I grew up an only child on a large orchard. My parents were always strict but fair. Since they were always both working from home, it never felt like I could get away with anything.

Discipline was usually my father’s department. He was a stalky German immigrant with intense blue eyes so piercing it felt like he could read your soul when he stared you down. Although he could come across as stern and gruff he was actually a very loving and soft-hearted man.

When I was younger, if the line was crossed his justice was swift. He’d haul me over his knee, take my pants down for me and spank me with his hand until he felt I’d had enough. He had big farm calloused palms and this hurt. Sometimes I’d have finger print bruises for days afterward. But I had heard many of his childhood mischief stories about growing up in Germany and knew he was letting me off easy compared to his upbringing!

One fall afternoon when I was about 14, I was helping sort apples on the farm. Dad was trying to quit smoking and was grumpy and irritable. I knew that he had “emergency” stashes hidden all around the shop. I came across a quarter pack and had always been curious so I pocketed them thinking that he’d probably forgotten about them anyway.

The next day at school I impressed my friends by producing them. In a very stupid and showy fashion, we clumsily lit them right on the main steps leading to the front door of the school. As none of us were seasoned smokers the following loud hacking fits attracted the attention of everyone within a football field’s distance.

Not surprisingly, we were all apprehended and dragged into the office. The stern vice principal, Mrs. Lopilov, stared the group of us down from behind her desk. She was a severe woman always in crisp uniform-like outfits that made her move mechanically about the halls.

“I said…” she paused for angry effect. “Who’s cigarettes were they?”

To my friend’s credit, they did not immediately rat me out. Everyone was shifting uncomfortably and glancing in my direction.

“Empty your pockets. All of you.”

I had never less appreciated Mrs. Lopilov’s shrewdness. Of course the remainder of the crumpled pack came out of mine.

We endured the rest of her lecture, perspiration gathering on our forehead as we realized that along with her guilt-tripping sermon she was also sentencing us to the strap.

My three partners in crime got one on each palm. I got 2 for being the conspirator. Just when I thought we had gotten off rather easy her words sent a chill through me.

“Of course your parents will also be informed of this incident.”

We had to wait as she filled out bright pink discipline cards describing the crime and punishment that had to be signed by our parents and returned to the office the next day.

All day in class I debated about how to present the card to my parents. The idea of forging their signatures crossed my mind but the consequences of getting caught seemed too high.

When I got home, I was relieved to see that dad was still out in the field somewhere. Mom stood by the stove with her back to me.

“Hi mom.” My voice sounded strained but she didn’t seem to notice. In a moment of hasty indecision, I placed the card casually on the kitchen counter.

“Lots of homework.” I said, retreating to my room before she saw it.

Later, I was called down to dinner. My stomach was in knots. Mom shot me a disappointed glare as I entered the dining room but didn’t comment on the card.

I barely tasted the food. As I was clearing the plates away, I was surprised and happy that the smoking thing hadn’t come up at dinner. Maybe she wasn’t going to tell Dad. Maybe in a perfect world. The wishful thought had barely crossed as I watched in horror as mom set the pink coloured slip in front of dad. I froze as I watched his eyes skim over it. And then read it again.

He set it aside on the table and looked at me sternly. “What’s this?”

It was one of those redundant questions where answering is pointless. Obviously he’d read it twice, he knew pretty damn well what it was. Of course that’s not what came out of my mouth.

“Umm, its ahhh,” I stammered.

I was frying now under his sizzling stare.

“Where did you get the cigarettes?”

My palms were sweating so bad I thought I might drop the dirty plate I was grasping.

“I found them.” I swallowed as he continued to stare me down.

“In the shop.” I added so quietly it was barely audible.

“You stole them, you mean to say, and then distributed them to your friends on school property.”

“Yes.” Mumbled.

“Lying, stealing and getting into trouble at school are all breaking the rules of this house.” He said evenly still giving me the x-ray eyes.

“And as you well know, you are forbidden to smoke.”

The room was silent as if he had just pronounced a death sentence.

“Finish your chores and then we’ll have a talk.” He ordered.

As I awkwardly finished cleaning up after dinner I wondered what he meant. Have a talk? I had been expecting to be spanked. I tried to remember the last time he had spanked me. At least a year ago. I was 14 now, maybe he had decided I was too old.

He walked into the kitchen just as I was finishing the clean-up. “Come with me, girl.” Tonight his deep accent sounded particularly intimidating.

He walked me into the orchard heading for the cherry trees. He inspected several trees until he apparently found what he was looking for. I watched in horrified fascination as he broke off a smooth barked sucker branch. Producing his pocket knife he cut the whippy end off straight and stripped the foliage. The result was a wicked looking switch about as thick as my index finger and over 2 feet long.

I think my mouth must have been just hanging open because he looked to me. “What are looking at me like that for, you earned this.”

With that he grabbed me by the collar and led me toward the shed. We got inside and he closed the door behind him. There was a steep staircase leading to the attic and he directed me to it.

“Bend Over.” The order came flat and plain.

I placed my palms on about the fourth stair and bent over with my rear presented.

“Pants down.” My heart was already racing but now it seemed like it would stop.

The feeling had left my fingers as I fumbled the button on my jeans. Finally they slid around my knees. The cool autumn air rushed around my clammy legs.

Dad must have thought I was taking too long because he stepped forward and yanked down my panties. They joined my jeans around my knees.

I was breathing heavy. I had never been spanked like this before. I knew it was going to be bad. I was expecting a lecture to give me time to prepare myself but he cut straight to the chase.

I felt the stick tap firmly against my cheeks. Once. Twice. A whistling cut the air followed by the crack of impact and the splat of my skin reverberating underneath it. The pain was milliseconds behind the noise and it was white-hot. I was still in shock as the next stoke landed. I answered the third with a howl.

I could hear the fourth already whistling and jumped right trying desperately trying to avoid the searing pain it was packing with it. The stick hit me squarely on the thin skin of my hip and hurt way worse than the intended target.


“Stay still then.”

Whistle. Crack. Whistle. CRACK! The pain wasn’t isolated anymore it was like a wildfire spreading across my entire posterior.

Whistle. At the last moment I put my hands behind me to block the stick. I took the blow across the tips of my fingers. Dad was wasn’t wasting anytime the next one was already on the way as I turned my hands backwards and got it across the back of them.

“AAaaaaaaaah.” I leapt away from the stairs, forgetting my pants were around my ankles and almost fell over.

Dad grunted and scooped both my wrists into his huge left palm. He pinned my arms tight into the small of my back and pushed me forward back into position. Locked in place by his steely left hand, I was powerless to avoid the devastating strokes landing rapidly on my bared bottom.

Finally, he released my arms but warned me to stay bent over with a firm hand holding my back down.

“When you break the rules in my house, there are consequences. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” I croaked out, fighting sobs.

“Yes what?”

My father had never demanded to be called “Sir” before but I was considerably humbled and it came to my lips naturally.

“Yes sir.”

“Good, because if we have to do this again, it will be worse for you. Understood?”

“Yes sir.”

I slept on my stomach that night and the welts lasted for weeks. The lesson lasted longer than that though and I stayed out of trouble, or more accurately was smarter at not getting caught for a long time.

* * *

I’ll never forget the last lickn’ Dad ever gave me. I had just turned 16 and him and my mom were out of town for the weekend with our 5 ton truck, picking up chemicals and fertilizer for the upcoming season. I had been left on my own before and things had always went well.

This weekend, however, was different. I invited some friends over after school on Friday and knowing that my parents were away several of them showed up with booze. As the drinks were starting to kick in, a few of them wanted to have a look at Dad’s car.

Being a German, Dad was absolutely in love with his BMW sedan. I liked the car too but always felt it looked a little out of place on our rustic orchard property. Soon peer-pressure and several more drinks led me to be digging through their dresser drawers until I found the not-so tactfully hidden spare key.

With the stereo pounding, I drove down the town’s main street squealing the tires after every red light. Much like the smoking incident, brain cells were on strike for this activity. Sense getting the better of me I drove a short distance out of town where we had a few more drinks.

Soon I was extremely drunk, along with everyone else, and we piled back into the car and I drove it back to the farm.

I woke up sprawled on the couch Saturday morning with a dry throat and pounding headache. Vaguely I knew something bad had happened last night. We were drinking… and… THE CAR! I sat up too fast and almost puked.

I reeled over to the window and to my great relief the car was parked perfectly in the carport. Empty booze bottles littered our kitchen table and to my horror, one of them seemed to be from Dad’s stash of homemade schnapps.

After a glass of orange juice and two aspirins I set to work cleaning the kitchen, carefully collecting all the empties. I got rid of them in the big dumpster we shared with Mrs Vance. It was in her yard and she was always having church parties so, oh. Church parties. Hmmm. Oh well the bottles were in a black bag so whatever. I tossed them in and made my way to the BMW.

My memory of the last few hours of the night was patchy but I was pretty sure I had parked it there. I opened the driver’s door and the reek of spilled hard liquor blasted out at me. Oh god! I cleared out the bottles. And cigarette butts from the ash tray (dad had quit smoking) and rolled down the windows to air it out.

How could I have been so Goddamn stupid? Was it really worth the fun?

I went inside to grab some cleaning supplies and as I came back out on the passenger’s side of the car, I almost had a seizure, complete with froth dripping from my mouth.

A huge, deep scratch was gouging the passenger door. I felt like packing my bags and running away; well I had a day’s head start.

How had it gotten there? I couldn’t remember.

I finished scrubbing the car down, went back in the house and passed out. I slept most of the day and tried to watch TV all evening to take my mind off my impending doom. What was I going to do?

None of my friends had called. Probably trying their best to disassociate themselves with dead girl walking now.

Sunday was Hell. My parents were going to be back that evening. I felt like walking down to the Catholic church and joining the convent. I inspected and re-inspected the house and inside of the car for evidence of the party. Clean.

Just the scratch. Hmmm. I hadn’t noticed it when I was on the driver’s side of the car. Maybe Dad wouldn’t see it either until after he had driven somewhere. Then it could have happened in a parking lot.

Right? People hit parked cars and drive away all the time. Could I really pull this off? Plausible, I decided.

In a stroke of good luck, my parents got home after dark. It was an outdoor carport so the chances of seeing the scratch were minimal.

I went to bed on Sunday night with high hopes.

Stepping off the bus Monday afternoon, my eyes darted straight to the carport. It didn’t look like the car had been moved. Damn. The 5 ton truck was gone. I knew Dad picked up chemicals for other people on the trip and was probably off delivering them.

I was already sitting down to dinner with mom when he came through the door. He nodded to me. He looked suspicious but, not angry.

“I was over at Joe’s place and he says he thought he saw my car in town the other night.”

I don’t think I was breathing. I waited him out. He stared straight into my eyes and I tried to hold his piercing gaze.

“That couldn’t be, could it?”

“No.” Even as I said it I knew I was digging myself a deeper grave.

He sat down and had just started to eat when there was a knock at the door. I looked to the window and almost vomited in horror. It was Mrs Vance.

I had never liked her; an overly religious, condescending type who always had advice to others about how to have a perfect life like her. Whatever. I glanced up in time for her to shoot me a poisonous grin over my father’s shoulder as he stood in the door. Like the type who gets off watching executions.

They were speaking in low tones that I couldn’t quite hear, but I saw Dad’s body language become rigid and strained. I started to sweat when he pulled his boots on and followed her out the door.

“Hmmm,” Mom said. “I wonder what that could be about.”

I shrugged and kept my eyes on my plates but a tornado was tearing through my guts. What’s the worst it could be? I thought? A bag of bottles in the garbage. Indeed, it could be worse.

If only it could have been.

Dad came back into the house over 10 minutes later. I had never seen him so furious in my whole life. His face was red and he was sweating with rage. He didn’t take his boots off as he stormed into the dining room.

“YOU!” He shoved his finger in my face. “WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING!”

Dad didn’t swear much, and never at the dinner table, and even mom gasped and stared at me.

She didn’t have long to look. Dad grabbed me by the ear and yanked me from my chair. I have small ears and his hand slipped off so he settled for a clump of my hair; he dragged me to the door. I didn’t have to be told to put my shoes on.

I followed close behind him to the car port, not wanting to be dragged again. He pointed to the scratch, his eyes still wild.

“How did this happen?” He was still yelling.

“I… I… I don, I… don’t know.” I stammered. What did this have to do with Mrs. Vance?

He slapped me hard across the face. The shock of it stopped my blubbering. He was silent until I looked up at him through teary eyes.

“We…” I started, but, realizing I was incriminating my friends, I started again. “I took the car out.” I managed.

“Is that it?” Rage barely controlled.

I said nothing and cringed when he moved his hand thinking, I had another slap coming.

“Are you not forgetting a few parts? Mrs Vance said a large group of your friends was over here partying all night. Though I gather that at some point you took the car to town, where Joe saw it. Then on your way home you couldn’t resist running over Mrs Vance’s driveway sign! What the Hell is wrong with you!?”

Oh My God! The sign! The fog was blowing off my memory all too fast now. They were cheering me on. The nicely painted sign was flying through the air. Laughter.

And I’m so stupid I march over there in the morning and dump all the evidence right in front of her frigg’n house! Oh God help me!

“I’m sorry,” I croaked hoarsely, bravely meeting Dad’s fiery eyes.

“No you’re not, but, you will be.”

I gulped. I think a lump of cement was hardening in my airway.

“You get out the shop, you take your pants down, you bend over the stairs, and while you wait, you better be thinking about all this.” He was so mad he spat the words and a mist of spittle followed them.

I just nodded, wide eyed, and practically ran to the shop glad to be out of his presence even if death was near.

I got to the shop and made my way over to the stairs. I thought briefly about sitting down to wait because my knees were shaking too bad to stand comfortably. But, I had never seen my father like this in my life and if anything could possibly make this worse, it would be defying his orders now.

I glanced around self-consciously before tugging my pants down and leaning over, resting my arms atop the fourth stair. My mind wandered back to the smoking incident, the only other time I had been in this position. It had hurt more than I could have ever imagined. And Dad had not been in a complete rage either.

My breathing had slowed but my heart still beat like a drum. I felt like I had drank an entire bottle of ExLax. Man, did my bare ass feel vulnerable sticking out in the quiet shop. I waited a long time before I could hear the crunch of boots on gravel nearing the shop.

With dread, I risked a glance over my shoulder as Dad burst through the door. He was carrying two cherry switches that looked a lot thicker than the last one but, I couldn’t tell for sure.

He slammed the door. Oh-oh. Still mad.

He didn’t say a word to me. He set the “spare” switch on the step in front of my nose and stepped behind me. Without anything further he laid the stick on.

I remember the shock and pain of the first couple strokes and the rest is a blur. When I tried despite myself to protect my blistering butt with my hands he pinned my arms behind me and hit harder. When the first stick broke he took up the other.

I screamed and kicked and sobbed and finally the fight had gone out and I was just slouched there, drained, with my face kissing the step when he finally relented.

He didn’t say a word, just tossed the stick at my feet and walked out.

It took me a long time to collect myself. I could barely pull my pants up over my throbbing ass. As it turned out the skin was broken in several places and thin lines of blood were oozing out. I could not sit comfortably for a week and knew I had been whipped for a long time after that. It took almost a month for the last of the marks to fade away but the memory never did. Although it was the last spanking I ever got, I can still recall it like it was yesterday. And I’m not any worse for it.