Whuppin' The Tar Out of a Bad Boy!

Whuppin' the tar out of a bad boy
by John Lambert

Copyright on this story text belongs at all times to the original author only, whether stated explicitly in the text or not. The original date of posting to the MMSA was: 06 Sep 2007



My tasks for the day were few, but first, and best, was paddling a youngster's ass. Shrewd Police Officer's in the southern states could do lots of paddling in the 1950's. I was shrewd and liked paddling asses a lot. Three Negro boys had been playing on the railway track; it was an old game, racing towards the approaching train and seeing who could keep their nerve for longest before jumping to the side. We called it 'chicken' when I was young.
The trouble was they must have got too close. The engine driver conducted an emergency stop, and the train screeched and squealed to an abrupt, juddering halt.
A passenger, a white lady, and the town's prim and mousey librarian, had been about to alight. The train's rapid halt threw her on her back; her skirt was flung around her waist and her legs high into the air. Miss Carter was not badly hurt, but everybody in the carriage became familiar with the full detail of her undergarments. Her drawers were 'shockingly small', daringly 'bright red' and had 'lacy bits', excited fellow passengers later revealed. Also on display, although only briefly, was an expanse of lily white inner thigh, visible above her nylon stockings. Passengers fortunate enough to have witnessed the spectacle relayed, and embellished, detailed descriptions of their observations. Frequent narration of the story provided much pleasure amongst males in the town. The shock news that the librarian should wear such an outrageous personal item traveled far and wide. What there was of the underwear looked freshly laundered at least – everybody agreed on that! The librarian's mother would have been proud. The incident provoked and stimulated great interest in reading in the town, many unlikely folks took up library membership.
In a small town like ours, this was a major incident. The law enforcement agencies needed to find the culprits. The authorities did what they always did when crimes appear to emanate from our community. They passed the matter to me since I was the only black Police officer in the Parish. I did as I always did – I spoke to the Minister. I pointed out that formal investigation of such the incident would reflect on everybody very badly. I argued that nobody could possibly want lots of police interviews, fuss, and a tiresome official procedure that could result in a heartless, remote Court sentencing the boys to Reform School. I said it was a town matter and it needed resolution here.
'A few minutes with their butts facing my paddle would teach the boys enough of a lesson.' I announced.
He agreed and the next day two boys, accompanied by remorseful parents, arrived at the Police station. Both boys, anxious and worried by the procedure, took a thorough paddling watched by their fathers. The pretty, shiny black rumps of the boys were sore when I had finished. Both the men promised their sons that they would be going home 'to a lot more'. All parents in those days thought that an offspring's behavior could only be improved by applying a paddle or switch to their children's' behinds. They also believed that the more frequent the strokes and the more vigorous the application the more immediate and permanent the improvement. The third youngster was due to arrive today; he had visited Mississippi for the wedding of a cousin yesterday and was due at nine this morning.
Unless I was much mistaken this would be him walking down the road now. He was in the company of an elderly woman, who was shaking a finger in his face and giving him a hard time. The youth was wearing a white shirt, black pants held up by suspenders, boots and an downcast expression that suggested he would rather be anyway else on earth rather than walking to this destination in the company of that woman. He was clearly wearing his 'best' from the wedding. She walked through the door first. He, eyes cast down, shuffled in next to her looking very sheepish.
'Good morning, Deputy Jeavons.' The old lady said politely and bobbed her head. 'This my grandson Walter, he come for his whuppin.' She explained. 'He did that thing with the train, his Daddy whupped him some, but weren't enough. I said it weren't enough. I done whupped Walter lots when he was little. I got a big metal spoon, tanned his behind with it often, but no, my boy, that's his Daddy, done tole me Walter too big for that now.' She was about to gush on.
'Grandma.' The boy said embarrassed, 'hush.' for a moment he smiled dazzlingly, shook his handsome head, and released a gust of golden boyish laughter.
'Sure, I did. We had no backchat then.' She cuffed his handsome head. 'Interrupting folks when they speakin, no britches not ever, never had a quarrel with his britches, just his bare seat. He tried not to holla, particularly when his sisters was watchin, but he'd stay with that spoon slamming his tail until he hollered long and loud – no matter how long it took, he always hollering time I finished with him.' She stopped, very briefly, to breathe. 'Course, they say he too big for that now, 'Ain't right for an old woman to do that'. She was about to continue further and I could sense that my morning would disappear unless I took the initiative.
'Come with me, Walter.' I placed my large hand on his shoulder. The boy flinched, but looked relieved to move forward in our process.
'He gives you any trouble, you be sure to let me know.' I steered a reluctant Walter towards a door that led down to the cells. I unlocked it; he stood in the dim blue light, at the top of a flight of stairs while I re-locked the door.
'Down.' He was anxious to please and descended the stairs rapidly, and then moved hesitantly along the corridor. It was short and forbidding, but only about twenty yards long. On the right were the open cells. Long steel bars from floor to ceiling, behind which a single drunk stared vacantly at the floor. I placed my hand on his head gripping lightly on tight, little curls and tugged him along gently.
'This way,' I steered him to the final cell on the left, it was the largest cell, and I unlocked it.
'In.' I said. He was immobile, as if somebody had nailed his feet to the floor. Eventually, he moved forward with reluctance. We were in a large room with a low ceiling, lit by an iron grating high on the wall.
Walter appeared to be a fine example of masculine youth. His suspenders pulled his trousers up tight between two meaty butt cheeks, which they divided, lifted, and separated into individual mounds of heavenly bouncy muscle. Walter had wide, square shoulders and a narrow, trim waist. I knew at once that he would look very good across the bench.
He stared at the bench, stout wooden legs anchored to the floor, leather straps round the legs at its base, the padded top, and the large, sinister wooden paddle waiting for its next engagement. Walter was its next engagement and Walter knew it. I locked the door. The click of the key sent a shiver down the boy. I turned the lights on.
'Let's have you naked.' He took a moment to respond.
'Necked?' He queried. A look of apprehension crossed his face.
I leaned over him so that my head was close to the boy's. 'You can trust me. I'm a Policeman.'
'I never been necked before for whuppin, necked?' He croaked; his voice little more than a dry rattle.
'I don't think I mumbled, Walter.' I stared at him harshly. 'Hurry up, and you can start calling me 'Sir' anytime you think you might want less of a paddling than you're going get if you don't.' I smiled.
Walter took his opportunity immediately, 'Yes, Sir.'
His eyes were melting brown and wide. He now looked sorry. He was sorry too, and he would be much sorrier by the time I had finished with him.
He bent quickly to take his boots off. He presented a pleasing sight; Walter possessed a tight and glorious pair of buttocks. My heart fluttered and my mouth went dry. He undressed rapidly under my constant and interested gaze. He carefully removed his shirt. He was indeed a 'well-made' boy. Broad shouldered and with good definition across his chest. He averted his eyes when his trousers came down, and then he folded them neatly and placed them on a pile with his shirt. He wore a big pair of baggy white shorts. He took these down without hesitation. That was unusual; most boys hesitate when obliged to show their major assets. Then he folded his shorts neatly and stood to attention with his arms by his side, examining his feet.
'Now,' I said 'Let's see what kind of steaks I've got to pepper here.' I stood behind him and crouched down. His rump was a delightful sight, high, firm, small globes that jutted proudly. They were smooth and the color of plain chocolate. Given Walter's recent dismal and mischievous deed, I thought it would be irresponsible for an adult with jurisdiction over this bottom to allow it to return to liberty without a very thorough 'whupping'. I chuckled to myself as I examined the delicious rump, I would never be so irresponsible! The faint marks of his 'Daddy's' efforts with a swish showed as faint parallel bruise lines across the apex of his bottom. I touched the velvet like skin at the most bruised point. His skin was dark, warm, and slick under my touch. He jolted. I went to the bench and picked up the paddle, testing its hard surface against open palm.
I gave Walter my most aloof of gazes and continued to slap the paddle on my open palm. He swallowed very hard, his face had turned to stone, and his eyes were wide and anxious. He displayed the frightened acquiescence I enjoy seeing in youths about to present their rears for a hard dose of the paddle.
'Messing about on the railway is real dim, Walter.' He shifted and looked uncomfortable, then nodded, and sighed deeply. I think that perhaps he had heard this sentiment expressed several times in recent days.
'Yes, Sir.' his voice sounded brittle, his eyes fixed on the floor.
'If you had an accident out there, who do you think would need to clear up the mess?' I let him think about that concept. 'Who do you think would need to tell your parents?'
'Would that be you, Sir?' I noticed something imploring in his voice. He was shivering and shuffling about.
'That's right, Walter.' I nodded in confirmation and then continued, 'that's why
I'm going to whup the tar out of your behind.' Walter shivered and shook a lot more. I intensified the firmness with which I tapped the paddle on my open palm, the noise grew more threatening, and my palm began to smart.
'I want you across this bench, feet against these legs and your hands gripping this here rail.' I pointed down to a support rail. 'Understand what I'm saying?' Walter managed a faint 'Yes, Sir.'
He also nodded confirmation, his eyes, turned as big as silver dollars, and fixed on the paddle. The paddle was twelve inches long, six inches wide, and half an inch thick. It was hard and heavy. An artisan had drilled holes in the paddle to reduce wind resistance and allow the instrument to travel in a fast arc toward its target. The boy knew it would hurt. He was right; our Sheriff had obtained the paddle from the county jail, where it served with distinction for many years. It had tamed the asses of many 'awkward' adult prisoners. This paddle was an object that had made hardened criminals afraid, and it certainly terrified the nervous, naked youth standing in front me.
'Come forward.' He did, with unsteady steps. He placed himself against the legs of the bench where the straps waited to secure him. He still stood while I buckled the fastenings. I then picked the paddle off the leather-padded top of the bench. His eyes looked at it apprehensively. Our 'Whipping Bench' had no straps for miscreant's wrists. Other ready available Officers would eagerly hold and secure prisoners still while a colleague paddled. Very few Officers, I noted, found such a duty an ordeal.
'Bend.' He did, reaching for the rail. 'Now you keep your hands round that grip, boy. Your hands have no business anywhere near your tail.' I touched the paddle against his rear-end. 'Don't make me get a fellow Officer.' I warned, and then continued, 'They would certainly want a swat or two at your behind for their trouble.' I paused and then added, 'perhaps, more even.'
'No, Sir, I holdin' on right here, Sir.' He said nervously, keen to please and taking every opportunity to do so. Across the bench, he looked excellent, the dark globes stretched tight. I touched the bruises.
'You're Daddy done this?' I asked fingering the beautiful, but damaged curves. 'Yes, sir, He whipped my...' he hesitated, choosing not to say 'ass'; 'bottom on Friday.' It looked a good whipping. Walter's father probably used a switch from an apple tree.
No more talk now, just silence settling into the room like cigarette smoke. Holding the paddle two handed, above my shoulders, I tested the swing to the meekly offered rump. Fine, prefect, I had done this before many times. I crashed the heavy paddle across Walter's pert little seat. A loud 'crack' rang throughout the room. Walter expelled the air from his lungs. Fifteen seconds ticked by on my watch, I swung again. Crack! He was in pain now, he stifled an 'ouch'. I waited again. Walter shuffled his feet a little in his bindings, but was unable to move his rump away from the next blow, Crack! The 'ouch' was audible this time. Fine sheen covered his narrow body, but the room was not hot. Walter's bottom was neat and narrow; the paddle covered the whole rump. Crack!
'Damn.' He hissed quietly and with feeling. He then wriggled. Walter was now living in a world full of hurt. The seconds went by, Crack! The fifth blow. Now he let go a holler, loud, clear, and pitiful. A broad grey stripe dimpled and mottled with overlapping patterns from the holes drilled in the paddle showed across Walter's bad bottom.
'I am taking a rest now, Walter, swatting is hard work.' I announced. 'I want you to be thinking, how bad you've been and how you gonna keep outta trouble from now on. You're older that those other two boys, you're sixteen already. I think you deserve more than them.' Walter released a small groan, but I continued, 'If you sound sincere about how sorry you are and can persuade me you'll keep out of trouble, you only get five more. If not you will be over that bench all morning, and I will keep swinging this paddle and slamming it on your butt like a stallion on a brooding mare. Understand?' I asked.
He came back without hesitation 'Yes, Sir, I'm very sorry, I'll be good, Sir.' He assured me. Walter's voice was high and cracked and contained every ounce of sincerity that a youth with a very sore bottom, who does not want it to get too much sorer, can muster. That was a lot of sincerity! He retained his position, bent deeply over the bench. His dark and bruised rump remained offered for further correction as he thought hard for some good answers.
Crack! The sixth, Walter had sensed it was coming, and he now flinched before every stroke. This was one sorry boy. The seventh stroke arrived, hard and heavy across his badly bruised rump.
'Man, my ass is on fire.' He groaned unhappily, forgetting his earlier injunction on the word 'ass'. As he waited for the eighth blow and he yelled very loudly.
'Please, Sir, I'll be good. I'm sure I'll be good from now on. Please!'
I thrashed the eighth stroke against his quivering buttock cheeks.
Crack! I lashed a merciless ninth swat. Walter shot up over the table and he was about to console his burning rear-end, which now had a rosy tint where the fine capillaries beneath the skin had been ruptured by the relentless pummeling from the paddle. Slowly, he settled back down for the last of his punishment. I always try to make the last one 'special'. I delivered a particularly fast swing generated by a full swivel of my hips to make Walter's final whack an exceptional one. The youth hollered loudly and collapsed further over the bench. Walter's bottom boasted a broad grey stripe across the apex where were the paddle had visited repeatedly. Lots of the 'tar' color had gone and I had peppered his steaks thoroughly.
I fetched him some water and made him stand, his ankles still shackled. He looked withered and shrunken. Walter drank greedily, sweat ran down his face, and his eyes were large, dark brown and moist. He persuaded me that he was very regretful about the incident. His face and voice both expressed great sorrow. He promised he would not be back because he had lots of yard work to do for his neighbours. He liked yard work, he announced to my surprise. I said he could do mine, and Walter agreed to visit and work every other Friday. He was good; but his first yard job was to cut a 'Walter whuppin' length of switch from my apple tree, just in case he was careless. I kept a close eye on him over the years, he never got into trouble again, but he was careless sometimes.