Oh, How I love the Yardstick. Not off the shelf mind you. Ours was twice as thick and could sit straight up on its side on the table and warn us of the terrors to come for disobedient little girls. Ours was also heavier with shellac and polished for extra sting. The ones off the shelf are thin and light and flimsy and dry wood. No swing, no sting. Ours was like three of them taped together and glazed with resin and polished. It was and is, magnificent! Such brilliance. Such Agony. Such ecstasy. It could make you scream and beg for mercy and take you on a thrill ride, all in the same hour! My wonderful Yardstick! Throughout my life, from age 3 or 4, just saying or seeing "Yardstick” was enough to make my heart leap with both anxiety and delight. My dad has always used the yardstick. I know this because I have a memory from a house we moved out of when I was 3 or 4 of my sister getting it with the yardstick albeit in a much milder way than in later years and though I don’t remember everything about the universe, I know every spanking, and we got more than most, had three common denominators: The extra thick yardstick, our bare little bottoms, and face down in the bed.When my sister and I were young, we lived in the south and the windows were often open in our neighborhood. This became interesting when I was on one side of the neighborhood and my sister got in trouble at home (This often meant we were both busted for something and he hadn’t gotten to me yet!) Enter my glorious Yardstick! Geez I am excited just writing this! You could hear the song of that hardwood savagery reverberate in all of it’s regimented, perfect synchronicity throughout the neighborhood. No one was ever shocked. They just looked at me. All the kids got spanked but we were often spanked 2-3 or more times per week. When the song of the yardstick rang out and it wasn't my soft pretty bottom being stimulated with such exquisite distress, it was for sure my sister, a year older having a stylish new design painted harsh red on her sweet little soft white canvas. We knew it was my dad because only he spanked like an automaton and never stopped or changed pace for anything. We were never ever allowed to wiggle away and when we put our hands back he just went right to the thighs three times as hard and THAT took your breath away, so no, we didn’t stop him. As soon as I recognized the sadistic song of the stick I was running to watch the master at work on his canvas. I felt sorry for my sister and hoped I wasn’t next (well, soon that hope would modify) but Dad was so awesome. I say “sadistic” as a joke. I think he was a spanko, yes. But then by 12 or 13 or so were we, so who can we blame. He was doing his job. He wasn’t spanking us because he got off on it, he probably got off on it because he had to spank us. Big difference. When we were little we were scared of the spanking and the stick but there was good reason. We were caught pool hopping, smoking, we stole a car very briefly. We weren’t juvenile, but suffice to say we were tough little chicks. We needed discipline and this is what he gave. It was awful when we were little. I watched my sisters cute little butt go from soft as a baby’s powdery white to red raw in a few minutes of writhing and begging. Then it was the same for me. But I needed my dad! But we loved him for it. And later in our early teens we both admitted we were full blown spankos. Then I became bold enough to psych meself up to get a spanking on purpose when I wanted one. And we wanted it. We craved it, even then, for we were disobedient. Oh, I don't say we welcomed it, or were even aware of the rebellion being set to match by those maddening seasons of torturous writhing. We pleaded and begging for mercy, but my dad was like an unfeeling metronome who refused to miss a beat. But I love that yardstick today. Even today I might find myself on the business end of a white hot bottom blistering that will make me convulse in pain and rush with joy, all the while biting down hard to keep from screaming only to find myself singing the high notes along with my lovely friend the yardstick his favorite song, "Please" and "Nooo!" and "I'm sorry" and "I'll never do it again" along with other tunes.My attitudes toward my sweet Yardstick have evolved from cold terror to fear to timidity, from timidity to bashfulness eventually to boldness over the many years. My wonderful father has skillfully employed my lovely Yardstick to arouse my sister and I to good deeds for many years. But what has never changed, only increased, from age 3-4 till now, is the fascination with watching that merciless unfeeling hardwood do it's exquisite work of art and beauty on our soft, pale hides. We sometimes look at each other as we lay in a exhausted clump of sweat and tears after what surely felt the the whipping of the century and go, “we are crazy” but then the sexual energy and the … whoo. We go back for more!! It’s so real. It hurts so bad! Watching the sadistic wonder of my dad's powerful arm wield the lovely paintbrush to complete that weeks painting on my sisters sweet little bottom is so awe inspiring. I wish I could make you understand I am not giving my father a backhanded compliment. I love him and love the way he immerses himself to diligently inflict those scorching, furious matchless red marks so fast and so cruel like lightening! The intense stimulation of a pristine white bottom is NOT to be missed.Back to the song of the yardstick blaring through the neighborhood followed by everyone looking at me flowed by me running to the house 15 seconds away. When it started you only heard him, my beautiful Yardstick playing his awful song of cruelty on her teeny tiny fanny. All you heard smack smack crack whap loudly but you knew what it was. The recipient who’s sweet girly bottom was being turned raw red and lovely is in my sights. I have my spy spot. How beautiful and searing and cruel and powerful the stimulation was to experience first hand. I long for it now with great butterflies in my stomach. I may yet get it today and I am terrified and overjoyed at once. When the music of the yardstick hit out neighborhood kids ran and laughed, but then they stopped and gulped. You knew especially if it was you just yesterday or last week. You shivered if it was your yardstick. But by the time I was 12-13 I was having other feelings beyond shivers of dread. The other kids laughed or were scared. I was rurned on bigtime. My tough sister would hold out for 25 wacks before the whimpering and sniveling would creep up on her. But the high notes would come. Now I am 100% sure my Dad was into spanking. I am equally sure he was into spanking us. Not in a creepy way. Just that it’s natural for a spanko to be interested in a tender little female bottom getting spanked by himself! He wasn't a pedophile. He was a spanko. He had to spank his girls. Just like I wasn't gay but I was by the time I was 12-13 I was going nuts watching my sister's sweet little tush writhing clenching and turning beautiful artful shades of red and purple. Oh! We have very white baby skin and had it even more so on our bottom and even more so then. It was really beautiful to see. You fricken KNOW it was. I would say that watching his eyes gaze longingly at his handwork all those years paid off. Don’t get me wrong he wasn’t lusting after our little girl butts. It was just a priceless spanko beauty scene and you could see it on his face. And this probably made us like it eventually. It rubbed off on us. You cant spank and not look. You can't wait your turn and not look. When the window were open you could here the song of that terrible hardwood reverberate throughout the neighborhood as loud as a marching band. As soon as I recognized it I was running to watch. All you heard smack smack crack whap LOUD. The other kids laughed or were scared. My tough sister would hold out for 25 wacks before the whimpering and sniveling would creep up. By 40-50 the begging would start and soon after that the screaming and promising and pleading would kick in. Here's what you don't know, though. A yardstick isn't heavy, it's lighter and stingier, even though ours was thick. Daddy regularly gave us 200 HARD swats with that thing. That beautiful, cruel implement in that strong hand. Ooohhhh! I love my Yardstick!