| Subject: My Dad Was a Cowboy |
Author:
Stan
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Date Posted: 14:24:29 06/01/19 Sat
My dad was a cowboy. (Not a "real cowboy", but a "Hollywood cowboy".) He played secondary roles in many TV westerns. He was in high demand by the TV studios because he had the ideal physique for a cowboy. He was tall. He had broad shoulders and a slender waist.
When he was at home, Dad liked to wear the Western clothes he wore on the set. He never wore his gun belt or his six-shooters, but he wore practically everything else: a colorful Western shirt, a leather vest, blue jeans, a menacing wide leather belt, a pair of handsome Western boots, and occasionally, his cowboy hat.
I would brag to my friends about my cowboy dad. However, I kept one thing secret from them. Dad had adopted many traditional western attitudes, in particular, the necessity for harsh corporal punishment when raising a son. Whenever I committed a transgression that required punishment, Dad would summon me to his room. He would order me to stand directly in front of him while he "laid down the law". When Dad wrapped his fingers around his belt on both sides of the buckle, I knew what lay in store for me. Dad said I had neglected to do my chores and needed to be taught a "lesson". I trembled in fear. I knew that "lesson" would involve the PAINFUL application of his well-worn belt to my sensitive buttocks.
Dad ordered me out to the "woodshed". Now, it wasn't a real woodshed. Nobody living in southern California needs a real woodshed unless they live in the mountains. Actually, Dad's woodshed was just a small room he built on the back side of the garage. I suspect its only purpose was to provide a place where Dad could punish me without the neighbors hearing my screams! Because I was getting older (and taller), the last few times Dad punished me, he had trouble holding me down while he applied the belt. He solved that problem by building a piece of furniture designed to keep me immobile during the whipping. It resembled a wooden table, but it had thick heavy legs for stability. That table wouldn't move or fall over, no matter how vigorous my attempts to escape. Dad told me to take off all my clothes and stand behind the table while he locked my ankles in wooden stocks attached to the rear legs of the table. He told me to bend forward at the waist and lay my chest on top of the table. Then, he locked my wrists in leather restraints attached to the far end of the table with heavy metal chains. A hand crank allowed Dad to increase the tension on the chains, stretching out my body and reducing any involuntary movements on my part to escape from the LASH. I was terrified when I found myself strapped down to that table.
I watched as Dad unbuckled his fearsome belt. I trembled when he removed that belt from his jeans and doubled it over. Then, he walked to the back of the table and announced my punishment was going to begin. He told me I was going to get 50 lashes with his belt! Shortly thereafter, my butt began to feel the familiar sting of his belt. I was determined to take the whipping without crying, but by the time I had received a dozen lashes, I was already bawling like a baby, and soon after, I hollered with every stroke of his belt. That belt felt like a hot branding iron pressed against my butt, burning my tender flesh.
After the whipping was over with, Dad released me from the restraints. He wrapped his strong arms around me and said he still loved me, but he declared the whipping had been necessary for my own good. I dropped to my knees, buried my head in Dad's crotch, and cried.
For the curious, this story was a complete fantasy.
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