The Romance of Chastisement

The Romance of Chastisement

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

In the Woodshed



The woodshed is an American iconic symbol of old fashioned discipline. The phrase is ingrained in our culture as a place of correction and retribution, a place of payment for disobedience, misdeeds and general naughtiness. Here is where the sinners go to be taught the price of misbehavior.

Typically the implement of the woodshed was the strap or the belt. It usually hung on a nail, ready for use.
Why a woodshed? In a word, privacy. In the house or cabin the rest of the family would hear the crack of the strap and the cries of the punished.

As you might expect, the woodshed figures prominently in American spanking literature, especially period pieces. Early flagellant fiction came in the form of crudely produced pamphlets that were sold under the counter in less than reputable bookstores. An early example is today's featured story,

KATE'S ADVENTURES IN THE WOODSHED

ALTHOUGH my spanking life has covered less than a half dozen years, to write fully of it would fill the space of many volumes.
As a child, I received the regular spankings from my parents, who would smack my bottom several times,or occasionally turn me over their knee, lift my dress and warm the seat of my panties. I was ten years old before the first variation of them occurred.


When I was ten years old my parents were killed in an automobile accident, and I was taken into the
country to live with my grandfather and my aunt Monica.
From that time on I was under the care of Aunt Monica, even though she was only ten years older than me. My grandfather never spanked me, but when I was disobedient, Aunt Monica would turn me over her lap, lift my dress, unbutton and take down my drawers, then spank my bare behind with a hairbrush. Although the spankings would sting my heinie, they were nothing more than what the average girl gets from her mother,

and I loved Aunt Monica, regardless of them. She never spanked me unless there was a good and sufficient reason.

I was sixteen years old when grandfather died. Aunt Monica made an effort to carry on the work of the farm, but never having been familiar with anything but housework, she made a miserable failure as an agriculturist. When she tried to sell the farm, she found it impossible to locate a buyer,
It was about that time that Jeb Turner, who had been working at odd times for Grandfather, began to call around to see Aunt Monica. He was several years her senior, and rather good looking. At least, Aunt Monica thought so.

When she explained to him what she was up against regarding the farm, he suggested that the best think she could do was marry him and let him run things. I don't know whether she really wanted to marry him, or just took his suggestion as a way out of the trouble, but two weeks later they were married. Almost from the very first day they were married there was a different atmosphere about the farm. Within a couple of weeks Jeb was ordering Aunt Monica and I about as though he was boss of everything. Aunt Monica didn't say anything, but I objected and soon told him just what I thought.

“For a kid, you've got too much to say,” he declared. “What you need is a darned good licking. And if you don't watch yourself, I'll take down your pants and give it to you!”

“Just you try it!” I replied. “I'd like to see some bully like you try to give me a licking.”

Jeb said nothing, but before I realized what was happening, he was out of his chair and grabbed me. I kicked and struggled desperately, but I might just as well have remained limp in his arms for all the good it did. As though handling a small child instead of a girl of sixteen, I went down over his knees, and he planted a strong left hand in the small of my back to keep me sprawled across his lap.


“Jeb, don't you whip her!” exclaimed Aunt Monica, who rushed into the room, attracted by my cries.

“Keep out of this, Monny, or you'll get the same dose,” advised Jeb. “This fresh kid needs somebody to take the starch out of her, and I'm going to do it.”

“Jeb!” exclaimed Aunt Monica again.
But Jeb ignored her as he lifted my dress and pulled down my panties. Then he began spanking my bare bottom with his rough, calloused hand. The spanking stung fearfully, for Jeb was a strong man and he put the full force of his strength behind each smack. It was far worse than any paddling I had ever received from Aunt Monica's hairbrush.

I wriggled and squirmed my bottom about upon his lap, but his hand struck down sharply and landed
accurately each time. Aunt Monica tried to grab his arm to prevent him from continuing the spanking, but her efforts were as puny as mine had been.
He spanked me for several minutes, and my bottom had never before felt as sore as it did then.


“Now let that teach you not to try talking back to me again,” he declared as he released me so I could
scamper from his knees. “The next time I take down your pants, I'll give your backside a darned good licking with a strap!”

“Jeb, you shouldn't have done that,” declared Aunt Monica as I backed quickly away from him, pulling up my panties and tenderly rubbing my sore heinie.
Jeb turned slowly about and looked at Aunt Monica in a stern way.

“And now I'm ready for you,” he said. “You saw what happened to Kate for being a fresh kid. That's what's going to happen to her every time I think she needs it, only the next time I'll probably give her behind something to make her really yip a−bout. And if you ever try interfering again as you did this time, I'll take you over my knee and tan your backside as I did hers. It's time you women learned that there's a man around this house now who's running things.”

Aunt Monica, who was always a quiet, timid sort of person, and who had become even more so since she had married Jeb, said nothing further about the spanking I had received. But she looked at her husband with a strong fear in her eyes, as though she knew he was not making an idle threat.
I thought when he said he would give her a licking that he was just bluffing her into being afraid to say anything whenever he wanted to spank me. I knew that Aunt Monica was easily intimidated. But I soon learned that he was not bluffing.

Aunt Monica was then twenty−six years old, and I did not think it possible that a woman her age would have her bottom turned up, uncovered and spanked as I had gotten mine.
But several days later, just as I was coming out of the hen house, I saw she and Jeb walking toward the woodshed., Jeb was carrying a strap in his hand. They could not see me, but I could see them and could also hear everything that took place.


“Get in there!” Jeb commanded when he opened the door of the woodshed. “I'm going to teach you once and for all who's boss around here. I've told you about arguing with me over my way of doing things, and since my talking to you didn't do any good, maybe a few licks, of this strap across your bare backside will make you sing a different tune.”

“Jeb, you shouldn't whip me,” declared Aunt Monica in a pleading voice as she stepped timidly into the woodshed.

“And you shouldn't argue with me,” retorted Jeb. “So just as long as you do it, you can expect to get a
licking from me. Now turn your backside around here.”


When Aunt Monica turned her back toward him, he lifted hen dress to her waist, then stripped her panties down from her bottom, leaving her naked from the knees to the waist. He caught her under his left arm and bent her over so that her hindquarters were pointed toward the strap.
Then he began whipping her. I could see her naked bottom quiver each time the strap landed full across the two plump cheeks. A vivid red mark was left upon her heinie each time the strap descended upon her shuddering rear end.

 Within a few minutes her bottom was completely covered with the vicious red lines.
Jeb showed her no mercy, and took full advantage of her meek, submissive nature to whip her bare behind more soundly than I had ever known anyone to be punished.



THERE was a light of satisfaction and triumph in Jeb's eyes as he stood in the doorway of the woodshed,his arms folded and the strap held in his left hand, as he watched her walk meekly back to the house. Her every step proclaimed loudly that she had been taken to the woodshed and given a sound spanking. I waited until she had gone into the house, then, bristling with anger and indignation, I hurried over to where Jeb Turner was standing.

“What have you been doing to my Aunt?” I demanded.

“Gave her her a licking, just the same as I'm going to give you if you don't stop acting like a fresh kid,” he answered.

“You're beast, that's what you are, Jeb Turner!”
I told him. “You're just taking advantage of a couple of helpless women. You might have Auntie so afraid of you that she's ready to eat out of your hand, but you can't boss me around like that. You hear me, Jeb Turner? Don't you dare lay a hand on me!”

“I won't lay a hand on you, but I'm going to lay this strap all over your bare backside, young lady!” he declared, grabbing me by the arm and pulling me into the woodshed. “I've stood your back−talk just long enough. As long as the licking I gave you a couple of days ago didn't do any good, maybe this one will!”

He seized me under his left arm as he had held Aunt Monica. My arms were pinned to my sides, rendering me helpless no offer any resistance. All I could do was kick up my heels in protest.
Holding me firmly, Jeb raised my dress, then took down my panties. Then he began whipping me with the strap. I immediately learned the vast difference between it and the spanking he had given several days before with his hand.


The strap cut down across my bare bottom like a branding iron. I could not repress the cry of agony that came to my lips. Then the second crack of the strap came, and the third and the fourth.
I could understand then why Aunt Monica's bottom had quivered with fear at the mere touch of it and why it had made her so meek and humble. After the first half dozen licks of it, I was crying and pleading with him to stop as she had done. I was ready then to promise anything if he would only end the whipping.



“How does this feel, youngster?” he demanded, giving me an extra hard smack. “And this! and this! and this!”

“Oh, Jeb, you're killing me!” I cried in pain. “Stop! Please stop! I'll never do anything to make you mad again. I'll always do just what you tell me.”


“Yeah?” asked Jeb, stopping the punishment, but continuing to hold me under his arm as he had done with Aunt Monica. “You've got a well whipped little backside on you now, Kate. What are you going to do about it?”



“Nothing, Jeb,” I promised. “But please don't whip me any more.”

“But now you know I'm going to whip you again if you don't do just whatever I tell you, don't you?” he demanded.


“Yes, Jeb,” I answered.

“You know I'm boss around here, and as the boss I'm going to whip the bare behinds of you and your Aunt Monica just whenever I think you deserve it, don't you?”

“Yes, Jeb.”

“All right,” he replied, releasing me. “Now pull up your pants and get back to the house, where you
belong. And just remember that if you try acting fresh again, I'll tan your backside more soundly than you got it this time.”

AFTER that Jeb whipped me quite regularly, and also did the same to Aunt Monica. Although he always whipped her more soundly than he whipped me, I was punished more frequently. And believe I suffered more, for there is much mental agony in being led to the woodshed with the knowledge of what is going to happen after one arrives there. Jeb never made the punishment easy that way, either, for on the way out he would talk freely of what was going to happen after he had taken me across his knee and lowered my panties.



Following several such trips to the woodshed, I was a thoroughly changed girl, and became as meek and humble as Aunt Monica. I never dared cross Jeb in actions or speech, and pleaded with him to stop whipping me as humiliatingly as did Aunt Monica while he was tanning her bare bottom.

He always punished us with a strap, which he kept hanging on a peg by the kitchen door. He would always carry it in his hand while taking us out to the woodshed to be whipped, although sometimes he would make us take it off the peg and hand it to him.

Aunt Monica never dared protest when he announced that he was going to give me a whipping, although his announcements always caused her to tremble in fear as though it was she and not me who was to be whipped. And that first whipping he had given me had proved how useless it was for me to attempt to interfere when he took her out for a taste of the strap.


For three years he kept us under his thumb. Or, more literally, under his arm and over his knee. Then a new When I pulled up my panties, I realized just how sore my bottom had been made by the severe whipping. Although I had not been punished as hard as had Aunt Monica, I walked stiff−legged back to the house, for it hurt my sizzling hips to move.

That whipping seemed to take something out of me, for from then on my spirit was changed. I never dared say. anything without first stopping to think whether or not it would offend Jeb. Just one severe whipping had made me an entirely different girl. It had created an impression of submissiveness to his authority, and the memory of that painful session in the woodshed under his arm, with the strap searing down with blistering cracks upon my naked hindquarters was never erased from my mind.

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