Old Thunder
by
Bobb B. Tucker
Shortly after my twelfth birthday, my dad decided his cosseted son had grown to
big to spank; henceforth I'd be disciplined with a belt. I had no problem with
that because my best boyhood chum, Tommy Rittenberry, had gotten the belt from
his father since he was ten and never let me forget that i still got spanked
over my old man's lap like my little brother. I've forgotten what heinous crime
earned me my first beltwhipping, but I recall it as an enormous letdown. I was
expected to be trotted to my bedroom by an ear, summarily depantsed, and whipped
bare-ass with a leather strap, because that's how Tommy's dad handled his
discipline. but that's not how it happened.
Instead, I was sent to my room after supper and told to change into pajamas
and wait for my dad to come up and attend to me. Half an hour later, he came
into my room without knocking carrying a light summer belt. I was in a chair by
the window reading a captain marvel comic book. Dad closed the door and said,
"Put the magazine aside, get to your feet, and stand at attention facing me,
mister."
"Yes, Daddy!" I hopped to my feet and braced in front of my dad, trying to
remember to keep my back straight, shoulders square, and chin up like I'd been
taught in the Boy Scouts. One thing the Scouts hadn't taught me was how to
manage an obstreperous penis that insisted on erecting at inconvenient times.
The mere sight of Daddy's strap triggered my Willie to pop through the fly of
my pajama pants like a prairie dog poking its head from its burrow. Nobody but
my little brother had seen me with a boner before; I'm sure my ears turned as
pink as a baby's ass. Dad couldn't have missed seeing it, but he chose to ignore
it, "This will be your first whipping, Bobby; you brought it on yourself, you
know," he said.
"I know it Daddy," I said with genuine contrition
"I hope this will teach you a lesson, boy. You've gotten too big for your
britches."
"Maybe a whippin' will cure me of that, sir," I said. "Am I s'posed to take
my pants down or something?"
"Leave your 'jammies up; lie across the bed and grit your teeth."
My old man popped my heinder seven times with a lightweight cloth belt. It
didn't hurt enough to make me holler; it didn't hurt enough to make me cry. And
he didn't even make me take my pants off. Half an hour later, I was standing on
a stool looking over by shoulder into the bathroom Mirror; my butt was still
pink from the spanking, but no more so than when I'd been young enough to be
punished over his lap. My first whipping was a big disappointment as well as a
tactical failure; it hadn't taught me that there are consequences for
misbehavior; it had pretty much taught me that i could do as i saw fit without
being held accountable for my actions.
With that attitude, it was small wonder that sooner or later, I'd be in
trouble again. This time it was because my kid brother, Kevin, and i took our
bikes out for a spin after mom had revoked our bike riding privileges for the
week. With the benefit of hindsight, I realize now that I did it to test how
much I could get away with before my dad cracked down on Kevin and me like Tommy
Rittenberry's dad cracked down on him. (I hadn't told Tommy about my "whipping"
because I knew he'd demand that I pull down my pants and show him my ass. And I
knew there were no battle scars (whip marks) for him to see.)
One Sunday evening, when I was thirteen and my brother had just turned
twelve. Kevin I stood at attention in daddy's study, eyeing him nervously across
his desk. Our father's face was an angry mask that did not auger well for us.
"You guys are guilty as sin of willfully disobeying your mother," he charged.
"Have you anything to say while I'm making up my mind how to deal with you?"
I bit my lower lip; unlike the last time I was in trouble, Dad looked really
angry. "Are you gonna whip us or something, sir?" I asked. my penis twitched
restively under my Jockey shorts.
My daddy stared daggers at me and said, "You certainly didn't learn much
from the last whipping I gave you, young man."
"No, sir. That's because it didn't hurt enough to make me behave. You only
gave me seven whacks."
"That situation can be easily remedied, mister."
"I kinda figured you'd say that, sir."
"I took the belt to your butt last year to give you a tiny sample of what
you could expect if your behavior didn't show improvement," my dad said. "Well,
bobby, it hasn't improved one bit; if anything, it's declined since I strapped
you."
"Yes, sir," I said. "I expect you're right about that."
"And I expect you know what I'm going to have to do to your behind - and to
Kevin's."
"Mine, Daddy?" Kevin protested. "Ridin' our bikes was Bobby's idea - all I
did was tag along after him. Do I gotta get a spankin', too?" My brother's
limpid blue eyes were big, round and imploring.
"You tagged along after bobby on your bike, and you'll tag along when he
goes to the bunkhouse to collect twelve belt smacks on his naked heinder," our
old man shot back. My parents owned an apple orchard and cider press west of
Winchester, Virginia. each year during the apple harvest in August, dad put on
twelve highschool-aged boys from the county orphan asylum to do the picking.
they slept in a Spartan bunkhouse on the grounds; an orphan warden from the
asylum lived with them and supervised them - like a boys' camp counselor. Kevin
and
I skinny-dipped with the boys on the picking crew nearly every day; they told us
that Mr. Peavey, the orphan warden, kept a leather belt they called "Old
Thunder" oiled and handy for use on obstreperous young male behinds.
My dad glanced at his watch. "It's now five minutes past six o'clock," he
said. "you guys are to report to Mr. Peavey at the bunkhouse in twenty-five
minutes."
"Aw, Daddy," my brother fretted, "Are we gonna get naked whuppin's in front
of all the guys on the picking crew? everyone will see my dick. Can't a kid
have some privacy around here?"
"They won't be seeing much," I sidemouthed.
"We can do without your smartass remarks, Robert," my dad snapped. "Kevin,
you might's well make up your mind that you and your brother are about to wear
leather britches, and the boys on the work crew will likely see you getting it.
Relax - each of them has a penis just like you guys. You won't like it, but
perhaps the experience will make you think twice the next time you're tempted to
disobey your mother."
"Yes, Daddy," my brother said dejectedly.
"It's okay, Kevin," I commiserated, "we swim naked with the orphanage kids
all the time; they won't see anything they haven't seen before."
"You guys wait upstairs in your room," Daddy said. "Report to the bunkhouse
in twenty-five minutes and Tell Mr. Peavey I'll be along shortly to attend to
you. tell him I said you're to be treated no differently than the boys on his
apple picking crew."
Hollis Peavey answered my timid knock on the bunkhouse door. He was a tall
rangy man in his early forties with prematurely gray hair, steely green eyes
that seemed to bore right through a boy, and a craggy, granitic face. Hollis
was the orphan warden in charge of the dozen-or-so boys who picked the
MacIntosh crop each August. If he was surprised to find the boss's sons
standing on the doorstep, he did a good job of concealing it. "Hi, Hollis."
I said, managing a tentative smile.
"Why, hello, Bobby," he said pleasantly, "To what do we owe the pleasure of
this visit?"
"Kevin and I cut up this morning and Mom said we weren't to ride or bikes
for a week. But we rode them anyway and got caught. Daddy's gonna whup us out
here where the noise won't upset Mom."
"Whippings are strictly guy things," Hollis said wisely. "Mothers can be
touchy about their darling boys gettin' the leather."
"Daddy said to tell you not to treat us any different than the orphanage
kids," I said.
"Well, come on in," Hollis Peavey said, motioning us inside. "We're not
fancy here, but we're clean and comfortable." We entered a dormitory redolent of
male odors - sweat, musk, smegma and stale urine. A dozen orphan boys lolled
about on their bunks in their underwear, played cards, or crowded around a
vintage Philco radio, listening to Grand Ole Opry on WWVA. "Listen up, boys,"
Mr. Peavey said. "We are about to have a visitor. The boss is on his way to
take Old Thunder to Bobby and Kevin."
Hollis's announcement aroused little interest. (once one boyspanking has
been witnessed, there's little reason to see another, since they're all pretty
much alike.) if the accounts my brother and I had heard at the swimming hole
were to be believed, a leather work belt that the boys had nicknamed "Old
Thunder" was regularly employed to discourage excessive exuberance among the
teenaged apple-picking crew.
"You'll get your spankings in the locker room, same as the other boys," Mr.
Peavey said to us. "Meanwhile, you'll have to sit on the throne - a bench just
outside the locker room where my boys sit and think about their sins while
they're waiting to be called inside. If your dad is serious about you being
treated the same as my work crew, you'd better undress now and sit your little
bottoms down on the bench."
"Undress?" Kevin protested. "You mean we gotta take our clothes off?"
Hollis nodded. "Yes, indeed - everything. Either that, or explain to your
dad why you didn't strip. If I were you, I'd do it." In no time our dungarees,
shirts, and Jockeys were off and hanging on wall pegs and our little naked
backsides were ensconced on a pine bench outside a batwing door connecting to
the locker room. "You might's well make yourselves comf'table, boys," Mr.
Peavey said. "I've a feelin' your old man will let you set and stew a while
before he comes out."
My daddy probably didn't make us wait more than twenty minutes, but time drags
when you're sitting on a hard wooden bench butt-naked waiting for a sensitive
area of your body to be hit repeatedly with a strap. When he finally appeared,
he shook hands first with Hollis Peavey, then spoke with one or two of the
orphan boys before he even glanced in our direction. The moment he entered the
bunkhouse, my penis sprang to attention and the pit of my stomach felt as if a
knot of ice-cold rattlesnakes were writhing in it.
Our father stopped before us, towering like a giant sequoia over his naked
sons; he pretended not to notice our aroused peckers. "How are you guys holding
up?" he asked.
Kevin shifted his weight from one buttock to the other. "We're okay,
Daddy," he said unconvincingly.
"Are you ready?"
"Yes, sir - I guess so."
"This sure is dif'rent from the spankin' I got from you last year," I said.
"that one didn't hardly hurt."
"I suspect that won't be a problem this time, Robert," my dad replied dryly.
I sighed. "That's okay; I got it comin'."
dad turned to his younger son. "Get to your feet, boy," he said, "I'll
attend to you first." my brother made a pouting face and got up reluctantly "Be
patient, Bobby," dad said to me, "you'll get yours in a minute - after I've
finished with your brother. You're to wait quietly on the bench 'til I'm ready
for you."
I stuck my lower lip out bulldog-fashion and said, "Don't hurry on my
account."
Kevin covered his penis modestly and bounced from foot to foot. "I'm
scared, daddy," he whined. "Can we please get it over with?"
dad turned him by the shoulders, pointed, and said, "Hanging from a wall
peg, next to the door to Mr. Peavey's room, is the strap that the work crew boys
call "Old Thunder." In about two minutes, your little behind is destined to
become intimately acquainted with Old Thunder. You are to fetch it from its peg
and bring it to the locker room, where I'll be waiting."
My naked brother pit-a-patted the length of the bunk room like a
gallows-bound condemned boy, his waggling anxiety boner pointing the way. He
avoided eye contact with the work crew, who made no effort to mask their
interest in the proceedings. He took Old Thunder from its peg and held it out,
away from his body, as a boy would hold a snake he suspected was poisonous. As
he neared the locker room, Kevin's frightened blue eyes met mine. I shot him a
good luck wink. He squared his shoulders manfully and pushed on through the
door.
A nervous hush fell over the bunk room. One of he orphan boys huddled about
the Philco killed the volume in the middle of a Red Foley song. For the longest
time the only sound was the muffled drone of Daddy and Kevin talking in the next
room. The silence was shattered by a staccato CRACK! - like a cherry bomb
going off inside a mailbox - it was followed a nanosecond later by an anguished
howl of pain. My buttocks tingled in anticipation of the strap; a droplet of
pre-cum oozed from my penis and dripped from the tip of my glans. CRACK! A few
of Mr. Peavey's work crew boys clapped hands over their ears to muffle my little
brother's agonized wails.
Kevin's leathering lasted a very long time. Where I'd felt a sense of
letdown - disappointment, even - after my first whipping, I realized that my dad
had now learned that a boy too leniently spanked would have been better off left
unspanked. After an interminably long time my little brother burst through the
door clutching his incandescent ass and commenced to hop and dance about the
bunk room, blowing through his teeth and bleating like a bull-calf at branding
time. My anus twitched and my buttocks rimpled like corrugated tin. "You may
come in, Robert," my father called through the door.
I jumped nervously when the batwings squeaked shut behind me; the locker
room saw triple duty as a combination gang-shower and bathroom. A
freckle-faced boy with sticky-up red hair, about fifteen years old, sat on one
of three toilets, his underpants about his ankles. I knew him from the swimming
hole - his name was Oddis Whipple. A blond youth with a cherubic baby face
busily soaped his nuts in the shower. My dad waited by a wooden bench - the
kind found in every highschool locker room - looking as stern as the Old Man of
the Mountain. Old Thunder was coiled in his hand.
I smiled weakly. "Hi, daddy," I said. My mouth was dry and cottony; my
balls drew up in their sac.
Dad returned the smile, but his mouth curved down rather than up. "Step
over here and straddle the bench, Bobby," he ordered.
I stood with a leg on either side of the bench. "Now, what?" I asked in a
squeaky little soprano voice.
"Now, We'll both find out what kind of balls you have between your legs,
boy. Bend over sharply, get a firm grip on the bench, and touch the top of your
head to the seat. Once in the bottoms-up position you aren't to budge until
your ass has been swatted twelve times by Old Thunder. Do you have any
questions?"
"No, sir," I said. "This'ul be a real good lesson to me, Dad." I assumed
the spanking position; Oddis Whipple, the redheaded boy on the toilet, stared at
me with his mouth open wide enough to catch gypsy moths. The other kid - the
one in the shower - stopped scrubbing his balls and gawked. I heard Daddy's
whip snap down on my butt before the pain set in. My old man had put me in a
position that pulled my ass-skin tight over underlying blubber and muscle.
Leather hitting taut skin hurt far worse than it would have if I'd been lying
flat across my bed. I bellowed like a boy who'd squatted to shit in the woods
and too late discovered a bear trap.
Old Thunder pelted down on my bottom a dozen times; the two orphan boys
stuffed fingers in their ears long before it was over; my throat was sore and
raw from hollering and begging Daddy to stop. But, of course, he didn't stop
before my sentence had been carried out and he was satisfied I would never again
disobey my mother.
And then I was up, rubbing my inflamed butt, and dancing a wild fandango
about the locker room, arms and legs kicking and flailing. I hopped through the
batwing door, bawling so hard that my little brother stopped his own crying and
stared at me on openmouthed wonder.
If nothing else, my dad and Old Thunder caught Kevin and my attention that
late August evening. As we grew older, Daddy had to spank us several more times
for a variety of offenses. But disobeying our mother was not among them.
