Green Beers = Red Bottoms

Yes, Saint Patrick's Day was a couple of weeks ago now, but as my darling boys know, sometimes I get very, very busy.

And while there may be a delay in dealing with misbehavior, it will be dealt with.

To me, there are few misbehaviors more serious than those that involve over-indulging in alcohol.

Binge Drinking has become a serious health issue in our current society, and the dangers are numerous.

Even if one is wise enough not to drive, the risk to oneself and others is far too great to ignore.

In fact, binge drinking can be as, if not more, dangerous than being a daily alcohol abuser.

This is behavior that is not to be tolerated.

It's bad enough when an ignorant college student engages in such a risky practice, but when a man old enough to know better does it, it's inexcusable.

And if it's a repeat offense? Well, heaven help the boy facing me under those circumstances.

I gave a naughty boy a spanking under just such conditions today.

It was NOT a fun spanking. It was long, hard, bottom-scorching, tear-inducing agony. But it was very well deserved.

I am never overly cruel, but I am very strict if the occasion warrants it. This occasion did.

And I treated it with just severity.

We began with a long lecture on the risks of binge drinking and some pointed questions about how he could possible not know any better, or be foolish enough to carry on anyway when he did know.

Like most, at the time the fun seemed immediate and the consequences only a hazy future possibility and so he chose unwisely.

And paid a steep price for the folly.

We began with a long bare bottom spanking over my knee. My hand, a hairbrush, my nasty long handled hardwood spoon,  a short leather strap, and a small paddle all took their turns scorching his tender skin. In between the swats I continued to lecture and question. Each swat brought home a point with with a shuddering smack.

After a good 10 minutes over my knee I let him up. His bottom glowed red hot from the hard, fast spanking.

He stood in the corner, pants down, hands on his head, thinking about his predicament while I prepared the room for the next phase of his punishment.

The strop.

"Pure evil", is how most of my wayward charges describe this doubled over length of latigo leather  attached to a wooden handle.

They have a point. It's a heavy, wide, strap with a vicious snap as it lands on unprotected skin. The sound of it bounces off my walls like a rifle shot.

This is a strap reserved for only the most serious offenses.

I called my bad boy out of the corner.

He cringed when he saw me holding the strop. He knew it would be bad.

I didn't disappoint.

More lecturing as the strap cracked against his already sore bottom. He yelped as he kicked his feet and wriggled his hips from side to side under the licks.  I didn't count the number, just keep going until I heard his quiet sobs coming at a steady pace.

And then it was time for the finale.

10 lashes. The hardest he'd felt yet. Each bad enough to knock the breath out of him.

But just to make sure we drove the point home, I added one more little twist.

After every lash I required him to say aloud that "green beers equal red bottoms."

10 times he said it. 10 times the strap bit into him. 10 times he cried out as it burned.

And 10 times he learned the heavy price for  irresponsible behavior.

I don't think he'll be repeating it any time soon.