“You planning on selling this?” Mr. Perkins asked, his voice soft and speculative. “A piece like this, restored right. Look at the grain on that leather—it’s from back when craftsmen still gave a hoot. Serious collectors would throw money at you for something like this, especially these days. Antiques with purpose? That’s rare.”
Dad chuckled, low and quiet. “Yeah, well… I don’t much cotton to things being put in glass cases,” he said. “Seems like a sin to hoard stuff you don’t need. And it’s plain stupid to keep things in your house you don’t use regular.”
Mr. Perkins raised his eyebrows, clearly a bit surprised. “You’re gonna use it? At home?”
“Of course I am,” Dad said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s a tool. A good one. And a good tool’s meant to work, not sit around collecting dust and compliments.”
Perkins stared at the strap, then looked at me. My bubble popped, covering my nose and mouth in gum, but I was frozen, too mortified to move. I could feel the blood rush to my face, and as Perkins burst into an enormous grin I knew that my stop sign red face and aghast but frozen expression told him all he needed to know about who the strop was going to be used on.
“Well, I’ll be!” he said, smiling broadly as he gave my dad his full approval. “That’s the most sensible thing I’ve heard in months. World could use a few more folks like you. People who know what a thing’s for.”
Looking at me, he added, “A place for everything, and everyone in their place.”
I knew it wasn’t a slip of the tongue. Mr. Perkins looked at me as he said, “everyone in their place,” making it clear he was enjoying my dressing down.
“Make sense to me,” Dad said, agreeing in that laconic way of his, like he hadn’t just told the whole world I was due for a lickin’. But Dad didn’t seem to care about the way Mr. Perkins was grinning at me, and simply pushed past him on the way down the aisle.
As I turned my head around to face Dad and Mr. Perkins, I saw Jimmy standing at the end of the aisle. He had heard the whole thing, and was grinning like a fox in a henhouse.
Dad, remembering something, stopped and turned back to Mr. Perkins.
“This doesn’t have no irritants or nothing does it? Cuz’ I plan on using this on her bare caboose.”
Mr. Perkins didn’t miss a beat, and checked the label of one of the tins he was restocking. He squinted at the small print on the side, shifting his glasses up his nose with one finger. He turned it this way and that, the label catching the light.
“I agree, bare is best,” he muttered. “Ah—here we are. Says it’s non-toxic, eco-friendly, safe around kids and pets. No harsh chemicals. Says it right here, plain as day. I think you’re good to go.” Looking at me he added playfully, “Little strap oil never did a girl no harm.”
“Sure?” my dad said. “I may have to use this a lot, at least at first.”
Mr. Perkins, picking up my dads tone, talked about my spanking strap like it was just another tool. “You’re fine. They make this stuff for restoring car seats and leather couches—stuff people sit on every day. If it were a problem to touch, half the country’d be rubbing their butts.”
“Thanks!” my dad said cheerfully, as he resumed our slow roll down the aisle. I was now facing all of them: Dad, Mr. Perkins, and Jimmy, although Dad wasn’t facing them. Mr. Perkins winked at me, obviously enjoying his little joke about me needing “strap oil” and “butt rubbing”. At the end of the aisle, Jimmy was pretending to pout, and rubbing his butt in mock sympathy.
Wouldn't you know it? By the time we got to the front of the store, Jimmy was there to greet us, all smiles, and even opened up another register so we wouldn’t have to wait behind Old Man Jasper, who thankfully liked to talk to his dog more than people.
“Nice to see y’all back in town, Jessica,” Jimmy said, all smiles. “Done with school?”
It was a typical question, as nobody in town could understand why a pretty girl wasn’t married, or why I kept going to school. Seeing I couldn’t form words, Dad answered for me. “Naw, she’s just home for break.”
“Cash or charge?” Jimmy asked.
“Always cash, Jimmy. Don’t believe in credit much,” Dad replied. “Oh, and don’t forget to ring up her bubble gum, too. Jessica got a little light fingered going down the aisle.”
“Naughty, naughty, Jessica,” Jimmy said, wagging his finger. “I can open up the room in back, if you need to put that strop to use.”
I was aghast, as I knew Jimmy wasn’t joking, despite Dad’s laugh. “I’m good, Jimmy, but thanks for the offer.”
“Anytime, Sir,” Jimmy said.
The transaction completed quickly, and dad rolled me out of the store. It wasn’t until we were rolling out of the store that I noticed that Lorraine Gossling was behind us in line, buying more mason jars.
The ride home was quiet, with only Dad singing.
“Dad, do you think I’m too old for a spanking?” I asked.
“Sure don’t, Miss Yale. Ayn’t that why yer’ still in school? Cuz’ yer never too old to learn?”
I frowned. Dad had a genius for using my own words against me.
“I didn’t expect you to pull out that strop at the store.”
“You told me you didn’t care if I told folks, remember?”
I frowned. Dad would have made an excellent attorney.
“Lorraine Gossling was in line behind us, you know.”
“Yeah, I saw her,” Dad said, his voice non committal. “Why do you care? Do you want some peaches?”
“No, I don’t want peaches! How long was she there?” I asked. “Did she hear what Jimmy said?”
“What Lorrine Gossling hears, says, or thinks is not on my list of worries,” Dad replied. “I suggest you spend more time thinking about your own behavior, young lady.”
“What do you mean, my behavior?” I said. “You’re the one who…”
“I mean you think you’re better than everybody else in the whole darn world because you can speak Latin and go to Yale. I mean you need to put your nose down and stop thinking we’re a bunch of yokels. Since you’re so worried about what everybody thinks, you might think about the fact that nobody other than you seems to think you're too old to be spanked, and nobody seemed too upset about the idea of me painting your Ivy League caboose.”
I feel silent. Nobody was upset. Surprised, maybe. Delighted, definitely. But nobody told him not to do it, or that it was a bad idea.
As always, Dad had given me a lot to think about. He was right. I did look down on everybody else in this town. The people who had raised and nurtured me. Mom had scolded me about it all the time, but the lesson never took. Now that Dad was going at it in a more direct way, I could feel my attitude changing.
I fell asleep, and dreamed I was at the County Fair. Only this time, Dad and I won the Pine-box Derby. Mom was so proud, she cried.
The next morning we got back to work, and I got my first good look at the small brown tin that turned my face bright red. He handed it to me wordlessly at first, and I turned it over in my hands, reading the label:
**Clyde’s Leather Recoloring Balm – Deep Chestnut.**
“It really matches the shade,” he said. “Perkins got it perfect.”
Of course he did. Dad always got it perfect, and always gave the credit away.
"The elbow grease is up to you," he said, smiling.
I looked at the strop, then back at the tin, then up at him. He quickly assembled the tools.
“You’ll want to use the sponge for the wide areas,” he explained, setting down a little foam pad next to the strop. “But for the lettering? The maker’s mark? You’ll need this.”
He held up a tiny horsehair brush—fine, delicate, and worn just enough to make it feel trustworthy.
I took it from him gently. It looked almost like a paintbrush for miniatures, and I felt a thrill of responsibility settle in my chest.
“There’s a lot of detail on this thing,” he said. “So go slow. Work the balm in until the leather drinks it. You’ll know when it’s enough—it’ll get that sheen back. Not shiny, just… deep. Like it remembers what it was.”
He rested his hand on the table and tapped near the faded area with a knuckle. “This here’s gonna take some time. You can’t just rush the color back in. The leather has to *want* it.”
I laughed at that—quietly—but I knew what he meant. Restoration wasn’t just about covering up damage. It was about coaxing something back to life, slowly and patiently.
My fingers tightened slightly around the little tin, and I nodded.
“I can do it,” I said.
“I know you can,” he replied, and in his voice I heard more than pride—I heard trust.
I popped the lid off the tin and dipped the sponge gently into the balm. The color was beautiful, a dark, earthy red brown that shimmered slightly under the light of the shop. I tested it on a small corner, rubbing it in carefully, just like he taught me—firm but slow, letting the balm sink into the leather grain by grain. And just like that, the tan softened, deepened. The richness began to return.
"That-a-girl,' he said, clearly pleased. "Nice and slow. You treat it right, and it'll treat you right."
I know what he meant, or thought I did. Whatever it was, my butt clenched at his words.
When I switched to the brush, I slowed even more. Around the letters, the balm had to be applied with absolute care. Every little groove and ridge needed its own attention. There were so many marks along the strop—the Latin phrase, and the antique *Dubl Duck* logo that increased its value 10 fold.
I glanced over my shoulder and caught Dad watching me, arms folded, that familiar soft smile tugging at his face.
“I think,” I said, wiping my hands on a cloth, “it’s finally coming back.”
He nodded. “Told you. Nothing’s impossible. Not for you”
I believed him, because he believed in me.
"Will this fix the stiffness," I asked.
"It sure will, kitten. The problem is, it was sitting too long. Once we restore it, it'll stay flexible forever... assuming we give it regular use," he added.
We both laughed as I blushed, bit my lip, and instinctively clutched my bottom.
I spent the next week working in the strop oil. Each day, after breakfast, I quickly found my way to my Dad's workbench. I had my tools, my oil, my lint-free cloth, and my growing sense of purpose.
It was painstaking work.
Slow. Repetitive. Demanding.
But it was the kind of work that didn’t leave space for overthinking. I had to be there, completely. Every inch of leather had its own needs—dry patches that soaked up oil like a desert, stubborn spots that resisted the balm and needed coaxing, and delicate stitching that had to be navigated like tripwire.
Dad was always nearby to help. That was the best part.
Sometimes just watching, arms crossed, a coffee mug warming his palms. Other times, stepping in gently to guide my hand, or leaning over to check my progress. He coached me with a kind of quiet pride—never hovering, never intrusive. But he was present. Solid. Supportive.
“You’re getting the pressure just right now,” he said one afternoon, nodding at the way I worked the oil into the grain with small, circular motions. “Leather's responding.”
I smiled, a little flushed from the praise.
He wasn’t always soft, though.
One evening, as the sun was setting through the window, casting amber stripes across the bench, he leaned in and frowned.
“What happened here?” he asked, pointing to a section near one end of the strop, right along the stitching.
I followed his finger—and my stomach sank. One of the stitches, once bright gold, was now dulled and tinged slightly brown. I must have rushed, pressing too hard, maybe applied too much oil too quickly.
“I—I thought I was being careful,” I started.
He didn’t raise his voice, but his tone sharpened just enough to make me stand straighter.
“You got lazy,” he said simply.
I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it. He was right.
We both stared at the stitch for a moment. He picked up a cloth and began dabbing at it gently, trying to lift the stain. I joined him silently, working beside him. After a few minutes of delicate blotting and brushing, the gold thread started to brighten again.
“We caught it in time,” he said finally. “Another few hours and it would’ve set for good.”
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat.
“Don’t rush this, Jess. The leather’s honest. It shows what you put into it. Sometimes you don't put in the time you need.”
I nodded again, more firmly this time. He was right, of course. I hadn't put in the time I needed, particularly with him. Now, again, I was making the same mistake, as if rubbing salt in the wound.
But I knew I could get there. With my dad there to teach me.
That night, I stayed in the shop after he went upstairs reworking the area around the stitches until the entire edge gleamed again—clean, supple, golden. The leather practically glowed. And I knew, for the first time. I wanted him to be proud. I wanted him to tell me I earned it.
One slow, careful stroke at a time.
It was Saturday when my dad came down to discover the strop hanging on the hook, the Latin letters proudly shouting out to the world. "Well, well, well," he said, clearly pleased. "This is a pleasant surprise. Sure you're all done?"
"Yes, Sir," I said proudly. He looked at me for a long moment, his eyes searching mine, looking for any sign of doubt or sarcasm.
"You sound pretty cocky," he teased, a hint of skepticism in his voice. "Tested it out, have ya?"
"No, Sir," I replied. "No need to. It's finished."
Dad's eyebrows shot up. "Oh, so you're that confident, are ya?" He said, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips.
"I am, Sir," I said, meeting his gaze.
Dad's smirk grew into a full grin. "Well, let's see about that, shall we?" He took the strop down from the hook, his movements deliberate. I watched as he examined the strop carefully. "The lettering.. the stitches... the coloring. You've done good work, Jessica. Looks real purty’. But let's see if it's ready for action."
Dad walked over to his favorite chair in the living room—the one with the worn leather cushion and the cigar burn from the '95 World Series. The chair had seen more than its fair share of life—much like the strop in his hand. He stood behind it, the chair's back curving like a bow.
With a swift motion, he brought the strop down across the chair's leather back, the sound echoing through the room like a crack of thunder. The strop flexed and snapped, curling around the chair like a whip. My heart skipped a beat at the sound.
We looked at the strop imprint on the old chair together. Not a single part of the strop missed the chair. The leather had conformed to it, wrapping around the chair's contours like a python squeezing the life out of its prey. It was beautiful and terrifying at the same time.
Dad nodded with satisfaction. “You topped the hill, Jess,” he said quietly, his eyes meeting mine, “And the view’s mighty fine. I'm proud of ya', little girl," he said.
The way he said it, the warmth in his voice, made me feel like I’d just hit a home run or got an A on a test that I studied all night for. Only better.
My dad’s hand traveled the length of the strap, his calloused fingers gliding over the leather like a maestro’s over the strings of a violin. The strop had come so far from that sad, forgotten thing at the flea market. The brass fittings gleamed, polished to a mirror finish. The handle was polished, smooth and cool, and seemed custom made for my father's firm grip.
He studied it—the way a master sculptor might study their finished statue, looking for flaws that only he could see. The gold stitching, now restored to its original vibrancy, traced the leather like veins of ore through rock. The *Duble Duck* logo looked like it had been stamped yesterday.
The golden lettering, Ad eam nudus fundo, once faded, now contrasted brilliantly against the leather. I bit my lip nervously as I imagined people walking past it in the front hallway. It made the purpose of the strop obvious, if you read Latin.
"You sure you want this out on the hook in the hallway Dad?" I asked, my voice a little shaky. "That lettering is awfully... bright."
Dad looked at me, his expression a mix of surprise and amusement. "What's the matter, Pumpkin? Worried about what the neighbors might think? Aren't you the one always tells me that thing from Shakespeare, those who matter don't mind, and those who mind don't matter?"
"Dad, that's Dr. Seuss!" I said, laughing. Dad laughed too.
But then he grew serious, his eyes on the strap. "Are you going to give it a name, Jess?"
I looked up at him, surprised. "Name it?" I repeated.
He nodded. "Every good tool has a name. It's like a pet or a favorite baseball bat. Like Shoeless Joe named his bat Black Betsy. It's part of the family."
My surprise wasn't in his suggestion. I was surprised because I'd been thinking the same thing. The strop had become a friend to me over the last few months. It was more than an object. It had become my teacher, and a symbol of what I could accomplish, and the new relationship I had found with my father. The relationship I had always wanted, and now had now restored.
"I want to call it 'Razor', I said. I looked at him, nervously gauging his reaction as he mulled it over in that methodical way of his.
"Razor," Dad said, turning the strop in his hand. "I like it." He nodded, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "It's got bite, but it's precise. Cuts when it needs to, in just the way that's needed."
He offered me the strop. It felt heavier than it had ever felt before—like it had absorbed all the history of my past mistakes, and all my regrets. "You can put it up on the hook. Unless 'ya wanna take it out for a little road test," he added casually.
Dad’s tone was typically unbothered and laconic, like he was asking if I wanted to stop for ice cream, or open the window. But my heart fluttered at the idea.
"Now?" I squeaked.
"No time like the present," he shrugged, his voice firm but not unkind. "To be honest, I think yer' account is way overdue, young lady."
My stomach clenched, the reality of what I had set in motion finally sinking in. I had asked for this. I had worked for this. And here it was, a chance to prove to my dad that I was serious about changing my ways.
Unable to speak, I nodded.
My Dad settled into the large leather chair. Crooking his finger, he beckoned me over. “In that case, I think we need to have a talk, young lady."
Strop in hand, I stood before my father's chair, feeling scared, loved, guilty, regretful, and a hundred other emotions all at once.
"Dad," I started, my voice barely a whisper. "I… I'm sorry. I can't even explain how sorry I am. Or how grateful I am for you, and what you're about to give me.”
He didn’t say much, but listened quietly as I spilled my heart out. It was like a dam breaking, a floodgate I hadn't realized was holding back so much. I told him about the pressures of school, not just the assignments and exams, but the constant hum of expectation, the relentless drive to prove myself. How every lecture felt like a challenge, every paper a test of my very worth. I wanted so much to be the best, to truly earn my place there.
"I knew how hard you and Mom had worked to get me where I was," I confessed, my voice cracking. "All those extra shifts, the quiet sacrifices, the way you both beamed when I got that acceptance letter… I didn’t want to let you down. Not after all that you gave.”
And then, another layer of pressure I hadn't even fully articulated until that moment, burst forth.
"Heck, I didn’t want to let the town down either! I felt like I was our little town’s great symbol of hope, the small town girl who had made good in the Ivy League. Like I carried all those proud smiles, all those 'you go, girl’ on my shoulders. And I was so afraid of failing, of proving them all wrong, that I just… tried to disappear into my work. I tried to be someone I wasn't, someone who didn't need anyone."
The tears started then, hot and stinging, blurring my face. I didn't try to stop them. As they streamed down my cheeks, Dad listened. He really listened. He didn't pull away, didn't offer a cliché, just held on, a silent anchor.
"I’m not making excuses," I choked out, wiping my face with the back of my free hand. "I know I’ve screwed up. I pushed you away. I was selfish and stupid. But without you, or Mom, or a firm hand to guide me, I’d gotten way off course. "I lost my way, Dad. Truly lost it.”
I looked at him, searching his face, desperate for some sign, some forgiveness, some direction. His stare was still strong, and wise, but there was something else there now—understanding, perhaps, combined with the deep quiet love he had always given me.
"You don't have to explain everything to me, Jess," he said, his voice thick with his own emotion. "But you do have to learn to rely on those who care about ya'. That's what families do. That's what we do."
I nodded, feeling the weight of his words. All the while, Razor hung in my hand, a silent witness to our conversation, waiting to play his part.
"You know what comes next, Pumpkin," he said, his voice low and steady.
"Yes, Sir," I said. Looking down at my shoes.
He leaned forward, his hand resting on the arm of the chair. "You've got to understand, Pumpkin," he said, his voice softer now. "This isn't about punishment. It's about correction. It's about realizing that there are consequences to your actions, and that sometimes, you need a reminder to stay on the straight and narrow."
I took a deep breath, nodded, and handed him the strap. "I know, Sir," I said, my voice shaking slightly. "I'm ready."
He told me to move closer. Still holding the strop, Dad's movements were deliberate and slow. He didn’t say a word as he unbuckled my belt. I looked nervously over my shoulder at the open drapes, and the open window.
"You sure you don't want to close those?" I said.
He looked at the windows, then at me. "Why would we?"
I bit my lip. "The neighbors..."
"Let 'em see," he said, his voice calm, firm. "Let 'em know that in this house, we deal with our troubles. That we face 'em head-on. The truth is, Jess, you were right about letting the entire town down. A lot of people in town - a lot - have told me that you needed a good bun warming."
I gulped, my heart racing. The idea of the whole town knowing about this, about me getting a spanking from my own father, was beyond embarrassing. But somehow, it also made sense. It was a declaration that we were going to fix this, that I was going to change, and that we weren't going to hide our problems away. Besides, I had hurt a lot of people. It was only right that they knew that I was going to pay for it, and justice was being done.
Dad's strong hands were on the button of my jeans next, his movements surprisingly gentle. He undid it, the snap on my waistband clicking open with a sound that was both final and terrifying. I blushed so hard that my cheeks felt like they were on fire, and my eyes watered as he peeled the denim down over my hips, exposing my panties to his firm, unyielding gaze.
And there it was.
The Supergirl logo, a faded emblem of hope and strength from my childhood, on the front of my old, worn, teenage panties. Dad’s chuckle was warm and nostalgic. It broke the tension, a gentle reminder of a time when my biggest worries were bedtime stories and not getting picked last for dodgeball.
“Looks like someone’s ready for a super spanking,” he teased, a twinkle in his eye.
I rolled my eyes at his corny dad joke, but couldn’t help the giggle that escaped my throat. It was a welcome release from the tension. He had a way of doing that, turning the serious into the slightly absurd to lighten the mood without diminishing the gravity of the situation.
But seeing Razor in Dad’s hand, I knew this wasn't just a joke. This was long overdue, and I was going to get it but good. He was smiling, but I knew that he was true to his word, and my stomach started to do barrel rolls in anticipation of my super spanking.
I flinched as he reached for the waistband of my panties. My Dad's voice was strong and firm. "Put your hands on top of your head, Jessica."
I did as I was told, my heart hammering like a drumline in my chest. "Time for Supergirl to fly back to Metropolis," he said, hooking his thumbs into the elastic. With one swift tug, the material slid down, leaving me bare from the waist down. The cool air kissed my skin, and the fabric pooled around my ankles.
Dad's gaze was now directly on my crotch, and his face showed his surprise. I had always kept myself neat and tidy, but a few weeks ago, I had decided to go all the way. A complete shave, leaving nothing but smooth, bare skin. Now, with Dad’s eyes on me, and unable to cover myself, I couldn’t help but feel a rush of embarrassment.
"Well, well," he murmured, his eyes lingering on my exposed sex. "Somebody's been weeding," he said. "Clear down to the dirt."
I looked into his eyes, feeling the heat on my face. Standing like this, in front of him, unable to cover myself, I felt totally exposed.
“Well, it’s like Mr. Perkins said. Bare is best,” I stammered.
Dad smiled at my feeble attempt at a joke. “Jessica, I know you're embarrassed, ” he said, his voice quiet, but uncompromising, “but that's part of the lesson. Sometimes the old ways are the best ways. Razor and I are going to warm your butt up, but good. You ain't going to like all of this, but it's what you need."
I took a deep breath, feeling the anticipation and fear mingling like oil and water in my gut. "Yes, Sir," I whispered.
Dad stood up from his chair, the leather groaning slightly with his movement. The strop, Razor, dangled from his hand, looking so much like a leather viper.
I had thought Dad was going to have me bend over. I'm surprised when he told me to bend over the back of the chair.
"You're going to count each stroke," he said, his voice firm, his expression stern. "And you're going to thank me for each one."
I nodded, my throat tight with apprehension. "Yes, Sir."
The chair's back was indeed high, and as I leaned over it, my torso stretched, the cool leather pressing into my abdomen.
"No, I want you up further. Your butt should be the highest part of your body," he said, instructing me like we were still back in the workshop.
I strained to obey. My feet remained flat on the floor at first, but with his gentle encouragement, I rose onto my toes, my hands gripping the chair's sides to keep my balance. The height was surprisingly uncomfortable, my body taut as a bowstring.
"Further up, Jess," he said. "Don't grab the sides of the chair, grab the front. Pull yourself up."
I did as he commanded, standing on tiptoe, my fingers trying to reach the chair’s front seat. Dad’s hands, firm and surprisingly gentle, cupped my bare bottom, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh at the base of my spine. He lifted me up, so my stomach was flat along the chair's back, my bottom sticking up like a ripe peach ready for plucking.
And just as I thought I was in the right position, my left shoe slipped off. It fell with a clunk to the floor, echoing through the room like a declaration of my vulnerability.
Dad chuckled. "Looks like you're halfway there, Pumpkin," he said, stepping closer. He knelt and began to peel the second shoe off. His fingers brushed against my ankle, sending a shiver up my spine. "When you kick, this stuff can become projectiles."
I gasped as he removed my jeans and panties, pulling them off my legs. "Don't want Supergirl flying at me during your spanking," he added with a chuckle.
My face was beet red. Another Dad joke at my expense. I was now naked from the waist down, my bare toes struggling to find perch on the rug, my bottom raised high for discipline. I shuddered as I imagined what anyone would see if they looked in our front window. Not even Supergirl could save me now.
The anticipation felt like a living thing, coiling in my belly, tightening around my spine. It was like waiting for the drop on a roller coaster, the slow, inevitable climb upwards, the creak of the chains, the feeling of gravity's waiting to give way.
I had fantasized about this moment so many times—the strop's leather kissing my skin, the sharpness of the pain, the burn that would follow, a badge of discipline and belonging. But the reality was so much more intense than any daydream. My imagination hadn’t done justice to the actual feeling of my bare bottom embarrassment, my cheeks raised high for discipline, trying to keep my legs closed, and my most private parts hidden from my dad's scrutinizing gaze.
The suspense was like a tightrope walker's first step into the void. I could almost feel the strop in the air, the anticipation making my skin tingle. The room was so quiet, I could hear my heart hammering in my chest, echoing through the empty house like the tick-tock of a grandfather clock. Fear, anticipation, and a mortifying double dose of shame swirled in my brain.
I heard my dad’s voice, strong and steady, cutting through the fog of my emotions like a knife. "Now remember, Pumpkin," he said, his voice echoing in the stillness. "No matter what you've been playing with in your head, this isn't for fun. It's gonna feel like you're sittin' on a griddle. And I won't lie to you, neither. This any’t going to hurt me more than it's going to hurt you. Truth is, I kinda like seeing you this way. Not feeling so smart now, are you, Miss Yale?"
The words stung, but I knew he was right. I had been living in a fantasy world, thinking that this was all some kind of role play, some kind of weird kink. But this was real. This was my dad, with his strop, about to lay into my bare bottom like he meant business. And he was right. I deserved this. It's what I needed.
I gasped at the cool leather of Razor as he gently laid across my bottom, measuring out the first stroke. I felt him shift his grip on the strap, and step back a little. I knew he was measuring out the space between us, calculating the force, the angle, the impact. Getting it just right.
"Truth is, your account is long overdue, young lady," he said sternly. "And I'm lookin' forward to settlin’ up."
The coolness of the strop, now tapping my bare bottom, was a stark contrast to the heat I felt in my blushing face. It felt like a living thing, a serpent ready to strike. I swore I could feel every stitch and every letter on the letter surface I had worked so hard to restore.
Dad's voice was calm, a soothing presence in the room that belied the impending storm. "Now remember, little girl," he said, his tone resolute. "You count every stroke, and you thank me after each one. If you don't, I'll start from the top again. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir," I whispered, my voice shaky but earnest. Something about his tone was strangely comforting. It displayed a firmness that told me he was in control, that he knew exactly what he was doing, and that he was going to see this through. It was like he was holding a piece of me that had been lost, and he wasn't going to let go until he had put it back in place.
Then, without any further warning, the strop swung through the air with a sound like a crack of a whip. I tensed, waiting for the impact, my eyes squeezed shut so tightly I saw stars. And when it hit, it was like nothing I had ever felt before. A fiery line of pain sizzled across my bottom, making me jump and cry out. If I hadn't been gripping the front of the chair, I would have fallen.
"Steady," he said.
"One, Thank you, Sir!" I blurted.
The second stroke came down fast, too fast. It was a bit lower, but the bite was even worse, as it overlapped with stroke number one!
"Ow!!" I cried. "It hurts! It hurts! so much!"
"It's supposed to hurt, little girl," he drawled. "That's where the learning comes in."
The third stroke was higher. He was obviously going for full coverage.
"Three! Three! Thank you, Sir?"
"Three!" I shouted out. "Thank you, Sir!"
My Dad’s voice was calm, a stark contrast to the fire that was now spreading across my buttocks. He waited a beat, watching me, his gaze never leaving my trembling backside.
"What happened to 'Two, thank you, Sir'?" he asked, his tone a mix of amusement and firmness. "If you don't learn to start taking directions, we're going to be here till tomorrow."
It was another Dad joke, but I wasn’t laughing. My eyes filled with tears from the pain and the embarrassment of being in this position, and my voice quivered as I struggled to keep it together. "I'm sorry, Sir," I squeaked. "Does that mean... we have to start again?
“What do you think we should do?” he asked.
I felt like this was a test. The rules had been clear, and I had broken them. I knew he’d let me off, if that’s what I wanted.
“I’d like to start again, at the beginning, Sir. I want to get this right, and learn my lesson, even if it takes all night. I took the time to give Razor everything it needed. Now it’s time for Razor to do the same for me.”
My dad didn’t argue. Instead, he waited as I inched myself up on the chair, straining to get my bottom a bit higher for the next stroke.
The strop flashed down again, and my bottom felt like it'd been hit by a swarm of bees. I gasped, but I kept my hands on the chair, not reaching back to rub. "One! Thank you, Sir!"
"Well, you only missed number two," he said. We can make number three, number one... if you want."
I looked over my shoulder at him, my eyes watering, my bottom already feeling the sting from the four strokes that had already landed. "No, Dad," I said, my voice shaking. "I want to start over. I want to earn this. I want to do this right, so I learn my lesson."
Dad nodded, his eyes gleaming with something that was a mix of admiration and determination. "That's my girl," he murmured. "Now hold on tight, because it’s time to see what this old strop can do.”
The fifth stroke was like nothing I could have ever imagined. The air holes made all the difference, and it sliced through the air with a sound that was like a gunshot. When it made contact with my bare bottom, it felt like a meteor had struck. The pain was so intense that I could feel the heat rising off my skin. I yelped, my body jerking forward, but I kept my hands where they were, clutching the chair tightly. "Two! Thank you, Sir!" I managed to squeak out.
Dad didn’t speak for a moment, letting the silence hang heavy in the room like a fog. The only sound was my shaky breaths, trying to control the sobs that wanted to break free.
"Your welcome," he said finally, his voice a gentle pat on the back. "Now, tell me, are you starting to learn your lesson?"
"Yes, Sir!" I said, meaning every word.
He answered with another stroke. "Three, thank you, Sir!" I said.
"Do you still think you’re too old to get a bare bottom spanking?" he teased.
I felt my cheeks burn with a new kind of embarrassment, my voice a hoarse whisper. "No, Sir. I'm not too old. And you're right. Bare is best."
CRACK!
"Four! Thank you, Sir!"
"What about the neighbors?" he says, clearly amused. "You don't mind if I leave the strop out, for everybody and their Grandma to see?"
"No, Sir," I reply, feeling the heat in my face spread down my neck, pooling in my chest. "I don't care. When I make a mistake, I need to face the consequences."
CRACK!
"Five!" I yelp. "Thank you, Sir."
"So you don't mind if I leave the drapes and windows open, and they overhear? Or maybe see you getting your bare buns toasted?"
My face burned with a mix of embarrassment and the sting from the strap. "No, Dad," I whispered. "I don't mind. I acted up in front of everybody, right? No reason they shouldn't see my punishment."
CRACK!
"Six!" I gasped, the number coming out more as a squeal than a word. The strop had found a new rhythm, painting my bottom with a fiery pattern of pain that seemed to cover every inch of my skin. Yet, I was aware of every stroke, every nuance of pressure and angle, as if my body was tuned to the strop's language. "THANK YOU, SIR!" I sang out.
Dad chuckled again, that deep, warm laugh that had always been the soundtrack of my childhood, but now, it had a new resonance. "Looks like someone's learning their lesson," he said. "We may have to sign you up for the church choir!"
CRACK!
"Seven! Thank you, Sir!"
I'd be done now, if I hadn't lost count. A part of me wondered if I didn't do it on purpose. Self sabotage, or maybe I was unconsciously testing boundaries. Mustering my courage, I decided to ask my Dad.
"Dad? Can I ask you something? Before... do you think I lost count on purpose? Maybe not on purpose, but sort of on purpose?
He studied me, the strop hanging loosely from his hand. "Could be, Pumpkin," he said. "Truth is, I thought of that, too. Not that it matters, none. The point is, you gotta learn to take responsibility for your actions. And if that means starting over until you get it right, then that's what we're gonna do."
The gentleness in his voice didn’t mean the next stroke was gentle. It hit like a bolt of lightning, the pain searing through my skin and setting my nerves alight. I couldn’t hold back the yelp, my legs shooting up and kicking out as I danced in place. "Eight! Thank you, Sir!" I called out.
Dad chuckled, his hand coming down to gently rub my flaming backside. "That's quite the little show you're putting on. If the neighbor boys or Jimmy were here, I'm sure they'd enjoy your wildlife tour of Beaver Valley," he added, his voice rich with amusement.
My dad’s soothing hand felt good, but the thought of the neighbor boys seeing this was mortifying, but the humiliation just added to the intensity of the experience.
The strop cracked down again, this time catching me on the crease along the back of my legs. It was a sharp, stinging sensation that I hadn't been expecting, and it made me yelp loudly. "Nine, thank you, Sir!" I called out, trying to keep my voice steady despite the shock.
Dad's hand rested on my lower back, his thumb tracing the line where my buttocks met my thighs. "That one was on yer' sit down spot," he explained, his voice pedantic and calm. "Every time you sit down for the next few days, or take a step, you're going to remember this lesson, young lady. "
"Yes, Sir," I replied. "Thank you, Sir."
"Now, when you go back to school, I want you to keep a little log. I want you to write down anything you do wrong, so we can settle accounts when we get home."
"Yes, Sir. I will, Sir," I said, mortified at the thought.
"I'm gonna hold you to that. I'm gonna be calling some of yer' friends, and yer' teachers, and yer' academic advisor, to see how y'all doin'. And I better not hear about nothin' that ain't in that log, understood?"
My heart sank. The idea of Dad calling up my friends, asking them about my behavior, was mortifying. But then again, I had been the one to bring it on myself. I had chosen to ignore his messages, to think that I could handle myself without his help. Now, as the strop continued to dangle from his hand, a few inches from my bottom, I realized that things had changed. Like it or not, I would be thinking about Razor every day.
"Yes, Sir," I murmured, the words sticking in my throat like a mouthful of sand.
"And when you've been naughty, I expect you to skin off your pants and drawers, an hoist yourself up on this chair, with Razor lying across the small of your back. Understood?"
I nodded, my eyes widening at the thought.. "Yes, Dad. I understand."
Dad took a deep breath, his hand coming down to lay the strop gently against my already fiery skin, as he measured the final stroke. "Good. Now, let's get to it," he said, his voice a mix of sternness and determination.
The tenth stroke was the ultimate, the stroke that ruled the others. Dad was always a quick study, and it was a true masterstroke, a symphony of discipline that seemed to encompass all the other strokes into one final, breathtaking climax. I felt it before I heard it, the way one feels a thunderstorm approaching, the electricity in the air building into sheet lightening. The leather sang through the air, and I sang with it, a high-pitched keening that seemed to come from someplace deep within me, a place where pain and humiliation met and melded into forgiveness and release.
"Ten, Thank you, Sir!"
My bottom was on fire, and I couldn't help but kick and squirm as the strop demanded that I put on another obscene performance. I realized that I wasn't in control, and my Dad was the producer of the Beaver Valley show. He could decide who saw what, when.
But the spanking was over. The strop lay silent, a dark shadow across the chair's leather. I lay there, sobbing, my bare bottom feeling like it had just been tenderized with a hot skillet. Dad’s hand switched from delivering punishment to gentle rubs, his touch soothing the fiery ache. He was like a sculptor, rubbing the hurt out of my bottom as I lay sobbing over the back of his chair.
"It's all over, Pumpkin," he said, his voice switching from the firmness of the disciplinarian to the soothing croon of the loving dad. "You took your licks, and all is forgiven. It's okay to cry. Cry it out. Things will be better now."
As I lay there, my bottom a fiery testament to the strop's power, I felt the tears come. They were hot and fast, a release of all the tension and fear and embarrassment that had been building inside me. It was like a dam had burst, and all the feelings I had been holding back came flooding out.
"Thank you, Daddy. Thank you so much. I really needed that."
The words slipped from my mouth before I could even think, the pain mixing with a weird sense of relief and comfort. The room was spinning a bit, but Dad's hand on my back was steady, grounding me in reality. He didn’t say anything, just kept rubbing, his calloused thumb making gentle circles on the small of my back.
I don't know how long I lay there, bottom up, sobbing. But I knew Dad was there for me, to comfort me when I wanted him too, and discipline me when I needed him to. It was a new world, a better world, a world where my Dad would always be there, with our relationship, like Razor, true, strong, and restored.
