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A Strap's Story

by Y Lee Coyote

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: 16 Apr 2006

The following story is fiction.  It contain scenes of parental strapping of boys as reported by The Strap.  If such a subject is offensive, uninteresting or if you are a minor (i.e., child) please leave now.

This work is copyright by the author and commercial use is prohibited without permission.  Personal/private copies are permitted only if complete including the copyright notice.

I was stimulated to write this by a little bit in the Meeting Point forum topic Whose head are you in? by Ezra Tennant.  He expects to post his own story shortly.

This is a helpful reference for city boys (like me) as it shows a horse harness with the parts labeled:

The author would appreciate your comments – pro and con, including constructive criticism, and suggestions.

Editor’s note: The Strap almost always refers to the boy being disciplined as boy.  The narrative covers some three generations of boys starting with the current boy’s grandpa when he was, of course, a boy.

I know that this is my second life.  Most of the time I just hang here on the nail, waiting and watching.  I hope that the boy will be naughty and his pa will take me down from this barn wall so that I can teach the boy a lesson.  No, please, don’t get me wrong by assuming that I’m hoping for misbehavior for I’m not – it’s just that it my job now and as the old saying goes: If a job is worth doing, then it is worth doing right.  I do my very best to teach the young’en about the consequences of doing the wrong thing.  I don’t get taken down very often so I’m probably doing a good job.  I’m proud that I can say that.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Not so long ago, I hadn’t been taken down in a couple of months when the boy came in with his pa.  Bring me the Strap. was the sharp order.

The boy turned ashen for he fears me but he obeyed.  He dared not risk additional penalties for disobedience.  He took me off the wall and took me over to his pa.  Here, pa. he said in a quivering voice.

I want you to oil The Strap.  That way it will be nice and flexible for spring break should you be naughty.  You are to give The Strap all the loving care you give to your baseball glove with the Neat’s-foot Oil.

Yes, pa. he said most relived that he was not going to get a whipping right then.  His pa left and he took me to the workbench. After putting an old newspaper down he got to oiling both his glove and me.  I must report that he oiled me properly but it was not with the wonderful feeling of love that he had when he did his glove.  I guess that is understandable for the glove is his favorite and I am his disciplinarian.

He put me back on my nail and wished that I would never come down again to kiss his ass.  This was not the first time a boy oiled me because his father wanted him to remember what would happen if (when!) he was naughty.  I understood his feelings and it proved that I’m doing a good job.  Evidently, the strategy worked for it was not until Memorial Day [last Monday in May] that I got taken down to work.

The boy came in with his pa.  They apparently had the talk already because the boy came directly to me and took me over to his pa.  Then he dropped his britches (yes, I still call them that even though they are called jeans now) and drawers (yes, I know, boxers) and bent over a couple of bales of hay.  I’m sorry pa... he said and paused a bit before finishing bravely ... I ... know ... that ... I ... earned ... this ... whipping.

His pa got into position and raised me up for the first cut.  He brought me down hard.  It was difficult to keep my position so that I would connect evenly.  It is not very professional to land on my edge; that can cause a cut; but I connected properly.  First I touched the soft, tender boy skin on his left cheek and quickly continued to his crack, his right cheek and a bit past on to his side.  I’m much tougher than boy skin being made of horse hide more than a quarter inch thick.  I could feel his warmth in the brief time before I fell away.  The force of the contact penetrated into the boy and turned into pain.  He managed not to yell.  They always try not to yell, but they always do before the end.  His pa was very angry for he was swinging me very hard.

The next cut was just below the first.  All was the same except that the boy could not keep his stoic silence.  I understood and so did his pa having been in the exact same position a third of a century ago.  Over and over he raised me and brought me down on the boy’s ass.  The boy was no longer silent.  He was howling for each cut and crying in between.

I was doing my job well; very well.

Then it was over.  The man put me down next to the boy and left.  The boy cried for a while.  The man did not believe that the boy should be either shamed nor humiliated as part of the punishment.  (This was not the case two generations earlier.)  The boy gripped me very tightly.  Perhaps it made him feel surer that this strapping was over.  He cried a long time.  Even after he stopped crying he stayed in the barn apparently not wanting to see or be seen by anyone.  After it got dark, his older brother brought out a tray with his dinner.  The brother did not come into the barn but just left the tray outside.  He, too, had many discussions with me and knew exactly how his brother felt and respected his need to be alone.

Later the boy ate; need I say it – while standing.  Even though he was hurting he still ate for boys are ravenous much of the time.  He still wanted to hide so he went up into the loft for the night.  Everyone of the boys I’ve been used on have done that occasionally.  When they come down they always give me a feel.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

You asked about this being my second life and if I had proof of reincarnation. «laughs»  No, it’s nothing like that at all.  I use to be a stallion; well a small part of the skin of one.  It was a very different life than now.  I’m not exactly sure but I was somewhere near the hindquarters.  We were high spirited and sired many colts; I regrettably know nothing of them now.  It would probably surprise you to know that I was on the receiving end of CP back then.  As I said we were high spirited and our owner/master often had to bend us to his will.  He had a black snake whip that he used.  I hated it.  It would come crashing down on us, some times directly on me, and cause much pain.  It did not seem fair to me since I did not have a say in what we did (or didn’t) do but that’s where the master hit us.

Then we fell and broke a leg.  Since the very first horse, that has been a death sentence.  At least now there was a quick release, rather than the nipping of small carnivores or slow starvation with vultures circling overhead.  Master put a gun to our head and I was alone.  I was not dead!  Somehow I still existed for I felt sharp knives cut the hide and then I was separated from the rest of us.  I never saw what happened to the rest.  I was scraped clean of hair and flesh on both sides and dumped into several hot painful noxious baths and beaten.  It toughened me and when they dyed me it did not hurt.  I was cut into strips.  My consciousness; my soul remained in this strip.

Along with other strips, I was fashioned into a horse harness.  I became a breeching strap.  The harness lasted many years but eventually it wore out beyond repair.  The boy’s [the one we were speaking of first] grandfather was given the task of cutting it up to recover the metal fittings.  All the other straps were dumped on the rubbish heap but the man said to save me.  It was then I was first hung on the nail.  Back then it was bright and shiny.  Neither that boy nor I knew why my destiny was to be different.

We both learnt why a couple of weeks later.  The boy did not obey his father.  For the first time I saw a boy undress in preparation for a beating.  He was slow about it and his pa urged him along several times.  Then he bent over some hay bales and I learnt my new job.  I first thought I was being flung away but that was not the case.  The man raised me up and then brought me back down.  I was not prepared for the way I connected with the boy.  I had felt his hands when he had handled me even before I was separated from the rest of the harness but his rump was very different.  It was smoother and softer with big (compared to his fingers) muscles covering the bones.  The boy reacted with a yelp when I caressed his rump.  I was raised up and brought down repeatedly and the boy was howling and crying in pain.  I could sympathize with him remembering that black snake whip the master used on us when we were a stallion.

I was put back on my nail by the man and he left.  By the time he returned the boy had stopped crying and they talked.  The boy hugged the man and promised to be good.  He did not seem to hold a grudge or even resentment.  It took me several years of such activities with both this boy, his brothers and others to understand the method of correction.  Slowly I grew to like this new job of helping the young ones grow up.

I became truly convinced when one day that very first boy was a man and brought his own boy to the barn.  You’re not a little baby any more to be spanked over my lap, son.  From now on you will get the strap – just like I did when I and all your uncles were your age.

Yes, pa. he said with great emotion, I understand.  Then he bravely stripped off his clothes and bent over the hay bales.  He was very brave.  He never yelled that first time and only cried a short time.  He quickly promised his pa that he would be a good boy and that he was very sorry.

I was truly happy with my destiny.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

When the boy we first spoke of was fourteen I got to be very busy.  Somehow he was different and would not learn like all the others.  One day he came into the barn and hitched up the wagon.  Shortly afterwards I heard his pa say: Your ma and I will be back in three days. You listen to grandma or we’ll have a long discussion with The Strap when I return.  I practically jumped off my nail with joy hearing that for I knew that the boy never listened to her.  I kept dreaming how I would caress the naughty boy’s butt within a hour of his pa’s return.

It was later that morn, that the boy and his friend took me off my hook.  Why raced through my mind?  Were they going to challenge each other?  My spirits soared at the mere thought of that wonderful game.  (It had happed several times.)  But all too soon I found out – to my deep sorrow – why.

They stretched me out full length on the workbench and clamped each end of me now very tightly.  All the oil was squeezed out by the terrible pressure. Then the friend grabbed IT from the wall.  IT was a steel rasp and took it to my back.  The pain was intense as the rasp’s sharp teeth dug deep into my body and ripped off long sections.  This was worse than even the original flaying which separated me from the-stallion-us.  Back and forth he dragged the terrible thing scrapping my flesh off.  Then the boy took over continuing the terrible deed.  Eventually IT was turned over and they used the finer side to smooth me out.  The boys kept talking all through this as they reduced me to only sixty percent of what I had been.  They did the same to my ends before covering me with stain to make me look old like before and conceal their horrid crime.  These tortures took more than two days.  It is a shame that they did not devote such energy to productive activities.

I felt emasculated when they left me hanging on my nail.  Their laughter reverberated in my consciousness long after they left no longer fearing me.

Just as I expected soon after the man returned from his trip he dragged his boy to have a discussion with your humble, but mutilated, narrator.  The boy stripped and got into position.  The man took me from my nail and proceeded to strap the boy.  He was very angry and did not notice how much lighter I was.  I did everything I could but with my mass so depleted I was not nearly as effective as before.  The boy howled but I could feel that I was not doing the job correctly and I knew he was but play-acting.  I did not have anyway to tell his father.

After the man left, the boy hung me up and laughed.  That was his undoing for the man heard and investigated.  He examined me and saw the brutal, vicious injury that the boy had done.  You will regret this, young man!  He rummaged about the junk stored in the barn and announced: This will do.  This will do very well.  He worked on the object – it had been a handle for some sport thing.  He cut off part of it and then attached a heavy piece of wire to the end.  I, of course, had no idea what he was doing.  He slipped one end of me through the gap and folded me double.  Yes, this will do very well.  He covered the parts of me that were touching with hide glue.  It was very sticky stuff and then put a board over me.  He pounded it with a mallet and I was stuck to myself and attached to the handle thing although I could swivel like a door on its hinge.

The boy was watching and I could see fear in his eyes.  His pa was really mad and was making a more effective instrument of discipline.  I was not as clever so I did see that far ahead.  He stripped again when ordered and got back into the punishment position.  He was very fearful now.  He even was begging before the first cut and making all sorts of promises.  Then the man raised me up and brought me down on the wicked, evil boy’s ass.  He howled loudly for it was a hard cut.  The business end of me was twenty percent thicker now and my effective length was about the same as before.  The handle allowed the man to swing me harder and more weight was now at the business end of me.  The boy was reduced to a blubbering mess very quickly and surely regretted his infamy.  The man was very angry at how the boy had mistreated me and his disobedience.  I was convinced that with this prosthesis I was a better instrument than before.  Of course, I would have preferred to be whole again but that was not going to happen.  Perhaps some magic could restore me but that takes a wizard.

The End

© Copyright A.I.L., April 15, 2006

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