This story contains bare butt strapping and may not be acceptable to some readers.
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Corporal punishment was a way of life for us. Our strict, preacher father would tolerate nothing short of faultlessness from my older brother Paul and me. Paul, though twenty-years of age, was still a regular victim of father's sadistic thrashings; and would remain susceptible until he'd attained adult status.
Three more years would pass before I'd be safe from his sadistic whippings, that would be suffered until his preordained number of distinct, strap impressions were burned into the sinner's, bare buttocks; and accompanied by screams for mercy and absolution.
"Father's instrument of terror - the Mule Paul had christened it because of its violent kick - was a strip of leather he'd cut from an old horse harness. Twenty-six inches long, four inches wide and three eighths of an inch thick, it would've been the envy of a prison warden. He hung it on the barn wall, handy to his hay-bale, whipping platform as a reminder of the horrible suffering we would endure for our presumed transgressions.
I was doing my chores in the barn when my friend, Jerry Cartwright dropped by. "Hi, Bengie," he greeted, grinning, guiltily.
"Yo, Jerry, whazzup? I asked, studying him suspiciously. He unrolled the waist of his t-shirt to proudly show me two, bent-out--of-shape cigarettes and a sulfur match. "Bengie, where the hell did you get those devil sticks?" I asked, shocked.
"I stole them from the general store," he said, grinning devilishly.
"Oh, my God, Jerry," I said, arching my eyebrows, "You'll burn in hell for stealing," I warned him.
" Ah, I'm not worried about that, Bengie," he said, holding one near his nose and sniffing the tobacco, "Mmmm, it smells good...did y' ever try smoking?" He asked.
"No, It's the first time I even saw one this close, did you?"
"Nope, it's gonna be a memorable day fer us both," he said, smiling widely, as he awkwardly scratched the match on the wall.
"Y' only got one match, huh?" I asked, concerned. He wasn't striking it with any sign of confidence.
"Yeah, I have to be careful I don't screw it up."
"Ya should just light one, in case we don't like it, huh?" I suggested.
We sighed with relief when the match burst into a flame. "Hope the cigarette smell better than the match. Ya wanna go first? He asked, offering it to me.
"Naw, I think I'll wait. You go first," I said, being cautious. The cigarette glowed brightly when he took a long suck on it; and I thought he was going to choke to death.
"Hey," he said, trying to suppress another fit of coughing, "it's not bad, Bengie." He passed it to me but I didn't suck it with as much passion; still, the feeling that I was going to vomit was immediate.
"Yuk, Jerry, it's freakin' awful," I managed to say, despite my coughing.
""Yeah, Bengie, but you have to keep doin' it," He explained, taking another puff. "Here, try it again," he insisted.
My father had always traveled to the barn on an old tractor that could be heard from miles away. But, unfortunately, on this occasion he'd come on horseback and caught me, enclosed in a shroud of smelly smoke, taking the cigarette from between my lips; and I felt the mule kicking my butt.
"Do you wish to finish smoking your devil stick, first, boy?" He asked, tauntingly. Jerry, knowing of my father's passionate love for his strap, and perhaps hoping the smokescreen had hid him; he slowly edged towards the door.
"Jeremiah!" The reverend called loudly, "I'd prefer that you stay, if you don't mind." Jerry knew, very well, that it had been an incontrovertible command.
No words were spoken, nor were any expected when my father silently expressed his wish by removing his long, black coat and rolling up his shirtsleeve. Embarrassed, because Jerry had been ordered to stay, I hesitated.
"Well, boy?" My father said, gruffly.
Glancing, apologetically, at Jerry, I removed my jeans, underwear and t-shirt. I tried to hide my long, uncut cock that swung annoyingly when I fetched the mule and handed it to my father. Then, my nakedness crying out, I laid on his hay-bale, whipping platform. "The roll!" he shouted, his patience already worn thin.
"I'm sorry, Father, I'm nervous," I said, apologetically, as I got off of the platform to make a roll out of a down-filled, sleeping bag. I placed it across the platform and laid my abdomen over it to elevate my bottom. He slipped his hand through the looped handle and placed the business end of the strap on my butt; measuring to assure himself that his distance and stance were correct.
"If you don't mind, Reverend Schmacker, I really must go now, or I'll be late for dinner," Jerry lied, his voice cracking.
"Stay right where you are, Jeremiah, I want you to observe the suffering He is owed to compensate for the hurt Benjamin has caused Him." Reverend Schmacker explained. Jerry, shifting from foot to foot, raised his eyes to the roof; probably pleading with Scottie to beam him up, I thought. "Of course, Jeremiah, you realize that I'll have to give your father a complete report of your sinful activity," my father told him, firmly.
"You really shouldn't bother yourself, Reverend Schmacker, he already knows I smoke cigarettes, Sir." Jerry lied.
"Somehow, Jeremiah, I find that difficult to believe. In any case, duty obliges me to inform him," the Reverend said, firmly closing the door on further discussion.
Gazing heavenward, Reverend Schmacker hummed a short prayer before raising the heavy strap high above his head. Then, after solemnly ordering the unworthy sinner to repent, the mule swished through the air to kick loudly against my bare, right buttock. Gasping for air, as my ass burned, my body jumped and my fingers dug into the hard, tightly packed hay bale in search of something to hold onto. Hearing Jerry's loud gasp, the reverend turned to look at him; and pleased to see Jerry was trembling, he smiled widely.
The reverend's eyes again scanned the heavens as he mumbled his pre-strike prayer. Gripping the bale tightly, I tried to brace myself for the excruciating pain of the second assault on my glowing buttock. "Repent miserable sinner," the reverend chanted, as he brought his agonizingly punitive instrument down on my behind with even greater force than before.
I thought my guts had blown through the top of my head. Jerry gasped even louder when my body violently quaked. I screamed out and begged for mercy, because that was what my father expected.
My body continued to quake wildly in anticipation of the third burning bite from his thick strip of leather. How many strikes, I wondered, had he calculated would be required for proper cleansing of my sin of smoking the devil stick?
After six more skillfully, placed strokes, he put the strap back on the wall, indicating that atonement had been made and I was once again worthy of His kingdom. My throbbing backside was burning fiercely when I climbed from the platform. The reverend gave thanks to Him for the privilege of serving Him and was rolling his sleeve down when Jerry, whispering, broke the silence.
"I'm desperately worried, Reverend Schmacker," he declared, brushing away tears, "It frightens me terribly, Sir, that I'm a despicable sinner and no longer worthy of acceptance into His kingdom."
"Jeremiah, I'm certain your father will take steps to cleanse you," Reverend Schmacker assured him, as he slipped his arm into the sleeve of his long, black coat.
"But, Sir, my father could never punish me as severely as you've punished Bengie," Jerry said, pleadingly, "He never strikes me, Reverend, and I fear that my punishment at his hand will be insufficiently severe for complete cleansing."
"I'm terribly sorry, Jeremiah, but I couldn't possibly presume to advise your father as to the severity of your penance. No, not at all," he said, sincerely regretful.
"Yes, Sir, I understand," Jerry said, sobbing. "But, Sir, couldn't you lay your strap on me? You are His representative, Sir, so if you were to give me a really severe strapping, Sir, it would be as though He had administered the punishment Himself, wouldn't it?" He asked, lowering his head.
"Hmmm," sounded the reverend, thoughtfully stroking his Van Dyke beard, "Yes, yes, of course, I suppose it would, Jeremiah, It would be quite right for me to punish you," he said, smiling, gleefully, as he rolled up his sleeve again.
Jerry, for some reason I couldn't understand, breathed a long sigh of relief and brightened up considerably. "Remove your garments, sinner," said the reverend, taking a few warm-up swings. Jerry beamed on hearing the strap swishing through the air.
Although he and I had long been friends, I had never seen him naked and was quite surprised. At six-foot two and about one hundred and eighty pounds, he possessed a magnificently muscled and tanned body. His tan appeared exceptionally dark contrasted with his creamy-white bubble-butt.
I was sure Jerry's ass had never experienced the bittersweet taste of a two-foot-long, leather strap, so I found it odd that he was so anxious to have his beautiful, pristine bubble-butt transformed into a sorely bruised ball of fire. He glanced at me and grinned as he mounted the platform.
There was a look of sheer rapture on Jerry's face as he watched the strap being raised high in the air. He smiled and tightly closed his eyes when he heard the swishing sound of the displacing air. The gorgeous body jumped wildly when the strap slapped noisily on both of his cheeks, simultaneously; and, for a brief moment, his face expressed excruciating pain and horror.
I sympathized with him when I noticed him repeatedly moving his abdomen from side to side. He was desperately trying to find a more comfortable position for his erection. I had experienced the same problem during every strapping session; the rough, tightly packed hay bale, feeling like sandpaper, was a real knob killer.
