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Bare in the Woodshed

by Andy Paddler

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: 10 Nov 1998

It was late one night during my junior year in high school, and I found myself getting yet another lecture from my dad. Needless to say, dad's paddle was about to do most of the talking as usual.

We lived on a hobby farm on the outskirts of a small midwestern town. It had everything you'd expect, including an old fashioned woodshed: a diehard spanker's delight. I should know. Fatherly justice was administered to my bare buttocks in that building more times than I care to remember.

Our woodshed was a feast for the senses. The walls were lined with all the typical implements of corporal punishment, including a collection of paddles, switches, and leather straps. Dad even had kept the razor strap his grandfather had once used on his boys around the turn of the century.

As you'd walk in the woodshed, the pungent smell of cedar mixed with dust would greet you upon entry. Dad even kept a record of my spankings by a tally on the wall. He'd been taking me out to the woodshed since I turned 12, so the running total by age 17 was pretty impressive.

Well, here I was again, enduring another lecture about truancy at school and bad grades. With only my briefs and T-shirt, dad marched me to the shed in the dark chill of that late October evening. It never worked to reason with him, or to make excuses. That only added to the "sentence" of whacks to be administered, so I gave up trying a long time ago.

I suppose I had this one coming. As a matter of fact, I usually had it coming. Dad was a tough disciplinarian, but he was also very fair.

Once inside the shed, with almost robotic obedience, I removed by T-shirt and slid off the briefs which hugged my round buns. You see, Dad never spanked anything but bare buttocks. He used to say, "A boy can't feel the impact of the punishment through jeans. The buns must be bare!"

Actually my dad was kind of corny. Just before administering my punishment, he would often say to me: "Son, this board of education will be applied to the seat of your learning." And then the paddling would begin with a frenzy.

On this late October night, 17 years of age and having by now become a man, I was more embarrassed than usual to drop my briefs. It had been a while since my last bare-bottom spanking. My buttocks had since become full and round; mine was a bubble butt that caught the attention of more than one girl at school, and even some of the guys who envied me while coming out of the showers.

Dad was holding the paddle, preparing to mete out justice, when he noticed my buns as if for the first time. "Son," he said, "that's one very spankable backside you've got there!" And he chuckled. At that point, I was not amused. I just wanted to get the punishment over with and get to bed.

The verbal lecture complete, I was instructed to "assume the position" over a straight-back chair. That always positioned my buttocks round and plump and relaxed. Without warning, dad raised his hand high in the air and the paddle began to light a fire in my naughty back side.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! You could literally hear justice being served. There I stood, like the central figure in a drama, with buttocks bared and punished in earnest like a boy half my age.

WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! Dad applied the paddle with unusual force, as if to drive the message home. He never spoke, nor made me count. It was a non-verbal regimen, with only the paddle doing the talking as it made contact with the vulnerable flesh of my buns. And by now, those buns were becoming red and dotted with tiny welts.

Boy, at that moment, I was thankful that we lived in the country, and that our woodshed was far enough from the house to prevent the family from hearing!

25 whacks later--with buns ablaze and eyes filled with tears--the punishment was over. The chilly air was hardly noticeable as I wiped sweat from my brow. Dad set down the paddle, giving me one more playful swat to signal it was time to get up from the chair.

The typical warnings were given about "the next time I catch you doing that", and we walked back to the house in silence. Dad could only be dad. And once again, I knew he was still boss. I knew, because I'd been bare in the woodshed.

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