Dusky
I suffered the belt like an Eskimo suffers the cold. Father brought the leather down again, hot now from the force with which it had been striking my behind, again and again and again with a crack, thwack, badack! I had stopped crying out. I had ceased to curse. The agony simply couldn't get any worse. It had levelled off like a plane of pain flying in the rain. Again. The bane of my life, that belt. A Celtic cross of embossed steel I could feel from the buckle of the belt wrapped around his knuckles as he pelted my hide yet again.

"You have brought shame on this family once more!" bellowed Father as he flailed wildly with the belt in one hand and pure rage in the other. "Your mother is devastated! You've created such a mess! Now confess to your sins or I'll thrash you asunder! No wonder my hair is receding!"
"I won't start pleading," I told him, "for mercy because there're no laws against what I have done! It's not dirty!"
"She's black!" he replied. "She's as black as the night and I'm right when I say that that's wrong! You're a Yorkshireman, Stu, and you have Yorkshire blood so don't mix it with blood black as mud! That's no good!"
"Father, would that I could," I retorted, then snorted, "she's pregnant!"
"No!" Father cried. "Have it aborted!"
"I can't!"
"Yes you can! I knew you'd cause a stink. I could smell it last year when you brought home that Chink!"

And with that, I felt leather across my young face. The scar was permanent: an everlasting reminder of my shameful jimmynudgery with exotic ladies or, as Father likes to call them, duskyfucks.
(stusut79, Wed 30 Nov 2005, 14:15, Reply)