ooooo-uh-waaaa-uh-I’ll beeee-uh-uh-goooood!

Dad tanned my tight, flat, bare buns long, intensely. Upended, I responded by tightening, then loosening, my buttocks as spanked – a rhythmic clenching, relaxing, clenching, relaxing, that allowed my Dad to view the results of the spanking and also to identify my vanquished defeat, surrender, and relinquishment, while being disciplined under my his control.

Calmly, in a flat, no-nonsense tone, Dad lectured me while he kept the rapid, rhythmic snapping of the wooden hair brush blistering my backside. Listen up, young man. You are not going to carry on like this any more. We will never allow it! Do you understand me?

Oooo-aaaaghaug-uh-y-yes-uh-uh-Daaaa-uh-deeee! Waaaa-uh-uh-yes-uh-uh-I-uh-doooo! Uh, waaaaaa, uh-uh, waaaaaa! Oooooo-uh-uh-yaaoooooo-uh-uh-yesssss! Uh-uh-waaaaaaa! I shrieked my responses, nearly gagging as I choked in uncontrollable sobs, sliding, jerking, and jumping with each crack of the hairbrush.

Dad stopped suddenly, and immediately pulled me up off his lap and planted me bouncing on my bare feet in front of him. Now, Jared: Where were you told to go?

Aaaa-haughuh-uh-waaaaaaa-uh-uh-waaaaaa-uh-in-uh-uh-thuh-uh-Rrrrrrro-uh-uh-haugh-uh-Veeeeeeee-uh-uh-waaaaaa-uh-waaaaaaa-uh-uh-waaaaaaaaa! I bawled.

Then get yourself in there – immediately! Dad barked for the first time.

Ooooo-uh-uh-puh-leeeeez-uh-Daaaa-deeee-uh-waaaaaa!

He launched the hair brush against my ignited bottom. I jumped and wailed. Oooooo-uh-uh-kaaaaay-uh-uh-waaaaaaa! I cried. I looked around for my boxers, but Dad grasped my left arm in a steely grip and began marching me naked out of my room, through the house, and out to the RV.

Sobbing, I could see out of the corner of my eye that my little brothers and mother were present to see me manoeuvered along naked by my father. I kept my eyes aimed downward to avoid meeting theirs.

Outside, at the RV, Dad directed me up the steps into it. There, I spied the same, old paddle still hanging on the wall.

Dad reached up and took it down, sat down, and pulled me instantly toppling across his lap. He launched a barrage of swats against my wounded, dark bottom that drove me into another level of unconscious delirium from the unthinkable pain being inflicted.

About 25 minutes later, I was broken, reduced to incomprehensible crying out and sobbing, with the voice of a shattered, little child. I begged him, promised, pleaded, that I’d never – ever – defy him or disobey him again.

Afterward, Dad sat, waiting, letting me sob and bawl until it subsided and I began to regain some composure. He next pulled me up off his lap, sat me down on my excruciatingly painful rump on his right leg, and wrapped his arms around me, pulling me into his embrace.

I flung my arms around his neck, shuddering and heaving, and welcomed the deep, masculine voice of his simultaneous comfort and instruction. I knew he loved me, but was seriously concerned for me to grow up and be a man of responsible character.

Finally, chastened and scolded, I was almost toppled over off my unsteady feet as he stood up. Now, Jared, you are in bed tonight. Tomorrow morning I’ll get you up early, so you can pack and help the other kids.

Uh-uh-oooo-uh-kaaay-uh-Duh-uh-uh-aaaadeee! I replied, whimpering and sobbing softly in a now-remorseful, good-little-boy voice. Afterward, I hushed up, walking quickly, but stiffly, nude and contrite, back into the house and my bedroom, sliding into bed, and drifting off rapidly amongst my tears. The next morning, I was awakened at 5:30 by Dad. I packed up for the summer, and spent the rest of the day helping him pack up the motor home.

Tuesday morning, found me not only leaving with my parents for another campground summer, but doing so, sitting very uncomfortably from three harsh spankings over 3 days. I thought that probably none of my friends was starting off post-college life with a blistered sore butt from a hard spanking. For me, it was all an unfavourable portend for the summer.

 
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